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.