When we crowded joyfully round
a crackling, sparkling wood-fire, even while our faces glowed with the
intense heat, cold shivers were creeping down our backs, and sudden
draughts from an opening door set our teeth chattering. I often wished
myself on a spit, to revolve slowly before the fire until thoroughly
roasted. Not from any want of air, I assure you, we children were
always breaking panes of glass on the bitterest days, and the glazier
was never known to come under a week to replace them. Why people
should wish to revive, and live through again, the miseries of such a
frost-nipped childhood, I cannot imagine.
I, for one, love a snug house, even a warm house. I am of a chilly
temperament, and subject to rheumatism, horrible colds, &c. Fresh air
is my bane. I banish all books on the subject from my table. I
studiously avoid all notorious fresh-air lovers, or try in every way
to bring over the poor, misguided mortals to my views; but it is of no
use. Fresh air is the fashion, and is run to extremes, as all fashions
must be. I call in a physician; lo! _fresh air_ is recommended as a
tonic. I give a party; of course my windows are all thrown open, and
foolish young girls, in the thinnest of white muslins, are standing in
the draught; and such a whirlwind is raised by the flirting of fans,
and the rush of the dancers, that I am blown, like a dry leaf, into a
corner, where I stand shivering, and making rueful attempts to appear
smiling and hospitable.
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