representatives of certain missions, to the disrespect and disregard paid to them or their teachings by the Japanese. Such assertions are too sweeping, to say the least, as well as misleading, for many of the foreign missionaries in Japan have gained the high esteem of natives, and have endeared themselves, both by their noble, self-sacrificing lives, as well as ever ready sympathy and friendliness. There have been many missionaries sent to Japan during the past decade who are educationally sadly incompetent to meet the emergencies that present themselves in Japan. It must be borne in mind that the standard of education of the present generation in Japan is most high. The works of Huxley, Spencer, Darwin, and many others have, for the most part, been translated into Japanese, and the students and graduates of the university, the Dai gakko, are able to compete educationally with men from our best colleges and universities. The eagerness for knowledge that one finds so universally displayed among the Japanese, together with the remarkable advance in this direction that the nation has made during the past twenty years, and the prominent position Japan is assuming in its relations to America and European countries-all this commands our unbiased interest and respect.

The task of endeavoring to portray a clear, although of necessity incomplete, view of Japanese home life is one of no little difficulty. It would seem almost as difficult as an adequate description of a Beethoven sonata would be without the aid of music. For there is a subtle "something" about Japan in which, perhaps, the exquisite harmony of the land-the scenery and the peopleplays an important part; yet a "something" that is wont to cast a charmed spell around one, and causes a former resident, like myself, to look back to the years spent in the "Land of the Rising Sun" as to the memory of some peaceful vision of fairyland. This indefinable charm can not be described in mere word-pictures, and yet escapes few visitors to Japan, and is seldom lost even after long residence in that country.

The sense of restfulness that pervades our Japanese towns, in bold contradistinction to that feeling of noisy hurry and feverish excitement of a busy American city, has been attributed to the comparative absence of horse traffic in the former. Undoubtedly this is a potent factor, but not the only one which gives that sense of quiet and repose already referred to. The courteous politeness of the people, both rich and poor, the general evidences of lightheartedness among even the poorest laboring classes, the absence of that distracting hurry and rush so typical of our great business centers, and in addition to all this the picturesque houses and streets, the spotlessly clean homes, the evidences everywhere of a national love for the beautiful and artistic, the absence of saloons

or barrooms, and their substitution by public bath-houses, at almost every corner-all these must be regarded as factors productive of this sense of quiet and rest. Then, again, the strange commingling of the new and the old-for, turning aside from some busy street thronged with shoppers, venders and tradesmen, a few steps may find us approaching some majestic temple gateway, leading to the shrine or tomb of some great hero of centuries gone by. Ascending the time-worn stone steps, and standing beneath the shadow of the lofty gabled roof of the gateway, our gaze may follow the intricate maze of lacquer and bronze architectural adornment until it is lost in the shadowy gloom overhead. On either side of the two central columns, and shut off by a railing, are the colossal figures of the "guardians of the temple," grim and gaunt, with sword in hand. Flanked on either side are the tall bronze or stone lanterns of the temple, and still beyond, back even of the font of water and the great temple bell in its gabled belfry, is the shrine itself, a fitting resting place or tribute to one who has served his country well, guarded as it is by gnarled and ancient pines and lofty cryptomarias that were ancient when the grandsires of the happy throng below ascended these self-same steps to offer a tribute to the memory of the hero.

There is a marked similarity in the daily routine of the inmates of Japanese homes, whether they be homes of the rich or poor, the official or tradesman. The wife is always the mistress of the home, and hers is the duty of in every way possible rendering the life of her husband happy-and to be happy herself, as far as he knows. The instruction of the daughters of the home in the various domestic duties also devolves upon the mother. The wardrobe of the entire family is the work of her hands, with the assistance, perhaps, of an aunt (obāsan), maid, or her growing daughters. The latter, by the way, are taught how to sew while yet quite little tots, and as they grow older in years and skill, are initiated into the mysteries of art needlework. Then the daughters are instructed in music, a certain knowledge of the samisen, koto, or some other musical instrument being regarded as a requisite accomplishment in even the poorer and middle classes, while the daughters of the higher classes and nobility are well versed in art, music, and the poetry of the country. The other accomplishments deemed desirable in women consist principally in the artistic arrangement of flowers and the details of ceremonial tea making and drinking (cha-no-yu).

The recitation, or reading of historical poems (utai) is a favorite study, especially if some romance is interwoven into the story. Usually the dramatic poems (iōrori) are ceremoniously read or sung by the young maidens, while an elder sister or teacher will thrum a minor accentuated accompaniment on the samisen. Some

times the story of the utai is told in prose to the eager group of children gathered around the glowing brazier, or hibachi. The latter, it must be confessed, in spite of its cheery appearance, radiates but a scant amount of heat in comparison with the open grates of the Occident. Such a family group may be seen in thousands of homes in Tōkyō alone, on a winter's afternoon; the boys, if back from school, resting contentedly on the white tatami, or studying the morrow's lessons in some quiet nook; the little maidens, demurely grouped about the hibachi, busily plying their needles, while listening to some story told by the old aunt or nurse, that may be acting as instructress. The contented hum of

the quaint old iron kettle, resting over the glowing coals, supported by an iron tripod thrust into the ashes of the hibachi, suggests its entire readiness to assist in the preparation of tiny cups of fragrant tea for any chance guest that arrives, or for any member of the family that wants a steaming cup of this delicate beverage-which is so much more dainty and delicious as prepared and drunk by the Japanese than by us.

It is then that the telling of stories finds its place in Japanese. The deeds of heroes, the romances of ancient dynasties, mystical lore, stories of ghosts and ghouls, and of the wicked and revengeful deeds of fox or badger sprites-this folk lore, historical or mythical, as it may be, has become so blended with the home life.

of the people that one can not well dissociate the one from the other. The story of Kogo-no-Tsuboné-properly an utai, or historical poem-is a favorite on account of the sweet romance it contains.

THE STORY OF KOGO-NO-TSUBONÉ.

Long, long years ago, before the Shoguns, that now sleep in their ancient graves in Shiba, had gained power, and before the advent of foreigners had been even dreamed of, the peace-loving young Emperor Takakura, a monarch of the imperial line, graced the sacred throne of his ancestors.

But the imperial power of Takakura was but a nominal one, for the prime minister-one Kiyomori, of Taira descent-virtually ruled the land, and, to accomplish his ends more adroitly, had even caused his daughter to be made empress. Thus the peaceloving young monarch was a mere tool in the artful hands of Kiyomori. Indeed, his power was great, for the emperor could not have declared war or made peace against Kiyomori's tyrant will.

So, while the prime minister was scheming with his daughter the empress, the young monarch was forced to seek consolation in music and art, and found a willing and loving follower in one of his retainers, Nakakuni, who himself was a most skilled performer on the flute. Now, it happened that among the royal musicians at the palace there was a lady in waiting to the royal household who in music far outranked any other. Fair as a dream, gifted with the sweetest of voices, Kogo-for this was her name-was able to awaken music from her koto strings that seemed to spring from the very soul of the instrument. None but the tapering fingers of the fair Kogo could create such entrancing harmony, and it truly seemed as though the silken strings would murmur a loving response to her gentle caress.

Frequently the flutist Nakakuni would accompany Kogo's music and song, while the young emperor would listen like one entranced. These three passed many happy hours together; but as time wore on, the young monarch realized that sweet Kogo's music and verse had awakened love. But, alas! Kiyomori learned of the emperor's infatuation, and poor Kogo was compelled to secretly flee to the mountain forests of Saga in order to escape from the relentless persecutions of Kiyomori and his daughter the em

press.

On learning of Kogo's flight from the palace, Takakura at once ordered his faithful retainer Nakakuni to go in search of the missing maiden, and look far and wide, and not to return until he had found her hiding place. The fleetest horse of the royal mews was made ready, and Nakakuni, bearing with him a message from the Emperor, was soon speeding toward the gloomy mountain of Saga.