interval which separates us from the French coast, and in due time are rewarded with a view of Calais. Calais is not an inviting place, and therefore we are well pleased when the period of waiting is over, even though its conclusion compels us to enter one of the close, dusty French carriages, where you knock your head against the ceiling, and scarce procure sufficient air to breathe by opening the little dirty windows. Few incidents mark our onward journey. The train stops once at a small wayside station, apparently for the benefit of a little hunchback, who leans over some railings and plays vigorously on a flute, a proceeding which is invariably rewarded by the coppers of misguided passengers. I have many times passed by this station. The train has always stopped there, and the little hunchback has never failed to put in an appearance to play the single tune he knows. It contains some four or five bars of notes peculiarly irritating to the Fortunately, however, the train does not wait long, and we speed away through a bare, unpicturesque country, made interesting, however, by the river Somme, with its memories of the battle of Crecy. nerves. At Amiens we are allowed about a quarter of an hour for refreshments. We avail ourselves of the privilege of visiting the Refreshment Room, and see a little basket full of nice looking oranges. "Just the thing for such a dusty journey," we mentally remark, at the same time enquiring the price. "Half a franc each," replies the attendant maiden. We abandon our designs upon the oranges in favour of a less expensive diet. Paris comes into view about six o'clock in the evening. A ride through the city of some length brings us to the Great Northern Station. Here we hail a cab. Cabby draws up and hands us a little paper. This proves to be a printed list of the fares he is entitled to charge. The driver's tall hat, made of waterproof leather, strikes us as somewhat peculiar. After a long drive through straight, spacious boulevards bordered by houses of five and six storeys, among which the only thing that strikes our attention is the column on the site of the Old Bastille, we reach the terminus of the Paris, Lyons, and Mediterranean Railway. Three quarters of an hour for tea and tickets, and we enter the night mail for Turin. Darkness comes on rapidly, and the evening grows cold. There being no other passengers in our compartment, we make ourselves com fortable for the night, draw the little curtain across the carriage lamp, and see no more for some hours. Meanwhile the engine hurries us along past towns and villages of greater or less note, principally the latter; and when we awake we find but little to interest us, except the grand range of the Jura Mountains, until we come to the neighbourhood of Modane. Here we leave the French carriages, this being the last station before the boundary is crossed. Notice of this fact is further given us by the double-faced clock, marked on one side "Ora di Roma," Roman time; on the other “Heure de Paris," Paris time; the French face being three quarters of an hour behind the Italian. Some considerable interval is usually allowed at Modane before the start for Italy, an important matter for the keepers of the restaurant in this strange Alpine valley. However we have soon done with waiters and heavy charges; and sally forth from the commonplace railway station to gaze on the assemblage of snow-clad mountains by which we are enclosed. Modane itself is an insignificant, outlandish place, that does not seem to have derived much benefit from the introduction of the locomotive. The houses are somewhat quaint, albeit dirty, and show traces of their position on the borderland of two countries in the polyglot nature of the signboards. Yet even these mean, tumbledown hovels appear to gain a certain dignity from their situation amid the white-robed giants of the Alps. But we must not wander too far. The time for departure is rapidly approaching, and we must return to face the ordeal of the customhouse search. This turns out to be a merely nominal proceeding, and we soon take our seats in an Italian carriage. The necessary gongs, bells, horns, and whistles having produced each its own particular noise, we ascend the valley on a sweeping curve to the mouth of the tunnel. A short whistle, and we are in the so-called Mont Cenis. The air throughout is pure, and the tunnel lofty. We pull out our watches to mark the time of entrance. Lights are passed at short intervals. In twenty-eight minutes and a few seconds daylight appears through numerous holes in the side of the tunnel; in a few more seconds we are under the open sky of Italy. The train stops for a few minutes at the first Italian station, and we have time to alight and look around. The few soldiers and officials lounging about appear to us somewhat slovenly, and the buildings mean. But we can scarcely expect palatial grandeur in such a remote corner of the earth. And, after all, the snowy Alpine peaks, upreared against the sky, need no work of man to add to their magnificence. Again entering our carriage we are hurried on through fields of snow not yet melted by the spring-time sun. The way leads downward and the scene grows milder. We pass through numberless little tunnels, some of them but a few score yards in length. The charms of Italy begin to show themselves. Now comes another way-side station at which there is a stoppage of some minutes. Here the guard and officials leave the train, not to look after more passengers, of whom there appear to be none, but to fraternize with the station-master and the natives. The passengers likewise take the opportunity to promenade the platform and see who are their companions in the adjoining carriages. After the officials of the train and station have concluded their friendly chat, we hear the preliminary cry of "Partenza," and deem it necessary to again take our places. A certain amount of whistling and horn-blowing is gone through, and then the train continues its descent. The landscape grows richer as we proceed, but remains ever bounded by the line of snow on the surrounding heights. Down and still down, till we reach the fruitful and well-cultivated plain, through which we are speedily conveyed to Turin. Here let us rest, before proceeding on our journey to-morrow morning. To while away the time we will take a quiet stroll through the broad, clean streets, all running from one end of the city to the other; so that, although Turin is a populous place, you may stand in the open country, look right through the city, and see the open fields on the other side. As we go about the streets we do not fail to observe the soldiers in their strange hats ornamented with many plumes, and the dark-eyed maidens whom the land of Italy produces in such abundance. But daylight vanishes, and we can see no more. We must be up betimes, for we have a long journey before us. Starting from Turin we pass through the fertile plain of Lombardy, watered by many a noble stream, that derives its waters from the melting of the Alpine snows. Richness and assiduous cultivation mark the region through which we are passing. Fruit trees are planted at intervals in the midst of the crops, and vines are stretched from one tree to another. Thus the ground is made to bear three different crops at one time. Presently we come to Milan. This being one of the largest and most prosperous of Italian cities, we will spend a little time before proceeding. We walk through several wide and fine streets, and enter a grand covered promenade, compared with which our English Burlington Arcade is but insignificant. Many good shops are here to be found, a great number showing signs that the German must be an important part of the community. Passing through the crowd of loungers and out at the further end of the Arcade, we find ourselves in a vast open space at the very centre of the city. A busy scene lies before us-foot passengers filling the side walks, vehicles hurrying in all directions, fine shops, well constructed buildings. But what vision is this which rises on our left? It needs but little knowledge to recognise the famous white marble cathedral of Milan, with its five thousand statues ranged in order on its summit. Let us enter and gaze upon the massive columns within; let us admire the richly stained glass that casts a subdued and sombre light over the interior; and, if you wish it, we will inspect the silver-lined chapel which contains the remains of Saint Carlo Borromeo, though you will probably not be disposed to pay five francs for the doubtful privilege of seeing the body of the good saint himself. But, at any rate, we must ascend to the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral, from which we may see the rich alluvial plains enclosed by the far off Alps, that glow so brightly in the sunshine. We descry many a well-known peak, and try to become familiar with some of the less celebrated. But the eye, wearied with the endless succession, turns back for rest upon the fair city that lies outspread beneath us. How different is the cloudless atmosphere from the grimy dulness of so many English towns! Here people have contrived to live together by the hundred thousand without rendering the face of nature hideous. The bright collection of buildings below seems an ornament rather than an excrescence on the sunny landscape. But let us look still nearer. The cathedral roof, instead of being covered with lead, is made up of marble slabs. From it rises a forest of pinnacles, each decorated with marble statues, some of them of a great size, thousands in number. But we must not forget that our destination is Venice, so we will hasten down from our elevated standpoint, hurry back to the station, leave behind us the relics of Saint Ambrose and the great picture of the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, and commit ourselves to the noisy, hurrying locomotive, which carries us at express speed past the broad surface of Lake Garda, the amphitheatre and ancient remains of Verona, the seven-domed church and wellknown University of Padua, to our last stopping place on the mainland, at Mestre. Starting hence, we soon commence the passage of the gigantic bridge of more than 200 arches, that connects Venice with the rest of the world. A couple of miles or more of riding over the waters, and the speed slackens, we draw up, alight, and find ourselves in Venice. (To be Continued.) A SONG. BY KATE THOMPSON. What laughing eyes you raised to mine, What happy eyes you raised to mine, Half drooping lest their tale of bliss What weary eyes you raised to mine, Before all life, and light, and joy REMINISCENCES OF AN INDIAN CHAPLAIN. LOAFERS. OUGHT to know something about loafers —not that I have ever been one myself, but I have for many years taken an interest in this peculiar portion of mankind. I always, as a boy, liked the gipsy. I do not believe the gipsy belongs to any particular nationality; he is one of the products of all nationalities. The loafer-who does not like a settled life has a strong objection to continuous labour or hard work of any kind. He is generally rather clever with his hands, knows something of some small handicraft, but the most useful member of his body is his tongue. between his legs, bringing him down a cropper, and had stood there guard over him. Dear old Jem, you were worth fifty policemen. You learnt no bad habits, even from your first master, Naha Sahib. Your next master was a brave soldier, who fought in with Havelock's force into Lucknow ; he got a wound, of which he died; you got two, one through your upper jaw, which certainly did not improve your beauty. You cost Naha Sahib £50. You cost me £5, but £500 would not have separated me from my dear, gentle friend of my friends -but what a terror to any foe of mine. But I am not writing of dogs, but loafers. It was marvellous the hair-breadth escapes and the prodigies of valour some of these loafers had performed. The atrocities they had been eye-witnesses of were simply untellable. I imagine it was from the fruitful brain of the loafers that the large proportion of the atrocities of 1857 were produced. Before I went up to Cawnpore, in succession of the chaplain who had been massacred with the rest of the brave fellows who had held for weeks the open barracks, which were dignified by the title of "Wheeler's entrenchments," I was in Calcutta, and of course every scrap of news from Havelock's advancing force was seized upon with avidity. At luncheon one day the wife of one of the volunteers received a letter from her husband, which she read. In it he depicted some of the horrors he had My experiences of loafer life in India began witnessed on his entrance into Cawnpore, and many years ago before the mutiny of '57; but concluded by saying that he had seen the it was just after the mutiny, when, as chaplain bodies of children crucified by the dozen, and of Cawnpore, I became intimate with them. I women naked staked out and so left to die. had to distribute a good portion of the noble Of course the blood of all of us men boiled gift the English people sent out to relieve the with vengeance against the miscreants who distress of those who had been spared from the could do such deeds of infamy. But subseterrible massacres and slaughters of '57. It quently, on reaching Cawnpore, I learnt that was as distributor of the Relief Fund there this was only a loafer's tale. Horrible and that I had many opportunities of studying the terrible as was the scene enacted in the peculiarities of this "peculiar people." slaughter-house at Cawnpore, on the night of the 16th of July, 1857, yet no corpse was left but what was thrown into the well, over which Lord Canning subsequently erected the magnificent figure of the Angel of Death with her palm branches resting on her bosom. Another loafer's tale was a circumstantial account of what two of them witnessed from the roof of a house on the night of the mutiny at Allahabad, when the 6th N. I. massacred their officers at mess. These worthy gentlemen told the public, through the press, that they lay perdu whilst the wreck of a neighbouring merchant's house and property was going on; that they saw the various members of the family dragged forth and murdered with various atrocities, and as a climax they saw the wife and mother roasted alive. Some months later my servant brought me in a piece of paper on which was One gentleman was in a particularly favourable position for study. He was lying on his back, with a large, ugly, bull dog standing on his breast, and very ugly teeth in close proximity to his throat. I was returning from hospital, and knew my dog was of doubtful temper to any one who was uncivil to me or mine, and thought every one in Cawnpore knew it too. So, on his asking me to call off the dog, I said, "No, not until you tell me why the dog knocked you down." He protested that it was uncomfortable talking with the dog's nose so close to his own. I daresay he would not have objected to "dog's nose" out of a quart pot, but a bull dog's nose was another matter. I insisted, however, in having Jem's character cleared; and he had to confess he had been insolent to my wife, upon which the dog bolted written, "Mrs. Archer, late of Allahabad." I the burden of relieving officer usually falls in immediately remembered the circumstantial account of the roasting alive of this very individual; and on her making her appearance I expostulated with her on the impropriety of being roasted in July, and in December coming to me to relieve her temporal necessities. Of course the whole thing was a loafer's tale, copied, I doubt not, into nearly every English paper, for which the inventor got £1, with which he was able to get drink for a week. an Indian station-instituted various methods to meet the ever-increasing evil of European pauperism. No one of us had sufficient influence with the rest to induce all to follow the same system, and work in union. At Allahabad, at which place the junction of the great trunk lines takes place, the chaplain established a loafer's home, where these men had lodging and board whilst looking for work; but I have doubts as to the wisdom of this system, which had already been tried in Calcutta and Bombay. It is the English system of workhouse, minus the stone-breaking, which is a wholesome check on able-bodied loaferism. When, therefore, I was, in 1868, removed to Lucknow, and found loaferism to be a public nuisance and the residents loudly complaining of it, instead of opening a home to attract the species, I determined to try a plan I had found very effective three years before in an outof-the-way station-Jhansi. There, as at a convenient halting-place between Sangor and Agra, we were occasionally honoured with a visit from some distinguished members of the clan. Two of them, who had both been, as they said, tradesmen in a large way, called on us, and were very successful in their raid on about a dozen officers' houses, which was the extent of Jhansi, (not including the soldiers' barracks, which always yield a good revenue to these gentlemen). They only remained with us one day. The ensuing week I met a gentleman who had just come off a journey from Agra. At the next staging bungalow, thirty six miles from Jhansi, he had come in contact with our loafer friends of the week before, and had the misery of passing the night in the next room, and overheard the worthies toasting those fools at Jhansi who had supplied them with the means to keep drunk for a fortnight. I was determined to find out how much they had got, and, by going round to every house, discovered they had bullied £15 out of the community, and had spent £12 of it at the shop of the Pharsee merchants in the purchase of beer, wine, and spirits, which they had carried off to the nearest staging bungalow," afar from the abodes of men," to enjoy at their leisure. I thought this was too good a joke to have repeated, so sent a circular to all the stations, All my loafer friends, however, were not so asking them if they would join in a little plan amenable as John Paul; and as railways were I had conceived, which would be an effectual pushed up through the length of the land, and block to such tricks in the future. It might men were dismissed from their employment cost us a few shillings a week each at first, but for drunkenness; or brought up from Calcutta I believed would be far cheaper in the long and Bombay loafers of every nationality-run, and save us all an infinity of trouble and American, French, Spanish, German, Italian, annoyance. All agreed to subscribe, and I as well as shoals of English, Irish, and Scotch made my arrangements. -it became necessary to reduce relief to a The loafer is a magnificent liar. With a little more education he would be a novelist who would be a small fortune to some of the penny weeklies. I know that even skilled journalists, like Dr. Russell, were puzzled with their tales, and, I doubt not, were often taken in. One great big fellow always commenced business by saying, "My name is John Paul. In the year '57 I belonged to the Lahore Light Horse, and served under," &c., and if you listened to him any longer (which I never did) you would have supposed you had nothing more to do for him beyond writing to Lord Lawrence, the GovernorGeneral, who would immediately remember the distinguished services of John Paul, and at once send him 1,000 rupees, to relieve the temporary distress of this worthy hero of a thousand fights. I always cut him short by saying, "Yes, John, I remember you quite well at Muttra in the year '53, when you were moving over the country in great comfort with a large tent, bullock carts, and two wives-or was it three then? and living an easy, dissipated life; in fact, loafing. And now, tell me have you ever done a day's work for fourteen years?" The answer was always, "I think, sir, you are mistaken about those wives. It wasn't me, sir; and it is true about the Lahore Light Horse; and I do really expect to get work next week at Meerut, if I could only manage to get enough money together to get there." To which I replied, "Well, John, here's a ticket for Meerut, and don't let me see your handsome, though dark, face for another three years." He generally did vanish for about that period. I think he had divided Her Majesty's North-West Provinces into three divisions, and that he went through them, levying his black mail, in regular order, giving a year to each. As soon as any European came into our system. Several of the chaplains-on whom | district, from either Sangor, Agra, or Cawn pore, he was met by a policeman, who immediately procured an echa. (An echa is an Indian cab, of very primitive construction, mainly of bamboo, and contains neither iron nor springs. A platform, about a yard square, raised above the two wheels, is what the passenger has to squat on, tailor fashion, and there is a covering of curtains overhead.) In this (to the loafer) luxurious carriage he was driven into Jhansi, where again a policeman met him, and conducted him to a comfortable room, where he was served with a good meal, but nothing stronger than water to drink. He was not a prisoner, but wherever he went the inhabitants told him they were not allowed to give either money or drink, having given a solemn promise to the chaplain that they would send all applicants for money to him. When they came to me, I said everything necessary was supplied at the house in the bazaar, and that a carriage would be ready next morning at six a.m. to convey them on their way to any station they pleased, and that on quitting our district they would have a sufficient sum handed to them for three days' support. I advertised in the newspapers of the admirable arrangement I had made for "Loafers and other distressed Europeans." One genuine loafer came our way, and, I suppose, told the others there was no drink to be had, anyway I saw no more. Several Europeans really seeking work were passed on in this way, and were thankful to escape the weary tramp of sixty miles, which would have occupied four days of fatigue, and which my plan accomplished without fatigue or the degradation of having to ask alms of any one; and the expense to us as a community was less for a whole year than what our merchant friends had mulcted us of in a single day. With this experience before me, two years later, after having been in the interim at a Hill Station, I was posted to Lucknow Civil Lines, and soon learnt that Lucknow was at the mercy of the loafers. This place, besides being a railway centre, contained other works which supplied employment, so there was a fair excuse for men to come there in search of work. The loafer, therefore, had a right to be present; and, in the meantime, he had a very large station, with hundreds of houses occupied by officers, civil and military, and a large European garrison of four regiments, from whom to draw resources. Matters had become so bad that no lady was safe in her house after her husband had left for office or parade. The loafer watched the gentleman get into his buggy or mount his horse, and then walked straight into the drawing room, startling the lady at her writing desk and accounts, with a demand of ten shillings. I chanced to return to my own house one morning on my way from one hospital to another, and sitting in my study heard a shriek in the drawing room. On rushing out I saw a big rough blackguard standing over my wife. I had him by the scuff of the neck before he saw my approach, and out he went and down my drive until I shot him into the public road. He solemnly protested that he particularly wanted to see me, but thought it prudent not to await the arrival of the European guard, for whom I had sent to make him a prisoner. And he was wise, because when the guard came the sergeant told me he was after a man who had just before frightened the wife of the Brigade Major out of ten shillings, and he heard he had repeated the trick four or five times that morning. Well, these worthies had got complete possession of Lucknow. They sat down on the doorsteps of the house and refused to move until they got money. Four of them had imprisoned my predecessor in his own house, and said they would "do for him" if he did not give them each ten shillings; and it was only after many hours of siege that he managed to get information conveyed to the police to release him. I found I was powerless to contend against their perfect organisation, and so had a confab with the Chief Commissioner, the Secretary to the Oude Government, and two or three others I had known some years, and at last succeeded in hitting on a plan to get the upper hand. My Jhansi plan, of course, would not do, as we had no power to stop travellers by rail, and we had too many loafers already to think it wise to open a home to attract more; but the pledge system would stop the supplies, and thereby diminish the evil, if we could not extinguish it altogether. We accordingly issued a subscription book for distressed Europeans, which all residents were requested to sign and give monthly what they could afford; but every page had this pledge printed on the top:-"All subscribers to this fund solemnly pledge themselves not to give any money or intoxicating liquors to any nonresident European, but to refer all such to the chaplain." By far the majority at once subscribed; two or three only refused on the grounds that they preferred being the almoners of their own charity. I soon, however, compelled them also to join, by sending to them every loafer who applied to me; and my loafer friends entered heartily into the joke, and I doubt not led them a bad life until they also were able to reply, "I have given my word to the chaplain that I will not give money to any European except through his hand," when, of course, they had peace. In another paper I will relate how I fared as the almoner of the whole community. |