oked) over a
"touch-wood" fire. I was a private while George was a sergeant, and it
was part of my duty to stand sentry at the far end of the kitchen-garden
until released by a bugle-call from the lawn. I have a vague remembrance
of presenting my fixed bayonet at my father to ward off a kiss, which
seemed to me inconsistent with my military duties. Our imaginary names
and heights were written up on the wall of the cloak-room. George, with
romantic exactitude, made a small foot rule of such a size that he could
conscientiously record his height as 6 feet, and mine as slightly less,
in accordance with my age and station.

Under my father's instruction George made spears with weighted heads,
which he hurled with remarkable skill by means of an Australian throwing
stick. I used to skulk behind the big lime trees on the lawn in the
character of victim, and I still remember the look of the spear flying
through the air with a certain venomous waggle. Indoors, too, we threw
at each other wooden javelins, which we received on beautiful shields
made by the village carpenter and decorated with coats of arms.

Heraldry was a serious pursuit of his for many years, and the London
Library copies of Guillim and Edmonson {156} were generally at Down. He
retained a love of the science through life, and his copy of Percy's
_Reliques_ is decorated with coats of arms admirably drawn and painted.
In later life he showed a power of neat and accurate draughtsmanship, and
some of the illustrations in his father's books, _e.g._ in _Climbing
Plants_, are by his hand.

His early education was given by governesses, but the boys of the family
used to ride twice or thrice a week to be instructed in Latin by Mr.
Reed, the Rector of Hayes--the kindest of teachers. For myself, I
chiefly remember the cake we used to have at 11 o'clock, and the
occasional diversion of looking at the pictures in the great Dutch Bible.
George must have impressed his parents with his solidity and
self-reliance, since he was more than once allowed to undertake alone the
20-mile ride to the house of a relative at Hartfield in Sussex. For a
boy of ten to bait his pony and order his luncheon at the Edenbridge inn
was probably more alarming than the rest of the adventure. There is
indeed a touch of David Copperfield in his recollections as preserved in
family tradition. The waiter always said, "What will you have for lunch,
Sir?" to which he replied, "What is there?"