At last the path went between two houses，and turned the party out into a wide，muddy highroad，bordered，as far as the eye could reach on either hand，by an unsightly village．The houses stood well back，leaving a ribbon of waste 1and on either side of the road，where there were stacks of firewood，carts，barrows，rubbish heaps，and a little doubtful grass．Away on the left，a gaunt tower stood in the middle of the street．Whatit had been in past ages I know not：probably a hold in time of war；but nowadays it bore an illegible dial plate in its upper parts，and near the bottom an iron letter box．
The inn to which we had been recommended at Quartes was full，or else the landlady did not like our looks．I ought to say，that with our long，damp india-rubber bages，we presented rather a doubtful type of civilization：like rag-and-bone men，the Cigarette imagined．“These gentlemen are peddlers?Ces messieurs sont des marchands?”asked the landlady．And then，without waiting for an answer，which I suppose she thought superfluous in SO plain a case，recommended US to a butcher who lived hard by the tower and took in travelers to lodge．
Thither went we．But the butcher was flitting，and all his beds were taken down．Or else he didn’t like our looks．As a parting shot，we had， “These gentlemen are peddlers?”
It began to grow dark in earnest．We could no longer distinguish the faces of the people who passed US by with an inarticulate good evening．And the householders of Pont seemed very economical with their oil，for we saw not a single window lighted in all that long village．I believe it is the longest village in the world；but I dare say in our predicament every pace counted three times over．We were much cast down when we came to the last auberge，and，looking in at the dark door，asked timidly if we could sleep there for the night．A female voice assented，in no very friendly tones．We clapped the bags down and found our way to chairs．
The place was in total darkness，save a red glow in the chinks and ventilators of the stove．But nOW the landlady lit a lamp to see her new guests；I suppose the darkness was what saved US another expulsion，for I cannot say she looked gratified at our appearance．We were in alarge，bare apartment，adorned with two allegorical prints of Music andPainting，and a copy of the Law against Public Drunkenness．On one sidethere was a bit of a bar，with some half a dozen bottles．Two 1aborerssat waiting supper，in attitudes of extreme weariness；a plain-lookinglass bustled about with a sleepy child of two，and the landlady began toderange the pots upon the stove and set some beefsteak tO grill．
“These gentlemen are peddlers?”she asked sharply；and that was all the conversation forthcoming。We began tO think we might bepeddlers，after a11．I never knew a population with SO narrow a range of conjecture as the innkeepers of Pont——sur-Sambre．But manners and bearing have not a wider currency than bank notes．You have only to get far enough out of your beat，and all your accomplished airs will gofor nothing．These Hainauters could see no difference between US andthe average peddler．Indeed，we had some grounds for reflection whilethe steak was getting ready，to see how perfectly they accepted US attheir own valuation，and how our best politeness and best efforts at entertainment seemed to fit quite suitably with the character of packmen．At least it seemed a good account of the profession in France，that even before such judges we could not beat them at our own weapons．
At last we were called to table．The two hinds(and one of them looked sadly worn and white in the face，as though sick with overwork and underfeeding)supped off a single plate of some sort of bread—berry，some potatoes in their 1ackets，a small cup of coffee sweetened with sugar candy，and one tumbler of swipes．The landlady，her son，and the lass aforesaid took the same．Our meal was quite a banquet by comparison．We had some beefsteak，not SO tender as it might have been，some of the potatoes，some cheese，an extra glass of the swipes，and white sugar in our coffee．
You see what it is to be a gentleman，I beg your pardon，what it is to be a peddler．It had not before occurred to me that a peddler was a great man in a laborer’S alehouse；but now that I had to enact the part for the evening，I found that SO it was．He has in his hedge quarters somewhat the same preminency as the man who takes a private parlor in a hotel．The more you look into it the more infinite are the class distinctions among men；and possibly，by a happy dispensation there is no one at all at the bottom of the scale；no one but call find some superiority over somebody else，tO keep up his pride withal．
We were displeased enough with our fare．Particularly the Cigarette； for I tried tO make believe that 1 was amused with the adventure，tough beefsteak and a11．According to the Lucretian maxim，our steak should have been flavored by the look of the other people’S bread—berry；but we did not find it SO in practice．You may have a head knowledge that other people live more poorly than yourself,but it is not agreeable--1 was going to say，it is against the etiquette of the universe—to sit at the same table and pick your own superior diet from among their crusts．I had not seen such a thing done since the greedy boy at school with his birthday cake．It was odious enough to witness，I could remember；and I had never thought to play the part myself．But there，again，you see what it is to be a peddler．
