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I was put to sleep in a sort of dressing-room immediately over the drawing-room, and here one night–or rather one dark winter morning–I was suddenly awakened by the sound of voices in the room below. I lay, as people are apt to lie under such circumstances, stiff and still for five minutes, listening with all my ears. There came into my mind while thus occupied all that the authorities had said in reference to burglars; and when, after a lapse of five minutes, the voices again became audible, I knew exactly what was expected of me.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. I was certain it could not be the servants; besides, even through the floor I could tell the voices were male. I glided from my couch, and pulled on my nether garments, and then warily set my door ajar. I could see a light through the chink of the door in the landing below, and heard a stealthy footstep. So far, so good. I returned to my room, seized the poker and the water-bottle, and then cautiously descended to the drawing-room door.

Here I once more listened carefully. The keyhole was not eligible for observation, but my sense of hearing was acute. I heard–and this rather surprised me–some one in the room whistle softly to himself, then a gruff, typical burglar’s voice said, “Now, then, with that there sack! Fetch ‘im ‘ere, or I’ll warm yer!”

I heard the whistling cease, as something was dragged across the floor. “Now, then,” said the first voice, “wake up, Jemmy.” That was enough for me. I recognised in this last name a term inseparably connected with burglary; and, not waiting longer, I flung open the door, and with a shout, as much to keep up my own courage as to alarm the enemy, I hurled first my poker, then my water-bottle, then myself in the direction of the voices, and felt that at last I was a hero indeed.

I retain but a dim idea of what followed. I recollect a sooty sack being drawn over my head, just as a general rush of servants and male members of the family, alarmed by the hideous noise of the water-bottle and fire-irons, rushed into the room. Then there was a pause, then a babel of voice, and then, with a cuff on the outside of the sack next to where my head was, the first burglar made a speech:–“I’m bust if I sweeps yer chimbleys any more! This ‘ere lunertick was handy the death of Jemmy with his missals. Bust me! I’ll summons the lot of yer, see if I don’t.”

I will not pursue this melancholy episode, and as a veil was drawn over me at the time, I will also draw a veil over what immediately ensued. My visit to my uncle’s terminated that day, and a few weeks later I saw in the paper that he had been fined L5–for an assault committed by one of his household on two sweeps.

After this I had not the heart to proceed to the last desperate expedient for acquiring immortal fame. As long as my endeavours had hurt only myself, it was not so bad, but when they recoiled on the heads of my most important relatives I felt it time to draw the line. The bullet may not yet be cast which my heroic bosom is to receive in the stead of royalty, but I shall be ready for it when it is.

Meanwhile I have been cultivating the quieter graces of life, where, if I may not be a hero, I may at least do my duty without making a noise. I am not sure, when all is said and done, whether the two things are not sometimes pretty much the same after all.