that the bathing habit of Merrie England is a venerable myth, and
likewise so is the fresh-air fetish. The error an Englishman makes
is that he mistakes cold air for fresh air.

In cold weather an Englishman arranges a few splintered jackstraws,
kindling fashion, in an open grate somewhat resembling in size and
shape a wallpocket for bedroom slippers. On this substructure he
gently deposits one or more carboniferous nodules the size of a
pigeon egg, and touches a match to the whole. In the more fortunate
instances the result is a small, reddish ember smoking intermittently.
He stands by and feeds the glow with a dessert-spoonful of fuel
administered at half-hour intervals, and imagines he really has a
fire and that he is really being warmed.

Why the English insist on speaking of coal in the plural when they
use it only in the singular is more than I can understand. Conceded
that we overheat our houses and our railroad trains and our hotel
lobbies in America, nevertheless we do heat them. In winter their
interiors are warmer and less damp than the outer air--which is
more than can be said for the lands across the sea, where you have
to go outdoors to thaw.

If there are any outdoor sleeping porches in England I missed them
when I was there; but as regards the ventilation of an English
hotel I may speak with authority, having patronized one. To begin
with, the windows have heavy shades. Back of these in turn are
folding blinds; then long, close curtains of muslin; then, finally,
thick, manifolding, shrouding draperies of some airproof woolen
stuff. At nighttime the maid enters your room, seals the windows,
pulls down the shades, locks the shutters, closes the curtains,