*
* Poor Robin's Almanac, 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. 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-fashioned style." His
reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen
for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little
impatient of my loneliness.
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