FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE.
The same gratifying progress and improvement noticed in the wit of women
of other lands is seen in studying the literary annals of our own
countrywomen.
Think of Anne Bradstreet, Mercy Warren, and Tabitha Tenney, all extolled
to the skies by their contemporaries.
* * * * *
Mercy Warren was a satirist quite in the strain of Juvenal, but in
cumbrous, artificial fashion.
Hon. John Winthrop consulted her on the proposed suspension of trade
with England in all but the _necessaries_ of life, and she playfully
gives a list of articles that would be included in that word:
"An inventory clear
Of all she needs Lamira offers here;
Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown,
When she lays by the rich embroidered gown,
And modestly compounds for just enough,
Perhaps some dozens of mere flighty stuff;
With lawns and lute strings, blonde and Mechlin laces,
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases;
Gay cloaks and hat, of every shape and size,
Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes,
With ruffles stamped and aprons of tambour,
Tippets and handkerchiefs, at least threescore;
With finest muslins that fair India boasts,
And the choice herbage from Chinesian coasts;
Add feathers, furs, rich satin, and ducapes,
And head-dresses in pyramidal shapes;
Sideboards of plate and porcelain profuse,
With fifty dittoes that the ladies use.
So weak Lamira and her wants so few
Who can refuse? they're but the sex's due."
* * * * *
Mrs. Sigourney, voluminous and mediocre, is amusing because so
absolutely destitute of humor, and her style, a feminine _Johnsonese_,
is absurdly hifalutin and strained.
This is the way in which she alludes to green apples:
"From the time of their first taking on orbicular shape, and when it
might be supposed their hardness and acidity would repulse all save
elephantine tusks and ostrich stomachs, they were the prey of roaming
children."
And in her poem "To a Shred of Linen":
"Methinks I scan
Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case."
She preserved, however, a long list of the various solicitations sent
her to furnish poems for special occasions, and I think this shows that
she possessed a sense of humor. Let me quote a few:
"Some verses were desired as an elegy on a pet canary accidentally
drowned in a barrel of swine's food.
"A poem requested on the dog-star Sirius.
"To write an ode for the wedding of people in Maine, of whom I had never
heard.
"To punctuate a three-volume novel for an author who complained that the
work of punctuating always brought on a pain in the small of his back.
"Asked to assist a servant-man not very well able to read in getting his
Sunday-school lessons, and to write out all the answers for him clear
through the book--to save his time.
"A lady whose husband expects to be absent on a journey for a month or
two wishes I would write a poem to testify her joy at his return.
"An elegy on a young man, one of the nine children of a judge of
probate."
* * * * *
Miss Sedgwick, in her letters, occasionally showed a keen sense of
humor, as, when speaking of a certain novel, she said:
"There is too much force for the subject. It is as if a railroad should
be built and a locomotive started to transport skeletons, specimens, and
one bird of Paradise."
* * * * *
Mrs. Caroline Gilman, born in 1794, and still living, author of
"Recollections of a Southern Matron," etc., will be represented by one
playful poem, which has a veritable New England flavor:
JOSHUA'S COURTSHIP.
A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.
Stout Joshua was a farmer's son,
And a pondering he sat
One night when the fagots crackling burned,
And purred the tabby cat.
Joshua was a well-grown youth,
As one might plainly see
By the sleeves that vainly tried to reach
His hands upon his knee.
His splay-feet stood all parrot-toed
In cowhide shoes arrayed,
And his hair seemed cut across his brow
By rule and plummet laid.
And what was Joshua pondering on,
With his widely staring eyes,
And his nostrils opening sensibly
To ease his frequent sighs?
Not often will a lover's lips
The tender secret tell,
But out he spoke before he thought,
"My gracious! Nancy Bell!"
His mother at her spinning-wheel,
Good woman, stood and spun,
"And what," says she, "is come o'er you,
Is't _airnest_ or is't fun?"
Then Joshua gave a cunning look,
Half bashful and half sporting,
"Now what did father do," says he,
"When first he came a courting?"
"Why, Josh, the first thing that he did,"
With a knowing wink, said she,
"He dressed up of a Sunday night,
And _cast sheep's eyes_ at me."
Josh said no more, but straight went out
And sought a butcher's pen,
Where twelve fat sheep, for market bound,
Had lately slaughtered been.
He bargained with a lover's zeal,
Obtained the wished-for prize,
And filled his pockets fore and aft
With twice twelve bloody eyes.
The next night was the happy time
When all New England sparks,
Drest in their best, go out to court,
As spruce and gay as larks.
When floors are nicely sanded o'er,
When tins and pewter shine,
And milk-pans by the kitchen wall
Display their dainty line;
While the new ribbon decks the waist
Of many a waiting lass,
Who steals a conscious look of pride
Toward her answering glass.
In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;
Of Joshua thought not she,
But of a hearty sailor lad
Across the distant sea.
Her arm upon the table rests,
Her hand supports her head,
When Joshua enters with a scrape,
And somewhat bashful tread.
No word he spake, but down he sat,
And heaved a doleful sigh,
Then at the table took his aim
And rolled a glassy eye.
Another and another flew,
With quick and strong rebound,
They tumbled in poor Nancy's lap,
They fell upon the ground.
While Joshua smirked, and sighed, and smiled
Between each tender aim,
And still the cold and bloody balls
In frightful quickness came.
Until poor Nancy flew with screams,
To shun the amorous sport,
And Joshua found to _cast sheep's eyes_
Was not the way to court.
* * * * *
"Fanny Forrester" and "Fanny Fern" both delighted the public with
individual styles of writing, vastly successful when a new thing.
When wanting a new dress and bonnet, as every woman will in the spring
(or any time), Fanny Forrester wrote to Willis, of the _New Mirror_, an
appeal which he called "very clever, adroit, and fanciful."
"You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this season.
_Such_ beautiful things! Well, you know (no, you don't know
that, but you can guess) what a delightful thing it would be to
appear in one of those charming, head-adorning,
complexion-softening, hard-feature-subduing Neapolitans, with a
little gossamer veil dropping daintily on the shoulder of one of
those exquisite _balzarines_, to be seen any day at Stewart's
and elsewhere. Well, you know (this you _must_ know) that
shopkeepers have the impertinence to demand a trifling exchange
for these things, even of a lady; and also that some people have
a remarkably small purse, and a remarkably small portion of the
yellow "root" in that. And now, to bring the matter home, I am
one of that class. I have the most beautiful little purse in the
world, but it is only kept for show. I even find myself under
the necessity of counterfeiting--that is, filling the void with
tissue-paper in lieu of bank-notes, preparatory to a shopping
expedition. Well, now to the point. As Bel and I snuggled down
on the sofa this morning to read the _New Mirror_ (by the way,
Cousin Bel is never obliged to put tissue-paper in her purse),
it struck us that you would be a friend in need, and give good
counsel in this emergency. Bel, however, insisted on my not
telling what I wanted the money for. She even thought that I had
better intimate orphanage, extreme suffering from the bursting
of some speculative bubble, illness, etc.; but did I not know
you better? Have I read the _New Mirror_ so much (to say nothing
of the graceful things coined under a bridge, and a thousand
other pages flung from the inner heart) and not learned who has
an eye for everything pretty? Not so stupid, Cousin Bel, no,
no!...
"And to the point. Maybe you of the _New Mirror_ PAY for
acceptable articles, maybe not. _Comprenez vous?_ Oh, I do hope
that beautiful _balzarine_ like Bel's will not be gone before
another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the next
_Mirror_; but pray, my dear Editor, let it be done very
cautiously, for Bel would pout all day if she should know what I
have written.
"Till Saturday, your anxiously-waiting friend,
"FANNY FORRESTER."
Such a note received by an editor of this generation would promptly fall
into the waste-basket. But Willis was captivated, and answered:
"Well, we give in! On _condition_ that you are under twenty-five and
that you will wear a rose (recognizably) in your bodice the first time
you appear in Broadway with the hat and _balzarine_, we will pay the
bills. Write us thereafter a sketch of Bel and yourself as cleverly done
as this letter, and you may 'snuggle' down on the sofa and consider us
paid, and the public charmed with you."
This style of ingratiating one's self with an editor is as much a bygone
as an alliterative pen-name.
* * * * *
Fanny Fern (Sarah Willis Parton) also established a style of her own--"a
new kind of composition; short, pointed paragraphs, without beginning
and without end--one clear, ringing note, and then silence."
Her talent for humorous composition showed itself in her essays at
school. I'll give a bit from her "Suggestions on Arithmetic after
Cramming for an Examination":
"Every incident, every object of sight seemed to produce an arithmetical
result. I once saw a poor wretch evidently intoxicated; thought I, 'That
man has overcome three scruples, to say the least, for three scruples
make one dram.' Even the Sabbath was no day of rest for me--the psalms,
prayers, and sermons were all translated by me into the language of
arithmetic. A good man spoke very feelingly upon the manner in which our
cares and perplexities were multiplied by riches. Muttered I: 'That,
sir, depends upon whether the multiplier is a fraction or a whole
number; for if it be a fraction, it makes the product less.' And when
another, lamenting the various divisions of the Church, pathetically
exclaimed: 'And how shall we unite these several denominations in one?'
"'Why, reduce them to a common denominator,' exclaimed I, half aloud,
wondering at his ignorance.
"And when an admiring swain protested his warm 'interest,' he brought
only one word that chimed with my train of thought.
"'Interest?' exclaimed I, starting from my reverie. 'What per cent,
sir?'
"'Ma'am?' exclaimed my attendant, in the greatest possible amazement.
"'How much per cent, sir?' said I, repeating my question.
"His reply was lost on my ear save: 'Madam, at any rate do not trifle
with my feelings.'
"'At any rate, did you say? Then take six per cent; that is the easiest
to calculate.'"
Her style, too, has gone out of fashion; but in its day it was thought
very amusing.
* * * * *
Mrs. Stowe needs no introduction, and she is another of those from whom
we quote little, because she could contribute so much, and one does not
know where to choose. Her "Sam Lawson" is, perhaps, the most familiar of
her odd characters and talkers.
SAM LAWSON'S SAYINGS.
"Well, Sam, what did you think of the sermon?" said Uncle Bill.
"Well," said Sam, leaning over the fire with his long, bony hands
alternately raised to catch the warmth, and then dropped with an utter
laxness when the warmth became too pronounced, "Parson Simpson's a smart
man; but I tell ye, it's kind o' discouragin'. Why, he said our state
and condition by natur war just like this: We war clear down in a well
fifty feet deep, and the sides all round nothin' but glare ice; but we
war under immediate obligations to get out, 'cause we war free,
voluntary agents. But nobody ever had got out, and nobody would, unless
the Lord reached down and took 'em. And whether he would or not nobody
could tell; it was all sovereignty. He said there warn't one in a
hundred, not one in a thousand, not one in ten thousand, that would be
saved. 'Lordy massy,' says I to myself, 'ef that's so they're any of 'em
welcome to my chance.' And so I kind o' ris up and come out, 'cause I'd
got a pretty long walk home, and I wanted to go round by South Pond and
inquire about Aunt Sally Morse's toothache."...
"This 'ere Miss Sphyxy Smith's a rich old gal, and 'mazin' smart to
work," he began. "Tell you, she holds all she gets. Old Sol, he told me
a story 'bout her that was a pretty good un."
"What was it?" said my grandmother.
"Wal, ye see, you 'member old Parson Jeduthun Kendall that lives up in
Stonytown; he lost his wife a year ago last Thanksgivin', and he thought
'twar about time he hed another; so he comes down and consults our
Parson Lothrop. Says he: 'I want a good, smart, neat, economical woman,
with a good property. I don't care nothin' about her bein' handsome. In
fact, I ain't particular about anything else,' says he. Wal, Parson
Lothrop, says he: 'I think, if that's the case, I know jest the woman to
suit ye. She owns a clear, handsome property, and she's neat and
economical; but she's no beauty!' 'Oh, beauty is nothin' to me,' says
Parson Kendall; and so he took the direction. Wal, one day he hitched up
his old one-hoss shay, and kind o' brushed up, and started off
a-courtin'. Wal, the parson come to the house, and he war tickled to
pieces with the looks o' things outside, 'cause the house is all well
shingled and painted, and there ain't a picket loose nor a nail wantin'
nowhere.
"'This 'ere's the woman for me,' says Parson Kendall. So he goes up and
raps hard on the front door with his whip-handle. Wal, you see, Miss
Sphyxy she war jest goin' out to help get in her hay. She had on a pair
o' clompin' cowhide boots, and a pitchfork in her hand, jest goin' out,
when she heard the rap. So she come jest as she was to the front door.
Now, you know Parson Kendall's a little midget of a man, but he stood
there on the step kind o' smilin' and genteel, lickin' his lips and
lookin' _so_ agreeable! Wal, the front door kind o' stuck--front doors
generally do, ye know, 'cause they ain't opened very often--and Miss
Sphyxy she had to pull and haul and put to all her strength, and finally
it come open with a bang, and she 'peared to the parson, pitchfork and
all, sort o' frownin' like.
"'What do you want?' says she; for, you see, Miss Sphyxy ain't no ways
tender to the men.
"'I want to see Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says he, very civil, thinking she
war the hired gal.
"'I'm Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says she. 'What do you want o' me?'
"Parson Kendall he jest took one good look on her, from top to toe.
'NOTHIN',' says he, and turned right round and went down the steps like
lightnin'."
* * * * *
Years ago Mrs. Stowe published some capital stories of New England life,
which were collected in a little volume called "The Mayflower," a book
which is now seldom seen, and almost unknown to the present generation.
From this I take her "Night in a Canal-Boat." Extremely effective when
read with enthusiasm and proper variety of tone. I quote it as a boon
for the boys and girls who are often looking for something "funny" to
read aloud.
THE CANAL-BOAT.
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Of all the ways of travelling which obtain among our locomotive nation,
this said vehicle, the canal-boat, is the most absolutely prosaic and
inglorious. There is something picturesque, nay, almost sublime, in the
lordly march of your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go take your stand
on some overhanging bluff, where the blue Ohio winds its thread of
silver, or the sturdy Mississippi tears its path through unbroken
forests, and it will do your heart good to see the gallant boat walking
the waters with unbroken and powerful tread, and, like some fabled
monster of the wave, breathing fire and making the shores resound with
its deep respirations. Then there is something mysterious--even
awful--in the power of steam. See it curling up against a blue sky some
rosy morning, graceful, floating, intangible, and to all appearance the
softest and gentlest of all spiritual things, and then think that it is
this fairy spirit that keeps all the world alive and hot with motion;
think how excellent a servant it is, doing all sorts of gigantic works,
like the genii of old; and yet, if you let slip the talisman only for a
moment, what terrible advantage it will take of you! and you will
confess that steam has some claims both to the beautiful and the
terrible! For our own part, when we are down among the machinery of a
steamboat in full play, we conduct ourselves very reverently, for we
consider it as a very serious neighborhood, and every time the steam
whizzes with such red-hot determination from the escape-valve, we start
as if some of the spirits were after us. But in a canal-boat there is no
power, no mystery, no danger; one cannot blow up, one cannot be
drowned--unless by some special effort; one sees clearly all there is in
the case--a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water--and that is all.
Did you ever try it, reader? If not, take an imaginary trip with us,
just for experiment. "There's the boat!" exclaims a passenger in the
omnibus, as we are rolling down from the Pittsburg Mansion House to the
canal. "Where?" exclaim a dozen of voices, and forthwith a dozen heads
go out of the window. "Why, down there, under that bridge; don't you see
those lights?" "What, that little thing!" exclaims an inexperienced
traveller; "dear me! we can't half of us get into it!" "We! indeed,"
says some old hand in the business; "I think you'll find it will hold us
and a dozen more loads like us." "Impossible!" say some. "You'll see,"
say the initiated; and as soon as you get out you _do_ see, and hear,
too, what seems like a general breaking loose from the Tower of Babel,
amid a perfect hail-storm of trunks, boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and
every describable and indescribable form of what a Westerner calls
"plunder."
"That's my trunk!" barks out a big, round man. "That's my bandbox!"
screams a heart-stricken old lady, in terror for her immaculate Sunday
caps. "Where's my little red box? I had two carpet-bags and a--My trunk
had a scarle--Halloo! where are you going with that portmanteau?
Husband! Husband! do see after the large basket and the little
hair-trunk--Oh, and the baby's little chair!" "Go below, go below, for
mercy's sake, my dear; I'll see to the baggage." At last the feminine
part of creation, perceiving that, in this particular instance, they
gain nothing by public speaking, are content to be led quietly under
hatches; and amusing is the look of dismay which each new-comer gives to
the confined quarters that present themselves. Those who were so
ignorant of the power of compression as to suppose the boat scarce large
enough to contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, a respectable
colony of old ladies, babies, mothers, big baskets, and carpet-bags
already established. "Mercy on us!" says one, after surveying the little
room, about ten feet long and six feet high, "where are we all to sleep
to-night?" "Oh, me, what a sight of children!" says a young lady, in a
despairing tone. "Pooh!" says an initiated traveller, "children! scarce
any here; let's see: one; the woman in the corner, two; that child with
the bread and butter, three; and then there's that other woman with two.
Really, it's quite moderate for a canal-boat. However, we can't tell
till they have all come."
"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 tea-cup, 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
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!" 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.
"What's that! what's that!" flies from mouth to mouth; and forthwith
they proceed to awaken their respective relations. "Mother! Aunt Hannah!
do wake up; what is this awful noise?" "Oh, only a lock." "Pray, be
still," groan out the sleepy members from below.
"A lock!" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on the alert for
information; "and what _is_ a lock, pray?"
"Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures. Do lie down and go
to sleep."
"But say, there ain't any _danger_ in a lock, is there?" respond the
querists. "Danger!" exclaims a deaf old lady, poking up her head.
"What's the matter? There hain't nothing burst, has there?" "No, no,
no!" exclaim the provoked and despairing opposition party, who find that
there is no such thing as going to sleep till they have made the old
lady below and the young ladies above understand exactly the philosophy
of a lock. After a while the conversation again subsides; again all is
still; you hear only the trampling of horses and the rippling of the
rope in the water, and sleep again is stealing over you. You doze, you
dream, and all of a sudden you are startled by a cry, "Chambermaid! wake
up the lady that wants to be set ashore." Up jumps chambermaid, and up
jump the lady and two children, and forthwith form a committee of
inquiry as to ways and means. "Where's my bonnet?" says the lady, half
awake and fumbling among the various articles of that name. "I thought I
hung it up behind the door." "Can't you find it?" says the poor
chambermaid, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Oh, yes, here it is," says
the lady; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the shoes, receive
each a separate discussion. At last all seems ready, and they begin to
move off, when lo! Peter's cap is missing. "Now, where can it be?"
soliloquizes the lady. "I put it right here by the table-leg; maybe it
got into some of the berths." At this suggestion the chambermaid takes
the candle, and goes round deliberately to every berth, poking the light
directly in the face of every sleeper. "Here it is," she exclaims,
pulling at something black under one pillow. "No, indeed, those are my
shoes," says the vexed sleeper. "Maybe it's here," she resumes, darting
upon something dark in another berth. "No, that's my bag," responds the
occupant. The chambermaid then proceeds to turn over all the children on
the floor, to see if it is not under them. In the course of which
process they are most agreeably waked up and enlivened; and when
everybody is broad awake, and most uncharitably wishing the cap, and
Peter too, at the bottom of the canal, the good lady exclaims, "Well, if
this isn't lucky; here I had it safe in my basket all the time!" And she
departed amid the--what shall I say? execrations!--of the whole company,
ladies though they be.
Well, after this follows a hushing up and wiping up among the juvenile
population, and a series of remarks commences from the various shelves
of a very edifying and instructive tendency. One says that the woman did
not seem to know where anything was; another says that she has waked
them all up; a third adds that she has waked up all the children, too;
and the elderly ladies make moral reflections on the importance of
putting your things where you can find them--being always ready; which
observations, being delivered in an exceedingly doleful and drowsy tone,
form a sort of sub-bass to the lively chattering of the upper-shelfites,
who declare that they feel quite awake--that they don't think they shall
go to sleep again to-night, and discourse over everything in creation,
until you heartily wish you were enough related to them to give them a
scolding.
At last, however, voice after voice drops off; you fall into a most
refreshing slumber; it seems to you that you sleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the chambermaid pulls you by the sleeve. "Will you please to
get up, ma'am? We want to make the beds." You start and stare. Sure
enough, the night is gone. So much for sleeping on board canal-boats!
Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the morning toilet in
a place where every lady realizes most forcibly the condition of the old
woman who lived under a broom: "All she wanted was elbow-room." Let us
not tell how one glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces, one ewer
and vase for thirty lavations; and--tell it not in Gath--one towel for a
company! Let us not intimate how ladies' shoes have, in a night,
clandestinely slid into the gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's boots
elbowed, or, rather, _toed_ their way among ladies' gear, nor recite the
exclamations after runaway property that are heard.
"I can't find nothing of Johnny's shoe!" "Here's a shoe in the
water-pitcher--is this it?" "My side-combs are gone!" exclaims a nymph
with dishevelled curls. "Massy! do look at my bonnet!" exclaims an old
lady, elevating an article crushed into as many angles as there are
pieces in a mince-pie. "I never did sleep _so much together_ in my
life," echoes a poor little French lady, whom despair has driven into
talking English.
But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our catalogue of
distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close with
advising all our friends, who intend to try this way of travelling for
_pleasure_, to take a good stock both of patience and clean towels with
them, for we think that they will find abundant need for both.