“That is just what I don’t like,” said he, “to see a woman in a crowd of strangers needing no ‘special protector.’”
“This dependence upon your sex,” we replied, “keeps you so vain.”
“We would 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.
We were, in those days, not “whirled with glowing wheel over the iron track in a crowded car,” with dirty, shrieking children and repulsive-looking people—on their way to the small pox hospital, for all we knew. We were not jammed against rough, dreadful-looking people, eating dreadful smelling things, out of dreadful-looking baskets and satchels, and throwing the remains of dreadful 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 some shady forest at midday.
Our own venerable 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 high 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—considered himself 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 the road, 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.