No More Learning

From the summits he beholds the heavens and the horizon,
from the vales he looks up to the heights again. He is treading his
old lessons still, and though he may be very weary and travel-worn, it
is yet sincere experience.

Leaving the Nashua, we changed our route a little, and arrived at
Stillriver Village, in the western part of Harvard, just as the sun
was setting. From this place, which lies to the northward, upon the
western slope of the same range of hills on which we had spent the
noon before, in the adjacent town, the prospect is beautiful, and the
grandeur of the mountain outlines unsurpassed. There was such a repose
and quiet here at this hour, as if the very hillsides were enjoying
the scene; and as we passed slowly along, looking back over the
country we had traversed, and listening to the evening song of the
robin, we could not help contrasting the equanimity of Nature with the
bustle and impatience of man. His words and actions presume always a
crisis near at hand, but she is forever silent and unpretending.

And now that we have returned to the desultory life of the plain, let
us endeavor to import a little of that mountain grandeur into it. We
will remember within what walls we lie, and understand that this level
life too has its summit, and why from the mountain-top the deepest
valleys have a tinge of blue; that there is elevation in every hour,
as no part of the earth is so low that the heavens may not be seen
from, and we have only to stand on the summit of our hour to command
an uninterrupted horizon.

We rested that night at Harvard, and the next morning, while one bent
his steps to the nearer village of Groton, the other took his
separate and solitary way to the peaceful meadows of Concord; but let
him not forget to record the brave hospitality of a farmer and his
wife, who generously entertained him at their board, though the poor
wayfarer could only congratulate the one on the continuance of hay
weather, and silently accept the kindness of the other. Refreshed by
this instance of generosity, no less than by the substantial viands
set before him, he pushed forward with new vigor, and reached the
banks of the Concord before the sun had climbed many degrees into the
heavens.




THE LANDLORD


Under the one word "house" are included the schoolhouse, the
almshouse, the jail, the tavern, the dwelling-house; and the meanest
shed or cave in which men live contains the elements of all these. But
nowhere on the earth stands the entire and perfect house. The
Parthenon, St. Peter's, the Gothic minster, the palace, the hovel, are
but imperfect executions of an imperfect idea. Who would dwell in
them?
Perhaps to the eye of the gods the cottage is more holy than the
Parthenon, for they look down with no especial favor upon the shrines
formally dedicated to them, and that should be the most sacred roof
which shelters most of humanity. Surely, then, the gods who are most
interested in the human race preside over the Tavern, where especially
men congregate. Methinks I see the thousand shrines erected to
Hospitality shining afar in all countries, as well Mahometan and
Jewish as Christian, khans and caravansaries and inns, whither all
pilgrims without distinction resort.

Likewise we look in vain, east or west over the earth, to find the
perfect man; but each represents only some particular excellence. The
Landlord is a man of more open and general sympathies, who possesses a
spirit of hospitality which is its own reward, and feeds and shelters
men from pure love of the creatures. To be sure, this profession is as
often filled by imperfect characters, and such as have sought it from
unworthy motives, as any other, but so much the more should we prize
the true and honest Landlord when we meet with him.

Who has not imagined to himself a country inn, where the traveler
shall really feel _in_, and at home, and at his public house, who was
before at his private house? --whose host is indeed a _host_, and a
_lord_ of the _land_, a self-appointed brother of his race; called to
his place, beside, by all the winds of heaven and his good genius, as
truly as the preacher is called to preach; a man of such universal
sympathies, and so broad and genial a human nature, that he would fain
sacrifice the tender but narrow ties of private friendship to a broad,
sunshiny, fair-weather-and-foul friendship for his race; who loves
men, not as a philosopher, with philanthropy, nor as an overseer of
the poor, with charity, but by a necessity of his nature, as he loves
dogs and horses; and standing at his open door from morning till night
would fain see more and more of them come along the highway, and is
never satiated. To him the sun and moon are but travelers, the one by
day and the other by night; and they too patronize his house. To his
imagination all things travel save his sign-post and himself; and
though you may be his neighbor for years, he will show you only the
civilities of the road. But on the other hand, while nations and
individuals are alike selfish and exclusive, he loves all men equally;
and if he treats his nearest neighbor as a stranger, since he has
invited all nations to share his hospitality, the farthest-traveled is
in some measure kindred to him who takes him into the bosom of his
family.

He keeps a house of entertainment at the sign of the Black Horse or
the Spread Eagle, and is known far and wide, and his fame travels with
increasing radius every year. All the neighborhood is in his interest,
and if the traveler ask how far to a tavern, he receives some such
answer as this: "Well, sir, there's a house about three miles from
here, where they haven't taken down their sign yet; but it's only ten
miles to Slocum's, and that's a capital house, both for man and
beast. " At three miles he passes a cheerless barrack, standing
desolate behind its sign-post, neither public nor private, and has
glimpses of a discontented couple who have mistaken their calling. At
ten miles see where the Tavern stands,--really an _entertaining_
prospect,--so public and inviting that only the rain and snow do not
enter. It is no gay pavilion, made of bright stuffs, and furnished
with nuts and gingerbread, but as plain and sincere as a caravansary;
located in no Tarrytown, where you receive only the civilities of
commerce, but far in the fields it exercises a primitive hospitality,
amid the fresh scent of new hay and raspberries, if it be summer-time,
and the tinkling of cow-bells from invisible pastures; for it is a
land flowing with milk and honey, and the newest milk courses in a
broad, deep stream across the premises.