On the river the red towels are perhaps more numerous, for all the fishermen, all the dock labourers, the whole riverside population of Tokyo have come in their _sampan_ to Mukojima. And they float past now, little and big, crowded with blue tunics or grey _kimono_. Some with an awning of paper lanterns, and all gay with flags and banners. And full as the river is with boats, and jammed together as they are under the bank, nobody shouts, nobody quarrels, nobody swears. A garden party at Windsor Castle might be better dressed, it could hardly be better behaved. Nor in the whole length of those two miles of crowded bank, with the line of _sampan_ on one side and the line of public-houses on the other--_sampan_, avenue, inns, all full to overflowing--are there three policemen. More, the trees, with their exquisite cloud of pink flowers, are within easy reach of a man’s arm, and nobody breaks them. The municipality of Tokyo has not even considered it necessary to affix a notice regarding the penalty for damaging trees. I should doubt if it had even thought to invent one. And yet the blossoms are beautiful enough to make a man’s heart long to possess them. “A little pink cloud of the sunset has caught in the bare branches of the cherry-tree.” And not all Western imagery can surpass the simile, for the pink is the pink of a cloud at sunset, and soft as the softest mist. When the wind stirs the trees, the blue sky seems scattering pink snowflakes to the ground. “What is the soul of Japan?” asked the poet. “It is the mountain cherry-tree in the morning sun.” But a soul so simple, the civilised nations, of course, disdain! X THE PALACE OF THE SON OF HEAVEN Kyoto is a city of immense distances where the brown earth streets, set in between their rows of low brown houses, run on interminably. Even under the weltering summer sky the streets are full; for Kyoto, the once-time capital, is still the second city of the Empire, and the art centre of Japan. My _kurumaya_ scatters men and children as he runs; and the sounds of busy bargaining, the inevitable _takai_ (too much), following the _ikura des ka_ (how much?) pursue me as I ride. At each corner two more streets stretch out, as straight as interminable, as full of life. And still my _kurumaya_ runs. I am going to see the Emperor’s Palace. Through many hundred years, through most that is history in Japan, the Son of Heaven dwelt in the heart of this city, and these long interminable streets so full of life stretched all around him. The _Tenshisama_ lived in the midst of his people, and neither saw nor heard. We have left the streets at last; on either hand stand railed-in squares of growing trees; the road is wide and smooth, the busy thousands in the streets drop out of sight and sound. My _kurumaya_ runs more swiftly.