ledge as rational, or else science itself disappears." He is a wise man indeed who can extricate himself from so perplexing a dilemma.

After this pronouncement, it is not surprising that Mr Balfour hints his own opinion that as natural science grows it leans more, not less, "upon an idealistic interpretation of the universe." But surely it depends upon the limits which we put upon science. If we ask of science, as was asked twenty years ago, that it should explain all things, an idealistic interpretation is necessary. But why should we demand of science more than it can give? It has no better chance of solving the elusive riddles of life and death than the study of history or of the classics. It is not for science to play the part of theology. Its province ends where faith begins, and it is best pursued without an afterthought of the universe. For two thousand years men of science have been busy, and while their researches have made immeasurable additions to the ease and comfort of life, the veil which covers the secret portal of life and death has not yet been torn asunder. The steam-engine, quick-firing guns, the mariner's compass, telephonesthese are the legitimate triumphs of science; and though they appeared "ideal" to those earlier ages, which dreamt dreamt them and made them not, they are practical enough to-day. For the rest, the man of science should be content to follow the experiment which lies nearest

to his hand. He may devote years of his life to the investigation of frog or pigeon, and he may appear to the common citizen as grim a pedant as he who finds an analysis of Greek particles the noblest task of man. But the truth is that neither the one nor the other is necessarily a pedant. There is no knowledge either of the past or of the present which is wholly useless, and he best consults the interests of the science which he professes who follows his own modest investigation with diligence and sincerity.

We cannot forget that science changes as often and as rapidly as a fashion in dress. It is not many years since protoplasm and chlorophyll were words of enchantment. To-day they are unpopular symbols, and the place of honour which once they held is now occupied by ether and electricity. Where, then, in the domains of science shall we surprise finality? And how, without finality, can we find comfort or guidance? More than three hundred years ago Montaigne laid his finger upon this same weakness of science. What folly, said he, to attempt to discover the secrets of the universe when you know nothing of your own soul! Copernicus, he pointed out, has proved that the earth moves, but how long will it be before Copernicus is discredited? Copernicus, to be sure, is not yet discredited, but Newton yields to the new researches, and we may well ask how long it will be before ether and electricity are ousted by a fresh ingenuity. Nor was Mon

taigne the only ancient philosopher who would have put limits upon the knowable. "In the meantime," said Burton, discoursing of vain speculators, "the World is tossed in a blanket amongst them; they hoise the Earth up and down like a ball, make it stand and go at their pleasures" and he surmised that, whilst men idly contended about the sun and moon, the sun and moon would hide themselves, "to make an end of all those curious controversies and scatter them abroad."

But, after all, why should we expose science to too severe a test? Her patient investigations will never be exhausted, even though she look not beyond her own borders. The brilliance of her discoveries will not be dimmed because we expect of them no more than their immediate result. The wise diligence of her faithful servants will not appear of lighter value because we know that it can never achieve the salvation of our souls. He who

would attempt to answer the haunting questions of love and hate, of life and death, will find better material for his investigation in literature than in science. Moreover, there are many problems still unsolved wherein science can give us no help. The miracle of human life should still excite our wonder, when ether and electricity appear commonplace. The tradition of conduct, which holds us in its infinite chain, the same subtle thoughts, which have pulsed through divers brains, the wayward emotions, which are old as the world, and still fresh-these may be studied for our guidance in history and poetry, and are far less remote from the mystery of human existence than either protoplasm or ether. Science, to be sure, is not bankrupt, but she will appear all the richer if we refrain from exaggerating her wealth, and resolutely refuse to draw such cheques upon her account as can never be

honoured.

2 D

VOL. CLXXVI.-NO. MLXVII.

TOKIO, 8th July 1904.

THREE men are standing in front of a large-scale map. The map is of so large a scale that it screens the whole expanse of wall at one end of the room. The shortest of the three men holds a telegram in his hand, and as he reads from it one of the members of the Triumvirate runs his finger along the red line which seems to bifurcate the the suspended chart. Having satisfied themselves that the reading of the map synchronises with the information contained in the telegram, the three men group round the table in the centre of the room. They are worthy of close observation these three, for it is this Triumvirate that is ruling Japan's destinies at the present moment. The small, podgy, pock-marked man, whom no caricaturist could fail to lampoon as a frog, is Baron Oyama, the Roberts of Japan. We use the parallel to our own great soldier only as a figure of location. In temperament there is no likeness between the two, except that each in his respective country is a great soldier. And what a history lies behind this diminutive field - marshal! He has seen the latent fighting strength of his nation develop in a single generation from the standard

attained in the medieval civilisation of the East to that of a first-class Western Power; has lived to command it in the act of overthrowing the vaunted strength of a Western Power. But to few great military leaders has such an opportunity come as has presented itself to the present generalissimo of Japan's army. Twelve years ago this very marshal was called upon to command the Japanese army in the field against the strength of China. The opening phases of his present campaign are being conducted over the very ground through which he then manoeuvred his victorious troops. Does it come often in the lifetime of a general to operate twice over the same squares of the map? In the present operations the knowledge gleaned in that first campaign has been worth an army corps.

The little general seated at the marshal's right is the Kitchener of Japan. If we had not known that he was Japanese, his quick dark eye, dapper figure, and pointed beard would have led us to believe that he was a Spaniard, or perhaps a Mexican. General Baron Kodama is the executive brain of the Japanese general staff. Of the third member of the Triumvirate, however, we

have no parallel in the British army. Like his illustrious associates, he also is small. He is fair for a Japanese, and the splash of grey at either temple enhances the fairness of his skin. Save for a rare and very pleasant smile, the face is unemotional. The dark eyes are dreamy, and the poorest expression of the great brain that works behind them. This is General Fukushima, whose genius has been the concretemortar which has cemented into solid block the rough-hewn material of Japan's general staff.

These are the three men who hitherto have repeatedly overthrown Russia's military strength in the Far East. And since the Japanese army of invasion landed in Korea and Manchuria, it has been this Triumvirate that, from this very room and the three adjacent rooms, has controlled the destinies of the army in the field. This is the Japanese system, this, perhaps, the secret of the Japanese success. The strategical factor in the operations is the general staff, wherever it may be located. Whether in Tokio, in the field, or in Timbuctoo, the tactical remains with the generals commanding in the field.

There is a key resting in the safe keeping of the chief of the staff which, if it came into our possession, would disclose many score of admirable charts. They are marked in colour, and each set has its complementary set to meet each contingency that might arise, favourable or un

toward, even to the invasion of Japan. There lies stored within easy reach of the home ports every kind of material that modern forethought has considered necessary for every contingency in war, - from railway material suited to the swamps of Manchuria, and baulks of timber to furnish platforms for heavy artillery destined to bombard Port Arthur, to shoretorpedo tubes prepared against a hostile landing on the home seaboard.

These are the three men in the main responsible for all this, -yet stay with me a moment more. They are leaving the modest building which represents Japan's military strength in Tokio,-this building which, though so unpretentious and insignificant, yet has such a far-reaching shadow, the marshal and his two chief lieutenants are leaving it, for to-night is their last night in the capital; to-morrow they will leave Japan to control the destinies of the army in the field. They are due at a farewell complimentary dinner given by the heads of sister departments. Just have one glimpse at them as they sit on the floor in strange alignment round the three walls of the banqueting hall. For the moment all that is of the West is forgotten; they are now crude Orientals, trifling with the dainty Geisha maidens, plying them with food and drink; they are entranced with the semi-barbaric dancing of the première danseuse of the house wherein they sup, and they partake of the merriment

On the morrow the Ministers Plenipotentiary and Envoys Extraordinary of all the great Western Powers, glittering in their bullion - charged dresses, will be present on the platform to wish the Triumvirate "Godspeed."

TOKIO, 18th July 1904.

There was once a seeker after truth who came to Japan about the time of the commencement of the Russo-Japanese war. Now the seeker after truth had visited many lands in the pursuance of his quest. Therefore when the band of Europeans collected in Japan's capital, joining the common crowd, shouted themselves hoarse over the initial Japanese successes, he remained silent, wondering if there was anything of sincerity in the many demonstrations which seemed to mark the unification of an Eastern and Western nation. For the time being he remained silent and watched events. In the beginning this demonstration of inter-racial feeling, especially as the races were so divergent in colour, moral balance, and training, was curious to behold. Also in the beholding it was full of comforting effect. Nothing in the wide world could be more beautiful than a

Japanese lantern procession at night, let us say, through the Shiba Park, or other delicately foliaged Japanese plantation. And it gladdened the heart of the seeker after truth to see amongst these myriads of paper will o' the wisps, dancing in a delicate luminous line against the sombre shadows of the park foliage, many upon which was depicted the coloured device of the national emblem of the allied European Power.

Then the occasions which called for national demonstration became more numerous, and followed each other in quick succession. And it seemed to the seeker after truth that the whole atmosphere of the demonstrations had changed. In the beginning, when the future had been masked in the mysteries of the fog of war, when the possibilities of the future seemed to point to the probability of armed intervention in favour of the Eastern Power, then intermingled with