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the Sailing Junks, the Monastery Bell, the Breezy Sky, the Rainy Twilight, the Evening Snow, and the Flight of Wild Geese. The conventional subjects are adaptations of eight Chinese landscapes, for Japan, though phenomenally quick to follow, derives rather than originates her pictorial The fascination of Kyoto grows as the varied skein of history disentangles itself, and the manifold associations assume due proportions in the artistic whole. Religion mingles itself so inextricably with the story of Japan, that no clear outline of the past can be traced until this fact is assimilated. No arbitrary distinction can be drawn between the sacred and secular interest of the eastern capital, for the palace becomes a temple, and the temple a palace, in that interchange of ideas inseparable from Japanese royalty and priesthood, an example of Church and State in uncompromising form.

The Nijo castle of the Shogun Jeyasu, a mass of beetling gables and blackened eaves, is internally resplendent with gorgeous coloring; forked boughs of life-sized pines painted on a golden background of glittering walls and alternating with bamboo or plumblossoms, the emblems of long life, met the Shogun's eye on every side. Suites of gilded rooms with red-lacquered steps mark the exact gradations of a feudal household, and beyond the ancient stage for the semi-sacred No Dance stands the Chapel of the Magic Mirror, known as the Fearful Place, where ominous shadows from the unseen world thronged the brooding darkness. The trefoil crest of the Tukogawas is everywhere replaced by the Imperial Chrysanthemum,

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and the massive exterior rampart of the sacred enclosure, have been removed. Four suburb gateways, their black gables brightened with gilded chrysanthemums, pierce the yellow walls of the spacious area still retained; the southern gate being reserved for the Emperor, in accordance with the Oriental idea of guarding him from the evil influences borne on the northeast wind. English experience testifies to the physical ills of the black northeaster, but to the Oriental the fierce blast is only the outward expression of demoniacal force. The palace suggests a Shinto temple, for the divine Mikado must needs be lodged like a god, under the deep thatch and rough woodwork which retained, in sweeping roof and upcurved eaves rising above the surrounding houses, the immemorial type of a Tartar encampment. These sweeping curves, originally suggested by the folds of Mongolian tents, recall a nomadic past beyond numerical testimony, when some ebbing of that Western wave which bore the tribes of Central Asia towards the setting sun floated the aboriginal settlers of Japan to the eastern sea encircling their future home. The haircloth tent of the past takes permanent form in hut, palace, or temple, and remains the ineradicable architectural design imprinted on the native mind.

A wild cherry-tree and a wild orangetree, of fabulous age, flank the entrance, and represent two ancient ranks of Samurai, long since disbanded, but memorialized by the living effigy of each military crest. Elaborate symbolism marks every detail of the rambling edifice. Two tall bamboos, signifying two vanished kingdoms of China, grow outside the Pure and Cool Hall, traversed by a brook and dedicated to ancestral worship. Nothing is modernized in this palace of hoary memories, and the shadowy halls, with their red colonnades and sanded courts

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teeming with religious associations and Chinese influences, seem like vistas of dreamland. The ancient throne in the Audience Hall is but a silken tent, the heavy folds with their crimson bordering carrying out the traditional idea conveyed by palace and temple. hieroglyphics on sliding screens are the autograph verses of court poets, but the treasures of porcelain and lacquer were removed when Tokyo became the capital of the restored monarchy, and the innumerable buildings of the Imperial Spread-out-House, covering a larger area than many a Japanese village, are now only the glittering caskets of rifled jewels. The painted crapes and cut velvets of Kyoto are famed throughout the world, and an afternoon in the shops of brocade and embroidery is a valuable lesson in the arts derived from China, but improved upon until the pupil surpasses the teacher. A strange charm belongs to the porcelain factories, where dusky rooms glow with the rich hues of cloisonné Awata, or Satsuma, and the blue-robed showman, not content with exhibiting the finished work, leads the customer through quaint gardens of dwarfed pines, rocks, and streams to the little houses with paper screens and latticed verandahs, where each process of manufacture may be studied. The potter with his wheel, the clay-grinder, the glaze-maker, are visited in turn. A row of kilns shows the different stages of firing, and in an open pavilion the evening light falls on a group of painters engaged on the floral decoration of exquisite vases, while a girl in a purple robe crosses the flat stepping-stones of the rippling brook to take a basket of richly gilt cups to the burnishing house, where wet cornelians are used to give the final polish. Japanese communities retain much of the medieval character which rendered every city self-sufficing, and in the silk industry we may again watch the pro

cess from the worm on the mulberryleaf to the floral brocade of some gorgeous robe, or the embroidered hangings of a Buddhist shrine. Screens

and fans, armor and temple paraphernalia, offer a rich choice, but the jeweller's art is almost unknown, for the wearing of precious stones was forbidden to the higher classes, and, until the Restoration converted Japan to Western usage, jewels were the insignia of infamy. That is all changed now, and the Japanese lady succumbs to the subtle seduction of the diamond as readily as her European sister.

Temple ornaments, armor, and banners frequently display the mysterious manji or shastika, that hooked cross of Indian Buddhism, chiselled on Chinese joss-house, Egyptian monument, Etruscan tomb, and Greek altar. The Japanese Samurai bore it on warfan and breastplate, entitling his sacred talisman the Sign of Life, and the Barbaric Norseman carved it on the prow of his ship as the Hammer of Thor. Medieval fancy painted it in missals or embroidered it on vestments, and Christian thought recognizes in the mystic symbol a foreshadowing of the divine Cross which should save the world.

The pine-clad gorges of the Oigawa, with their foreground of rosy maples, frame a rushing river swollen by tributary streams as it dashes down a deep descent between islets and boulders, with foaming cascades marking the declivities of the rocky stairway. The slight peril of shooting these numerous rapids is counter-balanced by the excitement of the little experience on this ideal river of story and song, the theme of a hundred ballads belonging to feudal days, but still chanted to the music of the guitar in the historic teahouses at the water's edge. The Uji tea-district. famous for Japan's prize beverage known as Jewelled Dew, extends in green undulations between

Kyoto and Nara, the cradle of Japanese Buddhism and the capital of the Empire for seventy years, though the old Imperial city has decayed into a sleepy provincial town. Amid the forest shadows and ancient temples of Nara the romance of an older world finds an ideal resting-place. Antlered deer lie in the deep fern under the mighty trees or bound fearlessly forward with doe and fawn, leaning graceful heads against us to be caressed, for since the saintly founder of the first Nara temple in the seventh century rode through the forest on a deer, the sacred herd has been cherished for his sake. Dim avenues lined with moss-grown lanterns lead into the heart of the wood, the giant trees roped together with gnarled boughs of silver green wistaria, which climbs round the red boles of black cryptomeria, and hangs in thick wreaths from the lofty boughs. Buddhist and Shinto worship exist side by side in the dusky glades of Nara, and the Goddess of the Sun shares her honors with Kwannon, the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy.

The streets of Kyoto, full of light and laughter, awake us from the dreams fostered by the forest shades Macmillan's Magazine.

of Nara. on gable and lintel illuminate the narrow ways, guitars twang and streethawkers utter barbaric cries. The ancient home of the arts, though deserted by the Government, retains the impression stamped upon it in the centuries of occupation by the rival courts of Shogun and Mikado. Descendants of old-world artists practise their hereditary calling in the abode of their forefathers; the grace of the Kyoto dance dates from the days when court performances kept up the standard, and the Kyoto Geisha School still gives the ideal training in dance and song, flower-arrangement, and tea-ceremonies. As we bid a regretful farewell to the kindly and polished denizens of the city said to contain the finest flower of the Yellow Race, the radical divergence of thought and idea convinces us that sympathy and interest fail to bridge the gulf between East and West, or to afford an adequate clue to the contradictory character, at once fantastic and frivolous, subtle and profound, which underlies the versatile charm and plastic genius of the Japanese people.

Many-colored paper lanterns

E. A. R.

THE LAST TREK.

[Lines written for the funeral progress of Paul Kruger through Cape Town, on the way to burial at Pretoria, December 16th, 1904.-The funeral of C. J. Rhodes passed through the same streets April 3rd, 1902.]

-Who comes, to sob of slow-breathed guns borne past

In solemn pageant? This is he that threw
Challenge to England. From the veld he drew
A strength that bade her sea-strength pause, aghast,
Before the bastions vast

And infinite redoubts of the Karoo.

"Pass, friend!" who living were so stout a foe,
Unquelled, unwon, not uncommiserate!
The Fritish sentry at Van Riebeck's gate

Salutes you, and as once three years ago

The crowd moves hushed and slow,

And silence holds the city desolate.

The long last trek begins. Now something thrills

Our English hearts, that, unconfessed and dim,
Drew Dutch hearts north, that April day, with him
Whose grave is hewn in the eternal hills.

The war of these two wills

Was as the warring of the Anakim.

What might have been, had these two been at one?

Or had the wise old peasant, wiser yet,

Taught strength to mate with freedom and beget
The true republic, nor, till sands had run,

Gripped close as Bible and gun

The keys of power, like some fond amulet?

He called to God for storm; and on his head-
Alas! not his alone-the thunders fell.
But not by his own text, who ill could spell,
Nor in our shallow scales shall he be weighed,
Whose dust, lapped round with lead,

To shrill debate lies inaccessible.

Bred up to beard the lion, youth and man

He towered the great chief of a little folk;

Till, once, the scarred old hunter missed his stroke,
And by the blue Mediterranean

Pined for some brackish pan

Far south, self-exiled, till the tired heart broke.

So ends the feud. Death gives for those cold lips
Our password. Home, then! by the northward way
He trod with heroes of the trek, when they
On seas of desert launched their wagonships.
The dream new worlds eclipse

Yet shed a glory through their narrower day.

Bear home your dead; nor from our wreaths recoil,
Sad Boers; like some rough foster-sire shall he
Be honored by our sons, co-heirs made free
Of Africa, like yours, by blood and toil,
And proud that British soil,

Which bore, received him back in obsequy.

F. Edmund Garrett.

The Spectator.

EDWARD BURNE-JONES.*

“Edward himself," writes Lady Burne-Jones at the beginning of her second volume, "questioned the possibility of writing the biography of any but men of action. 'You can tell the life of those who have fought and won and been beaten,' he said, 'because it is clear and definite-but what is there to say about a poet or an artist? I never want a life of any man whose work I know, for that is his day of judgment and that is his doom.'

Yet he realized in late years that some memorial of him would certainly be written, and even spoke to me once of the possibility of my doing it. The reason he gave for wishing this was uttered almost parenthetically-'For you know': and although he never returned to the subject again those words give me courage." Indeed there was abundant reason why a life of BurneJones should be written, and why some fuller record of his career and personality should be provided than is supplied by the sum, great as it is, of his paintings and drawings, his decorations and designs, and those admirable productions in stained glass which may very possibly outlive all the rest of his works. For, artist, as he was to the finger-tips, he was much more. On the one hand he was one of the few modern artists of whom it may be said that he had constructed for himself a clear and consistent philosophy of art and life; a philosophy to which he gave expression in numberless conversations and a multitude of letters. Again, he was a leading member of a small group of men who made a deep mark upon the thought and culture of their time; and everything that throws light upon their mutual relations is "Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones." By G. B.-J. Two vols. Macmillan. 30s. net.

worth recording. Moreover, he was a personality at once impressive and fascinating, beloved and almost worshipped by many friends; and to tell the story of his life in the full and authentic manner in which it is here told is, as it were, to bring a new and a wider circle under the charm. Lady Burne-Jones's volumes, following so soon upon Mrs. Creighton's memoir of her husband, will once more bring forward the question whether those of a man's household are likely to prove his best biographers. There is no general answer to the question; each case must be judged on its merits. If a wife, like Sir Joshua Reynolds, contrives "to mix her colors with brains"; if her capacity of intellectual detachment is great enough to control her natural sympathy, she will make the best conceivable biographer, for, as BurneJones says, "she knows." This was Mrs Creighton's case to a truly remarkable degree; it is Lady BurneJones's case also, though not quite so unreservedly. We could have done, perhaps, with somewhat fewer details of family life, and of such troubles as are the lot of every young household; but this is a small blemish which scarcely detracts from the many and great merits of the book, and which may be easily forgiven.

The early chapters, which show us the boy in his lonely home in Birmingham, at King Edward's School, and in his rare country holidays, tell a story that is new; but the account of his early manhood-his days at Oxford and the beginnings of his career as an artist in London-have to a certain extent been anticipated by the "Life of William Morris," which, as every one remembers, was written by Mr. J. W. Mackail, Burne-Jones's son-in

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