Iam 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 Majesty¹ 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 immortal² Goethe at Weimar, the late benevolent³ 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 awe⁴ and tremor⁵. I like this feeling and decent fear and trembling with which a modest spirit salutes⁶ a Great Man.
 
Well, I have seen Generals capering⁷ on horseback at the head of their crimson⁸ battalions⁹; Bishops¹⁰ sailing down cathedral aisles¹¹, 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 schoolroom pillars and pull the house down if he liked. He might close the door, and demolish¹² every one of us like Antar, the lover of Ibla; but he lets us live. He never thrashes anybody without a cause, when woe¹³ betide the tyrant¹⁴ or the sneak¹⁵!
 
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 serene¹⁶ good humour 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 cub¹⁷ there was no beating this lion. Six years ago the undaunted little warrior¹⁸ 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 admiration¹⁹ and regard for him, prophesied²⁰ 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 victorious²¹. 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 Lawrence 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.
 
Like all great men, George is good-humoured and lazy. There is a particular bench in the play-ground on which he will loll for hours on half-holidays, and is so affable that the smallest boys come and speak to him. It is pleasant to see the young cubs²² frisking round the honest lion. His chief friend and attendant, however, is young Jack²³ Hall, whom he saved when drowning, out of the Miller's Pool. The attachment²⁴ of the two is curious to witness. The smaller lad gambolling²⁵, 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 larking²⁶ 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 bowling²⁷, 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 behold²⁸ the young fellow bounding over the court with streaming yellow hair, like young Apollo in a flannel²⁹ jacket.
 
The other head boys are Lawrence the Captain, Bunce, famous chiefly for his magnificent appetite, and Pitman, sur-named Roscius, for his love of the drama. Add to these Swanky, called Macassar, from his partiality to that condiment³⁰, and who has varnished³¹ 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 Lexicograplier, 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 behaviour; rumours³² have been uttered about notes in verse, conveyed in three-cornered puffs³⁴, by Mrs. Buggies, who serves Miss Pinkerton's young ladies on Fridays—and how Miss Didow, to whom the tart³⁵ 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 irreproachable³⁶ females. As they go into church (Miss P. driving in her flock of lambkins with the crook³⁷ 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 puff³³, 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.