lf is doubtless a result of democracy. The spirit of freedom,
which permits a stealthy nigger to brush your hat, does not allow
another to handle your luggage. To the enchained and servile mind of an
Englishman these distinctions axe difficult to understand. A training in
transatlantic liberty is necessary for their appreciation. However, no
great evil is inflicted on the traveller. The ritual of checking your
baggage may easily be learned, and the absence of porters has, by
a natural process, evolved the "grip." The "grip," in fact, is the
universal mark of America. It is as intimate a part of the citizen's
equipment as a hat or coat, and it is not without its advantages. It
is light to carry, it fills but a small space, and it ensures that the
traveller shall not be separated from all his luggage. A far greater
hardship than the carriage of a "grip" is the enforced publicity of an
American train. The Englishman loves to travel in seclusion. The end of
his ambition is a locked compartment to himself. Mr Pullman has ordained
that his clients shall endure the dust and heat of a long journey in
public; and when the voyager, wearied out by the rattle of the train,
seeks his uncomfortable couch, he is forced to seek it under the general
gaze.

These differences of custom are interesting, because they correspond
to differences of temperament. There is a far deeper difference in the
character of the country through which you travel. A journey in Europe
is like a page of history. You pass from one century to another. You
see a busy world through the window. As you sit in your corner a living
panorama is unfolded before your eyes. The country changes with the sky.
Town and mountain and cornfield follow one another in quick succession.
At every turn you see that wonderful symbol of romance, the white road
that winds over the hill, flecked perhaps by a solitary traveller. But
it is always the work of man, not the beauty of nature, that engrosses
you. You would, if you could, alight at every point to witness the last
act of comedy, which is just beginning. Men and women, to whom you are
an episode or an obstruction, flash by. Here is a group of boys bathing.
There peasants gaze at the train as something inhuman. At the level
crossing a horse chafes in his shafts. In an instant you are whizzed out
of sight, and he remains. Then, as night falls, the country-side leaves
its work; the eyes of the cottages gleam and flicker through the