rid of him; and some of his followers, it must be confessed,
are just like him. You must resist them both, or they will
never flee. But if they do flee after a day's tarry, do not
complain. You protest against turning your house into a hotel.
Why, the hotelry is the least irksome part of the whole
business, when your guests are uninteresting. It is not the
supper or the bed that costs, but keeping people going after
supper is over and before bedtime is come. Never complain, if
you have nothing worse to do than to feed or house your guests
for a day or an hour.

On the other hand, if they are people you like, how much better
to have them come so than not to at all! People cannot often
make long visits,--people that are worth anything,--people who
use life; and they are the only ones that are worth anything.
And if you cannot get your good things in the lump, are you
going to refuse them altogether? By no means. You are going
to take them by driblets, and if you will only be sensible and
not pout, but keep your tin pan right side up, you will find
that golden showers will drizzle through all your life. So,
with never a nugget in your chest, you shall die rich. If you
can stop over-night with your friend, you have no sand-grain,
but a very respectable boulder. For a night is infinite.
Daytime is well enough for business, but it is little worth for
happiness. You sit down to a book, to a picture, to a friend,
and the first you know it is time to get dinner, or time to eat
it, or time for the train, or you must put out your dried
apples, or set the bread to rising, or something breaks in
impertinently and chokes you at flood-tide. But the night has
no end. Everything is done but that which you would be forever