Truro was fortunate in its grammar school--'the Eton of Cornwall'--and in the headmaster of that time, the Rev. Cornelius Cardew, D.D., whose portrait now adorns the city's council chamber. The visitor who seeks out the old school in Boscawen Street now finds it converted into the ware-room of an ironmonger. All around may still be seen the oak panels on which successive generations of schoolboys cut their names. A pane of glass on which Henry Martyn scratched his name, with a Greek quotation and a Hebrew word, probably on his last visit to the spot before he left England for ever, is reverently preserved in the muniment room of the corporation buildings. There also are the musty folios of the dull history and duller divinity which formed the school library of that uncritical century, but there is no means of tracing the reading of the boys. Into this once lightsome room, adorned only by a wood-carving of the galleon which formed the city arms, was the child Henry Martyn introduced at the age of seven. Dr. Clement Carlyon, who was one of his fellow-pupils, writes of him as 'a good-humoured plain little fellow, with red eyelids devoid of eyelashes'. But we know from Mrs. Sherwood, when she first met him in India--where his hair, a light brown, was raised from his forehead, which was a remarkably fine one--that although his features were not regular, 'the expression was so luminous, so intellectual, so affectionate, so beaming with Divine charity, as to absorb the attention of every observer'. His sensitive nature and violent passionateness when roused, at once marked him out as the victim of the older boys. In a happy moment Dr. Cardew put 'little Henry Martyn' under the care of one of them, who became his protector, tutor, and friend, not only at school but at college, and had an influence on his spiritual as well as intellectual life next only to that of his father, sister, and Charles Simeon. That 'upper boy'--named Kempthorne, son of Admiral Kempthorne, of Helston--delighted to recall to his first biographer, Sargent, 'the position in which he used to sit, the thankful expression of his affectionate countenance, when he happened to be helped out of some difficulty, and a thousand other little incidents of his boyish days.' This boy-friend 'had often the happiness of rescuing him from the grasp of oppressors, and has never seen more feeling of gratitude evinced than was shown by him on those occasions.'