ne side of his
house and a potato-field on the other, what could save him from despair
and self-destruction? This question was answered for me when I heard
that he was married.

My eccentric wanderings have at least served to convince me of
this,--that a man's sole refuge from the evils of solitude is to be
found in the domestic sentiments. There is, it is true, a solitude of
genius; there are minds which must climb out of the common air and
breathe alone. There is also the solitude of enthusiasm, which is more
common, and which is found among a lower order of men, who become so
possessed with a single idea that it leaves them neither by day nor
night, but is their bride, their bosom friend, and their constant
occupier. But what becomes of the ordinary man, if he is excluded from
the busy regions of the world, and if his heart remains as solitary as
his life? Everything dries up in him; he becomes uncouth, bigoted,
selfish, egotistical, and usually ends by falling into a semi-torpid
state, and by hibernating into death.

I remember that once I had contrived to creep into the centre of one of
the most remote of the Cape Verde Islands. My mule suddenly turned into
a by-path and broke into a cheerful amble. Experience has proved to me
that, when a mule has thoroughly made up its mind, resistance is out of
the question. I contented myself with asking my youthful companion what
the animal's probable intentions were. The boy said that the mule was
going to see the Judge, and pointed to a lovely little cottage which
came in view at that moment. Then I recollected that I had heard this
gentleman spoken of, and that I had a letter of introduction to him. The
mule carried me into the stable from which I was conducted into a
drawing-room. There, for the first time during many months, for I had
been travelling in strange lands, I saw a number of the _Revue de Deux
Mondes_. I plunged into it, and made an ineffectual effort to read every
article at once. The Judge came in, and I at once perceived that I was
in the presence of a remarkable man. After an hour's conversation we
began to interchange confidences. He told me about his student dreams at
Coimbra,--of the nights which he had passed in book-toil,--of his
aspirations, his poverty, and his exile. Perhaps he saw a little
compassion in my eyes when he had finished, for he added, "Those young
hopes have all been crushed, and yet I am happier in this desolate spot
than I have ever