“What capital coals these are!—­There’s nothing in the world so cheering—­ so enlivening—­as a good, hot, blazing, sea-coal fire.”—­I broke a large lump into fragments with the poker, as I spoke—­“It’s all mighty fine,” I continued, “for us travellers to harangue the ignorant on the beauty of foreign cities, on their buildings without dust, and their skies without a cloud; but, for my own part, I like to see a dark, thick, heavy atmosphere, hanging over a town.  It forewarns the traveller of his approach to the habitations, the business, and the comforts of his civilized fellow-creatures.  It gives an air of grandeur, and importance, and mystery, to the scenes:  it conciliates our respect.  We know that there must be some fire where there is so much smother.—­While, in those bright, shining, smokeless cities, whenever the sun shines upon them, one’s eyes are put out by the glare of their white walls; and when it does not shine!—­why, in the winter, there’s no resource left for a man but hopeless and shivering resignation, with their wide, windy chimneys, and their damp, crackling, hissing, sputtering, tantalizing fagots.”—­I confirmed my argument in favour of our metropolitan obscurity by another stroke of the poker against the largest fragment of the broken coal; and then, letting fall my weapon, and turning my back to the fire, I exclaimed, “Certainly—­there’s no kind of furniture like books:—­nothing else can afford one an equal air of comfort and habitability.—­Such a resource too!—­A man never feels alone in a library.—­He lives surrounded by companions, who stand ever obedient to his call, coinciding with every caprice of temper, and harmonising with every turn and disposition of the mind.—­Yes:  I love my book:—­they are my friends—­my counsellors—­my companions.—­Yes; I have a real personal attachment, a very tender regard, for my books.”

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my dressing-gown, which, by the by, is far the handsomest piece of old brocade I have ever seen,—–­a large running pattern of gold hollyhocks, with silver stalks and leaves, upon a rich, deep, Pompadour-coloured ground,—­and, walking slowly backwards and forwards in my room, I continued,—­“There never was, there never can have been, so happy a fellow as myself!  What on earth have I to wish for more?  Maria adores me—­I adore Maria.  To be sure, she’s detained at Brighton; but I hear from her regularly every morning by the post, and we are to be united for life in a fortnight.  Who was ever so blest in his love?  Then again John Fraser—­my old schoolfellow!  I don’t believe there’s anything in the world he would not do for me.  I’m sure there’s no living thing that he loves so much as myself, except, perhaps, his old uncle Simon, and his black mare.”

I had by this time returned to the fireplace, and, reseating myself, began to apostrophize my magnificent black Newfoundland, who, having partaken of my dinner, was following the advice and example of Abernethy, and sleeping on the rug, as it digested.—­“And you, too, my old Neptune, aren’t you the best and handsomest dog in the universe?”