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.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Saguenay River—Chicoutimi—Storm Picture—Hudson’s Bay Company—Eminent Merchant—The Mountaineer Indians—Tadousac—Ruin of a Jesuit Establishment.
Tadousac. July.
About one hundred and fifty miles north of the St. Lawrence, and on one of the trails leading to Hudson’s Bay, lies a beautiful Lake called St. John. It is about forty miles long, and surrounded with a heavily timbered and rather level country. Its inlets are numerous, and twelve of them are regular rivers. Its waters are clear, and abound in a great variety of uncommonly fine fish. The principal outlet to this Lake is the Saguenay river, which takes a southerly direction, and empties into the St. Lawrence. It is the largest tributary of the great river, and unquestionably one of the most remarkable on the continent. Its original Indian name was Chicoutimi, signifying Deep Water; but the early Jesuit missionaries, who have scattered their Saint-anic names over this entire country, thought proper to give it the name which it now bears, and the round-about interpretation of which is, Nose of the Sack. This name suggests to the world that the nose of St. John must have been a very long nose, and may be looked upon as a unique specimen of French poetry.