The chief settlement of the archipelago is the village of Alexandria
Bay on the New York shore, and in the spacious reach of the river in
front are the most famous and costly of the island cottages. Here are
large hotels and many lodging-places, with a swelling population in
the height of the season. Some of the island structures are
unique--tall castles, palaces, imitations of iron-clads, forts and
turrets--and many have been very costly. As most of the summer
residents are Americans, those cottages are chiefly on the American
side of the boundary, but there is also quite a group of island
cottages over near the Canadian shore adjacent to the village of
Gananoque. Alexandria Bay is a diminutive indentation in the New York
shore, with a little red lighthouse out in front, while over to the
northeast is spread a galaxy of the most famous islands, having fifty
or more pretentious cottages scattered about the scene, amid the green
foliage surmounting the rocky island foundations. In every direction
go off channels among them of sparkling, dancing, green water, giving
fine vista views, the dark crags at the water's edge underlying the
frame of green foliage bounding the picture. The population has an
aquatic flavor, and everybody seems to go about in boats, while the
place has the air of a purely pleasure resort, evidently frozen up and
hybernating when the tide of summer travel ebbs. In the season, the
village presents a nightly carnival with its many-colored lights and
dazzling fireworks displays over the rippling waters. For miles below
Alexandria Bay, the islands stud the waters, although not so numerous
nor so closely together as they are above. The largest of these is the
long and narrow Grenadier Island in mid-river. Farther down they are
usually small, some being only isolated rocks almost awash. The last
of the islands are at Brockville, twenty-five miles below Alexandria
Bay--the group of "Three Sisters," one large and two smaller,
apparently dropped into the river opposite the town as if intended to
support the piers of a bridge over to Morristown on the New York
shore. This is an old and quiet Canadian town of nine thousand people,
perpetuating the memory of General Sir Isaac Brock, who fell in the
battle of Queenston Heights in October, 1812, and which is developing
into a summer resort. Such is the charmed archipelago of attractive
islands, unlike almost anything else in America, which brings so many
pleasure and health seekers to the St. Lawrence to sing its praises:
"Fair St. Lawrence! What poet has sung of its grace
As it sleeps in the sun, with its smile-dimpled face
Beaming up to the sky that it mirrors! What brush
Has e'er pictured the charm of the marvellous hush
Of its silence; or caught the warm glow of its tints
As the afternoon wanes, and the even-star glints
In its beautiful depths? And what pen shall betray
The sweet secrets that hide from men's vision away
In its solitude wild? 'Tis the river of dreams;
You may float in your boat on the bloom-bordered streams,
Where its islands like emeralds matchless are set,
And forget that you live; and as quickly forget
That they die in the world you have left; for the calm
Of content is within you, the blessing of balm
Is upon you forever."