Mackenzie, An Old Scotch Dragoon, Who Was One Of Our
Passengers, When He Rose In The Morning, And Saw The Parish Of St.
Thomas For The First Time, Exclaimed:
"Weel, it beats a'!
Can thae
white clouts be a' houses? They look like claes hung out to drie!"
There was some truth in this odd comparison, and for some minutes,
I could scarcely convince myself that the white patches scattered
so thickly over the opposite shore could be the dwellings of a
busy, lively population.
"What sublime views of the north side of the river those habitans
of St. Thomas must enjoy," thought I. Perhaps familiarity with the
scene has rendered them indifferent to its astonishing beauty.
Eastward, the view down the St. Lawrence towards the Gulf, is the
finest of all, scarcely surpassed by anything in the world. Your
eye follows the long range of lofty mountains until their blue
summits are blended and lost in the blue of the sky. Some of these,
partially cleared round the base, are sprinkled over with neat
cottages; and the green slopes that spread around them are covered
with flocks and herds. The surface of the splendid river is
diversified with islands of every size and shape, some in wood,
others partially cleared, and adorned with orchards and white
farm-houses. As the early sun streamed upon the most prominent of
these, leaving the others in deep shade, the effect was strangely
novel and imposing. In more remote regions, where the forest has
never yet echoed to the woodman's axe, or received the impress of
civilisation, the first approach to the shore inspires a melancholy
awe, which becomes painful in its intensity.
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