Still, if I felt that I could afford the tax, I would never travel without a courier, for a good courier is a convenience whose value cannot be estimated in dollars and cents.  Without him, travel is a bitter harassment, a purgatory of little exasperating annoyances, a ceaseless and pitiless punishment—­I mean to an irascible man who has no business capacity and is confused by details.

Without a courier, travel hasn’t a ray of pleasure in it, anywhere; but with him it is a continuous and unruffled delight.  He is always at hand, never has to be sent for; if your bell is not answered promptly—­and it seldom is—­you have only to open the door and speak, the courier will hear, and he will have the order attended to or raise an insurrection.  You tell him what day you will start, and whither you are going—­leave all the rest to him.  You need not inquire about trains, or fares, or car changes, or hotels, or anything else.  At the proper time he will put you in a cab or an omnibus, and drive you to the train or the boat; he has packed your luggage and transferred it, he has paid all the bills.  Other people have preceded you half an hour to scramble for impossible places and lose their tempers, but you can take your time; the courier has secured your seats for you, and you can occupy them at your leisure.

At the station, the crowd mash one another to pulp in the effort to get the weigher’s attention to their trunks; they dispute hotly with these tyrants, who are cool and indifferent; they get their baggage billets, at last, and then have another squeeze and another rage over the disheartening business of trying to get them recorded and paid for, and still another over the equally disheartening business of trying to get near enough to the ticket office to buy a ticket; and now, with their tempers gone to the dogs, they must stand penned up and packed together, laden with wraps and satchels and shawl-straps, with the weary wife and babies, in the waiting-room, till the doors are thrown open—­and then all hands make a grand final rush to the train, find it full, and have to stand on the platform and fret until some more cars are put on.  They are in a condition to kill somebody by this time.  Meantime, you have been sitting in your car, smoking, and observing all this misery in the extremest comfort.

On the journey the guard is polite and watchful—­won’t allow anybody to get into your compartment—­tells them you are just recovering from the small-pox and do not like to be disturbed.  For the courier has made everything right with the guard.  At way-stations the courier comes to your compartment to see if you want a glass of water, or a newspaper, or anything; at eating-stations he sends luncheon out to you, while the other people scramble and worry in the dining-rooms.  If anything breaks about the car you are in, and a station-master proposes to pack you and your agent into a compartment with strangers, the courier reveals to him confidentially that you are a French duke born deaf and dumb, and the official comes and makes affable signs that he has ordered a choice car to be added to the train for you.