FIRE! FIRE!

A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.

How melancholy an object is a "polished front," that vain-glorious and
inhospitable array of cold steel and willow shavings, in which the
emancipated hearth is annually constrained by careful housewives to
signalise the return of summer, and its own consequent degradation from
being a part of the family to become a piece of mere formal furniture. And
truly in cold weather, which (thanks to the climate, for we love our
country) is all the weather we get in England, the fire is a most
important individual in a house: one who exercises a bland authority over
the tempers of all the other inmates--for who could quarrel with his feet
on the fender? one with whom everybody is anxious to be well--for who
would fall out with its genial glow? one who submits with a graceful
resignation to the caprices of every casual elbow--and who has never poked
a fire to death? one whose good offices have endeared him alike to the
selfish and to the cultivated,--at once a host, a mediator, and an
occupation.

We have often had our doubts (but then we are partial) whether it be not
possible to carry on a conversation with a fire. With the aid of an
evening newspaper by way of interpreter, and in strict confidence, no
third party being present, we feel that it can be done. Was there an
interesting debate last night? were the ministers successful, or did the
opposition carry it? In either case, did not the fire require a vigorous
poke just as you came to the division? and did not its immediate flame,
or, on the contrary, its dull, sullen glow, give you the idea that it
entertained its own private opinions on the subject? And if those opinions