portmanteau in canvas: bride and bridegroom
On the deck they may be seen, sitting
together, he, like his trunk, in a white
coat also. We know the French boxes at a
glance—those queer little cases that seem
made of cardboard or papier maché, and
open like a backgammon-board. They are
of a strange size, made too small, and yet
too large, with a view of being smuggled
into a railway carriage, laid like boulders
on the ground to be stumbled over by
human legs, or else poised over head
among the netting. The French hat-case,
too, of a grey canvas, and shaped like a
flower-pot, is an eccentric device; but
one would hardly guess the strange shapes
of luggage that come tumbling down. Very
often we see the old-fashioned valise, such
as is pillaged on the stage by brigands,
and which has the air of a tinker's wallet.
Now, glides down lazily the old, old hair-
trunk, long and lean, mean and "mangy,"
unpleasant to look at, and invariably tied up
in an old rope, with a big knot. Now,
comes the covered tin box, having a lawyer like
air, suggesting deeds and leases, and
which ought to have the owner's name on
its side in large yellow letters. These
small tin cases are growing into a sort of
popularity, as light and neater looking
than the "basket," and as more secure
against damp. Now, comes the old "trunk"
proper, a heavy chest, brass-nailed, with
the initials of the owner rendered in the
same glittering medium. Now comes the
mouldy carpet-bag—of genuine carpet, as
its name professes: not leathern, as the
pseudo-things of our time exhibit
themselves. They bend incoherently, like a
person with weak knees. Into the notion
of a pure carpet-bag of the old genuine
pattern, enters something of the degrading.
It seems to come of the pattern always
running in stripes, or from the handles,
suggesting the notion that is to be carried
ignobly by the owner himself, a cheap and
undignified saving of porterage. In the
association there is something plebeian:
as any one will find out speedily who
chooses to test it by the gauge of a
landlord's appreciation.

The English and foreign systems of dealing
with luggage are very different. With
the former the theory still is, that the
man and his luggage are one. They are
inclined to be tender with baggage. There
is a laxity and laissez faire in this view of
the matter. The foreigners, on the
contrary, are jealous, and even ferocious. They
would seem to be more indulgent even in
the case of a passenger. Every traveller
recals the scene at the "gare" a few
minutes before the train is starting—the wild
confusion, the stalwart men in blue, with
brass on their caps, who haul about the
great chests and frantically hoist them
upon the low counters; the confused
miscellany of travellers' trunks, the shouting,
bumping, swearing, clattering, shuffling.
Yet this is all about the weighing of
luggage. When the postulant's turn is come,
his chests are swung upon the scale, some
strange gutturals are shouted to a pigeon-
hole, whence comes a daubed shred of
paper, with a demand for a large sum of
francs. The gutturally mentioned weight
may be anything; the rate of charge may
be anything; but for his baggage the
traveller pays heavily, and mysteriously, and
"through the nose." It is not too much
to say that what takes place in the baggage
offices all over the Continent is an organised
system of cheating. The confusion,
ignorance of the language, hurry, eagerness,
and bewilderment, are too tempting. No
one is told what the weight is, but accepts
what is told him, and is delighted to be gone.
When we detect the ticket-clerk constantly
trying to swindle—and the present writer
was able to check some three attempts
during a short tour in this year—the
luggage, with superior advantages, is
certain not to be above the temptation. All
this is a scandal to foreign "administrations,"
especially on the French lines,
where the favourite device is to add about
ten francs to the charge for a set of tickets
taken together. The flurried father of a
family cannot make the "addition," pours
the change he has received into his pocket
with other change, and never learns the
extent to which he has been cheated.

The speculation naturally arises whether
this charge for luggage, so thoroughly
developed on the Continent, is a legitimate one.
And whether the passenger who pays his
fare should not be allowed the privilege of
having his trunk carried for him. The
companies may say that they cannot be expected
to find vans and porters for those vast
heaps of chests and trunks gratuitously;
which seems reasonable enough. But this
is a fallacy. Two vans at most accompany
a long express train of fifteen carriages;
so the proportion of passenger luggage to
passenger accommodation is very slight.
The porterage, booking, wear and tear,
and so forth, would be covered by a
very small charge or per-centage: a mere
nothing as compared with a passenger fare.