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10 spend for such things, because the one exquisite touch means less to us.

A Japanese, in his garden,—or in some one else’s, perhaps,—sits in the particular spot allotted to him; in his own garden, on the Master’s Stone; in another’s, on the Guest’s Seat of Honour, or on the Guest’s Isle, and drinks in the beauty as though it were golden saké, tasting each honeyed, burning drop as it goes down, but never satiated. Sometimes he sits—like an image of Buddha, with a sensual face, perhaps, but with a spiritual mind teaching him how to look—sunk absorbed in the peaceful scene before him, in a very Nirvana of happiness—not himself, it would seem, but part of the spirit of the place.

I remember once, at Shimonoseki,—which, together with Moji, makes the Liverpool and Manchester, the New York and Pittsburg, of Japan; busy, bustling, dreadful places from the Oriental point of view,—seeing a young man in contemplation before a Rose. It was in a little nursery garden to which we had found our way by back streets and rather foul alleys, in search of flowers to take on board ship, and a stone lantern for our garden in Hong-Kong. A poor little spot it was, and the old Okka San, who seemed the only one in charge of the place, had no word of English, and could not understand the few we had of Japanese. A lean young man