* * * * *

The piercing Tramontane came down upon us in the Bay of Naples with so

fierce a blast that we doubted if we were not in Iceland, and were glad

to make our escape to Rome, where we found an asylum in the Hôtel de

Minerve, not far from the Pantheon. Many of the old palaces and convents

of Italy have been transformed into hotels. This was the ancient palace

of the princes of Conti. I was so captivated by the superb dining-room

that the quality of the dinners made but a faint impression. What! eat

in the presence of all those marble goddesses, looking down upon us,

serene and cold, as if from their thrones on the starry Olympus! Or if I

turned my eyes resolutely away from Juno, Ceres and Minerva, they were

sure to be snared by the dancing-girls of Pompeii stepping out from the

frescoed walls, or inextricably entangled in the lovely garlands of

fruit and flowers that wound their mazy way along the borders.

One evening, while we were waiting for one of the endless courses of a

table-d'hôte dinner, my wandering eyes were caught by the most perfect

human head I had ever seen. It seemed that of the youthful Lord Byron,

so well known in busts and engravings--the same small head with high

forehead and clustering dark-brown curls, the perfectly-moulded chin,

the full, ripe beauty of the lips. The eyes were a deep blue, but I

thought them black at first, they were so darkly shaded by the thick

black lashes. I am convinced that Byron must have had just such eyes,

for some of his biographers describe them as black and others as blue.

When he rose from the table I saw a slight, well-knit figure of

exquisite proportions, like the Greek god of love. (Not Cupid with his

vulgar arrows, but the true heavenly Eros. I saw him once in the Museum

at Naples, and again in the Vatican. Is it Love, or Death, or

Immortality? I queried, and then I knew it was the three in one.) I soon

learned that the youth whose ideal beauty had impressed me so strongly

was the Count Francisco de Alvala of Toledo in Spain. I fancy that his

eyes were as easily attracted to beauty as mine, for the next day he was

my _vis-à-vis_ at table; not for the sake of looking at me, I was

well aware, but on account of my beautiful neighbor. However, he sought

my acquaintance with the grave courtesy becoming a grandee of Spain, and

naturally gained that of Miss St. Clair also.

It is the most natural thing in the world to make acquaintances in Rome.

People talk together of the things they have seen or wish to see: they

go to the same places by day, and in the evening they meet in the

ladies' parlor to compare their impressions. The young count never

failed to join us in the evening. He had always something to show

us--prints of his home in Spain, articles of _virtù_ that he had

bought, sketches that he had made, for he was a good amateur artist.

A group of young people of different nations generally collected on

these occasions, and the conversation often turned on the usages

peculiar to their respective countries.

"In Spain I could not greet a lady with a simple good-evening," said the

count. "I should say, 'Permit the humblest of your servants to lay

himself at your feet,' or something like that."

"Why do you not say it to us?" asked a bright-eyed Canadian girl.

"Well, it might be a little awkward if you should happen to take it

literally. In Spain it is the merest commonplace."

"If such exaggerated phrases are frittered into commonplaces, and the

most impassioned words grow meaningless, what can a Spanish gentleman

find to say when his heart is really touched?" I inquired.

"I fancy we should find some very simple words to say it in," said the

boy, flushing like a girl. "But I do not know--I have never learned."

"Talk some more," commanded the little princess.

"If a pretty young lady is walking in our streets a mantle is often

flung suddenly in her way, and proud and happy is its owner if she

deigns to set her dainty foot upon it."

"What do they do that for? Because the streets are so muddy?" inquired

an obtuse young woman. But nobody volunteered to enlighten her.

"Cannot we go to Spain?" asked Miss St. Clair. "I should like to see a

modern Sir Walter Raleigh."

"If the señorita should appear in our streets they would be strewn with

mantles," said the young count gallantly.

"Would you throw down yours for me to step upon?"

"Surely, señorita."

"I'll come, then. It must be of velvet, mind."

"Yes, studded with jewels."

I loved the beautiful youth. His presence was like a poem in my life,

and if it ever occurred to me that the familiar intercourse of the young

people might not be altogether prudent, I dismissed it with the thought,

He is only a boy.

There was to be an illumination of the Coliseum. We were going of

course, and Count Alvala begged that I would honor him by making use of

his carriage on this occasion. "Thank you, but I have already spoken to

Piero to come for us."

"Oh, but we can send him away. You will find my carriage more

comfortable, and it will be in every way pleasanter," he urged

beseechingly; but my negative was peremptory.

Eight o'clock came. Miss St. Clair and I descended to the court of the

hotel, but where was Piero? "It is singular. He was never late before,

but I am confident that he will be here presently. We have only to wait

a little."

The minutes went by, and they were long minutes. It was awkward waiting

in so public a place. The count had joined us with his friend, an

Italian marquis some thirty years of age, with whom we had a slight

acquaintance. The count's handsome equipage was drawn up near us. There

was no Piero.

"I really think you had better accept my young friend's carriage. It

would be a pity to miss so grand a spectacle," said the marquis.

We entered the carriage. The count wrapped us in a magnificent feather

robe, such as the Montezumas wore, for the April nights in Rome are

chill, however hot the sunshine. It was strange to see the Forum,

ordinarily solitary and desolate, now thronged with an eager multitude

on foot and with numerous open carriages, in which were seated ladies in

full dress as at the opera with us. Arriving at the Coliseum, we left

the carriage and passed through the huge portal. The gloomy arches were

obscurely seen in the dusky Roman twilight, when suddenly, as if by

magic, every arch and crevice of the gigantic ruin glowed, incarnadined,

as if dyed with the blood of the martyrs that had drenched its soil.

There were salvos of artillery, bursts of military music and a few vivas

from the multitude. A brilliant spectacle, but the tender beauty of

moonlight harmonizes better with the solemnity of ruins.

Rapt in the memories that the scene awakened, I paid little attention to

the monologue of my Italian friend, when I was suddenly roused by the

question, "Did you ever see a prettier couple?"

"Who?" I asked absently.

"There," he rejoined, pointing to the count and Miss St. Clair, who

preceded us.

"He is too young," I replied, but the question was asked so

significantly that it disturbed me a little, and I resolved to be more

cautious than heretofore.

The next morning Piero appeared with his carriage to take us to the

Baths of Caracalla. He hoped madame did not lose the illumination. He

was wretched to disappoint madame: he begged a thousand pardons. His

little boy was taken violently ill: he was forced to go for the doctor;

madame was so good.

The truth flashed upon me: "Piero, how much did the count give you to

stay away last night?"

A gleam of humor twinkled in his black eyes, but it was speedily

quenched: "I do not understand what madame wishes to say."

It happened that a friend and country-woman at our hotel was taken ill

with typhoid fever, and amid the anxieties of her sick room the

incipient love-affair was almost forgotten. I no longer spent the

evenings in the parlor. One day Miss St. Clair showed me a tiny satin

bag beautifully embroidered, with a soft silken chain to pass around the

neck. "What can it be for?" she asked.

"Why, Helen, it is an amulet. Where did you get it?"

"The count gave it to me. He had the loveliest set of Byzantine mosaics

and pearls which he wished to give me; and when I would not accept them

he seemed so hurt that I did not like to refuse this trifle. What do you

suppose is in it."

"A relic of some saint, without doubt. He thinks it will protect you

from fever perhaps."

Like most Americans, we were desirous of seeing the pope, and Count

Alvala obtained for us the necessary permission. We were to be received

on a Saturday at eleven. We went in the prescribed costume, black silk,

with the picturesque Roman veil thrown over the head. From the foot of

the Scala Regia, (Royal Staircase) one of the papal guard, in a motley

suit which seemed one glare of black and yellow, escorted us to the door

of a long corridor, known as the Loggia of Raphael, where we were

received by a higher official in rich array of crimson velvet. About

seventy persons were seated in rows, facing each other, along this

gallery, nearly all laden with rosaries to be blessed by the Holy

Father. We waited till my neck ached with looking up at the exquisite

frescoes, fresh and tender in coloring as if new from the hand of the

master, when the pope appeared, attended by a cardinal on each hand. We

fell on our knees instantly, but not till I had seen an old man's face

so sweet and venerable as to make this act of etiquette a spontaneous

homage. He passed slowly down the line, saying a word or two to each,

and extending his hand, white and soft like a woman's, to be kissed.

Pausing by the young count, who was kneeling beside me, he said

impressively, "Courage and faith have always been attributes of the

house of Alvala. Your fathers were good children of the Church, and you,

my son, will not be wanting in any of the qualities of your race."

When he had passed us we rose from our knees, and I could observe him

more closely. He wore a close-fitting white cap on his finely-shaped

head; a long robe of white woolen cloth buttoned up in front, with a

small cape of the same material; a white sash, gold-embroidered at the

end; a long gold chain around his neck, to which was attached a large

golden cross; a seal ring on the third finger of his right hand; and red

slippers. Soft snowy locks fell from under the white skull-cap over a

noble forehead, which years and trials had left unwrinkled. Black

eyebrows and the soft dark eyes made a pleasant contrast to the

whiteness of hair and brow, and his smile was so sweet and winning that

I scarcely wondered to see two Catholic ladies prostrate themselves and

kiss his feet and the hem of his white garment with a rapture of

devotion from which his attendants with difficulty rescued him. He

lingered longest by a pretty boy four or five years old, and there was a

pathos in the caressing, clinging touch of his hand as it rested on the

child's head that called to mind an old love-story of the handsome Count

Mastai Ferretti when he wore the uniform of an officer of the guards,

and had not yet thought of priestly robe or papal crown. I wonder if he

remembers the fair English girl now?

Having completed the round, he made a brief address, the purport of

which was that he was about to give us his blessing, and he wished that

it might be diffused to all our families and friends, and be not for the

present moment only, but extend through our whole lives and abide with

us in the hour of death; "But remember," said he with a kind of paternal

benignity, "that the gates of paradise open rarely to any who are

without the communion of the Holy Catholic Church. Sometimes

perhaps--sometimes--but with great difficulty." He extended his hands.

We dropped on our knees and received the blessing of this benign old

man, whom the larger part of Christendom revere as the earthly head of

the Church. As we were making our way through the stately columns of

the colonnade which forms the approach to the Vatican I saw the count

glance at the amulet which Helen wore. "What is in it?" I asked.

"A relic of the blessed Saint Francis, my patron," he replied.

"It will lose its efficacy on the neck of a little heretic like Miss St.

Clair," said I with a purpose.

"It will do her no harm," said he coldly.

Monday I was at the table d'hôte the first time for a week. I found the

count seated next to Miss St. Clair. It was very simple, she explained

to me afterward. A lady occupied his seat one day, and he came round to

the only vacant one, which happened to be next hers. I am a very

guileless person, but I think Vincenzo had an excellent reason for

letting it happen. Helen was on my left hand as usual, and the Italian

marquis on my right.

"I am sorry for that boy," said he to me: "he is very unhappy."

"The young count? What is the matter?"

"Don't you see? He is madly in love with your bewitching little

American. It is his first impression, and he takes it hard. Well, he

will have to learn like the rest of us."

"I hope you are mistaken;" and I glanced uneasily at my young neighbors,

who were too much absorbed in their own conversation to heed that

between the marquis and myself.

"That is impossible. He raves to me about her. It is very pretty too--a

perfect idyl, all poetry and romance--eternal, unchangeable, and all

that boyish nonsense. We older men know better. But monsignore will be

here soon, and he will look after him."

"Who is monsignore?"

"The archbishop of Toledo, his guardian. He has been here, but some

diocesan matter called him home. He will be back anon, and then the

count will dine at home. As to that, he does now, and delicious dinners

they are, too. He only makes a pretence of eating here, just to have a

chance to see his little divinity."

"He was here when we came."

"True, but only for a day or two while his house was put in order. The

house is well worth seeing--one of the finest on the Corso. It is not

open to strangers, but if you would like to see it--"

"Certainly not," I interrupted, a little irritably, the more so from the

consciousness of having been a somewhat careless chaperone. I was coming

sharply up to the line of duty now, at all events.

"Helen," said I when we rose from the dinner-table, "do not go into the

parlor now. Come into my room a little while, please.--Well, Helen," I

resumed when we were seated by the pleasant window, "I have seen so

little of you for a week past that you must have a great deal to tell

me."

"I do not know," she replied. "I have been out every day with the

Glenns, just as you arranged for me, and I have been in the parlor in

the evenings, and sometimes I sang, and one night there was a French

gentleman--"

"How about the young count? The Italian says he is very much in love

with you. Do you know it?"

"He has told me so often enough, if that is knowing it," with a quick,

impatient toss of the small, graceful head.

"Oh, Helen!" I cried in real distress, "and what did you say to him?"

"Why, what _could_ I say in that great parlor, with everybody

looking on? I just hushed him up as well as I could. There is the tall

English girl and that sharp-eyed Miss Donaldson, who are watching us the

whole time. It is real mean in them," excitedly. "And the count doesn't

mind letting everybody know how much he admires me. In fact, he is proud

of it, like one of the old knights, who used to wear their ladies'

favors as openly and proudly as they bore their knightly banners."

"This will never do, Helen. Don't you see that this boy is not like the

gay Frenchman that you danced with last winter? René Vergniaud was a man

of the world: he could take care of himself. But this beautiful boy,

with his intensity of feeling, his ideal passionate love--You must not

play with him," I exclaimed vehemently.

"I am not playing with him: I never do anything to make him like me. He

comes and talks to me, and I just make myself as agreeable to him as I

can, that is all."

That is all, is it, you little mischief? thought I. As if that were not

the very refinement of coquetry! But I prudently refrained from saying

it, for a tempest of hot tears began to fall, and she sobbed, "Oh,

Madame Fleming, I did not think I was going to forfeit your good

opinion. What can I do? I can't help his liking me. I like him too, and

that makes me feel so badly."

"Do you like him better than Mr. Denham?"

"Better than Fred?" in a tone of surprise. "Why no, of course not: I

have known Fred always."

"The best thing will be to tell him of Mr. Denham."

"Oh no, I never can."

"_I_ will, then."

"Don't, I beseech you. We shall go away soon, and that will be the end

of it. Promise me you will not. I would rather tell him myself if I ever

have a chance."

I looked in to see my invalid friend, and then descended to the parlor,

where I found the young count almost alone. He looked up eagerly as I

entered: "I thought Miss St. Clair was with you. I have been waiting for

her all the evening."

"Indeed!"

"I told her at table that I wished to see her particularly this

evening."

"Perhaps she did not understand you."

"Oh yes, she did. You would not let her come?" with a sudden lighting up

of the expressive face.

"I did not forbid her coming: I did not know that you were waiting for

her."

Then with sudden boyish candor and a happy smile on his animated

countenance "I thought you might have observed that I come here so often

because I like to talk with Miss St. Clair. But you never can know how

dearly I love her."

"I am sorry."

"Why?" with a naïve surprise.

"She is older than you."

"How old is she?"

"She will be twenty in May."

"And I am nineteen this very week. What is one poor little year?--not a

year," gleefully.

"But the difference in religion?"

"An obstacle, I grant, but not an insuperable one. My uncle married an

English lady, a Protestant, and they have been very happy together."

"But I think there is another man," I stammered, surprised at finding my

outposts carried so easily.

"You do not mean to say that she is compromised with any man?" almost

fiercely.

"I do not know what meaning you attach to that word," for the count's

imperfect French was not always intelligible. "There is a young man, the

son of a neighbor, who has admired her a long time."

"Oh, he admires her?" with a curl of the exquisite lips, as if to say,

"Who does not?"

"But I think she may like him a little."

"Why do you torture me so? Tell me at once that they are betrothed,"

cried he, pale with concentrated anger.

He thought she had trifled with him, I knew instantly, but quietly said,

"I cannot tell you exactly in what relation they stand to each other,

but I think Miss St. Clair would if she found an opportunity to speak

with you."

"You do not know how I have tried to make opportunities. I go

everywhere, hoping to see you, and I have never met you--not once. Won't

you ask her to come down to-night?" coaxingly, like a child.

"Not to-night: it is too late."

"I _must_ see Miss St. Clair to-night."

"Impossible."

"I _must_ see Miss St. Clair. Find out for me when I can see her. I

will go with you," in a white heat of passion. (We had been alone for

some little time.)

I took the arm which he held out, not a little agitated by the excess of

emotion which thrilled and quivered through his youthful frame, as he

hurried me up the broad stone staircase and along the wide corridors

that led to our rooms. What business had I to meddle? How should an old

fogy like me know anything of the love-affairs of this generation? The

girl would have managed more wisely than I, I reflected, by no means

jubilant over the result.

"Wait here;" and I walked on to Miss St. Clair's door, opened it, and

there sat Helen in her pretty white wrapper, bathed in the moonlight,

serene as a star, as if there were no passionate young heart breaking in

waves of anguish at her feet. "Helen, the count is in the corridor, and

he will not go till I have told him when you will see him."

"How can I? You must think for me."

A hasty consultation. The count was standing where I had left him: "We

shall be at the Sistine Chapel to-morrow at two o'clock."

He bowed and was gone.

I did not sleep well that night. A pretty person I am to take charge of

a young girl! I wonder what Mr. St. Clair would think if he knew I had

made an appointment for his daughter to meet a young Spaniard? On the

way, however, I admonished Helen, as if no misgiving of my own wisdom

had ever crossed my mind: "You must be firm with him. Tell him so

decidedly that he cannot doubt you really mean it."

"Yes," said she, "but I do dread it so. I can't bear his thinking that I

encouraged him."

"Then you _did_?"

"I didn't mean to, but I do like him; and I didn't think of his taking

it so to heart. Men are so strange! You think you have a charming

friend, and then they _will_ go on just so, boys and all, and you

have to take them or lose them; and you can't take them. It is too bad!"

We were at the door. The keeper opened it, and there stood the count

waiting for us. It was not the first time we had been in the wonderful

chapel. Fortunately, there were very few persons there on this

afternoon--none that we knew. I sat down to look at the grand frescoes:

Helen and the count walked on to the farthest corner. I looked at the

Cumæan Sibyl, the impersonation of age and wisdom, and wished, as I

glanced at the youthful figures talking so earnestly in the distance,

but not a murmur of whose voices reached my ear, that she would impart

to me her far-reaching vision of futurity. I gazed on the image of the

Eternal Father sweeping in majestic flight through the air, bearing the

angels on His floating garment as He divides the light from the

darkness. I saw Adam, glad with new life, rising from the earth, because

the outstretched finger of his Creator gave him a conscious strength. I

looked at "The Last Judgment," grown dim with years, till every figure

started out in intensity of life, and it seemed as if the faces would

haunt me for ever.

And yonder still progressed the old, ever-new drama of love and anguish,

with its two actors, who seemed scarcely to have changed their position

or taken their eyes from each other. At length they walked slowly toward

me with more serenity of aspect than I had dared to hope.

"Shall we go into the picture-gallery?" asked the count.

"I think we may have time to walk through it," I answered. "It is

half-past three."

"Is it possible that we have kept you waiting so long?" they asked

simultaneously.

"An hour and a half is a short time in a place like the Sistine Chapel,"

I remarked sententiously.

As soon as we were alone I drew Helen to the confessional: "Did you tell

him about Mr. Denham?"

"Yes, everything, and he was so noble. I am so sorry. The tears stood in

his eyes, and he said, 'I suffer, but I am a man. I can bear it.' Then

he thanked me for dealing so openly with him. He never once hinted a

reproach. And I deserved it," she said with unwonted humility. "I never

felt before how wicked it is to flirt just a little. He is not selfish,

like some people that I know;" and my thought followed hers. "I don't

know but I am a little goose to let him go so. If he were only

twenty-three years old, and I were free--"

The next day we saw nothing of the count, but early Thursday morning

Vincenzo knocked at my door with a note, in which Count Alvala informed

me that he was my son, and begged earnestly to see the beautiful Miss

St. Clair once more: he would never trouble me again. It was the only

day on which we could see the Palace of the Cæsars, and would I be so

good as to permit him to meet us there? I hastily penciled a few words:

"I am waiting for Dr. Valery. I shall probably stay with my sick friend

to-day, and Miss St. Clair will not go out without me," and sent the

line by Vincenzo, happy to be rid of the importunate boy for this time.

Two hours later, when the doctor had pronounced my friend better, and I

had promised Helen a walk amid the ruins of the Palatine, which I did

not like to leave Rome without seeing, I went down to the roll, coffee

and eggs which constitute an Italian breakfast, and there sat the count

as vigilant as a sentinel. "You will go?" said he with a smile.

"I think we may," curtly.

"I shall perhaps meet you there."

When we reached the Farnese gate he was waiting there, which made the

"perhaps" superfluous. We had a long ramble over the lonely hill,

stretching out like a green New England pasture, but where from time to

time we came unexpectedly upon flights of steps which led to massive

substructures of stone, foundations of ancient palaces, and to excavated

halls paved with mosaics and lined with frescoes more beautiful than

those of Pompeii. There were many statues, more or less mutilated, and

stately brick arches laden with a wealth of flowering shrubs, and here

and there thickets of tall dark cypress trees, harmonious with ruins. My

young companions were rather silent, but I fancy their thoughts were not

engrossed with old historic lore. I made a conscientious effort to force

mine into the ruts of association which I had supposed to be inevitable

in such a spot, but the bright sunshine, the delicate blue of the

distant Campagna, the living gladness of earth and air were too strong

for me, and I inwardly applauded a lively American girl who interrupted

her droning guide with the incisive "I don't care a snap for Cæsar."

On reaching the gate after our three hours' ramble I consigned Miss St.

Clair to some friends who were waiting for her, and stepped into the

count's carriage. He seemed to feel bound in honor not to speak of love

to Miss St. Clair since the revelation of the Sistine Chapel, but he

must have a little solace in talking to me about it. "It would be easy,"

said he, "if she were not _fiancée_, but that makes it difficult--very

difficult indeed. I am glad it is not going to be for three years: that

is a long time, a very long time." Then, with a sudden illumination of

face and a delicious intonation of the musical voice, "Perhaps they will

never marry: perhaps it will be another man--I." (Blessed infatuation of

youth, with its wonderful _perhapses_, which never come to maturer

years!)

"One of these years I shall hope to hear that you are married to a

beautiful lady of your own country and your own religion."

"You never will."

"Oh yes, you will be astonished to find how easy it is to forget."

"I come of a constant race," said he proudly. "My father loved my

mother, and they sent him all over the world to forget her, but he came

home in five years and married her."

"Even if it were otherwise possible (which it is not), the difference in

religion ought to prevent it. How could so good a Catholic as you

distress your family by marrying a heretic?"

"Perhaps she would be a Catholic." (I noticed that he did not say,

"Perhaps I shall become a Protestant.") "Don't you think her father

would let her marry a Catholic?"

"No," I replied stoically.

He was silent and dejected.

"You must forget her," said I kindly. "It is only a little while since

you first saw her."

"A little while! It is my whole life!" "Only a few weeks," I continued.

"We shall soon be across the ocean, and you will see other ladies."

"There is only one Miss St. Clair."

"I beg your pardon--there are three of them." But the boy was too

miserable to notice this poor little sally.

We were approaching the hotel. "I shall not see you again at present,"

said he. "Monsignore will arrive this evening, and I must be at home to

receive him. But I shall be in Paris by the middle of May, and I shall

see you there: farewell till then."

The next morning Miss St. Clair and I were on our way to Florence. A

week later, on our return from the convent of San Marco, where we had

seen the cell of Savonarola and many lovely but faded frescoes of Fra

Angelico and Fra Bartolommeo, whom should we find waiting for us in our

temporary home on the Via Pandolfini but Count Alvala? I felt annoyed,

and my face must have revealed it, for he said deprecatingly, "You ought

to be glad to see your boy, Madame Fleming, for I have come this long

journey only for a day, expressly to see you."

"Well," said I, "you took me so by surprise that I had not my welcome

ready. I did not expect the pleasure of seeing you till after our

arrival in Paris."

"That is why I am here. I shall not be able to go to Paris. I am

bitterly disappointed, but monsignore has made other plans for me. I am

to go to Vienna to visit my aunt, whose husband is our ambassador there.

The tour to Paris is postponed till the autumn."

Evidently monsignore had heard of the little heretic maiden, and he was

going to remove his ward from temptation. I was infinitely obliged to

him.

A desultory conversation followed, carried on principally by the young

people, and then the count said, "Miss St. Clair tells me that you have

visited the Uffizi and Pitti galleries. May I not go with you somewhere

to-morrow?--to La Certose or San Miniato, for instance?"

"Thank you," I replied: "we are so exhausted with sight-seeing, Miss St.

Clair and I, that we shall stay in all day to-morrow, and we shall be

happy to see you _once_ in the afternoon or evening, as may be most

convenient for you."

I did not like to be hard and cross to the dear boy whom my heart

yearned over, but I felt as much bound to "make an effort" as if I had

been a veritable Dombey.

The call lasted afternoon _and_ evening: it was only the change of

a particle. I could not reproduce the innocent talk, half gay, half sad,

of this long interview, but before he went away the count drew me aside:

"Will you give this to Miss St. Clair when I am gone?"

I unfolded the package: it contained a photograph of himself and a small

painting which he had executed of the Coliseum on the night of the

illumination. "Yes."

"And will you send me her photograph from Paris? I will have it copied

by the best miniature-painter in Rome and put in a locket set with

diamonds," said the boy enthusiastically.

"I cannot promise."

"Do you think I could be of any use to her father? Not to win his favor,

you understand, but I should be so happy to do anything to serve her or

her friends. Can't you tell me now?"

"No. Mr. St. Clair does not need assistance in any way that I know."

In spite of the boy's earnestness, the idea of his offering patronage to

the mature and independent American struck me as irresistibly ludicrous.

"But you will tell him all about me."

"Yes."

"I shall learn to speak English--I have begun already--and in a year I

shall be in America. Will you write your address for me on this card?"

I did so.

"If you ever come to Spain, remember that my house and all that is in it

are yours."

"I shall never go to Spain."

"Perhaps you will one day to see Miss St. Clair," looking up in my face

with a bright smile of inextinguishable hope. "Good-bye for a year."

A few more days in Florence, a week in Venice, a day or two in Milan,

and we bade adieu to Italy. Land of beauty and mystery! when I recall

thy many forms of loveliness, the glorious shapes of gods and heroes,

serene and passionless in their white majesty of marble, the blessed

sweetness of saints and Madonnas shining down into my soul, I seem to

have been once in heaven and afterward shut out.

* * * * *

We were once more at home. Almost the first news that came to us from

abroad was of the terrible war between France and Germany. During the

protracted siege of Paris we were full of anxieties, but at its close we

received long letters from Madame Le Fort, giving many details of the

sufferings and privations of the siege, sorrowful enough for the most

part, but enlivened here and there with touches of the gay French humor

that nothing can subdue. There was a lively sketch of a Christmas dinner

ingeniously got up of several courses of donkey-meat. At New Year's the

choicest gift that a gentleman could make a lady was a piece of wheaten

bread. Afterward there was nothing in the house but rice and chocolate

bonbons, which they chewed sparingly, a little at a time. But they kept

up their courage--they were even gay. Hardships were nothing, but that

Paris should be surrendered at last--that was a humiliation which

nothing could compensate. Many of the gay dancers whom we had known had

fallen in battle, among them, René Vergniaud. He was shot in the heart

in an engagement with the Prussians in the environs of Paris.

I spent my next summer vacation with Miss St. Clair in Detroit.

"When is Mr. Denham coming home?" I asked one evening when we were alone

together.

"I do not know: he does not speak of coming home. I am a little puzzled

about Fred. He has written me a great deal lately about a certain

Fräulein Teresa, the daughter of one of his professors, who takes such

excellent care of her younger brothers and sisters, and who is such a

wonderfully economical, housewifely little body--just a new edition of

Werther's Charlotte. I do not think that he really likes her," she

continued after musing a little: "he just holds her up as a model for me

to copy. I shouldn't wonder if she was only imaginary, to make me feel

how far I come short of his ideal. Fred says that he worships the very

ground I tread on--slightly hyperbolical and very original, you

perceive," with a satirical curve of her pretty lips--"but he never

seems half satisfied with me. He ought to know by this time that I must

be just my own little self, and not a second-hand imitation of somebody

else."

The next day came a letter with a German postmark, which was so eloquent

on the subject of Fräulein Teresa that it elicited the following reply:

"DETROIT, August 5, 1871.

"DEAR FRED: I despair of emulating Fräulein Teresa's many

excellencies. You know what a useless little thing I am. Happily, it

is not too late to make another choice. Thinking it may please you,

I hereby release you from all your promises to me. We may never be

anything more to each other perhaps, but I hope that we shall always

be dear friends. I shall never forget that we grew up together, and

I wish you all possible happiness.

"Your little friend, HELEN."

In due time this answer came:

"HEIDELBERG, August 27, 1871.

"MISS ST. CLAIR: Your somewhat singular letter of August 5th was

duly received. If I believed that you had written it, or ever could

or would do anything, with proper deliberation, I should accept

your decision at once. But as I have good reason to know your habit

of acting from sudden impulses which you afterward regret, I give

you three months to reconsider this hasty step.

"I have the honor to be your obedient servant,

"F. A. DENHAM."

Helen held to me the open sheet, with kindling eyes and glowing cheeks:

"Three months! I don't need three minutes: I wouldn't change in three

centuries. I am so glad to be free!" she cried, sobbing and laughing at

the same moment. "He has worried me so--a poor little thing like me!"

The next morning I started on my return to Boston.

Early in October a servant handed me a card bearing the name Francisco

Alvala. I had ceased to think of the boy, not having heard a word from

him; but here he was, looking very manly, browned with the sun and sea,

and beautiful as Endymion when Diana stooped to kiss him and all the

green leaves in the white moonshine were tremulous with sympathy.

After the first greeting he asked, "How is Miss St. Clair? and when did

you see her last?"

I told him of my recent visit.

"She is not married, then?"

"On the contrary, she is free. The engagement with Mr. Denham has been

broken."

"What did I tell you? Did I not say it would be _I_?" in a burst of

triumph.

As a good Boston woman I am chagrined to record that Bunker Hill and all

the local lions, which I was at some pains to impress on his memory, did

not prove so attractive as the earliest Western train.

Why make a long story of what every one foresees? In the course of the

autumn and winter the count made flying visits to Washington,

Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even San Francisco, but it was noticeable

that the way to all these places lay through Detroit. He spoke English

marvelously well now, and so won upon the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. St.

Clair that on the 23d of April, being his twenty-first birthday, the

marriage of the conde de Alvala and Helen St. Clair was duly celebrated.

I could not leave my school to be present at the wedding, but the young

couple came to Boston to take leave of me before sailing for Europe.

They were radiant with happiness, and I could hardly tell which I loved

best, my boy or my girl; but if the Italian had been there to ask if I

ever saw a more beautiful couple, I should have answered no with great

emphasis.

I will copy Helen's first letter in order to prove that a château en

Espagne is not always a castle in the air:

"ALVALA, near Toledo, June 20, 1872.

"DEAR MADAME FLEMING: You have heard from mother of our voyage and

safe arrival. We are now at home, Francisco and I, if I can ever

learn to feel at home in such a grand place, where I can hardly

find my way round. It is like one of the old palaces at Rome, the

Borghese or Colonna, that we used to admire so much, with vast

halls opening into one another, hangings of tapestry and Cordovan

leather, marble statues and old paintings--family portraits by

Titian and Velasquez, one or two Murillos, and--but I cannot write

a catalogue. You must come to see us and the pictures. I am not

sure which you will like the best. Francisco is very good to me,

and so are all his friends. His sister and her husband were here to

welcome us.

"One of the first things we did was to go down the rose-tree walk,

along the banks of the Tagus, for more than a mile--white and

delicate pink and deep-red roses blossoming above our heads and

dropping their petals at our feet all the way. Francisco said he

would make my life like that walk among the roses, all sweetness

and beauty, but that he cannot tell.

"There is the old cathedral, with a wonderful head of Saint Francis

and a whole forest of columns; and when you come we will bribe the

sacristan not to lock you in, as they did at St. Roch. I shall

never be a Roman Catholic, but I go to mass sometimes, for there is

no Protestant service here, and one cannot be quite a heathen where

everybody is so devout. What I dislike most is to have a chaplain

in the house, walking about in his black petticoat, but of course I

never say a word to Francisco.

"By and by we are going to our house in Madrid. _Our house in

Madrid_! does not that sound very strange? It all seems so unreal

that I am afraid of waking up and finding it a dream.

"Do, dear Madame Fleming, give up slaving in that old school and

come and live with Francisco and me. He says he wishes you would,

and it would make everything seem more real if I had you here.

Think of it, now. You will, won't you? As ever, your dear child,

"HELEN ALVALA."

This true story suggests a little sermon in two heads: 1st. To all

possible and probable lovers: It was not the count's rank or wealth, but

the fervor and constancy of ideal love and his whole-souled, exclusive

devotion, that won the heart of the American girl. 2d. To all sensible

American parents: Do not permit your pretty young daughters to make a

tour in Europe unless you are willing to leave them there.

MARY E. BLAIR.

A JAPANESE MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.

In describing a Japanese marriage in high life we do not intend to soar

_too_ high. It is not for our alien pen to portray the splendors of such

a marriage as that of the princess of Satsuma to Iyesada, the thirteenth

Shô-gun of the Tokugawa dynasty, when all Yedo was festal and

illuminated for a week. Neither shall we describe that of the imperial

princess Kazu, the younger sister of the Mikado, who came up from Kioto

to wed the young Shô-gun Iyemochi, and thus to unite the sacred blood of

twenty-five centuries of imperial succession with that of the Tokugawas,

the proud family that ruled Japan, and dictated even to her emperors,

for two hundred and fifty years. We leave the description of those royal

nuptials to other pens. Ours aspires only to describe a marriage such as

has happened in old Yedo for the thousandth time in the samurai

class--the gentry of Japan.

Were you with us in Tokio (the new name of the capital of Japan) we

should take you, were you inclined to go, to the place where once stood

the mansion of Yamashiro Kan, a high retainer of the prince of Echizen,

and a lineal descendant of the great Iyeyasu, the founder of the dynasty

of the Shô-guns. Were you to seek for Yamashiro's mansion now, you would

not find it, but instead several very vulgar evidences of the Western

civilization which is now changing the Land of the Gods into a paradise

of beef, bread, butter, milk and machinery. We walked past the old

mansion-grounds a few days ago, and lo! we saw a milk-shop and dairy, a

butcher's stall, a sewing-machine store, a printing-office, a school in

which Japanese boys were learning A, B, C's, a photographer's "studio,"

a barber-shop with an English sign, and a score or more Japanese shops

of all kinds. This is of to-day. Five years ago a long wall of

diamond-shaped tiles laid in white cement extended round the spacious

grounds of the homestead of the Yamashiro family. Inside were

fish-ponds, mimic hills, miniature mountain-scenery, dense

flower-bushes, dwarfed arboreal wonders, solemn shade trees and a garden

laid out according to the very best Japanese style. The fine old

_yashiki_ of Yamashiro, with its porter's lodge, stone path,

entrance-porch, vestibule and the family homestead, was within. No

wonder, then, that the aged man, who firmly believes that Japan is going

to the dogs, the devil or the foreigners--he does not know which--shakes

his head as he now passes by the milk-and butcher-shops, around which

the lazy dogs sleep or wait for bones, and sighs as he remembers the

grand old mansion.

About two miles farther north, in the great _rus urba_ of Yedo, was

another house of humbler pretensions, and yet one with a gate and garden

of dimensions betokening the residence of a man of rank. It was the home

of Nakayama, one of the eighty thousand _hatamoto_ (vassals) of the

Shô-gun, a studious gentleman whose greatest pride was in his two sons

and his only daughter. The former were not only manly and expert in the

use of the sword and spear, but had the best education that the classics

of Confucius and the Chinese college and literati in Yedo could give

them. Next to them in his love was his only daughter Kiku, seventeen

years old, and as fair as the fairest of Yedo's many fair daughters. No

vain doll was Kiku, but, inheriting her mother's beauty, she added to it

the inner grace of a meek and dutiful spirit. Besides being deft at

household duties, her memory was well stored with the knowledge of

Japanese history and the Chinese classics. She had committed to memory

the entire books of the _Woman's Great Learning_, and had read

carefully five other works on etiquette and morals which her father had

presented to her on successive birthdays. Kiku was a remarkably

well-educated maiden, and would have been a prize for the richest daimio

in the empire.

Faithfully following Japanese etiquette, Kiku had been carefully kept

from the company of any of the male sex since her eighth year. She never

talked with any young man except her brothers. Occasionally at family

parties she was addressed by her uncles or cousins. Sometimes, when

gentlemen called to see her father, Kiku would bring tea to the guest,

and was thus made the subject of compliments; but as to "receiving" male

company, she never did it. Kiku never went out unless accompanied by her

mother or the maid, who was like her shadow.

The gods of Japan meet together at the great temples in Ise during the

eleventh month and tie all the nuptial knots for the following year.

Kiku's marriage-knot had been tied by the gods six months before she

even suspected the strings had been crossed. How happened it?

In Japan only the people in the lower classes are acquainted with and

see each other frequently before marriage. The business of selection,

betrothal and marriage is attended to by the parents or friends of the

pair, who carry on negotiations by means of a third factor, a middleman

or go-between. Children are often betrothed at birth or when on their

nurses' backs (there are no cradles in Japan). Of course the natural

results, mutual dislike and severance of the engagement at mature age,

or love and happy marriage, or marriage, mutual dislike and subsequent

divorce, happen, as the case may be. In general, when the parents make

the betrothal of grown-up children, it is not probable that the feelings

of son or daughter are outraged, or that marriages are forced against

the consent of either, though this does sometimes take place. In Asiatic

countries, where obedience to parents is the first and last duty, and in

which no higher religion than filial obedience exists, the betrothal and

marriage of children is not looked upon as anything strange. The

prevalence of concubinage as a recognized institution in Japan makes it

of no serious importance whether the husband loves his wife or not.

To tell an ordinary Japanese that in America people often marry against

their parents' consent is to puzzle him, and make him believe Carlyle's

saying about Americans without having heard it. If a man who marries

against his parents' wish is not a triple-dyed ingrate, he must be a

downright fool. Beyond this idea the normal Japanese cannot go; and you

might as well try to make a blind man understand that "celestial rosy

red" was "Love's proper hue" as to convince him that a good man ever

marries against his parents' wishes. Such ideas and practices are

convincing evidences to him of the vast moral inferiority of Western

nations when compared with that of the people descended from the gods.

Resuming our narrative, we must mention that Kiku's father had once had

an offer from one Matsui, a wealthy retainer of the Wakasa clan, through

that young nobleman's middleman or agent, which he refused, to the

disgust of both middleman and suitor. The latter had seen Kiku walking

with her mother while going to the temple at Shiba, and, being struck

with her beauty, inquired who she was. Having come of age and wishing a

wife, he had sued for Kiku to her father, who, for reasons of his own,

refused the request, on the ground that Kiku was too young, being then

but fifteen years old. The truth was, that the Wakasa samurai was a wild

young fellow, and bore a reputation for riotous living that did not

promise to make him a proper life-companion for Nakayama's refined and

cultured daughter. Between Nakayama, Kiku's father, and Yamashiro, the

retainer of the Echizen clan, whose home we spoke of in the opening of

our sketch, had long existed a warm friendship and a mutual high regard.

Yamashiro, though more fond of society and good living than Nakayama,

was nevertheless, like him, a high-spirited and well-read man. He had

four children, two sons and two daughters. The oldest son, named Taro,

was now twenty years old, of manly figure, diligent in study, and had

lately acted as a high page, attending daily upon the person of

Hitotsu-bashi, the then reigning Shô-gun, and the last of his line that

held or will hold regal power in Japan. Taro, being the oldest son of

his father, was the heir to his house, office, rank and revenue. Taro

wanted a wife. He wished to taste the sweets of love and wedded joy. He

had long thought of Kiku. Of course he asked his father, and his father

"was willing." He told Taro to go to Nakayama's house. Taro went. He

talked to Nakayama, and hinted faint compliments of his daughter. It was

enough. Nakayama was keen of scent, and he also "was willing." Clapping

his hands, the maid-servant appeared and falling down and bowing her

head to the floor, listened: "Make some tea, and tell Miss Kiku to serve

it."

Had you been in the back rooms of that house, you would have seen Kiku

blush as the maid told her who was in the front room and what her father

had said. Her heart beat furiously, and the carnation of health upon her

cheeks was lost in the hot blushes that mantled her face and beautiful

neck when her mother, reproving her, said, "Why, dear child, don't be

excited: perhaps he has come only on some every-day business, after all.

Be composed, and get ready to take in the tea."

Nevertheless, Kiku took out her metal mirror while the maid made the

tea, smoothed a pretended stray hair, powdered her neck slightly, drew

her robe more tightly around her waist, adjusted her girdle, which did

not need any adjusting, and then, taking up the tray, containing a tiny

tea-pot, a half dozen upturned cups, and as many brass sockets for them,

hastened into the front room, bowed with her face on her hands to the

floor, and then handed cups of tea to her parent and his guest. This

done, she returned to her mother. Whether Taro looked at Kiku's cheeks

or into her glittering black eyes we leave even a foreign reader to

judge.

Let it not be thought, however, that a single word relating to marriage

in the concrete passed between the two men: no such breach of etiquette

was committed. The visit over, the two friends parted as friends, and

nothing more, either in fact or in visible prospect.

But, to be brief, not long afterward, Taro, having selected a trusty

friend, sent him as a go-between to ask of Nakayama the hand of his

daughter in marriage. The proposal was accepted, and when the go-between

came the second time to Kiku's home it was in company with two servants

bearing bundles. These, being opened, were found to contain a splendidly

embroidered girdle, such as Japanese ladies wear, about twelve feet long

and a foot wide when doubled; a robe of the finest white silk from the

famous looms of Kanazawa; five or six pieces of silk not made up;

several kegs of _saké_ or rice-beer; dried fish, soy, etc. These

were for the bride-elect. For her father was a sword with a richly

mounted hilt and lacquered scabbard, hung with silken cords. The blade

alone of the sword was worth (it isn't polite to speak of the cost of

presents, but we will let you into the secret, good reader) one hundred

dollars, and had been made in Sagami from the finest native steel.

Kiku's mother was presented with a rich robe, which she recognized at

once as being woven of the famous Derva silk. The ceremonious reception

of these presents by the parents signified that the betrothal was

solemnly ratified, and that the engagement could not be broken.

Nakayama, the intended father-in-law, afterward sent to Taro a present

of a jar of the finest tea from his own plantation in Shimosa, a pair of

swords, and a piece of satin, such as that of which the _hakama_ or

trousers which indicate the rank of the samurai are made.

The betrothal was now published in both families, and in both houses

there were festivities, rejoicing and congratulation. The marriage-day,

a fortunate or good-omened one, was fixed upon as the twenty-seventh

from the day of betrothal.

Was Kiku happy? Nay, you should ask, Can that word express her feelings?

She had obeyed her parents: she could do nothing higher or more fraught

with happiness. She was to be a wife--woman's highest honor and a

Japanese woman's only aim. She was to marry a noble by name, nature and

achievement, with health, family, wealth and honor. Kiku lived in a new

world of anticipation and of vision, the gate of which the Japanese call

_iro_, and we _love_. At times, as she tried on for the twentieth time

her white silk robe and costly girdle, she fell into a reverie, half sad

and half joyful. She thought of leaving her mother alone with no

daughter, and then Kiku's bright eyes dimmed and her bosom heaved. Then

she thought of living in a new home, in a new house, with new faces.

What if her mother-in-law should be severe or jealous? Kiku's cheek

paled. What if Taro should achieve some great exploit, and she share his

joy as did the honorable women of old? What if his former position of

beloved page to the Shô-gun should give her occasional access to the

highest ladies in the land, the female courtiers of the castle? Her eyes

flashed.

The wedding-night came, seeming to descend out of the starry heavens

from the gods. Marriages rarely take place in the daytime in Japan. The

solemn and joyful hour of evening, usually about nine o'clock, is the

time for marriage--as it often is for burial--in Japan. In the starlight

of a June evening the bride set forth on her journey to her intended

husband's home, as is the invariable custom. Her toilet finished, she

stepped out of her childhood's home to take her place in the _norimono_

or palanquin which, borne on the shoulders of four men, was to convey

her to her future home.

Just as Kiku stands in the vestibule of her father's house let us

photograph her for you. A slender maiden of seventeen, with cheeks of

carnation; eyes that shine under lids not so broadly open as the

Caucasian maiden's, but black and sparkling; very small hands with

tapering fingers, and very small feet encased in white mitten-socks; her

black hair glossy as polished jet, dressed in the style betokening

virginity, and decked with a garland of blossoms. Her robe of pure white

silk folds over her bosom from right to left, and is bound at the waist

by the gold-embroidered girdle, which is supported by a lesser band of

scarlet silken crape, and is tied into huge loops behind. The skirt of

the dress sweeps in a trail. Her under-dress is of the finest and

softest white silk. In her hands she carries a half-moon-shaped cap or

veil of floss silk. Its use we shall see hereafter. She salutes her

cousin, who, clad in ceremonial dress with his ever-present two swords,

is waiting to accompany her in addition to her family servants and

bearers, and steps into the norimono.

The four bearers, the servants and the samurai pass down along the

beautiful Kanda River, whose waters mirror the stars, and whose depths

of shade re-echo to the gurgling of sculls, the rolling of ripples and

the songs of revelers. The cortége enters one of the gate-towers of the

old city-walls, passes beneath the shade of its ponderous copper-clad

portals, and soon arrives at the main entrance of the Yamashiro

_yashiki_. Here they find the street in front and the stone walk

covered with matting, and a friend of Taro's, in full dress, waiting to

receive the cortége. Of course the gazers of the neighborhood are

waiting respectfully in crowds to catch a glimpse of the coming bride.

The go-between and a few friends of the bridegroom come out to receive

the bride and deliver her to her own servant and two of her own young

maiden friends, who had gone before to the Yamashiro mansion. The room

in which the families of the bride and groom and their immediate friends

are waiting, though guiltless of "furniture," as all Japanese rooms are,

is yet resplendent with gilt-paper screens, bronzes, tiny lacquered

tables and the Japanese nuptial emblems. On the wall hang three pictured

scrolls of the gods of Long Life, of Wealth and of Happiness. On a

little low table stands a dwarf pine tree, bifurcated, and beneath it

are an old man and an old woman. Long life, a green old age, changeless

constancy of love and the union of two hearts are symbolized by this

evergreen. In the _tokonoma_ (or large raised recess) of the room are

the preparations for the feast, the wine-service consisting of kettles,

decanters and cups. On two other tables are a pair of white storks and a

fringed tortoise. All through the rooms gorgeously painted wax candles

burn. The air of the apartment is heavy with perfume from the censer, a

representation in bronze of an ancient hero riding upon a bullock. All

the guests are seated _à la Japonaise_--upon the floor. Two or three

young ladies, the bridesmaids, go out to meet the bride and lead her to

her dressing-room. Here she finds her own property, which has been

brought to her future home during the day. Toilet-stands and cabinets

and the ceremonial towel-rack are prominently displayed. On a tall

clothes-horse of gilt lacquer are hung her silk robes and the other

articles of her wardrobe, which are bridal gifts. Over the doorway, in a

gilt rack, glitters the long spear or halberd to the dexterous use of

which all Japanese ladies of good family are trained. In a box of finest

wood, shining with lacquer and adorned with her family crest, are the

silk sleeping-dresses and coverlets, which are to be spread, as all

Japanese beds are, on the floor. The articles above mentioned constitute

the trousseau of a Japanese bride.

Here Kiku rearranges her dress, retouches her lower lip with golden

paint and puts on her hood of floss silk. This is of a half-moon shape,

completely covering her face. She does not lift it until she has drunk

the sacramental marriage-cup. Many a Japanese maiden has seen her lord

for the first time as she lifted her silken hood. Kiku is all ready, and

she and the groom are led into the room where the ceremony is to be

performed, and assigned their positions.

With a Japanese marriage neither religion nor the Church has anything to

do. At the wedding no robed priest appears officially among the guests.

The marriage is simply a civil and social contract. In place of our bans

is the acceptance of the suitor's presents by the family of the sought,

the announced betrothal and intimation of the marriage to the police of

the ward. In place of our answer, "Yes," is the sacramental drinking of

wine. We may say "wine," because we are talking of high life, and must

use high words. _Saké_, the universal spirituous beverage of Japan,

is made from fermented rice, and hence is properly rice-beer. It looks

like pale sherry, and has a taste which is peculiarly its own. Sweet

saké is very delicious, and it may be bought in all the degrees of

strength and of all flavors and prices. As the Japanese always drink

their wine hot, a copper kettle for heating saké is a necessity in every

household. On ceremonial occasions, such as marriages, the saké-kettles

are of the costliest and handsomest kind, being beautifully lacquered.

Bride and groom being ready, the wine-kettles, cups and two bottles are

handed down. Two pretty servant-maids now bring in a hot kettle of wine

and fill the bottles. To one bottle is fastened by a silken cord a male

butterfly, and to the other a female. The two girls also are called

"male" and "female" butterflies. The girl having the female butterfly

pours out some saké in the kettle, into which the girl with the male

butterfly also pours the contents of her bottle, so that the wine from

both bottles thus flows together. Then the saké is poured again into

another gilt-and-lacquered bottle of different shape.

Now the real ceremony begins. On a little stand three cups, each

slightly concave and having an under-rest or foot about half an inch

high, are set one upon another, like a pagoda. The stand with this

three-storied arrangement is handed to the bride. Holding it in both

hands while the saké is poured into it by the male butterfly, the bride

lifts the cup, sips from it three times, and the tower of cups is then

passed to the bridegroom and refilled. He likewise drinks three times,

and puts the empty cup under the third. The bride again sips thrice from

the upper cup. The groom does the same, and places the empty cup beneath

the second. Again the bride sips three times, and the bridegroom does

the same, and they are man and wife: they are married. This ceremony is

called san-san-ku-do, or "three times three are nine."

Like a wedding at once auspicious and _distingué_, the nuptials of Kiku

and Taro passed off without one misstep or incident of ill omen. In the

dressing-room and in the hall of ceremony Kiku's self-possessed demeanor

was admired by all. After drinking the sacramental wine she lifted her

silken hood, not too swiftly or nervously, and smiled blushingly on her

lord. The marriage ceremony over, both bride and groom retired to their

respective dressing-rooms. Kiku exchanged her white dress for one of

more elaborate design and of a lavender color. The groom, removing his

stiffly-starched ceremonial robes, appeared in ordinary dress. Meanwhile

refreshments had been served to all the bridesmaids and, maid-servants.

Husband and wife now took their seats again, and the whole company

joined in the supper, during which apparently innumerable courses were

served. Neither ices, oranges nor black-cake appeared on the table at

Kiku's wedding. The bill of fare contained many decidedly recherché

items which it requires a Japanese palate thoroughly to appreciate. Let

us enumerate a few. There were salmon from Hakodate, tea from Uji, young

rice from Higo, pheasants' eggs, fried cuttle-fish, _tai, koi, maguro_

and many another sort of toothsome fish from the market at Nihon Bashi.

There were sea-weed of various sorts and from many coasts, bean-curd,

many kinds of fish-soups, condiments of various flavors, eggs in every

style and shellfish of every shape. A huge maguro-fish, thinly sliced,

but perfectly raw, was the _pièce de résistance_ of the feast.

Sweetmeats, candies of the sort known to the Japanese confectioners and

castera (sponge-cake) crowned the courses.

Now, having briefly described Kiku's wedding, perhaps we should stop

here. Although fairly married, however, Kiku was not through the

ceremonies of the night. Before her own parents left the house she was

taken by the attendant ladies before her parents-in-law, and with them

drank cups of wine and exchanged gifts. All the bridal presents were

displayed during the evening in her dressing-room, and the whole of her

trousseau was open to the inspection of all the ladies present. Feasting

and dancing were the order of the hours until midnight, and then Kiku's

parents bade her farewell, and she was left a bride in a new home.

"Where did the young couple go?" "What was the route of their

bridal-tour?" "Perhaps they made a late wedding-journey?" "Of course

Japan has many fine watering-places to which married couples resort?"

These are American questions. The fashion of making bridal-tours is not

Japanese. Many a lovely spot might serve for such a purpose in

everywhere beautiful Japan. The lake and mountains of Hakone; the

peerless scenery, trees, waterfalls and tombs of Nikko, where sleeps the

mighty Iyeyasu, the founder of the Tokugawa line; the spas of

Atami,--all these are spots which if in America would be thronged with

bridal-parties. Caucasians in Japan even make Fusiyama's summit the goal

of their wedded steps, but our Kiku and Taro went nowhere.

"At home" for three days is the general rule in Japan. All their friends

came to see them, and presents were showered on the happy pair. The

great Shô-gun, remembering his former page, sent Taro a present of a

flawless ball of pure rock-crystal five inches in diameter. Prince

Echizen, his feudal lord, presented him with a splendid saddle with gilt

flaps and a pair of steel stirrups inlaid with gold and silver and

bronze, with the crest of the Echizen clan glittering in silver upon it.

From his own father he received a jet-black horse brought from the

province of Nambu, and an equine descendant of the Arab sire presented

by the viceroy of India to the Japanese embassy to the pope in 1589. On

the delightful wonders of the gifts to Kiku our masculine pen shrinks

from expatiating. On the third day after her marriage Kiku visited her

parents, and after that spent many days in returning the visits of all

who had called on her.

Now, like the "goosie gander" of nursery memory, we must wander again

into the lady's chamber. Were you to wander to such a place after a

Japanese maiden became a wife, you would see, as we have often seen, how

the outward form of a Japanese maiden assumes that of a Japanese matron.

First, then, the maiden wears a high coiffure that always serves as a

sacred symbol of her virginity. It is not easy to describe its form, but

even foreigners think it very beautiful, and will regret the day when

the Japanese _musume_ wears her hair like her sisters across the ocean.

Indeed, it would be no strange thing were Queen Fashion to ordain that

American maidens should adopt the style of dressing the hair now in

universal vogue in Japan. The _shimada_ or virginal coiffure, however,

is changed after marriage, and Kiku, like the rest of her wedded

friends, now wore the _maru-mage_, or half-moon-shaped chignon, which is

wound round an ivory, tortoise-shell or coral-tipped bar, and is the

distinguishing mark of a Japanese wife. So far, however, the transition

from loveliness to ugliness has not been very startling: Kiku still

looked pretty. The second process, however, robbed her of her eyebrows,

and left her without those dark arches that had helped to make the

radiant sun of her once maidenly beauty. With tweezers and razor the

fell work, after many a wince, was done. With denuded brows and changed

coiffure surely the Japanese Hymen demands no more sacrifices at his

shrine? Surely Kiku can still keep the treasures of a set of teeth that

seem like a casket of pearls with borders of coral? Not so. The fashion

of all good society from remotest antiquity demands that the teeth of a

wife must be dyed black. Kiku joyfully applied the galls and iron, and

by patience and dint of polishing soon had a set of teeth as black as

jet and as polished as the best Whitby. Not strange to tell to a

Japanese, either, the smile of her husband Taro was a rich reward for

her trouble and the surrender of her maiden charms. Japanese husbands

never kiss their wives: kissing is an art unknown in Japan. It is even

doubtful whether the language has a word signifying a kiss. No wonder

Young Japan wishes to change his language for the English! Henceforth in

public or private, alone or in company, Kiku's personal and social

safety was as secure as if clothed in armor of proof and attended by an

army. The black teeth, _maru-mage_ and shaven eyebrows constitute a

talisman of safety in a land which foreigners so like to believe

licentious and corrupt beyond the bounds of conception.

Now that we have Kiku married, we must leave her to glide into the cool,

sequestered paths of a Japanese married lady's life. Only one thing we

regret, and that is that her marriage could not have happened in the

year of our Lord 1874 and of "Enlightened Peace the seventh, and of the

era of Jimmu, the first Mikado, the two thousand five hundred and

thirty-fourth." Had she been married during the present year, her

coiffure would need no alteration, her eyebrows would still knit with

care or arch with mirth, and her teeth would still keep their virgin

whiteness, unsoiled by astringent galls or abhorred vitriol.

The leader of feminine fashion in Japan, the young empress Haruko, has

set her subjects the example by for ever banishing the galls and iron,

appearing even in public with her teeth as Nature made them. Kiku and

Taro, though once proud to own allegiance to the Shô-gun, are now among

the staunch supporters of the lord of the Shô-gun, the Mikado, the only

true sovereign of the Sunrise Kingdom.

W.E. GRIFFIS.

THE LOST BABY.

She wandered off one dismal day;

No one was by to bid her stay:

The earth was white, the sky was gray,

When the poor little baby wandered away.

The sun went down with crimson crown

Behind the clouds and the tree-tops brown:

The cold road stared with a colder frown

When the poor little feet went wandering down.

Her mother lived up in the shining sky,

Thought poor little baby, wondering why,

As hours and days and weeks went by,

She never came down at her baby's cry.

If the crimson wave in the west led true,

The skyward road she surely knew:

She heeded not that the sharp winds blew,

Or her cold little feet sore tired grew.

She hummed some broken baby song,

And talked to herself as she trudged along:

She feared no failure, recked no wrong,

But she thought that the way was lone and long.

Tired and cold, she lingered to rest

Under a snow-drift's treacherous crest:

She cuddled herself in a tiny nest,

White and cold as her mother's breast.

They found her there on the snowy ground,

Her silky hair with snowflakes crowned.

She made no sign, she breathed no sound,

But the skyward road she had surely found.

CLARA G. DOLLIVER.

THREE FEATHERS.

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."