A cynic might suggest as the motto of modern life this simple legend,—­“just as good as the real.”  But I am not a cynic, and I hope for the rekindling of wood-fires, and a return of the beautiful home light from them.  If a wood-fire is a luxury, it is cheaper than many in which we indulge without thought, and cheaper than the visits of a doctor, made necessary by the want of ventilation of the house.  Not that I have anything against doctors; I only wish, after they have been to see us in a way that seems so friendly, they had nothing against us.

My fireplace, which is deep, and nearly three feet wide, has a broad hearthstone in front of it, where the live coals tumble down, and a pair of gigantic brass andirons.  The brasses are burnished, and shine cheerfully in the firelight, and on either side stand tall shovel and tongs, like sentries, mounted in brass.  The tongs, like the two-handed sword of Bruce, cannot be wielded by puny people.  We burn in it hickory wood, cut long.  We like the smell of this aromatic forest timber, and its clear flame.  The birch is also a sweet wood for the hearth, with a sort of spiritual flame and an even temper,—­no snappishness.  Some prefer the elm, which holds fire so well; and I have a neighbor who uses nothing but apple-tree wood,—­a solid, family sort of wood, fragrant also, and full of delightful suggestions.  But few people can afford to burn up their fruit trees.  I should as soon think of lighting the fire with sweet-oil that comes in those graceful wicker-bound flasks from Naples, or with manuscript sermons, which, however, do not burn well, be they never so dry, not half so well as printed editorials.

Few people know how to make a wood-fire, but everybody thinks he or she does.  You want, first, a large backlog, which does not rest on the andirons.  This will keep your fire forward, radiate heat all day, and late in the evening fall into a ruin of glowing coals, like the last days of a good man, whose life is the richest and most beneficent at the close, when the flames of passion and the sap of youth are burned out, and there only remain the solid, bright elements of character.  Then you want a forestick on the andirons; and upon these build the fire of lighter stuff.  In this way you have at once a cheerful blaze, and the fire gradually eats into the solid mass, sinking down with increasing fervor; coals drop below, and delicate tongues of flame sport along the beautiful grain of the forestick.  There are people who kindle a fire underneath.  But these are conceited people, who are wedded to their own way.  I suppose an accomplished incendiary always starts a fire in the attic, if he can.  I am not an incendiary, but I hate bigotry.  I don’t call those incendiaries very good Christians who, when they set fire to the martyrs, touched off the fagots at the bottom, so as to make them go slow.  Besides, knowledge works down easier than it does up.  Education must proceed from the more enlightened down