It's a
toast which should bind us all together, and to those who've gone before
and who'll come after us here. It is the dear old School-house--the best
house of the best school in England!"
My dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to
other schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little book
about the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no more
when you get to this point. I allow you've provocation for it. But come
now--would you, any of you, give a fig for a fellow who didn't believe
in and stand up for his own house and his own school? You know you
wouldn't. Then don't object to me cracking up the old School house,
Rugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm taking all the trouble
of writing this true history for all of your benefits? If you ain't
satisfied, go and write the history of your own houses in your own
times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses, provided
it's true, and I'll read it without abusing you.
The last few words hit the audience in their weakest place. They had
been not altogether enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke's
speech; but "the best house of the best school in England" was too much
for them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking interests off
their legs into rapturous applause, and (it is to be hoped) resolutions
to lead a new life and remember old Brooke's words--which, however, they
didn't altogether do, as will appear hereafter.
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