An Unknown Scholar

—Before me lies a paper yellow with age. It has a border of two black lines, evidently ruled by hand. Within this border is an important document, written in a precise, clerkly hand, the capital letters being adorned with many flourishes. It reads thus : —

CHATHAM (N. Y.), May 4, 1822.

Noadiah Hill can spell as well as any lad of his age in the County of Columbia. Attested, JOSEPHUS JOHNSON,

Preceptor.

Sixty-nine years have passed since Master Johnson gave this “reward of merit” to a little lad of seven, whose dark eyes shone as he carried it exultiugly home to his mother ; for Noadiah Moore Hill was born February 7, 1815.

Master Johnson’s school was miles from the little boy’s home ; but it was a famous one in those days, and even then this child with the quaint, old-fashioned name felt stirring within him the scholastic instinct. He would be a scholar ; and as there was no better teacher than this same Josephus Johnson in all the region round about, to him he trudged daily, never minding the long country roads, the summer’s heat or the winter’s cold, if only what was best was to be found at the end of the journey.

It is pleasant to think how short the way was that afternoon in May, and how swiftly the small feet flew over it. Was the sky ever so blue before ? Was the grass ever so green ? How the robins sang in the tree tops ! Let us hope the apple blossoms came early that year, delighting him with their pink and white beauty and their delicious fragrance even while he would not loiter.

But I question if he heeded them, with this precious scrap of paper in his small pocket. Doubtless the little sun-browned hands took it out more than once, and unfolded it with reverent care, to make sure that it did indeed say that he, Noadiah Hill, could spell as well as any lad of his age in Columbia County, which was his world ! It is pleasant, too, to believe he was sure of his mother’s sympathy in that supreme hour, and that he reveled in advance in the praises and caresses he was certain to receive.

For it was from his mother that the boy inherited his scholarly tastes and habits. She was what her neighbors called " a great reader ; ” and children from far and near swarmed about her, as bees about honey, charmed by the stories she was ever ready to tell them. A hunger for books, that must be gratified even at the sacrifice of what most of the sons and daughters of Adam regard as the more essential needs, seems to have been a characteristic of her family. So we may know beyond a peradventure that to her love and pride we owe the preservation of Master Johnson’s certificate, which after threescore and nine years attests the good spelling of her little son.

To go to college, and some time to become, perhaps, — oh, wondrous thought! — a professor of languages or mathematics, was the dream of the boy from his earliest childhood. How or why this desire was thwarted the chronicler saith not. We only know that his father and mother died, and that the elder brother, who was the head of the family, had no sympathy with his aspirations. Probably there was lack of money ; and it is quite possible that the unworldliness of the younger boy seemed but idle folly in the eyes of the elder, who was bearing the burden and the heat of the day. For we are told that the young Noadiah would creep away to a haymow, and there read and study all day long. Be that as it may, when the boy grew older a country “ store ” became a part of the family possessions, and he was placed in charge of it.

It is to be feared lie was not a born salesman. The fewer customers he had, the better he liked it ; for did not, customers sadly interfere with reading ? Like Agassiz, he could not afford to make money. A great table stood in the middle of the store, laden with books and papers. If a yard of calico or a gallon of molasses was called for, Noadiah would attend to the cry, and then fly back to his beloved study as if life itself were at stake. At this time he took a few lessons in French, and also fell in with a German, who grew to he his fast friend. The two subscribed for a German newspaper, and Noadiab’s study of languages began.

When he was about thirty, he, in partnership with one of his brothers, bought a farm in Sodus, Wayne County, N. Y., which was then considered as in the wild West. There he lived twenty-four years. In 1869, having sold the farm, he returned to North Chatham, the place of his birth, and built a house, which proved to be a white elephant, if not a bête noire. The builder was limited to a certain moderate cost, but, after the manner of builders, he contrived to make the sum total amount to more than double the estimate. The white elephant swallowed his master’s small fortune, crippling him financially for the rest of his days. After this Noadiah did little actual business beyond teaching a few terms in the village school. But he was conversant with legal forms, and was often called upon to draw wills and add codicils, and to help, his country neighbors in divers matters of a kindred nature.

When he was fifty-eight years old he married. His wife survives him. They had no children, He died July 29, 1889.

A short and simple story, hardly worth the telling if this were all. But it is not all. This shy, reticent man, who was often misunderstood and sometimes undervalued, who had no friendships with scholars, so called, and whose whole life lacked the stimulus of literary associations, had made himself master of fifty languages and dialects. Entirely self-taught, he was familiar with the best literature of all times and all races. Blessed with a wonderful memory, he wrote, “ I never have had to look twice at the meaning of a word.”

After his death, in one of the volumes of his small but valuable library was found this memorandum :—

“ I have read the Old and New Testament in Hebrew and Arabic, the Pentateuch in Chaldee, the Psalms in Syriac, and a large part of the Old Testament in Persian. I have read the New Testament in ancient and modern Greek, in Dutch, in Spanish, in Tartar, in Hindustani and Armenian, the Gospels and Acts in Turkish, and portions of the New Testament in Anglo-Saxon. I have read Sehalch’s Arabic Selections, Borhan Ed Dini Enchiridion Studiosi, Abi Falebi’s Proverbs, Aribicd, Kirschii Chrestomathiam Arabicum, Manred Allatafet in Arabic, De Braine’s Cours de Langue Arabe, Lokman’s Fables in Arabic. I have read in Greek all of Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, Aristophanes, Anacreon, Sophocles, Euripides, Æschylus, Thucydides, Herodotus, most of Plato, portions of Lucian and Plutarch, Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Ethics, Euripides’ Tragedies, Xenophon’s Anabasis and Memorabilia, Arrian’s Romaica.”

He was no mere linguist. He was well versed in political history, and was familiar with the rise and fall of nations. A difficult problem in mathematics delighted him, and he was a botanist of no mean order. “ He was well informed in all directions,”says one who knew him well. “If you wanted information on any subject, he would tell you where to find it, or point you to chapiter and verse.”

I did not know this old man, this rare, unworldly nature that gathered to itself as if by instinct whatsoever was best worth having and knowing. I heard of him only by the merest chance a few weeks ago. But his photograph lies before me as I write, showing a refined, scholarly face, with dark, decpi-set eyes looking out steadily, searehingly, from underneath heavy, overhanging brows. It is a strong yet kindly countenance, one to be trusted. The mouth is firm, the thin lips are compressed. One who saw him in “his habit as he lived” says he dressed neatly, even precisely, in black, and, whatever might be the fashion of the day, always wore a broad-brimmed soft felt hat, that contrasted strikingly with his hair and beard, which were snow-white.

Mr. Hill seems to have been singularly reticent all his life ; shut in, as it were, not only by circumstances, but by the strong tendency of his own nature. Tender and affectionate in his own immediate circle, he yet shrank from intercourse with strangers or with mere acquaintances. He talked but little. If he went, as he sometimes did, to the nearest city, it was not to see its men and women, but to frequent its libraries and bookstores, while he kepit himself in the shadow, and no one dreamed the quiet, unpretentious man was a scholar. Hospitable and courteous to those who sought him in his own home, he never went out in search of others, or appioared to be conscious that he was himself worth seeking. Yet with all this lack of self-couseiouness, or perhapis bemuse of it, he wore a certain quiet dignity as a garment, and all unruly spirits stood in awe of him.

“ Plain living and high thinking ” must have been the law of his life. Of his religious beliefs, if he had any, — and what man has not? — he was as reticent as of all else. But what a delightful old monk he would have made if he had lived five centuries ago ! He loved study for its own sake, not for what he could make out of it. Surely such a life as his carries its own lesson to this self-seeking, money-worshiping age, and puts to shame the puny souls who would, but dare not, undertake.