There is another thing which plays, perhaps, a part in this power of travel to make swift disclosures. I mean the vague sense of release from duties and restraints which comes to one who is away from home. Much of the outward form of our daily conduct is regulated by the structure and operation of the social machinery in which we quite inevitably find our place. But when all this is left behind, when a man no longer feels the pressure of the neighbouring wheels, the constraint of the driving-belt which makes them all move together, nor the restraint of the common task to which the collective force of all is applied, he is "outside of the machine." The ordinary sight-seeing, uncommercial traveller--the tourist, the globe-trotter--is not usually a person who thinks much of his own responsibilities, however conscious he may be of his own importance. His favourite proverb is, "When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do." But in the application of the proverb, he does not always inquire whether the particular thing which he is invited to do is done by the particular kind of Roman that he would like to be, if he lived in Rome, or by some other kind of Roman quite different, even contrary. He is liberated. He is unaccountable. He is a butterfly visiting a strange garden. He has only to enjoy himself according to his caprice and to accept the invitations of the flowers which please him most. This feeling of irresponsibility in travel corresponds somewhat to the effect of wine. The tongue is loosened. Unexpected qualities and inclinations are unconsciously confessed. A new man, hitherto unknown, appears upon the scene. And this new man often seems more natural, more spontaneous, more vivid, than our old acquaintance. "At last," we say to ourselves, "we know the true inwardness, the real reality of this fellow. He is not acting a part now. He is coming to the surface. We see what a bad fellow, or what a good fellow, he is. _In vino et in viatore veritas!_" But is it quite correct, after all, this first impression that travel is the great revealer of character? Is it the essential truth, the fundamental truth, _la vraie verité_, that we discover through this glass? Or is it, rather, a novel aspect of facts which are real enough, indeed, but not fundamental,--an aspect so novel that it presents itself as more important than it really is? To put the question in brief, and in a practical form, is a railway train the place to study character, or is it only a place to observe characteristics? There is, of course, a great deal of complicated and quarrelsome psychology involved in this seeming simple question,--for example, the point at issue between the determinists and libertarians, the philosophers of the unconscious and the philosophers of the ideal,--all of which I will prudently pass by, in order to make a very practical and common-sense observation.