We were not a jolly party. It rained in torrents,
and our little driver perched upon the box in front smoked the most
infernal tobacco I ever smelt. Moreover, the horses were not lively
steeds. They were rather safe than otherwise, and not given to running
away. Although the driver addressed himself to their flanks, between
each puff of smoke, with a pointed stick, they didn't rear and plunge so
as to frighten the ladies, and that was a point gained, albeit we had
leisure to count the pickets in the fences as we dragged toward our
destination. One of our lady passengers came from Connecticut, and she
talked with a nutmeg dialect that made her garrulity oftentimes quite
spicy. We two sat back to back, and when the vehicle lurched heavily her
chignon took me "amidships" (if I may be permitted the expression) with
a concussion that felt like the impact of a muffled ball from a
six-pound field howitzer. "Goodness gracious, dew git eout of the way
and give me some room, man!" she would exclaim as our wagon plunged into
a three-foot "gore" and the coachee plied his pointed ramrod with
increased vigor to the attenuated haunches of the insensible beasts.
"My dear madam, you will perceive that I cannot 'git' any further
without climbing upon the back of my companion in front.
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