No. 4.
I believe the world has gone quite crazy on the subject of fresh
air. In the next century people will think they must sleep on the
house-tops, I suppose, or camp out in tents in primitive style.
Nothing is talked about but ventilators, and air-tubes, and
chimney-draughts. One would suppose that fire-places were invented
expressly for cooling and airing a room, instead of heating it. There
was no such fuss when I was young; in those good old times these airy
notions had not come into fashion. Where the loose window-sashes
rattled at every passing breeze, and the wind chased the smoke down
the wide-mouthed chimney, nobody complained of being stifled. There
were no furnaces then to spread a summer heat to every corner of the
house. No, indeed! We ran shivering through the long, windy entries,
all wrapped in shawls, and hugging ourselves to retain the friendly
warmth of the fire as long as possible. Far from devising ways of
letting _in_ the air, we tried hard to keep it _out_ by stuffing the
cracks with cotton, and closely curtaining the windows and bed. Even
then, the ice in the wash-basin, and the electricity which made our
hair literally stand on end in the process of combing, and the gradual
transformation of fingers into thumbs, showed but too plainly that the
wintry air had penetrated our defences. 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. I go out to pass a social afternoon with a
friend, and am set down in a room just above the freezing-point, with
a little crack opened in the window, and all the doors flying, to
_change the air_. I ride in the omnibus, and am almost choked with my
bonnet-strings, such a furious draught meets me in the face, and when,
with infinite pains, I have secured the only tolerably warm corner, my
next neighbor becomes very faint, and must have the window open. Even
the poor babies are not safe from this popular insanity. You may see
the little victims any day, taking an airing, with their little red
noses and watery eyes peeping forth from under the cap and
feathers. The old-fashioned blanket, in which the baby was done up
head and all, like a bundle, is thrown aside. The child is not quite
so often carried upside down. I suppose, under the new system, but
what difference does it make whether the poor thing is smothered or
frozen to death?
I never shall forget a long journey I took once with a friend who was
raving mad on the subject of fresh air and cold water. Every morning
the windows were thrown wide open, and the blinds flung back with an
energetic bang, while a stiff wintry wind whirled every thing about
the room, and flapped the curtains against the ceiling. And there she
stood, declaring herself exhilarated, while her nose and lips turned
from red to blue, and the tears ran down her cheeks. I always took to
flight. Afterwards the poor auto-martyr went out to walk before
breakfast, scornfully rejecting all offers of furs and extra
wrappings. O dear, no! _She_ never thought of muffs, tippets,
snow-boots, but as encumbrances fit for extreme old age and
infirmity. She always walked fast, and the more the wind blew, the
warmer she felt, I might be assured. As soon as she had gone, I
established myself in comfort by the side of a glowing grate, happy
but for dreading her return. She came in dreadfully fresh and breezy
from the outer air, very energetic, very noisy, and fully bent upon
stirring me up and making me take exercise. After snapping the door
open and slamming it behind her with a clap that greatly disturbed my
nerves, she exclaimed in a stentorian voice, "O dear me! I shall _die_
in such an oven! My dear child, you have no idea how hot it is!" And
the first thing I knew, up would go a window with a crash that made
the weights rattle. It might rain or shine; weather made no difference
to this inveterate air-seeker. Many a time has she come in all
dripping, and tracking the carpet, brushed carelessly against me with
her wet garments, and finally enveloped me with the steam arising from
them as they hung around my fire. It roused my indignation that she
should make herself and every body else so uncomfortable, and then
glory in the deed as if it were indubitably and indisputably
praiseworthy. She was so good-natured, however, and so happy in her
delusion, that I could not find it in my heart to remonstrate very
vehemently, except when she would make me listen to her interminable
lectures upon the importance, the _necessity_, of fresh air, and the
effect of a snug, cosy room upon the blood, the heart, the lungs, the
head, and (as I verily believe she hinted) _the temper_. I know I lost
all control of _mine_ long before she finished; but whether it was the
want of fresh air in practice, or too much of it in theory, I leave
you to imagine.
My friend always carried a small thermometer in her trunk, which she
consulted a dozen times an hour, in order to regulate the temperature
of the room. Alas for me if the quicksilver rose above 60! I devoutly
hoped she would leave it behind in some of our numerous
stopping-places, and with an eye to that possibility, I must confess,
I hung it in the most out-of-the-way corners I could find; but it
seemed to be on her mind continually. She never forgot it, and always
packed it very carefully, too. I asked her two or three times to let
me put it in _my_ trunk, where I had slyly arranged a nice little
place full of hard surfaces and sharp corners, but she always had
plenty of room.
I believe my zealous friend is now residing at the sea-shore, freezing
in the cold sea-winds, and losing her breath every morning in the
briny wave, under the strange illusion that she is improving her
health.