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I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on
every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr.
Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was once almost
universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of
England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is
falling into neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible
of the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the
occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning
gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for the day and
attunes every spirit to harmony.
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 gentlemanlike dogs,
that seemed loungers about the establishment, from the frisking
spaniel to the steady old stag-hound, 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.
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