miled grimly--I wondered how she would enjoy her trip! Then I kissed
her hand with the most profound respect and left her to repose--to
refresh and prepare herself for the brilliant festivity of the evening.

Our marriage customs are not as coarse as those of some countries; a
bridegroom in Italy thinks it scarcely decent to persecute his bride
with either his presence or his caresses as soon as the Church has made
her his. On the contrary, if ardent, he restrains his ardor--he
forbears to intrude, he strives to keep up the illusion, the
rose-colored light, or rather mist, of love as long as possible, and he
has a wise, instinctive dread of becoming overfamiliar; well knowing
that nothing kills romance so swiftly and surely as the bare blunt
prose of close and constant proximity. And I, like other gentlemen of
my rank and class, gave my twice-wedded wife her liberty--the last
hours of liberty she would ever know. I left her to busy herself with
the trifles she best loved--trifles of dress and personal adornment,
for which many women barter away their soul's peace and honor, and
divest themselves of the last shred of right and honest principle
merely to outshine others of their own sex, and sow broadcast
heart-burnings, petty envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites,
where, if they did but choose, there might be a widely different
harvest.

It is easy to understand the feelings of Marie Stuart when she arrayed
herself in her best garments for her execution: it was simply the
heroism of supreme vanity, the desire to fascinate if possible the very
headsman. One can understand any beautiful woman being as brave as she.
Harder than death itself would it have seemed to her had she been
compelled to appear on the scaffold looking hideous. She was resolved
to make the most of her charms so long as life lasted. I thought of
that sweet-lipped, luscious-smiling queen as I parted from my wife for
a few brief hours: royal and deeply injured lady though she was, she
merited her fate, for she was treacherous--there can be no doubt of
that. Yet most people reading her her story pity her--I know not why.
It is strange that so much of the world's sympathy is wasted on false
women!

I strolled into one of the broad loggie of the hotel, from whence I
could see a portion of the Piazza del Popolo, and lighting a cigar, I
leisurely watched the frolics of the crowd. The customary fooling
proper to the day was going on, and no detail of