In speaking of the Saguenay, I must not omit to mention its original proprietors, a tribe of Indians who are known as the Mountaineers. Of course, it is the duty of my pen to record the fact, that where once flourished a large nation of brave and heroic warriors, there now exists a little band of about one hundred families. Judging from what I have heard and seen, the Mountaineers were once the very flower of this northern wilderness, even as the Chippeways were once the glory of the Lake Superior region. The Mountaineers of the present day are sufficiently educated to speak a smattering of French, but they know nothing of the true God, and are as poor in spirit, as they are indigent with regard to the necessaries of life. The men of this nation are rather short, but well-formed, and the women are beautiful. They are proud in spirit, intelligent, and kind-hearted; and many of them, it is pleasant to know, are no longer the victims of the baneful fire-water. For this blessing they are indebted to the Romish priesthood, which fact it gives me pleasure to record. The Mountaineers are a particularly honest people, and great friends to the stranger white-man. They are also distinguished for their expertness in hunting, and take pleasure in recording the exploits of their forefathers. And their language, according to a Catholic Missionary, Pierre de Roche, is one of the oldest and purest Indian languages on the continent. It abounds in Latin words, and is capable of being regularly constructed and translated. The qualities, in fine, which make the history of this people interesting are manifold, and it is sad to think of the rapidity with which they are withering away, even as the leaves of a premature autumn.
But it is time that I should give you a brief description of Tadousac, where I have been spending a few days, and whence I date my chapter. The meaning of that word is a French corruption of the Indian word Saguenay. It is situated directly at the mouth of the Saguenay, and commands a fine prospect of that river, as well as of the St. Lawrence, which is here nearly thirty miles in width. Immediately at the base of the hill upon which the hamlet stands, is a beautiful bay, hemmed in with mountains of solid rock. The place is composed of houses belonging to an Indian trading-post, and another dwelling occupied by a worthy Scotchman named Rivington, who is a pilot by profession. The door of my friend’s cabin is always open to the admission of the tourist; and if others who may chance to stop here are treated as kindly as I was, they will be disposed to thank their stars. In front of the trading-post are planted a few cannon, and directly beyond them, at the present time, is a small Indian encampment.