trying to escape summer.  We are half the time ‘in transitu’, flying hither and thither, craving that exact adaptation of the weather to our whimsical bodies promised only to the saints who seek a “better country.”  There are places, to be sure, where nature is in a sort of equilibrium, but usually those are places where we can neither make money nor spend it to our satisfaction.  They lack either any stimulus to ambition or a historic association, and we soon find that the mind insists upon being cared for quite as much as the body.

How many wanderers in the past winter left comfortable homes in the United States to seek a mild climate!  Did they find it in the sleet and bone-piercing cold of Paris, or anywhere in France, where the wolves were forced to come into the villages in the hope of picking up a tender child?  If they traveled farther, were the railway carriages anything but refrigerators tempered by cans of cooling water?  Was there a place in Europe from Spain to Greece, where the American could once be warm —­really warm without effort—­in or out of doors?  Was it any better in divine Florence than on the chill Riviera?  Northern Italy was blanketed with snow, the Apennines were white, and through the clean streets of the beautiful town a raw wind searched every nook and corner, penetrating through the thickest of English wraps, and harder to endure than ingratitude, while a frosty mist enveloped all.  The traveler forgot to bring with him the contented mind of the Italian.  Could he go about in a long cloak and a slouch hat, curl up in doorways out of the blast, and be content in a feeling of his own picturesqueness?  Could he sit all day on the stone pavement and hold out his chilblained hand for soldi?  Could he even deceive himself, in a palatial apartment with a frescoed ceiling, by an appearance of warmth in two sticks ignited by a pine cone set in an aperture in one end of the vast room, and giving out scarcely heat enough to drive the swallows from the chimney?  One must be born to this sort of thing in order to enjoy it.  He needs the poetic temperament which can feel in January the breath of June.  The pampered American is not adapted to this kind of pleasure.  He is very crude, not to say barbarous, yet in many of his tastes, but he has reached one of the desirable things in civilization, and that is a thorough appreciation of physical comfort.  He has had the ingenuity to protect himself in his own climate, but when he travels he is at the mercy of customs and traditions in which the idea of physical comfort is still rudimentary.  He cannot warm himself before a group of statuary, or extract heat from a canvas by Raphael, nor keep his teeth from chattering by the exquisite view from the Boboli Gardens.  The cold American is insensible to art, and shivers in the presence of the warmest historical associations.  It is doubtful if there is a spot in Europe where he can be ordinarily warm in winter.  The world, indeed, does not care whether he is warm or not, but