It was followed by a dance of all the
characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the
old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the
sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and
left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the
days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of
succeeding generations.
The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this
resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish
delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing
a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing
most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or
Peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part,
I was in a continual excitement, from the varied scenes of whim and
innocent gaiety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed
frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills
and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching
once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest
in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were
posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family
in England in which the whole of them were still punctiliously observed.
There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry that gave
it a peculiar zest; it was suited to the time and place; and as the old
Manor House almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back
the joviality of long-departed years.
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