No More Learning

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. The
recent tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard, remind us that each
hour of the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is
still working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate, we
tread briskly along the lone country road, crunching the dry and
crisped snow under our feet, or aroused by the sharp, clear creak of
the wood-sled, just starting for the distant market, from the early
farmer's door, where it has lain the summer long, dreaming amid the
chips and stubble; while far through the drifts and powdered windows
we see the farmer's early candle, like a paled star, emitting a lonely
beam, as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by
one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and
snows.

The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell,
The stiffened air exploring in the dawn,
And making slow acquaintance with the day
Delaying now upon its heavenward course,
In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself,
With as uncertain purpose and slow deed
As its half-wakened master by the hearth,
Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts
Have not yet swept into the onward current
Of the new day;--and now it streams afar,
The while the chopper goes with step direct,
And mind intent to swing the early axe.
First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad
His early scout, his emissary, smoke,
The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof,
To feel the frosty air, inform the day;
And while he crouches still beside the hearth,
Nor musters courage to unbar the door,
It has gone down the glen with the light wind,
And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath,
Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill,
And warmed the pinions of the early bird;
And now, perchance, high in the crispy air,
Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge,
And greets its master's eye at his low door,
As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky.

We hear the sound of wood-chopping at the farmers' doors, far over the
frozen earth, the baying of the house-dog, and the distant clarion of
the cock,--though the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer
particles of sound to our ears, with short and sweet vibrations, as
the waves subside soonest on the purest and lightest liquids, in which
gross substances sink to the bottom. They come clear and bell-like,
and from a greater distance in the horizon, as if there were fewer
impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged. The ground
is sonorous, like seasoned wood, and even the ordinary rural sounds
are melodious, and the jingling of the ice on the trees is sweet and
liquid. There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere, all
being dried up or congealed, and it is of such extreme tenuity and
elasticity that it becomes a source of delight.
The withdrawn and
tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral, and the
polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it.
As they who have resided in Greenland tell us that when it freezes
"the sea smokes like burning turf-land, and a fog or mist arises,
called frost-smoke," which "cutting smoke frequently raises blisters
on the face and hands, and is very pernicious to the health. " But this
pure, stinging cold is an elixir to the lungs, and not so much a
frozen mist as a crystallized midsummer haze, refined and purified by
cold.

The sun at length rises through the distant woods, as if with the
faint clashing, swinging sound of cymbals, melting the air with his
beams, and with such rapid steps the morning travels, that already his
rays are gilding the distant western mountains. Meanwhile we step
hastily along through the powdery snow, warmed by an inward heat,
enjoying an Indian summer still, in the increased glow of thought and
feeling. Probably if our lives were more conformed to nature, we
should not need to defend ourselves against her heats and colds, but
find her our constant nurse and friend, as do plants and quadrupeds.
If our bodies were fed with pure and simple elements, and not with a
stimulating and heating diet, they would afford no more pasture for
cold than a leafless twig, but thrive like the trees, which find even
winter genial to their expansion.

The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact.
Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves
of autumn, are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields
and tinkling woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and
bleakest places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A
cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can
withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we
meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we
respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All
things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out
must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor
as God himself. It is invigorating to breathe the cleansed air. Its
greater fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain
stay out long and late, that the gales may sigh through us, too, as
through the leafless trees, and fit us for the winter,--as if we hoped
so to borrow some pure and steadfast virtue, which will stead us in
all seasons.

There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes
out, and which no cold can chill.