The Squire was a fine,
healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an
open, florid countenance; in which a physiognomist, with the advantage,
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular
mixture of whim and benevolence.
The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far
advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change our travelling
dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in
a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a
numerous family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old
uncles and aunts, comfortably married dames, superannuated spinsters,
blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed
boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied; some at a round
game of cards; others conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the
hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of
a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a
profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about
the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having
frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a
peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between Bracebridge and his
relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall,
for so it had certainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently
endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive state.
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