When Mr. Vaux's predilection for low company comes to be observed, the reader will justly doubt the great liberality of education and taste for reading, upon which he so often vaunts himself. The quotations in his narrative are all common-place; and I have struck out a few as profaned by misapplication.
As for the truth of the following tale—nobody can vouch for it. I am afraid it is occasionally sacrificed at the shrine of Vanity, who seems to be the author's patron-saint. He is fonder of confessing himself guilty of frauds, from the punishment of which he escaped, than of those in which he was found out; detection (he thinks) impeaches his cunning; and though he recounts with exultation the theft for which he is now transported for life, that is, because he knows it was committed under protection of, perhaps, the most consummate address and assurance ever exhibited by man—it amounted to the sublime of impudence—and, after all, he was only betrayed into the hands of justice, who, if she had a hundred eyes, would not (it should seem) have enough to detect the dissimulations of James Hardy Vaux. The reader will observe, that he denies his guilt of the crime for which he was before transported, because it was a common, clumsy partnership picking a handkerchief out of the pocket; and so, too, he denies any confederacy with the Judge Advocate's servant, in robbing his master's writing-desk, for which offence he was further transported to Newcastle, in this territory, whither he now again is sent for life, for an attempt to escape from the country altogether. The reader must, therefore, believe as much or as little as he pleases of the following story.
