WESTERN NEWFOUNDLAND.—THE BAY, THE ISLANDS, AND THE HIGHLANDS
OF ST. JOHNS.—INGORNACHOIX BAY.
NEWFOUNDLAND now lifts its blue summits along the southeast sky, a kind
of Catskill heights, with here and there patches of snow, that recall to
mind the White Mountain House. In the course of the afternoon, we pass
them, and find that they are the highlands of St. Johns, the loftiest, I
believe, in the island, and bound the bay called by the same lovely
name.
What a region for romantic excursion! Yonder are wooded mountains with a
sleepy atmosphere, and attractive vales, and a fine river, the river
Castor, flowing from a country almost unexplored; and here are green
isles spotting the sea—the islands of St. Johns. Behind them is an
expanse of water, alive with fish and fowl, the extremes of which are
lost in the deep, untroubled wilderness. A month would not suffice to
find out and enjoy its manifold and picturesque beauties, through which
wind the deserted trails of the Red Indian, now extinct or banished. Why
they should have left, with all these unappropriated breadths of
solitude for their inheritance, I do not precisely understand. There are
mournful tales told of their wrongs and their revenges, the old story of
contests between the civilized and the savage.
Yonder, at the termination of the highlands, is a cape, no matter what
is its French name, since directly behind it is a bay with an Indian
name tough enough to last one round a dozen capes—the Bay of
Ingornachoix, noted for its harbors, inlets, and pretty streams, another
fine region for the summer tourist. Beyond the woody distances rising in
the east, there lies a lengthy lake, the centre of a little world of
interest to the lovers of nature and the picturesque. It is no great
distance across the island here to the shores of White Bay, a remote
expanse of waters, to which few but fishermen have any occasion to
penetrate.
As the evening advances the wind strengthens, and bears us rapidly along
the coast. Thus we are encircling Newfoundland, and finding spots of
beauty, to which, if we may not return ourselves, we can direct others
of like taste and sentiment. We come down from the cold air, and from
looking at a fine aurora now playing in the skies, and gleaming by
reflection in the waves, and sit by the cabin lights, and talk and
write, inspect the sketches, and listen to the roar of winds and
surges—rather melancholy music.