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CONJURORDICK

by Professor HoffmannThis work has been kindly donated toThe Learned Pig Project by Jim Hoy.

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Conjuror Dick was published in 1885and is not autobiographical as stated in"L'ENVOI" but pure fiction.

In the first edition--not this one--both"Angelo Lewis" and "ProfessorHoffmann appeared on the title page.This was corrected in all subsequenteditions. The "Professor" did not feelthat it was good for his legal practice tohave it generally known that he wrotebooks on conjuring and related topics.The first edition of this novel is the onlytime his real name (Angelo Lewis) andhis nom de plume (Professor Hoffmann)appeared in the same work.

"Conjuror Dick" is ProfessorHoffmann's only novel, although hewrote numerous short stort stories, someof which won literary awards.

Conjuror Dick

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Conjuror DickProf. Hoffmann

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CONTENTS.CHAPTER I.Early Recollections-My Uncle Bumpus and the Plate-Warmer-MyAunt Priscilla-An Interrupted Banquet-Our Own Household-JemimaJackett-Domestic Diplomacy-Our First-Floor Lodger-AnUnfounded Suspicion

CHAPTER II.My First School-A Sad Humiliation-The Misses Potter and their LittleWeaknesses-An Unrequited Attachment-An Effectual Cure-MySecond School

CHAPTER III.My First Introduction to the Major-The "Other Things"-A DelightfulPromise-A Deadly Combat

CHAPTER IV.Athletic Exercises-The Noble Art of Self-Defence-Our NewGymnasium-My First Pantomime Harlequin Der Freischiitz and theSeven Bad Shots-In Love with Columbine-An UnexpectedRival-Disillusion

CHAPTER V.My First Visit to a Conjuring Entertainment-MyEnthusiasm-Extraordinary Indifference of Peter-Early Studies inPrestidigitation-The Tribulations of a Neophyte

CHAPTER VI.Dumpton College--A Rash Promise--The Major's Parting Advice--Showingmy Colours--A Struggle for Religious Liberty--An UnexpectedVictory--Wanted by the Vice-Principal--All Well that Ends Well--The Lastof Gunter.

CHAPTER VII.My First Appearance as a ConjurerPreliminary PreparationsMyProgrammeA New Remedy for NervousnessGrandfather's ClockABreakdown in the Musical DepartmentA Flying EggThe Wanderingsof a HalfpennyCurious Effects of the Human BreathThe Mysterious

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DieThe Magic Hornpipe

CHAPTER VIII.The Second Part of my EntertainmentThe Phoenix CardA MysteriousDisappearanceThe Inexhaustible BottleA Cure for GreedinessTheDoctor's Speech

CHAPTER IX.Home for the HolidaysPeter in Low SpiritsAttempts atConsolationPeter Runs AwayBreaking the NewsReturn to DumptonCollegeAt Home Once MoreShowing OffAn Awful RetributionAMoral Safety Valve

CHAPTER X.The Last of my ReprieveThe Modern CagliostroAn UnexpectedOpeningTesting my CapabilitiesAssistant to a ConjurerCHAPTER XI.My FlightA Wizard at HomeThe Professor and his FamilyMadameLinda and the DuchessMy New QuartersA Big Box and a SmallBedroomThe Difficulty Solved

CHAPTER XII.Reconnoitring the PremisesLily and her Dog TipThe "Second Sight"TrickBeginning WorkGimp the Money-TakerThe Professor'sProgrammeOpinions of the PressBehind the ScenesLearning myBusiness

CHAPTER XIII.Breaking the News of my FlightMistaken SuppositionsThe Lack of aDress-coatMy First Experiences as a Gentleman UsherAwkwardCustomersMoney-making ExtraordinaryA Sceptic ConvincedAnEnchanted HandkerchiefA Light-headed Gentleman

CHAPTER XIV.The Clairvoyance TrickMesmeric InfluenceThe SuspendedWandThe Obedient BallThe Fairy ViolanteThe Morality ofConjuringCHAPTER XV.Professor LedoyenCard-Conjuring ExtraordinaryAppealing to the"Spirits"A Transformation TrickA Dazzling Promise

CHAPTER XVI.The Sober Side of ConjuringA Magician at RehearsalExhaustedEnergiesA Dangerous RemedyA Remarkable HatAn EnthusiasticAmateurLessons in MagicA New Occupation

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CHAPTER XVII.Starting for a Country TourBrightonWalks with LilyThe Professor'sReligious OpinionsA Visit to OxfordA Liar Exposed

CHAPTER XVIII.Crossing the ChannelA Life on the Ocean WaveGimp on SteamboatTravellingA Visit to OstendThe Chevalier d'ArrasPoor FredHowardA Tragical HistoryPointing a Moral

CHAPTER XIX.BrugesGhentBrusselsA Serious DilemmaThe Only Way out ofitA Bed-chamber RehearsalThe Mysteries of "Make-Up"My firstPublic ShowWashing the Paint offAn Unexpected MeetingPuttingThings in a New LightLetters from Home

CHAPTER XX.Arrival in ParisGastronomic ExperiencesGimp MissingTheMorgueReturn of the ProdigalThe History of his AdventuresAnEpicurean BanquetPresenting the Bill

CHAPTER XXI.The Gingerbread FairA Trip by RailMerry-go-RoundsExtraordinarySea on LandA Montagne RusseTheShooting-GalleriesThe Encyclopedie MethodiqueThe TonquineseDwarf and the Fair Cleopatra

CHAPTER XXII.A Spiritualistic SeanceHarmonising the InfluencesToo MuchLightRemarkable Manifestations The Sceptical DoctorTheProfessor open to ConvictionThe Third SittingA SuddenIlluminationDiscomfiture of the Medium"How it wasDone"Supplementary Revelations

CHAPTER XXIII.Departure from ParisA Round of Watering-PlacesThe Professor goingto the BadLilyHopes and FearsA Terrible VerdictReturning toBrighton The Beginning of the EndA Last PromiseLily'sLegacyDust to DustA Faithful Friend

CHAPTER XXIV.Stricken HouseholdA Gallant StruggleVictory at LastA Council ofWarShall we go to America?HesitationA Letter from theMajorThe Death of Uncle BumpusAttending the FuneralTheReading of the WillRefusing a LegacyA FamilyConclaveUnexpected Revelations

L'ENVOI

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CHAPTER I.Early Recollections-My Uncle Bumpus and the Plate-Warmer-My Aunt

Priscilla-An Interrupted Banquet-Our Own Household-JemimaJackett-Domestic Diplomacy-Our First-Floor Lodger-An Unfounded

Suspicion.

INTERROGATING my memory for the purposes of this history, I findthat the most prominent positions among my early recollections areoccupied by my Uncle Bumpus, and a plate-warmer. I should be disposed,indeed, to give the place of honour to the plate-warmer, as involving thepleasanter associations. It was a small sheet-iron cupboard on four legs,japanned red externally, and black internally. I am inclined to believe thatthe outside had been originally red and gold, but on this point I feel boundto speak with caution. It had shelves inside, and a door in front, but,(hereinresembling the poor savage)

"Whose untutored mindClothes him in front, but leaves him bare behind,"

it was open in the rear, in order, no doubt, when placed before a fire, toallow free access of caloric to the plates within. People don't make suchplate-warmers now. Possibly they passed away with the openkitchen-ranges; or possibly they were not found, as plate-warmers, asuccess. The calm judgment of maturer years suggests that they would beapt to make one edge of the plate unpleasantly hot, while leaving theopposite extremity comparatively cold, but no such irreverent doubtstroubled my juvenile mind; indeed, I question whether I ever regarded ourplate-warmer in the light of a plate-warmer at all. In its normal position itfigured as a Punch-and-Judy Show, a pulpit, a robbers' cave, shops ofvarious kinds, and even, on emergency, as a light-house. Laid on its face itbecame a boat, an open carriage, or a railway truck. On its back itrepresented an old oak chest or the entrance to a subterranean passage, andon its side a wine cellar, a house to let, and a wild beast-show. Once, it wasSpurgeon's Tabernacle. We hadn't the least idea what a tabernacle was; andin later years, on actually visiting the edifice in question, I rememberthinking, with almost a sense of injury, that it wasn't a bit like the

Chapter I


plate-warmer. On one occasion, in our very early days, my brother Petercaused me great anguish of mind, and made me weep bitterly, bysuggesting that the plate-warmer should represent a Catacomb. Why Ishould have drawn the line at catacombs, I don't know, for I had never seenone, but the proposal caused me so much distress that Peter, who was agood-natured boy, gave up the point at once, and we compounded for anAsylum instead.

Quite recently, at an evening party, I was introduced to a partner, with thewords "This young lady is an old acquaintance of yours, Mr. Hazard." Thelady gave me her hand with a blush and a smile, saying as she did so, "Youhaven't forgotten your old friend Nelly Barnes, Mr. Hazard?" I looked ather, and began to ransack the outlying districts of my memory, but in vain. Iwould have given a great deal, under the circumstances, to be able to saythat I had not forgotten Nelly Barnes, for Nelly Barnes was a remarkablypretty girl, but for the life of me I could not recall even her name. As for myhaving intimately known the fair damsel whose laughing eyes wereenjoying my discomfiture, it seemed impossible. "You must help me," Isaid at last. "Crushing as the confession is, I really don't remember you." "Itis too bad of you to have forgotten," she said, "though it is a good manyyears ago. Don't you remember Tilbury Street, and the fun we used to havewith the dear old plate-warmer?" The allusion to the plate-warmer lightedup the darkened chambers of my memory. The mystery was solved. Manyyears before, my fair friend's parents and mine had been next-doorneighbours, though I might well be excused for not having at oncerecognized my little playfellow of six in the white-shouldered Juno ofsix-and-twenty who stood beside me. Explaining my lapse of memory onthis ground I soon obtained absolution, and we spent a great portion of theevening very pleasantly in reviving old recollections. I tried to drift awayfrom the plate-warmer, which somehow seemed to spoil the romance of thething, but it was to no purpose. We could no more keep it out of our jointreminiscences than Mr. Dick could keep Charles the First's head out of hisMemorial.

The second figure, as I have stated, that stands out prominently in myrecollections of my early years is that of my Uncle Bumpus. Strictlyspeaking, he was my great uncle, having been an uncle of my father, but hewas always called by the shorter title. Viewing Uncle Bumpus (like theplate-warmer) with the more impartial judgment of later years, I aminclined to believe that he may have been a harmless, well-meaning oldgentleman, but to my childish fancy he appeared a sort of malevolent Djinn,an incarnation of the all-work-and-no-play (and-very-little-pocket-money)principle, which of all things is most abhorrent to the healthy juvenile mind.He was a draper in the Tottenham Court Road, and a deacon of a religiousfraternity known as Particular Baptists. What may have been their tenets Ihaven't the remotest idea, but I am clear about the name, because I

Chapter I


remember wondering whether all the other Baptists were as particular asUncle Bumpus. He was a little man, with a tendency to what is politelyknown as a "corporation," walked very upright, dressed always in black,with a white necktie, and wore his hair very short and brushed upwards,without any parting, suggesting to the casual spectator an angry hedgehog.He wore a gigantic silver watch, which he hauled up from the depths of amysterious pocket (known, I believe as a 'fob') by means of a bunch of sealsattached to a broad black ribbon. His increasing stoutness made this amatter of increasing difficulty; indeed, it was only by holding his breath anddrawing in his waist that he was able to extract it at all, and the sameprocess had to be gone through to replace it. Knowing this, my brotherPeter and myself took a mischievous pleasure in asking him the timewhenever we could find the slightest excuse for doing so. He was very deaf,but it was not safe to trust to his deafness, for like a good many deaf people,he had an aggravating knack of catching just the word or sentence whichwas least intended for his hearing. His house was kept for him by a maidensister, known to us youngsters as Aunt Priscilla, or more shortly, Aunt Pris.She was, in her way, quite as great an oddity as her brother. She was verytall, and made herself seem taller still by wearing three large braids ofobviously false hair, arranged in tiers above her forehead, and an immensecap, profusely decorated with flowers and ribbons, above all. Though notfar short of sixty, and looking her full age, she always regarded herself asone of the "young people," and took every occasion to intimate by suchphrases as "if I ever marry," or even sometimes, "when I marry," that she byno means considered herself out of the matrimonial running. I noticed thatshe did not usually make any remark of this kind in her brother's presence,but on one occasion, I remember, she chanced to use the latter sentence justas Uncle Bumpus entered the room, and with his usual knack of hearingwhat was not intended for him, he caught the words. He looked sternly ather, grunted, rather than said, "Whenpigsfly!" and went out again.Aunt Priscilla made no reply, but she was evidently wounded, for shesniffed audibly, and made little surreptitious dabs at her eyes with thecorner of her pocket handkerchief, at intervals during the remainder of theevening. She affected to be in very delicate health; indeed, I never knew herto admit that she was perfectly well. We boys used now and then, for thesake of fun, to compliment her on her appearance. "Yes, my dear, I lookwell, I daresay," she would reply; "it's the misfortune of highly nervousorganisations, like mine, to look well, even under the most unfavourablecircumstances. But I'm far from strong, far from strong, I assure you."

Another little fiction in which Aunt Pris. indulged was that of having anextremely small appetite. "Thank you, it must be the 'weeniest' little bit inthe world," she would say, on being asked to partake of anything at table;but the succession of "weeny" little bits mounted up, before the close of themeal, to a very substantial total. Uncle Bumpus, who understood herweaknesses, was accustomed to ignore altogether her expressed desire for a

Chapter I


very minute allowance, and to help her, on the contrary, to very liberalportions; but when, as occasionally happened, she was served by a strangerwho took her at her word, poor Aunt Priscilla's little manoeuvres tosupplement the deficiency were most amusing. She was extremelygood-natured, and though a careful housekeeper, was always very kind andliberal to my brother and myself. Many a shilling and half-a-crown have wehad slipped into our hands by Aunt Priscilla, and to go to tea with her wasquite an event in our juvenile lives. After one of these occasions (this musthave been something special, I think) Peter declared that he had counted noless than eleven sorts of cake and pastry on the tea-table. I could onlyremember nine, myself, and am inclined to think Peter must have beendrawing the long bow a little, but there were very frequently six or sevenvarieties, and Aunt Priscilla enjoyed them as much as anybody. These littlefestivities were always arranged to take place when Uncle Bumpus wasabsent, for he was as closefisted as his sister was liberal. She would neveradmit that he was stingy, but allowed that he was a little "near." I havenever quite understood how this particular expression comes to have themeaning of parsimonious, but it was so far appropriate to Uncle Bumpus,that we constantly wished him farther. He owned some houses, let toweekly tenants, in the neighbourhood of the Old Kent Road, and devotedevery Monday afternoon to the collection of his rents. This was AuntPriscilla's opportunity, and her little festivities generally took place at fiveo'clock on a Monday evening, which allowed of tea being well over and thetea-things cleared away before Uncle Bumpus returned at half-past seven.On one memorable occasion (it was a Whit-Monday, I think, and most ofthe tenants had gone on the spree, and had taken their rent with them) hereturned at half-past five, in a very bad humour, and appearedunexpectedly, like a corpulent skeleton, in the middle of our banquet."Hullo, hullo, hullo-o-o," he said. "What's all this, and how come you boys"(he invariably alluded to us as "you boys") "here? And what's thisextravagant spread for?" I hardly know which of us was most discomfited,Aunt Priscilla or myself. Peter, who was a boy of unusual presence of mind,had slipped a basket of strawberries under the table, and was surreptitiouslyeating them, with the view, as he afterwards explained, of just "getting themout of the way." Aunt Priscilla began a troubled apology to the effect that itwas Peter's birthday last Tuesday fortnight, intending it, I suppose, to beinferred that we were keeping it then. "Birthday, fiddlesticks!" said UncleBumpus, fortunately overlooking the slight discrepancy in point of date. "Ifit is his birthday, there's no need to eat us all out of house and home. Andwhat's all this pastry-cook trash for? Why can't you give the boys goodwholesome bread-and-butter? That's what I was brought up on, and look atMe!" We did look at him, though without experiencing the dazzling effectwhich he seemed to anticipate.

"You may as well give me a cup of tea," he continued, plumping down onthe horsehair sofa, and wiping his face with a lively red-cotton

Chapter I


pocket-handkerchief. "All the way to the Old Kent Road and back for abeggarly fifteen shillings, confound 'em! Not a soul at home but old Bodgerthe tailor, and the lame charwoman at number eleven, and both of themdrunk! All the rest out spending their money(their money! (my money!(every man Jack of them; and now they'll all be a week behind, and wantme to take it out in greengrocery, or shrimps, or watercresses, or some suchfiddle-faddle. I'll give 'em a taste of the brokers, or my name's not PeterBumpus. (What's this rubbish?" The "rubbish" referred to was a plate ofthree-cornered jam tarts, of a kind Peter and I particularly affected, andwhich we had not yet touched. Uncle Bumpus took one of them between hisfinger and thumb, and made a comprehensive bite at it.. Not being preparedfor the fragility of the structure, he squeezed it a little too hard, and it wentto pieces under the shock, leaving a jammy wreck between his fingers. Helooked at it with scorn, and cleared the remainder at another mouthful."Regular imposition!" he grunted, taking up another, but handling it thistime more tenderly. "What's the good" (here one third vanished) "of anempty thing" (another third went the same way) "like this?" (the lastfragment disappeared). "And they're all alike. Look at this one,(worse thanever! A downright fraud, I call it." He punctuated his sentences bysuccessive bites. "And nasty bilious trash,"(here he picked up the lastremaining tart("in the bargain, without a particle of satisfaction in a wholeplateful of 'em." We at any rate had experienced very little satisfaction fromthem, and looked at each other with expressions of countenance far beyondmy feeble power to depict. If an elderly Ghoul had suddenly dropped intothe midst of our little party, we could hardly have been more disgusted.

Having finished the three-corners, he turned his attention to the jam-roll,which he was pleased to consider not quite such an imposition as the tarts.He did not pronounce rashly, however, but confirmed his first impressionby a series of tests which reduced the dish in a most heart-rending manner.Peter had disposed of the strawberries, or they would doubtless have met asimilar fate. Finally, adding insult to injury, he declared that the whole lotwasn't worth a slice of good wholesome bread-and-butter, and he beggedAunt Priscilla that the next time she had us to tea (his tone implying that hehoped it would be a considerable time first) she would give us good stalebread-and-butter, and if we wanted a relish, we could sprinkle a pinch ofsalt over it. Stale bread-and-butter, and a pinch of salt! And this from theman who had just devoured the whole of our three-corners, and the best partof our jam-roll! I don't think I am naturally of a vengeful disposition, but ifsome good fairy had offered, on that evening, to confine Uncle Bumpus(irrespective of size) in the plate-warmer for the rest of his natural life, Ibelieve I should have accepted the offer without hesitation.

Of our own household I need not speak at any length. My father died whenI was a baby in arms, and our family consisted of my mother, my brotherPeter, myself, and last, though not least, a faithful but occasionally

Chapter I


tyrannical domestic of Cornish origin, named Jemima Jackett. My motherwas a good little soul and most devoted parent, with an intense desirealways to do the right thing, but rather weak, and apt to change her mind,sometimes two or three times in an hour, as to what was the right thing. Shewas always greatly swayed by the last speaker. It frequently happened thatafter Peter and I had persuaded her to allow us some coveted indulgence,Uncle Bumpus would drop in, and hearing what was intended, forthwith sethimself (as I verily believe out of pure aggravation) against it, and in thecourse of a few minutes persuade her into an exactly contrary way ofthinking. Fortunately we had a powerful ally in the person of Jemima. Shewas short, squat, and scant of breath, but of dauntless courage, and in such acase she was always on our side. She ruled us with a rod of iron herself, butUncle Bumpus was her abomination, and whatever he resisted shesupported, and vice versa I once heard her call him (behind his back, ofcourse) "a interfering old armadillo." Where she got the expression, Icannot say. Zoologically speaking, perhaps it can hardly be justified, butPeter and I thought it admirable, and privately referred to Uncle Bumpus as"the armadillo" for many months afterwards. As soon as Uncle Bumpus haddeparted, after upsetting our plans on such an occasion as I have referred to,say a cricket match, or a boating excursion we wished to take part in, weforthwith betook ourselves to Jemima, and enlisted her sympathies. The factthat Uncle Bumpus considered that the thing could not and should not bedone was sufficient to convince her that it could and should. "Lor, mum,"she used to say, "the poor dear boys, they do have so little pleasure. It's adull house for 'em, mum, with only you and me, and young people will beyoung people, mum. It's nateral, ain't it, now? Some people forgets, I think,that they ever was young (an' I don't believe they was, neither). An'Wednesday, mum, was just the day I'd set apart in my own mind to scrubout the young gentlemen's room, and they'd be terrible in the way if theywas at home. I was just thinkin', mum, hoar we could manage to get rid of'em for the day, and just in the nick o' time this little trip turns up, quiteprovidential-like. I do hope you'll let 'em go, mum. Lor' bless 'ee, they won'ttake no harm, they'm too careful for that. And tell 'ee what, mum, I'll makea couple o' nice pasties Tuesday evening, for 'em to take with 'em. Therenow." Peter and I said nothing, for we knew by experience that it was bestto leave all argument in the hands of our advocate, but we put on the mostappealing expression of which we were capable, and my mother almostinvariably gave in. "Oh dear, oh dear, I don't know what to do," she wouldsay. "Mr. Bumpus has gone away with the understanding that they are notto go on any account, but if you are really going to clean out their room onWednesday, Jemima, perhaps it would be as well to have them out of theway. I must think it over, and perhaps, when the time comes(" She neverfinished the sentence, keeping up the fiction to the last of treating the matteras an open question, but when we got to this point, we knew we were allright. Jemima was too good a tactician to press her victory further, but witha significant grin at us, and "that's right, mum, you just turn it over in your

Chapter I


mind," to my mother, disappeared down the kitchen stairs. When the timecame there was generally no further question, but we started off on thecoveted excursion, with the tacit understanding that nothing was to be saidupon the subject to Uncle Bumpus. Whether this mode of doing thingstended to promote a high moral tone I will not stay to inquire, but I don'tthink it did us much harm, Uncle Bumpus being regarded by Peter andmyself as a sort of exceptional enemy, to circumvent whom all possiblemeans were lawful, and his perpetual and gratuitous interference in ourdoings really gave some ground for our so regarding him.

My father had been an artist. It was a family tradition that he lived beyondhis income, but candour compels me to admit that if his income was solelyderived from the sale of his works, as exemplified by the specimens in ourfront parlour, it is not at all surprising that he did live beyond it. He diedwhen I was so young that I have no personal recollection of him. Mymother's income was very limited, consisting of a life interest in some smallhouses, and a couple of thousand pounds in the Funds; which, after herdeath, would become divisible between Peter and myself. She had,however, great expectations, on our behalf more than her own, from UncleBumpus, who, by dint of constant saving and screwing, had amassed aconsiderable fortune for a man in his station of life. Next to Aunt Priscilla,we were his nearest relatives, and the remembrance of this, I daresay,contributed a good deal to the somewhat excessive deference my motherpaid to his opinions. Peter and myself were of an age which, happily, is notmuch affected by mercenary motives, and were not at all disposed toworship the golden calf, even in the person of Uncle Bumpus.

We lived in a small house in the neighbourhood of Camden Town, mymother supplementing her income by letting the first floor to a lodger. Hewas an elderly gentleman of very quiet habits, but Peter and I regarded himwith great awe, not to say terror, arising from the belief that he was aDentist. The only evidence in support of our theory was the fact (reportedby Jemima) that he had some very curious and bloodthirsty-lookinginstruments in a cabinet in his bedroom. We used to ask Jemima every nowand then, in an awe-struck whisper, whether she had seen "the instruments"again, and made her describe them for our edification. I am afraid she drewa good deal on her imagination, for on Peter and myself (in later years)organising ourselves into an exploring party, and making a private search,during his temporary absence, in the old gentleman's apartments, we couldfind nothing but a pocket set of carpenter's tools, and some mathematicalinstruments. Jemima stoutly maintained that these were not the instrumentsshe meant, and that Mr. Digby must have taken them with him, but sheseemed a good deal confused; and it has since struck me that she inventedthe story as a kind of pious fraud in order to keep Peter and myself out ofthe old gentleman's apartments. If so, it certainly had the desired effect, forwe regarded the rooms in question as children in the good old times may

Chapter I


have regarded the parochial torture-chamber, and even shrunk close to thewall whenever we met Mr. Digby on the stairs, in deadly fear lest he shouldask to look at our teeth, a request which we knew, by painful experience, tohe the precursor of much personal discomfort. If he attempted to pat ourheads fled in terror. My mother has since assured me that Mr. Digby was aretired architect, and never pulled a tooth out in his life; but to this day Icannot completely dissever him, in my own mind, from the sanguinaryassociations connected with his imagined occupation, and on making arecent visit to Antwerp, and inspecting the horrible dungeons of the Steen,used as places of torture by the Inquisition under Charles V., I was instantlyreminded of Mr. Digby's first-floor.


Chapter I




CHAPTER II.My First School--A Sad Humiliation--The Misses Potter and their LittleWeaknesses--An Unrequited Attachment--An Effectual Cure--My Second

School.

THE first event of any importance in my youthful history (as, indeed, Isuppose, in most people's youthful history) was the being sent to school.There was no meddling School Board in those days, and Peter and Ireceived our education at my mother's hands up to the age of about nine orten. Peter must have been about the latter age, or a little more, I myselfbeing a year and a half younger, when it was decided, under pressure, Ifancy, from Uncle Bumpus, that we were getting too big for home tuition,and must be sent to school. Peter was sent to a regular boys' school, but inconsideration of my tender years it was thought by my mother that I hadbetter undergo a little preliminary preparation at a hybrid establishment,kept by the Misses Potter. It was professedly a ladies' school, but admitted afew young gentlemen of very tender age to share in the instruction given. Ifelt keenly the ignominy, as it appeared to me, of being sent to a girls'school, and pleaded hard to be allowed to go to the same school as Peter.Uncle Bumpus, on this occasion, was on my side. "What d'ye want tomollycoddle the boy for?" he said; "they'll always take two cheaper thanone;" but in this instance, backed by Jemima, my mother stood firm. Therewere no kindergartens in those days, and she would not send a delicatechild like myself to be knocked about among a parcel of rough boys. (I amnot aware that I was delicate in the least, but that was her way of putting it.)She did not like sending even Peter to a boys' school, but the Misses Potterwould not receive any boy over ten, so she had no alternative. Accordingly,one fine day, Peter marched off in one direction, and I, attended by Jemima,in another. My mother had made each of us a green tammy bag, wherein tocarry our books, and at the bottom reposed a packet of sandwiches, in casewe should feel faint during school-hours(a rather excessive precaution, bythe way, seeing that we were to return home for dinner at mid-day. Peter sofar justified my mother's extra care for myself as to return home with ablack eye, but otherwise in the best of spirits, and much pleased with hisnew school. I was inclined to envy him, for I had in those days long goldenringlets, and the girls had been pulling them, more or less, all the morning.

Chapter II


My school was a very small one, consisting of seven girls and three boys, ofwhom I was the oldest. The school was held in a couple of rooms,separated, when needful, by folding doors. The back room was used as aclass-room for the repetition of lessons; the other contained two long desks,and two very hard forms, on which we sat at other times. Miss Patience orMiss Patty Potter, and sometimes both of them, sat at a table in the frontroom, elevated on a little platform, about ten inches high.

What the platform was for I really can't say. It could hardly be to give thema better view of the pupils, the most distant of whom was not more thanfifteen feet off. I am inclined to think that the Misses Potter somehow felttaller on the platform, and that it formed a part in their own minds of the"moral suasion" on which they laid great stress in the prospectus, and whichformed a stock topic of conversation in discussions with parents andguardians. Miss Patience. who was the elder, took charge of history,geography, and French. She had once been told (by a Native) that her "Oui"was perfect, and this little incident was invariably mentioned to the friendsof pupils whenever the subject of French could by any possibility be led upto. The ingenuity displayed by Miss Patience in this particular wasremarkable. Starting from the most unpromising regions (say, MissThompson's chilblains, or Miss Simpson's loss of her pocket-handkerchief),the conversation would work round and round, Miss Patty dexterouslyassisting, until Miss Patience was able to say, quoting the very words (andaccent) of the native, with his hand on his heart, "Truly, madame, your 'Oui'is pair-r-rfect."

Miss Patience was inclined to be stout, and wore a cap. Miss Patty, on thecontrary, was very slim, with little corkscrew curls, and a red pointed nose,and always smelt powerfully of coffee. Miss Patty took charge of thearithmetical, drawing, and writing departments; and the smell of coffee, asshe bent over our shoulders to correct our sums or set our copies, wasalmost overpowering. Even at this distant date, I am satisfied that I couldnot write "Procrastination is the thief of time," or "Evil communicationscorrupt good manners," without holding my breath to avoid the scent ofcoffee which I should instinctively expect to accompany them.Notwithstanding Miss Party's penchant for coffee, and a correspondingweakness on the part of Miss Patience for snuff, they were a pair of verycharming old ladies, who did their duty most conscientiously by theirpupils, and I shall always remember them with respect and affection.

Here, by the way, I experienced my first love affair. The course of true lovenever does run smooth, it is said, and the proverb was certainly verified inmy case. I, Dick Hazard (aged nine), was smitten with a devouring passionfor the head girl, Carrie Owen. There were two or three of the smallerpupils who would have been quite ready to reciprocate my affection, but(such is the way of the world) I treated them with the profoundestindifference. Carrie Owen was four years older, and nearly a head taller

Chapter II


than myself, and I regarded her (possibly on that account) with a feelingbordering on adoration.

I had never told my love, but I strove to show it by various little delicateattentions; I even concealed half-pennyworths of acidulated drops in herdesk, and watched, with intense eagerness, to see her find them. The firsttime all went well. She did not, it is true, exhibit any particular anxiety toknow whence they came, but merely remarking, "I say, here are someacid-drops," divided them with her special friend, Bertha Rogers. Thesecond, time I was less fortunate. It was very warm weather, and I hadcarried my little offering in my pocket for a day or two before I could findan opportunity to place it in Carrie's desk unobserved. Meanwhile, theacid-drops had grown gradually stickier and stickier, until at last they hadsettled into a sort of gummy lump, of by no means appetising appearance.However, I carefully separated them, stuck them one by one upon a niceclean sheet of paper, torn out of my own ciphering-book (for which I got animposition, by the way), and slipped them surreptitiously into my beloved'sdesk. As ill luck would have it, Carrie was in a hurry to get home thatmorning, and as soon as school was dismissed, popped her books quicklyinto her desk, without looking into it. Down came the books on myunfortunate acid-drops, and by the time Carrie went to her desk in theafternoon, they had attached themselves, like so many limpets, to thebinding. Carrie was furious, and declared that if she could only find outwho put the nasty sticky things in her desk she would slap her face for her.She quite made up her mind that one of the other girls had done it to playher a trick, and Miss Patience further harrowed up my feelings bydescribing my little delicate attention as a disgusting practical joke.I had quite intended, on the strength of this second offering, to make anopen declaration of my affection, but under the circumstances thought itbetter to wait for a more favourable opportunity. Not many days afterwardsan opening seemed to present itself. We were having a geography lesson;Carrie was at the top of the class, and I was second. Carrie was asked whatwas the capital of Prussia, but not having learnt her lesson quite as well asusual, failed to answer, I knew, but wouldn't answer, lest I should becompelled to take my beloved one down, and the answer was given by thenext in order, a little girt named Mary Tracy, who forthwith "went up" tothe top of the class. Of course I lost a place too, but I gloried in the thoughtthat I had done so for my beloved's sake, and I determined that she shouldknow that it was so. Accordingly, after school was over, I took theopportunity of saying to her privately, "I say, Carrie" (we usually prefacedany very important announcement with "I say"), "guess why I didn't answerthe capital of Prussia, in geography class just now." "Because you didn'tknow it, I suppose, stupid," she replied. "No, indeed," I said, drawing nearerto her, and speaking with great impressiveness, "that wasn't the reason atall. I knew it all the time, but I wouldn't say it, because I didn't want to take

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you down." "Then if you did know it," she rejoined, "you are a nasty littletoad for not whispering it to me, and saving me my place, instead of lettingthat little conceited puss Mary Tracy get to the top. So just take that!""That" was a slap, which made my face tingle for several minutes; but eventhis did not cure me of my misplaced affection. I have always had aninstinctive love of fair play, and I reflected that after all there wassomething to be said for Carrie's view of the matter. My devotion had notsaved her place in the class, and if she was to lose it, it did not very muchmatter whether I was the gainer, or Mary Tracy. Again I thought it better topostpone my declaration, but one Wednesday afternoon as we were goinghome, I took heart of grace, and said boldly, "Carrie, I love you." Theheartless girl's only reply was "You Shrimp!" after which she tossed herhead, and running on to overtake her friend Bertha Rogers, who was a fewyards in front, she unmistakably told her the whole story, at the same timepointing me out with derisive gestures. This last straw broke the back of myaffections. Like the swain in the ballad, who complains

"She might have been right in rejecting my love,But why did she kick me down stairs?"

I felt that my honest affection had been treated with unwarrantabledisrespect. Shrimp! indeed! The cure was painful, but it was complete.From that day forward, to a comparatively advanced age, I became aconfirmed misogynist, and regarded girls in their proper light, as a ratherinferior kind of boys.

The only other incident that stands out with any clearness from my schoollife at the Misses Potter's, is my being kissed and called a "nice littlefellow" by a lady who came to visit the school. She was a verygood-looking lady, and I don't think I should mind it so much now, but atthe time it took me down tremendously. I felt that as long as I continued ata girls' school I should be constantly exposed to such outrages, and Iplagued my mother, without ceasing, to take me away and put me at a"proper" school. In spite of my remonstrances, however, I remained for twoyears under the care of the Misses Potter, after which, in considerationpartly of my own entreaties, and partly of my having passed the canonicallimit of age for male pupils at that academy, my mother did take me away,and placed me at the same school with Peter. At the same time, myobnoxious ringlets, against which I had long protested, but in vain, were cutoff, and I felt that I had now really made a fair start on the road tomanhood.

My new school was a large middle-class establishment, numbering overtwo hundred pupils. As usually happens in these big schools, the amount ofprogress made depended mainly on the pupil himself. A clever andhard-working boy was pushed forward, and got on rapidly, while the dulland indolent were left to lag behind. Fortunately for myself, I was fairly

Chapter II


bright and fairly industrious and I made pretty good progress. In otherrespects, too, I got on very comfortably. The tone of the school was good.There was very little bullying, though I found, now and then, that having abig brother to take one's part was a decided advantage. I stayed at thisschool for three years, and was lucky enough to carry off, at eachMidsummer examination, one or more prizes. I was slow at arithmetic andmathematics generally, but I was pretty good at history and geography, andI had further rather a talent for languages, which, on two differentoccasions, won me a prize for French, and afterwards proved ofconsiderable service to me.


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CHAPTER III.My First Introduction to the Major--The Other Things--A Delightful

Promise--A Deadly Combat.

ON RETURNING home from school with Peter one afternoon, we foundsitting with my mother a gentleman, at that time a stranger to us, but whowas destined to have a very great influence on my life. Such mixture ofgood as there may be in the queer piece of patchwork that serves me for acharacter(the instinctive love of what is good and true, and hatred of what ismean and base(I owe, under God, chiefly to Major Manly. He had been aschoolfellow and special friend of my father, and now, after spending thegreater part of his life in India, had returned to end his days in England.Almost his first act, on returning to his native land, had been to look up thewidow of his old friend, and the tears with which my mother's eyes werefilled showed what tender memories had been recalled by his visit. He roseat our entrance, and gave a hand to each of us with a hearty grip. "And theseare your boys, poor Dick's boys? Good boys, too, I'll be bound, or they'renot like their father before them. Come, lads, let's have a good look at you."We looked at him with a smile, half gratified, half shamefaced, and helooked, not at us, as it seemed to me, but through us, in return. The firstthing one noticed about the Major was his eyes(they were grey, and clear,with a pleasant twinkle; ordinary eyes enough to describe, but by no meansordinary eyes to look at. If ever a brave white soul looked out of a man'seyes, it did so from Major Manly's. You felt instinctively that the man whoowned those eyes did not know what fear was, and that through storm orsunshine, evil repute or good repute, he would hold to what he believed tobe the right. And the clear gaze of the Major's eyes seemed not only toindicate his character, but, by some mesmeric power, to control one's own.As for telling a fib or a scandalous story with those eyes fixed upon you, itwould have been simply impossible. And his voice was just what youwould expect from his eyes, cheery and pleasant, with the unmistakablering of truth and honour. One felt that whatever that voice affirmed wastrue, and whatever that voice ordered must, somehow or other, be done. Anold brother-officer of the Major has told me that in their Indian battles withthe Sikhs, in the most desperate emergency the soldiers would always rallyround the Major. Wherever his clear tones were heard, new spirit seemed

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infused into the men, and more than once, though himself severelywounded, the magic influence of his presence and assistance had snatchedvictory out of the very jaws of defeat. This, however, only came to myknowledge long afterwards. My first impression of him is that of an upright,active-looking gentleman of middle height, deeply tanned with the sun, andfrom fifty to sixty years of age. His hair, which he wore very short, wasnearly white; his moustache and eyebrows iron-gray. With the exception ofhis moustache, he was closely shaven. There was a deep, white scar, asfrom a sword-cut, on his left temple, and he walked somewhat stiffly, fromthe effects of a gunshot wound in the right knee.

My mother answered for us (a little overstating the facts, perhaps) that wewere very good boys. "That's right," said the Major, drawing us down onthe sofa beside him, and placing an arm round each of us. "Dick Hazard'ssons must have sadly degenerated, if they were not good boys. Not toogood, you know, lads; we don't want old heads on young shoulders; butbrave honest lads, leading pure lives, and telling the truth, and honouringthe dear, good mother here, as mothers deserve to be honoured. That's thesort of boy I like to see." (I can't answer for Peter, but somehow the Major'swords seemed to sketch in my mind a sort of ideal boy, distinctly superiorto any boy of my acquaintance, and made me feel that I should very muchlike(I don't know that I went further than that, for the moment(to be thatkind of boy.) "Well," he continued, "and now let's hear what you aredoing(let's see, what's your name, old fellow?""Peter," replied my brother.

"Peter?" echoed the Major, turning to my mother. "How's that? why notRichard, like his father?"

"Peter is called after an old bachelor uncle," replied my mother. "This isDick."

"Oh," said the Major, with a twinkle in his eye. "Metallic reasons, eh? Well,they're not to be despised. And so you're Peter, and you're Dick. Now westart fair. Well, Peter, what are you doing at school? Plenty of arithmetic, Ihope. A boy isn't worth his salt if he isn't good at arithmetic." Arithmetichappened to be Peter's strong point, and he was therefore enabled to give apretty good account of himself on this score. (Arithmetic, as I have said,was not my strong point, but I mentally resolved to pay more attention to itfor the future.)The Major further proceeded to make inquiries as to our progress in otherbranches of education, which we answered as favourably to ourselves ascircumstances would permit. With anybody else we might have beentempted to give perhaps a rather more flowery account of ourselves, butwith those eyes looking straight at you, there was simply nothing for it butto stick to facts.

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However, the Major seemed very well satisfied with our account. "That's allright, so far," he said, "but how about all the other things?" Peter and Ilooked at each other with some degree of alarm, as a vista of new andabstruse studies seemed to open before us, but our apprehensions werespeedily quieted. "The boxing, I mean, and the single-stick, and theswimming, and the gymnastics, and the cricket." We told him that weoccasionally played at cricket, but knew nothing of the otheraccomplishments he referred to. "This won't do," said the Major, "this won'tdo at all. Books are very well in their way, Maria; but they're only half aneducation, after all. We must alter this." And Peter and I felt an instantconviction that it should and would be altered.

"Well, to tell the truth," said my mother (as if she ever did anything else,dear soul), "I have always regarded those things as being rather luxuries.They charge extra for them at the school, and with my limited income"("Quite right," said the Major; "I see, of course! Not to be thought of but yetthey must know all about those things, and they would be a pleasure tothem into the bargain. Look here, boys, you would like to be tough andwiry, and to know how to use your legs and arms, and your fists, whenoccasion requires?"

We both answered "yes," with great heartiness.

"Well then, it is clear that you must learn boxing, and fencing, andgymnastics, and as the dear mother can't give you all that (thoseconfounded metallic reasons again), we must manage it some other way.Suppose I teach you myself."

"You, Major!" exclaimed my mother."Why not, Maria? I'm pretty active still, in spite of my fifty-seven years.My knee won't let me do very much in the gymnastic line, but I can manageto put a couple of youngsters through their facings, I dare say; and youknow I used to be reckoned rather a dab with the gloves and the sticks. So ifthese young scamps," he gave us a friendly hug,( "like to give up ahalf-holiday now and then to take a lesson, I'm their man, and if I don'tmake smart boxers and fencers of them, call me a Dutchman. Here, boys,let's see what sort of muscle you've got. Hum! Site for an intended biceps.That's about all you can call it, at present. Now feel mine."

Peter and I simultaneously took hold of his arms, one on each side, anduttered a simultaneous "Oh" of astonishment. The Major's muscles werelike iron bands. He laughed merrily at our note of admiration.

"That's the result of training," he said. "Wholesome food, and not too muchof it" (I made up my mind on the spot, thenceforth only to have one helpingof pudding at dinner), "and plenty of exercise in the right way(that's the

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whole secret. Well, boys, what say you? When shall we begin?"

"To-morrow," said I.

"To-day," cried Peter.

"No, no. Not quite so soon as that. There are one or two things to do first. Imust look up some gloves and sticks, and so on. Let me see, to-day isMonday, and Wednesday, I suppose, is a half-holiday? Good; then we willmake a beginning on Wednesday afternoon. You give us permission,Maria?"

"If I didn't, I'm afraid you would take it, Major. I know your ways of old.But I shall be only too thankful. I know the boys cannot be in better hands.What you teach them can only be to their advantage."

"Hum! 'praise undeserved is scandal in disguise,'" quoted the Major. "Youput me on my mettle. Well, boys, we'll do our best to deserve your mother'sconfidence, won't we? And now, Maria, tell me about some of our otherfriends."

Finding the conversation drifting into a channel which had no interest forus, Dick and I made our escape. We were wild with delight at the prospectof learning boxing and fencing, which had always been the objects of acherished, but hitherto hopeless ambition. We were even constrained towork off our excitement by means of an anticipatory combat withwalking-sticks in the front garden. We both suffered a little, and thewalking-sticks a good deal, from the fierceness of the contest. When thefray was over, and we were returning our weapons to their sheaths (theumbrella stand), Peter remarked, for about the fifteenth time, so far as thesentiment was concerned("I say, though, isn't he just stunning?""He's the finest fellow I ever saw in my life," I rejoined.And neither of us ever found occasion to alter our opinion.


Chapter III




CHAPTER IV.Athletic Exercises--The Noble Art of Self-Defence--Bound to do ourBest--Our New Gymnasium--My First Pantomime--Harlequin DerFreischiitz and the Seven Bad Shots--In Love with Columbine--An

Unexpected Rival--Disillusion.

THE Major kept his word, and many a pleasant half-holiday did Peter andI spend in the back-garden, acquiring, under his tuition, the arts ofself-defence, and gymnastics generally. We were tolerably apt pupils, bothhaving a great liking for active sports, particularly where there was asprinkling of the pugnacious element. The Major was an admirableinstructor, and trusting in his assurance of their ultimate value, wecheerfully underwent the drudgery of drill and dumb-bell exercises,thinking ourselves amply rewarded by being allowed a good, smartgive-and-take bout afterwards with the gloves. Even in our mosthotly-contested encounters, however, the Major made us adhere strictly toline and rule. In respect to boxing, for instance, it is a curious butwell-ascertained fact that the uninstructed man, boxing by the light ofnature, endeavours to add force to his blows by swinging his arms round, asif he were bowling at cricket. As, however, a straight line is considerablyshorter than a semicircle, a blow from the shoulder naturally takes a shortertime to deliver, and by the time the round-armed hitter has got half-wayround, the straight hitter has already reached his mark, probably on theround-armed hitter's nose. A contest, therefore, between a round and astraight hitter is therefore a foregone conclusion for the latter.

It may readily be imagined that the Major would tolerate none but straighthitting, and never would overlook even the smallest shortcoming in thisparticular. "No, no," he would say, "that won't do. You can do better thanthat. We must have that little bit over again." And I, who flattered myselfthat I had punched Peter's head quite secundum artem, or Peter, who hadpunched mine to his own complete satisfaction, was obliged to repeat theprocess in a more scientific manner, and not always with the same result.

At first, it seemed rather tedious to have to repeat the same movement overand over again in order to correct some apparently trifling fault; but soonwe began to appreciate, and insensibly to copy the Major's guiding

Chapter IV


principle, never to rest satisfied with any achievement short of one's verybest. At the outset, this higher conscientiousness on our part was a gooddeal dependent on the Major's presence with us; but, little by little, hissteady persistence in doing the right for the right's sake infected our ownminds, and we made it a point of honour, even in his absence, instantly todo over again anything which we felt might have been done better. Nor didthis effect cease with our athletic exercises. Before long we found ourselvesapplying the same principle to our school work. Before we knew the Majorwe had been accustomed to think that "pretty well" was "well enough," andto act upon that assumption; and just at first, our new-born devotion toathletics rather tended, I am afraid, to the prejudice of our book-work. Butsuch was not long the case. The steady habit of doing our very best for theMajor, and, later on, for ourselves in the exercising ground gradually madeus feel intolerant of "scamping" in any shape, and many and many a time Ihave got up at daybreak to re-write an exercise or to re-learn a lesson, towhich I felt I had not done full justice the night before; and Peter frequentlydid the same.

The effect on our progress at school was very marked, procuring us anamount of praise from our masters Which now and then made us feelalmost uncomfortable, from a consciousness that the credit really belonged,not to ourselves, but the Major. In truth, Peter and myself were both veryordinary boys, with the usual boyish disposition to take life easily, and to besatisfied, if we had been left to ourselves, with a very moderate standard ofexcellence. Uncle Bumpus' moral platitudes, and exhortations to "stick toit" failed to impress us in the smallest degree, but all boys worth their saltare instinctive hero-worshippers. The Major was our hero, and his constantstriving after the best possible was so completely the key-note of hischaracter that it is small wonder if, in some degree, it became the key-noteof ours; and such measure of success as I have met in after life I attributemainly to this cause.

Our back garden, a gravelled space with high walls, facetiously known toPeter and myself as the "tank," had gradually assumed the aspect of aregular gymnasium. The various posts, swings, and bars had been erectedby Peter and myself, acting as a select corps of engineers, under thecommand of the Major. It was rather hard work at first, but wherever theMajor led we were bound to follow, and we soon learnt to handle mattockand spade like a pair of youthful navigators. My mother was a little alarmedat seeing the tall poles and swings which began to rear their heads in viewof her hitherto peaceful back-windows; but her confidence in the Majorprevailed. My brother and I were more seriously exercised by the doubt asto how Jemima would take it, and what would happen in the event of adifference of opinion between her and the Major. If there had been such aconflict, the problem of the old schoolmen as to what would happen in theevent of an irresistible force (the Major) coming in contact with an

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immovable body (Jemima) would have had a chance of being solved.Fortunately, however, the difficulty was unintentionally settled for us byUncle Bumpus, who, in Jemima's hearing, stigmatised our athletic exercisesas "a pack of tomfoolery," whereupon she forthwith became theirstaunchest supporter, and I really believe would even have essayed, withvery slight encouragement, to climb one of our poles herself. Thenceforthall went smoothly. Not only the majority of our half-holidays, but a goodmany of the long summer evenings were spent in our outdoor gymnasium, aperpetual source of entertainment to the neighbouring maidservants, whoseheads were constantly to be seen protruding from the adjoiningback-windows. There was nobody to cry out, as at the tournaments of old,"Largesse, largesse, noble knights; bright eyes look on your deeds!" norindeed did Peter or I much concern ourselves whether we had spectators ornot, but thwacked each other with the single-sticks, and contended whoshould soar highest on the swing, solely for our own and the Major'ssatisfaction. A year's steady practice in this way made our muscles nearly astough, on a smaller scale, as those of the Major himself, and we had furtherlearnt, by habit and hard training, to bear hard knocks without flinching, asbecame the hardy, fear-nothing youngsters which the Major sought to makeof us. Occasionally, by way of variety, he would go with us to some largebaths in the neighbourhood, and give us a swimming-lesson. His lamenessprevented his being himself a very active swimmer, but he was anadmirable teacher, and we were soon as much at home in the water as onland, and could not only swim, for our age, a tolerably fast stroke, but keepit up for a very considerable length of time without fatigue.

Meanwhile, our constant intercourse with the Major was doing us, thoughwithout our knowledge, incalculable good in a moral sense. He was by nomeans a "preaching" man; indeed, he very rarely spoke of religious matters,but we soon got to feel somehow or other that there was a very deep andearnest vein of religion under-running his quiet, simple life. When theMajor said, as he often did, "Please God," it was not, as with many persons,a mere phrase or expletive, but meant, in all seriousness, "if God pleases."If he chanced in the street to pass a funeral, he always raised his hat, in thereverent foreign fashion. His manner to women was full of the most refinedcourtesy, and he would speak as politely to a beggar-woman as to aduchess. This is perhaps a figure of speech, for duchesses were not plentifulin our circle, but it is proverbially impossible to gild refined gold, and theMajor's habitual politeness was so perfect as to leave no margin for furtherimprovement.

To the Major we were indebted for our first experience in another direction,an event of never-to-be-forgotten splendour. For a long time past we hadbeen worrying my mother to take us to a pantomime; and she had evenpromised that she would do so some day, but again and again thepantomime season came to an end, time went on, the clowns retired into

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private life, and we had not seen them. Meanwhile, we had heard frommore fortunate schoolfellows the most excruciatingly tantalising accountsof the wonders of the fairyland in question, and I cannot say to whatdesparate deed we might not have been driven to get there; but fortunatelyPeter chanced to ask Jones Major, the most graphic of the narrators, howbig Drury Lane was, and whether (by way of pinning him to somethingdefinite) it was three times as large our biggest schoolroom. On JonesMajor replying that it was "a hundred times as big" we made up our mindsthat our young friends were simply "stuffing" us, and thenceforth ourinterest fell off, and we troubled ourselves comparatively little about thematter.

When, however, the Major arrived one evening with the intelligence that hehad. secured a box at Drury Lane, and was going to take us all to thepantomime, our excitement revived with ten-fold intensity. Even the smellof straw in the stuffy cab which took us the theatre seemed ambrosial to us,and the vehicle itself a fairy chariot. Its only fault was that it did not go halffast enough for our wishes and if we could have been permitted to jump outand work off our superfluous energy by pushing behind, I am sure weshould have cheerfully done so. When we reached the theatre, and lookingout from our pigeon-hole saw the great expanse before us, with the rowsupon rows of boxes like our own, and the great green curtain filling thewhole of one side, we were completely "flabbergasted." The phrase is notclassical, but I know no other which so exactly expresses our state of mind."Astonished," "bewildered," "thunderstruck," are doubtless more elegantphrases, but none of them give the full effect of being mentally doubled-upand sat-upon, which I desire to convey. Peter whispered to me inawe-struck tones, "Jones Major did tell the truth, after all!" I had beenthinking the very same thing, and an uneasy consciousness that we haddone Jones Major an injustice, and owed him an apology, crossed my mind.Still, notwithstanding its unexpected vastness, the theatre so far did notquite come up to the descriptions of our friends. The house was very dim,and the gentlemen with the white neckties and the big fiddles were makinganything but musical noises in the region below. I remember thinking whata pity it was that they didn't have the place a little better lighted, and a littlenicer music, when suddenly, as if in response to my inward thought, thegreat chandelier in the middle of the house suddenly became a blaze ofsparkling diamonds, the whole theatre was filled with a flood of light, andthe orchestra started with a crash, and the big and little fiddles, the cornets,the flutes, the saxhorns, and the drums went off hurry-scurry in a brilliantoverture. Still I wondered where the performance was to take place, forevery corner of the enormous house seemed filled. The great green curtainhad by this time been rolled up, but only, as it seemed to me, in order toshow a highly coloured picture behind it. I remembered I was justwondering whether the actors would come out and talk in front of that

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picture, when suddenly the picture itself was mysteriously rolled up, andrevealed an awful valley, with great grim overhanging rocks on either side;on the ground, in the centre, a circle of grinning skulls, wherein anuncanny-looking personage (whom I somehow suspected to beunmentionable to ears polite) kept watch and ward. The pantomime wasHarlequin Der Freischiilz and the Seven Bad Shots. I am afraid a good dealof liberty was taken with the original story, and that the ghost of Weber, ifhe had chanced to be in attendance, would have been rather puzzled torecognise his own opera; indeed, since seeing the original, I have alwaysgot the two a little mixed myself. I remember, however, that on the policemaking a sudden descent on the Wolf's Glen, the grinning skulls becameinstantaneously transformed into quartern loaves, and the magic bullets intopatent pills; that nearly everybody proved to be somebody else's long lostuncle or aunt, and that the villain came to an untimely end by inadvertentlytaking one of his own pills, but was ultimately resuscitated, not a penny theworse, as Clown.

That gruesome Wolf's Glen! I can call up now, almost as vividly as the dayI saw it, the horrible owls with the grey blinking eyes, the bloated bats withtheir great expanding wings, the slimy-looking serpents that squirmed alongthe ground, the lizards, frogs, and toads that hopped or crawled round theenchanted circle. I can recall even now the delicious horror that we feltgazing on these terrific shapes, and our sensation of relief, and yetdisappointment, when, at the entrance of the police, they all turned intosomething of a harmless, not to say ridiculous, character; the great bats intogingham umbrellas, the owls into family portraits, the serpents intogarden-hose, and so on. Even now I can recall our excitement at theshooting match, and the way we clapped our hands when the right man won(rather a milk-and-water sort of young man, if I remember right) and themachinations of the villain were brought to an untimely end. But all thesememories seem dim beside the glories of the harlequinade, the antics of theClown, the perpetual misfortunes of Pantaloon, the mysterious entrancesand exits of Harlequin, and last, but oh! not least, the graceful pranks ofColumbine. For the first time for many years(indeed, since my cruelexperience with Carrie Owen(I felt that I loved again. Come what might,that fairy-like being in the pink tarlatan would henceforth reign sole queenof my affections. I conceived an instant and violent hatred of Harlequin.The way my charmer(chiefly on one leg(followed him about stung me tothe verge of frenzy. I had a sort of dim idea, partly suggested, I fancy, byher conduct, and partly by her costume, that she wasn't quite what sheshould be, and I remember thinking that my mother or Jemima wouldn't goon like that. But I loved her still the same. I was disgusted to find onreaching home, and exchanging notes with Peter, that he also haddeveloped a passion for the same object; and he added insult to injury byreminding me of my extreme youth, and making a prior claim, so to speak,on the ground of his trumpery year and a-half of seniority. This caused a

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coolness between us for some days. I had some thoughts of challenging himto mortal combat in the back garden, with the understanding that the ladywas to be the prize of the survivor. What would have come of it I cannotsay. Perhaps I should not have lived to write this simple story; but wefortunately discovered, from a casual remark of the Major to my mother,that the object of our joint adoration was a married lady with severalchildren, some of them considerably older than myself. At the outset Iresented the assertion as a gross calumny, and was more than half inclinedto challenge the Major instead of Peter, and wipe out the falsehood with hisblood, but knowing his habitual truthfulness I restrained myself, andsubsequent inquiries satisfied me that the story was correct. The shock wassevere, but it was salutary. After a few days my mind recovered its tone,and reverted to its former misogynist attitude. By tacit consent Peter and Iavoided the subject as one too painful for discussion, and in a short time ourlittle unpleasantness was completely forgotten.


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CHAPTER V.My First Visit to a Conjuring Entertainment--My

Enthusiasm--Extraordinary Indifference of Peter--Early Studies inPrestidigitation--The Tribulations of a Neophyte.

A LITTLE later I was indebted to the Major for another experience,without which I should probably never have acquired the nickname whichgives the title to this book, and this eventful history would never have beenwritten. A conjurer was exhibiting his marvels at a hall in ourneighbourhood, and the Major goodnaturedly asked my mother'spermission to take Peter and myself to see them. Peter, to my surprise, tookthe performance as coolly as if it had been a common concert ormagic-lantern entertainment, but I was spell-bound. The performer was astoutish little man in a dress coat rather too tight for him, and rattled off his"patter" in a thin, squeaky voice, as if he was trying to combineventriloquism with conjuring. I don't think he was a man of any specialrepute in his profession, but his performance seemed to me miraculous. Ihave seen so much of the same kind of thing since that I cannot profess torecall the precise details of his achievements, but the way in which he madetorn-up cards reappear whole as at first in various parts of the room,collected money from the air, cooked a pudding in a hat, and then producedtherefrom a host of heterogeneous articles, went far to justify, in my mind,the belief that he practised unlawful arts. If anybody in the audience had gotup and proposed that he should be burnt as a wizard I should have beendeeply sorry, but not in the least surprised. Fortunately, no suchcontratemps occurred. The Major was delighted at my enthusiasm, andrelated to me very much more wonderful things which he had seen done bythe native conjurers in India. Subsequent experience has satisfied me thateven with the most truth-telling persons, not initiated into the secrets of thecraft, the description of a conjuring trick must be accepted with a veryliberal discount, but I received the whole with the most implicit faith, andfrom that moment my most cherished ambition was to be a conjurer. On ourway home an anxious fear struck me. I remembered the Columbineincident, and dreaded lest Peter should have been smitten with a similaryearning, and should again put forward his right of primogeniture. I couldhardly expect that my mother would tolerate two conjurers in one family.

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The next morning, I cautiously led up to the subject."Peter," I said, "I wonder how long it takes to learn to be a conjurer.""Oh, a year or two, I suppose," said Peter, airily. "I expect it's easy enoughwhen you once know how the things are done. It's all a lot of bunkum."

"Bunkum or not," I replied, feeling my way, "I expect you'd be jolly glad tobe able to do it yourself. Come now."

"I shouldn't mind, just for curiosity, knowing a few of the old chap's tricks.But as for doing them myself, I wouldn't be bothered with 'em."

"Come, I say; you'd like to be able to make a pudding in a hat. Wouldn'tyou now?"

"Yes," said Peter, thoughtfully, "I shouldn't mind that. But I'd a jolly sightrather have the pudding right off, without the bother of pretending to makeit. Of course he only sticks it into the hat when you're not looking."

"But how can he?"

"How? Ah, that's his secret. I expect he goes on jabbering till you're alllooking at something else, and then in it goes(bang!""But where does he get it from?"

"I'm sure I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. I'd a jolly sight soonergo to a good magic-lantern or Christmas-tree entertainment. There's somesense in that. But conjuring is jolly humbug. The chap says, 'You see meput a thing here, and now it's gone away, and it's here.' Well, what if it is? Idon't care; I'd just as soon it had stopped in the other place.""But all the tricks are not like that," I said. "Look at that one where he toreup the lady's pocket-handkerchief, and brought it back again as good asever."

"I'm sure I didn't mind, as long as it wasn't my handkerchief he tore up,"rejoined Peter, "I'd just as soon it had stopped in pieces. And if he wasgoing to mend it again, I don't see what was the good of tearing it up at all.Why couldn't he leave it alone?"

Not being prepared to argue the question from this point of view, I changedthe subject, much relieved to find that at any rate I had nothing to fear fromPeter as a rival in this direction.

I could not understand Peter's indifference at that time, and almost thoughthe was "selling me," but subsequent observation satisfied me of his goodfaith. Incredible as it must naturally appear to every well regulated mind,there are persons in whom, from some deficiency of organisation, even themost perfect of tricks excites no enthusiasm. As the finest concerto is caviar

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to the man who has no musical ear, and the most soul-tickling of jokes isinanity to the man who does not possess the sense of humour, so conjuringseems to demand a special faculty, a bump of philo-prestidigitation, so tospeak, for its complete enjoyment. Given the magic "bump" (a gentlehillock, compounded probably of "wonder" and "ideality") and a clevermagical entertainment is a season of delight, both to the actor and thespectators. As Butler tells us:

"The pleasure is as greatOf being cheated as to cheat;"

or to borrow a quotation from a less known writer: "For those who like thatsort of thing, it's just the kind of thing they like." This was my case. Peterwas an example of the opposite temperament, and in so far as it removed apossible rival from my path, I regarded his indifference as a providentialcircumstance.

Encouraged by the fact that I had the field all to myself, I began steadily topractise the arts of the conjuror, so far as I could discover them. Magicalliterature was rare in my school-days, but I managed to get get hold of a"Boy's Own Conjuring Book" and one or two other treatises professing todeal with the subject. I cannot say that they were satisfactory works. Theauthors either didn't know, or wouldn't tell, any of the more importantsecrets of the craft. In those days I believed the latter, but greaterknowledge of the world inclines me at present to believe that the formerwas the true interpretation. However, I greedily devoured such informationas I could extract from them. Though they were not very clear as to whatyou had to do they all agreed that you must steadily practise doing it; andaccordingly I did practise morning, noon, and night, considerably to thedetriment, I am afraid, of my graver studies. In particular, I never lost anopportunity of practising what is called "palming," i.e., holding a coin orother article in the palm of the open or half-open hand without attractingobservation. Even during school-time I was rarely without a penny, a cork,or an india-rubber ball, concealed in the palm of my hand. Now and thenthe article dropped on the floor, and this led to unpleasantness; indeed,sometimes even to personal violence, and to my finding myself unable tohold anything at all in the palm of my hand with comfort for a considerableperiod. On one occasion, in taking out my pocket-handkerchief, I had themisfortune to pull out with it a whole pack of well-worn playing cards, andto scatter them broadcast over the floor of the schoolroom. I would not havebelieved, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, that one poor pack of cardscould have made such a tremendous display. That pack, judging fromappearance, must have had at least a hundred and fifty cards in it. I haveoften wished I could do the same thing since. I had not the opportunity ofverifying this remarkable increase of the number, for the cards wereforthwith confiscated, and I draw a veil over the remainder of the incident,which was of too painful a character to be reproduced in print.

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On another occasion I had taken a raw egg to school with me, in order topractise the palming of oval objects, and Bobus Minor, who was always onthe look-out for a practical joke, picked my pocket of it when my attentionwas otherwise occupied, and when I next stood up slipped it quietly on theseat behind me. The effect, when I resumed my seat, can be better imaginedthan described. "Hallo! What was that?" said the master in charge, as heheard the crash-cum-squash of the shell and its contents. Nobody answered;we all looked as grave as judges(I, in particular, as solemn as the LordChancellor himself (and the incident passed over without further notice, butoh! the mental agony of that next half-hour! and oh! my mined pantaloons!

"Don't get eggcited, my dear fellow," whispered the hateful Bobus in myear.

I could have killed him with pleasure, but I was compelled for my own saketo preserve a calm exterior (I had nearly written eggsterior, but the subjectis too painful to make a jest of). The lesson came to an end at last, and, itbeing fortunately the last of the day, I was enabled to push the formtemporarily out of sight under a desk, and with the aid of a friendlycomrade, who masked my retreat with a slate held in my rear, I retired tothe lavatory to repair damages. In the first flush of my wrath I vowed the.deadliest vengeance against Bobus Minor, but he had made the best of hisway home, and between that and the next morning's school I had come toappreciate the humorous aspect of the matter, and was more mercifullyinclined towards him. I therefore contented myself with slapping his headand kicking him slightly, just to teach him better manners, and let him go. Iwish I myself could have escaped as easily, but for some weeks afterwardsribald youths would come up and ask me, with apparent seriousness, whatwas the price of eggs; when I intended to "sit" next; and similar impertinentquestions.

Even such untoward experiences as these, however, failed to check myprestidigitatorial ardour. Still I practised, and in spite of my manydifficulties found myself beginning to attain, in an amateur sort of way, afair amount of dexterity in sundry minor tricks, simple enough to theinitiated, but marvellous in the eyes of my less instructed schoolfellows,who forthwith christened me "Conjurer Dick," and "Conjurer Dick" Ithenceforth remained to the end of my school life.


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CHAPTER VI.Dumpton College--A Rash Promise--The Major's Parting Advice--Showing

my Colours--A Struggle for Religious Liberty--An UnexpectedVictory--Wanted by the Vice-Principal--All Well that Ends Well--The Last

of Gunter.

I WAS midway between fourteen and fifteen, when I suddenly developed ahitherto unsuspected talent for headaches. Our doctor gave me nearly all themedicines in the pharmacopoeia ([ don't know how many there are, but I amsatisfied that I must have taken most of them) without effecting anyimprovement, and finally said that I was growing too fast, and that what Ireally required was change of air, preferably at the seaside. I quite agreedwith him, and only regretted that he hadn't mentioned it earlier. Acommittee of ways and means was held by my mother and the Major, and itwas finally decided that I should be sent to Dumpton College, aboarding-school near Margate. Uncle Bumpus condemned the scheme asmollycoddling. Nobody ever sent him to Margate when he was a boy, heobserved, and look at Him! However, his appearance did not carry thatconviction he seemed to anticipate; and he finally "washed his hands" of thematter. Jemima remarked that she wished he would "wash his head, andwash it off." This was no doubt intended merely in a Pickwickian sense; buther further observation, that the old skinflint would rather do anything withhis hands than put them in his pockets was really a good deal to thepurpose, my mother having, as I afterwards discovered, made an attempt toget him to defray Some part of the extra expense of sending me from home.I need hardly say the attempt was a failure, and of itself sufficientlyexplained his disapproval of the project. However, the difficulty was metsomehow or other, the Major, I strongly suspect, lending the helping handwhich Uncle Bumpus refused to extend. In due course my outfit was gotready and my belongings packed up (not forgetting my collection ofconjuring apparatus, carefully wrapped in a small pocket-hankerdchief),and I was ready to depart.

The Major volunteered to see me off at Charing Cross, mother, who had avague impression that fatal accidents were nearly as frequent as trains,having wept so freely as to render her, quite unfit to be seen in public. She

Chapter VI


was tearfully impressing on me her last wishes in the contingency of hernever seeing me again, not realising apparently that as I was the person tobe smashed I should have but little opportunity to attend to them, when theMajor conceived a happy thought. With an almost imperceptible wink atPeter and myself, he said, "Cheer up, Maria, I'll make it all right. I'll take aninsurance ticket for him. It's only three-pence, and then he can't come to anyharm." "Of course, how foolish of me not to think of it!" said my mother,greatly relieved. "You will, Major; won't you? and then my mind will be atrest." My mother, good simple soul, fancied that in some mysterious way(as I have known old ladies tap the barometer to make the mercury go up,and so insure fine weather) the fact of being insured prevented an accidenthappening. The major's pious fraud, therefore (for which he would neverhave forgiven himself if an accident had really happened to me), gave herunspeakable comfort, and she bade me farewell without any furtherbreakdown. Peter was not in the least affected, but said good-bye to mewith rather envious eyes, for he was shortly about to leave school and bepromoted to a high stool in a square wooden cupboard, and the dignity of"Cash" in Uncle Bumpus' drapery establishment. I knew he would havemuch preferred Margate, and I felt for him sincerely. "Good-bye Peter oldboy," I said; "I'll send you some stunning fish, when I catch 'em." Thesaving clause had more significance than I imagined. I merely put it in toprovide for the possible delay of a day or two, fondly imagining that wherethere was such a lot of water as there must naturally be at Margate, theremust also be lots of fish, and that it would merely be a question of droppingin a hook and something tasty (I didn't quite know what), at the end of astring, to catch as many as I might desire. A very few days' experience,however, proved to me that, in the first place, angling is not regarded aspart of the regular curriculum of a Margate boarding-school; and secondly,that even when I did get the chance of an afternoon's fishing, the fish wereinfinitely more wide-awake than I was. I tried them with every conceivablekind of bait, from shrimps and periwinkles even to such strange meats ashairy gooseberries and peppermint lozenges, but all in vain. Theyobstinately declined to be tempted from their native element by anyinducements I could hold out to them. Herein, however, I am anticipating. Ican only say that my promise to Peter was made in all good faith, and that Ishould certainly have kept it, if I could. It is a relief to me to remember thathe did not appear to attach any very great importance to it, but simply said,"Good-bye, old fellow, and luck go with you!" The Major and I got into thehansom at the door, my box was hoisted on the roof, and we were off(mymother waving a very wet pocket-handkerchief to us till we were out ofsight. Jemima stood on the area-steps, and waved her adieux with a ratherdirty apron. Now that the start was fairly made, I felt an uncomfortablelump in my throat, and a strong desire to get at one corner of mypocket-handkerchief. However, I sternly repressed the feeling as a discreditto my manliness, and the cab rolled on.

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For some minutes we rode on in silence. I myself was not inclined forconversation. The Major cleared his throat once or twice, as if he was aboutto speak, but changed his mind and said nothing, and I became aware, by asort of instinct, that he wanted to say something to me, but didn't quiteknow how to begin. Nervousness is catching, and I found myselfanticipating something unpleasant, and hoping he wouldn't say it. However,the Major wasn't the man to shirk a duty, and having made up his mind thathe ought to give me a parting word of advice, he began at last.

"Well, Dick, my boy, you're making your first plunge into the big world.It's a bit of a wrench, leaving home for the first time, and harder sometimesto those who stay behind, than to those who go. You have a very lovingmother, Dick, and I hope you'll do her credit."

"I'll try my best, Major.""Well said, lad; that's a good way of putting it. But what's more to thepurpose still, don't forget Who helps the trying. We're poor sticks, the bestof us. We want a bigger and better strength than our own, if we are to doany good. Remember that, Dick."

"I will, Major.""And don't be ashamed to ask for the help, lad, and never be ashamed,either, to let others know that you do ask for it, trust in it. Show yourcolours, like a good soldier. We despise a fellow who pretends to be betterthan he is, but that won't be your temptation, Dick. A boy at school is muchmore often tempted to pretend to be worse than he is, and if he gives way toit, he's as big a humbug as the other fellow, and a coward in the bargain.You won't be a coward, will you, old boy?"

"Not if I can help it, Major.""You can't help it, boy, if you try to fight it out alone. But you go to theright quarter for help, you may defy the devil all his works. I'm no hand at asermon, but just remember three things :(Tell the truth, live a pure, chastelife, and never be a coward. And when you're in danger of failing, ask Godto help you." He raised his hat in reverent salute. "Stick to that, my lad, andyou'll do. And now my sermon's over, Dick, and here's something toremember it by."

The something was a bright sovereign, the first I had ever possessed in thewhole course of my life. Something in the manner of the gift, more than thegift itself, found a very tender place in my heart(I gripped the Major's handvery hard, and he returned the pressure heartily. A big tear fell on myhand(I thought it was my own, but I chanced to look up, and found it mightjust as well have been the Major's, for the fellow to it was rolling down hisnose.

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Young lads and lasses, who have been "lectured," as you call it, by lovingfriends and relatives, you don't know how hard such lectures are to givesometimes. I don't mean the cold formal jobation, such as Uncle Bumpus,for instance, might have given, but such a little quiet talking-to as the dearold Major had given me, unveiling a little bit of the lecturer's own heart. Aprofound observer has said that no man ever considers any one capable of aprofound and romantic sentiment(except himself. I am very sure that thebest impulses of a man's character, his truest reverences, his loftiest hopes,his highest aspirations, his bitterest self-condemnations, are generally thosewhich he wraps closest in his own heart, even from his nearest and dearest.And when the veil is lifted, it comes to us like a revelation. I had neverdoubted that the Major was a good man. No one who knew him could doso, but it never struck me that he required any assistance from prayers. Ithought, so far as I thought about the matter at all, that his sterlingcharacter, his dauntless courage and unswerving integrity ca

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