The river, frequently only a few feet in
width, sometimes foams furiously along between precipices covered with
trees, and bearing the marks of years of attrition; then buries itself in
dark gulfs, or rests quiescent for a moment in still black pools, before
it reaches its final leap.
The day before I left Quebec I went to the romantic falls of Lorette,
about thirteen miles from the city. It was a beauteous day. I should have
called it oppressively warm, but that the air was fanned by a cool west
wind. The Indian summer had come at last; "the Sagamores of the tribes had
lighted their council-fires" on the western prairies. What would we not
give for such a season! It is the rekindling of summer, but without its
heat - it is autumn in its glories, but without its gloom. The air is soft
like the breath of May; everything is veiled in a soft pure haze, and the
sky is of a faint and misty blue.
A mysterious fascination seemed to bind us to St. Roch, for we kept
missing our way and getting into "streams as black as Styx." But at length
the city of Quebec, with its green glacis and frowning battlements, was
left behind, and we drove through flat country abounding in old stone
dwelling-houses, old farms, and large fields of stubble.
