Seated upon the outside of an ancient London stage-coach, to which were
attached four raw-boned, old horses, just ready to start for Wolverhaven
one pleasant afternoon, you may easily imagine, kind reader,--for it is a
fact,--a chubby-faced, commonplace little boy, some ten years old, with
another like youthful companion,--"two Londoners,"--while comfortably
ensconced within, in one corner of the vehicle, is a large, stern-looking
old gentleman, in "immense wig and ruffled shirt."
[Illustration: THE POLITE QUADRUPED.]
The stage-horn is sounded, the driver cracks his whip, the sleepy old nags
wake up, the coach rocks from side to side, and in a moment more the team
is off for its destination.
Why! the reader is readily reminded of the scene of "_Old Squeers_,"
taking the wretched little boys down to his "Academy," in Yorkshire,
"where youth were boarded, clothed, furnished with pocket-money," and
taught everything, from "writing to trigonometry," "arithmetic to
astronomy," languages of the "_living_ and _dead_" and "diet
unparalleled!" Nevertheless it is another case, far before "Old Squeers"
time.
The elderly gentleman, in top-wig and immense ruffles, was Dr. Robertson,
teacher of Wolverhampton Grammar School, and the chubby little boy was
Master John Abernethy. Who the "other boy" was is not known, as he never
made his mark in after life. Says Dr. Macilwain,--
"We can quite imagine a little boy, careless in his dress, not slovenly,
however, with both hands in his trousers pockets, some morning about the
year 1774, standing under the sunny side of the wall at Wolverhampton
School; his pockets containing, perhaps, a few shillings, some ha'pence, a
knife with the point broken, a pencil, together with a tolerably accurate
sketch of 'Old Robertson's wig,'--which article, shown in an accredited
portrait now before us, was one of those enormous by-gone bushes, which
represented a sort of impenetrable fence around the cranium, as if to
guard the precious material within; the said boy just finishing a story to
his laughing companions, though no sign of mirth appeared in him, save the
least curl of the lip, and a smile that would creep out of the corner of
his eye in spite of himself."
[Illustration: YOUNG ABERNETHY.]
"The doctor" was represented as being a passionate man. Squeers again!
One day young Abernethy had to do some Greek Testament, when his glib
translation aroused the suspicion of the watchful old doctor, who
discovered the 'crib' in a Greek-Latin version, partially secreted under
the boy's desk. No sooner did the doctor make this discovery than with his
doubled fist he felled the culprit with one blow to the earth. Squeers
again!
"'Why, what an old plagiarist Mr. Dickens must have been!' you exclaim.
"But the case in 'Nicholas Nickleby' is worse, far worse, for 'the little
boy sitting on the trunk only sneezed.'
"'Hallo, sir,' growled the schoolmaster (Squeers), 'what's that?'
"'Nothing, sir,' replied the little boy.
"'Nothing, sir!' exclaimed Squeers.
"'Please, sir, I sneezed!' rejoined the boy, trembling till the little
trunk shook under him.
"'O, sneezed, did you?' retorted Mr. Squeers. 'Then what did you say
"Nothing" for, sir?'
"In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a
couple of knuckles into his eyes, and began to cry; wherefore Mr. Squeers
knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the head, and knocked
him on again with a blow on the other."
Robertson was a fact; Squeers was a fable. That's the difference.
As Dr. Robertson taught neither arithmetic nor writing in his school, the
pupils went to King Street, to a Miss Ready, to receive instruction in
those branches. This lady, if report is true, wielded the quill and
cowhide with equal grace and mercy, and when the case came to hand, did
not accept the modern advice, to "spare the boy and spoil the rod."
When the great surgeon was at the height of his fame, in London, many
years afterwards, Miss Ready, still rejoicing in "single blessedness,"
called on her former pupil. In introducing his respected and venerable
teacher to his wife, Abernethy laconically remarked, "I beg to introduce
you to a lady who has boxed my ears many a time."
An old schoolmate, when eighty-five years old, wrote to the author of
"Memoirs of Abernethy," saying, among other things, "In sports he took the
first place, and usually made a strong side; was quick and active, and
soon learned a new game."
It was contrary to his own desire that John Abernethy became a physician.
"Had my father let me be a lawyer, I should have known by heart every act
of Parliament," he repeatedly affirmed.