ste for tattoo-work; and I
had wished to carry away on my own person, as a curiosity, an ornament, a
specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of
finish which is unequalled.

From their albums spread out upon my table I make my choice. There are
some remarkably odd designs among them, appropriate to the different
parts of the human body: emblems for the arms and legs, sprays of roses
for the shoulders, great grinning faces for the middle of the back. There
are even, to suit the taste of their clients who belong to foreign
navies, trophies of arms, American and French flags entwined, a "God Save
the Queen" amid encircling stars, and figures of women taken from
Grevin's sketches in the Journal Amusant.

My choice rests upon a singular blue and pink dragon two inches long,
which will have a fine effect upon my chest on the side opposite the
heart.

Then follows an hour and a half of irritation and positive pain.
Stretched out on my bunk and delivered over to the tender mercies of
these personages, I stiffen myself and submit to the million
imperceptible pricks they inflict. When by chance a little blood flows,
confusing the outline by a stream of red, one of the artists hastens to
stanch it with his lips, and I make no objections, knowing that this is
the Japanese manner, the method used by their doctors for the wounds of
both man and beast.

A piece of work, as minute and fine as that of an engraver upon stone, is
slowly executed on my person; and their lean hands harrow and worry me
with automatic precision.

Finally it is finished, and the tattooers, falling back with an air of
satisfaction to contemplate their work, declare it to be lovely.

I dress myself quickly to go on shore, to take advantage of my last hours
in Japan.

The heat is fearful to-day: the powerful September sun falls with a
certain melancholy upon the yellowing leaves; it is a day of clear
burning heat after an almost chilly morning.

As I did yesterday, I ascend to my lofty suburb, during the drowsy
noontime, by deserted pathways filled only with light and silence.

I noiselessly open the door of my dwelling, and enter cautiously on
tiptoe, for fear of Madame Prune.

At the foot of the staircase, upon the white mats, beside the little
sabots and tiny sandals which are always lying about in the vestibule, a
great array of luggage is ready for departure, which I recognize at a
glance-pretty, dark robes, familiar t