shut on one another like the changing flies in some spectacular play,
and we had compassed two days' worth of old-time travel when a man
made every foot of ground his own, and were drawing near Zenkoji.

I was glad to be there; hardly as glad to be there so soon.
There are lands made to be skimmed, tame samenesses of plain or weary
wastes of desert, where even the iron horse gallops too slow. Japan
is not one of them. A land which Nature herself has already crumpled
into its smallest compass, and then covered with vegetation rich as
velvet, is no land to hurry over. One may well linger where each
mile builds the scenery afresh. And in this world, whose civilization
grows at the expense of the picturesque, it is something to see a
culture that knows how least to mar.

Upon this mood of unsatisfied satisfaction my night fell, and shortly
after the train rolled into the Zenkoji station, amid a darkness
deepened by falling rain. The passengers bundled out. The station
looked cheerless enough. But from across the open space in front
shone a galaxy of light. A crowd of tea-houses posted on the farther
side had garlanded themselves all over with lanterns, each trying to
outvie its neighbor in apparent hospitality. The display was
perceptibly of pecuniary intent; but still it was grateful. To be
thought worth catching partakes, after all, of the nature of a
compliment. What was not so gratifying was the embarrassment of
choice that followed; for each of these gayly beckoning caravansaries
proved to be a catch-pilgrim for its inn up-town. Being on a hill,
Zenkoji is not by way of easy approach by train; and the pilgrims to
it are legion. In order, therefore, to anticipate the patronage of
unworthy rivals, each inn has felt obliged to be personally
represented on the spot.