My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his appearance, and alert in his bearing. _My_ hunting days began when I visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to compete. I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the "Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw them avoiding unnecessary obstacles. One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me. "Are you hurt?" he called. "Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough: I could speak. This callous behaviour roused me to such resentment that I tried to rise--at the crucial moment the "Count" stepped heavily upon my foot. I swore violently, and, anger impelling me to action, I mounted him and rode away. Riding one evening as the twilight was falling and the surrounding country growing faint in the failing light, I rode my horse into a bog. We soon found ourselves up to the knees and in an apparently inextricable position. The situation was growing unpleasant when the horse, instinctively recognising the danger, made a supreme struggle for liberty, and, after some exertion, we emerged and reached home safely. I used to follow Mr. Brocklehurst, the then Master of the Cheshire Harriers, and old Mr. Cobbett (the son of the great William Cobbett) who dressed so exactly in the same fashion as his famous father, one could almost imagine he had left Madame Tussaud's, with his snuff-box, to take a day's hunting in Cheshire. Sir William Cobbett (the grandson) still adheres as nearly as possible to that old tradition of dress. It was in Cheshire, at Alderley, that I met Edmund Ashton, an old Etonian and a jolly fellow, who became engaged to Fox's sister. The village was gay with decorations on the day of the wedding; on one triumphal arch the local poet had evidently exerted his muse, for in big letters shone the following couplet:-- On this day with joy and pride Edmund weds his youthful bride. Under the hospitable roof of Mr. Fox, a trio of us (Will Jaffray, now Sir William, Harry Fox and I) formed a bond of friendship maintained to this day, and which has always been one of the pleasantest facts of my life.