SEVEN LEGS
ACROSS THE SEAS
A PRINTER'S IMPRESSIONS
OF MANY LANDS

BY
SAMUEL MURRAY
Author of "From Clime to Clime"

NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
1918

Copyright, 1918, by
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY

Published, February, 1918

INTRODUCTORY

I was early aboard the fastest ship that ever foamed the seas. Later, a long, strong whistle blast blew—the signal for starting—and soon she headed southward, the great vessel traveling through New York harbor to Sandy Hook as noiselessly as a bobsleigh drawn through two feet of unpacked snow.

I had secured a second class ticket to Buenos Aires, Argentina, by way of England, this marking the first of several legs of the world over which I had planned to travel. Thirteen hundred and fifty dollars, representing years of economical living, was the sum deemed as necessary to accomplish what I had purposed doing. By trade I am a printer and linotype operator.

In earlier years money for traveling expenses was of little concern, for the fascination that accompanies prowling about freight trains seeking an empty box car, or the open end door of a loaded one in which to steal a ride, or of turning one's back to the tender of a locomotive to protect the eyes from hot cinders coming from a snorting passenger engine while standing on the draughty platform of a "blind" baggage car—one without end doors—the train at the same time traveling at a speed of from 45 to 50 miles an hour—the "cinder days" during the catch-as-catch-can periods of traveling through coastwise tracts of country, across unbroken prairie stretches and over mountain fastnesses, are pleasant ones to recall, not forgetting the hungry, cold and wet spells that all men meet with who are enticed by the gritty allurements to beat their way about the country on railroad trains.

Since Benjamin Franklin's day it has been a custom with printers to travel from place to place, and, as some of the devotees of the "art preservative of all arts" had covered large territories of the world from time to time, I wished to be numbered among those at the top of the list. A union printer has little trouble in getting work in the United States, by reason of the large Sunday newspaper editions requiring extra men during the latter part of the week, and by vacancies taking place through the "moving spirit" of the workers, which has always characterized the printing trade.

This fascination, however, like other diversions of a rough nature, lost its charm in time, as it proved more comfortable traveling by passenger trains—inside the coach and sitting on a cushioned seat—than riding on the platform of a car that was being constantly pelted with red-hot cinders. I had graduated from the "free-ride" school.

On a trip through North America I had visited Yosemite Valley and Mariposa Big Tree Grove, Yellowstone Park, the Grand Canyon of Arizona, Mexico, Mammoth Cave, Niagara Falls, and the Thousand Islands after I had enrolled in the "Cushion College."

Later on, having saved $400, a trip to Europe was made, visiting in that part of the world most of the chief points of interest. I had gone as far East as Vienna, Austria, when my funds became so low that two meals a day was all they would allow of, and I resorted to traveling at night on railroad trains with one compulsory aim in view—to save lodging money. After I had bought my steamship ticket in Rome, Italy, for New York, two weeks before the ship was to sail from Naples, the best I could figure out of the surplus money I would have at the time of sailing—on a two meals a day basis—was four francs—eighty cents. My savings for years, in short, had passed over the office counters of railroad and steamship companies.

As the major portion of my travel was by water, the nautical word Leg has been chosen as a designating term for the different sections of the world visited, embracing South American cities, South Africa, Zululand, and Victoria Falls, in Rhodesia; Australia, New Zealand and principal South Sea Island groups; then back to Africa and up the East Coast to Zanzibar and Mombasa; next through British East Africa to and across Victoria Nyanza into Uganda. Leaving Africa, we sailed over the Indian Ocean to India, visiting, among other features in that country, the Himalaya Mountains, and afterwards Ceylon. From Colombo we traveled eastward to the Straits Settlements, Philippines, China and Japan, concluding observations at the Hawaiian Islands. The journey was from New York to New York over the territory briefly outlined in the foregoing itinerary.

From Sandy Hook we sail for England.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

LEG ONE

SEVEN LEGS
ACROSS THE SEAS

CHAPTER I

A puzzling phase of ocean travel soon becomes apparent during a passenger ship's journey to one making his first voyage—sometimes when a vessel has been at sea not more than a few hours. He is apt to find himself at a loss to account for the absence of the many persons who crowded the deck rails of the steamship—chatting, saying good-by to friends and some bidding a final farewell to their country—before and immediately after the vessel pulled away from her dock into the harbor. After a few days, however, the mystery gradually unfolds. Vacant chairs in the dining saloon become occupied from time to time as the journey advances; more passengers are taking part in deck amusements; new faces are seen in the social hall and smoking saloon—the ship's "family" surely grows. On voyages of from two to four weeks' duration this feature becomes even more interesting. Frequently, when the ship has reached the end of the journey, before which every one would seem to have become used to the sea, "strangers" will be observed leaving the vessel. One cannot help thinking the ship has stopped during the night hours and taken on passengers from the main. This is explained by some voyagers keeping to their cabins from the time of sailing.

Seasickness is largely responsible for this perplexing phase of water travel. Women are more affected than men, and the man who will discover a remedy for seasickness will find his name immortalized. Many women will travel for weeks on the water so sick they cannot raise their heads, yet not a complaining word will be uttered by most of them. This form of bravery seems to be the only comforting thing that accompanies the sea wreaking out its vengeance on womankind.

Six days after leaving Sandy Hook found us in Liverpool, England. Passengers disembarked early in the forenoon, who, having heard so much of England's dull atmosphere, were all surprised to find the sun shining. The orb was of a vapory appearance, though, which suggested that perhaps it had been on a sea voyage also, as there was a marked resemblance between the appearance of the sun and some of the passengers who had undergone a sick trip across. Most of us boarded a train for London.

Railway train service in England is fast, the speed on main lines being from 45 to 50 miles an hour. The passenger coaches are of compartment design, which are comfortable to ride in when only half filled, or four persons to a compartment; but when from six to eight passengers—the latter number being the full seating capacity—occupy one compartment, travel proves very uncomfortable, as there is no room to stretch one's legs in any direction, since the passengers sitting on one side face those seated on the other side. It is a case of knees to knees. Railroad fare is two and three cents a mile; a higher rate is charged for hauling freight in England than that prevailing in America. Food, however, is cheaper than on American trains.

The locomotives are small—some of them not half the tonnage of the American engine—but the driving wheels reach to the top of the boiler, which accounts for the high speed schedules of the English railroads. One misses the ringing of the locomotive bell, as there are no bells on English engines. Another feature of the English railroads that seems odd to an American is the small freight cars, which in some instances are not one-third as large as some of the American cars and trucks. Trains in England have not the solid appearance of the American train, for the reason that their wheels are not like the American wheel, but have spokes, like those of a wheelbarrow. The convenience a union railway station affords the traveling public, found in many cities of America, is much missed when visiting the metropolis of England. Naturally, numerous railways center in London, and the terminus of each seems to have been located as widely apart from each other as the boundaries of the city will allow. None of the stations seen here can favorably compare with those found in the larger cities of the United States.

The cleanliness of London's streets is the first impression one has of the premier city of Europe. And how obliging the public conveyance employees are; and the policemen, also. It is a pleasure to go about in London, as every one seems willing to answer questions, to point out to a stranger places of interest, and to make one comfortable in every sense of the word.

"London traffic," a feature of this city one often hears mentioned, is accounted for, to a large degree, by the absence of surface car lines or elevated railroads coursing the streets of London City proper, and also to the narrowness of many of the main thoroughfares. With such an immense population, one can infer the great demand placed upon 'buses, public hacks, taxicabs and private vehicles, which at once suggests light-tire traffic. Heavy trucks, loaded with all sorts of merchandise, are not seen in corresponding sections of London as one finds them in populous American centers. In the subways, or tubes, are but two tracks, which prohibit, of course, fast travel. On the other hand, sixteen underground railways intersect the city and suburbs. The atmosphere of a subway is perhaps a more cosmopolitan phase than any other of our industrial factors. Were a blind person—one familiar with our underground railway odors—to sail from New York for Europe, being ignorant of the presence of subways there, and later, in London or Paris, find himself at the entrance of a "tube," he would at once know he was at the approach of a subway by the presence of the smell, as a similar atmosphere emanates from all of them.

Street car fare is higher for long distances than in most American cities. Though short distance rides are cheaper, some of the five cent rides in America would cost fifteen cents in London. Motor 'buses, which are numerous, go a certain distance for two cents, but the next "stage" is another two-cent charge, and by the time eight or ten miles are traveled one will have paid from 10 to 15 cents. Most public conveyances are double decked. Electric trolley cars are operated outside of London City proper, and the fare on these is similar to that charged by the 'buses. One can ride a long distance in a cab for 25 cents, however.

Newspapers here generally have not the attractive nor the prosperous appearance of those in the United States. Until recently most of the London dailies sold for two cents, and even more. Periodicals and books also are more expensive in Great Britain, although the average wages paid artisans in this industry is about half those paid in America. Mechanics engaged in other trades received from $11 to $15 weekly, and consequently the British mechanic in America doubles the salary of his own country, plus other advantages. House rent, generally paid weekly, runs from $3.50 to $5. Most of the working people of London live in the suburbs, and are charged but half price—about 8 cents—for return railway tickets if bought for trains reaching the city before 8 o'clock in the morning. The government collects an income tax on all yearly salaries of $600 and over.

It looks strange to American visitors in London to see only boys engaged in keeping the streets clean. One may not quite agree with the practice of boys doing that sort of work—for the reason it looks as if men should be engaged at such employment—but the fact remains the streets are very clean. The sweepings are not put in cans, as is customary in some American cities, where they might be tipped over by mischievous boys, but iron bins are placed in the sidewalk close to the curb, into which the refuse is emptied. This custom seems much better than the American system.

Seen drawn about the streets here, close to the curb, is what one would call a street sprinkler. It is a sprinkler, but the liquid running from the pipes is a disinfectant, a carbolic acid odor being noticeable.

The sale of matches by persons who seem to be in needy circumstances, seen at almost every corner of the business sections of the city, leads one to think that they must be used even for stove fuel. The proportion of poorly dressed people is much larger than in American cities. Any of the homeless who apply for shelter are provided with sleeping accommodation by the authorities.

The price of food in a similar class of restaurants seemed more expensive in London than in New York. At a second class hotel where I stopped the rate was $1.25 for room and breakfast, but heat was not included. A fireplace in the room contained smoky, bituminous coal, and to have this lighted cost 25 cents. So with the room, fire and breakfast, the charge came to $1.50 a day.

Chairs are scattered about the London parks, and an American naturally thinks seats in public places are free, as in the United States; but one is not sitting long before a man appears and asks for a "check." The person resting then learns that it costs two cents to occupy a chair in these places. The benches, however, are free, but these are few compared to the number found in American parks. Similar conditions will be met with in some of the parks of Berlin, and also in Paris, but the resting places in the French capital are more liberally supplied with free seats.

Many men may be seen in London wearing a "plug" hat, a sack coat and trousers turned up to the ankles. Those engaged at clerical employment usually wear this sort of headgear to the office. Mechanics, also, boast of a "stove-pipe" in their wardrobes. While the high hat may be retained by some artisans as a memento of their wedding day, still many may be seen worn by this class of breadwinner when attending church services.

No people spend less time in public eating and drinking places than Americans. In Continental Europe they have their cafés, chairs and tables inside the buildings and out on the sidewalks and streets, and these are used to a large extent as offices by patrons, as proprietors furnish writing paper and ink to customers. In England they have their tea rooms, where men sit and sip tea and smoke their pipes for hours. Cake or scones are usually served with tea, an additional charge being made.

To no people more than Americans have so many heirlooms of memory been handed down by England. How the serious thought of one is aroused by a visit to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's Cathedral; how youthful days stand before one, so to speak, when a visit is made to London Bridge, Hyde Park, the Tower, the great British Museum, or to historic places in and about the city where great Englishmen lived and died.

Hearing so much of the English Parliament building, one is led to believe that he will see the best legislative structure in the world when his eyes rest on this historical edifice. He may see in his mind's eye an imposing structure of white marble or granite built on an elevated plot of land, as most capitols are, rich with ornamentation and strikingly imposing. But, on the contrary, the building, located on the River Thames, is rather mediæval in appearance. America is far behind some of the European countries in art galleries, good roads, docks, and splendid cathedrals, but there are features of the United States which neither Europe nor other divisions of the world can equal. For instance, no capitol can compare with the admirable appearance of the United States' legislative building; in no country will one find such splendid municipal parks as are found in some American cities. We have not seen Hagenbeck's Zoo in Hamburg, Germany, but, apart from that city, Bronx Zoo in New York is foremost of those seen in other cities; the Museum of Natural History in Gotham is unexcelled; our great bridges are unequaled; the interior of the Congressional Library in Washington, D. C., will stand comparison with any, and the inspiring Washington Monument, also located in the national capital, stands alone when dealing with campaniles, towers, and pagodas. To the foregoing "prides" of the new world may be added towering Mariposa Big Tree Grove, peerless Yosemite Valley, wonderful Yellowstone Park and the marvelous Grand Canyon of Arizona.

After a short stay in London we boarded a "boat train"—an English travel convenience—for Southampton, from which port the steamship on which we had booked passage sailed for South America.

CHAPTER II

On reaching the Bay of Biscay a storm was encountered, the decks being vacated by passengers and the cabin berths made use of for some time. During the night sounds were heard at intervals that reminded one of a large tree falling. The piano in the social hall had been forced loose from its fastening by the rolling and pitching of the ship, and while in what might be termed its periods of tantrum the big musical instrument seemed bent on smashing all the furniture "in the house." Most of the passengers were awake, and a great many were inquiring if the ship was breaking to pieces.

Those starting on long journeys should provide themselves with a passport. One may travel for years through certain sections of the world and not be called upon to show his national voucher to verify his identity; yet it is a good thing to have one in one's possession. One may be taken into custody in some foreign city through mistaken identity, or be detained in other ways, when a passport would clear matters at once with small inconvenience and little delay, compared to much uneasiness and considerable time lost, if one has neglected to include in his traveling outfit this means of identification. Again, when visiting a consulate, one will not have conversed with the officials long before he will be asked, directly or indirectly, if he has his passport with him. If the visitor should not have one, the conversation is usually of a casual nature. On the other hand, if the visitor has his government's credentials, an interesting chat will often result, during which information may be gathered of the character of the country he is traveling in that would not be volunteered to an American who had failed to identify himself with the standard voucher. When leaving the consulate, the person with a passport is generally invited to "call any time while in the city." Furthermore, if the assistance of a consul were needed in any contingency, that government officer, if he should not care to offer a helping hand, may evade a reasonable duty, and defend his actions behind the fact that the "alleged" American did not have a passport. If the person in need of official assistance had this means of identification, that same officer, fearing he would be later called upon by his government to explain why he neglected to do his duty, would exert himself and lend aid to his countryman. An American with a passport in foreign lands has a better standing with his government's representatives than a citizen who has not provided himself with one.

Being good for only two years, and not generally recognized after that time, in order to keep in good standing with his country, one must, if living in foreign parts, have his passport renewed or extended. Only in exceptional circumstances is a consul allowed to issue passports; these must come from Washington. A consul may extend one, however, for an additional two years; but the passport cannot be extended more than once. Application should be made to the Secretary of State, Washington, D. C., when two blanks—native and naturalized—will be sent to the applicant. If a native, he fills out the native blank and will have the contents sworn to before a notary public. The verified blank will then be sent to the Secretary of State, when a passport will soon reach the applicant. The charge is one dollar, plus the notary's fee.

"I wish I had one of those fat, juicy beefsteaks that I was served with while traveling across America," said a Portuguese woman globe-trotter, as some of us, like chickens after rain, began to appear on deck when the storm had subsided. "I never ate beefsteak in any country that tasted as good as those I got in America," she added, with a perceptible smacking of her lips. She wasn't the only one who wished they had a succulent piece of American beefsteak. But the commissary of the ship had little to do while traveling from Cape Ushant to Cape Finistierre—the former marking the north and the latter the south boundaries of the Bay of Biscay, 365 miles across.

At Lisbon, Portugal, the chilling winds of the north and the raw weather were succeeded by soft, south breezes and warm sunshine. Entering the Tagus River on our way to the Portuguese capital, we passed a commanding fort, the banks green with grass and vegetables. Reaching the city, women in their bare feet and none too tidy, bearing heavy burdens on their heads, mostly in baskets—fish, vegetables, coal, flowers, and other marketable commodities—revealed a condition in Southern Europe not pleasant to contemplate, and which is seen in few countries of Continental Europe. The first suggestion of the tropics was had at Lisbon, by reason of a great many of the people, dark skinned, appearing in thin clothing and bare feet. Verdure was growing on every side—it was the month of February.

Travelers cannot fail to show a slight weakness for the small Latin country, for Portugal was the home of Vasco da Gama, the explorer—a really great traveler—whose daring achievements late in the fifteenth century laid the foundation of an empire, and who discovered places and countries we are to visit later.

"Look!" said a man wearing the cloth of a church official, who was showing a number of visitors around a Lisbon cathedral. We were in the crypt, where, in expensive coffins, rested the remains of some of the distinguished dead of Portugal. He had opened the lid of a casket and invited his visitors to look inside. To our astonishment, in the gruesome light, our eyes rested on the crumbling remains of a personage who, the official said, had passed away a long time before. More coffin lids were turned back, and in the boxes were seen, in the murky light, the grim, long outline of a human being. We had never known any one to go so far to obtain a fee.

American-made street cars are in use in the Portuguese capital, and were easily recognized from those manufactured in other countries, as the American car is single, while those of other countries are mostly of a double-decked pattern.

Pavement of dark gray and white colored stone in that city looks odd, laid at twisting angles. A plaza is paved entirely with this deceptive stone, which sailors call "Rolling Motion Square." This square is located close to the wharf, and sailors, having finished their shore leave and returning to their ship, usually find trouble in getting off "Rolling Motion Square."

Egg soup is a delicacy made in Lisbon. When served, it resembles consommé, with halves of a hard-boiled egg swimming in the dish.

The business section of Lisbon is built between two high hills, which necessitates using an elevator, in some instances, if one is going from the center to the higher part of the city. The buildings are of stone and brick, faced with cement. One of the most attractive avenues in the world runs through the commercial district of the city. This boulevard is unusually wide, the center comprising a broad park place, with roadways of a good width on each side. Nearly half a million people compose the population of this Latin capital. Portugal was a Roman province as early as 200 B. C.

Funchal, Madeira Island, located about 450 miles west of the Moroccan coast, was next reached, being favored with a good sea from Lisbon, the first since leaving Southampton. This place, with a population of 20,000, is the chief port of Madeira, and its attractiveness—flowers, vines, spreading trees, climate and tidy appearance—proves a magnet to many Europeans who seek rest and recreation.

A strange and unusual public "hack" here arrests one's attention. This vehicle, covered with canvas and drawn by oxen, is really a sleigh, although it is doubtful if a flake of snow has ever fallen in this section. The runners, as those of a snow sled, are shod with strips of steel, which are pulled over streets paved with cobblestone. When ready to start, the driver says a word to the oxen, and off they go, the sleigh gliding over the paving nearly as smoothly as if drawn over snow. The steel runners, passing over them for years, have worn the stones quite smooth, even slippery in some instances, hence the practicability of the sleigh-hack.

Madeira Island, termed the Pearl of the Atlantic, a Portuguese possession, has an area of 315 square miles, and is 35 miles long and 12 wide. It is very productive of fruit—oranges, lemons, figs, pomegranates, pears, peaches and grapes. The island is more noted for its good climate and wines, however, most of the inhabitants being engaged in the grape growing industry. The United States came to the fore in 1871 by saving the grapevines here, which were being destroyed by a pest. The American grapevine stock was introduced and grafted to the native stump, which withstood the attacks of phyloxera.

Funchal is a sea junction, as most of the passenger steamships plying between Europe and South American ports stop at this place. Passengers coming north from South America and going to South Africa come to Madeira, and those coming from South Africa and going to South America also transship at this island.

Getting a glimpse of the places mentioned in the foregoing will account for one traveling from the United States to South America by way of England. The fare was also cheaper for the same accommodation than by going direct from New York.

We regretfully return to our ship, there being no more stops for eight days, as we are to recross the Atlantic Ocean diagonally. The big vessel, with a crowded passenger list and loaded to the water line with cargo, was headed toward the equatorial line, sailing on a velvety sea. Sailors were busy stretching canvas over the decks to make the hot weather soon to be encountered more bearable, while the electric fans in the cabins were being put in order. Every one had settled down for the sail to Pernambuco, Brazil, the next port.

During the trip British third-class passengers enjoyed the benefits of the good maritime laws of their country, while passengers from other countries traveling in the same section of the ship did not fare so well. Britishers were allowed privileges on a portion of the upper deck, as provided by law, while third-class passengers who embarked at ports south of Southampton remained on the third-class deck.

It is surprising how time slips by during long voyages, and it is interesting to note the national grouping of travelers. The French passengers will be found assembled on a certain portion of the deck, the Spaniards likewise, also Germans—each nationality generally keeping to itself. Our breakfast was ready at 8 o'clock, and a light lunch served two and a half hours later. Ship inspection usually takes place at from 10 to 11 o'clock in the forenoon, the captain, the purser, the doctor or the chief steward being the officers who form this committee. Each deck is visited, when the dining saloons, kitchens, berths, bedding and other furnishings of the cabins generally receive the critical attention of the inspectors. Passengers having complaints to make or suggestions to offer concerning ship conditions may do so at this time. At half-past twelve dinner was ready. In the second class section mealtimes are designated as breakfast, dinner and supper; in the first-class, breakfast, luncheon and dinner. When ready, these are generally announced by ringing a bell, beating a gong, or by bugle call. Many passengers take a nap in their cabins after dinner, and, if not in the cabin, one is pretty sure to find them in the Land of Nod in their steamer chair on deck; others read a great deal and divide the time with sleep. The sleepers are sometimes hurriedly awakened from their slumbers, however, as what is termed "fire practice" takes place several times a week on well-conducted ships. Bells clang, without warning; the ship's whistle blows shrill blasts; sailors, stewards and officers hurry to the lifeboats to which they had been assigned before sailing, which are soon raised from their davits, swung outward, and lowered at the sides of the vessel; members of the crew may be seen wearing life-saving devices, and the passengers generally give evidence of anxious concern on such occasions until they learn it is but a "fire drill" that is being enacted instead of the ship being really afire. Beef tea was served in the cool climate and ices when the hot zones were reached between noontime and supper. Light lunch—generally cheese and crackers and tea—was served between the evening meal and bedtime. Music was furnished twice a day by an orchestra. Religious services—those of the Church of England—on British passenger steamships are made obligatory by maritime law. On Sunday mornings many of the passengers attended, which took place in the social hall of the first-class section, the ritual being read by the captain or purser. Most of the ship's crew must be present, some of whom generally lead the singing and furnish the music. It often happens, however, preachers are among the travelers, when one of them will be invited to preach. First class passengers are expected to appear in evening dress for dinner on vessels of some of the popular British lines running to far Southern ports.

So far as bird life is concerned, the sea is a graveyard when sailing through the equatorial zone. All fowl leave the ship when the sun gets hot and the breezes become warm. The only winged life appearing in this hot section of the sea was flying fish, sometimes hundreds of them rising from the water at the same time. These fish are from four to ten inches in length, slender, and resemble young mackerel. They spring from the sea by a quick stroke of the tail, and, with fins outspread, are able to sustain and prolong their leap for a minute or more. The fins measure several inches across and become transparent in the sun, but do not flap like the wings of a bird. As the fish rise only from six inches to a few feet from the water, their flight, in a choppy or rough ocean, is generally not more than from two to twenty feet, as they disappear on coming in contact with a wave. On a calm sea, however, their isinglass-like "wings" will often remain outstretched for a distance of a hundred yards or so, when the fish will dart into the water as suddenly as they emerged from it.