imsy subterfuges of modern times, boldly invited its
patrons to draw and mix at their own sweet will. "Plenty of drunkenness,
Uncle Joe, in those days?" we queried of an ancient boatman who was
dilating upon the good old times. "Bless your heart, no!" was the
answer. "Mr. Eddy didn't put up with no drunkards on the canal. They
could drink all night, sir, and be steady as an eight-day clock in the
morning."

When the feverish haste born of the locomotive and telegraph had not yet
infected society, a trip over the canal in the passenger-packet, the
"Governor Sullivan," must have been an enjoyable experience. Protected
by iron rules from the dangers of collision; undaunted by squalls of
wind, realizing, should the craft be capsized, that he had nothing to do
but walk ashore, the traveller, speeding along at the leisurely pace of
four miles per hour, had ample time for observation and reflection.
Seated, in summer, under a capacious awning, he traversed the valley of
the Mystic skirting the picturesque shores of Mystic pond. Instead of a
foreground of blurred landscape, vanishing, ghostlike, ere its features
could be fairly distinguished, soft bits of characteristic New England
scenery, clear cut as cameos, lingered caressingly on his vision; green
meadows, fields riotous with blossomed clover, fragrant orchards, and
quaint old farmhouses, with a background of low hills wooded to their
summits.

Passing under bridges, over rivers, between high embankments, and
through deep cuttings, floated up hill by a series of locks, he
marvelled at this triumph of engineering, and, if he were a director,
pictured the manufactories that were to spring up along this great
thoroughfare, swelling its revenues for all time.

The tow-path of the canal was a famous promenade. Upon Sunday
afternoons, especially, numerous pedestrians from the dusty city
strolled along the canal for a breath of fresh air and a glimpse of the
open country, through the Royal estate in Medford, past the substantial
old-fashioned mansion-house of Peter C. Brooks, as far, perhaps, as the
Baldwin estate, and the birthplace of Count Rumford, in Woburn. "I love
that old tow-path," said Uncle Joe. "'Twas there I courted my wife; and
every time the boat went by she came tripping out to walk a piece with
me! Bless you, sir the horses knew her step, and it wan't so heavy,
nuther."

Meanwhile, under the direction of Caleb Eddy, who assumed the agency of
the corporation i