Out of Ontario the great river St. Lawrence flows one hundred and
seventy-two miles down to Montreal, being for much of the distance the
boundary between the United States and Canada. Kingston, with
twenty-five thousand people, guarded by picturesque graystone
batteries and martello towers--the "Limestone City"--stands at the
head of the river where it issues from the lake. To the westward is
the entrance of the spacious Bay of Quinté, and on the eastern side
the terminus of the Rideau Canal, leading northeastward to the Rideau
River and Ottawa, the Canadian capital. This was originally the French
Fort Cataraqui, established at the mouth of Cataraqui River in 1672,
the name being subsequently changed by Count Frontenac to Frontenac.
The Indian word Cataraqui means "Clay bank rising from the water," and
after the fort was built the meaning changed to "fort rising from the
water." Here the Sieur de La Salle, in 1678, built the first vessel
navigating the lake. The British captured the fort in 1762, naming it
Kingston, after the American Revolution, and by fortifying the
promontories commanding the harbor, made it the strongest military
post in Canada after Quebec and Halifax, the chief work being Fort
Henry. Its garrisons have been long withdrawn, however, and now the
old-time forts are useful chiefly as additions to the attractive
scenery of its harbor and approaches. At the outlet of Ontario the
course of the St. Lawrence begins with the noted archipelago known as
the "Lake of the Thousand Islands," there being actually about
seventeen hundred of them. This is a remarkable formation, composed
largely of fragments of the range of Laurentian mountains, here coming
southward out of Canada to the river, producing an extraordinary
region. This Laurentian formation the geologists describe as the
oldest land in the world--"the first rough sketch and axis of
America." During countless ages this range has been worn down by the
effect of rain, frost, snow and rivers, and scratched and broken by
rough, resistless glaciers, and we are told that, compared with these
fragmentary "Thousand Islands" and the almost worn-out mountains of
the lower St. Lawrence basin, the Alps and the Andes are but creations
of yesterday.
Wolfe Island broadly obstructs the Ontario outlet between Kingston and
Cape Vincent on the New York shore, and from them, with an
island-filled channel, in some places twelve miles broad, the swift
river current threads the archipelago by pleasant and tortuous
passages nearly to Ogdensburg, forty miles below. These islands are of
all sizes, shapes and appearance, varying from small low rocks and
gaunt crags to gorgeous foliage-covered gardens. On account of their
large numbers, the early French explorers named them "Les Milles
Isles," and in the ancient chronicles they are described as
"obstructing navigation and mystifying the most experienced Iroquois
pilots." Fenimore Cooper located some of the most interesting
incidents of his _Pathfinder_ in "that labyrinth of land and water,
the Thousand Isles." The larger islands in spring and summer are
generally covered with luxuriant vegetation, and the river shores are
a delicious landscape of low but bold bluffs and fruitful fields
spreading down to the water, with distant forests bounding the
horizon. The atmosphere is usually dry, light and mellow, and the
Indians, who admired this attractive region, appropriately called it
Manatoana, or the "Garden of the Great Spirit." Howe Island adjoins
Wolfe Island, and below is the long Grindstone Island. Here on the New
York shore is the village of Clayton, where the New York Central
Railroad comes up from Utica and Rome, the leading route to this
region. Below is the almost circular Round Island with its large
hotel, and everywhere are charming little islets, while ahead, down
the St. Lawrence, are myriads more islands, apparently massed together
in a maze of dark green distant foliage, the enchanted isles of a
fascinating summer sea:
"The Thousand Isles, the Thousand Isles,
Dimpled, the wave around them smiles,
Kissed by a thousand red-lipped flowers,
Gemmed by a thousand emerald bowers.
A thousand birds their praises wake,
By rocky glade and plumy brake.
A thousand cedars' fragrant shade
Falls where the Indians' children played,
And Fancy's dream my heart beguiles
While singing of thee, Thousand Isles.
"There St. Lawrence gentlest flows,
There the south wind softest blows.
Titian alone hath power to paint
The triumph of their patron saint
Whose waves return on memory's tide;
La Salle and Piquet, side by side,
Proud Frontenac and bold Champlain
There act their wanderings o'er again;
And while the golden sunlight smiles,
Pilgrims shall greet thee, Thousand Isles."
[Illustration: _In the Thousand Islands, St. Lawrence_]
Sailing down the river, group after group of big and little green
islands are passed, the winding route and tortuous channels marked by
diminutive lighthouses and beacons, while nearly every island has its
cottages and often ornate and elaborate villas. Everywhere the shores
appear to be granite rocks, bright green foliage varying with the
darker evergreens surmounting them. All the waters are brilliantly
green and clear as crystal, rippled by breezes laden with balsamic
odors from the adjacent forests. Attractive cottages everywhere
appear, with little attendant boat-houses down by the water side, and
canoes and skiffs are in limitless supply, as the chief travelling is
by them. Everything seems to be full of life; in all directions are
pleasant views, the surface is dotted with pleasure-boats and
white-sailed yachts, the whole region being semi-amphibious, and its
people spending as much time on the water as on the land. The river,
too, is a great highway of commerce among these islands, many large
vessels passing along, and timber rafts guided by puffing little tugs.
Much of the product of the Canadian forests is thus taken to market, a
good deal going to Europe, and the sentimental and often musical
Metis, who live aboard in huts or tents, are the raftsmen, working the
broad sails and big steering-paddles on the tedious floating journey
down to Quebec. There are many large hotels, and the big one on Round
Island is named for Louis XIV.'s chivalrous and fiery Governor of
Canada, Count de Frontenac. His remains are buried in the Basilica at
Quebec, and his heart, enclosed in a leaden casket, was sent home to
his widow in France. She was much younger, and, evidently piqued at
some of his alleged love affairs, refused to receive it, saying she
would not have a dead heart which had not been hers while living. The
Baptists have a summer settlement on Round Island, and a short
distance below the extensive Wellesley Island has on its upper end the
popular Methodist summer town of the Thousand Island Park, where
little cottages and tents around the great Tabernacle often take care
of ten thousand people. Upon the lower end the Presbyterians have
established their attractive resort, Westminster Park, which faces
Alexandria Bay.