As it is always impolitic to take more interest in people than they do
themselves, you do not insist.
Once I asked a nice and clever little boy what he wanted to be.
This little boy's papa was at the time enjoying the well-salaried
_far niente_ of a chaplaincy attached to an old philanthropical
institution that had not had any inmates for many years past.
"Please, sir, I want to be like papa," he answered, ingenuously.
* * * * *
My young friend T. had no taste for languages, except, perhaps, bad
language, if I am to believe certain rumors of a punishment inflicted
upon him by the head-master not long ago.
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 Caesar, 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_.
I always thought it was somewhat hard on a boy to have to go through
life labeled Cadwaladr; but, as I have remarked elsewhere, in England
there is nothing to prevent parents from dubbing their offsprings
Bayard, Bertrand du Guesclin--or, for that matter, Nebuchadnezzar.