There was no delay nor interruption throughout.  Not the sound of a hammer nor the whisper of a prompter was ever heard.  There was no applause whatever from the audience until the end, and then it seemed to come from the strangers.  The three hours—­for the end was precisely at twelve—­seemed not more than one, so filled was the mind with the simple, grand beauty and the artistic completeness of the whole thing.  No personality appears for an instant.  There are no bills to tell the names of the actors, nor did any actor or actress at any time look toward the audience.

Never since early childhood have the Bible stories been brought back with such vividness, such tender and absorbing interest.  Tradition, faith and earnestness have made this a people of artists.  If one could believe, as all must wish, that love of money-making and speculation will not invade this simple village, to the demoralization of its people, the satisfaction would be most complete.  Be that as it may, I shall always owe a debt of gratitude to Ober-Ammergau, and as long as memory lasts shall remember Die Kreuzesschule.

J.W.F.

VARESE.

Varese is an ancient little town on a hill overlooking the small lake of the same name in the midst of the mountainous country between Como and Lago Maggiore, and a little to the southward of the Lake of Lugano.  It is within a very few miles of the Swiss frontier.  All this lacustrine region has for many generations been celebrated as a specially privileged one.  It is Italy without the enervating heat and aridity which are such serious drawbacks to the enjoyment of its other charms by Northern folk.  It is Switzerland without the rigidity of its climate and the comparative poverty of the northern vegetation.  You have the oleander and cactus around your feet, while the snow-peaks high above your head are rose-colored morning and evening by a southern sun.  You wander amid groves of Spanish chestnut, and may hear the while the Swiss-sounding cattle-bells from Alpine pastures high above them.  The lakes themselves, with their branching arms and bays and their fairy-like islands, are of course a feature of ever-varying and incomparable beauty.

Accordingly, Fortune’s favorites of all countries have long, even from the old Roman times downward, thickly studded the district with their villas and gardens and palaces and parks.  But the possession of a villa on one of the Italian lakes implies that the happy owner is nothing very much less than a millionaire.  And it has been reserved for these quite latter days to find the means of placing within the reach of the many all the delights which were heretofore the exclusive privilege of the few.  In no instance has this been done with so complete a measure of success as at Varese.  The hotel is situated about a mile from the little town.  Its gardens look down on the lake, the intervening slope being covered with