From this portrait we turned to that of Frederic the Great himself—his own gift to the family; from that prince the transition was easy to the subject of the Seven Years War, and we had begun planning excursions to the different battlefields when a bell began to ring, and changed the current of our thoughts. We rushed down a long corridor, being joined as we went by different other members of the household, and reached the room from whence the blaze of light betrayed the presence of the great tree. It was, indeed, a giant, and formed a most imposing spectacle, as it stood in the centre of the large room, dazzling with variegated waxen tapers, shimmering all over with ice-like crystals, and decorated with gilded fruits and sweetmeats. The base of this wonderful member of the vegetable world was covered by a pyramid of the tempting confectionery and gingerbread peculiar to the province, and for which lots had afterwards to be drawn. Round the room, and overshadowed by the mighty branches of the central tree, stood tiny specimens of the same tribe, each standing upon a table laden with gifts, and each destined for a separate member of the family and household. Even I, stranger as I was, had my own little tree and table of presents—pieces of fine Silesian linen, a huge surprise ball,[2] and a pretty gold brooch, embossed with roses and forget-me-nots, which I cherish still in remembrance of my first happy visit to Germany. There were so many pretty things to admire, so many thanks to tender, so many good wishes to exchange, that it was growing quite late before we could make up our minds to leave these “halls of dazzling light” for the more prosaic supper-room. Here—as in Germany the Eve is more celebrated (except as regards religious services) than the Christmas Day itself—we found the traditional dishes of Germany and of England. In honour of Germany I had to make acquaintance with real black bread—“Pumpernickel,” as they call it in some parts of Germany, sauerkraut, and raw smoked ham, all of which at first I secretly thought odious, but eventually grew to like very much; and in honour of England we had plum pudding and mince pies—the former not at all badly cooked, the latter a dismal failure, as most English housewives will understand when I tell them that the cook, although adhering strictly to the proportions of an excellent recipe, had—for some extraordinary reasons of his own—pounded the whole into a paste, and enclosed it in a very thick crust, the shape and size of a small pork pie.