Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicad[ae], it is difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling.  This contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that began to study Western science only within the recollection of many persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle for national existence.  It was inevitable, this struggle,—­might perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted.  Japan has boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously the civilizations of the East and the West,—­a medi[ae]val power that, unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and to dominate China.  For all industrial civilization the contest is one of vast moment;—­for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her national life.  As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing, the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at home, little has been written.

To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record.  At the beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble themselves as little as possible about exterior events;—­and this command has been obeyed to the letter.  It would be natural to suppose that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or depression.  On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation in its victories.  Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost:  yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement.  The people are following their daily occupations just as they did before the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres and flower displays are not less well patronized.  The life of T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers.  Except after the news of some great victory,—­celebrated with fireworks and lantern processions,—­there are no signs of public emotion; and but for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the war is an evil dream.