Up these black waters, over a hundred miles--always strong, deep,
(hundreds of feet, sometimes thousands,) ever with high, rocky hills for
banks, green and gray--at times a little like some parts of the Hudson,
but much more pronounc'd and defiant. The hills rise higher--keep their
ranks more unbroken. The river is straighter and of more resolute flow,
and its hue, though dark as ink, exquisitely polish'd and sheeny
under the August sun. Different, indeed, this Saguenay from all other
rivers--different effects--a bolder, more vehement play of lights
and shades. Of a rare charm of singleness and simplicity. (Like the
organ-chant at midnight from the old Spanish convent, in "Favorita"--one
strain only, simple and monotonous and unornamented--but indescribably
penetrating and grand and masterful.) Great place for echoes: while
our steamer was tied at the wharf at Tadousac (taj-oo-sac) waiting, the
escape-pipe letting off steam, I was sure I heard a band at the hotel up
in the rocks--could even make out some of the tunes. Only when our pipe
stopp'd, I knew what caused it. Then at cape Eternity and Trinity rock,
the pilot with his whistle producing similar marvellous results, echoes
indescribably weird, as we lay off in the still bay under their shadows.