"We should lose our gallantry altogether," said he, "if we found you could get along without us."
CHAPTER VII.
After some months—ceasing to think and speak of New York—our lives glided back into the old channel, where the placid stream of life had many isles of simple pleasures.
In those days we were not whirled over the iron track in a crowded car, with dirty, shrieking children and repulsive-looking people. We were not jammed against rough people, eating ill-smelling things out of ill-looking baskets and satchels, and throwing the remains of pies and sausages over the cushioned seats.
Oh, no! our journeys were performed in venerable carriages, and our lunch was enjoyed by some cool, shady spring where we stopped in a shady forest at mid-day.
"LUNCH BY SOME COOL, SHADY SPRING."—Page 66.
Our own ancient carriage my sister styled "the old ship of Zion," saying it had carried many thousands, and was likely to carry many more. And our driver we called the "Ancient Mariner." He presided on his seat—a lofty perch—in a very high hat and with great dignity. Having been driving the same carriage for nearly forty years—no driver being thought safe who had not been on the carriage box at least twenty years,—he regarded himself as an oracle, and, in consequence of his years and experience, kept us in much awe,—my sister and myself never daring to ask him to quicken or retard his pace or change the direction of his course, however much we desired it. We will ever remember this thraldom, and how we often wished one of the younger negroes could be allowed to take his place; but my grandmother said "it would wound his feelings, and, besides, be very unsafe" for us.