"Noose-larning!" roared out Hubby, and shook and shuddered, when the parson had poked him with his walking-stick until he waked him:—"Noose-larning!" he still uttered, beholding the poacher in the wood, in his bewildered condition. With much ado, Hubby was at length fully brought to the remembrance of what he was about, and being by that time perfectly sober,—but dreadfully cramped,—he clambered out of the ditch; and though sorely ashamed of his bedaubed condition, and much more of his doating folly, he accompanied his friend to the parsonage-house at Hambleton, and, after much entreaty, with all the simplicity of his soul, recounted all he could remember of the whole adventure, commencing with Gaffer Davy's visit and the present of the Roman spur.
Oft was the hearty laugh of the plain Oakhamers raised at Hubby Dickinson's expense, during the remainder of his life; but the fine old fellow's adventure never lessened their esteem for him. He was never permitted to want, even when age had stiffened his limbs and almost totally closed his eyes and ears. Town and country were alike proud of the learning that he had possessed; and the villages, especially, believed that his like would never be seen in Rutland again, even to the day of judgment.
In the lapse of a few months, Hubby got over the shame and soreness of mind created by his adventure so entirely, as to be able to relish a joke about it; and, when his lamp of life was quivering and ready to sink, nothing would so soon cause it to blaze up with a healthy and cheerful light as a joke about the "noose-larning"—unless it were a grave and respectful mention of the "Tallagium illustrissimum." But the lamp of that life went out at last, though its exit from mortality was peaceful and gentle as the sinking to sleep of a babe; and never yet has "the like" been seen in little Rutland, for wondrous learning, of Master Zerubbabel Dickinson.
THE BEGGARED GENTLEMAN,
AND
HIS CROOKED STICK.
There is not a sight in the world more distressful to the bosom that retains any measure in it of "the milk of human kindness" than that of an abject, poverty-stricken fellow-creature, who once rolled in wealth and plenty. Even the born beggar, who has lived a beggar all his life, feels an involuntary compassion for such a man. And, if his fall be attributable to no avaricious spirit of speculation, or proud and sensual excess—but is the effect of Fortune's untoward frown, or the result of what the selfish world calls an imprudent practice of relieving the distressed, the "beggared gentleman" is surely a legitimate object of universal commiseration.
"Poor Mr. Clifford!" the most ragged and hungry inhabitant of Kirton-in-Lindsey would exclaim, "how much he is to be pitied!—I never thought to see him come to this!" And when the subject of this general pity happened to let fall his curious crooked stick through infirmity of age, there was not a poor man or woman in the little town but would hasten to restore it to him who seemed to regard it as the most prizeable possession he had left in the world. It was moving to see the instant act of ceremonious courtesy to which the recipient of this simple heart-kindness would resort. He would raise his hat, and smile with the same polite expression of thankfulness as in his best days. No one who saw him could forget that he had been a gentleman. And yet the home of his old age was one of squalid misery!
Hugh Clifford's father was a descendant, by a younger branch, of a noble family, and had gained a considerable fortune as a merchant in the port of Hull. He died in the beginning of the reign of George the Third, and left his accumulated wealth to his only son, who was then at college. Hugh hastened home, on the sudden death of his father, and, by the advice of a few friends, resolved to carry on his father's mercantile concern. Twelve months, however, served to disgust him with business. His wealth, instead of augmenting, began rapidly to decrease under the peculations of clerks and managers, to whom the business was necessarily entrusted, and he took the resolution, ere it was too late, of retiring, after he had disposed of his "concern," to a pretty little estate which had fallen to him, by his mother's right, at the pleasant little rural town of Kirton-in-Lindsey, that like "a city set on a hill" delights the eye of the traveller for miles before he reaches it.