Before marching from the oration-hall to chapel, the
stewards of the day's dinner, according to old-fashioned rite, have wands
put into their hands, walk to church at the head of the procession, and
sit there in places of honour. The boys are already in their seats, with
smug fresh faces, and shining white collars; the old black-gowned
pensioners are on their benches; the chapel is lighted, and Founder's
Tomb, with its grotesque carvings, monsters, heraldries, darkles and
shines with the most wonderful shadows and lights. There he lies,
Fundator Noster, in his ruff and gown, awaiting the great Examination
Day. We oldsters, be we ever so old, become boys again as we look at that
familiar old tomb, and think how the seats are altered since we were
here, and how the doctor--not the present doctor, the doctor of our time
--used to sit yonder, and his awful eye used to frighten us shuddering
boys, on whom it lighted; and how the boy next us would kick our shins
during service time, and how the monitor would cane us afterwards because
our shins were kicked.
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