The tariff varied greatly from year to year.  In 1827 the rate from Lowell to Boston was $2.00 the gross ton; but many articles were carried on much lower terms.

On account of liability of damage to the banks of the canal, all navigation ceased at dark; hence, at every lock, or series of locks, a tavern was established.  These were all owned by the corporation, and were often let to the lock-tender, who eked out his income by the accommodation of boatmen and horses.  The Bunker Hill Tavern, in Charlestown, situated so as to accommodate both county and canal travel, was leased, in 1830, for $350; in 1838, it let for $500.  The Horn Pond House, at Woburn, in 1838, was leased for $700.  In 1825, a two-story dwelling-house, 36 X 18, built at a cost of $1,400, for the accommodation of boatmen and raftsmen, at Charlestown, rented, with stable attached, for $140.  In all these cases, the real estate was supposed to pay ten per cent.

Some of these canal-taverns established a wide reputation for good cheer, and boatmen contrived to be overtaken by night in their vicinity.  Sometimes fifteen or twenty boats would be detained at one of these favorite resorts, and a jolly crowd fraternized in the primitive bar-room.  The temperance sentiment had not yet taken a firm hold in New England.  “Flip” was the high-toned beverage of those days; but “black-strap,” a compound of rum and molasses, sold at three cents a glass, was the particular “vanity” of the boatmen.  In the smaller taverns, a barrel of old Medford, surmounted by a pitcher of molasses, scorning the flimsy 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.