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!
It was but three short miles from Oakham to Hambleton; and Hubby Dickinson's eagerness of desire gave such strength and speed to his limbs that he soon reached the village.
"Pray, my good friend," said he to a farmer on horseback, as he entered the place, "can you say where I shall find the singularly endowed youth who is familiarly called Bob Rakeabout, the Noose-larnt?"
Poor Hubby! how he stared, and how loftily indignant he felt, when the farmer returned him a broad horse-laugh for an answer, and, setting spurs to his horse, rode away! He was not to be driven from his purpose, however, and put the same question to a pedestrian, next. The man, who was a ditcher with a shovel on his shoulder, touched, or rather nipped, his hat skirts, and asked what the gentleman said; and when he clearly understood that Bob Rakeabout was wanted, his reply was, that he knew not where he would be found, unless at the alehouse. Hubby thanked his informant, but was sure within himself that there was some mistake arising from the man's dulness, for it could not be that a genius of so magnificent a grade as the human being he was seeking could be found loitering in a vulgar alehouse. So on Hubby strode, looking at the ground, and thinking, and thinking,—till, at last, he was accosted by a very dark-visaged and singularly dressed man, who stood by a tent in a lane, on the other side of the village—for the thinker had passed quite through it, unconsciously.
"Fine weather, sir," said the man; "you seem to be in a brown study."