The same old gentle face of ’Merican poet—a poet need not always to sing, I assure you, of tragic lamentation and of “far-beyond”—stared at me from its frontispiece. I wondered if he ever dreamed his volume would be opened on the tiny brown palms of a Japan girl. A sudden fancy came to me as if he—the spirit of his picture—flung his critical impressive eyes at my elaborate cue with coral-headed pin, or upon my face. Am I not a lovely young lady? I had thrown Longfellow, many months ago, on the top shelf where a grave spider was encamping, and given every liberty to that reticent, studious, silver-haired gentleman Mr. Moth to tramp around the “Arcadie.” Mr. Moth ran out without giving his own “honourable” impression of the popular poet, when I let the pages flutter. Large fatherly poet he is, but not unique. Uniqueness, however, has become commonplace. Poet of “plain” plainness is he—plainness in thought and colour. Even his elegance is plain enough. I must read Mr. Longfellow again as I used a year ago reclining in the Spring breeze,—“A Psalm of Life,” “The Village Blacksmith,” and half a dozen snatches from “Evangeline” or “The Song of Hiawatha” at the least. That is not because I am his devotee—I confess the poet of my taste isn’t he—but only because he is a great idol of American ladies, as I am often told, and I may suffer the accusation of idiocy in America, if I be not charming enough to quote lines from his work. 30th—Many a year I have prayed for something more decent than a marriage offer. I wonder if the generous destiny that will convey me to the illustrious country of “woman first” isn’t the “something.” I am pleased to sail for Amerikey, being a woman. Shall I have to become “naturalized” in America? The Jap “gentleman”—who desires the old barbarity—persists still in fancying that girls are trading wares. When he shall come to understand what is Love! Fie on him! I never felt more insulted than when I was asked in marriage by one unknown to me. No Oriental man is qualified for civilisation, I declare. Educate man, but—beg your pardon—not the woman! Modern gyurls born in the enlightened period of Meiji are endowed with quite a remarkable soul. I act as I choose. I haven’t to wait for my mamma’s approval to laugh when I incline to. Oct. 1st—I stole into the looking-glass—woman loses almost her delight in life if without it—for the last glimpse of my hair in Japan style. Butterfly mode! I’ll miss it adorning my small head, while I’m away from home. I have often thought that Japanese display Oriental rhetoric—only oppressive rhetoric that palsies the spirit—in hair dressing. Its beauty isn’t animation. I longed for another new attraction on my head. I felt sad, however, when I cut off all the paper cords from my hair. I dreaded that the American method of dressing the hair might change my head into an absurd little thing. My lengthy hair languished over my shoulders.