I have it is pleasant to repeat it--that Bill Sykes had his faults, as
also have most of us, but it was given to him to earn forgiveness by the
aid of a cheap chair and the providential propinquity of Miss Nancy. I
never think of it without regretting that poor Bill Whally is dead. He
did it--so--much--to--my--taste!

Who shall we say is the most loved and respected criminal in fiction?
Not Monsignor Rodin, of "The Wandering Jew;" not Thenardier in "Les
Miserables." These are really not criminals; they are allegorical
figures of perfect crime. They are solar centers, so far off and fixed
that one may regard them only with awe, reverence and fear. They are
types of fate, desire, temptation and chastisement. Let us turn to our
own flesh and blood and speak gratefully of them.

* * * * *

Who says Count Fosco? Now there is a criminal worthy of affection and
confidence. What an expansive nature, with kindness presented on every
side. Even the dogs fawned upon him and the birds came at his call. An
accomplished gentleman, considerately mannered--queer, as becomes a
foreigner, yet possessing the touchstone of universal sympathy. Another
man with crime to commit almost certainly would have dispatched it with
ruthless coldness; but how kindly and gently Count Fosco administered
the cord of necessity. With what delicacy he concealed the bowstring
and spoke of the Bosphorus only as a place for moonlight excursions. He
could have presented prussic acid and sherry to a lady in such a manner
as to render the results a grateful sacrifice to his courtesy. It was
all due to his corpulence; a "lean and hungry" villain lacks repose,
patience and the tact of good humor. In almost every small social and
individual attitude Count Fosco was human. He was exceedingly attentive