I write of travelling companions in general, and not in particular,
making of them a composite photograph, as it were, and finding what they
have in common and what is their type; and in the first place I find
them to be chance men. For there are some people who cannot travel
without a set companion who goes with them from Charing Cross all over
the world and back to Charing Cross again. And there is a pathos in
this: as Balzac said of marriage, "What a commentary on human life, that
human beings must associate to endure it." So it is with many who cannot
endure to travel alone: and some will positively advertise for another
to go with them.

In a glade of the Sierra Nevada, which, for awful and, as it were,
permanent beauty seemed not to be of this world, I came upon a man
slowly driving along the trail a ramshackle cart, in which were a few
chairs and tables and bedding. He had a long grey beard and wild eyes;
he was old, and very small like a gnome, but he had not the gnome's
good-humour. I asked him where he was going, and I slowed down, so as to
keep pace with his ridiculous horse. For some time he would not answer
me, and then he said, "Out of this." He added, "I am tired of it." And
when I asked him, "Of what?" his only answer was an old-fashioned oath.
But from further complaints which he made I gathered that what he was
tired of was clearing forests, digging ground, paying debts, and in
general living upon this unhappy earth. He did not like me very much,
and though I would willingly have learned more, he would tell me nothing
further, so when we got to a place where there was a little stream I
went on and left him.

I have never forgotten the sadness of this man. Where he was going, and
what he expected to do, or what opportunities he had, I have never