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its usual powers of discernment; but these had fled,the moment he became alarmed at finding he did not know his way.

I have been told many stories of this kind; and I am the more inclined to believe them from my having once experienced something of the same kind myself, on losing my way, and all traces of a road, upon an immense heath in Portugal. The effect, on that occasion, was more visible on my guide than myself. We had set off pretty early in the morning,—had crossed a mountain, and proceeded several miles on a dreary heath, by tracts known only to the muleteers. It was in the month of November; the day was dark and gloomy, and it had rained violently all the morning. By and by, I found that my muleteer stood firm, and would not advance. I called out to him to know what was the matter; he said, we had lost our way. The rain had for a long while so beat in my face, that I had not paid much attention to the ground we were upon. I trusted to my guide. On now looking around me, I found that there was not the smallest trace of a road. "Oh, my God!" cries the muleteer, "we are lost—we shall perish. Meo. Deos! somos perdidos, Jesus! Jesus!"—He immediately began to cross himself. I knew this to be the dernier resort of a Roman catholic when in despair, and that force alone would now make him exert himself. He would neither advance nor retreat; he seemed to have lost his power of judging and reflecting, as well as his powers of acting. I was determined he should advance, and at length, by threats, and a certain degree of coercion, I roused him to action. We did advance, and finally arrived at a part of the country which was inhabited. I was glad to find that we had wandered but a few miles from our way.—Let us return, however, to the woods in Canada.

Our party had no great difficulty in directing their course to the Chaudiere. Its noise at last announced its proximity. The Chaudiere would in England be considered as a river of considerable magnitude. Its banks at the fall, are highly picturesque; they are very lofty and very steep, yet covered with stately pines of a variety of fantastic shapes. Scrambling along a rock, you approach the brink of the precipice 130 feet perpendicular, where the river throws itself into the abyss below, roaring and raging along, as if angry at being forced from its native channel, to be lost in the St. Lawrence.

We were much gratified with the grandeur of the fall, and of the surrounding scenery. Looking up the river, the view is not extensive, but highly picturesque; the lofty banks are overhung with wood, and the grey rocks, which now and then shew themselves, add to the wildness of the scene. The water, when not swelled by rain, does not fill the channel, but is seen winding round the points of rocks, and forming into currents, which, according to the quantity of water at the time, separate or join near the head of the fall, and quickening their motion as they approach the brink, are dashed into the gulf below. The view down the river is of the same wild nature as that upwards; rocks and trees, and rolling rapid streams, all confounded together: the sunbeam illumines the rising spray, mixing radiant gems with the sombre hue of the forest. Nature, in this spot, seems just emerging from original chaos— so wild is the appearance and arrangement of every thing around you.

After having fully gratified our curiosity, and remarked all the beauties of the place, seated on the Chaudiere rock, and moistened with the rising spray till we were dripping like so many river gods, we resolved to retrace our steps through the wood. We did so with less difficulty than on our approach, and regained our boat with appetites worthy of some excellent beef steaks, with which we had provided ourselves. We lighted a fire on the rocks,— cooked our dinner,—made up a table in our boat, and with one accord commenced the attack. Every thing was excellent, because every body was hungry, and disposed to be pleased:—noble ingredients in all feasts and parties, from the cottagers' potatoes and milk,—up to ragouts and burgundy.

After seeing the Fall of Chaudiere, my curiosity was the more strongly excited to see the Fall of Montmorency, more famous still than the Chaudiere, because it is seen at a distance by all who sail up the St. Lawrence.

The river Montmorency falls into the St. Lawrence about nine miles below Quebee; and it may be said, almost literally, to fallinto it, for the distance does not appear to be above four or five hundred yards. The approach to it, both above and below* is very easy; you may drive a gig to within a few yards of it. The Montmorency is certainly one of the finest falls in the world: it is (as 1 have formerly mentioned) no less than 246 feet perpendicular height. Some give the preference to the Fall of Chaudiere, because the surrounding scenery is more picturesque. For my own part, I am inclined to give the preference to the Montmorency. It is nearly as large a river as the Chaudiere, and from the great height of the fall in one undivided mass, it is more grand and striking. The banks of the river downwards soon terminate in the St. Lawrence, and are so perpendicular that trees cannot grow on them. They are, of course, not so beautiful as those of the Chaudiere; but the magnificence, the grandeur of the fall, so occupies the attention, so fills the mi ad, that you do not think of looking for trees or rocks; they would be lost in the grandeur of the principal object. This is not so much the case at the Chau&ere* If,

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