Alaric Tudor was now a rogue; despite his high office, his grand ideas, his exalted ambition; despite his talent, zeal, and well-directed official labours, he was a rogue; a thief, a villain who had stolen the money of the orphan, who had undertaken a trust merely that he might break it; a robber, doubly disgraced by being a robber with an education, a Bill Sykes without any of those excuses which a philanthropist cannot but make for wretches brought up in infamy.
Alas, alas! how is it that in these days such men become rogues?
How is it that we see in such frightful instances the impotency of educated men to withstand the allurements of wealth?
Men are not now more keen after the pleasures which wealth can buy than were their forefathers.

One would rather say that they are less so.

The rich labour now, and work with an assiduity that often puts to shame the sweat in which the poor man earns his bread.
The rich rogue, or the rogue that would be rich, is always a laborious man.

He allows himself but little recreation, for dishonest labour admits of no cessation.

His wheel is one which cannot rest without disclosing the nature of the works which move it.