As I walked thus full of fancies, the boys singly or in groups kept
passing me, smiling, full of delighted excitement and chatter, all
intent on themselves and their companions. I heard scraps of their
talk, inconsequent names, accompanied with downright praise or
blame, unintelligible exploits, happy nonsense. How odd it is to
note that when we Anglo-Saxons are at our happiest and most
cheerful, we expend so much of our steam in frank derision of each
other! Yet though I can hardly remember a single conversation of my
school days, the thought of my friendships and alliances is all
gilt with a sense of delightful eagerness. Now that I am a writer
of books, it matters even more how I say a thing than what I say.
But then it was the other way. It was what we felt that mattered,
and talk was but the sparkling outflow of trivial thought. What
heroes we made of sturdy, unemphatic boys, how we repeated each
other's jokes, what merciless critics we were of each other, how
little allowance we made for weakness or oddity, how easily we
condoned all faults in one who was good-humoured and strong! How
the little web of intrigue and gossip, of likes and dislikes, wove
and unwove itself! What hopeless Tories we were! How we stood upon
our rights and privileges! I have few illusions as to the innocence
or the justice or the generosity of boyhood; what boys really
admire are grace and effectiveness and readiness.
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