TRAVELLING.
It is an extremely difficult affair to travel in a coach, with perfect
propriety. Ten to one the person next to you is an English nobleman
_incognito_; and a hundred to one, the man opposite to you is a brute
or a knave. To behave so that you may not be uncivil to the one, nor a
dupe to the other, is an art of some niceness.
As the seats are assigned to passengers in the order in which they are
booked, you should send to have your place taken a day or two before
the journey, so that you may be certain of a back seat. It is also
advisable to arrive at the place of departure early, so that you assume
your place without dispute.
When women appear at the door of the coach to obtain admittance, it is
a matter of some question to know exactly what conduct it is necessary
to pursue. If the women are servants, or persons in a low rank of life,
I do not see upon what ground of politeness or decency you are called
upon to yield your seat. _Etiquette_, and the deference due to ladies
have, of course, no operation in the case of such persons.
Chivalry—(and the gentleman is the legitimate descendant of the knight
of old)—was ever a devotion to rank rather than to sex. Don Quixotte,
or Sir Piercy Shafestone would not willingly have given place to
servant girls. And upon considerations of humanity and regard to
weakness, the case is no stronger. Such people have nerves considerably
more robust than you have, and are quite as capable of riding
backwards, or the top, as yourself. The only reason for _politeness_ in
the case is, that perhaps the other passengers are of the same standing
with the women, and might eject you from the window if you refuse to
give place.
If _ladies_ enter—and a gentleman distinguishes them in an instant—the
case is altered. The sooner you move the better is it for yourself,
since the rest will in the end have to concede, and you will give
yourself a reputation among the party and secure a better seat, by
rising at once.
The principle that guides you in society is politeness; that which
guides you in a coach is good humour. You lay aside all attention to
form, and all strife after effect, and take instead, kindness of
disposition and a willingness to please. You pay a constant regard to
the comfort of your. fellow-prisoners. You take care not to lean upon
the shoulder of your neighbour when you sleep. You are attentive not to
make the stage wait for you at the stopping-places. When the ladies get
out, you offer them your arm, and you do the same when the coachman is
driving rapidly over a rough place. You should make all the
accommodations to others, which you can do consistently with your own
convenience; for, after all, the individuals are each like little
nations; and as, in the one case, the first duty is to your country, so
in the other, the first duty is to yourself.
Some surly creatures, upon entering a coach, wrap about their persons a
great coat of cloth, and about their minds a mantle of silence, which
are not thrown off during the whole journey. This is doing more harm to
themselves than to others. You should make a point of conversing with
an appearance of entire freedom, though with real reserve, with all
those who are so disposed.
One purpose and pleasure of travelling is to gain information, and to
observe the various characters of persons. You will be asked by others
about the road you passed over, and it will be awkward if you can give
no account of it. Converse, therefore, with all. Relate amusing
stories, chiefly of other countries, and even of other times, so as not
to offend any one. If engaged in discussion—and a coach is almost the
only place where discussion should _not_ be avoided—state facts and
arguments rather than opinions. Never answer impudent questions-and
never ask them.
At the meals which occur during a journey, you see beautiful
exemplification of the _dictum_ of Hobbes, “that war is the natural
state of man.” The entire scene is one of unintermitted war of every
person with every other person, with the viands, and with good manners.
You open your mouth only to admit edibles and to bellow to the waiters.
Your sole object is yourself. You drink wine without asking your
neighbour to join you; and if he should be so silly as to ask you to
hand him some specified dish, you blandly comply; but in the passage to
him, you transfer the whole of its contents to your own plate. There is
no halving in these matters. Rapacity, roaring, and rapidity are the
three requisites for dining during a journey. When you have resumed
your seat in the coach, you are as bland as a morning in spring.
Never assume any unreal importance in a stage-coach, founded on the
ignorance of your fellows, and their inability to detect it. It is
excessively absurd, and can only gratify a momentary and foolish
vanity; for, whenever you might make use of your importance, you would
probably be at once discovered. There is an admirable paper upon this
point in one of Johnson’s Adventurers.
The friendship which has subsisted between travellers terminates with
the journey. When you get out, a word, a bow, and the most unpleasant
act of life is finished and forgotten.