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!
The sun has set when we come thundering down into the pretty Catholic
village of Antigonish, - the most home-like place we have seen on the
island. The twin stone towers of the unfinished cathedral loom up
large in the fading light, and the bishop's palace on the hill - the
home of the Bishop of Arichat - appears to be an imposing white barn
with many staring windows. At Antigonish - with the emphasis on the
last syllable - let the reader know there is a most comfortable inn,
kept by a cheery landlady, where the stranger is served by the comely
handmaidens, her daughters, and feels that he has reached a home at
last. Here we wished to stay. Here we wished to end this weary
pilgrimage. Could Baddeck be as attractive as this peaceful valley?
Should we find any inn on Cape Breton like this one?
"Never was on Cape Breton," our driver had said; "hope I never shall
be. Heard enough about it. Taverns? You'll find 'em occupied."
"Fleas?
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