and animation, after the peace of our silent suburb.

Here, decorum requires we should separate from our wives. All five
take hold of each others' hands, like a batch of little girls out
walking. We follow them with an air of indifference. Seen from behind,
our dolls are really very dainty, with their back hair so tidily done
up, their tortoiseshell pins so coquettishly arranged. They shuffle
along, their high wooden clogs making an ugly sound, striving to walk
with their toes turned in, according to the height of fashion and
elegance. At every minute they burst out laughing.

Yes, seen from behind, they are very pretty; they have, like all
Japanese women, the most lovely turn of the head. Moreover, they are
very funny, thus drawn up in line. In speaking of them, we say: "Our
little dancing dogs," and in truth they are singularly like them.

This great Nagasaki is the same from one end to another, with its
numberless petroleum lamps burning, its many-colored lanterns
flickering, and innumerable panting djins. Always the same narrow
streets, lined on each side with the same low houses, built in paper
and wood. Always the same shops, without glass windows, open to all
the winds, equally rudimentary whatever may be sold or made in them;
whether they display the finest gold lacquer ware, the most marvelous
china jars, or old worn-out pots and pans, dried fish, and ragged
frippery. All the salesmen are seated on the ground in the midst of
their valuable or trumpery merchandise, their legs bared nearly to the
waist. And all kinds of queer little trades are carried on under the
public gaze, by strangely primitive means, by workmen of the most
ingenuous type.