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.
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