history of our early relations with the country illustrates in an instructive manner the readiness of the rulers to change sides in political and other matters in sympathy with the waves of popular feeling. The hostility with which we were at first regarded was as fierce as the warlike nature of the people could make it. But our superiority in arms speedily led them to perceive that there was some power behind our guns and rifles which it would be well for them to become possessors of; and in the battle in the Straits of Shimonoseki we overthrew more than our enemies. We overthrew the literary system which had held the Empire in bonds for thirteen centuries, and brought a new light and learning to the notice of the versatile islanders. With the zeal which distinguishes them when in pursuit of some new thing, they set themselves to discover wherein lay the source of our strength. Students were dispatched to study the languages and systems of Europe, and schools were opened throughout the country at which the stores of Western knowledge were imparted to eager enquirers. Not only were all the mechanical arts and sciences the objects of study, but works on political economy, philosophy, and religion were mastered in their native dress by a few, and were translated into the vernacular for the instruction of the many. Not only were youths taught the secrets of the European dockyards and arsenals, but the writings of John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, and others became household words in the higher-grade schools. The new light which thus burst upon the country was received with acclamation, and in a space of time which appears almost incredibly short, the displacement of Chinese learning by European literature was practically effected. So radical was this change that it is not improbable that Chinese scholarship will before very long become a thing of the past in Japan; and, if it were not that Chinese characters are still necessary for the expression on paper of Japanese words, that even a knowledge of the writing would entirely disappear.

Some years ago a society calling itself the Romaji Kai' was established for promoting the substitution of Roman letters for the native syllabary. Though the association did not meet with all the support that was expected, it did good work so long as it existed. Among other things it led the missionaries to recognise that their uninstructed converts learnt to read books printed in the Roman character far more easily than they did those which appear in the native script. The result has been that a considerable Christian literature is growing up, which in form is entirely divorced from the native writing.

This movement is furthered by a tendency among the scholarly classes to adopt English as the language of the country. Between these two influences the native character before long will very likely be found only on the shelves of museum libraries and in the studies of scholars.

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The result of this reform is that, as our national library bears evidence, a full stream of translations has lately inundated the country; and not only have the people desired to become acquainted with the scientific and philosophic works of Europe, but they have encouraged by every means in their power the introduction of the lighter literature of the West. Lord Lytton's Ernest Maltravers' was one of the first books to be translated, and it elicited a host of imitations, whose authors, in halting style, tried to reproduce reflections of the scenes and characters which had made that work famous. Following on this novel appeared translations of Dumas' Trois Mousquetaires,' Cervantes' Don Quixote,' Defoe's 'Robinson Crusoe,' Fénelon's Télémaque,' the writings of Rider Haggard, Jules Verne, and a host of other authors.

The influence of these and other writers on Japanese novelists has been very marked. The old style of romance has been completely revolutionised, and just as native artists have attempted to obey the canons of European art in their latest pictures, so modern novelists endeavour to arrange the efforts of their imagination on Western models. One great defect of the older novels was, as has been remarked in the case of the native plays, the violations of common decency which disfigured their pages. No situation was considered too gross for description, and the dialogues which were put in the mouths of the characters were often shocking in their indelicacy. This is now all changed; improprieties are avoided, and the personages represented converse in a style which might suit the pages of Jane Austen. Young engaged couples, instead of trenching on dangerous subjects, expatiate to one another on the depth of their affection and the beauties of nature, while their elders, eschewing tea-house gossip, discourse on sober politics or social matters. Until lately the discussion of political affairs was sternly repressed by the Government; but with the introduction of popular representation and liberal legal codes this prohibition has been withdrawn, and a new set of subjects has been thrown open to the novelist. Full advantage has been taken of this privilege; and the most advanced socialistic and revolutionary ideas, which formerly would have entailed on both author and publisher consignment to the darkest prison, are now daily promulgated with impunity. The social changes

which have of late years been effected in the country are also accurately reflected in the pages of the modern novel. The higher status accorded to women and the increased respect in which they are held find constant expression; and the beneficial effects of these changes in real life are accepted as matters of fact by the writers of to-day.

But the change is almost as great in the manner as in the matter of the modern novel. The long involved sentences in which such writers as Bakin, Jippensha, and others used to express their ideas have been exchanged for shorter and more direct phrases, while many of the fantastic conceits common to their style have been thrown aside. Pivot-words, which used to find their home as naturally in the pages of novels as in the writings of poets and dramatists, have been entirely discarded; and the personal pronouns, which, after the Chinese manner, were formerly as a rule omitted, often to the confusion of the reader, are restored to their natural positions. In a transition stage such as this it is impossible that the strivers after this new thing should appear to any great advantage; and the modern Japanese novel suffers too often from crudeness and patchiness, which disfigure its pages and weary its readers. There is neither the natural, though often misdirected, vigour of the native manner, nor is there the conscientious attention to detail and the good workmanship common to the better kinds of Western novels. Time will doubtless remedy these defects to a certain extent, but it will be long before native writers will succeed in interesting their readers by analytical study of character rather than by startling effects produced by fantastic situations.

It was not to be expected that the effort to imitate Western literary styles would be confined to the realm of fiction. Native poets are as forward as the novelists in recognising the superiority of European measures and methods; and under this influence a new school has arisen which strives to emulate the methods and rhythms of Tennyson and Longfellow. This is no easy task. As has already been indicated, native Japanese poetry is as stilted and jerky in style as it is cramped and narrow in ideas. The conventional rules which regulate its lines fetter the imagination and limit the freedom of expression. The inevitable dictionary of poetical phrases which is at the elbow of every poet, while supplying him with stock ideas, tempts him to discard the exercise of thought for the easier path of imitation; and the result is that every poet has been in the habit of using exactly the same similes and of employing precisely identical phraseology. These trammels have been so

long submitted to that it will be difficult to throw them off entirely. A determined effort is, however, now being made to get rid of them; and so long as national tone and colour are not sacrificed to a slavish imitation of the West, it is allowable to wish the reformers success. It is probable that Japanese poets would scout the idea that they in any way desire to imitate their European brethren, and would hold that the present development is but a reproduction of the 'Naga-uta' or Long poetry' of bygone days. But a comparison of modern poems with those of older date reveals a change of method which can only be accounted for by the fact that the writers have adopted once again a new model for imitation, and have thus learned to strike a deeper note than was known to their predecessors. One marked peculiarity of the modern poetry is that for the first time inanimate objects are personified. This is entirely foreign to the native methods practised in both China and Japan, and emphasises the new departure. The following lines, taken from a collection of modern poetry, and translated by Mr. Aston, form a good example of this change:

'Thou twin-leaved plant that sproutest hopefully
Here on the plain where dry and withered lies
The old year's grass, and never herbage shows
Its tender tints: what can have been thy seed,
That thou art as thou art a short-lived thing,
Born for this year alone? Or dost defy,
With roots robust, the winter? Thus I asked.
Whereon that twin-leaved plant made answer brief:
I, too, may not forecast the future; all I know

Is that by Heaven's grace I sprouted forth

And stand up as thou seest, looking up

To the sun, and grateful for his genial warmth.'

It is impossible not to recognise in these lines a European influence, and especially an English influence, for it is in this direction more than any other that the minds of Japanese writers on all subjects are now turning. What the future of the literature may be it would be as difficult as it would be unprofitable to forecast. The whirligig of time revolves rapidly in Japan, and it may possibly be that before long English will join Chinese in the limbo of forgotten models. At present, however, it holds the field; and it is not too much to say that every man occupying a prominent position in politics, literature, or science reckons a knowledge of English as a necessary part of his mental equipment.

ART. V. THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

1. The Natural History of Selborne. By Gilbert White. Edited with notes by Grant Allen. Illustrated by Edward H. New. London: John Lane, 1900.

2. The New Forest; its Traditions, Inhabitants, and Customs. By Rose C. de Crespigny and Horace Hutchinson. Second edition. London: John Murray, 1899.

3. Wild Life in Hampshire Highlands. By George A. B. Dewar. London: J. M. Dent and Co., 1899.

4. A Cotswold Village: or Country Life and Pursuits in Gloucestershire. By J. Arthur Gibbs. Second edition. London: John Murray, 1899.

THER

HE love of the country is so deeply rooted in Englishmen that we may say it is part of the life of the nation. The struggles for existence and the progress of civilisation have brought great masses of the population together in cities that are the visible signs of exuberant prosperity. The 'Wen' of old Cobbett, which he was never weary of execrating, contained in his time a million and a half of souls: now it is impossible to tell the population of London, for who can say where London begins or ends? The chimneys of the north cast blighting shadows over areas which a century ago were fair landscapes of field and woodland. Towns like Barrow-inFurness or Middlesbrough spring to maturity almost as the mushroom growths of America beyond the Missouri. The labourers leave the plough for the loom or the forge, as fieldwages fall or arable land is left fallow. But all the cities strike their roots in the country, and in the country are the springs that supply their waste. In all, unhappily, there are multitudes in the lowest couches sociales doomed to live and die in deepest ignorance of all that is brightest in a world beyond their ken. But the great majority have a longing for rural outings, which the drudgery of dull routine has almost unfitted them to enjoy. A glimpse of blue sky recalls to the clerk on the omnibus the days when he used to play truant from the village school, and the daffodils and early violets, hawked by tatterdemalion flower-sellers on the street-kerb, bring back memories of the cawing of rooks and the first call of the cuckoo. The man who has made his fortune feels he owes it to himself to buy or rent a seat in the country; and if, when there, he is much like a fish out of water, he is giving his children opportunities which he but dimly appreciates. So the money-makers