ABSTRACT
WE were up to dine near the Imperial University in Tokio one evening, in the beautiful puzzle-pathed grounds known as Kaga Yashiki, where once the Prince of Kaga had his palace. The house in which we met was long and low, all but the central part, which had been the Government Observatory in the early days of the University. The telescopes had gone, however, and instead of being a place for the study of the movements of other worlds, the building had become one for the investigation of movements nearer home—an earthquake laboratory, as it were, where these uncanny disturbances made records on the various contrivances a famous specialist had devised for measuring all sorts of jolts and jars and palpitations. Their capacity for notation included all disturbances, from the upheaval of a mountain range to the alighting of the most careful fly.
