My Days of Adventure | Page 5

be a street row in Church Lane, which I
had to cross on my way to or from Kensington Gardens, my daily place
of resort. At an early age I started bullying my younger brother, I defied
my grandmother, insulted the family doctor because he was too fond of
prescribing grey powders for my particular benefit, and behaved
abominably to the excellent Miss Lindup of Sheffield Terrace, who
endeavoured to instruct me in the rudiments of reading, writing, and
arithmetic. I frequently astonished or appalled the literary men and
artists who were my father's guests. I hated being continually asked
what I should like to be when I grew up, and the slightest chaff threw
me into a perfect paroxysm of passion. Whilst, however, I was resentful
of the authority of others, I was greatly inclined to exercise authority
myself--to such a degree, indeed, that my father's servants generally
spoke of me as "the young master," regardless of the existence of my
elder brothers.
Having already a retentive memory, I was set to learn sundry
"recitations," and every now and then was called upon to emerge from
behind the dining-room curtains and repeat "My Name is Norval" or
"The Spanish Armada," for the delectation of my father's friends whilst
they lingered over their wine. Disaster generally ensued, provoked
either by some genial chaff or well-meant criticism from such men as
Sala and Augustus Mayhew, and I was ultimately carried off--whilst

venting incoherent protests--to be soundly castigated and put to bed.
Among the real celebrities who occasionally called at Chalfont Lodge
was Thackeray, whom I can still picture sitting on one side of the
fireplace, whilst my father sat on the other, I being installed on the
hearthrug between them. Provided that I was left to myself, I could
behave decently enough, discreetly preserving silence, and, indeed,
listening intently to the conversation of my father's friends, and thereby
picking up a very odd mixture of knowledge. I was, I believe, a pale
little chap with lank fair hair and a wistful face, and no casual observer
would have imagined that my nature was largely compounded of such
elements as enter into the composition of Italian brigands,
Scandinavian pirates, and wild Welshmen. Thackeray, at all events, did
not appear to think badly of the little boy who sat so quietly at his feet.
One day, indeed, when he came upon me and my younger brother
Arthur, with our devoted attendant Selina Horrocks, in Kensington
Gardens, he put into practice his own dictum that one could never see a
schoolboy without feeling an impulse to dip one's hand in one's pocket.
Accordingly he presented me with the first half-crown I ever possessed,
for though my father's gifts were frequent they were small. It was
understood, I believe, that I was to share the aforesaid half-crown with
my brother Arthur, but in spite of the many remonstrances of the
faithful Selina--a worthy West-country woman, who had largely taken
my mother's place--I appropriated the gift in its entirety, and became
extremely ill by reason of my many indiscreet purchases at a tuck-stall
which stood, if I remember rightly, at a corner of the then renowned
Kensington Flower Walk. This incident must have occurred late in
Thackeray's life. My childish recollection of him is that of a very big
gentleman with beaming eyes.
My grandmother's reign in my father's house was not of great duration,
as in February, 1861, he contracted a second marriage, taking on this
occasion as his wife a "fair maid of Kent," [Elizabeth Anne Ansell, of
Broadstairs; mother of my step-brother, Dr. Frank H. Vizetelly, editor
of the "Standard Dictionary," New York.] to whose entry into our home
I was at first violently opposed, but who promptly won me over by her
unremitting affection and kindness, eventually becoming the best and

truest friend of my youth and early manhood. My circumstances
changed, however, soon after that marriage, for as I was now nearly
eight years old it was deemed appropriate that I should be sent to a
boarding-school, both by way of improving my mind and of having
some nonsense knocked out of me, which, indeed, was promptly
accomplished by the pugnacious kindness of my schoolfellows. Among
the latter was one, my senior by a few years, who became a very
distinguished journalist. I refer to the late Horace Voules, so long
associated with Labouchere's journal, Truth. My brother Edward was
also at the same school, and my brother Arthur came there a little later.
It was situated at Eastbourne, and a good deal has been written about it
in recent works on the history of that well-known watering-place,
which, when I was first sent there, counted less than 6000 inhabitants.
Located in the old town or village, at a distance of a mile