externals of man's life. These externals are as dead to us as so
many formalities, and speak a dead language in our eyes and ears.
They have no more meaning than an oath or a salutation. We are so
much accustomed to see married couples going to church of a Sunday
that we have clean forgotten what they represent; and novelists are
driven to rehabilitate adultery, no less, when they wish to show us
what a beautiful thing it is for a man and a woman to live for each
other.

One person in Maubeuge, however, showed me something more than his
outside. That was the driver of the hotel omnibus: a mean enough
looking little man, as well as I can remember; but with a spark of
something human in his soul. He had heard of our little journey,
and came to me at once in envious sympathy. How he longed to
travel! he told me. How he longed to be somewhere else, and see
the round world before he went into the grave! 'Here I am,' said
he. 'I drive to the station. Well. And then I drive back again
to the hotel. And so on every day and all the week round. My God,
is that life?' I could not say I thought it was--for him. He
pressed me to tell him where I had been, and where I hoped to go;
and as he listened, I declare the fellow sighed. Might not this
have been a brave African traveller, or gone to the Indies after
Drake? But it is an evil age for the gypsily inclined among men.
He who can sit squarest on a three-legged stool, he it is who has
the wealth and glory.

I wonder if my friend is still driving the omnibus for the Grand
Cerf? Not very likely, I believe; for I think he was on the eve of
mutiny when we passed through, and perhaps our passage determined
him for good. Better a thousand times that he should be a tramp,