I am growing an old fellow, and have seen many great folks in the course
of my travels and time: Louis Philippe coming out of the Tuileries; his
Majesty the King of Prussia and the Reichsverweser accolading each other
at Cologne at my elbow; Admiral Sir Charles Napier (in an omnibus
once), the Duke of Wellington, the immortal Goethe at Weimar, the late
benevolent Pope Gregory XVI., and a score more of the famous in this
world--the whom whenever one looks at, one has a mild shock of awe and
tremor. I like this feeling and decent fear and trembling with which a
modest spirit salutes a GREAT MAN.
Well, I have seen generals capering on horseback at the head of their
crimson battalions; bishops sailing down cathedral aisles, with downcast
eyes, pressing their trencher caps to their hearts with their fat white
hands; college heads when her Majesty is on a visit; the doctor in all
his glory at the head of his school on speech-day: a great sight and all
great men these. I have never met the late Mr. Thomas Cribb, but I have
no doubt should have regarded him with the same feeling of awe with
which I look every day at George Champion, the Cock of Dr. Birch's
school.
When, I say, I reflect as I go up and set him a sum, that he could whop
me in two minutes, double up Prince and the other assistant, and pitch
the Doctor out of window, I can't but think how great, how generous, how
magnanimous a creature this is, that sits quite quiet and good-natured,
and works his equation, and ponders through his Greek play. He might
take the school-room pillars and pull the house down if he liked. He
might close the door, and demolish every one of us, like Antar the lover
or Ibla; but he lets us live. He never thrashes anybody without a cause;
when woe betide the tyrant or the sneak!
I think that to be strong, and able to whop everybody--(not to do
it, mind you, but to feel that you were able to do it,)--would be the
greatest of all gifts. There is a serene good humor which plays about
George Champion's broad face, which shows the consciousness of this
power, and lights up his honest blue eyes with a magnanimous calm.
He is invictus. Even when a cub there was no beating this lion. Six
years ago the undaunted little warrior actually stood up to Frank
Davison,--(the Indian officer now--poor little Charley's brother, whom
Miss Raby nursed so affectionately,)--then seventeen years old, and the
Cock of Birch's. They were obliged to drag off the boy, and Frank, with
admiration and regard for him, prophesied the great things he would do.
Legends of combats are preserved fondly in schools; they have stories of
such at Rodwell Regis, performed in the old Doctor's time, forty years
ago.
Champion's affair with the Young Tutbury Pet, who was down here in
training,--with Black the bargeman,--with the three head boys of Doctor
Wapshot's academy, whom he caught maltreating an outlying day-boy
of ours, &c.,--are known to all the Rodwell Regis men. He was always
victorious. He is modest and kind, like all great men. He has a good,
brave, honest understanding. He cannot make verses like young Pinder,
or read Greek like Wells the Prefect, who is a perfect young abyss of
learning, and knows enough, Prince says, to furnish any six first-class
men; but he does his work in a sound downright way, and he is made to be
the bravest of soldiers, the best of country parsons, an honest English
gentleman wherever he may go.
Old Champion's chief friend and attendant is Young Jack Hall, whom he
saved, when drowning, out of the Miller's Pool. The attachment of the
two is curious to witness. The smaller lad gambolling, playing tricks
round the bigger one, and perpetually making fun of his protector. They
are never far apart, and of holidays you may meet them miles away from
the school,--George sauntering heavily down the lanes with his
big stick, and little Jack larking with the pretty girls in the
cottage-windows.
George has a boat on the river, in which, however, he commonly lies
smoking, whilst Jack sculls him. He does not play at cricket, except
when the school plays the county, or at Lord's in the holidays. The boys
can't stand his bowling, and when he hits, it is like trying to catch a
cannon-ball. I have seen him at tennis. It is a splendid sight to behold
the young fellow bounding over the court with streaming yellow hair,
like young Apollo in a flannel jacket.
The other head boys are Lawrence the captain, Bunce, famous chiefly for
his magnificent appetite, and Pitman, surnamed Roscius, for his love of
the drama. Add to these Swanky, called Macassar, from his partiality
to that condiment, and who has varnished boots, wears white gloves on
Sundays, and looks out for Miss Pinkerton's school (transferred from
Chiswick to Rodwell Regis, and conducted by the nieces of the late
Miss Barbara Pinkerton, the friend of our great lexicographer, upon the
principles approved by him, and practised by that admirable woman,) as
it passes into church.
Representations have been made concerning Mr. Horace Swanky's
behavior; rumors have been uttered about notes in verse, conveyed in
three-cornered puffs, by Mrs. Ruggles, who serves Miss Pinkerton's young
ladies on Fridays,--and how Miss Didow, to whom the tart and enclosure
were addressed, tried to make away with herself by swallowing a ball of
cotton. But I pass over these absurd reports, as likely to affect the
reputation of an admirable seminary conducted by irreproachable females.
As they go into church Miss P. driving in her flock of lambkins with
the crook of her parasol, how can it be helped if her forces and ours
sometimes collide, as the boys are on their way up to the organ-loft?
And I don't believe a word about the three-cornered puff, but rather
that it was the invention of that jealous Miss Birch, who is jealous of
Miss Raby, jealous of everybody who is good and handsome, and who has
HER OWN ENDS in view, or I am very much in error.