The Japanese rooms, visited and set in order for the second time, hold more pictures than could be described in a month; but most of them are small and, excepting always the light, within human compass.  One, however, might be difficult.  It was an unexpected gift, picked up in a Tokio bye-street after dark.  Half the town was out for a walk, and all the people’s clothes were indigo, and so were the shadows, and most of the paper-lanterns were drops of blood red.  By the light of smoking oil-lamps people were selling flowers and shrubs—­wicked little dwarf pines, stunted peach and plum trees, wisteria bushes clipped and twisted out of all likeness to wholesome plants, leaning and leering out of green-glaze pots.  In the flickering of the yellow flames, these forced cripples and the yellow faces above them reeled to and fro fantastically all together.  As the light steadied they would return to the pretence of being green things till a puff of the warm night wind among the flares set the whole line off again in a crazy dance of dwergs, their shadows capering on the house fronts behind them.

At a corner of a street, some rich men had got together and left unguarded all the gold, diamonds, and rubies of the East; but when you came near you saw that this treasure was only a gathering of goldfish in glass globes—­yellow, white, and red fish, with from three to five forked tails apiece and eyes that bulged far beyond their heads.  There were wooden pans full of tiny ruby fish, and little children with nets dabbled and shrieked in chase of some special beauty, and the frightened fish kicked up showers of little pearls with their tails.  The children carried lanterns in the shape of small red paper fish bobbing at the end of slivers of bamboo, and these drifted through the crowd like a strayed constellation of baby stars.  When the children stood at the edge of a canal and called down to unseen friends in boats the pink lights were all reflected orderly below.  The light of the thousand small lights in the street went straight up into the darkness among the interlacing telegraph wires, and just at the edge of the shining haze, on a sort of pigeon-trap, forty feet above ground, sat a Japanese fireman, wrapped up in his cloak, keeping watch against fires.  He looked unpleasantly like a Bulgarian atrocity or a Burmese ‘deviation from the laws of humanity,’ being very still and all huddled up in his roost.  That was a superb picture and it arranged itself to admiration.  Now, disregarding these things and others—­wonders and miracles all—­men are content to sit in studios and, by light that is not light, to fake subjects from pots and pans and rags and bricks that are called ‘pieces of colour.’  Their collection of rubbish costs in the end quite as much as a ticket, a first-class one, to new worlds where the ‘props’ are given away with the sunshine.  To do anything because it is, or may not be, new on the market is wickedness that carries its own punishment; but surely there must be things