430 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



(Having screwed up most of his horses, Mr. Vickerman 

 would not have hunted on March 17th, 1859, had it not been 

 for an offer of a mount from his friend, Mr. R. Stevens, of 

 Witham, for a meet of the staghounds at Black Notley Hall, 

 Mr. Poole's house, which presented a goodly sight, the festive 

 board being thronged with red and black coated sportsmen 

 (" who gave a roar and a cheer as I entered, having been absent 

 lately "), and there was an immense muster outside.) The stag 

 went well over a stiffish banking country, and having been 

 warned by Richard Heatley (who had sold the mare to 

 Stevens), that I should find her slow after my flyers and the 

 East Essex Hunt mustering strong in their own country and 

 bent upon going, I was determined to keep with hounds as 

 long as I could and not throw away a chance which a slow 

 one could never recover, but held her head straight. 



The first two or three fences she did well, though rather 

 pitchy in her landing, and the third or fourth being a big- 

 one with wide ditch towards me and high banks beyond. 

 I sent her quickly at it, and was delighted while up in the 

 air to find she did not touch a twig. But my joys were brief, 

 for having no shoulders and indifferent legs, and a little stupid 

 Pelham bit, she landed on her head, pitched a complete somer- 

 sault, falling just short of me, who had been shot forward on to 

 my face on the hard plough land. Shaken and half stupefied 

 for a moment I jumped up and instantaneously got hold of 

 her. Two rustics with open mouths and wondering counte- 

 nances being fortunately by to catch her, I jumped up and 

 mopping the blood which flowed from brow, nose, and face 

 as I rode along, soon caught the hounds, who fortunately had 

 gone slowly for a field or two, and held my place with the 

 leaders for some three quarters-of-an-hour over a cramped and 

 difficult banking country. 



The figure I cut was a queer one and excited remark from 

 the select few who had the chance of seeing my face. But 

 the pace began to tell, and fall number two (an ordinary one) 

 was a hint that she had done enough and that I had better 

 recollect that she was a friend's horse. I decided, therefore, 

 to ease her to the finish, and while trotting down a cart road 

 in the middle of a covert called " Man Wood " I suddenly 

 felt my mare's quarters cannoned behind by a big lubberly 

 fellow on a chestnut horse, which knocked her forelegs into 

 the cart rut and then sent her on to her head. Rolling over 

 she precipitated me on my left (and weak) shoulder, right on 

 to some stubbs where the underwood had been cut. The 



