The inn was of wood, a hemlock frame with a "siding" of clap-boards. In this there was nothing remarkable, many countries of Europe, even, still building principally of wood. Houses of lath and plaster were quite common, until within a few years, even in large towns. I remember to have seen some of these constructions, while in London, in close connection with the justly celebrated Westminster Hall; and of such materials is the much-talked-of miniature castle of Horace Walpole, at Strawberry Hill. But the inn of Mooseridge had some pretensions to architecture, besides being three or four times larger than any other house in the place. A piazza it enjoyed, of course; it must be a pitiful village inn that does not: and building, accessaries and all, rejoiced in several coats of a spurious white lead. The columns of this piazza, as well as the clap-boards of the house itself however, exhibited the proofs of the danger of abandoning your true whittler to his own instincts. Spread-eagles, five points, American flags, huzzahs for Polk! the initials of names, and names at full length, with various other similar conceits, records, and ebullitions of patriotic or party-otic feelings, were scattered up and down with an affluence the said volumes in favour of the mint in which they had been coined. But the most remarkable memorial of the industry of the guests was to be found on one of the columns; and it was one at a corner, too, and consequently of double importance to the superstructure--unless, indeed, the house were built on that well-known principle of American architecture of the last century, which made the architrave uphold the pillar, instead of the pillar the architrave. The column in question was of white pine, as usual--though latterly, in brick edifices, bricks and stucco are much resorted to--and, at a convenient height for the whittlers, it was literally cut two-thirds in two. The gash was very neatly made--that much must be said for it--indicating skill and attention; and the surfaces of the wound were smoothed in a manner to prove that appearances were not neglected. "Vat do das?" I asked of the landlord, pointing to this gaping wound in the main column of his piazza. "That! Oh! That's only the whittlers," answered the host, with a good-natural smile. Assuredly the Americans _are_ the best-natured people on earth! Here was a man whose house was nearly tumbling down about his ears--always bating the principle in architecture just named--and he could smile as Nero may be supposed to have done when fiddling over the conflagration of Rome. "But vhy might de vhittler vhittle down your house?"