paddle, and was swept over the dreaded falls. As he sank in the terrible
abyss below no pitying spirits upbore him, and Death claimed him as its
own.
As we make our way back to Chicoutimi and towards the St. Lawrence, we
cannot fail to be impressed by some of the amazing features of the
Saguenay River. By actual soundings many parts of the river are over one
thousand feet in depth, and none are less than one hundred feet. In
places it is as deep five feet from the shore as in the middle of the
channel. To boat or canoe on such waters and in the midst of such
majestic and sublime surroundings is the one thrilling experience of a
lifetime. The stoutest heart must pay involuntary homage to nature when
gliding beneath boldly over-hanging masses of rock that must weigh
millions of tons.
In addition to such scenes, there are softer effects that appeal to all
lovers of the beautiful. Picture the scene when on a fine, clear day,
with just a gauzy haze on the topmost heights of the cliffs, a boat
passes out of the shadows into the full light of the beaming sun. The
blue smoke wreathing gently upwards is from an Indian encampment just
behind yon hill. Here are fine salmon leaping bodily out of the water;
above is a soaring eagle showing like a mere speck against the sun,
while on the surface of the water seals are showing their dog-like heads
and lazy porpoises are playfully spouting sparkling fountains of spray.
[Illustration: Tadousac, the Harbor]
The oldest and purest Indian dialect is that of the Montagnais, or
‘mountaineers.’ They were the original inhabitants of those sky-reaching
regions, but of late they have gradually retired in the direction of
Hudson’s Bay. Indian dialects, as a rule, are very musical, and the
manner in which Indians in general express themselves is full of poetry
and imagery. Most of the legends that have survived of these people are
grotesque in character—of the Glooscap kind. The romantic tales and
fancies will soon be lost unless some effort is made to gather and
preserve them.
But the line of the Intercolonial Railway sends a strong call from the
opposite St. Lawrence shore, and severing present connection with all
the attractions of Tadousac and the Saguenay and Lake St. John district,
Rivière du Loup is regained and the journey north-east is resumed.
A drive of between two and three miles from the railway station at
Cacouna leads to the pleasant resort of that name.
Cacouna has been called the Brighton of Canada, its bathing on smooth
beach, tennis, boating, walking and driving attracting many here to
spend the whole summer. It is a dangerous place for bachelors, so great
is the display of youth and beauty. In the words of the French-Canadian
gradually mastering the intricacies of the English language:
[Illustration]
“You can pass on de worl’ w’erever you lak,
Tak’ de steamboat for go Angleterre,
Tak’ car on de State, an’ den you come back,
An’ go all de place, I don’t care——
Ma frien’ dat’s a fack, I know you will say,
Wen you come on dis countree again,
Dere’s no girl can touch, w’at we see ev’ry day,
De nice little Canadienne.”
There are many pretty cottages of summer residents along the high and
wooded banks, and there is plenty of accommodation at the hotels and
boarding places. Pleasant excursions are enjoyed to the nearby lake in
the hills, as well as along the country and river roads, and there are
enjoyable drives to St. Arsène and St. Modeste. The view of the St.
Lawrence from the heights is very beautiful, and the air is cool and
pleasant. The sunset views enjoyed here are famous. The quiet and
enjoyable social life of Cacouna is its distinct feature.
[Illustration: BIC]
1. Bic
2. Bic Falls
3. Woodland Falls, Little Metis Beach
[Illustration: Interior of Church, Trois Pistoles]
The name of the village is Indian, and signifies ‘the turtle,’ from the
shape of the great mass of rock connected to the mainland here by a low
isthmus.
Passing Isle Verte, the old village of Trois Pistoles is reached. A very
pretty fishing-river, with tributaries, is here; and summer cottages
have been built for the enjoyment of the fine scenery and good air. A
beautiful church interior may be seen in this quiet village. The church
is near the centre of the village and is known as Notre Dame des Neiges,
or ‘Our Lady of the Snows.’ To see it is worth a trip of hundreds of
miles. The village itself is quaint, and full of old-time atmosphere.
Who was it exclaimed, “I wish I were Queen of Bic!” and in that short
sentence expressed a just appreciation of all the beauties in which this
district abounds? Along Alpine heights the Intercolonial Railway takes
its way, and the approach, far and near, is exquisite for the varied and
magnificent panorama of scenery. At one point the train threads a
mountain gorge hundreds of feet in the air, and, as it winds along, most
charming kaleidoscopic effects are displayed to the admiring gaze.
Long years ago an old inn existed by the wayside, in connection with
which gruesome tales are told of travellers and their strange
disappearance. The village was originally known as Pic. Jacques Carrier
entered and named the harbor Islet St. Jean. At one time it was intended
to make it a harbor for French war vessels, and to make it a grand
outpost in the general scheme for the defense of Quebec. A long wharf
into deep water is now under construction.
Bic is just the place for those who do not care for town life at the
shore. The village is very interesting and well situated, and there are
many good walks through varied and picturesque country. The land-locked
bay is very pleasant at high tide. At the outlet there is a wharf and a
cluster of summer cottages. The new wharf for steamers of deep draught
leads right under frowning cliffs, the points of which have been blasted
away to give room for the new construction. Here the general scene is
bold and striking, and the water view is very pleasing. The cottages are
well placed for those who would enjoy a quiet vacation amidst pleasant
surroundings.
Hattee Bay nearby has a fine stretch of sand, with a few bungalows on
the overlooking heights.
A story of massacre has caused one of the Bic islands to be named
‘L’Islet au Massacre,’ or Massacre Island, from a terrible deed of blood
that took place in a cave there. It is related by M. Tachê in the
‘Soirées Canadiennes’:—Two hundred Micmac Indians were camping there for
the night; the canoes had been beached and a neighboring recess or
cavern in the lofty rocks which bound the coast offered an apparently
secure asylum to the warriors, their squaws and papooses. Wrapped in
sleep, the redskins quietly awaited the return of day to resume their
journey; they slept, but not their lynx-eyed enemy, the Iroquois; from
afar, he had scented his prey. During the still hours of night, his
silent steps had compassed the slumbering foe. Laden with birch-bark
fagots and other combustible materials, the Iroquois noiselessly
surround the cavern; the fagots are piled around it, the torch applied.
Kohe! Kohe! Hark! the fiendish well-known warwhoop! The Micmacs,
terror-stricken, seize their arms; they prepare to sell dearly their
lives, when the lambent flames and the scorching heat leave them but one
alternative, that of rushing from their lurking place.
One egress alone remains; wild despair steels their hearts; men, women
and children crowd through the narrow passage amidst the flames; at the
same instant a shower of poisoned arrows decimates them; the human hyena
is on his prey. A few flourishes of the tomahawk from the Iroquois, and
the silence of death soon invades the narrow abode.
[Illustration]
Now for the trophies; the scalping, it seems, took some time to be done
effectually.
History mentions but five, out of the two hundred victims, who escaped
with their lives.
The blanched bones of the Micmac braves strewed the cavern, and could be
seen until some years back.
Those who escaped travelled day and night to reach a large Huron camp
some distance away. A rapid march was then made by the whole Huron force
to the track by which the Iroquois would return. Not expecting an attack
the Iroquois were in turn taken by surprise, and tradition has it that
they were slaughtered to a man.
The pleasures of Bic are not exhausted by the recounting of its
water-joys, air, scenery and social life. The walks and drives are a
grand feature of summer existence, and moreover they are full of
variety. How delightful to take a river drive in either direction.
Possibly a walk is preferred, and, with a swinging step adapted to a six
or seven mile excursion, a start is made in the direction of the bridge
over the South-West River. Passing up the long main street, the varied
character of the buildings is noticeable; and the quaint and foreign
appearance causes the walk to be arrested at many a spot. Towering
woodland heights on the left, beautiful islands on the right and
haze-capped sugar-loaf mountains before, it is not long before street
merges into country lane. Soon are passed the clustering cottages and
gardens, and neat-appearing farms are at hand. Here where the
Intercolonial Railway is high up on an observation terrace cut in the
side of the mountain, the country road leads down hill, and, with many a
pleasurable incident on the further way, and an occasional
English-French chat with the _habitants_, the bridge is reached.
But dark clouds begin to build up moist tire-laden pyramids, and low
rumblings of distant thunder are beginning to be heard. A St. Lawrence
thunderstorm in this mountainous locality is a thunderstorm, and when it
rains, it rains. Right-about-face—Quick, March! and off we go. A few
miles are covered, but the storm is imminent. Several _cartiers_ pass
uttering their monotonous and plaintive cry, “_Marche donc_”—a sort of
querulous question, ‘why don’t you go on?’ addressed to their patient
horses. You decline the oft-repeated proffer of a ride—and a wetting—and
execute a double-quick run for the shelter of a friendly cottage. Your
energetic knock is quickly answered by a young girl of seventeen summers
who has in her engaging face all the sweet characteristics of the
daughters of France.
“May I shelter here until the storm has passed,” you ask, stepping in.
“_Pardon, Monsieur?_” comes the reply, as the door is hastily closed
against the pelting rain.
Your linguistic powers are varied, yet limited; having been acquired by
brief residences in four or five different countries. You manage to
remark, “_Un jour de pluie_,” and as the young girl smiles indulgently
over this very obvious fact, while rain dashes against the
window,—lightning flashing and thunder rolling—you manage to explain
“_un abri_.” “_Avec plaisir, Monsieur_,” is the reply in liquid and
sweet intonation.
Removing your rain-coat you gratefully repose in the solid arm-chair,
and examine with keen interest all the fittings, ornaments and family
souvenirs of what you plainly see is an old-time French interior. Your
amiable hostess has gone for a moment, but soon reappears, followed by
father, mother, grandfather, brother and sister. You rise, bow politely,
and shake hands all round, not forgetting your ‘good angel of the
storm,’ whose ingenuous eyes reflect the pleasure of having a visitor
from the outer world. “_C’est un grand plaisir_,” you remark; and then
indicating her, you add, “_Ma bonne ange de l’orage_.”
At this all laugh heartily, and none more so than _‘la bonne ange’_
herself. “I hev bin in de State,” the oldest, a son, remarks, as all the
family smile proudly over his knowledge of English. The elder daughter
now invites you to sit near her on the settee while she leafs over the
album of family portraits for your entertainment. You are immediately
surrounded by the others; all leaning over, pointing out the portraits
and relating choice bits of family history. Everyone talks at once, and
your frail linguistic bark founders in the deep sea of voluble
conversation.
And now a blinding flash of lightning is followed immediately by a
tremendous crash of thunder. The house is shaken by the concussion. ‘_La
Bonne Ange_’ quickly runs to the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner,
takes out a bottle and sprinkles _l’eau benite_ over the door lintel and
window frame. Her sister having run out of the room after the alarming
thunder-peal, ‘_La Bonne Ange_’ shares your settee and explains that the
little ceremony she has just performed is to keep lightning out of the
room. She goes out and brings back a French-English conversation
lexicon. She turns to one of the sentences arranged in parallel columns,
speaks the French and asks you to pronounce the English. This done, you
exchange; she speaks the English and you speak the French—each
correcting the pronunciation of the other until both are right. The
others look on eagerly, and smile encouragement over your progress.
Every time you speak without the necessity for correction, all cry out
delightedly, “_Oui, Oui, Monsieur_.”
[Illustration]
At last ‘_La Bonne Ange_’ closes the book, and makes you understand that
without looking at it you are to address her in French.
The thunder has ceased, the clouds have passed, and the returning light
illumines the room and the kindly faces about you. A golden sunbeam
casts an aureole around the head of ‘_La Bonne Ange_,’ and turning to
her you say, “_Vous etes tres jolie, mademoiselle_!” A peal of happy
laughter from the family greets your remark, followed by a clapping of
hands; and as she looks down demurely, ‘_La Bonne Ange_’ replies, “_Vous
parlez français tres bien, Monsieur_;” at which we all laugh more
heartily than before.
You rise to go, expressing your thanks for shelter the while. A kind and
hearty invitation to remain and sup is given; but this you reluctantly
decline, explaining that duty calls you away by the evening train. All
press around to bid you good-bye, and as you leave and turn the bend of
the road all the members of the family salute you from the porch with
waving hands, while in their midst, fluttering her handkerchief, stands
‘_La Bonne Ange de l’Orage_.’
[Illustration]
Proceeding down the St. Lawrence, St. Germain de Rimouske, or Rimouski,
is reached, a thriving town and pleasant summer resort, with good
hotels, a fine river and attractive scenery. The beach at Sacré Coeur, a
few miles away, is a good one. There is a fine Government wharf here.
Father Point, a ‘Wireless’ station and place of call for large
ocean-going vessels, may be reached from here, or from the next station,
St. Anaclet, on the Intercolonial Railway. Passing Ste. Flavie, from
which a short connecting railroad runs to Métis Beach, Matane and
Matane-Sur-Mer, and going by St. Octave with its fine fall on the Grand
Métis River, the station of Little Métis is reached, from which a drive
of about six miles terminates at the well-known St. Lawrence resort,
Métis Beach.
[Illustration: On the Links, Metis Beach]
This delightful watering-place with its combined charm of country and
shore is a favorite summer place for all who love quiet and restful
surroundings, with walks and drives in a country that is full of
interest. It has been termed the ‘Bride’s Mecca’ or nearest mundane
approach to the groves of paradise. It is one of those nice spots
favored by people of quiet tastes and avoided by lovers of glare and
noise.
Boating, bathing, golf, tennis, walking and driving, are the chief
amusements. There is also an enjoyable social life. The summer cottages
are delightfully situated, being almost hidden in the trees: each has
its own outlook over the broad St. Lawrence, here some forty miles wide.
The Golf Links are most beautifully situated amidst ideal surroundings.
The hotels are right on the water, with plenty of shade from the
generous tree-growth so noticeable in this district.
[Illustration: On the River, Matane]
The beach, one of the best along the St. Lawrence shore, is not used as
much as it should be. It is of pebble and sand, with clusters of rock
that have fallen from the bold cliff. A very romantic waterfall cascades
through a rocky defile and falls on to the beach near one of the
principal hotels of the resort; and this waterfall—so accessible, so
enticing—is surely one of the most charming pictures that could possibly
be imagined. After it reaches the beach it courses down over the pebbles
in miniature rapids and foaming rills. No greater fun for children could
be found than that of wading in the dashing and sparkling streams that
make their way down the beach and out into the salt St. Lawrence.
Rambling along the beach here, under the shade of the trees, is very
enjoyable; and rocky knolls with nooks and shelters are conveniently
near.
About eighteen miles down the river, Matane-Sur-Mer is reached, a very
pleasant spot that has recently been opened up by a short railroad that
connects with the Intercolonial Railway at Ste. Flavie. Near the
lighthouse, and the lighthouse-keeper’s cheerful home adjoining,
bungalows and cottages are being built on a nicely-wooded elevation that
overlooks a long strip of pebble beach. It commands a fine view of the
broad St. Lawrence, and is a good situation for those who like perfect
rest and quiet.
A very enjoyable walk leads to the river Matane, at the mouth of which
the bright and busy village of Matane is placed. Large lumber shipments
are made here, and the place promises to grow steadily as the St.
Lawrence lower coast trade develops. Matane stands on a well-chosen
site, and it has good facilities for bathing, boating, etc. There are
many fine views from the surrounding heights, and the walks in and about
the village, as well as in the adjacent country, are very enjoyable.
[Illustration: Matapedia Valley]
_The Country Across The Base of The Gaspé Peninsula, and Some Superb
Fishing Streams_
[Illustration]
Saying ‘Good-bye’ to the hospitable shore of the St. Lawrence, and with
mind well stored with pleasant memories of happy days and joyous hours,
a course across the base of the Gaspé Peninsula is now taken by the line
of the Intercolonial Railway, which here makes a south-easterly dip to
reach Matapedia at the head of the Baies de Chaleurs.
Regaining Little Métis station a good view of interesting country is
obtained on the way to Kempt. Mountain ranges rise on each side, with
high table land, bold slopes, and lines of hills running off to the
north. The woods are beautiful, the white birches brightening up the
various shades of forest green. Beyond Kempt the hills broaden out at
times into wide plains marked by gentle undulations of rich green. Rocky
cuttings, protected by high snow-fences, are passed, and soon a
well-defined valley is reached that is quite narrow in places. At the
left, for some distance, runs the river. Other rocky cuttings are
entered, beyond which another valley, with the still-flowing river, is
reached, After passing the little lumbering village of St. Moise the
road again leads through the hills; higher and higher, with dense forest
on every hand, and soon it is necessary to cut through their very midst.
[Illustration]
At Sayabec the region of beautiful Lake Matapedia is reached, and at
Cedar Hall is the most convenient stopping-place for seeing the lake and
its scenery. Together with Amqui and Lac au Saumon these places are
small lumbering centres. They all have fine surroundings, but the
district has not been fully opened up, and only moderate accommodation
can be found.
The course now leads by the murmuring Matapedia River, and at Causapscal
is found an ideal spot for a restful vacation. It is only suited for
those who have quiet tastes and a love for the beautiful, or for those
who can enjoy woodland and river walks. It is one of the most beautiful
and restful little spots ever seen. It is a picture from Switzerland,
and more. No matter how extended the journey, a stay of a few days
should be made at Causapscal to drink in some of its soothing balm.
The Matapedia courses right through the village—one of the cleanest in
all Quebec, by the way—and one may stop at a comfortable little
hostelry, look right out on the river just across the highway, and be
lulled to calm slumber by its gentle murmur. Here the houses are built
only on one side of the road, and this gives a pleasant view of grassy
sward and rippling stream from any part of the village. There are fine
views on every hand. The Causapscal River unites with the beautiful
Matapedia quite nearby, and along the banks of both streams many choice
walks may be enjoyed.
The junction of the two rivers is between high banks, and here is a
favorite fishing-haunt for those who own the fishing rights. The
Matamajaw Salmon Club House is on the top of the bank, close by.
Beau Rivage is a peaceful hamlet, framed by the far-reaching hills that
are here broadened out to a considerable extent. Those who would see the
beauties of the famed Matapedia Valley will find ample occupation as the
train speeds along.
The Matapedia, or ‘Musical’ River, flows along with soothing murmur and
sings a song of peace the while. The rows of cedar logs piled high on
the bank, for shipment over the railroad, are turning grey under the
summer sun and they blend harmoniously in the landscape effect. Flowers
are springing up everywhere, and the tall lambkill is beautiful to
behold. How glorious is the country with its absence of formalism and
inane repetition of stereotyped patterns! Here the river narrows and
throws up two long islands of white and grey pebbles. The water,
confined to small channels for the time, dashes forward and springs up,
leaping and foaming. How joyful its music! The course now bends
suddenly, just where the current is foaming and descending in a noisy
rapid. The clear water breaks in rippling waves of snow-white foam, and
passes in well-marked ridges for some distance, until the widening
channel permits it to resume its erstwhile tranquil way.
Now it passes under the shade of a high and beautifully-wooded mountain,
and immediately the water is tinged with a darkening shade—the sun
eclipsed by the overhanging trees. On many of the mountains so thick is
the foliage that not one tree-trunk can be seen uncovered, excepting,
here and there, a white birch sapling.
[Illustration: Restigouche Valley]
The scenery of the river and valley between Assametquaghan and Glen Emma
is particularly bold and grand, and most enchanting views of the winding
Matapedia meet the gaze at every turn of its sinuous course. The
mountains rise higher and higher, and as the train turns in and out,
far-away glimpses of the silvery stream are frequently caught. Just
below the railroad a mass of rocks has fallen from the mountain side
into the bed of the river, almost closing the way. Leaning out of the
window, as we slow up, the spray is almost at hand.
At times the stream broadens considerably, and the mountains run to
foot-hills that diminish to gentle slopes at the river’s brink. Looking
along the valley at such points, a grand panorama of mountain, hill,
dale, valley and winding stream enchants the artistic eye. There a long
line of beautiful trees is seen on an islet, once part of the mainland.
As the train goes down stream the island seems to come up under full
sail to meet it; and all around, in valley, on mound and hill, and up
the steep sides of the mountains, the gorgeous pink bloom of the
prolific rhododendron gives joy to the senses.
[Illustration]
Here the Matapedia has changed its pebble bed for one of rock, and as
there is a considerable fall,—which is also quite noticeable on account
of the easy running of the train—the churning waves and dashing foam
show beautifully below. At a point where the stream deepens and flows on
with darker hue and unruffled surface the train crosses again to the
left bank and approaches Millstream—the smallest of hamlets in the most
ideal situation that could well be imagined.
On the shore of the river, not far away, is an encampment of happy
vacationists, with tent, and shack for cooking; their boat moored below,
and the stream singing of health and cool summer joys as it dashes gaily
by.