The poor French teacher had been the hereditary object of annoyance for
several generations of boys. The meekest and most chicken-hearted scrubs in
the school tried their apprenticeship to mischief upon him, and were
tutored to more noble game by beginning with the Count. They split and cut
his pens into a thousand fantastic shapes during a momentary absence; they
filled his snuff with the most odious pulverulents. They placed on his desk
rude, but expressive designs of a guillotine, with a meagre fellow in
ruffles and no shirt, running in the extremity of speed from the spot.
These, and a thousand exhibitions of budding genius, and original sin, were
our daily subjects of merriment and applause. I taught them nobler arts, or
rather the spirit of Pickle which spake within me. It was nothing to annoy
on such a petty and momentary scale; let the art and forethought of
Hatchway be exhibited.

The amiable Frenchman was a zealous Catholic, and upon certain festivals
always received from a Catholic gentleman of rank and fortune in the
neighbourhood, an invitation to visit him. On these occasions his dress was
the most ludicrous imaginable, being compounded of remnants of pristine
finery, such as his wardrobe could afford, without attention to uniformity,
or consistency of colour. Above all, he possessed a pair of light pea-green
small clothes, on which he much prided himself, and I swore by old Trunnion
to be their murderer. His custom on the aforesaid visits was to dress
early, and then hastily to dismiss his lessons, and proceed immediately.

Having gained intelligence of an approaching field day, we prepared a
strong solution of gum, with which we varnished the bottom of a leather
chair upon which he sat in the school. The morning came, his green _media_
and white silk stockings were hailed with the most extravagant but secret
exultation. He seated himself, and let us run as we pleased through our