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 record
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 damp my spirits, and I had to
content myself by 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 first 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 favoured 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 fade
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. Laurent, 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, the
quarantine station for the shipping of the river is situated; 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 yet covered with forest; the channels on either side
are not far from five miles wide, and it is distant about fifty miles
from Quebec.
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 very luxuriant, the common hard woods of the north prevailing;
but its foundation seemed to be composed of two distinct species of
sandstone. 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 sandstones, and at one point they extend so nearly across the
river as to render the ship navigation extremely dangerous. On
subsequently examining the high hills on the north shore, in this
vicinity, 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 intended
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 mountain: 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 colour,
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 that 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 point 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 unwieldly 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-fish immediately beat a retreat.
After awhile, however, the whale resolved 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.