PEASANT LIFE IN BELGIUM.-CURIOUS IDOL IN BRUSSELS. ITALY REVISITED.-THE POTENTIALITY OF A FLANNEL SHIRT. -OLD FRIENDS AND BEGGARS IN NAPLES.-FLOUNDERING IN FRENCH.-WHY PARIS IS MAGNIFICENT.-THE THIRD NAPO- FACTORY LIFE IN ENGLAND. THE SPINNERS AND WEAVERS OF HALIFAX. - TABLE OF WAGES AND PRICES. TIMIDITY OF A TRAMP TRIP: HOW TO SEE EUROPE ON FIFTY CENTS A DAY. CHAPTER I. THE STEERAGE TO NAPLES. ENTERING the office of the Florio - Rubatino Steamship Line in New York one Saturday morning, I inquired the rate of passage to Naples. "One hundred and thirty dollars," replied the polite young man behind the desk. "Have you not a cheaper rate?" "Second cabin, ninety dollars." "But your cheapest rate?" The young man looked at me. "You do not wish steerage, do you?" “Phew!" and the polite young man whistled. aware the steerage is no paradise?" 66 At any rate I wish to learn for myself." 66 'Very well. The cost is twenty-five dollars." "You are A few moments later I received my ticket—a large piece of yellow paper, with the picture of a ship and a lot of Italian on it and hurried to my hotel to complete preparations for the departure of the steamer, to take place that same day at noon. A half hour sufficed to divest myself of the modish raiment which, taken in connection with a steerage passage, had so surprised the ticket-clerk, and in its place a slouch hat, a coarse flannel shirt, and a heavy sack-coat, warm and compact around the body, was substituted. A knapsack strapped over the back held all the baggage needed; and thus equipped, with scarcely more impedimenta than a lady has in shopping, I sauntered down to the Wall Street ferry, crossed over to Brooklyn, and walked up the gangway of the Independente just as the last bells were ringing and the last good-bys were being said. What a scene was that on the wharf the last half hour before sailing! A crowd of men, women, and children, some staggering under huge bundles of clothing and bedding that they were bringing on board; others collecting skillets and pans and bundles tied in red handkerchiefs-all hurrying and skurrying around like a swarm of disturbed bees. Some of the passengers were men bearded like the pard, but this did not prevent their fellow-laborers, who had come to see them off, from giving them showers of kisses. One of the ship's scullions-a particularly grimy and greasy looking fellow-stood on the wharf until the last moment, talking with a friend equally grimy and greasy. As the last bell rang, the scullion and his piratical-looking friend affectionately embraced, took a mouthful of farewell kisses, and the last I saw of them they were blowing kisses at each other across the water as the steamer slowly glided from her moorings and started on her long journey across the sea. The ticket-agent told the truth. The steerage of an Italian steamer is not a paradise. The bunks are in the hold in the forepart of the ship, in rows like shelves, one about three feet above the other. Lanterns hung from the ceiling give just enough light to make visible the rude beds and their dirty, picturesque occupants. Among the crowd of returning emigrants I noted two young girls. Both were handsome-dark olive complexions, sparkling black eyes. Slumbering peacefully, their arms thrown around under the head, supple figures in pretty postures, they seemed out of place in that semi-dark room, with the stalwart forms of men and women of every description around them. They did not seem to mind it, but slept as calmly as if in a grotto of roses. Habit is wellnigh all-powerful. Accustomed to a private chamber, the first night or two in that strange place, those curious characters around me, my eyes closed in sleep less than an hour. The third night an hour's pacing to and fro on deck before retiring overcame such squeamishness, and I slept soundly. A life on the ocean wave is, all things considered, rather monotonous. The first day out the sea-sick passenger groans and wails, and fears he will die. The next day he fears he won't die. After this he is all right, gets his sea legs on, and develops an enormous appetite. At eight in the morning a big bell strikes, and a black-bearded Italian shouts, "Colazione!" which means breakfast of black coffee and bread. At one o'clock there are two bells, the black-bearded Italian cries "Pranzo!" and the emigrant is served with macaroni or potato stew, bread, and red wine. At night the Italian cries "Cena" intead of "Pranzo," and there is more bread and black coffee. This regimen will certainly not produce gout or kindred ailments; it is, however, as good as can be expected, considering that the three weeks' board and lodging, together with five thousand miles transportation, costs only twenty-five dollars. For the first few days after leaving New York we did not receive any visits from the cabin-first-class passengers get seasick as well as immigrants. After about a week, though, we received a call from a Boston dude, who looked at the steerage in a very supercilious manner, probably with a view to enhance. his importance with the young lady he was escorting. They had been studying an Italian phrase-book, and dosed every immigrant they met with "Come State," or "Buon Giorno," or something else equally as original. Passing my bunk, as I lay studying an Italian grammar, the dude said to me in his blandest manner, "Ah, my good fellow, parlate Inglese?" (Do you speak English?) I gave him a blank stare, shrugged my shoulders, and replied, "Non parlo Inglese." (I do not speak English.) "What a peculiar-looking Italian," murmured the young lady. "Yes," responded the dude, "he speaks the southern patois. IIe comes from Sicily;" and the Boston couple went on their way discussing "that peculiar Italian.” On the night of the thirteenth day we entered the Strait of Gibraltar. The moon was shining brightly. Here and there flitted a sail across the water. The sombre coast of Africa lay a few miles to our right, on the left were the hills of Spain, and in front-miles in front-was the rock of Gibraltar, jutting abruptly fifteen hundred feet above the sea-a scene for a poet or a painter! It was midnight before the vessel came to under the frowning English guns, and that enchanting scene gave way to bunks and dreams and sleep. Six o'clock next morning found us on our way for a stroll through the narrow lanes and crooked alleys of Gibraltar. The English soldiers, and their flaming coats and brimless caps that set perched on the back of their skulls, letting the nose burn red as fire; the miles of galleries that honeycomb the prodigious rock; the one-hundred-ton guns; the Arabs with their blankets and naked legs and villanous faces-all were duly admired and stared at, and then at two in the afternoon, the steamer having taken on coal, the voyage into the Mediterranean was begun. Two days out from Gibraltar a little girl, the child of immigrants returning to their home in sunny Italy, died. They were poor, and there were other children, but the misery in that mother's face spoke to the dullest heart. The little thing was buried in the sea at eleven o'clock at night. The ceremony was short and simple: a few words over the box by the captain, the steerage passengers standing by with solemn faces; the mate counts one-two-three, a splash in the water, and all is over. There was a man in St. Louis once-Professor Donaldson, |