and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring
Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off forty
Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry.
What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They said
even the Doctor himself was afraid of him.
Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over
his subjects, and bullied them, with splendid superiority.
This one blacked his shoes: that toasted his bread, others
would fag out, and give him balls at cricket during whole
summer afternoons. "Figs" was the fellow whom he
despised most, and with whom, though always abusing him,
and sneering at him, he scarcely ever condescended to
hold personal communication.
One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had
a difference. Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was
blundering over a home letter; when Cuff, entering,
bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were
probably the subject.
"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."
"You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that
document (in which many words were scratched out,
many were mis-spelt, on which had been spent I don't
know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the
poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of
him, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back
parlour in Thames Street). "You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff:
"I should like to know why, pray? Can't you write to old
Mother Figs to-morrow?"
"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench
very nervous.
"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.
"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman
readth letterth."
"Well, NOW will you go?" says the other.
"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll THMASH you," roars
out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking
so wicked, that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat
sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked
away with a sneer. But he never meddled.personally with
the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the
justice to say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with con-
tempt behind his back.
Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr.
Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood
of poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in
the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the
Arabian Nights which he had apart from the rest of the
school, who were pursuing their various sports--quite
lonely, and almost happy. If people would but leave
children to themselves; if teachers would cease to bully
them; if parents would not insist upon directing their
thoughts, and dominating their feelings--those feelings
and thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how much
do you and I know of each other, of our children, of our
fathers, of our neighbour, and how far more beautiful and
sacred are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom you
govern likely to be, than those of the dull and world-
corrupted person who rules him?)--if, I say, parents and
masters would leave their children alone a little more,
small harm would accrue, although a less quantity of
as in praesenti might be acquired.
Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world,
and was away with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of
Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou
in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, and
whither we should all like to make a tour; when shrill
cries, as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant
reverie; and looking up, he saw Cuff before him,
belabouring a little boy.
It was the lad who had peached upon him about the
grocer's cart; but he bore little malice, not at least
towards the young and small. "How dare you, sir, break
the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a
yellow cricket-stump over him.
The boy had been instructed to get over the playground
wall (at a selected spot where the broken glass had been
removed from the top, and niches made convenient in
the brick); to run a quarter of a mile; to purchase a pint
of rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor's outlying
spies, and to clamber back into the playground again;
during the performance of which feat, his foot had slipt,
and the bottle was broken, and the shrub had been spilt,
and his pantaloons had been damaged, and he appeared
before his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling,
though harmless, wretch.
"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering
little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend
to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir."
Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on
the child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up.
The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavern
with Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away Sindbad
the Sailor out of the Valley of Diamonds out of sight, far
into the clouds: and there was everyday life before
honest William; and a big boy beating a little one
without cause.
"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little
schoolfellow, whose face was distorted with pain.
Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow old
clothes.
"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down
came the wicket again on the child's hand.--Don't be
horrified, ladies, every boy at a public school has done it.
Your children will so do and be done by, in all
probability. Down came the wicket again; and Dobbin
started up.
I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public
school is as much licensed as the knout in Russia. It
would be ungentlemanlike (in a manner) to resist it.
Perhaps Dobbin's foolish soul revolted against that exercise
of tyranny; or perhaps he had a hankering feeling of
revenge in his mind, and longed to measure himself
against that splendid bully and tyrant, who had all the
glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners flying, drums
beating, guards saluting, in the place. Whatever may have
been his incentive, however, up he sprang, and screamed
out, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more; or
I'll--"
"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this
interruption. "Hold out your hand, you little beast."
"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your
life," Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cuff's
sentence; and little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked
up with wonder and incredulity at seeing this amazing
champion put up suddenly to defend him: while Cuff's
astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late monarch
George III when he heard of the revolt of the North
American colonies: fancy brazen Goliath when little
David stepped forward and claimed a meeting; and you
have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when this
rencontre was proposed to him.
"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and a
look, as much as to say, "Make your will, and
communicate your last wishes to your friends
between this time and that."
"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle
holder, Osborne."
"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see
his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of
his champion.
Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost
ashamed to say, "Go it, Figs"; and not a single other boy
in the place uttered that cry for the first two or three
rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement of
which the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on
his face, and as light and as gay as if he was at a ball,
planted his blows upon his adversary, and floored that
unlucky champion three times running. At each fall there
was a cheer; and everybody was anxious to have the
honour of offering the conqueror a knee.
"What a licking I shall get when it's over," young
Osborne thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in,"
he said to Dobbin; "it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you
know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in a
quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his
little bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.
As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows
that were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun the
attack on the three preceding occasions, without ever
allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he
would commence the engagement by a charge on his own
part; and accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought
that arm into action, and hit out a couple of times with
all his might--once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once on his
beautiful Roman nose.
Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the
assembly. "Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with
the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back.
"Give it him with the left, Figs my boy."
Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the
combat. Cuff went down every time. At the sixth round,
there were almost as many fellows shouting out, "Go it,
Figs," as there were youths exclaiming, "Go it, Cuff." At
the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, as
the saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power
of attack or defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm
as a quaker. His face being quite pale, his eyes shining
open, and a great cut on his underlip bleeding profusely,
gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air, which
perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless,
his intrepid adversary prepared to close for the
thirteenth time.
If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should
like to describe this combat properly. It was the last
charge of the Guard--(that is, it would have been, only
Waterloo had not yet taken place)--it was Ney's column
breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten
thousand bayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles--it
was the shout of the beef-eating British, as leaping down
the hill they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage arms
of battle--in other words, Cuff coming up full of pluck,
but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in his
left as usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him down
for the last time.
"I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent
dropped as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack
Spot's ball plump into the pocket at billiards; and the
fact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not
able, or did not choose, to stand up again.
And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as
would have made you think he had been their darling
champion through the whole battle; and as absolutely
brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know
the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs
violently, of course; but Cuff, who had come to himself
by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and
said, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs'--not Dobbin's. I was
bullying a little boy; and he served me right." By which
magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a
whipping, but got back all his ascendancy over the boys
which his defeat had nearly cost him.
Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account
of the transaction.
Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, 18--
DEAR MAMA,--I hope you are quite well. I should be
much obliged to you to send me a cake and five shillings.
There has been a fight here between Cuff & Dobbin.
Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. They
fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is
now Only Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff
was licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, and Figs
wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his father is
a Grocer--Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City--I think as
he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar
at his father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't
this, because he has 2 Black Eyes. He has a white Pony
to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a bay
mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I
am
Your dutiful Son,
GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE
P.S.--Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her
out a Coach in cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a
plum-cake.
In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose
prodigiously in the estimation of all his schoolfellows, and
the name of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach,
became as respectable and popular a nickname as any
other in use in the school. "After all, it's not his fault
that his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who,
though a little chap, had a very high popularity among
the Swishtail youth; and his opinion was received with
great applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin
about this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a
name of kindness and endearment; and the sneak of an
usher jeered at him no longer.
And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances.
He made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. The
superb Cuff himself, at whose condescension Dobbin
could only blush and wonder, helped him on with his
Latin verses; "coached" him in play-hours: carried him
triumphantly out of the little-boy class into the middle-
sized form; and even there got a fair place for him. It
was discovered, that although dull at classical learning,
at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. To the
contentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got a
French prize-book at the public Midsummer examination.
You should have seen his mother's face when Telemaque
(that delicious romance) was presented to him by
