He prepares for the army, but I doubt whether he will succeed in entering it, unless he enlists. I regret it for her Majesty's sake, for he would make a capital soldier. He is a first-rate athlete, resolute, strong, and fearless. He would never aim at becoming a field-marshal, and I hold that his qualities ought to weigh in an examination for the army as much as a little Latin and Greek. I never heard of great generals being particularly good at Latin, except Julius Cæsar, who wrote his Commentaries on the Gallic Wars in that language, and without a dictionary, they say. My young friend is the kind of boy who, in the army, would be sure to render great service to his country; for, whether he killed England's enemy or England's enemy killed him, it would eventually be for the good of England. * * * * * Ah! now, who is that square-headed boy, sitting on the second form near the window? He looks dull; he does not join in the games, and seldom speaks to a school-fellow. He comes to school on business, to get as much as he can for his money. He is not brilliant, but steady-going; he is improving slowly but surely. He goes on his jog-trot way, and always succeeds in being placed among the first twelve boys of the class. He is what is called a "respectable person." He never smiles, and you would think he had on his shoulders the responsibility of the management of the London and Westminster Bank. His books are carefully covered in brown paper or American cloth. He writes rough copies on the backs of old exercises, and wipes his pen when he has finished his work. He buys his books second-hand in Holywell Street,[6] and when he has finished with them they have the same market value as when he bought them. [6] A street in London where Jews sell second-hand books. He lends old nibs and half-sheets of paper, and requires the borrower to give him back new nibs and foolscap sheets. He studies French with all the energy he is capable of, because his father has told him that, with a good knowledge of French, he will command a good salary in the City. You ask him what he will be, and he answers you: "In business." This boy will be a successful man--a lord-mayor, perhaps. I can not take leave of the class-room without mentioning the boy who is proud of his name. "What is your name, my boy?" "Algernon Cadwaladr Smyth." "Oh! your name is Smith, is it?" "No, sir; my name is Cadwaladr Smyth." "You spell your name S-m-i-t-h, don't you?" "No, sir; S-m-y-t-h," he answers, almost indignantly. Dear boy! he is as proud of the y of his name as a Howard is of his ancestors--although I am not quite sure the Howards ought to be very proud of their name, seeing that it is but a corruption of _Hog-ward_.