Ursus and Homo went about from cross-road to cross-road, from the High Street of Aberystwith to the High Street of Jedburgh, from country-side to country-side, from shire to shire, from town to town.  One market exhausted, they went on to another.  Ursus lived in a small van upon wheels, which Homo was civilized enough to draw by day and guard by night.  On bad roads, up hills, and where there were too many ruts, or there was too much mud, the man buckled the trace round his neck and pulled fraternally, side by side with the wolf.  They had thus grown old together.  They encamped at haphazard on a common, in the glade of a wood, on the waste patch of grass where roads intersect, at the outskirts of villages, at the gates of towns, in market-places, in public walks, on the borders of parks, before the entrances of churches.  When the cart drew up on a fair green, when the gossips ran up open-mouthed and the curious made a circle round the pair, Ursus harangued and Homo approved.  Homo, with a bowl in his mouth, politely made a collection among the audience.  They gained their livelihood.  The wolf was lettered, likewise the man.  The wolf had been trained by the man, or had trained himself unassisted, to divers wolfish arts, which swelled the receipts.  “Above all things, do not degenerate into a man,” his friend would say to him.

Never did the wolf bite:  the man did now and then.  At least, to bite was the intent of Ursus.  He was a misanthrope, and to italicize his misanthropy he had made himself a juggler.  To live, also; for the stomach has to be consulted.  Moreover, this juggler-misanthrope, whether to add to the complexity of his being or to perfect it, was a doctor.  To be a doctor is little:  Ursus was a ventriloquist.  You heard him speak without his moving his lips.  He counterfeited, so as to deceive you, any one’s accent or pronunciation.  He imitated voices so exactly that you believed you heard the people themselves.  All alone he simulated the murmur of a crowd, and this gave him a right to the title of Engastrimythos, which he took.  He reproduced all sorts of cries of birds, as of the thrush, the wren, the pipit lark, otherwise called the gray cheeper, and the ring ousel, all travellers like himself:  so that at times when the fancy struck him, he made you aware either of a public thoroughfare filled with the uproar of men, or of a meadow loud with the voices of beasts—­at one time stormy as a multitude, at another fresh and serene as the dawn.  Such gifts, although rare, exist.  In the last century a man called Touzel, who imitated the mingled utterances of men and animals, and who counterfeited all the cries of beasts, was attached to the person of Buffon—­to serve as a menagerie.