No More Learning

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.

In these retired places the tavern is first of all a
house,--elsewhere, last of all, or never,--and warms and shelters its
inhabitants. It is as simple and sincere in its essentials as the
caves in which the first men dwelt, but it is also as open and public.
The traveler steps across the threshold, and lo! he too is master, for
he only can be called proprietor of the house here who behaves with
most propriety in it. The Landlord stands clear back in nature, to my
imagination, with his axe and spade felling trees and raising potatoes
with the vigor of a pioneer; with Promethean energy making nature
yield her increase to supply the wants of so many; and he is not so
exhausted, nor of so short a stride, but that he comes forward even to
the highway to this wide hospitality and publicity.
Surely, he has
solved some of the problems of life. He comes in at his back door,
holding a log fresh cut for the hearth upon his shoulder with one
hand, while he greets the newly arrived traveler with the other.

Here at length we have free range, as not in palaces, nor cottages,
nor temples, and intrude nowhere. All the secrets of housekeeping are
exhibited to the eyes of men, above and below, before and behind. This
is the necessary way to live, men have confessed, in these days, and
shall he skulk and hide? And why should we have any serious disgust at
kitchens? Perhaps they are the holiest recess of the house. There is
the hearth, after all,--and the settle, and the fagots, and the
kettle, and the crickets. We have pleasant reminiscences of these.
They are the heart, the left ventricle, the very vital part of the
house. Here the real and sincere life which we meet in the streets was
actually fed and sheltered. Here burns the taper that cheers the
lonely traveler by night, and from this hearth ascend the smokes that
populate the valley to his eyes by day. On the whole, a man may not be
so little ashamed of any other part of his house, for here is his
sincerity and earnest, at least. It may not be here that the besoms
are plied most,--it is not here that they need to be, for dust will
not settle on the kitchen floor more than in nature.

Hence it will not do for the Landlord to possess too fine a nature. He
must have health above the common accidents of life, subject to no
modern fashionable diseases; but no taste, rather a vast relish or
appetite.