The Traveler, When He Starts,
Has His Baggage Checked.
He abandons his trunk - generally a box,
studded with nails, as long as a coffin and as high as a linen
chest - and, in return for this, he receives an iron ticket with a
number on it.
As he approaches the end of his first installment of
travel and while the engine is still working its hardest, a man
comes up to him, bearing with him, suspended on a circular bar, an
infinite variety of other checks. The traveler confides to this
man his wishes, and, if he be going farther without delay,
surrenders his check and receives a counter-check in return. Then,
while the train is still in motion, the new destiny of the trunk is
imparted to it. But another man, with another set of checks, also
comes the way, walking leisurely through the train as he performs
his work. This is the minister of the hotel-omnibus institution.
His business is with those who do not travel beyond the next
terminus. To him, if such be your intention, you make your
confidence, giving up your tallies, and taking other tallies by way
of receipt; and your luggage is afterward found by you in the hall
of your hotel. There is undoubtedly very much of comfort in this;
and the mind of the traveler is lost in amazement as he thinks of
the futile efforts with which he would struggle to regain his
luggage were there no such arrangement.
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