I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether
pleasure or melancholy predominated: for I was reminded of those days
when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was
the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward to
water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought
us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms
of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little
comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage
road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy
meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the
night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side
the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered,
and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience,
neatness, and broad, honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn.
It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels,
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green.
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a
smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock
ticked in one corner. A well scoured deal table extended along one side
of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard.

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 seats beside the fire. Trim house-maids 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
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