One would like here to pause, while our worthy ancient feeds, and indulge in a short essay on Habit, to show what a sacred and admirable thing it is that makes flimsy Time substantial, and consolidates his triple life.  It is proof that we have come to the end of dreams and Time’s delusions, and are determined to sit down at Life’s feast and carve for ourselves.  Its day is the child of yesterday, and has a claim on to-morrow.  Whereas those who have no such plan of existence and sum of their wisdom to show, the winds blow them as they list.  Consider, then, mercifully the wrath of him on whom carelessness or forgetfulness has brought a snap in the links of Habit.  You incline to scorn him because, his slippers misplaced, or asparagus not on his table the first day of a particular Spring month, he gazes blankly and sighs as one who saw the End.  To you it may appear small.  You call to him to be a man.  He is:  but he is also an immortal, and his confidence in unceasing orderly progression is rudely dashed.

But the old gentleman has finished his dinner and his Madeira, and says:  ’Now, Jonathan, “thock” the Port!’—­his joke when matters have gone well:  meant to express the sound of the uncorking, probably.  The habit of making good jokes is rare, as you know:  old gentlemen have not yet attained to it:  nevertheless Jonathan enjoys this one, which has seen a generation in and out, for he knows its purport to be, ’My heart is open.’

And now is a great time with this old gentleman.  He sips, and in his eyes the world grows rosy, and he exchanges mute or monosyllable salutes here and there.  His habit is to avoid converse; but he will let a light remark season meditation.

He says to Jonathan:  ‘The bill for the month.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jonathan replies.  ’Would you not prefer, sir, to have the items added on to the month ensuing?’

‘I asked you for the bill of the month,’ said the old gentleman, with an irritated voice and a twinkle in his eye.

Jonathan bowed; but his aspect betrayed perplexity, and that perplexity was soon shared by the landlady for Jonathan said, he was convinced the old gentleman intended to pay for sixteen days, and the landlady could not bring her hand to charge him for more than two.  Here was the dilemma foreseen by the old gentleman, and it added vastly to the flavour of the Port.

Pleasantly tickled, he sat gazing at his glass, and let the minutes fly.  He knew the part he would act in his little farce.  If charged for the whole month, he would peruse the bill deliberately, and perhaps cry out ‘Hulloa?’ and then snap at Jonathan for the interposition of a remark.  But if charged for two days, he would wish to be told whether they were demented, those people outside, and scornfully return the bill to Jonathan.

A slap on the shoulder, and a voice:  ‘Found you at last, Tom!’ violently shattered the excellent plot, and made the old gentleman start.  He beheld Mr. Andrew Cogglesby.