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friend remarked when I recently appeared holding the plate, at



our last charity sermon.

What would my surviving relatives and associates in England say,



if they could see me now? I have heard of them at different times

and through various channels. Lady Malkinshaw, after living to



the verge of a hundred, and surviving all sorts of accidents,

died quietly one afternoon, in her chair, with an empty dish



before her, and without giving the slightest notice to anybody.

Mr. Batterbury, having sacrificed so much to his wife's



reversion, profited nothing by its falling in at last. His

quarrels with my amiable sister--which took their rise from his



interested charities toward me--ended in producing a separation.

And, far from saving anything by Annabella's inheritance of her



pin-money, he had a positive loss to put up with, in the shape of

some hundreds extracted yearly from his income, as alimony to his



uncongenial wife. He is said to make use of shocking language

whenever my name is mentioned, and to wish that he had been



carried off by the yellow fever before he ever set eyes on the

Softly family.



My father has retired from practice. He and my mother have gone

to live in the country, near the mansion of the only marquis with



whom my father was actually and personally acquainted in his

professional days. The marquis asks him to dinner once a year,



and leaves a card for my mother before he returns to town for the

season. A portrait of Lady Malkinshaw hangs in the dining-room.



In this way, my parents are ending their days contentedly. I can

honestly say that I am glad to hear it.



Doctor Dulcifer, when I last heard of him, was editing a

newspaper in America. Old File, who shared his flight, still



shares his fortunes, being publisher of his newspaper. Young File

resumed coining operations in London; and, having braved his fate



a second time, threaded his way, in due course, up to the steps

of the scaffold. Screw carries on the profitable trade of



informer, in London. The dismaldisappearance of Mill I have

already recorded.



So much on the subject of my relatives and associates. On the

subject of myself, I might still write on at considerable length.



But while the libelous title of "A ROGUE'S LIFE" stares me in the

face at the top of the page, how can I, as a rich and reputable



man, be expected to communicate any further autobiographical

particulars, in this place, to a discerning public of readers?



No, no, my friends! I am no longer interesting--I am only

respectable like yourselves. It is time to say "Good-by."



End



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