I shouldn’t be surprised if the Americans exclaim in Japan, “What a petty show!” Such a riotous rush! What a deafening uproar! The lazy halt of a moment on the street must have been regarded, I fancied, as a violation of the law. I wondered whether one dozen were not slain each hour on Market Street by the cars. Cars! Cars! And cars! It was no use to look beautiful in such a cyclone city. Not even one gentleman moved his admiring eyes to my face. How sad! I thought it must be some festival. “No, the usual Saturday throng!” my uncle said. Then I asked myself whether Tokio streets were only like a midnight of this city. My beloved minister kept his mouth open—what heavy lips he had!—amazed at the high edifices. “O ho, that’s astonishing!” he cried, throwing his sottish eyes on the clock of the _Chronicle_ building. “Boys are commenting on you,” I whispered. I beseeched him not to act so droll. He tossed out in his careless fashion his everlasting heroic laughter, “Ha, ha, ha——” A hawkish lad—I have not seen one sleepy fellow yet—drew near the minister shortly after we left the wharf, and begged to carry his bag. He was only too glad to be assisted. The brown diplomatist thought it a loving deed toward a foreigner. He bowed after some blocks, thanking the boy with a hearty “arigato.” “Sir, you have to pay me two bits!” His hand went to his pocket, when my uncle tapped his stooping back, speaking: “This is the country of eternal ‘pay, pay, pay,’ old man!” * * * * * “What does a genuine American beggar look like?” was my old question. The Meriken beggar my friend saw at Yokohama park was dressed up in a swallow-tail coat. Emerson’s essays were in his hand. He was such a genteel Mr. Beggar, she said. I often heard that everybody is a millionaire in America. I thought it likely that I should see a swell Mr. Beggar among the Americans. How many a time had I planned to make a special trip to Yokohama for acquaintance with the honourable Emerson scholar! Alas, it was merely a fancy! I have seen Mr. Beggar on the street. He didn’t appear in the formal dignity of a dress coat. Where was his Emerson? He was not unlike his Oriental brothers, after all. He stood, because he wasn’t used to kneeling like the Japs. The only difference was that he carried pencils instead of a musical instrument. He is a merchant,—this is a business country,—while the Japanese Mr. Beggar is an artist, I suppose. * * * * * My little gold watch pointed eleven. I have been writing for some hours about my first impression of the city from the wharf, and my journey from there to this Palace Hotel. The number of my room is 489. I fear I may not return if I once go out. It’s so hard to remember the number. The large mirror reflected me as being so very small in the big room. Such a great room with high ceiling! I don’t feel at home at all.