n involuntary
heaviness, upon the enormous red sun dying away over Nagasaki. I have
a somewhat melancholy feeling that my past life and all other places
in the world are receding from my view and fading away. At this moment
of nightfall I feel almost at home in this corner of Japan, amidst the
gardens of this suburb; I have never had such an impression before.

L.

_September 16th_.

Seven o'clock in the evening. We shall not go down into the town
to-day; but, like good Japanese citizens, remain in our loftly suburb.

In undress uniform we shall go, Yves and I, in a neighborly way, as
far as the fencing gallery, which is only two steps off, just above
our villa, and almost abutting on our fresh and scented garden.

The gallery is closed already and a little mousko seated at the door,
explains with many low bows that we come too late, all the amateurs
are gone; we must come again to-morrow.

The evening is so mild and so fine, that we remain out of doors,
following without any definite purpose the pathway which rises ever
higher and higher, and loses itself at length in the solitary regions
of the mountain among the upper peaks.

For an hour at least we wander on,--an unintended walk,--and finally
find ourselves at a great height commanding an endless perspective
lighted by the last gleams of daylight; we are in a desolate and
mournful spot, in the midst of the little Buddhist cemeteries, which
are scattered over the country in every direction.

We meet a few belated laborers, who are returning from the fields with
bundles of tea upon their shoulders. These peasants have a half savage
air, half naked too, or clothed only in long robes of blue cotton; as
they pass, they salute us with humble bows.

No trees in this elevated region. Fields of tea alternate with tombs:
old granite statues which represent Buddha in his lotus, or else old
monumental stones on which gleam remains of inscriptions in golden
letters. Rocks, brushwood, uncultivated spaces, surround us on all
sides.

There are no more passers-by, and the light is failing. We will halt
for a moment, and then it will be time to turn our steps downwards.

But, close to the spot where we stand, a box in white wood provided
with handles, a sort of sedan-chair, rests on the freshly disturbed
earth, with its lotus of silvered paper, and the little incense-sticks
burning yet, by its side; clearly someone has been buried here this
very evening.

I ca