Presently we catch a glimmer of light shining from among the trees, and find we are nearing human habitations at last; for tiny lamps are gleaming from pretty nests of houses, which are hidden away in the woodland background. The lights gradually grow more and more numerous, and wide streets develop out of the darkness, and the sounds of tramping feet and voices reach our ears. Through these we rattle quickly, and in a very few moments are deposited at our destination, “Wright’s Hotel,” which, on closer acquaintance, we decide to be one of the cosiest and pleasantest in all the south. It stands on the principal thoroughfare, and has a wide and imposing elevation. The rooms are beautifully clean and comfortably furnished; and the _cuisine_ is excellent. The everyday cooking is elevated to a fine art: an omelette is as light and airy as a dream; a broil has a flavour of poetry about it; and a fricandeau arrives at a state of idyllic perfection. All the arrangements are essentially English, and we settle down for a few days with a home-like feeling in our hearts. The city stands on a lofty plateau--a hill, indeed, of great elevation, and the surrounding country, sloping away in all directions, lies around us a perfect panorama of natural beauty. Whichever way we turn our eyes, they travel downwards and outwards, far away, over wide stretches of wooded country. There a rapid river runs in and out, amid a paradise of green; then a sheet of silver water, or placid lake, calm as an infant’s sleep, dimples in the light of the sun; and wild wildernesses lie nestling among what look like English fields of buttercups and daisies and acres of waving grain; while a rich growth of variegated green fringes the feet or climbs up the sides of the softly swelling distant hills. Tender lights and shadows are lying restfully everywhere. It all looks so calm and peaceful--as though nature, hushed to sleep, was smiling in her dreams.