any men in Japan who
are not brilliant, considering that here, the first man I had met, an
ordinary little merchant in a hotel for Europeans, was an artist. Every
day we wandered about the streets trying to discover the best operators
in metal, wood, and bronze to work for me; and in a very short time we
had gathered together a bevy of excellent associates, each thoroughly
proficient in his own particular direction.

Inchie and I talked out our plans during our many walks through Uyeno
Park and down the theatre streets, and we came to the conclusion that
this Japanese house of mine should be a house of flowers. Each room
should be some individual and beautiful flower--such as the peony, the
camelia, the cherry-blossom, the chrysanthemum,--and, just as a flower
begins simply at the base, expanding as it reaches the top into a
full-blown bloom, so my rooms should begin with simple one-coloured
walls and carpets, becoming richer and richer as they mounted up, ending
as they reached the ceiling in a perfect blaze of detail.

[Illustration: SWINGING ALONG IN THE SUN]

That was my dream; but, unlike most dreams, it was realised to the full
and far beyond my widest expectations. I first of all turned my
attention towards the wood-carvers; and, discovering that each man
had his favourite flower, which he manipulated more skilfully than any
other, I arranged that he should work solely on that particular species.
Having found three or four men who had a special fancy for the peony, I
allowed them to occupy themselves entirely in the peony room. I gave
them the exact measurement of the ceiling, squaring it out into a
certain number of panels, with complete measurements of the doors, the
frieze, and every portion of the room, allowing them to give bent to
their own artistic instincts as to colour and design. These drawings
were then handed over to the wood-carvers, to be pasted on to wood
panels and carved. In a very short time every workman in Inchie's store,
and every artist too, became enthusiastically interested in this work
that they were undertaking. In fact, it was not work to them at all, but
one long artistic joy. So much rubbishy bric-a-brac has to be made for
the European market that when a Japanese is allowed to go his own way
and create self-imagined beautiful things, it is an untold personal
pleasure to him.

I never saw a body of men work together so unselfishly as these. The
metal-workers in the peony room went