Blasts from the Channel, with raining scud, and spume of mist breaking upon the hills, have kept me indoors all day.Yet not for a moment have I been dull or idle, and now, by the latter end of a sea-coal fire, I feel such enjoyment of my ease and tranquillity that I must needs word it before going up to bed.
Of course one ought to be able to breast weather such as this of to-day, and to find one's pleasure in the strife with it.For the man sound in body and serene of mind there is no such thing as bad weather; every sky has its beauty, and storms which whip the blood do but make it pulse more vigorously.I remember the time when Iwould have set out with gusto for a tramp along the wind-swept and rain-beaten roads; nowadays, I should perhaps pay for the experiment with my life.All the more do I prize the shelter of these good walls, the honest workmanship which makes my doors and windows proof against the assailing blast.In all England, the land of comfort, there is no room more comfortable than this in which I sit.
Comfortable in the good old sense of the word, giving solace to the mind no less than ease to the body.And never does it look more homely, more a refuge and a sanctuary, than on winter nights.
In my first winter here, I tried fires of wood, having had my hearth arranged for the purpose; but that was a mistake.One cannot burn logs successfully in a small room; either the fire, being kept moderate, needs constant attention, or its triumphant blaze makes the room too hot.A fire is a delightful thing, a companion and an inspiration.If my room were kept warm by some wretched modern contrivance of water-pipes or heated air, would it be the same to me as that beautiful core of glowing fuel, which, if I sit and gaze into it, becomes a world of wonders? Let science warm the heaven-forsaken inhabitants of flats and hotels as effectually and economically as it may; if the choice were forced upon me, I had rather sit, like an Italian, wrapped in my mantle, softly stirring with a key the silver-grey surface of the brasier's charcoal.They tell me we are burning all our coal, and with wicked wastefulness.
I am sorry for it, but I cannot on that account make cheerless perhaps the last winter of my life.There may be waste on domestic hearths, but the wickedness is elsewhere--too blatant to call for indication.Use common sense, by all means, in the construction of grates; that more than half the heat of the kindly coal should be blown up the chimney is desired by no one; but hold by the open fire as you hold by whatever else is best in England.Because, in the course of nature, it will be some day a thing of the past (like most other things that are worth living for), is that a reason why it should not be enjoyed as long as possible? Human beings may ere long take their nourishment in the form of pills; the prevision of that happy economy causes me no reproach when I sit down to a joint of meat.
See how friendly together are the fire and the shaded lamp; both have their part alike in the illumining and warming of the room.As the fire purrs and softly crackles, so does my lamp at intervals utter a little gurgling sound when the oil flows to the wick, and custom has made this a pleasure to me.Another sound, blending with both, is the gentle ticking of the clock.I could not endure one of those bustling little clocks which tick like a fever pulse, and are only fit for a stockbroker's office; mine hums very slowly, as though it savoured the minutes no less than I do; and when it strikes, the little voice is silver-sweet, telling me without sadness that another hour of life is reckoned, another of the priceless hours -"Quae nobis pereunt et imputantur."
After extinguishing the lamp, and when I have reached the door, Ialways turn to look back; my room is so cosily alluring in the light of the last gleeds, that I do not easily move away.The warm glow is reflected on shining wood, on my chair, my writing-table, on the bookcases, and from the gilt title of some stately volume; it illumes this picture, it half disperses the gloom on that.I could imagine that, as in a fairy tale, the books do but await my departure to begin talking among themselves.A little tongue of flame shoots up from a dying ember; shadows shift upon the ceiling and the walls.With a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth, and shut the door softly.
