 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
FIRE-WORSHIP.
It is a great revolution in social and domestic life—and no less
so in the life of the secluded student—this almost universal exchange
of the open fire-place for the cheerless and ungenial
stove. On such a morning as now lowers around our old grey
parsonage, I miss the bright face of my ancient friend, who was
wont to dance upon the hearth, and play the part of a more familiar
sunshine. It is sad to turn from the cloudy sky and sombre
landscape—from yonder hill, with its crown of rusty, black pines,
the foliage of which is so dismal in the absence of the sun; that
bleak pasture land, and the broken surface of the potato field,
with the brown clods partly concealed by the snow-fall of last
night; the swollen and sluggish river, with ice-encrusted borders,
dragging its bluish grey stream along the verge of our
orchard, like a snake half torpid with the cold—it is sad to turn
from an outward scene of so little comfort, and find the same
sullen influences brooding within the precincts of my study.
Where is that brilliant guest—that quick and subtle spirit whom
Prometheus lured from Heaven to civilize mankind, and cheer
them in their wintry desolation—that comfortable inmate, whose
smile, during eight months of the year, was our sufficient consolation
for summer's lingering advance and early flight? Alas!
blindly inhospitable, grudging the food that kept him cheery and
mercurial, we have thrust him into an iron prison, and compel
him to smoulder away his life on a daily pittance which once
we now make our fire in an air-tight stove, and supply
it with some half-a-dozen sticks of wood between dawn and
nightfall.
I never shall be reconciled to this enormity. Truly may it be
said, that the world looks darker for it. In one way or another,
here and there, and all around us, the inventions of mankind are
fast blotting the picturesque, the poetic, and the beautiful, out of
human life. The domestic fire was a type of all these attributes,
and seemed to bring might and majesty, and wild Nature, and a
spiritual essence, into our inmost home, and yet to dwell with us
in such friendliness, that its mysteries and marvels excited no
dismay. The same mild companion, that smiled so placidly in
our faces, was he that comes roaring out of Ætna, and rushes
madly up the sky, like a fiend breaking loose from torment, and
fighting for a place among the upper angels. He it is, too, that
leaps from cloud to cloud amid the crashing thunder-storm. It
was he whom the Gheber worshipped, with no unnatural idolatry;
and it was he who devoured London and Moscow, and many
another famous city, and who loves to riot through our own dark
forests, and sweep across our prairies, and to whose ravenous
maw, it is said, the universe shall one day be given as a final
feast. Meanwhile he is the great artizan and laborer by whose
aid men are enabled to build a world within a world, or, at least,
to smoothe down the rough creation which Nature flung to us.
He forges the mighty anchor, and every lesser instrument. He
drives the steamboat and drags the rail-car. And it was he—this
creature of terrible might, and so many-sided utility, and all-comprehensive
destructiveness—that used to be the cheerful,
homely friend of our wintry days, and whom we have made the
prisoner of this iron cage!
How kindly he was, and, though the tremendous agent of
change, yet bearing himself with such gentleness, so rendering
seemed as if he were the great conservative of Nature! While
a man was true to the fireside, so long would he be true to country
and law—to the God whom his fathers worshipped—to the wife
of his youth—and to all things else which instinct or religion
have taught us to consider sacred. With how sweet humility did
this elemental spirit perform all needful offices for the household
in which he was domesticated! He was equal to the concoction
of a grand dinner, yet scorned not to roast a potato, or
toast a bit of cheese. How humanely did he cherish the school.
boy's icy fingers, and thaw the old man's joints with a genial
warmth, which almost equalled the glow of youth! And how
carefully did he dry the cow-hide boots that had trudged through
mud and snow, and the shaggy outside garment, stiff with frozen
sleet; taking heed, likewise, to the comfort of the faithful dog
who had followed his master through the storm! When did he
refuse a coal to light a pipe, or even a part of his own substance to
kindle a neighbor's fire? And then, at twilight, when laborer or
scholar, or mortal of whatever age, sex, or degree, drew a chair
beside him, and looked into his glowing face, how acute, how
profound, how comprehensive was his sympathy with the mood
of each and all! He pictured forth their very thoughts. To the
youthful he showed the scenes of the adventurous life before
them; to the aged, the shadows of departed love and hope; and,
if all earthly things had grown distasteful, he could gladden the
fireside muser with golden glimpses of a better world. And,
amid this varied communion with the human soul, how busily
would the sympathizer, the deep moralist, the painter of magic
pictures, be causing the teakettle to boil!
Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and
helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him,
would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his
terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened
kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so
sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after
day, and one long, lonesome night after another, on the dusky
hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature, by thrusting
his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had done
much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more;
but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race
of man; and they pardoned his characteristic imperfections.
The good old clergyman, my predecessor in this mansion, was
well acquainted with the comforts of the fireside. His yearly
allowance of wood, according to the terms of his settlement, was
no less than sixty cords. Almost an annual forest was converted
from sound oak logs into ashes, in the kitchen, the parlor, and
this little study, where now an unworthy successor—not in the
pastoral office, but merely in his earthly abode—sits scribbling
beside an air-tight stove. I love to fancy one of those fireside
days, while the good man, a contemporary of the Revolution,
was in his early prime, some five-and-sixty years ago. Before
sunrise, doubtless, the blaze hovered upon the grey skirts of night,
and dissolved the frost-work that had gathered like a curtain
over the small windowpanes. There is something peculiar in
the aspect of the morning fireside; a fresher, brisker glare; the
absence of that mellowness, which can be produced only by half-consumed
logs, and shapeless brands with the white ashes on
them, and mighty coals, the remnant of tree trunks that the hungry
elements have gnawed for hours. The morning hearth, too,
is newly swept, and the brazen andirons well brightened, so that
the cheerful fire may see its face in them. Surely it was happiness,
when the pastor, fortified with a substantial breakfast,
sat down in his armchair and slippers, and opened the Whole
Body of Divinity, or the Commentary on Job, or whichever of
his old folios or quartos might fall within the range of his weekly
glow of this abundant hearth did not permeate the discourse, and
keep his audience comfortable, in spite of the bitterest northern
blast that ever wrestled with the church-steeple. He reads, while
the heat warps the stiff covers of the volume; he writes without
numbness either in his heart or fingers; and, with unstinted hand,
he throws fresh sticks of wood upon the fire.
A parishioner comes in. With what warmth of benevolence—
how should he be otherwise than warm, in any of his attributes?
—does the minister bid him welcome, and set a chair for him in
so close proximity to the hearth, that soon the guest finds it needful
to rub his scorched shins with his great red hands. The
melted snow drips from his steaming boots, and bubbles upon
the hearth. His puckered forehead unravels its entanglement of
crisscross wrinkles. We lose much of the enjoyment of fireside
heat, without such an opportunity of marking its genial effect
upon those who have been looking the inclement weather in the
face. In the course of the day our clergyman himself strides
forth, perchance to pay a round of pastoral visits, or, it may be,
to visit his mountain of a wood-pile, and cleave the monstrous logs
into billets suitable for the fire. He returns with fresher life to
his beloved hearth. During the short afternoon, the western sunshine
comes into the study, and strives to stare the ruddy blaze out
of countenance, but with only a brief triumph, soon to be succeeded
by brighter glories of its rival. Beautiful it is to see the
strengthening gleam—the deepening light—that gradually casts
distinct shadows of the human figure, the table, and the high-backed
chairs, upon the opposite wall, and at length, as twilight
comes on, replenishes the room with living radiance, and makes
life all rose-color. Afar, the wayfarer discerns the flickering
flame, as it dances upon the windows, and hails it as a beacon-light
of humanity, reminding him, in his cold and lonely path,
that the world is not all snow, and solitude, and desolation. At
wife and family; and children tumbled themselves upon the
hearth-rug, and grave Puss sat with her back to the fire, or gazed,
with a semblance of human meditation, into its fervid depths.
Seasonably, the plenteous ashes of the day were raked over the
mouldering brands, and from the heap came jets of flame, and an
incense of night-long smoke, creeping quietly up the chimney.
Heaven forgive the old clergyman! In his later life, when,
for almost ninety winters, he had been gladdened by the fire-light
—when it had gleamed upon him from infancy to extreme age,
and never without brightening his spirits as well as his visage,
and perhaps keeping him alive so long—he had the heart to brick
up his chimney-place, and bid farewell to the face of his old friend
for ever! Why did not he take an eternal leave of the sunshine
too? His sixty cords of wood had probably dwindled to a far less
ample supply, in modern times; and it is certain that the parsonage
had grown crazy with time and tempest, and pervious to the
cold; but still, it was one of the saddest tokens of the decline and
fall of open fire-places, that the grey patriarch should have
deigned to warm himself at an air-tight stove.
And I, likewise—who have found a home in this ancient owl's
nest, since its former occupant took his heavenward flight—I, to
my shame, have put up stoves in kitchen, and parlor, and chamber.
Wander where you will about the house, not a glimpse of the
earth-born, heaven-aspiring fiend of Ætna—him that sports in the
thunder-storm—the idol of the Ghebers—the devourer of cities,
the forest-rioter, and prairie-sweeper—the future destroyer of our
earth—the old chimney-corner companion, who mingled himself
so sociably with household joys and sorrows—not a glimpse of
this mighty and kindly one will greet your eyes. He is now an
invisible presence. There is his iron cage. Touch it, and he
scorches your fingers. He delights to singe a garment, or perpetrate
any other little unworthy mischief; for his temper is
such warmth of feeling, and to whom he taught all their arts, even
that of making his own prison-house. In his fits of rage, he puffs
volumes of smoke and noisome gas through the crevices of the
door, and shakes the iron walls of his dungeon, so as to overthrow
the ornamental urn upon its summit. We tremble, lest he should
break forth amongst us. Much of his time is spent in sighs,
burthened with unutterable grief, and long-drawn through the
funnel. He amuses himself, too, with repeating all the whispers,
the moans, and the louder utterances or tempestuous howls of the
wind; so that the stove becomes a microcosm of the aërial world.
Occasionally, there are strange combinations of sounds—voices,
talking almost articulately within the hollow chest of iron—inso-much
that fancy beguiles me with the idea that my fire wood must
have grown in that infernal forest of lamentable trees, which
breathed their complaints to Dante. When the listener is half-asleep,
he may readily take these voices for the conversation of
spirits, and assign them an intelligible meaning. Anon, there is
a pattering noise—drip, drip, drip—as if a summer shower were
falling within the narrow circumference of the stove.
These barren and tedious eccentricities are all that the air-tight
stove can bestow, in exchange for the invaluable moral influences
which we have lost by our desertion of the open fire-place. Alas!
is this world so very bright, that we can afford to choke up such
a domestic fountain of gladsomeness, and sit down by its darkened
source, without being conscious of a gloom?
It is my belief that social intercourse cannot long continue what
it has been, now that we have subtracted from it so important and
vivifying an element as fire-light. The effects will be more perceptible
on our children, and the generations that shall succeed
them, than on ourselves, the mechanism of whose life may remain
unchanged, though its spirit be far other than it was. The sacred
trust of the household-fire has been transmitted in unbroken succession
of every discouragement, such as the Curfew law of the Norman
conquerors; until, in these evil days, physical science has nearly
succeeded in extinguishing it. But we at least have our youthful
recollections tinged with the glow of the hearth, and our life-long
habits and associations arranged on the principle of a mutual bond
in the domestic fire. Therefore, though the sociable friend be
for ever departed, yet in a degree he will be spiritually present
with us; and still more will the empty forms, which were once
full of his rejoicing presence, continue to rule our manners. We
shall draw our chairs together, as we and our forefathers have
been wont, for thousands of years back, and sit around some
blank and empty corner of the room, babbling, with unreal cheerfulness,
of topics suitable to the homely fireside. A warmth from
the past—from the ashes of by-gone years, and the raked-up embers
of long ago—will sometimes thaw the ice about our hearts.
But it must be otherwise with our successors. On the most favorable
supposition, they will be acquainted with the fireside in
no better shape than that of the sullen stove; and more probably,
they will have grown up amid furnace-heat, in houses which
might be fancied to have their foundation over the infernal pit,
whence sulphurous steams and unbreathable exhalations ascend
through the apertures of the floor. There will be nothing to attract
these poor children to one centre. They will never behold one another
through that peculiar medium of vision—the ruddy gleam
of blazing wood or bituminous coal—which gives the human
spirit so deep an insight into its fellows, and melts all humanity
into one cordial heart of hearts. Domestic life—if it may still
be termed domestic—will seek its separate corners, and never
gather itself into groups. The easy gossip—the merry, yet unambitious
jest—the life-like, practical discussion of real matters
in a casual way—the soul of truth, which is so often incarnated
in a simple fireside word—will disappear from earth. Conversation
be chilled with a fatal frost.
In classic times, the exhortation to fight “pro aris et focis”—
for the altars and the hearths—was considered the strongest appeal
that could be made to patriotism. And it seemed an immortal
utterance; for all subsequent ages and people have acknowledged
its force, and responded to it with the full portion of manhood that
Nature had assigned to each. Wisely were the Altar and the
Hearth conjoined in one mighty sentence! For the hearth, too,
had its kindred sanctity. Religion sat down beside it, not in the
priestly robes which decorated, and perhaps disguised, her at the
altar, but arrayed in a simple matron's garb, and uttering her
lessons with the tenderness of a mother's voice and heart. The
holy Hearth! If any earthly and material thing—or rather, a
divine idea, embodied in brick and mortar—might be supposed to
possess the permanence of moral truth, it was this. All revered
it. The man who did not put off his shoes upon this holy ground
would have deemed it pastime to trample upon the altar. It has
been our task to uproot the hearth. What further reform is left
for our children to achieve, unless they overthrow the altar too?
And by what appeal, hereafter, when the breath of hostile armies
may mingle with the pure, cold breezes of our country, shall we
attempt to rouse up native valor? Fight for your hearths? There
will be none throughout the land. Fight for your Stoves!
Not I, in faith. If, in such a cause, I strike a blow, it shall be
on the invader's part; and Heaven grant that it may shatter the
abomination all to pieces!
| Mosses from an old manse | |