After which majestic preamble, we are surprised to see how little interest he takes in his own sickly and studious childhood, and how disinclined he is to say complimentary things about his own precocity. He writes without enthusiasm:—
"For myself I must be content with a very small share of the civil and literary fruits of a public school."
Burton, unhappily, had no share at all, and the loss of training and discipline told heavily on him all his life. His lawless and wandering childhood, so full of incident and so destitute of charm, is described with uncompromising veracity in Lady Burton's portly volumes. He was as far removed from the virtues of Lord Fauntleroy as from the brilliant and elaborate naughtiness of the Heavenly Twins; but he has the advantage over all these little people in being so convincingly real. He fought until he was beaten "as thin as a shotten herring." He knocked down his nurse—with the help of his brother and sister—and jumped on her. He hid behind the curtains and jeered at his grandmother's French. He was not pretty, and he was not picturesque.
