was more pleasing than the romantic beauty
of the Italian lakes. But the effort failed. In this climate it is
impossible that Horicon should ever be like Como. Pretty hills and
forests and temporary summer structures cannot have the poetic or the
substantial interest of the ancient villages and towns clinging to the
hills, the old stone houses, the vines, the ruins, the atmosphere of
a long civilization. They do the lovely Horicon no service who provoke
such comparisons.

The lake has a character of its own. As the traveler sails north and
approaches the middle of the lake, the gems of green islands multiply,
the mountains rise higher, and shouldering up in the sky seem to bar a
further advance; toward sunset the hills, which are stately but lovely,
a silent assembly of round and sharp peaks, with long, graceful slopes,
take on exquisite colors, violet, bronze, and green, and now and again a
bold rocky bluff shines like a ruby in the ruddy light. Just at dusk the
steamer landed midway in the lake at Green Island, where the scenery
is the boldest and most romantic; from the landing a park-like lawn,
planted with big trees, slopes up to a picturesque hotel. Lights
twinkled from many a cottage window and from boats in the bay, and
strains of music saluted the travelers. It was an enchanting scene.

The genius of Philadelphia again claims the gratitude of the tourist,
for the Sagamore Hotel is one of the most delightful hostelries in
the world. A peculiar, interesting building, rambling up the slope
on different levels, so contrived that all the rooms are outside, and
having a delightful irregularity, as if the house had been a growth.
Naturally a hotel so dainty in its service and furniture, and so
refined, was crowded to its utmost capacity. The artist could find
nothing to complain of in the morning except that the incandescent
electric light in his chamber went out suddenly at midnight and left him
in blank darkness in the most exciting crisis of a novel. Green Island
is perhaps a mile long. A bridge connects it with the mainland, and
besides the hotel it has a couple of picturesque stone and timber
cottages. At the north end are the remains of the English intrenchments
of 1755--signs of war and hate which kindly nature has almost
obliterated with sturdy trees. With the natural beauty of the island art
has little interfered; near the hotel is the most stately grove of white
birches anywhere to be seen, and their silve