62 REMINISCENCES OF A HUNTSMAN 



whereat he had entered, but, with a bush stuck up in it, did not 

 know it again, and away he went, coasting the ditch, and dipped 

 at here and there by the farmers as we see small birds dipping at 

 a hawk. The chase continued some time, the farmer growing 

 black in the face with rage and giddiness at the enemy's recalci- 

 trations and caged-squirrel-like evolutions, which really cut up 

 the meadow twice as much as the flight of horsemen that had 

 passed had done. At last Fermor was obliged to surrender and 

 pay a crown for his liberty. 



The best fun I ever saw was when the late Mr. Charles 

 Tollemache was chased by a farmer and his men in a small 

 meadow in the same country. If anything thwarted him, Mr. 

 Tollemache was very irate, and he was furious at the idea of 

 being caught or handled. My brother Moreton, and myself, 

 and my friend Tollemache were together. As usual, the run of 

 the farmer and his men was not made at us, but they made a 

 dash at Mr. Tollemache in the corner of the field, and put 

 Radical to his speed to bear his master scatheless. The very 

 instant that Tollemache found that he was a little (though 

 safely) ahead of his pursuers, he restrained Radical sufficiently to 

 let him fire a volley of angry words. The last thing the farmer 

 said was something regarding the damage Tollemache was 

 doing, calling to him at the same time to stop. " Damage ! " 

 shouted Tollemache, " stop ! you be d — d ! who'd stop, d'ye 

 think, on such a boggy place as this ? Damage ! you can't 

 hurt a swamp : grass ! there's none. Get your drain-plough, 

 open your ditches, spud the weeds, choke the wireworms, hang 

 the moles, sow clover and be d — d to you ! Rot a sheep indeed ! 

 you'd starve a spider." And away Radical flew, throwing the 

 clay behind him into the face of the bewildered enemy. 



The horse of a young farmer named Passingham, who lived 

 at Heston, was one day knocked down by a labourer with a 

 dung-fork, just as the chestnut mare landed over a fence in the 

 Harrow Vale. Speaking of young Passingham — both he and 

 his father are dead — I saw the following occurrence, in a narrow 

 bridle-way, in the midst of his father's farm. We had entered 



