Presently he went on, but quite calm and slow. "I don't know how long I

was in that state. For more than a day, I know; for I was quite

conscious, and lived my outer life all the time, and took my medicine,

and spoke to my mother, and heard what they said. But I didn't take much

note of time; I thought time was over for me, and that that tomb was

what was beyond. Well, on last Sunday morning, as I seemed to lie in

that tomb, alone, as I thought, for ever and ever, the black dead wall

was cleft in two, and I was caught up and borne through into the light

by some great power, some living mighty spirit. Tom, do you remember the

living creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel? It was just like that: 'when

they went I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great

waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice of speech, as the noise

of an host; when they stood they let down their wings'--'and they went

every one straight forward; whither the spirit was to go they went, and

they turned not when they went.' And we rushed through the bright air,

which was full of myriads of living creatures, and paused on the brink

of a great river. And the power held me up, and I knew that that great

river was the grave, and death dwelt there; but not the death I had met

in the black tomb--that I felt was gone for ever. For on the other bank

of the great river I saw men and women and children rising up pure and

bright, and the tears were wiped from their eyes, and they put on glory

and strength, and all weariness and pain fell away. And beyond were a

multitude which no man could number, and they worked at some great work;

and they who rose from the river went on and joined in the work. They

all worked, and each worked in a different way, but all at the same

work. And I saw there my father, and the men in the old town whom I knew

when I was a child; many a hard stern man, who never came to church, and

whom they called atheist and infidel. There they were, side by side with

my father, whom I had seen toil and die for them, and women and little

children, and the seal was on the foreheads of all. And I longed to see

what the work was, and could not; so I tried to plunge in the river, for

I thought I would join them, but I could not. Then I looked about to see

how they got into the river. And this I could not see, but I saw myriads

on this side, and they too worked, and I knew that it was the same work;

and the same seal was on their foreheads. And though I saw that there

was toil and anguish in the work of these, and that most that were

working were blind and feeble, yet I longed no more to plunge into the

river, but more and more to know what the work was. And as I looked I

saw my mother and my sisters, and I saw the Doctor, and you, Tom, and

hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself too, and I was

toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great work. Then it all

melted away, and the power left me, and as it left me I thought I heard

a voice say, 'The vision is for an appointed time; though it tarry, wait

for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie, it shall surely come,

it shall not tarry.' It was early morning I know then, it was so quiet

and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the chair by my bedside; but

it wasn't only a dream of mine. I know it wasn't a dream. Then I fell

into a deep sleep, and only woke after afternoon chapel; and the Doctor

came and gave me the sacrament, as I told you. I told him and my mother

I should get well--I knew I should; but I couldn't tell them why. Tom,"

said Arthur, gently, after another minute, "do you see why I could not

grieve now to see my dearest friend die? It can't be--it isn't, all

fever or illness. God would never have let me see it so clear if it

wasn't true. I don't understand it all yet--it will take me my life and

longer to do that--to find out what the work is."

When Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak, he was

almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur's

thoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another

minute nine o'clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them

both back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a

moment, and so the door opened and a lady came in carrying a candle.

She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur's hand, and then

stooped down and kissed him.

"My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn't you have

lights? You've talked too much and excited yourself in the dark."

"Oh, no, mother; you can't think how well I feel. I shall start with you

to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here's my friend, here's Tom

Brown--you know him?"

"Yes, indeed, I've known him for years," she said, and held out her hand

to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur's

mother. Tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back

from the broad white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so deep

and open--the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend's over

again, and the lovely tender mouth that trembled while he looked. She

stood there a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his mother, and

one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the faces of

good men's wives and widows--but he thought he had never seen anything

so beautiful. He couldn't help wondering if Arthur's sisters were like

her.

Tom held her hand, and looked on straight in her face; he could neither

let it go nor speak.

"Now, Tom," said Arthur, laughing, "where are your manners? you'll stare

my mother out of countenance." Tom dropped the little hand with a sigh.

"There, sit down, both of you. Here, dearest mother, there's room

here;--" and he made a place on the sofa for her. "Tom, you needn't go;

I'm sure you won't be called up at first lesson." Tom felt that he would

risk being floored at every lesson for the rest of his natural

school-life sooner than go, so sat down. "And now," said Arthur, "I

have realized one of the dearest wishes of my life--to see you two

together."

And then he led away the talk to their home in Devonshire, and the red

bright earth, and the deep green combes, and the peat streams like

cairngorm pebbles, and the wild moor with its high cloudy Tors for a

giant background to the picture--till Tom got jealous, and stood up for

the clear chalk streams, and the emerald water meadows and great elms

and willows of the dear old Royal county, as he gloried to call it. And

the mother sat on quiet and loving, rejoicing in their life. The

quarter-to-ten struck, and the bell rang for bed before they had well

begun their talk, as it seemed.

Then Tom rose with a sigh to go.

"Shall I see you in the morning, Geordie?" said he, as he shook his

friend's hand. "Never mind though; you'll be back next half, and I

shan't forget the house of Rimmon."

Arthur's mother got up and walked with him to the door, and there gave

him her hand again, and again his eyes met that deep loving look, which

was like a spell upon him. Her voice trembled slightly as she said,

"Good night--you are one who knows what our Father has promised to the

friend of the widow and the fatherless. May He deal with you as you have

dealt with me and mine!"

Tom was quite upset; he mumbled something about owing everything good in

him to Geordie--looked in her face again, pressed her hand to his lips,

and rushed downstairs to his study, where he sat till old Thomas came

kicking at the door, to tell him his allowance would be stopped if he

didn't go off to bed. (It would have been stopped anyhow, but that he

was a great favourite with the old gentleman, who loved to come out in

the afternoons into the close to Tom's wicket, and bowl slow twisters to

him, and talk of the glories of bygone Surrey heroes, with whom he had

played in former generations.) So Tom roused himself, and took up his

candle to go to bed; and then for the first time was aware of a

beautiful new fishing-rod, with old Eton's mark on it, and a splendidly

bound Bible, which lay on his table, on the title-page of which was

written--"TOM BROWN, from his affectionate and grateful friends, Frances

Jane Arthur; George Arthur."

I leave you all to guess how he slept, and what he dreamt of.

CHAPTER VII.

HARRY EAST'S DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES.

"The Holy Supper is kept indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need--

Not that which we give, but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare:

Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three,

Himself, his hungering neighbour, and Me."

_The Vision of Sir Launfal._--LOWELL, p. 11.

THE next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and Gower met as usual to

learn their second lesson together. Tom had been considering how to

break his proposal of giving up the crib to the others, and having found

no better way (as indeed none better can ever be found by man or boy),

told them simply what had happened; how he had been to see Arthur, who

had talked to him upon the subject, and what he had said, and for his

part he had made up his mind, and wasn't going to use cribs any more:

and not being quite sure of his ground, took the high and pathetic tone,

and was proceeding to say, "how that having learnt his lessons with them

for so many years, it would grieve him much to put an end to the

arrangement, and he hoped at any rate that if they wouldn't go on with

him, they should still be just as good friends, and respect one

another's motives--but--"

Here the other boys, who had been listening with open eyes and ears,

burst in--

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Gower. "Here, East, get down the crib and

find the place."

"Oh, Tommy, Tommy!" said East, proceeding to do as he was bidden, "that

it should ever have come to this. I knew Arthur'd be the ruin of you

some day, and you of me. And now the time's come,"--and he made a

doleful face.

"I don't know about ruin," answered Tom; "I know that you and I would

have had the sack long ago, if it hadn't been for him. And you know it

as well as I."

"Well, we were in a baddish way before he came, I own; but this new

crotchet of his is past a joke."

"Let's give it a trial, Harry; come--you know how often he has been

right and we wrong."

"Now, don't you two be jawing away about young Square-toes," struck in

Gower. "He's no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say, but we've no time

to lose, and I've got the fives'-court at half-past nine."

"I say, Gower," said Tom, appealingly, "be a good fellow, and let's try

if we can't get on without the crib."

"What! in this chorus? Why, we shan't get through ten lines."

"I say, Tom," cried East, having hit on a new idea, "don't you remember,

when we were in the upper fourth, and old Momus caught me construing off

the leaf of a crib which I'd torn out and put in my book, and which

would float out on to the floor, he sent me up to be flogged for it?"

"Yes, I remember it very well."

"Well, the Doctor, after he'd flogged me, told me himself that he didn't

flog me for using a translation, but for taking it into lesson, and

using it there when I hadn't learnt a word before I came in. He said

there was no harm in using a translation to get a clue to hard passages,

if you tried all you could first to make them out without."

"Did he, though?" said Tom; "then Arthur must be wrong."

"Of course he is," said Gower, "the little prig. We'll only use the crib

when we can't construe without it. Go ahead, East."

And on this agreement they started: Tom satisfied with having made his

confession, and not sorry to have a _locus poenitentiæ_, and not to be

deprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful friend.

The boys went on as usual, each taking a sentence in turn, and the crib

being handed to the one whose turn it was to construe. Of course Tom

couldn't object to this, as, was it not simply lying there to be

appealed to in case the sentence should prove too hard altogether for

the construer? But it must be owned that Gower and East did not make

very tremendous exertions to conquer their sentences before having

recourse to its help. Tom, however, with the most heroic virtue and

gallantry rushed into his sentence, searching in a high-minded manner

for nominative and verb, and turning over his dictionary frantically for

the first hard word that stopped him. But in the meantime Gower, who was

bent on getting to fives, would peep quietly into the crib, and then

suggest, "Don't you think this is the meaning?" "I think you must take

it this way, Brown;" and as Tom didn't see his way to not profiting by

these suggestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as usual, and

Gower was able to start for the fives'-court within five minutes of the

half-hour.

When Tom and East were left face to face, they looked at one another for

a minute, Tom puzzled, and East chock-full of fun, and then burst into a

roar of laughter.

"Well, Tom," said East, recovering himself, "I don't see any objection

to the new way. It's about as good as the old one, I think; besides the

advantage it gives one of feeling virtuous, and looking down on one's

neighbours."

Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. "I ain't so sure," said he; "you

two fellows carried me off my legs: I don't think we really tried one

sentence fairly. Are you sure you remember what the Doctor said to you?"

"Yes. And I'll swear I couldn't make out one of my sentences to-day. No,

nor ever could. I really don't remember," said East, speaking slowly and

impressively, "to have come across one Latin or Greek sentence this

half, that I could go and construe by the light of nature. Whereby I am

sure Providence intended cribs to be used."

"The thing to find out," said Tom meditatively, "is how long one ought

to grind at a sentence without looking at the crib. Now I think if one

fairly looks out all the words one don't know, and then can't hit it,

that's enough."

"To be sure, Tommy," said East demurely, but with a merry twinkle in his

eye. "Your new doctrine too, old fellow," added he, "when one comes to

think of it, is a cutting at the root of all school morality. You'll

take away mutual help, brotherly love, or in the vulgar tongue, giving

construes, which I hold to be one of our highest virtues. For how can

you distinguish between getting a construe from another boy, and using a

crib? Hang it, Tom, if you're going to deprive all our school-fellows of

the chance of exercising Christian benevolence and being good

Samaritans, I shall cut the concern."

"I wish you wouldn't joke about it, Harry; it's hard enough to see one's

way, a precious sight harder than I thought last night. But I suppose

there's a use and an abuse of both, and one'll get straight enough

somehow. But you can't make out anyhow that one has a right to use old

vulgus-books and copy-books."

"Hullo, more heresy! how fast a fellow goes down hill when he once gets

his head before his legs. Listen to me, Tom. Not use old

vulgus-books?--why, you Goth! ain't we to take the benefit of the

wisdom, and admire and use the work of past generations? Not use old

copy-books! Why you might as well say we ought to pull down Westminster

Abbey, and put up a go-to-meeting-shop with churchwarden windows; or

never read Shakespere, but only Sheridan Knowles. Think of all the work

and labour that our predecessors have bestowed on these very books; and

are we to make their work of no value?"

"I say, Harry, please don't chaff; I'm really serious."

"And then, is it not our duty to consult the pleasure of others rather

than our own, and above all that of our masters? Fancy then the

difference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been carefully

touched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring

them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they'd met the thought or

expression of it somewhere or another--before they were born perhaps;

and that of cutting up, and making picture-frames round all your and my

false quantities, and other monstrosities. Why, Tom, you wouldn't be so

cruel as never to let old Momus hum over the 'O genus humanum,' again,

and then look up doubtingly through his spectacles, and end by smiling

and giving three extra marks for it: just for old sake's sake, I

suppose."

"Well," said Tom, getting up in something as like a huff as he was

capable of, "it's deuced hard that when a fellow's really trying to do

what he ought, his best friends'll do nothing but chaff him and try to

put him down." And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his

head, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with

his own soul of the faithlessness of friendships.

"Now don't be an ass, Tom," said East, catching hold of him, "you know

me well enough by this time; my bark's worse than my bite. You can't

expect to ride your new crotchet without anybody's trying to stick a

nettle under his tail and make him kick you off: especially as we shall

all have to go on foot still. But now sit down and let's go over it

again. I'll be as serious as a judge."

Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed eloquent about all the

righteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was his wont whenever

he took up anything; going into it as if his life depended upon it, and

sparing no abuse which he could think of of the opposite method, which

he denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows

what besides. "Very cool of Tom," as East thought, but didn't say,

"seeing as how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at

bed-time."

"Well, Tom," said he at last, "you see, when you and I came to school

there were none of these sort of notions. You may be right--I dare say

you are. Only what one has always felt about the masters is, that it's a

fair trial of skill and last between us and them--like a match at

football, or a battle. We're natural enemies in school, that's the fact.

We've got to learn so much Latin and Greek and do so many verses, and

they've got to see that we do it. If we can slip the collar and do so

much less without getting caught, that's one to us. If they can get more

out of us, or catch us shirking, that's one to them. All's fair in war,

but lying. If I run my luck against theirs, and go into school without

looking at my lessons, and don't get called up, why am I a snob or a

sneak? I don't tell the master I've learnt it. He's got to find out

whether I have or not, what's he paid for? If he calls me up, and I get

floored, he makes me write it out in Greek and English. Very good, he's

caught me, and I don't grumble. I grant you, if I go and snivel to him,

and tell him I've really tried to learn it but found it so hard without

a translation, or say I've had a toothache, or any humbug of that kind,

I'm a snob. That's my school morality; it's served me--and you too, Tom,

for the matter of that--these five years. And it's all clear and fair,

no mistake about it. We understand it, and they understand it, and I

don't know what we're to come to with any other."

Tom looked at him pleased, and a little puzzled. He had never heard East

speak his mind seriously before, and couldn't help feeling how

completely he had hit his own theory and practice up to that time.

"Thank you, old fellow," said he. "You're a good old brick to be

serious, and not put out with me. I said more than I meant, I dare say,

only you see I know I'm right: whatever you and Gower and the rest do, I

shall hold on--I must. And as it's all new and an up-hill game, you see,

one must hit hard and hold on tight at first."

"Very good," said East; "hold on and hit away, only don't hit under the

line."

"But I must bring you over, Harry, or I shan't be comfortable. Now, I

allow all you've said. We've always been honourable enemies with the

masters. We found a state of war when we came, and went into it of

course. Only don't you think things are altered a good deal? I don't

feel as I used to the masters. They seem to me to treat one quite

differently."

"Yes, perhaps they do," said East; "there's a new set, you see, mostly,

who don't feel sure of themselves yet. They don't want to fight till

they know the ground."

"I don't think it's only that," said Tom. "And then the Doctor, he does

treat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was working

with him."

"Well, so he does," said East; "he's a splendid fellow, and when I get

into the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he has nothing to

do with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though," looking at

his watch, "it's just the quarter. Come along."

As they walked out they got a message to say, "that Arthur was just

starting and would like to say good-bye;" so they went down to the

private entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage, with

Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom

thought.

They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with him, and Tom mumbled

thanks for the presents he had found in his study, and looked round

anxiously for Arthur's mother.

East, who had fallen back into his usual humour looked quaintly at

Arthur, and said--

"So you've been at it again, through that hot-headed convert of yours

there. He's been making our lives a burthen to us all the morning about

using cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson, if I'm

called up."

Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in--

"Oh, it's all right. He's converted already; he always comes through the

mud after us, grumbling and sputtering."

The clock struck, and they had to go off to school, wishing Arthur a

pleasant holiday; Tom lingering behind a moment to send his thanks and

love to Arthur's mother.

Tom renewed the discussion after second lesson, and succeeded so far as

to get East to promise to give the new plan a fair trial.

Encouraged by his success, in the evening, when they were sitting alone

in the large study, where East lived now almost, "vice Arthur on leave,"

after examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to be the

genuine article, ("play enough to throw a midge tied on a single hair

against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus,") they

naturally began talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over

with last night's scene, and all the thoughts of the last week, and

wanting to clinch and fix the whole in his own mind, which he could

never do without first going through the process of belabouring somebody

else with it all, suddenly rushed into the subject of Arthur's illness,

and what he had said about death.

East had given him the desired opening: after a serio-comic grumble,

"that life wasn't worth having now they were tied to a young beggar who

was always 'raising his standard;' and that he, East, was like a

prophet's donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man

who went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting

the new crotchets, and didn't half understand them, but had to take the

kicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun"--he threw his legs

up on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said--

"Well, after all, he's the most wonderful little fellow I ever came

across. There ain't such a meek, humble boy in the School. Hanged if I

don't think now really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse

fellow than you or I, and that he don't think he has more influence in

the house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and ain't ten yet. But

he turns you and me round his little finger, old boy--there's no mistake

about that." And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.

"Now or never!" thought Tom; so shutting his eyes and hardening his

heart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said, as

near as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had himself

thought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several

times he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject.

But somehow he was borne on; he had a necessity upon him to speak it all

out, and did so. At the end he looked at East with some anxiety, and was

delighted to see that that young gentleman was thoughtful and attentive.

The fact is, that in the stage of his inner life at which Tom had lately

arrived, his intimacy with and friendship for East could not have lasted

if he had not made him aware of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that were

beginning to exercise him. Nor indeed could the friendship have lasted

if East had shown no sympathy with these thoughts; so that it was a

great relief to have unbosomed himself, and to have found that his

friend could listen.

Tom had always had a sort of instinct that East's levity was only

skin-deep; and this instinct was a true one. East had no want of

reverence for anything he felt to be real: but his was one of those

natures that burst into what is generally called recklessness and

impiety the moment they feel that anything is being poured upon them for

their good, which does not come home to their inborn sense of right, or

which appeals to anything like self-interest in them. Daring and honest

by nature, and outspoken to an extent which alarmed all

respectabilities, with a constant fund of animal health and spirits

which he did not feel bound to curb in any way, he had gained for

himself with the steady part of the School (including as well those who

wished to appear steady as those who really were so), the character of a

boy whom it would be dangerous to be intimate with; while his own hatred

of everything cruel, or underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for

what he could see to be good and true, kept off the rest.

Tom, besides being very like East in many points of character, had

largely developed in his composition the capacity for taking the weakest

side. This is not putting it strongly enough; it was a necessity with

him; he couldn't help it any more than he could eating or drinking. He

could never play on the strongest side with any heart at football or

cricket, and was sure to make friends with any boy who was unpopular, or

down on his luck.

Now though East was not what is generally called unpopular, Tom felt

more and more every day, as their characters developed, that he stood

alone, and did not make friends among their contemporaries, and

therefore sought him out. Tom was himself much more popular, for his

power of detecting humbug was much less acute, and his instincts were

much more sociable. He was at this period of his life, too, largely

given to taking people for what they gave themselves out to be; but his

singleness of heart, fearlessness and honesty were just what East

appreciated, and thus the two had been drawn into greater intimacy.

This intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom's guardianship of Arthur.

East had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible; but

their discussions had almost always turned upon the characters of the

men and women of whom they read, and not become personal to themselves.

In fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not

knowing how it might end; and fearful of risking a friendship very dear

to both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why, would

never be the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its

foundation, after such a communing together.

What a bother all this explaining is! I wish we could get on without it.

But we can't. However, you'll all find, if you haven't found it out

already, that a time comes in every human friendship, when you must go

down into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your

friend, and wait in fear for his answer. A few moments may do it; and it

may be (most likely will be, as you are English boys) that you never do

it but once. But done it must be, if the friendship is to be worth the

name. You must find what is there, at the very root and bottom of one

another's hearts; and if you are at once there, nothing on earth can, or

at least ought to sunder you.

East had remained lying down until Tom finished speaking, as if fearing

to interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant his head on one

hand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little holes with

it in the table-cover. After a bit he looked, up, stopped the pencil,

and said, "Thank you very much, old fellow; there's no other boy in the

house would have done it for me but you or Arthur. I can see well

enough," he went on after a pause, "all the best big fellows look on me

with suspicion; they think I'm a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp.

So I am--eleven hours out of twelve--but not the twelfth. Then all of

our contemporaries worth knowing follow suit, of course; we're very good

friends at games and all that, but not a soul of them but you and Arthur

ever tried to break through the crust, and see whether there was

anything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I won't stand, and

they know that."

"Don't you think that's half fancy, Harry?"

"Not a bit of it," said East bitterly, pegging away with his pencil. "I

see it all plain enough. Bless you, you think everybody's as

straightforward and kind-hearted as you are."

"Well, but what's the reason of it? There must be a reason. You can play

all the games as well as any one, and sing the best song, and are the

best company in the house. You fancy you're not liked, Harry. It's all

fancy."

"I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could be popular enough with all the

bad ones, but that I won't have, and the good ones won't have me."

"Why not?" persisted Tom; "you don't drink or swear, or get out at

night; you never bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only showed you

liked it, you'd have all the best fellows in the house running after

you."

"Not I," said East. Then with an effort he went on, "I'll tell you what

it is. I never stop the Sacrament. I can see, from the Doctor downwards,

how that tells against me."

"Yes, I've seen that," said Tom, "and I've been very sorry for it, and

Arthur and I have talked about it. I've often thought of speaking to

you, but it's so hard to begin on such subjects. I'm very glad you've

opened it. Now, why don't you?"

"I've never been confirmed," said East.

"Not been confirmed!" said Tom in astonishment. "I never thought of

that. Why weren't you confirmed with the rest of us nearly three years

ago? I always thought you'd been confirmed at home."

"No," answered East sorrowfully; "you see this was how it happened. Last

Confirmation was soon after Arthur came, and you were so taken up with

him, I hardly saw either of you. Well, when the Doctor sent round for us

about it, I was living mostly with Green's set--you know the sort. They

all went in--I dare say it was all right, and they got good by it; I

don't want to judge them. Only all I could see of their reasons drove me

just the other way. 'Twas 'because the Doctor liked it;' 'no boy got on

who didn't stay the Sacrament;' 'it was the correct thing,' in fact,

like having a good hat to wear on Sundays. I couldn't stand it. I didn't

feel that I wanted to lead a different life, I was very well content as

I was, and I wasn't going to sham religious to curry favour with the

Doctor, or any one else."

East stopped speaking, and pegged away more diligently than ever with

his pencil. Tom was ready to cry. He felt half sorry at first that he

had been confirmed himself. He seemed to have deserted his earliest

friend, to have left him by himself at his worst need for those long

years. He got up and went and sat by East and put his arm over his

shoulder.

"Dear old boy," he said, "how careless and selfish I've been. But why

didn't you come and talk to Arthur and me?"

"I wish to heaven I had," said East, "but I was a fool. It's too late

talking of it now."

"Why too late? You want to be confirmed now, don't you?"

"I think so," said East. "I've thought about it a good deal; only often

I fancy I must be changing, because I see it's to do me good here, just

what stopped me last time. And then I go back again."

"I'll tell you now how 'twas with me," said Tom warmly. "If it hadn't

been for Arthur, I should have done just as you did. I hope I should. I

honour you for it. But then he made it out just as if it was taking the

weak side before all the world--going in once for all against everything

that's strong and rich and proud and respectable, a little band of

brothers against the whole world. And the Doctor seemed to say so too,

only he said a great deal more."

"Ah!" groaned East, "but there again, that's just another of my

difficulties whenever I think about the matter. I don't want to be one

of your saints, one of your elect, whatever the right phrase is. My

sympathies are all the other way; with the many, the poor devils who run

about the streets and don't go to church. Don't stare, Tom; mind, I'm

telling you all that's in my heart--as far as I know it--but it's all a

muddle. You must be gentle with me if you want to land me. Now I've seen

a deal of this sort of religion; I was bred up in it, and I can't stand

it. If nineteen-twentieths of the world are to be left to uncovenanted

mercies, and that sort of thing, which means in plain English to go to

hell, and the other twentieth are to rejoice at it all, why----"

"Oh! but, Harry, they ain't, they don't," broke in Tom, really shocked.

"Oh, how I wish Arthur hadn't gone! I'm such a fool about these things.

But it's all you want too, East; it is indeed. It cuts both ways

somehow, being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It makes you feel on

the side of all the good and all the bad too, of everybody in the world.

Only there's some great dark strong power, which is crushing you and

everybody else. That's what Christ conquered, and we've got to fight.

What a fool I am! I can't explain. If Arthur were only here!"

"I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean," said East.

"I say now," said Tom eagerly, "do you remember how we both hated

Flashman?"

"Of course I do," said East; "I hate him still What then?"

"Well, when I came to take the Sacrament, I had a great struggle about

that. I tried to put him out of my head; and when I couldn't do that, I

tried to think of him as evil, as something that the Lord who was loving

me hated, and which I might hate too. But it wouldn't do. I broke down:

I believe Christ himself broke me down; and when the Doctor gave me the

bread and wine, and leant over me praying, I prayed for poor Flashman,

as if it had been you or Arthur."

East buried his face in his hands on the table. Tom could feel the table

tremble. At last he looked up, "Thank you again, Tom," said he; "you

don't know what you may have done for me to-night. I think I see now how

the right sort of sympathy with poor devils is got at."

"And you'll stop the Sacrament next time, won't you?" said Tom.

"Can I, before I'm confirmed?"

"Go and ask the Doctor."

"I will."

That very night, after prayers, East followed the Doctor and the old

Verger bearing the candle, up-stairs. Tom watched, and saw the Doctor

turn round when he heard footsteps following him closer than usual, and

say, "Hah, East! Do you want to speak with me, my man?"

"If you please, sir;" and the private door closed and Tom went to his

study in a state of great trouble of mind.

It was almost an hour before East came back: then he rushed in

breathless.

"Well, it's all right," he shouted, seizing Tom by the hand. "I feel as

if a ton-weight were off my mind."

"Hurra," said Tom. "I knew it would be; but tell us all about it?"

"Well, I just told him all about it. You can't think how kind and gentle

he was, the great grim man, whom I've feared more than anybody on earth.

When I stuck, he lifted me, just as if I had been a little child. And he

seemed to know all I'd felt, and to have gone through it all. And I

burst out crying--more than I've done this five years; and he sat down

by me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him all;

much worse things than I've told you. And he wasn't shocked a bit, and

didn't snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but

pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was. And he didn't tell me not

to follow out my thoughts, and he didn't give me any cut-and-dried

explanation. But when I'd done he just talked a bit--I can hardly

remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like

healing, and strength, and light; and to bear me up, and plant me on a

rock, where I could hold my footing, and fight for myself. I don't know

what to do, I feel so happy. And it's all owing to you, dear old boy!"

and he seized Tom's hand again.

"And you're to come to the Communion?" said Tom.

"Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays."

Tom's delight was as great as his friend's. But he hadn't yet had out

all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so he

proceeded to propound Arthur's theory about not being sorry for his

friends' deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by

which he was much exercised; for he didn't feel it honest to take what

pleased him and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to

persuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die

off-hand.

But East's powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five

minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till

Tom was almost getting angry again.

Despite of himself, however, he couldn't help laughing and giving it up,

when East appealed to him with "Well, Tom, you ain't going to punch my

head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?"

And so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first

lesson; with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were

called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however,

did not sit heavily on either of their souls.

CHAPTER VIII.

TOM BROWN'S LAST MATCH.

"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."[E]

This is not mere longing, it is prophecy. So over these two, 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 the 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 wicket; 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

new-comer'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 further wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the

captain. It is all that young gentleman 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 whole match; how the captain stumped

the next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled slow lobs 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.

[Illustration: THE CONVERSATION DURING THE MATCH. P. 342.]

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 stropping 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 præpostor 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 he 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.

"Oh, 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 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--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

afternoons 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 bye-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 the

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 into 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 a 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 heap 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."

"Aye, 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. Aye, 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 only 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?"

"Yea, 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 stress 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 wholly given 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 Head-master 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 anyone else know, that he ever thought particularly of any boys 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, 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 School-house, 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, 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 on 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.

FOOTNOTE:

[E] CLOUGH. _Ambarvalia._

CHAPTER IX.

FINIS.

"Strange friend, past, present, and to be;

Loved deeplier, darklier understood;

Behold, I dream a dream of good,

And mingle all the world with thee."

TENNYSON.

IN the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known

station: and, leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked

slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed

away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in

Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living

on oatcake, mutton-hams, and whiskey, in the wildest parts of Skye.

They had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea

ferry, and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together

and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third

strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he

came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and

an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub

which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay,

the picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England,

"improving his mind," as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the

fortnight-old weekly paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and

tobacco-ashes, the legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunted out

from the kitchen of the little hostelry; and being a youth of a

communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the

fishermen as he went on.

"What a bother they are making about these wretched Corn-laws; here's

three or four columns full of nothing but sliding-scales and fixed

duties.--Hang this tobacco, it's always going out!--Ah, here's something

better--a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown! Kent winning

by three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!"

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a

grunt.

"Anything about the Goodwood?" called out the third man.

"Rory-o-More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the student.

"Just my luck," grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water,

and throwing again with a heavy sullen splash, and frightening Tom's

fish.

"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? we ain't fishing for

grampuses," shouted Tom across the stream.

"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you," called out the reading man

next moment. "Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead."

Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all

tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a

feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him luckily; and

with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his

line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as

if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which,

the deep loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock

intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first

gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed,

and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it was good for

him and for many others in like case; who had to learn by that loss,

that the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human prop, however

strong, and wise, and good; but that He upon whom alone it can stand and

lean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful way,

until there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages,

upon whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid.

As he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, "It may all

be false, a mere newspaper lie," and he strode up to the recumbent

smoker.

"Let me look at the paper," said he.

"Nothing else in it," answered the other, handing it up to him

listlessly.--"Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow--ain't you

well?"

"Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling,

and his eyes swimming, so that he could not read.

"What? What are you looking for?" said his friend, jumping up and

looking over his shoulder.

"That--about Arnold," said Tom.

"Oh, here," said the other, putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom

read it over and over again; there could be no mistake of identity,

though the account was short enough.

"Thank you," said he at last, dropping the paper. "I shall go for a

walk: don't you and Herbert wait supper for me." And away he strode, up

over the moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his

grief if possible.

His friend looked after him, sympathising and wondering, and, knocking

the ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley,

they walked together up to the house.

"I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this

trip."

"How odd that he should be so fond of his old master," said Herbert. Yet

they also were both public-school men.

The two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited supper for

him, and had everything ready when he came back some half-an-hour

afterwards. But he could not join in their cheerful talk, and the party

was soon silent, notwithstanding the efforts of all three. One thing

only had Tom resolved, and that was, that he couldn't stay in Scotland

any longer; he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then

home, and soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose.

So by daylight the next morning he was marching through Ross-shire, and

in the evening hit the Caledonian canal, took the next steamer, and

travelled as fast as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby

Station.

As he walked up to the town, he felt shy and afraid of being seen, and

took the back streets; why, he didn't know, but he followed his

instinct. At the school-gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul

in the quadrangle--all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another

effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the School-house

offices.

He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand,

tried to talk, and moved nervously about: she was evidently thinking of

the same subject as he, but he couldn't begin talking.

"Where shall I find Thomas?" said he at last, getting desperate.

"In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take anything?" said

the matron, looking rather disappointed.

"No, thank you," said he, and strode off again to find the old Verger,

who was sitting in his little den as of old, puzzling over

hieroglyphics.

He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom seized his hand and wrung

it.

"Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see," said he.

Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-board, while the old man told

his tale, and wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint,

homely, honest sorrow.

By the time he had done, Tom felt much better.

"Where is he buried, Thomas?" said he at last.

"Under the altar in the chapel, sir," answered Thomas. "You'd like to

have the key, I dare say."

"Thank you, Thomas--Yes, I should very much." And the old man fumbled

among his bunch, and then got up, as though he would go with him; but

after a few steps stopped short, and said, "Perhaps you'd like to go by

yourself, sir?"

Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed to him, with an injunction

to be sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight

o'clock.

He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The

longing which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the

gad-fly in the Greek legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed

all of a sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up, and pall. "Why

should I go on? It's no use," he thought, and threw himself at full

length on the turf, and looked vaguely and listlessly at all the

well-known objects. There were a few of the town boys playing cricket,

their wicket pitched on the best piece in the middle of the big-side

ground, a sin about equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a captain of the

eleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send them off. "Pshaw!

they won't remember me. They've more right there than I," he muttered.

And the thought that his sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing

out, came home to him for the first time, and bitterly enough. He was

lying on the very spot where the fights came off; where he himself had

fought six years ago his first and last battle. He conjured up the scene

till he could almost hear the shouts of the ring, and East's whisper in

his ear; and looking across the close to the Doctor's private door, half

expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come

striding under the elm-trees towards him.

No, no! that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying

on the round tower! the School-house windows were all shuttered up: and

when the flag went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be to

welcome a stranger. All that was left on earth of him whom he had

honoured, was lying cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go

in and see the place once more, and then leave it once for all. New men

and new methods might do for other people; let those who would worship

the rising star; he at least would be faithful to the sun which had set.

And so he got up and walked to the chapel door and unlocked it, fancying

himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on his own

selfish sorrow.

He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance

over the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he

walked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy,

and sat himself down there to collect his thoughts.

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a

little. The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain,

and carrying him about whither they would; while beneath them all, his

heart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be

made up to him. The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the

painted windows above his head; and fell in gorgeous colours on the

opposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit by little

and little. And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then,

leaning forward with his head on his hands, groaned aloud. "If he could

only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes; have told him all

that was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved and reverenced

him, and would by God's help follow his steps in life and death, he

could have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have gone

away for ever without knowing it all, was too much to bear."----"But am

I sure that he does not know it all?"--the thought made him start--"May

he not even now be near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I

sorrowing as he would have me sorrow--as I should wish to have sorrowed

when I shall meet him again?"

He raised himself up and looked round; and after a minute rose and

walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat

which he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old

memories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him

as he let himself be carried away by them. And he looked up at the great

painted window above the altar, and remembered how when a little boy he

used to try not to look through it at the elm-trees and the rooks,

before the painted glass came--and the subscription for the painted

glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it. And there,

down below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his right hand on

that first day, scratched rudely in the oak paneling.

And then came the thought of all his old school-fellows; and form after

form of boys, nobler, and braver, and purer than he, rose up and seemed

to rebuke him. Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and

were feeling, they who had honoured and loved from the first, the man

whom he had taken years to know and love? Could he not think of those

yet dearer to him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood,

and were now without a husband or a father? Then the grief which he

began to share with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once

more, and walked up the steps to the altar; and while the tears flowed

freely down his checks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down

there his share of a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to

bear in his own strength.

Here let us leave him--where better could we leave him, than at the

altar, before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his

birthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which links all living

souls together in one brotherhood--at the grave beneath the altar of

him, who had opened his eyes to see that glory, and softened his heart

till it could feel that bond?

And let us not be hard on him, if at that moment his soul is fuller of

the tomb and him who lies there, than of the altar and Him of whom it

speaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and

brave souls, who must win their way through hero-worship, to the

worship of Him who is the King and Lord of heroes. For it is only

through our mysterious human relationships, through the love and

tenderness and purity of mothers, and sisters, and wives, through the

strength and courage and wisdom of fathers, and brothers, and teachers,

that we can come to the knowledge of Him, in whom alone the love, and

the tenderness, and the purity, and the strength, and the courage, and

the wisdom of all these dwell for ever and ever in perfect fulness.

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Transcriber's Notes:

In the list of illustrations, it is noted that "CHAIRING TOM IN THE

QUADRANGLE" is on page 366. In fact this illustration was used as the

frontispiece in the original text. This has been retained and in the

HTML version, clicking on the number will take the reader to the

frontispiece.

Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.

Page 66, "t e" changed to "the" (in the dark for)

Page 94, "talkiug" changed to "talking" (rest talking in whispers)

Page 260, " a nd" changed to "head; and" (head; and to convert)

Page 266, "misletoe" changed to "mistletoe" (lump of mistletoe)

Page 365, "indifferent" changed to "in different" (so had other boys in

different)

End of Project Gutenberg's Tom Brown's School Days, by Thomas Hughes