In his capacity of schoolmaster he had sharpened his wits against those of the lively city boys he had in charge, and made such a reputation as “Master” Gridley, that he kept that title even after he had become a college tutor and professor.  As a tutor he had to deal with many of these same boys, and others like them, in the still more vivacious period of their early college life.  He got rid of his police duties when he became a professor, but he still studied the pupils as carefully as he used once to watch them, and learned to read character with a skill which might have fitted him for governing men instead of adolescents.  But he loved quiet and he dreaded mingling with the brawlers of the market-place, whose stock in trade is a voice and a vocabulary.  So it was that he had passed his life in the patient mechanical labor of instruction, leaving too many of his instincts and faculties in abeyance.

The alluvium of all this experience bore a nearer resemblance to worldly wisdom than might have been conjectured; much nearer, indeed, than it does in many old instructors, whose eyes get fish-like as their blood grows cold, and who are not fit to be trusted with anything more practical than a gerund or a cosine.  Master Gridley not only knew a good deal of human nature, but he knew how to keep his knowledge to himself upon occasion.  He understood singularly well the ways and tendencies of young people.  He was shrewd in the detection of trickery, and very confident in those who had once passed the ordeal of his well-schooled observing powers.  He had no particular tendency to meddle with the personal relations of those about him; but if they were forced upon him in any way, he was like to see into them at least as quickly as any of his neighbors who thought themselves most endowed with practical skill.

In leaving the duties of his office he considered himself, as he said a little despondently, like an old horse unharnessed and turned out to pasture.  He felt that he had separated himself from human interests, and was henceforth to live in his books with the dead, until he should be numbered with them himself.  He had chosen this quiet village as a place where he might pass his days undisturbed, and find a peaceful resting-place in its churchyard, where the gravel was dry, and the sun lay warm, and the glowing woods of autumn would spread their many-colored counterpane over the bed where he would be taking his rest.  It sometimes came over him painfully that he was never more to be of any importance to his fellow-creatures.  There was nobody living to whom he was connected by any very near ties.  He felt kindly enough to the good woman in whose house he lived; he sometimes gave a few words of counsel to her son; he was not unamiable with the few people he met; he bowed with great consideration to the Rev. Dr. Pemberton; and he studied with no small interest the physiognomy of the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker, to whose sermons he listened, with a black scowl now and then, and a nostril dilating with ominous intensity of meaning.  But he said sadly to himself, that his life had been a failure,—­that he had nothing to show for it, and his one talent was ready in its napkin to give back to his Lord.