After they are gone, there remains only one small ceremony, which is often very unceremonious--the scramble of the courtiers for the so-called Garter of the Bride. Hundreds of pieces of white satin ribbon marked with her cipher are distributed by the Mistress of the Ceremonies, and for a few moments pandemonium seems to reign. At the last wedding I was flung bodily into the arms of a _Kammer-Herr_, a gold-laced official of great dignity; and some of the royalties returning to their apartments were plunged into the vortex of the struggle and severely hustled and pushed about before a passage could be made for them. The distributing lady was then kindly but firmly requested to pursue her avocations in a side corridor farther away. The wedding of the Emperor’s second son, Prince Fritz, to the Duchess Sophie Charlotte of Oldenburg took place in February, on the same day as the celebration of the Silver Wedding of Their Majesties, who on this occasion walked hand in hand in the bridal procession, the Empress wearing a wreath of silver myrtle as well as a beautiful diamond tiara given to her by her husband. This Silver Wedding was, of course, the occasion of many spontaneous tributes of affection towards Their Majesties; and the Court Chaplain--he who attempted to guide our Christmas carols--being an indefatigable man, had determined that this notable day ought to be ushered in by an _aubade_, an early-morning song, to be performed by the Court ladies and gentlemen outside the bedroom door of the Emperor and Empress. It was to be sacred in character; but, instead of taking some old-established favourite, he was moved to ask a musical friend to write something special to fit the occasion. Like most “specially-written” melodies, it was rather uninspired, but by dint of constant practice at most inconvenient times we got a more or less hazy idea of it, and hoped that it would make a deep impression. I think we were all a little resentful at having to rise so early on what we knew would be a long, fatiguing day. The poor Court Chaplain, who had to come over from Potsdam, must have started in the chilly darkness of the winter morning. I myself, unaccustomed to rising quite so early, fell asleep again after being awakened, and had to dress in feverish haste and rush downstairs without any breakfast. We were gathered, a group of rather sleepy, not conspicuously good-tempered people, at the entrance to the narrow corridor leading to the private apartments, where we waited an unconscionable time, growing every moment more nervous, and studying the little ill-written scraps of music-paper on which we had jotted down, somewhat undecipherably, our several parts. Everybody inquired of his neighbour what we were waiting for, but no one seemed to know, excepting the leading soprano, who frowned angrily when we whispered and put her finger reprovingly on her lips.