’Twere almost superfluous to say that NEW YEAR’S DAY is always a great holiday.  It is a day on which custom commands people to be happy and idle, whether they have the means of being happy and idle or not.  It is a day for which happiness and idleness are ‘booked,’ and parties are planned and arranged long beforehand.  Some go to the town, some to the country; some take rail; some take steam; some take greyhounds; some take gigs; while others take guns and pop at all the little dicky-birds that come in their way.  The rural population generally incline to a hunt.  They are not very particular as to style, so long as there are a certain number of hounds, and some men in scarlet, to blow their horns, halloo, and crack their whips.

The population, especially the rising population about Nonsuch House, all inclined that way.  A New Year’s Day’s hunt with Sir Harry had long been looked forward to by the little Raws, and the little Spooneys, and the big and little Cheeks, and we don’t know how many others.  Nay, it had been talked of by the elder boys at their respective schools—­we beg pardon, academies—­Dr. Switchington’s, Mr. Latherington’s, Mrs. Skelper’s, and a liberal allowance of boasting indulged in, as to how they would show each other the way over the hedges and ditches.  The thing had long been talked of.  Old Johnny Raw had asked Sir Harry to arrange the day so long ago that Sir Harry had forgotten all about it.  Sir Harry was one of those good-natured souls who can’t say ‘No’ to any one.  If anybody had asked if they might set fire to his house, he would have said: 

’Oh (hiccup) certainly, my dear (hiccup) fellow, if it will give you any (hiccup) pleasure.’

Now, for the hiccup day.

It is generally a frost on New Year’s Day.  However wet and sloppy the weather may be up to the end of the year, it generally turns over a new leaf on that day.  New Year’s Day is generally a bright, bitter, sunshiny day, with starry ice, and a most decided anti-hunting feeling about it—­light, airy, ringy, anything but cheery for hunting.

Thus it was in Sir Harry Scattercash’s county.  Having smoked and drunk the old year out, the captains and company retired to their couches without thinking about hunting.  Mr. Sponge, indeed, was about tired of asking when the hounds would be going out.  It was otherwise, however, with the rising generation, who were up betimes, and began pouring in upon Nonsuch House in every species of garb, on every description of steed, by every line and avenue of approach.

‘Halloo! what’s up now?’ exclaimed Lady Scattercash, as she caught view of the first batch rounding the corner to the front of the house.

‘Who have we here?’ asked Miss Glitters, as a ponderous, parti-coloured clown, on a great, curly-coated cart-horse, brought up the rear.

‘Early callers,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck, eating away complacently.

‘Friends of Mr. Sponge’s, most likely,’ suggested Captain Quod.