A few weeks later, the holidays, like all other good things, came to an end, and the six returned to school.

On the opening day a certain great man—great in his own estimation, at least—was to deliver a speech to the school children. This notable gentleman bristled with facts and figures; but, alas! he had acquired so much erudition that he had lost all sense of the fitness of things. Having learned all that is possible for one mortal to know, and yet live, he now made it his pursuit to journey through the country, delivering lectures at the different colleges, and sometimes, as in this instance, at the public schools. There was nothing wicked about this most peculiar man; but, with all his learning, he lacked one thing—practical wisdom.

He was of “slender bulk,”—that is, short and gaunt—saffron-faced, and had a pugilistic and threatening manner of poising himself while speaking, his hands, meantime, describing geometrical curves that were picturesque in the extreme. His eyes were sharp and prominent; his nose followed suit: and his cane, which was stout and elaborately ornamented, was worth, to descend to a hackneyed comparison, an emperor’s ransom.

He employed the same technical terms that he did when addressing the most polished audiences; and, for that[107] reason, the younger children looked upon him as a sort of hero, while to George and Marmaduke he was a full-fledged demi-god. The former (George) listened attentively to the lecture, and took mental note of the big words, with a view to explain their import to his less learned schoolfellows, should an opportunity offer for doing so without too much ostentation. But, alas! poor youth, many words which were strange to him rolled glibly from the professors tongue.

Here we pause—not to make a “digression,” but a vulgar harangue.

The writer has the temerity to hazard the assertion that there might be, in some lone corner of the world, an English-speaking romancer, as familiar with a foreign language as with his own, who could write a tale about people speaking that language, and yet have his tale so purely and thoroughly English that the most neuralgic critic could not cavil or repine. But this is only a rash surmise, and is probably fanciful.

Or is it only those who have acquired a smattering of another language that are so eager to lug in words and phrases peculiar to that language?

When will the mediocre writer of English come to understand that his meanest, as well as his sublimest ideas, may be manifested with as much force in English as in any other language? Alas, never! Instead of saying “such a man is a sharper,” he says, “such a man is a chevalier d’industrie.” What could be more expressive than “he is a devil of a fellow?” And yet our learned penmen prefer to say, “he is uomo stupendo!” It is a notorious fact, that whatever language a writer is most conversant in, he draws upon oftenest. Happily, the reading public are not much bored with scraps from the Esquimau.

But, protests the reader, there are certain terms, and entire phrases, that are not yet Anglicized, but that are in everybody’s mouth.

Very true; against the proper use of such terms and phrases, in moderation, no objections can be raised.

Having thus prated nonsense enough to incur the[108] deadly hatred of every sentimental scribbler to the weeklies of rural towns, this interesting argument may be dropped, particularly as it only heads up to the following observation:—

Our circumforaneous holderforth was one of those who cannot make a speech without “borrowing from the classics;” but (for the best of reasons, gentle reader) we kindly suppress his redundancies in that respect.

After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones began to speak of—hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly, he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of hydrophobia.

“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered immortality by their researches in that field.

“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make apparent the—But,” breaking off abruptly,[109] “it is well that there should be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”

Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can you define hydrophobia for me?”

The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing. The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging—then, beseeching—then, mortified—then, irritated—then, wicked. Still the “little ones” maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being unintelligible to them.

He repeated his question; and George—who, although he did not wish to be ranked with the “little ones,” yet feared that the learned man might consider him equally ignorant if he did not speak—rose prepared to give a precise and lengthy definition.

This strikes the key-note to the Sages character.

But a mischievous little gum-chewer, who doubtless could have answered with tolerable correctness, if he had chosen to do so, forestalled him by shouting, at the top of his voice: “Burnt............