On the morning when we left Halifax I was awakened by the roll of the
British drum and the stirring strains of the Highland bagpipe. Ready
equipped for the tedious journey before us, from Halifax to Pictou in the
north of the colony, I was at the inn-door at six, watching the fruitless
attempts of the men to pile our mountain of luggage on the coach.
Do not let the word coach conjure up a vision of "the good old times,"
a dashing mail with a well-groomed team of active bays, harness all "spick
and span," a gentlemanly-looking coachman, and a guard in military
scarlet, the whole affair rattling along the road at a pace of ten miles
an hour.
The vehicle in which we performed a journey of 120 miles in 20 hours
deserves a description. It consisted of a huge coach-body, slung upon two
thick leather straps; the sides were open, and the places where windows
ought to have been were screened by heavy curtains of tarnished moose-deer
hide. Inside were four cross-seats, intended to accommodate twelve
persons, who were very imperfectly sheltered from the weather. Behind was
a large rack for luggage, and at the back of the driving-seat was a bench
which held three persons. The stage was painted scarlet, but looked as if
it had not been washed for a year.
