more popular place of resort than Shiba. Here, in shrines not less superbly adorned than those which we have quitted, lie six more dead Shoguns; here, too, is the famous avenue of cherry-trees, which attracts thousands of visitors from all districts in spring; and here a lake, charmingly starred just now with lotus flowers. The air is heavy, the heat and glare are overpowering; but the little strollers do not seem to mind. It is impossible (at least if Western standards of beauty are to be accepted) to call them anything but ugly; yet one almost loves them, and is altogether grateful to them, for wearing an aspect so free from care. Our parks and streets at home can show nothing like that for the consolation of wayfarers who have themselves left the age of gayety behind. Troubled, harassed, despairing, or dully vacant, the faces that keep flitting past you there have fifty tales to tell; but barely among a hundred will you detect one which bespeaks a contented owner. In Japan the apparent percentage of discontent is as small. Nowhere else in the world are people to be found so universally, so palpably enamored of sheer existence. Yet they have little or no objection to being killed. Is that because the Christian privilege of looking forward to a possible eternity of torment is denied to them, or because with them love of country is not nominally, but quite simply and unfeignedly, stronger than the love of life itself?

It is a life-loving, laughter-loving crowd that swarms round about the great Buddhist temple of Kwannon, the thousand-handed Goddess of Mercy, that strange, busy, noisy place, thronged with dealers in toys, charmsellers, loungers, clucking poultry-possibly a few pilgrims or worshippers. Many ex-votos, in the shape of pictures and lanterns, adorn the structure, lending it the aspect of a cheerful pagan

Lourdes. The great hall of the temple stands open; clogs and sandals are not removed by the multitudes who make a thoroughfare and a meeting-place of it. But the altar, resplendent with gilding, flowers, lighted lamps and candles, is shut off by a wire screen, behind which some priests are nasally chanting.

In the Asakusa gardens, hard by, a species of permanent fair is held, with the usual accompaniments of performing bears, monkeys, jugglers, and so forth; also a quaint show of marionettes, which skip nimbly through interminable dramas without wearing out the patience of the enthralled spectators. In one of these the scene descends at length to the bottom of the sea, where intrepid divers do battle with submarine monsters and an improbable crocodile or alligator gobbles them up for their pains, to the huge amusement of the audience.

The day wanes, the sun sinks, the shadows of evening close in, bringing no abatement of the heat. The little people begin to stream back citywards, chattering, laughing, manipulating their paper fans. How can one take them seriously? How can it be supposed that they will ever be so crazy as to match their strength against that of the grim Northern giant whom they must, nevertheless, face one of these days in deadly combat, unless they are prepared to accept virtual vassaldom without striking a blow? They are, no doubt, a fighting race, little as they have the air of it, and their shores have never been menaced with invasion since Kublai Khan's Mongol fleet was dispersed by them some six centuries ago; but the question which still remains a question is whether their abrupt and unreserved adoption of a civilization which is not theirs will have the results for which alone so much that was more or less definitely theirs has been flung away. Success

justifies all measures, courage often commands success, and fortune favors the brave. Yet surely among these millions of bold innovators there must be doubting spirits not a few who, if they say nothing, look forward with dismay to the perilous future and backward with a sigh to the days of Japan's grandeur and isolation under the Tokugawa dynasty, which refused all dealings, peaceful or warlike, with outer barbarians. As the swift jinrikisha skims past those silent, withdrawn temples of the old Shoguns in the fading light, the ravens, poised overhead, renew their monotonous wail-Ah! ah! ah!

A hundred miles away from sweltering Tokyo, and 2000 feet or thereabouts above the sea-level, lovely Nikko affords shade and comparative coolness to exhausted travellers. Nikko, embosomed in greenery, traversed by a tumbling torrent, walled in by peaked mountains, and famous all the world over as the last resting-place of the great Tokugawa Shogun and his grandson, is a straggling village which can never, one rejoices to think, be deprived of its quite special and peculiar natural beauty. It contains, to be sure, quasi-European hotels and a fair number of European and American tourists; but the former, even if they were ugly (which, happily, they are not), could scarcely offend the eye, so concealed are they by screens of trees and flowering shrubs; while as for the latter-well, one must submit to the consequences of having been born in the nineteenth century.

Hither, early in the seventeenth, when Japan had been hermetically sealed against alien intruders, were conveyed for final sepulture the remains of Ieyasu, founder of his dynasty, and perhaps no dead man on the surface of this planet is more regally

lodged. From distant Shizuoka they carried his body in solemn procession, taking eighteen days about it, crossing the broad plains and scaling the heights along those straight alleys, bordered by giant cryptomerias, which remain to this day, although their use has been superseded by railways, and on a quiet, wooded summit he sleeps, with the gorgeous mortuary temple which has been erected to his memory beneath him. What, if he could be aroused from his dignified slumber, would he think of the nation which continues to honor him, though it has so diametrically reversed his policy? What would any great man think of his successors? This one, who was a brilliant general, a wise law-giver, a munificent patron of literature and art, belonged to his epoch and appears to have grasped its requirements. His grandson, Iemitsu, who abolished Christianity (for reasons which may well have seemed to him sufficient), and who finally excluded foreigners, lies near him, and is immortalized by a shrine of equal beauty and wonder. These two mausoleums are considered to surpass the Shiba temples at Tokyo, which, for the rest, they closely resemble. Here, as there, is a bewilderment of color and detail, an infinite profusion of gold lacquer, of intricate carving, of minute, elaborate design, a suggestion, to tell the truth, of magnified bonbonnières. Here, as there, are many courts, with stone lanterns, splendid gateways and pagodas, approached always through the simple but strangely effective torii, composed of two upright and two transverse beams or blocks of stone, the latter curved upwards at the ends, which are so characteristic of Japan, although, like everything else Japanese, they are said to have been originally introduced from the mainland. Only here the general result is one of enhanced grandeur, of more spacious symmetry, of a some

what less grudging concession to spectators who would fain view great achievements as a whole. The Nikko temples, compared with those of Shiba, are as a symphony to a sonata.

The situation aids-a steep hillside, with long flights of mossgrown stone steps, shaded by solemn, secular cryptomerias, green vistas in which the light is always subdued and where scarcely a sound is heard, save the stirring of the wind in tree-tops far overhead. One is reminded of zephyris agitata Tempe. Ieyasu's tomb, which stands on the highest crest, is a simple cylinder of pale-colored bronze, in which there is said to be an admixture of gold.

If these temples of wood and stone, the work of men's hands, are the chief glory of Nikko, it has to be acknowledged that they in their turn are under a deep obligation to Nature, which has provided for them so exquisite and appropriate a setting. The gayety which is the dominant note of Japanese towns, villages, and landscapes is somewhat chastened here, as if out of respect to the mighty dead; the farreaching forests, pierced by grassy avenues, for which the evergreen trees furnish a perpetual lofty arch, breathe of inviolable rest and peace; if it could in any way matter what becomes of one's discarded body after death, one might have a fancy for being interred at Nikko rather than-shall we say?— at Kensal Green or the Woking Necropolis. But although there is a suggestion of gentle melancholy about this mountain gorge, down which the Daiyagawa tumbles impetuously on its way towards the sea, abundant color preserves it from being sombre. silvery foam of the torrent, the masses of foliage, the red trunks of the cryptomerias, Nantaizan, the holy mountain, towering soft and blue against the sky, all harmonize and combine to form a succession of vignettes which imprint

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themselves upon the memory, like certain lines of poetry, because they are so completely satisfying of their kind. One celebrated note, alas! makes default-the sacred bridge of vermilion lacquer, swept away, just a year ago, in a typhoon which wrought terrible havoc all along the banks of the suddenly swollen river, wrecking roads, paths, and embankments, drowning many villages and razing their lightly built habitations to the ground. For two centuries and a half the famous bridge braved storms and floods, never, it is said, needing to be repaired during that time, so solidly was it upheld by its massive stone piers; but-tant va la cruche à l'eau! Its day came, and the superstitious, if such there be in the land, may see in its downfall at this particular juncture a sinister omen.

Probably, however, there is not much genuine superstition left among a people resolved to put away childish things. There remain, of course, a host of quasi-beliefs, some of which might be matched upon the banks of the Thames. It is lucky to do this, unlucky to do that; certain numbers or conjunctions of numbers are best avoided; ghosts, goblins, and dragons have not yet been formally exorcised. But upon the whole it would appear that the Japanese national character, which exhibits so many irreconcilable traits to the puzzled European student, is not very readily receptive of the supernatural. The most religious races are apt to be the most superstitious, and everybody knows (or, at any rate, everybody says) that the Japanese are not religious. The educated among them are rather fond of declaring that religion and morality have nothing to say to one another, and that it does not in the least matter which of the various creeds professed by humanity a man may see fit to adopt, so long as he does his duty. A Japanese does not call himself an adherent of Shinto or

On the other hand, large sums of money are always forthcoming for the rebuilding of the temples which are periodically reduced to ashes in this country of frequent fires. The splendid and imposing Higashi Hongwanji temple at Kyoto, recently reconstructed entirely by voluntary and popular subscription, is an instance. Pilgrimages, too, are annually undertaken by hosts of devout folk to distant shrines, mountains or islands. In this very month of August pilgrims by the thousand are pattering through Nikko on sandalled feet, bound for or returning from the sacred mountain of Nantaizan, whose summit, rising to the respectable height of 9000 feet, dominates the valley. Clad all in white, with "rain-coats" of straw matting slung across their shoulders, carrying stout staves and literally nothing else in the shape of personal gear, they trudge briskly along the dusty road until it dwindles into the sharp ascent of a zigzag mountain path. They come in bands from all parts of the country and differ slightly, though but slightly to Western eyes, in type. No trace is visible upon those impassive yellow or white faces (by the way, Japanese complexions are quite as often dead white as yellow) of the strained, pathetically eager expression which characterizes petitioners at European shrines. Perhaps, being such unexacting folk, they do not expect very much; evidently there cannot be a great deal amiss with their physical health, for, in addition to marches of many days across the hot plains, with the probability of being drenched to the skin again and again in

this typhoon season, they have to end up with a climb sufficiently trying to wind and limb.

The lazy tourist scales the heights in comparatively luxurious fashion, a pair of coolies being harnessed tandem to his jinrikisha, while a third pushes it from behind. It seems hardly possible to drag or shove a wheeled vehicle up that rough, rocky track; but the thing is done, and done without apparent difficulty. If the tourist, ashamed of his laziness, insists upon getting out and walking, his muscular little men will nod and grin at him in recognition of a kindly intention, but they do not really care whether he relieves them of their burden or not. At intervals a high-perched teahouse is reached, and then they halt, not because they are tired, but because it is customary to do so, while the tourist, squatting down upon the ground in his stiff, ungainly way, is regaled with sticky sweetmeats and a tiny cup of colorless tea. A coin of microscopic value remunerates the hostess, who promptly drops on all fours, touching the floor with her forehead. Then, if you like to stretch your limbs, you can saunter off to look at the cascade which is sure to be near at hand. Everywhere in this region is the sound of falling water, everywhere is the grateful shade of trees, and, as one mounts higher and higher, the breeze becomes invigoratingly cool. Perhaps a light vapory cloud sweeps down from the neighboring cliffs, trails across the track, and is gone.

From time to time the jinrikisha is drawn aside to give passage to a long string of pack-horses, led almost invariably by peasant women, whose costume of tightly fitting breeches or stockings seems as unsuitable to their sex as are the many descriptions of manual labor assigned to them. But in no rank of life does gallantry towards women enter into the Japanese

system of ethics. Wealthy or poor, peasant or nobly born, they are given to understand from first to last that their duty and earthly mission are summed up in the one word obedience. They are not ill-treated-unless compulsory hard work be accounted ill treatment-but they are certainly regarded as inferior beings, and they have not yet begun to talk about their "rights." They will do that soon, perhaps, stimulated by the precept and example of their emancipated sisters from beyond the seas, and then upon a surprised male Japan may descend those boons of feminine equality, feminine oratory, feminine general intervention, which contribute so greatly towards making our own lives bright and happy. In the meantime, all travelled scribes unite in singing the praises of the gentle, merry, helpful, good-humored Japanese women. Not here shall the ungenerous theory be hazarded that their being what they are is a result of the training that they have been given.

When a height of about 2000 feet above Nikko, and something over 4000 feet above the sea, has been reached the jinrikisha coolies break into a quick trot; for the path now lies along level, sandy ground, through pine woods, and presently you are upon the shores of Lake Chiuzenji, a ruffled sheet of bluegreen water, hemmed in by steep, wooded banks and high peaks, which might be in Tyrol were it not for the torii and temples in the foreground. Chiuzenji is much patronized by merchants and their families from Yokohama, Kobe, and Shanghai. It is also the chosen summer resort of the foreign Ministers, many of whom are the fortunate possessor of waterside dwellings in this deliciously cool and sequestered spot; ideal habitations, nestling amid trees close above the lake, inaccessible save by woodland paths or, more pleasantly still, by flat-bottomed sam

pans, Only to set eyes upon them s instantly and unhesitatingly to break the tenth commandment all to pieces.

Not that they have latterly been able to allow themselves more than fugitive glimpses of their mountain Capua, these poor diplomatists; for it is a far cry to Tokyo, and the international atmosphere, heavily charged with electricity, has required the presence of authorized lightning-conductors. However, it is all right now, or going to be all right, so they say. Diplomacy, it seems, has been discharging its beneficent mission upon the time-honored lines with which Greeks, Cretans, Armenians, Macedonians, and other interesting, but troublesome, nationalities are mournfully familiar. "Be good little people; make no disturbance, whatever you do, and when the right moment comes we will all see whether something cannot be managed for you." The right moment never comes-can never by any possibility come; the little people, weary of welldoing without reward, begin to wonder whether it might not, after all, pay better to be naughty; so they tumble down and crack their crowns, and motherly Europe, whilst applying vinegar and brown paper, reminds them, more in sorrow than in anger, that they have only their own impetuosity to blame for their mishap. If kindly admonitions and nebulous promises have been offered to the Japanese-no longer in these days such a very little peoplewe may be sure that they have been received in a spirit of grateful courtesy. We may further venture to surmise that precisely how much is to be hoped or feared from "Les Grandes Impuissances" is known here, and that a nation which has been steadily perfecting its armaments for ten years past looks forward to fighting its own battles when the "right moment" arrives.

But why talk or think about such a gruesome eventuality as a big war on