I have been trying to remember whether I fasted all the way to Macon,which I reached at an advanced hour of the evening,and think I must have done so except for the purchase of a box of nougat at Montelimart (the place is famous for the manufacture of this confection,which,at the station,is hawked at the windows of the train)and for a bouillon,very much later,at Lyons.The journey beside the Rhone past Valence,past Tournon,past Vienne would have been charming,on that luminous Sunday,but for two disagreeable accidents.The express from Marseilles,which I took at Orange,was full to overflowing;and the only refuge I could find was an inside angle in a carriage laden with Germans,who had command of the windows,which they occupied as strongly as they have been known to occupy other strategical positions.I scarcely know,however,why I linger on this particular discomfort,for it was but a single item in a considerable list of grievances,grievances dispersed through six weeks of constant railway travel in France.I have not touched upon them at an earlier stage of this chronicle,but my reserve is not owing to any sweetness of association.

This form of locomotion,in the country of the amenities,is attended with a dozen discomforts;almost all the conditions of the business are detestable.They force the sentimental tourist again and again to ask himself whether,in consideration of such mortal annoyances,the game is worth the candle.Fortunately,a railway journey is a good deal like a sea voyage;its miseries fade from the mind as soon as you arrive.