Yet We Glide As Smoothly Through The Eddies And Whirlpools Of
The Beautiful Gap As A Sound Steamer Passes Through Hell Gate.
This
remarkable passage way is two miles in length; the mountains rise on
either hand to the height of
Five hundred and sixty and six hundred and
ten feet, the tide between rushing at the rate of five knots an hour.
We note gray, water worn rocks at the sides, resembling pumice in
appearance, though of course very much harder stone, and evidently of
similar formation to that of the ovens at Mt. Desert. And now we sweep
quietly out into the dreaded Bay of Fundy, the water of which rests in
such oily quietude as even Long Island Sound rarely shows. On this hazy,
lazy, sunny afternoon not a swell is perceptible (unless some among the
passengers might be designated by that title); and after four and a half
hours of most dreamy navigation, we enter the harbor of St. John, where
the many tinted signal lights are reflected in the black water, and a
forest fire on a distant hill throws a lurid light over the scene.
When the tide turns, there can be seen frequently far out in the Bay a
distinct line in the water, - a line as sharply defined as that between
the Arve and Rhone at their junction near Geneva. It is when wind and
tide are at variance that the roughest water is encountered; and they
say that if one would avoid an unpleasant game of pitch and toss, the
passage across should not be attempted during or immediately after a
blow from the northwest or southeast.
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