IN sailing down some of the rivers of Siberia, you come to a sudden fall, where the water rushes over the steep rocks with great rapidity, and makes a roaring noise that can be heard for miles. These falls, or rapids as they are called, are very dangerous, and it requires great skill and caution to pass them safely. Here is an account of the way in which it is managed, written by a traveler in Siberia, M. Hansteen:
“We sailed down the river in a strange, cumbrous kind of boat, and I was not a little uneasy at first at its extraordinary dimensions, but four days of quiet sailing allowed me time to become accustom to it before reaching the first fall. At length we felt the first wave―the oars were drawn in, the boat began to be tossed about, the rapidity of its course increased every moment, the noise of the waters was deafening― all our nerves were on the rack―we were rushing along much faster than a horse could gallop. At length we passed it. The water is now calm; the pilot comes down from his place, wiping his brow, and says to the principal person on board, ‘I congratulate your lordship.’ He pays the same compliment to the captain. Everyone exclaims, Praise be to God! and the deep silence which had reigned till then is broken by hearty cheers.”
Two more rapids were safely passed, and then they came to the “Padun,” the greatest fall of all.
“The next day (the 7th of June),” continues Professor Hansteen, “we approached the Padun. The pilot and the captain decided that we must wait for a more favorable wind and calmer weather before venturing to pass this dangerous rapid. We cast anchor between the rocks on the left bank of the river. I passed the day on land. I caused my tent to be pitched on a little island covered with verdure and adorned with flowers of all colors. The sun shone bright, the sky was cloudless, and the deep silence that reigned in the woods around was broken only by the spotted serpents, which, frightened at my approach, glided away under the withered leaves of the last autumn.
“In the evening, when I returned on board the boat, I learned that the captain and the two pilots thought that we might now venture to pass the rapid. I went to my cabin to pack up my effects, and to secure about my person a rouleau of six thousand rubles, and a good poniard, in case of being shipwrecked and cast on shore.
“At length we set off; the old, white-haired pilot stood immovable in the bow, with one of my towels in his right hand to serve as a signal and holding a rope in his left. The crew were at prayer. In silence we reached the edge of, the line of white foam, and the boat began to plunge under the water, and rise again abruptly. In a few moments the keel grated against the stony bed of the river; all at once we were stopped in our precipitous course. The waves dashed furiously against the boat. The captain cried, ‘Row, row hard!’ The oars began to act; and at length we got into deeper water and were rapidly borne on by the torrent. At this critical moment a dispute arose between the old pilot at the prow and the fisherman on deck. It appeared that the one wished to steer to the left, and the other to the right. The latter uttered some words of exclamation; then, turning to me in triumph, pointed out an enormous rock, near which we were passing; the next moment another rock appeared on the other side: we had passed safely between them,―the dangerous passage was over. The venerable pilot came down from his place and wiped away the tears which filled his eyes; the color came back into his cheeks, which during the time of anxiety had been deadly pale. ‘Slava teba Bogn’ (thanks be to God), escaped from his lips, and the usual forms of congratulations were begun.
“After giving each of the pilots ten rubles, and distributing five more among the crew, which seemed to please them very much, we proceeded on our voyage.” Psa. 104