In time its isolation was to disappear before invaders like Dr. Henry, in pursuit of pleasure.  So gradual was the change that we hardly know when it came.  By 1850 there was a little summer colony mostly from Quebec and Montreal.  Soon a few came from points more distant.  As means of transport on the St. Lawrence improved a great many travellers passed Murray Bay on their way to the Saguenay.  Tadousac, at its mouth, was already well known and an occasional stray visitor stopped off at Murray Bay to see what it was like.  The accommodation offered was rude enough, no doubt, but perhaps less rude than one might suppose.  At Pointe au Pic stood a substantial stone house.  This was turned into a hotel and known some fifty years ago as Duberger’s house.  There were besides a few other houses for summer visitors.  Thus, long ago, was there tolerable comfort at Murray Bay.  In any case visitors soon found that the place had abundant compensations even for discomfort.  They came and came again.  Friends came to visit them and they too learned to love the spot.  Some Americans from New York chanced to find it out and others of their countrymen followed; by 1885 already well established was the now dominant American colony.

The influx has limited and restricted but has not destroyed the old diversion of fishing.  There are still many hundreds of lakes in the neighbourhood on which no fisherman has ever yet cast a fly.  But nearly all the good spots within easy range are now leased or owned by private persons and clubs; no longer may the transient tourist fish almost where he pleases.  All the better for this restriction is the quality of the fishing.  What magnificent sport there is in some of those tiny lakes on the mountain side and what glorious views as one drives thither!  To reach Lac a Comporte, for instance, one crosses the brawling Murray, drives up its left bank for a mile or so and then heads straight up the mountain side.  Turning back one can see the silver gleam of the small river winding through its narrow valley until lost in the enveloping mountains.  From points still higher one looks northwestward upon the mountain crests worn round ages ago, some of them probably never yet trodden by the foot of man.  Most are wooded to the top but there are bare crags, a glowing purple sometimes in the afternoon light; but the prevailing tone is the deep, deep blue, the richest surely that nature can show anywhere.  Along the road where we are driving stretch the houses of the habitants and sometimes, to survey the passing strangers, the whole family stands on the rude door-step.  They rarely fail in a courteous greeting, with a touch still of the manners of France.