without having the trouble of climbing up that hill.

First of all, we make an attempt to dine together in some fashionable
tea-house. Impossible, there is not a place to be had; all the absurd
paper rooms, all the compartments contrived by so many ingenious
dodges of slipping and sliding panels, all the nooks and corners in
the little gardens are filled with Japanese men and women eating
impossible and incredible little dishes! numberless young dandies are
dining _tête-à-tête_ with the lady of their choice, and sounds of
dancing girls and music issue from the private rooms.

The fact is, that to-day is the third and last day of the great
pilgrimage to the temple of the _Jumping Tortoise_, of which we saw
the commencement yesterday, and all Nagasaki is at this time given
over to amusement.

At the tea-house of the _Indescribable Butterflies_, which is also
full to overflowing, but where we are well-known, they have had the
bright idea of throwing a temporary flooring over the little
lake,--the pond where the gold-fish live, and it is here that our meal
is served, in the pleasant freshness of the fountain which continues
its murmur under our feet.

After dinner, we follow the faithful and ascend again to the temple.

Up there we find the same elfin revelry, the same masks, the same
music. We seat ourselves, as before, under a gauze tent and sip odd
little drinks tasting of flowers. But this evening we are alone, and
the absence of the band of mousmés, whose familiar little faces formed
a bond of union between this holiday-making people and ourselves,