Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux. Written by himself. — A Reader’s Guide

The Art of the Escape

Vaux's memoir is structured around a recurring pattern: he gets into a tight spot, talks his way out, and then promptly resumes his old habits. The Portsmouth episode is a textbook example. Having deserted his ship for a woman, he finds himself trapped aboard a man-of-war, desperate to get ashore before the vessel sails. His method is meticulous: he cultivates a female vendor, entrusts her with a bundle of genteel clothes, and then, on the appointed Sunday, presents himself to the officers in his working dress. The negotiation with Mr. Oxley and Mr. Sherard is a small drama of manipulation—Vaux's trembling voice, the officer's hesitation, the unexpected gift of half-a-guinea. The scene ends with a second recall, a joke about marines, and Vaux's hurried instructions to a friend to salvage his belongings. This pattern—planning, performance, and flight—recurs throughout the memoir, each time with variations in setting and stakes.

A Vocabulary of the Underworld

One of the most distinctive features of Vaux's memoir is its glossary of cant and flash language, appended to the second volume. The catalog subjects list 'Cant — Glossaries, vocabularies, etc.' and 'Flash (Prisoners' dialect) — Glossaries, vocabularies, etc.', indicating that the work is as much a linguistic document as a personal narrative. Vaux uses terms like 'togs' for clothes and 'taking French leave' for desertion within the narrative itself, embedding the slang in context. The glossary, however, stands apart as a systematic record of the criminal slang of early 19th-century London and the Australian penal colonies. Readers interested in historical linguistics or the social world of thieves will find this appendix a valuable resource, though the memoir's main text also rewards attention to the way Vaux shifts between polite and flash registers depending on his audience.

The Double Life of a Convict Author

Vaux writes his memoir from the peculiar position of a man who has been transported to New South Wales, yet he addresses a respectable readership. The preface and dedication (mentioned in the table of contents) frame the work as a cautionary tale, but the narrative itself often revels in the cleverness of its roguery. The excerpt shows Vaux carefully managing his appearance—dressing down to avoid suspicion, preserving a 'genteel black coat' for his escape. This duality extends to his prose: he can describe a bribe or a bilking with the same precision he uses to recount a naval officer's joke. The tension between the repentant tone of the framing material and the energetic, amoral detail of the episodes is one of the memoir's enduring fascinations. Readers should attend to how Vaux navigates this contradiction, and consider whether the glossary itself serves as a kind of secret handshake between the author and those in the know.

Vaux's memoir is best approached as a hybrid work: part autobiography, part rogue's gallery, part slang dictionary. The narrative rewards close attention to its small set-pieces—the negotiation with an officer, the concealment of a bundle of clothes, the anxious wait for a boat. Readers may wish to read the glossary alongside the main text, noting how the cant terms surface in moments of crisis or camaraderie. The memoir offers no grand moral conclusions, but its accumulation of specific, practical details creates a vivid portrait of a life lived on the margins of the law.

Reading about Vaux’s restless dodging of consequence, I thought of my grandfather’s worn copy of the Suttner memoirs—her quiet defiance felt so different, yet both lives hinged on the ache of not belonging. That same hum of displacement surfaced in Memoirs of Bertha von Suttner: The Records of an Eventful Life (Vol. 1 of 2) — Themes and Context, though her battles were waged with words, not slips. Strange how two such worlds still echo each other.