domestic concert in other quarters proceeds with
vigor. "Mamma, I'm tired!" bawls a child. "Where's the baby's
nightgown?" 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 children."

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. Everybody 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!"