slate, our sovereign remedy for cuts with the cane, and escaped the speech. The last year of my school-days was passed in the country at Eythorne, a village near Dover. No more canings now; I never saw any corporal punishment. We were “kept in,” or had to learn so many lines from a Latin author as punishment, which, in my case, tended to increase my love and veneration for the classics. We had an old French master, a good- natured soul, who never got angry when we laughed at his errors in English or brutally re- ferred to Waterloo. He once went into the shop of the village and asked for a “leetel pork.” The attendant showed him some of “our best streaky.” “No, no, not zat ; I want a leetle pork wiz legs,” and we had to assist the Frenchman before the bumpkin intellect could be got to understand that a sucking pig was the desired object.
On returning to Eythorne after the midsummer holidays, for what was to be my last “half” at school, my father gave me a copy of Hugh Clark’s “Short and Easy Introduction to Heraldry.” It was thought that if I persisted in this love of art now beginning to develop, an outlet for my desire might be found in painting the crests and coats of arms on carriage doors and panels. Heraldry appealed to my budding love of medisevalism, and I studied the book with great zest and interest.
