hall.

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace, to
make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log
glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat;
this I understood was the Yule-log, which the Squire was particular in
having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient
custom.*

*[2] See Note B.

It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his hereditary
elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to
every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his
master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again
to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation
from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is
immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had
not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy
cavalier before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of
the family.

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a
spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around
which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles,
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished buffet among the
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare;
but the Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes
boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for
Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced-pie, in the
retinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that
I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the
warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance.

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours of an
eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the
quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man,
with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the
bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the smallpox, with a dry
perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye
of great