The snow which fell on—or, as Fleet Street almost unanimously
put it, the blizzard which hit—London early this week brought out once more the Englishman's staunch refusal to equip himself against his climate's extremes' moods. Those citizens whom I can see from my window picking their way through an inch and a half of gelid and discoloured slush—you would think, from the way they are shod, that they lived in a country where snow underfoot was a hazard so unheard of, a contingency so remote, that to prepare for it would be needless and extravagant : like strengthening their houses to withstarid the shock of an earthquake. Every single one of them has got wet feet and a high proportion will catch colds as a result. In America with rubber, in Russia with felt, the natives protect their feet against the admittedly heavier snowfalls which experience has taught them to expect; only the sturdy British turn a blind eye to the barometer. It isn't, obviously, that we want to induce catarrh, it isn't that we're masochistic or spartan or impractical, it isn't a lot of things that it might be. But I'm dashed if I know what it h.
&rim.
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