I must have been dressed very much as Henry Fairchild
was when he went to visit his little friend Master Noble. On
returning from church, I threw my velvet cap into the water-butt,
where, for all I know, it probably is still, and nothing would
induce me to put on the velvet tunic or the floppy collars a
second time. I bombarded my family with letters until I found
myself equipped with a high hat and Eton jackets and collars such
as the other boys wore.
We were taught French at Chittenden's by a very pleasant old
Belgian, M. Vansittart. I could talk French then as easily as
English, and after exchanging a few sentences with M. Vansittart,
he cried, "Tiens! mais c'est un petit Francais;" but the other
boys laughed so unmercifully at what they termed my affected
accent, that in self-defence I adopted an ultra-British
pronunciation, made intentional mistakes, and, in order to conform
to type, punctiliously addressed our venerable instructor as
"Moosoo," just as the other boys did. M. Vansittart must have been
a very old man, for he had fought as a private in the Belgian army
at the Battle of Waterloo.
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