I had determined not to enter on my profession withina hundred miles of home， and then to cover myself witha fictitious name. The first precaution was reasonableenough， as otherwise Parson Thumpcushion might haveput an untimely catastrophe to my story； but as nobodywould be much affected by my disgrace， and all was tobe suffered in my own person， I know not why I caredabout a name. For a week or two， I travelled almost atrandom， seeking hardly any guidance， except the whirlingof a leaf， at some turn of the road， or the green bough，that beckoned me， or the naked branch， that pointed itswithered finger onward. All my care was to be fartherfrom home each night than the preceding morning.
A FELLOW-TRAVELLER
One day at noontide， when the sun had burst suddenlyout of a cloud and threatened to dissolve me， I lookedround for shelter， whether of tavern， cottage， barn， orshady tree. The first which offered itself was a wood， nota forest， but a trim plantation of young oaks， growing justthick enough to keep the mass of sunshine out， while theyadmitted a few straggling beams， and thus produced themost cheerful gloom imaginable. A brook， so small andclear， and apparently so cool， that I wanted to drink it up，ran under the road through a little arch of stone， withoutonce meeting the sun， in its passage from the shade onone side to the shade on the other. As there was a steppingplace over the stone-wall， and a path along the rivulet， Ifollowed it and discovered its source， —a spring gushingout of an old barrel.
In this pleasant spot， I saw a light pack suspended fromthe branch of a tree， a stick leaning against the trunk， anda person seated on the grassy verge of the spring， withhis back towards me. He was a slender figure， dressed inblack broadcloth， which was none of the finest， nor veryfashionably cut. On hearing my footsteps， he started up，rather nervously， and， turning round， showed the face of ayoung man about my own age， with his finger in a volumewhich he had been reading， till my intrusion. His bookwas， evidently， a pocket-Bible. Though I piqued myself，at that period， on my great penetration into people’scharacters and pursuits， I could not decide whetherthis young man in black were an unfledged divine fromAndover， a college-student， or preparing for college atsome academy. In either case， I would quite as willinglyhave found a merrier companion； such， for instance， as thecomedian with whom Gil Blas shared his dinner， beside afountain in Spain.
After a nod， which was duly returned， I made a gobletof oak-leaves， filled and emptied it two or three times， andthen remarked， to hit the stranger’s classical associations，that this beautiful fountain ought to flow from anurn， instead of an old barrel. He did not show that heunderstood the allusion， and replied， very briefly， witha shyness that was quite out of place， between personswho met in such circumstances. Had he treated my nextobservation in the same way， we should have partedwithout another word.
“It is very singular，” said I， “though， doubtless， there aregood reasons for it， that Nature should provide drink soabundantly， and lavish it every where by the road-side， butso seldom any thing to eat. Why should not we find a loafof bread on this tree， as well as a barrel of good liquor atthe foot of it？”
“There is a loaf of bread on the tree，” replied the stranger，without even smiling at a coincidence which made melaugh. “I have something to eat in my bundle， and if you canmake a dinner with me， you shall be welcome.”
“I accept your offer with pleasure，” said I. “A pilgrim，such as I am， must not refuse a providential meal.”
The young man had risen to take his bundle from thebranch of the tree， but now turned round and regardedme with great earnestness， coloring deeply at the sametime. However， he said nothing， and produced partof a loaf of bread， and some cheese， the former being，evidently， homebaked， though some days out of the oven.
The fare was good enough， with a real welcome， such ashis appeared to be. After spreading these articles on thestump of a tree， he proceeded to ask a blessing on ourfood； an unexpected ceremony， and quite an impressiveone at our woodland table， with the fountain gushingbeside us， and the bright sky glimmering through theboughs； nor did his brief petition affect me less， becausehis embarrassment made his voice tremble. At the endof the meal， he returned thanks with the same tremulousfervor.
He felt a natural kindness for me， after thus relieving mynecessities， and showed it by becoming less reserved. Onmy part， I professed never to have relished a dinner better，and， in requital of the stranget’s hospitality， solicited thepleasure of his company to supper.
“Where？ At your home？” asked he.
“Yes，” said I， smiling.
“Perhaps our roads are not the same，” observed he.
“Oh， I can take any road but one， and yet not miss myway，” answered I. “This morning I breakfasted at home； Ishall sup at home tonight； and a moment ago， I dined athome. To be sure， there was a certain place which I calledhome； but I have resolved not to see it again， till I havebeen quite round the globe， and enter the street on theeast， as I left it on the west. In the mean time， I have ahome every where or no where， just as you please to takeit.”
“No where， then； for this transitory world is not ourhome，” said the young man， with solemnity. “We are allpilgrims and wanderers； but it is strange that we twoshould meet.”
I inquired the meaning of this remark， but could obtainno satisfactory reply. But we had eaten salt together， andit was right that we should form acquaintance after thatceremony， as the Arabs of the desert do； especially as hehad learned something about myself， and the courtesy ofthe country entitled me to as much information in return.
I asked whither he was travelling.
“I do not know，” said he； “but God knows.”
“That is strange！” exclaimed I； “not that God shouldknow it， but that you should not. And how is your road tobe pointed out？”