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breeze, my own kingdom with sighing, to speak plainly, dream old Kamakura of the Middle Age, that is, of art and religious faith. To-day, it is in truth a common sort of country town of modem Japan, of stereotyped pattern with others; if there is a difference, it is only in its appearing less individual and far sadder because it has had such a great history, when we observe that its general ambition now points towards commercialism; but it is during those Summer weeks only that we can fairly well connect it with the old art and prayer, let me say, with the true existence of Daibutsu the Wonder, as we see then with our living eyes the thousand pilgrims in white cotton, bamboo mushroom hats on head and holy staff in hand, and sacred little bells around their waists (what desolate voices of bells!) swarming here mainly to kneel before Daibutsu from every corner of the country where all winds come from; I was glad to see the whole town religiously changed at once. How often I found myself with those pilgrims muttering the holy words in Daibutsu’s valley where the nature, not alike that of the former October of