How charmingly Leigh Hunt has written: " My fire has been left to itself: it has full
room to breathe and to blaze, and I can poke it as I please. What recollections does that
idea excite ? — Poke it as I please ! Think, benevolent reader, — think of the pride and
pleasure of having in your hand that awful, but at the same time artless, weapon, a poker,
— of putting it into the proper bar, gently levering up the coals, and seeing the instant and
bustling flame above ! To what can I compare that moment ? That sudden, empyreal
enthusiam ? That fiery expression, vivification ? That ardent acknowledgment, as it were,
of the kindliness of the operator ? "
The utility, as well as beauty, of the fire during breakfast, need not be pointed out to
the most unphlogistic observer. A person would rather be shivering at any time of the
day than at that of his first rising ; the transition would be too unnatural, — he is not pre-
pared for it. If you eat plain bread and butter with your tea, it is fit that your modera-
tion should be rewarded with a good blaze; and if you indulge in hot rolls or toast, you
will hardly keep them to their warmth without it, particularly if you read; and then, -if you
take in a newspaper, what a delightful change from the wet, raw, dabbing fold of paper
when you first touch it, to the dry, crackling, crisp superficies which, with a skillful spat
of the finger-nails at its upper end, stands at once in your hand, and looks as if it said,
"Come read me." Nor is it the look of the newspaper only which the fire must render
complete: it is the interest of the ladies who happen to form part of your family, — of your
wife in particular, if you have one, — to avoid the niggling and pinching aspect of cold; it
takes away the harmony of her features, and the graces of her behavior; while, on the
other hand, there is scarcely a more interesting sight in the world than that of a neat,
delicate, good-humored woman presiding at your breakfast-table, with hands tapering out
of her long sleeves, eyes with a touch of Sir Peter Lely in them, face a little oval and retain-
ing a certain tinge of the pillow without its cloudiness. This is, indeed, the finishing grace
of a fireside.
The evening is beginning to gather in. The window, which presents a large face of
watery gray, intersected by strong lines, is imperceptibly becoming darker; and as that
becomes darker, the fire assumes a more glowing presence. The contemplatist keeps his
easy posture, absorbed in his fancies; and everything around him is still and serene. The
stillness would even ferment in his ear, and whisper, as it were, of what the air contained;
but a minute coil, just sufficient to hinder that busier silence, clicks in the burning coal,
while every now and then the light ashes shed themselves below, or a stronger, but still a
gentle, flame flutters up with a gleam over the chimney. At length, the darker objects in
the room mingle; the gleam of the fire streaks with a restless light the edges of the furni-
ture, and reflects itself in the blackening window; while his feet take a gentle move on the
fender, and then settle again, and his face comes out of the general darkness, earnest even
in indolence, and pale in the very ruddiness of what it looks upon. This is the only time,
perhaps, at which sheer idleness is salutary and refreshing.
26 HOME DISSERTATIONS.
Page 18
Presented as published in 1891. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
How charmingly Leigh Hunt has written: " My fire has been left to itself: it has full room to breathe and to blaze, and I can poke it as I please. What recollections does that idea excite ? — Poke it as I please ! Think, benevolent reader, — think of the pride and pleasure of having in your hand that awful, but at the same time artless, weapon, a poker, — of putting it into the proper bar, gently levering up the coals, and seeing the instant and bustling flame above ! To what can I compare that moment ? That sudden, empyreal enthusiam ? That fiery expression, vivification ? That ardent acknowledgment, as it were, of the kindliness of the operator ? "
The utility, as well as beauty, of the fire during breakfast, need not be pointed out to the most unphlogistic observer. A person would rather be shivering at any time of the day than at that of his first rising ; the transition would be too unnatural, — he is not prepared for it. If you eat plain bread and butter with your tea, it is fit that your moderation should be rewarded with a good blaze; and if you indulge in hot rolls or toast, you will hardly keep them to their warmth without it, particularly if you read; and then, -if you take in a newspaper, what a delightful change from the wet, raw, dabbing fold of paper when you first touch it, to the dry, crackling, crisp superficies which, with a skillful spat of the finger-nails at its upper end, stands at once in your hand, and looks as if it said, "Come read me." Nor is it the look of the newspaper only which the fire must render complete: it is the interest of the ladies who happen to form part of your family, — of your wife in particular, if you have one, — to avoid the niggling and pinching aspect of cold; it takes away the harmony of her features, and the graces of her behavior; while, on the other hand, there is scarcely a more interesting sight in the world than that of a neat, delicate, good-humored woman presiding at your breakfast-table, with hands tapering out of her long sleeves, eyes with a touch of Sir Peter Lely in them, face a little oval and retaining a certain tinge of the pillow without its cloudiness. This is, indeed, the finishing grace of a fireside.
The evening is beginning to gather in. The window, which presents a large face of watery gray, intersected by strong lines, is imperceptibly becoming darker; and as that becomes darker, the fire assumes a more glowing presence. The contemplatist keeps his easy posture, absorbed in his fancies; and everything around him is still and serene. The stillness would even ferment in his ear, and whisper, as it were, of what the air contained; but a minute coil, just sufficient to hinder that busier silence, clicks in the burning coal, while every now and then the light ashes shed themselves below, or a stronger, but still a gentle, flame flutters up with a gleam over the chimney. At length, the darker objects in the room mingle; the gleam of the fire streaks with a restless light the edges of the furniture, and reflects itself in the blackening window; while his feet take a gentle move on the fender, and then settle again, and his face comes out of the general darkness, earnest even in indolence, and pale in the very ruddiness of what it looks upon. This is the only time, perhaps, at which sheer idleness is salutary and refreshing.