itself could not be taken seriously. The monuments are either Buddhas,
in granite, seated on lotus, or upright funereal stones with an
inscription in gold; they are grouped together in little enclosures in
the midst of the woods, or on natural terraces delightfully situated,
and are generally reached by long stairways of stone carpeted with
moss; from time to time, these pass under one of the sacred gateways,
of which the shape, always the same, rude and simple, is a smaller
reproduction of those in the temples.

Up above us, the tombs of our mountain are of so hoary an antiquity
that they no longer alarm any one, even by night. It is a region of
forsaken cemeteries. The dead hidden away there have long since become
one with the earth around them; and these thousands of little gray
stones, these multitudes of ancient little Buddhas, eaten away by
lichens, seem to be now no more than a proof of a series of
existences, long anterior to our own, and lost forever and altogether
in the mysterious depths of ages.




XXII.


Chrysanthème's meals are something indescribable.

She begins in the morning, when she wakes, by two little green wild
plums pickled in vinegar and rolled in powdered sugar. A cup of tea
completes this almost traditional breakfast of Japan, the very same
Madame Prune is eating downstairs, the same served up to travelers in