And I， likewise—who have found a home in this ancientowl’s nest， since its former occupant took his heavenwardflight—I， to my shame， have put up stoves in kitchen， andparlor， and chamber. Wander where you will about thehouse， not a glimpse of the earth-born， heaven-aspiringfiend of Aetna—him that sports in the thunder-storm—the idol of the Ghebers—the devourer of cities， the forestrioter， and prairie sweeper—the future destroyer of ourearth—the old chimney-corner companion， who mingledhimself so sociably with household joys and sorrows—nota glimpse of this mighty and kindly one will greet youreyes. He is now an invisible presence. There is his ironcage. Touch it， and he scorches your fingers. He delightsto singe a garment， or perpetrate any other little unworthymischief； for his temper is ruined by the ingratitude ofmankind， for whom he cherished such warmth of feeling，and to whom he taught all their arts， even that of makinghis own prison-house. In his fits of rage， he puffs volumesof smoke and noisome gas through the crevices of thedoor， and shakes the iron walls of his dungeon， so asto overthrow the ornamental urn upon its summit. Wetremble， lest he should break forth amongst us. Much ofhis time is spent in sighs， burthened with unutterable grief，and long-drawn through the funnel. He amuses himself，too， with repeating all the whispers， the moans， and thelouder utterances or tempestuous howls of the wind； sothat the stove becomes a microcosm of the aerial world.
Occasionally， there are strange combinations of soundsvoices，talking almost articulately within the hollow chestof iron—insomuch that fancy beguiles me with the idea，that my fire wood must have grown in that infernal forestof lamentable trees， which breathed their complaints toDante. When the listener is half-asleep， he may readilytake these voices for the conversation of spirits， and assignthem an intelligible meaning. Anon， there is a patteringnoise—drip， drip， drip—as if a summer shower werefalling within the narrow circumference of the stove.
These barren and tedious eccentricities are all that theairtight stove can bestow， in exchange for the invaluablemoral influences which we have lost by our desertionof the open fire-place. Alas！ is this world so very bright，that we can afford to choke up such a domestic fountainof gladsomeness， and sit down by its darkened source，without being conscious of a gloom？
It is my belief， that social intercourse cannot longcontinue what it has been， now that we have subtractedfrom it so important and vivifying an element as fire-light.