AS the traveller's first idea on reaching land after a long voyage is to enjoy himself, I am going to suggest several forms of amusement. Perhaps I had better begin by trying to answer what is sure to be his first question—"Where is the best tea-house with the prettiest geisha girls?"

We found that the most celebrated geishas were in Kyoto, where the dancing is classic, a model for the rest of the country. Here were also the best-trained maikos, or little dancers. The Ichiriki, or One-Power, Tea-house, which we visited, is one of the most famous in the country, for here in the long-ago Oishi, leader of the Forty-Seven Ronins, resorted in order to mislead the emissaries sent out to watch him by pretending dissipation and cowardliness. There is a shrine in the tea-house to the revered hero.

The place is very typical, with its clean-matted rooms and its tiny garden with miniature features of rock and water, its lanterns and stepping-stones, its gnarled trees and clumped bamboo. At the entrance to this tea-house we removed our shoes and passed over the soft mats into the simple, pretty rooms, open to the air and overlooking the lovely garden.

It took some time for the little entertainers to gather, for they are not used to haste. In the meantime we sat on mats while tea and sakÉ were served by the naisan, or maids, who shave off their eyebrows in order to make themselves plainer and so set off the beauty of the dancers. They came slipping in and falling upon their knees before us, bowing low and presenting the tiny cups for drinking—all a matter of much ceremony and etiquette when politely done.

Finally some wee maikos came shuffling in with their quaint dress and hair make-up, their whitened faces and painted lips, and knelt among us in picturesque attitudes. These maikos are girls of from ten to thirteen years of age who are learning to be geishas. Following them came the geishas themselves—the older dancers—and then the musicians began to tune and twang their instruments, and to chant the monotonous songs that tell the stories of the dancing.

Our eyes grew big with wonder and delight as the figures were taken up in turn, one after another—movements grotesque, but oh, so dainty and quaint! Such posturing in adorably awkward attitudes! Such sliding with tiny feet turned inward, heads and hands at all angles, eyes askew! To one to whom their dancing has become familiar, it is all so fascinating and fanciful, so full of delight and grace and meaning!

Tomiji and Kanoko, both maikos—dear tiny figures in gay garments and huge obis—danced the Story of the Stone Bridge. One of them was a peony, and the other was a lion! Then a geisha, Harikiku, or the Spring Chrysanthemum, danced the Story of the Spring Rain, which has a theme like that of Romeo and Juliet, as old as the hills—only now one of the lovers was a nightingale while the other was a plum.

So they postured and made picture after picture, and when it was over, came and sat among us to help pass the tea and sakÉ and cake and fruits that had been so daintily prepared. After that there was more dancing, and we took our leave amid much laughter and many sayonaras and wishes for a speedy return from our cheery little entertainers.

The geishas of Kyoto dress in more subdued colors than they do elsewhere. An American woman would be impressed by the cost of some of the kimonos, for no expense is spared in making them as beautiful as possible. The designs are carefully thought out, and an artist is selected to execute them. After the work is completed the stencils are usually destroyed, so that the pattern may never be duplicated.

These girls are the professional entertainers of Japan. They can be called to private houses, as well as to tea-houses, to help pass the time with their dancing and singing, and are cultivated in all the arts and graces that may add to their ability to please. Thus a geisha not only sings and dances attractively, but she is a trained conversationalist as well. She is not necessarily immoral, as Westerners often imagine. It is not uncommon even to-day for a girl to die by her own hand because she loves a man who, for some reason, cannot marry her. Many Japanese believe, however, that geishas are dangerous, designing and hard-hearted creatures, related to fox-women—a kind of goblin-ghost believed in by the ignorant.

The geisha's songs are usually of love, the universal theme, and are sung to the notes of the samisen. They correspond to our classic love songs, but are much more popular among the lower classes than any music is with us, unless it be rag-time! The sentiment and phrasing are often fairy-like in their delicacy and charm, but, of course, much of this is lost in translation. The following is one of the chief favourites—it depicts "a lover, when the landscape is white with snow, going to the window to look out before he takes his departure." His lady-love seeks to delay his going, and this is the song:

The little quip at the end which turns this one from a love song to a tribute to the moon has doubtless teased many an ardent wooer:

Perhaps the best known tea-house in Tokyo is the Maple-Leaf Club. We dined there one evening when there was a fine full moon, and the lovely, mysterious little garden was like a dream in the glorious night. The meal was served on the lacquer service by dainty geishas as we sat on the soft mats, while delightful dances were performed before us. Our favourite was the spider dance, in spite of its name, but we enjoyed them all, and even the music of the samisen and koto, which many foreigners do not care for. This house is famous for its excellent dancing and its pretty girls.

One feature of the meal which is characteristic of a Japanese dinner we could have easily dispensed with—that was the live fish, which was served to us still breathing, with a knife in its side, to show that it was perfectly fresh.

Theatre-going in Japan is a source of endless enjoyment. There is a big and quite beautiful opera house in Tokyo where the national plays, both old and new, as well as European opera with Japanese words, are given. Here the combination of East and West is very interesting. The audience, although for the most part wearing Japanese clothes, sits in seats instead of on mats. It is said that when the first European opera company came to Tokyo and the leading lady took her high notes, the audience was so convulsed with laughter that the manager had to pull down the curtain.

The English plays and the light operas given by the Japanese strike one as amusing. It always seems strange to see Orientals in European dress, and one never gets used to their ballet on account of their queerly shaped legs, which have been made crooked by ages of sitting upon them.

A sample program of a performance given at the Imperial Theatre in Tokyo, "Daily from 5th January, 1913," at 4.30 P.M., names five plays: 1. "The Soga Vendetta," a musical drama in one act, laid in the twelfth century; 2. "Muneto," an historical drama in four scenes, representing Kyoto in the eleventh century; 3. "Maria de Cronville," a musical pantomime in four scenes, Paris in the reign of Louis XIV; 4. "The Woman Hater," a modern farce in two acts, the settings representing the garden of a hotel in Kamakura and a room in a "hospital for mental diseases;" and 5. "The Merry Ferry," a musical drama in one scene, representing a ferry landing in Yedo in the eighteenth century. It would be an exacting taste which did not find something to satisfy it in a generous bill like this!

Most of the theatres are still quite Japanese. They are built of wood and so flimsily as to be full of draughts. The stage extends across one side of the square auditorium, whose sloping floor is divided into boxes two yards wide by low railings, which can be used as bridges by patrons arriving late or departing early. There is one gallery with boxes in front and room behind where the lower classes may stand. The actors enter the stage by means of two long raised platforms called "flower-paths," which extend across the auditorium—they receive their name from the custom of strewing the way of a popular actor with blossoms when he appears. These paths have been given up in the Imperial Theatre, as have also in some cases the little "supers," dressed in black in order that they may be considered invisible, who were of great service in perfecting the details of a stage-picture. But the old methods are still used in most of the theatres.

When an actor wishes to disappear from the audience he may leave the stage by the flower-paths, he may vanish into the wings, or—more simply still—he may hold up a small curtain in front of him and so accomplish the desired effect.

The revolving stage is used oftener in Japan than it is in Europe, to say nothing of America, where it is practically unknown. It allows quick changes of scene, for one setting may be arranged out of sight in the rear of the stage while another is in use before the audience. Instead of having the curtains lowered between the acts, the audience is often allowed to see the stage turn, which is interesting.

The plays usually begin at half-past four in the afternoon and last until eleven in the evening. A play may run for several days, or there may be three or four at one performance. During the intermissions the audience goes out and gets dinner at one of the score of restaurants in the building.

Although stage people are looked up to a little more than formerly, they are still regarded as a rather low class. Madame Sada Yakko is perhaps the best known actress of the new school, for she met with great success, not only on the Parisian stage in 1900, but later in America as well. Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji, the greatest actors of the Japanese stage, are all dead. To-day the best are Sojuro and Sawamura, who take women's parts, and Koshiro Matsumoto, who takes men's.

On a previous visit we spent a day at the Theatre Nakamuraza, which was then the finest in Tokyo. Danjuro, who was playing there, "supported by a strong company, including the great comedian Tsuruzo," was the favourite actor of the time and delighted a large audience. I do not feel competent to judge his acting, as I saw him only once, but critics say that he was much like Henry Irving, and one of the world's greatest artists of the old school. There is a marked difference between good Japanese acting and the inferior article, the former is so much more natural, with less that is grotesque and ranting.

The founder of the Japanese drama is supposed to have been a woman—O Kuni, a priestess of the temple at Kitzuki. She was as beautiful as she was pure, and was skilled in the dances which are supposed to delight the gods. One day, however, she fell in love with a "wave-man"—a ronin—and fled with him to Tokyo. Here her dancing and her beauty soon made her famous. Not satisfied with this, she and her lover—who was also her devoted pupil—became actors, and were the first to put secular plays on the stage. While still quite young the "wave-man" died, and O Kuni left the stage for ever. She cut off her wonderful long hair and became a Buddhist nun, spending the rest of her life writing poems. From her day until recent times women have not been allowed to appear on the stage, men taking all the parts as in the plays of ancient Greece and old England. To-day, however, women often take part with the men, as with us.

The old plays are very interesting and well done, the costumes being superb and the scenery excellent. The characters consist for the most part of samurai and daimyos, two or three of whom are either killed or commit hara-kiri during the performance. While their postures mean little to our eyes, to a Japanese every movement has its significance. When the actors pose and stamp around and finally kill themselves, the audience weeps in sympathy. The speeches are in the scholarly language, which only the better educated (very few of whom are women) can understand. This fact accounts for the large amount of sensational action which is considered necessary to hold the attention of the common people. One result of the many historical dramas given in the theatres is that the lower classes know and revere their national heroes.

In the early days of the theatre masks were much used. They were made to express sadness, hatred or amusement, and the actors chose them to fit the part they had to play. Often they portrayed the faces of well-known persons, and these were especially popular. If the actors wished to represent divinities or devils they had masks coloured black, red, green, or gold, often with real hair on them. The custom of masking on the stage was given up at the end of the seventeenth century.

One day we went to a native theatre and sat cross-legged in a box for over three hours, watching with real interest the exciting legendary romance of the famous Forty-Seven Ronins, whose story is told in another chapter. This was a very long play which had already taken twenty days, from eight in the morning till five in the afternoon, and would require three days more to finish it. The dialogue was, of course, quite unintelligible, but the play was nevertheless very interesting, for there was always a lot of action. The hero was truly superb—by a glance of his eye or a threatened blow he could knock down a whole stage-full of men! There was a very realistic suicide, with spurting blood and many gurglings. The acting was a trifle exaggerated—at times even grotesque and absurd—but I could follow the thread of events quite easily.

Some clever tumbling and acrobatic feats were introduced after the play, and a really funny funny-man, but to me the most amusing thing was to see an assistant come out on the stage after some especially violent scene and proceed to mop the perspiration from the actors' faces, walking coolly off again when his errand of mercy was accomplished.

The costumes and stage-effects were rather showy. There were no drop-scenes or flies. The people sat on the floor in their little stalls, and drank their tea or sakÉ and nibbled their cakes, coming and going as they wished.

The monkey theatres, where monkeys take the parts of men and women, should not be forgotten. The apes seem to enter into their rÔles with great spirit and energy. They are dressed in complete costumes to represent farmers, nobles, or two-sworded samurai, and they weep and rant and slay each other through the length of a classic play in the most natural manner. Their performance of comedy, tragedy, and drama generally, is absurdly human. There are men behind the scenes who tell the story of the action that is going on, but the monkeys themselves do everything but speak. Now and then, however, they forget their cues and the action stops till they are prompted. One "high officer," who came on to the stage on a big black dog for a horse, caused much confusion by refusing to dismount and kill his enemy, because the enemy, being a very well-trained monkey, insisted upon falling dead anyhow. These theatres are very small and can easily be moved about from place to place, like a Punch and Judy show.

Once while we were in Tokyo there came to town "The Royal Australian Circus," which gave two performances a day to crowded houses—or rather tents. As if the idea of a circus in the heart of Japan were not a sufficiently striking contrast, they pitched their tents, each with its familiar ring and sawdust, almost within the shadow of an ancient temple. For a few yen you got a box with red cotton trimmings and watched "Mr. Merry-man" get off his jokes in cockney English and Yokohama mixed. The show itself was poor, both in quality and quantity, and peanuts—the fundamental element of a proper circus—were wholly lacking.

Moving-picture shows are very popular in Japan as elsewhere. Once, when we were lunching at the hotel in Yokohama, a very pretty American woman made up as a Japanese came into the room, attracting a great deal of attention. We were quite unable to make out the situation, but were afterward told that she belonged to an American moving-picture company and had just come in from rehearsal.

Everywhere the "movie" is taking the place of the story-teller, who used to hire a room and tell over and over the tales of love and adventure which the people enjoy. Only the more prosperous can afford to see the geishas dance, but crowds flock to see them on the screen. They also see their native plays acted quite as realistically as on the stage, where the actors might as well be dumb since they do not speak the common language.

Perhaps for the first time the kinematograph has been of use in making history instead of simply recording it. When the Crown Prince of Korea was taken to Japan to receive his education, rumours were circulated among the Koreans that he was badly treated and was in reality a prisoner. There was great danger of an uprising in his behalf, but the Japanese Government hit upon the happy expedient of having the young man followed through a whole day's routine by a man with a moving-picture camera. When his subjects saw their Prince looking well and happy, learning his lessons and playing games with his friends, their fears were allayed and trouble was averted.

Mr. Arnell and Mr. Arnold, of the Embassy, took lessons in Japanese acting, and Mr. Arnell was able to make up extraordinary faces and to kill himself, apparently in the greatest pain. Of course he dressed in costume, and with his tabis on he would make his big toe stand up in true Japanese style, and would slash with his sword very realistically. Mr. Arnold, in one of the plays they learned together, took the part of a girl named Cherry Blossom; he did it very well indeed.

The English and American colonies often give theatricals: a performance of the "Merchant of Venice" at the opera house was excellent. We enjoyed it, and the Japanese students flocked to see it.

Sports of various kinds are occasionally indulged in. The annual fall exhibition, at which L. was present during one of his earlier visits, takes place late in October. The sports were held in the compound of the University grounds, which was beautifully decorated in honour of the heir-apparent—the present Emperor—then a good-looking little fellow about ten years old, who sat on a green baize chair on a raised platform, surrounded by chamberlains and officers. There were obstacle races, and the 220 on a turf track was run in 27 seconds, the 440 in 60-1/2 seconds. A race between professors created great amusement, and a sprint between champions of the different schools was enthusiastically followed.

"The annual fall meeting of the Nippon Race Club," wrote L. during his visit in 1889, "was held the last of October. This is quite a successful club, and is the racing association at Yokohama. They have a pretty course out behind the Bluff, pretty from an Æsthetic point of view only, however, for it is a bad track with a regular Tottenham Corner near the finish. The meeting proved to be great fun and quite exciting. The runners are limited to China and Hokkaido ponies—little brutes between 12.1 and 14.1 hands—and though the time is slow the finishes are generally close and exciting. In one race, the Yokohama plate, one mile and three-quarters, the three leaders finished within a nose of each other. The great interest is, of course, in the betting. There is always a tremendous amount of gambling in the Orient, and these meetings prove exceptional opportunities for this spirit to exhibit itself.

"The second day's racing was graced by the presence of His Imperial Majesty [the late Emperor] and his suite, and so was the great day of the meeting, and a great day for Yokohama also. The Emperor seldom leaves his palace, but his earthly half—for he is still considered half divine by the people—is fond of horses and of horse-racing, and he makes this one of the occasions on which he does exhibit himself. He was very ceremoniously treated. After the last race he was driven around the track in his carriage of State, surrounded by lancers, for the benefit of the thousands who had come out to Negishi Hill to pay their respects to their sovereign."

Near Uyeno Park in Tokyo there is a racecourse, but it is not so popular as it was a few years ago, for the Japanese are not horsemen. The horse of Nippon is thoroughly a beast, and stubborn, and this fact created variety and interest when L. visited the riding-school. The French method was used in those days—hands out in front, body bent forward—and they retained the old custom of short stirrups and knees elevated toward the chin.

The grounds of the school were good. There were about seventy horses, but L. said that only a few half-breed ones were passable, for the thoroughbred Japanese ponies were bull-necked, mule-hoofed, and had miserable quarters. Since those days, however, horses from Australia and Arabia have been introduced, and although they are said not to thrive very well in Japan, they have improved the stock considerably.

A typical amusement of the country is wrestling. The professional wrestler is a man of no mean rank, standing far above merchants, farmers, and actors in the social scale. His family has probably been devoted to wrestling for generations, and he has been trained from childhood and fed on special food to make him big and strong. If he is a famous fighter his patron, who is doubtless some great nobleman, is very proud of him, and the people of his province look upon him as little less than a demi-god.

Although the ladies all go to bull-fights in Spain, very few go to wrestling-matches in Japan. Foreign women are apt to consider it a brutal sport, somewhat on the order of our prize-fighting, because the wrestlers are so fat and dreadful looking. But there is no fist-fighting, and the skill is so great that I found it very interesting. You can always tell the wrestlers when you see them, because they wear their hair done in old-fashioned style, somewhat resembling the queue of the matador.

The history of wrestling goes back to the first century B.C., for it is an ancient as well as honourable profession. It began as a Court function for the entertainment of the nobility. Political issues of great importance are said to have been decided in the ring in the early days. The sport took on a religious aspect during the first half of the seventeenth century, when the priests began organizing matches in the temples to raise money for divers "pious purposes." In time many abuses crept in. There was much bitter feeling between contestants from different sections of the country, and so much foul play that the Government put a stop to all public performances. Not until 1700 a. d. were public matches again allowed, and then only under restrictions which made it safer for the contestants. From that day to this, wrestling (sumo) has been very popular with all classes.

In Osaka we saw some fine matches where the wrestlers of the East met those of the West. People gather from all over the country to witness these contests, which generally take place in the middle of the summer.

There are wonderful matches in Tokyo also, which continue during the month of February. Formerly they took place under a large circus-tent, but now they are held in a huge arena, shaped something like a bull-ring, only not open to the sky. The ring in the centre is very small and raised on a platform beneath a canopy. A light is thrown on the contestants as they come swaggering and waddling down the aisles to meet in the centre, mount the stage, and take grotesque postures that show to advantage the muscles of their legs and arms. When they first come in they wear their gold-embroidered aprons, which are very costly. Of course these are taken off when they fight. The referees sit at the corner under a canopy, while two wrestlers try to throw each other out of the ring.

Each bout is preceded by elaborate formalities. The wrestlers pray to their gods, and show themselves off to the spectators. Then they squat, rub their hands, turning them palm outward toward the people, take a cup of water, and scatter salt as a sign of purification. This done, they take positions on all fours, facing each other, till, at a psychological moment, they attack. If one starts his attack before the other, however, it doesn't count, and they swagger back to the sides and rinse their mouths and scatter more pinches of salt. Between the bouts much betting goes on.

Viewed in the dim light, through the smoke of the many little pipes in the audience, the scene was stranger than anything else I have ever witnessed. The wrestlers use such skill, and the excitement is so great when one of them has won, that the cheering is as good as at a football game at home. We saw one bout where fifteen thousand on-lookers became frenzied with excitement, because a "number one" champion was thrown out of the ring. On certain days the wrestlers appear all dressed up in their ceremonial clothes and give a dance.

Ordinary wrestling, or sumo, must not be confused with the more scientific form known as judo, or more commonly, jiu-jutsu, which has been introduced to some extent in our own country. Here weight and strength count for little in comparison with skill and adroitness. While ordinary wrestlers are perfect mountains of men, some of the cleverest exponents of jiu-jutsu are quite small. Mr. Harrison, in his "Fighting Spirit of Japan," tells an amusing tale of a contest between exponents of the two systems, to decide which was the better. "At the very commencement of the struggle the big man picked the judo-ka up and, holding him high above his head, asked triumphantly, 'Now, where are you?' Apparently not a whit perturbed by this turn of events, the judo-ka answered, 'Oh, this is just where judo comes in! The moment you attempt to throw me down, I'll kick you to death!' Terrified out of his wits by this awful threat, the fat man, still holding the judo-ka above his head, rushed out into the street, shouting loudly for help."

Jiu-jutsu is not practised publicly as is sumo, for it belongs to the upper classes. The matches are not advertised or reported in the papers. Its history goes back to mythological times, and it ranks with fencing as an art. Hundreds of young men get up at three o'clock on winter mornings and practise until seven in order that they may become proficient in this difficult exercise.

The foreigner in Tokyo usually feels that he has not "done" the city unless he has seen the sights of the gay quarter—the Yoshiwara—which is very gay indeed and as naughty as it is gay. There is nothing exactly like it outside Japan. It is impossible to see the place in a jinrikisha, so one must thread the crowded streets as best he can on foot. Girls in superb kimonos sit behind barred windows like dolls displayed for sale in a shop. The condition of these girls is much better than formerly. The Salvation Army has done a wonderful work for them, and not long ago the Government allowed all who wished to leave the houses.

When other entertainment fails, there is always a matsuri. This is a great holiday institution among the lower and middle classes—a fair held in the streets or in the open spaces about a temple—for, like the drama, the matsuri traces its origin to a religious rite. The most popular of these fairs is held near the great Buddhist temple known as Asakusa Kwannon. The long street leading to this temple is very gay with the shops on either side filled with wonderful toys. In various booths in and about the temple there are many entertainments in full swing—tea-houses and theatres and "movies," fortune-tellers and jugglers—all jumbled up together. It is a strange mixture of things sacred and secular. Murray says that even many years ago this temple was so popular that they had notices prohibiting smoking, and warning people not to take their afternoon naps there.

Every matsuri has its fortune-teller. I found one sitting in a little booth—an aged, bald-headed old man with horn spectacles which did not in the least conceal his piercing eyes. He asked my age, and muttering continually, lifted the divining-rod to his forehead. After looking at me through a magnifying-glass he proceeded to separate the packets of rods and finally, by means of an interpreter, he said:

"You will be married in two years, and have three children by the time you are thirty!"

I bowed gravely and thanked him, telling him that he was a wonderful soothsayer—a verdict with which he seemed to agree perfectly. It may be mentioned, however, that I am over thirty, and have been married many years, with no children.

Great reliance is placed on fortune-telling by the Japanese of the lower classes. I have seen a mother with a sick child shake the curiously lacquered box of sticks which the priest of a temple has in his charge, hoping to get help. She exchanged the numbered stick that fell out for a slip of paper which had a prescription printed on it, and then went out to buy the medicine with a sublime faith that it was just what her baby needed for its recovery.

Fortune-telling is not confined to matsuris or to temples. One hears the calls of the prognosticator in the streets at night. There is also a very elaborate system of foretelling the future, based on the colouring and formation of the head and features, which a few men of a higher class practise with quite wonderful results.

To these amusements, which any one may enjoy, I add two other forms of a more serious nature which are of great interest, although the foreigner rarely has time or opportunity to see them during a hurried visit. They are the No dance and the cha-no-yu, or tea-ceremony.

The Japanese nobility rarely attend the public theatres, but they do attend—and even take part in—the No dances, which are not really dances, but high-class theatrical performances. Why a play should be called a dance is hard to explain, unless one remembers that this is Japan, where they begin a book at the wrong end, wipe with wet towels, saw and plane toward themselves, shoe their horses with straw, and even have their compass-needles pointing to the south! The Japanese world is "topside down" to us, but I suppose ours is just as much so to them.

We were fortunate enough to see an excellent No dance which was being performed in a private house. The performance was given in honour of an ancestor of theirs, who had died two hundred years before. It was a very aristocratic audience—the upper class people are easily distinguished, as they are more intelligent and stronger looking, as well as more refined, than the middle and lower classes. The play was given in a very dignified and ceremonious manner, and the acting was of the highest order, but to one unacquainted with the language and the meaning of the various postures even the best No dance is apt to prove tedious. The No is further described in the chapter on literature.

An even more serious form of entertainment, and one well worth the attention of those who have longer to stay in the country and who wish to make a study of the customs, is the cha-no-yu, a ceremony which has almost the force of a religious rite.

Viscounts Kadenokuji and Kiogoku took us to one of these tea-ceremonies at a private club house—Hosigaoko—in Sanno. This was the most wonderful piece of house-building I have ever seen—the polish on the floor, the fitting of the frames, the joining, were simply perfect. Some of the porch boards were forty-five feet long and as smooth and polished as glass.

A very small room of four and a half mats (nine feet square) is held sacred for the ceremony. The entrance is made through a door which is only a couple of feet square—a custom remaining from the time when visitors were so received lest they hold swords hidden in their robes. The guests, who should be five in number, sit down in a row, the Japanese sitting on their feet in ceremonial manner; foreigners, however, are allowed to cross their legs, tailor-fashion, for one is expected to remain without moving during the whole affair.

This cha-no-yu is a relic of the old days when ceremonies were invented to pass away the time, and is the most formal mode of entertainment. It is taught as a fine art and accomplishment by various schools, which differ in regard to small details of etiquette. The master who performed it for us, Nakamura, is the most famous teacher in Tokyo.

The rite consists in making a bowl of tea. Even the tiniest motion has its own particular meaning, and is performed most solemnly and religiously. As in all Japanese ceremonials, it is done very slowly, requiring three hours for its completion. Certain implements are used for the cha-no-yu alone, and these are of the finest make. It is part of the performance to pass them around for the guests to examine, and it is etiquette to admire them. The tea-making is followed by a formal dinner, in which the guests get a chance to air their knowledge of strict social laws, even as to what to eat, and how much. The exit is made, after it is all over, by crawling out through the hole of a door.