No More Learning

"Hard weather, sir,--not much stirring nowadays," says he. He is wiser
than to contradict his guest in any case; he lets him go on; he lets
him travel.

The latest sitter leaves him standing far in the night, prepared to
live right on, while suns rise and set, and his "good-night" has as
brisk a sound as his "good-morning;" and the earliest riser finds him
tasting his liquors in the bar ere flies begin to buzz, with a
countenance fresh as the morning star over the sanded floor,--and not
as one who had watched all night for travelers. And yet, if beds be
the subject of conversation, it will appear that no man has been a
sounder sleeper in his time.

Finally, as for his moral character, we do not hesitate to say that he
has no grain of vice or meanness in him, but represents just that
degree of virtue which all men relish without being obliged to
respect. He is a good man, as his bitters are good,--an unquestionable
goodness. Not what is called a good man,--good to be considered, as a
work of art in galleries and museums,--but a good fellow, that is,
good to be associated with. Who ever thought of the religion of an
innkeeper,--whether he was joined to the Church, partook of the
sacrament, said his prayers, feared God, or the like? No doubt he has
had his experiences, has felt a change, and is a firm believer in the
perseverance of the saints. In this last, we suspect, does the
peculiarity of his religion consist. But he keeps an inn, and not a
conscience. How many fragrant charities and sincere social virtues are
implied in this daily offering of himself to the public! He cherishes
good-will to all, and gives the wayfarer as good and honest advice to
direct him on his road as the priest.

To conclude, the tavern will compare favorably with the church. The
church is the place where prayers and sermons are delivered, but the
tavern is where they are to take effect, and if the former are good,
the latter cannot be bad.
A WINTER WALK


The wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed with
feathery softness against the windows, and occasionally sighed like a
summer zephyr lifting the leaves along, the livelong night. The meadow
mouse has slept in his snug gallery in the sod, the owl has sat in a
hollow tree in the depth of the swamp, the rabbit, the squirrel, and
the fox have all been housed. The watch-dog has lain quiet on the
hearth, and the cattle have stood silent in their stalls. The earth
itself has slept, as it were its first, not its last sleep, save when
some street-sign or wood-house door has faintly creaked upon its
hinge, cheering forlorn nature at her midnight work,--the only sound
awake 'twixt Venus and Mars,--advertising us of a remote inward
warmth, a divine cheer and fellowship, where gods are met together,
but where it is very bleak for men to stand. But while the earth has
slumbered, all the air has been alive with feathery flakes descending,
as if some northern Ceres reigned, showering her silvery grain over
all the fields.

We sleep, and at length awake to the still reality of a winter
morning. The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window-sill;
the broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light,
which enhances the snug cheer within. The stillness of the morning is
impressive. The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the
window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields. We
see the roofs stand under their snow burden. From the eaves and fences
hang stalactites of snow, and in the yard stand stalagmites covering
some concealed core. The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky
on every side; and where were walls and fences, we see fantastic forms
stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape, as if Nature
had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for
man's art.

Silently we unlatch the door, letting the drift fall in, and step
abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of
their sparkle, and a dull, leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid
brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the
western landscape is dim and spectral still, and clothed in a sombre
Tartarean light, like the shadowy realms. They are Infernal sounds
only that you hear,--the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, the
chopping of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Pluto's
barnyard and beyond the Styx,--not for any melancholy they suggest,
but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth.