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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
182
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.
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