Martinsburg Gazette

THE THOUSAND ISLES OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.—There is not, within the knowledge of the 'all beholding sun,' a spot so singularly and exquisitely beautiful—Between the Mississippi and the Bosphorus I know there is not for I have picnicked from the Syppleglades westward. The thousand isles of the St. Lawrence are as imprinted on my mind as the stars of heaven; I could forget them as soon. The river here is as wide as a lake, while the channel just permits the passage of a steamer. The islands, more than a thousand in number, are a singular rock, split as it were, by regular mathematical fissures, and overflowed nearly to the tops, which are covered with most luxuriant vegetation. They vary in size, but the generality of them would about accommodate a tea party of six. The river is deep enough to float a steamer directly at the edge, and a deer would leap across from one to the other in any direction. What is very singular, these little rocky platforms are covered with rich loam, and carpeted with moss and flowers, while immense trees take root in the clefts, and interlace their branches with those of the neighboring islets, shadowing the water with the unsunned dimness of the wilderness. It is a very odd thing to glide through in a steamer. The luxuriant leaves sweep the deck, and the black funnel, parts the dripping sprays as it keeps its way, and you may pluck the blossom of the acacia, or the rich chestnut flowers, sitting on the taffrail; and really, a magic passage in a witch's steamer, beneath the tree tops of an untrodden forest, could not be more novel or startling. Then the solitude and silence of the dim and still waters, are continually broken by the plunge and leap of the wild deer springing or swimming from one island to another; and the swift shadowy canoe of the Indian glides out from some unseen channel, and, with a single stroke of his paddle, he vanishes and is lost again even to the ear.—Willis.