the case, that this proceeds from disaffection of our Government to your friendship, which causes us great shame and sorrow. His Majesty the Tycoon also regrets the attack on account of her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain. Therefore his Majesty has ordered us to write a letter to your Excellency, in order to explain all the circumstances of the case, and to beg pardon for all the unsuitable occurrences which have taken place until now, and to testify our friendly feeling.” How is it possible to deal with a Government who, when called to account for a series of massacres, apologise in this charmingly naïve way for what they call “unsuitable occurrences?” How did they propose to punish the man who had already committed suicide? And is “simple hatred” likely to produce mental derangement? The Government was evidently not responsible. The daimio was in no way to blame. The assassin was temporarily insane, and, though dead, would be punished. It is true, two English marines were hacked to pieces, with twenty-five wounds; but the real culprits were the “wanderers,” who spread a report. That is a specimen of Japanese logic. In ordinary criminal offences, however, the Japanese are prompt to inflict summary punishment. Here is an original sentence, forwarded to the British Consul in an official letter:— “To F. HOWARD VYSE, Esq. KIHI, _Vagabond in the village of Torocmigawa_, You have, while in the service of the English merchant Telge, stolen 300 rio in his absence, which were kept in an unlocked box. As this is a great offence, you are sentenced to be beheaded.” The execution-ground was close to the gate of the Legation at Yedo, and gory heads, fresh chopped off and stuck in clay, occasionally glared with glassy eyes upon the passer-by. Not far from Kanagawa was a burning-ground, not unlike a threshing-floor; and English travellers, with a taste for the horrible, used to make it an object for a ride, to inspect the human ashes which were strewn there. But we have looked enough “on this picture” of Japan—it is time to look “on that.” Those travellers who first saw it in its gala-dress painted it as they found it, and in some respects have their glowing descriptions fallen short of the reality. They never heard of “lonins,” or experienced any “unsuitable occurrences.” They saw a population nude, peaceable, and contented, a landscape of fairy-like beauty, a sky unrivalled even in Italy; and they left before they had recovered from the charming surprise, or had time to appreciate the real value of attractions so novel and unlooked-for. And yet our author, after a residence of three years, writes:—