Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Montmorency Waterfall and Cone
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THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL & CONE, NEAR QUEBEC.
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THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL AND CONE.
When the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies considerably, in different seasons; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply of water to the Falls—the spray, of course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its surface, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises from the dashing of the water against its face, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual action produces enormous icicles."—"The formation of this cone may serve to explain the origin of glaciers."
"To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top of the cone to the plain below."
E do not ask for the leaves and flowers
That laugh as they look on the summer hours;
Let the violets shrink and sigh,
Let the red rose pine and die:
The sledge is yoked, away we go,
Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
Lo! the pine is singing its murmuring song,
Over our heads as we pass alone;
And every bough with pearl is hung,
Whiter than those that from ocean sprung.
The sledge is yoked, away we go,
Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
The ice is bright with a thousand dyes
Like the changeful light in a beauty’s eyes.
Now it weareth her blush, and now
It weareth the white of her marble brow.
The sledge is yoked, and away we go,
Beneath the firs, o’er the soundless snow.
We are wrapped with ermine and sable round,
By the Indian in trackless forests found;
The sunbeams over the white world shine,
And we carry with us the purple wine.
The sledge is yoked, and away we go,
Beneath the firs, o’er the soundless snow.