Tradition lends its enchantment to the isle.  According to the Indian legend it rose suddenly from the calm bosom of the lake at the sunset hour.  In their fancy it took the form of a huge turtle, and so they bestowed upon it the name of Moc-che-ne-nock-e-nung.  In the Ojibway mythology it became the home of the Great Fairies, and to this day it is said to be a sacred spot to all Indians who preserve the memory of the primal times.  The fairies lived in a subterranean abode under the island, and an old sagamore, Chees-a-kee, is related to have been conducted a la AEneus, in Virgil, to the halls of the spirits and to have seen them all assembled in the spacious wigwam.  Had some bard taken up the tale of this fortunate individual, the literature of the red man might have boasted an epic ranking perhaps with the AEneid or the Iliad.

From the walls of old Fort Holmes, two hundred feet above the lake, a fine view is obtained of the island and its surroundings.  Westward is Point St. Ignace, a sharply defined cape running out from the mainland into the strait.  There rest the bones of good Father Marquette, who, in 1671, erected a chapel on the island and began to Christianize the wild natives of this region.  On the northwest we see the “Sitting Rabbits,” two curious-looking rockhills which bear a singular resemblance to our common American hare.  Eastward stretches away the boundless inland sea, a beautiful greenish-blue, to the horizon.  The mountains of St. Martin, and the hills from which flow Carp and Pine Rivers meet the northern vision.  To the south is Boisblanc Island, lying like an emerald paradise on the bosom of Lake Huron, and close beside it, as if seeking protection, is lovely Round Island.  Among all these islands, and laving the shores of the adjacent mainland, are the rippling waves of the lake, now lying as if asleep in the flooding light, anon white-capped and angry, driven by the strong winds.  Beneath us are the undulations of billowy green foliage, calm and cool, intersected with carriage-roads, and showing yonder the white stones of the soldiers’ and citizens’ graves.  Here, down by the water, and close under the fort, the white, quaint houses lie wrapped in light and quiet.  Breezes cool and delightful, breezes that have traversed the broad expanse of the lakes, blow over your face softly, as in Indian myth blows the wind from the Land of Souls.  The scene and the hour lulls you into a sense of delicious quietude.  You are aroused by the shrill whistle of a steamer, and you descend dockward to note the fresh arrivals.

Several days’ excursions do not exhaust the island.  One day we go to see Arch Rock, a beautiful natural bridge of rock spanning a chasm some eighty feet in height and forty in width.  The summit is one hundred and fifty feet above the level.  Another day we visit Sugar-loaf Rock, an isolated conical shape one hundred and forty feet high, rising from a plateau in the centre of the island.  A hole half-way up its side is large enough to hold a dozen persons, and has in it the names of a hundred eager aspirants after immortality.  On the southwest side of the island is a perpendicular rock bluff, rising one hundred and fifty feet from the lake and called “Lover’s Leap.”  The legend was told us one afternoon by Hugh, as follows:—­