"Old wood to burn!--
Ay, bring the hillside beech
From where the owlets meet and screech,
And ravens croak;
The crackling pine, the cedar sweet;
Bring, too, a clump of fragrant peat,
Dug 'neath the fern;
The knotted oak,
A faggot, too, perhaps,
Whose bright flame, dancing, winking,
Shall light us at our drinking;
While the oozing sap
Shall make sweet music to our thinking."
There is no fire of coals, not even the blacksmith's, that can compare
with the blazing fire of wood. The wood fire is primeval. Centuries
before coals were dreamed of, our rude forefathers were cooking their
meat and gaining warmth from burning logs.
Coal is modern, decadent. Look at this passage concerning fuel from an
old Irish poem:--"O man," begins the lay, "that for Fergus of the
feasts does kindle fire, whether afloat or ashore never burn the king
of woods.... The pliant woodbine, if thou burn, wailings for
misfortunes will abound; dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning
in great waves will come after thee. Burn not the precious apple
tree." The minstrel goes on to name wood after wood that may or may
not be burned. This is the crowning passage:--"Fiercest heat-giver of
all timber is green oak, from him none may escape unhurt; by
partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid embers
the eye is made sore. Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that
is hottest in the fight--undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the
alder and the white thorn. Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly." Could anyone
write with this enthusiasm and poetic feeling about Derby Brights and
Silkstone--even the best Silkstone and the best Derby Brights?
The care of a wood fire is, in itself, daily work for a man; for far
more so than with coal is progress continuous. Something is always
taking place and demanding vigilance--hence the superiority of a wood
fire as a beguiling influence. The bellows must always be near at
hand, the tongs not out of reach; both of them more sensible
implements than those that usually appertain to coals. The tongs have
no pretensions to brightness and gentility; the bellows, quite apart
from their function in life, are a thing of beauty; the fire-dogs, on
whose backs the logs repose, are fine upstanding fellows; and the
bricks on which the fire is laid have warmth and simplicity and a
hospitable air to which decorative tiles can never attain. Again,
there is about the logs something cleanly, in charming contrast to the
dirt of coal. The wood hails from the neighbouring coppice. You have
watched it grow; your interest in it is personal, and its interest in
you is personal. It is as keen to warm you as you are to be warmed.
Now there is nothing so impersonal as a piece of coal. Moreover, this
wood was cut down and brought to the door by some good-humoured
countryman of your acquaintance, whereas coal is obtained by
miners--bad-tempered, truculent fellows that strike. Who ever heard of
a strike among coppicers? And the smoke from a wood fire!--clean and
sweet and pungent, and, against dark foliage, exquisite in colour as
the breast of a dove. The delicacy of its grey-blue is not to be
matched.
Whittier's "Snow Bound" is the epic of the wood-piled hearth.
Throughout we hear the crackling of the brush, the hissing of the sap.
The texture of the fire was "the oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
and rugged brush":--
"Hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
_Burst flower-like into rosy bloom_.
That italicised line--my own italics--is good. For the best fire (as
for the best celery)--the fire most hearty, most inspired, and
inspiring--frost is needed. When old Jack is abroad and there is a
breath from the east in the air, then the sparks fly and the coals
glow. In moist and mild weather the fire only burns, it has no
enthusiasm for combustion. Whittier gives us a snowstorm:--
"Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
_The great throat of the chimney laughed_."
But the wood fire is not for all. In London it is impracticable; the
builder has set his canon against it. Let us, then--those of us who
are able to--build our coal fires the higher, and nourish in their
kindly light. Whether one is alone or in company, the fire is potent
to cheer. Indeed, a fire _is_ company. No one need fear to be alone if
the grate but glows. Faces in the fire will smile at him, mock him,
frown at him, call and repulse; or, if there be no faces, the smoke
will take a thousand shapes and lead his thoughts by delightful paths
to the land of reverie; or he may watch the innermost heart of the
fire burn blue (especially if there is frost in the air); or, poker in
hand, he may coax a coal into increased vivacity. This is an agreeable
diversion, suggesting the mediaeval idea of the Devil in his domain.
_E. V. Lucas._