Again I skip over a considerable period, during which I was variously occupied, trying many professions but caring for none. First, German correspondent for a London periodical, then sub-editor of another, a deeply-religious paper, the proprietor of which was magnanimous enough to allow me to act as sub-editor, advertisement-collector, and manager, and his generosity extended to the awful sum of 15s. per week, for which sum I had to attend the office from 9 in the morning till 6 in the evening, with the exception of one hour for dinner, which said meal I usually took at the hospitable board of His Grace Duke Humphrey [idiom –‘to go without dinner’] I am not romancing, but stating a real fact. Next I tried my hand at amateur acting, with more or less success (chiefly less); then I turned interpreter and clerk, in which capacity I went the round of nearly twenty different establishments, and eventually I became (quite by accident) an exhibitor of natural curiosities in the shape of a white-headed or albino family. Then came more literature in the shape of translations from the German, chiefly Christmas stories, and such like; then the stage; and finally conjuring, to which I have faithfully kept for nearly 20 years, during which time I have performed in most parts of the world and in the dens of disreputability, encountering all the vicissitudes inseparable from the career of a travelling showman. Many a time and oft my heart has failed me, and my spirits have been bowed to the very dust with misfortunes and failures connected with such a life; illness, want of knowledge of the world, especially the world to which I now belong, have frequently tempted me to wish for another and more certain career; but

I made my first appearance as a full-fledged conjuror (though by no means an experienced one, although I thought myself no small shakes at the time) at Cremorne Gardens, London, as the original performer of the rope-tying trick, which trick I named the “Great Indian Rope Feat” – this was some four or five years before the notorious Davenport Brothers came to London – and professing spirit agency in the performance of this trick, created so much controversy both in private circles and in the public journals. I shall refer to this subject in a future chapter. My performances at the Gardens extended only over a period of two weeks, for, although the Press spoke highly of it, it created no very great excitement; the chief cause of which I had sense enough to foresee at once. I appeared in public in a full dress suit. I did not speak the introduction to my performance, but delegated that office to one of the officials of the place, and altogether the performance looked tame and flat, and, sooth to say, it was both. But already the genius of the true showman began to dawn upon me. “The eye must be pleased,” says Iago, and taking this sage saying to heart, I resolved to astonish the British public by appearing in another and a far different character altogether. I would be an “Indian” and an “Indian” I became right quickly. A ferocious looking and very variegated Indian snake charmer’s dress did the business. Paint added to the illusion; and my hair, which was long and dark, completed the transmogrification.

In this dress, I gave a performance before a few private friends, including the celebrated Dr. Buckland [ Francis Trevelyan Buckland 1826-1880 ] , who was kind enough to speak of me in the highest terms in “Land and Water”, also in his work entitled “Curiosities of Natural History.” Rather a funny incident in connection with this performance may be mentioned here. At the conclusion of the various rope-tying tricks I found it impossible to obtain water to wash off the paint which was very liberally besmeared all over my neck, face, and arms, and in order not to lose an engagement I had in another part of town, by useless delay, I resolved to “get” as the Yankees say in my then state. Cabs there were none. I durst not get into an omnibus for fear of being recognised, so there was nothing for it but to walk, and walk I did from the gardens at Chelsea to Leicester Square, followed by several inquisitive and highly-delighted street Arabs, and a small and not very select party of idlers and loafers. Never shall I forget the mute astonishment of the servant girl when, having forgotten my latch-key, she opened the door for me. Running into the back parlour, she screamed, “Oh, missus, there’s a wild man at the door. Oh, Lord! What will become of us all?” The day after this event I was sitting in the office of Messrs. _____ , theatrical agents, when there entered a certain tall and good-looking gentleman, whom I at once recognised as Mr. E. D. D. [impresario Edward. D. Davis] the former respected manager of the Theatre Royal, N.C. [Newcastle] I had frequently played in his theatre during my career of an amateur actor, and knew his face at once. He gave me one of his sharp and particularly shrewd glances, but failed to make me out.

“Who is that Tolmaque, who performed at Cremorne last night,” said Mr. E. D. D., addressing the agent in question. Keeping his countenance, and never looking at me the agent replied, “A very clever performer, and on my books.”

“I should like to engage him for six nights during next week’s races, if his terms are not too high.”

Now came my turn. “How do you do, Mr. D_____ ,” said I. “Ah! I see you don’t remember me. My name is _____ and I have frequently played your theatre.” The recognition was now mutual. Great was his wonder and astonishment when he heard that I was the real Simon Pure, the identical Herr Tolmaque, whom he wished to engage for his theatre.

Terms were offered and accepted, and with the precaution not to “let out” at N.C., we parted to meet again in the evening for the purpose of signing the agreement. I am fully alive to the fact that no man is ever a prophet in his own country, and as I was very much at home in N.C. and known by nearly everybody, I did not wish to jeopardise my success by letting the cat out of the bag before the night of my first grand appearance; and a very grand first appearance it was, the theatre crowded, and my performance applauded to the very echo that should applaud again. But one person, sharper than the rest, recognised me, rushed onto the stage (he was a shareholder, and had the entry to that otherwise unapproachable scene), and almost embraced me in his enthusiasm.

Alas, poor C.! Many happy hours have we sent past together, and many acts of real friendship as the poor wandering conjuror received at your hands, and, now in this distant land, 16,000 miles away, I learned the sad news of your untimely death. My heaven rest your soul. For once I found the old adage wrong. Instead of not being a prophet, I was fairly besieged, the next morning, by old friends, who, the report having spread like wildfire, as such reports usually do, vied with each other in showing me kindness. Invitations to dinner, tea, and supper, at all hours, possible and impossible, poured in upon me, and I had a very fine time of it indeed, not a little proud of my newly-acquired honours, and quite in love with myself.

By telegram I received an offer from Mr W___, the then lessee of the Opera House, Edinburgh, which I accepted, and where I created a very great sensation with my rope tying tricks, and where, for my benefit, I played “Hamlet” for the first time in my life. From Edinburgh I went to Glasgow, thence to Dublin, Belfast, Hull, back to London, and from there to Paris where, under the title of “L’Homme a la Corde Indienne,” I drew all the city.

Then to Spain, back to Paris, where I performed one day entirely without a cover to hide the modus operandi of my trick, and where, in spite of being surrounded on all sides by about 13,000 people (it was at the Hippodrome), I performed so quickly and effectually that not a soul found out how it was done. My next appearance was in London, for the benefit of the secretary of Cremorne gardens.

I had now seen the celebrated Frikell – [Wiljalba Frikell 1816-1903, and not his son, Adalbert], who retired some years ago, and who was the first “no apparatus” performer to make a name, and who created a sensation in London. I was delighted; Nay, more - I was enchanted. I, too, would perform a la Frikell, and after practising night and day for some considerable time, I determined to try my hand, or rather my hands, for I aim at being ambidextrous at an entertainment. How it came off will appear in the next chapter.

No.2 is a well-known character about Launceston, a kind of relation by marriage of No.1, whom he resembles in many respects. His stature is small but his frame is bold and muscular; he is the type of what is generally supposed to be meant by the term, a "chucker-out" of low public houses, a bruiser, or an ex-one of that ilk; and, withal, quite a humorous dog. He is occasionally amenable to religious influences and can quote from the Bible when in this state. He is staunch and sincere in his vituperation against each and every official connected with the management of the establishment. He works about the place and is constantly requiring to see "the colour of his money" for work done. To him I once said, "Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven." These words he understood in their fullest, truest and most comprehensive meaning, and in order to show his due appreciation of them, instantly presented me with a small share of his tobacco. Tobacco will play a very important part in the relation of this history. No.2 disdains to attend the daily muster of patients, and when once a month the Commissioners walk through the back yard, gratifies his feelings by railing at them in no very measured terms.

No.3 is specifically noted for his daily fits of spouting, in a style generally called "high falutin" by our American cousins. His principal victim is the superintendent who, when No.3 commences to orate, is always spoken at as (the speaker turning his face towards that portion of the building where the superintendent's office and private dwellings are situated) “dirty MacFarlane, what can you do, etc. etc. etc.

This man seldom smiles, some of the patients never do so. He attends church regularly and behaves well when there. En passant, about smiling. An American humorous says, "The modern stage, and modern press, and the modern pulpit have demonstrated that it is not wicked to smile. This is a grand stride towards the emancipation of man from the shackles of bogus gravity and the thraldom of bilious hypocrisy. I am proud to know that in my own native land it is not considered flippant and giddy to smile, and that men are actually obtaining an honest livelihood by assisting nature. For a long time the battle between the comedian and the lunatic Asylum was an unequal one, but in later years the former seems to be in the ascendancy. And yet there are those who still yearn for the asylum."

There can be no doubt of the excellent truth contained in the above; it is written in a decidedly Christian spirit, and would have delighted the heart of the late Dr Arnold who said, "I never wanted articles on religious subjects half so much as articles on common subjects written with a decidedly Christian tone."

Pray to God every moment of your life not to make you a genius, for great genius to madness is allied; and as there is really no limit to the eccentricities of genius you may someday make the acquaintance of New Norfolk Asylum for the insane. So thought the writer on beholding patient No.4. An old gentleman apparently about 60 years of age, nicknamed "the General", said to have received a liberal education, and about whose person I discovered a peculiar physical defect very often seen in the asylums among other patients, and most likely the result of violence. At all events, I one day saw him receive a kick from a patient hard enough to kill or disable as the case may be. It is, however, proper to let my readers understand that he suffered from the above painful malady some months prior to his receiving the kick I mentioned. I am therefore unable to trace its original source. He was at the time sitting quietly and in offensively on a bench when, before anyone could prevent it, even had they been so disposed, No.15 quickly and swiftly committed the fearful act of violence. He has lately favoured No.2 and a new attendant in a similar way, though in each case he was consider it enough to plant his kicks on their shins, instead of a more dangerous part of their bodies.

But the old General is nevertheless a vicious and fearfully sour tempered old soldier, and delights in language unfit for ears polite. He sleeps in a cell by himself and I have never seen him out of the back yard. "I pay a thousand a year for my keep here, " said he to me on my first introduction to him. "Well done, General," was my reply, "then I'll cheerfully follow your example in this respect and do the same." My answer pleased the old man and many a pleasant chat I have had with him when in his right mind; at other times I avoided him as much as possible. He takes medical comforts in the shape of "strong waters," and nearly every time the old attendant or wardsman hands him his dose, he is politely told to drink up, and "now then, General, drink up and give the house a good name," is generally the prelude to his potations, which are, however anything but "pottle deep." I believe 2 oz of brandy or port wine twice a day is his allowance. What keeps him in the asylum is one of those things which, at all events, I cannot make out. His allowance of tobacco is nearly always stolen from him as soon as received, and he is not above asking for more. I have never seen him engaged in any other occupation eating than eating, drinking, slumbering, and quarrelling.

Nos.5 and 6 are two young men who arrived one fine morning from Hobart, and as both play a most important part in this eventful history, will be duly alluded to in another paper.

No.7: "Napoleon" as he is called by the wardsmen, will also figure prominently side-by-side with the above, for to him I owe a cut lip and other, by no means, light punishment.

No.8, an old man, the very picture of the "softy” of Miss Braddon the novelist, is a patient of, some say, 20 years standing. He has charge of the tables, cuts up the bread, and looks after the butter and the treacle when there is any to look after. When excited he holds a knife over some patient’s head and threatens to kill him. My readers will please not to lose sight of No.8 for he must figure in another paper presently.

No.9 is the kicker par excellence, and was introduced to me as Sir James ___. This patient is about 38 or 40 years of age, a savage muttering ruffian in his moments of madness and like others is permitted to run riot in the back yard. He confers patents of nobility with a lavishness only a newly-made potentate of some newly-made petty principality could hope to imitate, and in some respects he is kept clean and decent. His hands are slender and neat, giving no evidence of former hard work. He is constantly examining, and with evident satisfaction, those clean well-shaped digits of his; and if he can think on the subject at all no doubt reflects upon them in the sense Hamlet meant to convey, when he said, "the hand of little employment has the daintier sense." The last time I saw him I gave him a small piece of tobacco; but is he as he is addicted to the practice of coming rather closer to one’s footsteps than most people would consider either safe or pleasant, I generally give him a wide berth. Exit 9 for the present.

Nos.10, 11 12 13, 14, and 15 have been singled out by me out of this motley Crew of beings for introduction to my readers in my next paper which is entitled:

Life, Mr Editor, is said to be not entirely composed of beer and skittles, and in writing on a subject so dreary as the one I have to deal with that present, I feel more than usually inclined to force myself into an easy and, I hope, pleasant vein. I wish in fact, to strive against a touch of melancholy, superinduced by the life I led yonder, and which, though it neither warps my judgement nor tends to make me "partially affined or leagued in office," is not at all unlikely to produce a kind of mental strabismus, if I may be pardoned for using such a comparison. I almost fancy, sir, I hear you and your numerous readers say to themselves, "What? The bath! Is it possible this man can spin out a whole paper on a subject so interesting as a bath." In reply I only wish were it possible to obtain the kind of rhubarb, senna, or purgative drug Macbeth talks about, in order to pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, and raze out the written trouble of the brain, I would gladly forgo my task and leave this history to be written by someone else. Indeed I have no stomach for the food, and the duty is anything but a pleasant one, owing to the undercurrent of villainy which must of necessity come to light.

Three baths there are in the bath room, and, with the exception of perhaps five or six, all the patients of the back yard are bathed therein once a week (Saturday). There are times when the bath is required on other days, such for instance, as the admission of a patient to the institute, or the cleansing of another totally unable to help himself in any way, but as a rule we may take it for granted that nearly the whole of the back yard is bathed at least once a week. In they go, helter-skelter; and if by any chance one happens to be a particular favourite of the attendants, he may rejoice in the luxury of being 2nd or 3rd man to go in; but as for a clean bath, i.e. clean water to go into, I never rejoiced in that luxury till I came to the front. Once or twice, having strongly urged my case, a clean bath was made ready for me, but then it so happened that whilst in the very act of getting into it another patient, and one not over clean, and certainly not free from some kind of skin disease, was allowed to precede me. But lettuce fancy ourselves in New Norfolk some fine morning. It is, of course, Saturday and the hour half past 9. The doctors have been around making their morning’s visit, and this is the signal for a few of the cute and privileged patients to get under way and be the first in the field. You may see them quietly divesting themselves of their garments, and selecting clean ones from a heap ready pile against the door, and which will be presently be deposited higglety-pigglety on the floor of a small room opposite the bathroom, and which said small room contains one very large and well heated oven, and is further diminished, as far as flooring space is concerned, by one decently large box used for firewood.

Now, anybody would say, what can possibly induce the superintendent to lay the flattering unction to his soul of believing that what the eye cannot or does not wish to see, the heart cannot grieve. I marvel much if it ever entered within the pale of his speculation that someday he might have all this nasty matter rooted up and duly explained. Not by one, but, mayhap, by a dozen living and reliable witnesses. If so, he must have been terribly determined against reform, terribly in earnest in his desire to find out the shortest way of how not to do it, and not altogether averse to the belief that to go back were as terrible as to go on.

Patient No.2 is in great force on bathing days. He is head cook and bottle - I really beg his pardon, I mean sheep - washer in ordinary, and minister plenipotentiary to his royal highness, the second officer and head keeper of the back yard. No.2 for a consideration, chiefly consisting of tobacco and beer, and the privilege of carrying about his person two formidable clasp knives and other commodities, baths the helpless, the blind, the lame, and the halt; in his own language, "I ups wi’ ‘em, and in they goes! Sometimes I stick a pin into ‘em and it all comes out right enough in the end." No.2 indulges in some humorous chaff of the horsey kind on these occasions; but generally the rush is so great that we may see them just in and out of their bath, according to what is destined for them, either half-drowned and kept under water till they howl like so many drowning curs, or allowed to get in and out again without more than the nearest intimation of "now you see how we treat patients who complain or won't implicitly obey their orders." Whether the superintendent, Dr MacFarlane is aware of this fact, it will be his business to answer, ‘tis not mine to enquire.

And now having bathed, let us see what follows. Clean things, of course. Flannels, Calico shirts, moleskin trousers, and socks or stockings. Well, then, for several months I for one examined these things, in the hope of finding a pair of trousers with more than three or four buttons on them; a shirt with one button at least, or a pair of socks or stockings that were either a match in size or colour, or not entirely in holes. These things instead of being quietly given out to the patients, are further made the instruments of torture which minister to the petty spite of the officials. If a patient be obnoxious to them, he receives the full benefit of all these things as by a pre-arranged method. He may (as was the case with me more than once) be refused flannel altogether; though, like me, he may plead that he is used to a hot climate, and that in winter (and what a winter in the back yard I would not wish my greatest enemy to find out) he would rather forgo his food then his clothing. Yes, on more than one occasion, I was refused flannel altogether; and on several other occasions I was deprived of what I, with great care, and a little soft soap, really did acquire, and given in its place some wretched little apology for a garment about large enough to cover a boy of 12, and almost totally ragged. At last I must speak of the time when I became desperate, and when I determined to freeze no longer, but to keep warm at any hazard. Consequently I "requisitioned” a blanket and put it around me in the form of an undergarment, and on another occasion I converted my woollen drawers into a body shirt, preferring to protect my chest from the severe cold at the expense of my legs. And all this to gratify the spite of some two or three attendants and their boss; men devoid of every feeling of humanity, trying to rule by frightening their patients, and controlling by any and by all means the weaker side of the suffering and helpless creatures entrusted to their care for purposes quite foreign to anything they seem to be aware of. Such cries as "In with you! Now then, be sharp and get your clothes on! Wash your head! Out you come!" mingled with pitiful cries for help, I heard during the whole of this bathing process, and if there be any quiet moments at all, and sometimes this is the case, the attendants amused themselves by making obscene and filthy remarks to and about their charges.

In the front division there is, of necessity, less of this sort of thing. In the first instance, there are fewer patients and in the second, the attendants are more humane, and not lost altogether to a sense of shame and decency. The physical defects and consequent sufferings of the poor patients become painfully apparent on bathing days. Several bear the Mark of No.1 plainly visible on their bodies; others are ulcerated and otherwise suffering from skin diseases, and not a few are ruptured. The thieves and knowing ones have a grand field day on a bathing morning. They rob and plunder all the new chums, and make a general raid on the innocents. I have been robbed of trifling things on many such mornings, and for months together, and especially have I been robbed of pens, ink, and pencils acquired with the greatest difficulty, also of written matter composed for either amusement or instruction. When first I made the acquaintance of the back yard I must have been the very verdant indeed for I actually believed them when, in going to the bath and looking for some place of safety for my little belongings, they told me to put them in my pillow case and I would be sure to find them again. Certain it is that I never did find them again, and worse than all I was only laughed at and jeered for my pains. I had not even the poor satisfaction of comforting myself with the belief that "he that's robbed, not wanting what is stolen from him, let him not know it and he will not be robbed at all." For I did want those poor trifling comforts sadly.

But noise, bustle, undue excitement, and what may justly be termed "hounding people on two rows" is the order of the day, and to make confusion worse confounded is the chief object. To frighten and intimidate patients is a point never lost sight of for an instant. The second keeper, head of the back yard is in constant attendance, and checks off each patient from a list furnished for that purpose. The dirty clothes - and some of these are very dirty indeed - are next removed, and for that day, at least, "sheep washing” is over. The bathing of the front division patients is conducted in a quiet and orderly manner, and their clean clothes supplied them without fuss, noise, or bustle. Thus far I am glad to be able to render unto Caesar that which belongs to Caesar.

I will presently take an opportunity of stating how I managed to get away from the horrid place at last, and so far from expressing myself well satisfied with the treatment I received, I beg most earnestly to disabuse my reader’s minds from entertaining any such notion. Garbled and one-sided statements are altogether foreign to my nature, as those in authority must be fully cognisant of by this time. The so-called "Professor Tollmache” alluded to by the morning paper happens to be the readers most obedient servant, the writer of these articles, and one who never called himself Tollmache or Tolmache in his life. I am known as Herr Tolmaque or Professor Martin Beaufort Tolmaque. I have borne this name since the commencement of my professional career, 23 years ago, I have borne it for weal and for woe, and I am not at all inclined to change. The statements I make are facts, under rather than overdrawn; and I write with bated breath and whispering humbleness, and with no desire or yearning for applause.

Concluding this article I feel bound not to forget to draw attention to the more quiet and orderly patients who, either by virtue of their conduct, or from reasons best known to the authorities, lead a comparatively easy life, and have no great difficulties or hardships to encounter on the Saturday coming around to them. For myself, I can only say that by no stretch of the imagination could I have believed in the present existence of things at New Norfolk, so I have no hesitation in stating, that in all likelihood reform has commenced. I was asked on more than one occasion, to favour the establishment with my views as to its internal management, and promised that any suggestions of mine would be glad we received and acted upon. More than once has Dr. MacFarlane thanked me for my services rendered, and not a few of the patients have been my daily and sometimes nightly care. Dr. Dinham, too, has never been behindhand in acknowledging any assistance. My constant complaint against the place was, and is, its need for of supervision, the great necessity there is for the proper classification of patients, and a better class of keepers and attendants. Indeed, from my first admission, I advocated the latter clause, and my readers will yet find that I have not worked in vain or endured for nothing. As the case stands at present I have a fearful record to make of a life tortured and embittered, of wounds and bruises, and insults heaped upon me by all, from the commissioners to the doctors, and from the head keeper to the lowest menial of the place, and I repeat again and again that to me - and in this paper I do not feel called to analyse the feelings of others - the place was a veritable conception of what hell on earth might be. Acts which would entail years of imprisonment upon the heads of their perpetrators were committed with impunity, and my complaints listened to by the doctors with scorn and derision; and in language unmistakably plain, Dr Huston told me that no complaints would be listened to, that the wardsmen were all Government Employees, that he himself held a similar position, and that I would never be released while I made one single complaint. "May I write a letter?" said I one day to Dr. MacFarlane. "Aye, if it's a right one," was his significant reply, and even Dr. Dinham said in the early stage of my visit to the asylum, "It's no use, Professor, making any complaints." I do not think, however, that I either he or MacFarlane will easily forget my constant appeals to them for protection.