Fishermen Who Sing.

One Of The Faithful.

Cross Made By One Of Comos Master-Workmen. 1593.

Where Kindness Wins.

Lake Como's Only Island.

Isola Comacina, Seen From Campo.

Even after its surrender, the Isola Comacina remained for centuries a formidable fortress, since in addition to its massive ramparts, the waterway which girdles it was always serviceable as a moat. Hence, during the dark ages, when the hand of every man, like that of Ishmael, was raised against his neighbor, either to parry or to strike a blow, this Malta of the Larian lake was an invaluable stronghold for such rival factions, outlaws, or barbarians as could capture and retain it. At last, however, in 1169, the curtain fell on this eventful stage, its final scene of massacre occurring when, in a sanguinary war between the cities of Milan and Como, the Milanese were utterly defeated, and the Comaschi, as a matter of protection, rendered the island no more dangerous by thoroughly destroying all its fortifications. Thenceforth, for more than seven hundred years, its bare, abandoned surface has been practically devoid of history.

For Seven Centuries Devoid Of History.

A Bit Of Old Fortification On Isola Comacina.

It is a pity that this lovely site, so full of interesting associations, should be thus neglected. Were any one to give to it one half the labor, care, and money which the Counts of Borromeo lavished on the celebrated isles of Lake Maggiore, it might become not merely another Isola Bella, but an Isola Bellissima. As yet, however, no millionaire has made the place a paradise. A few scant olives, vines, and chestnuts constitute its principal vegetation; and a small rustic church, the humble dwelling of a peasant, and alas! an ugly wall devoted to the advertisement of a Neapolitan hotel, are the sole structures on its surface. Its church - which stands upon the site of an earlier Christian sanctuary of remote antiquity - is dedicated to Saint John the Baptist. Rarely is any service held within its plain white walls; but every year, upon the twenty-fourth of June, - the annual festival of Saint John, - or sometimes on the following Sunday, it becomes the scene of one of those picturesque, time-consecrated ceremonies, of which these people are so fond. Then suddenly the island, which for many months has lain so silent and deserted, resounds with eager voices, and grows gay with colors. There is, of course, the curious mingling, common in Italy on such occasions, of the sacred and the secular; and booths, erected for the sale of rosaries, crucifixes, and devotional pictures, stand side by side with tables furnished with domestic wares, - all duly ranged along the steep path leading to the church. When I first witnessed this peculiar festa, I found, as early as nine o'clock, the island girdled by a fleet of boats, ranging from sumptuous motors to the peasants' black, sharp-pointed craft, protected from the sun by huge, white awnings. In these were hundreds of spectators, hastening thither from hotels and hamlets, lured by the fascination of the seldom-seen. An hour later, the firing of a gun proclaimed the start of the procession; and several richly decorated barges, followed by a small flotilla, left the town of Campo, and slowly made the circuit of the little isle, to give to every part of it an equally impressive benediction. On one of them a band played sacred music; another held the numerous ecclesiastics of the neighborhood; while others still contained a multitude of white-veiled women. All of these vessels, too, were manned by stalwart natives, clad in long red coats, whose privilege it was to row or steer the stately craft, and also, upon disembarking, to bear the heavy gilded lamps, the crucifixes, and the banners up the flight of steps cut in the hillside to the summit. Conspicuous also in the ranks was a large silver reliquary, reverently carried by two priests. Chanting and praying, the procession passed up the neglected slopes, the mastery of which was once so highly prized! How difficult it is to realize now that thousands have been slain in capturing or defending this small plot of land, which any one who will may buy to-day! How strange to think that every foot of its fair surface, now enameled with innumerable flowers, has been stained with blood! The crowd was far too great for me to gain admission to the church. Accordingly reclining on a bit of ancient stonework on the island's crest, I looked down on the loveliest of cycloramas. On every side rose cloudwreathed mountain peaks, whose shoulders - daz-zlingly white in winter -were covered with an emerald verdure comparable only to the softest velvet; the lake itself was like an artist's palette, crowded with bright hues; and, westward, as I gazed down through the silvery leafage of the olive trees, it seemed to me that I was looking from some castle window on a flooded foss, so perfectly symmetrical and smooth appeared the curving belt of beryl green which lies between the island and the adjoining strand. And there, upon the mainland, I beheld, still eloquent of art and history, a finely sculptured bell-tower. It once formed part of a hospice, founded here for the repose of pilgrims going to and from the Holy Land. Even without a knowledge of its past, the quaint old structure would attract attention; but at the thought that it has stood beside the lake so long, and watched so many pious travelers come and go upon this route to Palestine, one feels that thrill of mingled pity, reverence, and admiration which such displays of suffering, illusion, and self-sacrifice inspire. How far behind us now is that old age of toilsome pilgrimages and crusades! And why? Increasing unbelief will not entirely explain its disappearance. Another potent cause is modern apathy. We distrust great enthusiasms. We are indifferent to grand ideals. Phrases like "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," or "Universal Brotherhood," which once bred revolutions, now provoke a smile. Inspiring visions, glorious dreams, exalted calls to lofty effort and sublime achievement no longer sway mankind. We ask incredulously either "For what good?" or "Will it pay?" This age lacks also that immense incentive to romantic deeds,-the charm of the Unknown. Men's knowledge then of Palestine was less than ours of Patagonia. Hundreds of those enthusiasts who toiled heroically toward the Holy Land expected to arrive there daily, and when they saw a city in the distance, asked pathetically if it were Jerusalem. To-day we cable to the city of David to secure our rooms, travel by rail from J o p p a to Mount Zion, and find, on our arrival there, the town besieged by tourists instead of Titus, and Cook the only great crusader. At first thought, all that mediaeval fervor seems to have been wasted. The passionate struggles, century after century, to win and hold the sacred spots connected with Christianity, proved ultimately dismal failures. A million lives were sacrificed in the attempt, and all the compensation gained was transient. Christianity is still weakest in the country of its birth. Its Cross has not replaced the Crescent there. Its cradle holds few converts. Its holy sites are all in Moslem hands. Though Asian in its origin, no Asiatic race accepts it. Its real development and triumphs have been occidental.