I had wished to carry away on me, as a curiosity, an ornament, a
specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of
finish which is unequaled.

From their albums spread out upon my table I make my choice. There are
some remarkably odd designs amongst 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 Grévin's sketches in the _Journal Amusant_.

My choice rests upon a singular blue and pink dragon a couple of
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 staunch 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.