probable mildness or severity of the
approaching winter— a dreaded season, when
canal-life becomes nothing but days and
nights of exposure to drifting sleet, keen
winds, and heavy snow, or cold, soaking
rain.

Not far from Braunston in Northamptonshire
(the head of the Grand Junction Canal),
we came upon a small boatman's village. It
was the only place we had seen on our
journey where the people on the land seemed
to belong to the people on the water; where
everybody knew everybody, and seemed glad
to see everybody, and where there was some
provision made for a boatman's requirements
— to say nothing of his hungry friends and
visitors.

This boatman's village consisted only of a
few houses, all crowded round a lock and a
bridge. There was a boatman's bootmaker's,
from the recesses of whose workshop came a
most deafening clinking of hammers closing
rivets up, showing clearly the metallic
character of the article produced. There was
a boatman's tailor's and hosier's, with many
pairs of the bright blue thick worsted
stockings shining through the small window,
and fustian trousers hanging up outside the
door, dancing in the slight breeze. Women
were leaning over garden-rails in little front
gardens on the towing-path, talking to boatmen;
while other women in barges were
coming out of cabin-doorways to join in the
conversation, followed by children, who appeared
one after the other, as the first got
out of the way of the second, and the second
of the third, like the figures that come
through an archway on the top of the automaton
toy-clocks. One precocious young
boatman, aged eight years, dressed in the
most approved style, with jacket-waistcoat,
trousers, and cap, was attending to a large
horse, and superintending the progress of his
father's barge through the lock-gates.

Inquiries were being made on land and
water respecting journeys, families, relations,
cargoes, provisions, and persons passed on
the road; while Captain Randle emerged
from the Stourport cabin, and asked two
women standing at the door of the tailor's
when he might expect the new plush waistcoat
they had got in hand. Close to the lock-
gates, was a long low-roofed tavern, grocer's,
and butcher's, all in one, kept by a female relation
of our commander. We left the barge in a
body along with the cheerful giant and two of
the butty-boat crew, to try the strength and
flavour of the tavern's best ale. We entered
a long room, with a very low ceiling, old
diamond-paned, leaden-framed windows, containing
seats, an enormous kitchen-range,
clean deal kitchen-tables, and a tall clock in
a mahogany case like a small wardrobe.
Through a door at the end was seen the
grocery department, communicating with,
and terminating in, the butcher's shop. This
passage formed such a tempting vista of food
that we could not delay a moment, and,
leaving the boatmen to drink their ale, we
rushed through, and immediately purchased
several pounds of beefsteak. We returned
to the Stourport, rich in the prospect of a
good supper (without bacon and eggs), and
were more contented than we had been for
some hours.

We glided on through more valleys, lighted
by a golden moon that shone brightly
upon the slopes of yellow corn. Captain
Randle took his place once more at the
tiller, still in his shirt sleeves, and we
observed an unusual glow upon his face,
and a strange jaunty appearance about his
cap. The straw-haired young man, in walking
to the other end of the boat, along the
tarpaulin's backbone— a task, at any time,
almost equal to tight-rope dancing— displayed
a little more hesitation than usual, and a
little less certainty of footing. It soon became
evident that the ale at the boatman's
village tavern, had caused Captain Randle
and his son to feel an agreeable elevation of
spirits— especially the captain.

"Take care, captain," I said; " take care,
or you'll fall into the canal."

The captain did not immediately reply;
but smiled gradually all over his face, closing
one eye, half closing the other, and still
swaying very loosely and easily to and fro.

"'Av' I made you coomfor'ble, Must'
Oll'?"

"You have behaved to us," I said, "like a
father." A remark in which Cuddy cordially
joined.

"Bless you, William," returned the captain,
"I'll do all I can fur you."

Captain Randle happened to direct his
attention at this moment to the moon
which shone full in his face, making it
glow like a large red apple. Some shadow
of an old song, containing a scrap of classical
learning, must have come across the poetical
side of the captain's character at that moment;
for he turned to me, jerking his head on one
side, and pointing to the great luminary over
his shoulder with a motion of his thumb, and
said in a tone of quiet admiration:

"Bright PhÅ“be!— Must' 'Oll'!— bright
Phœbe!"

After we had fully enjoyed this sudden
and unexpected outburst of the captain's poetical
fancy or memory, Cuddy suggested the
immediate preparation of supper; and expressed
a wish that it should consist of steak
and onions. This dish, coarse and vulgar as
it sounds, is a secret favourite of all men,
from peers to peasants, and derives an
additional charm from the fact, that according
to the settled rules of good society, it can
only be indulged in silent solitude; in inaccessible
garrets, hermits' caves, or on the middle
of Salisbury plain.

No sooner was Cuddy's wish made known,
than the captain resigned the tiller to his son,
and plunged into the small cabin to prepare a