lory of the whole. He recognizes man
merely as a fraction of the universe,--one might almost say as a vulgar
fraction of it, considering the low regard in which he is held,--and
accords him his proportionate share of attention, and no more.

In his thought, nature is not accessory to man. Worthy M. Perichon, of
prosaic, not to say philistinic fame, had, as we remember, his travels
immortalized in a painting where a colossal Perichon in front almost
completely eclipsed a tiny Mont Blanc behind. A Far Oriental
thinks poetry, which may possibly account for the fact that in his
mind-pictures the relative importance of man and mountain stands
reversed. "The matchless Fuji," first of motifs in his art, admits no
pilgrim as its peer.

Nor is it to woman that turn his thoughts. Mother Earth is fairer, in
his eyes, than are any of her daughters. To her is given the heart that
should be theirs. The Far Eastern love of Nature amounts almost to a
passion. To the study of her ever varying moods her Japanese admirer
brings an impersonal adoration that combines oddly the aestheticism of
a poet with the asceticism of a recluse. Not that he worships in secret,
however. His passion is too genuine either to find disguise or seek
display. With us, unfortunately, the love of Nature is apt to be
considered a mental extravagance peculiar to poets, excusable in exact
ratio to the ability to give it expression. For an ordinary mortal to
feel a fondness for Mother Earth is a kind of folly, to be carefully
concealed from his fellows. A sort of shamefacedness prevents him from
avowing it, as a boy at boarding-school hides his homesickness, or a lad
his love. He shrinks from appearing less pachydermatous than the rest.
Or else he flies to the other extreme, and affects the odd; pretends,
poses, parades, and at last succeeds half in duping himself, half in
deceiving other people. But with Far Orientals the case is different.
Their love has all the unostentatious assurance of what has received the
sanction of public opinion. Nor is it still at that doubtful, hesitating
stage when, by the instrumentality of a third, its soul-harmony can
suddenly be changed from the jubilant major key into the despairing
minor. No trace of sadness tinges his delight. He has long since passed
this melancholy phase of erotic misery, if so be that the course of his
true love did not always run smooth, and is now well on in matrimonial
bliss. The very look of the land is