The second cabin usually holds only one class; the class which has succeeded. It contains a sprinkling of native Americans, teachers and preachers, whose modest savings are to be spread thinly over Europe; its usual occupants are foreigners, who after a longer or shorter sojourn, return for a visit to the cradle home. The Hoboken saloon-keeper who was escorted by the band to the dock, and in whose honour it played “Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein,” is a typical second class passenger on a German ship; and his like in large numbers come from Cincinnati, St. Louis, Milwaukee and other cities made famous by their output of sparkling lager.
I discovered on this journey more than thirty dispensers of drink who were at the bar from morning until midnight, and doing exactly as they like their customers to do by them; drinking and getting drunk. The Hoboken saloon-keeper bore the typical name of August, and every one of the ship’s crew down to the smallest scullion, knew this famous August and delighted to bask in the uncertainty of his sunshine and to be the beneficiary of his spasmodic generosity. He was drunk from the moment he came on board the steamer until he left it, and in his melancholy moments confided in me, telling me the story of his life and the magnitude of his fortune. He was born in Bremerhaven, the terminus of that great ferry which begins at Hoboken. He boasted the friendship of the Commodore of the German Lloyd fleet, with whom he had gone to school, and the smoking room steward was called to assert this fact. “Steward, you k-know me?” “Yes, you’re August.” “D-do you know about C-Captain Schmidt?” “Yes, you sailed under him to South Africa.” “N-no, you f-fool; I went to school with him,” and obediently the steward repeated: “Yes, you went to school with him.” He told me the secrets of the liquor business, the misfortunes which had overtaken his boy who is following in his father’s footsteps, and is travelling towards delirium tremens at even a faster rate than this robust, convivial sailor. I tried my arts on August, painting in wonderful colours the glories of the Mecca of his pilgrimage, that I might keep him from drinking himself to death with beer before he saw his Fatherland. And I succeeded; for when I saw August of Hoboken again, he was drinking whiskey.
