moment when they have had their first interview. Apart from this drawback, motherhood, it is related, is the supreme glory in Japan, and crowns a wife with honor and distinction. Love for children is recognized as a national virtue in the island empire, where there are no illegitimate children, as the term is understood with us, for every child takes its father's name and he is bound to provide for its maintenance. Concubinage, happily we are told, is now greatly on the wane, even among the wealthy; while divorce, though still fatally easy, is not often resorted to. Very hearty is the author's regard for the maidenhood and child life of Japan. Here is a passage from the letters which gives loving expression to that regard:

"The Japanese girl! She is a creature of so many attractive contradictions, with her warm heart, her quick brain, and her terribly narrow experience; . . . and I want to tell you how deeply she interests me and how I believe in her.

The simple unfettered life led by the little children here gives the girl, as it were, a happy foundation to start on. There is no scolding and punishing, no nursery disgrace, no shutting away of the little ones day after day in dull nurseries with selfish, half-educated women, whose mere daily society means torture to a sensitive well-born child. Here children are always welcome; they come and go as they like, are spoiled, if love means spoiling: but they grow imperceptibly in the right shape; they mould their thoughts and expressions on those of the sovereigns of the home; and one day, without wrench or effort, the little girl is grown into a thoughtful, helpful woman. Very gently but persistently one lesson has been preached to her ever since language meant anything in her ears-Give up, love, help others, efface thyself; and in the still atmosphere of the home, with its ever repeated round of necessary and unpraised duties, in that quiet sunshine of humility, high motives grow and are not pulled up by the roots to be shown to admiring friends,

the young heart waxes strong and pure, and, should the call to heroic sacrifice sound, a noble woman springs forward to answer it; should it never ring in her ears the world is none the poorer, for a true, sweet woman is passing through it, smiling at every duty that meets her on her unnoticed way, leaving a train of gentle, wholesome memories behind her when the journey ends. In real womanliness, which I take to mean a high combination of sense and sweetness, valor and humility, the Japanese lady ranks with any woman in the world, and passes before most of them.»

We have said that Mrs. Fraser's volumes discourse little on Japanese politics or history: incidentally, however, there are interesting references to what is going on in the empire in the way of peaceful revolution and the astonishing rapidity with which the old régime gives place in Japan to the new. In a generation, we are told, Japan has attempted to achieve the progress of four centuries. It is but thirty years since feudalism was abolished throughout the island, and but ten years since the country was given a constitution. Since the power of the shoguns was overthrown the nation has awakened to freedom and to great individual and national activity. The successful war with China gave confidence to her people and stability to the State. Whether her Treasury will bear the vastly increasing expenditure of recent and current years is a serious question for her statesmen; but much may be predicated of the future of the nation from the industry, energy, and intelligence of her people and their great natural and acquired gifts. In these entertaining and charmingly illustrated volumes Mrs. Fraser has paid Japan many a compliment and said numberless delightful and graceful things of its interesting and "honorable" people.

AKRON, O.

G. MERCER ADAM.

Ο

CHAPTER I

man

Na June morning at the beginning of this century a young strolled along the highway leading from Tivoli, across the Sabine hills, to the Adriatic Sea. Dress and appearance betrayed the foreigner at the first glance. The light, curly locks, the brilliant coloring of the fresh, handsome face, bespoke the Northerner. His costume suited his youthful form. The coat, of a fine, white texture, was somewhat freer in cut than was in accordance with strict fashion, knickerbockers and hose had been tastefully chosen, and under the broad rolling collar, over a damask vest of silver-gray, a red silk tie was jauntily knotted. His head was protected against the burning rays of the Italian sun by a soft, widebrimmed felt hat, and he carried a stick or bludgeon which might serve both as a support and a weapon of defence; for the country through which the stranger passed alone, beautiful as it was, was noted for its perils. Notwithstanding the elegance of his attire, little would have been found on the young man's person which would have rewarded a brigand for an attack. Those for whom the Sabine highwaymen laid in wait travelled with a retinue of servants. The German carried only a small bundle upon his shoulder, and the case strapped to it was certainly not filled with ducats. The practised eye of a bandit would at once have recognized in the solitary pedestrian a strolling artista man whom he would only waylay, if he so desired, to have his portrait sketched for his mistress. This, however, would have been sentimentality, and posing is not to the taste of a Roman bandit were the painter even the divine Raphael himself.

What a variety of forms had trodden the street named after the valiant consul, Marcus Valerius, that grand Via which, if the Appian Way is called the Queen of Roman roads, might be justly termed the

Princess of highways of the ancient Roman empire. Along this Valerian Way, Nero, enveloped in Sidonian silk and Phoenician purple, crowned with laurels, in a biga drawn by white horses, passed in triumph to his Sabine country seat on Lake Anio. (Did it pay to fish for trout in the Anio with golden nets?) Along this same road, several centuries later, went a noble Roman youth, to spend the life of an anchorite in a cave above the ruins of Nero's fairy palace. Several centuries had sped by since the Benedictines trod this Via, along which Conradin, the last of the Hohenstaufens, hastened from Tagliacozzo to his fate.

On this bright summer morning over the same highway went Heinrich Hoffmann, artist, of Düsseldorf, a beautyloving enthusiast. He was no stranger to Roman nature. He had once crossed the Alps to the cloister of Sant' Isidora, there to visit Overbeck's pious community. Scarcely had Heinrich drawn a breath of Roman air and Roman light than the spirited youth became a Nazarene. This was not the worst that might have happened, yet an artistic mind and two artistic eyes usually incline to anything rather than a voluntary cloister life. Our good Heinrich, too, was richer in hope than in faith; and although he sat, with his companions, humbly and devoutly at the Master's feet and submissively copied his graceful Madonnas, lovely Christ-children, and glorified saints, the time very soon came for him when his soul longed for other things than Christian draperies, halos, and lily-stalks. Suffice it to say, Maestro Overbeck had to grant him leave of absence, and so it happened that one sunny morning the Nazarene, in worldly dress, left Rome through the Lorenzo gate, and. with Tivoli at his back, wandered along the Valerian Way toward the Sabine cliffs. How beautiful the world was, even if it was the Sabine hills seen on a summer morning— with an artist's eyes— by a once pious young Nazarene. It was

strange that a man could prefer the sight of Sabine bandits to Overbeck's Madonnas. They need not be bandits-quite ordinary children of men are sufficient for modest claims; for example, earthly women and maidens; the first pretty Sabine. For the time being our Nazarene had to be contented with the Sabine hills themselves; he had enough to admire in them to begin with. What grandeur there was in the mighty mountain-range surrounded by silvery olive groves. To the traveller's right, from amid the olives, rose a town upon a rock, a miserable shepherd's hamlet. The broad mass of rock was intersected by valleys, ravines, and cliffs, and, as the sun set, a wave of silvery light spread over the landscape. The green valley of the Anio was walled in by bulwarks of wild and blooming vines. Every moment revealed a new picture, every moment brought a new inspiration and a new delight. Heinrich was in a state of continual ecstasy. Now it was the arches of an aqueduct, entwined with ivy, rising from a field of yellow lilies; now another ancient wall which was buried under a wilderness of vines and flowers; or it was a hill overgrown with oaks, upon the sides of which grazed black mountain sheep watched over by a Sabine youth clothed in hides; a ruined shrine decorated with frescoes; or a herd of half-wild horses flying along the banks of the Anio. When the heat began to interfere with the enjoyment of the scenery, Heinrich left the highway and turned his steps toward the meadows, in whose waves of grass he sank up to his waist. With difficulty he pushed his way toward the high, green wall which in that prairie pointed out the bed of the river. Arrived there, he pressed through reeds and rushes, raised a curtain of vines, and saw flowing, close to his feet, the river, dark and cool. With unutterable delight he flung himself upon the bank, while branches and vines closed over him.

Darkness was round about. He found it difficult to see the sky through the green network; like fairy blossoms, patches of blue gleamed through the branches, and the sunbeams danced among them like a swarm of bright butterflies. Heinrich closed his eyes, listened to the purling of the water, and dreamed of his new creation, which he had complete in his mind. It was to be a great work.

No Madonna, still less a saint, but something altogether earthly: a creature of

flesh and blood, a woman, young and beautiful; Mary Magdalen before she went as a penitent into the wilderness, before she became a sinner: Mary Magdalen before her fall, in unconscious, maidenly beauty; the tempter, in the form of a man, showing her the reflection of her charms in a spring.

The Nazarene felt his cheeks glow; he felt as if he had betrayed his Lord and Master, and for more than thirty pieces of silver; for a human form, full of life, for the highest beauty of woman. « As if that were not also something holy and divine!"

He uttered these words aloud, rose, and left the natural bower for the hot highway, in order to reach the nearest village, where he hoped to find an inn.

At Vicovaro Heinrich came upon the sought-for Elysium. It lay below the old Sabine town. Elms shaded the cottage, within which a fire was burning upon a Roman immolatory stone. A kid was roasting over it, guarded by an aged sybil, while the guests of this "noble hostelrie" - a number of men and boys clad in skinslay on the floor. Heinrich ordered some of the roasted meat and took a seat in the open air under the elms, where capitals and broken columns offered, if not the most comfortable, the most dignified resting-places. Immediately behind these was a morass, once a spring, shared by a herd of small black swine and several halfnaked, sunburnt boys, while the more modest girls played on the edge of the slough with a large tortoise and a young falcon, both of which were being cruelly tortured. When Heinrich, in exchange for a few coins, had rescued the creatures from the hands of their persecutors, he seated himself under an elm on a Grecian capital.

While awaiting his meal he surveyed the mountains, and would not have been greatly surprised had there suddenly sprung from among the goats herded on them a Pan or Satyr, or-to him a far preferable and more charming sight — had there leaped forth from the swaying rushes a nymph. He had, however, to be contented with the sybil, who at this juncture stepped out of the house, dragging after her the entire goat, still tied to the spit, so that the stranger might choose the piece he preferred. A handsome boy carried a gray clay vessel shaped like an antique mixing-urn; in it was the red

Sabine wine in which Horace revelled, and which, notwithstanding its doubtful properties, was praised by the poet in immortal odes. The amphora and the roast before him upon a broken column, Heinrich's mood grew quite Homeric. He ate heartily, and was on the point of stretching his limbs under the elms for a siesta when the summit of a rock nearest him attracted his attention. What up to this time he had believed to be stone seemed to him now to be houses, or the remains of such. He hailed his Ganymede, who had lain down in the middle of the dusty highway, and would much have preferred to remain where he was than to answer the summons:

"Do you hear? What is that up there? Rocks or houses?"

"That is a paese."

"A village, do you mean?” "Altro!»

"What village is it?"
"Saracenesco."

"Do people live in Saracenesco ? »
"Of course; they are poor devils!"
"I do not see one field."

"They have none."

"On what do they live then ?»

The Sabine shrugged his shoulders and said with truly Roman eloquence: "Ho, there, what would you have? You ask strange questions! How should I know on what the people of Saracenesco live? What does it concern me? Let them live on what they will. You ask what no man can know. Leave me in peace!"

As he spoke, the curate of Vicovaro approached. The holy father espied a stranger at the inn in conversation with the Sabine, and at once curiously stepped from the heat of the sun into the shade of the elms and joined them. Greeting Heinrich with kindly dignity, he asked if he could give the gentleman any information. A stranger rarely visited Vicovaro; the surrounding country was wild and perilous to travel; the gentleman was doubtless an artist on his way to Subiaco, to the Benedictine cloister.

Heinrich answered both questions in the affirmative, and inquired of the genial priest about the hamlet on the rock, at the same time inviting him to help to empty the amphora.

The curate accepted, seated himself, drank sparingly, praised the sour wine, listened graciously to the more polite than candid praises uttered by the stranger,

replied with a strophe from Horace, and then told Heinrich what he wished to know about the hamlet in the wilderness.

"Yes, sir, that is Saracenesco: a wild spot and a poverty-stricken people. In the ninth century the Germans brought into our Christian land African heathen whom they desired to bring under the yoke. Atheistic hordes flooded the country, destroyed, plundered, and murdered like Spaniards and Turks. With the help, however, of the Virgin and our blessed saints we ejected the African. Only a few Saracens did we fail to exterminate; they established themselves firmly on that rock and were not to be brought down. So there they remained. What could we do?

To be sure, they were miserable vagabonds, unbelievers, and heathen. But after the others were driven out, peace was restored, and, as they harmed no one, we let them remain on the uncultivated mountain, where they had to make the best of it; otherwise they could have gone back to their Africa, Arabia, and Phoenicia. Indeed they became Christians, and the men were allowed to come down to our valleys and to help us in the fields, though upon the wages for which they labored they barely subsisted. But can you believe it? they are still heathen! Although they have their children baptized, and occasionally attend mass and confession in Bardella or here in Vicovaro, they are to this day a disgracefully heathenish people; many of them still bear their old, heathenish names, have heathenish customs, even betray their nationality in their dress. The people of Saracenesco, also, are the poorest in the land, poorer even than those of Rocco, who at least have their wonderful Madonna, even if she accomplishes no miraculous works. The barren spot contains not more than two hundred inhabitants, the majority of whom are women, who seldom are seen in the valleys. The men come down in the spring, hire out in the vineyards and olive groves, help the Romans to cultivate the fields, and receive therefor― as you will readily comprehend

somewhat less pay than a Christian. Yes, look up there, sir; that is Saracenesco! It is said to look as if wolves and foxes housed there. But who can say, for no Christian ever sets foot in the place? Your health, sir! the valley of Licenza. the Bandusian spring.

The wine is from You have heard of What say you, sir?

I will conduct you to Rocco this afternoon.

Giovane and you can drink from that spring? How?-eh?-you wish you wish to visit Saracenesco? Among the heathen? The Virgin protect you! They will kill you! Dear sir, be mindful of your life and accompany me to the Bandusian spring, where"- then followed a quotation from Horace.

In vain did the curate recite; Heinrich left the Bandusian spring and the green valley of Licenza to seek out the descendants of the Saracens in their Sabine colony.

With a heavy heart the excellent divine saw the youth depart.

THE

CHAPTER II

HE sun was setting as Heinrich drew near the rock upon which lay Saracenesco. He halted in astonishment. Until then the dense beech-forest had intercepted the view; suddenly an unlimited panorama stretched before him. Above, on the steep, barren heights, he saw the village, whose huts seemed to be hollowed out of stone. The summits of the mountains rose around them, one after another, now enveloped in vapor, now illumined by the rays of the declining sun. The outlines of the hindermost peaks only were distinguishable; the fields of Gransasco glistened with snow. On the south Heinrich could see the Roman plains and the shores of the

sea.

If, however, he wished to enter Saracenesco before nightfall, he must tear himself away from the enchanting sight. Hastily he continued his ascent of the steep path. Soon this magnificent view was lost in a field of blooming broom whose branches closed above him. Upon the flowers with which the bushes were covered lay the gold of the evening sun, and it seemed to the artist as if he were passing through a fairy treasure piled up in the mountains. Next he came upon a ridge overgrown with gray mullein and large blue thistles.

The nearer Heinrich came to Saracenesco the more was he lost in admiration. He saw a number of black huts, such as nomadic shepherds build in haste, nestling among the dark rocks. Still a projection hid the full view of the village. He hurried over the last steps; as he did so, he uttered a slight exclamation of admiration. For he stood before a large space, which lay lower than the hamlet, shaded by a magnificent, old beech-tree. Under this

tree was a large tank, and next it, likewise hewn in the rock, a long basin with a low, broad ledge, in which the women of Saracenesco washed their clothes. Over it stretched the branches, overgrown with moss, protecting the water from the sun like a canopy.

The inhabitants of the village were just assembling beneath the beautiful tree in order to finish their day's work. In twos and threes they descended the narrow path, under their arms the beautifully-shaped copper water-vessels. These the women filled and stood upon the ledge, greeting each new arrival. Then they raised the heavy vessels to their heads, crossed their arms upon their breasts, and mounted with measured, cautious steps to the huts. It was one continual coming and going. How delighted was Heinrich, who, concealed behind a boulder, watched the scene and the incomparable beauty of the water-carriers. Their dress was strangely fantastic; it consisted of a light blue plaited petticoat, a red tunic, and a yellow or amaranthine bodice, with a lawn headdress. Most of them wore gold ornaments: an arrow held together the heavy, ravenhued braids, and massive ear-rings with an immense brooch completed the picturesque costume.

Heinrich's eyes were fixed upon the slender, lissom forms and the handsome, dark faces. Not a movement escaped him as they bent their heads to set their vessels on them, as they crossed their arms, as they gracefully passed along. He peered into those dark faces, those large, flashing eyes!

From his lurking-place he watched the pretty maids. One sprinkled water on her companion. Two sides were formed and the combat began. Attack and defence, retreat and pursuit! The sun was setting; the rocks were tinged with the purple hue of the sunset, which fell upon the contestThe contest was still undecided when one who until then had been a spectator joined the merry throng. She had been standing by the spring, next her water-jug, her face averted so that Heinrich could but admire her tall, proudlyerect form.

ants.

Abruptly she seized her full copper vessel, and as she turned, startling the artist with her wondrous beauty, pouring the water among the Amazons, she put an end at one blow to the battle, which threatened to become a very damp one. Calmly she