mile below Suspension Bridge. Photographically considered, this is not
nearly of so much interest as the Falls; but it is highly interesting,
nevertheless, as a connecting link between their present and past
history. It is supposed that ages ago--probably before the word went
forth, "Let there _be_ light, and there _was_ light"--the Falls were as
low down as the Whirlpool, a distance of over three miles below where
they now are, or even lower down the river still. Geological observation
almost proves this; and, that the present Whirlpool was once the great
basin into which the Falls tumbled. In fact, that this was, in former
ages, what the vortex at the foot of the Great Horse Shoe Fall is now.
There seems to be no doubt whatever that the Falls are gradually though
slowly receding, and they were just as likely to have been at the foot
of the Long Rapids before the deluge, as not; especially when it is
considered that the general aspect of the Falls has changed
considerably, by gradual undermining of the soft shale and frequent
falling and settling of the harder rocks during the last fifty years.
Looking at the high and precipitous boundaries of the Long Rapids, it is
difficult to come to any other conclusion than that, ages before the
red man ever saw the Falls of Niagara, they rolled over a precipice
between these rocky barriers in a more compact, but not less majestic
body. The same vast quantity of water had to force its way through this
narrower outlet, and it doubtless had a much greater distance to fall,
for the precipices on each side of the river at this point are nearly
250 feet high, and the width of the gorge for a mile above and below the
Whirlpool is not more than 700 feet. Considering that the Falls are now
spread over an area of nearly three-quarters of a mile, and that this is
the only outlet for all the superfluous waters of the great inland seas
of Canada and America--Lakes Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie--and
the hundreds of tributaries thereto, it may easily be conceived how
great the rush of waters through so narrow a defile must necessarily be;
their turbulence and impatience rather aptly reminding you of a spoilt
child--not in size or form, but in behaviour. They have so long had
their own way, and done as they liked on the upper river and at the
Falls, they seem as if they could not brook the restraint put upon them
now by the giant rocks and lofty precipices that stand erect, on either
side, hurling them back defiantly in tumultuous waves, seething, and
hissing, and roaring in anger, lashing themselves into foam, and
swelling with rage, higher in the middle, as if they sought an
unpolluted way to the lake below, where they might calm their angry and
resentful passions, and lay their chafed heads on the soft and gently
heaving bosom of their lovely sister Ontario. It is a remarkable
circumstance that the waters of the Rapids, both above and below the
Whirlpool, in this defile are actually higher in the middle, by eight or
nine feet, than at the sides, as if the space afforded them by their
stern sentinels on each side were not enough to allow them to pass
through in order and on a level. They seem to come down the upper part
of the gorge like a surging and panic-stricken multitude, until they are
stopped for a time by the gigantic precipice forming the lower boundary
of the Whirlpool, which throws them back, and there they remain whirling
and whirling about until they get away by an under current from the
vortex; and, rising again in the lower part of the gorge, which runs off
at right angles to the upper, they again show their angry heads, and
rush madly and tumultuously away towards Lake Ontario. The bed of these
rapids must be fearfully rugged, or the surface of the waters could not
possibly be in such a broken state, for the water is at least 100 feet
deep, by measurement made above and below the Rapids. But nobody has
ventured to "heave the lead" either in the Rapids themselves or in the
Whirlpool, the depth of which is not known. There is not much
picturesque beauty at this point. Indeed, the Whirlpool itself is rather
of a fearful and horrible character, with little to see but the mad
torrent struggling and writhing in the most furious manner, to force its
way down between its rocky boundaries. I saw logs of wood and other
"wreck," probably portions of canal boats that had come down the river
and been swept over the Falls, whirling around but not coming to the
centre. When they are seen to get to the vortex they are tipped up
almost perpendicularly and then vanish from sight, at last released from
their continually diminishing and circular imprisonment. It has
sometimes happened that the dead bodies of people drowned in the upper
part of the river have been seen whirling about in this frightful pool
for many days. In 1841, three soldiers, deserters from the British army,
attempting to swim across the river above these rapids, were drowned.
Their bodies were carried down to the Whirlpool, where they were seen
whirling about for nearly a fortnight. Leaving _this_ gloomy and
soul-depressing locality we proceeded for about half a mile further down
the river, and visited that frightful chasm called Devil's Hole, or
Bloody Run. The former name it takes from a horrible deed of fiendish
and savage ferocity that was committed there by the Indians, and the
latter name from the circumstance of that deed causing a stream of
human blood to run through the ravine and mingle with the fierce water
of the Rapids. Exactly one hundred years ago, during the French and
Canadian wars, a party of 250 officers, men, women, and children, were
retreating from Fort Schlosser, on the Upper Niagara River, and, being
decoyed into an ambush, were driven over into this dreadful chasm, and
fell to the bottom, a distance of nearly 200 feet. Only two escaped. A
drummer was caught by one of the trees growing on the side of the
precipice, and the other, a soldier named Steadman, escaped during the
conflict, at the commencement of the treacherous onslaught. He was
mounted, and the Indians surrounding him, seized the bridle, and were
attempting to drag him off his horse; but, cutting the reins, and giving
his charger the "rowels deep," the animal dashed forward, and carried
him back in safety to Fort Schlosser. The Indians afterwards gave him
all the land he encircled in his flight, and he took up his abode among
them. In after years he put the goats on Goat Island--hence its name--by
dropping carefully down the middle of the upper stream in a boat. After
landing the goats he returned to the mainland, pushing his boat up the
stream where the Rapids divide, until he reached safe water. The events
of the foregoing episode occurred in 1765, and it is to be hoped that
the Indians were the chief instigators and perpetrators of the massacre
of Bloody Run.
While we were looking about the chasm to see if there were any fossil
remains in the place, an unlooked-for incident occurred. I saw two men
coming up from the bottom of the ravine carrying _fish_--and the oddest
fish and the whitest fish I ever saw. The idea of anyone fishing in
those headlong rapids had never occurred to us; but probably these men
knew some _fissures_ in the rocks where the waters were quiet, and where
the fish put into as a place of refuge from the stormy waters into which
they had been drawn. No wonder the poor finny creatures were white, for
I should think they had been frightened almost out of their lives
before they were seized by their captors. I don't think I should have
liked to have partaken of the meal they furnished, for they were very
"shy-an'-hide" looking fishes. But soon we were obliged to give up both
our geological studies and piscatorial speculations, for black clouds
were gathering overhead, shutting off the light, and making the dark
ravine too gloomy to induce us to prolong our stay in that fearful
chasm, with its melancholy associations of dark deeds of bloodshed and
wholesale murder. Before we gained the road the rain came down, the
lightning flashed, and the thunder clapped, reverberating sharp and loud
from the rocks above, and we hurried away from the dismal place. On
reaching the landing stage, we took refuge from the storm and rain by
again going on board the _Maid of the Mist_. She soon started on her
last trip for the day, and we reached our hotel, glad to get out of a
"positive bath," and indulge in a "toning mixture" of alcohol, sugar,
and _warm_ water. We had no "_gold_" but our "paper" being _good_, we
did not require any.
After a delightful sojourn of three weeks at the Falls, and visiting
many other places of minor interest in their neighbourhood, I bade adieu
to the kind friends I had made and met, with many pleasant recollections
of their kindness, and a never-to-be-forgotten remembrance of the charms
and beauties, mysteries and majesty, power and grandeur, and terror and
sublimity of Niagara.--_Photographic News_, 1865.
PICTURES OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.
Taken in Autumn.
Photographs of the River St. Lawrence conveying an adequate idea of its
extent and varied aspects, could not be taken in a week, a month, or a
year. It is only possible in this sketch to call attention to the most
novel and striking features of this great and interesting river, passing
them hurriedly, as I did, in the "express boat," by which I sailed from
the Niagara River to Montreal. Lake Ontario being the great head waters
of the St. Lawrence, and the natural connection between that river and
Niagara, I shall endeavour to illustrate, with pen and pencil, my sail
down the Niagara River, Lake Ontario, and the St. Lawrence. Stepping on
board the steamer lying at Lewiston, seven miles below Niagara, and
bound for Montreal, I went to the "clerk's office," paid seven and
a half dollars--about thirty shillings sterling--and secured my bed,
board, and passage for the trip, the above small sum being all that is
charged for a first-class passage on board those magnificent steamers. I
don't remember the name of "our boat," but that is of very little
consequence, though I dare say it was the _Fulton_, that being in
steamboat nomenclature what "Washington" is to men, cities, and towns,
and even territory, in America. But she was a splendid vessel,
nevertheless, with a handsome dining saloon, a fine upper saloon running
the whole length of the upper deck, about two hundred feet, an elegant
"ladies' saloon," a stateroom cabin as well, and a powerful "walking
engine." "All aboard," and "let go;" splash went the paddle-wheels, and
we moved off majestically, going slowly down the river until we passed
Fort Niagara on the American side, and Fort George on the British, at
the foot of the river, and near the entrance to the Lake. On Fort
Niagara the "Star Spangled Banner" was floating, its bright blue field
blending with the clear blue sky of an autumn afternoon, its starry
representatives of each State shining like stars in the deep blue vault
of heaven, its red and white bars, thirteen in number, as pure in colour
as the white clouds and crimson streaks of the west. The mingled crosses
of St. Andrew and St. George were waving proudly over the fort opposite.
Brave old flag, long may you wave! These forts played their respective
parts amidst the din of battle during the wars of 1812 and 1813; but
with these we have neither time nor inclination to deal; we, like the
waters of the Niagara, are in a hurry to reach the bosom of Lake
Ontario. Passing the forts, we were soon on the expanse of waters, and
being fairly "at sea," we began to settle ourselves and "take stock," as
it were, of our fellow travellers. It is useless to describe the aspect
of the Lake; I might as well describe the German Ocean, for I could not
see much difference between that and Lake Ontario, except that I could
not sniff the iodine from the weeds drying in the sun while we "hugged
the shore," or taste salt air after we were out in mid ocean--"the land
is no longer in view."
To be at sea is to be at sea, no matter whether it is on a fresh water
ocean or a salt one. The sights, the sensations, and consequences are
much the same. There, a ship or two in full sail; here, a passenger or
two, of both sexes, with the "wind taken out of their sails." The "old
salts" or "old freshes" behave themselves much as usual, and so do the
"green" ones of both atmospheres--the latter by preparing for a "bath"
of perspiration and throwing everything down the "sink," or into the
sea; and the former by picking out companions for the voyage. Being
myself an "old salt," and tumbling in with one or two of a "fellow
feeling wondrous kind," we were soon on as good terms as if we had known
each other for years. After "supper," a sumptuous repast at 6 p.m., we
went on to the "hurricane deck" to enjoy the calm and pleasant evening
outside. There was a "gentle swell" on the Lake--not much, but enough to
upset a few. After dark, we went into the "ladies' cabin"--an elegant
saloon, beautifully furnished, and not without a grand piano, where the
"old freshes" of the softer sex--young and pretty ones too--were amusing
themselves with playing and singing. An impromptu concert was soon
formed, and a few very good pieces of music well played and sung. All
went off very well while nothing but English, or, I should more properly
say, American and Canadian, were sung, but one young lady,
unfortunately, essayed one of the sweetest and most plaintive of Scotch
songs--"Annie Laurie." Now fancy the love-sick "callant" for the sake of
Annie Laurie lying down to _die_; just fancy Annie Laurie without the
Scotch; only fancy Annie Laurie in a sort of mixture of Canadianisms and
Americanisms; fancy "toddy" without the whisky, and you have some idea
of "Annie Laurie" as sung on board the _Fulton_ while splashing away on
Lake Ontario, somewhere between America and Canada. There being little
more to induce us to remain there, and by the ship's regulations it was
getting near the time for "all lights out" in the cabins, we took an
early "turn in," with the view of making an early "turn-out," so as to
be alive and about when we should enter the St. Lawrence, which we did
at 6 o'clock a.m., on a fine bright morning, the sun just rising to
light up and "heighten" all the glorious tints of the trees on the
Thousand and One Islands, among which we were now sailing.
It is impossible to form a correct idea of the width of the St. Lawrence
at the head of the river. The islands are so large and numerous, it is
difficult to come to a conclusion whether you are on a river or on a
lake. Many of these islands are thickly wooded, so that they look more
like the mainland on each side of you as the steamer glides down "mid
channel" between them. The various and brilliant tints of the foliage of
the trees of America in autumn are gorgeous, such as never can be seen
in this country; and their "chromotones" present an insurmountable
difficulty to a photographer with his double achromatic lens and camera.
Imagine our oaks clothed with leaves possessing all the varieties of red
tints, from brilliant carmine down to burnt sienna--the brightest copper
bays that grow in England are cool in tone compared with them; fancy our
beeches, birches, and ashes thick with leaves of a bright yellow colour,
from gamboge down to yellow ochre; our pines, firs, larches, and
spruces, carrying all the varieties of green, from emerald down to terra
verte; in fact, all the tints that are, can be seen on the trees when
they are going into "the sere and yellow leaf" of autumn, excepting
_blue_, and even that is supplied by the bluebirds (Sialia wilsonii)
flitting about among the leaves, and in the deep cool tint of the sky,
repeated and blended with the reflection of the many-coloured trees in
the calm, still water of the river. Some of the trees--the maples, for
instance--exhibit in themselves, most vividly, the brightest shades of
red, green, and yellow; but when the wind blows these resplendent
colours about, the atmosphere is like a mammoth kaleidoscope that is
never allowed to rest long enough to present to the eye a symmetrical
figure or pattern, a perfect chaos of the most vivid and brilliant
colours too gorgeous to depict. Long before this we had got clear of the
islands at the foot of the lake and head of the river, and were steaming
swiftly down the broad St. Lawrence. It is difficult to say how broad,
but it varied from three to five or six miles in width; indeed, the
river very much resembles the Balloch End, which is the broadest of
Lochlomond; and some of the passages between the islands are very
similar to the straits between the "Pass of Balmaha" and the island of
Inchcailliach. The river is not hemmed in with such mountains as Ben
Lomond and Ben Dhu, but, in many respects, the St. Lawrence very much
resembles parts of our widest lakes, Lochlomond and Windermere. Having
enjoyed the sight of the bright, beautiful scenery and the fresh morning
air for a couple of hours, we were summoned to breakfast by the sound of
the steward's "Big Ben." Descending to the lower cabin, we seated
ourselves at the breakfast table, and partook of a most hearty meal. All
the meals on board these steamers are served in the most sumptuous
style. During the repast some talked politics, some dollars and cents,
others were speculating on how we should get down the Rapids, and when
we should make them. Among the latter was myself, for I had seen rapids
which I had not the slightest desire to be in or on; and, what sort of
rapids we were coming to was of some importance to all who had not been
on them. But everybody seemed anxious to be "on deck," and again "look
out" for the quickening of the stream, or when the first "white
lippers," should give indication of their whereabouts. My fellow
passengers were from all parts of the Union; the Yankee "guessed," the
Southerner "reckoned," and the Western man "calculated" we should soon
be among the "jumpers." Each one every now and then strained his eyes
"ahead," down stream, to see if he could descry "broken water." At last
an old river-man sung out, "There they are." There are the Longue Sault
Rapids, the first we reach. Having plenty of "daylight," we did not feel
much anxiety as we neared them, which we quickly did, for "the stream
runs fast." We were soon among the jumping waters, and it is somewhat
difficult to describe the sensation, somewhat difficult to find a
comparison of a suitable character. It is not like being at sea in a
ship in a "dead calm." The vessel does not "roll" with such solemn
dignity, nor does she "pitch" and rise again so buoyantly as an Atlantic
steamer (strange enough, I once crossed the Atlantic in the steamship
_Niagara_), as she ploughs her way westward or eastward in a "head
wind," and through a head sea. She rather kicks and jerks, and is let
"down a peg" or two, with a shake and a fling. Did you ever ride a
spavined horse down a hill? If so, you can form some idea of the manner
in which we were let down the Longue Sault and Cedar Rapids and the St.
Louis Cascades. One of our fellow passengers--a Scotchman--told that
somewhat _apropos_ and humorous story of the "Hielandman's" first trip
across the Firth of Forth in a "nasty sea." Feeling a little uneasy
about the stomach, and his bile being rather disturbed, the prostrate
mountaineer cried out to the man at the "tiller" to "stop tickling the
beast's tail--what was he making the animal kick that way for?" And so,
telling our stories, and cracking our jokes, we spent the time until our
swift vessel brought us to a landing, where we leave her and go on board
a smaller boat, one more suitable for the descent of the more dangerous
rapids, which we have yet to come to.
"All aboard," and away we go again as fast as steam and a strong current
can take us, passing an island here and there, a town or a village half
French and English, with a sprinkling of the Indian tribes, on the banks
of the river now and then. But by this time it is necessary to go below
again and dine. Bed, board, and travelling, are all included in the
fare, so everyone goes to dinner. There is, however, so much to see
during this delightful trip, that nobody likes to be below any longer
than can be avoided. Immediately after dinner most are on deck again,
anxious to see all that is to be seen on this magnificent river. The
sights are various and highly interesting to the mind or "objectives" of
either artist or photographer. Perhaps one of the most novel subjects
for the camera and a day's photographing would be "Life on a Raft," as
you see them drifting down the St. Lawrence. There is an immense raft--a
long, low, flat, floating island, studded with twenty or thirty sails,
and half a dozen huts, peopled with men, women, and children, the little
ones playing about as if they were on a "plank road," or in a garden. It
is "washing day," and the clean clothes are drying in the sun and
breeze--indicative of the strictest domestic economy, and scrupulous
cleanliness of those little huts, the many-coloured garments giving the
raft quite a gay appearance, as if it were decked with the "flags of all
nations." But what a life of tedious monotony it must be, drifting down
the river in this way for hundreds of miles, from the upper part of Lake
Ontario to Montreal or Quebec. How they get down the rapids of the St.
Lawrence I do not know, but I should think they run considerable risk of
being washed off; the raft seems too low in the water, and if not
extremely well fastened, might part and be broken up. We passed two or
three of these rafts, one a very large one, made up of thousands of
timbers laid across and across like warp and weft; yet the people seemed
happy enough on these "timber islands;" we passed them near enough to
see their faces and hear their voices, and I regretted I could not
"catch their shadows," or stop and have an hour or two's work among them
with the camera or the pencil; but we passed them by as if they were a
fixture in the river, and they gave us a shout of "God speed," as if
they did not envy our better pace in the least.
There is abundance of work for the camera at all times of the year on
the St. Lawrence; I have seen it in summer and autumn, and have
attempted to describe some of its attractions. And I was told that when
the river--not the rapids--is ice-bound, the banks covered with snow,
and the trees clad in icicles, they present a beautiful scene in the
sunshine. And in the spring, when the ice is breaking up, and the floes
piling high on one another, it is a splendid sight to see them coming
down, hurled about and smashed in the rapids, showing that the water in
its liquid state is by far the most powerful. But now we are coming to
the most exciting part of our voyage. The steam is shut off, the engine
motionless, the paddle-wheels are still, and we are gliding swiftly and
noiselessly down with the current. Yonder speck on the waters is the
Indian coming in his canoe to pilot us down the dangerous rapids. We
near each other, and he can now be seen paddling swiftly, and his canoe
shoots like an arrow towards us. Now he is alongside, he leaps lightly
on board, his canoe is drawn up after him, and he takes command of the
"boat." Everybody on board knows the critical moment is approaching. The
passengers gather "forward," the ladies cling to the arms of their
natural protectors, conversation is stopped, the countenances of
everyone exhibit intense excitement and anxiety, and every eye is "fixed
ahead," or oscillating between the pilot and the rushing waters which
can now be seen from the prow of the vessel. The Indian and three other
men are at the wheel in the "pilot house," holding the helm "steady,"
and we are rushing down the stream unaided by any other propelling power
than the force of the current, at a rate of twenty miles an hour. Now we
hear the rushing and plunging sound of the waters, and in a moment the
keen eye of the Indian catches sight of the land mark, which is the
signal for putting the helm "hard a port;" the wheel flies round like
lightning, and we are instantly dropped down a perpendicular fall of ten
or twelve feet, the vessel careening almost on her "beam ends," in the
midst of these wild, white waters, an immense rock or rocky island right
ahead. But that is safely "rounded," and we are again in comparatively
quiet water. The steam is turned into the cylinders, and we go on our
course in a sober, sensible, and steamboat-like fashion. When we were
safely past the rapids and round the rock, a gentleman remarked to me
that "once in a lifetime was enough of that." It was interesting to
watch the countenances of the passengers, and mark the difference of
expression before and after the passage of the rapids. Before, it was
all excitement and anxiety, mingled with a wish-it-was-over sort of
look; and all were silent. After, everybody laughed and talked, and
seemed delighted at having passed the _Lachine_ Rapids in safety; yet
most people are anxious to undergo the excitement and incur the risk and
danger of the passage. You can, if you like, leave the boat above
Lachine and proceed to Montreal by the cars, but I don't think any of
our numerous passengers ever thought of doing such a thing. As long as
ever this magnificent water way is free from ice, and the passage can be
made, it is done. I don't know that more than one accident has ever
occurred, but the risk seems considerable. There is a very great strain
on the tiller ropes, and if one of them were to "give out" at the
critical time, nothing could save the vessel from being dashed to pieces
against the "rock ahead," and scarcely a life could be saved. No one can
approach the spot except from above, and then there is no stopping to
help others; you must go with the waters, rushing madly down over and
among the rocks. The Indians often took these rapids, in their canoes,
to descend to the lower part of the St. Lawrence; and one of them
undertook to pilot the first steamer down in safety. His effort was
successful, and he secured for his tribe (the Iroquois) a charter
endowing them with the privileges and emoluments in perpetuity. I wish I
could have obtained photographic impressions of these scenes and groups,
but the only lens I could draw a "focus" with was the eye, and the only
"plate" I had ready for use was the _retina_. However, the impressions
obtained on that were so "vigorous and well-defined," I can at any
moment call them up, like "spirits from the vasty deep," and reproduce
them in my mental camera.
The remaining nine miles of the voyage were soon accomplished. Passing
the first abutment of the Victoria Bridge, which now crosses the St.
Lawrence, at this point two miles wide, we quickly reached the fine quay
and canal locks at Montreal, where we landed just as it was growing
dark, after a delightful and exciting voyage of about thirty hours'
duration, and a distance of more than four hundred miles. Quick work;
but it must be borne in mind how much our speed was accelerated by the
velocity of the current, and that the return trip by the canal, past the
rapids, cannot be performed in anything like the time.
On reaching the quay I parted with my agreeable fellow travellers, and
sought an hotel, where once more, after a long interval, I slept under a
roof over which floated the flag which every Englishman is proud of--the
Union Jack.