Part 7

And Zed spoke as truly as ever a prophet spoke, and much more truly than many; for, although he got well warmed ere he went to bed, yet his participation of so much extra liquor at the wedding, his foolish freak at money-digging the preceding night, and his cold bath to conclude, operating together upon his aged frame, produced rheumatic effects which never left him.

Zed Marrowby and Phil Garrett left their voyaging at the close of that summer. True, they made all fit and industrious preparation for the next spring; and Zed's heart was gleefully bent on resuming their old cruises on their beloved Trent, and in their beloved old boat; but Phil listened with a foreboding heart to the deep cough which shook Zed's old body through the winter, and often interrupted his fervid utterances of what pleasure he expected when summer should come again. And when Zed Marrowby would exclaim, "We shall have another merry summer's cruise yet, Phil!" Phil Garret would answer with more solemnity, much more, than was his wont to put on, "Don't say so till you're are sure. I think, Zed, we shall cruise no more in this world; and I hope our next port will be in a better land." Zed poohed and pshawed, for some time, at this "solemn way o' talking," as he called it; but at length he began to feel that Phil was right—he grew feebler as the spring drew nearer, and when it came, feeling the expectation to be vain of ever stepping again into the beloved old boat, he took Phil's advice—for he said he always thought it worth more than the parson's—and strove to fix his mind on reaching the happy port in the better land.

Zed Marrowby's end was calm and peaceful; and so was that of Phil Garret, his faithful companion, who was also laid under the green sod in old Torksey churchyard within six months after. The memory of their names and lives is well-nigh lost in the rural locality where they lived; but there is not a saying more common in old Lincolnshire to this day than that quaint caution so often uttered by the blind fiddler to his less grave comrade, "Don't say so till you are sure!"

MASTER ZERUBBABEL, THE ANTIQUARY; AND HOW HE FOUND OUT THE "NOOSE LARNING."

Antiquaries are scarce now-a-days. Don't mistake me, reader; I know that there is an abundance of writers on things which are ancient—ay, and more, that certain pragmatical folk pretend now to know more exactly how every thing went on two thousand years ago, nay four thousand years ago, than was known a few generations since by the first scholars in Europe. But don't say I question the likelihood of people knowing more about the ancients the farther time removes us from them,—because that would be literary heresy, and would bring upon an unlucky wight the hot persecution of the orthodox. But—I repeat it—Antiquaries are scarce now-a-days. I mean, your real thorough-bred ones, if I may say so—the fine old fellows who forgot their breakfasts and dinners, walked out in their night-caps, went to bed in their inexpressibles,—in brief, did all manner of queer absent things by reason that they were ever present, in mind, with the long bearded Druids, or the starched Romans, or the waggish Athenians, or the broth-supping Spartans, or some other of the peoples who have been dead and buried hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Talk of antiquaries!—where are your lean, skeleton, paragons of patience now, who can dwell seven years, with ecstasy, on the contemplation of a nail proven to have been attached to a horse-shoe of ten centuries old,—or who will write you, fasting, twenty folio sheets on the discovery of an urn of Roman coins, or the opening of a British tumulus? The race is now extinct: it has been driven out of existence by the newer and more civilised race of the gentlemen antiquaries,—just as the aborigines of New Holland and North America are following where the Peruvians have already gone, into the realm of nought, before the European grasp-alls.

One of the latest existing specimens of the genuine antiquary was to be found in the little county town of Oakham, in little Rutland, some seventy years bygone. Zerubbabel Dickinson was his name, and he was proud of it;—and many an unwilling and loitering urchin had he whipt through the nouns and verbs, and the "Propria quæ maribus," into the "As in præsenti," in his time, for he kept the best school in the town, during his best days;—and when his vigour declined, and his eyes and ears grew somewhat dim, he still continued to exert his skill and intelligence in the induction of a more contracted number of pupils into the porches of classic learning. But then he no longer enjoyed the high gratification of being addressed in his full, imposing name, alike by peasant, tradesman, or gentleman: Zerubbabel sunk to "Hubby," as the fine old pedagogue's shoulders declined in their stately height, and his slower sense rendered it less certain that he heard distinctly every syllable which was uttered by his acquaintances. Yet there was no acidity of motive, no ill-naturedness, in the use of this familiar abbreviation, for Hubby Dickinson was as much beloved, if he were not quite so stiffly respected, as "Master Zerubbabel" had been. And that shows, almost beyond the necessity of telling, that the fine old antiquary had contracted no rust of the heart among the rusty coins he had turned over so oft and so ecstatically; but, rather, that his excellent nature had mellowed and become more loveable with age, though it had shrunk from its former somewhat pride-blown proportions.

Self-complacence Hubby Dickinson had felt, in his day,—and he must have been a philosopher, indeed, could he have utterly subdued such a feeling,—seeing that his learning was esteemed, by gentle and simple, a thing so ponderous and vast, that every body wondered how Master Zerubbabel's brain could hold it, or his shoulders bear the burthen of it. Certes, there was not even a clergyman in the neighbourhood, despite his Oxford or Cambridge matriculation, but what resorted to the humble abode of the great antiquarian schoolmaster for the interpretation of difficult Greek or Hebrew texts; not an ancient will or parchment ever puzzled a Rutland lawyer, but it was brought to Master Zerubbabel Dickinson to decipher it; and not a ploughboy or a hedger or ditcher found a rust-eaten coin, or an ancient key, or a mysterious-looking fragment of pottery beneath the earth's surface, but they would forthwith journey to the dwelling of the "high-larnt" Oakham schoolmaster to learn the meaning, or the use, or the value of their discovery. Coins the illustrious Zerubbabel possessed of all ages, and almost all countries—at least, so he believed,—and keys of the most ornate Saxon fashion; and spear-heads and arrow-heads of the most primitive Keltic rudeness; beaking-bills of the age of Alfred, and daggers of the reign of Canute; fragments of steel-shirts that had been worn in the Crusades; and hilts and crosses of swords which had done service in Cressy or Agincourt: and all these were so learnedly arranged, that their order, itself, proclaimed the antiquary's incomparable erudition; while the syllables he would utter in illustration of their uses, and ages, and owners, and concomitants innumerable, left you in a perfect whirl of wonder!

Now, of all these, the priceless contents of his precious museum, Zerubbabel had written folio upon folio; and still continued to write thereon, feeling that it behoved him to say all that possibly could be said, on topics of such surpassing magnitude and importance, ere he ventured to give his lucubrations to the world. Nevertheless, these were minor labours, which, compared with one great and grand undertaking that occupied nine-tenths of every leisure hour of his more advanced life, were but as so many ant-hills to a pyramid.

Reader, hast thou ever seen the old castle of Oakham? If thou hast not, and opportunity will serve, prythee, go thither, and feast thy eyes with the wondrous array—not of breathing sculptures, or matchless pictures; not of antique folios or curiously carven cabinets; not of storied tapestries or blazing heraldries—but of horse-shoes: ay, horse-shoes of all sorts and sizes, that adorn the walls of that singular old Saxon hall,—supported by its "antique pillars massy proof,"—and stretching its primitive roof overhead. A sight it is, pregnant with abundant reflection, that curious monument of feudalism; and many and marvellous are the stories they tell you about its origin: but, chiefly, they report that Ferrers—the Earl now, but simply, the _ferrier_, or farrier, to the victorious Norman—obtained, with this fief, authority to demand a horse-shoe of any knight, baron, or earl, who rode for the first time through his manor of Oakham. And many a veritable shoe taken from the foot of the steed of proud baron, or chivalrous knight,—his name obliterated by the rust of ages,—you behold on those walls; but therewith now mingle the mock-shoes of the modern great: a semblance, merely, put up at a great price, in some instances, they say. Gigantic shapes, some of these modern things are: such are those bearing the inscriptions "H. R. H. the Prince Regent," and "H. R. H. the Duchess of Kent," which latter hath a more diminutive one beside it, inscribed "the Princess Victoria." Of the judges, who here hold the courts of assize, the modern monuments of this curious kind are the most numerous; and if you listen to a sly Oakhamer he will not fail to tell you how often that model of political consistency, of generosity, liberality, integrity, impartiality, gentleness, and all the enlightened virtues—the ever-to-be-commemorated Abinger—was _dunned_ for his five pounds, and how often he contrived to slip, like an eel, through the fingers of those whose office or privilege it is to claim the shoe or the price of it, before he was finally caught. Yet _there is_ the shoe of the stainless and exalted legal functionary on the wall,—so that he _was_ caught at last!

Pardon, reader, this most unseemly wandering from the illustrious subject of our present biography, the erudite Zerubbabel Dickinson. Now it was in the contemplation of this unique monument of baronial greatness,—it was in the collection and collocation of manuscripts relative to the identity of the several shoes,—it was in the array of the pedigrees of those in whose names they were put up,—it was in brushing away the rust (not from the shoes, for the discerning Dickinson would have adjudged him a pagan, of a verity, and no Christian, who dared to disturb a grain of it!)—the rust of uncertainty that hung about the names and memories of those to whom the more ancient furniture of horses' feet belonged,—it was in this mine profound of all that was important, and noble, and useful, and great, and grand, about the countless catalogue of horse-shoes that were nailed to the walls of the great hall in the castle of Oakham, that the learned and laborious Zerubbabel dug and delved,—it was on these themes, I say (and I scarcely know how to express myself worthily on so magnitudinous a matter), that the indefatigable and magnanimous schoolmaster-antiquary expended the choicest energies of his untiring intellect.

This, courteous reader, was the prime labour—the _opus majus_ of Master Zerubbabel Dickinson. The work was to have been entituled "_Tallagium illustrissimum; seu Catalogus solearum ferrearum_"—with I know not how many more _ums_ and _arums_, besides. _Was_ to have been? Yes; for let it not be supposed that so stupendous a work was ever finished. It was the opinion of the laborious Zerubbabel himself that it never could be finished, so transcendent was the _beau-idéal_ of such a work that he had conceived.

But enough of a subject which, in this degenerate age, will never be placed at its right value. This slender fragment of a biographic memorial was not commenced so much with the view of showing how truly great a man was the erudite Master Zerubbabel,—since we would despair as deeply of doing justice to so immense a subject as Zerubbabel himself despaired of completing the leviathan folios of the mighty "Tallagium illustrissimum:" we have a more philosophic purpose in view—namely, the proof, by history, of the striking moral truism, that the greatest men are very little men when you take them out of their accustomed sphere: in other words, that the wisest men are fools when you talk to them about things with which, in spite of their wisdom, they are not conversant. But why prove a truism? Ah, my friend, these same truisms, as the world calls them, for the greater part, are just the very things that want proving——.

"Master Hubby," said a jolly fat farmer who called, with his fat wife and her egg-basket, at the schoolmaster's door, towards five of the clock on a market afternoon, "we've browt ye a queer, odd-fashionedish sort on a thing, here, that we f'un i'th' home clooas tuther day; can ye tell us what it is?" and the farmer produced an ancient fragment of ironwork of a crooked form, but so unlike any modern utensil of any kind, that any one but an antiquary might well be puzzled with it. Nay, the profoundly erudite Zerubbabel himself was nonplused for the moment! He turned it over and over, and put on his spectacles, and then took them off again, and wiped them, and re-adjusted them to the most perfect distance for his natural optics—that is to say, he placed them as near to the very tip of his nose as they would remain without falling off,—but all his delays for consideration would not do: he was compelled to confess that he did not know what it was!

"Why dooant ye, indeed?" cried the farmer with a stare.

"The Lord ha' marcy on us! you dooant say so, Master Hubby, do ye?" echoed the farmer's wife, perfectly electrified with the thought that there was any thing ancient which Hubby did not understand; and she set down her basket of eggs, and drew out her spectacle-case, and put on her spectacles also, to gaze at Hubby in his.

And so there stood the odd trio at the learned schoolmaster's door: the man of ancient learning, barnacled to the nose-tip, and holding up the curious crooked rusty piece of iron with a gaze of indescribable eagerness; and the farmer with open mouth, and hands buried in the profound pockets of the plush waistcoat that enveloped the goodly rotundity of his person; and the farmer's wife, with the basket at her feet, her arms a-kimbo, and her eyes directed with intense earnestness through her spectacles on the movements of the illustrious Zerubbabel's countenance.

There was a perfect silence of full three minutes, and still the trio gazed on.

"Where found ye it?" asked Hubby, at last, not knowing what other question to adventure.

"At Hambleton on th' hill," replied the farmer; "and what think ye to't then now, Master Hubby?" he asked again.

Zerubbabel shook his head, and there was again a profound and perfect silence.

"You know, Davy," said the farmer's wife, at length, "young Bob Rakeabout said he was somehow of a mind it was——"

"Pooh, woman!" said the impatient farmer; "where's the use and sense of telling what such a rattle-scallion as he thinks?"

"Nay, but, Davy," reiterated the spouse, "it may be of use, for they say he's book-larnt."

"Book-larnt! ay, mally good faith, I think as much: and noose-larnt, too," replied the farmer; "and I wish, when his last noose is tied, he may be allowed benefit o' clargy!" and he burst into a loud laugh at his own wit.

"Well, howsomever," said the wife, "young Bob said he could swear it was a spur, and nowt else."

"_Calcar equitis Romani_, of a verity!" exclaimed Zerubbabel, and danced with ecstasy, till the farmer and his wife stared harder than ever.

"Ha! ye f'un' it out?" cried the farmer's wife: "Lord! maister Hubby, do tell us what ye think it is."

"A spur, good neighbours, a spur it is, no doubt, and hath belonged to some valorous Roman knight many ages ago," replied Hubby.

"Why, zowks, then, Bob was right," said the farmer; "and pray ye, Maister Hubby, accept a dozen o' pullets' eggs with it, for it is not worth having by itself."

Zerubbabel was of a very different opinion, but very thankfully received the eggs, notwithstanding; and his homely visitors bade him good afternoon.

And now did the deeply learned man retire into the very penetralia of reflection, and meditation, and thought, and consideration, and so forth; yet the "vasty cavern" of his mind displayed other and more profound concernments than admiration of the invaluable Roman spur. "_Noose-larnt_"—that was the singular word which riveted his thought. "Noose-larnt!"—what could it mean? That was the great question which the great Zerubbabel asked of himself—for he knew no higher authority on such high matters—at least one hundred times before he went to bed; but he slept—answerless! Again, on the succeeding day—ay, and on the day succeeding that day—Hubby Dickinson pondered on the same profound problem; and, on the third night, when he had extended his cogitations to the stroke of twelve, and his sole remaining candle was reduced to one inch of tallow, and four of black wick, curling through and through the struggling bit of flame, and spreading gloom rather than light over Hubby's little studium—then it was that Hubby Dickinson, feeling one thought go through him like a flash of lightning, suddenly sprang up, crying out, "Eureka—eureka!" and plucked an ancient volume from its shelf to satisfy himself of the correctness of his thought.

The searcher for enlightenment snuffed the candle with a speed and dexterity which few could equal,—performing the act with Nature's snuffers, his fingers,—feeling that the vastitude and urgency of the inquiry did not permit the delay of employing the aid of man's mechanic invention,—and then, and then—opening the ancient volume, and turning to the name he contemplated, and fixing his spectacles, once again, in the most advantageous position—the ardent and delighted antiquary read out aloud to himself the following passage from the said ancient tome:—

"Anaxagoras, the disciple of Anaximenes, was surnamed _Nous_, which signifieth _intelligence_, by reason of his excelling quickness of parts, and a certain, I know not what, of instant perception or discernment of nice difficulties in a twinkling. For whereas other wise men went round about to survey the questions to them proponed, on this side and that, and, after much nice calculation and naming of postulates, drew from the balance of probabilities what they affirmed to be a correct answer, this philosopher manifested a strength and clearness of judgment, and swiftness of reasoning, which might be said to partake of intuition,—a faculty which the gods themselves only possess in its perfection: and thus it came to pass that Anaxagoras was called, in the Hellenistic tongue, _Nous_, or intelligence."

That was the passage he read; and when he had read it he closed the heavy quarto with a noise like the report of a gun, and again cried out that "he had found it" with all his power of lungs. And then, feeling that he had done business enough for one night, in having made so transcendentally-sagacious a discovery, he put out the small remnant of candle, groped his way to his bedside, and, while he performed the prefatory work of unclothing, thus he soliloquised:—

"Yea, of a verity, this is the true interpretation of the mystery. This 'Noose-larnt' young man is some great natural genius,—some miracle of mother wit,—some second Anacharis the Scythian, who would very likely beat all the wise men of this time, although he never entered the pale of the schools,—nay, perhaps, hath never passed beyond the limits of the lordship of Hambleton-on-the-hill. I have no doubt of it; for none but such a genius could have determined, without witchcraft, that this curiously shapen piece of ancient armour pertained to the heel. It is strange that my friend, the parson of Hambleton,—who must have given the young man this expressive epithet, seeing that the rural people understand no Greek,—it is strange that he never told me of the existence of this youth. But I will essay to find him out, if I be spared till the morning light! O Hubby Dickinson! though few now call you Zerubbabel, yet you may have lived to this age for a high purpose, even to bring to light the name and singular endowments of this 'Noose-larnt' youth! Why, the discovery may even ennoble you beyond the composition of the grand Tallagium!" And then Hubby fell asleep, and dreamt delightfully; but the delight itself, of his dream awoke him, and again he began to soliloquise amid the darkness:—

"Why, it is as clear and luminous as the sun at noon to my mind," he said to himself: "nothing less than the possession of a high degree of the faculty of intuition could have enabled this youth to announce such a truth. Verily, there is no wonder the rude peasant people entertain suspicions that he hath a familiar, or is a wizard: and that they do entertain such ideas is evident from that strange exclamation, or rather optation, of Gaffer Davy—he wished when the youth's last noose was tied he might find benefit o'clergy. There, is an allusion to the ancient privilege of escape from the halter by a neck-verse, which I have illustrated in the Tallagium. Doubtless, the farmers and ploughmen believe this singular youth to be one who deals in the black art, and think his mal-practices may bring him to the gallows. Ah, it is the way in which the lights of the world have been treated in all ages! I will find out the abode of this miracle of nature, that I will!" he said, and again fell asleep.

The morning broke, Hubby opened his eyes, and forthwith arose to renew his self-congratulations. "Ah, Hubby," said he to himself, "you will live to be called Master Zerubbabel again, by gentle and simple; for you are destined, this day, to achieve a great work!" And then he went over the roll of his reasonings again, and, feeling more assured than ever of the certitude of them, he again congratulated himself. "Ay, as old as I am, I have not lost my power of penetrating a matter," he said; "tell me who, in the whole county of Rutland, except myself, could have found this out from the simple premises on which it was given me to erect my sagacious hypothesis?"

Reader,—was Hubby Dickinson a very silly old fellow to talk and think thus? Ah, how many of your great philosophers have reared their world-admired hypotheses from premises as slight; and yet how long it was before the folly of many of them was found out!

Well, there was now but one step to be taken as a preliminary to the commencement of Hubby's journey to Hambleton, which, he was sure, would be memorable while the world lasted: it was—to give his scholars a holiday.

Reader,—talk of potentates by whatever name you will; but your schoolmaster is your only emperor! Can he not make laws—break laws—bind his subjects—set them free—and, in one word, do what he listeth? I tell thee, reader, that his is the true _imperium in imperio_: his will is law, and who can gainsay it? Thou knowest of no potentate so truly imperial as the village schoolmaster.

And Hubby Dickinson—had he not power in himself, and of himself—to give his boys a holiday? That he had; and when the word was given, ye powers! what a rush was there over benches, and what a scampering for hats; and then the huzza! when the threshold was passed and the plans for fun throughout the livelong day that were formed! Woe worth the world! one owes it a grudge, one is tempted to think, since it hath taken away from our lips the nectared chalice of childhood, and giveth us now, from day to day, no other draught but this unsavoury minglement, wherein one scarcely knows whether the bitterness or the insipidity most prevails!