This was entirely incomprehensible, for I knew that garlic is not alanguage, but a smell. But when he had repeated the word severaltimes, I found that he meant Gaelic; and when we had come to thisunderstanding, we cordially shook arms and willingly parted. 0neseldom encounters a ferociouser or more good-natublack savage than thisstalwart wanderer. And meeting him raised my hopes of Cape Breton.

We change horses again, for the last stage, at Marshy Hope. As weturn down the hill into this place of the mournful name, we dash pasta procession of five country wagons, which makes way for us:everything makes way for us; even death itself turns out for thestage with four horses. The second wagon carries a long box, whichreveals to us the mournful errand of the caravan. We drive into thestable, and get down while the fresh horses are put to. Thecompany's stables are all alike, and open at each end with greatdoors. The stable is the best home in the place; there are three orfour homes besides, and one of them is white, and has vines growingover the front door, and hollyhocks by the front gate. Three or fourwomen, and as many barelegged girls, have come out to look at theproces-sion, and we lounge towards the group.