stewards and the under-stewards are German;
but there is no compatriotic feeling that links
them with their emigrant countrymen. The
great Teutonic mass that lounges, plays cards,
smokes, and does nothing, in the fore part of
the vessel, is not recognised as belonging to
any country whatever. Its position between
the old world and the new is that of the
converted Jew, compared by Sheridan to the blank
leaf between the Old and New Testaments. It
has been a caterpillar, and, by-and-by, if we are
not disappointed, it will become a respectable,
if not a magnificent, butterfly. But now it is
a grub, and is called "Steerage."

Every society has its nigger, though you may
not know where to find him. The nigger of
London, I should say, would be the Jeames of
the late Mr. Thackeray. If you walked arm
in arm down Pall Mall with an inebriated
member of the working class, well fortified with
mail of corduroy and pearl buttons, you might
set yourself right with your more credulous
friends by declaring that you were a very
advanced politician, and that your principles
caused you to fraternise with the artisan. But
if you selected as the partner of your promenade
one of those showy gentlemen, who look
so gorgeous with their plush breeches and
powdered heads, it is questionable whether you
could explain your position in a manner that
would satisfy either the lofty subscriber of the
nearest club-house, or the hard-working patron
of the nearest coffee-shop.

"Steerage" is the nigger of the Bremen
steam-ship. Keep above a certain level, and
you, passenger as you are, will find yourself in
a nice little republic, where the most ideal
liberty and equality prevail—a republic where
you may combine the easy habits of a court
under one of the Stuarts, with the stern
independence of a Pilgrim Father. But don't
fraternise with "Steerage." You are a
passenger, and not an emigrant. Nor must you
let your dictionary or your Whateley's Logic
lead you to a false conclusion. You may be
emigrating from England, or even from
Germany, and on this ground you may absurdly,
though speciously, conclude that you are an
emigrant. Nothing of the sort. You have your
state cabin down below, or, being of an economical
turn, you have your cabin on the upper
deck, and you dine in the saloon. Argal, you
are a "passenger" and not an emigrant.

Well do I recollect that, in the summer of
186—, when I crossed the Atlantic in a Bremen
steamer, there was a French lady on board
of by no means unprepossessing appearance,
whose graceful freedom of conduct and native
affability of manner would have made her the
belle of the assembly if she had confined the
exercise of those admirable qualities within
defined bounds. But in the largeness of her
heart she fraternised with "Steerage," and the
terrible fact was whispered about by one of the
stewards: himself a German. No sooner was
it generally known, than her powers of
fascination were gone, her charming little agaceries
were of no avail, and the passenger, differing in
caste from the emigrant, looked upon her with a
cold glazed eye.

I could compare our little republic on board
the good ship Odin, to that of mediæval Venice.
By a grand political operation, called the "Sealing
of the Council," the people of the Adriatic
state were reduced to a nullity, and the Grand
Council became the reservoir of political power,
whence flowed Doge, Council of Ten, Inquisition,
Ministry, and every other Venetian
institution. He who was lucky enough to have a
seat or an available claim to one in the Grand
Council at the time of the "sealing," had
secured to himself and family as good a social
position as that of any one else in the state.
The Councillor of Ten might be the stronger
for the time, but the Grand Councillor was a
possible Councillor of Ten.

Now, we passengers of the good ship Odin
were precisely in the condition of the members
of the Grand Council of Venice. The respective
prices we paid for our passage divided us
into first and second class; but no social
distinction was thereby created, and some of the
sternest oligarchs were to be found among the
second-class passengers. Perchance one or two
of our German fellow-councillors might himself
have been "Steerage" in his day; for, grand as
we were, the mark of nobility was not on all
our faces, nor should we have been utterly
amazed if we had learned that one of our most
aristocratic fellow-citizens had devoted himself
to commercial pursuits in one of the odoriferous
cellars of Dudley-street in dear old London.
Never mind. "Passenger" was not "Steerage"
now, and well we all knew it.

The arrangements of the vessel had not a
little to do with this perfect equality among the
passengers. Below the deck were the state
cabins occupied by those of the first class, who,
in strictness, had the sole right of entering the
handsome drawing-room by which these were
surrounded. On the deck was the dining
saloon, used by both classes alike, though at
different hours. Over the dining saloon, on
the upper deck, were the cabins of the second
class. Now the upper deck, being perfectly
uncovered, and therefore more abounding in
light and air than any other part of the vessel,
was such a desirable promenade, that, whenever
weather permitted, it was the favourite resort
of all the first-class passengers, many of whom
regretted that they had paid hard cash for a
dignity which they had no desire to assume.
The mid-ships and the walk in front of the
cabins on one side of the upper deck were thus
occupied by the second class, to whom they
belonged by right, and the first class, who
came to them by choice, and, save at night-
time or meal-time, the rest of the passenger-
part of the ship was deserted. Observe that
this place of reunion did not extend beyond
the mid-ships and the walk before the cabins on
one side. The cabins on the other side were
inhabited by a few of the "Steerage," who paid
a little more for extra comfort, and avoided the