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 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 mid-winter:
Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostesss, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require.
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