estried with cobwebs, Tasso could have
worked and retouched his poem, composed sonnets, and occupied himself
with small details of toilet, such as the quality of the velvet of his
cap and the silk of his stockings, and with kitchen details, such as
with what kind of sugar he ought to powder his salad, that which he had
not being fine enough for his liking. Neither did we see the house of
Ariosto, another required pilgrimage. Not to speak of the little faith
which one should place in these unauthenticated traditions, in these
relics without character, we prefer to seek Ariosto in the "Orlando
Furioso," and Tasso in the "Jerusalem Delivree" or in the fine drama of
Goethe.

The life of Ferrara is concentrated on the Plaza Nuova, in front of the
church and in the neighborhood of the castle. Life has not yet abandoned
this heart of the city; but in proportion as one moves away from it, it
becomes more feeble, paralysis begins, death gains; silence, solitude,
and grass invade the streets; one feels that one is wandering about a
Thebes peopled with ghosts of the past and from which the living have
evaporated like water which has dried up. There is nothing more sad than
to see the corpse of a dead city slowly falling into dust in the sun and
rain. One at least buries human bodies.

LAKE LUGANO[19]

BY VICTOR TISSOT

On emerging from the second tunnel,[20] beyond a wild and narrow gorge,
there lies suddenly before us, as in a gorgeous fairyland or in the
landscape of a dream, the blue expanse of Lake Lugano, with its setting
of green meadows and purple mountains, with the many-colored village
spires, and the great white fronts of the hotels and villas. Oh, what a
wonderful picture!

We feel as if we were going down into an enchanted garden that has been
hidden by the great snowy walls of the Alps. The air is full of the
perfume of roses and jessamine. The hedges are in flower, butterflies
are dancing, insects are humming, birds are singing. Up above, in the
mountain, is snow, ice, winter, and silence; here there is sunshine,
life, joy, love--all the living delights of spring and summer. Golden
harvests are shining on the plains, and the lake in the distance is like
a piece of the sky brought down to earth.

Lugano is already Italy, not only because of the richness of the soil
and the magnificence of the vegetation, but also as regards the
language, the manners, and the picturesque costumes. In each valley the
dre