An Italian author--Giulio Cordara, a Jesuit--has written a poem upon
insects, which he begins by insisting, that those troublesome and
abominable little animals were created for our annoyance, and that
they were certainly not inhabitants of Paradise. We of the north may
dispute this piece of theology; but on the other hand, it is clear as
the snow on the house-tops, that Adam was not under the necessity of
shaving; and that when Eve walked out of her delicious bower, she did
not step upon ice three inches thick.
Some people say it is a very easy thing to get up of a cold morning.
You have only, they tell you, to take the resolution; and the thing is
done. This may be very true; just as a boy at school has only to take
a flogging, and the thing is over. But we have not at all made up our
minds upon it; and we find it a very pleasant exercise to discuss the
matter, candidly, before we get up. This at least is not idling,
though it may be lying. It affords an excellent answer to those, who
ask how lying in bed can be indulged in by a reasoning being,--a
rational creature. How? Why with the argument calmly at work in one's
head, and the clothes over one's shoulder. Oh--it is a fine way of
spending a sensible, impartial half-hour.
If these people would be more charitable, they would get on with their
argument better. But they are apt to reason so ill, and to assert so
dogmatically, that one could wish to have them stand round one's bed
of a bitter morning, and lie before their faces. They ought to hear
both sides of the bed, the inside and out. If they cannot entertain
themselves with their own thoughts for half an hour or so, it is not
the fault of those who can. If their will is never pulled aside by the
enticing arms of imagination, so much the luckier for the
stage-coachman.
Candid inquiries into one's decumbency, besides the greater or less
privileges to be allowed a man in proportion to his ability of keeping
early hours, the work given his faculties, etc., will at least concede
their due merits to such representations as the following. In the
first place, says the injured but calm appealer, I have been warm all
night, and find my system in a state perfectly suitable to a
warm-blooded animal. To get out of this state into the cold, besides
the inharmonious and uncritical abruptness of the transition, is so
unnatural to such a creature, that the poets, refining upon the
tortures of the damned, make one of their greatest agonies consist in
being suddenly transported from heat to cold,--from fire to ice. They
are "haled" out of their "beds," says Milton, by "harpy-footed
furies,"--fellows who come to call them. On my first movement towards
the anticipation of getting up, I find that such parts of the sheets
and bolster, as are exposed to the air of the room, are stone-cold. On
opening my eyes, the first thing that meets them is my own breath
rolling forth, as if in the open air, like smoke out of a cottage
chimney. Think of this symptom. Then I turn my eyes sideways and see
the window all frozen over. Think of that. Then the servant comes in.
"It is very cold this morning, is it not?"--"Very cold, Sir."--"Very
cold indeed, isn't it?"--"Very cold indeed, Sir."--"More than usually
so, isn't it, even for this weather?" (Here the servant's wit and
good-nature are put to a considerable test, and the inquirer lies on
thorns for the answer.) "Why, Sir ... I think it _is_." (Good
creature! There is not a better, or more truth-telling servant going.)
"I must rise, however--get me some warm water."--Here comes a fine
interval between the departure of the servant and the arrival of the
hot water; during which, of course, it is of "no use" to get up. The
hot water comes. "Is it quite hot?"--"Yes, Sir."--"Perhaps too hot for
shaving: I must wait a little?"--"No, Sir; it will just do." (There is
an over-nice propriety sometimes, an officious zeal of virtue, a
little troublesome.) "Oh--the shirt--you must air my clean
shirt;--linen gets very damp this weather."--"Yes, Sir." Here another
delicious five minutes. A knock at the door. "Oh, the shirt--very
well. My stockings--I think the stockings had better be aired
too."--"Very well, Sir."--Here another interval. At length everything
is ready, except myself. I now, continues our incumbent (a happy word,
by the bye, for a country vicar)--I now cannot help thinking a good
deal--who can?--upon the unnecessary and villainous custom of shaving:
it is a thing so unmanly (here I nestle closer)--so effeminate (here I
recoil from an unlucky step into the colder part of the bed.)--No
wonder that the Queen of France took part with the rebels against the
degenerate King, her husband, who first affronted her smooth visage
with a face like her own. The Emperor Julian never showed the
luxuriancy of his genius to better advantage than in reviving the
flowing beard. Look at Cardinal Bembo's picture--at Michael
Angelo's--at Titian's--at Shakespeare's--at Fletcher's--at
Spenser's--at Chaucer's--at Alfred's--at Plato's--I could name a great
man for every tick of my watch.--Look at the Turks, a grave and otiose
people.--Think of Haroun Al Raschid and Bed-ridden Hassan.--Think of
Wortley Montagu, the worthy son of his mother, a man above the
prejudice of his time.--Look at the Persian gentlemen, whom one is
ashamed of meeting about the suburbs, their dress and appearance are
so much finer than our own.--Lastly, think of the razor itself--how
totally opposed to every sensation of bed--how cold, how edgy, how
hard! how utterly different from anything like the warm and circling
amplitude, which
Sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
Add to this, benumbed fingers, which may help you to cut yourself, a
quivering body, a frozen towel, and a ewer full of ice; and he that
says there is nothing to oppose in all this, only shows, at any rate,
that he has no merit in opposing it.