brought in, and they all smoked, as I had told Ito that all usual
courtesies were to be punctiliously performed. They expressed
their gratification at seeing so "honourable" a traveller. I
expressed mine at seeing so much of their "honourable" country.
Then we all bowed profoundly. Then I laid Brunton's map on the
floor and showed them my route, showed them the Asiatic Society's
Transactions, and how we read from left to right, instead of from
top to bottom, showed them my knitting, which amazed them, and my
Berlin work, and then had nothing left. Then they began to
entertain me, and I found that the real object of their visit was
to exhibit an "infant prodigy," a boy of four, with a head shaven
all but a tuft on the top, a face of preternatural thoughtfulness
and gravity, and the self-possessed and dignified demeanour of an
elderly man. He was dressed in scarlet silk hakama, and a dark,
striped, blue silk kimono, and fanned himself gracefully, looking
at everything as intelligently and courteously as the others. To
talk child's talk to him, or show him toys, or try to amuse him,
would have been an insult. The monster has taught himself to read
and write, and has composed poetry. His father says that he never
plays, and understands everything just like a grown person. The
intention was that I should ask him to write, and I did so.

It was a solemn performance. A red blanket was laid in the middle
of the floor, with a lacquer writing-box upon it. The creature
rubbed the ink with water on the inkstone, unrolled four rolls of
paper, five feet long, and inscribed them with Chinese characters,
nine inches long, of the most complicated kind, with firm and
graceful curves of his brush, and with the ease and certainty of
Giotto in turning his O. He sealed them with his seal in
vermilion, bowed three times, and the performance was ended.