It is said that from the shore a vessel
looks as if it were hurrying to certain destruction. Still we hurry on,
with eight men at the wheel--rocks appear like snags in the middle of the
stream--we dash straight down upon rocky islets, strewn with the wrecks of
rafts; but a turn of the wheel, and we rush by them in safety at a speed
('tis said) of thirty miles an hour, till a ragged ledge of rock stretches
across the whirling stream. Still on we go--louder roars the flood--
steeper appears the descent--earth, sky, and water seem mingled together.
I involuntarily took hold of the rail--the madman attempted to jump over--
the _flighty_ lady screamed and embraced more closely her poodle-dog; we
reached the ledge--one narrow space free from rocks appeared--down with
one plunge went the bow into a turmoil of foam--and we had "shot the
cataract" of La Chine.
The exploit is one of the most agreeable which the traveller can perform,
and the thick morning mist added to the apparent danger. We steamed for
four or five miles farther down the river, when suddenly the great curtain
of mist was rolled up as by an invisible hand, and the scene which it
revealed was _Montreal_.
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