The cars are built in compartments that hold eight persons each. Each

compartment is partially subdivided, and so there are two tolerably

distinct parties of four in it. Four face the other four. The seats and

backs are thickly padded and cushioned and are very comfortable; you can

smoke if you wish; there are no bothersome peddlers; you are saved the

infliction of a multitude of disagreeable fellow passengers. So far, so

well. But then the conductor locks you in when the train starts; there

is no water to drink in the car; there is no heating apparatus for night

travel; if a drunken rowdy should get in, you could not remove a matter

of twenty seats from him or enter another car; but above all, if you are

worn out and must sleep, you must sit up and do it in naps, with cramped

legs and in a torturing misery that leaves you withered and lifeless the

next day--for behold they have not that culmination of all charity and

human kindness, a sleeping car, in all France. I prefer the American

system. It has not so many grievous "discrepancies."

In France, all is clockwork, all is order. They make no mistakes. Every

third man wears a uniform, and whether he be a marshal of the empire or a

brakeman, he is ready and perfectly willing to answer all your questions

with tireless politeness, ready to tell you which car to take, yea, and

ready to go and put you into it to make sure that you shall not go

astray. You cannot pass into the waiting room of the depot till you have

secured your ticket, and you cannot pass from its only exit till the

train is at its threshold to receive you. Once on board, the train will

not start till your ticket has been examined--till every passenger's

ticket has been inspected. This is chiefly for your own good. If by any

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The Innocents Abroad