child with a stick hits you joyously and without malice) will retire to the tiny scrap of a place behind his premises, and, as if whirled away on the wonderful carpet of the Arabian Nights, he is another man, in another world, instantly; and, with all that is kindly and beautiful and poetic uppermost, he will contemplate his frail little Morning Glory in its pot, or tenderly lift his butterfly-winged babies up to watch the pretty, swift flashings of the goldfish in the basin. He no longer represents the somewhat sordid new Japan, which makes money by selling silk to foreigners; which so often models itself on the bad, not on the good side of their business methods. He is no longer the harassed innkeeper, the big mill-owner, the busy, important Government official; he has turned back the years, as one might the red petals of a Lotus—back to the golden heart of old Japan. He is the brave follower of the samurai, whose whole creed is keeping faith; or he is the samurai himself, a poet, though a soldier; or the great daimyo, who is an artist, though a courtier.
In the old days every common thing to a Japanese was hedged about with divinity. A god guarded each humblest tool, lived in every stone or stump, inspired the simplest act. A spirit was invoked of peace and joy by a man’s putting himself in the attitude to receive it. He walked into his garden, and, as if he had rubbed his magic ring, the Djin of the garden appeared to soothe,
