One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousandseven hundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark,and night came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm ofsleet, sharp, dense, and icy-cold, swept the wet streets, andrattled on the trembling windows. Signboards, shaken pastendurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the pavement;old tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast; and manya steeple rocked again that night, as though the earth weretroubled.
It was not a time for those who could by any means get light andwarmth, to brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political,and told each other with a secret gladness that the blast grewfiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by the water-side, hadits group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked ofvessels foundering at sea, and all hands lost; related many adismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and hoped that some theyknew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt. In privatedwellings, children clustered near the blaze; listening with timidpleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad inwhite standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep inold churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone thereat the dead hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thoughtof the dark rooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too,and hoped it would continue bravely. From time to time these happyindoor people stopped to listen, or one held up his finger andcried "Hark!" and then, above the rumbling in the chimney, and thefast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing sound,which shook the walls as though a giant"s hand were on them; then ahoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumultthat the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened howl, thewaves of wind swept on, and left a moment"s interval of rest.
Cheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole light that evening. Blessings on the red--deep, ruby,glowing red--old curtain of the window; blending into one richstream of brightness, fire and candle, meat, drink, and company,and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors!
Within, what carpet like its crunching sand, what music merry asits crackling logs, what perfume like its kitchen"s dainty breath,what weather genial as its hearty warmth! Blessings on the oldhouse, how sturdily it stood! How did the vexed wind chafe androar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant and strive with itswide chimneys, which still poured forth from their hospitablethroats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its face;how, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous toextinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put down andseemed the brighter for the conflict!
The profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodlytavern! It was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on itsspacious hearth; in the tiles which paved and compassed it, fivehundred flickering fires burnt brightly also. It was not enoughthat one red curtain shut the wild night out, and shed its cheerfulinfluence on the room. In every saucepan lid, and candlestick, andvessel of copper, brass, or tin that hung upon the walls, werecountless ruddy hangings, flashing and gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye wander where it might,interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The old oakwainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in adeep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the veryeyes of the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in thepipes they smoked.
Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five yearsbefore, with his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat theresince the clock struck eight, giving no other signs of life thanbreathing with a loud and constant snore (though he was wideawake), and from time to time putting his glass to his lips, orknocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filling it anew. It wasnow half-past ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were hiscompanions, as of old, and for two mortal hours and a half, none ofthe company had pronounced one word.
Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place andthe same relative positions, and doing exactly the same things fora great many years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power ofinfluencing each other which serves them in its stead, is aquestion for philosophy to settle. But certain it is that oldJohn Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr Cobb, were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly companions--rather choice spiritsthan otherwise; that they looked at each other every now and thenas if there were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on amongthem; that no man considered himself or his neighbour by any meanssilent; and that each of them nodded occasionally when he caughtthe eye of another, as if he would say, "You have expressedyourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and Iquite agree with you."
The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fireso very soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but ashe had perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art ofsmoking in his sleep, and as his breathing was pretty much thesame, awake or asleep, saving that in the latter case he sometimesexperienced a slight difficulty in respiration (such as a carpentermeets with when he is planing and comes to a knot), neither of hiscompanions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one ofthese impediments and was obliged to try again.
"Johnny"s dropped off," said Mr Parkes in a whisper.
"Fast as a top," said Mr Cobb.
Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot-oneof surpassing obduracy--which bade fair to throw him intoconvulsions, but which he got over at last without waking, by aneffort quite superhuman.
"He sleeps uncommon hard," said Mr Cobb.