ouse, the exact weight and digestive capacity of mine host; for
if the inn promise well for the creature comforts, so will the
inn-keeper. And what can be more cheering to a tired wayfarer than to
be met at the door by a jolly red-faced old fellow--

"His fair round belly with fat capon lined"--

beefsteaks in the expression of his eye; his bald pate the fac-simile
of a rump of mutton; plum-puddings and apple-dumplings in every curve
of his chin; his body the living embodiment of a cask of beer
supported by two pipes of generous wine; the whole man overflowing
with rich juices and essences, gravies, and strong drinks--a
breathing incarnation of all the good things of life, whom to look
upon is to feel good-natured and happy in the present, and hopeful for
the future; such a man, in short, as mine host of the Golden Crown,
whose portrait I have endeavored to present.

[Illustration: MODEL LANDLORD.]

If there be any likeness between myself and the son, it certainly does
not extend to the father. He carries in his hands a steaming hot
plum-pudding; he is a model landlord, and delights in feeding his
customers. His voice is greasy like his face. When he laughs it is
from his capacious stomach the sounds come. His best jokes are based
upon his digestive organs. He gets a little boozy toward evening, but
that is merely a hospitable habit of his to prove that his liquors are
good. You commit yourself at once to his keeping with a delightful
consciousness that in his hands you are safe. He is not a man to
suffer an honest customer to starve. Nature, in her prodigality,
formed him upon a generous pattern. Whatever does other people good
likewise does him good. May he live a thousand years--mine host of the
Golden Crown!--and may his shadow never be less!

CHAPTER XXXIV.

DOWN THE DRIVSDAL.

The next morning I proceeded on my way, resolved, if ever I came this
route again, to spend a week at Djerkin. A withered old man
accompanied me on the back of the cariole. After half an hour's hard
climbing up a very steep hill we reached the highest point of the
Dovre Fjeld, 4594 feet above the level of the sea. From this point the
view is exceedingly weird and desolate. Owing to the weather, however,
which was dark and threatening, I did not stop long to enjoy the view
of the barren wastes that lay behind, but was soon dashing at a
slapping pace down into the valley of the Drivsdal--one of the most
rugged and pictur