A HUNTSMAN'S DIARY, AND MINE. 195 



Mumford rode over hounds but had rous enough to turn under 

 the bullfinch, while poor little Martin, who never did worse 

 than jump after somebody else as close as he dared, was carried 

 on to his doom — none of these things are for the forthcoming 

 weekly. It's a merry game, truly. But most of its comedy is 

 contained in the personal discomfiture of Tom and Harry for 

 Dick's amusement. And though Dick, Tom, and Harry seldom 

 let each other off — they are not performing for edification of 

 the printer's devil. In a rattling run, Richard, Thomas, and 

 Henry become perhaps public property ; their patronymics or 

 their pseudonyms are in everybody's mouth ; and posterity 

 might suffer if not taken into confidence. But as to who was 

 first to drive hounds over the line, who led a lot of sinners to 

 tumble into a lane which the fox had run down. Don't name 



him, sir, or I'll him, must be the natural thought of men 



who keep hounds. And concurrency of sentiment on the part 

 of a writer to hounds cannot but prompt strong control even 

 over a voluble pen. 



Friday, December 11. — To-day found a much-improved state 

 of things prevalent for the Pytchley meet at Ashby St. Ledgers 

 — though the roads were crisp and snow-sprinkled, and a clear 

 sky sparkled ominously. The initial duty of the diary-keeper 

 is, I take it, to summarise that with which he proposes to deal, 

 giving some idea whether there is a story in store, a bare record 

 of small events, or a mere outbreak of fancy such as is the 

 produce of frost and indoor life. I pretend to no omniscience 

 or omnipresence ; but the material for a straight good run has 

 not come within my ken in the first six weeks of this season 

 of '86 — '87, though I have battled hard to follow hounds five 

 days out of seven up to date. Friday was an enjoyable 

 day, a hound day and a huntsman's day. But when those two 

 well-earned masks have been fixed to the kennel door, Dec. 

 11th will be sunk in oblivion — unless the keen ladies of the 

 Pytchley pack care to retain its memory, to whet their already 

 most adequate energy against their next visit this way. Goodall's 

 diary (if he has leisure to keep one) probably runs thus — " First 



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