This practice of looking down into the steerage holds all the pleasures of a slumming expedition with none of its hazards of contamination; for the barriers which keep the classes apart on a modern ocean liner are as rigid as in the most stratified society, and nowhere else are they more artificial or more obtrusive. A matter of twenty dollars lifts a man into a cabin passenger or condemns him to the steerage; gives him the chance to be clean, to breathe pure air, to sleep on spotless linen and to be served courteously; or to be pushed into a dark hold where soap and water are luxuries, where bread is heavy and soggy, meat without savour and service without courtesy. The matter of twenty dollars makes one man a menace to be examined every day, driven up and down slippery stairs and exposed to the winds and waves; but makes of the other man a pet, to be coddled, fed on delicacies, guarded against draughts, lifted from deck to deck and nursed with gentle care.
The average steerage passenger is not envious. His position is part of his lot in life; the ship is just like Russia, Austria, Poland or Italy. The cabin passengers are the lords and ladies, the sailors and officers are the police and the army, while the captain is the king or czar. So they are merry when the sun shines and the porpoises roll, when far away a sail shines white in the sunlight or the trailing smoke of a steamer tells of other wanderers over the deep.
“Here, Slovaks, bestir yourselves; let’s sing the song of the ‘Little red pocket-book’ or ‘The gardener’s wife who cried.’ ‘Too sad?’ you say? Then let’s sing about the ‘Red beer and the white cakes.’” So they sing:
“Brothers, brothers, who’ll drink the beer, Brothers, brothers, when we are not here? Our children they will drink it then When we are no more living men. Beer, beer, in glass or can, Always, always finds its man.”
Other Slavs from Southern mountains, sing their stirring war song:
“Out there, out there beyond the mountains, Where tramps the foaming steed of war, Old Jugo calls his sons afar; To aid! To aid! in my old age Defend me from the foeman’s rage.
“Out there, out there beyond the mountains My children follow one and all, Where Nikita your Prince doth call; And steep anew in Turkish gore The sword Czar Dushan flashed of yore, Out there, out there beyond the mountains.”