TOM BROWN'S
(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 church-yards 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 other 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:
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