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 soon engulfed its presumptuous and daring victims. They steered out into the midst of the river, and in an instant the canoe was borne along with the rapidity of lightning, leaving in its train a thick foam, caused by the violent plying of oars. Approaching the rapids, {96} they fearlessly hurried onward—alas, their fate was soon to be decided. Drawn by the eddy into the centre of a whirl-*pool, vainly they struggled to extricate themselves—they beheld the dread abyss yawning to receive its prey! Yet, an instant, the ill-fated barge twirled upon the surface, and then sank, amidst the despairing shrieks of the helpless crew, which the roaring waves rendered the more appalling, whilst the dismal sounds re-echoing from shore to shore, proclaimed the new disaster of the "Columbia." Soon the waters resumed their wonted course, and left no trace of the sad catastrophe. This fatal spot might appropriately be designated, Presumptive's Rapids; doubtless, it will be a lesson to future boasters, not to venture, without pilot or guide, upon this formidable tributary of the western ocean.

After a prosperous voyage of five days, I debarked at Vancouver, where I had the happiness of meeting Father Nobili, who, during eight months, had applied himself to study the Indian language, while he exercised his sacred ministry among the Catholics of the fort and the Indians of the neighborhood. More than a tenth of the latter had been swept off by a mortal disease; happily, they all had the consolation {97} of receiving baptism before they expired.

Father Nobili accompanied me in a Tchinouk canoe, up the beautiful River of Multonomah or Willamette, a distance of about sixty miles, as far as the village of Champois,[75] three miles from our residence of St. Francis*