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
realised 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 postchaise drove up to the door.
A young gentleman stepped 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-humoured 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. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an
inn was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him
a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass
the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better
than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he; "and I can
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashion style."