In the last quarter century the Marquis Ito has made the same change in his attitude toward the Japanese house of peers that Gladstone made in his lifetime on the slavery question. In the beginning he believed--or at least contended--that it should hold but one allegiance--toward the Emperor. Now he believes that it should owe a duty to the people, as well. Count Ogura, leader of the opposing political party, has had the honor of bringing him around. Ogura from the first has been a stanch democrat. Ito has been neither imperialist nor democrat; he has been both. Like every successful constructive statesman he has been an opportunist, taking things as they existed and improving them as he could. And he has had as phenomenal a success as any man that ever lived. His attitude on the peers question alone will illustrate the manner of his policy. In the beginning he feared to make too great a breach from the old ways, not sure that either people or peers would stand it. Slowly he released the old beliefs, educating his countrymen, by other innovations, to the new. Now when he finds that neither peers nor populace will stampede at so complete a revolution he forsakes that consistency which is the weakness of little minds. * * * * * Again to-day I came across Marquis Ito--his mark. In this Japanese room made of a roof on pegs, with walls of paper shutters, and its floor ten blanketed mats, there are three decorations. They belong to a hotel of the second class. First is a spray of lordly wistaria, leaning slender and dainty from a majolica vase. Next is a bronze statue of a Chinese prophet, sword-habited and tiara-coiffured. The third faces me, leaning above the sliding paper doors. It is a motto in Chinese characters, two yards long and a yard wide. At the left end is a signature and below the signature two seals, one an ochrish yellow, the other vermilion. For days that motto has stared at me its baffling puzzle. Were it the conventional lettering of any language but that of the East I would not be so much concerned. But in the dreamy half light of evening or in filmy moonbeams these ideographs dance; they cry aloud; they gesticulate; they demand utterance. Each stroke is masterly; each separate character a picture--more a poem! I am haunted by their blazing signals. Are they of appeal, or of warning, or of blessing? I try to study them out and fancy I can make a tortoise of the first. The last is a straight dash, the exclaimer of a prodigious font of type, clasped by two crossbeams. Perhaps this ideograph shows a man embraced by welcome arms--appropriate for a bedroom. At last my curiosity bubbles over and I drag Kato in to translate.