Chapter V: Dobbin of Ours

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue ofthat contest, will long be remembered by every man whowas educated at Dr. Swishtail's famous school. The latterYouth (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-hoDobbin, and by many other names indicative of puerilecontempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as itseemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen.His parent was a grocer in the city: and it was bruitedabroad that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail's academyupon what are called "mutual principles"--that is tosay, the expenses of his board and schooling weredefrayed by his father in goods, not money; and hestood there--most at the bottom of the school--in hisscraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams ofwhich his great big bones were bursting--as therepresentative of so many pounds of tea, candles,sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mildproportion was supplied for the puddings of theestablishment), and other commodities. A dreadfulday it was for young Dobbin when one of theyoungsters of the school, having run into the town upona poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, espiedthe cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, ThamesStreet, London, at the Doctor's door, discharging a cargoof the wares in which the firm dealt.

　　Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes werefrightful, and merciless against him. "Hullo, Dobbin," onewag would say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugarsis ris', my boy." Another would set a sum--"If a poundof mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how muchmust Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow from all thecircle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightlyconsidered that the selling of goods by retail is a shamefuland infamous practice, meriting the contempt and scornof all real gentlemen.

　　"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin saidin private to the little boy who had brought down thestorm upon him. At which the latter replied haughtily,"My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage"; andMr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse inthe playground, where he passed a half-holiday in thebitterest sadness and woe. Who amongst us is there thatdoes not recollect similar hours of bitter, bitter childishgrief? Who feels injustice; who shrinks before a slight;who has a sense of wrong so acute, and so glowing agratitude for kindness, as a generous boy? and how manyof those gentle souls do you degrade, estrange, torture,for the sake of a little loose arithmetic, and miserabledog-latin?

　　Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquirethe rudiments of the above language, as they arepropounded in that wonderful book the Eton Latin Grammar,was compelled to remain among the very last of DoctorSwishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually bylittle fellows with pink faces and pinafores when hemarched up with the lower form, a giant amongst them,with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared primer,and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun ofhim. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were.They cut his bed-strings. They upset buckets and benches,so that he might break his shins over them, which henever failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, whenopened, were found to contain the paternal soap andcandles. There was no little fellow but had his jeer andjoke at Dobbin; and he bore everything quite patiently,and was entirely dumb and miserable.

　　Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy ofthe Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He foughtthe town-boys. Ponies used to come for him to ride homeon Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room, in whichhe used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater:and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera,and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferringMr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off fortyLatin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry.What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They saideven the Doctor himself was afraid of him.

　　Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled overhis subjects, and bullied them, with splendid superiority.This one blacked his shoes: that toasted his bread, otherswould fag out, and give him balls at cricket during wholesummer afternoons. "Figs" was the fellow whom hedespised most, and with whom, though always abusing him,and sneering at him, he scarcely ever condescended tohold personal communication.

　　One day in private, the two young gentlemen had hada difference. Figs, alone in the schoolroom, wasblundering over a home letter; when Cuff, entering,bade him go upon some message, of which tarts wereprobably the subject.

　　"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."

　　"You can't?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of thatdocument (in which many words were scratched out,many were mis-spelt, on which had been spent I don'tknow how much thought, and labour, and tears; for thepoor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond ofhim, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a backparlour in Thames Street). "You can't?" says Mr. Cuff:"I should like to know why, pray? Can't you write to oldMother Figs to-morrow?"

　　"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the benchvery nervous.

　　"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.

　　"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentlemanreadth letterth."

　　"Well, now will you go?" says the other.

　　"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll thmash you," roarsout Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and lookingso wicked, that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coatsleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walkedaway with a sneer. But he never meddled.personally withthe grocer's boy after that; though we must do him thejustice 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 neighbourhoodof poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree inthe playground, spelling over a favourite copy of theArabian Nights which he had apart from the rest of theschool, who were pursuing their various sports--quitelonely, and almost happy. If people would but leavechildren to themselves; if teachers would cease to bullythem; if parents would not insist upon directing theirthoughts, and dominating their feelings--those feelingsand thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how muchdo you and I know of each other, of our children, of ourfathers, of our neighbour, and how far more beautiful andsacred are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom yougovern likely to be, than those of the dull and world-corrupted person who rules him?)--if, I say, parents andmasters would leave their children alone a little more,small harm would accrue, although a less quantity ofas in praesenti might be acquired.

　　Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world,and was away with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley ofDiamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanouin that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, andwhither we should all like to make a tour; when shrillcries, as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasantreverie; and looking up, he saw Cuff before him,belabouring a little boy.

　　It was the lad who had peached upon him about thegrocer's cart; but he bore little malice, not at leasttowards the young and small. "How dare you, sir, breakthe bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging ayellow cricket-stump over him.

　　The boy had been instructed to get over the playgroundwall (at a selected spot where the broken glass had beenremoved from the top, and niches made convenient inthe brick); to run a quarter of a mile; to purchase a pintof rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor's outlyingspies, 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 appearedbefore his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling,though harmless, wretch.

　　"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blunderinglittle thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretendto have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir."

　　Down came the stump with a great heavy thump onthe child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up.The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavernwith Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away Sindbadthe Sailor out of the Valley of Diamonds out of sight, farinto the clouds: and there was everyday life beforehonest William; and a big boy beating a little onewithout cause.

　　"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his littleschoolfellow, whose face was distorted with pain.Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow oldclothes.

　　"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and downcame the wicket again on the child's hand.--Don't behorrified, ladies, every boy at a public school has done it.Your children will so do and be done by, in allprobability. Down came the wicket again; and Dobbinstarted up.

　　I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a publicschool is as much licensed as the knout in Russia. Itwould be ungentlemanlike (in a manner) to resist it.Perhaps Dobbin's foolish soul revolted against that exerciseof tyranny; or perhaps he had a hankering feeling ofrevenge in his mind, and longed to measure himselfagainst that splendid bully and tyrant, who had all theglory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners flying, drumsbeating, guards saluting, in the place. Whatever may havebeen his incentive, however, up he sprang, and screamedout, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more; orI'll--"

　　"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at thisinterruption. "Hold out your hand, you little beast."

　　"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in yourlife," Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cuff'ssentence; and little Osborne, gasping and in tears, lookedup with wonder and incredulity at seeing this amazingchampion put up suddenly to defend him: while Cuff'sastonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late monarchGeorge III when he heard of the revolt of the NorthAmerican colonies: fancy brazen Goliath when littleDavid stepped forward and claimed a meeting; and youhave the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when thisrencontre was proposed to him.

　　"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and alook, as much as to say, "Make your will, andcommunicate your last wishes to your friendsbetween this time and that."

　　"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottleholder, Osborne."

　　"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you seehis papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed ofhis champion.

　　Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almostashamed to say, "Go it, Figs"; and not a single other boyin the place uttered that cry for the first two or threerounds of this famous combat; at the commencement ofwhich the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile onhis face, and as light and as gay as if he was at a ball,planted his blows upon his adversary, and floored thatunlucky champion three times running. At each fall therewas a cheer; and everybody was anxious to have thehonour of offering the conqueror a knee.

　　"What a licking I shall get when it's over," youngOsborne thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in,"he said to Dobbin; "it's only a thrashing, Figs, and youknow I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in aquiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put hislittle bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.

　　As he did not in the least know how to parry the blowsthat were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun theattack on the three preceding occasions, without everallowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that hewould commence the engagement by a charge on his ownpart; and accordingly, being a left-handed man, broughtthat arm into action, and hit out a couple of times withall his might--once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once on hisbeautiful Roman nose.

　　Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of theassembly. "Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, withthe 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 thecombat. 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." Atthe twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, asthe saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and powerof attack or defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calmas a quaker. His face being quite pale, his eyes shiningopen, and a great cut on his underlip bleeding profusely,gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air, whichperhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless,his intrepid adversary prepared to close for thethirteenth time.

　　If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I shouldlike to describe this combat properly. It was the lastcharge of the Guard--(that is, it would have been, onlyWaterloo had not yet taken place)--it was Ney's columnbreasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with tenthousand bayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles--itwas the shout of the beef-eating British, as leaping downthe hill they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage armsof battle--in other words, Cuff coming up full of pluck,but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in hisleft as usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him downfor the last time.

　　"I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponentdropped as neatly on the green as I have seen JackSpot's ball plump into the pocket at billiards; and thefact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was notable, or did not choose, to stand up again.

　　And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs aswould have made you think he had been their darlingchampion through the whole battle; and as absolutelybrought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to knowthe cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figsviolently, of course; but Cuff, who had come to himselfby this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up andsaid, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs'--not Dobbin's. I wasbullying a little boy; and he served me right." By whichmagnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror awhipping, but got back all his ascendancy over the boyswhich his defeat had nearly cost him.

　　Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an accountof the transaction.

　　Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, 18--

　　Dear Mama,--I hope you are quite well. I should bemuch 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. Theyfought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff isnow Only Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuffwas licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, and Figswouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his father isa Grocer--Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City--I think ashe fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugarat his father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can'tthis, because he has 2 Black Eyes. He has a white Ponyto come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a baymare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and Iam

　　Your dutiful Son,George Sedley Osborne

　　P.S.--Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting herout a Coach in cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but aplum-cake.

　　In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character roseprodigiously in the estimation of all his schoolfellows, andthe name of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach,became as respectable and popular a nickname as anyother in use in the school. "After all, it's not his faultthat his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who,though a little chap, had a very high popularity amongthe Swishtail youth; and his opinion was received withgreat applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbinabout this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be aname of kindness and endearment; and the sneak of anusher jeered at him no longer.

　　And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances.He made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. Thesuperb Cuff himself, at whose condescension Dobbincould only blush and wonder, helped him on with hisLatin verses; "coached" him in play-hours: carried himtriumphantly out of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form; and even there got a fair place for him. Itwas discovered, that although dull at classical learning,at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. To thecontentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got aFrench prize-book at the public Midsummer examination.You should have seen his mother's face when Telemaque(that delicious romance) was presented to him bythe Doctor in the face of the whole school and the parentsand company, with an inscription to Gulielmo Dobbin. Allthe boys clapped hands in token of applause andsympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, his awkwardness, andthe number of feet which he crushed as he went back tohis place, who shall describe or calculate? Old Dobbin, hisfather, who now respected him for the first time, gavehim two guineas publicly; most of which he spent in ageneral tuck-out for the school: and he came back in atail-coat after the holidays.

　　Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow tosuppose that this happy change in all his circumstancesarose from his own generous and manly disposition: hechose, from some perverseness, to attribute his goodfortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little GeorgeOsborne, to whom henceforth he vowed such a love andaffection as is only felt by children--such an affection, aswe read in the charming fairy-book, uncouth Orson hadfor splendid young Valentine his conqueror. He flunghimself down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him.Even before they were acquainted, he had admiredOsborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his manFriday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor ofevery perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, themost active, the cleverest, the most generous of createdboys. He shared his money with him: bought himuncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals,toffee, Little Warblers, and romantic books, with largecoloured pictures of knights and robbers, in many of whichlatter you might read inscriptions to George SedleyOsborne, Esquire, from his attached friend William Dobbin--the which tokens of homage George received verygraciously, as became his superior merit.

　　So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to RussellSquare on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to theladies, "Mrs. Sedley, Ma'am, I hope you have room; I'veasked Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go withus to Vauxhall. He's almost as modest as Jos."

　　"Modesty! pooh," said the stout gentleman, casting avainqueur look at Miss Sharp.

　　"He is--but you are incomparably more graceful,Sedley," Osborne added, laughing. "I met him at theBedford, when I went to look for you; and I told him thatMiss Amelia was come home, and that we were all benton going out for a night's pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedleyhad forgiven his breaking the punch-bowl at the child'sparty. Don't you remember the catastrophe, Ma'am, sevenyears ago?"

　　"Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good-natured Mrs. Sedley. "What a gawky it was! And hissisters are not much more graceful. Lady Dobbin was atHighbury last night with three of them. Such figures! mydears."

　　"The Alderman's very rich, isn't he?" Osborne saidarchly. "Don't you think one of the daughters would be agood spec for me, Ma'am?"

　　"You foolish creature! Who would take you, I shouldlike to know, with your yellow face?"

　　"Mine a yellow face? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, hehad the yellow fever three times; twice at Nassau, andonce at St. Kitts."

　　"Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn'tit, Emmy?" Mrs. Sedley said: at which speech MissAmelia only made a smile and a blush; and looking at Mr.George Osborne's pale interesting countenance, and thosebeautiful black, curling, shining whiskers, which the younggentleman himself regarded with no ordinarycomplacency, she thought in her little heart that inHis Majesty's army, or in the wide world, there neverwas such a face or such a hero. "I don't care about CaptainDobbin's complexion," she said, "or about his awkwardness.I shall always like him, I know," her little reason being,that he was the friend and champion of George.

　　"There's not a finer fellow in the service," Osbornesaid, "nor a better officer, though he is not an Adonis,certainly." And he looked towards the glass himself withmuch naivete; and in so doing, caught Miss Sharp's eyefixed keenly upon him, at which he blushed a little, andRebecca thought in her heart, "Ah, mon beau Monsieur!I think I have your gauge"--the little artful minx!

　　That evening, when Amelia came tripping into thedrawing-room in a white muslin frock, prepared forconquest at Vauxhall, singing like a lark, and as fresh as arose--a very tall ungainly gentleman, with large handsand feet, and large ears, set off by a closely cropped headof black hair, and in the hideous military frogged coatand cocked hat of those times, advanced to meet her, andmade her one of the clumsiest bows that was everperformed by a mortal.

　　This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, ofHis Majesty's Regiment of Foot, returned fromyellow fever, in the West Indies, to which the fortuneof the service had ordered his regiment, whilst so manyof his gallant comrades were reaping glory in the Peninsula.

　　He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quietthat it was inaudible to the ladies upstairs: otherwise, youmay be sure Miss Amelia would never have been so boldas to come singing into the room. As it was, the sweetfresh little voice went right into the Captain's heart, andnestled there. When she held out her hand for him toshake, before he enveloped it in his own, he paused, andthought--"Well, is it possible--are you the little maid Iremember in the pink frock, such a short time ago--thenight I upset the punch-bowl, just after I was gazetted?Are you the little girl that George Osborne said shouldmarry him? What a blooming young creature you seem,and what a prize the rogue has got!" All this he thought,before he took Amelia's hand into his own, and as he lethis cocked hat fall.

　　His history since he left school, until the very momentwhen we have the pleasure of meeting him again, althoughnot fully narrated, has yet, I think, been indicatedsufficiently for an ingenious reader by the conversationin the last page. Dobbin, the despised grocer, was AldermanDobbin--Alderman Dobbin was Colonel of the City LightHorse, then burning with military ardour to resist theFrench Invasion. Colonel Dobbin's corps, in which oldMr. Osborne himself was but an indifferent corporal, hadbeen reviewed by the Sovereign and the Duke of York;and the colonel and alderman had been knighted. Hisson had entered the army: and young Osborne followedpresently in the same regiment. They had served in theWest Indies and in Canada. Their regiment had just comehome, and the attachment of Dobbin to George Osbornewas as warm and generous now as it had been when thetwo were schoolboys.

　　So these worthy people sat down to dinner presently.They talked about war and glory, and Boney and LordWellington, and the last Gazette. In those famous daysevery gazette had a victory in it, and the two gallant youngmen longed to see their own names in the glorious list,and cursed their unlucky fate to belong to a regimentwhich had been away from the chances of honour. MissSharp kindled with this exciting talk, but Miss Sedleytrembled and grew quite faint as she heard it. Mr. Jostold several of his tiger-hunting stories, finished the oneabout Miss Cutler and Lance the surgeon; helpedRebecca to everything on the table, and himself gobbledand drank a great deal.

　　He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when theyretired, with the most killing grace--and coming back tothe table, filled himself bumper after bumper of claret,which he swallowed with nervous rapidity.

　　"He's priming himself," Osborne whispered to Dobbin,and at length the hour and the carriage arrivedfor Vauxhall.