Old Christmas | Page 7

not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door.
A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught
a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to
get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was
Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humoured young fellow, with
whom I had once travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was
extremely cordial; for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures,
and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an
inn was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and
was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give
him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to
pass the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better
than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he; "and I can
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashion style."
His reasoning was cogent; and I must confess the preparation I had
seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a
little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his
invitation: the chaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was
on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.

[Illustration: Christmas Eve]
[Illustration]
Saint Francis and Saint Benedight Blesse this house from wicked wight;
From the night-mare and the goblin, That is hight good-fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits, Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: From
curfew time To the next prime.

CARTWRIGHT.
[Illustration]

CHRISTMAS EVE
[Illustration: I]
It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise
whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip
incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. "He
knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, "and is eager
to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the
servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the
old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old
English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely
meet with now-a-days in its purity, the old English country gentleman;
for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion
is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of
ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from
early years, took honest Peacham[B] for his text book, instead of
Chesterfield: he determined, in his own mind, that there was no
condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a country
gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his
time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old
rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers,
ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his
favourite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at least
two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true
Englishmen than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes
that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was
itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some
distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country,
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all
blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his
own humour without molestation. Being representative of the oldest

family in the neighbourhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his
tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by
the appellation of 'The Squire;' a title which has been accorded to the
head of the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you
these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any little
eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd."
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the
chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of
iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The
huge square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the
family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under
dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery.
[Illustration]
The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through