I conclude that the most delicate and important occupation in life is stage-driving.It would be easier to "run" the Treasury Department of the United States than a four-in-hand.I have a sense of the unimportance of everything else in comparison with this business in hand.And I think the driver shares that feeling.He is the autocrat of the situation.He is lord of all the humble passengers, and they feel their inferiority.They may have knowledge and skill in some things, but they are of no use here.At all the stables the driver is king; all the people on the route are deferential to him;they are happy if he will crack a joke with them, and take it as a favor if he gives them better than they send.And it is his joke that always raises the laugh, regardless of its quality.
We carry the royal mail, and as we go along drop little sealed canvas bags at way offices.The bags would not hold more than three pints of meal, and I can see that there is nothing in them.Yet somebody along here must be expecting a letter, or they would not keep up the mail facilities.At French River we change horses.There is a mill here, and there are half a dozen houses, and a cranky bridge, which the driver thinks will not tumble down this trip.The settlement may have seen better days, and will probably see worse.
I preferred to cross the long, shaky wooden bridge on foot, leaving the inside passengers to take the risk, and get the worth of their money; and while the horses were being put to, I walked on over the hill.And here I encountered a veritable foot-pad, with a club in his hand and a bundle on his shoulder, coming down the dusty road, with the wild-eyed aspect of one who travels into a far country in search of adventure.He seemed to be of a cheerful and sociable turn, and desired that I should linger and converse with him.But he was more meagerly supplied with the media of conversation than any person I ever met.His opening address was in a tongue that failed to convey to me the least idea.I replied in such language as I had with me, but it seemed to be equally lost upon him.We then fell back upon gestures and ejaculations, and by these I learned that he was a native of Cape Breton, but not an aborigine.By signs he asked me where I came from, and where I was going; and he was so much pleased with my destination, that he desired to know my name; and this I told him with all the injunction of secrecy I could convey;but he could no more pronounce it than I could speak his name.It occurred to me that perhaps he spoke a French patois, and I asked him; but he only shook his head.He would own neither to German nor Irish.The happy thought came to me of inquiring if he knew English.
But he shook his head again, and said,"No English, plenty garlic."This was entirely incomprehensible, for I knew that garlic is not a language, but a smell.But when he had repeated the word several times, I found that he meant Gaelic; and when we had come to this understanding, we cordially shook hands and willingly parted.One seldom encounters a wilder or more good-natured savage than this stalwart wanderer.And meeting him raised my hopes of Cape Breton.
We change horses again, for the last stage, at Marshy Hope.As we turn down the hill into this place of the mournful name, we dash past a procession of five country wagons, which makes way for us:
everything makes way for us; even death itself turns out for the stage with four horses.The second wagon carries a long box, which reveals to us the mournful errand of the caravan.We drive into the stable, and get down while the fresh horses are put to.The company's stables are all alike, and open at each end with great doors.The stable is the best house in the place; there are three or four houses besides, and one of them is white, and has vines growing over the front door, and hollyhocks by the front gate.Three or four women, and as many barelegged girls, have come out to look at the proces-sion, and we lounge towards the group.
"It had a winder in the top of it, and silver handles," says one.
"Well, I declare; and you could 'a looked right in?""If I'd been a mind to."
"Who has died?" I ask.
"It's old woman Larue; she lived on Gilead Hill, mostly alone.It's better for her.""Had she any friends?"
"One darter.They're takin' her over Eden way, to bury her where she come from.""Was she a good woman?" The traveler is naturally curious to know what sort of people die in Nova Scotia.
"Well, good enough.Both her husbands is dead."The gossips continued talking of the burying.Poor old woman Larue!
It was mournful enough to encounter you for the only time in this world in this plight, and to have this glimpse of your wretched life on lonesome Gilead Hill.What pleasure, I wonder, had she in her life, and what pleasure have any of these hard-favored women in this doleful region? It is pitiful to think of it.Doubtless, however, the region isn't doleful, and the sentimental traveler would not have felt it so if he had not encountered this funereal flitting.
But the horses are in.We mount to our places; the big doors swing open.
"Stand away," cries the driver.
The hostler lets go Kitty's bridle, the horses plunge forward, and we are off at a gallop, taking the opposite direction from that pursued by old woman Larue.
This last stage is eleven miles, through a pleasanter country, and we make it in a trifle over an hour, going at an exhilarating gait, that raises our spirits out of the Marshy Hope level.The perfection of travel is ten miles an hour, on top of a stagecoach; it is greater speed than forty by rail.It nurses one's pride to sit aloft, and rattle past the farmhouses, and give our dust to the cringing foot tramps.There is something royal in the swaying of the coach body, and an excitement in the patter of the horses' hoofs.And what an honor it must be to guide such a machine through a region of rustic admiration!