seven o'clock
But the black , lowering sky , as I turned my eyes upward , wore , doubtless , the same visage as when it frowned upon the ante-Revolutionary New Englanders . The wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar to their ears . The Old South Church , too , still pointed its antique spire into the darkness and was lost between earth and heaven , and , as I passed , its clock , which had warned so many generations how transitory was their lifetime , spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself . `` Only seven o'clock ! '' thought I. `` My old friend 's legends will scarcely kill the hours ` twixt this and bedtime . '' Passing through the narrow arch , I crossed the courtyard , the confined precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of the Province House . On entering the bar-room , I found , as I expected , the old tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite , compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar .