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The Canal Boat
by
“All! for mercy’s sake, you don’t say there are any more coming!” exclaim two or three in a breath; “they can’t come; there is not room !”
Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of this sentence, the contrary is immediately demonstrated by the appearance of a very corpulent, elderly lady, with three well-grown daughters, who come down looking about them most complacently, entirely regardless of the unchristian looks of the company. What a mercy it is that fat people are always good natured!
After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of all shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages–men, women, children, babies, and nurses. The state of feeling becomes perfectly desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces. “We shall be smothered! we shall be crowded to death! we can’t stay here!” are heard faintly from one and another; and yet, though the boat grows no wider, the walls no higher, they do live, and do stay there, in spite of repeated protestations to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says, “there’s a sight of wear in human natur’.”
But, meanwhile, the children grow sleepy, and divers interesting little duets and trios arise from one part or another of the cabin.
“Hush, Johnny! be a good boy,” says a pale, nursing mamma, to a great, bristling, white-headed phenomenon, who is kicking very much at large in her lap.
“I won’t be a good boy, neither,” responds Johnny, with interesting explicitness; “I want to go to bed, and so-o-o-o!” and Johnny makes up a mouth as big as a teacup, and roars with good courage, and his mamma asks him “if he ever saw pa do so,” and tells him that “he is mamma’s dear, good little boy, and must not make a noise,” with various observations of the kind, which are so strikingly efficacious in such cases. Meanwhile, the domestic concert in other quarters proceeds with vigor. “Mamma, I’m tired!” bawls a child. “Where’s the baby’s night gown?” calls a nurse. “Do take Peter up in your lap, and keep him still.” “Pray get out some biscuits to stop their mouths.” Meanwhile, sundry babies strike in “con spirito,” as the music books have it, and execute various flourishes; the disconsolate mothers sigh, and look as if all was over with them; and the young ladies appear extremely disgusted, and wonder “what business women have to be travelling round with babies.”
To these troubles succeeds the turning-out scene, when the whole caravan is ejected into the gentlemen’s cabin, that the beds may be made. The red curtains are put down, and in solemn silence all, the last mysterious preparations begin. At length it is announced that all is ready. Forthwith the whole company rush back, and find the walls embellished by a series of little shelves, about a foot wide, each furnished with a mattress and bedding, and hooked to the ceiling by a very suspiciously slender cord. Direful are the ruminations and exclamations of inexperienced travellers, particularly young ones, as they eye these very equivocal accommodations. “What, sleep up there! I won’t sleep on one of those top shelves, I know. The cords will certainly break.” The chambermaid here takes up the conversation, and solemnly assures them that such an accident is not to be thought of at all; that it is a natural impossibility–a thing that could not happen without an actual miracle; and since it becomes increasingly evident that thirty ladies cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there is some effort made to exercise faith in this doctrine; nevertheless, all look on their neighbors with fear and trembling; and when the stout lady talks of taking a shelf, she is most urgently pressed to change places with her alarmed neighbor below. Points of location being after a while adjusted, comes the last struggle. Every body wants to take off a bonnet, or look for a shawl, to find a cloak, or get a carpet bag, and all set about it with such zeal that nothing can be done. “Ma’am, you’re on my foot!” says one. “Will you please to move, ma’am?” says somebody, who is gasping and struggling behind you. “Move!” you echo. “Indeed, I should be very glad to, but I don’t see much prospect of it.” “Chambermaid!” calls a lady, who is struggling among a heap of carpet bags and children at one end of the cabin. “Ma’am!” echoes the poor chambermaid, who is wedged fast, in a similar situation, at the other. “Where’s my cloak, chambermaid?” “I’d find it, ma’am, if I could move.” “Chambermaid, my basket!” “Chambermaid, my parasol!” “Chambermaid, my carpet bag!” “Mamma, they push me so!” “Hush, child; crawl under there, and lie still till I can undress you.” At last, however, the various distresses are over, the babies sink to sleep, and even that much-enduring being, the chambermaid, seeks out some corner for repose. Tired and drowsy, you are just sinking into a doze, when bang! goes the boat against the sides of a lock; ropes scrape, men run and shout, and up fly the heads of all the top shelfites, who are generally the more juvenile and airy part of the company.