children squatted round the hibaichi, each with a hand over the glowing charcoal, for though the sun was up the morning air was keen. The man pounding rice next door had no need of artificial means to keep him warm, nor had the man carrying water in two tubs slung on a bamboo pole and carried across his shoulder. This seems an uncomfortable way of getting along with portable property; but it is an ancient habit with the Japanese, and he makes light of it. If the weight be unusually heavy, he eases the burden on his shoulder by thrusting a smaller bamboo under the larger one, using it as a lever which rests on his other shoulder, the end being held in his hand. All kinds of things are carried in this way. There passed us in the street what seemed like a bed of chrysanthemums, but was really a coolie carrying innumerable pots on two trays slung from bamboo in the manner described.

There were several cake and sweet shops, whose contents were more curious than toothsome. But they had attractions for the countless double-head children who stood around; the larger head looked longingly at the bountiful stores, whilst the smaller one stared out into space, its owner not yet having reached

the age when it could covet sweetmeats. Through this bright and bustling scene the jinrikisha men ran to and fro, laughing and chattering as if it were rather fun than otherwise to be beasts of burden.

CHAPTER XIV.

FÊTE DAY AT ASAKUSA.

TOKIO, the present capital of Japan, is eighteen miles from Yokohama, the two towns being connected by a line of railway that takes fifty minutes to do the journey. On the other hand the fare charged is very high, being four shillings for a first-class ticket, and all luggage must be paid for. The railway, like most of the public works in Japan, was constructed by Englishmen, and all the material came from England. It is odd in crossing bridges spanning rivers in one of the oldest empires in the world to find familiar English names from Birmingham or Sheffield. The carriages are comfortable and well appointed, forming a kind of compromise between the English and American system. The first and second-class open from end to end, the seats being placed longitudinally; but in the first-class carriages a party of six can shut

themselves in and be comfortable in truly English fashion.

are

The guards and ticket-collectors dressed in neat uniforms. The stations at both termini are spacious stone buildings, with every accommodation, including the morning newspapers in the waiting-room. Displayed on one of the walls of the station is the meteorological report of the day, by which the traveller waiting for a train can learn how the wind is blowing at Nagasaki and under what degree of atmospheric depression people are living in Kyoto. The explanation of the chart is printed in Japanese and English. At Yokohama the ticket clerk understands enough English to transact business with the foreigner. His colleague at Tokio is more deliberate, requiring an appreciable space of time to grasp the fact that he is being asked for a ticket for Yokohama.

But when the ticket office is closed and the clerk resting from his labours, the station at Tokio is a hard place for the Englishman who knows nothing of Japanese. On the day of my first visit I had occasion to tell the coachman to return and meet me at the station at twenty minutes past twelve. I tried in various ways to make this clear to him. I took him to the clock, pointed to the

figure twelve, and showed how the minutehand would come to twenty. He had followed me throughout with the short, sharp exclamation, "Heih!" with which Japanese servants and persons of the lower class indicate that they are attending to your instructions and will hasten to obey them; but when it was all over he bowed to the ground and stood looking at the clock. I fancy he thought I had been explaining its internal arrangements.

Nothing could exceed the politeness of the officials who happened to be about. They crowded round and addressed me at much length, but nothing came of it, and we parted in despair. After a brief interval of rest, I had another struggle with the coachman, with the same result. At length, when all seemed dark and my engagement imperilled, the coachman said, "Parlez-vous Français?" He had, it seemed, been to Paris with the Legation, and had learned sufficient French to make intercourse for the rest of the day practically intelligible.

Mr. Inouyé, the Foreign Minister, had been good enough to send one of his secretaries with a carriage to meet us on arrival, and we drove what seemed the full length of Tokio. Two bettos, or runners, accompanied the carriage, and made things lively for the