A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

me out as if I had been a distinguished personage.

It was a new experience. Exchange had been in my favor

ever since I had been in Europe, but just that one time.

I got simply the face of my draft, and no extra francs,

whereas I had expected to get quite a number of them.

This was the first time I had ever used the courier at

the bank. I had suspected something then, and as long

as he remained with me afterward I managed bank matters

by myself.

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.

At custom-houses the multitude file tediously through,

hot and irritated, and look on while the officers

burrow into the trunks and make a mess of everything;

but you hand your keys to the courier and sit still.

Perhaps you arrive at your destination in a rain-storm