"Heaven
grant the manlier heart,
that timely
ere
Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping;
The fruit of dreamy hoping
Is, waking, blank despair."
—CLOUGH, Ambarvalia.
The curtain now rises upon
the last act of our little
drama, for hard-hearted publishers
warn me that a single volume
must of necessity have an end.
Well, well! the pleasantest
things must come to an end.
I little thought last long
vacation, when I began these
pages to help while away some
spare time at a watering-place,
how vividly many an old scene
which had lain hid away for
years in some dusty old corner
of my brain, would come back
again, and stand before me
as clear and bright as if it
had happened yesterday. The
book has been a most grateful
task to me, and I only hope
that all you, my dear young
friends, who read it (friends
assuredly you must be, if you
get as far as this), will be
half as sorry to come to the
last stage as I am.
Not but what there has been
a solemn and a sad side to
it. As the old scenes became
living, and the actors in them
became living too, many a grave
in the Crimea and distant India,
as well as in the quiet churchyards
of our dear old country, seemed
to open and send forth their
dead, and their voices and
looks and ways were again in
one's ears and eyes, as in
the old School-days. But this
was not sad. How should it
be, if we believe as our Lord
has taught us? How should it
be, when one more turn of the
wheel, and we shall be by their
sides again, learning from
them again, perhaps, as we
did when we were new boys.
Then there were others of
the old faces so dear to us
once who had somehow or another
just gone clean out of sight.
Are they dead or living? We
know not, but the thought of
them brings no sadness with
it. Wherever they are, we can
well believe they are doing
God's work and getting His
wages.
But are there not some, whom
we still see sometimes in the
streets, whose haunts and homes
we know, whom we could probably
find almost any day in the
week if we were set to do it,
yet from whom we are really
farther than we are from the
dead, and from those who have
gone out of our ken? Yes, there
are and must be such; and therein
lies the sadness of old School
memories. Yet of these our
old comrades, from whom more
than time and space separate
us, there are some by whose
sides we can feel sure that
we shall stand again when time
shall be no more. We may think
of one another now as dangerous
fanatics or narrow bigots,
with whom no truce is possible,
from whom we shall only sever
more and more to the end of
our lives, whom it would be
our respective duties to imprison
or hang, if we had the power.
We must go our way, and they
theirs, as long as flesh and
spirit hold together; but let
our own Rugby poet speak words
of healing for this trial:-
"To
veer how vain! on, onward
strain,
Brave barks, in light, in darkness too;
Through winds and tides one compass guides,-
To that, and your own selves, be true.
"But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas,
Though ne'er that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again;
Together lead them home at last.
"One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare.
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!"
—Clough, Ambarvalia.
This is not mere longing;
it is prophecy. So over these
too, our old friends, who are
friends no more, we sorrow
not as men without hope. It
is only for those who seem
to us to have lost compass
and purpose, and to be driven
helplessly on rocks and quicksands,
whose lives are spent in the
service of the world, the flesh,
and the devil, for self alone,
and not for their fellow-men,
their country, or their God,
that we must mourn and pray
without sure hope and without
light, trusting only that He,
in whose hands they as well
as we are, who has died for
them as well as for us, who
sees all His creatures
"With
larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all,"
will, in His own way and at
His own time, lead them also
home.
Another two years have passed,
and it is again the end of
the summer half-year at Rugby;
in fact, the School has broken
up. The fifth-form examinations
were over last week, and upon
them have followed the speeches,
and the sixth-form examinations
for exhibitions; and they too
are over now. The boys have
gone to all the winds of heaven,
except the town boys and the
eleven, and the few enthusiasts
besides who have asked leave
to stay in their houses to
see the result of the cricket
matches. For this year the
Wellesburn return match and
the Marylebone match are played
at Rugby, to the great delight
of the town and neighbourhood,
and the sorrow of those aspiring
young cricketers who have been
reckoning for the last three
months on showing off at Lord's
ground.
The Doctor started for the
Lakes yesterday morning, after
an interview with the captain
of the eleven, in the presence
of Thomas, at which he arranged
in what school the cricket
dinners were to be, and all
other matters necessary for
the satisfactory carrying out
of the festivities, and warned
them as to keeping all spirituous
liquors out of the close, and
having the gates closed by
nine o'clock.
The Wellesburn
match was played out with
great success yesterday,
the School winning by three
wickets; and to-day the great
event of the cricketing year,
the Marylebone match, is being
played. What a match it has
been! The London eleven came
down by an afternoon train
yesterday, in time to see the
end of the Wellesburn match;
and as soon as it was over,
their leading men and umpire
inspected the ground, criticising
it rather unmercifully. The
captain of the School eleven,
and one or two others, who
had played the Lord's match
before, and knew old Mr. Aislabie
and several of the Lord's men,
accompanied them; while the
rest of the eleven looked on
from under the Three Trees
with admiring eyes, and asked
one another the names of the
illustrious strangers, and
recounted how many runs each
of them had made in the late
matches in Bell's Life. They
looked such hard-bitten, wiry,
whiskered fellows that their
young adversaries felt rather
desponding as to the result
of the morrow's match. The
ground was at last chosen,
and two men set to work upon
it to water and roll; and then,
there being yet some half-hour
of daylight, some one had suggested
a dance on the turf. The close
was half full of citizens and
their families, and the idea
was hailed with enthusiasm.
The cornopean player was still
on the ground. In five minutes
the eleven and half a dozen
of the Wellesburn and Marylebone
men got partners somehow or
another, and a merry country-dance
was going on, to which every
one flocked, and new couples
joined in every minute, till
there were a hundred of them
going down the middle and up
again; and the long line of
school buildings looked gravely
down on them, every window
glowing with the last rays
of the western sun; and the
rooks clanged about in the
tops of the old elms, greatly
excited, and resolved on having
their country- dance too; and
the great flag flapped lazily
in the gentle western breeze.
Altogether it was a sight which
would have made glad the heart
of our brave old founder, Lawrence
Sheriff, if he were half as
good a fellow as I take him
to have been. It was a cheerful
sight to see. But what made
it so valuable in the sight
of the captain of the School
eleven was that he there saw
his young hands shaking off
their shyness and awe of the
Lord's men, as they crossed
hands and capered about on
the grass together; for the
strangers entered into it all,
and threw away their cigars,
and danced and shouted like
boys; while old Mr. Aislabie
stood by looking on in his
white hat, leaning on a bat,
in benevolent enjoyment. "This
hop will be worth thirty runs
to us to-morrow, and will be
the making of Raggles and Johnson," thinks
the young leader, as he revolves
many things in his mind, standing
by the side of Mr. Aislabie,
whom he will not leave for
a minute, for he feels that
the character of the School
for courtesy is resting on
his shoulders.
But when a quarter to nine
struck, and he saw old Thomas
beginning to fidget about with
the keys in his hand, he thought
of the Doctor's parting monition,
and stopped the cornopean at
once, notwithstanding the loud-voiced
remonstrances from all sides;
and the crowd scattered away
from the close, the eleven
all going into the School-house,
where supper and beds were
provided for them by the Doctor's
orders.
Deep had been the consultations
at supper as to the order of
going in, who should bowl the
first over, whether it would
be best to play steady or freely;
and the youngest hands declared
that they shouldn't be a bit
nervous, and praised their
opponents as the jolliest fellows
in the world, except perhaps
their old friends the Wellesburn
men. How far a little good-
nature from their elders will
go with the right sort of boys!
The morning had dawned bright
and warm, to the intense relief
of many an anxious youngster,
up betimes to mark the signs
of the weather. The eleven
went down in a body before
breakfast, for a plunge in
the cold bath in a corner of
the close. The ground was in
splendid order, and soon after
ten o'clock, before spectators
had arrived, all was ready,
and two of the Lord's men took
their places at the wickets
- the School, with the usual
liberality of young hands,
having put their adversaries
in first. Old Bailey stepped
up to the wicket, and called
play, and the match has begun.
"Oh, well bowled! well
bowled, Johnson!" cries
the captain, catching up the
ball and sending it high above
the rook trees, while the third
Marylebone man walks away from
the wicket, and old Bailey
gravely sets up the middle
stump again and puts the bails
on.
"How many runs?" Away
scamper three boys to the scoring
table, and are back again in
a minute amongst the rest of
the eleven, who are collected
together in a knot between
wicket. "Only eighteen
runs, and three wickets down!" "Huzza
for old Rugby!" sings
out Jack Raggles, the long-stop,
toughest and burliest of boys,
commonly called "Swiper
Jack," and forthwith stands
on his head, and brandishes
his legs in the air in triumph,
till the next boy catches hold
of his heels, and throws him
over on to his back.
"Steady there; don't
be such an ass, Jack," says
the captain; "we haven't
got the best wicket yet. Ah,
look out now at cover- point," adds
he, as he sees a long-armed
bare-headed, slashing- looking
player coming to the wicket. "And,
Jack, mind your hits. He steals
more runs than any man in England."
And they all
find that they have got their
work to do now.
The newcomer's off-hitting
is tremendous, and his running
like a flash of lightning.
He is never in his ground except
when his wicket is down. Nothing
in the whole game so trying
to boys. He has stolen three
byes in the first ten minutes,
and Jack Raggles is furious,
and begins throwing over savagely
to the farther wicket, until
he is sternly stopped by the
captain. It is all that young
gentlemen can do to keep his
team steady, but he knows that
everything depends on it, and
faces his work bravely. The
score creeps up to fifty; the
boys begin to look blank; and
the spectators, who are now
mustering strong, are very
silent. The ball flies off
his bat to all parts of the
field, and he gives no rest
and no catches to any one.
But cricket is full of glorious
chances, and the goddess who
presides over it loves to bring
down the most skilful players.
Johnson, the young bowler,
is getting wild, and bowls
a ball almost wide to the off;
the batter steps out and cuts
it beautifully to where cover-point
is standing very deep - in
fact almost off the ground.
The ball comes skimming and
twisting along about three
feet from the ground; he rushes
at it, and it sticks somehow
or other in the fingers of
his left hand, to the utter
astonishment of himself and
the whole field. Such a catch
hasn't been made in the close
for years, and the cheering
is maddening. "Pretty
cricket," says the captain,
throwing himself on the ground
by the deserted wicket with
a long breath. He feels that
a crisis has passed.
I wish I had space to describe
the match - how the captain
stumped the next man off a
leg-shooter, and bowled small
cobs to old Mr. Aislabie, who
came in for the last wicket;
how the Lord's men were out
by half-past twelve o'clock
for ninety-eight runs; how
the captain of the School eleven
went in first to give his men
pluck, and scored twenty-five
in beautiful style; how Rugby
was only four behind in the
first innings; what a glorious
dinner they had in the fourth-form
school; and how the cover-
point hitter sang the most
topping comic songs, and old
Mr. Aislabie made the best
speeches that ever were heard,
afterwards. But I haven't space
- that's the fact; and so you
must fancy it all, and carry
yourselves on to half-past
seven o'clock, when the School
are again in, with five wickets
down, and only thirty-two runs
to make to win. The Marylebone
men played carelessly in their
second innings, but they are
working like horses now to
save the match.
There is much healthy, hearty,
happy life scattered up and
down the close; but the group
to which I beg to call your
especial attention is there,
on the slope of the island,
which looks towards the cricket-ground.
It consists of three figures;
two are seated on a bench,
and one on the ground at their
feet. The first, a tall, slight
and rather gaunt man, with
a bushy eyebrow and a dry,
humorous smile, is evidently
a clergyman. He is carelessly
dressed, and looks rather used
up, which isn't much to be
wondered at, seeing that he
has just finished six weeks
of examination work; but there
he basks, and spreads himself
out in the evening sun, bent
on enjoying life, though he
doesn't quite know what to
do with his arms and legs.
Surely it is our friend the
young master, whom we have
had glimpses of before, but
his face has gained a great
deal since we last came across
him.
And by his side, in white
flannel shirt and trousers,
straw hat, the captain's belt,
and the untanned yellow cricket
shoes which all the eleven
wear, sits a strapping figure,
near six feet high, with ruddy,
tanned face and whiskers, curly
brown hair, and a laughing,
dancing eye. He is leaning
forward with his elbows resting
on his knees, and dandling
his favourite bat, with which
he has made thirty or forty
runs to-day, in his strong
brown hands. It is Tom Brown,
grown into a young man nineteen
years old, a prepostor and
captain of the eleven, spending
his last day as a Rugby boy,
and, let us hope, as much wiser
as he is bigger, since we last
had the pleasure of coming
across him.
And at their feet on the warm,
dry ground, similarly dressed,
sits Arthur, Turkish fashion,
with his bat across his knees.
He too is no longer a boy -
less of a boy, in fact, than
Tom, if one may judge from
the thoughtfulness of his face,
which is somewhat paler, too,
than one could wish; but his
figure, though slight, is well
knit and active, and all his
old timidity has disappeared,
and is replaced by silent,
quaint fun, with which his
face twinkles all over, as
he listens to the broken talk
between the other two, in which
he joins every now and then.
All three
are watching the game eagerly,
and joining in
the cheering which follows
every good hit. It is pleasing
to see the easy, friendly footing
which the pupils are on with
their master, perfectly respectful,
yet with no reserve and nothing
forced in their intercourse.
Tom has clearly abandoned the
old theory of "natural
enemies" in this case
at any rate.
But it is time to listen to
what they are saying, and see
what we can gather out of it.
"I don't object to your
theory," says the master, "and
I allow you have made a fair
case for yourself. But now,
in such books as Aristophanes,
for instance, you've been reading
a play this half with the Doctor,
haven't you?"
"Yes, the Knights," answered
Tom.
"Well,
I'm sure you would have enjoyed
the wonderful
humour of it twice as much
if you had taken more pains
with your scholarship."
"Well, sir, I don't believe
any boy in the form enjoyed
the sets-to between Cleon and
the Sausage-seller more than
I did - eh, Arthur?" said
Tom, giving him a stir with
his foot.
"Yes, I must say he did," said
Arthur. "I think, sir,
you've hit upon the wrong book
there."
"Not a bit of it," said
the master. "Why, in those
very passages of arms, how
can you thoroughly appreciate
them unless you are master
of the weapons? and the weapons
are the language, which you,
Brown, have never half worked
at; and so, as I say, you must
have lost all the delicate
shades of meaning which make
the best part of the fun."
"Oh, well played! bravo,
Johnson!" shouted Arthur,
dropping his bat and clapping
furiously, and Tom joined in
with a "Bravo, Johnson!" which
might have been heard at the
chapel.
"Eh! what was it? I didn't
see," inquired the master. "They
only got one run, I thought?"
"No,
but such a ball, three-quarters
length, and
coming straight for his leg
bail. Nothing but that turn
of the wrist could have saved
him, and he drew it away to
leg for a safe one. - Bravo,
Johnson!"
"How well they are bowling,
though," said Arthur; "they
don't mean to be beat, I can
see."
"There now," struck
in the master; "you see
that's just what I have been
preaching this half-hour. The
delicate play is the true thing.
I don't understand cricket,
so I don't enjoy those fine
draws which you tell me are
the best play, though when
you or Raggles hit a ball hard
away for six I am as delighted
as any one. Don't you see the
analogy?"
"Yes, sir," answered
Tom, looking up roguishly, "I
see; only the question remains
whether I should have got most
good by understanding Greek
particles or cricket thoroughly.
I'm such a thick, I never should
have had time for both."
"I see you are an incorrigible," said
the master, with a chuckle; "but
I refute you by an example.
Arthur there has taken in Greek
and cricket too."
"Yes,
but no thanks to him; Greek
came natural to
him. Why, when he first came
I remember he used to read
Herodotus for pleasure as I
did Don Quixote, and couldn't
have made a false concord if
he'd tried ever so hard; and
then I looked after his cricket."
"Out! Bailey has given
him out. Do you see, Tom?" cries
Arthur. "How foolish of
them to run so hard."
"Well,
it can't be helped; he has
played very well. Whose
turn is it to go in?"
"I don't
know; they've got your list
in the tent."
"Let's go and see," said
Tom, rising; but at this moment
Jack Raggles and two or three
more came running to the island
moat.
"O Brown, mayn't I go
in next?" shouts the Swiper.
"Whose name is next on
the list?" says the captain.
"Winter's, and then Arthur's," answers
the boy who carries it; "but
there are only twenty-six runs
to get, and no time to lose.
I heard Mr. Aislabie say that
the stumps must be drawn at
a quarter past eight exactly."
"Oh, do let the Swiper
go in," chorus the boys;
so Tom yields against his better
judgment.
"I dare say now I've
lost the match by this nonsense," he
says, as he sits down again; "they'll
be sure to get Jack's wicket
in three or four minutes; however,
you'll have the chance, sir,
of seeing a hard hit or two," adds
he, smiling, and turning to
the master.
"Come, none of your irony,
Brown," answers the master. "I'm
beginning to understand the
game scientifically. What a
noble game it is, too!"
"Isn't it? But it's more
than a game. It's an institution," said
Tom.
"Yes," said Arthur
- "the birthright of British
boys old and young, as habeas
corpus and trial by jury are
of British men."
"The discipline and reliance
on one another which it teaches
is so valuable, I think," went
on the master, "it ought
to be such an unselfish game.
It merges the individual in
the eleven; he doesn't play
that he may win, but that his
side may."
"That's very true," said
Tom, "and that's why football
and cricket, now one comes
to think of it, are such much
better games than fives or
hare-and-hounds, or any others
where the object is to come
in first or to win for oneself,
and not that one's side may
win."
"And then the captain
of the eleven!" said the
master; "what a post is
his in our School-world! almost
as hard as the Doctor's —requiring
skill and gentleness and firmness,
and I know not what other rare
qualities."
"Which don't he may wish
he may get!" said Tom,
laughing; "at any rate
he hasn't got them yet, or
he wouldn't have been such
a flat to-night as to let Jack
Raggles go in out of his turn."
"Ah, the Doctor never
would have done that," said
Arthur demurely. "Tom,
you've a great deal to learn
yet in the art of ruling."
"Well,
I wish you'd tell the Doctor
so then, and get
him to let me stop till I'm
twenty. I don't want to leave,
I'm sure."
"What a sight it is," broke
in the master, "the Doctor
as a ruler! Perhaps ours is
the only little corner of the
British Empire which is thoroughly,
wisely, and strongly ruled
just now. I'm more and more
thankful every day of my life
that I came here to be under
him."
"So am I, I'm sure," said
Tom, "and more and more
sorry that I've got to leave."
"Every place and thing
one sees here reminds one of
some wise act of his," went
on the master. "This island
now - you remember the time,
Brown, when it was laid out
in small gardens, and cultivated
by frost-bitten fags in February
and March?"
"Of course I do," said
Tom; "didn't I hate spending
two hours in the afternoon
grubbing in the tough dirt
with the stump of a fives bat?
But turf-cart was good fun
enough."
"I dare
say it was, but it was always
leading to fights
with the townspeople; and then
the stealing flowers out of
all the gardens in Rugby for
the Easter show was abominable."
"Well, so it was," said
Tom, looking down, "but
we fags couldn't help ourselves.
But what has that to do with
the Doctor's ruling?"
"A great deal, I think," said
the master; "what brought
island- fagging to an end?"
"Why, the Easter speeches
were put off till midsummer," said
Tom, "and the sixth had
the gymnastic poles put up
here."
"Well, and who changed
the time of the speeches, and
put the idea of gymnastic poles
into the heads of their worships
the sixth form?" said
the master.
"The Doctor, I suppose," said
Tom. "I never thought
of that."
"Of course you didn't," said
the master, "or else,
fag as you were, you would
have shouted with the whole
school against putting down
old customs. And that's the
way that all the Doctor's reforms
have been carried out when
he has been left to himself
- quietly and naturally, putting
a good thing in the place of
a bad, and letting the bad
die out; no wavering, and no
hurry - the best thing that
could be done for the time
being, and patience for the
rest."
"Just Tom's own way," chimed
in Arthur, nudging Tom with
his elbow - "driving a
nail where it will go;" to
which allusion Tom answered
by a sly kick.
"Exactly so," said
the master, innocent of the
allusion and by- play.
Meantime Jack Raggles, with
his sleeves tucked up above
his great brown elbows, scorning
pads and gloves, has presented
himself at the wicket; and
having run one for a forward
drive of Johnson's, is about
to receive his first ball.
There are only twenty-four
runs to make, and four wickets
to go down - a winning match
if they play decently steady.
The ball is a very swift one,
and rises fast, catching Jack
on the outside of the thigh,
and bounding away as if from
india-rubber, while they run
two for a leg-bye amidst great
applause and shouts from Jack's
many admirers. The next ball
is a beautifully-pitched ball
for the outer stump, which
the reckless and unfeeling
Jack catches hold of, and hits
right round to leg for five,
while the applause becomes
deafening. Only seventeen runs
to get with four wickets! The
game is all but ours!
It is over
now, and Jack walks swaggering
about his wicket,
with his bat over his shoulder,
while Mr. Aislabie holds a
short parley with his men.
Then the cover-point hitter,
that cunning man, goes on to
bowl slow twisters. Jack waves
his hand triumphantly towards
the tent, as much as to say, "See
if I don't finish it all off
now in three hits."
Alas, my son
Jack, the enemy is too old
for thee. The first
ball of the over Jack steps
out and meets, swiping with
all his force. If he had only
allowed for the twist! But
he hasn't, and so the ball
goes spinning up straight in
the air, as if it would never
come down again. Away runs
Jack, shouting and trusting
to the chapter of accidents;
but the bowler runs steadily
under it, judging every spin,
and calling out, "I have
it," catches it, and playfully
pitches it on to the back of
the stalwart Jack, who is departing
with a rueful countenance.
"I knew how it would
be," says Tom, rising. "Come
along; the game's getting very
serious."
So they leave
the island and go to the
tent; and after deep
consultation, Arthur is sent
in, and goes off to the wicket
with a last exhortation from
Tom to play steady and keep
his bat straight. To the suggestions
that Winter is the best bat
left, Tom only replies, "Arthur
is the steadiest, and Johnson
will make the runs if the wicket
is only kept up."
"I am surprised to see
Arthur in the eleven," said
the master, as they stood together
in front of the dense crowd,
which was now closing in round
the ground.
"Well, I'm not quite
sure that he ought to be in
for his play," said Tom, "but
I couldn't help putting him
in. It will do him so much
good, and you can't think what
I owe him."
The master
smiled. The clock strikes
eight, and the whole
field becomes fevered with
excitement. Arthur, after two
narrow escapes, scores one,
and Johnson gets the ball.
The bowling and fielding are
superb, and Johnson's batting
worthy the occasion. He makes
here a two, and there a one,
managing to keep the ball to
himself, and Arthur backs up
and runs perfectly. Only eleven
runs to make now, and the crowd
scarcely breathe. At last Arthur
gets the ball again, and actually
drives it forward for two,
and feels prouder than when
he got the three best prizes,
at hearing Tom's shout of joy, "Well
played, well played, young
un!"
But the next ball is too much
for the young hand, and his
bails fly different ways. Nine
runs to make, and two wickets
to go down: it is too much
for human nerves.
Before Winter can get in,
the omnibus which is to take
the Lord's men to the train
pulls up at the side of the
close, and Mr. Aislabie and
Tom consult, and give out that
the stumps will be drawn after
the next over. And so ends
the great match. Winter and
Johnson carry out their bats,
and, it being a one day's match,
the Lord's men are declared
the winners, they having scored
the most in the first innings.
But such a
defeat is a victory: so think
Tom and all the School
eleven, as they accompany their
conquerors to the omnibus,
and send them off with three
ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie
has shaken hands all round,
saying to Tom, "I must
compliment you, sir, on your
eleven, and I hope we shall
have you for a member if you
come up to town."
As Tom and
the rest of the eleven were
turning back into
the close, and everybody was
beginning to cry out for another
country-dance, encouraged by
the success of the night before,
the young master, who was just
leaving the close, stopped
him, and asked him to come
up to tea at half-past eight,
adding, "I won't keep
you more than half an hour,
and ask Arthur to come up too."
"I'll come up with you
directly, if you'll let me," said
Tom, "for I feel rather
melancholy, and not quite up
to the country- dance and supper
with the rest."
"Do, by all means," said
the master; "I'll wait
here for you."
So Tom went off to get his
boots and things from the tent,
to tell Arthur of the invitation,
and to speak to his second
in command about stopping the
dancing and shutting up the
close as soon as it grew dusk.
Arthur promised to follow as
soon as he had had a dance.
So Tom handed his things over
to the man in charge of the
tent, and walked quietly away
to the gate where the master
was waiting, and the two took
their way together up the Hillmorton
road.
Of course
they found the master's house
locked up, and all the
servants away in the close
- about this time, no doubt,
footing it away on the grass,
with extreme delight to themselves,
and in utter oblivion of the
unfortunate bachelor their
master, whose one enjoyment
in the shape of meals was his "dish
of tea" (as our grandmothers
called it) in the evening;
and the phrase was apt in his
case, for he always poured
his out into the saucer before
drinking. Great was the good
man's horror at finding himself
shut out of his own house.
Had he been alone he would
have treated it as a matter
of course, and would have strolled
contentedly up and down his
gravel walk until some one
came home; but he was hurt
at the stain on his character
of host, especially as the
guest was a pupil. However,
the guest seemed to think it
a great joke, and presently,
as they poked about round the
house, mounted a wall, from
which he could reach a passage
window. The window, as it turned
out, was not bolted, so in
another minute Tom was in the
house and down at the front
door, which he opened from
inside. The master chuckled
grimly at this burglarious
entry, and insisted on leaving
the hall-door and two of the
front windows open, to frighten
the truants on their return;
and then the two set about
foraging for tea, in which
operation the master was much
at fault, having the faintest
possible idea of where to find
anything, and being, moreover,
wondrously short-sighted; but
Tom, by a sort of instinct,
knew the right cupboards in
the kitchen and pantry, and
soon managed to place on the
snuggery table better materials
for a meal than had appeared
there probably during the reign
of his tutor, who was then
and there initiated, amongst
other things, into the excellence
of that mysterious condiment,
a dripping-cake. The cake was
newly baked, and all rich and
flaky; Tom had found it reposing
in the cook's private cupboard,
awaiting her return; and as
a warning to her they finished
it to the last crumb. The kettle
sang away merrily on the hob
of the snuggery, for, notwithstanding
the time of year, they lighted
a fire, throwing both the windows
wide open at the same time;
the heaps of books and papers
were pushed away to the other
end of the table, and the great
solitary engraving of King's
College Chapel over the mantelpiece
looked less stiff than usual,
as they settled themselves
down in the twilight to the
serious drinking of tea.
After some talk on the match,
and other indifferent subjects,
the conversation came naturally
back to Tom's approaching departure,
over which he began again to
make his moan.
"Well, we shall all miss
you quite as much as you will
miss us," said the master. "You
are the Nestor of the School
now, are you not?"
"Yes, ever since East
left," answered Tom. "By-the-bye,
have you heard from him?"
"Yes,
I had a letter in February,
just before he
started for India to join his
regiment."
"He will
make a capital officer."
"Ay, won't he!" said
Tom, brightening. "No
fellow could handle boys better,
and I suppose soldiers are
very like boys. And he'll never
tell them to go where he won't
go himself. No mistake about
that. A braver fellow never
walked."
"His
year in the sixth will have
taught him a good
deal that will be useful to
him now."
"So it will,"' said
Tom, staring into the fire. "Poor
dear Harry," he went on
- "how well I remember
the day we were put out of
the twenty! How he rose to
the situation, and burnt his
cigar-cases, and gave away
his pistols, and pondered on
the constitutional authority
of the sixth, and his new duties
to the Doctor, and the fifth
form, and the fags! Ay, and
no fellow ever acted up to
them better, though he was
always a people's man - for
the fags, and against constituted
authorities. He couldn't help
that, you know. I'm sure the
Doctor must have liked him?" said
Tom, looking up inquiringly.
"The Doctor sees the
good in every one, and appreciates
it," said the master dogmatically; "but
I hope East will get a good
colonel. He won't do if he
can't respect those above him.
How long it took him, even
here, to learn the lesson of
obeying!"
"Well, I wish I were
alongside of him," said
Tom. "If I can't be at
Rugby, I want to be at work
in the world, and not dawdling
away three years at Oxford."
"What do you mean by
'at work in the world'?" said
the master, pausing with his
lips close to his saucerful
of tea, and peering at Tom
over it.
"Well, I mean real work
- one's profession - whatever
one will have really to do
and make one's living by. I
want to be doing some real
good, feeling that I am not
only at play in the world," answered
Tom, rather puzzled to find
out himself what he really
did mean.
"You are mixing up two
very different things in your
head, I think, Brown," said
the master, putting down the
empty saucer, "and you
ought to get clear about them.
You talk of 'working to get
your living,' and 'doing some
real good in the world,' in
the same breath. Now, you may
be getting a very good living
in a profession, and yet doing
no good at all in the world,
but quite the contrary, at
the same time. Keep the latter
before you as your one object,
and you will be right, whether
you make a living or not; but
if you dwell on the other,
you'll very likely drop into
mere money-making, and let
the world take care of itself
for good or evil. Don't be
in a hurry about finding your
work in the world for yourself
- you are not old enough to
judge for yourself yet; but
just look about you in the
place you find yourself in,
and try to make things a little
better and honester there.
You'll find plenty to keep
your hand in at Oxford, or
wherever else you go. And don't
be led away to think this part
of the world important and
that unimportant. Every corner
of the world is important.
No man knows whether this part
or that is most so, but every
man may do some honest work
in his own corner." And
then the good man went on to
talk wisely to Tom of the sort
of work which he might take
up as an undergraduate, and
warned him of the prevalent
university sins, and explained
to him the many and great differences
between university and school
life, till the twilight changed
into darkness, and they heard
the truant servants stealing
in by the back entrance.
"I wonder where Arthur
can be," said Tom at last,
looking at his watch; "why,
it's nearly half-past nine
already."
"Oh, he is comfortably
at supper with the eleven,
forgetful of his oldest friends," said
the master. "Nothing has
given me greater pleasure," he
went on, "than your friendship
for him; it has been the making
of you both."
"Of me, at any rate," answered
Tom; "I should never have
been here now but for him.
It was the luckiest chance
in the world that sent him
to Rugby and made him my chum."
"Why do you talk of lucky
chances?" said the master. "I
don't know that there are any
such things in the world; at
any rate, there was neither
luck nor chance in that matter."
Tom looked
at him inquiringly, and he
went on. "Do you
remember when the Doctor lectured
you and East at the end of
one half- year, when you were
in the shell, and had been
getting into all sorts of scrapes?"
"Yes, well enough," said
Tom; "it was the half-year
before Arthur came."
"Exactly so," answered
the master. "Now, I was
with him a few minutes afterwards,
and he was in great distress
about you two. And after some
talk, we both agreed that you
in particular wanted some object
in the School beyond games
and mischief; for it was quite
clear that you never would
make the regular school work
your first object. And so the
Doctor, at the beginning of
the next half-year, looked
out the best of the new boys,
and separated you and East,
and put the young boy into
your study, in the hope that
when you had somebody to lean
on you, you would begin to
stand a little steadier yourself,
and get manliness and thoughtfulness.
And I can assure you he has
watched the experiment ever
since with great satisfaction.
Ah! not one of you boys will
ever know the anxiety you have
given him, or the care with
which he has watched over every
step in your school lives."
Up to this time Tom had never
given wholly in to or understood
the Doctor. At first he had
thoroughly feared him. For
some years, as I have tried
to show, he had learnt to regard
him with love and respect,
and to think him a very great
and wise and good man. But
as regarded his own position
in the School, of which he
was no little proud, Tom had
no idea of giving any one credit
for it but himself, and, truth
to tell, was a very self- conceited
young gentleman on the subject.
He was wont to boast that he
had fought his own way fairly
up the School, and had never
made up to or been taken up
by any big fellow or master,
and that it was now quite a
different place from what it
was when he first came. And,
indeed, though he didn't actually
boast of it, yet in his secret
soul he did to a great extent
believe that the great reform
in the School had been owing
quite as much to himself as
to any one else. Arthur, he
acknowledged, had done him
good, and taught him a good
deal; so had other boys in
different ways, but they had
not had the same means of influence
on the School in general. And
as for the Doctor, why, he
was a splendid master; but
every one knew that masters
could do very little out of
school hours. In short, he
felt on terms of equality with
his chief, so far as the social
state of the School was concerned,
and thought that the Doctor
would find it no easy matter
to get on without him. Moreover,
his School Toryism was still
strong, and he looked still
with some jealousy on the Doctor,
as somewhat of a fanatic in
the matter of change, and thought
it very desirable for the School
that he should have some wise
person (such as himself) to
look sharply after vested School-rights,
and see that nothing was done
to the injury of the republic
without due protest.
It was a new light to him
to find that, besides teaching
the sixth, and governing and
guiding the whole School, editing
classics, and writing histories,
the great headmaster had found
time in those busy years to
watch over the career even
of him, Tom Brown, and his
particular friends, and, no
doubt, of fifty other boys
at the same time, and all this
without taking the least credit
to himself, or seeming to know,
or let any one else know, that
he ever thought particularly
of any boy at all.
However, the Doctor's victory
was complete from that moment
over Tom Brown at any rate.
He gave way at all points,
and the enemy marched right
over him - cavalry, infantry,
and artillery, and the land
transport corps, and the camp
followers. It had taken eight
long years to do it; but now
it was done thoroughly, and
there wasn't a corner of him
left which didn't believe in
the Doctor. Had he returned
to School again, and the Doctor
begun the half-year by abolishing
fagging, and football, and
the Saturday half-holiday,
or all or any of the most cherished
School institutions, Tom would
have supported him with the
blindest faith. And so, after
a half confession of his previous
shortcomings, and sorrowful
adieus to his tutor, from whom
he received two beautifully-bound
volumes of the Doctor's sermons,
as a parting present, he marched
down to the Schoolhouse, a
hero-worshipper, who would
have satisfied the soul of
Thomas Carlyle himself.
There he found
the eleven at high jinks
after supper,
Jack Raggles shouting comic
songs and performing feats
of strength, and was greeted
by a chorus of mingled remonstrance
at his desertion and joy at
his reappearance. And falling
in with the humour of the evening,
he was soon as great a boy
as all the rest; and at ten
o'clock was chaired round the
quadrangle, on one of the hall
benches, borne aloft by the
eleven, shouting in chorus, "For
he's a jolly good fellow," while
old Thomas, in a melting mood,
and the other School-house
servants, stood looking on.
And the next morning after
breakfast he squared up all
the cricketing accounts, went
round to his tradesmen and
other acquaintance, and said
his hearty good-byes; and by
twelve o'clock was in the train,
and away for London, no longer
a school-boy, and divided in
his thoughts between hero-worship,
honest regrets over the long
stage of his life which was
now slipping out of sight behind
him, and hopes and resolves
for the next stage upon which
he was entering with all the
confidence of a young traveller.
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