ple,
consists of a set of empiric rules, of which no explanation is ever
vouchsafed the taught for the simple reason that it is quite unknown to
the teacher. It is not even easy to decide how much of what there is
is Jesuitical. Of more recent sciences he has still less notion,
particularly of the natural ones. Physics, chemistry, geology, and the
like are matters that have never entered his head. Even in studies more
immediately connected with obvious everyday life, such as language,
history, customs, it is truly remarkable how little he possesses the
power of generalization and inference. His elaborate lists of facts are
imposing typographically, but are not even formally important, while his
reasoning about them is as exquisite a bit of scientific satire as could
well be imagined.

But with the arts it is quite another matter. While you will search in
vain, in his civilization, for explanations of even the most simple
of nature's laws, you will meet at every turn with devices for the
beautifying of life, which may stand not unworthily beside the products
of nature's own skill. Whatever these people fashion, from the toy of
an hour to the triumphs of all time, is touched by a taste unknown
elsewhere. To stroll down the Broadway of Tokio of an evening is a
liberal education in everyday art. As you enter it there opens out in
front of you a fairy-like vista of illumination. Two long lines of gayly
lighted shops, stretching off into the distance, look out across two
equally endless rows of torch-lit booths, the decorous yellow gleam
of the one contrasting strangely with the demoniacal red flare of the
other. This perspective of pleasure fulfils its promise. As your feet
follow your eyes you find yourself in a veritable shoppers' paradise,
the galaxy of twinkle resolving into worlds of delight. Nor do you long
remain a mere spectator; for the shops open their arms to you. No
cold glass reveals their charms only to shut you off. Their wares lie
invitingly exposed to the public, seeming to you already half your own.
At the very first you come to you stop involuntarily, lost in admiration
over what you take to be bric-a-brac. It is only afterwards you learn
that the object of your ecstasy was the commonest of kitchen crockery.
Next door you halt again, this time in front of some leathern
pocket-books, stamped with designs in color to tempt you instantly to
empty your wallet for more new ones than you will ever have the means