Yet Again | Page 4

or
that as we saw it when it first came within our ken. We are in the habit
of saying that `first impressions are best,' and that we must approach
every question `with an open mind'; but we shirk the logical conclusion
that we were wiser in our infancy than we are now. `Make yourself
even as a little child' we often say, but recommending the process on
moral rather than on intellectual grounds, and inwardly preening
ourselves all the while on having `put away childish things,' as though
clarity of vision were not one of them.
I look around the room I am writing in--a pleasant room, and my own,
yet how irresponsive, how smug and lifeless! The pattern of the
wallpaper blamelessly repeats itself from wainscote to cornice; and the
pictures are immobile and changeless within their glazed frames-- faint,
flat mimicries of life. The chairs and tables are just as their carpenter
fashioned them, and stand with stiff obedience just where they have
been posted. On one side of the room, encased in coverings of cloth and
leather, are myriads of words, which to some people, but not to me, are
a fair substitute for human company. All around me, in fact, are the
products of modern civilisation. But in the whole room there are but
three things living: myself, my dog, and the fire in my grate. And of

these lives the third is very much the most intensely vivid. My dog is
descended, doubtless, from prehistoric wolves; but you could hardly
decipher his pedigree on his mild, domesticated face. My dog is as
tame as his master (in whose veins flows the blood of the old cavemen).
But time has not tamed fire. Fire is as wild a thing as when Prometheus
snatched it from the empyrean. Fire in my grate is as fierce and terrible
a thing as when it was lit by my ancestors, night after night, at the
mouths of their caves, to scare away the ancestors of my dog. And my
dog regards it with the old wonder and misgiving. Even in his sleep he
opens ever and again one eye to see that we are in no danger. And the
fire glowers and roars through its bars at him with the scorn that a wild
beast must needs have for a tame one. `You are free,' it rages, `and yet
you do not spring at that man's throat and tear him limb from limb and
make a meal of him! `and, gazing at me, it licks its red lips; and I,
laughing good-humouredly, rise and give the monster a shovelful of its
proper food, which it leaps at and noisily devours.
Fire is the only one of the elements that inspires awe. We breathe air,
tread earth, bathe in water. Fire alone we approach with deference. And
it is the only one of the elements that is always alert, always good to
watch. We do not see the air we breathe--except sometimes in London,
and who shall say that the sight is pleasant? We do not see the earth
revolving; and the trees and other vegetables that are put forth by it
come up so slowly that there is no fun in watching them. One is apt to
lose patience with the good earth, and to hanker after a sight of those
multitudinous fires whereover it is, after all, but a thin and
comparatively recent crust. Water, when we get it in the form of a river,
is pleasant to watch for a minute or so, after which period the regularity
of its movement becomes as tedious as stagnation. It is only a whole
seaful of water that can rival fire in variety and in loveliness. But even
the spectacle of sea at its very best--say in an Atlantic storm--is less
thrilling than the spectacle of one building ablaze. And for the rest, the
sea has its hours of dulness and monotony, even when it is not wholly
calm. Whereas in the grate even a quite little fire never ceases to be
amusing and inspiring until you let it out. As much fire as would
correspond with a handful of earth or a tumblerful of water is yet a joy
to the eyes, and a lively suggestion of grandeur. The other elements,
even as presented in huge samples, impress us as less august than fire.

Fire alone, according to the legend, was brought down from Heaven:
the rest were here from the dim outset. When we call a thing earthy we
impute cloddishness; by `watery' we imply insipidness; `airy' is for
something trivial. `Fiery' has always a noble significance. It denotes
such things as faith, courage, genius. Earth lies heavy, and air is void,
and water flows down; but flames aspire, flying