BREAKING THE ICE. 365 



into thought as, in the contentment of sport just witnessed and 

 a cigar burning amiably, one saunters home through a country 

 whose every field suggests a memory, every fence recalls an 

 incident. The ride under such circumstances is by no means 

 the worst part of foxhunting. A lame horse, a run lost, are 

 frequent exponents of a very different state of feeling. But 

 these are not for the present; and, indeed, should never be 

 admitted into the scribe's elysium. 



BREAKING THE ICE. 



A CHARMING beginning was made by thePytchley on Saturday, 

 Nov. 3 — and not its least charm lay in the slow, soaking rain 

 that wrapped the proceedings, and us. A beginning it was, 

 not so much of running and hunting, but of pleasant, practicable 

 riding ; and whoever knows the Shires must give the latter 

 capacity at least a little place in the definition of what we, of 

 the nineteenth century, understand as Sport. Houndwork is 

 of itself a delightful thing — but what is foxhunting if students 

 and lookers-on are excluded ? Too many runs take place at all 

 times with only a few witnesses. How is it when everybody 

 is shut off, by hard ground and fences unrideable ? Saturday 

 was the first day whereon to start the new order of things, and 

 to allow of men taking their due share in the fling and the fun 

 of the chase. 



There had been rain for a day and a night ; the turf was in 

 velvet, save where the crusted horn of an old cold pasture still 

 held out against the softening drizzle ; and a quiet, melting- 

 rainfall made the parched ground better hour by hour. 



The " little pack " had been taken to Newnham, a new and 

 judicious fixture, with intent upon Fawsley and Badby Wood. 

 In a small round spinney on the domain, and close to the 

 house, a fox was chopped. A second went off during the 

 brushing (the eating being dispensed with, fur apparently 

 patchy). So, hounds were laid on with their fox quite free to 



