“M. Phillibert and the intendant were on bad terms, but, under the

system then existing, the merchant knew that it was in vain for him to

seek redress in the colony, and determining at some future period to

prefer his complaint in France, he contented himself with placing the

figure of a sleeping dog, in front of his house, with the following

lines beneath it, in allusion to his situation with his powerful enemy:

“Je suis un chien qui ronge l’os,

En le rongeant je prends mon repos—

Un terme viendra qui n’est pas venu

Que je mordrai qui m’aura mordu.”

“This allegorical language was, however, too plain for Mons. Bigot to

misunderstand it. A man so powerful easily found an instrument to avenge

the insult, and M. Phillibert received, as the reward of his verse, the

sword of an officer of the garrison through his back, when descending

the Lower Town Hill. The murderer was permitted to leave the colony

unmolested, and was transferred to a regiment stationed in the East

Indies. Thither he was pursued by a brother of the deceased, who had

first sought him in Canada, when he arrived here to settle his brother’s

affairs. The parties, it is related, met in the public street of

Pondicherry, drew their swords, and, after a severe conflict, the

assassin met a more honorable fate than his crime deserved, and died by

the hand of his antagonist.”

I know not that there are any other curiosities in Quebec really worth

mentioning, and I willingly turn to its natural attractions. The

fortress itself is undoubtedly one of, if not the most formidable on the

continent; but I fell in love with it on account of its _observatory_

features. To ramble over its commanding ramparts, without knowing, or

caring to know a solitary individual, has been to me an agreeable and

unique source of entertainment. At one time I leaned upon the

balustrade, and looked down upon the Lower Town. It was near the hour of

noon. Horses and carriages, men, women and children, were hurrying

through the narrow streets, and ships were in the docks discharging

their cargoes. I looked down upon all these things at a single glance,

and yet the only noise I heard was a hum of business. Even the loud

clear shout of the sailor, as he tugged away at the mast-head of his

ship, could hardly be heard stealing _upward_ on the air. Doves were

flying about, high above the roofs; but they were so far below my point

of vision, that I could not hear the beating of their wings.

But the finest prospect that I have enjoyed in this city was from the

summit of the Signal House, which looms above the citadel. I visited

this spot just as the sun was setting, and everything was enveloped in a

golden atmosphere. Beneath me lay the city, gradually lulling itself to

repose; on the west, far as the eye could reach, faded away the valley

of the upper St. Lawrence; towards the north, winding its way between

high and well-cultivated hills, was the river St. Charles; towards the

eastward, rolling onwards, in its sublimity like an ocean, across the

continent, was the flood of the lower St. Lawrence, whitened by more

than a hundred sails; and towards the south reposed a picturesque

country of hills and dales, beyond which I could just discern some of

the mountain peaks of my own dear “Father Land.” Strange and beautiful

beyond compare was the entire panorama, and how was its influence upon

me deepened, as a strain of martial music broke upon the silent air, and

then melted into my very heart! I knew not whence it came, or who were

the musicians, but I “blessed them unaware,” and as my vision again

wandered over the far-off hills, I was quite happy.

The population of Quebec is estimated at thirty thousand, and the

variety is as great as in Montreal. A large proportion of the people

whom you see parading the streets are soldiers, and chief among them I

would mention the Scotch Highlanders, who are a noble set of men, and

dress in handsome style.

Quebec, upon the whole, is a remarkable place, and well worth visiting.

The environs of the city are also interesting; and a ride to the Falls

of Montmorency, seven miles down the river, and back again by an

interior road, will abundantly repay the tourist for all the trouble and

expense to which he may be subjected.

CHAPTER XII.

A sail down the St. Lawrence—Sword-fish chasing a whale.

_Tadousac, June._

I have not visited Canada for the purpose of examining her cities, and

studying the character of her people, but solely with a view of hunting

up some new scenery, and having a little sport in the way of salmon

fishing. I am writing this chapter at the mouth of probably the most

remarkable river in North America. But before entering upon a

description of my sojourn here, it is meet, I ween, that I should give

you an account of my journey down the St. Lawrence.

On reaching Quebec, I was informed that there was no regular mode of

conveyance down the great river, and that I should have to take passage

in a transient ship or schooner, which would land me at my desired

haven. This intelligence had a tendency to dampen my spirits, and I had

to content myself with sauntering about the citadel city. Among the

places I visited was the fish market, where it was my good fortune to

find a small smack which had brought a load of fresh salmon to market,

and was on the point of returning to the Saguenay for another cargo. In

less than thirty minutes after I saw him, I had struck a bargain with

the skipper, transferred my luggage on board the smack, and was on my

way to a region which was to me unknown.

We hoisted sail at twelve o’clock, and were favored by a stiff westerly

breeze. Everything, in fact, connected with the voyage was beautifully

accidental, and I had “a glorious time.” In the first place, our craft

was just the thing—schooner-rigged, a fast sailer, and perfectly safe.

The skipper—named Belland—was a warm-hearted and intelligent

Frenchman, whose entire crew consisted of one boy. The day was superb,

and the scenery of the river appeared to me more like the work of

enchantment than nature.

The appearance of Quebec, from the eastward, is imposing in the extreme.

Standing as it does upon a lofty bluff, its massive ramparts and

tin-covered roofs, domes, and cupolas suggest the idea of immense power

and opulence. Just below the city, the St. Lawrence spreads out to the

width of three or four miles, while from the margin of either shore

fades away a continued succession of hills, which vary from five hundred

to fifteen hundred feet in height. Those upon the north shore are the

highest, and both sides of the river, for a distance of some twenty

miles below the city, are plentifully sprinkled with the white cottages

of the Canadian peasantry. As you proceed, however, the river gradually

widens, the hills upon the north shore become more lofty, reaching the

elevation of two thousand feet; and, while you only occasionally

discover a farm house upon their summits, the southern shore continues

to bear the appearance of a settled country, where the spire of a

Catholic church is frequently seen looming above a cluster of rural

residences. In descending the river, the first pictorial feature which

attracts attention is the Fall of Montmorency, pouring the waters of a

noble tributary immediately into the St. Lawrence. Just below this fall

the river is divided by the island of Orleans, which measures about

twenty miles in length, and five in breadth. It is partly covered with

forest, and partly cultivated; and, though the shores are rather low, it

contains a number of points which are a hundred feet high. At the

eastern termination of this island is the parish of St. Lawrent, a

remarkably tidy French village, whose inhabitants are said to be as

simple in their manners, as they are virtuous, and ignorant of the world

at large. On a smaller island, which lies some thirty miles below

Quebec, and directly opposite a noble cape called Tourment, is located

the quarantine station for the shipping of the river; and when I passed

this spot, I counted no less than forty-five ships at anchor, nearly all

of which were freighted with foreign paupers, who were then dying of the

ship fever, at the rate of one hundred and fifty individuals per day. I

might here mention that the vessels usually seen on this part of the St.

Lawrence are merchant ships and brigs, which are chiefly and extensively

employed in the lumber and timber trade. Another island in this portion

of the St. Lawrence, which attracts attention from its peculiar sylvan

beauty, is called Goose Island, and owned by a sisterhood of Nuns, who

have cultivated it extensively. The eastern portion of it is covered

with forest; the channels on either side are not far from ten miles

wide, and it is distant from Quebec about fifty miles.

We landed here at sunset; and while my companions were building a

watch-fire, and cooking a supper of fish, pork and onions, I amused

myself by taking sundry observations. I found the vegetation of the

island quite luxuriant, the common hard woods of the north prevailing,

but its foundation seemed to be composed of two distinct species of

slate stone. Both varieties were of the finest grain, and while one was

of a rich Indian red, the other was a deep blue. This portion of the St.

Lawrence is a good deal blocked up by extensive reefs, composed of these

identical slate stones, and at one point they extend so nearly across

the river as to render ship navigation extremely dangerous. On

subsequently examining the high hills on the north shore, I found them

to be of solid granite, veined with red marble and extensive beds of

quartz, and covered with a stunted forest of pine and hemlock. But this

geological dissertation is keeping my pen from describing a night

picture which it was my privilege to witness on this beautiful but

badly-named island, where, for sundry reasons, we concluded to spend the

night.

Our supper was ended, and the skipper had paid his last visit to the

little craft, and, with his boy, had smoked himself to sleep by our camp

fire. The sky was without a cloud, but studded with stars, and the

breeze which kissed my cheek was soft and pleasant as the breath of one

we dearly love. I had seated myself upon a rock, with my face turned

towards the north, when my attention was attracted by a column of light,

which shot upward to the zenith behind the distant mountains. The broad

expanse of the St. Lawrence was without a ripple, and the mountains,

together with the column of light and the unnumbered stars, were

distinctly mirrored in its bosom. While looking upon this scene, the

idea struck me that the moon was about to rise, but I soon saw a crimson

glow stealing up the sky, and knew that I was looking upon the fantastic

performances of the Northern Lights. Broad, and of the purest white,

were the many rays which shot upward from behind the mountains, and at

equal distances, between the horizon and the zenith, were displayed four

arches of a purple hue, the uppermost one melting imperceptibly in the

deep blue sky. On again turning my eyes upward, I discovered that the

columns and arches had all disappeared, and that the entire sky was

covered with a crimson color, which resembled a lake of liquid fire,

tossed into innumerable waves. Strange were my feelings as I looked upon

this scene, and thought of the unknown wilderness before me, and of the

Being whose ways are past finding out, and who holdeth the entire world,

with its cities, mountains, rivers, and boundless wildernesses, in the

hollow of His hand. Long and intently did I gaze upon this wonder of the

North; and at the moment it was fading away, a wild swan passed over my

head, sailing towards Hudson’s Bay, and as his lonely song echoed along

the silent air, I retraced my steps to the watch-fire and was soon a

dreamer.

That portion of the St. Lawrence extending between Goose Island and the

Saguenay is about twenty miles wide. The spring tides rise and fall a

distance of eighteen feet; the water is salt, but clear and cold, and

the channel very deep. Here it was that I first saw the black seal, the

white porpoise, and the black whale. But speaking of whales, reminds me

of “a whaling” fish story. A short distance above the Saguenay river,

there shoots out into the St. Lawrence, to the distance of about eight

miles, a broad sand bank, which greatly endangers the navigation. In

descending the great river, we had to double this cape, and it was at

this place that I first saw a whale. The fellow had been pursued by a

sword-fish, and when we discovered him, his head was turned towards the

beach, and he was moving with great rapidity, occasionally performing a

most fearful leap, and uttering a sound that resembled the bellowing of

a thousand bulls. The whale must have been forty feet long, and his

enemy nearly twenty; and as they hurried on their course with great

speed, the sight was, indeed, terrible. Frantic with rage and pain, it

so happened that the more unwieldy individual forgot his bearings, and

in a very few minutes he was floundering about on the sand bar, in about

ten feet of water, when the rascally sword immediately beat a retreat.

After a while, however, the whale concluded to rest himself, but as the

tide was going out, his intentions were soon changed, and he began to

roll himself about, and slap the water with his tail for the purpose of

getting clear. His efforts, in a short time, proved successful, and when

we last saw him, he was in the deepest part of the river, moving rapidly

towards the gulf, and spouting up the water, as if congratulating

himself upon his narrow escape.

In about two hours after witnessing this incident, our boat was moored

at the mouth of the Saguenay; and of the comparatively unknown

wilderness which this stream waters, my readers will find some

information in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Saguenay River—Storm picture—The Hudson’s Bay

Company—Eminent merchant—The Mountaineer

Indians—Tadousac—Ruin of a Jesuit establishment.

_Tadousac, July._

About one hundred and fifty miles north of the St. Lawrence, and on one

of the trails leading to Hudson’s Bay, lies a beautiful lake called St.

John. It is about forty miles long, and surrounded with a heavily

timbered, and rather level country. Its inlets are numerous, and twelve

of them are regular rivers. Its waters are clear, and abound in a great

variety of uncommonly fine fish. The principal outlet to this lake is

the Saguenay River, which takes a southerly direction, and empties into

the St. Lawrence. It is the largest tributary of the great river, and

unquestionably one of the most remarkable on the continent. Its original

Indian name was Chicoutimi, signifying _deep water_; but the early

Jesuit missionaries, who have scattered their _Saint-anic_ names over

this entire country, thought proper to give it the name which it now

bears, and the roundabout interpretation of which is, _Nose of the

sack_. This name suggests to the world that the nose of St. John must

have been a very long nose, and may be looked upon as a unique specimen

of French poetry.

The scenery of the Saguenay is wild and romantic to an uncommon degree.

The first half of its course averages half a mile in width, and runs

through an untrodden wilderness of pine and spruce-covered hills; it

abounds in waterfalls and rapids, and is only navigable for the Indian

canoe. A few miles below the most southern fall on the river, is located

the village of Chicoutimi, where an extensive lumber business is

transacted, and the Hudson’s Bay Company have an important post. The

village has an ancient appearance, and contains about five hundred

inhabitants, chiefly Canadian French. The only curiosity in the place is

a rude Catholic church, which is said to have been built by Jesuit

missionaries upwards of one hundred years ago. It occupies the centre of

a grassy lawn, surrounded with shrubbery, backed by a cluster of

wood-crowned hills, and commands a fine prospect, not only of the

Saguenay, but also of a spacious bay, into which there empties a noble

mountain stream, now known as Chicoutimi River. In the belfry of this

venerable church hangs a clear-toned bell, with an inscription upon it

which the learning of Canada (with all its learned and unnumbered

priests,) has not yet been able to translate or expound. But, great as

is the mystery of this inscription, it is less mysterious to my mind

than are the _motives_ of the Romish Church in planting the cross in the

remotest corners of the earth, as well as in the mightiest of cities.

About ten miles south of Chicoutimi, there recedes from the west bank of

the Saguenay, to the distance of ten miles, a beautiful expanse of water

called Grand Bay. The original name of this bay was “Ha, Ha,”

descriptive of the surprise which the French experienced when they first

entered it, supposing that it was the Saguenay, until their shallop

grounded on the north-western shore. At the head thereof is another

settlement, similar to Chicoutimi. Between these two places the Saguenay

is rather shallow, (when compared with the remainder of its course,) and

varies in width from two and a half to three miles. The tides of the

ocean are observable as far north as Chicoutimi, and this entire section

of the river is navigable for ships of the largest class.

That portion of the Saguenay extending from Grand Bay to the St.

Lawrence, a distance of sixty miles, is greatly distinguished for its

wild and picturesque scenery. I know not that I can better portray to my

reader’s mind the peculiarity of this river, than by the following

method. Imagine, for a moment, an extensive country of rocky and

thinly-clad mountains, suddenly separated by some convulsion of nature,

so as to form an almost bottomless chasm, varying from one to two miles

in width; and then imagine this chasm suddenly half-filled with water,

and that the moss of centuries has softened the rugged walls on either

side, and you will have a pretty accurate idea of the Saguenay. The

shores of this river are composed principally of granite, and every bend

presents you with an imposing bluff, the majority of which are eight

hundred feet high, and many of them upwards of fifteen hundred. And,

generally speaking, these towering bulwarks are not content to loom

perpendicularly into the air, but they must needs bend over, as if to

look at their own savage features reflected in the deep. Ay, and that

word _deep_ but tells the simple truth; for the flood that rolls beneath

is black and cold as the bottomless pit. To speak without a figure, and

from actual measurement, I can state that many portions of the Saguenay

are one thousand feet deep; and the shallowest parts not much less than

one hundred. In many places, too, the water is as deep five feet from

the rocky barriers as it is in the centre of the stream. The feelings

which filled my breast, and the thoughts which oppressed my brain, as I

paddled by these places in my canoe, were allied to those which almost

overwhelmed me when I first looked upward from below the fall to the

mighty flood of Niagara. Awful beyond expression, I can assure you, is

the sensation which one experiences in sailing along the Saguenay, to

raise his eye heavenward, and behold hanging, directly over his head, a

mass of granite, apparently ready to totter and fall, and weighing,

perhaps, a million tons. Terrible and sublime, beyond the imagery of the

most daring poet, are these cliffs; and while they proclaim the

omnipotent power of God, they, at the same time, whisper into the ear of

man that he is but as the moth which flutters in the noontide air. And

yet, is it not enough to fill the heart of man with holy pride and

unbounded love, to remember that the soul within him shall have but

commenced its existence, when all the mountains of the world shall have

been consumed as a scroll?

It is to the Saguenay that I am indebted for one of the most imposing

storm pictures that I ever witnessed. It had been a most oppressive day,

and, as I was passing up the river at a late hour in the afternoon, a

sudden gust of wind came rushing down the stream, causing my Indian

companion to bow, as if in prayer, and then to urge our frail canoe

towards a little rocky island, upon which we immediately landed. Soon as

we had surmounted our refuge, the sky was overcast with a pall of

blackness, which completely enveloped the cliffs on either side, and

gave the roaring waters a death-like hue. Then broke forth, from above

our heads, the heavy roar of thunder, and as it gradually increased in

compass, and became more threatening and impetuous, its volleys were

answered by a thousand echoes, which seemed to have been startled from

every crag in the wilderness, while flashes of the most vivid lightning

were constantly illuminating the gloomy storm-made cavern which appeared

before us. Down upon his knees again fell my poor Indian comrade, and,

while I sat by his side, trembling with terror, the thought actually

flew into my mind that I was on the point of passing the narrow gateway

leading to hell. Soon, however, the wind ceased to blow, the thunder to

roar, and the lightning to flash; and, in less than one hour after its

commencement the storm had subsided, and that portion of the Saguenay

was glowing beneath the crimson rays of the setting sun.

From what I have written, my reader may be impressed with the idea that

this river is incapable of yielding pleasurable sensations. Sail along

its shores, on a pleasant day, when its cliffs are partly hidden in

shadow, and covered with a gauze-like atmosphere, and they will fill

your heart with images of beauty. Or, if you would enjoy a still greater

variety, let your thoughts flow away upon the blue smoke which rises

from an Indian encampment hidden in a dreamy-looking cove; let your eye

follow an eagle sweeping along his airy pathway near the summit of the

cliffs, or glance across the watery plain, and see the silver salmon

leaping by hundreds into the air for their insect food. Here, too, you

may always discover a number of seals, bobbing their heads out of water,

as if watching your every movement; and, on the other hand, a drove of

white porpoises, rolling their huge bodies along the waters, ever and

anon spouting a shower of liquid diamonds into the air. O yes, manifold,

indeed, and beautiful beyond compare, are the charms of the Saguenay.

Although my description of this river has, thus far, been of a general

character, I would not omit to mention, as perfect gems of scenery,

Trinity Point, Eternity Cape, The Tableau, and Le Tête du Boule. The

peculiarities of these promontories are so well described by their very

names, that I shall refrain from attempting a particular description of

my own.

The wilderness through which this river runs is of such a character that

its shores can never be greatly changed in their external appearance.

Only a small proportion of its soil can ever be brought under

cultivation; and, as its forests are a good deal stunted, its lumbering

resources are far from being inexhaustible. The wealth which it contains

is probably of a mineral character; and if the reports I hear are

correct, it abounds in iron ore. That it would yield an abundance of

fine marble, I am certain; for, in passing up this stream, the observing

eye will frequently fall upon a broad vein of an article as pure as

alabaster.

How is it, many people are led to inquire, that so little has been known

of the Saguenay country, until quite recently? The question is easily

solved. It is a portion of that vast territory which has heretofore been

under the partial jurisdiction of the Hudson’s Bay Company. I say

partially, for the right of that powerful monopoly, as I understand the

matter, extended only to the protection and use of its wild animals; but

it has endeavored to convince the would-be settler that it was the sole

proprietor of the immense domain, and that he had no right to live

thereon. Its Posts on the Saguenay and St. Lawrence, so far as

collecting furs is concerned, are a dead letter, and the journeys of its

distinguished Governor are hereafter to be confined to the extreme

north.

The man who deserves the most credit for encroaching upon the so-called

possessions of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and proving to the world that

its power is not without limit, is William Price, Esq., of Quebec. All

the saw-mills located on the Saguenay and the lower St. Lawrence were

established by him, and are now conducted at his expense. He gives

employment to some two or three thousand men, and sends to England

annually about one hundred ship loads of lumber, in the shape of deals.

He is a thorough-going business man, and, did I not know the fact to be

otherwise, I should set him down (with regard to his enterprise), as a

full-blooded native of the Union. Many of the ships alluded to ascend

the Saguenay to obtain lumber, as far as Chicoutimi, and it struck me as

singularly paradoxical to see ships winding up that river whose

legitimate home would seem to be the broad ocean. The current of the

Saguenay flows, in some places, at the rate of seven miles per hour, but

when there is any wind at all, it blows quite heavily directly from the

north or south, so that, with the assistance of the tide, the upward

bound ships or brigs manage to get along without much difficulty. The

only steamboat which navigates this river is the Pocahontas, and is the

property of Mr. Price. She is commanded by a gentleman who understands

his business; and I can assure the lovers of scenery everywhere that a

sail up the Saguenay, in this steamer, would be an event they could not

easily forget. For the benefit of summer-tourists, I would here mention

the fact, that, for about three months in the year, a Quebec steamer

makes an occasional trip to the mouth of the Saguenay, by way of the

river Du Loup, which is on the Canadian route to Halifax.

In speaking of the Saguenay, I must not omit to mention its original

proprietors, a tribe of Indians, who are known as the Mountaineers. Of

course it is the duty of my pen to record the fact that, where once

flourished a large nation of brave and heroic warriors, there now exists

a little band of about one hundred families. Judging from what I have

heard and seen, the Mountaineers were once the very flower of this

northern wilderness, even as the Chippewas were once the glory of the

Lake Superior region. The Mountaineers of the present day are

sufficiently educated to speak a smattering of French; but they know

nothing of the true God, and are as poor in spirit as they are indigent

with regard to the necessaries of life. The men of this nation are

rather short, but well-formed; and the women are beautiful. They are

proud in spirit, intelligent, and kind-hearted; and many of them, it is

pleasant to know, are no longer the victims of the baneful “fire-water.”

For this blessing they are indebted to the Romish priesthood, which fact

I record with great pleasure. The Mountaineers are a particularly honest

people, and great friends to the stranger white man. They are also

distinguished for their expertness in hunting, and take pleasure in

recounting the exploits of their forefathers. And their language,

according to a Catholic missionary, Pierre de Roche, is one of the

oldest and purest Indian languages on the continent. It abounds in Latin

words, and is capable of being regularly constructed and translated. The

qualities, in fine, which make the history of this people interesting,

are manifold; and it is sad to think of the rapidity with which they are

withering away, even as the leaves of a premature autumn.

But it is time that I should give you a brief description of Tadousac,

where I have been spending a few days, and whence I date my chapters.

The meaning of that word is a French corruption of the Indian word

Saguenay. It is situated directly at the mouth of the Saguenay, and

commands a fine prospect of that river, as well as of the St. Lawrence,

which, at this point, is nearly thirty miles in width. Immediately at

the base of the hill upon which the hamlet stands, is a beautiful bay,

hemmed in with mountains of solid rock. The place is composed of houses

belonging to an Indian trading-post, and another dwelling, occupied by a

worthy Scotchman, named Ovington, who is a pilot by profession. The door

of my friend’s cabin is always open to the admission of the tourist, and

if others who may chance to stop here are as kindly treated as I was,

they will be disposed to thank their stars. In front of the trading-post

are planted a few cannon, and directly beside them, at the present time,

is a small Indian encampment. In a rock-bound bay, about half a mile

north of my temporary residence, is an extensive lumbering

establishment, belonging to William Price. This spot is the principal

port of the Saguenay, and the one where belongs the Pocahontas

steamboat. About a dozen paces from the table, where I am now writing,

is the ruin of a Jesuit religious establishment, which is considered the

great curiosity of this region. The appearance of the ruin is not

imposing, as you can discover nothing but the foundations upon which the

ancient edifice rested; but it is confidently affirmed that upon this

spot once stood the first stone and mortar building ever erected on the

continent of North America. And this statement I am not disposed to

question, for from the very centre of the ruin has grown a cluster of

pine trees, which must have been exposed to the wintry blasts of at

least two hundred years. The fate, and the very names of those who first

pitched their tents in this wilderness, and here erected an altar to the

God of their fathers, are alike unknown. Who, who can tell what shall be

on the morrow?

CHAPTER XIV.

The salmon—Several adventures.

_Tadousac, July._

I intend to devote the present chapter to the acknowledged king of all

the finny tribes, the lithe, wild and beautiful salmon. He pays an

annual visit to all the tributaries of the St. Lawrence lying between

Quebec and Bic Island, (where commences the Gulf of St. Lawrence,) but

he is most abundant on the north shore, and in those streams which are

beyond the jurisdiction of civilization. He usually makes his first

appearance about the twentieth of May, and continues in season for two

months. Nearly all the streams in this region abound in waterfalls, but

those are seldom found which the salmon does not surmount in his

“excelsior” pilgrimage; and the stories related of his leaps are truly

wonderful. It is not often that he is found, _man bound_ at the head of

the streams he may have ascended; but when thus found and captured, his

flesh is white, skin black, and his form, “long, lank, and lean as is

the ribbed sea-sand.” His weight is commonly about fifteen pounds, but

he is sometimes taken weighing full forty pounds. The salmon is an

important article of export from this region, and is also extensively

used by the Indians. The common mode for taking them is with a

stationary net, which is set just on the margin of the river, at low

water. It is customary with the salmon to ascend the St. Lawrence as

near the shore as possible, and their running time is when the tide is

high; the consequence is, that they enter the net at one tide, and are

taken out at another; and it is frequently the case, that upwards of

three hundred are taken at one time. The Indian mode for taking them is

with the spear, by torchlight. Two Indians generally enter a canoe, and

while one paddles it noiselessly along, the other holds forth the light,

(which attracts the attention of the fish, and causes them to approach

their enemy,) and pierces them with the cruel spear. This mode of taking

the salmon is to be deprecated; but the savage must live, and possesses

no other means for catching them. It is but seldom that the Indian takes

more than a dozen during a single night, for he cannot afford to waste

the bounties which he receives from Nature. For preserving the salmon,

the Canadians have three modes:—First, by putting them in salt for

three days, and then smoking them; secondly, by regularly salting them

down as you would mackerel; and, thirdly, by boiling and then pickling

them in vinegar. The Indians smoke them; but only to a limited extent.

I must now give you some account of my experience in the way of

salmon-fishing with the fly, of which glorious sport I have recently had

an abundance. If, however, I should indite a number of episodes, you

will please remember that “it is my way,” and that I deem it a privilege

of the angler to be as wayward in his discourse as are the channels of

his favorite mountain streams.

My first salmon expedition of the season was to the St. Margaret River.

I had two companions with me; one, an accomplished fly-fisher of Quebec,

and the other, the principal man of Tadousac, a lumber manufacturer. We

went in a gig-boat belonging to the latter, and, having started at nine

o’clock, we reached our place of destination by twelve. We found the

river uncommonly high, and a little rily. We made a desperate effort,

however, and threw the line about three hours, capturing four salmon,

only one of which it was my privilege to take. He was a handsome fellow,

weighing seventeen pounds, and in good condition; he afforded my

companions a good deal of fun, and placed me in a peculiar situation. He

had taken the hook when I was wading in swift water up to my middle, and

soon as he discovered his predicament, he made a sudden wheel, and

started down the stream. My rod bent nearly double, and I saw that I

must allow him all the line he wanted; and having only three hundred

feet on my reel, I found it necessary to follow him with all speed. In

doing so, I lost my footing, and was swept by the current against a pile

of logs; meantime my reel was in the water, and whizzing away at a

tremendous rate. The log upon which I depended happened to be in a

balancing condition, and, when I attempted to surmount it, it plunged

into the current, and floated down the stream, having your humble

servant astride of one end, and clinging to it with all his might.

Onward went the salmon, the log, and the fisherman. Finally the log

found its way into an eddy of the river, and, while it was swinging

about, as if out of mere deviltry, I left it, and fortunately reached

the shore. My life having been spared, I was more anxious than ever to

take the life of the salmon which had caused my ducking, and so I held

aloft the rod, and continued down the stream, over an immense number of

logs and rocks, which seemed to have been placed there for my especial

botheration. On coming in sight of my fish, I found him in still water,

with his belly turned upward, and completely drowned. I immediately drew

him on a sand-bank near by, and, while engaged in the reasonable

employment of drying my clothes, my brother fishermen came up to

congratulate me upon my success, but laughing, in the mean time, most

heartily. The lumber merchant said that the log I had been riding

belonged to him, and it was his intention to charge me one shilling for

my passage from the rift where I had hooked the salmon, to the spot

where I had landed him, which was in full view of the Saguenay; and my

Quebec friend remarked, that he knew the people of Yankee-land had a

queer way of doing things, but he was not acquainted with their peculiar

mode of taking salmon. As may be readily imagined, we retraced our steps

back to the log shanty where we had stopped, and, having carefully

stowed away our salmon, we laid aside our fishing tackle, and made

arrangements for a little sport of another kind.

The hamlet of St. Margaret, where we spent the night, contains some

eight or ten log shantees, which are occupied by about twenty families,

composed of Canadians, Indians, and half-breeds. They obtain their

living by “driving” logs, and are as happy as they are ignorant. Anxious

to see what we could of society among this people, we sent forth a

manifesto, calling upon the citizens generally to attend a dance at the

cabin of a certain man whom we had engaged to give the party, at our

expense. Punctual to the appointed hour, the assembly came together.

Many of the men did not take the trouble even to wash their hands, or to

put on a coat before coming to the party; but the women were neatly

dressed with blue and scarlet petticoats, over which were displayed

night-gowns of white cotton. The fiddler was an Indian, and the dancing

hall (some twelve feet square), was lighted with a wooden lamp, supplied

with seal oil. The dance was without any particular method; and, when a

gentleman wished to trip the light fantastic toe he had only to station

himself on the floor, when one of his friends would select his partner,

and lead her up for his acceptance. The consequence was, that, if a man

wished to dance with any particular lady, he was obliged to make a

previous arrangement with his leading-up friend. The fiddler not only

furnished all the music, but also performed a goodly portion of the

dancing,—fiddling and dancing at the same time. The supper was laid on

the table at ten o’clock, and consisted principally of dried beaver

tail, and cariboo meat, fried and boiled salmon, (which was cooked out

of doors, near the entrance to the cabin,) rye bread, maple molasses,

and tea.

The party broke up at twelve o’clock, when we retired to the cabin,

where we had secured lodgings, and it is an actual fact that our

sleeping room on that night was occupied, not only by ourselves, but by

two women, one man, and four children, (divided into three beds,) all

members of the same family with whom we had succeeded in obtaining

_accommodations_. On the following morning we rose at an early hour, and

again tried our luck at salmon fishing, but only killed a few trout,

whereupon we boarded our gig, and started down the romantic Saguenay,

telling stories and singing songs.

Another river, in this region, which affords good salmon fishing, is the

Esquemain. It empties into the St. Lawrence, about twenty miles east of

Saguenay. It is a cold, clear and rapid stream, abounding in rapids and

deep pools. At its mouth is located a saw-mill, but its water-works are

so managed as not to interfere with the salmon. The fish of this stream

ascend to a great distance, and, though rather small, are exceedingly

abundant. The best fishing in the river is at the foot of the

water-fall, which forms a sheet of foam, about one mile above the mouth.

My Quebec friend accompanied me to this place, and though we only threw

the fly about six hours, (three in the evening and three in the

morning,) yet we killed thirteen salmon, without losing a single line,

and with the loss of only three flies. Owing to the bushy shores of the

stream, we were compelled to fish standing upon boulders, located in its

centre; and whenever we hooked a fish, there was no alternative but to

plunge into the current, and trust to fortune. For some unaccountable

reason, (of course, it could not have been _our_ fault,) we lost more

than half of those we hooked. But it was worth a moderate fortune to see

the magnificent leaps which the fish performed, not only when they took

the fly, but when they attempted to escape. There was not one individual

that did not give us a race of at least half a mile. The largest taken,

during this expedition, was killed by my companion, and caused more

trouble than all his other prizes. Not only did the fellow attempt to

clear himself by stemming the foam of a rapid, and rubbing his nose

against a rock, to break the hook, but he also swept himself completely

round a large boulder, poked his head into a net, and ran, with the

speed of lightning to the extreme end of his line. It took my friend

forty minutes to land this salmon, and I assure you he was particularly

pleased when he found that his fish weighed one pound more than the

largest I had taken. The fact was our rods were almost precisely alike,

in length and strength, and as two countries were represented in our

persons, the strife between us was quite desperate. I will acknowledge

that the Canada gentleman took the largest salmon, but the States angler

took them in the greatest number. Notwithstanding all the fine sport

that we enjoyed on the Esquemain, I am compelled to state that it was

more than counterbalanced by the sufferings we endured from the black

fly and musquetoe. The black fly is about half as large as the common

house fly, and, though it bites you only in the day time, they are as

abundant in the air as the sand upon the sea shore, and venomous to an

uncommon degree. The musquetoe of this region is an uncommonly gaunt,

long-legged, and hungry creature, and his howl is peculiarly horrible.

We had been almost devoured by the black flies, during the afternoon,

and as soon as darkness came, we secured a couple of beds in a

Frenchman’s house, and, as we tumbled in, congratulated ourselves upon a

little comfortable repose. It was an exceedingly sultry night, and

though we were both in a complete fever, from the fly poison circulating

in our veins, the heat excelled the fever, and our bodies were literally

in a melting condition. We endeavored to find relief by lying upon the

bare floor, with no covering but a single sheet, and this arrangement

might have answered, had it not been for the flood of musquetoes which

poured into the room, as one of us happened to open a window to obtain

fresh air. Every spot on our bodies which the flies had left untouched,

was immediately settled upon by these devils in miniature. They pierced

the very sheets that covered us, and sucked away at our blood without

any mercy. Unwilling to depart this life without one effort more to save

it, we then dressed ourselves, and sauntered into the open air. We made

our way towards a pile of lumber, near the saw-mill, and without a

particle of covering, endeavored to obtain a little sleep; but the

insect hounds soon found us out, and we bolted for another place. Our

course now lay towards the rude bridge which spans the Esquemain, just

above the mill. Our intentions at the time, though not uttered aloud, I

verily believe were of a fearful character. On reaching the bridge,

however, a refreshing breeze sprung up, and we enjoyed a brief respite

from our savage enemies. We now congratulated each other upon our good

fortune, and had just concluded to be quite happy, when we discovered a

number of Indians on the river, spearing salmon by torch light, and, as

it was after midnight, and the heathens were spearing on our fishing

ground, we mournfully concluded that our morning’s sport was at an end.

But while in the very midst of this agreeable mood of mind, a lot of

skylarking musquetoes discovered our retreat, and we were again

besieged. We now endeavored to find relief on board the boat which had

brought us from the Saguenay; and here it was that we spent the two last

hours of that most miserable night. Though not exactly in a fitting

condition to throw the fly with any degree of comfort, we made an effort

after salmon in the morning, and succeeded in killing a portion of the

thirteen already mentioned. That we enjoyed the good breakfast which we

had prepared for our especial benefit, and that we departed from

Esquemain as soon as possible, are facts which I consider self-evident.

The mouth of the Saguenay, as I have before remarked, is completely

hemmed in with barriers of solid rock, and, when the tide is flowing in

from one of these points, first rate salmon fishing may occasionally be

enjoyed. I have frequently had the pleasure of throwing the fly on the

point in question, and, on one occasion, was so carried away with the

sport, that I took no notice of the rising tide. It was near the sunset

hour, and on preparing for my departure home, I discovered that I was

completely surrounded with water, and that my situation was momently

becoming more dangerous. The water was bitter cold, and turbulent, and

the channel which separated me from the main shore was upwards of a

hundred yards wide. I was more than half a mile from the nearest

dwelling, and could not see a single sail on the Saguenay, or the still

broader St. Lawrence, excepting a solitary ship, which was ten leagues

away. My predicament, I assure you, was not to be envied. I could not

entertain the idea that I should lose my life; and, though I felt myself

to be in danger, my sensations were supremely ridiculous. But something,

I was persuaded, must be done, and that immediately; and so I commenced

throwing off my clothes for a final effort to save my life. I had

stripped off everything but shirt and pantaloons, and to a flock of

crows, which were cawing above my head, I must have presented an

interesting picture. I thought of the famous swimming adventures of

Leander and Lord Byron, and, also, of the inconveniences of being

drowned, (as Charles Lamb did of being hanged,) but just as I was about

to make the important plunge, an Indian in his canoe came gliding around

a neighboring point, and I was rescued, together with one salmon and

some dozen pounds of trout.

But I have not finished my story yet. On the night following this

incident I retired to bed in rather a sober mood, for I could not banish

the recollection of my narrow escape from a ducking, if not from a

watery grave. The consequence was, that, in my dreams, I underwent ten

times as much mental suffering as I had actually endured. I dreamed

that, in scaling the rocks which lead to the point alluded to, I lost my

footing, and fell into the water. While in this condition, drinking more

salt water than I wanted, floundering about, like a sick porpoise,

gasping for breath, and uttering a most doleful moan, I was suddenly

awakened, and found my good landlord at my side, tapping me on the

shoulder, for the purpose of summoning me—from the back of the

_nightmare_ I had been riding.

As I may not have another opportunity of alluding to this portion of the

Saguenay, and the rocky point already alluded to, I must give my reader

another, and a remarkable incident connected with them. Some years ago,

the Hudson’s Bay Company had in its employ, as clerk at Tadousac, an

intelligent and amiable young man, whose name was McCray. For some

unaccountable reason, he became deranged; and, on one occasion, a cold

and stormy winter night, he took it into his head to cross the Saguenay

upon the floating ice, which was coming down at the time. When first

discovered, he was half way across the stream, and making frightful

leaps of ten and fifteen feet from one block of ice to another. His

friends followed in close pursuit, with a boat, as soon as possible, but

on reaching the opposite shore, the unhappy man was not to be found. On

the day following, however, certain people, who were hunting for him in

the woods, discovered him, perched in the crotch of a tree, almost

frozen to death, and senseless as a clod of the valley. He was taken

home, the circulation of his blood restored, and he is now an inmate of

the Quebec Lunatic Asylum. The mind of this worthy man was thought to be

of a high order; and it is certain that he possessed an extensive

knowledge of botany and geology. From remarks that escaped him

subsequently to the wonderful feat he performed, it is supposed that, at

the time of starting across the river, he was thinking of a particular

book which he wished to obtain, and had been told could be purchased at

Quebec, towards which place (unattainable by land), he had set his face.

It is worthy of record that poor McCray is the only man that ever

crossed the deep and angry Saguenay on the ice, as it is never solidly

frozen; and it is almost certain that the feat he performed can never be

again repeated.

But to return to my piscatorial remarks. Next to the salmon, the finest

sporting fish of this region is the trout. Of these I have seen two

species,—the salmon and the common trout. Of the former, I believe

there is but one variety, but that is an exceedingly fine fish for

sport, or the table, and is found in the lower tributaries of the St.

Lawrence, from five to fifteen pounds. They are taken chiefly in the

salt water, and possess a flavor which the trout of our western lakes do

not. Of the common trout, I have seen at least six varieties, differing,

however, only in color; for some are almost entirely white, others

brown, some blue, some green, some black, and others yellow. These are

taken everywhere in the St. Lawrence, and in all its tributaries. Those

of the Saguenay are the largest, most abundant, and of the rarest

quality. Upon the whole, I am inclined to set this river down as

affording the finest trout-fishing that I have ever enjoyed, not even

excepting that which I have experienced at the Falls of St. Mary, in

Michigan. Almost every bay or cove in the Saguenay is crowded with

trout, and, generally speaking, the rocks upon which you have to stand

afford an abundance of room to swing and drop the fly. In some of the

coves alluded to, I have frequently taken a dozen two-pound trout during

the single hour before sunset. Trout-fishing in this region possesses a

charm which the angler seldom experiences in the rivers and lakes of the

United States, which consists in his uncertainty as to the character of

his prize before he has landed him, for it may be a common or salmon

trout, or a regular-built salmon, as these fish all swim in the same

water. It is reported of a celebrated angler of Quebec, that he once

spent a week on the Esquemain, and captured within that time, seventy

salmon, and upwards of a hundred trout. This is a very large story, but

I have faith enough to believe it true.

And now for a few remarks upon the fish of the lower St. Lawrence

generally. Cod are taken to a very great extent, and constitute an

important article of commerce. Herring and mackerel are abundant; also

the halibut and sardine. Shad are also taken, but not in sufficient

quantities to export. The lobster, flounder and oyster are also found in

this river, and, with a few unimportant exceptions, these are the only

fish that flourish in this portion of the great river. The sea bass, the

striped bass, the blue fish, and the black fish, for which I should

suppose these waters perfectly adapted, are entirely unknown.

CHAPTER XV.

Seal hunting on the St. Lawrence—The white porpoise.

_Tadousac, July._

Before breakfast this morning, I had the pleasure of taking fifteen

common trout, and the remainder of the day I devoted to seal hunting.

This animal is found in great abundance in the St. Lawrence, and by the

Indians, and a few white people, is extensively hunted. There are

several varieties found in these waters, and the usual market price for

the oil and skin is five dollars. They vary in size from four to eight

feet, and are said to be good eating. Many people make them a principal

article of food; and while the Indians use their skins for many

purposes, they also light their cabins with the oil. In sailing the

river, they meet you at every turn, and when I first saw one, I thought

I was looking upon a drowning man; for they only raise their heads out

of water, and thus sustain themselves with their feet, fins, pads,

flippers, or whatever you may call them. They live upon fish, and in

many of their habits, closely resemble the otter. Their paws have five

claws, joined together with a thick skin; they somewhat resemble the

dog, and have a bearded snout like a cat, large bright eyes, and long

sharp teeth. They are a noisy animal, and when a number of them are

sunning themselves upon the sand, the screams they utter are doleful in

the extreme—somewhat resembling the cry of children.

My first seal expedition was performed in company with two professional

hunters. We started from shore with a yawl and a canoe, and made our

course for a certain spot in the St. Lawrence, where the waters of the

Saguenay and the flood tide came together, and caused a terrible

commotion. The canoe led the way, occupied by one man, who was supplied

with a harpoon, and a long line; while the other hunter and myself came

up in the rear, for the purpose of rescuing the harpooner in case an

accident should happen, and also for the purpose of shipping the

plunder. The seal seems to delight in frequenting the deepest water and

more turbulent whirlpools, and the object of using a canoe is to steal

upon him in the most successful manner. We had not floated about the

eddy more than twenty minutes, before a large black animal made his

appearance, about ten feet from the canoe; but, just as he was on the

point of diving, the hunter threw his harpoon, and gave him the line, to

which was attached a buoy. The poor creature floundered about at a great

rate, dove as far as he could towards the bottom, and then leaped

entirely out of the water; but the cruel spear would not loosen its

hold. Finally, after making every effort to escape, and tinging the

surrounding water with a crimson hue, he gasped for breath a few times,

and sunk to the end of the rope, quite dead. We then pulled him to the

side of the boat, and with a gaff-hook secured him therein, and the hunt

was renewed. In this manner did my companions capture no less than three

seals before the hour of noon.

On one occasion, I noticed quite a large number of seals sunning

themselves upon a certain sandy point; and as I felt an “itching palm”

to obtain, with my own hands, the material for a winter cap, I spent the

afternoon in the enjoyment of a “shooting frolic, all alone.” I borrowed

a rifle of one of my friends, and, having passed over to the sandy point

in a canoe, I secreted myself in the midst of some rocks, and awaited

the game. I had remained quiet but a short time, when a huge black seal

made its appearance, scrambling up the beach, where he kept a sharp

look-out for anything that might do him harm. I admired the apparent

intelligence of the creature, as he dragged his clumsy and legless body

along the ground, and almost regretted that he was doomed to die. True

to my ridiculous nature, however, I finally concluded to leave him

unmolested for the present, hoping that he would soon be accompanied by

one of his fellow-seals, and that I should have a chance of killing a

pair. I was not disappointed, and you will therefore please consider me

in full view of one of the finest marks imaginable, and in the attitude

of firing. Crack went the rifle, but my shot had only the effect of

temporarily rousing the animals, and I proceeded to reload my gun,

wondering at the cause of my missing, and feeling somewhat dissatisfied

with matters and things in general. Again was it my privilege to fire,

and I saw a stick fly into the air about thirty feet on the left of my

game. The animals were, of course, not at all injured, but just enough

frightened to turn their faces towards the water, into which they

shortly plunged, and entirely disappeared. I returned to my lodgings,

honestly told my story, and was laughed at for my pains and bad luck. It

so happened, however, that the owner of the gun imagined that something

might be the matter with the thing, and, on examination, found that one

of the sights had been accidentally knocked from its original position,

which circumstance had been the “cause of my anguish;” and, though it

restored to me my good name as a marksman, it afforded me but little

satisfaction.

But, that my paper about seals may be worth sealing, I will give you the

history of an incident which illustrates the sagacity of an Indian in

killing his game. A Mik-mak hunter, with his family, had reached the

shore of the St. Lawrence, hungry, and short of ammunition. On a large

sand-bank which lay before him, at a time when the tide was low, he

discovered an immense number of seals. He waited for the tide to flow,

and again to ebb, and as soon as the sand appeared above the water, he

hastened to the dry point in his canoe, carrying only a hatchet as a

weapon. On this spot he immediately dug a hole, into which he crept, and

covered himself with a blanket. He then commenced uttering a cry in

imitation of the seal, and in a short time had collected about him a

very large number of those animals. He waited patiently for the tide to

retire so far that the animals would have to travel at least a mile by

land before reaching the water; and, when the wished for moment arrived,

he suddenly fell upon the affrighted multitude, and with his tomahawk,

succeeded in slaughtering upwards of one hundred. To many, this may

appear to be an improbable story, but when it is remembered that this

amphibious animal is an exceedingly slow land traveller, it will be

readily believed. The manner in which our hunter managed to save his

game, was to tie them together with bark, and when the tide rose tow

them to the main shore.

Since I have brought my reader upon the waters of the St. Lawrence, I

will not permit him to go ashore until I have given him an account of

another inhabitant of the deep which is found in very great abundance,

not only in this river, but also in the Saguenay. I allude to the white

porpoise. The shape of this creature is similar to that of the whale,

though of a pure white color, and usually only about fifteen feet in

length. They are exceedingly fat, and yield an oil of the best quality,

while the skin is capable of being turned into durable leather. They are

extensively used as an article of food; the fins and tail, when pickled,

are considered a delicacy; and their value is about twenty-five dollars

a-piece. They are far from being a shy fish; and, when sailing about our

vessel in large numbers, as is often the case, they present a beautiful

and unique appearance. For taking this fish, the people of this region

have two methods. The first is to use a boat with a white bottom, behind

which the fisherman tows a small wooden porpoise, which is painted a

dark slate color, in imitation of the young of the species. With these

lures the porpoise is often brought into the immediate vicinity of the

harpoon, which is invariably thrown with fatal precision. In this manner

an expert man will often take three or four fine prizes in a day.

Another mode for taking these creatures is by fencing them in. It

appears that it is customary for this fish to wander over the sand bars,

at high water, for the purpose of feeding. Profiting by this knowledge,

the fishermen enclose one of the sandy reefs with poles set about three

feet apart, and sometimes covering a square mile. They leave an

appropriate opening for the porpoises, which are sure to enter at high

water, and, owing to their timidity, they are kept confined by the

slender barrier until the tide ebbs, when they are destroyed in great

numbers with very little trouble. It is reported that a party of

fishermen, some ninety miles above the Saguenay, once took one hundred

and forty porpoises at one tide; and it is also asserted that in

dividing the spoil the fishermen had a very bitter quarrel, since which

time, as the story goes, not a single porpoise has ever been taken on

the shoal in question.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Esquimaux Indians of Labrador.

_Tadousac, July._

The vast region of country lying on the north shore of the Gulf of St.

Lawrence, and extending to the eastward of the Saguenay as far as

Newfoundland, is generally known under the name of Labrador. It is an

exceedingly wild and desolate region, and, excepting an occasional

fishing hamlet or a missionary station belonging to the worthy

Moravians, its only inhabitants are Indians. Of these the more famous

tribes are the Red Indians, (now almost extinct,) the Hunting Indians,

the Mic-Maks, and the Esquimaux. The latter nation is by far the most

numerous, and it is said that their sway even extends to the coasts of

Hudson’s Bay. They are, at the same time, the wildest and most rude

inhabitants of this wilderness, and, in appearance, as well as manners

and customs, closely resemble the inhabitants of Greenland.

During one of my nautical expeditions down the St. Lawrence, I chanced

to be wind-bound for a couple of days at the mouth of the nameless river

on the north shore, where I found a small encampment of Esquimaux

Indians. The principal man of the party was exceedingly aged, and the

only one who could convey his thoughts in any other language than his

own. He had mingled much with the French fur-traders of the north, and

the French fishermen of the east, and possessed a smattering of their

tongue. Seated by the side of this good old man, in his lodge, with a

moose skin for a seat, a pack of miscellaneous furs to lean against, and

a rude seal-oil torch suspended over my head, I spent many hours of one

long-to-be-remembered night in questioning him about his people. The

substance of the information I then collected, it is now my purpose to

record; but it should be remembered that I speak of the nation at large,

and not of any particular tribe.

According to my informant, the extent of the Esquimaux nation is

unknown, for they consider themselves as numerous as the waves of the

sea. Much has been done to give them an education, and, though

missionaries of the cross have dwelt among them for about a century, yet

the majority of this people are, at the present time, in heathen

darkness. The men are chiefly employed in hunting and fishing, and the

domestic labor is all performed by the women. Their clothes are made in

the rudest manner imaginable, and generally of the coarser skins which

they secure in hunting. They believe in a Supreme Being, who has a

dwelling-place in the earth, the air, and the ocean, and who is both

good and evil; and they also believe in the immortality of the soul,

which they describe as similar to air, which they cannot feel. Their

principal men are magicians and conjurors, distinguished, as I infer

from good reason, for their profligacy. Whenever a man is sick, they

attribute the cause to the alleged fact that his soul has departed from

his body, and he is looked upon with contempt and pity. The first man

who came into the world sprang from the bosom of a beautiful valley; in

this valley he spent his infancy and childhood, feeding upon berries;

and having, on a certain occasion, picked up a flower which drooped over

one of his accustomed paths, it immediately became changed into a girl

with flowing hair, who became his playmate, and afterwards his wife, and

was the mother of all living. They believe in a heaven and a hell, and

consider that the road to the former is rugged and rocky, and that to

the latter, level, and covered with grass. Their ideas of astronomy are

peculiar, for they consider the sun, moon and stars as so many of their

ancestors, who have, for a great variety of reasons, been lifted to the

skies, and become celestial bodies. In accounting for the two former,

they relate that there was once a superb festival given by the

Esquimaux, in a glorious snow-palace of the north, where were assembled

all the young men and maidens of the land. Among them was a remarkably

brave youth, who was in love with an exceedingly beautiful girl. She,

however, did not reciprocate this attachment, and endeavored, by all the

means in her power, to escape from his caresses. To accomplish this end,

she called upon the Great Spirit to give her a pair of wings; and,

having received them, she flew into the air, and became the moon. The

youth also endeavored to obtain a pair of wings, and, after many months,

finally succeeded; and, on ascending to the sky, he became the sun. The

moon, they say, has a dwelling-place in the west, and the sun another in

the far east. They account for thunder and lightning by giving the story

of two women who lived together in a wigwam, and, on one occasion, had a

most furious battle. During the affray, the cabin tumbled in upon them,

causing a tremendous noise, while the women were so angry that their

eyes flashed fire. Rain, they say, comes from a river in the skies,

which, from the great number of people who sometimes bathe in it,

overflows its banks, and thus comes to the earth in showers.

When one of their friends has departed this life, they take all his

property and scatter it upon the ground, outside of his cabin, to be

purified by the air; but in the evening, they collect it together again,

and bury it by the side of his grave. They think it wrong for the men to

mourn for their friends, and consider themselves defiled if they happen

to touch the body of the deceased, and the individual who usually

performs the office of undertaker, is considered unclean for many days

after fulfilling his duty. The women do all the wailing and weeping, and

during their mourning season, which corresponds with the fame of the

deceased, they abstain from food, wear their hair in great disorder, and

refrain from every ablution. When a friendless man dies, his body is

left upon the hills to decay, as if he had been a beast. When their

children die, they bury the body of a dead dog in the same grave, that

the child may have a guide in his pathway to an unknown land, to which

they suppose all children go.

Polygamy, as such, among the Esquimaux, is practised only to a limited

extent; but married men and women are not over-scrupulous in their love

affairs. Unmarried women, however, observe the rules of modesty with

peculiar care, and the maiden who suffers herself to be betrayed, is

looked upon with infamy. When a young man wishes to marry, he first

settles the matter with his intended, and then, having asked and

obtained her father’s permission, he sends two old women to bring the

lady to his lodge, and they are considered one. The Esquimaux mother is

fond of her children, and never chastises them for any offence. Children

are taught to be dutiful to their parents, and until they marry they

always continue under the paternal roof.

The amusements of the Esquimaux do not differ, materially, from those of

the Indian tribes generally. The men are fond of dancing, playing ball,

and a species of dice game, while the women know of no recreation but

that of dancing and singing.

And thus endeth my mite of information respecting one of the most

extensive aboriginal nations of the far north.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Habitan of Canada.

_River du Loup, July._

Since dating my last chapter from the Saguenay, I have completed my

pilgrimage through Lower Canada; but before leaving the province, I will

give you the result of my observations respecting some of its people.

These are divided into three classes—the descendants of the French

colonists, commonly called “Habitans,” the British settlers, and the

Indian tribes. The “Habitans,” of whom I am now to speak, are the most

numerous, and so peculiar in their appearance and manners, as to attract

the particular attention of travellers. The men are usually tall and

slender, of sinewy build, and with a dark-brown complexion; the girls

are black-eyed, and disposed to be beautiful, while the women are always

dumpy, but good-looking. Their dress is similar to that of the French

peasantry; the men wear the old-fashioned _capot_, on their heads every

variety of fantastic caps and hats, and, on their feet, a moccason made

of cowhide; the women wear jackets or mantelets, which are made of

bright colors, and, on their heads, either a cap or straw hat, made in

the gipsy-fashion. Occasionally, they make an effort to imitate the

English in their dress, and, at such times, invariably appear

ridiculous. As a class they are devoted, principally, to agriculture;

but as their opportunities for obtaining instruction are exceedingly

limited, their knowledge of the art of husbandry is precisely what it

was one hundred years ago. They seem to be entirely destitute of

enterprise, and tread in the beaten steps of their fathers. They who

live in the vicinity of Montreal and Quebec, generally supply those

markets with vegetables; but those who reside in the more obscure parts,

seem to be quite satisfied if they can only manage to raise enough off

their farms for the purpose of carrying them through the year. They are

partial to rye bread, and never consider it in a cooking condition until

it has been soured by age; and their standard dish, which they make use

of on all occasions, is a plain pea soup. The consequence is, the pea is

extensively cultivated. You seldom find a farmer who is so poor as not

to be able to sell from five to fifty bushels of wheat, and this article

he appropriates to the same use that most people do their money. Their

plough is distinguished for its rudeness, and their farming implements,

generally, would not be creditable even to a barbarous people. If an

individual happens to have a stony field, the idea does not enter his

head that he might build a fence with those very stones, and the

consequence is, that he piles them in one immense heap, in the centre of

the field, and draws his rails a distance, perhaps, of two miles. But

with all their ignorance of agriculture, the inhabitants are

sufficiently careful to make their little farms yield them all the

necessaries they require, particularly their clothing and shoes, their

candles, soap, and sugar. There are but few professional mechanics among

them, and the dwelling of the peasant is almost invariably the

production of his own individual labor. Their houses are distinguished

for pictorial beauty, always one story high, and, generally, neatly

white-washed. Their cattle are small, and, owing to their neglect in

feeding and protecting them, are exceedingly poor. Their horses are

nothing but ponies, but distinguished for their toughness. The Habitans

are partial to the luxury of riding, and their common vehicle is a rough

two-wheeled cart, and, occasionally, a calash.

The establishment which I employed for travelling in the settled parts

of Canada, was a fair specimen of the class. The cost of the horse (four

feet and a half high), was twenty dollars, and the cart (made entirely

of wood), was four dollars.—My _coachman_ was a Habitan, and, in

driving over a hilly road, on a certain day, I had a fine opportunity

for studying the conflicting traits of character which distinguish the

race. Whenever he wanted his horse to go fast, he pulled the reins with

all his might, and continued to utter a succession of horrible yells. He

invariably _ran_ his animal _up_ the hill, and deliberately _walked him

down_. When angry at his unoffending beast, he showered upon his head a

variety of oaths, which might be translated as follows: _infernal hog_,

_black toad_, and _hellish dog_; and yet when the animal was about to

drop to the ground from fatigue and heat, he would caress him, and do

everything in his power to restore the animal, and ease his own

conscience. I first employed this man to bring me to this place, and

said nothing about continuing my journey. On ascertaining, however, that

I was bound further down the St. Lawrence, he volunteered his services,

and I employed him, although he had informed his wife that he would

positively return on the night of the day he left her. I retained him in

my employ for two days, and was particularly struck with the anxiety he

manifested concerning the disappointment of his wife. He alluded to the

impropriety of his conduct at least a dozen times, and usually added,

“But you give me plenty money (it was only six dollars for taking me

forty miles), and _I will buy something pretty for my wife_, which will

make her very glad—I guess she won’t be sorry.” I asked him what it was

that he intended to purchase, and his answer was, “some ribbon, a pair

of scissors, with some needles, and a calico dress.” Who can deny that

it is pleasant to study the sunshine of the human heart “by which we

live?”

The Habitans profess the Roman Catholic religion with much zeal. Among

them, I believe, may be found many worthy Christians; but they manifest

their religious devotion in many peculiar ways. They are fond of social

intercourse, and spend a goodly portion of their time in visiting each

other. They reluctantly establish themselves beyond the sound of a

chapel bell, and I positively believe that they spend more than half of

their time in performing mass and horse racing. The Sabbath is their

great holiday, and always decidedly the noisiest day in the week. Their

general deportment, however, is inoffensive, and often highly

praiseworthy. They are seldom guilty of committing atrocious crimes, and

do not often engage in the personal conflicts which are so prevalent in

the United States. They treat all men with kindness, and in their

language and manners, are remarkably polite. The little girl, playing

with her doll in her father’s door, would think her conduct highly

improper should she omit to drop you a courtesy as you passed along; and

even the rude boy, when playing ball, or driving his team, invariably

takes off his hat to salute the traveller.

The Habitans are particularly fond of the river St. Lawrence, and their

settlements extend from Montreal, about two hundred miles along the

river on the north shore, and perhaps three hundred and fifty miles on

the southern shore. Their principal roads run parallel with the river;

are about half a mile apart, and, generally, completely lined with rural

dwellings.

The political opinions of the Habitans are extremely liberal, and not

much in accordance with the spirit of Canadian institutions. They hate

England by nature, and the advice of their priesthood, and scruple not

to declare themselves actually in love with what they call the American

Government. They complain that Englishmen treat them as if they were

slaves, while the people of the United States always hail them as

brothers. They are an unlettered race, but believe that their condition

would be much happier were they the subjects of a President, instead of

a Queen. That is a matter I consider questionable.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Grand Portage into New Brunswick—Lake Timiscouta—The

Madawaska river.

_On the Madawaska, July._

The traveller who would go from Quebec to Halifax by the recently

established government route, will have to take a steamer for one

hundred and twenty miles down the great river, and cross the Grand

Portage road, which commences at the river, Du Loup, and extends to lake

Timiscouta, a distance of thirty-six miles.

With the village of Du Loup I was well pleased. It contains about twelve

hundred inhabitants, and a more general mixture of English, Scotch and

French than is usually found in the smaller towns of Canada. The place

contains an Episcopal church, which must be looked upon as a curiosity

in this Roman Catholic country, for it is the only one, I believe, found

eastward of Quebec. The situation of the village is romantic to an

uncommon degree. It commands an extensive prospect of the St. Lawrence,

which is here upwards of twenty miles wide, and bounded, on the opposite

side, by a multitude of rugged mountains. The river is studded with

islands; and ships are constantly passing hither and thither over the

broad expanse; and when, from their great distance, all these objects

are constantly enveloped in a gauze-like atmosphere, there is a magic

influence in the scenery. The principal attraction is a water-fall,

about a mile in the rear of the village. At this point the waters of the

rapid and beautiful Du Loup dance joyously over a rocky bed, until they

reach a picturesque precipice of perhaps eighty or a hundred feet, over

which they dash in a sheet of foam, and, after forming an extensive and

shadowy pool, glide onward, through a pleasant meadow, until they mingle

with the waters of the St. Lawrence. But, as I intend to take you over

the Grand Portage, it is time that we should be off. The first ten miles

of this road are dotted with the box-looking houses of the Canadian

peasantry; but the rest of the route leads you up mountains and down

valleys as wild and desolate as when first created. The principal trees

of the forest are pine, spruce and hemlock, and the foundation of the

country seems to be granite. This region is watered by many sparkling

streams, which contain trout in great abundance. The only curiosity on

the road is of a geological character, and struck me as something

remarkable. Crossing the road, and running in a northerly direction, and

extending to the width of about two miles, is a singular bed of granite

boulders. The rocks are of every size and form, and while, from a

portion of them, rises a scanty vegetation, other portions are destitute

of even the common moss. In looking upon this region, the idea struck me

that I was passing through the bed of what once was a mighty river, but

whose fountains have become forever dry. This is only one, however, of

the unnumbered wonders of the world which are constantly appearing to

puzzle the philosophy of man. In passing over the Grand Portage, the

traveller has to resort to a conveyance which presents a striking

contrast with the usual national works of her ladyship, the Queen. It is

the same establishment which conveys the Royal Mail from Quebec to

Halifax, and consists of a common Canadian cart, a miserable Canadian

pony, and a yet more miserable Canadian driver. Such is the way they

order things in Canada, which, I fancy, is not exactly the way they do

in France. The Grand Portage road itself is all that one could desire,

and as there is a good deal of summer and winter travelling upon it, it

is surprising that the Government cannot afford a more comfortable

conveyance. But this recently “Disputed Territory,” owing to nobody’s

fault but the actual settlers, seems to be destitute of everything

desirable, and I know not but we ought to rejoice that Lord Ashburton

concluded the late treaty in the manner he did.

The eastern termination of the Grand Portage road is at Lake Timiscouta,

where is located a pleasant hamlet of Canadians, and a picketed fort,

which is now abandoned. The views from this spot are unique and

exceedingly beautiful, particularly a western view of the lake, when

glowing beneath the rays of the setting sun. The Indian word Timiscouta

signifies the _winding water_, and accurately describes the lake, which

has a serpentine course, is twenty-four miles long, and from two to

three wide. Excepting the cluster of houses already mentioned, there is

not a single cabin on the whole lake, and the surrounding mountains,

which are perhaps a thousand feet high, are the home of solitude and

silence. The only vessels that navigate the Lake are Indian canoes,

paddled by Canadians. Not only does the isolated settlers depend upon

them for the transportation of provisions, but even the English

nobleman, when travelling in this region, finds it necessary to sit like

a tailor in their straw-covered bottoms.

The only outlet to Lake Timiscouta is the Madawaska River, which is but

a contraction of the same water, but reduced to the width of a stone’s

throw, and leading to the St. John’s, a distance of some forty miles.

The meaning of Madawaska, as I am informed, is _never frozen_, and the

river obtained this name from the fact that certain portions, on account

of the current, are never ice-bound. The scenery of the river is

precisely similar to that of its parent lake, only that it is a little

cultivated. The waters of both are clear, but not very deep or cold.

They abound in fish, of which the common trout, the perch, and pickerel

(not pike), are the more valuable varieties.

The manner in which I sailed through Timiscouta and Madawaska, was

exceedingly pleasant, if not peculiar and ridiculous. My canoe was

manned by a couple of barbarous Canadians, and while they occupied the

extreme stern and bow, I was allowed the “largest liberty” in the body

thereof. It was an exceedingly hot day when I passed through, and having

stripped myself of nearly all my clothing, I rolled about at my own

sweet will, not only for the purpose of keeping cool, but that I might

do a good business in the way of killing time. At one moment I was

dipping my feet and hands in the water, humming a lightsome tune of

yore, and anon sketching the portrait of a mountain or a group of trees.

Now I lay flat upon my back, and while I watched the fantastic movements

of the clouds, as they crossed the blue of heaven, I attended to the

comforts of the inner man by sucking maple-sugar. Now I called upon the

boat-men to sing me a song, and, while they complied with my request, I

fixed myself in the poetical attitude of a Turk, and smoked a cigar. At

one time, we halted at a mountain spring, to obtain a refreshing drink,

and at another, the men pulled up to some rocky point, that I might have

the pleasure of throwing the fly. Thus vagabondizing, “pleasantly the

days of Thalaba went by.”

My voyage down the Madawaska was not without a characteristic incident.

There was quite a fleet of canoes descending at the same time, some of

them laden with women and babies, and some with furs, tin-kettles, and

the knapsacks of home-bound lumbermen. Two of the canoes were managed by

a Canadian and a Scotchman, who seemed to cherish a deeply-rooted

passion for racing. They paddled a number of heats, and as they were

alternately beaten, they both, finally, became angry, and began to bet

quite extravagantly. The conclusion of the whole matter was that they

went ashore on a bushy point among the mountains, and settled their

difficulty by a “private fight.” They fought, “like brave men, long and

well,” and by the time one had a tooth knocked out of his head, and the

other had nearly lost an eye, they separated, and quietly resumed their

way. These were the only wild animals that I saw in the Madawaska

wilderness.

CHAPTER XIX.

The Acadians.

_Mouth of the Madawaska, July._

At the junction of the river Madawaska and St. John, and extending for

some miles down the latter, is a settlement of about three hundred

Acadians. How these people came by the name they bear, I do not exactly

understand, but of their history, I remember the following particulars.

In the year 1755, during the existence of the colonial difficulties

between England and France, there existed, in a remote section of Nova

Scotia, about fifteen thousand Acadians. Aristocratic French blood

flowed in their veins, and they were a peaceful and industrious race of

husbandmen. Even after the government of England had become established

in Canada, they cherished a secret attachment for the laws of their

native country. But this was only a feeling, and they continued in the

peaceful cultivation of their lands. In process of time, however, three

titled Englishmen, named Lawrence, Boscawan and Moysten, held a council

and formed the hard-hearted determination of driving this people from

their homes, and scattering them to the four quarters of the globe.

Playing the part of friends, this brotherhood of conquerors and heroes

sent word to the Acadians that they must all meet at a certain place, on

business which deeply concerned their welfare. Not dreaming of their

impending fate, the poor Acadians met at the appointed place, and were

there informed of the fact that their houses and lands were forfeited,

and that they must leave the country to become wanderers in strange and

distant lands. They sued for mercy, but the iron yoke of a Christian

nation was laid more heavily upon their necks, in answer to that prayer,

and they were driven from home and country, and as they sailed from

shore, or entered the wilderness, they saw in the distance, ascending to

Heaven, the smoke of all they had loved and lost. Those who survived,

found an asylum in the United States, and in the more remote portions of

the British empire, and when, after the war, they were invited to return

to their early homes, only thirteen hundred were known to be in

existence. It is a remnant of this very people who, with their

descendants, are now the owners of the Madawaska settlement, and it is

in an Acadian dwelling that I am now penning this chapter. But owing to

their many misfortunes, (I would speak in charity,) the Acadians have

degenerated into a more ignorant and miserable people than are the

Canadian French, whom they closely resemble in their appearance and

customs. They believe the people of Canada to be a nation of knaves, and

the people of Canada know them to be a half savage community.

Worshipping a miserable priesthood, is their principal business;

drinking and cheating their neighbors, their principal amusement. They

live by tilling the soil, and are content if they can barely make the

provision of one year take them to the entrance of another. They are, at

the same time, passionate lovers of money, and have brought the science

of fleecing strangers to perfection. Some of them by a life of meanness

have succeeded in accumulating a respectable property; but all the money

they obtain is systematically hoarded. It is reported of the principal

man of this place that he has in his house, at the present moment, the

sum of ten thousand dollars, in silver and gold, and yet this man’s

children are as ignorant of the alphabet as the cattle upon the hills.

But with all their ignorance, the Acadians are a happy people, though it

is the happiness of a mere animal nature.

The scenery of this place, which does not seem to possess a name, is

quite agreeable, but its attractive features are of an architectural

character. The first is a block house, and the second a Catholic church.

The block house occupies the summit of a commanding and rocky knoll, and

was built at a cost of near five thousand dollars, for the purpose of

defending this portion of New Brunswick, during the existence of the

late boundary difficulty. The edifice is built of stone and timber, and

may be described as a square box, placed upon another and large one in a

triangular fashion; the width may be thirty feet, and the height one

hundred and fifty. It is well supplied with port holes, entered by a

wooden flight of stairs, and covered with a tin roof. It contains two

stores, besides a well-filled magazine. It is abundantly supplied with

guns and cannon, and almost every variety of shot, shells and balls. It

was once occupied by three military companies, (about all that it would

possibly hold;) but the only human being who now has anything to do with

it, is a worthy man, who officiates as keeper. The panorama which this

fortress overlooks, is exceedingly picturesque, embracing both the

valley of the Madawaska and that of St. John, which fade away amid a

multitude of wild and uncultivated mountains. When I first looked upon

this block house, it struck me as being a most ridiculous affair, but on

further examination, I became convinced that it could not be taken

without the shedding of much blood.

Of the church to which I alluded, I have only to remark that it is a

very small, and, apparently, a venerable structure, built of wood,

painted yellow, with a red steeple. It is pleasantly located, amid a

cluster of rude cabins, on the margin of the St. John, and in the

immediate vicinity of a race course. It was my fate to spend a Sabbath

in this Madawaska settlement. As a matter of course, I attended church.

The congregation was large, and composed entirely of Acadians; decked

out in the most ridiculous gewgawish dresses imaginable. I noticed

nothing extraordinary on the occasion, only that at the threshold of the

church, was a kind of stand, where a woman was selling sausages and

small beer. The services were read in Latin, and a sermon preached in

French, which contained nothing but the most common-place advice, and

that all of a secular character. At the conclusion of the service, the

male portion of the congregation gradually collected together on the

neighboring green, and the afternoon was devoted to horse racing, the

swiftest horse belonging to the loudest talker, and heaviest stake

planter, and that man was—a disciple of the Pope, and the identical

priest whom I had heard preach in the morning. It will be hard for you

to believe this, but I have written the truth, as well as my last line

about the Acadian settlement on the Madawaska.

CHAPTER XX.

Sail down the Madawaska—The Falls of the St. John.

_Falls of the St. John, July._

In coming to this place, from the North, the traveller finds it

necessary to descend the river St. John in a canoe. The distance from

Madawaska is thirty-six miles, and the day that I passed down was

delightful in the extreme. My canoe was only about fifteen feet long,

but my voyageur was an expert and faithful man, and we performed the

trip without the slightest accident.

The valley of this portion of the river is mountainous, and its

immediate banks vary from fifteen to thirty feet in height. The water is

very clear and rapid, but of a brownish color, and quite warm, varying

in depth from three to thirty feet, and the width is about a quarter of

a mile. That portion of the stream (say some seventy miles of its

source), which belongs exclusively to the United States, runs through a

fertile and beautiful country, abounds in water-falls and rapids, and is

yet a wilderness. That portion which divides the United States from New

Brunswick is somewhat cultivated, but principally by a French

population. Owing to the fact that the farms all face the river, and are

very narrow, (but extend back to the distance of two or three miles,)

the houses have all been erected immediately on the river, so that, to

the casual observer, the country might appear to be thickly inhabited,

which is far from being the case. The principal business done on the

river is the driving of logs and timber for the market of St. John; and

excepting the worthy and hard-working lumbermen who toil in the forests,

the people are devoted to the tilling of their land, and are precisely

similar to the Acadians in their manners and customs, and probably from

the same stock. There is a miniature steamboat on the river, but as the

unnumbered canoes of the inhabitants are engaged in a kind of opposition

line, the fiery little craft would seem to have a hard time. In

navigating the river the voyageurs paddle down stream, but use a pole in

ascending; and two smart men, gracefully swinging their poles, and

sending their little vessel rapidly against the current, taken in

connection with the pleasant scenery of the river, present an agreeable

and novel sight.

We started from Madawaska at four o’clock in the morning, and having

travelled some twenty miles, we thought we would stop at the first

nice-looking tavern on the shore, (for about every other dwelling is

well supplied with liquor, and, consequently, considered a tavern,) for

the purpose of obtaining a breakfast. Carefully did we haul up our

canoe, and having knocked at the cabin door, were warmly welcomed by a

savage-looking man, whose face was completely besmeared with dirt, and

also by a dirty-looking woman, a couple of dirty-legged girls, and a

young boy. The only furniture in the room was a bed, and a small

cupboard, while the fire-place was without a particle of fire. In one

corner of the room was a kind of bar, where the boy was in attendance,

and seemed to be the spokesman of the dwelling. We asked him if we could

have some breakfast, and he promptly replied that we could.

“What can you give us?” was my next question.

“Anything you please,” replied the boy, in broken English.

“We’ll take some ham and eggs, then.”

“We haven’t any, only some eggs.”

“We’ll take some bread and milk.”

“We haven’t any bread, but plenty of milk.”

“Haven’t you any kind of meat?”

“_No, plenty of_ RUM. _What’ll you have?_”

I could stand this no longer, and having expressed my displeasure at the

ignorance of the boy, and condemned his father for pretending to keep a

tavern, I gave the former a sixpence, and took half a dozen eggs, with

which we returned to our canoe. While I was fixing my seat in the boat,

and commenting upon wilderness hospitality, my companion amused himself

by swallowing four of the purchased eggs in a leather cup of brandy. In

two hours after this little adventure, our little canoe was moored above

the Falls of the St. John, and we were enjoying a first-rate breakfast,

prepared by the lady of a Mr. Russell, who keeps a comfortable house of

entertainment in this place.

After I had finished my cigar, and enjoyed a resting spell, I pocketed

my sketch-book, and spent the entire day examining the scenery of the

Falls. After making a broad and beautiful sweep, the river St. John here

makes a sudden turn, and, becoming contracted to the width of about

fifty yards, the waters make a plunge of perhaps forty feet, which is

mostly in a solid mass, though rather disposed to form the third of a

circle from shore to shore. Below this pitch, and extending for about

two miles, is a continued succession of falls, which make the entire

descent upwards of eighty feet. The water rushes through what might be

termed a winding chasm, whose walls are perhaps one hundred and fifty or

two hundred feet high, and perpendicular. Generally speaking, the entire

distance from the first fall to the last, presents a perfect sheet of

foam, though around every jutting point is a black, and, apparently,

bottomless pool, which, when I peered into them, were quite alive with

salmon, leaping into the air, or swimming on the margin of the foam. On

the western side of the falls, to a great extent, the original forest

has been suffered to remain, and a walk through their shadowy recesses

is an uncommon treat; and on this side, also, is the ruin of an old

saw-mill, which, for a wonder, actually adds to the picturesque beauty

of the spot. On the eastern side of the falls is a commanding hill,

which has been stripped of its forest, and now presents a stump field,

of three hundred acres. It is a desolate spot, but in strict keeping

with the enterprise of the province. The expense of clearing, or,

rather, half clearing, the hill in question, was six thousand dollars,

and it was the original intention of the mother government to erect

thereon an extensive fortress; but owing to the birth of a sensible

reflection, the idea was abandoned. The barracks of the place, as they

now exist, consist of two log houses, which are occupied by a dozen

sprigs of the British Army. And thus endeth my account of the most

picturesque spot in New Brunswick, which, I doubt not, may hereafter

become a fashionable place of summer resort.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Hermit of Aroostook.

_Mouth of the Aroostook, July._