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.