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 colour, 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 waterfalls 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 and 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 steam-boat 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 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 milk, 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 havn’t any, only some eggs.”
“We’ll take some bread and milk.”
“We havn’t any bread, but plenty of milk.”
“Havn’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
forms 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.
[Illustration: FALLS OF ST. JOHN.]
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 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.