He was a quick, clever lad,
and the culture bestowed in a genteel academy was too narrow for him. He
read a great deal of romance, and still more poetry. He neglected his
school lessons, and he was dismissed after a few years as an incurable
scamp.
No sort of steady work suited Devine; his fatal lack of will was
supplemented by an eager vanity, and he was only happy when he was
attracting notice. Now that he is matured, he is gratified if he can
make drunken costermongers stare, so he must have been a very forward
creature when his conceit was in full blossom. He began by spouting
little recitations, and gradually practised until he could take his part
in amateur stage performances. As he put it, "I found that the majesty
of Coriolanus and the humour of Paul Pry were alike within my compass,
and I impartially included both these celebrated parts in my
_repertoire_." Nothing ever diverts a stage-struck youth from his fell
purpose unless he is absolutely pelted off the boards. Devine loathed
his office; he hated the sight of a business letter, and he finally
appeared in a wretched provincial booth, where he earned seven shillings
per week in good times: the restraints of respectability were to hamper
him no more.
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