"To-night the yacht Champlain is swinging at anchor in the harbor of Tadousac, and I am writing in her little cabin with a profound conviction that, a thousand years
a little group of men, Basques by name, then living in southern Europe, a remnant of the old Iberian race, anchored their ships in the same harbor in the month of August annually. Only half a mile to the west of me, the Saguenay, whose bottom is one hundred fathoms deeper down than the bed of the St. Lawrence, pours its gloomy current between the stupendous cliffs of rock which make for its resistless passage an awful portal. These monstrous cliffs of bare, gray rock have not changed in form or color or appearance since some force, next to that of the Almighty, lifted them from the under world and placed them to stand eternal sentinels at the entrance to this strange, impressive, awe-inspiring river--for the wind and wear of unnumbered centuries have left them cold and bare, soilless and treeless, save where some stunted shrub, with a single root, has spiked itself into a crevice, and there stands starved and dying, as it lives its withered life.
"As it is to-night to eye and ear, so was it centuries ago; and so the old Basque whalers saw it while yet the great continent to the west was a trackless wilderness from ocean to ocean and gulf to gulf. And Columbus and Jacques Cartier and Champlain were not, by five hundred years, yet born.
"The harbor of Tadousac is a basin shaped like a sickle. On the west the mountain wall of the Saguenay protects it. The eastern curve is sheltered by vast sand lanes, scoured from the sea bottom and whirled upward by some mighty eddy in geologic ages. To the north are mountains of stone, their gray surface flecked here and there by stunted fir and cedar or dwarfed birches. Between these mountains of rock and the water of the harbor or basin is a short, narrow plateau, lifted some fifty feet above the water line, every foot of which is historic to a degree. On no other bit of ground of equal size on the American continent has so much been done and suffered which can interest the curious, touch the sensibilities, or kindle the imagination and fan it into flame.
"There is reason to think that before the Christ was born the old Iberian ships were here; and their descendants, the Basques, continued the commerce which their progenitors had established and which rendezvoused here 1,500 years after the Galilean name had conquered kingdoms and empires. The Norsemen were here, we know, a thousand years ago, and many a night the old sea kings of the north drank out of their mighty drinking horns good health to distant ones and honors to Thor and Odin. Then, late enough to have his coming known to letters, and hence recorded, Jacques Cartier came, himself a Breton, and hence cousin in blood to the Basque whalers, whom he found here engaged in a pursuit which their race had followed before Rome was founded or Greece was born, before Jerusalem was builded, or even Egypt, perhaps, planted as a colony. St. Augustine, Plymouth rock, Quebec--these are mushroom growths, creations of yesterday, traditionless, without a legend and without a fame, beside this harbor of Tadousac, whose history, along a thin but strong cord of sequence, can be traced backward for a thousand years, and whose connection with Europe is older than the name!"