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IT was a sad day for Henry Raymond, when, at ten years of age, he quitted, for the first time, his parents' roof for the public grammar-school at Belford-upon-Thames. Being her only surviving child, and, as such, brought up by his mother with great tenderness, he deeply felt the shock of separation from her; and, as the post-chaise rattled along the high western road, his father, who accompanied him, had no little difficulty in keeping up his son's spirits, whose young heart quite sunk within him at the idea of the weeks and months that might elapse before he should again see his mother. Nor is this grief to be wondered at; for the change from home to school, where he has to "rough it" every hour of his life, is, to a susceptible and delicately-nurtured child, as painful and startling a one as it is possible to conceive. All is so repulsive—so unlike what he has been used to! The sky-blue milk, with the tiny penny roll for breakfast; the half-cold leg of fat Leicestershire mutton, washed down with indifferent swipes, for dinner; the thick wedge of stale bread, and Lilliputian allowance of the cheapest cheese, for supper; the loud ringing of the school bell in the morning, that rouses you from a dream of home to the drudgery of syntax and prosody; the awful master, with his cane and birch, cast-iron visage, and thundering voice; the tyrannical fagging system; the confinement on long winter evenings to the dim-lit, uncarpeted hall, where you have to fight for a seat by the fireside; the hard bed, shared perhaps with a bigger boy, who doubles the bolster under his own head, borrows your share of the sheets and blankets, and kicks you out if you are so unreasonable as to remonstrate;—all these, to say nothing of various minor miseries, have a most blighting effect on the feelings of a young and sensitive boy; and Henry Raymond felt them so acutely, that, for nearly a fortnight after the return of his father to London, not a night passed but his pillow was wet with tears.

But youth's sorrows, like April showers, are transitory; and in the course of a month Henry had become tolerably well reconciled to his lot. Being endowed with a quick apprehension and retentive memory, his school tasks were not the bugbears to him that they are to those of more limited capacity. He mastered them, when he pleased, with facility, and consequently soon grew into favour with his masters; while, at the same time, he won "golden opinions" from his class-fellows by his frankness, his good-humour, and his readiness to assist them in their exercises. As his constitution, though sound, was delicate, he did not enter with much avidity into the usual sports of boyhood; but, when the hours of study were over, he would wander alone the ruins of an abbey which bordered the playground, and there seat himself, with some favourite volume in his hand, or else remain behind in the school-room, poring over the books in the well-stored library. In this way he got through the plays of Shakspeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, books of voyages and travels, biographies, histories, and translations of history without number. But his favourite reading was that which appeals to the imagination. Poetry, in particular, exercised quite a spell over him; and the effect thus produced, at a time when the mind is most susceptible of impressions, though its softening and elevating influence was for a while disturbed, was never afterwards eradicated. Such were the occupations of young Raymond's leisure hours. His classical studies were pursued with equal zest; for the head master, who was a consummate judge of character, and was impressed with a favourable opinion of his capacity, took great pains to call forth his energies; so that, by the time he reached his sixteenth year, he had become an excellent Latin scholar, and no mean proficient in the glorious literature of Greece.

In the spring of the ensuing year a severe calamity befell him in the loss of his mother, who had long been in a declining state of health, and died when he was at home for the Easter holydays. As he took this bereavement deeply to heart, the elder Raymond, whose mind—though not usually accessible to the tenderer emotions—was also much disturbed by it, resolved on a change of scene for himself and son; and accordingly they crossed over to the Continent, traversed a great portion of France, Switzerland, and Italy, mixing as much as possible in society, especially at Paris, Florence, and Lausanne, at each of which places they remained nearly two months; and returned home to London shortly after Christmas, when Henry was immediately sent back to school.

From this period a striking change took place in his character. He was no longer the quiet, studious contemplative boy he had hitherto been; for foreign travel—which has always, in youth, such a sudden quietening effect on the faculties—had invigorated and given a more worldly tone to his intellect, taught him self-confidence by enlarging the sphere of his observation, and furnished him with that tact and self-possession, which, when accompanied by a buoyant and generous spirit, are always prime favourites in the social circles. So was his physical nature less improved. His countenance, wont to wear a languid and relaxed expression, was now replete with energy; his dark eye sparkled with animation, and his tall, well-proportioned figure, braced by constant rambles among the Swiss mountains, showed that he was capable of undergoing much toil.

This change in Raymond's constitution induced a corresponding one in his tastes and pursuits. A love of reading ceased to form the predominant feature of his character—though he still read hard by fits and starts—for his high animal spirits required ruder stimulants than books could furnish him with; and his chief object of ambition now was to excel his colleagues in all athletic, out-of-door exercises. He would be aut Cæsar aut Nullus—that is to say, cock of the walk or nothing—the best cricketer, skater, boxer, &c., in the whole school; and the pre-eminence for which he thirsted was at length conceded to him, though not without many a severe struggle; for a public school is an epitome of the great world, where no distinction is to be gained except by unflinching courage and continuous energy, and against a host of jealous competitors.