of falconers to appear upon the banks of a fair
river, where the birds pursued the herons and
slew them, and then came knights jousting on a
plain"— all by the noble art of jugglery and
natural magic. Do you not believe me? Read
Strutt's Sports and Pastimes, and then you will
find that I have not boasted, and that when I
merely clapped my hands together, " all was
gone in an instant." I don't say that all this
was not by a kind of magic lantern known only
to the initiated. True, Kircher invented the
real magic lantern as we have it now, but we
were not all fools before Kircher came, and we
had a pretty little store of optical secrets among
us, and at least knew the effects of cylindrical
mirrors, and the principles of reflection and
refraction. Then people were so thick-witted and
so superstitious! (almost as superstitious as they
are now), and were so ready to cry magic and
the devil, that if we ran more danger of being
spitted and roasted as magicians, we got off
with less criticism and far less chance of
detection. Sir John Mandevill, a few years later,
saw something of the same kind of thing as what
I and my friend, the learned clerk, did in Chaucer's
time. There were jugglers at the court of
the great Chan, who made night at noon, and
noon at night; who brought in fair damsels,
heaven knows whence or how, and caused boar
hunts and knights jousting, to appear: the
splinters of whose spears flew over the hall.

In 1579, I went down to Ashwell Thorpe,
where I performed a trick— I cannot do it now,
I wish I could— like the famous mango trick of
the Hindùs. I set an acorn in the midst of
the hall, watered it, watched and tended it, and
in a few moments caused it to grow up a goodly
tree, bearing real acorns— I appeal for testimony
to the swine of the period— which acorns
ripened, fell, and were devoured, according to
the laws of acorn life. Two stout woodmen with
difficulty cut down this tree, the chips of which
flew far and wide about the hall; but at my
command my two green goslings carried away
the fragments without any difficulty. Which is
exactly the kind of thing some Hindù juggler is
doing at this very moment somewhere in British
Hindùstan. A ballad was made on this trick of
mine, which, lest you have not got Bloomfield's
History of Norfolk by you, I will transcribe:

THE BALLAD OF ASHWELL THORPE, MADE IN
SIR THOMAS KNEVET'S TIME.

Once there lived a Man,
Deny it they that can,
Who liberal was to the
Poore;
I dare boldly say,
They ne're were sent away,
Empty-Handed from his
Doore.

When Misers in Holes crept,
Then open House he kept,
Where many then did resort,
Some for love of good Beere,
And others for good Cheere,
And others for to make
Sport.

There was a Gentleman,
From London Citty came,
The countrey for to see,
And all in the Pryme,
Of jovial Christemas Time,
There merry for to be.

This Londoner did say,
If the Gentry would give way,
A Trick to them he w'd show,
That an Acorne he would sett,
If they would please to ha'te,
Which to a great Tree should grow.

The Acorn he pull'd out,
And shewed it all about,
In his Hand then he took it agayne,
In the presence of them all,
In the middle of the Hall,
He sett downe the Acorne playne.

While one could drink a Cup,
Then did an Oake spring up,
Which was so huge and tall,
With Arms it so put out,
And Branches all about,
That it almost fill'd the Hall.

This Oake then did beare,
Which was a thing most rare,
Acornes both black and brown,
For which the Swine did busk,
And they did loose their Husk,
As they came tumbling down.

This great Oake there did stand,
To the View of every Man,
Who saw, it was so playne,
But Roome then to afford,
To bring Supper unto Bord,
They wish't it gone agayne.

Then lowdly he did call,
And Two came into the Hall,
Who were both stout and strong,
And with the Tools they had,
To work they went like mad,
And laid this Oake along.

I'll tell you here no Lye,
The Chips there then did flye,
Buzzing about like Flyes,
And Men were forced to ward,
Their Faces well to guard,
For fear they sh'd loose their lyes.

He bade them then behold,
And ev'ry one take hold,
This Oake for to carry away.
And they all hold did get,
But c'd not stirr't a whit,
But still along it lay.

He said they had no Strength,
Which he would prove at Length,
For it sh'd not lye long on the Floor,
Two Goslings young and green,
They then came whewting in,
And carried it out of the Door.

Then gone was the Oake,
That had so many a Stroke,
Before that it fell down,
Thus as it grew in Haste,
So quickly did it waste,
Not a Chip then could be found.

This Story is very true,
Which I have told to you,
'Tis a wonder you didn't heare it,
I'll lay a Pint of wine,
If Parker and old Hinde,
Were alyve that they w'd sweare it.

This is precisely. the mango trick of the
present day. The Hindù juggler takes a dry stick,
plants it in a pot with some earth and water,
makes his invocations, and covers it up. In a
short time he removes the cover, and, behold,
the mango has sprouted. Again he covers up,
and again he looks— the sprout has widened to
a full-grown shoot, with expanding leaves and
forming blossom. Again— the blossom has now
fructified, and the petals lie withering on the
mould. Again— the fruit is fully formed. Again
— it is ripening; and now, again, and for the last
time, the cover is removed, when the mango,
fully ripe, is plucked from the tree fully grown,
and gracefully handed to the Mem Sahib to
taste. In another moment the mango-tree is the
withered stick it was in the beginning. Yet
this is professed jugglery, a mere delusion of
the senses by manual dexterity, such as the
juggler of Ashwell Thorpe achieved when he
planted his acorn and reared his oak, and
caused the two goslings to carry away the
chips which the couple of stout labourers had
made.

Another Hindù trick is the girl and the basket.
A circle is formed, say of soldiers, standing
thick and serried; the juggler, the child, the
basket, Mem Sahib, and Mem Sahib's friends
are in the centre of the circle; and the whole