in-shanked bloke anyway, who at Trinity
Hall had spent the most of his time in reading Hume (that was
Satan's lackey) and after taking his degree did a little in the way
of Imperial Finance. Of him it was that Lord Abraham Hart, that
far-seeing statesman, said, "This young man has the root of the matter
in him." I quote the epigram rather for its perfect form than for its
truth. For once, Lord Abraham was deceived. But it must be remembered
that he was at this time being plagued almost out of his wits by
the vile (though cleverly engineered) agitation for the compulsory
winding-up of the Rondoosdop Development Company. Afterwards, in
Wormwood Scrubbs, his Lordship admitted that his estimate of his young
friend had perhaps been pitched too high. In Dartmoor he has since
revoked it altogether, with that manliness for which the Empire so
loved him when he was at large.

Now the young man's name was Dimby--"Trot" Dimby--and his mother had
been a Clupton, so that--but had I not already dismissed him? Indeed I
only mentioned him because it seemed that his going to that Inn might
put me on track of that One Great Ultimate and Final True Thing I am
purposed to say about Christmas. Don't ask me yet what that Thing is.
Truth dwells in no man, but is a shy beast you must hunt as you may in
the forests that are round about the Walls of Heaven. And I do hereby
curse, gibbet, and denounce in _execrationem perpetuam atque aeternam_
the man who hunts in a crafty or calculating way--as, lying low,
nosing for scents, squinting for trails, crawling noiselessly till
he shall come near to his quarry and then taking careful aim. Here's
to him who hunts Truth in the honest fashion of men, which is, going
blindly at it, following his first scent (if such there be) or (if
none) none, scrambling over boulders, fording torrents, winding his
horn, plunging into thickets, skipping, firing off his gun in the air
continually, and then ramming in some more ammunition anyhow, with
a laugh and a curse if the charge explode in his own jolly face. The
chances are he will bring home in his bag nothing but a field-mouse
he trod on by accident. Not the less his is the true sport and the
essential stuff of holiness.

As touching Christmas--but there is nothing like verse to clear the
mind, heat the blood, and make very humble the heart. Rouse thee,
Muse!

One Christmas Night in Pontgibaud
(_Pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dub_)
A man with a drum went to and