When told that we were merely discussing the rival
merits of two schools in England, they were more than ever
confirmed in their opinion that all English people were hopelessly
mad.
To one like myself, to whom it has fallen to visit almost every
country on the face of the globe, there is always a tinge of
melancholy in revisiting the familiar High Street of Harrow. It is
like returning to the starting-point at the conclusion of a long
race. The externals remain unchanged. Outwardly, the New Schools,
the Chapel, the Vaughan Library, and the Head-Master's House all
wear exactly the same aspect that they bore half a century ago.
They have not changed, and the ever-renewed stream of young life
flows through the place as joyously as it did fifty years ago.
But....
"Oh, the great days in the distance enchanted,
Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun."
At times the imagination is apt to play tricks and to set back the
hands of the clock, until one pictures oneself again in a short
jacket and Eton collar, going up to school, with a pile of books
hugged under the left arm, and the intervening half-century wiped
out.
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