JANUARY JAUXTS 405 



judges, I remembered, asserted at the time of sale that 

 neither of them was quite straight 011 liis legs. And I be- 

 Heve the critics were right. But they were a grand couple 

 of foxhounds notwithstanding. And there is no question 

 but that the old Welsh hunting blood (whether accoutred 

 in rough hair or smooth) is pre-eminent for power of nose 

 and fulness of tongue. 



The most ill piece of news during the frost — and 

 doubtless in a great measure caused by it — has been the 

 accident to Mr. Tailby, the best known and best preserved 

 of all our old school of hard riders. A score or more 

 years ago the Squire of Skeffington was in his zenith as 

 Master of the most notable hunt of the day, and foremost 

 among a band of stalwart horsemen such as seldom, if 

 ever, before mustered under one banner to tackle the 

 strongest country in England, and day by day to throw 

 down the friendly gauntlet to the Melton champions or 

 the Pytchley thrusters. To be a " Tailbyite " in those 

 days was in itself almost a guarantee of good sportsman- 

 ship and sterling capacity. The cream of the Cottesmore, 

 together with all the country now hunted by Mr. Fernie, 

 composed an arena, to secure the honour of an occasional 

 day in which, 1 remember well in my young soldiering 

 days, it was deemed well worth while to leave the mess- 

 table and travel half the night, taking what rest one could 

 in the waiting-room at St. Pancras, and journey to Leices- 

 ter with the newspapers at 5.25 a.m. If "there were 

 giants in those days," the biggest heart surely beat in the 

 breast of the smallest of them, if thus I might put it in all 

 respect and in present intense sympathy. Even during 

 this winter, after fifty seasons of hunting, several recent 

 and untoward accidents, and more bad falls than would 

 have sufficed to knock the nerve out of a dozen ordinary 

 men, Mr. Tailby was not to be left behind by " the boys," 

 but, when hounds ran, was yet to the front with all his 

 old ardour. And now Fate must decree him a miserable, 

 unnecessary, and most serious breakage — that of his thigh ! 

 Monday of last week was the first day of pronounced frost. 

 On this day he rode forth on a three-year-old to visit his 

 farm. Opening a second gate on his way, the young 



