Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft， familiar courtesyand helpfulness， that the mighty spirit， were opportunityoffered him， would run riot through the peaceful house，wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace， and leave nothingof them save their whitened bones. This possibility ofmad destruction only made his domestic kindness themore beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him， beingendowed with such power， to dwell， day after day， and onelong， lonesome night after another， on the dusky hearth，only now and then betraying his wild nature， by thrustinghis red tongue out of the chimney-top！ True， he had donemuch mischief in the world， and was pretty certain to domore； but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindlyto the race of man； and they pardoned his characteristicimperfections.
The good old clergyman， my predecessor in thismansion， was well acquainted with the comforts of thefireside. His yearly allowance of wood， according to theterms of his settlement， was no less than sixty cords.
Almost an annual forest was converted from oak logs intoashes， in the kitchen， the parlor， and this little study， wherenow an unworthy successor—not in the pastoral office， butmerely in his earthly abode—sits scribbling beside an airtightstove. I love to fancy one of those fireside days， whilethe good man， a contemporary of the Revolution， wasin his early prime， some five-and-sixty years ago. Beforesunrise， doubtless， the blaze hovered upon the grey skirtsof night， and dissolved the frost-work that had gatheredlike a curtain over the small window-panes. There issomething peculiar in the aspect of the morning fireside；a fresher， brisker glare； the absence of that mellowness，which can be produced only by half-consumed logs， andshapeless brands with the white ashes on them， andmighty coals， the remnant of tree-trunks that the hungryelement has gnawed for hours. The morning hearth， too，is newly swept， and the brazen andirons well brightened，so that the cheerful fire may see its face in them. Surely itwas happiness， when the pastor， fortified with a substantialbreakfast， sat down in his arm-chair and slippers， andopened the Whole Body of Divinity， or the Commentaryon Job， or whichever of his old folios or quartos might fallwithin the range of his weekly sermons. It must have beenhis own fault， if the warmth and glow of this abundanthearth did not permeate the discourse， and keep hisaudience comfortable， in spite of the bitterest northernblast that ever wrestled with the church-steeple. He reads，while the heat warps the stiff covers of the volume； hewrites， without numbness either in his heart or fingers；and， with unstinted hand， he throws fresh stics of woodupon the fire.
A parishioner comes in. With what warmth of
benevolence—how should he be otherwise than warm， inany of his attributes？ —does the minister bid him welcome，and set a chair for him in so close proximity to the hearth，that soon the guest finds it needful to rub his scorchedshins with his great red hands. The melted snow dripsfrom his steaming boots， and bubbles upon the hearth. Hispuckered forehead unravels its entanglement of crisscrosswrinkles. We lose much of the enjoyment of fireside heat，without such an opportunity of marking its genial effectupon those who have been looking the inclement weatherin the face. In the course of the day our clergyman himselfstrides forth， perchance to pay a round of pastoral visits，or， it may be， to visit his mountain of a wood-pile， andcleave the monstrous logs into billets suitable for thefire. He returns with fresher life to his beloved hearth.
During the short afternoon， the western sunshine comesinto the study， and strives to stare the ruddy blaze out ofcountenance， but with only a brief triumph， soon to besucceeded by brighter glories of its rival. Beautiful it is tosee the strengthening gleam—the deepening light—thatgradually casts distinct shadows of the human figure， thetable， and the high-backed chairs， upon the opposite wall，and at length， as twilight comes on， replenishes the roomwith living radiance， and makes life all rose-color. Afar， thewayfarer discerns the flickering flame， as it dances uponthe windows， and hails it as a beacon-light of humanity，reminding him， in his cold and lonely path， that the worldis not all snow， and solitude， and desolation. At eventide，probably， the study was peopled with the clergyman’s wifeand family； and children tumbled themselves upon thehearth-rug， and grave Puss sat with her back to the fire，or gazed， with a semblance of human meditation， into itsfervid depths. Seasonably， the plenteous ashes of the daywere raked over the mouldering brands， and from the heapcame jets of flame， and an incense of night-long smoke，creeping quietly up the chimney.
Heaven forgive the old clergyman！ In his latter life，when， for almost ninety winters， he had been gladdenedby the fire-light—when it had gleamed upon him frominfancy to extreme age， and never without brightening hisspirits as well as his visage， and perhaps keeping him aliveso long—he had the heart to brick up his chimney-place，and bid farewell to the face of his old friend for ever！ Whydid not he take an eternal leave of the sunshine too？ Hissixty cords of wood had probably dwindled to a far lessample supply， in modern times； and it is certain that theparsonage had grown crazy with time and tempest， andpervious to the cold； but still， it was one of the saddesttokens of the decline and fall of open fire-places， that thegrey patriarch should have deigned to warm himself at anair-tight stove.