TO
ROBERT ALAN MOWBRAY STEVENSON

Our friendship was not only founded before we were born by a community of blood, but is in itself near as old as my life.  It began with our early ages, and, like a history, has been continued to the present time.  Although we may not be old in the world, we are old to each other, having so long been intimates.  We are now widely separated, a great sea and continent intervening; but memory, like care, mounts into iron ships and rides post behind the horseman.  Neither time nor space nor enmity can conquer old affection; and as I dedicate these sketches, it is not to you only, but to all in the old country, that I send the greeting of my heart.

1879.

R.  L. S.

THE SECOND CABIN

I first encountered my fellow-passengers on the Broomielaw in Glasgow.  Thence we descended the Clyde in no familiar spirit, but looking askance on each other as on possible enemies.  A few Scandinavians, who had already grown acquainted on the North Sea, were friendly and voluble over their long pipes; but among English speakers distance and suspicion reigned supreme.  The sun was soon overclouded, the wind freshened and grew sharp as we continued to descend the widening estuary; and with the falling temperature the gloom among the passengers increased.  Two of the women wept.  Any one who had come aboard might have supposed we were all absconding from the law.  There was scarce a word interchanged, and no common sentiment but that of cold united us, until at length, having touched at Greenock, a pointing arm and rush to the starboard bow announced that our ocean steamer was in sight.  There she lay in mid-river, at the tail of the Bank, her sea-signal flying:  a wall of bulwark, a street of white deck-houses, an aspiring forest of spars, larger than a church, and soon to be as populous as many an incorporated town in the land to which she was to bear us.

I was not, in truth, a steerage passenger.  Although anxious to see the worst of emigrant life, I had some work to finish on the voyage, and was advised to go by the second cabin, where at least I should have a table at command.  The advice was excellent; but to understand the choice, and what I gained, some outline of the internal disposition of the ship will first be necessary.  In her very nose is Steerage N, down two pair of stairs.  A little abaft, another companion, labelled Steerage N and 3, gives admission to three galleries, two running forward towards steerage N, and the third aft towards the engines.  The starboard forward gallery is the second cabin.  Away abaft the engines and below the officers’ cabins, to complete our survey of the vessel, there is yet a third nest of steerages, labelled 4 and 5.  The second cabin, to return, is thus a modified oasis in the very heart of the steerages.  Through the thin partition you can hear the steerage passengers being sick, the rattle of tin dishes as they sit at meals, the varied accents in which they converse, the crying of their children terrified by this new experience, or the clean flat smack of the parental hand in chastisement.

There are, however, many advantages for the inhabitant of this strip.  He does not require to bring his own bedding or dishes, but finds berths and a table completely if somewhat roughly furnished.  He enjoys a distinct superiority in diet; but this, strange to say, differs not only on different ships, but on the same ship according as her head is to the east or west.  In my own experience, the principal difference between our table and that of the true steerage passenger was the table itself, and the crockery plates from which we ate.  But lest I should show myself ungrateful, let me recapitulate every advantage.  At breakfast we had a choice between tea and coffee for beverage; a choice not easy to make, the two were so surprisingly alike.  I found that I could sleep after the coffee and lay awake after the tea; which is proof conclusive of some chemical disparity; and even by the palate I could distinguish a smack of snuff in the former from a flavour of boiling and dish-cloths in the second.  As a matter of fact, I have seen passengers, after many sips, still doubting which had been supplied them.  In the way of eatables at the same meal we were gloriously favoured; for in addition to porridge, which was common to all, we had Irish stew, sometimes a bit of fish, and sometimes rissoles.  The dinner of soup, roast fresh beef, boiled salt junk, and potatoes was, I believe, exactly common to the steerage and the second cabin; only I have heard it rumoured that our potatoes were of a superior brand; and twice a week, on pudding days, instead of duff, we had a saddle-bag filled with currants under the name of a plum-pudding.  At tea we were served with some broken meat from the saloon; sometimes in the comparatively elegant form of spare patties or rissoles; but as a general thing mere chicken-bones and flakes of fish, neither hot nor cold.  If these were not the scrapings of plates their looks belied them sorely; yet we were all too hungry to be proud, and fell to these leavings greedily.  These, the bread, which was excellent, and the soup and porridge which were both good, formed my whole diet throughout the voyage; so that except for the broken meat and the convenience of a table I might as well have been in the steerage outright.  Had they given me porridge again in the evening I should have been perfectly contented with the fare.  As it was, with a few biscuits and some whisky and water before turning in, I kept my body going and my spirits up to the mark.

The last particular in which the second cabin passenger remarkably stands ahead of his brother of the steerage is one altogether of sentiment.  In the steerage there are males and females; in the second cabin ladies and gentlemen.  For some time after I came aboard I thought I was only a male; but in the course of a voyage of discovery between decks, I came on a brass plate, and learned that I was still a gentleman.  Nobody knew it, of course.  I was lost in the crowd of males and females, and rigorously confined to the same quarter of the deck.  Who could tell whether I housed on the port or starboard side of Steerage N and 3?  And it was only there that my superiority became practical; everywhere else I was incognito, moving among my inferiors with simplicity, not so much as a swagger to indicate that I was a gentleman after all, and had broken meat to tea.  Still, I was like one with a patent of nobility in a drawer at home; and when I felt out of spirits I could go down and refresh myself with a look of that brass plate.

For all these advantages I paid but two guineas.  Six guineas is the steerage fare; eight that by the second cabin; and when you remember that the steerage passenger must supply bedding and dishes, and, in five cases out of ten, either brings some dainties with him, or privately pays the steward for extra rations, the difference in price becomes almost nominal.  Air comparatively fit to breathe, food comparatively varied, and the satisfaction of being still privately a gentleman, may thus be had almost for the asking.  Two of my fellow-passengers in the second cabin had already made the passage by the cheaper fare, and declared it was an experiment not to be repeated.  As I go on to tell about my steerage friends, the reader will perceive that they were not alone in their opinion.  Out of ten with whom I was more or less intimate, I am sure not fewer than five vowed, if they returned, to travel second cabin; and all who had left their wives behind them assured me they would go without the comfort of their presence until they could afford to bring them by saloon.

Our party in the second cabin was not perhaps the most interesting on board.  Perhaps even in the saloon there was as much good-will and character.  Yet it had some elements of curiosity.  There was a mixed group of Swedes, Danes, and Norsemen, one of whom, generally known by the name of “Johnny,” in spite of his own protests, greatly diverted us by his clever, cross-country efforts to speak English, and became on the strength of that an universal favourite ­it takes so little in this world of shipboard to create a popularity.  There was, besides, a Scots mason known from his favourite dish as “Irish Stew,” three or four nondescript Scots, a fine young Irishman, O’Reilly, and a pair of young men who deserve a special word of condemnation.  One of them was Scots:  the other claimed to be American; admitted, after some fencing, that he was born in England; and ultimately proved to be an Irishman born and nurtured, but ashamed to own his country.  He had a sister on board, whom he faithfully neglected throughout the voyage, though she was not only sick, but much his senior, and had nursed and cared for him in childhood.  In appearance he was like an imbecile Henry the Third of France.  The Scotsman, though perhaps as big an ass, was not so dead of heart; and I have only bracketed them together because they were fast friends, and disgraced themselves equally by their conduct at the table.

Next, to turn to topics more agreeable, we had a newly-married couple, devoted to each other, with a pleasant story of how they had first seen each other years ago at a preparatory school, and that very afternoon he had carried her books home for her.  I do not know if this story will be plain to southern readers; but to me it recalls many a school idyll, with wrathful swains of eight and nine confronting each other stride-legs, flushed with jealousy; for to carry home a young lady’s books was both a delicate attention and privilege.

Then there was an old lady, or indeed I am not sure that she was as much old as antiquated and strangely out of place, who had left her husband, and was travelling all the way to Kansas by herself.  We had to take her own word that she was married; for it was sorely contradicted by the testimony of her appearance.  Nature seemed to have sanctified her for the single state; even the colour of her hair was incompatible with matrimony, and her husband, I thought, should be a man of saintly spirit and phantasmal bodily presence.  She was ill, poor thing; her soul turned from the viands; the dirty tablecloth shocked her like an impropriety; and the whole strength of her endeavour was bent upon keeping her watch true to Glasgow time till she should reach New York.  They had heard reports, her husband and she, of some unwarrantable disparity of hours between these two cities; and with a spirit commendably scientific, had seized on this occasion to put them to the proof.  It was a good thing for the old lady; for she passed much leisure time in studying the watch.  Once, when prostrated by sickness, she let it run down.  It was inscribed on her harmless mind in letters of adamant that the hands of a watch must never be turned backwards; and so it behoved her to lie in wait for the exact moment ere she started it again.  When she imagined this was about due, she sought out one of the young second-cabin Scotsmen, who was embarked on the same experiment as herself and had hitherto been less neglectful.  She was in quest of two o’clock; and when she learned it was already seven on the shores of Clyde, she lifted up her voice and cried “Gravy!” I had not heard this innocent expletive since I was a young child; and I suppose it must have been the same with the other Scotsmen present, for we all laughed our fill.

Last but not least, I come to my excellent friend Mr. Jones.  It would be difficult to say whether I was his right-hand man, or he mine, during the voyage.  Thus at table I carved, while he only scooped gravy; but at our concerts, of which more anon, he was the president who called up performers to sing, and I but his messenger who ran his errands and pleaded privately with the over-modest.  I knew I liked Mr. Jones from the moment I saw him.  I thought him by his face to be Scottish; nor could his accent undeceive me.  For as there is a lingua franca of many tongues on the moles and in the feluccas of the Mediterranean, so there is a free or common accent among English-speaking men who follow the sea.  They catch a twang in a New England Port; from a cockney skipper, even a Scotsman sometimes learns to drop an h; a word of a dialect is picked up from another hand in the forecastle; until often the result is undecipherable, and you have to ask for the man’s place of birth.  So it was with Mr. Jones.  I thought him a Scotsman who had been long to sea; and yet he was from Wales, and had been most of his life a blacksmith at an inland forge; a few years in America and half a score of ocean voyages having sufficed to modify his speech into the common pattern.  By his own account he was both strong and skilful in his trade.  A few years back, he had been married and after a fashion a rich man; now the wife was dead and the money gone.  But his was the nature that looks forward, and goes on from one year to another and through all the extremities of fortune undismayed; and if the sky were to fall to-morrow, I should look to see Jones, the day following, perched on a step-ladder and getting things to rights.  He was always hovering round inventions like a bee over a flower, and lived in a dream of patents.  He had with him a patent medicine, for instance, the composition of which he had bought years ago for five dollars from an American pedlar, and sold the other day for a hundred pounds (I think it was) to an English apothecary.  It was called Golden Oil; cured all maladies without exception; and I am bound to say that I partook of it myself with good results.  It is a character of the man that he was not only perpetually dosing himself with Golden Oil, but wherever there was a head aching or a finger cut, there would be Jones with his bottle.

If he had one taste more strongly than another, it was to study character.  Many an hour have we two walked upon the deck dissecting our neighbours in a spirit that was too purely scientific to be called unkind; whenever a quaint or human trait slipped out in conversation, you might have seen Jones and me exchanging glances; and we could hardly go to bed in comfort till we had exchanged notes and discussed the day’s experience.  We were then like a couple of anglers comparing a day’s kill.  But the fish we angled for were of a metaphysical species, and we angled as often as not in one another’s baskets.  Once, in the midst of a serious talk, each found there was a scrutinising eye upon himself; I own I paused in embarrassment at this double detection; but Jones, with a better civility, broke into a peal of unaffected laughter, and declared, what was the truth, that there was a pair of us indeed.

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

We steamed out of the Clyde on Thursday night, and early on the Friday forenoon we took in our last batch of emigrants at Lough Foyle, in Ireland, and said farewell to Europe.  The company was now complete, and began to draw together, by inscrutable magnetisms, upon the deck.  There were Scots and Irish in plenty, a few English, a few Americans, a good handful of Scandinavians, a German or two, and one Russian; all now belonging for ten days to one small iron country on the deep.

As I walked the deck and looked round upon my fellow-passengers, thus curiously assorted from all northern Europe, I began for the first time to understand the nature of emigration.  Day by day throughout the passage, and thenceforward across all the States, and on to the shores of the Pacific, this knowledge grew more clear and melancholy.  Emigration, from a word of the most cheerful import, came to sound most dismally in my ear.  There is nothing more agreeable to picture and nothing more pathetic to behold.  The abstract idea, as conceived at home, is hopeful and adventurous.  A young man, you fancy, scorning restraints and helpers, issues forth into life, that great battle, to fight for his own hand.  The most pleasant stories of ambition, of difficulties overcome, and of ultimate success, are but as episodes to this great epic of self-help.  The epic is composed of individual heroisms; it stands to them as the victorious war which subdued an empire stands to the personal act of bravery which spiked a single cannon and was adequately rewarded with a medal.  For in emigration the young men enter direct and by the ship-load on their heritage of work; empty continents swarm, as at the bo’s’un’s whistle, with industrious hands, and whole new empires are domesticated to the service of man.

This is the closet picture, and is found, on trial, to consist mostly of embellishments.  The more I saw of my fellow passengers, the less I was tempted to the lyric note.  Comparatively few of the men were below thirty; many were married, and encumbered with families; not a few were already up in years; and this itself was out of tune with my imaginations, for the ideal emigrant should certainly be young.  Again, I thought he should offer to the eye some bold type of humanity, with bluff or hawk-like features, and the stamp of an eager and pushing disposition.  Now those around me were for the most part quiet, orderly, obedient citizens, family men broken by adversity, elderly youths who had failed to place themselves in life, and people who had seen better days.  Mildness was the prevailing character; mild mirth and mild endurance.  In a word, I was not taking part in an impetuous and conquering sally, such as swept over Mexico or Siberia, but found myself, like Marmion, “in the lost battle, borne down by the flying.”

Labouring mankind had in the last years, and throughout Great Britain, sustained a prolonged and crushing series of defeats.  I had heard vaguely of these reverses; of whole streets of houses standing deserted by the Tyne, the cellar-doors broken and removed for firewood; of homeless men loitering at the street-corners of Glasgow with their chests beside them; of closed factories, useless strikes, and starving girls.  But I had never taken them home to me or represented these distresses livingly to my imagination.  A turn of the market may be a calamity as disastrous as the French retreat from Moscow; but it hardly lends itself to lively treatment, and makes a trifling figure in the morning papers.  We may struggle as we please, we are not born economists.  The individual is more affecting than the mass.  It is by the scenic accidents, and the appeal to the carnal eye, that for the most part we grasp the significance of tragedies.  Thus it was only now, when I found myself involved in the rout, that I began to appreciate how sharp had been the battle.  We were a company of the rejected; the drunken, the incompetent, the weak, the prodigal, all who had been unable to prevail against circumstances in the one land, were now fleeing pitifully to another; and though one or two might still succeed, all had already failed.  We were a shipful of failures, the broken men of England.  Yet it must not be supposed that these people exhibited depression.  The scene, on the contrary, was cheerful.  Not a tear was shed on board the vessel.  All were full of hope for the future, and showed an inclination to innocent gaiety.  Some were heard to sing, and all began to scrape acquaintance with small jests and ready laughter.

The children found each other out like dogs, and ran about the decks scraping acquaintance after their fashion also.  “What do you call your mither?” I heard one ask.  “Mawmaw,” was the reply, indicating, I fancy, a shade of difference in the social scale.  When people pass each other on the high seas of life at so early an age, the contact is but slight, and the relation more like what we may imagine to be the friendship of flies than that of men; it is so quickly joined, so easily dissolved, so open in its communications and so devoid of deeper human qualities.  The children, I observed, were all in a band, and as thick as thieves at a fair, while their elders were still ceremoniously manoeuvring on the outskirts of acquaintance.  The sea, the ship, and the seamen were soon as familiar as home to these half-conscious little ones.  It was odd to hear them, throughout the voyage, employ shore words to designate portions of the vessel.  “Co’ ’way doon to yon dyke,” I heard one say, probably meaning the bulwark.  I often had my heart in my mouth, watching them climb into the shrouds or on the rails, while the ship went swinging through the waves; and I admired and envied the courage of their mothers, who sat by in the sun and looked on with composure at these perilous feats.  “He’ll maybe be a sailor,” I heard one remark; “now’s the time to learn.”  I had been on the point of running forward to interfere, but stood back at that, reproved.  Very few in the more delicate classes have the nerve to look upon the peril of one dear to them; but the life of poorer folk, where necessity is so much more immediate and imperious, braces even a mother to this extreme of endurance.  And perhaps, after all, it is better that the lad should break his neck than that you should break his spirit.

And since I am here on the chapter of the children, I must mention one little fellow, whose family belonged to Steerage N and 5, and who, wherever he went, was like a strain of music round the ship.  He was an ugly, merry, unbreeched child of three, his lint-white hair in a tangle, his face smeared with suet and treacle; but he ran to and fro with so natural a step, and fell and picked himself up again with such grace and good-humour, that he might fairly be called beautiful when he was in motion.  To meet him, crowing with laughter and beating an accompaniment to his own mirth with a tin spoon upon a tin cup, was to meet a little triumph of the human species.  Even when his mother and the rest of his family lay sick and prostrate around him, he sat upright in their midst and sang aloud in the pleasant heartlessness of infancy.

Throughout the Friday, intimacy among us men made but few advances.  We discussed the probable duration of the voyage, we exchanged pieces of information, naming our trades, what we hoped to find in the new world, or what we were fleeing from in the old; and, above all, we condoled together over the food and the vileness of the steerage.  One or two had been so near famine, that you may say they had run into the ship with the devil at their heels; and to these all seemed for the best in the best of possible steamers.  But the majority were hugely discontented.  Coming as they did from a country in so low a state as Great Britain, many of them from Glasgow, which commercially speaking was as good as dead, and many having long been out of work, I was surprised to find them so dainty in their notions.  I myself lived almost exclusively on bread, porridge, and soup, precisely as it was supplied to them, and found it, if not luxurious, at least sufficient.  But these working men were loud in their outcries.  It was not “food for human beings,” it was “only fit for pigs,” it was “a disgrace.”  Many of them lived almost entirely upon biscuit, others on their own private supplies, and some paid extra for better rations from the ship.  This marvellously changed my notion of the degree of luxury habitual to the artisan.  I was prepared to hear him grumble, for grumbling is the traveller’s pastime; but I was not prepared to find him turn away from a diet which was palatable to myself.  Words I should have disregarded, or taken with a liberal allowance; but when a man prefers dry biscuit there can be no question of the sincerity of his disgust.

With one of their complaints I could most heartily sympathise.  A single night of the steerage had filled them with horror.  I had myself suffered, even in my decent second-cabin berth, from the lack of air; and as the night promised to be fine and quiet, I determined to sleep on deck, and advised all who complained of their quarters to follow my example.  I dare say a dozen of others agreed to do so, and I thought we should have been quite a party.  Yet, when I brought up my rug about seven bells, there was no one to be seen but the watch.  That chimerical terror of good night-air, which makes men close their windows, list their doors, and seal themselves up with their own poisonous exhalations, had sent all these healthy workmen down below.  One would think we had been brought up in a fever country; yet in England the most malarious districts are in the bed-chambers.

I felt saddened at this defection, and yet half-pleased to have the night so quietly to myself.  The wind had hauled a little ahead on the starboard bow, and was dry but chilly.  I found a shelter near the fire-hole, and made myself snug for the night.  The ship moved over the uneven sea with a gentle and cradling movement.  The ponderous, organic labours of the engine in her bowels occupied the mind, and prepared it for slumber.  From time to time a heavier lurch would disturb me as I lay, and recall me to the obscure borders of consciousness; or I heard, as it were through a veil, the clear note of the clapper on the brass and the beautiful sea-cry, “All’s well!” I know nothing, whether for poetry or music, that can surpass the effect of these two syllables in the darkness of a night at sea.

The day dawned fairly enough, and during the early part we had some pleasant hours to improve acquaintance in the open air; but towards nightfall the wind freshened, the rain began to fall, and the sea rose so high that it was difficult to keep one’s footing on the deck.  I have spoken of our concerts.  We were indeed a musical ship’s company, and cheered our way into exile with the fiddle, the accordion, and the songs of all nations.  Good, bad, or indifferent ­Scottish, English, Irish, Russian, German or Norse, ­the songs were received with generous applause.  Once or twice, a recitation, very spiritedly rendered in a powerful Scottish accent, varied the proceedings; and once we sought in vain to dance a quadrille, eight men of us together, to the music of the violin.  The performers were all humorous, frisky fellows, who loved to cut capers in private life; but as soon as they were arranged for the dance, they conducted themselves like so many mutes at a funeral.  I have never seen decorum pushed so far; and as this was not expected, the quadrille was soon whistled down, and the dancers departed under a cloud.  Eight Frenchmen, even eight Englishmen from another rank of society, would have dared to make some fun for themselves and the spectators; but the working man, when sober, takes an extreme and even melancholy view of personal deportment.  A fifth-form schoolboy is not more careful of dignity.  He dares not be comical; his fun must escape from him unprepared, and, above all, it must be unaccompanied by any physical demonstration.  I like his society under most circumstances, but let me never again join with him in public gambols.

But the impulse to sing was strong, and triumphed over modesty and even the inclemencies of sea and sky.  On this rough Saturday night, we got together by the main deck-house, in a place sheltered from the wind and rain.  Some clinging to a ladder which led to the hurricane deck, and the rest knitting arms or taking hands, we made a ring to support the women in the violent lurching of the ship; and when we were thus disposed, sang to our hearts’ content.  Some of the songs were appropriate to the scene; others strikingly the reverse.  Bastard doggrel of the music-hall, such as, “Around her splendid form, I weaved the magic circle,” sounded bald, bleak, and pitifully silly.  “We don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do,” was in some measure saved by the vigour and unanimity with which the chorus was thrown forth into the night.  I observed a Platt-Deutsch mason, entirely innocent of English, adding heartily to the general effect.  And perhaps the German mason is but a fair example of the sincerity with which the song was rendered; for nearly all with whom I conversed upon the subject were bitterly opposed to war, and attributed their own misfortunes, and frequently their own taste for whisky, to the campaigns in Zululand and Afghanistan.

Every now and again, however, some song that touched the pathos of our situation was given forth; and you could hear by the voices that took up the burden how the sentiment came home to each.  “The Anchor’s Weighed,” was true for us.  We were indeed “Rocked on the Bosom of the Stormy Deep.”  How many of us could say with the singer, “I’m Lonely To-night, Love, Without You,” or, “Go, Someone, and Tell them from me, to write me a Letter from Home.”  And when was there a more appropriate moment for “Auld Lang Syne” than now, when the land, the friends, and the affections of that mingled but beloved time were fading and fleeing behind us in the vessel’s wake?  It pointed forward to the hour when these labours should be overpast, to the return voyage, and to many a meeting in the sanded inn, when those who had parted in the spring of youth should again drink a cup of kindness in their age.  Had not Burns contemplated emigration, I scarce believe he would have found that note.

All Sunday the weather remained wild and cloudy; many were prostrated by sickness; only five sat down to tea in the second cabin, and two of these departed abruptly ere the meal was at an end.  The Sabbath was observed strictly by the majority of the emigrants.  I heard an old woman express her surprise that, “The ship didna gae doon,” as she saw some one pass her with a chess-board on the holy day.  Some sang Scottish psalms.  Many went to service, and in true Scottish fashion came back ill pleased with their divine.  “I didna think he was an experienced preacher,” said one girl to me.

It was a bleak, uncomfortable day; but at night, by six bells, although the wind had not yet moderated, the clouds were all wrecked and blown away behind the rim of the horizon, and the stars came out thickly overhead.  I saw Venus burning as steadily and sweetly across this hurly-burly of the winds and waters as ever at home upon the summer woods.  The engine pounded, the screw tossed out of the water with a roar, and shook the ship from end to end; the bows battled with loud reports against the billows:  and as I stood in the lee-scuppers and looked up to where the funnel leaned out, over my head, vomiting smoke, and the black and monstrous top-sails blotted, at each lurch, a different crop of stars, it seemed as if all this trouble were a thing of small account, and that just above the mast reigned peace unbroken and eternal.

STEERAGE SCENES

Our companion (Steerage N and 3) was a favourite resort.  Down one flight of stairs there was a comparatively large open space, the centre occupied by a hatchway, which made a convenient seat for about twenty persons, while barrels, coils of rope, and the carpenter’s bench afforded perches for perhaps as many more.  The canteen, or steerage bar, was on one side of the stair; on the other a no less attractive spot, the cabin of the indefatigable interpreter.  I have seen people packed into this space like herrings in a barrel, and many merry evenings prolonged there until five bells, when the lights were ruthlessly extinguished and all must go to roost.

It had been rumoured since Friday that there was a fiddler aboard, who lay sick and unmelodious in Steerage N; and on the Monday forenoon, as I came down the companion, I was saluted by something in Strathspey time.  A white-faced Orpheus was cheerily playing to an audience of white-faced women.  It was as much as he could do to play, and some of his hearers were scarce able to sit; yet they had crawled from their bunks at the first experimental flourish, and found better than medicine in the music.  Some of the heaviest heads began to nod in time, and a degree of animation looked from some of the palest eyes.  Humanly speaking, it is a more important matter to play the fiddle, even badly, than to write huge works upon recondite subjects.  What could Mr. Darwin have done for these sick women?  But this fellow scraped away; and the world was positively a better place for all who heard him.  We have yet to understand the economical value of these mere accomplishments.  I told the fiddler he was a happy man, carrying happiness about with him in his fiddle-case, and he seemed alive to the fact.

“It is a privilege,” I said.  He thought a while upon the word, turning it over in his Scots head, and then answered with conviction, “Yes, a privilege.”

That night I was summoned by “Merrily danced the Quaker’s Wife” into the companion of Steerage N and 5.  This was, properly speaking, but a strip across a deck-house, lit by a sickly lantern which swung to and fro with the motion of the ship.  Through the open slide-door we had a glimpse of the grey night sea, with patches of phosphorescent foam flying, swift as birds, into the wake, and the horizon rising and falling as the vessel rolled to the wind.  In the centre the companion ladder plunged down sheerly like an open pit.  Below, on the first landing, and lighted by another lamp, lads and lasses danced, not more than three at a time for lack of space, in jigs and reels, and hornpipes.  Above, on either side, there was a recess railed with iron, perhaps two feet wide and four long, which stood for orchestra and seats of honour.  In the one balcony, five slatternly Irish lasses sat woven in a comely group.  In the other was posted Orpheus, his body, which was convulsively in motion, forming an odd contrast to his somnolent, imperturbable Scots face.  His brother, a dark man with a vehement, interested countenance, who made a god of the fiddler, sat by with open mouth, drinking in the general admiration and throwing out remarks to kindle it.

“That’s a bonny hornpipe now,” he would say; “it’s a great favourite with performers; they dance the sand dance to it.”  And he expounded the sand dance.  Then suddenly, it would be a long “Hush!” with uplifted finger and glowing, supplicating eyes; “he’s going to play ’Auld Robin Gray’ on one string!” And throughout this excruciating movement, ­“On one string, that’s on one string!” he kept crying.  I would have given something myself that it had been on none; but the hearers were much awed.  I called for a tune or two, and thus introduced myself to the notice of the brother, who directed his talk to me for some little while, keeping, I need hardly mention, true to his topic, like the seamen to the star.  “He’s grand of it,” he said confidentially.  “His master was a music-hall man.”  Indeed, the music-hall man had left his mark, for our fiddler was ignorant of many of our best old airs; “Logie o’ Buchan,” for instance, he only knew as a quick, jigging figure in a set of quadrilles, and had never heard it called by name.  Perhaps, after all, the brother was the more interesting performer of the two.  I have spoken with him afterwards repeatedly, and found him always the same quick, fiery bit of a man, not without brains; but he never showed to such advantage as when he was thus squiring the fiddler into public note.  There is nothing more becoming than a genuine admiration; and it shares this with love, that it does not become contemptible although misplaced.

The dancing was but feebly carried on.  The space was almost impracticably small; and the Irish wenches combined the extreme of bashfulness about this innocent display with a surprising impudence and roughness of address.  Most often, either the fiddle lifted up its voice unheeded, or only a couple of lads would be footing it and snapping fingers on the landing.  And such was the eagerness of the brother to display all the acquirements of his idol, and such the sleepy indifference of the performer, that the tune would as often as not be changed, and the hornpipe expire into a ballad before the dancers had cut half a dozen shuffles.

In the meantime, however, the audience had been growing more and more numerous every moment; there was hardly standing-room round the top of the companion; and the strange instinct of the race moved some of the new-comers to close both the doors, so that the atmosphere grew insupportable.  It was a good place, as the saying is, to leave.

The wind hauled ahead with a head sea.  By ten at night heavy sprays were flying and drumming over the forecastle; the companion of Steerage N had to be closed, and the door of communication through the second cabin thrown open.  Either from the convenience of the opportunity, or because we had already a number of acquaintances in that part of the ship, Mr. Jones and I paid it a late visit.  Steerage N is shaped like an isosceles triangle, the sides opposite the equal angles bulging outward with the contour of the ship.  It is lined with eight pens of sixteen bunks apiece, four bunks below and four above on either side.  At night the place is lit with two lanterns, one to each table.  As the steamer beat on her way among the rough billows, the light passed through violent phases of change, and was thrown to and fro and up and down with startling swiftness.  You were tempted to wonder, as you looked, how so thin a glimmer could control and disperse such solid blackness.  When Jones and I entered we found a little company of our acquaintances seated together at the triangular foremost table.  A more forlorn party, in more dismal circumstances, it would be hard to imagine.  The motion here in the ship’s nose was very violent; the uproar of the sea often overpoweringly loud.  The yellow flicker of the lantern spun round and round and tossed the shadows in masses.  The air was hot, but it struck a chill from its foetor.  From all round in the dark bunks, the scarcely human noises of the sick joined into a kind of farmyard chorus.  In the midst, these five friends of mine were keeping up what heart they could in company.  Singing was their refuge from discomfortable thoughts and sensations.  One piped, in feeble tones, “Oh why left I my hame?” which seemed a pertinent question in the circumstances.  Another, from the invisible horrors of a pen where he lay dog-sick upon the upper shelf, found courage, in a blink of his sufferings, to give us several verses of the “Death of Nelson”; and it was odd and eerie to hear the chorus breathe feebly from all sorts of dark corners, and “this day has done his dooty” rise and fall and be taken up again in this dim inferno, to an accompaniment of plunging, hollow-sounding bows and the rattling spray-showers overhead.

All seemed unfit for conversation; a certain dizziness had interrupted the activity of their minds; and except to sing they were tongue-tied.  There was present, however, one tall, powerful fellow of doubtful nationality, being neither quite Scotsman nor altogether Irish, but of surprising clearness of conviction on the highest problems.  He had gone nearly beside himself on the Sunday, because of a general backwardness to indorse his definition of mind as “a living, thinking substance which cannot be felt, heard, or seen” ­nor, I presume, although he failed to mention it, smelt.  Now he came forward in a pause with another contribution to our culture.

“Just by way of change,” said he, “I’ll ask you a Scripture riddle.  There’s profit in them too,” he added ungrammatically.

This was the riddle ­

C and P
Did agree
To cut down C;
But C and P
Could not agree
Without the leave of G.
All the people cried to see
The crueltie
Of C and P.

Harsh are the words of Mercury after the songs of Apollo!  We were a long while over the problem, shaking our heads and gloomily wondering how a man could be such a fool; but at length he put us out of suspense and divulged the fact that C and P stood for Caiaphas and Pontius Pilate.

I think it must have been the riddle that settled us; but the motion and the close air likewise hurried our departure.  We had not been gone long, we heard next morning, ere two or even three out of the five fell sick.  We thought it little wonder on the whole, for the sea kept contrary all night.  I now made my bed upon the second cabin floor, where, although I ran the risk of being stepped upon, I had a free current of air, more or less vitiated indeed, and running only from steerage to steerage, but at least not stagnant; and from this couch, as well as the usual sounds of a rough night at sea, the hateful coughing and retching of the sick and the sobs of children, I heard a man run wild with terror beseeching his friend for encouragement.  “The ship’s going down!” he cried with a thrill of agony.  “The ship’s going down!” he repeated, now in a blank whisper, now with his voice rising towards a sob; and his friend might reassure him, reason with him, joke at him ­all was in vain, and the old cry came back, “The ship’s going down!” There was something panic and catching in the emotion of his tones; and I saw in a clear flash what an involved and hideous tragedy was a disaster to an emigrant ship.  If this whole parishful of people came no more to land, into how many houses would the newspaper carry woe, and what a great part of the web of our corporate human life would be rent across for ever!

The next morning when I came on deck I found a new world indeed.  The wind was fair; the sun mounted into a cloudless heaven; through great dark blue seas the ship cut a swathe of curded foam.  The horizon was dotted all day with companionable sails, and the sun shone pleasantly on the long, heaving deck.

We had many fine-weather diversions to beguile the time.  There was a single chess-board and a single pack of cards.  Sometimes as many as twenty of us would be playing dominoes for love.  Feats of dexterity, puzzles for the intelligence, some arithmetical, some of the same order as the old problem of the fox and goose and cabbage, were always welcome; and the latter, I observed, more popular as well as more conspicuously well done than the former.  We had a regular daily competition to guess the vessel’s progress; and twelve o’clock, when the result was published in the wheel-house, came to be a moment of considerable interest.  But the interest was unmixed.  Not a bet was laid upon our guesses.  From the Clyde to Sandy Hook I never heard a wager offered or taken.  We had, besides, romps in plenty.  Puss in the Corner, which we had rebaptised, in more manly style, Devil and four Corners, was my own favourite game; but there were many who preferred another, the humour of which was to box a person’s ears until he found out who had cuffed him.

This Tuesday morning we were all delighted with the change of weather, and in the highest possible spirits.  We got in a cluster like bees, sitting between each other’s feet under lee of the deck-houses.  Stories and laughter went around.  The children climbed about the shrouds.  White faces appeared for the first time, and began to take on colour from the wind.  I was kept hard at work making cigarettes for one amateur after another, and my less than moderate skill was heartily admired.  Lastly, down sat the fiddler in our midst and began to discourse his reels, and jigs, and ballads, with now and then a voice or two to take up the air and throw in the interest of human speech.

Through this merry and good-hearted scene there came three cabin passengers, a gentleman and two young ladies, picking their way with little gracious titters of indulgence, and a Lady-Bountiful air about nothing, which galled me to the quick.  I have little of the radical in social questions, and have always nourished an idea that one person was as good as another.  But I began to be troubled by this episode.  It was astonishing what insults these people managed to convey by their presence.  They seemed to throw their clothes in our faces.  Their eyes searched us all over for tatters and incongruities.  A laugh was ready at their lips; but they were too well-mannered to indulge it in our hearing.  Wait a bit, till they were all back in the saloon, and then hear how wittily they would depict the manners of the steerage.  We were in truth very innocently, cheerfully, and sensibly engaged, and there was no shadow of excuse for the swaying elegant superiority with which these damsels passed among us, or for the stiff and waggish glances of their squire.  Not a word was said; only when they were gone Mackay sullenly damned their impudence under his breath; but we were all conscious of an icy influence and a dead break in the course of our enjoyment.

STEERAGE TYPES

We had a fellow on board, an Irish-American, for all the world like a beggar in a print by Callot; one-eyed, with great, splay crow’s-feet round the sockets; a knotty squab nose coming down over his moustache; a miraculous hat; a shirt that had been white, ay, ages long ago; an alpaca coat in its last sleeves; and, without hyperbole, no buttons to his trousers.  Even in these rags and tatters, the man twinkled all over with impudence like a piece of sham jewellery; and I have heard him offer a situation to one of his fellow-passengers with the air of a lord.  Nothing could overlie such a fellow; a kind of base success was written on his brow.  He was then in his ill days; but I can imagine him in Congress with his mouth full of bombast and sawder.  As we moved in the same circle, I was brought necessarily into his society.  I do not think I ever heard him say anything that was true, kind, or interesting; but there was entertainment in the man’s demeanour.  You might call him a half-educated Irish Tigg.

Our Russian made a remarkable contrast to this impossible fellow.  Rumours and legends were current in the steerages about his antecedents.  Some said he was a Nihilist escaping; others set him down for a harmless spendthrift, who had squandered fifty thousand roubles, and whose father had now despatched him to America by way of penance.  Either tale might flourish in security; there was no contradiction to be feared, for the hero spoke not one word of English.  I got on with him lumberingly enough in broken German, and learned from his own lips that he had been an apothecary.  He carried the photograph of his betrothed in a pocket-book, and remarked that it did not do her justice.  The cut of his head stood out from among the passengers with an air of startling strangeness.  The first natural instinct was to take him for a desperado; but although the features, to our Western eyes, had a barbaric and unhomely cast, the eye both reassured and touched.  It was large and very dark and soft, with an expression of dumb endurance, as if it had often looked on desperate circumstances and never looked on them without resolution.

He cried out when I used the word.  “No, no,” he said, “not resolution.”

“The resolution to endure,” I explained.

And then he shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Ach, ja,” with gusto, like a man who has been flattered in his favourite pretensions.  Indeed, he was always hinting at some secret sorrow; and his life, he said, had been one of unusual trouble and anxiety; so the legends of the steerage may have represented at least some shadow of the truth.  Once, and once only, he sang a song at our concerts, standing forth without embarrassment, his great stature somewhat humped, his long arms frequently extended, his Kalmuck head thrown backward.  It was a suitable piece of music, as deep as a cow’s bellow and wild like the White Sea.  He was struck and charmed by the freedom and sociality of our manners.  At home, he said, no one on a journey would speak to him, but those with whom he would not care to speak; thus unconsciously involving himself in the condemnation of his countrymen.  But Russia was soon to be changed; the ice of the Neva was softening under the sun of civilisation; the new ideas, “wie eine feine Violine,” were audible among the big, empty drum-notes of Imperial diplomacy; and he looked to see a great revival, though with a somewhat indistinct and childish hope.

We had a father and son who made a pair of Jacks-of-all-trades.  It was the son who sang the “Death of Nelson” under such contrarious circumstances.  He was by trade a shearer of ship plates; but he could touch the organ, and led two choirs, and played the flute and piccolo in a professional string band.  His repertory of songs was, besides, inexhaustible, and ranged impartially from the very best to the very worst within his reach.  Nor did he seem to make the least distinction between these extremes, but would cheerfully follow up “Tom Bowling” with “Around her splendid form.”

The father, an old, cheery, small piece of manhood, could do everything connected with tinwork from one end of the process to the other, use almost every carpenter’s tool, and make picture frames to boot.  “I sat down with silver plate every Sunday,” said he, “and pictures on the wall.  I have made enough money to be rolling in my carriage.  But, sir,” looking at me unsteadily with his bright rheumy eyes, “I was troubled with a drunken wife.”  He took a hostile view of matrimony in consequence.  “It’s an old saying,” he remarked:  “God made ’em, and the devil he mixed ’em.”

I think he was justified by his experience.  It was a dreary story.  He would bring home three pounds on Saturday, and on Monday all the clothes would be in pawn.  Sick of the useless struggle, he gave up a paying contract, and contented himself with small and ill-paid jobs.  “A bad job was as good as a good job for me,” he said; “it all went the same way.”  Once the wife showed signs of amendment; she kept steady for weeks on end; it was again worth while to labour and to do one’s best.  The husband found a good situation some distance from home, and, to make a little upon every hand, started the wife in a cook-shop; the children were here and there, busy as mice; savings began to grow together in the bank, and the golden age of hope had returned again to that unhappy family.  But one week my old acquaintance, getting earlier through with his work, came home on the Friday instead of the Saturday, and there was his wife to receive him, reeling drunk.  He “took and gave her a pair o’ black eyes,” for which I pardon him, nailed up the cook-shop door, gave up his situation, and resigned himself to a life of poverty, with the workhouse at the end.  As the children came to their full age they fled the house, and established themselves in other countries; some did well, some not so well; but the father remained at home alone with his drunken wife, all his sound-hearted pluck and varied accomplishments depressed and negatived.

Was she dead now? or, after all these years, had he broken the chain, and run from home like a schoolboy?  I could not discover which; but here at least he was, out on the adventure, and still one of the bravest and most youthful men on board.

“Now, I suppose, I must put my old bones to work again,” said he; “but I can do a turn yet.”

And the son to whom he was going, I asked, was he not able to support him?

“Oh, yes,” he replied.  “But I’m never happy without a job on hand.  And I’m stout; I can eat a’most anything.  You see no craze about me.”

This tale of a drunken wife was paralleled on board by another of a drunken father.  He was a capable man, with a good chance in life; but he had drunk up two thriving businesses like a bottle of sherry, and involved his sons along with him in ruin.  Now they were on board with us, fleeing his disastrous neighbourhood.

Total abstinence, like all ascetical conclusions, is unfriendly to the most generous, cheerful, and human parts of man; but it could have adduced many instances and arguments from among our ship’s company.  I was one day conversing with a kind and happy Scotsman, running to fat and perspiration in the physical, but with a taste for poetry and a genial sense of fun.  I had asked him his hopes in emigrating.  They were like those of so many others, vague and unfounded:  times were bad at home; they were said to have a turn for the better in the States; and a man could get on anywhere, he thought.  That was precisely the weak point of his position; for if he could get on in America, why could he not do the same in Scotland?  But I never had the courage to use that argument, though it was often on the tip of my tongue, and instead I agreed with him heartily, adding, with reckless originality, “If the man stuck to his work, and kept away from drink.”

“Ah!” said he slowly, “the drink!  You see, that’s just my trouble.”

He spoke with a simplicity that was touching, looking at me at the same time with something strange and timid in his eye, half-ashamed, half-sorry, like a good child who knows he should be beaten.  You would have said he recognised a destiny to which he was born, and accepted the consequences mildly.  Like the merchant Abudah, he was at the same time fleeing from his destiny and carrying it along with him, the whole at an expense of six guineas.

As far as I saw, drink, idleness, and incompetency were the three great causes of emigration; and for all of them, and drink first and foremost, this trick of getting transported overseas appears to me the silliest means of cure.  You cannot run away from a weakness; you must some time fight it out or perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand? Coelum non animam.  Change Glenlivet for Bourbon, and it is still whisky, only not so good.  A sea-voyage will not give a man the nerve to put aside cheap pleasure; emigration has to be done before we climb the vessel; an aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding; and it is not to be found in foreign lands, but in the heart itself.

Speaking generally, there is no vice of this kind more contemptible than another; for each is but a result and outward sign of a soul tragically shipwrecked.  In the majority of cases, cheap pleasure is resorted to by way of anodyne.  The pleasure-seeker sets forth upon life with high and difficult ambitions; he meant to be nobly good and nobly happy, though at as little pains as possible to himself; and it is because all has failed in his celestial enterprise that you now behold him rolling in the garbage.  Hence the comparative success of the teetotal pledge; because to a man who had nothing it sets at least a negative aim in life.  Somewhat as prisoners beguile their days by taming a spider, the reformed drunkard makes an interest out of abstaining from intoxicating drinks, and may live for that negation.  There is something, at least, not to be done each day; and a cold triumph awaits him every evening.

We had one on board with us, whom I have already referred to under the name of Mackay, who seemed to me not only a good instance of this failure in life of which we have been speaking, but a good type of the intelligence which here surrounded me.  Physically he was a small Scotsman, standing a little back as though he were already carrying the elements of a corporation, and his looks somewhat marred by the smallness of his eyes.  Mentally, he was endowed above the average.  There were but few subjects on which he could not converse with understanding and a dash of wit; delivering himself slowly and with gusto like a man who enjoyed his own sententiousness.  He was a dry, quick, pertinent debater, speaking with a small voice, and swinging on his heels to launch and emphasise an argument.  When he began a discussion, he could not bear to leave it off, but would pick the subject to the bone, without once relinquishing a point.  An engineer by trade, Mackay believed in the unlimited perfectibility of all machines except the human machine.  The latter he gave up with ridicule for a compound of carrion and perverse gases.  He had an appetite for disconnected facts which I can only compare to the savage taste for beads.  What is called information was indeed a passion with the man, and he not only delighted to receive it, but could pay you back in kind.

With all these capabilities, here was Mackay, already no longer young, on his way to a new country, with no prospects, no money, and but little hope.  He was almost tedious in the cynical disclosures of his despair.  “The ship may go down for me,” he would say, “now or to-morrow.  I have nothing to lose and nothing to hope.”  And again:  “I am sick of the whole damned performance.”  He was, like the kind little man already quoted, another so-called victim of the bottle.  But Mackay was miles from publishing his weakness to the world; laid the blame of his failure on corrupt masters and a corrupt State policy; and after he had been one night overtaken and had played the buffoon in his cups, sternly, though not without tact, suppressed all reference to his escapade.  It was a treat to see him manage this:  the various jesters withered under his gaze, and you were forced to recognise in him a certain steely force, and a gift of command which might have ruled a senate.

In truth it was not whisky that had ruined him; he was ruined long before for all good human purposes but conversation.  His eyes were sealed by a cheap, school-book materialism.  He could see nothing in the world but money and steam-engines.  He did not know what you meant by the word happiness.  He had forgotten the simple emotions of childhood, and perhaps never encountered the delights of youth.  He believed in production, that useful figment of economy, as if it had been real like laughter; and production, without prejudice to liquor, was his god and guide.  One day he took me to task ­a novel cry to me ­upon the over-payment of literature.  Literary men, he said, were more highly paid than artisans; yet the artisan made threshing machines and butter-churns, and the man of letters, except in the way of a few useful handbooks, made nothing worth the while.  He produced a mere fancy article.  Mackay’s notion of a book was “Hoppus’s Measurer.”  Now in my time I have possessed and even studied that work; but if I were to be left to-morrow on Juan Fernandez, Hoppus’s is not the book that I should choose for my companion volume.

I tried to fight the point with Mackay.  I made him own that he had taken pleasure in reading books otherwise, to his view, insignificant; but he was too wary to advance a step beyond the admission.  It was in vain for me to argue that here was pleasure ready-made and running from the spring, whereas his ploughs and butter-churns were but means and mechanisms to give men the necessary food and leisure before they start upon the search for pleasure; he jibbed and ran away from such conclusions.  The thing was different, he declared, and nothing was serviceable but what had to do with food.  “Eat, eat, eat!” he cried; “that’s the bottom and the top.”  By an odd irony of circumstance, he grew so much interested in this discussion that he let the hour slip by unnoticed and had to go without his tea.  He had enough sense and humour, indeed he had no lack of either, to have chuckled over this himself in private; and even to me he referred to it with the shadow of a smile.

Mackay was a hot bigot.  He would not hear of religion.  I have seen him waste hours of time in argument with all sorts of poor human creatures who understood neither him nor themselves, and he had had the boyishness to dissect and criticise even so small a matter as the riddler’s definition of mind.  He snorted aloud with zealotry and the lust for intellectual battle.  Anything, whatever it was, that seemed to him likely to discourage the continued passionate production of corn and steam-engines he resented like a conspiracy against the people.  Thus, when I put in the plea for literature, that it was only in good books, or in the society of the good, that a man could get help in his conduct, he declared I was in a different world from him.  “Damn my conduct!” said he.  “I have given it up for a bad job.  My question is, ’Can I drive a nail?’” And he plainly looked upon me as one who was insidiously seeking to reduce the people’s annual bellyful of corn and steam-engines.

It may be argued that these opinions spring from the defect of culture; that a narrow and pinching way of life not only exaggerates to a man the importance of material conditions, but indirectly, by denying him the necessary books and leisure, keeps his mind ignorant of larger thoughts; and that hence springs this overwhelming concern about diet, and hence the bald view of existence professed by Mackay.  Had this been an English peasant the conclusion would be tenable.  But Mackay had most of the elements of a liberal education.  He had skirted metaphysical and mathematical studies.  He had a thoughtful hold of what he knew, which would be exceptional among bankers.  He had been brought up in the midst of hot-house piety, and told, with incongruous pride, the story of his own brother’s deathbed ecstasies.  Yet he had somehow failed to fulfil himself, and was adrift like a dead thing among external circumstances, without hope or lively preference or shaping aim.  And further, there seemed a tendency among many of his fellows to fall into the same blank and unlovely opinions.  One thing, indeed, is not to be learned in Scotland, and that is, the way to be happy.  Yet that is the whole of culture, and perhaps two-thirds of morality.  Can it be that the Puritan school, by divorcing a man from nature, by thinning out his instincts, and setting a stamp of its disapproval on whole fields of human activity and interest, leads at last directly to material greed?

Nature is a good guide through life, and the love of simple pleasures next, if not superior, to virtue; and we had on board an Irishman who based his claim to the widest and most affectionate popularity precisely upon these two qualities, that he was natural and happy.  He boasted a fresh colour, a tight little figure, unquenchable gaiety, and indefatigable good-will.  His clothes puzzled the diagnostic mind, until you heard he had been once a private coachman, when they became eloquent, and seemed a part of his biography.  His face contained the rest, and, I fear, a prophecy of the future; the hawk’s nose above accorded so ill with the pink baby’s mouth below.  His spirit and his pride belonged, you might say, to the nose:  while it was the general shiftlessness expressed by the other that had thrown him from situation to situation, and at length on board the emigrant ship.  Barney ate, so to speak, nothing from the galley; his own tea, butter, and eggs supported him throughout the voyage; and about mealtime you might often find him up to the elbows in amateur cookery.  His was the first voice heard singing among all the passengers; he was the first who fell to dancing.  From Loch Foyle to Sandy Hook, there was not a piece of fun undertaken but there was Barney in the midst.

You ought to have seen him when he stood up to sing at our concerts ­his tight little figure stepping to and fro, and his feet shuffling to the air, his eyes seeking and bestowing encouragement ­and to have enjoyed the bow, so nicely calculated between jest and earnest, between grace and clumsiness, with which he brought each song to a conclusion.  He was not only a great favourite among ourselves, but his songs attracted the lords of the saloon, who often leaned to hear him over the rails of the hurricane-deck.  He was somewhat pleased, but not at all abashed, by this attention; and one night, in the midst of his famous performance of “Billy Keogh,” I saw him spin half round in a pirouette and throw an audacious wink to an old gentleman above.

This was the more characteristic, as, for all his daffing, he was a modest and very polite little fellow among ourselves.

He would not hurt the feelings of a fly, nor throughout the passage did he give a shadow of offence; yet he was always, by his innocent freedoms and love of fun, brought upon that narrow margin where politeness must be natural to walk without a fall.  He was once seriously angry, and that in a grave, quiet manner, because they supplied no fish on Friday; for Barney was a conscientious Catholic.  He had likewise strict notions of refinement; and when, late one evening, after the women had retired, a young Scotsman struck up an indecent song, Barney’s drab clothes were immediately missing from the group.  His taste was for the society of gentlemen, of whom, with the reader’s permission, there was no lack in our five steerages and second cabin; and he avoided the rough and positive with a girlish shrinking.  Mackay, partly from his superior powers of mind, which rendered him incomprehensible, partly from his extreme opinions, was especially distasteful to the Irishman.  I have seen him slink off, with backward looks of terror and offended delicacy, while the other, in his witty, ugly way, had been professing hostility to God, and an extreme theatrical readiness to be shipwrecked on the spot.  These utterances hurt the little coachman’s modesty like a bad word.

THE SICK MAN

One night Jones, the young O’Reilly, and myself were walking arm-in-arm and briskly up and down the deck.  Six bells had rung; a head-wind blew chill and fitful, the fog was closing in with a sprinkle of rain, and the fog-whistle had been turned on, and now divided time with its unwelcome outcries, loud like a bull, thrilling and intense like a mosquito.  Even the watch lay somewhere snugly out of sight.

For some time we observed something lying black and huddled in the scuppers, which at last heaved a little and moaned aloud.  We ran to the rails.  An elderly man, but whether passenger or seaman it was impossible in the darkness to determine, lay grovelling on his belly in the wet scuppers, and kicking feebly with his outspread toes.  We asked him what was amiss, and he replied incoherently, with a strange accent and in a voice unmanned by terror, that he had cramp in the stomach, that he had been ailing all day, had seen the doctor twice, and had walked the deck against fatigue till he was overmastered and had fallen where we found him.

Jones remained by his side, while O’Reilly and I hurried off to seek the doctor.  We knocked in vain at the doctor’s cabin; there came no reply; nor could we find anyone to guide us.  It was no time for delicacy; so we ran once more forward; and I, whipping up a ladder and touching my hat to the officer of the watch, addressed him as politely as I could ­

“I beg your pardon, sir; but there is a man lying bad with cramp in the lee scuppers; and I can’t find the doctor.”

He looked at me peeringly in the darkness; and then, somewhat harshly, “Well, I can’t leave the bridge, my man,” said he.

“No, sir; but you can tell me what to do,” I returned.

“Is it one of the crew?” he asked.

“I believe him to be a fireman,” I replied.

I dare say officers are much annoyed by complaints and alarmist information from their freight of human creatures; but certainly, whether it was the idea that the sick man was one of the crew, or from something conciliatory in my address, the officer in question was immediately relieved and mollified; and speaking in a voice much freer from constraint, advised me to find a steward and despatch him in quest of the doctor, who would now be in the smoking-room over his pipe.

One of the stewards was often enough to be found about this hour down our companion, Steerage N and 3; that was his smoking-room of a night.  Let me call him Blackwood.  O’Reilly and I rattled down the companion, breathing hurry; and in his short-sleeves and perched across the carpenter’s bench upon one thigh, found Blackwood; a neat, bright, dapper, Glasgow-looking man, with a bead of an eye and a rank twang in his speech.  I forget who was with him, but the pair were enjoying a deliberate talk over their pipes.  I dare say he was tired with his day’s work, and eminently comfortable at that moment; and the truth is, I did not stop to consider his feelings, but told my story in a breath.

“Steward,” said I, “there’s a man lying bad with cramp, and I can’t find the doctor.”

He turned upon me as pert as a sparrow, but with a black look that is the prerogative of man; and taking his pipe out of his mouth ­

“That’s none of my business,” said he.  “I don’t care.”

I could have strangled the little ruffian where he sat.  The thought of his cabin civility and cabin tips filled me with indignation.  I glanced at O’Reilly; he was pale and quivering, and looked like assault and battery, every inch of him.  But we had a better card than violence.

“You will have to make it your business,” said I, “for I am sent to you by the officer on the bridge.”

Blackwood was fairly tripped.  He made no answer, but put out his pipe, gave me one murderous look, and set off upon his errand strolling.  From that day forward, I should say, he improved to me in courtesy, as though he had repented his evil speech and were anxious to leave a better impression.

When we got on deck again, Jones was still beside the sick man; and two or three late stragglers had gathered round and were offering suggestions.  One proposed to give the patient water, which was promptly negatived.  Another bade us hold him up; he himself prayed to be let lie; but as it was at least as well to keep him off the streaming decks, O’Reilly and I supported him between us.  It was only by main force that we did so, and neither an easy nor an agreeable duty; for he fought in his paroxysms like a frightened child, and moaned miserably when he resigned himself to our control.

“O let me lie!” he pleaded.  “I’ll no’ get better anyway.”  And then with a moan that went to my heart, “O why did I come upon this miserable journey?”

I was reminded of the song which I had heard a little while before in the close, tossing steerage:  “O why left I my hame?”

Meantime Jones, relieved of his immediate charge, had gone off to the galley, where we could see a light.  There he found a belated cook scouring pans by the radiance of two lanterns, and one of these he sought to borrow.  The scullion was backward.  “Was it one of the crew?” he asked.  And when Jones, smitten with my theory, had assured him that it was a fireman, he reluctantly left his scouring and came towards us at an easy pace, with one of the lanterns swinging from his finger.  The light, as it reached the spot, showed us an elderly man, thick-set, and grizzled with years; but the shifting and coarse shadows concealed from us the expression and even the design of his face.

So soon as the cook set eyes on him he gave a sort of whistle.

“It’s only a passenger!” said he; and turning about, made, lantern and all, for the galley.

“He’s a man anyway,” cried Jones in indignation.

“Nobody said he was a woman,” said a gruff voice, which I recognised for that of the bo’s’un.

All this while there was no word of Blackwood or the doctor; and now the officer came to our side of the ship and asked, over the hurricane-deck rails, if the doctor were not yet come.  We told him not.

“No?” he repeated with a breathing of anger; and we saw him hurry aft in person.

Ten minutes after the doctor made his appearance deliberately enough and examined our patient with the lantern.  He made little of the case, had the man brought aft to the dispensary, dosed him, and sent him forward to his bunk.  Two of his neighbours in the steerage had now come to our assistance, expressing loud sorrow that such “a fine cheery body” should be sick; and these, claiming a sort of possession, took him entirely under their own care.  The drug had probably relieved him, for he struggled no more, and was led along plaintive and patient, but protesting.  His heart recoiled at the thought of the steerage.  “O let me lie down upon the bieldy side,” he cried; “O dinna take me down!” And again:  “O why did ever I come upon this miserable voyage?” And yet once more, with a gasp and a wailing prolongation of the fourth word:  “I had no call to come.”  But there he was; and by the doctor’s order and the kind force of his two shipmates disappeared down the companion of Steerage N into the den allotted him.

At the foot of our own companion, just where I had found Blackwood, Jones and the bo’s’un were now engaged in talk.  This last was a gruff, cruel-looking seaman, who must have passed near half a century upon the seas; square-headed, goat-bearded, with heavy blonde eyebrows, and an eye without radiance, but inflexibly steady and hard.  I had not forgotten his rough speech; but I remembered also that he had helped us about the lantern; and now seeing him in conversation with Jones, and being choked with indignation, I proceeded to blow off my steam.

“Well,” said I, “I make you my compliments upon your steward,” and furiously narrated what had happened.

“I’ve nothing to do with him,” replied the bo’s’un.  “They’re all alike.  They wouldn’t mind if they saw you all lying dead one upon the top of another.”

This was enough.  A very little humanity went a long way with me after the experience of the evening.  A sympathy grew up at once between the bo’s’un and myself; and that night, and during the next few days, I learned to appreciate him better.  He was a remarkable type, and not at all the kind of man you find in books.  He had been at Sebastopol under English colours; and again in a States ship, “after the Alabama, and praying God we shouldn’t find her.”  He was a high Tory and a high Englishman.  No manufacturer could have held opinions more hostile to the working man and his strikes.  “The workmen,” he said, “think nothing of their country.  They think of nothing but themselves.  They’re damned greedy, selfish fellows.”  He would not hear of the decadence of England.  “They say they send us beef from America,” he argued:  “but who pays for it?  All the money in the world’s in England.”  The Royal Navy was the best of possible services, according to him.  “Anyway the officers are gentlemen,” said he; “and you can’t get hazed to death by a damned non-commissioned ­ as you can in the army.”  Among nations, England was the first; then came France.  He respected the French navy and liked the French people; and if he were forced to make a new choice in life, “by God, he would try Frenchmen!” For all his looks and rough, cold manners, I observed that children were never frightened by him; they divined him at once to be a friend; and one night when he had chalked his hand and went about stealthily setting his mark on people’s clothes, it was incongruous to hear this formidable old salt chuckling over his boyish monkey trick.

In the morning, my first thought was of the sick man.  I was afraid I should not recognise him, so baffling had been the light of the lantern; and found myself unable to decide if he were Scots, English, or Irish.  He had certainly employed north-country words and elisions; but the accent and the pronunciation seemed unfamiliar and incongruous in my ear.

To descend on an empty stomach into Steerage N was an adventure that required some nerve.  The stench was atrocious; each respiration tasted in the throat like some horrible kind of cheese; and the squalid aspect of the place was aggravated by so many people worming themselves into their clothes in the twilight of the bunks.  You may guess if I was pleased, not only for him, but for myself also, when I heard that the sick man was better and had gone on deck.

The morning was raw and foggy, though the sun suffused the fog with pink and amber; the fog-horn still blew, stertorous and intermittent; and to add to the discomfort, the seamen were just beginning to wash down the decks.  But for a sick man this was heaven compared to the steerage.  I found him standing on the hot-water pipe, just forward of the saloon deck-house.  He was smaller than I had fancied, and plain-looking; but his face was distinguished by strange and fascinating eyes, limpid grey from a distance, but, when looked into, full of changing colours and grains of gold.  His manners were mild and uncompromisingly plain; and I soon saw that, when once started, he delighted to talk.  His accent and language had been formed in the most natural way, since he was born in Ireland, had lived a quarter of a century on the banks of the Tyne, and was married to a Scots wife.  A fisherman in the season, he had fished the east coast from Fisherrow to Whitby.  When the season was over, and the great boats, which required extra hands, were once drawn up on shore till the next spring, he worked as a labourer about chemical furnaces, or along the wharves unloading vessels.  In this comparatively humble way of life he had gathered a competence, and could speak of his comfortable house, his hayfield, and his garden.  On this ship, where so many accomplished artisans were fleeing from starvation, he was present on a pleasure trip to visit a brother in New York.

Ere he started, he informed me, he had been warned against the steerage and the steerage fare, and recommended to bring with him a ham and tea and a spice loaf.  But he laughed to scorn such counsels. “I’m not afraid,” he had told his adviser, “I’ll get on for ten days.  I’ve not been a fisherman for nothing.”  For it is no light matter, as he reminded me, to be in an open boat, perhaps waist-deep with herrings, day breaking with a scowl, and for miles on every hand lee-shores, unbroken, iron-bound, surf-beat, with only here and there an anchorage where you dare not lie, or a harbour impossible to enter with the wind that blows.  The life of a North Sea fisher is one long chapter of exposure and hard work and insufficient fare; and even if he makes land at some bleak fisher port, perhaps the season is bad or his boat has been unlucky, and after fifty hours’ unsleeping vigilance and toil, not a shop will give him credit for a loaf of bread.  Yet the steerage of the emigrant ship had been too vile for the endurance of a man thus rudely trained.  He had scarce eaten since he came on board, until the day before, when his appetite was tempted by some excellent pea-soup.  We were all much of the same mind on board, and beginning with myself, had dined upon pea-soup not wisely but too well; only with him the excess had been punished, perhaps because he was weakened by former abstinence, and his first meal had resulted in a cramp.  He had determined to live henceforth on biscuit; and when, two months later, he should return to England, to make the passage by saloon.  The second cabin, after due inquiry, he scouted as another edition of the steerage.

He spoke apologetically of his emotion when ill.  “Ye see, I had no call to be here,” said he; “and I thought it was by with me last night.  I’ve a good house at home, and plenty to nurse me, and I had no real call to leave them.”  Speaking of the attentions he had received from his shipmates generally, “They were all so kind,” he said, “that there’s none to mention.”  And except in so far as I might share in this, he troubled me with no reference to my services.

But what affected me in the most lively manner was the wealth of this day-labourer, paying a two months’ pleasure visit to the States, and preparing to return in the saloon, and the new testimony rendered by his story, not so much to the horrors of the steerage as to the habitual comfort of the working classes.  One foggy, frosty December evening, I encountered on Liberton Hill, near Edinburgh, an Irish labourer trudging homeward from the fields.  Our roads lay together, and it was natural that we should fall into talk.  He was covered with mud; an inoffensive, ignorant creature, who thought the Atlantic cable was a secret contrivance of the masters the better to oppress labouring mankind; and I confess I was astonished to learn that he had nearly three hundred pounds in the bank.  But this man had travelled over most of the world, and enjoyed wonderful opportunities on some American railroad, with two dollars a shift and double pay on Sunday and at night; whereas my fellow-passenger had never quitted Tyneside, and had made all that he possessed in that same accursed, down-falling England, whence skilled mechanics, engineers, millwrights, and carpenters were fleeing as from the native country of starvation.

Fitly enough, we slid off on the subject of strikes and wages and hard times.  Being from the Tyne, and a man who had gained and lost in his own pocket by these fluctuations, he had much to say, and held strong opinions on the subject.  He spoke sharply of the masters, and, when I led him on, of the men also.  The masters had been selfish and obstructive; the men selfish, silly, and light-headed.  He rehearsed to me the course of a meeting at which he had been present, and the somewhat long discourse which he had there pronounced, calling into question the wisdom and even the good faith of the Union delegates; and although he had escaped himself through flush times and starvation times with a handsomely provided purse, he had so little faith in either man or master, and so profound a terror for the unerring Nemesis of mercantile affairs, that he could think of no hope for our country outside of a sudden and complete political subversion.  Down must go Lords and Church and Army; and capital, by some happy direction, must change hands from worse to better, or England stood condemned.  Such principles, he said, were growing “like a seed.”

From this mild, soft, domestic man, these words sounded unusually ominous and grave.  I had heard enough revolutionary talk among my workmen fellow-passengers; but most of it was hot and turgid, and fell discredited from the lips of unsuccessful men.  This man was calm; he had attained prosperity and ease; he disapproved the policy which had been pursued by labour in the past; and yet this was his panacea, ­to rend the old country from end to end, and from top to bottom, and in clamour and civil discord remodel it with the hand of violence.

THE STOWAWAYS

On the Sunday, among a party of men who were talking in our companion, Steerage N and 3, we remarked a new figure.  He wore tweed clothes, well enough made if not very fresh, and a plain smoking-cap.  His face was pale, with pale eyes, and spiritedly enough designed; but though not yet thirty, a sort of blackguardly degeneration had already overtaken his features.  The fine nose had grown fleshy towards the point, the pale eyes were sunk in fat.  His hands were strong and elegant; his experience of life evidently varied; his speech full of pith and verve; his manners forward, but perfectly presentable.  The lad who helped in the second cabin told me, in answer to a question, that he did not know who he was, but thought, “by his way of speaking, and because he was so polite, that he was some one from the saloon.”

I was not so sure, for to me there was something equivocal in his air and bearing.  He might have been, I thought, the son of some good family who had fallen early into dissipation and run from home.  But, making every allowance, how admirable was his talk!  I wish you could have heard him tell his own stories.  They were so swingingly set forth, in such dramatic language, and illustrated here and there by such luminous bits of acting, that they could only lose in any reproduction.  There were tales of the P. and O. Company, where he had been an officer; of the East Indies, where in former years he had lived lavishly; of the Royal Engineers, where he had served for a period; and of a dozen other sides of life, each introducing some vigorous thumb-nail portrait.  He had the talk to himself that night, we were all so glad to listen.  The best talkers usually address themselves to some particular society; there they are kings, elsewhere camp-followers, as a man may know Russian and yet be ignorant of Spanish; but this fellow had a frank, headlong power of style, and a broad, human choice of subject, that would have turned any circle in the world into a circle of hearers.  He was a Homeric talker, plain, strong, and cheerful; and the things and the people of which he spoke became readily and clearly present to the minds of those who heard him.  This, with a certain added colouring of rhetoric and rodomontade, must have been the style of Burns, who equally charmed the ears of duchesses and hostlers.

Yet freely and personally as he spoke, many points remained obscure in his narration.  The Engineers, for instance, was a service which he praised highly; it is true there would be trouble with the sergeants; but then the officers were gentlemen, and his own, in particular, one among ten thousand.  It sounded so far exactly like an episode in the rakish, topsy-turvy life of such an one as I had imagined.  But then there came incidents more doubtful, which showed an almost impudent greed after gratuities, and a truly impudent disregard for truth.  And then there was the tale of his departure.  He had wearied, it seems, of Woolwich, and one fine day, with a companion, slipped up to London for a spree.  I have a suspicion that spree was meant to be a long one; but God disposes all things; and one morning, near Westminster Bridge, whom should he come across but the very sergeant who had recruited him at first!  What followed?  He himself indicated cavalierly that he had then resigned.  Let us put it so.  But these resignations are sometimes very trying.

At length, after having delighted us for hours, he took himself away from the companion; and I could ask Mackay who and what he was.  “That?” said Mackay.  “Why, that’s one of the stowaways.”

“No man,” said the same authority, “who has had anything to do with the sea, would ever think of paying for a passage.”  I give the statement as Mackay’s, without endorsement; yet I am tempted to believe that it contains a grain of truth; and if you add that the man shall be impudent and thievish, or else dead-broke, it may even pass for a fair representation of the facts.  We gentlemen of England who live at home at ease have, I suspect, very insufficient ideas on the subject.  All the world over, people are stowing away in coal-holes and dark corners, and when ships are once out to sea, appearing again, begrimed and bashful, upon deck.  The career of these sea-tramps partakes largely of the adventurous.  They may be poisoned by coal-gas, or die by starvation in their place of concealment; or when found they may be clapped at once and ignominiously into irons, thus to be carried to their promised land, the port of destination, and alas! brought back in the same way to that from which they started, and there delivered over to the magistrates and the seclusion of a county jail.  Since I crossed the Atlantic, one miserable stowaway was found in a dying state among the fuel, uttered but a word or two, and departed for a farther country than America.

When the stowaway appears on deck, he has but one thing to pray for:  that he be set to work, which is the price and sign of his forgiveness.  After half an hour with a swab or a bucket, he feels himself as secure as if he had paid for his passage.  It is not altogether a bad thing for the company, who get more or less efficient hands for nothing but a few plates of junk and duff; and every now and again find themselves better paid than by a whole family of cabin passengers.  Not long ago, for instance, a packet was saved from nearly certain loss by the skill and courage of a stowaway engineer.  As was no more than just, a handsome subscription rewarded him for his success; but even without such exceptional good fortune, as things stand in England and America, the stowaway will often make a good profit out of his adventure.  Four engineers stowed away last summer on the same ship, the Circassia; and before two days after their arrival each of the four had found a comfortable berth.  This was the most hopeful tale of emigration that I heard from first to last; and as you see, the luck was for stowaways.

My curiosity was much inflamed by what I heard; and the next morning, as I was making the round of the ship, I was delighted to find the ex-Royal Engineer engaged in washing down the white paint of a deck house.  There was another fellow at work beside him, a lad not more than twenty, in the most miraculous tatters, his handsome face sown with grains of beauty and lighted up by expressive eyes.  Four stowaways had been found aboard our ship before she left the Clyde; but these two had alone escaped the ignominy of being put ashore.  Alick, my acquaintance of last night, was Scots by birth, and by trade a practical engineer; the other was from Devonshire, and had been to sea before the mast.  Two people more unlike by training, character, and habits it would be hard to imagine; yet here they were together, scrubbing paint.

Alick had held all sorts of good situations, and wasted many opportunities in life.  I have heard him end a story with these words:  “That was in my golden days, when I used finger-glasses.”  Situation after situation failed him; then followed the depression of trade, and for months he had hung round with other idlers, playing marbles all day in the West Park, and going home at night to tell his landlady how he had been seeking for a job.  I believe this kind of existence was not unpleasant to Alick himself, and he might have long continued to enjoy idleness and a life on tick; but he had a comrade, let us call him Brown, who grew restive.  This fellow was continually threatening to slip his cable for the States, and at last, one Wednesday, Glasgow was left widowed of her Brown.  Some months afterwards, Alick met another old chum in Sauchiehall Street.

“By the bye, Alick,” said he, “I met a gentleman in New York who was asking for you.”

“Who was that?” asked Alick.

“The new second engineer on board the So-and-So,” was the reply.

“Well, and who is he?”

“Brown, to be sure.”

For Brown had been one of the fortunate quartette aboard the Circassia.  If that was the way of it in the States, Alick thought it was high time to follow Brown’s example.  He spent his last day, as he put it, “reviewing the yeomanry,” and the next morning says he to his landlady, “Mrs. X., I’ll not take porridge to-day, please; I’ll take some eggs.”

“Why, have you found a job?” she asked, delighted.

“Well, yes,” returned the perfidious Alick; “I think I’ll start to-day.”

And so, well lined with eggs, start he did, but for America.  I am afraid that landlady has seen the last of him.

It was easy enough to get on board in the confusion that attends a vessel’s departure; and in one of the dark corners of Steerage N, flat in a bunk and with an empty stomach, Alick made the voyage from the Broomielaw to Greenock.  That night, the ship’s yeoman pulled him out by the heels and had him before the mate.  Two other stowaways had already been found and sent ashore; but by this time darkness had fallen, they were out in the middle of the estuary, and the last steamer had left them till the morning.

“Take him to the forecastle and give him a meal,” said the mate, “and see and pack him off the first thing to-morrow.”

In the forecastle he had supper, a good night’s rest and breakfast, and was sitting placidly with a pipe, fancying all was over and the game up for good with that ship, when one of the sailors grumbled out an oath at him, with a “What are you doing there?” and “Do you call that hiding, anyway?” There was need of no more:  Alick was in another bunk before the day was older.  Shortly before the passengers arrived, the ship was cursorily inspected.  He heard the round come down the companion and look into one pen after another, until they came within two of the one in which he lay concealed.  Into these last two they did not enter, but merely glanced from without; and Alick had no doubt that he was personally favoured in this escape.  It was the character of the man to attribute nothing to luck and but little to kindness; whatever happened to him he had earned in his own right amply; favours came to him from his singular attraction and adroitness, and misfortunes he had always accepted with his eyes open.  Half an hour after the searchers had departed, the steerage began to fill with legitimate passengers, and the worst of Alick’s troubles was at an end.  He was soon making himself popular, smoking other people’s tobacco, and politely sharing their private stock of delicacies, and when night came, he retired to his bunk beside the others with composure.

Next day by afternoon, Lough Foyle being already far behind, and only the rough north-western hills of Ireland within view, Alick appeared on deck to court inquiry and decide his fate.  As a matter of fact, he was known to several on board, and even intimate with one of the engineers; but it was plainly not the etiquette of such occasions for the authorities to avow their information.  Every one professed surprise and anger on his appearance, and he was led prisoner before the captain.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” inquired the captain.

“Not much,” said Alick; “but when a man has been a long time out of a job, he will do things he would not under other circumstances.”

“Are you willing to work?”

Alick swore he was burning to be useful.

“And what can you do?” asked the captain.

He replied composedly that he was a brass-fitter by trade.

“I think you will be better at engineering?” suggested the officer, with a shrewd look.

“No, sir,” says Alick simply. ­“There’s few can beat me at a lie,” was his engaging commentary to me as he recounted the affair.

“Have you been to sea?” again asked the captain.

“I’ve had a trip on a Clyde steamboat, sir, but no more,” replied the unabashed Alick.

“Well, we must try and find some work for you,” concluded the officer.

And hence we behold Alick, clear of the hot engine-room, lazily scraping paint and now and then taking a pull upon a sheet.  “You leave me alone,” was his deduction.  “When I get talking to a man, I can get round him.”

The other stowaway, whom I will call the Devonian ­it was noticeable that neither of them told his name ­had both been brought up and seen the world in a much smaller way.  His father, a confectioner, died and was closely followed by his mother.  His sisters had taken, I think, to dressmaking.  He himself had returned from sea about a year ago and gone to live with his brother, who kept the “George Hotel” ­“it was not quite a real hotel,” added the candid fellow ­“and had a hired man to mind the horses.”  At first the Devonian was very welcome; but as time went on his brother not unnaturally grew cool towards him, and he began to find himself one too many at the “George Hotel.”  “I don’t think brothers care much for you,” he said, as a general reflection upon life.  Hurt at this change, nearly penniless, and too proud to ask for more, he set off on foot and walked eighty miles to Weymouth, living on the journey as he could.  He would have enlisted, but he was too small for the army and too old for the navy; and thought himself fortunate at last to find a berth on board a trading dandy.  Somewhere in the Bristol Channel the dandy sprung a leak and went down; and though the crew were picked up and brought ashore by fishermen, they found themselves with nothing but the clothes upon their back.  His next engagement was scarcely better starred; for the ship proved so leaky, and frightened them all so heartily during a short passage through the Irish Sea, that the entire crew deserted and remained behind upon the quays of Belfast.

Evil days were now coming thick on the Devonian.  He could find no berth in Belfast, and had to work a passage to Glasgow on a steamer.  She reached the Broomielaw on a Wednesday:  the Devonian had a bellyful that morning, laying in breakfast manfully to provide against the future, and set off along the quays to seek employment.  But he was now not only penniless, his clothes had begun to fall in tatters; he had begun to have the look of a street Arab; and captains will have nothing to say to a ragamuffin; for in that trade, as in all others, it is the coat that depicts the man.  You may hand, reef, and steer like an angel, but if you have a hole in your trousers, it is like a millstone round your neck.  The Devonian lost heart at so many refusals.  He had not the impudence to beg; although, as he said, “when I had money of my own, I always gave it.”  It was only on Saturday morning, after three whole days of starvation, that he asked a scone from a milkwoman, who added of her own accord a glass of milk.  He had now made up his mind to stow away, not from any desire to see America, but merely to obtain the comfort of a place in the forecastle and a supply of familiar sea-fare.  He lived by begging, always from milkwomen, and always scones and milk, and was not once refused.  It was vile wet weather, and he could never have been dry.  By night he walked the streets, and by day slept upon Glasgow Green, and heard, in the intervals of his dozing, the famous theologians of the spot clear up intricate points of doctrine and appraise the merits of the clergy.  He had not much instruction; he could “read bills on the street,” but was “main bad at writing”; yet these theologians seemed to have impressed him with a genuine sense of amusement.  Why he did not go to the Sailors’ Home I know not; I presume there is in Glasgow one of these institutions, which are by far the happiest and the wisest effort of contemporaneous charity; but I must stand to my author, as they say in old books, and relate the story as I heard it.  In the meantime, he had tried four times to stow away in different vessels, and four times had been discovered and handed back to starvation.  The fifth time was lucky; and you may judge if he were pleased to be aboard ship again, at his old work, and with duff twice a week.  He was, said Alick, “a devil for the duff.”  Or if devil was not the word, it was one if anything stronger.

The difference in the conduct of the two was remarkable.  The Devonian was as willing as any paid hand, swarmed aloft among the first, pulled his natural weight and firmly upon a rope, and found work for himself when there was none to show him.  Alick, on the other hand, was not only a skulker in the grain, but took a humorous and fine gentlemanly view of the transaction.  He would speak to me by the hour in ostentatious idleness; and only if the bo’s’un or a mate came by, fell-to languidly for just the necessary time till they were out of sight.  “I’m not breaking my heart with it,” he remarked.

Once there was a hatch to be opened near where he was stationed; he watched the preparations for a second or so suspiciously, and then, “Hullo,” said he, “here’s some real work coming ­I’m off,” and he was gone that moment.  Again, calculating the six guinea passage-money, and the probable duration of the passage, he remarked pleasantly that he was getting six shillings a day for this job, “and it’s pretty dear to the company at that.”  “They are making nothing by me,” was another of his observations; “they’re making something by that fellow.”  And he pointed to the Devonian, who was just then busy to the eyes.

The more you saw of Alick, the more, it must be owned, you learned to despise him.  His natural talents were of no use either to himself or others; for his character had degenerated like his face, and become pulpy and pretentious.  Even his power of persuasion, which was certainly very surprising, stood in some danger of being lost or neutralised by over-confidence.  He lied in an aggressive, brazen manner, like a pert criminal in the dock; and he was so vain of his own cleverness that he could not refrain from boasting, ten minutes after, of the very trick by which he had deceived you.  “Why, now I have more money than when I came on board,” he said one night, exhibiting a sixpence, “and yet I stood myself a bottle of beer before I went to bed yesterday.  And as for tobacco, I have fifteen sticks of it.”  That was fairly successful indeed; yet a man of his superiority, and with a less obtrusive policy, might, who knows? have got the length of half a crown.  A man who prides himself upon persuasion should learn the persuasive faculty of silence, above all as to his own misdeeds.  It is only in the farce and for dramatic purposes that Scapin enlarges on his peculiar talents to the world at large.

Scapin is perhaps a good name for this clever, unfortunate Alick; for at the bottom of all his misconduct there was a guiding sense of humour that moved you to forgive him.  It was more than half as a jest that he conducted his existence.  “Oh, man,” he said to me once with unusual emotion, like a man thinking of his mistress, “I would give up anything for a lark.”

It was in relation to his fellow-stowaway that Alick showed the best, or perhaps I should say the only good, points of his nature.  “Mind you,” he said suddenly, changing his tone, “mind you, that’s a good boy.  He wouldn’t tell you a lie.  A lot of them think he is a scamp because his clothes are ragged, but he isn’t; he’s as good as gold.”  To hear him, you become aware that Alick himself had a taste for virtue.  He thought his own idleness and the other’s industry equally becoming.  He was no more anxious to insure his own reputation as a liar than to uphold the truthfulness of his companion; and he seemed unaware of what was incongruous in his attitude, and was plainly sincere in both characters.

It was not surprising that he should take an interest in the Devonian, for the lad worshipped and served him in love and wonder.  Busy as he was, he would find time to warn Alick of an approaching officer, or even to tell him that the coast was clear, and he might slip off and smoke a pipe in safety.  “Tom,” he once said to him, for that was the name which Alick ordered him to use, “if you don’t like going to the galley, I’ll go for you.  You ain’t used to this kind of thing, you ain’t.  But I’m a sailor; and I can understand the feelings of any fellow, I can.”  Again, he was hard up, and casting about for some tobacco, for he was not so liberally used in this respect as others perhaps less worthy, when Alick offered him the half of one of his fifteen sticks.  I think, for my part, he might have increased the offer to a whole one, or perhaps a pair of them, and not lived to regret his liberality.  But the Devonian refused.  “No,” he said, “you’re a stowaway like me; I won’t take it from you, I’ll take it from some one who’s not down on his luck.”

It was notable in this generous lad that he was strongly under the influence of sex.  If a woman passed near where he was working, his eyes lit up, his hand paused, and his mind wandered instantly to other thoughts.  It was natural that he should exercise a fascination proportionally strong upon women.  He begged, you will remember, from women only, and was never refused.  Without wishing to explain away the charity of those who helped him, I cannot but fancy he may have owed a little to his handsome face, and to that quick, responsive nature formed for love, which speaks eloquently through all disguises, and can stamp an impression in ten minutes’ talk or an exchange of glances.  He was the more dangerous in that he was far from bold, but seemed to woo in spite of himself, and with a soft and pleading eye.  Ragged as he was, and many a scarecrow is in that respect more comfortably furnished, even on board he was not without some curious admirers.

There was a girl among the passengers, a tall, blonde, handsome, strapping Irishwoman, with a wild, accommodating eye, whom Alick had dubbed Tommy, with that transcendental appropriateness that defies analysis.  One day the Devonian was lying for warmth in the upper stoke-hole, which stands open on the deck, when Irish Tommy came past, very neatly attired, as was her custom.

“Poor fellow,” she said, stopping, “you haven’t a vest.”

“No,” he said; “I wish I ’ad.”

Then she stood and gazed on him in silence, until, in his embarrassment, for he knew not how to look under this scrutiny, he pulled out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco.

“Do you want a match?” she asked.  And before he had time to reply, she ran off and presently returned with more than one.

That was the beginning and the end, as far as our passage is concerned, of what I will make bold to call this love-affair.  There are many relations which go on to marriage and last during a lifetime, in which less human feeling is engaged than in this scene of five minutes at the stoke-hole.

Rigidly speaking, this would end the chapter of the stowaways; but in a larger sense of the word I have yet more to add.  Jones had discovered and pointed out to me a young woman who was remarkable among her fellows for a pleasing and interesting air.  She was poorly clad, to the verge, if not over the line, of disrespectability, with a ragged old jacket and a bit of a sealskin cap no bigger than your fist; but her eyes, her whole expression, and her manner, even in ordinary moments, told of a true womanly nature, capable of love, anger, and devotion.  She had a look, too, of refinement, like one who might have been a better lady than most, had she been allowed the opportunity.  When alone she seemed preoccupied and sad; but she was not often alone; there was usually by her side a heavy, dull, gross man in rough clothes, chary of speech and gesture ­not from caution, but poverty of disposition; a man like a ditcher, unlovely and uninteresting; whom she petted and tended and waited on with her eyes as if he had been Amadis of Gaul.  It was strange to see this hulking fellow dog-sick, and this delicate, sad woman caring for him.  He seemed, from first to last, insensible of her caresses and attentions, and she seemed unconscious of his insensibility.  The Irish husband, who sang his wife to sleep, and this Scottish girl serving her Orson, were the two bits of human nature that most appealed to me throughout the voyage.

On the Thursday before we arrived, the tickets were collected; and soon a rumour began to go round the vessel; and this girl, with her bit of sealskin cap, became the centre of whispering and pointed fingers.  She also, it was said, was a stowaway of a sort; for she was on board with neither ticket nor money; and the man with whom she travelled was the father of a family, who had left wife and children to be hers.  The ship’s officers discouraged the story, which may therefore have been a story and no more; but it was believed in the steerage, and the poor girl had to encounter many curious eyes from that day forth.

PERSONAL EXPERIENCE AND REVIEW

Travel is of two kinds; and this voyage of mine across the ocean combined both.  “Out of my country and myself I go,” sings the old poet:  and I was not only travelling out of my country in latitude and longitude, but out of myself in diet, associates, and consideration.  Part of the interest and a great deal of the amusement flowed, at least to me, from this novel situation in the world.

I found that I had what they call fallen in life with absolute success and verisimilitude.  I was taken for a steerage passenger; no one seemed surprised that I should be so; and there was nothing but the brass plate between decks to remind me that I had once been a gentleman.  In a former book, describing a former journey, I expressed some wonder that I could be readily and naturally taken for a pedlar, and explained the accident by the difference of language and manners between England and France.  I must now take a humbler view; for here I was among my own countrymen, somewhat roughly clad, to be sure, but with every advantage of speech and manner; and I am bound to confess that I passed for nearly anything you please except an educated gentleman.  The sailors called me “mate,” the officers addressed me as “my man,” my comrades accepted me without hesitation for a person of their own character and experience, but with some curious information.  One, a mason himself, believed I was a mason; several, and among these at least one of the seamen, judged me to be a petty officer in the American navy; and I was so often set down for a practical engineer that at last I had not the heart to deny it.  From all these guesses I drew one conclusion, which told against the insight of my companions.  They might be close observers in their own way, and read the manners in the face; but it was plain that they did not extend their observation to the hands.

To the saloon passengers also I sustained my part without a hitch.  It is true I came little in their way; but when we did encounter, there was no recognition in their eye, although I confess I sometimes courted it in silence.  All these, my inferiors and equals, took me, like the transformed monarch in the story, for a mere common, human man.  They gave me a hard, dead look, with the flesh about the eye kept unrelaxed.

With the women this surprised me less, as I had already experimented on the sex by going abroad through a suburban part of London simply attired in a sleeve-waistcoat.  The result was curious.  I then learned for the first time, and by the exhaustive process, how much attention ladies are accustomed to bestow on all male creatures of their own station; for, in my humble rig, each one who went by me caused me a certain shock of surprise and a sense of something wanting.  In my normal circumstances, it appeared, every young lady must have paid me some passing tribute of a glance; and though I had often been unconscious of it when given, I was well aware of its absence when it was withheld.  My height seemed to decrease with every woman who passed me, for she passed me like a dog.  This is one of my grounds for supposing that what are called the upper classes may sometimes produce a disagreeable impression in what are called the lower; and I wish some one would continue my experiment, and find out exactly at what stage of toilette a man becomes invisible to the well-regulated female eye.

Here on shipboard the matter was put to a more complete test; for, even with the addition of speech and manner, I passed among the ladies for precisely the average man of the steerage.  It was one afternoon that I saw this demonstrated.  A very plainly dressed woman was taken ill on deck.  I think I had the luck to be present at every sudden seizure during all the passage; and on this occasion found myself in the place of importance, supporting the sufferer.  There was not only a large crowd immediately around us, but a considerable knot of saloon passengers leaning over our heads from the hurricane-deck.  One of these, an elderly managing woman, hailed me with counsels.  Of course I had to reply; and as the talk went on, I began to discover that the whole group took me for the husband.  I looked upon my new wife, poor creature, with mingled feelings; and I must own she had not even the appearance of the poorest class of city servant-maids, but looked more like a country wench who should have been employed at a roadside inn.  Now was the time for me to go and study the brass plate.

To such of the officers as knew about me ­the doctor, the purser, and the stewards ­I appeared in the light of a broad joke.  The fact that I spent the better part of my day in writing had gone abroad over the ship and tickled them all prodigiously.  Whenever they met me they referred to my absurd occupation with familiarity and breadth of humorous intention.  Their manner was well calculated to remind me of my fallen fortunes.  You may be sincerely amused by the amateur literary efforts of a gentleman, but you scarce publish the feeling to his face.  “Well!” they would say; “still writing?” And the smile would widen into a laugh.  The purser came one day into the cabin, and, touched to the heart by my misguided industry, offered me some other kind of writing, “for which,” he added pointedly, “you will be paid.”  This was nothing else than to copy out the list of passengers.

Another trick of mine which told against my reputation was my choice of roosting-place in an active draught upon the cabin floor.  I was openly jeered and flouted for this eccentricity; and a considerable knot would sometimes gather at the door to see my last dispositions for the night.  This was embarrassing, but I learned to support the trial with equanimity.

Indeed I may say that, upon the whole, my new position sat lightly and naturally upon my spirits.  I accepted the consequences with readiness, and found them far from difficult to bear.  The steerage conquered me; I conformed more and more to the type of the place, not only in manner but at heart, growing hostile to the officers and cabin passengers who looked down upon me, and day by day greedier for small delicacies.  Such was the result, as I fancy, of a diet of bread and butter, soup and porridge.  We think we have no sweet tooth as long as we are full to the brim of molasses; but a man must have sojourned in the workhouse before he boasts himself indifferent to dainties.  Every evening, for instance, I was more and more preoccupied about our doubtful fare at tea.  If it was delicate my heart was much lightened; if it was but broken fish I was proportionally downcast.  The offer of a little jelly from a fellow-passenger more provident than myself caused a marked elevation in my spirits.  And I would have gone to the ship’s end and back again for an oyster or a chipped fruit.

In other ways I was content with my position.  It seemed no disgrace to be confounded with my company; for I may as well declare at once I found their manners as gentle and becoming as those of any other class.  I do not mean that my friends could have sat down without embarrassment and laughable disaster at the table of a duke.  That does not imply an inferiority of breeding, but a difference of usage.  Thus I flatter myself that I conducted myself well among my fellow-passengers; yet my most ambitious hope is not to have avoided faults, but to have committed as few as possible.  I know too well that my tact is not the same as their tact, and that my habit of a different society constituted, not only no qualification, but a positive disability to move easily and becomingly in this.  When Jones complimented me ­because I “managed to behave very pleasantly” to my fellow-passengers, was how he put it ­I could follow the thought in his mind, and knew his compliment to be such as we pay foreigners on their proficiency in English.  I dare say this praise was given me immediately on the back of some unpardonable solecism, which had led him to review my conduct as a whole.  We are all ready to laugh at the ploughman among lords; we should consider also the case of a lord among the ploughmen.  I have seen a lawyer in the house of a Hebridean fisherman; and I know, but nothing will induce me to disclose, which of these two was the better gentleman.  Some of our finest behaviour, though it looks well enough from the boxes, may seem even brutal to the gallery.  We boast too often manners that are parochial rather than universal; that, like a country wine, will not bear transportation for a hundred miles, nor from the parlour to the kitchen.  To be a gentleman is to be one all the world over, and in every relation and grade of society.  It is a high calling, to which a man must first be born, and then devote himself for life.  And, unhappily, the manners of a certain so-called upper grade have a kind of currency, and meet with a certain external acceptation throughout all the others, and this tends to keep us well satisfied with slight acquirements and the amateurish accomplishments of a clique.  But manners, like art, should be human and central.

Some of my fellow-passengers, as I now moved among them in a relation of equality, seemed to me excellent gentlemen.  They were not rough, nor hasty, nor disputatious; debated pleasantly, differed kindly; were helpful, gentle, patient, and placid.  The type of manners was plain, and even heavy; there was little to please the eye, but nothing to shock; and I thought gentleness lay more nearly at the spring of behaviour than in many more ornate and delicate societies.  I say delicate, where I cannot say refined; a thing may be fine, like ironwork, without being delicate, like lace.  There was here less delicacy; the skin supported more callously the natural surface of events, the mind received more bravely the crude facts of human existence; but I do not think that there was less effective refinement, less consideration for others, less polite suppression of self.  I speak of the best among my fellow-passengers; for in the steerage, as well as in the saloon, there is a mixture.  Those, then, with whom I found myself in sympathy, and of whom I may therefore hope to write with a greater measure of truth, were not only as good in their manners, but endowed with very much the same natural capacities, and about as wise in deduction, as the bankers and barristers of what is called society.  One and all were too much interested in disconnected facts, and loved information for its own sake with too rash a devotion; but people in all classes display the same appetite as they gorge themselves daily with the miscellaneous gossip of the newspaper.  Newspaper-reading, as far as I can make out, is often rather a sort of brown study than an act of culture.  I have myself palmed off yesterday’s issue on a friend, and seen him re-peruse it for a continuance of minutes with an air at once refreshed and solemn.  Workmen, perhaps, pay more attention; but though they may be eager listeners, they have rarely seemed to me either willing or careful thinkers.  Culture is not measured by the greatness of the field which is covered by our knowledge, but by the nicety with which we can perceive relations in that field, whether great or small.  Workmen, certainly those who were on board with me, I found wanting in this quality or habit of the mind.  They did not perceive relations, but leaped to a so-called cause, and thought the problem settled.  Thus the cause of everything in England was the form of government, and the cure for all evils was, by consequence, a revolution.  It is surprising how many of them said this, and that none should have had a definite thought in his head as he said it.  Some hated the Church because they disagreed with it; some hated Lord Beaconsfield because of war and taxes; all hated the masters, possibly with reason.  But these feelings were not at the root of the matter; the true reasoning of their souls ran thus ­I have not got on; I ought to have got on; if there was a revolution I should get on.  How?  They had no idea.  Why?  Because ­because ­well, look at America!

To be politically blind is no distinction; we are all so, if you come to that.  At bottom, as it seems to me, there is but one question in modern home politics, though it appears in many shapes, and that is the question of money; and but one political remedy, that the people should grow wiser and better.  My workmen fellow-passengers were as impatient and dull of hearing on the second of these points as any member of Parliament; but they had some glimmerings of the first.  They would not hear of improvement on their part, but wished the world made over again in a crack, so that they might remain improvident and idle and debauched, and yet enjoy the comfort and respect that should accompany the opposite Virtues; and it was in this expectation, as far as I could see, that many of them were now on their way to America.  But on the point of money they saw clearly enough that inland politics, so far as they were concerned, were reducible to the question of annual income; a question which should long ago have been settled by a revolution, they did not know how, and which they were now about to settle for themselves, once more they knew not how, by crossing the Atlantic in a steamship of considerable tonnage.

And yet it has been amply shown them that the second or income question is in itself nothing, and may as well be left undecided, if there be no wisdom and virtue to profit by the change.  It is not by a man’s purse, but by his character, that he is rich or poor.  Barney will be poor, Alick will be poor, Mackay will be poor; let them go where they will, and wreck all the governments under heaven; they will be poor until they die.

Nothing is perhaps more notable in the average workman than his surprising idleness, and the candour with which he confesses to the failing.  It has to me been always something of a relief to find the poor, as a general rule, so little oppressed with work.  I can in consequence enjoy my own more fortunate beginning with a better grace.  The other day I was living with a farmer in America, an old frontiersman, who had worked and fought, hunted and farmed, from his childhood up.  He excused himself for his defective education on the ground that he had been overworked from first to last.  Even now, he said, anxious as he was, he had never the time to take up a book.  In consequence of this, I observed him closely; he was occupied for four or, at the extreme outside, for five hours out of the twenty-four, and then principally in walking; and the remainder of the day he passed in sheer idleness, either eating fruit or standing with his back against the door.  I have known men do hard literary work all morning, and then undergo quite as much physical fatigue by way of relief as satisfied this powerful frontiersman for the day.  He, at least, like all the educated class, did so much homage to industry as to persuade himself he was industrious.  But the average mechanic recognises his idleness with effrontery; he has even, as I am told, organised it.

I give the story as it was told me, and it was told me for a fact.  A man fell from a housetop in the city of Aberdeen, and was brought into hospital with broken bones.  He was asked what was his trade, and replied that he was a tapper.  No one had ever heard of such a thing before; the officials were filled with curiosity; they besought an explanation.  It appeared that when a party of slaters were engaged upon a roof, they would now and then be taken with a fancy for the public-house.  Now a seamstress, for example, might slip away from her work and no one be the wiser; but if these fellows adjourned, the tapping of the mallets would cease, and thus the neighbourhood be advertised of their defection.  Hence the career of the tapper.  He has to do the tapping and keep up an industrious bustle on the housetop during the absence of the slaters.  When he taps for only one or two the thing is child’s-play, but when he has to represent a whole troop, it is then that he earns his money in the sweat of his brow.  Then must he bound from spot to spot, reduplicate, triplicate, sexduplicate his single personality, and swell and hasten his blows, until he produce a perfect illusion for the ear, and you would swear that a crowd of emulous masons were continuing merrily to roof the house.  It must be a strange sight from an upper window.

I heard nothing on board of the tapper; but I was astonished at the stories told by my companions.  Skulking, shirking, malingering, were all established tactics, it appeared.  They could see no dishonesty when a man who is paid for an hour’s work gives half an hour’s consistent idling in its place.  Thus the tapper would refuse to watch for the police during a burglary, and call himself an honest man.  It is not sufficiently recognised that our race detests to work.  If I thought that I should have to work every day of my life as hard as I am working now, I should be tempted to give up the struggle.  And the workman early begins on his career of toil.  He has never had his fill of holidays in the past, and his prospect of holidays in the future is both distant and uncertain.  In the circumstance it would require a high degree of virtue not to snatch alleviations for the moment.

There were many good talkers on the ship; and I believe good talking of a certain sort is a common accomplishment among working men.  Where books are comparatively scarce, a greater amount of information will be given and received by word of mouth; and this tends to produce good talkers, and, what is no less needful for conversation, good listeners.  They could all tell a story with effect.  I am sometimes tempted to think that the less literary class show always better in narration; they have so much more patience with detail, are so much less hurried to reach the points, and preserve so much juster a proportion among the facts.  At the same time their talk is dry; they pursue a topic ploddingly, have not an agile fancy, do not throw sudden lights from unexpected quarters, and when the talk is over they often leave the matter where it was.  They mark time instead of marching.  They think only to argue, not to reach new conclusions, and use their reason rather as a weapon of offence than as a tool for self-improvement.  Hence the talk of some of the cleverest was unprofitable in result, because there was no give and take; they would grant you as little as possible for premise, and begin to dispute under an oath to conquer or to die.

But the talk of a workman is apt to be more interesting than that of a wealthy merchant, because the thoughts, hopes, and fears of which the workman’s life is built lie nearer to necessity and nature.  They are more immediate to human life.  An income calculated by the week is a far more human thing than one calculated by the year, and a small income, simply from its smallness, than a large one.  I never wearied listening to the details of a workman’s economy, because every item stood for some real pleasure.  If he could afford pudding twice a week, you know that twice a week the man ate with genuine gusto and was physically happy; while if you learn that a rich man has seven courses a day, ten to one the half of them remain untasted, and the whole is but misspent money and a weariness to the flesh.

The difference between England and America to a working man was thus most humanly put to me by a fellow-passenger:  “In America,” said he, “you get pies and puddings.”  I do not hear enough, in economy books, of pies and pudding.  A man lives in and for the delicacies, adornments, and accidental attributes of life, such as pudding to eat, and pleasant books and theatres to occupy his leisure.  The bare terms of existence would be rejected with contempt by all.  If a man feeds on bread and butter, soup and porridge, his appetite grows wolfish after dainties.  And the workman dwells in a borderland, and is always within sight of those cheerless regions where life is more difficult to sustain than worth sustaining.  Every detail of our existence, where it is worth while to cross the ocean after pie and pudding, is made alive and enthralling by the presence of genuine desire; but it is all one to me whether Croesus has a hundred or a thousand thousands in the bank.  There is more adventure in the life of the working man who descends as a common soldier into the battle of life, than in that of the millionaire who sits apart in an office, like Von Moltke, and only directs the manoeuvres by telegraph.  Give me to hear about the career of him who is in the thick of the business; to whom one change of market means an empty belly, and another a copious and savoury meal.  This is not the philosophical, but the human side of economics; it interests like a story; and the life of all who are thus situated partakes in a small way of the charm of “Robinson Crusoe”; for every step is critical, and human life is presented to you naked and verging to its lowest terms.

NEW YORK

As we drew near to New York I was at first amused and then somewhat staggered, by the cautions and the grisly tales that went the round.  You would have thought we were to land upon a cannibal island.  You must speak to no one in the streets, as they would not leave you till you were rooked and beaten.  You must enter a hotel with military precautions; for the least you had to apprehend was to awake next morning without money or baggage, or necessary raiment, a lone forked radish in a bed; and if the worst befell, you would instantly and mysteriously disappear from the ranks of mankind.

I have usually found such stories correspond to the least modicum of fact.  Thus I was warned, I remember, against the roadside inns of the Cévennes, and that by a learned professor; and when I reached Pradelles the warning was explained; it was but the far-away rumour and reduplication of a single terrifying story already half a century old, and half forgotten in the theatre of the events.  So I was tempted to make light of these reports against America.  But we had on board with us a man whose evidence it would not do to put aside.  He had come near these perils in the body; he had visited a robber inn.  The public has an old and well-grounded favour for this class of incident, and shall be gratified to the best of my power.

My fellow-passenger, whom we shall call M’Naughten, had come from New York to Boston with a comrade, seeking work.  They were a pair of rattling blades; and, leaving their baggage at the station, passed the day in beer saloons, and with congenial spirits, until midnight struck.  Then they applied themselves to find a lodging, and walked the streets till two, knocking at houses of entertainment and being refused admittance, or themselves declining the terms.  By two the inspiration of their liquor had begun to wear off; they were weary and humble, and after a great circuit found themselves in the same street where they had begun their search, and in front of a French hotel where they had already sought accommodation.  Seeing the house still open, they returned to the charge.  A man in a white cap sat in an office by the door.  He seemed to welcome them more warmly than when they had at first presented themselves, and the charge for the night had somewhat unaccountably fallen from a dollar to a quarter.  They thought him ill-looking, but paid their quarter apiece, and were shown upstairs to the top of the house.  There, in a small room, the man in the white cap wished them pleasant slumbers.

The room was furnished with a bed, a chair, and some conveniences.  The door did not lock on the inside; and the only sign of adornment was a couple of framed pictures, one close above the head of the bed, and the other opposite the foot, and both curtained, as we may sometimes see valuable water-colours, or the portraits of the dead, or works of art more than usually skittish in the subject.  It was perhaps in the hope of finding something of this last description that M’Naughten’s comrade pulled aside the curtain of the first.  He was startlingly disappointed.  There was no picture.  The frame surrounded, and the curtain was designed to hide, an oblong aperture in the partition, through which they looked forth into the dark corridor.  A person standing without could easily take a purse from under the pillow, or even strangle a sleeper as he lay abed.  M’Naughten and his comrade stared at each other like Balboa and his men, “with a wild surmise”; and then the latter, catching up the lamp, ran to the other frame and roughly raised the curtain.  There he stood, petrified; and M’Naughten, who had followed, grasped him by the wrist in terror.  They could see into another room, larger in size than that which they occupied, where three men sat crouching and silent in the dark.  For a second or so these five persons looked each other in the eyes, then the curtain was dropped, and M’Naughten and his friend made but one bolt of it out of the room and down the stairs.  The man in the white cap said nothing as they passed him; and they were so pleased to be once more in the open night that they gave up all notion of a bed, and walked the streets of Boston till the morning.

No one seemed much cast down by these stories, but all inquired after the address of a respectable hotel; and I, for my part, put myself under the conduct of Mr. Jones.  Before noon of the second Sunday we sighted the low shores outside of New York harbour; the steerage passengers must remain on board to pass through Castle Garden on the following morning; but we of the second cabin made our escape along with the lords of the saloon; and by six o’clock Jones and I issued into West Street, sitting on some straw in the bottom of an open baggage-waggon.  It rained miraculously; and from that moment till on the following night I left New York, there was scarcely a lull, and no cessation of the downpour.  The roadways were flooded; a loud strident noise of falling water filled the air; the restaurants smelt heavily of wet people and wet clothing.

It took us but a few minutes, though it cost us a good deal of money, to be rattled along West Street to our destination:  “Reunion House, N, West Street, one minute’s walk from Castle Garden; convenient to Castle Garden, the Steamboat Landings, California Steamers and Liverpool Ships; Board and Lodging per day 1 dollar, single meals 25 cents, lodging per night 25 cents; private rooms for families; no charge for storage or baggage; satisfaction guaranteed to all persons; Michael Mitchell, proprietor.”  Reunion House was, I may go the length of saying, a humble hostelry.  You entered through a long bar-room, thence passed into a little dining-room, and thence into a still smaller kitchen.  The furniture was of the plainest; but the bar was hung in the American taste, with encouraging and hospitable mottoes.

Jones was well known; we were received warmly; and two minutes afterwards I had refused a drink from the proprietor, and was going on, in my plain European fashion, to refuse a cigar, when Mr. Mitchell sternly interposed, and explained the situation.  He was offering to treat me, it appeared; whenever an American bar-keeper proposes anything, it must be borne in mind that he is offering to treat; and if I did not want a drink, I must at least take the cigar.  I took it bashfully, feeling I had begun my American career on the wrong foot.  I did not enjoy that cigar; but this may have been from a variety of reasons, even the best cigar often failing to please if you smoke three-quarters of it in a drenching rain.

For many years America was to me a sort of promised land; “westward the march of empire holds its way”; the race is for the moment to the young; what has been and what is we imperfectly and obscurely know; what is to be yet lies beyond the flight of our imaginations.  Greece, Rome, and Judæa are gone by for ever, leaving to generations the legacy of their accomplished work; China still endures, an old-inhabited house in the brand-new city of nations; England has already declined, since she has lost the States; and to these States, therefore, yet undeveloped, full of dark possibilities, and grown, like another Eve, from one rib out of the side of their own old land, the minds of young men in England turn naturally at a certain hopeful period of their age.  It will be hard for an American to understand the spirit.  But let him imagine a young man, who shall have grown up in an old and rigid circle, following bygone fashions and taught to distrust his own fresh instincts, and who now suddenly hears of a family of cousins, all about his own age, who keep house together by themselves and live far from restraint and tradition; let him imagine this, and he will have some imperfect notion of the sentiment with which spirited English youths turn to the thought of the American Republic.  It seems to them as if, out west, the war of life was still conducted in the open air, and on free barbaric terms; as if it had not yet been narrowed into parlours, nor begun to be conducted, like some unjust and dreary arbitration, by compromise, costume, forms of procedure, and sad, senseless self-denial.  Which of these two he prefers, a man with any youth still left in him will decide rightly for himself.  He would rather be houseless than denied a pass-key; rather go without food than partake of a stalled ox in stiff, respectable society; rather be shot out of hand than direct his life according to the dictates of the world.

He knows or thinks nothing of the Maine Laws, the Puritan sourness, the fierce, sordid appetite for dollars, or the dreary existence of country towns.  A few wild story-books which delighted his childhood form the imaginative basis of his picture of America.  In course of time, there is added to this a great crowd of stimulating details ­vast cities that grow up as by enchantment; the birds, that have gone south in autumn, returning with the spring to find thousands camped upon their marshes, and the lamps burning far and near along populous streets; forests that disappear like snow; countries larger than Britain that are cleared and settled, one man running forth with his household gods before another, while the bear and the Indian are yet scarce aware of their approach; oil that gushes from the earth; gold that is washed or quarried in the brooks or glens of the Sierras; and all that bustle, courage, action, and constant kaleidoscopic change that Walt Whitman has seized and set forth in his vigorous, cheerful, and loquacious verses.

Here I was at last in America, and was soon out upon New York streets, spying for things foreign.  The place had to me an air of Liverpool; but such was the rain that not Paradise itself would have looked inviting.  We were, a party of four, under two umbrellas; Jones and I and two Scots lads, recent immigrants, and not indisposed to welcome a compatriot.  They had been six weeks in New York, and neither of them had yet found a single job or earned a single halfpenny.  Up to the present they were exactly out of pocket by the amount of the fare.

The lads soon left us.  Now I had sworn by all my gods to have such a dinner as would rouse the dead; there was scarce any expense at which I should have hesitated; the devil was in it but Jones and I should dine like heathen emperors.  I set to work, asking after a restaurant; and I chose the wealthiest and most gastronomical-looking passers-by to ask from.  Yet, although I had told them I was willing to pay anything in reason, one and all sent me off to cheap, fixed-price houses, where I would not have eaten that night for the cost of twenty dinners.  I do not know if this were characteristic of New York, or whether it was only Jones and I who looked un-dinerly and discouraged enterprising suggestions.  But at length, by our own sagacity, we found a French restaurant, where there was a French waiter, some fair French cooking, some so-called French wine, and French coffee to conclude the whole.  I never entered into the feelings of Jack on land so completely as when I tasted that coffee.

I suppose we had one of the “private rooms for families” at Reunion House.  It was very small; furnished with a bed, a chair, and some clothes-pegs; and it derived all that was necessary for the life of the human animal through two borrowed lights; one, looking into the passage, and the second opening, without sash, into another apartment, where three men fitfully snored, or, in intervals of wakefulness, drearily mumbled to each other all night long.  It will be observed that this was almost exactly the disposition of the room in M’Naughten’s story.  Jones had the bed; I pitched my camp upon the floor; he did not sleep until near morning, and I, for my part, never closed an eye.

At sunrise I heard a cannon fired; and shortly afterwards the men in the next room gave over snoring for good, and began to rustle over their toilettes.  The sound of their voices as they talked was low and moaning, like that of people watching by the sick.  Jones, who had at last begun to doze, tumbled and murmured, and every now and then opened unconscious eyes upon me where I lay.  I found myself growing eerier and eerier, for I dare say I was a little fevered by my restless night, and hurried to dress and get downstairs.

You had to pass through the rain, which still fell thick and resonant, to reach a lavatory on the other side of the court.  There were three basin-stands, and a few crumpled towels and pieces of wet soap, white and slippery like fish; nor should I forget a looking-glass and a pair of questionable combs.  Another Scots lad was here, scrubbing his face with a good will.  He had been three months in New York and had not yet found a single job nor earned a single halfpenny.  Up to the present, he also was exactly out of pocket by the amount of the fare.  I began to grow sick at heart for my fellow-emigrants.

Of my nightmare wanderings in New York I spare to tell.  I had a thousand and one things to do; only the day to do them in, and a journey across the continent before me in the evening.  It rained with patient fury; every now and then I had to get under cover for a while in order, so to speak, to give my mackintosh a rest; for under this continued drenching it began to grow damp on the inside.  I went to banks, post-offices, railway-offices, restaurants, publishers, booksellers, money-changers, and wherever I went a pool would gather about my feet, and those who were careful of their floors would look on with an unfriendly eye.  Wherever I went, too, the same traits struck me:  the people were all surprisingly rude and surprisingly kind.  The money-changer cross-questioned me like a French commissary, asking my age, my business, my average income, and my destination, beating down my attempts at evasion, and receiving my answer in silence; and yet when all was over, he shook hands with me up to the elbows, and sent his lad nearly a quarter of a mile in the rain to get me books at a reduction.  Again, in a very large publishing and bookselling establishment, a man, who seemed to be the manager, received me as I had certainly never before been received in any human shop, indicated squarely that he put no faith in my honesty, and refused to look up the names of books or give me the slightest help or information, on the ground, like the steward, that it was none of his business.  I lost my temper at last, said I was a stranger in America and not learned in their etiquette; but I would assure him, if he went to any bookseller in England, of more handsome usage.  The boast was perhaps exaggerated; but like many a long shot, it struck the gold.  The manager passed at once from one extreme to the other; I may say that from that moment he loaded me with kindness; he gave me all sorts of good advice, wrote me down addresses and came bareheaded into the rain to point me out a restaurant, where I might lunch, nor even then did he seem to think that he had done enough.  These are (it is as well to be bold in statement) the manners of America.  It is this same opposition that has most struck me in people of almost all classes and from east to west.  By the time a man had about strung me up to be the death of him by his insulting behaviour, he himself would be just upon the point of melting into confidence and serviceable attentions.  Yet I suspect, although I have met with the like in so many parts, that this must be the character of some particular state or group of states; for in America, and this again in all classes, you will find some of the softest-mannered gentlemen in the world.

I was so wet when I got back to Mitchell’s towards the evening, that I had simply to divest myself of my shoes, socks, and trousers, and leave them behind for the benefit of New York city.  No fire could have dried them ere I had to start; and to pack them in their present condition was to spread ruin among my other possessions.  With a heavy heart I said farewell to them as they lay a pulp in the middle of a pool upon the floor of Mitchell’s kitchen.  I wonder if they are dry by now.  Mitchell hired a man to carry my baggage to the station, which was hard by, accompanied me thither himself, and recommended me to the particular attention of the officials.  No one could have been kinder.  Those who are out of pocket may go safely to Reunion House, where they will get decent meal and find an honest and obliging landlord.  I owed him this word of thanks, before I enter fairly on the second chapter of my emigrant experience.