As we were one day walking through Atami, a sudden outburst of steam, on the other side of a fence, came very near stampeding our entire party. When we recovered sufficient breath to ask the cause of the explosion, we learned that it was occasioned by a small geyser, which has a species of convulsion every four hours, and each time pours out sulphurous vapor for a space of fifteen minutes. It would appear that the people of Atami are living on the lid of a volcanic tea-kettle, but evidently they have no fear. They have enclosed the geyser with a fence like a wild animal in a cage, and close beside it is a sanitarium, where patients with diseases of the throat and lungs inhale the steam. It may be an excellent place for sufferers from pulmonary troubles, but we concluded that nervous occupants of this retreat must feel like the traditional darky on the safety-valve of a Mississippi steamboat. The old-style doctors of Japan are still in vogue in certain rural districts, though they are being rapidly superseded by the young practitioners who have received a medical education, in Europe or America. With the old Japanese physicians a favorite mode of cure was sticking a long needle into the part of the body supposed to be diseased. Another universal panacea was branding the body with a burning weed called moxa. This was prescribed for troubles as unlike as rheumatism and toothache. Women, at certain critical moments in their lives, were thought to be relieved by having the little toe of their right foot burned three times. We often noticed scars upon the naked backs and limbs of our jinrikisha men, and learned that they had been produced by this strange medical treatment.

In traveling through the rural districts of Japan, the tourist soon becomes accustomed to the peasant's lack of clothing. It is not the exception here to be undressed—it is the rule. Even in the streets of Tokio one will behold, on rainy days, thousands of men wearing neither trousers nor stockings, walking about with tucked-up clothes and long white limbs, which gives them the appearance of storks upon a river-bank. Even those who have adopted the European dress will frequently, on a muddy day, practice economy by discarding their trousers, and, unconscious of any incongruity, will take their "constitutional" on wooden clogs, with bare legs and feet, though having the upper part of their bodies covered with a frock-coat and a Derby hat!

Among these scantily-clad people one often sees a somewhat better dressed but melancholy man, who, with his downcast eyes and shaven head, appears to have lost his friends together with his hair. He represents a useful class of people in Japan—the masseurs, or professional manipulators of the body. One should not hastily conclude that he is smoking. It is true, the article between his lips is usually a pipe, but it is not the kind that holds tobacco. It is a reed-like instrument, on which he blows two plaintive notes to advertise his presence. In every Japanese town we always heard at night the mournful call of the masseur. The laughter which their appearance at first provokes, gives place to pity when one learns that nearly all of these men are blind. It is a calling which, notwithstanding their infirmity, they can follow, and they are said to be adepts at it.

To appreciate a Japanese masseur, it is necessary to see one of them at work. This, it is true, is more than he himself can do, since he is blind; but our pity is soon diverted from him to the person he is treating, not so much because of the pinching to which he subjects his victim as on account of the pillow on which the patient's head reclines. It makes one think of Anne Boleyn or Mary Stuart, with their necks upon the fatal block; for a Japanese pillow is a wedge-shaped piece of wood, about a foot in length, on top of which is tied a wad of cloth, about the size of a Bologna sausage. To try to sleep with neck supported in this fashion would seem to most Americans as hopeless as to woo slumber with a fence-rail for a pillow. One shudders to consider the discomfort, under these conditions, of turning over in bed, and trying to locate the neck on such a diminutive support.

Yet, after all, we are creatures of habit, and forty million people in Japan use just such pillows every night, without suffering from insomnia. It is even claimed that Japanese women delight in them, since they do not disarrange the hair. Nor does this appear strange, when one scrutinizes their methods of coiffure. They are something marvelous. The hair of Japanese women is, with few exceptions, as black as ebony, and very abundant. Moreover, it is usually profusely oiled,
and glistens like a raven's wing.
Through these polished tresses are invariably drawn hairpins of gold, strings of coral, or ornaments of tortoise-shell. But as to how the ladies of Japan produce in their coiffures their black crescendos and diminuendos, their sharp staccato puffs and portamento water-falls, the writer dares not hazard a conjecture. Yet of one thing we may be sure: if we were to venture into a Japanese lady's boudoir, we should find that help is needed to produce them. The toilette-stand and looking-glass might seem to us a trifle low; but we must bear in mind that Japanese domestic life is regulated by a level three feet lower than our own: in other words, where we use chairs, they seat themselves on the floor. This furnished us a key to much that hitherto had seemed puzzling in their habits. Whether a thing be sensible or not depends upon the point of view,—in this case, the height at which we seat ourselves. Once regard an exquisitely clean floor of cushioned matting as an immense divan, and taking off our muddy boots becomes a matter of course; and tables and lamps and mirrors will be placed at a height adapted to our needs.

When a foreigner beholds for the first time a Japanese lady seated on her heels, as is the custom, he fancies that she has the small of her back supported by an enormous cushion. But when he subsequently sees this lady walking down the street, attended by her maid, he perceives that what appeared to him a sofa-pillow is really a regular part of her costume. It is a heavy silken sash, extremely long and often very elegant, which keeps the robe itself in place. This obi, as it is called, is the most precious article of a Japanese lady's wardrobe. Its usual length is fourteen feet, and when its material is silk or gold brocade it will be seen that it has some value. These sashes exhibit, of course, a great variety of color, and one can scarcely find a prettier sight than that of several well-dressed Japanese ladies, grouped together in the vivid sunlight. They look as radiant and attractive as a bouquet of flowers.

American ladies who have tried the Japanese dress say that the tying of the obi is extremely difficult. But here, as in the art of hair-dressing, a lady's maid is almost indispensable. The bow, although arranged in different styles, is always worn behind, thus spoiling, in some measure, the outline of the form. When a Japanese lady becomes a widow, she makes no change in the position of the obi, unless she wishes publicly to announce that she will never marry again. In that case, it is said, she ties the bow in front. Whether this wards off all proposals may be doubted; but gossip relates that, once in a while, the widow comes to look at life a little differently, and then the bow works gradually round again to its original position.

Japanese ladies make a serious mistake when they exchange their national style of dress for that of foreigners, for, as a rule, their charm and beauty leave them when they appear in European garments. On two occasions we saw some thus arrayed, and the effect was painful. If most of them had put on each other's dresses by mistake, they would have looked about as well; and in the absence of corsets their little figures seemed as much out of place as children in their mother's wrappers.

Some years ago a letter signed by Mrs. Cleveland and many other prominent women of America was addressed to their sisters in Japan, urging them not to risk their health and comfort by adopting European dress. It was of little avail. The die was cast. In 1885 the Japanese Empress and her suite appeared for the last time in public in the tasteful costumes of the past. Since then, the order has gone forth that all ladies who present themselves at court must do so in European dress; and it is to be feared that, ere a score of years have passed, the lovely and appropriate robes of old Japan will have disappeared forever. Until quite recently, the universal rule for Japanese women, when they married, was to shave their eyebrows, pull out their eye-lashes, and stain their teeth jet-black. Even the present empress did these things at her marriage. The idea seems to have been to make themselves look hideous, so as to have no more admirers, despite the fact that the average husband, as we all know, appreciates his wife better if he perceives that other men are aware of her attractions. But under the new régime this sad disfigurement is rapidly disappearing, and at present the younger ladies of Japan, at least, show rows of pearly teeth when laughter parts their lips.

The richest toilettes that we saw in the land of the Mikado were worn by geisha girls, without whom Japanese festivals are incomplete. Some of these dainty creatures form an orchestra while others dance. Their instruments of sound (one can hardly call them instruments of music) consist usually of two kinds of drums and a long, three-stringed banjo, called the samisen. Sometimes a flute also is used. We frequently disputed as to which of these was the least excruciating, but on the whole we preferred the drums. When to this combination a human voice was added, our teeth were set on edge.

Young as they look, these geishas are professionals, and training-schools exist in Tokio and Kioto, where they are sometimes taught when only seven years of age. A Japanese dancing-girl forms a charming picture. Her long kimono of the richest silk is beautifully embroidered with such a wealth of lovely flowers, that she herself resembles a bouquet in motion. Her broad obi is of the heaviest crape, and falls upon a petticoat of gorgeous color.

Black lacquered sandals half conceal her tiny, white-socked feet, and in each hand she holds a decorated fan. Do not expect from her the slightest approach to Lottie Collins. The dance of "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," performed by a geisha girl, would make a subject of the Mikado, if he were unprepared for it, faint away. Nor will the spectator see the least exposure of her personal charms. For, strangely enough, the Japanese, who will at other times dispense with all the clothing possible, conceal a dancer's form with rigid severity. There is not much expression in these dancers' faces. One feels that they are not women, but girls to whom intense emotions are as yet unknown. They merely represent in graceful pantomime some song or story, flitting about like pretty butterflies, or swaying back and forth like flowers in a summer breeze. Leaving Atami, we had a charming ride of seven miles beside the ocean. The road (which may be called the Japanese Cornice) is passable for jinrikishas; and while on one side we looked off upon the Pacific, on the other we found that every valley had a background of well-rounded mountains, covered with verdure soft as velvet, from which at intervals a stream of crystal water rushed to meet the sea. The scenery of Japan may not be grand, but for a charming combination of the elements which make a country beautiful, enlivened constantly by natives in their novel occupations, the seven-mile drive from old Atami can hardly be surpassed.

Moreover, the people, as we met them on these journeys, pleased us greatly. They were invariably courteous and gentle in their manners, and no boorishness was visible, even among the lower classes. They always seemed to be good-natured. However stormy the weather, however heavy the load, however bad the roads, we never heard a Japanese complain, nor saw one in a bad humor. If the foreigner becomes angry with them, they laugh as if he were making himself ridiculous; and presently he feels that they are right, and that violent anger is in truth absurd.

Yet, just as beneath the smiling landscapes of Japan still lurk the terrible volcanic forces of destruction, so underneath the sunny dispositions of the Japanese are all the characteristics of the warrior. Their history has thoroughly established that they are a manly, patriotic, martial race. Their gentleness, therefore, comes not from servility, but is the product of inborn courtesy and refinement.

The Japanese are naturally of a happy disposition. A smile illumines every face. Apparently their past has no regrets, their present no annoyances, their future no alarms. They love the beautiful in nature and in art. They live simply; and how much that means! Their wants are few. The houses of the wealthy do not differ much from those of the poor. Hence life for them is free from almost all those harrowing cares and worriments which sometimes make existence in the Occident a long, incessant struggle to keep up appearances. If they are sad, they seldom show their sadness in public. They evidently believe with the poet:

In some provinces of Japan, when a new bridge is opened, not the richest, but the happiest, persons in the community are chosen to pass over it first, as a favorable omen.

Strange as it may appear, however, these qualities of the Japanese have been regarded by some travelers as faults. A tourist once solemnly remarked to me: "The great trouble with the Japanese is that they are too happy."

"What!" I exclaimed, "can any one be too happy in this world?"

"Certainly," was the reply; "the Japanese are too light-hearted to learn with advantage the lessons of adversity. If a calamity befalls them, they often smile and say, 'Well, it can't be helped,' and then try to think no more about it. Worst of all," he continued, "they do not worry about the future, but actually meet death fearlessly and calmly."

"My friend," I answered, "if to enjoy as much as possible this world that God has given us, if to smile bravely in adversity, and if to die without fear, are faults, it would be well if many other people possessed them, too. You remind me of the old lady in New Hampshire, who exclaimed sadly, 'The Universalists tell us that all men are to be saved, but—we hope for better things!'"

In fact, a remarkable characteristic of the Japanese is the cheerful, almost jovial, way they have of announcing a calamity. An English resident of Japan called our attention to this fact soon after our arrival, and our experience confirmed his testimony. Whether the cause be nervousness or a dislike to give one pain, the fact remains that the Japanese will often preface a bit of dreadful news with laughter, or at least with a chuckle. Thus, whenever our guide called our attention to a funeral, his face would wreathe itself in smiles.

Still more extraordinary was the manner of a barber in the hotel at Yokohama. As he was shaving me one morning, after a moderate earthquake-shock the night before, he suddenly remarked, with what appeared to be a burst of unpremeditated merriment: "Oh, last night's shock was nothing. Why, a few years ago, in Tokio, my father and mother were killed outright by an earthquake (Ha! Ha!); the house fell right on top of them (He! He!), and crushed them both to death (Ha! Ha! Ha!)."

It is difficult to explain this peculiarity otherwise than by supposing it to be a nervous mannerism; for, as a race, the Japanese are very affectionate, and filial reverence is a religious duty. In this instance I was so astonished at the man's hilarity, that I very nearly fell out of his chair. We thought of this incident again, when, some weeks later, we found ourselves in the Japanese province which had suffered most from the calamitous earthquake of October, 1891. Thousands of houses, we found, had been wrecked by that catastrophe, and in one place the railway tracks had been violently bent and twisted, like a chain irregularly thrown upon the ground. The motion lasted less than a minute; but what cannot an earthquake do in forty seconds? There came one mighty shock,—and over an extent of many miles the buildings fell like packs of cards. Great blocks of solid masonry were tossed about like dice. Trees lay around like jackstraws.

Large manufacturing towns were ruined. Thousands of husbands, wives, and children who, but an instant previous, had been happy at their work or play, were suddenly crushed by falling roofs, mangled by heavy timbers, buried alive in the debris, or burned to ashes by fires caused by overturned braziers. By chance we traveled through this region on the first anniversary of that great calamity, and many people, we were told, felt anxious till the day was over. But earthquakes in Japan, alas! are limited to no special dates. Their visits are extremely numerous and quite impartial as to months and days. Our earth is said to be quieting down in its subterranean disturbances; but poor Japan still has no less than fifty-one volcanoes labeled "active," and experiences every year, on an average, five hundred seismic shocks, besides numerous destructive typhoons or hurricanes. Most of them are, of course, mere tremors; but once in a while there comes a stroke that causes fearful devastation, as when in Tokio, in 1703, thirty-seven thousand lives were lost. Such terrible manifestations of volcanic power remind one of the more appalling scenes that must have been enacted here, when Nature brought these islands from the sea, pouring them from her fiery crucible.

In planning a journey through the interior of Japan, the tourist naturally inquires where and with what accommodation he is to spend the nights upon the trip. He need not have the least anxiety. In the four prominent cities,—Tokio, Yokohama, Kobe, and Kioto,—there are first-class hotels, with rooms and food adapted to the tastes of foreigners. In many smaller places, too, like Miyanóshita and Atami, the hotels, although simpler, are both comfortable and well-managed. One suffers no discomfort in any of these localities. But in the country villages (which need not be included in the traveler's route unless he so desires), he must adopt the Japanese mode of sleeping in a tea-house—that is to say, in a regular Japanese hotel.

As our jinrikishas drew up before one of these, we saw a pretty, modern building of two stories, adorned as usual with paper lanterns. At intervals, on the edge of every balcony, were tall, rectangular boxes reaching from floor to ceiling. These upright cases contain wooden shutters, about as large as the leaves of a dining-table, which are at night taken out, and pushed along in grooves, to make an outside wall for the entire house. When that is done, each balcony of course becomes an inside corridor. Thus every Japanese dwelling consists, as it were, of two houses, one within the other, enclosed in separate cases,—the inside one of paper, the outer one of wood. As we alighted here, the landlord and his servants hurried out to greet us, dropped on their knees, and, with their hands spread out, palms downward, and their foreheads almost touching the floor, they bowed repeatedly, like the "three little maids from school." What a contrast was here between the Orient and the Occident. Imagine a hotel clerk in America down upon his knees! In our hotels the traveler's first duty is to register his name. Here there is something even more important to attend to, namely, removing his shoes. Off they must come before he steps upon the delicate mattings and the glistening floor, just as with us a muddy overshoe would not be tolerated on a parlor carpet. In fact, on entering the hall, one sees what in America would be called a hat-rack, but which is here designed for holding shoes.

The tourist, therefore, should invariably carry with him in Japan a pair of soft, felt slippers, for otherwise he will be frequently obliged to walk about in hotels, shops, and temples, with merely stockings on his feet.

In nearly all Japanese dwellings one usually finds, hung in conspicuous places, some handsomely framed mottoes and proverbs, much as in many of our own country houses we read upon the walls such a comforting assurance as "The Lord will provide," or the melancholy conundrum "What is home without a mother?" To Occidental eyes, Japanese ideographs do not appear beautiful. They look like the meanderings of intoxicated flies that have been immersed in ink. As for their meaning, one motto was translated to us as signifying: "May Buddha bless this house!" Others were words of praise which princely visitors had left; while not a few were epigrams or proverbs, for which the Japanese are famous. Some of them ran as follows: "The absent get farther away every day;" "Clever preacher, short sermon;" "A woman's tongue three inches long can kill a man six feet high;" "Live under your own hat;" "Don't make a long call when the husband is not at home." And yet we send missionaries to Japan!

With many bows and smiles the landlord of the tea-house led the way up a flight of exquisitely polished stairs, and showed us our apartments. We looked around us with astonishment, for no furniture was visible. The floor, it is true, was covered with fine matting, but, with that one exception, the rooms, which opened into each other, were as bare as an unfurnished flat. Their number and extent depended largely on ourselves. Did we desire an entire story? We had but to push back the paper screens, and it was ours. Did we insist on having separate rooms? Close up the little screens again, and each could sleep in his own paper box, exactly twelve feet square. Unfortunately there are no locks upon these paper screens; hence, just as one is getting out of bed in the morning, the whole side of his room will sometimes disappear with the rapidity of a liberated Holland shade! Moreover, Japanese servants, urged by curiosity, will often poke a moistened finger through a square of paper, to study foreign toilettes at their leisure. During the daytime, in the summer, even the screens are removed, to give free access to the breeze, and the house then becomes the empty skeleton of its former self.

But what most puzzled us at first was where to hang our clothes. There were no hooks upon the walls, there was not even a table for our toilet articles. It seemed too bad to put our coats and hair-brushes on the floor. But one must recollect that Japanese floors are not like ours, since no boots ever touch them. For native guests a beautiful, square, lacquered box is usually provided, in which they lay the carefully folded robes which they remove before retiring. To us, however, no limited receptacle like that was given. We had the unrestricted floor.

The beds in which we slept afforded us the most amusement. When bedtime comes in Japanese homes, quilts are brought out from a closet and spread upon the floor. Within five minutes all is ready for the night, and with the morning light they disappear again. Occasionally, in the larger tea-houses, we, as foreigners, had special luxuries,—such as cotton sheets, a couch of seven comforters, instead of the usual two, and, for a bolster, an extra quilt rolled up as with a shawl-strap. Thus altogether, including what we used for coverings, our most luxurious couches in Japan consisted of from ten to a dozen comforters.

We found some difficulty in getting sufficient sleep in Japanese tea-houses; not from the composition and arrangement of our beds, but from the noise about us, which seldom ceased before the hour of midnight, and always woke us with the dawn. Even our "summer hotels," with their distressingly thin partitions, are delightfully tranquil compared with the country inns of Japan. For sliding screens of paper are practically no barrier at all to sound, and, as if that were not sufficiently aggravating, these paper walls rarely reach the top of the room, but leave a ventilating space of a foot or two, through which the mingled snoring, prayers, and conversation of the guests, and the matutinal clatter of the servants, roll and reverberate like distant thunder.

The morning after my arrival, I pushed aside a screen with my forefinger, and lo! half of my room stood open to the rising sun. Descending to the courtyard, I beheld a Japanese servant hurrying toward me on her wooden clogs, to give me tea.

What shall be said of these attractive little waitresses, who make the dullest tea-house gay with laughter, brighten the darkest day with brilliant colors, and sweeten every tea-cup with a smile? They are not usually beautiful, or even womanly, in the sense of being dignified. They rather seem like well-developed school-girls, just sobered down enough to wear long dresses, but perfectly unable to refrain at times from screams of merriment. Yet search the world through, and where will you find servants such as these? From the first moment when they fall upon their knees and bow their foreheads to the floor, till the last instant, when they troop around the door to call to you their musical word for farewell,—"Sayonara,"—they seem to be the daintiest, happiest, and most obliging specimens of humanity that walk the earth.

We were particularly pleased with one agreeable trait of all these Japanese girls—their exquisitely clean and well-shaped hands. One would, of course, expect them to be small, for delicate frames are a characteristic of the race, but almost without exception the hands of all the waitresses who served us in Japan looked as if they had just emerged from a hot bath, and had been manicured besides. "A trifle," some would say, but, after all, such trifles help to make perfection. When one has traveled through a country for two months, and from one end of it to the other has seen pretty, well-kept hands extended to him fifty times a day, he feels respect and admiration for a race so neat and delicate to their finger-tips. The Japanese, according to our Occidental standard, may not have much godliness, but they possess what comes next to it—personal cleanliness. And I am sure that, at any time, I would rather associate with a nice, wholesome sinner than with an uncleanly saint!

It was while we were taking our breakfast here, that we beheld, in a neighboring room, a lady being served with tea by her domestic, who was approaching her mistress on her knees. Nothing amazed us more than this, for in the United States these positions are usually reversed. In free America it is the lady who, figuratively speaking, has to "go down on her knees" before her cook. When we consider the serious drawbacks to domestic happiness and comfort, occasioned by the insolence and inefficiency of servants in America, who, as a rule, are better lodged, clothed, and fed than any other class of laborers in the world, one questions if in this, and many other respects, Japan will be improved by contact with the Occident.

What Moscow is to the Russians, Kioto is to the Japanese, their present capital, Tokio, corresponding rather to St. Petersburg. Kioto is the ancient capital,—the sacred city of the empire,—hallowed by countless shrines and endeared by centuries of classic memories. It was for a thousand years the home of the Mikado, and is still the centre of old Japanese art. Here also, till the revolution of 1869, lived many nobles of the highest rank, together with distinguished poets, priests, and artists. Its name, Kioto, denotes the City of Peace, and its best citizens were thought to be the most refined and polished of a race whose gentle manners are still unsurpassed.

Our hotel in Kioto was unlike the inns of other Japanese cities, being neither a European structure, like the hotels at Tokio and Yokohama, nor yet a tea-house, such as we had lately seen. It was a compromise between the two, with comfortable rooms and foreign furnishings. Its situation is far above the city, upon a wooded hill that has been sacred to Buddha for a thousand years. Around it are old temples, monasteries, and pagodas, among which one can walk in shaded paths the livelong day. Often, while seated on the spacious hotel balcony which overlooks the town, we heard a strangely fascinating sound rolling toward us through the sacred groves in solemn, silvery vibrations. We discovered after a short walk the cause of this. It was a huge bronze bell,—no less than seventy-four tons in weight,—whose sweet-voiced call to prayer has echoed over this hill for nearly three hundred years. There are few sounds more pleasing to the ear than the vibrations of a distant, deep-toned bell. Except in Russia I had never heard such notes as those that issue from the bells of old Japan. Their solemn strokes swell through the forest like the crescendo of an orchestra. These bells, however, are not rung, like ours, by wrenching them from side to side, until a pendant tongue falls sharply on their inner rim. Ah, no! the Japanese treat them far more cleverly. Suspended from the belfry roof is a large, rounded shaft of wood, attendant swings this to one side, and lets it fall, to strike the inverted bowl of bronze one mighty blow. The difference in sound produced by using wood instead of metal, is astonishing. There is no grating jar, no sharpness in the tone, but one stupendous boom of sound, as though a musical cannon were discharged. This instantly resolves itself into slow-moving, ever widening circles of reverberation, which fall upon the ear more and more faintly, till they die away like the last murmur of the surf upon the sand.

Accepting the invitation which that bell conveyed to us, we strolled toward one of Kioto's many temples. In the one we entered, five bells, with long white cords attached, were hanging in the lacquered porch. The worshiper pulls one of these, to call the attention of the god; then, having said a prayer, he drops a coin into a grated box and goes his way. On one occasion, we saw a pretty baby, three months old, brought hither in its mother's arms, and made to pull the bell-rope with its tiny hand. Then the great-grand-mother of the child, herself almost eighty-six years old, advanced with trembling limbs and rang it for the second time. It was a suggestive picture,—this vision of old age and infancy, like opposite poles of an electric battery, completing here a circuit of four generations; pathetic emblems of the past and future,—the smiling infant looking forward to anticipated blessings, the feeble matron thankful for the gifts received.

The Japanese have really two religions, in some respects rivals of each other. The elder, or original faith, is Shintoism; the younger, which has struggled to supplant it for twelve hundred years, is Buddhism.

It is difficult to comprehend exactly what Shintoism is. The name means, literally, "The way of the gods," but it is the vaguest known religion. It has no bible, no dogmas, and not even a moral code. It dimly hints at immortality, but has no definite heaven or hell. Its gods, are either deified national heroes or else personifications of nature, such as the glorious sun, the all-surrounding ocean, and the innumerable deities of mountains, rivers, rocks, and trees. Its shrines for worship, with their gray stone lanterns and majestic torii, are severely plain, its services extremely simple, and all its priests appear like laymen in the streets, donning their clerical robes only when they officiate in the temples.

Not so the Buddhist priests. Their costume, like their ritual, is imposing. While Shinto priests may marry, the Buddhists take the vow of celibacy. In fact, though wholly different in its creed from the great Roman Catholic communion, some of the ceremonials of Buddhism remind us of it; such as their richly-mantled priests, their altars bright with candles and adorned with flowers, their clouds of incense, grand processionals, and statues of the gods and saints. What wonder, then, since it has such attractions, that this religion, when it came hither from India, about six centuries after Christ, achieved at once a remarkable success? The colder Shinto faith lost ground, and even the Mikados gave to Buddha's doctrines favor and support for centuries; but Shintoism has now once more become the state religion.