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.”  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.  I closed, therefore, at once with his invitation:  the chaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges.

Christmas Eve

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight,
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is hight good-fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits. 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 
From curfew time
To the next prime.

—­Cartwright.

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop.  “He knows where he is going,” said my companion, laughing, “and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants’ hall.  My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality.  He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away.  My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham* for his textbook, instead of Chesterfield:  he determined, in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate.  He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday