Nature speaks to herself and to us through a thousand phenomena, and to the attentive observer she is nowhere dead or dumb. GOETHE. The reader of an intelligent book of travels follows the researches of a man whose eyes, ears, and mind are armed by all the science, arts, and implements which mankind have anywhere accumulated, and who is using those to add to the stock. EMERSON. DESCRIPTIVE TRAVEL. SAIL UP THE ST. LAWRENCE. WITH fair wind and crowding sail we entered the waters of the St. Lawrence. From the point of Gaspè to the Labrador coast the distance is 120 miles; and, through this ample channel half the fresh water of the world has its outlet to the sea, spreading back its blue winding path for more than 2000 miles, along still reach, foaming rapid, ocean lakes, and mighty cataracts, to the trackless desert of the West. We are near the left bank; there is no trace of man's hand; such as God made it, there it is—from the pebbly shore to the craggy mountain top, east and west, and countless miles away to the frozen north, where everlasting winter congeals the sap of life, there extends one dark forest, lone and silent from all past time. For two days more there is nothing to attract our attention but the shoals of white porpoises: we are welcomed by several; they roll and frolick round the ship, rushing along very fast, stopping to look at us, ever and anon passing and repassing, and then going off to pay their compliments to some other strangers. By degrees the great river narrows to twenty miles, and we can see the shore on both sides, with rows of white specks of houses along the water's edge, which at length seem to close into a continuous street. Every here and there is a church, with clusters of dwellings round it, and little silver streams, wandering through narrow strips of "clearing" behind them. We got near the shore once; there was but little wind: we fancied it bore to us the smell of new-mown hay, and thought we heard church-bells; but the ripple of the water, gentle as it was, treated the mellow tones too roughly to allow of our positively distinguishing them. Several ships were in sight; some travelling in our direction, way worn and weary; others standing boldly out to meet the waves and storms we had just passed through. Rows of little many-colored flags ran up to their mizen tops, fluttered out what they had to say, and came down again when they had got their answer. * The nights were very cold; but, even had they been far more so, we would have lingered on deck to see the Northern Lights. They had it all to themselves—not a cloud to stop their running wild over the sky. Starting from behind the mountains, they raced up through the blue fields of heaven, and vanished: again they reappeared, where we least expected them; spreading over all space one moment, shrinking into a quivering streak the next, quicker than the tardy eye could trace. There is a dark shade for many miles below where the Saguenay pours its gloomy flood into the pure waters of the St. Lawrence. Two degrees to the westward lies a circular sheet of water called Lake St. John, forty miles wide, fed by numerous small rivers. This is the birth-place of the great tributary; its separate existence ends at Tadousac. Its course lies from west to east, half-way through a rich country, with a comparatively mild climate, where only a few wandering Indians hunt and fish, exchanging their furs with English traders at Chicoutimi : here this rude commerce has grouped together a number of houses, round a church built by the Jesuits two centuries ago.. -Great Bay is twelve miles lower down; thence to the river's mouth the cliffs rise straight out of the water, sometimes to fifteen *Northern lights, aurora borealis. hundred feet in height, in some places two or three miles apart. There is a great depth between, far greater than that of the St. Lawrence at the confluence, and large ships can go up thus far. — About three thousand white people are scattered about these districts; they have saw-mills, and ply their laborious industry in the bush, felling the tall pine trees. Off the entrance to the gloomy Saguenay, lies Red Island. The shore is rocky and perilous; as we passed, the morning sun shone brightly upon it and the still waters; but when the November mists hang around, and the northeast wind sweeps up the river, many a brave ship ends her Voyage here. To the south-east is seen a gentler sister, the Green Isle. It would be wearisome to tell of all the woody solitudes that deck the bosom of the St. Lawrence, or of the white, cheerful settlements along its banks, some of them growing up to towns as we advance, their background swelling into mountains. It is a scene of wonderful beauty, often heightened by one of the strangest, loveliest freaks of lavish nature. The mirage* lifts up little rocky tufted islands into the air, and ships, with their taper masts turned downwards,' glide past them; the tops of high and distant hills sink down to the water's edge, and long streets of trim, demurelooking houses, rest their foundations in the sky. We are now at Grosse Isle; and, in the distance, we see the fair and fertile island of Orleans. Bold Cape Tourment is at length past; it has wearied our sight for two days, like a long straight road. It grows very dark, and the evening air is keen; we must go below. About midnight I awoke. There was the splash, and heavy rattling sound of the falling anchor; the ship swung slowly round with the tide, and was still; we had reached QUEBEC. G. Warburton. * Mirage, a meteorological phenomenon caused by refraction. |