s
near, to act _his_ oft-repeated part, as President of the day. Oh,
gracious! 'tis a scene of enormous cry and scanty wool. It
mendicants description. . . . But the grand charm and scene of
a canal packet is in the evening. You go below, and there you
behold a hot and motley assemblage. A kind of stillness begins to
reign around. It seems as if a protracted meeting were about to
commence. Clergymen, capitalists, long-sided merchants, who have
come from far, green-horns, taking their first experience of the
wonders of the deep on the _canawl_, all these are huddled
together in wild and inexplicable confusion. By and by the captain
takes his seat, and the roll of berths is called. Then, what
confusion! Layer upon layer of humanity is suddenly shelved for
the night; and in the preparation, what a world of bustle is
required! Boots are released from a hundred feet, and their owners
deposit them wherever they can. There was one man, OLLAPOD beheld
him, who pulled off the boots of another person, thinking the
while--mistaken individual!--that he was disrobing his own
shrunken legs of their leathern integuments, so thick were the
limbs and feet that steamed and moved round about. Another
tourist, fat, oily and round who had bribed the steward for two
chairs placed by the side of his berth, whereon to rest his
abdomen, amused the assembly by calling out; 'Here, waiter! bring
me another pillow! I have got the ear-ache, and have put the first
one into my ear!' Thus wore the hours away. Sleep, you cannot.
Feeble moschetoes, residents in the boat, whose health suffers
from the noisome airs they are nightly compelled to breathe, do
their worst to annoy you; and then, Phoebus Apollo! how the
sleepers snore! There is every variety of this music, from the low
wheeze of the asthmatic, to the stentorian grunt of the corpulent
and profound. Nose after nose lifts up its tuneful oratory, until
the place is vocal. Some communicative free-thinkers talk in their
sleep, and altogether, they make a concerto and a diapason equal
to that which Milton speaks of, when through the sonorous organ
'from many a row of pipes, the sound-board breathes.' At last,
morning dawns; you ascend into pure air, with hair unkempt, body
and spirit unrefreshed, and show yourself to the people of some
populous town into w