Travellers of inferior
order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others
sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken
settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards
and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady,
but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant
word and have a rallying laugh with the group round the fire. The
scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the
comforts of midwinter:
Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require.*
* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.
I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the
door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of the lamps
I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I
moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I
was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly,
good-humored young fellow with whom I had once travelled on the
Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance
of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a
thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes.
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