Scarlet. 249 



easy task. The venerable ostler at the inn where 

 Mr. Meynell Ingram's hounds stay all night when 

 they come into the country, and who ought to be 

 quite a gazetteer on such points, vowed that he had 

 not seen his face, or heard his name for " twelve years 

 gone Christmas ;" while the barber was " only new 

 come," and knew nothing. A jolly young butcher 

 was acquainted with such a man, both by sight and 

 name, but then warming with his subject, and coming 

 out of his beefy bower, he fairly laughed to scorn 

 the notion that the Thomas Wingfield he meant 

 had ever been a huntsman. He knew better, that 

 he did ; it couldn't be that man at all we were 

 wanting. He, however, referred us to an adjacent 

 cobbler, and we asked him in that disbelieving 

 butcher's presence, by way of fixing the identity, 

 whether this old man had only one eye. The ques- 

 tion was unfortunate, but it settled the point, as when 

 he looked up and answered in the affirmative, we saw, 

 to our sorrow, that he had only one himself. And so 

 toiling away up that memorable ascent, " down which" 

 in political memory 



" Romantic Ashbourne ! glides 

 The Derby dilly, with its six insides," 



we reached the road-side residence of old Tom at 

 last. 



For a man of nearly eighty-four, he carries head 

 bravely. It is just thirty years since he laid aside his 

 horn, on Sir Thomas Mostyn resigning his hounds to 

 Mr. Drake ; but still, with his wiry ten stone frame, 

 black surtout and stockings, and drab breeches, he 

 looked quite the ancient martinet of the kennel. We 

 fully unfolded our mission, and it is no fault of ours 

 that his features are not preserved herewith in a 

 wood-cut, but the ice of prejudice was too strong 

 for us ; and though he at first consented, he backed 

 out on reflection. Modern hunting matters seemed 



