Old Bob, in the face, was rather like Socrates: in form, save as to the shoulders, he strongly resembled Punch. His similitude, however, to the sage, was merely physiognomical, unless the ability to have disputed with him in his own vernacular may be added to it. He was intimately versed in what are termed the liberal sciences, though I doubt if, in his case, they had the mollifying effect ascribed to them in the Eton Latin Grammar. With no other kind of science was he acquainted, except that of managing his own affairs. In this, truly, he was a tolerable proficient, and had made money by his school. But if his acquirements were limited, they were sound; and his intellect, though not comprehensive, was strong. He would sometimes say to a clever but eccentric boy—for he used to thee-and-thou us like a Quaker—‘Thou hast every sense, my boy, but common sense.’ Of this faculty, in a practical acceptation, he possessed a fair share himself. Old Bob had a fine sense of justice, too, in his way, and he administered his flogging system reasonably and equitably—as far as rationality or equity were consistent with such a system. There was also not a little benevolence in Old Bob’s composition. It is true that his eyes could not help twinkling when he caught a boy in any mischief, and contrived, to hit him, neatly, on a tense and sensitive part. But I do not think that he flogged principally, or in very great measure, for the love of flogging. He had a traditional belief in the virtues of the rod. He looked upon birch as a necessary stimulant, not knowing that stimulants, whether in the mental or animal economy, are not ordinarily necessary. Then, on the other hand, he was very attentive to the health and comfort of his boys. He took especial care that our meat and other provisions should be of the very best kind; and if his scholars were well flogged, they were also well fed and well cared for. Old Bob, when first I knew him, was nearly eighty years of age, but hale and robust still. Divers legends were extant respecting the strong man whom he had knocked down in his youth. He dressed the character of the old schoolmaster, from the shovel-hat and powdered bald head to the gaiters, as correctly as if he had proposed to act it in a farce. His voice, I may here remark, was much like Mr. Farren’s in Sir Peter Teazle; only it was slower, deeper, more powerful, and abounded in strong and prolonged emphasis. He was very fond of spouting—in an academical way—and I think I see him now teaching us to gesticulate, by putting himself in an attitude, and giving us an idea of Cicero.