He was, moreover, obviously gifted with that magnetic attraction which is so rare even amongst the greatest men and which fully accounted for his influence among his peers. He received us warmly and expressed great thanks to us for arriving so quickly. I did not prolong my visit, for he appeared to be very tired and sick—as it seemed to my non-professional eye, sick unto death. Dr. Willis, moreover, was eager to begin his examination. So I took my leave, wondering that a man of only forty-seven should look so old. He seemed to have used up his life. Dr. Willis, I may add here, soon patched him up, and he lived for several years, rendering good service to the State, though holding no office; but he could not shake off his old habits, and in the end they triumphed and killed him. On the following morning I breakfasted with Gotō Shōjirō and Katsura, who were now important officials in the Foreign Office under the Mikado’s Government, at the house of the former, who it will be remembered belonged to the Tosa clan and was Prince Yōdo’s chief adviser. In the midst of our talk there arrived a dispatch which caused them great apprehension, though as yet they had no details. When the full news arrived it was bad enough. The story has been told before, but it needs to be repeated here, however briefly. The most complete account is that by Herr von Brandt, from which I have borrowed freely, refreshing my own memory. On the 8th of March the two French ships _Vénus_ and _Dupleix_ were in the bay of Ōsaka, where they had been engaged in taking soundings, and with a view of continuing this work, Captain du Petit Thouars had sent his steam launch with a gig to Sakai, a small port provisionally open to foreign trade, where such authorities as there were had been informed of the operations on which these boats were engaged. At about five o’clock in the afternoon, two of the launch’s crew asked leave to go on shore, the people up to that time having shown every sign of friendship, and other Europeans having previously landed there. Hardly had they gone a few steps from the launch when they were joined by a Samurai who made signs to them to go to the other side of the quay. Here they were surrounded by about twenty armed men, who seized them and tried to bind them. One of the two men tore himself away, and the other jumped into the water, when the soldiery fired into the launch until they believed that all the crew were dead. As soon as the officer in the gig, whose men were unarmed—and indeed, those in the launch had only revolvers, which had been stowed away in lockers for fear of accidents—heard the firing, he hurried to the rescue of the launch and was met with a hot fire of musketry. One of his men was wounded, and as he thought that all in the launch were killed, he steered for his ship and made his report. The massacre had been terrible; those who were not shot were beaten to death with poles armed with iron hooks.