CHAPTER XV

GREECE AND ROME FROM A THIRD-CLASS COACH

TWO weeks of the Greek freighter were enough, and Richardson and I rejoiced to see the picturesque sky-line of Constantinople come into view. We made short work of getting ashore as soon as the anchor was dropped and in a few minutes were on a local steamer going up the Bosporus on our way to Roberts College, the famous American institution of the Near East, where we were to be the guests of friends of Richardson's. Here we received a real welcome and once more began living the civilised life--as true Americans can when given a chance.

It had now been many months since we had left Manila and a job; and our exchequers, in spite of the economical methods of travel we had pursued, were being slowly depleted. However, as near as can be recalled, we had about two hundred and fifty dollars each and, although this sum is a mere joke when compared with the distance we were from home, still a man is not broke until he is broke. We concluded that if it was possible we would get jobs in Constantinople and at least break even financially during our stay there.

Looking for work in Europe is a very different thing from such a quest in the Orient. Indeed, we soon found that as a whole travel in Europe was far different and in many ways less interesting than in the Far East. Europe is the beaten path where the inhabitants of each country are organised and lie in wait to separate the American tourist from his coin. The paths are all cut and dried and everything is carried on along the lines of the personally-conducted sight-seeing tours. Jobs are scarce, and the few obtainable pay very small wages. The thrifty native can do the work as well as, and oftentimes better than, the transient American. The conventional character of European travel strips this pastime of two-thirds of its charm. Experiences, which one is daily encountering in the more or less primitive countries of the Orient, are not to be found in Europe. Civilisation, with its comforts and conveniences, eliminates the possibilities of adventure and the traveller, whether rich or poor, usually deteriorates into a bored and bleary-eyed sight-seeing machine.

After a couple of days' rest we set out to find jobs. We invaded Stamboul, Galata, Pera and Scutari, the three sections of Constantinople, and called on the American Consul, several large foreign mercantile houses, and a number of educational institutions. In nearly every instance we were dismissed with a laugh. Roberts College came to our rescue. Richardson received a position, if it could be elevated to such dignity by the appellation, which consisted of doing electric wiring in one of the college buildings at two dollars a day. Out of this he was to board and room himself. The best I could do was to become assistant instructor in physical culture in the gymnasium at thirty-five dollars a month and from this princely sum I was to pay for my board and clothe and shelter myself--in addition to providing for the many and sundry wants of an American in a strange land.

Richardson decided to accept and I to reject the respective posts. I concluded that I would rather starve moving than while stationary. We agreed to separate--Richardson to remain in Constantinople for a couple of months and I to continue on alone,--to meet later in London. Before our separation we made a systematic and tourist-like conquest of beautiful Constantinople. We went up the Bosporus and travelled in circles on the Black Sea. We explained the interesting but backward city itself. We made our way among the quaint bazaars and finally came to the Mosque of San Sophia. Here I took leave of Richardson and we planned to meet in London in a few months to cross the Atlantic to America together.

I did not have any itinerary. My plan was simply to go through Europe. I decided to go from Constantinople to Greece. The first-class fare to Athens was eighty francs. At this rate my supply of coin would not last long. I knew I could beat that. I visited several steamship offices along the waterfront in search of cheap passage.

Accompanied by a Greek, as an interpreter, I entered a dingy little office.

"When does the next boat leave for Piræus?" I inquired of a moon-faced man in uniform behind a counter.

"To-morrow morning at nine o'clock," was the reply by way of the interpreter.

"What is the fare?" I asked.

"Thirty francs," was the response.

"That's too much," I said, starting to walk away.

"What will you give?" asked the steamship company official.

"Five francs," I uttered, smothering a smile at the smallness of the amount.

"All right," agreed the officer--and I bought my ticket at once. I was so astonished that I could hardly dig up the money fast enough. As I left the little office I concluded that my luck had not left me on setting foot in Europe. I shipped my suit case direct to England, deciding to travel with only a small hand bag.

As my boat did not leave until morning, I now had the evening in which to stir up some excitement. I wandered along the streets of Constantinople ready to welcome any one or anything that came my way. Presently a sign "American Bar" greeted my eyes and in I immediately went, thinking that there the English or American language would be spoken and I might find a companion of some sort. I found that French was the only means of communication. Shortly, however, a man entered the place who knew a little English.

"Where can I find a bit of excitement this evening?" I asked.

"There is nothing going on to-night except at the Paris Café," replied the man.

"What takes place there?"

"Music, theatre, pretty women and plenty to eat and drink."

"Where is this café and how do I get there?" I asked, determined to investigate the establishment.

"The proprietor will be here in a moment and you can go with him."

In a few minutes a sleek-looking Frenchman arrived and was introduced, and in a second I was off with him in a closed carriage for the Paris Café. We rode on for an hour. It was nine o'clock in the evening. The Frenchman didn't speak a word of English. I began to think that I was up against a knockdown and drag-out game. I decided to stick, however, and see what this Paris Café was. We rode on. Finally, the carriage came to a stop and we alighted in front of a small house, brightly illuminated, from which was emanating the maudlin laughter of male and female voices. There was not another house to be seen. We might have been in the midst of an American prairie from the appearance of the darkened landscape. My French companion and I entered the house. I reluctantly paid the equivalent of one dollar admittance. On entering, the Frenchman was lost in the crowd and I was left to find my own way. An inebriated gathering of French life greeted my vision. I seated myself at a table in one end of the large room, ordered a drink and in a careless manner took in what was about me. A dozen or more tables with six or eight people at each occupied half of the hall, a highly-polished floor for dancing took up the other half and at one end was a stage on which a succession of scantily-clad French women of tender age executed a series of sensuous dances while the maudlin crowd cheered and applauded.

I sat at my table unnoticed for fully an hour. At last, an ill-shapen feminine individual advanced and, in broken English supplemented with portions of French, asked me to join her crowd in an adjacent room in some refreshments. I accepted. I considered that I was not a fool and could take care of myself, and decided that I would investigate the place to the limit. I joined this select party of eight. Liquid began to flow freely and all were very solicitous that I should drink my fill. Being suspicious of the whole proceeding I decided to drink nothing. I had fears of being drugged, robbed and thrown out in an alley to spend the night. My fears were well founded. The gang became more and more intoxicated. They reached the point where they evidently thought that I was ripe to pluck, and two of them ventured to separate me from my money. It would have been a fruitless effort, if it had been allowed to proceed to its consummation, for I had left all my coin, with the exception of a small amount, in my hand bag at the steamship office. My assailants plunged towards me like huge tigers. They were so drunk that they were helpless. I handled them like a pair of twin punching bags and left the room and the Paris Café with one man stretched out so flat that he looked like an inlaid design on the floor, while his co-partner was so completely pasted against the side of the room as to be hardly distinguishable from a figure on the wall paper. After this clean-up I calmly walked out of the joint, ordered a hack, drove to town, put up at a little Greek hotel and had a good night's sleep.

In the morning I boarded the Greek steamer ΙΣΜΝΗ. My bunk consisted of nothing more than a niche in the side of the ship--similar bunks being occupied by a score of Greeks--and my food was a supply of tinned goods I had purchased in Constantinople. The next day at sunrise we were off the shore of the Dardanelles, and here we spent most of the morning waiting for the sea to subside in order to land a herd of cattle and a small flock of unhealthy-looking sheep. The sea continued to rage and it was not long before our common sleeping compartment presented a most distressing scene, with a Greek chorus which so affected me that I nearly joined the regurgitating throng myself.

Early the third day the Greek ship arrived at Piræus, the port of Athens, and without stopping I betook myself by electric car to the capital. I went directly to the "American School of Classical Studies" where I presented a letter of introduction to Dr. Clyde Phaar. This gentleman--for he surely was one--conducted me about the city of Athens and I spent two most interesting days visiting the Acropolis, the Olympieion, the Theatre of Dionysis and many other ancient structures.

On leaving Dr. Phaar I returned to my old level and picked up a couple of Greek peasants who led me to their various haunts. One evening, after a seven-cent meal (consisting of stewed liver, kidney and other entrails) in the most unsanitary restaurant I ever saw, I left Athens for Patras, laden with many introductory letters from my Athenian friends to Grecian fruit vendors and candy fabricants in New York City.

After travelling all day, with an hour's delay at Corinth, due to a defective engine--which time I utilised by sight-seeing--I arrived at Patras in the evening. I was besieged by an army of hotel men as I was leaving the station and nearly landed in jail, instead of an hotel, for beating up an especially persistent hawker. However, I managed to find an hotel and I spread myself to the extent of eating a first-class dinner, the first food for the day. With this meal safely placed away I strolled up the street. I was ambling aimlessly along; my thoughts had drifted to America, when I was attracted by a Greek of about thirty years, who called to me from across the street, addressing me as "Charlie." As there was nothing on the calendar, I responded to my new name and crossed over to see what the native wanted.

"Where are you going, Charlie?" he asked.

"No place," answered Charlie.

"Come along with me then," said the Greek in good English.

"Where are you going?" I enquired, preferring to know something of my destination.

"To call on some of my relatives and friends." My boat for Brindisi did not leave until midnight and I had plenty of time to learn something.

We strolled along a winding road lined on each side with little native houses. Our first call was on the Greek's aged aunt, a peasant woman, whose husband had been killed, a few days before, in a duel with a neighbour. The house in which this simple and grief-stricken woman lived was a low thatch-roofed adobe structure with the earth for its floors. It was a near-to-nature residence and I was impressed by its almost spotless cleanliness and neatness. We remained in this little home for nearly an hour while the poor woman poured out her troubles to her nephew, who later informed me that he had assumed the responsibility of her support since her husband's death. We next called on the Greek's older sister. This Grecian peasant home was also an interesting place and was as immaculate as its predecessor. With this second visit completed, my companion evidently had performed all his obligations and he now felt at liberty to call on some of his girls. Our last visit was at the home of a travelling butcher, who saunters about the town pushing a one-wheeled vehicle, resembling a wheelbarrow, laden with carcasses of cows and sheep, from which he hacks off a chunk whenever he finds a customer. The walls of this modest mud house were literally plastered with calendars, newspaper pictures and display advertisements. It was inhabited by a most interesting set of human beings. There was the mother with her three youngest huddling around her skirt like little chicks around the proud old hen; there were twin girls of about twelve years, who spent their energies giggling at the idiosyncrasies of the American guest and there were two young women of some twenty-one summers. There was also a boy of about sixteen and from the accounts of his mother he must have been the tough lad of the neighbourhood.

The two young ladies, whose names were Miss Vaseleki Caetina and Miss Caraperpara Caetina, were bright, healthy creatures in spite of the fact that they worked fourteen hours a day, one in a stocking factory and the other as a dressmaker.

My visit was considered a great distinction and my presence was soon noised about the neighbourhood and an endless file of proud mothers came to exhibit their offsprings to me as I handed out compliments and passed comments on them by means of my Greek companion. The Misses Caetina became so infatuated with the sample American, in spite of my travel-worn and trampish appearance, that they insisted on their mother's inviting me to dinner. What they would have done to a regular American one can only surmise. I was enjoying the affair to the limit of my capacity and if I had been invited to a suicide I would have accepted.

The meal was served in the most informal way in what might be termed the parlour. Informal is hardly the word. Jam came straight from the jar to the eater's mouth. One spoon did service for the entire gathering, each one using it in turn without any cleansing process intervening. Still having some ideas of hygiene in spite of my unsanitary experiences, I considered myself fortunate in being the guest and, therefore, getting the first fling at the much-worked spoon. Greek wine was poured out in lavish quantities and, not being acquainted with the inebriating efficiency of this liquid, I partook of it cautiously. Strips of dried meat, squares of bread and walnuts completed the repast.

The evening was an entertaining one and I took my leave while the young Grecian maidens danced with joy as I wrote down their names and promised I would drop them post cards from Italy. This promise I fulfilled.

I now turned my thoughts towards Italy. A much-travelled man once advised me that if I had but six months in which to tour Europe to spend four of them in Italy. Although I do not agree with his ratio, I do thoroughly believe that four months is much too short a time to even get a start in this wonderful land, rich in everything that interests an intelligent human being. But lack of funds haunted me with the necessity for speed and, much as I regretted it, I had to keep moving on.

A sea trip of two nights and one day brought me to Brindisi. I took the first train to Naples where I arrived after a delightful route through green fields, prosperous farms and orchards and a country radiant with the bloom of youth, for it was the early spring-time. I put up at a small rooming house with eating arrangements connected, which I discovered near the station.

Italy proved to be a land of little adventure. The traveller has nothing to do but go sight-seeing and about the only way in which to encounter an unusual experience would be to go out in the street and deliberately insult some one. Not having any desire to do this I became a simple and ordinary tourist, and the following sample from my diary concerning my activities in Naples very clearly illustrates this:

"Saturday:--I nearly walked my crimson head off to-day. Armed with a Baedeker, I went after Naples with the persistence and energy of an American book agent. I managed to get about very satisfactorily without a guide or even the disbursing of a single tip.

"In the morning early, after carefully studying the Baedeker map, I went to the Villa Nazionale, a public garden next the sea, with many trees and marble statues. The 'fashionable' world flit to and fro in their automobiles on the broad Via Caracciolo along the water, while the scum and tramps, like myself, get out of their way in the best manner we can or are run down and trampled into eternity. In the Villa Nazionale is the famous Aquarium, which I will visit to-morrow--as on Sundays the admission is one franc instead of two.

"From this park I went to the English church, a fine large building, with a tasteful interior, quite in contrast to the churches of the Papal obedience which I have seen. I wandered through busy, noisy streets,--the inhabitants of Naples are the noisiest people I think I ever heard--and came to the large church of San Francesco di Paola--a modern edifice--having been constructed in 1817-31. In the interior are superb marble columns, modern statues and pictures and a high altar inlaid with jasper. It impressed me more favourably than other churches of Naples because time had not filled it with a lot of gaudy fixtures.

"Passing the Plazzo Real and the Theatre of San Carlo, I went in the Galleria Umberto Primo, a beautiful arcade containing many high-class shops. I walked by the Municipio, a large square structure used for city offices, as its name suggests, and came into the Via Roma or Toledo, the main street of Naples. Jostling along this thoroughfare for awhile, I turned off on a side street and spent some little time in the Jesuit church of Gesu Nuovo. Near-by I visited the Church of Santa Chiara, built in the fourteenth century and richly but tastelessly decorated. It contains numerous altars and many paintings, and the ceiling is a solid mass of gilding. Referring to the map in Baedeker I directed my course to the Church of San Domenico Maggiore, erected in 1289 and restored several times. My guide book states that some of the great families (great because of inherited wealth, I suppose!) of Naples have their chapels here.

"I next found my way in some mysterious manner through the narrow foul-smelling alleys of the slums to the Cathedral of San Gennaro. This church is in the French-Gothic style and is not especially attractive. It contains a shrine called the Chapel of Saint Januarius. In the tabernacle of the chief altar of this chapel there are two vessels containing the blood of Saint Januarius, Bishop of Benevento, who suffered martyrdom in the fourth century. The liquefaction of the blood, which, according to the legend, took place for the first time when the body was brought to Naples, occurs three times a year on several successive days. On the occasion of this liquefaction thousands of the faithful make pilgrimages to this shrine for prayers and offerings, for by means of this liquefying a forecast can be made of the prosperity of the land.

"From the Cathedral I went to the Castel Capuano, once the residence of the Hohenstaufen, later of the Angevin kings and, since 1540, the seat of the law-courts. Close by is the Porta Capuano, one of the finest existing Renaissance gateways.

"In the afternoon I walked along the Via Tossa, a winding street which ascends the hill behind Naples and which passes many beautiful buildings and from which good views of the city and bay of Naples may be had. I took a cable car lift and went up to and around the Castel Sant' Elmo, fortified with huge walls and now used as a military prison. Near this castle I visited the Church of San Martino. This church seems to be deserted so far as religious purposes are concerned, and has been turned into a money-making institution. In the Tesoro, a room beyond a sacristy, is a "DESCENT FROM THE CROSS" by Ribera and on the ceiling "JUDITH" by Luca Giordana--who is said to have painted it in forty-eight hours, when in his seventy-second year. This sounds like a California fish story.

"Adjoining the church is the museum, which contains many sculptures, paintings and ecclesiastical vestments. From the Belvedere, a spacious balcony, is an excellent view of the city and of Vesuvius beyond.

"Sunday:--I spent two hours this morning (admission free on Sundays) in the Museo Nationale. It contains a fine collection of marble and bronze sculptures, most of them from Herculaneum and a few from Pompeii--the bronze exhibition consisting mostly of household utensils and affording an admirable insight into the domestic life of antiquity. The museum also contains a gallery with many beautiful and masterful pictures and also an unrivalled collection of vases.

"Later in the day I visited the Aquarium, which was very interesting, although not so large as the one in Honolulu. The sea life it contains is of a different species, being from other waters, but there are not so many varieties as in Hawaii.

"The shops, streets, and tenement sections of Naples are unique. Noise, congestion and colour are their most predominant features. Every man who is not a priest is engaged in ravenously devouring a greasy string of macaroni, while the women are shouting inhuman shrieks in the effort to sell a bottle of red wine."

The feeling of loneliness, which seizes us all at one time or another, is probably more acute, when--travelling alone--one enters a large city in a foreign land where he doesn't understand the language and doesn't know a single soul. Especially is this the case when the traveller is making his way on a sum which is so small that rigid economy has to be practised every minute of the day.

Never was I more impressed with this feeling of loneliness than when I arrived in Rome at midnight. It is a simple thing for the opulent traveller to alight from his first-class train and take a carriage to the leading hotel, but it is a very different matter for the lone and coin-depleted tramp to find board and lodging commensurate with his meagre funds and, especially so, during the middle of the night. The greatness of Rome, its magnificent history and its position in the world to-day made me feel as insignificant as when one gazes into the heavens on a moonless night and beholds the stars. I swung off a third-class coach, made my way through the crowds in the station, elbowed the hotel hawkers aside and reached a street corner, where I stood for a moment's reflection. I might as well have been in a jungle so far as knowing where to go next. I finally set out in search of an hotel, and for two hours I hunted in vain. I inquired for a room at every establishment over the door of which was printed the word "portier." My hotel in Naples had displayed this sign and I concluded that all places with such a label were hotels. Working under this delusion I canvassed every building which bore the inscription. No one would take me in and I couldn't make any one understand me. I began to wonder if there was something about my appearance which made me an outcast and caused the portiers to regard me with suspicion. Some of the supposed hotel-keepers laughed at me, others nearly threw me out, while still others seemed to regard me with pity. I became discouraged. It was now two o'clock in the morning. Was I to pace streets all night, luggage in hand, in search of a place to sleep? Tired and disgusted I decided to retire in the first vacant lot I came to, if Rome had such things. Presently I came across a large open space which appeared in the darkness to be some sort of an ancient excavation or ruin. This was good enough, I thought, and I scrambled down the decomposed steps and in a few minutes was sound asleep in a secluded corner of this deserted square.

I awakened early to recognise that my bedroom was no less than the Roman Forum. A smile rippled over my unshaven face and my thoughts were shifted years back to the time when I studied in school of the ruined Roman Forum and how at that time I little realised that the day was coming when I would wake up, like a tramp, and find myself surrounded by its huge and stately old columns.

I explored the venerable place at once and, although it was six o'clock in the morning and I had not eaten, I opened my Baedeker and spent two hours reading and becoming familiar with this ancient seat of oratory and modern domicile for hoboes.

Later in the day I found a modest little hotel whose proprietor spoke English quite fluently. He explained to me that the reason I was unable to get a room on the preceding night was that I probably did not inquire at a single hotel. He informed me that many buildings in Rome had a porter or caretaker and usually had the sign "portier" over the door. I had been trying, in the early hours of the morning, to force myself into wholesale houses, department stores, private homes and what not. In each instance I had, unknowingly, applied to the watchman whose duty it was to keep off all intruders and burglars. It is a wonder that I wasn't shot down.

Probably the first point to which the traveller in Rome directs his steps is Saint Peter's and I was no exception. I took a car to this wonderful church and spent the entire day drinking in its marvels. From the lantern on the dome (where I poked my crimson head--five hundred and eighty-three feet above the ground--and took in the amazing panorama of the Eternal City) to the main floor, I left little unseen. I was quite content to be a spectator and took no active part in the customary devotions of the average pilgrim. As I watched the long line of the faithful file by the large bronze statue of Saint Peter and osculate his big toe--which has been worn down, through the centuries, nearly half an inch by this unsanitary process--I decided to give these poor peasants a lesson in hygiene, but the play was taken away from me by a high dignitary of the Church. A well-fed clean-shaven man, dressed in a red cassock, was approaching the statue, accompanied by another ecclesiastic in purple. At once I recognised them as a cardinal and a bishop. They were going to kiss the toe of the saint. I forced my way through the crowd to see how they would act. The cardinal drew a white handkerchief from his cassock and diligently set to work to give the toe of the huge figure of Saint Peter a vigorous scrubbing. He was so adept at these menial movements that I concluded he must be one of the peasant prelates of whom we hear so frequently in America. The respectful pilgrims were much interested in the cleansing which the cardinal was giving Saint Peter's toe, but the example was of no avail. When he was satisfied that the member was sufficiently sterilised, the church official stooped and brushed it with his lips. He was followed by the bishop. Then the thousand or more ignorant pilgrims passed by and performed this act of devotion without a thought of a microbe. I can image the activity that would be exhibited on this toe under the lens of a microscope after such an army of the unwashed had filed by.

The next day I returned to Saint Peter's and took up as companions an American Methodist preacher and his wife, who were _en route_ to India to resume their missionary duties. This unrefined and prejudiced pair of representatives of our Great Middle West performed their sight-seeing obligations in a thoroughly bigoted Protestant manner. The Pope and all his adherents were denounced every time a new picture came to their notice and as they watched the priests of Rome chanting the ancient liturgy. They were not very pleasant companions but I concluded that they were better than none at all.

Each day during my stay in Rome the three of us would meet in the morning, map out our itinerary and follow it closely. We visited the Vatican--that atrocious piece of architecture; we spent some time in the Sistine Chapel with the usual horde of tourists; we drove to the Coliseum and the Pantheon and saw hundreds of churches in all parts of the city.

We hired a carriage, with meter and driver, and rode, along the Appian Way to the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus. As we alighted at our destination I took down, in my note-book, the figure that the meter registered, having a suspicion that the cab driver might cheat us. My suspicion was well-founded for, on our return, the gauge indicated that an additional six miles had been rung up. The fare was cheap enough and we had little objection to the amount our bill was approaching. However, I remonstrated with the driver to let him know that our eyes were open and that he had not tricked us without our knowledge. The climax of this incident was reached at the end of our journey when, in exacting our bill, the driver with a sudden jerk of the meter forced it up five points more and then insisted on money for the last dishonestly acquired mileage. We, of course, refused and paid him only for the distance we had travelled, plus the increase registered while visiting the Catacombs. As we walked down the street he followed with his carriage loudly demanding more money. Finally an Italian policeman intervened and we were brought to the first police station. Here the magistrate heard both sides of the tale and on giving the matter a few minutes' consideration told us to go on our way and placed the poor cab driver under arrest for fraud.

For a city with a distinctive atmosphere I recommend Florence. To walk its various streets is a rest for the weary. After the teeming millions of oriental cities, the repose and quietness of this attractive town is most restful. Florence is worth a visit if one only sits in its beautiful cathedral and thinks. Its identity as the birthplace of Dante, of Petrarch, of Boccaccio, of Galileo, of Michael Angelo, of Leonardo da Vinci, of Andrea del Sarto and a host of other great minds is sufficient to stamp it with a character which none but the dumb brute would fail to discern.

With the contents of my pocketbook approaching the vanishing point I could only visit the large cities of Italy and had to give up all idea of seeing the countless small towns and villages with their wealth of historical association and present-day charm. However, even a tramp would not think of touring Italy without spending a few days in Venice. Its unique situation, if not its rich past, would be sufficient incentive to have it included in the itinerary of the most humble traveller.

Venice is a city without a wheeled vehicle, without trees, without sidewalks and without many of the ordinary appliances found in a modern community. Situated as it is on a cluster of seventy-two small islands, each inch of space is utilised and there is no subdividing of large tracts of land into fifty-foot lots. Its streets are a regular maze and the only way to get about, in the event one does not hire a guide, is to follow the crowd and trust to luck. This was my method, which at times proved very interesting. In this manner I wandered aimlessly along and, after a couple of hours' walking, the beautiful Piazzo of San Marco burst upon me. It was a scene I shall never forget. Several thousand people were assembled for a band concert and I was shortly lost in the crowd and had nothing to do but take in the many interesting things about me. The stately and oriental-looking church of Saint Mark at one end; the imposing Campanile, the ornate Palace of the Doges and the old government buildings now converted into stores and cafés, presented a picture for beauty and symmetry of design which is probably unequalled.

In the middle of the square a man drove a donkey hitched to a small cart, and the novelty of the conveyance aroused the curiosity of not only the children but of the grown people as well.

Midnight seemed to be the hour at which I was destined to make my advent into nearly all European cities. It was at this hour that my train pulled into Milan. Finding cheap hotels had almost become second nature to me and, with little difficulty, I located a comfortable domicile and was soon enjoying the rest which no one but a weary traveller can truly appreciate. Most of my brief stay in this city was devoted to the famous cathedral. This church, the second largest in Europe, stands alone from an architectural standpoint. It is richly decorated with statues and sculptured pinnacles--more than two thousand in number--which from the street look like countless inverted icicles.