where -- their two stands piled high with baskets, brooms, bamboo sieves and dustpans. These two stands are fastened to the ends of a pole about six feet long, and are balanced in the center on the left shoulder. The venders go on a kind of dog-trot, so that the elasticity of the pole takes the weight, or some of it, off their shoulders.

They will cover from fifteen to twenty miles a day, stopping at numerous houses and continually crying their wares. Their daily profits amount, in our money, to from ten to twenty cents.

THE MUSICAL MENDICANT.

No hour is too early or too late for these fearless strollers, nor is any thin-walled Japanese house secure from their strident noises. Everywhere they are to be heard, singly or in pairs or trios, singing and strumming their samisens. There is little music about it, at least to an American ear. Cold or heat, rain or shine, does not drive them to

cover.

The surest way to get rid of them is to give them a few rins; but even then they move only on to the next house. The woman in our illustration has her kimono tucked up under her obi or sash - the better to walk.

THE BLIND SHAMPOOER.

Her under kimono, usually of a bright red, hangs down to protect her limbs. Her coarse, black hair is shielded from the dust by a white cloth, and on her back is tied a paper umbrella, in case of rain The master of almost every Japanese house usually leaves with his gatekeeper or servant a little money to protect his quiet against their prolonged intrusion. They are no more vicious than itinerant musicians in other countries, but are generally regarded as nuisances.

THE SHAMPOOER.

Japan is the only country in the world's history that has given blind men and women a profession by themselves. They are not confined to cities only, but wander through the whole empire, and there are literally tens of thousands of them.

In olden times, the shampooers were much more of a feature of every-day life than they are today. In many towns and rural sections they were the only doctors, as at one period were the barbers in Europe. They were wonderfully quick to locate and diagnose disease simply by their highly-trained sense of touch. Today nearly all the shampooers and masseurs, or ammas, as they are called, are leagued together for mutual protection

i

in a sort of labor guild, and so divide up their territory as to enable all to earn a livelihood. There are really two classes of these blind men. The better class own houses and their patients go to them for treatment. They have office hours for consultation, like our Western physicians. Those belonging to a less lucky or inferior order, walk through the streets, blowing on bamboo whistles, or shrilly crying, “Атта, атта," and feeling their way forward with a long stick. The true courtesy of the Japanese is shown in no better way than in their kind treatment of these poor unfortunates. I have often seen rich men and men of high station stop on a crowded street and help an amma over a bad place in the road or guide him into some house he was looking for. The jinrikisha man will always turn out, or, if the road be too narrow, will lead the sightless wayfarer to the side - there to stand till the man with his vehicle can pass.

Often after a long horseback ride in the country I have returned home tired and stiff. On these occasions it became my invariable rule first to take a bath, then don a thin cotton kimono and have my servant call in one of these blind men. It is remarkable the way they can banish or relieve an ache or pain, and take the stiffness out of the joints and muscles in a short time. Not less than scientific is the fact that a man who feels lame and stiff will get relief by being rubbed in the shoulder and neck muscles, where his greatest strength lies and where walking or riding seems to bring

the main strain. Massage, or at least improvements in it, are ascribed to the Swedes; but long before the Swedes ever had a commonwealth, massage was practised among the Japanese, and some of their kneading movements of the flesh are still generally unknown to our operators. They have also different kinds of treatment which we do not follow. One is sticking silver needles in the flesh (without drawing blood, as they avoid veins and arteries) to get up a counter-irritation, say for rheumatism. Another is burning the flesh with a certain chemical mixture, known as moxa. Lumps of sticky dough made of this substance are placed on the backs or legs of sufferers from lumbago, paralysis or other ills. These cones, touched with a lighted match, burn and hiss and give intense agony to those who undergo the treatment. It leaves scars, which are often seen on the bare backs and legs of coolies. Not alone is this terrific searing given by the blind masseurs, but by Minë priests among whom it originated and to whom alone is the secret of the composition of this moxa dough now known. The priests sell it to the blind men.

These masseurs will work over you for hours for paltry pay a few cents. As before stated, I have often tried them and never once did one fail to designate me as a foreigner - not always alone by feeling my hair, which of course, is finer in texture than that of the Japanese, and which would have afforded him a clue, but merely by touching my flesh.

N either side of the Arno, nestling among the hills, with spurs of the Apennines to the north, and lower mountains to the south, lies Florence, a city that has played an active part in the history of the world for over three thousand years; a city rich in palaces and cathedrals, in libraries and museums, and in works of art of world-wide renown; a city which has been the home of noted statesmen, artists, and poets, and which, by its wealth of architecture and painting, has ever attracted to itself the lovers of the beautiful. Here lived and worked the artists Giotto, Da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Raphael, and Michaelangelo, the poets Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio; here was the beautiful home of the rich and powerful Medici; and here lived and toiled and died the great patriot priest, Savonarola.

To this city with all its historic memories, came in 1846 a pale, slender woman " with large, tender eyes richly fringed with dark eyelashes, and a mass of dark curls falling on each side of a most expressive face." With her was a man of strong, powerful physique, gray eyes, and light brown hair. These people came from England, where for years this frail woman had lived a secluded life with her devoted parents, and a large family of brothers and sisters. Mr. Barrett, with the clear, discerning eyes of love, soon perceived that his daughter Elizabeth, while yet but a child, showed an unusual ability for expressing her thoughts in rhyme. Everything that devotion and money could suggest was done to encourage the little poet, who, at the age of eleven, ambitiously wrote an epic on the "Battle of Marathon." The proud father had fifty copies of this youthful production printed and distributed among friends.

The advancing years brought to the father a firmer conviction that this daughter was

destined to be immortal, but as she approached womanhood, the shadow of ill health surrounding her deepened until at length she was forced to be satisfied with her couch in a darkened room, brightened however by the presence of many books, and the occasional entrance of a few friends. But the fertile brain and the glowing imagination were busy, and many poems of rich beauty came forth from this quiet room.

Among the few friends privileged to visit the invalid was Mr. Kenyon, a man of ample means and literary taste, who spent his time in "entertaining and being entertained by the makers of pictures and poems." He was distantly related to Miss Barrett, and so had frequent access to her home. He was accustomed to take to her all the best new books, and to introduce her, so far as her health would permit, to their authors. Among the few thus invited to meet her was a poet of rare genius, Robert Browning, a man whose tender heart and genial personality endears him to us even more than his immortal poems. He was in every way the opposite of this flower-like woman. So full of health and vigor was he that his handshake was said to be like an electric shock. This large-souled man joyously expressed his religion in the words of Pippa:

"God's in His heaven

All's right with the world."

In the lives of these two people we have repeated the old, old story. O, the wondrous magic of love! especially such a love as Robert Browning could give. It came to her in her thirty-eighth year, and took from her the gloom of ill health to give to her instead the strength of life and happy love. Who can express its subtle influence more wonderfully than she herself has done:

"I saw in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turn had flung

A shadow 'cross me. Straightway I was 'ware
So weeping, how a mystic shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair,
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,
Guess now who holds thee? Death! I said. But
there

The silver answer rang, Not Death, but Love."
Sonnets from the Portuguese.

To Robert Browning love was life, it was the ethereal essence of all that is beautiful and good, it was God. He has given to it a moral significance, a power above all others to lift man upon a plain compatible with his own worth. Thus he speaks:

"but God help them! for I know not how two poet heads and poet hearts will get along in this prosaic world."

We are glad to know that these two poet heads and hearts did get along most admirably, and that genius is not an incompatible foe to common sense, but that they can coexist within the same mind.

From Paris they went to Pisa and after staying there a few months they finally settled at Florence in a romantic old palace known as Casa Guidi. With Mr. W. W. Story, the American sculptor, let us take a peep into their home. First we will enter

In a Balcony.

And so were joined the poet minds and poet hearts - worth wed to worth. When we consider how sorrow and disappointment, clothed in their dark habiliments of gloom, have sat at the fireside of so many English writers, throwing their chill over all about them, we turn with gladness to this ideal union. The correspondence between these two poet-lovers, recently published, seems to me far too sacred ever to have been given to the curious eyes of the world. There is in the life of each, even the poorest and most humble, a holy of holies within which none should dare to tread. So we will turn from this most delightful part of their life, saying only that on account of the violent opposition offered by the bride's father, they were married quietly at St. Pancraschurch, on the 12th of September, 1846, and left almost immediately after for Italy, by way of Paris. When William Wordsworth heard the news he remarked: "So Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett have gone off together! Well, I hope they may understand each other

nobody else could." Mrs. Jameson and her niece chanced to meet them in Paris, and accompanied them to Italy. From Paris, Mrs. Jameson humorously wrote that she had with her a poet and a poetess - two celebrities who ran away and married under circumstances peculiarly interesting and such as rendered imprudence the height of prudence. "Both excellent," she added,

where hang medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle, and Robert Browning; then we will pass into the long room, filled with plaster casts and studies, which is Robert Browning's retreat; and last of all we come to the drawing-room where she always sat. It opens upon a balcony filled with plants, and looks out upon the iron-gray church of Santa Felice. There is something about this room that seems to make it an especial haunt for poets. The dark shadows and subdued light give it a dreamy look, which is enhanced by the tapestry-covered walls and the old pictures of saints that look out sadly from the carved frames of black wood. Large bookcases, constructed from specimens of Florentine carving selected by Mr. Browning, are brimming over with wise-looking books. Dante's profile, a cast of Keats's face and brow taken after death, a pen-and-ink sketch of Tennyson, and the genial face of John Kenyon - all attract the eye in turn. A quaint mirror, easy chairs and sofas, and a hundred nothings that always add an indescribable charm, are all massed in this room. But the glory of it all, and that which sanctifies it all, is seated in a small armchair near the door. A small table, strewn with writing material, books, and newspapers is always near her.

Thus the woman in the "small armchair" speaks of the city which they had chosen as their home: "Florence is beautiful, as I have said before and must say again and again, most beautiful. The river rushes