RICHARD BIDDULPH;

OR,

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF A SCHOOL-BOY.

CHAPTER I

THE HERO INTRODUCED.

"SHAME! shame!" cried a voice in a subdued yet audible accent, as the never-to-be-forgotten Dr. Frampton tore up by the roots a lock of soft white hair from the head of a little pale-faced child, who had just entered the branch or preparatory school of a well-known educational institution situated in the busy market town of an English county. And that voice, so earnest, so expressive, and yet so child-like, lives within my memory to this hour, for it awakened in me an interest and a boyish love for that child who was bold enough to utter it, which no after circumstances have been able to destroy, and no malignity to eradicate.

"Who spoke there? who was it, I say?" said the master, gently, mildly, and with an insinuating voice, masking a voice under that tone lest a victim should escape his indignation. But a death-like silence took possession of the whole school.

"Who was it dared to cry shame?" asked the doctor passionately, and his glance encountered nought but vacancy of expression. He knew not of the many young hearts trembling with emotion, fearful of being mistaken for the offending one; but he did know that one of his youthful scholars had dared his power by crying "shame" upon the inordinate exercise of that power.

"Who was it, I say?" he repeated, as he concealed the lock of white hair, which he still held in his hand, within the folds of his professor's gown. But the stillness of the sepulchre was there, and nought but an echo responded to the reiterated question, save the palpitating of youthful hearts, full of terror and expectancy, both at the brutal action of the master, and the small remonstrating voice which had instantly followed it.

But see, the doctor's bacchanalian face assumes a shining, smiling appearance; his eye is now resting upon Cartright-a tall, hungrylooking boy, nearly at the head of the school, and he is now fixed upon as the chosen victim. Not a word of explanation, not a question asked or answered, but simply the usual cry on occasions of punish

ment.

"Bolt the doors! shut the windows! Come forth, you sir, d'ye hear? You, Cartright, you bull-headed son of a cur! I'll teach you to cry 'shame,' that I will."

"It was not me, sir! Indeed, it was not me, sir," said the boy, energetically.

"Then who was it? demanded the unappeased schoolmaster. But silence again took possession of the whole school, and the pure blood ran cold through the small veins of the childish spectators.

That early instrument of torture, "the rod," was in the right hand of the rigid master; the boy, Cartright-innocent though he was-was brought forward for instant punishment, and two hundred pair of eyes were turned towards the coming scene; when a little boy, seemingly about eight years of age, with an intrepid countenance, though pale with emotion, rose hurriedly from his form, and darted towards the teacher, just as his lusty arm was raised to inflict pain upon the body, and degradation on the mind, of a boy who had been placed under his charge for the purpose of education. There had been a pattering rain the whole of that September morning, beating time against the windows of the school-room, and there was a dreariness both within and without its walls, when in an instant, ere a thought could cross the mind of a poet, there shot forth a glorious ray of the sun, directly upon the excited features of the little aspirant to real virtue, as he exclaimed, almost hysterically

""Twas I, sir ;" and when he encountered the fierce eye of the master he continued-" But oh! forgive me, sir! Do, pray, forgive me!"

"Forgive you? oh yes! Ill forgive you; you little hardened conception, that I will."

Here the master broke forth into a strain of sarcastic witticisms, mixed with laughter, which he invariably did when he engaged in punishment. The remembrance of that man's merriment flashes at the present moment from my mind to my pen as I write, mixed as that wit and laughter was with the tortuous cry drawn from a suffering child, which appeared to give fresh impetus to the untiring arm of him who called himself a Christian clergyman.

The little trembling hero-for such he was-was officiously brought closer by three or four of the most hardened of the scholars-but those who had learnt, under such a master, to delight in punishment. He was then placed within the reach of this divine and merciful teacher, who, in the first instance, gazed at him with the apparent look of a philosopher,-was it not rather the cold look of a fiend?— and then commenced the following scene, which I swear, by the everlasting spirit of violated love, took place within bolted doors and closed windows, in the sight of 200 children all under ten years of age, and before the indignant eye of the merciful Father of the uni

verse.

"What's your name, eh? Speak out, will you, eh?" and before the trembling child could articulate letter, much more a word, the despot drew the boy towards him by the ear so violently, as to tear it upwards; he then dashed his naked hand against his pallid cheek, sending, by its force, the little fellow prostrate on the floor. And then the minister of a mild and merciful religion, wiped the blood from off his fingers, lest it should defile the rod he was about to use. And he did use it, interlarding each blow with some such expressions as I here record.

"Now, Mr. Champion, how do you like that? and that? and that?"

And pray, now, how do you like that? I'll teach you to cry 'shame' for something, eh? eh? eh? eh? you little wretch you." And here followed a chuckling sardonic laugh.

Perfectly still was that poor child as it received lash after lash; and, considering his youth, it was surprising how well he endured the punishment, and how weak were the boy's complaints after it was done.

And here let me draw a dark and gloomy veil over the lacerated form of this young and innocent sufferer, who, after it was over, rose and stood up, apparently idiotic, gazing and wondering at such reward being given to his first impulse, and what he considered the virtuous dictates of his nature. There were many of his schoolfellows who felt for the poor child, but that feeling was smothered by the determined expression of the master.

Oh! what unlimited power has the master of a public school! How perfectly despotic! How fearless of consequences! He may mould the human character to any form he pleases; pure, gentle, and loving, on the one part, and hateful on the other. No account has he to give to the world, or to its human judges; his influence is perfectly independent of law; he seemingly works beyond the pale of immortal justice. Yet he shall give an account hereafter!

Poor child! I pity thee! so young! so heroic! so truly virtuous! To have thus early thy purity destroyed, thy goodness violated, by a scholastic tyrant, who has planted a seed within thy being which may blast thy prospects in life, and make thee an outcast from the world.

CHAPTER II.

BRINGS THE READER ONWARDS.

Richard Biddulph is no imaginary character; no mere phantom of the brain, created for the purpose of carrying through the various steps of a poetical existence to a theatrical termination. He is nothing like a fanciful or visionary hero.

Richard Biddulph was a real, living boy, with actual flesh upon his bones, and pure blood circulating through his system. He was a wellmade, red-faced child, and there was a happy smile upon his open countenance; he had a good disposition, and upon his entering into the school he had an unspotted conscience.

Now this child was a proper object for such a foundation as the one referred to, being at the age of six, without either father or mother; and, like most children who are left to the protection of society, not over bothered with generous relations. To speak the truth, he had no kind of friend whatever, save and except an old eccentric gentleman, who, happening to pass through the village where his dead mother lay, took compassion on the lonely condition of the boy, and being a governor of the institution, placed him within its walls. Richard received his first education from his mother, who implanted such principles within the mind of her child, that at the age of six he was free from

childish vices, and he was generous with his little playthings He was gentle to a fault, and his mind was as clear from bad thoughts as his body was from impurity. He was no prodigy neither, as many other children are; he could not construe Greek, or spout an ode from Horace; but he could read some easy childish books, and, what was more, was taught to understand them.

Look! my dear reader. You are in the busiest part of 'the busiest city in the world; you are in the very heart of London. What streams of human beings are hastening onwards, unheeding and unheeded, towards one common pursuit-wealth. What myriads of interests-what countless objects are passing and repassing! Then the noise of the vehicles of all descriptions, from the banker's carriage to the costermonger's cart! The clock of Bow church tells the hour of eleven. There is no poetry here, no imagination, no castles in the air; all is dull (though not the less interesting) fact. Just stop for one instant, and fancy yourself a Lavater or a Spurzheim. That man with the smiling insinuating face is a lawyer; he has just taken out the widow's portion from the bank by her trustee, and is hastening home to use it for his own individual purpose. That tall man, too, with a noble forehead, with all the intellectual organs so largely developed, is a blank and nearly idiotic bankrupt, who has just been grossly insulted by one of the commissioners in consequence of his misfortune in business. And the three fashionably-dressed gentlemen, with gold chains and satin waistcoats, are well-known pickpockets. How deceptive are outward appearances! how fallacious! how untrue! Behold an instance. What a harsh, unprepossessing face that old man has got, and what a bear-like expression! Then how poorly dressed, and how exceedingly uncouth as he walks along on the other side of the way! See how roughly he pulls on that smiling little fellow by his side, who every now and then looks up into the old man's face with confidence, and appears to be the happiest little dog that ever breathed. What a remarkable pair they seem-the one all apparent harshness, and the other all confidence and love!

"How far is it, sir?" asked the youngster with the round jacket, white trowsers, and merry face.

"Don't ask questions," answered the aged man with the old rusty hat, spencer over his coat, shoes with buckles, and brown gaiters. And the boy looked again up into the face of the man, and then, strange to say, he smiled the more. Believe me, my friend, children are the best judges of character from expression.

How fast they walk! How the man strides! How the boy jumps ! They have got over the crossing, and are now walking along a crowded street. Surely that is a jailer by his look, taking that little boy before a magistrate. And now the pair proceed together, and after walking for some time they reach their destination. The sleek porter, who was rocking himself in an easy chair, more asleep than awake, rose hurriedly, bowed and touched his hat at the same moment to the old gentleman with the frowning face and ungainly appearance, who asked the porter some questions relating to his family, and started off, very unceremoniously, in the middle of a long story from the aforesaid porter. .. Out of a part of the building to the right, and into the counting

house they went, where it was surprising to see the many officials, from the head clerk downwards, all bending their heads at the same time to this poor-looking man; who, telling his little companion "to sit still," mounted quickly the stairs leading to the governors' apart

ment.

And here is the proper place for revealing, that the old man with the worn-out spencer was none other than the excellent Mr. Howard, who, next to the great philanthropist of that name, was the most sincerely charitable man that ever lived. Under the cloak of severity, he performed some of the most benevolent actions which it is possible for a good man to conceive. Away, then, with your proud sciences of physiognomy and phrenology, for this man negatived them both; for he was one of the holiest men that ever lived, although he had a sour face, a sloping forehead, and a forbidding appearance.

But there were other boys waiting with Richard Biddulph the coming examination by the doctor, whose decision was to be final as to the children's admittance within the foundation. And there, sure enough, stood the beadle, who was to accompany them to Hertford, and who appeared to be itching so that he might begin his authority, and who called out "Silence, boys!" in an official tone, when there was not the slightest noise amongst them. And here he may be said to resemble all other gentlemen, who, having a very little power, wish to prove to the world that they have much. When silence reigns paramount in our courts of law; when the Attorney General has been attacked by a junior counsel, and has just risen to defend himself; when the interest of the court is excited to the utmost, and when even the eyelid does not wink for fear of its owner being turned out of court; then, and not till then, does a fellow in a gown, and with a wand of office, call out at the very top of his practised voice, “Silence in court!" and echo answers, "Court!" There is a vast difference between the cry just alluded to, and that of the Speaker of the House of Commons.

One by one the new boys ascended the stairs with their parents to make their bows for the first time to the assembled governors; and passed from thence into another apartment, to undergo the awful scrutiny of the doctor; who, putting on his spectacles, magnified each spot into a case of small-pox, and every bruise into a mortification.

Then came the taking off and throwing aside their plain clothes, and putting on those peculiar to the establishment. Whilst one tugs on his stockings, another attempted to see himself in the distinctive button, which only reflected the person of him who was the founder of the school. It is evidently the first time that child with the red hair has ever put his hand into his own pocket, for see how he digs lower and lower into its depths and mysteries! And all of them appeared to wonder at the smallness of their caps, as they tried to stick them on their heads, but could not.

Oh what joy to see that care-worn mother pressing to her breast and kissing her own newly-admitted boy; whilst that old man, who is evidently poor by his patched boots, is wiping away a hot tear of gratitude as he turns from his child to bless the foundation.

The boys were soon dressed, and in the excitement of new clothes