In a few weeks he had transferred the entire contents of the work into his own brain; and though he invariably carried the book in his pocket, it was more out of respect to it, as an old friend, than from any further benefit to be derived from it. The names of eery bone, cartilage, ligament, and muscle of which he had read, were deeply imprinted in his mind; and he could have passed with glory through the sharpest examination, provided it had been based on the contents of the little book.
But Tom, in spite of his knowledge, was too intelligent not to perceive the defective state of his acquirements. He soon felt that his anatomy was after all, a science of names, rather than of things—that though he could have described accurately all the intricate bones of the skull, and all the muscles of the extremities, his descriptions would have been little more than a repetition of words committed to memory. He had not seen a single real object connected with his science. If he could but have set eyes upon a skeleton, what an advantage it would have been.
We once read of a celebrated anatomist, who, far from admiring human beauty, regarded the skin, as an impertinent obstacle to the acquisition of science, concealing, as it does, the play of the muscles. Whether such a clear notion as this ever entered the mind of our hero, we cannot say, but certainly if some tall, lean beggar passed him on the road, he would clutch convulsively at his knife, and follow the man with a sad, wistful look.
One autumnal evening he sat in the ale-house parlor, watching the smoke of his pipe, and indulging in his own reflections; for though the conversation in the room was noisy and animated, it had no interest for him. Devoted to his own pursuits, births, deaths and marriages were to him things of nought, and he paid no heed to the constant discussions which were held in the village, on the extraordinary case of old Ebenezer Grindstone, who had been thought extremely rich, but in whose house not a farthing had been found after his decease, to the great disappointment of his creditors.
Soon, however, there was such a violent dash of rain against the window, that even Tom was compelled to start, when he saw the door open, and a stranger enter, completely muffled in a cloak. The new comer stood before the fire as if to dry himself, and seemed to be of the same taciturn disposition as Tom, for he made no answer to the different questions that were addressed to him, nor did he even condescend to look at the speakers. The shower having ceased, the moon shining brightly through the window, the stranger walked out again, without the sign of leave-taking.
"That be a queer chap," said the ostler, "I'll run and see where he's going," and he followed the stranger, who had awakened a curiosity in every one except Tom. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, when the ostler rushed into the room, pale as death.
"Udds buddikins!" said he, and it was not before a glass of spirits had been poured down his throat, that he could state the cause of his alarm. "Old chap just gone out got no proper face like—only a death's head—he just looked around on me in the moonlight."
"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Tom, "that he is nothing but a skeleton?"
"Aye, sure I do," said the ostler.
"And which way did he go?"