LII.

_September 18th_.


I had planned to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my
lost sleep of last night.

But behold, at eight o'clock, three persons of the most singular
appearance, led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with endless bows
at the door of my cabin. They are dressed in long robes bedizened with
dark patterns; they have the flowing locks, high foreheads and pallid
countenances of persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and,
perched on the top of their chignons, they wear sailor hats of English
shape stuck jauntily on one side. Under their arms, they carry
portfolios filled with sketches; in their hands, boxes of
water-colors, pencils, and, tied together like fasces, a bundle of
fine stylets the sharp points of which glitter ostensibly.

At the first glance, even in the bewilderment of waking, I gather from
their appearance what their errand is, and guessing with what visitors
I have to deal, I say:--"Come in, Messieurs the tattooers!"

These are the specialists most in renown in Nagasaki; I had engaged
them two days ago, not knowing that we were about to leave, and since
they are come I will not turn them away.

My friendly and intimate relations with primitive man, in Oceania and
elsewhere, have imbued me with a deplorable taste for tattoo work; and