Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old English
fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts
of tea-and-toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern
effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness;
and though he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his
guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on
the sideboard.
After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and
Master Simon, or Mr. Simon as he was called by everybody but the
Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentleman-like dogs, that seemed
loungers about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the
steady old staghound; the last of which was of a race that had been in
the family time out of mind: they were all obedient to a dog-whistle
which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their
gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried
in his hand.
The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine
than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force of the
Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades,
and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy.
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and
I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that
were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my
phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most
ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a MUSTER of
peacocks.
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