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15320	----	Proofreading Team. Transcriber's Note: Phonetic characters are represented by the following symbols: [=x] = any letter "x" with superior macron SHORT STORY THE ROMANCE OF THE MILKY WAY AND OTHER STUDIES & STORIES BY LAFCADIO HEARN HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK 1905 COPYRIGHT 1905 BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PUBLISHED OCTOBER 1905 CONTENTS THE ROMANCE OF THE MILKY WAY 1 GOBLIN POETRY 51 "ULTIMATE QUESTIONS" 103 THE MIRROR MAIDEN 125 THE STORY OF IT[=O] NORISUKÉ 139 STRANGER THAN FICTION 167 A LETTER FROM JAPAN 179 INTRODUCTION Lafcadio Hearn, known to Nippon as Yakumo Koizumi, was born in Leucadia in the Ionian Islands, June 27, 1850. His father was an Irish surgeon in the British Army; his mother was a Greek. Both parents died while Hearn was still a child, and he was adopted by a great-aunt, and educated for the priesthood. To this training he owed his Latin scholarship and, doubtless, something of the subtlety of his intelligence. He soon found, however, that the prospect of an ecclesiastical career was alien from his inquiring mind and vivid temperament, and at the age of nineteen he came to America to seek his fortune. After working for a time as a proof-reader, he obtained employment as a newspaper reporter in Cincinnati. Soon he rose to be an editorial writer, and went in the course of a few years to New Orleans to join the editorial staff of the "Times-Democrat." Here he lived until 1887, writing odd fantasies and arabesques for his paper, contributing articles and sketches to the magazines, and publishing several curious little books, among them his "Stray Leaves from Strange Literature," and his translations from Gautier. In the winter of 1887 he began his pilgrimages to exotic countries, being, as he wrote to a friend, "a small literary bee in search of inspiring honey." After a couple of years, spent chiefly in the French West Indies, with periods of literary work in New York, he went in 1890 to Japan to prepare a series of articles for a magazine. Here through some deep affinity of mood with the marvelous people of that country he seems suddenly to have felt himself at last at home. He married a Japanese woman; he acquired Japanese citizenship in order to preserve the succession of his property to his family there; he became a lecturer in the Imperial University at T[=o]ky[=o]; and in a series of remarkable books he made himself the interpreter to the Western World of the very spirit of Japanese life and art. He died there of paralysis of the heart on the 26th of September, 1904. * * * * * With the exception of a body of familiar letters now in process of collection, the present volume contains all of Hearn's writing that he left uncollected in the magazines or in manuscript of a sufficient ripeness for publication. It is worth noting, however, that perfect as is the writing of "Ultimate Questions," and complete as the essay is in itself, the author regarded it as unfinished, and, had he lived, would have revised and amplified some portions of it. But if this volume lacks the incomparably exquisite touch of its author in its arrangement and revision, it does, nevertheless, present him in all of his most characteristic veins, and it is in respect both to style and to substance perhaps the most mature and significant of his works. In his first days as a writer Hearn had conceived an ideal of his art as specific as it was ambitious. Early in the eighties he wrote from New Orleans in an unpublished letter to the Rev. Wayland D. Ball of Washington: "The lovers of antique loveliness are proving to me the future possibilities of a long cherished dream,--the English realization of a Latin style, modeled upon foreign masters, and rendered even more forcible by that element of _strength_ which is the characteristic of Northern tongues. This no man can hope to accomplish, but even a translator may carry his stones to the master-masons of a new architecture of language." In the realization of his ideal Hearn took unremitting pains. He gave a minute and analytical study to the writings of such masters of style as Flaubert and Gautier, and he chose his miscellaneous reading with a peculiar care. He wrote again to the same friend: "I never read a book which does not powerfully impress the imagination; but whatever contains novel, curious, potent imagery I always read, no matter what the subject. When the soil of fancy is really well enriched with innumerable fallen leaves, the flowers of language grow spontaneously." Finally, to the hard study of technique, to vast but judicious reading, he added a long, creative brooding time. To a Japanese friend, Nobushige Amenomori, he wrote in a passage which contains by implication a deep theory not only of literary composition, but of all art:-- "Now with regard to your own sketch or story. If you are quite dissatisfied with it, I think this is probably due _not_ to what you suppose,--imperfection of expression,--but rather to the fact that some _latent_ thought or emotion has not yet defined itself in your mind with sufficient sharpness. You feel something and have not been able to express the feeling--only because you do not yet quite know what it is. We feel without understanding feeling; and our most powerful emotions are the most undefinable. This must be so, because they are inherited accumulations of feeling, and the multiplicity of them--superimposed one over another--blurs them, and makes them dim, even though enormously increasing their strength.... _Unconscious_ brain work is the best to develop such latent feeling or thought. By quietly writing the thing over and over again, I find that the emotion or idea often _develops itself_ in the process,--unconsciously. Again, it is often worth while to _try_ to analyze the feeling that remains dim. The effort of trying to understand exactly what it is that moves us sometimes proves successful.... If you have any feeling--no matter what--strongly latent in the mind (even only a haunting sadness or a mysterious joy), you may be sure that it is expressible. Some feelings are, of course, very difficult to develop. I shall show you one of these days, when we see each other, a page that I worked at for _months_ before the idea came clearly.... When the best result comes, it ought to surprise you, for our best work is out of the Unconscious." Through this study, reading, and brooding Lafcadio Hearn's prose ripened and mellowed consistently to the end. In mere workmanship the present volume is one of his most admirable, while in its heightened passages, like the final paragraph of "The Romance of the Milky Way," the rich, melancholy music, the profound suggestion, are not easily matched from any but the very greatest English prose. In substance the volume is equally significant. In 1884 he wrote to one of the closest of his friends that he had at last found his feet intellectually through the reading of Herbert Spencer which had dispelled all "isms" from his mind and left him "the vague but omnipotent consolation of the Great Doubt." And in "Ultimate Questions," which strikes, so to say, the dominant chord of this volume, we have an almost lyrical expression of the meaning for him of the Spencerian philosophy and psychology. In it is his characteristic mingling of Buddhist and Shinto thought with English and French psychology, strains which in his work "do not simply mix well," as he says in one of his letters, but "absolutely unite, like chemical elements--rush together with a shock;"--and in it he strikes his deepest note. In his steady envisagement of the horror that envelops the stupendous universe of science, in his power to evoke and revive old myths and superstitions, and by their glamour to cast a ghostly light of vanished suns over the darkness of the abyss, he was the most Lucretian of modern writers. * * * * * In outward appearance Hearn, the man, was in no way prepossessing. In the sharply lined picture of him drawn by one of his Japanese comrades in the "Atlantic" for October, 1905, he appears, "slightly corpulent in later years, short in stature, hardly five feet high, of somewhat stooping gait. A little brownish in complexion, and of rather hairy skin. A thin, sharp, aquiline nose, large protruding eyes, of which the left was blind and the right very near-sighted." The same writer, Nobushige Amenomori, has set down a reminiscence, not of Hearn the man, but of Hearn the genius, wherewith this introduction to the last of his writings may fitly conclude: "I shall ever retain the vivid remembrance of the sight I had when I stayed over night at his house for the first time. Being used myself also to sit up late, I read in bed that night. The clock struck one in the morning, but there was a light in Hearn's study. I heard some low, hoarse coughing. I was afraid my friend might be ill; so I stepped out of my room and went to his study. Not wanting, however, to disturb him, if he was at work, I cautiously opened the door just a little, and peeped in. I saw my friend intent in writing at his high desk, with his nose almost touching the paper. Leaf after leaf he wrote on. In a while he held up his head, and what did I see! It was not the Hearn I was familiar with; it was another Hearn. His face was mysteriously white; his large eye gleamed. He appeared like one in touch with some unearthly presence. "Within that homely looking man there burned something pure as the vestal fire, and in that flame dwelt a mind that called forth life and poetry out of dust, and grasped the highest themes of human thought." F.G. September, 1905. THE ROMANCE, OF THE MILKY WAY Of old it was said: 'The River of Heaven is the Ghost of Waters.' We behold it shifting its bed in the course of the year as an earthly river sometimes does. _Ancient Scholar_ Among the many charming festivals celebrated by Old Japan, the most romantic was the festival of Tanabata-Sama, the Weaving-Lady of the Milky Way. In the chief cities her holiday is now little observed; and in T[=o]ky[=o] it is almost forgotten. But in many country districts, and even in villages, near the capital, it is still celebrated in a small way. If you happen to visit an old-fashioned country town or village, on the seventh day of the seventh month (by the ancient calendar), you will probably notice many freshly-cut bamboos fixed upon the roofs of the houses, or planted in the ground beside them, every bamboo having attached to it a number of strips of colored paper. In some very poor villages you might find that these papers are white, or of one color only; but the general rule is that the papers should be of five or seven different colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, and white are the tints commonly displayed. All these papers are inscribed with short poems written in praise of Tanabata and her husband Hikoboshi. After the festival the bamboos are taken down and thrown into the nearest stream, together with the poems attached to them. * * * * * To understand the romance of this old festival, you must know the legend of those astral divinities to whom offerings used to be made, even by, the Imperial Household, on the seventh day of the seventh month. The legend is Chinese. This is the Japanese popular version of it:-- The great god of the firmament had a lovely daughter, Tanabata-tsumé, who passed her days in weaving garments for her august parent. She rejoiced in her work, and thought that there was no greater pleasure than the pleasure of weaving. But one day, as she sat before her loom at the door of her heavenly dwelling, she saw a handsome peasant lad pass by, leading an ox, and she fell in love with him. Her august father, divining her secret wish, gave her the youth for a husband. But the wedded lovers became too fond of each other, and neglected their duty to the god of the firmament; the sound of the shuttle was no longer heard, and the ox wandered, unheeded, over the plains of heaven. Therefore the great god was displeased, and he separated the pair. They were sentenced to live thereafter apart, with the Celestial River between them; but it was permitted them to see each other once a year, on the seventh night of the seventh moon. On that night--providing the skies be clear--the birds of heaven make, with their bodies and wings, a bridge over the stream; and by means of that bridge the lovers can meet. But if there be rain, the River of Heaven rises, and becomes so wide that the bridge cannot be formed. So the husband and wife cannot always meet, even on the seventh night of the seventh month; it may happen, by reason of bad weather, that they cannot meet for three or four years at a time. But their love remains immortally young and eternally patient; and they continue to fulfill their respective duties each day without fault,--happy in their hope of being able to meet on the seventh night of the next seventh month. * * * * * To ancient Chinese fancy, the Milky Way was a luminous river,--the River of Heaven,--the Silver Stream. It has been stated by Western writers that Tanabata, the Weaving-Lady, is a star in Lyra; and the Herdsman, her beloved, a star in Aquila, on the opposite side of the galaxy. But it were more correct to say that both are represented, to Far-Eastern imagination, by groups of stars. An old Japanese book puts the matter thus plainly: "Kengy[=u] (the Ox-Leader) is on the west side of the Heavenly River, and is represented by three stars in a row, and looks like a man leading an ox. Shokujo (the Weaving-Lady) is on the east side of the Heavenly River: three stars so placed as to appear like the figure of a woman seated at her loom.... The former presides over all things relating to agriculture; the latter, over all that relates to women's work." * * * * * In an old book called Zatsuwa-Shin, it is said that these deities were of earthly origin. Once in this world they were man and wife, and lived in China; and the husband was called Ishi, and the wife Hakuy[=o]. They especially and most devoutly reverenced the Moon. Every clear evening, after sundown, they waited with eagerness to see her rise. And when she began to sink towards the horizon, they would climb to the top of a hill near their house, so that they might be able to gaze upon her face as long as possible. Then, when she at last disappeared from view, they would mourn together. At the age of ninety and nine, the wife died; and her spirit rode up to heaven on a magpie, and there became a star. The husband, who was then one hundred and three years old, sought consolation for his bereavement in looking at the Moon and when he welcomed her rising and mourned her setting, it seemed to him as if his wife were still beside him. One summer night, Hakuy[=o]--now immortally beautiful and young--descended from heaven upon her magpie, to visit her husband; and he was made very happy by that visit. But from that time he could think of nothing but the bliss of becoming a star, and joining Hakuy[=o] beyond the River of Heaven. At last he also ascended to the sky, riding upon a crow; and there he became a star-god. But he could not join Hakuy[=o] at once, as he had hoped;--for between his allotted place and hers flowed the River of Heaven; and it was not permitted for either star to cross the stream, because the Master of Heaven (_Ten-Tei_) daily bathed in its waters. Moreover, there was no bridge. But on one day every year--the seventh day of the seventh month--they were allowed to see each other. The Master of Heaven goes always on that day to the Zenh[=o]do, to hear the preaching of the law of Buddha; and then the magpies and the crows make, with their hovering bodies and outspread wings, a bridge over the Celestial Stream; and Hakuy[=o] crosses that bridge to meet her husband. There can be little doubt that the Japanese festival called Tanabata was originally identical with the festival of the Chinese Weaving-Goddess, Tchi-Niu; the Japanese holiday seems to have been especially a woman's holiday, from the earliest times; and the characters with which the word Tanabata is written signify a weaving-girl. But as both of the star-deities were worshiped on the seventh of the seventh month, some Japanese scholars have not been satisfied with the common explanation of the name, and have stated that it was originally composed with the word _tané_ (seed, or grain), and the word _hata_ (loom). Those who accept this etymology make the appellation, Tanabata-Sama, plural instead of singular, and render it as "the deities of grain and of the loom,"--that is to say, those presiding over agriculture and weaving. In old Japanese pictures the star-gods are represented according to this conception of their respective attributes;--Hikoboshi being figured as a peasant lad leading an ox to drink of the Heavenly River, on the farther side of which Orihimé (Tanabata) appears, weaving at her loom. The garb of both is Chinese; and the first Japanese pictures of these divinities were probably copied from some Chinese original. In the oldest collection of Japanese poetry extant,--the Many[=o]sh[=u], dating from 760 A.D.,--the male divinity is usually called Hikoboshi, and the female Tanabata-tsumé; but in later times both have been called Tanabata. In Izumo the male deity is popularly termed O-Tanabata Sama, and the female Mé-Tanabata Sama. Both are still known by many names. The male is called Kaiboshi as well as Hikoboshi and Kengy[=u]; while the female is called Asagao-himé ("Morning Glory Princess")[1], Ito-ori-himé ("Thread-Weaving Princess"), Momoko-himé ("Peach-Child Princess"), Takimono-himé ("Incense Princess"), and Sasagani-himé ("Spider Princess"). Some of these names are difficult to explain,--especially the last, which reminds us of the Greek legend of Arachne. Probably the Greek myth and the Chinese story have nothing whatever in common; but in old Chinese books there is recorded a curious fact which might well suggest a relationship. In the time of the Chinese Emperor Ming Hwang (whom the Japanese call Gens[=o]), it was customary for the ladies of the court, on the seventh day of the seventh month, to catch spiders and put them into an incense-box for purposes of divination. On the morning of the eighth day the box was opened; and if the spiders had spun thick webs during the night the omen was good. But if they had remained idle the omen was bad. [Footnote 1: Asagao (lit., "morning-face") is the Japanese name for the beautiful climbing plant which we call "morning glory."] * * * * * There is a story that, many ages ago, a beautiful woman visited the dwelling of a farmer in the mountains of Izumo, and taught to the only daughter of the household an art of weaving never before known. One evening the beautiful stranger vanished away; and the people knew that they had seen the Weaving-Lady of Heaven. The daughter of the farmer became renowned for her skill in weaving. But she would never marry,--because she had been the companion of Tanabata-Sama. * * * * * Then there is a Chinese story--delightfully vague--about a man who once made a visit, unawares, to the Heavenly Land. He had observed that every year, during the eighth month, a raft of precious wood came floating to the shore on which he lived; and he wanted to know where that wood grew. So he loaded a boat with provisions for a two years' voyage, and sailed away in the direction from which the rafts used to drift. For months and months he sailed on, over an always placid sea; and at last he arrived at a pleasant shore, where wonderful trees were growing. He moored his boat, and proceeded alone into the unknown land, until he came to the bank of a river whose waters were bright as silver. On the opposite shore he saw a pavilion; and in the pavilion a beautiful woman sat weaving; she was white like moonshine, and made a radiance all about her. Presently he saw a handsome young peasant approaching, leading an ox to the water; and he asked the young peasant to tell him the name of the place and the country. But the youth seemed to be displeased by the question, and answered in a severe tone: "If you want to know the name of this place, go back to where you came from, and ask Gen-Kum-Pei."[2] So the voyager, feeling afraid, hastened to his boat, and returned to China. There he sought out the sage Gen-Kum-Pei, to whom he related the adventure. Gen-Kum-Pei clapped his hands for wonder, and exclaimed, "So it was you!... On the seventh day of the seventh month I was gazing at the heavens, and I saw that the Herdsman and the Weaver were about to meet;--but between them was a new Star, which I took to be a Guest-Star. Fortunate man! you have been to the River of Heaven, and have looked upon the face of the Weaving-Lady!..." [Footnote 2: This is the Japanese reading of the Chinese name.] * * * * * --It is said that the meeting of the Herdsman and the Weaver can be observed by any one with good eyes; for whenever it occurs those stars burn with five different colors. That is why offerings of five colors are made to the Tanabata divinities, and why the poems composed in their praise are written upon paper of five different tints. But, as I have said before, the pair can meet only in fair weather. If there be the least rain upon the seventh night, the River of Heaven will rise, and the lovers must wait another whole year. Therefore the rain that happens to fall on Tanabata night is called _Namida no Amé_, "The Rain of Tears." When the sky is clear on the seventh night, the lovers are fortunate; and their stars can be seen to sparkle with delight. If the star Kengy[=u] then shines very brightly, there will be great rice crops in the autumn. If the star Shokujo looks brighter than usual, there will be a prosperous time for weavers, and for every kind of female industry. * * * * * In old Japan it was generally supposed that the meeting of the pair signified good fortune to mortals. Even to-day, in many parts of the country, children sing a little song on the evening of the Tanabata festival,--_Tenki ni nari!_ ("O weather, be clear!") In the province of Iga the young folks also sing a jesting song at the supposed hour of the lovers' meeting:-- Tanabata ya! Amari isogaba, Korobubéshi![3] But in the province of Izumo, which is a very rainy district, the contrary belief prevails; and it is thought that if the sky be clear on the seventh day of the seventh month, misfortune will follow. The local explanation of this belief is that if the stars can meet, there will be born from their union many evil deities who will afflict the country with drought and other calamities. [Footnote 3: "Ho! Tanabata! if you hurry too much, you will tumble down!"] * * * * * The festival of Tanabata was first celebrated in Japan on the seventh day of the seventh month of Tomby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o] (A.D. 755). Perhaps the Chinese origin of the Tanabata divinities accounts for the fact that their public worship was at no time represented by many temples. I have been able to find record of only one temple to them, called Tanabata-jinja, which was situated at a village called Hoshiaimura, in the province of Owari, and surrounded by a grove called Tanabata-mori.[4] [Footnote 4: There is no mention, however, of any such village in any modern directory.] Even before Temby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o], however, the legend of the Weaving-Maiden seems to have been well known in Japan; for it is recorded that on the seventh night of the seventh year of Y[=o]r[=o] (A.D. 723) the poet Yamagami no Okura composed the song:-- Amanogawa, Ai-muki tachité, Waga koïshi Kimi kimasu nari-- Himo-toki makina![5] It would seem that the Tanabata festival was first established in Japan eleven hundred and fifty years ago, as an Imperial Court festival only, in accordance with Chinese precedent. Subsequently the nobility and the military classes everywhere followed imperial example; and the custom of celebrating the Hoshi-mat-suri, or Star-Festival,--as it was popularly called,--spread gradually downwards, until at last the seventh day of the seventh month became, in the full sense of the term, a national holiday. But the fashion of its observance varied considerably at different eras and in different provinces. [Footnote 5: For a translation and explanation of this song, see _infra_, page 30.] The ceremonies at the Imperial Court were of the most elaborate character: a full account of them is given in the _K[=o]ji Kongen_,--with explanatory illustrations. On the evening of the seventh day of the seventh month, mattings were laid down on the east side of that portion of the Imperial Palace called the Seir-y[=o]den; and upon these mattings were placed four tables of offerings to the Star-deities. Besides the customary food-offerings, there were placed upon these tables rice-wine, incense, vases of red lacquer containing flowers, a harp and flute, and a needle with five eyes, threaded with threads of five different colors. Black-lacquered oil-lamps were placed beside the tables, to illuminate the feast. In another part of the grounds a tub of water was so placed as to reflect the light of the Tanabata-stars; and the ladies of the Imperial Household attempted to thread a needle by the reflection. She who succeeded was to be fortunate during the following year. The court-nobility (_Kugé_) were obliged to make certain offerings to the Imperial House on the day of the festival. The character of these offerings, and the manner of their presentation, were fixed by decree. They were conveyed to the palace upon a tray, by a veiled lady of rank, in ceremonial dress. Above her, as she walked, a great red umbrella was borne by an attendant. On the tray were placed seven _tanzaku_ (longilateral slips of fine tinted paper for the writing of poems); seven _kudzu_-leaves;[6] seven inkstones; seven strings of _s[=o]men_ (a kind of vermicelli); fourteen writing-brushes; and a bunch of yam-leaves gathered at night, and thickly sprinkled with dew. In the palace grounds the ceremony began at the Hour of the Tiger,--4 A.M. Then the inkstones were carefully washed,--prior to preparing the ink for the writing of poems in praise of the Star-deities,--and each one set upon a _kudzu_-leaf. One bunch of bedewed yam-leaves was then laid upon every inkstone; and with this dew, instead of water, the writing-ink was prepared. All the ceremonies appear to have been copied from those in vogue at the Chinese court in the time of the Emperor Ming-Hwang. [Footnote 6: _Pueraria Thunbergiana._] * * * * * It was not until the time of the Tokugawa Sh[=o]gunate that the Tanabata festival became really a national holiday; and the popular custom of attaching _tansaku_ of different colors to freshly-cut bamboos, in celebration of the occasion, dates only from the era of Bunser (1818). Previously the _tanzaku_ had been made of a very costly quality of paper; and the old aristocratic ceremonies had been not less expensive than elaborate. But in the time of the Tokugawa Sh[=o]gunate a very cheap paper of various colors was manufactured; and the holiday ceremonies were suffered to assume an inexpensive form, in which even the poorest classes could indulge. The popular customs relating to the festival differed according to locality. Those of Izumo--where all classes of society, _samurai_ or common folk, celebrated the holiday in much the same way--used to be particularly interesting; and a brief account of them will suggest something of the happy aspects of life in feudal times. At the Hour of the Tiger, on the seventh night of the seventh month, everybody was up; and the work of washing the inkstones and writing-brushes was performed. Then, in the household garden, dew was collected upon yam-leaves. This dew was called _Amanogawa no suzuki_ ("drops from the River of Heaven"); and it was used to make fresh ink for writing the poems which were to be suspended to bamboos planted in the garden. It was usual for friends to present each other with new inkstones at the time of the Tanabata festival; and if there were any new inkstones in the house, the fresh ink was prepared in these. Each member of the family then wrote poems. The adults composed verses, according to their ability, in praise of the Star-deities; and the children either wrote dictation or tried to improvise. Little folk too young to use the writing-brush without help had their small hands guided, by parent or elder sister or elder brother, so as to shape on a _tanzaku_ the character of some single word or phrase relating to the festival,--such as "Amanogawa," or "Tanabata," or "Kasasagi no Hashi" (the Bridge of Magpies). In the garden were planted two freshly-cut bamboos, with branches and leaves entire,--a male bamboo (_otoko-daké_) and a female bamboo (_onna-daké_). They were set up about six feet apart, and to a cord extended between them were suspended paper-cuttings of five colors, and skeins of dyed thread of five colors. The paper-cuttings represented upper-robes,--_kimono_. To the leaves and branches of the bamboos were tied the _tanzaku_ on which poems had been written by the members of the family. And upon a table, set between the bamboos, or immediately before them, were placed vessels containing various offerings to the Star-deities,--fruits, _s[=o]men_, rice-wine, and vegetables of different kinds, such as cucumbers and watermelons. But the most curious Izumo custom relating to the festival was the _Nému-nagashi_, or "Sleep-wash-away" ceremony. Before day-break the young folks used to go to some stream, carrying with them bunches composed of _némuri_-leaves and bean-leaves mixed together. On reaching the stream, they would fling their bunches of leaves into the current, and sing a little song:-- Nému wa, nagaré yo! Mamé no ha wa, tomaré! These verses might be rendered in two ways; because the word _nému_ can be taken in the meaning either of _némuri_ (sleep), or of _nemuri-gi_ or _némunoki_, the "sleep-plant" (mimosa),--while the syllables _mamé_, as written in _kana_, can signify either "bean," or "activity," or "strength," "vigor," "health," etc. But the ceremony was symbolical, and the intended meaning of the song was:-- Drowsiness, drift away! Leaves of vigor, remain! After this, all the young folk would jump into the water, to bathe or swim, in token of their resolve to shed all laziness for the coming year, and to maintain a vigorous spirit of endeavor. * * * * * Yet it was probably in Yédo (now T[=o]ky[=o]) that the Tanabata festival assumed its most picturesque aspects. During the two days that the celebration lasted,--the sixth and seventh of the seventh month,--the city used to present the appearance of one vast bamboo grove; fresh bamboos, with poems attached to them, being erected upon the roofs of the houses. Peasants were in those days able to do a great business in bamboos, which were brought into town by hundreds of wagonloads for holiday use. Another feature of the Yédo festival was the children's procession, in which bamboos, with poems attached to them, were carried about the city. To each such bamboo there was also fastened a red plaque on which were painted, in Chinese characters, the names of the Tanabata stars. But almost everywhere, under the Tokugawa régime, the Tanabata festival used to be a merry holiday for the young people of all classes,--a holiday beginning with lantern displays before sunrise, and lasting well into the following night. Boys and girls on that day were dressed in their best, and paid visits of ceremony to friends and neighbors. * * * * * --The moon of the seventh month used to be called _Tanabata-tsuki_, or "The Moon of Tanabata." And it was also called _Fumi-tsuki_, or "The Literary Moon," because during the seventh month poems were everywhere composed in praise of the Celestial Lovers. * * * * * I think that my readers ought to be interested in the following selection of ancient Japanese poems, treating of the Tanabata legend. All are from the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_. The _Many[=o]sh[=u]_, or "Gathering of a Myriad Leaves," is a vast collection of poems composed before the middle of the eighth century. It was compiled by Imperial order, and completed early in the ninth century. The number of the poems which it contains is upwards of four thousand; some being "long poems" (_naga-uta_), but the great majority _tanka_, or compositions limited to thirty-one syllables; and the authors were courtiers or high officials. The first eleven _tanka_ hereafter translated were composed by Yamagami no Okura, Governor of the province of Chikuzen more than eleven hundred years ago. His fame as a poet is well deserved; for not a little of his work will bear comparison with some of the finer epigrams of the Greek Anthology. The following verses, upon the death of his little son Furubi, will serve as an example:-- Wakakeréba Nichi-yuki shiraji: Mahi wa sému, Shitabé no tsukahi Ohité-tohorasé. --[_As he is so young, he cannot know the way.... To the messenger of the Underworld I will give a bribe, and entreat him, saying: "Do thou kindly take the little one upon thy back along the road."_] Eight hundred years earlier, the Greek poet Diodorus Zonas of Sardis had written:-- "_Do thou, who rowest the boat of the dead in the water of this reedy lake, for Hades, stretch out thy hand, dark Charon, to the son of Kinyras, as he mounts the ladder by the gang-way, and receive him. For his sandals will cause the lad to slip, and he fears to set his feet naked on the sand of the shore._" But the charming epigram of Diodorus was inspired only by a myth,--for the "son of Kinyras" was no other than Adonis,--whereas the verses of Okura express for us the yearning of a father's heart. * * * * * --Though the legend of Tanabata was indeed borrowed from China, the reader will find nothing Chinese in the following compositions. They represent the old classic poetry at its purest, free from alien influence; and they offer us many suggestions as to the condition of Japanese life and thought twelve hundred years ago. Remembering that they were written before any modern European literature had yet taken form, one is startled to find how little the Japanese written language has changed in the course of so many centuries. Allowing for a few obsolete words, and sundry slight changes of pronunciation, the ordinary Japanese reader to-day can enjoy these early productions of his native muse with about as little difficulty as the English reader finds in studying the poets of the Elizabethan era. Moreover, the refinement and the simple charm of the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_ compositions have never been surpassed, and seldom equaled, by later Japanese poets. As for the forty-odd _tanka_ which I have translated, their chief attraction lies, I think, in what they reveal to us of the human nature of their authors. Tanabata-tsumé still represents for us the Japanese wife, worshipfully loving;--Hikoboshi appears to us with none of the luminosity of the god, but as the young Japanese husband of the sixth or seventh century, before Chinese ethical convention had begun to exercise its restraint upon life and literature. Also these poems interest us by their expression of the early feeling for natural beauty. In them we find the scenery and the seasons of Japan transported to the Blue Plain of High Heaven;--the Celestial Stream with its rapids and shallows, its sudden risings and clamourings within its stony bed, and its water-grasses bending in the autumn wind, might well be the Kamogawa;--and the mists that haunt its shores are the very mists of Arashiyama. The boat of Hikoboshi, impelled by a single oar working upon a wooden peg, is not yet obsolete; and at many a country ferry you may still see the _hiki-funé_ in which Tanabata-tsumé prayed her husband to cross in a night of storm,--a flat broad barge pulled over the river by cables. And maids and wives still sit at their doors in country villages, on pleasant autumn days, to weave as Tanabata-tsumé wove for the sake of her lord and lover. * * * * * --It will be observed that, in most of these verses, it is not the wife who dutifully crosses the Celestial River to meet her husband, but the husband who rows over the stream to meet the wife; and there is no reference to the Bridge of Birds.... As for my renderings, those readers who know by experience the difficulty of translating Japanese verse will be the most indulgent, I fancy. The Romaji system of spelling has been followed (except in one or two cases where I thought it better to indicate the ancient syllabication after the method adopted by Aston); and words or phrases necessarily supplied have been inclosed in parentheses. Amanogawa Ai-muki tachité, Waga koïshi Kimi kimasu nari Himo-toki makéna! [_He is coming, my long-desired lord, whom I have been waiting to meet here, on the banks of the River of Heaven.... The moment of loosening my girdle is nigh!_[7]] [Footnote 7: The last line alludes to a charming custom of which mention is made in the most ancient Japanese literature. Lovers, ere parting, were wont to tie each other's inner girdle (_himo_) and pledge themselves to leave the knot untouched until the time of their next meeting. This poem is said to have been composed in the seventh year of Y[=o]r[=o],--A.D. 723,--eleven hundred and eighty-two years ago.] Hisakata no[8] Ama no kawasé ni, Funé ukété, Koyoï ka kimi ga Agari kimasan? [Footnote 8: _Hisakata-no_ is a "pillow-word" used by the old poets in relation to celestial objects; and it is often difficult to translate. Mr. Aston thinks that the literal meaning of _hisakata_ is simply "long-hard," in the sense of long-enduring,--_hisa_ (long), _katai_ (hard, or firm),--so that _hisakata-no_ would have the meaning of "firmamental." Japanese commentators, however, say that the term is composed with the three words, _hi_ (sun), _sasu_ (shine), and _kata_ (side);--and this etymology would justify the rendering of _hisakata-no_ by some such expression as "light-shedding," "radiance-giving." On the subject of pillow-words, see Aston's _Grammar of the Japanese Written Language_.] [_Over the Rapids of the Everlasting Heaven, floating in his boat, my lord will doubtless deign to come to me this very night._] Kazé kumo wa Futatsu no kishi ni Kayoëdomo, Waga toho-tsuma no Koto zo kayowanu! [_Though winds and clouds to either bank may freely come or go, between myself and my faraway spouse no message whatever may pass._] Tsubuté[9] ni mo Nagé koshitsu-béki, Amanogawa Hédatéréba ka mo, Amata subé-naki! [_To the opposite bank one might easily fling a pebble; yet, being separated from him by the River of Heaven, alas! to hope for a meeting (except in autumn) is utterly useless._] [Footnote 9: The old text has _tabuté_.] Aki-kazé no Fukinishi hi yori "Itsushika" to--; Waga machi koîshi Kimi zo kimaséru. [_From the day that the autumn wind began to blow (I kept saying to myself), "Ah! when shall we meet?"--but now my beloved, for whom I waited and longed, has come indeed!_] Amanogawa Ito kawa-nami wa Tatanédomo, Samorai gatashi-- Chikaki kono sé wo. [_Though the waters of the River of Heaven have not greatly risen, (yet to cross) this near stream and to wait upon (my lord and lover) remains impossible._] Sodé furaba Mi mo kawashitsu-béku Chika-kerédo, Wataru subé nashi, Aki nishi aranéba. [_Though she is so near that the waving of her (long) sleeves can be distinctly seen, yet there is no way to cross the stream before the season of autumn._] Kagéroï no Honoka ni miété Wakarénaba;-- Motonaya koïn Aü-toki madé wa! [_When we were separated, I had seen her for a moment only,--and dimly as one sees a flying midge;[10] now I must vainly long for her as before, until time of our next meeting!_] Hikoboshi no Tsuma mukaë-buné Kogizurashi,-- Ama-no-Kawara ni Kiri no tatéru wa. [Footnote 10: _Kagéroï_ is an obsolete form of _kagér[=o]_, meaning an ephemera.] [_Methinks that Hikoboshi must be rowing his boat to meet his wife,--for a mist (as of oar-spray) is rising over the course of the Heavenly Stream._] Kasumi tatsu Ama-no-Kawara ni, Kimi matsu to,-- Ikay[=o] hodo ni Mono-suso nurenu. [_While awaiting my lord on the misty shore of the River of Heaven, the skirts of my robe have somehow become wet._] Amanogawa, Mi-tsu no nami oto Sawagu-nari: Waga matsu-kimi no Funadé-surashi mo. [_On the River of Heaven, at the place of the august ferry, the sound of the water has become loud: perhaps my long-awaited lord will soon be coming in his boat._] Tanabata no Sodé maku yoï no Akatoki wa, Kawasé no tazu wa Nakazu to mo yoshi. [_As Tanabata (slumbers) with her long sleeves rolled up, until the reddening of the dawn, do not, O storks of the river-shallows, awaken her by your cries._[11]] [Footnote 11: Lit., "not to cry out (will be) good"--but a literal translation of the poem is scarcely possible.] Amanogawa Kiri-tachi-wataru: Ky[=o], ky[=o], to-- Waga matsu-koïshi Funadé-surashi! [_(She sees that) a mist is spreading across the River of Heaven.... "To-day, to-day," she thinks, "my long-awaited lord will probably come over in his boat."_] Amanogawa, Yasu no watari ni, Funé ukété;-- Waga tachi-matsu to Imo ni tsugé koso. [_By the ferry of Yasu, on the River of Heaven, the boat is floating: I pray you tell my younger sister[12] that I stand here and wait._] [Footnote 12: That is to say, "wife." In archaic Japanese the word _imo_ signified both "wife" and "younger sister." The term might also be rendered "darling" or "beloved."] [=O]-sora yo Kay[=o] waré sura, Na ga yué ni, Amanokawa-ji no Nazumité zo koshi. [_Though I (being a Star-god) can pass freely to and fro, through the great sky,--yet to cross over the River of Heaven, for your sake, was weary work indeed!_] Yachihoko no Kami no mi-yo yori Tomoshi-zuma;-- Hito-shiri ni keri Tsugitéshi omoëba. [_From the august Age of the God-of-Eight-Thousand-Spears_,[13] _she had been my spouse in secret_[14] _only; yet now, because of my constant longing for her, our relation has become known to men._] [Footnote 13: Yachihoko-no-Kami, who has many other names, is the Great God of Izumo, and is commonly known by his appellation Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, or the "Deity-Master-of-the Great-Land." He is locally worshiped also as the god of marriage,--for which reason, perhaps, the poet thus refers to him.] [Footnote 14: Or, "my seldom-visited spouse." The word _tsuma_ (_zuma_), in ancient Japanese, signified either wife or husband; and this poem might be rendered so as to express either the wife's or the husband's thoughts.] Amé tsuchi to Wakaréshi toki yo Onoga tsuma; Shika zo té ni aru Aki matsu aré wa. [_From the time when heaven and earth were parted, she has been my own wife;--yet, to be with her, I must always wait till autumn._[15]] [Footnote 15: By the ancient calendar, the seventh day of the seventh month would fall in the autumn season.] Waga k[=o]ru Niho no omo wa Koyoï mo ka Ama-no-kawara ni Ishi-makura makan. [_With my beloved, of the ruddy-tinted cheeks_,[16] _this night indeed will I descend into the bed of the River of Heaven, to sleep on a pillow of stone._] [Footnote 16: The literal meaning is "_béni_-tinted face,"--that is to say, a face of which the cheeks and lips have been tinted with _béni_, a kind of rouge.] Amanogawa. Mikomori-gusa no Aki-kazé ni Nabikafu miréba, Toki kitarurashi. [_When I see the water-grasses of the River of Heaven bend in the autumn wind (I think to myself): "The time (for our meeting) seems to have come."_] Waga séko ni Ura-koi oréba, Amanogawa Yo-funé kogi-toyomu Kaji no 'to kikoyu. [_When I feel in my heart a sudden longing for my husband_,[17] _then on the River of Heaven the sound of the rowing of the night-boat is heard, and the plash of the oar resounds._] [Footnote 17: In ancient Japanese the word _séko_ signified either husband or elder brother. The beginning of the poem might also be rendered thus:--"When I feel a secret longing for my husband," etc.] T[=o]-zuma to Tamakura kawashi Nétaru yo wa, Tori-gané na naki Akéba aku to mo! [_In the night when I am reposing with my (now) far-away spouse, having exchanged jewel-pillows_[18] _with her, let not the cock crow, even though the day should dawn._] [Footnote 18: "To exchange jewel-pillows" signifies to use each other's arms for pillows. This poetical phrase is often used in the earliest Japanese literature. The word for jewel, _tama_, often appears in compounds as an equivalent of "precious," "dear," etc.] Yorozu-yo ni Tazusawari ité Ai mi-domo, Omoi-sugu-béki Koi naranaku ni. [_Though for a myriad ages we should remain hand-in-hand and face to face, our exceeding love could never come to an end. (Why then should Heaven deem it necessary to part us?)_] Waga tamé to, Tanabata-tsumé no, Sono yado ni, Oreru shirotai Nuït ken kamo? [_The white cloth which Tanabata has woven for my sake, in that dwelling of hers, is now, I think, being made into a robe for me._] Shirakumo no I-ho é kakurité T[=o]-kédomo, Yoï-sarazu min Imo ga atari wa. [_Though she be far-away, and hidden from me by five hundred layers of white cloud, still shall I turn my gaze each night toward the dwelling-place of my younger sister (wife)._] Aki saréba Kawagiri tatéru Amanogawa, Kawa ni muki-ité Kru[19] yo zo [=o]ki! [Footnote 19: For _kofuru_.] [_When autumn comes, and the river-mists spread over the Heavenly Stream, I turn toward the river, (and long); and the nights of my longing are many!_] Hito-tosé ni Nanuka no yo nomi Aü-hito no-- Koï mo tsuki-néba Sayo zo aké ni keru! [_But once in the whole year, and only upon the seventh night (of the seventh month), to meet the beloved person--and lo! The day has dawned before our mutual love could express itself!_[20]] [Footnote 20: Or "satisfy itself." A literal rendering is difficult.] Toshi no koï Koyoï tsukushíté, Asu yori wa, Tsuné no gotoku ya Waga koï oran. [_The love-longing of one whole year having ended to-night, every day from to-morrow I must again pine for him as before!_] Hikoboshi to Tanabata-tsumé to Koyoï aü;-- Ama-no-Kawa to ni Nami tatsu-na yumé! [_Hikoboshi and Tanabata-tsumé are to meet each other to-night;--ye waves of the River of Heaven, take heed that ye do not rise!_] Aki-kazé no Fuki tadayowasu Shirakumo wa, Tanabata-tsumé no Amatsu hiré kamo? [_Oh! that white cloud driven by the autumn-wind--can it be the heavenly hiré[21] of Tana-bata-tsumé?_] [Footnote 21: At different times, in the history of Japanese female costume, different articles of dress were called by this name. In the present instance, the _hiré_ referred to was probably a white scarf, worn about the neck and carried over the shoulders to the breast, where its ends were either allowed to hang loose, or were tied into an ornamental knot. The _hiré_ was often used to make signals with, much as handkerchiefs are waved to-day for the same purpose;--and the question uttered in the poem seems to signify: "Can that be Tanabata waving her scarf--to call me?" In very early times, the ordinary costumes worn were white.] Shiba-shiba mo Ai minu kimi wo, Amanogawa Funa-dé haya séyo Yo no fukénu ma ni. [_Because he is my not-often-to-be-met beloved, hasten to row the boat across the River of Heaven ere the night be advanced._] Amanogawa Kiri tachi-watari Hikoboshi no Kaji no 'to kikoyu Yo no fuké-yukéba. [_Late in the night, a mist spreads over_] _the River of Heaven; and the sound of the oar[22] of Hikoboshi is heard._] [Footnote 22: Or, "the creaking of the oar." (The word _kaji_ to-day means "helm";--the single oar, or scull, working upon a pivot, and serving at once for rudder and oar, being now called _ro_.) The mist passing across the Amanogawa is, according to commentators, the spray from the Star-god's oar.] Amanogawa Kawa 'to sayakéshi: Hikoboshi no Haya kogu funé no Nami no sawagi ka? [_On the River of Heaven a sound of plashing can be distinctly heard: is it the sound of the rippling made by Hikoboshi quickly rowing his boat?_] Kono y[=u]bé, Furikuru amé wa, Hikoboshi no Haya kogu funé no Kaï no chiri ka mo. [_Perhaps this evening shower is but the spray (flung down) from the oar of Hikoboshi, rowing his boat in haste._] Waga tama-doko wo Asu yori wa Uchi haraï, Kimi to inézuté Hitori ka mo nen! [_From to-morrow, alas! after having put my jewel-bed in order, no longer reposing with my lord, I must sleep alone!_] Kazé fukité, Kawa-nami tachinu;-- Hiki-funé ni Watari mo kimasé Yo no fukénu ma ni. [_The wind having risen, the waves of the river have become high;--this night cross over in a towboat,[23] I pray thee, before the hour be late!_] [Footnote 23: Lit. "pull-boat" (_hiki-funé_),--a barge or boat pulled by a rope.] Amanogawa Nami wa tatsutomo, Waga funé wa Iza kogi iden Yo no fukénu ma ni. [_Even though the waves of the River of_ _Heaven run high, I must row over quickly, before it becomes late in the night._] Inishié ni Oritéshi hata wo; Kono y[=u]bé Koromo ni nuïté-- Kimi matsu aré wo! [_Long ago I finished weaving the material; and, this evening, having finished sewing the garment for him--(why must) I still wait for my lord?_] Amanogawa Sé wo hayami ka mo? Nubatama no Yo wa fuké ni tsutsu, Awanu Hikoboshi! [_Is it that the current of the River of_ _Heaven (has become too) rapid? The jet-black night[24] advances--and Hikoboshi has not come!_] [Footnote 24: _Nubatama no yo_ might better be rendered by some such phrase as "the berry-black night,"--but the intended effect would be thus lost in translation. _Nubatama-no_ (a "pillow-word") is written with characters signifying "like the black fruits of _Karasu-[=O]gi_;" and the ancient phrase "_nubatama no yo_" therefore may be said to have the same meaning as our expressions "jet-black night," or "pitch-dark night."] Watashi-mori, Funé haya watasé;-- Hito-tosé ni Futatabi kay[=o] Kimi naranaku ni! [_Oh, ferryman, make speed across the stream!--my lord is not one who can come and go twice in a year!_] Aki kazé no Fukinishi hi yori, Amanogawa Kawasé ni dédachi;-- Matsu to tsugé koso! [_On the very day that the autumn-wind began to blow, I set out for the shallows of the River of Heaven;--I pray you, tell my lord that I am waiting here still!_] Tanabata no Funanori surashi,-- Maso-kagami, Kiyoki tsuki-yo ni Kumo tachi-wataru. [_Methinks Tanabata must be coming in her boat; for a cloud is even now passing across the clear face of the moon._[25]] [Footnote 25: Composed by the famous poet [=O]tomo no Sukuné Yakamochi, while gazing at the Milky Way, on the seventh night of the seventh month of the tenth year of Tampy[=o] (A.D. 738). The pillow-word in the third line (_maso-kagami_) is untranslatable.] --And yet it has been gravely asserted that the old Japanese poets could find no beauty in starry skies!... Perhaps the legend of Tanabata, as it was understood by those old poets, can make but a faint appeal to Western minds. Nevertheless, in the silence of transparent nights, before the rising of the moon, the charm of the ancient tale sometimes descends upon me, out of the scintillant sky,--to make me forget the monstrous facts of science, and the stupendous horror of Space. Then I no longer behold the Milky Way as that awful Ring of the Cosmos, whose hundred million suns are powerless to lighten the Abyss, but as the very Amanogawa itself,--the River Celestial. I see the thrill of its shining stream, and the mists that hover along its verge, and the water-grasses that bend in the winds of autumn. White Orihimé I see at her starry loom, and the Ox that grazes on the farther shore;--and I know that the falling dew is the spray from the Herdsman's oar. And the heaven seems very near and warm and human; and the silence about me is filled with the dream of a love unchanging, immortal,--forever yearning and forever young, and forever left unsatisfied by the paternal wisdom of the gods. GOBLIN POETRY Recently, while groping about an old book shop, I found a collection of Goblin Poetry in three volumes, containing many pictures of goblins. The title of the collection is _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_, or "The Mad Poetry of the _Hyaku-Monogatari_." The _Hyaku-Monogatari_, or "Hundred Tales," is a famous book of ghost stories. On the subject of each of the stories, poems were composed at different times by various persons,--poems of the sort called _Ky[=o]ka_, or Mad Poetry,--and these were collected and edited to form the three volumes of which I became the fortunate possessor. The collecting was done by a certain Takumi Jingor[=o], who wrote under the literary pseudonym "Temmér Ré[=o]jin" (Ancient of the Temmér Era). Takumi died in the first year of Bunky[=u] (1861), at the good age of eighty; and his collection seems to have been published in the sixth year of Kaéï (1853). The pictures were made by an artist called Masazumi, who worked under the pseudonym "Ry[=o]sai Kanjin." From a prefatory note it appears that Takumi Jingor[=o] published his collection with the hope of reviving interest in a once popular kind of poetry which had fallen into neglect before the middle of the century. The word _ky[=o]ka_ is written with a Chinese character signifying "insane" or "crazy;" and it means a particular and extraordinary variety of comic poetry. The form is that of the classic _tanka_ of thirty-one syllables (arranged 57577);--but the subjects are always the extreme reverse of classical; and the artistic effects depend upon methods of verbal jugglery which cannot be explained without the help of numerous examples. The collection published by Takumi includes a good deal of matter in which a Western reader can discover no merit; but the best of it has a distinctly grotesque quality that reminds one of Hood's weird cleverness in playing with grim subjects. This quality, and the peculiar Japanese method of mingling the playful with the terrific, can be suggested and explained only by reproducing in Romaji the texts of various _ky[=o]ka_, with translations and notes. The selection which I have made should prove interesting, not merely because it will introduce the reader to a class of Japanese poetry about which little or nothing has yet been written in English, but much more because it will afford some glimpses of a supernatural world which still remains for the most part unexplored. Without knowledge of Far Eastern superstitions and folk-tales, no real understanding of Japanese fiction or drama or poetry will ever become possible. * * * * * There are many hundreds of poems in the three volumes of the _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_; but the number of the ghosts and goblins falls short of the one hundred suggested by the title. There are just ninety-five. I could not expect to interest my readers in the whole of this goblinry, and my selection includes less than one seventh of the subjects. The Faceless Babe, The Long-Tongued Maiden, The Three-Eyed Monk, The Pillow-Mover, The Thousand Heads, The Acolyte-with-the-Lantern, The Stone-that-Cries-in-the-Night, The Goblin-Heron, The Goblin-Wind, The Dragon-Lights, and The Mountain-Nurse, did not much impress me. I omitted _ky[=o]ka_ dealing with fancies too gruesome for Western nerves,--such as that of the _Obumédori_,--also those treating of merely local tradition. The subjects chosen represent national rather than provincial folklore,--old beliefs (mostly of Chinese origin) once prevalent throughout the country, and often referred to in its popular literature. I. KITSUNÉ-BI The Will-o'-the-wisp is called _kitsuné-bi_ ("fox-fire"), because the goblin-fox was formerly supposed to create it. In old Japanese pictures it is represented as a tongue of pale red flame, hovering in darkness, and shedding no radiance upon the surfaces over which it glides. To understand some of the following _ky[=o]ka_ on the subject, the reader should know that certain superstitions about the magical power of the fox have given rise to several queer folk-sayings,--one of which relates to marrying a stranger. Formerly a good citizen was expected to marry within his own community, not outside of it; and the man who dared to ignore traditional custom in this regard would have found it difficult to appease the communal indignation. Even to-day the villager who, after a long absence from his birthplace, returns with a strange bride, is likely to hear unpleasant things said,--such as: "_Wakaranai-mono we hippaté-kita!... Doko no uma no honé da ka?_" ("Goodness knows what kind of a thing he has dragged here after him! Where did he pick up that old horse-bone?") The expression _uma no honé_, "old horse-bone," requires explanation. A goblin-fox has the power to assume many shapes; but, for the purpose of deceiving _men_, he usually takes the form of a pretty woman. When he wants to create a charming phantom of this kind, he picks up an old horse-bone or cow-bone, and holds it in his mouth. Presently the bone becomes luminous; and the figure of a woman defines about it,--the figure of a courtesan or singing-girl.... So the village query about the man who marries a strange wife, "What old horse-bone has he picked up?" signifies really, "What wanton has bewitched him?" It further implies the suspicion that the stranger may be of outcast blood: a certain class of women of pleasure having been chiefly recruited, from ancient time, among the daughters of Éta and other pariah-people. Hi tomoshité Kitsuné no kwaséshi, Asobimé[26] wa-- Izuka no uma no Honé ni ya aruran! [Footnote 26: _Asobimé_, a courtesan: lit., "sporting-woman." The Éta and other pariah classes furnished a large proportion of these women. The whole meaning of the poem is as follows: "See that young wanton with her lantern! It is a pretty sight--but so is the sight of a fox, when the creature kindles his goblin-fire and assumes the shape of a girl. And just as your fox-woman will prove to be no more than an old horse-bone, so that young courtesan, whose beauty deludes men to folly, may be nothing better than an Éta."] [_--Ah the wanton (lighting her lantern)!--so a fox-fire is kindled in the time of fox-transformation!... Perhaps she is really nothing more than an old horse-bone from somewhere or other...._] Kitsuné-bi no Moyuru ni tsukété, Waga tama no Kiyuru y[=o] nari Kokoro-hoso-michi! [_Because of that Fox-fire burning there, the very soul of me is like to be extinguished in this narrow path (or, in this heart-depressing solitude)._[27]] [Footnote 27: The supposed utterance of a belated traveler frightened by a will-o'-the-wisp. The last line allows of two readings. _Kokoro-hosoi_ means "timid;" and _hosoi michi_ (_hoso-michi_) means a "narrow path," and, by implication, a "lonesome path."] II. RIKOMBY[=O] The term _Rikomby[=o]_ is composed with the word _rikon_, signifying a "shade," "ghost," or "spectre," and the word _by[=o]_, signifying "sickness," "disease." An almost literal rendering would be "ghost-sickness." In Japanese-English dictionaries you will find the meaning of _Rikomby[=o]_ given as "hypochondria;" and doctors really use the term in this modern sense. But the ancient meaning was _a disorder of the mind which produced a Double_; and there is a whole strange literature about this weird disease. It used to be supposed, both in China and Japan, that under the influence of intense grief or longing, caused by love, the spirit of the suffering person would create a Double. Thus the victim of _Rikomby[=o]_ would appear to have two bodies, exactly alike; and one of these bodies would go to join the absent beloved, while the other remained at home. (In my "Exotics and Retrospectives," under the title "A Question in the Zen Texts," the reader will find a typical Chinese story on the subject,--the story of the girl Ts'ing.) Some form of the primitive belief in doubles and wraiths probably exists in every part of the world; but this Far Eastern variety is of peculiar interest because the double is supposed to be caused by love, and the subjects of the affliction to belong to the gentler sex.... The term _Rikomby[=o]_ seems to be applied to the apparition as well as to the mental disorder supposed to produce the apparition: it signifies "doppelgänger" as well as "ghost-disease." * * * * * --With these necessary explanations, the quality of the following _ky[=o]ka_ can be understood. A picture which appears in the _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_ shows a maid-servant anxious to offer a cup of tea to her mistress,--a victim of the "ghost-sickness." The servant cannot distinguish between the original and the apparitional shapes before her; and the difficulties of the situation are suggested in the first of the _ky[=o]ka_ which I have translated:-- Ko-ya, soré to? Ayamé mo wakanu Rikomby[=o]: Izuré we tsuma to Hiku zo wazuraü! [_Which one is this?--which one is that? Between the two shapes of the Rikomby[=o] it is not possible to distinguish. To find out which is the real wife--that will be an affliction of spirit indeed!_] Futatsu naki Inochi nagara mo Kakégaë no Karada no miyuru-- Kage no wazurai! [_Two lives there certainly are not;--nevertheless an extra body is visible, by reason of the Shadow-Sickness._] Naga-tabi no Oto we shitaïté Mi futatsu ni Naru wa onna no S[=a]ru rikomby[=o]. [_Yearning after her far-journeying husband, the woman has thus become two bodies, by reason of her ghostly sickness._] Miru kagé mo Naki wazurai no Rikomby[=o],-- Omoi no hoka ni Futatsu miru kagé! [_Though (it was said that), because of her ghostly sickness, there was not even a shadow of her left to be seen,--yet, contrary to expectation, there are two shadows of her to be seen!_[28]] [Footnote 28: The Japanese say of a person greatly emaciated by sickness, _miru-kagé mo naki_: "Even a visible shadow of him is not!"--Another rendering is made possible by the fact that the same expression is used in the sense of "unfit to be seen,"--"though the face of the person afflicted with this ghostly sickness is unfit to be seen, yet by reason of her secret longing [for another man] there are now two of her faces to be seen." The phrase _omoi no hoka_, in the fourth line, means "contrary to expectation;" but it is ingeniously made to suggest also the idea of secret longing.] Rikomby[=o] Hito ni kakushité Oku-zashiki, Omoté y dëasanu Kagé no wazurai. [_Afflicted with the Rikomby[=o], she hides away from people in the back room, and never approaches the front of the house,--because of her Shadow-disease._[29]] [Footnote 29: There is a curious play on words in the fourth line. The word _omoté_, meaning "the front," might, in reading, be sounded as _omotté_, "thinking." The verses therefore might also be thus translated:--"She keeps her real thoughts hidden in the back part of the house, and never allows them to be seen in the front part of the house,--because she is suffering from the 'Shadow-Sickness' [of love]."] Mi wa koko ni; Tama wa otoko ni Soïné suru;-- Kokoro mo shiraga Haha ga kaih[=o]. [_Here her body lies; but her soul is far away, asleep in the arms of a man;--and the white-haired mother, little knowing her daughter's heart, is nursing (only the body)._[30]] [Footnote 30: There is a double meaning, suggested rather than expressed, in the fourth line. The word _shiraga_, "white-hair," suggests _shirazu_, "not knowing."] Tamakushigé Futatsu no sugata Misénuru wa, Awasé-kagami no Kagé no wazurai. [_If, when seated before her toilet-stand, she sees two faces reflected in her mirror,--that might be caused by the mirror doubling itself under the influence of the Shadow-Sickness._[31]] [Footnote 31: There is in this poem a multiplicity of suggestion impossible to render in translation. While making her toilet, the Japanese woman uses two mirrors (_awasé-kagami_)--one of which, a hand-mirror, serves to show her the appearance of the back part of her coiffure, by reflecting it into the larger stationary mirror. But in this case of Rikomby[=o], the woman sees more than her face and the back of her head in the larger mirror: she sees her own double. The verses indicate that one of the mirrors may have caught the Shadow-Sickness, and doubled itself. And there is a further suggestion of the ghostly sympathy said to exist between a mirror and the soul of its possessor.] III. [=O]-GAMA In the old Chinese and Japanese literature the toad is credited with supernatural capacities,--such as the power to call down clouds, the power to make rain, the power to exhale from its mouth a magical mist which creates the most beautiful illusions. Some toads are good spirits,--friends of holy men; and in Japanese art a famous Rishi called "Gama-Sennin" (Toad Rishi) is usually represented with a white toad resting upon his shoulder, or squatting beside him. Some toads are evil goblins, and create phantasms for the purpose of luring men to destruction. A typical story about a creature of this class will be found in my "Kott[=o]," entitled "The Story of Chug[=o]r[=o]." Mé wa kagami, Kuchi wa tarai no Hodo ni aku: Gama mo késh[=o] no Mono to kos[=o] shiré. [_The eye of it, widely open, like a (round) mirror; the mouth of it opening like a wash-basin--by these things you may know that the Toad is a goblin-thing (or, that the Toad is a toilet article)._[32]] [Footnote 32: There are two Japanese words, _kesh[=o]_, which in _kana_ are written alike and pronounced alike, though represented by very different Chinese characters. As written in _kana_, the term _kesh[=o]-no-mono_ may signify either "toilet articles" or "a monstrous being," "a goblin."] IV. SHINKIR[=O] The term _Shinkir[=o]_ is used in the meaning of "mirage," and also as another name for H[=o]rai, the Elf-land of Far Eastern fable. Various beings in Japanese myth are credited with power to delude mortals by creating a mirage of H[=o]rai. In old pictures one may see a toad represented in the act of exhaling from its mouth a vapor that shapes the apparition of H[=o]rai. But the creature especially wont to produce this illusion is the _Hamaguri_,--a Japanese mollusk much resembling a clam. Opening its shell, it sends into the air a purplish misty breath; and that mist takes form and defines, in tints of mother-of-pearl, the luminous vision of H[=o]rai and the palace of the Dragon-King. Hamaguri no Kuchi aku toki ya, Shinkir[=o]! Yo ni shiraré ken Tatsu-no-miya-himé! [_When the hamaguri opens its mouth--lo! Shinkir[=o] appears!... Then all can clearly see the Maiden-Princess of the Dragon-Palace._] Shinkir[=o]-- Tatsu no miyako no Hinagata[33] wo Shio-hi no oki ni Misuru hamaguri! [_Lo! in the offing at ebb-tide, the hamaguri makes visible the miniature image of Shinkir[=o]--the Dragon-Capital!_] [Footnote 33: _Hinagata_ means especially "a model," "a miniature copy," "a drawn plan," etc.] V. ROKURO-KUBI The etymological meaning of _Rokuro-Kubi_ can scarcely be indicated by any English rendering. The term _rokuro_ is indifferently used to designate many revolving objects--objects as dissimilar as a pulley, a capstan, a windlass, a turning lathe, and a potter's wheel. Such renderings of Rokuro-Kubi as "Whirling-Neck" and "Rotating-Neck" are unsatisfactory;--for the idea which the term suggests to Japanese fancy is that of a neck which revolves, _and lengthens or retracts according to the direction of the revolution_.... As for the ghostly meaning of the expression, a Rokuro-Kubi is either (1) a person whose neck lengthens prodigiously during sleep, so that the head can wander about in all directions, seeking what it may devour, or (2) a person able to detach his or her head completely from the body, and to rejoin it to the neck afterwards. (About this last mentioned variety of _Rokuro-Kubi_ there is a curious story in my "Kwaidan," translated from the Japanese.) In Chinese mythology the being whose neck is so constructed as to allow of the head being completely detached belongs to a special class; but in Japanese folk-tale this distinction is not always maintained. One of the bad habits attributed to the Rokuro-Kubi is that of drinking the oil in night-lamps. In Japanese pictures the Rokuro-Kubi is usually depicted as a woman; and old books tell us that a woman might become a Rokuro-Kubi without knowing it,--much as a somnambulist walks about while asleep, without being aware of the fact.... The following verses about the Rokuro-Kubi have been selected from a group of twenty in the _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_:-- Nemidaré no Nagaki kami woba Furi-wakété, Chi hiro ni nobasu Rokuro-Kubi kana! [_Oh!... Shaking loose her long hair disheveled by sleep, the Rokuro-Kubi stretches her neck to the length of a thousand fathoms!_] "Atama naki Bakémono nari"--to Rokuro-Kubi, Mité odorokan Onoga karada we. [_Will not the Rokuro-Kubi, viewing with_ _astonishment her own body (left behind) cry out, "Oh, what a headless goblin have you become!_"] Tsuka-no-ma ni Hari we tsutawaru, Rokuro-Kubi Kéta-kéta warau-- Kao no kowasa yo! [_Swiftly gliding along the roof-beam (and among the props of the roof), the Rokuro-Kubi laughs with the sound of "kéta-kéta"--oh! the fearfulness of her face!_[34]] [Footnote 34: It is not possible to render all the double meanings in this composition. _Tsuka-no-ma_ signifies "in a moment" or "quickly"; but it may also mean "in the space [_ma_] between the roof-props" [_tsuka_]. "_Kéta_" means a cross-beam, but _kéta-kéta warau_ means to chuckle or laugh in a mocking way. Ghosts are said to laugh with the sound of kéta-kéta.] Roku shaku no By[=o]bu ni nobiru Rokuro-Kubi Mité wa, go shaku no Mi wo chijimi-kéri! [_Beholding the Rokuro-Kubi rise up above the six-foot screen, any five-foot person would have become shortened by fear (or, "the stature of any person five feet high would have been diminished")._[35]] [Footnote 35: The ordinary height of a full screen is six Japanese feet.] VI. YUKI-ONNA The Snow-Woman, or Snow-Spectre, assumes various forms; but in most of the old folk-tales she appears as a beautiful phantom, whose embrace is death. (A very curious story about her can be found in my "Kwaidan.") Yuki-Onna-- Yos[=o] kushi mo Atsu k[=o]ri; Sasu-k[=o]gai ya K[=o]ri naruran. [_As for the Snow-Woman,--even her best comb, if I mistake not, is made of thick ice; and her hair-pin[36], too, is probably made of ice._] [Footnote 36: _K[=o]gai_ is the name now given to a quadrangular bar of tortoise-shell passed under the coiffure, which leaves only the ends of the bar exposed. The true hair-pin is called _kanzashi_.] Honrai wa K[=u] naru mono ka, Yuki-Onna? Yoku-yoku mireba Ichi-butsu mo nashi! [_Was she, then, a delusion from the very first, that Snow-Woman,--a thing that vanishes into empty space? When I look carefully all about me, not one trace of her is to be seen!_] Yo-akéréba Kiété yuku é wa Shirayuki[37] no Onna to mishi mo Yanagi nari-keri! [_Having vanished at daybreak (that Snow-Woman), none could say whither she had gone. But what had seemed to be a snow-white woman became indeed a willow-tree!_] [Footnote 37: The term _shirayuki_, as here used, offers an example of what Japanese poets call _Keny[=o]gen_, or "double-purpose words." Joined to the words immediately following, it makes the phrase "white-snow woman" (_shirayuki no onna_);--united with the words immediately preceding, it suggests the reading, "whither-gone not-knowing" (_yuku é wa shira[zu]_).] Yuki-Onna Mité wa yasathiku, Matsu wo ori Nama-daké hishigu Chikara ari-keri! [_Though the Snow-Woman appears to sight slender and gentle, yet, to snap the pine-trees asunder and to crush the live bamboos, she must have had strength._] Samukésa ni Zotto[38] wa surédo Yuki-Onna,-- Yuki oré no naki Yanagi-goshi ka mo! [_Though the Snow-Woman makes one shiver by her coldness,--ah, the willowy grace of her form cannot be broken by the snow (i.e. charms us in spite of the cold)._] [Footnote 38: _Zotto_ is a difficult word to render literally: perhaps the nearest English equivalent is "thrilling." _Zotto suru_ signifies "to cause a thrill" or "to give a shock," or "to make shiver;" and of a very beautiful person it is said "_Zotto-suru hodo no bijin_,"--meaning! "She is so pretty that it gives one a shock merely to look at her." The term _yanagi-goshi_ ("willow-loins") in the last line is a common expression designating a slender and graceful figure; and the reader should observe that the first half of the term is ingeniously made to do double duty here,--suggesting, with the context, not only the grace of willow branches weighed down by snow, but also the grace of a human figure that one must stop to admire, in spite of the cold.] VII. FUNA-Y[=U]RÉÏ The spirits of the drowned are said to follow after ships, calling for a bucket or a water-dipper (_hishaku_). To refuse the bucket or the dipper is dangerous; but the bottom of the utensil should be knocked out before the request is complied with, and the spectres must not be allowed to see this operation performed. If an undamaged bucket or dipper be thrown to the ghosts, it will be used to fill and to sink the ship. These phantoms are commonly called _Funa-Y[=u]réï_ ("Ship-Ghosts"). The spirits of those warriors of the Héïké clan who perished in the great sea-fight at Dan-no-ura, in the year 1185, are famous among Funa-Y[=u]réï. Taïra no Tomomori, one of the chiefs of the clan, is celebrated in this weird rôle: old pictures represent him, followed by the ghosts of his warriors, running over the waves to attack passing ships. Once he menaced a vessel in which Benkéï, the celebrated retainer of Yoshitsuné, was voyaging; and Benkéï was able to save the ship only by means of his Buddhist rosary, which frightened the spectres away.... Tomomori is frequently pictured as walking upon the sea, carrying a ship's anchor on his back. He and his fellow-ghosts are said to have been in the habit of uprooting and making off with the anchors of vessels imprudently moored in their particular domain,--the neighborhood of Shimonoséki. Erimoto yé Mizu kakéraruru Kokochi seri, "Hishaku kasé" ch[=o] Funé no kowané ni. [_As if the nape of our necks had been sprinkled with cold water,--so we felt while listening_ _to the voice of the ship-ghost, saying:--"Lend me a dipper!"_[39]] [Footnote 39: _Hishaku_, a wooden dipper with a long handle, used to transfer water from a bucket to smaller vessels.] Y[=u]rei ni Kasu-hishaku yori Ichi-hayaku Onoré ga koshi mo Nukéru sench[=o]. [_The loins of the captain himself were knocked out very much more quickly than the bottom of the dipper that was to be given to the ghost._[40]] [Footnote 40: The common expression _Koshi ga nukéru_ (to have one's loins taken out) means to be unable to stand up by reason of fear. The suggestion is that while the captain was trying to knock out the bottom of a dipper, before giving it to the ghost, he fell senseless from fright.] Benkéï no Zuzu no kuriki ni Tomomori no Sugata mo ukamu-- Funé no y[=u]réï. [_By the virtue of Benkéï's rosary, even_ _the ship-following ghost--even the apparition of Tomomori--is saved._] Y[=u]réï wa Ki naru Izumi no Hito nagara, Aö-umibara ni Nadoté itsuran? [_Since any ghost must be an inhabitant of the Yellow Springs, how should a ghost appear on the Blue Sea-Plain?_[41]] [Footnote 41: The Underworld of the Dead--_Yomi_ or K[=o]sen--is called "The Yellow Springs;" these names being written with two Chinese characters respectively signifying "yellow" and "fountain." A very ancient term for the ocean, frequently used in the old Shint[=o] rituals, is "The Blue Sea-Plain."] Sono sugata, Ikari wo [=o]té, Tsuki-matoü Funé no hésaki ya Tomomori no réï! [_That Shape, carrying the anchor on its back, and following after the ship--now at the bow and now at the stern--ah, the ghost of Tomomori._[42]] [Footnote 42: There is an untranslatable play upon words in the last two lines. The above rendering includes two possible readings.] Tsumi fukaki Umi ni shidzumishi, Y[=u]réï no "Ukaman" toté ya! Funé ni sugaréru. [_Crying, "Now perchance I shall be saved!" The ghost that sank into the deep Sea of Sin clings to the passing ship!_[43]] [Footnote 43: There is more weirdness in this poem than the above rendering suggests. The word _ukaman_ in the fourth line can be rendered as "shall perhaps float," or as "shall perhaps be saved" (in the Buddhist sense of salvation),--as there are two verbs _ukami_. According to an old superstition, the spirits of the drowned must continue to dwell in the waters _until such time as they can lure the living to destruction_. When the ghost of any drowned person succeeds in drowning somebody, it may be able to obtain rebirth, and to leave the sea forever. The exclamation of the ghost in this poem really means, "Now perhaps I shall be able to drown somebody." (A very similar superstition is said to exist on the Breton coast.) A common Japanese saying about a child or any person who follows another too closely and persistently is: _Kawa de shinda-y[=u]réï no yona tsuré-hoshigaru!_--"Wants to follow you everywhere like the ghost of a drowned person."] Ukaman to Funé we shitaëru Yuréï wa, Shidzumishi híto no Omoï naruran. [_The ghosts following after our ship in their efforts to rise again (or, "to be saved") might perhaps be the (last vengeful) thoughts of drowned men.[44]] [Footnote 44: Here I cannot attempt to render the various plays upon words; but the term "_omoï_" needs explanation. It means "thought" or "thoughts;" but in colloquial phraseology it is often used as a euphemism for a dying person's last desire of vengeance. In various dramas it has been used in the signification of "avenging ghost." Thus the exclamation, "His _thought_ has come back!"--in reference to a dead man--really means: "His angry ghost appears!"] Uraméshiki Sugata wa sugoki Yuréï no, Kaji we jama suru Funé no Tomomori. [_With vengeful aspect, the grisly ghost of Tomomori (rises) at the stern of the ship to hinder the play of her rudder._[45]] [Footnote 45: There is a double meaning given by the use of the name _Tomomori_ in the last line. _Tomo_ means "the stern" of a ship; _mori_ means "to leak." So the poem suggests that the ghost of Tomomori not only interferes with the ship's rudder, but causes her to leak.] Ochi-irité, Uwo no éjiki to Nari ni ken;-- Funa-y[=u]réï mo Nama-kusaki kazé. [_Having perished in the sea, (those Héïké) would probably have become food for fishes. (Anyhow, whenever) the ship-following ghosts (appear), the wind has a smell of raw fish!_[46]] [Footnote 46: _Namakusaki-kaze_ really means a wind having a "raw stench;" but the smell of bait is suggested by the second line of the poem. A literal rendering is not possible in this case; the art of the composition being altogether suggestive.] VIII. HÉÏKÉGANÌ Readers can find in my "Kott[=o]" a paper about the Héïké-Crabs, which have on their upper shells various wrinklings that resemble the outlines of an angry face. At Shimono-séki dried specimens of these curious creatures are offered for sale.... The Héïké-Crabs are said to be the transformed angry spirits of the Héïké warriors who perished at Dan-no-ura. Shiwo-hi ni wa Séïzoroë shité, Héïkégani Ukiyo no sama we Yoko ni niramitsu. [_Marshaled (on the beach) at the ebb of the tide, the Héïké-crabs obliquely glare at the apparition of this miserable world._[47]] [Footnote 47: _Hi_, the third syllable of the first line of the poem, does duty for _hi_, signifying "ebb," and for _hikata_, "dry beach." _Séïzoroë_ is a noun signifying "battle-array"--in the sense of the Roman term _acies_;--and _séïzoroé shité_ means "drawn up in battle-array."] Saikai ni Shizumi-nurédomo, Héïkégani K[=o]ra no iro mo Yahari aka-hata. [_Though (the Héïké) long ago sank and perished in the Western Sea, the Héïké-crabs still display_ _upon their upper shells the color of the Red Standard._[48]] [Footnote 48: The ensign of the Héïké, or Taïra clan was red; while that of their rivals, the Genji or Minamot[=o], was white.] Maké-ikusa Munen to muné ni Hasami ken;-- Kao mo makka ni Naru Héïkégani. [_Because of the pain of defeat, claws have grown on their breasts, I think;--even the faces of the Héïké-crabs have become crimson (with anger and shame)._] Mikata mina Oshi-tsubusaréshi Héïkégani Ikon we muné ni Hasami mochikéri. [_All the (Héïké) party having been utterly crushed, claws have grown upon the breasts of the Héïké-crabs because of the resentment in their hearts._[49]] [Footnote 49: The use of the word _hasami_ in the fifth line is a very good example of _keny[=o]gen_. There is a noun _hasami_, meaning the nippers of a crab, or a pair of scissors; and there is a verb _hasami_, meaning to harbor, to cherish, or to entertain. (_Ikon wo hasamu_ means "to harbor resentment against.") Reading the word only in connection with those which follow it, we have the phrase _hasami mochikéri_, "got claws;" but, reading it with the words preceding, we have the expression _ikon wo muné ni hasami_, "resentment in their breasts nourishing."] IX. YANARI Modern dictionaries ignore the uncanny significations of the word _Yanari_,--only telling us that it means the sound of the shaking of a house during an earthquake. But the word used to mean the noise of the shaking of a house moved by a goblin; and the invisible shaker was also called _Yanari_. When, without apparent cause, some house would shudder and creak and groan in the night, folk used to suppose that it was being shaken from without by supernatural malevolence. Tokonoma ni Ikéshi tachiki mo Taoré-keri; Yanari ni yama no Ugoku kakémono! [_Even the live tree set in the alcove has fallen down; and the mountains in the hanging picture tremble to the quaking made by the Yanari!_[50]] [Footnote 50: The _tokonoma_ in a Japanese room is a sort of ornamental recess or alcove, in which a picture is usually hung, and vases of flowers, or a dwarf tree, are placed.] X. SAKASA-BASHIRA The term _Sakasa-bashira_ (in these _ky[=o]ka_ often shortened into _saka-bashira_) literally means "upside-down post." A wooden post or pillar, especially a house-post, should be set up according to the original position of the tree from which it was hewn,--that is to say, with the part nearest to the roots downward. To erect a house-post in the contrary way is thought to be unlucky;--formerly such a blunder was believed to involve unpleasant consequences of a ghostly kind, because an "upside-down" pillar would do malignant things. It would moan and groan in the night, and move all its cracks like mouths, and open all its knots like eyes. Moreover, the spirit of it (for every house-post has a spirit) would detach its long body from the timber, and wander about the rooms, head-downwards, making faces at people. Nor was this all. A _Sakasa-bashira_ knew how to make all the affairs of a household go wrong,--how to foment domestic quarrels,--how to contrive misfortune for each of the family and the servants,--how to render existence almost insupportable until such time as the carpenter's blunder should be discovered and remedied. Saka-bashira Tatéshi wa tazo ya? Kokoro ni mo Fushi aru hito no Shiwaza naruran. [_Who set the house-pillar upside-down? Surely that must have been the work of a man with a knot in his heart._] Hidayama we Kiri-kité tatéshi Saka-bashira-- Nanno takumi[51] no Shiwaza naruran? [_That house-pillar hewn in the mountains of Hida, and thence brought here and erected upside-down--what carpenter's work can it be? (or, "for what evil design can this deed have been done?")_] [Footnote 51: The word _takumi_, as written in _kana_, may signify either "carpenter" or "intrigue," "evil plot," "wicked device." Thus two readings are possible. According to one reading, the post was fixed upside-down through inadvertence; according to the other, it was so fixed with malice prepense.] Uë shita wo Chigaëté tatéshi Hashira ni wa Sakasama-goto no Uréï aranan. [_As for that house-pillar mistakenly planted upside-down, it will certainly cause adversity and sorrow._[52]] [Footnote 52: Lit., "upside-down-matter-sorrow." _Sakasama-goto_, "up-side-down affair," is a common expression for calamity, contrariety, adversity, vexation.] Kabé ni mimi Arité, kiké to ka? Sakashima ni Tateshi hashira ni Yanari suru oto! [_O Ears that be in the wall![53] listen, will ye? to the groaning and the creaking of the house-post that was planted upside-down!_] [Footnote 53: Alluding to the proverb, _Kabé ni mimi ari_ ("There are ears in the wall"), which signifies: "Be careful how you talk about other people, even in private."] Uri-iyé no Aruji we toëba, Oto arité: Waré mé ga kuchi wo Aku saka-bashira. [_When I inquired for the master of the house that was for sale, there came to me only a strange sound by way of reply,--the sound of the upside-down house-post opening its eyes and mouth![54] (i.e. its cracks)._] [Footnote 54: There is a pun in the fourth line which suggests more than even a free translation can express. _Waré_ means "I," or "mine," or "one's own," etc., according to circumstances; and _waré mé_ (written separately) might be rendered "its own eyes." But _warémé_ (one word) means a crack, rent, split, or fissure. The reader should remember that the term _saka-bashira_ means not only "upside-down post," but also the goblin or spectre of the upside-down post.] Omoïkiya! Sakasa-bashira no Hashira-kaké Kakinishit uta mo Yamai ari to wa! [_Who could have thought it!--even the poem inscribed upon the pillar-tablet, attached to the pillar which was planted upside-down, has taken the same (ghostly) sickness._[55]] [Footnote 55: That is to say, "Even the poem on the tablet is up-side-down,"--all wrong. _Hashira-kaké_ ("pillar-suspended thing") is the name given to a thin tablet of fine wood, inscribed or painted, which is hung to a post by way of ornament.] XI. BAKÉ-JIZÖ The figure of the Bodhi-sattva Jizö, the savior of children's ghosts, is one of the most beautiful and humane in Japanese Buddhism. Statues of this divinity may be seen in almost every village and by every roadside. But some statues of Jizö are said to do uncanny things--such as to walk about at night in various disguises. A statue of this kind is called a _Baké-Jiz[=o]_[56],--meaning a Jiz[=o]; that undergoes transformation. A conventional picture shows a little boy about to place the customary child's-offering of rice-cakes before the stone image of Jiz[=o],--not suspecting that the statue moves, and is slowly bending down towards him. [Footnote 56: Perhaps the term might be rendered "Shape-changing Jiz[=o]." The verb _bakéru_ means to change shape, to undergo metamorphosis, to haunt, and many other supernatural things.] Nanigé naki Ishi no Jiz[=o] no Sugata saë, Yo wa osoroshiki Mikagé to zo naki. [_Though the stone Jiz[=o] looks as if nothing were the matter with it, they say that at night it assumes an awful aspect (or, "Though this image appears to be a common stone Jiz[=o], they say that at night it becomes an awful Jiz[=o]; of granite."_[57])] [Footnote 57: The Japanese word for granite is _mikagé_; and there is also an honorific term _mikagé_, applied to divinities and emperors, which signifies "august aspect," "sacred presence," etc.... No literal rendering can suggest the effect, in the fifth line, of the latter reading. _Kagé_ signifies "shadow," "aspect," and "power"--especially occult power; the honorific prefix _mi_, attached to names and attributes of divinities, may be rendered "august."] XII. UMI-B[=O]ZU Place a large cuttlefish on a table, body upwards and tentacles downwards--and you will have before you the grotesque reality that first suggested the fancy of the _Umi-B[=o]zu_, or Priest of the Sea. For the great bald body in this position, with the staring eyes below, bears a distorted resemblance to the shaven head of a priest; while the crawling tentacles underneath (which are in some species united by a dark web) suggests the wavering motion of the priest's upper robe.... The Umi-B[=o]zu figures a good deal in the literature of Japanese goblinry, and in the old-fashioned picture-books. He rises from the deep in foul weather to seize his prey. Ita hitoë Shita wa Jigoku ni, Sumizomé no B[=o]zu no umi ni Déru mo ayashina! [_Since there is but the thickness of a single plank (between the voyager and the sea), and underneath is Hell, 'tis indeed a weird thing that a black-robed priest should rise from the sea (or, "'tis surely a marvelous happening that," etc.!_[58])] [Footnote 58: The puns are too much for me.... _Ayashii_ means "suspicious," "marvelous," "supernatural," "weird," "doubtful."--In the first two lines there is a reference to the Buddhist proverb: _Funa-ita ichi-mai shita wa Jigoku_ ("under the thickness of a single ship's-plank is Hell"). (See my _Gleanings in Buddha-Fields_, p. 206, for another reference to this saying.)] XIII. FUDA-HÉGASHI[59] Homes are protected from evil spirits by holy texts and charms. In any Japanese village, or any city by-street, you can see these texts when the sliding-doors are closed at night: they are not visible by day, when the sliding-doors have been pushed back into the _tobukuro_. Such texts are called _o-fuda_ (august scripts): they are written in Chinese characters upon strips of white paper, which are attached to the door with rice-paste; and there are many kinds of them. Some are texts selected from sutras--such as the Sûtra of Transcendent Wisdom (Pragña-Pâramitâ-Hridaya-Sûtra), or the Sûtra of the Lotos of the Good Law (Saddharma-Pundarikâ-Sûtra). Some are texts from the dhâranîs,--which are magical. Some are invocations only, indicating the Buddhist sect of the household.... Besides these you may see various smaller texts, or little prints, pasted above or beside windows or apertures,--some being names of Shinto gods; others, symbolical pictures only, or pictures of Buddhas and Bodhi-sattvas. All are holy charms,--_o-fuda_: they protect the houses; and no goblin or ghost can enter by night into a dwelling so protected, unless the _o-fuda_ be removed. [Footnote 59: _Hégashi_ is the causative form of the verb _hégu_, "to pull off," "peel off," "strip off," "split off." The term _Fuda-hégashi_ signifies "Make-peel-off-august-charm Ghost." In my _Ghostly Japan_ the reader can find a good Japanese story about a _Fuda-hégashi_.] Vengeful ghosts cannot themselves remove an _o-fuda_; but they will endeavor by threats or promises or bribes to make some person remove it for them. A ghost that wants to have the _o-fuda_ pulled off a door is called a _Fuda-hégashi_. Hégasan to Rokuji-no-fuda wo, Yuréï mo Nam'mai d[=a] to Kazoëté zo mini. [_Even the ghost that would remove the charms written with six characters actually tries to count them, repeating: "How many sheets are there?" (or, repeating, "Hail to thee, O Buddha Amitábha!"[60])_] [Footnote 60: The fourth line gives these two readings:-- _Nam'mai da?_--"How many sheets are there?" _Nam[u] A[m]ida!_--"Hail, O Amitâbha!" The invocation, _Namu Amida Butsu_, is chiefly used by members of the great Shin sect; but it is also used by other sects, and especially in praying for the dead. While repeating it, the person praying numbers the utterances upon his Buddhist rosary; and this custom is suggested by the use of the word _kazoëté_, "counting."] Tada ichi no Kami no o-fuda wa Sasuga ni mo Noriké naku to mo Hégashi kanékéri. [_Of the august written-charms of the god (which were pasted upon the walls of the house), not even one could by any effort be pulled off, though the rice-paste with which they had been fastened was all gone._] XIV. FURU-TSUBAKI The old Japanese, like the old Greeks, had their flower-spirits and their hamadryads, concerning whom some charming stories are told. They also believed in trees inhabited by malevolent beings,--goblin trees. Among other weird trees, the beautiful _tsubaki_ (_Camellia Japonica_) was said to be an unlucky tree;--this was said, at least, of the red-flowering variety, the white-flowering kind having a better reputation and being prized as a rarity. The large fleshy crimson flowers have this curious habit: they detach themselves bodily from the stem, when they begin to fade; and they fall with an audible thud. To old Japanese fancy the falling of these heavy red flowers was like the falling of human heads under the sword; and the dull sound of their dropping was said to be like the thud made by a severed head striking the ground. Nevertheless the tsubaki seems to have been a favorite in Japanese gardens because of the beauty of its glossy foliage; and its flowers were used for the decoration of alcoves. But in samurai homes it was a rule never to place tsubaki-flowers in an alcove _during war-time_. The reader will notice that in the following _ky[=o]ka_--which, as grotesques, seem to me the best in the collection--the goblin-tsubaki is called _furu-tsubaki_, "old tsubaki." The young tree was not supposed to have goblin-propensities,--these being developed only after many years. Other uncanny trees--such as the willow and the _énoki_--were likewise said to become dangerous only as they became old; and a similar belief prevailed on the subject of uncanny animals, such as the cat--innocent in kittenhood, but devilish in age. Yo-arashi ni Chishiho itadaku Furu tsubaki, Hota-hota ochiru Hana no nama-kubi. [_When by the night-storm is shaken the blood-crowned and ancient tsubaki-tree, then one by one fall the gory heads of the flowers, (with the sound of) hota-hota!_[61]] [Footnote 61: The word _furu_ in the third line is made to do double duty,--as the adjective, _furu[i]_, "ancient"; and as the verb _furu_, "to shake." The old term _nama-kuhi_ (lit., "raw head") means a human head, freshly-severed, from which the blood is still oozing.] Kusa mo ki mo Némuréru koro no Sayo kazé ni, Méhana no ugoku Furu-tsubaki kana! [_When even the grass and the trees are sleeping under the faint wind of the night,--then do the eyes and the noses of the old tsubaki-tree (or "the buds and the flowers of the old tsubaki-tree") move!_[62]] [Footnote 62: Two Japanese words are written, in _kana_, as "mé"--one meaning "a bud;" the other "eye." The syllables "hana" in like fashion, may signify either "flower" or "nose." As a grotesque, this little poem is decidedly successful.] Tomoshibi no Kagé ayashigé ni Miyénuru wa Abura shiborishi Furu-tsubaki ka-mo? [_As for (the reason why) the light of that lamp appears to be a Weirdness,[63]--perhaps the oil was expressed from (the nuts of) the ancient tsu-baki?_] [Footnote 63: _Ayashigé_ is a noun formed from the adjective _ayashi_, "suspicious," "strange," "supernatural," "doubtful." The word _kagé_ signifies both "light" and "shadow,"--and is here used with double suggestiveness. The vegetable oil used in the old Japanese lamps used to be obtained from the nuts of the _tsubaki_. The reader should remember that the expression "ancient tsubaki" is equivalent to the expression "goblin-tsubaki,"--the tsubaki being supposed to turn into a goblin-tree only when it becomes old.] * * * * * --Nearly all the stories and folk-beliefs about which these _ky[=o]ka_ were written seem to have come from China; and most of the Japanese tales of tree-spirits appear to have had a Chinese origin. As the flower-spirits and hamadryads of the Far East are as yet little known to Western readers, the following Chinese story may be found interesting. * * * * * There was a Chinese scholar--called, in Japanese books, T[=o] no Busanshi--who was famous for his love of flowers. He was particularly fond of peonies, and cultivated them with great skill and patience.[64] [Footnote 64: The tree-peony (_botan_) is here referred to,--a flower much esteemed in Japan. It is said to have been introduced from China during the eighth century; and no less than five hundred varieties of it are now cultivated by Japanese gardeners.] One day a very comely girl came to the house of Busanshi, and begged to be taken into his service. She said that circumstances obliged her to seek humble employment, but that she had received a literary education, and therefore wished to enter, if possible, into the service of a scholar. Busanshi was charmed by her beauty, and took her into his household without further questioning. She proved to be much more than a good domestic: indeed, the nature of her accomplishments made Busanshi suspect that she had been brought up in the court of some prince, or in the palace of some great lord. She displayed a perfect knowledge of the etiquette and the polite arts which are taught only to ladies of the highest rank; and she possessed astonishing skill in calligraphy, in painting, and in every kind of poetical composition. Busanshi presently fell in love with her, and thought only of how to please her. When scholar-friends or other visitors of importance came to the house, he would send for the new maid that she might entertain and wait upon his guests; and all who saw her were amazed by her grace and charm. One day Busanshi received a visit from the great Teki-Shin-Ketsu, a famous teacher of moral doctrine; and the maid did not respond to her master's call. Busanshi went himself to seek her, being desirous that Teki-Shin-Ketsu should see her and admire her; but she was nowhere to be found. After having searched the whole house in vain, Busanshi was returning to the guest-room when he suddenly caught sight of the maid, gliding soundlessly before him along a corridor. He called to her, and hurried after her. Then she turned half-round, and flattened herself against the wall like a spider; and as he reached her she sank backwards into the wall, so that there remained of her nothing visible but a colored shadow,--level like a picture painted on the plaster. But the shadow moved its lips and eyes, and spoke to him in a whisper, saying:-- "Pardon me that I did not obey your august call!... I am not a mankind-person;--I am only the Soul of a Peony. Because you loved peonies so much, I was able to take human shape, and to serve you. But now this Teki-Shin-Ketsu has come,--and he is a person of dreadful propriety,--and I dare not keep this form any longer.... I must return to the place from which I came." Then she sank back into the wall, and vanished altogether: there was nothing where she had been except the naked plaster. And Busanshi never saw her again. This story is written in a Chinese book which the Japanese call "Kai-ten-i-ji." "ULTIMATE QUESTIONS" A memory of long ago.... I am walking upon a granite pavement that rings like iron, between buildings of granite bathed in the light of a cloudless noon. Shadows are short and sharp: there is no stir in the hot bright air; and the sound of my footsteps, strangely loud, is the only sound in the street.... Suddenly an odd feeling comes to me, with a sort of tingling shock,--a feeling, or suspicion, of universal illusion. The pavement, the bulks of hewn stone, the iron rails, and all things visible, are dreams! Light, color, form, weight, solidity--all sensed existences--are but phantoms of being, manifestations only of one infinite ghostliness for which the language of man has not any word.... This experience had been produced by study of the first volume of the Synthetic Philosophy, which an American friend had taught me how to read. I did not find it easy reading; partly because I am a slow thinker, but chiefly because my mind had never been trained to sustained effort in such directions. To learn the "First Principles" occupied me many months: no other volume of the series gave me equal trouble. I would read one section at a time,--rarely two,--never venturing upon a fresh section until I thought that I had made sure of the preceding. Very cautious and slow my progress was, like that of a man mounting, for the first time, a long series of ladders in darkness. Reaching the light at last, I caught a sudden new vision of things,--a momentary perception of the illusion of surfaces,--and from that time the world never again appeared to me quite the same as it had appeared before. * * * * * --This memory of more than twenty years ago, and the extraordinary thrill of the moment, were recently revived for me by the reading of the essay "Ultimate Questions," in the last and not least precious volume bequeathed us by the world's greatest thinker. The essay contains his final utterance about the riddle of life and death, as that riddle presented itself to his vast mind in the dusk of a lifetime of intellectual toil. Certainly the substance of what he had to tell us might have been inferred from the Synthetic Philosophy; but the particular interest of this last essay is made by the writer's expression of personal sentiment regarding the problem that troubles all deep thinkers. Perhaps few of us could have remained satisfied with his purely scientific position. Even while fully accepting his declaration of the identity of the power that "wells up in us under the form of consciousness" with that Power Unknowable which shapes all things, most disciples of the master must have longed for some chance to ask him directly, "But how do _you_ feel in regard to the prospect of personal dissolution?" And this merely emotional question he has answered as frankly and as fully as any of us could have desired,--perhaps even more frankly. "Old people," he remarks apologetically, "must have many reflections in common. Doubtless one which I have now in mind is very familiar. For years past, when watching the unfolding buds in the spring, there has arisen the thought, 'Shall I ever again see the buds unfold? Shall I ever again be awakened at dawn by the song of the thrush?' Now that the end is not likely to be long postponed, there results an increasing tendency to meditate upon ultimate questions."... Then he tells us that these ultimate questions--"of the How and the Why, of the Whence and the Whither"--occupy much more space in the minds of those who cannot accept the creed of Christendom, than the current conception fills in the minds of the majority of men. The enormity of the problem of existence becomes manifest only to those who have permitted themselves to think freely and widely and deeply, with all such aids to thought as exact science can furnish; and the larger the knowledge of the thinker, the more pressing and tremendous the problem appears, and the more hopelessly unanswerable. To Herbert Spencer himself it must have assumed a vastness beyond the apprehension of the average mind; and it weighed upon him more and more inexorably the nearer he approached to death. He could not avoid the conviction--plainly suggested in his magnificent Psychology and in other volumes of his great work--that there exists no rational evidence for any belief in the continuance of conscious personality after death:-- "After studying primitive beliefs, and finding that there is no origin for the idea of an after-life, save the conclusion which the savage draws, from the notion suggested by dreams, of a wandering double which comes back on awaking, and which goes away for an indefinite time at death;--and after contemplating the inscrutable relation between brain and consciousness, and finding that we can get no evidence of the existence of the last without the activity of the first,--we seem obliged to relinquish the thought that consciousness continues after physical organization has become inactive." In this measured utterance there is no word of hope; but there is at least a carefully stated doubt, which those who will may try to develop into the germ of a hope. The guarded phrase, "we _seem_ obliged to relinquish," certainly suggests that, although in the present state of human knowledge we have no reason to believe in the perpetuity of consciousness, some larger future knowledge might help us to a less forlorn prospect. From the prospect as it now appears even this mightiest of thinkers recoiled:-- ... "But it seems a strange and repugnant conclusion that with the cessation of consciousness at death there ceases to be any knowledge of having existed. With his last breath it becomes to each the same thing as though he had never lived. "And then the consciousness itself--what is it during the time that it continues? And what becomes of it when it ends? We can only infer that it is a specialized and individualized form of that Infinite and Eternal Energy which transcends both our knowledge and our imagination; and that at death its elements lapse into that Infinite and Eternal Energy whence they were derived." * * * * * --_With his last breath it becomes to each the same thing as though he had never lived?_ To the individual, perhaps--surely not to the humanity made wiser and better by his labors.... But the world must pass away: will it thereafter be the same for the universe as if humanity had never existed? That might depend upon the possibilities of future inter-planetary communication.... But the whole universe of suns and planets must also perish: thereafter will it be the same as if no intelligent life had ever toiled and suffered upon those countless worlds? We have at least the certainty that the energies of life cannot be destroyed, and the strong probability that they will help to form another life and thought in universes yet to be evolved.... Nevertheless, allowing for all imagined possibilities,--granting even the likelihood of some inapprehensible relation between all past and all future conditioned-being,--the tremendous question remains: What signifies the whole of apparitional existence to the Unconditioned? As flickers of sheet-lightning leave no record in the night, so in that Darkness a million billion trillion universes might come and go, and leave no trace of their having been. * * * * * To every aspect of the problem Herbert Spencer must have given thought; but he has plainly declared that the human intellect, as at present constituted, can offer no solution. The greatest mind that this world has yet produced--the mind that systematized all human knowledge, that revolutionized modern science, that dissipated materialism forever, that revealed to us the ghostly unity of all existence, that reestablished all ethics upon an immutable and eternal foundation,--the mind that could expound with equal lucidity, and by the same universal formula, the history of a gnat or the history of a sun--confessed itself, before the Riddle of Existence, scarcely less helpless than the mind of a child. But for me the supreme value of this last essay is made by the fact that in its pathetic statement of uncertainties and probabilities one can discern something very much resembling a declaration of faith. Though assured that we have yet no foundation for any belief in the persistence of consciousness after the death of the brain, we are bidden to remember that the ultimate nature of consciousness remains inscrutable. Though we cannot surmise the relation of consciousness to the unseen, we are reminded that it must be considered as a manifestation of the Infinite Energy, and that its elements, if dissociated by death, will return to the timeless and measureless Source of Life.... Science to-day also assures us that whatever existence has been--all individual life that ever moved in animal or plant,--all feeling and thought that ever stirred in human consciousness--must have flashed self-record beyond the sphere of sentiency; and though we cannot know, we cannot help imagining that the best of such registration may be destined to perpetuity. On this latter subject, for obvious reasons, Herbert Spencer has remained silent; but the reader may ponder a remarkable paragraph in the final sixth edition of the "First Principles,"--a paragraph dealing with the hypothesis that consciousness may belong to the cosmic ether. This hypothesis has not been lightly dismissed by him; and even while proving its inadequacy, he seems to intimate that it may represent imperfectly some truth yet inapprehensible by the human mind:-- "The only supposition having consistency is that that in which consciousness inheres is the all-pervading ether. This we know can be affected by molecules of matter in motion, and conversely can affect the motions of molecules;--as witness the action of light on the retina. In pursuance of this supposition we may assume that the ether, which pervades not only all space but all matter, is, under special conditions in certain parts of the nervous system, capable of being affected by the nervous changes in such way as to result in feeling, and is reciprocally capable under these conditions of affecting the nervous changes. But if we accept this explanation, we must assume that the potentiality of feeling is universal, and that the evolution of feeling in the ether takes place only under the extremely complex conditions occurring in certain nervous centres. This, however, is but a semblance of an explanation, since we know not what the ether is, and since, by confession of those most capable of judging, no hypothesis that has been framed accounts for all its powers. Such an explanation may be said to do no more than symbolize the phenomena by symbols of unknown natures."--["First Principles," § 71 _c_, definitive edition of 1900.] --"Inscrutable is this complex consciousness which has slowly evolved out of infantine vacuity--consciousness which, in other shapes, is manifested by animate beings at large--consciousness which, during the development of every creature, makes its appearance out of what seems unconscious matter; _suggesting the thought that consciousness, in some rudimentary form, is omnipresent._"[65] [Footnote 65: _Autobiography_, vol. ii, p. 470.] --Of all modern thinkers, Spencer was perhaps the most careful to avoid giving encouragement to any hypothesis unsupported by powerful evidence. Even the simple sum of his own creed is uttered only, with due reservation, as a statement of three probabilities: that consciousness represents a specialized and individualized form of the infinite Energy; that it is dissolved by death; and that its elements then return to the source of all being. As for our mental attitude toward the infinite Mystery, his advice is plain. We must resign ourselves to the eternal law, and endeavor to vanquish our ancient inheritance of superstitious terrors, remembering that, "merciless as is the Cosmic process worked out by an Unknown Power, yet vengeance is nowhere to be found in it."[66] [Footnote 66: _Facts and Comments_, p. 201.] * * * * * In the same brief essay there is another confession of singular interest,--an acknowledgment of the terror of Space. To even the ordinary mind, the notion of infinite Space, as forced upon us by those monstrous facts of astronomy which require no serious study to apprehend, is terrifying;--I mean the mere vague idea of that everlasting Night into which the blazing of millions of suns can bring neither light nor warmth. But to the intellect of Herbert Spencer the idea of Space must have presented itself after a manner incomparably more mysterious and stupendous. The mathematician alone will comprehend the full significance of the paragraph dealing with the Geometry of Position and the mystery of space-relations,--or the startling declaration that "even could we penetrate the mysteries of existence, there would remain still more transcendent mysteries." But Herbert Spencer tells us that, apart from the conception of these geometrical mysteries, the problem of naked Space itself became for him, in the twilight of his age, an obsession and a dismay:-- ... "And then comes the thought of this universal matrix itself, anteceding alike creation or evolution, whichever be assumed, and infinitely transcending both, alike in extent and duration; since both, if conceived at all, must be conceived as having had beginnings, while Space had no beginning. The thought of this blank form of existence which, explored in all directions as far as imagination can reach, has, beyond that, an unexplored region compared with which the part which imagination has traversed is but infinitesimal,--the thought of a Space compared with which our immeasurable sidereal system dwindles to a point is a thought too overwhelming to be dwelt upon. Of late years the consciousness that without origin or cause infinite Space has ever existed and must ever exist, produces in me a feeling from which I shrink." * * * * * How the idea of infinite Space may affect a mind incomparably more powerful than my own, I cannot know;--neither can I divine the nature of certain problems which the laws of space-relation present to the geometrician. But when I try to determine the cause of the horror which that idea evokes within my own feeble imagination, I am able to distinguish different elements of the emotion,--particular forms of terror responding to particular ideas (rational and irrational) suggested by the revelations of science. One feeling--perhaps the main element of the horror--is made by the thought of being _prisoned_ forever and ever within that unutterable Viewlessness which occupies infinite Space. Behind this feeling there is more than the thought of eternal circumscription;--there is also the idea of being perpetually penetrated, traversed, thrilled by the Nameless;--there is likewise the certainty that no least particle of innermost secret Self could shun the eternal touch of It;--there is furthermore the tremendous conviction that could the Self of me rush with the swiftness of light,--with more than the swiftness of light,--beyond all galaxies, beyond durations of time so vast that Science knows no sign by which their magnitudes might be indicated,--and still flee onward, onward, downward, upward,--always, always,--never could that Self of me reach nearer to any verge, never speed farther from any centre. For, in that Silence, all vastitude and height and depth and time and direction are swallowed up: relation therein could have no meaning but for the speck of my fleeting consciousness,--atom of terror pulsating alone through atomless, soundless, nameless, illimitable potentiality. And the idea of that potentiality awakens another quality of horror,--the horror of infinite Possibility. For this Inscrutable that pulses through substance as if substance were not at all,--so subtly that none can feel the flowing of its tides, yet so swiftly that no life-time would suffice to count the number of the oscillations which it makes within the fraction of one second,--thrills to us out of endlessness;--and the force of infinity dwells in its lightest tremor; the weight of eternity presses behind its faintest shudder. To that phantom-Touch, the tinting of a blossom or the dissipation of a universe were equally facile: here it caresses the eye with the charm and illusion of color; there it bestirs into being a cluster of giant suns. All that human mind is capable of conceiving as possible (and how much also that human mind must forever remain incapable of conceiving?) may be wrought anywhere, everywhere, by a single tremor of that Abyss.... * * * * * Is it true, as some would have us believe, that the fear of the extinction of self is the terror supreme?... For the thought of personal perpetuity in the infinite vortex is enough to evoke sudden trepidations that no tongue can utter,--fugitive instants of a horror too vast to enter wholly into consciousness: a horror that can be endured in swift black glimpsings only. And the trust that we are one with the Absolute--dim points of thrilling in the abyss of It--can prove a consoling faith only to those who find themselves obliged to think that consciousness dissolves with the crumbling of the brain.... It seems to me that few (or none) dare to utter frankly those stupendous doubts and fears which force mortal intelligence to recoil upon itself at every fresh attempt to pass the barrier of the Knowable. Were that barrier unexpectedly pushed back,--were knowledge to be suddenly and vastly expanded beyond its present limits,--perhaps we should find ourselves unable to endure the revelation.... * * * * * Mr. Percival Lowell's astonishing book, "Mars," sets one to thinking about the results of being able to hold communication with the habitants of an older and a wiser world,--some race of beings more highly evolved than we, both intellectually and morally, and able to interpret a thousand mysteries that still baffle our science. Perhaps, in such event, we should not find ourselves able to comprehend the methods, even could we borrow the results, of wisdom older than all our civilization by myriads or hundreds of myriads of years. But would not the sudden advent of larger knowledge from some elder planet prove for us, by reason, of the present moral condition of mankind, nothing less than a catastrophe?--might it not even result in the extinction of the human species?... The rule seems to be that the dissemination of dangerous higher knowledge, before the masses of a people are ethically prepared to receive it, will always be prevented by the conservative instinct; and we have reason to suppose (allowing for individual exceptions) that the power to gain higher knowledge is developed only as the moral ability to profit by such knowledge is evolved. I fancy that if the power of holding intellectual converse with other worlds could now serve us, we should presently obtain it. But if, by some astonishing chance,--as by the discovery, let us suppose, of some method of ether-telegraphy,--this power were prematurely acquired, its exercise would in all probability be prohibited.... Imagine, for example, what would have happened during the Middle Ages to the person guilty of discovering means to communicate with the people of a neighboring planet! Assuredly that inventor and his apparatus and his records would have been burned; every trace and memory of his labors would have been extirpated. Even to-day the sudden discovery of truths unsupported by human experience, the sudden revelation of facts totally opposed to existing convictions, might evoke some frantic revival of superstitious terrors,--some religious panic-fury that would strangle science, and replunge the world in mental darkness for a thousand years. THE MIRROR MAIDEN In the period of the Ashikaga Sh[=o]gunate the shrine of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin, at Minami-Isé, fell into decay; and the daimy[=o] of the district, the Lord Kitahataké, found himself unable, by reason of war and other circumstances, to provide for the reparation of the building. Then the Shint[=o] priest in charge, Matsumura Hy[=o]go, sought help at Ky[=o]to from the great daimy[=o] Hosokawa, who was known to have influence with the Sh[=o]gun. The Lord Hosokawa received the priest kindly, and promised to speak to the Sh[=o]gun about the condition of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin. But he said that, in any event, a grant for the restoration of the temple could not be made without due investigation and considerable delay; and he advised Matsumura to remain in the capital while the matter was being arranged. Matsumura therefore brought his family to Ky[=o]to, and rented a house in the old Ky[=o]goku quarter. This house, although handsome and spacious, had been long unoccupied. It was said to be an unlucky house. On the northeast side of it there was a well; and several former tenants had drowned themselves in that well, without any known cause. But Matsumura, being a Shint[=o] priest, had no fear of evil spirits; and he soon made himself very comfortable in his new home. * * * * * In the summer of that year there was a great drought. For months no rain had fallen in the Five Home-Provinces; the river-beds dried up, the wells failed; and even in the capital there was a dearth of water. But the well in Matsumura's garden remained nearly full; and the water--which was very cold and clear, with a faint bluish tinge--seemed to be supplied by a spring. During the hot season many people came from all parts of the city to beg for water; and Matsumura allowed them to draw as much as they pleased. Nevertheless the supply did not appear to be diminished. But one morning the dead body of a young servant, who had been sent from a neighboring residence to fetch water, was found floating in the well. No cause for a suicide could be imagined; and Matsumura, remembering many unpleasant stories about the well, began to suspect some invisible malevolence. He went to examine the well, with the intention of having a fence built around it; and while standing there alone he was startled by a sudden motion in the water, as of something alive. The motion soon ceased; and then he perceived, clearly reflected in the still surface, the figure of a young woman, apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age. She seemed to be occupied with her toilet: he distinctly saw her touching her lips with _béni_[67] At first her face was visible in profile only; but presently she turned towards him and smiled. Immediately he felt a strange shock at his heart, and a dizziness came upon him like the dizziness of wine, and everything became dark, except that smiling face,--white and beautiful as moonlight, and always seeming to grow more beautiful, and to be drawing him down--down--down into the darkness. But with a desperate effort he recovered his will and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the face was gone, and the light had returned; and he found himself leaning down over the curb of the well. A moment more of that dizziness,--a moment more of that dazzling lure,--and he would never again have looked upon the sun... [Footnote 67: A kind of rouge, now used only to color the lips.] Returning to the house, he gave orders to his people not to approach the well under any circumstances, or allow any person to draw water from it. And the next day he had a strong fence built round the well. * * * * * About a week after the fence had been built, the long drought was broken by a great rain-storm, accompanied by wind and lightning and thunder,--thunder so tremendous that the whole city shook to the rolling of it, as if shaken by an earthquake. For three days and three nights the downpour and the lightnings and the thunder continued; and the Kamogawa rose as it had never risen before, carrying away many bridges. During the third night of the storm, at the Hour of the Ox, there was heard a knocking at the door of the priest's dwelling, and the voice of a woman pleading for admittance. But Matsumura, warned by his experience at the well, forbade his servants to answer the appeal. He went himself to the entrance, and asked,-- "Who calls?" A feminine voice responded:-- "Pardon! it is I,--Yayoi![68]... I have something to say to Matsumura Sama,--something of great moment. Please open!"... [Footnote 68: This name, though uncommon, is still in use.] Matsumura half opened the door, very cautiously; and he saw the same beautiful face that had smiled upon him from the well. But it was not smiling now: it had a very sad look. "Into my house you shall not come," the priest exclaimed. "You are not a human being, but a Well-Person.... Why do you thus wickedly try to delude and destroy people?" The Well-Person made answer in a voice musical as a tinkling of jewels (_tama-wo-korogasu-koë_.):-- "It is of that very matter that I want to speak.... I have never wished to injure human beings. But from ancient time a Poison-Dragon dwelt in that well. He was the Master of the Well; and because of him the well was always full. Long ago I fell into the water there, and so became subject to him; and he had power to make me lure people to death, in order that he might drink their blood. But now the Heavenly Ruler has commanded the Dragon to dwell hereafter in the lake called Torii-no-Iké, in the Province of Shinsh[=u]; and the gods have decided that he shall never be allowed to return to this city. So to-night, after he had gone away, I was able to come out, to beg for your kindly help. There is now very little water in the well, because of the Dragon's departure; and if you will order search to be made, my body will be found there. I pray you to save my body from the well without delay; and I shall certainly return your benevolence."... So saying, she vanished into the night. * * * * * Before dawn the tempest had passed; and when the sun arose there was no trace of cloud in the pure blue sky. Matsumura sent at an early hour for well-cleaners to search the well. Then, to everybody's surprise, the well proved to be almost dry. It was easily cleaned; and at the bottom of it were found some hair-ornaments of a very ancient fashion, and a metal mirror of curious form--but no trace of any body, animal or human. Matusmura imagined, however, that the mirror might yield some explanation of the mystery; for every such mirror is a weird thing, having a soul of its own,--and the soul of a mirror is feminine. This mirror, which seemed to be very old, was deeply crusted with scurf. But when it had been carefully cleaned, by the priest's order, it proved to be of rare and costly workmanship; and there were wonderful designs upon the back of it,--also several characters. Some of the characters had become indistinguishable; but there could still be discerned part of a date, and ideographs signifying, "_third month, the third day_." Now the third month used to be termed _Yayoi_ (meaning, the Month of Increase); and the third day of the third month, which is a festival day, is still called _Yayoi-no-sekku_. Remembering that the Well-Person called herself "Yayoi," Matsumura felt almost sure that his ghostly visitant had been none other than the Soul of the Mirror. He therefore resolved to treat the mirror with all the consideration due to a Spirit. After having caused it to be carefully repolished and resilvered, he had a case of precious wood made for it, and a particular room in the house prepared to receive it. On the evening of the same day that it had been respectfully deposited in that room, Yayoi herself unexpectedly appeared before the priest as he sat alone in his study. She looked even more lovely than before; but the light of her beauty was now soft as the light of a summer moon shining through pure white clouds. After having humbly saluted Matsumura, she said in her sweetly tinkling voice:-- "Now that you have saved me from solitude and sorrow, I have come to thank you.... I am indeed, as you supposed, the Spirit of the Mirror. It was in the time of the Emperor Saimei that I was first brought here from Kudara; and I dwelt in the august residence until the time of the Emperor Saga, when I was augustly bestowed upon the Lady Kamo, Naishinn[=o] of the Imperial Court.[69] Thereafter I became an heirloom in the House of Fuji-wara, and so remained until the period of H[=o]gen, when I was dropped into the well. There I was left and forgotten during the years of the great war.[70] The Master of the Well[71] was a venomous Dragon, who used to live in a lake that once covered a great part of this district. After the lake had been filled in, by government order, in order that houses might be built upon the place of it, the Dragon took possession of the well; and when I fell into the well I became subject to him; and he compelled me to lure many people to their deaths. But the gods have banished him forever.... Now I have one more favor to beseech: I entreat that you will cause me to be offered up to the Sh[=o]gun, the Lord Yoshimasa, who by descent is related to my former possessors. Do me but this last great kindness, and it will bring you good-fortune.... But I have also to warn you of a danger. In this house, after to-morrow, you must not stay, because it will be destroyed."... And with these words of warning Yayoi disappeared. [Footnote 69: The Emperor Saimei reigned from 655 to 662 (A.D.); the Emperor Saga from 810 to 842.--Kudara was an ancient kingdom in southwestern Korea, frequently mentioned in early Japanese history.--A _Naishinn[=o]_ was of Imperial blood. In the ancient court-hierarchy there were twenty-five ranks or grades of noble ladies;--that of _Naishinno_ was seventh in order of precedence.] [Footnote 70: For centuries the wives of the emperors and the ladies of the Imperial Court were chosen from the Fujiwara clan--The period called H[=o]gen lasted from 1156 to 1159: the war referred to is the famous war between the Taira and Minamoto clans.] [Footnote 71: In old-time belief every lake or spring had its invisible guardian, supposed to sometimes take the form of a serpent or dragon. The spirit of a lake or pond was commonly spoken of as _Iké-no-Mushi_, the Master of the Lake. Here we find the title "Master" given to a dragon living in a well; but the guardian of wells is really the god Suijin.] * * * * * Matsumura was able to profit by this premonition. He removed his people and his belongings to another district the next day; and almost immediately afterwards another storm arose, even more violent than the first, causing a flood which swept away the house in which he had been residing. Some time later, by favor of the Lord Hosokawa, Matsumura was enabled to obtain an audience of the Sh[=o]gun Yoshimasa, to whom he presented the mirror, together with a written account of its wonderful history. Then the prediction of the Spirit of the Mirror was fulfilled; for the Sh[=o]gun, greatly pleased with this strange gift, not only bestowed costly presents upon Matsumura, but also made an ample grant of money for the rebuilding of the Temple of Ogawachi-My[=o]jin. THE STORY OF IT[=O] NORISUKÉ In the town of Uji, in the province of Yamashiro, there lived, about six hundred years ago, a young samurai named It[=o] Tatéwaki Norisuké, whose ancestors were of the Héïké clan. It[=o] was of handsome person and amiable character, a good scholar and apt at arms. But his family were poor; and he had no patron among the military nobility,--so that his prospects were small. He lived in a very quiet way, devoting himself to the study of literature, and having (says the Japanese story-teller) "only the Moon and the Wind for friends." One autumn evening, as he was taking a solitary walk in the neighborhood of the hill called Kotobikiyama, he happened to overtake a young girl who was following the same path. She was richly dressed, and seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old. It[=o] greeted her, and said, "The sun will soon be setting, damsel, and this is rather a lonesome place. May I ask if you have lost your way?" She looked up at him with a bright smile, and answered deprecatingly: "Nay! I am a _miya-dzukai_,[72] serving in this neighborhood; and I have only a little way to go." [Footnote 72: August-residence servant.] By her use of the term _miya-dzukai_, It[=o] knew that the girl must be in the service of persons of rank; and her statement surprised him, because he had never heard of any family of distinction residing in that vicinity. But he only said: "I am returning to Uji, where my home is. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you on the way, as this is a very lonesome place." She thanked him gracefully, seeming pleased by his offer; and they walked on together, chatting as they went. She talked about the weather, the flowers, the butterflies, and the birds; about a visit that she had once made to Uji, about the famous sights of the capital, where she had been born;--and the moments passed pleasantly for It[=o], as he listened to her fresh prattle. Presently, at a turn in the road, they entered a hamlet, densely shadowed by a grove of young trees. * * * * * [Here I must interrupt the story to tell you that, without having actually seen them, you cannot imagine how dark some Japanese country villages remain even in the brightest and hottest weather. In the neighborhood of T[=o]ky[=o] itself there are many villages of this kind. At a short distance from such a settlement you see no houses: nothing is visible but a dense grove of evergreen trees. The grove, which is usually composed of young cedars and bamboos, serves to shelter the village from storms, and also to supply timber for various purposes. So closely are the trees planted that there is no room to pass between the trunks of them: they stand straight as masts, and mingle their crests so as to form a roof that excludes the sun. Each thatched cottage occupies a clear space in the plantation, the trees forming a fence about it, double the height of the building. Under the trees it is always twilight, even at high noon; and the houses, morning or evening, are half in shadow. What makes the first impression of such a village almost disquieting is, not the transparent gloom, which has a certain weird charm of its own, but the stillness. There may be fifty or a hundred dwellings; but you see nobody; and you hear no sound but the twitter of invisible birds, the occasional crowing of cocks, and the shrilling of cicadæ. Even the cicadæ, however, find these groves too dim, and sing faintly; being sun-lovers, they prefer the trees outside the village. I forgot to say that you may sometimes hear a viewless shuttle--_chaka-ton, chaka-ton_;--but that familiar sound, in the great green silence, seems an elfish happening. The reason of the hush is simply that the people are not at home. All the adults, excepting some feeble elders, have gone to the neighboring fields, the women carrying their babies on their backs; and most of the children have gone to the nearest school, perhaps not less than a mile away. Verily, in these dim hushed villages, one seems to behold the mysterious perpetuation of conditions recorded in the texts of Kwang-Tze:-- "_The ancients who had the nourishment of the world wished for nothing, and the world had enough:--they did nothing, and all things were transformed:--their stillness was abysmal, and the people were all composed._"] * * * * * ... The village was very dark when It[=o] reached it; for the sun had set, and the after-glow made no twilight in the shadowing of the trees. "Now, kind sir," the child said, pointing to a narrow lane opening upon the main road, "I have to go this way." "Permit me, then, to see you home," It[=o] responded; and he turned into the lane with her, feeling rather than seeing his way. But the girl soon stopped before a small gate, dimly visible in the gloom,--a gate of trelliswork, beyond which the lights of a dwelling could be seen. "Here," she said, "is the honorable residence in which I serve. As you have come thus far out of your way, kind sir, will you not deign to enter and to rest a while?" It[=o] assented. He was pleased by the informal invitation; and he wished to learn what persons of superior condition had chosen to reside in so lonesome a village. He knew that sometimes a family of rank would retire in this manner from public life, by reason of government displeasure or political trouble; and he imagined that such might be the history of the occupants of the dwelling before him. Passing the gate, which his young guide opened for him, he found himself in a large quaint garden. A miniature landscape, traversed by a winding stream, was faintly distinguishable. "Deign for one little moment to wait," the child said; "I go to announce the honorable coming;" and hurried toward the house. It was a spacious house, but seemed very old, and built in the fashion of another time. The sliding doors were not closed; but the lighted interior was concealed by a beautiful bamboo curtain extending along the gallery front. Behind it shadows were moving--shadows of women;--and suddenly the music of a _koto_ rippled into the night. So light and sweet was the playing that It[=o] could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. A slumbrous feeling of delight stole over him as he listened,--a delight strangely mingled with sadness. He wondered how any woman could have learned to play thus,--wondered whether the player could be a woman,--wondered even whether he was hearing earthly music; for enchantment seemed to have entered into his blood with the sound of it. * * * * * The soft music ceased; and almost at the same moment It[=o] found the little _miya-dzukai_ beside him. "Sir," she said, "it is requested that you will honorably enter." She conducted him to the entrance, where he removed his sandals; and an aged woman, whom he thought to be the _R[=o]jo_, or matron of the household, came to welcome him at the threshold. The old woman then led him through many apartments to a large and well-lighted room in the rear of the house, and with many respectful salutations requested him to take the place of honor accorded to guests of distinction. He was surprised by the stateliness of the chamber, and the curious beauty of its decorations. Presently some maid-servants brought refreshments; and he noticed that the cups and other vessels set before him were of rare and costly workmanship, and ornamented with a design indicating the high rank of the possessor. More and more he wondered what noble person had chosen this lonely retreat, and what happening could have inspired the wish for such solitude. But the aged attendant suddenly interrupted his reflections with the question: "Am I wrong in supposing that you are It[=o] Sama, of Uji,--It[=o] Tatéwaki Norisuké?" It[=o] bowed in assent. He had not told his name to the little _miya-dzukai_, and the manner of the inquiry startled him. "Please do not think my question rude," continued the attendant. "An old woman like myself may ask questions without improper curiosity. When you came to the house, I thought that I knew your face; and I asked your name only to clear away all doubt, before speaking of other matters. I have some thing of moment to tell you. You often pass through this village, and our young Himégimi-Sama[73] happened one morning to see you going by; and ever since that moment she has been thinking about you, day and night. Indeed, she thought so much that she became ill; and we have been very uneasy about her. For that reason I took means to find out your name and residence; and I was on the point of sending you a letter when--so unexpectedly!--you came to our gate with the little attendant. Now, to say how happy I am to see you is not possible; it seems almost too fortunate a happening to be true! Really I think that this meeting must have been brought about by the favor of Enmusubi-no-Kami,--that great God of Izumo who ties the knots of fortunate union. And now that so lucky a destiny has led you hither, perhaps you will not refuse--if there be no obstacle in the way of such a union--to make happy the heart of our Himégimi-Sama?" [Footnote 73: A scarcely translatable honorific title compounded of the word _himé_ (princess) and _kimi_ (sovereign, master or mistress, lord or lady, etc.).] For the moment It[=o] did not know how to reply. If the old woman had spoken the truth, an extraordinary chance was being offered to him. Only a great passion could impel the daughter of a noble house to seek, of her own will, the affection of an obscure and masterless samurai, possessing neither wealth nor any sort of prospects. On the other hand, it was not in the honorable nature of the man to further his own interests by taking advantage of a feminine weakness. Moreover, the circumstances were disquietingly mysterious. Yet how to decline the proposal, so unexpectedly made, troubled him not a little. After a short silence, he replied:-- "There would be no obstacle, as I have no wife, and no betrothed, and no relation with any woman. Until now I have lived with my parents; and the matter of my marriage was never discussed by them. You must know that I am a poor samurai, without any patron among persons of rank; and I did not wish to marry until I could find some chance to improve my condition. As to the proposal which you have done me the very great honor to make, I can only say that I know myself yet unworthy of the notice of any noble maiden." The old woman smiled as if pleased by these words, and responded:-- "Until you have seen our Himégimi-Sama, it were better that you make no decision. Perhaps you will feel no hesitation after you have seen her. Deign now to come with me, that I may present you to her." She conducted him to another larger guest-room, where preparations for a feast had been made, and having shown him the place of honor, left him for a moment alone. She returned accompanied by the Himégimi-Sama; and, at the first sight of the young mistress, It[=o] felt again the strange thrill of wonder and delight that had come to him in the garden, as he listened to the music of the _koto_. Never had he dreamed of so beautiful a being. Light seemed to radiate from her presence, and to shine through her garments, as the light of the moon through flossy clouds; her loosely flowing hair swayed about her as she moved, like the boughs of the drooping willow bestirred by the breezes of spring; her lips were like flowers of the peach besprinkled with morning dew. It[=o] was bewildered by the vision. He asked himself whether he was not looking upon the person of Amano-kawara-no-Ori-Himé herself,--the Weaving-Maiden who dwells by the shining River of Heaven. Smiling, the aged woman turned to the fair one, who remained speechless, with downcast eyes and flushing cheeks, and said to her:-- "See, my child!--at the moment when we could least have hoped for such a thing, the very person whom you wished to meet has come of his own accord. So fortunate a happening could have been brought about only by the will of the high gods. To think of it makes me weep for joy." And she sobbed aloud. "But now," she continued, wiping away her tears with her sleeve, "it only remains for you both--unless either prove unwilling, which I doubt--to pledge yourselves to each other, and to partake of your wedding feast." * * * * * It[=o] answered by no word: the incomparable vision before him had numbed his will and tied his tongue. Maid-servants entered, bearing dishes and wine: the wedding feast was spread before the pair; and the pledges were given. It[=o] nevertheless remained as in a trance: the marvel of the adventure, and the wonder of the beauty of the bride, still bewildered him. A gladness, beyond aught that he had ever known before, filled his heart--like a great silence. But gradually he recovered his wonted calm; and thereafter he found himself able to converse without embarrassment. Of the wine he partook freely; and he ventured to speak, in a self-depreciating but merry way, about the doubts and fears that had oppressed him. Meanwhile the bride remained still as moonlight, never lifting her eyes, and replying only by a blush or a smile when he addressed her. It[=o] said to the aged attendant:-- "Many times, in my solitary walks, I have passed through this village without knowing of the existence of this honorable dwelling. And ever since entering here, I have been wondering why this noble household should have chosen so lonesome a place of sojourn.... Now that your Himégimi-Sama and I have become pledged to each other, it seems to me a strange thing that I do not yet know the name of her august family." At this utterance, a shadow passed over the kindly face of the old woman; and the bride, who had yet hardly spoken, turned pale, and appeared to become painfully anxious. After some moments of silence, the aged woman responded:-- "To keep our secret from you much longer would be difficult; and I think that, under any circumstances, you should be made aware of the facts, now that you are one of us. Know then, Sir It[=o], that your bride is the daughter of Shigéhira-Ky[=o], the great and unfortunate San-mi Chüj[=o]." At those words--"Shigéhira-Ky[=o], San-mi Chüj[=o]"--the young samurai felt a chill, as of ice, strike through all his veins. Shigéhira-Ky[=o], the great Héïké general and statesman, had been dust for centuries. And It[=o] suddenly understood that everything around him--the chamber and the lights and the banquet--was a dream of the past; that the forms before him were not people, but shadows of people dead. But in another instant the icy chill had passed; and the charm returned, and seemed to deepen about him; and he felt no fear. Though his bride had come to him out of Yomi,--out of the place of the Yellow Springs of death,--his heart had been wholly won. Who weds a ghost must become a ghost;--yet he knew himself ready to die, not once, but many times, rather than betray by word or look one thought that might bring a shadow of pain to the brow of the beautiful illusion before him. Of the affection proffered he had no misgiving: the truth had been told him when any unloving purpose might better have been served by deception. But these thoughts and emotions passed in a flash, leaving him resolved to accept the strange situation as it had presented itself, and to act just as he would have done if chosen, in the years of Jü-ei, by Shigéhira's daughter. "Ah, the pity of it!" he exclaimed; "I have heard of the cruel fate of the august Lord Shigéhira." "Ay," responded the aged woman, sobbing as she spoke;--"it was indeed a cruel fate. His horse, you know, was killed by an arrow, and fell upon him; and when he called for help, those who had lived upon his bounty deserted him in his need. Then he was taken prisoner, and sent to Kamakura, where they treated him shamefully, and at last put him to death.[74] His wife and child--this dear maid here--were then in hiding; for everywhere the Héïké were being sought out and killed. When the news of the Lord Shigéhira's death reached us, the pain proved too great for the mother to bear, so the child was left with no one to care for her but me,--since her kindred had all perished or disappeared. She was only five years old. I had been her milk-nurse, and I did what I could for her. Year after year we wandered from place to place, traveling in pilgrim-garb.... But these tales of grief are ill-timed," exclaimed the nurse, wiping away her tears;--"pardon the foolish heart of an old woman who cannot forget the past. See! the little maid whom I fostered has now become a Himégimi-Sama indeed!--were we living in the good days of the Emperor Takakura, what a destiny might be reserved for her! However, she has obtained the husband whom she desired; that is the greatest happiness.... But the hour is late. The bridal-chamber has been prepared; and I must now leave you to care for each other until morning." [Footnote 74: Shigéhira, after a brave fight in defense of the capital,--then held by the Taïra (or Héïké) party,--was surprised and routed by Yoshitsuné, leader of the Minamoto forces. A soldier named Iyénaga, who was a skilled archer, shot down Shigéhira's horse; and Shigéhira fell under the struggling animal. He cried to an attendant to bring another horse; but the man fled. Shigéhira was then captured by Iyénaga, and eventually given up to Yoritomo, head of the Minamoto clan, who caused him to be sent in a cage to Kamakura. There, after sundry humiliations, he was treated for a time with consideration,--having been able, by a Chinese poem, to touch even the cruel heart of Yoritomo. But in the following year he was executed by request of the Buddhist priests of Nanto, against whom he had formerly waged war by order of Kiyomori.] She rose, and sliding back the screens parting the guest-room from the adjoining chamber, ushered them to their sleeping apartment. Then, with many words of joy and congratulation, she withdrew; and It[=o] was left alone with his bride. As they reposed together, It[=o] said:-- "Tell me, my loved one, when was it that you first wished to have me for your husband." (For everything appeared so real that he had almost ceased to think of the illusion woven around him.) She answered, in a voice like a dove's voice:-- "My august lord and husband, it was at the temple of Ishiyama, where I went with my foster-mother, that I saw you for the first time. And because of seeing you, the world became changed to me from that hour and moment. But you do not remember, because our meeting was not in this, your present life: it was very, very long ago. Since that time you have passed through many deaths and births, and have had many comely bodies. But I have remained always that which you see me now: I could not obtain another body, nor enter into another state of existence, because of my great wish for you. My dear lord and husband, I have waited for you through many ages of men." And the bridegroom felt nowise afraid at hearing these strange words, but desired nothing more in life, or in all his lives to come, than to feel her arms about him, and to hear the caress of her voice. * * * * * But the pealing of a temple-bell proclaimed the coming of dawn. Birds began to twitter; a morning breeze set all the trees a-whispering. Suddenly the old nurse pushed apart the sliding screens of the bridal-chamber, and exclaimed:-- "My children, it is time to separate! By daylight you must not be together, even for an instant: that were fatal! You must bid each other good-by." Without a word, It[=o] made ready to depart. He vaguely understood the warning uttered, and resigned himself wholly to destiny. His will belonged to him no more; he desired only to please his shadowy bride. She placed in his hands a little _suzuri_, or ink-stone, curiously carved, and said:-- "My young lord and husband is a scholar; therefore this small gift will probably not be despised by him. It is of strange fashion because it is old, having been augustly bestowed upon my father by the favor of the Emperor Takakura. For that reason only, I thought it to be a precious thing." It[=o], in return, besought her to accept for a remembrance the _k[=o]gai_[75] of his sword, which were decorated with inlaid work of silver and gold, representing plum-flowers and nightingales. [Footnote 75: This was the name given to a pair of metal rods attached to a sword-sheath, and used like chop-sticks. They were sometimes exquisitely ornamented.] Then the little _miya-dzukai_ came to guide him through the garden, and his bride with her foster-mother accompanied him to the threshold. As he turned at the foot of the steps to make his parting salute, the old woman said:-- "We shall meet again the next Year of the Boar, at the same hour of the same day of the same month that you came here. This being the Year of the Tiger, you will have to wait ten years. But, for reasons which I must not say, we shall not be able to meet again in this place; we are going to the neighborhood of Ky[=o]to, where the good Emperor Takakura and our fathers and many of our people are dwelling. All the Héïké will be rejoiced by your coming. We shall send a _kago_[76] for you on the appointed day." [Footnote 76: A kind of palanquin.] * * * * * Above the village the stars were burning as It[=o] passed the gate; but on reaching the open road he saw the dawn brightening beyond leagues of silent fields. In his bosom he carried the gift of his bride. The charm of her voice lingered in his ears,--and nevertheless, had it not been for the memento which he touched with questioning fingers, he could have persuaded himself that the memories of the night were memories of sleep, and that his life still belonged to him. But the certainty that he had doomed himself evoked no least regret: he was troubled only by the pain of separation, and the thought of the seasons that would have to pass before the illusion could be renewed for him. Ten years!--and every day of those years would seem how long! The mystery of the delay he could not hope to solve; the secret ways of the dead are known to the gods alone. * * * * * Often and often, in his solitary walks, It[=o] revisited the village at Kotobikiyama, vaguely hoping to obtain another glimpse of the past. But never again, by night or by day, was he able to find the rustic gate in the shadowed lane; never again could he perceive the figure of the little _miya-dzukai_, walking alone in the sunset-glow. The village people, whom he questioned carefully, thought him bewitched. No person of rank, they said, had ever dwelt in the settlement; and there had never been, in the neighborhood, any such garden as he described. But there had once been a great Buddhist temple near the place of which he spoke; and some gravestones of the temple-cemetery were still to be seen. It[=o] discovered the monuments in the middle of a dense thicket. They were of an ancient Chinese form, and were covered with moss and lichens. The characters that had been cut upon them could no longer be deciphered. * * * * * Of his adventure It[=o] spoke to no one. But friends and kindred soon perceived a great change in his appearance and manner. Day by day he seemed to become more pale and thin, though physicians declared that he had no bodily ailment; he looked like a ghost, and moved like a shadow. Thoughtful and solitary he had always been, but now he appeared indifferent to everything which had formerly given him pleasure,--even to those literary studies by means of which he might have hoped to win distinction. To his mother--who thought that marriage might quicken his former ambition, and revive his interest in life--he said that he had made a vow to marry no living woman. And the months dragged by. At last came the Year of the Boar, and the season of autumn; but I to could no longer take the solitary walks that he loved. He could not even rise from his bed. His life was ebbing, though none could divine the cause; and he slept so deeply and so long that his sleep was often mistaken for death. Out of such a sleep he was startled, one bright evening, by the voice of a child; and he saw at his bedside the little _miya-dsukai_ who had guided him, ten years before, to the gate of the vanished garden. She saluted him, and smiled, and said: "I am bidden to tell you that you will be received to-night at Öhara, near Ky[=o]to, where the new home is, and that a _kago_ has been sent for you." Then she disappeared. It[=o] knew that he was being summoned away from the light of the sun; but the message so rejoiced him that he found strength to sit up and call his mother. To her he then for the first time related the story of his bridal, and he showed her the ink-stone which had been given him. He asked that it should be placed in his coffin,--and then he died. * * * * * The ink-stone was buried with him. But before the funeral ceremonies it was examined by experts, who said that it had been made in the period of _J[=o]-an_(1169 A.D.), and that it bore the seal-mark of an artist who had lived in the time of the Emperor Takakura. STRANGER THAN FICTION It was a perfect West Indian day. My friend the notary and I were crossing the island by a wonderful road which wound up through tropic forest to the clouds, and thence looped down again, through gold-green slopes of cane, and scenery amazing of violet and blue and ghost-gray peaks, to the roaring coast of the trade winds. All the morning we had been ascending,--walking after our carriage, most of the time, for the sake of the brave little mule;--and the sea had been climbing behind us till it looked like a monstrous wall of blue, pansy-blue, under the ever heightening horizon. The heat was like the heat of a vapor-bath, but the air was good to breathe with its tropical odor,--an odor made up of smells of strange saps, queer spicy scents of mould, exhalations of aromatic decay. Moreover, the views were glimpses of Paradise; and it was a joy to watch the torrents roaring down their gorges under shadows of tree-fern and bamboo. My friend stopped the carriage before a gateway set into a hedge full of flowers that looked like pink-and-white butterflies. "I have to make a call here," he said;--"come in with me." We dismounted, and he knocked on the gate with the butt of his whip. Within, at the end of a shady garden, I could see the porch of a planter's house; beyond were rows of cocoa palms, and glimpses of yellowing cane. Presently a negro, wearing only a pair of canvas trousers and a great straw hat, came hobbling to open the gate,--followed by a multitude, an astonishing multitude, of chippering chickens. Under the shadow of that huge straw hat I could not see the negro's face; but I noticed that his limbs and body were strangely shrunken,--looked as if withered to the bone. A weirder creature I had never beheld; and I wondered at his following of chickens. "Eh!" exclaimed the notary, "your chickens are as lively as ever!... I want to see Madame Floran." "_Moin ké di_," the goblin responded huskily, in his patois; and he limped on before us, all the chickens hopping and cheeping at his withered heels. "That fellow," my friend observed, "was bitten by a _fer-de-lance_ about eight or nine years ago. He got cured, or at least half-cured, in some extraordinary way; but ever since then he has been a skeleton. See how he limps!" The skeleton passed out of sight behind the house, and we waited a while at the front porch. Then a métisse--turbaned in wasp colors, and robed in iris colors, and wonderful to behold--came to tell us that Madame hoped we would rest ourselves in the garden, as the house was very warm. Chairs and a little table were then set for us in a shady place, and the métisse brought out lemons, sugar-syrup, a bottle of the clear plantation rum that smells like apple juice, and ice-cold water in a _dobanne_ of thick red clay. My friend prepared the refreshments; and then our hostess came to greet us, and to sit with us,--a nice old lady with hair like newly minted silver. I had never seen a smile sweeter than that with which she bade us welcome; and I wondered whether she could ever have been more charming in her Creole girlhood than she now appeared,--with her kindly wrinkles, and argent hair, and frank, black, sparkling eyes.... * * * * * In the conversation that followed I was not able to take part, as it related only to some question of title. The notary soon arranged whatever there was to arrange; and, after some charmingly spoken words of farewell from the gentle lady, we took our departure. Again the mummified negro hobbled before us, to open the gate,--followed by all his callow rabble of chickens. As we resumed our places in the carriage we could still hear the chippering of the creatures, pursuing after that ancient scarecrow. "Is it African sorcery?" I queried.... "How does he bewitch those chickens?" "Queer--is it not?" the notary responded as we drove away. "That negro must now be at least eighty years old; and he may live for twenty years more,--the wretch!" The tone in which my friend uttered this epithet--_le miserable!_--somewhat surprised me, as I knew him to be one of the kindliest men in the world, and singularly free from prejudice. I suspected that a story was coming, and I waited for it in silence. "Listen," said the notary, after a pause, during which we left the plantation well behind us; "that old sorcerer, as you call him, was born upon the estate, a slave. The estate belonged to M. Floran,--the husband of the lady whom we visited; and she was a cousin, and the marriage was a love-match. They had been married about two years when the revolt occurred (fortunately there were no children),--the black revolt of eighteen hundred and forty-eight. Several planters were murdered; and M. Floran was one of the first to be killed. And the old negro whom we saw to-day--the old sorcerer, as you call him--left the plantation, and joined the rising: do you understand?" "Yes," I said; "but he might have done that through fear of the mob." "Certainly: the other hands did the same. But it was he that killed M. Floran,--for no reason whatever,--cut him up with a cutlass. M. Floran was riding home when the attack was made,--about a mile below the plantation.... Sober, that negro would not have dared to face M. Floran: the scoundrel was drunk, of course,--raving drunk. Most of the blacks had been drinking tafia, with dead wasps in it, to give themselves courage." "But," I interrupted, "how does it happen that the fellow is still on the Floran plantation?" "Wait a moment!... When the military got control of the mob, search was made everywhere for the murderer of M. Floran; but he could not be found. He was lying out in the cane,--in M. Floran's cane!--like a field-rat, like a snake. One morning, while the gendarmes were still looking for him, he rushed into the house, and threw himself down in front of Madame, weeping and screaming, '_Aïe-yaïe-yaïe-yaïe!--moin té tchoué y! moin té tchoué y!--aïe-yaïe-yaïe!_' Those were his very words:--'I killed him! I killed him!' And he begged for mercy. When he was asked why he killed M. Floran, he cried out that it was the devil--_diabe-à_--that had made him do it!... Well, Madame forgave him!" "But how could she?" I queried. "Oh, she had always been very religious," my friend responded,--"sincerely religious. She only said, 'May God pardon me as I now pardon you!' She made her servants hide the creature and feed him; and they kept him hidden until the excitement was over. Then she sent him back to work; and he has been working for her ever since. Of course he is now too old to be of any use in the field;--he only takes care of the chickens." "But how," I persisted, "could the relatives allow Madame to forgive him?" "Well, Madame insisted that he was not mentally responsible,--that he was only a poor fool who had killed without knowing what he was doing; and she argued that if _she_ could forgive him, others could more easily do the same. There was a consultation; and the relatives decided so to arrange matters that Madame could have her own way." "But why?" "Because they knew that she found a sort of religious consolation--a kind of religious comfort--in forgiving the wretch. She imagined that it was her duty as a Christian, not only to forgive him, but to take care of him. We thought that she was mistaken,--but we could understand.... Well, there is an example of what religion can do."... * * * * * The surprise of a new fact, or the sudden perception of something never before imagined, may cause an involuntary smile. Unconsciously I smiled, while my friend was yet speaking; and the good notary's brow darkened. "Ah, you laugh!" he exclaimed,--"you laugh! That is wrong!--that is a mistake!... But you do not believe: you do not know what it is,--the true religion,--the real Christianity!" Earnestly I made answer:-- "Pardon me! I do believe every word of what you have told me. If I laughed unthinkingly, it was only because I could not help wondering" ... "At what?" he questioned gravely. "At the marvelous instinct of that negro." "Ah, yes!" he returned approvingly. "Yes, the cunning of the animal it was,--the instinct of the brute!... She was the only person in the world who could have saved him." "And he knew it," I ventured to add. "No--no--no!" my friend emphatically dissented,--"he never could have known it! He only _felt_ it!... Find me an instinct like that, and I will show you a brain incapable of any knowledge, any thinking, any understanding: not the mind of a man, but the brain of a beast!" A LETTER FROM JAPAN Tokyo, August 1, 1904. Here, in this quiet suburb, where the green peace is broken only by the voices of children at play and the shrilling of cicadæ, it is difficult to imagine that, a few hundred miles away, there is being carried on one of the most tremendous wars of modern times, between armies aggregating more than half a million of men, or that, on the intervening sea, a hundred ships of war have been battling. This contest, between the mightiest of Western powers and a people that began to study Western science only within the recollection of many persons still in vigorous life, is, on one side at least, a struggle for national existence. It was inevitable, this struggle,--might perhaps have been delayed, but certainly not averted. Japan has boldly challenged an empire capable of threatening simultaneously the civilizations of the East and the West,--a mediæval power that, unless vigorously checked, seems destined to absorb Scandinavia and to dominate China. For all industrial civilization the contest is one of vast moment;--for Japan it is probably the supreme crisis in her national life. As to what her fleets and her armies have been doing, the world is fully informed; but as to what her people are doing at home, little has been written. To inexperienced observation they would appear to be doing nothing unusual; and this strange calm is worthy of record. At the beginning of hostilities an Imperial mandate was issued, bidding all non-combatants to pursue their avocations as usual, and to trouble themselves as little as possible about exterior events;--and this command has been obeyed to the letter. It would be natural to suppose that all the sacrifices, tragedies, and uncertainties of the contest had thrown their gloom over the life of the capital in especial; but there is really nothing whatever to indicate a condition of anxiety or depression. On the contrary, one is astonished by the joyous tone of public confidence, and the admirably restrained pride of the nation in its victories. Western tides have strewn the coast with Japanese corpses; regiments have been blown out of existence in the storming of positions defended by wire-entanglements; battleships have been lost: yet at no moment has there been the least public excitement. The people are following their daily occupations just as they did before the war; the cheery aspect of things is just the same; the theatres and flower displays are not less well patronized. The life of T[=o]ky[=o] has been, to outward seeming, hardly more affected by the events of the war than the life of nature beyond it, where the flowers are blooming and the butterflies hovering as in other summers. Except after the news of some great victory,--celebrated with fireworks and lantern processions,--there are no signs of public emotion; and but for the frequent distribution of newspaper extras, by runners ringing bells, you could almost persuade yourself that the whole story of the war is an evil dream. Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering--viewless and voiceless suffering--repressed by that sense of social and patriotic duty which is Japanese religion. As a seventeen-syllable poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain as well as joy:-- G[=o]gwai no Tabi teki mikata Goké ga fuè. [_Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and friends have increased in multitude._] The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than Spartan discipline of the race. Anciently the people were trained, not only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they are obedient to that teaching to-day. It would still be thought a shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for Emperor and fatherland. The public seem to view the events of the war as they would watch the scenes of a popular play. They are interested without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is particularly shown in various manifestations of the "Play-impulse." Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs. But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement than by the mention of ordinary facts,--every-day matters recorded in the writer's diary. * * * * * Never before were the photographers so busy; it is said that they have not been able to fulfill half of the demands made upon them. The hundreds of thousands of men sent to the war wished to leave photographs with their families, and also to take with them portraits of parents, children, and other beloved persons. The nation was being photographed during the past six months. A fact of sociological interest is that photography has added something new to the poetry of the domestic faith. From the time of its first introduction, photography became popular in Japan; and none of those superstitions, which inspire fear of the camera among less civilized races, offered any obstacle to the rapid development of a new industry. It is true that there exists some queer-folk beliefs about photographs,--ideas of mysterious relation between the sun-picture and the person imaged. For example: if, in the photograph of a group, one figure appear indistinct or blurred, that is thought to be an omen of sickness or death. But this superstition has its industrial value: it has compelled photographers to be careful about their work,--especially in these days of war, when everybody wants to have a good clear portrait, because the portrait might be needed for another purpose than preservation in an album. During the last twenty years there has gradually come into existence the custom of placing the photograph of a dead parent, brother, husband, or child, beside the mortuary tablet kept in the Buddhist household shrine. For this reason, also, the departing soldier wishes to leave at home a good likeness of himself. The rites of domestic affection, in old samurai families, are not confined to the cult of the dead. On certain occasions, the picture of the absent parent, husband, brother, or betrothed, is placed in the alcove of the guest-room, and a feast laid out before it. The photograph, in such cases, is fixed upon a little stand (_dai_); and the feast is served as if the person were present. This pretty custom of preparing a meal for the absent is probably more ancient than any art of portraiture; but the modern photograph adds to the human poetry of the rite. In feudal time it was the rule to set the repast facing the direction in which the absent person had gone--north, south, east, or west. After a brief interval the covers of the vessels containing the cooked food were lifted and examined. If the lacquered inner surface was thickly beaded with vapor, all was well; but if the surface was dry, that was an omen of death, a sign that the disembodied spirit had returned to absorb the essence of the offerings. * * * * * As might have been expected, in a country where the "play-impulse" is stronger, perhaps, than in any other part of the world, the Zeitgeist found manifestation in the flower displays of the year. I visited those in my neighborhood, which is the Quarter of the Gardeners. This quarter is famous for its azaleas (_tsutsuji_); and every spring the azalea gardens attract thousands of visitors,--not only by the wonderful exhibition then made of shrubs which look like solid masses of blossom (ranging up from snowy white, through all shades of pink, to a flamboyant purple) but also by displays of effigies: groups of figures ingeniously formed with living leaves and flowers. These figures, life-size, usually represent famous incidents of history or drama. In many cases--though not in all--the bodies and the costumes are composed of foliage and flowers trained to grow about a framework; while the faces, feet, and hands are represented by some kind of flesh-colored composition. This year, however, a majority of the displays represented scenes of the war,--such as an engagement between Japanese infantry and mounted Cossacks, a night attack by torpedo boats, the sinking of a battleship. In the last-mentioned display, Russian bluejackets appeared, swimming for their lives in a rough sea;--the pasteboard waves and the swimming figures being made to rise and fall by the pulling of a string; while the crackling of quick-firing guns was imitated by a mechanism contrived with sheets of zinc. It is said that Admiral T[=o]g[=o] sent to T[=o]ky[=o] for some flowering-trees in pots--inasmuch as his responsibilities allowed him no chance of seeing the cherry-flowers and the plum-blossoms in their season,--and that the gardeners responded even too generously. * * * * * Almost immediately after the beginning of hostilities, thousands of "war pictures"--mostly cheap lithographs--were published. The drawing and coloring were better than those of the prints issued at the time of the war with China; but the details were to a great extent imaginary,--altogether imaginary as to the appearance of Russian troops. Pictures of the engagements with the Russian fleet were effective, despite some lurid exaggeration. The most startling things were pictures of Russian defeats in Korea, published before a single military engagement had taken place;--the artist had "flushed to anticipate the scene." In these prints the Russians were depicted as fleeing in utter rout, leaving their officers--very fine-looking officers--dead upon the field; while the Japanese infantry, with dreadfully determined faces, were coming up at a double. The propriety and the wisdom of thus pictorially predicting victory, and easy victory to boot, may be questioned. But I am told that the custom of so doing is an old one; and it is thought that to realize the common hope thus imaginatively is lucky. At all events, there is no attempt at deception in these pictorial undertakings;--they help to keep up the public courage, and they ought to be pleasing to the gods. Some of the earlier pictures have now been realized in grim fact. The victories in China had been similarly foreshadowed: they amply justified the faith of the artist.... To-day the war pictures continue to multiply; but they have changed character. The inexorable truth of the photograph, and the sketches of the war correspondent, now bring all the vividness and violence of fact to help the artist's imagination. There was something naïve and theatrical in the drawings of anticipation; but the pictures of the hour represent the most tragic reality,--always becoming more terrible. At this writing, Japan has yet lost no single battle; but not a few of her victories have been dearly won. To enumerate even a tenth of the various articles ornamented with designs inspired by the war--articles such as combs, clasps, fans, brooches, card-cases, purses--would require a volume. Even cakes and confectionery are stamped with naval or military designs; and the glass or paper windows of shops--not to mention the signboards--have pictures of Japanese victories painted upon them. At night the shop lanterns proclaim the pride of the nation in its fleets and armies; and a whole chapter might easily be written about the new designs in transparencies and toy lanterns. A new revolving lantern--turned by the air-current which its own flame creates--has become very popular. It represents a charge of Japanese infantry upon Russian defenses; and holes pierced in the colored paper, so as to produce a continuous vivid flashing while the transparency revolves, suggest the exploding of shells and the volleying of machine guns. Some displays of the art-impulse, as inspired by the war, have been made in directions entirely unfamiliar to Western experience,--in the manufacture, for example, of women's hair ornaments and dress materials. Dress goods decorated with war pictures have actually become a fashion,--especially crêpe silks for underwear, and figured silk linings for cloaks and sleeves. More remarkable than these are the new hairpins;--by hairpins I mean those long double-pronged ornaments of flexible metal which are called _kanzashi_, and are more or less ornamented according to the age of the wearer. (The _kanzashi_ made for young girls are highly decorative; those worn by older folk are plain, or adorned only with a ball of coral or polished stone.) The new hairpins might be called commemorative: one, of which the decoration represents a British and a Japanese flag intercrossed, celebrates the Anglo-Japanese alliance; another represents an officer's cap and sword; and the best of all is surmounted by a tiny metal model of a battleship. The battleship-pin is not merely fantastic: it is actually pretty! As might have been expected, military and naval subjects occupy a large place among the year's designs for toweling. The towel designs celebrating naval victories have been particularly successful: they are mostly in white, on a blue ground; or in black, on a white ground. One of the best--blue and white--represented only a flock of gulls wheeling about the masthead of a sunken iron-clad, and, far away, the silhouettes of Japanese battleships passing to the horizon.... What especially struck me in this, and in several other designs, was the original manner in which the Japanese artist had seized upon the traits of the modern battleship,--the powerful and sinister lines of its shape,--just as he would have caught for us the typical character of a beetle or a lobster. The lines have been just enough exaggerated to convey, at one glance, the real impression made by the aspect of these iron monsters,--vague impression of bulk and force and menace, very difficult to express by ordinary methods of drawing. Besides towels decorated with artistic sketches of this sort, there have been placed upon the market many kinds of towels bearing comic war pictures,--caricatures or cartoons which are amusing without being malignant. It will be remembered that at the time of the first attack made upon the Port Arthur squadron, several of the Russian officers were in the Dalny theatre,--never dreaming that the Japanese would dare to strike the first blow. This incident has been made the subject of a towel design. At one end of the towel is a comic study of the faces of the Russians, delightedly watching the gyrations of a ballet dancer. At the other end is a study of the faces of the same commanders when they find, on returning to the port, only the masts of their battleships above water. Another towel shows a procession of fish in front of a surgeon's office--waiting their turns to be relieved of sundry bayonets, swords, revolvers, and rifles, which have stuck in their throats. A third towel picture represents a Russian diver examining, with a prodigious magnifying-glass, the holes made by torpedoes in the hull of a sunken cruiser. Comic verses or legends, in cursive text, are printed beside these pictures. The great house of Mitsui, which placed the best of these designs on the market, also produced some beautiful souvenirs of the war, in the shape of _fukusa_. (A _fukusa_ is an ornamental silk covering, or wrapper, put over presents sent to friends on certain occasions, and returned after the present has been received.) These are made of the heaviest and costliest silk, and inclosed within appropriately decorated covers. Upon one _fukusa_ is a colored picture of the cruisers Nisshin and Kasuga, under full steam; and upon another has been printed, in beautiful Chinese characters, the full text of the Imperial Declaration of war. But the strangest things that I have seen in this line of production were silk dresses for baby girls,--figured stuffs which, when looked at from a little distance, appeared incomparably pretty, owing to the masterly juxtaposition of tints and colors. On closer inspection the charming design proved to be composed entirely of war pictures,--or, rather, fragments of pictures, blended into one astonishing combination: naval battles; burning warships; submarine mines exploding; torpedo boats attacking; charges of Cossacks repulsed by Japanese infantry; artillery rushing into position; storming of forts; long lines of soldiery advancing through mist. Here were colors of blood and fire, tints of morning haze and evening glow, noon-blue and starred night-purple, sea-gray and field-green,--most wonderful thing!... I suppose that the child of a military or naval officer might, without impropriety, be clad in such a robe. But then--the unspeakable pity of things! * * * * * The war toys are innumerable: I can attempt to mention only a few of the more remarkable kinds. Japanese children play many sorts of card games, some of which are old, others quite new. There are poetical card games, for example, played with a pack of which each card bears the text of a poem, or part of a poem; and the player should be able to remember the name of the author of any quotation in the set. Then there are geographical card games, in which each of the cards used bears the name, and perhaps a little picture, of some famous site, town, or temple; and the player should be able to remember the district and province in which the mentioned place is situated. The latest novelty in this line is a pack of cards with pictures upon them of the Russian war vessels; and the player should be able to state what has become of every vessel named,--whether sunk, disabled, or confined in Port Arthur. There is another card game in which the battleships, cruisers, and torpedo craft of both Japan and Russia are represented. The winner in this game destroys his "captures" by tearing the cards taken. But the shops keep packages of each class of warship cards in stock; and when all the destroyers or cruisers of one country have been put _hors de combat_, the defeated party can purchase new vessels abroad. One torpedo boat costs about one farthing; but five torpedo boats can be bought for a penny. The toy-shops are crammed with models of battleships,--in wood, clay, porcelain, lead, and tin,--of many sizes and prices. Some of the larger ones, moved by clockwork, are named after Japanese battleships: Shikishima, Fuji, Mikasa. One mechanical toy represents the sinking of a Russian vessel by a Japanese torpedo boat. Among cheaper things of this class is a box of colored sand, for the representation of naval engagements. Children arrange the sand so as to resemble waves; and with each box of sand are sold two fleets of tiny leaden vessels. The Japanese ships are white, and the Russian black; and explosions of torpedoes are to be figured by small cuttings of vermilion paper, planted in the sand. * * * * * The children of the poorest classes make their own war toys; and I have been wondering whether those ancient feudal laws (translated by Professor Wigmore), which fixed the cost and quality of toys to be given to children, did not help to develop that ingenuity which the little folk display. Recently I saw a group of children in our neighborhood playing at the siege of Port Arthur, with fleets improvised out of scraps of wood and some rusty nails. A tub of water represented Port Arthur. Battleships were figured by bits of plank, into which chop-sticks had been fixed to represent masts, and rolls of paper to represent funnels. Little flags, appropriately colored, were fastened to the masts with rice paste. Torpedo boats were imaged by splinters, into each of which a short thick nail had been planted to indicate a smokestack. Stationary submarine mines were represented by small squares of wood, each having one long nail driven into it; and these little things, when dropped into water with the nail-head downwards, would keep up a curious bobbing motion for a long time. Other squares of wood, having clusters of short nails driven into them, represented floating mines: and the mimic battleships were made to drag for these, with lines of thread. The pictures in the Japanese papers had doubtless helped the children to imagine the events of the war with tolerable accuracy. Naval caps for children have become, of course, more in vogue than ever before. Some of the caps bear, in Chinese characters of burnished metal, the name of a battleship, or the words _Nippon Teikoku_ (Empire of Japan),--disposed like the characters upon the cap of a blue-jacket. On some caps, however, the ship's name appears in English letters,--Yashima, Fuji, etc. * * * * * The play-impulse, I had almost forgotten to say, is shared by the soldiers themselves,--though most of those called to the front do not expect to return in the body. They ask only to be remembered at the Spirit-Invoking Shrine (_Sh[=o]konsha_), where the shades of all who die for Emperor and country are believed to gather. The men of the regiments temporarily quartered in our suburb, on their way to the war, found time to play at mimic war with the small folk of the neighborhood. (At all times Japanese soldiers are very kind to children; and the children here march with them, join in their military songs, and correctly salute their officers, feeling sure that the gravest officer will return the salute of a little child.) When the last regiment went away, the men distributed toys among the children assembled at the station to give them a parting cheer,--hairpins, with military symbols for ornament, to the girls; wooden infantry and tin cavalry to the boys. The oddest present was a small clay model of a Russian soldier's head, presented with the jocose promise: "If we come back, we shall bring you some real ones." In the top of the head there is a small wire loop, to which a rubber string can be attached. At the time of the war with China, little clay models of Chinese heads, with very long queues, were favorite toys. * * * * * The war has also suggested a variety of new designs for that charming object, the _toko-niwa_. Few of my readers know what a _toko-niwa_, or "alcove-garden," is. It is a miniature garden--perhaps less than two feet square--contrived within an ornamental shallow basin of porcelain or other material, and placed in the alcove of a guest-room by way of decoration. You may see there a tiny pond; a streamlet crossed by humped bridges of Chinese pattern; dwarf trees forming a grove, and shading the model of a Shinto temple; imitations in baked clay of stone lanterns,--perhaps even the appearance of a hamlet of thatched cottages. If the _toko-niwa_ be not too small, you may see real fish swimming in the pond, or a pet tortoise crawling among the rockwork. Sometimes the miniature garden represents H[=o]rai, and the palace of the Dragon-King. Two new varieties have come into fashion. One is a model of Port Arthur, showing the harbor and the forts; and with the materials for the display there is sold a little map, showing how to place certain tiny battle-ships, representing the imprisoned and the investing fleets. The other _toko-niwa_ represents a Korean or Chinese landscape, with hill ranges and rivers and woods; and the appearance of a battle is created by masses of toy soldiers--cavalry, infantry, and artillery--in all positions of attack and defense. Minute forts of baked clay, bristling with cannon about the size of small pins, occupy elevated positions. When properly arranged the effect is panoramic. The soldiers in the foreground are about an inch long; those a little farther away about half as long; and those upon the hills are no larger than flies. But the most remarkable novelty of this sort yet produced is a kind of _toko-niwa_ recently on display at a famous shop in Ginza. A label bearing the inscription, _Kaï-téï no Ikken_ (View of the Ocean-Bed) sufficiently explained the design. The _suïbon_, or "water-tray," containing the display was half filled with rocks and sand so as to resemble a sea-bottom; and little fishes appeared swarming in the fore-ground. A little farther back, upon an elevation, stood Otohimé, the Dragon-King's daughter, surrounded by her maiden attendants, and gazing, with just the shadow of a smile, at two men in naval uniform who were shaking hands,--dead heroes of the war: Admiral Makaroff and Commander Hirosé!... These had esteemed each other in life; and it was a happy thought thus to represent their friendly meeting in the world of Spirits. * * * * * Though his name is perhaps unfamiliar to English readers, Commander Takeo Hirosé has become, deservedly, one of Japan's national heroes. On the 27th of March, during the second attempt made to block the entrance to Port Arthur, he was killed while endeavoring to help a comrade,--a comrade who had formerly saved him from death. For five years Hirosé had been a naval attaché at St. Petersburg, and had made many friends in Russian naval and military circles. From boyhood his life had been devoted to study and duty; and it was commonly said of him that he had no particle of selfishness in his nature. Unlike most of his brother officers, he remained unmarried,--holding that no man who might be called on at any moment to lay down his life for his country had a moral right to marry. The only amusements in which he was ever known to indulge were physical exercises; and he was acknowledged one of the best _j[=u]jutsu_ (wrestlers) in the empire. The heroism of his death, at the age of thirty-six, had much less to do with the honors paid to his memory than the self-denying heroism of his life. Now his picture is in thousands of homes, and his name is celebrated in every village. It is celebrated also by the manufacture of various souvenirs, which are sold by myriads. For example, there is a new fashion in sleeve-buttons, called _Kinen-botan_, or "Commemoration-buttons." Each button bears a miniature portrait of the commander, with the inscription, _Shichi-sh[=o] h[=o]koku_, "Even in seven successive lives--for love of country." It is recorded that Hirosé often cited, to friends who criticised his ascetic devotion to duty, the famous utterance of Kusunoki Masashigé, who declared, ere laying down his life for the Emperor Go-Daigo, that he desired to die for his sovereign in seven successive existences. But the highest honor paid to the memory of Hirosé is of a sort now possible only in the East, though once possible also in the West, when the Greek or Roman patriot-hero might be raised, by the common love of his people, to the place of the Immortals.... Wine-cups of porcelain have been made, decorated with his portrait; and beneath the portrait appears, in ideographs of gold, the inscription, _Gunshin Hirosé Ch[=u]sa_. The character "gun" signifies war; the character "_shin_" a god,--either in the sense of _divus_ or _deus_, according to circumstances; and the Chinese text, read in the Japanese way, is _Ikusa no Kami_. Whether that stern and valiant spirit is really invoked by the millions who believe that no brave soul is doomed to extinction, no well-spent life laid down in vain, no heroism cast away, I do not know. But, in any event, human affection and gratitude can go no farther than this; and it must be confessed that Old Japan is still able to confer honors worth dying for. * * * * * Boys and girls in all the children's schools are now singing the Song of Hirosé Ch[=u]sa, which is a marching song. The words and the music are published in a little booklet, with a portrait of the late commander upon the cover. Everywhere, and at all hours of the day, one hears this song being sung:-- _He whose every word and deed gave to men an example of what the war-folk of the_ _Empire of Nippon should be,--Commander Hirosé: is he really dead?_ _Though the body die, the spirit dies not. He who wished to be reborn seven times into this world, for the sake of serving his country, for the sake of requiting the Imperial favor,--Commander Hirosé: has he really died?_ _"Since I am a son of the Country of the Gods, the fire of the evil-hearted Russians cannot touch me!"--The sturdy Takeo who spoke thus: can he really be dead?..._ _Nay! that glorious war-death meant undying fame;--beyond a thousand years the valiant heart shall live;--as to a god of war shall reverence be paid to him...._ * * * * * Observing the playful confidence of this wonderful people in their struggle for existence against the mightiest power of the West,--their perfect trust in the wisdom of their leaders and the valor of their armies,--the good humor of their irony when mocking the enemy's blunders,--their strange capacity to find, in the world-stirring events of the hour, the same amusement that they would find in watching a melodrama,--one is tempted to ask: "What would be the moral consequence of a national defeat?"... It would depend, I think, upon circumstances. Were Kuropatkin able to fulfill his rash threat of invading Japan, the nation would probably rise as one man. But otherwise the knowledge of any great disaster would be bravely borne. From time unknown Japan has been a land of cataclysms,--earth-quakes that ruin cities in the space of a moment; tidal waves, two hundred miles long, sweeping whole coast populations out of existence; floods submerging hundreds of leagues of well-tilled fields; eruptions burying provinces. Calamities like this have disciplined the race in resignation and in patience; and it has been well trained also to bear with courage all the misfortunes of war. Even by the foreign peoples that have been most closely in contact with her, the capacities of Japan remained unguessed. Perhaps her power to resist aggression is far surpassed by her power to endure. 
32086	----	JAPAN OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS ON JAPAN EACH CONTAINING FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR * * * * * ANCIENT TALES AND FOLK-LORE OF JAPAN BY R. GORDON SMITH, F.R.G.S. 57 ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAPANESE ARTISTS * * * * * THE FLOWERS AND GARDENS OF JAPAN DESCRIBED BY FLORENCE DU CANE 50 ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLA DU CANE * * * * * "JAPAN" In the "Peeps at Many Lands and Cities" Series BY JOHN FINNEMORE 12 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR * * * * * PEEPS AT THE HISTORY OF JAPAN BY JOHN FINNEMORE 8 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR AND NUMEROUS LINE DRAWINGS IN THE TEXT PUBLISHED BY ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, 4, 5 AND 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. [Illustration: MISS POMEGRANATE] JAPAN · A RECORD IN COLOUR BY MORTIMER MENPES · TRANSCRIBED BY DOROTHY MENPES · PUBLISHED BY ADAM & CHARLES BLACK · SOHO SQUARE · LONDON · W. _Published December 1901 Reprinted May 1902, January 1903, January 1904 January 1905_ TO MY FRIEND THE LADY EDWARD CECIL TO WHOSE ENTHUSIASTIC SYMPATHY MY WORK IN JAPAN OWES SO MUCH OF THE SUCCESS IT HAS ATTAINED Note In this book I endeavour to present, with whatever skill of penmanship I may possess, my father's impressions of Japan. I trust that they will not lose in force and vigour in that they are closely intermingled with my own impressions, which were none the less vivid because they were those of a child,--for it was as a child, keenly interested in and enjoying all I saw, that I passed, four or five years ago, through that lovely flower-land of the Far East, which my father has here so charmingly memorialised in colour. DOROTHY MENPES _November 1901._ Contents CHAPTER I PAGE ART AND THE DRAMA 1 CHAPTER II THE LIVING ART 29 CHAPTER III PAINTERS AND THEIR METHODS 49 CHAPTER IV PLACING 75 CHAPTER V ART IN PRACTICAL LIFE 91 CHAPTER VI THE GARDENS 105 CHAPTER VII FLOWER ARRANGEMENT 113 CHAPTER VIII THE GEISHA 123 CHAPTER IX CHILDREN 135 CHAPTER X WORKERS 151 CHAPTER XI CHARACTERISTICS 199 List of Illustrations 1. Miss Pomegranate _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE 2. An Actor 2 3. Watching the Play 4 4. The Bill of the Play 6 5. A Garden 8 6. The Road to the Temple 10 7. The Street with the Gallery 12 8. Sun and Lanterns 14 9. Summer Afternoon 16 10. Apricot-Blossom Street 18 11. Outside Kioto 20 12. A Blond Day 22 13. A Blind Beggar 24 14. The Giant Lantern 26 15. Sun and Lanterns 32 16. The Scarlet Umbrella 36 17. Leading to the Temple 38 18. By the Light of the Lanterns 40 19. "News" 42 20. A Sunny Temple 44 21. On the Great Canal, Osaka 46 22. After the Festival 52 23. The Lemon Bridge 54 24. Bearing a Burden 58 25. The End of the Day and the End of the Festival 60 26. In Front of the Stall 62 27. The Stall by the Bridge 64 28. Archers 68 29. Reflections 72 30. The Red Curtain 78 31. Flower of the Tea 80 32. A Street in Kioto 82 33. Heavy-laden 84 34. Peach-Blossom 88 35. The Tea-house of the Slender Tree 94 36. Blossom of the Glen 96 37. A Family Group 100 38. The Venice of Japan 102 39. An Iris Garden 108 40. A Sunny Garden 110 41. Iris Garden 112 42. A Wistaria Garden 116 43. Flower-placing 118 44. Wistaria 120 45. Butterflies 126 46. Daughters of the Sun 128 47. By the Light of the Lantern 130 48. A Street Scene, Kioto 132 49. Baby and Baby 138 50. A Jap in Plum-colour 140 51. Sugar-water Stall 142 52. Advance Japan 144 53. Chums 146 54. A Sunny Stroll 148 55. The Child and the Umbrella 150 56. A Little Jap 154 57. A By-canal 156 58. Swinging along in the Sun 158 59. A Metal-worker 160 60. Bronze-workers 162 61. In Theatre Street 164 62. The Carpenter 166 63. Making up Accounts 168 64. Finishing Touches 170 65. A Back Canal, Osaka 172 66. Stencil-makers 174 67. A Sign-painter's 178 68. A Cloisonné Worker 180 69. A Toy-shop 182 70. A Sweet-stuff Stall 184 71. A Canal in Osaka 188 72. Umbrellas and Commerce 190 73. Playfellows 194 74. Youth and Age 202 75. Lookers-on 204 ART AND THE DRAMA [Illustration: AN ACTOR] CHAPTER I ART AND THE DRAMA I always agree with that man who said, "Let me make the nation's songs and I care not who frames her laws," or words to that effect, for, in my opinion, nothing so well indicates national character or so keenly accentuates the difference between individuals and nations as the way in which they spend their leisure hours; and the theatres of Japan are thoroughly typical of the people's character. It would be utterly impossible for the Japanese to keep art out of their lives. It creeps into everything, and is as the very air they breathe. Art with them is not only a conscious effort to achieve the beautiful, but also an instinctive expression of inherited taste. It beautifies their homes and pervades their gardens; and perhaps one never realises this all-dominating power more fully than when in a Japanese theatre, which is, invariably, a veritable temple of art. But here with us in the West it is different. We have no art, and our methods merely lead us to deception, while we do not begin to understand those few great truths which form the basis of oriental philosophy, and without which perfection in the dramatic art is impossible. For example, the philosophy of balance, of which the Japanese are past masters, is to us unknown. The fact that Nature is commonplace, thereby forming a background, as it were, for Tragedy and the spirit of life to work, has never occurred to us; while the background of our Western play is not by any means a plan created by a true artist upon which to display the dramatic picture as it is in Japan, but simply a background to advertise the stage-manager's imitative talent. The result is, of course, that the acting and the environment are at variance instead of being in harmonic unity. But we in the West have not time to think of vague things, such as balance and breadth and the creating of pictures. What we want is realism; we want a sky to look like a real sky, and the moon in it to look like a real moon, even if it travels by clock-work, as it has been known to do occasionally. And so real is this clock-work moon that we are deceived into imagining that it is the moon, the actual moon. But the deception is not pleasant; in fact, it almost gives you indigestion to see a moon, and such a moon, careering over the whole sky in half an hour. In Japan they would not occupy themselves with making you believe that a moon on the stage was a real one--they would consider such false realism as a bit of gross degradation--but they would take the greatest possible pains as to the proper placing of that palpably pasteboard moon of theirs, even if they had to hold it up in the sky by the aid of a broom-stick. [Illustration: WATCHING THE PLAY] In Japan the scenic work of a play is handled by one man alone, and that man is the dramatic author, who is almost invariably a great artist. To him the stage is a huge canvas upon which he is to paint his picture, and of which each actor forms a component part. This picture of his has to be thought out in every detail; he has to think of his figures in relation to his background, just as a Japanese architect when building a house or a temple takes into consideration the surrounding scenery, and even the trees and the hills, in order to form a complete picture, perfect in balance and in form. When a dramatic author places his drama upon the stage, he arranges the colour and setting of it in obedience to his ideas of fitness, which are partly intuitive and partly traditional. It is probably necessary that his background should be a monotone, or arranged in broad masses of colour, in order to balance the brilliancy of the action, and against which the moving figures are sharply defined. And it is only in Japan that you see such brilliant luminous effects on the stage, for the Japs alone seem to have the courage to handle very vivid colours in a masterly way--glorious sweeps of gold and of blue--vivid, positive colour. No low-toned plush curtains and what we call rich, sombre colour, with overdressed, shifted-calved flunkeys, stepping silently about on velvet carpets, shod in list slippers, and looking for all the world like a lot of burglars, only needing a couple of dark lanterns to complete their stealthy appearance. Then, there are no Morris-papered anterooms and corridors in Japan, as we have here--sad bottlegreens and browns leading to a stage that is still sadder in colour--only a sadness lit up by a fierce glare of electric light. The true artistic spirit is wanting in the West. We are too timid to deal in masses for effect, and we have such a craving for realism that we become simply technical imitators like the counterfeiters of banknotes. Our great and all-prevailing idea is to cram as much of what we call realism and detail into a scene as possible; the richer the company, and the more money they have to handle, the more hopeless the work becomes, for the degradation of it is still more forcibly emphasised. Consequently, we always create spotty pictures; in fact, one rarely ever sees a well-balanced scene in a Western theatre, and simply because we do not realise the breadth and simplicity of Nature. There are not the violent contrasts in Nature that our artists are so continually depicting: Nature plays well within her range, and you seldom see her going to extremes. In a sunlit garden the deepest shadow and the brightest light come very near together, so broad and so subtle are her harmonies. We do not realise this, and we sacrifice breadth in the vain endeavour to gain what we propose to call strength--strength is sharp; but breadth is quiet and full of reserve. None understands this simple truth so well as the Japanese. It forms the very basis of oriental philosophy, and through the true perception of it they have attained to those ideas of balance which are so eminent a characteristic of Japanese art. [Illustration: THE BILL OF THE PLAY] When you have balanced force you have reached perfection, and this is of course the true criterion of dramatic art. But here in the West we must be realistic, and if a manager succeeds in producing upon the stage an exact representation of a room in Belgrave Square he is perfectly content, and looks upon his work as a triumph. There is to be no choice: he does not choose his room from the decorative standpoint--such a thing would never occur to him for a moment--but simply grabs at this particular room that he happens to know in Belgrave Square, nicknacks and all, and plants it upon the stage. His wife, he imagines, has a taste for dress, and she dresses the people that are to sit about in this room, probably playing a game of "Bridge," just as you might see it played any day in Belgrave Square. I remember once, when a play of this nature was being acted at one of our leading theatres, hearing a disgusted exclamation from a man at my side--"Well! if that's all," he growled, "we might go and see a game of Bridge played any night"; and it occurred to me as I heard him that the managers will suffer for this foolish realism, the public will soon tire of it, for they, almost unconsciously, want something altogether bigger and finer--let us hope they want art. The Japanese are not led away by this struggle to be realistic, and this is one of the chief reasons why the stage of Japan is so far ahead of our stage. If a horse is introduced into a scene he will be by no means a real horse, but a very wooden one, with wooden joints, just like a nursery rocking-horse; yet this decorative animal will be certain to take its proper place in the composition of the picture. But when realism has its artistic value, the Japs will use it to the full. If a scene is to be the interior of a house, it will be an interior, complete in every detail down to the exquisite bowl of flowers which almost invariably forms the chief decoration of a Japanese room. But suppose they want a garden: they do not proceed, as we do, to take one special garden and copy it literally; that garden has to be created and thought out to form a perfect whole; even the lines of the tiny trees and the shape of the hills in the distance have to be considered in relation to the figures of the actors who are to tell their story there. This is true art. Then, when you go to a theatre in Japan, you are made to feel that you are actually living in the atmosphere of the play: the body of the theatre and the stage are linked together, and the spectator feels that he is contained in the picture itself, that he is looking on at a scene which is taking place in real life just before his very eyes. And it is the great aim of every ambitious dramatic author to make you feel this. To gain this end, if the scene is situated by the seashore, he will cause the sea, which is represented by that decorative design called the wave pattern, to be swept right round the theatre, embracing both audience and stage and dragging you into the very heart of his picture. [Illustration: A GARDEN] For this same reason, a Japanese theatre is always built with two broad passages, called Hanamichi (or flower-paths), leading through the audience to the stage, up which you can watch a Daimio and his gorgeous retinue sweep on his royal way to visit perhaps another Daimio whose house is represented on the stage. This is very dramatic, and greatly forwards the author's scheme of bringing you into touch with the stage. But we in our Western theatres need not trouble ourselves with all this, for we frame our scenes in a vulgar gilt frame; we hem them in and cut them off from the rest of the house. When we go to a theatre here, we go to view a picture hung up on a wall, and generally a very foolish inartistic picture it is too. And even taking our stage from the point of view of a picture, it is wrong, for in a work of art the frame should never have an independent value as an achievement, but be subordinate to, and part of, the whole. All idea of framing the stage must be done away with; else we are in danger of going to the other extreme, as some artists have done, and cause our picture to overlap and spread itself upon the frame. An artist in a realistic mood has been known, when painting a picture of the seaside, to so crave after texture as to sprinkle sand upon the foreground, and becoming more and more enthusiastic he has at last ended in an exuberance of realism by clapping some real shells on to the frame and gilding them over. Thus the picture appeared to pour out on to its frame. This is all very terrible and inartistic; yet it is but an instance of the kind of mistake that we let ourselves in for by the ridiculous method of stage-setting which we practise. Now, built as the Japanese theatres are, with their flower-paths leading from the stage, there is no fear of such a disaster; yet Westerners, who have never been to Japan, on hearing of the construction of a Japanese theatre, are rather inclined to conjure up to their fancies visions of the low comedian who springs through trap-doors, and of the clown who leaves the ring of the circus to seat himself between two maiden ladies in the audience; but if these people were to go to Japan and see a really fine production at a properly conducted theatre, such an idea would never occur to them at all. [Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE TEMPLE] Here and there, however, the unthinking globe-trotter, with more or less the vulgar mind, will be inclined to laugh as he sees a richly-clothed actor sweep majestically through the audience to the stage; he will point out the prompter who never attempts to conceal himself, and the little black-robed supers who career about the stage arranging dresses, slipping stools under actors, and bearing away any little article that they don't happen to want. "How funny and elementary it all is!" they will remark; but there is nothing elementary about it at all; these little supers who appear to them so amusing are perfect little artists, and are absolutely necessary to ensure the success of a scene. Suppose Danjuro, the greatest actor in Japan, appears upon the stage dressed in a most gorgeous costume, and takes up a position before a screen which he will probably have to retain for half an hour: these little people must be there to see that the sweep of his dress is correct in relation to the lines of the screen. The placing of this drapery is elaborately rehearsed by the supers, and when they step back from their work even the globe-trotter is bound to admit that the picture created by Danjuro and the screen is a perfectly beautiful one, and a picture which could not have been brought about by merely walking up and stopping short, or by the backward kick that a leading lady gives to her skirt. These little supers may go, come, and drift about on the stage; they may slip props under the actors and illuminate their faces with torches; yet the refined Japanese gentleman (and he is always an artist) is utterly unconscious of their presence. They are dressed in black: therefore it would be considered as the height of vulgarity in him to see them. Indeed, the audience are in honour bound not to notice these people, and it would be deemed in their eyes just as vulgar for you to point out a super in the act of arranging a bit of drapery, as to enter a temple and smell the incense there. No Japanese ever smells incense: he is merely conscious of it. Incense is full of divine and beautiful suggestion; but the moment you begin to vulgarise it by talking, or even thinking, of its smell, all beauty and significance is destroyed. Everything connected with the stage in Japan is reduced to a fine art: the actor's walk--the dignity of it!--you would never see a man walk in the street as he would on the stage. And then the tone of voice, bearing, and attitude--everything about the man is changed. I remember once in Tokio being introduced to the manager of a local theatre, whose performance so much pleased me that I begged the privilege of making a few studies before the play began, hinting at the same time that I should very much like one or two of the actors to pose for me. Then this little gentleman began to think and frown and pucker his brow, secretly proud that an artist should want to paint his work, and also not unwilling to make a little money. At last, after much deliberation, he decided that I was to have the run of his theatre and ten actors for the afternoon, charging three dollars and a half for the whole concern. This seemed to me to be fairly reasonable; I did not know of any London theatre that I could have hired for three dollars and a half, or even as many pounds, and then the company consisted of ten actors who were all artists, all loving their work as only true artists can. To be sure, it was a suburban theatre, and the acting was not of the finest; probably also there was a great deal of exaggeration in the poses; but still it lent itself to decorative work, and answered my purpose to perfection. They did not act, but merely posed to form a series of pictures, and some of the expressions of the actors were extraordinarily grotesque, just like a Japanese picture-book. But what struck me most of all was the absolute autocracy of the little manager, or whatever he called himself--the Czar of Russia or General Booth was not in it with him for power! He threw his actors about on the stage just as an artist would fling pigment on to a canvas; and his violent whisking of a bit of vermilion and apple-green in against a wave was too dexterous and masterly for anything, and called forth my unfeigned admiration. [Illustration: THE STREET WITH THE GALLERY] The greatest living actor at the present moment in Japan is Danjuro--in fact, I should say that he is one of the greatest actors in the whole world; and in order to give a true insight into the many beauties of the Japanese drama, it seems to me that I cannot do better than describe a day that I once spent with this great master. I was taken to see him by Fukuchi, Japan's most eminent dramatist and the greatest of living writers. We were shown into a small room with spotless mats to await Danjuro's arrival, and my attention was at once attracted towards an exquisite kakemono that hung on the wall, which was the only decoration the room possessed. It was a picture, a masterpiece, that seemed to suggest one of the early Italian masters; it impressed me tremendously, and I told Fukuchi so. "Ah, I am glad!" he exclaimed, "for Danjuro, the great master, when I told him you were coming and that you were a painter, asked me many questions about you. He took much pains to discover the quality of art that appealed to you, and the side of Nature that you liked the best. He also wished to know your favourite flower, and which kind of blossom you loved the most--whether you preferred, as he did, the single cherry-blossom, or the double. This Danjuro was unable to find out; if he had known he would have chosen a kakemono of flowers for you. But I am glad you like the picture." I was amazed at the kindness of this man Danjuro. There was no accident about this picture that I admired so vastly: it had been chosen for a definite reason--to give me pleasure. And I afterwards learnt that there is no end to the amount of trouble a Japanese gentleman will take in the choosing of the picture that is to hang in the room where you are being entertained. When you enter a house in Japan, the first and one idea is to give you pleasure, and the people of the house will take elaborate pains, almost the care that a detective will take in detecting a crime, to find out, as delicately as possible, your taste in regard to this picture. They will send their servant round to your hotel to find out what flower you have expressly asked to have placed on your table, and that will be the flower that you will find adorning either a kakemono or a vase when entering the house of your friend. [Illustration: SUN AND LANTERNS] This room where Fukuchi and I were waiting looked out upon the garden--a miniature garden, no bigger than an ordinary dining-room, yet perfectly balanced, one that held infinite joys: there were the miniature bridges, lakes, and gold-fish, the mountains, the valleys, and the ancient turtles--all correct as to colour and marked by that exquisite taste which only a Japanese landscape-gardener can display. It was a bright sunlit day, and looking from this room with its perfect masterpiece to the little jewel of a garden, you felt that you were living in another world. And it was all so pure and so "right" that I began to feel hopelessly "wrong." It seemed that I was the only blot in these perfect surroundings. And at last I became so shy that I really didn't know what to do with myself, and I felt that the only thing left for me was to take off my clothes and dig a hole in the ground, and then be ashamed that I had left my clothes behind me. However, I controlled my emotions and waited on with Fukuchi until the sliding doors dividing us from the adjoining room were quietly opened and Danjuro appeared. So unlike an actor!--no moving of the eyebrows, no stroking of the hair, but just a simple dignified gentleman, and an old gentleman, quite old. He was a slim, spare man, very refined, with the look of a picture of Buddha by Botticelli. The face was thin and narrow and keen; bright eyes glanced at me from under heavy eyebrows; his manner was magnetic; and I felt at once that he was a great artist. The way his servants saluted him! You could see that they loved him, and yet by the reverence they showed him he might have been a cardinal. I was at once offered exquisite delicacies in little lacquer cups, and we all sat down, on the floor of course, and Danjuro began to talk. One of the first things he said to me, through Fukuchi, who spoke English perfectly, was, "I am told that I have many qualities like your great actor Sir Henry Irving," and even as he spoke I could trace a distinct facial likeness between the two men. His voice was rich and powerful and his enunciation deliberate; he used his hands quietly, and the expression varied very little except when he was anxious to emphasise, and then the change was extraordinary, while the expression and poses were so admirable that I could almost understand what the man was saying. I instinctively felt that the right thing to do was to first talk of the kakemono, and Danjuro, seeing my genuine enthusiasm, smiled and said, without a touch of false modesty, "Yes; it is a great masterpiece!" and then he began to tell me about this picture, and I felt at once that this dignified little gentleman was a true artist. [Illustration: SUMMER AFTERNOON] From the picture we drifted to the Drama, and Danjuro was very curious to know something of our work in London, and now and then, as he plied me with pertinent questions, I thought I detected a glimmer of fun behind his inscrutable demeanour. At last the questions rained around me so rapidly, and were so terribly to the point, that I felt thoroughly ashamed and did not know how to answer him. I knew that he was an artist, looking at his work from purely the artistic standpoint, and as an artist I knew that it would be utterly impossible for him to appreciate our Western methods: so I deftly turned the conversation by returning the fire of questions. I had seen Danjuro in one or two scenes in which I was greatly struck with the remarkable changes of his facial expression. There was one scene in which Danjuro faced the audience, and in a minute, by the complete alteration of his face, changed himself into an entirely different man. This feat was really so remarkable that I was anxious to know how it was done, and suggested that it might have been accomplished by a clever make-up. "No, no!" he exclaimed. "It is a rule of mine to use 'make-up' very rarely. For change of expression we actors have to depend much on the muscles of our faces"; and Danjuro, to illustrate this, quickly changed his face until it was totally different, even to the face markings, and I should have defied Sherlock Holmes himself to have known him to be the same man. Then I saw him act the part of a drunken man. I have seen drunken men on the stage over and over again, and there has always been a touch of vulgarity about them; but this drunken man of Danjuro's was an exquisite triumph of art. I was curious to know how he had perfected this rôle, and suggested that it had perhaps been brought about through a careful study of the habits and actions of a drunkard, using him as a model, as it were. But this Danjuro firmly denied. "No, no, never!" he exclaimed. "I might just as well take a drunken man and stick him on the stage, just as he is, as to imitate any one man. That is not art: it is not a creation. I have seen drunken men all my life, and the drunken man I represented was the aggregate of all the drunkenness I have ever seen. Suppose by chance I had come across a drunken man while I was developing the character, I should perhaps have been tempted to follow that particular man too closely, and the result would have been necessarily inartistic." And Danjuro made it quite clear to me that when creating the character of either a drunken man or a madman, he invariably keeps as far away from Nature as possible. He would not proceed as some of our actors do, to hunt about in the slums until he had found a man sufficiently drunk for his purpose, and then copy him exactly; or, yet again, he would not have attempted to imitate a death-bed scene by watching one particular person die. Such a thing would appear to him as a great degradation. Almost imperceptibly the conversation swerved round again to English acting, and Danjuro gave me a rather humorous, though humiliating, description of a play he had seen in Yokohama. The language was gibberish to him, and all he could do was to study the poses of the players, which struck him as being extremely awkward. "They suggested to me badly modelled statues," he explained; "they never seemed to move gracefully, and their actions were always violent and exaggerated." This, from a Japanese, was frank criticism, for he made it quite clear to me that he had little or no sympathy with our methods. He felt that he was talking to an artist and that he could afford to be natural; but after this very candid opinion there was a slight pause, which I hastened to break by putting a question on the subject of his own drama. [Illustration: APRICOT-BLOSSOM STREET] The drama of Japan, he told me, was greatly improving; the actors nowadays have chances which in the early days they had not, and it is easier for them to create fine scenic effects. They have the chance of studying great masterpieces at museums; they may copy costumes there, and, above all, they have the superb opportunity of studying colour and form. Then, many of the great Japanese actors possess collections of very fine pictures, while the actors of early times could only study from badly printed woodblocks which were nearly all inaccurate. Schools for actors have been occupying his attention, and he hopes that some day they will be established all over Japan. Actors, in his opinion, should be taught when they are quite young the science of deportment and of graceful movement, to be artists as well as actors, and above all to avoid exaggeration. Danjuro prefers as an audience the middle classes. "They are more sympathetic," he said; "the diplomats and politicians who have come in touch with the West, and are dressed in European dress, seem somehow to lose sympathy with us, and are not helpful as an audience. Perhaps it is that they can never entirely divest themselves of the sense of their own importance." After considering Danjuro's views concerning the Japanese drama, I was interested to hear the views of the dramatic author, and Fukuchi and I spent many delightful afternoons together discussing this all-absorbing topic. "What do you claim to be the chief advantages of Japanese as compared with European theatres?" I asked him on one occasion. "Well," replied Fukuchi without a moment's hesitation, "before everything else I should place the Hanamichi (flower-paths). This is absolutely indispensable to the Japanese stage, and allows of endless possibilities. With it we have far greater scope for fine work, and dramatically it is of tremendous advantage. Then there is the revolving stage, which is a great improvement on Western mechanism, for while one scene is being acted, another can be prepared." On this particular afternoon the dramatist and I were sitting in Mr. Fukuchi's own room overlooking the river with a distant view of the sea. Books, all Japanese, were heaped up in an alcove, while the only furniture the room possessed was a very fine kakemono and a little narrow table. While we were talking, one of Fukuchi's little children, a boy of eight, entered, carrying with him his collection of butterflies, which, he thought, might chance to interest me. He showed me a catalogue which he was preparing for them. It was so admirably compiled that it would have been good enough for a special work on the subject. [Illustration: OUTSIDE KIOTO] Fukuchi's ideal actor is Danjuro, and during the conversation he was constantly referring to him. "Of all the actors I like Danjuro the best," he said, "because he is an artist and understands colour, besides having a keen appreciation for harmony in the general arrangements." He told me that Danjuro is the one actor in Japan who can take the part of a woman to perfection. Many actors on the stage can keep the figure of a woman for five minutes at a time, but rarely longer, so painful are the poses, owing to the throwing back of the shoulders and the turning in of the knees. But Danjuro can go on and on indefinitely in this rôle, and so remarkable is he that even a Japanese woman is unable to detect one false move. On one occasion, when taking this part at a theatre in Yokohama before an audience composed chiefly of women, he happened to make a slip and by some slight error proved himself the man. In an instant the whole audience felt it, and the effect produced on them was simply astounding! For once they nearly laughed, an unheard-of thing with a Japanese audience: to see a woman turn so suddenly into a man was too much for their equanimity. Danjuro's finest and most artistic bit of acting is in Japan's greatest tragedy, _The Chushingura_, in the part of Goto, who, returning to his lord intoxicated, falls asleep by the wayside. His master, finding him, fires off a gun close to his ear. "Most actors," said Mr. Fukuchi, "would fall asleep with their backs to the audience, and when waking depend upon 'make-up' for an altered expression. Danjuro sleeps with his face to the audience, and on the gun firing wakes up with an entirely altered expression through the contraction of the facial muscles." I was curious to know from Fukuchi what were the duties of the stage-manager in Japan. For some time he looked thoughtful, as though unable to grasp my meaning. "We have no managers in Japan," he said at length: "the play has to do with the dramatic author: it is for him to arrange everything. He must first think out every detail, and then consult with the chief actor and proprietor. If these disagree, the play is not produced." Mr. Fukuchi maintained that the dramatic author must be absolute master of the situation, interfered with by none. It would be impossible for an actor or manager to have any conception of the picture as a whole; therefore the dramatist must be supreme. If an actor or an actress were permitted a choice as to the colour or form of costumes, the work would of necessity be ruined. There is no such thing as the leading lady insisting upon wearing a puce dress, as she does in England or anywhere on the Continent. The manager does not know what "puce" means, nor, probably, does the lady; but he sees no reason why she should not wear puce if it pleases her. Accordingly puce is worn, irrespective of scene harmony, and the lady is content. In Japan such an occurrence would be out of the question; but our Western stage is already such a jumble that any little eccentricity on the part of the leading lady in favour of puce or anything else she fancies would be scarcely noticeable. [Illustration: A BLOND DAY] "They tell me," put in Mr. Fukuchi, "that there are dramatic authors in England who are not artists--that they do not all understand colour harmonies and line. Can this be true?" I had to tell him that such men were not uncommon with us. Fukuchi looked serious, and was silent for a long while, meditating as to how it would be possible for a dramatic author to produce a play without a scientific knowledge of art and drawing. "I fail to understand this," he said after some minutes' thought; "I cannot understand. When I have finished writing my play, and when I have talked with the chief actor, I make my drawings myself. I must make the pictures, and I must give careful directions to the costumiers and the carpenters. I cannot understand how your dramatic author does this." And the little man was genuinely perturbed. The pictorial side of a Japanese dramatist's work interested me keenly, and I begged Fukuchi to tell me how he, as an author, prepared his drawings for the costumier, stage-painter, and carpenter. "Well, if you like I will show you," he said; "I am now writing a historical play, the scenes of which will be like this," and to my great amazement Fukuchi at once began to draw in a rapid masterly manner the scene of a gentleman's house and garden. No detail, however trivial, was overlooked, and the infinite pains and care with which he executed these delightful little drawings both astonished and charmed me. I could see at once the utter impossibility of any one attempting to interfere with this man, who had a complete grasp of his subject not only from the literary standpoint, but also from the pictorial. To give any idea of the exquisite delicacy and precision with which these sketches of Fukuchi's were carried out, I must describe one or two of the scenes. First of all there was the garden; this was to have on its right a bamboo fence, a pine-tree, and a grass plot. On the left was placed a willow-tree, and stepping-stones leading from the house to the gate. Then the gentleman's house was to be considered. Mr. Fukuchi decided that this was to be thatched and have a projecting floor, while in front he placed a bamboo fence, a well, and a cluster of chrysanthemums. "Now at the back of the house I must have a range of mountains with autumnal tints," said Fukuchi; and no sooner said than done--in a few minutes there stood the range of mountains with their autumnal tints, ranging from orange to brown, noted in the margin, with directions as to the quality of cotton cloth to be used for their construction. Every detail in this garden scene was exact, and no one could have altered so much as a leaf without ruining the picture. Next Fukuchi proceeded to make for the costumier a drawing of a girl. By the dressing of her hair the girl was shown to be not over nineteen years of age, the ornaments being one of red and the other silver. She was to hold a fan, and Fukuchi even decided on the colour of the fan and the way the girl should hold it. It was to have a gold ground with a silvery moon, light and black grass growing in white water. The lady's kimono was of dark purple at the bottom and light purple at the top; this was arranged purely for decorative reasons in order to harmonise with the obi, which was black. As a rule the colours in a dress graduate from the top downwards; but the obi looked best against the light purple, and custom was sacrificed to art. The figures on the kimono were to be all white with silver strings, and a delicate white wave pattern. [Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR] Mr. Fukuchi next proceeded to consider the handling of historical colour. The scene was that of a lord and his wife, the lord just setting out for the wars and the wife seeking to detain him, holding on to his armour. The armour is red and the clothes are indigo. These colours being fixed historically, it was for the artist to arrange backgrounds that should harmonise with these. In the lady alone were his artistic tastes allowed to expand. He would have her dressed in white, with large chrysanthemums in red, yellow, and purple tones. These exquisitely clothed figures were to be placed before a screen, having sea-rocks and an eagle painted on it with black ink. Yet again another screen was to be of light brown, with glittering birds delicately traced upon it, in order that they should not interfere with the breadth of the whole. "Now, Mr. Fukuchi," I said, "I can quite see that you are an artist, and that your handling of a play from the decorative standpoint is quite perfect. But now tell me something of your literary methods." Then Fukuchi began by telling me that in writing a novel he wrote it as a poem, and when writing a play he thought of it as a picture. But there are periods in writing a novel when it in a way gets the better of him, and develops unconsciously into a drama. Then he told me of one or two stories he had recently published, one of which began as a novel and ended as a play. He said he could not understand the habits of some authors of taking down scraps of conversation, and using them for their finished works. He himself spends his whole life listening to conversations and studying the poses of people; but to take notes of what they were saying would be hopeless; the notes could never be used for fine artistic work. In planning a play he sees it as a whole, as a series of pictures, before beginning to pen a line. [Illustration: THE GIANT LANTERN] I was talking to Fukuchi about realism on the stage, and he told me of the horror they have in Japan of bringing live animals into a play; such a thing has been attempted on one or two occasions, but always with disastrous results. One enterprising actor, he told me, spent much time in training a horse to take part in a very fine production at one of the principal theatres. The horse was trained to perfection, and on the first night that it appeared, being a novelty, it was loudly applauded; but the lights and the confusion so terrified the poor animal that it sat down on the stage and refused to move. Yet again another actor, determined to outdo this former performance in originality, trained a live monkey to take the place of the decorative pasteboard monkey which had always been used on the stage. This animal, unlike the horse, was trained to know the stage as well as his master's room, and grew quite accustomed to the lights and the people surrounding him. So thoroughly at home was this monkey that on its first appearance it swept the stage of all the actors, caused confusion and distress among the audience--in short, it behaved abominably, and did everything but that which it had been so carefully trained to do. After this the pasteboard monkey reigned supreme. Mr. Fukuchi, although he is a brilliant English scholar and has an intense admiration for Shakspeare's works, thoroughly realises how impossible it would be to attempt to put Hamlet on the Japanese stage: it would suit neither the actors nor the public. THE LIVING ART CHAPTER II THE LIVING ART A Japanese authority has boasted that the only living art of to-day is the art of Japan; and the remark is not so much exaggerated as it may appear at first sight to the European. Art in Japan is living as art in Greece was living. It forms part and parcel of the very life of the people; every Jap is an artist at heart in the sense that he loves and can understand the beautiful. If one of us could be as fortunate as the man in the story, who came in his voyages upon an island where an Hellenic race preserved all the traditions and all the genius of their Attic ancestors, he would understand what living art really signifies. What would be true of that imaginary Greek island is absolutely true of Japan to-day. Art is in Europe cultivated in the houses of the few, and those few scarcely know either the beauties or the value of the plant they are cultivating. That is the privilege of a class rather than the rightful inheritance of the many. The world is too much divided into the artist on the one hand and the Philistine on the other. But it is not so in Japan, as it was not so in ancient Greece. In Japan the feeling for art is an essential condition of life. This is why I expect so much from the interest in Japan which is now awakening in England. The report of the Japanese Commission sent to Europe to investigate the conditions of Western art, some years ago, startled Western minds considerably. The Commissioners gave it as their opinion that Japanese art was the only real living art. This surprised, perplexed, and irritated many people, as home truths generally do. Without adopting in integrity every word of the Commission's report, I must confess that I found in it a great deal of truth. The great characteristic of Japanese art is its intense and extraordinary vitality, in the sense that it is no mere exotic cultivation of the skilful, no mere graceful luxury of the rich, but a part of the daily lives of the people themselves. It is all very well to draw gloomy deductions about the decay of Japanese art from the manufacture and the importation of curios destined for the European market. That there is such an importation there can be no doubt, any more than that this condition of things will continue while people fancy that they are giving proof of their artistic taste by sticking up all over their walls anything and everything, good, bad, and indifferent, which professes to come from Japan or to be made on Japanese models. [Illustration: SUN AND LANTERNS] What an educated Jap would think of some of our so-called "Japanese rooms" I shudder to imagine. But let me ask--and this is much more to the purpose--what would an uneducated Jap think? And let me give my own answer. He would be as much surprised by any bad taste or bad art as his educated superior would be. This is the burden of my argument--that art in Japan is universal and instructive, and therefore living; not an artificial production of a special class, and therefore not living. Art was certainly a living thing in the best days of Athens; art has been, in some measure, a living thing elsewhere and in later days. For we must remember that art does not merely consist in the production of a certain number of works of art, or even of masterpieces. A country may produce a great many works of art, and yet as a country be entirely lacking in living artistic feeling. France is a land of works of art; but the works do not appeal to the voyou--still less do they appeal to the ouvrier, to the bourgeois, to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. Now, what I claim for Japan is that in its most real and most important sense it is a living artistic country. The artistic sense is shared by the peasant and the prince, as well as by the carpenter, the fan-maker, the lacquer-worker, and the stateliest daimio whose line dates back to the creation of things. But do not run away with my contention. I do not mean to say that every Jap is a born artist. There are Philistines in Japan, as elsewhere. What I do maintain is that the artistic instinct is more widely diffused, is more common to all classes of the community in Japan, than in any of our European countries. This is no small thing to say of a country. It is full of deep significance to all students of art. Although we are doing our best, with our love for gimcrackeries, to cheapen and degrade the artistic capacity of Japan, our evil influence has been but partially felt, and so but partially successful. Having done all the harm we can do unwittingly, let us pause, if possible, and reflect before we wittingly do further mischief. The problem to the lovers of art is simply this: shall we learn all we can learn--and that is a great deal--from the living art instincts of Japan, or shall we continue to blunt and deaden the productive power of Japan by encouraging the barbarous demand for worthless baubles to make ludicrous the home of the so-called aesthete? If those who are most proud of the Japanese toys and trinkets they have amassed, which, with semi-savage stupidity, they have nailed upon their walls and stuck upon their shelves and tables, could but see what an artistic house in Japan is like, they would learn some startling truths as to the real facts and principles of Japanese decoration and the Japanese ideal of art. If they could only know the contempt with which the truly artistic Jap looks upon the demand for "curios," and upon the kind of "curios" which are turned out wholesale to meet that demand, they would not feel so proud of themselves, and of the rooms which they display to delighted friends as "quite Japanese, you know." The artistic Jap shows nothing in a room--absolutely nothing, except a lovely flower and a screen, and perhaps a beautiful verse or some clever sentence indited in freehand writing, placed beautifully in the room in just relation to its surroundings. There is a curious fact to be noticed in connection with such inscriptions. In conversation a friend might happen to give forth some brilliant and very epigrammatic utterance. The hearers are so delighted that they get him to write down this _mot_ in large characters, and it is mounted and placed in the room. Such a caligraphic maxim, written by the hand of the speaker, they consider a fitting portion of the permanent decoration of a room. You would never know from the rooms of a Jap that he was a great picture-collector. The wealthy collector keeps all his treasures stowed away in what is called a "go-down"--his storehouse--and his pictures are brought up one at a time if any visitor is present or expected. Generally a single picture will be brought in and hung up. You enjoy that beautiful picture by itself. It is very much like bringing a bottle of wine from the cellar--no one would want the whole bin at a time. The Japs have an artistic temperament altogether and the simplest craftsman is an artist in his own way. I was especially struck with this once when I was in want of some frames, and I employed a Jap to make them for me. He could talk English perfectly well, and it was remarkable to watch the development of the frames and the enthusiastic temperament discovered by the carpenter as he proceeded. I myself designed a certain frame, and I would by slight drawings encourage him and his fellows to go on with the work. They all took the greatest possible interest in the refinement of the object--they would place it down and then go off and look at it, and talk to those friends who were looking on about the beauties they saw in it and in its proportions; and the intelligence and pleasure they showed were not only extraordinary but also delightful. This frame-making was quite novel to them, as they do not frame any of their objects; but they were interested in the design of the frame and the placing of the picture within it. Although the matter was not in itself of any remarkable importance, I hold that it fairly proves the artistic temperament of a chance selection of people. Think of a common carpenter making a simple thing and taking a just pride in doing it! The result was that I got one of the most beautiful frames you can conceive, and that I was encouraged in my own work by the sympathy of these workmen. [Illustration: THE SCARLET UMBRELLA] Of course, in Japan there are painters who paint for the market--people who have been destroyed by the British merchant and the American trader. They spend their time in painting pictures of flowers and birds in vivid colourings that appeal to our tastes, solely for exportation to England and America. _Apropos_ of this I must mention a conversation I had with a painter about screens, which struck me as being very curious. I wanted to buy a gold screen, and he took me to a shop where I saw a vast number of screens, nearly all with black grounds and golden birds and fish on them. I told him I did not like them; and he answered, "Neither do we. Here in Japan we would not have them in our houses; but they are what the English and American markets demand. We ourselves never buy them; we nearly always choose screens with light grounds, beautifully painted"--in fact, splendid pieces of decoration. A screen painted by a first-class artist is valued very highly, while the fact of one from the hand of an old Japanese master being for disposal is known all over the country at once, and everybody is prepared to bid for it as one would bid for a Sir Joshua here. A really good screen fetches an enormous price, for it takes the place there of pictures and frescoes with us, and every man of taste requires one or two fine specimens in his house beautiful. One I saw at the house of the Minister for Foreign Affairs was painted with a blue wave--an arrangement, in fact, in blue and gold. I never saw such a gorgeous screen, nor, I verily believe, anything more beautiful as an arrangement of colour--the huge wave, one sweep of blue, and the piece of gold at the top. It was, I was told, by an old master of Japan, and worth an enormous sum. The Japanese perfectly appreciate the value of things like that, and they very rarely let them leave the country, so that it has become very difficult to get hold of anything really fine. An experience which gave me a close insight into Japanese feeling was a meeting of some of the painters of Japan. It was arranged by a Japanese gentleman who, though not an artist himself, is deeply interested in art, and keenly alive to everything touching it. Knowing me personally, he was anxious that I should come in contact with these men whose practice he so much revered, and so he invited several of these artists of different kinds--designers of metal work and designers for manufactures--to his house to meet me. I talked to them with his interpreting help, just a little about art and its principles and so forth, in the hope that the others would be brought to speak freely, and I expressed my readiness to give them what information I could of European art and its practice. They asked me remarkable questions. Most of them, it appeared, were discouraged because "the European required such ugly things." If they made what the Europeans really enjoyed, their productions were looked upon as unsaleable. It appeared to me that it must be extremely difficult for the Japs to hold fast to their artistic instincts, and in the end I expressed my conviction that it would pay them better to adhere to their principles rather than to pander to the foolish demands of the dull American or British merchant who had neither idea nor concern as to the beauty of the work he buys. [Illustration: LEADING TO THE TEMPLE] Unfortunately, to a great extent these traders are lowering the standard of painting in Japan. Not a few of these sixty men who came to meet me would do work they did not care about, not being men of such individuality and independence of character as Kiyosai. With them, as with us, the prize of money-reward is a bait too tempting to be resisted. Two days afterwards some of these friends were good enough to write a long discourse in one of the Japanese papers on my address, saying how much pleased they were to find an artist from England with my ideas of Japanese art--one who condemned the notion so common among them that it was necessary to pander to the tastes of a foreign market. They were especially glad that I had condemned that, and many of the painters, more or less on the strength of my conversation, decided to do thenceforth what they felt to be true to their principles--to go to nature and themselves, to choose their lovely harmony of colour, instead of designing stereotyped screens with gold birds on black backgrounds. Many were determined to give up that kind of art altogether, and one in particular (whose studio I called at the day after) pointed out that he had already quite altered his style. He was an artist by nature, and he told me he felt that having to do this horrible work was going against him, and he had made up his mind that in future he would insist upon doing what he felt to be beautiful, and would be ruled by the merchant no more. I visited the studios of a great many of the artists to whom I had delivered my lecture, and saw their sketch-books and their method of work. In nearly every case their method coincided with the principles laid down by Kiyosai--each having, of course, his own method, but each working in the same broad way of "impression picture." Japan might be said to be as artistic as England is inartistic. In Japan art is not a cause, but a result--the result of the naturalness of the people--and is closely allied with all aspects of their daily life. In the houses, the streets, the gardens, the places of public resort--everywhere is to be found the all-pervading element of art and beauty. A rainy day in Japan is not, as it is in London, a day of gloom and horror, but a day of absolute fascination. What a joy is the spectacle of all those lovely yellow paper umbrellas unfurling themselves beneath a shower like flowers before the sun, so different from the dark shiny respectability of our ghastly gamps at home! John Bunyan has written and talked of the house beautiful; but the Japanese have given to the nation not only the house beautiful, but also (what is even more important to the community at large) the street beautiful, and that is where Japan differs so widely from Europe. As I walk through the London streets at night, how prosaic is the flicker of each gas-jet, within its sombre panes of glass, in some "long unlovely street," and how different from the softened rays that shine from out the dainty ricksha lanterns illuminating the streets in Japan! There a poem meets your eye with each step you take; and how pretty is every street corner, with its little shop, its mellow light and dainty arrangements, with the smiling face of some little child peeping out from the dim shadow beyond! It is a terrible thing to live in a country where art is the luxury of the few, and where the people know as little of what constitutes the beauty of life as a Hindoo knows of skating. What would a Japanese gentleman say, I wonder, if he passed into a room in the depths of winter and saw a quantity of those pretty fans, which in his country help to modify the heat of the golden summer days, viciously nailed, without rhyme or reason, upon a bright red wall, or those fairy-like umbrellas, upon which he has seen the rain-drops glisten so brightly, stuck within the gloomy recess of some lead-black hideous grate, or (with still less sense of the fitness of things or regard for the uses for which it was made) glued to a white-washed ceiling? [Illustration: BY THE LIGHT OF THE LANTERN] We sometimes talk of the deteriorating influence of European ideas upon Japanese art; but we have failed to perceive the ghastly inappropriateness of applying the Japs' delicate flights of fancy to our homes of discomfort. That usefulness is the basis of all righteousness is the moral code by which a man's position is gauged in Japan, and by which things are made. It does not matter how beautiful an article may be, or how trivial--whether it is a penholder, a snuff-box, or a pipe--if it is not useful it is considered inartistic, and will not be accepted by the Japanese public. The form of a vase or a cup, or the shape of a handle, must all be designed with a view to its usefulness; and every little work of art that is made, every cabinet and curio (apart from being decorative), is designed to convey some maxim-like idea, a lesson that will be useful and helpful in one way or another to the beholder. On entering a Japanese tea-house you will see a kakemono hanging on the wall that strikes you at the first glance as being a perfect picture, with the bold but simple Chinese characters on the white silk and the tiny slip of vermilion which is the signature of the artist. It is placed well in the room, and is altogether a thing of beauty; but when, on closer inspection, you read the decorative letters, you will find that they give you some dainty piece of advice to help you through the day, or some pretty idea on which your eye and mind can rest. Then, again, the games that the children play in the streets with sand or pebbles--they are teaching them arithmetic, construction, patience, and innumerable valuable lessons. Usefulness is the basis of the ancient caste system of Japan, which system exists at the present day, and upon which the relative usefulness of a man depends. Take the Samurai. They occupy the premier position as Japanese aristocracy, because, although they wear silk, they give up their lives for their country--and no man can be more useful than that. The agriculturalist ranks next in dignity; for none can do without food, and therefore his usefulness is indisputable. Then come the workmen, and last of all the merchants, who are considered as "no class" in Japan and are greatly looked down upon--producing nothing, they merely turn over articles made by other hands for a profit. [Illustration: "NEWS"] The most beautiful article we possess (one that is entirely our own) is the hansom cab. It is perhaps one of the greatest triumphs that the West has produced in the shape of a conveyance, and simply because it has been designed with a view to its usefulness. Would that we were always ruled by this splendid quality! Unfortunately, we are not. We are ruled by our own tastes, which, I feel bound to admit, are not artistic. Think of the sombre, happy-go-lucky arrangements of our London theatres. How is it that in the best-managed of them an actress will so far forget herself as to lie dying in the middle of a snowy street in the dead of night, pale-faced and wretched-looking, with ten thousand pounds' worth of jewellery on her fingers? Such a scene would drive the artistic and consistent Japanese manager into the nearest lunatic asylum. At the same time he would be unutterably shocked at seeing a red moon (red, let us trust, with the blush of shame at its creator's folly) rising hurriedly behind some stage bank of roses, swiftly and unnaturally hurrying across a purple sky, and shamefacedly setting in the East, in the West, in the North, in the South, within the brief hour of an English stage, as if glad to escape the rapturous applause of an inartistic public. But perhaps nowhere is the difference between European and Japanese art so sharply accentuated as it is in the teaching of it in the great schools of the West and of the East. Let us take the art schools of Paris, which is considered by a vast portion of the artistic world to be the very paradise of art. You enter the crowded studio of some well-known master, and you see before you a large white statue, the first and predominant impression of which is its exceeding whiteness; and to your mingled amusement and amazement you discover that the unfortunate pupils are engaged in a futile endeavour to render an impression of exceeding whiteness by the aid of thick black chalk or charcoal. As to how this is to be done with any degree of verisimilitude you are no less at fault than they are, poor dears, themselves; and therefore you will not be surprised that, dazed and wearied as they must be from the steady contemplation of this never-ending pose, their work at the close of a day resembles the figure from which they have been drawing as closely as the work of Michael Angelo, or any of the great Japanese masters. [Illustration: A SUNNY TEMPLE] From the antique you pass to the life room. Here another shock awaits you. In the middle of the room stands a young girl, strapped up in the attitude of Atalanta of classic fable running her immortal race. These pupils are taught first of all to sketch the figure in the pose of running as a skeleton. When the hideous skeleton has been carefully and laboriously committed to paper, it is with equal care imbued with nerves and muscles and flesh. When all this is done, a light Grecian drapery is flung on her, regardless of the folds and movement that would eventually have resulted from the fluttering of the breeze, and, mind you, she is strapped up all the time. Then, when all is completed, the poor dear lady is expected to run her immortal race. Of course, by this time there is no action in the figure at all. Atalanta appears glued to the spot, and my only wonder is that she does not indignantly chase her unfortunate creators from the studio. On looking at these pictures the spectator would say that he never saw anything so absolutely unsuggestive of the breathless vigour and energy of a healthy young girl engaged in a rapid race as is indicated by the pitiful weariness of that poor strapped-up creature in front of them. Would it not be far better that these students should go out into the street, after the method of the Japs, and watch some girl as she runs and jumps in the bright sunshine, with a soft wind blowing her hair about her head and her gown about her limbs, and then come back, and, with a memory of the beautiful inspiriting scene still fresh in their minds, commit their impressions "hot and hot" upon the canvas before them? [Illustration: ON THE GREAT CANAL, OSAKA] Still, England has not always been so hopelessly inartistic. None would think of denying the perfect taste of the architects who designed such buildings as the Winchester and Durham Cathedrals, and Arundel Castle; but those are buildings wrought in dead days by men a long time dead, and England's days of artistic appreciation are, I fear, as dead as they are. Commerce and so-called civilisation have ruined us, I fear, for ever. Japan is as artistic to-day as we were five hundred years ago, and I rejoice to think that at present there appears to be little fear of so ghastly a fate as has overtaken us. As a nation the Japanese remain faithful to art in all its details, and as individuals they are still a nation of artists. Where else but in Japan would an aged gentleman dream of rising ere the day has well begun, merely that he might bring into harmony with all its surroundings, and present in the best light possible, a little flower placed in a pot--bending it this way and that way, that its attitude might conform with the cabinet in one corner of the room, or a screen in the other? Who but a Japanese chamber-boy would be so impressed with the artistic value of contrast merely that he would feel constrained thereby to place the can of hot water in a different attitude every time he brought it into the room, and thoughtfully step aside to regard its consonance with its immediate surroundings? Art begins, as charity begins, at home; and where the home of the individual is absolutely artistic, it cannot fail that the whole nation should be a nation of artists. I give way to none in my loyalty to my country and my love for that country--I must say that I do not think that there is a country better in the whole world;--but perfection on this earth is not only impossible, but to my idea also absolutely undesirable--a perfect nation would be to the full as dreadful as a perfect man. We are saved from perfection by an almost entire lack of the artistic faculty, and, however great we are in other respects, I am sad to say we are thoroughly inartistic. To whom but the Englishman would the golden dragons that play so recklessly about on black screens with their scarlet drooping tongues, that are sold in the Japanese curio shops, possibly appeal? Who but English-speaking people would crave for those cherry-blossoms embroidered on white silk grounds, which they so gleefully carry away with them? Who but my inartistic countrymen would insist on their cabinets being smothered with endless and miscellaneous carvings? The Japanese are too artistic to admit these things into their own homes; but why are their dealers so inartistic as (blinded by the desire of filthy pelf) to put forth these embroideries for the English and American market? Such things now and then make me tremble for the future of art in Japan. It may be (though I trust not) the thin end of the wedge; it may be "the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute, and, ever widening, slowly silence all." What a tragedy it would be that the music of this most perfect art should ever be silenced in that lovely land, the resting-place and home of the highest and only living art! PAINTERS AND THEIR METHODS CHAPTER III PAINTERS AND THEIR METHODS The methods of painters all over the world are very much alike. In fact, the methods of great masters (no matter of what nationality, and whether of this period or of centuries past) are often precisely similar, while there can be no doubt but that some of the finest masterpieces ever painted very closely resemble one another. I was once taken to see two photographs, one a portion of a figure by Michael Angelo, and the other a portion of a Japanese buddha by one of Japan's greatest masters; and to my surprise I found that it was almost impossible to detect which was which. This particular statue of Michael Angelo's I had studied and knew well; yet here was a portion of a Japanese god that looked exactly the same--the same broad handling, the same everything. In both there was the same curious exaggeration of the bones and muscles, wrong from the anatomical standpoint, yet conveying an impression of terrific strength that is so typical of the work of Michael Angelo--indeed, one masterly hand might have executed both pictures. Yet the little Japanese artist, the creator of this Buddha, was but a modern, and in all probability had never so much as seen Michael Angelo's pictures, much less had he been in the slightest degree influenced by him. Japanese painters have a great admiration for Michael Angelo's work, and for Italian painters in general. If you were to show a Japanese artist, any ordinary little minor artist, some photographs of masterpieces by men such as Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Botticelli, you would find that he would at once spring on to the early Italian work, peer into it, hold it up, devour it, muttering to himself the while--nothing could tear him away. Rembrandt does not appeal to him much; Velasquez not much; but Botticelli--yes. Still, I have often thought that could Hokusai and Velasquez, Kiosi and Whistler, have met and talked, they would have had much in common with one another; for there is in the works of each, although in many senses so widely different, that simplicity, truthfulness, and restraint which render them all so very much alike. [Illustration: AFTER THE FESTIVAL] The broad principles of art are much the same all the world over; but it is between the lesser artists of Japan and the myriads of comparatively unknown artists of Europe that there is so great a gulf fixed. Japanese minor artists are artists indeed. Our minor artists are, I fear, anything but artists. The veriest Japanese craftsman is an artist first and a tradesman afterwards. Ours is a tradesman first and last and altogether; and even as a tradesman he is, I fear, a failure, for the honest tradesman has at least something worth the selling, whilst our men--the jerry builder, the plumber, the furniture maker, and the carpenter--give in return for solid money an article which it would break the heart of the merest artisan in Japan to put forward as the work of his hands. But perhaps nowhere is the difference between European and Japanese art so sharply accentuated as it is in the teaching of it in the great schools of the East and of the West. We Westerners are taught to draw direct from the object or model before us on the platform, whereas the Japanese are taught to study every detail of their model, and to store their brains with impressions of every curve and line, afterwards to go away and draw that object from memory. This is a splendid training for the memory and the eye, as it teaches one both to see and to remember--two great considerations in the art of drawing. You will often see a little child sitting in a garden in Japan gazing attentively for perhaps a whole hour at a bowl of goldfish, watching the tiny bright creatures as they circle round and round in the bowl. Remarking on some particular pose, the child will retain it in its busy brain, and, running away, will put down this impression as nearly as it can remember. Perhaps on this first occasion he is only able to put in a few leading lines; very soon he is at a loss--he has forgotten the curve of the tail or the placing of the eye. He toddles back and studies the fish again and again, until perhaps after one week's practice that child is able to draw the fish in two or three different poses from memory without the slightest hesitation or uncertainty. It is this certainty of touch and their power to execute these bold, sweeping, decided lines that form the chief attraction of Japanese works of art. Their wrists are supple; the picture in their minds is sure; they have learnt it line for line; it is merely the matter of a few minutes for an artist to sketch in his picture. There are no choppy hesitating lines such as one detects in even the finest of our Western pictures, lines in which you can plainly see how the artist has swerved first to the right and then to the left, correcting and erasing, uncertain in his touch. The lines will probably be correct in the end; but when the picture is finished his work has not that bright crisp look so characteristic of the Japanese pictures. Then, again, when a Japanese artist draws a bird, he begins with the point of interest--which, let us say, is the eye. The brilliant black eye of a crow fixed upon a piece of meat attracts his attention; he remembers it, and the first few strokes that he portrays upon his stretched silk is the eye of the bird. The neck, the legs, the body--everything radiates and springs from that bright eye just as it does in the animal itself. [Illustration: THE LEMON BRIDGE] Then, again, let us say a Japanese artist is painting a typical Japanese river-scene, such a one as inspired many of Mr. Whistler's graceful Thames etchings--a quaintly formed bridge under whose dim archway a glimpse of shipping and masses of detail can be seen in the distance. To a Japanese artist the chief charm and interest of such a scene would lie in that little view beneath the bridge, and he would begin by drawing in, line for line, every little mast and funnel just as he sees it, or rather as he remembers it. The picture slowly expands as it reaches the margin, ending in the bridge, which forms, as it were, a frame through which to view the dainty richness of detail of the busy scene beyond. If you were to arrest this picture at any moment during its career you would find that it formed a perfect whole, every line balancing the other; whereas, according to our methods, if we were to draw the bridge first, timidly suggesting the distance and leaving the detail and all the fine lines to be put in afterwards, as so many artists do, the picture until it was completed would appear spotty and uneven. And even when finished there would be no balance, for we neither understand nor realise the importance of that quality without which no work of art can be perfect. The Japanese methods of drawing and painting are entirely opposed to our Western methods, and in order to give a slight insight into the works of the Japanese painters I must describe these methods as minutely and as clearly as is possible. To begin with, the size of an ordinary picture is two feet by four and a half long, and as a rule three times as much space is left at the top as at the bottom of the picture. The brushes consist of a series of round ones; they are flat-ended and vary greatly in breadth, being named after the character of work they are fitted for. Straw brushes are sometimes used for coarse work. The silk that they paint upon is prepared in the following manner. First the edges of the wooden frame are pasted and the silk is rolled loosely over, great care being taken to keep the grain of the silk level. The surface of the silk is prepared with alum and size, the proportion of which is about an egg-spoonful of alum to a small tea-cupful of size. The size is boiled and strained and diluted with water, and the alum is added over the fire; it is again strained, and is then ready for use. Finally, it is put on to the surface while hot with a large brush. It is usual to put on two coats, and a contrivance in the shape of a cross piece of wood at the back of the frame is used for straining the silk more tightly after the first coat of size. The colours that the Japanese use are mixed and prepared in the following manner. Whitening, which is the basis of most colours, is pounded with a pestle and mortar into a very fine powder; then a little size which has been boiled and strained is poured in, and the whole is beaten up and worked into a ball. This ball is thrown over and over again into the mortar until it is well beaten. A little water is poured over the lump, which is then heated over a fire until it breaks and spreads. In this state, after cooling a little, it is well worked up, with perhaps the addition of water, until a white pulpy putty is produced; the artist is very careful all the time to avoid grit. Other colours are principally prepared from powders, which are beaten up in little porcelain cups with small pestles, and are mixed with a little size and water into saucers, stirred all the while with the finger and heated over the fire until dry, or nearly so. When required for use they must be worked up again with the finger and water, and it is a good plan when first mixing the colours to paste paper over the saucers, leaving a small hole for the insertion of the brush. Gamboge and a vegetable red resembling crimson lake are both used without size. The latter is prepared from a woollen material which is torn up into shreds and put into a saucer; then it is mixed with boiling water and afterwards strained through paper. It is drawn off in small quantities into several saucers and carefully dried over the fire. There is a colour which is much used called Taisha, which is like burnt sienna; then there is Tan, a sort of orange, and Shi, a vermilion red. The red is prepared in two different ways, first by being mixed cold in a cup with a pestle, a little size, and water. In this preparation the colour separates into a deep red and orange, the latter floating on the top. The orange is afterwards saved and used instead of Tan--Tan, not being permanent, turns black and disappears; it is used sometimes to shade ladies' faces, but fades very much. In using this preparation of orange and red, the brush must be first dipped in yellow and then the tip of it in the red, so as to take up both portions of the mixture. Another way of preparing Shi is to heat a saucer until the finger can hardly bear the touch, and then pour in some size and put the powdered pigment in it while still on the fire. When it has dried it is taken off and mixed with the finger very hot, a little water being added gradually, until it is of a thickish consistency. Shi thus mixed is of a deep red without any orange precipitate, and is used for upper washes, for, having a great deal of orange in it, it would be too black if used for undertones. In mixing indigo blue from a cake, the saucer is put over the fire to dry, and a little size is added. It is then rubbed with the finger, and water is gradually added. Taisha, when in a cake, is also prepared in this way. Taisha is used for the face and hair. The hair is shaded off with Indian ink, and the muscles of the face are washed in with Taisha having no white but a little black mixed with it; the feet and hands are handled in the same way. Then the face is washed over again with the same colour, only a little lighter. Broad masses of shading are introduced, and the nose, mouth, and edge of the cheek are generally left to be shaded in. It is considered better to use a number of light tones than one dark tone, and the washes on the face are repeated two or three times. The hair also is washed over with a large brush and rather dark ink; the eyebrows are put in in a single wash; also the corners of the eyes and mouth, which are flicked in and then washed off again. The lips are put in with vermilion and shaded off with another brush. A mixture of red, white, and Indian ink forming a dull purple is used for the pupils of the eyes, and the same mixture with a greater proportion of red, and consequently a little lighter, is used for going over the outline, and the ends of some of the lines are washed off with another brush. The same purple colour, but lighter still, is used as a backing to the outline in order to soften the edges, and a few touches of purple are painted in under the eyes and ears. The lips are touched with carmine, and the teeth and eyeballs with a little white. The under-lip and corners of the eyes are touched with lines or dots of light Indian ink, and the top eyelids and tops of lower eyelids are outlined with thin lines. The outline of the pupil is very fine; but the dot of the eye is made very black; the nostrils are painted in in light ink, shaded off afterwards and outlined in black. The hair round the mouth is put in in very light ink with a finely pointed brush. [Illustration: BEARING A BURDEN] There are many ways of painting the hair. Sometimes a fine brush is used with single parallel lines, and sometimes it is washed in with a broad brush with light ink below and darker above. In old silk pictures great depth used to be obtained by painting the hair on the back of the silk as well as on the front. For painting leaves a mixture of indigo and gamboge is generally used with a full brush, the tip of the brush being dipped in indigo. By this method, the dark colour on the tip of the brush being after a time exhausted, the lighter green appears, and thus a natural variety of gradation is given to the colour of the leaves. Trees and rocks, etc., are often scrubbed in with a rather dry brush worked sideways and forming broken lines. Another method of drawing a figure is to outline in charcoal, after which the face with its markings is outlined with a kind of Indian ink. Then with the same Indian ink, but with broader lines and a large brush, the drapery is boldly swept in with lines that should break in parts and form a drag. This drag must come naturally by pressing the brush firmly on the silk or paper; any attempt to force it would end in failure. The hair should then be worked in with a large spread brush, care being taken to give the hairs a radial tendency and not let them cross confusedly. Sometimes this hair is painted with a fine brush and with single lines. For the background two large brushes are used, one fitted with light ink and the other with plain water to shade off the black. The face and the breast are treated in the same way. The outlines of the drapery are sometimes washed in with a lighter tone to project over the edge and soften them. The face is washed with a mixture of red and ink, leaving only the eyes. The work is finished by using a small brush and very black ink for the markings of the mouth, centre of the eyes, under the eyelids, nostrils, and ear-rings. Japanese artists study a great deal from life, and in order to draw a figure full of spirit and action they will often work in this way. Beginning with a very full brush, they sketch in the general swing of the figure with a few well-chosen broad black lines--as, for instance, when drawing the legs of a horse or a lobster they will put them in with one broad wash. Then they strain thin Japanese paper over this spirited sketch, and begin to elaborate on it with finer work, until in the end they produce a picture that has high finish, but possessing all the action and spirit of a first impression. [Illustration: THE END OF THE DAY AND THE END OF THE FESTIVAL] The Japanese system of studying Nature in detail, but not with a view to creating a picture, is perhaps especially noticeable in their drawings of women. It would be considered coarse and vulgar in the extreme to paint a woman in the glaring light of a studio, copying every feature and wrinkle, line for line, as you would copy a man. Kiyosai explains that it is impossible to create a beautiful face by drawing direct from life, especially in line. The only way in which it can be achieved is by suggesting a natural beauty on paper, and by imitating a conventional type away from nature. The Japanese have a conventional type of beauty just as we have, and just as the Greeks had years ago--an ideal that has been evolved from the aggregate of myriads of beautiful women,--and this ideal of theirs must be a woman possessing small lips, with eyelids scarcely showing, and eyebrows far above the eyes. The forehead must be narrow at the top and widening towards the base, looking altogether very like a pyramid with its top cut off; the nose should be aquiline, and the whole woman must appear to be the personification of softness and delicacy. The conventional type of a Japanese man has always the legs and arms placed in impossible positions to denote strength, and the muscles are greatly exaggerated. In the old masters of Japan great importance is attached to flesh markings, more especially in pictures of men. In a sketch of a fat man trying to lift a heavy weight, the action would be suggested in a few swift lines with no shading, but just two small horizontal lines at the back of the neck. Those two little flesh markings portray the fat man to perfection, admirably suggesting both the strain of the action and the bulk of the man. But in talking of the art of Japan and the methods of the Japanese painter, I feel that I cannot do better than describe a day that I once spent with that greatest of all living artists, Kiyosai, at the house of Captain Brinkley. This gentleman invited Kiyosai to come to his house one morning, and I was asked to watch and follow the whole process of his work, and as far as possible to learn from him his theories about painting. It was a splendid chance for me as a painter, especially as Captain Brinkley, who has resided in Japan for many years, and is a Japanese scholar of high attainment, acted as interpreter between Kiyosai and myself. Kiyosai, I may say, is known all over Japan. From the highest noble to the lowest ragged child in the streets, all know the artist and love his work, for the pictures of a popular painter get abroad in Japan much as they get abroad here--Kiyosai's pictures and sketches being reproduced and published in the Japanese papers just as they would be published in Western magazines. When any drawing by Kiyosai appears a rush is made for the paper. These drawings of his are really superb work, and I could not help feeling how great a privilege it was to come into contact with such a man. [Illustration: IN FRONT OF THE STALL] I arrived at my host's quite early in the morning, for I was to have a whole day with my Japanese fellow-worker. I was introduced at once to an old man, grave and very dignified in bearing, and I found it difficult at first to realise that this was the painter of whom I had heard so much. He was sitting on the floor smoking, while his assistant was busy stretching silk and preparing colours. As a rule, to see a Japanese smoke is to get at once a clue to the nature of the people. But Kiyosai was peculiar even in this. He was one of the few men who would take only one draw from his pipe; in the most dignified manner possible he would take that one whiff and then knock out the contents of his pipe, repeating the process as long as he continued to smoke. He had the most remarkable hands, too, ever seen, with long and slim thumbs--more sensitive, artistic, capable hands, from the chiromancer's point of view, could hardly be. He was enthusiastic, but prodigiously dignified, and used his hands just a little, yet in the most impressive way. He never rose from his sitting posture, and every time I said anything that was at all complimentary he received it with charming ceremony, by bowing to the very ground. No sooner was I introduced than his face seemed to light up, his eyes became intensely brilliant, and his conversation not less so. He was enthusiastic in his desire to learn about English painters and English art generally, and eager to tell me his own views of art, and all he felt about it. To my pleased confusion, he seemed to regard me with an interest equalling mine for him. He put many questions about English art, and told me much that was interesting about his own. He spoke of the effect made on him by some English pictures. "I have seen a number of English and European pictures," he said; "but they all appear to me very much alike. I hear that in England and all over Europe they say the Japanese pictures look to them all alike. Why is this?" The explanation was not immediately forthcoming, for at first sight it seemed so extraordinary that to this man English pictures looked all alike. But immediately the truth forced itself upon me, as it will force itself upon the reader. European pictures are all wonderfully alike. It struck me that when, not long before, I was on a "hanging committee," and had passing before me several thousand pictures, it was only here and there that my attention was arrested by the individuality of some of the work. For the most part they were the same pigments, the same high lights, and the same deep shadows; and mentally seeing this procession of pictures pass before me, I could not avoid seeing how grievously alike European pictures were. I had in some sort, indeed, felt this before, and was delighted on having the impression "fixed," so to speak, by the Japanese master. I saw a number of Japanese pictures, and I certainly found them far more individual than our work is. We say these Japanese works are insipid, out of perspective, and all pretty much the same. Here is a painter of Japan who brings a similar charge against our much more complex pictures--this, surely, is a new and a valuable lesson, full of suggestion for the thoughtful painter! [Illustration: THE STALL BY THE BRIDGE] Kiyosai next began to discuss drawing, and, as he was speaking to an Englishman, English drawing in particular. "I hear that when artists in England are painting," he said, "if they are painting a bird, they stand that bird up in their back garden, or in their studio, and begin to paint it at once, then and there, never quite deciding what they are going to paint, never thinking of the particular pose and action of the bird that is to be represented on the canvas. Now, suppose that bird suddenly moves one leg up--what does the English artist do then?" He could not understand how an English painter could paint with the model before him. I naturally told him that they copied what they saw; that they got over the difficulty as best they could. "I do not quite understand that," he said. "In my own practice I look at the bird; I want to paint him as he is. He has got a pose. Good! Then he suddenly puts down his head, and there is another pose. The bare fact of the bird being there in an altered pose would compel me to alter my idea; and so on, until at last I could paint nothing at all." I asked him what, then, was his method. "I watch my bird," he replied, "and the particular pose I wish to copy before I attempt to represent it. I observe that very closely until he moves and the attitude is altered. Then I go away and record as much of that particular pose as I can remember. Perhaps I may be able to put down only three or four lines; but directly I have lost the impression I stop. Then I go back again and study that bird until it takes the same position as before. And then I again try and retain as much as I can of it. In this way I began by spending a whole day in a garden watching a bird and its particular attitude, and in the end I have remembered the pose so well, by continually trying to represent it, that I am able to repeat it entirely from my impression--but not from the bird. It is a hindrance to have the model before me when I have a mental note of the pose. What I do is a painting from memory, and it is a true impression. I have filled hundreds of sketch-books," he continued, "of different sorts of birds and fish and other things, and have at last got a facility, and have trained my memory to such an extent, that by observing the rapid action of a bird I can nearly always retain and produce it. By a lifelong training I have made my memory so keen that I think I may say I can reproduce anything I have once seen." Such, then, is Kiyosai's method of work. It is purely natural, and one that has obtained for generations, and that is the Japanese whole theory of art. Captain Brinkley told me a story, the outcome of that conversation. Kiyosai came one day to work at a screen which Captain Brinkley was very anxious for him to complete; but he could not finish it at the time, do what he would. He said nothing; but it came out that he had a fresh impression in his mind, and he could not go on with the old impression until he had worked off the new one--something he had seen on his way up to the house. The painters always live with fish, and birds, and animals of different sorts. They have fish in bottles and in ponds in their gardens. I went to many studios in Japan, and I found each one with its ponds and fish in the little garden surrounding the studio, and birds as well. They always study nature, and I believe that is the keynote of their art. The technique of Kiyosai's work was most fascinating. I had come away from England with all sorts of theories concerning the technical part of an artist's work, and when I got to Japan I found there was absolutely nothing that was not known to this man. His method of work, too, interested me exceedingly. To begin with, the assistant brought his stretcher of silk--a lovely piece of silk stretched across a wooden frame--and placed it in front of him. Then, taking a long burnt twig, he thought for a few minutes, looking all the while at his silk--thought out his picture, indeed, before he put a single touch on his canvas. How different is this from the man who so often, with us, puts on a lot of hasty touches in the hope that they will suggest the picture! When this artist saw his picture complete in his mind, he began with the little burnt twig to trace a few sure lines. I never saw such facility in my life. A few swift strokes indicated the outline on the silk of two black crows; then he took up his brush and began at once with the Indian ink, with full powerful colour; and in about seven minutes he had completed a picture, superbly drawn and full of character--a complete impression of two black crows, very nearly life-size, resting on the branch of a tree. Kiyosai never amid any circumstances repeats himself: every picture he paints is different, while for his work he asks but a small price. After he had done his crows he painted a coloured picture, beginning with Indian ink. First he tried all his colours, which were ready prepared in different little blue pots and placed around him. These little shallow pots or saucers had each its own liquid, which the assistant had prepared to a certain extent beforehand. They contained flesh tint, drapery colour, tones for hair, gold ornaments, and so forth. These colours had evidently been used before, as they were in their saucers, merely requiring dilution before immediate use. The saucers were arranged chiefly on his right, with a great vessel of water, of which he used a great deal. All his utensils were scrupulously clean. When he began there was no fishing for tones as on the average palette. No accident! All was sure--a scientific certainty from beginning to the end. The picture was the portrait of a woman. It displayed enormous facility and great knowledge, and his treatment of the drapery was remarkable; but altogether it pleased me less. No attempt was there at what is called broken colour. A black dress would be one beautiful tone of black, and flesh one clean tone of flesh, shadows growing out of the mass and forming a part of the whole. As this work was a very simple impression, he finished the coloured picture in a few minutes. But on the whole, in one sense, it was less satisfactory. It appeared as if he had studied his subject less, for it was a little conventional. He was less happy in it; but, of course, he did not admit this to himself. [Illustration: ARCHERS] He did four pictures, and each of them took from about seven to ten minutes, these constituting the finest lesson in water-colour painting I ever received in my life. Here is his idea of finish: once the impression of the detail and the finish of the object is recorded you can do nothing better; so far as the painter's impression of finish goes, so far must the rendering go, and no farther. Artistically he had become exhausted by doing these four pictures--in invention, I mean. You see, the man was heart and soul in the work. He lives, poor fellow, on almost nothing. He is a very independent man, refusing to work for money, and declining to paint for the market. Nearly every artist in Japan has his own favourite stick of Indian ink, which he values as his very life. It is essential that this ink should be of the very finest quality, for they drink so much of it. In order to execute those fine lines ending in a broad sweep that is so characteristic of Japanese pictures, an artist must first fill his brush with Indian ink and then apply it to his lips until the tip becomes pointed. The ink is of course swallowed; but if it is of a good quality, to drink pints of it would not do a man the slightest harm. A practical proof of this can be found in the fact that Kiyosai, who is an old man, has been drinking Indian ink steadily with every picture he has painted all through his lifetime. He possesses a small piece of Indian ink which is hundreds of years old, and which all the money in the world could not buy. It is far too precious for broad washes, and is only used here and there for bright touches. I noticed the tender way in which Kiyosai handled this one precious piece of Indian ink, and that led to a very interesting conversation on blacks, after which I realised that the variations and gradations to be procured with black alone were enormous. Kiyosai told me that when he was very young he was puzzled by the exceedingly rich quality of black in one of his master's pictures. It was a deep, velvety, luminous black, and young Kiyosai struggled for weeks and weeks to match it, but in vain. He came to the conclusion that there must be some work going on at the back of the picture, and at last one night he became so desperate that, stealing into his master's room while he lay asleep, he soaked off the picture which had been pasted on to a board, and looked at the back of it. One glance was enough, and little Kiyosai, with a throb of pleasure, hastily pasted the picture together again and stole away to experiment all that night on silk and on paper, "painting black both on the front and on the back." I inquired of Kiyosai if he had ever painted in oils, and he assured me that he had not; but a few days later Captain Brinkley showed me a little picture painted in lacquer by Kiyosai which, in my opinion, rivalled for brilliancy any oil picture that has ever been painted, or has still to be painted. The surface was as brilliant as glass; yet the picture had a depth which no ordinary oil pigment could hope to reach, while its deep luminous shadows would put to shame the finest of Van Eyck's pictures. An English friend of mine resident in Japan once told me a story of Kiyosai which struck me as being typical of that great master. A friend of his had prepared four magnificent sliding panels covered with the finest silk, and had given them to the painter with the request that he would execute some of his masterpieces on them for him. For eight or nine years Kiyosai had kept those panels, and they still remained bare; but great masters are always erratic, and the would-be purchaser never gave up hope. One day, however, he burst in upon my friend with the terrible intelligence that Kiyosai was dead drunk and had ruined his panels. "He's smashing away at them on the floor, and he is simply crawling over them," he said in a towering rage. My friend agreed to go round with him to Kiyosai's house to try if possible to stop the outrage. When they arrived they found the master in a high state of fever, and looking more like a wild animal than a human being, with his tusk-like teeth and his poor pitted face, sweeping and hacking about all over the silken panels. As they entered, Kiyosai left the room, leaving behind him the panels scattered irregularly over the floor, but each one smothered with work. "Look here," said my friend very generously: "it was I that introduced Kiyosai to you, and it was I that suggested his painting these doors; therefore it is only fair that I should relieve you of them and find you a new set, which I will willingly do." But the owner of the panels, shrewdly guessing that my friend had not made this magnanimous offer without some good reason, changed his mind and said that he could on no account receive so costly a gift. He kept them, and wisely too, for these four panels are now universally considered as some of Kiyosai's greatest masterpieces. [Illustration: REFLECTIONS] Strange to say, Kiyosai, when painting his finest work, is nearly always drunk, and his weakness is often taken a mean advantage of by the people around him. I remember once attending a party given by a Legation person who had invited a dozen or so of Japan's finest artists--among them the great Kiyosai, the master--to paint pictures on the floor for the edification of the assembled guests--a rather vulgar proceeding. Kiyosai resented this indignity with all the force of his passionate nature, but out of kindness allowed himself to be over-persuaded by his host. They made him drink and keep on drinking to build up his enthusiasm; but, boiling over with rage and indignation, he kept on putting off his time until the whole twelve artists had finished the sketches, although, fearing that the effect of the drink would wear off, the guests begged him to start at once. At last Kiyosai's time came. The silk lay prepared on the floor, with the ink and brushes ready for him to begin. Mad with rage and hating his unsympathetic audience, Kiyosai stood, or rather knelt, before his silk, fiercely grasping the brush, holding it downwards with all his fingers round it and thumb turned outwards. He looked like a god as he knelt there, gripping his brush and staring at the silk--he was seeing his picture. He executed a flight of crows, a masterpiece--Kiyosai knew it was a masterpiece--and, proudly drawing himself up to his full height, quivering in every limb, he threw down his brush, skidded the silk along the floor towards the spectators, and, saying "That is Kiyosai," left the house in disgust. The dignity of the little man cowed his spectators. Every one unconsciously felt the magnetism of the man, and realised that a master had been among them. PLACING CHAPTER IV PLACING In Japan there is no such thing as accident. A scene which in its beauty and perfect placing appears to the visitor to be the result of Nature in an unusually generous mood, has in reality been the object of infinite care and thought and anxious deliberation to these little Japanese artists, the landscape gardeners. That temple which seems to place itself so remarkably well in relation to the big lines of Nature, its background, has been carefully built and thought out from that standpoint alone. The great trees by the side of the temple, with their graceful jutting boughs that form the principal feature of the picture, have not grown like that, for all their apparent naturalness; they have been nursed and grafted and forced into shape with the utmost care imaginable. The sense of perfect placing, which is the sense of balance, is the true secret of the Japanese art, by which they attain perfection. All Orientals are more or less possessed of this intuitive sense of balance, and the Japanese carry it into the most minute details of daily life. If you enter a Japanese room you will always find that the bough of blossom is placed in relation to the kakemono and other furniture to form a picture. And the special note of Japanese house decoration is this bough of blossom, with which I was immensely struck. Now, this is an altogether artistic thing. At one party at which I was present I saw a piece of blossom-bough put right out at a curious angle from a beautiful blue jar. Turning to my neighbour, a young Japanese friend who could talk English perfectly well, I said, "How beautiful that is!--although, of course, its quaint curious form is merely accident." "No--no accident at all," he replied. "Do you know, it has been a matter of great care, this placing of the plant in the room in relation to other objects?"--I was afterwards informed that in many a household in Japan the children are trained in the method of placing a branch or a piece of blossom, and they have books with diagrams illustrating the proper way of disposing flowers in a pot. [Illustration: THE RED CURTAIN] The outsides as well as the insides of their houses are decorated in the harmonious principle, even to the painting of signs in the street. They are most particular about placing their richly coloured sign duly in relation to its surroundings. In the same way--whether the subject may be done in a string of lanterns or what not--whatever is done is done harmoniously, and in no case is decoration the result of accident. The sum of it all is that every shop in an ordinary street is a perfect picture. At first you are amazed at the beauty of everything. "How in the world is it," you ask yourself, "that by a series of apparent accidents everything appears beautiful?" You cannot imagine until you know that even the "common man" has acquired the scientific placing of his things, and that the feeling permeates all classes. Perhaps, however, one of the most curious experiences I had of the native artistic instinct of Japan occurred in this way I had got a number of fanholders and was busying myself one afternoon in arranging them upon the walls. My little Japanese servant boy was in the room, and as I went on with my work I caught an expression on his face from time to time which showed that he was not over-pleased with my performance. After a while, as this dissatisfied expression seemed to deepen, I asked him what the matter was. Then he frankly confessed that he did not like the way in which I was arranging my fanholders. "Why did you not tell me so at once?" I asked. "You are an artist from England," he replied, "and it was not for me to speak." However, I persuaded him to arrange the fanholders himself after his own taste, and I must say that I received a remarkable lesson. The task took him about two hours, placing, arranging, adjusting; and when he had finished the result was simply beautiful. That wall was a perfect picture; every fanholder seemed to be exactly in its right place, and it looked as if the alteration of a single one would affect and disintegrate the whole scheme. I accepted the lesson with due humility, and remained more than ever convinced that the Japanese are what they have justly claimed to be, an essentially artistic people instinct with living art. It is, in point of fact, almost impossible to exaggerate the importance attached to the placing of an object by every Japanese, and it would be no exaggeration to say that if a common coolie were given an addressed envelope to stamp he would take great pains to place that little coloured patch in relation to the name and address in order to form a decorative pattern. Can you imagine a tradesman and his family, wife and children, running across the Strand to watch the placing of a saucepan in their window? Yet this is no unusual occurrence in Japan. You will often see a family collected on the opposite side of the road watching their father place a signboard in front of his shop. It might be a grocer's shop, and all--even to the mite strapped to the back of its sister--are eagerly watching the moving about of this board, and are interested to see that it should place itself well in relation to the broad masses around, such as the tea-box, etc. [Illustration: FLOWER OF THE TEA] Now, people who think so much of the details of balance must necessarily approach art in a very different manner from that in which we approach it. Would a tradesman in England hesitate before placing his stamps on a bill? The tradesman in Japan does. Imagine an artist spending three days in anxious thought as to where he should place his signature on his picture! And yet this is what Kiyosai, the greatest of modern painters, actually did before he affixed his red stamp to the hasty sketch of a crow. I have known little Japanese painters to ponder for hours, and sometimes weeks, over the placing of this little vermilion stamp so that it shall form perfect balance, and in all probability the picture itself has only taken a few minutes. Suppose, for instance, a painter has contrived to produce a rapid sketch of a flying crow, or perhaps a fish. That fleeting impression was so strong that he was able to produce it at once without any hesitation; but however vivid and lifelike the picture might be, if the balance were destroyed by the ugly placing of this one little spot of vermilion, from the Japanese standpoint the picture would be utterly worthless. And the proper placing of a thing is really most important. Even the most ignorant and uneducated in matters of art are influenced on seeing a perfect bit of placing. To live with some beautiful thing, a flower or a bough well placed, to watch its delicious curves or the tender buds of a purple iris just bursting, must give joy, and it does, although one may be quite unconscious of its gentle power. The Japanese understand these subtleties as do no other nation. If they are entertaining a guest, their one aim and object is to make him perfectly and deliriously happy; they strive to divine his inmost thoughts and desires; it is their ambition to satisfy them to the best of their ability. [Illustration: A STREET IN KIOTO] A friend of mine, an American, once gave me a description of a week he had spent with a very ancient Japanese gentleman in a little country village; it was a week of intense interest and happiness to him, one which, when he grows to be as old as his host was then, will still remain in his memory with a lingering sweetness as something good to be remembered, something purer and quite apart from the regular routine of his past life. He was a student, a naturalist; and the purity of this Japanese household, the seclusion and dainty decoration of his study, the freedom of it all, and the kindly attention and sympathy that was proffered to him by every member of the family combined to make the quiet recluse feel, for once in his life, almost boisterously happy. Towards the end of his visit he tried to look back and discover what it was that had brought about this unwonted feeling of joy in him, little realising that all this time these dear people had been scheming and planning for no other object than to give him pleasure. It was not until the last day of his stay, however, that it all unfolded itself clearly before his eyes, and that he learnt the reason why he had been so happy. On this last morning he had chanced to rise early--at daybreak, in fact--and as he passed the room that he had been using as a general sitting-room, he saw through the partially-opened sliding doors a sight which caught his breath with amazement, and made tears spring to his eyes. There was his host, the dear ancient Japanese gentleman, kneeling before a bough of pink blossom, which he was struggling to arrange in a fine blue china pot. The naturalist stood and watched him for nearly an hour, as he clipped a bough here, and bent a twig there, leaning back on his heels now and then to view his handiwork through half-closed eyes. He must see that the blossom placed itself well from the decorative standpoint in relation to the kakemono that hung close by; he must also see that the curves of the bough were correct; and the care taken by this old gentleman in the bending of the bough was a lesson to my friend. It became clear to him that every morning his aged host must have risen at daybreak to perform this little act of kindness. Like a flash he remembered that each day there had been some dainty new arrangement of flowers placed in his room for him to enjoy. He had not given it much thought, for it looked more or less like an accident, flowers that had formed themselves naturally into that shape; yet, all unconsciously, this little bit of perfect placing had influenced his work and had gone far towards making the visit so joyous to him. He did not understand placing; but it interested him and gave him an intense amount of pleasure, in the same way that superbly fine work always does even to the most uneducated. The proper placing of objects is not only an exact science, but also it forms almost a religion with the Japanese. When you just arrive in Japan you are at once impressed with the perfect placing of everything about you. You find yourself surrounded by a series of beautiful pictures; every street that you see on your journey from the station to the hotel is a picture; every shop front, the combination of the many streets, the town in relation to the mountains round about it--everything you chance to look at forms a picture. In fact, the whole of Japan is one perfect bit of placing. [Illustration: HEAVY-LADEN] "Nature has favoured this place," says the globe-trotter. "I never found when I lived in Surrey that great trees placed themselves against hill-sides so as to form perfect pictures. I never saw the lines of a bush pick up those of a fence with one broad sweep. Nature never behaved like that in Dorking." Of course Nature didn't; nor does she in Japan. There the whole country, every square inch of it, is thought out and handled by great artists. There is no accident in the beautiful curves of the trees that the globe-trotter so justly admires: these trees have been trained and shaped and forced to form a certain decorative pattern, and the result is--perfection. We in the West labour under the delusion that if Nature were to be allowed to have her own sweet way, she would always be beautiful. But the Japanese have gone much further than this: they realise that Nature does not always do the right thing; they know that occasionally trees will grow up to form ugly lines; and they know exactly how to adapt and help her. She is to them like some beautiful musical instrument, finer than any ever made by human hands, but still an instrument, with harmonies to be coaxed out. And the Japanese play on Nature, not only in a concentrated way as with a kakemono or a flower in a room, but also in the biggest possible form, on landscapes; dragging in mountains, colossal trees, rushing cataracts--nothing is too much or too great an undertaking for these masters of decoration. Any ordinary little baby boy that is born in Japan has almost a greater decorative sense than the finest painter here in the West. All this beauty and perfection that meets one on every side is the result of centuries and centuries of habit, until it has become intuitive to the people. I can safely say there is no point in Japan where an artist cannot stand still and frame between his hands a picture that will be perfect in placing and design. In a Japanese garden, every stepping-stone, every tree, every little miniature out-house, is thought out as a bit of placing to form perfect balance. And it is thought out not as an isolated bit of Nature, but in relation to everything around that you can see, whether it is a temple, a large tree, or the side of a hill; and whatever position you happen to be in, in that garden you will always see a perfectly balanced picture. When you have been pottering about in the towns for some weeks, you eventually become accustomed to the idea that everything is thought out by these brilliant students in order to form a picture, and you begin to feel proud of the knowledge you have gleaned and to make practical use of it. You escort your friends, who are a trifle fresher than yourself, about the towns, pointing out to them that there is no accident in all the beauties that they so much admire--the shops, the signboards, the placing of the flower by the side of the workman--all this has been carefully thought out from the decorative standpoint, to be beautiful. But then, when one travels from the beaten track, away out in the country, even the resident who is by way of being artistic, and has had the fact that the Japanese are an artistic people driven into his stupid head by sheer force, even this poor dear is swept off his feet when he finds that Nature is still going on doing the same thing all these miles away from the town. He has probably come to view the cherry-blossom, and he discovers to his amazement that these huge hill-sides of blossom place themselves perfectly one against the other--colossal trees with jutty boughs frame themselves against the sides of the mountains to form a picture. One huge sweep of blossom is thought out in relation to another sweep that is deeper in tone; near by is a curiously-shaped bare patch of earth which is designed to give value to the brighter colour; and so it continues indefinitely. The whole country is thought out in huge blotches to form a picture perfect in harmony and in design. I once had a very interesting experience of the felling of a tree in Japan, and here again placing formed a very prominent part of the proceedings. Of course this was placing of a nature very different from the artistic placing that I have just described; but as a scientific bit of work it was simply wonderful! It was an enormous tree by the side of a temple; there were two little men sawing away at its base, little mites of men, half hidden by the huge gaping crowd, chiefly composed of children, that stood watching the performance, waiting for the tree to fall. A wall stood close by with an opening cut in it, just large enough to allow the trunk to place itself; and away in the distance strewn about at different angles were a series of huge stone boulders, and these, I soon found out, were to split up the boughs for firewood when the tree fell, thus saving labour. Imagine the science of it--the calculation and the accuracy of their judgment! The men went on sawing, every now and then pausing in their work to look up at the sky with their backs against the wall. At last there came a moment when the excitement was terrific: the trunk was nearly sawed through, and the tree seemed prepared to fall anywhere and everywhere, more particularly in my direction. Presently it began to give slightly, and it was one of the prettiest and most wonderful things I have ever seen in my life, the way that tree began to bend--gently, gracefully, ever so gently, the trunk fitting itself into the wall, and the branches dashing on to those great boulders that were waiting for them, splitting them up into fragments. Those little mites of Japanese handling that giant of a tree was a sight that I shall never forget. Where we would have had twenty men with ropes and paraphernalia, they had nothing but their big heads and their power to place a thing mathematically in the right position to help them. And it all looked so graceful and so easy that it would not have surprised me in the least to have seen one of those little men come sailing down on the branches. But what struck me the most forcibly was the great confidence of the people. They all stood round, almost touching the tree, but quite sure of the success of this venture; the fact that it was possible for the wood-cutter to fail never occurring to them for an instant. [Illustration: PEACH-BLOSSOM] Placing takes a prominent part in everything that the Japanese undertake; it shows itself not only in the arrangement of the landscape and in artistic matters where there is scope for their decorative powers, but also in small, out-of-the-way, inartistic things, as, for instance, photography. I have seen in the Tokio shop-windows photographs taken by native correspondents during the Chinese war, and it was quite extraordinary how their sense of placing showed itself even in this. You never by any chance see a photograph by a Japanese looking in the least like a European. If they photograph a group of men they will be sure to place that group near a great bough that juts across the picture; they cannot help it--it seems to be in the blood of a Japanese to be decorative. Their taste with regard to enjoyment is widely different from ours: a little bit of Nature which would give them intense pleasure would probably be ignored by us altogether. We want parks and stags and moorlands, broad expanses of country and huge avenues, while the Japanese will be content with one exquisite little harmony. They will gaze for whole hours in rapture at a little branch of peach-blossom, only a cluster, just a few inches of rose-red peach-blossom, with a slim grey twig, placing itself against a background of hills that stretch away in the distance indefinitely. At the same time they love expanse of view as well. It is one of their greatest joys to look from the top of a mountain downwards, but only at certain times of the day. A Japanese, holiday-making, will sometimes spend one whole day waiting for an effect that will perhaps last only a few moments, or he will toil for hours up a mountain-side to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of a fleeting colour harmony. ART IN PRACTICAL LIFE CHAPTER V ART IN PRACTICAL LIFE Throughout this book I have talked of Japan purely from the artistic standpoint. I have talked principally of the living art of the country and of its exquisite productions, and I firmly believe that it is because the Japs are a people of imagination that they will at no distant date forge ahead of other nations (who are depending solely upon their muscle) and become a dominating power. At the same time, it must be clearly understood that the artistic is not the only quality in which the Japs excel. Take them from any side, and it will be found that they have achieved remarkable success. Yet the average Westerner, on returning from a visit to Japan, has always the same superficial observation to make on the Japanese people. He has spent a few weeks in the Land of the Rising Sun; he has seen the dainty tea-houses, the miniature bridges, the paper walls and umbrellas, their works of art modelled in lead--everything suggesting the dainty and the exquisite (and therefore, in his opinion, the flimsy); and he tells you that the people over there are all dear little Noah's Ark folk living in tissue-paper houses, very charming as dolls, but useless as men. "These people," he says, "have no physique; they would be incapable of building battleships, for example." For this critic one can entertain only the faintest possible feeling of tender pity. Is he not aware that these Noah's Ark folk are actually building battleships, that they have already a fine army superbly equipped with the finest of swords and guns, and that they have the power to handle these weapons far better than we can handle ours? Every soldier in the Japanese army understands the mechanism of his rifle, and can at any moment pull it to pieces and put it together again, even substituting a missing portion if necessary. Could the same be said of our beloved Tommy? The Japanese officers are no less capable than the privates, and I would guarantee that if by some mischance the sword of a Japanese officer, being badly tempered, should become bent, that officer would be capable of retempering his blade--one of the most difficult and delicate tasks imaginable. [Illustration: THE TEA-HOUSE OF THE SLENDER TREE] But how a certain class of equally ignorant and inconsistent Westerners cried out when it was known to the world that Japan had actually begun to use our rifles and to build battleships! They will lose individuality and degenerate, they are adopting Western methods, and it will kill their art, they complained. How foolish this is! The Japanese have merely changed their tools--exchanged the bow and arrow for the sword; they are just as artistic and just as intelligent as in the bow-and-arrow days; and they have proved themselves to be equal to, if not better than, any other soldiers in the world. Japan is not being Westernised in the smallest degree: she is merely picking our brains. And how quickly the Japs will adopt a Western idea, and improve upon it! The making of matches, and the underselling us in all our common printed cotton and woollen Manchester goods, have not spoilt their faculty for executing that exquisite Eugene dyeing for which the Japanese are famous all the world over; the making of bolts and bars and battleships has not prevented the metal-workers from producing exquisite work in bronze, so delicate as to resemble the finest lace. The manufacture of our vulgar modern monstrosities has been taken up by these people, and they can offer them to us at a cheaper rate and of a better quality than we can produce ourselves, freight included. Japan can produce European work better than the Europeans themselves; but that work has not influenced their art one whit--they hate it; whereas Japanese art has permeated and influenced the whole of the West. All these qualities seem to point one way--Japan must eventually become a ruling power. For one thing, the struggle for life does not exist there as in other countries. The food is simple, and men live easily. Then, again, the Japanese are not over-anxious. They do not waste their energies. Women do not fret because they are looking old; on the contrary, it is their ambition to become old, for then they are more respected. [Illustration: BLOSSOM OF THE GLEN] My first experience in Japan, I being a practical person and of a practical turn of mind, was rather a surprise. I had just arrived at the hotel in Tokio, and, observing from my window that there was a promise of a sunset, I caught up my paint-box, anxious to secure the fleeting effect, and rushed downstairs full-tilt, in my haste almost capsizing an old lady with a monkey on her shoulder standing at the foot of the stairs. Not moving from her position, she said, "Young man, I should like to talk to you." "Delighted, I am sure," I answered hurriedly: my haste to be off, I am afraid, was too apparent just then. Not at all daunted, the lady called after me some directions for finding her in her room that night after dinner, where she would tell me some things that would interest me, and walked slowly up the stairs without once looking round, her monkey on her shoulder. Curiously interested, despite myself, in this strange old lady and her monkey, I did visit her that evening, and was somewhat startled by her greeting of me. "I knew I was going to meet you in Japan to-night. I know all about you. You are going to paint a series of pictures. You are going to exhibit them, and you will make a great success. Some day you will paint children--you are fond of children. All this I knew in America before ever I came here. I saw it all as in a dream." Paralysed, I could only utter the formal words, "Oh, really!" "Ah, you're sceptical! But you are sympathetic too, and after I have talked to you for two or three hours you will see that I am right," quoth my strange new friend, while at the prospect of two or three hours' conversation I experienced a distinctly sinking feeling. But with the next few words she uttered, the sinking feeling vanished, to be superseded by one of deep interest. For some years, she told me, she had been constantly communing in the spirit with her husband and Lord Byron--rival spirits. Her husband was jealous of the poet and of her correspondence with him, and she showed me a series of letters dictated by that great man in the dark--all sorts of beautiful letters on all subjects, ranging from tennis to theology. I sat there I know not how long listening to this wonderful woman; and also--it may seem foolish--I felt strangely comforted and encouraged to hear her say so convincingly that I was to make a success, for at that period I had never painted a picture, and the whole thing was, as it were, an experiment. It was many weeks before I could forget that old lady and her monkey. All through my travels the memory of that monkey's eyes--beady, blinking, never changing--followed me, and stimulated me. With Tokio and Yokohama I was disappointed. I had the privilege of attending the Mikado's garden party; but the pleasure of the really beautiful grounds and the cherry-blossom was spoilt by the Western dress of the guests and of high personages--a hideous substitute for the Japs' own graceful garments. Yokohama I found especially unsympathetic. The bulk of the Europeans I met there seemed to be spending half their time in abusing Japan and everything Japanese. Strange that a colony of such unrefined, uneducated people should presume to criticise these artists! Tokio, with its formal dinners and conventionalities, was much the same; and with epithets such as "Crank" and "Madman" hurled after me, I fled to Kioto, there to lose myself in endless and undreamt-of joys. In Japan there are flowers blooming all the year round: the country is a veritable paradise of flowers. When a certain flower is at its height, whether it be the wistaria, the chrysanthemum, or the azalea, that is a signal for a national holiday, and, dropping business and all such minor considerations, the whole of Japan turns out and streams through the parks and through the country to picnic in the sunshine, under the flowers. I arrived in Japan in the spring, and the country was pink with blossom. Infected with the delightful fever for blossom-dreaming, I drifted aimlessly along with the crowds, drifting only too rapidly into their own restful atmosphere, and accustoming myself to the delicious theory that life is long with plenty of time for everything. And as I sat in the sun among these light-hearted people, watching mountains of pink blossom under a clear blue sky, it did seem ridiculous to think of work and worry. Those first few weeks in Japan come back to me as something to be remembered. To my untravelled mind everything seemed so novel, so quaint, so unexpected. Things were large when I expected them to be small, and _vice versâ_; the houses were made of paper; the women were anxious to make themselves look old. I was fascinated by the pyramids of children gazing in at sweet-stuff shops with their brown, golden, serious faces contrasting so oddly with their gaily-coloured dresses painted to look like butterflies. Every child I saw I felt that I must either pat or give it something. I was surprised to see fowls with tails so long that they had to be wound up into brown-paper parcels; the dogs that mewed like cats; miniature trees hundreds of years old. I was surprised when I dined out to find the room decorated with beautiful ladies in lieu of flowers, a delightful substitute. To be taken to the basement and handed a net with which I was to catch my own carp was also rather a surprise; but when I was expected to eat it as it lay quivering on my plate, I was more than surprised--I was roused. Material for pictures surrounded me at every step. I wanted to make pictures of every pole and signboard that I came across; and the result of this glut of subjects was that I never painted a stroke. Night in Japan fascinated me almost more than anything--the festoons of lanterns crossing from one street to another, yellow-toned with black and vermilion lettering; the gaily-dressed little people passing by on their wooden clogs or in rickshas with swinging paper lanterns drawn by bronze-faced coolies. I shall never forget my first rainy day in Japan. I went out in the wet and stood there, hatless but perfectly happy, watching the innocent shops light up one by one, and the forest of yellow oil-paper umbrellas with the light shining through looking like circles of gold, ever moving and changing in the purple tones of the street. One of the first things I did on arriving in Japan was to hire a servant, and this little man soon became my adviser in artistic as well as in mundane matters. He took a keen interest in my work, and spent the greater part of his spare time in hunting up subjects for me--monograms, suggestions for picture-frames, and what not--he, like every Jap, was an artist. He never said that he liked anything that I ever painted (he was far too truthful for that); but it was quite obvious that he did not, for he could draw infinitely better himself. But he helped me a great deal. [Illustration: A FAMILY GROUP] So did the policemen--and the policeman in Japan is a perfect treasure. They are all gentlemen of family and are very small men, much below the average in height; but they have nearly all learned the art of scientific wrestling, and exercise an absolute and tyrannical power over the people. Luckily for me, I never made the hopeless blunder of attempting to tip them. Altogether I found the policeman the most delightful person in the world. When I was painting a shop, if a passer-by chanced to look in at a window, he would see at a glance exactly what I wanted; and I would find that that figure would remain there, looking in at the shop, as still as a statue, until I had finished my painting; the policeman meanwhile strutting up and down the street, delighted to be of help to an artist, looking everywhere but at my work, and directing the entire traffic down another street. Suddenly there is a fire--there is invariably a fire when one arrives in a foreign country, I notice. Immediately the policemen begin to plant little bamboo sticks round the burning building with twine fixed from one stick to another. This is to act as a barrier to keep the people off. After a time a crowd gathers, and in the swaying of the people their chests sometimes touch the string and bow it; but the thought of breaking through that twine never occurs to them. The bold little firemen inside the enclosure trying to scare away the god of fire by bright clothing, and literally sitting on the flames in their light-coloured coats, form a scene never to be forgotten. They seem to bear charmed lives as they dash among the flames, putting the fire out with their hands, and in a very short time too. It reminds one of the performance of the fire-eating gentlemen at the Aquarium. The power of the policemen over the people in Japan is extraordinary. Even the Westerners obey them. At the treaty ports they often have to deal with English sailors, and, although they try their utmost to smooth things over, they often have to run men in. It is entertaining to see a great blundering sailor, just like a bull, plunging to right and left, while the little policeman, always courteous and polite, constantly gives way, stepping on one side until the time comes when the sailor, puffed and worn out, gives a terrific lunge; the policeman gives him a slight impetus, and the sailor sprawls in an ungainly attitude on the ground. He is then led off triumphantly by a small piece of string attached to his belt behind. [Illustration: THE VENICE OF JAPAN] It was not until I arrived in Osaka, the Venice of Japan, that I gave up dreaming and seriously began to work. Here was scope indeed! Osaka is the city of furnaces, factories, and commerce,--the centre of the modern spirit of feverish activity in manufacturing and commercial enterprise. Western ugliness has invaded certain quarters; yet the artistic feeling predominates. The Ajikawa is still the Ajikawa of the olden time, and on the eastern side of the city is the Kizugawa, into which--thanks to the shallowness of the bar--no steamer ever intrudes, while the city itself is intersected by a vast network of canals and waterways, all teeming with junks and barges, and crossed by graceful wooden bridges which lend themselves admirably to line. The Kizugawa fascinates the painter. Away from the bustle of the factories and the shrieking of the whistles, the great junks from northern Hakodate or the sunny Loochos lie sleepily silent. They are the Leviathans of their kind. Intermingling with them are innumerable barges and fishing-boats, stretching far up the river, their masts and cordage seeming one vast spider's web. Not a single vessel is painted--from the huge sea-going junk to the narrow-prowed barge. Near the water-line the wood has taken a silvery tone; but above, it looks in the sunlight like light gold. And the cargoes of rice in straw bales, piled high over the bulwarks, are also golden. A steam-launch has in tow half a dozen barges, which, with their unpainted woodwork, rice bales, and straw-coloured connecting cable, appear against the dark water as a knotted golden thread. In the endless perspective of junks the golden tone predominates; but it is relieved by the colouring of the buildings on the river banks. There is no monotony, for no two houses are similar either in tint or in design; and there is no stiffness of line. The builders are all artists, to whose instincts repetition would do violence. The quaint roofs, although formed in straight lines, seem to rise and fall in gentle undulations. There is nothing abrupt or rugged; nothing jars. And the colours are as varied as the roofs. In the upper reaches of the rivers the scenes never cease to charm. Clusters of half a dozen boats forming a mass of decorative woodwork, tea-houses with tiny gardens running down to the water's edge and gaily-dressed geishas leaning over the trellised verandahs, light bridges thrown in graceful outline against the purple horizon,--all combine to complete a picture as broad as a study by Rembrandt, as infinite in detail as a masterpiece by Hobbema. THE GARDENS CHAPTER VI THE GARDENS It is not easy to describe the fascination of a Japanese garden. Chiefly it is due to studied neglect of geometrical design. The toy summer-houses dotted here and there, the miniature lakes, and the tiny bridges crossing miniature streams, give an air of indescribable quaintness. Yet, in spite of the smallness of the dimensions, the first impression is one of vastness. "Who discovers that nothingness is law--such a one hath wisdom," says the old Buddhist text. That is the wisdom the Japanese gardener seeks, for he also is an artist. There is no one point on which the eye fastens, and the absence of any striking feature creates a sense of immensity. It is a broad scheme, just as broad as a picture by Velasquez would be, and of infinite detail. It is only accidentally that one discovers the illusion--the triumph of art over space. I saw a dog walk over one of the tiny bridges, and it seemed of enormous height, so that I was staggered at its bulk in proportion to the garden; yet it was but an animal of ordinary size. [Illustration: AN IRIS GARDEN] A Japanese gardener spends his whole life in studying his trade, and just as earnestly and just as comprehensively as a doctor would study medicine. I was once struck by seeing a little man sitting on a box outside a silk-store on a bald plot of ground. For three consecutive days I saw this little man sitting on the same little box, for ever smiling and knocking out the ash from his miniature pipe. All day long he sat there, never moving, never talking--he seemed to be doing nothing but smoking and dreaming. On the third day I pointed this little man out to the merchant who owned the store, and asked what the little man was doing and why he sat there. "He's thinking," said the merchant. "Yes; but why must he think on that bald plot of ground? What is he going to do?" I asked, perplexed. The merchant gazed at me in astonishment, mingled with pity. "Don't you know," he said, "he is one of our greatest landscape gardeners, and for three days he has been thinking out a garden for me?--If you care to come here in a few days," he added, "I will show you the drawings for that garden all completed." I came in a few days, and I was shown the most exquisite set of drawings it has ever been my good fortune to behold. What a garden it would be! There were full-grown trees, stepping-stones, miniature bridges, ponds of goldfish--all presenting an appearance of vastness, yet in reality occupying an area the size of a small room. And not only was the garden itself planned out and designed, but it was also arranged to form a pattern in relation to the trees and the houses and the surrounding hills. This little old man, without stirring from his box or making a single note, had in those three days created this garden in his mind's eye, and on returning home had sketched out the final arrangement. The merchant told me that his garden would be completed in a few weeks, with full-grown trees flourishing in it, and everything planted--all but one stone, which in all probability would be there in a few weeks, while, on the other hand, it might not be placed there for years. On inquiring as to the reason of this strange delay I was told that that one particular stone, though insignificant and unnoticeable in our eyes, occupies a very prominent position, and that upon the proper placing and quality of it the beauty and perfection of a Japanese garden almost entirely depend. Sometimes hundreds and even thousands of dollars are paid for a large stone that happens to be rightly proportioned and of the correct texture of ruggedness to occupy a certain position in a Japanese garden. To see the cherry-blossoms of Yoshino, the plum-trees in full bloom at Sugata, the wistaria at Uyeno, or the iris at Horikiri, the people will travel scores of miles. Then, there is the spacious embankment of the Sumidagawa, at the part known as Mukojima, celebrated for its avenue of cherry-trees. Before the Restoration it was the favourite promenade for the daimio and their retainers, and very picturesque it must have been to see the stately nobles in their gorgeous robes, saluting one another with all the grave ceremonial in which the courtiers delighted. The costumes have vanished; but the ancient residences, with their private waterway approaches to the river, remain; and the avenue is still the fashionable promenade. But it is the iris gardens at Horikiri seen by night that have left an impression which will never fade from my mind. We visited the gardens frequently; but it is one particular visit that I remember above all the others. Leaving the Hotel Metropole late in the afternoon, the ricksha men took us at a rattling pace through the city. After an hour's run we found ourselves far away from the river in the midst of uninviting rice-fields, with a glimpse of the gardens in the distance--a blue and white oasis in a waste of green. If one visits the gardens in the afternoon the changes that the flowers undergo are marvellous. In the full warm rays of the sun, the great petals, turning back towards their stems, are rich and glowing in every shade. Then, as evening comes on and the sunlight fades, the deeper purple blooms lose their richness and grow shadowy, while the white ones take on an icy purity that seems unearthly in its transparency, and they shine as with an internal light. Still a little later, and with the last rays of daylight, all the darker flowers have disappeared, and where a short time ago stood a proud bed of royal colour one can see only the ghastly heads of the pure white petals looming like phantom flowers in the purple night. [Illustration: A SUNNY GARDEN] The effect of the picture was heightened by the atmospheric colouring. As the silver evening gradually changed to purple night--a purple only seen in Japan--the festoons of lanterns which illuminated the summer-houses became of one colour with the landscape, and then, as the night darkened to a deeper purple, the lights changed to bright orange. It would be impossible to put such colours on canvas: the only way to represent them would be by precious stones. We dined in one of the summer-houses off dainty plates served us by little musmés while seated on the white mats. The blooms of the iris appeared softly luminous, emitting a ghostly light. It is this spiritual beauty which makes the flowers such a favourite in temple gardens, and inspires the Japanese to poetry. On the edge of a tiny lake, approached by a winding walk, through an avenue of bamboo trellis-work, was a small shed with a quaint roof. In the shed the model of a junk was placed. Near it were ink and small strips of paper. The junk was designed to receive poems on the beauty of the iris and of the garden. Nothing disturbs in a Japanese landscape. It is the harmonic combination of untouched naturalness and high artistic cultivation. The tea-houses owe much of their charm to the absence of paint. The benches, lintels, the posts, are uncoloured, except by age. The white mats and the paper screens act as a foil to the bright flashes of the musmés--waiting-girls--who move noiselessly through the rooms like gigantic butterflies flitting to and fro. The iris blooms are a rich mass of colour of blue and white, and the gardener has exhausted his art in pruning all the unnecessary growths without leaving a trace of his handiwork. The ride back was delightful. Tokio at night is seen at its best; the river is then more fascinating. Huge junks, with a solitary light at the masthead, glide by--fantastic shadows in the purple haze. The tea-houses, with their festoons of lanterns and orange interiors, in which one caught glimpses of singing girls in their brilliant dresses, gleamed like golden patches in the cool purple. The bridges sparkled with lights; the shops were bright with colour; and all through the city, to enjoy the coolness of the night air, groups of citizens were seated in the streets chattering as gaily and as light-heartedly as only the Japs can. [Illustration: IRIS GARDEN] FLOWER ARRANGEMENT CHAPTER VII FLOWER ARRANGEMENT One of the chief characteristics of the Japanese, which especially distinguishes them from Europeans, is their intense fondness for flowers--not the fondness which many English people affect, but an instinctive love of the beautiful, and a poetical appreciation of symbolism. The Japanese nature is artistic in essence, and in no more delightful manner is the art of the people expressed than in the cultivation of flowers. Flowers to them are a source of infinite and unending joy, of which the chief pleasure lies in their proper placing and arrangement. Every common Japanese workman, every fan-worker or metal-worker, has some little flower carefully placed beside him at his work; he loves and prunes and cares for it. If you dine out with a friend you will be seated, not on the right-hand side of the past-middle-age lady of the house, but near some beautiful flower. The "honoured interior" would never have the presumption to seat you next herself. You are her guest, and must be made happy by being placed in the near neighbourhood of the principal and most beautiful object in the room, which is invariably the arrangement of flowers. And a vase of flowers in a Japanese house is at once a picture and a poem, being always in perfect harmony with the surroundings. The art of arranging flowers is an exact science, in the study of which seven years of constant hard work finds a man but fairly proficient. In fact, to create a really fine arrangement is just as difficult as to paint an equally fine picture. Every leaf and every flower has to be drawn and practically modelled into form, while even so simple a thing as the bending of a twig requires much care and knowledge. To become a master in the art of flower-arrangement a man must study for at least fourteen years, devoting the remainder of his life to perfecting and improving it. [Illustration: A WISTARIA GARDEN] There are scores of different arrangements that one must learn, and volumes upon volumes of designs, showing all the most delicate and subtle forms of placing which a master, in order to create perfect balance, must have at his fingers' ends. These ancient designs are so perfect that it is almost impossible to change them or to insert any original work into them. Here and there, indeed, some great master will make a slight variation in the arrangement of a particular flower, and in a very short time that variation is trumpeted throughout the country and known in all art sections. To a Westerner this seems incredible. He affirms that if he jumbles a bunch of flowers together in a vase he can create a different effect every time. Very probably, and he can also strew roses and cut flowers all over his dining-table if he likes; but he will still be creating nothing more than a jumble. If he were to think out the arrangement of his table from an artistic point of view as a bit of decoration, he would find it impossible to produce such a wealth of inartistic variety. "But," argues the uninitiated Westerner, "these roses strewn carelessly over our tables, and bunches of flowers stuck loosely into vases, are far more natural than the single stiff bough of blossom of Japanese decoration. Flowers grow in Nature carelessly and wildly, and therefore they must be arranged to look like that." Now, it is always difficult to answer these people, for the dining-table of the West begins by being utterly hopeless in decoration and in colour. One cannot possibly compare this meaningless attire, this independent mass of colour forming no pattern, and probably placed upon the table by a servant without care or thought, and with an utter disregard to form and order,--one cannot compare such decoration with the beautiful, scientifically-thought-out flower arrangements of Japan. All that one can say is that one is art and the other is not. Nature grabbed at in this crude Western fashion and stuck into a vase is no longer Nature. Consummate naturalness is brought about only by consummate art, and is not the result of accident. If a bough of blossom growing in the midst of other trees is taken from Nature and placed in a vase, however beautiful it might originally have been, it must necessarily appear awkward and out of place. One of the chief characteristics of Japanese flower arrangement is its resemblance to the flowers in a state of nature. A bough or a tree in a Japanese room looks exactly like a real bit of Nature lifted bodily out of the sunshine and its own particular surroundings, and placed there. Nature appears to be almost commonplace as compared with the work of a great Japanese master in the art of flower arrangement, and almost less natural. A master, after having received a clear impression of the way a certain bough appears in the midst of its background of Nature, is capable of taking that single bough and of twisting it into broad beautiful lines, one picking up with the other in such a way as to convey the same impression to you as it did when growing in its own sunny garden. [Illustration: FLOWER-PLACING] "But why are there so few flowers in this Japanese method of flower decoration?" complains the Westerner. "Why only one branch of blossom in a pot?--why only one?" Because you can see that one and enjoy it, provided that you have the capacity to see at all, which the majority of people have not. One beautiful bough or one beautiful picture should be ample food for enjoyment to last an artist for one whole day. If there were twenty beautiful boughs, or twenty beautiful pictures, you would look from one to the other and would necessarily become confused. You would leave that room feeling thoroughly unhappy, and with the same sort of headache that one gets after spending an afternoon in a picture-gallery. To enjoy one of these pictures or flowers, and to concentrate one's thoughts upon it alone, you would have to frame it between your hands, cutting it off and isolating it from the rest. This the Japanese do for you. They know that you cannot appreciate more than one beautiful object at a time, and they see that that one object is perfectly placed in relation to its surroundings, so as to give rest and enjoyment to the eye. Almost every one in Japan, either young or old, is capable of appreciating a fine arrangement of flowers, and nearly every Japanese woman can practise the art. So many minute descriptions have already been written of the methods of the masters of flower decoration that there is little else to say on that point. However, since decoration by flowers has so much to do with the art of the country, and is so closely connected with the character of the people, I feel that I must give a slight description of some of the marvellous creations in purple irises, lilies, and pines that the greatest master in Tokio once arranged for me at my hotel. He arrived early one morning, and in great good-humour, evidently feeling that, I being an artist, his work would be appreciated and understood. He carried with him his flowers, tenderly wrapped in a damp cloth under one arm, and his vases under another. One of his most promising pupils, a girl of nineteen, accompanied him, acting almost as a servant and evidently worshipping him as her master. He began at once to show us a decoration of lilies and reeds. With the utmost rapidity he took out a bunch of slim reeds, pulled them to different lengths, the large ones at the back, the small ones in front, and caressed the whole into a wooden prong looking like a clothes-peg, and arranged it in a kind of vase made out of a circular section of bamboo. An immense amount of care was taken with the handling of these reeds, the master drawing back now and then in a stooping position with his hands on his knees and his eyes bolting out to view his handiwork critically. Next he took some lilies with their leaves, and arranged them in a metal stand composed of a number of divisions looking like cartridge-cases cut off. Every leaf was twisted and bent and cut to improve its form. The half-open lilies were made to look as though they were growing, and were a great favourite with this master because of the scope for beautiful curves and lines that they allowed. Time after time he would take out a leaf or a flower, putting another in its place, thereby showing that he had absolute command over his subject, and a fixed picture in his mind that he was determined to produce at any cost. The ultimate result of the decoration was perfect naturalness. I never saw lilies growing on the hillside look more natural than they did here; yet each had been twisted and bent into a set design laid down by the artist. Both reeds and lilies were placed in a wooden tray partially lacquered, the unlacquered portion representing old worm-eaten wood; pebbles were placed in the bottom of the tray, and the whole was flooded with water. Then he began his decoration of irises. He took a bundle of iris leaves, cut and trimmed them, washing and drying each leaf separately, and sticking them together in groups of twos and threes. With his finger and thumb he gently pressed each one down the centre, rendering it as pliable as wire. The leaves were cut to a point at the base and placed in a metal stand with consecutive circles. Then an iris bud, with the purple just bursting, was placed in position and caressed into bloom. The whole was syringed with water and carefully placed in a corner of the room. [Illustration: WISTARIA] I have described these few flower arrangements in detail in order to show the exactitude of the work and the immense amount of care taken by professors in flower arrangement. On this particular occasion I had invited some friends to enjoy the professor's masterpieces with me, and he had just completed a most exquisite production, by far the best and finest he had achieved that day. It was an arrangement of pine with one great jutting bough, perfectly balanced--in fact, a veritable work of art. The professor was a true artist; he loved his work, and it was all the world to him. For once he was content, and had just leant back to view his work through half-closed eyes when in a flash an Oxford straw hat was clapped down right on top of it. It was the husband of one of my friends just returned from a walk, full of spirits and boisterously happy. It was a cruel thing to do; but he did not realise the horror of his act. He saw a bough sticking right out of a pot, and it seemed to him a suitable place to hang his hat on: so he hung it there--that was all. The little assistant gave one frightened look at her master, and began to pack up the utensils at once; the professor drew himself up in a very dignified way, bowed profoundly, and left the hotel. I never saw him again, and I knew that I never should--for he went away crushed. THE GEISHA CHAPTER VIII THE GEISHA With all their practical gifts--which, as one of themselves has remarked, will enable them to beat the world with the tips of their fingers--and all the power of assimilating and adapting to their own purposes the best that other nations have to offer them,--the Japanese are essentially and beyond all a nation of artists. It is not only in the work-shop and the studio, but also in the simplest act and detail of daily life, that this sense of the decorative oozes unconsciously forth, and most of all, and most unconsciously, in the Japanese woman--the geisha. The _raison d'être_ of the geisha is to be decorative. She delights in her own delightsomeness; she wants frankly to be as charming as nature and art will allow; she wants to be beautiful; and she honestly and assuredly wants me and you and the stranger artists to think her beautiful. She wants to please you, and she openly sets about pleasing, taking you into her confidence (so to speak) as to her methods. She does it with the simple joy and sincerity of a child dressing up. There is no mock shyness, no fan put up, no screen drawn, no pathetic struggle to deceive you into belief in the reality of an all-too-artificial peach-bloom; there is nothing of the British scheme--no powder-puff hidden in a pocket-handkerchief, no little ivory box with a looking-glass in the lid, no rouge-tablet concealed in a muff to be supplied surreptitiously at some propitious moment. The Japanese woman has the courage to look upon her face purely as so much surface for decoration, a canvas upon which to paint a picture; and she decorates it as one might decorate a bit of bare wall. The white is simple vegetable white; the red is pure vermilion toning with her kimono. The white makes no effort to blend with the natural tone of her neck: it announces itself in a clear-cut, knife-edge pattern above the folds of the kimono. [Illustration: BUTTERFLIES] I remember a little story that I once heard (it was told me by the designer of the waterworks in Tokio)--only a trifling incident; but it struck me as being thoroughly typical of the naïve, almost childish simplicity of the Japanese woman. It was on the day that the waterworks were completed, and the high officials and their wives were being escorted over the works in trucks, in order that they might see and admire this great engineering feat, of which my friend, the architect, was very justly proud. There were two trucks--one for the men and one for their wives. The truck containing the men was wheeled up under a shaft where the light came down from above, and enabled the officials to look up and admire this great work. The men looked up and were duly impressed, and altogether the experiment passed off successfully. Then the idea was that they should move aside so as to allow the women also to enjoy the spectacle. No sooner was the truck-load of women drawn up beneath the shaft than their faces lit up with pleased surprise, and every woman whipped out a looking-glass and a rouge-pot and began to decorate her face. Not one of them looked up, or even attempted to take the slightest notice of the waterworks: all they knew was that it afforded them just sufficient light by which to decorate themselves, and they promptly made use of it. The geisha is the educated woman of Japan. She is the entertainer, the hostess; she is highly educated, and has a great appreciation of art; she is also proficient in the art of conversation. The geisha begins her career at a very early age. When only two or three years old she is taught to sing and dance and talk, and above all to be able to listen sympathetically, which is the greatest art of all. The career of this tiny mite is carved out thus early because her mother foresees that she has the qualities that will develop, and the little butterfly child, so gay and so brilliant, will become a still more gorgeous butterfly woman. Nothing can be too brilliant for the geisha; she is the life and soul of Japan, the merry sparkling side of Japanese life; she must be always gay, always laughing and always young, even to the end of her life. But for the girl who is to become the ordinary domesticated wife it is different. Starting life as a bright, light-hearted little child, she becomes sadder and sadder in colour and in spirits with every passing year. Directly she becomes a wife her one ambition is to become old--in fact, it is almost a craze with her. She shows it in every possible way--in the way she ties her obi, the fashion in which she dresses her hair; everything that suggests the advance of the sere and yellow leaf she will eagerly adopt. When her husband gives a party he calls in the geisha; she herself, poor dear, sits upstairs on a mat and is not allowed to be seen. She is called the "honoured interior," and is far too precious and refined to figure in public life. But, mind you, this little married lady, the "honoured interior," does not ignore her personal appearance altogether: she too will never miss an opportunity to whip out the rouge-pot and mirror that always form part of every Japanese woman's attire in order to decorate her face. And although to our eyes she appears a nonentity as compared with the geisha, her position is in reality a very happy one and greatly to be envied. What if the geisha entertain her husband's guests? Hers is the greater privilege of attending upon him when he returns, tired out from the festivities; she is as a rare jewel set in the background of her home, and the "honoured interior" is perfectly content. [Illustration: DAUGHTERS OF THE SUN] But the idiotic idea so general in the West, that the geisha is a silly giggling little girl with a fan, must really be corrected, although I can quite understand how this opinion has been formed. The geisha in reality is a little genius, perfectly brilliant as a talker, and mistress of the art of dancing. But she knows that the Westerner does not appreciate or understand her fine classical dancing and singing, and she is so refined and so charming that she will not allow you to feel that you are ignorant and more or less vulgar, but will instantly begin to amuse you in some way that she thinks you will enjoy and understand. She will perhaps unfold paper and draw rapid character-sketches of birds and fish, or dance a sort of spirited dance that she feels will entertain you. It is very seldom that they will show you their fine classical dances; but if by good fortune you can over-persuade them, as I have done, the sight is one that you will never forget--the slow, dignified movements, the placing of the foot and the hand, the exquisite curves and poses of the body, forming a different picture every time,--all is a joy and a perfect intellectual treat to the artist and to the lover of beautiful things. There is no rushing about, no accordion skirt and high kick, nothing that in any way resembles the Western dance. Sometimes, if she finds that you appreciate the fine work, the geisha will give you imitations of the dancing on our stage at home, and although it is very funny, the coarseness of it strikes you forcibly. One never dines out or is entertained in Japan without the geisha forming a prominent part of the entertainment; in fact, she herself decorates the room where you are dining, just as a flower or a picture would decorate our dining-rooms at home, only better. And there is nothing more typical of the decorative sense innate in the Japanese than the little garden of geisha girls, which almost invariably forms the background of every tea-house dinner. The dinner itself, with its pretty doll-tables, its curious assortment of dainty viands set in red lacquer bowls, its quaint formalities, and the magnificent ceremonial costumes of its hosts, is an artistic scheme, elaborately thought out and prepared. But when, at the close, the troupe of geishas and maïkos appears, forming (as it were) a pattern of gorgeous tropical flowers, the scene becomes a bit of decoration as daring, original, and whimsically beautiful as any to be seen in the land of natural "placing" and artistic design and effect. The colours of kimonos, obis, fans, and head-ornaments blend, contrast, and produce a carefully-arranged harmony, the whole converging to a centre of attraction, a grotesque, fascinating, exotic figure, the geisha of geishas--that vermilion-and-gold girl who especially seizes me. She is a bewildering symphony in vermilion, orange, and gold. Her kimono is vermilion embroidered in great dragons; her obi is cloth of gold; her long hanging sleeves are lined with orange. Just one little slim slip of apple-green appears above the golden fold of the obi and accentuates the harmony; it is the crape cord of the knapsack which bulges the loops at the back and gives the Japanese curve of grace. The little apple-green cord keeps the obi in its place, and is the discord which makes the melody. [Illustration: BY THE LIGHT OF THE LANTERNS] My vermilion girl's hair is brilliant black with blue lights, and shining where it is stiffened and gummed in loops and bands till they seem to reflect the gold lacquer and coral-tipped pins that bristle round her head. Yes, she is like some wonderful fantastical tropical blossom, that vermilion geisha-girl, or like some hitherto unknown and gorgeous dragon-fly. And she is charming; so sweetly, simply, candidly alluring. Every movement and gesture, each rippling laugh, each fan-flutter, each wave of her rice-powdered arms from out of their wing-like sleeves, is a joyous and naïve appeal for admiration and sympathy. How impossible to withhold either! The geisha-girl is an artist: I am an artist: we understand each other. My geisha-girl brings out her dainty lacquer-box, and under the gaze of all sits down to decorate herself with a frank joy in the pleasure she knows she is going to give. And she knows too what she is about. She knows the value of a tone in a lip. Something suggests to her that you, an artist, may have found the vermilion lip not quite in harmony with the plan, and she changes it to bronze. Three times this evening does my geisha-girl change her lip; she frankly takes it off with a little bit of rice-paper, which she rolls up and tucks into the folds of her kimono, to be thrown away later, and the bronze lip is substituted. By and by it seems to occur to her that the bronze lip has become monotonous, and she will change it again to vermilion. No doubt before the evening is over there will be a series of little bits of rice-paper folded away ready to be got rid of when the bill is paid, the supper eaten, and the festival at an end. It is through the geisha-girls that there is still a living art in Japan at the present day in the designs of the silk dresses that they wear. They are so modern, so up-to-date, and yet so characteristic of Japan. The women are very extravagant in their dress, and some of the leading geisha-girls will often go to the length of having stencils, with elaborate designs and an immense amount of hand-work, specially cut for them, the stencils and designs being destroyed when sufficient material for one dress has been supplied. For such a unique and costly gown the geisha will of course have to pay a fabulous sum, and a sum that would astound the average English woman of fashion. But then when a geisha orders a costume she thinks it out carefully; she does not go, as we do, to a dressmaker, but to an artist. It may be that she has a fancy for apple-blossom at sunset, and this idea she talks out with the artist who is to draw the designs. [Illustration: A STREET SCENE, KIOTO] A Japanese woman chooses her costumes, not according to fashion but to some sentiment or other--apple-blossom because it is spring-time, peach-blossom for a later season,--and many beautiful ideas are thus expressed in the gowns of the women of Japan. But although the geisha has plenty of latitude in which to display her artistic feeling, there are some little details of etiquette and fashion that she must adhere to, which show themselves in a few details of the Japanese women's attire, as, for example, in the thongs of her little wooden shoes and the decoration of her jet-black hair. Not only is the kimono of the geisha, its colour and design, thought out by the artist, but all the accessories of her toilette, such as the obi, the fan, and the ornaments for her hair. It is the artist's ambition that she should be a picture, perfect in every detail, and the geisha is always a picture, beautiful beyond description. How different she is from the geisha of fiction, of operettas, and of story-books, which is the only geisha that the stay-at-home Englishman can know! That she is beautiful to look at all the world agrees; but quite apart from her beauty, or the social position that she happens to occupy in Japan, take her as a woman, a real woman, stripped of all outward appearances and of her own particular nationality--take her as a woman, and she will be found as dainty in mind as in appearance, highly educated, and with a great sense of honour, while her moral code would compare favourably with others of her sex all the world over. CHILDREN CHAPTER IX CHILDREN A cluster of little Japanese children at play somehow suggests to me a grand picture-gallery, a picture-gallery of a nation. Every picture is a child upon which has been expended the subtle decorative sense of its family or neighbours, as expressed in the tint of its dress and sash and in the decoration of its little head. It is in the children that the national artistic and poetic nature of the Japanese people most assuredly finds expression. Each little one expresses in its tiny dress some conception, some idea or thought, dear to the mother, some particular aspect of the national ideals. And just as in the West the character of a man can be gauged by the set and crease of his trousers, so in Japan are the sentiments and ideals of a mother expressed in the design and colouring of her baby's little kimono. Thus, when watching a group of children, maybe on a fête day, one instinctively compares them with a gallery of pictures, each of which is a masterpiece, painted by an artist whose individuality is clearly expressed therein. Each little picture in this gallery of children is perfect in itself; yet on closer study it will be found that the children are more than mere pictures. They tell us of the truths of Japan. One child, in the clearness and freshness of its dress, seems to embody an expression of that unselfish cheerfulness so characteristic of the Japanese, among whose children you can go for days without seeing one cry. Another, in the graceful dignity and rich yet severe colouring of its costume, tells of that faithful spirit of loyalty and pride that has always marked the lives of the Japanese. One tiny baby, in the dainty sombreness of colour and quiet arrangement of the folds of its little kimono, suggests the thoughtful consideration and sweet seriousness of the women of Japan; and another child, dressed in a wonderful combination of red and bronze relieved by glimpses of white, expresses in its rich glowing colour, and the purity of the white within, the fire of Japanese patriotism. [Illustration: BABY AND BABY] But come with me for a walk on any day, in sun or in rain, whether on a gala day or on an ordinary day, and we shall meet little units in the decorative whole, every one of them a colour picture bringing to the mind some characteristic of the people. We shall find one little one who, to the eye of the artist, flashes like a gem, her white kimono, decorated, or rather made vivid, as by the hand of a master, with only three or four great black crosses, each formed of the crisp dexterous drags across the surface of the cloth. Again the black is repeated in the carefully-arranged hair, and the white in the little wooden shoes; but all is toned and touched by just a little old rose in the ribbon that ties her head-dress and the fastening of the thongs at her feet. Such an art in a people is living; it has its root in national spirit and national character, and must continue to foster and strengthen the national ideals. The clothing of her children is a matter of great and serious consideration to the Japanese mother. When a baby is born she gathers together all her friends, and they discuss a scheme of decoration for the set of miniature dresses that the little one is to wear. More care is taken with these baby dresses than with those of any grown person, and if the parents are rich the sums that are spent on silk crepe are sometimes such as would shock any English mother. So much has to be taken into consideration with regard to the design of a child's dress: it might be cherry-blossom or a landscape, according to the month and the circumstances amid which the infant was born. The colouring of the costume is generally suggestive of the ideas and sentiments of the mother. She does not say, "I will take this bough of apple-blossom, and it shall be the dress of my child," or "I will take Fuji at sunset, and the colouring of my baby's dress shall be of old rose and white snow." She does not grab at nature in this crude way; but the artistic and poetical feelings innate in her unconsciously find expression in the little frock. When the mother and her neighbours have finally decided upon a scheme of decoration, the designs are placed in the hands of some great artist, who carries them out in water-colour drawings on silk, which the friends gather together again to examine and generally enjoy. Then the designs are handed over to some expert stencil-cutter, go through the regular elaborate course, and are finally retouched, by the artist himself, directly on to the silk. If the parents are rich enough the stencils are destroyed, and the dress consequently becomes unique. Such a dress will doubtless be an exquisite work of art, and very costly. Indeed, a dress for a Japanese baby can cost quite as much as a picture by a leading Academician, and is of far greater artistic value. But no price can be too great, no colouring too gorgeous, for the dresses of these little butterflies, the children of Japan. The poorest mother will scrape together sufficient money, and the father sacrifice one half of his daily portion of rice, in order that a child may attend a festival in the bright hues befitting its age. The younger the child, the more brilliant is its dress. You will see a mite, a little baby girl that cannot walk or talk, clothed in silk crepe of the most brilliant colour possible--rainbow colour, almost prismatic in its brilliancy. As the child grows older the colours fade, and become duller, until by the time she is a full-grown woman they have sobered down almost to Quaker hues--except here and there, where some tiny edging of colour shows itself. [Illustration: A JAP IN PLUM-COLOUR] The science of deportment occupies quite half the time of the Japanese children's lives, and so early are they trained that even the baby of three, strapped to the back of its sister aged five, will in that awkward position bow to you and behave with perfect propriety and grace. This Japanese baby has already gone through a course of severe training in the science of deportment. It has been taught how to walk, how to kneel down, and how to get up again without disarranging a single fold of its kimono. After this it is necessary that it should learn the correct way to wait upon people--how to carry a tray, and how to present it gracefully; while the dainty handing of a cup to a guest is of the greatest importance imaginable. A gentleman can always tell the character of a girl and the class to which she belongs by the way she offers him a cup of Sake. And then the children are taught that they must always control their feelings--if they are sad, never to cry; if they are happy, to laugh quietly, never in a boisterous manner, for that would be considered vulgar in the extreme. Modesty and reserve are insisted upon in the youth of Japan. A girl is taught that she must talk very little, but listen sympathetically to the conversation of her superiors. If she has a brother, she must look up to him as her master, even although he be younger than herself. She must give way to him in every detail. The baby boy places his tiny foot upon his sister's neck, and she is thenceforth his slave. If he is sad, her one care must be to make him happy. Her ambition is to imitate as nearly as possible the behaviour of her mother towards her own lord and master. Many attempts have been made by enterprising Westerners to "broaden" the minds of the Japanese girls, and to make them more independent, by establishing schools for them, where they can be educated on purely Western principles; but these attempts have always failed. The women turned out from such establishments are always unhappy, and continue to suffer for the rest of their lives, because they are disliked and resented by all their people, and no man will marry any of them. The beautiful side of life seems to have been taken from them; imagination is crushed and spoilt; they are unfitted for the life that every Japanese woman must lead. Naturally they are hated by the men, for the womanly qualities that are most valuable in a Japanese girl are destroyed by this Western "broadening" of their minds: they wear high-heeled shoes, put nosegays on the table, and are altogether demoralised. Sad to say, Western influence is keenly felt within the schools which belong to all classes and conditions of Japanese children, and one trembles lest gradually the simplicity and quaint formality of their bringing-up should become hardened and roughened into the system which has done so much to spoil the child-life of the West. Their own artistic training is perfect; and although Japan is the land of ceremony, and the children are brought up with a certain strictness of propriety unknown in the less ceremonious West, their utter naturalness and absolute freedom from seeking after effects present in them a simplicity of character which helps to make them the most delightful of their kind. A little boy flying a kite is like no other boy you have ever seen in England. There is a curious formality and staidness about him and his companions which never degenerates into shyness. [Illustration: SUGAR-WATER STALL] Once I drifted into a country village in search of subjects for pictures, and I found to my astonishment that every living soul there was flying a kite, from old men down to babies. It was evidently a fête day, dedicated to kites; all business seemed abandoned, and every one either stood or ran about, gazing up in the air at the respective toys. There were kites of every variety--red kites, yellow kites, kites in the shape of fish, teams of fighting kites, and sometimes whole battalions of them at war with kites of a different colour, attempting to chafe each other's strings. It rather surprised me at first to see staid old men keenly interested in so childish an amusement; but in a very short time I too found myself running about with the rest, grasping a string and watching with the greatest joy imaginable the career of a floating thing gorgeously painted, softly rising higher and higher in the air, until it mingled among the canopy of other kites above my head, becoming entangled for a moment, then leaving them and soaring up above the common herd, and side by side with a monstrous butterfly kite; then came the chase, the fight, and the downfall of one or the other. They were all children there, every one of them, from the old men downwards; all care and worry was for the time forgotten in the simple joy of flying kites; and I too, in sympathy with the gaiety about me, felt bubbling over with pure joy. To see these lovely flower-like child faces mingling with the yellow wrinkled visages of very old men, all equally happy in a game in which age played no part, was an experience never to be forgotten. None was too old or too young, and you would see mites strapped to the backs of their mothers, holding a bit of soiled knotted string in their baby fingers, and gazing with their black slit eyes at some tiny bit of a crumpled kite floating only a few inches away. [Illustration: ADVANCE JAPAN] Another game in which both the youth and the age of Japan play equal parts is the game of painting sand-pictures on the roadside. These sand-pictures are often executed by very clever artists; but I have seen little children drawing exquisite pictures in coloured sands. Japanese children seem to have an instinctive knowledge of drawing and a facility in the handling of a paint-brush that is simply extraordinary. They will begin quite as babies to practise the art of painting and drawing, and more especially the art of painting sand-pictures. You will see groups of little children sitting in the playground of some ancient temple, each child with three bags of coloured sand and one of white, competing with one another as to who shall draw the quaintest and most rapid picture. The white sand they will first proceed to spread upon the ground in the form of a square, cleaning the edges until it resembles a sheet of white paper. Then, with a handful of black sand held in the chubby fingers, they will draw with the utmost rapidity the outline of some grotesque figure of a man or an animal, formed out of their own baby imaginations. Then come the coloured sands, filling in the spaces with red, yellow, or blue, according to the taste and fancy of the particular child artist. But the most extraordinary and most fascinating thing of all is to watch the performance of a master in sand-pictures. So dexterous and masterly is he that he will dip his hand first into a bag of blue sand, and then into one of yellow, allowing the separate streams to trickle out unmixed; and then with a slight tremble of the hand these streams will be quickly converted into one thin stream of bright green, relapsing again into the streams of blue and yellow at a moment's notice. A Japanese mother will take infinite pains to cultivate the artistic propensities of her child, and almost the first lesson she teaches it is to appreciate the beauties of nature. She will never miss the opportunity of teaching the infant to enjoy the cherry-blossom on a sunny day in Uyeno Park. Hundreds of such little parties are to be seen under the trees enjoying the blossom, while the mother, seated in the middle of the group, points out the many beauties of the scene. She will tell them dainty fairy stories--to the boys, brave deeds of valour, to strengthen their courage; to the girls, tales of unselfish and honourable wives and mothers. Every story has a moral attached to it, and is intended to educate and improve the children in one direction or another. There is one fairy story which is a universal favourite with both mothers and children, and that is the story of Momotaro. When seeing a mother talking earnestly to her children, I have always discovered that it was the same old story, old yet ever fresh. It is a curiously simple tale about an old woman who goes every day to the river to wash clothes, and an old man who goes to the mountain to fetch wood. The old woman is always unhappy because she has no children, and one day, when she is washing clothes in the river, a large peach comes floating down towards her. On carrying it home, she hears the cry of a child, which appears to come from the inside of the peach. She rapidly cuts it in two, and finds to her amazement a fine baby sitting in the middle of it, which, since it was born in a peach, she afterwards called Momotaro. The story then goes on to tell how the baby grows up to be a fine healthy lad, who, on reaching the age of seventeen, plans an expedition to subjugate an island of the devil. A minute description is given of the food he takes with him--of the corn and rice wrapped in a bamboo leaf--and how on his journey he meets with a wasp, a crab, a chestnut, and a millstone, who all promise to help him if he will give them half of his food. The lad complies, and a beautiful description is given of their journey to the island of the devil, on which journey a very skilful plan is thought out by which to kill him. On arriving at the island, they find that the chief of the devils is not in his own room. They soon take advantage of his absence. The chestnut hops into the ash; the millstone mounts on to the roof; the crab hides in the washing-pan; the wasp settles in a corner; and the lad waits outside. The poor devil comes back, and has a terrible time between them all. He goes to the fireplace to warm his hands; the chestnut cracks in the fire and burns them; he rushes to the water-pan to cool himself, and the crab bites his hand; he flies to a safe place, and is tormented by the wasp; in an agony of pain he tries to leave the room, but the remorseless millstone descends with a crash upon his head, and mortally wounds him. This story is told to the Japanese children over and over again, but is always received with wide-eyed delight and excitement. [Illustration: CHUMS] I have never seen a child in Japan cry; nor have I ever seen one smacked, for what mother can have the heart to touch so dainty a blossom as the child flower of this land of flowers? A group of Japanese children is perhaps the prettiest sight on earth, and they themselves are works of art, the beauty of which can scarcely be imagined. Each head and each piquant face is but a field where the ever-present artist can exercise his ingenuity and his skill in colour and design. Deliberately the child's head and face are treated as subjects fit for the most decorative of design, and the result, though quaint and formal to the last degree, is invariably as pleasing as it is undoubtedly startling and original. And the children themselves are no less full of interest than their heads and faces are full of paint. I once saw a pyramid of children gazing in at a sweet-stuff shop. They looked like three children; but on closer inspection I discovered that one was a doll looking about the age of a child of two, with its great head lolling on the back of its mother, aged three. The three-year-old was a boy, strapped to the back of his sister aged five. The doll and the sister looked very sleepy and tired as they gazed vacantly at the rows of tempting pink sugar-water bottles in the sweet-stuff shop; but what arrested my attention was the alert and intelligent expression of the three-year-old child in the middle, who, just as I took out my notebook to sketch the group, put a lighted cigarette between his lips, holding it between two chubby fingers, eyeing me with the peculiar introspective look of the old hand as he both tests the excellence of the tobacco and gives himself up to its enjoyment. As I sketched him he looked composedly at me out of his big eyes, and posed twice without a particle of artificiality--once with the cigarette in his mouth, and again as if he had just taken it from his lips for a moment while he paid attention to me. [Illustration: A SUNNY STROLL] I remember once passing a temple, an ancient Shinto temple called "Kamogamo"; it was a sacred temple and very popular, being much frequented for picnics. On this particular day there was going on one of the two important picnics or festivals of the year; the great ground of the temple and the playground were enclosed about with straw ropes on bamboo poles, to separate one from another. It was a festival for girls under ten, and there were hundreds of children, all with their kimonos tucked up, showing their scarlet petticoats, and looking for all the world like a mass of poppies. The scarlet in the petticoats was universally repeated in neck and hair; but their kimonos varied much, and were of almost every shade and texture of Japanese cloth and silk crepe imaginable. There were luminous greens, fawns, stripes, golden browns shading into lemon-yellows, harmonies in brown and violet, and dresses striped and chequered in tones of almost every conceivable value. Two rows or armies of these girls were placed several yards distant from each other in this long emerald-green field; and in the space between them stood two servants, each holding a long bamboo pole, fresh and green, being evidently just cut down for the fair, and suspending from its top a flat shallow drum covered with tissue paper. Presently two young men teachers appeared on the scene carrying two baskets of small many-coloured balls, which they threw down on the grass between the children and the drums. Then a signal was given, and all the girls started running down the field at full tilt towards one another, pouncing on the balls as they ran, and throwing them with all their force up at the paper drums. The great majority of them missed their aim altogether, and flew either above or below the drums, some of the mites getting so excited that they threw the balls forty or fifty yards in mid air. After a time, when a perfect shower of balls had passed through the tissue drums, quite demolishing them, a shower of coloured papers, miniature lanterns, paper umbrellas, and flags came slowly fluttering down among the children on to their jet-black bobbing heads, and into their eager outstretched hands. Never have I seen anything more beautiful than these gay, brightly-clad people, packed closely together like a cluster of flowers in the brilliant sparkling sunshine, with their pretty upturned faces watching the softly falling rain of coloured toys. I strolled through the temple grounds, passed this brilliant stream of colour and lovely laughing children, passed the cherry-trees and dainty tea-houses, and in a few minutes found myself in a cool grey-green forest of bamboo, an academic bamboo grove looking like a pillared temple, sunless and silent. It was here that the philosophers of old taught and meditated, and it seemed a place to meditate in--so quiet, so sombre, shut off from the world with its endless lofty pillars of grey luminous green--silent, a world apart. [Illustration: THE CHILD AND THE UMBRELLA] WORKERS CHAPTER X WORKERS It was with a view to decorating my newly-built London house that I paid a second visit to Japan, being convinced that it was possible to handle the labour there at a cheaper rate and with finer results than in Europe. My experience proved that I was right. Before leaving England, however, I was carefully informed by all my friends of the exceedingly bad reputation that the Japanese have gained commercially. I was told that they were treacherous and unscrupulous in their dealings, and that I was, above all, to beware of the Japanese merchant. As it happened, it was through making a friend of one particular little Japanese merchant--through concentrating my attention upon him, and studying him continually--that I was enabled to gain a real insight into the life of the people, and to tear away that impenetrable veil which, to the Westerner's eyes, always hangs before them. When you get to know a Japanese merchant well, a man who has studied our methods, you will find that he talks openly and frankly about his dealings with the European globe-trotter. He will tell you that he cheats you and charges you high prices because the average Westerner has got no eye. The Westerner does not appreciate the really fine and beautiful articles that the Japanese soul worships; therefore the merchant gives him what he thinks the Westerner wants, and asks the price that he thinks the traveller will give. When we first came into touch with the Japanese we began by cheating them and foisting deceptions upon them, and now they simply turn the tables upon us and cheat us to the best of their ability. The only difference is that the Japanese have more intelligence about wrong done them, and their motive for cheating is thus resentingly greater. I have had many dealings with the Japanese myself, and have always found them just. To be sure, I have never come into touch with the treaty-port merchants, who have been more or less tainted by the Westerner; but I have come into touch with, and studied, the genuine workers of Japan. [Illustration: A LITTLE JAP] My first object on arriving in Tokio was to find some Japanese who would be capable of gathering together a series of splendid craftsmen to work for me. As luck would have it, I found my man--a perfect little genius of a fellow--on the evening of my first day in Japan, and in a most unexpected manner. I was sitting in the reading-room of the hotel, with my plans spread out before me, dreaming of the Japanese glories that were to decorate my London house, when my attention was attracted by seeing a little creature, looking like a monkey with a great box on his back, bound suddenly into the room, evidently by aid of the manager's foot in the adjoining hall. Not in the least perturbed, he began to unstrap the box from his back, from which he took out curios, and drifted about the room trying to sell them to the different globe-trotters assembled there. Nothing was too small or too trivial for him: he would sell anything. He was chivied about, insulted, and abused by every one; yet he received it all with a smiling face. Nothing seemed to affect him. He was a typical Japanese, with bright slit-like eyes set as close together as any monkey's--blinking eyes they were, but so intelligent. I could see that he was a keen observer, and that he looked upon these wayfarers as so much material of prey, by the quiet way in which he selected a man with a big pocket, sidling up to him and allowing himself to be insulted, yet always getting the best of the bargain in the end. He tried to sell me some very bad cloisonné, and he was so clever about it, handling his wares in so dexterous a manner,--making his twopenny-halfpenny pots appear of priceless value--that it occurred to me that this little monkey resemblance might have ideas of his own, and be in some small way able to help me. He spoke English a little, and I told him to come up to my room that night, when I should have something to say to him. Glancing at me in a searching way, without asking a single question or showing the slightest surprise, he only said, "I come!" [Illustration: A BY-CANAL] And he came. When I went up to my room after dinner, I found him sitting there, or rather squatting on a chair, waiting for me, blinking his beady little eyes and looking as solemn as an owl. I told him all my schemes. I explained that I was a painter, thoroughly in sympathy with the Japanese, and that I wanted his help to gather together a company of workers--fan-workers, metal-workers, and screen-workers--in order to furnish a house that I had built in London. He grasped my idea in an instant, and very soon entered into the spirit of the plan, taking an enthusiastic interest in all my schemes. Whenever there was anything that needed measuring exactly, this little man would run his finger and thumb over it in the most dexterous manner possible, murmuring to himself, "One inchie, two inchie, three inchie, seven-and-a-half inchie," etc. I talked on and on, expounding and arranging, until it must have been nearly three o'clock in the morning. Japanese people are in the habit of going to bed very early, and soon my little ally became obviously sleepy, although he was far too polite to admit it. Only when midnight struck did he beg that he might be allowed to smoke a pipe, in order, as he said, "to keep himself awake." I gave him permission, and he immediately jumped into the fireplace, crouching right down in the fender, close up against the red-hot coals, and smoked his miniature pipe there. I talked on, and he listened, really interested in everything I said, and gazing at me with his little beady eyes, bright with interest, yet blinking so rapidly that there was almost a mist over them. Then, for the first time, I noticed that the little soul was tired, and, feeling that it would be cruel to keep him up any longer, I bade him good-night and shut the door. For almost an hour after he had gone, I sat on dreaming and brooding. Then I was suddenly aroused by hearing a fumbling noise outside my room, as though some one were tapping at the hall door. I went out to see who the intruder might be, and there I found my little Japanese friend, practically asleep, but running his fingers all over the bolted door, trying to measure it, and murmuring, "one inchie, two inchie, three inchie." From that moment I christened him "Inchie," and now all over Japan at the present time this little man is known as Mr. Inchie. After that night Inchie became my constant companion and friend. Wherever I went he came. Whether it was to theatres, neighbouring towns, metal-workers or fan-workers, Inchie always accompanied me, until in the end it became a daily habit for him to drift about with me in the sunshine, neglecting his business entirely. For Inchie was an artist first and a merchant after. We visited the temples, where Inchie taught me to appreciate the difference between a degenerate Buddha and a perfect Buddha, a difference so subtle as to be quite indistinguishable to the alien. Gradually, bit by bit, as I grew to know him better, this little merchant's true nature revealed itself to me. I began to see the man apart from the merchant, and he proved himself to be a great artist. Here in England we should call him a distinguished genius, and undoubtedly there are scores of equally brilliant men in Japan. I have indeed no reason to believe that there are any men in Japan who are not brilliant, considering that here, the first man I had met, an ordinary little merchant in a hotel for Europeans, was an artist. Every day we wandered about the streets trying to discover the best operators in metal, wood, and bronze to work for me; and in a very short time we had gathered together a bevy of excellent associates, each thoroughly proficient in his own particular direction. Inchie and I talked out our plans during our many walks through Uyeno Park and down the theatre streets, and we came to the conclusion that this Japanese house of mine should be a house of flowers. Each room should be some individual and beautiful flower--such as the peony, the camelia, the cherry-blossom, the chrysanthemum,--and, just as a flower begins simply at the base, expanding as it reaches the top into a full-blown bloom, so my rooms should begin with simple one-coloured walls and carpets, becoming richer and richer as they mounted up, ending as they reached the ceiling in a perfect blaze of detail. [Illustration: SWINGING ALONG IN THE SUN] That was my dream; but, unlike most dreams, it was realised to the full and far beyond my widest expectations. I first of all turned my attention towards the wood-carvers; and, discovering that each man had his favourite flower, which he manipulated more skilfully than any other, I arranged that he should work solely on that particular species. Having found three or four men who had a special fancy for the peony, I allowed them to occupy themselves entirely in the peony room. I gave them the exact measurement of the ceiling, squaring it out into a certain number of panels, with complete measurements of the doors, the frieze, and every portion of the room, allowing them to give bent to their own artistic instincts as to colour and design. These drawings were then handed over to the wood-carvers, to be pasted on to wood panels and carved. In a very short time every workman in Inchie's store, and every artist too, became enthusiastically interested in this work that they were undertaking. In fact, it was not work to them at all, but one long artistic joy. So much rubbishy bric-a-brac has to be made for the European market that when a Japanese is allowed to go his own way and create self-imagined beautiful things, it is an untold personal pleasure to him. I never saw a body of men work together so unselfishly as these. The metal-workers in the peony room went on in sympathy with the wood-carvers from the cherry-blossom hall; the screen-makers were interested in the proceedings of the fan-makers; and the designers were interested in them all. Each individual operative was zealously interested in the success of the results as a whole; and the end is that my house now looks like the product of one man, or rather of one master. It was a revelation to me, after my experience of British workmen, to see the way these little Jap fellows toiled. How they would talk and plan out schemes of decoration for me among themselves, studying peony flowers, for instance, in some celebrated temple garden in order to introduce a new and more natural feeling into their wooden ones; and then the joy with which they would think out every little detail, flying round to my hotel at all times of the day to inform me of some new departure, surprised and pleased me greatly. These men were all brilliant craftsmen and designers, creating work that could not be surpassed in Italy or anywhere else for beauty. Yet the bulk of them were poorly fed, receiving only sevenpence or eightpence a day. Too poor to buy meat, they lived on rice and on the heads and tails of fish twice a week, being unable to afford that which was between. [Illustration: A METAL-WORKER] But although the Japanese workman is very poorly paid, it must also be remembered that his necessities are few and simple. This is roughly the way a workman in Japan lives. He has one meal of rice per day, of the poorest quality, which costs him two sen eight rin. A sen is a tenth part of a penny, and a rin a tenth part of a sen. For a mat to sleep on at night he pays one sen five rin. Three sen he pays for fish or the insides of fowls. Drinking-water costs him two rin, while two rin per day pays for the priest. The total cost of his daily living thus sums up into about five sen three rin. Then, as to be buried at the public expense is considered a deep disgrace, forty sen is always put on one side for the purchase of a coffin, seventy-five sen if the gentleman wishes to be cremated, twenty sen for refreshments for mourners, five rin for flowers, three sen for the fees of the two priests, while, to economise, a Japanese of the lower grade will generally make use of friends as bearers. Apropos of the absurdly small price at which a man can live in Japan, I am reminded of an experience in Kioto. I was walking down the theatre streets one day with a Japanese friend, and we stopped in front of a little stall full of very dainty toys. There were thousands of toys--miniature kitchen utensils exquisitely carved in wood, small pots and pans and dishes, all bound with lacquer and beautifully finished, such as would delight the heart of every housewife of my acquaintance. I asked the stall-holder, a little stolid old man, through the interpretation of my friend, how much he would sell his entire stock for. His excitement was intense, and my friend told me that my simple question had had the effect of an avalanche upon this stolid little toy-seller, and that he was quite unable to grasp my meaning, so startling and gigantic did the transaction seem to him. After a great deal of gesticulation, and much flicking of the beads on his counting machine, the little man came to the conclusion that his entire stock would be worth two yen thirty sen. This ridiculous price quite took my breath away, and I immediately said that I would buy the lot. Then there was another commotion: the little man was thoroughly upset, and could not understand what I meant. In the end I made him carry away his stall bodily and follow me with it to my hotel. I paid him the money, and he quickly disappeared. "You won't see that little gentleman in theatre street again in a hurry," my friend said: "he will be living in luxury now for a week or more on that two dollar thirty sen, and he certainly won't dream of doing any more work until he has spent the lot." Sure enough, I never saw the stolid toy-seller again during the whole of my stay in Kioto, which stretched over more than a month. But although the coolie and the workman in Japan live on next to nothing, the rich man spends very lavishly. If he entertains you, he gives you a dinner which, although you seldom appreciate its splendid qualities (for it does not appeal to the Western palate), is, from the Japanese standpoint, truly regal. There will be four or five different kinds of fish, some of which will be specimens of great value; and a dinner given at a Japanese tea-house by a merchant to a European friend would cost more than the most expensive dinner it is possible to procure at the Carlton or at the Savoy. [Illustration: BRONZE-WORKERS] My men flourished on the heads and tails of fish, and did splendid service. Day by day the decorations for my house grew, as one worker after another was added to the little band. One man recommended another, and gradually the number increased, until at last there were as many as seventy working for me Inchie was my help, my interpreter, my foreman. At first there were many difficulties in the way, for Inchie's knowledge of English was limited, and my knowledge of Japanese was none at all. It thus arose that the only method of making him understand me was pantomime. One day, while discussing a certain measurement, we became so involved that I was determined to demonstrate my meaning. So I borrowed the carpenter's tools and constructed a little model of the house, with its different rooms, showing how the carved ceilings and friezes should be placed. Inchie was astounded that I should have so great a knowledge of his own particular work of carpentry, and respected me the more accordingly. My one great obstacle with the men was in persuading them to make several things alike. They were all artists and hated repeating themselves, and without rhyme or reason I would suddenly find that they had made a red lacquer door twice the size of its fellow by way of variety. When I first employed them I made the grave mistake with my workers of ordering large quantities at a time of required materials. I actually ordered a hundred electric-light fittings--fairy-like lamps daintily wrought in bronze, of which they had made me a model--but they refused me point-blank, and the only way to get them at all was by asking a dozen at a time, and by arranging that each dozen should be varied in some slight respect. It was the same with my picture frames. They were to be a combination of wood and silk, and when I told the master bronze-worker to make me two hundred of them for my next exhibition in London, his face clouded over; he was thoroughly displeased. "No can make," he said decisively: "there is berry much difficulty. Much it cost to make; I must get big shops to do that; I no likee." The little man was quite discouraged, and I was only able to procure my frames by degrees. Now, in England it would be quite the reverse--the larger the order, the more contented the merchant; but in Japan everything is made by hand. The men take an artistic interest in the work. They hate repeating themselves; and in all the panels designed for my carved ceilings there were not two alike, although the entire design formed a complete whole. Why in the world we do not use Oriental labour in Europe is a marvel to me. [Illustration: IN THEATRE STREET] Nothing that these Japanese workmen made for me at the rate of sevenpence or eightpence a day can be approached in London for love or money. I had some gold screens made for me in Japan. They were very beautiful, and were made of gold on silk varnished over and lacquered, with apple-green and vermilion silk borders made from the linings of old dancing dresses. These screens were so brilliant that they were like gold mirrors in which a lady might see her reflection just as accurately as in any Parisian cheval glass. In the passage to England one of the screens became slightly damaged. I was greatly distressed, and took it to a celebrated firm of house-decorators to have it repaired. They undertook the task very confidently; but directly they attempted to match the gold they found that it was impossible to approach to anything like the brilliancy of its surface, although every conceivable method was attempted. They tried putting on gold and then burnishing and varnishing it over to imitate the surface of the lacquer. The result was that, to the present day, that screen stands in my hall with the same dull, sullied patch in the middle of it, a silent testimony to the inferiority of the British house-decorator as compared with his Japanese contemporary. Little Inchie and I, as I have said, soon became great friends. He followed me about wherever I went, and I often lingered in his store, watching him sell curios to English people and British merchants from Kobe. It was often a revelation to observe the subtlety of the man and the masterly way in which he handled these inquiring visitors. He seemed to divine their inner-most thoughts, and to know at a glance exactly what they wanted, and the prices that they would be likely to pay. After a time I learnt the price of nearly every curio in his store. There was never a fixed value for anything: Inchie was always led by his customer. Perhaps an American and his wife would come in, the man saying nothing, the wife remarking on everything. It was, they said, all "beautiful." I noticed that little Inchie was not at all enthusiastic, merely answering their questions, but not attempting to sell. He would not waste an ounce of energy on them, and after a time they would sweep out of the place, the lady gushing to the last moment and saying how beautiful and exquisite everything was. Directly they had gone I would ask Inchie why he had not worked harder to try and sell them something. "Gentleman and lady not got big pocket," he would say. How in the world he knew that they had but little money puzzled me. "Lady berry much talk--American lady always berry much talk. She say 'This curio number one,' but never buy. English daimio lady come to my store no berry much talk; English gentleman no big pocket. When she leave my store I say, 'Me presentie you.'" What little Inchie means by this is that he feels that this English lady is refined and really admires his beautiful things, but cannot afford to buy them. He appreciates her delicacy, and, in his quaint pidgin English, begs to be allowed the privilege of giving her this little inexpensive trifle to take away. [Illustration: THE CARPENTER] Very often, when I was spending a morning in Inchie's little curio store, a Kobe merchant would drop in to buy--a pompous fellow and burly, asking the price of everything he saw. "How much is this? and how much is that?" he would say, and "What do you suppose you'd charge for that?" Inchie would look up at the merchant and blink with almost a scared expression, so meek was it. The merchant, like the great bully that he was, feeling satisfied that he was cowing the little man, would pick up a piece of ivory and say, "How much?" "Four dollars," answers Inchie. "Very dear," replies the merchant sternly. Then Inchie would pick up another piece of ivory, putting away the former, and say with a scared expression, as though the merchant had frightened him down, "I charge two dollars for this." "I will give you one and a half dollar," urges the merchant. And little Inchie, puckering his brow and in a melancholy voice, says, "I takee," the merchant going off highly delighted, convinced that he has been robbing all round. Immediately after he had left the store, the change in Inchie was extraordinary. He was no longer meek and melancholy, but gleeful and triumphant, and longing to tell me what had happened. "The merchant from Kobe he berry much cheat, that man," he said, with a chuckle. "I show him number one curio, I ask him number one cheap price, and he say, 'Berry de-ar.' Then I show him no number one curio and ask him more double price. He say, 'I no pay that; I give half that.' He take away curio at half that price, and that very good for me. I make more money like that than when I sell good curio." Then Inchie explained how very easy it is to deceive the average traveller. He does not stand a chance against the Japanese merchant, and half the collections of curios ticketed and placed in museums in England as fine and unique specimens are in reality worthless imitations. The really fine productions never leave the country at all. Westerners visiting Japan expect to secure fine works of art by paying a small sum for them; but it cannot possibly be done. In that country they know the value of productions, and will not easily part with them. Inchie, becoming very serious and natural, would give me a little lecture on the absurdity of Westerners coming to Japan expecting to buy really fine old curios and pictures at a small price, when no Japanese would part with them for any consideration. "A man," he said, "will come from your country who thinks he understands Japan because he has read some books about it, and has seen some examples of bad art in England. That man has no eyes--he can't see the really beautiful things. He comes to buy the old kakemono. He won't buy the new kakemono by the good man that lives now. He no understand if it good or bad; but it must be old. Well, we make him the old one;" and here Inchie gave me an exact description of how they make the old kakemonos. They first begin by making the paper look old, and every producer has his several methods of bringing about age. This is how Inchie does it. He has eight various stains in eight separate baths, in which he puts his paper, holding the two opposite corners and dashing it from one bath to another in one quick, dexterous sweep. Then the paper is left to dry, and out of about one hundred sheets stained in this way, in all probability only a dozen will be found sufficiently perfect to deceive the buyer. That is the beginning of the manufacture of an imitation old kakemono to be sold to the European connoisseur for hundreds of dollars, afterwards to find its resting-place in some celebrated museum. [Illustration: MAKING UP ACCOUNTS] What chance has a European against a genius like this? and how can he detect deception in objects that have been the result of such minute care and consideration? The Japanese can imitate postage stamps so accurately that the only hope of discovering a fraud lies in analysing the gum at the back of a stamp. When we stain paper in coffee or beer to give it the effect of age, we consider that we have gone far in the art of imposition; but in this direction, as in many others, we are mere babies compared with the Japanese. "But then, Inchie," I said, in reply to his statement that it was child's play to deceive the Westerner, "you too are sometimes deceived by us. I know of a gentleman in England who brought over to Japan a large collection of modern porcelain of English manufacture, and by clever handling he imposed the whole lot on an artist at Osaka in exchange for some rare old Satsuma." Then I enlarged on the hardship of the story. I explained how the Englishman had persuaded the Osaka painter to give up all the rare old Satsuma that he had collected during the course of a lifetime in exchange for this valueless English porcelain, remarking that it was wrong and almost cruel to take such a mean advantage of the poor Osaka merchant. "And what do you say to that for a clever fraud, Inchie?" I asked. Inchie only held his sides and laughed. At last he said, "Oh, he berry number one clever man, that at Osaka"; for, it seemed, he knew all about the Englishman and his porcelain, and also about the Satsuma. The painter, indeed, was known all over Japan by his clever imitations of old Satsuma, and it was also generally known that he had given this English gentleman a collection of imitations that he had painted himself in exchange for the English porcelain, which was interesting to him to study. The person to be pitied in Inchie's estimation was the biter bit; and he was "number one sorry for that Englishman." Whenever any one fresh arrived in Tokio--young, old, pretty, or plain--I always sent him or her to Inchie's store to buy curios. Such streams of people besieged him, all so different and some so quaint, that, although they were good for trade, Inchie was very uncertain as to whether they were good for me, and was anxious to have the matter cleared up. "You have many friends," he would say, eyeing me suspiciously. [Illustration: FINISHING TOUCHES] At length the crisis was reached which broke down the barriers of Inchie's reserve and thoroughly upset him, in the shape of a fair bulbous woman, who was a terror! I was sitting in the reading-room of the hotel one day, believing that I was alone, when a twangy voice broke in upon the silence. "Just fancy, he shot himself for love of me," mentioning a name in Yokohama. "Really," I observed, feeling embarrassed (he must have been mad, I thought). "Yes; he blew his brains out. Have a drink?" she went on, in an exuberance of generosity. I said, "I think not." She replied that if I would not she would, and she did. She wanted to buy curios. I at once suggested Inchie, which was a happy inspiration. Inchie came round, and I left them in the reading-room together discussing cloisonné umbrella handles. My companion was lost to me for three full days, being wholly occupied with the fair visitant. He turned up at last, but in a state of fever, his eyes sparkling and blinking indignantly. He handed me a letter that he had just written to his latest customer, my friend the bulbous fair, who had left for Shanghai that day. "You order me much porcelain; you order me many curios; I no can send. I think you better go porcelain Yokohama. Much cheaper you get Yokohama, more number one," Inchie's letter ran. "Yes; but, Inchie," I remonstrated, "why won't you serve her? She's a good customer for you." He was violent with rage. "I no like the lady," he said; "she no daimio lady. Tea-house lady, I think, with tea-coloured hair. She received me with not a proper dress on; she smoke and drink. I no want to serve lady like that. She no friend of yours?" he added, eagerly looking into my face with his piercing little eyes. "No, no, Inchie! of course not," I replied, for I wasn't going to claim her. "Ah, I thought she no friend of yours," and Inchie smiled, while I felt that I was respected once more and entered into his good graces--it turned out for ever. "Now, Inchie," I said to him one day, "I want to get a good porcelain man, the best in Tokio. Can you manage it?" There was nothing, so far as I knew, that Inchie could not manage, so that in a very short time he had found a little man, a pupil of the most eminent porcelain maker in Tokio, also celebrated for his remarkable glazes, who had just started a business of his own. We drove round to his store to ask him if he would undertake the painting of a dinner-service, and do other things for me. He was a young man, this particular painter, but with the face of a very old one, careworn and haggard, quite an enthusiast, full of interest in his art, and a craftsman of the highest order. When he found that I too was in the same ranks, his sympathies were aroused, and he devoted a whole month solely to the firing and painting of my porcelain. After a time I began to understand the man and his processes. He brought out little bits of choice Chinese-blue porcelain to show me. Whenever there was to be a three-days' firing he would come round to my hotel and inform me of it. Altogether he developed into quite a friend, almost to the dethronement of Inchie. He allowed me to sit among the men while they worked, and, seeing how interested I was, they gave me some clay to model and paint. I ended by painting a whole dinner-service in blue and white. It took me a week to do; but it was perhaps one of the most delightful experiences I have ever had, and I can safely say that I have never worked in a more congenial atmosphere than when sitting on a mat in that little porcelain shop surrounded by those twelve little artists. I shall never forget the anxious moments when my products were being fired. Sometimes I have gone on for twelve or fourteen hours, eating and resting with the men, taking my turn at keeping the furnace alight, and hanging about after the kilns had cooled to see my valuable porcelain dug out. [Illustration: A BACK CANAL, OSAKA] Nothing can be more exciting than the first peep at porcelain after it has been fired. A mass of dead heavy-looking clay is put into the furnace and fired; you peep at it after some hours, and find, to your surprise, a rare paradise of glazed white and blue, so brilliant and sparkling that it seems almost impossible to have been made by mortal hands. But then, of course, it is not always so delightful; there are sometimes vexing surprises awaiting you as you open the oven door. Occasionally you will peep in and see a group of vases looking like drunken men lolling against one another in a disreputable manner, and lurching over at all angles. Surrounded by a series of failures such as these, the finest work is almost invariably found. Although the vases have all been painted by the same hand and fired in the same kiln, only one will be perfect, while the rest are worthless. This is probably brought about by some subtle influence to be found in the placing of the vase in the kiln. There is, however, a great deal of uncertainty in such operations, and it is almost impossible to foretell the fate of any piece of ware after it has been set in the firing kiln. Inchie and I spent much of our time with the bronze-workers, and it amused me to see these artists carrying out designs for the European market, while to hear their comments upon the crude productions of Englishmen was sometimes very funny indeed. The men who were thus engaged were at the same time carrying out exquisite work for me. They complained that the European market insisted upon everything being over-elaborated and very showy, and at the same time very old. This combination is quite impossible. The old Japanese bronze work was always very simple in design, depending for its beauty, not upon the flowery decorations surrounding it, but upon the exquisite proportions of the piece itself. To create the aged appearance necessary in the eyes of the faddy European, the bronzes have to be buried in the earth--in a special kind of earth--for a few days; after which they are dug up and sold to connoisseurs and English people, who are by way of understanding works of art, for fabulous sums. [Illustration: STENCIL-MAKERS] I had occasion to employ many embroiderers; and here, as in every other branch of Japanese art work, I received a series of "eye-openers." Hitherto I had been envious of the many fine old bits of embroidery and temple hangings shown me by the different globe-trotters staying at the hotel. They had all come upon their treasures in some lucky and unexpected manner. By much good fortune every man had secured his own special piece of embroidery, and each by clever manipulation had outwitted the dealer from whom he had managed to wrest this one old temple hanging. But when I went to headquarters, and began to employ the men who actually made the fabric, my envy vanished. I soon found that none of these coveted treasures was old at all. Such large pieces of embroidery are not used in temples, nor have they ever been; they are quite modern introductions, and have been brought about simply to attract and make money out of the credulous strangers. I have spent hour after hour with the embroiderers, watching them manipulate old temple hangings, and have seen them when the task was over wash on gold stains with base metal. Here and there a few little touches would be of real gold, and it was all done so cleverly that none but a Jap could possibly detect that they were modern. It is almost a depressing sight to watch these embroiderers at work--so different are they from the happy boisterous metal-workers talking and laughing amid the clanging of their little hammers. They are sad and silent. You will be in a roomful of these people for perhaps a whole morning, and not one of them will utter a word. They work on and on, with heads bent down, picking up thread after thread of the one piece of embroidery that they have been constantly working on for months, or perhaps for years. Never a word nor a smile; each peering into his own special work with painful red eyes, on which are large bone-rimmed spectacles. They all, as a rule, lose their sight early in thus poring incessantly over this difficult and dainty work. I ordered several pieces of cotton crêpe of a certain design that I had drawn myself, and it was during the execution of this commission that I was brought into touch with the stencil-workers and dyers of the country. Stencil-cutting is one of the most beautiful arts imaginable. To see the stencil-workers cutting fantastic designs from the hard polished cardboard beneath their instruments--so delicate that it is like the tracery of a spider's web in its tenuity--is a sight that one never forgets. Some of the designs are so cobweb-like that single human hairs are used in parts to keep them from breaking to pieces. Dyeing is also an art that is brought to a high degree of perfection in Japan. Sometimes an elaborate design will need such a large number of plates and colours, as well as finishing touches by the hand of the operator, that in the end it looks almost like a water-colour, so closely do the colours mingle one with another. Then there were the carpenters, and here a whole series of surprises awaited me. For example, I found that the teeth of their saws were set in what may be called the opposite direction, and that therefore, when a man pulled his instrument towards him, it cut the wood, rather than when he pushed. In this, as in everything else, the Japanese are perfectly right. One always has more strength to pull than to push, and with this method you are enabled to use saws made of such thin metal that if their teeth were set in the opposite direction they must needs cockle and break. When a carpenter wants to plane some tiny piece of wood, perhaps a portion of a miniature doll's house, he does not run a small plane over it, as we do, but uses a large heavy one, very sharp, and turned upside-down. In this way very delicate work can be achieved. All the Japanese tools are designed with a view to their special fitness. The chisels work in a totally different way from that of our chisels, and lend themselves more readily to delicate work. As to their little wood-carving tools, they are perfect joys! I shall never forget the expressions on the faces of my British workmen as they unpacked the cases of goods that arrived from Japan, and came across saws as thin as tissue paper with their teeth set the wrong way; tiny chisels that almost broke as they handled them; hammers the size of a lady's hat-pin. My foreman's face was a study of disgusted contempt. "Now, how can a man turn out decent work with tools like that?" he exclaimed, looking round appealingly. And it did seem impossible. But not one of them complained when they came across the actual work accomplished by these ridiculously small instruments. The carpenters were loud in their admiration for the wood-carving, and the foreman merely sniffed. He knew that he himself could not approach it. And this was soon clearly proved, for if ever my hands tried to do a bit of patching it was always a failure. All their joining was as child's play when compared with this Japanese triumph. There was a man in Osaka, a perfect genius in wood-carving--the king of carpenters. People journeyed from long distances to pay their respects to him, and he was the most independent person I ever saw in my life. He never dreamt of undertaking service for people unless they appreciated it and understood its value. Very rich Americans have tried to persuade him to engage for them; but, as he always demanded that would-be purchasers should be capable of appreciating his work as that of an accomplished artist, they rarely ever succeeded. Nearly all this man's work is done for his own people at a very low price, and Japanese wood-carvers are continually taking pilgrimages to see him and to buy specimens of his productions. He always demands to know what is going to become of them, and where they are going to be placed, before consenting to part with them. I had the wit not to ask him to sell anything to me, nor to execute anything for me, but simply admired his work as that of a unique artist. [Illustration: A SIGN-PAINTER'S] Most prominent among the toilers of Japan are the workers in lacquer, clean and dainty beyond description, with whom a great portion of my time was taken up. The climate of the country is exactly suited to the making of lacquer, being sufficiently damp. The process is unusually elaborate, and is a tedious matter of painting on a very large number of coats of lacquer, rubbing them down always, and allowing them to dry. When we think of lacquer here in England, we think of it in connection with our tea-trays and like cheap goods which we complain of as being made of bad material that chips and breaks and becomes useless in a distressingly short space of time. "The Japanese have lost the art of creating the fine old lacquer that they used formerly," we say. But it is not so at all; it is purely a question of time. If the Japanese were allowed sufficient leisure, and were not rushed on so by the requirements of the European market, they would be able to turn out just as fine and just as durable lacquer as they did in the days when they worked for the love of their work alone for purchase by their fellow-countrymen. Practical proof of this can be found in the fact that all the doors in my London house, which are composed of the best lacquer, twenty or thirty coats thick, and have been in constant use for years, are still in perfect condition, and will be two hundred years hence. One has no idea before going to Japan of the extensive range of colours in the way of greens, blues, and reds that there is in lacquer, for most of the colours are entirely unknown in the West. There is undoubtedly no surface in the world that is as clear and as brilliant as lacquer, and I have often thought how advantageous it would be if one could only lacquer pictures over instead of varnishing them; it would give to the poorest work a brilliancy and crispness that would be simply invaluable. But this brilliant surface is only brought about by excessive care and cleanliness in its preparation--indeed, it needs almost as much attention as the making of a collotype plate. I was anxious to get some really good cloisonné workers to make some things for me, and by very good luck I hit upon a man who had just discovered an entirely new method of handling gold. Coming across one of his samples at an exhibition in Tokio, I ferreted him out and persuaded him to engage for me. His cloisonné, unlike the ordinary slate-grey work that one must needs peer closely into before discovering its fine qualities, was bold in design, with flower patterns of cherry-blossom just traceable through a fine lacework of gold, and it looked like a brilliant rainbow-hued bubble. One is much inclined to fancy that cloisonné vases with elaborate designs must necessarily be expensive. That, however, is not the case. There are technical obstacles connected with making broad sweeps of colour in cloisonné that render simple designs much more expensive. Japan is the only place in the world that is capable of producing cloisonné, for the patience and skill required would overtax the workers of any other country, and such an attempt would necessarily end in failure. A cloisonné shop is every bit as depressing as the embroidery works. You will see men picking up on the end of their tiny instruments gold wire, which is so microscopic as to be like a grain of dust, and almost as invisible. This tiny morsel has to be placed on the metal vase and fixed there. [Illustration: A CLOISONNÉ WORKER] Talking of the delicate and exquisite tools used by cloisonné workers reminds me of tools that are just as delicate, but used for quite another purpose--namely, those which the Japanese dentists handle so dexterously. However, the stock-in-trade of a Japanese dentist chiefly consists of the proper use of his finger and thumb. The most strongly-rooted tooth invariably gives way to this instrument. A Japanese dentist has only to apply his fingers to a tooth, and out that tooth comes on the instant. It is sometimes very amusing to see a group of dentists' assistants, all mere children, practising their trade by endeavouring to pull nails out of a board, beginning with tin tacks and ending with nails which are more firmly rooted than the real teeth themselves. When I had gathered my team together by the help of my right-hand ally, Inchie, after having chosen the best of them from every branch of art, they continued to go on well and assiduously, and the decorations of my house were in full swing, when suddenly there was a break, a distinct break. I went round to the store early one lovely morning in May, as was my habit, and found, to my surprise, that the whole place was empty. Not a metal-worker or carpenter was to be seen. They had all mysteriously disappeared--where? To view the cherry-blossom! Inchie also, whom I had relied upon as a good steady colleague, had, on the first opportunity, and without any warning, drifted away into the open air with the whole band to view the blossom. The Japanese workmen, who are skilled, and want examples from Nature, evidently adhere to the principle that "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," and so, whether I liked it or not, when such a glorious day had presented itself, they were not going to miss the opportunity of enjoying it. It was a holiday, or rather the sunshine had declared it to be a holiday, and all Japan, rich and poor, employers and employed, had turned out to picnic in the parks, and feast their eyes upon the cherry-blossom. So universal was the holiday, and so persistently did Inchie implore that I should join them, that I soon found myself sitting under the trees in Uyeno Park, surrounded by my deserters, enjoying things as well as any one of them there. [Illustration: A TOY-SHOP] It was on this day, out of the pure joy of the idea, that Inchie proposed to give me a real Japanese dinner, and at the same time show me some of the fine old classical dances of Japan. I remember that night so well! Inchie invited three other Japanese friends, and we all went down into the basement with rod and line, or, to be exact, with a net, to catch our own fish for dinner. It was to me novel sport chasing those lazy old goldfish round the tank. I secured a monster, which beat Inchie's out and out for size. Inchie was in splendid form on this occasion; it was a field-night for him, and he was quite at his best. He was an enormous eater; he ate anything you chose to give him, and he enjoyed the dinner that followed our half-hour spent below stairs, I must confess, far more than I did. For although the repast was of the very best quality, it was after all Japanese, which statement speaks for itself, as every one knows that Japanese food does not by any means commend itself to the British palate. There was our just-caught fish cooked with bamboo, meat of different sorts, and many varieties in the soup character, some of which were not bad. As for the Sake, it tasted like bad sherry; but it had a most exhilarating effect on Inchie, and in a very short time produced in him a most natural and joyous frame of mind which enabled me to see a side of his disposition that under ordinary conditions would never have come to the surface. One of the courses of this dinner of dinners was a chicken, provided out of deference to my European tastes, and Inchie carved it. It was a muscular bird; but Inchie carved it with a pair of large chopsticks as I have never seen a chicken carved before in any part of the globe. Not even Joseph of the Savoy with his flourish of fork and knife in mid-air could compete with Inchie and his pair of wooden chopsticks. No knives nor fingers were used; but the whole was limbed, cut up, and served in less than the period that Joseph would take in his skilled dexterity. I remarked upon his skill in handling the chopsticks, and Inchie at once suggested that we should all have a competition to see who could pick up the greatest amount of peas with chopsticks in the shortest possible time. Each was given a lacquer tray with carefully numbered green peas, cold and cooked--the number according to the proficiency of the player. Inchie's plate was loaded; the guests and geishas had a fair amount; but I had only three, and the aim was to pick them up one by one and put them into our mouths, the competitor whose plate was empty first being declared the winner. We started, and I was so intent on the manipulation of my three green peas that I was only conscious of a whirl of hands, never having noticed that the rest had finished their pile before I had picked up my second pea. I never undertook such a task before, nor ever will again. The discouragement of it was final. My first pea, after no little exertion and much sleight of hand, I had raised to my lips on the points of the chopsticks, when just at the critical moment it abruptly left its moorings, went like a shot from a catapult across the room, and settled itself on the lap of one of the geishas, who was thereby promptly put out of the contest. I do not know what happened to the second pea, much less of the fate of the third; all I remember is that I came in a very bad last in the chopstick competition. [Illustration: A SWEET-STUFF STALL] What with the Sake, the competition, and the dinner, Inchie became more and more brilliant, until at last an idea sparkled out that was worthy of his distinction. I was to have a piece of wood-carving in my London house that should be as it were the eye of the peacock--the first ever made in Japan! We should go to Osaka together, he remarked, the very next day, choose a great piece of wood 8 or 9 feet in length, 3 feet broad, and about 6 inches through, and have it carved in the most beautiful and magnificent chrysanthemum pattern ever seen--for the hall was of chrysanthemums. His eyes sparkled as he said, "You are going to have berry number one house; must have one big number one piece chrysanthemum carving--better than any other carving, better than temple carving." The Sake passed round, the geishas danced, and Inchie talked, while with every cup he grew brighter and brighter, and his eyes sparkled like jewels. I was beginning to see the real Inchie. Was this really the little man, the laughing-stock of the hotel, bullied and sworn at by every one? He talked of Hookosai, who, he asserted, was not the great master that he is universally considered to be in Europe. Hookosai was too realistic; many other artists were far finer. Yet another cup of Sake was passed round and drained. "I will demonstrate some Hookosai pictures," said little Inchie, in a tone of suppressed excitement; and, stepping behind a screen as he spoke, reappeared almost immediately with a handkerchief rolled round his head and his kimono tucked up, posing in the attitude of one of the most celebrated of Hookosai's pictures. Twenty or thirty pictures were represented, and in each he was a different man merely by changing the muscles of his face. Never have I seen such acting in my life; he was like a gallery of Hookosai's pictures rolled into one, with all their queer exaggeration. More Sake was drunk, and later in the evening Inchie became so excited that, in order to work off his condition, he made the remarkable proposal that he should show me a devil dance. When he emerged from behind the screen, the geishas were frightened and drew back in alarm; for he was no longer the gentle little monkey merchant, but a real devil. As for the dancing, I never saw anything so superbly fine! It almost took my breath away. He seemed almost superhuman, an ethereal creature. The evening ended up in the usual way. Next morning Inchie came round to my hotel, sat down on a chair looking amazingly sheepish, and blinked solemnly at me. "Well, what's up now, Inchie?" I inquired, seeing that he had something to say. "Berry number one bad night last night, Sir," moaned Inchie with a shake of his head. "I no want you to tell people I do the devil dance last night. They no understand and berry much talk. Please, I beg you not tell!" And poor little Inchie went about for days with a drooping head, looking the picture of misery. But in my opinion, he had no reason to be ashamed of his conduct; he had shown himself to be a versatile genius. He had acted as I never before have seen a man act; he had also danced as I have never seen a man dance; and he had drunk as I have never seen a man drink without becoming badly affected. Nevertheless, this was the man who had allowed himself, and was allowing himself, to be sworn at, bullied, and even kicked by the common sorts and by the vulgar globe-trotters. The day following the night of the never-to-be-forgotten dinner, Inchie and I went, as we had intended, to Osaka to choose a fine and sufficiently well-seasoned piece of wood for this famous and all-important wood-carving, the eye of the peacock. I think we must have visited every timber-yard in Osaka in search of a fitting plank, and it was too funny to see the way Inchie would crawl over a piece of wood, like the small monkey that he was, scratching, rubbing, picking it with his nail, and even putting his tongue upon it to test its quality. At last a plank was found that was declared to be "berry number one," and the great undertaking, the work of carving it, began. Five men were at work on it for five months. And now that it is completed and fixed in my chrysanthemum hall, it is a triumph! It is a joy--it is a possession! At the same time, when we were in Osaka, Inchie was struck with another brilliant idea. I must have a gong, he said, a superb gong; and as Inchie himself had once been a metal-worker, he was an excellent judge of gongs and undertook to choose one for me. Before that day I had no notion that there could be such a vast difference in gongs. We went to about twenty or thirty stores in Osaka, at each of which several gongs were produced for our inspection. And Inchie bounded about the shop like a cat or a leopard, from one corner of the room to the other, crouching down on the ground with his hand over his ear, striking each in turn, and listening to its vibration. "No berry good that," he would whisper to me, and then, talking charmingly to the merchant,--for Inchie was always charming--he would bow himself gracefully out of the shop. At each store in turn the same thing happened, until at last we reached a shop which seemed to me still more improbable than the rest, for it was a dirty little hole of a place, with no such thing as a gong in sight. In reply to our usual question the proprietor dived into a tangled bit of garden at the back, and presently reappeared with an old rusty gong, very thin with age and use and exposure to all weathers, and looking not worth twopence. Inchie struck it, and the expression on his face was extraordinary as he looked round at me. The tone was superb. This was the gong of gongs! "That berry number one," he exclaimed in a stage whisper. We secured the gong for a few cents. "Big-pockety man no berry clever, I think," remarked Inchie pensively. It was on the day of my last visit to his store before sailing for England, and Inchie was very sad, very earnest, and very anxious to give me the best possible advice as to what to do in the way of selling when I arrived at my "store," as he termed it, in England. "When big-pocket man come to Japan, every merchant know, and all wait for him," said Inchie, by way of demonstrating to me how very easy it was to entrap a rich man into buying one's goods. Inchie also told me the following story of how two big-pockety men once fared at the hands of a very subtle merchant. He was a Tokio merchant, and directly he heard of their probable arrival he sent experienced guides to almost every port in Japan to waylay these arrivals. They were eventually caught at Kobe, and were led all over Japan by a remarkably efficient guide, in due course reaching Tokio. After visiting many curio stores they were safely landed at the store of the master exactor. Then the trickery developed. The merchant began to flatter and compliment the richer of the two, and knowing that they were anxious to buy gold lacquer he said: "You are a great connoisseur on gold lacquer, I believe. They tell me that you have a quick eye for fine work, and I have heard much of your appreciation of Japanese art." The big-pockety man was thus won over into a limp and restful condition, for no one can flatter to such good advantage as the Japanese. [Illustration: A CANAL IN OSAKA] Meantime the guide was walking about the shop with his mouth wide open and looking silly. He was there to protect the two men, and the keenest observer could never have guessed that he was in reality the agent of this merchant. "I want your guide to take you round to all the gold lacquer shops you can, for I know that that is what you appreciate and love so much. After you have seen all that the merchants can show you, come back to me and see what you think of my specimens." All this time he was toying with a little insignificant-looking gold lacquer tray, turning it about under the rich man's very nose in such a way that he was bound to notice it. "We Japanese are so clever, you know, and we are such good imitators of lacquer that even I, a Japanese, am liable at times to be misled by some of the deceptions. But," continued the merchant in an off-hand manner, "there is one sure test of real gold lacquer, and that is the fire test." So saying he carelessly lit a match and allowed it to play all over the gold lacquer tray; then quietly and without any demonstration he handed it to the rich man and begged him to observe that it was not harmed in any way, taking it for granted that he, the rich man, naturally knew of the fire test. The big-pocket man puckered his fat brow critically--he really knew nothing about it--and rubbed his greasy palm over the surface of the lacquer. The difference between the hands of the two men was a characteristic study--one big and flabby, the other slim and sinuous with fingers that almost turned back in their energy. After examining the tray closely the visitor admitted that it was in truth untouched. The master exactor smiled, and, like the rogue he was, never referred to it again. The two rich men went away with their guide and visited half a dozen other stores in Tokio, trying the fire test on all the gold lacquer they could find, with disastrous consequences. [Illustration: UMBRELLAS AND COMMERCE] They had to pay for damages wherever they went, and wherever they went the merchants were indignant, for real gold lacquer, as every one knows, will not stand such treatment unless it happens to be a flat tray. But the rich men only chuckled at their superior knowledge and paid the damages without a murmur. Then they went back to the store of the evil prompter and did exactly as he expected they would do; they bought ten thousand pounds' worth of gold lacquer, all of which was "berry number one imitation gold lacquer," as Inchie remarked. "Well, but, Inchie, I couldn't treat people like that." I told the little man "I shouldn't know how." "But I will show you how to sell," quoth Inchie: "I show you how to sell two-cent blue porcelain pot in your store for two hundred dollars to big-pockety man"; whereupon Inchie proceeded to give me a lesson in the art of selling. He first brought out a nest of six lacquer boxes that fitted one into the other; then he held up the two-cent porcelain pot,--and the way he handled it made it already begin to appear valuable in my eyes. I truly believe that Inchie could stroke out a piece of newspaper and make it seem as rare as a bank-note. Then this little genius wrapped the worthless blue porcelain in yellow silk, and placed it in the smallest lacquer box, which with its lid he secured inside a larger box, and so on until the entire six boxes and their lids encased his gem. Placing it upon the table, he began to explain how I should sell it, and in order to describe the subtlety of the transaction I must give it in Inchie's own words: "Big-pockety man come your store in England and he say, 'Mr. Menpes, you bought number one curio in Japan?' You say, 'No buy curio in Japan,' but you talk much to him of all the beautiful things you see in Japan. After a time you look on the ground and think--much you show you think. Big-pockety man look at you and he no talk. You look up quick and you say, 'Oh, number one curio I buy Japan, I remember!' He say, 'Please show me curio.' 'Never I show curio,' you tell him. 'I buy number one curio, but I no want to show.' Then you talk to him about Japan, all the streets and the theatres you see in Japan; but all the time he talk of curio--'I ber-ry much want to see,' he say. You say, 'You friend, you number one friend? Very well, I show.'" After having thus given way you must go upstairs and look for the curio, and--Inchie laid a stress upon this last statement--"you must be a long time finding it. When you come back you place the large lacquer box containing the five smaller boxes and the Buddha's eye--the Holy of Holies--upon the table, and much you begin to talk about Japan, berry like American lady talk I think; you no talk to him then about porcelain. After much talk about beautiful blossom you take out one box; then you talk more and take out another box--gentleman he ber-ry much want to see. When you come to final piecee box he berry much excited, and when you take out the porcelain and yellow silk you berry berry quiet--no artistic to talk now. Then you drop the corners of the silk and look at the porcelain. You no talk, big-pockety man no talk; he no understand this--berry funny. Somebody must talk, all quiet; you rest long time no talk, and big-pockety man say, 'Berry much number one curio that I think--how much you sell?' You say, 'I no sell. Berry much money that costee me Japan, much ricksha, much hotel. Number one Chinese porcelain that. Number one glaze. I no sell,'" And to cut the story short I must explain that "the big-pockety man"--that is the millionaire--is by this time in a perfect fever to possess my priceless blue porcelain, and, Inchie says, here I must weaken, and after asking him if he is "daimio gentleman number one," I must allow him to buy my two-cent vase for two hundred dollars. In giving me this important lesson in the art of selling, Inchie considered that he had shown me the truest mark of friendship, and that he had given me the most valuable present in his power, and far more useful than any jewel could be. Towards the end of the work, when the house was nearly completed, and I had entertained mentally almost every friend I knew, and had missed nothing from the door-mat to the red lacquer soup-bowls on the dining-room table, I suddenly remembered the door-knocker. There was no door-knocker! I immediately interviewed Inchie and asked him to help me to design a door-knocker. Seeing that the only doors they have in Japan are sliding ones made of tissue paper, it was some time before Inchie could comprehend my meaning. "I no understand why you want to knock at the door. Very funny that!" he said. I explained that in England it was necessary to have very strong doors which one could not leave open lest people should come in and steal. He blinked his little eyes and looked up at me intelligently: "I understand!" he exclaimed, "berry number one bad Chinaman come and steal." "No," I said, "not Chinaman, but Englishman." "I no understand," he repeated. After much pantomime and talk I at last conveyed to him a fairly good idea of what was needed in the way of a door-knocker, and sent him home to work out some suitable design. Three days after he came back carrying under his arm a huge roll of drawings, which he proceeded to unfold on the floor. A glance was enough to show me that the little fellow had not got hold of the kind of door-knocker I required, and I watched him with a limp and hopeless feeling. "Go on, Inchie: explain it," I said. He was in very good condition this morning--pleased with himself and the world in general, and more especially with his door-knocker design. Drawing in his breath with a little satisfied hiss, he began: "Now, you see, you first put on the door a large chrysanthemum in bronze," and Inchie went through the performance in pantomime. "In the centre of this chrysanthemum a rod of steel must be fixed five inches in length. Suspended from the rod of steel must be a silk cord about five inches in length, and attached to the cord a marble about the size of a child's playing marble. Underneath the large chrysanthemum, and in line with the marble, should be placed another chrysanthemum with a miniature gong in the centre three-quarters of an inch in diameter." "Wait a bit, Inchie," I cried, for this description was too much for me--I must digest it more slowly. I pictured to myself the strings of children that pass and repass my house in Cadogan Gardens on their way to and from school, and their feelings concerning this small metal ball waving in the soft wind of a summer's afternoon on its apple-green cord. It would be too gorgeous an attraction by far! No child could have the heart to destroy so rare a thing at once, it would be far too great a joy; they would save it at least until their return journey from school before even touching it. Seeing that the small man was becoming a little offended, I said, "Fire away, Inchie,--what next?" "Well, when you come home after dinner, you take the marble and hold it five inches from the gong. You shut one eye and take aim; then you let go, and he goes ping! ping! and gentleman he come and open the door." "No, he doesn't, Inchie," I shouted: "you're wrong there--the gentleman doesn't open the door." "I no understand," said little Inchie, his face falling,--"why he no open the door?" "Because," I explained, "when you come home late at night after dinner you must have very sure habits of taking aim in order to strike that miniature gong three-quarters of an inch in diameter." Inchie looked up at me with bright pathetic little eyes, and said, "Berry fine daimio door-knocker this, and it is not difficult for you to strike. I no understand!" Then I took him on one side, not wanting to hurt his feelings, and explained to him how almost impossible it would be for a man coming home after dinner, having walked hurriedly and all that, to take aim at his miniature gong. "You told me you could shoot a rifle," was Inchie's reply. After that there was no more to be said, for I realised that one must necessarily be a rifle shot before you could get home at nights. [Illustration: PLAYFELLOWS] The last I ever saw of poor little Inchie was when he came on board the P. and O. steamer at Yokohama to see me off on my journey to England. The authorities would not allow him to lunch with me in the saloon, and the poor little fellow, who was far more refined and certainly had far more intelligence than any one on board, captain and officers included, was compelled to eat his luncheon standing up in the steward's pantry, which hurt his feelings terribly. The only figure that I seemed to see in the mist that enwrapped Yokohama wharf was poor little Inchie standing there in his blue kimono and quaint bowler hat, watching me with eager blinking eyes that had a suspicion of moisture about them, and lips that twitched slightly; and the last thing I heard was, "I think when you go to England you send me berry many letters--often you send me." And I felt as the steamer moved away that I had lost a good and a true friend. When the decorations for my house arrived in London, the next and all important question to be considered was how to put them up. Everything was finished and ready to fix in its place without nails, and the only thing left to be completed by the British workmen was the slight wooden beams and square framework in which the carved panels were to be fixed. I secured five or six good workmen, and literally taught them how to handle this material, but it took them two years to put up what my Japanese craftsmen had produced in one year. It was all straightforward clean design, and there was no artistic effort needed for it; but the obstacle was that they always struggled to make the woodwork a little thicker than necessary. Their inclinations were always to strengthen things, and it took a great deal of perseverance and patience to uproot their fixed ideas. Then I had a great deal of trouble with the painters. At first they almost refused to put distemper on my walls. Strings upon strings of painters I was compelled to dismiss because they would persist in putting what they called "body" into the paint. Sometimes they would slip it in behind my back; but I always detected it and dismissed the men on the instant. It was the only way. "Well, I've been in the trade for thirty years and I've always used body"--they all said that, and every workman I have ever employed, or is yet to be employed, always says the same. No matter how young or how old they may be, they have always been in the trade for thirty years. One painter I educated sufficiently to allow of him going so far against his principles as to leave out "body," but when I ordered him to mix oil and water by beating them together in a tub he declined and left. The only men whom I was able to persuade to do this for me were my foreman and one of the carpenters. The foreman was a very intelligent little man, whom I had educated to such an extent that his views of life and of workmen in general were entirely changed. He sneered at them, and was altogether so won over to my ideas that I am afraid I totally destroyed him for any other work. The painter, on the other hand, had no intelligence at all, but was equally devoted, and I feel quite sure that those two poor operatives are drifting about now doing anything but their respective trades of carpentry and painting. They undertook the beating of the oil and water very energetically, and kept it up for days, relieved occasionally by the caretaker. Eventually the oil did mix, and the experiment was a great success. Towards the end of their training these men became so accustomed to looking at things, if not feeling them, from the decorative standpoint, that it was no unusual occurrence to overhear such remarks as the following. The foreman would say to his pal as he caught sight of the reflection of his grimy face in a mirror: "I say, Bill, my flesh tone looks well against this lemon yellow, don't it?" or "I suppose I must start and wash off this toney"--toney meaning dirt, but to call it dirt would be to their enlightened minds vulgar in the extreme. Everything with them was "tone." A few days before they left for good I overheard a conversation between Bill and his mate, who had begun to feel the hopelessness of attempting work of a different nature. "What shall we do, Bill, when this blooming job's over?" said the foreman. "I suppose we shall go a-'opping!" replied Bill. It was then just about the hopping season. CHARACTERISTICS CHAPTER XI CHARACTERISTICS Perhaps one of the most admirable features in the character of the Japanese is their great power of self-control. The superficial observer on his first visit to Japan, because of this very quality of theirs, is at first liable to imagine that the Japanese have no emotion. This is a mistake. I have lived with them; I know them through and through; and I know that they are a people of great emotions, emotions that are perhaps all the deeper and stronger because they are unexpressed. Self-control is almost a religion with the Japanese. In their opinion it is wrong and selfish to the last degree to inflict one's sorrows and one's cares upon other people. The world is sad enough, they argue, without being made sadder by the petty emotions of one's neighbour: so the people of Japan all contrive to present a gay and happy appearance to the outside world. You may express your feelings in the solitude of your own room, and there is no doubt that the Japanese suffer terribly among themselves, although a stranger, and especially a European, will never detect a trace of it. I once went to call, with a resident of Japan, on an old Japanese lady, to condole with her on the loss of her husband and her only son, who had both been swept away, with thousands of others, in a great tidal wave only a few days previously. As we neared the house we saw, through the partially-opened sliding door, the old woman rocking herself to and fro in an agony of sorrow, literally contending with emotion, and suffering as I have never seen a human being suffer before. I was terribly shocked, and we naturally hesitated for some time before announcing ourselves; but by the time the mourner appeared at the door to greet us, she was all smiles. It was difficult to believe that she was the same woman. Her face shone with radiant happiness, and all traces of sorrow had disappeared. In the course of the conversation she did not avoid the sore subject, but rather chose it, and talked of the death of her husband and her son with a smiling face and an expression by which one might very pardonably have judged that she had no feelings whatever. This was self-control indeed, and it is only in Japan that one encounters such striking illustrations of superb pluck and endurance. [Illustration: YOUTH AND AGE] In my opinion, this great self-control is an evidence of the very high standard of civilisation of the Japanese. If one is at all observant and really in sympathy with the people, one is continually catching glimpses of their real natures and instances of their magnificent self-command. Once I was talking to a little Japanese merchant, along with some friends whom I had taken round to his store to buy curios. I had made quite a friend of this man, and knew him well. We were all chaffing him about getting married, and one of my friends said to him, "Well, why don't you get married? But perhaps you have already got a wife!" The little man looked up quickly with a smile on his face, and said--"Me married already; me wife die two years past; two children die two years past; all die, I think." The voice was perfectly steady, and the face smiling, as he uttered this amazingly sad statement; but some one chanced to look up and saw two great tears standing in his little monkey-like eyes. Of course he was "no class," and, not being an actual workman, but only a merchant, he was considered to be of rather a low grade. Still, for this slight show of emotion, he had utterly disgraced himself in his own eyes, and would afterwards, no doubt, atone for it by torturing himself in private. I saw many remarkable instances of the self-control of the Japanese people when I visited the scenes of desolation caused from that great tidal wave which destroyed nearly three thousand people. Village after village I visited, some of them with only three or four living inhabitants left; but in no case, with men, women, or children, did I see the slightest trace of emotion. Here and there, indeed, you passed a woman huddled up in a corner muttering and screaming, but only because her mind had become unhinged by the loss of her home, or probably village, and every relation she possessed. No Japanese in his senses would amid the same circumstances be guilty of so much as a murmur or a tear. The Japanese are a brave people--not only the men, but the women too. In fact, the women more especially are brave. Many women destroyed themselves during the China-Japanese war, because their husbands had been killed in battle. There was one Japanese woman in Tokio who felt so deeply the disgrace placed upon her country by the attempt on the life of the present Emperor of Russia some years ago by a common coolie, that she committed suicide. She felt that this great European prince had visited her country as a guest, and that before Japan could raise its head once more the nation must make some great sacrifice. Day after day she visited the Legation, and begged to be allowed admission to some of the high officials--in vain: they were too busy to see her. At last, after some weeks of fruitless effort, she went home in despair and killed herself, leaving a pathetic little letter to the Minister stating that she hoped that the sacrifice of her life might in some way help to cleanse her country from its disgrace. [Illustration: LOOKERS-ON] Patriotism is a strong trait in the character of the Japanese; but perhaps their imagination and their love of Nature are even stronger, and at all events will cause them to bound forward and become a first-rate power. This universal force of the imagination is a quality that no other nation possesses, and it is a quality that will cause her, not so very many years hence, to dominate the world. All the Japanese possess imagination, from the highest to the lowest; it is shown in every action and detail of their daily life. There is no one of them, even to the poorest coolie, who has not some little collection of exquisite works of the art that he loves. Your jinricksha man, if you were ever allowed the privilege of visiting his house, would in all probability be able to show you one or two choice specimens, either in china or in bronze, of his household gods. And so strongly is the love of Nature impressed within him that he cannot pass a beautiful scene--a hillside of blossom, or a sunset--without stopping his ricksha to allow you also the privilege of enjoying it. Often when taking a drive in the country he will suddenly stop in front of some delightful scene, put down your ricksha, and, taking from his kimono sleeve a little roll of rice, wrapped in a dainty bamboo leaf, will sit down and begin to eat it with his chopsticks, continuing to gaze at the scene, every now and then looking up at you for sympathy. If you are an artist, and will look at the scene intelligently and appreciatively, this little ricksha man will be your slave for life and will do anything for you. Men are esteemed in Japan in proportion to their artistic capabilities, and not for their banking accounts. It is in this quality of imagination that we Britishers are deficient. Our lack of imagination will be the cause of the decline of our Empire, if it does decline. Then, the Japanese are a polite people. If you give a present to some little child, a mite strapped to the back of a sister that is scarcely bigger than itself, you are almost sure to find that little child waiting for you on your return to your hotel with some small trifle to offer you; and this little one will bow to you from its rather awkward position with all the grace imaginable. Two coolies sweeping the roads, when meeting for the first time in the day, will lay down their brooms and salute each other before passing on their way to work. I have had many experiences, when sketching the streets of Japan, of the people's politeness. A policeman becoming interested in my work would help to keep clear a space in the road, and never dream of overlooking my work or of embarrassing me in any way. In one street of a village he actually had the traffic turned down another way, so as not to interfere with my sketching. Fancy a policeman in England diverting the traffic simply because an artist wanted to sketch a meat shop! One of the most remarkable illustrations of the native politeness that I have ever witnessed was in Tokio. A man pulling along a cart loaded high up with boughs of trees chanced to catch the roof of a coolie's house in one of his pieces of timber, tearing away a large portion of it (for a roof is a very slim affair in Japan). The owner of the house rushed out thoroughly upset, and began to expostulate, and to explain how very distressing it was to have one's roof torn off in this manner. No doubt if he had been a Britisher he would have used quaint language; but there are no "swear words" in the Japanese language--they are too polite a people. The abused one stood calmly, with arms folded, listening to the harangue, and saying nothing. Only, when the enraged man had finished, he pointed to the towel which in his haste the coolie had forgotten to take off his head. At once the coolie realised the enormity of his offence. Both hands flew to the towel, and tore it off in confusion, the coolie bowing to the ground and offering humble apologies for having presumed to appear without uncovering his head. For in Japan one must always uncover, whether to a sweep or to a Mikado. The two parted the best of friends. One had been impolite enough to forget to uncover; the other had torn away a roof. The rudeness of the one balanced the injury of the other. Thus are offences weighed in Japan. THE END _The illustrations in this impression were engraved and printed by the Carl Hentschel Colourtype Process. The letterpress was printed by Messrs. R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh._ [Illustration] 
31043	----	LETTERS FROM CHINA AND JAPAN BY JOHN DEWEY, Ph.D., LL.D. PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY AND ALICE CHIPMAN DEWEY Edited by EVELYN DEWEY NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1920, By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY _All Rights Reserved_ _Printed in the United States of America_ PREFACE John Dewey, Professor of Philosophy in Columbia University, and his wife, Alice C. Dewey, who wrote the letters reproduced in this book, left the United States early in 1919 for a trip to Japan. The trip was eagerly embarked on, as they had desired for many years to see at least something of the Eastern Hemisphere. The journey was to be solely for pleasure, but just before their departure from San Francisco, Professor Dewey was invited, by cable, to lecture at the Imperial University at Tokyo, and later at a number of other points in the Japanese Empire. They traveled and visited in Japan for some three to four months and in May, after a most happy experience, made doubly so by the unexpected courtesies extended them, they decided to go on to China, at least for a few weeks, before returning to the United States. The fascination of the struggle going on in China for a unified and independent democracy caused them to alter their plan to return to the United States in the summer of 1919. Professor Dewey applied to Columbia University for a year's leave of absence, which was granted, and with Mrs. Dewey, is still in China. Both are lecturing and conferring, endeavoring to take some of the story of a Western Democracy to an Ancient Empire, and in turn are enjoying an experience, which, as the letters indicate, they value as a great enrichment of their own lives. The letters were written to their children in America, without thought of their ever appearing in print. EVELYN DEWEY. NEW YORK, January 5th, 1920. LETTERS FROM CHINA AND JAPAN TOKYO, Monday, February. Well, if you want to see one mammoth, muddy masquerade just see Tokyo to-day. I am so amused all the time that if I were to do just as I feel, I should sit down or stand up and call out, as it were, from the housetops to every one in the world to come and see the show. If it were not for the cut of them I should think that all the cast-off clothing had been misdirected and had gone to Japan instead of Belgium. But they are mostly as queer in cut as they are in material. Imagine rummaging your attic for the colors and patterns of past days and then gathering up kimonos of all the different colors and patterns and sizes and with it all a lot of men's hats that are like nothing you ever saw, and very muddy streets, and there you have it. The 'ricksha men have their legs fitted with tight trousers and puttees to end them, and they are graceful. They run all day, through the mud and snow and wet in these things made of cotton cloth that are neither stockings nor shoes but both, and they stand about or sit on steps and wait, and yet they get through the day alive. I am distracted between the desire to ride in the baby cart and the fear of the language, mixed with the greater fear of the pain of being drawn by a fellow-being. They are a lithe set of little men and look as if they had steel springs to make them go when you look at their course. Still I have been only in autos, of which there are not many here. I get tired with the excitement of the constant amusement. This morning a man came out of a curio shop. Bow. "Exguse me, madame, is this not Mrs. Daway? I knew you because I saw your picture in the paper. Will you not come in and look at our many curios? I shall have the pleasure of bringing them to your hotel. What is the number of your room, madame?" Bow. "No, please do not bring them to my room, for I am always out. I will come in and see them sometime." "Thank you, madame, please do so, madame, we have many fine curios." Bow. "Good-morning, madame." The looks of the streets are like the clothes, just left over from the past ages. Of course Tokyo is the modern city of Japan, and we shall watch out for the ancient ones when it comes their turn. I wish I could give you an idea of the looks of the poor. The children up to the age of about thirteen appear never to wipe their noses. Combine this effect (more effect than in Italy) with several kimonos, one on top of the other, made of cotton and wool of bright colors and flowered, with a queer brown checked one on top; this wadded and much too big, therefore hitched up round the waist. Swung in this outside one a baby is carried on the back, the little baby head with black bangs or still fuzzy scalp sticking out, nose never yet touched by a handkerchief, wearer of the baby with a nose in the same condition if at a tender age--I scream inside of me as I go about, and it is more exciting than any play ever. We are as much curiosities to them as they are to us, though we live where the most foreigners go. Now on top of it all we can no more make a car driver understand where we want to go than if we were monkeys. We can't find any names on the streets, we can't read a sign except the few that are in English; the streets wind in any and every direction; they are long and short and circular, while a big canal circles through the part of the city where we are and we seem to cross it every few minutes; every time we cross it we think we are going in the same direction as the last time we crossed it. About this stage of our search your father goes up to a young fellow with an ulster on, and capes, and a felt hat that is like a fedora except for a few inches taken out of its height, and says to him, Tei-ko-ku Hotel, which would mean the Imperial Hotel if he had pronounced it right, and the boy turns around and says, "Do you want ze Imperialee Hoter?" And we say, "Yes" (you bet), and the fellow says, "Eet is ze beeg building down zere," so we wade along some more with all the clog walkers looking at our feet till we come to this old barn of a place where we are paying as much as at a Fifth Avenue hotel, and get clear soup for dinner. Just like any one of those old-fashioned French places where they measure out with care all they give you, and where the head is a most distinguished and conspicuous jack-in-the-box who jacks at you all the time, bows every time you go down the hall and all and all and all. It is all so screamingly funny. The shops are nearly as big as our bedrooms at home with enough space to step in and leave your shoes before you mount the takenomo and walk on the mats. We could not go into any shop, except the foreign book stores, because we were too dirty and had no time to unlace our shoes even if we wanted to wear out our silk stockings. We shall have some nice striped socks before we begin to do shopping. I am possessed with the notion of trying the clogs. Tuesday, February 11 (TOKYO). To-day is a holiday, so we cannot go to the bank, but we can go to a meeting where they will discuss universal franchise and democratization generally. The Emperor is said to be indisposed, so he will not come to the celebration. His illnesses, like everything else about him, are arranged by the ministers and mistresses, as near as we can make out. We are having so many interesting experiences and impressions that it is already difficult to catch up in writing them down. Yesterday morning we went to walk and in the afternoon we were taken out in a car so that we have got over the first impression of the surface. We saw the university and the park where the tombs of the shoguns are, and those tombs are wonderful, just to look at from the car. About to-morrow we may be able to go to the museum. The rows of stone lanterns are impressive beyond anything I had imagined; hundreds of them which must have given to the nights they illuminated a wonderfully weird spectral look. It is not fully true that the Japanese are not interested in their history. At least the educated are, as in any other country. A friend told us about the revival of interest in the tea ceremony. He is going to arrange for us to go to one somewhere, he did not say where, but it will be accompanied by a grand dinner and will express the magnificence of the new rich as well as the taste of old Japan, to judge from the impressions he gave us. He told us of an old Chinese cup for the tea ceremony that a certain millionaire has recently paid 160,000 yen for. That means $80,000. He says the collectors have various sets, and each set will often represent a million dollars. This particular bowl is of black porcelain with decorations of bright color. He told us also of a tea which is now produced in China by grafting the tea branches on to lemon trees. He has some of this tea which was given him by the Chinese ambassador and so I hope we may get a taste of it. Apropos of this hotel you will be interested to know the manager who runs the house has just come home from the Waldorf and from London where he has been learning how to do--people. The exchange rates they offered Papa seem to be an index of their line of development and they are going to build more. This is _the_ one first-class hotel in Japan. At present they have only about sixty rooms or a little more. In general, things are coming along promisingly. I should be through lecturing by the first of April here, which is _just_ the time to begin traveling. It turns out a good scheme to come in winter, for the weather, while not cheerful, is far from really cold, though it is not easy to see just how the palms thrive in the snow. Japan seems to have developed a peculiar type of semi-tropical vegetation which endures freezing and winter. I can foresee that we are going to be busy enough, and for the next few weeks your mother is going to have more time for miscellaneous sightseeing than I. It is indescribably fascinating; in substance, of course, like the books and pictures, but nothing really prepares you for the fact that it is not only real in quality but on such a vast scale---not just specimens here and there. TOKYO, Thursday, February 13. We have done our first independent shopping to-day. I can't get over my astonishment at the amount and quality of English spoken here; it is about as easy shopping in this store, the big department store, as it is at home--much easier as respects attention and comfort. They give us little wrappers or feet gloves to put over our shoes. Think of what an improvement that would be in muddy weather in Chicago. This afternoon is sort of a lull after the storm of sociability and hospitality which reached its temporary height yesterday. Let me give the diary. Before we had finished breakfast--and we have eaten every morning at eight until to-day--people began to call. Then two gentlemen took us to the University in their car and we called on the President again. He is a gentleman of the old school, Confucianist I suppose, and your mother was much impressed at being taken in, instead of staying in the car, but I think he was much more pleased and complimented by her call than by mine. Then we were taken to the department store to which I have already alluded. Many people do all their buying there, because there are fixed prices with a reward for a discovery of any place where the same goods are sold cheaper, and absolute honesty as to quality. But they also said that was the easy way to visit Japan and learn about the clothes, ornaments, toys, etc., and also to see the people, as the Japanese from all over the country come there to see the sights. There were a group of country people in; they are called red blankets, not greenhorns, because they wear in winter a red bed blanket gathered with a string, instead of an overcoat. Then at night it comes in handy. The stores are already displaying the things for the girls' festival though it doesn't come till early March--this is the peach fête, and the display of festive dolls--king and queen, servants, ladies of the court in their old costumes, is very interesting and artistic. They have certainly put the doll to uses which we haven't approached. Then we had lunch at the store, a regular Japanese lunch, which tasted very good, and I ate mine with chop sticks. Then they brought us back to the hotel, and at two a friend came and took me to call on Baron Shibusawa--I suppose even benighted foreigners like yourself will know who he is, but you may not know that he is 83, that he has a skin like a baby's, and shows all the signs of the most acute mental vigor, or that for the last two or three years he has given up all business and devoted himself to philanthropic and humanitarian activities. He does evidently what not many American millionaires do; he takes an intellectual and moral interest, and doesn't merely give money. He explained for about half an hour or more his theory of life (he is purely a Confucianist and not a religionist of any kind), and what he was trying to do, especially that it isn't merely relief. He is desirous to preserve the old Confucian standards only adapted to present economic conditions; it is essentially a morality of feudal economic relationships, as perhaps you know, and he thinks the modern factory employers can be brought to take the old paternal attitude to the employees and thus forestall the class struggle here. The radicals laugh at the notion here much as they would in the United States, but for my part if he can get in a swipe at the Marxian theory of social evolution and bring about another type still of social evolution, I don't see why he should not have a run for his money. According to all reports there is very little labor and capital problem here yet, though the big fortunes made by the war and the increased prosperity of the workingmen have begun to make a change, it is said. Up to the present labor unions have not been permitted, but the government has announced that while they are not encouraged they will not be any longer forbidden. But I must get back to the story. Another friend had asked us to go to the theater with him, the Imperial Theater, which has European seats and is a fine and large building, as fine as in any capital and not overdecorated like a New York one. The theater began at four, and, with about half an hour intermission for dinner, continued till ten at night; the regular Japanese theaters begin at eleven in the morning and continue till ten at night and you have your food brought to you; also they have no seats and you sit on your legs. None of the plays was strictly of the old historic type, but the most interesting one by far was adapted from a classic--it centers to some extent about a faithful horse, and the people are country farmers of several centuries ago. The least interesting was a kind of problem play--mostly philosophical discourse of the modern type--the right to expression of self and an artistic career, aphorisms having no dramatic appeal to even the Japanese audience. These people certainly have an alert intelligence--almost as specialized as the Parisian, for the audience was distinctly of the people, and no American audience could be got to pay the close attention it gave to performances where the merits, so far as they are not strictly artistic, in the technique of acting which is very highly developed, depend upon catching the play of moral emotions rather than upon anything very theatrical. However, the classic drama which is based upon old stories and traditions is more dramatic and melodramatic. The Japanese also say the old theater has much better actors than the semi-Europeanized one which is, I suppose, supported by the government. In the Imperial, the orchestra seats are one dollar and a half; they are more--on the floor at that--in the all-day theaters. Even in this one they have not introduced applause, though there was slight handclapping once or twice when the curtain went down. The Japanese have always had the revolving theater as a means of scene shifting; it works like a railway turntable apparently. Well, that ended the day yesterday. Except we had invited two gentlemen to dinner, and when we told our friends about it, they said, "Oh, just telephone them to come some other day," which appears to be good Japanese etiquette, as it is also to make calls at any time of the day, so we did. But unfortunately they had to telephone to-day that they couldn't come to-night. To-day has been comparatively calm; we have only had four Japanese callers and two American ones. Of the two Japanese, one is a woman who is the warden of the Girls' University, and the other is a teacher in it, a young woman of a wealthy and aristocratic family who has become too modern, I judge, for her family. I hope all you children will make a bow to every Japanese you meet and ask him what you can do to be of service to him. I shall have to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for some of the kindnesses and courtesies which so abound here. I am afraid much of this is more interesting to me to write about than it is to you to read, to say nothing of being more interesting to go through than to read about. But you can then save the letter for us to re-read when we get old and return from our Odysseying, and wish to recover the memories of the days when people were so kind that they created in us the illusion of being somebody, and gave us the combined enjoyments of home and being in a strange and semi-magic country; semi-magic for us. For the mass of the people, one can only wonder at their cheerfulness and realize what a really old and overcrowded country is and how Buddhism and stoic fatalistic cheerfulness develop. Don't ever fool yourself into thinking of Japan as a new country; I don't any longer believe the people who tell you that you have to go to China and India to see antiquity. Superficially it may be so, but not fundamentally. Any country is old where birth and death are like the coming and dropping of leaves on a tree, and where the individual is of as much importance as the leaf. Old world and New world are not mere relatives; they are as near absolutes as anything. We heard a whistle making its cry outside and Mamma thought it was the bank messenger, so I rang the bell for the boy to bring him in--but alas, it was much less romantic; it was the call of the macaroni peddler. TOKYO, February. Here we are, one week after landing, on a hill in a beautiful garden of trees on which the buds are already swelling. The plums will soon be in bloom, and in March the camellias, which grow to fairly large trees. In the distance we see the wonderful Fuji, nearby the other hills of this district, and the further plains of the city. Just at the foot of our hill is a canal, along which is an alley of cherry trees formerly famous, but largely destroyed by a storm a few years ago. We have a wonderful apartment to ourselves, mostly all windows, which in this house are glass. A very large bedroom, a small dressing room, and a study where I now sit with the sun coming in the windows which are all its sides. We need this sun, though the hibashi, or boxes of charcoal, do wonders in warming up your feet and drying hair, as I am now doing. We are surrounded by all the books on Japan that modern learning has produced, so we have never a waiting moment. The house is very large, with one house after another covering the hilltop and connected by the galleries that are cut off the sides of each room in succession. I shall try to get a photo. At the extreme end of the house is Mr. X----'s library of several rooms, and at the limit of that the tea room for the tea ceremonies. Our host is not one of the new rich who buy sets at a million dollars for performing this ceremony. He laughs at that. But there is a gold lacquer table which is like transfixed sunshine, and there are other pieces of old furniture, which are priceless now, and which have come down in his family. You would be amused to see us at breakfast, which O-Tei, the maid assigned to us, serves in our sun parlor. First we have fruit. Two little lacquer tables to move wherever we want to sit. The dishes and service are in our fashion in this house. Nice old blue Canton plates and other things Japanese. After fruit she makes toast over the charcoal in the hibashi, two little iron sticks stuck in the bread to hold it. On these prongs she hands us the toast. Meantime she teaches us Japanese and we teach her English which she already knows, and she giggles every time we speak. Well, we put our toast down on the plate and she disappears. The coffee pot is on a side table and we desperately look for cups for ourselves, though with some fear of disturbing the etiquette. No cups, she forgot them. After a while she comes up again with the cups and we get coffee, then she goes down again and brings scrambled eggs on the nice old blue plates. Then she giggles a little more and talks in that soft voice that is like nothing else we ever heard, as she hands us a nice hot piece of toast on an iron spike; she is much pleased and giggles because I tell her the toast is not harmed by dropping it on the clean floor, and she walks off into the big bedroom to bring the coffee from the gas heater. It is all like a pretty play unmarred by any remote ideas about efficiency, and time and labor-saving devices. Then two maids make our beds; then they dust the floor, one holding up the sofa on edge while the other whisks underneath it, and they smile and bow and take an interest in every move we make as if we were their dearest friends. Enter now the housekeeper who, with many bows, announces v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y that she would like to accompany me to go about the city and to explain things to me, as I would thus teach her English. I asked if she were going to church and she said she wasn't a Christian. Think what a funny sound that has. She is the secretary of Mr. X---- and a student in the new Christian college of which he is the President. She comes in now to wait on us at breakfast and she stays and repeats English after us. She knows a lot of English, but it is so literary that it is quite amusing to turn her into the ways of ordinary talk. To get her to open her mouth and break the polite Japanese whisper, in which the Japanese women speak, is what I work most on. Yesterday we visited the Women's University which is within walking distance of this house. The President, Mr. Naruse, is dying of cancer. He is in bed but is able to talk quite naturally. He has made a farewell address to his students, has said good-bye to his faculty in a speech, and has named the dean, who is acting in his place now, as his successor. At this University they teach flower arrangement, long sword, and Japanese etiquette, and the chief warden is a fine woman. She says I may come in as much as I like to see those different things. In the afternoon we had callers again, among them two women. Women are rare. One, a Dr. R----, is an osteopath who has practiced here for fifteen years and is an old friend of our host's. The second, Miss T----, has just returned from seven years in our country. I heard much of her at Stanford and brought letters to her. She has a chair in the Women's University. It is a chair of Sociology, but she says the authorities are afraid the time has not yet come for her to start on sociology, so she will begin with the teaching of English and work into sociology by the process of ingratiating it into her classes. She is an interesting personality. She was sent to me to say I might be lonely because your father was away so she was to take me, with any other friends I wanted, to the theater. As we had already been to the Imperial Theater and sat in the Baron's box it was finally arranged to go to the Kabuki, where we sit on the floor and see real old Japanese acting, which I am very anxious to do. I understand it begins at 11 in the morning and lasts until ten at night. February 22. Yesterday we went to the theater, beginning at one and ending about nine; tea is constantly in the box, and little meals--and a big one--between the acts. We liked the old Japanese theater better than the more or less modernized one. Baron Shibusawa presented us with a box--or rather two of them--and his niece and another relative and the two young people from the house went. I won't try to describe the dramas, except to say that the way to study Japanese history and tradition would be to go to the theater with some one to interpret, and that while the theater is as plain as a medieval European one, the dresses are even more elaborate and costly. The stage is a beautiful spectacle when there are forty old Samurai on it, as the garments are genuine, not tinsel. Mamma went more than I, because I had to leave at half-past four to go to the Concordia Society--in fact, I hadn't expected to go at all at first, as the Baron said that he sent the offer of the box because he feared Mamma might be lonely when I was away! There were about twenty-five Japanese and Americans at the meeting and after I had spoken for half an hour we had dinner in an adjoining restaurant, and then sat around and visited for an hour or so. The great event of the week, aside from the theater yesterday, was visiting the Women's University--you mightn't think that a great treat, but you don't know what we saw. We started early to walk, since it isn't far and we had been shown the way once, but we were rubbering so busily at the shops that we failed to notice where we were till we got to the end of things and then had to turn around and walk back, so we got there late. The forenoon we spent in the elementary classes and kindergarten, which are their practice school. Those very bright kimonos for children you see are real--all the children wear them, as bright as can be, generally reds, and then some. So the rooms where the little children were are like gardens of flowers with bright birds in them--gay as can be. The work was all interesting, but the colored crayon drawings particularly. They have a great deal of freedom there, and instead of the children imitating and showing no individuality--which seems to be the proper thing to say--I never saw so much variety and so little similarity in drawings and other hand work, to say nothing of its quality being much better than the average of ours. The children were under no visible discipline, but were good as well as happy; they paid no attention to visitors, which I think is ultramodern, as I expected to see them all rise and bow. If you will think of doing all the regular school work--including in this school a good deal of hand work, drawing, etc.--and then learning by the end of the sixth grade a thousand or more Chinese characters, to make as well as to read, you will have some idea of how industrious the kids have to be, and of course they have to learn Japanese characters, too. Then we had a luncheon, ten of us altogether, cooked and served by the girls in the Domestic Department; some luncheon!--and garnished in a way to beat the Ritz--European food and service. Then the real show began. First we had flower arrangement, ancient and modern styles, then examples of the ancient etiquette in serving tea and cakes to guests, and then of inferiors calling on superiors; then Koto playing--a thirteen-stringed harp that lies on the floor--first two girls and the teacher, and then a solo by the teacher. He is blind and said to be the best player in Japan; he gave "Cotton Bleaching in the Brook," and said he rarely played it, only once a year. Well, you could hear the water ripple and fall, and hit the stones, and the women singing and beating the cotton. I could hear it better than I can hear spring in our music, so I think perhaps my ears are made to fit the Japanese scale, or lack of it. Then we were taken into the tea house and shown the tea ceremony, being served with tea. Mamma sat tatami, on her heels, but I basely took a chair. Then we went to the gymnasium and saw the old Samurai women's sword and spear exercises, etc. The teacher was an old woman of seventy-five and as lithe and nimble as a cat--more graceful than any of the girls. I have an enormous respect now for the old etiquette and ceremonies regarded as physical culture. Every movement has to be made perfectly, and it cannot be done without conscious control. The modernized gym exercises by the children were simply pitiful compared with all these ceremonies. Then we were taken to the dormitories, which are in a garden, simple wooden Japanese buildings, like barns our girls would think, but everything so clean you could eat on the floor anywhere, with the south side all glass and sun, and the girls sitting on the floor to study on a table about a foot and a half high; no beds or chairs to litter up the rooms. Then after we were taken over some of the other rooms, we went back to the dining-room and had a most exquisite Japanese vegetarian Buddhist lunch served--just a sample, all on a little plate, but including the sweets for dessert, five or six things all quite different and elegantly cooked. Also three kinds of tea. Politeness is so universal here that when we get back we shall either be so civil that you won't know us, or else we shall be so irritated that nobody is sufficiently civil that you won't know us either. Mr. X---- took me in his car and brought me back. When we got to the hall there were five maids bowing and smiling to get our slippers and hang up our coats and hats. Just going in or out is like going to a picnic; I think the maids enjoy this change in their regular work, for they really smile, as if they were having the time of their lives. If it is perfunctory and put on, they have me fooled. Well, I'll spare you all any philosophical reflections this trip. Besides, I've been too busy having a good time to think of any. They will probably grow spontaneously in China. I forgot whether I told you in my last letter that the Minister of the Interior has given me a monthly and renewable pass first class on the Japanese railways. A friend here asked him for one for Mamma, too, but he said he was very sorry, that privilege could not be extended to a woman. So I'm the only grafter in the family. I haven't had a chance to use it yet, but shall make one at the first opportunity in order to get the sensation. TOKYO, Friday, February 28. I don't get much sightseeing done except in the way of seeing street sights. I am generally accompanied when I take a walk for exercise and always taken by some new way. The other evening we went out after dinner and took a walk to a lively street not far off--booksellers with their things spread out on the sidewalk or rather road, little lunch wagons, crowded streets and shops--they have electricity everywhere, and some geisha girls trotting along with maids to carry their samisens. We went into a Japanese movie beside rubbering at everything and then went into a Japanese restaurant. Their eating places here are specialized--this was a noodle shop, and we tried three kinds, one wheat in a soup, one buckwheat with fried shrimps, and another cold with seaweed. For the entire lot for the two of us it cost 27 cents American money, and the place, which was an ordinary one, was cleaner than any American one, even the best. The movie story seemed more complicated than any of ours, and was certainly slower, because there is a man and a woman in a little coop near the curtain who say what the actors are saying whenever their lips move, this gives a chance of course for more talk. There were a few knockouts and a murder and a villain and a persecuted damsel, and an attempted suicide to provide thrills, but I couldn't make out what it was about even with the aid of the guide with me. Such are simple pleasures here, save that when we walk in the daytime we generally go to a temple where on the whole the people are more interesting than the temples, though sometimes the layout of trees is beautiful and gives much the same effect of religious calm as a cathedral. In general the similarity between worship here and the country Italian Catholicism is more striking than anything else. They are slightly more naïve here--to see the dolls, woolly dogs, and pinwheels at the shrines of the children's gods, besides their straw slippers, straw sandals and an occasional child's kimono is quite touching, also sometimes a mother has cut off her hair and pinned it up as an offering. Other things are as humorous as these are pathetic, such as making spitballs of written prayers and pasting the god with them. Some of the gods are now protected by wire netting on this account. I have got fairly well used to the street scenes now and can tell most of the kinds of shops, such as an undertaker's from a cooper's. What makes the street so interesting is that you can look in and see everything going on. I forgot to mention the most interesting street thing I've seen, a bird catcher with a long limed pole like a bamboo fishing rod, a basket with a valve door to put them in and some other utensils. I didn't see him catch any, though. Sunday Morning, March 2. I am writing early because we are going to-day to Kamakura. You have probably heard of the big bronze Buddha--fifty feet high--well, that is there. A friend has arranged an interview for us with the most distinguished or most learned of the Buddhist priests in Japan--who belongs to the most philosophical of all the sects, the Zen, which believes in the simple life and is more or less Stoical; this is the sect that had the greatest influence on the warrior class in the good old days. Kamakura is on the other side of Yokohama, an old Shogun capital; has lots of historic shrines, etc. Yesterday I made my first speech with an interpreter to a teachers' association, some five hundred in all, mostly elementary school teachers conspicuous for the fact that only about twenty-five were women. In the evening we went to a supper and reception of the English-Speaking Society, Americans and Japanese, mostly the latter; both men and women and the most generally sociable thing we have seen yet. We have heard said it was the only place in Tokyo where Japanese men and women really met in a free sociable way, and the president said that when Japanese met for sociable purposes they were reserved and stiff--at least till the wine went round--as long as they spoke Japanese, but speaking English brought back the habits they got in America and thawed them out--an interesting psychological observation on the effect of language. TOKYO, Tuesday, March 4. You would be surprised to see how free from all affectations this country has remained, at least so far as we see it. There is a social democracy here that we do not know. All Japan is talking democracy now, which is to be taken in the sense of representative government rather than in the sense of tearing down the present form of government. The representation in elections here now does not seem to extend much further, if any, than to include those large taxpayers who would under any system be a force in forming policy. The extension of the suffrage is the great question under discussion at present. That and the expansion of special education for men are the turning points for the coming legislators. Japan has acquired many new millionaires during the war and those men are already founding new schools for vocational purposes for men. Four hundred and forty students are to be sent abroad with a very generous allowance for living in the different foreign countries, none of them women, and no women are mentioned in any of the new appropriation bills. Not even a mention of the needs for women. Yesterday, to begin, was spent thus: It was the famous festival of dolls. In the morning I made a dress for a poor sort of foreign doll I had hunted out for a little girl. It was all American. Another ridiculous imitation of American baby, looking half caste Japanese, has still to be dressed when I can find the material for long clothes, but I presented it as is. They invited me in to see their exhibition. Some of their dolls are two hundred years old from their mothers' family. I shall try to find some literature on this festival as it is too long to write about. But it is true that one begins immediately to get the passion for dolls; they are not dead things like ours, but works of art symbolic of all the different phases of national life. The little girls were delighted with their possessions. If I had only known about this I should have known what to bring to Japan for gifts, instead of feeling as helpless as I did. If you come, bring dolls. In the afternoon I was invited to go to the best or one of the best collections in the country and that was a great experience. It began very painfully for me because I got lost and was three-quarters of an hour late at the Imperial Hotel from which we started. The family that owns this famous collection is very old and the wife is the daughter of a Daimyo, hence the dolls are very old. And they are wonderful, and more wonderful still their housekeeping equipment of old lacquer and porcelain and glass. The doll refreshments are served in tiny dishes on tiny tables while the guests sit on the floor, the hostess and her family doing all the serving. We had the thick white wine made from rice poured out of wonderful little decanters into tiny glasses. We drank to the health of the family and the stuff is delicious, with an aroma such as no honey can excel. After these refreshments we were shown the room for the tea ceremony and then taken back into the foreign part of the house for real refreshments, which consisted of many and wonderful varieties of cakes. The tea was served in cups with saucers decorated with plum blossoms, this being the time of plum blossoms. Then tea cups taken away and cups of rich chocolate placed on the tables. These tables were high enough for the ordinary chairs. All the foreign houses are very ugly in style but very comfortable and mid-Victorian. The Baroness urged us to eat special cakes and we left stuffed. One kind is in the form of a beautiful pink leaf wrapped in a cherry leaf which has been preserved from last year. The leaf gives the cake a delicious flavor and also a cover to protect the fingers from its stickiness. Then three little round brown cakes looking some like chocolate--on a skewer. You bite off the first one whole, then slip the other two as you eat them. Those alone are enough for a meal and very nourishing. All cakes are made from bean paste or like our richest pastries. When that second meal was finished, we said good-bye. The Baroness and her three pretty daughters and her sister all followed us to the outer door and when our auto drove off the last thing we saw were the bows of the butlers and these pretty ladies, all saying one more harmonious good-bye. The young girls dress in kimonos of wool muslin of the brightest colors and designs which are conceivable even to the Japanese imagination. They look like a very profusely blooming garden of old fashioned perennials. The garden is indescribable. I had some fancy of what a Japanese garden would look like, but find it is nothing at all beside the reality. This place is big and the grass is now brown. Most of the grass is covered with a thick carpet of pine needles and at the edge of the pine needle carpet a rope of twisted straw outlines graceful curves. The use of the big stones is the most surprising part of the whole. They are very old and weather-stained, of many shades of gray and blue-gray, with the short shrubs for a background, and the severity and simplicity of the result has a classic beauty which we may attain in centuries, and only after we have consumed our abundance of things material. Then we went to dinner at the house of Professor M----. There are six children in his family, the oldest a man of about twenty-five, a graduate of the Imperial University, now a factory inspector for the government; he speaks eight languages. One of these is Esperanto, which is his hobby. The French Professors were there also, two of them, a clever and amusing pair, who did their duty in talking, and the young man spoke better than any of us and with an excellent pronunciation. He has never been out of Japan. Two little girls and a young boy appeared after dinner and made their pretty bows to the floor, and then went to a low table and squatted and played Go the rest of the evening. Go is the famous shell game. Go means five and it is a game of fives, but ask me no more, except that the men are 364 in number and you play it on an expanded checker board. There was an endless succession of food and drinks and we did not leave till nearly eleven. Japanese families have many nice drinks which we do not. Theirs are perhaps no better than our best ones, but they add to the pleasant variety of non-alcoholic drinks. Besides those we had two wines. This was the dinner as near as I can remember. A menu card was at each plate and I fancy they were intended as souvenirs for the foreign guests, but I forgot to take mine, if that was their purpose. We had soup, bread of two kinds, and butter. Then fish patties, then little birds, boned, on toast with a vegetable, then ramekins of Japanese macaroni, which is not like ours. Next roast beef, very tender fillet, with potato balls, peas, gravy, another vegetable forgot, and salad, white and red wine, coming after the orange cider. Then a delicious pudding, then cake and strawberries. Those berries are raised out of doors. They are planted between rows of stones which are heated artificially, I did not quite understand how, the vines being kept from touching the stones by low bamboo trellises. Whipped cream served with the berries. Then delicious coffee in foreign style. After dinner we leave the reception room in foreign style and go upstairs to the big Japanese room, sit by the hibashi or the grate, and here the children come. At once tea is served. Then just as we were starting for home we were urged to stay for a drink, which was more orange cider, very sweet, and bottled waters, which are so good and come from the many natural springs. One of the amusements of the Japanese is seeing the foreign visitors try to sit, and you can't wonder they are amused. I can manage it, in awkward fashion, but your father can't even bend for the pose. On Sunday we sat for two hours in the presence of the greatest Buddhist priest in Japan, and you can guess whether we wriggled and if my feet were asleep if you try the pose for a few minutes yourself, even on a nice soft cushion as we were. Getting up properly is the hardest part of it. TOKYO, Tuesday, March 4. Our friends took us to Kamakura; it isn't interesting reading these things in advance in guide books, so I don't think a description will be interesting, but something over seven hundred years ago, the first Shogun rulers settled there and made it their capital, of which nothing is now left save the Buddhist temples. We met on the train going down the professor of Japanese literature in the University, who was going there because it was the seventh hundred anniversary of a Shogun who wrote poetry, and the professor was going over to lecture on his poems. Also we ran across several hundred school children, boys and girls with their teachers, who were spending Sunday seeing the historic sights. One of the big temples to the god of war was a kind of museum, with old swords and masks and things in it. They took us to call on the Reverend Shaku, who is the head of the Zen sect of Buddhists in Japan, and who talked--including the interpreter--about two hours, in answer to questions about Buddhism, especially his variety. It was very interesting. We were ushered into a Japanese room, beautiful proportions, a lovely kakemono in the alcove--it's a scroll, not a kimono--and a five-legged little table made of metal with mother-of-pearl inlay. Otherwise nothing but the room with gorgeous blue and gold chrysanthemums alternating on the paneled ceiling and five silk cushions scattered around for us to sit on, and a single one at the end of the room for him. In about five minutes another screen door opened and he appeared in a gorgeous but simple flowing robe, copper colored. Then tea and sponge cake--meantime the talk fest had begun. Incidentally I should remark that the bowing and kneeling of the servants looks much more natural and less servile when you see people seated on the floor, and the servants have to kneel to hand them anything. His personality is that of a scholarly type, rather ascetic, not over refined, but not in the least sleek like some of our Hindu swamis, and very charming. When we left he thanked us for coming and expressed his great satisfaction that he had made some friends. His talk was largely moral but with a high metaphysical flavor, somewhat elusive, and reminding one of Royce. Well it was an experience worth having, as he is reputed the most learned and representative Buddhist in Japan, and as I have remarked before, seeing is quite different from reading. He was more modern than Royce in one respect; he said God is the moral ideal in man and as man develops the divine principle does also. We saw the big fifty-foot bronze statue of Buddha, in some respects the most celebrated single thing in Japan and again one you have to see. It is as impressive as a cathedral. We have been to a dinner party since I began this. Our host seems to be a universal genius--a member of the house of peers, an authority on education, an orchid fancier, a painter and I don't know what. There were over twenty at table, and our health was drunk in champagne with a little speech, and two members of the cabinet were there. The Countess is the mother of eight children, and looks about thirty and very pretty for thirty. Three or four of the little girls were about before and after dinner, and, like several of the little girls of the new generation, are as spontaneous and natural as you would wish. Acquired characteristics are certainly hereditary in Japan, for even the most lively and spontaneous children are civilized. Whatever else you think about the Japanese they are about the most highly civilized people on earth, perhaps overcultivated. I asked Mamma when these girls would undergo the clammifying process and have all their life taken out of them, and she said never for these girls. President Naruse died this morning; as he had cancer, it was fortunate he did not linger longer. He was one of the most remarkable men in Japan. Two days before he died the Empress sent him a present of five thousand dollars for his school--a very great tribute and one which will help the cause of woman's education. Speaking of this family where we dined, you can judge of the high aristocracy of our hosts of the evening by the fact that when they showed us the dolls' festival, there were some fine ones which had been sent the Countess by the Imperial Princesses. The dolls by the way are never played with--they are works of art and history to look at. These children got out their American dolls, of which they had ten, to show Mamma. March 5. I have now given three lectures. They are a patient race; there is still a good-sized audience, probably five hundred. We are gradually getting a superficial acquaintance with a good many people, and if I could get two or three weeks free from lectures to prepare I could make a business of finding things out, but as it is I only accumulate certain impressions. There is no doubt a great change is going on; how permanent it will be depends a good deal upon how the rest of the world behaves. If it doesn't live up to its peaceful and democratic professions, the conservative bureaucrats and militarists, who of course are still very strong, will say we told you so and there will be a backset. But if other countries, and especially our own, behave decently, the democratizing here will go on as steadily and as rapidly as is desirable. TOKYO, Monday, March 10. Yesterday we had our first taste of the Noh drama. We got there before nine in the morning, and I left before two to go to Mr. Naruse's funeral, but Mamma stayed till nearly three when she had to go to speak at a school. Mamma can give you a much more intelligent idea of it than I can, but the building is a kind of barnlike structure--the Elizabethan theater with a vengeance, and no stage properties except some little live pines and a big painted one, and except costumes which are rich and expensive and the masks which are likewise. It is an acquired taste, but one which can be acquired very rapidly. If they weren't done with such extraordinary art and technique they would probably be stupid, to a foreigner anyway, but as it is they are fascinating, though it is hard to say what the source of the fascination is aside from the perfection of technique. Conscious control was certainly born and bred in Japan. Mr. Naruse had a very strong hold on people, and his funeral was an event--all the autos and most of the 'rickshas in Tokyo must have been there, and some eight or ten speakers, and even to me who could understand nothing it was very impressive. One of the civilized things is that before the speaker bowed to the audience--and they all bowed back--he bowed to the remains, Which were in a coffin on the platform with flowers, and more flowers than at an American funeral. We were to have gone to Baron Shibusawa's for tea and dinner this afternoon, but his influenza has gone into pneumonia. To go back to Saturday. The reception was pleasant. We met the Americans who are educators and in the missionary schools and colleges; intelligent and well disposed, so far as I have seen. The criticism of the missionaries seems to be rather cooked up. Just now there is a fuss over them in Korea, because there is some agitation going on there for independence, and it seems to have started with Koreans who had been in missionary schools. The missionaries here seem much divided, some of them blaming the missionaries over there, saying they will bring Christianity into disrepute everywhere in Japan, and some saying that it proves Christian teaching amounts to something and that it will have a good effect in improving conditions, leading to foreign criticism and publicity, and causing the Japanese to modify their colonial policy, which seems to be under military rather than civil control. There is a rumor that the ex-Emperor of Korea didn't die a natural death, but committed suicide, with the hope of putting off or preventing the marriage of his oldest son to a Japanese princess--they were to have been married very soon. No one seems to know whether the story was invented to encourage the revolutionaries in Korea or has truth in it. Meanwhile they say the wedding is going to take place, and the Japanese are sorry for their poor princess, who is sacrificed to marry a foreigner. Thursday evening Mamma invited the X----'s and some others, eight including ourselves, to supper in a Japanese restaurant, a beef restaurant--they are all specialized--where we not only sat on the floor and ate with chop sticks, but where the little slices of thin beefsteak were brought in raw with vegetables to flavor, and cooked over a little pan on a charcoal hibashi, one fire to each two persons. Naturally it was lots of fun, a kind of inside picnic. Oh, yes, something happened Friday. We went to the Imperial Museum in the morning and the curator showed us about--I won't describe a museum--but on the way home we were taken into a pipe store and Mamma purchased three little Japanese pipes, ladies' pipes, to take home. Quite cunning, and the dealer said this was the first time he had ever sold anything to a foreigner, so he presented her with a little ladies' pouch and a pipe holder, both made from Holland cloth, not anything very precious, but probably worth as much as her entire purchase, certainly more than the profit on his sales. These things are quite touching and an offset to the stories about their bad business methods, because it is really a matter of hospitable courtesy to the foreigner, though he said himself they generally put the price up for the foreigner on antiques. TOKYO, Thursday, March 14. We have just had a mild picnic. Mamma has a slight cold, so the maids brought her supper up to her and for sociability brought mine up too. Mamma got out a Japanese phrase book and pronounced various phrases to them; to see them giggle and bend double, no theater was ever so funny. When I got to my last bite, I inquired the name of the food, and said it and "Sayonara"--good night. This old gag was a triumph of humor. They are certainly a good-natured people. I have watched the children come out from a public school near here, and never yet have I seen a case of bullying or even of teasing, except of a very good-natured kind, no quarreling and next to no disputing. Yet they are sturdy little things and no mollycoddles. To see a boy of ten or twelve playing tag and jumping ditches with a boy strapped to his back is a sight. There are no public rebukes or scoldings of the children or even cross words, to say nothing of slappings, no nagging, at least not in public. Some would say that the children are not scolded because they are good, but it is a fair guess that it is the other way. But it must be admitted that so far as amiable exterior and cheerfulness and courtesy is concerned, they have no bad examples set them. Some foreigners say all this is only skin deep, but the manners of the foreigners who say these things aren't any too good even from our standards. Anyway, skin deep is better than nothing and good as far as it goes. However, the Japanese say that their courtesy is reserved for their friends and people they know, not that they have bad manners to strangers, but that they pay no attention to them, and won't go out of their way to do anything for them. I told about the man who made Mamma a present when she bought the pipes. Yesterday we were in that region and Mamma went in again and bought another, and paid him a compliment on what people said about the present. Whereupon he gets up and fishes out another more valuable pouch, somewhat ragged and old, the kind the actors now use on the stage, and offers it. Mamma naturally tries to avoid it, but can't. He informs her through the friend with us that he likes Americans very much. An international matter having been made of it, the pouch is accepted, and now we have to think up some present to give him. However, we have told this story to several Americans here, and they say they have never heard anything like it. We were to have gone to the Peeress's School this morning, an appointment having been made to show us about. Mamma's cold preventing her going, we had somebody 'phone to see if the time could be changed. And this afternoon appear for her some lovely lilies and amaryllis--these being from people we had never seen. A Freudian would readily infer how bad my own manners are from the amount I talk about this. We went to a Japanese restaurant for supper. This was a fish restaurant, and we cooked the fish and vegetables ourselves, but over gas, not charcoal this time. Then we had side dishes, fish, lobster, etc., innumerable. Instead of bringing you in a bill of fare to order from, the coolie brings a big tray with samples of everything on it, and you help yourself. One thing was abalones on the half shell, these being babies, about like our clams, but not so tough, to say nothing of as tough as the big ones. I didn't try the fried devil fish and other luxuries, but wandered pretty far afield. When you have leisure, try eating lobster in the shell with chop sticks. You will resort to something more ancient than chop sticks, as I did. This restaurant is quite plebeian, though it has a great reputation for its secret recipe for the sauce the fish is cooked in, but it was considerably more expensive than the other--probably because we sampled so many side dishes; the other one cost less than five dollars for eight people--good food and all anybody could eat. TOKYO, March 14th. The ceremony of breakfast is over, and I am sorry again you cannot all share in these daily festivals which add so much to the dignity of living. We are now studying Japanese with the aid of the maids. I missed going to the Dolls' Festival at a private kindergarten and the result--this morning by mail a postcard from the children with numerous presents made by them, all dolls, and those I will send home, as they are interesting. With the presents they say: "We made cakes and prepared for your coming and we were in the depths of despair when you did not come. Please come another time." I am sure there is no other country in the world like this. The language is an impossible one. The way given in the phrases of the guide book is the way the man speaks. So when I stammer off those phrases the girls are literally tickled to death. When they tell me what I ought to say in the more elaborated polite way of the women, then I am floored. It is all an amusing game and relieves the watch they keep on each bite we take so as to be ready to supply more. Everything they do is marked with the kindliest attitude and every act or move is one of friendship. This is the program for to-day: Go to lunch at the house of some missionaries, then to father's lecture at 3:30, then to dinner for University of Chicago students. To-morrow will be an open day for me and the little secretary will take me shopping. The big department store is the fashionable place where all the noble and rich buy their kimonos, and I may supplement my secondhand attempts with a new one. When I get to Kyoto I hope to find a real old one, as the new style of weave are infected with foreign influence. The other evening with Y---- we found a little shop for antiques which is a gem to look at. An old man and his wife, Y---- says he bets they are Samurai, with the politeness of real nobles, and their little place as carefully arranged for beauty as if it were their home--which it is. I broke an old Kutani plate and I inquired for one there. They had none, but we looked at their things, they with many bows, and when we left said we were sorry to have troubled them for nothing. They replied, "Please excuse us for not having the thing you wanted." To-morrow we go to lunch here in the neighborhood with a very clever and interesting family (of a professor). None of the women call, at least none of the married ones, all being afraid of their English for one reason, but I am learning to just take things as they come and not to bother over formalities, never knowing whether that is the best way or not. The wedding of last Tuesday was the most interesting function I have seen. The marriage ceremony was the Christian one. The company represented the rich and fashionable of the city. The ladies all wear black crepe kimonos, that splendid crepe which is so heavy, next under the black is an all white of soft china silk, then the third of bright color. K----'s was that bright vermilion red. Her sleeves were not very long, as she is a mother, but the young girls wear bright colored kimonos and long sleeves that almost touch the floor. The bride wears black, too. All these dress-up kimonos have decorations in color, sometimes embroidered and sometimes dyed on the lower points of the front. The bride's was spread out on the floor around her just like the old pictures, embroidered in heavy rose peonies, her undergarment and the lining of the black, in rose color. Her hair was done in the old conventional way shown in the prints with the long pins of light tortoise shell with bouquets of tiny flowers carved at the ends, which stuck out about three inches, making a crown over her head. The receiving party is as follows: First, father of groom; second, mother of bride; third, groom; fourth, bride; fifth, father of bride; sixth, mother of groom. The line is straight and the bride is perfectly arranged like an old print, she and the groom with their eyes cast down. As each person passes, they make bows all along the line at once, but they do not move hand or eyes or a fold of these perfect clothes. I forgot to say the men, unfortunately, wear European dress. Then we moved on to two large rooms, the men all seated and smoking in one, and the women in the other. Those who knew me were very kind. Countess H---- introduced me to the bridesmaids; at least they would be the maids at home. They were the sisters and young relatives all dressed in the most brilliant kimonos and embroidered and decorated to the limit; they looked like all the parrots and peacocks and paradise and blue birds and every lovely color imaginable, while the uniform black of the guests, decorated with the pure white of their crests which stand out in such a group, formed the perfect background, free from all the messiness which is so apparent in a diversified gathering of all sorts of color and shape and materials in our land. At tea, which was very elaborate and taken sitting at the tables, the family of the two filled one table, a long one at the end of the room. The bride now wore a green kimono, equally brilliant; about two feet away from her sat the groom, both in the middle of the long table. TOKYO, Thursday, March 20. We have had a number of social events this week. Tuesday evening General H----, who speaks no English but who came over on the _Shinyo_ with us, gave a party for us in the gardens of the Arsenal Grounds. We could not have entered the Arsenal Grounds in any other way. There were about twenty-five people there, mostly Christian Association people, and the clergyman of the Japanese church where I had spoken the night before. He is keen about introducing more democracy in Japan, and I spoke on the moral meaning of democracy. Well, the garden isn't a garden at all in our sense, but a park, and the finest in Tokyo outside of the Imperial ones. It is quite different from the miniature ones we know as Japanese gardens, being of fair size, with none of those cunning little imitations in it; big imitations there are in plenty, as it was a fad of the old landscapists, as you might know, to reproduce on a small scale celebrated scenes elsewhere. The old Daimyo, who built this one two hundred years ago, was a great admirer of the Chinese and reproduced several famous Chinese landscapes as well as one from Kyoto. The extraordinary thing is the amount of variety they get in a small space; they could reproduce the earth, including the Alps and a storm in the Irish Channel, if they had Central Park. Every detail counts; it is all so artistically figured out and every little rock has a meaning of its own so that a barbarian can only get a surface view. It would have to be studied like an artist's masterpiece to take it all in. The arsenal factory fumes have killed many of the old trees and much of the glory has departed. Probably Mamma has written you that she has one young woman, Japanese, coming on the ship with us under her care, to New York to study; and to-day another young lady called, and said she wanted to go back to America. About the young women going home with us, Y---- said we would have to be careful, as one time his mother was offered seventeen damsels to escort when she was going over, of whom she took three. You may not appreciate the fact that going to America to study means practically giving up marriage; they will be old maids and out of it by the time they return--also those who have been in America do not take kindly to having a marriage arranged for them. At a lecture I listened to yesterday, a Japanese woman, close to thirty, was pointed out to me as about to get married to an American architect here. There are exceptions, but this case is evidently a famous romance. The lecture was on Social Aspects of Shinto; Shinto is the official cult though not the established religion of Japan. Although nothing is said that wasn't scientifically a matter of course to be said--I mean supposing it was scientifically correct--one of the most interesting things was the caution that was taken to avoid publication of anything said. On one side the Imperial Government is theocratic, and this is the most sensitive side, so that historical criticism or analysis of old documents is not indulged in, the Ancestors being Gods or the Gods being Ancestors. One bureaucratic gentleman felt sure that the divine ancestors must have left traces of their own language somewhere, so he investigated the old shrines, and sure enough he found on some of the beams characters different from Chinese or Japanese. These he copied and showed for the original language--till some carpenters saw them and explained that they were the regular guild marks. KAMAKURA, Thursday, March 27. This weather beats Chicago for changeableness. Monday, at midnight, it was storming rain; when we got up the next day it was the brightest, warmest day we have had. We spent it sightseeing and went out without an overcoat. The magnolia trees are in full bloom. Yesterday and to-day are as raw March days as I ever saw anywhere; there would have been frost last night but for the wind. Tuberculosis is rife here and no wonder. Three of the University professors have called on me this morning. They wish to arrange in every detail for our movements when we leave here. I suppose I was asked twenty times how long we are to stay in Kamakura. When I said I didn't know, it depended on weather and other things, they said, "Oh, yes," and in five minutes asked the same question again. Whether they arrange everything in minute detail for themselves in advance or whether they think we are helpless foreigners I can't make out; some of both, I think. But they can't understand that we can't give an exact date for everything we are going to do till we go to China. At the same time I never knew anybody to change their own plans, especially socially, as much as they do. There is a great anti-American drive on now; seems to be largely confined to newspapers, but also stimulated artificially somewhat, presumably by the militaristic faction, which has lost more prestige in the last few months than in years, with a corresponding gain in liberal sentiment. They have consequently found it necessary to do something to come back. Criticism of the United States is the easiest way to arrest the spread of liberal sentiments and strengthen the arguments for a big militaristic party, like twisting the lion's tail with us. Discussion about race discrimination is very active and largely directed against the United States in spite of Australia and Canada, and also in spite of the fact that Chinese and Korean immigration here is practically forbidden, and they discriminate more against the Chinese than we do against them. But consistency is not the strong point of politics in any country. Excepting on the subject of race discrimination, foreigners in contact with Japanese do not find the anti-American feeling which is expressed in papers. If the Anglo-Japanese treaty of alliance should lapse because of the League of Nations or anything else, America will be held responsible, even if the British are the cause. Two years ago there was a similar anti-British drive here, and pretty hard bargains were driven with the British ally in all war matters. Now that Germany and Russia are out of it, England has no apparent reason for snuggling up much and the shoe is on the other foot. Which makes the attack on the U.S. all the more stupid, as they are internationally quite lonely, even if they tie up with France on account of similar Russian interests, financial and otherwise. TOKYO, Wednesday, March 28. To-morrow we are going to Kamakura again; it is only an hour and a half from here. We are going to take a little trip into the mountain and hot-spring district also, but the cherry blossom season is much advanced, ten days earlier than usual, and we are afraid it will spring itself in our absence if we go far, so probably we shall be back here in a few days for about a week. Then we shall take a five-day trip on our way to Kyoto, going to the shrine at Ise. This is the oldest and most sacred Shinto shrine in Japan, which means that it is the central spot for imperial ancestor worship. Speaking of ancestors, you remember our references to the Count. The father of his first wife has recently been made a Baron. Parliament being over, the Count has left for the southern Island to inform the ancestors of his first wife, who are buried there, of the important item of family gossip. The oldest liberal statesman of aristocratic descent, who was quite intimate with the late Emperor, won't go to the annual meeting to celebrate the granting of the Constitution by the late Emperor because he is so disgusted that no more progress has been made in constitutionalism, and says he cannot meet his late master until he can report progress to him. Otherwise he would be ashamed to meet him as he feels responsible to the Emperor. This would not be any place for a spiritualist to earn his living. They are clear past mediums. We have chiefly been eating lately. I had two Japanese meals, a la chop sticks, yesterday and one to-day. Luncheon yesterday at a restaurant, where we had lots of things you never heard of, to say nothing of eating them, and a dinner at a friend's. There were twelve courses at table and two or three afterwards--not counting tea, and much the same at another dinner to-night. We have a bill of fare written on fans, only in Japanese, and little silver salt cellars as souvenirs besides. One feature of both dinners was soup three times, at the beginning, about the middle and again at closing, at these functions rice is not served till near the last course. Then there were one or two semi-soupy courses thrown in. I can eat raw fish and ask no questions; and in a bird restaurant, Sunday for luncheon, I ate raw chicken wrapped in seaweed; abalone is my middle name, and some of the shell fish we eat is probably devil fish. We have been here over six weeks now, and in taking an inventory it can be said that while we have not done as much sightseeing as some six-day tourists, I think we have seen more Japanese under normal home conditions than most Americans in six months, and have seen an unusually large number of people to talk to, not the official crowd but the representative intellectual liberals. I have seen less but found out more than I ever expected about Japanese conditions, which is quite the opposite of European experience in traveling. When I come back I shall try to see a few of the official people, since I now know enough to judge what they may say. On the whole, America ought to feel sorry for Japan, or at least sympathetic with it, and not afraid. When we have so many problems it seems absurd to say they have more, but they certainly have fewer resources, material and human, in dealing with theirs than we have, and they have still to take almost the first step in dealing with many of them. It is very unfortunate for them that they have become a first-class power so rapidly and with so little preparation in many ways; it is a terrible task for them to live up to their position and reputation and they may crack under the strain. TOKYO, Tuesday, April 1. The Japanese do one thing that we should do well to imitate. They teach the children in school a very nice lesson about the beauty and the responsibility of being polite and kind to the foreigner, like being so to the guests of your own house. This adds to the national dignity. Yesterday the Emperor got out and I caught him at it. Quite an amazing and lucky experience for me and no harm to him, as I had not known he ever went out before I picked him up in the street. I went down our hill as usual with a friend to take the car. At this side of the street where the car passes, we walk across the bridge on the canal and then turn and walk one block to the car stop. When we got to the other side of the bridge all the people on both sides of the street were massed in a nice little quiet line and three policemen were carefully and gently placing each one according to his height so he could see as well as possible. So we lined in with the rest while the policeman looked on in an encouraging fashion. Nobody spoke out loud, and after I had noticed the friend with me having a conversation with the officer, I ventured to ask why we were left standing there. With the same quiet, she said: "The Emperor is passing on his way to the commencement exercises of Waseda University." Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I don't suppose I should have known what was happening at all unless I could have figured it out from the Chrysanthemums on the carriage doors. I said to her: "How is he coming, in an automobile? How long are we to stand here?" I had visions of the stories about the streets being cleared, and the doors shut for some hours while white sand was sprinkled over the car tracks, and all the rest. "No," she said, "just a little time." I saw by now that I was not likely to have much gossip poured out to me about the Emperor, so I just fixed a nice little thing about three years old in front of me and then we waited with the rest of the school children. Soon the procession came, first a body of horse in plain khaki uniforms, then one very Japanese-looking man alone on the back seat in one of the light victorias, very clean and shiny, with the Chrysanthemums on the door. He was dressed in a khaki wool uniform just like the rest of the army with a cap on his head. Then came some other shiny, light little victorias with two horses, all just alike. I rubbered my best and I had a very good look at the one little man alone in the middle of the seat, and sitting up and looking straight ahead of him pleasantly. In the midst of the passing I asked the companion with me, "Which is the Emperor?" and she answered "The one in the first carriage," and still there was that quiet of perfect breeding; and by and by all the nice little soldiers on horseback passed, and after I had stood a little longer on the edge of my bridge I started our little procession moving towards the car. The Emperor had gone the opposite way. After a little I said: "I did not know the Emperor went to commencements and things like that," and I chattered on, and then my companion said in her slow, proper, calm tone: "That is my first experience to see the Emperor, too." And I said "Is that so?" and asked some more questions, still wondering that no one had called out a Banzai nor made a sound, and it is not till to-day that I learned that all the people were standing with their eyes cast down to the ground, and that I was the only one who looked at the Emperor, and their reverence was so great that that was the reason I had not heard them breathe. For another thing, Waseda is the liberal university and private, so I wondered still till I learned then that the Emperor was going to the Peers' School commencement, and that is the one commencement he goes to every year. So you see I had luck, and my conscience was clear for having rubbered, and I have seen the Emperor. The Imperial Garden party comes off the week after we leave Tokyo. To this party all the nobles of the third rank and above, and all the professors in the Imperial University, and all the foreigners of latest arrival, are asked. So a foreigner can go just once and no more unless a Professor. We put our names down in the Ambassador's book for an invitation before we knew all the niceties of the case. So now that we have learned that we can go once and no more, and that we are expected to go if we are invited, we will take back our request for an invitation as the party is on the 17th of April, and we are to be in Kyoto on the 15th. So in our good luck, a daughter of a Baron, who is a member of the Imperial household, has asked us to go with her to-morrow to see the Imperial Garden where the party is to be and we may see the gardens all the better. This Imperial Garden is one of the prince's gardens and not the one behind the moat where the Emperor lives. It seems the fall chrysanthemum party is in that garden, though never inside the inner moat where no one goes unless he has an audience. The moat and the surroundings of the palace are lovely, but as you can read the guide book if you want a description, I will not bore you with an attempt. The walls of the moat were built by labor of the feudal dependencies, and like all such labor it spared no pains to be splendid. Some of the moats have been filled up long ago, but there are still three around the palace. Inside the outer one you may walk part of the time and see the grand gates with their solemn guards. In these gardens the air is fresh and the birds sing in the trees, and the dust of the city never gets there. To-night I am wearing tabi, those nice little toe socks which will not fit my feet, but which are so much nicer than the felt toe slippers that fall off your feet every time you go upstairs. As a matter of fact, I wear ordinary house slippers in this house, but it is nicer not to and we always take them off when we come in from outdoors. Truly, the Japanese are a cleaner people than we are. Have I told you we bathe in a Japanese tub? Every night a hot, very hot wooden box over three feet deep is filled for us. This one has water turned in from a faucet, but in Kamakura the little charcoal stove is in the end of the tub and the water is carried in by buckets, and is reheated each night. It seems all right and I regret all the years our country went without bath tubs, and all the fuss we made to get them when this little, simple device was all there and as old as the hills. But we can catch up with the heating and cooking with charcoal hibashi. We have learned to eat with chop sticks very well, and it is not a bad way. The main objection I see to it is that one eats too fast, and Fletcherizing is not known in this country. The nice little way of doing your own cooking is something to introduce for cuteness in New York. These last few days we have just been sightseeing in the real European sense, running about town and buying small things all day and then having the wonderful advantage of coming back to this delightful home of perfect comfort at night, which is quite unlike Europe, and spoils us for the common lot of knocking about. The greatest actor of the country is here. He belongs in Osaka, his name is Ganjiro, and we have a box for Thursday. The play is the one that was given in New York called "Bushido." It is much longer than as given there. It is called by another name and is acted quite differently. On Sunday we are going again to the Noh Dance, or if no good tickets are to be had for that, we are going to a theater where women act all the parts to offset the usual way here of having only men in the company. The men who act women's parts here do make up very well. They live and dress and act as women all the time so as not to lose the art. Only when they stand in pose they cannot conceal the fact that they are men. The play begins at one in the afternoon and lasts until ten at night. Tea and dinner is brought into your box in those nice little lacquer lunch boxes. Ganjiro is on the stage in every scene for eight hours, so you can see the actors work for their art here. The costumes are superb, but the actors do not simply strut to show off. Their speech being very affected in manner they have had to depend upon expression to get results, and as a consequence their acting is done with their entire body more than any other school in the world. The best ones, like the ones we are to see, can express any emotion, so 'tis said, with their backs and the calves of their legs when you can't see their faces. TOKYO, April 1. Our activities of late have been miscellaneous; we spent three days, counting coming and going four days, at Kamakura last week. It is on the seaside and is a great resort, summer and winter, for the Japanese, and at the hotel for Europeans over weekends. For summers the foreigners go to the mountains, while the Japanese take to the seaside, largely because there is more for the children to do on the seashore, but partly because mountains seem to be an acquired taste. Kamakura is about ten degrees warmer than Tokyo, as it is sheltered by the hills. Peas were in blossom and the cherry trees all out. It was cold and rainy while we were there, however, except one day, when we crowded in so much sightseeing we got rather tired. Mamma and I are now catching up on calls, prior to leaving and doing some sightseeing. To-day we went to a shop where they publish very fine reproductions of the old art of Japan, including Chinese paintings owned in Japan, much better worth buying than the color print reproductions to my mind, though we have laid in some reproductions of the latter. There are so many millionaires made by the war in Japan, that lots of the old lords are selling out part of their treasures now; prices I think are too high even for Americans. The old Daimyo families evidently have enough business sense to take advantage of the market, though some are hard up and sell more for that reason. A week ago we went to an auction room where there was a big collection of genuine old stuff, much finer than appears in the curio shops, and this weekend there is another big sale by a Marquis. However, it is said they keep the best things and unload on the nouveau riche; not but what a lot of it is mighty good as it is. My other experience that I have not written about is seeing Judo. The great Judo expert is president of a normal school, and he arranged a special exhibition by experts for my benefit, he explaining the theory of each part of it in advance. It took place Sunday morning in a big Judo hall, and there were lots of couples doing "free" work, too; they are too quick for my eye in that to see anything but persons suddenly thrown over somebody's back and flopped down on the ground. It is really an art. The Professor took the old practices and studied them, worked out their mechanical principles, and then devised a graded scientific set of exercises. The system is really not a lot of tricks, but is based on the elementary laws of mechanics, a study of the equilibrium of the human body, the ways in which it is disturbed, how to recover your own and take advantage of the shiftings of the center of gravity of the other person. The first thing that is taught is how to fall down without being hurt, that alone is worth the price of admission and ought to be taught in all our gyms. It isn't a good substitute for out-of-door games, but I think it is much better than most of our inside formal gymnastics. The mental element is much stronger. In short, I think a study ought to be made here from the standpoint of conscious control. Tell Mr. Alexander to get a book by Harrison--a compatriot of his--out of the library, called "The Fighting Spirit of Japan." It is a journalist's book, not meant to be deep, but is interesting and said to be reliable as far as it goes. I noticed at the Judo the small waists of all these people; they breathe always from the abdomen. Their biceps are not specially large, but their forearms are larger than any I have ever seen. I have yet to see a Japanese throw his head back when he rises. In the army they have an indirect method of getting deep breathing which really goes back to the Buddhist Zen teaching of the old Samurai. However, they have adopted a lot of the modern physical exercises from other armies. The gardens round here are full of cherry trees in blossom--and the streets are full of people too full of saké. The Japanese take their drunkenness apparently seasonly, as we hadn't seen drunken people till now. TOKYO, April 2. We have had another great day to-day. This morning rose early and wrote letters, which were not sent in spite of the haste, as we decided the slow boat was slower than waiting for a later and faster one. So you ought to get many letters at once. The day has been sunshiny and bright, but not at all sultry, so perfect for getting about. We went to the art store to get some prints which we had selected the day before and then on to call on a Professor of Political Economy, who is also a member of Parliament, radical and very wide awake and interesting, quite like an American in his energy and curiosity and interest. We visited and learned a lot about things here and there and then he took us to lunch at his mother-in-law's house. They have a beautiful house in Japanese style, with a foreign style addition, like most of the houses of the rich, the Japanese part having no resemblance whatever to the foreign, which is so much less beautiful. In carpets and table covers and tapestries imitated from the German, the Japanese have no taste, while in their own line they remain exquisite. This house is one of the most absolute cleanliness. No floor in it but shines like a mirror and has not a fleck of dust, never had one. Let me see if I can describe accurately this entertainment. We took three 'rickshas and rode through the cherry lined narrow streets over hills where are the lovely gardens of the rich showing through the gateways and showing over the top of the bamboo walls, which are built of poles about six feet long upright and tied together with cords. They are very pretty with the green. When we reached the house Mr. U---- took us in to the foreign drawing room, which is very mid-Victorian and German in its general effect. This one has in it a beautiful lacquer cabinet, very large and quite overpowering every other thing in the room. There the ladies of the house came in and made their bows, very amiable and smiling at our thanks for their hospitality. The sister-in-law, a young girl of sixteen, who wants to go to America, and afterwards the grandmother, very much the commanding character that a grandmother ought to be. The children hovered round them all much like our children. The ladies brought us tea with their own hands in lovely blue and white cups with little lacquer stands and covers. Candy with the tea, which was green. I forgot to say that we had already, during the hour with Mr. U---- had tea three different times and of three different kinds, besides little refreshments therewith. After a little we were summoned to lunch. Three places set on a low table and a beautiful blue brocade cushion to sit upon. The two younger ladies on their knees ready to serve us. They poured out wine for us, or Vermouth, and we took the latter. We had before us, each, one lacquer bowl, covered, that contained the usual fish soup with little pieces of fish and green things cut up in it. This we drink, putting the solid bits into our mouths with the chop sticks. The grandmother thought she ought to have prepared foreign food, but the clever girl of sixteen had spoken for home food, and so we thanked them for giving that to us, as we seldom get a real genuine Japanese meal. And this is the first we have had where we were served by the ladies of the house, except the dolls' food at the festival. It seems this is the highest compliment that we have had, as the real Japanese home is open to the foreigner only when the foreigner is asked to sit on the floor and is served by the ladies of the household. They kneel near the table and the maid brings the dishes and hands them to the ladies, who in turn serve the dishes to the guests. It is very pretty. I have reached the stage where I can sit on my heels for the length of a meal, but I rise very awkwardly, as my feet are asleep clear up to my knees at the end. We ate soup, cold fried lobster and shrimps, which are dipped in sauce besides; and cold vegetables in another bowl, and then hot fried fish; then some little pickles, then rice, of which the Japanese eat several bowls, then the dessert, which has been beside you all the time, and is a cold omelette, which tastes very good, and then they give you tea, Formosa oolong. We had toast, too, but that is foreign. Then we left the table and were shown the rooms upstairs, which contain many pieces of lacquer and bronze and woodwork, and then we went down and there was tea and a dish of fruit ready for us. We had not much time for this, as they were going to send us in a motor to the Imperial Gardens. But as the last kind of tea had to be brought we were at the door putting on our shoes when it arrived. This tea is strong oolong and has milk in it, with two lumps of sugar for you to put in yourself. Thus we had been served with tea six times within three hours. It is hard to describe the Imperial Gardens. Read the guide book and you will see that it is. Ten thousand orchid plants were the beginning of the sight. We saw the lettuce and the string beans and the tomatoes and potatoes and eggplant and melons, and all growing under glass, for the Emperor to eat. Never saw such perfect lettuce, all the heads in one frame of exactly the same size and arrangement, as if they were artificial, and all the others just right. Why potatoes under glass? Don't ask me. Grapes in pots looked as if the raising of grapes under glass was in its beginning, but maybe not, as I was not familiar enough with those little vines to know whether they would bear or not. The flowers in the frames were perfection. Masses of Mignonette daisies, and some other bright flowers I did not know were ready to put out in the beds which were prepared for the garden party. We cannot go on the 17th. A very large pavilion with shingle roof under which the Emperor and Empress are to sit at the party is being built and will be taken down the next day, or rather week, as it will take more than one day. Then if it rains there will be no party. To-night it looks as if rain might spoil the blossoms. But to-day was perfect. It is a little surprising when one sees this famous garden after reading about Japanese gardens for all one's life. There is such a large expanse of grass with no flowers and the grass does not get green here so soon as with us, and it is now all brown, though big masses of daffodils are superb. These under the cherry trees with the sunshine shining through slantways made one of the brilliant sights of a lifetime. The artificial lakes and rivers and waterfall and the bridges and islands and hills with big birds walking and swimming make enough to have come for to Japan. The groups of trees are as fine as anything can be and across the long expanses the view of them is like a succession of pictures. There are a hundred and sixty-five acres in the park, no buildings. In the beginning it was pretty well to one side of the city, but now it is on a car track of much travel, though still on the outskirts on its outer edge. On Monday we have arranged to go to the theater again at the Imperial. To-day it is the great actor Ganjiro at a small theater. It is said the jealousy of the Tokyo actors and managers keeps Ganjiro from getting a fair chance when he comes here. Mr. T----, formerly of Chicago, has just been here to try to arrange a dinner for us before we leave, the dinner to be at a restaurant with all the old students present. The restaurants are always amusing and we agreed, of course. This may keep us in Tokyo one day longer, though that is not decided yet. For the rest of the time we are to make up on calls as far as we can and ride about to see the cherry blossoms, and I hope we may see some of the famous tea houses. Thus far we have seen no tea house at all, and there is not one afternoon tea house where ladies go in this city excepting the new-fashioned department stores, and they do not stand for anything different than they do with us. This shows how little the real ladies of Tokyo go out of their houses. The Sumida river is a big river gathering up all the small streams from one side of the mountains. It is full of junks and other craft and is the center of much history, both for Tokyo as a city and for the whole country. TOKYO, April 4. Ganjiro, the greatest actor from Osaka, is acting here now, and the show was great. He did the scene among other things they did in New York under the name of "Bushido." A dance by a fox who had taken the form of a man was a wonderful thing. There is no use in trying to describe it. It was not just slow posturings, like the other Japanese dances we have seen, nor was it as wild as the Russian dancers; he did it alone, no companion, male or female. But it was as free as the Russian and much more classic at the same time. You will never realize what the human hand and arm can do until you see this. He put on a number of masks and then acted or danced according to the type of mask he had on. He can do an animal's motions without any clawing--as graceful and lithe as a cat. He is a son of an old man Ganjiro. Our last days here are rather crowded and we aren't going to get the things done that should be done. Cherry blossoms are at their height--another thing indescribable, but if dogwood trees were bigger and the blossoms were tinged with pink without being pink it would give the effect more than anything else I know. The indescribable part is the tree full of blossoms without leaves; of course you get that in the magnolias, but they are coarse where the cherry is delicate. We went to a museum to-day, which is finer in some respects than the Imperial; gods till you can't rest, and wonderful Chinese things, everything except paintings. TOKYO, April 8. We are actually packing up and get away to-morrow morning at 8:30--we travel all day, the first part till four o'clock on the fastest train in Japan. The ordinary trains make about fifteen miles an hour, Japan having unfortunately adopted narrow gauge in early days and going on the well-known principle of safety first. We have had various and sundry experiences since writing, the most interesting being on Sunday, when we were taken into the country both to see the cherry blossoms and the merry-makers; the time is a kind of a carnival and mild saturnalia based on bright clothes, and wigs, and saké, about ninety per cent saké. There were a few besides ourselves not intoxicated, but not many. Everybody practiced whatever English he knew on us, one dressed-up fellow informing us "I Chrallie Chaplin," and he was as good an imitation as most. Aside from one fight we saw no rudeness and not much boisterousness, the mental effect being apparently to make them confidential and demonstrative. Usually they are very reserved with one another, but Sunday it looked as if they were telling each other all their deepest secrets and life ambitions. Our host of the day laughed most benevolently all the time, not excluding when a fellow dressed in bright red woman's clothes insisted on riding on the running board. They get drunk so seldom that it didn't appeal to him so much as a drunk as it did as a popular festival; the people really were happy. There were miles of trees planted each side of a canal that supplies Tokyo with water, all kinds of trees and in all stages of development, from no blossoms to full, no leaf and beautiful little pink leaves. The blossoms are dropping, it is almost a mild snowfall, and yet the trees seem full. Yesterday we went to the theater again, the Imperial, a party of ten filling two boxes. We were taken behind the scenes and shown the green rooms, etc., and introduced to an actor and to his son, about eleven, who appeared on the stage later and did a very pretty dance. He had a teacher in the room and was doing his Chinese writing lesson, never looked up till he was spoken to, about the handsomest and most intelligent looking lad I have seen in Japan. Acting is practically an hereditary profession here. I doubt if an outsider not trained from early childhood could possibly do the acting anyway, and I don't think the guild would let him break in if he could, though one man of British extraction has been quite successful on the Japanese stage. We saw some very interesting things yesterday, including dances, and learned that they are very anxious to come to America, but they want a patron. If the scenes were selected with great care to take those that have lots of action and not so much talking, and the libretto was carefully explained, they could make a hit in New York at least. Our other blowout was the other evening at a Japanese classic tea house, a part of a Noh dance for entertainment and a twelve-course meal or so. The most interesting thing though is talking to people. On the whole I think we have a chance to see people who know Japan much better than most. We haven't been officialized and putting the different things together I think we have as good an acquaintance with the social conditions as anybody would be likely to get in eight weeks. An experienced journalist could get it, so far as information is concerned, in a few days, but I think things have to be soaked in by cumulative impressions to get the feel of the thing and the background. When they told me first that this was a great psychological moment, that everything was critical and crucial, I didn't know what they meant, and I could hardly put it in words now, any more than they did, but I know inside of me. There are few external signs of a change, but Japan is nearly in the condition she was in during the first years of contact and opening up of things fifty or so years ago, so far as the mental readiness for change is concerned, and the next few years may see rapid social changes. NARA, April 12. Well, we have started on our journey and have seen Japan for the first time, scenically speaking, that is to say. The first day's ride from Tokyo to Nagoya was interesting, but not particularly so except for Fuji, which we saw off and on for several hours, and on three sides. As sometimes it isn't visible, and we had a fine warm day, we had good luck. Nagoya is where the best old castle in Japan is, you may even in your benighted country and estate have heard of the two golden dolphins on top. The castle is an imperial palace and it turned out that you have to have a permit from Tokyo, but we set out to try to get in, and as we had met a nice young man at the X----'s in Tokyo who came from Nara, we telephoned him, and while we didn't get in through him (he said he could never get in himself under any circumstances) he promptly asked us to dinner. Then we were taken to the swellest tea house in Nara and had another of those elaborate dinners, on what he called the tea-istic plan. We began with the tea ceremony without the ceremony but with the powdered tea, the bowl being prepared for each one separately in succession. The Nara cooking is better, we all thought, than the Tokyo, the food being more savory and the variety of flavors greater, an opinion which pleased our host. Expressing some curiosity about some four-inch trout which seemed to have a sugar caramel coating, we found that they were cooked in a kind of liquor which deposited the sweetness, and then we were presented with a bottle of the drink known as Mirin, so now we are lugging glassware. Then after the dinner he said that he hoped that we would not think him guilty of improper action, but that he had invited the best samisen player and singer in Nagoya, and also some dancers. In other words, some geishas were introduced and sang, played and danced before King David. There are all grades from those comparable to chorus girls at Jack's to high grade actresses, and these were of the upper kind. He said he wished us to see something of true Japan which few foreigners saw, this referring to the restaurant as well as the dancing. They won't receive anybody who isn't an old client or friend of one of these high toned places. But the ladies of the party thought he was especially interested in one of the girls. Personally I think the dancing and music are much more interesting than they are reported to be in the guide books. The next day we went to the primitive Ise shrines, arriving cross and hungry at about two, but bound to get the pilgrimage over, especially as it wasn't good weather. Yamada, where the sacred shrines are, is a very beautiful place, with wooded hills and little streams. The trees are largely cryptomerias, which are evidently some relative of the California redwoods, and while not nearly as tall, make much the same effect. It is a darling spot, filled with the usual thousands of carpet bagger (literally the old Brussel carpet bags) pilgrims. As previously reported I toted a borrowed frock coat and stovepipe hat. Our guide said special clothing was not needed for the ladies. I put on my war paint, and the chief priest having been written from Tokyo of our impending arrival, an hour had been set. At the outermost gate, the Torii, the ceremony of purification, took place. We had water poured out on our hands out of a little ceremonial cup and basin and then the priest sprinkled salt on us; nobody else had this but us. Then when we got to the fence gate, we were told that the ladies not having "visiting dresses," whatever they are, couldn't go inside, but that I should be treated as of the same rank as an Imperial professor and allowed to go. I forgot to say that we had a gendarme in front of us to shoo the vulgar herd out of our way. Then we marched slowly in behind the priest, on stones brought from the seaside, through a picket fence to designated spots near the next fence, I being allowed nearer to the gate than our Japanese guide; and we worshiped, that is bowed. I got my bow over disgracefully quick, but I think our Japanese conductor stood at least fifteen minutes. KYOTO, April 15. Here we are in the Florence of Japan, and even more to see if possible than in Italy. We have had a rainy day to-day, which is perhaps a good beginning for a week of constant sightseeing. This morning we spent in Yamanaka's--the most beautiful shop I ever saw, composed of the finest Japanese rooms of the finest proportions and filled with the most beautiful art specimens of all kinds. But the kinds are properly assorted in true Japanese fashion. I bought a red brocade. It is a panel, old red with figures of gold and some dark blue, peonies and birds. It is what the Buddhist priests wear over the left arm in procession. We have the certificate that it is over a hundred years old. The panel is about five feet long and one wide, the strips which compose it are four in number, sewed in seams, which turn the corners in mortise fashion, and yet they all match perfectly. Most of these strips are woven in these ribbons and sewed together. I got a second one which is purple with splendid big birds and peonies again. I like the peony in brocade much better than the chrysanthemum or the smaller flowers. Some fine ones with pomegranates are tempting, but I did not buy the most beautiful on account of the prospects of spending money better in China. I also bought a pretty tea set which I have here in my room--it cost 30 sen, which means fifteen cents for teapot and five cups, gray pottery with blue decorations. There are many cheaper ones that are pretty too. Tomorrow we go to the original temple where the tea ceremony originated and are to participate in the tea ceremony, which the high priest will perform for us. You better get a guide book and read about the temples of Kyoto, as they are too numerous to tell about in letters. We have the municipal car for all these occasions. Good thing we do, for Kyoto has shrunk like a nut in its shell since the days of its ancient capital size and the distances between temples are enormous. Next day we go to the Imperial Palaces, and so go on and on getting fatter and fatter. The weather and the spring time are superb. Cherry blossoms were gone when we got here, but the young leaves of the maples are lovely green or red and the whole earth is paradise now. The hills are nearer than in Florence, the mountains higher, so that Kyoto has every natural beauty. We shall only have a week here and then go to Osaka, where the puppet theater is and where there is a school of drama, of which Ganjiro is the leader. It is the doll theater we want to see, because that is the origin of all acting in Japan. Many of the conventions of the theater are based on the movements of the puppets. Kyoto in many respects is the most lovely thing the world has to show, such a combination of nature and art as one dreams of. These wonderful temples of enormous size, of natural wood filled with paintings and sculpture of an ancient and unknown kind, fascinate one to the point of feeling there must be many more worlds when such multiplicity of ideas and feelings can exist on a single planet, and we live unconscious of the whole of it or even of any part of its extent. The gardens we have seen to-day are the old Japan unchanged since they were made a thousand years ago, when they took the ancient ideas of China and India for models. The temples of Tokyo seem like shabby relics of a worn-out era, but here the perfection of their art remains and is kept intact. The landscape of the first Buddhist monastery, where the tea ceremony originated, has the same rivers and islands and little piles of sand which were placed in the beginning, all in miniature, and planted with miniature trees, all imitations of real scenes in China when China was the land of culture. Now they say even the originals are destroyed in China, which is so out of repair that it depresses every one who sees it. Fifty years ago they advertised for sale here in Nara, a lovely pagoda five stories high for fifty yen. It is obviously necessary for some American millionaire to buy up the massive gates and pagodas and temples of China in order to redeem them from complete ruin. The Japanese are the one people who have waked up in time to the value of these historic things, and several of the temples have been rebuilt before the old material was so rotted as to make them hopeless. Wood is a magnificent material when it is used in such massive structures as it is here. The biggest bell in the world, twelve feet high, is hung on a great tree trunk in a belfry with a curled-up roof of flower-like proportions, first having been hauled to the top of the high hill. We shall hear it boom next Saturday. We heard the one in Nara, the deepest thing I ever thought to hear, nine feet high. They are beautiful bronze and they are very mellow and melodious and reach to the center of whatever the center of your being may be and leave you to hope the greater unknown of the judgment day may be a call like that sound. We had lunch with Miss D----. She tells stories about the efforts of the Japanese girls to get an education that make you want to sell your earrings, even if you have none, in order to give the money to these idealists. They are as much pioneers as our forebears who chopped down the trees, but they can't get at a tree to chop. She says she wants me to go back to America and to go to every Congregational church there and tell them they must send money here to give education to the people. One day we have the mayor's car to go about in and the next day the University hires a car for us and we indulge ourselves in all kinds of doings we do not deserve and sometimes wonder if we shall have to commit suicide after it ends in order to condone the point of honor. Certainly these people have a nobility of character which entitles them to race equality. I want to find a nice quiet place to stay and come back and see the sights at greater length. The paintings on the walls are mostly ruined, but the kakemonas and the screens and the makemonas, those are wonderful and I am glad to say that we have got over seeing them as grotesque, and we feel their beauty. When once you see that the trees in the ground are real and that they look just as the trees in the pictures have always looked, then you begin to appreciate both nature and human nature as depicted. KYOTO, April 15. To-day is rainy and we haven't done much. We got here yesterday noon. The hotel is on the side of a hill with wonderful views, and is pretty good, though the one at Nara which is run by the Imperial Railway System is the only first-class one we have seen so far. In the afternoon the University sent a car and we took an auto ride into the suburbs to a famous cherry place--it was too late for blossoms, but the river and hills and woods were beautiful, and we saw the usual large crowd enjoying life. It is really wonderful the way the people go out, all classes, and the amount of pleasure they get out of doors and in the tea houses. I have never been anywhere where every day seemed so much of a holiday as in Japan--there is still saké in evidence but not so much. This month a special geisha dance is given here at a theater connected with a training school; the dance lasts an hour and is repeated four or five consecutive hours. We went last night; the dancing is much more mechanical posturing than the theater dancing, or than the little geisha dance we saw at Nara, but the color combinations and the way they handled the scenery were wonderful. There were eight very different scenes and it didn't take more than a minute to make any change. Once a curtain was simply drawn down through a trap door, another time what had looked like a canvas mat in front of the curtain was pulled up and it turned out to be painted on one side. But they had a different method every time. The mayor has invited me to speak to the teachers Saturday afternoon, and afterwards we are invited by the municipality to a Japanese dinner. They are also putting the city auto--the only one apparently--at our disposal, when they aren't using it, and have arranged to take us to a porcelain and a weaving factory next Monday. This town is the headquarters of Japan for artistic production, ancient and modern. The University authorities also telephoned to Tokyo and got permission for us to visit the palaces here, but they are said not to be equal to the Nagoya ones which we missed. While at Nara we spent most of our time at the Horiuji temples, some miles out. I won't do the encyclopedia act except to say that they are the headquarters of the introduction of Buddhism into Japan thirteen hundred years ago, which meant civilization, especially art, and have the wall frescoes, unfortunately faint, of that period, and lots of sculpture; this means wood carving, as of course there is no marble here. Well, it happened that it was the birthday of Prince Shotoku, who was the gentleman responsible for the aforesaid introduction, and of whom there are many statues, age of two, twelve and sixteen being favorites; his piety was precocious. Consequently, everything was wide open. Every kind of peep show and stall, and more than the usual hundreds of pilgrims who combine pleasure with piety in a way that beats even the Italian peasants; when they have money here they spend it; tightwadism is not a Japanese vice. Well, we were taken into the garden of the chief priest to eat our luncheon; of course, he was very busy, but greeted us in gorgeous robes and then sent out tea and rice cakes. The contrast between this lovely little garden and the drums and barkers just beyond the walls and the wonderful old artistic shrines beyond the barkers and ham and egg row was as interesting as anything in Japan. You may remember Miss E---- is rather tall for an American woman, even. Mamma is something of an object to the country people, but Miss E---- is a spectacle. Curiosity is the only emotion the Japanese are not taught to conceal apparently. They gather around in scores, literally. I don't know how many times I have seen parents make sure the children didn't miss the show. Several times I have seen people walk slowly and solemnly all the way around us to make sure they missed nothing. No rudeness ever, just plain curiosity. As we were going to the museum after breakfast, a few of those children, girls, appeared and bowed. First I knew one of them had hold of each of my hands, and went with us as far as the museum--girls of nine or ten. It was touching to see their friendliness, especially one evidently rather poor, who would look up at me and laugh, and then squeeze my hand and press it against herself, and then laugh with delight again. I haven't been able to discover when it ceases to be proper for children to be natural. Sunday morning some soldiers were going off to Manchuria--or Korea--and before eight we heard the patter of the clogs down the street and some hundred of boys and girls were marching down to the station with their teachers; the same thing next morning, for the soldiers. KYOTO, April 19. We have just come from another Geisha party, given by the mayor and about fifteen of the other officers of the city. Papa is quite stuck up because they say it is the first time the city of Kyoto ever entertained a scholar in that fashion. But if he is stuck up what should I be when a woman appears for the first time in history at a men's carouse in Japan? The Geisha girls are all the way from eleven years old to something like fifty. One of the older ones is the best dancer in the city, and she gave us one of the wonderful pantomime dances that so fascinate one here. She has been in jail for her political activities, said activities consisting in the active distribution of funds in order to elect someone she favored. It is against the law for a woman to take any part in politics here. Like all the older women of that class that I have seen she has a sad look when her face is at rest. But they all talk and entertain so busily that the sadness is not seen by the men. They are a very cultivated lot of women so far as we have seen them; of course we see only the best. They talk with the composure of a duchess and the good nature of a child. It is a rare combination. They are very curious about us and ask all sorts of questions. One girl of seventeen said she loved babies and how many did I have? When I told her five she was delighted. She had a rosebud mouth just like the old prints and danced with the old print postures. The girls pass the drinks and the rice which always comes at the end of such feasts. The little eleven-year-old gave a dance called "Climbing Fuji." Wonderful flat-footed movements that make you feel exactly as if you were climbing with her. In the middle part she puts on a mask which is puffy in the cheeks, and then she wipes the perspiration and washes her little face and fans herself and goes on again, flatfooted. All the motions are most elegant and graceful and subtle and serpentine, never an abrupt or sudden gesture, and never quite literal in any sense. After the dance was finished she came and sat by me and her skin was hot as if she had a fever. All the men were older and I must say they treated her very nicely. This is the way those feasts go. We enter the restaurant in stocking feet, and are usually shown to a small room where we kneel on the cushions and take tea while waiting for all the guests to assemble. About six this time, we were shown to the large room, which is always surrounded by gold screens and shoji, which slide back before the windows. Cushions are placed about three feet apart on three sides of the long and beautifully shaped room. In the middle of one side they are piled up so the foreign guests of honor may sit instead of kneeling Japanese fashion. We place ourselves after having all the guests one after another brought up. We shake hands because their bows are rather impossible and they have adapted themselves to our way. Then we all squat again. Then the pretty waitresses come slithering across the floor, each with a tiny table in her hands. The first is for Papa, the second for me, then the mayor, and so on. The mayor is down at the end of the line. After each one has his table before him the mayor comes to the center of the hollow square and makes a little speech of welcome. He always tells you how sorry he is he has such a poor entertainment and that he could not do better for these distinguished guests who do him so much honor by coming, and how this is the first time the city has ever honored a foreign scholar by this kind of entertainment. Then Papa does his best to make a reply, and after he sits down we lift the cover of a lovely lacquer soup bowl and lift the chop sticks. You take a drink of soup, lift a thin slippery slice of raw fish from its little dish, dip it in the sauce and put it in your mouth. To-night this first soup is a rich and rare green turtle, delicious. So you drink it all and take a little fish, but our guide warns us not to take too much raw fish as we are not accustomed it. By this time another tray of pretty lacquer is put beside you on the floor and on it is a tiny tray or platter of lacquer on which are placed two little fish browned to perfection, and trimmed with two little cakes of egg and powdered fish, very nicely rolled in cherry leaves. Every dish is a work of art in its arrangement. These two fish are the favorite of the last emperor, and you do not blame him. They are cooked in mirin, a kind of sweet liquor made from saké, and you eat all you can pick off the bones with your hashi. As soon as this tray is in place you see a lovely little girl with her long, bright-colored kimona on the floor around her, and she has in her hand a blue and white china bottle placed in a tiny lacquer coaster, and you know the feast is really under way. She is followed by the older girls, and little by little one at a time and quite gradually the dancing girls come in and bow to the floor while they pour out the saké. They laugh at the ways of the foreigners who always forget it is the part of the guest to hold out his tiny cup for the poison. Everybody drinks to the health of everybody else and there stops my saké, but the Japanese drink on and on, one cup at a sip and the hand reaching out for more. Talk gets livelier, the girls take more part in it. They are said by some to be the only interesting women in Japan. At any rate, no wives are ever there but me, and the girls are beautifully cultured, moving at the slightest suggestion of voice or gesture and always seeing quickly and very pleasantly what each one wants. As soon as they see we do not drink saké they bring many bottles of mineral water for us. Then they do their beautiful dances. Two, about seventeen years old, did one called "Twilight on the east hill of Kyoto." In Nagoya, in Tokyo, or wherever you are, the theme is always some natural event connected with the nature near by. Always simple and classic. Then the famous old dancer did a subtle thing called "The nurse putting the child to sleep." That is another favorite theme. This was lovely, but sometimes too subtle for us to grasp all the movements. These girls all dress in dark colors like the ladies, only with the difference prescribed by the profession, such as the low neck in the back and the full length of the kimona on the floor like a wave around her. With the young ones the obi is different, being tied to drop down on the floor in a long bow. The young ones also have the bright hair ornaments and the very long sleeves. But so do other young girls wear the long sleeves for company dress. There are other courses of fish; one of four strawberries, two slices of orange, some mint jelly cut in cubes, and sweetened bamboo slices in the middle of the list. Then more fish courses, many of them bright-colored shell fish which are always rather tough. Then a very nice mixture of sour cucumber salad and little pieces of lobster or crab, very nice and any sour thing is good with these many courses of fish. At the end bowls of rice, which is brought in in a big lacquer dish with a cover looking some like a small barrel. This is put into bowls by one of the older dancers and handed about by the younger ones who get up and down from their kneeling posture by just lifting themselves as if they had no weight, on their toes. Many of the Japanese take the regulation three bowls full of rice, and eat it very fast. I must say their rice is delicious, but I cannot get away with more than one bowl, partly because I cannot gobble. Then, for the last, your bowl is filled with tea. All this time the gentlemen from the other parts of the room are kneeling one at a time before you asking you if you like the cherry dance and what your first impressions of Japan were, and all such talk, and you have become intimate friends with the dancers as well, maybe with no common language except "thank you" and "very nice" and "good-bye," and constant smiles and interpretations now and then from others who know a very little English. One thing no one expects is for a foreigner to know a word of Japanese. Therefore, when you pop out an awkward word or two, you are applauded by laughter and compliments on your good pronunciation. To-night we had the very tiniest of green peppers cooked as a vegetable with one of the dishes. That was good as it had flavor; three of them about as big as a hairpin were served in the dish. You always get tiny portions and are usually warned not to eat too much at the first part of the meal. In the tea-dinner the rice comes along at the beginning so it can be eaten with the fish, and that is an agreeable variety though you are told not to eat too much of it as there are other courses to follow. I forgot to say there is always a course in the middle which is a hot custard made with broth instead of milk and seasoned with vegetables. That is good, too. In fact, I have become quite fond of this fish food. When we got in the motor car at the gate of the restaurant, all the gay little dancers were standing there in the rain waving their hands in American fashion till we went out of sight. Then I suppose the tired little things went back and danced for more men. We were home at 8:30. All the dinners seem to be early here in Japan, except what are called the foreign ones and they follow our hours as well as our style. I must tell you the best tea in Japan grows here at a place nearby called Uji. We had that tea after a lecture in the city hall. It is strong to the danger point, and has a flavor unlike anything else. An acid like lemon and no bitter at all; leaves a smooth pleasant taste something like dry sherry, and is generally delicious. It costs at least ten yen a pound here, but I shall get some to take home. Very good ordinary tea here costs fifteen sen a pound, seven and a half cents. KYOTO, April 22. To-day we were taken visiting schools--first a Boys' High school, then an elementary school which had an American flag along with the Japanese over the door in our honor, and which was awfully nice. The children did lots of cunning stunts for us, one little kid beating the Japanese drum for their rhythmic marching, which they are good at. Then a textile school for textile design, weaving and dyeing, which for some unexplained reason was bad and poorly attended. The machines were old, German and out of date. In fact, it all looked as if it had been worked off on them second hand by some Germans who didn't want them ever to amount to anything. All of the best work here is still done by hand, although they have good electric power developed from the water they have. Then we went to a Girls' High School, combined with a college for girls, preparing teachers for the regular high schools. The élite of Kyoto go there, and it, like the other schools, was very nice and good. They specialize in domestic science and we ate a fine Japanese lunch they had prepared. All this, like most our other trips, in the mayor's car. This is really a country where the scholar is looked up to and not down upon. In virtue of having lectured at the Imperial University I am "Your Excellency" officially. Osaka city does not wish to be outdone by Kyoto, so I am to lecture to the teachers there, and the city is to provide for us at the hotel, and the mayor to give us a banquet there. Of course, Mamma is the only woman present, as it would not occur to them to invite their own wives. Foreign women are expected, however, to do strange things, and they are very polite to them. The geisha women seem to be about the only ones who have an all-around education--not of the book type, but in the sense of knowing about things and being able and willing to talk--and I think the men go to these banquets and talk to them because they are tired of their too obeyful wives and their overdocility. One woman at the banquet we went to was known as the Singing Butterfly, and has the name Constitution as a nickname, because of her supposed interest in politics, especially on the liberal side. When we heard that she had been in prison because of her interest in politics, we sat up and took notice, but it turned out that it was for bribing voters to vote for a man she was interested in. But she is a local celebrity all right, and her stay in prison had evidently added to her interest and prestige. April 28, on the _Kumano Maru_. En Route to China. The lecture yesterday was a success, going off rather better than the others. It was in a school hall and they are always beautiful rooms. I was entertained during its two hours of duration by watching a splendid pink azalea and a pine on either side of the desk. They are each about five feet high and of the most lovely shape, and there were about a thousand blossoms on this azalea. We know but very little about dwarfed trees and shrubs in our country as the specimens we see are very small ones and inferior in shape and interest to those we see here. They are everywhere, each little shop has in the midst of its mess of second hand or cheap new things a charming little peach or plum, pine, azalea, or redberry. In a hot house we saw a tree that had two plums on it, and we frequently see tiny orange trees covered with fruit. The white peach is one of the loveliest things in the world, double blossoms like roses, and is entirely artificially produced. The smoke has lifted and we are seeing the hills of the shore very well. On the other side of the ship we see the Island of Awaji, so we are now between the two islands and it is much like the Thousand Islands in the St. Lawrence River. I suppose this is the entrance to the Inland Sea. It is partly clear and the land is so close it is easy to see. There are many Japanese ladies on board with their husbands and they seem to enjoy it. With their faces white with rice powder and their purple color in their haoris they are pretty, and especially here where they do not feel the necessity of covering the obi with haori so they look less humpbacked than in fashionable Tokyo. Their footwear I love, only, of course, it holds them still more to the conventional position as it leaves the legs bare above the ankle, and they must walk so as not to show that as well as not to disturb the lap of the kimona down the front. But the tabi feel like bare feet on account of the division of the big toe from the other toes, and as soon as you put them on you feel as if the toes were really made to use, and the foot clings as you walk. I am taking a set of cotton kimonas to China so as to have them to wear in my room with the tabi on hot days. Without the obi the dress becomes quite cool if made of thin material. The thin silk, which is practically transparent, is one of the most beautiful things in Japanese weaving, as it is still firm enough to keep its shape and wear for years. The dress of the geisha is very like the ceremonial dress of the lady, especially when black with decorations at the bottom. The little girls are very touching, many of them are not over eight or nine, and they wear the elaborate dress and coiffure which is theirs for the part. In cherry season it is bright peacock blue. In Osaka the decorations were butterflies in colors and gold. The samisen players are older and they dress more plainly in black or plain blue, the drum players are young and gay colored. The teeth of the little girls are so bad that I asked if they blackened them. The dances are lovely poetical things with themes of the most delicate subjects. There is never anything coarse either in the thought or the execution. They say the geisha is the most unselfish person in the world. Perhaps that might be said for all the women. They do their hard work and keep themselves out of sight to a degree that shows the pain there must be in it. When I was asked what I thought of them I answered that I thought Japanese women were not appreciated for what they did. They said, "No, that is not so, we do not show it but we appreciate them in our hearts." SHANGHAI, May 1. We have slept one night in China, but we haven't any first impressions, because China hasn't revealed itself to our eyes as yet. We compared Shanghai to Detroit, Michigan, and except that there is less coal smoke, the description hits it off. This is said to be literally an international city, but I haven't learned yet just what the technique is; every country seems to have its own post office though, and its own front-door yard, and when we were given a little auto ride yesterday, we found that the car couldn't go into Chinatown because it had no license for that district. I shall be interested to find out whether in this really old country they talk about "ages eternal" as freely as they do in Japan; the authentic history of the latter begins about 500 A.D., their mythical history 500 B.C., but still it is a country which has endured during myriads of ages. In spite of the fact that they kept the emperors shut up for a thousand years, and killed them off and changed them about with great ease and complacency, the children are all taught, and they repeat in books for foreigners, that the rule of Japan has been absolutely unbroken. Of course, they get to believing these things themselves, not exactly intellectually but emotionally and practically, and it would be worth any teacher's position for him to question any of their patriotic legends in print. However, they say that in their oral lectures, the professors of history of the universities criticise these legends. In the higher elementary school we visited in Osaka, we saw five classes in history and ethics, in each of which the Emperor was under discussion--sometimes _the_ Emperor and what he had done for the country, and sometimes _an_ Emperor in particular. Apparently this religion has been somewhat of a necessity, as the country was so divided and split up, they had practically nothing else to unite on--the Emperor became a kind of symbol of united and modern Japan. But this worship is going to be an Old Man of the Sea on their backs. They say the elementary school teachers are about the most fanatical patriots of the country. More than one has been burned or allowed the children to be burned while he rescued the portrait of the Emperor when there was a fire. They must take it out in patriotism in lieu of salary; they don't get a living wage, now that the cost of living has gone up. SHANGHAI, May 2. We have been taken in hand by a reception committee of several Chinese gentlemen, mostly returned American students. The "returned student" is a definite category here, and if and when China gets on its feet, the American university will have a fair share of the glory to its credit. They took us to see a Chinese cotton spinning and weaving factory. There is not even the pretense at labor laws here that there is in Japan. Children six years of age are employed, not many though, and the wages of the operatives in the spinning department, mainly women, is thirty cents a day, at the highest thirty-two cents Mex. In the weaving department they have piece work and get up to forty cents. I will tell you something of what we had to eat in one small afternoon. First, lunch of all courses here at the hotel. Then we went to the newspaper where we had tea and cake at about four. From there to the house of the daughter of a leading statesman of the Manchus, she being a lady of small feet and ten children, who has offered a prize for the best essay on the ways to stop concubinage, which they call the whole system of plural marriage. They say it is quite unchanged among the rich. There we were given a tea of a rare sort, unknown in our experience. Two kinds of meat pies which are made in the form of little cakes and quite peculiar in taste, delicious; also cake. Then after we went to the restaurant where we were to have dinner. First we got into the wrong hotel and there, while we were waiting, they gave us tea. We were struck by the fact that they asked for nothing when we left, and thanked us for coming to the wrong place. Then we went to the right hotel across the street from the first. They called it the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street, and it is that. There is a big roof garden besides the hotels, and they are both run by the Department stores which have their places underneath. It may be a sad commentary on the human character that one can eat more than one can remember, but that is what we did last night. First of all we went into the room which was all Chinese furniture; very small round table in the middle and the rows of stools along one side for the singing girls, who do not dance here. Those stools were not used, as all the young Chinese are ashamed of that institution and want to get rid of it. On a side table were almonds shelled, nice little ones, different from ours and very sweet. Beside them were dried watermelon seeds which were hard to crack and so I did not taste them. All the Chinese nibbled them with relish. Two ladies came, both of them had been in New York to study. All these people speak and understand English in earnest. On the table were little pieces of sliced ham, the famous preserved eggs which taste like hard-boiled eggs and look like dark-colored jelly, and little dishes of sweets, shrimps, etc. To these we helped ourselves with the chop sticks, though they insisted on giving us little plates on which they spooned out some of each. Then followed such a feast as we had never experienced, the boys taking off one dish after another and replacing them with others in the center of the table, to which we helped ourselves. There was no special attempt at display of fine dishes such as you might have expected with such cooking and such expense, and such as would have happened in Japan. We had chicken and duck and pigeon and veal and pigeon eggs and soup and fish and little oysters that grow in the ground (very delicious and delicate) and nice little vegetables and bamboo sprouts mixed in with the others, and we had shrimps cooked, and shark's fin and bird's nest (this has no taste at all and is a sort of very delicate soup, but costs a fortune and that is its real reason for being). It is gelatine which almost all dissolves in the cooking. We had many more things than these, and the boy in a dirty white coat and an old cap on his head passing round the hot perfumed wet towels every few courses, and for dessert we had little cakes made of bean paste filled up with almond paste and other sweets, all very elaborately made, and works of art to look at, but with too little taste to appeal much to us; then we had fruits, bananas and apples and pears, cut up in pieces, each with a toothpick in it so it can be eaten easily. Then we had a soup made of fish's stomach, or air sac. Then we had a pudding of the most delicious sort imaginable, made of a mold of rice filled in with eight different symbolic things that I don't know anything about, but they don't cut much part in the taste. In serving this dish we were first given a little bowl half full of a sauce thickened and looking like a milk sauce. It was really made of powdered almonds. Into this you put the pudding, and it is so good that I regretted all that had gone before, and I am going to learn how to make it. SHANGHAI, May 3. Some one told us when we were on the boat that the Japanese cared everything for what people thought of them, and the Chinese cared nothing. Making comparisons is a favorite, if dangerous, indoor sport. The Chinese are noisy, not to say boisterous, easy-going and dirty--and quite human in general effect. They are much bigger than the Japanese, and frequently very handsome from any point of view. The most surprising thing is the number of those who look not merely intelligent but intellectual among the laborers, such as some of the hotel waiters and attendants. Our waiter is a rather feminine, ultra refined type, and might be a poet. I noticed quite a number of the same Latin quarter Paris type of artists among the teachers whom I addressed to-day. The Japanese impressions are gradually sinking into perspective with distance, and it is easy to see that the same qualities that make them admirable are also the ones that irritate you. That they should have made what they have out of that little and mountainous island is one of the wonders of the world, but everything in themselves is a little overmade, there seems to be a rule for everything, and admiring their artistic effects one also sees how near art and the artificial are together. So it is something of a relaxation to get among the easy-going once more. Their slouchiness, however, will in the end get on one's nerves quite as much as the "eternal" attention of the Japanese. One more generalization borrowed from one of our Chinese friends here, and I'm done. "The East economizes space and the West time"--that also is much truer than most epigrams. SHANGHAI, May 4. I have seen a Chinese lady, small feet and all. We took dinner with her. She did not come into the room until after dinner was over, having been in the kitchen cooking it while the servant brought things in. She has one of those placid faces which are round and plump and quite beautiful in a way, a pretty complexion, and of course a slow, rocking, hobbling way of walking. Yesterday after the lecture we went there again and she showed us all over her flat. It is well kept, with not many conveniences from our point of view, but I think it is regarded as quite modern here. It has a staircase, and a little roof where they dry clothes or sit. The bath is a tin tub, warmed by carrying water from the little stove like our little laundry stoves. It has an outlet pipe to the ground, no sewers as usual in the Orient. The kitchen has a little stove of iron set up on boxes and they burn small pieces of wood. It has three compartments, two big shallow iron pots for roasting and boiling and a deep one in the middle for keeping the hot water for tea. Only two fires are needed as the heat from the two end fires does for the water in the middle. There is no doubt that the Chinese are a sociable people if given a chance. Of course, men like the husband of our hostess are the extreme of ability and advanced ideas here. But it is remarkable that he shows us things as they are. When we visited schools he did not arrange in advance because he did not want us to see a fixed up program. When we went out to lunch he took us to a Chinese place where no foreigners ever go. Yesterday we went to a department store to buy some gloves and garters. Gloves were Keyser's, imported, so were the stockings, so were the garters and suspenders, etc. The gloves were from $1 to $1.60 and the suspenders were a dollar. I bought some silk, sixteen inches wide, for fifty cents a yard. The store was messy and the floors dirty, but it is a popular place for the Chinese. We paid three dollars for a book marked 1sh. 6p. in England, and everything here is like that. Gloves and stockings are made in Japan, and good and cheap there; fine silken stockings $1.60 a pair. But still the Chinese do not buy of them, but from America. We have visited a cotton mill. The Chinese cotton and silk are now inferior, owing to lack of scientific production and of proper care of seed. In weaving, they sometimes mix their cotton with ours. SHANGHAI, Monday, May 12. The Peking tempest seems to have subsided for the present, the Chancellor still holding the fort, and the students being released. The subsidized press said this was due in part to the request of the Japanese that the school-boy pranks be looked upon indulgently. According to the papers, the Japanese boycott is spreading, but the ones we see doubt if the people will hold out long enough--meanwhile Japanese money is refused here. The East is an example of what masculine civilization can be and do. The trouble I should say is that the discussions have been confined to the subjection of the women as if that were a thing affecting the women only. It is my conviction that not merely the domestic and educational backwardness of China, but the increasing physical degeneration and the universal political corruption and lack of public spirit, which make China such an easy mark, is the result of the condition of women. There is the same corruption in Japan only it is organized; there seems to be an alliance between two groups of big capitalists and the two leading political "parties." There the very great public spirit is nationalistic rather than social, that is, it is patriotism rather than public spirit as we understand it. So while Japan is strong where China is weak, there are corresponding defects there because of the submission of women--and the time will come when the hidden weakness will break Japan down. Here are two items from the Chinese side. A missionary spoke to Christian Chinese about spending the time Sunday, making chiefly the point that it was a good time for family reunions and family readings, conversation and the like. One of them said that they would be bored to death if they had to spend the whole day with their wives. Then we are told that the rich women--who have of course much less liberty in getting out than the poorer class women--spend their time among themselves gambling. It is universally believed that the attempt to support a number of wives extravagantly is one of the chief sources of political corruption. On the other hand, at one of the political protest meetings in Peking a committee of twelve was appointed to go to the officials and four of them were women. In Japan women are forbidden to attend any meetings where politics are discussed, and the law is strictly enforced. There are many more Chinese women studying in America than there are Japanese--in part, perhaps, because of the lack of higher schools for girls here, but also because they don't have to give up marriage here when they get an education--in fact we are told they are in especial demand not only among the men who have studied abroad, but among the millionaires. Certainly the educated ones here are much more advanced on the woman question than in Japan. "You never can tell" is the coat of arms of China. The Chancellor of the University was forced out on the evening of the eighth by the cabinet, practically under threat of assassination; also soldiers (bandits) were brought into the city and the University surrounded, so to save the University rather than himself, he left--nobody knows where. The release of the students was sent out by telegraph, but they refused to allow this to become known. It seems this Chancellor was more the intellectual leader of the liberals than I had realized, and the government had become really afraid of him. He has only been there two years, and before that the students had never demonstrated politically and now they are the leaders of the new movement. So of course the government will put in a reactionary, and the students will leave and all the honest teachers resign. Perhaps the students will go on strike all over China. But you never can tell. Tuesday A.M. Ex-President Sun Yat Sen is a philosopher, as I found out last night during dinner with him. He has written a book, to be published soon, saying that the weakness of the Chinese is due to their acceptance of the statement of an old philosopher, "To know is easy, to act is difficult." Consequently they did not like to act and thought it was possible to get a complete theoretical understanding, while the strength of the Japanese was that they acted even in ignorance and went ahead and learned by their mistakes; the Chinese were paralyzed by fear of making a mistake in action. So he has written a book to prove to his people that action is really easier than knowledge. The American sentiment here hopes that the Senate will reject the treaty because it virtually completes the turning over of China to Japan. I will only mention two things said in the conversation. Japan already has more troops, namely twenty-three divisions, under arms in China than she has in Japan, Japanese officered Chinese, and her possession of Manchurian China is already complete. They have lent China two hundred millions to be used in developing this army and extending it. They offered China, according to the conversation at dinner, to lend her two million a month for twenty years for military purposes. Japan figured the war would last till '21 or '22, and had proposed an offensive and defensive alliance to Germany, Japan to supply its trained Chinese army, and Germany to turn over to Japan the Allies' concessions and colonies in China. As an evidence of good faith, Germany had already offered to Japan its own Chinese territory, and it was the communication of this fact to Great Britain which induced the latter to sign the secret pact agreeing to turn over German possessions to Japan, when the peace was made. These men are not jingoists; they think they know what they are talking about, and they have good sources of knowledge. Some of these statements are known facts--like the size of the army and the two hundred million loan--but of course I can't guarantee them. But I'm coming to the opinion that it might be well worth while to reject the treaty on the ground that it involved the recognition of secret treaties and secret diplomacy. On the other hand, a genuine League of Nations--one with some vigor--is the only salvation I can see of the whole Eastern situation, and it is infinitely more serious than we realize at home. If things drift on five or ten years more, the world will have a China under Japanese military domination--barring two things--Japan will collapse in the meantime under the strain, or Asia will be completely Bolshevikized, which I think is about fifty-fifty with a Japanized-Militarized China. European diplomacy here, which of course dominates America, is completely futile. England does everything with reference to India, and they all temporize and drift and take what are called optimistic long-run views and quarrel among themselves, and Japan alone knows what it wants and comes after it. I still believe in the genuineness of the Japanese liberal movement there, but they lack moral courage. They, the intellectual liberals, are almost as ignorant of the true facts as we are, and enough aware of them to wish to keep themselves in ignorance. Then there is the great patriotism, which of course easily justifies, by the predatory example of the Europeans, the idea that this is all in self-defense. SHANGHAI, May 13. I closed up abruptly because there seemed a possibility of mail going out and now it is a day after and more to tell, with a prospect of little time to tell it. China is full of unused resources and there are too many people. The factories begin to work at six or earlier in the morning, with not enough for the poor to do, and they have the habit of not wanting to work much. Two shifts work in factories for the twenty-four hours. They get about twenty to thirty cents a day and the little children get from nothing up to nine cents, or even eleven cents after they get older. Iron mines are idle, coal and oil undeveloped, and they cannot get railroads. They burn their wood everywhere and the country is withering away because it is deforested. They made the porcelain industry for the world and they buy their table dishes from Japan. They raise a deteriorated cotton and buy cotton cloth from Japan. They buy any quantity of small useful articles from Japan. Japanese are in every town across China like a network closing in on fishes. All the mineral resources of China are the prey of the Japanese, and they have secured 80 per cent of them by bribery of the Peking government. Talk to a Chinese and he will tell you that China cannot develop because she has no transportation facilities. Talk to him about building railroads and he tells you China ought to have railroads but she cannot build them because she cannot get the material. Talk to him about fuel when you see all the weeds being gathered from the roadsides for burning in the cook stoves, and he tells you China cannot use her mines because of the government's interference. There are large coal mines within ten miles of this city with the coal lying near the surface and only the Japanese are using them, though they are right on the bank of the Yangste River. The iron mines referred to are near the river, a whole mountain of iron being worked by the Japanese, who bring the ocean ships up the river, load them directly from the mines, the ore being carried down the hill, and take these ships directly to Japan, and they pay four dollars a ton to the Chinese company which carries on all the work. The last hope of China for an effective government passed away with the closing of the Peace Conference, which has been working hard here for weeks. It seems the delegates from the south could act with plenary power. The delegates from the north had to refer everything to the military ministers from Peking, and so at last they gave up. Despair is deeper than ever, and they all say that nothing can be done. We have gone round recommending many ways of getting at the wrong impressions that prevail in our country about them, such as propaganda, an insistence upon the explanation of the differences between the people and the government. But the reply is, "We can do nothing, we have no money." Certainly the Chinese pride has been grounded now. An American official here says there is no hope for China except through the protection of the great powers, in which Japan must join. Without that she is the prey of Japan. Japanese are buying best bits of land in this city for business, and in other cities. Japan borrows money from other nations and then loans it to China on bleeding terms. The cession of Shantung has, of course, precipitated the whole mess and some Chinese think that is their last hope to so reduce them to the last extremity that rage will bring them to act. The boycott of Japanese goods and money has begun, but many say it will not be persistently carried out. The need for food and clothes in China keeps everybody bound by the struggle for a livelihood, and everything else has to be forgotten in the long run. The protests of the Faculty on behalf of the students seem to have been received by the government in good part. Students here are in trouble also to some extent and there is a probability of a strike of students in all the colleges and middle schools of the country. The story at St. John's here is very interesting. It is the Episcopalian mission school, and one of the best. Students walked to Shanghai, ten miles, on the hottest day to parade, then ten miles back. Some of them fell by the way with sunstroke. On their return in the evening they found some of the younger students going in to a concert. The day was a holiday, called the Day of Humiliation. It is the anniversary of the date of the twenty-one demands of Japan, and is observed by all the schools. It is a day of general meetings and speechmaking for China. These students stood outside of the door where the concert was to be held and their principal came out and told them they must go to the concert. They replied that they were praying there, as it was not a time for celebrating by a concert on the Day of Humiliation. Then they were ordered to go in first by this principal and afterwards by the President of the whole college. Considerable excitement was the result. Students said they were watching there for the sake of China as the apostles prayed at the death of Christ and this anniversary was like the anniversary of the death of Christ. The President told them if they did not go in then he would shut them out of the college. This he did. They stood there till morning and then one of them who lived nearby took them into his house. Therefore St. John's College is closed and the President has not given in. I fancy the Chinese would be almost ready to treat the Japanese as they did the treacherous minister if it were not for the reaction it would have on the world at large. They do hate them and the Americans we have met all seem to feel with them. Certainly the apparent lie of the Japanese when they made their splurge in promising before the sitting of the Peace Conference to give back the German concessions to China is something America ought not to forget. All these, and the extreme poverty of China is what I had no idea of before coming here. A wonderfully solemn and intent old pedlar has made his appearance most every day, and much the same ceremonies are gone through. For instance, there was a bead necklace--the light hollowed silver enamel--he wanted fourteen dollars for; he seemed rather glad finally to sell it for four, though you can't say he seemed glad; on the contrary, he seemed preternaturally gloomy and remarked that he and not we would eat bitterness because of this purchase. The funniest thing was once when, after getting sick of bargaining, we put the whole thing down and started to walk away. His movements and gestures would have made an actor celebrated--they are indescribable, but they said in effect, "Rather than have any misunderstanding come between me and my close personal friends I would give you free anything in my possession." The blood rushed to his face and a smile of heavenly benignity came over it as he handed us the things at the price we had offered him. The students' committees met yesterday and voted to inform the government by telegraph that they would strike next Monday if their four famous demands were not granted--or else five--including of course refusal to sign the peace treaty, punishment of traitors who made the secret treaties with Japan because they were bribed, etc. But the committee seemed to me more conservative than the students, for the rumor this A.M. is that they are going to strike to-day anyway. They are especially angered because the police have forbidden them to hold open-air meetings--that's now the subject of one of their demands--and because the provincial legislature, after promising to help on education, raised their own salaries and took the money to do it with out of the small educational fund. In another district the students rioted and rough-housed the legislative hall when this happened. Here there was a protest committee, but the students are mad and want action. Some of the teachers, so far as I can judge, quite sympathize with the boys, not only in their ends but in their methods; some think it their moral duty to urge deliberate action and try to make the students as organized and systematic as possible, and some take the good old Chinese ground that there is no certainty that any good will come of it. To the outsider it looks as if the babes and sucklings who have no experience and no precedents would have to save China--if. And it's an awful if. It's not surprising that the Japanese with their energy and positiveness feel that they are predestined to govern China. I didn't ever expect to be a jingo, but either the United States ought to wash its hands entirely of the Eastern question, and say "it's none of our business, fix it up yourself any way you like," or else it ought to be as positive and aggressive in calling Japan to account for every aggressive move she makes, as Japan is in doing them. It is sickening that we allow Japan to keep us on the defensive and the explanatory, and talk about the open door, when Japan has locked most of the doors in China already and got the keys in her pocket. I understand and believe what all Americans say here--the military party that controls Japan's foreign policy in China regards everything but positive action, prepared to back itself by force, as fear and weakness, and is only emboldened to go still further. Met by force, she would back down. I don't mean military force, but definite positive statements about what she couldn't do that she knew meant business. At the present time the Japanese are trying to stir up anti-foreign feeling and make the Chinese believe the Americans and English are responsible for China not getting Shantung back, and also talking race discrimination for the same purpose. I don't know what effect their emissaries are having among the ignorant, but the merchant class has about got to the point of asking foreign intervention to straighten things out--first to loosen the clutch of Japan, and then, or at the same time, for it's the two sides of the same thing, overthrow the corrupt military clique that now governs China and sells it out. It's a wonderful job for a League of Nations--if only by any chance there is a league, which looks most dubious at this distance. The question which is asked oftenest by the students is in effect this: "All of our hopes of permanent peace and internationalism having been disappointed at Paris, which has shown that might still makes right, and that the strong nations get what they want at the expense of the weak, should not China adopt militarism as part of her educational system?" NANKING, May 18. There is no doubt we are in China. Hangchow, we are told, was one of the most prosperous of the strictly Chinese cities, and after seeing this town we can believe it. It has a big wall around it, said to be 21 miles and also 33--my guess is the latter; nonetheless there are hundreds of acres of farm within it. This afternoon we were taken up on the wall; it varies from 15 to 79 feet in height, according to the lay of the ground, and from 12 to 30 feet or so wide; hard baked brick, about as large as three of ours. They always had a smaller walled city inside the big one, variously called the Imperial and Manchu city. But since the revolution they are tearing down these inner walls, partly I suppose to show their contempt for the Manchus, and partly to use the brick. These are sold for three or four cents apiece and carted all around on the big Chinese wheelbarrow, by man power, of course. The compound wall of this house is made of them, and they have several thousand of them stored at the University grounds. They scrape them off by hand; you can get some idea of the relative value of material and human beings. I started out to speak of the view--typical China, deforested hills close by, all pockmarked at the bottom with graves, like animal burrows and golf bunkers; peasants' stone houses with thatched roofs, looking like Ireland or France; orchards of pomegranates with lovely scarlet blossoms and other fruits; some rice fields already growing, others being set out, ten or a dozen people at work in one patch; garden patches, largely melons; in the distance the wall stretching out for miles, a hill with a pagoda, a lotus lake, and in the far distance the blue mountains--also the city, not so much of which was visible, however. One of the interesting things in moving about is the fact that only once in a while do I see a face typically Chinese. I forget they are Chinese a great deal of the time. They just seem like dirty, poor miserable people anywhere. They are cheerful but not playful. I should like to give a few millions for playgrounds and toys and play leaders. I can't but think that a great deal of the lack of initiative and the let-George-do-it, which is the curse of China, is connected with the fact that the children are grown up so soon. There are less than a hundred schools for children in this city of a third of a million, and the schools only have a few hundred--two or three at most. The children on the street are always just looking and watching, wise, human looking, and reasonably cheerful, but old and serious beyond bearing. Of course many are working at the loom, or when they are younger at reeling. This is a good deal of a silk place, and we visited one government factory with several hundred people at work; this one at least makes out to be self-supporting. There isn't a power reeler or loom in the town, nor yet a loom of the Jacquard type. Sometimes a boy sits up top and shifts things, sometimes they have six or eight foot treadles. A lot of the reeling isn't even foot power--just hand, though their hand reeler is much more ingenious than the Japanese one. There seem so many places to take hold and improve things and yet all of these are so tied together, and change is so hard that it isn't much wonder everybody who stays here gets more or less Chinafied and takes it out in liking the Chinese personally for their amiable qualities. Just now the students are forming a patriotic league because of the present political situation, Japanese boycott, etc. But the teachers of the Nanking University here say that instead of contenting themselves with the two or three things they might well do, they are laying out an ambitious scheme covering everything, and their energy will be exhausted when they get their elaborate constitution formed, or they will meet so many difficulties that they will get discouraged even with the things they might do. I don't know whether I told you about the clerk in the tailor shop in Shanghai; after taking the usual fatalistic attitude that nothing could be done with the present situation, he said the boycott was a good thing but "Chinaman he got weak mind; pretty soon he forget." In various places there are lots of straw hats hung up painted in Chinese characters where they have stopped passersby and taken their hats away because they were Japanese made. It is all good natured and nobody objects. There are policemen in front of Japanese stores, and they allow no one to enter; they are "protecting" the Japanese. This is characteristic of China. The policemen all carry guns with bayonets attached; they are very numerous and slouch around looking bored to death. The only other class as bored looking is the dogs, which are even more numerous, and lie stretched out at full length, never curled up, and never by any chance doing anything. We visited the old examination halls which are now being torn down. These are the cells, about 25,000 in number, where the candidates for degrees used to be shut up during the examination period. Said cells are built in long rows, under a lean-to roof, mostly opening face to face on an open corridor, which is uncovered. Some of them face against a wall which is the back of the next row of cells. Cells are two and one-half feet wide by four long. In them are two ridges along the wall on each side, one at the height of a seat, the other at the height of a table. On these they laid two boards, two and a half feet long, and this was their furniture. They sat and wrote and cooked and ate and slept in these cells. In case it did not rain, their feet could stick out into the corridor so they might stretch out on the hard floor. The exams lasted eight days, divided into three divisions. They went in on the eighth day of the eighth moon in the evening. They wrote the first subject until the afternoon of the tenth. Then they left for the night. On the afternoon of the eleventh they came in for the second subject and wrote till the afternoon of the thirteenth, when there was another day off. On the evening of the fourteenth they re-entered the cell for the third period and that ended on the evening of the sixteenth. They had free communication with each other in the corridors, which were closed and locked. No one could approach them from the outside for any reason. Often they died. But if they could only get put into a corridor with a friend who knew, the biggest fool in China could get his paper written for him, and he could pass and become an M. A., or something corresponding to that degree. Thus were the famous literati of China produced. Preparation for the exam was not the affair of the government, and might be acquired in any possible way. The houses of the examiners are still in good condition and might be made into a school very easily. But do you think they will do that? Not at all. The government has not ordered a school there, and so they will be torn down or else used for some official work. You can have no conception of how far the officialism goes till you see it. We also visited a Confucian Temple, big and used twice each year. It is like all temples in that it is covered with the dust of many years' accumulation. If you were to be dropped in any Chinese temple you would think you had landed in a deserted and forgotten ruin out of reach of man. We went to the Temple of Hell on Sunday, and the gentleman who accompanied us suggested to the priest that the images ought to be dusted off. "Yes," said the priest, "it would be better if they were." NANKING, Thursday, May 22. The returned students from Japan hate Japan, but they are all at loggers with the returned students from America, and their separate organizations cannot get together. Many returned students have no jobs, apparently because they will not go into business or begin at the bottom anywhere, and there is strong hostility against them on the part of the officials. As a sample of the way business is done here, we have just had an express letter from Shanghai which took four days to arrive. It should arrive in twelve hours. People use express letters rather than the telegraph because they are quicker. You may spend as much time as you like or don't like, wondering why your express letter did not reach you on time; you do it at your own risk and expense. The Chinese do not juggle with foreigners as the Japanese do, in the conscious sense, they simply drift, they juggle with themselves and with each other all the time. This house is four miles from the railroad station. There is no street car here; there are many 'rickshas, a few carriages, still fewer autos. There are no sedan chairs, at least I don't remember seeing any, but at Chienkiang, where we went the other day, the streets are so narrow that chairs are the main means of conveyance. The 'ricksha men here pay forty cents a day to the city for their vehicles, which are all alike and very poor ones. They make a little more than that sum for themselves. In Shanghai they pay ninety cents a day for their right to work, and earn from one dollar to a possible dollar and a half for themselves. I said to a young professor, the other day, that China was still supporting three idle classes of people. He looked surprised, though a student and critic of social conditions, and asked me who they were. When I asked him if that couldn't be said of the officials, the priests, and the army, he said yes, it could. Thus far and no further, seems to be their motto, both in thinking and acting, especially in acting. NANKING, May 23. I don't believe anybody knows what the political prospects are; this students' movement has introduced a new and uncalculable factor--and all in the three weeks we have been here. You heard nothing but gloom about political China at first, corrupt and traitorous officials, soldiers only paid banditti, the officers getting the money from Japan to pay them with, no organizing power or cohesion among the Chinese; and then the students take things into their hands, and there is animation and a sudden buzz. There are a hundred students being coached here to go out and make speeches, they will have a hundred different stations scattered through the city. It is also said the soldiers are responding to the patriotic propaganda; a man told us that the soldiers wept when some students talked to them about the troubles of China, and the soldiers of Shantung, the province turned over to Japan, have taken the lead in telegraphing the soldiers in the other provinces to resist the corrupt traitors. Of course, what they all are afraid of is that this is a flash in the pan, but they are already planning to make the student movement permanent and to find something for them to do after this is settled. Their idea here is to reorganize them for popular propaganda for education, more schools, teaching adults, social service, etc. It is very interesting to compare the men who have been abroad with those who haven't--I mean students and teachers. Those who haven't are sort of helpless, practically; the height of literary and academic minds. Those who have studied abroad, even in Japan, have much more go to them. Certainly the classicists in education have a noble example here in China of what their style of education can do if only kept up long enough. On the other hand, there must be something esthetically very fine in the old Chinese literature; even many of the modern young men have a sentimental attachment to it, precisely like that which they have to the fine writing of their characters. They talk about them with all the art jargon: "Notice the strength of this down stroke, and the spirituality of the cross stroke and elegant rhythm of the composition." When we visited a temple the other day, one of the chief Buddhist shrines in China, we were presented with a rubbing of the writing of the man who is said to be the finest writer ever known in China--these characters were engraved in the rock from his writing some centuries ago--I don't know how many. It is very easy to see how cultivated people take refuge in art and spirituality when politics are corrupt and the general state of social life is discouraging; you see it here, and how in the end it increases the decadence. I think we wrote you from Shanghai that we had been introduced to all the mysteries of China, ancient eggs, sharks' fins, birds' nests, pigeon eggs, the eight precious treasures, rice pudding, and so on. We continue to have Chinese meals; yesterday lunch in the home of an adviser to a military official. He is very outspoken, doesn't trim in politics, and gives you a more hopeful feeling about China. The most depressing thing is hearing it said, "When we get a stable government, we can do so and so, but there is no use at present." But this man's attitude is rather, "Damn the government and go ahead and do something." He is very proud of having a "happy, Christian home" and doesn't cover up his Christianity as most of the official and wealthy class seem to do. He expects to have his daughters educated in America, one in medicine and one in home affairs, and to have help in a campaign for changing the character of the Chinese home--from these big aggregates of fifty people or so living together, married children, servants, etc., where he says the waste is enormous, to say nothing of bickerings and jealousies. In the old type of well-to-do home, breakfast would begin for someone about seven, and someone would have cooking done for him to eat till noon; then about two, visitors would come, and the servants would be ordered to cook something for each caller--absolutely no organization or planning in anything, according to him. NANKING, Monday, May 26. The trouble among the students is daily getting worse, and even the most sympathetic among the faculties are getting more and more anxious. The governor of this province, capital here, is thought most liberal, and he has promised to support these advanced measures in education. Last Friday the assembly passed a bill cutting down the educational appropriation and raising their own salaries. Therefore the students here are now all stirred up and the faculties are afraid they cannot be kept in control until they are well enough organized to make a strike effective. At the same time our friends are kept busy running up to the assembly and the governor. The latter has promised to veto the bill when it is sent to him from the senate. But the students are getting anxious to go to the senate themselves. Our friends say it costs so much for these men to get elected that they have to get it all back after they get into office. A missionary says: "Let's go out and shoot them all, they are just as bad as Peking, and if they had the same chance they would sell out the whole country to Japan or to anyone else." Certainly China needs education all along the line, but they never will get it as long as they try in little bits. So maybe they will have to be pushed to the very bottom before they will be ready to go the whole hog or none. Yesterday a Chinese lady had a tea for me and asked the Taitai, as the wives of the officials are called, corresponding to the court ladies of previous times. As a function this was interesting, for every woman brought her servant and most of her children. Some appeared to have two servants, one big-footed maid for herself and one bound-footed as a nurse for the children. Her own servant hands her the cup of tea. All the children are fed at the same time as the grown-ups, and after their superiors the servants get something in the kitchen. I don't know yet what that something is, but probably an inferior tea. The tea we drank is that famous jasmine tea from Hangchow. It costs something like fifteen dollars a pound here. It is very good, with a peculiar spicy flavor, almost musky and smoky, from the jasmine combined with the tea flavor, which is strong. It is a delicious brown tea, but I do not like to drink it so well as I like the best green tea. Well, I wish you could see the Taitai. The wife of the governor is about twenty-five, or may be a little more. She is a substantial young person, with full-grown feet, a pale blue dress of skirt and coat scalloped on the edges and bound with black satin, her nice hair parted to one side on the right and pinned above her left ear with a white artificial rose. Her maid had black coat and trousers. She had some bracelets on, but her jewels were less beautiful than those of the other women. One very pretty woman had buttons on her coat of emeralds surrounded with pearls, and on her arm a lovely bracelet of pearls. After tea, the great ladies went into an inner room, with the exception of two. One of these two had a very sad face. I watched her and finally had a chance to ask her how many children she had. She said she had none, but she would like to have a daughter. I was told after that her husband was a Christian pastor and she was trying to be Christian. The other one who stayed was the pretty one with the emerald buttons. I finally decided the ladies had left us to play their cards and asked if I might go and see them. They were not playing cards, but had just gone off to gossip among themselves, probably about the foreigners. One of the ladies said she would take me some day to see their card games. It is said they play in the morning and in the afternoon and all the night till the next morning when they go to bed. It is commonly said this is all they do, and the losses are very disastrous sometimes. But they were not playing then and came back, some of them with their children, and sat in the rows of chairs, sixteen of them, and some amahs around the room, while I talked to them. I told stories about what the American women did in the war and they stared with amazement. I had to explain what a gas mask is, but they knew what killing is and what high class is. Their giggles were quite encouraging to intercourse. A nice young lady from the college interpreted, and when I stopped I asked them to tell me something about their lives. So the governor's wife was at last persuaded to give an account of how she brought up her children. They are all free from self-consciousness, and though they have little manners in our sense of the word, they have a self-possession and gentleness combined which gives a very graceful appearance. The governor's wife says she has two little boys, the eldest six years of age. In the morning he has a Chinese tutor. After dinner, she teaches him music, of which she is very fond. After that he plays till five-thirty, has supper, plays again a little while before going to bed, and then bed. At thirteen the boy will be sent away to school. I asked her what about girls, and she said that her little niece was the first one in her family to be sent to school, but this ten-year-old one is in Tientsin at a boarding school. PEKING, Sunday, June 1. We met a young man here from an interior province who is trying to get money for teachers who haven't received their pay for a long time. Meantime over sixty per cent of the entire national expenses is going to the military, and the army is worse than useless. In many provinces it is composed of brigands and everywhere is practically under the control of the tuchuns or military governors, who are corrupt and use the pay roll to increase their graft and the army to increase their power of local oppression, while the head military man is openly pro-Japanese. There is a lull in our affairs just now. We agreed yesterday that never in our lives had we begun to learn as much as in the last four months. And the last month particularly, there has been almost too much food to be digestible. Talk about the secretive and wily East. Compared, say, with Europe, they hand information out to you here on a platter (though it must be admitted the labels are sometimes mixed) and sandbag you with it. Yesterday we went to the Western Hills where are the things you see in the pictures, including the stone boat, the base of which is really marble and as fine as the pictures. But all the rest of it is just theatrical fake, more or less peeling off at that. However, it is as wonderful as it is cracked up to be, and in some ways more systematic than Versailles, which is what you naturally compare it to. The finest thing architecturally is a Buddhist temple with big tiles, each of which has a Buddha on--for further details see movie or something. We walked somewhat higher than Russian Hill, including a journey through the caves in an artificial mountain such as the Chinese delight in, clear up to this temple. The Manchu family seems to own the thing yet, and charge a big sum, or rather several sums, a la Niagara Falls, to get about--another evidence that China needs another revolution, or rather _a_ revolution, the first one having got rid of a dynasty and left, as per my previous letters, a lot of corrupt governors in charge of chaos. The only thing that I can see that keeps things together at all is that while a lot of these generals and governors would like to grab more for their individual selves, they are all afraid the whole thing would come down round their ears if anyone made a definite move. Status quo is China's middle name, mostly status and a little quo. I have one more national motto to add to "You Never Can Tell" and "Let George Do It." It is, "That is very bad." Instead of concealing things, they expose all their weak and bad points very freely, and after setting them forth most calmly and objectively, say "That is very bad." I don't know whether it is possible for a people to be too reasonable, but it is certainly too possible to take it out in being reasonable--and that's them. However, it makes them wonderful companions. You can hardly blame the Japanese for wanting to run them and supply the necessary pep when they decline to run themselves. You certainly see the other side of the famous one-track mind of Japan over here, as well as of other things. If you keep doing something all the time, I don't know whether you need even a single track mind. All you have to do is to keep going where you started for, while others keep wobbling or never get started. Well, this morning we went to the famous museum, and there is one thing where China is still ahead. It is housed in some of the old palaces and audience halls of the inner, or purple, forbidden City. With the yellow porcelain roofs, and the blue and green and gold, and the red walls, it is really the barbaric splendor you read about, and about the first thing that comes up to the conventional idea of what is Oriental. The Hindoo influence is much stronger here than anywhere else we have been, or else really Thibetan, I suppose, and many things remind one of the Moorish. The city of Peking was a thousand years building, and was laid out on a plan when the capitals of Europe were purely haphazard, so there is no doubt they have organizing power all right if they care to use it. The museum is literally one of treasures, porcelains, bronzes, jade, etc., not an historic or antiquated museum. It costs ten cents to get into the park here and much more into the museum, a dollar or more, I guess, and we got the impression that it was fear of the crowd and the populace rather than the money which controls; the rate is too high for revenue purposes. PEKING, June 1. We have just seen a few hundred girls march away from the American Board Mission school to go to see the President to ask him to release the boy students who are in prison for making speeches on the street. To say that life in China is exciting is to put it fairly. We are witnessing the birth of a nation, and birth always comes hard. I may as well begin at the right end and tell you what has happened while things have been moving so fast I could not get time to write. Yesterday we went to see the temples of Western Hills, conducted by one of the members of the Ministry of Education. As we were running along the big street that passes the city wall we saw students speaking to groups of people. This was the first time the students had appeared for several days. We asked the official if they would not be arrested, and he said, "No, not if they keep within the law and do not make any trouble among the people." This morning when we got the paper it was full of nothing else. The worst thing is that the University has been turned into a prison with military tents all around it and a notice on the outside that this is a prison for students who disturb the peace by making speeches. As this is all illegal, it amounts to a military seizure of the University and therefore all the faculty will have to resign. They are to have a meeting this afternoon to discuss the matter. After that is over, we will probably know what has happened again. The other thing we heard was that in addition to the two hundred students locked up in the Law Building, two students were taken to the Police rooms and flogged on the back. Those two students were making a speech and were arrested and taken before the officers of the gendarmerie. Instead of shutting up as they were expected to do, the boys asked some questions of these officers that were embarrassing to answer. The officers then had them flogged on the back. Thus far no one has been able to see any of the officers. If the officers denied the accusation then the reporters would ask to see the two prisoners on the principle that the officers could have no reason for refusing that request unless the story were true. We saw students making speeches this morning about eleven, when we started to look for houses, and heard later that they had been arrested, that they carried tooth brushes and towels in their pockets. Some stories say that not two hundred but a thousand have been arrested. There are about ten thousand striking in Peking alone. The marching out of those girls was evidently a shock to their teachers and many mothers were there to see them off. The girls were going to walk to the palace of the President, which is some long distance from the school. If he does not see them, they will remain standing outside all night and they will stay there till he does see them. I fancy people will take them food. We heard the imprisoned students got bedding at four this morning but no food till after that time. There is water in the building and there is room for them to lie on the floor. They are cleaner than they would be in jail, and of course much happier for being together. PEKING, June 2. Maybe you would like to know a little about how we look this morning and how we are living. In the first place, this is a big hotel with a bath in each room. On a big street opposite to us is the wall of the legation quarter, which has trees in it and big roofs which represent all that China ought to have and has not. The weather is like our hot July, except that it is drier than the August drought on Long Island. The streets of Peking are the widest in the world, I guess, and ours leads by the red walls of the Chinese city with the wonderful gates of which you see pictures. It is macadamized in the middle, but on each side of it run wider roads, which are used for the traffic. Thank your stars there are good horses in Peking; men do not pull all the heavy loads. The two side roads are worn down in deep ruts and these ruts are filled with dust like finest ashes, and all thrown up into the air whenever a man steps on it or a cart moves through. Our room faces the south on this road. All day long the sun pours through the bamboo shades and the hot air brings in that gray dust, and everything you touch, including your own skin, is gritty and has a queer dry feeling that makes you think you ought to run for water. I am learning to shut the windows and inner blinds afternoons. Isn't it strange that in the latitude of New York this drought should be expected every spring? In spite of all this the fields have crops growing, thinly, to be sure, on the hard gray fields. There are very few trees, and they are not of the biggest. The grain is already about fit to cut, and the onions are ripe. After a while it will rain and rain much and then new crops will be put in. The flowers are almost gone and I am sorry that we did not see the famous peonies. You will be interested to know that they keep the peonies small; even the tree kind are cut down till they are the size of those little ones of mine. The tuber peonies are transplanted each year or in some way kept small and the blossoms are lovely and little. I have seen white rose peonies and at first thought they were roses. The buds look almost like the buds of our big white roses and they are very fragrant. The peony beds are laid out in terraces held in place by brick walls, usually oblong or oval, something like a huge pudding mold on a table. Other times they are planted on the flat and surrounded by bamboo fences of fancy design and geometrical pattern, usually with a square form to include each division. The inner city has many peony beds of that sort, both the tree and tuber kind, but they have only leaves to show now. Yesterday we went to the summer palace and to-day we are going to the museum. That is really inside the Forbidden City, so at last we shall set foot on the sacred ground. The summer palace is really wonderful, but sad now, like all things made on too ambitious a scale to fit into the uses of life. There is a mile of loggia ornamented with the green and blue and red paintings which you see imitated. Through a window we had a peek at the famous portrait of old Tsu Hsu and she looks just as she did when I saw it exhibited in New York. The strange thing about it is that it is still owned by the Hsu family. Huge rolls of costly rugs and curtains lie in piles round the room and everything is covered with this fine dust so thick that it is not possible to tell the color of a table top. Cloissonné vases, or rather images of the famous blue ware stand under the old lady's portrait, and everything is going to rack and ruin. Meantime we wandered around, planning how it could be made over into use when the revolution comes. Get rid of the idea that China has had a revolution and is a republic; that point is just where we have been deceived in the United States. China is at present the rotten crumbling remnant of the old bureaucracy that surrounded the corruption of the Manchus and that made them possible. The little Emperor is living here in his palace surrounded by his eunuchs and his tutors and his two mothers. He is fourteen and it is really funny to think that they have just left him Emperor, but as he has not money except what the republic votes him from year to year, nobody worries about him, unless it is the Japanese, who want the imperial government restored until they get ready to take it themselves. It looks as if they might be ready now except for the nudge which has just been given to the peace conference. You had better read a book about this situation, for it is the most surprising affair in a lifetime. Yesterday we went to see a friend's house. It is interesting and I should like to live in one like it. There is no water except what the water man brings every day. This little house has eighteen rooms around a court. It means four separate roofs and going outdoors to get from one to another. When the mercury is at twenty below zero it would mean that just the same. All the ground floors have stone floors. We did not see all the rooms; there are paper windows in some and glass windows in some. In summer they put on a temporary roof of mats over the court. It is higher than the roofs and so allows ventilation and gives good shade. June 5. This is Thursday morning, and last night we heard that about one thousand students were arrested the day before. Yesterday afternoon a friend got a pass which permitted him to enter the building where the students were confined. They have filled up the building of Law, and have begun on the Science building, in consequence of which the faculty have to go to the Missionary buildings to-day to hold their faculty meeting. At four yesterday afternoon, the prisoners who had been put in that day at ten had had no food. One of our friends went out and got the University to appropriate some money and they ordered a carload of bread sent in. This bread means some little biscuit sometimes called raised biscuit at home. I think carload means one of the carts in which they are delivered. At any rate, the boys had some food, though not at the expense of the police. On the whole, the checkmate of the police seems surely impending. They will soon have the buildings full, as the students are getting more and more in earnest, and the most incredible part of it is that the police are surprised. They really thought the arrests would frighten the others from going on. So everybody is getting an education. This morning one of our friends here is going to take us up to the University to see the military encampment, and I hope he will take us inside also, though I hardly think he will do the latter. As near as I can find out, the Chinese have reached that interesting stage of development when they must do something for women and do as little as they can, but in case they must have a girls' school they find that a convenient place to unload an antiquated official who really can't be endured any longer by real folks. No one can tell to-day what the students' strike will bring next; it may bring a revolution, it may do anything surprising to the police, who seem to be as lacking in imagination as police are famous for being. Everyone here is getting ready to flee for the summer, which is very hot during July. On the whole, the heat is perhaps less hard to endure than the heat of New York, as it is so dry. But the dryness has its own effect and when those hard winds blow up the dust storms it gets on the nerves. Dust heaps up inside the house, and cuts the skin both inside and outside of the body. This is a lucky day, being cloudy and a little damp as if it might rain. The Western Hill was an experience to remember. Stepping from a Ford limousine to a chair carried by four men and an outwalker alongside, we were thus taken by fifteen men to the temples, your father, an officer from the Department of Education, and I. The men walked over the paths in the dust and on stones which no one thinks of picking up. It was so astounding to call it a pleasure resort that we could only stare and remain dumb. We saw three temples and one royal garden. Five hundred Buddhas in one building, and all the buildings tumble-down and dirty. On top of one hill is a huge building which cost a million or more to build about four hundred years ago by someone for his tomb. Then he did something wrong, probably stole from the wrong person, and was not allowed to be buried there. Round the temple places the trees remain and give a refreshing oasis, and there are some beautiful springs. All the time we kept saying, "Trees ought to be planted." "Yes, but they take so long to grow," or, "Yes, but they will not grow, it is so dry," etc. Sometimes they would say, "Yes, we must plant some trees," or more likely, "Yes, I think we may plant some trees sometime, but we have an Arbor Day and the people cut down the trees or else they did." We would show that the trees would grow because they were there round the temples, and besides grass was growing and trees would grow where grass would grow in such dry weather, and they would say the same things over. It made the little forestry station in Nanking seem like a monumental advance, while that fearful sun was beating up the dust under the stones as the men gave us the Swedish massage in the motion of the chairs. Fifty men and more stood around as we got in and out of the car and five men apiece stood and waited for us as we walked round the temple and ate our lunch and spent the time sipping tea, and yet they cannot plant trees, and that is China. The whole country is covered every inch with stones. Nature has supplied them, and falling walls are everywhere. We saw one great thing, however. They are building a new school house and orphanage for the children of that village. Many of the children are naked everywhere hereabouts and they stand with sunburned heads, their backs covered only with coats of dirt, eating their bean food in the street. Everywhere the food is laid out on tables by the roadside ready to eat. In one temple, a certain official here has promised to rebuild a small shrine which houses the laughing Buddha, who is made of bronze and was once covered with lacquer, which is now mostly split off. At present the only shade the god has is a roof of mats which they have braced up on the pile of ruins that once made a roof. The President of the Republic has built a lovely big gate like the old ones, because it is propitious and would bring him good fortune. But he has decided it was not propitious, something went wrong with the gods, I did not learn what it was; anyway, he is now tearing down one of the big buttresses on one side of it to see if fate will treat him more kindly then. Just what he wants of fate I did not learn either, but perhaps it is that fate should make him Emperor, as that seems to be their idea of curing poverty and political evils. I forgot to say that they never remove ruins; everything is left to lie as it falls or is falling, so one gets a good idea of how gods are constructed. Most of them were of clay, a sort of concrete built up on a wood frame, and badly as they need wood I have never seen a sign of piling up the fallen beams of a temple. Instead of that, you risk your life by walking under these falling roofs unless you have the sense to look after your own safety. In most of these Peking temples they do sweep the floors and even some of the statues look as if they had some time been dusted, though this last I am not certain about. PEKING, June 5. As has been remarked before, you never can tell. The students were stirred up by orders dissolving their associations, and by the "mandates" criticising the Japanese boycott and telling what valuable services the two men whose dismissal was demanded had rendered the country. So they got busy--the students. They were also angered because the industrial departments of two schools were ordered closed by the police. In these departments the students had set about seeing what things of Japanese importation could be replaced by hand labor without waiting for capital. After they worked it out in the school they went out to the shops and taught the people how to make them, and then peddled them about, making speeches at the same time. Well, yesterday when we went about we noticed that the students were speaking more than usual, and while the streets were full of soldiers the students were not interfered with; in the afternoon a procession of about a thousand students was even escorted by the police. Then in the evening a telephone came from the University that the tents around the University buildings where the students were imprisoned had been struck and the soldiers were all leaving. Then the students inside held a meeting and passed a resolution asking the government whether they were guaranteed freedom of speech, because if they were not, they would not leave the building merely to be arrested again, as they planned to go on speaking. So they embarrassed the government by remaining in "jail" all night. We haven't heard to-day what has happened, but the streets are free of soldiers, and there were no students talking anywhere we went, so I fancy a truce has been arranged while they try and fix things up. The government's ignominious surrender was partly due to the fact that the places of detention were getting full and about twice as many students spoke yesterday as the day before, when they arrested a thousand, and the government for the first time realized that they couldn't bulldoze the students; it was also partly due to the fact that the merchants in Shanghai struck the day before yesterday, and there is talk that the Peking merchants are organizing for the same purpose. This is, once more, a strange country; the so-called republic is a joke; all it has meant so far is that instead of the Emperor having a steady job, the job of ruling and looting is passed around to the clique that grabs power. One of the leading militarist party generals invited his dearest enemy to breakfast a while ago--within the last few months--in Peking, and then lined his guest against the wall and had him shot. Did this affect his status? He is still doing business at the old stand. But in some ways there is more democracy than we have; leaving out the women, there is complete social equality, and while the legislature is a perfect farce, public opinion, when it does express itself, as at the present time, has remarkable influence. Some think the worst officials will now resign and get out, others that the militarists will attempt a coup d'état and seize still more power rather than back down. Fortunately, the latter seem to be divided at the present time. But all of the student (and teacher) crowd are much afraid that even if the present gang is thrown out, it will be only to replace them by another set just as bad, so they are refraining from appealing to the army for help. Later.--The students have now asked that the chief of police come personally to escort them out and make an apology. In many ways, it seems like an opéra bouffe, but there is no doubt that up to date they have shown more shrewdness and policy than the government, and are getting the latter where it is a laughing stock, which is fatal in China. But the government isn't inactive; they have appointed a new Minister of Education and a new Chancellor of the University, both respectable men, with no records and colorless characters. It is likely the Faculty will decline to receive the new Chancellor unless he makes a satisfactory declaration--which he obviously can't, and thus the row will begin all over again, with the Faculty involved. If the government dared, it would dissolve the University, but the scholar has a sacred reputation in China. June 7. The whole story of the students is funny and not the least funny part is that last Friday the students were speaking and parading with banners and cheers and the police standing near them like guardian angels, no one being arrested or molested. We heard that one student pouring out hot eloquence was respectfully requested to move his audience along a little for the reason that they were so numerous in statu quo as to impede traffic, and the policeman would not like to be held responsible for interfering with the traffic. Meantime, Saturday the government sent an apology to the students who were still in prison of their own free will waiting for the government to apologize and to give them the assurance of free speech, etc. The students are said to have left the building yesterday morning, though we have no accurate information. The Faculty of the University met and refused to recognize or accept the new Chancellor. They sent a committee to the government to tell them that, and one to the Chancellor to tell him also and to ask him to resign. It seems the newly-appointed Chancellor used to be at the head of the engineering school of the University, but he was kicked out in the political struggle. He is an official of the Yuan Shi Kai school and has become a rich rubber merchant in Malay, and anyway they do not want a mere rubber merchant as President of the University, and they think they may so explain that to the new Chancellor that he will not look upon the office as so attractive as he thought it was. There is complete segregation in this city in all public gatherings, the women at the theaters are put off in one of those real galleries such as we think used to be and are not now. The place for the women in the hall of the Board of Education is good enough and on one side facing the hall so that all the men can look at them freely and so protect that famous modesty which I have heard more of in China than for many years previously. Gasoline is one dollar a gallon here and a Ford car costs $1900. Ivory soap five for one dollar. Clean your dress for $2.50. Tooth paste one dollar a tube, vaseline 50 cents a small bottle. Washing three cents each, including dresses and men's coats and shirts; fine cook ten dollars a month. They have a very good one here, and I am going right on getting fat on delicious Chinese food. The new Rockefeller Institute, called the Union Medical College, is very near here, and they are making beautiful buildings in the old Chinese style, to say nothing of their Hygiene. They have just decided to open it to women, but I am rather suspicious the requirements will prevent the women's using it at first. Peking is still much of a capital city and is divided into the diplomats and the missionaries. It seems there is not much lacking except the old Dowager Empress to make up the old Peking. PEKING, June 10. The students have taken the trick and won the game at the present moment--I decline to predict the morrow when it comes to China. Sunday morning I lectured at the auditorium of the Board of Education and at that time the officials there didn't know what had happened. But the government sent what is called a pacification delegate to the self-imprisoned students to say that the government recognized that it had made a mistake and apologized. Consequently the students marched triumphantly out, and yesterday their street meetings were bigger and more enthusiastic than ever. The day before they had hooted at four unofficial delegates who had asked them to please come out of jail, but who hadn't apologized. But the biggest victory is that it is now reported that the government will to-day issue a mandate dismissing the three men who are always called traitors--yesterday they had got to the point of offering to dismiss one, the one whose house was attacked by the students on the fourth of May, but they were told that that wouldn't be enough, so now they have surrendered still more. Whether this will satisfy the striking merchants or whether they will make further demands, having won the first round, doesn't yet appear. There are lots of rumors, of course. One is that the backdown is not only due to the strike of merchants, but to a fear that the soldiers could no longer be counted upon. There was even a rumor that a regiment at Western Hills was going to start for Peking to side with the students. Rumors are one of China's strong suits. When you realize that we have been here less than six weeks, you will have to admit that we have been seeing life. For a country that is regarded at home as stagnant and unchanging, there is certainly something doing. This is the world's greatest kaleidoscope. Wilson's Decoration Day Address has just been published; perhaps it sounds academic at home, but over here Chinese at least regard it as very practical--as, in fact, a definite threat. On the other hand, we continue to get tales of how the Washington State Department has declined to take the reports sent from here as authentic. Lately they have had a number of special agents over here, more or less secret, to get independent information. In talking about democratic developments in America, whenever I make a remark such as the Americans do not depend upon the government to do things for them, but go ahead and do things for themselves, the response is immediate and emphatic. The Chinese are socially a very democratic people and their centralized government bores them. June 16. Chinesewise speaking, we are now having another lull. The three "traitors" have had their resignations accepted, the cabinet is undergoing reconstruction, the strike has been called off, both of students and merchants (the railwaymen striking was the last straw), and the mystery is what will happen next. There are evidences that the extreme militarists are spitting on their hands to take hold in spite of their defeat, and also that the President, who is said to be a moderate and skillful politician, is nursing things along to get matters more and more into his own hands. Although he issued a mandate against the students and commending the traitors, the students' victory seems to have strengthened him. I can't figure it out, but it is part of the general beginning to read at the back of the book. The idea seems to be that he has demonstrated the weakness of the militarists in the country, while in sticking in form by them he has given them no excuse for attacking him. They are attacking most everybody else in anonymous circulars. One was got out signed "Thirteen hundred and fifty-eight students," but giving no names, saying that the sole object of the strike was to regain Tsingtao, but that a few men had tried to turn the movement to their own ends, one wishing to be Chancellor of the University. PEKING, June 20. Some time ago I had decided to tell you that here I had found the human duplication of the bee colony in actual working order. China is it, and in all particulars lives up to the perfect socialization of the race. Nobody can do anything alone, nobody can do anything in a hurry. The hunt of the bee for her cell goes on before one's eyes all the time. When found, lo, the discovery that the cell was there all the time. Let me give you an example. We go to the art school for lectures, enter by a door at the end of a long hall. Behind that hall is another large room and in back of the second room somewhere is a place where the men make the tea. Near the front door where we enter is the table where we are always asked to sit down before and after the lecture, whereat we sit down to partake of tea and other beverages, such as soda. Well, the teacups are kept in a cabinet at the front end of the first room right near the entrance door. Comes a grown man from the rear somewhere; silently and with stately tread he walks across the long room to the cabinet, takes one teacup in each hand and retreads the space towards the back. After sufficient time he returns bearing in his two hands these cups filled with hot tea. He puts these down on the table for us and then he takes two more cups from the cabinet, and retires once more, returning later as before. When bottles are opened they are brought near the table, because otherwise the soda would be spoiled in carrying open, never to save steps. The Chinese kitchen is always several feet from the dining room, under a separate roof. Often you must cross a court in the open to get from one to another. As it has not rained since we have been here, I do not know what happens to the soup under the umbrella. But remember, the beehive is the thing in China, and it is the old-fashioned beehive in the barrel. When you look at the men who are doing it all they have the air of strong, quiet beings who might do almost anything, but when you get acquainted with them, how they do almost nothing is a marvelous achievement. At Ching Hua College, said being the famous Boxer Indemnity College, the houses are new and built by American initiative, and the kitchen is forty feet from the dining room door in those. I will not describe the kitchens, but when you see the clay stoves crumbling in places, no sink, and one window on one side of the rather dark room, a little room where the cook sleeps on a board and where both the men eat their own frugal meals, it is all the Middle Ages undisturbed. PEKING, June 20. Last weekend we went out about ten miles to Ching Hua College; this is the institution started with the returned Boxer Indemnity Fund; it's a high school with about two years college work; they have just graduated sixty or seventy who are going to America next year to finish up. They go all around, largely to small colleges and the Middle West state institutions, a good many to Tech and a number to Stevens, though none go to Columbia, because it is in a big city; just what improvement Hoboken is I don't know. China is full of Columbia men, but they went there for graduate work. No doubt it is wise keeping them away from a big city at first. Except for the instruction in Chinese, the teaching is all done in English, and the boys seem to speak English quite well already. It's a shame the way they will be treated, the insults they will have to put up with in America before they get really adjusted. And then when they get back here they have even a worse time getting readjusted. They have been idealizing their native land at the same time that they have got Americanized without knowing it, and they have a hard time to get a job to make a living. They have been told that they are the future saviors of their country and then their country doesn't want them for anything at all--and they can't help making comparisons and realizing the backwardness of China and its awful problems. At the same time at the bottom of his heart probably every Chinese is convinced of the superiority of Chinese civilization--and maybe they are right--three thousand years is quite a spell to hold on. You may come over here some time in your life, so it will do no harm to learn about the money--_about_ it, nobody but the Chinese bankers ever learn it. There are eleven dimes in a dollar and six twenty-cent pieces, and while there are only eleven coppers in a dime, there are one hundred and thirty-eight in a dollar. Consequently the thrifty always carry a pound or two of big coppers with them to pay 'ricksha men with. Then there are various kinds of paper money. We are going to Western Hills tomorrow night, and under instructions I bought some dollars at sixty-five cents apiece which are good for a whole dollar on this railway and apparently nowhere else. On the contrary, the foreigners are done all the time at the hotels; there they only give you five twenty-cent pieces in change for a dollar, and so on--but they are run by foreigners, and not by the wily Chinese. One thing you will be glad to know is that Peking is Americanized to the extent that we have ice cream at least once a day, two big helpings. This helps. A word to the wise. Never ask a Chinese whether it is going to rain, or any other question about the coming weather. The turtle is supposed to be a weather prophet, and as the turtle is regarded as the vilest creature on earth, you can see what an insult such a question is. One of their subtle compliments to the Japanese during the late campaign was to take a straw hat, of Japanese make, which they had removed from a passerby's head, and cut it into the likeness of a turtle and then nail it up on a telephone post. I find, by the way, that I didn't do the students justice when I compared their first demonstration here to a college boys' roughhouse; the whole thing was planned carefully, it seems, and was even pulled off earlier than would otherwise have been the case, because one of the political parties was going to demonstrate soon, and they were afraid their movement (coming at the same time) would make it look as if they were an agency of the political faction, and they wanted to act independently as students. To think of kids in our country from fourteen on, taking the lead in starting a big cleanup reform politics movement and shaming merchants and professional men into joining them. This is sure some country. PEKING, June 23. Last night we had a lovely dinner at the house of a Chinese official. All the guests were men except me and the fourteen-year-old daughter of the house. She was educated in an English school here and speaks beautiful English, besides being a talented and interesting girl. Chinese girls at her age seem older than ours. The family consists of five children and two wives. I found the reason the daughter was hostess was that it was embarrassing to choose between the two wives for hostess and they didn't want to give us a bad impression, so no wife appeared. We were given to understand that the reason for the non-appearance was that mother was sick. There is a new little baby six weeks old. The father is a delicate, refined little man, very proud of his children and fond of them, and they were all brought out to see us, even the six weeks older, who was very hot in a little red dress. Our host is the leader of a party of liberal progressives, and also an art collector. We had hopes he would show us his collection of things. He did not, except for the lovely porcelain that was on the table. The house is big and behind the wall of the Purple City, as they call the old Forbidden City, and it looks on the famous old pagoda, so it was interesting. We sat in the court for coffee and there seemed to be many more courts leading on one behind another as they do here, sometimes fourteen or more, with chains of houses around each one. As for the dinner, I forgot to say that the cook is a remarkable man, Fukien, who gave us the most delicious Chinese cookery with French names attached on the menu. Cooking is apt to be named geographically here. Most everyone in Peking came from somewhere else, just as should be in a capital city. But they seem to keep the cooks and cook in accordance with the predilections of the old home province. They have adopted ice cream, showing the natural sense of the race, but the daughter of our host told me that they do not give it to the sick, as they still have the idea that the sick should have nothing cold. They are now thrashing the wheat in this locality. That consists of cutting it with the sickle and having the women and children glean. The main crop is scattered on the floor, as it is called, being a hard piece of ground near the house, and then the wheat is treaded out by a pair of donkeys attached to a roller about as big as our garden roller. After it is out of the husk, it is winnowed by being tossed in the breeze, which takes the time of a number of people and leaves in a share of the mother earth. The crops are very thin round this region and they say that they are thinner than usual, as this is a drier year than usual. Corn is small, but there is some growing between here and the hills where we went, always in the little pieces of ground, of course. Peanuts and sweet potatoes are planted now, and they seem to be growing well in the dust, which has been wet by the recent day of rain. PEKING, June 25. Simple facts for home consumption. All boards in China are sawed by hand--two men and a saw, like a cross-cut buck-saw. At the new Hotel de Peking, a big building, instead of carrying window casings ready to put in, they are carrying big logs cut the proper length for a casing. Spitting is a common accomplishment. When a school girl wants excuse to leave her seat she walks across the room and spits vigorously in the spittoon. Little melons are now ready to eat. They come like ripe cucumbers, small, rather sweet. Coolies and boys eat them, skins and all, on the street. Children eat small green apples. Peaches are expensive, but those who can get the green hard ones eat them raw. The potted pomegranates are now in bloom and also in fruit in the pots. The color is a wonderful scarlet. The lotus ponds are in bloom--wonderful color in a deep rose. When the buds are nearly ready to open they look as if they were about to explode and fill the air with their intense color. The huge leaves are brilliant and lovely--light green and delicately veined. But the lotus was never made for art, and only religion could have made it acceptable to art. The sacred ponds are well kept and are in the old moats of the Purple City--Forbidden. There are twice as many men in Peking as women. Sunday we went to a Chinese wedding. It was at the Naval Club--no difference in appearance from our ceremony. Bride and groom both in the conventional foreign dress. They had a ring. At the supper there were six tables full of men, and three partly full of women and children. Women take their children and their amahs everywhere in China--I mean wherever they go and provided they want to; it is the custom. None of the men spoke to the women at the wedding--except rare returned students. Eggs cost $1.00 for 120--we get all we want in our boarding house. Men take birds out for walks--either in cages or with one leg tied to a string attached to a stick on which the bird perches. PEKING, June 27. It's a wonder we were ever let out of Japan at all. It's fatal; I could now tell after reading ten lines of the writings of any traveler whether he ever journeyed beyond a certain point. You have to hand it to the Japanese. Their country is beautiful, their treatment of visitors is beautiful, and they have the most artistic knack of making the visible side of everything beautiful, or at least attractive. Deliberate deceit couldn't be one-tenth as effective; it's a real gift of art. They are the greatest manipulators of the outside of things that ever lived. I realized when I was there that they were a nation of specialists, but I didn't realize that foreign affairs and diplomacy were also such a specialized art. The new acting Minister of Education has invited us to dinner soon. This man doesn't appear to have any past educational record, but he has pursued a conciliatory course; the other one resigned and disappeared when he found he couldn't control things. The really liberal element does not appear to be strong enough at present to influence politics practically. The struggle is between the extreme militarists, who are said to be under Japanese influence, and the group of somewhat colorless moderates headed by the President. As he gets a chance he appears to be putting his men in. The immediate gain seems to be negative in keeping the other crowd out instead of positive, but they are at least honest and will probably respond when there is enough organized liberal pressure brought to bear upon them. It cannot be denied that it is hot here. Yesterday we went out in 'rickshas about the middle of the day and I don't believe I ever felt such heat. It is like the Yosemite, only considerably more intense as well as for longer periods of time. The only consolation one gets from noting that it isn't humid is that if it were, one couldn't live at all. But the desert sands aren't moist either. Your mother asked the coolie why he didn't wear a hat, and he said because it was too hot. Think of pulling a person at the rate of five or six miles an hour in the sun of a hundred and twenty or thirty with your head exposed. Most of the coolies who work in the sun have nothing on their heads. It's either survival of the fittest or inheritance of acquired characteristics. Their adaptation to every kind of physical discomfort is certainly one of the wonders of the world. You ought to see the places where they lie down to go to sleep. They have it all over Napoleon. This is also the country of itinerant domesticity. I doubt if lots of the 'ricksha men have any places to sleep except in their carts. And a large part of the population must buy their food of the street pedlars, who sell every conceivable cooked thing; then there are lots of cooked food stores besides the street men. PEKING, July 2. The rainy season has set in, and now we have floods and also coolness, the temperature having fallen from the late nineties to the early seventies, and life seems more worth living again. This is a great country for pictures, and I am most anxious for one of a middle-aged Chinese, inclining to be fat, with a broad-brimmed straw hat, sitting on the back of a very small and placid cream colored donkey. He is fanning himself as the donkey moves imperceptibly along the highway, is satisfied with himself and at ease with the world, and everything in the world, whatever happens. This would be a good frontispiece for a book on China--and the joke wouldn't all be on the Chinese either. To-day the report is that the Chinese delegates refused to sign the Paris treaty; the news seems too good to be true, but nobody can learn the facts. There are also rumors that the governmental military party, having got everything almost out of Japan that is coming to them and finding themselves on the unpopular side, are about to forget that they ever knew the Japanese and to come out very patriotic. This is also unconfirmed, but I suppose the only reason they would stay bought in any case is that there are no other bidders in the market. PEKING, Wednesday, July 2. The anxiety here is tense. The report is that the delegates did not sign, but so vaguely worded as to leave conjectures and no confirmation. Meanwhile the students' organizations, etc., have begun another attack against the government by demanding the dissolution of Parliament. Meantime there is no cabinet and the President can get no one to form one, and half those inside seem to be also on the strike because the other half are there. PEKING, July 4. We are going out to the Higher Normal this morning. The head of the industrial department is going to take us. The students are erecting three new school buildings this summer--they made the plans, designs, details, and are supervising the erection as well as doing the routine carpenter work. The head of the industrial department, who acted as our guide and host, has been organizing the "national industry" activity in connection with the students' agitation. He is now, among other things, trying to organize apprentice schools under guild control. The idea is to take the brightest apprentice available in each "factory"--really, of course, just a household group--and give them two hours' schooling a day with a view to introducing new methods and new products into the industry. They are going to take metal working here. Then he hopes it will spread all over China. You cannot imagine the industrial backwardness here, not only as compared with us but with Japan. Consequently their markets here are flooded with cheap flimsy Japan-made stuff, which they buy because it's cheap, the line of least resistance. But perhaps the Shantung business will be worth its cost. The cotton guild is very anxious to co-operate and they will supply capital if the schools can guarantee skilled workingmen, especially superintendents. Now they sell four million worth of cotton to Japan, where it is spun, and then buy back the same cotton in thread for fourteen million--which they weave. This is beside the large amount of woven cotton goods they import. I find in reading books that the Awakening of China has been announced a dozen or more times by foreign travelers in the last ten years, so I hesitate to announce it again, but I think this is the first time the merchants and guilds have really been actively stirred to try to improve industrial methods. And if so, it _is_ a real awakening--that and the combination with the students. I read the translations from Japanese every few days, and it would be very interesting to know whether their ignorance is real or assumed. Probably some of both--it is inconceivable that they should be as poor judges of Chinese psychology as the articles indicate. But at the same time they have to keep up a certain tone of belief among the people at home--namely, that the Chinese really prefer the Japanese to all other foreigners; for they realize their dependence upon them, and if they do not make common cause with them it is because foreigners, chiefly Americans, instigate it all from mercenary and political motives. As a matter of fact, I doubt if history knows of any such complete case of national dislike and distrust; it sometimes seems as if there hadn't been a single thing that the Japanese might have done to alienate the Chinese that they haven't tried. The Chinese would feel pretty sore at America for inviting them into the war and then leaving them in the lurch, if the Japanese papers and politicians hadn't spent all their time the last three months abusing America--then their sweet speeches in America. It will be interesting to watch and see just what particular string they trip on finally. It's getting to the end of an Imperfect Day. We saw the school as per program and I find I made a mistake. The boys made the plans of the three buildings and are supervising their erection, but not doing the building. They are staying in school all summer, however--those in the woodworking class--and have taken a contract for making all the desks for the new buildings--the school gives them room and board (food and its preparation costs about five dollars per month), and they practically give their time. All the metal-working boys are staying in Peking and working in the shops to improve and diversify the products. Remember these are boys, eighteen to twenty, and that they are carrying on their propaganda for their country; that the summer averages one hundred in the shade in Peking, and you'll admit there is some stuff here. This P.M. we went to a piece of the celebration. The piece we saw wasn't so very Fourth of Julyish, but it was interesting--Chinese sleight of hand. Their long robe is an advantage, but none the less it can't be so very easy to move about with a very large sized punch bowl filled to the brim with water, or with five glass bowls each with a gold fish in it, ready to bring out. It seems that sometimes the artist turns a somersault just as he brings out the big bowl of water, but we didn't get that. None of the tricks were complicated, but they were the neatest I ever saw. There is a home-made minstrel show to-night, but it rained, and as the show (and dance later) are in the open, we aren't going, as we intended. You can't imagine what it means here for China not to have signed. The entire government has been for it--the President up to ten days before the signing said it was necessary. It was a victory for public opinion, and all set going by these little schoolboys and girls. Certainly the United States ought to be ashamed when China can do a thing of this sort. Sunday, July 7. We had quite another ride yesterday, sixty or seventy miles altogether. The reason for the macadam road is worth telling. When Yuan Shi Kai was planning to be Emperor his son broke his leg, and he heard the hot springs would be good for him. So one of the officials made a road to it. Some of the present day officials, including an ex-official who was recently forced to resign after being beaten up, now own the springs and hotel, so the road will continue to be taken care of. On the way we went through the village of the White Snake and also of the One Hundred Virtues. Y. M. C. A.'s and Red Crossers are still coming from Siberia on their way home. I don't know whether they will talk freely when they get home. It is one mess, and the stories they will tell won't improve our foreign relations any. The Bolsheviki aren't the only ones that shoot up villages and take the loot--so far the Americans haven't done it. PEKING, July 8. This morning the papers here reported the denial of Japan that she had made a secret treaty with Germany. The opinion here seems to be that they did not, but merely that preliminaries had begun with reference to such a treaty. We heard at dinner the other day from responsible American officials here that, after America had completed the last of the arrangements for China to go into the war, the Japanese arranged to get a concession from Russia for the delivery on the part of the Japanese of China into the war on the side of the Allies. Well, the Japanese are still at it with the cat out of the bag. It looks now as if they are getting ready to break up the present government in Japan. This is interpreted to mean that that breakup will be made to look as if it were in disapproval of the present mistakes in diplomacy and of the price of rice; and then they can put in a worse one there and the world will not know the difference, but will be made to think that Japan is reforming. Speaking of constitutionality in Japan, I ceased to worry about that as soon as I learned the older statesmen never troubled at all about who was elected, but just let the elections go through, as their business was so assured in other ways that the elections made no difference anyway, and that the same principle worked equally well in the matter of passing bills. No bill can ever come up without the approval of the powers that be and they know how it is coming out in spite of all discussions. No wonder change comes slowly and maybe it will have to come all at once in the form of a revolution if it comes in reality. It is now reported that Tsai, the Chancellor of the University here, has said he will come back on condition that the students do not move in future in any political matter without his consent, and I am not able to guess whether that is a concession or a clever way of seeming to agree with both sides at once. The announcement of Tsai's return means that things will soon be back in normal shape and ready for another upheaval. We seem to be utterly stumped by the house situation. All the members of the Rockefeller Foundation get nice new houses built for them, and the houses are nice new Chinese ones but free from the poor qualities of those to be rented here. All the houses in Peking are built like our woodsheds, directly on the ground, raised a few inches from actual contact with the earth by a stone floor. The courts fill with water when the rains are hard and then they are moist for days, maybe weeks, and about two feet of wet seeps up the side of the walls. Yesterday we called on one of our Chinese friends here, and the whole place was in that state, but he did not seem to notice it. If he wants baths in the house it doubles the cost he pays the water wagon, and then after all the trouble of heating and carrying the water there is no way to dispose of the waste, except to get a man to come and carry it away in buckets. You would have endless occupation here just looking on to see how this bee colony can find so many ways of making life hard for itself. A gentleman at the Foundation has just been telling us how the coolies steal every little piece of metal, leftovers or screwed on, that they can get at. The privation of life sets up an entirely new set of standards for morals. No one, it appears, can be convicted for stealing food in China. PEKING, July 8. The Rockefeller buildings are lovely samples of what money can do. In the midst of this worn and weak city they stand out like illuminating monuments of the splendor of the past in proper combination with the modern idea. They are in the finest old style of Chinese architecture; green roofs instead of yellow, with three stories instead of one. One wonders how long it will take China to catch up and know what they are doing. It is said the Chinese are not at all inclined to go to their hospital for fear of the ultra foreign methods which they do not yet understand. On the other hand, there is no disposition on the part of the Institution to meet them half way as the missionaries have always done. There are a number of Chinese among the doctors and they have now opened all the work to the women. There is a great need for women doctors now in China, but evidently it will take a generation yet before this work will begin to be understood and will take its natural place in Chinese affairs. It is rather amusing that this splendid set of buildings quite surrounds and overshadows the biggest Japanese hospital and school that is in Peking, and they say the fact has quite humiliated the Japanese. At present the buildings are nearing completion, but all the old rubbishy structures of former times will have to be pulled down before these new ones can be seen in all their beauty. Among other things, they have built thirty-five houses also in Chinese style but with all the modern comforts, in which to house their faculty, and in addition to those there are a good many buildings which were taken over from the old medical missionary College, besides, perhaps, some that will be left from the palace of the Prince whose property they bought. Two fine old lions are an addition from the Prince, but no foreign family would stand the inconveniences and discomforts of the ancient Prince, in spite of all his wives. PEKING, July 11. They have the best melons here you ever saw. Their watermelons, which are sold on the street in such quantities as to put even the southern negroes to shame, are just like yellow ice cream in color, but they aren't as juicy as ours. Their musk melons aren't spicy like the ones at home at all, but are shaped like pears, only bigger and have an acid taste; in fact they are more like a cucumber with a little acid pep in them, only the seeds are all in the center like our melons. When you get macaroons and little cakes here in straight Chinese houses you realize that neither we nor the Europeans were the first to begin eating. They either boil or steam their bread--they eat wheat instead of rice in this part of the country--or fry it, and I have no doubt that doughnuts were brought home to grandma by some old seafaring captain. These things are all the stranger because, except for sponge cake, no such things are indigenous to Japan. So when you first get here you can hardly resist the impression that these things have been brought to China from America or Europe. Read a book called "Two Heroes of Cathay," by Luella Miner, and see how our country has treated some of these people in the past, and then you see them so fond of America and of Americans and you realize that in some ways they are ahead of us in what used to be known as Christianity before the war. I guess we wrote you from Hangchow about seeing the monument and shrine to two Chinese officials who were torn in pieces at the time of the Boxer rebellion because they changed a telegram to the provincial officers "Kill all foreigners" to read "Protect all foreigners." The shrine is kept up, of course, by the Chinese, and very few foreigners in China even know of the incident. Their art is really childlike and all the new kinds of artists in America who think being queer is being primitive ought to come over here and study the Chinese in their native abodes. A great love of bright colors and a wonderful knowledge of how to combine them, a comparatively few patterns used over and over in all kinds of ways, and a preference for designs that illustrate some story or idea or that appeal to their sense of the funny--it's a good deal more childlike than what passes in Greenwich Village for the childlike in art. Y.M.C.A., PEKING, July 17. A young Korean arrived here in the evening and he was met here on our porch by a Chinese citizen who is also Korean. The newly arrived could speak very little English and by means of a triangle we were able to arrive at his story. It seems there is quite a leakage of Korean students over the Chinese border all the time. To become a Chinese student requires six years of residence, or else it was three; anyway enough to postpone the idea of going to America to study till rather late in case one wants to resort to that way of escape from Japanese oppression. The elder and the one who has become a Chinese citizen seemed a good deal excited; I fancy they are dramatic by nature, and made many gestures. He urged on me the importance of our going to Korea and he is going to bring us some pictures to look at. Well, it all set me thinking, and so I have been reading the Korean guide book and reflecting on the wonderful climate there and wondering if we can get a reasonable place to stay. My first discovery of the real seriousness of the Korean situation came across me in Japan early in March, when we had a holiday on account of the funeral of the Korean prince, for the reason that after the funeral and gradually in connection with it the _Japanese Advertiser_ said it was rumored that the old Korean prince had committed suicide. Doubtless you may know the story there, and then again you may not. However, the facts have leaked one way and another and now it is known that the old man did commit suicide in order to prevent the marriage of the young prince, who has been brought up in Japan, to the Japanese princess. By etiquette his death, taking place three days or so before the date set for the wedding, prevented the marriage from taking place for two years, and it is hoped by the Koreans that before two years they could weaken the Japanese grip on Korea. We all know they have made a beginning since last March and the suicide did something to help that along. Now that Japan is advertising political reforms in Korea she would probably count on that reputation again to cover her real activities and intentions with the world at large for some time to come. The Japanese are like the Italian Padrones or other skillful newly rich; they have learned the western efficiency and in that they are at least a generation ahead of their neighbors. New knowledge to take advantage of the old experience which she has moved away from and understands so well, to make that experience contribute all it has towards building up and strengthening the new riches of herself. The excuse is the one of the short and easy road to success though in the long run it is destructive in its bearings. But a certain physical efficiency is what Japan surely has and she has made that go a little further than it really can go. It is just one more evidence of the failure of the Peace Conference to comprehend the excuses that Wilson is making for the concessions he has granted to the practical needs, as he calls them. We are now getting the first echoes from his speeches here. When I reflect on the changed aspect of our minds and on the facts that we have become accustomed to gradually since coming here I realize we have much to explain to you which now seems a matter of course over here. We discovered from reading an old back number somewhere that an American traveler had been given the order of the Royal Treasure in Japan when he was there. This order is said to be bestowed on the Japanese alone. Before he received it he had made a public speech to the effect that as China was down and out and needed some protector it was natural that Japan should be that, as by all historical reasons she was fitted to be. It appears to be true that the Militarists here who are causing the trouble for China and who are able to hold the government on account of foreign support have that idea so far as the "natural" goes. The great man of China to-day is Hsu, commonly known as Little Hsu, which is a good nickname in English, Little Shoe. He has never been in the western hemisphere and he thinks it is better for China to give a part of her territory to the Japanese who will help them, than to hope for anything from the other foreigners, who only want to exploit them, and if once China can get a stable government with the aid of the Japanese militarists, then after that she can build herself into a nation. Meantime Little Shoe has gained by a sad fluke in the legislature the appointment of Military Dictator of Mongolia, and this means he is given full power to use his army for agricultural and any other enterprises he may choose. It means, in short, that he is absolute dictator of all Mongolia which is retained by China and which is bordered by Eastern Inner Mongolia which Japan controls under the twenty-one Demands by a ninety-nine-year lease under the same absolute conditions. These last few days since that act was consummated, nothing is happening so far as the public knows, and according to friends the government can go on indefinitely here with no cabinet and no responsibility to react to the public demands. The bulk of the nation is against this state of affairs, but with the support of foreigners and the lack of organization there is nothing to do but stand it and see the nation sold out to Japan and other grabbers. If you can get at _Millard's Review_, look at it and read especially the recent act of the Foreign Council which licensed the press--I mean they passed an Act to do so. Fortunately the Act is not legal and will not be ratified by the Chinese Council at Shanghai. To this house come the officers of the Y. M.C.A. who are on the way home from Siberia and other places. The stories one hears here are full of horror and always the same. Our men are too few to accomplish anything and the whole affair is not any of our business anyway. Anyway the Canadians have a sense of virtue in getting out of it and going home, and well they may, say I. The Japanese have had 70,000 there at least and they may have shipped many more than that, for they have such a command of the railroads that there is no way of keeping track of them. I believe the conviction is they are taking in men according to their own judgment of the case all the time. Everybody agrees that the Japanese soldiers are hated by all the others and have generally proved themselves disagreeable, the Chinese being thoroughly liked. Meantime the dissatisfaction in Japan over rice in particular and food in general is quite evidently becoming more and more acute. And it is interesting to read the interviews with Count Ishii which all end up in the same way, that the fear of bomb-throwers in the United States is becoming a very serious alarm among all. The Anti-American agitation was hard for us to understand while we were there, but its meaning is less obscure now. Will it be effective? Is another world war already preparing? It is said here that the students were very successful during the strike in converting soldiers to their ideas. The boys at the High Normal said they were disappointed when they were let out of jail at the University because they had not converted more than half the soldiers. The guards around those boys were changed every four hours. It is raining most of the time and it is typical of the Chinese character that my teacher did not come because of the rain. You have to remember he never takes a 'ricksha, though he might have looked at it that it was better to pay a man than to lose the lesson. The mud in the roads here is much like the old days on Long Island before the gravel was put there, only it is softer and more slippery here, and the water stands. PEKING, July 17. We are pleased to learn that the Japanese censor hasn't detained all our letters, though since you call them incoherent there must be some gaps. I'm sure we never write anything incoherent if you get it all. The course of events has been a trifle incoherent if you don't sit up and hold its hands all the time. Since China didn't sign the peace treaty things have quite settled down here, however, and the lack of excitement after living on aerated news for a couple of months is quite a letdown. However, we live in hopes of revolution or a coup d'état or some other little incident to liven up the dog days. You will be pleased to know that the University Chancellor--see letters of early May--has finally announced that he will return to the University. It is supposed that the Government has assented to his conditions, among which is that the police won't interfere with the students, but will leave discipline to the University authorities. To resign and run away in order to be coaxed back is an art. It's too bad Wilson never studied it. The Chinese peace delegates reported back here that Lloyd George inquired what the twenty-one Demands were, as he had never heard of them. However, the Chinese hold Balfour as most responsible. In order to avoid any incoherence I will add that a Chinese servant informed a small boy in the household of one of our friends here that the Chinese are much more cleanly than the foreigners, for they have people come to them to clean their ears and said cleaners go way down in. This is an unanswerable argument. I hear your mother downstairs engaged on the fascinating task of trying to make Chinese tones. I may tell you that there are only four hundred spoken words in Chinese, all monosyllables. But each one of these is spoken in a different tone, there being four tones in this part of the country and increasing as you go south till in Canton there are twelve or more. In writing there are only 214 radicals, which are then combined and mixed up in all sorts of ways. My last name here is Du, my given name is Wei. The Du is made up of two characters, one of which means tree and the other earth. They are written separately. Then Wei is made up of some more characters mixed up together, one character for woman and one for dart, and I don't know what else. Don't ask me how they decided that earth and tree put together made Du, for I can't tell. PEKING, July 19. I met the tutor, the English tutor, of the young Manchu Emperor, the other day--he has three Chinese tutors besides. He teaches him Math., Sciences, etc., besides English, which he has been doing for three months. It is characteristic of the Chinese that they not only didn't kill any of the royal family, but they left them one of the palaces in the Imperial City and an income of four million dollars Mex. a year, and within this palace the kid who is now thirteen is still Emperor, is called that, and is waited upon by the eunuch attendants who crawl before him on their hands and knees. At the same time he is, of course, practically a prisoner, being allowed to see his father and his younger brother once a month. Otherwise he has no children to play with at all. There is some romance left in China after all if you want to let your imagination play about this scene. The tutors don't kneel, although they address him as Your Majesty, or whatever it is in Chinese, and they walk in and he remains standing until the tutor is seated. This is the old custom, which shows the reverence in which even the old Tartars must have held education and learning. He has a Chinese garden in which to walk, but no place to ride or for sports. The tutor is trying to get the authorities to send him to the country, let him have playmates and sports, and also abolish the eunuch--but he seems to think they will more likely abolish him. The kid is quite bright, reads all the newspapers and is much interested in politics, keeps track of the Paris Conference, knows about the politicians in all the countries, and in short knows a good deal more about world politics than most boys of his age; also he is a good classical Chinese scholar. The Chinese don't seem to worry at all about the boy's becoming the center of intrigue and plots, but I imagine they sort of keep him in reserve with the idea that unless the people want monarchy back he never can do anything, while if they do let him back it will be the will of heaven. I am afraid I haven't sufficiently impressed it upon you that this is the rainy season. It was impressed upon us yesterday afternoon, when the side street upon which we live was a flowing river a foot and a half deep. The main street on which the Y. M. C. A. building is situated was a solid lake from housewall to housewall, though not more than six inches or so. But the street is considerably wider than Broadway, so it was something of a sight. Peking has for many hundred years had sewers big enough for a man to stand up in, but they don't carry fast enough. Probably about this time you will be reading cables from some part of China about floods and the number of homeless. The Yellow River is known as the curse of China, so much damage is done. We were told that when the missionaries went down to do flood relief work a year or so ago, they were so busy that they didn't have time to preach, and they did so much good that when they were through they had to put up the bars to keep the Chinese from joining the churches en masse. We haven't heard, however, that they took the hint as to the best way of doing business. These floods go back largely if not wholly to the policy of the Chinese in stripping the forests. If you were to see the big coffins they are buried in and realize the large part of China's scant forests that must go into coffins you would favor a law that no man could die until he had planted a tree for his coffin and one extra. One of our new friends here is quite an important politician, though quite out of it just now. He told a story last night which tickled the Chinese greatly. The Japanese minister here haunted the President and Prime Minister while the peace negotiations were on, and every day on the strength of what they told him cabled the Tokyo government that the Chinese delegates were surely going to sign. Now he is in a somewhat uncomfortable position making explanations to the home government. He sent a representative after they didn't sign to the above-mentioned friend to ask him whether the government had been fooling him all the time. He replied No, but that the Japanese should remember that there was one power greater than the government, namely, the people, and that the delegates had obeyed the people. The Japanese will never be able to make up their minds though whether they were being deliberately deceived or not. The worst of the whole thing, however, is that even intelligent Chinese are relying upon war between the United States and Japan, and when they find out that the United States won't go to war just on China's account, there will be some kind of a revulsion. But if the United States had used its power when the war closed to compel disarmament and get some kind of a just settlement, there would be no limit to its influence over here. As it is, they infer that the moral is that Might Controls, and that adds enormously to the moral power of Japan as against the United States. It is even plainer here than at home that if the United States wasn't going to see its "ideals" through, it shouldn't have professed any, but if it did profess them it ought to have made good on 'em even if we had to fight the whole world. However, our financial pressure, and the threat of withholding food and raw materials would have enabled Wilson to put anything over. Another little incident is connected with the Chancellor of the University. Although he is not a politician at all, the Militarist party holds him responsible for their recent trials and the student outbreaks. So, although it announced that the Chancellor is coming back, the Anfu Club, the parliamentary organization of the militarists, is still trying to keep him out. The other night they gave a banquet to some University students and bribed them to start something. At the end they gave each one dollar extra for 'ricksha hire the next day, so there would be no excuse for not going to the meeting at the University. Fifteen turned up, but the spies on the other side heard something was going on and they rang the bell, collected about a hundred and locked the bribees in. Then they kept them in till they confessed the whole story (and put their names to a written confession) and turned over their resolutions and mimeographed papers which had been prepared for them in which they said they were really the majority of the students and did not want the Chancellor back, and that a noisy minority had imposed on the public, etc. The next day the Anfu papers told about an awful riot at the University, and how a certain person had instigated and led it, although he hadn't been at the University at all that day. PEKING, July 24. We expect to go to Manchuria, probably in September, and in October to Shansi, which is quite celebrated now because they have a civil governor who properly devotes himself to his job, and they are said to have sixty per cent or more of the children in school and to be prepared for compulsory education in 1920. It is the ease with which the Chinese do these things without any foreign assistance which makes you feel so hopeful for China on the one hand, and so disgusted on the other that they put up so patiently with inefficiency and graft most of the time. There seems to be a general impression that the present situation cannot continue indefinitely, but must take a turn one way or another. The student agitation has died down as an active political thing but continues intellectually. In Tientsin, for example, they publish several daily newspapers which sell for a copper apiece. A number of students have been arrested in Shantung lately by the Japanese, so I suppose the students are actively busy there. I fancy that when vacation began there was quite an exodus in that direction. I am told that X----, our Japanese friend, is much disgusted with the Chinese about the Shantung business--that Japan has promised to return Shantung, etc., and that Japan can't do it until China gets a stable government to take care of things, because their present governments are so weak that China would simply give away her territory to some other power, and that the Chinese instead of attacking the Japanese ought to mind their own business and set their own house in order. There is enough truth in this so that it isn't surprising that so intelligent and liberal a person as X---- is taken in by it. But what such Japanese as he cannot realize, because the truth is never told to them, is how responsible the Japanese government is for fostering a weak and unrepresentative government here, and what a temptation to it a weak and divided China will continue to be, for it will serve indefinitely as an excuse for postponing the return of Shantung--as well as for interfering elsewhere. Anyone who knows the least thing about not only general disturbances in China but special causes of friction between China and Japan, can foresee that there will continue to be a series of plausible excuses for postponing the return promised--and anyway, as a matter of fact, what she has actually promised to return compared with the rights she would keep in her possession amount to little or nothing. Just this last week there was a clash in Manchuria and fifteen or twenty Japanese soldiers are reported killed by Chinese--there will always be incidents of that kind which will have to be settled first. If the other countries would only surrender their special concessions to the keeping of an international guarantee, they could force the hand of Japan, but I can't see Great Britain giving up Hong Kong. On the whole, however, Great Britain, next to us, and barring the opium business, has been the most decent of all the great powers in dealing with China. I started out with a prejudice to the contrary, and have been surprised to learn how little grabbing England has actually done here. Of course, India is the only thing she really cares about and her whole policy here is controlled by that consideration, with such incidental trade advantages as she can pick up. (Later) July 27. I think I wrote a while back about a little kid five years old or so who walked up the middle aisle at one of my lectures and stood for about fifteen minutes quite close to me, gazing at me most seriously and also wholly unembarrassed. Night before last we went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner, under the guardianship of a friend here. A little boy came into our coop and began most earnestly addressing me in Chinese. Out friend found out that he was asking me if I knew his third uncle. He was the kid of the lecture who had recognized me as the lecturer, and whose third uncle is now studying at Columbia. If you meet Mr. T---- congratulate him for me on his third nephew. The boy made us several calls during the evening, all equally serious and unconstrained. At one he asked me for my card, which he carefully wrapped up in ceremonial paper. The restaurant is near a lotus pond and they are now in their fullest bloom. I won't describe them beyond saying that the lotus is the lotus and advising you to come out next summer and see them. PEKING, August 4. I went to Tientsin to an educational conference for two days last week. It was called by the Commissioner of this Province for all the principals of the higher schools to discuss the questions connected with the opening of the schools in the fall. Most of the heads of schools are very conservative and were much opposed to the students' strikes, and also to the students' participation in politics. They are very nervous and timorous about the opening of the schools, for they think that the students after engaging in politics all summer won't lend themselves readily to school discipline--their high schools, etc., are all boarding schools--and will want to run the schools after having run the government for several months. The liberal minority, while they want the students to settle down to school work, think that the students' experiences will have been of great educational value and that they will come back with a new social viewpoint, and the teaching ought to be changed--and also the methods of school discipline--to meet the new situation. I had a wonderful Chinese lunch at a private high school one day there. The school was started about fifteen years ago in a private house with six pupils; now they have twenty acres of land, eleven hundred pupils, and are putting up a first college building to open a freshman class of a hundred this fall--it's of high school grade now, all Chinese support and management, and non-missionary or Christian, although the principal is an active Christian and thinks Christ's teachings the only salvation for China. The chief patron is a non-English speaking, non-Christian scholar of the old type--but with modern ideas. The principal said that when three of them two years ago went around the world on an educational trip, this old scholar among them, the United States Government gave them a special secret service detective from New York to San Francisco, and this man was so impressed with the old Chinese gentleman that he said: "What kind of education can produce such a man as that, the finest gentleman I ever saw. You western educated gentlemen are spoiled in comparison with him." They certainly have the world beat in courtesy of manners--as much politeness as the Japanese but with much less manner, so it seems more natural. However, this type is not very common. I asked the principal what the effect of the missionary teaching was on the Chinese passivity and non-resistance. He said it differed very much as between Americans and English and among Americans between the older and the younger lot. The latter, especially the Y. M. C. A., have given up the non-interventionalist point of view and take the ground that Christianity ought to change social conditions. The Y. M. C. A. is, he says, a group of social workers rather than of missionaries in the old-fashioned sense--all of which is quite encouraging. Perhaps the Chinese will be the ones to rejuvenate Christianity by dropping its rot, wet and dry, and changing it into a social religion. The principal is a Teachers College man and one of the most influential educators in China. He speaks largely in picturesque metaphor, and I'm sorry I can't remember what he said. Among other things, in speaking of the energy of the Japanese and the inertia of the Chinese, he said the former were mercury, affected by every change about them, and the latter cotton wool that the heat didn't warm and cold didn't freeze. He confirmed my growing idea, however, that the conservatism of the Chinese was much more intellectual and deliberate, and less mere routine clinging to custom, than I used to suppose. Consequently, when their ideas do change, the people will change more thoroughly, more all the way through, than the Japanese. It seems that the present acting Minister of Education was allowed to take office under three conditions--that he should dissolve the University, prevent the Chancellor from returning, and dismiss all the present heads of the higher schools here. He hasn't been able, of course, to accomplish one, and the Anfu Club is correspondingly sore. He is said to be a slick politician, and when he has been at dinner with our liberal friends he tells them how even he is calumniated--people say that he is a member of the Anfu Club. I struck another side of China on my way home from Tientsin. I was introduced to an ex-Minister of Finance as my traveling companion. He is a Ph.D. in higher math. from America, and is a most intelligent man. But his theme of conversation was the need of a scientific investigation of spirits and spirit possession and divination, etc., in order to decide scientifically the existence of the soul and an overruling mind. Incidentally he told a fine lot of Chinese ghost stories. Aside from the coloring of the tales I don't know that there was anything especially Chinese about them. He certainly is much more intelligent about it than some of our American spiritualists. But the ghosts were certainly Chinese all right--spirit possession mostly. I suppose you know that the walls that stand in front of the better-to-do Chinese houses are there to keep spirits out--the spirits can't turn a corner, so when the wall is squarely in front of the location of the front door the house is safe. Otherwise they come in and take possession of somebody--if they aren't comfortable as they are. It seems there is quite a group of ex-politicians in Tientsin who are much interested in psychical research. Considering that China is the aboriginal home of ghosts, I can't see why the western investigators don't start their research here. These educated Chinese aren't credulous, so there is nothing crude about their ghost stories. Transcriber's Note Typographical errors in English were corrected. Spellings of non-English words were left as found. 
7936	----	[Illustration: Cover art: THE TORII OF THE TEMPLE] [Frontispiece: OUTSIDE A TEA-HOUSE] PEEPS AT MANY LANDS JAPAN BY JOHN FINNEMORE WITH TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY ELLA DU CANE CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN II. BOYS AND GIRLS IN JAPAN III. BOYS AND GIRLS IN JAPAN (_continued_) IV. THE JAPANESE BOY V. THE JAPANESE GIRL VI. IN THE HOUSE VII. IN THE HOUSE (_continued_) VIII. A JAPANESE DAY IX. A JAPANESE DAY (_continued_) X. JAPANESE GAMES XI. THE FEAST OF DOLLS AND THE FEAST OF FLAGS XII. A FARTHING'S WORTH OF FUN XIII. KITE-FLYING XIV. FAIRY STORIES XV. TEA-HOUSES AND TEMPLES XVI. TEA-HOUSES AND TEMPLES (_continued_) XVII. THE RICKSHAW-MAN XVIII. IN THE COUNTRY XIX. IN THE COUNTRY (_continued_) XX. THE POLICEMAN AND THE SOLDIER XXI. TWO GREAT FESTIVALS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLA DU CANE OUTSIDE A TEA-HOUSE _Sketch-Map of Japan_ THE LITTLE NURSE THE WRITING LESSON GOING TO THE TEMPLE A JAPANESE HOUSE OFFERING TEA TO A GUEST FIGHTING TOPS THE TOY SHOP A BUDDHIST SHRINE PEACH TREES IN BLOSSOM THE FEAST OF FLAGS THE TORII OF THE TEMPLE [Illustration: SKETCH-MAP OF JAPAN] [Illustration: THE LITTLE NURSE] CHAPTER I THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN Far away from our land, on the other side of the world, lies a group of islands which form the kingdom of Japan. The word "Japan" means the "Land of the Rising Sun," and it is certainly a good name for a country of the Far East, the land of sunrise. The flag of Japan, too, is painted with a rising sun which sheds its beams on every hand, and this flag is now for ever famous, so great and wonderful have been the victories in which it has been borne triumphant over Russian arms. In some ways the Japanese are fond of comparing themselves with their English friends and allies. They point out that Japan is a cluster of islands off the coast of Asia, as Britain is a cluster of islands off the coast of Europe. They have proved themselves, like the English, brave and clever on the sea, while their troops have fought as nobly as British soldiers on the land. They are fond of calling themselves the "English of the East," and say that their land is the "Britain of the Pacific." The rise of Japan in becoming one of the Great Powers of the world has been very sudden and wonderful. Fifty years ago Japan lay hidden from the world; she forbade strangers to visit the country, and very little was known of her people and her customs. Her navy then consisted of a few wooden junks; to-day she has a fleet of splendid ironclads, handled by men who know their duties as well as English seamen. Her army consisted of troops armed with two swords and carrying bows and arrows; to-day her troops are the admiration of the world, armed with the most modern weapons, and, as foes, to be dreaded by the most powerful nations. Fifty years ago Japan was in the purely feudal stage. Her great native Princes were called Daimios. Each had a strong castle and a private army of his own. There were ceaseless feuds between these Princes and constant fighting between their armies of samurai, as their followers were called. Japan was like England at the time of our War of the Roses: family quarrels were fought out in pitched battle. All that has now gone. The Daimios have become private gentlemen; the armies of samurai have been disbanded, and Japan is ruled and managed just like a European country, with judges, and policemen, and law-courts, after the model of Western lands. When the Japanese decided to come out and take their place among the great nations of the world, they did not adopt any half-measures; they simply came out once and for all. They threw themselves into the stream of modern inventions and movements with a will. They have built railways and set up telegraph and telephone lines. They have erected banks and warehouses, mills and factories. They have built bridges and improved roads. They have law-courts and a Parliament, to which the members are elected by the people, and newspapers flourish everywhere. Japan is a very beautiful country. It is full of fine mountains, with rivers leaping down the steep slopes and dashing over the rocks in snowy waterfalls. At the foot of the hills are rich plains and valleys, well watered by the streams which rush down from the hills. But the mountains are so many and the plains are so few that only a small part of the land can be used for growing crops, and this makes Japan poor. Its climate is not unlike ours in Great Britain, but the summer is hotter, and the winter is in some parts very cold. Many of the mountains are volcanoes. Some of these are still active, and earthquakes often take place. Sometimes these earthquakes do terrible harm. The great earthquake of 1871 killed 10,000 people, injured 20,000, and destroyed 130,000 houses. The highest mountain of Japan also is the most beautiful, and it is greatly beloved by the Japanese, who regard it as a sacred height. Its name is Fujisan, or Fusi-Yama, and it stands near the sea and the capital city of Tokyo. It is of most beautiful shape, an almost perfect cone, and it springs nearly 13,000 feet into the air. From the sea it forms a most superb and majestic sight. Long before a glimpse can be caught of the shore and the city, the traveller sees the lofty peak, crowned with a glittering crest of snow, rising in lonely majesty, with no hint of the land on which it rests. The Japanese have a great love of natural beauty, and they adore Fujisan. Their artists are never tired of painting it, and pictures of it are to be found in the most distant parts of the land. CHAPTER II BOYS AND GIRLS IN JAPAN In no country in the world do children have a happier childhood than in Japan. Their parents are devoted to them, and the children are always good. This seems a great deal to say, but it is quite true. Japanese boys and girls behave as quietly and with as much composure as grown-up men and women. From the first moment that it can understand anything, a Japanese baby is taught to control its feelings. If it is in pain or sad, it is not to cry or to pull an ugly face; that would not be nice for other people to hear or see. If it is very merry or happy, it is not to laugh too loudly or to make too much noise; that would be vulgar. So the Japanese boy or girl grows up very quiet, very gentle, and very polite, with a smile for everything and everybody. While they are little they have plenty of play and fun when they are not in school. In both towns and villages the streets are the playground, and here they play ball, or battledore and shuttlecock, or fly kites. Almost every little girl has a baby brother or sister strapped on her back, for babies are never carried in the arms in Japan except by the nurses of very wealthy people. The baby is fastened on its mother's or its sister's shoulders by a shawl, and that serves it for both cot and cradle. The little girl does not lose a single scrap of her play because of the baby. She runs here and there, striking with her battledore, or racing after her friends, and the baby swings to and fro on her shoulders, its little head wobbling from side to side as if it were going to tumble off. But it is perfectly content, and either watches the game with its sharp little black eyes, or goes calmly off to sleep. In the form of their dress both boys and girls appear alike, and, more than that, they are dressed exactly like their parents. There is no child's dress in Japan. The garments are smaller, to fit the small wearers--that is all. The main article of dress is a loose gown, called a kimono. Under the outer kimono is an inner kimono, and the garments are girt about the body with a large sash, called an obi. The obi is the pride of a Japanese girl's heart. If her parents are rich, it will be of shining costly silk or rich brocade or cloth of gold; if her parents are poor, they will make an effort to get her one as handsome as their means will allow. Next to her obi, she prides herself on the ornaments which decorate her black hair--fine hairpins, with heads of tortoiseshell or coral or lacquer, and hair-combs, all most beautifully carved. A boy's obi is more for practical use, and is not of such splendour as his sister's. When he is very small, his clothes are of yellow, while his sister's are of red. At the age of five he puts on the hakama, and then he is a very proud boy. The hakama is a kind of trousers made of silk, and is worn by men instead of an under-kimono. At five years old a boy is taken to the temple to thank the gods who have protected him thus far; and as he struts along, and hears with joy his hakama rustling its stiff new silk beneath his kimono, he feels himself a man indeed, and that his babyhood of yesterday is left far behind. Upon the feet are worn the tabi--thick white socks, which may be called foot-gloves, for there are separate divisions for the toes. These serve both as stockings outside the house and slippers inside, for no boots are worn in a Japanese house. When a Japanese walks out, he slips his feet into high wooden clogs, and when he comes home he kicks off the clogs at the door, and enters his home in tabi alone. The reason for this we shall hear later on. In Japanese clothes there are no pockets. Whatever they need to carry with them is tucked into the sash or into the sleeves of the kimono. The latter are often very long, and afford ample room for the odds and ends one usually carries in the pocket. But fine kimonos and rich obis are for the wealthy Japanese; the poor cannot afford them, and dress very simply. The coolie--the Japanese working man--goes almost naked in the warm weather, wearing only a pair of short cotton trousers, until he catches sight of a policeman, when he slips on his blue cotton coat, for the police have orders to see that he dresses himself properly. His wife wears a cotton kimono, and the pair of them can dress themselves handsomely--for coolies--from head to foot for a sum of 45 sen, which, taking the sen at a halfpenny, amounts to 1 S. 10-1/2d. in our money. CHAPTER III BOYS AND GIRLS IN JAPAN (_continued_) When Japanese boys and girls go to school, they make very low bows to their teacher and draw in the breath with a buzzing sound. This is a sign of deep respect, and the teacher returns their politeness by making low bows to them. Then the children sit down and begin to learn their lessons. Their books are very odd-looking affairs to us. Not only are they printed in very large characters, but they seem quite upside down. To find the first page you turn to the end of the book, and you read it backwards to the front page. Again, you do not read from left to right, as in our fashion, but from right to left. Nor is this all: for the lines do not run across the page, but up and down. Altogether, a Japanese book is at first a very puzzling affair. When the writing lesson comes, the children have no pens; they use brushes instead. They dip their brushes in the ink, and paint the words one under the other, beginning at the top right-hand corner and finishing at the bottom left-hand corner. If they have an address to write on an envelope, they turn that upside down and begin with the name of the country and finish with the name of the person--England, London, Kensington Gardens, Brown John Mr. [Illustration: THE WRITING LESSON] But Japanese children have quite as many things to learn at home as at school. At school they learn arithmetic, geography, history, and so on, just as children do in England, but their manners and their conduct towards other people are carefully drilled into them by their parents. The art of behaving yourself towards others is by no means an easy thing to learn in Japan. It is not merely a matter of good-feeling, gentleness, and politeness, as we understand it, but there is a whole complicated system of behaviour: how many bows to make, and how they should be made. There are different forms of salutation to superiors, equals, and inferiors. Different ranks of life have their own ways of performing certain actions, and it is said that a girl's rank may easily be known merely by the way in which she hands a cup of tea to a guest. From the earliest years the children are trained in these observances, and they never make a mistake. The Japanese baby is taught how to walk, how to bow, how to kneel and touch the floor with its forehead in the presence of a superior, and how to get up again; and all is done in the most graceful manner and without disturbing a single fold in its kimono. A child is taught very carefully how to wait on people, how to enter the room, how to carry a tray or bowl at the right height, and, above all, how to offer a cup or plate in the most dainty and correct style. One writer speaks of going into a Japanese shop to buy some articles he wanted. The master, the mistress, the children, all bent down before him. There was a two-year-old baby boy asleep on his sister's back, and he, too, was awakened and called upon to pay his respects to the foreign gentleman. He woke without a start or a cry, understood at once what was required of him, was set on his feet, and then proceeded to make his bows and to touch the ground with his little forehead, just as exactly as his elder relatives. This done, he was restored once more to the shawl, and was asleep again in a moment. The art of arranging flowers and ornaments is another important branch of a girl's home education. Everything in a Japanese room is carefully arranged so that it shall be in harmony with its surroundings. The arrangement of a bunch of flowers in a fine porcelain jar is a matter of much thought and care. Children are trained how to arrange blossoms and boughs so that the most beautiful effect may be gained, and in many Japanese houses may be found books which contain rules and diagrams intended to help them in gaining this power of skilful arrangement. This feeling for taste and beauty is common to all Japanese, even the poorest. A well-known artist says: "Perhaps, however, one of the most curious experiences I had of the native artistic instinct of Japan occurred in this way: I had got a number of fan-holders, and was busying myself one afternoon arranging them upon the walls. My little Japanese servant-boy was in the room, and as I went on with my work I caught an expression on his face from time to time which showed me that he was not overpleased with my performance. After a while, as this dissatisfied expression seemed to deepen, I asked him what the matter was. Then he frankly confessed that he did not like the way in which I was arranging my fan-holders. 'Why did you not tell me so at once?' I asked. 'You are an artist from England,' he replied, 'and it was not for me to speak.' However, I persuaded him to arrange the fan-holders himself after his own taste, and I must say that I received a remarkable lesson. The task took him about two hours--placing, arranging, adjusting; and when he had finished, the result was simply beautiful. That wall was a perfect picture: every fan-holder seemed to be exactly in its right place, and it looked as if the alteration of a single one would affect and disintegrate the whole scheme. I accepted the lesson with due humility, and remained more than ever convinced that the Japanese are what they have justly claimed to be--an essentially artistic people, instinct with living art." CHAPTER IV THE JAPANESE BOY A Japanese boy is the monarch of the household. Japan is thoroughly Eastern in the position which it gives to women. The boy, and afterwards the man, holds absolute rule over sister or wife. It is true that the upper classes in Japan are beginning to take a wider view of such matters. Women of wealthy families are well educated, wear Western dress, and copy Western manners. They sit at table with their husbands, enter a room or a carriage before them, and are treated as English women are treated by English men. But in the middle and lower classes the old state of affairs still remains: the woman is a servant pure and simple. It is said that even among the greatest families the old customs are still observed in private. The great lady who is treated in her Western dress just as her Western sister is treated takes pride in waiting on her husband when they return to kimono and obi, just as her grandmother did. The importance of the male in Japan arises from the religious customs of the country. The chief of the latter is ancestor-worship. The ancestors of a family form its household gods; but only the male ancestors are worshipped: no offerings are ever laid on the shelf of the household gods before an ancestress. Property, too, passes chiefly in the male line, and every Japanese father is eager to have a son who shall continue the worship of his ancestors, and to whom his property may descend. Thus, the birth of a son is received with great joy in a Japanese household; though, on the other hand, we must not think that a girl is ill-treated, or even destroyed, as sometimes happens in China. Not at all; she is loved and petted just as much as her brother, but she is not regarded as so important to the family line. At the age of three the Japanese boy is taken to the temple to give thanks to the gods. Again, at the age of five, he goes to the temple, once more to return thanks. Now he is wearing the hakama, the manly garment, and begins to feel himself quite a man. From this age onwards the Japanese boy among the wealthier classes is kept busily at work in school until he is ready to go to the University, but among the poorer classes he often begins to work for his living. The clever work executed by most tiny children is a matter of wonder and surprise to all European travellers. Little boys are found binding books, making paper lanterns and painting them, making porcelain cups, winding grass ropes which are hung along the house-fronts for the first week of the year to prevent evil spirits from entering, weaving mats to spread over the floors, and at a hundred other occupations. It is very amusing to watch the practice of the little boys who are going to be dentists. In Japan the dentist of the people fetches out an aching tooth with thumb and finger, and will pluck it out as surely as any tool can do the work, so his pupils learn their trade by trying to pull nails out of a board. They begin with tin-tacks, and go on until they can, with thumb and finger, pluck out a nail firmly driven into the wood. Luckily for them, they often get a holiday. The Japanese have many festivals, when parents and children drop their work to go to some famous garden or temple for a day's pleasure. Then there is the great boys' festival, the Feast of Flags, held on the fifth day of the fifth month. Of this festival we shall speak again. Every Japanese boy is taught that he owes the strictest duty to his parents and to his Emperor. These duties come before all others in Japanese eyes. Whatever else he may neglect, he never forgets these obligations. From infancy he is familiar with stories in which children are represented as doing the most extraordinary things and undergoing the greatest hardships in order to serve their parents. There is one famous old book called "Twenty-four Paragons of Filial Virtue." It gives instances of the doings of good sons, and is very popular in every Japanese household. Professor Chamberlain, the great authority on Japan, quotes some of these instances, and they seem to us rather absurd. He says: "One of the paragons had a cruel stepmother who was very fond of fish. Never grumbling at her harsh treatment of him, he lay down naked on the frozen surface of the lake. The warmth of his body melted a hole in the ice, at which two carp came up to breathe. These he caught and set before his stepmother. Another paragon, though of tender years and having a delicate skin, insisted on sleeping uncovered at night, in order that the mosquitoes should fasten on him alone, and allow his parents to slumber undisturbed. "A third, who was very poor, determined to bury his own child alive in order to have more food wherewith to support his aged mother, but was rewarded by Heaven with the discovery of a vessel filled with gold, off which the whole family lived happily ever after. But the drollest of all is the story of Roraishi. This paragon, though seventy years old, used to dress in baby's clothes and sprawl about upon the floor. His object was to delude his parents, who were really over ninety years of age, into the idea that they could not be so very old, after all, seeing that they still had such a childlike son." His duty to his Emperor the Japanese takes very seriously, for it includes his duty to his country. He considers that his life belongs to his country, and he is not only willing, but proud, to give it in her defence. This was seen to the full in the late war with Russia. Time and again a Japanese regiment was ordered to go to certain death. Not a man questioned the order, not a man dreamed for an instant of disobedience. Forward went the line, until every man had been smitten down, and the last brave throat had shouted its last shrill "Banzai!" This was the result of teaching every boy in Japan that the most glorious thing that can happen to him is to die for his Emperor and his native land. CHAPTER V THE JAPANESE GIRL The word "obedience" has a large part in the life of a Japanese boy; it is the whole life of a Japanese girl. From her babyhood she is taught the duty of obeying some one or other among her relations. There is an old book studied in every Japanese household and learned by heart by every Japanese girl, called "Onra-Dai-Gaku"--that is, the "Greater Learning for Women." It is a code of morals for girls and women, and it starts by saying that every woman owes three obediences: first, while unmarried, to her father; second, when married, to her husband and the elders of his family; third, when a widow, to her son. Up to the age of three the Japanese girl baby has her head shaved in various fancy patterns, but after three years old the hair is allowed to grow to its natural length. Up to the age of seven she wears a narrow obi of soft silk, the sash of infancy; but at seven years old she puts on the stiff wide obi, tied with a huge bow, and her dress from that moment is womanly in every detail. She is now a musume, or moosme, the Japanese girl, one of the merriest, brightest little creatures in the world. She is never big, for when at her full height she will be about four feet eight inches tall, and a Japanese woman of five feet high is a giantess. [Illustration: GOING TO THE TEMPLE] This is her time to wear gay, bright colours, for as a married woman she must dress very soberly. A party of moosmes tripping along to a feast or a fair looks like a bed of brilliant flowers set in motion. They wear kimonos of rich silks and bright shades, kimonos of vermilion and gold, of pink, of blue, of white, decorated with lovely designs of apple-blossom, of silk crape in luminous greens and golden browns, every shade of the rainbow being employed, but all in harmony and perfect taste. If a shower comes on and they tuck up their gaily-coloured and embroidered kimonos, they look like a bed of poppies, for each shows a glowing scarlet under-kimono, or petticoat. Not only is this the time for the Japanese girl to be gaily dressed, but it is her time to visit fairs and temples, and to enjoy the gaieties which may fall in her way: for when she marries, the gates which lead to the ways of pleasure are closed against her for a long time. The duties of a Japanese wife keep her strictly at home, until the golden day dawns when her son marries and she has a daughter-in-law upon whom she may thrust all the cares of the household. Then once more she can go to temples and theatres, fairs and festivals, while another drudges in her stead. Marriage is early in Japan. A girl marries at sixteen or seventeen, and to be unmarried at twenty is accounted a great misfortune. At marriage she completely severs herself from her own relations, and joins her husband's household. This is shown in a very striking fashion by the bride wearing a white kimono, the colour of mourning; and more, when she has left her father's house, fires of purification are lighted, just as if a dead body had been borne to the grave. This is to signify that henceforward the bride is dead to her old home, and her whole life must now be spent in the service of her husband and his relations. The wedding rites are very simple. There is no public function, as in England, and no religious ceremony; the chief feature is that the bride and bridegroom drink three times in turn from three cups, each cup having two spouts. These cups are filled with saké, the national strong drink of Japan, a kind of beer made from rice. This drinking is supposed to typify that henceforth they will share each other's joys and sorrows, and this sipping of saké constitutes the marriage ceremony. The young wife now must bid farewell to her fine clothes and her merry-making. She wears garments of a soft dove colour, or greys or fawns, quiet shades, but often of great charm. She has now to rise first in the morning, to open the shutters which have closed the house for the night, for this is a duty she may not leave to the servants. If her husband's father and mother dwell in the same house, she must consider it an honour to supply all their wants, and she is expected to become a perfect slave to her mother-in-law. It is not uncommon for a meek little wife, who has obeyed every one, to become a perfect tyrant as a mother-in-law, ordering her son's wife right and left, and making the younger woman's life a sheer misery. The mother-in-law has escaped from the land of bondage. It is no longer her duty to rise at dawn and open the house; she can lie in bed, and be waited upon by the young wife; she is free to go here and there, and she does not let her chances slip; she begins once more to thoroughly enjoy life. It may be doubted, however, whether these conditions will hold their own against the flood of Western customs and Western views which has begun to flow into Japan. At present the deeply-seated ideas which rule home-life are but little shaken in the main, but it is very likely that the modern Japanese girl will revolt against this spending of the best years of her life as an upper and unpaid servant to her husband's friends and relations. But at the present moment, for great sections of Japanese society, the old ways still stand, and stand firmly. It was formerly the custom for a woman to make herself as ugly as possible when she was married. This was to show that she wished to draw no attention from anyone outside her own home. As a rule she blackened her teeth, which gave her a hideous appearance when she smiled. This custom is now dying out, though plenty of women with blackened teeth are still to be seen. Should a Japanese wife become a widow, she is expected to show her grief by her desolate appearance. She shaves her head, and wears garments of the most mournful look. It has been said that a Japanese girl has the look of a bird of Paradise, the Japanese wife of a dove, and the Japanese widow of a crow. CHAPTER VI IN THE HOUSE A Japanese house is one of the simplest buildings in the world. Its main features are the roof of tiles or thatch, and the posts which support the latter. By day the walls are of oiled paper; by night they are formed of wooden shutters, neither very thick nor very strong. As a rule, the house is of but one story, and its flimsiness comes from two reasons, both very good ones. The first is that Japan is a home of earthquakes, and when an earthquake starts to rock the land and topple the houses about the peoples' ears, then a tall, strong house of stone or brick would be both dangerous in its fall and very expensive to put up again. The second is that Japan is a land of fires. The people are very careless. They use cheap lamps and still cheaper petroleum. A lamp explodes or gets knocked over; the oiled paper walls burst into a blaze; the blaze spreads right and left, and sweeps away a few streets, or a suburb of a city, or a whole village. The Jap takes this very calmly. He gets a few posts, puts the same tiles up again for a roof, or makes a new thatch, and, with a few paper screens and shutters, there stands his house again. A house among the poorer sort of Japanese consists of one large room in the daytime. At night it is formed into as many bedrooms as its owner requires. Along the floor, which is raised about a foot from the ground, and along the roof run a number of grooves, lengthways and crossways. Frames covered with paper, called shoji, slide along these grooves and form the wall between chamber and chamber. The front of the house is, as a rule, open to the street, but if the owners wish for privacy they slide a paper screen into position. At night wooden shutters, called amado, cover the screens. Each shutter is held in place by the next, and the last shutter is fastened by a wooden bolt. The Japanese are very fond of fresh air and sunshine. Unless the day is too wet or stormy, the front of the house always stands open. If the sun is too strong a curtain is hung across for shade, and very often this curtain bears a huge white symbol representing his name, just as an Englishman puts his name on a brass plate on his front-door. The furniture in these houses is very simple. The floor is covered with thick mats, which serve for chairs and bed, as people both sit and sleep on them. For table a low stool suffices, and for a young couple to set up housekeeping in Japan is a very simple matter. As Mrs. Bishop, the well-known writer, remarks: "Among the strong reasons for deprecating the adoption of foreign houses, furniture, and modes of living by the Japanese, is that the expense of living would be so largely, increased as to render early marriages impossible. At present the requirements of a young couple in the poorer classes are: a bare matted room (capable or not of division), two wooden pillows, a few cotton futons (quilts), and a sliding panel, behind which to conceal them in the daytime, a wooden rice bucket and ladle, a wooden wash-bowl, an iron kettle, a hibachi (warming and cooking stove), a tray or two, a teapot or two, two lacquer rice-bowls, a dinner box, a few china cups, a few towels, a bamboo switch for sweeping, a tabako-bon (apparatus for tobacco-smoking), an iron pot, and a few shelves let into a recess, all of which can be purchased for something under £2." These young people would, however, have everything quite comfortable about them, and housekeeping can be set up at a still lower figure, if necessary. Excellent authorities say, and give particulars to prove, that a coolie household may be established in full running order for 5-1/2 yen--that is, somewhere about a sovereign. In better-class houses the same simplicity prevails, though the building may be of costly materials, with posts and ceilings of ebony inlaid with gold, and floors of rare polished woods. The screens (shoji) still separate the rooms; the shutters (amado) enclose it at night. There are neither doors nor passages. When you wish to pass from one room to the next you slide back one of the shoji, and shut it after you. So you go from room to room until you reach the one of which you are in search. The shoji are often beautifully painted, and in each room is hung a kakemono (a wall picture, a painting finely executed on a strip of silk). A favourite subject is a branch of blossoming cherry, and this, painted upon white silk, gives an effect of wonderful freshness and beauty. There is no chimney, for a Japanese house knows nothing of a fireplace. The simple cooking is done over a stove burning charcoal, the fumes of which wander through the house and disperse through the hundred openings afforded by the loosely-fitting paper walls. To keep warm in cold weather the Japanese hug to themselves and hang over smaller stoves, called hibachi, metal vessels containing a handful of smouldering charcoal. In the rooms there are neither tables nor chairs. The floor is covered with most beautiful mats, as white as snow and as soft as a cushion, for they are often a couple of inches thick. They are woven of fine straw, and on these the Japanese sit, with their feet tucked away under them. At dinner-time small, low tables are brought in, and when the meal is finished, the tables are taken away again. Chairs are never used, and the Japanese who wishes to follow Western ways has to practise carefully how to sit on a chair, just as we should have to practise how to sit on our feet as he does at home. When bedtime comes, there is no change of room. The sitting-room by day becomes the bedroom by night. A couple of wooden pillows and some quilts are fetched from a cupboard; the quilts are spread on the floor, the pillows are placed in position, and the bed is ready. The pillows would strike us as most uncomfortable affairs. They are mere wooden neckrests, and European travellers who have tried them declare that it is like trying to go to sleep with your head hanging over a wooden door-scraper. As they both sit and sleep on their matting-covered floors, we now see why the Japanese never wear any boots or clogs in the house. To do so would make their beautiful and spotless mats dirty; so all shoes are left at the door, and they walk about the house in the tabi, the thick glove-like socks. CHAPTER VII IN THE HOUSE (_continued_) Even supposing that a well-to-do Japanese has a good deal of native furniture--such as beautifully painted screens, handsome vases, tables of ebony inlaid with gold or with fancy woods, and so forth--yet he does not keep them in the house. He stores them away in a special building, and a servant runs and fetches whatever may be wanted. When the article has served its purpose, it is taken back again. This building is called a godown. It is built of cement, is painted black, and bears the owner's monogram in a huge white design. It is considered to be fireproof, though it is not always so, and is meant to preserve the family treasures in case of one of the frequent fires. It may be stored with a great variety of furniture and ornaments, but very few see the light at one time. [Illustration: A JAPANESE HOUSE] The Japanese does not fill his house with all the decorations he may own, and live with them constantly. If he has a number of beautiful porcelain jars and vases, he has one out at one time, another at another. A certain vase goes with a certain screen, and every time a change is made, the daughters of the house receive new lessons in the art of placing the articles and decking them with flowers and boughs of blossom in order to gain the most beautiful effect. If a visitor be present in the house, the guest-chamber will be decorated afresh every day, each design showing some new and unexpected beauty in screen, or flower-decked vase, or painted kakemono. There is one vase which is always carefully supplied with freshly-cut boughs or flowers. This is the vase which stands before the tokonoma. The tokonoma is a very quaint feature of a Japanese house. It means a place in which to lay a bed, and, in theory, is a guest-chamber in which to lodge the Mikado, the Japanese Emperor. So loyal are the Japanese that every house is supposed to contain a room ready for the Emperor in case he should stay at the door and need a night's lodging. The Emperor, of course, never comes, and so the tokonoma is no more than a name. Usually it is a recess a few feet long and a few inches wide, and over it hangs the finest kakemono that the house can afford, and in front of it is a vase whose flowers are arranged in a traditional form which has a certain allegorical meaning. At night a Japanese room is lighted by a candle fixed in a large square paper lantern, the latter placed on a lacquer stand. The light is very dim, and many are now replacing it with ordinary European lamps. Unluckily they buy the very commonest and cheapest of these, and so in consequence accidents and fires are numerous. Among the coolies of Japan, the people who fill the back streets of the large towns with long rows of tiny houses, the process of "moving house" is absolutely literal. They do not merely carry off their furniture--that would be simple enough--but they swing up the house too, carry it off, set their furniture in it again, and resume their contented family life. It is not at all an uncommon thing to meet a pair thus engaged in shifting their abode. The man is marching along with a building of lath and paper, not much bigger than a bathing-machine, swung on his shoulders, while his wife trudges behind him with two or three big bundles tied up in blue cloth. He carries the house, and she the furniture. Within a few hours they will be comfortably settled in the new street to which their needs or their fancies call them. CHAPTER VIII A JAPANESE DAY The first person astir in a Japanese household is the mistress of the house. She rises from the quilts on the floor which form her bed and puts out the lamp, which has been burning all night. No Japanese sleeps without an andon, a tall paper lamp, in which a dim light burns. Next she unlocks the amado, the wooden shutters, and calls the servants. Now the breakfast-table must be set out. In one way this is very simple, for there is no cloth to spread, for tablecloths are unknown, and when enough rice has been boiled and enough tea has been made, the breakfast is ready. But there is one point upon which she must be very careful. The lacquer rice-bowls and the chopsticks must be set in their proper order, according to the importance of each person in the family. The slightest mistake in arranging the position at a meal of any member of the family or of a guest under the roof would be a matter of the deepest disgrace. Etiquette is the tyrant of Japan. A slip in the manner of serving the food is a thousand times more important in Japanese eyes than the quality of the food itself. A hostess might serve burned rice and the most shocking tea, but if it were handed round in correct form, there would be nothing more to be said; but to serve a twice-honourable guest before a thrice-honourable guest--ah! that would be truly dreadful, a blot never to be wiped off the family escutcheon. After breakfast the master of the house will go about his business. If the day is fine the wife has his straw sandals ready for him; if it is wet she gets his high wooden clogs and his umbrella of oiled paper. Then she and the servants escort him to the door and speed his departure with many low bows, rubbing their knees together--the latter is a sign of deep respect--and calling good wishes after him. It may seem odd to us that the servants should accompany their mistress on such an errand, but the servants in Japan are not like other servants: they are as much a part of the family as the children of the house. Domestic service in Japan is a most honourable calling, and ranks far higher than trade. A domestic servant who married a tradesman would be considered as going down a step in the social scale. In Japan trade has been left until lately to the lower classes of the population, and tradespeople have ranked with coolies and labourers. This importance of domestic servants arises from two reasons: First, the old custom which compels the mistress of the house, even if she be of the highest rank, to serve her husband and children herself, and also to wait on her parents-in-law, has the effect of raising domestic service to a high and honourable level. Second, many Japanese servants are of good birth and excellent family. Only a generation ago their fathers were samurai, followers of some great Prince, a Daimio, and members of his clan. In the feudal days of Japan, so recently past, the position of the samurai was exactly the same as the clansmen of a Highland chief, say at the time of the "Forty-Five." The Daimio, the Japanese chief, had a great estate and vast revenues, counted in measures of rice; one Daimio had as much as 1,000,000 koku of rice, the koku being a weight of about 132 pounds. But out of these revenues he had to maintain his clan, his samurai, the members of his private army. The samurai clansmen were the exact counterparts of Highlanders. The poorest considered himself a gentleman and a member of his chief's family; he held trade and handicrafts in the utmost disdain: he lived only for war and the defence of his lord. But he regarded service in his lord's household as a high honour, and thus all service was made honourable. When the feudal system came to an end, when the Daimios retired into private life, and the samurai were disbanded, then the latter and their families found that they must work for their own support, and great numbers entered domestic service. Boys and girls who are meant for servants have to go through a course of training in etiquette, quite apart from the training they receive in their duties. This training is intended to maintain the proper distance between employer and servant, while, in a sense, allowing them to be perfectly familiar. The Japanese servant bows low and kneels to her mistress, and addresses her always in the tone of voice used by an inferior to a superior, yet she will join in a conversation between her mistress and a caller, and laugh with the rest at any joke which is made. It sounds difficult to believe that servants do not become too forward under such conditions, but they never do. Their perfect taste and good breeding forbid that they should pass over a certain line where familiarity would go too far. The position of a servant in Japan is shown by the fact that, though her master or mistress will speak to her as a servant, yet a caller or guest must always use the tone of equality and address her as san (miss). In the absence of the mistress, servants are expected to entertain any callers, and they do this with the perfection of gentle manners and exquisite politeness. A lady writer says: "I remember once being very much at sea when I was taken to pay a call on a Japanese lady of the well-to-do class. Not being able to speak a word of the language, I was unable to follow the conversation which took place between the charming little lady who greeted us at the inner shutters and my friend. She was dressed in the soft grey kimono and obi of a middle-aged woman, and her exquisite manner and gentleness made me feel as heavy as my boots, which I had not been allowed to take off, sounded on the delicate floor-matting compared to her soft white foot-gloves. "My friend addressed her as san, and seemed to speak to her just as a guest would to her hostess. We had tea on the floor, and my friend chatted pleasantly for some time with the little grey figure, when suddenly the sound of wheels on the gravel outside caught my ears, and the next instant there was the scuffling of many feet along the polished wooden passage which led to the front door, and the eager cry of 'O kaeri! O kaeri!' (honourable return). Our hostess for the time rose from her knees, smiled, and begged us to excuse her honourable rudeness. When she had hurried off to join in the cry of welcome, my friend said, 'Oh, I am glad she has come!' "'Who has come ?' I asked. "'The lady we came to see,' she said. "'Then, who was the charming little lady who poured out tea for us?' I asked. My friend smiled. "'Oh, that was only the housemaid.'" A man dealing with the same point remarks: "It is very important that a Japanese upper servant should have good manners, for he is expected to have sufficient knowledge of etiquette to entertain his master's guests if his master is out. After rubbing his knees together and hissing and kowtowing (bowing low), he will invite you to take a seat on the floor, or, more correctly speaking, on your heels, with a flat cushion between your knees and the floor to make the ordeal a little less painful. He will then offer you five cups of tea (it is the number of cups that signifies, not the number of callers), and dropping on his own heels with ease and grace, enter into an affable conversation, humble to a degree, but perfectly familiar, until his master arrives to relieve him. Even after his master has arrived he may stay in the room, and is quite likely to cut into the conversation, and dead certain to laugh at the smallest apology for a joke!" CHAPTER IX A JAPANESE DAY (_continued_) But we must return to our Japanese housewife, who has at present only shown her husband out politely to his business. Now she sees that all the paper screens are removed, so that the whole house becomes, as it were, one great room, and thus is thoroughly aired. The beds are rolled up and put away in cupboards, and the woodwork is carefully rubbed down and polished. Perhaps the flowers in the vases are faded, and it is a long and elaborate performance to rearrange the beautiful sprays and the blossoms brought in from the garden. Cooking is not by any means so important a matter in her household life as it is in that of her Western sister. If her rice-box is well filled, her tea-caddy well stored, her pickle-jar and store of vegetables in good order, she has little more to think about. "Rice is the staple food of Japan, and is eaten at every meal by rich or poor, taking the place of our bread. It is of particularly fine quality, and at meals is brought in small bright-looking tubs kept for this exclusive purpose and scrupulously clean; it is then helped to each individual in small quantities, and steaming hot. The humblest meal is served with nicety, and with the rice various tasty condiments, such as pickles, salted fish, and numerous other dainty little appetizers, are eaten. To moisten the meal, tea without sugar is taken. A hibachi, or charcoal basin, generally occupies the central position, round which the meal is enjoyed, and on the fire of which the teapot is always kept easily boiling." [Illustration: OFFERING TEA TO A GUEST] When the Japanese housekeeper goes to market, she turns her attention, after the rice merchant's, to the fish and vegetable stalls. At the fish-stall nothing that comes out of the sea is overlooked. She buys not only fish, but seaweed, which is a common article of diet. It is eaten raw; it is also boiled, pickled, or fried; it is often made into soup. Sea-slugs, cuttle-fish, and other creatures which we consider the mere offal of the sea, are eagerly devoured by the Japanese. At the vegetable-stall there will be a great variety of things for sale--beans, peas, potatoes, maize, buckwheat, carrots, lettuce, turnips, squash, musk- and water-melons, cucumbers, spinach, garlic, onions, leeks, chillies, capucams (the produce of the egg-plant), and a score of other things, including yellow chrysanthemum blossoms and the roots and seeds of the lotus. The Japanese eat almost everything that grows, for they delight in dock and ferns, in wild ginger and bamboo shoots, and consider the last a great tit-bit. But to Europeans the Japanese vegetables seem very tasteless, and the chief of them all is very much disliked by Westerners. This is the famous daikon, the mighty Japanese radish, beloved among the poorer classes in its native land and abhorred by foreigners. It grows to an immense size, being often seen a yard long and as thick as a man's arm. When fresh it is harmless enough, but the Japanese love to pickle it, and Mrs. Bishop remarks: "It is slightly dried and then pickled in brine, with rice bran. It is very porous, and absorbs a good deal of the pickle in the three months in which it lies in it, and then has a smell so awful that it is difficult to remain in a house in which it is being eaten. It is the worst smell I know of except that of a skunk!" The pickle-seller's stall must not be forgotten, for the Japanese flavour their rather tasteless food with a wonderful variety of pickles and sauces. The great sauce is soy, made from fermented wheat and beans with salt and vinegar, and at times saké is added to it to heighten its flavour. This sauce is served with many articles of food, and fish are often cooked in it. When the Japanese housekeeper reaches home again she finds that her servants have finished their simple duties. Englishwomen always wonder what there is in a Japanese house for servants to do. There are no fires to lay, no furniture to polish and clean, no carpets to sweep, and no linen to wash and mend; so Japanese servants spend much time chatting to each other, or sewing new kimonos together, or playing chess. As a rule, there are many more servants than are necessary to do the work. This is because servants are very cheap. There are always plenty of girls who are ready to fill the lower places if they can obtain food and clothes for their services, and the upper servants only receive small sums, sometimes as low as six or eight shillings a month. If a servant wishes to leave her employment, she never gives direct notice to her mistress. That would be the height of rudeness. Instead she begs permission to visit her home, or a sick relation, or some one who needs her assistance. Upon the day that she should return a long and elaborate apology for her non-arrival is sent, saying that, most unhappily, she cannot be spared from her home or her post of duty. It is then understood that she has left. In a similar fashion, no mistress tells a servant that she will not suit. A polite explanation that it will be inconvenient to accept her services at the moment is sent through a third party. In the evening the whole family, servants included, gather in the main room of the house. The master and mistress sit near the hibachi (the stove) and the andon (the big paper lantern); the maids glide in and sit at a respectful distance with their sewing, if they have any. There may be conversation, or the master may read aloud from a book of historical romances or fairy stories; but the servants may laugh and chat as freely over joke or story as anyone. When bed-time arrives the quilts come out of the cupboards, and are spread with due care that no one sleeps with the head to the north, for that is the position in which the dead are laid out, and so is a very unlucky one for the living. Then the little wooden neck-rests, which they use as pillows, are set in their places, and every one goes to bed. The Japanese day is over. CHAPTER X JAPANESE GAMES The children of Japan have many games, and some of these games are shared with them by their fathers and mothers--yes, and by their grandfathers and grandmothers too, for an old man will fly a kite as eagerly as his tiny grandson. The girls play battledore and shuttlecock and bounce balls, and the boys spin tops and make them fight. A top-fight is arranged thus: One boy takes his top, made of hard wood with an iron ring round it, winds it up with string, and throws it on the ground; while it is spinning merrily, another boy throws his top in such a way that it spins against the first top and knocks it over. So cleverly are the attacking tops thrown that the first top is often knocked to a distance of several feet. Other games are playing at war with toy weapons, hunting grasshoppers, which are kept in tiny cages of bamboo, and hunting fireflies. The last pastime is followed by Japanese of all ages, and the glittering flies are pursued by night, and struck down by a light fan. Wherever there is a stream of water, the boys set up toy water-wheels, and these water-wheels drive little mills and machines, which the boys have made for themselves in the cleverest fashion. Here is a group whose heads are very close together. Let us peep over their shoulders, and see what it is they watch so quietly and earnestly. Ah! this is a favourite trick. A small boy is setting a team of half a dozen beetles to draw a load of rice up a smooth, sloping board. He has made a tiny cart of paper, and filled it with rice. The traces of the cart are made of fine threads of silk, and he fastens the threads of silk to the backs of the beetles with gum. Now he has his strange team in motion, and the beetles are marching up the board, dragging their load. The tiny faces in the ring of watchers are filled with deep but motionless interest. Not one dreams of stretching out a finger. There is no need to say, "Don't touch!" No one would dream of touching--that would be very rude. Japanese children manage their own games, without any appeal to their elders. It is not often that a dispute arises, but, should that happen, the question is settled at once by the word of an elder child. The decision is obeyed without a murmur, and the game goes on. Another game of which children are fond is that of painting sand-pictures on the roadside. A group of children will compete in drawing a sand-picture in the shortest time. Each has four bags of coloured sand--black, red, yellow, and blue--and a bag of white. The white sand is first thrown down in the form of a square; then a handful of black sand is taken, and allowed to run through the fingers to form a quaint outline of a man, or bird, or animal, upon the white ground. Next, the design is finished with the other colours, and very often a most striking effect is obtained by these child artists. "But the most extraordinary and most fascinating thing of all is to watch the performance of a master in sand-pictures. So dexterous and masterly is he that he will dip his hand first into a bag of blue sand and then into one of yellow, allowing the separate streams to trickle out unmixed, and then, with a slight tremble of the hand, these streams will be quickly converted into one thin stream of bright green, relapsing again into the streams of blue and yellow at a moment's notice." There are many indoor games, and a very great favourite is the game of alphabet cards. This is played with a number of cards, some of which contain a proverb and some a picture illustrating each proverb. The children sit in a ring, and the cards are dealt to them. One of the children is the reader, and when he calls out a proverb the one who has the picture corresponding to the proverb answers at once and gives up the card. The first one to be rid of his cards is the winner, and the one who holds the last card is the loser. If a boy is the loser, he has a dab of ink or of paint smudged on his face; if it is a girl, she has a wisp of straw put in her hair. The game is so called because each proverb begins with a letter of the Japanese alphabet. Japanese children have many holidays and festivals, and they enjoy themselves very much on these joyous occasions. With their beautiful dresses of silk shining in the sun, a crowd of them looks like a great bed of flowers. Mr. Menpes speaks of a merry-making which he saw: "It was a festival for girls under ten, and there were hundreds of children, all with their kimonos tucked up, showing their scarlet petticoats, and looking for all the world like a mass of poppies.... Two rows or armies of these girls were placed several yards distant from each other in this long emerald-green field, and in the space between them stood two servants, each holding a long bamboo pole, and suspending from its top a flat, shallow drum, covered with tissue-paper. "Presently two young men teachers appeared on the scene, carrying two baskets of small many-coloured balls, which they threw down on the grass between the children and the drums. Then a signal was given, and all the girls started running down the field at full tilt towards one another, pouncing on the balls as they ran, and throwing them with all their force up at the paper drums. "After a time, when a perfect shower of balls had passed through the tissue drums, quite demolishing them, a shower of coloured papers, miniature lanterns, paper umbrellas, and flags came slowly fluttering down among the children on to their jet-black bobbing heads and into their eager outstretched hands. Never have I seen anything more beautiful than these gay, brightly-clad little people, packed closely together like a cluster of flowers in the brilliant sparkling sunshine, with their pretty upturned faces watching the softly falling rain of coloured toys." CHAPTER XI THE FEAST OF DOLLS AND THE FEAST OF FLAGS On the third day of the third month there is great excitement in every Japanese household which numbers a girl among its domestic treasures: for the Feast of Dolls has come, the great festival for dolls. On this day the most beautiful dolls and dolls' houses are fetched from the godown, where the family furniture is kept, and are on exhibition for a short time, set out on shelves covered with scarlet cloth. [Illustration: FIGHTING TOPS] These dolls are the O-Hina, the honourable dolls. They are kept with the greatest care, and in some families there are dolls which are centuries old. As each doll is dressed exactly in the costume of its age, and is furnished with belongings which represent in miniature the furniture of that age, such a collection has great historic value, and is used to teach the children how their ancestors looked and lived. There are common dolls for the little girls to play with every day, but these elaborate ones, the honourable dolls, are stored with the greatest care. Many of them are very costly. The doll is not only beautifully made and dressed, but its house is furnished with the most exact imitations of every article of furniture and of every utensil. In wealthy families this toy furniture is made of the rarest gold lacquer, or of solid silver, or of beautiful porcelain. Not a single article, either of state or of usefulness, is missing, and it is the delight of a Japanese girl at the Feast of Dolls to use the tiny utensils of her toy kitchen to prepare an elaborate feast of real food which is set before her honourable dolls. The beginning of a collection of such dolls is made as soon as a girl is born. Every girl-child is presented with a pair of these dolls, and as time goes on she gathers all the articles which go with them. These dolls are always her own. When she marries she takes them to her new home. When the O-Hina Matsuri, the Feast of Dolls, draws near, the Japanese shops begin to be full of the little images used at that time. The poorer are of painted earthenware; the finer are of wood, with clothes of the richest materials. These images, together with tiny bowls, and pots, and stoves, and trays, are used to set off and decorate the surroundings of the Feast of Dolls. They vary very greatly in price. The coolie household may have a set-out which cost a few pence. The O-Hina of a great noble's house will often be worth a fortune, having hundreds of beautifully carved and dressed images to represent the Emperor and Empress and every official of the Japanese Court, with every article used for State functions, and every piece of furniture needed to deck a royal palace. Other sets of O-Hina represent great personages in Japanese history, perhaps a great Daimio and his followers, each figure dressed with strict historical accuracy, and provided with every feature proper to its rank and period. The great festival for boys comes at the Feast of Flags. This is held on the fifth day of the fifth month. Every one knows when the Feast of Flags is near, for before every house where there are boys a tall post of bamboo is set up. Swinging from the top of each post is the figure of a huge carp, made of brightly coloured paper. If a boy has been born in the house during the year the carp is made bigger still. The body of the fish is hollow, and when the wind blows into it, it wriggles its fins and tail just like a fish swimming strongly. The Japanese choose the carp because they say it has the power of ascending streams swiftly against the current and of leaping over waterfalls. It is thus supposed to typify a young man breasting the stream of life, and thrusting his way through difficulties to success. As the boys' day draws near, the shops become full of toys for them. There are images bought for boys as well as for their sisters; but boys' images are those of soldiers, heroes, generals, famous old warriors, wrestlers, and so forth. The old Japanese were a war-like nation, and the toys provided for their sons at the Feast of Flags were helmets, flags, swords, bows and arrows, coats of mail, spears, and the like. The Feast of Flags itself is held on the day sacred to Hachima, the Japanese God of War, and the favourite game on that day is a mimic battle. The boys divide themselves into two parties, called Heike and Genji. These names represent two great old rival clans of the feudal days. Every Heike carries a red flag on his back, every Genji a white one. Each combatant also wears a helmet, consisting of a kind of earthenware pot. The combat is joined, and the small warriors hack at each other with bamboo swords. A well-directed blow will dash to pieces the earthenware pot, and the wearer is then compelled to own defeat. That side wins which breaks most pots on its opponents' heads, or captures most flags. This display of weapons, with blowing of horns and trumpets, serves another purpose also; for on the fifth day of the fifth month the Japanese believe that Oni, an evil-disposed god, comes down from the heavens to devour boys, or to bring great harm to them. But he fears sharp swords, so the long swordshaped blades of the sweet flag are gathered from the edges of rivers and the sides of swampy rice-fields, and used as decorations. As a Japanese writer says: "Oni fears the sword-blade of the sweet flag, so that its leaves are everywhere. They are upon the festal table; they hang in festoons about the house, and all along the eaves. Boys wear them tied around their heads, with the white scraped fragrant roots projecting like two horns from their foreheads. So, and with the noise of bamboo horns, they frighten away the ogre god. For he fears horned men, and he dares not enter a house where so many swords hang from the eaves." CHAPTER XII A FARTHING'S WORTH OF FUN How would you like to go to a fair with a farthing, a whole farthing, to spend as you pleased? I think I can see some of you turning your noses up, and looking very scornful. "A farthing, indeed!" you say. "Pray, of what use is a farthing? I wouldn't mind going to a fair with a shilling, or even sixpence, but what could anyone do with a farthing?" Well, in Japan you could do a great deal. We must remember that Japan is a country of tiny wages; many of its workers do not receive more than sixpence a day, and a man who gets a shilling is well off. Tiny earnings mean tiny spendings, and things are arranged on a scale to meet very slender purses. We will now see what sort of time O Hara San, Miss Blossom, and her brother, Taro San, Master Eldest Son, had at the fair one fine day in Nagasaki. In the morning they sprang up from their quilts full of excited pleasure, for they had been looking forward to this fair for some time. But they did not romp and chatter and show their excitement as English children would do. Their black eyes shone a little more brightly than usual, and that was all. When they had whipped their rice into their mouths with their little chopsticks, they started for the fair, which was to be held in the grounds of a great temple. Of course, they were dressed in their best clothes. Both had new kimonos, and O Hara San had a very fine obi, which her parents had bought for her by denying themselves many little luxuries. Their father and grandmother went with them, but their mother stayed at home with the baby. Their father wore a newly-washed kimono, but his chief glory was an old bowler hat which a European gentleman had given to him. It had been much too large for him, but he had neatly taken it in, and now wore it with great pride. When they reached the fair they gave themselves up to its delights with all their hearts. There was so much to do and so much to see. Almost at once O Hara San and Taro were beguiled by a sweetmeat stall. Each had five rin, and five rin make one farthing, or rather less, but we will call it a farthing for the sake of round figures. One rin apiece was spent here. The stall was in two divisions: one stocked with delicious little bottles of sugar-water, the other with pieces of candy, tinted bright blue and red and green. Miss Blossom went in for a bottle of sugar-water, and her brother for candies. But first he demanded of the candy-seller that he should be allowed to try his luck at the disc. This was a disc having an arrow which could be whirled round, and if the arrow paused opposite a lucky spot an extra piece of candy was added to the purchase. To Taro's great joy, he made a lucky hit, and won the extra piece of candy; he felt that the fair had begun very well for him. While they drank sugar-water and munched candy, they wandered along looking at the booths, where all sorts of wonders were to be seen--booths full of conjurers, acrobats, dancers, of women who could stretch their necks to the length of their arms, or thrust their lips up to cover their eyebrows, and a hundred other curious tricks. The price of admission was one rin each to children, and finally they chose the conjurer's booth, and saw him spout fire from his mouth, swallow a long sword, and finally exhibit a sea-serpent, which appeared to be made of seal-skins tacked together. When they left the show they came all at once on one of the great delights of a Japanese fair. It was the man with the cooking-stove, round whom children always throng as flies gather about honey. For the fifth part of a farthing you may have the use of his cooking-stove, you may have a piece of dough, or you may have batter with a cup, a spoon, and a dash of soy sauce. You may then abandon yourself to the delights of making a cake for yourself, baking it for yourself, and then eating it yourself, and if you spend a couple of hours over the operation the man will not grumble. As this arrangement combines both the pleasure of making a cake and playing with fire, it is very popular, and we cannot wonder that Taro took a turn, though Miss Blossom did not. She felt herself rather too big to join the swarm of happy urchins round the stove. While Taro was baking his cake she spent her third rin on a peep-show, where a juggler made little figures of paper and pasteboard dance and perform all kinds of antics. Then they went on again. Each bought one rin's worth of sugared beans, a very favourite sweet-meat; and these they ate while they waited for their father and grandmother to join them at the door of a certain theatre where they had agreed to meet. Into this theatre was pouring a stream of people, old and young, men, women, children, and babies, for a great historical play was to be performed, and it would shortly begin. Soon their elders turned up, and their father took their last rin to make up the payment which would admit them. In they went, and took possession of their place. The floor of the theatre was divided by little partitions, about a foot or so high, into a vast number of tiny squares, like open egg-boxes. In one of these little boxes our friends squatted down on the floor, and the grandmother began to unpack the bundle which she had been carrying. This bundle contained a number of cooking-vessels and an ample supply of rice, for here they meant to stay for some hours to see the play, to eat and drink, and enjoy themselves generally. The father filled his pipe, lighted it at the hibachi, and began to smoke, as hundreds more were doing all round them. Each box contained a family, and each family had brought its cooking-pots, its food, and its drink; and hawkers of food, of pipes, of tobacco, of saké, and of a score of other things, rambled up and down selling their wares. [Illustration: THE TOY SHOP] When the play began every one paid close attention, for it was a great historical play, and the Japanese go to the theatre and take their children there in order to learn history. There are represented the old wars, the old feuds, the struggle of Daimio against Daimio--in short, the history of old Japan. When an actor gave pleasure, the audience flung their hats on the stage. These were collected by an attendant, and kept until the owners redeemed them by giving a present. For six hours O Hara San and Taro sat in their little box, laughing, shouting, eating, and drinking, while the play went on. Then it was over, for it was only a short play, at a cheap theatre. "Ah!" said their father, "when I was a boy we had real plays. We used to rise early and be in the theatre by six o'clock in the morning. There we would stay enjoying ourselves until eleven at night. But now the decree of the Government is that no play shall last more than nine hours. It is too little!" The children quite agreed with him as they helped their grandmother to gather the pots and pans and dishes which were scattered about their box. Then each took the wooden ticket which would secure the shoes which they had left outside with the attendants, and went slowly from the theatre. When they had obtained their shoes and put them on, Miss Blossom and Master Eldest Son strolled slowly homewards through the fair. They had not another rin to spend--their farthing's worth of fun was over. CHAPTER XIII KITE-FLYING About a fortnight after the fair, on a fine windy afternoon, there was a holiday, and Taro, with his father and his younger brother Ito, turned out to fly kites. Some of their neighbours were already at work flying kites from the roofs of the houses or from windows, but our friends wanted more room than that, and went up to a piece of higher ground behind their street. Here they joined a crowd of kite-flyers. Every one was out to-day with his kite, old and young, men of sixty, with yellow, wrinkled faces, down to toddlers of three, who clutched their strings and flew their little kites with as much gravity and staidness as their grandfathers. Before long O Hara San came up with the baby on her back, and he had a bit of string in his tiny fist and a scrap of a kite not much bigger than a man's hand floating a few yards above his head. But Taro was a proud boy this afternoon. He was about to fly his first big fighting kite. It was made of tough, strong paper, stretched on a bamboo frame five feet square, a kite taller than his own father. The day before Taro had pounded a piece of glass up fine and mixed it with glue. The mixture had been rubbed on the string of his kite for about thirty feet near the kite-end and left to dry. Now, if he could only get this string to cut sharply across the string of another kite, the latter cord would be severed, and he could proudly claim the vanquished kite as his own. Kites of every colour and shape hovered in the air above the wide open space. There were square kites of red, yellow, green, blue, every colour of the rainbow; many were decorated with gaily-painted figures of gods, heroes, warriors, and dragons. There were kites in the shape of fish, hawks, eagles, and butterflies. Some had hummers, made of whalebone, which hummed musically in the wind as they rose; and as for fighting kites, they were abroad in squads and battalions. In one place the fight was between single kites; in another a score of men with blue kites met a score with red kites and the kites fluttered, darted, swooped, dived this way, that way, and every way, as they were skilfully moved by the strings pulled from below. Now and again one of them was seen to fall helplessly away and drift down the wind; its string had been cut by some victorious rival, and it had been put out of the battle. Taro had his kite high up in the air very soon; it flew splendidly, and for some time he was very busy in trying it and learning its ways, for every kite has its own tricks of moving in the air. Then suddenly he saw a great brown eagle sailing towards it. He looked up and saw that a boy named Kanaya was directing the eagle kite towards his own, and that it was a challenge to a fight. Taro accepted at once, and the combat was joined. Kanaya brought his eagle swiftly over Taro's big square kite, brightly painted in bars of many colours, but Taro let out string and escaped. Then he swung his kite up into the wind and made it swoop on the eagle. But Kanaya was already winding his string swiftly in and had raised his kite out of reach of the swoop. And so they went on for more than an hour, pursuing, escaping, feinting, dodging, until at last the eagle caught a favourable slant of wind and darted down so swiftly that Taro could not escape. The strings crossed, and the upper began to chafe the lower savagely. Taro tried to work his kite away, but in vain. The eagle string was strong and sharp. At the next moment Taro felt a horrid slackness of his string; no more could he feel the strong, splendid pull of his big kite. There it was, going, falling headlong to the ground. Kanaya had won. Nothing now remained to Taro but to take his beating like a Japanese and a gentleman. With a cheerful smile he made three low bows to his conqueror. Kanaya, with the utmost gravity, returned the bows before he ran away to secure the kite he had won. Now, there had been a very interested and attentive observer of this battle in Ito, Taro's younger brother. Ito never said a word or moved a muscle of his little brown face when he saw his brother defeated and the big kite seized in triumph by Kanaya. But his black eyes gleamed a little more brightly in their narrow slits as he let out more string and waited for Kanaya to begin to fly again. Ito had succeeded to the possession of Taro's old kite. It was less than two feet square, but it flew well, and Ito had also anointed his string with the mixture of pounded glass and glue, and was ready for combat Within ten minutes Kanaya was flying once more, and now he had Taro's kite high in the air. He had put away his own big brown eagle, and was flying the kite he had just won. He had scarcely got it well up when a smaller square kite came darting down upon it from a great height. Ito had entered the lists, and a fresh battle began. It was even longer and stubborner than the first, for Ito's kite, being much smaller, had much less power in the air; but Ito made up for this by showing the greatest skill in the handling of his kite, and quite a crowd gathered to see the struggle, watching every movement in perfect silence and with the deepest gravity. Suddenly Ito pounced. He caught a favourable gust of wind, and swung his line across Kanaya's with the greatest dexterity. Saw-saw went the line, and at the next moment the great kite went tumbling down the wind, and Kanaya and Ito exchanged the regulation bows. Then the latter looked at his brother without a word, and Taro ran to seize his beloved kite again. "It is yours now, Ito," said the elder brother, when he came back. "Oh no," said Ito; "we will each keep our own. I am glad I got it back from Kanaya." CHAPTER XIV FAIRY STORIES When Taro and Ito went home that night with their kites, they were glad to sit down and rest, for they had been running about until they were quite tired. When they had eaten their suppers of rice from their little brown bowls of lacquer, they begged their grandmother to tell them a story, and she told them the famous old story of Momotaro, beloved of every child in Japan. And this is what she told them: Once upon a time an old man and an old woman lived near a river at the foot of a mountain. Every day the old man went to the mountain to cut wood and carry it home, while the old woman went to the river to wash clothes. Now, the old woman was very unhappy because she had no children; it seemed to her that if she only had a son or a daughter she would be the most fortunate old woman in the world. Well, one day she was washing the clothes in the river, when she saw something floating down the stream towards her. It proved to be a great pear, and she seized it and carried it home. As she carried it she heard a sound like the cry of a child. She looked right and left, up and down, but no child was to be seen. She heard the cry again, and now she fancied that it came from the big pear. So she cut the pear open at once, and, to her great surprise and delight, she found that there was a fine baby sitting in the middle of it. She took the child and brought it up, and because he was born in a pear she called him Momotaro. Momotaro grew up a strong, fine boy, and when he was seventeen years old he started out to seek his fortune. He had made up his mind to attack an island where lived a very dreadful ogre. The old woman gave him plenty of food to eat on the way--corn and rice wrapped in a bamboo-leaf, and many other things--and away he went. He had not gone far when he met a wasp. "Give me a share of your food, Momotaro," said the wasp, "and I will go with you and help you to overcome the ogre." "With all my heart," said Momotaro, and he shared his food at once with the wasp. Soon he met a crab, and the same agreement was made with the crab, and then with a chestnut, and last of all with a millstone. So now the five companions journeyed on together towards the island of the ogre. When the island was reached they crept up to the house of the ogre, and found that he was not in his room. So they soon made a plan to take advantage of his absence. The chestnut laid itself down in the ash of a charcoal fire which had been burning on the hearth, the crab hid himself in a washing-pan nearly full of water, the wasp settled in a dusky corner, the millstone climbed on to the roof, and Momotaro hid himself outside. Before long the ogre came back, and he went to the fire to warm his hands. The chestnut at once cracked in the hot ashes, and threw burning cinders over the ogre's hands. The ogre at once ran to the washing-pan, and thrust his hands into it to cool them. The crab caught his fingers and pinched them till the ogre roared with pain. Snatching his hands out of the pan, the ogre leapt into the dusky corner as a safe place; but the wasp met him and stung him dreadfully. In great fright and misery the ogre tried to run out of the room, but down came the millstone with a crash on his head and killed him at once. So, without any trouble to himself, and by the help of the faithful friends which his kindness had made for him, Momotaro gained possession of the ogre's wealth, and his fortune was made. Then the grandmother told them of Jizo, the patron saint of travellers and children, the helper of all who are in trouble. Everywhere by the roadside in Japan is found the figure of Jizo. Sometimes a figure of noble height, carved in stone or in the living rock, sometimes no more than a rough carving in wood, he is represented as a priest with kindly face, holding a traveller's staff in his right hand and a globe in his left. He stands upon a lotus-flower, and about his feet there lies a pile of pebbles, to which pile each wayfarer adds a fresh pebble. And the old grandmother bade the children never pass a figure of Jizo without paying it the tribute of a pebble, for this reason: Every little child who dies, she said, has to pass over So-dzu-kawa, the river of the underworld. Now, on the banks of this river there lives a wicked old hag who catches little children as they try to cross, steals their clothes from them, and sets them to work to help her in her endless task of piling up the stones on the shore of the stream. Jizo helps these poor children, and every one who throws a pebble at the foot of this shrine also takes a share in lightening the labour of some little one down below. Another favourite story is that of Urashima, the fisher-boy. Urashima was a handsome fisher-boy, who lived near the Sea of Japan, and every day he went out in his boat to catch fish in order to help his parents. But one day Urashima did not return. His mother watched long, but there was no sign of her son's boat coming back to the shore. Day after day passed, and Urashima was mourned as dead. But he was not dead. Out on the sea he had met the Sea-God's daughter, and she had carried him off to a green, sunny land where it was always summer. There they lived for some time in great love and happiness. When it appeared to Urashima that several weeks had passed in this pleasant land, he begged permission of the Princess to return home and see his parents. "They will be sorrowing for me," he said. "They will fear that I am lost, and drowned at sea." At last she allowed him to go, and she gave him a casket, but told him to keep it closed. "As long as you keep it closed," she said, "I shall always be with you, but if you open it you will lose both me and this sunny summer land for ever." Urashima took the casket, promised to keep it closed, and returned home. But his native village had vanished. There was no sign of any dwelling upon the shore, and not far away there was a town which he had never seen before. In truth, every week that he had spent with the Princess had been a hundred years on earth, and his home and native village had passed away centuries ago, and the place where they had stood had been forgotten. In his despair, he forgot the words of the Princess, and opened the forbidden box. A faint blue mist floated out and spread over the sea, and a wonderful change took place at once in Urashima. From a handsome youth he turned to a feeble and decrepit old man, and then he fell upon the shore and lay there dead. In the box the Princess had shut up all the hours of their happy life, and when they had once escaped he became as other mortals, and old age and death came upon him at a bound. CHAPTER XV TEA-HOUSES AND TEMPLES Tea-houses and temples run together very easily in the Japanese mind, for wherever you find a temple there you also find a tea-house. But tea-houses are not confined to the neighbourhood of temples: they are everywhere. The tea-house is the house of public entertainment in Japan, and varies from the tiny cabin with straw roof, a building which is filled by half a dozen coolies drinking their tea, to large and beautiful structures, with floors and ceilings of polished woods, splendid mats, and tables of ebony and gold. The tea-house does not sell tea alone. It will lodge you and find you dinners and suppers, and is in country places the Japanese hotel. If tea-houses sold tea and nothing else it is certain that European travellers would be in a very bad way, for there is one point they are all agreed upon, and that is that the tea, as a rule, is quite unpalatable to a Western taste. However, it does not matter in the least whether you drink it or not as long as you pay your money, and the last is no great tax--about three halfpence. [Illustration: A BUDDHIST SHRINE] When a traveller steps into a tea-house the girl attendants, the moosmes, gay in their scarlet petticoats, kneel before him, and, if it is an out-of-the-way place, where the old fashions are kept up, place their foreheads on the matting. Then away they run to fetch the tea. Japanese servants always run when they wish to show respect; to walk would look careless and disrespectful in their eyes. The tea arrives in a small pot on a lacquer tray, with five tiny teacups without handles round the pot. There is no milk or sugar, and the tea is usually a straw-coloured, bitter liquid, very unpleasant to a European taste. But if a cup be raised to the lips and set down, and three sen--a sen is about a halfpenny--laid on the tray, all goes well, and every one is satisfied. This bringing of tea to a visitor is universal in Japan. It is not only done in a tea-house, where one would expect it, but on every occasion. A friendly call at a private house produces the teacups like magic, and when a customer enters a good shop, business matters are undreamed of until many little cups of tea have been produced; and if the customer has many things to buy and stays a long time, tea is steadily brought forward in relays. If you don't care for your tea plain, you may have it flavoured with salted cherry blossoms, but that is not considered an improvement by the Westerner, who longs for sugar and milk. If you wish to stay for the night at a tea-house, a room is made for you by sliding some paper screens into the wall and ceiling grooves, and a couple of quilts are laid on the floor to form a bed. That is the whole provision made in the way of furniture if you are off the beaten track of tourists: the rest you must provide for yourself. In the cities the tea-houses of the grander sort are the scenes of splendid entertainments. When a Japanese wishes to give a dinner to his friends he does not ask them to his house; he invites them to a banquet at some famous tea-house. There he provides not only the delicacies which make up a Japanese dinner, but hires dancing girls, called geisha, to amuse the company by their dancing and singing. A foreigner who is asked to one of these Japanese dinners finds everything very strange and not a little difficult. At the doors of the tea-house his boots are taken off, and he marches across the matting, to do his best to sit on his heels for a few hours. This gives him the cramp, and soon he is reduced to sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out before him. He can manage in this way pretty fairly. There may be a table before him, or there may not. If there is a table, it will be a tiny affair about a foot high. There will be no tablecloth, no glasses, no knives and forks, no spoons, and no napkin. He will be expected to deal with his food with a pair of chopsticks. When these are set before him, he will see that the two round slips of wood are still joined together. This is to show that they have never been used before. He breaks them apart, and wonders how he is going to get his food into his mouth with two pencils of wood. The feast begins with tea served by moosmes, who kneel before each guest. Each wears her most beautiful dress, and is girded with a huge and brilliant sash. After the tea they bring in pretty little white cakes made of bean flour and sugar, and flavoured with honey. The next course is contained in a batch of little dishes, two or three of which are placed before each guest. These contain minced dried fish, sea slugs floating in an evil-smelling sauce, and boiled lotus-seeds. To wash down these dainties a porcelain bottle of saké, rice-beer, is provided. The unhappy foreigner tastes one dish after the other, finds each one worse than the last, and concludes to wait till the next course. This is composed of a very great dainty, raw, live fish, which one dips in sauce before devouring. Then comes rice, and the chopsticks of the Japanese feasters go to work in marvellous fashion. With their strips of wood or ivory they whip the rice grain into their mouths with wonderful speed and dexterity, but our unlucky foreigner gets one grain into his mouth in five minutes, and is reduced to beg for a spoon. The next course is of fish soup and boiled fish, and potatoes appear with the fish; but, alas! the fish is most oddly flavoured and the potatoes are sweet; they have been beaten up with sugar into a sort of stiff syrup. Next comes seaweed soup and the coarse evil-smelling daikon radish, served with various pickles and sauces. Among the other oddments is a dish of nice-looking plums. Our foreigner seizes one and pops it in his mouth. He would be only too glad to pop it out again if he could, for the plum has been soaked in brine, and tastes like a very salty form of pickle. As he experiments here and there among the wilderness of little lacquer bowls which come forth relay upon relay, he feels inclined to paraphrase the cry of the Ancient Mariner, and murmur: "Victuals, victuals everywhere, and not a scrap to eat!" When at length the dinner has run its course the geisha, in their beautiful robes of silk and brocade and their splendid sashes, come in to sing and dance. Europeans are soon tired of both performances. The geisha, with her face whitened with powder, and her lips painted a bright red, and her elaborately-dressed hair full of ornaments, sits down to a sort of guitar called a samisen and sings, but her song has no music in it. It is a kind of long-drawn wail, very monotonous and tuneless to European ears. The dancing is a kind of acting in dumb show, and consists of a number of postures, while the movements of the fan take a large share in conveying the dancer's meaning. When our foreigner starts home from this long and rather fatiguing entertainment, he finds that he has by no means finished with his dinner. On his way to his carriage he will be waylaid by the little moosmes who have waited upon him, and their arms will be filled with flat white wooden boxes. These contain the food that was offered to him and left uneaten, and Japanese etiquette demands that he shall take home with him his share of the scraps of the banquet. CHAPTER XVI TEA-HOUSES AND TEMPLES (_continued_) The Japanese are very fond of their temples, and visit them constantly. They do this not only to pray to their gods, but to enjoy themselves as well, for the temple grounds are the scene of great fairs and festivals. If you visit a temple on the day of some great function, you will find its steps outside packed with rows upon rows of clogs and umbrellas, placed there by the worshippers inside. You enter, and find the latter seated on the floor, and if the service is not going on at the moment they are smoking and chatting together, and the children are crawling about in the crowd. When the service is over the worshippers disperse to find a cool spot in the temple grounds to eat their simple meal. In front of the temple stands a wooden arch, called a torii. Sometimes the temple is approached through a whole avenue of them of various sizes. The building is of wood, sometimes small, sometimes very large, and is usually surrounded by booths and tea-houses. At many of the booths may be purchased the figures of the more popular gods. Everywhere may be seen the fat figures of the Seven Gods of Wealth, the deities most beloved in every Japanese household. Then there are the God and Goddess of Rice, who protect the crops, and who are attended by the figures of foxes quaintly carved in wood or moulded in white plaster. The Goddess of Mercy, with her many hands to help and save, is also a favourite idol. At another spot you find peep-shows, stalls at which hairpins, paints, and powder-boxes, and a thousand other trifles, are sold; archery galleries, where you may fire twenty arrows at a target for a halfpenny; booths, where acrobats, conjurers, and jugglers are performing, and tea-houses without number, where the faithful are sipping their tea or saké and puffing at their tiny pipes. The young girls are fond of purchasing sacred beans and peas and rice at a stall set up under the eaves of the temple. With these they feed the temple pigeons, who come swooping down from the great wooden roof, or the sacred white pony with the blue eyes which belongs to the holy place. On the steps sit rows of licensed beggars, who will pray for those who will present them with the tenth part of a farthing. But prayers may also be bought from the priests, prayers written upon a scrap of paper, which scrap is afterwards fastened to the bars of the grating in front of the figure of a god. A favourite god will have many thousand scraps of paper fluttering before it at one time. Many of the temple gardens are of very great beauty and interest. There can be seen many of the marvels of Japanese gardening--tiny dwarf trees, hundreds of years old, and yet only a few inches high, or tall shrubberies cut and trained to represent a great junk in full sail, or the figure of a god or hero. At certain times of the year when the temple orchards are in blossom, great throngs visit them simply to enjoy the delicate beauty of the scene. The plum-blossom appears in February, and the cherry-blossom in April or May. Later in the year the purple iris is followed by the golden chrysanthemum. High and low, all crowd to see the beauty of a vast sweep of lovely blossom. A poor Japanese thinks nothing of walking a hundred miles or more to see some famous orchard or garden in its full flowering splendour. From his earliest years this love of natural beauty has been a part of his education. As a child he has taken many a trip with his father and mother to admire the acres of plum or cherry blossom in a park or temple-garden; as a man he lays his work aside and goes to see the same spectacle with redoubled delight. CHAPTER XVII THE RICKSHAW-MAN "For his heart is in Japan, with its junks and Fujisan, And its tea-houses and temples, and the smiling rickshaw-man." We have heard of Fujisan, the famous mountain; we have talked of tea-houses and temples; and now we must say something about the rickshaw-man or boy, a very important person indeed in Japan. He is not important because of riches or rank, for, as a rule, he is very poor and of the coolie order; he is important because he is so useful. He is at one and the same time the cabman and the cab-horse of Japan. He waits in the street with his little carriage, and when you jump in he takes hold of the shafts himself and trots away with you at a good speed. The jin-ri-ki-sha, to give it its full name, means man-power carriage, and is like a big mail-cart or perambulator. There is a hood of oiled paper to pull up for wet weather, a cushion to sit on, a box for parcels under the seat, two tall slight wheels, and a pair of shafts. If the rickshaw-boy is well-to-do in his business, his carriage is gaily lacquered and painted with bright designs, and however poor he may be, there will be some attempt at decoration. At night every rickshaw is furnished with a pretty paper lantern, circular in form, about eighteen inches long, and painted in gay designs. These look quite charming as they bob here and there through the dusk, their owners racing along with a fare. The rickshaw is as modern as the bicycle. The first one was made less than forty years ago, but they sprang into favour at once, and their popularity grew by leaps and bounds. The fact is that the rickshaw fits Japan as a round peg fits a round hole. In the first place, it opened a new and money-making industry to many thousands of men who had little to do. There were vast numbers of strong, active young fellows who leapt forward at once to use their strength and endurance in this novel and profitable fashion. Then, the vehicle was suited to Japanese conditions, both in town and country. In town the streets are so narrow and busy that horse traffic would be dangerous. In fact, in many places a horse is so rare a sight that when one trots along a street a man runs ahead, blowing a horn to warn people to clear out of the way. But the rickshaw-boy dodges through the traffic with his little light carriage, and runs over no one. Then, in the country the roads are often very narrow, and sometimes very bad--mere tracks between fields of rice. Here the rickshaw is of great service, owing to its light weight and the little room it requires. As a rule, the rickshaw is drawn by one man and holds one passenger; but it has often to contain two Japanese, for the pair of them will fit snugly into the space required for one Englishman. If the traveller wishes to go fast, he has two human horses harnessed to his light chariot. Both run in front till a hill is reached, when one drops back to push behind. Wherever you arrive in Japan, whether by steamer or by train, you will find long rows of rickshaw-boys waiting to be hired. They are all called boys, whatever their age may be. Until a possible passenger comes in sight, the queer little men, many of them under five feet in height, stand beside their rickshaws, smoking their tiny little brass pipes with bowls about half as big as a thimble. Their clothes are very simple. They wear a very tight pair of short blue drawers and a blue tunic, upon the back of which a huge white crest is painted, the distinguishing mark of each boy. An enormous white hat the size and shape of a huge basin is worn on the head; but if the day becomes very hot the hat is taken off, and a wisp of cloth bound round the forehead to prevent sweat from running into the eyes. As for sunstroke, the rickshaw-boy has no fear of that. When you step into sight, a score dart forward, dragging their rickshaws after them with one hand and holding the other up to draw your attention, and shouting, "Riksha! Riksha! Riksha!" You choose one, and step in. The human steed springs between the shafts, raises them and tilts you backwards, and then darts off, as if eager to show you his strength and speed, and prove to you what a good choice you have made. Away bounds the little man, and soon you are bowling along a narrow street where a passage seems impossible, so full is it of boys and girls, men and women, shops and stalls. There may be a side-walk, but then, the shopkeepers have taken that to spread out their wares, or the stallkeepers have set up their little booths there. So the people who want to go along the street, and the boys and girls who want to play in it, are all driven to the middle of the way. Here and there your rickshaw dodges, working its way through the crowd. Now the man pauses a second lest he should run full-tilt over a group of gaily-dressed little girls, each with a baby on her back, playing at ball in the road. Half a dozen others are busy with battledores and shuttlecocks, and the gaily-painted toys drop into your carriage, and you are expected to toss them out again to the mites, who will bow very deeply and with the profoundest gravity in return for your politeness; then something flutters over your head, and you see that two boys and an old man are sitting on the roof of a house about as high as a tool-shed, trying to get their kites up. And you say to yourself that it is lucky that there are no horses, for the quietest beast that ever lifted a hoof would bolt here and charge through the whirl and uproar and the rain of dropping shuttlecocks and bouncing balls. Another fine thing about rickshaw-riding is that no one can call it expensive. While the boy goes, you pay him about sevenpence an hour; while he waits you pay him rather less than twopence-halfpenny an hour, and you can have his services for a whole day for about half a crown. But some of them will try to cheat you in places where foreigners are often met with, and will put a whole twopence an hour on the regular price. This is very sad, and causes the rickshaw-boy to be looked upon as a tradesman; he is not allowed the honour of being regarded as a servant and the member of an honourable profession--one who puts his master's interests before his own. But, as a rule, the foreigner who employs the same rickshaw-boy comes to look upon him as a guide, philosopher, and friend. He will tell you where to go and what to do; he knows all the sights, and can tell you all about them. If you go shopping, he will come in and see that you don't get cheated any more than you are bound to be. If you go on an expedition, he will find out the best tea-house to stay at, he will cook for you, wait on you, brush your clothes, put up the paper screens to form your bedroom, take them down again, see that the bill is reasonable, pay it, and fee the servants--in short, he will manage everything, and you have only to admire what you have gone to see. Wherever you stop on a jaunt, whether it is some famous temple or some lovely park, there is sure to be a coolie's tea-house handy, and he takes the opportunity of refreshing himself. He dives into the well under the seat and fetches out his lacquer box full of rice. He whips the rice into his mouth with chopsticks, and washes it down with the yellow, bitter Japanese tea. Then he sits and smokes his tiny pipe until you are ready to go on. CHAPTER XVIII IN THE COUNTRY The Japanese farmer is one of the steadiest workers in the world; he tills his patch of land, day in, day out, with untiring industry. He works seven days a week, for he knows nothing of the Sabbath, and only takes a day off for a fair or a festival when his land is in perfect order and he is waiting for the crop. Almost the whole of the land is turned over with the spade, and weeds are kept down until the whole country looks like a neatly-kept garden. Many crops are grown, but the chief of them all is rice, and when the rice crop fails, then vast numbers of people in Japan feel the pinch of famine. In order to grow rice much water is needed, so the fields are flooded from a river or canal near at hand, and the plants are set in the soft mud. This work is carried out by men or women who wade in slush above their knees, and it is a very dirty and toilsome task. The women tuck their kimonos up, and the men cast theirs aside altogether. After planting, this work in deep slush and clinging mud must be repeated three times in order to clear away the water-weeds which grow thickly around the young rice-plants. [Illustration: PEACH TREES IN BLOSSOM] When the rice is nearly ripe the water is drawn off and the fields are dried. The fields are of all sizes and shapes, from a patch of a few square yards up to an acre, and the latter would be considered large. There are no hedges or fences to divide off field from field, for the land is too valuable to permit of such being grown; but the boundaries are well understood, and each farmer knows his own patch. Another important crop is the plants which are grown for making paper. Paper has a great place in the industries of Japan. It is used everywhere and for almost everything. A Japanese lives in a house largely built of paper, drinks from a paper cup, reads by a paper lantern, writes, of course, on paper, and wraps up his parcels in it, ties up the parcels with paper string, uses a paper pocket-handkerchief, wears a paper cloak and paper shoes and paper hat, holds up a paper umbrella against the sun and the rain, and employs it for a great number of other purposes. He makes more than sixty kinds of paper, and each kind has its own specified use. He can make it so tough that it is almost impossible to tear it, and he can make it waterproof, so that the fiercest rain cannot pass through it. If your path leads you along the bank of a river you will often see a fisherman at work. He has many ways of catching his prey. He uses a line and hook and the net. In a large stream or pool he may be seen at work with the throwing-net, a clever device. This net is made in the form of a circle twelve or fourteen feet across, and round the edge of the net heavy sinkers of lead are fastened. The fisherman folds this net over his arm, and then tosses into the water a ball of boiled rice and barley. The fish gather to eat this bait, and then he throws the net in such a way that it falls quite flat upon the water. The leads sink at once to the bottom, and the net covers the feeding fish in the shape of a dome. A strong cord is fastened to the top of the net, and he begins to haul it up. The leads are drawn together by their own weight, and close the bottom of the net, and the fish are imprisoned. Sometimes he uses bow and arrows. This he does after putting into the water certain fruit and herbs which are very bitter. The juice of these herbs affects the water and drives the fish to the surface, where they leap about in pain. The fisherman shoots them with an arrow to which a cord is attached, and draws them ashore. As night falls after a hot day, the people and children of the village near at hand will come down to the water-side on a fire-fly hunt. The tiny gleaming creatures now flash along the surface of river and lake, like a myriad of fairy lanterns flitting through the dusk. They are caught and imprisoned in little silken cages. At the bottom of the cage there is a very small mound of earth in which a millet seed has been planted and has sprung up to the height of an inch or more, and beside the little plant there is a tiny bowl of water. Here the firefly will live for several days, to the delight of the children. Not far from the river is the village, with a brook running down the middle of its street. This brook serves many purposes. The women kneel beside it with sleeves and kimonos tucked up, washing clothes and vegetables, or dipping buckets in it to get water for baths. There is a loud rattle of wooden hammers at various points, for the stream turns a number of small water-wheels, and these work big wooden hammers which pound up the rice placed in a big stump of a tree hollowed out for a mortar. As you stroll along the village street you see what every one is doing, for the fronts of the houses are all open, and you can see into every corner of each dwelling. Behind the houses tall bamboos shoot up, and the bamboo is welcome, for it is a tree of many uses. Its wood serves for the framework of houses, and its leaves are often used as thatch. It will make a dish, a box, a plate, a bowl, an oar, a channel for conveying water and a vessel for carrying it, a fishing-rod, a flower-vase, a pipe-stem, a barrel-hoop, a fan, an umbrella, and fifty other things, while young bamboo shoots are eaten and considered a great delicacy. On fine summer evenings, when the work of the day is over, the villagers gather in the court of the village temple for the odori, the open-air dance. The court is decked with big beautiful paper lanterns, but there is a special one called toro (a light in a basket). The toro is often two feet square by five feet high. On one side of it is the name of the god in whose temple court the dance is being held, while the other is reserved for some short poem, written by one of the youths of the village. There is keen competition among them for the honour of writing the poem chosen to be inscribed on the toro, and two of these tiny poems run thus: "I looked upon the cherry that blooms by the fence, down by the woodman's cottage, And wondered if an untimely snow had fallen upon it." "Into the evening dew that rolls upon the green blade of the tall-grown grass in Mushashi Meadow The summer moon comes stealthily and takes up her dwelling." The young men and maidens dance in a ring, circling round one who stands in the midst, from whom they take both the time and music of the many dances performed at the odori. The dancers are always young and unmarried. The older people sit on the steps of the temple and watch the merry frolic with a smile. CHAPTER XIX IN THE COUNTRY (_continued_) On a wet day in the country the people thatch themselves to keep off the rain. The favourite waterproof of the coolie is a huge cloak made of rice straw, the long ends sticking out. With this and his great umbrella hat he keeps comfortably dry. Those who do not wear a big hat carry a large oiled paper umbrella, which shelters them well. There is plenty of wet weather in Japan, particularly in the summer, and then travelling is not very pleasant. The good roads become muddy and soft, and the bad roads become sheer quagmires, in which the coolie pulling the rickshaw is continually losing his straw sandals. These sandals, called waraji, mark out the tracks in every direction, for they soon wear out, and are cast off to litter the wayside in their hundreds. They are quickly and cheaply replaced, however, for almost every roadside house sells them, and a pair may be bought for a sen--something less than a halfpenny. Not only do the men wear straw shoes, but horses are shod in them also, and a very poor and clumsy arrangement it is. The shoes are thick, and are tied on the horse's feet with straw cords. They wear out so fast that a bunch has to be kept hanging to the saddle for use on the way, and in every village a fresh stock has to be secured, at the cost of a penny per set of four. The foreign visitor who travels through country places in Japan has to submit to being stared at, but nothing more. The people are so interested in a person who looks so different from themselves that they are never tired of watching him and his ways. But otherwise their unfailing politeness remains. They do not crowd upon him, or, if they should come a little too near, they are soon warned off. An English artist, Mr. Alfred Parsons, was once sketching in Japan, and the crowd, anxious to see his work, came a little too near his elbow. He says: "The keeper of a little tea-shop hard by, where I took my lunch, noticed that I was worried by the people standing so close to me, and when I arrived next morning I found that he had put up a fence round the place where I worked. It was only a few slender bamboo sticks, with a thin string twisted from one to another, but not a soul attempted to come inside it. They are such an obedient and docile race that a little string stretched across a road is quite enough to close the thoroughfare." A familiar figure along the Japanese highways and byways is that of the pilgrim going to see some famous shrine, or, most often of all, marching towards Fujisan, the sacred mountain. The Fuji pilgrim may be known by his garb. He is dressed in white, with white kimono, white socks and gaiters, and straw sandals. He wears a great basin-shaped white hat, and has a rush mat over his shoulders to temper the heat of the sun or shed the rain. Round his neck hangs a string of beads and a bell, which tinkles without ceasing as he goes. He carries a little bundle of spare sandals and a staff with an ornament of paper about its end. His pilgrimage costs him very little. His food is of the simplest, and he gets a bed at a tea-house for a halfpenny, or he lodges with a villager who offers him hospitality. To entertain his guest the villager will fetch his best furniture from the village godown, for in the country one of these storehouses suffices for a whole hamlet. They are made very large and strong, with many thick coats of mud and plaster on a wooden frame, and with a door of iron or of bronze; then, when the fire, which is sure to come at some time or other, sweeps over the hamlet and leaves it a layer of smoking ashes around the big godown, there are the village treasures still unharmed, and ready to adorn the houses which will spring up again as if by magic. When bedtime comes, the amado, the wooden shutters, are drawn around the house and securely fastened; for a Japanese dwelling, so open by day, is shut up as tightly as a sealed box by night. Now all is quiet save for the village watchman, whose duty it is to guard against fire and thieves. He marches up and down, beating two pieces of wood together--clop-clop, clop-clop--as he walks. This is to give assurance that he is not asleep himself, but watching over the slumbers of his neighbours, and to let the thieves know that he is looking out for them. CHAPTER XX THE POLICEMAN AND THE SOLDIER The Japanese policeman is, first and foremost, a gentleman. He is a samurai, a man of good family, and therefore deeply respected by the mass of the people. He is often a small man for a Japanese, but though his height may run from four feet ten to five feet nothing, he is a man of much authority. When the samurai were disbanded, there were very few occupations to which they could turn. They disdained agriculture and trade, but numbers of them became servants, printers, and policemen. This seems an odd mixture of tasks, but there are sound reasons for it. Many samurai became servants because service is an honourable profession in Japan; many became printers because the samurai were an educated class, and the only people fitted to deal with the very complicated Japanese alphabet; and many became policemen because it was a post for which their fighting instinct and their habit of authority well fitted them. Their authority over the people is absolute and unquestioning; and, again, there are sound reasons for this. [Illustration: THE FEAST OF FLAGS] Forty years ago the Japanese people could have been divided very sharply into two classes, the ruling and the ruled. The ruling class was formed of the great Princes and the samurai, their followers, about 2,000,000 people in all. The remaining 38,000,000 of the population were the common people, the ruled. Now, in the old days when a Daimio left his castle for a journey, he was borne in a kago, a closed carriage, and was attended by a guard of his samurai. If a common person met the procession, he was expected either to retire quickly from the path or fling himself humbly on his face until the carriage had gone by; if he did not, the samurai whipped out their long swords and slew him in short order, and not a single word was said about it. This way of dealing with those who did not belong to the two-sworded class made the people very respectful to the samurai, and that respect is now transferred to the police. The Japanese policeman is also to be respected for his skill in wrestling, and, small as he is, the tallest and most powerful foreigner is quite helpless in his hands. He is thoroughly trained in the art of Japanese wrestling--the jiu-jitsu of which we hear so much nowadays. In this system a trained wrestler can seize his opponent in such a manner that the other man is quite at his mercy, or with a slight impetus he can fling the other about as he pleases. One writer speaks of seeing a very small Japanese policeman arrest a huge, riotous Russian sailor, a man much more than six feet high. It seemed a contest between a giant and a child. The sailor made rush after rush at his tiny opponent, but the policeman stepped nimbly aside, waiting for the right moment to grip his man. At last it came. The sailor made a furious lunge, and the policeman seized him by the wrist. To the astonishment of the onlooker, the sailor flew right over the policeman's head, and fell all in a heap more than a dozen feet away. When he picked himself up, confused and half stunned, the policeman tied a bit of string to his belt and led him away in triumph to the station. The policeman never has any trouble with his own people; they obey at once and without question. If a crowd gathers and becomes a nuisance to anyone, it melts as soon as one of the little men in uniform comes along and gives the order to disperse. He may sometimes be seen lecturing a coolie or rickshaw-boy for some misdeed or other. The culprit, his big hat held between his hands, ducks respectfully at every second word, and looks all humility and obedience. Being an educated man, he has much sympathy with art and artists, and is delighted to help a foreigner who is painting scenes in Japan. Mr. Mortimer Menpes says: "Altogether I found the policeman the most delightful person in the world. When I was painting a shop, if a passer-by chanced to look in at a window, he would see at a glance exactly what I wanted; and I would find that that figure would remain there, looking in at the shop, as still as a statue, until I had finished my painting; the policeman meanwhile strutting up and down the street, delighted to be of help to an artist, looking everywhere but at my work, and directing the entire traffic down another street." Of the Japanese soldier there is no need for us to say much here, since the world has so lately been ringing with his praises. The endurance, the obedience, the courage of the Japanese soldier and sailor have been shown in marvellous fashion during the great war with Russia, and Japan has fully proved herself to be one of the greatest of the naval and military Powers of the world. The Japanese soldier is the result of the family life in Japan. From his infancy he is taught that he has two supreme duties: one of obedience to his parents, the other of service to his country. This unhesitating, unquestioning habit of obedience, a habit which becomes second nature to him, is of immense value to him as a soldier. He is a disciplined man before he enters the ranks, and he transfers at once to his officers the obedience which he has hitherto shown towards the elders of his family. His second great duty of service to his country also leads him onward towards becoming the perfect soldier. He not only looks upon his life as a thing to be readily risked or given for his Emperor and for Japan, but he strives to make himself a thoroughly capable servant of his land. No detail of his duty is too small for him to overlook, for he fears lest the lack of that detail should prevent him from putting forth his full strength on the day of trial. He cleans a button as carefully as he lays a big gun, and this readiness for any duty, great or small, was a large factor in the wonderful victory of Japan over Russia. In battle he questions no order. During the late war many Japanese regiments knew that they were being sent to certain death, in order that they might open a way for their comrades. They never flinched. Shouting their "Banzai!"--their Japanese hurrah--the dogged little men rushed forward upon batteries spouting flame and shell, or upon ramparts lined with rifles, and gave their lives freely for Dai Nippon, Great Japan, the country of their birth. CHAPTER XXI TWO GREAT FESTIVALS There are two great Japanese festivals of which we have not yet spoken, but which are of the first importance. One is the New Year Festival, the other is the Bon Matsuri, the Feast of the Dead, in the summer. The New Year Festival is the great Japanese holiday of the year. No one does any work for several days, and all devote themselves to making merry. Although this festival comes in the middle of winter, every street looks like an arbour, decorated as it is with arches of greenery before each house. On either side of each door is a pine-tree and bamboo stems. These signify a hardy old age, and they are joined by a grass rope which runs from house to house along the street. This rope is supposed to prevent evil spirits from entering the houses, and so it ensures the occupants a lucky year. Japanese flags are entwined amid the decorations, and green feathery branches and ferns are set about, until the street looks like a forest. Japanese people are so polite to each other that even the beggars in the streets bow to each other in the most ceremonious fashion, but at this festival the bowing is redoubled. There is a special form of greeting for this occasion, and not a bow is to be missed when two acquaintances meet. There is much feasting and a great exchange of presents. The Japanese are always making presents to each other, and there is a prescribed way for every rank of life to make presents to every other rank, and for the manner in which the presents are to be received. A present may always be known by the little gold or red or white paper kite fastened to the paper string which ties up the parcel. Every one enters into the fun of the time, from the highest to the lowest. They call upon each other; they march in great processions; they visit the gayest and liveliest of fairs; they feast; they drink tea and saké almost without ceasing. The fairs look most striking and picturesque after darkness has fallen. Then the streets and the long rows of white booths made of newly-sawn wood and gaily decorated, are lighted up by innumerable lanterns of every colour that paper can be painted, and of every size, from six inches high to six feet. The crowd wear their gayest kimonos, and the moosmes are brilliant in flowered or striped silks and splendid sashes, and the air is full of the rattle of the shuffling clogs and the tinkling samisen played in almost every booth. At times the crowd opens to let some procession pass through. Now it is the dragon-dancers, the dragon's head being a huge and terrifying affair made of coloured pasteboard, and carried on a pole draped with a long garment which hides the dancer. In front march two men with drum and fife to herald the dragon's approach. Next comes a batch of coolies dragging a car upon which a swarm of masqueraders present some traditional pageant, and next a number of boys perform an old dance with much spirit and shouting. On New Year's Eve a very curious market is held. It is a custom in Japan for every one to pay all that he owes to his Japanese creditors before the New Year dawns. If he does not do so, he loses his credit. So on the last day of the Old Year the Japanese who is behind in his payments looks among his belongings for something to sell, and carries it to the market in order that he may gain a few sen to settle with his creditor. In the great city of Tokyo this fair is visited by every traveller. For a space of two miles the stalls stretch along in double rows, lighted by lanterns of oil flares, and here may be seen every imaginable thing which is to be found in poorer Japanese households. As each Japanese arrives with his worldly possessions in a couple of square boxes swinging one at each end of a bamboo pole slung across his shoulder, he takes possession of a little stall or a patch of pavement and sets out his poor wares. He has brought mats, or cushions, or shabby kimonos, or clogs, or socks, or little ornaments and vessels in porcelain or silver or bronze. Sometimes he brings really beautiful things, the last precious possessions of a family which has come down in the world--a fine piece of embroidery, a priceless bit of lacquer, bronze and silver charms, little boxes of ivory, temples and pagodas and bell-towers in miniature, tiny but perfect in every detail and of the most exquisite workmanship. Everything comes to market on this night of the year. The Feast of the Dead takes place in the hot summer weather, and is celebrated in different ways in various parts of Japan. Everywhere the children, in their finest clothes, march through the streets in processions, carrying fans and banners and lanterns, and chanting as they march; but most great cities have their own form of celebration. At Nagasaki the tombs of all those who have died during the past year are illuminated with large bright lanterns on the first night of the celebrations. On the second and third nights all tombs are illuminated, and the burial-grounds are one glorious blaze of many-coloured lights. The avenues leading to the burial-grounds are turned into fair-grounds, with decorations and booths, stalls and tea-houses, each illuminated by many brilliant lanterns. Fires are lighted on the hills, rockets shoot up on every hand, and vast crowds of people gather in the cemeteries to feast and make merry and drink saké in honour of their ancestors, whose spirits they suppose to surround them and be present at the festival. At the end of the feast a very striking scene takes place: the preparations for the departure of the dead. "But on the third vigil, suddenly, at about two o'clock in the morning, long processions of bright lanterns are seen to descend from the heights and group themselves on the shores of the bay, while the mountains gradually return to obscurity and silence. It is fated that the dead should embark and disappear before twilight. The living have plaited them thousands of little ships of straw, each provisioned with some fruit and a few pieces of money. The frail vessels are charged with all the coloured lanterns which were used for the illumination of the cemeteries; the small sails of matting are spread to the wind, and the morning breeze scatters them round the bay, where they are not long in taking fire. It is thus that the entire flotilla is consumed, tracing in all directions large trails of fire. The dead depart rapidly. Soon the last ship has foundered, the last light is extinguished, and the last soul has taken its departure again from earth." 
54815	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) YANKEE BOYS IN JAPAN [Illustration: "With a shrill cry trembling upon his lips, Nattie felt himself falling through space." (See page 107)] YANKEE BOYS IN JAPAN OR THE YOUNG MERCHANTS OF YOKOHAMA BY HENRY HARRISON LEWIS AUTHOR OF "The Valley of Mystery," "Won at West Point," "King of the Islands," etc. [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK AND LONDON STREET & SMITH. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1903 By STREET & SMITH Yankee Boys in Japan CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I--Three Characters are Introduced 7 II--Nattie Arrives Opportunely 15 III--Grant is Mysterious 23 IV--The Attack of the Ronins 33 V--The Man with the Gladstone Bag 41 VI--Mr. Black Receives a Surprise 50 VII--Nattie Carries His Point 59 VIII--One Conspirator Defeated 68 IX--Disaster Threatens 77 X--Mori Shows His Generosity 85 XI--Nattie Makes a Discovery 92 XII--The Struggle in the "Go-down" 101 XIII--Willis Round Escapes 108 XIV--The Beginning of the Celebration 116 XV--The Wrestling Match 124 XVI--After the Victory 131 XVII--The Turning Up of a Bad Penny and its Results 138 XVIII--Evil Tidings 148 XIX--Bad News Confirmed 154 XX--The Man Beyond the Hedge 162 XXI--A Prisoner 170 XXII--The Pursuit 177 XXIII--Patrick Shows His Cleverness 184 XXIV--Grant Beards the Lion 192 XXV--A Plan, and its Failure 200 XXVI--Grant Attempts to Escape 207 XXVII--In Front of the Old Castle 215 XXVIII--Sumo's Army 223 XXIX--A Mysterious Disappearance 230 XXX--The Tragedy in the Tunnel 239 XXXI--Ralph Secures Reinforcements 245 XXXII--The Flashing of the Swords 252 XXXIII--"Grant! Brother, is it You?" 258 XXXIV--The Mysterious Forces of Nature 264 XXXV--Retribution! 270 XXXVI--Conclusion 276 YANKEE BOYS IN JAPAN. CHAPTER I. THREE CHARACTERS ARE INTRODUCED. It was early in the afternoon of a July day. A warm sun beaming down with almost tropical fervency glinted through the open windows of an office in the foreign settlement of Yokohama, Japan. The room, a large one, furnished with desks and chairs, and the various equipments of such an apartment, contained a solitary occupant. He--it was a youth of not more than nineteen years of age--was leaning back in an easy, revolving chair, with his hands resting upon an account book laid open on a light bamboo desk. His face, as seen in the glare of the light, was peculiar. The expression was that termed old-fashioned by some. He had queer, puckered eyes, and many wrinkles here and there, but the chin was firm and resolute, and the forehead lofty--marks of intelligence and great shrewdness. There was something in the pose of the body, however, that did not denote either gracefulness or symmetry. Presently he arose from his chair and moved with a halting gait toward window opening into an outer court. Then it became evident that he was a cripple. One leg, the right, was shorter than its mate. There was also a droop in the shoulders that betokened a lack of physical strength, or many years of ill health. Notwithstanding this misfortune, the youth had a cheerful nature. As he glanced out into the court, with its huge-leafed palms, shady maples, and the ever-present bamboos, he whistled softly to himself. Presently the faint tinkling notes of a _samisen_--a native square-shaped banjo--came to his ears from a neighboring building. Then the rat-tat of the hourglass-shaped drum called _tsuzumi_ joined in, and the air was filled with a weird melody. With something like a sigh, the young man turned back to his work. Bending over the book, he added up interminable columns of figures, jotting down the results upon a pad at his elbow. A stranger entering from the teeming street would have noted something amiss in this office. He would have seen that the half-dozen desks, with the exception of that being used by the solitary occupant, were thickly covered with dust. A delicate tracery of cobwebs held in its bondage the majority of the chairs. There were others festooning the row of books and pasteboard files upon a number of shelves lining the walls. Over in one corner was an open fireplace, looking grim and rusted, and above a lacquered side table swung a parrot cage, desolate and empty. It was a scene of disuse, and it had its meaning. It was the counting-room of John Manning, "Importer and Trader," as a tarnished gilt sign over the outer door informed the passerby. But the master of it, and of the huge warehouse back on the bay, had gone to his last rest many months before. He had been the sole owner of the business--which rumor said had fallen into decay--and when he went to join his helpmate, he left two sons to fight the battle of life. One, Grant Manning, we now see hard at work in the old office. The other, Nathaniel Manning, or "Nattie," as he was familiarly called by his associates, was at that moment on his way to the office to join his brother. Just fifteen years had John Manning conducted business as an importer and trader in the foreign quarter of Yokohama. At first his firm had prospered, but the coming of new people, and severe competition had finally almost forced the American to the wall. He died leaving his affairs in a muddle, and now Grant, after months of delay and litigation, was puzzling his brain over the carelessly kept books and accounts. Five years previous Nattie had been sent home to New England to school. He was on the point of entering Harvard when the word came that his father had suddenly passed away. In the letter Grant had added that but little remained of their father's money, and that his presence was also needed to help settle the accounts. For several months after Nattie's arrival in Japan nothing could be done. At last the elder brother had cleared up matters sufficiently for the boys to see where they stood. On the day on which this story opens Grant had arranged an appointment with his brother, and was now awaiting his coming with the patience characteristic of him. The task he had taken upon himself was not the lightest in the world. The books were in almost hopeless confusion, but by dint of hard application Grant had finally made out a trial balance sheet. As he was adding the finishing touches to this, he suddenly heard the sounds of an animated controversy in the street. An exclamation uttered in a familiar voice caused him to hastily leave his desk and open the door leading outside. As he did so a couple of _jinrikishas_--two-wheeled carriages pulled by coolies--came into sudden collision directly in front of the office. Each vehicle was occupied by a fashionably dressed lad. They were gesticulating angrily, and seemed on the point of coming to blows. The _kurumayas_, or _jinrikisha_ men, were also bent on hostilities, and the extraordinary scene was attracting a dense crowd of blue-costumed natives. Rushing bareheaded into the street, Grant grasped one of the lads by the arm, and exclaimed: "What under the sun does this mean, Nattie? What is the cause of this disgraceful row?" "It's that cad, Ralph Black," was the wrathful reply. "He made his _kurumaya_ run the _'rikisha_ in front of mine on purpose to provoke a quarrel. He will have enough of it if he don't look out." "Not from you, Nattie Manning!" insolently called out the youth in the other vehicle. "You are very high and mighty for a pauper." Nattie gave a leap from his carriage with the evident intention of wreaking summary vengeance upon his insulter, but he was restrained by Grant. Ralph Black, a stocky-built youth of eighteen, with an unhealthy complexion, probably thought that discretion was the better part of valor as he hastily bade his _kurumaya_ carry him from the spot. The brothers gave a final glance after the disappearing _jinrikisha_, and then entered the office, leaving the crowd of straw-sandaled natives to disperse before the efforts of a tardy policeman. "Nattie, when will you ever learn to avoid these disgraceful rows?" remarked Grant, seating himself at his desk. "Since your return from the States you have quarreled with Ralph Black four or five times." "I acknowledge it, brother, but, really, I can't help it," replied Nattie, throwing himself into a chair. "The confounded cad forces himself upon me whenever he can. He is insolent and overbearing, and I won't stand it. You know I never liked Ralph. Before I left for the States we were always rowing. He is a mean, contemptible sneak, and if there is anything on earth I hate it is that." The lad's face flushed with passion, and as he spoke he struck the arm of the chair with his clinched fist. In both appearance and actions, the brothers were totally different. Stalwart for his age, clean-limbed, a handsome face, crowned by dark, clustering hair, Nattie would have attracted admiration anywhere. As stated before, Grant was a cripple, deformed and possessed of a quaint, old-fashioned countenance, but readers of human nature would have lingered longer over the breadth of his brow, and the kindly, resolute chin. Nattie would have delighted athletes, but his elder brother--a truce to descriptions, let their characters speak for themselves as the story progresses. Grant smiled reprovingly. He had a great liking for Nattie, but he regretted his impulsiveness. None knew better than he that the lad was all right in his heart, but he needed a rudder to his ship of life. "I suppose it is hard to bear sometimes," he acknowledged. "It is a pity that you are compelled to antagonize the fellow just when we are placed in such a predicament. I have gone over the books from end to end, but I declare I can't find any further references to the payment of the debt." "We are sure father settled it, anyway." "But we can't prove it, more's the pity. The last entry in father's personal account book is this: 'Paid this date the sum of five thousand, six hundred dollars ($5,600.00) to----' it ends there." Grant's voice lowered as he added: "At that moment he fell from his chair, you know, and died before help could come." Both were silent for a while, then Nattie reached for the book in question, and glanced over it. Finally he said, with decision: "That entry certainly means that father paid back Mr. Black the debt of five thousand dollars, with six per cent. interest for two years, on the day of his death." "There isn't the slightest doubt of it in my mind. I cannot find the faintest trace of any similar debt in the books. But Mr. Black swears the amount was not paid, and he threatens to sue the estate." "Nice work for a reputable English exporting merchant. But I don't put it above him. The sire of such a son as Ralph Black would do almost anything, in my opinion." CHAPTER II. NATTIE ARRIVES OPPORTUNELY. "I am afraid he will push us to the wall if he can," replied Grant, taking up the balance sheet. "If Mr. Black compels us to pay, or rather repay the debt, it will leave us penniless. This little trouble with Ralph will probably cause him to take immediate action. Ralph has great influence over his father, you know." "How does the estate stand?" asked Nattie, flecking a speck of dust from his carefully creased trousers. "Badly enough. Briefly speaking, our liabilities, not counting the Black debt, are seventy-three thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and forty-three cents, and the available assets, including everything--this building, the warehouse, and our home on the heights--are exactly eighty thousand dollars." "Then we would have over six thousand dollars to the good if we could prove that father had really paid the English importing merchant?" "Yes, in round numbers. Six thousand one hundred and eighty-nine dollars and fifty-seven cents. But there is no use in beating around the bush, Nattie. We must face the issue squarely. We can't prove it, and we are ruined." The younger brother sprang to his feet and paced restlessly up and down the office. There was a gleam in his eyes that boded ill for certain persons if they should ever be placed in his power. Halting abruptly in front of Grant, he said, passionately: "It's a confounded shame that we should lose everything. Father was fifteen years building up this trade, and now it must all go because of that villain's treachery. You have gone over the books and know how the business stands. If we had money could we continue the business with any success?" "Well, I should say so," replied Grant, earnestly. "We have been agents and correspondents of the best American houses. Why, when the business stopped, father had orders for almost one hundred thousand dollars' worth of petroleum, flour, calico, sugar and machinery. Then there are the exports. The firm of Broadhead & Company, of Philadelphia, wanted a consignment of rice and silk." "You are well known to the government people also." "None better. I can say without boasting that I stand higher with them than any other foreigner in business here. There is Yoshisada Udono, the secretary to the Minister of War; and the sub-admiral of the navy, Tanaka Tamotsu. I have some influence with both, and in case of supplies I think I can hold my own. But what is the use of talking. We haven't the money, nor can we get it." Nattie walked over to the window leading into the court, and glanced thoughtfully at the boxed walks, now overgrown with weeds. He plucked a sprig of bamboo, and returned to the center of the room. There was a smile upon his face. "I have a plan, brother, which may work and may not," he said. "It can be tried." Grant leaned back and eyed him in silence. "You remember Mori Okuma?" continued Nattie. "Of course. I know him well. He returned to Japan with you. He has been at Yale for several years. What about him?" "Coming over on the steamer I became very chummy with him. He is as nice a Japanese youth as you can find in sight of the volcano of Fuji San, which about includes the islands, you know. Well, his people are dead, and he is the sole heir to over fifty thousand dollars in good hard money." "And you propose?" "To ask him to go in with us," replied Nattie, quietly. "He told me he wished to invest his wealth if possible. He thought of returning to the States, but he can be talked out of that. What do you think of it?" Grant was visibly excited. He arose from his chair and paced back and forth with queer little steps. He ran one white hand over his brow in a way he had. His face lost some of its careworn expression, and he finally became radiant with hope. "Nattie, if we can induce him to form a firm with us our fortunes are made," he said, eagerly. "Twenty thousand dollars, not half of his capital, will square up everything and place us in running order. Just think of it! It will mean the defeat of many ill-wishers; it will save father's name from the disgrace of a failure, and it'll keep the old house going. When can you see him? How about bringing him here this afternoon? I can show him the books in a jiffy." "I declare, brother, this is really the first time I ever saw you excited," laughed Nattie. "Why, you positively look like another fellow. Just bide here for a while, and I'll look Mori up. He'll be down to the tea house near the bank, I suppose." He brushed his sleeves where dust from the desk had soiled them, jauntily placed his cork sun-helmet upon his head, and sauntered from the offices, leaving Grant still trotting up and down in unwonted animation. The latter was alert and boyish. His face actually beamed--it was wonderful how the hope had changed him. The mere thought that money might be secured and the house--his father's firm in which he had loved to labor--would be saved from the disgrace of bankruptcy was enough. The youth--he was nothing more in years--whistled a merry air, and limped to the window leading into the street. Drawing the curtain aside, he glanced forth, then started back with an exclamation of surprise. "Ah, they are at work early," he muttered. "I fancy the son's malevolence has brought this call." A knock sounded at the door. Grant threw it open, and bowed politely to a man and a youth standing upon the threshold. The former, an austere Englishman, with dark side whiskers and a peculiar pallor of face, entered first. He was followed by a stocky-built youth, clad in fashionable garments. It was father and son, comprising the well-known firm of importers and traders, Jesse Black & Company. Ralph gave Grant a malicious glance and seemed particularly pleased at something. The elder Black marched majestically to a seat near the center of the desk, and, after brushing the dust from it, settled himself with a grunt. All this with not a word. The head of the firm glanced half contemptuously at the many evidences of disuse surrounding him; then he drew from an inner pocket a bill with several lines of writing upon it. This he handed to Grant. "I suppose you know why I am here?" he asked, in a harsh voice. "I believe I can guess," quietly replied the cripple. "That bill will tell you. This estate owes me five thousand, six hundred dollars, not counting later interest. I need the money. Can you pay it to-day?" "Mr. Black, you know I cannot. It is simply impossible. I am trying to get affairs straightened up so that I can settle father's debts, but I am not quite ready." "Make him pay or threaten to sue," muttered Ralph, in a voice intended for his father's ears. Grant overheard the words, however. His eyes, generally so gentle, flashed, and he turned sharply on the ill-favored youth. "I am conducting this conversation with Mr. Black," he said, sternly. "I understand why this note has been presented to-day. It is your doings. Simply because you had a quarrel with my brother, and he threatened to chastise you, you retaliate by demanding this money. If the truth was known, the entire debt was paid by my father on the day of his death." For a moment a silence death-like in its intensity followed this bold speech. Father and son glared at Grant as if hardly believing their ears. The elder merchant's pallor seemed to increase, and he furtively moistened his lips with his tongue. Ralph's face paled, and then flushed until the cords stood out in his forehead. Clinching his fists he strode over to where the cripple was standing near the bamboo desk. "What's that you say?" he demanded, hoarsely. "Do you know what you mean, you puny wretch? It is an accusation of fraud, that's what it is. Retract those words, or I'll cram the lie down your throat." If Grant had faults, cowardice was not one of them. He thoroughly realized that he would be no match in a tussle with Ralph Black, but that fact did not daunt his spirit. "If you are coward enough to strike me, go ahead," he replied, calmly. "I will retract nothing. I say that I fully believe my father paid your debt on the day of his death. I know----" He was interrupted by Ralph. Wild with rage, the youth reached out and grasped Grant with his left hand, then he raised the other, and was on the point of aiming a blow at him when the front door suddenly flew back. Two young men stood in the opening. There was an exclamation of amazement, which died away in a note of wrath, then one of the newcomers darted forward, and in the twinkling of an eye Master Ralph found himself lying under a tall desk considerably confused and hurt, both bodily and in feelings. Then Nattie, for it was he, turned on Mr. Black, who tried to speak, but only stammering words came from his lips. The merchant had watched the affair with dilated eyes. He remained motionless until he saw his son stricken down; then, with a cry, he snatched up a heavy ruler lying upon the bamboo desk. As he raised it to strike at Nattie, the latter's companion, who had hitherto remained in the doorway, ran forward and grasped his arm. There was a brief struggle, in which both Nattie and the newcomer participated, then the Blacks, father and son, found themselves forced into the street. [Illustration: "As Black raised the heavy ruler to strike at Nattie the latter's companion ran forward and grasped his arm." (See page 22)] CHAPTER III. GRANT IS MYSTERIOUS. The occupants of the office waited for a few moments to see if the English merchant and his hopeful offspring cared to continue the scrimmage, but no attempt was made to open the door. Nattie glanced through the window, and saw them retreating up the street as fast as they could walk. "Well, did you ever see the beat of that?" he finally exclaimed, turning back to his companions. "What is the meaning of it all, brother?" Grant, who was still fuming with indignation, explained the affair in detail. Presently he quieted down and concluded by saying, regretfully: "I am very sorry it occurred. To have such a row in this office is simply disgraceful. It also means an immediate suit for that debt, and any amount of trouble." "We'll see if it can't be prevented," replied Nattie, cheerfully. "This is Mori Okuma, brother. You remember him." The lame youth turned with outstretched hand and a smile of welcome to his brother's friend. The young Japanese, whose modest garb and quiet manner proclaimed the high-class native, responded cordially to the greeting. He appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. He had the kindly eyes and gentle expression of his race. "I am greatly obliged to you for your assistance," said Grant. "But I must apologize for such a scene. It is unfortunate that you found this generally respectable office the theatre for a brawl. Believe me, it was entirely unsolicited on my part." "Oh, Mori don't mind that," broke in Nattie, with a laugh. "I'll wager a _yen_ it reminded him of old times. He was center rush in the Yale football team, you know." Mori smiled, and shook a warning finger at his friend. "I must confess that it did me good to see that old scoundrel thrown into the street," he said, naïvely. "I know him well. My father had dealings with him several years ago. And the son is a savage, too. He intended to strike you, the coward." "I'll settle all scores with him one of these days," said Nattie, grimly. Then he added, in a businesslike voice: "I have spoken to Mori about the firm, brother. He thinks favorably of the idea, and is willing to consult with us on the subject. Suppose you show him the books and explain matters." "I will do that with the greatest pleasure," replied Grant, smilingly. "I presume my brother has told you about how we stand, Mr. Okuma?" "Oh, bother formalities!" exclaimed Nattie, with characteristic impatience. "Call him Mori. He is one of us." The young Japanese bowed courteously. "We are friends," he said, "and I hope we will soon be partners." The lame youth fervently echoed the wish. Calling attention to the balance sheet he had recently drawn up, he explained the items in detail, proving each statement by ample documents. Mori listened intelligently, nodding his approval from time to time. Presently Nattie slipped out into the street, returning after a while with a _musmee_, a native tea-house waitress. The girl, _petite_ and graceful in her light-blue robe and voluminous _obi_, carried in her hands a lacquered tray, upon which were three dainty cups and a pot of tea. Sinking to her knees near the desk, the _musmee_ placed the tray on the floor, and proceeded to serve the fragrant liquid. Work was stopped to partake of the usual afternoon refreshments, and the boys chatted on various subjects for five or ten minutes. Finally Nattie gave the _musmee_ a few _sen_ (Japanese cents) and dismissed her. She performed several elaborate courtesies, and withdrew as silently as she had come. The task of explaining the affairs of the firm of John Manning was resumed. "Now you understand everything," said Grant, half an hour later. "You can see that with fresh capital we should carry on quite an extensive business. The Black debt, which I explained to you, has crippled us so that we will have to fail if we can't secure money. We believe it was paid, but unfortunately, there are no traces of the receipt." "I hardly think Mr. Black would hesitate to do anything for money," replied Mori, thoughtfully. "Your esteemed father undoubtedly settled the debt." "We have written contracts with the twelve American houses on this list," continued Grant. "Then there is the chance of securing that order from the government for the Maxim revolving cannon and the fifteen million cartridges. We also have a standing order for lacquered ware with four New York firms. In fact, we would have ample business for eight months ahead." "There's money in it, Mori," chimed in Nattie. "I can't explain things like Grant, but I believe we can carry the majority of trade in this city and Tokio. What do you think of it?" "I am quite impressed," replied the Japanese youth, with a smile. "I have no doubt that we can do an extensive business. You will pardon me if I defer giving you an answer until to-morrow at this hour. As I understand it, you wish me to invest twenty thousand _yen_ against your experience and the orders on hand?" "And our contracts," quickly replied Grant. "They are strictly first-class." "And the contracts," repeated Mori, bowing. "They are certainly valuable. I think you can rely upon a favorable answer to-morrow. Until then I will say _sayonara_." "_Sayonara_. We will be here at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon," said Nattie and Grant, seeing their new friend to the door. "Now, I call that settled," exclaimed the former, tossing his helmet in the air and adroitly catching it on the end of his cane. "I am certain Mori will go in with us. He's a thoroughly good fellow, and can be depended on." Grant was not so demonstrative, but the happy expression on his face spoke volumes. He bustled about the office, restoring the books to the safe, closed the various windows, and then announced, cheerily: "I think we deserve a little vacation, Nattie. Suppose we knock off now and have an early dinner out at home. Then we can go to the theatre to-night. Horikoshi Shu is going to play in the 'Forty-seven Ronins.'" His brother shrugged his shoulders as if the latter prospect was not entirely to his taste. "I confess I can't see much in Japanese theatricals since my visit to the States," he replied, "but we'll take it in. Dinner first, eh? Well, come along." Leaving the office to the care of a watchman, they walked down the street toward the custom house. Grant recognized and bowed to a score of persons within the few blocks. It was evident that he was well known in the foreign mercantile circles of Yokohama. "They will be surprised when they hear that we have resumed business," remarked Nattie, with a grin. "It will be unpleasant news to some," replied his brother, dryly. "If we have the success I anticipate I wouldn't be astonished if we found the whole crew banded against us. Black & Company can influence the three German houses and probably others." Nattie snapped his fingers in the air in defiance. They presently came to a _jinrikisha_ stand, and selecting two vehicles promising comfort, were soon whirling away homeward. The distance to the suburb on the heights where the Mannings lived was fully three _ris_, or more than six miles, but the _karumayas_ made little of the task. These men, the "cab horses" of Japan, clad in their short tunics, straw sandals, and huge mushroom-shaped hats of the same material, possess wonderful energy. They think nothing of a couple of miles at full speed, and the apparently careless manner in which they tread their way through mazes of crowded streets is awe-inspiring to the foreign visitor. It was an old story to Grant and Nattie, however, and they leaned back against the soft cushions in comfort. After passing the custom house the _karumayas_ turned into the Japanese town. Here the scene changed instantly. Here the broad roads dwindled to narrow lanes lined with quaint wooden shops, apparently half paper-glazed windows. Broad banners bearing the peculiar native characters fluttered in the breeze. Here and there could be seen the efforts of an enterprising Japanese merchant to attract trade by means of enormous signs done in comical English. The _'rikishas_ whirled past crowded _sake_, or wine shops, with red-painted tubs full of queer liquor; past crockery stores with stock displayed on the floors; past tea houses from which came the everlasting strains of the _samisen_ and _koto_; on, on, at full speed until at last a broad open way was gained which led to the heights. Espying a native newsboy trotting by with his tinkling bell attached to his belt, Nattie called him, and purchased a copy of the English paper, the Japan _Mail_. "I'll see what Brinkley has to say about the trade," he smiled. "To-day's work has interested me in the prices of tea, and machinery, and cotton goods, and all of that class of truck. Hello! raw silk has gone up several cents. Rice is stationary, and tea is a trifle cheaper." "That's good," called out Grant from the other _'rikisha_. "I can see my way to a good cargo for San Francisco if this deal with Mori comes to pass. Any mention made of purchases?" "Black & Company are down for a full cargo of woollen and cotton goods, and the Berlin Importing Company advertise a thousand barrels of flour by next steamer." "We can beat them on prices. They have to buy through a middle man, and we have a contract straight with Minneapolis. I'll see what----" "Jove! here's something that touches me more than musty contracts," interrupted Nattie, eagerly scanning the paper. "The Committee on Sports of the Strangers' Club intend to hold a grand celebration on the seventh of July to celebrate the anniversary of Commodore Perry's arrival in the Bay of Yeddo, and the first wedge in the opening of Japan to the commerce of the foreign world. Subscriptions are asked." "We will give five hundred dollars," promptly replied Grant. "In a case like this we must not be backward." "That's good policy. You hold up the honor of our house at that end, and I'll see that we don't suffer in the field." "What do you mean?" "Why, there are to be athletic sports galore," chuckled Nattie, in high glee. "A very novel programme is to be arranged. It will consist of ancient Japanese games and modern European matches. There is to be a grand wrestling contest among the foreign residents. That suits me clear down to the ground. And the funny thing about it is that no one is to know the name of his antagonist until he enters the ring." "That will certainly add to the interest." "I should say so. I am going to send my name in to the secretary to-morrow. Let me see; this is the second of July. That means four days for practice. I'll secure old Matsu Doi as a trainer. Whoop! there will be loads of fun, and--what under the sun is the matter?" Grant had arisen in his _'rikisha_ and was staring back at a shabby-appearing native house they had just passed. For the purpose of taking a short cut to the road leading up the bluff the _karumayas_ had turned into a squalid part of the native town. The streets were narrow and winding, the buildings lining them mere shells of unpainted wood. "What is the matter?" repeated Nattie, stopping the carriage. Instead of replying, Grant tumbled from his _jinrikisha_ with surprising agility, and stepped behind a screen in front of a rice shop. Then he beckoned to his mystified brother, and with a peremptory gesture ordered the _karumayas_ to continue on up the street. CHAPTER IV. THE ATTACK OF THE RONINS. "What on earth is the matter with you?" repeated Nattie, for the third time. "What have you seen?" "Sh-h-h! there he is now," replied Grant, peeping out from behind the screen. "I thought as much." The younger lad followed his brother's example, and peered forth. A few rods down the crooked street was a small tea house which bore the worst reputation of any in Yokohama. It was noted as being the resort for a class of dissolute Samurai, or Ronins, as they are generally termed. These men, relics of the Ancient Order of Warriors, are scattered over the country in cities and towns. Some have finally exchanged the sword for the scales or plowshare, but there are others wedded to a life of arrogant ease, who have refused to work. Too proud to beg, they are reduced to one recourse--thievery and ruffianism. The strict police laws of Japan keep them in general control, but many midnight robberies and assassinations are properly laid to their door. On glancing from his place of concealment, Nattie saw three men, whose dress and air of fierce brutality proclaimed them as Ronins, emerge from the tea house. They were immediately followed by a stocky-built young man, clad in English costume. It was Ralph Black. He cast a cautious glance up and down the street, then set out at a rapid walk for the Bund, or foreign settlement. Nattie gave a low whistle of surprise. "Well, I declare!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible he has fallen so low as to frequent such a place?" "I hardly think so," replied Grant. "What was he doing in there, then?" "I will tell you. He is out of sight now. Come, we'll catch up with the _'rikishas_. When we were passing that tea house I chanced to look through the window. Imagine my surprise when I saw Ralph engaged in close conversation with a villainous-looking Ronin. It struck me at once that something was up, so I motioned you to follow me from the carriages. What do you think of it?" "It is deuced queer." "Ralph Black is unscrupulous. He hates both of us, and in my opinion he wouldn't stop at anything to avenge himself." "Then you think?" "That he is arranging to have us assaulted some night by those villainous Ronins," replied Grant, gravely. Nattie halted, and, clinching his fists, glanced back as if minded to return. "If I thought so I'd settle it now," he said, angrily. "Nonsense. What could you do in a row with three or four cutthroats? It is only a supposition of mine. I would be sorry to believe that even Ralph Black would conspire in such a cowardly manner. Still we should keep an eye out during the next week or so, anyway. Here are the _'rikishas_. Jump in, and we'll go home." The balance of the trip to the bluff was made without incident. By the time the Manning residence was reached the incident had been displaced by something of apparent greater importance. Nattie's mind was filled with thoughts of the triumphs he intended to win in the wrestling match on the seventh of July, and Grant was equally well occupied in the impending resurrection of the importing firm. The home of the Mannings--that occupied by them in summer--was a typical Japanese house. It was low and squat, consisted of one story only, and the walls were of hard wood eked out with bamboo ornaments. The numerous windows were glazed with oiled paper, and the roof was constructed of tiles painted a dark red. The grounds surrounding the structure were spacious, and in the rear stretched a garden abloom with richly-colored native plants. Ancient trees, maple, weeping willow, and fir afforded ample shade from the afternoon sun, and here and there were scattered stone vases and Shinto images. A moderately-sized lake occupied the center of the garden. Ranging along the front of the house was a raised balcony to which led a short flight of steps. Ascending to this, the boys removed their shoes, exchanging them for straw sandals. Passing through an open door, they entered the front room of the dwelling. A servant clad in white garments immediately prostrated himself and awaited the commands of his masters. Grant briefly ordered dinner served at once. Other servants appeared, and by the shifting of a couple of panels (Japanese walls are movable) the apartment was enlarged. The floor was of matting--delicate stuffed wicker an inch thick, and of spotless hue--and the entire room was devoid of either chair or table. To an American boy the preparations for dinner would have been surprising, to say the least. But Grant and Nattie were thoroughly conversant with native styles, and the only emotion they displayed was eager anticipation. In lieu of tables were two little boxes about a foot square, the lids of which were lifted and laid on the body of the box, with the inner surface up. This was japanned red, and the sides of the box a soft blue. Inside were stored rice bowl, vegetable dish, and chopstick case. At the announcement of the meal, Grant and his brother seated themselves upon the floor and prepared to partake of the food set before them with equally as much appetite as if the feast had been spread in American fashion. Both boys had lived the most of their youthful lives in Japan, and they had fallen into the quaint ways of the people with the adaptability of the young. Mr. Manning had early taken unto himself the literal meaning of the old saw, "When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do," and his sons had dutifully followed his example. After dinner the boys sat for a while on the front balcony, and then prepared for the theatre. _Jinrikishas_ were summoned, and a rapid journey made to the home of native acting in Yokohama. The peculiarity of Japanese theatricals is that a play generally commences in the morning, and lasts until late at night. For this reason our heroes found the building comfortably filled with parties at that moment eating their simple evening repast. The theatre was a large square structure, situated in the center of a small park. The interior was decorated with innumerable paper lanterns, and covering the walls were enormous, gaudily-painted banners setting forth in Japanese characters the fame of the performers. The stage filled one entire side, and was equipped with a curtain similar to those found in American theatres. There were no wings, however, and no exit except through the auditorium. On the remaining three sides were balconies, and near the ceiling was a familiar gallery filled with the native small boys. The floor was barren of chairs, being divided into square pens, each holding four people. The partitions were one foot in height, and elevated gangways traversed the theatre at intervals, permitting of the passage of the audience to their respective boxes. As usual in all Japanese structures, the spectators removed their shoes at the entrance, being provided with sandals by the management for the time being. The last act of the drama was commenced shortly after the boys reached their inclosure, and it proceeded without intermission until ten o'clock. Grant and Nattie left ten minutes before the end for the purpose of avoiding the crowd. There were a number of people in front of the building and innumerable _'rikishas_ with their attendant _karumayas_. As the boys emerged from the door they were accosted by two men dressed as coolies. Each exhibited a comfortable carriage, and their services were accepted without question. "What shall it be, home?" asked Nattie, with a yawn. "Yes, we may as well return. There is nothing going on in town" replied Grant. "I have a little writing to do, anyway." Stepping into his vehicle, he bade the man make good time to the bluff. Both boys were preoccupied, and they paid little attention to the crowd through which they passed. They also failed to see a signal given by one of the supposed _karumayas_ to a group of three natives standing near the corner of the theatre. The easy swinging motion of the _jinrikishas_ lulled their occupants to rest, and both Grant and his brother were on the verge of dozing before a dozen blocks had been covered. The night was dark, it being the hour before the appearance of a new moon. Thick clouds also added to the obscurity, blotting out even the feeble rays of the starry canopy. A feeling of rain was in the air. Down in the quarter where lay the foreign settlement a soft glow came from the electric lights. The deep-toned note of a steamer's whistle sounded from the bay. The bell of a modern clock tolled the half hour, and before the echoing clangor had died away the two _'rikishas_ carrying the boys came to a sudden stop. Nattie aroused himself with a start and glanced around half angrily at being disturbed. Before he could utter a protest or ask the reason for the halt both coolies unceremoniously disappeared into a neighboring house. Grant had barely time to notice that they were in a narrow way devoid of lanterns, when there came a rush of footsteps from behind, and three dark figures made an attack upon the carriage. There was a vicious whiz of a heavy sound, and the right edge of Nattie's _'rikisha_ body was neatly lopped off. The crashing of wood brought the boys to a realization of their position. They knew at once that they were being attacked by thugs. With an exclamation of excitement, Nattie leaped from his carriage. Another spring, and he was close to Grant. Then, with incredible quickness, the resolute lad produced a revolver from an inner pocket and fired point-blank at the nearest Ronin. [Illustration: "With incredible quickness, Nattie produced a revolver from an inner pocket and fired point-blank, at the nearest Ronin." (See page 40)] CHAPTER V. THE MAN WITH THE GLADSTONE BAG. The extreme gloom and the excitement of the moment caused Nattie to aim badly, and the bullet whizzed past the object for which it was intended, striking the ground several paces away instead. The shot had one result, however. It caused the assailants to hesitate. One even started to retreat, but he was checked by a guttural word from the evident leader. The slight delay was instantly taken advantage of by the boys. Still holding his weapon in readiness for use, Nattie hurriedly wheeled both _'rikishas_ between them and the Ronins. Thus a barricade was formed behind which Grant and Nattie sought refuge without loss of time. As yet, not a word had been exchanged. In fact, the events had occurred in much less time than it takes to describe them. Now Grant took occasion to remark in tones of deep conviction: "This is Ralph Black's work, Nattie. It is the sequel to my discovery of him in that low tea house this afternoon. He has bribed these cutthroats to assault us." "No doubt. But we can't stop to probe the why and wherefore now. They intend to attack us again. It's a good job I brought this gun with me to-night. I have six shots left, and I'll put them to use if--look out! they are coming!" While speaking, he noticed something stealthily advancing through the darkness. He took rapid aim, but before he could pull the trigger he was struck upon the shoulder by a stone which came from in front. The force of the blow was sufficient to send him staggering against one of the _'rikishas_. He dropped the revolver, but it was snatched up by Grant. The lame youth instantly used it, firing hastily through the wheel of one of the carriages. A shrill cry of pain came from the shadows, then a loud shout sounded at the lower end of the street. Twinkling lights appeared, and then echoing footsteps indicated that relief was at hand. The thugs were not slow in realizing that retreat was advisable under the circumstances. They gave the boys a parting volley of stones, then all three disappeared into an adjacent house. "Are you injured, brother?" anxiously asked Grant, bending over Nattie. "No; a bruise, that's all. The police are coming at last, eh? They must have heard the shots. What are you going to say about this affair? Will you mention your suspicions?" "No; it would be useless. We have no proof that he set these men upon us. We must bide our time and watch the scamp. Hush! they are here." A squad of Japanese police, carrying lanterns, dashed up at a run. Their leader, a sub-lieutenant, wearing a uniform similar to that of a French gendarme, flashed his light over the capsized _'rikishas_ and their late occupants; then he asked the cause of the trouble in a respectful tone. "We have been waylaid and attacked by three Ronins bent on robbery," replied Grant, in the native tongue. "We were on our way home from the theatre and while passing through this street were set upon and almost murdered." "Which way did the scoundrels go?" hastily queried the lieutenant. "Through that house. The _karumayas_ fled in that direction also." Leaving two of his men with the boys, the leader started in pursuit of the fugitives. No time was wasted in knocking for admission. One of the policemen placed his shoulder to the door and forced it back without much effort. A moment later the sounds of crashing partitions and a glare of light from within indicated that a strict search was being carried on. Grant and Nattie waited a moment; then the latter said: "Suppose we go home. We might hang around here for hours. If they catch the rascals they can call for us at the house." Grant favored the suggestion. He told one of the policemen to inform the lieutenant of their address, then he and his brother secured a couple of _'rikishas_ in an adjacent street, and were soon home once more. The excitement of the night attack had driven sleep from them, so they remained out upon the cool balcony and discussed the events of the day until a late hour. After viewing the situation from all sides, it was finally decided that a waiting policy should prevail. To boldly accuse Ralph Black of such a nefarious plot without stronger proof was out of the question. "If any of the Ronins or the _karumayas_ are captured, they may be induced to confess," said Grant. "In that case we can do something. Otherwise, we will have to bide our time." Both boys arose early on the following morning and started for the office immediately after breakfast. They called in at the main police station on their way downtown and learned that nothing had been seen of the Ronins or _jinrikisha_ men. The officer in charge promised to have the city scoured for the wretches, and apologized profusely for the outrage. On reaching the office, Grant called in several coolies and set them to work cleaning up the interior. By noon the counting-room had lost its former appearance of neglect. The desks and other furniture were dusted, the books put in order, and everything arranged for immediate work. At the "tiffin," or midday lunch hour, the brothers dropped in at a well-known restaurant on Main Street. As they entered the front door a youth arose hastily from a table in the center and disappeared through a side entrance. It was Ralph Black. "If that don't signify guilt, I'm a chicken," remarked Nattie, with a grim smile. "He's a fool." "All he needs is rope enough," replied Grant, in the same tone, "and he will save us the trouble of hanging him. I suppose he was ashamed or afraid to face us after last night's treacherous work." On returning to the counting-room they found the young Japanese, Mori, awaiting them. To say that he was cordially greeted is but half the truth. There was an expression upon his face that promised success, and Nattie wrung his hand until the genial native begged him to desist. "My answer is ready," he announced, producing a bundle of papers. "I suppose you are anxious to know what it is?" "You don't need to tell us," chuckled Nattie, "I can read it in your eyes. Shake, old boy! Success to the new firm!" "You have guessed aright," said Mori. "And I echo with all my heart what you say. Success to the new firm of Manning Brothers & Okuma. If you will come with me to your consul we will ratify the contract without loss of time." Grant's eyes were moist as he shook hands with the young Japanese. "You are indeed a friend," he exclaimed, fervently. "You will lose nothing by it, I assure you. If hard work and constant application to duty will bring us success, I will guarantee that part of it." An hour later the newly-formed firm of importers and traders was an acknowledged fact. In the presence of the American Consul as a witness, Mori paid into the foreign bank the sum of twenty thousand dollars, and Grant, as his late father's executor, turned over to the firm the various contracts and the mortgages on the warehouse and office building. "The very first thing we must see about is that debt of Black & Company," announced the lame youth. "It won't do to have the new firm sued. We will call at their office now and pay it under a written protest." "Yes, and deposit their receipt in the bank," added Nattie, grimly. "Nothing was found of the first receipt?" asked Mori, as they left the consulate. "Not a sign. I have searched through all the papers in the office, but without result. There is some mystery about it. Father never was very orderly in keeping documents, but it is hard to believe that he would mislay a paper of that value." "Who was in the office when your father--er--when the sad end came?" "Three clerks under the charge of a bookkeeper named Willis Round. Mr. Round was seated at a desk next to father's at the moment. I was in the outer office." "Was your father lying upon the floor when you were called?" asked Mori; then he added, hastily: "Forgive me if I pain you, Grant. Perhaps we had better allow the subject to drop." "No, no. I see what you are driving at. You think that possibly Mr. Round may have stolen the receipt?" "Exactly. Take a case like that; a valuable paper and an unscrupulous man within easy reach, and you can easily see what would happen. I don't remember this Mr. Round. What kind of a man was he?" "I never liked him," spoke up Nattie. "He had a sneaking face, and was always grinning to himself, as if he had the laugh on other people. Then I saw him kick a poor dog one day, and a man who would do that is not to be trusted." "I guess you are right," agreed Grant. "Come to think of it, I never liked Mr. Round myself. He was a thorough bookkeeper though, and knew his business." "Where is he now?" asked Mori. "I think he left for England. He was an Englishman, you know. After our firm closed he waited around town for a while, then I heard somebody say he returned to London." The office of Black & Company was on the Bund, only a few squares from the consulate, so the boys walked there instead of taking the omnipresent _jinrikishas_. The building was a dingy structure of one story, and bore the usual sign over the door. As Grant and his companions entered the outer office a tall, thin man, carrying a much-worn Gladstone bag, brushed past them and vanished down the street. The lame youth glanced at the fellow's face, then he turned to Nattie with a low whistle. "There's a queer thing," he said. "If that man wore side whiskers, I would wager anything that he was Mr. Willis Round himself." CHAPTER VI. MR. BLACK RECEIVES A SURPRISE. "You don't say?" ejaculated the lad, stopping near the door. "Why, perhaps it was. Wait, I'll follow him and see." Before either Grant or Mori could offer an objection, Nattie darted from the office into the street. There were several clerks in the counting-room, and they eyed the newcomers curiously. At the far end of the room was a door leading into the private office of the firm. A hum of voices came from within. Grant waited a moment undecided what to do, then he approached a clerk, and asked him to announce to Mr. Black that Grant Manning wished to see him on important business. The message produced immediate results. The fellow had hardly disappeared when the senior member himself stalked majestically into the outer apartment. Waving an official document in one hand, he glowered at the lame youth and exclaimed, in a harsh voice: "Your call will do you no good, sir. I have already instituted the suit. I suppose you have come to beg for time, as usual?" "You suppose wrong, sir," coldly replied Grant. "Well, what is the object of this visit, then?" "Please make out a receipt for the full amount of our debt." Mr. Black's face expressed the liveliest amazement. The door leading to the inner office creaked, and Ralph's familiar countenance appeared in the opening. It was evident that he had been listening. "W-h-hat did you say?" gasped the merchant. "Please make out a receipt in full for the money owed to you by the firm of Manning & Company," repeated Grant, calmly. "Then you mean to pay it?" "Yes." "But how can you? It is over fifty-eight hundred dollars, boy." "Five thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars, in round numbers," replied the lame youth, in a businesslike voice. "The receipt, please. I will draw you a check for the amount at once." He drew a small book from his pocket, and proceeded to write the figures as if such items were mere bagatelles in his business. Mori, who had been an interested but silent spectator now stepped forward and whispered a few words to Grant. The latter nodded, and said, again addressing Mr. Black: "By the way, sir, I think you had better accompany me to the American or English consulate. In view of past happenings, I prefer to have a reputable witness to this payment." The merchant's face flushed a deep red, and then paled again. Before he could reply, Ralph emerged from the inner office and advanced toward Grant with his hands clinched and a threatening look upon his dark countenance. "What do you mean, you scoundrel?" he stormed. "Do you dare to insult my father in his own office? I've a notion to----" He broke off abruptly and lowered his hands. Mori had stepped before Grant in a manner there was no mistaking. The young Japanese was small of stature, but there was an air of muscular solidity about him which spoke eloquently of athletic training. "No threats, Ralph Black," he exclaimed, coolly. "We are here on a matter of business with your father. Please remember that you have to deal with me as well as Mr. Manning." "What have you to do with it?" grated the youth. "Mind your own business." "That is exactly what I am doing," was the suave reply. "Enough of this contention," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Black, with a semblance of dignity. "Ralph, return to the inner office. I will soon settle these upstarts. Simmons, a receipt for the debt owed us by Manning." The latter sentence was addressed to a clerk, who promptly came forward with the required paper. Taking it, the merchant extended his hand for the check. Grant hesitated and glanced at Mori. That youth nodded his head, and whispered: "We may as well waive the precaution of having it paid before the consul. The receipt will answer the purpose. There are two of us, you know." "Well, do you intend to pay?" impatiently demanded Mr. Black. The lame youth gave him the check without deigning to reply. The merchant glanced at the amount, then he eyed the signature in evident surprise. "What does this mean?" he asked, harshly. "This is signed 'Manning Brothers & Okuma.' What absurdity is this?" "It means what it says, sir," answered Grant, a suspicion of triumph in his voice. "I may as well tell you what Yokohama will know before night. The importing and trading firm of Manning & Company has been revived. Mr. Okuma here is a partner in the house, and we commence business at once. You act as if you do not believe me, sir. Please satisfy yourself by sending to the foreign bank." As it happened, at that moment a clerk from the bank in question entered the office with some papers. A brief question addressed to him by the merchant brought instant proof of the lame youth's words. As if dazed, Mr. Black gave him the receipt and entered the inner office without a word. Grant and Mori left at once. They looked up and down the street for Nattie, but he was not in sight. After waiting for several moments at the corner they set out for the counting-room. The young Japanese seemed preoccupied at first as if buried in thought, but he finally turned to his companion and said: "There is something about this business of the Black debt that I do not understand. How is it you could find no trace of the payment at the bank or among your canceled checks? It would surely be there." "Why, I thought I had explained that to you," replied Grant. "The money paid them by my father was in cash, not by check. I remember that on that day we had received almost six thousand dollars in English gold from the skipper of a sailing ship. The money was placed in the small safe." "And it was gone when you examined the safe after your father's death?" "Exactly. That is why I am so positive the debt was paid. That fact and the unfinished entry in father's book is proof enough." "It certainly is," replied Mori, with conviction. "Well, something may turn up in time to establish the fact. Here is the office. We will wait until Nattie returns." In the meantime an important scene had taken place in the counting-room they had just left. After their departure, Mr. Black cleared his private apartment of his secretary and closing the door leading to the outer room, bade his son draw a chair up to the desk. The merchant's face appeared grim and determined. He nervously arranged a pile of papers before him, and then, with the air of a man who had recently heard unpleasant news, he confronted Ralph. "Did you hear what that crippled whelp said?" he asked. "Yes," sullenly replied his son. "He's induced Mori Okuma to go in with him, and they intend to commence business at once." "Do you know what that means to us?" "Another rival, I suppose. Well, we needn't be afraid of them." "Zounds! you can be stupid at times, sir. We have every reason to be alarmed at the formation of the new firm. If you paid more attention to the affairs of Black & Company and less to running around with the sports of Yokohama, you would be of more assistance to me." "What is the matter now?" snarled the youth, arising from his chair. "These rows are getting too frequent, and I won't stand it. I am no baby to be reproved by you whenever you please. I won't----" "Sit down!" thundered the merchant. "Don't be a fool." Then he added, more mildly: "Remember that I am your father, Ralph. It is sometimes necessary to reprove you as you must acknowledge. But enough of that now. We have a more weighty subject to discuss. You evidently do not see what this new firm means to us. I can explain in a few words. You have doubtless heard rumors of trouble with China about Corea?" "Yes, but that is an old tale. I heard it two years past." "Well, there is more truth in it now than you believe. I have private means of obtaining information. If I am not mistaken we will have war before the end of the present year." "What of it?" The merchant held up his hands in evident disgust. "It is easy to be seen that you have little of the instincts of a merchant in you," he said, bitterly. "Hold! I do not intend to reprove you. I will not waste the time. If you don't know, I will tell you that war means the expenditure of money, and the purchase of arms and stores. I know that the government is preparing for the coming conflict, and that they need guns and ammunition and canned provisions." "Why don't you try for the contracts then?" "I intend to. As you may remember, that little affair of the fodder last year for the cavalry horses has hurt my credit with the war department. I think I still stand a show, however--if there are no other bidders." "How about the German firms?" "Their rivalry won't amount to anything, but if this Grant Manning comes in he will secure the contracts without the shadow of a doubt. Why, he is hand-in-glove with Secretary Yoshisada Udono, of the army. The Japanese fool thinks Grant is the soul of honesty, and the cleverest youth in Japan besides." Ralph leaned forward in his chair, and pondered deeply for a moment. Then, tapping the desk with his fingers, he said, slowly, and with emphasis: "I understand the case now. It means a matter of thousands of pounds to us, and we must secure the contract, come what will. If these Manning boys stand in our way we must break them, that's all. One thing, we have a good ally in Willis Round. With him as----" He was suddenly interrupted by a sound at the door. Before either could move it was thrown open, admitting a tall, thin man, carrying a much-worn Gladstone bag. Behind him and almost at his heels was Nattie Manning, an expression of determination upon his handsome face. CHAPTER VII. NATTIE CARRIES HIS POINT. When Nattie left his brother and Mori in the office of Black & Company, it was with the determination to ascertain whether the tall, thin man with the Gladstone bag was really the late bookkeeper, Willis Round. If the lad had been asked why he was placing himself to so much trouble for such a purpose he could not have answered. There was no reason why Round should not return to Yokohama if he so minded. And he had every right to remove his whiskers if he chose to do so; and again, there was no law to prevent him from calling upon the firm of Black & Company. Still, in view of recent circumstances, it seemed suspicious to Nattie, and he sped down the street with the firm resolve to prove the identity at once. As the reader may have conjectured, the younger Manning brother had a strong will of his own. It was his claim, not uttered boastfully, that when he set a task unto himself, he generally carried it out if the thing was possible. He proved that characteristic in his nature in the present instance. On reaching the corner of the next street, which happened to be the broad thoroughfare running at right angles from the Bund, he caught sight of his man in the door of a famous tea house much frequented by the good people of Yokohama. The fellow had paused, and was glancing back as if suspicious of being followed. On seeing Nattie, he turned quickly and disappeared into the tea house. When the lad reached the entrance, he found the front room untenanted save by a group of waiter girls. They greeted his appearance with the effusive welcome of their class, but he brushed them aside with little ceremony and passed on into the next apartment. This also was empty. The more imposing tea houses of Japan are generally two-story structures, divided into a multitude of small and large rooms. The one in question contained no less than a round dozen on the ground floor, and as many in the second story. There was no central hall, but simply a series of public rooms extending from front to rear, with private apartments opening on each side. Nattie had visited the place times out of mind, and he knew that an exit could be found in the rear which led through a small garden to a gate, opening upon a back street. The fact caused the lad to hasten his steps. While hurrying through the fourth apartment, he heard voices in a side room. They were not familiar, but he halted at once. Suppose Round--if it were he--should take it into his head to enter one of the private apartments? He could easily remain concealed until a sufficient time had elapsed, and then go his way unseen. For a brief moment Nattie stood irresolute. If he remained to question the _matsumas_ it would give the evident fugitive time to escape by the rear gate. And if he hurried through the garden and out into the back street, Round could leave by the main entrance. "Confound it! I can't stay here twirling my thumbs," he exclaimed. "What shall it be, back gate or a search through the blessed shanty? I'll leave it to chance." Thrusting a couple of fingers into a vest pocket, he extracted an American quarter, and flipped it into the air. "Heads, I search these rooms; tails, I go out the back gate," he murmured, catching the descending coin with great dexterity. "Tails it is. Here goes, and may I have luck," he added. Hurrying through the remaining apartments, he vanished into the garden just as a tall, thin man carrying a Gladstone bag cautiously opened a side door near where Nattie had juggled the coin. There was a bland smile upon the fellow's face, and he waved one hand airily after the youth. "Ta, ta, Master Manning," he muttered. "I am thankful to you for leaving the decision to a piece of money. It was a close call for me, as I do not care to have my identity guessed just at present. Now that the coast is clear, I'll drop in on the Blacks again and tell them to be careful." Making his way to the main entrance, he called a passing _'rikisha_ and ordered the _karumaya_ to carry him to the Bund through various obscure streets. In the meantime, Nattie had left the garden by way of the rear gate. A hurried glance up and down the narrow thoroughfare resulted in disappointment. A search of adjacent streets produced nothing. Considerably crestfallen, the lad returned to the tea house and questioned the head of the establishment. He speedily learned to his chagrin that the man for whom he had been searching had left the place not five minutes previously. "Just my luck," he murmured, petulantly. "Here, Komatsu, give this to a beggar; it's a hoodoo." The affable manager accepted the ill-omened twenty-five cent piece with many bows and subsequently placed it among his collection of rare coins, with the inscription: "Yankee Hoodoo. Only one in Yokohama. Value, ten _yen_." It was with a very disconsolate face that Nattie left the tea house on his way to the office of the new firm. He felt positive in his mind that the thin man was really Willis Round, and the actions of the fellow in slipping away so mysteriously tended to increase the lad's suspicions. "If he cared to return to Yokohama, he could do so," he reasoned, while walking down Main Street. "It's no person's business that I can see. And if he desired to increase his ugliness by shaving off his whiskers it was his own lookout. But what I don't like is the way he sneaked out of Black's counting-room without speaking to us. He was certainly trying to avoid recognition, and that's flat. "I wonder what he had to do with that debt?" added the lad, after a while. "He is mixed up with the Blacks in some way, and I'll wager the connection bodes ill to some one. Perhaps it is to us." He had reached this far in his reflections when he chanced to look down a small alley leading from the main thoroughfare to a public garden. A _jinrikisha_ was speeding past the outlet. The vehicle contained one man, and in an instant Nattie recognized in him the subject of his thoughts. To cover the distance to the garden was a brief task for the lad's nimble feet. As he emerged from the alley, however, he plumped into a couple of American man-of-war's men. The collision carried one of them into the gutter, but the other grasped wildly at his supposed assailant's collar. [Illustration: "Nattie plumped into a couple of American man-of-war's men. The collision carried one of them into the gutter, but the other grasped wildly at his supposed assailant's collar." (See page 64)] He missed, but nothing daunted, the sailor started in pursuit, calling out in a husky voice at every step. In his eagerness to catch up with Willis Round, Nattie had continued his flight. The hubbub and outcry behind him soon brought him to a halt, and he faced about just as several policemen and a dozen foreigners and native citizens joined in the chase. What the outcome would have been is hard to say had not help arrived at that opportune moment in the shape of a friend--a clerk at the legation--who suddenly appeared in the doorway of a private residence within a dozen feet of the lad. "What is the matter, Manning?" hastily asked the newcomer. As quick as a flash Nattie bounded past him, and closed the door just as the infuriated sailor reached the spot. "For goodness' sake, old fellow, get me out by the back way!" breathed the lad. "I haven't time to explain now. I'll tell you all about it this afternoon. I am following a man, and I mustn't lose him. Let me out by the rear, please." Considerably mystified, the clerk obeyed. A moment later Nattie was again speeding down a street toward the Bund. As luck would have it, he caught sight of his man at the next corner. The _jinrikisha_ had stopped in front of Black & Company's office. Hurrying ahead, the lad contrived to enter the door at the heels of the fugitive. He stepped lightly across the counting-room, and was within a foot of him when he threw open the door leading into the merchant's private office. At sight of them both Ralph and his father sprang to their feet. Totally unsuspicious of the proximity of his pursuer, the tall, thin man tossed his portmanteau upon a chair, and was on the point of greeting the occupants of the office when he saw them looking behind him in evident surprise. He turned, gave Nattie one startled glance, then made an involuntary movement as if contemplating flight. The lad barred the way, however. Grinning triumphantly, he lifted his hat with a polite bow, and said: "Why, this is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Round. I did not know you had returned to Yokohama. How is everything in London?" "What are you talking about?" growled the fellow. "I don't know you." "Indeed! How poor your memory must be. You worked for my father as confidential clerk and bookkeeper for many years. Surely you must remember his son, Nattie Manning?" The mocking tone caused Round to frown darkly. He saw that further denial was useless. Curtly turning his back to Nattie, he stalked to a chair and sat down. During this little byplay Ralph had been staring at the intruder in a peculiarly malevolent manner. "What do you want in here?" he demanded, at last. "This is our private office, and we receive people by invitation only. Get out." "With the greatest pleasure," sweetly replied Nattie. "I have secured all that I desire. I wanted to satisfy myself as to that man's identity, and I have succeeded. The removal of one's whiskers don't always form an effectual disguise, you know. Ta! ta!" He left the office with a triumphant smile, and quickly made his way to the counting-room of the new firm. Grant and Mori were engrossed in drawing up several tables of import orders, but they gave instant attention to his story. "It certainly proves one thing," remarked the lame youth. "Mr. Willis Round attempted to visit Yokohama in disguise. Now what can be his reason?" Before either Nattie or Mori could reply, the front door was thrown open, and the very man they were discussing stepped into the office. There was an expression of cordial good nature upon his face, and he advanced with one hand extended in a friendly attitude. CHAPTER VIII. ONE CONSPIRATOR DEFEATED. "How do you do, Master Grant? I am pleased to see you," exclaimed the newcomer. "And Master Nattie here is still the same good-looking lad as of old. Is this the new member of the firm? The old company has called in native blood, eh? Well, it is not a bad idea." Disregarding the cold stare of surprise given him by Grant, the speaker seated himself in a comfortable chair and gazed blandly around the office. He was a man of extreme attenuation of features, and restless, shifting eyes. He was modestly clad in a dark suit of English tweed, and carried the conventional cane of bamboo. For a moment there was an awkward silence, then Nattie laughed--a short, curt laugh, which brought a perceptible flush to Round's sunken cheeks. "So you are our old bookkeeper after all?" said the lad, with a sly wink at Mori. "Yes, I am inclined to believe so," replied the visitor, airily. "I have an explanation to make about that little incident, my boy. D'ye see, I returned from London by way of India yesterday morning. I had my reasons for arriving incog., therefore I denied myself to you this afternoon. As the cat is out of the bag now, I'll tell you all about it." He paused and glanced at his auditors. Nothing daunted by their evident coldness, he resumed, in the same light manner: "I had a little deal on with the government here and certain people in England, and I came over to push it through. Remembering the firm of Black & Company, I went to them first. The interview was not satisfactory, however. Hearing that you had resumed your father's business. I lost no time in coming here. Am I right in believing that you are open for valuable contracts?" Both Nattie and Mori instinctively left the conversation to Grant. In a matter of business, he was the proper person, they well knew. The lame youth leaned back in his chair, and eyed the visitor with extreme gravity. "So you are here to do business with us, Mr. Round?" he asked, slowly. "Yes." "May I ask the nature of the contracts?" The ex-bookkeeper arose to his feet and walked with catlike steps to the front door. Opening it slightly, he peered forth. Then he repeated the performance at the remaining doors and windows. Evidently satisfied, he returned to the desk. Bending over, he said, in a stage whisper: "Government." "Yes, I know," exclaimed Grant, impatiently. "You said that before. But for what class of articles?" "Arms and ammunition, my boy. I have inside information. I know that Japan will be at war with China before the end of the year. I also know that the government intends to place an order for many millions of cartridges and hundreds of thousands of rifles and revolvers within a very short time." "Indeed?" "Yes. Now, I represent two firms--one English and one German, and we wish to secure a resident agent in Japan. I can recommend you to them, and I will on one condition." "What is it?" asked Grant, drumming nervously upon the desk. Nattie leaned forward in evident expectancy. He knew that the drumming was an ominous sign on his brother's part, and that a climax was impending. "I wish to remain in Yokohama, and I desire a situation. If you will give me the same position I formerly occupied in this office, I will secure you the good will of my firms. What do you say?" Grant selected a letter from a pile on the desk and glanced over it. He smiled as if particularly well pleased at something, and then asked in a suave voice: "When did you leave London, Mr. Round?" "Why--er--on the second of last month." "And when did you reach that city after leaving my father's service?" "What the deuce?--I mean, about two months later. Why do you ask these questions?" "Then you have been away from Japan for some time?" "Of course. I could not be in London and in this country very well," replied Round, with a sickly smile. "It is certainly strange," remarked Grant, reading the letter again. "Have you a twin brother, sir?" At this apparently preposterous query, the visitor lost his affability. "No, I haven't," he almost shouted. "Mr. Manning, I did not come here to lose valuable time in answering silly questions. I have made you a proposition in good faith. Will you please give me a reply?" "So you wish to enter our employ as bookkeeper?" "Yes." "And if we engage you we can become the agents of your English and German firms in this matter of the government contracts?" "Yes, yes." Grant arose from his chair, and leaning one hand upon the desk, he added, impressively: "Will you also promise to clear up the mystery of the Black debt, Mr. Round?" Nattie and Mori, who were keenly watching the visitor's face, saw him pale to the very lips. He essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. Finally regaining his composure by a violent effort, he replied, huskily: "I don't understand you, Grant. What mystery do you mean?" "You know very well, sir." The lame youth's voice was sharp and cutting. Nervously wiping his face, Mr. Round glanced down at the floor, then cast a furtive glance at his companions. If ever guilt rested in a man's actions, it did then with those of the ex-bookkeeper. He probably recognized the futility of his chances, as he started to leave without further words. He was not to escape so easily, however. "You have not heard my answer to your proposition," called out Grant, with sarcasm. "I'll tell you now that we would not have you in this office if you paid us a bonus of a thousand pounds. You had better return to your confederates, Black & Company, and inform them that their effort to place a spy in this office has failed." "You will regret these words," retorted Round, with a muttered oath. "I'll show you that you are not so smart as you think." "Have a care, sir," replied the lame youth. "Perhaps we will be able to prove your connection with that debt swindle, and send you up for it." "Bah! You are a fool to----" He did not finish the sentence. At that juncture, Nattie, who had been quietly edging his way across the office, bounded forward. There was a brief struggle, a crash at the door, and suddenly the visitor found himself in the street, considerably the worse for the encounter. "That's the proper way to get rid of such callers," remarked the lad, cheerfully. "Talk is all right in its place, but actions are necessary at times. What a scoundrel he is!" "He is a discovered villain," said Mori, quaintly. "In the expressive language of the American street gamin, 'We are on to him.' He was evidently sent here by the Blacks as a spy. By the way, what was in that letter?" Grant laughed, and tossed the document to the young Japanese. "It was simply a bluff. I had an idea the man had not left the country, so I pretended to read a letter giving that information. He bit beautifully." "One thing is certain," remarked Mori, with a shrug of his shoulders. "We have made an implacable enemy." "What's the difference?" chimed in Nattie. "The more the merrier. We need not fear anything from Willis Round. He's a dead duck now." "So Black & Company have wind of the impending contracts, eh?" mused Grant. "I must run up and see Secretary Udono at once. I think I can prove to him that we are worthy of the contracts. Nattie, take this advertisement and have it inserted in all the foreign and native papers. Tell them to place it on the first page in display type. We'll let the world know that we are ready for business." "I'll call on several old friends of my father in the morning and bid for the next tea and rice crop," said Mori, jotting down the items in his notebook. "How much can we use this quarter?" "All we can secure," was the prompt reply. "I intend to cable our American houses at once. The New York and San Francisco firms are good for two shiploads at the very least. By the way, Nattie, while you are out just drop in on Saigo Brothers and see what they have on hand in lacquered novelties. Speak for a good order to go on the steamer of the tenth." During the next two hours the three members of the new firm were head and ears in business. Grant was in his element, and Mori seemed to like the routine also. But Nattie presently yawned, and left on his errands. Outdoor life was evidently more to his taste. In the press of work the incidents connected with the visit of Willis Round were forgotten. Grant and Mori labored at the office until almost midnight. After attending to the advertisements Nattie inspected the company's "go down," or warehouse, and made preparations for the receiving of tea. The following day was spent in the same manner, and on the second morning the purchases of the firm began to arrive. By noon Manning Brothers & Okuma were the talk of Yokohama. Grant's popularity and business reputation secured him a warm welcome in the trade. A force of native clerks was installed in the office under charge of an expert foreign bookkeeper. It was finally decided to assign the drumming up of trade to Grant, and the interior buying and selling to Mori. Nattie was to have charge of the shipping and the care of the warehouse. The latter found time, however, to practice for the coming wrestling match on the seventh of July. He had secured the services of a retired wrestler, and was soon in great form. As can be expected, he awaited the eventful day with growing impatience. CHAPTER IX. DISASTER THREATENS. Grant Manning was a youth wise beyond his years. His continued ill health and his physical frailty kept him from mixing with the lads of his age. The seclusion drove him to self-communion and study. As a general rule, persons suffering from physical deformity or lingering sickness are compensated by an expansion of mind. It is the proof of an immutable law. The blinding of one eye increases the strength of the other. The deaf and dumb are gifted with a wonderful sense of touch. Those with crippled legs are strong of arm. The unfortunates with brains awry are endowed with muscles of power. In Grant's case his intellect made amends for his deformity of body. He loved commercial work, and the several years passed in the counting-room under his father's _régime_ had made him a thorough master of the business. When orders commenced to find their way to the new firm he was in his element. As I have stated before, he had many friends in Yokohama and the capital, Tokio, and the native merchants made haste to open trade with him. To aid this prosperity, was the fact that no stain rested upon the firm of John Manning & Company. The very name was synonymous with honesty, integrity and merit. Foreign houses established in Eastern countries too often treat their customers as uncivilized beings destined to be tricked in trade. John Manning had never entertained such an unwise policy, and his sons now felt the results. The announcements in the various papers brought an avalanche of contracts and orders. On the fourth day after the birth of the new firm, Mori--who was really a shrewd, far-seeing youth--had secured the cream of the tea and rice crop. He was also promised the first bid for silks. On his part, Grant had secured a satisfactory interview with the secretary of war in regard to the army contracts for arms and ammunition. Business was literally booming, and every foreign importing firm in Yokohama felt the new competition. It is not to be supposed that they would permit the trade to slip away without an effort to retain it. Not the least of those disturbed was the firm of Black & Company, as can well be imagined. The merchant and Ralph were wild with rage and despair. Orders from various English houses were on file for early tea and rice, but the market was empty. Mori had been the early bird. "If this continues we will have to close our doors," exclaimed Mr. Black, gloomily. "I could not buy a dozen boxes of tea this morning, and we have an order of three hundred to leave by to-morrow's steamer. The fiend take that crippled whelp! He is here, there, and everywhere, and the natives in town are begging for his trade." "He will make a pretty penny raising the prices too," replied his son, in the same tone. "Why, he and that Japanese fool have made a regular corner in rice." "But he is not going to increase the price, if rumor speaks the truth. Although he has control of the crop, he ships it to America at the old rates." "That is a shrewd move," acknowledged Ralph, reluctantly. "It will make him solid with every firm in the United States. What is the matter with all of the old merchants, eh? Fancy a man like you letting a boy get the best of him in this manner. If I was the head of an established house and had gray hairs like you I'd quit the business." This brutal speech caused the merchant to flush angrily. He was on the point of retorting, but he checked himself and remained buried in thought for some time. His reflections were bitter. It was humiliating to think that a firm of boys should step in and steal the trade from men who had spent years in the business. The brow of the merchant grew dark. He would not stand it. If fair means could not avail, he would resort to foul. His conscience, long deadened by trickery, formed no bar to his resolution. Striking the desk with his open hand, he exclaimed: "I will do it no matter what comes." "What's up now, dad?" asked Ralph, with a show of interest. He added, sneeringly: "Are you awakening from your 'Rip Van Winkle' sleep? Do you think it is time to get up and circumvent those fools? Name your plan, and I will give you my help with the greatest pleasure." "You can assist me. We must destroy the credit of the new firm. They have a working capital of only twelve or thirteen thousand dollars. I learned this morning that they had given notes for ninety days for twice that amount of money. It is also said that the firm of Takatsuna & Company has sold them ten thousand dollars' worth of tea at sight. Grant arranged for an overdraw with a native bank inside of an hour. Now if we can get up a scare, Takatsuna will come down on the bank for his money, and the bank will call on the Mannings for it." "That is a great scheme," said Ralph, admiringly. "We will try it at once." "Go to Round's hotel and bring him here. In the meantime I will finish the details, my son. If all goes well, that cripple and his brother will be paupers before night." "And we will be able to fill our orders by to-morrow at the latest. If Manning Brothers & Okuma fail, the dealers will gladly come to us." "I do not care a snap of a finger for the tea business," replied Mr. Black, contemptuously. "It is that army contract I am after. I have been told that Grant has had an interview with the secretary. Now, if we don't kill the firm they will have the plum as sure as death. Bring Round here without delay." Ralph laughed as he walked to the door. "Willis has been in the sulks since he failed to carry out our little scheme of placing him in the Manning counting-room as a spy. He hates them worse than ever. He will prove a valuable ally in the present plan." In the course of an hour he returned with the ex-bookkeeper. Before noon strange rumors commenced to circulate among the foreign merchants and the banks. By one o'clock the native houses were agog with the news. Men met on the Bund and talked over the startling intelligence. At two a representative from the firm of Takatsuna called at the office of Manning Brothers & Okuma. "I am very sorry," he said, "but my firm is in pressing need of money. It is short notice, I acknowledge, but we must have the ten thousand dollars you owe us for tea at once." Grant looked surprised, but he politely sent the representative to the Yokohama bank where the check had been negotiated. In half an hour an urgent call came from the bank for the senior member of the firm. When Grant returned to the office his face wore an anxious expression. "Boys, our enemies are at work," he said. "It is said on 'Change that we are pinched for funds. Black & Company are urging the native merchants to ask for their bills. The bank paid Takatsuna their money, but the directors want it refunded at once." He had hardly ceased speaking before a knock sounded at the door of the private office. Nattie opened it, giving admission to a portly Japanese. The newcomer's dress was disordered, and he appeared wild with anxiety. It was the president of the Yokohama bank. At his heels were several merchants and half a dozen reporters. Ill news travels fast. Regardless of ceremony, the visitors crowded into the office. Grant's face became set, and his eyes glittered. Nattie appeared highly amused. He saw the comical side of the invasion, not the serious. It was really a critical moment. In commercial circles there is nothing more disastrous and credit-snapping than a run on a bank, or the failure to promptly pay a bill. The standing of a new firm is always uncertain. Like gold, it requires time and a trial in the fire of experience. Grant realized the danger at once. As the newcomers surged into the office, he arose from the desk and grasped the back of his chair with a clutch of despair. His thoughts traveled fast. He saw the ruin of his hopes, the success of his enemies; and he almost groaned aloud. Outwardly he was calm, however. Politely greeting the president of the bank, he asked the nature of his business. With feverish hands, the man produced a paper, and requested the payment of the ten thousand dollars. "Remember, my dear sir, I am first on the spot," he said. The words were significant. It meant a call for money from all creditors. It meant the swamping of their credit and absolute failure. Preserving his calmness, Grant picked up the firm's check-book, and glanced over the stubs. Of the twenty thousand dollars paid in by Mori, but a trifle over one-half remained. There were other creditors at the door. To pay one meant a demand from the others. To refuse the payment of the bank's debt was to be posted as insolvent. That meant ruin. Sick at heart, Grant was on the point of adopting the latter course, when there came a sudden and most unexpected change in the state of affairs. CHAPTER X. MORI SHOWS HIS GENEROSITY. During the scene in the private office of the firm Mori had remained silent and apparently indifferent. Apparently only--those who knew him best would have augured from the appearance of the two bright red spots in his dark cheeks that he was intensely interested. He watched the movements of the crowd at the door, he listened to the demand of the bank president, and he noted Grant's struggle to appear calm. Then just as the lame youth turned from the check-book to his auditors with an announcement of their failure to pay trembling upon his lips, the young Japanese introduced himself into the proceedings. "What is the meaning of this, sir?" he asked the president, sharply. "What do you wish?" "I am here for my money," was the defiant reply. "I have presented the note, and I await payment." "Don't you think this is rather sudden?" asked Mori, with a suspicious calmness in his voice. "It was negotiated but yesterday. Why this haste?" "I want my money," was the only answer vouchsafed. "And you at the door," continued the Japanese youth, turning his gaze in that direction. "Are you here for the same reason?" Some one in the rear rank replied in the affirmative. Mori's eyes flashed. Taking a private check-book from his pocket, he rapidly wrote several lines therein, and, detaching a leaf, tossed it to Grant. "Pay them, every one," he said, carelessly. "You will find that sufficient, I think." The lame youth eagerly read the check, and then his face became suffused with emotion. The amount called for was thirty thousand dollars! Mori had placed his whole fortune to the firm's account! Afraid to trust his voice, Grant hobbled over to the youthful native, and, in the presence of the whole assemblage, threw his arms around him. "God bless you!" he exclaimed. "You are a friend and a man." "Nonsense," replied Mori, gently. "It is nothing. Pay these cattle off, and put them down in your black book. Pay them in full and rid the office of the mob for good. And, understand," he added, addressing the bank president and his companions, "we will have no further dealings with you. Hereafter we will trade with men not liable to scare at the slightest rumor." The official took the check extended him by Grant with a crestfallen air. He saw that he had made a mistake and had lost the business of the new firm. Too late he recalled the fact that he had really heard nothing of moment. Rumors had been circulated, but try as he would, he could not recollect their source. The remaining creditors also suffered a revulsion of feeling. Some attempted to slink away, but the three members of the firm singled them out one by one, and compelled them to accept checks for the amount of their bills. In an hour eighteen thousand dollars had been paid out, but the credit of the firm was saved. When the last man had been sent away Nattie and Grant overwhelmed the clever young Japanese with congratulations and heartfelt thanks. Mori's modesty equaled his generosity, and he threatened them with immediate dissolution if they did not refrain. "It is nothing, my friends," he exclaimed, for the hundredth time. "I am only glad that I was able to furnish the money." "You must withdraw the entire amount just as soon as it is available," insisted Grant. "We should hear from the American houses within five weeks, and then we will return to the old basis." "I would like to have a photograph of old Black's face when he hears the news," said Nattie, with a grin. "Or, better still, overhear his comments." "It was a shrewd trick, but it failed, I am glad to say," remarked the lame youth. "We must take advantage of the opportunity and clinch the effect. Now is the time to set our credit upon a solid foundation." Taking several sheets of paper, he scribbled half a dozen lines upon them. "Nattie, take these to the different newspaper offices, and have them inserted in to-morrow's issues," he said. "Then drop in at the printing office and tell Bates to work up a thousand posters to be displayed about town. How does this sound? "'TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: "'A despicable attempt having been made this day by certain interested parties to injure the credit of the undersigned firm, notice is hereby given that all outstanding bills will be settled in full at ten A. M. to-morrow. A reward of one thousand _yen_ is also offered for information leading to the conviction of the person or persons starting the slander. "'MANNING BROTHERS & OKUMA'" "That is just the thing!" exclaimed Mori. "It could not be better. We'll have the posters distributed broadcast over Yokohama and also Tokio. Make it five instead of one thousand, Grant. Really, I believe that little affair will do us a great deal of good. It is an excellent advertisement." Nattie hurried away to the printing office, and by night the two cities were reading the posters. At ten o'clock the following morning fully two score merchants had called upon the firm, but they came to ask for trade, not to present bills. The conspiracy had resolved itself into a boomerang, and the firm of Manning Brothers & Okuma was more prosperous than ever. Black & Son were correspondingly depressed. The failure of their latest scheme caused the elder merchant much humiliation. At a meeting held in his office, attended by Ralph and Mr. Round, it was resolved to stick at nothing to defeat the enemy. "It is war to the knife now," exclaimed the head of the firm, grinding his teeth. "Something must be done before the first of next month, as the army contracts will be awarded then." "And that means a little trifle of twenty thousand pounds, eh?" replied the ex-bookkeeper, softly rubbing his hands. "Yes, one hundred thousand dollars. That is clear profit." "Many a man would commit murder for less than that," mused Ralph, absently stabbing the arm of his chair with a penknife. Mr. Black gave his son a keen glance. "Yes," he said, in a peculiar tone. "Whole families have been put out of the way for as many cents. But," he added, hastily, "there is no such question in our case. Ha! ha! the idea is simply preposterous!" His companions echoed the laugh, but in a strained fashion. Ralph continued to stare moodily at the floor. After a while Willis Round announced that he had a proposition to make. "You said a few moments ago that it was war to the knife now," he commenced. "Yes." "It is to your interest to ruin the new firm before the awarding of the army contracts, eh?" "Certainly. If they are in business by the end of the present month they will secure the valuable contracts without a doubt." "What would you give if they were rendered unable to bid for them?" The merchant stared at his questioner half contemptuously. "Why do you ask? You do not think you could ruin them single-handed?" he asked, banteringly. "Never you mind," was the dogged reply. "Answer my question. What would you give if the contracts were placed in your way?" "Twenty per cent. of the profits and our assistance in any scheme you may propose. Do you really mean to say that you have a plan promising success?" The merchant left his chair in his eagerness and approached the ex-bookkeeper. Ralph showed a renewed interest also. Before replying, Round cautiously opened the door leading into the counting-room. After satisfying himself, he talked long and earnestly to his companions. At the conclusion the faces of the merchant and his son were expressive of the liveliest satisfaction. There was trouble still in store for the new firm of Manning Brothers & Okuma. CHAPTER XI. NATTIE MAKES A DISCOVERY. During the important and engrossing events of the past few days Nattie had not forgotten the sport promised for the seventh of the month. He was passionately fond of athletics, and he never let slip an opportunity to participate in all that came his way. Extensive preparations had been made for the celebration of the treaty made by Commodore Perry in the year 1853. Not only the foreign residents were to take part, but the natives themselves promised a great _matsura_, or festival. The committee of the Yokohama Club, under whose auspices it was to take place, had secured the racing grounds upon the bluff. A varied programme had been arranged to cover the entire day. The sports had been divided into two parts, modern racing and games in the forenoon, and ancient native ceremonies after tiffin. The main feature of the latter was to be a grand wrestling match between foreigners. To add to the interest, the competitors were to remain unknown to each other until the moment of their appearance in the ring. Nattie had given in his name among the first. The prize offered was a valuable medal and a crown of laurel. For several days the lad had devoted his idle hours to practice with a retired native wrestler. The evening before the seventh he was in fine fettle. As an added chance, however, he resolved to take one more lesson from his instructor--a final bout to place him in good trim for the morrow. The scene of the practice matches was in the large "go-down," or warehouse, of the firm, located near a canal separating the bluff from the native quarter. The appointment for the evening was at nine, and shortly before that hour Nattie left a tea house on his way to the place of destination. The day had been sultry, and toward nightfall threatening clouds gathered over the bay. Rain promised, but that fact did not deter the lad. As his _'rikisha_ sped along the Bund he recalled the points already taught him by his master in the art of wrestling, and he fancied the ringing of cheers and the outburst of plaudits were already greeting him. The Manning "go-down" was a large square structure of stone, with iron shutters and massive doors. It was considered fireproof, and had as a watchman a brawny Irishman recently paid off from a sailing ship. His name was Patrick Cronin, and he claimed to be an American by naturalization. On reaching the entrance Nattie looked around for the fellow, but he was not in sight. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened a narrow door leading into a little corner office. As he passed inside there came a wild gust of wind and a downpour of rain. The storm had burst. "Good job I arrived in time," muttered the lad. "Whew! how it does pour down. Looks as if it has started in for three or four hours at least. If it keeps on I needn't expect old Yokoi. I wonder where Patrick is?" He whistled shrilly and thumped upon the floor with his cane, but only the echoes came to his ears. After a moment of thought he lighted a lantern and sat down near a window opening upon a narrow alley running between the building and the canal. The absence of the watchman was certainly strange. It was his duty to report at the "go-down" at six o'clock. In fact, Nattie had seen him that very evening. The building was full of valuable silks, teas, and lacquered ware, intended for shipment on the following day. Thieves were rampant along the canal, several daring robberies having occurred during the past week. Then again there was always the danger of fire. As the lad sat in his chair and thought over the possible results of the Irishman's dereliction, he grew thoroughly indignant. "By George! he'll not work for us another day," he muttered, giving the stick a vicious whirl. "I'll wager a _yen_ he is in some groggery at this very moment drinking with a chance shipmate." Going to the door he glanced out into the night. The rain was still descending in torrents, and it was of that steadiness promising a continuation. When Nattie returned to his seat it was with the resolution to keep guard over the firm's property himself. It meant a long and lonely watch with naught save the beating of the rain, the dreary gloom of the interior, and the murmuring sounds from the nearby bay for company. The lad had a stout heart, however, and he settled himself for the vigil without more ado. He found comfort in the anticipation of a scene with the recreant watchman in the morning. He made up his mind even to refuse him admission if he returned to the "go down" that night. The minutes dragged slowly, and at last the watcher found himself nodding. "Jove! this won't do," he exclaimed, springing from his chair. "I am as bad as Patrick. The lantern is going out also. Wonder if I have any matches in my pocket?" He searched, but without favorable results. A hasty examination revealed the unwelcome fact that the oil receptacle was empty. In another moment the light flickered and died out, leaving the little office in darkness. Disturbed in spirit, Nattie went to the door, almost inclined to visit some neighboring warehouse or shop for oil and matches. One glance at the deluge still falling drove the idea from his head. He was without umbrella or rain coat, and to venture for even a short distance would mean a thorough drenching--something to be religiously avoided in Japan during the summer season. "Heigho! I am in for it, I suppose. Confound that Irishman! I would like to punch his empty noddle for this. Here I am in the dark, condemned to remain all night without sleep, and--by jingo!" A very sudden and painful thought had occurred to the lad. The morrow was the day upon which he was to shine as a wrestler! The seventh of July; the day of sports in celebration of Commodore Perry's treaty. "I'll be fit for athletics and wrestling matches if I stay around here and lose my sleep!" murmured Nattie, ruefully. "Why, I'll be all played out, and a five-year-old boy could throw me. But what in thunder can I do? I can't leave and run the risk of the place catching fire. There's more than twenty thousand dollars' worth of stuff in here, and it would be just nuts to a thief to find himself among all those silks." It was impossible to communicate with either Grant or Mori. The streets in the warehouse district were unfrequented, and in such a violent storm even the policemen would hie themselves to a convenient shelter. Muttering maledictions upon the head of the absent watchman, Nattie closed the door and returned to his seat near the window. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the outside, and during one of these the lad espied a man crossing the bridge at the corner of the building. Thinking it might be some kindly person who would not disdain to carry a message, he hurried to the door leading into the street. As he opened it he heard voices. The newcomer had paused and was looking back at the indistinct figure of a second man on the other side of the canal. In the intervals of light Nattie observed the person nearest him start back and evidently expostulate with his follower. They were barely ten yards away, and by the aid of a brilliant flash of lightning the lad noticed something familiar in the appearance of both men. One was tall and thin, while the other had a short, stumpy form and a rolling lurch as he wavered vaguely near the end of the bridge. "Get back, man. What do you want to come out in this wet for when you have a cozy nook in yon house? Go back, I say." It was the attenuated individual who had spoken. He placed one hand upon his companion's arm, but the fellow staggered away and replied: "Got--hic--my dooty ter do. Oi'm too long away as 'tis, m' boy. Dash ther--hic--rain. It ain't wetter in th' blooming ocean, knife me if 'tis." "You are a fool to come out in it, I say. Return to the house, and I'll join you presently. There are three more bottles of prime stuff in the closet. Break one out and help yourself." "But me dooty, man! It has never been said that--hic--Pat Cronin ever went back on a job. Ask me shipmates. Why, they sing er song about me: "'So he seized th' capstan bar, Like a true honest tar, And in spite or tears and sighs Sung yo! heave ho!'" "Shut up; you will have the police after us," expostulated the other. "Do you intend to return to the house, or shall I lock up the bottles? Answer me, yes or no?" "Sure and Oi don't want to lose th' drink, but----" "Yes, or no?" "Ah, it's th' funny man ye are. He! he! he! Phwy don't yer git fat? If Oi----" "Then it is 'no,' eh? Well, here----" "Hould an, me buck. Oi'll go back and take another swig. Then to me dooty, yer understand. Here goes. "'So he seized th' (hic) capstan bar, Like a true honest tar, And in spite of----'" The husky notes died away, a door slammed in one of a row of wooden shanties across the bridge, and all was quiet. The tall, thin man glanced keenly after his companion; then, slipping up to the Manning "go-down," he examined the entrance. It was locked. Inserting a key he soon gained admission. As he softly closed the door again he stood within a pace of Nattie. It had not taken the lad many seconds to catch the drift of affairs. He knew full well that Patrick's tempter was no other than Willis Round, the firm's ex-bookkeeper. His presence in that locality during a heavy storm, his familiarity with the recreant watchman, the evident and successful attempt to entice him away from his post, could have only one meaning. He had designs on the property of his enemies. Long before Patrick had lurched back to the shanty Nattie had slipped into the office. When he heard the key grating in the lock he was not surprised; but he was considerably puzzled as to the best manner in which he should treat the situation. "If I only had my revolver I would bring the scoundrel to terms," he muttered, regretfully. "I had to leave it home this night of all nights. As it is, I haven't a solitary weapon. A bamboo cane wouldn't hurt a fly. Ah, I'll try the lantern." Creeping across the floor he secured the object just as the ex-bookkeeper reached the door. Returning to his post, the lad waited with rapidly beating heart. CHAPTER XII. THE STRUGGLE IN THE "GO-DOWN." That Willis Round meant injury was plainly evident. But whether he came as a thief or incendiary was yet to be ascertained. He knew the ground well, so he lost little time in entering. After closing the door he hesitated. At his elbow stood the brave lad with lantern raised in readiness. At the first sign of a light, or the scratch of a match, he meant to strike with all the power of his arm. The lantern was a heavy iron affair, and Willis Round was as near death at that moment as he probably had been during his eventful career. His knowledge of the "go-down's" interior saved him. After a brief pause he started toward the main portion of the warehouse. At his heels crept Nattie, silent, determined, resolute. The main room of the warehouse was crowded with bales of silk, chests of tea, and various boxes containing lacquered ware. These had been arranged in an orderly manner with passageways extending between the different piles. In one thing the lad had an advantage; he was thoroughly conversant with the arrangement of the goods, while Round had only a general knowledge of the interior. The latter stumbled several times, but he made no move to show a light. Presently Nattie felt his curiosity aroused. What could be the man's object? Was it theft of valuable silks or deliberate incendiarism? That the fellow had a certain destination in view was made evident by his actions. During the day the place was lighted by large glazed windows at the ends and on each side, but at night these were closed with iron shutters. In the roof were several long skylights, and through them an occasional glare came from the lightning, which still fitfully shot athwart the sky. It was by the aid of one of these that the lad finally saw the intruder halt near a pile of tea chests. The flash lasted only an instant, but it brought out in clear relief the attenuated figure of the scoundrel. He was standing within reach of a number of boxes packed ready for shipment on the morrow. They were wrapped in straw matting, and nearby was a little heap of the same material to be used on other chests. It was highly inflammable. This fact recurred to the lad with startling significance, and he involuntarily hurried forward. Before he could realize his mistake he was within a step of Round. A slight cough from the latter caused Nattie to abruptly check himself. With a gasp of excitement he shrank back, and slipped behind a large bale of silks. The next moment a blinding flash of lightning revealed the interior of the warehouse. Before it died away the plucky lad peered forth, but only to find that a change had taken place in affairs. The ex-bookkeeper was not in sight. It was an unwelcome discovery, to say the least. With the enemy in view, it was easy to keep track of his intentions. Now he might be retreating to any part of the vast "go-down" where in temporary security he could start a conflagration at his leisure. "I must find him at all hazards," muttered Nattie, somewhat discomfited. "Why didn't I bring matters to a point in the office? or why didn't I strike him down while I had the chance a moment ago? I'll not fool any more." Grasping the iron lantern in readiness for instant use, he slipped forward step by step. At every yard he paused and listened intently. The silence was both oppressive and ominous. He would have given a great deal if even a rustle or a sigh had reached his ears. As time passed without incident the lad grew bolder. His anxiety spurred him on. He hastened his movements and peered from side to side in vain endeavor to pierce the gloom. Where had the man gone? Probably he was even then preparing to strike the match that would ignite the building. Unable to endure longer the suspense, Nattie swung into a side aisle and ran plump into some yielding object. There was a muttered cry of surprise and terror; then, in the space of a second, the interior resounded with shouts and blows and the hubbub of a struggle. At the very start Nattie lost his only weapon. In the sudden and unexpected collision the lantern was dashed from his hand. Before he could recover it he felt two sinewy arms thrown about his middle, then with a tug he was forced against a bale. It required only a moment for the athletic lad to free himself. Long training at sports and games came to his aid. Wriggling toward the floor, he braced himself and gave a mighty upward heave. At the same time, finding his arms released, he launched out with both clinched fists. There was a thud, a stifled cry, and then a pile of tea chests close at hand fell downward with a loud crash. Quick to realize his opportunity, Nattie slipped away and placed a large box between his antagonist and himself. The scrimmage had only served to increase his anxiety and anger. When he regained his breath he called out, hotly: "You confounded scoundrel, I'll capture you yet. I know you, Willis Round, and if this night's work don't place you in prison it'll not be my fault." The words had hardly passed his lips when the lad was unceremoniously brought to a realization of his mistake. There was a whiz and a crash and a small box dropped to the floor within a foot of him. He lost no time in shifting his position. "Aha! two can play at that game," he muttered. Picking up a similar object, he was on the point of throwing it haphazard when he became aware of a loud knocking in the direction of the door. Almost frantic with relief and joy, he dropped the missile and started toward the spot. Fortunately gaining the little apartment without mishap, he inserted his key in the lock with trembling hands, and attempted to turn it. Just then a maudlin voice came from outside: "Phwere is the lock, Oi wonder? By the whiskers av St. Patrick, Oi never saw such a night. Cronin, ye divil, yer fuller than Duffy's goat. But ye are a good fellow. "'So Oi seized th' capstan bar, Like a true honest tar, And in spite----' "Murther! Oi can't git in at all, at all. Oi'll go back to the bottle. Me new friend has--hic--left me, but Oi have his whiskey. Here goes for th' house once more." Disgusted at the discovery that it was only the tipsy watchman, Nattie had again made his way back into the "go-down" proper. As he crossed the threshold of the door leading from the office, he heard the rattling of iron. The sound came from the far end. A second later there was a faint crash, and a gust of wind swept through the vast apartment. "He has opened a window. He is trying to escape." Throwing all caution away, the lad recklessly dashed down the central passageway. It did not take him long to reach the spot. The fury of the storm caused the opened shutter to swing back and forth with a melancholy grinding of the hinges. Climbing upon the sill, Nattie slipped through the opening and dropped outside. He had barely reached the ground when he was suddenly seized, and, with a fierce effort, sent staggering across the walk separating the building from the canal. He made a frantic effort to save himself, but it was too late. With a shrill cry trembling upon his lips, he felt himself falling through space; then, with a loud splash, he struck the water's surface! CHAPTER XIII. WILLIS ROUND ESCAPES. No man, or boy, for that matter, knows just what he can do until put to the test. We may think we know the limit of our strength or endurance, but we cannot prove it until an emergency arises. Then we are often found mistaken in our previous surmises, and, need it be said, much to our amazement. Nature is a wise mother. She has provided in all a reserve force which only needs the touch of an exigency to cause it to appear full powered. A task is set before you--you cannot do it in your opinion; but you try--and succeed. You are in peril; only a miracle of strength or shrewdness will save you. Involuntarily you act, and, lo! the miracle comes from your good right arm or your brain. A lad learning to swim places a dozen yards as the extent of his powers. He enters the water; is carried beyond his depth; swept away by an undertow, and swims successfully the length of three city blocks. It was his reserve force and the stimulating fear of death that brought him safely to shore. When Nattie Manning felt himself falling into the canal, sent there by Willis Round's cunning arm, he realized only one emotion, and that was rage--overpowering, consuming anger. He was wild with wrath to think that he had been tricked by the ex-bookkeeper, and the flames of his passion were not lessened by discomfiture. It seemed that he had barely touched the water before he was out, climbing hand over hand up the jagged stone side. To this day he does not know how he emerged so quickly, or by what latent force of muscle he dragged himself to the passageway. He gained the spot, however, and, thoroughly saturated with water, set out at the top of his speed after his assailant, whose shadowy figure scurried along in front of him toward the bay. What the lad hoped to accomplish he could not well tell himself, but he continued the pursuit with the keen determination of a bloodhound. A short distance back of the "go-down," a narrow street ran from the bluff to the center of the city. It crossed the canal with the aid of a low bridge, and was occupied by storehouses. The storm was passing away. The rain had slackened perceptibly, and the wind had died down to occasional puffs. In the south lightning could still be seen, but it was the mere glowing of atmospheric heat. In that part of Yokohama devoted to mercantile warehouses, the street lamps were few and far between. There was one at the junction of the bridge and passageway, however, and when Nattie dashed into its circle of illumination, he suddenly found himself confronted by a uniformed policeman. The latter immediately stretched out his arms and brought the lad to a halt. Then drawing his short-sword, he demanded in peremptory tones the meaning of his haste. Seeing the futility of resisting the official, Nattie hurriedly made known his identity, and explained the events of the night. Brief as was the delay, when the two started in pursuit of the fugitive, enough time had been wasted to permit him to escape. A hasty search of the neighborhood brought no results. Willis Round was out of reach. "No matter," remarked the lad, at last. "I know him, and it won't be difficult to apprehend the scoundrel." Returning to the "go-down" with the officer, he closed the window and then dispatched the man to the nearest messenger office with a note for Grant. In due time the police official returned with assistance. Patrick Cronin was found helplessly intoxicated in a nearby house, and unceremoniously lugged away to jail. The lame youth was prompt in his appearance on the scene. He brought with him a servant of the family, who was installed as watchman until the morrow. Relieved from his responsibility, Nattie accompanied his brother home, and after explaining the affair in detail, proceeded to take the rest he needed for the wrestling match of the next day. On reporting at the office the following morning, he found Grant and Mori still discussing Willis Round's actions. A report from the police stated that nothing had been accomplished. The fugitive was still at liberty, and in all probability had left the city. "I'll wager a _yen_ he is speeding as fast as the train can carry him to either Nagasaki or Kobe," remarked Mori. "He'll try to get a ship and leave the country." Grant shook his head doubtfully. "In my opinion, he will not do that," he said. "There are too many places in the interior where he can hide until this affair blows over." "If the scoundrel ever shows his face in Yokohama I'll see that he is placed behind the bars," exclaimed Nattie, vindictively. "He deserves little mercy at our hands. If an all-wise Providence had not sent me to the 'go-down' last night we would now be considerably out of pocket." "What will we do with Patrick Cronin?" "Discharge him; that's all. We can't prove any connection with Round. The latter simply tempted him away from his duty with a bottle of whiskey. It will be impossible to bring a criminal charge against the Irishman." "I will see that he remains in jail for a couple of weeks, anyway," decided Grant. "He deserves some punishment." "When shall we close up?" asked Nattie, gayly. "This is a great holiday, you know. We are due at the race track by ten." "It's a quarter past nine now," replied the young Japanese, looking at his watch. "Suppose we start at once?" The suggestion was acted upon with alacrity. Leaving the office in charge of a native watchman, the three youths took _jinrikishas_ and proceeded to the "bluff," where the sports of the day were to take place. The storm of the preceding night had ended in delightful weather. The tropical rays of the sun were tempered by a cooling breeze from the bay. The air was glorious with briskness, and so clear that the majestic peak of Fuji San seemed within touch. The city was in gala attire. Banners of all nations were flaunting in the breeze, but after the Japanese flag of the Rising Sun, the grand old Stars and Stripes predominated. It could not be said that the firm of Manning Brothers & Okuma had failed in patriotism. Streaming from a lofty flagstaff on the roof was an immense American ensign, and draping the _façade_ of the building were others intertwined with the standard of the country. The streets were decorated with arches and bunting, and every second native wore a little knot of red, white and blue. It was a unique celebration, from one point of view. Many years before, the gallant Commodore Perry had sailed into the Bay of Yokohama with a message of good will from the then President of the United States to the ruler of Japan. At that time the island kingdom was walled in by impassable bulwarks of exclusiveness and hatred of foreigners. For thousands of years she had calmly pursued her course of life, lost to civilization, and satisfied with her reign of idols and depths of barbarism. It required a strong hand to force a way to the central power, and time waited until the Yankee commodore appeared with his fleet of ships. Other nations had tried to pierce the barrier. England, France, Germany made repeated attempts, but were repulsed. The Dutch secured a foothold of trade, but on the most degrading terms. Their representatives were compelled to approach the mikado and grovel upon their knees with heads bowed in the dust. In this debasing attitude were they greeted with the contempt they deserved, and as slaves to Japan. Much as Americans desired commercial relations with the country, they would not accept them with humility. In the selection of an envoy the United States could not have decided on a better man than Commodore Perry, brother of the hero of Lake Erie. Firm, implacable, intelligent, and generous withal, he was the fitting choice. On reaching Japan he was met with refusals and evasions. He persisted, and finally the august ruler sent a minor official to confer with the foreigner. "I am here as personal representative of the United States of America, and I will see no one save the mikado himself, or his highest official," replied the bluff naval officer. "I have ten ships and two hundred guns, and here I stay until I am received with the formalities due my President." He finally won the point, and after the usual delay, a treaty was made between the two countries, to the amazement of the civilized world. This was the entering wedge which resulted in the Japan of to-day. Lifted from her barbarism, she has reached a high plane among nations. Small wonder that her people celebrate the anniversary, and honor the memory of the immortal Commodore Perry. With apologies for this digression, I will again take up the thread of the story. CHAPTER XIV. THE BEGINNING OF THE CELEBRATION. _En route_ to the "bluff" the boys came upon a curious procession. As stated above, the whole town was enjoying a _matsura_, or festival. As Nattie aptly remarked, it was the Fourth of July, Decoration Day and Christmas thrown into one. In the present case the spectacle was one calculated to make a foreigner imagine himself in the interior of Africa. Approaching the _jinrikishas_ occupied by Grant and his companions was a bullock cart, upon which a raised platform and scaffolding twenty feet high had been constructed. The bullock and all were covered with paper decorations, green boughs and artificial flowers. In front a girl with a grotesque mask danced and postured, while a dozen musicians twanged impossible instruments and kept up an incessant tattoo on drums. On foot around the _bashi_, as the whole structure is called, were twenty or thirty lads naked as to their legs, their faces chalked, their funny little heads covered with straw hats a yard wide, and their bodies clad in many-colored tunics, decked out with paper streamers and flowers. In front, on all sides, behind, and even under the wheels, were scores of children marching to the tune of the band--if it could be so called--much as the youths of America do in the processions, be it circus or otherwise, in our country. The boys forming the guard to the bullock cart marched step by step with military precision, chanting at the top of their voices, and banging upon the ground a long iron bar fitted with loose rings. The colors, the songs, the dance and the clanging iron, formed together a combination calculated to draw the attention of every person not deaf, dumb and blind. To the boys it was a common sight, and they bade their _karumayas_ hurry forward away from the din. On reaching the field on the "bluff," they found an immense throng awaiting the commencement of ceremonies. The race track had been laid out in fitting style, and innumerable booths, tents and _kiosks_ filled two-thirds of the space. The morning hours were to be devoted to ancient Japanese games, and the time after tiffin to modern sports and matches, including the event of the day, the wrestling. Mori Okuma--an athlete in both European and native sports--was listed in a bout at Japanese fencing, so he left his companions for a dressing-tent. Nattie and Grant glanced over the vast concourse of people, and exchanged bows with their many friends. The Americans and English in foreign countries keep green in their memory the land of their birth, and in all places where more than one foreigner can be found a club is organized. It is a sort of oasis in the desert of undesirable neighbors, and forms a core around which cluster good fellowship and the habits and customs of home. The Strangers' Club in Yokohama had a membership of six hundred, and they were well represented in the present assemblage. Grant and Nattie were well-known members, and they counted their friends by the hundred. In looking over the field the latter espied a group in the grand stand which immediately attracted his attention. He pointed them out to his brother. "There is Mr. Black and the two German merchants," he said. "They have their heads together as if discussing some weighty problem. I wonder where Ralph is? He is interested in athletics." "I'll wager a _yen_ he is about somewhere. So the Germans are hobnobbing with our esteemed enemy, eh? I'll warrant we are the subject of conversation. I don't like the way Swartz and Bauer conduct business, and I guess they know it. They can form an alliance if they wish to. We needn't lose any sleep over it." "There comes Ralph. He is looking in this direction. I wonder what he thinks about the failure of his confederate, Willis Round, to injure us? To the deuce with them, anyway! The fencing is about to commence." The clapping of hands and a prolonged cheer proclaimed the beginning of the sports. The _yobidashi_, or caller-out, took his stand upon a decorated box, and announced a bout at fencing between the ever-pleasant and most worthy importing merchant, Mori Okuma, and the greatly-to-be-admired doctor-at-law, Hashimoto Choye. At the end of this ceremonious proclamation he introduced our friend and his antagonist. Both were small in stature, and they presented rather a comical appearance. Each was padded out of all proportions with folds of felt and leather. Upon their heads were bonnet-shaped helmets of metal, and each wore a jacket of lacquered pieces decidedly uncomfortable to the eye. At the word of command attendants rushed in with the weapons. These were not broadswords, rapiers, nor cutlasses, but a curious instrument composed of a number of strips of bamboo, skillfully wrought together and bound. The end was covered with a soft skin bag, and the handle was very much like that of an ordinary sword. Armed with these the combatants faced each other, and at the sound of a mellow bell fell to with the utmost ferocity. Slash, bang, whack, went the weapons; the fencers darted here and there, feinted, prodded, cut and parried, as if they had to secure a certain number of strikes before the end of the bout. It was all very funny to those unaccustomed to the Japanese style of fencing, and the naval officers from the various warships in port roared with laughter. To the natives it was evidently deeply interesting, and they watched the rapid play of the weapons as we do the gyrations of our favorite pitcher in the national game. At the end of five minutes the game was declared finished. The umpire, an official of the city government, decided in favor of Mori, and that youth fled to the dressing-tent to escape the plaudits of the audience. He received the congratulations of Grant and Nattie with evident pleasure, however. The next item on the programme was a novel race between trained storks. Then came a creeping match between a score of native youngsters, and so the morning passed with jugglery and racing and many sports of the ancient island kingdom. At noon tiffin was served to the club and its guests in a large pavilion placed in the center of the grounds. The ceremonies recommenced at two o'clock with a running match between a dozen trained athletes. Of all the spectators, probably the happiest was Grant Manning. Deprived of participation in the various sports by his deformity, he seemed to take a greater interest from that very fact. He clapped his hands and shouted with glee at every point, and was the first to congratulate the winners as they left the track. The time for the great event of the day finally arrived. At three the master of ceremonies, clad in _kamishimo_, or ancient garb, mounted his stand and announced in stentorian tones: "The next event on the programme will be a contest in wrestling between six gentlemen of this city. Those persons whose names are listed with the secretary will report in the dressing-tent." "That calls me," cried Nattie, gayly. "Boys, bring out your rabbits' feet and your lucky coins." "You don't know the name of your antagonist?" asked Mori. "No; nor will I until we enter the ring. Small matter. I feel in fine trim, and I intend to do the best I can. So long." "Luck with you, Nattie," called out all within hearing, casting admiring glances after the handsome, athletic lad. Directly in front of the grand stand a ring had been constructed something after the fashion of the old-time circus ring. The surface was sprinkled with a soft, black sand, and the ground carefully leveled. Overhead stretched a canopy of matting, supported by a number of bamboo poles wrapped in red, white and blue bunting. At the four corners of the arena were mats for the judges, and in the center an umpire in gorgeous costume took his place. By permission of the Nomino Sakune Jinsha Society, which controls the national game of wrestling in the empire, their hereditary judges were to act in the present match. After Nattie disappeared in the dressing-tent a short delay occurred. As usual, the audience indicated their impatience with shouts and calls, and the ever-present small boy made shrill noises upon various quaint instruments. Suddenly a herald with a trumpet emerged from the tent, and the vast concourse became quiet. He sounded a blast, the canvas flaps of two openings were pulled aside, and two lads bare as to chest and with legs clad in trunks bounded into the arena. A murmur of surprise came from the audience; the antagonists faced each other, and then glared a bitter defiance. From one entrance had come Nattie Manning, and from the other--Ralph Black! CHAPTER XV. THE WRESTLING MATCH. Nattie's several encounters with the younger member of the English firm had been duly discussed in the club, and the discomfiture of the elder merchant during his call upon Grant had been a toothsome morsel for the gossipers of the city. The enmity between the houses of Manning and Black was the common talk among the foreigners of Yokohama. They were aware of the cause of the trouble, and knew the suspicions concerning the payment of the now-famous debt. And when the opening of the flaps in the dressing-tent had disclosed the youths destined to face each other for the supremacy of the wrestling ring, a murmuring sound rolled through the concourse like the echoes of a passing wind. "It's young Black and Nattie Manning!" cried more than one. "Whew! there will be a warm tussle now." Over in one corner of the grand stand Grant and Mori sat in amazement. The _dénouement_ was entirely unexpected to them. Not long did they remain silent. Up sprang the lame youth, his kindly face glowing with excitement. Mounting a vacant chair despite his infirmity, he shook a bundle of English notes in the air, and shouted: "Ten to one on my brother! Ten to one! ten to one! Twenty pounds even that he secures the first two points! Whoop! where are the backers of the other side? I'll make it fifteen to one in five-pound notes. Who will take the bet?" In the meantime Mori had not been idle. Forcing his way directly to where Mr. Black was sitting with the Germans, he shook a bag of coin in the air, and dared them to place a wager with him. Following his example came half a dozen American friends of the new firm, and presently the grand stand resounded with the cries of eager bettors. Down in the arena Nattie and Ralph stood confronting one another like tigers in a forest jungle. The former's face was set with determination. He had long wished for just such an opportunity. It had come at last. Ralph's face wore a peculiar pallor. It was not fear, but rather that of one who felt the courage of desperation. He well knew there was little difference in physical strength between them, but he appeared to lack the stamina of honesty and merit. Both lads were in the pink of condition, and they formed a picture appealing to the hearts of all lovers of athletics. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on either. If anything, Ralph was slightly taller, but Nattie's arms gave promise of greater length and muscle. Presently the din in the grand stand ceased. Wagers had been given and taken on both sides with great freedom. Grant had collapsed into a chair with his purse empty and his notebook covered with bets. Mori was still seeking takers with great persistency. A blast was sounded on the herald's trumpet, and the eyes of the vast audience were centered on the ring. The judges took their places, the umpire hopped to the middle, and with a wave of his fan gave the signal. Nattie and Ralph faced each other, eye to eye. Slowly sinking down until their hands rested upon their knees, they waited for an opportunity to grapple. The silence was intense. The far-away echoes of a steamer's whistle came from the distant bay. A chant of voices sounding like the murmur of humming-birds was wafted in from a neighboring temple. The hoarse croaking of a black crow--the city's scavenger--came from a circling figure overhead. A minute passed. Nattie straightened. Ralph followed his example. Warily they approached each other. Face to face, and eye to eye; intent upon every step, they began to march sideways; always watching, always seeking for an opening. Their hands twitched in readiness for a dash, a grip, a tug. Each had his weight thrown slightly forward, and his shoulders slouched a little, watching for an unwary move. Nattie feinted suddenly. His right arm darted out, he touched Ralph's shoulder, but the English youth dodged, only to be grasped by the waist by his antagonist's left hand. There was a sharp tug, a whirl of the figures, then they broke away, each still upon his feet. A vast sigh came from the audience, and Grant chuckled almost deliriously. The antagonists rested, still confronting each other. Ralph's pallor had given way to an angry flush. His lips moved as if muttering oaths. Nattie remained cool and imperturbable. His was the advantage. Coolness in combat is half the battle. Those in the audience that had risked their money upon the merchant's son began to regret their actions. The match was not won, however. At the end of five minutes a signal came from the umpire. Before the flash of his brilliantly decorated fan had vanished from the eyes of the audience, Nattie darted forward and clashed breast to breast against Ralph. The latter put forth his arms blindly, gropingly; secured a partial hold of his opponent's neck, essayed a backward lunge, but in the hasty effort stumbled and suddenly found himself upon his back with the scattering gusts of sand settling around him. And then how the grand stand rang with cheers! "First bout for Manning!" "A fair fall, and a great one!" High above the tumult of sounds echoed a shrill voice: "Thirty to one on my brother! I offer it in sovereigns! Take it up if you dare!" The victor stood modestly bowing from side to side, but there was a glitter of pride in his eyes which told of the pleasure he felt--doubly a pleasure, because his antagonist was Ralph Black. The latter had been assisted to his feet by the men appointed for the purpose. He was trembling in every limb, but it was from rage, not exhaustion. His breath came in short, quick gasps, and he glared at Nattie as if meditating an assault. Again the umpire's fan gave the signal, and once more the combatants faced each other for the second point. And now happened a grievous thing for our heroes. Nattie was not ordinarily self-assured. There was no room in his character for conceit; but his triumph in the present case caused him to make a very serious mistake. He failed at this critical moment to bear in mind Moltke's famous advice: "He who would win in war must put himself in his enemy's place." Flushed with his victory he entered into the second bout with a carelessness that brought him to disaster in the twinkling of an eye. Ralph Black, smarting under defeat, kept his wits about him, however, and, adopting his opponent's tactics, made a fierce rush at the instant of the signal. Grasping Nattie by the waist, he forced him aside, and then backward with irresistible force. The result--the lad found himself occupying almost the same spot of earth which bore Ralph's former imprint. Now was the time for the opposition to cheer, and that they did right royally. Counter shouts came from the American faction, and again Grant and Mori's voices arose above the tumult inviting wagers. Five minutes of rest, then came the time for the final and decisive bout. It was with very different feelings that Nattie passed to the center of the ring now. His handsome face plainly bespoke humiliation, but there was a flash of the eyes which also announced a grim and desperate determination. It was like that of Ben Hur when he swept around the arena with his chargers on the last circle. Ralph was plainly elated. He paused long enough to wave one hand toward a group of friends; then the twain faced for the last time. It was evident from the outset that the bout would not last very long. Warily, and with the utmost caution, the lads confronted each other. Side by side they edged and retreated. A silence as of the tombs of forgotten races fell upon the audience. Suddenly--no man's eyes were quick enough to see the start--Nattie dropped almost on all fours at Ralph's feet. He lunged forward, grasped the English youth's hips, then with a mighty effort which brought the blood in a scarlet wave to his face, he surged upward, and, with a crash, the merchant's son lay a motionless heap in the center of the arena! And the match was won! CHAPTER XVI. AFTER THE VICTORY. The match was won, and Nattie had come out victorious. There was an instant of silence after the clever throw--silence like that which precedes a storm--then the grounds rang with a tumult of applause. With shouts and yells, with clapping of hands and piercing whistles the vast audience proclaimed their appreciation. Men nearer the ring climbed over the low railing and lifting the blushing lad to their shoulders, formed the nucleus of a triumphal procession. Around the arena they marched until at last Nattie struggled free by main force. Retreating to the dressing-tent, he disappeared within its shelter, followed by Grant and Mori. The latter were so filled with joy that they could not find qualifying words in either language, so they shouted alternately in Japanese and English. In the meantime the defeated wrestler had been brought to a realization of his discomfiture by his father and several surgeons. The fall had stunned him, but no bones were broken. Leaning on his parent, he retired to a _jinrikisha_ and left the field without changing his costume. In the dressing-tent Nattie and his companions were holding gay carnival over the victory. The little apartment was crowded with Americans, both civilian and naval, and it soon became evident that the triumph was being regarded as an international affair. It was a victory of the American element over the English. The difference between Nattie and Ralph had given way to something of greater importance. Through some unexplained reason a strong undercurrent of jealousy exists between members of the two countries in foreign climes, and evidences crop to the surface at intervals. It generally manifests itself in just such occasions as the present, and from the moment Nattie and Ralph were matched together in the arena, the American and English took sides with their respective countrymen. The overwhelming importance of the first match detracted all interest from those following, and the celebration was soon brought to a close. Nattie and his companions finally escaped from the field. At Grant's invitation a number of the Americans accompanied him to a well-known tea house in the city where dinner was served in honor of the occasion. Of course the victor was the lion of the feast, but he bore his honors modestly. On being called upon for a speech he displayed greater trepidation than when he confronted his antagonist in the arena. At last yielding to the vociferous invitation, he arose from his chair and said, bluntly: "I am no hand to talk, my friends. In our firm my Brother Grant is my mouthpiece. But I can say that I appreciate this honor, and that I am almighty glad I defeated Ralph Black. I guess you know the reason why. I thank you for your kindness." Then he abruptly resumed his seat, amid the cheers of the party who voted him a good fellow with the enthusiasm of such occasions. The impromptu banquet came to an end in due time, and the coming of the morrow found the boys again at work in the counting-room of Manning Brothers & Okuma. It was with a chuckle of great satisfaction that Grant counted up the results of his wagers made in the grand stand. He checked off each item with glee, and finally announced to his companions that he was three hundred pounds ahead. "I don't care a broken penny for the money," he said. "In fact, I intend to turn it over to the hospital fund, but it's the fact of beating those Englishmen that tickles me. Nattie, if you had permitted Ralph Black to throw you in that last bout I would have disowned you and retired to a Shinton monastery." "My, what a fate I saved you from!" grinned his brother. "Fancy you a monk with that hoppity-skip foot of yours. But how is Ralph? Have either of you heard?" "Some one told me this morning that he was feeling very sore--in spirits," laughed Mori. "They say he took the early train for Kobe, where he intends to stay until his humiliation has a chance to disappear." "I'll wager a _yen_ yesterday's work has not increased his liking for us," carelessly remarked the lame youth. "What did you get out of his father and those Germans, Mori? I saw you hovering about them with a bag of coin. Did the old man do any betting?" "Five hundred dollars. I gave him odds of seven to one. I also have the German merchants, Swartz and Bauer, listed for a cool thousand. Whew! won't they groan in bitterness of spirit when I send over for the money?" "I only regret one thing in the whole affair," said Nattie. "And that is my confounded carelessness in permitting Ralph to throw me in the second bout. It was a case of 'swell-head,' I suppose. The first throw was so easy I thought all the rest would be like it. However, all's well that ends well. The match is won, and the English will sing low for a time." During the balance of the week the members of the new firm labored early and late arranging their shipments of tea and silks. Each steamer carried a consignment of goods to America, and in return came cargoes of merchandise, flour, printed goods, machinery and wool. The events of the past few days had advertised the firm to such an extent that the volume of business became burdensome. In due course of time the flood of money turned and began to flow back into the coffers. Bills outstanding at short periods matured, and the bank account assumed healthy proportions. Mori was compelled to withdraw his last loan of thirty thousand dollars, given at a most critical point in the firm's brief existence despite his protest. At the end of the third week two extra warehouses were leased, and the clerical force in the office doubled. All this was very comforting to Grant and his associates, but there still remained a more valuable prize. The rumors of war between China and Japan, which had bubbled to the surface of the political caldron many times during the past year, now began to attract public attention. The government disclaimed any idea of impending war, but it quietly proceeded with its preparations at the same time. It was known among the merchants that a large order for arms and ammunition would be given out on the first day of August, and the competition became very keen. Through his personal friendship with the secretary of war, and the integrity of the new firm, Grant was acknowledged as possessing the best chance. There was one company, however, that had not given up hope of securing the prize, and that was the firm of Black & Son. The reader will doubtless remember the meeting held in the English merchant's office between father and son and the ex-bookkeeper, Willis Round. At that consultation the latter had disclosed a plan for the defeat of Grant Manning. The affair of the "go-down," when Round was foiled in his attempt to start a conflagration, delayed the schemes of the conspirators, but the near approach of the time for awarding the valuable contract, again found them at work. Mr. Black was the only one of the three present in Yokohama. Willis Round was an exile for obvious reasons, and Ralph chose to absent himself after the wrestling match on the seventh of July. By arrangement the twain met in an interior village north of the capital, where they schemed and plotted for the downfall of their enemies. At the expiration of two weeks Patrick Cronin was released from jail and advised by the authorities to leave the country. Thus everything promised peace for our heroes, and the prosperity of honest labor fell to their lot day by day. All three were too shrewd to allow such a pleasant state of affairs to lull their watchfulness. They knew that in war silence is ominous, and that many a maneuver is projected under the veil of a temporary truce. As it came to pass, however, something occurred that deceived even Nattie's suspicious eye. CHAPTER XVII. THE TURNING UP OF A BAD PENNY AND ITS RESULTS. Nattie's duties as warehouseman and shipper of the firm took him aboard the shipping of the port day by day. When a consignment of tea or silk was conveyed from the "go-down" in lighters to the steamers riding at anchor in the bay, the lad would visit the vessels to see that the goods were checked properly. Also when the smaller coasting craft would arrive from other ports with cargoes from the local agents of the firm, Nattie's duty carried him on board to sign the receipts. One morning while on the latter journey to a coaster from Kobe he was surprised to see an old acquaintance among the crew. It was the recreant watchman, Patrick Cronin. Still harboring resentment for the fellow's actions on that memorable night when Willis Round made his dastardly attempt to fire the "go-down" with its valuable contents, Nattie passed him without recognition. After attending to his business on board, he started to leave the little steamer. As he was preparing to descend to his cutter, he felt a touch upon his shoulder. Turning, he saw Patrick with an expression of great humility upon his rugged face. "What is it?" asked Nattie, sharply. "I beg your pardon, sir, but could Oi have a bit of a talk wid yer?" replied the Irishman, pleadingly. "Well, what do you wish to say? Make haste; I am in a hurry." "Could yer step back here a bit where we won't be overheard, sir? It's something of interest to yourself Oi have to say, sir. Maybe ye'll think it's valuable information Oi have before Oi'm through." Laughing incredulously, Nattie walked over to the break of the forecastle, and bade his companion proceed with his yarn. He thought it would prove to be a sly attempt to secure another position with the firm, and he firmly intended to refuse the request. "Now what is it?" he again demanded, impatiently. "It's mad ye are at me, Oi suppose?" "See here, Patrick Cronin, if you have anything to tell me, speak out. My time is too valuable to waste just now. If you intend to ask for a situation with the firm you had better save your breath. One experience with you is enough." Instead of becoming angry at this plain talk, Patrick set to chuckling with good humor. "Oi don't blame yer for being down on me," he said, with what seemed very like a wink. "Oi should not have let that spalpane tempt me wid th' drink. Oi have it in for him, and by th' same token that's why Oi'm now talking to yer." "Do you know where Willis Round is?" quickly asked Nattie. "Maybe Oi do, and maybe Oi don't. It's for you to say, sir." "For me to say? What have I to do with it?" "Would yer like to capture him?" asked Patrick, cunningly. Nattie thought a moment before replying. Would it really be worth the candle to bring the ex-bookkeeper to justice? The chase might entail a journey and some expense. But then would it not be advisable for the sake of future peace to have Round behind prison bars? "As long as he is at liberty," thought the lad, "we can expect trouble. This chance of disarming him should not be neglected." "Yes; I would very much like to capture the fellow," he added, aloud. "I suppose you know where he is, or you would not mention the subject." "I do know his whereabouts this blessed minute." "Well?" The Irishman leered significantly. "Ah, you wish to sell the information, I suppose?" said Nattie, a light breaking in upon him. "It's wise ye are." "Can you tell me exactly where he is, so that I can send and have him arrested?" "No, no. Ye mustn't send the police, sir. If ye want to capture the spalpane ye must go yerself, or wid a friend. The boobies of officers would spoil everything. If Oi give the man away Oi must be sure he will be put in prison, as he'd kill me for informing on him." "Oh, I see," said Nattie, contemptuously. "You wish to save your precious skin. Well, if it is worth while I'll go for him myself, or probably take Mori. Now where is he?" "Is the information worth twenty pounds, sir?" "No; decidedly not." Patrick looked discomfited. "But think of th' good Oi'm doing yer," he pleaded. "Mister Round is a bad man, and he'll keep yer in a torment of suspense until ye put him away. Won't ye make it twenty pounds, sir?" "No." "Then how much?" "Half that is a big amount for the information." "Call it twelve pounds, and it's a bargain." "All right; but understand, you are not to get a cent until the man is captured." "Oh, Oi'll agree to that. Oi'll go wid yer if ye pay the fare." "Very well. Now where is Willis Round?" "He's stopping in Nagasaki." "Nagasaki? What part?" "That Oi'll show yer in due time. He's hid away in a place ye wouldn't dream of lookin' into. When do you want to start, sir?" "As soon as possible. We can leave on the evening train and reach there by daylight. Get your discharge from the steamer and report to me at the station about six o'clock." "And who will ye take besides me, sir? It'll be just as well to have a mate, as there's no telling what'll happen." Nattie eyed the speaker keenly. "So you think there will be no trouble in effecting the capture, eh?" he said. "No; but it's a good thing to be prepared in this worruld." "There is more truth than poetry in that," was the grim reply. "I think Mr. Okuma will accompany me. He intended to run down in that direction before long, anyway. Now don't fail, Patrick. Be at the station at six." The ex-watchman waved his hand in assent as the lad entered his boat, then he retreated to the forecastle with an expression of great satisfaction upon his face. During the balance of the morning he proceeded about his work with evident good humor. Shortly before noon he borrowed a piece of paper and an envelope from the purser, and laboriously indited a letter with the stump of a lead pencil. Sealing the epistle, he wrote upon the back: "MISTER JESSE BLACK, ESQ., "The Bund, forninst Main Street, "Yokohammer, Japan." After regarding his work with complacency, he asked the captain for his discharge. On being paid off, he went ashore and disappeared in the direction of the general post office. In the meantime Nattie had returned to the office, supremely unconscious of Patrick's duplicity. He found Grant and Mori making up the invoices for a cargo of lacquered ware. He explained his news at once. "It's a good chance to strike Black & Son a blow they will be not likely to forget in a hurry," he added, throwing himself into a chair. "Perhaps we can get a confession from the fellow, also." "You mean about that debt?" asked Mori. "Yes. When he is compelled to face a five years' sentence for attempted arson perhaps he'll 'split' on his confederates. In that case if it turns out as we suspect, the English firm will be wiped out." Grant shook his head doubtfully. "I do not like the source of your information, Nattie," he said. "In my opinion, Patrick Cronin is not to be trusted." "Oh, he's all right. He has it in for Round for playing him such a trick, and he is trying to get even. Then the twelve pounds is something to him." "We might run down to Nagasaki," thoughtfully remarked the Japanese youth. "I intended to drum up trade in that direction, anyway. It will be a nice little trip, even if nothing comes of it." "Something tells me that it will be a wild-goose chase," replied Grant. "You can try it, though. I can spare both of you for three or four days about now. You need a vacation, anyway." "What about yourself, brother?" asked Nattie, generously. "You have worked harder than either of us. Why can't you come also?" "What, and leave the business go to the dogs! Oh, no, my dear boy. What would I do with a vacation? I am never happier than when I am pouring over accounts in this office, believe me. Get away with you now. Run home and pack up for your trip. But let me give you a bit of advice." "What is it?" "Take revolvers, and see that the cartridges are in good condition. Also, don't go poking about the suburbs of Nagasaki without a squad of police." "One would think we are bound after a band of outlaws in the Indian Territory at home," laughed Nattie. "Willis Round is not such a formidable man as all that." "No; but you don't know who else you may have to contend with. Another thing: keep your eye on Patrick Cronin. Good-by." On reaching the station that evening Mori and Nattie found the Irishman awaiting their arrival. He was all smiles and good humor, and his rugged face was as guileless as that of a new-born babe. Verily the human countenance is not always an index to one's true nature. "It's plazed Oi am to see yer, gentlemen," he said, suavely. "I did think ye might be after changing yer minds. It's near train time now." "We are here," replied Nattie, briefly. "Get into the car." He purchased three tickets, for Nagasaki by way of Kobe and followed them into the train. A moment later the long line of coaches left the station and rolled rapidly on into the night. After a brief stop at Kobe, which was reached shortly before daybreak, the train resumed its course along the edge of the sea. A short distance from the city the tracks were laid directly upon the coast, only a parapet of stone separating the rails from the water's edge. Feeling restless and unable to sleep, Nattie left his bed, and throwing on his outer clothing, stepped out upon the platform. He was presently joined by Mori, and the twain stood watching the flitting panorama. A storm, which had been gathering in the south, presently broke, lashing the broad surface of the sea into an expanse of towering waves. As the gale increased in force, the caps of water began to break over the parapet in salty spray. "Whew! I guess we had better beat a retreat," exclaimed Mori, after receiving an extra dash of moisture. "Wait a moment," pleaded Nattie. "I hate to leave such a grand scene. What a picture the angry seas make! My! that was a tremendous wave! It actually shook the train." "Murder and saints!" groaned a voice at his elbow. "Phwat is the matter, sir? Is it going to sea we are in a train of cars? 'Tis the first time Patrick Cronin ever traveled on a craft without masts or hull. Oi think it do be dangerous along here, saving yer presence." Before either Nattie or Mori could reply to the evidently truthful remark, a line of water, curling upward in threatening crests, dashed over the parapet and fairly deluged the platforms. It was with the greatest difficulty the three could retain their hold. Now thoroughly alarmed, they endeavored to enter the car. Suddenly the speed of the train became lessened, then it stopped altogether. A moment later the grinding of heavy driving wheels was heard, and the line of coaches began to back up the track. It was a precaution taken too late. Before the cars had obtained much headway a wall of glistening water was hurled over the parapet with resistless force, sweeping everything before it. Amid the shouts and screams of a hundred victims the coaches and engine were tumbled haphazard from the track, piling up in a mass of wreckage against the cliff. CHAPTER XVIII. EVIL TIDINGS. To those who have not experienced the coming of sudden disaster, word descriptions are feeble. It is easy to tell how this and that occurred; to speak of the wails and cries of the injured; to try to depict the scene in sturdy English, but the soul-thrilling terror, the horror, and physical pain of the moment must be felt. In the present case the accident was so entirely unexpected that the very occurrence carried an added quota of dreadful dismay. The spot had never been considered unsafe. At the time of construction eminent engineers had decided that it would be perfectly feasible to lay the rails close to the edge of the sea. A stout parapet of stone afforded ample protection, in their opinion, but they had not gauged the resistless power of old ocean. The coming of a fierce south wind worked the mischief, and in much less time than is required in the telling, the doomed train was cast a mass of wreckage against the unyielding face of the cliff. The first crash extinguished the lights, adding impenetrable darkness to the scene. It found Nattie and Mori within touch of each other. They instinctively grouped together; but a second and more violent wrench of the coach sent them flying in different directions. The instinct of life is strong in all. The drowning wretch's grasp at a straw is only typical of what mortals will do to keep aglow the vital spark. Terror-stricken, and stunned from the force of the shock, Nattie still fought desperately for existence. He felt the coach reeling beneath his feet, he was tossed helplessly like a truss of hay from side to side, and then almost at his elbow he heard a familiar voice shrieking: "Mercy! mercy! The blessed saints have mercy upon a poor sinner. Oi'm sorry for me misdeeds. Oi regret that Oi was even now going against the law. Oi confess that Oi meant to lead them two young fellows away so that----" The words ended in a dreadful groan as the car gave a violent lurch, then Nattie felt a shock of pain and he lost consciousness. When he came to, it was to find the bright sun shining in his face. It was several moments before he could recognize his surroundings. A sound as of persons moaning in agony brought back the dreadful truth. He found himself lying upon a stretcher, and near at hand were others, each bearing a similar burden. The temporary beds were stretched along the face of the cliff. A dozen feet away was a huge mass of shattered coaches and the wreck of a locomotive. A number of Japanese were still working amid the _débris_, evidently in search of more victims of the disaster. Nattie attempted to rise, but the movement caused him excruciating pain in the left shoulder. A native, evidently a surgeon, was passing at the moment, and noticing the action, he said, with a smile of encouragement: "Just keep quiet, my lad. You are all right, merely a dislocation. Do not worry, we will see that you are well taken care of." "But my friend?" replied the boy, faintly. "His name is Mori Okuma, and he was near me when the accident occurred. Can you tell me anything of him? Is he safe?" "Is he one of my countrymen, a youth like yourself, and clad in tweed?" "Yes, yes." "Well, I can relieve your anxiety," was the cheering reply. "He is working like a trooper over there among the coaches. It was he who rescued you and brought you here. Wait; I will call him." A moment later Mori made his appearance, but how sadly changed was his usually neat appearance. His hat was gone, his clothing torn and disordered, and his face grimed with dust and dirt. He laughed cheerily, however, on seeing Nattie, and made haste to congratulate him on his escape. "This is brave," he exclaimed. "You will soon be all right, old boy. No, don't try to get up; your arm is dislocated at the shoulder, and perfect quiet is absolutely necessary." "But I can't lie here like a stick, Mori," groaned the lad. "What's a dislocation, anyway? It shouldn't keep a fellow upon his back." "You had better take the doctor's advice. The relief train will start for Kobe before long, and once in a good hotel, you can move about. This is a terrible accident. Fully twenty persons have lost their lives, and as many more wounded." "Have you seen anything of Patrick Cronin?" "No, nothing. It is thought several bodies were carried out to sea when the water rolled back after tearing away the parapet. His may be one of them." The Irishman's words, heard during the height of the turmoil, returned to Nattie. He now saw the significance of the Irishman's cry. "Something is up, Mori," he said, gravely, explaining the matter. "It certainly seems as if Patrick was leading us on a wild-goose chase." "That was Grant's impression, anyway. Did the fellow really use those words?" "Yes, and he evidently told the truth. He was in fear of death, and he confessed aloud that he was leading us away so that something could happen. At the interesting moment his voice died away to a groan, then I lost consciousness." "What do you think he could have meant?" "It is something to do with the Blacks, I'll wager." "But does he know them?" "He is acquainted with Willis Round, and that is the same thing." Mori seemed doubtful. "You don't think he intended to lead us into a trap?" he asked, incredulously. "Hardly, but----" "Grant?" Nattie sat up in the stretcher despite the pain the effort caused him. "Mori, we must communicate with him at once," he said. "There is no telling what could happen while we are away. Confound it! I'll never forgive myself if this should prove to be a ruse. Can you telegraph from here?" "No, we must wait until we reach Kobe. Now don't excite yourself, my dear fellow. You will only work into a fever, and that will retard your recovery. I really think we are mistaken. But even if it should prove true, it won't mend matters by making yourself worse." The lad fell back with a groan. He acknowledged the wisdom of Mori's remark, and he remained quiet until the relief train finally carried him with the balance of the survivors to the city they had recently left. Mori hastened to the telegraph office after seeing his charge to a hotel. What Nattie suffered in spirit during the Japanese youth's absence can only be measured by the great love he bore his crippled brother. The very thought that something had happened to him was anguish. He knew that Grant was bravery itself despite his physical disability, and that he would not hesitate to confront his enemies single-handed. When the turning of the door knob proclaimed Mori's return, Nattie actually bounded from the bed and met him halfway. One glance at the Japanese youth's face was enough. Evil news was written there with a vivid brush. In one hand he held a telegram, which he gave to his companion without a word. CHAPTER XIX. BAD NEWS CONFIRMED. Nattie took the telegram with a sinking heart. He had already read disquieting news in Mori's face, and for a moment he fumbled at the paper as if almost afraid to open it. Finally mustering up courage, he scanned the following words: "Message received. Grant cannot be found. He left office at usual time last night, but did not appear at his home. Have done nothing in the matter yet. Wire instructions. Sorry to hear of accident." It was signed by the chief bookkeeper, a Scotchman, named Burr. He was a typical representative of his race, canny, hard-headed, and thoroughly reliable. Sentiment had no place in his nature, but he was as impregnable in honesty as the crags of his own country. Poor Nattie read the telegram a second, then a third time. The words seemed burned into his brain. There could be only one meaning: Grant Manning had met with disaster. But where, and how? And through whom? The last question was easily answered. "Mori," he said, with a trembling voice, "this is the work of the Blacks and that scoundrel, Willis Round." "Something may have happened, but we are not yet certain," gravely replied the Japanese youth. "Surely Grant could take a day off without our thinking the worse." "You do not know my brother," answered the lad, steadfastly. "He hasn't a bad habit in the world, and the sun is not more regular than he. No, something has happened, and we must leave for Yokohama by the first train." "It is simply impossible for you to go," expostulated Mori. "The doctor said you must not stir from bed for three days at the very least. I will run down at once, but you must remain here." "If the affair was reversed, Grant would break the bounds of his tomb to come to me," Nattie replied, simply. "Send for a surgeon and ask him to fix this shoulder for traveling. I want to leave within an hour." The young Japanese threw up both hands in despair, but he left without further words. In due time the man of medicine appeared and bandaged the dislocated member. A few moments later Nattie and Mori boarded the train for the north. As the string of coaches whirled through valley and dell, past paddy fields with their queer network of ridges and irrigating ditches; past groups of open-eyed natives dressed in the quaint blue costumes of the lower classes; through small clusters of thatched bamboo houses, each with its quota of cheerful, laughing babies, tumbling about in the patches of gardens much as the babies of other climes do, Nattie fell to thinking of the great misfortune which had overtaken the firm. "If something has happened to Grant--which may God forbid--it will be greatly to the interest of Jesse Black," he said, turning to his companion. "Everything points in their direction. The first question in such a case is, who will it benefit?" "You refer to the army contracts?" "Yes. It means to the person securing them a profit of over one hundred thousand dollars, and that is a prize valuable enough to tempt a more scrupulous man than the English merchant." "I think you are right. If Grant has been waylaid, or spirited away, which is yet to be proven, we have something to work on. We will know where to start the search." Yokohama was reached by nightfall. Mori had telegraphed ahead, and they found Mr. Burr, a tall, grave man with a sandy beard, awaiting them. He expressed much sympathy for Nattie's condition, and then led the way to the _jinrikishas_. "I can explain matters better in the office," he said, in answer to an eager question. "'Tis an uncou' night eenyway, and we'll do better under shelter." Compelled to restrain their impatience perforce, his companions sank back in silence and watched the nimble feet of the _karumayas_ as they trotted along the streets on the way to the Bund. Turning suddenly into the broad, well-lighted main street, they overtook a man pacing moodily toward the bay. As they dashed past, Nattie glanced at him; then, with an imprecation, the lad stood up in his vehicle. A twinge of pain in the disabled shoulder sent him back again. Noting the action, Mori looked behind him, and just in time to see the man slip into a convenient doorway. It was Mr. Black. "Keep cool, Nattie," he called out. "Confronting him without proof won't help us." "But did you see how he acted when he caught sight of us?" "Yes, and it meant guilt. He tried to dodge out of our sight." On reaching the office, Mr. Burr led the way inside. Lighting the gas, he placed chairs for his companions, and seated himself at his desk. "Noo I will explain everything," he said, gravely. "But first tell me if ye anticipate anything serious? Has Mr. Grant absented himself before?" "Never," Nattie replied to the last question. "Weel, then, the situation is thus: Last night he left here at the usual hour and took a _'rikisha_ in front of the door. I was looking through the window at the time, and I saw him disappear around the corner of Main Street. I opened the office this morning at eight by the clock, and prepared several papers and checks for his signature. Time passed and he did na' show oop. "At eleven I sent a messenger to the house on the 'bluff.' The boy returned with the information from the servants that Mr. Grant had not been home. Somewhat alarmed, I sent coolies through the town to all the places where he might have called, but without results. I received your telegram and answered it at once. And that's all I know." The information was meager enough. Nattie and Mori exchanged glances of apprehension. Their worst fears were realized. That some disaster had happened to Grant was now evident. The former sprang to his feet and started toward the door without a word. "Where are you going?" asked the Japanese youth, hastily. "To see Mr. Black," was the determined reply. "The villain is responsible for this." "But what proof can you present? Don't do anything rash, Nattie. We must talk it over and consider the best plan to be followed. We must search for a clew." "And in the meantime they will kill him. Oh, Mori, I can't sit here and parley words while my brother is in danger. I know Ralph Black and his father. They would not hesitate at anything to make money. Even human life would not stop them." "That may be. Still, you surely can see that we must go slow in the matter. Believe me, Grant's disappearance affects me even more than if he was a near relative. I intend to enter heart and soul into the search for him. Everything I possess, my fortune, all, is at his disposal. But I must counsel patience." The tears welled in Nattie's eyes. He tried to mutter his thanks, but his emotion was too great. He extended his hand, and it was grasped by the young native with fraternal will. The Scot had been eying them with his habitual placidity. The opening of a crater under the office floor would not have altered his calm demeanor. "Weel, now," he said, slowly, "can you no explain matters to me? I am groping about in the dark." "You shall be told everything," replied Mori. He speedily placed him in possession of all the facts. Mr. Burr listened to the story without comment. At the conclusion he said, in his quiet way: "I am no great hand at detective work, but I can see as far thro' a millstone as any mon with twa gude eyes. Mister Grant has been kidnaped, and ye don't need to look farther than the Black's for a clew." "That is my opinion exactly," exclaimed Nattie. "I am with you both," said Mori, "but I still insist that we go slow in accusing them. It stands to reason that to make a demand now would warn the conspirators--for such they are--that we suspect them. We must work on the quiet." "You are right, sir," agreed Mr. Burr. "What is your plan?" asked Nattie, with natural impatience. "It is to place Mr. Burr in charge of the business at once, and for us to start forth in search of possible clews. I will try to put a man in the Black residence, and another in his office. We must hire a number of private detectives--I know a dozen--and set them to work scouring the city. The station master, the keeper of every road, the railway guards, all must be closely questioned. And in the meantime, while I am posting Mr. Burr, you must go home and keep as quiet as you can. Remember, excitement will produce inflammation in that shoulder, and inflammation means many days in bed." The authoritative tone of the young Japanese had its effect. Grumbling at his enforced idleness, Nattie left the office and proceeded to the "bluff." Mori remained at the counting-room, and carefully drilled the Scotchman in the business on hand. CHAPTER XX. THE MAN BEYOND THE HEDGE. It was past midnight when he finally left with Mr. Burr, but the intervening time had not been wasted. Orders, contracts and other details for at least a week had been explained to the bookkeeper, and he was given full powers to act as the firm's representative. After a final word of caution, Mori parted with him at the door, and took a _'rikisha_ for the Manning residence. He found Nattie pacing the floor of the front veranda. The lad greeted him impatiently. "Have you heard anything?" he asked. "Not a word. I have been busy at the office since you left. Everything is arranged. Mr. Burr has taken charge, and he will conduct the business until this thing is settled. We are lucky to have such a man in our employ." "Yes, yes; Burr is an honest fellow. But what do you intend to do now?" "Still excited, I see," smiled Mori. He shook a warning finger at the lad, and added, seriously: "Remember what I told you. If you continue in this fashion I will call a doctor and have you taken to the hospital." "I can't help it," replied Nattie, piteously. "I just can't keep still while Grant is in danger. You don't know how anxious I am. Let me do something to keep my mind occupied." "If you promise to go to bed for the rest of the night I will give you ten minutes now to discuss our plans. Do you agree?" "Yes; but you intend to remain here until morning?" "No, I cannot spare the time. I must have the detectives searching for clews before daylight." "Mori, you are a friend indeed. Some day I will show you how much I appreciate your kindness." "Nonsense! You would do as much if not more if the case was reversed. Now for the plans. To commence, we are absolutely certain of one thing: Patrick Cronin was in the scheme, and he was sent to get us out of the way while Ralph and Willis Round attended to Grant." "I am glad the Irishman met with his just deserts," exclaimed Nattie, vindictively. "He is now food for fishes." "Yes; a fitting fate. The accident cannot be considered an unmixed catastrophe. If it had not occurred we would have gone on to Nagasaki, and have lost much valuable time. As it is, we are comparatively early. What we need now is a clew, and for that I intend to begin a search at once." "Would it do any good to notify the American Consul?" "No; our best plan is to keep the affair as quiet as possible. We will say nothing about it. If Grant is missed we can intimate that he has gone away for a week. "Now go to bed and sleep if you can," he added, preparing to leave. "I will call shortly after breakfast and report progress." With a friendly nod of his head he departed on his quest for detectives. Nattie remained seated for a brief period, then he walked over to a bell-pull, and summoned a servant. At his command the man brought him a heavy cloak, and assisted him to don his shoes. From a chest of drawers in an adjacent room the lad took a revolver. After carefully examining the charges he thrust it into his pocket and left the house. The night was hot and sultry. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the mellow rays of a full moon beamed down on ground and foliage, which seemed to glow with the tropical heat. Notwithstanding the discomfort Nattie drew his cloak about him and set out at a rapid walk down the street leading past the Manning residence. From out on the bay came the distant rattle of a steamer's winch. The stillness was so oppressive that even the shrill notes of a boatswain's whistle came to his ears. An owl hooted in a nearby maple; the melancholy howl of a strolling dog sounded from below where the native town was stretched out in irregular rows of bamboo houses. The lad kept to the shady side of the road, and continued without stopping until he reached a mansion built in the English style, some ten or eleven blocks from his house. The building stood in the center of extensive grounds, and was separated from the street by an ornamental iron fence and a well-cultivated hedge. It was evidently the home of a man of wealth. In fact, it was the domicile of Mr. Black and his son Ralph. What was Nattie's object in leaving the Manning residence in face of Mori's warning? What was his object in paying a visit to his enemy at such an hour of the night? Anxious, almost beside himself with worry, suffering severely from his dislocated shoulder, and perhaps slightly under the influence of a fever, the lad had yielded to his first impulse when alone, and set out from home with no settled purpose. On reaching the open air he thought of Jesse Black. The mansion was only a short distance away; perhaps something could be learned by watching it. The conjecture was father to the deed. Selecting a spot shaded by a thick-foliaged tree, Nattie carefully scanned the _façade_ of the building. It was of two stories, and prominent bow-windows jutted out from each floor. The lower part was dark, but a dim light shone through the curtains of the last window on the right. A bell down in the Bund struck twice; it was two o'clock. At the sound a dark figure appeared at the window and thrust the shade aside. The distance was not too great for Nattie to distinguish the man as the English merchant. Drawing himself up the lad shook his fist at the apparition. The action brought his head above the hedge. Something moving on the other side caught his eye, and he dodged back just as a man arose to his feet within easy touch. Breathless with amazement, Nattie crouched down, and parting the roots of the hedge, peered through. The fellow was cautiously moving toward the house. Something in his walk seemed familiar. Presently he reached a spot where the moon's bright rays fell upon him. A stifled cry of profound astonishment, not unmingled with terror, came from the lad's lips, and he shrank back as if with the intention of fleeing. He thought better of it, however, and watched with eager eyes. A dozen times the man in the grounds halted and crouched to the earth, but finally he reached the front entrance of the mansion. A door was opened, and a hand was thrust forth with beckoning fingers. The fellow hastily stepped inside and vanished from view, leaving Nattie a-quiver with excitement. The dislocated shoulder, the pain, the fever, all were forgotten in the importance of the discovery. "That settles it," he muttered. "I am on the right track as sure as the moon is shining. Now I must enter that house by hook or crook. But who would believe that miracles could happen in this century? If that fellow wasn't----" He abruptly ceased speaking. The door in the front entrance suddenly opened, and a huge dog was thrust down the stone steps. Nattie knew the animal well. It was a ferocious brute Ralph had imported from England that year. As a watchdog it bore a well-merited reputation among the natives of thieving propensities. It was dreaded because it thought more of a direct application of sharp teeth than any amount of barking. Its unexpected appearance on the scene altered matters considerably. "Dog or no dog, I intend to find my way into that house before many minutes," decided the lad. "It is an opportunity I cannot permit to pass." He drew out his revolver, but shook his head and restored it again to his pocket. A shot would alarm the neighborhood and bring a squad of police upon the scene. The brute must be silenced in some other manner. Naturally apt and resourceful, it was not long before Nattie thought of a plan. Cautiously edging away from the hedge until he had reached a safe distance, he set out at a run toward home. Fortunately, the street was free from police or pedestrians, and he finally gained the Manning residence without being observed. Slipping into the garden he whistled softly. A big-jointed, lanky pup slouched up to him and fawned about his feet. Picking up the dog, he started back with it under his right arm. The return to the English merchant's house was made without mishap. Reaching the hedge, Nattie lightly tossed the pup over into the yard. It struck the ground with a yelp, and a second later a dark shadow streaked across the lawn from the mansion. As the lad had anticipated, the dog he had brought did not wait to be attacked, but started along the inner side of the hedge with fear-given speed. In less than a moment pursuer and pursued disappeared behind an outlying stable. Chuckling at the success of his scheme, Nattie softly climbed the fence and leaped into the yard. The lawn was bright with the rays of the moon, but he walked across it without hesitation, finally reaching the house near the left-hand corner. As he expected, he found a side door unguarded save by a wire screen. A swift slash with a strong pocket-knife gave an aperture through which the lad forced his hand. To unfasten the latch was the work of a second, and a brief space later he stood in a narrow hall leading to the main corridor. CHAPTER XXI. A PRISONER. On reaching the main stairway he heard voices overhead. The sound seemed to come from a room opening into the hall above. Quickly removing his shoes, the lad tied the strings together, and throwing them about his neck, he ascended to the upper floor. Fortunately, Nattie had visited the Black mansion in his earlier days when he and Ralph were on terms of comparative intimacy. He knew the general plan of the house, and the knowledge stood him in good stead now. The room from which the sound of voices came was a study used by the English merchant himself. Next to it was a spare apartment filled with odd pieces of furniture and what-not. In former days it was a guest chamber, and the lad had occupied it one night while on a visit to the merchant's son. He remembered that a door, surmounted by a glass transom, led from the study to the spare room, and that it would be an easy matter to see into the former by that means. He tried the knob, and found that it turned at his touch. A slight rattle underneath proclaimed that a bunch of keys was swinging from the lock. Closing the door behind him, he tiptoed across the apartment, carefully avoiding the various articles of furniture. To his great disappointment, he found that heavy folds of cloth had been stretched across the transom, completely obstructing the view. To make it worse, the voices were so faint that it was impossible for him to distinguish more than an occasional word. "Confound it! I have my labor for my pains!" he muttered. "It's a risky thing, but I'll have to try the other door." He had barely reached the hall when the talking in the next room became louder, then he heard a rattling of the knob. The occupants were on the point of leaving the study. To dart into the spare room was Nattie's first action. Dropping behind a large dressing-case, he listened intently. "Well, I am thoroughly satisfied with your part of the affair so far," came to his eager ears in the English merchant's well-known voice. "It was well planned in every respect. You had a narrow escape though." A deep chuckle came from the speaker's companion. "No suspicion attaches to me," continued Mr. Black. "I met the boys last night, but I don't think they saw me." "Oh, didn't we?" murmured Nattie. "You can go now. Give this letter of instructions to my son, and tell him to make all haste to the place mentioned. Return here with his answer as quickly as you can. In this purse you will find ample funds to meet all legitimate expenses. Legitimate expenses, you understand? If you fall by the wayside in the manner I mentioned before you will not get a _sen_ of the amount I promised you. Now--confound those rascally servants of mine! they have left this room unlocked! I must discharge the whole lot of them and get others." Click! went the key in the door behind which Nattie crouched. He was a prisoner! The sound of footsteps came faintly to him; he heard the front entrance open; then it closed again, and all was silent in the house. After waiting a reasonable time he tried the knob, but it resisted his efforts. Placing his right shoulder against the wood he attempted to force the panel, but without avail. "Whew! this is being caught in a trap certainly! A pretty fix I am in now. And it is just the time to track that scoundrel. Mr. Black must have been talking about poor Grant." Rendered almost frantic by his position, Nattie threw himself against the door with all his power. The only result was a deadly pain in the injured shoulder. Almost ready to cry with chagrin and anguish, he sat down upon a chair and gave himself up to bitter reflections. Minutes passed, a clock in the study struck three; but still he sat there a prey to conflicting emotions. He now saw that he had acted foolishly. What had he learned? They had suspected the Blacks before, and confirmation was not needed. The discovery of the visitor's identity was something, but its importance was more than counterbalanced by the disaster which had befallen Nattie. The recent conversation in the hall indicated that the merchant's companion would leave at once for a rendezvous to meet Ralph, and possibly Grant. "And here I am, fastened in like a disobedient child," groaned the lad. "I must escape before daylight. If I am caught in here Mr. Black can have me arrested on a charge of attempted burglary. It would be just nuts to him." The fear of delay, engendered by this new apprehension, spurred him to renewed activity. He again examined the door, but speedily gave up the attempt. Either a locksmith's tools or a heavy battering-ram would be necessary to force it. Creeping to the one window opening from the apartment, Nattie found that he could raise it without much trouble. The generous rays of the moon afforded ample light. By its aid he saw that a dense mass of creeping vines almost covered that side of the mansion. "By George! a chance at last!" Cautiously crawling through the opening he clutched a thick stem and tried to swing downward with his right hand. As he made the effort a pain shot through his injured shoulder so intense that he almost fainted. He repressed a cry with difficulty. Weak and trembling, he managed to regain the window sill. Once in the room he sank down upon the floor and battled with the greatest anguish it had ever been his lot to feel. To add to his suffering, came the conviction that he would be unable to escape. He remembered the telltale slit he had made in the screen door. When daylight arrived it would be discovered by the servants, and a search instituted throughout the house. "Well, it can't be helped," mused the lad. "If I am caught, I'm caught, and that's all there is about it." It is a difficult thing to philosophize when suffering with an intense physical pain and in the throes of a growing fever. It was not long before Nattie fell into a stupor. He finally became conscious of an increasing light in the room, and roused himself enough to glance from the window. Far in the distance loomed the mighty volcano of Fuji San, appearing under the marvelous touch of the morning sun like an inverted cone of many jewels. A hum of voices sounded in the lower part of the house, but no one came to disturb him. Rendered drowsy by fever, he fell into a deep slumber, and when he awoke it was to hear the study clock strike nine. He had slept fully five hours. Considerably refreshed, Nattie started up to again search for a way to effect his escape. The pain had left his shoulder, but he felt an overpowering thirst. His mind was clear, however, and that was half the battle. "If I had more strength in my left arm I would try those vines once more," he said to himself. "Things can't last this way forever. I must--what's that?" Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. They drew nearer, and at last stopped in front of the spare-room door. A hand was laid upon the knob, and keys rattled. "We have searched every room but this," came in the smooth tones of the English merchant. "Go inside, my man, and see if a burglar is hiding among the furniture. Here, take this revolver; and don't fear to use it if necessary." Like a hunted animal at bay, the lad glared about him. Discovery seemed certain. Over in one corner he espied a chest of drawers. It afforded poor concealment, but it was the best at hand. To drag it away from the wall was the work of a second. When the door was finally opened, Nattie was crouched behind the piece of furniture. He heard the soft steps of a pair of sandals; he heard chairs and various articles moved about, then the searcher approached his corner. Desperate and ready to fight for his liberty, he glanced up--and uttered a half-stifled cry of amazement and joy! CHAPTER XXII. THE PURSUIT. It is always the unexpected that happens. When Nattie glanced up from his place of refuge behind the chest of drawers, he saw a young man clad as a native servant looking down at him. There was the gayly colored cloth tied around the head; the _kimono_, or outer garment cut away at the neck, and the plain silk kerchief tied with a bow under the ear. But the face was not that of a native _waallo_, or houseman; it was Mori Okuma himself, the very last person on earth Nattie expected to find in the spare room of the Black mansion. The young Japanese started back in profound surprise, his eyes widened, and he nearly called out; but a warning motion from the concealed lad--who recovered his coolness with marvelous rapidity--checked him. "It is I; Nattie!" came to his ears. "Take old Black away and return as soon as possible. I have a clew; we must leave here immediately." Regaining his composure with an effort, Mori continued his search among the other articles of furniture. "No one here, excellency," he said, at last. "Then the scoundrel who cut that screen door has decamped," replied Mr. Black, who had remained near the door with commendable precaution. "Go down to the pantry and help the rest count the silver. By the way, what is your name?" "Kai Jin, excellency." "Well, Kai, see that you behave yourself and you can remain in my service. But if you are lazy or thievish, out you go." His voice died away in muffled grumbling down the hall. Finally left to himself, Nattie emerged from his hiding place and executed several figures of a jig in the middle of the floor. "Wonders will never cease," he muttered, with a chuckle of joy. "Fancy finding Mori here, and just in the nick of time. He's a great lad. He disguised himself and took service in the house. He would make a good detective." He was still pondering over the queer discovery when a noise at the door indicated that some one was on the point of entering. A warning whisper proclaimed that it was Mori. The Japanese youth entered quickly and closed the heavy oaken portal behind him. He was shaking with suppressed laughter. Running over to Nattie, he grasped his hand and wrung it heartily. "I ought to scold you for disobeying my orders, but really this is too funny for anything," he said. "How under the sun did you get in here?" "Easy enough; I walked in last night. How did you get in?" "I am a member of his excellency's staff of servants. Ha, ha! I almost laughed in his lean old face this morning when he engaged me. But explain yourself, Nattie; I am dying to hear your news. You said you had a clew." "Hadn't we better get out of this house before we talk?" "Plenty of time. Mr. Black has gone to the office, and the servants are below stairs. When we are ready we can walk out through the front entrance without a word to anybody." Thus reassured, Nattie told how he had left home the preceding night and the events that followed. When he came to the part relating to the man beyond the hedge, the English merchant's midnight visitor, Mori started at him in amazement. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "Why, he was killed in the accident near Kobe." "Not so. I saw the fellow's face almost as clearly as I see yours now. It was Patrick Cronin, and I'll stake my life on that." "Then the scoundrel escaped after all?" "Yes; to receive his just dues at the hangman's hands, I suppose. But I haven't told you of my clew. I overheard Black and Patrick talking out in the hall there. It seems that Cronin has a letter which he is to deliver without delay to Ralph at some rendezvous. That it relates to Grant is certain. By following the Irishman we can find my brother." "It will be easy enough," replied Mori, his eyes expressing his delight. "The fellow won't try to hide his steps, as it were. He considers the accident a good veil to his existence. Nattie, it was a lucky inspiration, your coming here last night." "Then I am forgiven for disobeying orders, eh?" smiled the lad. "In this case, yes, but don't do it again. How is your shoulder?" "First-chop, barring a little soreness. It will be all right in a day or two. Come, let's leave here before we are discovered." The exit from the building and grounds was made without mishap. The lads hastily returned to the Manning residence, where Nattie ordered breakfast served at once. On entering the garden, the lanky pup used by him as a decoy to Ralph's watchdog came bounding from the rear. He had evidently escaped without feeling the teeth of the larger animal. The meal was dispatched in haste, then 'rikishas were taken to the Bund. While Nattie waited in the firm's office, Mori utilized the central police station in tracing Patrick Cronin. In less than an hour word came that a man answering his description had been seen leaving the city on horseback by way of the road leading to Tokio. "That settles it!" exclaimed the Japanese youth. "We must take the train for the capital at once. That is," he added, anxiously, "if you think you are able to travel." "I am fit for anything," promptly replied Nattie. "Come, we must not lose a moment." On their way to the station they stopped at the telegraph office and wired the chief of police of Tokio a full description of Patrick. After a consultation, they added: "Do not arrest the man, but have your best detective shadow him wherever he may go. All expenses will be met by us." "To capture him now would destroy our only clew," said Nattie. "He might confess to save himself, and then, again, he might not. If he should remain silent we would have no means of finding Grant's whereabouts." The nineteen miles to Japan's populous capital were covered in short order. Brief as was the time, the lads were met at the depot by an officer in civilian's clothes, who reported that their man had been seen to take a train at Ueno, a small suburb on the outskirts of Tokio. "We are doing excellently," chuckled Mori. "The fool thinks he is safe and he travels openly. At this rate the chase will be as easy as falling off a log, to use an Americanism." "He has five hours' start. We must telegraph ahead to the conductor of his train." "And to every station." "That has been done, sir," spoke up the police official. "The last word received stated that he was still on board when the train passed Motomiya." "When can we leave?" The man consulted a time-table patterned after those used in the United States, and announced that an express would depart within twenty minutes. Hurrying to a neighboring hotel, the lads ate "tiffin," and returned in time to embark upon the second stage of the chase. When the train steamed into a way station three hours later a railway employee in gorgeous uniform approached them with a telegram. Hastily opening the envelope, Nattie read, with keen disappointment: "HEADQUARTERS, Tokio. "Our detective reports that the man he had been following managed to evade him at Yowara, and has completely disappeared. Local police are searching the mountains." CHAPTER XXIII. PATRICK SHOWS HIS CLEVERNESS. Nattie and Mori exchanged glances of dismay. "Confound it! isn't that provoking?" exclaimed the latter. "That stupid detective had to let him slip just when the chase commenced to be interesting." "Patrick must have suspected something, and he was sly enough to fool his follower. Now what are we going to do?" "Get off at Yowara and take up the search ourselves; that's all we can do. Surely some one must have seen the Irishman. The very fact that he is a foreigner should draw attention to him. Don't worry, old boy; we'll find him before many hours have elapsed." "I sincerely hope so," replied Nattie, gazing abstractedly through the coach window. After a moment of silence he said, suddenly: "Perhaps Yowara is the rendezvous where he is to meet Ralph. Do you know anything about the place?" "No, except that it is a small town of seven or eight hundred inhabitants. It is where people leave the railway for the mountain regions of Northern Japan. In a remote part of the interior are three volcanoes, one of them being Bandai-San, which is famous for its eruptions." "Bandai-San?" slowly repeated Nattie. "Isn't it at the base of that volcano where those peculiar mud caves are found?" Mori eyed his companion inquiringly. "What are you driving at?" he asked. "Just this: It struck me that Ralph and Willis Round would certainly try to find a hiding place for Grant where they need not fear pursuit, or inquisitiveness from the natives. I have heard that these caves are avoided through superstitious reasons. Now why----" "By the heathen gods, I believe you have guessed their secret!" impulsively exclaimed Mori. "It is certainly plausible. A better hiding place could not be found in all Japan. The natives will not enter the caves under any consideration. They say they are occupied by the mountain demons, and to prove it, tell of the awful noises to be heard in the vicinity." "Which are caused by internal convulsions of the volcano, I suppose?" "No doubt. The mountain is generally on the verge of being shaken by earthquakes, but it is some time since one occurred. It's a grewsome place enough." "We will search it thoroughly just the same," said Nattie, grimly. On reaching Yowara, they found the recreant detective at the station. He had recently returned from a trip through the surrounding country, but had not discovered any trace of the Irishman. He appeared crestfallen and penitent. The boys wasted little time with him. Proceeding to the village hotel, or tea house, they sent out messengers for three _jinrikishas_ and in the course of an hour were ready to start into the interior. The spare vehicle was loaded with canned food and other stores, as the railroad town would be the last place where such articles could be purchased. Each had brought a brace of good revolvers and plenty of ammunition from Yokohama. Mori personally selected the _karumayas_, or _'rikisha_ men, from a crowd of applicants. He chose three stalwart coolies to pull the carriages, and three _bettos_, or porters, to assist on mountainous roads. One of the latter was a veritable giant in stature and evidently of great strength. He was called Sumo, or wrestler, by his companions, and seemed to possess greater intelligence than the average members of his class. Mori eyed him approvingly, and told Nattie that he would be of undoubted assistance in case of trouble. Before leaving the village, the Japanese youth bought a keen-edged sword, similar to those worn by the ancient warriors, or _samurais_, and presented it to Sumo, with the added stipulation that he would be retained as a guard at increased pay. The fellow shouted with delight, and speedily showed that he could handle the weapon with some skill. Thus equipped, the party left the railroad and set out for a village called Inawashiro, fifteen _ris_, or thirty miles distant. In Japan the coolie rule is twenty minutes' rest every two hours. Their method of traveling is at a "dog trot," or long, swinging pace, which covers the ground with incredible swiftness. Mori's skill in selecting the _karumayas_ soon became apparent, the distance to the destination being almost halved at the end of the first stretch. The country through which the boys passed was flat and uninteresting, the narrow road stretching across a broad expanse of paddy fields, dotted with men, women and children knee-deep in the evil-smelling mud. When a halt was called to rest and partake of refreshments, Mori accosted a native coolie, a number of whom surrounded the party, and asked if aught had been seen of a fiery-faced, red-whiskered foreigner clad in the heavy clothing of the coast. The man eyed his questioner stupidly, and shook his head. The sight of a couple of copper _sen_, or cents, refreshed his memory. He had noticed a short, squat foreigner (called _to-jin_) in the interior. He was mounted upon a horse and had passed four hours before. "Four hours?" echoed Mori, addressing Nattie. "Whew! he has a good start. And on a horse, too. That is the reason we could get no trace of him in the outskirts of Yowara. He must have left the train before it stopped and skipped into the brush, where he managed to secure a mount. He is certainly clever." "But not enough to fool us," replied Nattie, complacently. "We will be hot on his trail before he reaches the caves." After the customary rest of twenty minutes, the party resumed the road. As they proceeded the general contour of the country changed. The flat, plain-like fields gave way to rolling woodlands and scattered hills. The second hour brought them to the small village of Inawashiro. Here was found a well-kept tea house, with spotless matted floor, two feet above the ground, a quaint roof, and the attendance of a dozen polite servants. Before the party had barely reached their resting place, the entire inhabitants, men, women and children, thronged about to feast their eyes upon a _to-jin_. Inquiry developed the fact that Patrick had passed through the town not quite two hours before. This was cheering news. They were gaining on him. A brief lunch, and again to the road. Nattie and Mori examined their revolvers after leaving the village. Sumo cut a sapling in twain to prove his prowess. At the end of the fourth mile a crossroad was reached. One, a broad, well-kept thoroughfare, led due north, while the other, apparently merely a path running over a hill in the distance, bore more to the westward. Mori called a halt. "Which shall we take?" he asked, scratching his head in perplexity. "That is the question," replied Nattie, ruefully. "Confound it! we are just as apt to take the wrong one as not. If we could run across some person who has seen Patrick we would be all right." "Here comes a _yamabushi_, excellency," spoke up Sumo, pointing his claw-like finger up the path. "It is a priest," exclaimed Mori, a moment later. "Perhaps he can enlighten us." Presently a tall, angular man emerged from the narrower road and slowly approached them. He was clad in a peculiar robe embroidered with mystical figures, and wore his hair in long plaits. In one hand was carried a bamboo staff, with which he tapped the ground as he walked. Mori saluted him respectfully. "Peace be with you, my children," said the priest, mildly. "May your days be long in good works, and your soul as lofty as Fuji San," replied the Japanese youth, with equal politeness. "Pray tell us, father, have you seen aught of a red-bearded foreigner traveling by horse?" "I passed him two _ris_ back. He was a barbarian, and beat his animal with severity. Which is against the teachings of----" The good man's words were lost in the distance. Nattie and Mori, with their _'rikishas_ and attendants, darted past him and scurried up the path at their utmost speed. It was scurvy repayment for the information, but the news that Patrick had been seen within four miles acted as a spur. "Don't falter, men," called out Mori, urging the _karumayas_. "Ten _yen_ extra to each if you tarry not until I give the word. On ahead, Sumo; watch for the foreigner. Be cautious and return when you sight him." The gigantic _betto_ scurried up the path in advance and disappeared past a clump of bushes. The _jinrikishas_ speeded as fast as their pullers could trot. As the party darted by an overhanging mass of rock a head was thrust forth from behind it. The face of the man was broad and burned by the sun, and under the chin was a tuft of reddish whisker. The eyes were sharp and piercing, and they danced with triumphant glee as they peered after the cavalcade. "Oh, ho! oh, ho! so it's ye, me bold Nattie? It's a good thing Oi thought of taking a quiet look to see if Oi was being followed. It's a bit of a trick Oi learned in India, and it'll prove to be the death of ye, me boys. Oi'll just take another path to the rendezvous, and see if we can't kind of waylay yez." CHAPTER XXIV. GRANT BEARDS THE LION. It is now time to return to Grant Manning. It is well for the reader to know how the lame youth became the innocent cause of all the trouble. The night of the departure of Nattie and Mori on their trip to Nagasaki found him through with his work at the usual hour. He parted from Mr. Burr at the door, and taking a _'rikisha_, started for home. While passing through Main Street near the tea house where Nattie had played the memorable game of hide-and-seek with Willis Round, he caught sight of his friend, the secretary to the war minister. Grant was always ready to do business. Years spent in the counting-room with his father had taught him the value of personal influence in securing contracts. The expected order for arms and ammunition was too valuable a prize for any chance to be neglected. His acquaintance with the secretary was of long standing. It had commenced at a private school in Tokio, which both Grant and the Japanese had attended in earlier days. The boyish friendship had survived the passing of time--that greatest strain upon youthful ties--and when the native gained his present position in the war office, he remembered the Mannings. The greeting was cordial, and an adjournment was made to a private room in the _chaya_ or tea house. There the friends talked at length over matters in general, and Grant was given many valuable hints concerning the army contract. It was past eight o'clock when the conference ended. With mutual _sayonaras_, or parting salutations, they separated at the door, and Grant entered his waiting _jinrikisha_. Before the man could start the vehicle a Japanese boy ran up, and with much bobbing of his quaint little head, begged the favor of a word with the excellency. "What is it, my lad?" asked the lame youth, kindly. Between sobs and ready tears the boy explained that he was the son of one Go-Daigo, a former porter in the warehouse under the _régime_ of the elder Manning. He was now ill of a fever, penniless, and in dire misfortune. Would the excellency condescend to visit him at his house in a street hard by the Shinto temple? "I am very sorry to hear of Go's misfortune," replied Grant, with characteristic sympathy, "but wouldn't it answer the purpose if you take this money," producing several _yen_, "and purchase food for him? To-morrow you can call at the office and I'll see what I can do for him." The excellency's kindness was of the quality called "first-chop," but the bedridden Go-Daigo was also suffering from remorse. He feared that he would die, and he did not care to leave the world with a sin-burdened soul. He knew a secret of value to the new firm. Would the excellency call at once? "A secret concerning the new firm?" echoed Grant, his thoughts instantly reverting to the Englishman and his son. "It may be something of importance. Lead the way, child; I will follow." Ten minutes' travel through crooked streets brought the _'rikisha_ to a typical native house a hundred yards from a large, red-tiled temple. The youthful guide led the way to the door and opened it; then he vanished through an alley between the buildings. Grant passed on in, finding himself in an apartment unfurnished save by a matting and several cheap rugs. A dim light burning in one corner showed that the room was unoccupied. An opening screened by a gaudy bead curtain pierced the farther partition. Clapping his hands to give notice of his arrival, the lame youth awaited the appearance of some one connected with the house. Hearing a slight noise behind him, he turned in that direction. A couple of stalwart natives advanced toward him from the outer door. Before Grant could ask a question, one of them sprang upon him, and with a vicious blow of a club, felled him to the floor. The assault was so rapid and withal so entirely unexpected that the unfortunate victim had no time to cry out, or offer resistance. As he lay upon the matting, apparently lifeless, a youth stepped into the room through the bead curtain. He bent over the prostrate form, and after a brief examination, said, in Japanese: "You know how to strike, Raiko. You have put him to sleep as easily as a cradle does a drowsy child. He won't recover his senses for an hour at least. Bring the cart and take him down to the landing. First, change his clothes; you may be stopped by a policeman." The coolie addressed, a stalwart native, with an evil, scarred face, produced a number of garments from a chest, while his companion stripped Grant of his handsome business suit. A few moments later he was roughly clad in coarse shoes, tarry trousers, and an English jumper. A neckkerchief and a woolen cap completed the transformation. As thus attired the lame youth resembled nothing more than an English or American deep-water sailor. To add to the disguise, the coolie addressed as Raiko, rubbed grime upon the delicate white hands and face. Then a two-wheeled cart was brought to the door, and the pseudo mariner dumped in and trundled down toward the docks. The youth, he who had given the orders, and who was, as the reader has probably guessed, no other than Ralph Black, left the house by another entrance, well pleased at the success of his stratagem. Raiko and his cart were stopped by an inquisitive gendarme, but the coolie had been primed with a ready excuse. "Plenty _sake_; foreign devil," he said, sententiously. "He drunk; take him down to ship for two _yen_." The officer of the peace had seen many such cases in his career, and he sauntered away to reflect on the peculiar habits of the foreigners from beyond the water. On reaching the English _hatoba_, or dock, Raiko found Ralph awaiting him. The merchant's son was enveloped in a huge cloak, and he carefully avoided the circles of light cast by the electric globes. At his command Grant was unceremoniously dumped into a rowboat moored alongside the pier, then he followed with the stalwart coolie. Lying out in the bay was a coasting junk, with sails spread ready for departure. Pulling alongside of this, poor Grant was lifted on board, and ten minutes later the Japanese vessel was sailing down the Bay of Tokio bound out. As the ungainly craft passed Cape King, and slouched clumsily into the tossing waters of the ocean, the lame youth groaned, raised his hands to his aching head, and sat up. He glanced about him at the unfamiliar scene, then struggled to his feet. The swaying deck caused him to reel and then stagger to the low bulwark. He thought he was dreaming. He looked at the white-capped waves shimmering unsteadily under the moon's rays; the quaint, ribbed sails looming above; the narrow stretch of deck ending in the high bow and stern, and at the half-clad sailors watching him from the shadows. He glanced down at his tarred trousers and coarse shoes, then he gave a cry of despair. It was not an ugly nightmare. It was stern reality. His enemies had triumphed; he had been abducted. The proof of valor is the sudden test of a man's courage. The greatest coward can face a peril if it is familiar to him. It is the unexpected emergency--the blow from the dark; the onslaught from the rear--that tries men's souls. The consternation caused by a shifting of scenes such as had occurred to Grant can be imagined. From an ordinary room in an ordinary native house in Yokohama to the deck of a junk at sea, with all its weirdness of detail to a landsman, is a decided change. The lame youth could be excused if he had sunk to the deck bewildered and in the agonies of terror. But he did nothing of the sort. As soon as he could command the use of his legs, he promptly marched over to a sailor grinning in the shadows of the mainmast, and catching him by the arm, sternly ordered him to bring the captain. "Be sharp about it, you dog," he added. "I will see the master of this pirate or know the reason why." Awed by his tone, the fellow slunk off and speedily produced the captain of the junk. But with him came Ralph Black, smoking a cigar, and with an insolent smile upon his sallow face. "Ah! Grant, dear boy," he said, with a fine show of good fellowship; "I see you have quite recovered from your little accident." "Accident, you scoundrel!" exclaimed the lame youth. "What do you mean? I demand an explanation of this outrage. Why am I dragged out here like a drunken sailor? You must be crazy to think that you can perpetrate such an injury in this century without being punished." "I'll take the chances," replied Ralph, with a sneer. Then he added, angrily: "Be careful how you call names, and remember once for all that you are in my power, and if I say the word, these sailors will feed you to the sharks. In fact, I really think it would be best, anyway." "I always thought you off color, but I never believed you would prove to be such a cold-blooded villain as you undoubtedly are. You and your worthy father couldn't meet business rivals in the open field of competition, but you needs must resort to violence and underhand methods. I'll have the pleasure of seeing both of you behind the bars before----" With a snarl of rage, the merchant's son sprang upon the daring speaker. Grasping him by the throat, he called loudly to the junk's captain: "Over with him, Yoritomo! Help me throw him into the sea. Dead men tell no tales!" CHAPTER XXV. A PLAN, AND ITS FAILURE. The lower order of criminals are seldom courageous. Personal bravery is not found in the same soul that harbors a disregard for laws human and divine. The thief cornered in the dark will fight, but simply with the desperation of a rat at bay. It was to this natural law that Grant owed his life. Yoritomo, the captain of the junk, was a scoundrel at heart, but he had a wholesome regard for justice as meted out in Japan. A number of years spent on the penal farms had taught him discrimination. While there he had witnessed--and even assisted at--several executions for murder, and the terror of the scene remained with him. A golden bribe offered by the Blacks had purchased his services in the abduction of Grant, but when Ralph, in his insane rage, called to him for assistance in throwing the lame youth into the sea, he peremptorily refused. Instead, he called several sailors to his aid, and rescued Grant from Ralph's grasp. "I'll permit of no murder on my junk," he said in Japanese. "You have paid me well to help you carry this fellow to the Bay of Sendai, and I will do it, but no violence, sir." "What do you mean, dog?" shouted the discomfited youth. "How dare you interfere? If I wish to get rid of him I'll do so." "Not on board this vessel," replied the captain, doggedly. "I suppose you are afraid of your neck?" sneered Ralph. "Yes, I am. I run enough danger as it is. How do we know that we were not seen in Yokohama? My craft is engaged in trade along the coast, and is well known. When your prisoner's absence is found out the authorities will secure a list of all shipping leaving the port on such a date. I will be suspected with the rest." Ralph remained silent. A craven at heart, he would not have dared attack one physically able to offer resistance. The picture drawn by the captain was not pleasant. What if the truth should be discovered? It would mean disgrace and a long term in prison. And he had just contemplated a murder! The punishment for such a crime is death. The youth shuddered at his narrow escape. He scowled at his prisoner, then stalked aft to the mean little cabin under the shadow of the wing-like sails. Grant had been a silent spectator of the scene. When Ralph made the violent attack on him, he struggled as best he could, but he was no match for his athletic assailant, and would have undoubtedly succumbed if it had not been for the timely aid of the captain. The latter's unexpected action sent a ray of hope through the lame youth. Possibly he could be bribed to further assist him! Grant was philosopher enough to know that honor does not exist among thieves. The bonds of fraternity found among honest men is unknown in the criminal walks of life. When Ralph left the deck Grant drew Yoritomo aside, and boldly proposed a plan evolved at that moment by his fertile brain. He did not mince words, but went to the point at once. "Captain, a word with you," he said. "I wish to tell you that you are making a bad mistake in being a party to this abduction. You probably know the laws of your country, but you do not know that such crimes against foreigners are punishable by death in many cases." Yoritomo shifted uneasily, but made no reply. "Do you know who I am?" continued Grant, impressively. The captain shook his head. "Indeed! You must belong to one of the lower provinces, then. Have you ever heard of the firm of Manning & Company, dealers and importing merchants?" "Yes." "Well, my name is Grant Manning, and I am now head of the firm. I am also a personal friend of his excellency, Yoshisada Udono, of the War Department, and of the Superintendent of Prisons in Tokio. Ah, I see that you know what the latter means. You have been a prisoner in your time, eh?" "Yes, excellency." The words were respectful, and the lame youth took hope. He followed up his advantage. "The young man who bribed you to assist in his nefarious plot is crazy. No sane man would attempt such a desperate scheme nowadays. You are sure to be discovered before many days. The detectives are even now after you. I have relatives and friends who will move heaven and earth to rescue me, or to secure revenge if aught happens to me. Discovery means death to you. You are even now standing in the shadow of the gallows." Grant had lowered his voice to an impressive whisper. The tone, the surroundings, the situation had their effect upon the listener. He trembled from head to foot. He fell upon his knees at his companion's feet and begged for mercy. "Oh, excellency," he pleaded, "I crave your pardon. I acknowledge that I am guilty. Mr. Black offered me a large sum to help in your abduction. I need the money, for I am very poor. I accepted, and now I lose my life." "Not necessarily so," replied the lame youth, repressing a feeling of exultation with difficulty. "If you will do as I say I will assure you of a pardon, and promise you money in addition. What did the Blacks agree to pay you?" "Two hundred _yen_, excellency." "And for that paltry sum, not equal to one hundred American dollars, you have run such risks. You are a fool!" "Yes, excellency." "Now, I'll promise to see that you are not punished, and I will also give you twice that amount if you head in to the nearest port and put me ashore. What do you say?" Yoritomo hesitated. "Remember your fate when the authorities capture you, which they surely will before long. Don't be a dolt, man. I will pay you double what the Blacks promise, and assure you of a pardon besides." "Can you pay me the money now?" asked the captain, cunningly. He had evidently recovered from his fears--enough, anyway, to drive a shrewd bargain. "Part of it, and give you good security for the balance," replied Grant, confidently. He reached in the pocket where he generally kept his purse, but found it empty. A hurried search disclosed the fact that his valuable gold watch and a small diamond stud were also gone. He had been robbed. "The confounded thieves!" he exclaimed. "They have completely stripped me." "Then you have no money?" asked Yoritomo, incredulously. "No; I have been robbed by those people. I will give you my word that I'll pay you the four hundred _yen_ the moment I set foot in Yokohama. Or, if you wish, I'll write a note for the amount, and you can collect it at any time." "Have you anything to prove that you are Grant Manning?" queried the captain, suspiciously. Grant bit his lips in annoyance. The question boded ill for his chances of escape. The hurried search through his pockets had shown him that he had nothing left; not even a letter or a scrap of paper. He was compelled to answer in the negative. "I thought so," cried Yoritomo, scornfully. "You have tried to play a pretty game, my brave youth, but it didn't work. You Grant Manning? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Black told me who you are. You are a rival in love, and he is taking this means of getting rid of you. So you would try to wheedle me with lies? I have a mind to let him throw you overboard as he intended. Begone forward, or I'll tell my men to scourge you!" "You are making a serious mistake," replied Grant, with dignity. "You will live to repent your actions. I am----" "Begone, I say!" interrupted the captain, menacingly. "Here, Tomo, Haki, drive this fool forward!" Sick at heart and almost discouraged, the lame youth limped toward the bow. As he passed the mainmast a coolie slipped from behind it and entered the cabin. It was Raiko, Ralph's man. He had overheard the futile attempt, and proceeded forthwith to tell his master. CHAPTER XXVI. GRANT ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE. During the rest of the voyage up the coast Grant was kept forward with the sailors. Ralph carefully avoided him, and, in fact, seldom appeared on deck. Shortly before midnight on the second day out the prisoner was awakened from a troubled sleep by the entrance of several men in his little apartment forward. One of these was Raiko. Without a word of explanation, the coolie seized Grant and with the aid of his companions, bound him hand and foot. An hour later the junk was brought to anchor and the sails furled. Then a boat was lowered, and Grant, Ralph, and Raiko were rowed ashore by members of the crew. As they left the craft, Yoritomo leaned over the clumsy rail, and called out, sneeringly: "How about that four hundred _yen_ and the free pardon? Your little plan didn't work, eh? Farewell, excellency, Grant Manning!" The prisoner maintained a dignified silence, but at heart he felt sore and discouraged. While on the junk he considered himself almost safe from violence, but Ralph's cowardly assault and the grim, evil face of the coolie. Raiko, boded little good. The night was clear, and a full moon cast its mellow rays over the scene. The junk had anchored in an extensively landlocked bay. Across to the right were several twinkling lights, proclaiming the presence of a town. But where the boat had landed were simply clumps of bushes and sandy dunes. The little party set out at once for the interior. Grant's feet had been loosened, but his hands still remained fastened. Raiko walked in advance, and it soon became evident that he was familiar with the country. At the end of the first hour a halt was made in a grove of trees near a hill. The coolie disappeared, leaving the prisoner in Ralph's care. After he had gone Grant attempted to engage the merchant's son in conversation, but without avail. He absolutely refused to speak. Presently Raiko returned with three horses and another native. The lame youth was lifted upon one and secured in such a manner that he could not escape; then the others were mounted by the remaining members of the party and the march resumed. Raiko went first, as usual, then Ralph, leading the prisoner's steed, and finally the new coolie bringing up the rear. It was a strange procession, but there were none to witness it, the narrow paths followed being entirely deserted. Several hours passed in this manner. The moon sank behind the western mountains, leaving the scene in darkness. Mile after mile was covered without a halt. The aspect of the country changed from hill to plain, from valley to heights. Rivers were forded, bridges crossed, and lakes skirted, and still no word between the members of the cavalcade. During all this time Grant had not remained idle. He was not a youth prone to despair. The result of his conversation with the junk's captain had certainly discouraged him for the moment, but with the vivacity of youth he speedily recovered his spirits and set about for a way to better his situation. In the first place, he found that the jolting of his mount, which he had railed against at the commencement, had actually loosened his bonds. His arms had been tied behind him with a leather thong around the wrists and elbows. The discovery sent a thrill of hope through him. Working steadily, but without making the slightest sound, he finally succeeded in freeing both hands. The operation took some time, and it was not until after the moon had disappeared that he completed the task. Meanwhile, his mind had also moved rapidly. He formulated a plan. It was nothing less than to wait for a favorable opportunity, and to make a bold dash for freedom. Burdened as he was, with a deformed and feeble frame, Grant was no coward, nor was he lacking in valor of spirit. He knew that the attempt would be productive of danger. It would draw the fire of his companions, and, moreover, lead to terrible risks to life and limb, but he was perfectly willing to brave all if by so doing he could effect his escape. During the weary hours spent on board the junk he had thought over his abduction and the events leading to it. The actions of the Blacks were almost inexplicable. It had never occurred to him that they would resort to such desperate measures. He had read of such cases in books of romance treating of life in the earlier centuries, but to believe that an English merchant in Japan should carry off a business rival in the present day was almost beyond his credulity. "It is the last move of a man driven to the wall," he had concluded, and not without a feeling of triumph, it must be confessed. "We have taken the market from him, and simply because the market chose to come to us, and we have beaten his firm and others in both the export and import trades. And as a final straw, it seemed as if the valuable army contracts would also come to us. Fool! he should have known that Nattie and Mori could easily secure them even if I had dropped out of sight." This was not so, and only his innate sense of modesty compelled him to say it. Nattie and Mori, the Blacks, and all the foreign population of Japan knew that only Grant could win the prize. His business tact, his personal friendship with the powers at the head of the government, and his well-known reputation for honesty were the virtues forming the magnet that would attract the golden plum. The outrageous assault of Ralph on board the junk had shown Grant how desperate his enemies were. It hinted strongly at nothing short of murder. No man, no matter how brave, can walk in the shadow of a threatened death without inwardly wishing himself free from danger. Grant was as others in the same situation. He was willing to face any known peril to escape the unknown fate awaiting him at the end of the journey. Then he had a natural desire to turn the tables on his enemies; to cause their defeat and punishment, and not least of all, to reach Tokio in time to secured the coveted army contracts. As the night became darker the little party hovered together. As stated before, Ralph was leading Grant's horse, and forming the rear of the cavalcade was the new coolie. Raiko was almost out of sound ahead. The lame youth felt in his pockets, and to his great joy found a penknife which had been overlooked by the greedy coolie. Waiting until they rode into a narrow valley running between high hills, the prisoner softly reached forward and severed the leading thong. Then, with a fierce tug of his hands, he caused his mount to wheel sharply. This sudden action brought the horse ridden by Grant in collision with that of the hindmost coolie. The shock unseated the fellow, who was naturally unprepared, and he fell to the ground with a cry of terror. Belaboring his steed with one hand, the prisoner dashed down the valley like a whirlwind. He had not gone fifty yards before he heard a prodigious clatter of hoofs, then with a loud report a revolver was discharged behind him. The bullet flew wide of the mark, as could be expected under the circumstances, but it served its purpose just the same. At the sound Grant's horse dashed sideways, stumbled over a hummock of earth or rock, and with a crash, animal and rider fell in a heap against the edge of rising ground. Fortunately, the lame youth escaped injury, but the terrific fall partially stunned him, and he was unable to resist when, a moment later, Ralph rode up and seized him. Raiko followed close behind, and the other coolie limped up in time to assist in rebinding the prisoner. After seeing him again seated upon the horse, Ralph launched forth in a tirade of abuse, which he emphasized by brutally striking the prisoner with his whip. "Thought you would give us the slip, eh?" he cried. "You crippled puppy. I've a good notion to beat you to death! We're having too much trouble with you, anyway, and I think I will end it right here." "You will receive full measure for this outrage some day, you coward," retorted Grant, whose discomfiture had made him careless of consequences. "None but a brute would act as you are doing. No, I'll not stop talking. I don't care a snap of my little finger for your threats. Do what you please, but remember there will be a day of retribution." The English youth evidently thought so, too, as he desisted, and mounting, rode ahead with the leading strap attached to his saddle. This time extra precautions were taken. Grant's legs were fastened by a thong running under his horse, and his arms were securely bound. The journey was continued without halt or incident until a gradual lighting of the eastern sky proclaimed the advent of dawn. The first rays of the sun found the cavalcade upon the summit of a verdure-crowned hill. Down below, nestling in the center of an extensive valley, was the shimmering waters of a large lake, and, looming massively on the farther shore, could be seen the ruins of an ancient feudal castle. "Thank goodness! the rendezvous at last!" exclaimed Ralph. "Now, to see if Patrick is here before us." CHAPTER XXVII. IN FRONT OF THE OLD CASTLE. In the meantime how had Nattie and his party fared in their pursuit of the wily Irishman? It will be remembered that Sumo had gone ahead as a scout, leaving the others to follow more at leisure. This was found necessary by the increasing difficulty of drawing the _jinrikishas_ along the primitive path. It had narrowed in places to such an extent that only by the most careful efforts could the vehicles be taken past. The road became obstructed with huge bowlders, fallen from the surrounding heights, and finally the trunk of a large tree, shattered by lightning, was encountered. "We will have to leave the _'rikishas_ in charge of one of the men," answered Nattie, regretfully. "It will handicap us considerably," replied Mori, in the same tone. "We cannot expect to catch up with Patrick, mounted as he is. From the speed he has been making, though, his animal must be tired out. I think--what is up now?" The question was called forth by a peculiar action on Nattie's part. The lad had been standing intently eying the fallen monarch of the forest. Suddenly he tossed his helmet into the air with a cry of joy. "What fools we are!" he added. "Why, this tree has been here at least a month." "Well, what of it?" "Mori, I am ashamed of you. Can't you see that a horse couldn't pass here? Look at those limbs and that mass of foliage. If Patrick is ahead of us he must have abandoned his horse. Where is the animal?" "By Jove! you are right. The Irishman must have doubled on us after meeting that priest. Idiots that we are to permit a man like that to pull the wool over our eyes. We must go back and take the other road." Before Nattie could reply, Sumo scrambled over the tree and advanced toward them. "Masters, the red-bearded foreigner has deceived us. I met a man half a _ris_ up the path. He has been working there since daylight, and he says no one has passed him except the priest." "That settles it," exclaimed Mori. "Come; we must return to the crossroad." "I have also learned that this path and the main road meet about five _ris_ beyond this hill," continued Sumo. The coolie's information was indeed welcome, and little time was lost in retracing their steps. On reaching the crossroad, however, darkness, which had been threatening for some time, settled down. The coming of night presented a serious obstacle to the continuation of the pursuit. "I am afraid we must put up somewhere until morning," said Mori, as the party halted. Nattie instantly expostulated. "We will never be able to trace Patrick," he insisted. "No, we must keep on, darkness or no darkness." "And run the risk of passing him during the night, eh? If he is cunning enough to fool us once, he'll certainly try it again. No, our best plan is to proceed to Invoro, a small village, a couple of miles from here, and rest until daylight. Then we can resume the pursuit with some chance of tracking the Irishman. Anyway, we are reasonably certain his destination is the caves at the foot of Bandai-San." Nattie was forced to acknowledge the wisdom of his companion's plan, but it was with a heavy heart that he gave his consent. The trip to the village was made without incident. Accommodations were secured at a primitive tea house, and preparations made for spending the night. Inquiry elicited the cheering news that a foreigner such as described had passed through the town several hours previous. He had halted to secure food for himself and horse, and had then continued his journey. "We are still on the right track, you see," said Mori, to Nattie. "Don't worry, old boy. This road leads to the volcano, and all we need do is to set out at daybreak and go straight to the caves. I am so sure that we will find Grant there that I have dispatched a messenger to the governor of this district asking for the assistance of the rural police." "I don't place much faith in them," replied Nattie, doubtfully. "I think we had better proceed alone until we are thoroughly sure Ralph Black and Grant are at the caves. Then we can send for reinforcements. A large body of police would only give the alarm, and probably drive them somewhere else in search of a hiding place." "All right; I will leave word to hold the gendarmes here until we call for them. Now try to get a little sleep. You will tire yourself out and retard the recovery of that shoulder." The lad protested that he could not close his eyes, but nature demanded her meed of rest, and he slumbered soundly until the party was called at the first signs of day. After a brief breakfast the chase was resumed, all feeling remarkably refreshed by the night's rest. "I feel like a new man," announced Mori, quaffing huge draughts of the brisk morning air from his _'rikisha_. "I really believe I am good for a dozen Patricks if it comes to a tussle." "Which it is bound to do," replied Nattie, cheerily. "You can anticipate a fight, old fellow. Ralph Black and Willis Round will not give up without a struggle. Why, imagine what defeat means to them! They will be compelled to leave the country immediately." "If we permit them to," interposed the Japanese youth, meaningly. "Yes, you are right. With their scheme ruined, the house of Black will tumble like a mansion built of cards. If captured, they will be brought to trial before the English Minister and probably sentenced to a long term in prison. They must have been desperate to resort to such a plan." "It's gold--bright, yellow gold, my dear boy," replied his companion, sagely. "It is only another case of man selling his liberty, if not his soul, for the almighty dollar. The hundred thousand _yen_ profit in those army contracts proved too much for the Englishman. And I guess personal revenge has something to do with it." "No doubt. Still it is hard to believe that a sane man would take such chances. I wonder what they expected to do after the awarding of the contracts? They surely could not hope to keep Grant a prisoner for many months?" "I have thought it over, and I believe Mr. Black expected to clear out after furnishing the arms and ammunition, if he secured the prize. He felt that his business had dwindled after the organization of our firm, and that he might as well retire with the money realized if he could. He did not anticipate that we would discover his plot and pursue his son." "Well, I am glad to say that he is mightily mistaken." The invigorating air of the early morning hours caused the _jinrikisha_ men to race along the road at their utmost speed, and it was not long before the party arrived at the spot where the path taken the night before rejoined the main thoroughfare. A short rest was taken, then, with renewed strength, the pursuit was continued. At the end of an hour a lake was sighted some distance ahead. It was a large body of water, evidently grandly situated in a basin formed by three hills and a lofty mountain. Pointing to the latter, which reared its conical head twelve thousand feet above the level of the lake, Mori said, impressively: "The volcano of Bandai-San." "And at its base are the caves?" eagerly asked Nattie. "Yes, the mud caves where we hope Ralph and Mr. Round have taken their prisoner." "What is that on the edge of the lake? It seems to be a ruin." "That's the _shiro_, or old castle of Yamagata. By Jove! I had forgotten that it was here. It is a feudal pile, and has a quaint history. I will tell you something of it as we ride along. The road passes the entrance." Bidding the _karumayas_ run together, Mori continued: "It was a stronghold of an ancient _daimio_, or prince. He ruled the country around here for many years. He was very wealthy, and spent an immense sum of money on the castle. You can see by its extent and the material that it cost no small amount. The walls are of stone, some of the blocks being forty feet long by ten feet in width, and many have a thickness of an English yard. "Those two lofty towers were once surmounted with huge fish made of copper, and covered with plates of gold. You can imagine the temptation to the peasants. One windy night a robber mounted an immense kite and tried to fly to the top of the first tower for the purpose of stealing the golden scales, but he was caught and boiled alive in oil." "They had an extremely pleasant manner of executing people in Japan in the early days," remarked Nattie, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yes, but during the same period, my boy, the English broke their criminals on a wheel, and quartered them. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other." By this time the party had neared the ruined entrance to the castle. Nattie's curiosity had been aroused by Mori's tale, and he leaned forward to tell his _jinrikisha_ man to stop, when there came a clattering of hoofs from the interior of the castle, and a cavalcade rode out upon the broken drawbridge. Hoarse cries of mutual surprise rang out, then both parties came to a sudden halt facing each other. A wild shout of joy came from Nattie: "Grant! Grant! I have found you at last!" CHAPTER XXVIII. SUMO'S ARMY. For a better understanding of what follows it will be well to explain the situation of the castle of Yamagata, and its general construction. It was located on the southern edge of Lake Inawashiro, and covered a large extent of ground. The main portion of the building was well preserved, consisting of a line of massive stone battlements with a lofty tower at each end. In the interior rose a shattered wall, all that was left of the extensive partitions. There were two entrances, one at the main drawbridge, still in good condition, and another nearer the lake. The latter was choked up with stones and various _débris_. A moat ran around three sides of the pile, connecting with the lake, which touched the fourth wall. The road ran past the front of the castle, and in the vicinity were numerous huts occupied by coolies working in the rice fields. An extensive forest of maple and willows lined a good part of the lake. Rising in the distance to the north was the majestic peak of Bandai-San. So much for description. When Nattie and Mori heard the tramping of horses in the interior they were entirely unprepared to see issue from the main entrance a cavalcade composed of Ralph Black, Willis Round and Patrick Cronin, with Grant a prisoner in the center. The party was further augmented by Raiko and two brother coolies. For an instant the mutual surprise was so great that neither side made a movement. Nattie broke the spell by leaping from his _'rikisha_ with the glad cry: "Grant! Grant! I have found you at last!" The words had scarcely left his lips when Ralph Black, who was in advance, dashed the spurs into his horse, and whirled around. There was a brief scramble and confusion, then the whole cavalcade rode helter-skelter back into the castle. Grant was dragged with them, being still tied hand and foot. An instant later, an ancient portcullis, which had survived the ravages of time, fell into place with a crash, completely blocking the entrance. The sudden retreat of Ralph and his party left Nattie and Mori staring after them as if powerless to move. Their inaction did not last long, however. Wild with rage they darted across the drawbridge, but only to find the portcullis--an arrangement of timbers joined across one another after the manner of a harrow--barring their way. Seizing one part of it, Nattie attempted to force himself through, but he was met with a bullet that whizzed past his head in dangerous proximity to that useful member. Simultaneous with the report there appeared on the other side Ralph and the ex-bookkeeper. Both carried revolvers, which they flourished menacingly. Deeming discretion the better part of valor, Nattie and Mori dodged behind a projecting corner of the massive entrance. A taunting laugh came to their ears. "Why don't you come in and rescue your brother, you coward?" called out the merchant's son. "What are you afraid of?" The epithet and the insulting tone was too much for Nattie's hot young blood, and he was on the point of rushing forth from his shelter, regardless of consequences, when he was forcibly detained by Mori. "Stop! Don't be foolish," explained the young Japanese. "He is only trying to get a shot at you." "But I can't stand being called a coward by a cur like that." "We will repay him in good time. We have them cornered, and all we have to do is to see that they don't get away while we send for the authorities. Don't ruin everything by your rashness." "Why don't you storm the castle like the knights of old?" jeered Ralph, just then. "We are waiting for you." "You are a scoundrel and a fool," retorted Nattie, grimly, heeding his companion's advice. "We've got you in a trap, and we'll mighty soon turn you and your brother conspirators over to the law." "Talk is cheap," replied a voice from within the castle, but there was far less confidence in the tone. The speaker was Willis Round. Presently Patrick made himself heard. "Why don't yez lift that fine-tooth comb thing and go out and fight them?" he asked, impatiently. "It's meself that can whip the whole lot, although Oi shouldn't be the one to tell it. Sally forth, Oi say, and sweep the spalpanes intid the lake." It is unnecessary to say that his belligerent proposal was not adopted by his more discreet companions. There was a murmur of voices, as if the three were holding a consultation, then all became quiet. In the meantime, Nattie and Mori looked about them. Back in the road were the _karumayas_, still standing near their _jinrikishas_. One of the porters was with them, but Sumo had disappeared. The absence of the giant native struck the boys as peculiar, and they wondered whether he had fled at the first shot. Through the forest on the right they saw the outlines of several huts, and running toward the castle were three or four natives, evidently attracted by the revolver report. Turning their attention to themselves Nattie and Mori found that they were in a peculiar situation. Where they had taken refuge was a spot behind the projecting stone frame of the main entrance. There the drawbridge extended out a few feet, barely permitting room for two. There was no way of retreating from it save across the bridge in plain view of those in the castle. "Whew! We are nicely situated," remarked Mori. "How are we going to reach the road, I wonder?" "I guess we'll have to run for it," replied Nattie, doubtfully. "Yes, and get potted before we had gone three steps." "Wait, I'll peep out and see if they are still on guard." Cautiously edging his way toward the center of the bridge, the lad glanced into the interior of the castle. He dodged back with great promptness, and said, with a grimace: "That bloodthirsty Irishman is standing near the portcullis with two big revolvers pointed this way." "Where are the others?" "I couldn't see them." Mori looked grave. "They are up to some trick," he said. "I wonder if there is any way by which they could leave?" "Not without they find a boat, or try to swim the lake." "Don't be too sure of it. These old _shiros_ sometimes contain secret passages leading from the interior. They could fool us nicely if they should stumble across a tunnel running under the moat." "Confound it! we can't remain here like two birds upon a limb," exclaimed Nattie, impatiently. "We'll have to make a dash for it. Come on; I'll lead." He gathered himself together to dart across the fifteen feet of bridge, but before he could start a loud hail came from the forest to the north of the castle. Looking in that direction, they saw Sumo advancing with a whole host of natives. There were at least forty in the party, and each appeared to be armed with some sort of weapon. There were ancient guns, long spears, swords, reaping hooks and a number of plain clubs. With this martial array at his heels the giant porter approached the scene, bearing himself like a general at the head of a legion. As he walked, he flourished the sword given him by Mori, and kept up a running fire of orders to his impromptu command. At another time it would have been comical in the extreme, but under the circumstances, both Nattie and Mori hailed his appearance with joy. Alas for their hopes! "Courage, masters!" shouted Sumo. "Wait where you are. We will drive the scoundrels from their stronghold. March faster, my braves; get ready to charge." But at that interesting moment the little army arrived opposite the entrance. "Bang, bang!" went Patrick's revolvers, and in the twinkling of an eye the whole forty natives took to their heels, bestrewing the road with a choice collection of farming implements, ancient swords and clubs. Sumo had discretion enough to drop behind a stump, from which place of safety he watched the flight of his forces with feelings too harrowing to mention. CHAPTER XXIX. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. Despite their position, Nattie and Mori were compelled to laugh. And from within came a hoarse burst of merriment that fairly shook the air. "Ha, ha! ho, ho! Look at the monkeys, will ye! Watch them run at the sound of a shot. Worra! Patrick Cronin, did ye live to see the day when forty men would scoot from the sight of yer face?" The fellow's taunts were cut short in a manner unpleasant to his feelings. While he was dancing about inside, crowing over his victory, Mori crept behind his shelter and let drive with his pistol. The bullet cut a hole in Patrick's sleeve, and sent him backward in hot haste. Seeing their advantage, both Nattie and the young Japanese darted across the drawbridge, reaching the shelter of the forest without mishap. There they were joined by Sumo, who appeared thoroughly discomfited. "I thought they would fight, masters," he explained. "But it seems they would rather work in the paddy fields than face firearms. We are not all like that. If you wish, I will face that red-bearded foreigner myself, and I'll cut his comb for him, too." "That is not necessary, Sumo," replied Nattie, with a smile. "We know you are brave, but we won't put you to such a test. A man's strength is as nothing before a leaden bullet." "One good thing," said Mori, "we are away from that trap on the drawbridge. Now we must arrange to capture the scoundrels. Sumo, who is a good man to send to the nearest town for police?" The porter recommended one of the _karumayas_, and the fellow was immediately dispatched on a run with a written message to the chief official of the province. This matter attended to, Nattie and the young Japanese enlisted the services of a part of Sumo's former forces and established a line of spies around the land side of the castle. Several natives were sent to a small village on the shore of the lake for boats, then the two youthful commanders established themselves within hailing distance of the castle entrance. They could see Patrick pacing up and down, still alert. Nattie waved his white handkerchief as a flag of truce, and hailed him. "What do yez want?" growled the fellow, angrily. "Tell Ralph Black to come to the door." "Not Oi. Oi'm no sarvant for the likes of yez." "But I wish to speak with him, fool. It will be to his interest, probably." "I am here," suddenly replied a voice, and the merchant's son showed himself through the portcullis. "What have you to say, Nattie Manning?" "I want to tell you that you will save time and trouble by surrendering my brother." "You don't say!" sneered Ralph. "And suppose we don't look at it in that light?" "You are a fool, that's all." "It is easy to call names out there." "It would be still easier if I had you here." "Let me explain matters a little, Ralph," spoke up Mori, quietly. "You are in a bad box, and you know it. You and your father have committed a serious crime against the law by abducting Grant, and you will suffer for it." "That's our lookout," was the reckless reply. "We have arranged matters so that you cannot hope to escape," continued the young Japanese. "We have sent a messenger to the authorities, and in the course of a few hours a force of police will come to our assistance. It will then be an easy matter to capture you." "You think so?" "We know it to be so." "Don't be too sure, John." Now, if there is anything on earth that will anger a native of Japan, it is the appellation "John." It places them on the same level with the Chinamen in America, who conduct the familiar and omnipresent laundry, and, look you, the Japanese rightly consider themselves much above their brother Asiatics. Mori felt the insult keenly, but he was too much of a gentleman to retort in kind. Nattie--hot-tempered, impulsive lad--could not restrain himself. "You cowardly brute!" he shouted, shaking his fist at Ralph. "I'd give half of what I expect to own on this earth to have you before me for five minutes." The merchant's son paled with anger, but he discreetly ignored the challenge. "What would you do, blowhard?" he blustered. "You think yourself something, but I can bring even you to your knees." "We will see about that when the officers of the law arrive," replied Nattie, grimly. "As I said before, don't be too sure. I have not played all my cards." Mori and Nattie exchanged glances. What could the fellow mean? Ralph speedily informed them. "Do you think I would tamely submit to arrest and go from here with the certain knowledge that my destination would be a long term in a prison?" he snarled. "Do you think I am a fool? I have a safeguard here in the person of your puny, crippled brother." Again Mori and Nattie asked themselves what the fellow meant. Was it possible he would be villain enough to resort to personal violence. The younger Manning paled at the very thought. "What would you do?" he called out, and his voice was unsteady. Ralph laughed, triumphantly. "I see I have touched the right spot," he replied. "I'll tell you in a very few words. If you do not permit us to go free from here and give your solemn promise--I guess you had better put it in writing--that you will not molest us for this, and also that you will withdraw from the competition for those army contracts, I'll kill Grant Manning with my own hands." Nattie was very white when the English youth finished. His worst fears were realized. That Ralph meant what he said he firmly believed. Not so Mori. "Don't pay any attention to his threats," whispered the latter. "He is only trying what you Americans call a 'bluff.' He wouldn't dare do any such thing. He thinks too much of his own neck, the precious scoundrel." As if in refutation of his opinion, Ralph called out in determined tones: "I mean what I say. I would rather hang than live ten or fifteen years in prison. I leave it to you. You can take your choice. I will give you ten minutes to make up your minds, and if, at the end of that time, you do not agree to my terms it'll be the last of your brother." "Come away where we can talk without being under the eye of that miserable villain," said Mori, gravely. "Wait; I wish to try a last chance," replied Nattie. He added in a loud voice: "In the castle, there. Willis Round, Cronin, do you intend to abide by Ralph Black's murderous proposition?" "That Oi do, and if he'd take my advice, he'd kill th' lot of yez," instantly replied the Irishman. The ex-bookkeeper's answer was longer in coming, and it was not so emphatic, but it was to the same effect. Nattie was turning away sadly when he heard Grant's familiar voice saying, resolutely: "Do not give in, brother. Wait for the police, and you can capture them. Ralph won't----" The sentence remained unfinished. The speaker's captors had evidently interposed with effect. Nattie and Mori walked sadly to the edge of the forest. They left Sumo in front of the entrance on watch. "There isn't any use talking about it," said the former. "We must agree to his terms. I wouldn't have a hair of Grant's head harmed for all the contracts on earth. True, he may be lying, but it is better to run no risks. What do you think about it?" "I believe you are right. We will permit them to go free, but we'll wait until the expiration of the time mentioned. Perhaps something will turn up. I hate to see that scoundrel and his mates crowing over us." "I have known Ralph Black a great many years, but I never thought he would prove to be such a thoroughly heartless and desperate villain. As a boy he was headstrong and willful. He delighted in cruelty to animals, and was brutal to those weaker than himself, but I little dreamed he would come to this." "The boy was father to the man," replied Mori, philosophically. "He had it in him from birth. It is hereditary; see what his father is. Well, the time is almost up, and we might as well go and confess ourselves beaten. Ugh! it is a bitter pill to swallow." On rejoining Sumo they found that worthy moving uneasily about in front of the entrance. They saw also that the space behind the portcullis was empty. The tramping of horses came from within, but there were no signs of Ralph or his companions. "Where in the deuce have they gone?" exclaimed Nattie, anxiously. "I do not know, excellency," replied the porter. "The funny man with the fire hair and the youth went away from the door a few minutes ago. The tall, thin man, ran up to them and said something in a voice full of joy, then they all disappeared." "Something is up," exclaimed Mori, then he hailed the castle in a loud voice. There was no reply. Nattie repeated the summons, but with the same result. Now thoroughly alarmed, he and the young Japanese advanced to the portcullis and beat upon it with their weapons. An echoing sound came from the gloomy interior, but that was all. Sumo was instantly bidden to bring men with axes, and others were sent along the shore of the lake to see if an attempt at escape had been made. In due time the barrier at the entrance was broken away, and the two lads, followed by their native allies, rushed past into the ruins. Over in one corner of what had been the main yard were five horses tethered to several posts. Stores and articles of clothing were scattered about, but of the fugitive party there was no sign. A hasty search was made of the different apartments; the remains of the roof were examined; the outer walls inspected, but at last Nattie and his companions were compelled to acknowledge themselves baffled. The entire party, prisoner and all, had mysteriously disappeared. CHAPTER XXX. THE TRAGEDY IN THE TUNNEL. Greatly puzzled, the lads searched the interior again and again. Not a place large enough to accommodate even a dog was omitted. The towers were mere shells, with here and there a huge beam of wood, all that was left of the different floors. A door opening upon the lake was found, but it had been impassable for years. Masses of _débris_, encumbering the castle, were moved about, but nothing was discovered until finally the giant, Sumo, while delving into the darkest corner of the most remote apartment, suddenly stepped into a hole, and narrowly saved himself by grasping at the edge. His cries brought the whole party helter-skelter into the room. A torch of resinous pine was lighted, and the mystery revealed. The hole was the jagged entrance to a tunnel, the bottom of which was dimly visible in the rays cast by the flickering light. "It is a secret exit from the castle," cried Nattie. "Quick! bring other torches; we must follow at once." "I thought we would find something of the kind," remarked Mori, no less excited. "All these old _shiros_ have such outlets. It is fortunate we have found this so easily. The other party cannot be very far in advance." There was much running about, but finally a start was made with an ample supply of torches. Sumo was the only native that could be induced to accompany the lads, the others hanging back in superstitious terror. Word was left with one of the _'rikisha_ men to hold the police at the castle until word arrived, then Nattie and Mori eagerly descended into the cavity, Sumo bringing up the rear with the sticks of pine and his ancient sword. A few crumbling steps led to the bottom, which was about twelve or thirteen feet from the floor. A little heap of dust at the lower level bore the imprints of several feet. It was proof enough that the fugitives had entered the tunnel. A couple of yards from the entrance the excavation made a sharp descent. The floor was thick with slime, and moisture dripped from overhead. The tunnel became smaller and smaller and traces of masonry were found. "We are passing under the moat," said Mori, elevating his torch. "Ugh! what a dreadful place this is." Nattie made no reply. He walked ahead steadily, and ever kept his eyes in advance, as if eager to catch sight of the fugitives. Huge rats peered at the party from sheltered nooks, or darted across their path, as if careless of molestation. The silence was intense; the solitude painful. Presently the air became foul. It was thick and heavy with an odor like that of a tomb. On turning a corner they suddenly came upon a row of human skeletons stretched out in an orderly manner upon the floor. It was a ghastly spectacle, and brought a terrified cry from Sumo. He stopped and appeared unwilling to cross the bones. "Come on, or remain alone," said Nattie, grimly. The giant porter promptly followed them, but his huge frame shook with superstitious fear. At the end of five minutes, a brief halt was made. The tunnel was filled with a dark, moldy air, difficult to breathe. Gasping and coughing, Mori turned an inquiring eye to his friend. "We must not turn back," replied the lad. "They passed through here, and we can also. Come; we are losing time. See, the torches are burning out. If we do not hasten we will be left in darkness." The very possibility of such a dread occurrence sent the trio on almost at a run. To be left in darkness in the tunnel, with its ghastly tenants, was terrifying to contemplate. Sumo magnified the horrors a hundredfold through his ignorance, and his plight was pitiful to see. On, on; the torches flickering; grotesque shadows surrounding them; the atmosphere becoming more dank and difficult to breathe with each passing moment. Huge rodents pattering before, their sharp, piercing eyes gleaming like the optics of fleeing demons; a dripping of water here and puddles of foul scum there. Only one thing strengthened the little party as they sped along, and that was the knowledge that other humans had passed through the same horrors but a few brief moments before. "How much farther?" gasped Mori, for the tenth time. "How much farther?" echoed Sumo, with a groan. "Heart up," replied Nattie, redoubling his speed. "We must be almost there. Don't give up. Remember Ralph and the others took the same journey. Are they more brave than we?" "You are right, my boy. We must persist; the end cannot be far away." They had already traveled a distance at least equal to two city blocks. The tunnel had made various turns, but as yet they had not encountered any side excavations. This was fortunate, as it permitted them to continue ahead without any doubt as to the proper passage. Presently, to the unspeakable delight of all three, the air became less foul. "We are almost there," cried Nattie, cheerily. "Courage, courage!" It was time. The torches, mere pine slivers, had burned away until only a few inches remained. They had started with an ample supply, but while passing the ghastly array of skeletons, Sumo had dropped the reserve bundle in his terror. Suddenly the one carried by Mori gave out; then Nattie's gave a feeble splutter and expired. Presently, however, the floor in the tunnel began to brighten, and finally, on turning a corner, a feeble speck of light became perceptible in the distance. "The end, thank God!" shouted Mori. The echoes of his voice had hardly died away when a most dreadful thing happened. Without the slightest warning to herald its approach there came a terrific rending shock. It seemed as if the very bowels of the earth had collapsed in one great crash. Nattie and Mori and Sumo were thrown to the ground with violent force, and there they lay mercifully deprived of consciousness, while around them the walls and roof and floor of the tunnel heaved and pitched in the throes of an earthquake. The disturbance only lasted a moment, but it was some time before the little party recovered. Nattie was the first to stagger to his feet. The torch had gone out, leaving an impenetrable darkness. The welcoming light--the light proclaiming the exit from the tunnel--had disappeared. The lad was bewildered, almost daft, and small wonder. He lurched about until at last he stumbled and fell across Mori. The shock brought the young Japanese to his senses. Then Sumo scrambled to his feet. Panic-stricken, they started to run. Slipping, staggering, sorely bruising themselves against the sides of the passage, they fled in overwhelming terror. A yard, ten yards, a hundred yards, and then they brought up with a crash against an impenetrable barrier of rock and earth. The exit was closed! CHAPTER XXXI. RALPH SECURES REINFORCEMENTS. "The exit is closed!" The cry came simultaneously from all three. Shrill and with a terrible weight of despair it echoed through the tunnel. Then came a weird crooning. It was the death-song of Sumo's people. Mori stopped him with a fierce command, saying, harshly: "Silence, dog! Would you add to our misery? Silence, I say!" The result of civilization now became apparent. The first natural feeling of terror passed, the reaction came, and both Nattie and the young Japanese were able to discuss their situation with more or less calmness. "This is dreadful, simply dreadful," said the latter; "but we must face it and see what can be done to save ourselves." "What was it, an earthquake?" "Yes, but not much of a shock. We felt it down here; above ground it was simply a wave of minor strength." "But others may come, masters," exclaimed the porter, with chattering teeth. "You are right. We must hasten back the way we came. The shock has barred our passage in this direction; only the castle exit remains to us." There was little time lost in commencing the retreat. Grasping hands the three staggered along the tunnel floor, walking, running, and even crawling at times. The dust that had filled the excavation immediately after the earthquake soon settled, and the breathing became easier. Presently Nattie stopped. "What is the matter?" anxiously asked Mori. "Grant--what of him?" replied the lad, pitifully. "Do you think they succeeded in leaving before the shock came?" "Undoubtedly. We saw the exit, and had almost gained it. They had at least ten minutes' start. Don't worry; Grant is safe." Reassured, Nattie resumed the flight with his companions. In due time they came to the crypt occupied by the skeletons, but Sumo never faltered. That terror had paled before a greater. A foreboding that another barrier might be encountered brought a pallor to the cheeks of the fugitives. The fear was fortunately without foundation. The passage remained clear, and in due course of time they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the castle floor. Weary, worn out, their clothing disordered and torn, and with the fear of death still lingering in their faces, the three painfully scrambled into the air and flung themselves, gasping for breath, upon the stone pavement of the inner yard of the _shiro_. The place was deserted. The coolies and _'rikisha_ men had evidently fled at the first signs of the earthquake. Presently a confused murmur of voices from the outside indicated that they were still within easy call. After a brief moment of rest Nattie staggered to his feet, and, followed by his companions, emerged upon the drawbridge. Their appearance was received with shouts of astonishment and awe. To the superstitious eyes of the natives, they were as beings of another world. That any mortal could survive the clutches of the _jishin_, or earthquake, while in its domains underground was not possible. With one accord the terrified natives fled for the forest. They were speedily brought to a halt by Mori, who was in no mood for foolishness. Rushing after them, he grasped the nearest and fiercely ordered him to bring food and _sake_, the mild wine of the country. "Fools; what think you?" he exclaimed. "We are not ghosts. We have escaped from the tunnel through the aid of a merciful Providence. We are exhausted, and require meat and drink." With many ejaculations of awe and amazement the _karumayas_ obeyed. Before eating, Mori, Nattie and Sumo removed the tattered remnants of their clothing, and bathed themselves in the cool waters of the lake. Then a few mouthfuls of food were taken. The wine put new life in the lads. Refreshed and invigorated, they prepared for the pursuit. It was decided without caution that the caves must be reached without delay. "I am positive it is their destination," said Nattie. "Undoubtedly. We will follow the scoundrels with the aid of their own horses. Sumo, you and two others come with us. The rest can wait for the arrival of the police. Forward!" After the party had ridden a short distance, Mori was seen to cast many anxious glances toward the mighty peak of Bandai-San. It was in plain view, apparently on the other shore of the lake, and its sloping reaches spoke eloquently of the ages in which the flow of molten lava had created the majestic mountain. "What is the matter?" asked Nattie. "I don't like the looks of the old fellow this morning," replied the young Japanese. "Do you see that misty vapor hovering over the summit. That means activity of the volcano. Mark my words, it is on the eve of an eruption." "Yes, Bandai-San is awaking from his long sleep," put in Sumo. "That earthquake must have had something to do with it," said Nattie. "No doubt. It may be the forerunner of a strong disturbance." As they rode on, the curious cloud became more pronounced. Fearing the recurrence of a shock, the party avoided the shelter of trees, and kept to the open as much as possible. After leaving the neighborhood of the lake a road was encountered, so bad that it was necessary to walk the horses. At last it degenerated into a mere path among the narrow paddy fields. A collection of rude huts hardly numerous enough to deserve the title of village was reached after a while. Singularly enough, there were no inhabitants visible. Not the slightest signs of life could be seen save the still smoking embers of a fire outside of one of the houses. This apparent air of desertion was rendered all the more strange because of the intense interest generally created among the natives by the cavalcade. "Find out what is the matter, Sumo," directed Mori. The giant cantered up to one of the huts and rapped lustily upon the wall with his sword. Presently a head was thrust through a hole in the thatch, but it immediately disappeared on seeing the warlike porter. "Come out of that," Sumo shouted, authoritatively. "Give my masters some information, or I'll burn your hut about your ears. Out, I say!" There was a moment of delay, then a shrinking, half-clad Japanese coolie crept from the door and cast himself at Sumo's feet. He was evidently greatly terrified. He wailed aloud, and refused to raise his head from the dust. Impatient at the delay, Mori and Nattie rode up and commanded the wretch to speak. "Did a party composed of foreigners and several coolies with a prisoner pass through here recently?" asked the former. "Yes, excellency," stammered the man. "There were seven in all. They stopped here, and compelled twenty of our best men to accompany them. They made them carry reaping-hooks and almost all the provisions in town. They took my store of rice for the winter." "Whew! Ralph intends to prepare for a siege," exclaimed Nattie. "What a fool he is! Men and provisions, eh? What can he hope to do against the authorities?" "Did they state their destination?" Mori asked the native. "No, but they went in that direction," he replied, pointing beyond Bandai-San. "That's the way to the caves," muttered Nattie, then he added, aloud: "How long have they been gone?" "Not twenty minutes, excellency. Look! you can see the dust still lingering above the bushes upon that hill. They are not to the base of the mountain yet." After tossing the man a couple of _yen_, to repay him for the loss of his rice, Nattie put spurs to his horse and led the way up the path. Presently the party reached a species of tableland, near the summit of an almost inaccessible hill which rose near the base of the volcano. CHAPTER XXXII. THE FLASHING OF THE SWORDS. The spot seemed wild and desolate, there being no evidence of cultivation or of human habitation. On one side extended numerous deep ravines, which gave an air of solemnity to the scene. The narrow, seldom-used path turned sharply to the left in a direction away from their destination. A halt was called upon a natural platform overgrown with brambles. Sumo, who had some knowledge of woodcraft, leaped from his horse and examined the brush. "They have passed here, masters," he announced. "I find little threads hanging to the thorns; and the grass is trampled in places." "We must proceed with caution," said Mori, restraining Nattie, who had already started. "Remember, Ralph has a number of men with him, and he is liable to ambuscade us." "I will go on ahead," volunteered the giant porter, swinging his massive sword vindictively. "You follow slowly. If I see anything I will make the sound of a wild crow." "Don't lose any time in your scouting," said Nattie, impatiently. "Confound them, they'll get away from us yet." Leaving his horse in charge of one of the coolies, Sumo slipped through the brush and disappeared down one of the ravines. After looking to their weapons, the rest silently followed. They had barely traveled a hundred yards when the harsh cry of a wild crow came to their ears; then before the echoes had died away, the fierce clashing of steel thrilled the air. "He has been attacked," shouted Nattie, putting his horse to the bushes. "Quick, we have them now!" With the rest at his back, he dashed down a gentle slope into the head of the ravine. Passing a large clump of trees they came upon a most thrilling scene. Two hundred yards from the hill the valley narrowed to a space not wider than a city sidewalk. The "gut" was formed by a huge mass of earth, which had fallen from the heights overhead. The bottom was evidently the dry bed of a mountain stream, and innumerable bowlders and jagged pieces of flint were scattered here and there, rendering walking difficult. The scenery was an afterthought. That which instantly attracted the attention of Nattie and Mori was the figure of a native almost as large as Sumo standing at the beginning of the narrow passage. The fellow was armed with a sword, which he shook vindictively at the party. Several feet away stood the giant porter, calmly whetting the huge weapon given him by Mori. Farther up the ravine stood the Irishman, Patrick Cronin. The man grinned impudently on seeing the newcomers, then he turned and disappeared behind a mass of underbrush. "After him!' shouted Nattie, riding headlong into the valley. "Hold!" The abrupt warning came from Sumo. He had strode in the way with one hand raised. "What do you mean?" demanded Mori. And as he spoke he leveled his revolver at the challenging figure standing in the middle of the "gut." "Don't shoot him, excellency," exclaimed Sumo, imploringly. "That is Raiko, the thug. I knew him in Yokohama. He did me an injury once. Now, I claim satisfaction." "What nonsense is this?" shouted Nattie. "Would you delay us, man?" "It will not take long," replied Sumo, with a scowl directed toward Raiko. "I'll promise you his head in the song of a stork. See! I commence." He sprang forward, and with great agility threw himself upon Raiko. The latter uttered a shrill cry, seemingly of exultation and defiance, and in the twinkling of an eye the ancient enemies were engaged in what evidently promised to be mortal combat. Human nature is not proof against the thrill and excitement of war. Much as we deplore fighting, there is something in the clash of arms that fascinates us. From the glorious spectacle of marshaled armies to the duel between individuals, there is a charm not to be resisted by mankind of any degree. Nattie and Mori were not different in that respect from other lads. They were both truthful, honest, manly boys, with a just knowledge of right and wrong, but deep down in their hearts was a little of the old leaven with which we are still afflicted more or less. For the moment they forgot their quest and watched the fight with eager eyes. The two combatants were equally matched. If anything, Sumo was slightly taller, but Raiko made up for the discrepancy in a greater breadth of shoulders. Both were armed with the heavy two-edged sword formerly used by the ancient _daimios_, and they were fairly skilled in the practice. Raiko had the advantage in position. Where he had taken his stand was a spot elevated a foot or more above the rest of the ravine. Sumo, however, had greater room in which to swing his weapon, and in case of pressure he had the ravine at his back. At the first onslaught the play was furious, and the rocks rang with the clash of steel. Cut, slash, went the swords. Backward and forward sprang the antagonists. Now to the right, now to the left, dodging, leaping, advancing, and retreating. In the midst of it all came the hissing murmur of strained voices. Tongues were going as well as arms--words keen with venom; phrases sharpened with hate played their part in the fierce duel. Presently the fury of the combat had slackened. Nature was calling a halt. Of the two, Raiko had suffered the most. He was bleeding in a dozen places. But Sumo had not entirely escaped. A broad, raw wound on his right thigh showed where his antagonist's sword had tasted blood. Like two bucks weary with strife, the twain backed away from one another and, leaning upon their weapons, glared with unabated hatred. The respite was momentary. Ere Nattie and Mori could speak they were at it again. "Dog! Robber of the lame!" shouted Sumo, aiming a shrewd blow at his enemy. "Your career is ended. Now for a taste of revenge. Remember the night at the _matsura_? Remember the cowardly thrust thou gavest my brother?" "Yes; and I have one such for thee, worm!" retorted Raiko. "Thou bulk of nothingness, I'll send thee to the offal heap to-day, and--ugh! ugh!" With a harsh cry, almost inhuman in its intensity, he fell against the side of the ravine, sent there by a terrible downward blow from Sumo's triumphant sword. Leaping upon his prostrate enemy, the giant porter gave a sweep of the weapon, then he stood erect with Raiko's gory head in his grasp! CHAPTER XXXIII. "GRANT! BROTHER, IS IT YOU?" The scene was tragic. A ray from the afternoon sun glinted down through a rift in the foliage, bringing out in bold relief the warrior figure of the giant. Thus he stood for a moment, evidently tasting his triumph to the full, then, with a contemptuous laugh, he tossed the head of his fallen foe upon the prostrate trunk. "Send me to the offal heap, thou braggart?" he exclaimed. "Where art thou now, Raiko? It was a lie to be answered with the rest of thy sins at the foot of the throne of Buddha. Poof! that was an easy fight. Now I try conclusions with the fiery-bearded foreigner." Turning, he sped up the ravine and vanished from sight, leaving Nattie and Mori eying one another in astonishment. "What a bloodthirsty wretch it is!" said the latter. "Civilization is merely skin deep in some," dryly replied his companion. "This is a sorry spectacle even in the interior of your country. Don't you think we should feel ashamed?" "I don't know but that you are right," was the naïve reply. "But, confound it all, Nattie, Sumo had great provocation, and, remember, he fought in our interests." "Then we will forgive him. I'll harbor a little contempt for myself for some time, though. Let somebody bury the body, or take it to the nearest village. Come; we have lost too much time as it is." "Sumo is as rash as he is brave," remarked Mori, as he rode along at his friend's side. "If he don't watch out, Patrick will nab him." While trotting across a rocky shelf, Nattie chanced to look up toward the cone of the nearby volcano. To his surprise, he saw that the vapory mist had given way to a dense volume of pitch-black smoke. Little tongues of flame shot athwart the column at intervals, and hovering over the summit was a cloud of ashes glinting dully in the sun. "That looks threatening," he exclaimed, calling Mori's attention to it. "By Jove, Bandai-San is in eruption," was the instant reply. "It is the first time in my memory, too." Then he added, gravely: "Nattie, this comes at a bad time." "Why?" "If there should be a flow of lava--which is highly probable--our stay in this neighborhood will be dangerous." "Does it ever reach this far?" "No; but we must pass near the base of the mountain on our way to the caves." "And the other party?" "They will be placed in peril also." "Then we must catch them before they reach there," exclaimed Nattie, urging his horse forward. "I don't care a snap for Ralph or his crew, but Grant----" "Sh-h-h! Some one is coming down the ravine." A dull noise, like the scrambling of naked feet over the gravel and rocky soil of the dry river bed, came to their ears. It increased until at last it became evident that a considerable body of men were approaching. "Quick! out of the way!" exclaimed Nattie, turning sharply to the right. Reining in his steed behind an overhanging mass of earth, he drew his revolver and waited in silence. Mori soon joined him. They had barely concealed themselves when a score of half-naked natives dashed past, uttering cries of alarm as they ran. They were apparently wild with terror. The cause was speedily explained. While hurrying down the ravine more than one would pause and cast fearful glances toward the smoking crater of old Bandai-San. The impending eruption was the secret of their flight. "It is the body of villagers taken away by Ralph," said Mori. "Their terror of the volcano has proved stronger than their fear of the foreigners. Good! I am glad they have abandoned him. Now he won't have such an overwhelming force." "Did you notice whether the two other coolies were with them? I mean those who were with Ralph at the castle?" "I think I did see one. Humph! you can rest assured that very few natives will remain in the neighborhood when a volcano is spouting fire. I even wonder that Sumo----" As if the name carried the magic power of conjuring, it was barely uttered when the bushes on the left slope of the ravine parted and the giant porter strode into view. "Hail, masters," he said, stopping and wiping his perspiring face. "Where have you been? What have you seen?" asked Nattie and Mori, in a breath. "I was in chase of the devil with the red beard." "Did you see him?" Sumo laughed grimly. "Yes, as the hunter sees the hawk in its flight," he replied. "Red-beard is swift in his pace when danger threatens." "Did you see the others?" eagerly asked Nattie. "No, but I followed them close to the mud caves. Poof! they are fools. Know they not that the demon of the mountain, old 'Jishin' himself, lives there? And now is his hunting time. See! Bandai-San is angry. He sends forth fire and smoke. Presently the river that runs molten red will flow down the mountainside." "Are you afraid?" rather contemptuously asked Nattie. "Not of mortal, master; but it is no shame to bow to the wrath of the gods. Whither go you?" "In search of my brother," was the terse reply, and the lad set spurs to his horse. "You shall not go alone," spoke up Mori, riding after him. Sumo glanced after their retreating forms, then he cast his eyes upward to where the smoke over the crater was assuming a ruddy tinge. It was enough. Tossing up his arms, he started off at a long trot and vanished over the bit of tableland at the head of the ravine. His superstitious fears had proved the victor. "Mori, you are a friend indeed," said Nattie, when the young Japanese rejoined him. "But I cannot permit you to run unnecessary risks for our sake. Return while you have the chance." "Not much," was the hearty reply. "Where you go I go. You insult me. Do you think I would leave you and Grant in the lurch? Not if ten thousand volcanoes were to erupt. Tut! tut! that will do. Not another word." "I will say this, old fellow," gratefully. "You will never regret your actions on this trip. We will find some way to repay you." On up the valley rode the two friends, side by side. Presently a place was reached where it became necessary to leave the horses and continue on foot. Shortly after they had dismounted there came a deep rumbling noise and the earth trembled beneath their feet. Pale but resolute, they strode along. There was a smell of sulphur in the air; the leaves of the scrubby trees were coated with impalpable gray ashes, and a sifting cloud of powdery fragments fell upon them. Suddenly, while passing around an abrupt bend in the ravine, they saw ahead of them the figure of a youth limping in their direction. Nattie gave the newcomer one startled glance, then he rushed forward, crying: "Grant! Brother, is it you?" CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MYSTERIOUS FORCES OF NATURE. It was Grant. Hobbling along as fast as his crippled limbs could carry him, he threw himself into his brother's arms, and for a moment they forgot all else in the emotion of their greeting. Then Mori came in for his well-earned share. The amount of handshaking and incoherent expressions that followed was wonderful. Mutual explanations were demanded and given with hearty good will. The lame youth told briefly his experiences on board the junk, then he added: "After we left that dreadful tunnel running from the castle I almost gave up hope. I felt instinctively that you were underground when that first earthquake shock came, and I was awfully worried." "We escaped, as you can see," said Nattie, with a happy grin. "If not you are pretty lively ghosts," said Grant, in the same vein; then he continued: "That brute Ralph hurried us along the mountain for a while. Then we stopped at a village and compelled some of the poor natives to accompany us. I tell you, Ralph Black must be crazy. None but a lunatic would hope to escape from the law for such an outrage. Fancy him thinking he could take me to a cave in the mountain and keep off the lawful forces of the country." "It is past belief," remarked Mori. "But tell us, how did you manage to escape?" "I am coming to that. But hadn't we better leave this neighborhood? Ralph and Patrick are liable to follow me at any moment." "Where is Willis Round?" quickly asked Nattie, noting the omission of the bookkeeper's name. Grant smiled. "We needn't fear anything from him," he said. "Is he dead?" "No; he helped me to escape." "What!" "It is a fact. Wait; I'll tell you. After we arrived in the vicinity of the caves--which are dreadful places, by the way--Round slipped up to me and began to talk about matters in general. Before he had said many words I saw his object. He was trying to 'hedge,' as they call it in racing parlance." "To crawl out of the scrape, eh?" "Yes; I led him on, and he presently asked me point-blank if I would promise to save him from punishment if he should help me to escape. I replied that I would do what I could for him, but I would promise nothing. He was content with that, and after a while he succeeded in cutting the thongs binding my hands. "Shortly after, while we were hurrying through a dense copse I slipped behind and ran as fast as I could on the back trail. It was a risky piece of business, as Ralph had threatened to shoot me if I made another attempt to escape." "And the villain would do it, too," said Nattie. "I believe he would. The boy is crazy--clean stark crazy. None but a lunatic would do as he has done." "They must see their mistake now," remarked Mori, grimly. "They do. Willis Round is nearly frightened to death. Patrick still remains obstinate and advises a general slaughter of all, but I think he is weakening. The natives they took from the village deserted on account of the threatening eruption of the volcano." All three glanced up to the summit of Bandai-San. The smoke and flame had increased in volume. It was a terrifying sight and instinctively the little party moved toward the head of the ravine. They had walked only a short distance when a tremor shook the earth, sending a mass of dirt and rocks tumbling down the side of the valley. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, a thick cloud of ashes was showered upon them. Now thoroughly frightened, the boys set out at a run, Nattie and Mori assisting the crippled youth, one on each side. Suddenly a dull shock, like the explosion of a mine, almost knocked them prostrate, and directly in front they saw the earth fly from a conical hole in the side of the ravine with the impetus of a hundred-ton gun. When the dust and _débris_ settled, they beheld a small crater, probably fifteen feet in width, occupying a spot a dozen yards above the dry bed of the stream. It was only a small affair as craters go, but the mysterious operation of the natural volcanic forces sent a thrill through the lads, and they scrambled to their feet with but one intent, and that was to leave the place as quickly as possible. "Come!" hoarsely exclaimed Mori, turning a face pallid with dread to his companions. "We haven't a moment to lose. If an eruption should occur and the lava flow down this side of the mountain nothing could save us from a horrible death." "Is it as bad as that?" gasped Nattie, glancing fearfully toward the volcano. The answer came not in words. Suddenly, and with terrific force a thunderous report rent the air. Darkness darker than midnight fell upon the scene as if a pall had descended upon them from the heavens. A blinding shower of hot ashes and sand rained in torrents, then--then while the three lads groveled with their faces in the dust the earth rocked and rocked, and rocked again. Presently--was it a moment or an eternity?--a strange hissing noise became apparent. Multiply the escaping steam from an overcharged boiler ten thousand times and you would only have a faint idea of the terrible noise that filled the air to the exclusion of all other sounds. For the space of many seconds the earth continued to undulate like the surface of the sea. Explosion after explosion came in rapid succession, each seeming greater than its predecessor, until at last one came that shook the earth to its foundations. To the three lads prone in the little ravine it was as if the end of the world had come. They lost all thought of time or place. They remained bowed down before the majestic forces of nature, incapable of moving, or speaking, or even thinking. In time the dread convulsions ceased. Ill with a nausea like that of the sea, Grant and Nattie and Mori finally scrambled to their feet and attempted to run. It was a futile effort. Their trembling limbs refused to carry them, and they sank back once more. Let not the reader think it cowardice. No more brave and sturdy youths than Nattie and Mori could be found in all Japan. And Grant--if feeble in frame and prone to disease physically, his soul was absolutely fearless in the common happenings of life. Only those who have experienced the awful feeling incidental to one of those terrible convulsions of nature called earthquakes can testify as to its effect on the human mind. It is the most mysterious, and the most dreadful force known to man. The writer speaks from experience, having narrowly escaped with his life from one encountered while on a journey through a Central American republic. It came without warning, and in its duration of not more than eight seconds--think of it!--leveled hundreds of houses and claimed a score of human lives. Its immediate effect was as if the earth was slipping away and one's grasp lost on all things mundane. CHAPTER XXXV. RETRIBUTION! It was some time before the boys could again regain their feet. As the minutes slipped past without a recurrence of the shocks their courage and self-confidence returned. They did not stop to discuss the matter, but promptly obeyed their first instinct, which was to leave the accursed spot without delay. They had barely started down the ravine with tottering limbs when Nattie, who was in the rear heard a hoarse cry behind him. It was not human. It was harsh and gurgling, like the scream of a wild fowl in the clutches of a giant eagle. The lad paused and glanced back, then he cried out in horror. His companions instantly turned and looked in the direction indicated by his outstretched hand. Approaching them at a staggering walk was the almost unrecognizable figure of a tall, thin man. His clothing hung in charred tatters from a frame that seemed bent and distorted, evidently from some great calamity; the hat was gone, the hair burned away, and caking the lower limbs as high as the knees was a mass of grayish, slimy mud. As he advanced in a series of tremulous lurches he stretched forth his hands in piteous supplication. Presently he fell to the ground and lay there writhing like a wounded animal. The boys ran to his side. They gave him one glance, then recoiled in horrified amazement. "Heavens above!" cried Grant; "it is Willis Round!" The poor wretch at their feet twisted around and revealed a scarred, marked face with sightless eyes. After great effort, he whispered, hoarsely: "Water! water! Give me water!" Luckily, Nattie carried a canteen-shaped bottle of the precious fluid. Bending over, he placed it to the sufferer's lips. With what joy and relief did he drink! The draught placed new life in him. He presently gasped: "Who is--is here? Is it Grant--Grant Manning?" "Yes, it is I," quickly replied the lame youth. "Can I do anything for you? Ha! why do I ask such a question? Quick, Nattie, Mori; we must take him to the nearest town. He needs medical attendance at once." "It is too late," groaned Round. "I am a dead man. The end of the world is at hand, and I am caught in sin. The others----" "What of them?" asked Grant, eagerly. "They are gone." "Dead?" "Yes; the volcano was shattered by the eruption, the liquid mud and earth--ugh!--rolled down to the caves. I saw it in time and almost succeeded in--in escaping. But Ralph and Patrick were buried under thousands--ugh!--of tons of molten earth." For the first time since the convulsion the boys glanced up at the peak of Bandai-San. To their awe they saw that its shape had been totally changed. Instead of the graceful cone with its dimple of a crater, it now seemed shorn of half its height. The summit was simply a jagged edge of cliff-like reaches. [1]In plain view to the left was a peculiar river, almost black in color, and evidently rolling down the steep slope of the mountainside like the waters of a cascade. Dense clouds of steam hovered over it, and plainly apparent in the air were strange, weird sounds impossible to describe. The grewsome sight brought back the first feeling of terror, and for a moment the lads eyed one another in doubt. The desire to flee soon passed away, however, and they again turned their attention to the prostrate wretch. A change was coming over him. It needed no medical skill to tell that the man was dying. Nattie gave him more water, and others made a couch of their coats, but that was all. Willis Round was beyond mortal aid. In the course of half an hour he gave a gasp, half arose upon his elbow and then fell back lifeless. He was buried where he had died. Scooping a shallow grave in the soft earth he was placed tenderly within and left to his last rest. As they hurried away from the spot a strange silence fell upon Grant and his companions. One brief hour before they had been eager in their denunciations of Ralph Black and his fellow conspirators. Now all that was changed. An awful fate had overtaken them in the very midst of their sins. In the presence of the dread retribution all animosity was forgotten. Their death was from the awful hand of Nature, and their tomb under thousands of tons of Mother Earth! With all possible speed the boys left the eventful ravine. The horses tethered near the spot of tableland had disappeared, evidently stampeded by the convulsions. In due time the village from which Ralph had taken his reinforcements was reached. It was entirely deserted. At a small town beyond the castle of Yamagata, reached late in the afternoon, Sumo was found with other natives more brave than their fellows. The giant porter became wild with delight and ran forth to meet the tired wayfarers. "Welcome! thrice welcome!" he shouted, bowing his huge bulk almost to the ground. "And thou escaped from old 'Jishin' after all? Glad am I, excellencies; glad am I! But where are the fugitives? And where is the foreigner, old Red-Beard?" "They are dead," gravely replied Mori. "They were killed by the eruption. Get us meat and drink at once, coward. I am minded to punish you for your desertion, dog." Sumo shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "As thou will, little master," he replied. "Punish if it be in thy heart. I would have fought for thee if mortal enemies threatened, but what is my puny arm to that of the underground demon?" "I do not blame you for running away, Sumo," spoke up Nattie, with an involuntary shudder. "It was an awful experience, and one I have no desire to meet again." "Amen!" fervently exclaimed Grant. That afternoon and night the boys rested. At daybreak on the following day they started for the nearest railway station, in _jinrikishas_. As reports came in from the country nearest to the other slope of Bandai-San the terrible nature of the calamity became apparent. Whole towns had been swept away by the dreadful sea of molten mud thrown from the crater. Thousands had been injured, and a thousand lost. Many miles of land had been ruined. The destruction was almost irreparable. At Tokio the boys purchased new outfits. They remained a few hours in the capital, and then left for Yokohama. At Nattie's personal request, Sumo had accompanied them. It was the lad's intention to install the giant as a factotum of the firm in the counting-room. It was late in the morning when they steamed into the railway station. As they left the train, Mori turned to Grant with a cry of dismay. "By Jove! do you know what day this is?" he asked, excitedly. "No--that is--it's----" "The first of August, and the bids for those army contracts are to be opened at noon!" FOOTNOTE: [1] An actual occurrence. On the sixteenth of July, 1888, the volcano of Bandai-San, in Northern Japan, exploded, killing a thousand people. The mountain was almost rent asunder, one-third being turned into liquid mud! CHAPTER XXXVI. CONCLUSION. "The army contracts!" echoed Grant. "Why, bless my soul, you are right! This is the day set by the war department for opening them." All three lads instinctively glanced at the station clock. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Nattie; "it's after eleven!" "In less than an hour the board will sit, and at Tokio--twenty miles away!" Mori cried. "We have lost the chance after all." "Not without a struggle," firmly replied the lame youth. "There's Mr. Burr over there. He is here to meet us. Nattie, take him to the nearest stationer, and purchase three or four quires of official paper, pen and ink. Be back in five minutes. Mori, come with me." While Nattie, too bewildered to speak, hurried away on his errand, Grant grasped the Japanese youth's arm, and almost ran to the station master's office. They found the official seated at his desk. "What time does the next train leave for the capital?" asked Grant. "At eleven-thirty, sir." "Too late. How long will it take you to start a special train?" The railway employee stared at his questioner in surprise. "A special train for Tokio?" he asked. "Yes." "We couldn't have it ready under twenty minutes. Why, what----" "Never mind the reason, sir," interrupted Grant, impatiently. "I must be in Tokio before twelve o'clock." "It is impossible, sir." "Not at all. It must be done. Where is the engine that brought the train in a few moments ago?" "It is still in the station, but it will go to the running sheds before long." "I must have that engine," exclaimed Grant, with determination. "I will pay you five hundred _yen_ for an hour's use of it. I will also give a bonus of fifty _yen_ each to the engineer and fireman." Five minutes later a powerful locomotive left the station, bearing the party. A small table had been secured, and hard at work upon it was Mr. Burr, writing for dear life as Grant dictated. The line was clear, telegraphic orders having been sent to that effect from Yokohama, and the intricate mass of iron flew upon its journey at the rate of seventy miles an hour. It was a strange spectacle, and one never before witnessed in all Japan. To the engineer and fireman, native born, it was a novelty indeed, and they cast many curious glances at the group upon the tender. As the miles were covered at terrific speed, the ponderous engine swayed and rocked like a ship in distress. But amid the lurching and tossing of the fabric, Grant stood imperturbably droning word after word, sentence upon sentence, while the canny Scot jotted them down as best he could. The document was a lengthy one, full of circumlocution and dreary phrases, but at the end of twelve minutes, when the outskirts of Tokio came in sight, it was finished. The three members of the firm affixed their names just as the panting engine came to a sudden stop in the railway station of the capital. _Jinrikishas_ with fleet _karumayas_ had been ordered by telegraph. The distance to the war department was at least a mile. Springing into the vehicles, the party were carried swiftly through the streets, a promise of ten times the usual fare having lent wings to the men's feet. A clock observed midway indicated a quarter of twelve. "On, on, men!" cried Grant, imploringly. "Fifty _yen_ each if you do it before the stroke of twelve." The promise was as a whip to a spirited horse. From lagging steps the _karumayas_ bounded into a run. Down the narrow streets they darted, past gardens, through thoroughfares crowded with pedestrians; on, on, until at last, with a final spurt, the four _jinrikishas_ came to a halt in front of the Japanese war office. Leaving Mr. Burr to settle with the coolies--who had well earned their pay--Grant dashed into the building just as the first stroke of a sonorous bell overhead proclaimed the hour of noon. As he passed through the entrance he noticed a door at the right bearing upon its panels in Japanese, "War Department. Office of the Army Board." It was standing slightly ajar, and from the interior came a confused murmur of voices. Something prompted Grant and his companions to stop and peer through. Seated at a large desk were several officers in uniform and other gentlemen in civilian's clothes. In the center was Yoshisada Udono, Grant's friend. Occupying chairs in the main portion of the room were the German merchants of Yokohama, Swartz and Bauer, and Ralph's father, Jesse Black. The warning bell had reached the seventh stroke! Arising to his feet with a triumphant smile upon his lean, suave face, the English merchant advanced to the desk and laid thereon a packet. As he turned to resume his seat there was a noise at the door, and the lame youth marched in with calm dignity. "Ah, I see I am just in time," he said, with a pleasant smile. "Mr. Udono, will you please accept our bid for the contracts?" "Certainly, Grant, with the greatest pleasure," quickly replied the secretary. "Where have you been? I actually thought you would be----" He was interrupted by a snarl of mingled stupefaction and rage. Mr. Black, who had been staring open mouthed at the lads, sprang forward, and shouted: "It is too late! It is past the time. The hour of twelve----" "Has not struck yet," quietly interrupted Grant. "Listen! ten, eleven, twelve! I was three seconds to the good." If ever baffled fury sat enthroned on a man's countenance it did then upon that of the English merchant. He was speechless with anger and disappointment. Shaking his fist in Grant's face, he stammered and choked in a futile effort to berate him. "Mr. Black, a word with you," suddenly said Nattie, stepping up. The lad's tone was full of meaning. He turned and added to his brother and Mori: "Let us leave for some quiet place and have it over with. You know we have a sad duty to perform." "What, what's that?" asked the merchant, in alarm, recovering his speech. "My son Ralph! What of him? Don't tell me he is injured." "Come with us," replied Grant, evasively. Leaving Mori to make a brief explanation to Mr. Udono, Nattie and he took the Englishman into a side room and there told the story of his son's awful end. It is a strange commentary on human nature that even the vilest beast contains a well of tenderness. The hand that slays in cruel sport can also caress with fond affection. The African mother has her maternal love; the foulest rogue a word of kindness. Mr. Black was an unscrupulous man. He was a scoundrel at heart, but there was an oasis in the desert of his immoral nature. It was his love for his son Ralph. The news of his offspring's death came as a terrible blow. His grief was pitiful. The spectacle of a strong man weeping in agony of spirit swept away all thoughts of punishment. Grant exchanged glances with his brother, and then said, sadly, but with firmness: "Mr. Black, we know everything. We know fully your connection with the foul plot to abduct me, but we are content with our triumph over you. We could have you arrested and sent to prison for a term of years, but we will be merciful. You can go forth in freedom, but on certain conditions." The miserable man stood listening with bowed head. "You must leave Japan at once," continued Grant, "and also make restitution of the money overpaid to you on account of our father's debt. That debt was paid to you before his death, and you know it." "No, Grant, your father did not pay me," replied Mr. Black, brokenly. "Then you still deny it!" exclaimed the lame youth, his voice growing hard. "I will explain. I received part of the money, but not from your father. The day Mr. Manning died in his office I received a call from Willis Round. He said that he had taken the fifty-six hundred dollars in gold from the safe, and would divide with me if I would promise to back him up in pushing the firm to the wall. It was his idea to purchase the good will of the business at a forced sale and start in for himself. I--I consented, but our plans have failed." "Through no fault of yours," said Nattie, _sotto voce_. "Do you agree to the conditions?" asked Grant. "Yes, I will do as you say," replied the disgraced merchant. "I will repay you and leave this country at once. I am content to do so. Oh, Ralph, my son, my son!" He tottered from the room, and that was the last the lads saw of him. On the following day a messenger brought to them in their office at Yokohama a package of money containing the amount previously paid to Mr. Black. Before the end of the week he had settled up his affairs and left Japan. It was heard later that he had returned to England, where he went into retirement with the money saved from his business. It is to be hoped he sought repentance for his misdeeds. In these o'er-true tales it is a pleasure to part with some characters, but painful to bid farewell to others. A writer has his likes and dislikes, even in his own literature. It is said that the immortal Dickens cried when he penned the description of Little Nell's death in the "Old Curiosity Shop," and that his heart stirred with a curious anger as he chronicled the villainies of Bill Sykes in another story. It is probably for a similar reason that I do not like to write the words that will put an end for all time to Grant and Nattie and Mori. We have spent many pleasant half hours together. It has been a pleasure to depict their honesty, and manliness, and truth, to watch their brave struggle against misfortune, and at last to record their final triumph. They will succeed in life--integrity and moral worth always do. They secured the famous contract, and made a legitimate profit from it. That was before the recent war between China and Japan. They invested their increased capital, and are now, at the present date, on the fair road to fortune. Mr. Burr is the manager of their Yokohama house. Mori is in general charge of the business in Japan, and Grant and Nattie are now traveling in the United States visiting their relatives and quietly keeping an eye out for the trade. Sumo is established in the main office as porter and messenger. He sports a gorgeous uniform and is ever relating to the small boys of the neighborhood his memorable fight with Raiko, the thug, at the foot of old Bandai-San. And now, in the language of those gentle people, the Japanese, I will say "_Sayonara!_" THE END. Did you like this story? Yes? Then let us help you to select another. _Some of Street & Smith's Books for Young People by Popular Authors_.... A COMPLETE LIST WILL BE SENT .... UPON APPLICATION .... STREET & SMITH'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE BOOKS FOR BOYS. THE CREAM OF JUVENILE FICTION. Boys' Own Library. A selection of the best books written by the most popular authors for boys. The titles in this splendid juvenile series have been selected with care, and as a result all the stories can be relied upon for their excellence. They are bright and sparkling, not overburdened with lengthy descriptions, but brimful of adventure from the first page to the last--in fact, they are just the kind of yarns that appeal strongly to the healthy boy who is fond of thrilling exploits and deeds of heroism. Among the authors whose names are included in Boys' Own Library are Horatio Alger, Jr., Edward S. Ellis, James Otis, Arthur M. Winfield and Frank H. Converse. Cloth, 135 titles. Illustrated. Attractive covers. Price, per volume, 75 cents. Boys' Own Library. Adventures of a Telegraph Boy Horatio Alger, Jr. Adventures of a Young Athlete Matthew White, Jr. Arthur Helmuth Edward S. Ellis. Beach Boy Joe Lieut. James K. Orton. Boats, Bats and Bicycles Ernest A. Young. Bob Porter at Lakeview Academy Walter Morris. Bound for Annapolis Ensign Clarke Fitch, U.S.N. Boy Boomers Gilbert Patten. Boy Cattle King Gilbert Patten. Boy from the West Gilbert Patten. Boys in the Forecastle George H. Coomer. Butcher of Cawnpore William Murray Graydon. Cadet's Honor, A Lieut. Fred'k. Garrison, U.S.A. Cadet Kit Carey Lieut. Lounsberry. Camp in the Snow, The William Murray Graydon. Campaigning with Braddock William Murray Graydon. Canoe and Camp-Fire St. George Rathborne. Captain Carey Lieut. Lounsberry. Centreboard Jim Henry Harrison Lewis. Chased Through Norway James Otis. Check Number 2134 Edward S. 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Smuggler's Cave, The Annie Ashmore. Spectre Gold Headon Hill. Strange Cruise, A Ensign Clarke Fitch, U.S.N. Sword and Pen Henry Harrison Lewis. That Treasure Frank H. Converse. Tiger Prince William Dalton. Tom Brace Horatio Alger, Jr. Tom Tracy Horatio Alger, Jr. Tom Havens with the White Squadron Lieut. James K. Orton. Tour of a Private Car Matthew White, Jr. Tom Truxton's Ocean Trip Lieut. Lounsberry. Tom Truxton's School Days Lieut. Lounsberry. Tour of the Zero Club Capt. Ralph Bonehill. Treasure of the Golden Crater, The Lieut. Lounsberry. Unprovoked Mutiny James Otis. Valley of Mystery, The Henry Harrison Lewis. Voyage to the Gold Coast Frank H. Converse. Walter Griffith Horatio Alger, Jr. War Tiger William Dalton. West Point Treasure, A Lieut. Fred'k. Garrison, U.S.A. West Point Rivals, The Lieut. Fred'k. Garrison, U.S.A. Weathercock George Manville Fenn. Wheeling for Fortune James Otis. White Elephant William Dalton. White King of Africa William Murray Graydon. White Mustang Edward S. Ellis. With Boer and Britisher William Murray Graydon. Won at West Point Lieut. Lounsberry. Yankee Boys in Japan Henry Harrison Lewis. Young Acrobat Horatio Alger, Jr. Young Actor, The Gayle Winterton. Young Bank Clerk, The Arthur M. Winfield. Young Editor Matthew White, Jr. Young Showman's Rivals, The Stanley Norris. Young Showman's Pluck, The Stanley Norris. Young Showman's Triumph, The Stanley Norris. Young Bridge Tender, The Arthur M. Winfield. Zig Zag, the Boy Conjuror Victor St. Clair. Zip, the Acrobat Victor St. Clair. Boys' Popular Library 57 Titles A new series of handsome 12mos, well printed and well bound, stamped in colors, containing the most popular stories by OLIVER OPTIC, GEORGE A. HENTY, CAPT. MAYNE REID, GORDON STABLES, W. H. G. KINGSTON, HORATIO ALGER, JR. and other authors equally well known. There has long been a demand for a low-priced series of first-class books for young people, and we believe that we have here just what the boys want. 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Mayne Reid. Mark Seaworth's Voyage on the Indian Ocean W. H. G. Kingston. Midshipman Marmaduke Merry W. H. G. Kingston. Now or Never Oliver Optic. Paul, the Peddler Horatio Alger, Jr. Phil, the Fiddler Horatio Alger, Jr. Peter Trawl W. H. G. Kingston. Peter, the Whaler W. H. G. Kingston. Ran Away to Sea Capt. Mayne Reid. Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe. Shore and Ocean W. H. G. Kingston. Silver Ship, The Leon Lewis. Slow and Sure Horatio Alger, Jr. Strive and Succeed Horatio Alger, Jr. Strong and Steady Horatio Alger, Jr. Swiss Family Robinson Montelieu & Wyse. Three Years at Wolverton A Wolvertonian. Try Again Oliver Optic. Try and Trust Horatio Alger, Jr. Under Drake's Flag G. A. Henty. Uncle Nat Alfred Oldfellow. Way to Success Alfred Oldfellow. Whistler Walter Aimwell. Wild Adventures 'Round the Pole Gordon Stables. With Lee in Virginia G. A. Henty. With Wolfe in Canada G. A. Henty. Young Carthaginian, The G. A. Henty. Young Vagabond, A Z. R. Bennett. Young Explorer, The Gordon Stables. The Rockspur Athletic Series By GILBERT PATTEN. Consists of three books, each being a good, clean story of athletic training, sports and contests, such as interest every healthy, growing boy of to-day. While aiming to avoid the extravagant and sensational, the stories contain enough thrilling incidents to please the lad who loves action and adventure. The description of their Baseball and Football Games and other contests with rival clubs and teams make very exciting and absorbing reading; and few boys with warm blood in their veins, having once begun the perusal of one of these books, will willingly lay it down till it is finished. 1--The Rockspur Nine. A story of Baseball. 2--The Rockspur Eleven. A story of Football. 3--The Rockspur Rivals. A story of Winter Sports. Each volume contains about 300 pages, 12mo in size, cloth binding, per volume, $1.00 For sale by all booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the publishers. Street & Smith, 238 William St., New York City. 
7237	----	ROVING EAST AND ROVING WEST BY E. V. LUCAS TO E. L. L. MY HOST AT RAISINA [Illustration: TWO MEN ADMIRING FUJI FROM A WINDOW From Hokusai's "A Hundred Views of Fuji"] "Yes, Sir, there are two objects of curiosity, e.g., the Christian world and the Mahometan world."--DR. JOHNSON. "Motion recollected in tranquillity."--WORDSWORTH (_very nearly_). CONTENTS INDIA NOISELESS FEET THE SAHIB THE PASSING SHOW INDIA'S BIRDS THE TOWERS OF SILENCE THE GARLANDS DELHI A DAY'S HAWKING NEW, OR IMPERIAL, DELHI THE DIVERS THE ROPE TRICK AGRA AND FATEHPUR-SIKRI LUCKNOW A TIGER THE SACRED CITY CALCUTTA ROSE AYLMER JOB AND JOE EXIT JAPAN INTRODUCTORY THE LITTLE LAND THE RICE FIELDS SURFACE MATERIALISM FIRST GLIMPSE OF FUJI TWO FUNERALS THE LITTLE GEISHA MANNERS THE PLAY MYANOSHITA FUJI AMERICA DEMOCRACY AT HOME SAN FRANCISCO ROADS GOOD AND BAD UNIVERSITIES, LOVE AND PRONUNCIATION FIRST SIGNS OF PROHIBITION R. L. S. STORIES AND HUMORISTS THE CARS CHICAGO THE MOVIES THE AMERICAN FACE PROHIBITION AGAIN THE BALL GAME SKY SCRAPERS A PLEA FOR THE AQUARIUM ENGLISH AND FRENCH INFLUENCES SKY-SIGNS AND CONEY ISLAND THE PRESS TREASURES OF ART MOUNT VERNON VERS LIBRE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE BOSTON PHILADELPHIA GENERAL REFLECTIONS INDEX INDIA NOISELESS FEET Although India is a land of walkers, there is no sound of footfalls. Most of the feet are bare and all are silent: dark strangers overtake one like ghosts. Both in the cities and the country some one is always walking. There are carts and motorcars, and on the roads about Delhi a curious service of camel omnibuses, but most of the people walk, and they walk ever. In the bazaars they walk in their thousands; on the long, dusty roads, miles from anywhere, there are always a few, approaching or receding. It is odd that the only occasion on which Indians break from their walk into a run or a trot is when they are bearers at a funeral, or have an unusually heavy head-load, or carry a piano. Why there is so much piano-carrying in Calcutta I cannot say, but the streets (as I feel now) have no commoner spectacle than six or eight merry, half-naked fellows, trotting along, laughing and jesting under their burden, all with an odd, swinging movement of the arms. One of one's earliest impressions of the Indians is that their hands are inadequate. They suggest no power. Not only is there always some one walking, but there is always some one resting. They repose at full length wherever the need for sleep takes them; or they sit with pointed knees. Coming from England one is struck by so much inertness; for though the English labourer can be lazy enough he usually rests on his feet, leaning against walls: if he is a land labourer, leaning with his back to the support; if he follows the sea, leaning on his stomach. It was interesting to pass on from India and its prostrate philosophers with their infinite capacity for taking naps, to Japan, where there seems to be neither time nor space for idlers. Whereas in India one has continually to turn aside in order not to step upon a sleeping figure--the footpath being a favourite dormitory--in Japan no one is ever doing nothing, and no one appears to be weary or poor. India, save for a few native politicians and agitators, strikes one as a land destitute of ambition. In the cities there are infrequent signs of progress; in the country none. The peasants support life on as little as they can, they rest as much as possible and their carts and implements are prehistoric. They may believe in their gods, but fatalism is their true religion. How little they can be affected by civilisation I learned from a tiny settlement of bush-dwellers not twenty miles from Bombay, close to that beautiful lake which has been transformed into a reservoir, where bows and arrows are still the only weapons and rats are a staple food. And in an hour's time, in a car, one could be telephoning one's friends or watching a cinema! THE SAHIB I did not have to wait to reach India for that great and exciting moment when one is first called "Sahib." I was addressed as "Sahib," to my mingled pride and confusion, at Marseilles, by an attendant on the steamer which I joined there. Later I grew accustomed to it, although never, I hope, blasé; but to the end my bearer fascinated me by alluding to me as Master--not directly, but obliquely: impersonally, as though it were some other person that I knew, who was always with me, an _alter ego_ who could not answer for himself: "Would Master like this or that?" "At what time did Master wish to be called?" And then the beautiful "Salaam"! I was sorry for the English doomed to become so used to Eastern deference that they cease to be thrilled. THE PASSING SHOW It is difficult for a stranger to India, especially when paying only a brief visit, to lose the impression that he is at an exhibition--in a section of a World's Fair. How long it takes for this delusion to wear off I cannot say. All I can say is that seven weeks are not enough. And never does one feel it more than in the bazaar, where movement is incessant and humanity is so packed and costumes are so diverse, and where the suggestion of the exhibition is of course heightened by the merchants and the stalls. What one misses is any vantage point--anything resembling a chair at the Café de la Paix in Paris, for instance--where one may sit at ease and watch the wonderful changing spectacle going past. There are in Indian cities no such places. To observe the life of the bazaar closely and be unobserved is almost impossible. It would be extraordinarily interesting to sit there, beside some well-informed Anglo-Indian or Indo-Anglian, and learn all the minutiæ of caste and be told who and what everybody was: what the different ochre marks signified on the Hindu foreheads; what this man did for a living, and that; and so forth. Even without such an informant I was never tired of drifting about the native quarters in whatever city I found myself and watching the curiously leisurely and detached commercial methods of the dealers--the money lenders reclining on their couches; the pearl merchants with their palms full of the little desirable jewels; the silversmiths hammering; the tailors cross-legged; the whole Arabian Nights pageant. All the shops seem to be overstaffed, unless an element of detached inquisitiveness is essential to business in the East. No transaction is complete without a few watchful spectators, usually youths, who apparently are employed by the establishment for the sole purpose of exhibiting curiosity. I picked up a few odds and ends of information, by degrees, but only the more obvious: such as that the slight shaving of the Mohammedan's upper lip is to remove any impediment to the utterance of the name of Allah; that the red-dyed beards are a record that their wearers have made the pilgrimage to Mecca; that the respirator often worn by the Jains is to prevent the death of even a fly in inhalation. I was shown a Jain woman carefully emptying a piece of wood with holes in it into the road, each hole containing a louse which had crawled there during the night but must not be killed. The Jains adore every living creature; the Hindus chiefly the cow. As for this divinity, she drifts about the cities as though they were built for her, and one sees the passers-by touching her, hoping for sanctity or a blessing. A certain sex inequality is, however, only too noticeable, and particularly in and about Bombay, where the bullock cart is so common--the bullock receiving little but blows and execration from his drivers. The sacred pigeon is also happy in Bombay, being fed copiously all day long; and I visited there a Hindu sanctuary, called the Pingheripole, for every kind of animal--a Home of Rest or Asylum--where even pariah dogs are fed and protected. I was told early of certain things one must not do: such as saluting with the left hand, which is the dishonourable one of the pair, and refraining carefully, when in a temple or mosque, from touching anything at all, because for an unbeliever to touch is to desecrate. I was told also that a Mohammedan grave always gives one the points of the compass, because the body is buried north and south with the head at the north, turned towards Mecca. The Hindus have no graves. In India the Occidental, especially if coming from France as I did, is struck by the absence of any out-of-door communion between men and women. In the street men are with men, women with women. Most women lower their eyes as a man approaches, although when the woman is a Mohammedan and young one is often conscious of a bright black glance through the veil. There is no public fondling, nothing like the familiar demonstrations of affection that we are accustomed to in Paris and London (more so during the War and since) and in New York. Nothing so offends and surprises the Indian as this want of restraint and shame on our part, and in Japan I learned that the Japanese share the Indian view. It seemed to me that the chewing of the betel-nut is more prevalent in Bombay than elsewhere. One sees it all over India; everywhere are moving jaws with red juice trickling; but in Bombay there are more vendors of the rolled-up leaves and more crimson splashes on pavement and wall. It is an unpleasant habit, but there is no doubt that teeth are ultimately the whiter for it. Even though I was instructed in the art of betel-nut chewing by an Indian gentleman of world-wide fame in the cricket field, from whom I would willingly learn anything, I could not endure the experience. Most nations, I suppose, look upon the dances of other nations with a certain perplexity. Such glimpses, for example, as I had in America of the movement known as the Shimmie Shake filled me with alarm, while Orientals have been known to display boredom at the Russian Ballet. Personally I adore the Russian Ballet, but I found the Nautch very fatiguing. It is at once too long and too monotonous, but I dare say that if one could follow the words of the accompanying songs, or cantillations, the result might be more entertaining. That would not, however, improve the actual dancing, in which I was disappointed. In Japan, on the other hand, I succumbed completely to the odd, hypnotic mechanism of the Geisha, the accompaniments to which are more varied, or more acceptable to my ear, than the Indian music. But I shall always remember the sounds of the distant, approaching or receding, snake-charmers' piping, heard through the heat, as it so often is on Sundays in Calcutta. To my inward ear that is India's typical melody; and it has relationship to the Punch and Judy allurement of our childhood. It was in Bombay that I saw my first fakir, and in Harrison Road, Calcutta, my last. There had been so long a series in between that I was able to confirm my first impression. I can now, therefore, generalise safely when saying that all these strange creatures resemble a blend of Tolstoi and Mr. Bernard Shaw. Imagine such a hybrid, naked save for a loin cloth, and smeared all over with dust, and you have a holy man in the East. The Harrison Road fakir, who passed on his way along the crowded pavement unconcerned and practically unobserved, was white with ashes and was beating a piece of iron as a wayward child might be doing. He was followed by a boy, but no effort was made to collect alms. It is true philosophy to be prepared to live in such a state of simplicity. Most of the problems of life would dissolve and vanish if one could reduce one's needs to the frugality of a fakir. I have thought often of him since I returned, in London, to all the arrears of work and duty and the liabilities that accumulate during a long holiday; but never more so than when confronted by a Peace-time tailor's bill. INDIA'S BIRDS One of the first peculiarities of Bombay that I noticed and never lost sight of was the kites. The city by day is never without these spies, these sentries. From dawn to dusk the great unresting birds are sailing over it, silent and vigilant. Whenever you look up, there they are, criss-crossing in the sky, swooping and swerving and watching. After a while one begins to be nervous: it is disquieting to be so continually under inspection. Now and then they quarrel and even fight: now and then one will descend with a rush and rise carrying a rat or other delicacy in its claws; but these interruptions of the pattern are only momentary. For the rest of the time they swirl and circle and never cease to watch. Bombay also has its predatory crows, who are so bold that it is unsafe to leave any bright article on the veranda table. Spectacles, for example, set up a longing in their hearts which they make no effort to control. But these birds are everywhere. At a wayside station just outside Calcutta, in the early morning, the passengers all had tea, and when it was finished and the trays were laid on the platform, I watched the crows, who were perfectly aware of this custom and had been approaching nearer and nearer as we drank, dart swiftly to the sugar basins and carry off the lumps that remained. The crow, however, is, comparatively speaking, a human being; the kite is something alien and a cause of fear, and the traveller in India never loses him. His eye is as coldly attentive to Calcutta as to Bombay. It is, of course, the indigenous birds of a country that emphasise its foreignness far more than its people. People can travel. Turbaned heads are, for example, not unknown in England; but to have green parrots with long tails flitting among the trees, as they used to flit in my host's garden in Bombay, is to be in India beyond question. At Raisina we had mynahs and the babblers, or "Seven Sisters," in great profusion, and also the King Crow with his imposing tail; while the little striped squirrels were everywhere. These merry restless little rodents do more than run and scamper and leap: they seem to be positively lifted into space by their tails. Their stripes (as every one knows) came directly from the hand of God, recording for ever how, on the day of creation, He stroked them by way of approval. No Indian bird gave me so much pleasure to watch as the speckled kingfishers, which I saw at their best on the Jumna at Okhla. They poise in the air above the water with their long bills pointed downwards at a right-angle to their fluttering bodies, searching the depths for their prey; and then they drop with the quickness of thought into the stream. The other kingfisher--coloured like ours but bigger--who waits on an overhanging branch, I saw too, but the evolutions of the hovering variety were more absorbing. When one is travelling by road, the birds that most attract the notice are the peacocks and the giant cranes; while wherever there are cattle in any numbers there are the white paddy birds, feeding on their backs--the birds from which the osprey plumes are obtained. One sees, too, many kinds of eagle and hawk. In fact, the ornithologist can never be dull in this country. Wild animals I had few opportunities to observe, although a mongoose at Raisina gave me a very amusing ten minutes. At Raisina, also, the jackals came close to the house at night; and on an early morning ride in a motorcar to Agra we passed a wolf, and a little later were most impudently raced and outdistanced by a blackbuck, who, instead of bolting into security at the sight or sound of man, ran, or rather, advanced--for his progress is mysterious and magical--beside us for some forty yards and then,--with a laugh, put on extra speed (we were doing perhaps thirty miles an hour) and disappeared ahead. All about Muttra we dispersed monkeys up the trees and into the bushes as we approached. Next to the parrots it is the monkeys that most convince the traveller that he is in a strange tropical land. And the flying foxes. Nothing is more strange than a tree full of these creatures sleeping pendant by day, or their silent swift black movements by night. I saw no snakes wild, but in the Bacteriological Laboratory at Parel in Bombay, which Lt.-Col. Glen Liston controls with so much zeal and resourcefulness, I was shown the process by which the antidotes to snake poisoning are prepared, for dispersion through the country. A cobra or black snake is released from his cage and fixed by the attendant with a stick pressed on his neck a little below the head. The snake is then firmly and safely held just above this point between the finger and thumb, and a tumbler, with a piece of flannel round its edge, is proffered to it to bite. As the snake bites, a clear yellow fluid, like strained honey in colour and thickness, flows into the glass from the poison fangs. This poison is later injected in small doses into the veins of horses kept carefully for the purpose, and then, in due course, the blood of the horses is tapped in order to make the anti-toxin. Wonderful are the ways of science! The Laboratory is also the headquarters of the Government's constant campaign against malaria and guinea worm, typhoid and cholera, and, in a smaller degree, hydrophobia. But nothing, I should guess, would ever get sanitary sense into India, except in almost negligible patches. THE TOWERS OF SILENCE The Parsees have made Bombay their own, more surely even than the Scotch possess Calcutta. Numerically very weak, they are long-headed and far-sighted beyond any Indian and are better qualified to traffick and to control. All the cotton mills are theirs, and theirs the finest houses in the most beautiful sites. When that conflict begins between the Hindus and the Mohammedans which will render India a waste and a shambles, it is the Parsees who will occupy the high places--until a more powerful conqueror arrives. Bombay has no more curious sight than the Towers of Silence, the Parsee cemetery; and one of the first questions that one is asked is if one has visited them. But when the time came for me to ascend those sinister steps on Malabar Hill I need hardly say that my companion was a many years' resident of Bombay who, although he had long intended to go there, had hitherto neglected his opportunities. Throughout my travels I was, it is pleasant to think, in this way the cause of more sightseeing in others than they might ever have suffered. To give but one other instance typical of many--I saw Faneuil Hall in Boston in the company of a Bostonian some thirty years of age, whose office was within a few yards of this historic and very interesting building, and whose business is more intimately associated with culture than any other, but who had never before crossed the threshold. The Towers of Silence, which are situated in a very beautiful park, with little temples among the trees and flowers, consist of five circular buildings, a model of one of which is displayed to visitors. Inside the tower is an iron grating on which the naked corpses are laid, and no sooner are they there than the awaiting vultures descend and consume the flesh. I saw these grisly birds sitting expectantly in rows on the coping of the towers, and the sight was almost too gruesome. Such is their voracity that the body is a skeleton in an hour or so. The Parsees choose this method of dissolution because since they worship fire they must not ask it to demean itself with the dead; and both earth and water they hold also too sacred to use for burial. Hence this strange and--at the first blush--repellant compromise. The sight of the cemetery that awaits us in England is rarely cheering, but if to that cemetery were attached a regiment of cruel and hideous birds of prey we should shudder indeed. Whether the Parsees shudder I cannot say, but they give no sign of it. They build their palaces in full view of these terrible Towers, pass, on their way to dinner parties, luxuriously in Rolls-Royces beside the trees where the vultures roost, and generally behave themselves as if this were the best possible of worlds and the only one. And I think they are wise. Oriental apathy, or, at any rate, unruffled receptiveness, may carry its owner very far, and yet if these vultures cause no misgivings, no chills at the heart, I shall be surprised. As for those olive-skinned Parsee girls, with the long oval faces and the lustrous eyes--how must it strike them? It was not till I went to the caves of Elephanta that I saw vultures in their marvellous flight. It is here that they breed, and the sky was full of them at an incredible distance up, resting on their great wings against the wind, circling and deploying. At this height they are magnificent. But seen at close quarters they are horrible, revolting. On a day's hunting which I shall describe later I was in at the death of a gond, or swamp-deer, at about noon, and we returned for the carcase about three hours later, only to find it surrounded by some hundreds of these birds tearing at it in a kind of frenzy of gluttony. They were not in the least disconcerted by our approach, and not until the bearers had taken sticks to them would they leave. The heavy half-gorged flapping of a vulture's wings as it settles itself to a new aspect of its repast is the most disgusting sight I have seen. To revert to the Towers of Silence, one is brought very near to death everywhere in the East. We have our funeral corteges at home, with sufficient frequency, but they do not emphasize the thought of the necessary end of all things as do the swathed corpses that one meets so often being carried through the streets, on their way to this or that burning place. In Bombay I met several every day, with their bearers and followers all in white, and all moving with the curious trot that seems to be reserved for such obsequies. There were always, also, during my stay, new supplies of fire-wood outside the great Hindu burning ground in Queen's Road; and yet no epidemic was raging; the city was normal save for a strike of mill-hands. It is true that I met wedding parties almost equally often; but in India a wedding party is not, as with us, a suggestion of new life to replace the dead, for the brides so often are infants. One of the differences between the poor of London and the poor of India may be noticed here. In the East-End a funeral is considered to be a failure unless its cost is out of all proportion to the survivors' means, while a wedding is a matter of a few shillings; whereas in India a funeral is a simple ceremony, to be hurried over, while the wedding festivities last for weeks and often plunge the family into debts from which they never recover. THE GARLANDS The selective processes of the memory are very curious. It has been decreed that one of my most vivid recollections of Bombay should be that of the embarrassment and half-amused self-consciousness of an American business man on the platform of the railway station for Delhi. Having completed his negotiatory visit he was being speeded on his way by the native staff of the firm, who had hung him with garlands like a sacrificial bull. In the Crawford Market I had watched the florists at work tearing the blossoms from a kind of frangipani known as the Temple Flower, in order to string them tightly into chains; and now and again in the streets one came upon people wearing them; but to find a shrewd and portly commercial American thus bedecked was a shock. As it happened, he was to share my compartment, and on entering, just before the train started, he apologised very heartily for importing so much heavy perfume into the atmosphere, but begged to be excused because it was the custom of the country and he didn't like to hurt anyone's feelings. He then stood at the door, waving farewells, and directly the line took a bend flung the wreaths out of the window. I was glad of his company, for in addition to these floral offerings his Bombay associates had provided him with a barrel of the best oranges that ever were grown--sufficient for a battalion--and these we consumed at brief intervals all the way to Delhi. DELHI "If you can be in India only so short a time as seven weeks," said an artist friend of mine--and among his pictures is a sombre representation of the big sacred bull that grazes under the walls of Delhi Fort--"why not stay in Delhi all the while? You will then learn far more of India than by rushing about." I think he was right, although it was not feasible to accept the advice. For Delhi has so much; it has, first and foremost, the Fort; it has the Jama Masjid, that immense mosque where on Fridays at one o'clock may be seen Mohammedans of every age wearing every hue, thousands worshipping as one; it has the ancient capitals scattered about the country around it; it has signs and memories of the Mutiny; it has delectable English residences; and it has the Chadni Chauk, the long main street with all its curious buildings and crowds and countless tributary alleys, every one of which is the East crystallised, every one of which has its white walls, its decorative doorways, its loiterers, its beggars, its artificers, and its defiance of the bogey, Progress. Another thing: in January, Delhi, before the sun is high and after he has sunk, is cool and bracing. But, most of all, Delhi is interesting because it was the very centre of the Mogul dominance, and when one has become immersed in the story of the great rulers, from Babar to Aurungzebe, one thinks of most other history as insipid. Of Babar, who reigned from 1526 to 1530, I saw no trace in India; but his son Humayun (1530-1556) built Indrapat, which is just outside the walls of Delhi, and he lies close by in the beautiful mausoleum that bears his name. Humayun's son, Akbar (1556-1605), preferred Agra to Delhi; nor was Jahangir (1605-1627), who succeeded Akbar, a great builder hereabout; but with Shah Jahan (1627-1658), Jahangir's son, came the present Delhi's golden age. He it was who built the Jama Masjid, the great mosque set commandingly on a mound and gained by magnificent flights of steps. To the traveller approaching the city from any direction the two graceful minarets of the mosque stand for Delhi. It was Shah Jahan, price of Mogul builders, who decreed also the palace in the Fort, to say nothing (at the moment) of the Taj Mahal at Agra; while two of his daughters, Jahanara, and Roshanara, that naughty Begam, enriched Delhi too, the little pavilion in the Gardens that bear Roshanara's name being a gem. Wandering among these architectural delights, now empty and under alien protection, it is difficult to believe that their period was as recent as Cromwell and Milton. But in India the sense of chronology vanishes. After Shah Jahan came his crafty son, Aurungzebe, who succeeded in keeping his empire together until 1707, and with him the grandeur of the Grand Moguls waned and after him ceased to be, although not until the Mutiny was their rule extinguished. As I have just said, in India the sense of chronology vanishes, or goes astray, and it is with a start that one is confronted, in the Museum in Delhi Fort, by a photograph of the last Mogul! In Bombay, during my wakeful moments in the hottest part of the day, I had passed the time and imbibed instruction by reading the three delightful books of the late E. H. Aitken, who called himself "Eha"--"Behind the Bungalow," "The Tribes on My Frontier" and "A Naturalist on the Prowl." No more amusing and kindly studies of the fauna, flora and human inhabitants of a country can have ever been written than these; and I can suggest, to the domestically curious mind, no better preparation for a visit to India. But at Raisina, when the cool evenings set in and it was pleasant to get near the wood fire, I took to history and revelled in the story of the Moguls as told by many authorities, but most entertainingly perhaps by Tavernier, the French adventurer who took service under Aurungzebe. If any one wants to know what Delhi was like in the seventeenth century during Aurungzebe's long reign, and how the daily life in the Palace went, and would learn more of the power and autocracy and splendour and cruelty of the Grand Moguls, let him get Tavernier's record. If once I began to quote from it I should never stop; and therefore I pass on, merely remarking that when you have finished the travels of M. Tavernier, the travels of M. Bernier, another contemporary French observer, await you. And I hold you to be envied. The Palace in the Fort is now but a fraction of what it was in the time of Aurungzebe and his father, but enough remains to enable the imaginative mind to reconstruct the past, especially if one has read my two annalists. One of Bernier's most vivid passages describes the Diwan-i-Am, or Hall of Public Audience, the building to which, after leaving the modern military part of the Fort, one first comes, where the Moguls sat in state during a durbar, and painted and gilded elephants, richly draped, took part in the obeisances. Next comes the Hall of Private Audiences, where the Peacock Throne once stood. It has now vanished, but in its day it was one of the wonders of the world, the tails of the two guardian peacocks being composed of precious stones and the throne itself being of jewelled gold. It was for this that one of Shah Jahan's poets wrote an inscription in which we find such lines as-- By the order of the Emperor the azure of Heaven was exhausted on its decoration.... The world had become so short of gold on account of its use in the throne that the purse of the Earth was empty of treasure.... On a dark night, by the lustre of its rubies and pearls it can lend stars to a hundred skies.... That was right enough, no doubt, but when our poet went on to say, As long as a trace remains of existence and space Shah Jahan shall continue to sit on this throne, we feel that he was unwise. Such pronouncements can be tested. As it happened, Shah Jahan was destined, very shortly after the poem was written, to be removed into captivity by his son, and the rest of his unhappy life was spent in a prison at Agra. On each end wall of the Hall of Private Audience is the famous couplet,-- If there is a Paradise on the face of the earth, It is this, Oh! it is this, Oh! it is this. I think of the garden and palace of Delhi Fort as the loveliest spot in India. Not the most beautiful, not the most impressive; but the loveliest. The Taj Mahal has a greater beauty; the ruined city of Fatehpur-Sikri has a greater dignity; but for the perfection of domestic regality in design and material and workmanship, this marble home and mosque and accompanying garden and terrace could not be excelled. After the Halls of Audience we come to the seraglio and accompanying buildings, where everything is perfect and nothing is on the grand scale. The Pearl Mosque could hardly be smaller; and it is as pure and fresh as a lotus. There is a series of apartments all in white marble (with inlayings of gold and the most delicately pierced marble gratings) through which a stream of water used to run (and it ran again at the Coronation Durbar in 1911, when the Royal Baths were again made to "function") that must be one of the most magical of the works of man. Every inch is charming and distinguished. All these rooms are built along the high wall which in the time of Shah Jahan and his many lady loves was washed by the Jumna. But to-day the river has receded and a broad strip of grass intervenes. A DAY'S HAWKING One of my best Indian days was that on which Colonel Sir Umar Hayat Khan took us out a-hawking. Sir Umar is himself something of a hawk--an impressive figure in his great turban with long streamers, his keen aquiline features and blackest of hair. All sport comes naturally to him, whether hunting or shooting, pig-sticking, coursing or falconry; and the Great War found him with a sportsman's eagerness to rush into the fray, where he distinguished himself notably. We found this gallant chieftain in the midst of his retainers on the further bank of the Jumna, at the end of the long bridge. Here the plains begin--miles of fields of stubble, with here and there a tree and here and there a pool or marsh, as far as eye can reach, an ancient walled city in the near distance being almost the only excrescence. Between the river and this city was our hunting ground. With the exception of Sir Umar, two of his friends and ourselves, the company was on foot; and nothing more like the middle ages did I ever see. The retainers were in every kind of costume, one having an old pink coat and one a green; one leading a couple of greyhounds in case we put up a hare; others carrying guns (for we were prepared for all); while the chief falconer and his assistants had their hawks on their wrists, and one odd old fellow was provided with a net, in which a captive live hawk was to flutter and struggle to attract his hereditary foes, the little birds, who, deeming him unable to hit back, were to swarm down to deride and defy and be caught in the meshes. I may say at once that hawking, particularly in this form, does not give me much pleasure. There is something magnificent in the flight of the falcon when it is released and flung towards its prey, but the odds are too heavy in its favour and the whimperings of the doomed quarry strike a chill in the heart. We flew our hawks at duck and plovers, and missed none. Often the first swoop failed, but the deadly implacable pursuer was instantly ready to swoop again, and rarely was a third manoeuvre necessary. Man, under the influence of the excitement of the chase, is the same all the world over, and there was no difference between these Indians moving swiftly to intervene between the hawk and its stricken prey and an English boy running to retrieve his rabbit. Their animation and triumph--even their shouts and cries--were alike. And so we crossed field after field on our gentle steeds--and no one admires gentleness in a horse more than I--stopping only to watch another tragedy of the air, or to look across the river to Delhi and see the Fort under new conditions. All this country I had so often looked down upon from those high massive walls, standing in one of the lovely windows of Shah Jahan's earthly paradise; and now the scene was reversed, and I began to take more delight in it than in the sport. But at a pond to which we next came there was enacted a drama so absorbing that everything else was forgotten, even the heat of the sun. Upon this pond were three wild-duck at which a falcon was instantly flown. For a while, however, they kept their presence of mind and refused to leave the water--diving beneath the surface at the moment that the enemy was within a foot of them. On went the hawk, in its terrible, cruel onset, and up came the ducks, all ready to repeat these tactics when it turned and attacked again. But on one of the party (I swear it was not I), in order to assist the hawk, firing his gun, two of the ducks became panic-stricken and left the water, only of course to be quickly destroyed. It was on the hawk's return journey to the pond to make sure of the third duck that I saw for the first time in my life--and I hope the last--the expression on the countenance of these terrible birds in the execution of their duty: more than the mere execution of duty, the determination to have no more nonsense, to put an end to anything so monstrous as self-protection in others; for my horse being directly in the way, he flew under its neck and for a moment I thought that he was confusing me with the desired mallard. Nothing more merciless or purposeful did I ever see. Then began a really heroic struggle on the part of the victim. He timed his dives to perfection, and escaped so often that the spirit of chivalry would have decreed a truce. But blood had been tasted, and, the desire being for more, the guns were again discharged. Not even they, however, could divert the duck from his intention of saving his life, and he dived away from the shot, too. It was at this moment that assistance to the gallant little bird arrived--not from man, who was past all decency, but from brother feathers. Out of a clear sky suddenly appeared two tern, dazzling in their whiteness, and these did all in their power to infuriate the hawk and lure him from the water. They flew round him and over him; they called him names; they said he was a bully and that all of us (which was true) ought to be ashamed of ourselves; they daunted and challenged and attacked. But the enemy was too strong for them. A fusillade drove them off, and once again we were free to consider the case of the duck, who was still swimming anxiously about, hoping against hope. More shots were fired, one of the boys waded in with a stick, and the dogs were added to the assault; and in the face of so determined a bombardment the poor little creature at last flew up, to be struck down within a few seconds by the insatiable avenger. That was the crowning event of the afternoon. Thereafter we had only small successes, and some very pronounced failures when, as happened several times, a bird flew for safety through a tree, and the hawk, following, was held up amid the branches. One of the birds thus to escape was a blue jay of brilliant beauty. We also got some hares. And then we loitered back under the yellowing sky, and Sir Umar Hayat Khan ceased suddenly to be a foe of fur and feathers and became a poet, talking of sunsets in India and in England as though the appreciation of tender beauty were his only delight. NEW, OR IMPERIAL, DELHI There have been seven Delhis; and it required no little courage to establish a new one--the Imperial capital--actually within sight of most of them; but the courage was forthcoming. Originally the position was to be to the north of the present city, where the Coronation Durbar spread its canvas, but Raisina was found to be healthier, and it is there, some five miles to the south-west, that the new palaces are rising from the rock. Fatehpur-Sikri is the only city with which the New Delhi can be compared; but not Akbar himself could devise it on a nobler scale. Akbar's centralising gift and Napoleon's spacious views may be said to combine here, the long avenues having kinship with the Champs Elysées, and Government House and the Secretariat on the great rocky plateau at Raisina corresponding to the palace on Fatehpur-Sikri's highest point. The splendour and the imagination which designed the lay-out of Imperial Delhi cannot be over-praised, and under the hands of Sir Edwin Lutyens and Mr. Herbert Baker some wonderful buildings are coming to life. The city, since it is several square miles in extent, cannot be finished for some years, but it may be ready to be the seat of Government as soon as 1924. As I have said, the old Delhis are all about the new one. On the Grand Trunk road out of Delhi proper, which goes to Muttra and Agra, you pass, very quickly, on the left, the remains of Firozabad, the capital of Firoz Shah in the later thirteenth century. Two or three miles further on is Indrapat on its hill overlooking the Jumna, surrounded by lofty walls. It is as modern as the sixteenth century, but is now in ruins. At Indrapat reigned Humayun, the son of the mighty Babar (who on his conquering way to Delhi had swum every river in advance of his army) and the father of the mighty Akbar. I loitered long within Indrapat's massive walls, which are now given up to a few attendants and an occasional visitor, and like all the monuments around Delhi are most carefully conserved under the Act for that purpose, which was not the least of Lord Curzon's Viceregal achievements. Among the buildings which still stand, rising from the turf, is Humayun's library. It was here that he met his end--one tradition relating that he fell in the dark on his way to fetch a book, and another that his purpose had been less intellectually amatory. Another mile and we come, still just beside the Grand Trunk road, to Humayun's Tomb, which stands in a vast garden where green parrots continually chatter and pursue each other. There is something very charming--a touch of the truest civilisation, if civilisation means the art of living graciously--in the practice of the old Emperors and rulers, of building their mausoleums during their lifetime and using them, until their ultimate destiny was fulfilled, as pleasure resorts. To this enchanting spot came Humayun and his ladies full of life, to be insouciant and gay. Then, his hour striking, Humayun's happy retreat became Humayun's Tomb. He died in 1556, when Queen Mary, in England, was persecuting Protestants. The Tomb is in good repair and to the stranger to the East who has not yet visited Agra and seen the Taj Mahal (which has a similar ground plan), it is as beautiful as need be. Humayun's cenotaph, in plain white marble, is in the very centre. Below, in the vault immediately beneath it, are his remains. Other illustrious dust is here, too; and some less illustrious, such as that of Humayun's barber, which reposes beneath a dome of burning-blue tiles in a corner of the garden. From the upper galleries of the Emperor's mausoleum the eye enjoys various rich prospects--the valley of the Jumna pulsating in the heat, the walls of the New Delhi at Raisina almost visibly growing, and, to the north, Delhi itself, with the twin towers of the great mosque over all. Down the Grand Trunk road, immediately below, are bullock wagons and wayfarers, and here and there is a loaded camel. Across the road is a curious little group of sacred buildings whither some of the wayfarers no doubt are bent on a pilgrimage; for here is the shrine of the Saint Nizam-ud-din Aulia, who worked miracles during his life and died during the reign of our Edward II--in 1324. On visiting his shrine (which involved the usual assumption of overshoes to prevent our infidel leather from contaminating the floor), we fell, after evading countless beggars and would-be guides, into the hands of a kindly old man who pressed handfuls of little white nuts upon us and who remains in my memory as the only independent Mussulman priest in India, for he refused a tip. In this respect nothing could be more widely separated than his conduct and that of the three priests of the Jama Masjid in Delhi, who, discovering us on the wall, just before the Friday service began, held up the service for several minutes while they explained their schedule of gratuities--beginning with ten rupees for the High Priest--and this after we had already provided for the attendant who had supplied the overshoes and had led us to the point of vantage! I thought how amusing it would be if a visitor to an English cathedral--where money usually has to pass, as it is--were surrounded by the Dean, Archdeacon, Canons and Minor Canons, with outstretched hands, and had to buy his way to a sight of the altar, according to the status of each. The spectacle would be as odd to us, as it must be to the French or Italians--and even perhaps Americans--to see a demand for an entrance fee on the Canterbury portals. Were we to continue on the Grand Trunk road for a few miles, first crossing a noble Mogul bridge, we should come to a little walled city, Badapur, where a turning due west leads to another Delhi of the past, Tughlakabad, and on to yet another, the remains of Lal Kot, where the famous Minar soars to the sky. One of the most pleasing effects of the New Delhi is the series of vistas which the lay-out provides. It has been so arranged that many of the avenues radiating from the central rock on which Government House and the Secretariat are being set are closed at their distant ends by historic buildings. Standing on the temporary tower which marks this centre one is able to see in a few moments all the ruined cities that I have mentioned. The Kutb Minar is the most important landmark in the far south, although the eye rests most lovingly on the red and white comeliness of the tomb of Safdar Jang in the middle distance--which, with Humayun's Tomb, makes a triangle with the new Government House. Within that triangle are the Lodi tombs, marking yet another period in the history of Delhi, the Lodis being the rulers who early in the fifteenth century were defeated by Babar. The Kutb Minar enclosure, which is a large garden, where beautiful masonry, flowers, trees and birds equally flourish, commemorates the capture of Delhi by Muhammad bin Sam in 1193, the battle being directed by his lieutenant, Kutb-ud-din. From that time until the Mutiny in 1857 Delhi was under Mohammedan rule. One of the first acts of the conqueror was to destroy the Hindu temple that stood here and erect the mosque that now takes its place, and he then built the great tower known as the Kutb Minar, or Tower of Victory, which ascends in diminishing red and white storeys to a height of 235 feet, involving the inquisitive view-finder in a climb of 379 steps. On the other side of the mosque are the beginnings of a second tower, which, judging by the size of the base, was to have risen to a still greater height, but it was abandoned after 150 feet. Its purpose was to celebrate for ever the glory of the Emperor Ala-ud-din (1296-1316). In front of the mosque is the Iron Pillar which has been the cause of so much perplexity both to antiquaries and chemists, and meat and drink to Sanscrit scholars. The pillar has an inscription commemorating an early monarch named Chandra who conquered Bengal in the fifth century, and it must have been brought to this spot for re-erection. But its refusal to rust, and the purity of its constituents, are its special merits. To me the mysteries of iron pillars are without interest, and what I chiefly remember of this remarkable pleasaunce is the exquisite stone carvings of the ruined cloisters and the green parrots that play among the trees. THE DIVERS As we were leaving the Kutb after a late afternoon visit, my host and I were hailed excitedly by an elderly man whose speech was incomprehensible, but whose gestures indicated plainly enough that there was something important up the hill. The line of least resistance being the natural one in India, we allowed him to guide us, and came after a few minutes, among the ruins of the citadel of Lal Kot, to one of those deep wells gained by long flights of steps whither the ladies of the palaces used to resort in the hottest weather. Evening was drawing on and the profundities of this cavern were forbiddingly gloomy; nor was the scene rendered more alluring by the presence of three white-bearded old men, almost stark naked and leaner than greyhounds, who shivered and grimaced, and suggested nothing so much as fugitives from the grave. They were, however, not only alive, but athletically so, being professional divers who earned an exceedingly uncomfortable living by dropping, feet first, from the highest point of the building into the water eighty feet below. One of them indicating his willingness--more than willingness, eagerness--to perform this manoeuvre for two rupees, we agreed, and placing us on a step from which the best view could be had, he fled along the gallery to the top of the shaft, and after certain preliminary movements, to indicate how perilous was the adventure, and how chilly the evening, and how more than worth two rupees it was, he committed his body to the operations of the law of gravity. We saw it through the apertures in the shaft on its downward way and then heard the splash as it reached the distant water, while a crowd of pigeons who had retired to roost among the masonry dashed out and away. The diver emerged from the well and came running up the steps towards us, while his companion scarecrows fled also to the top of the shaft and one after the other dropped down, too; so that in a minute or so we were surrounded by three old, dripping men, each demanding two rupees. Useless to protest that we had desired but one of them to perform: they pursued us into the open, and even clung to our knees, and of course we paid--afterwards to learn that one rupee for the lot was a lavish guerdon. One meets with these divers continually, wherever there is a pool sacred or otherwise; but some actually leap into the water and do not merely drop. At the shrine of the Saint Nizam-ud-din, near Humayun's Tomb, I found them--but there they were healthy-looking youths--and again at Fatehpur-Sikri. But for this sporadic diving, the wrestling bouts which are common everywhere, the Nautch and the jugglers, India seems to have no pastimes. THE ROPE TRICK The returning traveller from India is besieged by questioners who want to know all about the most famous of the jugglers' performances. In this trick the magician flings a rope into the air, retaining one end in his hand, and his boy climbs up it and disappears. I did not see it. AGRA AND FATEHPUR-SIKRI All the Indian cities that I saw seemed to cover an immense acreage, partly because every modern house has its garden and compound. In a country where land is cheap and servants are legion there need be no congestion, and, so far, the Anglo-Indian knows little or nothing of the embarrassments of dwellers in New York or London. To every one in India falls naturally a little faithful company of assistants to oil the wheels of life--groom, gardener, butler and so forth--and a spacious dwelling-place to think of England in, and calculate the variable value of the rupee, and wonder why the dickens So-and-so got his knighthood. Agra seemed to me to be the most widespreading city of all; but very likely it is not. In itself it is far from being the most interesting, but it has one building of great beauty--the Pearl Mosque in the Fort--and one building of such consummate beauty as to make it a place of pilgrimage that no traveller would dare to avoid--the Taj Mahal. Whether or not the Taj Mahal is the most enchanting work of architecture in the world I leave it to more extensive travellers to say. To my eyes it has an unearthly loveliness which I make no effort to pass on to others. The Taj Mahal was built by that inspired friend of architecture, Shah Jahan, as the tomb of the best beloved of his wives, Arjmand Banu, called Mumtaz-i-Mahal or Pride of the Palace. There she lies, and there lies her husband. I wonder how many of the travellers who stand entranced before this mausoleum, in sunshine and at dusk or under the moon, and who have not troubled about its history, realise that Giotto's Tower in Florence is three centuries older, and St. Peter's in Rome antedates it by a little, and St. Paul's Cathedral in London is only twenty or thirty years younger. Yet so it is. In India one falls naturally into the way of thinking of everything that is not of our own time as being of immense age, if not prehistoric. Opinions differ as to the respective beauties of Agra Fort and Delhi Fort, but in so far as the enclosures themselves are considered I give my vote unhesitatingly to Delhi. Yet when one thinks also of what can be seen from the ramparts, then the palm goes instantly to Agra, for its view of the Taj Mahal. It is tragic, walking here, to think of the last days of Shah Jahan, who brought into being both the marble palace and the wonderful Moti-Masjid or marble mosque. For in 1658 his son, Aurungzebe, deposed him and for the rest of his life he was imprisoned in these walls. His grandfather, Akbar, the other great Agra builder, was made of sterner stuff. All Shah Jahan's creations--the Taj, the marble mosque, the palaces both here and at Delhi, even the great Jama Masjid at Delhi,--have a certain sensuous quality. They are not exactly decadent, but they suggest sweetness rather than strength. The Empire had been won, and Shah Jahan could indulge in luxury and ease. But Akbar had had to fight, and he remained to the end a man of action, and we see his character reflected in his stronghold Fatehpur-Sikri, which one visits from Agra and never forgets. If I were asked to say which place in India most fascinated me and touched the imagination I think I should name this dead city. Akbar, the son of Babar, is my hero among the Moguls, and this was Akbar's chosen home, until scarcity of water forced him to abandon it for Agra. Akbar, the noblest of the great line of Moguls whose splendour ended in 1707 with the death of Aurungzebe, came to the throne in 1556, only eight years before Shakespeare was born, and died in 1605, and it is interesting to realise how recent were his times, the whole suggestion of Fatehpur-Sikri being one of very remote antiquity. Yet when it was being built so modern a masterpiece as _Hamlet_ was being written and played. Those interested in the Great Moguls ought really to visit Fatehpur-Sikri before Delhi or Agra, because Akbar was the grandfather of Shah Jahan. But there can be no such chronological wanderings in India. Have we not already seen Humayun's Tomb, outside Delhi?--and Humayun was Akbar's father. They say the leopard and the jackal keep The courts where Akbar gloried.... --this adaptation of FitzGerald's lines ran through my mind as we passed from room to room and tower to tower of Fatehpur-Sikri. There is nothing to compare with it, except perhaps Pompeii. And in that comparison one realises how impossible it is at a hazard to date an Indian ruin, for, as I have said, Fatehpur-Sikri is from the days of Elizabeth, while Pompeii was destroyed in the first century, and yet Pompeii in many ways seems less ancient. The walls of Fatehpur-Sikri are seven miles round and the city rises to the summits of two steep hills. It was on the higher one that Akbar set his palace. Civilisation has run a railway through the lower levels; the old high road still climbs the hill under the incredibly lofty walls of the palace. The royal enclosure is divided into all the usual courtyards and apartments, but they are on a grander scale. Also the architecture is more mixed. Here is the swimming bath; here are the cool, dark rooms for the ladies of the harem in the hottest days, with odd corners where Akbar is said to have played hide-and-seek with them; here is the hall where Akbar, who kept an open mind on religion, listened to, and disputed with, dialecticians of varying creeds--himself seated in the middle, and the doctrinaires in four pulpits around him; here is the Mint; here is the house of the Turkish queen, with its elaborate carvings and decorations; here is the girls' school, with a courtyard laid out for human chess, the pieces being slave-girls; here is a noble mosque; here is the vast court where the great father of his people administered justice, or what approximated to it, and received homage. Here are the spreading stables and riding school; here is even the tomb of a favourite elephant. And here is the marble tomb of the Saint, the Shaikh Salim, whose holiness brought it about that the Emperor became at last the father of a son--none other than Jahangir. The shrine is visited even to this day by childless wives, who tie shreds of their clothing to the lattice-work of a marble window as an earnest of their maternal worthiness. It is visited also by the devout for various purposes, among others by those whose horses are sick and who nail votive horseshoes to the great gate. According to tradition the mother of Jahangir was a Christian named Miriam, and her house and garden may be seen, the house having the traces of a fresco which by those who greatly wish it can be believed to represent the Annunciation. Tradition, however, is probably wrong, and the princess was from Jaipur and a true Mussulwoman. From every height--and particularly from the Panch Mahal's roof--one sees immense prospects and realises what a landmark the stronghold of Fatehpur-Sikri must have been to the dwellers in the plains; but no view is the equal of that which bursts on the astonished eyes at the great north gateway, where all Rajputana is at one's feet. I do not pretend to any exhaustive knowledge of the gates of the world, but I cannot believe that there can be others set as this Gate of Victory is in the walls of a palace, at the head of myriad steps, on the very top of a commanding rock and opening on to thousands of square miles of country. Having seen the amazing landscape one descends the steps to the road, and looking up is astonished and exalted by seeing the gate from below. Nothing so grand has ever come into my ken. The Taj Mahal is unforgettingly beautiful; but this glorious gate in the sky has more at once to exercise and stimulate the imagination and reward the vision. On the gate are the words: "Isa (Jesus), on whom be peace, said: 'The world is a bridge; pass over it, but build no house on it. The world endures but an hour; spend it in devotion.'" Having seen Fatehpur-Sikri, where Akbar lived and did more than build a house, it is a natural course to return to Agra by way of Sikandra, where he was buried. Sikandra is like the Taj Mahal and Humayun's Tomb in general disposition--the mausoleum itself being in the centre of a garden. But it is informed by a more sombre spirit. The burial-place of the mighty Emperor is in the very heart of the building, gained by a sloping passage lit by an attendant with a torch. Here was Akbar laid, while high above, on the topmost stage of the mausoleum, in the full light, is his cenotoph of marble, with the ninety-nine names of Allah inscribed upon it. Near the cenotaph is a marble pillar on which once was set the Koh-i-noor diamond, chief of Akbar's treasures. To-day it is part of the English regalia. LUCKNOW The Ridge at Delhi is a sufficiently moving reminder of the Indian Mutiny; but it is at Lucknow that the most poignant phases are re-enacted. At Delhi may be seen, preserved for ever, the famous buildings which the British succeeded in keeping--Hindu Rao's house, and the Observatory, and Flagstaff Tower, the holding of which gave them victory; while in the walls of the Kashmir Gate our cannon balls are still visibly imbedded. There is also the statue of John Nicholson in the Kudsia Garden, and in the little Museum of the Fort are countless souvenirs. But Lucknow was the centre of the tragedy, and the Residency is preserved as a sacred spot. Not even the recent Great War left in its track any more poignant souvenirs of fortitude and disaster than the little burial ground here, around the ruins of the church, where those who fell in the Mutiny and those who fought or suffered in the Mutiny are lying. Long ago as it was--1857--there are still a few vacant lots destined to be filled. Chief of the tombstones that bear the honoured names is that of the heroic defender who kept upon the topmost roof the banner of England flying. It has the simple and touching inscription: "Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty. May the Lord have mercy on his soul!" In the Residency every step of the siege and relief can be followed. I was there first on a serene evening after rain; and but for some tropical trees it might have been an English scene. All that was lacking was a thrush or blackbird's note; but the grass was as soft and green as at home and the air as sweet. I shall long retain the memory of the contrast between the incidents which give this enclosure its unique place in history and the perfect calm brooding over all. And whenever any one calls my attention to a Bougainvillaea I shall say, "Ah! But you should see the Bougainvillaea in the Residency garden at Lucknow." Everywhere that I went in India I found this noble lavish shrub in full flower, but never wearing such a purple as at Lucknow. The next best was in the Fort at Delhi. It was not till I reached Calcutta that I caught any glimpse of the famous scarlet goldmore tree in leaf; but I saw enough to realise how splendid must be the effect of an avenue of them. Bombay, however, was rich in hedges of poinsettia, and they serve as an introduction to the goldmore's glory. Before leaving the Residency I should like to quote a passage from the little brochure on the defence of Lucknow which Sir Harcourt Butler, the Governor of the United Provinces, with characteristic thoughtfulness has prepared for the use of his guests. "The visitor to the Residency," he wrote, thinking evidently of a similar evening to that on which we visited it, "who muses on the past and the future, may note that upon the spot where the enemy's assault was hottest twin hospitals for Europeans and Indians have been erected by Oudh's premier Taluqdar, the Maharaja of Balrampur; and as the sun sets over the great city, lingering awhile on the trim lawns and battered walls which link the present with the past, a strong hope may come to him, like a distant call to prayer, that old wounds may soon be healed, and old causes of disunion may disappear, and that Englishmen and Indians, knit together by loyalty to their beloved Sovereign, may be as brothers before the altar of the Empire, bearing the Empire's burden, and sharing its inestimable privileges, and, it may be, adding something not yet seen or dreamt of to its world-wide and weather-beaten fame." I left Lucknow with regret, and would advise any European with time to spare, and the desire to be at once civilised and warm, to think seriously of spending a winter there instead of in the illusory sunshine of the Riviera, or the comparative barbarity of Algiers. The journey is longer, but the charm of the place would repay. A TIGER To have the opportunity of hunting a tiger--on an elephant too--which by a stroke of luck fell to me, is to experience the un-English character of India at its fullest. Almost everything else could be reproduced elsewhere--the palaces, the bazaars, the caravans, the mosques and temples with their worshippers--but not the jungle, the Himalayas, the vast swamps through which our elephants waded up to the Plimsoll, the almost too painful ecstasies of the pursuit of an eater of man. The master of the chase, who has many tigers to his name, was Sir Harcourt Butler, whose hospitality is famous, so large and warm is it, and so minute, and it was because he was not satisfied that the ordinary diversions of the "Lucknow Week" were sufficient for his guests, that he impulsively arranged a day's swamp-deer shooting on the borders of Nepaul. The time was short, or of elephants there would have been seventy or more; as it was, we were apologised to (there were only about six of us) for the poverty of the supply, a mere five and twenty being obtainable. But to these eyes, which had never seen more than six elephants at once, and those in the captivity either of a zoo or a circus, a row of five and twenty was astounding. They were waiting for us on the plain, at a spot distant some score of miles by car, through improvised roads, from the station, whither an all-night railway journey had borne us. The name of the station, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten: there was no room in my heated brain for such trifles; but I have forgotten nothing else. It was after an hour and a half's drive in the cool and spicy early morning air--between the fluttering rags on canes which told the drivers how to steer--that we came suddenly in sight of some distant tents and beside them an immense long dark inexplicable mass which through the haze seemed now and then to move. As we drew nearer, this mass was discerned to be a row of elephants assembled in line ready to salute the Governor. The effect was more impressive and more Eastern than anything I had seen. Grotesque too--for some had painted faces and gilded toes, and not a few surveyed me with an expression in which the comic spirit was too noticeable. Six or seven had howdahs, the rest blankets: those with howdahs being for the party and its leader, Bam Bahadur, a noted shikaree; and the others to carry provisions and bring back the spoil. On the neck of each sat an impassive mahout. To one to whom the pen is mightier than the gun and whose half a century's bag contains only a few rabbits, a hedgehog and a moorhen, it is no inconsiderable ordeal to be handed a repeating rifle and some dozens of cartridges and be told that that is your elephant--the big one there, with the red ochre on its forehead. To be on an elephant in the jungle without the responsibilities of a lethal weapon would be sufficient thrill for one day: but to be expected also to deal out death was too much. In the company of others, however, one can do anything; and I gradually ascended to the top, not, as the accomplished hunters did, by placing a foot on the trunk and being swung heavenwards, but painfully, on a ladder; by my side being a very keen Indian youth, the son of a minor chieftain, who spoke English perfectly and was to instruct me in Nimrod's lore. And so the procession started, and for a while discomfort set acutely in, for the movement of a howdah is short and jerky, and it takes some time both to adjust oneself to it and to lose the feeling that the elephant sooner or later--and probably sooner--must trip and fall. But the glory of the morning, the urgency of our progress, the novelty and sublimity of the means of transport, the strangeness of the scene, and my companion's speculations on the day's promise, overcame any personal want of ease and I forgot myself in the universal. Our destination was a series of marshes some six miles away, where the gonds--or swamp-deer--were usually found, and we were divided up, some elephants, of which mine was one, taking the left wing, with instructions on reaching a certain spot to wait there for the deer who would move off in that direction; others taking the right wing; and others beating up the middle. We began with a trial of nervous stamina--for a river far down in its bed below us almost immediately occurred, and this had to be crossed. I abandoned all hope as the elephant descended the bank almost, as it seemed, perpendicularly, and plunged into the water with an enormous splash. But after he had squeeged through, extricating himself with a gigantic wrench, the ground was level for a long while, and there was time to look around and recollect one's fatalism. Far ahead in a blue mist were the Himalayas. All about were unending fields, with here and there white cattle grazing. Cranes stretched their necks above the grass; now and then a herd of blackbuck (which were below our hunting ambitions) scampered away; the sky was full of wild-duck and other water-fowl. Of the hunting of the gond I should have something to say had not a diversion occurred which relegated that lively and elusive creature to an obscure place in the background. We had finished the beat, and most of us had emerged from the swamp to higher ground where an open space, or maidan, corresponding to a drive in an English preserve, but on the grand scale, divided it from the jungle--all our thoughts being set upon lunch--when suddenly across this open space passed a blur of yellow and black only a few yards from the nearest elephant. It was so unexpected and so quick that even the trained eyes of my companion were uncertain. "Did you see?" he asked me in a voice of hushed and wondering awe. "Could that have been a tiger?" I could not say, but I understood his excitement. For the tiger is the king of Indian carnivorae, the most desired of all game. Hunters date their lives by them: such and such a thing happened not on the anniversary of their wedding day; not when their boy went to Balliol; not when they received the K.C.I.E.; but in the year that they shot this or that man-eater. That a tiger had really chanced upon us we soon ascertained. Also that it had been hit by the rifle on the first elephant and had disappeared into the jungle, which consisted hereabouts of a grass some twenty feet high, bleached by the sun. A Council of War followed, and we were led by Bam Bahadur on a rounding-up manoeuvre. According to his judgment the tiger would remain just inside the cover, and our duty was therefore to make a wide detour and then advance in as solid a semicircle as possible upon him and force him again into the open, where the hunter who had inflicted the first wound was to remain stationed. Accordingly all the rest of us entered the jungle in single file, our elephants treading down the grass with their great irresistible feet or wrenching it away with their invincible trunks. It was now that the shikaree was feeling the elephant shortage. Had there been seventy-five instead of only twenty-five, he said, all would be well: he could then form a cordon such as no tiger might break through. For lack of these others, when the time came to turn and advance upon our prey he caused fires to be lighted here and there where the gaps were widest, so that we forged onwards not only to the accompaniment of the shrill cries of the mahouts and the noise of plunging and overwhelming elephants, but to the fierce roar and crackle of burning stalks. And thus, after an hour in this bewildering tangle, with the universe filled with sound and strangeness, and the scent of wood smoke mingling with the heat of the air, and the lust of the chase in our veins, we drew to the spot where the animal was guessed to be hiding, and knew that the guess was true by the demeanour of the elephants. Real danger had suddenly entered into the adventure; and they showed it. A wounded tiger at bay can do desperate things, and some of the elephants now refused to budge forward any more, or complied only with terrified screams. Some of the unarmed mahouts were also reluctant, and shouted their fears. But the shikaree was inexorable. There the tiger was, and we must drive it out. Closer and closer we drew, until every elephant's flank was pressing against its neighbour, the outside ones being each at the edge of the open space; in the middle of which was the twenty-fifth with its vigilant rider standing tense with his rifle to his shoulder. The noise was now deafening. Every one was uttering something, either to scare the tiger or to encourage the elephants or his neighbour or possibly himself; while now and then from the depths of the grass ahead of us came an outraged growl, with more than a suggestion of contempt in it for such unsportsmanship as could array twenty-five elephants, half a hundred men and a dozen rifles against one inoffensive wild beast. And then suddenly the grass waved, there was a rustle and rush and a snarl of furious rage, and once again a blur of yellow and black crossed the open space. Six or more reports rang out, and to my dying day I shall remember, with mixed feelings, that one of these reports was the result of pressure on a trigger applied by a finger belonging to me. That the tiger was hit again--by other bullets than mine--was certain, but instead of falling it disappeared into the jungle on the other side of the maidan, and again we were destined to employ enclosing tactics. It was now intensely hot, but nobody minded; and we were an hour and a half late for lunch, but nobody minded: the chase was all! The phrase "out for blood" had taken on its literal primitive meaning. The second rounding-up was less simple than the first, because the tiger had more choice of hiding places; but again our shikaree displayed his wonderful intuition, and in about an hour we had ringed the creature in. That this was to be the end was evident from the electrical purposefulness which animated the old hands. The experienced shots were carefully disposed, and my own peace of mind was not increased by the warning "If the tiger leaps on your elephant, don't shoot"--the point being that novices can be very wild with their rifles under such conditions. As the question "What shall I do instead?" was lost in the tumult, the latter stages of this momentous drama were seen by these eyes less steadily and less whole than I could have wished. But I saw the tiger spring, growling, at an elephant removed some four yards from mine, and I saw it driven back by a shot from one of the native hunters. And then when, after another period of anxious expectancy, it emerged again from the undergrowth, and sprang towards our host, I saw him put two bullets into it almost instantaneously; and the beautiful obstinate creature fell, never to rise again. THE SACRED CITY The devout Hindu knows in Benares the height of ecstasy: but, if I am typical, the European experiences there both discomfort and inquietude. Nowhere else in India did I feel so foreign, so alien. To be of cool Christian traditions and an Occidental, an inquisitive sightseer among these fervent pilgrims intent upon their pious duties and rapt in exaltation and unthinking inflexible belief, was in itself disconcerting, almost to the point of shame; while the pilgrims were so remarkably of a different world, a different era, that one felt lost. This, however, is not all. India is never too sanitary, except where the English are in their own strongholds, but Benares--at any rate the parts which the tourist must visit--is least scrupulous in such matters. The canonization of the cow must needs carry a penalty with it, and Benares might be described as a sanctified byre without any labouring Hercules in prospect. Godliness it may have, but cleanliness is very distant. The streets, too, seem to be narrower and more congested than those in any other city; so that it is often embarrassingly difficult to treat the approaching ruminants with the respect due to them. Fortunately they are seldom anything but mild and unaggressive. Part perplexed, part inquisitive, and part contemptuous, they are met everywhere, while in one of the temples in which the unbeliever may (to his great contentment) do no more than stand at the entrance, they are frankly worshipped. In another temple monkeys are revered too, careering about the walls and courtyards and being fed by the curious and the devout. Holiness is not only the peculiar characteristic of Benares: it is also its staple industry. In the streets there is a shrine at every few feet, while the shops where little lingams are for sale must be numbered by hundreds. The chief glory of Benares is, however, the Ganges, on one side of which is the teeming sweltering city with its palaces and temples heaped high for two or three miles, and bathers swarming at the river's edge; while the other bank is flat and bare. A watering-place front on the ocean's shore does not end more suddenly and completely. There is nothing that I have seen with which to compare the north bank of the Ganges, with the morning sun on its many-coloured façades and towers, but Venice. As one is rowed slowly down the river it is of Venice that one instinctively thinks. As in Venice, the palaces are of various colours, pink and red and yellow and blue, and the sun has crumbled their façades in the same way. But there is this difference--that over the Benares roofs the monkeys scamper. Gradually Venice is forgotten as the novel interest of the scene captures one's whole attention. At each of the ghauts (a landing place or steps) variegated masses of pilgrims--no matter how early the hour, and to see them rightly one ought to start quite by six--are making their ablutions and deriving holiness from the yellow tide. You saw them yesterday trudging wearily through the streets, the sacred city at last reached; and here they are in their thousands, brown and glistening. They are of every age: quite old white-bearded men and withered women, meticulously serious in their ritual, and then boys and girls deriving also a little fun from their immersion. Here and there the bathing ghaut is diversified by a burning ghaut, and one may catch a glimpse of the extremities of the corpse twisting among the faggots. Here and there is a boat or raft in which a priest is seated under his umbrella, fishing for souls as men in punts on the Thames fish for roach. And over all is the pitiless sun, hot even now, before breakfast, but soon to be unbearable. I was not sorry when the voyage ended and we returned to the Maharajah's Guest House for a little repose and refreshment, before visiting the early Buddhist stronghold at Sarnath, the "Deer Park," where the Master first preached his doctrine and whither his five attendants sought a haven after they had forsaken him. Drifting about its ruins and contemplating the glorious capital of the famous Asoka column--all that has been preserved--I found myself murmuring the couplet,-- With a friendly Buddhist priest I seek respite from the strife And manifold anomalies which go to make up life-- but the odds are that even the early Buddhists were not immune. CALCUTTA Calcutta and Bombay are strangely different--so different that they can only be contrasted. Bombay, first and foremost, has the sea, and I can think of nothing more lovely than the sunsets that one watches from the lawn of the Yacht Club or from the promenade on Warder Road. Calcutta has no sea--nothing but a very difficult tidal river. Calcutta, again, has no Malabar Hill. But then Bombay has no open space to compare with the Maidan; and for all its crowded bazaars it has no street so diversified and interesting as Harrison Road. It has no Chinatown. Its climate is enervating where that of Calcutta, if not bracing--and no one could call it that--at any rate does not extract every particle of vigour from the European system. But the special glory of Calcutta is the Maidan, that vast green space which, unlike so many parks, spreads itself at the city's feet. One does not have to seek it: there it is, with room for every one and a race-course and a cricket-ground to boot. And if there is no magic in the evening prospect such as the sea and its ships under the flaming or mysterious enveiling sky can offer to the eye at Bombay, there is a quality of golden richness in the twilight over Calcutta, as seen across the Maidan, through its trees, that is unique. I rejoiced in it daily. This twilight is very brief, but it is exquisite. It is easier in Calcutta to be suddenly transported to England than in any other Indian city that I visited. There are, it is true, more statues of Lord Curzon than we are accustomed to; but many of the homes are quite English, save for the multitude of servants; Government House, serene and spacious and patrician, is a replica of Kedlestone Hall in Derbyshire: the business buildings within and without are structurally English, and the familiar Scotch accent sounds everywhere; but the illusion is most complete in St. John's Church, that very charming, cool, white and comfortable sanctuary, in the manner of Wren, and in St. Andrew's too. Secluded here, the world shut off, one might as well be in some urban conventicle at home on a sunny August day, as in the glamorous East. St. John's particularly I shall remember: its light, its distinction, its surrounding verdancy. ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee. One curious task which I set myself in Calcutta was to find Rose Aylmer's grave, for it was there that, in 1800, the mortal part of the lady whom Landor immortalised was buried. But I tried in vain. I walked for hours amid the sombre pyramidal tombs beneath which the Calcutta English used to be laid, among them, in 1815, Thackeray's father, but I found no trace of her whom I sought. I have seen many famous cemeteries, all depressing, from Kensal Green to Genoa, from Rock Creek to Montmartre, but none can approach in its forlorn melancholy the tract of stained and crumbling sarcophagi packed so close as almost to touch each other, in the burial ground off Rawdon Street and Park Street. Let no one establish a monument of cement over me. Any material rather than that! JOB AND JOE If I did not find Rose Aylmer's tomb, I found, in St. John's pleasant God's Acre, the comely mausoleum of Job Charnock, and this delighted me, because for how long has been ringing in my ears that line-- "The tall pale widow is mine, Joe, the little brown girl's for you." which I met with so many years ago in "The Light That Failed," where the Nilghai sings it to his own music! He got it, he said, from a tombstone, in a distant land; and the tombstone is now incorporated with Job Charnock's, the distant land being India; but the verses I have had to collect elsewhere. I found them in Calcutta, in my host's library. Joe was Joseph, or Josiah, Townsend, a pilot of the Ganges, and tradition has it that he and Job Charnock, who, as an officer of the East India Company, founded Calcutta in 1690, saved a pretty young Hindu widow from ascending her husband's funeral pyre and committing suttee. Tradition states further that Job Charnock and his bride "lived lovingly for many years and had several children," until in due time she was buried in the mausoleum at St. John's, where her husband sacrificed a cock on each anniversary of her death ever after. The story has been examined and found to be improbable, but Charnock was a bold fellow who might easily have started many legends; and the poem remains, and if there is a livelier, I should like to know of it. I have been at the agreeable pains of reconstructing the verses as they were probably written, so that there are two more than the Nilghai sang. The whole is a very curious haunting ballad, leaving us with the desire to know much more of the lives of both men--Job Charnock the frontiersman, and Joseph Townsend, "skilful and industrious, a kind father and a useful friend," who could navigate not only the Ganges but the shifting Hooghli. Rarely can so much mixed autobiography and romance have been packed into six stanzas--and here too the adventurous East and West meet:-- I've shipped my cable, messmates, I'm dropping down with the tide; I have my sailing orders while ye at anchor ride, And never, on fair June morning, have I put out to sea With clearer conscience, or better hope, or heart more light and free. An Ashburnham! A Fairfax! Hark how the corslets ring! Why are the blacksmiths out to-day, beating those men at the spring? Ho, Willie, Hob and Cuddie!--bring out your boats amain, There's a great red pool to swim them o'er, yonder in Deadman's Lane. Nay, do not cry, sweet Katie--only a month afloat And then the ring and the parson, at Fairlight Church, my doat. The flower-strewn path--the Press Gang! No, I shall never see Her little grave where the daisies wave in the breeze on Fairlight Lee. "Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd like a wedge! Out with the hangers, messmates, but do not strike with the edge!" Cries Charnock, "Scatter the faggots! Double that Brahmin in two! The tall pale widow is mine, Joe, the little brown girl for you." Young Joe (you're nearing sixty), why is your hide so dark? Katie had fair soft blue eyes--who blackened yours? Why, hark! The morning gun! Ho, steady! The arquebuses to me; I've sounded the Dutch High Admiral's heart as my lead doth sound the sea. Sounding, sounding the Ganges--floating down with the tide, Moor me close by Charnock, next to my nut-brown bride. My blessing to Katie at Fairlight--Howell, my thanks to you-- Steady!--We steer for Heaven through scud drifts cold and blue. EXIT I arrived in Bombay on the last day of 1919 and embarked at Calcutta for Japan on the evening of February 17th, seven weeks later. But to embark at Calcutta is not to leave it, for we merely dropped down the river a short distance that night, and for the next day and a half we were in the Hooghli, sounding all the way. It is a difficult river to emerge from; nor do I recommend any one else to travel, as I did, on a boat with a forward deck cargo of two or three hundred goats on the starboard side and half as many monkeys on the port, with a small elephant tethered between and a cage of leopards adjacent. These, the property of an American dealer in wild animals, were intended for sale in the States; all but one of the leopards, which, being lame, he had decided to kill, to provide a "robe" for his wife. Nothing could be more different than the careless aimless activities of the monkeys I had seen among the trees between Agra and Delhi and scampering over the parapets of Benares, all thieves and libertines with a charter, and the restriction of these poor cowering mannikins, overcrowded in their cages, with an abysmal sorrow in their eyes. Many died on the voyage, and I think the Indian Government should look into the question of their export very narrowly. JAPAN INTRODUCTORY I ought not to write about Japan at all, for I was there but three short weeks, and rain or snow fell almost all the time, and I sailed for America on the very day that the cherry blossom festivities began. But--well, there is only one Fujiyama, and it is surpassingly beautiful and satisfying--the perfect mountain--and I should feel contemptible if I did not add my eulogy of it--my gratitude--to all the others. Since, then, I am to say something of Fuji, let the way be paved. THE LITTLE LAND One is immediately struck, on landing at Kobe--and continually after--by the littleness of Japan. The little flimsy houses, the little flimsy shops, the small men, the toylike women, the tiny children, as numerous and like unto each other as the pebbles on the shore--these are everywhere. But although small of stature the Japanese men are often very powerfully built and many of them suggest great strength. They are taking to games, too. While I was in the country baseball was a craze, and boys were practising pitching and catching everywhere, even in the streets of the cities. Littleness--with which is associated the most delicate detail and elaborate finish--is the mark also of modern Japanese art. In the curiosity shops whatever was massive or largely simple was Chinese. Even the royal palaces at Kyoto are small, the rooms, exquisite as they are, with perfect joinery and ancient paintings, being seldom more than a few feet square, with very low ceilings. I went over two of these palaces, falling into the hands, at each, of English-speaking officials whose ciceronage was touched with a kind of rapture. At the Nijo, especially, was my guide an enthusiast, becoming lyrical over the famous cartoons of the "Wet Heron" and the "Sleeping Sparrows." In India I had grown accustomed to removing my shoes at the threshold of mosques. There it was out of deference to Allah, but in Japan the concession is demanded solely in the interests of floor polish, and you take your shoes off not only in palaces and houses but in some of the shops. It gave one an odd burglarious feeling to be creeping noiselessly from room to room of the Nijo; but there was nothing to steal. The place was empty, save for decoration. There is a certain amplitude in some of the larger Kyoto temples, with their long galleries and massive gateways, but these only serve to accentuate the littleness elsewhere. In the principal Kyoto temple I had for guide a minute Japanese with the ecstatic passion for trifles that seems to mark his race. A picture representing the miracle of the "Fly-away Sparrows," as he called them, was the treasure on which he concentrated, and next to that he drew my attention to the boards of the gangway uniting two buildings, which, as one stepped on them, emitted a sound that the Japanese believe to resemble the song of Philomela. To me it brought no such memory, and the fact that this effect, common in Japan, is technically known as "a nightingale squeak," perhaps supports my insensitiveness. If old Japan is to be found anywhere it is in Kyoto--in spite of its huge factory chimneys. In Tokio, complete European dress is common in the streets, but in Kyoto it is the exception. Tokio also wears boots, but Kyoto is noisy with pattens night and day. Not only are there countless shops in Kyoto given up to porcelain, carvings, screens, bronzes, old armour, and so forth, but no matter how trumpery the normal stock in trade of the other shops, a number of them have a little glass case--a shop within a shop, as it were--in which a few rare and ancient articles of beauty are kept. A great deal of Japan is expressed in this pretty custom. THE RICE FIELDS My first experience of Japanese scenery of any wildness was gained while shooting the rapids of the Katsuragava, an exciting voyage among boulders in a shallow and often very turbulent stream in a steep and craggy valley a few miles from Kyoto. Previous to this expedition I had seen, from the train, only the trim rice fields,--each a tiny parallelogram with its irrigation channels as a boundary, so carefully tended that there is not a weed in the whole country. Japan is cut up into these absurd little squares, of which twenty and more would go into an ordinary English field. Often the terminal posts are painted a bright red; often a little row of family tombs is there too. The watermill is a common object of the country. But birds are few and animals one sees never. Indeed in all my three weeks I saw no four-footed animals, except a dead rat, two pigs and one cat. I am excluding of course beasts of draught--horses and bullocks--which are everywhere. Not a cow, not a sheep, not a dog! but that there are cattle is proved by the proverbial excellence of Kobe steaks, which I tested and can swear to. In all my three weeks, both in cities and the country, I saw only one crying child. Of children there were millions, mostly boys, but only one was unhappy. SURFACE MATERIALISM In spite of Kyoto's eight hundred temples I could not get any but a materialistic concept of its inhabitants; and elsewhere this impression was emphasised. A stranger cannot, of course, know; he can but record his feelings, without claiming any authority for them. But I am sure I was never in a country where I perceived fewer indications of any spiritual life. Every one is busy; every one seems to be happy or at any rate not discontented; every one chatters and laughs and is, one feels, a fatalist. Sufficient unto the day! After all, it is the women of a nation that chiefly keep burning the sacred flame and pass it on; but in Japan, I understand, the women are far too busy in pleasing the men to have time for such duties; Japan is run by men for men. It is an unwritten law that a woman must never be anything but gay in her lord's presence, must never for a moment claim the privilege of peevishness. As an instance of the Japanese woman's indifference to fate and readiness to oblige, I may say that we had on our ship two or three hundred girls in charge of a duenna or so, who were bound for Honolulu to be married to Japanese settlers there, to whom their photographs had been forwarded. These girls are known as "Picture Brides." At Honolulu their new proprietors awaited them, and I suppose identified and appropriated them, although to the European eye one face differed no whit from another. The Japanese have the practical qualities that consort with materialism. They are quick to supply creature comforts; their hotels are well-managed; their cooks are excellent; their sign-posts are numerous and, I believe, very circumstantial; at the railway stations are lists of the show places in the neighbourhood; the telephone is general. But there are strange failings. The roads, for example, are often very bad, although so many motor-cars exist. Even in Tokio the puddles and mud are abominable. There is no fixed rule to force rickshaw men to carry bells. There is no rule of the road at all, so that the driver of a vehicle must be doubly alert, having to make up his mind not only as to what he is going to do himself, but also what the approaching driver is probably going to do. From time to time, I believe, a rule of the road has been tried, but it has always broken down. The rickshaw bells are the more important, because the Japanese are not observant. They may see Fuji and stand for hours worshipping a spray of cherry blossom, but they do not see what is coming. Normally they look down. The rickshaw is comfortable and speedy; but to be drawn about by a fellow-creature is a humiliating experience and I never ceased to feel too conspicuous and ashamed. I discovered also how easy it is to lose one's temper with these men. I used to sit and wonder if there had ever been a runaway, and I never hired a rickshaw without thinking of Mr. Anstey's story of the talking horse. FIRST GLIMPSE OF FUJI I left Kyoto for Yokohama on Wednesday night, March 17, 1920, at eleven, and Thursday, March 18, 1920, thus remains with me as a red-letter day, for it was then, at about half-past seven in the morning, that, lifting the blind of my sleeping compartment, I saw--almost within reach, as it seemed, dazzlingly white under its snow against a clear blue sky, with the sun flooding it with glory--Fujiyama. I was to see it again several times--for I went to Myanoshita for that purpose--but never again so startlingly and wonderfully as this. When I am asked to name in a word the most beautiful thing I saw on my travels I mention Fujiyama instantly. There is nothing else to challenge it. Perhaps had I seen Everest from Darjeeling I might have a different story to tell; but I missed it. The Taj? Yes, the Taj is a divine work of man; but it has not the serene lofty isolation of this sublime mountain, rising from the plain alone and immense with almost perfect symmetry. I was not to see Fujiyama again for a week or so, but in the meanwhile I saw the Daibutsu, the giant figure of Buddha, at Kamakura, in all its bland placidity. These were the only big things I found in Japan. TWO FUNERALS Yokohama is industrial and dirty everywhere but on the drive beside the harbour, and on the Bluff, where the rich foreigners live. I visited one house on this pleasant eminence and there was nothing in it to suggest that it was in Japan any more than in, say, Cheltenham. The form was English, the furniture was English, the pictures and books were English; photographs of school and college cricket elevens gave it the final home touch. Only in the garden were there exotic indications. The English certainly have the knack of carrying their atmosphere with them. I had noticed that often in India; but this Yokohama villa was the completest exemplification. Wandering about the city I came one morning on a funeral procession that ought to have pleased Henry Ward Beecher, who, on the only occasion on which I heard him, when he was very old and I was very young, urged upon his hearers the importance of bright colours and flowers instead of the ordinary habiliments and accoutrements of woe. For when a soul is on its way to paradise, he said, we should be glad. The Yokohama cortege was headed by men bearing banners; then came girls all in white, riding in rickshaws; then the gaudy hearse; then priests in rickshaws; and finally the relations and friends. The effect conveyed was not one of melancholy; but even if every one had been in black, impressiveness would have been wanting, for no one can look dignified in a rickshaw. Compared, however, with a funeral which I saw in Hong-Kong, the Yokohama ceremony was solemnity in essence. The Hong-Kong obsequies were those of a tobacco-magnate's wife and the widower had determined to spare no expense on their thoroughness. He had even offered, but without success, to compensate the tramway company for a suspension of the service, the result of his failure being that every few minutes the procession was held up to permit the cars to go by; which meant that instead of taking only two hours to pass any given point, it took three. The estimated cost of the funeral was one hundred thousand dollars and all Hong-Kong was there to see. To Chinese eyes it doubtless had a sombre religious character, but to us it was merely a diverting spectacle of incredible prolongation. We were not wholly to blame in missing its sanctity, for the participants, who were more like mummers than mourners, had all been hired and were enjoying the day off. For the most part they merely wore their fancy dress and walked and talked or played instruments, but now and then there was a dragon and a champion boxing it and these certainly earned their money. At intervals came bearers with trays on which were comforts for the next world or symbolical devices, while, to infinity both in front and behind, banners and streamers and lanterns danced and jogged above all. A miracle-show of the middle ages can have been not unlike it. THE LITTLE GEISHA I left Japan, as I have said, just before the cherry-blossom festivities began, but I was able to see a number of the dances--which never change but are passed with exactitude, step for step, gesture for gesture and expression for expression, from one geisha to another--as performed by a child who was being educated for the profession. Although so young she knew accurately upwards of sixty dances, and the pick of these she executed for a few spectators, in a little fragile paper-walled house outside Yokohama, while her adoring aunt played the wistful repetitive accompaniments. The little creature--a mere watch-chain ornament--had a typical Japanese face, half mask, half mischief, and a tiny high voice which now and then broke into the dance. But dances, strictly speaking, they are not. They are really posturing and the manoeuvres of a fan. To me they are strangely fascinating, and, with the music, almost more so than our Western ballets. But there is a difference between the ballet and the geisha dances, and it is so wide that there is no true comparison; for whereas the ballet stimulates and excites, these Japanese movements hypnotise and lull. MANNERS The public manners of the Japanese are not good. In all my solitary walks about Myanoshita I met with no single peasant who passed the time of day, and in the streets of Tokio English people were being jostled and stared at and treated without respect. It was a moment when Americans were unpopular, and the theory was broached that for fear of missing the chance to be rude to an American the Japanese became rude to all outlanders indiscriminately. One indeed gathered the impression that, except in Kyoto, which is a backwater, foreigners are no longer wanted. "Japan for the Japanese" would seem to be the motto: one day, not far distant, to be amended to "The World for Japan." I shall never forget the humiliation I suffered in a stockbroker's office in Tokio, into which, seeing the words "English spoken" over the door, I had ventured in the hope of being directed to an address I was seeking. Not a word of English did any one know, but the whole staff left its typewriters and desks to come and laugh. I was always willing to remove the gravity of Japanese children by my grotesque Occidentalism, but I have a very real objection to being a butt for the ridicule of grown-ups. Such an incident could not have occurred, I believe, anywhere else. But it is not only the foreigners to whom the Japanese are rude: they do nothing for their fellows either. The want of chivalry in trains and trams was conspicuous. The ceremonial manners of the Japanese can, however, be more precise and formal than any I ever witnessed. A wedding reception chanced to be in progress in my Tokio hotel one afternoon, and through the open door I had glimpses of Japanese gentlemen in frock coats bowing to Japanese ladies and making perfect right angles as they did so. So elaborate indeed were the courtesies that to Western eyes they bordered dangerously on burlesque. The destination that I was seeking when I entered the stockbroker's office was a certain book-store, and when I eventually found it I was asked a question by a Japanese youth that still perplexes me. It was in the English section, the principal volumes in which, as imported to supply Japanese demands, were American, and all bore either upon success in engineering and other professions and crafts, or on the rapid acquirement of wealth. "How to double your income in a week"; "How to get rich quickly"; "How to succeed in business"; and so forth; all preaching, in fact, the new gospel which is doing Japan no good. There were also, however, a certain number of novels, and one of the customers, a boy who looked as though he were still at school, noting my English appearance, brought a translation of Maupassant to me and asked me what "soul" meant--"A Woman's Soul" being the new title. Now I defy any one with no Japanese to make it clear to a Japanese boy with very little English what a woman's soul is. THE PLAY At Tokio I was present for an hour or so at a performance in a national theatre. It had been in progress for a long time when I entered and would continue long after I left, for that is the Japanese custom. In London people with too little to do are on occasion prepared to spend the whole day outside theatres waiting for the doors to open. They will then witness a two and a half hours' performance. But in Japan the plays go on from eleven a.m. to eleven p.m. and the audience bring their sustenance and tobacco with them. The seats are mats on the ground, and the actors reach the stage by a passage through the auditorium as well as from the wings. The scenery is very elementary, and there is always a gate which has to be opened when the characters pass through and closed after them, although it is isolated and has no contiguous wall or fence. None of our Western morbid desire for novelty, I am told, troubles the Japanese play-goer, who is prepared to witness the same drama, usually based on an historical event or national legend thoroughly familiar to him, for ever and ever. It is as though the theatres in England were given up exclusively to, say, Shakespeare's Henry IV, V and VI sequence. On the occasion of my visit there was little of what we call acting, but endless elocution. During the performance the attendants walk about, with the persistence of constables during a London police-court hearing, carrying refreshments and little charcoal stoves. The signal for the next act is a deafening clicking noise made by one of the stage hands on two sticks, which gradually rises to a shattering crescendo as the curtain is drawn aside. It must be understood that the theatre that I am describing was set apart for national drama. In others there are topical farces and laughter is continuous; but I did not visit any. On board ship, however, we had a series of performances of such pieces by the Japanese cabin attendants and waiters, many of whom were professional actors. The Japanese passengers enjoyed them immensely. MYANOSHITA A whole week of my too short stay was given to Myanoshita, whither I was driven by the impossibility of retaining a room in either Yokohama or Tokio, and where I stayed willingly on, out of delight in the place itself. After being cooped up for so long on ships, and kept inactive under the heat of India, it was like a new existence to take immense walks among these mountains in the keen rarified air, even though there was both rain and snow. Myanoshita stands some four thousand feet high and is situated in a valley in which are many summer cottages and health resorts. The heart of this Alpine settlement is the Fujiya Hotel, where I was living, which is kept by an enterprising Americanised and Europeanised Japanese proprietor and his very charming wife, Madame Yamaguchi, whose father was the founder of the house, and, I believe, the discoverer of the district, and who herself is famous as a gracious hostess throughout Japan. No hotel so well or so thoughtfully administered have I ever stayed in; nor was I ever in another where the water for the bath gushes in from a natural hot spring. But hot springs are numerous in this region, while there is a gorge which I visited, some four miles distant, where boiling sulphur hisses and bubbles for ever and aye. Many of the Myanoshita dishes were new to me and welcome. There is an excellent salad called "Slow," and the bamboo, which is Japan's best friend--serving the nation in scores of ways: as fences, as walls, as water-pipes, as supports, as carrying-poles, as thatch, as fishing-rods--here found its way into the salad bowl and was not distasteful. The custom of drinking a glass of orange juice before breakfast might well be adopted with us; but not the least of the oddities of England which I realised as I moved about the earth is our unwillingness to eat fruit. Japan also has a perfect mineral water, "Tansan." When not making long expeditions to catch new glimpses of Fuji I roamed about the hill-sides among the little villages, or leaned over crazy bridges to watch the waterfalls beneath; for there is water everywhere, tumbling down to the distant ocean, a wedge of which can be seen from the hotel windows. This Japanese valley might be in Switzerland, save for the absence of any but human life. Not a cow, not a goat. The labourers wear blue linen smocks, usually with some device upon them, and they merge into the landscape as naturally as French or Belgian peasants. These men, whether working on the soil or the roads, or engaged in cutting bamboos or building houses, wear the large straw hats that one sees in the old Japanese prints. Nothing has changed in their dress. But the modernized Japanese, the dweller in the cities or casual visitor to the country, pins his faith to the bowler. The bowler is so much his favourite headgear that he wears it often with native costume on his body. Perhaps it is to Japan that all the bowlers have gone, now that London has taken to the soft Homburg. It was odd to meet groups of these bizarre little men among the precipices: even stranger perhaps were their little ladies, especially on Sunday, in the gayest Japanese clothes, their faces plastered with rice powder and cigarettes in their mouths. Too many of them are disfigured by gold teeth, which are so common in Japan as to be almost the rule. An English resident assured me that I must not assume that the Japanese teeth are therefore unusually defective: often the gold is merely ostentation, a visible sign that the owner of the auriferous mouth is both alive to American progress and can afford it. Even in Myanoshita Fujiyama has to be sought for and climbed for, the walls of rock that form the valley being so high and enclosing. But the result is worth every effort. Immediately above the hotel is a hill from whose summit the upper part of the enchanted mountain can be seen, and I ascended tortuously to this point within an hour of my arrival. The next day I walked to Lake Hakone (where the Emperor has a summer palace), some eight miles away, in the hope of getting Fuji's white crest reflected on its surface; but a veil of mist enshrouded all. And then twice I went to the edge of the watershed at the head of the valley: once struggling through the snow to the Otome Pass, on an immemorial and nearly perpendicular bridle path, and once by the modern road to the tunnel which, with characteristic address, the Japanese have bored through the rock, thus reducing a very steep gradient. In the tunnel the icicles were hanging several feet long and as big as masts, and the air was biting. But one emerged suddenly upon a prospect the wonder of which probably cannot be excelled--a vast plain far below, made up of verdure and villages and lakes, with distant surrounding heights, and immediately in front, filling half the sky, Fuji himself. It is from this point, and from the ancient Otome Pass, a mile or so away on the same ridge, that the symmetry of the mountain is most perfect; and here one can best appreciate the simplicity of it, the quiet natural ease with which it rises above its neighbours. There was more snow on the slopes than when I had seen it from the train a few days before; and the sky again was without a cloud. I have never been so conscious of majestic serenity, without any concomitant feeling of awe. Fuji is both sublime and human. No other country has a symbol like this. When the Japanese think of Japan they visualise Fuji: returning exiles crowd the decks for the first glimpse of it; departing exiles with tears in their eyes watch it disappear. There is not a shop window but has Fuji in some representation; it is found in every house; its contours are engraved on teaspoons, embossed on ash-trays. You cannot escape from its counterfeits; but if you have seen it you do not mind. When on my way home I found myself in an American picture gallery, either in San Francisco, Chicago, Boston or New York, I lingered longest in the rooms where the coloured prints of the Japanese masters hang--and America has very fine collections, particularly in Boston--and I stood longest before those landscapes by Hokusai and Hiroshige in which Fuji occurs. Hokusai in particular venerated the mountain, and in many of his most beautiful pictures people are calling to each other to admire some new and marvellous aspect of it. It was he who drew Fuji as seen through the arch of a breaking wave! I was looking at the British Museum's example of this daring print only a few days ago, and, doing so, living my Myanoshita days again. There is much in Japan that is petty, much that is too material and not a little that is disturbing; but Fuji is there too, dominating all, calm and wise and lovely beyond description, and it would be Fuji that lured me back. AMERICA DEMOCRACY AT HOME My first experience of democracy-in-being followed swiftly upon boarding the steamboat for San Francisco, when "Show this man Number 231" was the American steward's command to a cabin boy. I had no objection to being called a man: far from it; but after years of being called a gentleman it was startling. This happened at Yokohama; and when, in the Customs House at San Francisco, a porter wheeling a truck broke through a queue of us waiting to obtain our quittances, with the careless warning, "Out of the way, fellers!" I knew that here was democracy indeed. I confess to liking it, although I was to be brought up with another jolt when a notice-board on a grass-plot suddenly confronted me, bearing the words:-- [Illustration: KEEP OFF. THIS MEANS YOU.] But I like it. I like the tradition which, once your name is written in the hotel reception book, makes you instantly "Mr. Lucas" to every one in the place. There is a friendliness about it: the hotel is more of a home, or at any rate, less of a barrack, because of it. And yet this universal camaraderie has some odd lapses into formality. The members of clubs in America are far more ceremonious with each other than we are in England. In English clubs the prefix "Mr." is a solecism, but in American clubs I have watched quite old friends and associates whose greetings have been marked almost by pomposity and certainly by ritual. Yet Americans, I should say, are heartier than we; more happy to be with each other; less critical and exacting. They certainly spend less time in discussing each other's foibles. That may be because the dollar is so much more an absorbing theme, but more likely it is because America is a democracy, and the theory of democracy, as I understand it, is to assume that every man is a good fellow until the reverse is proved. I should not like to say that the theory of those of us who live under a monarchy is the opposite, but it seemed to me that Americans are more ready than we to be sociable and tolerant. Try as I might I could never be quick enough to get in first with that delightful American greeting, "Pleased to meet you," or "Glad to know you, Mr. Lucas." I pondered long on the best retort and at last formulated this, but never dared to use it for fear that its genuineness might be suspected: "I shall be sorry when we have to part." SAN FRANCISCO It was in San Francisco that I learned--and very quickly--that it is as necessary to visit America in order to know what Americans are like as it is to leave one's own country in order to know more about that. Americans when abroad are less hearty, less revealing. They are either suffering from a constraint or an over-assertiveness; and both moods may be due to not being at home. In neither case are they so natural as at home. I suppose that on soil not our own we all tend to be a little over-anxious to proclaim our nationality, to maintain the distinction. In our hats can perhaps be too firmly planted the invisible flag of our country. Be this as it may, I very quickly discerned a difference between Americans in America and in England. I found them simple where I had thought of them as the reverse, and now, after meeting others in various parts of the country, even in complex and composite New York, I should say that simplicity is the keynote of the American character. It is in his simplicity that the American differs most from the European. Such simplicity is perfectly consistent with the impatience, the desire for novelty, for brevity, of the American people. We think of them as always wishing to reduce life to formulae, as unwilling to express any surprise, and these tendencies may easily be considered as signs of a tiring civilisation. But in reality they are signs of youth too. ROADS GOOD AND BAD San Francisco I shall chiefly recollect (apart from personal reasons) for the sparkling freshness and vigour of the air; for the extent and variety of Golden Gate Park, where I found a bust of Beethoven, but no sign of Bret Harte; for the vast reading-room in the library at Berkeley, a university which is so enchantingly situated, beneath such a sun, and in sight of such a bay, that I marvel that any work can be done there at all; and for the miles and miles of perfect tarmac roads fringed with burning eschscholtzias and gentle purple irises. That was in April. I found elsewhere in America no roads comparable with these. Even around Washington their condition was such that to ride in a motor-car was to experience all the alleged benefits of horseback, while in the Adirondacks, anywhere off the noble Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Highway, with its "T.R." blazonings along the route, one's liver was bent and broken. While I was in America the movement to purchase Roosevelt's house as a national possession was in full swing, but this Memorial Highway strikes the imagination with more force. That was an inspiration, and I hope that the road will never be allowed to fall into disrepair. UNIVERSITIES, LOVE AND PRONUNCIATION Watching the young men and maidens crowding to a lecture in the Hearst Amphitheatre at Berkeley, under that glorious Californian sky, I was struck by the sensible, frank intimacy of them all, and envied them the advantages that must be theirs over the English methods of segregation at the same age, which, by creating shyness and destroying familiarity, tends to retard if not destroy the natural understanding which ought to subsist between them and if it did would often make life afterwards so much simpler. I asked one of the professors to what extent marriages were made in Berkeley, but he had no statistics. All he could say was that Cupid was very little trouble to the authorities and that Mr. Hoover and Mrs. Hoover first met each other as students at Stanford. And then I asked an ex-member of one of the Sororities and she said that at college one was a good deal in love and a good deal out of it. The romance rarely persisted into later life. She pronounced romance with the accent on the first syllable, whereas somewhere half-way across the Atlantic the accent passes to the second; and why such illogical things should be is a mystery. The differences can be very disconcerting, especially if one refuses to give way. I had an experience to the point when talking with some one in Chicago and wishing to answer carefully his question as to the conditions under which the poor of our great cities live. These are, in my observation, infinitely worse in England than in America. Indeed I hardly saw any poor in America at all--not poverty as we understand it. But I could not frame my reply because "squalor" (which we pronounce as though it rhymed with "mollor") was the only fitting epithet and he had just used it himself, pronouncing it in the American way--or at any rate in his American way--with a long "a." So I turned the subject. Neither nation has any monopoly of reasonableness in pronunciation. The American way of saying "advertisement" is more sensible than ours of saying "adver´tisment," since we say "advertise" too. But then, although the Americans say "inquire," just as we do, they illogically put the stress on the first syllable when they talk about an "in´quiry." The Tower of Babel is thus carried up one storey higher. The original idea was merely to confuse languages; it cannot ever have been wished that two friendly peoples should speak the same language differently. But I have wandered far from Berkeley and Stanford. I am not sure as to my course of conduct if I had a daughter of seventeen, but I am quite convinced that if I had a son of that age I should send him to an American university for two or three years after his English school. He should then become a citizen of the Anglo-Saxon world indeed. FIRST SIGNS OF PROHIBITION We had met Prohibition first at Honolulu, not a few of the passengers receiving the shock of their lives on learning at the hotel that only "soft drinks" were permitted. Our second reminder of the new regime came as we entered American waters off the Golden Gate and the ship's bar was formally closed. And then, in San Francisco, we found "dry" land indeed. In this connection let me say that in the hotel I made acquaintance with an official of great power who was new to me: the buttoned boy who rejoices in the proud title of Bell Captain. He gave me a private insight into his precocity (but that is not the word, for all boys in America are men too), and into his influence, by offering to supply me with forbidden fruit, in the shape of whisky, at the modest figure of $25 a bottle. He did not, however, say dollars: like most of his compatriots (and it is a favourite word with them) he said something between "dollars" and "dallars." I had, a few days later, in Chicago, a similarly friendly offer from a policeman of whom I had inquired the way. Recognizing an English accent, he had instantly divined what my dearest wish must be. I then asked him how prohibition was affecting the people on his beat. He said that a few drunkards were less comfortable and a few wives more serene; but for the most part he had seen no increase of happiness, and the extra money that it provided was spent either on the movies, dress, or "other foolishness." I did not allow him to refresh me. After a course of American "tough" fiction, of which "Susan Lenox" remains most luridly in the memory, I had a terror of all professional upholders of the law. R.L.S. Coming by chance upon the Robert Louis Stevenson memorial at San Francisco, on the edge of Chinatown, I copied its inscription, and in case any reader of these notes may have forgotten its trend I copy it again here; for I do not suppose that its application was intended to cease with the Californian city. It is counsel addressed to the individual, but since nations are but individuals in quantity such ideals cannot be repeated amiss: To be honest; to be kind; to earn a little; to spend a little less; to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence; to renounce when that shall be necessary and not to be embittered; to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation; above all, on the same grim condition, to keep friends with himself--here is a task for all that man has of fortitude and delicacy. It is a far cry from San Francisco to Saranac, yet Stevenson is their connecting chain, with the late Harry Widener's amazing collection of Stevensoniana, in his memorial library at Harvard, as a link. The Saranac cottage, which on the day of my visit was surrounded by the sweetest lilac blooms that ever perfumed the air, is still a place of pilgrimage, and one by one new articles of interest are being added to the collection. It was pleasant indeed to find an English author thus honoured. Later, in Central Park, New York, I was to find statues of Shakespeare, Burns and Sir Walter Scott. It was, oddly enough, in the Adirondacks that I came upon my only experience of simplified spelling in the land of its birth. It was in that pleasant home from home, the Lake Placid Club, where one is adjured to close the door "tyt" as one leaves a room; where one drinks "cofi"; and where that most necessary and mysterious of the functionaries of life, the physician, is able to watch his divinity dwindle and his dignity disappear under the style "fizisn." STORIES AND HUMOURISTS I heard many stories in America, where every one is a raconteur, but none was better than this, which my San Francisco host narrated, from his own experience, as the most perfect example of an honest answer ever given. When a boy, he said, he was much in the company of an old trapper in the Californian mountains. During one of their expeditions together he noticed that a camp meeting was to be held, and out of curiosity he persuaded Reuben to attend it with him. Perched on a back seat, they were watching the scene when an elderly Evangelical sister placed herself beside the old hunter, laid her hand on his arm, and asked him if he loved Jesus. He pondered for some moments and then replied thus: "Waal, ma'am, I can't go so far as to say that I love Him. I can't go so far as that. But, by gosh, I'll say this--I ain't got nothin' agin Him." The funniest spontaneous thing I heard said was the remark of a farmer in the Adirondacks in reply to my question, Had they recovered up there, from the recent war? "Yes," he said, they had; adding brightly, "Quite a war, wasn't it?" In a manner of speaking all Americans are humourists. Just as all French people are wits by reason of the epigrammatic structure of their language, so are all Americans humourists by reason of the national stores of picturesque slang and analogy to which they have access. I think that this tendency to resort to a common stock instead of striving after individual exactitude and colour is to be deplored. It discourages thought where thought should be encouraged. Adults are, of course, beyond redemption, but parents might at least do something about it with their children. One of the cleverest American writers whom I met made no effort whatever to get beyond these accepted phrases as he narrated one racy incident after another. With the pen in his hand (or, more probably, the typewriter under his fingers) his sense of epithet is precise; but in his conversational stories men were as mad "as Sam Hill," injuries hurt "like hell," and a knapsack was as heavy "as the devil." We all laughed; but he should have had more of the artist's pride. Three American professional humourists whom I had the good fortune to meet and be with for some time were Irvin Cobb, Don Marquis, and Oliver Herford, each authentic and each so different. Beneath Mr. Cobb's fun is a mass of ripe experience and sagacity. However playful he may be on the surface one is aware of an almost Johnsonian universality beneath. It would not be extravagant to call his humour the bloom on the fruit of the tree of knowledge (I am talking now only of the three as I found them in conversation). Don Marquis, while equally serious (and all the best humourists are serious at heart), has a more grotesque fancy and is more of a reformer, or, at any rate, a rebel. His dissatisfaction with hypocrisy provoked a scorn that Mr. Cobb is too elemental to entertain. Some day perhaps Don Marquis will induce an editor to print the exercises in unorthodoxy which he has been writing and which, in extract, he repeated to us with such unction; but I doubt it. They are too searching. But that so busy a man should turn aside from his work to dabble in religious satire seemed to me a very interesting thing; for nothing is so unprofitable--except to the honest soul of him who conceives it. One of Don Marquis's more racy stories which I recollect is of a loafer in a country town who had the habit of dropping into the store every day at the time the free cheese was set on the counter, and buying very little in return. When the time came for the privilege to be withdrawn the loafer was outraged and aghast. Addressing the storekeeper (his friend for years) he summed up his ungenerosity in these terms: "Your soul, Henry," he said, "is so mean, that if there were a million souls like it in the belly of a flea, they'd be so far apart they couldn't hear each other holler." As for Oliver Herford, he is an elf, a sprite, a creature of fantasy, who may be--and, I rejoice to say, is--in this world, but certainly is not of it. This Oliver is in the line of Puck and Mercutio and Lamb and Hood and other lovers and makers of nonsense, and it is we who ask for "more." He had just brought out his irresponsible but very searching exercise in cosmogony, "This Giddy Globe," dedicated to President Wilson ("with all his faults he quotes me still") and this was the first indigenous work I read on American soil. Oliver Herford is perhaps best known by his "Rubaiyat of a Persian Kitten," and there is a kitten also in "This Giddy Globe": "Hurray!" cried the Kitten, "Hurray!" As he merrily set the sails, "I sail o'er the ocean to-day To look at the Prince of Wales." --this was when the Prince was making his triumphant visit to New York in 1919-- "But, Kitten," I said dismayed, "If you live through the angry gales You know you will be afraid To look at the Prince of Wales." Said the Kitten, "No such thing! Why should he make me wince? If a Cat may look at a King A Kitten may look at a Prince!" This reminds me that the story goes that when the Prince expressed his admiration for Fifth Avenue he was congratulated upon having "said a mouthful." Beyond a mouthful, as an encomium of sagacity or sensationalism in speech, there is but one advance and that is when one says "an earful." THE CARS The journey from San Francisco to Chicago, once the fruit country is passed, is drearily tedious, and I was never so tired of a train. The spacious compartments that one travelled in on the Indian journeys, where there are four arm-chairs and a bath-room, are a bad preparation for the long narrow American cars packed with humanity, and for the very inadequate washing-room, which is also the negro attendant's bed-chamber: "Although," he explained to me, "when the car isn't full I always sleep in Berth Number 1." If the night could be indefinitely prolonged, these journeys would be more tolerable; but for the general comfort the sleeping berths must be converted into seats at an early hour. In addition to books, I had, as a means of beguilement, the society of a returned exile from the Philippines, who told me the story of his life, showed me the necklace he was taking home to his daughter's wedding, and asked my advice as to the wisdom or unwisdom of marrying again, the lady of his wavering choice having been at school with him in New England and being now a widow in Nebraska with property of her own. Besides being thus garrulous and open, he was the most helpful man I ever met, acting as a nurse to the three or four restless children in the car, and even producing from his bag a pair of scissors and a bottle of gum with which to make dolls' paper clothes. Never in my life have I called a stranger "Ed" on such short acquaintance; never have I been called "Poppa" so often by the peevish progeny of others. It was on this train that I began to realise how much thirstier the Americans are than we. The passengers were continually filling and emptying the little cups that are stacked beside the fountains in the corridors, and long before we reached Chicago the cups had all been used. In England only children drink water at odd times and they not to excess. But in America every one drinks water, and the water is there for drinking, pure and cold and plentiful. It is beside the bed, in the corners of offices, awaiting you at meals, jingling down the passages of hotels, bubbling in the streets. In English restaurants, water bottles are rarely supplied until asked for; in our hotel bedrooms they seldom bear lifting to the light. As to whether the general health of the Americans is superior or inferior to ours by reason of this water-drinking custom, I have no information; but figures would be interesting. CHICAGO In Chicago the weather was wet and cold, and it was not until after I had left that I learned of the presence there of certain literary collections which I may now perhaps never see. But I spent much time in the Museum, where there is one of the finest Hobbemas in the world, and where two such different creative artists as Claude Monet and Josiah Wedgwood are especially honoured. But the chief discovery for me was the sincere and masterly work in landscape of George Inness, my first impression of whom was to be fortified when I passed on to Boston, and reinforced in the Hearn collection in the Metropolitan Museum in New York. It was in Chicago, in the Marshall Field Book Department--which is to ordinary English bookshops like a liner to a houseboat--that I first realised how intense is the interest which America takes in foreign contemporary literature. In England the translation has a certain vogue--Mrs. Garnett's supple and faithful renderings of Turgenev, Tolstoi, Dostoievski, and Tchekov have, for example, a great following--but we do not adventure much beyond the French and the Russians; whereas I learn that English versions of hundreds of other foreign books are eagerly bought in America. Such curiosity seems to me to be very sensible. I was surprised also to find tables packed high with the modern drama. In England the printed play is not to the general taste. It was in Chicago that I found "window-shopping" at its most enterprising. In San Francisco the costumiers' windows were thronged all Sunday, but in Chicago they are brilliantly lighted till midnight, long after closing hours, so that late passers-by may mark down desirable things to buy on the morrow. The spirited equestrian statue of General John A. Logan, in a waste space by Michigan Avenue, which I could see from my bedroom window, was my first and by no means the least satisfying experience of American sculpture on its native soil--to be face to face with St. Gaudens' figure of "Grief" in Rock Creek Cemetery, at Washington, having long been a desire. In time I came to see that beautiful conception, and I saw also the fine Shaw monument in Boston, fine both in idea and in execution; and the Sheridan, by the Plaza Hotel in New York; and the Farragut in Madison Square; and the Pilgrim in Philadelphia--all the work of the same firm, sensitive hand, a replica of whose Lincoln is now to be seen at Westminster. The statue seems almost as natural a part of civic ornament in America as it is in France, and is not in England; and the standard as a rule is high. In particular I like the many horsemen--Anthony Wayne dominating the landscape at Valley Forge; and George Washington again and again, and not least in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia (where there is also a bronze roughrider realistically set on a cliff--as though from Ambrose Bierce's famous story--by Frederic Remington). American painters can too often suggest predecessors, usually French, but the sculptors have a strength and directness of their own, and it would not surprise me if some of the best statues of the future came from their country. No one would say that all American civic sculpture is good. There is a gigantic bust of Washington Irving behind New York's Public Library which would be better away; nor are the lions that guard that splendid institution superabundantly leonine; but the traveller is more charmed than depressed by the marble and bronze effigies that meet his eye--and few witnesses have been able to say that of England. Among the more remarkable public works I might name the symbolical figures on the steps of the Boston Free Library, and the frieze in deep relief on the Romanesque church on Park Avenue in New York, and I found something big and impressive in the Barnard groups at Harrisburg. Many of the little bronzes in the Metropolitan Museum--at the other extreme--are exquisite. THE MOVIES We have our cinema theatres in England in some abundance, but the cinema is not yet in the blood here as in America. In America picture-palaces are palaces indeed--with gold and marble, and mural decorations, built to seat thousands--and every newspaper has its cinema page, where the activities of the movie stars in their courses are chronicled every morning. Moreover, America is the home of the industry; and rightly so, for it has, I should say, been abundantly proved that Americans are the only people who really understand both cinema acting and cinema production. Italy, France and England make a few pictures, but their efforts are half-hearted: not only because acting for the film is a new and separate art, but because atmospheric conditions are better in America than in Europe. It was in Chicago that I had my only opportunity of seeing cinema stars in the flesh. The rain falling, as it seems to do there with no more effort or fatigue to itself than in Manchester, I had, one afternoon, to change my outdoor plans and take refuge at the matinee of a musical comedy called "Sometime," with Frank Tinney in the leading part. Tinney, I may say, during his engagement in London some years ago, became so great a favourite that one performer has been flourishing on an imitation of him ever since. The play had been in progress only for a few minutes when Frank, in his capacity as a theatre doorkeeper, was presented by his manager with a tip. A dialogue, which to the trained ear was obviously more or less an improvisation, then followed: _Manager_: "What will you do with that dollar, Frank?" _Frank_: "I shall go to the movies. I always go to the movies when there's a Norma Talmadge picture. Ask me why I always go to the movies when there's a Norma Talmadge picture." _Manager_: "Why do you always go to the movies when there's a Norma Talmadge picture, Frank?" _Frank_: "I go because, I go because she's my favourite actress. (_Applause_.) Ask me why Norma Talmadge is my favourite actress." _Manager_: "Why is Norma Talmadge your favourite actress, Frank?" _Frank_: "Norma Talmadge is my favourite actress because she is always saving her honour. I've seen her saving it seventeen times. (_To the audience_) You like Norma Talmadge, don't you?" (_Applause from the audience_.) _Frank_: "Then wouldn't you like to see her as she really is? (_To a lady sitting with friends in a box_.) Stand up, Norma, and let the audience see you." _Here a slim lady with a tense, eager, pale face and a mass of hair stood up and bowed. Immense enthusiasm_. _Frank_: "That's Norma Talmadge. You do like saving your honour, don't you, Norma? And now (_to the audience_) wouldn't you like to see Norma's little sister, Constance? (_More applause_.) Stand up, Constance, and let the audience see you." Here another slim lady bowed her acknowledgments and the play was permitted to proceed. What America is going to do with the cinema remains to be seen, but I, for one, deplore the modern tendency of novelists to be lured by American money to write for it. If the cinema wants stories from novelists let it take them from the printed books. One has but to reflect upon what might have happened had the cinema been invented a hundred years ago, to realise my disturbance of mind. With Mr. Lasky's millions to tempt them Dickens would have written "David Copperfield" and Thackeray "Vanity Fair," not for their publishers and as an endowment to millions of grateful readers in perpetuity, but as plots for the immediate necessity of the film, with a transitory life of a few months in dark rooms. Of what new "David Copperfields" and "Vanity Fairs" the cinema is to rob us we shall not know; but I hold that the novelist who can write a living book is a traitor to his art and conscience if he prefers the easy money of the film. Readers are to be considered before the frequenters of Picture Palaces. His privilege is to beguile and amuse and refresh through the ages: not to snatch momentary triumphs and disappear. The evidence of the moment is more on the side of the pessimist than the optimist. I found in America no trace of interest in such valuable records as the Kearton pictures of African jungle life or the Ponting records of the Arctic Zone. For the moment the whole energy of the gigantic cinema industry seemed to be directed towards the filming of human stories and the completest beguilement, without the faintest infusion of instruction or idealism, of the many-headed mob. In short, to provide "dope." Whether so much "dope" is desirable, is the question to be answered. That poor human nature needs a certain amount, is beyond doubt. But so much? And do we all need it, or at any rate deserve it? is another question. Sometimes indeed I wonder whether those of us who have our full share of senses ought to go to the cinema at all. It may be that its true purpose is to be the dramatist of the deaf. THE AMERICAN FACE Perhaps it is one of the travellers' illusions (and we are very susceptible to them), but I have the impression that American men are more alike than the English are. It may be because there are fewer idiosyncrasies in male attire, for in America every one wears the same kind of hat; but I think not. In spite of the mixed origin of most Americans, a national type of face has been evolved to which they seem satisfied almost universally to pay allegiance. Again and again in the streets I have been about to accost strangers to whom I felt sure I had recently been introduced, discovering just in time that they were merely doubles. In England I fancy there is more individuality in appearance. If it is denied that American faces are more true to one type than ours, I shall reopen the attack by affirming that American voices are beyond question alike. My position in these two charges may be illustrated by notices that I saw fixed to gates at the docks in San Francisco. On one were the words "No Smoking"; on the other "Positively No Smoking." And what about the science of physiognomy? I have been wondering if Lavater is to be trusted outside Europe. In China and Japan I was continually perplexed, for I saw so many men who obviously were successful--leaders and controllers--but who were without more than the rudiments of a nose on which to support their glasses; and yet I have been brought up to believe that without a nose of some dimensions it was idle to hope for worldly eminence. Again, in America, is it possible that all these massive chins and firm aquiline beaks are ruling the roost and reaching whatever goal they set out for? I doubt it. The average American face is, I think, keener than ours and healthier. One sees fewer ruined faces than in English cities, fewer men and women who have lost self-respect and self-control. The American people as a whole strike the observer as being more prosperous, more alert and ambitious, than the English. Where I found mean streets they were always in the occupation of aliens. To revert to the matter of clothes, the American does as little as possible to make things easy for the conjectural observer. In England one can base guesses of some accuracy on attire. In a railway carriage one can hazard without any great risk of error the theory that this man is in trade and that in a profession, that another is a stockbroker, and a fourth a country squire. But America is full of surprises, due to the uniformity of clothing and a certain carelessness which elevates comfort to a ritual. The man you think of as a millionaire may be a drummer, the drummer a millionaire. Again, in England people are known to a certain extent by the hotels they stay at, the restaurants they eat at, and the class in which they travel. Such superficial guides fail one in America. PROHIBITION AGAIN I can best indicate, without the mechanical assistance of dates, the time of my sojourn in New York by saying that, during those few weeks, Woodrow Wilson's successor was being sought, the possibility of the repeal of the Prohibition Act was a matter of excited interest, and "Babe" Ruth was the national hero. During this period I saw the President sitting on the veranda of the White House; I had opportunities of honouring Prohibition in the breach as well as in the observance; and these eyes were everlastingly cheered and enriched by the spectacle of the "Babe" (who is a baseball divinity) lifting a ball over the Polo Ground pavilion into Manhattan Field. I hold, then, that I cannot be said to have been unlucky or to have wasted my time. I found (this was in the spring of 1920) Prohibition the universal topic: could it last, and should it last? In England we are accused of talking always of the weather. In America, where there is no weather, nothing but climate, that theme probably was never popular. Even if it once were, however, it had given way to Prohibition. At every lunch or dinner table at which I was present Prohibition was a topic. And how could it be otherwise?--for if my host was a "dry" man, he had to begin by apologising for having nothing cheering to offer, and if he possessed a cellar it was impossible not to open the ball by congratulating him on his luck and his generosity. Meanwhile the guests were comparing notes as to the best substitutes for alcoholic beverages, exchanging recipes, or describing their adventures with private stills. I visited a young couple in a charming little cottage in one of the garden cities near New York, and found them equally divided in their solicitude over a baby on the top floor and a huge jar in the basement which needed constant skimming if the beer was to be worth drinking. One effect of Prohibition which I was hoping for, if not actually expecting, failed to materialise. I had thought that the standard of what are called T.B.M. (Tired Business Men) theatrical shows might be higher if the tendency of alcohol to make audiences more tolerant (as it undoubtedly can do in London) were no longer operative. But these entertainments seemed, under teetotallers, no better. THE BALL GAME After seeing my first ball game or so I was inclined to suggest improvements; but now that I have attended more I am disposed to think that those in authority know more about it than I do, and that such blemishes as it appears to have are probably inevitable. For one thing, I thought that the outfield had too great an advantage. For another, not unassociated with that objection, I thought that the home-run hit was not sufficiently rewarded above the quite ordinary hit--"bunch-hit," is it?--that brings in a man or men. In the English game of "Rounders," the parent of baseball, a home-run hit either restores life to a man already out or provides the batting side with a life in reserve. To put a premium of this kind on so noble an achievement is surely not fantastic. So I thought. And yet I see now that the game must not be lengthened, or much of its character would go. It is its concentrated American fury that is its greatest charm. If a three-day cricket match were so packed with emotion we should all die of heart failure. I thought, too, that it is illogical that a ground stroke behind the diamond should be a no-ball, and yet, should that ball be in the air and caught, the striker should be out. I thought it an odd example of lenience to allow the batsman as many strokes behind the catcher as he chanced to make. But the more baseball I see the more it enchants me as a spectacle, and these early questionings are forgotten. Baseball and cricket cannot be compared, because they are as different as America and England; they can only be contrasted. Indeed, many of the differences between the peoples are reflected in the games; for cricket is leisurely and patient, whereas baseball is urgent and restless. Cricket can prosper without excitement, while excitement is baseball's life-blood, and so on: the catalogue could be indefinitely extended. But, though a comparison is futile, it may be interesting to note some of the divergences between the games. One of the chief is that baseball requires no specially prepared ground, whereas cricket demands turf in perfect order. Bad weather, again, is a more serious foe to the English than to the American game, for if the turf is soaked we cannot go on, and hence the number of drawn or unfinished matches in the course of a season. A two hours' game, such as baseball is, can, however, always be played off. In baseball the pitcher's ball must reach the batter before it touches the ground; in cricket, if the ball did not touch the ground first and reach the batsman on the bound, no one would ever be out at all, for the other ball, the full-pitch as we call it, is, with a flat bat, too easy to hit, for our bowlers swerve very rarely: it is the contact with the ground which enables them to give the ball its extra spin or break. Full-pitches are therefore very uncommon. In cricket a bowler who delivered the ball with the action of a pitcher would be disqualified for "throwing": it is one of the laws of cricket that the bowler's elbow must not be bent. In cricket (I mean in the first-class variety of the game) the decisions of the umpire are never questioned, either by players or public. In baseball there are but two strokes for the batter: either the "swipe," or "slog," as we call it, where he uses all his might, or the "bunt," usually a sacrificial effort; in cricket there are scores of strokes, before the wicket, behind it, and at every angle to it. These the cricketer is able to make because the bat is flat and wide, and he holds it both vertically and at a slant, as occasion demands, and is allowed, at his own risk, to run out to meet the ball. In the early days of cricket, a hundred and fifty years ago, the bat was like a baseball club, but curved, and the only strokes then were much what the only baseball strokes are now--the full-strength hit and the stopping hit. So long as the pitcher delivers the ball in the air it is probable that the baseball club will remain as it is; but should the evolution of the game allow the pitcher to make use of the ground, then the introduction of a flattened club is probable. But let us not look ahead. All that we can be sure of is that, since baseball is American, it will change. To resume the catalogue of contrast. In baseball the batsman must run for every fair hit; in cricket he may choose which hits to run for. In baseball a man's desire is to hit the ball in the air beyond the fielders; in cricket, though a man would like to do this, his side is better served if he hits every ball along the ground. In baseball no man can have more than a very small number of hits in a match; in cricket he can be batting for a whole day, and then again before the match is over. There are instances of batsmen making over 400 runs before being out. Another difference between the games is that in cricket we use a new ball only at the beginning of a fresh inning (of which there cannot be more than four in a match) and when each 200 runs have been scored; and (this will astonish the American reader) when the ball is hit among the people it is returned. I have seen such rapid voluntary surrenders at baseball very seldom, and so much of a "fan" have I become that the spectacle has always been accompanied in my breast by pain and contempt. I had the gratification of receiving from the burly John McGraw an autograph ball as a souvenir of a visit to the Polo Ground. I put it in my pocket hurriedly, conscious of the risk I ran among a nation of ball-stealers in possessing such a trophy; and I got away with it. But I am sure that had it been a ball hit out of the ground by the mighty "Babe" Ruth, which--recovering it by some supernatural means--he had handed to me in public, I should not have emerged alive, or, if alive, not in the ball's company. In cricket the wicket-keeper, who, like the baseball catcher, is protected, although he has no mask, is the most difficult man to obtain, because he has the hardest time and the least public approbation; in baseball the catcher is a hero and every boy aspires to his mitt. In cricket no player makes more than three hundred pounds a season, unless it is his turn for his one and only benefit, when he may make a thousand pounds more. But most players do not reach such a level of success that a benefit is their lot. But baseballers earn enormous sums. If a match could be arranged between eleven cricketers and eleven baseballers, the cricketers to be allowed to bowl and the baseballers to pitch, the cricketers to use their own bats and the baseballers their own clubs, I fancy that the cricketers would win; for the difficulty of hitting our bowling with a club would be greater than of hitting their pitching with a bat. But their wonderful fielding and far more accurate and swifter throwing than ours might just save them. Such throwing we see only very rarely, for good throwing is no longer insisted upon in cricket, much to the game's detriment. That old players should lose their shoulders is natural--and, of course, our players remain in first-class cricket for many years longer than ball champions--but there is no excuse for the young men who have taken advantage of a growing laxity in this matter. Chief of the few cricketers who throw with any of the terrible precision of a baseball field is Hobbs. It must be borne in mind, however, that cricket does not demand such constant throwing at full speed as baseball does; for in cricket, as I have said, the batsman may choose what hits he will run for, and if he chooses only the perfectly safe ones the fieldsmen are never at high pressure. There is also nothing in cricket quite to compare with base-stealing. When it comes to catching, the percentage of missed catches is far higher at cricket than at baseball; but there are good reasons for this. One is that in baseball a glove is worn; another that in baseball all catches come to the fieldsmen with long or sufficient notice. The fieldsmen are all, except the catcher, in front of the batsmen; there is nothing to compare with the unexpected nimbleness that our point and slips have to display. In the hypothetical contest that I have suggested, between baseballers and cricketers, if the conditions were nominally equal and the cricketers had to pitch like baseballers and the baseballers to use the English bat, why then the baseballers would win handsomely. Baseball, I fancy, will not be acclimatised in England. We had our chance when London was full of American soldiers and we did not take it. But we were very grateful to them for playing the game in our midst, for the authorities were so considerate as to let them play on Sundays (which we are never allowed to do) and I was one of those who hoped that this might be the thin end of the wedge and Sunday cricket also be permitted. But no; when the war was over and the Americans left us, the old Sabbatarianism reasserted itself. If, however, we ever exchanged national games, and cricket were played in America and baseball in England, it is the English spectator who would have the better of the exchange. I am convinced that although we should quickly find baseball diverting, nothing would ever persuade an American crowd to be otherwise than bored by cricket. SKYSCRAPERS Perhaps if I had reached New York from the sea the skyscrapers would have struck me more violently. But I had already seen a few in San Francisco (and wondered at and admired the courage which could build so high after the earthquake of 1906), and more in Chicago, all ugly; so that when I came to New York and found that the latest architects were not only building high, but imposing beauty on these mammoth structures, surprise was mingled with delight. No matter how many more millions of dollars are expended on that strange medley of ancient forms which go to make up New York's new Cathedral, where Romanesque and Gothic seem already to be ready for their divorce, the Woolworth Building will be New York's true fane. Mr. Cass Gilbert, the designer of that graceful immensity, not only gave commerce its most notable monument (to date), but removed for ever the slur upon skyscrapers. The Woolworth Building does not scrape the sky; it greets it, salutes it with a _beau geste_. And I would say something similar of the Bush Building, with its alabaster chapel in the air which becomes translucent at night; and the Madison Square Tower (whose clock face, I noticed, has the amazing diameter of three storeys); and the Burroughs Welcome Building on 41st Street, with its lovely perpendicular lines; and that immense cube of masonry on Park Avenue which bursts into flower, so to speak, at the top in the shape of a very beautiful loggia. But even if these adornments become, as I hope, the rule, one could not resent the ordinary structural elephantiasis a moment after realising New York's physical conditions. A growing city built on a narrow peninsula is unable to expand laterally and must, therefore, soar. The problem was how to make it soar with dignity, and the problem has been solved. In the old days when brown stone was the only builders' medium New York must have been a drab city indeed; or so I gather from the few ancient typical residences that remain. There are a few that are new, too, but for the most part the modern house is of white stone. Gayest of all is, I suppose, that vermilion-roofed florist's on Fifth Avenue. One has to ascend the Woolworth Building to appreciate at a blow with what discretion the original settlers of New York made their choice. It is interesting, too, to watch Broadway--which, for all I know, is the longest street in the world--starting at one's feet on its lawless journey to Albany: lawless because it is almost the only sinuous thing in this city of parallelograms and has the effrontery to cross diagonally both Fifth Avenue and Sixth. Before leaving the Woolworth Building, I would say that there seemed to me something rather comically paradoxical in being charged 50 cents for access to the top of a structure which was erected to celebrate the triumph of a commercial genius whose boast it was to have made his fortune out of articles sold at a rate never higher than 10 cents. Having dallied sufficiently on the summit--there are a trifle of fifty-eight floors, but an express lift makes nothing of them--I continued the implacable career of the tripper by watching for a while the deafening kerb market, which presented on that morning an odd appearance, more like Yarmouth beach than a financial centre, for there had been rain, and all the street operators were in sou'westers and sea-boots. There can be spasms of similar excitement in London, in the neighbourhood of Capel Court, but we have nothing that compares so closely with this crowd as Tattersall's Ring at Epsom just before the Derby. A PLEA FOR THE AQUARIUM It was a relief to resume my programme by entering that abode of the dumb and detached--the aquarium in Battery Park. For the kerb uproar "the uncommunicating muteness of fishes" was the only panacea. The Bronx Zoo is not, I think, except in the matter of buffalo and deer paddocks, so good as ours in London, but it has this shining advantage--it is free. So also is the Aquarium in Battery Park, and it was pleasing to see how crowded the place can be. In England all interest in living fish, except as creatures to be coaxed towards hooks and occasionally retained there, has vanished; on the site of old Westminster Aquarium the Wesleyans now manage their finances and determine their circuits, while the Brighton Aquarium, once famous all the world over, is a variety hall with barely a fin to its name. After seeing the aquarium in Honolulu, which is like a pelagic rainbow factory, and the aquarium in New York with all its strange and beautiful denizens, I am a little ashamed of our English apathy. To maintain picture galleries, where, however beautiful and chromatic, all is dead, and be insensitive to the loveliness of fish, in hue, in shape and in movement, is not quite pardonable. ENGLISH AND FRENCH INFLUENCES In essentials America is American, but when it comes to inessentials, to trimmings, her dependence on old England was noticeable again and again as I walked about New York. The fashion which, at the moment, the print shops were fostering was for our racing, hunting and coaching coloured prints of a century ago, while in the gallery of the distinguished little Grolier Club I found an exhibition of the work of Randolph Caldecott and Kate Greenaway. In such old bookshops as I visited all the emphasis was--just then--laid upon Keats and Lamb and Shelley, whose first editions and presentation copies seem to be continually making the westward journey. I had not been in New York twenty-four hours before Keats' "Lamia," 1820--with an inscription from the author to Charles Lamb--the very copy from which, I imagine, Lamb wrote his review, was in my hands; but it would have been far beyond my means even if the pound were not standing at 3.83. These "association" books, in which American collectors take especial pleasure, can be very costly. At a sale soon after I left New York, seven presentation copies of Dickens' books, containing merely the author's signed inscription, realised 4870 dollars. To continue, in Wanamaker's old curiosity department I found little but English furniture and odds and ends, at prices which in their own country would have been fantastically high. In the "Vanity Fair" department, however (as I think it is called), the source was French. I suppose that French influence must be at the back of all the costumiers and jewellers of New York, but the shops themselves are far more spacious than those in Paris and not less well-appointed. Tiffany's is a palace; all it lacks is a name, but its splendid anonymity is, I take it, a point of honour. It used to be said that good Americans when they died went to Paris. The Parisian lure no doubt is still powerful; but every day I should guess that more of Paris comes to America. The upper parts of New York have boulevards and apartment houses very like the real thing, and I noticed that the architecture of France exerts a special attraction for the rich man decreeing himself a pleasure dome. There are millionaires' residences in New York that might have been transplanted not only from the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, but from Touraine itself; while when I made my pilgrimage to Mr. Widener's, just outside Philadelphia, I found Rembrandt's "Mill," and Manet's dead bull-fighter, and a Vermeer, and a little meadow painted divinely by Corot, and El Greco's family group, and Donatello's St. George, and one of the most lovely scenes that ever was created by Turner's enchanted brush, all enshrined in a palace which Louis Seize might have built. But America is even more French than this. Her women can be not less _soignées_ than those of France, although they suggest a cooler blood and less dependence on male society; her bread and coffee are better than France's best. Moreover, when it comes to night and the Broadway constellations challenge the darkness, New York leaves Paris far behind. For every cabaret and supper resort that Paris can provide, New York has three; and for every dancing floor in Paris, New York has thirty. Good Americans, however, will still remain faithful to their old posthumous love, if only for her wine. Apropos of American women, their position struck me as very different from the position of women with us. English women are deferential to their husbands; they are content to be relegated to the background on all occasions when they are not wanted. They are dependent. They seldom wear an air of triumph and rarely take the lead. But American women are complacent and assured, they do most of the talking, make most of the plans: if they are not seen, it is because they are in the background; they are either active prominently elsewhere or are high on pedestals. With each other they are mostly or often humorously direct, whereas with men they seem to adopt an ironical or patronising attitude. American women seem also to have a curious power of attracting to themselves other women who admire them and foster their self-esteem. And, for all that I know, these satellites have satellites too. Their federacy almost amounts to a solid secret society; not so much against men, for men must provide the sinews of war and other comforts, but for their own satisfaction. Both sexes appear not to languish when alone. SKY-SIGNS AND CONEY ISLAND All visitors to New York speak of the exhilaration of its air, and I can but repeat their testimony. After the first few days the idea of going to bed became an absurdity. Among the peculiarly beautiful effects that America produces, sky signs must be counted high. I had seen some when in San Francisco against the deep Californian night, and they captivated the startled vision; but the reckless profusion and movement of the Great White Way, as I turned out of 42nd Street on my first evening in New York, came as something more than a surprise: a revelation of wilful gaiety. We have normally nothing in England to compare with it. Nor can we have even our Earl's Court exhibition imitations of it so long as coal is so rare and costly. But though we had the driving power for the electricity we could never get such brilliance, for the clear American atmosphere is an essential ally. In our humid airs all the diamond glints would be blurred. For the purest beauty of traceries of light against a blue background one must go, however, not to Broadway, which is too bizarre, but to Luna Park on Coney Island. Odd that it should be there, in that bewildering medley of sound and restlessness, that an extreme of loveliness should be found; but I maintain that it is so, that nothing more strangely and voluptuously beautiful could be seen than all those minarets and domes, with their lines and curves formed by myriad lamps, turning by contrast the heavens into an ocean of velvet blue, mysterious and soft and profound. Only periodically--when we have exhibitions at Earl's Court or at Olympia--is there in England anything like Coney Island. At Blackpool in August, and on Hampstead Heath on Bank Holidays, a corresponding spirit of revelry is attempted, but it is not so natural, and is vitiated by a self-conscious determination to be gay and by not a little vulgarity. The revellers of Steeplechase Park seemed to me to be more genuine even than the crowds that throng the Fête de Neuilly; and a vast deal happier. One very striking difference between Coney Island and the French fair is the absence of children from New York's "safety-valve," as some one described it to me. I saw hardly any. It is as though once again the child's birthday gifts had been appropriated by its elders; but as a matter of fact the Parks of Steeplechase and Luna were, I imagine, designed deliberately for adults. Judging by the popularity of the chutes and the whips, the switchbacks and the witching waves, eccentric movement has a peculiar attraction for the American holiday-maker. As some one put it, there is no better way, or at any rate no more thorough way, of throwing young people together. Middle-aged people, too. But the observer receives no impression of moral disorder. High spirits are the rule, and impropriety is the exception. Even in the auditorium at Steeplechase Park, where the _cognoscenti_ assemble to witness the discomfiture of the uninitiated, there is nothing but harmless laughter as the skirts fly up before the unsuspected blast. Such a performance in England, were it permitted, would degenerate into ugliness; in France, too, it would make the alien spectator uncomfortable. But the essential public chastity of the Americans--I am not sure that I ought not here to write civilisation of the Americans--emerges triumphant. It was at Coney Island that I came suddenly upon the Pig Slide and had a new conception of what quadrupeds can do for man. The Pig Slide, which was in one of the less noisy quarters of Luna Park, consisted of an enclosure in which stood a wooden building of two storeys, some five yards wide and three high. On the upper storey was a row of six or eight cages, in each of which dwelt a little live pig, an infant of a few weeks. In the middle of the row, descending to the ground, was an inclined board, with raised edges, such as is often installed in swimming-baths to make diving automatic, and beneath each cage was a hole a foot in diameter. The spectators and participants crowded outside the enclosure, and the thing was to throw balls, which were hired for the purpose, into the holes. Nothing could exceed the alert and eager interest taken by the little pigs in the efforts of the ball-throwers. They quivered on their little legs; they pressed their little noses against the bars of the cages; their little eyes sparkled; their tails (the only public corkscrews left in America) curled and uncurled and curled again: and with reason, for whereas if you missed--as was only too easy--nothing happened: if you threw accurately the fun began, and the fun was also theirs. This is what occurred. First a bell rang and then a spring released the door of the cage immediately over the hole which your ball had entered, so that it swung open. The little pig within, after watching the previous infirmity of your aim with dejection, if not contempt, had pricked up his ears on the sound of the bell, and now smiled a gratified smile, irresistible in infectiousness, and trotted out, and, with the smile dissolving into an expression of absolute beatitude, slid voluptuously down the plank: to be gathered in at the foot by an attendant and returned to its cage all ready for another such adventure. It was for these moments and their concomitant changes of countenance that you paid your money. To taste the triumph of good marksmanship was only a fraction of your joy; the greater part of it consisted in liberating a little prisoner and setting in motion so much ecstasy. THE PRESS America is a land of newspapers, and the newspapers are very largely the same. To a certain extent many of them are exactly the same, for the vastness of the country makes it possible to syndicalise various features, so that you find Walt Mason's sagacious and merry and punctual verse, printed to look like prose but never disappointing the ear, in one of the journals that you buy wherever you are, in San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Chicago or New York; and Mr. Montagu's topical rhymes in another; and the daily adventures of Mutt and Jeff, who are national heroes, in a third. Every day, for ever, do those and other regular features occur in certain of the papers: which is partly why no American ever seems to confine himself, as is our custom, to only one. Another and admirable feature of certain American papers is a column edited by a man of letters, whose business it is to fill it every day, either with the blossoms of his own intelligence or of outside contributors, or a little of each: such a column as Don Marquis edits for _The Sun_, called "The Sundial," and Franklin R. Adams for _The Tribune_, called "The Conning Tower," and Christopher Morley for the New York _Evening Post_, called "The Bowling Green." Perhaps the unsigned "Way of the World" in our _Morning Post_ is the nearest London correlative. These columns are managed with skill and catholicity, and they impart an element of graciousness and fancy into what might otherwise be too materialistic a budget. A journalist, like myself, is naturally delighted to find editors and a vast public so true to their writing friends. Very few English editors allow their subscribers the opportunity of establishing such steady personal relations; and in England, in consequence, the signed daily contribution from one literary hand is very rare--to an American observer probably mysteriously so. The daily cartoon is common with us; but in London, for example, I cannot think of any similar literary feature that is signed in full. We have C.E.B.'s regular verse in the _Evening News_ and "The Londoner's" daily essay in the same paper, and various initials elsewhere; but, with us, only the artists are allowed their names. Now, in America every name, everywhere, is blazoned forth. Whatever bushel measures may be used for in the United States the concealing of light is no part of their programme. Another feature of American daily journals comparatively unknown in England is the so-called comic pictorial sequence. All the big papers have from one to half a dozen of these sequences, each by a different artist. Bud Fisher with "Mutt and Jeff" comes first in popularity, I believe, and then there are his rivals and his imitators. Nothing more inane than some of these series could be invented; and yet they persist and could not, I am told, be dropped by any editor who thought first of circulation. After the individual contributions have been subtracted, all the newspapers are curiously alike. The same reporters might be on every one; the same sub-editors; the same composers of head-lines. If we think of Americans as too capable of cynical levity it is largely because of these head-lines, which are always as epigrammatic as possible, always light-hearted, often facetious, and often cruel. An unfortunate woman's failure at suicide after killing her husband was thus touched off in one of the journals while I was in New York: POOR SHOT AT HERSELF BUT SUCCEEDS IN LODGING BULLET IN SPOUSE. When it comes to the choice of news, one cannot believe that American editors are the best friends of their country. I am holding no brief for many English editors; I think that our papers can be common too, and can be too ready to take things by the wrong handle; but I think that more vulgarising of life is, at present, effected by American journalists than by English. There are, however, many signs that we may catch up. Profusion is a characteristic of the American newspaper. There is too much of everything. And when Sunday comes with its masses of reading matter proper to the Day of Rest one is appalled. One thing is certain--no American can find time to do justice both to his Sunday paper and his Maker. It is principally on Sunday that one realises that if Matthew Arnold's saying that every nation has the newspapers it deserves is true, America must have been very naughty. How the Sunday editions could be brought out while the paper-shortage was being discussed everywhere, as it was during my visit, was a problem that staggered me. But that the shortage was real I was assured, and jokes upon it even got into the music halls: a sure indication of its existence. "If the scarcity of paper gets more acute," I heard a comedian say, "they'll soon have to make shoes of leather again." But it is not only the Sunday papers that are so immense. I used to hold the _Saturday Evening Post_ in my hands, weighed down beneath its bulk, and marvel that the nation that had time to read it could have time for anything else. The matter is of the best, but what would the prudent, wise and hard-working philosopher who founded it so many years ago--Benjamin Franklin--say if he saw its lure deflecting millions of readers from the real business of life? When we come to consider the American magazines--to which class the _Saturday Evening Post_ almost belongs--and the English, there is no comparison. The best American magazines are wonderful in their quality and range, and we have nothing to set beside them. It is astonishing to think how different, in the same country, daily and monthly journalism can be. Omitting the monthly reviews, _Blackwood_ is, I take it, our finest monthly miscellany; and all of _Blackwood_ could easily and naturally be absorbed in one of the American magazines and be illustrated into the bargain, and still leave room for much more. And the whole would cost less! Why England is so poorly and pettily served in the matter of monthly magazines is something of a mystery; but part of the cause is the rivalry of the papers, and part the smallness of our population. But I shall always hold that we deserve more good magazines than we have now. TREASURES OF ART I was fortunate in being in New York when the Metropolitan Museum celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of its birth, for I was therefore able to enjoy not only its normal treasures but such others as had been borrowed for birthday presents, which means that I saw Mrs. H. E. Huntington's Vermeer, as well as the supreme Marquand example of that master; more than the regular wealth of Rembrandts, Manet's "Still Life," Gauguin's "Women by the River," El Greco's "View of Toledo," Franz Hals' big jovial Dutchman from Mr. Harry Goldman's walls, and Bellini's "Bacchanale"--to say nothing of the lace in galleries 18 and 19, Mr. Morgan's bronze Eros from Pompeii, and the various cases of porcelain from a score of collections. But without extra allurements I should have been drawn again and again to this magnificent museum. Two of the principal metropolitan donors--Altman and Hearn--were the owners of big dry goods stores, while Marquand, whose little Vermeer is probably the loveliest thing in America, was also a merchant. In future I shall look upon all the great emporium proprietors as worthy of patronage, on the chance of their being also beneficent collectors of works of art. This thought, this hope, is more likely to get me into a certain Oxford Street establishment than all the rhetoric and special pleading of Callisthenes. The Frick Gallery was not accessible; but I was privileged to roam at will both in Mr. Morgan's library and in Mr. H. E. Huntington's, in each of which I saw such a profusion of unique and unappraisable autographs as I had not supposed existed in private hands. Rare books any one with money can have, for they are mostly in duplicate; but autographs and "association" books are unique, and America is the place for them. I had known that it was necessary to cross the Atlantic in order to see the originals of many of the pictures of which we in London have only the photographs. I knew that the bulk of the Lamb correspondence was in America, and at Mr. Morgan's I saw the author's draft of the essay on "Roast Pig," and at Mr. Newton's, in Philadelphia, the original of "Dream Children," an even more desirable possession; I knew that America had provided an eager home for everything connected with Keats and Shelley and Stevenson; but it was a surprise to find at Mr. Morgan's so wide a range of MSS., extending from Milton to Du Maurier, and from Bacon to "Dorian Gray"; while at Mr. Huntington's I had in my hands the actual foolscap sheets on which Heine composed his "Florentine Nights." I ought, you say, to have known this before. Maybe. But that ignorance in such matters is no monopoly of mine I can prove by remarking that many an American collector with whom I have talked was unaware that the library of Harvard University is the possessor of all the works of reference--mostly annotated--which were used by Thomas Carlyle in writing his "Cromwell" and his "Frederick the Great," and they were bequeathed by him in his will to Harvard University because of his esteem and regard for the American people, "particularly the more silent part of them." My hours in these libraries, together with a glimpse of the Widener room at Harvard and certain booksellers' shelves, gave me some idea of what American collectors have done towards making the New World a treasury of the Old, and I realised how more and more necessary it will be, in the future, for all critics of art in whatever branch, and of literature in whatever branch, and all students even of antiquity, if they intend to be thorough, to visit America. This I had guessed at, but never before had known. The English traveller lighting upon so many of the essentially English riches as are conserved in American libraries, and particularly when he has not a meagre share of national pride, cannot but pause to wonder how it came about--and comes about--that so much that ought to be in its own country has been permitted to stray. In England collectors and connoisseurs are by no means rare. What, then, were they doing to let all these letters of Keats and Shelley, Burns and Byron, Lamb and Johnson--to name for the moment nothing else--find their resting-place in America? The dollar is very powerful, I know, but should it have been as pre-eminently powerful as this? Need it have defeated so much patriotism? Pictures come into a different category, for every artist painted more than one picture. I have experienced no shade of resentment towards their new owners in looking at the superb collections of old and new foreign masters in the American public and private galleries; for so long as there are enough examples of the masters to go round, every nation should have a share. With MSS., however, it is different. Facsimiles, such as the Boston Bibliographical Society's edition of Lamb's letters, would serve for the rest of the world, and the originals should be in their author's native land. But that is a counsel of perfection. The only thing to do is to grin and bear it, and feel happy that these unique possessions are preserved with such loving pride and care. Any idea of retaliation on America on the part of England by buying up the MSS. of the great American writers, such as Franklin and Poe, Hawthorne and Emerson, Thoreau and Lowell, Holmes and Whitman, was rendered futile by the discovery that Mr. Morgan possesses these too. I had in his library all the Breakfast Table series in my hands, together with a play by Poe not yet published. MOUNT VERNON Mention of the beautiful solicitude with which these treasures are surrounded, suggests the reflection that the old country has something to learn from the new in the matter of distinguished custodianship. We have no place of national pilgrimage in England that is so perfect a model as Washington's home at Mount Vernon. It is perhaps through lack of a figure of the Washington type that we have nothing to compare with it; for any parallel one must rather go to Fontainebleau; but certain shrines are ours and none of them discloses quite such pious thoroughness as this. When I think of the completeness of the preservation and reconstruction of Mount Vernon, where, largely through the piety of individuals, a thousand personal relics have been reassembled, so that, save for the sightseers, this serene and simple Virginian mansion is almost exactly as it was, I am filled with admiration. For a young people largely in a hurry to find time to be so proud and so reverent is a significant thing. Nor is this spirit of pious reverence confined to national memorials. Longfellow's Wayside Inn in Massachusetts, although still only a hostelry, compares not unfavourably with Dove Cottage at Grasmere and Carlyle's house in Chelsea. The preservation is more minute. But to return to Mount Vernon, the orderliness of the place is not its least noticeable feature. There is no mingling of trade with sentiment, as at Stratford-on-Avon, for example. Within the borders of the estate everything is quiet. I have never seen Americans in church (not, I hasten to add, because they abstain, but because I did), but I am sure that they could not, even there, behave more as if the environment were sacred. To watch the crowds at Mount Vernon, and to contemplate the massive isolated grandeur of the Lincoln Memorial now being finished at Washington, is to realise that America, for all its superficial frivolity and cynicism, is capable of a very deep seriousness. VERS LIBRE It would have been pedantic, while in America, to have abstained from an effort at _vers libre_. REVOLT I had been to the Metropolitan Museum looking at beautiful things and rejoicing in them. And then I had to catch a train and go far into the country, to Paul Smith's. And as the light lessened and the brooding hour set in I looked out of the window and reconstructed some of the lovely things I had seen--the sculptures and the paintings, the jewels and the porcelain: all the fine flower of the arts through the ages. It seemed marvellous beyond understanding that such perfection could exist, and I thought how wonderful it must be to be God and see His creatures rising now and again to such heights. And then I came to a station where there was to be a very long wait, and I went to an inn for a meal. It was a dirty neglected place, with a sullen unwashed man at the door, who called raspingly to his wife within. And when she came she was a slattern, with dishevelled hair and a soiled dress and apron, and she looked miserable and worn out. She prepared a meal which I could not eat, and when I went to pay for it I found her sitting dejectedly in a chair looking with a kind of dumb despair at the day's washing-up still to do. And as I walked up and down the road waiting for the car I thought of this woman's earlier life when she was happy. I thought of her in her courtship, when her husband loved her and they looked forward to marriage and he was tender and she was blithe. They probably went to Coney Island together and laughed with the rest. And it seemed iniquitous that such changes should come about and that merry girls should grow into sluts and slovens, and ardent young husbands should degenerate into unkempt bullies, and houses meant for happiness should decay, and marriage promises all be forgotten. And I felt that if the world could not be better managed than that I never wanted to see any of God's artistic darlings at the top of their form again and the Metropolitan Museum could go hang. DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE I believe that few statements about America would so surprise English people as that it has beautiful architecture. I was prepared to find Boston and Cambridge old-fashioned and homelike--Oliver Wendell Holmes had initiated me; I had a distinct notion of the cool spaciousness of the White House and the imposing proportions of the Capitol and, of course, I knew that one had but to see the skyscrapers of New York to experience the traditional repulsion! But of the church of St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue I had heard nothing, nor of Mr. Morgan's exquisite library, nor of the Grand Central terminus, nor of the Lincoln Memorial at Washington, nor of the bland charm of Mount Vernon. Nor had I expected to find Fifth Avenue so dignified and cordial a thoroughfare. Even less was I prepared for such metal work and stone work as is to be seen in some of the business houses--such as, for example, the new Guaranty Trust offices, both on Broadway and in Fifth Avenue. Even the elevators (for which we in England, in spite of our ancient lethargy, have a one-syllable word) are often finished with charming taste. Least of all did I anticipate the maturity of America's buildings. Those serene façades on Beacon Street overlooking Boston Common, where the Autocrat used to walk (and I made an endeavour to follow his identical footsteps, for he was my first real author)--they are as satisfying as anything in Georgian London. And I shall long treasure the memory of the warm red brick and easy proportions of the Boston City Hall and Faneuil Hall, and Independence Hall at Philadelphia seen through a screen of leaves. But in England (and these buildings were English once) we still have many old red brick buildings; what we have not is anything to correspond with the spacious friendly houses of wood which I saw in the country all about Boston and at Cambridge--such houses as that which was Lowell's home--each amid its own greenery. Nowhere, however, did I see a more comely manor house of the old Colonial style than Anthony Wayne's, near Daylesford, in Pennsylvania. In England only cottages are built of wood, and I rather think that there are now by-laws against that. Not all the good country houses, big and little, are, however, old. American architects in the past few years seem to have developed a very attractive type of home, often only a cottage, and I saw a great number of these on the slopes of the Hudson, all the new ones combining taste with the suggestion of comfort. The conservation of trees wherever possible is an admirable feature of modern suburban planning in America. In England the new suburb too often has nothing but saplings. In America, again, the houses, even the very small ones, are more often detached than with us. BOSTON Once the lay-out of New York has been mastered--its avenues and numbered cross streets--it is the most difficult city in the world in which to lose one's way. But Boston is different. I found Boston hard to learn, although it was a pleasant task to acquire knowledge, for I was led into some of the quietest little Georgian streets I have ever been in, steep though some of them were, and along one of the fairest of green walks--that between the back of Beacon Street and the placid Charles. Against Boston I have a certain grudge, for I could find no one to direct me to the place where the tea was thrown overboard. But that it was subjected to this indignity we may be certain--partly from the testimony of subsequent events not too soothing to English feelings, and partly from the unpopularity which that honest herb still suffers on American soil. Coffee, yes; coffee at all times; but no one will take any but the most perfunctory interest in the preparation of tea. I found the harbour; I traversed wharf after wharf; but found no visible record of the most momentous act of jettison since Jonah. In the top room, however, of Faneuil Hall, in the Honourable Artillery Company's headquarters, the more salient incidents of the struggle which followed are all depicted by enthusiastic, if not too talented, painters; and I saw in the distance the monument on Bunker's Hill. My cicerone must be excused, for he was a Boston man, born and bred, and I ought never to have put him to the humiliation of confessing his natural ignorance. But the record is there, and legible enough. The tablet (many kind correspondents have informed me since certain of these notes appeared in the _Outlook_) is at 495 Atlantic Avenue, in the water-front district, just a short walk from the South Station, and it has the following inscription: * * * * * HERE FORMERLY STOOD GRIFFIN'S WHARF at which lay moored on Dec. 16, 1773, three British ships with cargoes of tea. To defeat King George's trivial but tyrannical tax of three pence a pound, about ninety citizens of Boston, partly disguised as Indians, boarded the ships, threw the cargoes, three hundred and forty-two chests in all, into the sea and made the world ring with the patriotic exploit of the BOSTON TEA PARTY "No! ne'er was mingled such a draught In palace, hall, or arbor, As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed That night in Boston Harbor." * * * * * Boston has a remarkable art gallery and museum, notable for its ancient Chinese paintings, its collection of Japanese prints--one of the best in the world, I believe--and a dazzling wall of water-colours by Mr. Sargent. It was here that I saw my first Winslow Homers--two or three rapid sketches of fishermen in full excitement--and was conquered by his verve and actuality. In the Metropolitan Museum in New York I found him again in oils and my admiration increased. Surely no one ever can have painted the sea with more vividness, power and truth! We have no example of his work in any public gallery in London; nor have we anything by W. M. Chase, Arthur B. Davies, Swain Gifford, J. W. Alexander, George Inness, or De Forest Brush. It is more than time for another American Exhibition. As it is, the only modern American artists of whom there is any general knowledge in England are Mr. Sargent, Mr. Epstein and Mr. Pennell, and the late E. A. Abbey, G. H. Boughton, and Whistler. Other Americans painting in our midst are Mr. Mark Fisher, R.A., Mr. J. J. Shannon, R.A., Mr. J. McLure Hamilton, and Mr. G. Wetherbee. The Boston Gallery is the proud possessor of the rough and unfinished but "speaking" likeness of George Washington by his predestined limner Gilbert Stuart, and also a companion presentment of Washington's wife. Looking upon this lady's countenance and watching a party of school girls who were making the tour of the rooms, not uncomforted on their arduous adventure by chocolate and other confections, it occurred to me that if America increases her present love of eating sweets, due, I am told, not a little to Prohibition, George Washington will gradually disappear into the background and Martha Washington, who has already given her name to a very popular brand of candy, will be venerated instead, as the Sweet Mother of her Country. An American correspondent sends me the following poem in order to explain to me the deviousness of Boston's principal thoroughfare. The poet is Mr. Sam Walter Foss:-- One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do. Since then two hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs my moral tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way; And then a wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him too, As good bell-wethers always do. And from that day o'er hill and glade Through those old woods a path was made, And many men wound in and out, And dodged and turned and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath Because 'twas such a crooked path; But still they followed--do not laugh-- The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding wood-way stalked Because he wabbled when he walked. The forest path became a lane That bent and turned and turned again; This crooked lane became a road, Where many a poor horse with his load Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And travelled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf. The years passed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street, And then before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare, And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis. And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf. Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about; And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead. They followed still his crooked way And lost one hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent. A moral lesson this might teach, Were I ordained and called to preach. For men are prone to go it blind Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done. They follow in the beaten track, And out and in and forth and back And still their devious course pursue, To keep the paths that others do. But how the wise old wood-gods laugh Who saw the first primeval calf! Ah, many things this tale might teach--But I am not ordained to preach. PHILADELPHIA I was fortunate in the city over which William Penn, in giant effigy, keeps watch and ward, in having as guide, philosopher and friend Mr. A. Edward Newton, the Johnsonian, and the author of one of the best examples of "amateur" literature that I know--"The Amenities of Book-Collecting." Mr. Newton took me everywhere, even to the little seventeenth-century Swedish church, which architecturally may be described as the antipodes of Philadelphia's newer glory, the Curtis Building, where editors are lodged like kings and can be attained to (if at all) only through marble halls. We went to St. Peter's, where, suddenly awaking during the sermon, one would think oneself to be in a London city church, and to the Historical Museum, where I found among the Quaker records many of my own ancestors and was bewildered amid such a profusion of relics of Penn, Washington and Franklin. In the old library were more traces of Franklin, including his famous electrical appliance, again testifying to the white flame with which American hero-worship can burn; and we found the sagacious Benjamin once more at the Franklin Inn Club, where the simplicity of the eighteenth century mingles with the humour and culture of the twentieth. We then drove through several miles of Fairmount Park, stopping for a few minutes in the hope of finding the late J. G. Johnson's Vermeer in the gallery there; but for the moment it was in hiding, the walls being devoted to his Italian pictures. Finally we drew up at the gates of that strange and imposing Corinthian temple which might have been dislodged from its original site and hurled to Philadelphia by the first Quaker, Poseidon--the Girard College. This solemn fane we were permitted to enter only on convincing the porter that we were not ministers of religion--an easy enough task for Mr. Newton, who wears with grace the natural abandon of a Voltairean, but a difficult one for me. Why Stephen Girard, the worthy "merchant and mariner" who endowed this institution, was so suspicious of the cloth, no matter what its cut, I do not know; no doubt he had his reasons; but his prejudices are faithfully respected by his janitor, whose eye is a very gimlet of suspicion. However, we got in and saw the philanthropist's tomb and his household effects behind those massive columns. That evening I spent in Mr. Newton's library among Blake and Lamb and Johnson autographs and MSS., breaking the Tenth Commandment with a recklessness that would have satisfied and delighted Stephen Girard's gatekeeper; and the next day we were off to Valley Forge to see with what imaginative thoughtfulness the Government has been transforming Washington's camp into a national park and restoring the old landmarks. It was a fine spring day and the woods were flecked with the white and pink blossoms of the dogwood--a tree which in England is only an inconspicuous hedgerow bush but here has both charm and importance and some of the unexpectedness of a tropical growth. I wish we could acclimatise it. The memorial chapel now in course of completion on one of the Valley Forge eminences seemed to me a very admirable example not only of modern Gothic but of votive piety. And such a wealth of American symbolism cannot exist elsewhere. But in the severe little cottage where Washington made his headquarters, down by the stream, with all his frugal campaigning furniture and accessories in their old places, I felt more emotion than in the odour of sanctity. The simple reality of it conquered the stained glass. GENERAL REFLECTIONS Looking back on it all I realise that America never struck me as a new country, although its inhabitants often seemed to be a new people. The cities are more mature than the citizens. New York, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington--all have an air of permanence and age. The buildings, even the most fantastic, suggest indigenousness, or at least stability; nor would the presence of more ancient structures increase this effect. To the eye of the ordinary Englishman accustomed to work in what we call the City, in Fleet Street, in the Strand, in Piccadilly, or in Oxford Street, New York would not appear to be a younger place than London, and Boston might easily strike him as older. Nor is London more than a little older, except in spots, such as the Tower and the Temple and the Abbey, and that little Tudor row in Holborn, all separated by vast tracts of modernity. Indeed, I would almost go farther and say that London sets up an illusion of being newer even than New York by reason of its more disturbing street traffic both in the roads and on the footways, and the prevalence of the gaily coloured omnibuses which thunder along so many thoroughfares in notable contrast with the sedate and sober vehicles that serve Fifth Avenue and are hardly seen elsewhere. Meanwhile an illusion of antiquity is set up by New York's habit of commingling business houses and private residences, which surely belongs to an older order of society. In London we have done away with such a blend. Our nearest approach to Fifth Avenue is, I suppose, Regent Street; but there are no mansions among the shops of Regent Street. Our shops are there and our mansions are elsewhere, far away, in what we call residential quarters--such as Park Lane, Queen's Gate, Mayfair, the Bayswater Road, and Grosvenor Square. To turn out of Fifth Avenue into the quiet streets where people live is to receive a distinct impression of sedateness such as New York is never supposed to convey. One has the same feeling in the other great American cities. But when it comes to their inhabitants there are to the English eye fewer signs of maturity. I have never been able to get rid of the idea that every one I have met in America, no matter how grave a senior, instead of being really and self-consciously in the thick of life, is only getting ready to begin. Perhaps this is due in part to the pleasure--the excitement almost--which American business men--and all Americans are business men--take in their work. They not merely do it, but they enjoy doing it and they watch themselves doing it. They seem to have a knack of withdrawing aside and observing themselves as from the stalls, not without applause. In other words, they dramatise continually. Now, one does not do this when one is old--it is a childish game--and it is another proof that they are younger than we, who do not enjoy our work, and indeed, most of us, are ashamed of it and want the world to believe that we live like the lilies on private means. Similarly, many Americans seem, when they talk, to be two persons: one the talker, and the other the listener charmed by the quality of his discourse. There is nothing detrimental in such duplicity. Indeed, I think I have a very real envy of it. But one of the defects of the listening habit is perhaps to make them too rhetorical, too verbose. It is odd that the nation that has given us so much epigrammatic slang and the telegraph and the telephone and the typewriter should have so little of what might be called intellectual short-hand. But so it is. Too many Americans are remorseless when they are making themselves clear. Yet the passion for printed idiomatic sententiousness and arresting trade-notices is visible all the time. You see it in the newspapers and in the shops. I found a children's millinery shop in New York with this laconic indication of its scope, in permanent letters, on the plate-glass window: "Lids for Kids." A New York undertaker, I am told, has affixed to all his hearses the too legible legend: "You may linger, but I'll get you yet." When it comes to descriptive new words, coined rapidly to meet occasions, we English are nowhere compared with the Americans. Could there be anything better than the term "Nearbeer" to reveal at a blow the character of a substitute for ale? I take off my hat, too, to "crape-hanger," which leaves "kill-joy" far in the rear. But "optience" for a cinema audience, which sees but does not hear, though ingenious, is less admirable. Although I found the walls of business offices in New York and elsewhere decorated with pithy counsel to callers, and discouragements to irrelevance, such as "Come to the point but don't camp on it," "To hell with yesterday," and so forth, I am very doubtful if with all these suggestions of practical address and Napoleonic efficiency the American business man is as quick and decisive as ours can be. There is more autobiography talked in American offices than in English; more getting ready to begin. I have, however, no envy of the American man's inability to loaf and invite his soul, as his great democratic poet was able to do. I think that this unfamiliarity with armchair life is a misfortune. That article of furniture, we must suppose, is for older civilisations, where men have either, after earning the right to recline, taken their ease gracefully, or have inherited their fortune and are partial to idleness. It consorts ill with those who are still either continually and restlessly in pursuit of the dollar or are engaged in the occupation of watching dollars automatically arrive. One of the things, I take it, for Americans to learn is how to transform money into a friend. So many men who ought to be quietly rejoicing in their riches seem still to be anxious and acquisitive; so many men who have become suddenly wealthy seem to be allowing their gains to ruin their happiness. For the nation's good nearly every one, I fancy, has too much money. My experience is that England has almost everything to learn from America in the matter of hotels. I consider American second and third-class hotels to be better in many ways than our best. Every American restaurant, of each grade, is better than the English equivalent; the appointments are better, the food is served with more distinction and often is better too. When it comes to coffee, there is no comparison whatever: American coffee is the best in the world. Only quite recently has the importance of the complete suite entered the intelligence of the promoters of English hotels, and in myriads of these establishments, called first class, there is still but one bathroom to twenty rooms. Heating coils and hot and cold water in the rooms are even more rare: so rare as to be mentioned in the advertisements. Telephones in the rooms are rarer. In too many hotels in England there is still no light at the head of the bed. But we have certain advantages. For example, in English restaurants there is always something on the table to eat at once--_hors d'oeuvres_ or bread and butter. In America there is too often nothing ready but iced water--an ungenial overture to any feast--and you must wait until your order has been taken. Other travellers, even Americans, have agreed with me that it would be more comfortable if the convention which decrees that the waiter shall bring everything together could be overruled. Something "to go on with" is a great ameliorative, especially when one is hungry and tired. In thus commending American hotels over English it is, however, only right to admit that the American hotels are very much more expensive. While on the subject of eating, I would say that for all their notorious freedoms Americans have a better sense of order than we. Their policemen may carry their batons drawn, and even swing them with a certain insolent defiance or even provocation, but New York goes on its way with more precision and less disturbance than London, and every one is smarter, more alert. The suggestion of a living wage for all is constant. It is indeed on this sense of orderliness that the success of certain of the American time-saving appliances is built. The Automat restaurants, for example, where the customer gets all his requirements himself, would never do in London. The idea is perfect; but it requires the co-operation of the customer, and that is what we should fail to provide. The spotless cleanliness and mechanical exactitude of these places in New York would cease in London, and gradually they would decline and then disappear. At heart, we in England dislike well-managed places. Nor can I see New York's public distribution of hot water adopted in London. Such little geysers as expel steam at intervals through the roadway of Fifth Avenue will never, I fear, be found in Regent Street or Piccadilly. Our communism is very patchy. There are some unexpected differences between America and England. It is odd, for instance, to find a nation from whom we get most of our tobacco and who have the reputation of even chewing cigars, with such strict rules against smoking. In the Music Halls, which are, as a rule, better than ours, smoking is permitted only in certain parts. Public decorum again is, I should say, more noticeable in an American than an English city, and yet both in San Francisco and New York I dined in restaurants--not late--between 7 and 8--and not furtive hole-in-corner places,--where girls belonging to the establishment, wearing almost nothing at all, performed the latest dances, with extravagant and daring variations of them, among the tables. In London this kind of thing is unknown. In Paris it occurs only in the night cafés. It struck me as astonishing--and probably not at all to the good--that it should be an ordinary dinner accompaniment. I was asked while I was in America to set down some of the chief things that I missed. I might easily have begun with walking-sticks, for until I reached New York I seemed to be the only man in America who carried one, although a San Francisco friend confessed to sometimes "wearing a cane" on Sundays. I missed a Visitors' Book either at the British Embassy in Washington or at the White House. After passing through India, where one's first duty is to enter one's name in these volumes, it seemed odd that the same machinery of civility should be lacking. I missed any system of cleaning boots during the night, in the hotels; but I soon became accustomed to this, and rather enjoyed visiting the "shine parlours," in one of which was this crisp notice: "If you like our work, tell your friends; if you don't like it, tell us." I missed gum-chewing. But it was on returning to England that I began really to take notice. Then I found myself missing America's cleanliness, America's despatch, its hotel efficiency, its lashings of cream, its ice on every hand. All this at Liverpool! I missed later the petrol fountains all about the roads, a few of which I had seen in India, at which the motorist can replenish; but these surely will not be long in coming. I don't want England to be Americanised; I don't want America to cease to be a foreign country; but there are lessons each of us can learn. If I were an American, although I travelled abroad now and then (and I hold that it is the duty of a man to see other lands but live in his own) I should concentrate on America. It is the country of the future. I am glad I have seen it and now know something--however slight--about it at first hand. I made many friends there and amassed innumerable delightful memories. But what is the use of eight weeks? I am ashamed not to have gone there sooner, and humiliated by the brevity of my stay. I have had the opportunity only to lift a thousand curtains, get a glimpse of the entertainment on the other side and drop them again. I should like to go there every other year and have time: time to make the acquaintance of a naturalist and learn from him the names of birds and trees and flowers; time to loiter in the byways; time to penetrate into deeper strata where intimacies strike root and the real discoveries are made; time to discern beneath the surface, so hard and assured, something fey, something wistful, the sense of tears. INDEX Adirondacks, etc. Agra and its Fort Aitken, E. H., his three books Akbar America, its democracy its humour its slang its trains its women its newspapers its MSS. its hotels its maturity American painters in England Americans, at home and abroad Americans, their clothes their physiognomy their disturbing wealth Aquariums Architecture in America "Association" books Baker, Mr. Herbert Bam Bahadur, that great hunter Baseball and cricket Beecher, Henry Ward Benares Berkeley University Bernier on the Moguls Betel-nut chewing Birds in India Blackbuck, the agile Bombay--Towers of Silence Boston Butler, H.E., Sir Harcourt Calcutta--the piano-carriers its snake charmers and the Maidan and its English buildings its old cemetery Charnock, Job Chicago, its hospitable policeman its pictures Cinema, the Cobb, Mr. Irvin Comparisons between America and England Coney Island Cow-worship in India Cricket and baseball Curzon, Lord, his preservation of ancient buildings Dances in India and Japan Delhi--the camel omnibuses its architecture and the Mutiny Fort Dickens, Charles, presentation copies "Eha," his three books Elephanta, caves of Fakirs in India Fatehpur-Sikri Faneuil Hall, Boston Fifth Avenue Foss, Mr. Samuel W., his Boston poem Franklin, Benjamin Fujiyama Funerals in India and England Ganges, the Geisha dances Gilbert, Mr. Cass Girard, Stephen Goschen, Lord, wounds the tiger Hakone, Lake Hawking Herford, Mr. Oliver Hindus, the, and animals Hokusai Holmes, Oliver Wendell Hong-Kong, funeral at Honolulu Hooghli, the Hotels in America Humayun's Tomb Huntington, Mr. H. E. Jahan, Shah, his buildings Jains, the, their preservation of life Japan--its lack of idlers and animal life its women its American reading Japanese, their small stature materialism public manners their gold teeth Journalism in America Katsuragava rapids Keats' _Lamia_, 1820 Kesteven, Sir Charles, his library Khan, Sir Umar Hayat Kohinoor, the Kutb Minar, the Kyoto, its temples Lake Placid Club Lamb, Mr. A. M., his distress at Honolulu Charles, first editions manuscripts Landor, Walter Savage Lavater abroad Lincoln Memorial Liston, Lt.-Col. Glen Lucknow and the Mutiny its delectability Lutyens, Sir Edwin Landseer, R.A., goes hawking and Imperial Delhi and the priests and the divers hunts the tiger Marquis, Mr. Don Moguls, the Mohammedan customs priests Monkeys Morgan, Mr. J. Pierpont Mount Vernon Mutiny, the Myanoshita Nautch, the Nawanagar, the Jam of New or Imperial Delhi New York, its skyscrapers its buildings its aquarium its shops its dances its sky signs its pictures its MSS. its maturity Newspapers in America Newton, Mr. A. Edward Otome Pass Painters, American, in England Parsees, the Peacock Throne, the Philadelphia Pictures in America Prince of Wales in New York Prohibition Pronunciation in America Ranjitsinhji, Prince Rickshaws Roosevelt, Theodore, his Memorial Road "Rose Aylmer" Ruth, "Babe" San Francisco Saranac _Saturday Evening Post_, the Scott, Mr. A. P., his house Sculpture in America Shaw, Mr. Bernard Simplified spelling Skyscrapers Skysigns Slang in America Snake-poison antidotes St. Gaudens, Augustus Stevenson, Robert Louis Swamp-deer hunting Swan, Mr. Thomas, his despair at Honolulu Taj Mahal, the Talmadge, Constance Norma Tavernier on the Moguls Theatre, the, in Japan Tiger hunt, a Tinney, Frank Tokio, its dress its theatre Tolstoi, Count Leo Towers of Silence Townsend, Joe, his ballad Valley Forge Venice and Benares Vers Libre Vultures Washington George Martha Wayne, Anthony Wayside Inn, the Wheeler, Mr. Charles Stetson, his story Women in America in Japan Woolworth Building, the Yamaguchi, Madame Yokohama 
62121	----	Internet Archive. JOHN L. STODDARD'S LECTURES JAPAN I JAPAN II CHINA _Norwood Press_ _F. S. Gushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co._ _Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._ _Boston Bookbinding, Co., Cambridge, Mass._ [Illustration: FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.] John L. Stoddard's LECTURES [Illustration] _COMPLETE IN TEN VOLUMES_ _VOLUME THREE_ BOSTON BALCH BROTHERS CO. MCMVIII CHICAGO: GEO. L. SHUMAN & CO. Copyright, 1897 By John L. Stoddard Entered at Stationers' Hall, London ALL RIGHTS RESERVED * * * * * JAPAN I [Illustration: FOREST SOLITUDE] JAPAN LECTURE I [Illustration: EMPEROR.] It is now nearly four hundred years since the brave discoverer, Magellan, first sailed around the world. Yet, till comparatively recent times, three years were necessary to complete the circuit. To-day, some Phineas Fogg can put a girdle round the earth in less than eighty days, and messages are flashed to us from China and Ceylon in less than eighty seconds. The old-time spirit of adventure amid unknown scenes, which thrilled the traveler of former years, has, therefore, well-nigh disappeared. Of all the surface of our globe, the Polar Seas alone still bid defiance to the approach of man; though every year the ultimate capitulation of those ice-bound areas, lit by the aurora, becomes less remote. [Illustration: MOUNT STEPHEN.] The broad Atlantic has now dwindled to an ocean ferry. Europe is measured, not by weeks, but by hours. Constantinople, once so remotely Oriental, is but five days from London,--Cairo only six. Even the vast Pacific glides beneath our keel in thirteen days. Two centuries ago, the man who had achieved a journey around the globe would have been called a hero. One century since, he would have been remarkable. To-day the name he earns is merely--"Globe-trotter." In consequence of this, to certain minds our vanquished earth seems like a squeezed and juiceless orange. Material forces have deprived it of romance, as age has robbed the moon of atmosphere and life. And yet, the fact that we move rapidly from point to point need not lessen our interest in the places that we visit. The wondrous beauty of the Taj Mahal and the incomparable majesty of the Himalayas are not less enjoyed because we can make a pilgrimage to them with comparative comfort. Japan's awakened empire, China's four hundred millions, the toiling myriads of India, with history, customs and religions antedating those of Christendom, present the same stupendous problems, whether we visit them in an antique sailing-craft or in a modern steamer. Despite the speed with which we flit from continent to continent, the actual distance is still there. Let but the steamer's shaft become disabled in mid-ocean, and the fact will not be doubted. But of whatever size our earth may now appear to us, the time has never been when travel upon its surface offered such attractions. Its countries now are like a series of intensely interesting books--each the sequel of its predecessor--which science, commerce, and navigation have laid open for our scrutiny. A tour around the world, therefore, is vastly more instructive than a journey through the principal European cities. Mere Occidental travel, though delightful, is but fragmentary and one-sided. The unbroken circle is alone the symbol of completeness; and only when the traveler has sailed away from our Pacific coast, and journeyed on and on toward the setting sun, until he sees the shores of our Republic (never before so beloved) rise from the waves of the Atlantic, can he in truth exclaim, with Monte Cristo, "The world is mine!" [Illustration: A JAPANESE PAGODA.] The route which we selected for our journey to Japan was the superbly built and admirably equipped highway to the Orient, the "Canadian Pacific." This magnificent transcontinental system comprises, first, the gleaming path of steel which crosses Canada from sea to sea; and, second, a fleet of steamers at the western terminus of the road--the largest, swiftest, and most modern boats that ply between the North American continent and the land of the Mikado. The various railway lines from the Atlantic to the centre of the continent are too well-known to require description; but since some starting-point is necessary, we may well choose, as the most appropriate one, the vast plains of Manitoba, midway between the Atlantic and Pacific, and only eighteen hours by rail from Minneapolis. Mile after mile, and hour after hour, we sped through these prairies as level as a tranquil sea. Sometimes, like wreckage floating on the waves, we saw great sun-bleached heaps of skulls and bones--pathetic relics of the herds of buffaloes which only thirty years ago existed here in millions, but which man's cruelty and recklessness have almost totally destroyed. At other times, the railroad cut its silvery furrow through a boundless area of golden rod and daisies,--apparently a shoreless ocean of red, green, and gold, upon the verge of which the sky seemed to rest like an azure dome. But presently we realized that the plains were being left behind us. In fact, between these prairies and the vast Pacific rise three great mountain-ranges almost parallel to one another. They are the Rocky, the Selkirk, and the Cascade mountains. [Illustration: BANFF.] [Illustration: ON THE PORCH AT BANFF] [Illustration: A VIEW FROM THE HOTEL.] It was already evening when we approached the "Rockies." We tried to catch their outline, but in vain. Behind a veil of impenetrable gloom, the morrow's splendid spectacle awaited us. Accordingly, at five o'clock in the morning, the subtle nervousness which usually heralds any long anticipated pleasure woke me with a start. I raised the curtain of my berth, and from my lips there came an exclamation of delight. There were the "Rockies," as I had so often pictured them; no longer vague creations of some other man's enthusiasm, but glorious realities awakening mine. A rugged wall of granite met my gaze, seamed here and there with silver, as the pure snow sparkled in its crevices; while all along its crest, five thousand feet above our heads, the dawn had traced a parapet of gold. I felt at once that thrill of satisfaction which every traveler prizes more and more as years roll on and fewer famous sights are left him to explore. It was the consciousness of one more conquest made, not merely for the excitement of a first possession, but for the calmer and more abiding pleasure of retrospection. [Illustration: THE THREE SISTERS.] An hour later, we had left the train to spend two days at Banff,--a place unknown before the advent of the railroad, but forming now the centre of a charming region, four thousand five hundred feet above the sea, reserved by the Canadian Government as a national park. Above us, in the morning light, like some old Rhenish castle on a wooded cliff, appeared a picturesque hotel, within whose ample hall we found a huge log blazing in the fireplace; while modern luxuries, such as bath-rooms and electric-lights, assured us a delightful resting-place. Yet this is but one of several hotels built by the railroad company at points of special interest, so that the traveler by this route may halt and view its scenery amid comfortable surroundings. [Illustration: VANCOUVER.] Soon after our arrival, we started on a tour of exploration, and found the situation worthy of its fame. Over the best of roads Canadian ponies whirled us along the windings of the Bow river, green as emerald. The air was as pure as that of Norway. A breath of it was like a draught of wine. So transparent was the atmosphere, that mountains miles away seemed close at hand. Strange mountains these! Their color is an ashen gray, now darkened by a passing cloud, now almost white with vivid sunlight. They have no vegetation on their rugged slopes, save a few pine-trees, which suggest the "forlorn hope" of an army struggling toward a citadel. [Illustration: HOTEL VANCOUVER.] Had time permitted, we should have gladly lingered in this glorious region,--but with so much before us, we were compelled to take our leave of Banff and enter on the last great section of our journey toward the sea. In making this, we were for hours surfeited with grandeur. Our chief desire was to retard the train, and check the rapid shifting of imposing scenery. Our brains at last refused to receive additional impressions. One could spend weeks upon this portion of the route alone. Sometimes our train wound like a serpent around the mountain sides,--now on a narrow ledge three hundred feet above a foaming torrent, now gliding through a tunnel in the solid rock. Three million dollars' worth of snow-sheds guard this railway from the avalanche, and rivers even have been forced to turn aside and yield their immemorial pathways to the iron conqueror. But now farewell to railroads and to mountains! We have reached the sea. Who that has ever crossed our mighty continent can quite forget the moment when, after all the plains and mountains he has traversed, he gains his first glimpse of the blue Pacific? It is at once a startling revelation of the distance he has come, and a reminder of those Orient lands whose misty shores still seem so fabulously tar away. [Illustration: THE EMPRESS OF JAPAN.] Our ocean gateway, and place of embarkation for Japan, was Vancouver,--one of those marvels of the West, which, notwithstanding all our previous reading, astonish us when actually seen. Ten years ago Vancouver was a wilderness; a forest covered every portion of the present city. To-day it has good streets and sidewalks, electric-lights and trolley-cars, banks, churches, some extremely pretty houses, and a good hotel. What an excitement marks the embarkation-day at this Hotel Vancouver! What searching glances pass from one strange group of travelers to another, as if to read the characters and dispositions of the men and women who are to be their fellow-passengers for fourteen days,--aye, more than that;--to be, perchance, their fellow-travelers for many months, meeting on other steamers, or in Chinese streets, or possibly in the palm-groves of Ceylon. No gaiety is yet discernible. It is the hour for farewells. The reading-room is filled with busy scribes, whose scratching pens and long-drawn sighs alone disturb the silence of the place. [Illustration: THE "EMPRESS" IN A STORM.] We saw, on the last day, at least a score of ladies, bent almost double on divans or arm-chairs, using alternately their writing-tablets and their handkerchiefs,--their tears apparently flowing much more freely than the ink from their fountain pens. Telegraph boys were meanwhile running to the various rooms with good-bye messages from eastern friends. "No use in sending them out," the blase operator told me; "they are all alike. Might just as well hoist a flag with the letters 'B. V.' on it; for every message ends with the same words: 'Bon Voyage!'" [Illustration: A JAPANESE VILLAGE.] But now the actual sailing-time has come; the last fond messages have been received; the gang-plank is thrown off; the huge propeller moves; and we have left our native land to make the circuit of the world. Of course some tears are shed; some cheeks grow paler at the thought of all that lies before us in the twenty-five thousand miles of land and water we must traverse; but these are soon forgotten in contemplation of the ship itself,--the Empress of Japan. This is one of the finest steamers in the world, and like her sister ships, the Empress of China and the Empress of India, is a vessel of six thousand tons and of ten thousand horse-power. Graceful and beautiful she looked,--her great hull snow-white to the water's edge, to shield it better from the tropic sun. [Illustration: MISSISSIPPI BAY.] Aside, however, from the speed, strength, and comfort of the steamers, the voyage across the North Pacific does not call forth enthusiastic praise. It is a lonely, unfrequented route. We saw no sign of land or life for thirteen days. The cold, too, was excessive. Unless wrapped up with extra care, we could not sit on deck with any comfort, although protected from the wind by canvas screens. Moreover, in its sudden changes, this North Pacific rivals the Mediterranean in winter, and when aroused, its billows are colossal. During our voyage there were some hours, and even days, when all was reasonably calm; but there were others when tremendous winds tore into shreds the crests of white-capped waves and filled the air with blinding spray. Hours there were, when trunks not merely slid, but bounded, clear across the room, and landed with their casters in the air, like the hoofs of a rolling horse; hours when even the pantry stove revolted at such treatment and hurled its glowing coals about the floor. I recall an unusually stormy period when the diet of at least two wretched passengers for an entire day consisted of one grape,--and my companion ate the grape! The day which passed most quickly on this voyage was that which we deliberately dropped from the calendar, on crossing the one hundred and eightieth meridian of longitude, just half-way around the world from London, and equidistant, east and west, from the observatory at Greenwich. Some wicked passengers ascribed our stormy weather to the missionaries on board, claiming that gales at sea are their invariable attendants. However that may be, there certainly were times when all the passengers (missionaries included) would have agreed with the old Japanese proverb--"A stormy sea-voyage is an inch of hell." [Illustration: COMING TO MEET US.] Nothing stands out more clearly in my recollection of the Orient than the bright, long anticipated hour when, after thirteen days of dreary ocean travel, we suddenly beheld, emerging from the waves, that strange, unique, and fascinating land, which promised so much novelty and pleasure,--old Japan. Old, and yet new; for the fair sheet of water which first greeted us was Mississippi Bay, named from the flagship of Commodore Perry, which, with the remainder of his American fleet, dropped anchor here in 1854. The coming of this envoy to the East was not for the purpose of war or invasion, but to request that this important empire, our nearest neighbor westward, lying directly in the path of commerce between Asia and America, should, for the sake of mutual benefit, open its doors (till then resolutely closed to foreigners) and become, to some degree, accessible to the outer world. Impatient to explore this land, we swept the shore with field-glasses, and saw, with much amusement, some natives hastening to launch their boats and row out to us. But were they really coming in just that economical style of dress? They were, and did; but in five minutes we forgot their costumes (or rather their want of them) in admiration of the men themselves. It was, however, not their faces, but their forms, which so attracted us. Never in marble or in bronze have I seen finer specimens of limbs and muscles than those displayed by the compactly built and copper-colored boatmen of Japan. Some of them looked like masterpieces of antiquity, suddenly endowed with life and motion. Taking the hotel steam-launch, in preference to the native boats, we quickly reached the landing-pier of Yokohama. A slight examination of our trunks was made by officers polite enough to beg our pardon for the trifling delay. There is a duty in Japan on photographic cameras. One of our party was, therefore, called upon to pay the stipulated sum. "I have no Japanese money," he faltered; "I must leave my camera here, and call again." [Illustration: THE CUSTOM-HOUSE, YOKOHAMA.] "Not at all," replied the official courteously; "I will lend you the money; here it is." I thought my friend, accustomed only to the refinements of the New York Custom-house, would faint away. At last he gathered strength enough to ask: "But what security have you that I will repay you?" "Ah!" replied the officer, smiling, "you are an American." [Illustration: AS THE NATIVES TRAVEL.] "Truly," he exclaimed, as we walked away, "the Japanese are the French of Asia." [Illustration: A JINRIKISHA.] On leaving the Custom-house I laughed aloud to see awaiting us the almost universal means of locomotion in Japan--the jinrikisha. Shades of our childhood!--what are these? Big-wheeled baby-carriages surely, and yet used altogether by adults. They looked as though a heavy man could crush them to earth, or a strong wind might blow them against the wall. When we stepped into ours, we did so cautiously, lest we should suddenly go over backward; and at the sight of some of our more stalwart passengers thus installed, the air was filled with peals of laughter. One portly traveler, weighing at least two hundred pounds, wagged his head feebly at an equally heavy comrade, and shook a "da-da" at him, as if they had both gone back to the state of babyhood. Yet, incredible as it would at first appear, the traveler soon comes to like these little vehicles. Their running-gear, though light, is strong. A breakdown in them is practically unknown. The steeds which draw them harness and unharness themselves, never shy nor kick, and are obedient to the slightest command. Jinrikishas are so cheap that one can hire them all day long and never feel the expense. Ten cents an hour is the usual price, or seventy-five cents for an entire day. One's packages and valises follow in another jinrikisha. The speed at which one travels in them is astonishing. Even with only one man in the shafts, the usual rate is at least five miles an hour. With one man pushing, and two pulling tandem, you actually seem to fly. On good roads with two men we sometimes made ten miles an hour. And what is most delightful to the traveler, the runners themselves seem to enjoy it thoroughly. Time and again in the country, when they had drawn us twenty or thirty miles with but occasional halts, they actually raced each other on the last half-mile, laughing and capering like boys at play. [Illustration: A JAPANESE MACKINTOSH.] In stormy weather these human horses wore blankets that excited both our laughter and amazement. They are a kind of Japanese mackintosh, composed of grass and straw, which, though they are quite effectual in shedding rain and snow, give to the wearer the appearance of a fretful porcupine. A certain patriotic feeling draws Americans to the jinrikisha; for this convenient little chaise was the invention of a Yankee missionary. He ought to have made a fortune by it, for in Yokohama alone there are five thousand of these vehicles, and in Japan more than two hundred and fifty thousand; while they are also numerous now in China, India, and Singapore. But the missionary has had the usual fate of inventors, and is said to be, at present, an inmate of an Old Men's Home near Philadelphia. [Illustration: PECULIAR TRAVELING.] [Illustration: "A BIG-WHEELED BABY-CARRIAGE."] The Japanese word, jinrikisha, is worth explaining, "jin" means man, "riki" denotes power, and "sha" signifies wheel. A "man-power-carriage" is therefore the correct translation; but the wittiest and most appropriate title is the one given to it by an American tourist,--the "Pull-man-car." Delighted with our first experiences in these little vehicles, we left the Custom-house in Yokohama, and were quickly trundled to the Grand Hotel. This is one of the best hotels in the entire East. It fronts directly on the sea, and one can sit for hours on its long verandas and watch the animated scenes of street-life in the foreground; or else look off upon the lovely bay, where ships and steamers of all nations lie at anchor, among which glide the native boats, propelled by the bronzed athletes of Japan. My mind goes back with positive delight to some cool morning hours at my window here, but oftener still to moonlit evenings passed upon my balcony. At such a time, the scene recalled a painting in some cyclorama,--so difficult was it to discern where fancy ended and reality began; so smooth appeared the harbor's silvered breast; so motionless the mighty steamers stationed there like sentinels; so still their tapering masts, rising like minarets against the sky; while here and there a red or green light on a steamer's side flashed like a ruby or an emerald. Moreover, as the hours moved on, breaking the solemn stillness of the scene, the ship's bells followed one another through the watches of the night, and stole across the water like a silvery chime. [Illustration: WAITING FOR A "FARE."] [Illustration: A DISTANT VIEW OF FUJI-YAMA.] [Illustration: IN YOKOHAMA BAY.] Yokohama is divided into three sections. The first is the original business settlement, where the hotels are located; the second is the strictly Japanese quarter; the third lies on an eminence called "The Bluff." The summit of this hill is reached, not merely by a winding road, but also by a stairway commonly known as the "Hundred Steps." Upon this height most of the foreigners reside; here also are the hospitals of different nations, the foreign cemetery, and several consulates. Wishing one day to make a call upon a resident on this hill, and being unable to make our human pony understand his name, we asked the aid of the hotel proprietor. To our astonishment, he said to us: "No name is necessary. I shall merely tell him to take you to gentleman No. 35." A moment's thought explained to us the reason for this custom; for "No. 35 gentleman" or "No. 76 lady" are terms which "'rikisha men" can much more easily understand than foreign names. Yet even this system has its difficulties; for all the houses on the Bluff are numbered, not in the sequence of location, but in the order of their erection. Thus, the first residence constructed there is No. 1, but the dwelling next to it, if recently erected, may be called No. 500. [Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED CRAFT.] [Illustration: A RESIDENCE ON THE BLUFF.] Some of the houses on the Bluff are quite attractive; and life in them must be in many respects delightful. We met here two American ladies, who, having taken a furnished house for several months, were actually housekeeping in Japan. They told us that they had never had so pleasant an experience, and that the markets of Yokohama abounded in meat, fish, fruit, and vegetables, all at reasonable prices, while their Japanese servants had been so devoted and respectful that they were spoiled for housekeeping with any others. The summer, they confessed, had been hot, and varied by an occasional earthquake; but on the Bluff the air was pure and cool, and they had at least been exempt from thunder-storms. Yet Yokohama's climate is not always tropical, or even mild. Winter also can assert itself here, and boats and buildings sometimes wear a robe of snow. Such a wintry temperature makes, of course, little difference in the comfort of foreigners; but, to the Japanese themselves, one might suppose the winter months would be a season of protracted misery, since the vast majority of the natives have no fire in their houses save that in a charcoal brazier; the partitions in their dwellings are mere paper screens; and they themselves rarely wear woolen garments, much less flannel ones. Yet the people are hardy. Jinrikisha men, we were told, will run about the snow-covered streets with only cotton sandals on their feet. "How can your people live thus thinly clad, and with so little fire?" we asked our guide. "Oh, they become used to it," he answered. "You never cover up your face in winter. It is accustomed to the cold. So we subject our bodies to the same endurance." [Illustration: YOKOHAMA IN WINTER.] One day, in strolling through a street in Yokohama, we came upon two little Japanese women doing laundry work and spreading garments out to dry upon a smooth, flat board. Following the pleasant custom of the country, they laughingly called out to us, "Ohaio--Ohaio,"--the Japanese expression for "Good Morning!" One of our party, a judge from Covington, Kentucky, did not understand the meaning of that word. Accordingly, when one of these Japanese maidens smiled sweetly in his face, and said, with a slightly rising inflection, "Ohaio!" he faltered, and replied, "Well, not exactly; I come from Covington, just across the river!" [Illustration: ON THE WAY TO KAMAKURA.] The foreign cemetery of Yokohama is beautifully situated on the Bluff, above the tumult of the town. It is well-kept, and many of its monuments are elaborate. Numerous epitaphs in English, French, German, and Italian attest the cosmopolitan character of the place. As we were walking there one Sunday afternoon, we met a lady deeply veiled, leaning upon her husband's arm, and giving way to uncontrollable grief. When they were gone we ventured to approach the grave which they had left. The tombstone bore a recent date, and on it were four lines that deeply moved us by their sad simplicity; for, stooping down to a low headstone wreathed in flowers, we read these words: "A little grave, but oh, have care, For world-wide hopes are lying there; How much of light, how much of joy Are buried with a darling boy!" [Illustration: A JAPANESE CEMETERY.] [Illustration: PATH TO THE SHOGUN'S HOUSE.] [Illustration: THE FOREIGN CEMETERY, YOKOHAMA.] The day after our arrival in Yokohama, we drove out into the surrounding country. It was historically very interesting. Upon the plain where we saw laborers harvesting their crops, once stood the ancient capital of the empire,--Kamakura. It was then the residence of a million people, and was, no doubt, a scene of splendor, war, and intrigue; yet of the men and deeds which moved it centuries ago we know comparatively nothing. We sometimes think ourselves familiar with the history of our race; and so we are, along the lines of Egypt, Rome, and mediæval Europe. But when the traveler visits China, India, and Japan, he realizes the fact that he has come to the other side of the globe,--to lands whose histories are more remote than those of even Greece and Rome, and yet utterly distinct from all the streams of civilization which have flowed toward him. He begins to feel as men might who, having always thought the Rhine to be the only river of any magnitude on earth, should suddenly find themselves beside the Nile, whose mighty volume has been rolling onward for unnumbered ages, and over whose distant origin there hangs the halo of mystery. [Illustration: DOING LAUNDRY WORK.] [Illustration: A BUDDHIST PAGODA.] One thing, however, still remains at Kamakura to tell us of its unrecorded past. It is the world-renowned statue of Buddha,--one of the largest works in bronze that man has ever made. Upon a huge stone pedestal, in the form of a lotus-flower, one hundred feet in circumference, this monstrous figure has been seated here in solemn contemplation for seven hundred years. It is a noble representation of the man before whose shrines more knees are bent in prayer to-day than before those of any other founder of religion whom this earth has known. Close by, beneath the trees, are pedestals of enormous columns, the relics of a splendid temple which once formed the canopy of the statue, but which was swept away by a huge tidal wave, four hundred years ago. The statue itself, however, was too immense and weighty to be thus destroyed; hence, as it sits here now in solitary grandeur on a plain, beneath which sleeps a vanished world, the only columns that surround it are majestic trees, the only roof that shelters it is the arch of the immeasurable sky, and the only tapers on its ruined altar are the unchanging stars. [Illustration: THE BRONZE BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA.] It is easy to enumerate statistics here; to call to mind the fact that this statue is fifty feet in height; that underneath its drooping lids are eyes of purest gold; that the face alone is eighteen feet in length; that the circumference of the thumb is three feet; and, finally, that within this statue is a chapel for a hundred worshipers. But these are not the things which most impress one here. We can find other statues for statistics. This has something better. It is the indescribable, passionless expression of the face, that grows upon the traveler as he studies it, and haunts his memory forever more--a look which in some way suggests the Sphinx, in its superiority to present evils, its dreamful contemplation of the infinite, its calm appeal from time to all eternity. [Illustration: ENOSHIMA.] [Illustration: JACOB'S LADDER, ENOSHIMA.] Leaving the great Buddha to his meditations, we continued our homeward journey by the sea,--that ocean which, although tranquil now, has more than once sent tidal waves upon this shore to wreck the temples and the homes of Kamakura, and in their swift retreat to leave a hideous trail of death and devastation. A little distance from the land, we saw the pretty island of Enoshima. It is a sacred island, said to have sprung, like Venus, from the ocean in a single night. It is regarded, therefore, as a gift from God. It may be that the legend has some truth in it, for almost every portion of Japan is of volcanic origin; and mountains have arisen, lakes have been produced, and landscapes wholly changed by earthquake shocks, even within historical times. [Illustration: A FOREST MONARCH.] [Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE CAVERN TEMPLE.] [Illustration: THE SACRED CAVE.] Desiring to see some features of this island, we crossed the narrow channel, and climbed to one of its numerous points of observation. It is a fascinating place. Delightful paths wind up the wooded hills, marked here and there by little stations, where one halts for tea. Beyond these are long flights of steps, on which, that afternoon, Japanese girls, in gaily-colored robes, were passing up and down, like angels upon Jacob's ladder. Some were at work, while others were at play; others, again, were returning from a place of prayer. They looked as curiously at us as we at them. We seemed to them, no doubt, like beings from another world; probably not a better one, for, when we had walked on, we heard them merrily discussing us with peals of child-like laughter. One part of Enoshima is deemed especially sacred. It is a natural cavern, somewhat resembling the Blue Grotto on the Island of Capri. In stormy weather it is inaccessible, for furious waves then thunder for admission here, and fill the entrance with a mass of foam. But on a pleasant day, like that which we enjoyed, it is not very difficult, on coming down the hill, to cross a wooden bridge and a few slippery rocks, and finally pass beneath a frowning arch to the interior. [Illustration: A RUSTIC BUDDHA.] It is a singular opening,--a crack in the volcanic cliff, three hundred feet in length and thirty in height. From its obscure recesses, we gained a charming telescopic vista of the broad Pacific. To our astonishment, we found within this cave an altar to the goddess of Good Fortune, a deity that from remotest ages has been worshiped here. It is a wonderful situation for an altar, this rock-hewn temple built by Nature's architect. A kind of mystery surrounds it, for mortals cannot always worship here. When the divinity allows them to approach, this inlet of the ocean lies in absolute tranquillity, extending inward to the shrine, like a long path of malachite. But there are times when she excludes all worshipers, bars the majestic portal with a watery wall, and hears, instead of humanity's feeble voice, the awe-inspiring anthem of the sea. [Illustration: A JAPANESE RAILWAY.] One beautiful October morning, leaving the Grand Hotel, we drove to the railway station to take a train for the Japanese capital, Tokio, eighteen miles distant. It seemed a wonderful transition to whirl through Yokohama streets in baby-carriages drawn by half-naked natives, and in a moment more to find ourselves in railroad cars, better arranged in some respects than most trains that run in Europe. Such sudden contrasts between the past and present are now found only in Japan. Twenty-five years ago there were no railways here, and hardly a jinrikisha. To-day, throughout this sea-girt empire is spread a network of two thousand miles of well-built paths of steel, which have stone ballast, massive bridges, fine rolling-stock, and well-appointed stations. And yet one travels first-class in Japan almost as cheaply as third-class in Europe. Nor is traveling in the Mikado's realm confined to foreigners. Never in any portion of the world have I seen trains so uniformly thronged as here, and ninety out of every hundred of the passengers were Japanese. [Illustration: THE IMPERIAL HOTEL, TOKIO.] Tokio is the same old Yeddo that figured in our school-books--no matter how many years ago. The first thing to impress me in the place was its enormous size. It is, in truth, a city of magnificent distances, for its area surpasses that of London. Together with its suburbs, it has a population of one million eight hundred thousand. Save for its vast extent, however, the Japanese capital is not imposing. Seen from an elevation Tokio displays an almost limitless expanse of wooden roofs, whose trifling inequalities recall the undulating surface of a cold, gray sea. From this there rises, here and there, a solitary tower or pagoda, like a lighthouse from the waves. [Illustration: A TORII.] Four hundred years ago Tokio was a fishing hamlet. Not until 1603 did it become the military capital; and since that time it has been so frequently burned down and rebuilt, that it may be compared to the human body, the particles of which are said at certain intervals to be entirely renewed. In fact, statistics prove that, on an average, the city every thirty years has risen anew from its ashes. In 1895, at a single fire, four thousand houses were destroyed. [Illustration: LOOKING DOWN UPON TOKIO.] It is no easy task to explore thoroughly the Japanese labyrinth called Tokio, but one great central object forms, at least, a starting-point,--the imperial palace. Around it, like a warrior's belt, is drawn a moat so broad and deep that it might easily be deemed a river. The vast extent of this enclosure, its highly finished wall of stone, the silent, waveless stretch of water which surrounds it,--all these add mystery to one whose residence is so secluded from the eyes of men. Yet it is only recently that the Mikado has lived here. Thirty years ago the residence of Japanese sovereigns was a retired palace in the ancient city of Kioto. It may well be called "retired," for previous to the revolution of 1869 (which may be called the new birth of Japan) the Japanese for centuries had never seen the face of the Mikado. In giving audiences, even to his priests and nobles, he sat invisible behind a screen. When he walked out within his garden, carpets were spread before him to keep his sacred feet from contact with the earth. If he drove out, it was in a covered carriage, closed by screens, and as he passed along his subjects knelt in the attitude of prayer. Thus, century after century, these sovereigns lived,--each one in turn a monarch yet a captive, a god and yet a slave. [Illustration: BRIDGE TO THE EMPEROR'S PALACE, TOKIO.] Meanwhile, in one of the stately castles of Japan there lived the Mikado's representative, or viceroy; for, of course, the Japanese emperors did not govern. How could they? They were imprisoned by their own divinity. A mediator between the monarch and his subjects had to be appointed, to act as overseer of the realm. Previous to 1869 therefore--for nearly seven hundred years--two rulers had existed in Japan. One was the theoretical sovereign, to whom all gave allegiance, but who accomplished nothing,--the Mikado; the other was the practical executive,--the military regent, called the Shogun. [Illustration: SHOGUN'S PALACE, OSAKA.] [Illustration: THE MOAT AROUND THE PALACE, TOKIO.] In the small town of Shizuoka we saw the modest house where was still residing, like a country gentleman, the last of the once powerful Shoguns of Japan; for a change has taken place in the Mikado's empire. The Shoguns, who for centuries had been the actual sovereigns of the realm, and one of whom was in full power when the American fleet arrived in Yokohama, have now completely disappeared. Less than thirty years ago, from the secret precincts of his palace in Kioto, the lawful ruler, the present Mikado, was brought to light, like one who had been immured within a dungeon. In 1872, for the first time in a thousand years, a Japanese emperor freely appeared before his subjects. He was at that time a young man, twenty-two years of age, and was actually traveling by rail from Yokohama to Tokio, thenceforth to make that city his abode and capital. On that occasion, we are told, the loyalty and enthusiasm of his subjects knew no bounds. As the train moved off with the young emperor, restored to his ancestral power, there rang out on the air a melody which thrilled all hearts. It was the national anthem of Japan, the strains of which were first heard when savage tribes were hunting by the Thames and Rome was mistress of the world. [Illustration: HOME OF THE RETIRED SHOGUN, SHIZUOKA.] [Illustration: WHERE SOME OF THE SHOGUNS ARE BURIED.] [Illustration: NEAR A HERO'S GRAVE.] [Illustration: SHOGUN'S RESIDENCE, NAGOYA.] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE SHOGUNS TEMPLE, TOKIO.] One might suppose that such a sudden rise in power, combined with the amazing changes in his empire, would have been ruinous to this young sovereign, for at the time of the restoration he was but sixteen years old. But he was evidently the man for the occasion, and has since proved himself an assiduous student and enlightened ruler. This man, who, as a youth, knew almost nothing of the existence of such foreign lands, now reads the literatures of England, France, and Germany. [Illustration: OLD FEUDAL RESIDENCE, TOKIO.] Moreover, this hundred and twenty-first Mikado of his line--the representative of the oldest dynasty on earth, whose founder reigned here five hundred years before the death of Julius Cæsar,--has not only adopted European dress and customs, but has favored the introduction of all the great inventions of the present age. Nevertheless, he had the wisdom to restrain his subjects in their first eagerness to adopt everything European, when they were even ready to destroy, as worthless, some of their ancient castles, shrines, and statues. And now that a reaction has set in, and the Japanese are once more proud to cherish the memorials of their ancestors, they are sincerely grateful to their emperor, because at the great national crisis he showed sufficient tact and independence to steer between the rocks of servile imitation on the one side and dull conservatism on the other, and, while the ship of state was trembling in the rapids of that flood of progress, he maintained a firm hand on the helm. [Illustration: A MODERN CASTLE.] [Illustration: A LADY OF TOKIO.] The houses of the old Japanese nobles in Tokio recall many other striking contrasts between the past and the present. Until recently, for nearly a thousand years, Japan had many feudal lords, called Daimios. Most of them lived in Tokio for at least six months of every year, under the Shogun's watchful eye. But the great revolution of 1869 completely swept away the feudalism of centuries, and one by one, at the command of the Mikado, the Daimios gave up their swords, dismissed their armed retainers, renounced, to some extent, their vast estates and revenues, and, as a rule, retired to private life. Yet one must not suppose that the Japan of the present day has no nobility. Some years ago there was a grand revision of all ranks and titles. The old, distinguished families still form the nucleus of the aristocracy; but to their ranks have been added many men conspicuous for their talents, or for their loyalty to the new _régime_. We had the pleasure of meeting one who lives in close relations with the emperor. We found him a refined and courteous gentleman, dressed in a faultless suit of broadcloth, and speaking French and English fluently. As we conversed with him, however, our thoughts would stray from his appearance to that which his own father, doubtless, had presented, when Commodore Perry moored his fleet in Mississippi Bay. For his father had been one of those warriors of old Japan, called Samurai. [Illustration: AN OLD-TIME SWORDSMAN.] [Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED DUEL, AND UMPIRE.] [Illustration: CENTENARIAN TREES.] A certain number of these men adhered to every Daimio, lived at his castle, fought his battles, and, not content with one sword, always carried two, as distinctive symbols of their rank. Yet now the old-time swordsman, if alive, has no doubt ceased to shave his head, has laid aside his singular costume, and has even put his swords away as relics of his youthful days, since no civilian is at present allowed to wear them. It is said that this class of Japanese suffered most from the revolution, for they suddenly found their occupation completely gone. Untrained for work and ill-adapted to the sudden change, their situation was at first deplorable. Hence it is little short of marvelous that such a radical transformation could have been effected in Japan without frequent insurrections. The sight of this great nation turning from feudalism to a constitutional monarchy, at the cost of rank, fame, wealth, and even livelihood, for tens of thousands of its foremost citizens, gives proof of a wide-spread, unselfish patriotism, perhaps unequaled in the world's history. [Illustration: THE PRINCIPAL THEATRE IN TOKIO.] Not less remarkable is the recent progress of education in this "Land of the Rising Sun." The educational systems of all other nations have ripened slowly, and rest on centuries of experience. But twenty-five years ago, Japan had practically nothing of the kind. Accordingly, her brightest and most promising youths went forth to gather knowledge in the western world. She was eclectic in her method. Some were sent to England, some to Germany, others to France, and many to America. Accomplished foreign teachers also were induced to come and give instruction in Japanese schools; and how astonishing has been the result! In Tokio the buildings of the Imperial University cover fifteen acres of ground, and include admirable class-rooms, dormitories, laboratories, a hospital, and residences for the faculty. Here, in one department, are taught mathematics, astronomy, chemistry and geology; in another, civil and electrical engineering, naval architecture and metallurgy; in another, philosophy and the modern European languages; in still another, Japanese and Chinese history and literature. The University has also a Law School and a College of Medicine and Pharmacy, in each of which a four years' course is required. There are in all one hundred and twenty-three professors in the institution, fifteen of whom are foreigners, while more than fifty lecturers are also in the employ of the directors. Nor is this all, for in addition to this splendid University, there are in Tokio private colleges, commercial schools, military and naval academies, and a school of fine arts, besides an educational institution for the dumb and the blind; and not the least noteworthy is a common school system whereby the poorest child in Japan may obtain at least a rudimentary education. [Illustration: A JAPANESE ACTOR.] [Illustration: A SACRED GATE.] Let no one think, however, that all these changes, surprising though they are, have wholly done away with "old" Japan. The contrary is proved by countless characteristic sights, even in modernized Tokio. In their houses, theatres, shops, and festivals, and in their modes of bathing, eating, drinking, sleeping, and working, the vast majority of Japanese are to-day what they were centuries ago. [Illustration: IN WINTER COSTUME.] [Illustration: A DAIMIO'S HOME, TOKIO.] On our first day in Tokio, as we descended from the hill where we had gained a comprehensive view of the great city, we paused to note, at the foot of a long stone staircase, a singular gateway built of granite. The tourist may well observe such structures closely, for one of the most common architectural features of Japan is this peculiar style of portal, called a _torii_. In granite, wood, or bronze, such gateways usually mark the approach to a temple, shrine, or sacred statue. Nothing could be more simple. Two upright shafts are met and crossed by horizontal bars, the higher ones curving slightly upward at the ends. This is in one sense all, and the beholder at first sees little in them to admire; but, after a time, the foreigner in Japan expects them as essential features of every landscape, and welcomes them, like some sweet refrain, which, first heard in the overture, repeats itself in various disguises through the music of an opera. [Illustration: A TORII OR SACRED GATE.] There are two theories in regard to the origin of these sacred portals. The first maintains that they were intended originally for perches, upon which birds (which are occasionally liberated even now at Japanese temples) might pause before they took their heavenward flight to bear aloft the prayers of those who gave them freedom. The second theory affirms that these straight columns, with their curving cross-pieces, are derivative forms of the Chinese letter, or ideograph, which signifies Heaven. [Illustration: A RUSTIC TORII.] The latter explanation appears to be the more probable one; at all events, whatever may have been their origin, the architectural design of these peculiar structures is of immense antiquity. Such gateways, tradition hints, were extant twenty centuries ago; and it is worthy of remark that, despite the marvelous changes that have recently transformed Japan, no hand has ever been raised to mutilate these memorials of the past, or even to change a line of that mysterious hieroglyph which they so sharply outline against the sky. [Illustration: GROUP OF TORII.] In the immediate vicinity of these sacred arches, one usually sees a multitude of monuments, from five to seven feet in height. Sometimes these line, for a considerable distance, the avenues of approach to tombs and temples, and are compactly ranged in serried ranks, like soldiers at a dress parade, or people waiting for some grand procession. They are called lanterns, from the fact that, on special festivals, a lamp is placed in each of them, in honor of the hallowed dead. But the chief part they play is ornamental. Most of them are of stone; but some consist of beautifully decorated bronze,--real masterpieces of that art in which the Japanese excel. To many are attached bronze bells and circular medallions, bearing the crests of the imperial family or those of the military chieftains of Japan. With few exceptions, the finest ones have been presented by Japanese nobles, as proofs of their devotion to the shrine itself, or their esteem for those who are buried there. [Illustration: JAPANESE LANTERNS.] [Illustration: APPROACH TO THE TEMPLES, NIKKO.] [Illustration: IN SERRIED RANKS.] [Illustration: A BRONZE LANTERN.] [Illustration: BLOSSOM-LADEN BANKS.] One of the principal pleasure-resorts of Tokio is Ueno Park. It is especially attractive in the month of April, when all its cherry-trees are radiant with blossoms. These lovely flowers are usually pink in color, and grow in clusters several inches wide. Poets have sung their praises here for centuries. They are to Japan what roses are to western nations. Their blooming-time is one of the national festivals. Some avenues in the Mikado's capital are lined with these resplendent trees, and are famous throughout the country for their wealth of coloring. [Illustration: A JAPANESE TEMPLE.] There is a little stream in Tokio which, every year, about the middle of April, flows for two miles between blossom-laden banks. Crowds gather then from miles around, to gaze upon its beauty. The newspapers announce each day the progress of the coloring, and maps of the city are sold, on which are indicated in pink the groves of cherry-trees. Old Mother Earth grows young again, and every heart, however sad, becomes rejuvenated too, at the sight of thousands of these huge bouquets, lifting their clouds of pale pink blossoms toward the light blue sky. Hundreds of pleasure-boats also then float along the stream, which mirrors the gorgeous spectacle above. A Japanese poet says: "I wish to cross the river, but fear to cut the brocade upon its surface." Meanwhile, along the banks are thousands of other admirers, on foot or in jinrikishas; and not infrequently a mischievous breeze plucks handfuls of the dainty petals and scatters them upon the upturned faces, like flakes of tinted snow. [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE ORNAMENTED WITH WISTARIA.] As we might expect from such a refined and artistic race, the Japanese are enthusiastic in their love of flowers. One of their favorite deities is called "The Goddess who causes the blossoms to open." With them, to make up parties for a floral exhibition is just as fashionable as for us to arrange box-parties for the theatre. Even in winter they will not allow themselves to be deprived of some enjoyment of this sort. Hence they call snow-crystals a kind of flower, and expeditions to see snow-displays form one of the regular amusements of the season. [Illustration: A DWARF MAPLE.] [Illustration: THE GREAT TREE NEAR LAKE BIWA.] The land of the Mikado is with reason often called the Land of Flowers, for each month of the year has its special blossoms which the Japanese admire, and which together form an unbroken garland for the brow of Time. Particularly beautiful is the Japanese wistaria, which blooms in May, soon after the departure of the cherry-blossoms. This lovely vine is trained on trellises, and covers bridges, canopies, and arbors with magnificent purple clusters, two, and even three feet long. Japanese tea-houses find it extremely profitable to decorate their gardens thus, as thousands are attracted thither, who, as a matter of course, drink tea upon the premises. It is precisely of such exhibitions that this peculiar nation is most fond. With one or two exceptions, they do not seem to care for cultivated flowers, preferring flowering trees and vines, like the wistaria, plum, and cherry. In all the gardens that we visited in Japan, we never saw a flower-bed. In fact, Japanese gardens differ from our own as completely as a jinrikisha differs from a tally-ho coach. They are all essentially alike, whether they cover several acres or only a tiny court behind the house. If possible, an artificial lake is formed; large, if the space permits; if not, a little tank of water containing half-a-dozen goldfish must suffice. Rocks are heaped up to take the place of cliffs. [Illustration: FOREST SOLITUDE.] [Illustration: JAPANESE LANDSCAPE GARDENING.] A path of pebbles represents a river-bed. A tiny beach of smooth, white sand is made along the shore. Islands are also manufactured, with fantastic bridges; and here and there among the trees we see a quaint display of garden lanterns, miniature pagodas, fountains, grottoes, and occasional statues. But of smooth lawns and ornamental flowers, like our own, we find in Japanese gardens not a trace. What seems to take their place in the affections of the Japanese is the cultivation of dwarf trees. These are among the marvels of Japan. At first, we could hardly believe our eyes, when we saw maples, pines, and oaks, from sixty to one hundred years old, possessing crooked limbs and gnarled and twisted trunks, though they were scarcely more than two feet high, and had their roots confined within the limits of a flower-pot! Just what the secret is of limiting the growth of these old monarchs of the forest, while yet preserving their vitality, we did not learn. It is, however, an art of which the Japanese are passionately fond, and which an experience of centuries has brought to perfection. These hardy dwarfs are often looked upon as precious heirlooms, and are carefully watched and tended by the family from generation to generation. What a strange notion this,--of dwarfing landscapes to the limit of a courtyard, and stunting noble trees till they appear like a forest looked at through the large end of a telescope! Sometimes, however, the taste of the Japanese in arboriculture goes to the other extreme, and large trees are chosen as objects of regard. These are often trained and trimmed, till they resemble mammoth fans, pagodas, or stately boats with curving prows and lofty masts adorned with tiny sails. Although ingenious, this seemed to us like trifling with nature,--a parody of the sublime,--a burlesque of the beautiful. [Illustration: A TREE TRIMMED TO REPRESENT A SHIP.] [Illustration: A LOTUS BED.] The glory of the month of August in Japan is the sacred lotus-flower, with whose broad leaves the moats in Tokio are filled. Growing from muddy, stagnant water, yet holding up to heaven its flowers always fresh and pure, the lotus is regarded as the symbol of the religious life,--aspiring from unfavorable conditions to a state of purity. The Buddhist writings say: "Though thou be born in a hovel, if thou hast virtue, thou art like the lotus growing from the slime." Accordingly the lotus is, _par excellence_, the flower of the Buddhist faith, associated with the mysteries of death and immortality. Bronze vases, filled with lotus-flowers made of metal, stand on all Buddhist altars, and statues of Buddha have usually, as an appropriate pedestal, a smooth lotus-leaf in stone or bronze. [Illustration: STATUES OF BUDDHA WITH LOTUS PEDESTALS.] [Illustration: THE NATIONAL FLOWER.] Early November brings still another source of pleasure to the Japanese in the chrysanthemum. Opinions differ as to whether this, or the cherry-blossom, should be regarded as the Japanese national flower. To us it seemed that the chrysanthemum should have that proud distinction; for it is used as the crest of the imperial family; and the Mikado's birthday, the third of November, is usually made the opening day for all chrysanthemum exhibitions. [Illustration: AUTUMNAL FOLIAGE.] In cultivating this flower, the Japanese have shown extraordinary skill. Some of their bushes are said to bear as many as four hundred perfect flowers at one time. Five or six varieties sometimes grow upon a single plant, and there are claimed to be, in all, two hundred and sixty-nine in the Mikado's empire. Moreover, since it blossoms longer than most other flowers, it is associated with the idea of longevity. One Japanese river, into whose limpid waters great showers of chrysanthemum petals fall, is thought to insure to a good old age the lives of those who drink from its invigorating flood. [Illustration: THE MODERNIZING RAILWAY.] But perhaps the most gorgeous of the natural displays, which in Japan adorn with a continuous brilliancy the path of the revolving year, is its autumnal foliage. Then, as the Japanese poets say, the maple-trees put on their damask robes. This also is thought to be a floral exhibition, for bright-colored leaves are looked upon by the Japanese as flowers. The subjects of the Mikado have, like ourselves, that most delicious season of the year when the warm breath of summer still retards the frost. We call it Indian Summer: their name for it is Little Spring. It is a pretty--almost a pathetic--thought, to connect thus the deep, strong, passionate hues that mark the year's maturity with the faint blushes of the cherry-blossoms, which betoken youth. The year has lived through much since that pink blush adorned its cheeks. The autumnal colors may be richer and more effective, but that first bloom of hope and innocence will never come again. [Illustration: A WRESTLING MATCH.] During our stay in Tokio, we one day visited a wrestling match. The scene of its occurrence, though in the heart of the city, resembled the enclosure of a country circus. On pushing through the crowd, we saw, in the centre, an elevated platform covered with sand. Above this was a highly decorated canopy, supported by tall bamboo poles, and gathered round it was the expectant populace. The second story of the structure consisted of a gallery made of bamboo rods, which, tied together, formed a floor resembling an enormous grid-iron. This gallery was divided into little areas, which served as private boxes for the entertainment. [Illustration: A WRESTLER.] We climbed up into one of these by means of a ladder, and tea and cakes were subsequently brought to us; but we could not have eaten a mouthful, unless fed by our attendant, for we were fully occupied in clinging to the bamboo poles, like canary birds to their perches. There presently appeared upon the stage a human monster, who seemed to have a gorgeous lambrequin tied about his waist. This giant was a great surprise to us. The Japanese are usually small their women seem like girls; their children look like dolls their dwellings have the appearance of magnified bird-cages their vehicle of transportation is a baby-carriage. Their wrestlers, however, are enormous. Such mountainous displays of fat and muscle we had never seen. One after another, fifty such giants stood fronting us for a moment with uplifted arms, while an official read their names to the admiring spectators. Twenty-five wrestlers were then chosen to contend on one side and as many on the other. The prize was to be given to whichever side should win the greatest number of single combats. [Illustration: LIKE MAMMOTH BULL-FROGS.] A moment later, the "lambrequins" were laid aside. A couple of huge wrestlers squatted on the sand, like mammoth bull-frogs ready for a jump. They had already rubbed their hands in the sand to make them gritty and tenacious. Beside them stood the umpire, holding in his hand a fan. With this he gave his signal to the wrestlers, much as a musical director leads his orchestra. His word is law, and he decides whether the start is properly made and whether the rules have been observed. A few false springs were made at first, and the great crowd became impatient. At last, however, the wrestlers fairly caught each other, and began the struggle. For several minutes they tugged and strained, until it seemed that neither could possibly gain the advantage. Meantime the Japanese grew more and more excited, for all these wrestlers are well-known, and have their patrons and admirers. One whom we saw is famous for having thrown three rivals in succession. This is, of course, a proof of great endurance; for by the time the third encounter comes, the victor must necessarily be much exhausted. [Illustration: "THEY TUGGED AND STRAINED."] In the first match, however, the wrestlers whom we watched had no easy task; but, presently, one of them saw his opportunity, and caught his enemy under the left leg. The other instantly reached over his shoulder and clutched his opponent's belt. For a few seconds neither moved. Then, with a fearful lurch, the giant who had gained the advantage lifted his rival off the ground, and swung him headlong over his shoulder clear off the platform to the sand below. We felt our bamboo perch in the gallery shake when the body struck. The conqueror was, of course, hailed with shouts of triumph, and in five minutes all was ready for another contest. [Illustration: AN ACROBAT.] At the conclusion of the spectacle, as we were making our exit through the crowd, we stopped to watch some Japanese acrobats, one of whom danced upon a swinging rope with more agility and skill than we had ever seen. "By the way," said a friend at my side, "do you know that once in the history of this country the Japanese throne itself was wrestled for? It happened just a thousand years ago. The Mikado died and left two sons, each of whom claimed to be the rightful heir. Instead of plunging the nation into civil war, they submitted their rival claims to a couple of famous wrestlers, each agreeing to abide by the result! Who shall say that there are not worse methods than this old Japanese mode of arbitration?" [Illustration: VILLAGE OF NIKKO.] One of the most renowned and sacred places of resort, alike for pilgrims and for tourists in Japan, is Nikko. "Nikko!" How little that brief name suggests to those whose feet have never trod its hallowed paths; but, oh, how much to those whose recollections of it are a joy forever! The mere approach to it is astonishing. It is a sacred road, over twenty miles in length, and lined for the most part on both sides with the grand cedars of Japan. These trees, called cryptomerias, frequently attain a height of two hundred feet, and are probably unsurpassed in size save by the giants of our own Yosemite. [Illustration: THE SACRED BRIDGE, NIKKO.] [Illustration: TIER UPON TIER AND TERRACE UPON TERRACE.] [Illustration: CHARACTERISTIC ARCHITECTURE.] It was late in the afternoon when we reached the terminus of this avenue. Before us rose a densely wooded mountain, around which swept a wild, impetuous stream. Spanning this foaming torrent is the sacred bridge of Nikko, whose floor and sides are covered with beautiful red lacquer, as smooth to the touch as polished mahogany, and which is ornamented here and there with tips of brass. In ancient times, none but the Shoguns ever stepped upon this bridge; none but the emperor may do so now. When General Grant, however, was traveling in Japan, the Mikado paid him the unusual compliment of ordering this bridge to be thrown open for his passage. But, from a delicate appreciation of the people's feelings, the General modestly declined the honor and took the regular, frequented path. [Illustration: THE ROAD TO NIKKO.] Leaving behind us this ornate but untrodden bridge, we began to ascend the hill itself. From time to time we halted, astonished and bewildered. Imagine a mountain, covered with thousands of the most magnificent cedar-trees that the Creator ever caused to grow; then realize that upon this mountain and among these trees there is what may be called a sacred citadel, rising tier above tier, and terrace upon terrace, each covering several acres. Toward each plateau ascends a flight of broad stone steps. In front of each is placed the characteristic gateway of Japan,--the sharp-cut, mysterious _torii_, hewn out of massive stone or made of polished bronze. In one place there is a beautifully decorated fountain, at which all pilgrims wash their hands and mouths before approaching more closely to the temples of their gods. [Illustration: THE PILGRIMS' FOUNTAIN, NIKKO.] [Illustration: ON ONE OF THE TERRACES.] Ascending one of the staircases of stone, we stood in an extensive area, where structures met our gaze so unlike all that we had elsewhere seen that we were fain to believe our senses were deceiving us, and that it was all an illusion,--a cunning trick for stage effect, which, when the play was over, would completely vanish. Along the terraces, like jewels darkened by the forest gloom, were belfries which appeared encased with precious stones; fountains adorned with ornaments of gilded bronze; picturesque temples bright with every color of the rainbow; lacquered pagodas, rivaling the trees in height; and huge bronze bells, whose solemn tones, in rhythmic waves of sound, roll on in grand reverberations through these sacred avenues. But how powerless is language to portray a place like this! Words impotently creep before the grand impressiveness of Nikko, as insects crawl beneath its cryptomerias. [Illustration: A GATEWAY AT NIKKO.] [Illustration: A QUIET CORNER.] [Illustration: PRIESTLY VESTMENTS.] [Illustration: A PROCESSION AT NIKKO.] [Illustration: AMONG THE SHRINES.] As we advanced still farther through these wonderful enclosures, it seemed like walking through a village whose buildings still remained in symmetry and beauty, yet whose inhabitants had disappeared. The silence of these courts was most impressive. Apparently, they have no guardians. Only the moss-grown lanterns stand about each shrine, like sentinels transformed to stone. Astonished and perplexed, we asked the meaning of these structures, and learned that some are treasure-houses, where are preserved the personal relics of the Shoguns and many of the gorgeous robes, embroidered banners, and superb insignia which still, on festal days, are borne in solemn state along these paths beneath a boundless canopy of shade, just as they have been borne for centuries. For the old trees of Nikko have looked down for nearly a thousand years on lines of richly decorated priests and pilgrims moving in solemn pageantry along these shadowy pathways consecrated to the gods. The individuals may come and go, but the processions never fail--much as the bright-tinted leaves fall here in autumn, to return no more, while the old trees live on. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO TEMPLE, NIKKO.] [Illustration: A TARGET FOR MASTICATED PRAYERS.] At last we stood before one of the many sacred gates which lead to Nikko's shrines or sepulchres. Each displays against the foliage beyond a mass of variegated color. In every case the roof curves slightly upward at the base, and has a covering of copper, marked with ornaments in brass. To the right and left of all such passageways are massive wooden columns, lacquered red, and in the alcoves thus constructed at this gate we saw, to our amazement, two grotesque statues of colossal size. They seemed a startling union of Hercules and Mephistopheles. Yet these repulsive figures represent gods, whose special duty is to scare demons from the temple gates. We have no certain information about the nervous temperament of demons, but one could well believe that these unearthly shapes, with blood-red bodies, gaping mouths, and bulging eyes, would throw most children into convulsions. Upon their forms and faces are visible small marks resembling scars. These are in reality dried paper-balls, which worshipers have first chewed into a pulp, and then hurled at the statues, though not by any means in contempt. The pilgrim, in the first place, writes his petition on a slip of paper; this he rolls into a wad, which he deposits in his mouth; and, finally, when it is softened by saliva, he throws it at the god. If it adheres to the idol's face, the omen is propitious. If it sticks to any part of the body, there is still some hope; but if it falls off on the ground, a favorable answer is impossible. This custom is peculiar to Japan. One sees, of course, numberless strange rites connected with religion in traveling about the world, but Japan is the only land I have ever visited where deities serve as targets for masticated prayers! [Illustration: A GUARDIAN OF THE GATE.] When, turning from these sculptured monsters, one looks with admiration on the exquisitely carved and beautifully furnished temples of this sacred citadel, one naturally exclaims: "How is it possible that the same race, which has produced such beautiful, artistic works as these, should also have created, and should still retain, such hideous, uncouth statues as we have just beheld?" But one asks many such questions in traveling through Japan. No race on earth is so astonishingly contradictory and so full of puzzling surprises as the Japanese. "The longer I live here," a resident of Tokio once said to me, "the less I understand these people. A superficial knowledge of them is easily acquired; but there is always at the last a mental gulf between the Orient and the Occident, across which I perceive that their past is not our past, and that their ideas on art, religion, government, the finite and the infinite, are radically different from our own." [Illustration: THE BRONZE PORTAL.] [Illustration: THE PATH TO THE SHOGUN'S GRAVE.] Leaving at length the shrines of Nikko, we climbed still farther up the sacred mountain, by one of its great staircases of stone. It led us to a place of which the temples are but antechambers and accessories. For this magnificent forest is a vast sepulchral grove, in which are buried some of the greatest statesmen of Japan. [Illustration: NATURE'S CATHEDRAL.] [Illustration: THE SHOGUN'S TOMB.] [Illustration: NEAR ENOSHIMA.] [Illustration: NEGLECTED SHRINES.] It has been stated that previous to 1869, Japan, for seven hundred years, had always had two sovereigns at the same time: one the ideal and secluded monarch,--the Mikado; the other, the actual regent, known as the Shogun. Bearing this fact in mind we reached the summit of the staircase. Before us was a portal of black bronze, inscribed with Sanskrit characters in gold. Behind it was a small enclosure, surrounded by a massive wall. Only two dragon-headed dogs were stationed here as guardians; but no one dares set foot within the sacred area,--none save a priest may pass beneath the low-browed arch. But, standing on the steps, we obtained at least a glimpse of what is here enshrined. It is the tomb of Ieyasu, the most powerful military ruler of Japan. It is a simple cylinder of bronze, six feet in height, the roof of which curves upward like a miniature pagoda. In front, upon a pedestal of stone, are the Japanese emblems of immortality. Here, then, the mightiest of the Shoguns rests, in death exalted, as in life, above his subjects. It is an awe-inspiring burial-place. Above him wave, like funeral plumes, majestic cryptomerias; beneath him are the temples where his spirit is adored; while, close beside him, in a deep ravine, the mountain torrent moans an endless requiem. [Illustration: A MOUNTAIN TORRENT.] Yet it was when we left the Shogun's grave, and came down through the forest by that foaming stream, that we best appreciated the grandeur and sublimity of Nikko. Nowhere in the world, not even on the Alhambra hill, have I been so profoundly moved and thoroughly enchanted by a walk as by the one which winds about the sacred mountain of Japan. For miles above and around us stretched a cryptomerian cathedral, whose columns were the colossal trees, whose stained glass was the autumnal foliage, whose altar-covering was the green velvet of the forest, whose surpliced choristers were the white-robed and sweet-voiced rivers and cascades. One may well liken it to a cathedral, for its shadowy expanse is tenanted by countless rustic monuments and altars. Most of them looked abandoned both by gods and men; yet, here and there, we saw that worshipers had not forgotten them entirely, since fragrant flowers lay upon the thresholds of the few. [Illustration: A CRYPTOMERIAN CATHEDRAL.] [Illustration: THE SACRED GROVE.] [Illustration: THE LAST STRONGHOLD OF ROMANTIC PAGANISM.] Lingering among these moss-grown emblems of an ancient faith, and treading pathways deepened by the feet of millions long since turned to dust, I shall never forget the impression made upon me. I felt that I was assisting at the last hours of a great religion. "Young Japan" has no more use for these ancestral shrines. It guards them merely as historic souvenirs: its faith in them is gone. In one sense, I was glad of this; but in another, I experienced here a feeling of regret. It seemed to me that this was earth's last strong-hold of romantic paganism, and that its life was ebbing fast. Its sylvan gods, its nymphs and dryads of the hills, had left these immemorial shrines; and I could easily fancy that the drops of rain which fell that day from these old trees were in reality Nature's tears of grief that Pan was dying. Another generation, and he will be dead. [Illustration] * * * * * JAPAN II [Illustration: WRITING A LETTER.] Japan LECTURE II [Illustration: PRINCE ITO.] The most important dramas of the coming century will probably be enacted on the shores of the Pacific. Neither the European coast, nor yet our own, can now materially change; but over the mightiest ocean on our globe new constellations have arisen. Another Oriental horoscope must now be cast. Dormant so long, the East is re-awakening from her sleep of ages. Russia, the grim Colossus of the North,--facing, Janus-like, both east and west,--is making there a depot for her navy. Meantime she pushes on by day and by night her trans-Siberian railway, whose bars of steel will soon unite the Baltic and Pacific and revolutionize the commerce of the world. In the Northern Pacific, England and France have interests which are steadily increasing. Southward, Australia, and New Zealand too, must be considered carefully in any forecast of the future. Last, but not least, our own Pacific coast, with its magnificent shore-front of California and Alaska, and the boundless possibilities of Puget Sound, will fifty years hence have enormous interests at stake. Meanwhile, Japan, central to all these various lands, keen, bold, and active, both in war and peace, has suddenly surpassed all records in her wonderful development, and even now can almost keep step with the great Western Powers. [Illustration: A DISTANT MARKET FOR CONNECTICUT CLOCKS.] In 1892, the writer visited the Mikado's empire, and on his return spoke enthusiastically of its people. But what he said of China was precisely the reverse. On this account, some thought that he exaggerated the virtues of the one and the vices of the other. But the events of 1895 verified his words. China has sunk still lower in the estimation of mankind, while Japan has risen far above the expectations of her warmest friends. In fact, Japan, in many ways, is now the most interesting country in the world. She is the pioneer of progress in the Orient. Consider her amazing growth in manufactures. By these she may ere long control the commerce of the entire East. Look at her admirable schools and universities. They can be favorably compared with not a few in Europe. Think of her government, which in less than twenty-five years has achieved what it took Europe centuries to accomplish,--to rid herself of feudalism and become a constitutional monarchy. Regard her army, which accomplished marvels in the recent war; and her navy, which elicited the admiration of the world. [Illustration: THE EDWIN BOOTH OF JAPAN.] In all these respects we find a national transformation, which in rapidity at least has had no parallel in history. It is, then, this extraordinary land, which has a long and brilliant past, and is apparently to have a still more brilliant future, that we are now to explore still farther. However novel and attractive the cities of the Mikado's empire may be, it is from traveling through the country of Japan that one derives the greatest pleasure and instruction. For it is not what Japan has borrowed from the western world that most delights the foreign tourist. On the contrary, the more he sees of their artistic, happy, natural life, away from foreign contact, the better he likes it. It was on a beautiful October morning, that, leaving cities and railways for a time behind us, we began our journey through a few of the Mikado's provinces. Seating ourselves in jinrikishas, we dashed across a little bridge and up a mountain gorge which led to Miyanóshita. There are few things more thoroughly delightful than traveling through a mountainous country in a carriage or on horseback. On a former trip I had thought that nothing could approach in pleasure this mode of traveling in Norway. But here it proved fully as enjoyable. It is true, the grandeur of Norwegian scenery is not met with in Japan; but, on the other hand, the charming novelty of everything one sees makes such excursions peerless in the traveler's memory. [Illustration: APPROACHING MIYAN�SHITA.] At first, our road was an embowered lane winding along a mountain-side, green to the summit with luxuriant foliage. There was no parapet along the edge, as on the mountain roads of Switzerland; but, as a reassuring compensation, we had no horses here to back or shy or roll us down the precipices. The steeds that drew us up the narrow path were copper-colored athletes, driven tandem, and without need of rein or whip. On, on they went with ceaseless energy, their splendid muscles working like machinery. Insensible to fatigue, they laughed and talked incessantly, asking only one favor of their drivers,--that of being allowed to reduce their clothing to the scantiest limits. Below us, as we rode along, was an impetuous stream, which lured from time to time adventurous water-falls to join its course. We halted to admire one of these at our leisure. Its special charm was not its height, though it descends several hundred feet: it was the wealth of colored foliage that made for it a frame of green and gold. A little to the left, an opening in the trees revealed a tiny shrine, and in the foreground stood an aged priest, who had stopped to gaze in wonder at such strange intruders. [Illustration: A JAPANESE VILLAGE NEAR MIYAN�SHITA.] [Illustration: A BIT OF JAPAN.] What pictures thus disclose themselves at every turn throughout this marvelous country! Anywhere else you would pronounce them stage effects--the cataracts which resemble tangled skeins of silken floss; the miniature pagodas interspersed among the trees; and, brightening all with life and color, the Japanese women with their brilliant sashes, as if the vanished nymphs and dryads of the place had now assumed material shapes, intending to be worshiped somehow, even by the skeptics. [Illustration: RURAL SCENERY IN JAPAN.] [Illustration: A MOUNTAIN STREAM.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE FAIR.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE BRIDGE.] Yet this is what one sees continually in Japan. What would in other lands seem artificial, is here only natural. Accordingly, the charm of Japanese scenery is enhanced by the surroundings given it by man. Picturesque figures, clad in robes as multicolored as the trees themselves; bridges, temples, and pagodas, often as brilliant as the autumnal leaves around them--these make the landscapes irresistibly attractive, as if both man and Nature had agreed to wear at the same time their holiday attire. One feels that he is traveling through a land where Nature is adored, where animals are kindly treated, and where such pleasing and poetic myths as we associate only with ancient Greece and Rome are still believed by many faithful souls, and make each forest the abode of rural deities and every mountain rivulet a place of prayer. [Illustration: A FARMER IN HIS WORKING SUIT.] As we moved farther up the valley, we found at every turn some new source of enjoyment; first, in the vivid foliage, which made the mountains seem like huge bouquets of ferns; then, in the silvery stream whose voice would shout a welcome to us as it hurried on; and lastly, in the little Japanese inns, along whose carved-wood balconies were hung red paper lanterns, that glowed at night like monster rubies, and gave to the whole scene that charmingly unreal, or theatrical effect, so characteristic of Japan. [Illustration: A RUSTIC BRIDGE.] Seeing some buildings on the opposite bank, we asked: "How do you cross here from shore to shore? Boats surely are not possible; nor are there any bridges, unless--but certainly those tiny structures yonder, stretched like a spider's web across the flood, cannot be bridges!" Yet closer scrutiny revealed the fact that they are really used as a means of transportation. Long poles of bamboo, bound about with reeds, and supported in the centre by a rough-hewn tripod,--such are the structures often spanning mountain-torrents in Japan! If swept away, they can easily be replaced; and, while they last, the peasants cross them fearlessly. [Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC VIEW.] "But how about wagons, carriages, and horses?" we inquired, only to be again reminded, with a laugh, that no provision need be made for them, for carriage-roads do not yet exist in these mountain regions, and horses are almost as rare as centaurs. In fact, one of the first things to impress us in these rural districts was the absence of animals. We saw no oxen, sheep, or donkeys, and only in rare instances a pony. Japanese farmers hardly know what meat, milk, and butter are, and when one recollects that they have never eaten bread, and have no word for it in their language, one naturally asks, "On what do they live?" Through our interpreter, we questioned a young laborer who was returning homeward from the fields in his everyday working-suit of clothes. He was well-formed and looked well-nourished, like most of his fellows, yet he assured us that only fish, rice, and vegetables formed his diet. When, therefore, one considers how much hard work the Japanese perform, and thinks of all the thousands here, who, in lieu of horses, haul heavy loads of wood and stone, it cannot be denied that they derive from their food quite as much strength as we do from ours. It is true, doctors declare that Japanese food, while good for peasants working in the open air, is bad for those who lead a sedentary life. But is anything good for those who lead a sedentary life? [Illustration: A JAPANESE MEAL.] [Illustration: A POSTMAN.] [Illustration: GATHERING SEA FOOD.] "What," we inquired somewhat impatiently, "is the meaning of this dearth of animal life,--here, where a million acres on these verdant hills would give the best of pasturage for cattle?" The explanation given us was a religious one; for the Buddhist faith declares that to destroy any living creature is a sin. This doctrine, through successive centuries, has had a great effect upon the people. It practically forbids them to eat meat. If the United States, therefore, should ever become Buddhistic, a colossal industry of the West would disappear. No doubt, in time, stock-farms will be established in Japan, as foreigners create a large demand for beef, butter, milk, and cream; but agricultural customs are always slow to change. One might have supposed that catching fish would also have been prohibited by Buddhism, since that involves the sacrifice of life. But, as the waters around the Japanese islands fairly swarm with them, to have forbidden the people fish would have removed their staple article of diet, and caused a positive hatred for the new religion. It is probable, therefore, that the Buddhist priests knew (just as well as the Japanese fishermen) where to draw the line. [Illustration: HOTEL AT MIYAN�SHITA.] One day, as we were rolling through the country in jinrikishas, we saw approaching us an extraordinary apparition. "What is it," we exclaimed, "a winged Mercury, or a Coney Island bather rushing to the beach?" "That is the letter-carrier," was the reply; "and the small waterproof paper bag at the end of his bamboo pole contains the mail." [Illustration: TATTOOED MAN.] [Illustration: A POST-OFFICE.] In fact, where villages are not reached by a railroad, the old system of swift couriers still prevails. Let us not laugh, however, at Japan's postal service. It was only started in 1871; but it is already extended over the entire country, with more than five thousand post-offices and postal savings-banks. In 1881, after only ten years' growth, it carried ninety-five million letters and postal-cards, and its rate of postage is the cheapest in the world. A country postman, it is true, is rather oddly dressed. One thinks, at first, perhaps, that he is wearing a gaily-colored jersey. Not at all--his only garment is a cloth about the waist, with a kerchief around his head to keep the perspiration out of his eyes, and he has straw sandals on his feet. He is tattooed. It seems impossible, at a first glance, that such elaborate decoration is produced by sepia and vermilion alone, carefully pricked in with needles; nevertheless it is a fact. These brilliant hues are proof against the greatest amount of washing, tattooed man could no more change his colors than could an Ethiopian his skin or a leopard his spots. In feudal times this style of ornamentation was resorted to by the Japanese for the same reason that their hideous masks were worn in battle,--in order to inspire fear. Even now, although the custom is prohibited, some wonderful specimens of tattooing can be seen; and from actual observation we were forced to believe the statement that artists in that line are able to prick into the skin a fairly faithful likeness of the man himself, or perchance of a friend. Such workmen now complain that they have little opportunity to practice their profession. Some patronage, however, still comes to them from youthful foreigners. Two sons of the Prince of Wales, for example, as well as Prince George of Greece, have on their bodies specimens of this ornamentation; and if some travelers whom we met here could be induced to raise their sleeves they would display to their astonished friends one or two very pretty Japanese views,--"colored,"--though not "dissolving." [Illustration: AT MIYAN�SHITA.] [Illustration: RURAL SCENERY.] One of the first and most delightful halting-places in our trip across Japan was the hotel at Miyanóshita. It is as dainty as a lacquered box, with floors, chairs, and balustrades as neat as wax and beautifully polished. The rooms are furnished simply, but in European style; the food is specially prepared for foreigners; and in cold weather the corridors can be enclosed in glass. What wonder, then, that tourists resort to Miyanóshita? For, in addition to its good hotel, it has the best of mountain air and delightful hot baths from a natural spring, and is a starting-point for many notable excursions. On most of these, however, jinrikishas cannot be used. From this point on, the beaten roads are left, and only narrow paths ascend the hills. Hence, on the morning after our arrival, we found ourselves confronted by the most novel style of conveyance we had thus far seen. "What under heaven is this?" I cried, as I caught sight of it. "Must I get into this thing, and haven't you any blankets for these horses?" [Illustration: A KAGO.] My friend sat down upon a rock and vowed he would not go. "Give me a jinrikisha," he moaned; "I'd rather be once more a baby-jumper in my little carriage than a mere stone in a sling, as you will be in that!" He finally compromised on an armchair, hung on bamboo poles and carried by four men; but I resolved to give this vehicle a thorough trial. So crawling in, like a dog into its basket, I crossed my legs after the fashion of a Turk who had fallen over backward, and told my well-groomed steeds to go ahead. The unique and novel instrument of torture to which I thus subjected myself is called a "kago." It is a shallow basket, suspended from a bamboo pole, on which it swings irregularly like an erratic pendulum. Two men take this upon their shoulders, while a third follows as a substitute; for they change places usually every fifteen minutes. [Illustration: 1. A RAIN-COAT. 2. AMONG THE FLOWERS. 3. A KAGO.] Mine changed every five. The man who invented the iron cage, within which the unhappy prisoner could neither stand up nor lie down, must have heard of a Japanese kago. The basket is too near the pole to let the occupant sit erect, and much too short for him to extend his feet without giving the bearer in front a violent prod in the small of the back. After many frantic experiments, I found that the easiest fashion of kago-riding was to lie upon my side, my head lolling about in one direction, and my feet in the other. Even then, the lower half of my body kept falling asleep, and I was frequently obliged to get out and walk, to avoid curvature of the spine. Yet, incredible though it seems, Japanese women often travel by these kagos. They certainly looked a thousand times more comfortable than I felt; but then, the Japanese are short, and, moreover, are used to bending up their limbs like knife-blades when they seat themselves. [Illustration: SWINGING LIKE A PENDULUM.] On a broad road, one experiences no sense of danger in these swinging cars; but, once in a while, when I was being carried thus along a path two feet in width,--a mountain grazing my right elbow, and a ravine one thousand feet in depth just under my left shoulder-blade, I used to wonder just what would happen if one of these men should stumble; or if, becoming weary of their load, they should suddenly shoot me outward into space like a stone from a catapult. I prudently kept on good terms with my kago-men, and never refused them when they asked the privilege of halting to take a smoke. [Illustration: HUMAN PONIES.] Almost everything in Japan is small; nor is a Japanese pipe an exception to the rule. It is about as large as a lead-pencil with a child's thimble at the end. Three whiffs are all that any man can take from them, and the wad of tobacco thus consumed is just about the size of a two-grain quinine pill. Hence, the long inhalations of our smokers, the drooping backward of the head, the languid lifting of the eyes to watch the rings of perfumed smoke float lazily away,--all these are unknown to the Japanese. With them,--three little puffs, and all is over. This seems, however, to satisfy them completely, and with the air of one who has dined well, they knock the ashes from the tiny thimbles, and resume their march. After about four hours of this kago-riding we reached the summit of a mountain pass, called Otemetoge. From this point a glorious vista met our gaze. [Illustration: STOPPING FOR A SMOKE.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE LADY EN ROUTE.] Behind us, in the distance, lay Miyanóshita and its neighboring villages, resembling a group of islands in an ocean of green foliage. Far off upon the heights a line of sunlit buildings gleamed like whitecaps on a bright-green sea. Nearer, and almost at our feet, some objects glittering in the noonday light attracted our attention, and these, examined through a field-glass, proved to be a foaming mountain stream and silvery cascade. At first we hardly dared to look on the other side of the pass, lest we should experience disappointment. But fortune favored us. The sky was clear; and gazing eagerly toward the west, we saw, directly opposite our point of observation, the grand old sacred mountain of Japan,--the world-renowned Fuji-yama. [Illustration: FUJI-YAMA.] It made me fairly catch my breath to look for the first time upon this noble peak, whose form had been portrayed on almost every specimen of Japanese art that I had seen from childhood. I felt as if I had been ushered into the presence of some mighty sovereign, whose name and deeds and splendid court had from my earliest years called forth my admiration. A score of interesting traits render a study of this mountain valuable. It is, in the first place, a volcano,--the tallest of those fiery furnaces whose devastations cast a lurid light along the path of Japanese history. Its last eruption was in 1707, when all the plain around its base was buried deep with cinders, and ashes fell fifty miles away. Yet even now, although no wreathe of smoke surrounds its brow, it sends forth steam through several apertures, much as a captive serpent hisses though its fangs are drawn. The little spur upon its southern slope is due to the last eruption. Before that, both of its curving sides were perfectly symmetrical. The ascent of Fuji involves a long, hard climb for weary miles through lava-ashes, sometimes ankle-deep. The violence of the wind on certain portions of the mountain is proverbial, and by some travelers has been described as so appalling that they were fearful lest some furious blast might blow them into space and scatter their remains over a dozen provinces. [Illustration: THE SACRED PEAK.] [Illustration: APPROACH TO A SHRINE.] [Illustration: THE GOD OF WIND.] One cannot wonder that the Japanese have always deemed this mountain sacred. A perfect, silver-crested pyramid, over twelve thousand feet in height, rising in one majestic sweep from sea to sky; changing its color constantly from dawn to dusk, like some officiating priest, a mediator between God and man, assuming consecrated robes of purple, orange, violet, green, and gold,--how could man help regarding it as a glorious shrine inhabited by Deity itself? To its mighty base, as to some incense-burning altar, more than ten thousand reverent pilgrims annually come to make the arduous ascent; and to relieve their hardships, "rest-houses" have been built at intervals along the path, while, even on the summit, the three entrances to the volcano's crater, which is four hundred feet deep, are marked by sacred gateways. [Illustration: MENDICANT PILGRIMS.] Most of these pilgrims wear upon their shoulders the garments almost universally worn in stormy weather by the Japanese peasants,--a kind of water-proof, made of straw or grass, to shed the rain and snow. These vary from a finely-plaited matting to the cheaper, rougher grades, which make the wearer's back look like the roof of a thatched cottage. Upon their heads are hats of split bamboo or straw, that bear a comical resemblance to enormous mushrooms, and serve as sunshades or umbrellas, according to the condition of the weather. We met such pilgrims everywhere throughout Japan. At least a hundred thousand people thus become, in summer-time, religious tramps, and make their way to sacred islands, holy mountain-tops, and shrines whose names would fill a lengthy catalogue. [Illustration: THE PILGRIM GARB.] [Illustration: STATUE OF JIZO] [Illustration: CROSSING THE TEN-PROVINCE PASS.] [Illustration: VILLAGE STREET.] [Illustration: A LOVELY WALK NEAR HAKONE.] Many of these itinerant worshipers solicit alms to help them on their way; but there are also associations of these pilgrims, whose members pay one cent a month into a common treasury. From such a tax as that, however, the treasury never becomes congested, and hence the number of those who travel is necessarily limited. When, therefore, the pilgrim season opens, a certain number of the wanderers, chosen by lot, visit the shrines and represent those whose circumstances compel them to remain at home. These pilgrimages, it is said, are on the wane, but they are still popular. Only five years ago, at the festival of one famous shrine, twenty-one thousand people alighted in two days at a country railway station where the daily average is three hundred and fifty; and to another sacred shrine about two hundred and fifty thousand pilgrims annually come. [Illustration: APPROACH TO THE TEMPLE AT NARA.] Another charming excursion in Japan led us across the "Ten-province pass" to Atami on the southern coast. Of course it had to be made in chairs or kagos; but such slight hardships sink to insignificance when one recalls delightful days spent in enjoying lovely scenery, inhaling pure, invigorating air, and riding over mountain-paths on which the sunlight, filtering through the trees, traced tremulous mosaics of alternate light and shade. [Illustration: ON THE SHORE OF HAKONE LAKE.] Occasionally on this journey we came upon the sculptured effigy of some protecting deity. We were especially impressed by one that was colossal in dimensions, and had been carved laboriously from the natural cliff eleven hundred years before. It represents the Buddhist god, Jizo, who is the especial guardian of travelers and little children. Around the base of this extraordinary figure were heaps of pebbles which had been placed there, one by one, by wayfarers for centuries. This custom originated in one of the most singular myths which religion has ever produced, and is a striking proof of the fondness of the Japanese for children. Upon the banks of the river, in the lower world, is said to live a demon who catches little children as they try to cross, and makes them work for him at his eternal task of piling stones upon the shore. Every pebble laid at the statue's feet is thought to lighten the burden of some little one below! Smilingly yielding to the influence of this pathetic superstition, we ourselves left some pebbles, and then moved onward down the mountain-side, in the same path pursued by all the thousands who had here preceded us, like little boats upon the stream of Time. [Illustration: THE MIKADO'S PALACE, HAKONE.] [Illustration: ATAMI.] [Illustration: THE GEYSER AT ATAMI.] Presently a sudden turn revealed to us Hakone Lake,--a lovely sheet of water surrounded by densely wooded hills. This is a summer resort that rivals even Miyanóshita in popularity. The air is delightfully invigorating here, twenty-four hundred feet above the sea, and in the hot season, not only are all the Japanese tea-houses filled with guests, but families from Tokio and Yokohama rent all the available cottages around the lake. To some extent, indeed, this region has imperial patronage, for, on a pretty hill which overlooks the water, is a palace built for the Mikado. It must be said, however, that he has never occupied it, since he rarely leaves his residence in Tokio, but we were told that the Crown Prince, a lad of fourteen, had been here several times. In almost every other country in the world the public is now permitted to enter the abodes of royalty when their distinguished occupants are absent; but not so here. These palace doors are closed inexorably to all travelers. We were not allowed even to step within the grounds. [Illustration: BY LAKE HAKONE.] At length, descending to the level of the sea, our faithful bearers brought us to Atami--a pretty town, famous for the manufacture of that Japanese paper which seemed to me one of the most astonishing products of the country. It is so fine and soft that it is used for handkerchiefs and napkins, and takes the place of lint in surgery; yet is so firm that it is manufactured into lantern-screens, brooms, air-cushions, and umbrellas. Torn into strips, it also takes the place of string, while all the inner walls of Japanese houses consist of screens of paper, divided into squares, like panes of glass. [Illustration: A MIXTURE OF STYLES.] As we were one day walking through Atami, a sudden outburst of steam, on the other side of a fence, came very near stampeding our entire party. When we recovered sufficient breath to ask the cause of the explosion, we learned that it was occasioned by a small geyser, which has a species of convulsion every four hours, and each time pours out sulphurous vapor for a space of fifteen minutes. It would appear that the people of Atami are living on the lid of a volcanic tea-kettle, but evidently they have no fear. They have enclosed the geyser with a fence like a wild animal in a cage, and close beside it is a sanitarium, where patients with diseases of the throat and lungs inhale the steam. It may be an excellent place for sufferers from pulmonary troubles, but we concluded that nervous occupants of this retreat must feel like the traditional darky on the safety-valve of a Mississippi steamboat. The old-style doctors of Japan are still in vogue in certain rural districts, though they are being rapidly superseded by the young practitioners who have received a medical education, in Europe or America. With the old Japanese physicians a favorite mode of cure was sticking a long needle into the part of the body supposed to be diseased. Another universal panacea was branding the body with a burning weed called _moxa_. This was prescribed for troubles as unlike as rheumatism and toothache. Women, at certain critical moments in their lives, were thought to be relieved by having the little toe of their right foot burned three times. We often noticed scars upon the naked backs and limbs of our jinrikisha men, and learned that they had been produced by this strange medical treatment. [Illustration: A JAPANESE DOCTOR OF THE OLD STYLE.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE LADY.] [Illustration: DRESS AND UNDRESS.] In traveling through the rural districts of Japan, the tourist soon becomes accustomed to the peasant's lack of clothing. It is not the exception here to be undressed--it is the rule. Even in the streets of Tokio one will behold, on rainy days, thousands of men wearing neither trousers nor stockings, walking about with tucked-up clothes and long white limbs, which gives them the appearance of storks upon a river-bank. Even those who have adopted the European dress will frequently, on a muddy day, practice economy by discarding their trousers, and, unconscious of any incongruity, will take their "constitutional" on wooden clogs, with bare legs and feet, though having the upper part of their bodies covered with a frock-coat and a Derby hat! Among these scantily-clad people one often sees a somewhat better dressed but melancholy man, who, with his downcast eyes and shaven head, appears to have lost his friends together with his hair. He represents a useful class of people in Japan--the masseurs, or professional manipulators of the body. One should not hastily conclude that he is smoking. It is true, the article between his lips is usually a pipe, but it is not the kind that holds tobacco. It is a reed-like instrument, on which he blows two plaintive notes to advertise his presence. In every Japanese town we always heard at night the mournful call of the masseur. The laughter which their appearance at first provokes, gives place to pity when one learns that nearly all of these men are blind. It is a calling which, notwithstanding their infirmity, they can follow, and they are said to be adepts at it. [Illustration: A MASSEUR.] [Illustration: MASSAGE.] To appreciate a Japanese masseur, it is necessary to see one of them at work. This, it is true, is more than he himself can do, since he is blind; but our pity is soon diverted from him to the person he is treating, not so much because of the pinching to which he subjects his victim as on account of the pillow on which the patient's head reclines. It makes one think of Anne Boleyn or Mary Stuart, with their necks upon the fatal block; for a Japanese pillow is a wedge-shaped piece of wood, about a foot in length, on top of which is tied a wad of cloth, about the size of a Bologna sausage. To try to sleep with neck supported in this fashion would seem to most Americans as hopeless as to woo slumber with a fence-rail for a pillow. One shudders to consider the discomfort, under these conditions, of turning over in bed, and trying to locate the neck on such a diminutive support. [Illustration: JAPANESE COIFFURE.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE PILLOW.] [Illustration: IN THE BOUDOIR.] Yet, after all, we are creatures of habit, and forty million people in Japan use just such pillows every night, without suffering from insomnia. It is even claimed that Japanese women delight in them, since they do not disarrange the hair. Nor does this appear strange, when one scrutinizes their methods of coiffure. They are something marvelous. The hair of Japanese women is, with few exceptions, as black as ebony, and very abundant. Moreover, it is usually profusely oiled, and glistens like a raven's wing. Through these polished tresses are invariably drawn hairpins of gold, strings of coral, or ornaments of tortoise-shell. But as to how the ladies of Japan produce in their coiffures their black crescendos and diminuendos, their sharp staccato puffs and portamento water-falls, the writer dares not hazard a conjecture. Yet of one thing we may be sure: if we were to venture into a Japanese lady's boudoir, we should find that help is needed to produce them. The toilette-stand and looking-glass might seem to us a trifle low; but we must bear in mind that Japanese domestic life is regulated by a level three feet lower than our own: in other words, where we use chairs, they seat themselves on the floor. This furnished us a key to much that hitherto had seemed puzzling in their habits. Whether a thing be sensible or not depends upon the point of view,--in this case, the height at which we seat ourselves. Once regard an exquisitely clean floor of cushioned matting as an immense divan, and taking off our muddy boots becomes a matter of course; and tables and lamps and mirrors will be placed at a height adapted to our needs. [Illustration: THE LAST TOUCHES.] [Illustration: THE OBI.] When a foreigner beholds for the first time a Japanese lady seated on her heels, as is the custom, he fancies that she has the small of her back supported by an enormous cushion. But when he subsequently sees this lady walking down the street, attended by her maid, he perceives that what appeared to him a sofa-pillow is really a regular part of her costume. It is a heavy silken sash, extremely long and often very elegant, which keeps the robe itself in place. This _obi_, as it is called, is the most precious article of a Japanese lady's wardrobe. Its usual length is fourteen feet, and when its material is silk or gold brocade it will be seen that it has some value. These sashes exhibit, of course, a great variety of color, and one can scarcely find a prettier sight than that of several well-dressed Japanese ladies, grouped together in the vivid sunlight. They look as radiant and attractive as a bouquet of flowers. [Illustration: A JAPANESE BEAUTY.] American ladies who have tried the Japanese dress say that the tying of the _obi_ is extremely difficult. But here, as in the art of hair-dressing, a lady's maid is almost indispensable. The bow, although arranged in different styles, is always worn behind, thus spoiling, in some measure, the outline of the form. When a Japanese lady becomes a widow, she makes no change in the position of the _obi_, unless she wishes publicly to announce that she will never marry again. In that case, it is said, she ties the bow in front. Whether this wards off all proposals may be doubted; but gossip relates that, once in a while, the widow comes to look at life a little differently, and then the bow works gradually round again to its original position. [Illustration: TYING THE OBI.] [Illustration: FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.] [Illustration: A JAPANESE SHOP.] Japanese ladies make a serious mistake when they exchange their national style of dress for that of foreigners, for, as a rule, their charm and beauty leave them when they appear in European garments. On two occasions we saw some thus arrayed, and the effect was painful. If most of them had put on each other's dresses by mistake, they would have looked about as well; and in the absence of corsets their little figures seemed as much out of place as children in their mother's wrappers. [Illustration: A BOAT-RIDE IN JAPAN.] [Illustration: GEISHA GIRLS.] Some years ago a letter signed by Mrs. Cleveland and many other prominent women of America was addressed to their sisters in Japan, urging them not to risk their health and comfort by adopting European dress. It was of little avail. The die was cast. In 1885 the Japanese Empress and her suite appeared for the last time in public in the tasteful costumes of the past. Since then, the order has gone forth that all ladies who present themselves at court must do so in European dress; and it is to be feared that, ere a score of years have passed, the lovely and appropriate robes of old Japan will have disappeared forever. Until quite recently, the universal rule for Japanese women, when they married, was to shave their eyebrows, pull out their eye-lashes, and stain their teeth jet-black. Even the present empress did these things at her marriage. The idea seems to have been to make themselves look hideous, so as to have no more admirers, despite the fact that the average husband, as we all know, appreciates his wife better if he perceives that other men are aware of her attractions. But under the new _régime_ this sad disfigurement is rapidly disappearing, and at present the younger ladies of Japan, at least, show rows of pearly teeth when laughter parts their lips. [Illustration: A DANCING-GIRL.] [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE.] The richest toilettes that we saw in the land of the Mikado were worn by _geisha_ girls, without whom Japanese festivals are incomplete. Some of these dainty creatures form an orchestra while others dance. Their instruments of sound (one can hardly call them instruments of music) consist usually of two kinds of drums and a long, three-stringed banjo, called the _samisen_. Sometimes a flute also is used. We frequently disputed as to which of these was the least excruciating, but on the whole we preferred the drums. When to this combination a human voice was added, our teeth were set on edge. Young as they look, these _geishas_ are professionals, and training-schools exist in Tokio and Kioto, where they are sometimes taught when only seven years of age. A Japanese dancing-girl forms a charming picture. Her long _kimono_ of the richest silk is beautifully embroidered with such a wealth of lovely flowers, that she herself resembles a bouquet in motion. Her broad _obi_ is of the heaviest crape, and falls upon a petticoat of gorgeous color. [Illustration: A JAPANESE FAMILY MOVING.] [Illustration: ON THE JAPANESE COAST.] Black lacquered sandals half conceal her tiny, white-socked feet, and in each hand she holds a decorated fan. Do not expect from her the slightest approach to Lottie Collins. The dance of "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," performed by a _geisha_ girl, would make a subject of the Mikado, if he were unprepared for it, faint away. Nor will the spectator see the least exposure of her personal charms. For, strangely enough, the Japanese, who will at other times dispense with all the clothing possible, conceal a dancer's form with rigid severity. There is not much expression in these dancers' faces. One feels that they are not women, but girls to whom intense emotions are as yet unknown. They merely represent in graceful pantomime some song or story, flitting about like pretty butterflies, or swaying back and forth like flowers in a summer breeze. Leaving Atami, we had a charming ride of seven miles beside the ocean. The road (which may be called the Japanese Cornice) is passable for jinrikishas; and while on one side we looked off upon the Pacific, on the other we found that every valley had a background of well-rounded mountains, covered with verdure soft as velvet, from which at intervals a stream of crystal water rushed to meet the sea. The scenery of Japan may not be grand, but for a charming combination of the elements which make a country beautiful, enlivened constantly by natives in their novel occupations, the seven-mile drive from old Atami can hardly be surpassed. [Illustration: LOVERS OF NATURE AND ART.] Moreover, the people, as we met them on these journeys, pleased us greatly. They were invariably courteous and gentle in their manners, and no boorishness was visible, even among the lower classes. They always seemed to be good-natured. However stormy the weather, however heavy the load, however bad the roads, we never heard a Japanese complain, nor saw one in a bad humor. If the foreigner becomes angry with them, they laugh as if he were making himself ridiculous; and presently he feels that they are right, and that violent anger is in truth absurd. [Illustration: A JAPANESE AT PRAYER.] Yet, just as beneath the smiling landscapes of Japan still lurk the terrible volcanic forces of destruction, so underneath the sunny dispositions of the Japanese are all the characteristics of the warrior. Their history has thoroughly established that they are a manly, patriotic, martial race. Their gentleness, therefore, comes not from servility, but is the product of inborn courtesy and refinement. [Illustration: THE GUARDIANS OF TRAVELERS AND LITTLE CHILDREN.] The Japanese are naturally of a happy disposition. A smile illumines every face. Apparently their past has no regrets, their present no annoyances, their future no alarms. They love the beautiful in nature and in art. They live simply; and how much that means! Their wants are few. The houses of the wealthy do not differ much from those of the poor. Hence life for them is free from almost all those harrowing cares and worriments which sometimes make existence in the Occident a long, incessant struggle to keep up appearances. If they are sad, they seldom show their sadness in public. They evidently believe with the poet: "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone." In some provinces of Japan, when a new bridge is opened, not the richest, but the happiest, persons in the community are chosen to pass over it first, as a favorable omen. [Illustration: A JAPANESE HEARSE.] Strange as it may appear, however, these qualities of the Japanese have been regarded by some travelers as faults. A tourist once solemnly remarked to me: "The great trouble with the Japanese is that they are too happy." "What!" I exclaimed, "can any one be too happy in this world?" "Certainly," was the reply; "the Japanese are too light-hearted to learn with advantage the lessons of adversity. If a calamity befalls them, they often smile and say, 'Well, it can't be helped,' and then try to think no more about it. Worst of all," he continued, "they do not worry about the future, but actually meet death fearlessly and calmly." [Illustration: A BARBER SHOP.] "My friend," I answered, "if to enjoy as much as possible this world that God has given us, if to smile bravely in adversity, and if to die without fear, are faults, it would be well if many other people possessed them, too. You remind me of the old lady in New Hampshire, who exclaimed sadly, 'The Universalists tell us that all men are to be saved, but--we hope for better things!'" In fact, a remarkable characteristic of the Japanese is the cheerful, almost jovial, way they have of announcing a calamity. An English resident of Japan called our attention to this fact soon after our arrival, and our experience confirmed his testimony. Whether the cause be nervousness or a dislike to give one pain, the fact remains that the Japanese will often preface a bit of dreadful news with laughter, or at least with a chuckle. Thus, whenever our guide called our attention to a funeral, his face would wreathe itself in smiles. Still more extraordinary was the manner of a barber in the hotel at Yokohama. As he was shaving me one morning, after a moderate earthquake-shock the night before, he suddenly remarked, with what appeared to be a burst of unpremeditated merriment: "Oh, last night's shock was nothing. Why, a few years ago, in Tokio, my father and mother were killed outright by an earthquake (Ha! Ha!); the house fell right on top of them (He! He!), and crushed them both to death (Ha! Ha! Ha!)." [Illustration: A RUINED VILLAGE.] It is difficult to explain this peculiarity otherwise than by supposing it to be a nervous mannerism; for, as a race, the Japanese are very affectionate, and filial reverence is a religious duty. In this instance I was so astonished at the man's hilarity, that I very nearly fell out of his chair. We thought of this incident again, when, some weeks later, we found ourselves in the Japanese province which had suffered most from the calamitous earthquake of October, 1891. Thousands of houses, we found, had been wrecked by that catastrophe, and in one place the railway tracks had been violently bent and twisted, like a chain irregularly thrown upon the ground. The motion lasted less than a minute; but what cannot an earthquake do in forty seconds? There came one mighty shock,--and over an extent of many miles the buildings fell like packs of cards. Great blocks of solid masonry were tossed about like dice. Trees lay around like jackstraws. [Illustration: SCATTERED BY AN EARTHQUAKE.] [Illustration: TWISTED BY AN EARTHQUAKE.] Large manufacturing towns were ruined. Thousands of husbands, wives, and children who, but an instant previous, had been happy at their work or play, were suddenly crushed by falling roofs, mangled by heavy timbers, buried alive in the debris, or burned to ashes by fires caused by overturned braziers. By chance we traveled through this region on the first anniversary of that great calamity, and many people, we were told, felt anxious till the day was over. But earthquakes in Japan, alas! are limited to no special dates. Their visits are extremely numerous and quite impartial as to months and days. Our earth is said to be quieting down in its subterranean disturbances; but poor Japan still has no less than fifty-one volcanoes labeled "active," and experiences every year, on an average, five hundred seismic shocks, besides numerous destructive typhoons or hurricanes. Most of them are, of course, mere tremors; but once in a while there comes a stroke that causes fearful devastation, as when in Tokio, in 1703, thirty-seven thousand lives were lost. Such terrible manifestations of volcanic power remind one of the more appalling scenes that must have been enacted here, when Nature brought these islands from the sea, pouring them from her fiery crucible. [Illustration: EFFECT OF A TYPHOON AT KOBE.] In planning a journey through the interior of Japan, the tourist naturally inquires where and with what accommodation he is to spend the nights upon the trip. He need not have the least anxiety. In the four prominent cities,--Tokio, Yokohama, Kobe, and Kioto,--there are first-class hotels, with rooms and food adapted to the tastes of foreigners. In many smaller places, too, like Miyanóshita and Atami, the hotels, although simpler, are both comfortable and well-managed. One suffers no discomfort in any of these localities. But in the country villages (which need not be included in the traveler's route unless he so desires), he must adopt the Japanese mode of sleeping in a tea-house--that is to say, in a regular Japanese hotel. [Illustration: HOTEL AT KOBE.] [Illustration: THREE OF A KIND.] As our jinrikishas drew up before one of these, we saw a pretty, modern building of two stories, adorned as usual with paper lanterns. At intervals, on the edge of every balcony, were tall, rectangular boxes reaching from floor to ceiling. These upright cases contain wooden shutters, about as large as the leaves of a dining-table, which are at night taken out, and pushed along in grooves, to make an outside wall for the entire house. When that is done, each balcony of course becomes an inside corridor. Thus every Japanese dwelling consists, as it were, of two houses, one within the other, enclosed in separate cases,--the inside one of paper, the outer one of wood. As we alighted here, the landlord and his servants hurried out to greet us, dropped on their knees, and, with their hands spread out, palms downward, and their foreheads almost touching the floor, they bowed repeatedly, like the "three little maids from school." What a contrast was here between the Orient and the Occident. Imagine a hotel clerk in America down upon his knees! In our hotels the traveler's first duty is to register his name. Here there is something even more important to attend to, namely, removing his shoes. Off they must come before he steps upon the delicate mattings and the glistening floor, just as with us a muddy overshoe would not be tolerated on a parlor carpet. In fact, on entering the hall, one sees what in America would be called a hat-rack, but which is here designed for holding shoes. [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE.] The tourist, therefore, should invariably carry with him in Japan a pair of soft, felt slippers, for otherwise he will be frequently obliged to walk about in hotels, shops, and temples, with merely stockings on his feet. [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE VESTIBULE.] In nearly all Japanese dwellings one usually finds, hung in conspicuous places, some handsomely framed mottoes and proverbs, much as in many of our own country houses we read upon the walls such a comforting assurance as "The Lord will provide," or the melancholy conundrum "What is home without a mother?" To Occidental eyes, Japanese ideographs do not appear beautiful. They look like the meanderings of intoxicated flies that have been immersed in ink. As for their meaning, one motto was translated to us as signifying: "May Buddha bless this house!" Others were words of praise which princely visitors had left; while not a few were epigrams or proverbs, for which the Japanese are famous. Some of them ran as follows: "The absent get farther away every day;" "Clever preacher, short sermon;" "A woman's tongue three inches long can kill a man six feet high;" "Live under your own hat;" "Don't make a long call when the husband is not at home." And yet we send missionaries to Japan! [Illustration: WRITING A LETTER.] [Illustration: AT THE TEA-HOUSE DOOR.] [Illustration: JAPANESE MOTTOES.] With many bows and smiles the landlord of the tea-house led the way up a flight of exquisitely polished stairs, and showed us our apartments. We looked around us with astonishment, for no furniture was visible. The floor, it is true, was covered with fine matting, but, with that one exception, the rooms, which opened into each other, were as bare as an unfurnished flat. Their number and extent depended largely on ourselves. Did we desire an entire story? We had but to push back the paper screens, and it was ours. Did we insist on having separate rooms? Close up the little screens again, and each could sleep in his own paper box, exactly twelve feet square. Unfortunately there are no locks upon these paper screens; hence, just as one is getting out of bed in the morning, the whole side of his room will sometimes disappear with the rapidity of a liberated Holland shade! Moreover, Japanese servants, urged by curiosity, will often poke a moistened finger through a square of paper, to study foreign toilettes at their leisure. During the daytime, in the summer, even the screens are removed, to give free access to the breeze, and the house then becomes the empty skeleton of its former self. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A TEA-HOUSE.] But what most puzzled us at first was where to hang our clothes. There were no hooks upon the walls, there was not even a table for our toilet articles. It seemed too bad to put our coats and hair-brushes on the floor. But one must recollect that Japanese floors are not like ours, since no boots ever touch them. For native guests a beautiful, square, lacquered box is usually provided, in which they lay the carefully folded robes which they remove before retiring. To us, however, no limited receptacle like that was given. We had the unrestricted floor. [Illustration: A JAPANESE BED.] The beds in which we slept afforded us the most amusement. When bedtime comes in Japanese homes, quilts are brought out from a closet and spread upon the floor. Within five minutes all is ready for the night, and with the morning light they disappear again. Occasionally, in the larger tea-houses, we, as foreigners, had special luxuries,--such as cotton sheets, a couch of seven comforters, instead of the usual two, and, for a bolster, an extra quilt rolled up as with a shawl-strap. Thus altogether, including what we used for coverings, our most luxurious couches in Japan consisted of from ten to a dozen comforters. [Illustration: THE COMMON WASHSTAND IN A TEA-HOUSE.] We found some difficulty in getting sufficient sleep in Japanese tea-houses; not from the composition and arrangement of our beds, but from the noise about us, which seldom ceased before the hour of midnight, and always woke us with the dawn. Even our "summer hotels," with their distressingly thin partitions, are delightfully tranquil compared with the country inns of Japan. For sliding screens of paper are practically no barrier at all to sound, and, as if that were not sufficiently aggravating, these paper walls rarely reach the top of the room, but leave a ventilating space of a foot or two, through which the mingled snoring, prayers, and conversation of the guests, and the matutinal clatter of the servants, roll and reverberate like distant thunder. [Illustration: JAPANESE TEA-HOUSE.] [Illustration: CARRYING TEA FROM THE FIELD.] The morning after my arrival, I pushed aside a screen with my forefinger, and lo! half of my room stood open to the rising sun. Descending to the courtyard, I beheld a Japanese servant hurrying toward me on her wooden clogs, to give me tea. [Illustration: BRINGING TEA.] What shall be said of these attractive little waitresses, who make the dullest tea-house gay with laughter, brighten the darkest day with brilliant colors, and sweeten every tea-cup with a smile? They are not usually beautiful, or even womanly, in the sense of being dignified. They rather seem like well-developed school-girls, just sobered down enough to wear long dresses, but perfectly unable to refrain at times from screams of merriment. Yet search the world through, and where will you find servants such as these? From the first moment when they fall upon their knees and bow their foreheads to the floor, till the last instant, when they troop around the door to call to you their musical word for farewell,--"_Sayonara_,"--they seem to be the daintiest, happiest, and most obliging specimens of humanity that walk the earth. [Illustration: PLAYING GAMES.] We were particularly pleased with one agreeable trait of all these Japanese girls--their exquisitely clean and well-shaped hands. One would, of course, expect them to be small, for delicate frames are a characteristic of the race, but almost without exception the hands of all the waitresses who served us in Japan looked as if they had just emerged from a hot bath, and had been manicured besides. "A trifle," some would say, but, after all, such trifles help to make perfection. When one has traveled through a country for two months, and from one end of it to the other has seen pretty, well-kept hands extended to him fifty times a day, he feels respect and admiration for a race so neat and delicate to their finger-tips. The Japanese, according to our Occidental standard, may not have much godliness, but they possess what comes next to it--personal cleanliness. And I am sure that, at any time, I would rather associate with a nice, wholesome sinner than with an uncleanly saint! [Illustration: TWO MODES OF TRAVEL IN JAPAN.] [Illustration: DOMESTIC ETIQUETTE.] It was while we were taking our breakfast here, that we beheld, in a neighboring room, a lady being served with tea by her domestic, who was approaching her mistress on her knees. Nothing amazed us more than this, for in the United States these positions are usually reversed. In free America it is the lady who, figuratively speaking, has to "go down on her knees" before her cook. When we consider the serious drawbacks to domestic happiness and comfort, occasioned by the insolence and inefficiency of servants in America, who, as a rule, are better lodged, clothed, and fed than any other class of laborers in the world, one questions if in this, and many other respects, Japan will be improved by contact with the Occident. [Illustration: A STREET IN KIOTO.] What Moscow is to the Russians, Kioto is to the Japanese, their present capital, Tokio, corresponding rather to St. Petersburg. Kioto is the ancient capital,--the sacred city of the empire,--hallowed by countless shrines and endeared by centuries of classic memories. It was for a thousand years the home of the Mikado, and is still the centre of old Japanese art. Here also, till the revolution of 1869, lived many nobles of the highest rank, together with distinguished poets, priests, and artists. Its name, Kioto, denotes the City of Peace, and its best citizens were thought to be the most refined and polished of a race whose gentle manners are still unsurpassed. [Illustration: IN KIOTO.] Our hotel in Kioto was unlike the inns of other Japanese cities, being neither a European structure, like the hotels at Tokio and Yokohama, nor yet a tea-house, such as we had lately seen. It was a compromise between the two, with comfortable rooms and foreign furnishings. Its situation is far above the city, upon a wooded hill that has been sacred to Buddha for a thousand years. Around it are old temples, monasteries, and pagodas, among which one can walk in shaded paths the livelong day. Often, while seated on the spacious hotel balcony which overlooks the town, we heard a strangely fascinating sound rolling toward us through the sacred groves in solemn, silvery vibrations. We discovered after a short walk the cause of this. It was a huge bronze bell,--no less than seventy-four tons in weight,--whose sweet-voiced call to prayer has echoed over this hill for nearly three hundred years. There are few sounds more pleasing to the ear than the vibrations of a distant, deep-toned bell. Except in Russia I had never heard such notes as those that issue from the bells of old Japan. Their solemn strokes swell through the forest like the crescendo of an orchestra. These bells, however, are not rung, like ours, by wrenching them from side to side, until a pendant tongue falls sharply on their inner rim. Ah, no! the Japanese treat them far more cleverly. Suspended from the belfry roof is a large, rounded shaft of wood, attendant swings this to one side, and lets it fall, to strike the inverted bowl of bronze one mighty blow. The difference in sound produced by using wood instead of metal, is astonishing. There is no grating jar, no sharpness in the tone, but one stupendous boom of sound, as though a musical cannon were discharged. This instantly resolves itself into slow-moving, ever widening circles of reverberation, which fall upon the ear more and more faintly, till they die away like the last murmur of the surf upon the sand. [Illustration: YAAMI'S HOTEL, KIOTO.] [Illustration: BRONZE HORSE.] [Illustration: A MONSTER BELL, KIOTO.] [Illustration: A TEMPLE IN KIOTO.] Accepting the invitation which that bell conveyed to us, we strolled toward one of Kioto's many temples. In the one we entered, five bells, with long white cords attached, were hanging in the lacquered porch. The worshiper pulls one of these, to call the attention of the god; then, having said a prayer, he drops a coin into a grated box and goes his way. On one occasion, we saw a pretty baby, three months old, brought hither in its mother's arms, and made to pull the bell-rope with its tiny hand. Then the great-grand-mother of the child, herself almost eighty-six years old, advanced with trembling limbs and rang it for the second time. It was a suggestive picture,--this vision of old age and infancy, like opposite poles of an electric battery, completing here a circuit of four generations; pathetic emblems of the past and future,--the smiling infant looking forward to anticipated blessings, the feeble matron thankful for the gifts received. [Illustration: A JAPANESE BELFRY.] The Japanese have really two religions, in some respects rivals of each other. The elder, or original faith, is Shintoism; the younger, which has struggled to supplant it for twelve hundred years, is Buddhism. It is difficult to comprehend exactly what Shintoism is. The name means, literally, "The way of the gods," but it is the vaguest known religion. It has no bible, no dogmas, and not even a moral code. It dimly hints at immortality, but has no definite heaven or hell. Its gods, are either deified national heroes or else personifications of nature, such as the glorious sun, the all-surrounding ocean, and the innumerable deities of mountains, rivers, rocks, and trees. Its shrines for worship, with their gray stone lanterns and majestic _torii_, are severely plain, its services extremely simple, and all its priests appear like laymen in the streets, donning their clerical robes only when they officiate in the temples. [Illustration: A SHINTO PRIEST.] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO A JAPANESE TEMPLE.] [Illustration: BUDDHIST PRIESTS.] [Illustration: BUDDHIST PRIESTS IN A CEMETERY.] Not so the Buddhist priests. Their costume, like their ritual, is imposing. While Shinto priests may marry, the Buddhists take the vow of celibacy. In fact, though wholly different in its creed from the great Roman Catholic communion, some of the ceremonials of Buddhism remind us of it; such as their richly-mantled priests, their altars bright with candles and adorned with flowers, their clouds of incense, grand processionals, and statues of the gods and saints. What wonder, then, since it has such attractions, that this religion, when it came hither from India, about six centuries after Christ, achieved at once a remarkable success? The colder Shinto faith lost ground, and even the Mikados gave to Buddha's doctrines favor and support for centuries; but Shintoism has now once more become the state religion. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A JAPANESE TEMPLE.] The furnishings of the Buddhist temples in Japan are often marvels of artistic beauty, comprising tables, columns, doors, and even floors, composed of ruby red or jet-black lacquer, which is so thick and smooth as to produce the effect of rosewood or solid ebony. Here, too, are altars loaded down with ornaments of gold and bronze, silken screens inscribed with sacred characters, exquisite bronze lanterns, incense-burners, gilded gongs, tall lotus-flowers with leaves of gold, and beautiful lacquered boxes placed on stands about the floor, within which are the precious manuscripts of Buddhist scriptures. In a word, recall the richest specimens of Japanese art that you have ever seen, and know that with such adornment the finest temples in Japan are filled. [Illustration: A BUDDHIST TEMPLE.] In some of the less important Buddhist shrines, however, "all that glitters is not gold." Some temples are repulsive from their shabby ornaments, hideous idols, and gaudy paper lanterns. Some of their deities are enthroned behind a wooden grating, and worshipers tie to the latter a bit of cloth on which has been inscribed a petition. One such deity, we were assured, has for his special function the assisting of women to obtain good husbands. He is immensely popular. We saw, in half an hour, at least a dozen women knock on the grating to rouse him and entreat his services. One old woman, who evidently knew from experience how rare good husbands are, led two of her daughters to the gate, and pounded on it savagely three times. Yet even in that temple we found a proof of how the western world has invaded the customs of Japan; for here, amid the grotesque deities, was hung an eight-day clock, which proved on examination to have come from Ansonia, Connecticut! A singular feature of many of these Buddhist temples is a line of votive tablets, erected by pious souls, who wished either to show by means of pictures the dangers from which God had rescued them, or else to certify, in written words, to miraculous answers to their prayers. The Buddhist religion, however, despite its age and its indubitable hold upon the people, is not to-day, as we have said, the official religion of Japan. Since 1869 the Government has favored Shintoism, and many Buddhist temples have been stripped of their magnificent decorations and dedicated to the Shinto faith. [Illustration: VOTIVE PICTURES.] Accordingly, the contributions that once came freely from the people are now falling off, and it is difficult to keep in good repair the costly lacquer-work and gilding of the temples. Some shrines already look shabby and neglected. However, an occasional exception to this rule shows how dangerous it is to make unqualified statements about Japan. In Kioto, for example, we found a most astonishing proof of the vitality of Japanese Buddhism in the new and splendid temple of Higashi Hongwanji, which at the time of our visit was in process of construction. We saw it on the occasion of a special festival, when popular recognition and acclaim were manifested in profuse and elaborate decorations. But, the truth is, the temple is continually receiving the support of untold thousands of the Japanese. All the surrounding provinces have given it, not only money, but timber, metals, and stone, besides the transportation of materials free of cost. It seems as if conservative and faithful Buddhists, indignant at the prevalent idea that their religion is declining, were making this stupendous effort to show the world their strength and their devotion. [Illustration: A PYRAMID WITH SILVER CREST.] [Illustration: NEW BUDDHIST TEMPLE IN KIOTO.] One object in this shrine especially impressed us. This was a pile of rope,--each strand as long and large as a ship's cable,--made of women's hair, twisted and spliced with hemp! These ropes are the offerings of poor but devout women, thousands of whom, in nine Japanese provinces, having nothing else to give, contributed their hair, to be woven into cables for hoisting beams and tiles in the construction of the temple. One rope, two hundred and fifty feet in length, was the gift of three thousand five hundred women in one province alone. This seems at first, perhaps, a trifling thing; but when one recollects the pride which Japanese women take in their abundant hair, the care they show in its arrangement, and the entire absence in Japan of hats or bonnets to conceal the sacrifice, their action is remarkable. And when we perceived among the usual black strands occasional streaks of white and gray, proving that this enthusiasm extended from youth to age, it seemed to us the most touching proof of popular devotion to a sacred cause that we had ever seen. [Illustration: ROPES OF WOMEN'S HAIR.] We witnessed a number of _matsuris_, or religious festivals in Japan, when all the principal streets were thronged with people, and even the house-tops held their private box-parties. On every such occasion there would appear, in the centre of the thoroughfare, an object that never failed to fill us with amazement. Think of a hundred men pulling madly on two ropes, and drawing thus a kind of car, mounted on two enormous wooden wheels. Resting on this, and rising far above the neighboring roofs, imagine a portable shrine, resembling a pagoda, with roof of gold, and gorgeously decorated with silken tapestries, which are so richly embroidered and heavily gilded as to be valued at many thousands of dollars. This structure had two stories, on each of which were many life-size figures,--some being actual men and women, while others were mere painted statues, hideous and grotesque. Behind this came another car, shaped like a huge bird with crested head. Upon this second vehicle also stood an edifice, three stories high, resplendent 'with magnificent tapestries and gilded ornaments, and bearing statues of old Japanese deities, so laughably grotesque, that had not their surroundings been so rich the whole procession would have seemed a farce. Some of these statues, which were made to open their mouths and wag their heads like puppets, were especially applauded. Men, women, and children rode upon these cars, blowing horns and beating drums. If we had closed our eyes, we might have thought that we were listening to a Fourth of July parade of the "Antiques and Horribles." What most impressed us was the absence of what we should consider religious feeling. It was a show, a brilliant pageant--nothing more; though, as such, it was heartily enjoyed by thousands. [Illustration: A RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL.] [Illustration: A MATSURI.] The streets in Kioto, like those of most Japanese cities, are usually much alike. No heavy teams disturb their rounded surfaces. Few vehicles, save light jinrikishas, pass over them. Almost no animals are ever seen in them. They are as clean as sidewalks are with us. In most of them we can perceive some groups or individuals, arrayed in varied colors, moving about like brilliant fragments in a long kaleidoscope. On either side extends a line of little houses, which, in point of architectural effect, appear monotonous, but since their lower stories are all open to the street, and from the fact that most of them are shops with all their goods on exhibition two feet from the thoroughfare, they really offer infinite variety. [Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC STREET.] Approaching one of these shops, one first encounters a wooden platform, two feet from the ground. On this the Japanese purchaser usually seats himself, as he prepares to bargain. Most foreigners, however, being unable to fold comfortably their limbs beneath them for a cushion, assume a different attitude, and allow their feet to hang over the side. If they ascend the platform and really enter the shop, they are supposed to leave their shoes below, and walk in stocking feet; for the shops of the Japanese are, like their houses, paved with polished wood or covered with spotless matting. The goods displayed by no means constitute the merchant's entire stock. The choicest articles are often in a fire-proof store-house, close at hand, and can be sent for at a moment's notice. As for the contents of these street bazaars, they comprise every article of clothing, ornament, and furniture conceivable by the Japanese mind. [Illustration: STYLES OF JAPANESE SANDALS.] The shoe shops in particular were, at first, a source of great surprise to us. "These surely are not shoes," we said, as we beheld their great variety of foot-coverings. And yet the Japanese are shod, though sandals is a better name than shoe for what they wear. A Japanese gentleman, who has not yet adopted European dress, wears in the house a cotton sock, which has a separate compartment for the great toe, like the thumb of a mitten. When he walks out, he plants his foot on a straw sandal, or, if the streets be muddy, on a wooden clog that rises three inches from the ground. In doing so, he thrusts the apex of a V-shaped cord between his great toe and the smaller ones, and, holding on his sandals thus, he marches off. [Illustration: SHOPPING MADE EASY.] [Illustration: A FLOWER MERCHANT.] [Illustration: JAPANESE HANDIWORK.] But not all the merchants of Kioto are content to stay in shops; and, in this respect, human nature is much the same the world over. The gorgeous vehicles of American country peddlers, which we admired in our childhood days, are reproduced here on a smaller scale, though without wheels; and as the Japanese are sure to be artistic in everything, we were not surprised to find their brooms and dusters grouped in clusters like a huge bouquet. The peddlers themselves are pictures of human placidity. It is true, their eyes will open somewhat at the sight of foreigners, but most of the beardless faces that one sees beneath their mushroom hats of straw might easily serve an artist as models for a Japanese grandmother. [Illustration: MAKING CLOGS.] In strolling through the streets, we often paused to watch the natives at their work. If, for example, it chanced to be a cobbler making wooden clogs, we saw, to our astonishment, that his great toe could hold a block of wood as firmly as a thumb, and we began to ask ourselves if western workmen had gained much by covering up the feet and losing a third hand. The methods of Japanese laborers seem to us, at first, a little clumsy, because they are unlike our own. But one soon comes to marvel at their skill. No nation is superior to them in dexterity, fineness of touch, and delicacy of finish. In great things, as in small, one finds the same perfection. Japanese carpenters, for example, will use few nails in building a house, but they will make mortises so exact that water cannot penetrate between the joints; and they will decorate a fan or paint a photographic slide with touches so delicate that they will bear inspection with a magnifying-glass. To watch them is like watching our own motions in a mirror, for everything appears reversed. Our carpenters push the plane from them; the Japanese pull it toward them. The threads of our screws turn to the right; theirs turn to the left. Our keys turn outward; theirs turn inward. Nor is this difference true of handicraft alone. Their way of doing hundreds of familiar things is so directly opposite to ours, that one is almost tempted to believe the cause to be their relative position on the other side of the globe, and that they are really living upside down. The only question is: "Which side is up, and which is down?" [Illustration: CHILD AND NURSE.] [Illustration: JAPANESE CARPENTERS.] The Japanese think our ways just as strange as we do theirs. We, for example, carry our babies in our arms; in Japan, however, they are strapped on the backs of children not much larger than themselves, their little heads being left to flop about like flowers half-broken from the stem. Nor is this custom the exception. It is the universal rule, alike in city streets and country lanes. Whole pages could be filled in mentioning points of difference between Japanese and European customs. Thus, we stand erect before distinguished men, in token of respect; the Japanese, on the contrary, sit down. We take off our hats when we enter a house, while they remove their shoes. Our books begin at the left; theirs at the right; and if they have any "foot-notes," they are placed at the top of the page. We write across a sheet of paper horizontally; they write vertically down the page, like we make a column of figures. Our color for mourning is black; theirs is white. The best rooms in our houses are in front; theirs are in the rear. We mount our horses from the left; they from the right. We put a horse head foremost into a stall; they back him in and fasten him in the front. On seeing this, we laughingly recalled the showman's trick of getting people to "come and see a horse's head where his tail should be." [Illustration: MAT-MAKERS.] But if the Japanese are proficient in the ordinary industries of life, what shall be said of those finer proofs of their artistic skill which charm the world? At first, the foreigner hardly comprehends the value of their work or the amount of time and labor it has cost. Their articles of _cloisonné_ are unsurpassed. In everything relating to handicraft in bronze the Japanese are unexcelled. Their flowered lacquer-work, also, with figures raised in gold, has been perfected for a thousand years; while in the realm of silk embroidery and gold brocade the Japanese have been said to paint with the needle as other artists do with the brush. In brief, they have produced among themselves and for themselves, for centuries, unnumbered masterpieces of artistic excellence, and this without a particle of outside help save that which came to them originally from China. Not, therefore, as uncultured mendicants have they appeared upon the threshold of the western world; but rather as people who, while accepting much that we have gained, have also not a little of value to impart. Hence they are a nation that elicits, not merely interest and astonishment, but also admiration and respect. [Illustration: CLOISONN� VASES.] [Illustration: ONE OF JAPAN'S HUGE BELLS.] [Illustration: "IN THE GLOAMING."] There is a fascination in watching a Japanese artist engaged in _cloisonné_ work. Taking a copper vase, he traces on its surface certain figures, such as flowers, birds, and trees. Then, from a roll of brass, one-sixteenth of an inch in breadth, he cuts off tiny pieces which, with consummate skill, and by eye-measurement alone, he twists into a mass of lines which correspond exactly to the figures he has drawn. Holding these bits of brass between the points of tweezers, he touches them with glue, and deftly locates them upon the rounded surface of the vase. At length, when all the figures are outlined, as it were, in skeleton, the flesh has to be applied. In other words, the thousands of interstices between the lines of brass are filled up with enamel of all shades and colors. When this is done the jar is put into a furnace, then touched with more enamel, then fired again, and so on, till it has been brought to the required degree of artistic finish. Then it is polished with great care, until the shining edges of the brass show through the enamel like the veins of a leaf. The colors also, by this time, are perfectly distinct and permanent, and the entire work stands forth,--a marvelous combination of delicacy, strength, and beauty. [Illustration: A SERENADE.] [Illustration: A WAYSIDE MONUMENT.] The scene, at evening, on the river-bank at Kioto is charming. Along the water' sedge are numerous little tea-houses, in front of which are many wooden piers. These are divided off into little squares, like private boxes in a theatre, and in them groups of Japanese are seated,--smoking, or taking supper in the open air. Meantime, a thousand colored lanterns gleam like fireflies on either shore and fleck the river with a dust of gold. One cannot, however, praise the music which is here produced. It would be highly amusing, if one were deaf; but when one's hearing is acute, a little of such music goes a long way. None of the most enthusiastic admirers of the Japanese has dared, as yet, to praise their music. To Occidental ears the twanging of their banjo strings, and, above all, their caterwaulings, are positive torture. And yet, it must be said that to the Japanese our music seemed at first no less absurd than theirs to us. At the first opera given in Tokio by a European company, the Japanese audience was convulsed with laughter, and when the prima donna sang her highest notes, some men and women could no longer control themselves, and were seen stuffing their handkerchiefs into their mouths to avoid uttering shrieks of merriment. [Illustration: PRIESTLY MUSICIANS.] In the immediate vicinity of Kioto is a bamboo grove possessing an extent and beauty unusual even in Japan, where the plant grows luxuriantly. The various ways in which the Japanese use the bamboo stalk afforded us continual amusement and surprise, while it challenged admiration for their ingenuity. Bridges and scaffolding supports, water-pipes and fences, furniture, umbrellas, baskets, fans, hats, pipe-stems, sandals, screens, and walking-sticks,--are all constructed from that jointed, hollow stem, which looks so light and delicate, yet in reality is strong and durable. A thing of beauty and utility, the bamboo is certainly one of the greatest blessings that Nature has bestowed upon her children in the Land of the Rising Sun. [Illustration: GROVE NEAR KIOTO.] A pretty sight in traveling through the province of Uji, near Kioto, are its tea-plantations, consisting of acres of evergreen bushes, two or three feet high. Among these move and sparkle in the sun odd bits of color, which prove to be the scanty robes of women and children crouching among the plants and picking their leaves. Most of these tea-plants are left unsheltered from the sun and storm, but the more valuable shrubs, producing tea worth six or seven dollars a pound, are covered by a trellis of bamboo, on which straw mats are placed. Sometimes the floor of an entire valley will be concealed beneath these mattings, which resemble a gigantic tent. [Illustration: A TEA-PLANTATION.] It is a curious fact that, unlike teas from India and China, Japanese tea must not be made with boiling water, as that gives it a bitter flavor. Indeed, the finer the quality of the tea the cooler must be the water. Tea is the national beverage of Japan, and has been largely used there for nearly a thousand years. The Japanese hotels are known as "tea-houses," which correspond also to the _cafés_ of Europe. The _cha-no-yu_, or fashionable ceremony of serving and drinking tea, has been for seven hundred years a national institution, governed by the minutest etiquette, each action and each gesture being regulated by a code of rules. It is said to have originated in a formal style of tea-drinking among the Buddhist priests, who found the beverage an easy means of keeping themselves awake during their nocturnal vigils. Japan may be said, therefore, not only to owe the introduction of the tea-plant to a celebrated Buddhist saint, who imported it from China, but for her elaborate ceremony of tea-drinking to be still further indebted to the priests of Buddhism. While walking one day in Kioto, we met a fellow-passenger from Vancouver. [Illustration: TEA-PICKERS.] "What places have you visited?" he asked. We told him. "Have you not been to Haruna, beyond Ikao?" he inquired. "No," we replied. "We thought of going there, but finally decided to omit it." "You made a great mistake!" he cried. "Why not retrace your steps and go there now? It is not too late." "That means," we said, "in all, six hundred miles of extra travel." [Illustration: SACRED ROCKS AND TREES.] "No matter," he insisted. "You had better do it." "Are you quite serious?" "Not only serious, but enthusiastic. You will never regret it. Go!" [Illustration: IKAO] We followed his advice, and a few days later, one afternoon in late October, we found ourselves almost the only guests in a well-kept tea-house in Ikao. Swift 'rikisha men had brought us hither from the railway station, sixteen miles away. The air was most exhilarating, for we were three thousand feet above the sea, which we had left eight hours before at Yokohama. Around us on all sides were lofty mountains, whose hidden treasures could not be explored in jinrikishas, for this was another point where all roads terminate, and only paths lead inward to the fabled homes of mountain deities. [Illustration: THE PATH THROUGH THE FOREST.] It was four o'clock the next morning when we started. It was still dark. The stars were glorious. We knew the coming day would be superb. It was as yet too cold for riding, so, followed by our kago-bearers, we set forth on foot. For some time we walked on in silence, enraptured with the splendor of the sky. Above us gleamed the Dipper's seven diamond points; Orion's belt hung radiant amid a galaxy of other suns; while, just above a lofty mountain range, flashed with unwonted brilliancy the herald of approaching day. At length the stellar light began to pale. The east became first white, then golden, as the sun advanced, and then there came an hour's scenery that can never be effaced from my memory. [Illustration: LAKE BIWA.] The colors on the mountains were magnificent. Autumnal foliage mantled them with glory. Thousands of oaks and maples lined the slopes with every shade of orange, red, vermilion, green, and purple. In any light these varied tints would have been beautiful; but to behold them changing into glory, tree by tree, as the first touch of dawn awakened them from sleep, was such a vision as we had never hoped to look upon. Some of this radiant foliage bedecked the ground, and sometimes we walked ankle-deep through multicolored leaves. [Illustration: THE STAIRCASE AT HARUNA.] Moreover, the pathway was all white with frost, and stretched away in glittering perspective through the trees, like an avenue of silver between mountains of jewels. Intoxicated with such sights and with the crisp, aromatic air of that October dawn, we walked for miles without fatigue, unable to repress at times our exclamations of enthusiasm. After a time, we found ourselves at the entrance to a deep ravine, shaded by giant trees, which at that early hour were still unburnished by the sun. In view of the reverence felt by the Japanese for massive rocks and time-gnarled trees, it is not strange that this wild gorge of Haruna has been for ages looked upon as sacred. A feeling of solemnity stole over us. Instinctively we spoke in softer tones. I felt as once before, when sailing into a Norwegian fjord. It was a place for Dante to describe and for Dore to illustrate. At length we saw, wedged in between two mighty rocks, a flight of stone steps leading to a lacquered gate. Our Japanese attendant immediately bowed his head, removed his sandals, and knelt down to pray. Nor was this strange. Who could resist, in such a place, the impulse to revere that Power of which these forms of nature were imperfect symbols? At all events, whatever may have been the difference in our creeds, both traveler and native worshiped here that day,--one standing in the forest shade, the other kneeling on the moss-grown steps. [Illustration: "HUGE CRYPTOMERIAS LIKE THOSE OF NIKKO."] [Illustration: THE HEART OF OLD JAPAN.] After some moments' silence, our attendant arose and began the ascent. We followed him. On passing the first gateway, we perceived another smaller portal, which seemed to lead directly into the cliff. Above it was a rock, a hundred and fifty feet in height, and shaped like a gigantic obelisk. Around it rose huge cryptomerias, like those of Nikko, wrinkled with age, and solemn in their sanctity and shade. The mountain-side so overhung the place that it seemed kept from falling only by a caprice of nature. We almost feared to speak, lest, like some Alpine avalanche, the monstrous mass might fall and overwhelm us. Finally, however, we passed beneath the second arch; and, lo! before us, on a shelf of rock, completely isolated from the outer world, and guarded by these sentinels of stone, we saw a sacred shrine. Even at that early hour one pilgrim was already here, and, as the radiance of the rising sun stole through the twilight of the holy grove and turned the temple steps to gold, unconscious of the picture he produced, he knelt in prayer. [Illustration: SACRED PORTAL.] That scene can never be forgotten. An interval of centuries seemed to separate us from the Japan of Yokohama. No whisper of approaching change had yet penetrated these peaceful solitudes. No earthquake-shock of doubt had sent a tremor through this mountain altar. The faith which chose this immemorial forest for its temple still reigned here supreme. And as we stood by this illumined portico, in which a ray of sunlight glittered like a sacred fire, we felt that we had reached the Heart of Old Japan. [Illustration] * * * * * CHINA [Illustration: HONG-KONG.] CHINA [Illustration: EMPEROR OF CHINA.] China defies the world to equal her in three important respects: age, population, and industries. As for the first, she undoubtedly has the oldest Government on earth. Even the Papacy is young compared with it; and as for our republic, it is a thing of yesterday. A Chinaman once said to an American: "Wait till your Government has been tried before you boast of it. What is a hundred years? Ours has stood the test of forty centuries. When you did not exist, we were. When you shall have passed away, we still shall be." In point of numbers, too, the Chinese empire leads the world. Its area is nearly twice as large as that of the United States, and it has six times as many people. The governor of one Chinese province rules over sixty million souls. Have we a definite conception of what four hundred million human beings are? Arrange the inhabitants of our globe in one long line, and every fourth man will be a Chinaman. As for her industries, Musa, the Saracen conqueror of Spain, once aptly said that Wisdom, when she came from heaven to earth, was lodged in the head of the Greeks, the tongue of the Arabs, and the hands of the Chinese. China was once what the United States is now--the birthplace of inventions. Paper was manufactured there in the third century of our era. Tea was produced a century later. If Europe had enjoyed communication with China, it would have learned the art of printing many centuries before it did; and who can say what might have been the result? A thousand years ago the Chinese made designs on wood. Printing from stone was a still earlier industry among them. In China, also, gunpowder was first invented--a thought by which, alas! so many thoughts have been destroyed. This same astonishing race produced the mariner's compass in the fourth century, porcelain in the third, chess and playing-cards in the twelfth, and silk embroideries in almost prehistoric times. An empire, therefore, of such vast antiquity, overwhelming population, and great achievements must be, despite its faults, a country of absorbing interest. [Illustration: A CHINESE TEMPLE.] The most delightful portion of the voyage from Japan to China lies in the Japanese Mediterranean, known as the Inland Sea. It is a miniature ocean, practically land-locked for three hundred miles, with both shores constantly in sight, yet strewn with islands of all shapes and sizes, from small and uninhabited rocks to wave-encircled hills, terraced and cultivated to their very summits. It seems as if volcanic action here had caused the land to sink, until the ocean rushed in and submerged it, leaving only the highest peaks above the waves. [Illustration: THE JAPANESE MEDITERRANEAN.] We lingered here all day upon the steamer's deck, like passengers on the Rhine, fearing to lose a single feature of the varied panorama gliding by on either side. By night it was more glorious even than by day; for then, from every dangerous cliff flashed forth a beacon light; the villages along the shore displayed a line of glittering points, like constellations rising from the sea; and, best of all, at a later hour, moonlight lent enchantment to the scene, drawing a crystal edge along each mountain crest, and making every island seem a jewel on a silver thread. [Illustration: WAVE-ENCIRCLED HILLS.] [Illustration: HUGE SAILS LIKE THE WINGS OF BATS.] When we emerged from these inland waters, we saw between us and the setting sun the stretch of ocean called the China Sea. At certain seasons of the year this is the favorite pathway of typhoons; and the Formosa Channel, in particular, has been a graveyard for countless vessels. Indeed, only three weeks before, a sister ship of ours--the "Bokhara,"--had gone down here in a terrific cyclone. Yet when we sailed its waters nothing could have been more beautiful. Day after day this sea of evil omen rested motionless, like a sleek tigress gorged with food and basking in the sun. [Illustration: THE HARBOR OF HONG-KONG.] After a three-days' voyage from the Japanese coast, we began to meet, in constantly increasing numbers, large, pointed boats, propelled by huge sails ribbed with cross-bars, like the wings of bats. Upon the bow of each was painted an enormous eye; for of their sailing-craft the mariners of China, in elementary English, say: "If boat no have eye, how can boat see go?" We were assured that these were Chinese sailing-craft, and that our destination was not far away; but it was difficult to realize this, and I remember looking off beyond those ships and trying to convince myself that we were actually on the opposite side of the globe from home and friends, and in a few brief hours were to land in that vast Eastern empire so full of mystery in its exclusiveness, antiquity, and changeless calm. [Illustration: THE CITY OF VICTORIA.] That night the agitation that precedes one's first arrival in a foreign land made sleep almost impossible. It seemed to me that I had not closed my eyes when suddenly the steamer stopped. To my astonishment, the morning light had already found its way into my state-room. We had arrived! Hurrying to the deck, therefore, I looked upon the glorious harbor of Hong-Kong. A hundred ships and steamers lay at anchor here, displaying flags of every country on the globe. Although the day had hardly dawned, these waters showed great animation. Steam-launches, covered with white awnings, were darting to and fro like flying-fish. Innumerable smaller boats, called sampans, propelled by Chinese men and women, surrounded each incoming steamer, like porpoises around a whale. On one side rose some barren-looking mountains, which were a part of the mainland of China; but for the moment they presented little to attract us. It was the other shore of this magnificent harbor that awoke our interest; for there we saw an island twenty-seven miles in circumference, covered with mountains rising boldly from the sea. Along the base of one of these elevations, and built in terraces far up on its precipitous slopes, was a handsome city. [Illustration: THE PUBLIC GARDENS.] "What is this?" we inquired eagerly. "The town itself," was the reply, "is called Victoria, but this imposing island to whose flank it clings, is, as you may suppose, Hong-Kong." [Illustration: A STREET IN HONG-KONG.] The first impression made upon me here was that of mild astonishment at the architecture. Almost without exception, the prominent buildings of Victoria have on every story deep porticoes divided by columns into large, square spaces, which from a distance look like letter-boxes in a post-office. We soon discovered that such deep, shadowy verandas are essential here, for as late as November it was imprudent not to carry a white umbrella, and even before our boat had brought us from the steamer to the pier, we perceived that the solar rays were not to be trifled with. As soon as possible after landing, we started to explore this British settlement. I was delighted with its streets and buildings. The former are broad, smooth and clean; the latter, three or four stories high, are built of granite, and even on a curve have sidewalks shielded from the sun or rain by the projection of the roof above. Truly, the touch of England has wrought astounding changes in the fifty-five years that she has held this island as her own. Before she came it was the resort of poverty-stricken fishermen and pirates. But now the city of Victoria alone contains two hundred thousand souls, while the grand aqueducts and roads which cross the mountains of Hong-Kong are worthy to be compared with some of the monumental works of ancient Rome. [Illustration: DEEP PORTICOES AND COLONNADES.] Along the principal thoroughfare in Victoria, the banks, shops, hotels, and club-houses, which succeed each other rapidly, are built of the fine gray granite of the adjacent mountains, and show handsome architectural designs. Everything looks as trim and spotless as the appointments of a man-of-war. Even the district of the town inhabited by Chinamen is kept by constant watchfulness immeasurably cleaner than a Chinese city; although if one desires to see the world-wide difference that exists between the British and Mongolian races, he merely needs to take a short walk through the Chinese quarter of Victoria. But such comparisons may well be deferred until one reaches Canton. There one beholds the genuine native article. [Illustration: THE BANK, HONG-KONG.] The police who guard the lives and property of the residents of Hong-Kong, are for the most part picked men of English birth, and are considered as trustworthy as regular troops. But several hundred of these guardians of the peace are Sikhs--a race imported hither from India--renowned for bravery, loyal to the British government, and having no sympathy with the Chinese. These Sikhs have handsome faces, brilliant eyes, and dark complexions, the effect of which is wonderfully enhanced by their immense red turbans, conspicuous two or three blocks away, not only by their startling color, but because their wearers exceed in stature all other races in Hong-Kong. [Illustration: POLICEMEN.] Strolling one morning through the outskirts of the city, I came upon some troops engaged in military manoeuvres, and attired in white from head to foot, to shield them from the sun. What traveler in the East can forget the ever-present soldiers of Great Britain, of whom there are nearly three thousand in the garrison of Hong-Kong? I know it is frequently the fashion to sneer at them and to question their efficiency in case of war. I know, too, that in certain ways the vast extent of England's empire constitutes her weakness. [Illustration: SOLDIERS DRILLING.] But I must say that in a tour around our planet I was impressed as never before with what the British had accomplished in the way of conquest, and with the number of strategic points they hold in every quarter of the globe. We had but recently left the western terminus of England's North American possessions, yet in a few days we discerned the flag of England flying at Hong-Kong. Next we beheld the Union Jack at Singapore, then at Penang, then at Ceylon, and after that throughout the length and breadth of the vast empire of India, as well as the enormous area of Burma. Leaving Rangoon, if we sail southward, we are reminded that the southernmost portion of Africa is entirely in English hands, as well as the huge continent of Australia. [Illustration: CHINESE COBBLER.] [Illustration: A BIT OF CHINATOWN IN HONG-KONG.] Returning northward, we find the same great colonizing power stationed at the mouth of the Red Sea, in the British citadel of Aden. Again a trifling journey, and we reach Egypt, via the Suez Canal, both virtually controlled to-day by England. Then, like the three stars in Orion's belt, across the Mediterranean lie Cyprus, Malta, and Gibraltar; in fact, we find one mighty girdle of imposing strongholds all the way, bristling with cannon, guarded by leviathans in armor, and garrisoned by thousands of such soldiers as were drilling at Hong-Kong. [Illustration: CHAIR-COOLIES AT HONG-KONG.] One of the first desires of the visitor to Hong-Kong is to explore the mountain which towers above the city of Victoria to a height of nearly two thousand feet. To do this with the least exertion, each of our party took a canvas-covered bamboo chair, supported by long poles, which Chinese coolies carry on their shoulders. On level ground, two of these bearers were enough, but on the mountain roads three or four men were usually needed. To my surprise, I found the motion of these chairs agreeable. The poles possess such elasticity that, leaning back, I was rocked lightly up and down without the least unpleasant jar. In fact, at times the rhythm of that oscillation gave me a sense of drowsiness difficult to resist. But, alas! we had not here for carriers the cleanly natives of Japan. It may be, as some residents of Hong-Kong assert, that Chinamen are more trustworthy and honest than the Japanese, but certainly in point of personal attractiveness the contrast between these races is remarkable. The bodies of the lower classes of Chinese reveal no evidence of that care so characteristic of the natives of Japan. Their teeth are often yellow tusks; their nails resemble eagle's claws; and their unbecoming clothes seem glazed by perspiration. Nor is there usually anything in their manner to redeem all this. Where the light-hearted Japs enjoy their work, and laugh and talk, the Chinese coolies labor painfully, and rarely smile, regarding you meantime with a supercilious air, as if despising you for being what they call "a foreign devil." [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN ABOVE VICTORIA.] Nevertheless, despite the repulsive appearance of our bearers, we thoroughly enjoyed our excursion up the mountain. At every step our admiration was increased for the magnificent roads which wind about the cliffs in massive terraces, arched over by majestic trees, bordered by parapets of stone, lighted with gas, and lined with broad, deep aqueducts, through which at times the copious rainfall rushes like a mountain stream. It will be seen that such a comparison is not an exaggeration, when I add that not many years ago, thirty-two inches of rain fell here in thirty hours. This mountain is the favorite abode of wealthy foreigners, and hence these curving avenues present on either side, almost to the summit, a series of attractive villas commanding lovely views. On account of their situation, the gardens of these hillside homes are necessarily small; but in the midst of them, about five hundred feet above the town, a charming botanical park has been laid out. [Illustration: THE CABLE-ROAD TO VICTORIA PEAK.] Forgetful of our coolies at the gate, we lingered in this garden for an hour or two, delighted with its fine display of semitropical foliage. It is marvelous what skillful gardeners have accomplished here, in transforming what was fifty years ago a barren rock into an open-air conservatory. Palms, banyans, india-rubber trees, mimosas with their tufts of gold, camellias with their snowy blossoms--all these are here, with roses, mignonette, and jessamine, surrounded with innumerable ferns. Occasionally we encountered in this fragrant area a Chinese gentleman, indulging leisurely his love of flowers; for this delightful park is open to all without regard to race or creed, although the population of the island is extremely cosmopolitan. Englishmen, Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, Parsees, Mohammedans, Jews, Hindus, and fully one hundred and fifty thousand Chinamen, are residents of the city of Victoria alone. [Illustration: THE BOTANICAL PARK, HONG-KONG.] In this retired park one does not realize that Hong-Kong is such a rendezvous for different nationalities; but frequently, while we were walking here, the sharp report of a cannon forced a discordant echo from the neighboring hills and told us that some foreign man-of-war had just appeared within the bay; for here some ship or steamer is continually arriving or departing, and many times a day there comes a deafening interchange of salutes that sends a thrill through every window-pane upon the mountain. [Illustration: AN OPEN-AIR CONSERVATORY.] One can well understand, therefore, that with so mixed a population and in such close proximity to China, the officers sent out here by the British government must be men of courage, the garrison of the island strong, and its administration prompt and resolute. A single incident revealed to me the crimes which would undoubtedly creep forth, like vipers from a loathsome cave, were they not kept in check by vigorous justice and incessant vigilance. In one of the residences on the height above Victoria, I met one day at dinner the captain of a steamer anchored in the bay. He asked me to come out some evening and pay a visit to his ship. The following night, soon after dark, I walked down to the pier, intending to embark on one of the many boats along the shore. I was about to enter one, when a policeman rapidly approached. "Give me your name and number," he said roughly to the Chinese boatman. Then turning to me, he politely asked my name, address, and destination, and when I intended to return, "I am obliged to do this," he explained, "for your protection. There is a population of twenty thousand Chinese living in this harbor upon boats alone, besides the usual criminals who drift to such a place. Before we adopted this precaution, a foreigner would sometimes embark on one of these craft and never be seen again. In such a case search was useless. He had disappeared as quietly and thoroughly as a piece of silver dropped into the bay." [Illustration: A HONG-KONG STREET--IN THE CHINESE QUARTER.] [Illustration: IN THE BUSINESS SECTION.] [Illustration: VIEW FROM VICTORIA PEAK] When I stood on the apex of Victoria Peak, I thought that I had never seen a finer prospect. Nearly two thousand feet below us lay the renowned metropolis of the East which bears the name of England's queen. From this great elevation, its miles of granite blocks resembled a stupendous landslide, which, sweeping downward from this rocky height, had forced its cracked and creviced mass far out into the bay. Between this and the mainland opposite, curved a portion of that ocean-girdle which surrounds the island, and on its surface countless boats and steamers seemed, in the long perspective, like ornaments of bead-work on a lady's belt. [Illustration: THE RACE-TRACK, HONG-KONG.] Around the summit of the mountain are several handsome villas and hotels, whither the residents of Victoria come in summer to escape the heat; but, as a rule, in riding over the island I saw outside of the city very few houses, and little agriculture. The soil of Hong-Kong is not fertile; but politically and commercially the island is immensely valuable, for England has now made of it the great emporium of the Far East, and, garrisoned by British troops, it guards completely the approaches to that river, upon which, ninety-two miles inland from the ocean, lies the city of Canton. One of the pleasantest excursions in Hong-Kong may be made in sedan-chairs, some six miles over the hills, to the great reservoir which supplies the city with water. The aqueduct which comes from it is solidly constructed, and on its summit is a granite path protected by iron railings. This winds along the cliffs for miles, and is in many places cut through solid rock. It is an illustration of the handsome, yet substantial character of everything accomplished here. One feels that such works are not only artistic, but enduring. Here are no wooden trestles, no hastily constructed bridges and no half-made roads to be destroyed by mountain-torrents, but everywhere the best of masonry, cyclopean in massiveness and perfect in detail. [Illustration: THE AQUEDUCT, HONG-KONG.] On reaching the terminus of this granite pathway we saw before us the principal reservoir of Hong-Kong. Though largely artificial, it looks precisely like a natural lake hidden away among the mountains. Before it was constructed the island's water-supply was lamentably insufficient, and the notorious "Hong-Kong fever" gave the place an evil name. But now, in spite of its large native population, Victoria has as low a death-rate as most European cities. The foreign residents are very proud of these magnificent water-works; yet, after ten days' sojourn here, when I took leave of several gentlemen by whom I had been entertained in private houses and at clubs, candor compelled me to confess that, so far as I had been able to observe, the foreign population makes very little use of this water for drinking purposes. [Illustration: A MOUNTAIN ROAD, HONG-KONG.] [Illustration: AN EASY DESCENT.] On starting to descend the mountain, we found a shorter route than the circuitous path by which we had come--an admirably managed cable-road. In viewing this, the question naturally arises how the Chinese can look on such conveniences as England has here introduced, and still remain content to have in their enormous empire scarcely a decent road, and only a few miles of railway, built to transport coal. Canals and rivers are still the usual arteries of travel through the most of China. In the northern provinces, where carts are used, the roads are often worn below the surface of the adjacent land, and hence become, in the rainy season, mere water-courses. Travelers are occasionally obliged to swim across them; and cases have been known of people drowning in a Chinese roadway. Moreover, the characteristic carts of China are of the most primitive description, having no seats except the floor, and no springs save the involuntary ones contributed by their luckless passengers. Yet, in many districts, even such vehicles can find no path, and people travel about in wheel-barrows propelled by coolies who are sometimes aided by a sail. The Bishop of North China, for example, makes many of his parochial visits in a wheelbarrow. [Illustration: A CHINESE ROAD.] [Illustration: A CHINESE VEHICLE.] [Illustration: CHINESE GRAVES.] There is now in China a small progressive party which favors building railroads, as the Japanese have done, but the immense majority are against it. Some years ago a foreign company built a railroad near Shanghai, but the Chinese speedily bought it up at a great cost, transported the rails and locomotives to the sea, and left them to rust upon the beach. This opposition to railways is principally due to the belief that the use of them would deprive millions of people of their means of gaining a livelihood, and that they would, moreover, disturb the graveyards of the country. This latter objection seems at first incredible; but it must be remembered that Chinese cemeteries are strewn broadcast over the land, "Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa." [Illustration: HONG-KONG.] [Illustration: AN ELABORATE TOMB.] [Illustration: THE FOREIGN CEMETERY, HONG-KONG.] One sees them everywhere, usurping valuable tracts of territory needed for the living. Outside the city of Canton, for example, there is a graveyard thirty miles in length, in which are buried fully one hundred generations. Yet the Chinese insist that not one grave shall be disturbed, lest multitudes of avenging ghosts should be let loose upon them for such sacrilege. In fact, the permanence and inviolability of graves lie at the very foundation of Chinese life and customs, which is ancestor-worship. From childhood to old age the principal duty of all Chinamen is to propitiate the spirits of their ancestors, and to make offerings to them regularly at their tombs. This custom cripples the colossal empire of China as paralysis would a giant, and fear of doing violence to their dead holds China's millions in an iron grasp. [Illustration: A FELLOW PASSENGER.] [Illustration: ON THE CANTON RIVER.] The discussion of this theme, as we were descending the mountain, suggested to us the idea of visiting the foreign cemetery in Hong-Kong. In this, as in the public garden, charming results have been obtained by care and irrigation. We were accompanied by a gentleman who had resided on the island nearly thirty years. "In spite of the beauty of this place," he said, "I dread to think that I shall probably be buried here--unable to escape from China even after death. For notwithstanding many pleasant friends, my life, like that of many here, has been at best a dreary banishment from all that makes your Occidental life so stimulating to the intellect and so rich in pleasures. The world at home," he added, "sometimes blames us for faults, the cause of which is often only an intense desire to counteract the loneliness of our existence; and foreigners in the East deserve some sympathy, if only from the fact that in these cemeteries, kept with so much care, the graves of those we love increase so rapidly." After a few days at Hong-Kong we embarked on one of the American steamers which ply between Victoria and Canton. These boats are modest imitations of the Fall River steamers on Long Island Sound. We found the one that we took clean and comfortable and its American captain cordial and communicative. During the trip he related to us many incidents of his life in China. This he could easily do, for there were only two other foreign passengers on board, and hence, so long as we remained upon the promenade deck, the spacious vessel seemed to be our private yacht. [Illustration: RIVER BOATS.] On passing, however, to the deck below, we found a number of Chinamen, likewise going to Canton. Most of them were smoking, lying on their backs, their heads supported by a bale of cloth. At first we thought these constituted all the passengers; but presently we learned, to our astonishment, that farther down, packed in the hold like sardines in a box, and barricaded from us by an iron grating, were more than a thousand Chinese coolies. A sentry, heavily armed, stood by the padlocked grating constantly; while in the wheel-house and saloon were stands of loaded muskets ready for emergencies. The danger is that Chinese pirates will come on board in the disguise of coolies, and at a favorable moment take possession of the ship. One naturally thinks this an impossible occurrence; but only a few years ago this actually took place on one of these boats. A well-armed band of desperadoes swarmed up from the hold, shot down the captain in cold blood, and also some of the passengers who tried to interfere. Then, taking command of the ship, they forced the engineer and crew to do their bidding, steered to a lonely point where their confederates awaited them, unloaded the valuable cargo into their boats, disabled the engine so that the survivors could not give the alarm, and finally made their escape. Such are the indisputable facts. Yet, sailing up this peaceful river, reclining in our easy chairs, and soothed by the soft, balmy air, the tragedy seemed so incredible that we were obliged to put our hands upon the guns, in order to realize that precautions were still needed. [Illustration: EXECUTION OF THE PIRATES.] As an additional proof, the captain showed us a photograph of the sequel to that act of piracy. For, as a matter of course, the British Government demanded satisfaction for this outrage, and in compliance nineteen criminals were beheaded. Whether they were the actual pirates, however, has been doubted. China always has scores of men awaiting execution--a dozen here, a dozen there. What matters it if those who merit death are said to have committed one crime or another? England had no way of identifying them. Accordingly she shut her eyes, accepted what the Chinese said of them, and took it for granted that the decapitated men were the real culprits. At all events, as an eye-witness told us, the deed itself was quickly done. In each case there was only one swing of the executioner's arm, and one flash of the two-edged sword; then, like a row of flowers clipped from their stems, the heads of all the kneeling criminals were lying in the sand, with staring eyes turned upward toward the sky. [Illustration: WITH STARING EYES TURNED UPWARD.] [Illustration: AN OLD CHINESE FORT, CANTON RIVER.] [Illustration: OPIUM-SMOKING.] [Illustration: SINGING GIRLS.] On leaving this repulsive picture in the captain's cabin, we found that we were approaching the once important settlement of Whampoa. Its glory is gone now, but formerly it played a prominent part in Eastern politics and commerce; for previous to the Opium War of 1841 and the establishment of the Treaty Ports, this was as far as foreign ships were permitted to come, and Whampoa was then a kind of counter across which Cantonese and Europeans traded. We now began to observe along the shore strange-looking boats protected by a roof and filled with fruits and vegetables for the Canton market. Moreover, on both sides of the river for many miles we looked on countless little patches of rice, bananas, oranges, and sugar-cane. At one point our attention was called to an island on which are some old fortifications used by China fifty years ago in her attempt to exclude opium from her territory. I suppose that no intelligent student of the subject doubts that the real cause of the war of 1841 was the attempt of England to force upon the Chinese a drug which no one dares to sell in London, even now, unless it bears the label "poison." In 1840, the Commissioner of Canton thus addressed the Queen of England: "How can your country seek to acquire wealth by selling us an article so injurious to mankind? I have heard that you have a generous heart; you must be willing, therefore, to obey the motto of Confucius, and refuse to do to others what you would not have others do to you." In an address to foreign traders, issued in 1840, the Chinese also said: "Reflect that if you did not bring opium here, where could our people obtain it? Shall, then, our people die, and your lives not be required? You are destroying human life for the sake of gain. You should surrender your opium out of regard for the natural feelings of mankind. If not, it is right for us to drive every ship of your nation from our shores." [Illustration: A CHINESE BRIDGE.] Finding that these appeals were of no avail, the Chinese finally compelled the British merchants in Canton to give up all the opium in their possession. It amounted to twenty-one thousand chests, or about three million pounds. This mass of poison the Chinese threw into the river, chest after chest, much as Americans treated English tea in Boston harbor. As it dissolved, it is said that a large number of fish died. England retaliated by broadsides from her men-of-war, and in 1842, after an unequal struggle, China was forced to pay her victorious enemy twenty-one million dollars--six millions for the opium destroyed, and fifteen millions as a war indemnity, besides giving to England as her property forever, the island of Hong-Kong, and opening five new ports to foreign trade. [Illustration: THE CURSE OF CHINA.] About a century ago opium was rarely used in China except as medicine. To-day it enters through the openings made by English cannon, at the rate of six thousand tons a year, and at an annual profit to the Indian treasury of from thirty to forty million dollars. But this is not the worst: the vice of opium-smoking has spread with such rapidity that in one Chinese city alone, where thirty years ago only five opium dens existed, there are now five thousand. In the minds of many Chinamen, therefore, Christianity is principally associated with the gift of opium and its attendant evils. China has now begun to cultivate the poppy for herself, and in some provinces six-tenths of the land is given over to producing opium, to the great detriment of agriculture. For the Chinese argue that if they must have it anyway, they may as well profit by it themselves, and let their own crop vie with that which England sends from India. It should be said that earnest protests have often been made by conscientious Englishmen against this conduct of their Government, but all remonstrances have failed to change its policy. Hence, when our British cousins sometimes humorously say that we Americans worship only the almighty dollar, it may be well to ask if any deity under the sun is more devoutly reverenced than the omnipotent pounds, shillings, and pence. [Illustration: A VILLAGE SCENE.] When we had steamed about five hours from Hong-Kong, we came in sight of our first Chinese pagoda. It is a hollow tower of brick about three hundred feet in height, and resembles, on an enormous scale, one of those tapering sticks which jewelers use for sizing rings. At first, I thought that the nine circular terraces which mark its different stories were adorned with flags or tapestry, but closer scrutiny revealed the melancholy fact that weeds and bushes are now growing here. Indeed, like most of the sacred buildings that I saw in China, it looked both dirty and dilapidated. [Illustration: PAGODA, NEAR CANTON RIVER.] Soon after leaving this neglected edifice, we found ourselves amid a constantly increasing throng of Chinese boats, and I began to realize that these were specimens of that "floating population" of Canton of which we have all read, but of which nothing but a visit to it can give an adequate idea. Hardly was our steamer anchored in the stream before the city, when hundreds of these boats closed in upon us on all sides, like cakes of floating ice around a vessel in the Arctic sea. Wedging and pushing frantically, the boatmen almost swamped themselves. They fought for places near the ship like men and women in a panic. The din of voices sounded like the barking of five hundred canines at a dog-show; and Chinese gutturals flew through the air like bullets from a _mitrailleuse_. It seemed impossible to disembark in such a mob. But suddenly I felt a pressure on my arm. I turned and saw apparently three laundrymen from the United States. A glance assured me they were father and sons. "Good morning, sir," said one of them in excellent English, "do you know Carter Harrison, of Chicago?" [Illustration: NEARING CANTON.] This question, coming in such a place and at such a time, rendered me speechless with astonishment. "He mentioned us in his book, 'A Race With the Sun,'" continued the young Chinaman. "This is my father, the famous guide, Ah Cum. This is my brother, and I am Ah Cum, Jr. The others are engaged for to-morrow, but I can serve you. Will you take me?" "So you are Ah Cum?" I rejoined; "I have heard much of you. Your reference book must be a valuable autograph album of distinguished travelers. Yes, we will take you; and, first of all, can you get us safely into one of those boats? And if so, who will guarantee that we shall not be murdered?" "Ah Cum." Accordingly we "came," and presently found ourselves in a boat. I cannot relate how we got there. I do not know, myself. I think of it now as one recalls the pulling of a tooth when under the influence of laughing-gas. I have a dim remembrance of jumping from one reeling skiff to another, of stumbling over slippery seats, of holding on to Ah Cum, Sr., and being pushed by Ah Cum, Jr., and now and then grabbing frantically at a Chinese queue, as a drowning man catches at a rope. The only reason that I did not fall into the water is that there was not space enough between the boats. At last, however, bruised and breathless, we reached a place of refuge, and watched our boatmen fight their way out through the crowd, until we landed on the neighboring island of Shameen. After the pandemonium around the steamer, this seemed a perfect paradise of beauty and repose. It is about a mile and a quarter in circumference, and is reserved exclusively for foreigners. [Illustration: CHINESE BOATS, CANTON.] Shaded by drooping banyan trees, stand many handsome houses inhabited by Englishmen, Germans, and Americans whom the necessities of business keep in banishment here. Their social life is said to be very pleasant, and I should think, indeed, that in so small a settlement the members of this little colony (if they did not hate) would love each other cordially. This pretty place, before the capture of Canton, in 1857, was nothing but a hideous mud-bank. But foreigners have transformed it almost as completely as they have Hong-Kong, and have built around it broad embankments made of solid granite, which form an agreeable promenade. [Illustration: THE FLOATING HOMES OF THOUSANDS, CANTON.] [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A EUROPEAN'S HOUSE.] Unfortunately, however, Shameen boasts of only one hotel, and of this such dismal stories had been told us that we had half made up our minds to eat and sleep on the American steamers, changing from one to another every morning as they came and went. This seemed, however, so difficult, that we resolved to try the accommodations here. We did so, and discovered that in this case "the devil is not so black as he is painted." At all events, clean, comfortable rooms made some amends for a meager bill of fare. I cherish no delightful recollections of our meals on the island of Shameen. In fact, when a "globe-trotter" has reached India or China, the time has come for him to eat what he can get, and be devoutly thankful that he can get anything. Misguided souls who live to eat should never make a journey around the world. Of course, the foreign residents here live better than travelers at hotels; but a gentleman who entertained us apologized for his poor table, and said that it was especially difficult to get good beef, since Chinamen consider it extravagant to kill such useful animals as cows and oxen. "Accordingly," he added, "we classify the so-called beef that we consume as 'donkey beef,' 'camel beef,' and 'precipice beef.' "Precipice beef!" I exclaimed, "what in the world do you mean by 'precipice beef?'" "That," he replied, "is nearest to the genuine article, for it is the product of a cow that has killed herself by falling over a precipice." [Illustration: THE JINRIKISHA IN CHINA.] On one side of this island flows the Canton river, and on the other is a small canal which separates it from the city. Two bridges span this narrow stream, each having iron gates which are invariably closed at night and guarded by sentinels. No Chinese, save employees of the foreigners, may come within this reservation. In 1883, however, a Chinese mob attacked it fiercely, and swarmed across the bridges, as the legendary mice invaded Bishop Hatto's tower on the Rhine. The English, French, and German families escaped to steamers in the river, leaving their houses to be plundered or burned. During my stay here, every evening when this bridge was closed, and every morning when it was reopened, I heard a hideous din of drums and horns, concluding with the firing of a blunderbuss. Our consul told me that the object of all this was to inspire fear. "Tremble and obey!" are the words which close all Government proclamations in the Chinese empire. [Illustration: STARTING FOR CANTON.] [Illustration: BRIDGE AT CANTON.] The morning after our arrival, we found awaiting us outside the hotel door some coolies with the sedan-chairs in which we were to make our first excursion through Canton. Another party also was about to start, including several ladies, each of whom held in her hand either a flask of smelling-salts or a piece of camphor wrapped in a handkerchief. In fact, the druggists of Hong-Kong do quite a business in furnishing visitors to Canton with disinfectants and restoratives. Some of these ladies feared being insulted by the Canton populace, and told exciting stories of an English lady who had been recently spat upon, and of American ladies who had been followed by a hooting crowd. Ah Cum, however, smiled complacently. "There is no danger," he assured us; "my father will take care of you ladies, as I will of these gentlemen. Every one here knows us. Our people are always safe." [Illustration: A CANTON STREET.] [Illustration: ALONG THE SHORE, CANTON.] Accordingly we started, crossed the bridge, and two minutes later found ourselves engulfed, like atoms in a sewer, in the fetid labyrinth of Canton. One should not be surprised that illustrations of its streets are not clearer. The marvel is that they are visible at all! "Streets," as we understand the word, they cannot be truthfully called. They are dark, tortuous alleys, destitute of sidewalks, and from four to eight feet wide, winding snake-like between long lines of gloomy shops. Comparatively little daylight filters through them to the pavement, not only by reason of their narrow limits, but from the fact that all these passageways are largely filled up, just above the people's heads, with strips of wood, which serve as advertising placards. Many of them are colored blue, red, white, or green, and bear strange characters, gilded or painted on their surfaces. These in the dark perspective of a crowded alley look like the banners of some long procession. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF CONFUCIUS, CANTON.] These letters do not give the merchants' names, but serve as trade-marks, like the dedicatory words above the doors of shops in France. How any one can read them is a mystery; not merely on account of the twilight gloom, but from the fact that here at every step one comes in contact with a multitude of repulsive Chinamen, many of them naked to the waist, who seem compressed within this narrow space like a wild torrent in a gorge. To stop in such a place and read a sign appeared to me as difficult as studying the leaves of the trees while riding through a forest on a Texas broncho. [Illustration: A CANTON COOLIE.] As our bearers pushed their way through these dark, narrow lanes, the people squeezed themselves against the walls to let us pass; then closed about us instantly again, like sharks around the stern of a boat. At any moment I could have touched a dozen naked shoulders with my hand, and twice as many with my cane. Meanwhile, to the noise of the loquacious multitude were added the vociferations of our bearers, who shouted constantly for people to make way, ascribing to us, we were told, distinguished titles that evidently excited curiosity even among the stolid Chinamen. Occasionally we met a sedan-chair coming in the opposite direction. Both sets of bearers then began to yell like maniacs, and we would finally pass each other with the utmost difficulty, our coolies having frequently to back the chair-poles into one shop, and then run them forward into a doorway on the opposite corner, thereby blocking the noisy, surly crowd until the passage could be cleared. [Illustration: A WHEELBARROW FOR FREIGHT.] The faces packed about us, while not positively hostile, were as a rule unfriendly. An insolent stare was characteristic of most of them. Some disagreeable criticisms were pronounced, but Ah Cum's expression never changed, and we, of course, could not understand them. Once a banana-skin, thrown probably by a mischievous boy, flew by my head; and I was told that China's favorite exclamation, "foreign devils," was often heard. But I dare say that if a Chinese mandarin, in full regalia, were to walk through some of our streets, he would not fare as well as we did in Canton; and that if he ever went to the Bowery, "he'd never go there any more." [Illustration: ONE OF THE BROADEST STREETS.] [Illustration: CHINESE TEA-PICKERS.] As we kept passing on through other alleys teeming with half-clad specimens of the great unwashed, I called to mind the fact that this low class in China has been deliberately taught to hate, despise, and thoroughly distrust all foreigners. The unjust opium war with England, the recent territorial war with France, the stories told them of the treatment of their countrymen in the United States,--all these would, of themselves, be enough to make them hostile; but they are as nothing to the effect produced upon an ignorant, superstitious populace by the placards posted on the walls of many Chinese cities. I read translations of a few of these, and I believe they cannot be surpassed in literature for the vulgarity and infamy of their accusations. They are in one sense perfectly absurd; but when we recollect the riotous acts to which they have frequently incited their deluded victims, they challenge serious consideration. [Illustration: CHINESE MERCHANTS DRINKING TEA.] On entering some of the shops that line these passageways, I was astonished at the contrast they presented to the streets themselves. The latter are at times no more than four feet wide. Not so the shops. Many of them have a depth of eighty feet, and in the centre are entirely open to the roof. In the corner of each is placed a little shrine. A gallery extends around the second story, and on that floor, or in the rear of the building, the owners live. Some of these shops are handsomely adorned with fine wood-carving and bronze lamps, and on the shelves is stored a great variety of goods, frequently including articles as dissimilar as silk and cotton fabrics, fans, jewelry, umbrellas, Waterbury clocks, and Chinese shoes. [Illustration: HALL IN A CHINESE HOUSE.] [Illustration: A CHINESE BED AND FURNITURE.] Among these shops we saw a building used partly as a temple and partly as the Guild Hall for the Canton silk merchants. Guilds, or trade-unions, have existed here for centuries. They permeate every branch of Chinese industry, legal and illegal. Even the thieves form themselves into a guild, and I suppose there is "honor" among them. The origin of these unions is partly due to unjust taxation. Canton contains a vast amount of wealth, but those possessing it are careful to conceal all trace of any superabundance. On this account disputes between the various guilds are settled by arbitration. To allow their affairs to go into court would show too plainly to the tax-collectors their financial status. Accordingly litigation is almost unknown. Moreover, when a case is settled by arbitration, the losing party not only pays the disputed sum, but is obliged to give a supper to the victor. [Illustration: EXORCISING SPIRITS.] In another building that we passed I saw a curious ceremony, which Ah Cum explained as that of three Buddhist priests who were clearing a house of evil spirits. It appears that, two weeks before, a man had committed suicide on the premises, in order to avenge himself on the proprietor. For in China a man, instead of killing his enemy, sometimes kills himself, the motive being a desire that the hated one shall be regarded as responsible for his death, and be pursued by evil spirits here and in the world to come. To be annoyed by ghosts must be exceedingly unpleasant, but, on the whole, I hope that all my enemies will try the Chinese method. Occasionally we discovered in these streets an itinerant barber. These Chinese Figaros carry their outfits with them. First in importance comes a bamboo pole, which is the immemorial badge of their profession. To this is usually attached one solitary towel,--free to every customer. From one extremity of this pole hangs a small brass basin, together with a charcoal stove for heating water; the other end is balanced by a wooden cabinet, which serves the patient as a seat during the operation, and contains razors, lancets, tweezers, files, and other surgical instruments. [Illustration: LADY AND MAID.] [Illustration: CHINESE BARBER.] It matters not where one of these tonsorial artists practises his surgery. A temple court, a flight of steps, a street, or a back-yard, are quite the same to him. He takes his queue where he can find it. One of his commonest duties is to braid that customary appendage to a Chinaman's head, without which he would be despised. It is comical to estimate the thousands of miles of Chinese queues which even one barber twists in the course of his career--enough, if tied together, end to end, to form a cable between Europe and America. Yet this singular style of hair-dressing (now so universal) was introduced into China only two hundred and fifty years ago. Before that time the Chinese wore full heads of hair, and the present fashion of shaved crowns and twisted queues is of Tartar origin, and was imposed by a conquering dynasty as a badge of servitude. The wearing of a mustache in China is an indication that he whose face it adorns is a grandfather. In fact, until he is forty-five years old, a Chinaman usually shaves his face completely; but this fact does not prove that after that time he can dispense with the services of a barber. For the tonsorial art in China is exceedingly varied; and Chinese barbers not only braid the queue; they also shave the eyebrows, clean the ears, pull teeth, and massage. Moreover, they scrape the inside of their victim's eye-lids--a custom which is believed by foreigners to be the cause of much of the ophthalmia in China. [Illustration: A CHINESE MERCHANT.] Chinese fortune-tellers had for me a singular fascination. I found them everywhere--in temple courts, at gateways and beside the roads--invariably wearing spectacles, and usually seated at a table decorated with huge Chinese characters. Their services seemed to be in great demand. In every case the ceremony was the same. Each applicant in turn approached, and stated what he wished to know; for example, whether a certain day would be a lucky time for him to buy some real estate, or which of several girls his son would better marry. Upon the table stood a tin box full of bamboo sticks. One of these slips the customer drew at random, and from the sentence written on it the fortune-teller gave his answer in oracular words--which could, as usual, be interpreted in various ways. [Illustration: A CHINESE FORTUNE-TELLER.] [Illustration: A WALL OF CANTON.] At length, however, leaving for a time the shops and dimly-lighted alleys, we found ourselves approaching a huge gate. For Canton, like most other Chinese cities, is divided into certain districts, each of which is separated from the adjoining one by a wall. The gateways in these walls are always closed at night, and are of special use in case of fires or insurrections, since they are strong enough to hold in check a surging crowd till the police or soldiers can arrive. [Illustration: THE FIVE-STORIED PAGODA.] Passing through this portal, we made our way along the wall until we arrived at a prominent point of observation, known as the Five-storied Pagoda. Whatever this may once have been, it is to-day a shabby, barn-like structure, marked here and there with traces of red paint, like daubs of rouge on a clown's face. All visitors to Canton, however, will recollect the building, with a certain amount of pleasure, as being the resting-place in which one eats the lunch brought from the steamer or hotel. Not that there is not food of certain kinds obtainable in Canton itself, but somehow what one sees of Chinese delicacies here does not inspire him with a desire to partake of them. In one of Canton's streets, for example, I entered a cat-restaurant. Before the door was a notice which Ah Cum translated thus: "Two fine black cats to-day, ready soon." On stepping inside, I heard some pussies mewing piteously in bamboo cages. Hardly had I entered when a poor old woman brought the proprietor some kittens for sale. He felt of them to test their plumpness, as we might weigh spring chickens. Only a small price was offered, as they were very thin, but the bargain was soon concluded, the woman took her money, and the cadaverous kittens went to swell the chorus in the cages. Black cats, by the way, cost more in China than cats of any other color, for the Chinese believe that the flesh of dark-coated felines makes good blood. [Illustration: A WAYSIDE RESTAURANT.] To some Chinamen, dogs fried in oil are also irresistible. In one untidy street, swarming with yellow-skinned humanity, we saw a kind of gipsy kettle hung over a wood fire. Within it was a stew of dog-meat. Upon a pole close by was hung a rump of uncooked dog, with the tail left on, to show the patrons of this open-air restaurant to what particular breed the animal had belonged. For it is said there is a great difference in the flesh of dogs. Bull-terriers, for example, would probably be considered tough. Around this kettle stood a group of coolies, each with a plate and spoon, devouring the canine stew as eagerly as travelers eat sandwiches at a railway restaurant after the warning bell has rung. Some hungry ones were looking on as wistfully as boys outside a bun-shop. One man had such a famished look that, through the medium of Ah Cum, I treated him at once. Moreover, hundreds of rats, dried and hung up by the tails, are exposed for sale in Canton streets, and shark's fins, antique duck eggs, and sea-slugs are considered delicacies. [Illustration: CHINAMEN OUT ON A PICNIC.] We tried to bring back photographic proofs of all these horrors, but it was impossible. Whenever we halted in the narrow lanes, in fifteen seconds we would be encircled by a moving wall of hideous faces, whose foremost rank kept closing in on us until the atmosphere grew so oppressive that we gasped for breath and told our bearers to move on. Nor is this all. These crowds were sometimes positively hostile. A superstitious fear of being photographed by "foreign devils" made them dangerous. This fact was several times made disagreeably evident. Thus, in a garden adjoining a Chinese temple, I wished to photograph some sacred hogs which were attached to the sanctuary in some unknown capacity. But scarcely had the exposure been made, when a priest gave the alarm, and in three minutes a mob of men and boys were rushing toward us, uttering yells and throwing stones. Ah Cum himself turned pale. He sprang in front of us, and swore (may heaven forgive him!) that not a picture had been taken. Of course we offered money as indemnity, but the priests rejected it with scorn, claiming that by the pointing of the camera we had stopped the growth of the hogs. I do not think I exaggerate the situation when I say that if the politic Ah Cum had not been there to defend us, we should have suffered personal injury. [Illustration: THE SACRED HOGS.] [Illustration: SORTING TEA.] [Illustration: CHINESE MERCHANTS.] [Illustration: A CHINESE FARM-HOUSE.] Standing up on the summit of the Five-storied Pagoda, we looked out over the city of Canton. For wide-spread, unrelieved monotony, I never saw the equal of that view in any place inhabited by human beings. True, the confusion of the foreground was to be excused, since a tornado had recently blown down many of the native houses. But far beyond this mass of ruins, stretching on and on for miles, was the same monotonous, commonplace vista of low, uninteresting buildings, seamed with mere crevices in lieu of streets. Meantime, from this vast area came to us a dull, persistent hum, like the escape of steam from a locomotive, reminding us that here were swarming nearly two million human beings, almost as difficult for a foreigner to distinguish or identify as ants in a gigantic ant-hill. [Illustration: THE FLOWERY PAGODA, CANTON.] The exact population of Canton is hard to determine. The number arrived at depends upon where one leaves off counting the three hundred suburban villages, each of which seems a part of the city. Bishop Harper, who lived here for forty years, says, that if one should plant a stake in the centre of Canton, and count all around it within a radius of ten miles, one would find an aggregate of three-and-a-half million people. One village, for example, eleven miles away, noted for silk and other manufactures, is thought to contain eight hundred thousand inhabitants. [Illustration: CANTONESE PAWN-SHOPS.] Out of this wilderness of mediocrity there rose in one place a pagoda, which by contrast seemed to possess prodigious height; but such objects are exceptional. To understand what Canton is like, one must picture to himself a city which, with its suburbs, is larger and more populous than Paris, yet has not one handsome avenue, one spacious square, or even one street that possesses the slightest claim to cleanliness or beauty. Worse than this, it is a city without a single Chinese building in its whole extent that can be even distantly compared in architectural elegance with thousands of imposing structures in any other city of the civilized world. "But are there no European edifices in Canton?" the reader may perhaps inquire. Yes, one, which makes the contrast only more apparent. It is the Roman Catholic cathedral, whose lofty towers are, strangely enough, the first objects in the city which the traveler sees in sailing up the river from Hong-Kong. This handsome Gothic structure, built entirely of granite, rising from such a sea of architectural ugliness, at once called forth our admiration. To the Chinese, however, these graceful towers are objects of the utmost hatred. It angers them to see this area, which French and English conquerors obtained by treaty, still occupied by a Christian church. So far, it has escaped destruction; but there are those who prophesy its doom and say that the time will come when not one stone of it will be left upon another. [Illustration: CATHOLIC CATHEDRAL, CANTON.] There are, however, five or six other buildings in Canton, which rival the pagoda and the Catholic church in height. These hideous objects, which look like monstrous granite boxes set on end, are pawn-shops. One might conclude from their enormous size that half the personal property of the Cantonese was in pawn. They certainly are well patronized, for pawning clothes is such a common thing in China that hundreds of the Cantonese send here for safe-keeping their furs and overcoats in summer, and their thin summer clothes in winter, receiving money for them as from any pawn-broker. The Chinese mode of guarding these tall structures against thieves is certainly unique. Upon the roofs are piled stones to be dropped upon the heads of robbers, and also reservoirs of vitriol, with syringes to squirt the horrible acid on invaders. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF FIVE HUNDRED GODS.] Astonished at this lack of imposing architecture, we asked if there were no temples in Canton, Assuredly there were--eight hundred of them, all more or less defaced and incrusted with dirt. One of the oldest and most sacred is called the "Temple of Five Hundred Gods," because within its walls are seated five hundred life-size images of gilded wood, representing deified sages of the Buddhist faith. But they are all coarse specimens of sculpture, and many are amusing caricatures. In front of each is a small jar of ashes, in which the worshiper burns a stick of incense in honor of his favorite god. Offerings of money, too, are sometimes made--but not of genuine money. The Chinese are usually too practical to use anything but imitation money made of gilded paper. I do not know what the gods think of this Oriental style of dropping buttons in the contribution-box, but the priests do not like this sort of currency. They are all "hard money" men. [Illustration: AN OLD TEMPLE, CANTON.] But, if we accept the ancient Proverb that "To labor is to pray," then are the Chinese devout indeed. Whatever other faults they may possess, idleness is not one of them. The struggle for existence keeps them active. Yet they live on almost nothing. A German merchant told me that one of his coolies, after twenty-five years of service, had recently had his salary raised to ten dollars a month. The laborer was, of course, delighted. "Now," he exclaimed, "I intend to marry another wife. For years I have longed to have two wives, but have never been able to afford it; but now, with ten dollars a month, I can indulge in luxuries!" [Illustration: APPROACH TO A SHRINE.] In strolling about among these Chinese coolies, I found that life in China is indeed reduced to its lowest terms. In some of the Canton shops, for example, I saw potatoes sold in halves and even in quarters, and poultry is offered, not only singly, but by the piece--so much for a leg, so much for a wing. Second-hand nails are sold in lots of half-a-dozen. A man can buy one-tenth of a cent's worth of fish or rice. I understood, at last, how Chinese laundrymen can go home from the United States after a few years' work, and live upon their incomes. When one perceives under what conditions these swarming myriads live, one naturally asks how pestilence can be averted. One source of safety is, no doubt, the universal custom of drinking only boiled water in the form of tea. If it were not for this, there would be inevitably a terrible mortality, for the coolies take no precautions against infection. A gentleman in the English consular service told us that he had seen two Canton women in adjoining boats, one washing in the river the bedclothes of her husband who had died of cholera, the other dipping up water in which to cook the family dinner! [Illustration: ONE OF THE MANY.] If, perchance, these people should fall ill, I fear they would not be greatly benefited by any Chinese doctor whom they might employ. Chinese physicians are thought to be ignoramuses, unless they can diagnose a case by merely feeling the pulse. Hence, if they are called to attend a lady, they see of her usually nothing but her wrist, thrust out between the curtains of the bed. Those who prescribe for internal diseases are called "inside doctors," while others are "outside" men, just as some of our medicines are labeled "for external use only." A story is told of a man who had been shot through the arm with an arrow. He first applied to an "outside" doctor, who cut off the two ends of the weapon and put a plaster on each wound. "But," said the patient, "the remainder of the arrow is still in my arm." "Ah!" replied the "outside" doctor, "that is not my affair. To have that removed, you must go to an 'inside' man." [Illustration: A CHINESE DOCTOR.] One day, in passing through a temple gate, a half-clad Chinaman offered me for sale a box of grasshoppers, which, when ground into a powder, make a popular remedy for some ailments. In fact, aside from ginseng and a few other well-known herbs, the medicines used in China seem almost incredible. A favorite cure for fever, for example, is a soup of scorpions. Dysentery is treated by running a needle through the tongue. The flesh of rats is supposed to make the hair grow. Dried lizards are recommended as a tonic for "that tired feeling," and iron filings are said to be a good astringent. Chinese physicians say that certain diseases are curable only by a decoction whose chief ingredient is a piece of flesh cut from the arm or thigh of the patient's son or daughter. To supply this flesh is thought to be one of the noblest proofs of filial devotion. This is not an exaggeration. In the Pekin _Official Gazette_ of July 5, 1870, is an editorial, calling the emperor's attention to a young girl who had cut off two joints of her finger and dropped them into her mother's medicine. The mother recovered, and the governor of the province proposed to erect a monument in honor of the child. [Illustration: A MEMORIAL GATE.] [Illustration: BEGGARS ON THE TEMPLE STEPS.] [Illustration: A CHINESE FUNERAL PROCESSION.] In view of such a pharmacopoeia, it is a comfort to learn that in the Chinese theology a special place in hell is assigned to ignorant physicians. All quacks are doomed to centuries of torture, the worst fate being reserved for doctors who abuse their professional skill for purposes of immorality. Their punishment is the cheerful one of being boiled in oil. Another curious, and not altogether absurd, custom of the Chinese is to pay a physician so long as they continue in health, but if they fall ill, the doctor's salary ceases until they recover, whereupon it commences again. [Illustration: A GROUP OF CHINESE WOMEN.] Chinese women seemed to me, as a rule, exceedingly plain, but, even were they Venuses, one of their characteristics would make my flesh creep. I refer to their claw-like finger-nails, which are so long that apparently they could be used with equal ease as paper-cutters or stilettoes. Gloves cannot possibly be worn upon these finger-spikes, so metal sheaths have been invented to protect them. To show what can be done in nail-growing, the following lengths were measured on the left hand of a Chinese belle: thumb nail, two inches; little finger nail, four inches; third finger, five and one-quarter inches. Under these circumstances we cannot wonder that in China it is not the custom to shake hands: otherwise, painful accidents might occur. Accordingly, the Chinese clasp their own hands and shake them gently at each other. [Illustration: LILY FEET.] [Illustration: MOTHER AND CHILD.] A still more repulsive peculiarity of Chinese women is their stunted feet, which for the purposes of locomotion are little better than hoofs. All Chinese ladies of the better class must have these "lily feet," as they are called. Sometimes a Chinaman will have two wives; the first an ornamental one with "lily feet," the second, a large-footed woman for business. The origin of this barbarous custom of preventing the growth of the foot is unknown. Perhaps it sprang from a sentiment which Ah Cum graphically expressed by saying: "A small foot is much safer to live with. A big foot runs about too easily and gets into mischief. Moreover," he added, with a smile, "a big-footed woman sometimes kicks." One Chinaman assured me with great pride that his wife's foot was only two and a half inches long. There is a class of women here whose regular business it is to bind the feet of little girls when about six years of age. The process of repressing the natural growth of the foot lasts for seven years--the four smaller toes being bent under until they lose their articulations and become identified with the sole of the foot. When this has been accomplished, the second and severer operation commences--of bringing the great toe and the heel as nearly together as possible. The bandage is drawn tighter, month by month, until the base of the great toe is brought into contact with the heel, and the foot has become a shapeless lump. By this unnatural treatment the leg itself becomes deformed, and its bones are made not only smaller in diameter, but shorter. The circulation also is obstructed, and the large muscles are soon completely atrophied from disuse. The agony caused by such interference with nature can be only faintly imagined. It made the tears come to my eyes to hear a Chinese gentleman describe the methods taken to console his suffering children and help them forget their misery. The poor little creatures scream and moan from the incessant pain, and often lie across the bed with their legs pressed against the edge, in the hope that this will lessen their distress; but nothing can relieve them but freedom from the torturing bandage, which is never relaxed. It makes one sick at heart to think that such a custom has prevailed in China for more than a thousand years. [Illustration: A DISTORTED FOOT.] Should we approach a group of Chinese merchants in Canton, and ask any one of them "How many children have you?" we could be almost certain that he would not think of counting his daughters, or that he would at least make this distinction--"I have two children, and one girl." For to a Chinaman nothing in life is so important as to have a son to offer sacrifices for him after death and worship at his grave, since, in their opinion, a daughter is not capable of doing this. When a boy is born, therefore, the father is overwhelmed with congratulations, but if the newcomer be a girl, as little reference as possible is made to the misfortune. Friends are informed of the birth of a child by strips of paper carried through the street. If it be a boy, yellow paper is used, but in case of a girl any color will do. This feeling, intensified by poverty, is the cause of the infanticide which has been, and still is, in certain provinces, so dark a blot on the domestic history of China. It is said, for example, that in the vicinity of Amoy thirty per cent, of all new-born girls are strangled or drowned, as unwelcome kittens sometimes are with us. [Illustration: A CHINESE LADY.] [Illustration: THE HOMES OF THOUSANDS.] On our second day in Canton we investigated another phase of Chinese life, in some respects stranger than anything we had thus far seen. Along the shores of the Canton river, and in its various canals, is a population of a quarter of a million souls, living on thousands of peculiar boats crowded together side by side, and forming streets, and even colonies, of floating dwellings. Moreover, these conditions prevail in every river-town throughout the empire. [Illustration: A CHINESE PATERFAMILIAS.] Each of these "sampans," as they are called, though only about twenty feet in length, constitutes the home of an entire family. Eight people frequently live on one boat--grandpa and grandma, father and mother, uncle and aunt, two or three children, and a baby. The latter is tied to the back of its mother, even when she is rowing. As for the other children, their parents fasten around them pieces of bamboo, like life-preservers, and tie them to the rail by a cord. If they tumble over, they float until some one gets a chance to pull them in. Upon these little boats thousands are born, eat, drink, cook, and sleep, and finally die, having known no other home. Under the flooring are stored their cooking utensils, bedding, clothing, provisions, oil, charcoal, and other requisites of their aquatic life. Above them, usually, are movable roofs of bamboo wicker-work, to give protection from the sun and rain. [Illustration: A MARKET-PLACE.] Some of these families even take boarders! I verified this by going at night among this floating population, and found that sleeping space on the boats is rented to those who have no fixed abode. Planks are laid over the seats to form a floor, and on these lie the numerous members of the household and the lodgers. Conspicuous figures in this boat-life are the itinerant barbers and physicians, who go about in tiny sampans, ringing a bell and offering their services. [Illustration: A FLOWER-BOAT.] Occasionally, however, we beheld a boat much larger and finer than the craft around it. It proved to be one of the Chinese flower-boats, which are the pleasure resorts of China's _jeunesse dorée_. By day they are conspicuous by their size and gilded wood-work, and in the evening by their many lights. Never, while memory lasts, shall I forget an excursion made at night with our hotel-proprietor among these flower-boats and their surroundings. Many of them were anchored side by side, and planks were stretched from one to the other, like a continuous sidewalk. As we walked along, we passed by countless open doors, each of which revealed a room handsomely furnished with mirrors, marble panels, and blackwood furniture. Here were usually grouped a dozen or more hilarious Chinamen, who were eating, drinking, and smoking, together with professional singing-girls, who are hired by the owners of these flower-boats to entertain their guests with songs and dances. We could not pause to observe them carefully, for foreigners are not wanted here, either as visitors or patrons. Meanwhile, at the very doorways of these handsome rooms, beggars in greasy garments crowded around us and almost threateningly demanded alms. "Look out for your pockets," was the proprietor's constant warning. [Illustration: CHINESE MUSICIANS.] I have an indistinct remembrance of thus passing row after row of lighted boats, room after room of painted girls, group after group of sleek, fat Chinamen at tables, and then, on leaving these, of seeing miles of loathsome boats containing half-clad men stretched out on bunks and stupefied by opium, hag-like females cooking over charcoal braziers, and ragged children huddled in dark corners. I have a vivid recollection, too, of walking over slimy planks, of breathing pestilential odors, and of looking down on patches of repulsive water, so thick with refuse that they resembled in the lamp-light tanks of cabbage-soup. We also shudderingly passed some leper-boats, whose inmates are afflicted with that terrible disease, and who are forced to live as outcasts, begging for alms by holding out a little bag suspended from a bamboo pole. But finally shaking off the beggars who had followed us, and fleeing from this multitudinous life, as one might turn with horror from a pool of wriggling eels, I staggered into the boat belonging to the hotel. As it moved out into clearer water, I drew a long breath and looked up at the stars. There they were--calm and glorious as ever--scattered in countless numbers through measureless space. At any time, when one looks off into the vault of night, our little globe seems insignificant, but never did it seem to me so tiny and comparatively valueless, as when I left these myriads of Chinamen, swarming like insects in their narrow boats, apparently the reduction of humanity to the grade of microbes. [Illustration: A TYPICAL CHINESE CRAFT.] The gentleman who had accompanied me on this occasion was a Wall street broker. "Well," he exclaimed at last, "I have spent fifteen years among the Bulls and Bears, and I think my nerves are pretty strong, but for experiences which unnerve a man, and things which (glad as I am to have seen them once) I never wish to see again, nothing can compare with the sights and smells discovered in a trip to Chinatown!" What impressed me most, however, in this experience was the idea that the millions in and around Canton are but an insignificant fraction of the Chinese race. It filled me with horror to reflect that all I had witnessed here was but a tiny sample of the entire empire. For Canton is said to be superior to many Chinese cities. One writer has declared that, after walking through the Chinese quarter of Shanghai, he wanted to be hung on a clothes-line for a week in a gale of wind. Tientsin is said to be still worse for dirt and noxious odors. Even Pekin, from all accounts, has horribly paved and filthy thoroughfares, and its sanitary conditions are almost beyond belief. If such then be the state of things in the capital, what must it be in the interior towns, so rarely reached by foreigners? [Illustration: A WHEELBARROW BUILT FOR TWO.] It may, however, be objected that in the open ports, where they encounter foreign influence, the people are at their worst. But Chinamen are not impressionable, like the North American Indians or the aborigines on the islands in the Pacific, who eagerly adopt the vices of their conquerors, and speedily succumb to them. China is one of the oldest countries in the world. Most of her ideas, customs, as well as the personal habits of her people are of immemorial antiquity, and her inhabitants are too conservative to change them. What one beholds in Canton, therefore, may be fairly supposed to exist from one extremity of the empire to the other. But now, among so much that is disagreeable, one naturally inquires, "Are there not some redeeming features in this Chinese life?" I must confess there are not many discernible to the passing traveler, but I will gladly mention one about which I made careful inquiry. It is their honesty in business. It is the almost invariable custom for Chinese merchants every New-Year's day to settle their accounts, so that no errors may be carried over into the coming year; and I was told that if a tradesman fails to meet his liabilities at that time, he is considered a defaulter and his credit is forever lost. English and German merchants spoke to us of Chinese commercial honor in the highest terms, and drew comparisons in this respect between them and the Japanese which were not flattering to the latter. [Illustration: A MARRIAGE PROCESSION.] Even in Japan, I found at all the foreign banks, in some of the shops, and in the Grand Hotel, that the cashiers were not Japanese, but Chinamen. Of course, one who has never traded with them cannot judge of their comparative abilities in a business way, but merchants in Yokohama, Shanghai, and Hong-Kong, as well as on the island of Shameen, told us that Chinamen were more trustworthy than the Japanese, and could be usually depended on to live up to their contracts, whether they proved favorable or unfavorable. An English gentleman who had resided both in China and Japan for years, once said to me: "The more you see of the Japanese the less you will like them. The more you see of the Chinese the less you will dislike them. You will always like the Japanese; you will always dislike Chinamen; but the degree in which you cherish and express these sentiments will constantly diminish." [Illustration: A CHINESE JUNK.] Besides the numerous differences between Oriental and Occidental customs noticed in Japan, we found in China many other proofs of what has been well called a state of topsy-turvydom. Thus, our tailors draw the needle inward; Chinese tailors stitch outward. With us military men wear their swords on the left side; in China they are worn on the right. In boxing the compass a Chinaman says "East, West, South, North." To mark a place in a book we turn the corner of a page inside; a Chinaman bends it the other way. We print the title of a volume on the back; the Chinese on the front. We play battledore and shuttlecock with our hands; the Chinese use their feet for a battledore and catch the shuttlecock on their foreheads. We use our own names when engaged in business; in China fancy names are taken. We carry one watch hidden in our pocket; a Chinese gentleman sometimes wears two outside his clothes, with their faces exposed. We black our boots; the Chinese whiten theirs. With us it is considered impolite to ask a person's age; in China it is a high compliment, and there a man is congratulated if he is old. Men, at least in the Occident, have plenty of pockets; the Chinaman has none, and uses his stockings as receptacles for papers, and at the back of his neck inserts his folded fan. At our weddings youthful bridesmaids are desired; at Chinese nuptials old women serve in that capacity. We launch our vessels lengthwise; the Chinese launch theirs sidewise. We mount a horse from the left; they mount their horses from the right. We begin dinner with soup and fish, and end with dessert; they do exactly the reverse. Finally, the spoken language of China is never written, and the written language is never spoken. [Illustration: SACRED ROCKS, INTERIOR OF CHINA.] [Illustration: LI HUNG CHANG'S VISITING-CARD.] [Illustration: A JOSS-HOUSE.] After all, however, we should remember that Chinamen who travel in our own country think that our customs are as strange as theirs appear to us. A prominent official of the Flowery Kingdom, who made the tour of Europe several years ago, took notes of what he saw, and published them on his return. Among them are the following: "Women, when going to the drawing-room of Queen Victoria regard a bare skin as a mark of respect." "When people meet and wish to show affection, they put their lips and chins together and make a smacking sound." This is not so difficult to understand, when we recollect that, like most Orientals, the Chinese do not kiss, and that even a mother does not kiss her own baby, although she will press it to her cheek. Again, he thus describes our dancing parties: "A European skipping match is a strange sight. To this a number of men and women come in couples, and enter a spacious hall; there, at the sound of music, they grasp each other by both arms, and leap and prance backward and forward, and round and round, till they are forced to stop for want of breath. All this," he adds, "is most extraordinary;" and when we Occidentals think of it, perhaps it is. A Chinese youth, after eating for the first time a European dinner, wrote of his experience: "Dishes of half-raw meat were served, from which pieces were cut with sword-like instruments and placed before the guests. Finally came a green and white substance, the smell of which was overpowering. This, I was informed, was a compound of sour milk, baked in the sun, under whose influence it remains until it becomes filled with insects; yet the greener and livelier it is, the greater the relish with which it is eaten! This is called _Che-sze_." [Illustration: WATERING-PLACE FOR ANIMALS.] [Illustration: PLACE OF EXECUTION, CANTON.] [Illustration: A PAGODA.] [Illustration: DRAWING WATER.] The object of most gruesome interest to me in Canton was its place of execution. On entering this, I looked about me with astonishment; for almost all the space between the rough brick walls was filled with coarse, cheap articles of pottery. Ah Cum explained, however, that when a batch of heads are to be cut off, the jars are all removed, much as a hotel dining-room is cleared for dancing. The condemned prisoners are always brought in baskets to this place, and are compelled to kneel down with their hands tied behind their backs. Their queues are then thrown forward, and they are beheaded at a single stroke. Traces of blood were visible on the ground, and from a mass of rubbish close at hand a grinning Chinaman pulled out several skulls which he had hidden there, and claimed a fee for exhibiting them. I was presented to the executioner, and asked him how many men he had himself decapitated, but he could not tell. He kept no count, he said--some days six, some days ten, in all probably more than a thousand. As he was resolutely opposed to having his picture taken, we placed his two-edged sword against the wall, and photographed that. When I was told that, once a week, twenty or thirty men are brought into this filthy court to die like cattle in a slaughter-house, I stood aghast, but when I subsequently learned that this is the only execution-place in a great province with a population of twenty millions, the number did not seem so appallingly excessive. This is, however, merely the average in ordinary times. After certain insurrections, such as the Taiping rebellion, this hideous square has seemed almost a reservoir of human blood. The venerable missionary, Dr. Williams, states that he saw here one morning at least two hundred headless trunks, and stacks of human heads piled six feet high. Careful estimates place the number executed here during fourteen months, at eighty-one thousand,--or more than thirteen hundred every week! [Illustration: FEMALE CULPRITS.] [Illustration: A PRISONER.] I doubt if many criminals beheaded here feel much regret at leaving life, so horrible has been their previous condition in the Canton prison. We visited this institution, but to obtain a picture of it was impossible. Within an ill-kept, loathsome area, we saw a crowd of prisoners wearing chains, while around their necks were heavy wooden collars, which, being from three to five feet square, were so wide that the poor wretches wearing them could never possibly feed themselves, but must depend on others for their nourishment. How they lie down to sleep with them on I do not know. Yet they must wear such collars for weeks, and even months, at a time. I have no sentimental sympathy for criminals, and thoroughly believe in the enforcement of just laws, but I was shocked at the sight of these poor creatures. Whatever may have been their guilt, such treatment is a degradation of humanity. [Illustration: JUDGE AND PRISONERS.] Leaving the place of execution, we made our way to one of the criminal courts of Canton. It was in session when we entered it, and I never can forget the sight that met my gaze. Before the judge was a prisoner on his knees, pleading for mercy and protesting innocence. Chains were around his neck, waist, wrists, and ankles. Beside him knelt an aged woman, whose gray hair swept the floor as she rocked back and forth, imploring vengeance on her son's assassin. At last the culprit confessed his crime of murder, and was led back to prison. How sincere his confession was, it would be hard to say; for if, in the face of powerful adverse testimony, an accused man still asserts his innocence, he is often punished in the court-room till he does confess. Around the hall were various instruments of torture--bamboo rods to flog the naked back; hard leather straps with which to strike the prisoner on the mouth, thus sometimes breaking the teeth and even the jaw; thumb-screws and cords by which he is suspended by his thumbs and toes; and heavy sticks with which to beat his ankles. I did not happen to see these used, because in the three trials I witnessed all of the prisoners confessed. But they are used; and just as I was entering the court, I met a criminal being led back to prison, so weak and crippled by his punishment, that he could hardly step without assistance. Curiously enough, after the torture has been administered, the culprit is required to fall upon his knees and thank the judge. This I should think would be "the most unkindest cut of all." [Illustration: A CHINESE COURT.] It seems impossible to say anything in defense of such a system as this; for in China a man is not only looked upon as guilty till he is proved innocent, but is kept in loathsome confinement, and may be even put upon the rack, in spite of the established fact that torture is never a test of truth. And yet a foreign resident made, as an apology, the following statement: "You must remember that testimony here amounts to nothing, and that, by paying sixpence apiece, you can pack the court-room with men who will swear that black is white. Hence, where a man can easily bribe false witnesses to ruin his enemy, the Chinese law provides that no one shall under any circumstances be put to death unless he has confessed his crime. But since a prisoner on trial for his life will usually protest his innocence to the last, the court attempts by torture to force him to confess." We visited finally an object in Canton far pleasanter than its scenes of punishment, yet equally characteristic of the national life. It is the place where natives of this province take the first step in the only path which in China leads to political and social rank. It is the scene of the competitive examinations, the fame of which has filled the world. [Illustration: THE EXAMINATION GROUND, CANTON.] [Illustration: THE GREAT WALL AT A PRECIPICE.] [Illustration: A STUDENT.] The courtyard where the contest takes place is by no means inviting. It is an area of sixteen acres, covered with nearly nine thousand rough brick sheds. At the time of an examination each of these is occupied by a candidate. Before he enters it, his person is carefully searched, and soldiers and policemen guard all passageways to prevent communication. "Each in his narrow cell," these applicants for office then remain for three consecutive days and nights, about as pleasantly lodged, I should imagine, as Jonah was for the same length of time; for these dirty dens of brick are only four feet long, three feet wide, and possibly six feet high. One of the horse-sheds in the rear of a New England meeting-house would be a far more comfortable place in which to eat and sleep. Perhaps they are meant, however, to emphasize the triumph of mind over matter. Their only furniture consists of two small planks, one for a seat, the other for a table. Rest is, of course, impossible in such a cage, and candidates have sometimes died here from physical and mental strain. All this seems inexcusably cruel; yet the Chinese government may have good reasons for maintaining this severity. For instance, such a system, if introduced at Washington, would rid the District of Columbia of nine-tenths of its office-seekers within twenty-four hours. While some of these students persevere in their attempts till they are seventy or eighty years of age, others are quite young; but the fact of youth is not considered discreditable, for Confucius said: "A youth should always be regarded with respect. How do we know that his future may not be superior to our present?" At all events, the highest place is open to them, if their brains will take them there; for every village in China has its school, and every free-born citizen may qualify for this struggle, the governing principle of which is "Let the best man win!" It is the law of the "survival of the fittest" exemplified in politics. [Illustration: FISHING ON THE RIVER.] [Illustration: A CHINESE GENERAL AND HIS ATTENDANTS.] In all the provinces of China, on the appointed day, thousands of candidates assemble, eager for the contest. Subjects are given them on which they must produce a poem and original essays. Their work is then examined by officials appointed by the Government, and so extremely rigid is the test, that out of every thousand applicants only about ten gain the first, or "District," degree. There are, however, three degrees to be attained by Chinese aspirants for fame. Those who come out as victors in the first receive no office, but are at least exempt from corporal punishment, and may attempt the examination for the next degree. Even the few who pass the second, or "Provincial," test (about one in a hundred) receive no government appointment. Yet they are distinguished among their countrymen by wearing a gold button in their hats, and by a sign over their houses signifying "Promoted man." [Illustration: LI HUNG CHANG.] Those who succeed in standing the third, or "Imperial," test at Pekin,--severer even than the other two,--have reached the apex of the pyramid. They are now mandarins, and have acquired all they can desire,--social distinction, office, wealth, and (what is sometimes still more highly prized) great national fame. For in the results of this examination the entire country takes the greatest interest. The names of the successful men are everywhere proclaimed by means of couriers, river-boats, and carrier-pigeons, since thousands of people in the empire have laid their wagers on the candidates, as we might do on horses at the Derby. Strange, is it not, to think that this elaborate Chinese system was practised in the land of the Mongols substantially as it is to-day, at a time when England was inhabited by painted savages? Moreover, the honors of successful candidates in China cannot be inherited. Young men, if they would be ennobled, must surpass their competitors and win their places as their fathers did. Even the youthful son of Li Hung Chang, whom General Grant considered, next to Bismarck, the most remarkable man he met with in his tour around the world, is not entitled, because of his father's office, to any special rank. Hence, China, though an absolute monarchy, has no privileged class whose claims rest merely on the accident of birth. Her aristocracy consists of those who have repeatedly proved themselves intellectually superior to their rivals. Among no people in the world, therefore, have literary men received such honors as in China; and it is a remarkable fact that this vast nation has worshiped for two thousand years, not a great warrior, nor even a prophet claiming inspiration from God, but a philosopher,--Confucius. [Illustration: LI HUNG CHANG AND SUITE ON THEIR TOUR AROUND THE WORLD.] I have often thought that were I asked to compare the Chinese empire of to-day with some material object, I would select for such comparison the Great Wall on its northern frontier. This mighty work has hardly been surpassed in the whole history of architecture, not even by the builders of the Pyramids. It is no less than twenty-five feet high and forty feet broad, with watch-towers higher still, at intervals of three hundred feet. And yet it has a length of nearly fifteen hundred miles, a distance exceeding that from Boston to St. Paul, and in its uninterrupted march spans deep ravines and climbs to lofty mountain crests, in one place nearly five thousand feet in height. Although it was built three hundred years before the birth of Christ, it still exists, and during fourteen centuries sufficed to hold in check the savage tribes of Tartars from the north. It has been calculated that if the Great Wall were constructed at the present time, and with Caucasian labor, its cost would pay for all the railroads in the United States. One hundred years ago an English engineer reckoned that its masonry represented more than all the dwellings of England and Scotland put together, and, finally, that its material would construct a stone wall six feet high and two feet thick around the entire globe. [Illustration: THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA.] [Illustration: A GATEWAY IN THE GREAT WALL.] In many respects this great rampart is typical of China. Both have a vast antiquity, both have an enormous extent, and both have had their periods of glory,--China her age of progress and invention, and this old wall a time when it was kept in perfect order, when warriors stood at every tower, and when it stretched for fifteen hundred miles--an insurmountable barrier to invasion. But just as this leviathan of masonry has outlived its usefulness, and is at present crumbling to decay, so the huge Chinese empire itself now seems decrepit and wholly alien to the nineteenth century. Her roads, once finely kept, are now disgraceful; her streets are an abomination to the senses; her rivers and canals are left to choke themselves through want of dredging; and even her temples show few signs of care. Stagnation and neglect are steadily at work on her colossal frame, as weeds and plants disintegrate this mouldering wall. Will this old empire ever be aroused to new activity, and can fresh life-blood be infused into her shrunken veins to animate her inert frame? There is, I think, a possibility that, in the coming century, the new, progressive party here will overcome the dull conservatism of the nation, connect her vast interior with the sea, utilize her mineral wealth, develop her immense resources, and make her one of the great powers of the world. Napoleon once warned England that if the Chinese should learn too well from her the art of war, and then acquire the thirst for conquest which has characterized other nations, the result might be appalling to the whole of Europe. For think what inexhaustible armies they could raise, and what great fleets they could build and launch upon their mighty rivers! But this is a problem of the future, about which no man can predict with certainty. [Illustration: A LEVIATHAN OF MASONRY.] Many have asked me if I am glad that I went to China, and I have always answered that, as a unique and useful study of humanity, I think it one of the most valuable experiences of my life. Still I am bound to say, that when I stood upon the deck of an outgoing steamer, and felt it move beneath my feet responsive to the engine's stroke, I drew a breath of pleasure and relief. For I was assured that the swarming millions of the Chinese empire were being left behind me, and that my face was turned toward that historic land where, lighted by the Southern Cross, I was to visit Hindu shrines and Mogul palaces, and gaze on the Himalayas and the Taj Mahal. [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber Note Illustrations were repositioned so as to not split paragraphs. Some extremely long paragraphs were split so that illustrations might remain close to the original position in the text. 
57861	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 57861-h.htm or 57861-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/57861/57861-h/57861-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/57861/57861-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/mysteriousjapan00stre Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Small capitals were replaced with ALL CAPITALS. The oe ligature was replaced with "oe". The letter o with macrom ligature was replaced by "[=o]". MYSTERIOUS JAPAN [Illustration: Calligraphy that translates as "Mysterious Japan"] * * * * * * _Books by Julian Street_ ABROAD AT HOME AFTER THIRTY AMERICAN ADVENTURES THE NEED OF CHANGE THE MOST INTERESTING AMERICAN (_A close-range study of Theodore Roosevelt_) PARIS à LA CARTE SHIP-BORED WELCOME TO OUR CITY THE GOLDFISH (_For Children_) SUNBEAMS, INC. MYSTERIOUS JAPAN * * * * * * [Illustration: Photo. by Marguerite Leonard At the top of the temple steps, above Lake Biwa] MYSTERIOUS JAPAN by JULIAN STREET [Illustration: Publisher's logo] With Illustrations from Photographs by the Author and Others Garden City, N. Y., and Toronto Doubleday, Page & Company 1921 Copyright, 1921, by Julian Street All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian Copyright, 1920, 1921, by McClure's Magazine, Incorporated All Rights Reserved Copyright, 1921, by the Century Company, the Outlook Company, P. F. Collier & Son Company, and the New York Times Printed at Garden City, N. Y., U. S. A. First Edition TO FRANK A. VANDERLIP "_To see once is better than to hear a hundred times_" --MENCIUS CONTENTS PART I CHAPTER PAGE I. DISCUSSING CURIOUS TRAITS OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN . . 1 II. THE ROAD TO TOKYO . . . . . . . . . 16 III. THE CAPITAL AND COSTUMES . . . . . . . 26 IV. EARTHQUAKES AND BURGLARS . . . . . . . 38 V. INVERSIONS AND THE ORIENTAL MIND . . . . . 48 VI. THE ISLES OF COMPLEXITIES . . . . . . . 63 PART II VII. THE GENTLEST OF THE GENTLER SEX . . . . . 81 VIII. MORE ABOUT WOMEN . . . . . . . . . 93 IX. THE NATIONAL SPORT . . . . . . . . 103 X. ON SAKé AND ITS EFFECTS . . . . . . . 115 XI. DIET AND DANCING . . . . . . . . . 127 XII. GEISHA PARTIES . . . . . . . . . 137 XIII. THE NIGHTLESS CITY . . . . . . . . 154 XIV. IN A GARDEN . . . . . . . . . . 163 XV. AN EXPLOSIVE PHILOSOPHER . . . . . . . 172 PART III XVI. GRAND OLD MEN . . . . . . . . . . 183 XVII. RECOLLECTIONS OF VISCOUNT SHIBUSAWA . . . . 201 XVIII. VISCOUNT KANEKO'S MEMORIES OF ROOSEVELT . . . 212 XIX. ARE THE JAPANESE EFFICIENT? . . . . . . 228 XX. JAPANESE-AMERICAN RELATIONS . . . . . . 242 XXI. COURTESY AND DIPLOMACY . . . . . . . 258 PART IV XXII. A RURAL RAILROAD . . . . . . . . . 273 XXIII. ADVENTURES IN A BATH AT KAMOGAWA . . . . . 284 XXIV. A NIGHT AT AN INN . . . . . . . . . 295 XXV. PRETTY GEN TAJIMA . . . . . . . . . 306 XXVI. SUPERSTITIONS AND YUKI'S EYES . . . . . 315 XXVII. "JAPANNED ENGLISH" AND ART . . . . . . 321 XXVIII. SAYONARA . . . . . . . . . . . 335 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS At the top of the temple steps, above Lake Biwa _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Peasants of the region speak of Fuji as _O Yama_, the "Honourable Mountain" . . . . . . . . 6 With his drum and his monkey he is Japan's nearest equivalent for our old-style organ-grinder . . 22 The Japanese is not a slave to his possessions . . . 38 Sawing and planing are accomplished with a pulling instead of a driving motion . . . . . . . . . 38 The bath of the proletariat consists of a large barrel . 54 While Yuki's fortune was being told I photographed her . 70 You cannot understand Japan without understanding the Japanese woman . . . . . . . . . . . 86 A laundry on the river's brim . . . . . . . 94 Digging clams at low-tide in Tokyo Bay . . . . . 94 Cocoons--Five thousand silk worms make one kimono . . 118 No one without a sweet nature could smile the smile of one of these tea-house maids . . . . . . . . 118 Family luncheon à la Japonaise . . . . . . . 134 Kimi-chiyo was at almost every Japanese-style party I attended . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 It takes two hours to do a geisha's hair . . . . 162 Mrs. Charles Burnett in a 15th-Century Japanese Court costume . . . . . . . . . . . 170 A teahouse garden, Tokyo . . . . . . . . 178 Viscount Shibusawa . . . . . . . . . . 190 Viscount Kentaro Kaneko . . . . . . . . . 190 The film was not large enough to hold the family of this youngish fisherman at Nabuto . . . . . . . 214 Tai-no-ura . . . . . . . . . . . . 230 The theatre street in Kyoto is one of the most interesting highways in the world . . . . . . . . . 246 The gates of the Tanjo-ji temple . . . . . . 246 Nor could a _grande dame_ in an opera box have exhibited more aplomb . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 Pretty Gen was between the shafts . . . . . . 278 The middle-aged coolie hurriedly seated him on the bank . 294 Asakusa, the great popular temple of Tokyo . . . . 310 Saki, the housekeeper, obligingly posed for me . . . 326 PART I MYSTERIOUS JAPAN Far lie the Isles of Mystery, With never a port between; Green on the yellow of Asia's breast, Like a necklace of tourmaline. CHAPTER I _A Day Goes Overboard--A Sunday Schism--A Desert Island--Water, Water Everywhere--Men with Tails--Anecdotes of the Emperor of Korea--Korean Reforms--Cured by Brigands--The Man who Went to Florida--The Black Current--White Cliffs and Coloured Sails--Fuji Ahoy!_ A peculiar ocean, the Pacific. A large and lonely ocean with few ships and many rutty spots that need mending. Ploughing westward over its restless surface for a week, you come to the place where East meets West with a bump that dislocates the calendar. It is as though a date-pad in your hand were knocked to pieces and the days distributed about the deck. You pick them up and reassemble them, but one is missing. Poor little lost day! It became entangled with the 180th meridian and was dragged overboard never to be seen again. With us, aboard the admirable _Kashima Maru_, the lost day happened to be Sunday, which caused a schism on the ship. In the smokeroom, where poker was a daily pastime, resignation was expressed, the impression being that with the lost day went the customary Sunday services. But in reaching this conclusion the smokeroom group had failed to reckon with the fact that missionaries were aboard. The missionaries held a hasty conference in the social hall, and ignoring the irreverent pranks of longitude and time, announced a service for the day that followed Saturday. Upon this a counter-conference was held around the poker table, whereat were reached the following conclusions: That aboard ship the captain's will is, and of a right ought to be, absolute; that the captain had pronounced the day Monday; that in the eyes of this law-abiding though poker-playing group, it therefore _was_ Monday; that the proposal to hold church services on Monday constituted an attempt upon the part of certain passengers to set their will above that of the captain; that such action was, in the opinion of the smokeroom group, subversive to the ship's discipline, if indeed it did not constitute actual mutiny on the high seas; that members of this group could not, therefore, be party to the action proposed; that, upon the contrary, they deemed it their clear duty in this crisis to stand back of the captain; and finally, that in pursuance of this duty they should and would remain in the smokeroom throughout the entire day, carrying on their regular Monday game, even though others might see fit to carry on their regular Sunday game elsewhere in the vessel. * * * * * Had this been the Atlantic crossing we should by now have landed on the other side; yet here we were, pitching upon a cold gray waste a few miles south of Behring Sea, with Yokohama a full week away. Yet land--land of a kind--was not so distant as I had imagined. Early one morning in the middle of the voyage my steward, Sugimoto, came to my cabin and woke me up to see it. (A splendid fellow, Sugimoto; short and round of body, with flesh solid and resilient as a hard rubber ball, and a circular sweet face that Raphael might have painted for a cherub, had Raphael been Japanese.) "Good morning, gentleman," said he. "Gentleman look porthole, he see land." I arose and looked. A flounce of foam a mile or two away across the water edged the skirt of a dark mountain jutting abruptly from the sea. Through a mist, like a half-raised curtain of gray gauze, I saw a wintry peak from which long tongues of snow trailed downward, marking seams and gorges. It was, in short, just such an island as is discovered in the nick of time by a shipwrecked whaler who, famished and freezing in an open boat, has drifted for days through the storm-tossed pages of a sea story. He would land in a sheltered cove and would quickly discover a spring and a cave. He would devise a skilful means of killing seals, would dress himself in their skins, and subsist upon their meat--preceded by the customary clam and fish courses. For three years he would live upon the island, believing himself alone. Then suddenly would come to him the knowledge that life in this place was no longer safe. About the entrance to his cave he would find the tracks of a predatory animal--fresh prints of French heels in the snow! Austere though the island looked, my heart warmed at the sight of it; for there is no land so miserable that it is not to be preferred above the sea. Moreover I saw in this land a harbinger. The Empire of Japan, I knew, consisted of several large islands--to the chief one of which we were bound--and some four thousand smaller ones stretching out in a vast chain. This island, then, must be the first one of the chain. From now on we would no doubt be passing islands every little while. The remainder of the voyage would be like a trip down the St. Lawrence River. Soothed and encouraged by this pleasant thought, and wishing always to remember this outpost of the Island Empire, I asked its name of Sugimoto. "That Araska, gentleman," he answered. "Are you glad to see Japan again, Sugimoto?" "That Araska," he repeated. "Yes. A part of Japan, isn't it?" Sugimoto shook his head. "No, gentleman. Araska American land." "That island belongs to the United States?" "Yes, gentleman. That Araska." I had never heard of an island of that name. Surely Sugimoto was mistaken in thinking it an American possession. "Could you show it to me on the map?" I asked. From my dresser he took a folder of the steamship company and opening to a map of the Pacific, pointed to one of many little dots. "Aleutian Islands," they were marked. They dangled far, far out from the end of that peninsula which resembles a long tongue hanging from the mouth of a dog, the head of which is rudely suggested by the cartographic outlines of our northernmost territory. We had sailed directly away from our native land for a week, only to find ourselves, at the end of that time, still in sight of its outskirts. Like many another of his fellow countrymen, good Sugimoto had difficulties with his _l_'s and _r_'s. He had been trying to inform me that the island--the name of which proved to be Amatisnok--belonged to Alaska. I began to study the map and look up statistics concerning the Pacific Ocean. It was a great mistake. It is not pleasant to discover that three quarters of the world is worse than wasted, being entirely given over to salt water. Nor is it pleasant to discover, when far out on the Pacific, that more than a third of the surface of the earth is taken up by this one ocean. Any thought of getting General Goethals to remedy this matter by filling up the Pacific is, moreover, hopeless, for all the land in the world, if spread over the Pacific's surface, would only make an island surrounded by twenty million square miles of sea. Feeling depressed over these facts I now began to look for points of merit; for we are told to try to find the good in everything, and though I fear I pay but scant attention to this canon when in my normal state ashore, at sea I become another man. On land I have a childish feeling that the Creator has not time to pay attention to me, having so many other people to look after; but a ship far out at sea is a conspicuous object. I feel that it must catch His eye. I feel Him looking at me. And though I hope He likes me, I see no special reason why He should. I am so full of faults, so critical, so prejudiced. Consider, for instance, the way I used to go on about President Wilson and Josephus Daniels and W. J. Bryan. I am afraid that was very wrong in me. Instead of studying their failings I should have remedied my own. I should have given more to charity. I should have been more gentle in expressing my opinions. I should have written often to my sister, who so enjoys getting letters from me. I should have looked for good in everything. Immediately I begin to run about the ship looking for it. And lo! I find it. The ship is comfortable. It seems to be designed to stay on top of the water. The table is beyond criticism. The passengers are interesting. The very vastness of this ocean tends to make them so. Instead of being all of a pattern, as would be one's fellow passengers on an Atlantic liner, they are a heterogeneous lot, familiar with strange corners of the globe and full of curious tales and bits of information. Instead of talking always of hotels in London, Paris, Venice, Rome and Naples, they speak familiarly of Seoul, Shanghai, Peking, Hongkong, Saigon and Singapore. And amongst them are a few having intimate acquaintance with islands and cities so remote that their names sing in the ears like fantastic songs. Fragrant names. The Celebes and Samarkand! There was a little Englishman who hunted butterflies for a museum. He told me of great spiders as big as your two hands, that build their webs between the trees in the jungles of Borneo--I think he said Borneo. But whatever the name of the place, he found there natives having tails from two to four inches long--I think he said two to four inches. But whatever the length of the tails, he had photographs to prove that tails there were. The latest theory of man's evolution, he told me, is not the theory of Darwin, but holds that there existed long ago an intermediary creature between man and ape, from which both are derived--the ape having, I take it, evolved upward into the treetops, while man evolved downward--down, down, down, until at last came jazz and Lenine and Trotzky. Another man had lived for years in Korea. In the old days before it was taken over by Japan, he said, it was a perfect comic-opera country with the Emperor as chief comedian. He knew and liked the Emperor, and told me funny stories about him. Once when His Majesty's teeth required filling the work had to wait until the American dentist in Seoul could have a set of instruments made of gold, that being the only metal permitted within the sacred confines of the Imperial mouth. The concession to build an electric street railway in Seoul was given to Americans on the understanding that they should import motormen from the United States and that these should be held in readiness to fly to the Emperor's aid in case of trouble. A private wire connected the Imperial bedchamber with that of the manager of the street-car company, so that the latter might be quickly notified if help was needed. For more than a year the wire stood unused, but at last late one night the bell rang. The manager leaped from his bed and rushed to the special telephone. But it was not a revolution. The Emperor had just heard about a certain office building in New York and wished to know if it had, in fact, as many stories as had been reported to him. In his fear of revolution or invasion the Emperor built a palace adjoining the American legation. And when, as happened now and then, there came a _coup d'état_, threatening his personal safety, he would get a ladder and climb over the wall separating the back yard of the palace from that of the American minister. This occurring frequently, so embarrassed the latter, that in order to put an end to His Majesty's habit of informal calling, he caused the top of the wall to be covered with inhospitable broken glass. Up to the time of the annexation of Korea by Japan, my informant said, the Koreans were entirely without patriotism, but the Japanese so oppressed them that a strong national feeling was engendered after it was too late. That the Japanese had been harsh and brutal in Korea, he said, was indisputable, but this was the work of militarists, and was contrary to the will of the people of Japan who, when they learned what had been going on, protested with such violence that newspapers had to be suppressed in Japanese cities, and there was clubbing of rioters in the streets by the police. This caused immediate reform in Korea. The brutal Governor General was recalled and was replaced by Admiral Baron Saito, a humane and enlightened statesman who has earnestly striven to improve conditions, with the result that Koreans are to-day being better educated and better governed than they have been within the memory of man. Also they are prospering. First steps are now being taken toward allowing them to participate in their own government, and if conditions seem to justify the extension of their privileges, it is hoped that they may ultimately have home rule. From another passenger I got a story about an American who was captured by brigands in China. The victim was a civil engineer, very skilful at laying out railroad lines. The American International Corporation wished to send him to China to plan a railroad, but he demurred because he was in bad health. Finally, on being pressed by the company, he consented to go if his private physician was sent with him. This was agreed to. In China brigands caught the civil engineer but not the doctor. They kept him for a long time. He was taken from place to place over the roughest country, walking all night, sleeping by day in damp caves, eating coarse and insufficient food. At last he was released. He returned in rugged health. The life of the brigand was just the thing that he had needed. "Out here on the seas, without home newspapers," one thoughtful traveller remarked to me, "we lose touch with the world and never quite make up all that we have lost. When we land we hear about some of the things that have happened, but there are minor events of which we never hear, or of which the news comes to us long after, as a great surprise. I recall one example from my own experience. "In the New England town in which I live there was a banker, a prominent old citizen with a reputation for being very close, and none too scrupulous in the means he sometimes took for making money. "It had for years been his habit to go every winter to Florida, but his daughter, who kept house for him, liked the northern winter and remained at home. "Some years ago, while I was in the Far East, this old man died, but I was gone for a long time and heard nothing of it. When I got back it was winter. One day I met the daughter and stopped to speak to her. It was snowing and a cold wind was whistling down the street. We had been having trouble with the furnace at our house and my mind was full of that. So when I met her I said: "'One good thing--on a day like this you don't have to worry about your father. Furnaces don't get out of order down there where he is.' "Now, when I am away, I have the newspapers saved, and on my return I read them all if it takes me a whole week." * * * * * Somewhere in those seas that lie between the islands of Formosa and Luzon there arises a wide tepid current, known as the Black Current which, flowing northward, tempers the climate of Hondo, the main island of Japan. "To this beneficent stream," remarks the guidebook, "the shores of Nippon owe their luxuriant greenness." As we crossed the Black Current a certain greenness likewise was revealed upon my countenance. I did not find the stream beneficent at all. It was only about two hundred miles wide, however, and by morning the worst of it was past. I came on deck to find the _Kashima Maru_ riding like a placid bulky water-fowl upon a friendly sunlit sea. And far away on the horizon lay a streak of mist that was Japan. In an hour or two the mist attained more substance. It was like a coloured lantern-slide coming slowly into focus. Someone showed me a white dot upon the shadow of a hill and said it was a lighthouse, and some one else discerned a village in a little smudge of buff where land and water met. Gulls were circling around us--gulls with dark serrated margins to their wings; smaller than those we had seen on Puget Sound. Foreign gulls! Since leaving Victoria we had sighted only one ship, but now an unladen freighter, pointing high and showing a broad strip of red underbody, reeled by like a gay drunkard, and was no sooner gone astern than we picked up on the other bow a wallowing stubby caravel with a high-tilted poop like that of the _Santa Maria_--a vessel such as I had never dreamed of seeing asail in sober earnest. And she was hardly gone when we overhauled a little fleet of fishing boats having the lovely colour of unpainted wood, and the slender graceful lines of viking ships. All of them but one carried a square white sail on either mast, but that one had three masts and three sails, two of which were yellow, while the third was of a tender faded indigo. It promised things, that boat with coloured sails! Distant white cliffs, tall and ghostly like those of Dover, brought memories of another island kingdom, far away through the cheek of the world, whose citizens were at this moment sleeping their midnight sleep--_last night_. Presently the white cliffs vanished, giving place to a wall of hills with conical tops and bright green sides splattered with blue-green patches of pine woods. And when I saw the brushwork on those wrinkled cone-shaped hills, so unlike any other hills that I had seen, I knew that Hokusai and Hiroshige, far from being merely decorative artists, had "painted nature as they saw it." The villages along the shore could now be seen more plainly--rows of one-story houses taking their colour from the yellow wood of which they were constructed, and the yellow thatch of their roofs, both tempered by the elements. Then, as I was looking at a village on a promontory reaching out to meet us, some one cried: "Fuji! Come and look at Fujiyama!" and I ran forward and gazed with straining eyes across the sea and the hilltops to where, shimmering white in the far-off sky, there hung--was it indeed the famous fan-shaped cone, or only a luminous patch of cloud? Or was it anything at all? "Where's Fuji?" "Right there. Don't you see?" "No. Yes, now I think----" "It's gone. No! There it is again!" So must the chorus ever go. For Fuji, most beautiful of mountains, is also the most elusive. Later, in Tokyo, when some one called me to come and see it, it disappeared while I was on the way upstairs. Splendid as Vesuvius appears when she floats in opalescent mist above the Bay of Naples with her smoke plume lowering above her, she is, by comparison with Fuji, but a tawny little ruffian. Vesuvius rises four thousand feet while Fuji stands three times as high. And although the top of Pike's Peak is higher than the sacred mountain of Japan by some two thousand feet, the former, starting from a plain one mile above sea-level, has an immense handicap, whereas the latter starts at "scratch." Thus it comes about that when you look at Pike's Peak from the plains what you actually see is a mountain rising nine thousand feet; whereas when you look at Fuji from the sea the whole of its twelve thousand and more feet is visible. Aside from Fuji's size, the things which make it more beautiful than Vesuvius are the perfection of its contour, the snow upon its cone, and the atmospheric quality of Japan--that source of so much disappointment to snapshotting travellers who time their pictures as they would at home. A Japanese friend on the ship told me that though Fuji had been quiescent for considerably longer than a century there was heat enough in some of its steaming fissures to permit eggs to be boiled. Eighteen or twenty thousand persons make the climb each year, he said, and some devout women of seventy years and over struggle slowly up the slope, taking a week or more to the ascent, which is made by able-bodied men in half a day or less. Peasants of the region speak of Fuji not by name but merely as _O Yama_, "the Honourable Mountain," but my Japanese friend added that though the honorific _O_, used so much by his countrymen, was translated literally into English as "honourable," it did not have, in the Japanese ear, any such elaborate and ponderous value, but was spoken automatically and often only for the sake of cadence. [Illustration: Peasants of the region speak of Fuji not by name but merely as _O Yama_, the "Honourable Mountain"] "We say _O_ without thinking," he explained, "just as you begin with 'dear sir,' in writing to a stranger who is not dear to you at all." For Fuji, however, I like the full English polysyllabic of respect. It is indeed an "honourable mountain." The great volcanic cone hanging, as it sometimes seems, in thin blue air, has an ethereal look suggesting purity and spirituality, so that it is not difficult for the beholder from another land to sense its quality of sacredness, and to perceive its fitness to be the abiding place of that beautiful goddess whose Japanese name means "Princess-who-makes-the-Blossoms-of-the-Trees-to-Flower." "There are two kinds of fools," says a Japanese proverb: "--those who have never ascended Fuji and those who have ascended twice." To this category I would add a third kind of fool, the greatest of them all: the fool who fails to appreciate the spectacle of Fuji. A creature who would be disappointed in Fuji would be disappointed in any spectacle, however grand--be it the Grand Cañon, the Grand Canal, or the Grand Central Station. CHAPTER II _The Pier at Yokohama--The Flower-People--A Celestial Suburb--French Cooking and Frock Coats--From a Car-Window--Elfin Gardens--"The Land of Little Children"_ The satisfying thing about Japan is that it always looks exactly like Japan. It could not possibly be any other place. The gulls are Japanese gulls, the hills are Japanese hills, Tokyo Bay is a Japanese bay, and if the steamers anchored off the port of Yokohama are not all of them Japanese, many of them have, at least, an exotic look, with their preposterously fat red funnels or their slender blue ones. Even the little launches from which the port authorities board you as you lie in the harbour are not quite like the launches seen elsewhere, and though the great stone pier, to which at last you are warped in, might of itself fit the picture of a British seaport, the women and children waiting on the pier, trotting along beside the ship as she moves slowly to her berth, waving and smiling up at friends on deck, are costumed in inevitable suggestion of great brilliant flower-gardens agitated by the wind. Amongst these women and children in their bright draperies, the dingy European dress of the male is almost lost, so that, for all its pantaloons and derby hats, Japan is still Japan. Through this garden of chattering, laughing, fluttering human flowers we made our way to--score one for New Japan--a limousine, and in this vehicle were whirled off through the crowd: a jumble of blue-clad coolies wearing wide mushroom hats and the insignia of their employers stamped upon their backs, of rickshas, and touring cars, and motor-trucks, and skirted schoolboys riding bicycles, and curious little drays with tiny wheels, drawn by shaggy little horses which are always led, and which, when left to stand, have their front legs roped. Over a bridge we went, above the peaked rice-straw awnings of countless wooden cargo boats; then up a narrow road, surfaced with brown sand, between rows of delightful little wooden houses, terraced one above the other, with fences of board or bamboo only partly concealing infinitesimal gardens, and sliding front doors of paper and wood-lattice, some of which, pushed back, revealed straw-matted floors within, with perhaps more flower-like women and children looking out at us--the women and the larger children having babies tied to their backs. By some of the doors stood pots containing dwarf trees or flowering shrubs, by others were hung light wooden birdcages from which a snatch of song would come, and in front of every door was a low flat stone on which stood rows of little wooden clogs. Dogs of breeds unknown to me sat placidly before their masters' doors--brown dogs to match the houses, black and white dogs, none of them very large, all of them plump and benignant in expression. Not one of them left its place to run and bark at our car. They were the politest dogs I have ever seen. They simply sat upon their haunches, smiling. And the women smiled, and the children smiled, and the cherry blossoms smiled from branches overhead, and the sun smiled through them, casting over the brown roadway and brown houses and brown people a lovely splattering of light and shadow. And what with all these things, and a glimpse of a _torii_ and a shrine, and the musical sound of scraping wooden clogs upon the pavement and the faint pervasive fragrance, suggesting blended odours of new pine wood, incense, and spice--which is to me the smell of Japan; though hostile critics will be quick to remind me of the odour of paddy fields--what with all these sights and sounds and smells, so alluring and antipodal, I began to think we must be motoring through a celestial suburb, toward the gates of Paradise itself. But instead of climbing onward up the hill to heaven we swung off through a garden blooming with azaleas white, purple, pink, and salmon-colour, and drew up at a pleasant clubhouse. There we had luncheon; and it is worth remarking that, though prepared by Japanese, both the menu and the cooking were in faultless French. The Japanese gentlemen at this club were financiers, officials and prominent business men of Yokohama. One or two of them wore the graceful and dignified _hakama_ and _haori_--the silk skirt and coat of formal native dress--but by far the larger number were habited in European style: some of the younger men in cutaways, but the majority in frock-coats, garments still widely favoured in Japan, as are also congress gaiter shoes--a most convenient style of footwear in a land where shoes are shed on entering a house. Luncheon over, we drove to the station of the electric railroad that parallels the steam railroad from the seaport to the capital--which, by the way, will itself become a seaport when the proposed channel has been dredged up Tokyo Bay, now navigable only by small boats. From the car window we continued our observations as we rushed along. The gage of the steam railway is narrower than that of railways in America and Europe; the locomotives resemble European locomotives and the cars are small and light by comparison with ours. The engine whistles are shrill, and instead of two men, three are carried in each cab. This we shall presently discover, is characteristic of Japan. They employ more people than we do on a given piece of work--a discovery rather surprising after all that we have heard of Japanese efficiency. But Japan's reputation for efficiency is after all based largely on her military exploits. Perhaps her army is efficient. Perhaps her navy is. Certainly the discipline and service on the _Kashima Maru_ would bear comparison with those on a first-rate English ship. Yet why three men on a locomotive? Why several conductors on a street car? Why three servants in an ordinary middle-class home which in America or Europe would be run by one or two? Why fifteen servants in a house which we would run with six or eight? Why so many motor cars with an assistant sitting on the seat beside the chauffeur? Why so few motors? Why men and women drawing heavy carts that might so much better be drawn by horses or propelled by gasolene? Why these ill-paved narrow roads? Why this watering of streets with dippers or with little hand-carts pulled by men? Why a dozen or more coolies operating a hand-driven pile-driver, lifting the weight with ropes, when two men and a little steam would do the work so much faster and better? Why, for the matter of that, these delightful rickshas which some jester of an earlier age dubbed "pull-man" cars? Why this waste of labour everywhere? Can it be that in this densely populated little country there are more willing hands than there is work for willing hands to do? Must work be spread thin in order to provide a task and a living for everyone? But again, if that was it, would people work as hard as these people seem to? Would women be at work beside their husbands, digging knee deep in the mud and water of the rice fields, dragging heavy-laden carts, handling bulky boats? And would the working hours be so long? Here is something to be looked into. But not now. It is a hand-embroidered country, Japan, though the embroidery is done in fine stitches of an unfamiliar kind. The rural landscape is so formed and trimmed and cultivated that sometimes it achieves the look of a lovely little garden, just as the English landscape sometimes has the look of a great park. Here, much more than in England, every available inch of land is put to use. Where hillsides are so steep that they would wash away if not protected, tidy walls of diamond-shaped stone are laid dry against them; but whenever possible the hillsides are terraced up in a way to remind one of vineyards along the Rhine and the Moselle, making a series of shelf-like little fields, each doing its utmost to help solve the food problem. It is hard to say whether the towns along this line of railroad are separated by groups of farms, or whether the groups of farms are separated by towns, so even is the division. The farms are very small so that the open country is dotted over with little houses--the same low dainty houses of wood and paper that delighted us when we first saw them, and which will always delight us when, from the other side of the world, we think of them. For there is something in the sight of a neat little Japanese house with its few feet of garden which appeals curiously to one's imagination and one's sentiment. It is all so light and lovely, yet all so carefully contrived, so highly finished. To the Western eye--at least to mine--it has a quality of fantasy. I feel that it cannot be quite real, and that the people who live in it cannot be quite real: that they are part--say a quarter--fairy. And I ask you: who but people having in their veins at least a little fairy blood would take the trouble to plant a row of iris along the ridges of their roofs? The houses, too, are often set in elfin situations. One will stand at the crest of a little precipice with a minute table-land of garden back of it; another will nestle, half concealed, in a small sheltered basin where it seems to have grown from the ground, along with the trees and shrubbery surrounding it--the flowering hedges and the pines with branches like extended arms in drooping green kimono sleeves; still another rises at the border of a pond so small that in a land less toylike it would hardly be a pond; yet here it is adorned with grotesquely lovely rocks and overhanging leaves and blooms, and in the middle of it, like as not, will be an island hardly larger than a cartwheel, and on that island a stone lantern with a mushroom top, and reaching to it from the shore a delicate arched bridge of wood beneath which drowsy carp and goldfish cruise, with trading fins and rolling ruminative eyes. Just as one better understands Hokusai and Hiroshige for having seen the coastal hills, one understands them better for having seen these magic little houses with their settings resembling so charmingly those miniature landscapes made with moss, gravel, small rocks, and dwarf trees, arranged in china basins by a Japanese gardener, who is sometimes so kind as to let us see his productions in a window on Fifth Avenue. Often one feels that Japan herself is hardly more than such a garden on a larger scale. Over and over again one encounters in the larger, the finish and fantastic beauty of the smaller garden. And when one does encounter it, one is happy to forget the politics and problems of Japan, and to think of the whole country as a curiously perfect table decoration for the parlour of the world. And the children! Children everywhere! Children of the children Kipling wrote of thirty years ago, when he called Japan "... the land of Little Children, where the Babies are the Kings." [Illustration: With his drum and his monkey he is Japan's nearest equivalent for our old-style organ-grinder] Of course we had heard about the children. Everyone who writes about Japan, or comes home and talks about Japan, tells you about them. Yet somehow you must witness the phenomenon before you grasp the fact of their astonishing profusion. Even the statistics, showing that the population of Japan increases at the rate of from 400,000 to 700,000 every year, don't begin to make the picture, though they do make apparent the fact that there are several million children of ten years or younger--about two thirds of whom go clattering about in wooden clogs, while the remainder ride on the backs of their parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters. All in a country smaller than the State of California. Children alone, children in groups of three or four, children in dozen lots. Children in all sizes, colourings, attitudes, and conditions. Children blocking the roads, playing under the trees or in them, romping along paths, swarming over little piles of earth like bees on bell-shaped hives. Children watching the passing cars, children in tiny skiffs, children wading in ponds. Children glimpsed through the open wood and paper _shoji_ of their matchbox houses, scampering on clean matted floors or placidly supping--the larger of them squatting before trays and operating nimble chopsticks, the smaller nursing at the mother's breast. (Sometimes those children nursed at the breast are not so very small--which is the reason why so many Japanese have over-prominent teeth.) Children brown and naked, ragged children, children in indigo or in bright flowered kimonos and white aprons. Demure children, wild rampageous children, children with shaved heads, children with jet-black manes bobbing about their ears and faces as they run. Chubby children with merry eyes and cheeks like rosy russet apples. Children achieving the impossible: delighting the eye despite their dirty little noses. Can it be that they pile the children on each others' backs, making two layers of them, because there isn't room upon the ground for all of them at once? Babies riding on their mothers' backs travel in comparative dignity and safety. Under their soft little mushroom hats they sleep through many things--street-car trips, shopping expeditions and gabbling parties in the tea-rooms of department stores. But those who ride the shoulders of their elder brothers lead lives of wild adventure. Their presence is not allowed to interfere with the progress of young masculine life. The brother will climb trees, walk on stilts and even play baseball, seemingly unconscious of the weight and the fragility of the little charge attached to him by ties of blood and cotton. If the drowsy baby head drops over, getting in the way, the brother alters its position with a bump from the back of his own head. When the small rider slips down too far, whether on the back of child or adult, its bearer stoops and bucks like a broncho, tossing baby into place again. Through all of which the infant generally sleeps. Are its dreams disturbed, one wonders, when big brother slides for second-base? I doubt it. Knowing no cradle, no easy-riding baby carriage, the Japanese baby is from the first accustomed to a life of action. It seems to be a fatalist. And indeed it would appear that some special god protects the baby, for it always seems to go unscathed. Sometimes in the streets the children outnumber their elders by two or three to one. Contemplating them one can easily fall into the way of looking upon adults as mere adjuncts, existing only to wash the children, see that they wear aprons, and give them their meals. CHAPTER III _Growing Tokyo--Architecture and Statuary--The Westernization of Japan--The Story of Costumes--Women's Dress Advantages of Standardized Styles--Selection and Rejection_ As you reach the outskirts of Tokyo you think you are coming to another little town, but the town goes on and on, and finally as the train draws near the city's heart large buildings, bulking here and there above the general two-story tile roofline, inform you in some measure of the importance of the place. In 1917 Tokyo ranked fifth among the cities of the world, with a population almost equal to Berlin's, and it seems likely that when reliable statistics for the world become available again we shall find that the population of Berlin has at most remained stationary, while that of Tokyo has grown even more rapidly than usual, owing to exceptional industrial activity and to the influx of Russian refugees, whose presence in large numbers in Japan has created a housing problem. Nor shall I be surprised to hear that Tokyo has passed Chicago in the population race, becoming third city of the world. The central railroad station exhibits the capital's modern architectural trend. It is conveniently arranged and impressive in its magnitude as seen across the open space on which it faces, but there its merit stops. Like most large foreign-style buildings in Japan, it is architecturally an ugly thing. Standing at the gate of Japan's chief city, it has about it nothing Japanese. Its façade is grandiose and meaningless, and as one turns one's back upon it and sees other large new public structures, one is saddened by the discovery that the Japanese, skilful at adaptation though they have often shown themselves, have signally failed to adapt the requirements, methods, and materials of modern building to their old national architectural lines. One thing is certain, however: there will be no new public buildings more unsightly than those already standing. This style of architecture in Japan has touched bottom. In twenty years or so I believe the ugliness of these modern piles will have become apparent to the Japanese. It will dawn upon them that they need not go to Europe and America for architectural themes, but to the castle of Nagoya, the watch-towers above the moat of the Imperial Palace, the palace gates, and the temples and pagodas everywhere. When this time comes the Japanese will also realize how very bad are most of the bronze statues of statesmen and military leaders throughout the world, and how particularly bad are their own adventures in this field of art. Until I saw Tokyo I was under the impression that the world's worst bronzes were to be found in the region of the Mall in Central Park, New York; but there is in Tokyo a statue of a statesman in a frock coat, with a silk hat in his hand, which surpasses any other awfulness in bronze that I have ever seen. Looking at such things one marvels that they can be created and tolerated in a land which has produced and still produces so much minute loveliness in pottery, ivory, and wood. How can these people, who still know flowing silken draperies, endure to see their heroes cast in Prince Albert coats and pantaloons? And how can they adopt the European style of statuary, when in so many places they have but to look at the roadside to see an ancient monument consisting of a single gigantic stone with unhewn edges and a flat face embellished only with an inscription--simple, dignified, impressive. All nations, however, have their periods of innovation-worship, and if Japan has sometimes erred in her selections, her excuse is a good one. She did not take up Western ways because she wanted to. She wished to remain a hermit nation. She asked of the world nothing more than that it leave her alone. She even fired on foreign ships to drive them from her shores--which, far from accomplishing her purpose, only cost her a bombardment. Then, in 1853, came our Commodore Perry and, as we now politely phrase it, "knocked at Japan's door." To the Japanese this "knocking" backed by a fleet of "big black ships," had a loud and ominous sound. The more astute of their statesmen saw that the summons was not to be ignored. Japan must become a part of the world, and if she would save herself from the world's rapacity she must quickly learn to play the world's game. Fourteen years after Perry's visit the Shogunate, which for seven centuries had suppressed the Imperial family, and itself ruled the land, fell, and the late Emperor, now known as Meiji Tenno--meaning "Emperor of Enlightenment"--came from his former capital in the lovely old city of Kyoto, the Boston of Japan, and took up the reins of government in Yedo--later renamed Tokyo, or "Eastern Capital"--occupying the former Shogun's palace which is the Imperial residence to-day. The Meiji Era will doubtless go down as the greatest of all eras in Japanese history, and as one of the greatest eras in the history of any nation. To Viscount Kaneko, who is in charge of the work of preparing the official record of the reign for publication, President Roosevelt wrote his opinion of what such a book should be. "No other emperor in history," he declared, "saw his people pass through as extraordinary a transformation, and the account of the Emperor's part in this transformation, of his own life, of the public lives of his great statesmen who were his servants and of the people over whom he ruled, would be a work that would be a model for all time." Under the Emperor Meiji, Japan made breathless haste to westernize herself, for she was determined to save herself from falling under foreign domination. Small wonder, then, if in her haste she snatched blindly at any innovation from abroad. Small wonder if she sometimes snatched the wrong thing. Small wonder if she sometimes does it to this day. For she is still a nation in a state of flux; you seem to feel her changing under your very feet. But because Japan has accepted a thing it does not mean that she has accepted it for ever. In great affairs and small, her history illustrates this fact. A case in point is the story of European dress. More than thirty years ago, when the craze for everything foreign was at its height, when the whole fabric of social life in the upper world was in process of radical change, European dress became fashionable not only for men but for women. When great ladies had worn it for a time their humbler sisters took it up, and one might have thought that the national costume, which is so charming, was destined entirely to disappear. Men attached to government offices, banks, and institutions tending to the European style in the construction and equipment of their buildings, had some excuse for the change, since the fine silks of Japan do not wear so well as tough woollen fabrics, and the loose sleeves tend to catch on door-knobs and other projections not to be found in the Japanese style of building. But in Japan more than in any other country, "woman's place is in the home," and just as the Japanese costume is not well suited to the European style of building, so the European costume is not well suited to the Japanese house and its customs. For in the Japanese house instead of sitting on a chair one squats upon a cushion, and corsets, stockings and tight skirts were not designed to squat in. Equally important, clogs and shoes are left outside the door of the Japanese house in winter and summer, and as in the winter the house is often very cold, having no cellar and only small braziers, called _hibachi_, to give warmth, the covering afforded the feet by the skirts of a Japanese costume is very comforting. Moreover, the Japanese themselves declare that European dress is not becoming to their women, being neither suited to their figures nor to the little pigeon-toed shuffle which is so fetching beneath the skirts of a kimono. What was the result of all this? The men who found foreign dress useful continued to wear it for business, although those who could afford to do so kept a Japanese wardrobe as well. But the women, to whom European dress was only an encumbrance, discarded it completely, so that to-day no sight is rarer in Japan than that of a Japanese woman dressed in other than the native costume. If a Japanese lady be cursed with atrocious taste, there is practically no way to find it out, no matter how much money she may spend on personal adornment. The worst that she may do is to carry her clothes less prettily than other women of her class. The lines she cannot change. The fabrics are prescribed. The colours are restricted in accordance with her age. Her dress, like almost every other detail of her daily life, is regulated by a rigid code. If she be middle-aged and fat she cannot make herself absurd by dressing as a débutante. If she be thin she cannot wear an evening gown cut down in back to show a spinal column like a string of wooden beads. Nor can she spend a fortune upon earrings, bracelets, necklaces. She may have some pretty ornamental combs for her black lacquer hair, a bar pin for her _obi_, a watch, and perhaps, if she be very much Americanized, a ring and a mesh bag. A hairdresser she must have, both to accomplish that amazing and effective coif she wears, and to tell her all the latest gossip (for in Japan, as elsewhere, the hairdresser is famed as a medium for the transmission of spicy items which ought not to be transmitted); but her pocketbook is free from the assaults of milliners; hats she has none; only a draped hood when the cold weather comes. The feminine costume is regulated by three things: first, by the age of the wearer; second, by the season; third, by the requirements of the occasion. The brightest colours are worn by children; the best kimonos of children of prosperous families are of silk in brilliant flowered patterns. Their pendant sleeves are very long. Young unmarried women also wear bright colours and sleeves a yard in length. But the young wife, though not denied the use of colour, uses it more sparingly and in shades relatively subdued; and the pocket-like pendants of her sleeves are but half the length of those of her younger unmarried sister. The older she grows the shorter the sleeve pendants become, and the darker and plainer grows her dress. In hot weather a kimono of light silk, often white with a coloured pattern, is worn by well-dressed women. Beneath this there will be another light kimono which is considered underwear--though other underwear is worn beneath it. Japanese underwear is not at all like ours, but one notices that many gentlemen in the national costume adopt the Occidental flannel undershirt, wearing it beneath their silks when the weather is cold--a fact revealed by a glimpse of the useful but unlovely garment rising up into the V-shaped opening formed by the collar of the kimono where it folds over at the throat. As with us, the temperature is not the thing that marks the time for changing from the attire of one season to that of another. Summer arrives on June first, whatever the weather may be. On that date the Tokyo policeman blossoms out in white trousers and a white cap, and on June fifteenth he confirms the arrival of summer by changing his blue coat for a white one. So with ladies of fashion. Their summer is from June first to September thirtieth; their autumn from October first to November thirtieth; their winter from December first to March thirty-first; their spring from April first to May thirty-first. In spring the brightest colours are worn. Those for autumn and winter are generally more subdued. Young ladies wear brilliant kimonos for ceremonial dress, but ceremonial dress for married women consists of three kimonos, the outer one of black, though those beneath, revealed only where they show a V-shaped margin at the neck, may be of lighter coloured silk. On the exterior kimono the family crest--some emblem generally circular in form, such as a conventionalized flower or leaf design, about an inch in diameter--appears five times in white: on the breast at either side, on the back of either sleeve at a point near the elbow, and at the centre of the back, between the shoulder-blades. Because of these crests the goods from which the kimono is made have to be dyed to order, the crests being blocked out in wax on the original white silk so that the dye fails to penetrate. Even the under-kimonos of fashionable ladies will have crests made in this way. With the kimono a Japanese lady always wears a neck-piece called an _eri_ (pronounced "airy"), a long straight band revealed in a narrow V-shaped margin inside the neck of the inner kimono. The eri varies in colour, material, and design according to the wearer's age, the occasion and the season, and it may be remarked that embroidered or stencilled eri in bright colourings make attractive souvenirs to be brought home as gifts to ladies, who can wear them as belts or as bands for summer hats. If the weather be cold the haori, an interlined silk coat hanging to the knees or a little below, is worn over the kimono. This is black, with crests, or of some solid colour, not too gay. A young lady's haori is sometimes made of flowered silk. Men also wear the haori, but the man's haori is always black; and while a man will wear a crested haori on the most formal occasions, a woman _en grande tenue_ will avoid wearing hers whenever possible for the reason that it conceals all but a tiny portion of the article of raiment which is her chief pride: namely the sash or obi. The best obi of a fashionable woman consists of a strip of heavy brocaded or hand-embroidered silk, folded lengthwise and sewn at the edges making a stiff double band about thirteen inches wide and three and one third yards long. This is wrapped twice around the waist and tied in a large flat knot in back, the mode of tying varying in accordance with the age of the wearer, and differing somewhat in divers localities. The average cost of a fine new obi is, I believe, about two hundred dollars, and I have heard of obi costing as much as a thousand dollars. Some of the less expensive ones are very pretty also, and many a poor woman will have as her chief treasure an obi worth forty or fifty dollars which she will wear only on great occasions, with her best silk kimono. A Tokyo lady notable for the invariable loveliness of her costumes gives me the following information in response to an inquiry as to the cost of dressing. "As our style never changes," she writes, "we don't have to buy new dresses every season, as our American sisters do. When a girl marries, her parents supply her, according to their means, with complete costumes for all seasons. Sometimes these sets will include several hundred kimonos, and they may cost anywhere from two thousand to twenty thousand yen. [A yen is about equal to half a dollar.] "So if a girl is well fitted out she need not spend a great deal on dress after her marriage. A couple of hundred yen may represent her whole year's outlay for dress, though of course if she is rich and cares a great deal for dress, she may spend several thousand. "Our fashions vary only in colour and such figures as may be displayed in the goods. Therefore they are not nearly so 'busy' as your fashions. And we can always rip a kimono to pieces, dye it, and make it over." Some other items I get from this lady: When a Japanese girl is married it is customary for the bride's family to present obi to the ladies of the groom's family. For a funeral the entire costume including the obi, is black, save for the white crests. Ladies of the family of the deceased wear white silk kimonos without crests, and white silk obi. The Japanese ladies' costume, put on to the best advantage, is not so comfortable as it looks. It is fitted as tight as possible over the chest, to give a flat appearance, and is also bound tight at the waist to hold it in position. The obi, moreover, is very stiff, and to look well must also be tight. The more select _geisha_ are said to attain the greatest perfection of style; which probably means merely that, being professional entertainers whose sole business it is to please men, they make more of a study of dress, and spend more time before their mirrors than other women do. * * * * * The speed with which women reverted to the lovely kimono after their brief experiment with foreign fashions, may have been due in part to a lurking fear in Japanese male minds that along with the costume their women might adopt pernicious foreign ways, becoming aggressive and intractable, like American women who, according to the Japanese idea, are spoiled by their men--precisely as, according to our idea, Japanese men are spoiled by their women. But whatever the reasons, the fact remains that the Japanese revealed good practical judgment. They kept what they needed and discarded the rest. It is their avowed purpose to follow this rule in all situations involving the acceptance or rejection of western innovations, their object being to preserve the national customs wherever these do not conflict with the requirements of the hideous urge we are pleased to term "modern progress." This is a good rule to follow, and if we but knew the story of the period when Chinese civilization was brought to Japan, nearly fourteen centuries ago, we might perhaps find interesting parallels between the two eras of change. CHAPTER IV _Quakes and the Building Problem--Big Quakes--Democracy in Architecture--Narrow Streets and Tiny Shops--The Majestic Little Policeman--The Dread of Burglars--What to Do in a Quake--The Man Who Went Home--"Fire!"--A Ricksha Ride to the Wrong Address--A Front-Porch Bath_ Have I given the impression that Tokyo is a disappointing city to one in search of things purely Japanese? If so it was because I tarried too long in the district of railroad stations and big business. Moreover, to the practical commercial eye, this portion of the city must look promising indeed, because of the wide streets and the new building going on. And it is building of a kind to be approved by the man of commerce, for in her new edifices Tokyo is adopting steel-frame construction. That she is only now beginning to build in this way is not due to inertia, but to the fact that earthquakes complicate her building problem. The tallest of her present office buildings is, I believe, but seven stories high, and I have heard that twice as much steel was employed in its construction as would have been employed in a similar building where earthquakes did not enter into the calculations of the architect. It would be difficult to overestimate the part that earthquakes play in establishing the character of Japanese cities. There will never be skyscrapers in Japan, or apartment buildings with families piled high in air. The family, not the individual, is the social unit of the land, and the private house is the symbol of the family. Even in the congested slums of Japanese cities, or in the quarters given over to the pitiful outcast class called _eta_, each family has its house, though the house may consist only of a single room no larger than a woodshed and may harbour an appalling number of people, as miserable and as crowded as those of the poorest slums in the United States. Though the seismograph records an average of about four earthquakes a day, most of the shocks are too slight to be felt. Tokyo is however, conscious of about fifty shocks a year. But she has not had a destructive earthquake since 1894, nor a great disaster since 1855, when most of the city was shaken down or burned, and 100,000 persons perished. Minor shocks receive but little attention. In fact by many they are regarded with favour, on the assumption that they tend to reduce pressure in the boiler-room, preventing savage visitations. However, these do occasionally occur and on the seacoast they are sometimes accompanied by tidal waves which ravage long stretches of shore, wiping out towns and villages. Earthquake shocks are sometimes accompanied by terrifying subterranean sounds. Scientists have their ways of accounting for all these things, but the man who really knows is the old peasant of the seacoast village. He can tell you what really causes the earth to tremble. It is the wrigglings of a pair of giant fish called _Namazu_, whiskered creatures somewhat resembling catfish, which inhabit the bowels of the earth and support upon their backs the Islands of Japan. Even though the quakes are slight, they serve to keep in people's minds certain unpleasant possibilities; and these possibilities are, as I have said, acknowledged in the structure of Japanese houses. Two stories is the maximum height for a residence, and even tea-houses and hotels are seldom more than three stories high. This, together with the fact that everyone who can afford it has a garden, causes Japanese cities to spread enormously. On the other hand, the Japanese requires fewer rooms than we do; his home life is simple and he is less a slave to his possessions than any other civilized human being. The average family can move its household goods in a hand-cart. Even the houses of the rich are not blatant except in a few cases in which florid European architecture has been attempted. The difference between the houses of the rich and of the poor is in degree, not in kind. As with the Japanese costume, the essential lines do not vary. [Illustration: The Japanese is not a slave to his possessions. The average family can move its household goods in a hand-cart] This democracy in architecture is restful to the eye and to the senses. It gives the streets of Tokyo--excepting the important thoroughfares--a sort of small-town look. Nor is a great metropolis suggested by the old narrow streets, with their bazaar-like open shop fronts, their banner-like awnings of blue and white, and their colourful displays of fish, fresh vegetables, fruits, wooden clogs, curios, and many other objects less definable, the possible uses of which entice the alien wayfarer to speculation or investigation. I never got enough of prowling in the narrow streets of Tokyo, staring into shops (and sometimes, I fear, into houses), watching various artisans carrying on home industries, wondering what were the legends displayed in Chinese characters on awnings, banners and lacquered signs; stumbling now upon an ancient wayside shrine, now upon a shop full of "two-and-a-half-puff pipes," tobacco pouches for the male and female users of such pipes, and _netsuke_ (large buttons for attaching pipe-cases and pouches to the sash) carved in delightfully fantastic forms; now upon a tea-shop full of tall coloured earthenware urns, shaped like the amphoræ of ancient Rome and marked with baffling black ideographs. Now I would discover a tea-house on the brink of a stream, its balconies abloom with little geisha, its portals protected from impurity by three small piles of salt; now it would be a geisha quarter I was in, and I would hear the drum and flute and _samisen_; or again I would discover a little shop with Japanese prints for sale, and would enter and drink green tea with the silk-robed proprietor, bagging the knees of my trousers and cramping my legs by squatting for an hour to look at his wares. Heavy wheeled traffic was not contemplated when the narrow streets of Tokyo were laid out. From the most attenuated of them, automobiles and carriages are automatically excluded by their size, while from others they are excluded by the policeman who inhabits the white kiosk on the corner. The policeman has discretionary power, and if you have good reason for wishing to drive down a narrow street he will sometimes let you do so, granting the permission coldly. He is a majestic little figure. He wears a sword and is treated as a personage. Naturally, the first consideration in the construction of a Japanese house is flexibility. In an earthquake a house should sway. Earthquakes are thus responsible for the general use of wood, which is in turn responsible for the frequency of fires. And next to earthquakes, fires are regarded by the Japanese as their greatest menace. Third on the list of things feared and abhorred comes the burglar. I doubt that there are more burglars in Japan than elsewhere, or that the Japanese burglar is more murderous than the average gentleman of his profession in other lands, but for some reason he is more thought about. This may be because of the vicious knife he carries, or it may be because Japanese houses are so easy to get into. In the daytime one would only have to push a hand through the paper shoji and undo the catch--which is about as strong as a hairpin. At night one might need a cigar-box opener. At all events, it is for fear of burglars that the Japanese householder barricades himself, after dark, behind a layer of unperforated wooden shutters, which are slid into place in grooves outside those in which the shoji slide. If the shutters keep out burglars they also keep out air; and even though you may be willing to risk the entrance of the former with the latter, the police will not permit you to leave your shutters open--not if they catch you at it. I made some inquiries as to the course to be pursued in the event of burglary, fire, or severe earthquakes. In earthquakes people act differently. I asked our maid, Yuki, what she did, and found that, when in a foreign-style house, she would crouch beside a wardrobe or other heavy piece of furniture which she thought would protect her if the ceiling should come down. "But what if the wardrobe should fall over on you?" I asked. Yuki, however, was not planning for that kind of an earthquake. In a Japanese house one need not worry about the ceiling, as it is of wood; and as a matter of fact most of the ceilings in foreign-style houses are of sheet metal. It seems to me that the most intelligent thing to do in an earthquake is to stand in the arch of a doorway; certainly it is a bad plan to try to run out of the house, as many people, attempting that, have been killed by falling fragments. One night I got a letter from a friend at home. "Try to be in a little earthquake," he wrote. "They build their houses for them, don't they?" In the middle of that same night a little earthquake came, as though on invitation. The bed-springs swung; the doors and windows rattled. At breakfast next morning I asked my hostess, an American lady who has lived most of her life in Japan, whether she had felt the tremor. "I always feel them," she said. "They bother me more and more. In the last few years I have got into the habit of waking up a minute or two before the shocks begin." "What do you do then?" I asked. "I lie still," she said, "until the shaking stops. Then I wake my husband and scold him." The husband of this lady told me of a man he knew, an American, who came out to Japan some years ago on business, intending to stay for a considerable time. On landing in Yokohama he went directly to the office of the company with which he was connected, and had hardly stepped in when the city was violently shaken. By the time the shocks were over he had changed all his plans. "Nothing could induce me to stay in a country where this sort of things goes on," he said. "I shall take the next boat back to San Francisco." He did--and arrived just in time for the great San Francisco quake. The course to take in case of fire is the same the world over. Shout "Fire!" in the language of the country and try to put the fire out. But if you find a burglar in your room don't shout the Japanese word for "burglars," even if you know it--which I do not. The thing to shout is "Fire!"--so I am advised by a Japanese friend, who, I am sure, has my best interests at heart. For if you shout "Fire!" in the middle of the night, the neighbours, fearing that the fire will spread to their own houses, rush to your assistance; whereas if you cry "Burglars!" it merely gives them gooseflesh as they lie abed. Many times it happened in Tokyo that when I was bound on a definite errand somewhere, the chauffeur or the ricksha coolie would land me miles from my intended destination. There are three reasons why this happened so often. First, Tokyo is a very difficult place in which to find one's way about. Second, addresses in Tokyo are not always given by street number, but by wards and districts, and there are tricks about some addresses, as, for instance, the fact that 22 Shiba Park isn't on Shiba Park at all, but is a block or two distant from the park's margin. And third, though the language in which I told the chauffeur or the _kurumaya_ where to go, was offered in good faith as Japanese, it was nine times out of ten not Japanese, but a dead language--a language that was dead because I myself had murdered it. In some other city I might have felt annoyance over being delivered at the wrong address. But in Tokyo I never really cared where I was going, I found it all so charming. Once a kurumaya trotted with me for three hours around the city to reach a place he should have reached in one. I knew I would be hours late for my appointment. I knew I ought to fret. But did I? No! Because of all the things that I was seeing. I saw the bean-curd man jogging along the street with a long rod over his shoulder, at each end of which was suspended a box of _tofu_, which he announced at intervals by a blast on a little brass horn: "Ta--ta: teeya; _tee-e-e_--ta!" I saw a thicket of bamboo. I saw a diminutive farmhouse, with mud walls and a deep straw thatch, and in the doorway was a bent old white-haired woman seated at a wooden loom, weaving plaid silk. And behind the bamboo fence and the flowering hedge, stood a cherry tree in blossom. It began to rain. In any other land I might have felt annoyance over so much rain as we were having. But not so in Japan. Japan could not look gloomy if it tried. Rain makes the landscape greener and the flowers fresher. It makes the coolies put on bristling capes of straw which shed the water as a bird's feathers do, and transform the wearer into a gigantic yellow porcupine. It makes the people leave off the little cotton shoes, called _tabi_, and go barefoot in their clogs. It makes them change their usual clogs for tall ones lifted up on four-inch stilts; and these as they scrape along the pavement give off a musical "clotch-clotch," which is sometimes curiously tuned in two keys, one for either foot. It brings out huge coloured Japanese umbrellas of bamboo and oiled paper, with black bull's-eyes at their centres, and a halo of little points around their outside edges. And as you go splashing by them with your kurumaya ringing his little bell, the women turn their great umbrellas sidewise, resting the margins of them in the road to keep their kimonos from being splattered. And even then they do not look at you severely. They understand that you can't help it. And are you not, moreover, that lordly creature, Man, whereas they are merely women? All these things I saw while I was lost, that afternoon. Then, just when I might have begun to wonder if I was ever going to reach my destination, what did I see? Under the eaves of a thatched house beside the way a bronze young mother and three children, all innocent of clothing and self-consciousness, preparing to get into a great wooden barrel of a bathtub. You never saw a sweeter family picture!... Yes, the Japanese are peculiarly a clean race. It is not merely hearsay. It is a front-porch fact. [Illustration: The bath of the proletariat consists of a large barrel with a charcoal stove attached. Frequently it stands out of doors] Could any man lose patience with a kurumaya who can get him lost and make him like it? CHAPTER V _Reversed Ideas--Some Advantages of Old Age--Morbidity and Suicide--High Necks and Long Skirts--Language--Chinese Characters and Kana--Calligraphy as a Fine Art--The Oriental Mind--False Hair--The Mystery of the Bamboo Screens--A Note on Cats at Cripple Creek--The Occidental Mind_ On the day of my arrival in Japan I started a list of things which according to our ideas the Japanese do backwards--or which according to their ideas we do backwards. I suppose that every traveller in Japan has kept some such record. My list, beginning with the observation that their books commence at what we call the back, that the lines of type run down the page instead of across, and that "foot-notes" are printed at the top of the page, soon grew to considerable proportions. Almost every day I had been able to add an item or two, and every time I did so I found myself playing with the fancy that such contrarieties ought in some way to be associated with the fact that we stand foot-to-foot with the Japanese upon the globe. The Japanese method of beckoning would, to us, signify "go away"; boats are beached stem foremost; horses are backed into their stalls; sawing and planing are accomplished with a pulling instead of a driving motion; keys turn in their locks in a reverse direction from that customary with us. In the Japanese game of _Go_, played on a sort of checkerboard, the pieces are placed not within the squares but over the points of linear intersection. During the day Japanese houses, with their sliding walls of wood and paper, are wide open, but at night they are enclosed with solid board shutters and people sleep practically without ventilation. At the door of a theatre or a restaurant the Japanese check their shoes instead of their hats; their sweets, if they come at all, are served early in the meal instead of toward the end; men do their _saké_ drinking before rather than after the meal, and instead of icing the national beverage they heat it in a kettle. Action in the theatre is modelled not on life but on the movements of dolls in marionette shows, and in the classic _No_ drama the possibility of showing emotion by facial expression is eliminated by the use of carved wooden masks. [Illustration: Sawing and planing are accomplished with a pulling instead of a driving motion] Instead of slipping her thread through the eye of her needle a Japanese woman slips the eye of her needle over the point of her thread; she reckons her child one year old on the day it is born and two years old on the following New Year's Day. Thus, when an American child born on December thirty-first is counted one _day_ old, a Japanese child born on the same day is counted two _years_ old. Once when I was dining at the house of a Japanese family who had resided for years in New York, their little daughter came into the room. Hearing her speaking English, I asked: "How old are you?" "Five and six," she answered. Then she added, by way of explanation, that five was her "American age" and six her "Japanese age." Old age is accepted gracefully in Japan, and is, moreover, highly honoured. Often you will find men and women actually looking forward to their declining years, knowing that they will be kindly and respectfully treated and that their material needs will be looked after by their families. Old gentlemen and ladies are pleased at being called grandfather and grandmother--_o-ji-san_ and _oba san_--by those who know them well, and elderly unmarried women like similarly to be called _oba san_--aunt. The same terms are also used in speaking to aged servants and peasants whom one does not know, but to whom one wishes to show amiability. The duty of the younger to the older members of a family does not stop with near relatives, but includes remote ones, wherefore poorhouses have until quite recently been considered unnecessary. It seems to me that one of the most striking differences between the two nations is revealed in the attitude of Japanese school and college boys. Instead of killing themselves at play--at football and in automobile accidents--as is the way of our student class, Japanese boys not infrequently undermine their health by overstudy, and now and then one hears that a student, having failed to pass his examinations, has thrown himself over the Falls of Kegon at Nikko. Undoubtedly there is a morbid strain in the Japanese nature. Translations of the works of unwholesome European authors have a large sale in Japan, and suicides are by no means confined to the student class. Poisoning, and plunging before an oncoming locomotive are favourite methods of self-destruction. Once when I was riding on an express train I felt the emergency brakes go on suddenly. A moment after we had stopped I saw a woman running rapidly away on a banked path between two flooded rice-fields with a couple of trainmen in pursuit. They caught her, but after a few minutes' agitated talk during which they shook her by the sleeves as though for emphasis, let her go. We were told that the engineman had seen her sitting on the track. Two or three days later I read in a newspaper that a woman had committed suicide beneath a train at about the place where I witnessed this episode. Her husband, the paper said, had deserted her. I suppose it was the same woman. Another curious inversion is to be found in the Japanese point of view concerning woman's dress--and undress. I have been told that our style of evening gown, revealing shoulders, arms and ankles (to state the matter mildly), does not strike the Japanese as modest. Certainly the mandate of the Japanese Imperial Court is not the same as that of the French _modiste_ (how curiously and inappropriately the word suggests our word "moddest"!) for whereas, at the time of writing, the latter decrees skirts of hardly more than knee length, the former decrees, for ladies being presented at court, skirts that touch the ground. Considering the foregoing facts it is, however, somewhat perplexing to the Occidental mind to find that men and women often dress and undress, in Japanese inns, with their bedroom shoji wide open, and that furthermore they meet in the bath without, apparently, the least embarrassment. Like the English, the Japanese are persistent bathers, but whereas the English take cold baths the Japanese bathe in water so hot that we could hardly stand it. And when they have bathed they dry themselves with a small, damp towel, which they use as a sort of mop. Also like the English they drive to the left of the road. There is much to be said for that, but some of their other customs of the road surprise one. Wherever they have not been "civilized" out of their native courtesy you will find that one chauffeur dislikes to overtake and pass another. Surely to an American this is an inversion! When a procession of automobiles is going along a road and one of them is for some reason required to stop, the cars which follow do not blow their horns and dash by in delight and a cloud of dust, but draw up behind the stationary car; and if it becomes necessary for them to go on, the chauffeurs who do so apologize for passing. This custom, which is dying out, comes, I fancy, from that of ricksha-men, who never overtake and pass each other on the road, but always fall in behind the slowest runner, getting their pace from him, protecting him against the complaints which his passenger would make if others were continually coming up behind and going by. * * * * * Of all differences, however, none is more pronounced than that of language. Instead of a simple alphabet like ours, the fairly educated Japanese must know two or three thousand Chinese ideographs, and a highly cultivated person will know several thousand more. To be sure, there is a simple way of writing by a phonetic system, not unlike shorthand, which is called _kana_. Every Japanese can read kana, which is sometimes also mastered by foreigners long resident in Japan. There are but forty-eight characters in kana, and as the characters have in themselves no meaning, but signify only a set of sounds, they can be used to write English names as well as Japanese words. My own name is written in kana characters having the following sounds: _Su-t[=o]-rii-t[=o]_--which being spoken in swift succession produce a sound not unlike "Street." [Illustration: su t[=o] ri a character denoting that the preceding syllable is long t[=o] Dono or Esquire--a Chinese character] The Chinese ideographs used by the Japanese have the same forms as the characters used in China, but are pronounced in an entirely different way, so that the Japanese and Chinese can read each other's writing, yet cannot talk together. Books and newspapers published in Japan are printed in a mixture of Chinese characters and kana, and there is, moreover, beside each Chinese character in newspapers a tiny line of kana giving the sound of the word represented. In this way a reader of newspapers gets continual instruction in the written language and finally comes to know the most frequently used words from the ideographs, without referring to the kana interpretation. Thus there are actually two ways of reading a Japanese paper. A thoroughly educated man reads the ideographs, while a poorly educated one reads the kana, which gives him the sound of a word that he knows by ear, though he does not know it by sight when it is written in the classic character. These conditions, of course, eliminate the use of our sort of typewriter, though there is an extremely complicated and slow Japanese typewriter which is used chiefly where carbon copies are required. Also, they render the use of the linotype impracticable, and make hand-typesetting an extremely complicated trade. The difficulty of learning the Chinese characters, moreover, makes it necessary for students to remain in school and college several years longer than is the case with us. There is a movement on foot to Romanize the Japanese language, just as in this country there is a movement to adopt the metric system; but practical though such improvements would be in both cases, the realization of them is, I fear, far distant, because of the difficulties involved in making the change. And, indeed, from the standpoint of picturesqueness, I should be sorry to see the Chinese characters discarded, for they are fascinating not only in form but by reason of the very fact that we never, by any chance, know what they mean. The Japanese write with a brush dipped in water and rubbed on a stick of India-ink; they seem to push the brush, writing with little jabs, instead of drawing it after the hand, even though they write down the column. Calligraphy is with them a fine art; and beautiful brushwork, such as we look for in a masterly painting, is a mark of cultivation. Because of their drilling with the brush almost all educated Japanese can draw pictures. Short poems and aphorisms written in large characters by famous men are mounted on gold mats and hung like paintings in the homes of those so fortunate as to possess them. A scription from the hand of General Count Nogi or Prince Ito would be treasured by a Japanese as we would treasure one from the hand of Lincoln or Roosevelt--possibly even more so, for where a letter from one of our great men has a sentimental and historical value, a piece of writing from one of their great men has these values plus the merit of being a work of art. Such bits of writing bring large prices when put up at auction, and forgeries are not uncommon. In its structure the Japanese language is the antithesis of ours. Lafcadio Hearn declares that no adult Occidental can perfectly master it. "Could you learn all the words in the Japanese dictionary," he writes, "your acquisition would not help you in the least to make yourself understood in speaking, unless you learned also to think like a Japanese--that is to say, to think backward, to think upside down and inside out, to think in directions totally foreign to Aryan habit." The simplest English sentence translated word for word into Japanese would be meaningless, and the simplest Japanese sentence, translated into English, equally so. To illustrate, I choose at random from my phrase book: "Please write the address in Japanese." The translation is given as: _Doka Nihon no moji de tokoro wo kaite kudasai_. But that sentence translated back into English, word for word, gives this result: "Of beseeching Japan of words with a place write please." And there is one word, _wo_, which is untranslatable, being a particle which, following the word _tokoro_, "a place," indicates it as the object of the verb. I shall mention but one more inversion. The Japanese use no profanity. If they wish to be insulting or abusive they omit the customary honorifics from their speech, or else go to the opposite extreme, inserting honorifics in a manner so elaborate as to convey derision. * * * * * Numerous and curious though these reversals be, they are but the merest surface ripples upon the deep, dark, pool of Japanese thought and custom. At first I did not quite grasp this fact. In my early days in Japan, when I was asking questions about everything, it sometimes looked to me as if the average Japanese was constitutionally unable to give a direct and simple answer to a direct and simple question, and my first impression was that this was due to some peculiarity of the far-famed Oriental Mind. But that impression soon changed--so much so that I am now disposed to doubt that such a thing as the Oriental Mind exists in Japan, if by that term is meant a mental fabric constitutionally different from that of Occidental peoples. That is to say, I believe the average Japanese child starts out in life with about the same intellectual potentialities as the average American, English, French or Italian child, and that differences which develop as the child grows older are not differences in mental texture, but only in the mental pattern produced by environment. My contention is not that Japanese brains are never imperfect or peculiar, but that their imperfections and peculiarities are precisely those found everywhere else in the world. And the same rule applies, of course, when one compares the great intellects of Japan with the great intellects of other nations. At bottom we are much more of a piece with the Japanese than either they or we generally suppose. The differences between us, aside from those of colour, size, and physiognomy, are almost entirely the result of our opposite training and customs and the effect of these upon our respective modes of thought. Neither nation has a corner on brains nor on the lack of them. In a hotel in Kobe a lady of my acquaintance ordered orange juice for breakfast. The Japanese "boy"--waiters and stewards are all "boys" in the Far East--presently returned to say that there was no orange juice to be had that morning. But he added that he could bring oranges if she so desired. The Oriental Mind? Not at all. The Orient has no monopoly of stupid waiters. The same thing might have happened in our own country or another. And that is the test we should apply to every incident which we are inclined to attribute to some basic mental difference between the Orientals and ourselves. _Granted the same background, could not this thing have happened in an Occidental country?_ Never, in Japan, was I able to answer that test question with a final, confident "No." Sometimes, however, I thought I was going to be able to. One day on the Ginza, the chief shopping street of Tokyo, I saw a well-dressed young lady strolling along the walk with her long, beautiful hair hanging down her back, and false hair dangling from her hand. She was evidently returning from the hairdresser's where she had been for a shampoo. The situation, from my point of view, was precisely as if I had seen a similar spectacle on Fifth Avenue. But when I spoke about it to Yuki, who besides being our maid was our guide, philosopher, and friend, she assured me that the young lady was quite within the bounds of custom. "We Japanese no think it shame to have false hair," she said. Once I thought I had the Oriental Mind fairly cornered, and had I not later chanced to discover my mistake I should probably be thinking so still. I was driving in an automobile with a Japanese gentleman, a director in a large pharmaceutical company. Parenthetically, I may say that he had been telling me how, when his company bought three hundred thousand _hectares_ of land in Peru, for the purpose of raising plants from which some of their products are manufactured, the anti-Japanese press of the United States took up the story, falsely declaring that here was a great emigration scheme backed by the Japanese Government. But that is by the way. Presently we came to a place where a large building was being erected. The framework was already standing and was surrounded by screens of split bamboo which were attached to the scaffolding. Having noticed other buildings similarly screened, I asked about the matter. "Ah," said the gentleman, "the screens are to prevent the people on the streets from seeing what is going on inside." "But what goes on inside that they ought not to see?" I asked, mystified. My informant gazed at me gravely for a moment through his large round spectacles. Then he said, as it seemed to me cryptically: "It is not thought best for the people to see too much." I pondered this answer for a moment, then noted it down in my little book, adding the memorandum: "The Oriental Mind!" Doubtless I should now be making weird deductions from that brown-eyed gentleman's explanation of the screens, had I not chanced to mention the matter to another Japanese with whom I was more intimately acquainted. "But that is not correct," he said, smiling. "The screens are not there to prevent people from seeing in, but to prevent things from falling on their heads as they pass by." The bamboo screens, in other words, served precisely the protective purpose of the wooden sheds we erect over sidewalks before buildings in process of construction. The pharmaceutical gentleman did not know what they were for, just as we do not know the uses of a great many things we see daily on the streets of cities in which we live; he was anxious to be helpful to me; he did not wish to fail to answer any question I might ask him; so he guessed, and guessed wrong. But as any reporter can tell you, the practice of passing out the results of guessing in the guise of accurate information is by no means exclusively a Japanese practice. Reporters sometimes guess at things themselves, but that is not what I mean. I mean that a conscientious reporter now and then finds himself deceived by misinformation coming from some source he had supposed reliable. In writing about American towns and cities I have more than once been so deceived. An old inhabitant of Colorado told me that the altitude of Cripple Creek was so great that cats could not live there. Later, however, I learned that cats can perfectly well live in Cripple Creek despite the altitude. Indeed some cats having but little regard for the character of their surroundings do live there. It is only the more critical cats who cannot stand the place. Every American knows that he could be asked questions about his own country and its ways which he could not answer accurately offhand, but in a foreign land he expects every resident of that land to be able to explain anything and everything. I wonder if the Japanese expect as much of us when they question us. "Why do you say 'Dear me!'?" I once heard a Japanese gentleman inquire of an American lady. And though the lady explained why she said "Dear me!" I doubt that the Japanese gentleman was able to understand. I know that I was not. Another Japanese who had been in New York wished to know why we called a building in which there were no flowers "Madison Square _Garden_," and why ladies called a certain garment, once generally worn by them, a "petti_coat_," although it is distinctly not a coat, but a skirt. My answers to these questions were, to put it mildly, vague, and I suppose my questioner said to himself as he listened to me: "Ah, the Occidental Mind! How curiously it works!" CHAPTER VI _Interlocking Ideas--Customs and Symbolism--Simplicity versus Complexity--Flower Arrangement--Teaism--The Egg-Shaped God--The Feudal Era--Ceremonial Tea--Household Decoration--Keys to Japan--The Seven Blind Men_ When I had been several weeks in Japan, striving continually to gain some comprehension of the people and their ways, I began to feel a little bit discouraged. Never had I been so fascinated by a foreign land. Never in so short a time had I seen and heard so much that was new and strange and charming. Yet never had my observations been so fragmentary, so puzzling. My notebooks made me think of travelling-bags packed with unrelated articles of clothing. With the stockings belonging to one theme I had, as it were, packed the shoes of another. Here was a full dress coat; here a pair of overalls. Nothing was complete and no two things seemed to match. I could help to dress an army of ideas, but I wondered if I could fully clothe one. I kept asking questions, but frequently the answers led me far afield, and were incomplete and unsatisfactory. After a time, however, I began to understand why a Japanese so often fails to give a simple and direct answer to a simple and direct question about things Japanese. It is because, in many instances, no such answer is possible. Nor is this impossibility due to any mental kink in the Japanese of whom the question is asked. It is due to the fact that the thing asked about is not a simple, self-contained unit, but is a minute part of some great mass of thought or custom which must be in a general way understood before any single detail of it can be understood. It is as though you were to ask a question about a coloured pebble only to find yourself thereby involved with cosmos. Japan is a land of customs. Her customs are based on principles which are rooted in traditions, which in turn frequently rest upon foundations of history, religion, superstition, or perhaps a mythology involving all three. Thus it often seems that every little word and act of a Japanese can be accounted for in some curious, complex yet essentially logical manner--that every thought in the Japanese mind has, so to speak, a genealogy, which, like the genealogy of the Japanese Imperial Family, reaches back into the mists of antiquity. Symbolism, moreover, plays an immense part in the daily life of Japan, and this fact enormously complicates matters for the foreigner who aspires to understand the country and the people. These are some of the reasons why in an article recently written for a magazine, I called Japan "The Isles of Complexities." Yet when I mentioned the title of that article to an American friend who has lived for many years in Japan, he wrote me that he considered it a misnomer. "I should call Japan 'The Isles of Simplicities,'" he declared, "just because life there is so different from life in our own artificial civilization. I am speaking particularly of our false modesty as compared with the more natural ideas of the Japanese concerning natural functions and unnatural emotions--or emotions unnaturally excited. If you will get down to fundamentals I think you will find that we are the complex people and they the simple people. Can you, for instance, project yourself into the mind of a Martian visiting this earth for the first time, taking a trip through the dance-halls, cabarets, and midnight frolics of New York and Chicago, then going to Japan and seeing the class of entertainment there provided for natives and foreigners alike? Let such an unprejudiced outsider watch the street scenes of Japan, note the frank customs of the people, including those revealed in the community baths, and I think he would say the Japanese are essentially simple as compared with us, that they are purer in thought and action, and (though I know I am inviting contradiction) that they have on the average a higher sense of real morality." My friend makes out a good case and I agree with much that he says, but he is thinking along one line while I am thinking along another. He is thinking of the outward simplicities of Japanese life, while I am thinking of its inward complexities, especially with regard to the relation of one fact to another--I might almost say of every fact to every other fact. Let me illustrate: That grouping of flowers in a bamboo vase, which you find so satisfying, is not the result of any fancy of the moment, but is the product of an elaborate art, dating back at least five centuries. Flower Arrangement is a part of the curriculum of girls' schools and is one of the accomplishments of every lady. Hundreds of books have been written on the art and there are thousands of professional teachers of it. It has, you are informed, a philosophy of its own. Confucianism is invoked. The Universe is represented by three sprays of different height--an effect often found also in plantings in Japanese gardens. The tallest spray, standing in the middle, symbolizes Heaven; the shortest, Earth; the intermediate, Man. There may be five, seven or nine sprays, but the principle of Heaven, Earth and Man must be preserved. There must never be an even number of sprays, and four is a number to be avoided above all others, since _shi_, the Japanese word for "four", also means "death." Significance likewise attaches to the species of blooms and branches used. The plum blossom, which is sent to brides, symbolizes purity, and also, because it flowers when snow is on the ground, stands for courage in adversity. But just when you begin to flatter yourself that you have acquired some understanding of Flower Arrangement you meet some one who does not follow the tenets of the particular school of Flower Arrangement you have heard about--which, let us say, is the popular Ikenobo school--but believes in the teachings of the Enshiu school, the Koriu school, or the Nagéire--"thrown in"--school. Or perhaps he favours the kindred art called Morimono--"things-piled-up"--which deals with compositions of fruit and vegetables; or the Morihana school, which applies the "things-piled-up" principle to flowers; or that other kindred art which teaches the making of "tray landscapes"--pictures drawn on the flat surface of a tray in pebbles and various kinds of sand. The essential point in all Flower Arrangement is that there shall be form and balance, yet that the composition shall not be perfectly symmetrical, as perfect symmetry is not found in nature. In order to attain the desired effects the flower-stalks and branches used are carefully bent and twisted, and this work is done with such delicacy and dexterity as to conceal the fact that their forms have been altered by artificial means. I have seen a Flower Master make waterlilies stand upright on their stalks by forcing water up through the stalks with a syringe. He then set them on one of those flat metal flower-holders we have lately been learning to use in this country, so arranging them in a shallow bowl that there was an open space between the stems, which he said was "for the fish to swim through"--though the fish was in this case purely a creature of his imagination. Many methods of making flowers draw water are also taught. Especially in the case of chrysanthemums, the ends of the stalks are burned; the end of a hardwood branch is often crushed so that it admits water more freely; certain flowers are put in hot water; others are dipped in a solution of strong tea and pepper. The origin of Flower Arrangement is traced by Okakura to a time when ancient Buddhist saints "gathered the flowers strewn by the storm and, in their infinite solicitude for all living things, placed them in vessels of water." We are told that Soami, a painter of the Ashikaga period, was an adept, and that Juko the Tea Master was his pupil. Flower Arrangement thus became a recognized art in the fifteenth century, albeit not an independent art, since it was at first a branch of Teaism. Teaism? They tell you you cannot understand Flower Arrangement unless you also understand Teaism. What is Teaism? Here is unfolded to you a further range for study. You knew, of course, that the first thing which happens when you pay a call in Japan, be it a business or social call, is the arrival of a cup of clear Japan tea, and that the second and third things which happen are the arrival of the second and third cups. You knew that the tea of Japan is green tea, and that it is taken without cream or sugar from cups having no handles. You knew, perhaps, that such tea is made with hot--_not_ boiling--water. But were you aware that tea is in its highest sense not a beverage, but a creed, a ritual, a philosophy? The discovery of the brew is said to have been made by the Chinese Emperor Chinnung, in the year 2737 B.C., but the mythology of Buddhism traces the creation of the tea-bush itself to the diverting god Daruma--that amusing egg-shaped fellow often represented in a child's toy which, when pushed over, persists in rolling back to an upright position, thereby symbolizing unflagging aspiration. "Down seven times--up eight times," the Japanese say of Daruma. Having meditated day and night for weeks, Daruma fell asleep. On awakening he was so vexed with his drowsy eyelids that he cut them off and flung them to the ground, where they sprouted into plants from the leaves of which a sleep-destroying beverage might be made. The seeds of the tea-plant were brought to Japan from China in the year 805 A.D., but the initiation of the habit of tea-drinking is generally dated from the time, about four centuries later, when the priest Eisai, of the Zen sect of Buddhists--a favourite sect among artists and tea-drinkers to this day--wrote a treatise on "The Salutary Influence of Tea-Drinking," which he presented, along with a cup of tea, to one of the early _shoguns_, who was ill. Thus tea was first taken as a medicine "to regulate the five viscera and expel evil spirits." Not long after this we find the drinking of tea becoming a pastime of the nobility, and by degrees we see the development of aesthetic practices in connection with it. Art objects were displayed when people met for tea; sumptuous tea-parties were given by _daimyos_, and one writer tells us that there came a period of decadence in the Feudal Era when warriors would lay down the sword in favour of the teapot, and die cup in hand when their castles were taken by their enemies. * * * * * Let me digress here to speak briefly of the Feudal Era, the most interesting era of Japanese history. It lasted from the twelfth to the middle of the nineteenth century--that is, throughout the period during which Japan was ruled not by its Emperors, but by several successive families of shoguns, or as for reasons given later they were sometimes called, _tycoons_. Though the shoguns usurped Imperial power it is a noteworthy fact that they did not usurp the throne itself nor attempt to destroy the Imperial family, but were content to keep the successive emperors in a state of impotence. Under the shoguns were the daimyos, powerful feudal lords acting in effect as provincial governors; and each daimyo had his _samurai_, or fighting men, holding rank in several grades. There was also a class of samurai known as _ronin_ who acknowledged no lord as their master, but were independent fighters and trouble-makers. I give this outline because these various terms confused me at first. There was but one shogun at a time; the daimyos numbered between two and three hundred, and it has been estimated that there were some two million samurai. With a very few exceptions--among them rich farmers and swordmakers--no one below the rank of samurai could wear a sword. The sword-wearing class was the ruling class, and ordinary workers were regarded as of little consequence. A samurai could strike down with his sword any plebeian who jostled him by accident, or who as much as looked at him in a manner which he found distasteful. The rank of samurai corresponded with that of knights in feudal Europe, and Japanese families who are descended from samurai are proud of the fact, precisely as some European families, and indeed some American families, are proud of having sprung from knightly forbears. * * * * * But to return to our tea. A Zen priest named Shuko is said to have originated the idea of associating with the habit of tea-drinking the cultivation of "the four virtues"--urbanity, purity, courtesy, and imperturbability--and this conception, originating about the middle of the fifteenth century, is to this day a tradition of the Tea Ceremony, or _cha-no-yu_. The great soldiers Nobunaga and Hideyoshi, chief figures of the latter half of the sixteenth century, were addicts of the Tea Ceremony. It was Hideyoshi who caused the Tea Master, Sen-no-Rikyu, to consider the various schools of Ceremonial Tea which had developed, and codify them. The keynote of the ceremony prescribed by Sen-no-Rikyu was "simplicity" of a most elaborate kind. There must be a special teahouse in the garden--though in recent times a special tearoom in the house is considered adequate. The teahouse was required to be small. Its exact dimensions were given, down even to the height of the doorway, which was so low as to compel guests to enter with bowed heads. The house must be simple in the extreme, yet built of the choicest woods. The character of the tea equipment was specified, as was the nature of the decorations. This was where Flower Arrangement originally came in. A _kakemono_--one of those Oriental paintings mounted on a vertical panel of silk arranged to roll up on a cylindrical piece of wood and ivory attached to its lower margin--must hang in the shallow alcove which is the place of honour in every Japanese room; and beneath the kakemono must be displayed an object of art or an arrangement of flowers having a certain relationship to the painting. For example, if the painting be that of a lion the suitable flower to be displayed beneath it is the peony, because the lion is the king of beasts and the peony the king of flowers. This is merely one simple instance of an artistic association of ideas, infinite in number and sometimes complicated in character. Yet these decorative affinities are understood not only by the highly educated Japanese, but by a large proportion of the people--for the feeling for art is, I believe, distributed more widely amongst the people of Japan than amongst those of any other nation. The Japanese do not jam their homes with furniture and decorations as we so often do, but exhibit their art treasures a few at a time, keeping most of them put away. It is said that Japanese rooms look bare to the average foreigner. To me, however, their rooms do not look bare, but have an air of exquisite refinement seldom found in an American or English room. Some Americans who have learned to appreciate the Japanese idea of decoration, and who imitate it superficially, nevertheless achieve assemblages of art objects which, because of the lack of relationship between them, offend the trained Japanese eye precisely as a discord offends a trained musical ear. As Chamberlain points out, the Japanese have few mere "patterns." They don't make "fancy figures" merely for the sake of covering up a surface. Their decoration means something--as indeed decoration has in its highest periods in all countries. There have been many Tea Masters since Sen-no-Rikyu, and the names of not a few of them are remembered to this day with veneration. The chief treasure of a friend of mine in Tokyo is a little teahouse, standing in his garden, which belonged some three hundred years ago to Kobori-Enshiu, Tea Master to the third Tokugawa shogun. If you would know how such associations are valued in Japan, go to an auction when some piece of Ceremonial Tea equipment, once the property of a famous Tea Master, is coming up for sale. Ceremonial Tea has practically nothing to do with ordinary tea-drinking. The very tea used for the purpose is not like other tea. It comes in the form of fine green powder which is placed in a special sort of bowl in a special sort of way, whereafter water of exactly the right temperature and quantity is added, and the mixture is whipped to a creamy froth with a tiny bamboo brush, manipulated in a special manner. Great stress is laid upon the frame of mind brought into the tearoom, as well as on the etiquette and technique governing every detail connected with the making and drinking of the tea. The bowl is passed and received according to exact rules, and there is profound bowing back and forth. First it circulates as a loving-cup amongst the guests; later a special bowl is served to each in turn. On accepting the bowl the guest revolves it gently in both hands; then with as much of the calm dignity of a Zen Buddhist as he is able to exhibit, he raises it and takes a large sip. Removing the bowl from his lips he pauses meditatively; then repeats the process. Etiquette demands that when three large sips have been taken there shall remain in the bowl enough tea to make a small sip. In disposing of this final draught great gusto must be shown. The head is thrown back in indication of eagerness to drain the last drop, and the tea is drawn into the mouth with a sucking sound which advertises the delight of the drinker. [Illustration: Nor is the potency of Ceremonial Tea diminished by the fact that it is served by a lovely little Japanese hand] The second night afterward he may be able to sleep. Ceremonial Tea is potent. Nor is its potency diminished by the fact that the hand which makes and serves it is a characteristically exquisite little Japanese hand, set off by the long soft sleeve of a flowered silk kimono. * * * * * Obviously you cannot understand Japan without understanding the Japanese woman--the nation's crowning glory. But as Lafcadio Hearn tells you, she is not to be understood without an understanding of the organization of Japanese society, which in turn, is not to be understood without a comprehension of Shintoism, the State religion. Everyone has a prescription for understanding Japan. One friend told me I could never understand it until I had grasped the attitude of the people toward the Imperial House. But that is only another way of saying that Shintoism must be understood. Many, naturally, speak of Buddhism. Others mention the feudal system, with its clan loyalty, as the touchstone, and still others assured me that a knowledge of the Tea Ceremony and the No drama were essential. "Fujiyama is the key-note of Japan," wrote Kipling. "When you understand the one you are in position to learn something about the other." Sir Charles Eliot, long before he became British Ambassador at Tokyo, wrote that it is hopeless to attempt to understand Japan without first recognizing "the peculiar spirituality of the Japanese"; but there are not wanting others to deny the existence of any such spirituality as Sir Charles describes, and who, instead, harp upon the alleged Prussianism of Japan as explaining everything. Doctor Nitobé, the gifted Japanese author, who, like Okakura, writes delightfully in English, gives us as the key to Japan the doctrine of _bushido_, or "military knight ways"; but again there are students of Japan who affirm that the system of practical ethics attributed by the doctor's patriotic pen to the samurai of old, would astound those doughty warriors could they hear of it. The book "Bushido," declare these critics, is less a key to Japan than to Doctor Nitobé. Is not the interdependence of facts, of which I spoke earlier, illustrated in the trend of this chapter, all of which, remember, grew out of a discussion of a bunch of flowers in a bamboo vase? Do you see why I called Japan "The Isles of Complexities"? And do you see that I might also call it "The Isles of Contradictions"? Perhaps you will not be surprised, then, at my confession that after having spent several weeks in Japan I found myself fascinated but also puzzled. Why, I asked myself, had I so gaily set forth under an agreement to write about Japan? Why hadn't I made it a mere pleasure trip? For it is one thing to see and be satisfied with seeing, and quite another to attempt interpretation. It has often been said that if a man stays in Japan six or eight weeks he can write a book about it; that if he stays a year or two he may write a single article for a magazine; but that if he stays several years he will be afraid to write at all. "To get the Japanese background," one friend told me, "you ought to have a month or two in Korea, and at least a year in China. Then you should come back and rent a house and live in Japanese fashion for a while." "Say about two hundred years?" I suggested. My friend smiled. "One hundred and fifty years might do," he said, "if you made every minute count." Then, perhaps because he read in my face the signs of my discouragement, he reminded me of an old fable: Seven blind men went to "see" an elephant. One of them, bumping into the great beast's side, said, "Here is a creature resembling a wall." Another, feeling the trunk, likened the elephant to a serpent; another, touching a tusk, announced that the animal resembled a spear; and still another, grasping an ear, compared the elephant to a large leaf. The one who got hold of the tail likened it to a rope, while he who embraced a leg thought of a tree, and he who crawled over the back declared that an elephant resembled a hill. There in a paragraph you have Japan and her interpreters. PART II CHAPTER VII _The Lyric Impulse--A Man-Made Product--The Remoteness of Woman Suffrage--Efforts Toward Progress--Divorce--Marriage and the Go-Between--The Rising Generation--Japanese-American Duality--Leprosy_ Lafcadio Hearn tells us that training in the Tea Ceremony "is held to be a training in politeness, in self-control, in delicacy--a discipline in deportment"; but Jakichi Inouye, a searching and sincere Japanese writer, goes even further, declaring that "the calm, sedate gracefulness of the Japanese lady of culture is the result of the study of the Tea Ceremony...." My one quarrel with Mr. Inouye is over that statement. To say that the study of the Tea Ceremony assists young ladies to attain poise is safe enough; but to say that the fine bearing of the Japanese lady is _the result_ of studying the Tea Ceremony seems to me to be going altogether too far. The bearing of the Japanese lady is a thing too exquisite to have been produced by the practice of any artificial social ritual. Such a bearing is not, in my opinion, to be classed as a mere accomplishment, though it may have been so a thousand years ago. Rather it is the reflection of an incomparably lovely spirit, the flower of countless generations of such spirits, reaching back through ages of tradition, centuries of self-abnegation. It is the crowning product and proof, not of any Tea Ceremony, but of the disciplined civilization of Old Japan. Whenever I find my thoughts reverting to the Japanese woman, I feel stirring within me a tendency to lyricism. Let Lafcadio Hearn, whose wife was a Japanese lady, speak for me. "Before this ethical creation," he writes, "criticism should hold its breath; for there is here no single fault save the fault of a moral charm unsuited to any world of selfishness and struggle.... Perhaps no such type of woman will appear again in this world for a hundred thousand years: the conditions of industrial civilization will not admit of her existence." The fact that the Japanese woman is in no small degree a man-made product does not fill me with admiration for Japanese men, as would some insentient product of their art. For whereas the artist has a right to carve what he will in wood or ivory or lacquer, to mould what he will in wax or clay or bronze, I doubt his moral right to use the human soul as a medium for his craftsmanship in making an ornament for his own home, however exquisite that ornament may be. I am well aware that in this case the end may be said to justify the means, but I am enough of an individualist to believe in our American system, even though I must admit that it has not produced so sweet and delicate an average of womanhood as has the Japanese system. Women as we produce them exhibit a much wider range of types than may be found in Japan, and though a vulgar American woman, be she rich or poor, attains a degree of vulgarity such as is not even faintly approximated in Japan, we also know that we produce types of women as fine as the world can show. And while I cannot speak with absolute certainty of the intellectual attainments of Japanese women, I am inclined to think that our more liberal attitude toward the sex, the greater freedom of companionship between American women and men, and the growth of the American woman's interest and share in public matters may tend to make her, at her best, a more completely satisfying comrade--not because her brains are necessarily better brains than those of the women of Japan, or of other countries, but because she has been encouraged to exercise them in a larger way. From my point of view, however, the basic question here is not the question of which system produces the highest specimens of womanhood, but that of the inherent right of the individual to develop, let the results be what they may. The Japanese woman is not allowed this freedom, since it is obviously to the interest of the Japanese man to keep her as she is. Lately there has been some agitation in Japan for what is called "universal suffrage," but it must not be supposed that by that term woman suffrage is meant. The proposal involves only the extension of the ballot to all males, as against the present system which requires that a man shall pay taxes above a certain amount in order to have a vote. Woman suffrage is not even in sight. When I was in Japan a few progressive women were asking, not for the vote, but for the abrogation of the rule which denied their sex the right to attend political meetings. They were successful. The rule was recently abrogated. A movement had also been started by some advanced women led by Mrs. Raicho Hiratsuka, for laws compelling men who wish to marry to obtain medical certificates declaring them mentally sound and free from diseases of a kind likely to be communicated to a wife. I heard that seventy out of three hundred girls employed by the railway administration in Kyoto had organized an association to aid in the advancement of the measures proposed, vowing never to marry unless their would-be husbands complied with the requirements for which Mrs. Raicho Hiratsuka and her associates were endeavouring to obtain legal recognition. Another matter that wants mending is the legal status of married women. So far as I know there has been made no serious effort to improve the present situation. Under Japanese law a woman, upon contracting marriage, is debarred from civil rights, having practically the standing of a minor. A wife cannot transfer her own real estate, bring an action at law, or even accept or reject a legacy or a gift, without the consent of her husband. Laws not dissimilar to these exist, I believe, in some of the more backward states of our own Union. According to the law of Japan a widow cannot succeed her husband as head of the family if she has a child who can take the succession. In matters of inheritance an elder sister gives place to a younger son, even to an illegitimate son recognized by the father. A husband may divorce a wife for adultery, but a wife cannot divorce a husband for this cause--or rather, she can do so only when he has offended with a married woman whose husband has therefore brought action for divorce. Thus it will be seen that a husband may even take a concubine to live in his home, along with his wife and children, without giving ground for divorce. Concubinage, I am told, is still to some extent practised in Japan, though popular opinion is against it. In one respect, however, the Japanese divorce laws are more enlightened than our own. A husband and a wife who agree in desiring a divorce may easily obtain it by stating the fact to the court. Somehow or other I came to the subject of divorce before that of marriage. The Orient and the Occident are nowhere farther apart than in their views and customs as to the mating of men and women. In Japan marriages for love rarely occur, though it is said that the tendency of young people to marry to suit themselves is growing. Young Japanese girls, I am told, often look with envy upon women of other nations, where marriage for love is the general rule. Probably they suppose that such matches are invariably happy; that the love is always real love, and that it endures for ever. No doubt our system, viewed from afar, looks as rosy to a Japanese girl as their system looks appalling to an American girl. Yet each has certain merits. The Japanese system does not suggest romance, it is true; but is romance, after all, the most essential stone in the foundation for a happy married life? Romantic notions figure too largely in some of our matches, and too little in some of theirs. And while the mature judgment of older people is with them the determining factor in the making of a match, it is too often with us no factor at all. Marriages in Japan are generally brought about by older married couples who act as go-betweens. There is a popular saying that everyone should act as a go-between at least three times. The go-between, knowing a young man and a young woman whom he regards as suitable to each other, proposes the match confidentially to the parents of both. If preliminary reports are mutually satisfactory to the two families, a meeting of the young couple and their parents and relatives is arranged on neutral ground. Any intimation of the real purpose of this meeting is tactfully avoided at the time, though the purpose of it is, of course, fully understood by all concerned. Under this arrangement either family may, without giving offence, drop the matter after the first meeting, but if the results of the preliminary inspection are satisfactory to both sides, the parents meet again and definitely arrange the match, which is made binding by an exchange of presents. [Illustration: You cannot understand Japan without understanding the Japanese woman, who is the nation's crowning glory] Chamberlain says that while, in theory, the betrothal may not be concluded if either young person objects, in practice the two are in the hands of their parents, and that "the girl, in particular, is nobody in the matter." This generalization was doubtless accurate a few years ago, and may be accurate to-day in remote parts of Japan where Western ideas have not crept in, but among the educated classes in large cities a distinct change has come over the rising generation. There is as great a gap between the older and the younger generations in Japan as in the United States, and as with us, the older people over there complain that youth is getting altogether out of hand, while youth complains that its aspirations are not understood by parents and grandparents. This does not mean that Japanese young men and young women run practically wild, as so many of our young people now are doing, but merely that the slight personal freedom they are demanding represents in Japan as great a novelty as is exhibited in the United States by the change from moderate parental control to no control at all. Yet the cults and traditions of Old Japan are vastly powerful, and though they may yield a little here and there, they will not soon be broken down. This fact is made apparent in the quick reversion to type of Japanese men and women who have lived for years in the United States, and who, when in the United States, seem to have become quite like Americans. Meet them in Japan and you see that their Occidentalism was only skin-deep. While among us they gracefully adapted themselves to our ways, and doubtless enjoyed them, but always in the back of their minds was the knowledge that they were Japanese and that they would ultimately return to Japan, there to become a part of the finely adjusted mechanism of Japanese homogeneity. I know many such men and women and find them very interesting. They have passed through an extraordinary mental and spiritual experience, generally without being confused by it. Instead of mixing their Japanese and American selves, they acquire a perfect duality. They can sit on either side of the fence, as it were, and look over calmly and interpretatively at the other side. I discussed this subject with one young matron who spent the first twenty years of her life in the United States, and who, when she moved to Japan, spoke her native tongue with an American accent. "My brothers and sisters and I went to American boarding schools," she said. "We dressed like Americans, had American boy and girl friends, went to house-parties, and grew up outwardly, just as they were growing up. But always we were taught by our parents to understand that this was not to go on for ever. "When I came to Japan and married I saw that the best thing to do was to show people that I was as Japanese as any of them. If I had kept up my foreign ways it would have been resented. So I became completely Japanese, and for a number of years did not even meet Americans who came here. Then when I had made clear my attitude and felt I was established, I began to see Americans again and entertain them." In another case a young Japanese in an American university used to tell his college friends that when he went back to Japan he would show his emancipation from old Japanese tradition by marrying as he pleased. Soon after reaching home, however, he was married by his parents to a bride he hardly knew. He speaks fluent English, I am told, and has an American side which he can show at will, but the inner man is essentially as Japanese as though he had never been away. And rightly so, of course. The Japanese who throws himself as an impediment against the movement of the great machine of national conventions is not likely to break so much as a single tooth in the smallest of its wheels, but will surely break himself. But to return to the subject of marriages: Having arranged the match, the go-between naturally takes pride in its success. He befriends the young couple; if they are unhappy he mediates between them, endeavouring to settle their difficulties; and if their unhappiness continues, and divorce is spoken of, it becomes his duty to exhaust every resource to prevent their acting rashly. Before arranging the match, however, the go-between takes precautions to provide against such dangers as may be foreseen. He must, for example, make discreet investigations as to the health of both families for several generations back, to insure against hereditary taints, among which the most dreaded is leprosy. The Japan Year Book, in most cases a useful reference work, is curiously silent on the subject of leprosy, though several pages are devoted to tuberculosis and other diseases. It was reported recently that a million Japanese have tuberculosis, but leprosy, though less contagious and consequently much less frequent, is more feared. An authority has told me that there are probably two million lepers in the world and that the only countries free from the disease are England and Scotland, from which it has been eradicated by segregation. It is estimated that New York City has one hundred lepers, and that there are cases of it in most, if not all states in the Union. Yet according to the government report only three states--California, Louisiana, and Massachusetts--make provision for the segregation and care of sufferers from this most terrible of diseases. Some people give the number of lepers in Japan as under twenty thousand. The Home Office sets the figure at sixty-four thousand. Specialists, however, say that even the latter figure is far too low, and that the actual number is nearer one hundred thousand. The first leprosarium in Japan was started twenty-eight years ago by Roman Catholic missionaries. A few years later a second leper hospital was founded by Miss H. Riddell, an Englishwoman who has been probably the greatest single influence in bettering conditions for the Japanese lepers. Miss Riddell's leprosarium at Kumamoto, south Japan, was, I believe, used by the Japanese Government as a model for the State leprosariums of which there are now five. Other such institutions are operated by missionaries and private individuals, but the work must be greatly extended if it is hoped to check the spread of the disease, to say nothing of stamping it out. A Japanese friend of mine who has frequently acted as go-between in arranging matches for employees of a large company of which he is an official, tells me that girls in families tainted with leprosy are often exceptionally beautiful, and that they frequently have very white skins. In certain parts of Japan where leprosy is common there are, he tells me, rich families having beautiful daughters for whom it is impossible to find husbands in the neighbourhood because of rumours that the dread disease is in their blood. Such families occasionally move to the great cities where they seek to find husbands for their daughters through matrimonial agents or by personal advertisements in newspapers. The custom of advertising for a husband or a wife has of late years grown considerably, and as has happened in this country, rascalities are sometimes discovered behind such advertisements, wherefore the police keep an eye on matrimonial agencies. One reason why accurate statistics on leprosy are hard to get, not only in Japan, but in all countries, is that families in which a case occurs will often go to great lengths to conceal it. In Japan this is particularly true because there a leper cannot marry, and leprosy is cause for divorce not only in the case of the individual actually afflicted, but in that of the victim's blood relations including those as far removed as second cousins. No wonder the go-between feels a sense of responsibility! CHAPTER VIII _Wedding Gifts--A Wife's Duties--Adopted Son-Husbands--Women in Business and Professional Life--Actresses--The "New Woman"--Kissing as a Business Custom--Film Censorship_--"Oi, Kora!"--_Women of Old Japan--The Change is Coming_ Though the Japanese system of arranged marriages is sometimes likened to the French system, the two are quite different. In France the great point is the bride's dowry, but the Japanese bride is not necessarily expected to bring a dowry of money. Her wedding present from her parents consists as a rule of furniture and clothing which they give according to their purse. The ceremonies connected with a Japanese wedding are extremely interesting, but are too elaborate to be gone into here. There is no wedding trip. The bride moves at once to the home of her husband's parents, unless she has married a younger son sufficiently prosperous and enterprising to set up a home of his own. The rule is that the eldest son continues to live under the parental roof after his marriage. Along with her name and residence the bride transfers her allegiance absolutely to the husband's family. Particular stress is laid upon her duty to her husband's mother. This fact is recognized in a textbook issued by the Imperial Department of Education for use in the higher girls' schools, which says: Absence of harmony is often witnessed between a husband's mother and her daughter-in-law, and this is often traceable to the latter's disobedience and undutifulness. The mother-in-law may be too conservative to get on smoothly with the young daughter-in-law trained in new ideas, but dutifulness, patience, and sincerity on the latter's part will bring on peace and harmony.... If, on the contrary, the daughter-in-law, while tolerant of her own weaknesses, is critical toward her husband's mother and complains of her heartlessness, she will only betray her own unworthiness. These points should always be kept in mind by young girls. Young Japanese heiresses are doubly fortunate since their affluence provides, among other comforts, a means of escaping the dreaded mother-in-law. Instead of moving to her husband's home, an heiress will often bring her husband to the shelter of her own paternal roof, where by adoption he becomes a son of her family, taking the family name. One hears that the bed of roses sought by some of these _muko-yoshi_, or adopted son-husbands, does not prove always to be free from thorns, and there is a Japanese proverb which advises: "If you have left so much as a pound of bad rice, don't become a muko-yoshi." The muko-yoshi is not, however, always married to an heiress. Poor families having daughters, but no sons, will often take in a muko-yoshi to perpetuate the family line under the ancestral roof. [Illustration: A laundry on the river's brim] When all is said, there is no question that the condition of Japanese women is slowly improving, although the woman movement there is still in the academic stage. Little by little the example of women in America and England is making itself felt, and the educational opportunities open to women are gradually increasing. The average college for women is not, to be sure, comparable with the ordinary college for men, but there is said to be one university of really high standing which is open to women, and a number of other co-educational institutions are listed as fairly good. Waseda College is now opening its doors for the first time to women as well as men, and though women cannot graduate from Tokyo Imperial University, I am informed that they are permitted to attend lectures there. Women are going more and more into business and professional life. Great numbers of them are now employed in the government postal and railway offices, in the offices of prefectures and municipalities, and, of course, in the telephone service, as well as by private companies of all kinds. Employers report steady improvement in the standard of intelligence and capability among their woman employees. Women, they say, do their work well and are usually content with small salaries. In seeking positions they generally declare that they wish to occupy themselves profitably between the time of leaving high school and that of marrying. Eliminating, for the time being, the geisha, who because of her curious occupation will be separately discussed, and who does not in any case fit into a discussion of woman's progress, since she is in some measure a barrier to it, we find that the medical profession is probably the most profitable field for woman workers. There are some seven or eight hundred woman doctors in Japan, of whom almost half are graduates of the Tokyo School for Women, founded by a woman physician, Dr. Y. Yoshioka. Trained nursing is also a popular occupation, and many girls have lately been leaving office and telephone work to take it up, chiefly for the reason that trained nurses receive from $1 to $1.25 per day, which is considered good pay. Until ten or a dozen years ago there were no actresses in Japan, female rôles invariably having been played by men, but the octogenarian Baron Shibusawa (lately created Viscount), who has done so much toward liberalizing the thought of Japan in many lines, founded a school for actresses, with the result that there is now a place for them, and that a few have come to be well known, although none is as yet so popular as are the best-known actors. Actors hold in Japan a social position similar to that held by Occidental players a century or more ago. They are distinctly a lower caste, and while they are admired for their art, and are adored by young girls as matinée idols are with us, they are considered as belonging to a social stratum in which geisha and wrestlers figure. There are now perhaps a dozen or more women working as reporters and special writers on the various Tokyo newspapers. Miss Osawa, who started work on the _Jiji Shimpo_ twenty-one years ago, is, I believe, the dean of Japanese woman journalists. There are more than twenty well-known monthly magazines for women, many of them edited by women and largely contributed to by woman writers. Authorship is a traditional occupation for women in Japan, women's names being among the greatest in the nation's ancient literature--in which connection it is interesting to note the fact that some of the old-time authoresses were courtesans. One hears a good deal of talk of the "new woman" in Japan, and perhaps the surest indication that she is coming into being is the fact that supposedly humorous postcards are sold on the Tokyo streets, in which the new woman is shown in various dictatorial attitudes before a cringing husband. Once, at a dinner I attended in Osaka, a woman who runs a business training school for girls, arose and made a short speech. I noticed that while she spoke not a few of the men smiled pityingly. From this item American women old enough to recall the early days of the woman movement in this country will have no difficulty in estimating the distance that the Japanese woman has yet to go. Japanese ladies who have the time and the inclination for charitable activity accomplish a great deal. The W. C. T. U. is active in Japan, Mrs. Yajima, its president, a lady who, in 1920, at the age of eighty-eight, went to England for the International W. C. T. U. Convention, being perhaps the leader among progressive women of the land. The Red Cross has a large membership, and the Y. W. C. A., like the Y. M. C. A., has a firmly fixed and useful place, carrying on a wide variety of activities. Among these are classes to teach young girls the ways of the business world which is so rapidly opening to them. As an indication of the need for such instruction, a lady who works in the Y. W. C. A. in Tokyo told me of a case in which a Japanese girl who came for instruction reported that she was in the habit of kissing her foreign employer good morning and good night, in the belief--a belief we must suppose to have been inculcated by him--that such was the general business custom. It is often said that the Japanese never kiss. Bowing is the national form of salutation, though those accustomed to meet foreigners shake hands with them. The fact as to kissing is that one never sees it, even between mother and child, and that this is interpreted as signifying that kissing is unknown. That is not the case. I own an old print by Utamaro which shows a man and a woman kissing with the greatest zeal. The Japanese simply do not kiss indiscriminately or in public places. The feeling against demonstrations of affection in public is so strong that when American motion pictures were first taken to Japan, audiences would hoot at those tender passages so much enjoyed by some persons in this country. For several years past, however, all such representations have been cut from American films intended for exhibition over there. This work is done by an American who lives in Japan, and who has made up what is probably one of the strangest films in the world by assembling all the cuts into one awful reel of lust and osculation, in which figure most of the widely known American movie stars. This film he sometimes runs off privately for his friends, and it is said to leave those who witness it in a frame of mind to vote kissing a capital offence. In a rather pitiful list of ten requests made by a Japanese wife to her husband, and exhibited as a poster at the Girls' Industrial School of Tokyo, was the appeal: "Please stop saying '_Oi, kora_,' when you call me." _Oi_, the expression used by most Japanese husbands when they call their wives, is about equivalent to our "Hallo!" or "Hey!" Sometimes a husband will call his wife by name, but one more often hears "_Oi_," or "_Oi, oi_," even among persons of position. _Oi_ is more familiar than rude. A man would say it to his close friend. But a woman would never say it to her husband. _Kora_ is really objectionable, being an exclamation addressed only to inferiors. Naturally, then, wives do not like it, whether they make bold to declare the fact or not. For a wife may not even call her husband by his first name, but must address him as _anata_, which is a respectful form for "you." It has been declared that the peasant woman who works beside her husband in the fields or fishing villages, or who helps him push a cart, or navigate a boat on the rivers and canals, is the happiest woman in Japan, being a real companion to him. However, that may be, there is much room for improvement in the attitude of the average middle-class Japanese toward his wife. He gets into automobiles and railroad trains ahead of her and has the air of ignoring her in public. It should be said, though, that the attitude of such husbands does not necessarily mean that they do not care for their wives. Rather it means that they are old-fashioned--that the ancient notion of woman's position, based on the teachings of Buddhism and Confucianism, has clung to them. But most of all, I think, it reveals their fear of being thought ridiculous. For if a man showed his wife what we should call ordinary civility, the old-school Japanese thought him henpecked. Strangely enough the position occupied by women in the days of Japan's early antiquity was much higher than it has since become. In olden times women took part in war, had a voice in politics, and in other ways held their own with men. In the eighth century successive Empresses occupied the Imperial throne, and the influence of certain able women was strongly felt at court; two centuries later we find a great era of literary women many of whose names are famous to this day. But soon after the introduction of Buddhism and Confucianism all this was changed. The Buddhist doctrine called women creatures of sin, treacherous and cruel; and says Confucius: "When a boy is born let him play with jewels; when a girl is born let her play with tiles." So it came about that woman's position declined until it was possible for a famous moralist to write a treatise on the Duty of Woman, containing such maxims as these: A woman should look upon her husband as if he were Heaven itself, and never weary of thinking how she may yield to him, and thus escape celestial castigation. Let her never dream of jealousy. If her husband be dissolute she must expostulate with him but never either nurse or vent her anger. Should her husband become angry she should obey him with fear and trembling and not set herself up against him in anger and frowardness. An endless quantity of such quotations may be taken from the writings of moral teachers, and in them is indicated the debt of the women of Japan to Chinese doctrines. In view of which it seems strange indeed to visit a Buddhist temple and there be shown coils of thick black rope which was used in the erection of the building, and which was made entirely from the hair of devout women who sacrificed their prized tresses for this purpose, being too poor to give aught else. Thus, while the Occident was teaching men to be chivalrous toward women, the Orient was teaching women to be, as one might put it, chivalrous toward men. But in both cases the modern tendency is toward change. The growth of woman's economic independence in this country, making her man's competitor, tends to make man less polite in his general casual contacts with her. Having elected to be his equal she must take her chances with him in the subway rush and in the scramble for street-car seats. Fifty years hence, Japan will perhaps have reached this pass, but the present rudeness of men to women is not that of equals to equals, but of superiors to inferiors; that is the thing that must be changed. And it will be changed. Slowly, very slowly, the attitude of the Japanese man toward the Japanese woman is improving. I found that evening classes were being held at the Y. W. C. A. in Tokyo for the purpose of teaching young husbands and wives how to enjoy social life together, and there is no doubt that in fashionable society the better type of modern young husband treats his wife with much more consideration and courtesy, and makes much more a companion of her, than was customary or even possible under the old régime. Twenty-five years ago it was well enough for a man to walk on the street with a geisha, but the man who walked in public with his wife was jeered at, and might even find himself a target for missiles. Though that is no longer the case, the tradition that man should assume a superior air still to some extent survives among the masses, so that for a husband to treat his wife with perfect courtesy before strangers requires, singular though it may seem, real moral courage. CHAPTER IX _Baseball in Japan--The National Sport--Wrestling and Shintoism--Fans--Wrestlers' Earnings--The National Game Building--Formalities Before the Matches--The Super-Champions--Peculiarities of Japanese Wrestling--Days Off_ Though the grip of the American national game upon Japan is sufficiently strong to have brought a Japanese university team to this country and to have taken one or two American university teams to Japan for return games, there is as yet no professional baseball in Nippon, and the kind of wrestling known as _sumo_ still maintains its ancient prestige as the national sport. Having been in Tokyo at the time of an election and again during the annual spring wrestling season, I could not but be struck by the fact that the street crowds watching the bulletin boards for the results of the physical contests were larger and more enthusiastic than the crowds which assembled to learn the results of the political struggle. The average Japanese knows, I believe, about as much and about as little of domestic politics as the average American. He has a loose idea of the structure of the government and of political machinery; he follows political leaders rather than causes, and like us he is prone to read rich meanings into the glib banalities of politicians. Wrestling he understands much better. He knows all its fine points. His enthusiasms on this subject are informed enthusiasms, and unlike the baseball fan, he inherits them from a long line of ancestors--for compared with wrestling, baseball is a brand-new sport. When the Greeks and Romans wrestled, the Japanese were wrestling, too. In the ninth century the Japanese throne was wrestled for. A Mikado died and left two sons, and these, instead of going to war against each other, left their claims to be settled by a wrestling match. The sport is, furthermore, associated, in a manner more or less diaphanous, with Shintoism. Certain Shinto traditions are connected with it, and the matches used to be held in the grounds of Shinto temples--as indeed amateur matches often are today in country districts. For many years past it has been customary to hold wrestling meets in Tokyo twice yearly, in January and May. Prior to the construction of the Kokugikwan, or National Game Building, the large steel and concrete structure in which the meets are now held, they occurred in the grounds of the Eko-in temple. January is a cold month in Tokyo and even May is often chilly, wherefore, the audience was none too comfortable at these open-air matches. Moreover, Japan is a rainy land; the old open-air matches had frequently to be declared off because of bad weather; sometimes it took twenty days to run off a ten-day meet. But the Kokugikwan has put an end to these difficulties. The modern Japanese wrestling fan keeps warm and dry, with the result that the sport now has more devotees than ever. During the wrestling season Tokyo is profoundly excited. Men of large affairs have a way of disappearing mysteriously from their offices. Officials of banks and large corporations are vaguely reported to be "out of town for a few days." Prince Tokugawa, President of the House of Peers, suddenly becomes a difficult gentleman to find--unless, perchance, you happen to know where to look for him. So, too, with many a man of smaller consequence. If he can afford it--often whether he can afford it or not--he drops his work and vanishes. But he does not always vanish; for if his enthusiasm for wrestling verges on dementia he may adorn himself in an eccentric manner and make himself conspicuous in the auditorium by his antics and his cries. Thus certain wrestling fans of Tokyo have come to be considered privileged characters--as, for instance, the one who always appears at the great matches in a coat of scarlet silk, which his father wore before him, and whose habit it is to prance down the aisle before the wrestlers as they march in solemn procession to the ring. When I inquired about tickets for one of the days of the great meet I was strongly reminded of our World Series baseball games. It seemed that tickets were not to be had. Eventually, however, I managed to secure them in the way such things are secured the world over--by means of "pull." I found a friend who had a sporting friend who knew a wrestler who could get seats. The attitude of the sporting Japanese gentleman toward wrestlers resembles that of the sporting American or Englishman toward pugilists and jockeys. It is _chic_ to know them, but not as equals. One is very genial with them and at the same time a little patronizing, whereas they are expected to assume a slightly deferential manner. Perhaps the attitude of the Japanese sporting gentleman toward his favourite wrestlers is rather more like that of the Spanish sporting gentleman toward bullfighters, for in both countries it is customary for the wealthy patron to give expensive presents to the hero. But whereas in Spain handsome jewelry is sometimes thrown to the bull-fighters in the ring, it is the custom in Japan for the fan to throw his hat, coat, pocketbook, cigarette case, or whatnot to the popular idol, who later sends the trophy back to the owner, receiving in exchange a valuable gift--frequently a gift of money. Hence, though the actual pay of wrestlers is small, perquisites make the profession profitable to those fairly successful in it, and poor parents, having a son of unusually large proportions, are likely to look with resignation upon the Japanese theory that great size is generally accompanied by stupidity, and to rejoice in the dimensions of their offspring because of a fond hope that he may become a champion wrestler and grow rich. My friend the Japanese sporting gentleman (who, by the way, was a graduate of the University of Michigan) did more than obtain tickets for me. He called with his automobile and took me to the amphitheatre. "Our mode of wrestling is not at all like yours," he said, "and I want to explain it to you." It was about eleven in the morning when, after traversing several streets strung with rows of Japanese lanterns, and filled with hurrying throngs, we reached the great circular concrete building into which an eager crowd was pouring through many portals--an audience which, though made up for the most part of men, contained not a few women and some children. Many, though by no means all of the women were geisha, for wrestlers have about the same rank as geisha in the social scale, and they are often the heroes as well as the intimates of the fair entertainers. As we approached the amphitheatre the thought came to me that there is a curious sameness in the atmosphere surrounding great sporting events the world over, however little the various sports themselves may resemble one another. To approach this great building in Tokyo during wrestling week is quite like approaching the Plaza de Toros in Madrid, or the building in which _jai alai_ is played in Havana, or the Polo Grounds in New York, or the Yale Bowl, or the Harvard Stadium. The Kokugikwan is a circular building roofed with glass and seating fourteen or fifteen thousand persons. At the centre is a mound of earth with a flat top on which the ring is marked with a border of woven straw. Over the ring is a kiosk supported by four heavy posts which are respectively red, green, black, and white in colour, and are considered to symbolize the four corners of the earth. The kiosk has a roof somewhat resembling that of a temple and is embellished with curtains of purple-and-white silk which hang down a few feet below the eaves. The main floor of the amphitheatre is banked up toward the back. The seats at the ringside are reserved for the participant wrestlers; behind these are some tiers of chairs which are presumably occupied by the most frantic fans, and behind the chairs comes a great area of boxes, each seating from four to six persons. These boxes, like those of a typical Japanese theatre, do not contain chairs, but are floored with thick straw mats on which are cushions for the occupants to squat on. The only division between the boxes is a railing about a foot high. Above the main floor are two galleries running all the way around the building. The Imperial box is in the first gallery. People in the galleries sit in chairs, in front of which are narrow shelf-like tables from which luncheon may be eaten--for wrestling matches, like the old-style theatrical performances, last practically all day. During the first part of the morning, bouts between numerous minor wrestlers are run off, but at about eleven the building fills up, for everyone wishes to see the two groups of champions march in. One group represents East Japan, the other West Japan; each group contains about twenty men, and their seats are at the eastern and western sides of the ring, respectively. This representation of East and West is not literal, but is the traditional division. A man from an Eastern province may be champion of the West, and vice versa. Gross-looking creatures, naked to the waist, they enter in single file, each wearing a long velvet apron, elaborately embroidered and tasselled. These aprons, which are given to them by their patrons, are removed before the contests, a loin-cloth and short skirt of fringe being worn beneath them. Marching into the ring the champions form a circle and go through a series of set exercises, clapping their hands in unison, raising their legs high and stamping their feet violently upon the ground to exhibit their muscular flexibility. After these exercises they march out again. Next enter the supreme champions of the Eastern group and of the Western group--the two great wrestlers of Japan--popular idols who, by reason of having remained undefeated throughout three or more successive wrestling meets, are entitled to wear not only the elaborate velvet apron, but a very thick white rope wound several times about their waists and knotted in a certain way. Each of these super-champions is attended on his march to the ring by two other wrestlers. The one who precedes him is known as the _tsuyu harai_, or dew-brusher. In theory, he clears the way, brushing dew from imaginary grass before the feet of the mighty one. The attendant who brings up the rear is the _tachi mochi_, or sword-bearer; for according to old Japanese custom no wrestler except a super-champion was allowed to wear a sword, and though the sword is now only a symbol, the custom still survives, and the sword of the super-champion must be carried in behind him. To one accustomed to the sort of wrestling practised in the Western world, many of these champions do not look like athletes, since they are, as a rule, so fat that their paunches bulge like balconies over the tops of their aprons and loin cloths, and their arms and thighs tremble like jelly when they walk. Under the Japanese method of wrestling, however, each match is quickly settled, wherefore endurance is not so important as great weight and power in the first moment of attack. It is for this reason that fat wrestlers are usually the most successful. Some of them have weighed as much as three hundred and fifty pounds. But now and then there comes along a super-champion like Tachiyama, who is not very fat, and who conquers by strength, speed, and reach rather than by mere weight. When the super-champions have exhibited themselves, the two groups of lesser champions return and occupy their seats around the ring. The four referees--retired wrestlers--take seats on cushions, one at each corner of the kiosk, and the umpire, wearing beautiful flowing silks and a strange little pointed hat like that of a Buddhist priest, enters the ring and, holding up the lacquered wooden fan, which is his badge of office, announces in impressive tones the names of the two men who are about to meet. The adversaries then enter the ring and go through the same old series of stampings and flexings. Each takes a handful of salt from a box at his side of the ring, puts a little in his mouth and throws the rest upon the ground before him. This is supposed to have a purifying effect, not in the antiseptic sense, but in some occult way. Salt is often used thus in Japan. Having completed these preliminaries the two men take their positions facing each other, braced upon all fours. But this apparent readiness by no means indicates that the contest is commencing. Instead of immediately attacking, they will often remain thus poised for minutes, sharply watching each other. Then one of them will get up and take a drink, or will go for some more salt and throw it in the ring. Also one or the other will often make a false start, attacking when his adversary is not ready to accept combat; whereafter the two resume their crouching attitudes, toes braced, hands on the ground. This sort of thing may continue for ten or twenty minutes, to the accompaniment of howls from the fans, who shout the names of their favourites and bellow Japanese equivalents for such Americanisms as "Go to it!" and "Atta Boy!" But whereas the period of preparation may often be measured in fractions of an hour, the actual struggle usually consumes but a few seconds. The men spring at each other like a pair of savage fighting dogs and the contest is settled before you know it. There is none of that straining to get a certain hold, or to break one, which is so characteristic of our style of wrestling, and you never see the contestants writhing in deadly embrace upon the floor. The vanquished need not necessarily be thrown at all, though often he is. If any portion of his body, other than the soles of his feet, touches the ground, or if (whether he be thrown or not) any portion of his body touches the ground outside the ring, that means defeat. In case both men fall, or are forced from the ring together, the one who first makes contact with the ground, or first leaves the ring, is vanquished. Often a man is beaten by being bent over until he is forced to support himself on one hand, and there have been cases in which decisions were rendered merely because one man's head was bent down until his top-knot touched the floor. A wrestler will sometimes win in one hard push, backing his opponent out of the ring; but in this there is always the danger that the one being pushed will at the last moment step aside, causing the adversary's own momentum to carry him beyond the boundary, thus applying an underlying principle of _jiu-jutsu_,--or _jiudo_, as it is called in its improved form--in which a man's own strength is used to defeat him. Frequently, however, there will be a spectacular throw; and sometimes, when this occurs, the ringside seats, so coveted at wrestling and boxing matches in this country, are not highly desirable. I have seen huge wrestlers hurled through the air to land sprawling on their comrades in their seats. When a close decision has to be made the umpire confers with the referees, and at such times the audience and the two opposing groups of wrestlers are vociferous in support of the contestant they favour. To the credit of the Japanese be it said, however, that they do not yell: "Kill the umpire!" when displeased by a decision rendered in connection with their national sport; that they do not throw bottles at the umpire, and that it never becomes necessary to give police protection to an umpire whose judgment has not accorded with that of the crowd. The Japanese, you see, have not adopted every detail of Western civilization. I must have seen twenty-five or thirty bouts that day. But though I was interested I cannot pretend to find in Japanese wrestling the qualities of a really great sport. Skill their wrestlers have, but there is no call for stamina. Their style of wrestling seems to me to let off where ours begins. Japanese life runs at lower pressure than our life. There is not the nervous rush about it. Matters move at a more comfortable pace, and people seem to have more patience. An American crowd would become restless over the interminable preliminaries of each Japanese wrestling bout, and would find the bout itself unsatisfactory because of its brevity and the lack of sustained effort. The Japanese, on the other hand, seem always to be willing to wait for something to happen. One notices this in innumerable ways. Motion pictures made in Japan are likely to be, from our point of view, intolerably slow in their action. So also with the all-day plays of the typical Japanese theatre. The Japanese business man's custom of taking a day off whenever it happens to suit him is doubtless due in part to the fact that until recently Sunday in Japan was just like any other day. There was no regular day of rest. One day a month was usually appointed as a holiday for commercial and industrial workers; later it became two days a month; and at last there developed a custom of making those days the first and third Sundays of the month. For though Sunday has, of course, no religious significance in the eyes of the large body of Japanese, it seemed the most practical day to select for a holiday if only because it was a day on which the offices of American and European residents were closed. CHAPTER X _The Courageous Congressmen--Geisha and Nesan--The Maple Club--The Gentleness of Servants--Removable Walls--Dancing Girls--A Lesson in the Use of Chopsticks--"Truthful Girl"--A Toast in Saké--Drunkenness--My Friend the Amiable Inebriate--The Great Rice-Ball Mystery_ It amused me to hear, a little while ago, that a party of our Congressmen, on a junket in Japan, had been implored by certain pious Americans over there, to avoid such sinful things as teahouses and geisha. No doubt the poor devils of Congressmen had fancied they would be able to lead their own lives five thousand miles from home and constituents. And evidently they proposed to do it, for they replied with uncongressmanlike boldness that teahouses and geisha were among the things they most desired to see. That pleased me not only because it showed that a Congressman can be spunky--even though he has to go to another hemisphere to do it--but because it showed a normal human interest in what is assuredly a very curious phase of life. I, too, was interested in tea houses and geisha, and I made it a point to find out as much about them as I could. The first geisha I saw were in attendance at a luncheon for some forty persons--about half of them Americans--given by a Tokyo gentleman for the purpose of showing us what a purely Japanese luncheon was like. It was held at the Maple Club, a large, rambling Japanese-style building standing in charming gardens in the midst of one of the Tokyo parks--a Far Eastern equivalent of such Parisian restaurants as the Café d'Armenonville or the Pré Catelan. As we alighted from our rickshas a flock of smiling serving maids appeared in the doorway to greet us, indicating to us that we were to sit on the high door-step and have our shoes removed by the blue-clad coolies who were in attendance--each with the insignia of the Maple Club in a large design upon the back of his coat. (If you wish the coolie who draws your ricksha or does other work for you to wear your crest you supply his costume and pay him a few cents extra per day.) When our shoes had been checked and our feet encased in soft woollen slippers like bed-bootees, we were bowed into the building and escorted through a series of rooms with soft straw-matted floors and walls of wood and paper. Emerging upon an outer gallery of highly polished wood, we followed it, looking out over the lovely garden as we moved along, and finally reached a flight of stairs, also of wood having a satiny polish, which led to the banquet hall. Our escorts on this journey were several little Japanese maids in pretty kimonos, who, though they spoke no English, talked to us in soft international smiles. No one without a sweet nature could smile the smile of one of these Japanese serving maids. They are called _nesan_, meaning literally "elder sister." This familiar appellation is generally used in speaking to a maidservant whose name one does not know, and in the term is revealed a hint of the beautiful relationship which exists in Japan between master and servant, whether in a private house or a Japanese inn. In the great cities this old relationship is to some extent breaking down as Japan becomes Westernized, but in Japanese hotels and country inns, and in prosperous homes one sees it still. Service is rendered with a grace and friendliness which make it very charming. Even about the menservants in the houses of the rich there is nothing of the flunkey spirit. The Japanese manservant generally wears silken robes which give him a fine dignity and make it difficult, sometimes, to differentiate him from members of the family. He is extremely polite, but not rigid. You feel that he is a self-respecting _man_. As for maidservants, they are like so many pet butterflies. One of Japan's strongest claims to democracy, it seems to me, is founded on the attitude existing between master and servant. [Illustration: No one without a sweet nature could smile the smile of one of these tea-house maids. They are called _nesan_--"elder sister"] Those who have visited Japan, yet who do not agree with me as to the exquisite courtesy of the Japanese servant, will be those whose stopping places have been European-style hotels in the large cities. In such hotels the service is often poor and one occasionally encounters a servant who is surly and ill-mannered. I encountered one such in Kobe--said to be the rudest city in Japan. But by the time I ran across him I had seen enough of the real Japan to know what such rudeness signified. It showed merely that in this individual case native courtesy had been worn away by contact with innumerable ill-bred foreigners. But to return to our luncheon. As a concession to American custom our host greeted us with a handshake, and his Japanese guests walked in and shook hands instead of dropping to their knees on entering and bowing to the floor according to the old national custom. The room, which was large, well illustrated the elasticity of the Japanese style of building. Five or six private dining rooms usually occupied this section of the house, but for the requirements of the present occasion the walls forming these rooms had been removed making the entire area into one spacious chamber. It is a simple matter to remove such walls, since they consist only of a series of screens of wood and paper which slide in grooves and can easily be lifted out and put away in closets. And let me add that, though the climate of Japan is very damp, the Japanese use such thoroughly seasoned wood, and work in wood so admirably, that I never once found a sliding screen that stuck in its grooves. [Illustration: Cocoons--Five thousand silk worms eat 125 lbs. of mulberry leaves and yield eight skeins of silk, which make one kimono] For the meal we knelt upon silk cushions laid two or three feet apart around three walls of the room. As the weather was chilly there stood beside each of us a brazier, or hibachi, consisting of a pot of live charcoal standing in a wooden box. The Japanese love of finish in all things is shown in the careful way they have of banking the ashes in a hibachi, and making neat patterns over the top of them. In front of each of us was placed a little table of red lacquer about a foot high, with an edge like that of a tray, and on this table were sundry covered bowls of lacquer and of china, and little dishes containing sour pickles and a pungent, watery brown sauce. In front of every one or two guests knelt a nesan, presiding over a covered lacquered tub, containing boiled rice, which is eaten with almost everything, and even mixed with green tea and drunk with it out of the rice-bowl. Also, in attendance upon each guest, there was a geisha. Some of the geisha were women perhaps twenty years old, wearing handsome dark kimonos which they generally carried with a great deal of style, but others were little _maiko_, dancing girls, in brilliant-coloured kimonos with the yard-long sleeves of youth. The youngest of these was perhaps twelve years of age, while the oldest may have been sixteen. As I afterward learned, there is a vast difference between various grades of geisha. Those present at this luncheon were among the most popular in Tokyo. They were truly charming creatures, sweet-faced, soft-eyed and gentle, with beautiful manners and much more poise than is shown by the average Japanese lady. For Japanese ladies are not, as a rule, accustomed to our sort of mixed social life, in which husbands and wives take part together, whereas geisha are in the business of entertaining men and presumably understand men as women seldom do. Since few geisha speak English, and very few Americans speak Japanese, we travellers from abroad are rather outsiders with the geisha, and our appreciation of them must be largely ocular. But a geisha can come as near to carrying on a wordless conversation as any woman can. Mine smiled at me, filled my shallow little cup with warm saké from time to time, and showed me how to use my chop-sticks. I found the lesson most agreeable, and was presently rewarded by being told, through the Japanese friend at my side, that for a beginner I was doing very well. If you want to know what it is like to eat with chop-sticks try sitting on the floor and eating from a bowl, placed in front of you, with a pair of pencils or thick knitting needles. It is a dangerous business, and the risk is rendered greater by the fact that the Japanese do not wear napkins in their laps, and that to soil the spotless matting is about the greatest sin the barbarian outlander can commit. The Japanese napkin is a small soft towel which is brought to one warm and damp, in a little basket. It is used on the face and hands as a wash-cloth and is then removed. [Illustration: Family luncheon à la Japonaise. The serving maid is kneeling in the corner at the back. If you would essay eating with chopsticks, try it with a pair of heavy knitting needles] Presently my geisha called one of her sisters in the craft to witness my progress with the chop-sticks. The new arrival was named Jitsuko--otherwise "truthful girl"--and she seemed to be quite the most fashionable of them all. Her kimono, with its dyed-out decorations and its five ceremonial crests, was very handsome and was worn with great _chic_, her obi was a gorgeous thing richly patterned in gold brocade, and I noticed that she wore upon it a pin containing a very fine large diamond--a most unusual sort of trinket in Japan. Also she wore a ring containing a large diamond. Nor was this foreign note purely superficial. For, to my delight, Jitsuko spoke to me in English. She was one of Tokyo's two English-speaking geisha, and as I later learned, had the honour of being nominated as the geisha to entertain the Duke of Connaught at dinners he attended at the time of his visit to the Japanese capital. Jitsuko and the other geisha talked together about me. Then Jitsuko paid me the compliment of saying that they agreed in thinking that I looked a little bit like a Japanese. I thanked her, and returned the compliment in kind, saying that I thought they also looked like Japanese, and very pretty ones, whereat they both giggled. By this time we had established an _entente_ so cordial that it seemed fitting that we should drink to each other. Aided by the gentleman at my side and by Jitsuko, I learned the proper formalities of this ceremony. First I rinsed my saké cup in a lacquer bowl provided for the purpose, then passed it to Jitsuko. The preliminary rinsing indicated that she was now to fill the cup and drink. Had I passed it to her without rinsing, it would have meant that she was to refill it for me--for a geisha never "plies" one with saké but waits for the cup to be passed. When she had sipped the saké she in turn rinsed the cup, refilled it, and handed it to me to drink. Thus the friendly rite was completed. I had heard that saké was extremely intoxicating, but that is not so. It is rice wine, almost white in colour, and is served sometimes at normal temperature and sometimes slightly warm. It is rather more like a pale light sherry than any other Occidental beverage, but it lacks the full flavour of sherry, having a mild and not unpleasant flavour all its own. On the whole I rather liked saké, and I found myself able to detect the difference between ordinary saké and saké that was particularly good. While on this subject I may add that liquor of all sorts flows freely in Japan. Saké is the one alcoholic beverage generally served with meals in the Japanese style, but at the European-style luncheons and dinners I attended two or three kinds of wine were usually served, and there were cocktails before and sometimes liqueurs afterward. The Japanese have also taken up whisky-drinking to some extent. They import Scotch whisky and also make a bad imitation Scotch whisky of their own. But saké still reigns supreme as the national alcoholic drink, and when you see a Japanese intoxicated you may be pretty sure that saké--a lot of saké--did it. In my evening strolls, particularly in the gay, crowded district of Asakusa Park in Tokyo--a Japanese Coney Island, full of theatres, motion-picture houses, animal shows, conjuring exhibitions, teahouses, bazaars and the like, surrounding a great Buddhist temple--I saw many intoxicated men, but I never came upon one who was ugly or troublesome. Whether because of some quality in the Japanese nature, or in the saké, this drink seems only to make gay, talkative and sometimes boisterous those who have taken too much of it. I should not be surprised if the Japanese need alcoholic stimulants rather more than other races need them. For one thing the climate of Japan, except in the mountains, is enervating; and for another, the Japanese nature is generally repressed, and saké tends to liberate it. I noticed this at another entertainment in Tokyo--a dinner of newspaper editors. Being the only foreigner there, and being enormously interested in the problems connected with relations between the United States and Japan, I launched forth, telling them my views in the hope of learning theirs. But although I sensed that they did not agree with all I said, their responses exhibited only the sort of polite tolerance that a courteous host will show a somewhat obstreperous guest. For some time I felt that I had acted like a bad boy at a party. But after the geisha had filled our cups with saké more than once, I got what I was looking for--an argument. It was a polite argument, but we had become friendly enough to speak frankly. _In saké veritas._ This was a case of just enough saké, but so far as I was able to observe, even too much saké produces no very objectionable results. I shall never forget the young man, brightly illuminated with this beverage, who came up to me one evening on the street, in a small town. He was full of a desire to practise English on me and to help me. He didn't care what he helped me to do. He would help me to buy whatever I wanted to buy, go wherever I wanted to go, or stay wherever I wanted to stay. I explained to him that I was only strolling about while waiting for a train and that it was now time for me to return to the station. "Wait!" he cried. "I like you. I am drawn to you. I have been in America. I can talk to you. We are friends. Wait!" He looked about him hurriedly, then darted into a near-by shop. In a moment he emerged and came running toward me bearing in his extended hand a curious-looking object, resembling, as nearly as I could see in the dim light, a somewhat soiled popcorn ball. This he pressed into my hand with a generous eagerness which could not fail to convey to me the fact his heart went with the gift. "It is a present. It is for you. You will remember me. Another kind might be better, but you are in a hurry." My fingers grasped something heavy but yielding and glutinous. As I thanked my new-found friend I examined it. It was a ball of rice somewhat larger than a baseball. Scattered through it were brown objects the precise nature of which I was unable to determine. I might very accurately have told the donor that I was "stuck on" his present, since the mass in my hand was held in form not merely by the cohesiveness of the rice, but also by some substance of the nature of molasses. We parted. I moved toward the railroad station where my family and friends were waiting with Yuki, our invaluable maid. As I walked along I studied the object. Obviously it was intended to be eaten. Yet there were other purposes to which it might be put. It was a thing that a Sinn Feiner would like to have in his hand as the British Premier passed by in a silk hat. Charley Chaplin would have known what to do with it. It was heavier than a custard pie and fully as dramatic. My first impulse was to drop it as soon as I could do so unobserved; but the thought occurred to me that it was probably a Japanese delicacy, and that Yuki might like it; wherefor I carried it to the station. When I offered it to Yuki she looked surprised. Her refusal was courteous but determined. "Where Mr. Street get that?" she demanded. "A man gave it to me. Here, you take it." Yuki giggled and stepped back. "But what the man give it to Mr. Street for?" "A present. What's the matter with it? Isn't it good to eat?" "Yes--good to eat." "Why don't you take it, then?" Giggling, she shook her head. "But Yuki--I don't understand. What's the joke?" Shaking with merriment she whispered to my wife. It developed that the saké-inspired Japanese had presented me with a tidbit specially prepared for prospective mothers. All things considered it seemed advisable to get rid of it at once. I threw it on the railroad track. CHAPTER XI _A Japanese Meal--Other Meals--Smoking and the Duty on Cigars--Japanese Music--Geisha Dancing--What Is a Geisha?--Their Refinement--Autumn Leaves--Filial Piety and Certain Horrors Thereof_ As the luncheon at the Maple Club was my first meal in the Japanese style I had not realized the volume of such a repast. I ate too much of the first few courses, and as a result found myself unable to partake of the last two thirds of the feast. The amount of food was simply stupendous. I might have realized this in advance, and governed myself accordingly, had I looked at the menu. But I failed to do so until driven to it by my surprise as course after course was served. This was the bill of fare: FIRST TABLE _Hors d'oeuvres--Vegetables_ _Soup--terrapin with quail eggs and onions_ _Baked fish with sea-hedgehog paste_ _Raw fish with horseradish and eutrema root_ _Fried prawns and deep-sea eels_ _Duck, fish-cake and vegetables in egg soup, steamed_ _Roast duck with relishes_ When this much had been served the nesans took up the little tables from in front of us and went trooping out of the room. As I had already eaten what amounted to about three normal dinners, I concluded that the meal was over, but not so. In they came again bearing other little lacquered tables of the same pattern as the first, but slightly smaller; whereupon, as it seemed to me, an entire second luncheon was served. The menu was as follows: SECOND TABLE _Hors d'oeuvres--Vegetables_ _Fish consommé_ _Grilled eels_ _Rice_ _Pickled vegetables_ _Fruits_ I am told that indigestion is a prevalent ailment of the Japanese, and as regards prosperous persons who do no hard physical work I can readily believe it. The toiling coolie is the only man in Japan who might reasonably be expected to digest an elaborate Japanese meal, and he, of course, never gets one, but subsists almost entirely upon a diet of rice and fish. Though some Japanese dishes are found palatable by Americans there are many things we miss in the Japanese cuisine. It lacks variety. Breakfast, luncheon, and dinner are composed of about the same dishes. The divers well-cooked vegetables which form such an important part of our diet are entirely absent from theirs, nor do they have stewed fruits, salads, sweets, or the numerous meats to which we are accustomed. Of their best-known table delicacies it may be said that grilled eels with rice are very good; that the pink fish, the flesh of which is eaten raw, is pleasing to the eye and by no means unpalatable when dipped in the accompanying _shoyu_, a brown sauce not unlike Worcestershire, made from soy beans; that though they have no cream soups, some of their soups are pleasant to the taste, albeit they have the peculiarity of being either thin and watery on the one hand, or of the consistency of custard on the other; that bamboo shoots are rather tough, lily roots sweet and succulent, and quail eggs delicious. The Japanese, by the way, domesticate the quail for its eggs, regard the cow not as a milch animal but as a beast of burden, and cultivate the cherry tree not for its fruit but for its flower. The diet of ancient Japan was even less varied than that of to-day, for more than a thousand years ago the Japanese became vegetarians, and for some centuries thereafter adhered scrupulously to the Buddhistic injunction against killing living creatures. For several hundred years they even abjured fish, but by degrees they have fallen away from the strict observance of the vegetarian doctrine, until to-day a Japanese who is at all sophisticated will thoroughly enjoy a dinner in the European style, beef and all. Indeed many of those who have travelled abroad and acquired a taste for foreign cookery make it a point to have at least one of their daily meals prepared in the foreign fashion. Government officials or wealthy cosmopolitans who entertain on a large scale usually do so in the European manner. A banquet at the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo is much like a banquet in New York, and one at the Bankers' Club is even more so, except that the meal itself is likely to be better than at our banquets. To dine with a large gathering at the Peers' Club is like dining at some great club or official residence in Paris; while as for the cocktail hour at the Tokyo Club, I cannot imagine anything in the world more completely and delightfully international. An important part of the equipment for a meal in the pure Japanese style is a smoker's outfit, consisting of a tray on which stands a small urn of live charcoal, and a bamboo vase with a little water in it--the former for lighting the tobacco, the latter a receptacle for ashes. The native smoke is a tiny pipe, called a two-and-a-half-puff pipe, with a bowl as small as a child's thimble. Finely shredded Japanese tobacco is smoked in this pipe, which is used by men and women alike, and the constant refilling and relighting of it seem to figure as a part of the pleasure of smoking. The Japanese smoke cigarettes also, and cigars, but the tobacco industry of Japan, like that of France, is a government monopoly, with the result that, as in France, good cigarettes and cigars are difficult to obtain. A visit to a government tobacco factory left me with the impression that, from the point of view of management, mechanical equipment, and perhaps also labour conditions, the plant would compare not unfavourably with some large tobacco manufactories in our own Southern States; but as to the product of this factory, the best of which I sampled, I can pretend to no enthusiasm. Japanese tobacco goes well enough in the little native pipes, but it does not make good cigarettes or cigars, and even the cigarettes made of blended tobaccos, or from pure Virginia or Egyptian leaves, would hardly satisfy a critical taste. Cigars made in Japan are uniformly poor, like the government-made cigars of France, but whereas in France it is possible to buy a good imported Havana, I found none for sale in Japan. One reason for this is that the duty on cigars is 355 per cent., so that only a millionaire can afford good Havanas. * * * * * Whether because the enormous luncheon at the Maple Club left me in a stupor, or because my mind could not adjust itself quickly to appreciation of an unfamiliar and extremely curious art, I did not find myself enchanted by the shrill falsetto singing of the geisha musicians, or the strange sounds they evoked from the samisen, fife and drums, as they accompanied the dancers. The native Japanese music, with its crude five-tone scale, is demonstrably inferior to that of Western peoples. To the foreign ear it is unmelodious, even barbarous, and yet I must say for it that the more I heard it the more I felt in it a kind of weird appeal--an appeal not to the ear but to the imagination. Even now, when I am far away from Japan, a note or two struck on a guitar, a mandolin, or a ukulele, in imitation of the samisen, conjures up vivid pictures in my mind. I see a narrow geisha street, with a musician seated in an upper window, or I get a vision of a geisha dancer arrayed in brilliant silks, posturing, fan in hand, against a background of gold screens, in the exquisitely chaste simplicity of a Japanese teahouse room. The sound that evokes the picture is not harmonious, but the picture itself is harmonious beyond expression. One thing that sometimes makes the stranger in Japan slow to appreciate the dancing of geisha, is the very fact that it is called dancing; for the term suggests to us a picture of Pavlowa poised like a swiftly flying bird, or Genée looking like a bisque doll and spinning on one toe. Dancing, to us, means, first of all, rhythm. We look for rhythm in a geisha dance, and failing to find it--at least in the sense in which we understand the meaning of the word--we are baffled. It is only one more case of preconception as a barrier to just appreciation. Many travellers, and at least one author who has written a book on Japan, have made the mistake of confusing geisha with prostitutes. This is a gigantic error. The error is kept alive by ricksha coolies who, understanding that it is a common mistake of foreigners, often use the term "geisha house" as meaning an establishment of altogether different character. A geisha house is in fact simply a house in which geisha live under the charge of the master or mistress to whom they are bound by contract or indenture. Geisha are booked through exchanges and meet their patrons at restaurants or teahouses. When not on duty they are private citizens, and it would be considered the height of vulgarity for a man to call upon a geisha at the geisha house, however innocent the purpose of his call. A further reason for the erroneous idea of what a geisha is, lies in the fact that Western civilization has no equivalent class. Geisha correspond more nearly to cabaret entertainers than to any other class we have, yet even here there is no real parallel. It is not customary in Japan--except in foreign-style hotels--to dine in public. If a man be alone in a hotel he dines by himself in his room, save that the little nesans who serve him will try to make themselves agreeable and that the proprietor may do the same. Or if a man gives a luncheon or a dinner party at a restaurant he will have a private room. Therefore, under the Japanese system, there is never a general assemblage of persons, strangers to one another, who may be entertained as a body while they are dining. Thus the geisha is a private entertainer, and in order that the most desirable geisha may be secured it is customary to make arrangements for a luncheon or dinner several days in advance. This is usually done through the proprietor of the restaurant, who is told the names of the geisha the host desires to summon, and who notifies them through the local geisha exchange. Men who frequently lunch and dine out naturally become acquainted with many geisha, and have their preferences; and if a host knows that one of his guests particularly likes a certain geisha he will generally try to arrange to have her at his party. There are three classes of geisha. Those of the best class frequently have good incomes. They are often given large presents by their wealthy patrons, and many of them are the mistresses of men of means, who sometimes take them off on week-end outings and spend a great deal of money on them. However this may be, a geisha of the first class is a creature of exquisite refinement of manner, and there is about her not the faintest suggestion of coarseness. She will be friendly, even pleasantly familiar, but never, in public, is she guilty of the slightest impropriety. I have been to many gay parties in Japan, but I have never seen a geisha or her patron behave in a way that would shock the most fastidious American lady. Naturally the situation is somewhat different among low-class Japanese and the geisha they patronize. There are vulgar geisha to entertain vulgar men. But even a low-class geisha, if sent for in an emergency to entertain a man of taste, will often be sufficiently clever to adjust herself to the situation. During the meal the geisha will sit before or beside the gentleman she is designated to entertain, chatting with him, amusing him and serving him with saké. Afterward she will join the other geisha in giving an entertainment, the part she takes in this depending upon her special talent, which may be for singing, playing, or dancing. Pretty young geisha are most often dancers, while those who are older are generally musicians. Also there are some geisha who are merely bright and pleasing and who succeed without other accomplishments. The host, making up a party, selects his geisha with these various requirements in mind, so that his whole company of geisha will be well balanced. Foreigners are generally most taken with the little dancing girls, or maiko, who are mere children, and who with their sweet, bright, happy little faces, and their bewitchingly brilliant flowered-silk costumes, are altogether fascinating. Once at a party in a great house in Tokyo I saw a score of these little creatures scampering down a broad flight of stairs, making a picture that was like nothing so much as a mass of autumn leaves blown by a high wind. These children are in effect apprentices who are being schooled in the geisha's arts. Often they are in this occupation because their parents have sold them into it as a means of raising money. With the older geisha it is frequently the same. The Japanese teaching of filial piety makes it incumbent upon a daughter to become a geisha, or even a prostitute, to relieve the financial distress of her parents. In either case she goes under contract for a term of years--usually three. A girl who is refined, pretty, and talented can raise a sum in the neighbourhood of a thousand dollars by becoming a geisha, but if she is not sufficiently talented or attractive to be a geisha, her next resource is the "nightless city." The opening to women of professional and commercial opportunities should tend to improve this situation. I am told that geisha and the little dancing girls are generally kindly treated by the geisha-masters, and the gaiety they exhibit leads me to conclude that this is true. The little dancers, in particular, want but slight encouragement to become as playful as kittens. CHAPTER XII _I Entertain at a Teahouse--Folk Dances--The Sense of Form--The Organization of Society--Jitsuko Helps me Give a Party--Pretty Kokinoyou--Geisha Games--Rivalries of Geisha--The Cherry Dance at Kyoto--Theatre Settings--Unmercenary Geisha--Teahouse Romances--Restaurants, Cheap and Costly--Reflections on Reform_ "'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue By foreign lips and eyes...." --Byron The way to see geisha and maiko to the best advantage is at small parties where the guests are well acquainted and formality can be to some extent cast off. I was much pleased when I learned enough of the ways of teahouses and geisha to be able to give such a party. My first essay as host at a Japanese dinner was not, however, entirely independent, since I had the help of a Japanese friend. It occurred at the charming Maruya teahouse, in the ancient town of Nara. [Illustration: The theatre street in Kyoto is one of the most interesting highways in the world] It was at the Maruya that I first began to feel some real understanding and appreciation of geisha dancing, and I think the thing that assisted me most was the fact that the little maiko executed several Japanese folk dances, the action of which, unlike that of most geisha dances, was to a large extent self-explanatory. One of these dances represented clam-digging. In it the dancers held small trays which in pantomime they used as shovels, going through the motion of digging the clams out of the sand and throwing them into a basket. The dance was accompanied by a song, as was also another folk dance in which two of the maiko enacted the rôles of lovers who were obliged to part because the mother of the girl was forcing her to marry a rich man. I was interested to notice in this dance that the gesture to indicate weeping--the holding of one hand in front of the eyes at a distance of two or three inches from them--is not taken from life, but is copied from the gesture of dolls in the marionette theatre. That is the gesture for a man. When a woman weeps she holds her sleeve-tab before her eyes, for it is a tradition that women dry their tears with their sleeves. When in Japanese poetry moist sleeves are spoken of, the figure of speech signifies that a woman has been weeping. [Illustration: Digging clams at low-tide in Tokyo Bay] The girls who executed the last-mentioned folk dance were respectively thirteen and fifteen years old, and they were evidently much amused by the passionate utterances they were obliged to deliver. The one who played the part of the youth--a fetching little creature with a roguish face--was unable at times to restrain her mirth as she recited the tragic and romantic lines, and her rendition of them was punctuated by little explosions of giggling, which though they cannot be said to have heightened the dramatic effect of the sad story, her audience found most contagious. Then with a great effort she would pull herself together and try to live down the mirthful outburst, lowering her voice, to imitate that of a man, and assuming a tragic demeanor which, in a creature so sweet and childish, habited in silken robes that made her like a butterfly, was even more amusing. People who follow the arts, or have a feeling for them, seldom fail to appreciate geisha dancing after they have seen enough of it to get an understanding of what it is. This, I think, is because they generally have a sense of form, and as geisha dancing is a sort of animated _tableau vivant_, a sense of form is the one thing most essential to an appreciation of it. Indeed I will go further and proclaim my belief that, to a visitor who would really understand Japan, a sense of form is a vital necessity. Japan is all form. In Japanese art even colour takes second place. Nor does the Japanese feeling for form by any means stop where art ends. It permeates the entire fabric of Japanese life. The formal courtesy of old French society was as nothing to the formal courtesy of the Japanese. The whole life of the average Japanese is so regulated by form that his existence seems to progress according to a sort of geometrical pattern. The very nation itself is organized in such a way as to suggest a compact artistic composition. Not only every class, but every family and individual has an exact place in the structure. A friend of mine who knows Japan as but few foreigners do, goes so far as to say that the shades of difference between individuals are so finely drawn that no two persons in Japan are of exactly the same social rank, and that the precise position of every man in the country can be established according to the codes of Japanese formalism. Though this may be an exaggeration it expresses what I believe to be essentially a truth. I visualize the social and political structure of Japan as a great pyramid in which the blocks are families. At the bottom are the submerged classes--among them, down in the mud of the foundation, the _eta_ or pariah class. Then come layers of families representing the voteless masses, among which the merchant class was in feudal times considered the lowest. Next come the little taxpayers who vote, and these pile up and up to the place where the more exalted classes are superimposed upon them--for in Japan it may be said that there is practically no middle class. I am told that there are now about a million families who are descended from samurai. This is where the aristocracy begins. So the pyramid ascends. Layers of lower officials; layers of higher officials, layers of ex-officials, high and low; layers of those having decorations from the Government; layers of army and navy families, and so on to where, very near the summit, are placed the _Genro_, or elder statesmen. Above them is a massive block representing the Imperial Family, and at the very peak, is the Emperor, Head of all Heads of Families. My party in Nara having given me confidence, I gave a luncheon at the delightful Kanetanaka teahouse which overlooks a canal in the Kyobashi district of Tokyo. I cannot claim much credit for the fact that this party was a success, since Jitsuko, the English speaking geisha I met at my first Japanese luncheon, was there to help me. Jitsuko's English, I must own, was not perfect. Nor would I have had it so, for I enjoyed teaching her, and learning from her. "Naughty boy!" was one expression that I taught her, and I showed her how to accompany the phrase with an admonitory shake of the finger, with results which altogether charmed the American gentlemen at my luncheon. One of these gentlemen, a new arrival in Japan and consequently entirely unfamiliar with Japanese fare, asked Jitsuko about a certain dish that was set before him. "What is this?" he demanded, looking at it doubtfully. "That fried ears," said Jitsuko. "Fried ears!" he cried. "Not really?" "Yes." But it was not fried ears. Jitsuko had the usual trouble with her _l_'s and _r_'s. She had meant to say "fried eels." Besides Jitsuko I had at my luncheon six of the lovely little maiko. One of them, an intelligent child called Shinobu--"tiptoes"--was picking up a little English. She sent for ink and a brush and wrote out for me the names of her companions. Later I had the names translated, getting the meaning of them in English--for geisha generally take fanciful names. They were: Kokinoyou--"little alligator"[1]; Akika--"scent of autumn"; Komon--"little gate"; Shintama--"new ball"; and Kimi-chiyo, whose name was not translated for me, but who was the prettiest little dancing girl I saw in all Japan. [1] "What a queer name!" a Japanese friend writes me. And he adds: "Your translation cannot be right. A little alligator might be taken for a mascot in America, but it could never be the name of a dainty little geisha." Though the Japanese idea of female loveliness does not generally accord with ours, I think Kimi-chiyo was an exception and was as lovely in native eyes as in those of an American, for she seemed very popular, and was at almost every Japanese-style party I attended in Tokyo. Moreover, though she could not have been older than sixteen, she carried herself with the placid confidence of an established belle. I have met many a lady twice or three times her age who had not her aplomb. [Illustration: The little dancing girl at the right, Kimi-chiyo, was at almost every Japanese-style party I attended in Tokyo. She carried herself with the placid confidence of an established belle] After luncheon the maiko danced for us while Jitsuko and another geisha played. Then, as my guest of honour had not yet acquired a taste for geisha dancing, the programme was changed and Jitsuko set the little maiko to playing games. First they showed us how to play their great game of _ken_, but though we learned it we could not compete with them in playing it. They were too quick for us. We pitched quoits with them--and were beaten. We played bottle-and-cup--and were beaten. And finally they introduced us to a Japanese version of "Going to Jerusalem," which they play with cushions instead of chairs, with the samisen for music. Of course they beat us at that. Who can sink down upon a cushion with the agility of a little Japanese girl? All in all, the Americans were beaten at every point--and thoroughly enjoyed the beating. I could tell a story about the president of one of the greatest corporations in America. He was at my luncheon. He is a very dignified and formidable man, and is considered able. But he can't play ken worth a cent. Kimi-chiyo herself said so. She told Jitsuko and Jitsuko told me. "In America he is a great man," I said. "He is very slow at ken," Kimi-chiyo insisted, unimpressed. "In business he is not slow," I told her. "Perhaps. But any one who is really clever will be quick at ken." I decided to avoid the game of ken in future. It shows one up. * * * * * Between the geisha of the various great cities there exists a gentle rivalry. Kyoto, for example, concedes a certain vivacity to the geisha of the five or six leading districts of Tokyo, but it insists that the Kyoto geisha have unrivalled complexions, and that the famous Gion geisha of Kyoto are more perfect in their grace and charm than any others in Japan. This they account for by the fact that the Gion geisha have a long and distinguished history, and that there is a geisha school in Kyoto, whereas the Tokyo geisha have no school but are trained by older geisha under the supervision of the master of the individual geisha-house to which they are attached. Similarly the Tokyo geisha consider those of Kyoto rather "slow," and regard the Yokohama geisha as distinctly inferior. Once I asked a Tokyo geisha to give a dance of which I had heard, but she replied with something like a shrug that the dance in question was given by the Yokohama geisha, wherefore, she and her associates did not perform it. So far as I know there is not to be seen in Tokyo or Yokohama any large geisha show, resembling a theatrical entertainment, such as one may see in Kyoto in cherry-blossom season, or at the Embujo Theatre in Osaka every May. These exhibitions are delightful things to see, the Cherry Dance of Kyoto, in particular, being famous throughout Japan. The buildings in which they are held are impressive. The one in Kyoto was built especially for the Cherry Dance, and the interior of it, while in a general way like a large theatre, is modelled after the style of an old Japanese palace. The geisha dancers and musicians are splendidly trained and the costumes are magnificent. Rapid changes of scene are made in these theatres by means unfamiliar to American theatre-goers. As in our playhouses, flies and drops are sometimes hoisted upward when a scene is being changed, but quite as frequently they sink down through slots in the stage floor. Also, in the dimness of a "dark change" one sees whole settings going through extraordinary contortions, folding up in ways unknown in our theatres, or turning inside-out, or upside-down. One feels that their stage is generally equipped with less perfect mechanical and lighting devices than ours, but that a great deal of ingenuity is shown in the actual building of scenery. One of the most astonishing things I ever saw in any theatre was the sudden disappearance of a back-drop at the Embujo in Osaka. The bottom of this drop began all at once to contract; then the whole funnel-shaped mass shot down through a small aperture in the floor, like a silk handkerchief passing swiftly through a ring. The most perfect illusion of depth and distance I ever saw on a stage was in one scene of the Kyoto Cherry Dance. From the front of the house the scene appeared to go back and back incredibly. Nor could I make out where the back-drop met the stage, so skilfully was the painted picture blended with the built-up scenery. When the performance was over I inspected this setting and found that the scenic artist had achieved his result by a most elaborately complete contraction of the lines of perspective, not only in the painted scenery but in objects on the stage. A row of tables running from the footlights to the rear of the stage had been built in diminishing scale, and rows of Japanese lanterns, apparently exactly alike, became in reality smaller and smaller as they reached back from the proscenium, so that the whole perspective was exaggerated. The stage of this theatre was not in fact so deep as that of the New York Hippodrome or the Century Theatre. At the geisha dance in Osaka I asked what pay the hundred or more geisha musicians and dancers received, and was told that they are not paid at all. There are two reasons for this. First, it is regarded as the duty of all geisha to celebrate the spring with music and dancing; and second, they consider it an honour to be selected for these festivals, since only the most skilful members of their sisterhood are chosen. Geisha, you see, are not entirely mercenary. When two or three of them go off for a little outing together, or when they shop, they spend money freely; and there are stories of geisha who pay their own fees in order to meet their impecunious lovers at teahouses. In Japanese romances the geisha is a favourite figure. A popular theme for stories concerning her is that of her love affair with a student whose family disown him because of his infatuation. The geisha sweetheart then supports him while he completes his education. He graduates brilliantly, securing an important appointment under the government, and rewards the girl's devotion by making her his bride. Or if the story be tragic--and the Japanese have a strong taste for tragedy--the student's family is endeavouring to force him into a brilliant match, wherefore the self-sacrificing geisha, whom he really loves, takes her own life, so that she may not stand in the way of his success. There was a time a generation or two ago when Japanese aristocrats occasionally took geisha for their wives, much as young English noblemen used to marry chorus girls. But those things have changed in Japan and it is a long time since a man of position has made such a match. The plain truth is that, however justly or unjustly, the geisha class is not respected. They are victims of the curious law which operates the world over to make us always a little bit contemptuous of those whose occupation it is to amuse us. Moreover, geisha are not as a rule highly educated, and it is said that this fact makes it difficult for them to adjust themselves to an elevated place in the social scale. Thus it comes about that, when geisha marry, their husbands are as a rule business men or merchants on a modest scale. Yuki our treasured maid, had a friend who became a geisha, but who retired from the profession through the matrimonial portal. "She smart girl," said Yuki. "She too head to be geisha." "Why did she become one, then?" I asked. "Her family have great trouble. Her father need fifteen hundred yen right off. Must have. So she be geisha. But after while she meet rich man in teahouse, and he pay for her, so she don't have to be geisha any more, and they get married." Some excellent people I met in Japan--Americans imbued with the spirit of reform--objected strongly to the geisha system, contending that it is a barrier to happy domesticity. They felt that so long as there are geisha in Japan the average Japanese husband will have them at his parties, and will continue his present practice of leaving his wife at home when he goes out for a good time. I suppose this is true. Undoubtedly, to the Japanese wife, the geisha is the "other woman." And as is so often the case with the "other woman," in whatever land you find her, the geisha has certain strategic advantages over the wife. Like good wives everywhere, the Japanese wife is concerned with humdrum things--the children, housekeeping, the family finances--the things which often irritate and bore a husband if harped upon. But the circumstances in which a husband meets a geisha are genial and gay. Her business is to make him forget his cares and enjoy himself. The expense of the geisha system is also urged against it. To dine at a first-class teahouse, with geisha, costs as much as, or more than, to dine elaborately at the most expensive New York hotels. It is well for strangers in Japan to understand this, since they often jump to the conclusion that the Japanese teahouse, which looks so simple--so delightfully simple!--by comparison with the gold and marble grandeur of a great American hotel dining room, must necessarily be cheaper. I remember a case in which some Americans, newly arrived in Tokyo, were entertained in the native manner by a Japanese gentleman, and felt that they were returning the courtesy in royal style when they invited him to dine with them at their hotel. Yet in point of fact their hotel dinner-party cost less than half as much per plate as his Japanese dinner had cost. While one does not value courtesy by what it costs, it is important not to undervalue it on any basis whatsoever. There is, of course, a great variation in the cost of meals in teahouses and restaurants, and the fact that those which are inexpensive look exactly like those which are expensive helps to confuse the stranger. A great deal may be saved if one does without geisha. Also there are very agreeable restaurants in which the guest may cook his own food in a pan over a brazier which is brought into the dining room. This chafing-dish style of cooking is said to have been introduced by a missionary who became tired of Japanese food and formed the habit of preparing his own meals as he travelled about. Now, however, it has come to be considered typically Japanese. There are two names for cooking in this simple fashion. The word _torinabe_ is derived from _tori_, a bird, and _nabe_, a pot or kettle; and _gyunabe_ from a combination of the word for a pot with _gyu_, which means a cow, or beef. The Suyehiro restaurants, having three branches in Tokyo, are famous for _torinabe_, as well as for an affectation of elegant simplicity and crudity in chinaware. A good place for the _gyunabe_ is the Mikawaya restaurant in the Yotsuya section, not far from the palace of the Crown Prince. [Illustration: A bill from the Kanetanaka teahouse, with items of ¥ 26.30 for food, saké, etc., and ¥ 27.80 for "six saké-servers (geisha) tips to geisha and their attendants."] To be more specific about prices, I gave an excellent luncheon of this kind for four, at one of the Suyehiro restaurants, at a cost of about four dollars and a half, whereas a luncheon for the same number of persons, with geisha, at a fashionable teahouse, which looked just about like the other restaurant, cost thirty dollars, and a dinner for eight with geisha, came to fifty-three. All tips are however included on the teahouse bill. One does not pay at the time, but receives the bill later, regular patrons of a teahouse usually settling their accounts quarterly. Adversaries of the geisha system informed me with the air of imparting scandal, that one sixth of all the money spent in Japan goes to geisha and things connected with geisha, presumably meaning restaurants, teahouses, saké and the like. "A reformer," says Don Marquis, the Sage of Nassau Street, "is a dog in the manger who won't sin himself and won't let any one else sin comfortably." That is a terrible thing to say. I wouldn't say such a thing. It is always better in such cases to quote some one else. But I will say this much: If I were a reformer I should begin work at home--not in Japan. I should join the great movement, already so well started, for making the United States the purest and dullest country in the world. I should work with those who are attempting to accomplish this result entirely by legislation. But instead of trying, as they are now trying, to bring about the desired end by means of quantities of little pious laws covering quantities of little impious subjects, I should work for a blanket law covering everything--one great, sweeping law requiring all American citizens to be absolutely pure and good, not only in action but in thought. I assume that, if such a law were passed, everybody would abide by it, but in order to make it easier for them to do so I should abolish restaurants, theatres, motion pictures, dancing, baseball, talking-machines, art, literature, tobacco, candy, and soda-water. I should put dictographs in every home and have the police listen in on all conversations. Light-heartedness I should make a misdemeanor, and frivolity a crime. Then, when our whole country had reached a state of perfection that was absolutely morbid, I should consider my work here done, and should move to Japan. But I should not stop being a reformer. Assuredly no! I should start at once to improve things over there. Take for instance this report that one sixth of all the money spent goes to geisha and such things. I should try first of all to remedy that situation. One sixth of the national expenditure represents a vast amount of money. Think of its being spent on good times! Such a lot of money! Still it isn't quite enough. A quarter or a third would be better than a sixth. It would make things perfect. Not being a Japanese wife, I should advocate that. I see but one serious objection to this plan. Should Japan become any more attractive than it now is, the Japanese might feel forced to pass exclusion laws. If they were to do so I hope they would not discriminate against people of any one race. I hope they would bar out everybody--not Americans alone. Because if they were to bar us out and at the same time allow the riffraff of Europe to come in, that might hurt our feelings. It isn't so hard to hurt our feelings, either. We are a proud and sensitive race, you know. Yes, indeed! It is largely because we are so proud and sensitive that we treat the Japanese with such scant courtesy. That's the way pride and sensitiveness sometimes work. Of course the Japanese are proud and sensitive, too. But we can't be bothered about that. We haven't the time. We are too busy being proud and sensitive ourselves. CHAPTER XIII _Commercialized Vice--The Yoshiwara--An Establishment Therein--Famous Old Geisha--A "Male Geisha"--The Stately Shogi--They Show Us Courtesy--The Merits of the Shogi--Kyoto's Shimabara--The Shogi in Romance--The Tale of the Fair Yoshino_ Some Americans are horrified because commercialized vice is officially recognized in Japan. The thought is unpleasant. But I am by no means sure that, since this form of vice does exist everywhere in the world, the policy of recognizing and regulating it is not the best policy. The Japanese work, apparently, upon the theory that, as this evil cannot be stamped out of existence, the next best thing is to stamp it as far as possible out of the public consciousness. This is done by segregating the women called _shogi_ in certain specified districts, and keeping them off the city streets. Whatever may be urged for or against this system it enables me to say of Japan what I am not able to say of my own country or any other country I have visited: namely, that in Japan I never saw a street-walker. The Tokyo district called the Yoshiwara is entered by a wide road spanned by an arch. Within, the streets look much like other Japanese streets, save that they are brightly lighted and that some of the buildings are large and rather ornate. First we went to a teahouse of the Yoshiwara, and I was readily able to perceive that the geisha in this teahouse were of a lower grade than those I had hitherto seen. Their faces were less intelligent, and they lacked the perfect grace and charm of their more successful sisters. From the sounds about us it was apparent that a Yoshiwara teahouse is a place for drinking and more or less wild merrymaking. Proceeding down the street from this teahouse we passed through orderly crowds and presently came to the district's most elaborate establishment. It was a large three-story building of white glazed brick, with an inner courtyard containing a pretty garden. To enter this place was like entering a very fine Japanese hotel. In the corridor hung a row of lacquered sticks each bearing a number in the Chinese character. There were, I think, about thirty of these sticks, and each represented a shogi. The number-one shogi was the most sought-after; number two ranked next, and so on. We were shown by the proprietress and some maids to a large matted room on the second floor, where saké, cakes and fruit were served to us. Then there appeared three geisha of a most unusual kind. They were women fifty-five or sixty years of age, rather large, with faces genial, amusing, and respectable. These I was told were geisha with a great local reputation for boisterous wit. My Japanese friends were thereafter kept in a continual state of mirth, and though I could not understand what the old geisha were saying, their droll manner was so infectious that I, too, was amused. Presently they were joined by a man with the face of a comedian. He was described to me as a "male geisha." That is, he was an entertainer. He sang, told comic stories and showed real ability as a mimic. This entertainment lasted for the better part of an hour. Then the mistress of the house came in with the air of one having something important to reveal. At a word from her the entertainers drew back and seated themselves on cushions at one side of the room. There was an impressive silence. Slowly, a sliding screen door of black lacquer and gold paper slipped back, moved by an unseen hand. We watched the open doorway. Presently appeared the figure of a woman. She did not look in our direction, but moved out into the room as if it had been a stage and she an actress. Her step was slow and stately, and she was arrayed in a brilliant robe of red satin, heavily quilted, and embroidered with large elaborate designs. This was the number-one shogi. Her costume and bearing were magnificent, but her face was expressionless and not at all beautiful. When she was well within the room the number-two shogi, dressed in the same style, moved in behind her, and followed with the same stately tread. In procession they walked across the room, turned slowly, trailed the hems of their wadded kimonos back across the matting, and made an exit by the door at which they had entered. Then the door slipped shut. The chatter began once more, but after a few minutes we were again silenced. For the second time the door opened and the two women appeared. They were now arrayed in purple kimonos, quilted and embroidered like the first. Again they made a dignified progress across the room and back; again they disappeared. That was the end of the inspection. By now we should, in theory, have been entranced with one or the other of the shogi we had seen. It was time to go. But as the Japanese gentleman whom I had asked to bring me to this place was a man of consequence, an especial courtesy was shown us ere we departed. In ordinary circumstances we should not have seen the two women again, but now they unbent so far as to come in and kneel upon the floor beside us--for we had checked our shoes at the entrance, and were seated Japanese-fashion upon silk cushions. My Japanese friends attempted to chat with the shogi, but evidently the latter did not shine in the arts of conversation. The talk was grave and unmistakably perfunctory, and after a little while the two arose, bowed profoundly, with a sort of grandeur, and trailed their wondrous robes out of the room. It was like seeing in the life a pair of courtesans from a colour-print by Utamaro. As they went I wondered whether, in the beginning, they had striven to be geisha instead of shogi, but had been forced to the Yoshiwara by reason of their lack of talent for music and conversation. Before we left I was shown some of the other rooms of this huge house, including those of several of the women. The woodwork was like light brown satin and the matting glistened almost as though it were lacquered. There were some kakemono and fine painted screens with old-gold backgrounds, and in the women's rooms were cabinets and dressing-stands lacquered red and gold. The dressing-stands were of a height to suit one squatting on the floor. It was as though the top section of one of our dressing tables were set upon the floor--a mirror with small drawers at either side. The mistress and her maids accompanied us to the street door when we departed. They made profound obeisances, and the mistress declared her appreciation of the great honour we had paid her by visiting her establishment. My Japanese friends replied in kind. The whole affair was conducted with a fine sense of ceremony. As for the three elderly geisha, they took another way of complimenting us. Instead of making ceremonious speeches they continued to be gay and amusing, but they did something which, when geisha do it, is considered a mark of high respect. They left the place with us, accompanying us as far as the gate of the Yoshiwara. One of them, a jolly old creature, with a fine, strong humorous face, linked arms with me as we walked along, and conversed with me in English. Perhaps the word "conversed" implies too much. Her entire English vocabulary consisted of the words: "All right," but she repeated the expression frequently and with changing intonations which gave a sort of variety. It was a strange evening, and the strangest part of it was the absence of vulgarity. I had seen nothing that the most fastidious woman could not have seen. As to what treatment is accorded the shogi themselves I cannot say. Certainly they did not have the air of being happy. Almost all of them are there because of poverty, and it is said that all live in the hope that some man will become fond of them and buy them out of the life of the _joroya_. This I believe occasionally happens. It should be added that, under the Japanese law, contracts by which women sell themselves, or are sold by others into this life, are not valid. It may further be added that all authorities on Japan seem to be in accord with Chamberlain who says that "the fallen women of Japan are, as a class, much less vicious than their representatives in Western lands, being neither drunken nor foul-mouthed." They also have a high reputation for honesty. The name Yoshiwara is not a generic term, though strangers sometimes use it as if it were, speaking of "a Yoshiwara." Similar districts in other cities are known by other names--as, for example, the historic Shimabara, in Kyoto, which dates back about four centuries. Like the Yoshiwara, the Shimabara has been moved from time to time, with a view to keeping it away from the heart of the city. History records that Hideyoshi caused the district to be uprooted and transplanted, and Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa shogun, did the same, on the ground that it was too near the palace and the business centre. I find some odd items in a book giving the history of the Shimabara. It is said that in the old days only ronin--samurai acknowledging no overlord--were given charters to operate resorts in the Shimabara, and that court gentlemen visiting this quarter were required to wear white garments. There is also the story of a city official who used to meet now and then upon the streets of Kyoto a beautiful woman riding in a palanquin. It was his custom to salute her respectfully, for he thought her a court lady. But one day, upon inquiry, he learned that she was a courtesan, whereupon he became indignant, and caused the Shimabara quarter to be again removed, placing it still farther away from the city's heart. There is some evidence that in feudal Japan the most admired courtesans were persons of more consequence than those of to-day. In olden times, for example, the Shimabara women were considered to rank above geisha, whereas now the situation is decidedly the reverse. The stories of certain famous women of the ancient Shimabara are still remembered, and are favourites with writers of romances. One quaint tale tells of a beautiful girl named Tokuko, the daughter of a ronin. When her father and her mother died, leaving her penniless, she went into the Shimabara. Here, because of her grace, she became known as _Uki-fune_ "floating ship." But she wrote a poem about the cherry blossoms at Mt. Yoshino, in Yamato Province, a place which for more than ten centuries has been noted for these blooms, and her poem was so much admired that she herself came to be called Yoshino. A rich man's son fell in love with this girl and married her, but when his father learned what had been her occupation he disowned the youth. The young couple were however courageous. In a tiny cottage they lived a happy and romantic life. One day it happened that the father, caught in a heavy rainstorm, asked shelter in a little house at the roadside. Here he found a beautiful young woman playing exquisitely upon the harp-like musical instrument called the _koto_. She welcomed him charmingly, made him comfortable, served him tea. When the storm had passed the old man thanked her for her hospitality and departed. But he had been so struck with her beauty and grace that he made inquiries about her. "Ah," exclaimed the one of whom he asked, "she is none other than Yoshino, wife of your disinherited son!" Upon hearing this the father relented. He sent for the young couple, took them to live in his own mansion, and directed the daughter-in-law to resume her original name, Tokuko--which means "virtue." However, I have noticed that in Japan and all other lands, romantic stories making heroines of courtesans have to be dated pretty far back. The living courtesan is but rarely regarded as a romantic figure. She is like a piece of common glass. But a piece of common glass, buried long enough in certain kinds of soil, acquires iridescence. This iridescence is not actually in the glass, but exists in a patine which gradually adheres to it. Under a little handling it will flake off. I suspect that it is much the same with famous courtesans the world over. When, after having been buried for a hundred years or so, they are, so to speak, dug up by novelists and playwrights, there adheres to them a beautiful iridescent patine. It is best, perhaps, to refrain from scratching the patine lest we find out what is really underneath. [Illustration: It takes two hours to do a geisha's hair, but the coiffure, once accomplished, lasts several days] CHAPTER XIV _Japan and Italy--The Sense of Beauty--Poetry--Japanese Poems by an American Woman--A Poem on a Kimono--Garden Ornaments--Garden Parties and Gifts--The Four Periods of Landscape Gardening--The Volcanic Principle in Gardens_ It is interesting to observe that the two races in which highly specialized artistic feeling is almost universal have, despite their antipodal positions on the globe, many common problems and one common blessing. Both Japan and Italy are poor and overpopulated, both are handicapped by a shortage of arable land and natural resources, both lack an adequate supply of food and raw materials for manufacturing, both are mountainous, both are afflicted by earthquakes; but both are endowed with the peculiar, passionate beauty of landscape which is nature's compensation to volcanic countries--a beauty suggesting that of some vivid and ungoverned woman, brilliant, erratic, fascinating, dangerous. Where Nature shows herself a great temperamental artist, her children are likely to be artists, too. As almost all Italians have a highly developed sense of melody, so almost all Japanese possess in a remarkable degree the artist's sense of form. One day in Tokio I fell to discussing these matters with a venerable art collector, wearing silks and sandals. "What," he asked me, "are the most striking examples of artistic feeling that you have noticed in Japan?" I told him of two things that I had seen, each in itself unimportant. One was a well-wheel. The well was in a yard beside a lovely little farmhouse, one story high, with walls of clay and timber, and with a thick thatched roof, upon the ridge of which a row of purple iris grew. There was a dainty bamboo fence around the farmyard, with flowering shrubs behind it, and a cherry tree in blossom. The well-house was thatched, and the pulley-wheel beneath the thatch seemed to focus the entire composition. With us such a wheel would have been a thing of rough cast-iron, merely something for a rope to run over; but this wheel had been fondly imagined before it was created. Its spokes were not straight and ugly, but branched near the rim, curving gracefully into it in such a way as to form the outlines of a cherry-blossom. It was a work of art. My other item was a little copper kettle. I saw it in a penitentiary. It belonged to a prisoner, and every prisoner in that portion of the institution had one like it. The striking thing about it was that it was an extremely graceful little kettle, embellished in relief with a beautiful design. It, too, was a work of art, and there was to me something pathetic in the evidence it gave that even in this grim place the claims of beauty were not entirely ignored. These trifling observations seemed to please my friend, the art collector. "But," said he, "I think our national love of the beautiful is perhaps most strongly exhibited in our feeling for outdoor beauty--our pilgrimages to spots famous for their scenery, our delight in the cherry-blossom season, the wistaria season, the chrysanthemum season, and by no means least in our gardens." Undoubtedly he was right. The feeling for nature among his countrymen is general, mystical, poetic. Almost all Japanese write poetry. The poems of many emperors, empresses, and statesmen are widely known; and among the most celebrated Japanese poems those to Nature in her various aspects are by far the most numerous. * * * * * Let me here digress briefly to mention the interesting custom of _O Uta Hajime_, or Opening of Imperial Poems, a court function dating from the ninth century. Each December the Imperial Household announces subjects for poems which may be submitted anonymously to the Imperial Bureau of Poems, in connection with the celebration of the New Year. The poems are examined by the bureau's experts, who select the best, to be read to the Imperial Family. The choice for the year 1921 was made from seventeen thousand poems sent from all parts of the Empire, and when announcement was made of the names of those whose poems were read at the Court, it was discovered that, among them was an American lady, Frances Hawkes Burnett, wife of Col. Charles Burnett, military attaché of the American Embassy at Tokyo. Mrs. Burnett thus attains the unique distinction of being the only foreign woman ever to have won Imperial approval with a poem in the Japanese language. [Illustration: Mrs. Charles Burnett in a 15th-Century Japanese Court costume. Mrs. Burnett's poems written in Japanese have received Imperial recognition] It is interesting, in this connection, to remark that the lady is a grand-niece of the late Dr. Francis Lister Hawkes, of New York, who accompanied Commodore Perry to Japan, and was Perry's collaborator in the writing of the official record of the voyage, published under the title, "The Narrative of the Expedition of an American Squadron." * * * * * But to return to my friend the art collector. "Speaking of poetry and the love of Nature," said he, "have you noticed the kimono of our host's daughter?" (We were strolling in a lovely private garden as we talked.) I had noticed it. It was a beautiful costume of soft black silk, the hem, in front, adorned with a design of cherry-blossoms and an inscription in the always decorative Chinese character. "Do you know what the inscription is?" he asked. I did not. "It is a poem of her own," he explained; and presently, when in our stroll we caught up with the young lady, he made me a literal translation, which might be done over into English verse as follows: Farewell, O Capital! I grieve Thy lovely cherry-blooms to leave. But now to Kioto must I fare To view the cherry-blossoms there. We fell to talking of Japanese gardens. "You must see some of our fine gardens," he said, "before you leave Japan." I mentioned some I had already seen--the gardens of the Crown Prince, the Prime Minister, Marquis Okuma, Viscount Shibusawa, Baron Furukawa, and others. "But do you understand our theory of the garden?" I told him what little I then knew: that flowers are not essential to a garden in Japan; that, where used, they are generally set apart in beds, and removed when they have ceased to bloom; that because of the skill of the Japanese in transplanting large trees a garden of ancient appearance may be made in few years; that boundaries are artfully planted out, so that some houses, standing on a few acres of ground in great cities, appear to be surrounded by forests; that small garden lakes are sometimes so arranged as to suggest that they are only arms of large bodies of water concealed from view by wooded headlands; and that optical illusions are often employed to make gardens seem much larger than they are, this being accomplished by a cunning scaling down in the size of the more remote hillocks, trees, and shrubs, increasing the perspective. Also, I had seen examples of the _kare sensui_ school of landscape gardening--waterless lakes and streams, their beds delineated in sand, gravel, and selected pebbles, and their banks set off by great water-worn stones brought from elsewhere, and by trees and shrubs carefully trained to droop toward the imaginary water--water the more completely suggested by stepping-stones and arched bridges reaching out to little islands, with stone lanterns standing among dwarf pines. I knew, too, of the fondness of the Japanese for minor buildings in their gardens. Thus in the garden of Viscount Shibusawa, there is an ancient Korean teahouse of very striking architecture; in that of Dr. Takuma Dan, General Manager of the vast Mitsui interests, a farmhouse several centuries old; in that of Baron Okura, a famous museum of Chinese and Japanese antiquities and art works; and in the gardens of Baron Furukawa and Baron Sumitomo, smaller private museums. Tucked away in the corner of one garden near Kobe I had even seen a little factory in which the finest wireless cloisonné was being made, the owner of that garden having a deep interest in this art and using the productions of his artist-workmen to give as presents to his friends. And of course in many gardens I had seen houses built especially for the _cha-no-yu_, or Tea Ceremony. Moreover, I had been to garden parties at some of which luncheons were served under marquees of bamboo and striped canvas, while at others were offered entertainments consisting of geisha-dancing and juggling. At such parties souvenirs are always given--fans and kakemono painted by artists on the premises, or bits of pottery which, after being painted, are glazed and fired, and still warm from the kiln, presented to the guests. "Yes, yes," said my venerable friend, "you have seen a good deal; but as to the history and theory of our gardens, what do you know?" "Very little," I admitted, and asked him to enlighten me. * * * * * Japanese landscape gardening began twelve hundred years ago, when the Emperor Shomu, in residence at Nara, sent for a Chinese monk who was famed for his artistry and ordered him to beautify the ancient capital. This the monk accomplished chiefly by cutting out avenues among the lofty trees which to this day make Nara not only a place of supreme loveliness, but one rich in the aroma of antiquity. Thus came the first period of landscape gardening in Nippon, the Tempyo period. Five and a half centuries ago the second period began when, in the terrain surrounding the Kinkakuji Temple at Kyoto, gardens containing lakes, rocks, and gold-pavilioned islands were constructed in resemblance to the natural scenery near the mouth of the Yangtse River in China. The third period is best represented by the gardens of the arsenal in Tokyo. These were made three hundred years ago by a Chinese master named Shunsui, who was brought to Japan for the purpose by the Lord of Mito, brother of the shogun who at that time ruled Japan. In order to get water for this park a canal thirty miles long was constructed, and this same canal later supplied water to the city of Yedo, as Tokyo was then called. The current period is the fourth, and it is the aim of the present-day masters to combine in their work all the fine points of the preceding periods. This development is largely due to the ease of modern transportation, which has enabled the landscape gardeners of our time to travel widely and become familiar with the best work of their distinguished predecessors and the finest natural scenery. For instance, the Shiobara region, in northern Japan, a district famous for its lovely little corners, has been the inspiration for many modern gardens. * * * * * "And now," said my learned friend as we paused in a little shelter of bamboo and thatch, overlooking the corner of a lake bordered with curiously formed rocks and flowering shrubs, "I will tell you the great secret of this art; for of course you understand that with us landscape gardening is definitely placed as one of the fine arts." He paused for a moment, then continued: "The one sound principle for making a garden wherever water is used is what may be called the volcanic principle. That is to say, the artist in landscape gardening should go for his themes to places of volcanic origin; for in such places the greatest natural beauty is found. "And why? First of all, you have hills of interesting contours, made by eruptions. Then you have mountain lakes which form in the beds of extinct volcanoes. Our famous Lake Chuzenji, above Nikko, for example. From these lakes the water overflows, making splendid falls, like those of Kegon, which empty out of Lake Chuzenji. Below the falls you have a torrent rushing down a rocky valley, like the River Daiya, which flows from the Kegon Falls past Nikko, where it is spanned by the famous red-lacquered bridge. There is the basis for your entire garden composition. "But you must also remember that volcanic outpourings make rich soil. This soil, thrown into the air by volcanic explosions, settles in the crevices of rocks. Pines take root in it. But in some places the pocket of soil is small; wherefore the roots of the pine cannot spread, and the tree becomes a dwarf, gnarled and picturesque. Again, on the hillsides the rich soil makes great trees grow, with rich shrubbery and verdure beneath them. The torrent completes the landscape effect by sculpturing the rocks into fascinating forms. In that combination you have every element required. Reproduce it in miniature, and your garden is made." CHAPTER XV _I Acquire Vanity--I Meet a Wise Man--The Distaste for Boasting--Imperial Traditions--The First Ambassadors and Consequent Embarrassments--Trappings of Rank--I Display My Knowledge--And Come a Cropper--The Beauties of Calm_ The garden theory of my friend the art collector, so Japanese in its completeness, charmed and satisfied me. "Now," I thought to myself, "I _know_." Thenceforward I looked at gardens not with the unenlightened enthusiasm of the casual amateur, but with a critic's eye. Here and there I would make a mental reservation, saying to myself that the man who made this garden had missed something in one respect or another; that the one great principle, the volcanic principle, had not been fully carried out. So time went on until presently I found myself in Kyoto, the cultivated city of Japan, seated at a table (upon which were glasses and a bottle) beside one of the most interesting Japanese I had met, a man of ripe age and experience and of a philosophical turn of mind. He loved the history, the legends and the psychology of his native land, and enjoyed sifting them through the interpretative screen of his own intelligence. I listened to him with eager interest. "To boast," said he, "is, according to our point of view, one of the cardinal sins. We so detest boasting that we go to the other extreme, depreciating anything or anybody connected with ourselves. Thus, when some one says to me, 'Your brother has amassed a fortune; he must be a man of great ability,' I will reply: 'He is not so very able. Perhaps he is only lucky.' As a matter of fact, it happens that my brother is a man of exceptional ability. But I must not say so; it is not good form for me to praise his qualities. "In speaking of our wives and children we do the same. We say, 'my poor wife,' or, 'my insignificant wife,' although she may fulfil our ideal of everything a woman should be. "Also the reverse of this proposition is true. We sometimes signify our disapproval or dislike of some one by speaking of him in terms of too high praise. "Among ourselves we fully understand these things. It is merely a code we follow. But I fear that this practice sometimes causes foreigners to misunderstand us. Being themselves accustomed to speak literally, they are inclined to take us so. Also, they are not likely to realize that we are most critical of those for whom we have profound regard. Why should we waste our time or our critical consideration upon persons who mean nothing to us or whom we dislike? "Yet, after all," he continued, with a little twinkle in his eye, "human nature is much the same the world over. There was an American here in Kyoto once who used to forbid his wife and sister to smoke cigarettes, but I observed that he was quick to pass his cigarette-case to other ladies." He drifted on to a further discussion of differences between the point of view of Japan and that of the Occident. "For twenty-five centuries," said he, "our emperors never lived behind a fortification. There was no need of it. The present imperial palace at Tokyo is, to be sure, protected by a moat and great stone walls, but that was originally built for shoguns, and was taken over by the Imperial House only at the time of the Restoration. "Our old Japanese idea is that the Emperor is the father of his people. There is a certain reverence, yet a certain democracy, too, in our feeling on this subject. We who have the old ideas regret that the Emperor now appears in a military or naval uniform. It is too much like the European way, too much like abandoning the feeling that he is the head of the family. For a uniform seems to make him only a part of the army or the navy. "But we had to modify our customs to suit those of other nations. Ambassadors began to come from foreign lands. The Emperor did not wish to see them, but was obliged to do so because they represented great powers to whom we could not say no. "At first, when the Emperor received ambassadors, he wore his ancient imperial robes and was seated upon cushions, Japanese fashion. But the ambassadors were arrayed in brilliant uniforms covered with decorations, and in accordance with their home customs they _stood_ in the imperial presence. They would stand before a European king or an American president. Therefore it seemed to them respectful to stand before our Emperor. "But, according to our customs, that is the worst thing that can happen. We must always be lower than the Emperor; we must not even look from a second-story window when he drives by. The Emperor's audience-room was so constructed that he sat in an elevated place at the head of a flight of steps. But even so, one never entered his presence standing fully erect. The idea of deference was visibly indicated by a stooping position, and as one ascended the steps toward the Imperial Person, one bent over more and more, until, on reaching the plane on which the Emperor was seated, one knelt, with bowed head, so as still to be below him. "A foreigner, on the other hand, wishing to show proper respect to an exalted personage, would make a bow from the waist and then assume a stiffly erect attitude, almost like a soldier standing at attention. Can you imagine an Occidental admiral or general, with his tight uniform, heavy braid, and sword, approaching any one upon his hands and knees? It would be foreign to his nature and training, not to say ruinous to his costume.[2] [2] An extremely interesting account of the first audience given by the Emperor to a foreign ambassador is contained in "Memories," by the late Lord Redesdale, who was present. Lord Redesdale was then Mr. Mitford, and was engaged in preparing a volume which later became widely known under the title "Tales of Old Japan." "Moreover, the important foreigners who came to Japan at the beginning of the period of transition were gorgeous with gold lace and jewelled decorations. Up to that time we had no decorations and no modern uniforms and trappings of rank. Even our Emperor, in his magnificent robes, was not adorned with gold braid, and no jewels flashed from his breast. "Naturally, then, we had to change. We created new orders of nobility; decorations were devised, uniforms were designed, all according to the European plan. In the old days we had shogun, daimyo, and samurai. Now we have princes of the blood, princes not of the blood, marquises, counts, viscounts, and barons. We have decorations to shine with foreign decorations. We have field-marshals and admirals to meet the foreign field-marshals and admirals." He sighed, and looked through the open window to the garden shimmering in moonlight. "Sometimes," he said, reflectively, "it seems to me that the only place where the spirit of Old Japan can feel at home is when it wanders through our ancient gardens. They are unchanged." He paused, still gazing through the open window, then went on: "That is another thing I must talk to you about. We Japanese have a profound feeling about gardens. The structure of a garden is a matter of the first importance. You must see some of our gardens." "I have done so already," I replied. "I have taken pains to visit many of them, and I----" "But," he interrupted, "I am not speaking entirely of vision in the sense of sight. One must have understanding of these things. I am talking of the basic principles upon which every garden should be made." "That is just what I am talking about," I returned, enthusiastically. "It happens that I have made quite a study of your theory of gardens." [Illustration: A tea-house garden, Tokyo.--"The artist in landscape gardening should go for his themes to places of volcanic origin."] I must own that I did not speak without a certain complacency. I had the comfortable feeling that always comes to one who hears a subject broached and feels himself well equipped to discuss it. "That is very gratifying," said the philosopher, politely. It was indeed very gratifying. My memory was good. I casually mentioned the four periods of Japanese landscape gardening, making easy references to the Emperor Shomu, the scenery near the mouth of the Yangtse River, and the Chinese master Shunsui. Then I began to file my bill of particulars. "Of course," I said, "the one great secret of the art is to apply the volcanic principle. One should go for themes to places of volcanic origin--places like Lake Chuzenji and Nikko, places where lakes, formed in the beds of extinct volcanoes, overflow, making beautiful waterfalls and torrents which rush through rocky valleys. There, of course, is the basis for your entire garden composition." He sat staring at me. His eyes shone. Evidently I was making a deep impression on him. "Of course," I resumed, "volcanic explosions throw rich soil into----" "Stop!" he cried, half rising from his chair. "Who gave you those theories? Where did you learn all this?" "In Tokyo," I answered proudly, "I happened to meet----" "Never mind whom you met," he broke in, his voice trembling with intensity. "These things you have been saying are terrible--terrible! Such ideas are ruining art and beauty in Japan. A garden of that kind is an abomination." I sat stunned while he stood over me. "The thing above all others to keep away from," he continued, vehemently, "is anything volcanic. That should be apparent to any one--any one! The very cause of volcanic structure is violence. It is the embodiment of turmoil, unrest." He made a wild gesture with his arms. "A volcano blows up, it explodes--_bang!_ It throws everything about helter-skelter. It is horrible. That is a garden for a madhouse or the palace of a _narikin_--a new millionaire." "But don't you think----" "If one thing is more essential than another in a garden," he went on, ignoring my effort to interrupt, "it is peace, tranquillity, an atmosphere conducive to meditation. Fancy a cultivated gentleman, a philosopher, trying to meditate among volcanoes, waterfalls, and roaring torrents! A garden should have no waterfalls. Water, if it is there at all, should flow as placidly as philosophic thought. There should be no fish darting about, no noisy splashing fountains, no gaudy peonies, or other striking and distracting things. The purpose of a garden should not be display. Its proper purpose is not to excite the beholder, but to fill him with a rich contentment. A garden should be a bathing-place for the soul. And one no more wishes to plunge the soul than the body into a roaring torrent. No; there is in life already too much stress and turmoil. The soul cries out for repose. One must lave it in a crystal pool, healing and refreshing." He paused, short of breath. "But don't you think----" "Say no more! It is late. I must go home." I walked with him to the garden gate. A new moon hanging in a sky of blue and silver was reflected in a still pool, its margins soft with the dark, cloud-like forms of shrubbery. Near the gate some calla lilies stood like graceful, silent ghosts. The night air was fragrant with the scent of rich, damp soil and growing things. "But don't you think," I pleaded as I opened the gate to let him pass, "that there is, after all, something poetic in the volcanic conception of a garden?" "No, no," he cried. "Poetic? No. Good night. Good night. I do not understand this new Japan. There is no repose any more. It is all volcanoes, all exploding. It is the beauties of calm that we are losing. Calm! Yes, that is it, calm! calm! calm!" His agitated voice, shouting, "Calm! calm! calm!" came back to me as like a typhoon he whirled off into the darkness, leaving me in the sweet quiet of the garden--to meditate. PART III CHAPTER XVI _The "Connecticut Yankee" in Old Japan--Commodore Perry--The Elder Statesmen--Marquis Okuma--Self-made Men--Viscount Shibusawa--The Power of the Daimyo--Samurai Privileges, Including That of Suicide--Education in Old Japan--Jigoro Kano and Jiudo--The Farewell Letter of a Patriot--Kodokwan and Butokukai--The Old Military Virtues--General Nogi--His Death With Countess Nogi_ Despite the convulsions, overturnings, and transitions through which so many nations have lately been passing, Japan still holds the world's record for swift and stupendous change. The thing that happened to Japan staggers the imagination. History affords no parallel. The nearest parallel is to be found in the fiction of a great imaginative writer. An American or a European going to Japan at approximately the time of the Imperial Restoration of 1868, found himself, in effect, dropped back through the centuries after the manner of Mark Twain's "Connecticut Yankee"; and the Japanese who lived through the transition which then began, met an experience like that pictured in Mark Twain's fantasy as having befallen the people of King Arthur's Court when modern knowledge was suddenly visited upon them. The true story of Japan, however, surpasses in its wonder the invention of Mark Twain; for whereas the facts of history compelled the author of "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court" to let ancient Britain backslide into her semi-barbarism after the disappearance of the Connecticut Yankee, Japan not only changed completely but held her gains and continued to progress. The beginning of the period of transition is customarily dated from the year 1853, when Commodore Perry first arrived, or from 1854, when he negotiated his treaty; but though that treaty did open the door through which the spirit of change was soon to enter, the actual modernizing of the nation did not start until 1868, when Yoshinobu Tokugawa, fifteenth of his line, and last shogun to govern Japan, relinquished his power to the Emperor. Men able to remember the events of the Restoration are about as rare in Japan as are those who, in this country, remember the impeachment of Andrew Johnson, which occurred in the same year; and men who played important parts in the Restoration are of course rarer still--as rare, say, as Americans who played important parts in the Civil War. As for Japanese who can recall Perry's visit, they would correspond in years to those who, with us, can recollect the beginning of the struggle for Free Soil in Kansas. In neither land, alas, is there more than a handful of such old folk left. It so happens, however, that in Japan several very remarkable men have survived to great age. The three most powerful figures in politics at the time of my visit were the octogenarian noblemen known as the Genro, or Elder Statesmen: Field Marshal Prince Yamagata, Marquis Matsukata, and Marquis Okuma. Prince Yamagata, as a soldier, took an active part in the civil warfare attending the Restoration. Both he and Marquis Okuma were born in 1838--that is to say seven years before Texas was admitted to the Union as the twenty-eighth state. Marquis Matsukata was born in 1840. Of these venerable statesmen, Prince Yamagata and Marquis Matsukata figured, I found, as great unseen influences; but Marquis Okuma, while perhaps not actually more active than his colleagues of the Genro, appeared frequently before the public, and was more of a popular idol, being often referred to as Japan's "Grand Old Man." In politics he had long been known as a great fighter and an artful tactician; also he was sympathetically regarded by reason of his having been, many years ago, the victim of a bomb outrage in which he lost a leg. I knew of his having been thus crippled, but through some trick of memory failed to recall the fact when, one day, I found myself a member of a small party of Americans received by the Marquis at his house. We were with him for something more than an hour; perhaps two hours. During that time he stood and made an address, moved about the room, and even stepped out to the garden, yet I was not once reminded of his physical handicap. I have never seen a person so seriously maimed who, in his movements, revealed it so little. And that at eighty-three years of age! I should have guessed him twenty years younger. Lean, tall, wiry, alert, with close-cropped white hair and snapping black eyes, he appeared to be at the very apex of his powers. That he was versatile I knew. All three of the Genro have at various times been Prime Minister, and have held other high offices under the Government, but Marquis Okuma's positions have been extremely varied, calling for the display of a wide range of knowledge and of talents. I was told that he had organized the Nationalist Party, published a magazine, edited a number of important literary and historical works, founded and presided over Waseda University, and had long been famed as a horticulturist. It was a curious thing to hear him speak in a language I could not understand, yet to feel so strongly his gift for swaying men with oratory. The experience reminded me of that of a newspaper man I know, who accompanied William Jennings Bryan on one of his political speech-making tours long ago. "I was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican," he told me, in recounting the experience, "and did not believe in Bryan or his measures, yet I continually found myself carried away by his oratory. While he was speaking he made me believe in things I _didn't_ believe in. I would want to applaud and cheer him like the rest of the audience. "Afterwards I would go back to the train and sober up. I wanted to kick myself for letting him twist me around his finger like that. But the next time I heard him the same thing would happen. It wasn't what he said; it was his voice and phrasing and his magnetism." I have no doubt that a Japanese unacquainted with English would sense Bryan's elocutionary power precisely as I did that of Marquis Okuma; indeed I am not sure that a foreigner, unfamiliar with the language of the orator, is not in a sense the auditor who can best measure his power. Marquis Okuma's features indicated extraordinary pugnacity, yet I should say that his pugnacity was under perfect control. He could exhibit both passion and icy coolness, and I believe he could turn on either at will, as one turns on hot or cold water. If he was William Jennings Bryan he was also Henry Cabot Lodge. * * * * * It is worth remarking that these Elder Statesmen are without exception self-made men. None of them was born with a title; all were members of modest samurai families; all rose through ability. In this respect, as in many others, comparisons between the governmental system of Imperial Japan and that of Imperial Germany that was, do not hold. Japan is not governed by a hereditary ruling class. The government service is open to all men, under a system of competitive examinations, and promotion does not go by family or favour, but is in almost all cases a recognition of ability exhibited in minor offices. Young men in the consular service are in line for ambassadorships and may reasonably hope, if they exhibit great talents, ultimately to reach the highest offices. It would seem, moreover, that in Japan as in some other lands, aristocratic and wealthy families do not, as a rule, produce the strongest men. Thus I was informed that, of the entire cabinet of Prime Minister Hara, but one member was a man of noble family, that one having been Count Oki, Minister of Justice. And even Count Oki was only of the second generation of nobility. In the business world the same rule applies. The titled business men of Japan have risen, practically without exception, from humble beginnings. I was told that one of them, whom I met, had begun life as a pedlar, and was proud of it. Looking up another business genius in the national "Who's Who," I find the following statement, which may be assumed to have been furnished by the gentleman to whom it refers: Arrived in Tokyo in '71, with empty purse; proceeded to Yokohama, supporting himself by hawking cheap viands. If the honorary title, "Grand Old Man of Japan," had not already been conferred, and I had been invited to make nominations, I should have gone outside the realm of politics and cast my vote for Viscount Eiichi Shibusawa. Had the Viscount been, at the time of the Restoration, a member of one of the great clans responsible for the return of the reins of government to Imperial hands, his career might have resembled more closely the careers of the three old nobles of the Genro. But whereas Prince Yamagata, Marquis Matsukata, and Marquis Okuma were respectively men of Choshu, Satsuma, and Saga--clans that cast their lot with the coalition that returned the Emperor to power--Viscount Shibusawa was on the other side, having been a retainer of the last shogun. The spoils went, naturally enough, to the victors. Strong men belonging to the clans which had supported the Imperial House became the strong men of the centralized government. Even to-day, when clans, as such, no longer exist, the old clan sentiment survives, with the result that men of Satsuma and Choshu origin are most influential in politics. The militaristic tendency sometimes noticed in the action of the Japanese Government is said to be largely due to this fact, for the clan of Satsuma was in the old days notorious for its warlike inclinations, and there is evidence to show that those inclinations have, to some extent survived. Naval officers are to-day drawn largely from old Satsuma families, while Choshu furnishes many officers to the army. At twenty-seven years of age, Viscount Shibusawa had by his ability become vice-minister of the Shogun's treasury. Naturally, then, after the fall of the shogunate, he went in for finance. He founded the First Bank of Japan--literally the first modern bank started there--and, prospering greatly became a man of large affairs. Repeatedly he was offered the portfolio of Finance under the Government, but always refused it. A few years ago he retired from active business, and as has already been mentioned, gave his time thereafter to all manner of good works. When I met him he was nearing his eighty-second birthday. He distinctly remembered Perry's arrival in Japan and the events that followed. I wished to get the story of a representative man who had seen these things, and therefore asked him to grant me an interview. This he was so kind as to do, allowing me the better part of two days--for interviewing through an interpreter, even though he be the best of interpreters, is slow work. We talked in a pretty brick bungalow in the Viscount's garden. Outside the door was an English rose-garden, with bushes trained to the shape of trees. Prior to that time I had always seen the Viscount wearing a frock coat or a dress suit, but here at home, on a day free from formalities, he was clad in the silken robes that Japanese gentlemen put on for comfort--though they might well put them on for elegance, too. Short, stocky, energetic, with a strong neck and large round head, the face seamed with deep wrinkles, he was one of the most extraordinary-looking men I had ever met. He radiated force, courage, honesty. I knew a Sioux chief, long ago, who had a face like that, even to the colour, and to the deep wrinkles of humour about the mouth and eyes. Nor, in either case, did the promise of those wrinkles fail. When, having likened Viscount Shibusawa to an Indian chief, I also liken him to a barrel-bodied, square-jawed, weather-beaten old British squire of the perfect John Bull type, I may overtax the reader's imagination; yet there was in him as much of the one as of the other. He was born in the country, coming of a good but not aristocratic family. The Japan of his youth and early manhood was divided into some two hundred and fifty or three hundred feudal districts, each ruled by a daimyo, or chieftain, having his castles, his court, his concubines, his retainers--among the latter soldiers in armour, equipped with swords, spears or bows and arrows, and wearing hideous masks calculated to terrify the foe. These chiefs had absolute power over the people and lands in their domains. They could make laws, issue paper money, levy taxes, impose labour and punishment on the people, or arbitrarily take from them property or life itself. It was a land without railroads, without steam power, without window-glass; a land in which nobles journeyed by the highroads in magnificent processions, surrounded by their soldiers, mounted and afoot, their lacquered palanquins, their coolie bearers; a land in which, when great lords passed, humble citizens fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground; a land of duels, feuds, vendettas, clan wars; a land in which the samurai, or gentry, alone were allowed to wear swords, and in which one of the privileges most highly prized by the samurai was that of dying by his own hand, if condemned to death, instead of by the hand of the executioner. Involved with the privilege of _hara-kiri_, or _seppuku_, was a property right. The property of a man beheaded by the executioner was confiscated, whereas one committing hara-kiri could leave his estate to his family. The education of young men varied in those times according to rank. Youths of the aristocracy were instructed in the Chinese classics, which in Japan take the place of Latin and Greek with us. Medicine and astronomy were also taught. The sons of lesser samurai received a training calculated to fit them for practical affairs. All those entitled to wear swords studied swordsmanship, and the process by which they learned it was sometimes severe, for it was the custom of masters to attack the pupil suddenly from behind, or even when he was asleep at night, on the theory that he should be ready at all times to defend himself. A samurai found killed with his sword completely sheathed was disgraced. At least two inches of the blade must show in proof that the dead man had attempted a defence. Jiu-jutsu was also taught to many samurai youths, and in this, as in swordsmanship, it was the practice of instructors to make surprise attacks upon their pupils. Viscount Shibusawa's recollections of old days, as he recounted them to me, will make a separate chapter, but before that chapter is begun, let me mention several points of samurai tradition--among them jiu-jutsu, and the more advanced art or science of jiudo, developed by my friend Mr. Jigoro Kano. As after the Restoration the craze for all things American and European spread through Japan, the old arts of jiu-jutsu, which for more than three centuries had been practised by samurai, fell into disuse. Before that time there had been many different schools of jiu-jutsu, teaching a variety of systems, but as the old masters of the art became superannuated no followers were arising to take their places. In 1878, when Mr. Kano took up the study of jiu-jutsu, he saw that, through lack of interest, many of the fine points of the art were likely to be lost. In order to preserve as much of it as he could, he went to great pains to make himself proficient, not merely in one system of jiu-jutsu, but in several systems as taught by the several great masters then alive. His first interest in jiu-jutsu arose through the fact that he had been a weak child and wished to make himself a strong man. I was reminded of Theodore Roosevelt's sickly childhood when Mr. Kano told me that; and it is interesting to recall that it was President Roosevelt who first caused jiu-jutsu to be widely talked of in the United States, and that he studied it, while in the White House, under one of Mr. Kano's pupils. Also I was interested to hear from Mr. Kano that, as a young man, he gave an exhibition of jiu-jutsu before General Grant, at Viscount Shibusawa's house in Tokyo. Far from being a professional athlete, Mr. Kano is a gentleman of samurai family, a graduate of the Literary College of the Imperial University, a linguist, a traveller, an educator of high reputation, the holder of several decorations. Among other offices he has been head master of the Peers' School in Tokyo. As the reader is doubtless aware, the theory of jiu-jutsu was to defeat the adversary, not by pitting force against force, but by yielding before the opponent's onslaughts in such a way as to turn his strength against him. Jiudo, which means "the way or doctrine of yielding," is a combination, created by Mr. Kano, of all systems of jiu-jutsu interwoven with a plan of mental, moral, and physical training, calculated to elevate the art above any mere consideration of combat alone--although that side is by no means neglected. Innumerable stories, exciting or amusing, might be told of the heroic adventures of celebrated jiudoists, but I know of nothing which sheds more light upon Mr. Kano's teachings, in their moral aspect, than does a letter written to him by Commander Yuasa of the Japanese Navy, a former pupil of the Kodokwan, the school of jiudo established by Mr. Kano in Tokyo. The letter was written by Commander Yuasa when he was about to take the steamer _Sagami Maru_ and sink her at the harbour entrance in the third blockading expedition at Port Arthur. The following are extracts from it: We shall do all that human power can, and leave the rest to Heaven. Thus we can calmly ride to certain death. I am happy to say that among the members of this forlorn hope are three of your former pupils: Commander Hirose, Lieutenant Commander Honda, and myself. May this fact redound to the credit of the Kodokwan. Though I greatly regret that while living I could not do justice to the kindness you have shown me, still please accept as an expression of my gratitude the fact that I lay down my life for the sake of our country, as you have so kindly taught us, in time of peace, to be ready to do. The writer of this letter was lost, as was also Commander Hirose, one of the brother officers he mentions. The other, Lieutenant Commander Honda, was wounded by a shell, but was rescued and lived to tell the tale. Foreigners visiting Japan and wishing to see jiudo demonstrated, are welcome at the Kodokwan, where, if notice is given, an interpreter is provided. There are now some twenty thousand practitioners of jiudo who look to the Kodokwan as headquarters and to Mr. Kano as their master. Another place where jiudo may be witnessed is at the Butokukai--Association for the Inculcation of the Military Virtues--in Kyoto. The latter is a private organization, like an athletic club, with a fine temple-like building, and many branch establishments throughout the country. It has some two hundred thousand members, of which several thousands are active. The primary idea of this organization is to keep alive certain old Japanese military arts, such as jiudo, archery, fencing, the use of lances and spears, and the employment of the curious lance-like _naginata_, which, with its curved blade and long handle, was used only by women. Contests between men armed with dummy swords and women using wooden naginata are sometimes to be witnessed at the Butokukai, and are extremely interesting as recalling the days when the women of Old Japan fought beside their men, using the naginata as an offensive weapon, and a short dagger, worn in the fold of the obi, as a defensive weapon corresponding to the shorter of the two swords that men used to wear. Samurai women were taught to defend themselves with the dagger, and to use it for suicide if in fear of defeat and dishonour. Families in which the samurai tradition is sedulously maintained still make it a custom to present their daughters, at the time of marriage, with daggers of this type, though such weapons are now recognized merely as emblems of a spirit to be preserved. * * * * * The great modern samurai hero of Japan was General Count Nogi, the hero of Port Arthur, in memory of whom a shrine was recently dedicated in Tokyo. This shrine stands in the grounds behind the simple house in Tokyo where Count and Countess Nogi lived, and where they died together by their own hands. Nogi is canonized in Japan, and his house is held a sacred place, and is visited by thousands of persons each year. The theory upon which self-destruction is practised according to the old samurai tradition, and is widely approved in certain circumstances, is one of the things that baffles the Occidental mind. I therefore asked Viscount Kentaro Kaneko, who knew General Nogi, to tell me the story of his death, and to explain to me how he came to commit seppuku. [Illustration: Viscount Kentaro Kaneko (Harvard '78), Privy Councilor to the Emperor, President of the America-Japan Society of Tokyo, and friend of President Roosevelt] "When Nogi was given command at Port Arthur," said the Viscount, "his two sons were officers under him. He told his wife to prepare three coffins, and to hold no funeral services until all three were ready to be buried together. "In the assault on Port Arthur some thirty thousand Japanese soldiers gave up their lives. This sacrifice of life was at first much criticized in Japan, but public sentiment changed in face of the fact that the General lost both his sons. He returned to Japan a victor, it is true, but a most unhappy man. Always in his mind were thoughts of the families of the thirty thousand brave young men it had been necessary to sacrifice. He did not want to be acclaimed in the streets, but to be let alone. He went about in an old uniform and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. "One day at an audience with the Emperor Meiji, Nogi said to him as he was leaving, something to the effect that he should never see him again. "The Emperor, gathering that Nogi was contemplating seppuku, called him back. "'Nogi,' he said, 'I still have need of you. I want your life.' "So the General did not carry out his plan at that time, but lived on, as the Emperor had ordered him to do, becoming president of the school at which the sons of nobles are educated. "All through the years, however, he was haunted by the memory of the thirty thousand soldiers he had been compelled to send to their death. "When the Emperor Meiji died, Nogi was one of the guard of honour, made up of peers, who in rotation watched at the Imperial bier for forty days and forty nights. "Then came the state funeral. On the day of the funeral Nogi wrote a poem which declared in effect, 'I shall follow in the footsteps of Your Majesty.' This poem he showed to Prince Yamagata, who took it to mean merely that Nogi would be in the procession following the Imperial remains to the grave. "But when the guns announced the departure of the funeral cortège from the palace, Nogi was not there. Like the samurai of old, he desired to follow his dead master into the beyond. At the sound of the guns he took his short sword and committed seppuku, while in the next room Countess Nogi, his devoted wife, dressed all in white, cut the arteries of her neck. Thus the two died together, for the sake of the Emperor and the thirty thousand soldiers who had sacrificed their lives." * * * * * At no point is the outlook of the Oriental more completely at odds with that of the Occidental, than in the view it takes of suicide. Whereas with us suicide is condemned as cowardly, being resorted to as a means of escape from the hardships of life, there will oftentimes be something highly heroic in a Japanese suicide. Unhappiness, it is true, does drive some Japanese to self-destruction, but in many other cases the suicide represents something more in the nature of a self-inflicted punishment for failure of some kind. Thus it is with the schoolboys who sometimes kill themselves because they have failed in their examinations. Likewise, while in Japan I heard of two railroad gatemen who had, by failing to close their gate when a train was coming, been responsible for the death of a man travelling in a ricksha. A few days after this accident both these gatemen suicided by throwing themselves beneath a train. For their neglect they paid voluntarily with their lives. "And," said the Viscount, "we had in the old days another sort of suicide, examples of which sometimes occur even to this day. When a man believed profoundly in something, and was unable to attract attention to the thing in which he believed, he would sometimes commit seppuku as a means of drawing notice to it. He would leave a paper setting forth his beliefs, and people would give it attention, feeling that if a man was willing to die in order to emphasize a point, his message was worth considering." The Viscount paused. Then rather reflectively he added: "It is as though he were to underscore his protest--in red." CHAPTER XVII _The Old-time Anti-Foreign Sentiment--Prince Yoshinobu Tokugawa--Emperor and Shogun--Prince Yoshinobu becomes Shogun--His Highness, Akitaké, Goes to France--Humorous Episodes--The Defeat of Prince Yoshinobu's Army--Various Explanations--The Restoration of the Emperor--Prince Yoshinobu's Retirement--The Viscount's Theory--Prince Keikyu Tokugawa--A Roosevelt Anecdote--Swords and Watchchain_ "I was a boy of fourteen," said Viscount Shibusawa "when your Commodore Perry came to Japan. At that time, and for a considerable period afterwards, I was 'anti-foreigner'--that is, I was opposed to the abandonment of our old Japanese isolation, and to the opening of relations with foreign powers. "The majority of thoughtful men felt as I did. Our trouble with the Jesuits, in the latter part of the sixteenth and early part of the seventeenth century came about through a fear which grew up amongst us that the Jesuits were trying to get political control of Japan. This fear brought about their expulsion from the country, as well as some persecution of themselves and their converts, and it was then that our policy of isolation began. More lately we had seen the Opium War in China, and that had added to our conviction that foreign powers were merely seeking territory, and that they were utterly unscrupulous. "When I reached the age of twenty-five, I became a retainer of Yoshinobu Tokugawa, a powerful prince, kinsman of Iyemochi Tokugawa, who was then Shogun. Not being of noble family, I did not belong to Prince Yoshinobu's intimate circle, but was a member of what might be termed the middle group at his court. "He was then acting as intermediary between the Shogun and the Imperial Court at Kyoto--for though the Shogun ruled the land, as shoguns had for centuries, there was maintained a fiction that he did so by imperial consent. "When Iyemochi died, the powerful daimyos nominated my lord, Prince Yoshinobu, to succeed him. I was opposed to his accepting the office, for the country was then in a very unsettled condition, and I felt sure that the next shogun, whoever he might be, would have serious difficulties to encounter; especially with the important question of foreign relations to the fore, and with such powerful lords as those of Satsuma, Choshu, Tosa, and Hizan becoming increasingly hostile to the shogunate and increasingly favourable to the Imperial House. "The fact that Prince Yoshinobu had acted as intermediary between his kinsman, the fourteenth Shogun, and the Imperial Court at Kyoto, made it a delicate matter for him later to accept the shogunate. Moreover, though he belonged to the Tokugawa family, his branch of the family, the Mito branch, had continually insisted upon Imperial supremacy in Japan. However, circumstances compelled him to accept the office. I was greatly disappointed when he did so. "This occurred two years after I became his retainer. I was now vice-minister of his treasury, with the additional duties of keeping track of all modern innovations and supervising the new-style military drill, with rifles, which we were then taking up. "Shortly after becoming Shogun, Yoshinobu decided to send his brother, Akitaké, to France to be educated, and he appointed me a member of the entourage that was to accompany the young man. I was then twenty-seven years old. "We sailed in January 1867--a party of twenty-five, among whom were a doctor, an officer who went to study artillery, and various others besides Akitaké's seven personal attendants. "For international purposes the Shogun was now called Tycoon, for the word 'shogun,' meaning 'generalissimo,' carried with it no connotation of rulership; whereas 'tycoon' means 'great prince'--and of course it seemed proper enough for a great prince to treat with foreign powers. As brother of the Tycoon, Akitaké received, in Europe, the title 'Highness'. "Matters looked very ominous for the shogunate at the time we left Japan, but I felt that the best thing for me to do was to go abroad and learn all I could, with a view to being better able to serve my country when I should return. "The members of our party wore the Japanese costume, including topknots and two swords. I, however, devised a special elegance for myself. I heard that the governor of Saigon, where our ship was to stop, intended to welcome our party officially, so I had a dress coat made." The Viscount shook with laughter as he recalled the episode. "It wasn't a dress suit--just the coat. And when we got to Saigon I wore that coat over my Japanese silks, in the daytime. "Our lack of experience with European ways caused many amusing things to happen. For instance, when we were in the train crossing the Isthmus of Suez--there was no canal then--one member of the party, unaccustomed to window-glass, threw an orange-peel, expecting it to go out of the window. The peel hit the glass and bounced back falling into the lap of an official who had come to escort us across the isthmus. We were much embarrassed. "Later, in Paris, another absurd thing occurred. You must understand that in Japan it is customary for guests, leaving a house where they have been entertained, to wrap up cakes and such things and take them home. One member of our party, who had never seen ice-cream before, attempted this, wrapping the ice-cream in paper and tucking it in the front of his kimono. Needless to say, the ice-cream was no longer ice-cream when he got back to the hotel, and he himself was not very comfortable. "The Paris Exposition of 1867 was in progress when we arrived. When it was over we travelled through Switzerland, Holland, Belgium, Italy, and England. Originally it was planned that after our official tour we should settle down to study, and I was eager for this time to come. However, it was not long before we received news that the shogunate had fallen. "The news was puzzling. I could not gather what was happening in Japan. First I heard that Yoshinobu, as shogun, had publicly returned full authority of the Emperor, but later came word of the battle of Toba-Fushimi, in which troops of the Imperial Party defeated troops of the Shogun. This made it appear that Yoshinobu had played false, first publicly relinquishing the shogun's power and then fighting to maintain it. These seemingly conflicting acts puzzled me, for I knew that Yoshinobu was a man of the highest honour. "Presently came a messenger from Japan saying that Akitaké had become head of the Mito branch of the Tokugawa family, which made it necessary for us to abandon our plans and return. We sailed from England in December 1867, reaching Japan in November 1868, eleven months later. "I was dumbfounded by the changes I found. Though I knew that the Shogun Government had fallen I had not visualized what that would mean. My lord, Yoshinobu, was held prisoner in a house in Suruga. Learning that he was allowed to see his intimate friends and retainers, I journeyed to Suruga, where I had audience with him several times. I found him reticent, and was able to get from him little information as to the mysterious course he had pursued. "After having been held prisoner for a year he was released, but he continued for thirty years to reside in the neighbourhood of Suruga, leading a secluded life. Not until thirty-one years after his resignation of the shogunate did he come to Tokyo. Four years later the Emperor created him a prince of the new régime. This showed pretty clearly that the Emperor had not mistrusted him. "For twenty years after my return to Japan I was unable to get at the bottom of this matter. I tried to get some explanation from Yoshinobu himself, but he evaded my inquiries. Meanwhile the question was constantly discussed in Japan. Those hostile to Yoshinobu contended that he had not acted with sincerity, having been led by the burdens connected with the opening of foreign relations, to lay down the shogunate, and having later changed his mind and fought to retain it. On the face of it, this seemed true. Yoshinobu was called a coward and a traitor, and was severely criticized for having escaped after the battle of Toba-Fushimi. "On the other hand, those who supported Yoshinobu asserted that he had acted logically and wisely: that he had seen that his government was going to fall, and had been entirely honest in surrendering the shogunate prior to the battle. These adherents insisted that he had not wanted a battle, but had set out for Kyoto to see the Emperor with a view to arranging details, especially with regard to the future welfare of his retainers. "But when a great lord, travelled, in those times, he travelled with an army, and Yoshinobu's defenders maintained that this was what had brought on the battle--that when the men of Choshu and Satsuma learned that Yoshinobu was moving toward Kyoto with his soldiers, they came out and attacked him, believing, or pretending to believe, that he was on a hostile errand. "At this time the Emperor was but seventeen years of age, and the Government was in the hands of elder statesmen of the Imperial Party. The Emperor himself probably had no idea on what errand Yoshinobu was approaching Kyoto; and whether the elder statesmen knew or not, they belonged to clans hostile to the shogunate, and preferred to fight. "Many years passed before the truth began to become clear. At last, when the old wounds were pretty well healed, I undertook the compilation of a history of Yoshinobu's life and times. Finally I asked him point-blank about the events connected with his resignation and the subsequent battle. He told me that he had indeed started to Kyoto on a peaceful errand, but that when the forces sent out by the great clansmen appeared, he could not control his own men. He had neither sought nor desired battle. Feeling that his highest duty was to the Emperor, he withdrew from the battle, taking no part in it, and returned whence he had come, going into retirement. He knew, of course, that the battle would put him in a false light, and he decided that the wisest and most honourable course for him to pursue was to show, by his life in retirement, his absolute submission to the Emperor. "In order fully to appreciate why Yoshinobu was so ready to lay down his power, the old Japanese doctrine of loyalty to the throne must be fully grasped. This loyalty amounts to a religion, and permeates the whole life of Japan. That is why the shoguns who for so many centuries ruled Japan, never attempted to usurp imperial rank, but were satisfied, while usurping the power, to preserve the form of governing always as vice-regents. "It is my personal belief that when Yoshinobu Tokugawa accepted the shogunate despite the opposition of his trusted retainers, he did so with the full intention of restoring to the Imperial House its rightful power. I used to ask him about this, and while he never admitted it, he never denied it. That was characteristic of him. He was the most modest and self-effacing of men--the last man who would have claimed for himself the credit for performing a self-sacrificing and heroic act of patriotism. For him the performance of the act was sufficient." * * * * * Throughout my talk with Viscount Shibusawa I felt in him the passionate loyalty of the retainer to his lord. Where I had wished for reminiscences of a more personal nature, the Viscount, I could see, thought of himself first of all in his relation to the family of Prince Yoshinobu, the last shogun, whose retainer he was. He was not interested in telling me of his own career, but he was profoundly interested in seeing that I, being a writer, should understand the relationship of Prince Yoshinobu to the Imperial Restoration. His attitude reminded me of that of a noble old Southern gentleman, now dead and gone, who had been the adjutant of Robert E. Lee, and who loved Lee and loved to talk about him. When I talked with him it was the same. I had great difficulty in getting him to tell me about his own experiences. The loyalty of the retainer to the family of his lord is also to be seen in the relationship between the Viscount and young Prince Keikyu Tokugawa, son of Yoshinobu. After the death of the father the Viscount continued to act as advisor to the son. He became his chief counsellor, and when, a few years since, he resigned from the board of directors of the First Bank of Japan--the bank which he founded five years after the Restoration--it was young Prince Tokugawa who succeeded to his empty chair. The Prince, who is a member of the House of Peers, is known in the United States, having come here during the war as representative of the Japanese Red Cross. * * * * * Viscount Shibusawa is also a figure not unfamiliar to Americans, having visited this country several times. I am indebted to him for an anecdote illustrative of the prodigious memory of President Roosevelt. "Eighteen years ago," he said, "when Mr. Roosevelt was president, I called upon him at the White House. We had a pleasant talk. He complimented the behaviour of the Japanese troops in the Boxer trouble, saying that they were not only brave but orderly and well disciplined. Then he spoke with admiration of the art of Japan. "I said to him, 'Mr. President, I am only a banker, and I regret to say that in my country banking is not yet so highly developed as is art.' "'Perhaps it will be,' he replied, 'by the time we meet again.' "Thirteen years later, when I called upon him at his home at Oyster Bay, he took up the conversation where we had left off. "'The last time I saw you,' he said, 'I did not ask you about banking in Japan. Now I want you to tell me all about it.'" * * * * * As I was leaving the bungalow in the garden late in the afternoon of the second day spent in interviewing the Viscount, the thought came to me that probably I should never again talk with a man who had lived through such transitions. I wanted a souvenir, and I wished it to be something emblematic of the changes witnessed by those shrewd, humorous old eyes. Therefore, not without some hesitation, I asked the Viscount if he would be so kind as to put on his two samurai swords and let me take his photograph. He dispatched a servant who presently returned from the house bearing the weapons. The Viscount tucked them through his sash, and I snapped the shutter, hoping fervently that the late afternoon light would prove to have been adequate. [Illustration: Viscount Shibusawa, one of the Grand Old Men of Japan, consented to pose for me, wearing his samurai swords] As the reader may see for himself, the picture turned out well. Indeed it turned out better than I myself had anticipated, for besides the swords and silken robes of Old Japan, there may be seen in it a very modern note. It was the Viscount's grandson who, when I showed him the photograph, called attention to that. "Yes," he said, with a smile, "you have there the swords of Old Japan. But the watch-chain--that is an anachronism." CHAPTER XVIII _Viscount Kaneko's Home--Some Souvenirs--A Rooseveltian Memory--Doctor Bigelow's Prophecy--A First Meeting with Roosevelt--The Russo-Japanese War--Luncheons at the White House--Roosevelt's Interest in the Samurai Tradition--Sagamore Hill--Mrs. Roosevelt and Quentin--A Simple Home--The President Brings Blankets--A Bear Hunt--The Peace of Portsmouth and a Bearskin for the Emperor--A Letter of Roosevelt's on Relations with Japan--A Letter from Mid-Africa--"American Samurai"_ Never while in Japan did I feel quite so close to home as on the several occasions when I sat in the study of Viscount Kentaro Kaneko, in Tokyo, listening to his reminiscences and looking at his souvenirs of Theodore Roosevelt. No Japanese has been more widely known in the United States, or more familiar with our ways, than Viscount Kaneko (Harvard '78), Privy Councilor to the Emperor, chairman of the commission which is engaged in preparing the history of the reign of the late Emperor Meiji, and president of the America-Japan Society of Tokyo. I found him living in a good-sized but not ostentatious house, purely Japanese in architecture. But it was not purely Japanese in its equipment. Like the houses of other Tokyo gentlemen accustomed to see much of foreigners, it had carpet over the hall matting, rendering the removal of shoes unnecessary, and certain of its rooms were furnished in the Occidental style. Such rooms, in Japan, usually are stiff reception-rooms which look as if they were used only when visitors from abroad put in an appearance; but Viscount Kaneko's study held a homelike feeling which made me think the room was frequented by the master of the house when no guests were present. On the walls were framed photographs of notables, European and American, with the Roosevelt family very much to the fore, and I noticed beneath the photograph of President Roosevelt a cordial inscription in the familiar handwriting, so honest and boyish--writing as unlike that of any other great man as Roosevelt himself was unlike any other great man. When I had crossed and read the inscription, Viscount Kaneko called my attention to the frame. "That frame," he said, "is made from a piece of Oregon pine which was brought among other presents to the Shogun by Commodore Perry. The Emperor presented me with a piece of the wood, and I had made from it that frame and a writing box on which the scene of Perry's arrival is depicted in gold lacquer." There was also a photograph of Mrs. Roosevelt with two of her sons, and one of Quentin Roosevelt as a child, astride a pony, with an inscription to the Viscount's son Takemaro, dated August seventh, 1905. In the corner of the frame was inserted a photograph which the Viscount had caused to be taken of Quentin's grave in France. Viscount Kaneko was a student at Harvard when Roosevelt entered the university, but they were two years apart and did not know each other there. Their first meeting occurred in Washington in 1889, when Roosevelt was Civil Service Commissioner and Viscount Kaneko was returning to Japan after having visited the principal countries of Europe for the purpose of studying parliamentary forms. The first Japanese Parliament met in the year following, 1890, when Japan adopted a Constitution. In looking back upon my interviews with the Viscount I find myself marvelling to-day, as I did then, at the detailed accuracy of his memory. He recounted events of fifteen and more years before with a vividness and an attention to trifles that was extraordinary. It was as if he had refreshed his memory by reading from a diary. "I had two letters of introduction to Roosevelt," he told me, "when I went to Washington in 1889. One had been given to me by James Bryce, later Viscount Bryce, who was then in Gladstone's Cabinet. The other I received from my friend Dr. William Sturges Bigelow. "When Doctor Bigelow gave me the letter, he said: 'This will introduce you to a man who will some day be President of the United States.' I always remembered that and watched Roosevelt's career with the more interest for that reason. "On reaching Washington I called on Roosevelt at a private boarding house where he was living, and he returned my call next day. Naturally I perceived at once that he was a man of extraordinarily vigorous mind. I enjoyed him greatly, and was pleased and interested, after my return to Japan, to see him steadily ascending. He became Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Colonel of the Rough Riders, Governor of New York. 'Now,' I said to myself on reading that he had been elected Governor, 'he is on the way to fulfilling Doctor Bigelow's prophecy.' Then he became Vice-President, and I thought: 'That is too bad. They have shelved him. He won't be President after all.' But McKinley was assassinated and Roosevelt came to the White House. "Early in 1904, at the time of our war with Russia, I was sent to the United States on an unofficial embassy. I went first to New York, where I remained for a week; then to Washington. There I called on my old friend Mr. Justice Holmes of the Supreme Court--'Brother Kaneko' he used to call me--requesting him to take me to the White House to meet the President, who I thought would not remember me. But Justice Holmes had disagreed with Roosevelt over the Northern Securities case, and did not feel that he was persona grata at the White House just then. Therefore I arranged through our Minister, Mr. Takahira, for a meeting. "One morning in May, 1904, the Minister took me to call upon the President. Our appointment was for half past ten. We were not kept waiting long. I will never forget the picture of Roosevelt as he quickly thrust open the door and rushed into the room. The Minister had no chance to present me. 'I am delighted to see you again Baron!' the President exclaimed in that wonderfully hearty way of his. And as we shook hands he threw his arm over my shoulder, demanding: 'Why did you stay for a week in New York? Why didn't you come and see me right away?' "During our talk, which lasted an hour, he let me see that he was absolutely neutral in his official attitude toward our war with Russia, but nevertheless made me feel that he had much personal sympathy for Japan. He declared frankly that popular sentiment in the United States was favourable to Japan, and added that the Russian Government had complained that American army and navy officers were openly pro-Japanese. This had made it necessary for him to issue a proclamation of neutrality. But though, as President, he was particular to be scrupulously just to both sides, I was in no doubt as to the friendliness of his private sentiments. "He advised me not to stay in Washington, but to make my headquarters in New York, coming over to Washington to see him when it was necessary. This I did, and as time went on, and we became closer friends, he often did me the honour of inviting me to luncheon _en famille_ at the White House. "At one of these luncheons I told him of Doctor Bigelow's prophecy, and of how I had watched him mounting step by step to its fulfilment. That seemed to please him. "'Edith,' he called across the table to Mrs. Roosevelt, 'do you hear that? Here is a man who has kept a friendly eye on me from away off in Japan.' "Once at one of these intimate White House luncheons he remarked that as President it was necessary to preserve a certain style. 'Coming to see us here,' he said, 'you don't get an accurate idea of what our family life really is. You must come and pay us a visit at Oyster Bay this summer when we get home. Then you will know more about us.' "He did not forget the invitation, but early in July 1905, repeated it by telegraph. I went to Oyster Bay and stayed over night. It was in many ways a memorable experience. "He was always greatly interested in our samurai tradition and in the doctrine we call bushido. I remember his asking me how much money was required for the keeping up of a samurai's position. I explained that there were different classes of samurai--that the shoguns had themselves been samurai, with others of various grades below them. "'Middle-class samurai,' I said, 'do not need a great deal of money. They require only enough for dress to be worn on social occasions, for the education of their families, and the maintenance of their political position, whatever it may be. They need no money for pleasures or extravagances.' "'Just the same,' the President replied, 'a man doesn't want to fall behind his ancestors, materially or otherwise. Take my own case: I want to keep my place as my forbears kept theirs. I desire neither more nor less than what my father had. I want my children to be able to grow up in this old home at Oyster Bay just as the children of my generation did.' Then he began to ask me more about the details of samurai life. "'What about doctor's bills?' he asked. 'You didn't mention that item in estimating the expense of living.' "I told him of a curious custom we used to have. In each samurai class there were families of doctors who were endowed by the Government, the profession being passed down from father to son. These doctors took care of samurai families of the rank corresponding to their own, and charged nothing for so doing. Twice a year, in January and July, when it is customary to give presents, presents were given to the doctors. They also took care of the poor as a matter of charity. "That interested him, too. He was always intensely interested in the samurai, because our samurai virtues were virtues of a kind he particularly admired--courage, stoicism, love of duty and of country. "We sat on the wide verandah, overlooking the lawn sloping down toward Long Island Sound. Mrs. Roosevelt sat with us, knitting. It was July, but she was knitting mittens. Presently a maid came and spoke to her, and she left us. "When she came back she said to me, 'Baron, I want to ask a favour of you. Quentin has been crying. He took great pains to clean his pony to-day, to show it to you, and we promised that he should be allowed to do so. He has been riding around the lawn hoping you would notice him.' "Of course I sent for Quentin, and he appeared proudly upon his pony. I asked him to ride around the lawn, which he did. "'You ride splendidly!' I said, when he drew up again before the porch. "'Do you think so?' he asked, evidently much pleased. "'Indeed I do!' I said, and asked him to go around the lawn again. "When he came back I told him about my son, who was just his age. 'I shall have him learn to ride,' I said, 'and when he can ride as well as you can I shall have his picture taken on a pony and send it to you.' "That," continued the Viscount, "is how we happen to have this picture of Quentin on his pony. He sent it to my son, and my son sent him a picture. I always like to think of the good-will there was between those two boys--an American boy and a Japanese boy who had never seen each other. "That night we sat talking in the drawing room which is to the left of the hall as you go into the house. Mrs. Roosevelt was still knitting mittens for the children. It was all wonderfully simple and homelike. I could hardly believe that I was in the home of the head of a great nation. At that time the house was lighted with kerosene lamps, yet in Japan I had been using electric light for fifteen years. "At about ten o'clock Mrs. Roosevelt said good night to us and retired. Before she went upstairs she moved about, fastening windows and putting out lamps in parts of the house in which they would not be needed any more. Then she brought candles and matches so that we should have them when we were ready to go to bed. "After an hour's talk about the war, which was still raging, the President rose and lit the candles. Then he put out the remaining lamps, and conducted me upstairs to my room. It was a cool night. He felt of the coverings on my bed, and decided that I might need another blanket. 'I'll get you one,' he said, leaving the room. And in a minute or two he reappeared with a blanket over his shoulder. "'Come,' he said, as he put it on the bed, 'and I'll show you the bathroom.' I went with him. 'Here's soap,' said he, 'and here are clean towels.' Then he took me back to my room and wished me a good night. "As for me, I was fascinated, almost dazed. I kept saying to myself, 'This man who has lighted me upstairs with a candle, and carried me a blanket, and shown me where to find soap and towels, is the President of the United States! The President of the United States has done all these things for me. It is the greatest honour a man could have.' "Earlier in the same year, before the President moved from the White House to Oyster Bay, he went bear hunting. That was just before Admiral Togo's victory over the Russian fleet, in the Sea of Japan. "Before leaving, the President sent for me and told me, in the presence of Mr. Taft, who was Secretary of War, that if anything of importance should come up during his absence, I was to see Mr. Taft about it, and that in the event of its being anything absolutely vital, Mr. Taft would know how to reach him. "Mr. Taft showed me a photograph hanging on the wall of the President's office, showing the wild country to which the President was going on his hunting trip. "I remarked playfully to him that I thought it advisable, at that time, that the President refrain from killing bears, whatever other animals he might see fit to slay. "Roosevelt, sitting at his desk, overheard me. "'What's that you are saying?' he asked. "I repeated what I had said to Mr. Taft. "'Why do you think I should not kill bears?' demanded the President. "'Well, Mr. President,' I replied, 'you know that the various nations have their special symbols in the animal kingdom. America has the eagle, Britain the lion, France the cock, and Russia, well----' "He got up, laughing and came over to me. "'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I shall go right ahead and kill bears!' "Before he left on that hunting trip I went to see him and asked as a special favour that he give me the skin of one of the bears he should kill. "He refused, saying that if he were to start presenting trophies to his friends they would all be after him. "At that I said to him, 'If I were asking this for myself, Mr. President, I would not pursue the matter further, but I am not asking it for myself. I want that bear skin for our Emperor.' "'Very well, then,' he said. 'You shall have it.' "He went off on his hunting trip, and came back. Then followed the negotiations for a cessation of hostilities between Japan and Russia, and the Portsmouth Peace Conference, through which Roosevelt brought about the end of the war. "In August of the same year, 1905, I received this letter from him." The Viscount handed me the letter to read. It was as follows: Oyster Bay, N, Y,. August 30, 1905. _Personal_ MY DEAR BARON KANEKO: I cannot too highly state my appreciation of the wisdom and magnanimity of Japan, which make a fit crown to the prowess of her soldiers. Will you tell the Emperor that I shall take the liberty of sending him by you a bear skin? I want you soon to come out here and take lunch. Sincerely yours, THEODORE ROOSEVELT. "Later," the Viscount went on, "I was asked by the President to come to Oyster Bay and select one of the skins. I however did not wish to make the selection, so the President did that, picking out the largest skin of all and giving it to me for the Emperor Meiji. "His Majesty was greatly pleased with the skin, not only because it was a trophy from the President himself, but because of the emblematic nature of the gift. That bearskin was in his library at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo as long as he lived." * * * * * One of the most important Roosevelt letters shown me by Viscount Kaneko was on the subject of Japanese-American relations. As this letter is not included in the two-volume collection of Roosevelt correspondence compiled in such masterly fashion by Joseph Bucklin Bishop, Roosevelt's literary executor, I have asked the permission of Mrs. Roosevelt and of Mr. Bishop to quote it here. It was as follows: THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON May 23, 1907. _Confidential_ MY DEAR BARON KANEKO: I much appreciate your thought of Archie. The little fellow was very sick but is now all right. His mother and I have just had him on a short trip in the country. I was delighted to meet General Kuroki and Admiral Ijuin with their staffs. General Kuroki is, of course, one of the most illustrious men living. Through his interpreter, a very able young staff officer, I spoke to him a little about our troubles on the Pacific Slope. Nothing during my Presidency has given me more concern than these troubles. History often teaches by example, and I think we can best understand just what the situation is, and how it ought to be met, by taking into account the change in general international relations during the last two or three centuries. During this period all the civilized nations have made great progress. During the first part of it Japan did not appear in the general progress, but for the last half century she has gone ahead so much faster than any other nation that I think we can fairly say that, taking the last three centuries together, her advance has been on the whole greater than that of any other nation. But all have advanced, and especially in the way in which the people of each treat people of other nationalities. Two centuries ago there was the greatest suspicion and malevolence exhibited by all the people, high and low, of each European country, for all the people, high and low, of every other European country, with but few exceptions. The cultivated people of the different countries, however, had already begun to treat with one another on good terms. But when, for instance, the Huguenots were exiled from France, and great numbers of Huguenot workmen went to England, their presence excited the most violent hostility, manifesting itself even in mob violence, among the English workmen. The men were closely allied by race and religion, they had practically the same type of ancestral culture, and yet they were unable to get on together. Two centuries have passed, the world has moved forward, and now there could be no repetition of such hostilities. In the same way a marvellous progress has been made in the relations of Japan with the Occidental nations. Fifty years ago you and I and those like us could not have travelled in one another's countries. We should have had very unpleasant and possibly very dangerous experiences. But the same progress that has been going on as between nations in Europe and their descendants in America and Australia, has also been going on as between Japan and the Occidental nations. In these times, then, gentlemen, all educated people, members of professions and the like, get on so well together that they not only travel each in the other's country, but associate on the most intimate terms. Among the friends whom I especially value I include a number of Japanese gentlemen. But the half century has been too short a time for the advance to include the labouring classes of the two countries, as between themselves. Exactly as the educated classes in Europe, among the several nations, grew to be able to associate together generations before it was possible for such association to take place among the men who had no such advantages of education, so it is evident we must not press too fast in bringing the labouring classes of Japan and America together. Already in these fifty years we have completely attained the goal as between the educated and the intellectual classes of the two countries. We must be content to wait another generation before we shall have made progress enough to permit the same close intimacy between the classes who have had less opportunity for cultivation, and whose lives are less easy, so that each has to feel, in earning its daily bread, the pressure of the competition of the other. I have become convinced that to try to move too far forward all at once is to incur jeopardy of trouble. This is just as true of one nation as of the other. If scores of thousands of American miners went to Saghalin, or of American mechanics to Japan or Formosa, trouble would almost certainly ensue. Just in the same way scores of thousands of Japanese labourers, whether agricultural or industrial, are certain, chiefly because of the pressure caused thereby, to be a sources of trouble if they should come here or to Australia. I mention Australia because it is a part of the British Empire, because the Australians have discriminated against continental immigration in favour of immigration from the British Isles, and have in effect discriminated to a certain degree in favour of immigration from England and Scotland as against immigration from Ireland. My dear Baron, the business of statesmen is to try constantly to keep international relations better, to do away with causes of friction, and secure as nearly ideal justice as actual conditions will permit. I think that with this object in view and facing conditions not as I would like them to be, but as they are, the best thing to do is to prevent the labouring classes of either country from going in any numbers to the other. In a generation I believe all need of such prevention will have passed away; and at any rate this leaves free the opportunity for all those fit to profit by intercourse, to go each to the other's country. I have just appointed a commission on general immigration which will very possibly urge restrictive measures as regards European immigration, and which I am in hopes will be able to bring about a method by which the result we have in view will be obtained with the minimum friction. With warm regards to the Baroness, believe me, Sincerely yours, THEODORE ROOSEVELT. Baron Kentaro Kaneko, Tokyo, Japan. The foregoing letter may well be studied at this time when, through lack of the kind of statesmanship shown by Roosevelt, the Californian situation has become worse instead of better. Another letter shown me by Viscount Kaneko was written in pencil on a large sheet of yellow paper torn from a pad. It came from the African jungle, and ran as follows: Mid-Africa Sept. 10th, 1909. MY DEAR BARON,[3] I have no facilities for writing here; but I must just send you a line of thanks for your welcome note. I have had a most interesting trip; my son Kermit has done particularly well. He has the spirit of a samurai! I greatly hope to visit Japan; but when it may be possible I can not say. With warm regards to the Viscountess,[3] believe me, Sincerely yours, THEODORE ROOSEVELT. [3] Despite the fact that Roosevelt knew that Kaneko had been made a Viscount he addressed him in this letter by his old title. The last letter of the series was written on the stationery of the Kansas City _Star_, of which Roosevelt was an associate editor with an office in New York. The letter read: New York, Aug. 21, 1918. MY DEAR VISCOUNT KANEKO: I thank you for your letter; and Mrs. Roosevelt was as much touched by it as I was. Remember to give your son a letter to us when he comes here to go to Harvard. One of our newspapers, the Chicago _Tribune_, when the news was brought that Quentin was dead and two of his brothers wounded, spoke of my four sons as "American samurai." I was proud of the reference! As you say, all of us who are born are doomed to die. No man is fit to live who is afraid to die for a great cause. My sorrow for Quentin is outweighed by my pride in him. Faithfully your friend, THEODORE ROOSEVELT. The foregoing, written less than five months before Colonel Roosevelt's death, was the last letter of the series shown me by Viscount Kaneko. Reading it I was reminded of what Colonel Roosevelt said to me as he lay on his bed in the hospital the last time I saw him. Speaking of his four sons in the war he said: "We have been an exceptionally united family. Come what may, we have many absolutely satisfying years together to look back upon." CHAPTER XIX _Placidity and_ Sodans--_Talk and Tea--American Business Methods_ versus _Japanese--The American Housekeeper in Nippon--Japan's Problem-- Population and Food--The Militarists--Land-Grabbing--Liberalism--Emigration-- Industrialism--Examples of Inefficiency--"Public Futilities"--Comedies of the Telephone--The Cables_ Elsewhere I have said that the Japanese are generally hard workers; wherefore it may seem paradoxical to add that they are also leisurely workers. But the paradox is not so great as it would seem. The hours of work are longer in Japan than in most other countries, but work is not so vigorously pressed. Without being in the least lazy, the Japanese take their time to everything. With masters and servants, employers and workmen, it is much the same. They appear placid. They hold _sodans_, conferring and arranging matters with terrible precision. If you attempt to use the telephone you are prepared for a long struggle and a long wait. The clerks in the cable office act as if the cable had just been laid--as if your cablegram were the first one they had ever been called upon to send, and they didn't quite know how to handle it, or how much to charge. Often they are unable to make change. Sometimes even the railway ticket agents have no change. Business conferences are conducted over successive cups of pale green tea, and I am told that it is customary to begin them with talk on any topic other than the main one. In the lexicon of Japanese trade and commerce there is no such word as "snappy." The hustling American business man who tries to rush things through often arouses the Japanese business man's suspicion. What is he after? Why is he in such a hurry? There must be something behind it all. It is necessary to be particularly careful in dealing with such a man. Negotiations drag and drag until the American, if he be of nervous disposition, is driven nearly wild. And sometimes this results in his making a bad bargain merely for the sake of getting through. "I'm sorry I ever came to the Far East!" he will declare bitterly. "I feel that I am getting nothing accomplished over here--nothing!" Then he will tell you what is the trouble with the Japanese: "They are used to playing only with white chips!" The American housekeeper in Japan, if she knows what nerves are, may have similar difficulties. Her Japanese servants will conduct her ménage well enough if she lets them do it in their Japanese way, but if she attempts to run her home as she would run it in the United States, she is lost. It can't be done. I know of an American woman who could not get a cook because her efforts to Americanize her household had given her a bad reputation with the Cook's Guild. Another could get no sewing done, for a like reason. For all the servants and working people have their guilds, and news travels. Thus many an American housekeeper in Japan has became a nervous wreck. Yet on the other hand, numbers of American business men and their wives enjoy Japanese life, and only come home when it is necessary to give their children an American education. The men are successful and their homes are comfortable and well run. But always you will find that they are people of calm disposition: people having sufficient balance to adjust themselves to the customs of the country. The essential point seems to be that the Japanese view life in longer perspective than we do. Where we see ourselves as individuals having certain things to accomplish in a rather short life, they see themselves as mere links in an endless family chain. We are conscious of our parents and our children but they are conscious of ancestors, reaching back to the mists of antiquity, and of a posterity destined to people the nebulous vaults of the far-distant future. But while, from a philosophical standpoint, this way of looking at life may be quite as good as ours, or even better, still I believe it tends to handicap the Japanese in meeting the urgent material problems by which they are confronted. And though these problems are not so terrible as those of war-racked Europe, they are, if measured by any other standard, terrible enough. Japan's fundamental problem--the one out of which grow all other Japanese problems in which the world is interested--is, as I have said before, that of great density of population coupled with an inadequate supply of food and raw materials. Fifty years ago the population of Japan proper was less than 33,000,000. To-day it is more than 57,000,000. There has been an increase in five decades of more than 75 per cent., but there has been no corresponding increase in the country's arable land. [Illustration: The film was not large enough to hold the family of this youngish fisherman at Nabuto. Nine children! Fifty years ago Japan had a population of 33,000,000. To-day it is nearing 60,000,000.] In Japan itself there have been various theories as to how this problem should be met. The militarists, who are still very powerful, have in the past undoubtedly favoured what we have come lately to call the Prussian system, the grabbing system: the system which has been followed in the Far East not by Japan alone but by England, Russia, France, and Germany--and by the United States (if in a form somewhat more moderate) in the Hawaiian Islands, and the Philippines. "If the others do it," the Japanese militarists have argued, "why shouldn't we? Why shouldn't we, who need additional territory so much more than they do, grab on the continent of Asia for land to which our surplus population may be sent, and from which we may get food and raw materials?" To which the other nations answer: "Unfortunately for you, you came along too late. The good old grabbing days are gone. The world is radiant with a new international morality, and woe be unto those who offend against it! Germany tried it--see what happened to her!" Japan did see what happened to Germany and the lesson was not wasted on her. Nor was the least striking part of the lesson contained in America's exhibition of military might. And truth to tell, Japan needed such a lesson; for her victories over China and Russia had put her militarists in the ascendant, and had made them, and perhaps the bulk of their countrymen also, over-confident, with the result that Japan occasionally rattled the sabre in the Far East somewhat as Germany was wont to do in Europe. But although it cannot be denied that the Japanese militarists exhibited undue aggressiveness in China and Siberia during the late war, and although their actions since have not been altogether satisfactory to the rest of the world, there is good reason to suppose that their old-time dream of vast territorial aggrandizement has diminished, even though it may not have entirely faded from the minds of some of them. This new tendency toward moderation is due to the war's lesson and to the marked growth of liberal and anti-militarist sentiment among the Japanese people. The militarists, though they still control the Government, are less aggressive than they used to be, both because the Japanese public protests when too much aggressiveness is shown, and because the more intelligent members of the militaristic group now realize that if Japan were to bring on a great war she would inevitably be ruined. So, while the power and aggressiveness of this dangerous element slowly wane, the liberal element, led by some of the sanest and ablest men in Japan, steadily gains strength. The outcome of this struggle between the advocates of force and those of fair dealing will, in my judgment, be determined largely by the course pursued by other nations. If, as we all hope, a new order of things is to grow out of the late war, then within a few years I believe we shall see the liberal group running Japan. But if, on the contrary, the world backslides, and the old selfish system is resumed, then the Japanese militarists will say to the people: "Well, you see that we were right after all!" But however these matters may turn out, I do not believe that Japan will ever fully settle her surplus population problem by means of emigration, whether to annexed territory, or to other countries. The Japanese do not like to leave home. There are only about 300,000 Japanese in China, for example, and they have not colonized to nearly the extent they might have in Siberia. If they do leave home they seek mild climates, but they are now barred from colonizing in the United States, Canada, and Australia and even when they settle in Mexico or South America one sees protests in our press. Yet if Japan's population is to remain static hundreds of thousands of her people must leave the islands every year. All considered, it seems more than improbable that they will ever emigrate in such a wholesale way. By what means, then, is the problem to be solved? Apparently the leaders of the small group that governs Japan came, some years ago, to the conclusion that the best means for solving their difficulties lay in turning Japan into an industrial country. They determined to manufacture goods, export them, and with the proceeds pay for imports of raw materials and food--in short, to adopt the plan which England began to follow nearly a century ago, and which Belgium has also followed. England's situation was in many respects like that of Japan, for there were certain essential raw materials which she did not have either at home or in her possessions; and like Japan she is unable to feed herself. With Belgium the situation was even worse than with England. Yet through industrializing themselves both countries have prospered greatly. Is it not then logical to suppose that by following a similar course Japan will likewise prosper? Recent statistics seem, moreover, to indicate that with industrialization the birth-rate tends to decline. In attempting a great industrial programme Japan has two advantages: she has abundant cheap labour and a short haul to the great markets of Asia. Geographically we are her nearest competitor for Asiatic trade, yet we have at the very least, four thousand miles farther to carry our goods. Obviously this is an immense disadvantage to us, and we are further handicapped by the high cost of our labour. Having us at so great a disadvantage in the matter of commerce with Asia, it would seem that Japan should have little difficulty in securing for herself the lion's share of the Asiatic trade. But it must not be supposed that Japan has as yet become sufficiently industrialized to solve her problem. She must become a much greater manufacturing and exporting nation than she now is. And in order to accomplish that she must greatly improve in one particular: she must master much more thoroughly than she has so far mastered them, the horrid arts of "efficiency." I do not mean to imply that the Japanese are never efficient, but only that they are not always so efficient as they ought to be, and as they must become. I am aware, now, that I expected too much of them in this particular. Reports of their astonishing military efficiency at the time of their war with Russia, caused me to think of them almost as supermen. And they are not that. Nor is any other race. It may be true that in military matters they are highly efficient. Probably they are. My own observation as a traveller on their ships convinces me that they are efficient on the sea, and this opinion is supported by what American naval officers have told me of their navy and their naval men. I visited a huge cotton mill near Tokyo which was clearly a first-class institution of the kind; also I was much struck, in going through a penitentiary, by the evidences of their understanding of modern and enlightened practice in the conduct of penal establishments; and I might go on with a list of other institutions which impressed me favourably. But that is not the side I wish here to bring out. On the contrary, I wish to call attention to the fact that the high degree of efficiency shown by the Japanese in certain instances serves but to emphasize their widespread inefficiency in others. In an earlier chapter I spoke of the fact that in Japan one sees three men instead of two in the cab of a locomotive, that hand-carts are used for watering city streets, and that more servants are required there than here in a house of given size. These are but minor items in the wholesale waste of labour. It is as if Japan said to herself: "I have all these people to look after and I must put as many of them as possible on every job." And that, in my judgment, is not the way Japan should look at it. Instead of putting on every job more people than are actually needed, she should endeavour to develop her industries to such a point that there will be a full, honest day's work for everyone. For, of course, her labour wastage keeps up her manufacturing and operating costs. An example of the way time is wasted may be seen wherever railroad gangs are at work. They swing their picks to the accompaniment of a song, and the rhythm is taken from the slowest man. Wastage is also exhibited in the way a house is built. They build the framework of the roof upon the ground. Then they take it apart. Then they go up and put it together all over again, in place. A whole house is constructed in this way. The parts are not fashioned on the premises as the building goes up, but are made elsewhere and brought to the actual scene of building to be fitted together. The tiles are fastened to the roof with mud, but instead of carrying this mud up in bulk they toss it up from hand to hand, six men forming a chain for the purpose. Or again, to cite a very simple example of domestic inefficiency, consider their method of washing a kimono. Instead of laundering the garment all at once, they rip it apart, wash the pieces separately, dry them on a board, and sew them together again. In factory management also one sometimes finds the most surprising inefficiency. I know of a great manufacturing plant in Japan which, if you were to go through it, you would call thoroughly modern. The buildings are modern, the machinery is modern. But there is one thing missing, and it is a vital thing. The plant stands a good half mile from the railway line; coal and raw materials are transported from car to factory in carts, or in baskets carried on the backs of coolies, and the finished product is removed in like manner. Though the cost of labour in Japan was trebled after the war, wages are still low as compared with other countries. But this fact, which should be taken advantage of in the struggle for world trade, is too often used only as an excuse for such waste of labour as I have pointed out. And it is because of this and similar inefficiencies that the Japanese now find themselves unable to compete in costs, in certain lines, with other nations, even though the labour of those other nations is much better paid. Among the things most criticized by visitors are the bad roads, both in the country and in the cities; the hotels, which except in a few places are poor (I am speaking only of the foreign-style hotels); and the miserable conditions of what the _Japan Advertiser_ humorously refers to as "public futilities." Tokyo, with a transportation problem which ought easily to be solved, has utterly inadequate street-car service. The rush hour there is only saved from being as terrible as the rush hour in New York by the lack of subterranean features. But it is in all matters having to do with communications that Japanese inefficiency is most strikingly brought to the notice of strangers. The postal service is poor, the cable service is expensive and absurdly slow (when I was in Japan it took about ten days to cable to America and get an answer back), and the telephone service is unbelievably awful. All these, like the railroads, are owned and operated by the Government. I began to suspect their telephones when I saw the old full-bosomed wall instruments they use, with bell-cranks to be rung; but little did I then guess the full measure of their telephonic backwardness. It is like opera bouffe. Though the demand for new telephones far exceeds the supply, the Government makes no appreciable effort to remedy the situation. Every year an absurdly small number of lines is added to the existing system. These are assigned by lot among those who have applied for them. Thus, if a man be lucky in the draw, he may get a telephone within two or three years. But I know one gentleman in Tokyo who was not lucky in the draw. At the ripe age of sixty-seven he applied to the Government for an additional office telephone. The instrument was installed shortly after he had celebrated his eightieth birthday. Long may he live to use it! If one be in a hurry to have a telephone put in, one does not apply to the authorities, but attacks the problem in a manner more direct--either through a telephone broker or through advertising. Thus one can get in contact with a person wishing to sell an installation and a number. The number must, however, be in the exchange serving the district in which the telephone is to be placed. Though this is a very expensive method, it is the one usually employed in Tokyo and other large cities. A telephone for the business district of the capital may cost as much as twelve hundred dollars, but in a residential district it will be considerably cheaper--five hundred dollars or less. A curious detail of this business is that low numbers bring the highest price in the open market. This, I was informed, is because green operators, in process of being broken-in, sit at that end of the central switchboard at which the high numbers invariably occur, thus guaranteeing the owners of high numbers a grade of service calculated to drive them to the madhouse. It must not be imagined that the Japanese are content with their telephone service. They are not. For some time prior to my arrival in Japan the press had been demanding a reform, and at last it was announced that action was about to be taken to improve matters. But all that happened was this: Instead of increasing the service, the government functionaries started a campaign to discourage the use of telephones. Up to that time, unlimited service had been given. Now, however, a flat charge of two sen (about one cent) per call was announced, the theory being that many persons would think twice before spending two sen on an idle telephonic conversation. After watching the new plan in operation for a few days the telephone authorities jubilantly announced that it was a great success--the number of calls had appreciably diminished. Apparently it never occurred to them that the result of such a policy, carried to its logical conclusion, would be to eliminate the telephone entirely. With the Japanese cables the trouble has been largely due to congestion. The use of two important lines was cut off by the war, and as service on these lines has not up to the time of writing been resumed, owing to the disorganization of Russia and Germany, a heavy strain has been placed upon the transpacific cables. I am assured, however, that conditions would not be so bad as they are if the Japanese were entirely efficient in their handling of cable business, and my own experiences with cable messages, while there, would seem to indicate that this is true. Moreover, at the time when cable congestion was at its worst, the Japanese refused to operate their transpacific wireless for more than seven hours a day; and even then they would take business only for San Francisco and vicinity, for the reason, it was explained, that they did not wish to be bothered with the details of figuring the rates to various parts of the United States. Lately they have increased their service to cover the states of California, Oregon and Washington; but that, at the time of writing, is as far as they have consented to extend it. CHAPTER XX _The Average American and International Affairs--The Vagueness of the Orient--A Definition by Former Ambassador Morris--"They say"--The "Yellow Peril"--International Insults--Physiognomy-- What the Japanese Should Learn About Us--Our Race Problems-- Racial Integrity--Assimilation--Californian Methods--The Two Sound Arguments Against Oriental Immigration_ If public opinion is fed with distorted facts, unworthy suspicions, or alarming rumours; if every careless utterance by thoughtless and insignificant men is to be given prominence in print; if every casual difference of view is to be magnified into a crisis, sober judgment and deliberate action become impossible.--JOHN W. DAVIS, _former Ambassador to the Court of St. James's_. Concerned with making a living, the Average American has as a rule neither the time nor the inclination to study international affairs. He expects his government to see to such things for him. He has no interest in what his government is doing with regard to other nations unless his personal feelings are in some way involved. Thus if he be a German-American he may take cognizance of our relations with Germany; or if he be a Russian-American he may desire that we recognize the so-called government of Lenine and Trotzky; or again, if he be an Irish-American he may wish the President of the United States to go personally to London and knock the British premier's hat off. But if he be simply an average unhyphenated American the chances are that he is disgusted with the clatter of the hyphenates and bored with the whole business of foreign relations and race problems. His main interest in governmental affairs at the present time has nothing to do with foreign relations but comes much closer to home. He is tired of paying heavy taxes, tired of paying exorbitantly for the necessities of life. He wants his government to remedy those two things. Then, because he is sick of hyphenated citizens and internal race problems, he wants immigration stopped. The Orient is all vague to him. If he does not live on the Pacific Coast or in some large city where Japanese have settled, he may never have laid eyes upon a Japanese. Or if he has seen Japanese over here he may have seen them in the farming districts of the Pacific slope. Whether he has seen them or not, he has gathered some impression of them through newspaper accounts of the trouble there has been about them in California. He understands that their customs, religion, and food are unlike his--which may be taken as implying a certain lack of merit in them. He understands that Japanese women and children work in the fields. His own women and children do not work in the fields, but wear silk stockings, chew gum, and go to the movies--all of which, of course, counts against the Japanese, since to work in the fields is in these times almost un-American. And of course it is still more un-American to do what the Japanese labourers did in California until the patriotic Californians stopped them; namely to save money and buy farms. Then there is this business about "picture-brides"--my Average American may have heard vaguely about that, though probably he does not know that the Japanese Government, in deference to our wishes, no longer allows picture-brides to come here. He would not think of such a thing as picking out a wife by photograph. None of his friends would do it, either. It may be well here to state the actual nature of the issue in California. This can be done briefly in no better way than by quoting an editorial published not long since in the New York _World_, a newspaper remarkable for the intelligence with which it has generally treated the Japanese question. The _World_'s editorial was published apropos an address made by Mr. Roland S. Morris, who served under the Wilson Administration as ambassador to Tokyo, and whose admirable work in Tokyo might have borne good fruit but for our unfortunate habit of relieving ambassadors, however able, when the political party to which they belong goes out of power. Said the _World_: In his address at the University Club on the Japanese issue in California, Roland S. Morris, American Ambassador to Tokyo, refrained from discussing the merits of the case and merely defined the question in accordance with the facts. It is only in the light of the facts that a sound decision can be reached where argument and judgment run along the line of fixed prejudices. As Mr. Morris explained, Japan does not question the right of the United States, subject to its treaty obligations, to legislate on the admission of foreigners. While under the treaty of 1911 Japanese were granted full rights of residence and admission, the Tokyo Government accepted the condition that it would continue limiting emigration from Japan to the United States in compliance with the "Gentleman's Agreement" of 1908.[4] [4] The "limiting" here referred to includes the stoppage of labour emigration, not by us, but by the Japanese Government, which took this amiable and dignified means of avoiding a direct issue of the subject of racial equality. The Japanese Government and people are not seeking the removal of restrictions on immigration. The Japanese are not eligible to American citizenship, but they have enjoyed in this country the same personal and property rights as other aliens. It is here that the friction has been created by the action of California. In 1913 California deprived those aliens who were ineligible to citizenship of certain property rights. In 1920, in Mr. Morris's words, "this legislation was amplified by an initiative and referendum act." What he does not state is that this measure was intended to discriminate against the Japanese in buying and leasing land. Hence the protests of the Government at Tokyo. The Japanese object to what they regard as the injustice of being set apart as a separate class, suffering political disabilities and deprived of rights other aliens enjoy. Mr. Morris leaves the issue open when he says: "The Japanese protest presents to all our people this very definite question: In the larger view of our relations with the Orient, is it wise thus to classify aliens on the basis of their eligibility to citizenship?" In pursuance of its local ends, California has adopted a provocative position and played into the hands of Japanese jingoes and militarists. Lamentably, these simple facts have been cast adrift upon a stormy sea of Californian prejudice. That sea, I fear, so fills the eye of the Average American that oftentimes he fails entirely to descry the shipwrecked waifs of Truth out there upon their little raft. Were he to attempt to state his views upon the California question he would in all probability quote as the source of his information that favourite authority, "They say." "They say Japanese immigrants are flooding into California and buying up the farming land; they say the Japanese have large families; they say they don't make desirable neighbours; they say that if things keep on this way they will ultimately control the state. Certainly we don't want any part of our country dominated by foreigners." The less familiar he is with certain Californian traits the more he is likely to conclude: "I guess it must be true or the Californians wouldn't be making such a row about it." His tendency to reason thus may be enhanced by the recollection of a phrase he has heard: the "Yellow Peril"--one of the most poisonous phrases ever coined. He does not know that the term was Made in Germany for the very purpose of exciting international suspicion and ill-will. He may not be alive to our real Yellow Peril--that of the yellow press--but may, upon the contrary, actually acquire his views on international affairs from such inflammatory sheets as those published by William Randolph Hearst, himself a son of California and a leader in the anti-Japanese chorus. My Average American knows little of Californian politics, and nothing of politics in Japan. He does not realize that Californian politicians are largely responsible for the stirring up of anti-Japanese sentiment, precisely as earlier politicians of the state were responsible for anti-Chinese sentiment, and that in both cases vote-getting was a chief motive. It is sometimes very convenient for a demagogue to have a voteless alien race at hand to bully. My Average American is probably unaware that more than two hundred thousand Californian voters cast their ballots against the discriminatory laws passed in November, 1920, even though the press of California was generally closed to spokesmen representing sentiment opposed to undue harshness toward the Japanese. Still less is he likely to be aware that politicians in Japan know all the tricks familiar to their Californian counterparts; that they, too, know how to gather votes by stirring up race feeling. So, when he sees in his newspaper-headlines that a Japanese whose name he has never before heard, but who, the paper says, is high in politics, has been talking of war with the United States, he begins to wonder whether those people over there are not, perhaps, looking for trouble. And when he reads of Japan's great naval building programme the notion becomes a little more concrete in his mind. Of course he does not understand that, meanwhile, in Japan there has been going on a process precisely similar: that hostile and insulting things said by American politicians are cabled to Japan and published there, where they carry undue weight; and that while we are reading of Japan's naval programme and wondering what it signifies, Japan is reading of ours, and likewise wondering. That any one could suspect the United States of aggressive purpose is inconceivable to my Average American. Though the United States has lately shown that she can fight, she has also shown she is loath to do it. The Average American has no feeling of hostility toward Japan, and the idea of war with Japan seems to him absurd to the point of being fantastic. There is, as he conceives it, but one way in which such a war could be started, and that is by Japanese aggression. Assure him that the exact reverse of this view represents Japanese sentiment and you will stupefy him. "You must be wrong about that," he will tell you. "The Japanese must know that we hate war and that we have no more desire to fight them than to select our wives out of a photograph album." And he may add something about Japanese "inscrutability." That is another point: When my Average American meets a stranger of his own race, or of almost any European nationality, he can form, from the stranger's physiognomy, some estimate of his character. It is a type of face he understands. But the Oriented physiognomy baffles him. He cannot read it. To him it is as a book in an unknown tongue--a very symbol for mystery. That it may be equally difficult for the Japanese to judge of us would not occur to him. Our faces are--well, they are regular _faces_; there is nothing queer about them. _We_ aren't queer in any way. It is other people who are queer. * * * * * If certain simple facts about Japan were understood in the United States, and certain simple facts about the United States were understood in Japan, it might not follow that the two nations would thereafter cordially approve of all each other's policies and acts, but it ought certainly to follow that they could view such policies and acts with eyes more tolerant. You and I, for instance, might not approve the aggressive methods of some canvasser we had encountered, but if we knew that his wife and family were crowded into a single room wondering where to-morrow's breakfast would come from, we could forgive the man a good deal. Similarly, if he were to see you or me bulldozing a helpless guest in our own house, his disapproval of our action might be mitigated if he understood that the entire neighbourhood had fallen into the habit of using our house as a common camping ground for undesirable members of their families, and that we had been goaded by these unwelcome visitors into a state of desperation. What are the essential things for the Japanese to learn about us? They must get a better understanding of our various race problems. They must realize that, important as the problem involving their settlers on the Pacific Coast appears to them, it is to us a minor problem--being one of the least of a number of race-problems with which we are confronted. They must know that our population is derived from all the countries of Europe. And they must be made aware that though we have in the past viewed this situation with fatuous complacency, we no longer do so. Our old beautiful theory that the United States was properly a refuge for the oppressed of all other lands has lost a wheel and gone into the ditch. Some of us have even begun to suspect that the oppressed of other lands were in certain instances oppressed for what may have been good and sufficient cause. We have found that some of these individuals, on arriving in the United States, become so exhilarated by our free air that from oppressed they turn into oppressors who would fain take our government out of our hands and run it in the interest of the Kaiser, the Soviets, or of Mr. De Valera's interesting Republic. With these and other hyphenated racial problems we are continually contending. We no sooner meet one than another arises. Now we must needs create an Alien Property Custodian to take a hand. Now we deport a band of the more violent Bolsheviks. Now we summon glaziers to put new windows in the Union Club in New York, where the British flag (flying in commemoration of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, three hundred years ago) was hailed with bricks by members of a congregation emerging from St. Patrick's Cathedral, across the way. We used to speak with loving confidence of something called the "Melting Pot," which was supposed to make newly arrived immigrants into good American citizens. Sometimes it did so, but we have lately learned that its by-product consisted too often of bricks and bombs. We do not boast about the Melting Pot any more. Having overloaded it and found it could not do the work we put upon it, we want time in which to catch up with back orders, as it were. Meanwhile no new ones must be taken. But while the problems growing out of European immigration have of recent years troubled us most, they do not constitute our greatest race problem. Always in the background of our consciousness, like a volcano quiescent but very much alive, looms our gigantic negro problem--the problem which for the sins of our slave-importing and slave-holding forefathers we inherit, and from which, according to our characteristic way of "meeting" great quiescent problems, we are always endeavouring to hide. For it is not our way to advance upon a bull and take him by the horns. If a bull seeks to be taken by the horns he must do the advancing. We Americans all know this about ourselves, but it is our way to excuse the failing by boasting of the tussle we will give the bull if he ever gets us in a corner. There is no need here even to outline the tragedies of the negro problem, but there is one aspect of the matter which should be spoken of. Experience has shown that whereas immigrants from Europe can ultimately be absorbed into what we may term the American race, the negro, wearing the badge of his race in the pigment of his skin, is not to be absorbed. Even the octoroon is clearly distinguishable from the white. The negro race must, so far as the future can be read, remain a race apart. The case of the Indian affords another example of the failure of two races, separated by colour and other physical markings, to fuse. In the early days of this country's settlement, when the Indians strongly predominated, they did not absorb the then few whites. When the time came that there was an equal number of Indians and whites, still they did not fuse. And now, when but a handful remains of the once mighty Indian nations, that remnant still retains its racial integrity. Here, however, is involved no question of racial inferiority. Whites and Indians have to some small extent intermarried, and when both parties represent the best of their respective races, not only is there no sense of degradation to either, but the white descendants of such alliances are often proud of their Indian blood. In this whole matter of the fusibility of races there is, then, no basic principle of inferiority or superiority. Such questions are here as extraneous as in the case of oil and water, which though they will not mix are not therefore designated as a superior and an inferior fluid. The fact is that some inner consciousness tells us that the characteristic physical markings of the chief races of the world were not given them for nothing; that Nature intended the broad lines of race to be maintained; and we are told that crosses which disregard these natural race divisions are usually penalized by deterioration. To find in this truth the faintest implication of insult would be absurd. It would be as ridiculous to resent the statement that "like seeks like," as to resent the statement that "honesty is the best policy." No people insists more firmly than the Japanese upon racial integrity. The most fanatical English horseman could hardly be more finicky about the maintenance of pure thoroughbred stock. Marriages between native Japanese and foreigners are not encouraged and seldom occur. Among the upper classes they almost never occur. A citizen of Japan cannot enter into a legal marriage with a Korean or a Formosan, although Korea and Formosa are Japanese colonies. (I am informed that steps were taken in 1918 to make such marriages legal, but up to the time of writing this has not been accomplished.) The law regulating the acts of the Japanese Imperial Family does not permit the marriage of members of that family with persons other than those of Japanese Imperial or noble stock. This law had to be amended in order to make possible the marriage, several years ago, of a Japanese Imperial princess, the daughter of Prince Nashimoto, with the heir to the Korean Royal Family--which family, by the way, now ranks as a sort of Japanese nobility. The marriage, it may be added, was unpopular with the Japanese masses, because of their strong feeling that Japanese blood, and especially Japanese Imperial blood, should not be diluted. Had the prince been a European it is not improbable that a louder protest would have been heard, for the Japanese does not, as a rule, look with favour upon Eurasians. There are exceptions, but in the main the man or woman of mixed Oriental and Occidental blood lives socially upon an international boundary line, on neither side of which is exuberant cordiality displayed. The intelligent and patriotic sentiment of the United States is at present overwhelmingly in favour of the stoppage of all immigration; and even if there comes a time when it is felt that the floodgates may again be opened, they will not, if wisdom prevails, be opened wide, but will admit only such aliens as are susceptible to assimilation. What does assimilation mean? It means that the immigrant shall lose his racial identity in ours. It means that he shall be susceptible to absorption into the body of our race through marriage, or at the very least that his children shall be susceptible to such absorption. And this in turn means, among other things, that he shall have no ineradicable physical characteristics which strongly differentiate him from our national physical type. This is one chief reason why, in my opinion, Orientals should never settle in the United States. Broadly speaking, they are no more suited to become citizens of the United States than are we to become citizens of Japan or China. Another chief reason why Japanese labour immigration is not acceptable to us is that the Japanese can live on less than we can. They are willing to work longer hours for less pay. Also they are thrifty. These are virtues; but the fact that they are virtues does not make Japanese competition the more welcome to white labour. This point also should readily be appreciated by the people of Japan, who find it generally necessary to exclude Chinese labour on precisely the same ground--that is, because a Chinaman can live on less than a Japanese, and can consequently work for lower wages. Had California, in her desire to prevent the further acquirement of land by Japanese settlers, rested her case on these two clean-cut issues: namely, unassimilability and economic necessity; had she refrained from vituperation, taking up the matter purely on its merits; had she recognized her duty as a state to the Nation and coöperated with the Washington Government, instead of ignoring the international bearing of the question and embarrassing the Government by radical and independent state action; and had she, above all, shown any disposition to deal as justly with the Japanese as the circumstances would permit; then, without a doubt, the entire Nation would have been behind California. And what is perhaps as important, the whole matter could then have been presented to Japan in a reasonable and temperate manner, without offence, yet with arguments the force of which Japan could hardly escape. But it is not apparently in the nature of the average Californian to go at things in a moderate way. Moderation is not one of his traits. His father, or grandfather, was a sturdy pioneer whose habit it was to express resentment with a bowie-knife and answer antagonism with a Colt .45. In the descendant these family traits are modified but not extinguished. If he does not approve of the manner in which an amiable alien wears his eyebrows he is likely to call him something--without a smile. Antagonism? Why should he mind antagonism? He likes it. He feels the need of it. He must have something to combat--something to neutralize the everlasting sunshine and the cloying sweetness of the orange-blossom and the rose. And alas, there is Senator Hiram Johnson, of whom the New York _Times_ recently remarked that, "he would lose his proprietary political issue if the differences with Japan were peacefully composed. And we know," the _Times_ continued, "that it is better to meet a bear robbed of her whelps than a politician deprived of his issue." And again, alas, there is ex-Senator Phelan--though the ex-, which has recently been added to his title, may tend, to some extent, to moderate his effectiveness as a baiter of the Japanese. And thrice alas, there is Mr. V. S. McClatchy, the Sacramento apiarist, whose "Bee" is trained to sting the Japanese wherever it will hurt most. * * * * * That the difficulties between the two countries must be harmonized, all thoughtful citizens of both will agree. For myself, I do not see how this can be fully accomplished without some modification of the present discriminatory alien land law of California--a law which, aimed at one alien group alone, is not in consonance with the American sense of justice. The Japanese labourers who are already legally here--many of them originally brought here, by the way, at the instance of Californian employers--should be treated with absolute fairness. They should not be deprived of the just rewards of their industry and thrift. Their racial virtues should be appreciated and might well be emulated. It should be clear, however, that for our good and the good of the Japanese, no further immigrants of their labouring class should ever enter the United States. And it should be equally clear that in such a statement there is no cause for offence. The United States does not invariably act wisely. Neither does Japan. But the American heart is in the right place, and so is the Japanese heart. Let us try, then, on both sides, to look at these problems with honest and disinterested eyes. Let us try to get each other's point of view. Let us even go so far as to make due allowance for the frailty of human nature, as exhibited on both sides of the Pacific. But let us have no thought of straining good will by attempting to become on any larger scale inmates of the same house, dwellers under the same national roof. CHAPTER XXI _Some Reflections on New York Hospitality--And on the Hospitality of Japan--Letters of Introduction--Bowing--How Japanese Politeness is Sometimes Misunderstood--Entertaining Foreigners--Showing the Country at its Best--What is the Mysterious "Truth" About Japan?--Japanese _versus_ Chinese--Leadership in the Far East--Will Japan Become a Moral Leader?--A "First-Class Power"--The New "Long Pants"--How to Treat Japan--The Wisdom of Roosevelt and Root._ A vigorous and sustained display of hospitality must always be astonishing to one who calls New York his home; for New York is without doubt the most inhospitable city in the world. In the jaded hotel-clerk, the bored box-office man, and the fish-eyed head waiter, the spirit of its welcome is personified. There is no dissimulation. The stranger is as welcome in New York as he feels. If there be a hotel room, a theatre seat, or a restaurant table disengaged, he may have it, at a price. If all are occupied he may, so far as New York cares, step outside and, with due regard to the season and the traffic regulations, die of sunstroke or perish in a snowdrift--whereupon his case comes automatically under the supervision of the Street-Cleaning Department--and whatever else that Department may leave lying around the New York streets, it does not leave them littered with defunct strangers. Space in our city is too valuable. The visitor arriving in New York with a letter of introduction to some gentleman who is important, or who believes he is, may expect a few minutes' talk with the gentleman in his office, and may regard it as a delicate attention if his host refrains from fidgeting. Should the stranger have some information which the New Yorker desires to possess, he may find himself invited out to lunch. They will lunch at a club in the top of a down-town skyscraper. Or if the letter of introduction has a social flavour, the outlander will presently receive by mail, at his hotel, a guest's card to a club up-town. Let him make bold to visit this club and he will find there no one to speak to save a rigid doorman and some waiters. The doorman will tell him coldly where to check his hat and coat. He will see a few members in the club, but will not know them, nor will they desire to know him. All New Yorkers know more people than they want to, anyway. The stranger with a guest's card to a New York club is as comfortable there as a cat in a cathedral. In the West it is different. And again it is different in Japan. Those who go well introduced to Japan meet there an experience such as is hardly to be encountered in any other land. Japanese courtesy and hospitality are fairly stupefying to the average Anglo-Saxon. The Occidental mind is staggered by the mere externals. You see two Japanese meet--two gentlemen, two ladies, or a lady and a gentleman. They face each other at fairly close range. Then, as though at some signal unperceived by the foreigner, they bow deeply from the waist, their heads passing with so small a space between that one half expects them to bump. Three times in succession they bow in this way, simultaneously, their hands slipping up and down their thighs, in front, like pistons attached to the walking-beam of a side-wheeler. In conjunction with this profound and protracted bowing, especially when the bowers are Japanese of the old school, or are unaccustomed to associate with foreigners, the bystander will oftentimes hear a sibilant sound made by the drawing in of air through the lips. According to the Japanese idea, such sounds denote appreciation as of some delicious spiritual flavour. This ancient form of politeness is, however, being discarded by sophisticated young Japan for the reason that foreigners find it peculiar; and the practice of audibly sucking in food as an expression of gustatory ecstasy is also going out of fashion for the same reason. The old ways are, nevertheless, held to by many an aristocrat of middle age, or older. The American, accustomed to regard hissing as a sign of disapproval, and noisy eating as ill-bred, is naturally startled on first encountering these manifestations. Japanese bowing, when directed at him, he finds disconcerting. He may wish to be as polite as the politest, but he has in his repertory nothing adequate to offer in return for such an obeisance. In this country we have never taken to bowing as practised in some other lands. Our men look askance at Latin males when they lift their hats to one another in salutation, and it may be observed that some of us tend to slight the lifting of the hat a little bit even when saluting ladies, clutching furtively at the brim and perhaps loosening the hat upon the head, then hastily jamming it back in place. The fact is that very few American men have polished manners. We rebel at anything resembling courtliness. It makes us feel "silly." The dancing school bow we were compelled to practise in the days of our otherwise happy youth was a nightmare to us, and now in our maturity we have a sense of doing something utterly inane when, at a formal dinner party, it devolves upon us to present an arm to a lady, as if to assure her of protection through the perils of the voyage from drawing room to table. We much prefer to amble helter-skelter to the dining room. In these matters, then, as in so many others, we find ourselves at the opposite pole from the Japanese; and though Americans of the class willing to appreciate merits of kinds they themselves do not possess feel nothing but admiration for Japanese courtesy in its perfection, it sometimes happens, lamentably enough, that others, less intelligent, going to the Orient, utterly misread the meaning of Japanese politeness, mistaking it for servility, which it most emphatically is not. Far from being servile it is a proud politeness--a politeness grounded upon custom, sensitiveness of nature, delicacy of feeling, which cause the possessor to expect in others a like sensitiveness and delicacy and to make him wish to outdo them in tact and consideration. Nor does the failure of certain Americans to appreciate Japanese courtesy and hospitality for what it is, stop here. Our yellow press and organized Japanese-haters, aware that the higher hospitality of Japan has oftentimes an official or semi-official character, are not satisfied to seek a simple explanation for the fact, but prefer to discern in it something artful and sinister. It is perfectly true that the stranger going to Japan with good letters of introduction meets a group composed almost entirely of government officials, big business men, and their families. It is also true that he is likely to meet a selected group of such men. The reason for this is simple. While English is the second language taught in Japanese schools, and while many Japanese can speak some broken English, there are still relatively few men, and still fewer women, who have been educated abroad and are sufficiently familiar with foreign languages, customs, and ideas to feel easy when entertaining foreigners. This class is, moreover, still further limited by the financial burden of extensive entertaining. Thus it happens that there exists in Japan a social group which may be likened to a loosely organized entertainment committee, with the result that most Americans who are entertained in that country meet, broadly speaking, the same set of people. The Japanese are entirely frank in their desire to interest the world in Japan. The Government maintains a bureau for the purpose of encouraging tourists to visit the country and making travel easy for them. The great Japanese steamship companies, the Toyo Kisen Kaisha and Nippon Yusen Kaisha, are energetic in seeking passenger business. Journalists, authors, men of affairs and others likely to have influence at home, are especially encouraged to visit Japan. The feeling of the Japanese is that there exists in the United States a prejudice against them, and that the best way to overcome this is to show Japan to Americans and let them form their own conclusions. They are proud of their country and they believe that those who become acquainted with it will think well of it. Some Americans charge them with endeavouring to show things at their best, as if to do that were a sly sin. The attitude of the Japanese in this matter may be likened to that of a man who owns a home in some not very accessible region, the advantages of which are doubted by his friends. Being proud of his place the owner is hospitable. He urges those he knows to come and see it. When his guests arrive he does not begin by taking them to look at the sick cow, or the corner behind the barn where refuse is dumped, but marches them to the west verandah--the verandah with the wonderful view. To the average person such a procedure would seem entirely normal. Yet there are critics of Japan who do not see it in that light. Their attitude might be likened to that of someone who, when taken to the verandah to see the view, declares that the view is being shown not on its own merits, but because the host has cut the butler's throat and does not wish his guests to notice the body lying under the parlour table. Let an American of any influence go to Japan, be cordially received there, form his impressions, and return with a good word to say for the islands and the people, and the professional Japanese-haters have their answer ready. The man has been victimized by "propaganda." He has been flattered by social attentions, fuddled with food and drink, reduced to a state of idiocy, and in that state "personally conducted" through Japan in a manner so crafty as to prevent his stumbling upon the "Truth." The precise nature of this "Truth" is never revealed. It is merely indicated as some vague awfulness behind a curtain carefully kept drawn. Having so often heard these rumours I went to Japan in a suspicious frame of mind. Arriving there, I made it my business to dive behind whatever looked like a veil of mystery. As the reader who has followed me thus far will be aware, I found a number of mysteries--the fascinating mysteries of an old and peculiar civilization, out of which an interesting modernism had rapidly grown. I was considerably entertained in Japan; my sightseeing was oftentimes facilitated by Japanese friends; but the significant fact is that no one ever tried to prevent my seeing anything I wished to. And I wished to see everything, good and bad. I visited the lowest slums, a penitentiary, a poorhouse, a hospital, and some factories. I asked questions. Sometimes they were embarrassing questions--about militarism in Japan, about Shantung, about Korea and Formosa, about Manchuria and Siberia. And though I do not expect any Japanese-hater to believe me, I wish to declare here, in justice to the Japanese, that they gave me the information I asked, even though to do so sometimes pained them. I saw and learned things creditable to Japan and things discreditable, just as in other lands one sees and learns things in both categories. I found the Japanese neither angels nor devils. They are human beings like the rest of us, having their virtues and their defects. I came away liking and respecting them as a people. This fact I proclaim with the full knowledge that those who do not like them will accept it, not as a sign of any merit in the Japanese, but as proof of my incompetence, or worse. "But you have not been to China," some of my friends say. "You would like the Chinese better than the Japanese." That may be true or it may not. I am inclined to believe that there is, on the surface, more natural sympathy and understanding between Americans and Chinamen than between Americans and Japanese. The Chinaman is more easily comprehensible to us. Also he is meek. We can talk down to him. He will do as we tell him to. He is not a contender--as the Japanese very definitely is--and is therefore easier to get along with. As an individual he has many qualities to recommend him, though neither patriotism nor cleanliness seems to be among them. If I ever go to China I shall hope and expect not to fall into the mental grooves which lead travellers in the Orient generally to feel that if they like a Chinaman they cannot like a Japanese, and vice versa. I hereby reserve the right to like both. China appears to be an amiable, flaccid, sleepy giant who has long allowed himself to be bullied, victimized, and robbed. Japan, on the other hand, is a small, well-knit, pugnacious individual, well able to look after himself, and profoundly engaged in doing so. Naturally the two do not get on well together, and equally naturally the impotent giant comes off the worse. One is, to that extent, sorry for him, but one can hardly respect him as one would were he to rise up and assert himself. One may, on the other hand, wish the little Japanese less obstreperous, but one is bound to respect him for his prowess. Physically and materially he has earned for himself the undisputed leadership of the Far East. There remains, however, the question whether he is spiritually great enough to become, as well, a moral leader. In that question is bound up the future of the Orient. Some signs are hopeful, some are not. The answer is locked in the vaults of time to come. It is not surprising that the Japanese are proud of the leadership they have already attained. Being relatively new members of the hair-pulling, hobnailed family we call the Family of Nations, and having rapidly become important members, they are inclined to harp more than necessary upon this importance, so novel and so gratifying to them. They like to talk about it. They delight in proclaiming themselves a "first-class power." They rejoice exceedingly in their alliance with Great Britain, not because the alliance itself has any very real importance (in view of the attitude of Australia and Canada toward Japan, and of Britain's regard for American sentiment, it cannot have), but because of the flattering association. Japan likes to be seen walking with the big fellows. In this she reminds one somewhat of a youth in all the pride and self-consciousness of his first pair of "long pants." Now there is this to be remembered about a youth in his first "long pants": he requires careful handling. If you treat him like a child, either patronizing or ignoring him, you will offend him mortally, and not impossibly drive him to some furious action in assertion of his manhood. But if, on the other hand, you are misled by his appearance of maturity, and expect of him all that you would expect of a thoroughly ripened man, then you are very likely to find yourself disappointed. There is but one course to be pursued with a youth in this intermediate stage. He must be managed with tact, firmness, and patience. In dealing with the young, many adults fail to understand this, and in dealing with a nation in a corresponding state of evolution, other nations are as a rule even stupider than adult individuals. Britain, wisest of all the world in international affairs, has not made this mistake in her relations with Japan. The alliance is one proof of it. The visit of the Crown Prince of Japan to England in the spring of 1921, is another. Nor was the tact of Britain in this situation ever better displayed than in King George's speech, when, toasting the Imperial guest, he said: "Because he is our friend we are not afraid for him to see our troubles. We know his sympathy is with us and that he will understand." Would that the United States might draw the simple lesson from these two short sentences spoken by England's king. Would that we might learn to take that amiable tone. Would that Americans might understand how instantly the Japanese--yes, and all other nations--respond to such approaches. The problem of maintaining friendly relations with this neighbour on the other side of the Pacific is not, in truth, nearly so difficult as many of our other problems. It has been rendered difficult chiefly by our own incredible bungling. Among men a bungler is oftentimes feared and disliked exactly as if he were malevolent, and among nations the situation is the same. No nation, however strong, can afford to give offence unnecessarily to other great powers; and the United States can least of all afford to irritate needlessly those powers with which her front yard and her back yard are shared: namely, Britain and Japan. Yet we are constantly annoying these two nations without accomplishing any counterbalancing good purpose. Britain, feeling, as we do, the tie of consanguinity, and having, moreover, a shrewd eye to her own interest, forgives us, or at least appears to. But in the case of Japan we are dealing with a very different situation. There is no blood relationship to ease the strain; nor is there always in Tokyo the calm, phlegmatic, self-interested statesmanship of London. Tokyo is sometimes temperamental. If we continue to bungle we shall ultimately gain the lasting ill-will of Japan, and if we do that we shall almost certainly find ourselves looking out of our back window not merely at a frowning Nippon, but at a coalition between Japan, Russia, and Germany--a coalition into which we ourselves, by our attitude, shall have driven Japan. It is for us to decide whether we wish to encourage such an alliance. With Mr. Hughes in the State Department we have, it appears, good reason to be hopeful, but Mr. Hughes has not as yet had time to accomplish much of an improvement in American-Japanese relations. If he does so he will be the first American statesman to have made headway in the matter since Roosevelt was in the White House and Elihu Root in the State Department; for not since their time has there been evident in our dealings with Japan a definite and understanding policy. The failure of our diplomacy is all too plainly reflected in the steady diminution of the good feeling which then existed. Though he never visited Japan, Roosevelt, with his amazing understanding of people, managed to sense the Japanese perfectly. He knew their virtues and their failings. He realized precisely the state they had attained in their evolution from mediævalism to modernity. He knew their samurai loyalty and pride, their sensitiveness, their love of courtesy. "Speak softly and carry a big stick," he used to say. In those words is summed up a large part of his foreign policy. He knew when to send a bearskin to the Emperor, and when to send a fleet. Even when he sent that fleet of sixteen battleships, the visit paid was one of courtesy. And courtesy, as I have tried to show, is never, never lost upon Japan. PART IV CHAPTER XXII _The Missing Lunch--The Japanese Chauffeur--The Little Train--Japanese Railroads--The Railway Lunch--The Railway Teapot--Reflections on Some American Ways--Are the Japanese Honest?--A Story of Viscount Shibusawa--Travelling Customs--An Eavesdropping Episode_ Neither the box of lunch nor the automobile to take us to the station was ready, though both had been ordered the previous night. We waited until twenty minutes before train time; then made a dash for the station in a taxi which happened along providentially--something taxis seldom do in Tokyo. The drive took us several miles across the city. Through a picturesque and incoherent jumble of street traffic, over canals, past the huge concrete amphitheatre in which wrestling bouts are held, across a steel bridge spanning the Sumida River, through a maze of muddy streets lined with open-fronted shops partially protected from the hot sun by curtains of indigo cotton bearing advertisements in large white Chinese characters, we flew precariously, facing collisions half a dozen times yet magically escaping them as one always does behind a Japanese chauffeur. It is said that the Japanese chauffeur is not, as a rule, a good mechanic. As to that I cannot say, but I assure you he can drive. At an incredible speed he will whirl you through the dense slow-moving crowds of a street festival or around the hairpin curves of a muddy mountain pass with one wheel following the slippery margin of a precipice, but he will never hurt so much as a hair of your head, unless, perchance, it hurts your hair to stand on end. The Ryogoku Station, where we found our friends awaiting us, is a modest frame structure, terminus of an unimportant railway line serving the farming and fishing villages of the Boso Peninsula--which depends from the mainland in such a way as to form the barrier between Tokyo Bay and the Pacific. The train seemed to have been awaiting us. It started as soon as we had boarded it, and was presently rocking along through open country at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. There was something of solemn playfulness about that little train. The cars were no heavier than street cars and the locomotive would have made hard work of drawing a pair of Pullmans, yet in its present rôle it gave a pompous performance, hissing, whistling, and snorting as importantly as if it had been the engine of a great express. The little guards, too, joined gravely in the game, calling out the names of country stations as majestically as if each were a metropolis. And the very landscape took its place in the whimsy, for our toy train ran over it as over a flat rug patterned with little green rice fields. The Japanese Government, which so woefully mishandles its telephones and cables, does better with its railroads. They are fairly well run. Trains are almost invariably on time, and the cars are not uncomfortable, although the narrower gauge of the Japanese roads makes them necessarily smaller than our cars. The ordinary Japanese sleeping-car is divided into halves. One half is like an American Pullman sleeper, very much scaled down in size, while the other half resembles a European _wagon-lit_ in miniature, with a narrow aisle at one side and compartments in which the berths are arranged transversely to the train. As in Europe, there are three classes of day coaches. Except where trains are overcrowded, as they often are, one may travel quite as comfortably second-class as first. Coaches of all three classes are like street cars with long seats running from end to end at either side. Usually the car is divided in the middle by a partition, the theory being that one end is for smokers; but in practice the Japanese, who are inveterate users of tobacco, seem to smoke when and where they please while travelling. Express trains carry dining cars which are like small reproductions of ours. Some of these diners serve Japanese-style meals, some European, and some both. Much thought has evidently been given to making travel easy for English-speaking people. Each car of every train carries a sign giving, in English, the train's destination; time-tables printed in English are easily obtained, railroad tickets are printed in both languages, and the name of each town is trebly set forth on railroad station signs, being displayed in English, in Chinese characters, and in kana. As in the United States, station porters wear red caps but they have the European trick of passing baggage in and out of the car windows, so that the doorways are not blocked with it when passengers wish to get on and off. Also at stations of any consequence there are boys wearing green caps, who peddle newspapers, tea, and lunches. The Japanese railway lunch is an institution as highly organized as the English railway lunch. On the platforms of all large stations you can purchase almost any sort of lunch you desire, neatly wrapped in paper napkins and packed in an immaculate wooden box. On each box the date is stamped, so that the traveller may be sure that everything is fresh. You may get a box containing liberal portions of roast chicken and Kamakura ham, with salad and hard-boiled eggs and a dainty bamboo knife and fork; or if you wish a light repast, a box of assorted sandwiches, thin and moist as sandwiches should always be but so seldom are. Or, again, you may get a variety of Japanese dishes, similarly packed. On this trip I selected a box of that delicacy known as _tai-meshi_, and was not sorry that my order for lunch had been overlooked at the hotel. Tai-meshi consists of a palatable combination of rice and shredded sea-bream cooked in a sauce containing saké which obliterates the fishy taste of the sea-bream. The box cost me the equivalent of seventeen cents, chop-sticks included. From the green-cap boy who sold it to me I also purchased, for five cents, an earthenware pot containing tea, and a small cup, and when I had drunk the tea I learned that I could have the pot refilled with hot water at practically any station, for a couple of cents more. Just as your English traveller leaves the railway lunch basket in the train when he is done with it, your Japanese traveller leaves the teapot and cup. Drinking the philosopher's beverage I found myself wondering whether such a system would be successful in the United States. I concluded that it would not. Some of the lunch-baskets and teapots would get back to their rightful owners, but many would disappear. There is a certain type of American, and he is numerous, who has a constitutional aversion to conforming to a nice, orderly custom of this kind. He has too much--let us call it initiative--for that. If he thought the lunch-basket and teapot worth taking home he would take them home; nor would he be deterred by the mere fact that they were not his, having only been rented to him. His subconscious sense of the importance of his own "personality" would lift him over any little obstacle of that kind. Without thinking matters out he would feel that because he had used them they were his. What he had used no one else should use--even though its usefulness to him was past. Wherefore, if he thought the basket and the teapot not worth taking, he would stamp his "personality" upon them. He might take the basket apart to see how it was made, or he might draw out his penknife and cut holes in it. Then he would consider what to do with the teapot. Finding that it fitted nicely in the palm of his hand, and sensing by touch its brittleness, he would want to use it as a missile. If he prided himself on the accuracy of his pitching he would throw it at a telegraph pole, but if he felt quite certain that he could not hit a pole he would wait for a large rock pile or a factory wall, and would hurl it against that with all his might, to make the largest possible explosion. * * * * * People often ask me whether the Japanese are honest. Doubt on this subject is, I believe, largely due to the old story that Chinese tellers are employed in Japanese banks--all Chinamen being trustworthy and all Japanese the reverse. I know of no better example of the vitality of a lie than is afforded by the survival of this one. It is a triple lie. Japanese banks do not have Chinese tellers. The Japanese as a race are no more dishonest than other people. The leading bankers of Japan, many of whom I have met, are men of the highest character and the greatest enlightenment, and would be so recognized in any land. Nor is this merely my opinion. It is the opinion I have heard expressed by several of the greatest bankers and manufacturers in the United States--men who have done business with Japanese bankers and who know them thoroughly. It is true that trademarks and patented articles manufactured in other countries have been stolen by some Japanese manufacturers and merchants, and that this abominable practice is to some extent kept up even to-day. But conditions in this respect are improving as business morality grows. Nor should it be forgotten that the present standard of international commercial ethics, which so strongly reprehends such thefts, is comparatively a new thing throughout the entire world. It must, however, be admitted that Japan is not, in this particular, fully abreast of the other great nations. As for the average of probity among the people at large I can say this--that if I were obliged to risk leaving a valuable possession in a public place, on the chance of its being found by an honest person and returned to me, I should prefer to take the risk in Japan, than in most other countries. Certainly, I should prefer to take it there than in the United States--unless I could specify certain rural sections of the United States, where I should feel that my chances were better than in the neighbourhood of New York. The Japanese are respecters of property, private and public. One may visit the historic buildings of Japan without seeing a single evidence of vandalism. I was immensely struck by this. It was so unlike home! More than once, over there, I thought of a visit I paid, some years ago, to Monticello, the beautiful old mansion built near Charlottesville, Virginia, by Thomas Jefferson, and of what the caretaker told me. All visitors, he said, had to be watched. Otherwise vines would be torn from the walls of the house, bricks chipped, and marble statuary broken. They had even found it necessary to build an iron fence around Jefferson's grave to protect the monument from American patriots who would like to take home little pieces of it. The custom of visiting historic places and the graves of historic figures is much more common in Japan than in America. Many of Japan's most famous monuments are entirely unprotected, but instead of knocking them to pieces to get souvenirs the pilgrim will burn a little incense before them, and perhaps leave his visiting card on the spirit of the departed. Or he may write a poem. Dr. John H. Finley has told me a story which well illustrates the delicate and reverential attitude of the Japanese in such matters. When Baron--now Viscount--Shibusawa came to the United States several years ago, a banquet was given in his honour in New York by the Japan Society, of which Doctor Finley was then president. At the banquet Doctor Finley remarked to the guest of honour that he heard he had sent an emissary with a wreath to be laid upon the grave of Townsend Harris, first American Minister to Japan, who is buried in Brooklyn. "No," said Baron Shibusawa, "that is not exactly what occurred. I did not send the wreath. I took it myself and laid it on the grave. And I wrote two poems in memory of Townsend Harris and hung them in the branches of a Japanese maple tree overhanging his resting-place." * * * * * But let us get back to our little railroad train. The men among our Japanese fellow travellers were sitting on the seats with their feet on the floor, as we do, but the women and children had slipped off their clogs and were squatting in the seats with their backs to the aisle, looking out of the windows or dozing with their heads resting upon their hands, or against the window-frame. One elderly lady was lying at full length on the seat, asleep, with her bare feet resting on the cushions. The Japanese are much less fearful than we of the interest of fellow passengers, and indeed, so far as concerns strangers of their own race, they are justified in this, for Japanese travellers pay little or no attention to one another. In foreigners they are more interested. A Japanese who can speak English will frequently start a conversation with the traveller from abroad, and will almost invariably endeavour to be helpful. Rustics stare at the stranger with a sort of dumb interest, just as American rustics might stare at a Japanese; and young Japanese louts sometimes snicker when they see a foreigner, and comment upon him, just as young American louts might do on seeing a Japanese passing by--especially if he was wearing his national costume. "Pipe the Jap," a New York street-corner loafer might exclaim; while similarly an ill-bred youth of Tokyo, Kobe or Yokohama might remark: "_Keto_," which means "hairy foreigner." The term _keto_ is not intended to be complimentary, yet no more real harm is meant by its user them would be meant by an American smart-aleck who should speak of "chinks," "kykes" or "micks." Such terms merely exemplify the instinctive hostility of small-minded men the world over, for all who are not exactly like themselves. Some Japanese country folk who sat opposite us on our journey to the Boso Peninsula were clearly much interested in us--particularly in the ladies of our party, and as so few foreigners understand the Japanese language, they felt safe in talking us over amongst themselves. "What a strange little thing to wear on one's head!" said the husband, to the wife referring to a neat little turban worn by one of our ladies. "Yes," said the wife, "and I don't see how she can walk in those shoes with their tall, thin little heels. Aren't they funny!" These remarks and others revealing their interested speculations as to which women of our party were married to which men, were translated to us by the friend who had organized the excursion. Being a good deal of a wag, he let them talk about us until the subject seemed to be exhausted. Then he addressed a casual question, in Japanese, to the husband across the way. I have seldom seen a man look more disconcerted than that one did just then. He answered the question, but that was the last word we heard him speak. Though an hour passed before he and his wife got off the train, and though they had until then talked volubly together, the complete silence which came over them was not broken by so much as a monosyllable until they reached the station platform. There, however, we saw that they had begun to talk again, and with gestures showing not a little agitation. I had a feeling that each was blaming the other for the whole affair. Relations between husband and wife are, in some respects at least, a good deal more alike in all countries than is commonly supposed. CHAPTER XXIII _Katsuura and the Basha--A Noble Coast--Scenes on a Country Road--The Fishers--A Temple and Tame Fish--We Arrive at an Inn--I See a Bath--I Take One--Bathing Customs--The Attentive Nesan--In the Tub_ A journey of about three and a half hours brought us to the seacoast town of Katsuura, the terminus of the little railway line. The industry of Katsuura is fishing, and there is a kind of dried fish put up there which has quite a reputation. Almost every town in Japan has some specialty of its own, whether an edible or something else--something for the traveller to purchase and take home as a souvenir. Many of the best Japanese colour-prints were originally made for this purpose--souvenirs of cities and towns, celebrated inns, famous actors, and notorious courtesans. Leaving the train we got into a _basha_--a primitive one-horse bus with tiny wheels--and took a highway leading south along the shore. The day was brilliant and our road, skirting the edge of the lofty coastal hills half way between their green serried peaks and the yellow beach on which the surf played below, was white and dusty in the hot sun. On level stretches and down-grades we rode in the basha, but we always got out and walked up hills to spare the venerable horse. Nor will travellers who have ever followed such a system be surprised that, of the twenty miles we covered on our way to Kamogawa, fully fifteen seemed to be up-hill miles. This shore continually reminded me of other shores--Brittany, in the region of Dinard and Cancale, and the cliffs between Sorrento and Amalfi. But here the contours were more tender. Many a beach I saw, with tiny houses strewn along the margin of the sand, fishing boats drawn up in rows, and swarthy men and women bustling about among the nets and baskets, which made me think of the Marina at Capri. Even the air was that of Capri in the springtime. But here there was no song. [Illustration: Tai-no-ura--Tiny houses strewn about the margin of the sand, fishing boats drawn up in rows, and swarthy men and women bustling about among the nets and baskets] A succession of lofty promontories jutting aggressively toward the sea gave interest to the road. Sometimes they turned its course, forcing it to swing out around them; in other cases tunnels penetrated the barrier hills, and we would find ourselves trudging along beside the basha, through damp echoing darkness, with our eyes fixed on a distant point of light, marking the exit, ahead. It was a much-travelled road. We were continually meeting other bashas creaking slowly through the white dust, or drawn up before inns and teahouses where passengers were pausing for refreshment. During the entire afternoon we met not a single automobile, and when, after an hour or two, a Japanese lady, beautifully dressed and sheltered from the sun by a large parasol, flashed past in a shining ricksha propelled by two coolies, she made a picture strangely sophisticated, elegantly exotic, against the background of that dusty country highway so full of humble folk. All the women of this region were hard at work. Some were labouring beside their husbands in the mud and water of the paddy fields, others were occupied upon the beach, piling up kelp and carrying it back to huge wooden tubs in which it was being boiled to get the juice from which iodine is extracted, still others were transporting baskets of fresh shiny fish from the newly landed boats to the village markets, or were drawing heavy carts laden with fish-baskets from one village to another. For this coast is the greatest fishing district of all Japan. On the streets of every village we saw fish being handled--large, brilliant fish laid out in rows on straw mats, preparatory to shipment, huge tubs of smaller fish, and great baskets of silver sardines. Nor was our awareness of piscatorial activities due only to the organs of sight. Now and then a gust of information reached the olfactory organs disclosing with a frankness that was unmistakable, the proximity of a pile of rotted herring, which is used to fertilize the fields. Winding down a hill through a grove of ancient trees, with the sea glistening between the trunks on one side of the way, we came upon a weathered temple, and, rounding it from the rear, found a tiny village clustered at its base, in as sweet a little cove as one could wish to see--low, brown houses nestling among rocks and gnarled pines, a crescent of yellow beach with fishing boats drawn up beyond the reach of the tide, and children playing among them looking like nude bronzes come to life. This place, known as Tai-no-ura--Sea-bream Coast--small and remote as it is, has a fame which extends throughout Japan. For it was the abiding place of the thirteenth-century fisherman-priest Nichiren, who, though he antedated Martin Luther by about two and a half centuries, is sometimes called the Martin Luther of Japanese Buddhism. The Nichiren sect is to this day powerful, having more than five thousand temples and a million and a half adherents. Its scriptures are known as the _Hokkekyo_, and I find a certain quaint interest in the fact that, because this word suggests the call of the Japanese nightingale, the feathered songster is known by a name which means "scripture-reading bird." The old weathered temple, which we visited, is known as the _Tanjo-ji_, or Nativity Temple, and is said to have been established in 1286, but to me the most appealing thing about this district is the respect which to this day is accorded Nichiren's prohibition against the catching of fish along this sacred shore. The fishermen of Tai-no-ura go far out before casting their nets, and this has been the case for so long that the fish have come to understand that they are safe inshore, and will rise to the surface if one knocks upon the gunwale of a boat. [Illustration: The gates of the Tanjo-ji temple, dedicated to Nichiren, "the Martin Luther of Japan"] I should have liked to linger at this place, but the afternoon was waning and we had still half a dozen miles or more to go. Sunset was suspended like a rosy fluid in the air when our basha drove down the main street of Kamogawa and stopped before the door of the inn. To an American, accustomed to the casual reception accorded hotel guests in his native land, the experience of arriving at a well-conducted Japanese inn is almost sensational. The wheels of our vehicle had hardly ceased to turn when a flock of servitors came running out to welcome and to aid us. A pair of coolies whisked our bags into the portico, and as we followed we were escorted by the gray-haired proprietress and a bevy of nesans, all of them beaming at us and bowing profoundly from the waist. While I sat on the doorstep removing my shoes, two coolies came from the rear of the building bearing between them a pole from which two huge buckets of hot water were suspended. Pushing back a sliding paper door they entered an adjoining room. A moment later I heard a great splashing, as of water being poured, and looking after them saw that they were emptying their buckets into a large stationary tub built of wood. Nor was I the only witness to the preparation of the bath. Two Japanese women and three children stood by, waiting to use it. And they were all ready to get in. There was something superbly matter-of-fact about this whole performance which gave me a sudden flash of understanding. All the explaining in the world could not have told me so much about the Japanese point of view on matters of this kind as came through witnessing this picture. Adam and Eve were not progenitors of these people nor was the apple a fruit indigenous to Japan. The other members of our party were preparing to bathe in the sea before dinner, but I desired a hot bath and had asked for it as soon as I arrived. While in my room preparing I found myself wondering whether I was about to have an experience in mixed bathing, and if so how well my philosophy would stand the strain. But the peculiar notions of foreigners concerning privacy in the bath were, it appeared, not unknown to the proprietress of the inn. When I descended the stairs arrayed in the short cotton kimono provided by the establishment, I was not shown to the large bathroom near the entrance, but was taken in tow by a little nesan, who indicated to me that I was to put on wooden clogs--a row of which stood by the door--and follow her across the street to the annex. The bath was ready. Entering the room with me the nesan slipped the door shut and in a businesslike manner which could be interpreted in but one way, began looping back her sleeve-ends with cord. "She intends to scrub you!" shrieked all that was conventional within me. "Put her out!" "But don't you like to be scrubbed?" demanded the inner philosopher. "Her being a woman makes me self-conscious," I replied to my other self. "It shouldn't. Your being a man doesn't make her self-conscious. What was it we were saying a little while ago about false modesty?" "As nearly as I can remember," replied Convention, evasively, "we agreed that Americans are full of false modesty." Whereupon I turned to the little nesan and with a gesture in the direction of the door exclaimed, "Scat!" Understanding the meaning of the motion if not the word, she obediently scatted, closing the door behind her. She did not go far, however. Through the paper I could hear her whispering with another nesan in the corridor. I went to the door with the purpose of fastening it, but there was no catch with which to do so. This left me with a certain feeling of insecurity as I bathed. A well-ordered Japanese bathroom, such as this one was, has a false floor of wood with drains beneath it, so that one may splatter about with the utmost abandon. One does one's actual washing outside the tub, rinsing off with warm water dipped in a pail from a covered tank at one end of the tub. Not until the cleansing process has been completed does one enter the water to soak and get warm. Bathtubs in hotels and prosperous homes are large, and the size of them makes the preparation of a bath a laborious business; for running hot water is a luxury as yet practically unknown in Japan, the water for a bath being heated either in the kitchen, or by means of a little charcoal stove attached to the outside of the tub. To heat the bath by the latter system, which is the one generally used, takes an hour or two; wherefore it is obviously impracticable to prepare a separate bath for each member of the household. In a private house one tub of water generally does for all. Foreigners newly arrived in Japan are unpleasantly impressed by this system of bathing, and in a Japanese inn they generally make a great point of having first chance at the bath. Though I do not expect to convince the reader that what I say is so, I must bear testimony to the truth that it is the idea rather than the fact of the Japanese bath which is at first unpleasant. You must understand that the Japanese are physically the cleanest race of people in the world; that, as I have already said, they bathe fully before entering the tub; that the tubbing is less a part of the cleansing process than a means for getting warm; and finally that the water in a tub which has been used by several persons looks as fresh as when first drawn. I once asked a cosmopolitan Japanese whether he did not prefer our system of bathing. He replied that he did not. "I don't think your way is quite so clean as ours," he explained. "Not unless you take two baths, one after the other, as I always do when I am in Europe or America. I wash in the first bath. Then I draw a fresh tub to rinse off in." Just as this gentleman prefers his native style of bathing I prefer mine; yet I should not object to succeeding him in the bath. Nor am I alone in liking the deep spaciousness of the large-size Japanese bathtub. An American gentleman who was in Japan when I was is having a Japanese bathroom built into his house near New York. With the bath of the proletariat the system is the same, but the tub is smaller and less convenient. It consists of what is practically nothing more nor less than a large barrel with a small charcoal stove attached to one side. Often it stands out-of-doors. * * * * * On emerging from the hot water I found myself without a towel. I went to the door, opened it sufficiently to put my head out through the aperture and summoned the nesan who stood near by. "Towel," I said. She smiled and shook her head, uncomprehending. I opened the door a little wider, thrust out one arm and made rubbing motions on it. "_Hai!_" she exclaimed, brightly, and went scampering off. As it was chilly in the room I returned to the hot tub to wait. There I remained for some minutes. Then it occurred to me that, understanding my desire for privacy in the bath, the nesan might be waiting outside with my towel, so I got out again with the intention of looking into the hall. Just as I emerged, however, the door opened and in she came. "Scat!" I cried. Whereupon she handed me two towels and fled. It was well that she did bring two, for the native towel consists of a strip of thin cotton cloth hardly larger than a table napkin. The Japanese do not pretend to dry themselves thoroughly with these towels, but, as I have elsewhere mentioned, wring them out in hot water and use them as a mop, after which they go out and let the air finish the work. I dried myself as best I could, slipped into the cotton kimono, and returned to the main building of the inn. In the corridor I encountered my friend the linguist. "I want to take a photograph of that bathtub," I told him. "It won't explain itself in a photograph," he returned, "unless there's somebody in it." I knew what he meant. An American or European, accustomed to the style of bathtub that stands upon the floor, would naturally assume from a picture of this one that it was similarly set. But that was not so. It extended perhaps two feet below the level of the floor; there was a step half-way down the inside to aid one in getting in or out; it was so deep that a short person standing in it would be immersed almost to the shoulders. "You get in it, then, will you?" "You ought to have a Japanese." "But that's out of the question." "No, it isn't." Nor was it. By the time I got my kodak and put in a roll of film he had a subject for me. It was the little nesan to whom I had said "scat!" Nor could a _grande dame_ in an opera box have exhibited more aplomb than she did when I photographed her. [Illustration: Nor could a _grande dame_ in an opera box have exhibited more aplomb than she did when I photographed her] CHAPTER XXIV _A Walk in a Kimono--Dinner at the Inn--Sweet Servitors--An Evening's Enchantment--The Disadvantages of Ramma--My Neighbours Retire--A Japanese Bed--Breakfast--"Bear's Milk"--The Village of Nabuto--An Island and a Cave--The Abelone Divers--A Sail with Fishermen_ "Let's take a walk before dinner," said the linguist when our photographic enterprise had been accomplished. "All right. I'll go and dress." "Come as you are." "After a hot bath I might take cold in this thin kimono." "No. That's a curious thing about hot baths in Japan. The reaction from them is much like that we get at home from cold ones." "But, dressed this way, won't we look queer?" I surveyed the lower hem of my kimono which hung only a little below my knees. "It's the costume of the country." "But it's awfully short on us. It seems to me we ought to put on underwear at least." "Nonsense. A man doesn't know what comfort is until he has strolled out in a kimono after a bath." Our costumes were identical. We looked equally absurd. I consented. My one difficulty on that stroll was with my clogs. I could not walk as fast as my companion, nor did I dare to lift my feet from the ground lest the clogs should fall off. And yet I can see that if one is brought up on clogs there is much to be said in their favour. They are durable and cheap. They neither suffocate nor cramp the foot. Once I spoke to a Japanese friend of the merits of the clog, but though he admitted that his clog-wearing countrymen had no trouble with their feet, he thought clogs, on the whole, a bad thing. "The movement for good roads in Japan," he said, "started when people began to wear shoes. Those who wear clogs do not object to bad pavements, and we shall never get good ones until clogs are discarded by the majority." We had not walked a block before I perceived that my companion had not overstated the case for the kimono as a costume for a stroll on a balmy evening. It does not bind one anywhere, but leaves one's arms and legs delightfully free. Moreover the air penetrates to the body, and the feeling of it after a very hot bath is as refreshing as an alcohol rub. The streets were full of people many of them fishermen dressed much as we were. But though reason told me that in our kimonos we were less conspicuous than we should have been in our customary attire, I could not rid myself of the feeling that we were masqueraders, and that if people were to recognize us through the darkness for foreigners, we should have a crowd following us. Wherefore, though our promenade proved absolutely uneventful, I was upon the whole relieved when, after having gone the length of the main street and back, we re-entered the hotel. Our dinner that night was purely Japanese; the nesans brought the usual little foot-high lacquer tables laden with covered bowls of porcelain and lacquer; we sat upon silken cushions on the matting in the linguist's room and struggled bravely with our chop-sticks. The room was on the second floor. Through the open shoji we could look across a tiny garden into other rooms, open like ours to the soft evening air, and we could see the nesans gliding back and forth between these rooms and the kitchen, moving along the polished wooden floor of the gallery with their characteristic pigeon-toed shuffle. In an American hotel our little party would have been served by one waiter; here we were attended by three nesans, one of whom squatted on the matting beside the rice bucket, ready to help us when we held out our bowls for more (for we had rice with our soup, our fish, and our tea), while the other two brought things from the kitchen, below stairs. And no matter how many times they had been in the room before, they always dropped to their knees, on entering, and bent their foreheads nearly to the floor in respectful salutation, ere they served the new course. This courtesy, so natural to them, made me feel very, very far from home, for in it seemed to be crystallized the romantic charm of the antipodes. The whole environment, moreover, enhanced my feeling. The exquisite simplicity of our room, and of the other rooms across the garden; the soft lights shining through the rice paper of shoji here and there; the silhouettes, so Japanese, which passed across them; the shimmering of the dark green leaves of small trees whose upper branches reached a little bit above the floor level; the tinkling note of a samisen played in some remote part of the building; the almond eyes and massed ebony hair of our gentle little servitors, their butterfly costumes, the strange, soft rattle of their language, the curious unfamiliar flavours of the viands; all these combined to make me feel as one transported into an enchantment, vivid and fantastic as a painting by Rackham or Dulac. And yet, fascinated as I was with all this magic loveliness, I felt a gentle melancholy. For the shoji at the rear of the room were pushed back like the others, and from the beach on which they opened there came to me through the darkness an insistent note of definite and almost terrible reality: the murmur of that ocean, black, restless, turbulent, ominous, unimaginably vast, by which I was cut off from home. * * * * * My own room was next to that of the linguist, but the room beyond mine was occupied by a Japanese couple. The rooms were divided by walls consisting of opaque paper screens, sliding in grooves, and even these frail partitions were incomplete, for, as in all Japanese houses, there were _ramma_, or grills, over the tops of the screens. The purpose of these ramma is to give ventilation at night, when the building is solidly encased in wooden shutters; but though it is true that they do permit some air to circulate, it is equally true that they permit the circulation of sound and light. Herein lies the foreigner's chief objection to the Japanese style of house--it is utterly without privacy. I endeavoured to be quiet as I made ready for bed, and I am sure my Japanese neighbours likewise tried, but their whisperings and the little rustling sounds they made as they moved about, enhanced rather than diminished my consciousness of their proximity. After I had put out my light my room continued for some time to be illuminated by the glow which came through the ramma on both sides. Presently the linguist's light went out, but that from the room of my other neighbours persisted, keeping me awake. This was the first time that I acutely missed chairs as an adjunct to Japanese life; if I had a chair I could hang a kimono over it to make a screen for my eyes. At last, however, I heard a little click, which was immediately followed by darkness. Then a sound of soft steps. Then a comfortable sigh. Then silence. It was my first night in a Japanese bed. The bed consisted of two thin floss-silk mattresses, laid one above the other on the matting, and partly covered with what seemed to be a towel. It was all very clean. The pillow was a cylinder of cotton about six inches in diameter, stuffed with some substance as heavy and as crackling as pine needles, but odourless. I think the stuffing was of rice-husks. My nightgown was a cotton kimono like the one in which I had gone walking, and my coverlet was the usual bed-covering of Japan--a quilted satin robe, very long, with armholes and spacious sleeves: a cross between a comforter and a kimono. I did not use the sleeves, but pulled it over as one would if sleeping under an overcoat. In all but one respect it was a comfortable bed. The thing that troubled me was the hard round pillow. I moved it about; I tried to flatten it; I tried my hand under it, and over it, between it and my face. "I shall never be able to sleep on such a pillow!" I thought, irritably. And the next thing I knew it was morning and time to get up. This inn, being exceptionally well appointed, provided separate wash-rooms for men and women. We trooped down and bathed. Then we breakfasted. The breakfast was much like the dinner of the night before--rice, soup, fish, and tea. "If any one feels the need of coffee," said the linguist, "we may be able to get it, but the chances are it won't be very good. I've got a can of condensed milk here, too." He held up the can. I noticed that it was called "Bear Brand" Milk, and that the label bore the picture of a bear. "Don't they have fresh milk at these inns?" someone asked. "A few of them have it now," he replied, "but it is only in the last few years that the people of this locality have learned to use milk at all." This reminded him of a story which he told us. On one of his walking trips he had stopped at an inn which boasted of having been patronized by an Imperial Prince. The friend who accompanied the linguist on that trip wanted coffee for breakfast, and the innkeeper managed to supply it. The linguist had a can of "Bear Brand" Milk in his haversack, but he did not wish to open it if milk could be produced at the inn. "Can you get me some milk?" he asked the nesan. "What kind of milk?" she inquired. Perceiving that she knew nothing of our custom of using milk in tea and coffee, he amused himself by replying: "Whale's milk." The nesan went downstairs and presently returned to say that there was no whale's milk to be had. "This inn has been patronized by an Imperial Prince," exclaimed the linguist, affecting astonishment, "yet you have no whale's milk?" The nesan admitted that such was the case. "Then," said he, "bring me elephant's milk. I'll try to make it do." Again she departed. "The proprietor is very sorry," she reported when she came back, "but he has just run out of elephant's milk." "Let me see the proprietor." When the latter appeared he was most apologetic. There had been an unprecedented demand for elephant's milk in the last few days, he explained, and his supply had been exhausted. He expected to have some more shortly, but the express was slow. "Very well," said the linguist, "I suppose I'll have to get along as best I can on bear's milk." Whereupon he opened the "Bear Brand" can and poured some of its contents into his coffee, while the hotel proprietor and the nesan looked on with bulging eyes. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I told him when he had finished the story. "The joke rebounded on me," he said. "After that I became a personage in the inn, and I had to tip correspondingly when I left--for according to the old custom of the country the size of the tip in a hotel is not in proportion to the service received, but in proportion to the rank of the tipper. And besides, the proprietor was very curious to know how they milked the bears. I had a devil of a time explaining that." * * * * * After breakfast we set out on foot for the village of Nabuto, several miles farther along the shore. The road, winding around the rampart hills, was as beautiful as that we had travelled the day before, and as full of interesting figures and intimate glimpses of the life of these amiable industrious fisher-folk. Nabuto proved to be a tiny settlement at the tip of a rocky promontory, sheltered from direct assaults of the sea by a small, pinnacled island known as Niemon Island because it belongs, and has for eight centuries belonged, to a family of that name, residing there. An old sea-wife, looking like a figure from one of Winslow Homer's paintings, summoned the ferryman with a blast upon a conch shell, and a few minutes later we stepped from his skiff to a natural platform of granite at the island's edge. As we landed we were assimilated by a guide who began by indicating certain circular holes in the granite which, he declared, had been made by the hoofs of Yoritomo's horse. For legend has it that, when pursued, this mediæval military hero used Niemon Island as a hiding place. Nor are the horse's hoof-prints the only evidence supporting this tale. One may see the cave in which the great Yoritomo concealed himself. Thither, by a rough, ascending path, the guide led us. It was a small, damp cave. If Yoritomo lived there long he must have feared his enemies more than he feared rheumatism. Within was a small shrine dedicated to the ancient warrior, and hanging near it was a cord by which a bell could be rung to notify the spirit of the departed that callers had arrived. The guide signified to us that Yoritomo's spirit would be profoundly gratified if we put a few coppers into the box in front of his shrine. Having contributed we were allowed to ring the bell. The ledge outside commanded a view of leagues and leagues of amethyst sea into which jutted a succession of green bastioned promontories. Below us, at the base of the cliff, where the long swells were crashing in rhythmic succession, several small skiffs were tossing dangerously near the margin of the foam. These, said the guide, were the boats of abalone fishers--for the Niemon family, besides receiving tourists, and selling them trinkets, picture postcards, and flasks of Osaka whiskey, is in the business of canning abalone meat. I have attempted to eat abalone. Considering that it is a mollusc leading an absolutely sedentary life, it has astounding muscular development. A man who can masticate it ought to be able also to masticate the can in which it comes. Each skiff contained two men; an oarsman and a diver. The former would nurse his light craft close to where the seas were breaking on the island's rocky wall, while the latter, standing and swaying with the rise and fall of the boat, peered eagerly into the blue depths. Then, suddenly, with the swiftness of a thrown knife, the brown body would cut the water and disappear. One waited. One waited long enough to become a little anxious. But when it seemed that human lungs could not have held a breath for such a length of time, a head of wet black hair would pop out of the water and the glistening body of the diver would slip over the gunwale with the sinuous ease of a swimming seal. A moment later he would be standing again in the bow of the boat, a figure beautifully poised, gazing with the rapt eyes of a seer into the swaying, streaky mysteries of the under-water world. Out here the fresh sea breeze wove like a cool woof across the warp of rays from a hot noonday sun. Ashore there was no breeze. I was beginning to dread the baking dusty miles of highway leading back to Kamogawa. Then someone suggested that we sail there, and the linguist sent the guide to see about a boat. The vessel he secured was a two-masted fishing boat with a brave viking prow and long sleek lines. It was a piratical-looking craft and the appearance of the crew was even more so. They were like the Malay pirates in boys' books of adventure: almost naked, and tanned and weathered to a dark copper colour. Two of them wore short white shirts, open in front and terminating at the waist, but the others were innocent of such sophisticated haberdashery, the entire costume of each consisting of a pair of towels--one at the loins, the other wound around the head. All too soon they landed us upon the beach at the back of the hotel. "Now," said the linguist, as we waded up through the deep sand, "we'll pack our bags, get lunch, and be off." And precisely that we did. The whole staff of the inn assembled to see us depart. The proprietress gave us little presents. There was much bowing. Then the basha creaked away. CHAPTER XXV _I Take Gen's Photograph--The Pay of Fisher-Folk--Where All the World Works--We Help Gen Pull Her Cart--And Surprise Some Wayfarers--The Road Grows Long--Fairy Débutantes_ In an exceptionally picturesque fishing village a few miles on, I paused to take some photographs. On a platform outside an old house overhanging the gray sea-wall at the margin of the beach, three women were unloading baskets of fish from a heavy handcart. One of them was fully sixty years of age, another I judged to be thirty, but the third was a girl not over twenty, a sturdy brown lass with eyes like those of a wild deer, and a ready smile which showed a set of glorious white teeth. She was as pretty a peasant girl as I had seen in Japan, wherefore through my bi-lingual friend, I asked permission to take her picture. From the amount of talking my friend did, and the laughter with which, on both sides, it was accompanied, I judged that the request, as it reached her, was festooned with gallantries. At all events she readily consented to be photographed--as a pretty girl generally will--and when the shutter had snapped she asked that I send her a print. This I agreed to do if she would write her name and address in my notebook. She did so in kana, which, being translated by my invaluable companion, revealed her name as Gen Tajima. [Illustration: Pretty Gen was between the shafts, the other girl was pulling at a rope, and the grandmother was at the rear, pushing] Asked if all three of them were of the same family, the women replied that they were merely neighbours. They resided in the village of Amatsu-machi, several miles farther along the road that we were travelling, and it was their daily business to draw the cart from Amatsu-machi to this place, laden with baskets of fish to be salted and shipped. Their pay for this labour amounted to the equivalent of twenty-five cents a day in our money. "I suppose you are all of you married?" asked my friend. The old woman replied that she was; the other two laughed and declared that they were not. But they soon betrayed each other. "Don't you believe what _she_ says!" they warned us gaily. "She _is_ married. _I'm_ the one who is looking for a match." Then, having had their little joke, each owned to a husband and children. Their husbands were fishermen, and earned, they said, two yen a day--about a dollar. "You work hard?" asked my friend. "Of course." "Why 'of course'?" "Everybody down here works hard." "Even those who don't have to?" "Yes. Even people with a lot of money work hard. Here any one who did not work would be laughed at." They were typical Japanese women of the fisher class, happy, innocent, industrious. They interested me profoundly. But there was a long trip ahead of us and it was necessary to push on. We bade them farewell, got into the basha, and drove away. But we had not seen the last of them. When we had driven a quarter of a mile or so, they came running up behind us with their cart. Pretty Gen was between the shafts, the other girl was pulling at a rope tied to one side, and the grandmother was at the rear, pushing. They ran pigeon-toed, like Indians, and what with the commotion caused by their rope sandals and the wheels, left a cloud of dust behind them. Full of merriment they closed in upon us. One of them called to us in Japanese. "What did she say?" I asked. My friend translated: "She says that because we are strangers they will escort us." "Come on," I said, jumping out of the basha. "Let's help them pull the cart." He joined me at once. We took up our places, naturally, at either side of Gen. She was full of questions. Where were we from? How long did it take to come all the way from America? What was America like? Didn't the American people like the Japanese people? Her brother was a sailor. He had made a voyage to America and said it was a very fine place, and that everyone was rich. It wasn't like that in Japan. Here almost everyone was poor. It was hard to earn enough to live on, now that food cost so much. Finding that there were now too many willing hands at the cart, we discharged the grandmother and the other woman, placing them in our seats in the basha. "It is a pity you can't ride, too," my friend said to Gen, "but it is better for you to stay here and see that we don't steal the cart." To which the old woman leaning out of the back seat of the basha remarked that she thought us much more likely to steal the cart if Gen went with it. This caused much hilarity. Gen, I think, was a little embarrassed, but she enjoyed it all the same. "As things are," she said, smiling and looking at the road, "I am well satisfied to walk." The chatter was so lively that I had a good deal of difficulty in finding out all that was being said; it was no small task for my companion to keep up his end of the conversation against all three of them, and at the same time translate for me. I began to find myself left out. Moreover, I had not anticipated that we should attract so much attention. The mere fact that we were aliens made us conspicuous in this part of the country, and the sight of two foreign men helping a peasant girl pull a cart, while the girl's usual companions rode ahead in the comparative magnificence of a basha, caused people in the villages through which we passed not only to stare in amazement, but to call their friends to come and witness the unheard-of spectacle. I remember an old woman bent under a great load of straw which she was carrying on her back, who, when she glanced up and saw us, looked as if she were going to fall over, and I shall never forget the quizzical, puzzled, fixed gaze of a middle-aged coolie, with a load of wood on his back and a little pipe in his mouth, who, on sight of us, hurriedly seated himself on the bank at the roadside to pass us in review. He was a fine type. I dropped my hold upon the shaft, unslung my kodak, and embalmed his features on a film. [Illustration: The middle-aged coolie hurriedly seated himself on the bank to pass us in review] "Come on back here!" called my companion. "Gen and I need you with our cart." Gen and I!... _Our_ cart, indeed! Who first thought of helping Gen with her cart, I should like to know! Without enthusiasm I returned and took hold of the shaft again. The cart was getting heavier. He and Gen weren't pulling as they should. They were too busy talking--that was the trouble with them! "Say, how far is it to this town where these people live?" I demanded of him. "I guess it's not very much farther," my friend interrupted his conversation with Gen to reply. "I should hope not! We've pulled this infernal cart about five miles already." "If you don't like it," he answered, "why don't you get back in the basha?" "How am I going to do that, when that old woman is in my place?" "Tell her you want to ride. Tell her to come back here and get on the job again." I looked up at her. It was quite out of the question to do such a thing. Much as I should have enjoyed my seat in the basha, she was enjoying it more. She and the younger woman were having a magnificent time, chattering, giggling, hailing every acquaintance they passed. And when other peasants who knew them gazed, astonished, they would burst into roars of mirth. All of which gave our progress more than ever the aspect of a circus parade in which, it began to seem to me, I figured as the clown. Left to my own thoughts I endeavoured to meet the situation philosophically. If I had been foolish to get myself into this cart-pulling adventure my folly was of a kind common to my sex. Other men without number had made even greater fools of themselves. And, whereas in a little while this incident would be ended, some men got into scrapes that lasted all their lives. It was pleasant to reflect on that. I began to see an allegory in the episode. In miniature it was like the story of a hasty marriage.... A man travelling the road of life in the comfortable basha of bachelorhood sees a pretty girl. Bright eyes, white teeth shown in a smile, and out he jumps. "Let me help you pull the cart!" he cries, without giving a thought to the future. So he takes hold, and as likely as not she eases off and lets him do most of the pulling. He wants companionship, but when he begins to look for it, what does he discover? He discovers that she doesn't know a word of his language, nor he a word of hers. He has sold his birthright for a mess of pulchritude. The road is long, the hills steep, the cart heavy. Presently appears another man and offers to help--some smart-aleck who _can_ talk her kind of talk. And, of course, this linguistic ass begins prattling a lot of nonsense to her and turns her head. The more she listens to him the more inflated he becomes. That's what happens to some men if a pretty girl shows them a little attention! Does he stop for a minute to consider that his advantage is purely one of language? Not at all! The idiot thinks himself fascinating. So much for that. But now imagine another picture. Take those two men out of a situation in which one has manifestly an unfair advantage, and place them on an equal footing in a totally different environment. Take them, let us say, to an American city, place them in a ballroom, bring in a lot of beautiful débutantes--hundreds of them, all in pretty little evening gowns and satin slippers--start up the band. _Then_ see what happens! One of these men is a bookworm. He knows a lot about languages. He can speak Japanese. (You see I am being perfectly fair to him.) But the other, though he cannot speak Japanese, is--you understand this is purely an imaginary case--a handsome, dashing, debonair fellow. While one has been learning Japanese the other has learned a few effective steps. In the intricate mazes of the dance he seems to float godlike through the air. All right! Now I ask you, which one of these two men is going to be a success with all those débutantes? Is Japanese going to advance a man very far with an American débutante? In all fairness I say No! A débutante is too clever--too clever with her feet--to be misled by mere linguistic talent. True worth is the thing that counts with her. She looks for solid merit in a man. In other words: _What kind of a dancer is he?_ Is not the conclusion obvious? In the environment I have pictured one of those two men will be left practically alone, while the other will find himself constantly surrounded by a bevy of dainty, beautiful---- "This is Amatsu-machi," I heard my companion say. With a start I came back to Japan. "They're leaving us at the crossroads," said he. The basha drew up. The two women got out. They thanked us prettily. Then amid many "_Sayonaras_" we drove off, while they stood and watched us, smiling and waving until we passed from their sight around a bend in the road. "They have lovely natures, these Japanese women," the linguist presently remarked. "If you'll look over a lot of American débutantes," I replied, "you'll find that they are just about as----" "You don't understand," he interrupted. "I'm not talking about mere prettiness--though you'd hardly say that girl Gen wasn't pretty. I'm talking about spiritual quality. Couldn't you tell, just by looking at her, that she was sweet right straight through?" "I guess she's all right," I answered in an off-hand tone. That did not half satisfy him. But though he kept at me for a long time, trying to make me say something more enthusiastic, I would not be coerced. He was too much puffed up as it was. I had another reason, too, for withholding from that pretty peasant girl the fullest praise. I must be faithful to the débutantes who, from far away, had come floating like a swarm of fairies to console me as I tugged Gen Tajima's lumbering cart along a dusty road upon the seacoast of Japan. CHAPTER XXVI _The Handkerchief as a Travelling Bag--Bags and Bottles--Computing Time--The Mystic Animals of the Zodiac--Superstitions Regarding Them--Temple Fortune-Telling--An Ekisha--The Ema--Yuki Tells of a Wonderful Cure_ The national travelling bag of the Japanese is a large, strong handkerchief of silk or cotton, in which the articles carried on a journey are tied up. The elasticity of this container, which is called a _furoshiki_, is its great advantage. It is as large or as small as its contents require, and when it is empty you do not have to lug it about by hand, like an empty suitcase, but merely put it in your pocket. The trouble with our style of suitcases and bags is that they are heavy, bulky, and not adaptable. On one occasion they are overcrowded, on another we carry them half empty. My own bags remind me of the way I used to feel about wine bottles in the cheery days when one could afford to regard such things with a somewhat critical eye. I always felt that wine bottles were either too large or too small. Pints held a little too much for one, yet not enough for two; and quarts held rather more than was required by three, yet left four dissatisfied. Let us, however, drop this subject. _De mortuis_.... I was often struck with the fact that though the Japanese woman seems to be more heavily dressed than the foreign woman, and though her coiffure is generally more elaborate, she carries so much less baggage when she travels. In our Yuki's furoshiki there was always room for my cigars, cigarettes, books, and kodak films. Her own things seemed to take no space at all. There are several reasons for this. A Japanese woman carries no hair-brush and wears her comb in her hair. Nor do the Japanese generally take nightclothes with them on a journey, for a clean cotton kimono, in which to sleep, is supplied by all Japanese hotels. More than once, when I saw Yuki starting off with us for a two- or three-days' trip with baggage consisting of a furoshiki tied to about the size of two ordinary novels, I thought of Johnnie Poe's famous "fifty-three pieces of baggage--a deck of cards and a tooth-brush." A favourite theme for the decoration of the furoshiki embodies the signs of the Chinese zodiac, consisting of twelve animals. The Chinese calendar was adopted centuries ago by the Japanese, and they still take account of it, though they now generally use our Gregorian calendar for computing time. But even so, their era is not the Christian Era, but dates from the beginning of the reign of Jimmu Tenno the Divine, whom the Japanese count as the first of their Imperial line, and who is said to have ascended the throne, 660 B.C. Thus our current year, 1921, is the year 2581 in Japan. Time is also measured arbitrarily by the reigns of emperors, the present year being Taisho 10, or the tenth year of the reign of the present Emperor. The Chinese zodiac, however, figures largely in Japanese superstition. As there are twelve animals, the years are counted off in cycles of twelve; and the same animals are also associated with days and hours, in cycles of twelve. The attributes of the astrological animal governing the year of one's birth are supposed to attach to one. "My mother is a cow," a Japanese lady explained to me. "My husband is a snake and I am a rabbit." The lore of these animals is complicated. I have only a smattering of it, but what I know will suffice to show the general tendency of such superstition. It is considered good fortune to be born in the year of the horse because the horse is strong and energetic. 1920 was the year of the monkey. It is unlucky to marry in monkey year because the word _saru_, which means "monkey," also means "to go back," the suggestion being that the bride will go back to her former home, or in other words be divorced. A woman born in the year of the rabbit will be prolific. (The lady who said, "I'm a rabbit," though very young, was the mother of four.) Similarly the animals, in their cycle, bring good luck or ill luck in connection with events occurring on certain days. It is unlucky to take to one's bed with a sickness on the day of the cow, because the cow is slow to get up. It is lucky to begin a journey on the day of the tiger, because the tiger, though he travels a thousand miles, always returns to the point from which he started; but for the same reason it is unlucky for a girl to marry on this day, because she, like the tiger, may return to the place from which she started: her father's house. And the day of the tiger is a bad one for funerals, because the tiger drags its prey with it, suggesting that another funeral will soon follow. The significance attaching to each animal according to the Japanese idea is not always apparent, without explanation, to the stranger. For instance, though I know it is considered lucky for a bride to cut her kimonos on the day of the rooster, I do not know why. Nor do I know why it is considered particularly lucky to have, in one family, three persons born under the same sign. Superstition of all kinds plays a large part in the daily life of the Japanese masses, and persons of intelligence often patronize fortune tellers, among whom are the Buddhist priests in certain temples. [Illustration: At Asakusa, the great popular temple of Tokyo, the fortune-telling business is so brisk that two or three priests are busy at it all the time] At Asakusa, the great popular temple of Tokyo, the fortune-telling business is so brisk that two or three priests are busy at it all the time. The system is simple. The diviner shakes a lot of numbered sticks in a box, draws one out, and takes a paper from a little drawer which bears a number corresponding with that on the stick. Your fortune is written on the paper, in multigraph. I paid two cents for mine, and when it was translated to me I felt that I had paid too much. Yuki, when she saw that I was disposed to take the matter lightly, seemed a little disappointed, and when later several of us decided to give the necromancers one more fling, she herself escorted us to the establishment called Hokokudo, at number 3 Chome, the Ginza, where father, son, and grandson successively have told fortunes for the past hundred and twenty years. Here we paid one yen each for our fortunes, but though the _ekisha_ took more time to the job, examining our hands and faces, rattling his divining rods and making patterns with his Chinese wooden blocks, he didn't do much better than the priest had done for two cents. Yuki was impressed when he predicted a sea voyage for me, but the prophecy did not seem to me to constitute a remarkable example of divination. The visit to the ekisha was however, an experience. The little house was picturesque, and it was interesting to see the stream of Japanese coming in, one after another, intent on learning what the future held in store for them. Also, while Yuki's fortune was being told I got a good photograph of the ekisha examining her hand through his magnifying glass. [Illustration: While Yuki's fortune was being told I photographed her] Another superstition is exampled in the _ema_, votive offerings in the form of little paintings on wood, which are put up at Shinto shrines by those in need of help of one kind or another. For almost any sort of affliction an ema of suitable design may be found, though the meaning of the grotesque design is seldom apparent to the foreigner. While in Japan I collected a number of these curious little objects and investigated their significance. Among them was one which Yuki recognized as an appeal for relief from eye trouble. "That very good ema," she told me. "I use one like that once when I have sore eyes." "Did it cure you, Yuki?" "Yes--in two weeks. I put it up at shrine and I promise the god I no drink tea for two weeks. In two weeks my eyes all right again." "And you are sure the ema did it?" "Yes, sir, I sure." "You didn't do anything else for your eyes?" "No, it just like I say. I put up ema for god and not drink tea. Then I wait two weeks." "Did your eyes hurt you during the two weeks?" "Oh, yes. They hurt so much I have to wash them two three times a day with boric acid, while I wait for ema to make cure. But when end of two weeks comes they not sore any more. That ema work very good." CHAPTER XXVII _Our Difficulties with the Language--The Questionable Humour of Broken Speech--"Do You Striking This Man for That?"--"Companies, Scholars, and Other Households"--Curious Correspondence--Japanese Puns--Strange Laughter--The Grotesque in Art--Japanese Colour-Prints--Famous Print Collections--Monet's Discovery of Prints at Zaandam--Japanese Prints and French Impressionism_ The complete dissimilarity between the Japanese language and our own, referred to in an earlier chapter, of course adds greatly to the difficulty of communication in all its various forms. In Tokyo and other cities I attended many luncheons and dinners organized for the purpose of discussing relations between the United States and Japan, and promoting a friendly understanding between the two nations, but though Japanese statesmen and men of affairs spoke at these gatherings in fluent and even polished English, I never met with one American who was equipped to return the compliment in kind. The Americans, even those who had lived for years in Japan, always spoke in English, whereafter a Japanese interpreter who had taken notes on the speech would arise and render a translation. The linguistic chasm dividing the two peoples is not, however, entirely a black abyss. If one wall is dark, the other catches the sun. Practically all Japanese students now study English in their schools, our language being considered next in importance to their own. And though, as I have said, many of them have perfectly mastered English despite the enormous difficulties it presents to them, there are many others whose English is imperfect, and whose "Japanned English," as some one has called it, achieves effects the unconscious grotesqueness of which startles and fascinates Americans and Englishmen. To be honest, I have been in some doubt as to whether I should touch upon this theme or not; for it has always seemed to me that humour based upon the efforts of an individual to express himself in a language not his own was meretricious humour, inasmuch as it makes fun of an attempt to do a creditable thing. It is a kind of humour which is enjoyed in some measure by the French and the British but which is relished infinitely more by us than by any other people in the world, as witness entertainments in our theatres, and stories in our magazines, depending for comedy upon dialect: German, French, Italian, Irish, Jewish, Cockney, Negro, or even the several purely American dialects characteristic of various parts of the country. This dubious taste of ours doubtless springs, to some extent at least, from the polyglot nature of our population; but whatever its origin it is a bad thing for us in one important respect. We find the English dialect of foreigners so funny that we ourselves fear to attempt foreign tongues, lest we make ourselves ridiculous. Wherefore we are the poorest linguists in the world. Even after the foregoing apology--for that, frankly, is what it is--I should still hesitate to present examples of "Japanned English" had I not discovered that Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain, perhaps the greatest of modern authorities on Japan, a man whose writings reveal an impeccable nicety of taste, had already done so in his most valuable book, "Things Japanese." One of the examples given by Professor Chamberlain is quoted from a work entitled: "The Practical Use of Conversation for Police Authorities," which assumes to teach the Japanese policeman how to converse in English. The following is an imaginary conversation intended to guide the officer in parley with a British bluejacket: What countryman are you? I am a sailor belonged to the Golden Eagle, the English man-of-war. Why do you strike this jinricksha-man? He told me impolitely. What does he told you impolitely? He insulted me saying loudly, "the Sailor the Sailor" when I am passing here. Do you striking this man for that? Yes. But do not strike him for it is forbidden. I strike him no more. One curious aspect of the matter is that so much of this weird English creeps into print, appearing in guidebooks, advertisements, and on the labels of goods of various kinds manufactured in Japan. Thus in the barber shop of the ship, going over, I found a bottle containing a toilet preparation called "Fulay," the label of which bore the following legend: "Fulay" is manufactures under chemical method and long years experience with pure and refined materials. It is, therefore, only the article in the circle as ladies and gents daily toilet. And on a jar of paste I found this label, which will be better understood if the tendency of the Japanese to confuse the letters _l_ and _r_ is kept in mind: This paste is of a pureness cleanliness and of a strong cohesion, so that it does not putrefy even when the paste grass is left open. Though written down on paper or the like immediately after pasting, the character is never spread. This paste has an especial fragrance therefore all of pasted things after using this are always kept from the frys and all sorts of bacteria, and prevents the infectious diseases. This paste is an indispensable one for the banks, companies, scholars and other households. Please notice for "Kuchi's Yamato-Nori" as there are similar things. The circular of one firm, advertising "a large assortment of ladies' blushes," might have been misinterpreted as having some scandalous suggestion, had it not gone on to discuss the ivory backs and high-grade bristles with which the "blushes" were equipped. Another circular was that of a butcher who catered to foreigners in Tokyo. After stating that his meats were sold at "a fixed plice" this worthy merchant mentioned the various kinds of beef he could supply. There were, "rosu beef, rampu beef, pig beef, soup beef, and beard beef"--which being interpreted signified roast beef, rump beef, pork, soup meat and poultry--the word "beard" being intended for "bird." In the admirable hotel at Nara I saw the following notice posted in a corridor: REMARQUE Parents are requested kindly to send their children to the Hotel Garden for when weather is fine. When it is bad weather I will offer the children the small dining-room, except meal hours, as playing room for them, therefore please don't let them run round upstairs and downstairs at all. Please kindly have the children after dinner in a manner quiet and repose. MANAGER, Nara Hotel. From a friend, an official of a large company, I got a number of letters revealing the peculiarities of "English as she is wrote"--at least as she is sometimes wrote--in Japan. All these letters are authentic, having come to him in connection with his business. The first one, written by a clerk to the office manager, refers to an admirable Japanese custom which in itself is worthy of brief mention. Throughout Japan there is housecleaning twice a year under police supervision. Certain districts have certain days on which the cleaning must be done. The shoji are removed, the furniture is carried out, and the mats are taken up and beaten. The streets are full of activity and dust when this is going on, and there is a pile of rubbish in front of every residence. Meanwhile police officers pass up and down, wearing gauze masks over their noses and mouths to protect them from the dust, and at the end they inspect each house to see that the work has been properly done, after which they affix an official stamp over the door. Wherefore wrote the clerk to the office manager: MR. S----: Excuse my absent of this morning. All of my neighbourhood have got instruction to clean out nest. SIDA. A more serious dilemma is revealed in the following: To General Manager. DEAR SIR, My wife gave birth this noon and as it happened nearly a month ahead than I expected, I much rather find myself in painful situation, having not yet prepared for this sudden ocurrence. Up to this day, unfortunate enough, I am destined most unfavourably for the monetary circumstance, and consequently have no saving against worldly concerns, I am forced to ask you for a loan of ¥ 25.00 to get rid of the burden befallen on me by the birth. I know it is the meanest of all to ask one's help for monetary affair but as I am being unable to find any better way than to solicit you, I have at last come to a conclusion to trouble you but against my will. I deem it much more shamefull to advertise my poor condition around my relatives or acquaintances no matter wheater it will be fruitfull or fruitless. Yours obediently, Y----. The subjoined was received from one of the company's agents in another city: DEAR SIR, We have the honour to thank you for your having bestowed us a Remington typewriter which has just arrived via railway express. We will treat her very kindly and she will give us her best service in return. Thus we can work to our mutual satisfaction and benefit. Thanking you for your kindness we beg to remain, Yours very truly, O---- I----. The porter in a Japanese office not infrequently sleeps on the premises. But he must have the necessary equipment, as the following letter from an agent to a principal reveals: DEAR SIR, In accordance to your esteemed conversation of other day for lodging the servant at this office, we consider we must provide to him the bed or sleeping tools. Please inform us that you could approve the expense to purchase this tool. Awaiting your esteemed reply we are, dear sir, Yours faithfully, T---- A----. The next letter is from a man who wished to establish business relations with my friend's company: DEAR SIR, I am a trader at Kokura city in Kyushu, always treating the various machines or steels and the architectural using goods. I have known of your great names at Tokyo. Therefore I want to open the connection with each other so affectionately. Accordingly I beg to see your company's inside scene so clearly, please send me the catalogue and plice-list of good samples of your company. I am a baby on our commercial society, because you will lead me to the machinery society I think. I trusted, Yours affectionately, I am, K---- M----. One thing which sometimes makes these letters startling is the fact that they are couched in English which is perfectly correct save in one or two particulars. Thus the errors or strange usages pop out at one unexpectedly, adding an element of surprise, as in the case of a man who wrote to my friend applying for work: DEAR SIR, I beg leave to inquire whether you can make use of my services as a salesman and correspondent in your firm. I have had considerable experiences as a apparatus, and can furnish references and insurance against risk. Awaiting your reply, I am Yours respectfully, K---- S----. I have often been asked whether the Japanese possess the gift of humour. They do--though humour does not occupy a place so important in their daily life as it does in ours. A light touch in conversation is uncommon with them, and those who have it do not generally exhibit it except to their intimates. Yet they are great punsters, and some of their puns are very clever. A case in point is the slang term _narikin_ which they have recently adopted to describe the flashy new-rich type which has come into being since the war. To understand the derivation of this word, and its witty connotation, you must know that in their game of chess, called _shogi_, a humble pawn advanced to the adversary's third row is, by a process resembling queening, converted into a powerful, free-moving piece called _kin_. The word _nari_ means "to become"; hence _nari-kin_ means literally "to become _kin_"--which gives us, when applied to a flamboyant profiteer, a droll picture of a poor little pawn suddenly exalted to power and magnificence. The pun, which adds greatly to the value of this term, comes with the word _kin_. _Kin_ is not only a chessman; it also means "gold." Which naturally contributes further piquancy in the application to a _nouveau riche_. Moreover, through a play on the word narikin there has been evolved a second slang term: _narihin_--_hin_ meaning "poor"--"to become poor." And alas, this term as well as the other is useful in Japan to-day. War speculation has made some fortunes, but it has wiped out others. My friend O----, a truly lovable fellow, once spent the better part of an afternoon explaining a lot of Japanese puns to me, and I was hardly more pleased by the jests themselves than by my friend's infectious little chuckles over them. At parting we made an engagement for the evening, but about dinner time O---- returned to say that he could not spend the evening with me. "I have just heard that my best friend died last night," he said, "It is very unexpected. I must go to his house." So speaking he emitted what appeared to me to be precisely the same little chuckle he had uttered over the puns. The suppression of one's feeling is a primary canon of Japanese etiquette. To show unhappiness is to make others unhappy; wherefore, when one suffers, it is good form to laugh or smile. The foreigner who comprehends this doctrine must, if he be a man of any delicacy of feeling, respect it. But if he does not grasp the underlying principle he is likely to misjudge the Japanese and consider their laughter, in some circumstances, hard-hearted, apologetic, or inane. * * * * * The supreme proof of Japanese humour is to be found in the grotesqueries and whimsicalities of Japanese Art. You see it revealed everywhere--in the shape of a gnarled, stunted pine, carefully trained to a pleasing deformity; in the images of cats left in various parts of Japan by Hidari Jingoro, the great left-handed wood-carver of the sixteenth century; in the famous trio of monkeys adorning the stable of the Ieyasu Shrine at Nikko--those which neither hear, see, nor speak evil; in a thousand earthenware figures of ragged, pot-bellied Hotei, one of the Seven Gods of Luck, sitting, gross and contented in a small boat, waiting for some one to bring his abdominal belt; in the countless representations of the Buddhist god Daruma, that delightful egg-shaped comedian who will run out his tongue and his eyes for you, or, if not that, will refuse to stay down when you roll him over; in figurines without number, of ivory or wood; in sword-guards embellished with fantastic conceits; in those carved ivory buttons called _netsuké_, treasured by collectors; and perhaps most often in Japanese colour-prints. The hundred years between 1730 and 1830 was the golden age of wood-engraving in Japan. During the lifetime of this art it was regarded as distinctly plebeian. Many of the fine prints were made to be used as advertisements or souvenirs. Some, it is true, were issued in limited editions, and these cost more than the commoner ones, but generally they were sold for a few cents. Unfortunately, before the art-lovers of Japan perceived that the finest of these prints were masterpieces representing wood-engraving at its highest perfection, the best prints had got out of Japan and gone to Paris, London, Boston, New York, Chicago, and other foreign cities, whence the Japanese have lately been buying them back at enormous prices. From a friend of mine in Tokyo, himself the owner of a very valuable collection, I learned that the collection of 7,500 prints assembled by M. Vever, of Paris, has long been considered by connoisseurs the finest in the world. This collection was recently purchased intact by Mr. Kojiro Matsukata, of Kobe, president of the Kawasaki shipbuilding firm. It is said that Mr. Matsukata paid half a million dollars for it. My Tokyo friend tells me that the collection belonging to Messrs. William S., and John T. Spalding, of Boston, is probably next in importance to the Matsukata collection, and that it is difficult to say whether the Boston Museum collection or the British Museum collection takes third place. For primitive prints, the Clarence Buckingham collection, housed in the Chicago Art Institute, is also very important. How does it happen that it was in Europe that Japanese prints first came to be highly appreciated as works of art? Octave Mirbeau, in his delightful book of automobiling adventures, "La 628-E8" (which, I believe, has never been brought out in English) tells the story. The great impressionist, Claude Monet, went to Holland to paint. Some groceries sent home to him from a little shop were wrapped in a Japanese print--the first one Monet had ever seen. "You can imagine," writes Mirbeau, "his emotion before that marvellous art.... His astonishment and joy were such that he could not speak, but could only give vent to cries of delight. "And it was in Zaandam that this miracle came to pass--Zaandam with its canals, its boats at the quay unloading cargoes of Norwegian wood, its huddled flotillas of barks, its little streets of water, its tiny red cabins, its green houses--Zaandam, the most Japanese spot in all the Dutch landscape.... "Monet ran to the shop whence came his package--a vague little grocery shop where the fat fingers of a fat man were tying up (without being paralyzed by the deed!) two cents' worth of pepper and ten cents' worth of coffee, in paper bearing these glorious images brought from the Far East along with groceries in the bottom of a ship's hold. "Although he was not rich at that time, Monet was resolved to buy all of these masterpieces that the grocery contained. He saw a pile of them on the counter. His heart bounded. The grocer was waiting upon an old lady. He was about to wrap something up. Monet saw him reach for one of the prints. 'No, no!' he cried. 'I want to buy that! I want to buy all those--all those!' "The grocer was a good man. He believed that he was dealing with some one who was a little touched. Anyway the coloured papers had cost him nothing. They were thrown in with the goods. Like some one who gives a toy to a crying child to appease it, he gave the pile of prints to Monet, smilingly and a bit mockingly. "'Take them, take them,' he said. 'You can have them. They aren't worth anything. They aren't solid enough. I prefer regular wrapping-paper.'" So the grocer enveloped the old lady's cheese in a piece of yellow paper, and Monet went home and spent the rest of the day in adoration of his new-found treasures. The names of the great Japanese wood-engravers were of course unknown in Europe then, but Monet learned later that some of these prints were by Hokusai, Utamaro, and Korin. "This," continues Mirbeau, "was the beginning of a celebrated collection, but much more important, it was the beginning of such an evolution in French painting that the anecdote has, besides its own savour, a veritable historic value. For it is a story which cannot be overlooked by those who seriously study the important movement in art which is called Impressionism." CHAPTER XXVIII _Living in a Japanese House--The Priceless Yuki--The Servants in the House--The Red Carpet--Our Trunks Depart--Tokyo's Night-time Sounds--Tipping and Noshi--The Etiquette of Farewells--Sayonara_ My last days in Japan were my best days, for I spent them in a Japanese home, standing amid its own lovely gardens in Mita, a residential district some twenty minutes by motor from the central part of Tokyo. Through the open shoji of my bedroom I could look out in the mornings to where, beyond the velvet lawns, the flowers and the treetops, the inverted fan of Fuji's cone was often to be seen floating white and spectral in the sky, seventy miles away. After my bath in a majestic family tub I would breakfast in my room, wearing a kimono, recently acquired, and feeling very Japanese. While I was dressing, Yuki sometimes entered, but I had by this time become accustomed to her matutinal invasions and no longer found them embarrassing. She was so entirely practical, so useful. She knew where everything was. She would go to a curious little cupboard, which was built into the wall and had sliding doors of lacquer and silk, and get me a shirt, or would retrieve from their place of concealment a missing pair of trousers, and bring them to me neatly folded in one of those flat, shallow baskets which, with the Japanese, seem to take the place of bureau drawers. Thus, besides being my daughter's duenna and my wife's maid, she was in effect, my valet. Nor did her usefulness by any means end there. She was our interpreter, dragoman, purchasing-agent; she was our steward, major domo, seneschal; nay, she was our Prime Minister. The house had a large staff, and all the servants made us feel that they were _our_ servants, and that they were glad to have us there. With the exception of a butler, an English-speaking Japanese temporarily added to the establishment on our account, all wore the native dress; and there were among them two men so fine of feature, so dignified of bearing, so elegant in their silks, that we took them, at first, for members of the family. One of them was a white-bearded old gentleman who would have made a desirable grandfather for anybody. If he had duties other than to decorate the hall with his presence I never discovered what they were. The other, a young man, was clerk of the household, and enjoyed the distinction of being Saki's husband. [Illustration: Saki, the housekeeper of some Japanese friends we visited, obligingly posed for me. The mattress is stuffed with floss silk, the pillow is hard and round, and the covering is a sort of quilted kimono] Saki was the housekeeper, young and pretty. She and her husband lived in a cottage near by, and their home was extensively equipped with musical instruments, Saki being proficient on the samisen and koto, and also on an American melodeon which was one of her chief treasures. She was all smiles and sweetness--a most obliging person. Indeed it was she who pretended to be asleep in a Japanese bed, in order that I might make the photograph which is one of the illustrations in this book. Four or five coolies, excellent fellows, wearing blue cotton coats with the insignia of our host's family upon the backs of them, worked about the house and grounds; and several little maids were continually trotting through the corridors; with that pigeon-toed shuffle in which one comes, when one is used to it, actually to see a curious prettiness. Sometimes we felt that the servants were showing us too much consideration. We dined out a great deal and were often late in getting home ("Home" was the term we found ourselves using there), yet however advanced the hour, the chauffeur would sound his horn on entering the gate, whereupon lights would flash on beneath the porte-cochère, the shoji at the entrance of the house would slide open, and three or four domestics would come out, dragging a wide strip of red velvet carpet, over which we would walk magnificently up the two steps leading to the hall. But though I urged them to omit this regal detail, because two or three men had to sit up to handle the heavy carpet, and also because the production of it made me feel like a bogus prince, I could never induce them to do so. Always, regardless of the hour, a little group of servants appeared at the door when we came home. * * * * * Even on the night when, under the ministrations of the all-wise and all-powerful head porter of the Imperial Hotel, our trunks were spirited away, to be taken to Yokohama and placed aboard the _Tenyo Maru_, even then we found it difficult to realize that our last night in Japan had come. The realization did not strike me with full force until I went to bed. I was not sleepy. I lay there, thinking. And the background of my thoughts was woven out of sounds wafted through the open shoji on the summer wind: the nocturnal sounds of the Tokyo streets. I recalled how, on my first night in Tokyo, I had listened to these sounds and wondered what they signified. Now they explained themselves to me, as to a Japanese. A distant jingling, like that of sleigh-bells, informed me that a newsboy was running with late papers. A plaintive musical phrase suggestive of Debussy, bursting out suddenly and stopping with startling abruptness, told me that the Chinese macaroni man was abroad with his lantern-trimmed cart and his little brass horn. At last I heard a xylophone-like note, resembling somewhat the sound of a New York policeman's club tapping the sidewalk. It was repeated several times; then there would come a silence; then the sound again, a little nearer. It was the night watchman on his rounds, guarding the neighbourhood not against thieves, but against fire, "the Flower of Tokyo." In my mind's eye I could see him hurrying along, knocking his two sticks together now and then, to spread the news that all was well. Then it was that I reflected: "To-morrow night I shall not hear these sounds. In their place I shall hear the creaking of the ship, the roar of the wind, the hiss of the sea. Possibly I shall never again hear the music of the Tokyo streets." My heart was sad as I went to sleep. * * * * * Fortunately for our peace of mind, we had learned through the experience of American friends, visitors in another Japanese home, how _not_ to tip these well-bred domestics--or rather, how not to try to tip them. On leaving the house in which they had been guests, these friends had offered money to the servants, only to have it politely but positively refused. Yuki cleared the matter up for us. "They should put _noshi_ with money," she explained in response to our questions. "That make it all right to take. It mean a present." Without having previously known noshi by name, we knew immediately what she meant, for we had received during our stay in Japan enough presents to fill a large trunk, and each had been accompanied by a little piece of coloured paper folded in a certain way, signifying a gift. In the old days these coloured papers always contained small pieces of dried _awabi_--abelone--but with the years the dried awabi began to be omitted, and the little folded papers by themselves came to be considered adequate. Fortified with this knowledge I went, on the day before our departure, to the Ginza, where I bought envelopes on which the noshi design was printed. Money placed in these envelopes was graciously accepted by all the servants. Tips they would not have received. But these were not tips. They were gifts from friend to friend, at parting. * * * * * The code of Japanese courtesy is very exact and very exacting in the matter of farewells to the departing guest. Callers are invariably escorted to the door by the host, such members of his family as have been present, and a servant or two, all of whom stand in the portal bowing as the visitor drives away. A house-guest is dispatched with even greater ceremony. The entire personnel of the establishment will gather at with profound bows and cries of "Sayonara!" the door to speed him on his way Members of the family, often the entire family, accompany him to the station, where appear other friends who have carefully inquired in advance as to the time of departure. The traveller is escorted to his car, and his friends remain upon the platform until the train leaves, when the bowing and "Sayonaras" are repeated. Tokyo people often go to Yokohama with friends who are sailing from Japan, accompanying them to the ship, and remaining on the dock until the vessel moves into the bay. How Tokyo men-of-affairs can manage to go upon these time-consuming seeing-off parties is one of the great mysteries of Mysterious Japan, for such an excursion takes up the greater part of a day. To the American, accustomed in his friendships to take so much for granted, a Japanese farewell affords a new sensation, and one which can hardly fail to touch the heart. Departing passengers are given coils of paper ribbon confetti, to throw to their friends ashore, so that each may hold an end until the wall of steel parts from the wall of stone, and the paper strand strains and breaks. There is something poignant and poetic in that breaking, symbolizing the vastness of the world, the littleness of men and ships, the fragility of human contacts. The last face I recognized, back there across the water, in Japan, was Yuki's. She was standing on the dock with the end of a broken paper ribbon in her hand. The other end trailed down into the water. She was weeping bitterly. Wishing to be sure that my wife and daughter had not failed to discover her in the crowd, I turned to them. But I did not have to point her out. Their faces told me that they saw her. They too were weeping. So it is with women. They weep. As for a man, he merely waves his hat. I waved mine. "Sayonara!" I turned away. There were things I had to see to in my cabin. Besides, the wind on deck was freshening. It hurt my eyes. THE END INDEX INDEX Abalone, diving for, 304 Actresses, increase of, 96 Architecture, democracy in, 40 Architecture and sculpture, horrors in, 27 Art, grotesqueries and whimsicalities, 330 Athletic sports, popularity of, 103 Back-end-formost methods and customs, 48 Bathing customs, 52, 65, 289 Beauty, artistic conceptions, 163 Beds, how arranged, 299 Bill of fare, luncheon, 127 Boasting, a cardinal sin, 173 Brides, outfitted for life, 36 Burglars, feared next to fire and earthquake, 42; what to do when visited by, 45 Bushido, doctrine of, 76 Business methods, placidity in, 228 Butokukai--Association for Inculcation of Military Virtues, 195 Calendar, Chinese, adopted by Japanese, 316 California, Japanese issue in, 244 Calligraphy, a fine art, 55 Chafing-dish, cooking in, 149 Cherry Dance of Kyoto, 144 Children, in profusion, 23 China, American engineer among brigands in, 10; compared with Japan, 266 Chinnung, Emperor, discoverer of tea, 69 Chop-sticks, lesson in use of, 120 Class, the distinctions of, 140 Colonization, efforts in, 233 Concubinage, still practised, 85 Cooking, chafing-dish, 149 Costume, regulated by calendar, 33 Courtesans, segregated, 154 Courtesy, the code of, in making farewells, 340 Crest, family, as used on kimono, 34 Customs changed to fit Western ideas, 174 Dancing girls, or maiko, 119, 135, 137, 141 Daruma, mythological creator of tea, 69 Divorce customs, 85 Dress of women, uniformity of, 31; cost of, 35 Earthquakes, influence of, in building construction, 38, 42; frequency and extent, 39; best course to pursue during, 43 Efficiency and non-efficiency of the people, 235 Elder Statesmen, the, 185 Eliot, Sir Charles, on understanding Japan, 75 Ema, efficacy of an, 320 English as she is wrote, 323 Eri, neck piece worn with kimono, 34 European dress not popular with women, 31, 37 Fashions, little variation in, 36 Feudal Era, the, 70 Films, kissing scenes cut, 98 Finley, Dr. John H., on reverential attitude of the Japanese, 280 Flower Arrangement, the study of, 66; origin of, 68; in connection with display of paintings, 72 Folk dances by maiko, 137 Foods and delicacies, 129 Foreign customs adopted, 174 Fortune tellers, well patronized, 318 Fujiyama, as seen from the sea, 13; the "Honourable Mountain," 14 Gardens, history and theory, 167, 177 Gardens, diminutive, 21 Geisha, the best dressers, 37; at a luncheon, 116; various grades in, 119; no rhythm in their dancing, 132; what they really are, 132; in Japanese romances, 146; cost of entertainment, 151 Geisha, male, or comedian, 156 Great Britain's attitude toward Japan, 268. Haori, how worn, 35 Hara-Kiri, privileges associated with, 192 Hearn, Lafcadio, on the Japanese language, 56; on Japanese women, 75, 82; on the Tea Ceremony, 81; Hiratsuka, Mrs. Raicho, efforts to improve marriage laws, 84 Honesty, Japanese and Chinese, 278 Hospitality, New York and Japan compared, 258 House cleaning, under police supervision, 325 Humour, extent of native, 328 Imperial Bureau of Poems, duties of, 165 Inouye, Jakichi, attributes bearing of Japanese ladies to study of Tea Ceremony, 81 International Affairs ignored by Americans, 242 Intoxication, prevalence of, 123 Italy, compared to Japan, 163 Japanese-American relations, letter from President Roosevelt to Baron Kaneko, 223 Jesuits, expulsion of, 201 Jiu-jutsu, in wrestling, 112; taught to samurai, 192; renascence of, 193 Jiudo, development of, 193 Johnson, Senator Hiram, agitator on Japanese question, 256 Kakemono, method of hanging the, 72 Kamogawa, visit to, 288 Kaneko, Viscount Kentaro, preparing history of Meiji Era 29; interviews with, 212; visits at Roosevelt's home, 213; Roosevelt's letters to, 222, 223, 226, 227 Kano, Jigoro, revives art of jiu-jutsu, 193 _Kashima Maru_, voyage on, 1 Katsuura, visit to, 284 Kimono, use of, 34 Kipling, Rudyard, on understanding Japan, 75 Kissing, attitude toward, 98 Kodokwan, school of jiu-jutsu, 194 Kokugikwan, the national game building, 104, 107 Korea, conditions under Japanese control, 9 Korean Emperor, anecdotes on, 8 Kyoto, Cherry Dance at, 144 Labor, abundance of, 19; waste of, 236 Landscape gardening, history of, 169 Language, peculiarities of the, 53; difficulties with, 321 Leprosy, extent of, 90 Lunch, the railway, 276 Maple Club, luncheon at, 116 Marquis, Don, on reformers, 151 Marriage customs, 85, 93 Meiji Tenno, "Emperor of Enlightenment," 29 "Melting Pot," overloading of the, 251 Militarism, slowly waning, 232 Mirbeau, Octave, on discovery of Japanese prints by Claude Monet, 332 Morris, Roland S., address on Japanese issue in California, 244 Mothers-in-law, dutifulness toward, 93 Mourning, costume for, 36 Muko-yoshi, adopted son-husbands, 94 Music, unmelodious to foreign ear, 131 Nabuto, visit to, 302 Naginata, the woman's weapon 196 Namazu, "cause" of earthquakes, 40 Nara, luncheon party in, 137, 141 Nesan, serving maids, 117 Nitobe, Doctor, on bushido, 76 _No_ drama, masks used in 49; knowledge of, necessary in study of the people, 75 Nogi, Count, story of his death, 197 Nurses' occupation popular, 96 Obi, chief treasure of woman's costume, 35; how worn, 36 Okuma, Marquis, Japan's "Grand Old Man," 185 Old age, deference to, 50 Oriental Mind, the, 57 Partitions, removable, 118 Period of transition, beginning of, 184 Perry, Commodore, "knocking at Japan's door," 28; opens door to progress, 184 Physicians, women as, 96 Picture brides, no longer allowed to come to America, 244 Pipes, diminutive, 130 Placidity in business and home life, 228 Poems, annually submitted to the Imperial Bureau, 165 Politeness, Japanese ideas of 260 Politics, lack of interest in, 103 Population, excess in 231, 233; must be balanced by industrial expansion, 234 Prints, Japanese, important collections of, 331; discovery of in Europe by Claude Monet, 332 Privacy, lack of in Japanese homes, 298 Public utilities, inefficiency in, 238 Race, unassimilability of, 253 Race problems of America, 249 Railroads, under government management, 274 Restaurant, cost of food and entertainment, 151 Riddell, Miss H., work with lepers, 90 Roosevelt, Quentin, Baron Kaneko's regard for, 213, 219, 227 Roosevelt, Theodore, on reign of Emperor Meiji, 29; interest in jiu-jutsu, 193; visit of Viscount Shibusawa to, 210; Viscount Kaneko's regard for, 213; letter to Baron Kaneko on our Japanese question, 223; wise attitude toward Japan, 270 Sake, how served, 121 Samurai, strength of the, 70; customs and privileges, 192 Sculpture and architecture. Self-made men, 187. Segregation of vice, 154 Servants, courtesy of and to, 117, 336 Shibusawa, Viscount Eiichi founder of school for actresses, 96; interview with, 188, 201; anecdote of President Roosevelt, 210; visit to grave of Townsend Harris, 280 Shimabara, courtesan district, Kyoto, 160 Suicide, prevalence of 51; the Oriental view of, 199 Sunday, as a holiday, 114 Superstition, prevalence of, 318 Tails, wild men with, 7 Tai-no-ura, and the Nativity Temple, 287 Tea, significance of, 68; origin, 69 Tea Ceremony, or cha-no-yu, 71, 74, 81. Tea Masters, veneration of the, 73 Teahouse, entertainment expensive, 143, 151 Teaism, as a study, 68 Telephone service, inefficiency of, 238 Tipping, proper procedure in, 339 Tobacco industry, a monopoly, 130 Tokugawa, Prince, interest in wrestling, 105 Tokyo, growth, 26; architecture and sculpture, 27; adopting steel for building construction, 38 Tourists welcomed to Japan, 263 Tray landscapes, art of making, 67 Tuberculosis, extent of, 90 Vandalism at historic places, 280 Vice, commercialized, 154 Waseda University, now open to women, 95; founded by Marquis Okuma, 186 W. C. T. U., activities, 97 Women, costume of, 32; sedate gracefulness of, 81; suffrage, 83 legal status, 84; condition slowly improving, 95; in business and professions, 95; the "new woman," 97; husbands' attitude toward wives, 100; position higher in early times, 100 Wood engraving, era of, 331 _World_, New York, editorial on Japanese issue in California, 244 Wrestling, the national sport, 103 Yajima, Mrs., leader in W. C. T. U., 97 "Yellow Peril," the true, 246 Yokohama, the landing, 16 Yoritomo, legend of, 303 Yoshinobu, becomes shogun, 202; held prisoner after conflict with Emperor, 205; battle neither sought nor desired, 207 Yoshioka, Dr. G. founder of Tokyo School for Women, 96 Yoshiwara, courtesan district, Tokyo, 154 Yuasa, Commander, heroism at Port Arthur, 195 Zodiac, belief in the signs of the, 317 [Illustration] THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Some of the original illustrations were pairs of illustrations related to different topics. Those pairs were separated and moved to text they illustrate. The list of illustrations refer to the original locations of those illustrations. In the paired illustrations, references to "(above)" and "(below)" have been removed. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. On page 29, "to day" was replaced with "today". On page 86, "mutally" was replaced with "mutually". On page 87, "bethrothal" was replaced with "betrothal". On page 113 a comma at an end of a sentence was replaced by a period. On page 138, "pantomine" was replaced with "pantomime". On page 149, "chafing-fish" was replaced with "chafing-dish". On page 160, "Tokugowa" was replaced with "Tokugawa". On page 163 a comma was added after the word "fascinating". On page 168, "sensui" was replaced with "sansui". On page 172, "Distate" was replaced with "Distaste". On page 176, "daimio" was replaced with "daimyo]". On page 185, "Marquise" was replaced with "Marquis". On page 202, "Hizan" was replaced with "Hizen". On page 203 a period was added after "Highness". On page 219 a comma at an end of a sentence was replaced by a period. On page 230 a period was added after "60,000,000". On page 254, "overwhemingly" was replaced with "overwhelmingly". On page 264, "supicious" was replaced with "suspicious". On page 273, "the Little Train" was replaced with "The Little Train". On page 275, "pratice" was replaced with "practice". On page 284, "orginally" was replaced with "originally". On page 285, "af" was replaced with "of". On page 292, "summond" was replaced with "summoned". On page 306, "event" was replaced with "events". On page 318, "Superstitition" was replaced with "Superstition". On page 323 a comma was added after "Basil Hall Chamberlain". On page 327 a space was added between "O----" and "I". On page 328 a space was added between "K----" and "S". On page 340, "despatched" was replaced with "dispatched". In the index, "peculiarties" was replaced with "peculiarities". Notice: There are no cites for the item Sculpture and architecture, and in the index some items are closed with periods, but most are not. 
8130	----	GLIMPSES OF UNFAMILIAR JAPAN First Series by LAFCADIO HEARN (dedication) TO THE FRIENDS WHOSE KINDNESS ALONE RENDERED POSSIBLE MY SOJOURN IN THE ORIENT, PAYMASTER MITCHELL McDONALD, U.S.N. AND BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN, ESQ. Emeritus Professor of Philology and Japanese in the Imperial University of Tokyo I DEDICATE THESE VOLUMES IN TOKEN OF AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE CONTENTS PREFACE 1 MY FIRST DAY IN THE ORIENT 2 THE WRITING OF KOBODAISHI 3 JIZO 4 A PILGRIMAGE TO ENOSHIMA 5 AT THE MARKET OF THE DEAD 6 BON-ODORI 7 THE CHIEF CITY OF THE PROVINCE OF THE GODS 8 KITZUKI: THE MOST ANCIENT SHRINE IN JAPAN 9 IN THE CAVE OF THE CHILDREN'S GHOSTS 10 AT MIONOSEKI 11 NOTES ON KITZUKI 12 AT HINOMISAKI 13 SHINJU 14 YAEGAKI-JINJA 15 KITSUNE PREFACE In the Introduction to his charming Tales of Old Japan, Mr. Mitford wrote in 1871: 'The books which have been written of late years about Japan have either been compiled from official records, or have contained the sketchy impressions of passing travellers. Of the inner life of the Japanese the world at large knows but little: their religion, their superstitions, their ways of thought, the hidden springs by which they move--all these are as yet mysteries.' This invisible life referred to by Mr. Mitford is the Unfamiliar Japan of which I have been able to obtain a few glimpses. The reader may, perhaps, be disappointed by their rarity; for a residence of little more than four years among the people--even by one who tries to adopt their habits and customs--scarcely suffices to enable the foreigner to begin to feel at home in this world of strangeness. None can feel more than the author himself how little has been accomplished in these volumes, and how much remains to do. The popular religious ideas--especially the ideas derived from Buddhism and the curious superstitions touched upon in these sketches are little shared by the educated classes of New Japan. Except as regards his characteristic indifference toward abstract ideas in general and metaphysical speculation in particular, the Occidentalised Japanese of to-day stands almost on the intellectual plane of the cultivated Parisian or Bostonian. But he is inclined to treat with undue contempt all conceptions of the supernatural; and toward the great religious questions of the hour his attitude is one of perfect apathy. Rarely does his university training in modern philosophy impel him to attempt any independent study of relations, either sociological or psychological. For him, superstitions are simply superstitions; their relation to the emotional nature of the people interests him not at all. [1] And this not only because he thoroughly understands that people, but because the class to which he belongs is still unreasoningly, though quite naturally, ashamed of its older beliefs. Most of us who now call ourselves agnostics can recollect the feelings with which, in the period of our fresh emancipation from a faith far more irrational than Buddhism, we looked back upon the gloomy theology of our fathers. Intellectual Japan has become agnostic within only a few decades; and the suddenness of this mental revolution sufficiently explains the principal, though not perhaps all the causes of the present attitude of the superior class toward Buddhism. For the time being it certainly borders upon intolerance; and while such is the feeling even to religion as distinguished from superstition, the feeling toward superstition as distinguished from religion must be something stronger still. But the rare charm of Japanese life, so different from that of all other lands, is not to be found in its Europeanised circles. It is to be found among the great common people, who represent in Japan, as in all countries, the national virtues, and who still cling to their delightful old customs, their picturesque dresses, their Buddhist images, their household shrines, their beautiful and touching worship of ancestors. This is the life of which a foreign observer can never weary, if fortunate and sympathetic enough to enter into it--the life that forces him sometimes to doubt whether the course of our boasted Western progress is really in the direction of moral development. Each day, while the years pass, there will be revealed to him some strange and unsuspected beauty in it. Like other life, it has its darker side; yet even this is brightness compared with the darker side of Western existence. It has its foibles, its follies, its vices, its cruelties; yet the more one sees of it, the more one marvels at its extraordinary goodness, its miraculous patience, its never-failing courtesy, its simplicity of heart, its intuitive charity. And to our own larger Occidental comprehension, its commonest superstitions, however condemned at Tokyo have rarest value as fragments of the unwritten literature of its hopes, its fears, its experience with right and wrong--its primitive efforts to find solutions for the riddle of the Unseen flow much the lighter and kindlier superstitions of the people add to the charm of Japanese life can, indeed, be understood only by one who has long resided in the interior. A few of their beliefs are sinister--such as that in demon-foxes, which public education is rapidly dissipating; but a large number are comparable for beauty of fancy even to those Greek myths in which our noblest poets of today still find inspiration; while many others, which encourage kindness to the unfortunate and kindness to animals, can never have produced any but the happiest moral results. The amusing presumption of domestic animals, and the comparative fearlessness of many wild creatures in the presence of man; the white clouds of gulls that hover about each incoming steamer in expectation of an alms of crumbs; the whirring of doves from temple-eaves to pick up the rice scattered for them by pilgrims; the familiar storks of ancient public gardens; the deer of holy shrines, awaiting cakes and caresses; the fish which raise their heads from sacred lotus-ponds when the stranger's shadow falls upon the water--these and a hundred other pretty sights are due to fancies which, though called superstitious, inculcate in simplest form the sublime truth of the Unity of Life. And even when considering beliefs less attractive than these, superstitions of which the grotesqueness may provoke a smile--the impartial observer would do well to bear in mind the words of Lecky: Many superstitions do undoubtedly answer to the Greek conception of slavish "fear of the Gods," and have been productive of unspeakable misery to mankind; but there are very many others of a different tendency. Superstitions appeal to our hopes as well as our fears. They often meet and gratify the inmost longings of the heart. They offer certainties where reason can only afford possibilities or probabilities. They supply conceptions on which the imagination loves to dwell. They sometimes impart even a new sanction to moral truths. Creating wants which they alone can satisfy, and fears which they alone can quell, they often become essential elements of happiness; and their consoling efficacy is most felt in the languid or troubled hours when it is most needed. We owe more to our illusions than to our knowledge. The imagination, which is altogether constructive, probably contributes more to our happiness than the reason, which in the sphere of speculation is mainly critical and destructive. The rude charm which, in the hour of danger or distress, the savage clasps so confidently to his breast, the sacred picture which is believed to shed a hallowing and protecting influence over the poor man's cottage, can bestow a more real consolation in the darkest hour of human suffering than can be afforded by the grandest theories of philosophy. . . . No error can be more grave than to imagine that when a critical spirit is abroad the pleasant beliefs will all remain, and the painful ones alone will perish. That the critical spirit of modernised Japan is now indirectly aiding rather than opposing the efforts of foreign bigotry to destroy the simple, happy beliefs of the people, and substitute those cruel superstitions which the West has long intellectually outgrown--the fancies of an unforgiving God and an everlasting hell--is surely to be regretted. More than hundred and sixty years ago Kaempfer wrote of the Japanese 'In the practice of virtue, in purity of life and outward devotion they far outdo the Christians.' And except where native morals have suffered by foreign contamination, as in the open ports, these words are true of the Japanese to-day. My own conviction, and that of many impartial and more experienced observers of Japanese life, is that Japan has nothing whatever to gain by conversion to Christianity, either morally or otherwise, but very much to lose. Of the twenty-seven sketches composing these volumes, four were originally purchased by various newspaper syndicates and reappear in a considerably altered form, and six were published in the Atlantic Monthly (1891-3). The remainder forming the bulk of the work, are new. L.H. KUMAMOTO, KYUSHU, JAPAN. May, 1894. GLIMPSES OF UNFAMILIAR JAPAN by LAFCADIO HEARN Chapter One My First Day in the Orient 'Do not fail to write down your first impressions as soon as possible,' said a kind English professor [Basil Hall Chamberlain: PREPARATOR'S NOTE] whom I had the pleasure of meeting soon after my arrival in Japan: 'they are evanescent, you know; they will never come to you again, once they have faded out; and yet of all the strange sensations you may receive in this country you will feel none so charming as these.' I am trying now to reproduce them from the hasty notes of the time, and find that they were even more fugitive than charming; something has evaporated from all my recollections of them--something impossible to recall. I neglected the friendly advice, in spite of all resolves to obey it: I could not, in those first weeks, resign myself to remain indoors and write, while there was yet so much to see and hear and feel in the sun-steeped ways of the wonderful Japanese city. Still, even could I revive all the lost sensations of those first experiences, I doubt if I could express and fix them in words. The first charm of Japan is intangible and volatile as a perfume. It began for me with my first kuruma-ride out of the European quarter of Yokohama into the Japanese town; and so much as I can recall of it is hereafter set down. Sec. 1 It is with the delicious surprise of the first journey through Japanese streets--unable to make one's kuruma-runner understand anything but gestures, frantic gestures to roll on anywhere, everywhere, since all is unspeakably pleasurable and new--that one first receives the real sensation of being in the Orient, in this Far East so much read of, so long dreamed of, yet, as the eyes bear witness, heretofore all unknown. There is a romance even in the first full consciousness of this rather commonplace fact; but for me this consciousness is transfigured inexpressibly by the divine beauty of the day. There is some charm unutterable in the morning air, cool with the coolness of Japanese spring and wind-waves from the snowy cone of Fuji; a charm perhaps due rather to softest lucidity than to any positive tone--an atmospheric limpidity extraordinary, with only a suggestion of blue in it, through which the most distant objects appear focused with amazing sharpness. The sun is only pleasantly warm; the jinricksha, or kuruma, is the most cosy little vehicle imaginable; and the street-vistas, as seen above the dancing white mushroom-shaped hat of my sandalled runner, have an allurement of which I fancy that I could never weary. Elfish everything seems; for everything as well as everybody is small, and queer, and mysterious: the little houses under their blue roofs, the little shop-fronts hung with blue, and the smiling little people in their blue costumes. The illusion is only broken by the occasional passing of a tall foreigner, and by divers shop-signs bearing announcements in absurd attempts at English. Nevertheless such discords only serve to emphasise reality; they never materially lessen the fascination of the funny little streets. 'Tis at first a delightfully odd confusion only, as you look down one of them, through an interminable flutter of flags and swaying of dark blue drapery, all made beautiful and mysterious with Japanese or Chinese lettering. For there are no immediately discernible laws of construction or decoration: each building seems to have a fantastic prettiness of its own; nothing is exactly like anything else, and all is bewilderingly novel. But gradually, after an hour passed in the quarter, the eye begins to recognise in a vague way some general plan in the construction of these low, light, queerly-gabled wooden houses, mostly unpainted, with their first stories all open to the street, and thin strips of roofing sloping above each shop-front, like awnings, back to the miniature balconies of paper-screened second stories. You begin to understand the common plan of the tiny shops, with their matted floors well raised above the street level, and the general perpendicular arrangement of sign-lettering, whether undulating on drapery or glimmering on gilded and lacquered signboards. You observe that the same rich dark blue which dominates in popular costume rules also in shop draperies, though there is a sprinkling of other tints--bright blue and white and red (no greens or yellows). And then you note also that the dresses of the labourers are lettered with the same wonderful lettering as the shop draperies. No arabesques could produce such an effect. As modified for decorative purposes these ideographs have a speaking symmetry which no design without a meaning could possess. As they appear on the back of a workman's frock--pure white on dark blue--and large enough to be easily read at a great distance (indicating some guild or company of which the wearer is a member or employee), they give to the poor cheap garment a fictitious appearance of splendour. And finally, while you are still puzzling over the mystery of things, there will come to you like a revelation the knowledge that most of the amazing picturesqueness of these streets is simply due to the profusion of Chinese and Japanese characters in white, black, blue, or gold, decorating everything--even surfaces of doorposts and paper screens. Perhaps, then, for one moment, you will imagine the effect of English lettering substituted for those magical characters; and the mere idea will give to whatever aesthetic sentiment you may possess a brutal shock, and you will become, as I have become, an enemy of the Romaji-Kwai--that society founded for the ugly utilitarian purpose of introducing the use of English letters in writing Japanese. Sec. 2 An ideograph does not make upon the Japanese brain any impression similar to that created in the Occidental brain by a letter or combination of letters--dull, inanimate symbols of vocal sounds. To the Japanese brain an ideograph is a vivid picture: it lives; it speaks; it gesticulates. And the whole space of a Japanese street is full of such living characters--figures that cry out to the eyes, words that smile or grimace like faces. What such lettering is, compared with our own lifeless types, can be understood only by those who have lived in the farther East. For even the printed characters of Japanese or Chinese imported texts give no suggestion of the possible beauty of the same characters as modified for decorative inscriptions, for sculptural use, or for the commonest advertising purposes. No rigid convention fetters the fancy of the calligrapher or designer: each strives to make his characters more beautiful than any others; and generations upon generations of artists have been toiling from time immemorial with like emulation, so that through centuries and centuries of tireless effort and study, the primitive hieroglyph or ideograph has been evolved into a thing of beauty indescribable. It consists only of a certain number of brush-strokes; but in each stroke there is an undiscoverable secret art of grace, proportion, imperceptible curve, which actually makes it seem alive, and bears witness that even during the lightning-moment of its creation the artist felt with his brush for the ideal shape of the stroke equally along its entire length, from head to tail. But the art of the strokes is not all; the art of their combination is that which produces the enchantment, often so as to astonish the Japanese themselves. It is not surprising, indeed, considering the strangely personal, animate, esoteric aspect of Japanese lettering, that there should be wonderful legends of calligraphy relating how words written by holy experts became incarnate, and descended from their tablets to hold converse with mankind. Sec. 3 My kurumaya calls himself 'Cha.' He has a white hat which looks like the top of an enormous mushroom; a short blue wide-sleeved jacket; blue drawers, close-fitting as 'tights,' and reaching to his ankles; and light straw sandals bound upon his bare feet with cords of palmetto-fibre. Doubtless he typifies all the patience, endurance, and insidious coaxing powers of his class. He has already manifested his power to make me give him more than the law allows; and I have been warned against him in vain. For the first sensation of having a human being for a horse, trotting between shafts, unwearyingly bobbing up and down before you for hours, is alone enough to evoke a feeling of compassion. And when this human being, thus trotting between shafts, with all his hopes, memories, sentiments, and comprehensions, happens to have the gentlest smile, and the power to return the least favour by an apparent display of infinite gratitude, this compassion becomes sympathy, and provokes unreasoning impulses to self-sacrifice. I think the sight of the profuse perspiration has also something to do with the feeling, for it makes one think of the cost of heart-beats and muscle-contractions, likewise of chills, congestions, and pleurisy. Cha's clothing is drenched; and he mops his face with a small sky-blue towel, with figures of bamboo-sprays and sparrows in white upon it, which towel he carries wrapped about his wrist as he runs. That, however, which attracts me in Cha--Cha considered not as a motive power at all, but as a personality--I am rapidly learning to discern in the multitudes of faces turned toward us as we roll through these miniature streets. And perhaps the supremely pleasurable impression of this morning is that produced by the singular gentleness of popular scrutiny. Everybody looks at you curiously; but there is never anything disagreeable, much less hostile in the gaze: most commonly it is accompanied by a smile or half smile. And the ultimate consequence of all these kindly curious looks and smiles is that the stranger finds himself thinking of fairy-land. Hackneyed to the degree of provocation this statement no doubt is: everybody describing the sensations of his first Japanese day talks of the land as fairyland, and of its people as fairy-folk. Yet there is a natural reason for this unanimity in choice of terms to describe what is almost impossible to describe more accurately at the first essay. To find one's self suddenly in a world where everything is upon a smaller and daintier scale than with us--a world of lesser and seemingly kindlier beings, all smiling at you as if to wish you well--a world where all movement is slow and soft, and voices are hushed--a world where land, life, and sky are unlike all that one has known elsewhere--this is surely the realisation, for imaginations nourished with English folklore, of the old dream of a World of Elves. Sec. 4 The traveller who enters suddenly into a period of social change--especially change from a feudal past to a democratic present--is likely to regret the decay of things beautiful and the ugliness of things new. What of both I may yet discover in Japan I know not; but to-day, in these exotic streets, the old and the new mingle so well that one seems to set off the other. The line of tiny white telegraph poles carrying the world's news to papers printed in a mixture of Chinese and Japanese characters; an electric bell in some tea-house with an Oriental riddle of text pasted beside the ivory button, a shop of American sewing-machines next to the shop of a maker of Buddhist images; the establishment of a photographer beside the establishment of a manufacturer of straw sandals: all these present no striking incongruities, for each sample of Occidental innovation is set into an Oriental frame that seems adaptable to any picture. But on the first day, at least, the Old alone is new for the stranger, and suffices to absorb his attention. It then appears to him that everything Japanese is delicate, exquisite, admirable--even a pair of common wooden chopsticks in a paper bag with a little drawing upon it; even a package of toothpicks of cherry-wood, bound with a paper wrapper wonderfully lettered in three different colours; even the little sky-blue towel, with designs of flying sparrows upon it, which the jinricksha man uses to wipe his face. The bank bills, the commonest copper coins, are things of beauty. Even the piece of plaited coloured string used by the shopkeeper in tying up your last purchase is a pretty curiosity. Curiosities and dainty objects bewilder you by their very multitude: on either side of you, wherever you turn your eyes, are countless wonderful things as yet incomprehensible. But it is perilous to look at them. Every time you dare to look, something obliges you to buy it--unless, as may often happen, the smiling vendor invites your inspection of so many varieties of one article, each specially and all unspeakably desirable, that you flee away out of mere terror at your own impulses. The shopkeeper never asks you to buy; but his wares are enchanted, and if you once begin buying you are lost. Cheapness means only a temptation to commit bankruptcy; for the resources of irresistible artistic cheapness are inexhaustible. The largest steamer that crosses the Pacific could not contain what you wish to purchase. For, although you may not, perhaps, confess the fact to yourself, what you really want to buy is not the contents of a shop; you want the shop and the shopkeeper, and streets of shops with their draperies and their inhabitants, the whole city and the bay and the mountains begirdling it, and Fujiyama's white witchery overhanging it in the speckless sky, all Japan, in very truth, with its magical trees and luminous atmosphere, with all its cities and towns and temples, and forty millions of the most lovable people in the universe. Now there comes to my mind something I once heard said by a practical American on hearing of a great fire in Japan: 'Oh! those people can afford fires; their houses are so cheaply built.' It is true that the frail wooden houses of the common people can be cheaply and quickly replaced; but that which was within them to make them beautiful cannot--and every fire is an art tragedy. For this is the land of infinite hand-made variety; machinery has not yet been able to introduce sameness and utilitarian ugliness in cheap production (except in response to foreign demand for bad taste to suit vulgar markets), and each object made by the artist or artisan differs still from all others, even of his own making. And each time something beautiful perishes by fire, it is a something representing an individual idea. Happily the art impulse itself, in this country of conflagrations, has a vitality which survives each generation of artists, and defies the flame that changes their labour to ashes or melts it to shapelessness. The idea whose symbol has perished will reappear again in other creations--perhaps after the passing of a century--modified, indeed, yet recognisably of kin to the thought of the past. And every artist is a ghostly worker. Not by years of groping and sacrifice does he find his highest expression; the sacrificial past is within him; his art is an inheritance; his fingers are guided by the dead in the delineation of a flying bird, of the vapours of mountains, of the colours of the morning and the evening, of the shape of branches and the spring burst of flowers: generations of skilled workmen have given him their cunning, and revive in the wonder of his drawing. What was conscious effort in the beginning became unconscious in later centuries--becomes almost automatic in the living man,--becomes the art instinctive. Wherefore, one coloured print by a Hokusai or Hiroshige, originally sold for less than a cent, may have more real art in it than many a Western painting valued at more than the worth of a whole Japanese street. Sec. 5 Here are Hokusai's own figures walking about in straw raincoats, and immense mushroom-shaped hats of straw, and straw sandals--bare-limbed peasants, deeply tanned by wind and sun; and patient-faced mothers with smiling bald babies on their backs, toddling by upon their geta (high, noisy, wooden clogs), and robed merchants squatting and smoking their little brass pipes among the countless riddles of their shops. Then I notice how small and shapely the feet of the people are--whether bare brown feet of peasants, or beautiful feet of children wearing tiny, tiny geta, or feet of young girls in snowy tabi. The tabi, the white digitated stocking, gives to a small light foot a mythological aspect--the white cleft grace of the foot of a fauness. Clad or bare, the Japanese foot has the antique symmetry: it has not yet been distorted by the infamous foot-gear which has deformed the feet of Occidentals. Of every pair of Japanese wooden clogs, one makes in walking a slightly different sound from the other, as kring to krang; so that the echo of the walker's steps has an alternate rhythm of tones. On a pavement, such as that of a railway station, the sound obtains immense sonority; and a crowd will sometimes intentionally fall into step, with the drollest conceivable result of drawling wooden noise. Sec. 6 'Tera e yuke!' I have been obliged to return to the European hotel--not because of the noon-meal, as I really begrudge myself the time necessary to eat it, but because I cannot make Cha understand that I want to visit a Buddhist temple. Now Cha understands; my landlord has uttered the mystical words: 'Tera e yuke!' A few minutes of running along broad thoroughfares lined with gardens and costly ugly European buildings; then passing the bridge of a canal stocked with unpainted sharp-prowed craft of extraordinary construction, we again plunge into narrow, low, bright pretty streets--into another part of the Japanese city. And Cha runs at the top of his speed between more rows of little ark-shaped houses, narrower above than below; between other unfamiliar lines of little open shops. And always over the shops little strips of blue-tiled roof slope back to the paper-screened chamber of upper floors; and from all the facades hang draperies dark blue, or white, or crimson--foot-breadths of texture covered with beautiful Japanese lettering, white on blue, red on black, black on white. But all this flies by swiftly as a dream. Once more we cross a canal; we rush up a narrow street rising to meet a hill; and Cha, halting suddenly before an immense flight of broad stone steps, sets the shafts of his vehicle on the ground that I may dismount, and, pointing to the steps, exclaims: 'Tera!' I dismount, and ascend them, and, reaching a broad terrace, find myself face to face with a wonderful gate, topped by a tilted, peaked, many-cornered Chinese roof. It is all strangely carven, this gate. Dragons are inter-twined in a frieze above its open doors; and the panels of the doors themselves are similarly sculptured; and there are gargoyles--grotesque lion heads--protruding from the eaves. And the whole is grey, stone-coloured; to me, nevertheless, the carvings do not seem to have the fixity of sculpture; all the snakeries and dragonries appear to undulate with a swarming motion, elusively, in eddyings as of water. I turn a moment to look back through the glorious light. Sea and sky mingle in the same beautiful pale clear blue. Below me the billowing of bluish roofs reaches to the verge of the unruffled bay on the right, and to the feet of the green wooded hills flanking the city on two sides. Beyond that semicircle of green hills rises a lofty range of serrated mountains, indigo silhouettes. And enormously high above the line of them towers an apparition indescribably lovely--one solitary snowy cone, so filmily exquisite, so spiritually white, that but for its immemorially familiar outline, one would surely deem it a shape of cloud. Invisible its base remains, being the same delicious tint as the sky: only above the eternal snow-line its dreamy cone appears, seeming to hang, the ghost of a peak, between the luminous land and the luminous heaven--the sacred and matchless mountain, Fujiyama. And suddenly, a singular sensation comes upon me as I stand before this weirdly sculptured portal--a sensation of dream and doubt. It seems to me that the steps, and the dragon-swarming gate, and the blue sky arching over the roofs of the town, and the ghostly beauty of Fuji, and the shadow of myself there stretching upon the grey masonry, must all vanish presently. Why such a feeling? Doubtless because the forms before me--the curved roofs, the coiling dragons, the Chinese grotesqueries of carving--do not really appear to me as things new, but as things dreamed: the sight of them must have stirred to life forgotten memories of picture-books. A moment, and the delusion vanishes; the romance of reality returns, with freshened consciousness of all that which is truly and deliciously new; the magical transparencies of distance, the wondrous delicacy of the tones of the living picture, the enormous height of the summer blue, and the white soft witchery of the Japanese sun. Sec. 7 I pass on and climb more steps to a second gate with similar gargoyles and swarming of dragons, and enter a court where graceful votive lanterns of stone stand like monuments. On my right and left two great grotesque stone lions are sitting--the lions of Buddha, male and female. Beyond is a long low light building, with curved and gabled roof of blue tiles, and three wooden steps before its entrance. Its sides are simple wooden screens covered with thin white paper. This is the temple. On the steps I take off my shoes; a young man slides aside the screens closing the entrance, and bows me a gracious welcome. And I go in, feeling under my feet a softness of matting thick as bedding. An immense square apartment is before me, full of an unfamiliar sweet smell--the scent of Japanese incense; but after the full blaze of the sun, the paper-filtered light here is dim as moonshine; for a minute or two I can see nothing but gleams of gilding in a soft gloom. Then, my eyes becoming accustomed to the obscurity, I perceive against the paper-paned screens surrounding the sanctuary on three sides shapes of enormous flowers cutting like silhouettes against the vague white light. I approach and find them to be paper flowers--symbolic lotus-blossoms beautifully coloured, with curling leaves gilded on the upper surface and bright green beneath, At the dark end of the apartment, facing the entrance, is the altar of Buddha, a rich and lofty altar, covered with bronzes and gilded utensils clustered to right and left of a shrine like a tiny gold temple. But I see no statue; only a mystery of unfamiliar shapes of burnished metal, relieved against darkness, a darkness behind the shrine and altar--whether recess or inner sanctuary I cannot distinguish. The young attendant who ushered me into the temple now approaches, and, to my great surprise, exclaims in excellent English, pointing to a richly decorated gilded object between groups of candelabra on the altar: 'That is the shrine of Buddha.' 'And I would like to make an offering to Buddha,' I respond. 'It is not necessary,' he says, with a polite smile. But I insist; and he places the little offering for me upon the altar. Then he invites me to his own room, in a wing of the building--a large luminous room, without furniture, beautifully matted. And we sit down upon the floor and chat. He tells me he is a student in the temple. He learned English in Tokyo and speaks it with a curious accent, but with fine choice of words. Finally he asks me: 'Are you a Christian?' And I answer truthfully: 'No.' 'Are you a Buddhist?' 'Not exactly.' 'Why do you make offerings if you do not believe in Buddha?' 'I revere the beauty of his teaching, and the faith of those who follow it.' 'Are there Buddhists in England and America?' 'There are, at least, a great many interested in Buddhist philosophy.' And he takes from an alcove a little book, and gives it to me to examine. It is an English copy of Olcott's Buddhist Catechism. 'Why is there no image of Buddha in your temple?' I ask. 'There is a small one in the shrine upon the altar,' the student answers; 'but the shrine is closed. And we have several large ones. But the image of Buddha is not exposed here every day--only upon festal days. And some images are exposed only once or twice a year. From my place, I can see, between the open paper screens, men and women ascending the steps, to kneel and pray before the entrance of the temple. They kneel with such naive reverence, so gracefully and so naturally, that the kneeling of our Occidental devotees seems a clumsy stumbling by comparison. Some only join their hands; others clap them three times loudly and slowly; then they bow their heads, pray silently for a moment, and rise and depart. The shortness of the prayers impresses me as something novel and interesting. From time to time I hear the clink and rattle of brazen coin cast into the great wooden money-box at the entrance. I turn to the young student, and ask him: 'Why do they clap their hands three times before they pray?' He answers: 'Three times for the Sansai, the Three Powers: Heaven, Earth, Man.' 'But do they clap their hands to call the Gods, as Japanese clap their hands to summon their attendants?' 'Oh, no!' he replied. 'The clapping of hands represents only the awakening from the Dream of the Long Night.' [1] 'What night? what dream?' He hesitates some moments before making answer: 'The Buddha said: All beings are only dreaming in this fleeting world of unhappiness.' 'Then the clapping of hands signifies that in prayer the soul awakens from such dreaming?' 'Yes.' 'You understand what I mean by the word "soul"?' 'Oh, yes! Buddhists believe the soul always was--always will be.' 'Even in Nirvana?' 'Yes.' While we are thus chatting the Chief Priest of the temple enters--a very aged man-accompanied by two young priests, and I am presented to them; and the three bow very low, showing me the glossy crowns of their smoothly-shaven heads, before seating themselves in the fashion of gods upon the floor. I observe they do not smile; these are the first Japanese I have seen who do not smile: their faces are impassive as the faces of images. But their long eyes observe me very closely, while the student interprets their questions, and while I attempt to tell them something about the translations of the Sutras in our Sacred Books of the East, and about the labours of Beal and Burnouf and Feer and Davids and Kern, and others. They listen without change of countenance, and utter no word in response to the young student's translation of my remarks. Tea, however, is brought in and set before me in a tiny cup, placed in a little brazen saucer, shaped like a lotus-leaf; and I am invited to partake of some little sugar-cakes (kwashi), stamped with a figure which I recognise as the Swastika, the ancient Indian symbol of the Wheel of the Law. As I rise to go, all rise with me; and at the steps the student asks for my name and address. 'For,' he adds, 'you will not see me here again, as I am going to leave the temple. But I will visit you.' 'And your name?' I ask. 'Call me Akira,' he answers. At the threshold I bow my good-bye; and they all bow very, very low, one blue-black head, three glossy heads like balls of ivory. And as I go, only Akira smiles. Sec. 8 'Tera?' queries Cha, with his immense white hat in his hand, as I resume my seat in the jinricksha at the foot of the steps. Which no doubt means, do I want to see any more temples? Most certainly I do: I have not yet seen Buddha. 'Yes, tera, Cha.' And again begins the long panorama of mysterious shops and tilted eaves, and fantastic riddles written over everything. I have no idea in what direction Cha is running. I only know that the streets seem to become always narrower as we go, and that some of the houses look like great wickerwork pigeon-cages only, and that we pass over several bridges before we halt again at the foot of another hill. There is a lofty flight of steps here also, and before them a structure which I know is both a gate and a symbol, imposing, yet in no manner resembling the great Buddhist gateway seen before. Astonishingly simple all the lines of it are: it has no carving, no colouring, no lettering upon it; yet it has a weird solemnity, an enigmatic beauty. It is a torii. 'Miya,' observes Cha. Not a tera this time, but a shrine of the gods of the more ancient faith of the land--a miya. I am standing before a Shinto symbol; I see for the first time, out of a picture at least, a torii. How describe a torii to those who have never looked at one even in a photograph or engraving? Two lofty columns, like gate-pillars, supporting horizontally two cross-beams, the lower and lighter beam having its ends fitted into the columns a little distance below their summits; the uppermost and larger beam supported upon the tops of the columns, and projecting well beyond them to right and left. That is a torii: the construction varying little in design, whether made of stone, wood, or metal. But this description can give no correct idea of the appearance of a torii, of its majestic aspect, of its mystical suggestiveness as a gateway. The first time you see a noble one, you will imagine, perhaps, that you see the colossal model of some beautiful Chinese letter towering against the sky; for all the lines of the thing have the grace of an animated ideograph,--have the bold angles and curves of characters made with four sweeps of a master-brush. [2] Passing the torii I ascend a flight of perhaps one hundred stone steps, and find at their summit a second torii, from whose lower cross-beam hangs festooned the mystic shimenawa. It is in this case a hempen rope of perhaps two inches in diameter through its greater length, but tapering off at either end like a snake. Sometimes the shimenawa is made of bronze, when the torii itself is of bronze; but according to tradition it should be made of straw, and most commonly is. For it represents the straw rope which the deity Futo-tama-no-mikoto stretched behind the Sun-goddess, Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami, after Ame-no-ta-jikara-wo-no-Kami, the Heavenly-hand-strength-god, had pulled her out, as is told in that ancient myth of Shinto which Professor Chamberlain has translated. [3] And the shimenawa, in its commoner and simpler form, has pendent tufts of straw along its entire length, at regular intervals, because originally made, tradition declares, of grass pulled up by the roots which protruded from the twist of it. Advancing beyond this torii, I find myself in a sort of park or pleasure-ground on the summit of the hill. There is a small temple on the right; it is all closed up; and I have read so much about the disappointing vacuity of Shinto temples that I do not regret the absence of its guardian. And I see before me what is infinitely more interesting,--a grove of cherry-trees covered with something unutterably beautiful,--a dazzling mist of snowy blossoms clinging like summer cloud-fleece about every branch and twig; and the ground beneath them, and the path before me, is white with the soft, thick, odorous snow of fallen petals. Beyond this loveliness are flower-plots surrounding tiny shrines; and marvellous grotto-work, full of monsters--dragons and mythologic beings chiselled in the rock; and miniature landscape work with tiny groves of dwarf trees, and Lilliputian lakes, and microscopic brooks and bridges and cascades. Here, also, are swings for children. And here are belvederes, perched on the verge of the hill, wherefrom the whole fair city, and the whole smooth bay speckled with fishing-sails no bigger than pin-heads, and the far, faint, high promontories reaching into the sea, are all visible in one delicious view--blue-pencilled in a beauty of ghostly haze indescribable. Why should the trees be so lovely in Japan? With us, a plum or cherry tree in flower is not an astonishing sight; but here it is a miracle of beauty so bewildering that, however much you may have previously read about it, the real spectacle strikes you dumb. You see no leaves--only one great filmy mist of petals. Is it that the trees have been so long domesticated and caressed by man in this land of the Gods, that they have acquired souls, and strive to show their gratitude, like women loved, by making themselves more beautiful for man's sake? Assuredly they have mastered men's hearts by their loveliness, like beautiful slaves. That is to say, Japanese hearts. Apparently there have been some foreign tourists of the brutal class in this place, since it has been deemed necessary to set up inscriptions in English announcing that 'IT IS FORBIDDEN TO INJURE THE TREES.' Sec. 9 'Tera?' 'Yes, Cha, tera.' But only for a brief while do I traverse Japanese streets. The houses separate, become scattered along the feet of the hills: the city thins away through little valleys, and vanishes at last behind. And we follow a curving road overlooking the sea. Green hills slope steeply down to the edge of the way on the right; on the left, far below, spreads a vast stretch of dun sand and salty pools to a line of surf so distant that it is discernible only as a moving white thread. The tide is out; and thousands of cockle-gatherers are scattered over the sands, at such distances that their stooping figures, dotting the glimmering sea-bed, appear no larger than gnats. And some are coming along the road before us, returning from their search with well-filled baskets--girls with faces almost as rosy as the faces of English girls. As the jinricksha rattles on, the hills dominating the road grow higher. All at once Cha halts again before the steepest and loftiest flight of temple steps I have yet seen. I climb and climb and climb, halting perforce betimes, to ease the violent aching of my quadriceps muscles; reach the top completely out of breath; and find myself between two lions of stone; one showing his fangs, the other with jaws closed. Before me stands the temple, at the farther end of a small bare plateau surrounded on three sides by low cliffs,-a small temple, looking very old and grey. From a rocky height to the left of the building, a little cataract rumbles down into a pool, ringed in by a palisade. The voice of the water drowns all other sounds. A sharp wind is blowing from the ocean: the place is chill even in the sun, and bleak, and desolate, as if no prayer had been uttered in it for a hundred years. Cha taps and calls, while I take off my shoes upon the worn wooden steps of the temple; and after a minute of waiting, we hear a muffled step approaching and a hollow cough behind the paper screens. They slide open; and an old white-robed priest appears, and motions me, with a low bow, to enter. He has a kindly face; and his smile of welcome seems to me one of the most exquisite I have ever been greeted with. Then he coughs again, so badly that I think if I ever come here another time, I shall ask for him in vain. I go in, feeling that soft, spotless, cushioned matting beneath my feet with which the floors of all Japanese buildings are covered. I pass the indispensable bell and lacquered reading-desk; and before me I see other screens only, stretching from floor to ceiling. The old man, still coughing, slides back one of these upon the right, and waves me into the dimness of an inner sanctuary, haunted by faint odours of incense. A colossal bronze lamp, with snarling gilded dragons coiled about its columnar stem, is the first object I discern; and, in passing it, my shoulder sets ringing a festoon of little bells suspended from the lotus-shaped summit of it. Then I reach the altar, gropingly, unable yet to distinguish forms clearly. But the priest, sliding back screen after screen, pours in light upon the gilded brasses and the inscriptions; and I look for the image of the Deity or presiding Spirit between the altar-groups of convoluted candelabra. And I see--only a mirror, a round, pale disk of polished metal, and my own face therein, and behind this mockery of me a phantom of the far sea. Only a mirror! Symbolising what? Illusion? or that the Universe exists for us solely as the reflection of our own souls? or the old Chinese teaching that we must seek the Buddha only in our own hearts? Perhaps some day I shall be able to find out all these things. As I sit on the temple steps, putting on my shoes preparatory to going, the kind old priest approaches me again, and, bowing, presents a bowl. I hastily drop some coins in it, imagining it to be a Buddhist alms-bowl, before discovering it to be full of hot water. But the old man's beautiful courtesy saves me from feeling all the grossness of my mistake. Without a word, and still preserving his kindly smile, he takes the bowl away, and, returning presently with another bowl, empty, fills it with hot water from a little kettle, and makes a sign to me to drink. Tea is most usually offered to visitors at temples; but this little shrine is very, very poor; and I have a suspicion that the old priest suffers betimes for want of what no fellow-creature should be permitted to need. As I descend the windy steps to the roadway I see him still looking after me, and I hear once more his hollow cough. Then the mockery of the mirror recurs to me. I am beginning to wonder whether I shall ever be able to discover that which I seek--outside of myself! That is, outside of my own imagination. Sec. 10 'Tera?' once more queries Cha. 'Tera, no--it is getting late. Hotel, Cha.' But Cha, turning the corner of a narrow street, on our homeward route, halts the jinricksha before a shrine or tiny temple scarcely larger than the smallest of Japanese shops, yet more of a surprise to me than any of the larger sacred edifices already visited. For, on either side of the entrance, stand two monster-figures, nude, blood-red, demoniac, fearfully muscled, with feet like lions, and hands brandishing gilded thunderbolts, and eyes of delirious fury; the guardians of holy things, the Ni-O, or "Two Kings." [4] And right between these crimson monsters a young girl stands looking at us; her slight figure, in robe of silver grey and girdle of iris-violet, relieved deliciously against the twilight darkness of the interior. Her face, impassive and curiously delicate, would charm wherever seen; but here, by strange contrast with the frightful grotesqueries on either side of her, it produces an effect unimaginable. Then I find myself wondering whether my feeling of repulsion toward those twin monstrosities be altogether lust, seeing that so charming a maiden deems them worthy of veneration. And they even cease to seem ugly as I watch her standing there between them, dainty and slender as some splendid moth, and always naively gazing at the foreigner, utterly unconscious that they might have seemed to him both unholy and uncomely. What are they? Artistically they are Buddhist transformations of Brahma and of Indra. Enveloped by the absorbing, all-transforming magical atmosphere of Buddhism, Indra can now wield his thunderbolts only in defence of the faith which has dethroned him: he has become a keeper of the temple gates; nay, has even become a servant of Bosatsu (Bodhisattvas), for this is only a shrine of Kwannon, Goddess of Mercy, not yet a Buddha. 'Hotel, Cha, hotel!' I cry out again, for the way is long, and the sun sinking,--sinking in the softest imaginable glow of topazine light. I have not seen Shaka (so the Japanese have transformed the name Sakya-Muni); I have not looked upon the face of the Buddha. Perhaps I may be able to find his image to-morrow, somewhere in this wilderness of wooden streets, or upon the summit of some yet unvisited hill. The sun is gone; the topaz-light is gone; and Cha stops to light his lantern of paper; and we hurry on again, between two long lines of painted paper lanterns suspended before the shops: so closely set, so level those lines are, that they seem two interminable strings of pearls of fire. And suddenly a sound--solemn, profound, mighty--peals to my ears over the roofs of the town, the voice of the tsurigane, the great temple-bell of Nogiyama. All too short the day seemed. Yet my eyes have been so long dazzled by the great white light, and so confused by the sorcery of that interminable maze of mysterious signs which made each street vista seem a glimpse into some enormous grimoire, that they are now weary even of the soft glowing of all these paper lanterns, likewise covered with characters that look like texts from a Book of Magic. And I feel at last the coming of that drowsiness which always follows enchantment. Sec. 11 'Amma-kamishimo-go-hyakmon!' A woman's voice ringing through the night, chanting in a tone of singular sweetness words of which each syllable comes through my open window like a wavelet of flute-sound. My Japanese servant, who speaks a little English, has told me what they mean, those words: 'Amma-kamishimo-go-hyakmon!' And always between these long, sweet calls I hear a plaintive whistle, one long note first, then two short ones in another key. It is the whistle of the amma, the poor blind woman who earns her living by shampooing the sick or the weary, and whose whistle warns pedestrians and drivers of vehicles to take heed for her sake, as she cannot see. And she sings also that the weary and the sick may call her in. 'Amma-kamishimo-go-hyakmon!' The saddest melody, but the sweetest voice. Her cry signifies that for the sum of 'five hundred mon' she will come and rub your weary body 'above and below,' and make the weariness or the pain go away. Five hundred mon are the equivalent of five sen (Japanese cents); there are ten rin to a sen, and ten mon to one rin. The strange sweetness of the voice is haunting,--makes me even wish to have some pains, that I might pay five hundred mon to have them driven away. I lie down to sleep, and I dream. I see Chinese texts--multitudinous, weird, mysterious--fleeing by me, all in one direction; ideographs white and dark, upon signboards, upon paper screens, upon backs of sandalled men. They seem to live, these ideographs, with conscious life; they are moving their parts, moving with a movement as of insects, monstrously, like phasmidae. I am rolling always through low, narrow, luminous streets in a phantom jinricksha, whose wheels make no sound. And always, always, I see the huge white mushroom-shaped hat of Cha dancing up and down before me as he runs. Chapter Two The Writing of Kobodaishi Sec. 1 KOBODAISHI, most holy of Buddhist priests, and founder of the Shingon-sho--which is the sect of Akira--first taught the men of Japan to write the writing called Hiragana and the syllabary I-ro-ha; and Kobodaishi was himself the most wonderful of all writers, and the most skilful wizard among scribes. And in the book, Kobodaishi-ichi-dai-ki, it is related that when he was in China, the name of a certain room in the palace of the Emperor having become effaced by time, the Emperor sent for him and bade him write the name anew. Thereupon Kobodaishi took a brush in his right hand, and a brush in his left, and one brush between the toes of his left foot, and another between the toes of his right, and one in his mouth also; and with those five brushes, so holding them, he limned the characters upon the wall. And the characters were beautiful beyond any that had ever been seen in China--smooth-flowing as the ripples in the current of a river. And Kobodaishi then took a brush, and with it from a distance spattered drops of ink upon the wall; and the drops as they fell became transformed and turned into beautiful characters. And the Emperor gave to Kobodaishi the name Gohitsu Osho, signifying The Priest who writes with Five Brushes. At another time, while the saint was dwelling in Takawasan, near to Kyoto, the Emperor, being desirous that Kobodaishi should write the tablet for the great temple called Kongo-jo-ji, gave the tablet to a messenger and bade him carry it to Kobodaishi, that Kobodaishi might letter it. But when the Emperor's messenger, bearing the tablet, came near to the place where Kobodaishi dwelt, he found a river before him so much swollen by rain that no man might cross it. In a little while, however, Kobodaishi appeared upon the farther bank, and, hearing from the messenger what the Emperor desired, called to him to hold up the tablet. And the messenger did so; and Kobodaishi, from his place upon the farther bank, made the movements of the letters with his brush; and as fast as he made them they appeared upon the tablet which the messenger was holding up. Sec. 2 Now in that time Kobodaishi was wont to meditate alone by the river-side; and one day, while so meditating, he was aware of a boy standing before him, gazing at him curiously. The garments of the boy were as the garments worn by the needy; but his face was beautiful. And while Kobodaishi wondered, the boy asked him: 'Are you Kobodaishi, whom men call "Gohitsu-Osho"--the priest who writes with five brushes at once?' And Kobodaishi answered: 'I am he.' Then said the boy: 'If you be he, write, I pray you, upon the sky.' And Kobodaishi, rising, took his brush, and made with it movements toward the sky as if writing; and presently upon the face of the sky the letters appeared, most beautifully wrought. Then the boy said: 'Now I shall try;' and he wrote also upon the sky as Kobodaishi had done. And he said again to Kobodaishi: 'I pray you, write for me--write upon the surface of the river.' Then Kobodaishi wrote upon the water a poem in praise of the water; and for a moment the characters remained, all beautiful, upon the face of the stream, as if they had fallen upon it like leaves; but presently they moved with the current and floated away. 'Now I will try,' said the boy; and he wrote upon the water the Dragon-character--the character Ryu in the writing which is called Sosho, the 'Grass-character;' and the character remained upon the flowing surface and moved not. But Kobodaishi saw that the boy had not placed the ten, the little dot belonging to the character, beside it. And he asked the boy: 'Why did you not put the ten?' 'Oh, I forgot!' answered the boy; 'please put it there for me,' and Kobodaishi then made the dot. And lo! the Dragon-character became a Dragon; and the Dragon moved terribly in the waters; and the sky darkened with thunder-clouds, and blazed with lightnings; and the Dragon ascended in a whirl of tempest to heaven. Then Kobodaishi asked the boy: 'Who are you?' And the boy made answer: 'I am he whom men worship on the mountain Gotai; I am the Lord of Wisdom,--Monju Bosatsu!' And even as he spoke the boy became changed; and his beauty became luminous like the beauty of gods; and his limbs became radiant, shedding soft light about. And, smiling, he rose to heaven and vanished beyond the clouds. Sec. 3 But Kobodaishi himself once forgot to put the ten beside the character O on the tablet which he painted with the name of the Gate O-Te-mon of the Emperor's palace. And the Emperor at Kyoto having asked him why he had not put the ten beside the character, Kobodaishi answered: 'I forgot; but I will put it on now.' Then the Emperor bade ladders be brought; for the tablet was already in place, high above the gate. But Kobodaishi, standing on the pavement before the gate, simply threw his brush at the tablet; and the brush, so thrown, made the ten there most admirably, and fell back into his hand. Kobodaishi also painted the tablet of the gate called Ko-kamon of the Emperor's palace at Kyoto. Now there was a man, dwelling near that gate, whose name was Kino Momoye; and he ridiculed the characters which Kobodaishi had made, and pointed to one of them, saying: 'Why, it looks like a swaggering wrestler!' But the same night Momoye dreamed that a wrestler had come to his bedside and leaped upon him, and was beating him with his fists. And, crying out with the pain of the blows, he awoke, and saw the wrestler rise in air, and change into the written character he had laughed at, and go back to the tablet over the gate. And there was another writer, famed greatly for his skill, named Onomo Toku, who laughed at some characters on the tablet of the Gate Shukaku-mon, written by Kobodaishi; and he said, pointing to the character Shu: 'Verily shu looks like the character "rice".' And that night he dreamed that the character he had mocked at became a man; and that the man fell upon him and beat him, and jumped up and down upon his face many times--even as a kometsuki, a rice-cleaner, leaps up and down to move the hammers that beat the rice--saying the while: 'Lo! I am the messenger of Kobodaishi!' And, waking, he found himself bruised and bleeding as one that had been grievously trampled. And long after Kobodaishi's death it was found that the names written by him on the two gates of the Emperor's palace Bi-fuku-mon, the Gate of Beautiful Fortune; and Ko-ka-mon, the Gate of Excellent Greatness--were well-nigh effaced by time. And the Emperor ordered a Dainagon [1], whose name was Yukinari, to restore the tablets. But Yukinari was afraid to perform the command of the Emperor, by reason of what had befallen other men; and, fearing the divine anger of Kobodaishi, he made offerings, and prayed for some token of permission. And the same night, in a dream, Kobodaishi appeared to him, smiling gently, and said: 'Do the work even as the Emperor desires, and have no fear.' So he restored the tablets in the first month of the fourth year of Kwanko, as is recorded in the book, Hon-cho-bun-sui. And all these things have been related to me by my friend Akira. Chapter Three Jizo Sec. 1 I HAVE passed another day in wandering among the temples, both Shinto and Buddhist. I have seen many curious things; but I have not yet seen the face of the Buddha. Repeatedly, after long wearisome climbing of stone steps, and passing under gates full of gargoyles--heads of elephants and heads of lions--and entering shoeless into scented twilight, into enchanted gardens of golden lotus-flowers of paper, and there waiting for my eyes to become habituated to the dimness, I have looked in vain for images. Only an opulent glimmering confusion of things half-seen--vague altar-splendours created by gilded bronzes twisted into riddles, by vessels of indescribable shape, by enigmatic texts of gold, by mysterious glittering pendent things--all framing in only a shrine with doors fast closed. What has most impressed me is the seeming joyousness of popular faith. I have seen nothing grim, austere, or self-repressive. I have not even noted anything approaching the solemn. The bright temple courts and even the temple steps are thronged with laughing children, playing curious games; and mothers, entering the sanctuary to pray, suffer their little ones to creep about the matting and crow. The people take their religion lightly and cheerfully: they drop their cash in the great alms-box, clap their hands, murmur a very brief prayer, then turn to laugh and talk and smoke their little pipes before the temple entrance. Into some shrines, I have noticed the worshippers do not enter at all; they merely stand before the doors and pray for a few seconds, and make their small offerings. Blessed are they who do not too much fear the gods which they have made! Sec. 2 Akira is bowing and smiling at the door. He slips off his sandals, enters in his white digitated stockings, and, with another smile and bow, sinks gently into the proffered chair. Akira is an interesting boy. With his smooth beardless face and clear bronze skin and blue-black hair trimmed into a shock that shadows his forehead to the eyes, he has almost the appearance, in his long wide-sleeved robe and snowy stockings, of a young Japanese girl. I clap my hands for tea, hotel tea, which he calls 'Chinese tea.' I offer him a cigar, which he declines; but with my permission, he will smoke his pipe. Thereupon he draws from his girdle a Japanese pipe-case and tobacco-pouch combined; pulls out of the pipe-case a little brass pipe with a bowl scarcely large enough to hold a pea; pulls out of the pouch some tobacco so finely cut that it looks like hair, stuffs a tiny pellet of this preparation in the pipe, and begins to smoke. He draws the smoke into his lungs, and blows it out again through his nostrils. Three little whiffs, at intervals of about half a minute, and the pipe, emptied, is replaced in its case. Meanwhile I have related to Akira the story of my disappointments. 'Oh, you can see him to-day,' responds Akira, 'if you will take a walk with me to the Temple of Zotokuin. For this is the Busshoe, the festival of the Birthday of Buddha. But he is very small, only a few inches high. If you want to see a great Buddha, you must go to Kamakura. There is a Buddha in that place, sitting upon a lotus; and he is fifty feet high.' So I go forth under the guidance of Akira. He says he may be able to show me 'some curious things.' Sec. 3 There is a sound of happy voices from the temple, and the steps are crowded with smiling mothers and laughing children. Entering, I find women and babies pressing about a lacquered table in front of the doorway. Upon it is a little tub-shaped vessel of sweet tea--amacha; and standing in the tea is a tiny figure of Buddha, one hand pointing upward and one downward. The women, having made the customary offering, take up some of the tea with a wooden ladle of curious shape, and pour it over the statue, and then, filling the ladle a second time, drink a little, and give a sip to their babies. This is the ceremony of washing the statue of Buddha. Near the lacquered stand on which the vessel of sweet tea rests is another and lower stand supporting a temple bell shaped like a great bowl. A priest approaches with a padded mallet in his hand and strikes the bell. But the bell does not sound properly: he starts, looks into it, and stoops to lift out of it a smiling Japanese baby. The mother, laughing, runs to relieve him of his burden; and priest, mother, and baby all look at us with a frankness of mirth in which we join. Akira leaves me a moment to speak with one of the temple attendants, and presently returns with a curious lacquered box, about a foot in length, and four inches wide on each of its four sides. There is only a small hole in one end of it; no appearance of a lid of any sort. 'Now,' says Akira, 'if you wish to pay two sen, we shall learn our future lot according to the will of the gods.' I pay the two sen, and Akira shakes the box. Out comes a narrow slip of bamboo, with Chinese characters written thereon. 'Kitsu!' cries Akira. 'Good-fortune. The number is fifty-and-one.' Again he shakes the box; a second bamboo slip issues from the slit. 'Dai kitsu! great good-fortune. The number is ninety-and-nine. Once more the box is shaken; once more the oracular bamboo protrudes. 'Kyo!' laughs Akira. 'Evil will befall us. The number is sixty-and-four.' He returns the box to a priest, and receives three mysterious papers, numbered with numbers corresponding to the numbers of the bamboo slips. These little bamboo slips, or divining-sticks, are called mikuji. This, as translated by Akira, is the substance of the text of the paper numbered fifty-and-one: 'He who draweth forth this mikuji, let him live according to the heavenly law and worship Kwannon. If his trouble be a sickness, it shall pass from him. If he have lost aught, it shall be found. If he have a suit at law, he shall gain. If he love a woman, he shall surely win her, though he should have to wait. And many happinesses will come to him.' The dai-kitsu paper reads almost similarly, with the sole differences that, instead of Kwannon, the deities of wealth and prosperity--Daikoku, Bishamon, and Benten--are to be worshipped, and that the fortunate man will not have to wait at all for the woman loved. But the kyo paper reads thus: 'He who draweth forth this mikuji, it will be well for him to obey the heavenly law and to worship Kwannon the Merciful. If he have any sickness, even much more sick he shall become. If he have lost aught, it shall never be found. If he have a suit at law, he shall never gain it. If he love a woman, let him have no more expectation of winning her. Only by the most diligent piety can he hope to escape the most frightful calamities. And there shall be no felicity in his portion.' 'All the same, we are fortunate,' declares Akira. 'Twice out of three times we have found luck. Now we will go to see another statue of Buddha.' And he guides me, through many curious streets, to the southern verge of the city. Sec. 4 Before us rises a hill, with a broad flight of stone steps sloping to its summit, between foliage of cedars and maples. We climb; and I see above me the Lions of Buddha waiting--the male yawning menace, the female with mouth closed. Passing between them, we enter a large temple court, at whose farther end rises another wooded eminence. And here is the temple, with roof of blue-painted copper tiles, and tilted eaves and gargoyles and dragons, all weather-stained to one neutral tone. The paper screens are open, but a melancholy rhythmic chant from within tells us that the noonday service is being held: the priests are chanting the syllables of Sanscrit texts transliterated into Chinese--intoning the Sutra called the Sutra of the Lotus of the Good Law. One of those who chant keeps time by tapping with a mallet, cotton-wrapped, some grotesque object shaped like a dolphin's head, all lacquered in scarlet and gold, which gives forth a dull, booming tone--a mokugyo. To the right of the temple is a little shrine, filling the air with fragrance of incense-burning. I peer in through the blue smoke that curls up from half a dozen tiny rods planted in a small brazier full of ashes; and far back in the shadow I see a swarthy Buddha, tiara-coiffed, with head bowed and hands joined, just as I see the Japanese praying, erect in the sun, before the thresholds of temples. The figure is of wood, rudely wrought and rudely coloured: still the placid face has beauty of suggestion. Crossing the court to the left of the building, I find another flight of steps before me, leading up a slope to something mysterious still higher, among enormous trees. I ascend these steps also, reach the top, guarded by two small symbolic lions, and suddenly find myself in cool shadow, and startled by a spectacle totally unfamiliar. Dark--almost black--soil and the shadowing of trees immemorially old, through whose vaulted foliage the sunlight leaks thinly down in rare flecks; a crepuscular light, tender and solemn, revealing the weirdest host of unfamiliar shapes--a vast congregation of grey, columnar, mossy things, stony, monumental, sculptured with Chinese ideographs. And about them, behind them, rising high above them, thickly set as rushes in a marsh-verge, tall slender wooden tablets, like laths, covered with similar fantastic lettering, pierce the green gloom by thousands, by tens of thousands. And before I can note other details, I know that I am in a hakaba, a cemetery--a very ancient Buddhist cemetery. These laths are called in the Japanese tongue sotoba. [1] All have notches cut upon their edges on both sides near the top-five notches; and all are painted with Chinese characters on both faces. One inscription is always the phrase 'To promote Buddhahood,' painted immediately below the dead man's name; the inscription upon the other surface is always a sentence in Sanscrit whose meaning has been forgotten even by those priests who perform the funeral rites. One such lath is planted behind the tomb as soon as the monument (haka) is set up; then another every seven days for forty-nine days, then one after the lapse of a hundred days; then one at the end of a year; then one after the passing of three years; and at successively longer periods others are erected during one hundred years. And in almost every group I notice some quite new, or freshly planed unpainted white wood, standing beside others grey or even black with age; and there are many, still older from whose surface all the characters have disappeared. Others are lying on the sombre clay. Hundreds stand so loose in the soil that the least breeze jostles and clatters them together. Not less unfamiliar in their forms, but far more interesting, are the monuments of stone. One shape I know represents five of the Buddhist elements: a cube supporting a sphere which upholds a pyramid on which rests a shallow square cup with four crescent edges and tilted corners, and in the cup a pyriform body poised with the point upwards. These successively typify Earth, Water, Fire, Wind, Ether, the five substances wherefrom the body is shapen, and into which it is resolved by death; the absence of any emblem for the Sixth element, Knowledge, touches more than any imagery conceivable could do. And nevertheless, in the purpose of the symbolism, this omission was never planned with the same idea that it suggests to the Occidental mind. Very numerous also among the monuments are low, square, flat-topped shafts, with a Japanese inscription in black or gold, or merely cut into the stone itself. Then there are upright slabs of various shapes and heights, mostly rounded at the top, usually bearing sculptures in relief. Finally, there are many curiously angled stones, or natural rocks, dressed on one side only, with designs etched upon the smoothed surface. There would appear to be some meaning even in the irregularity of the shape of these slabs; the rock always seems to have been broken out of its bed at five angles, and the manner in which it remains balanced perpendicularly upon its pedestal is a secret that the first hasty examination fails to reveal. The pedestals themselves vary in construction; most have three orifices in the projecting surface in front of the monument supported by them, usually one large oval cavity, with two small round holes flanking it. These smaller holes serve for the burning of incense-rods; the larger cavity is filled with water. I do not know exactly why. Only my Japanese companion tells me 'it is an ancient custom in Japan thus to pour out water for the dead.' There are also bamboo cups on either side of the monument in which to place flowers. Many of the sculptures represent Buddha in meditation, or in the attitude of exhorting; a few represent him asleep, with the placid, dreaming face of a child, a Japanese child; this means Nirvana. A common design upon many tombs also seems to be two lotus-blossoms with stalks intertwined. In one place I see a stone with an English name upon it, and above that name a rudely chiselled cross. Verily the priests of Buddha have blessed tolerance; for this is a Christian tomb! And all is chipped and mouldered and mossed; and the grey stones stand closely in hosts of ranks, only one or two inches apart, ranks of thousands upon thousands, always in the shadow of the great trees. Overhead innumerable birds sweeten the air with their trilling; and far below, down the steps behind us, I still hear the melancholy chant of the priests, faintly, like a humming of bees. Akira leads the way in silence to where other steps descend into a darker and older part of the cemetery; and at the head of the steps, to the right, I see a group of colossal monuments, very tall, massive, mossed by time, with characters cut more than two inches deep into the grey rock of them. And behind them, in lieu of laths, are planted large sotoba, twelve to fourteen feet high, and thick as the beams of a temple roof. These are graves of priests. Sec. 5 Descending the shadowed steps, I find myself face to face with six little statues about three feet high, standing in a row upon one long pedestal. The first holds a Buddhist incense-box; the second, a lotus; the third, a pilgrim's staff (tsue); the fourth is telling the beads of a Buddhist rosary; the fifth stands in the attitude of prayer, with hands joined; the sixth bears in one hand the shakujo or mendicant priest's staff, having six rings attached to the top of it and in the other hand the mystic jewel, Nio-i ho-jiu, by virtue whereof all desires may be accomplished. But the faces of the Six are the same: each figure differs from the other by the attitude only and emblematic attribute; and all are smiling the like faint smile. About the neck of each figure a white cotton bag is suspended; and all the bags are filled with pebbles; and pebbles have been piled high also about the feet of the statues, and upon their knees, and upon their shoulders; and even upon their aureoles of stone, little pebbles are balanced. Archaic, mysterious, but inexplicably touching, all these soft childish faces are. Roku Jizo--'The Six Jizo'--these images are called in the speech of the people; and such groups may be seen in many a Japanese cemetery. They are representations of the most beautiful and tender figure in Japanese popular faith, that charming divinity who cares for the souls of little children, and consoles them in the place of unrest, and saves them from the demons. 'But why are those little stones piled about the statues?' I ask. Well, it is because some say the child-ghosts must build little towers of stones for penance in the Sai-no-Kawara, which is the place to which all children after death must go. And the Oni, who are demons, come to throw down the little stone-piles as fast as the children build; and these demons frighten the children, and torment them. But the little souls run to Jizo, who hides them in his great sleeves, and comforts them, and makes the demons go away. And every stone one lays upon the knees or at the feet of Jizo, with a prayer from the heart, helps some child-soul in the Sai-no-Kawara to perform its long penance. [2] 'All little children,' says the young Buddhist student who tells all this, with a smile as gentle as Jizo's own, 'must go to the Sai-no-Kawara when they die. And there they play with Jizo. The Sai-no-Kawara is beneath us, below the ground. [3] 'And Jizo has long sleeves to his robe; and they pull him by the sleeves in their play; and they pile up little stones before him to amuse themselves. And those stones you see heaped about the statues are put there by people for the sake of the little ones, most often by mothers of dead children who pray to Jizo. But grown people do not go to the Sai-no-Kawara when they die.' [4] And the young student, leaving the Roku-Jizo, leads the way to other strange surprises, guiding me among the tombs, showing me the sculptured divinities. Some of them are quaintly touching; all are interesting; a few are positively beautiful. The greater number have nimbi. Many are represented kneeling, with hands joined exactly like the figures of saints in old Christian art. Others, holding lotus-flowers, appear to dream the dreams that are meditations. One figure reposes on the coils of a great serpent. Another, coiffed with something resembling a tiara, has six hands, one pair joined in prayer, the rest, extended, holding out various objects; and this figure stands upon a prostrate demon, crouching face downwards. Yet another image, cut in low relief, has arms innumerable. The first pair of hands are joined, with the palms together; while from behind the line of the shoulders, as if shadowily emanating therefrom, multitudinous arms reach out in all directions, vapoury, spiritual, holding forth all kinds of objects as in answer to supplication, and symbolising, perhaps, the omnipotence of love. This is but one of the many forms of Kwannon, the goddess of mercy, the gentle divinity who refused the rest of Nirvana to save the souls of men, and who is most frequently pictured as a beautiful Japanese girl. But here she appears as Senjiu-Kwannon (Kwannon-of-the-Thousand-Hands). Close by stands a great slab bearing upon the upper portion of its chiselled surface an image in relief of Buddha, meditating upon a lotus; and below are carven three weird little figures, one with hands upon its eyes, one with hands upon its ears, one with hands upon its mouth; these are Apes. 'What do they signify?' I inquire. My friend answers vaguely, mimicking each gesture of the three sculptured shapes: 'I see no bad thing; I hear no bad thing; I speak no bad thing.' Gradually, by dint of reiterated explanations, I myself learn to recognise some of the gods at sight. The figure seated upon a lotus, holding a sword in its hand, and surrounded by bickering fire, is Fudo-Sama--Buddha as the Unmoved, the Immutable: the Sword signifies Intellect; the Fire, Power. Here is a meditating divinity, holding in one hand a coil of ropes: the divinity is Buddha; those are the ropes which bind the passions and desires. Here also is Buddha slumbering, with the gentlest, softest Japanese face--a child face--and eyes closed, and hand pillowing the cheek, in Nirvana. Here is a beautiful virgin-figure, standing upon a lily: Kwannon-Sama, the Japanese Madonna. Here is a solemn seated figure, holding in one hand a vase, and lifting the other with the gesture of a teacher: Yakushi-Sama, Buddha the All-Healer, Physician of Souls. Also, I see figures of animals. The Deer of Buddhist birth-stories stands, all grace, in snowy stone, upon the summit of toro, or votive lamps. On one tomb I see, superbly chiselled, the image of a fish, or rather the Idea of a fish, made beautifully grotesque for sculptural purposes, like the dolphin of Greek art. It crowns the top of a memorial column; the broad open jaws, showing serrated teeth, rest on the summit of the block bearing the dead man's name; the dorsal fin and elevated tail are elaborated into decorative impossibilities. 'Mokugyo,' says Akira. It is the same Buddhist emblem as that hollow wooden object, lacquered scarlet-and-gold, on which the priests beat with a padded mallet while chanting the Sutra. And, finally, in one place I perceive a pair of sitting animals, of some mythological species, supple of figure as greyhounds. 'Kitsune,' says Akira--'foxes.' So they are, now that I look upon them with knowledge of their purpose; idealised foxes, foxes spiritualised, impossibly graceful foxes. They are chiselled in some grey stone. They have long, narrow, sinister, glittering eyes; they seem to snarl; they are weird, very weird creatures, the servants of the Rice-God, retainers of Inari-Sama, and properly belong, not to Buddhist iconography, but the imagery of Shinto. No inscriptions upon these tombs corresponding to our epitaphs. Only family names--the names of the dead and their relatives and a sculptured crest, usually a flower. On the sotoba, only Sanscrit words. Farther on, I find other figures of Jizo, single reliefs, sculptured upon tombs. But one of these is a work of art so charming that I feel a pain at being obliged to pass it by. More sweet, assuredly, than any imaged Christ, this dream in white stone of the playfellow of dead children, like a beautiful young boy, with gracious eyelids half closed, and face made heavenly by such a smile as only Buddhist art could have imagined, the smile of infinite lovingness and supremest gentleness. Indeed, so charming the ideal of Jizo is that in the speech of the people a beautiful face is always likened to his--'Jizo-kao,' as the face of Jizo. Sec. 6 And we come to the end of the cemetery, to the verge of the great grove. Beyond the trees, what caressing sun, what spiritual loveliness in the tender day! A tropic sky always seemed to me to hang so low that one could almost bathe one's fingers in its lukewarm liquid blue by reaching upward from any dwelling-roof. But this sky, softer, fainter, arches so vastly as to suggest the heaven of a larger planet. And the very clouds are not clouds, but only dreams of clouds, so filmy they are; ghosts of clouds, diaphanous spectres, illusions! All at once I become aware of a child standing before me, a very young girl who looks up wonderingly at my face; so light her approach that the joy of the birds and whispering of the leaves quite drowned the soft sound of her feet. Her ragged garb is Japanese; but her gaze, her loose fair hair, are not of Nippon only; the ghost of another race--perhaps my own--watches me through her flower-blue eyes. A strange playground surely is this for thee, my child; I wonder if all these shapes about thee do not seem very weird, very strange, to that little soul of thine. But no; 'tis only I who seem strange to thee; thou hast forgotten the Other Birth, and thy father's world. Half-caste and poor and pretty, in this foreign port! Better thou wert with the dead about thee, child! better than the splendour of this soft blue light the unknown darkness for thee. There the gentle Jizo would care for thee, and hide thee in his great sleeves, and keep all evil from thee, and play shadowy play with thee; and this thy forsaken mother, who now comes to ask an alms for thy sake, dumbly pointing to thy strange beauty with her patient Japanese smile, would put little stones upon the knees of the dear god that thou mightest find rest. Sec. 7 'Oh, Akira! you must tell me something more about Jizo, and the ghosts of the children in the Sai-no-Kawara.' 'I cannot tell you much more,' answers Akira, smiling at my interest in this charming divinity; 'but if you will come with me now to Kuboyama, I will show you, in one of the temples there, pictures of the Sai-no-Kawara and of Jizo, and the Judgment of Souls.' So we take our way in two jinricksha to the Temple Rinko-ji, on Kuboyama. We roll swiftly through a mile of many-coloured narrow Japanese streets; then through a half-mile of pretty suburban ways, lined with gardens, behind whose clipped hedges are homes light and dainty as cages of wicker-work; and then, leaving our vehicles, we ascend green hills on foot by winding paths, and traverse a region of fields and farms. After a long walk in the hot sun we reach a village almost wholly composed of shrines and temples. The outlying sacred place--three buildings in one enclosure of bamboo fences--belongs to the Shingon sect. A small open shrine, to the left of the entrance, first attracts us. It is a dead-house: a Japanese bier is there. But almost opposite the doorway is an altar covered with startling images. What immediately rivets the attention is a terrible figure, all vermilion red, towering above many smaller images--a goblin shape with immense cavernous eyes. His mouth is widely opened as if speaking in wrath, and his brows frown terribly. A long red beard descends upon his red breast. And on his head is a strangely shaped crown, a crown of black and gold, having three singular lobes: the left lobe bearing an image of the moon; the right, an image of the sun; the central lobe is all black. But below it, upon the deep gold-rimmed black band, flames the mystic character signifying KING. Also, from the same crown-band protrude at descending angles, to left and right, two gilded sceptre-shaped objects. In one hand the King holds an object similar of form, but larger, his shaku or regal wand. And Akira explains. This is Emma-O, Lord of Shadows, Judge of Souls, King of the Dead. [5] Of any man having a terrible countenance the Japanese are wont to say, 'His face is the face of Emma.' At his right hand white Jizo-Sama stands upon a many-petalled rosy lotus. At his left is the image of an aged woman--weird Sodzu-Baba, she who takes the garments of the dead away by the banks of the River of the Three Roads, which flows through the phantom-world. Pale blue her robe is; her hair and skin are white; her face is strangely wrinkled; her small, keen eyes are hard. The statue is very old, and the paint is scaling from it in places, so as to lend it a ghastly leprous aspect. There are also images of the Sea-goddess Benten and of Kwannon-Sama, seated on summits of mountains forming the upper part of miniature landscapes made of some unfamiliar composition, and beautifully coloured; the whole being protected from careless fingering by strong wire nettings stretched across the front of the little shrines containing the panorama. Benten has eight arms: two of her hands are joined in prayer; the others, extended above her, hold different objects a sword, a wheel, a bow, an arrow, a key, and a magical gem. Below her, standing on the slopes of her mountain throne, are her ten robed attendants, all in the attitude of prayer; still farther down appears the body of a great white serpent, with its tail hanging from one orifice in the rocks, and its head emerging from another. At the very bottom of the hill lies a patient cow. Kwannon appears as Senjiu-Kwannon, offering gifts to men with all the multitude of her arms of mercy. But this is not what we came to see. The pictures of heaven and hell await us in the Zen-Shu temple close by, whither we turn our steps. On the way my guide tells me this: 'When one dies the body is washed and shaven, and attired in white, in the garments of a pilgrim. And a wallet (sanyabukkero), like the wallet of a Buddhist pilgrim, is hung about the neck of the dead; and in this wallet are placed three rin. [6] And these coin are buried with the dead. 'For all who die must, except children, pay three rin at the Sanzu-no-Kawa, "The River of the Three Roads." When souls have reached that river, they find there the Old Woman of the Three Roads, Sodzu-Baba, waiting for them: she lives on the banks of that river, with her husband, Ten Datsu-Ba. And if the Old Woman is not paid the sum of three rin, she takes away the clothes of the dead, and hangs them upon the trees.' Sec. 8 The temple is small, neat, luminous with the sun pouring into its widely opened shoji; and Akira must know the priests well, so affable their greeting is. I make a little offering, and Akira explains the purpose of our visit. Thereupon we are invited into a large bright apartment in a wing of the building, overlooking a lovely garden. Little cushions are placed on the floor for us to sit upon; and a smoking-box is brought in, and a tiny lacquered table about eight inches high. And while one of the priests opens a cupboard, or alcove with doors, to find the kakemono, another brings us tea, and a plate of curious confectionery consisting of various pretty objects made of a paste of sugar and rice flour. One is a perfect model of a chrysanthemum blossom; another is a lotus; others are simply large, thin, crimson lozenges bearing admirable designs--flying birds, wading storks, fish, even miniature landscapes. Akira picks out the chrysanthemum, and insists that I shall eat it; and I begin to demolish the sugary blossom, petal by petal, feeling all the while an acute remorse for spoiling so beautiful a thing. Meanwhile four kakemono have been brought forth, unrolled, and suspended from pegs upon the wall; and we rise to examine them. They are very, very beautiful kakemono, miracles of drawing and of colour-subdued colour, the colour of the best period of Japanese art; and they are very large, fully five feet long and more than three broad, mounted upon silk. And these are the legends of them: First kakemono: In the upper part of the painting is a scene from the Shaba, the world of men which we are wont to call the Real--a cemetery with trees in blossom, and mourners kneeling before tombs. All under the soft blue light of Japanese day. Underneath is the world of ghosts. Down through the earth-crust souls are descending. Here they are flitting all white through inky darknesses; here farther on, through weird twilight, they are wading the flood of the phantom River of the Three Roads, Sanzu-no-Kawa. And here on the right is waiting for them Sodzu-Baba, the Old Woman of the Three Roads, ghastly and grey, and tall as a nightmare. From some she is taking their garments;--the trees about her are heavily hung with the garments of others gone before. Farther down I see fleeing souls overtaken by demons--hideous blood-red demons, with feet like lions, with faces half human, half bovine, the physiognomy of minotaurs in fury. One is rending a soul asunder. Another demon is forcing souls to reincarnate themselves in bodies of horses, of dogs, of swine. And as they are thus reincarnated they flee away into shadow. Second kakemono: Such a gloom as the diver sees in deep-sea water, a lurid twilight. In the midst a throne, ebon-coloured, and upon it an awful figure seated--Emma Dai-O, Lord of Death and Judge of Souls, unpitying, tremendous. Frightful guardian spirits hover about him--armed goblins. On the left, in the foreground below the throne, stands the wondrous Mirror, Tabarino-Kagami, reflecting the state of souls and all the happenings of the world. A landscape now shadows its surface,--a landscape of cliffs and sand and sea, with ships in the offing. Upon the sand a dead man is lying, slain by a sword slash; the murderer is running away. Before this mirror a terrified soul stands, in the grasp of a demon, who compels him to look, and to recognise in the murderer's features his own face. To the right of the throne, upon a tall-stemmed flat stand, such as offerings to the gods are placed upon in the temples, a monstrous shape appears, like a double-faced head freshly cut off, and set upright upon the stump of the neck. The two faces are the Witnesses: the face of the Woman (Mirume) sees all that goes on in the Shaba; the other face is the face of a bearded man, the face of Kaguhana, who smells all odours, and by them is aware of all that human beings do. Close to them, upon a reading-stand, a great book is open, the record-book of deeds. And between the Mirror and the Witnesses white shuddering souls await judgment. Farther down I see the sufferings of souls already sentenced. One, in lifetime a liar, is having his tongue torn out by a demon armed with heated pincers. Other souls, flung by scores into fiery carts, are being dragged away to torment. The carts are of iron, but resemble in form certain hand-wagons which one sees every day being pulled and pushed through the streets by bare-limbed Japanese labourers, chanting always the same melancholy alternating chorus, Haidak! hei! haidak hei! But these demon-wagoners--naked, blood-coloured, having the feet of lions and the heads of bulls--move with their flaming wagons at a run, like jinricksha-men. All the souls so far represented are souls of adults. Third kakemono: A furnace, with souls for fuel, blazing up into darkness. Demons stir the fire with poles of iron. Down through the upper blackness other souls are falling head downward into the flames. Below this scene opens a shadowy landscape--a faint-blue and faint-grey world of hills and vales, through which a river serpentines--the Sai-no-Kawara. Thronging the banks of the pale river are ghosts of little children, trying to pile up stones. They are very, very pretty, the child-souls, pretty as real Japanese children are (it is astonishing how well is child-beauty felt and expressed by the artists of Japan). Each child has one little short white dress. In the foreground a horrible devil with an iron club has just dashed down and scattered a pile of stones built by one of the children. The little ghost, seated by the ruin of its work, is crying, with both pretty hands to its eyes. The devil appears to sneer. Other children also are weeping near by. But, lo! Jizo comes, all light and sweetness, with a glory moving behind him like a great full moon; and he holds out his shakujo, his strong and holy staff, and the little ghosts catch it and cling to it, and are drawn into the circle of his protection. And other infants have caught his great sleeves, and one has been lifted to the bosom of the god. Below this Sai-no-Kawara scene appears yet another shadow-world, a wilderness of bamboos! Only white-robed shapes of women appear in it. They are weeping; the fingers of all are bleeding. With finger-nails plucked out must they continue through centuries to pick the sharp-edged bamboo-grass. Fourth kakemono: Floating in glory, Dai-Nichi-Nyorai, Kwannon-Sama, Amida Buddha. Far below them as hell from heaven surges a lake of blood, in which souls float. The shores of this lake are precipices studded with sword-blades thickly set as teeth in the jaws of a shark; and demons are driving naked ghosts up the frightful slopes. But out of the crimson lake something crystalline rises, like a beautiful, clear water-spout; the stem of a flower,--a miraculous lotus, bearing up a soul to the feet of a priest standing above the verge of the abyss. By virtue of his prayer was shaped the lotus which thus lifted up and saved a sufferer. Alas! there are no other kakemonos. There were several others: they have been lost! No: I am happily mistaken; the priest has found, in some mysterious recess, one more kakemono, a very large one, which he unrolls and suspends beside the others. A vision of beauty, indeed! but what has this to do with faith or ghosts? In the foreground a garden by the waters of the sea, of some vast blue lake,--a garden like that at Kanagawa, full of exquisite miniature landscape-work: cascades, grottoes, lily-ponds, carved bridges, and trees snowy with blossom, and dainty pavilions out-jutting over the placid azure water. Long, bright, soft bands of clouds swim athwart the background. Beyond and above them rises a fairy magnificence of palatial structures, roof above roof, through an aureate haze like summer vapour: creations aerial, blue, light as dreams. And there are guests in these gardens, lovely beings, Japanese maidens. But they wear aureoles, star-shining: they are spirits! For this is Paradise, the Gokuraku; and all those divine shapes are Bosatsu. And now, looking closer, I perceive beautiful weird things which at first escaped my notice. They are gardening, these charming beings!--they are caressing the lotus-buds, sprinkling their petals with something celestial, helping them to blossom. And what lotus-buds with colours not of this world. Some have burst open; and in their luminous hearts, in a radiance like that of dawn, tiny naked infants are seated, each with a tiny halo. These are Souls, new Buddhas, hotoke born into bliss. Some are very, very small; others larger; all seem to be growing visibly, for their lovely nurses are feeding them with something ambrosial. I see one which has left its lotus-cradle, being conducted by a celestial Jizo toward the higher splendours far away. Above, in the loftiest blue, are floating tennin, angels of the Buddhist heaven, maidens with phoenix wings. One is playing with an ivory plectrum upon some stringed instrument, just as a dancing-girl plays her samisen; and others are sounding those curious Chinese flutes, composed of seventeen tubes, which are used still in sacred concerts at the great temples. Akira says this heaven is too much like earth. The gardens, he declares, are like the gardens of temples, in spite of the celestial lotus-flowers; and in the blue roofs of the celestial mansions he discovers memories of the tea-houses of the city of Saikyo. [7] Well, what after all is the heaven of any faith but ideal reiteration and prolongation of happy experiences remembered--the dream of dead days resurrected for us, and made eternal? And if you think this Japanese ideal too simple, too naive, if you say there are experiences of the material life more worthy of portrayal in a picture of heaven than any memory of days passed in Japanese gardens and temples and tea-houses, it is perhaps because you do not know Japan, the soft, sweet blue of its sky, the tender colour of its waters, the gentle splendour of its sunny days, the exquisite charm of its interiors, where the least object appeals to one's sense of beauty with the air of something not made, but caressed, into existence. Sec. 9 'Now there is a wasan of Jizo,' says Akira, taking from a shelf in the temple alcove some much-worn, blue-covered Japanese book. 'A wasan is what you would call a hymn or psalm. This book is two hundred years old: it is called Saino-Kawara-kuchi-zu-sami-no-den, which is, literally, "The Legend of the Humming of the Sai-no-Kawara." And this is the wasan'; and he reads me the hymn of Jizo--the legend of the murmur of the little ghosts, the legend of the humming of the Sai-no-Kawara-rhythmically, like a song: [8] 'Not of this world is the story of sorrow. The story of the Sai-no-Kawara, At the roots of the Mountain of Shide; Not of this world is the tale; yet 'tis most pitiful to hear. For together in the Sai-no-Kawara are assembled Children of tender age in multitude, Infants but two or three years old, Infants of four or five, infants of less than ten: In the Sai-no-Kawara are they gathered together. And the voice of their longing for their parents, The voice of their crying for their mothers and their fathers--"Chichi koishi! haha koishi!"--Is never as the voice of the crying of children in this world, But a crying so pitiful to hear That the sound of it would pierce through flesh and bone. And sorrowful indeed the task which they perform--Gathering the stones of the bed of the river, Therewith to heap the tower of prayers. Saying prayers for the happiness of father, they heap the first tower; Saying prayers for the happiness of mother, they heap the second tower; Saying prayers for their brothers, their sisters, and all whom they loved at home, they heap the third tower. Such, by day, are their pitiful diversions. But ever as the sun begins to sink below the horizon, Then do the Oni, the demons of the hells, appear, And say to them--"What is this that you do here?" Lo! your parents still living in the Shaba-world "Take no thought of pious offering or holy work "They do nought but mourn for you from the morning unto the evening. "Oh, how pitiful! alas! how unmerciful! "Verily the cause of the pains that you suffer "Is only the mourning, the lamentation of your parents." And saying also, "Blame never us!" The demons cast down the heaped-up towers, They dash the stones down with their clubs of iron. But lo! the teacher Jizo appears. All gently he comes, and says to the weeping infants:-- "Be not afraid, dears! be never fearful! "Poor little souls, your lives were brief indeed! "Too soon you were forced to make the weary journey to the Meido, "The long journey to the region of the dead! "Trust to me! I am your father and mother in the Meido, "Father of all children in the region of the dead." And he folds the skirt of his shining robe about them; So graciously takes he pity on the infants. To those who cannot walk he stretches forth his strong shakujo; And he pets the little ones, caresses them, takes them to his loving bosom So graciously he takes pity on the infants. Namu Amida Butsu! Chapter Four A Pilgrimage to Enoshima Sec. 1 KAMAKURA. A long, straggling country village, between low wooded hills, with a canal passing through it. Old Japanese cottages, dingy, neutral-tinted, with roofs of thatch, very steeply sloping, above their wooden walls and paper shoji. Green patches on all the roof-slopes, some sort of grass; and on the very summits, on the ridges, luxurious growths of yaneshobu, [1] the roof-plant, bearing pretty purple flowers. In the lukewarm air a mingling of Japanese odours, smells of sake, smells of seaweed soup, smells of daikon, the strong native radish; and dominating all, a sweet, thick, heavy scent of incense,--incense from the shrines of gods. Akira has hired two jinricksha for our pilgrimage; a speckless azure sky arches the world; and the land lies glorified in a joy of sunshine. And yet a sense of melancholy, of desolation unspeakable, weighs upon me as we roll along the bank of the tiny stream, between the mouldering lines of wretched little homes with grass growing on their roofs. For this mouldering hamlet represents all that remains of the million-peopled streets of Yoritomo's capital, the mighty city of the Shogunate, the ancient seat of feudal power, whither came the envoys of Kublai Khan demanding tribute, to lose their heads for their temerity. And only some of the unnumbered temples of the once magnificent city now remain, saved from the conflagrations of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, doubtless because built in high places, or because isolated from the maze of burning streets by vast courts and groves. Here still dwell the ancient gods in the great silence of their decaying temples, without worshippers, without revenues, surrounded by desolations of rice-fields, where the chanting of frogs replaces the sea-like murmur of the city that was and is not. Sec. 2 The first great temple--En-gaku-ji--invites us to cross the canal by a little bridge facing its outward gate--a roofed gate with fine Chinese lines, but without carving. Passing it, we ascend a long, imposing succession of broad steps, leading up through a magnificent grove to a terrace, where we reach the second gate. This gate is a surprise; a stupendous structure of two stories--with huge sweeping curves of roof and enormous gables--antique, Chinese, magnificent. It is more than four hundred years old, but seems scarcely affected by the wearing of the centuries. The whole of the ponderous and complicated upper structure is sustained upon an open-work of round, plain pillars and cross-beams; the vast eaves are full of bird-nests; and the storm of twittering from the roofs is like a rushing of water. Immense the work is, and imposing in its aspect of settled power; but, in its way, it has great severity: there are no carvings, no gargoyles, no dragons; and yet the maze of projecting timbers below the eaves will both excite and delude expectation, so strangely does it suggest the grotesqueries and fantasticalities of another art. You look everywhere for the heads of lions, elephants, dragons, and see only the four-angled ends of beams, and feel rather astonished than disappointed. The majesty of the edifice could not have been strengthened by any such carving. After the gate another long series of wide steps, and more trees, millennial, thick-shadowing, and then the terrace of the temple itself, with two beautiful stone lanterns (toro) at its entrance. The architecture of the temple resembles that of the gate, although on a lesser scale. Over the doors is a tablet with Chinese characters, signifying, 'Great, Pure, Clear, Shining Treasure.' But a heavy framework of wooden bars closes the sanctuary, and there is no one to let us in. Peering between the bars I see, in a sort of twilight, first a pavement of squares of marble, then an aisle of massive wooden pillars upholding the dim lofty roof, and at the farther end, between the pillars, Shaka, colossal, black-visaged, gold-robed, enthroned upon a giant lotus fully forty feet in circumference. At his right hand some white mysterious figure stands, holding an incense-box; at his left, another white figure is praying with clasped hands. Both are of superhuman stature. But it is too dark within the edifice to discern who they may be--whether disciples of the Buddha, or divinities, or figures of saints. Beyond this temple extends an immense grove of trees--ancient cedars and pines--with splendid bamboos thickly planted between them, rising perpendicularly as masts to mix their plumes with the foliage of the giants: the effect is tropical, magnificent. Through this shadowing, a flight of broad stone steps slant up gently to some yet older shrine. And ascending them we reach another portal, smaller than the imposing Chinese structure through which we already passed, but wonderful, weird, full of dragons, dragons of a form which sculptors no longer carve, which they have even forgotten how to make, winged dragons rising from a storm-whirl of waters or thereinto descending. The dragon upon the panel of the left gate has her mouth closed; the jaws of the dragon on the panel of the right gate are open and menacing. Female and male they are, like the lions of Buddha. And the whirls of the eddying water, and the crests of the billowing, stand out from the panel in astonishing boldness of relief, in loops and curlings of grey wood time-seasoned to the hardness of stone. The little temple beyond contains no celebrated image, but a shari only, or relic of Buddha, brought from India. And I cannot see it, having no time to wait until the absent keeper of the shari can be found. Sec. 3 'Now we shall go to look at the big bell,' says Akira. We turn to the left as we descend along a path cut between hills faced for the height of seven or eight feet with protection-walls made green by moss; and reach a flight of extraordinarily dilapidated steps, with grass springing between their every joint and break--steps so worn down and displaced by countless feet that they have become ruins, painful and even dangerous to mount. We reach the summit, however, without mishap, and find ourselves before a little temple, on the steps of which an old priest awaits us, with smiling bow of welcome. We return his salutation; but ere entering the temple turn to look at the tsurigane on the right--the famous bell. Under a lofty open shed, with a tilted Chinese roof, the great bell is hung. I should judge it to be fully nine feet high, and about five feet in diameter, with lips about eight inches thick. The shape of it is not like that of our bells, which broaden toward the lips; this has the same diameter through all its height, and it is covered with Buddhist texts cut into the smooth metal of it. It is rung by means of a heavy swinging beam, suspended from the roof by chains, and moved like a battering-ram. There are loops of palm-fibre rope attached to this beam to pull it by; and when you pull hard enough, so as to give it a good swing, it strikes a moulding like a lotus-flower on the side of the bell. This it must have done many hundred times; for the square, flat end of it, though showing the grain of a very dense wood, has been battered into a convex disk with ragged protruding edges, like the surface of a long-used printer's mallet. A priest makes a sign to me to ring the bell. I first touch the great lips with my hand very lightly; and a musical murmur comes from them. Then I set the beam swinging strongly; and a sound deep as thunder, rich as the bass of a mighty organ--a sound enormous, extraordinary, yet beautiful--rolls over the hills and away. Then swiftly follows another and lesser and sweeter billowing of tone; then another; then an eddying of waves of echoes. Only once was it struck, the astounding bell; yet it continues to sob and moan for at least ten minutes! And the age of this bell is six hundred and fifty years. [2] In the little temple near by, the priest shows us a series of curious paintings, representing the six hundredth anniversary of the casting of the bell. (For this is a sacred bell, and the spirit of a god is believed to dwell within it.) Otherwise the temple has little of interest. There are some kakemono representing Iyeyasu and his retainers; and on either side of the door, separating the inner from the outward sanctuary, there are life-size images of Japanese warriors in antique costume. On the altars of the inner shrine are small images, grouped upon a miniature landscape-work of painted wood--the Jiugo-Doji, or Fifteen Youths--the Sons of the Goddess Benten. There are gohei before the shrine, and a mirror upon it; emblems of Shinto. The sanctuary has changed hands in the great transfer of Buddhist temples to the State religion. In nearly every celebrated temple little Japanese prints are sold, containing the history of the shrine, and its miraculous legends. I find several such things on sale at the door of the temple, and in one of them, ornamented with a curious engraving of the bell, I discover, with Akira's aid, the following traditions: Sec. 4 In the twelfth year of Bummei, this bell rang itself. And one who laughed on being told of the miracle, met with misfortune; and another, who believed, thereafter prospered, and obtained all his desires. Now, in that time there died in the village of Tamanawa a sick man whose name was Ono-no-Kimi; and Ono-no-Kimi descended to the region of the dead, and went before the Judgment-Seat of Emma-O. And Emma, Judge of Souls, said to him, 'You come too soon! The measure of life allotted you in the Shaba-world has not yet been exhausted. Go back at once.' But Ono-no-Kimi pleaded, saying, 'How may I go back, not knowing my way through the darkness?' And Emma answered him, 'You can find your way back by listening to the sound of the bell of En-gaku-ji, which is heard in the Nan-en-budi world, going south.' And Ono-no-Kimi went south, and heard the bell, and found his way through the darknesses, and revived in the Shaba-world. Also in those days there appeared in many provinces a Buddhist priest of giant stature, whom none remembered to have seen before, and whose name no man knew, travelling through the land, and everywhere exhorting the people to pray before the bell of En-gaku-ji. And it was at last discovered that the giant pilgrim was the holy bell itself, transformed by supernatural power into the form of a priest. And after these things had happened, many prayed before the bell, and obtained their wishes. Sec. 5 'Oh! there is something still to see,' my guide exclaims as we reach the great Chinese gate again; and he leads the way across the grounds by another path to a little hill, previously hidden from view by trees. The face of the hill, a mass of soft stone perhaps one hundred feet high, is hollowed out into chambers, full of images. These look like burial-caves; and the images seem funereal monuments. There are two stories of chambers--three above, two below; and the former are connected with the latter by a narrow interior stairway cut through the living rock. And all around the dripping walls of these chambers on pedestals are grey slabs, shaped exactly like the haka in Buddhist cemeteries, and chiselled with figures of divinities in high relief. All have glory-disks: some are naive and sincere like the work of our own mediaeval image-makers. Several are not unfamiliar. I have seen before, in the cemetery of Kuboyama, this kneeling woman with countless shadowy hands; and this figure tiara-coiffed, slumbering with one knee raised, and cheek pillowed upon the left hand--the placid and pathetic symbol of the perpetual rest. Others, like Madonnas, hold lotus-flowers, and their feet rest upon the coils of a serpent. I cannot see them all, for the rock roof of one chamber has fallen in; and a sunbeam entering the ruin reveals a host of inaccessible sculptures half buried in rubbish. But no!--this grotto-work is not for the dead; and these are not haka, as I imagined, but only images of the Goddess of Mercy. These chambers are chapels; and these sculptures are the En-gaku-ji-no-hyaku-Kwannon, 'the Hundred Kwannons of En-gaku-ji.' And I see in the upper chamber above the stairs a granite tablet in a rock-niche, chiselled with an inscription in Sanscrit transliterated into Chinese characters, 'Adoration to the great merciful Kwan-ze-on, who looketh down above the sound of prayer.' [3] Sec. 6 Entering the grounds of the next temple, the Temple of Ken-cho-ji, through the 'Gate of the Forest of Contemplative Words,' and the 'Gate of the Great Mountain of Wealth,' one might almost fancy one's self reentering, by some queer mistake, the grounds of En-gaku-ji. For the third gate before us, and the imposing temple beyond it, constructed upon the same models as those of the structures previously visited, were also the work of the same architect. Passing this third gate--colossal, severe, superb--we come to a fountain of bronze before the temple doors, an immense and beautiful lotus-leaf of metal, forming a broad shallow basin kept full to the brim by a jet in its midst. This temple also is paved with black and white square slabs, and we can enter it with our shoes. Outside it is plain and solemn as that of En-gaku-ji; but the interior offers a more extraordinary spectacle of faded splendour. In lieu of the black Shaka throned against a background of flamelets, is a colossal Jizo-Sama, with a nimbus of fire--a single gilded circle large as a wagon-wheel, breaking into fire-tongues at three points. He is seated upon an enormous lotus of tarnished gold--over the lofty edge of which the skirt of his robe trails down. Behind him, standing on ascending tiers of golden steps, are glimmering hosts of miniature figures of him, reflections, multiplications of him, ranged there by ranks of hundreds--the Thousand Jizo. From the ceiling above him droop the dingy splendours of a sort of dais-work, a streaming circle of pendants like a fringe, shimmering faintly through the webbed dust of centuries. And the ceiling itself must once have been a marvel; all beamed in caissons, each caisson containing, upon a gold ground, the painted figure of a flying bird. Formerly the eight great pillars supporting the roof were also covered with gilding; but only a few traces of it linger still upon their worm-pierced surfaces, and about the bases of their capitals. And there are wonderful friezes above the doors, from which all colour has long since faded away, marvellous grey old carvings in relief; floating figures of tennin, or heavenly spirits playing upon flutes and biwa. There is a chamber separated by a heavy wooden screen from the aisle on the right; and the priest in charge of the building slides the screen aside, and bids us enter. In this chamber is a drum elevated upon a brazen stand,--the hugest I ever saw, fully eighteen feet in circumference. Beside it hangs a big bell, covered with Buddhist texts. I am sorry to learn that it is prohibited to sound the great drum. There is nothing else to see except some dingy paper lanterns figured with the svastika--the sacred Buddhist symbol called by the Japanese manji. Sec. 7 Akira tells me that in the book called Jizo-kyo-Kosui, this legend is related of the great statue of Jizo in this same ancient temple of Ken-cho-ji. Formerly there lived at Kamakura the wife of a Ronin [4] named Soga Sadayoshi. She lived by feeding silkworms and gathering the silk. She used often to visit the temple of Ken-cho-ji; and one very cold day that she went there, she thought that the image of Jizo looked like one suffering from cold; and she resolved to make a cap to keep the god's head warm--such a cap as the people of the country wear in cold weather. And she went home and made the cap and covered the god's head with it, saying, 'Would I were rich enough to give thee a warm covering for all thine august body; but, alas! I am poor, and even this which I offer thee is unworthy of thy divine acceptance.' Now this woman very suddenly died in the fiftieth year of her age, in the twelfth month of the fifth year of the period called Chisho. But her body remained warm for three days, so that her relatives would not suffer her to be taken to the burning-ground. And on the evening of the third day she came to life again. Then she related that on the day of her death she had gone before the judgment-seat of Emma, king and judge of the dead. And Emma, seeing her, became wroth, and said to her: 'You have been a wicked woman, and have scorned the teaching of the Buddha. All your life you have passed in destroying the lives of silkworms by putting them into heated water. Now you shall go to the Kwakkto-Jigoku, and there burn until your sins shall be expiated.' Forthwith she was seized and dragged by demons to a great pot filled with molten metal, and thrown into the pot, and she cried out horribly. And suddenly Jizo-Sama descended into the molten metal beside her, and the metal became like a flowing of oil and ceased to burn; and Jizo put his arms about her and lifted her out. And he went with her before King Emma, and asked that she should be pardoned for his sake, forasmuch as she had become related to him by one act of goodness. So she found pardon, and returned to the Shaba-world. 'Akira,' I ask, 'it cannot then be lawful, according to Buddhism, for any one to wear silk?' 'Assuredly not,' replies Akira; 'and by the law of Buddha priests are expressly forbidden to wear silk. Nevertheless,' he adds with that quiet smile of his, in which I am beginning to discern suggestions of sarcasm, 'nearly all the priests wear silk.' Sec. 8 Akira also tells me this: It is related in the seventh volume of the book Kamakurashi that there was formerly at Kamakura a temple called Emmei-ji, in which there was enshrined a famous statue of Jizo, called Hadaka-Jizo, or Naked Jizo. The statue was indeed naked, but clothes were put upon it; and it stood upright with its feet upon a chessboard. Now, when pilgrims came to the temple and paid a certain fee, the priest of the temple would remove the clothes of the statue; and then all could see that, though the face was the face of Jizo, the body was the body of a woman. Now this was the origin of the famous image of Hadaka-Jizo standing upon the chessboard. On one occasion the great prince Taira-no-Tokyori was playing chess with his wife in the presence of many guests. And he made her agree, after they had played several games, that whosoever should lose the next game would have to stand naked on the chessboard. And in the next game they played his wife lost. And she prayed to Jizo to save her from the shame of appearing naked. And Jizo came in answer to her prayer and stood upon the chessboard, and disrobed himself, and changed his body suddenly into the body of a woman. Sec. 9 As we travel on, the road curves and narrows between higher elevations, and becomes more sombre. 'Oi! mat!' my Buddhist guide calls softly to the runners; and our two vehicles halt in a band of sunshine, descending, through an opening in the foliage of immense trees, over a flight of ancient mossy steps. 'Here,' says my friend, 'is the temple of the King of Death; it is called Emma-Do; and it is a temple of the Zen sect--Zen-Oji. And it is more than seven hundred years old, and there is a famous statue in it.' We ascend to a small, narrow court in which the edifice stands. At the head of the steps, to the right, is a stone tablet, very old, with characters cut at least an inch deep into the granite of it, Chinese characters signifying, 'This is the Temple of Emma, King.' The temple resembles outwardly and inwardly the others we have visited, and, like those of Shaka and of the colossal Jizo of Kamakura, has a paved floor, so that we are not obliged to remove our shoes on entering. Everything is worn, dim, vaguely grey; there is a pungent scent of mouldiness; the paint has long ago peeled away from the naked wood of the pillars. Throned to right and left against the high walls tower nine grim figures--five on one side, four on the other--wearing strange crowns with trumpet-shapen ornaments; figures hoary with centuries, and so like to the icon of Emma, which I saw at Kuboyama, that I ask, 'Are all these Emma?' 'Oh, no!' my guide answers; 'these are his attendants only--the Jiu-O, the Ten Kings.' 'But there are only nine?' I query. 'Nine, and Emma completes the number. You have not yet seen Emma.' Where is he? I see at the farther end of the chamber an altar elevated upon a platform approached by wooden steps; but there is no image, only the usual altar furniture of gilded bronze and lacquer-ware. Behind the altar I see only a curtain about six feet square--a curtain once dark red, now almost without any definite hue--probably veiling some alcove. A temple guardian approaches, and invites us to ascend the platform. I remove my shoes before mounting upon the matted surface, and follow the guardian behind the altar, in front of the curtain. He makes me a sign to look, and lifts the veil with a long rod. And suddenly, out of the blackness of some mysterious profundity masked by that sombre curtain, there glowers upon me an apparition at the sight of which I involuntarily start back--a monstrosity exceeding all anticipation--a Face. [5] A Face tremendous, menacing, frightful, dull red, as with the redness of heated iron cooling into grey. The first shock of the vision is no doubt partly due to the somewhat theatrical manner in which the work is suddenly revealed out of darkness by the lifting of the curtain. But as the surprise passes I begin to recognise the immense energy of the conception--to look for the secret of the grim artist. The wonder of the creation is not in the tiger frown, nor in the violence of the terrific mouth, nor in the fury and ghastly colour of the head as a whole: it is in the eyes--eyes of nightmare. Sec. 10 Now this weird old temple has its legend. Seven hundred years ago, 'tis said, there died the great image-maker, the great busshi; Unke-Sosei. And Unke-Sosei signifies 'Unke who returned from the dead.' For when he came before Emma, the Judge of Souls, Emma said to him: 'Living, thou madest no image of me. Go back unto earth and make one, now that thou hast looked upon me.' And Unke found himself suddenly restored to the world of men; and they that had known him before, astonished to see him alive again, called him Unke-Sosei. And Unke-Sosei, bearing with him always the memory of the countenance of Emma, wrought this image of him, which still inspires fear in all who behold it; and he made also the images of the grim Jiu-O, the Ten Kings obeying Emma, which sit throned about the temple. I want to buy a picture of Emma, and make my wish known to the temple guardian. Oh, yes, I may buy a picture of Emma, but I must first see the Oni. I follow the guardian out of the temple, down the mossy steps, and across the village highway into a little Japanese cottage, where I take my seat upon the floor. The guardian disappears behind a screen, and presently returns dragging with him the Oni--the image of a demon, naked, blood-red, indescribably ugly. The Oni is about three feet high. He stands in an attitude of menace, brandishing a club. He has a head shaped something like the head of a bulldog, with brazen eyes; and his feet are like the feet of a lion. Very gravely the guardian turns the grotesquery round and round, that I may admire its every aspect; while a naive crowd collects before the open door to look at the stranger and the demon. Then the guardian finds me a rude woodcut of Emma, with a sacred inscription printed upon it; and as soon as I have paid for it, he proceeds to stamp the paper, with the seal of the temple. The seal he keeps in a wonderful lacquered box, covered with many wrappings of soft leather. These having been removed, I inspect the seal--an oblong, vermilion-red polished stone, with the design cut in intaglio upon it. He moistens the surface with red ink, presses it upon the corner of the paper bearing the grim picture, and the authenticity of my strange purchase is established for ever. Sec. 11 You do not see the Dai-Butsu as you enter the grounds of his long-vanished temple, and proceed along a paved path across stretches of lawn; great trees hide him. But very suddenly, at a turn, he comes into full view and you start! No matter how many photographs of the colossus you may have already seen, this first vision of the reality is an astonishment. Then you imagine that you are already too near, though the image is at least a hundred yards away. As for me, I retire at once thirty or forty yards back, to get a better view. And the jinricksha man runs after me, laughing and gesticulating, thinking that I imagine the image alive and am afraid of it. But, even were that shape alive, none could be afraid of it. The gentleness, the dreamy passionlessness of those features,--the immense repose of the whole figure--are full of beauty and charm. And, contrary to all expectation, the nearer you approach the giant Buddha, the greater this charm becomes. You look up into the solemnly beautiful face--into the half-closed eyes that seem to watch you through their eyelids of bronze as gently as those of a child; and you feel that the image typifies all that is tender and calm in the Soul of the East. Yet you feel also that only Japanese thought could have created it. Its beauty, its dignity, its perfect repose, reflect the higher life of the race that imagined it; and, though doubtless inspired by some Indian model, as the treatment of the hair and various symbolic marks reveal, the art is Japanese. So mighty and beautiful the work is, that you will not for some time notice the magnificent lotus-plants of bronze, fully fifteen feet high, planted before the figure, on either side of the great tripod in which incense-rods are burning. Through an orifice in the right side of the enormous lotus-blossom on which the Buddha is seated, you can enter into the statue. The interior contains a little shrine of Kwannon, and a statue of the priest Yuten, and a stone tablet bearing in Chinese characters the sacred formula, Namu Amida Butsu. A ladder enables the pilgrim to ascend into the interior of the colossus as high as the shoulders, in which are two little windows commanding a wide prospect of the grounds; while a priest, who acts as guide, states the age of the statue to be six hundred and thirty years, and asks for some small contribution to aid in the erection of a new temple to shelter it from the weather. For this Buddha once had a temple. A tidal wave following an earthquake swept walls and roof away, but left the mighty Amida unmoved, still meditating upon his lotus. Sec. 12 And we arrive before the far-famed Kamakura temple of Kwannon--Kwannon, who yielded up her right to the Eternal Peace that she might save the souls of men, and renounced Nirvana to suffer with humanity for other myriad million ages--Kwannon, the Goddess of Pity and of Mercy. I climb three flights of steps leading to the temple, and a young girl, seated at the threshold, rises to greet us. Then she disappears within the temple to summon the guardian priest, a venerable man, white-robed, who makes me a sign to enter. The temple is large as any that I have yet seen, and, like the others, grey with the wearing of six hundred years. From the roof there hang down votive offerings, inscriptions, and lanterns in multitude, painted with various pleasing colours. Almost opposite to the entrance is a singular statue, a seated figure, of human dimensions and most human aspect, looking upon us with small weird eyes set in a wondrously wrinkled face. This face was originally painted flesh-tint, and the robes of the image pale blue; but now the whole is uniformly grey with age and dust, and its colourlessness harmonises so well with the senility of the figure that one is almost ready to believe one's self gazing at a living mendicant pilgrim. It is Benzuru, the same personage whose famous image at Asakusa has been made featureless by the wearing touch of countless pilgrim-fingers. To left and right of the entrance are the Ni-O, enormously muscled, furious of aspect; their crimson bodies are speckled with a white scum of paper pellets spat at them by worshippers. Above the altar is a small but very pleasing image of Kwannon, with her entire figure relieved against an oblong halo of gold, imitating the flickering of flame. But this is not the image for which the temple is famed; there is another to be seen upon certain conditions. The old priest presents me with a petition, written in excellent and eloquent English, praying visitors to contribute something to the maintenance of the temple and its pontiff, and appealing to those of another faith to remember that 'any belief which can make men kindly and good is worthy of respect.' I contribute my mite, and I ask to see the great Kwannon. Then the old priest lights a lantern, and leads the way, through a low doorway on the left of the altar, into the interior of the temple, into some very lofty darkness. I follow him cautiously awhile, discerning nothing whatever but the flicker of the lantern; then we halt before something which gleams. A moment, and my eyes, becoming more accustomed to the darkness, begin to distinguish outlines; the gleaming object defines itself gradually as a Foot, an immense golden Foot, and I perceive the hem of a golden robe undulating over the instep. Now the other foot appears; the figure is certainly standing. I can perceive that we are in a narrow but also very lofty chamber, and that out of some mysterious blackness overhead ropes are dangling down into the circle of lantern-light illuminating the golden feet. The priest lights two more lanterns, and suspends them upon hooks attached to a pair of pendent ropes about a yard apart; then he pulls up both together slowly. More of the golden robe is revealed as the lanterns ascend, swinging on their way; then the outlines of two mighty knees; then the curving of columnar thighs under chiselled drapery, and, as with the still waving ascent of the lanterns the golden Vision towers ever higher through the gloom, expectation intensifies. There is no sound but the sound of the invisible pulleys overhead, which squeak like bats. Now above the golden girdle, the suggestion of a bosom. Then the glowing of a golden hand uplifted in benediction. Then another golden hand holding a lotus. And at last a Face, golden, smiling with eternal youth and infinite tenderness, the face of Kwannon. So revealed out of the consecrated darkness, this ideal of divine feminity--creation of a forgotten art and time--is more than impressive. I can scarcely call the emotion which it produces admiration; it is rather reverence. But the lanterns, which paused awhile at the level of the beautiful face, now ascend still higher, with a fresh squeaking of pulleys. And lo! the tiara of the divinity appears with strangest symbolism. It is a pyramid of heads, of faces-charming faces of maidens, miniature faces of Kwannon herself. For this is the Kwannon of the Eleven Faces--Jiu-ichimen-Kwannon. Sec. 13 Most sacred this statue is held; and this is its legend. In the reign of Emperor Gensei, there lived in the province of Yamato a Buddhist priest, Tokudo Shonin, who had been in a previous birth Hold Bosatsu, but had been reborn among common men to save their souls. Now at that time, in a valley in Yamato, Tokudo Shonin, walking by night, saw a wonderful radiance; and going toward it found that it came from the trunk of a great fallen tree, a kusunoki, or camphor-tree. A delicious perfume came from the tree, and the shining of it was like the shining of the moon. And by these signs Tokudo Shonin knew that the wood was holy; and he bethought him that he should have the statue of Kwannon carved from it. And he recited a sutra, and repeated the Nenbutsu, praying for inspiration; and even while he prayed there came and stood before him an aged man and an aged woman; and these said to him, 'We know that your desire is to have the image of Kwannon-Sama carved from this tree with the help of Heaven; continue therefore, to pray, and we shall carve the statue.' And Tokudo Shonin did as they bade him; and he saw them easily split the vast trunk into two equal parts, and begin to carve each of the parts into an image. And he saw them so labour for three days; and on the third day the work was done--and he saw the two marvellous statues of Kwannon made perfect before him. And he said to the strangers: 'Tell me, I pray you, by what names you are known.' Then the old man answered: 'I am Kasuga Myojin.' And the woman answered: 'I am called Ten-sho-ko-dai-jin; I am the Goddess of the Sun.' And as they spoke both became transfigured and ascended to heaven and vanished from the sight of Tokudo Shonin. [6] And the Emperor, hearing of these happenings, sent his representative to Yamato to make offerings, and to have a temple built. Also the great priest, Gyogi-Bosatsu, came and consecrated the images, and dedicated the temple which by order of the Emperor was built. And one of the statues he placed in the temple, enshrining it, and commanding it: 'Stay thou here always to save all living creatures!' But the other statue he cast into the sea, saying to it: 'Go thou whithersoever it is best, to save all the living.' Now the statue floated to Kamakura. And there arriving by night it shed a great radiance all about it as if there were sunshine upon the sea; and the fishermen of Kamakura were awakened by the great light; and they went out in boats, and found the statue floating and brought it to shore. And the Emperor ordered that a temple should be built for it, the temple called Shin-haseidera, on the mountain called Kaiko-San, at Kamakura. Sec. 14 As we leave the temple of Kwannon behind us, there are no more dwellings visible along the road; the green slopes to left and right become steeper, and the shadows of the great trees deepen over us. But still, at intervals, some flight of venerable mossy steps, a carven Buddhist gateway, or a lofty torii, signals the presence of sanctuaries we have no time to visit: countless crumbling shrines are all around us, dumb witnesses to the antique splendour and vastness of the dead capital; and everywhere, mingled with perfume of blossoms, hovers the sweet, resinous smell of Japanese incense. Be-times we pass a scattered multitude of sculptured stones, like segments of four-sided pillars--old haka, the forgotten tombs of a long-abandoned cemetery; or the solitary image of some Buddhist deity--a dreaming Amida or faintly smiling Kwannon. All are ancient, time-discoloured, mutilated; a few have been weather-worn into unrecognisability. I halt a moment to contemplate something pathetic, a group of six images of the charming divinity who cares for the ghosts of little children--the Roku-Jizo. Oh, how chipped and scurfed and mossed they are! Five stand buried almost up to their shoulders in a heaping of little stones, testifying to the prayers of generations; and votive yodarekake, infant bibs of divers colours, have been put about the necks of these for the love of children lost. But one of the gentle god's images lies shattered and overthrown in its own scattered pebble-pile-broken perhaps by some passing wagon. Sec. 15 The road slopes before us as we go, sinks down between cliffs steep as the walls of a canyon, and curves. Suddenly we emerge from the cliffs, and reach the sea. It is blue like the unclouded sky--a soft dreamy blue. And our path turns sharply to the right, and winds along cliff-summits overlooking a broad beach of dun-coloured sand; and the sea wind blows deliciously with a sweet saline scent, urging the lungs to fill themselves to the very utmost; and far away before me, I perceive a beautiful high green mass, an island foliage-covered, rising out of the water about a quarter of a mile from the mainland--Enoshima, the holy island, sacred to the goddess of the sea, the goddess of beauty. I can already distinguish a tiny town, grey-sprinkling its steep slope. Evidently it can be reached to-day on foot, for the tide is out, and has left bare a long broad reach of sand, extending to it, from the opposite village which we are approaching, like a causeway. At Katase, the little settlement facing the island, we must leave our jinricksha and walk; the dunes between the village and the beach are too deep to pull the vehicle over. Scores of other jinricksha are waiting here in the little narrow street for pilgrims who have preceded me. But to-day, I am told, I am the only European who visits the shrine of Benten. Our two men lead the way over the dunes, and we soon descend upon damp firm sand. As we near the island the architectural details of the little town define delightfully through the faint sea-haze--curved bluish sweeps of fantastic roofs, angles of airy balconies, high-peaked curious gables, all above a fluttering of queerly shaped banners covered with mysterious lettering. We pass the sand-flats; and the ever-open Portal of the Sea-city, the City of the Dragon-goddess, is before us, a beautiful torii. All of bronze it is, with shimenawa of bronze above it, and a brazen tablet inscribed with characters declaring: 'This is the Palace of the Goddess of Enoshima.' About the bases of the ponderous pillars are strange designs in relievo, eddyings of waves with tortoises struggling in the flow. This is really the gate of the city, facing the shrine of Benten by the land approach; but it is only the third torii of the imposing series through Katase: we did not see the others, having come by way of the coast. And lo! we are in Enoshima. High before us slopes the single street, a street of broad steps, a street shadowy, full of multi-coloured flags and dank blue drapery dashed with white fantasticalities, which are words, fluttered by the sea wind. It is lined with taverns and miniature shops. At every one I must pause to look; and to dare to look at anything in Japan is to want to buy it. So I buy, and buy, and buy! For verily 'tis the City of Mother-of-Pearl, this Enoshima. In every shop, behind the lettered draperies there are miracles of shell-work for sale at absurdly small prices. The glazed cases laid flat upon the matted platforms, the shelved cabinets set against the walls, are all opalescent with nacreous things--extraordinary surprises, incredible ingenuities; strings of mother-of-pearl fish, strings of mother-of-pearl birds, all shimmering with rainbow colours. There are little kittens of mother-of-pearl, and little foxes of mother-of-pearl, and little puppies of mother-of-pearl, and girls' hair-combs, and cigarette-holders, and pipes too beautiful to use. There are little tortoises, not larger than a shilling, made of shells, that, when you touch them, however lightly, begin to move head, legs, and tail, all at the same time, alternately withdrawing or protruding their limbs so much like real tortoises as to give one a shock of surprise. There are storks and birds, and beetles and butterflies, and crabs and lobsters, made so cunningly of shells, that only touch convinces you they are not alive. There are bees of shell, poised on flowers of the same material--poised on wire in such a way that they seem to buzz if moved only with the tip of a feather. There is shell-work jewellery indescribable, things that Japanese girls love, enchantments in mother-of-pearl, hair-pins carven in a hundred forms, brooches, necklaces. And there are photographs of Enoshima. Sec. 16 This curious street ends at another torii, a wooden torii, with a steeper flight of stone steps ascending to it. At the foot of the steps are votive stone lamps and a little well, and a stone tank at which all pilgrims wash their hands and rinse their mouths before approaching the temples of the gods. And hanging beside the tank are bright blue towels, with large white Chinese characters upon them. I ask Akira what these characters signify: 'Ho-Keng is the sound of the characters in the Chinese; but in Japanese the same characters are pronounced Kenjitatetmatsuru, and signify that those towels are mostly humbly offered to Benten. They are what you call votive offerings. And there are many kinds of votive offerings made to famous shrines. Some people give towels, some give pictures, some give vases; some offer lanterns of paper, or bronze, or stone. It is common to promise such offerings when making petitions to the gods; and it is usual to promise a torii. The torii may be small or great according to the wealth of him who gives it; the very rich pilgrim may offer to the gods a torii of metal, such as that below, which is the Gate of Enoshima.' 'Akira, do the Japanese always keep their vows to the gods?' Akira smiles a sweet smile, and answers: 'There was a man who promised to build a torii of good metal if his prayers were granted. And he obtained all that he desired. And then he built a torii with three exceedingly small needles.' Sec. 17 Ascending the steps, we reach a terrace, overlooking all the city roofs. There are Buddhist lions of stone and stone lanterns, mossed and chipped, on either side the torii; and the background of the terrace is the sacred hill, covered with foliage. To the left is a balustrade of stone, old and green, surrounding a shallow pool covered with scum of water-weed. And on the farther bank above it, out of the bushes, protrudes a strangely shaped stone slab, poised on edge, and covered with Chinese characters. It is a sacred stone, and is believed to have the form of a great frog, gama; wherefore it is called Gama-ishi, the Frog-stone. Here and there along the edge of the terrace are other graven monuments, one of which is the offering of certain pilgrims who visited the shrine of the sea-goddess one hundred times. On the right other flights of steps lead to loftier terraces; and an old man, who sits at the foot of them, making bird-cages of bamboo, offers himself as guide. We follow him to the next terrace, where there is a school for the children of Enoshima, and another sacred stone, huge and shapeless: Fuku-ishi, the Stone of Good Fortune. In old times pilgrims who rubbed their hands upon it believed they would thereby gain riches; and the stone is polished and worn by the touch of innumerable palms. More steps and more green-mossed lions and lanterns, and another terrace with a little temple in its midst, the first shrine of Benten. Before it a few stunted palm-trees are growing. There is nothing in the shrine of interest, only Shinto emblems. But there is another well beside it with other votive towels, and there is another mysterious monument, a stone shrine brought from China six hundred years ago. Perhaps it contained some far-famed statue before this place of pilgrimage was given over to the priests of Shinto. There is nothing in it now; the monolith slab forming the back of it has been fractured by the falling of rocks from the cliff above; and the inscription cut therein has been almost effaced by some kind of scum. Akira reads 'Dai-Nippongoku-Enoshima-no-reiseki-ken . . .'; the rest is undecipherable. He says there is a statue in the neighbouring temple, but it is exhibited only once a year, on the fifteenth day of the seventh month. Leaving the court by a rising path to the left, we proceed along the verge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Perched upon this verge are pretty tea-houses, all widely open to the sea wind, so that, looking through them, over their matted floors and lacquered balconies one sees the ocean as in a picture-frame, and the pale clear horizon specked with snowy sails, and a faint blue-peaked shape also, like a phantom island, the far vapoury silhouette of Oshima. Then we find another torii, and other steps leading to a terrace almost black with shade of enormous evergreen trees, and surrounded on the sea side by another stone balustrade, velveted with moss. On the right more steps, another torii, another terrace; and more mossed green lions and stone lamps; and a monument inscribed with the record of the change whereby Enoshima passed away from Buddhism to become Shino. Beyond, in the centre of another plateau, the second shrine of Benten. But there is no Benten! Benten has been hidden away by Shinto hands. The second shrine is void as the first. Nevertheless, in a building to the left of the temple, strange relics are exhibited. Feudal armour; suits of plate and chain-mail; helmets with visors which are demoniac masks of iron; helmets crested with dragons of gold; two-handed swords worthy of giants; and enormous arrows, more than five feet long, with shafts nearly an inch in diameter. One has a crescent head about nine inches from horn to horn, the interior edge of the crescent being sharp as a knife. Such a missile would take off a man's head; and I can scarcely believe Akira's assurance that such ponderous arrows were shot from a bow by hand only. There is a specimen of the writing of Nichiren, the great Buddhist priest--gold characters on a blue ground; and there is, in a lacquered shrine, a gilded dragon said to have been made by that still greater priest and writer and master-wizard, Kobodaishi. A path shaded by overarching trees leads from this plateau to the third shrine. We pass a torii and beyond it come to a stone monument covered with figures of monkeys chiselled in relief. What the signification of this monument is, even our guide cannot explain. Then another torii. It is of wood; but I am told it replaces one of metal, stolen in the night by thieves. Wonderful thieves! that torii must have weighed at least a ton! More stone lanterns; then an immense count, on the very summit of the mountain, and there, in its midst, the third and chief temple of Benten. And before the temple is a large vacant space surrounded by a fence in such manner as to render the shrine totally inaccessible. Vanity and vexation of spirit! There is, however, a little haiden, or place of prayer, with nothing in it but a money-box and a bell, before the fence, and facing the temple steps. Here the pilgrims make their offerings and pray. Only a small raised platform covered with a Chinese roof supported upon four plain posts, the back of the structure being closed by a lattice about breast high. From this praying-station we can look into the temple of Benten, and see that Benten is not there. But I perceive that the ceiling is arranged in caissons; and in a central caisson I discover a very curious painting--a foreshortened Tortoise, gazing down at me. And while I am looking at it I hear Akira and the guide laughing; and the latter exclaims, 'Benten-Sama!' A beautiful little damask snake is undulating up the lattice-work, poking its head through betimes to look at us. It does not seem in the least afraid, nor has it much reason to be, seeing that its kind are deemed the servants and confidants of Benten. Sometimes the great goddess herself assumes the serpent form; perhaps she has come to see us. Near by is a singular stone, set on a pedestal in the court. It has the form of the body of a tortoise, and markings like those of the creature's shell; and it is held a sacred thing, and is called the Tortoise-stone. But I fear exceedingly that in all this place we shall find nothing save stones and serpents! Sec. 18 Now we are going to visit the Dragon cavern, not so called, Akira says, because the Dragon of Benten ever dwelt therein, but because the shape of the cavern is the shape of a dragon. The path descends toward the opposite side of the island, and suddenly breaks into a flight of steps cut out of the pale hard rock--exceedingly steep, and worn, and slippery, and perilous--overlooking the sea. A vision of low pale rocks, and surf bursting among them, and a toro or votive stone lamp in the centre of them--all seen as in a bird's-eye view, over the verge of an awful precipice. I see also deep, round holes in one of the rocks. There used to be a tea-house below; and the wooden pillars supporting it were fitted into those holes. I descend with caution; the Japanese seldom slip in their straw sandals, but I can only proceed with the aid of the guide. At almost every step I slip. Surely these steps could never have been thus worn away by the straw sandals of pilgrims who came to see only stones and serpents! At last we reach a plank gallery carried along the face of the cliff above the rocks and pools, and following it round a projection of the cliff enter the sacred cave. The light dims as we advance; and the sea-waves, running after us into the gloom, make a stupefying roar, multiplied by the extraordinary echo. Looking back, I see the mouth of the cavern like a prodigious sharply angled rent in blackness, showing a fragment of azure sky. We reach a shrine with no deity in it, pay a fee; and lamps being lighted and given to each of us, we proceed to explore a series of underground passages. So black they are that even with the light of three lamps, I can at first see nothing. In a while, however, I can distinguish stone figures in relief--chiselled on slabs like those I saw in the Buddhist graveyard. These are placed at regular intervals along the rock walls. The guide approaches his light to the face of each one, and utters a name, 'Daikoku-Sama,' 'Fudo-Sama,' 'Kwannon-Sama.' Sometimes in lieu of a statue there is an empty shrine only, with a money-box before it; and these void shrines have names of Shinto gods, 'Daijingu,' 'Hachiman,' 'Inari-Sama.' All the statues are black, or seem black in the yellow lamplight, and sparkle as if frosted. I feel as if I were in some mortuary pit, some subterranean burial-place of dead gods. Interminable the corridor appears; yet there is at last an end--an end with a shrine in it--where the rocky ceiling descends so low that to reach the shrine one must go down on hands and knees. And there is nothing in the shrine. This is the Tail of the Dragon. We do not return to the light at once, but enter into other lateral black corridors--the Wings of the Dragon. More sable effigies of dispossessed gods; more empty shrines; more stone faces covered with saltpetre; and more money-boxes, possible only to reach by stooping, where more offerings should be made. And there is no Benten, either of wood or stone. I am glad to return to the light. Here our guide strips naked, and suddenly leaps head foremost into a black deep swirling current between rocks. Five minutes later he reappears, and clambering out lays at my feet a living, squirming sea-snail and an enormous shrimp. Then he resumes his robe, and we re-ascend the mountain. Sec. 19 'And this,' the reader may say,--'this is all that you went forth to see: a torii, some shells, a small damask snake, some stones?' It is true. And nevertheless I know that I am bewitched. There is a charm indefinable about the place--that sort of charm which comes with a little ghostly thrill never to be forgotten. Not of strange sights alone is this charm made, but of numberless subtle sensations and ideas interwoven and inter-blended: the sweet sharp scents of grove and sea; the blood-brightening, vivifying touch of the free wind; the dumb appeal of ancient mystic mossy things; vague reverence evoked by knowledge of treading soil called holy for a thousand years; and a sense of sympathy, as a human duty, compelled by the vision of steps of rock worn down into shapelessness by the pilgrim feet of vanished generations. And other memories ineffaceable: the first sight of the sea-girt City of Pearl through a fairy veil of haze; the windy approach to the lovely island over the velvety soundless brown stretch of sand; the weird majesty of the giant gate of bronze; the queer, high-sloping, fantastic, quaintly gabled street, flinging down sharp shadows of aerial balconies; the flutter of coloured draperies in the sea wind, and of flags with their riddles of lettering; the pearly glimmering of the astonishing shops. And impressions of the enormous day--the day of the Land of the Gods--a loftier day than ever our summers know; and the glory of the view from those green sacred silent heights between sea and sun; and the remembrance of the sky, a sky spiritual as holiness, a sky with clouds ghost-pure and white as the light itself--seeming, indeed, not clouds but dreams, or souls of Bodhisattvas about to melt for ever into some blue Nirvana. And the romance of Benten, too,--the Deity of Beauty, the Divinity of Love, the Goddess of Eloquence. Rightly is she likewise named Goddess of the Sea. For is not the Sea most ancient and most excellent of Speakers--the eternal Poet, chanter of that mystic hymn whose rhythm shakes the world, whose mighty syllables no man may learn? Sec. 20 We return by another route. For a while the way winds through a long narrow winding valley between wooded hills: the whole extent of bottom-land is occupied by rice-farms; the air has a humid coolness, and one hears only the chanting of frogs, like a clattering of countless castanets, as the jinricksha jolts over the rugged elevated paths separating the flooded rice-fields. As we skirt the foot of a wooded hill upon the right, my Japanese comrade signals to our runners to halt, and himself dismounting, points to the blue peaked roof of a little temple high-perched on the green slope. 'Is it really worth while to climb up there in the sun?' I ask. 'Oh, yes!' he answers: 'it is the temple of Kishibojin--Kishibojin, the Mother of Demons!' We ascend a flight of broad stone steps, meet the Buddhist guardian lions at the summit, and enter the little court in which the temple stands. An elderly woman, with a child clinging to her robe, comes from the adjoining building to open the screens for us; and taking off our footgear we enter the temple. Without, the edifice looked old and dingy; but within all is neat and pretty. The June sun, pouring through the open shoji, illuminates an artistic confusion of brasses gracefully shaped and multi-coloured things--images, lanterns, paintings, gilded inscriptions, pendent scrolls. There are three altars. Above the central altar Amida Buddha sits enthroned on his mystic golden lotus in the attitude of the Teacher. On the altar to the right gleams a shrine of five miniature golden steps, where little images stand in rows, tier above tier, some seated, some erect, male and female, attired like goddesses or like daimyo: the Sanjiubanjin, or Thirty Guardians. Below, on the façade of the altar, is the figure of a hero slaying a monster. On the altar to the left is the shrine of the Mother-of-Demons. Her story is a legend of horror. For some sin committed in a previous birth, she was born a demon, devouring her own children. But being saved by the teaching of Buddha, she became a divine being, especially loving and protecting infants; and Japanese mothers pray to her for their little ones, and wives pray to her for beautiful boys. The face of Kishibojin [7] is the face of a comely woman. But her eyes are weird. In her right hand she bears a lotus-blossom; with her left she supports in a fold of her robe, against her half-veiled breast, a naked baby. At the foot of her shrine stands Jizo-Sama, leaning upon his shakujo. But the altar and its images do not form the startling feature of the temple-interior. What impresses the visitor in a totally novel way are the votive offerings. High before the shrine, suspended from strings stretched taut between tall poles of bamboo, are scores, no, hundreds, of pretty, tiny dresses--Japanese baby-dresses of many colours. Most are made of poor material, for these are the thank-offerings of very poor simple women, poor country mothers, whose prayers to Kishibojin for the blessing of children have been heard. And the sight of all those little dresses, each telling so naively its story of joy and pain--those tiny kimono shaped and sewn by docile patient fingers of humble mothers--touches irresistibly, like some unexpected revelation of the universal mother-love. And the tenderness of all the simple hearts that have testified thus to faith and thankfulness seems to thrill all about me softly, like a caress of summer wind. Outside the world appears to have suddenly grown beautiful; the light is sweeter; it seems to me there is a new charm even in the azure of the eternal day. Sec. 21 Then, having traversed the valley, we reach a main road so level and so magnificently shaded by huge old trees that I could believe myself in an English lane--a lane in Kent or Surrey, perhaps--but for some exotic detail breaking the illusion at intervals; a torii, towering before temple-steps descending to the highway, or a signboard lettered with Chinese characters, or the wayside shrine of some unknown god. All at once I observe by the roadside some unfamiliar sculptures in relief--a row of chiselled slabs protected by a little bamboo shed; and I dismount to look at them, supposing them to be funereal monuments. They are so old that the lines of their sculpturing are half obliterated; their feet are covered with moss, and their visages are half effaced. But I can discern that these are not haka, but six images of one divinity; and my guide knows him--Koshin, the God of Roads. So chipped and covered with scurf he is, that the upper portion of his form has become indefinably vague; his attributes have been worn away. But below his feet, on several slabs, chiselled cunningly, I can still distinguish the figures of the Three Apes, his messengers. And some pious soul has left before one image a humble votive offering--the picture of a black cock and a white hen, painted upon a wooden shingle. It must have been left here very long ago; the wood has become almost black, and the painting has been damaged by weather and by the droppings of birds. There are no stones piled at the feet of these images, as before the images of Jizo; they seem like things forgotten, crusted over by the neglect of generations--archaic gods who have lost their worshippers. But my guide tells me, 'The Temple of Koshin is near, in the village of Fujisawa.' Assuredly I must visit it. Sec. 22 The temple of Koshin is situated in the middle of the village, in a court opening upon the main street. A very old wooden temple it is, unpainted, dilapidated, grey with the greyness of all forgotten and weather-beaten things. It is some time before the guardian of the temple can be found, to open the doors. For this temple has doors in lieu of shoji--old doors that moan sleepily at being turned upon their hinges. And it is not necessary to remove one's shoes; the floor is matless, covered with dust, and squeaks under the unaccustomed weight of entering feet. All within is crumbling, mouldering, worn; the shrine has no image, only Shinto emblems, some poor paper lanterns whose once bright colours have vanished under a coating of dust, some vague inscriptions. I see the circular frame of a metal mirror; but the mirror itself is gone. Whither? The guardian says: 'No priest lives now in this temple; and thieves might come in the night to steal the mirror; so we have hidden it away.' I ask about the image of Koshin. He answers it is exposed but once in every sixty-one years: so I cannot see it; but there are other statues of the god in the temple court. I go to look at them: a row of images, much like those upon the public highway, but better preserved. One figure of Koshin, however, is different from the others I have seen--apparently made after some Hindoo model, judging by the Indian coiffure, mitre-shaped and lofty. The god has three eyes; one in the centre of his forehead, opening perpendicularly instead of horizontally. He has six arms. With one hand he supports a monkey; with another he grasps a serpent; and the other hands hold out symbolic things--a wheel, a sword, a rosary, a sceptre. And serpents are coiled about his wrists and about his ankles; and under his feet is a monstrous head, the head of a demon, Amanjako, sometimes called Utatesa ('Sadness'). Upon the pedestal below the Three Apes are carven; and the face of an ape appears also upon the front of the god's tiara. I see also tablets of stone, graven only with the god's name,--votive offerings. And near by, in a tiny wooden shrine, is the figure of the Earth-god, Ken-ro-ji-jin, grey, primeval, vaguely wrought, holding in one hand a spear, in the other a vessel containing something indistinguishable. Sec. 23 Perhaps to uninitiated eyes these many-headed, many-handed gods at first may seem--as they seem always in the sight of Christian bigotry--only monstrous. But when the knowledge of their meaning comes to one who feels the divine in all religions, then they will be found to make appeal to the higher aestheticism, to the sense of moral beauty, with a force never to be divined by minds knowing nothing of the Orient and its thought. To me the image of Kwannon of the Thousand Hands is not less admirable than any other representation of human loveliness idealised bearing her name--the Peerless, the Majestic, the Peace-Giving, or even White Sui-Getsu, who sails the moonlit waters in her rosy boat made of a single lotus-petal; and in the triple-headed Shaka I discern and revere the mighty power of that Truth, whereby, as by a conjunction of suns, the Three Worlds have been illuminated. But vain to seek to memorise the names and attributes of all the gods; they seem, self-multiplying, to mock the seeker; Kwannon the Merciful is revealed as the Hundred Kwannon; the Six Jizo become the Thousand. And as they multiply before research, they vary and change: less multiform, less complex, less elusive the moving of waters than the visions of this Oriental faith. Into it, as into a fathomless sea, mythology after mythology from India and China and the farther East has sunk and been absorbed; and the stranger, peering into its deeps, finds himself, as in the tale of Undine, contemplating a flood in whose every surge rises and vanishes a Face--weird or beautiful or terrible--a most ancient shoreless sea of forms incomprehensibly interchanging and intermingling, but symbolising the protean magic of that infinite Unknown that shapes and re-shapes for ever all cosmic being. Sec. 24 I wonder if I can buy a picture of Koshin. In most Japanese temples little pictures of the tutelar deity are sold to pilgrims, cheap prints on thin paper. But the temple guardian here tells me, with a gesture of despair, that there are no pictures of Koshin for sale; there is only an old kakemono on which the god is represented. If I would like to see it he will go home and get it for me. I beg him to do me the favour; and he hurries into the street. While awaiting his return, I continue to examine the queer old statues, with a feeling of mingled melancholy and pleasure. To have studied and loved an ancient faith only through the labours of palaeographers and archaeologists, and as a something astronomically remote from one's own existence, and then suddenly in after years to find the same faith a part of one's human environment,--to feel that its mythology, though senescent, is alive all around you--is almost to realise the dream of the Romantics, to have the sensation of returning through twenty centuries into the life of a happier world. For these quaint Gods of Roads and Gods of Earth are really living still, though so worn and mossed and feebly worshipped. In this brief moment, at least, I am really in the Elder World--perhaps just at that epoch of it when the primal faith is growing a little old-fashioned, crumbling slowly before the corrosive influence of a new philosophy; and I know myself a pagan still, loving these simple old gods, these gods of a people's childhood. And they need some human love, these naive, innocent, ugly gods. The beautiful divinities will live for ever by that sweetness of womanhood idealised in the Buddhist art of them: eternal are Kwannon and Benten; they need no help of man; they will compel reverence when the great temples shall all have become voiceless and priestless as this shrine of Koshin is. But these kind, queer, artless, mouldering gods, who have given ease to so many troubled minds, who have gladdened so many simple hearts, who have heard so many innocent prayers--how gladly would I prolong their beneficent lives in spite of the so-called 'laws of progress' and the irrefutable philosophy of evolution! The guardian returns, bringing with him a kakemono, very small, very dusty, and so yellow-stained by time that it might be a thousand years old. But I am disappointed as I unroll it; there is only a very common print of the god within--all outline. And while I am looking at it, I become for the first time conscious that a crowd has gathered about me,--tanned kindly-faced labourers from the fields, and mothers with their babies on their backs, and school children, and jinricksha men--all wondering that a stranger should be thus interested in their gods. And although the pressure about me is very, very gentle, like a pressure of tepid water for gentleness, I feel a little embarrassed. I give back the old kakemono to the guardian, make my offering to the god, and take my leave of Koshin and his good servant. All the kind oblique eyes follow me as I go. And something like a feeling of remorse seizes me at thus abruptly abandoning the void, dusty, crumbling temple, with its mirrorless altar and its colourless lanterns, and the decaying sculptures of its neglected court, and its kindly guardian whom I see still watching my retreating steps, with the yellow kakemono in his hand. The whistle of a locomotive warns me that I shall just have time to catch the train. For Western civilisation has invaded all this primitive peace, with its webs of steel, with its ways of iron. This is not of thy roads, O Koshin!--the old gods are dying along its ash-strewn verge! Chapter Five At the Market of the Dead Sec. 1 IT is just past five o'clock in the afternoon. Through the open door of my little study the rising breeze of evening is beginning to disturb the papers on my desk, and the white fire of the Japanese sun is taking that pale amber tone which tells that the heat of the day is over. There is not a cloud in the blue--not even one of those beautiful white filamentary things, like ghosts of silken floss, which usually swim in this most ethereal of earthly skies even in the driest weather. A sudden shadow at the door. Akira, the young Buddhist student, stands at the threshold slipping his white feet out of his sandal-thongs preparatory to entering, and smiling like the god Jizo. 'Ah! komban, Akira.' 'To-night,' says Akira, seating himself upon the floor in the posture of Buddha upon the Lotus, 'the Bon-ichi will be held. Perhaps you would like to see it?' 'Oh, Akira, all things in this country I should like to see. But tell me, I pray you; unto what may the Bon-ichi be likened?' 'The Bon-ichi,' answers Akira, 'is a market at which will be sold all things required for the Festival of the Dead; and the Festival of the Dead will begin to-morrow, when all the altars of the temples and all the shrines in the homes of good Buddhists will be made beautiful.' 'Then I want to see the Bon-ichi, Akira, and I should also like to see a Buddhist shrine--a household shrine.' 'Yes, will you come to my room?' asks Akira. 'It is not far--in the Street of the Aged Men, beyond the Street of the Stony River, and near to the Street Everlasting. There is a butsuma there--a household shrine--and on the way I will tell you about the Bonku.' So, for the first time, I learn those things--which I am now about to write. Sec. 2 From the 13th to the 15th day of July is held the Festival of the Dead--the Bommatsuri or Bonku--by some Europeans called the Feast of Lanterns. But in many places there are two such festivals annually; for those who still follow the ancient reckoning of time by moons hold that the Bommatsuri should fall on the 13th, 14th, and 15th days of the seventh month of the antique calendar, which corresponds to a later period of the year. Early on the morning of the 13th, new mats of purest rice straw, woven expressly for the festival, are spread upon all Buddhist altars and within each butsuma or butsudan--the little shrine before which the morning and evening prayers are offered up in every believing home. Shrines and altars are likewise decorated with beautiful embellishments of coloured paper, and with flowers and sprigs of certain hallowed plants--always real lotus-flowers when obtainable, otherwise lotus-flowers of paper, and fresh branches of shikimi (anise) and of misohagi (lespedeza). Then a tiny lacquered table--a zen-such as Japanese meals are usually served upon, is placed upon the altar, and the food offerings are laid on it. But in the smaller shrines of Japanese homes the offerings are more often simply laid upon the rice matting, wrapped in fresh lotus-leaves. These offerings consist of the foods called somen, resembling our vermicelli, gozen, which is boiled rice, dango, a sort of tiny dumpling, eggplant, and fruits according to season--frequently uri and saikwa, slices of melon and watermelon, and plums and peaches. Often sweet cakes and dainties are added. Sometimes the offering is only O-sho-jin-gu (honourable uncooked food); more usually it is O-rio-gu (honourable boiled food); but it never includes, of course, fish, meats, or wine. Clear water is given to the shadowy guest, and is sprinkled from time to time upon the altar or within the shrine with a branch of misohagi; tea is poured out every hour for the viewless visitors, and everything is daintily served up in little plates and cups and bowls, as for living guests, with hashi (chopsticks) laid beside the offering. So for three days the dead are feasted. At sunset, pine torches, fixed in the ground before each home, are kindled to guide the spirit-visitors. Sometimes, also, on the first evening of the Bommatsuri, welcome-fires (mukaebi) are lighted along the shore of the sea or lake or river by which the village or city is situated--neither more nor less than one hundred and eight fires; this number having some mystic signification in the philosophy of Buddhism. And charming lanterns are suspended each night at the entrances of homes--the Lanterns of the Festival of the Dead--lanterns of special forms and colours, beautifully painted with suggestions of landscape and shapes of flowers, and always decorated with a peculiar fringe of paper streamers. Also, on the same night, those who have dead friends go to the cemeteries and make offerings there, and pray, and burn incense, and pour out water for the ghosts. Flowers are placed there in the bamboo vases set beside each haka, and lanterns are lighted and hung up before the tombs, but these lanterns have no designs upon them. At sunset on the evening of the 15th only the offerings called Segaki are made in the temples. Then are fed the ghosts of the Circle of Penance, called Gakido, the place of hungry spirits; and then also are fed by the priests those ghosts having no other friends among the living to care for them. Very, very small these offerings are--like the offerings to the gods. Sec. 3 Now this, Akira tells me, is the origin of the Segaki, as the same is related in the holy book Busetsuuran-bongyo: Dai-Mokenren, the great disciple of Buddha, obtained by merit the Six Supernatural Powers. And by virtue of them it was given him to see the soul of his mother in the Gakido--the world of spirits doomed to suffer hunger in expiation of faults committed in a previous life. Mokenren saw that his mother suffered much; he grieved exceedingly because of her pain, and he filled a bowl with choicest food and sent it to her. He saw her try to eat; but each time that she tried to lift the food to her lips it would change into fire and burning embers, so that she could not eat. Then Mokenren asked the Teacher what he could do to relieve his mother from pain. And the Teacher made answer: 'On the fifteenth day of the seventh month, feed the ghosts of the great priests of all countries.' And Mokenren, having done so, saw that his mother was freed from the state of gaki, and that she was dancing for joy. [1] This is the origin also of the dances called Bono-dori, which are danced on the third night of the Festival of the Dead throughout Japan. Upon the third and last night there is a weirdly beautiful ceremony, more touching than that of the Segaki, stranger than the Bon-odori--the ceremony of farewell. All that the living may do to please the dead has been done; the time allotted by the powers of the unseen worlds unto the ghostly visitants is well nigh past, and their friends must send them all back again. Everything has been prepared for them. In each home small boats made of barley straw closely woven have been freighted with supplies of choice food, with tiny lanterns, and written messages of faith and love. Seldom more than two feet in length are these boats; but the dead require little room. And the frail craft are launched on canal, lake, sea, or river--each with a miniature lantern glowing at the prow, and incense burning at the stern. And if the night be fair, they voyage long. Down all the creeks and rivers and canals the phantom fleets go glimmering to the sea; and all the sea sparkles to the horizon with the lights of the dead, and the sea wind is fragrant with incense. But alas! it is now forbidden in the great seaports to launch the shoryobune, 'the boats of the blessed ghosts.' Sec. 4 It is so narrow, the Street of the Aged Men, that by stretching out one's arms one can touch the figured sign-draperies before its tiny shops on both sides at once. And these little ark-shaped houses really seem toy-houses; that in which Akira lives is even smaller than the rest, having no shop in it, and no miniature second story. It is all closed up. Akira slides back the wooden amado which forms the door, and then the paper-paned screens behind it; and the tiny structure, thus opened, with its light unpainted woodwork and painted paper partitions, looks something like a great bird-cage. But the rush matting of the elevated floor is fresh, sweet-smelling, spotless; and as we take off our footgear to mount upon it I see that all within is neat, curious, and pretty. 'The woman has gone out,' says Akira, setting the smoking-box (hibachi) in the middle of the floor, and spreading beside it a little mat for me to squat upon. 'But what is this, Akira?' I ask, pointing to a thin board suspended by a ribbon on the wall--a board so cut from the middle of a branch as to leave the bark along its edges. There are two columns of mysterious signs exquisitely painted upon it. 'Oh, that is a calendar,' answers Akira. 'On the right side are the names of the months having thirty-one days; on the left, the names of those having less. Now here is a household shrine.' Occupying the alcove, which is an indispensable part of the structure of Japanese guest-rooms, is a native cabinet painted with figures of flying birds; and on this cabinet stands the butsuma. It is a small lacquered and gilded shrine, with little doors modelled after those of a temple gate--a shrine very quaint, very much dilapidated (one door has lost its hinges), but still a dainty thing despite its crackled lacquer and faded gilding. Akira opens it with a sort of compassionate smile; and I look inside for the image. There is none; only a wooden tablet with a band of white paper attached to it, bearing Japanese characters--the name of a dead baby girl--and a vase of expiring flowers, a tiny print of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, and a cup filled with ashes of incense. 'Tomorrow,' Akira says, 'she will decorate this, and make the offerings of food to the little one.' Hanging from the ceiling, on the opposite side of the room, and in front of the shrine, is a wonderful, charming, funny, white-and-rosy mask--the face of a laughing, chubby girl with two mysterious spots upon her forehead, the face of Otafuku. [2] It twirls round and round in the soft air-current coming through the open shoji; and every time those funny black eyes, half shut with laughter, look at me, I cannot help smiling. And hanging still higher, I see little Shinto emblems of paper (gohei), a miniature mitre-shaped cap in likeness of those worn in the sacred dances, a pasteboard emblem of the magic gem (Nio-i hojiu) which the gods bear in their hands, a small Japanese doll, and a little wind-wheel which will spin around with the least puff of air, and other indescribable toys, mostly symbolic, such as are sold on festal days in the courts of the temples--the playthings of the dead child. 'Komban!' exclaims a very gentle voice behind us. The mother is standing there, smiling as if pleased at the stranger's interest in her butsuma--a middle-aged woman of the poorest class, not comely, but with a most kindly face. We return her evening greeting; and while I sit down upon the little mat laid before the hibachi, Akira whispers something to her, with the result that a small kettle is at once set to boil over a very small charcoal furnace. We are probably going to have some tea. As Akira takes his seat before me, on the other side of the hibachi, I ask him: 'What was the name I saw on the tablet?' 'The name which you saw,' he answers, 'was not the real name. The real name is written upon the other side. After death another name is given by the priest. A dead boy is called Ryochi Doji; a dead girl, Mioyo Donyo.' While we are speaking, the woman approaches the little shrine, opens it, arranges the objects in it, lights the tiny lamp, and with joined hands and bowed head begins to pray. Totally unembarrassed by our presence and our chatter she seems, as one accustomed to do what is right and beautiful heedless of human opinion; praying with that brave, true frankness which belongs to the poor only of this world--those simple souls who never have any secret to hide, either from each other or from heaven, and of whom Ruskin nobly said, 'These are our holiest.' I do not know what words her heart is murmuring: I hear only at moments that soft sibilant sound, made by gently drawing the breath through the lips, which among this kind people is a token of humblest desire to please. As I watch the tender little rite, I become aware of something dimly astir in the mystery of my own life--vaguely, indefinably familiar, like a memory ancestral, like the revival of a sensation forgotten two thousand years. Blended in some strange way it seems to be with my faint knowledge of an elder world, whose household gods were also the beloved dead; and there is a weird sweetness in this place, like a shadowing of Lares. Then, her brief prayer over, she turns to her miniature furnace again. She talks and laughs with Akira; she prepares the tea, pours it out in tiny cups and serves it to us, kneeling in that graceful attitude--picturesque, traditional--which for six hundred years has been the attitude of the Japanese woman serving tea. Verily, no small part of the life of the woman of Japan is spent thus in serving little cups of tea. Even as a ghost, she appears in popular prints offering to somebody spectral tea-cups of spectral tea. Of all Japanese ghost-pictures, I know of none more pathetic than that in which the phantom of a woman kneeling humbly offers to her haunted and remorseful murderer a little cup of tea! 'Now let us go to the Bon-ichi,' says Akira, rising; 'she must go there herself soon, and it is already getting dark. Sayonara!' It is indeed almost dark as we leave the little house: stars are pointing in the strip of sky above the street; but it is a beautiful night for a walk, with a tepid breeze blowing at intervals, and sending long flutterings through the miles of shop draperies. The market is in the narrow street at the verge of the city, just below the hill where the great Buddhist temple of Zoto-Kuin stands--in the Motomachi, only ten squares away. Sec. 5 The curious narrow street is one long blaze of lights--lights of lantern signs, lights of torches and lamps illuminating unfamiliar rows of little stands and booths set out in the thoroughfare before all the shop-fronts on each side; making two far-converging lines of multi-coloured fire. Between these moves a dense throng, filling the night with a clatter of geta that drowns even the tide-like murmuring of voices and the cries of the merchant. But how gentle the movement!-- there is no jostling, no rudeness; everybody, even the weakest and smallest, has a chance to see everything; and there are many things to see. 'Hasu-no-hana!--hasu-no-hana!' Here are the venders of lotus-flowers for the tombs and the altars, of lotus leaves in which to wrap the food of the beloved ghosts. The leaves, folded into bundles, are heaped upon tiny tables; the lotus-flowers, buds and blossoms intermingled, are fixed upright in immense bunches, supported by light frames of bamboo. 'Ogara!--ogara-ya! White sheaves of long peeled rods. These are hemp-sticks. The thinner ends can be broken up into hashi for the use of the ghosts; the rest must be consumed in the mukaebi. Rightly all these sticks should be made of pine; but pine is too scarce and dear for the poor folk of this district, so the ogara are substituted. 'Kawarake!--kawarake-ya!' The dishes of the ghosts: small red shallow platters of unglazed earthenware; primeval pottery suku-makemasu!' Eh! what is all this? A little booth shaped like a sentry-box, all made of laths, covered with a red-and-white chess pattern of paper; and out of this frail structure issues a shrilling keen as the sound of leaking steam. 'Oh, that is only insects,' says Akira, laughing; 'nothing to do with the Bonku.' Insects, yes!--in cages! The shrilling is made by scores of huge green crickets, each prisoned in a tiny bamboo cage by itself. 'They are fed with eggplant and melon rind,' continues Akira, 'and sold to children to play with.' And there are also beautiful little cages full of fireflies--cages covered with brown mosquito-netting, upon each of which some simple but very pretty design in bright colours has been dashed by a Japanese brush. One cricket and cage, two cents. Fifteen fireflies and cage, five cents. Here on a street corner squats a blue-robed boy behind a low wooden table, selling wooden boxes about as big as match-boxes, with red paper hinges. Beside the piles of these little boxes on the table are shallow dishes filled with clear water, in which extraordinary thin flat shapes are floating--shapes of flowers, trees, birds, boats, men, and women. Open a box; it costs only two cents. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, are bundles of little pale sticks, like round match-sticks, with pink ends. Drop one into the water, it instantly unrolls and expands into the likeness of a lotus-flower. Another transforms itself into a fish. A third becomes a boat. A fourth changes to an owl. A fifth becomes a tea-plant, covered with leaves and blossoms. . . . So delicate are these things that, once immersed, you cannot handle them without breaking them. They are made of seaweed. 'Tsukuri hana!--tsukuri-hana-wa-irimasenka?' The sellers of artificial flowers, marvellous chrysanthemums and lotus-plants of paper, imitations of bud and leaf and flower so cunningly wrought that the eye alone cannot detect the beautiful trickery. It is only right that these should cost much more than their living counterparts. Sec. 6 High above the thronging and the clamour and the myriad fires of the merchants, the great Shingon temple at the end of the radiant street towers upon its hill against the starry night, weirdly, like a dream--strangely illuminated by rows of paper lanterns hung all along its curving eaves; and the flowing of the crowd bears me thither. Out of the broad entrance, over a dark gliding mass which I know to be heads and shoulders of crowding worshippers, beams a broad band of yellow light; and before reaching the lion-guarded steps I hear the continuous clanging of the temple gong, each clang the signal of an offering and a prayer. Doubtless a cataract of cash is pouring into the great alms-chest; for to-night is the Festival of Yakushi-Nyorai, the Physician of Souls. Borne to the steps at last, I find myself able to halt a moment, despite the pressure of the throng, before the stand of a lantern-seller selling the most beautiful lanterns that I have ever seen. Each is a gigantic lotus-flower of paper, so perfectly made in every detail as to seem a great living blossom freshly plucked; the petals are crimson at their bases, paling to white at their tips; the calyx is a faultless mimicry of nature, and beneath it hangs a beautiful fringe of paper cuttings, coloured with the colours of the flower, green below the calyx, white in the middle, crimson at the ends. In the heart of the blossom is set a microscopic oil-lamp of baked clay; and this being lighted, all the flower becomes luminous, diaphanous--a lotus of white and crimson fire. There is a slender gilded wooden hoop by which to hang it up, and the price is four cents! How can people afford to make such things for four cents, even in this country of astounding cheapness? Akira is trying to tell me something about the hyaku-hachino-mukaebi, the Hundred and Eight Fires, to be lighted to-morrow evening, which bear some figurative relation unto the Hundred and Eight Foolish Desires; but I cannot hear him for the clatter of the geta and the komageta, the wooden clogs and wooden sandals of the worshippers ascending to the shrine of Yakushi-Nyorai. The light straw sandals of the poorer men, the zori and the waraji, are silent; the great clatter is really made by the delicate feet of women and girls, balancing themselves carefully upon their noisy geta. And most of these little feet are clad with spotless tabi, white as a white lotus. White feet of little blue-robed mothers they mostly are--mothers climbing patiently and smilingly, with pretty placid babies at their backs, up the hill to Buddha. And while through the tinted lantern light I wander on with the gentle noisy people, up the great steps of stone, between other displays of lotus-blossoms, between other high hedgerows of paper flowers, my thought suddenly goes back to the little broken shrine in the poor woman's room, with the humble playthings hanging before it, and the laughing, twirling mask of Otafuku. I see the happy, funny little eyes, oblique and silky-shadowed like Otafuku's own, which used to look at those toys,--toys in which the fresh child-senses found a charm that I can but faintly divine, a delight hereditary, ancestral. I see the tender little creature being borne, as it was doubtless borne many times, through just such a peaceful throng as this, in just such a lukewarm, luminous night, peeping over the mother's shoulder, softly clinging at her neck with tiny hands. Somewhere among this multitude she is--the mother. She will feel again to-night the faint touch of little hands, yet will not turn her head to look and laugh, as in other days. Chapter Six Bon-odori Sec. 1 Over the mountains to Izumo, the land of the Kamiyo, [1] the land of the Ancient Gods. A journey of four days by kuruma, with strong runners, from the Pacific to the Sea of Japan; for we have taken the longest and least frequented route. Through valleys most of this long route lies, valleys always open to higher valleys, while the road ascends, valleys between mountains with rice-fields ascending their slopes by successions of diked terraces which look like enormous green flights of steps. Above them are shadowing sombre forests of cedar and pine; and above these wooded summits loom indigo shapes of farther hills overtopped by peaked silhouettes of vapoury grey. The air is lukewarm and windless; and distances are gauzed by delicate mists; and in this tenderest of blue skies, this Japanese sky which always seems to me loftier than any other sky which I ever saw, there are only, day after day, some few filmy, spectral, diaphanous white wandering things: like ghosts of clouds, riding on the wind. But sometimes, as the road ascends, the rice-fields disappear a while: fields of barley and of indigo, and of rye and of cotton, fringe the route for a little space; and then it plunges into forest shadows. Above all else, the forests of cedar sometimes bordering the way are astonishments; never outside of the tropics did I see any growths comparable for density and perpendicularity with these. Every trunk is straight and bare as a pillar: the whole front presents the spectacle of an immeasurable massing of pallid columns towering up into a cloud of sombre foliage so dense that one can distinguish nothing overhead but branchings lost in shadow. And the profundities beyond the rare gaps in the palisade of blanched trunks are night-black, as in Dore's pictures of fir woods. No more great towns; only thatched villages nestling in the folds of the hills, each with its Buddhist temple, lifting a tilted roof of blue-grey tiles above the congregation of thatched homesteads, and its miya, or Shinto shrine, with a torii before it like a great ideograph shaped in stone or wood. But Buddhism still dominates; every hilltop has its tera; and the statues of Buddhas or of Bodhisattvas appear by the roadside, as we travel on, with the regularity of milestones. Often a village tera is so large that the cottages of the rustic folk about it seem like little out-houses; and the traveller wonders how so costly an edifice of prayer can be supported by a community so humble. And everywhere the signs of the gentle faith appear: its ideographs and symbols are chiselled upon the faces of the rocks; its icons smile upon you from every shadowy recess by the way; even the very landscape betimes would seem to have been moulded by the soul of it, where hills rise softly as a prayer. And the summits of some are domed like the head of Shaka, and the dark bossy frondage that clothes them might seem the clustering of his curls. But gradually, with the passing of the days, as we journey into the loftier west, I see fewer and fewer tera. Such Buddhist temples as we pass appear small and poor; and the wayside images become rarer and rarer. But the symbols of Shinto are more numerous, and the structure of its miya larger and loftier. And the torii are visible everywhere, and tower higher, before the approaches to villages, before the entrances of courts guarded by strangely grotesque lions and foxes of stone, and before stairways of old mossed rock, upsloping, between dense growths of ancient cedar and pine, to shrines that moulder in the twilight of holy groves. At one little village I see, just beyond, the torii leading to a great Shinto temple, a particularly odd small shrine, and feel impelled by curiosity to examine it. Leaning against its closed doors are many short gnarled sticks in a row, miniature clubs. Irreverently removing these, and opening the little doors, Akira bids me look within. I see only a mask--the mask of a goblin, a Tengu, grotesque beyond description, with an enormous nose--so grotesque that I feel remorse for having looked at it. The sticks are votive offerings. By dedicating one to the shrine, it is believed that the Tengu may be induced to drive one's enemies away. Goblin-shaped though they appear in all Japanese paintings and carvings of them, the Tengu-Sama are divinities, lesser divinities, lords of the art of fencing and the use of all weapons. And other changes gradually become manifest. Akira complains that he can no longer understand the language of the people. We are traversing regions of dialects. The houses are also architecturally different from those of the country-folk of the north-east; their high thatched roofs are curiously decorated with bundles of straw fastened to a pole of bamboo parallel with the roof-ridge, and elevated about a foot above it. The complexion of the peasantry is darker than in the north-east; and I see no more of those charming rosy faces one observes among the women of the Tokyo districts. And the peasants wear different hats, hats pointed like the straw roofs of those little wayside temples curiously enough called an (which means a straw hat). The weather is more than warm, rendering clothing oppressive; and as we pass through the little villages along the road, I see much healthy cleanly nudity: pretty naked children; brown men and boys with only a soft narrow white cloth about their loins, asleep on the matted floors, all the paper screens of the houses having been removed to admit the breeze. The men seem to be lightly and supply built; but I see no saliency of muscles; the lines of the figure are always smooth. Before almost every dwelling, indigo, spread out upon little mats of rice straw, may be seen drying in the sun. The country-folk gaze wonderingly at the foreigner. At various places where we halt, old men approach to touch my clothes, apologising with humble bows and winning smiles for their very natural curiosity, and asking my interpreter all sorts of odd questions. Gentler and kindlier faces I never beheld; and they reflect the souls behind them; never yet have I heard a voice raised in anger, nor observed an unkindly act. And each day, as we travel, the country becomes more beautiful--beautiful with that fantasticality of landscape only to be found in volcanic lands. But for the dark forests of cedar and pine, and this far faint dreamy sky, and the soft whiteness of the light, there are moments of our journey when I could fancy myself again in the West Indies, ascending some winding way over the mornes of Dominica or of Martinique. And, indeed, I find myself sometimes looking against the horizon glow for shapes of palms and ceibas. But the brighter green of the valleys and of the mountain-slopes beneath the woods is not the green of young cane, but of rice-fields--thousands upon thousands of tiny rice-fields no larger than cottage gardens, separated from each other by narrow serpentine dikes. Sec. 2 In the very heart of a mountain range, while rolling along the verge of a precipice above rice-fields, I catch sight of a little shrine in a cavity of the cliff overhanging the way, and halt to examine it. The sides and sloping roof of the shrine are formed by slabs of unhewn rock. Within smiles a rudely chiselled image of Bato-Kwannon--Kwannon-with-the-Horse's-Head--and before it bunches of wild flowers have been placed, and an earthen incense-cup, and scattered offerings of dry rice. Contrary to the idea suggested by the strange name, this form of Kwannon is not horse-headed; but the head of a horse is sculptured upon the tiara worn by the divinity. And the symbolism is fully explained by a large wooden sotoba planted beside the shrine, and bearing, among other inscriptions, the words, 'Bato Kwan-ze-on Bosatsu, giu ba bodai han ye.' For Bato-Kwannon protects the horses and the cattle of the peasant; and he prays her not only that his dumb servants may be preserved from sickness, but also that their spirits may enter after death, into a happier state of existence. Near the sotoba there has been erected a wooden framework about four feet square, filled with little tablets of pine set edge to edge so as to form one smooth surface; and on these are written, in rows of hundreds, the names of all who subscribed for the statue and its shrine. The number announced is ten thousand. But the whole cost could not have exceeded ten Japanese dollars (yen); wherefore I surmise that each subscriber gave not more than one rin--one tenth of one sen, or cent. For the hyakusho are unspeakably poor. [2] In the midst of these mountain solitudes, the discovery of that little shrine creates a delightful sense of security. Surely nothing save goodness can be expected from a people gentle-hearted enough to pray for the souls of their horses and cows. [3] As we proceed rapidly down a slope, my kurumaya swerves to one side with a suddenness that gives me a violent start, for the road overlooks a sheer depth of several hundred feet. It is merely to avoid hurting a harmless snake making its way across the path. The snake is so little afraid that on reaching the edge of the road it turns its head to look after us. Sec. 3 And now strange signs begin to appear in all these rice-fields: I see everywhere, sticking up above the ripening grain, objects like white-feathered arrows. Arrows of prayer! I take one up to examine it. The shaft is a thin bamboo, split down for about one-third of its length; into the slit a strip of strong white paper with ideographs upon it--an ofuda, a Shinto charm--is inserted; and the separated ends of the cane are then rejoined and tied together just above it. The whole, at a little distance, has exactly the appearance of a long, light, well-feathered arrow. That which I first examine bears the words, 'Yu-Asaki-jinja-kozen-son-chu-an-zen' (From the God whose shrine is before the Village of Peace). Another reads, 'Mihojinja-sho-gwan-jo-ju-go-kito-shugo,' signifying that the Deity of the temple Miho-jinja granteth fully every supplication made unto him. Everywhere, as we proceed, I see the white arrows of prayer glimmering above the green level of the grain; and always they become more numerous. Far as the eye can reach the fields are sprinkled with them, so that they make upon the verdant surface a white speckling as of flowers. Sometimes, also, around a little rice-field, I see a sort of magical fence, formed by little bamboo rods supporting a long cord from which long straws hang down, like a fringe, and paper cuttings, which are symbols (gohei) are suspended at regular intervals. This is the shimenawa, sacred emblem of Shinto. Within the consecrated space inclosed by it no blight may enter--no scorching sun wither the young shoots. And where the white arrows glimmer the locust shall not prevail, nor shall hungry birds do evil. But now I look in vain for the Buddhas. No more great tera, no Shaka, no Amida, no Dai-Nichi-Nyorai; even the Bosatsu have been left behind. Kwannon and her holy kin have disappeared; Koshin, Lord of Roads, is indeed yet with us; but he has changed his name and become a Shinto deity: he is now Saruda-hiko-no-mikoto; and his presence is revealed only by the statues of the Three Mystic Apes which are his servants--Mizaru, who sees no evil, covering his eyes with his hands, Kikazaru, who hears no evil, covering his ears with his hands. Iwazaru, who speaks no evil, covering his mouth with his hands. Yet no! one Bosatsu survives in this atmosphere of magical Shinto: still by the roadside I see at long intervals the image of Jizo-Sama, the charming playfellow of dead children. But Jizo also is a little changed; even in his sextuple representation, [4] the Roku-Jizo, he appears not standing, but seated upon his lotus-flower, and I see no stones piled up before him, as in the eastern provinces. Sec. 4 At last, from the verge of an enormous ridge, the roadway suddenly slopes down into a vista of high peaked roofs of thatch and green-mossed eaves--into a village like a coloured print out of old Hiroshige's picture-books, a village with all its tints and colours precisely like the tints and colours of the landscape in which it lies. This is Kami-Ichi, in the land of Hoki. We halt before a quiet, dingy little inn, whose host, a very aged man, comes forth to salute me; while a silent, gentle crowd of villagers, mostly children and women, gather about the kuruma to see the stranger, to wonder at him, even to touch his clothes with timid smiling curiosity. One glance at the face of the old innkeeper decides me to accept his invitation. I must remain here until to-morrow: my runners are too wearied to go farther to-night. Weather-worn as the little inn seemed without, it is delightful within. Its polished stairway and balconies are speckless, reflecting like mirror-surfaces the bare feet of the maid-servants; its luminous rooms are fresh and sweet-smelling as when their soft mattings were first laid down. The carven pillars of the alcove (toko) in my chamber, leaves and flowers chiselled in some black rich wood, are wonders; and the kakemono or scroll-picture hanging there is an idyll, Hotei, God of Happiness, drifting in a bark down some shadowy stream into evening mysteries of vapoury purple. Far as this hamlet is from all art-centres, there is no object visible in the house which does not reveal the Japanese sense of beauty in form. The old gold-flowered lacquer-ware, the astonishing box in which sweetmeats (kwashi) are kept, the diaphanous porcelain wine-cups dashed with a single tiny gold figure of a leaping shrimp, the tea-cup holders which are curled lotus-leaves of bronze, even the iron kettle with its figurings of dragons and clouds, and the brazen hibachi whose handles are heads of Buddhist lions, delight the eye and surprise the fancy. Indeed, wherever to-day in Japan one sees something totally uninteresting in porcelain or metal, something commonplace and ugly, one may be almost sure that detestable something has been shaped under foreign influence. But here I am in ancient Japan; probably no European eyes ever looked upon these things before. A window shaped like a heart peeps out upon the garden, a wonderful little garden with a tiny pond and miniature bridges and dwarf trees, like the landscape of a tea-cup; also some shapely stones of course, and some graceful stone-lanterns, or toro, such as are placed in the courts of temples. And beyond these, through the warm dusk, I see lights, coloured lights, the lanterns of the Bonku, suspended before each home to welcome the coming of beloved ghosts; for by the antique calendar, according to which in this antique place the reckoning of time is still made, this is the first night of the Festival of the Dead. As in all the other little country villages where I have been stopping, I find the people here kind to me with a kindness and a courtesy unimaginable, indescribable, unknown in any other country, and even in Japan itself only in the interior. Their simple politeness is not an art; their goodness is absolutely unconscious goodness; both come straight from the heart. And before I have been two hours among these people, their treatment of me, coupled with the sense of my utter inability to repay such kindness, causes a wicked wish to come into my mind. I wish these charming folk would do me some unexpected wrong, something surprisingly evil, something atrociously unkind, so that I should not be obliged to regret them, which I feel sure I must begin to do as soon as I go away. While the aged landlord conducts me to the bath, where he insists upon washing me himself as if I were a child, the wife prepares for us a charming little repast of rice, eggs, vegetables, and sweetmeats. She is painfully in doubt about her ability to please me, even after I have eaten enough for two men, and apologises too much for not being able to offer me more. 'There is no fish,' she says, 'for to-day is the first day of the Bonku, the Festival of the Dead; being the thirteenth day of the month. On the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth of the month nobody may eat fish. But on the morning of the sixteenth day, the fishermen go out to catch fish; and everybody who has both parents living may eat of it. But if one has lost one's father or mother then one must not eat fish, even upon the sixteenth day.' While the good soul is thus explaining I become aware of a strange remote sound from without, a sound I recognise through memory of tropical dances, a measured clapping of hands. But this clapping is very soft and at long intervals. And at still longer intervals there comes to us a heavy muffled booming, the tap of a great drum, a temple drum. 'Oh! we must go to see it,' cries Akira; 'it is the Bon-odori, the Dance of the Festival of the Dead. And you will see the Bon-odori danced here as it is never danced in cities--the Bon-odori of ancient days. For customs have not changed here; but in the cities all is changed.' So I hasten out, wearing only, like the people about me, one of those light wide-sleeved summer robes--yukata--which are furnished to male guests at all Japanese hotels; but the air is so warm that even thus lightly clad, I find myself slightly perspiring. And the night is divine, still, clear, vaster than nights of Europe, with a big white moon flinging down queer shadows of tilted eaves and horned gables and delightful silhouettes of robed Japanese. A little boy, the grandson of our host, leads the way with a crimson paper lantern; and the sonorous echoing of geta, the koro-koro of wooden sandals, fills all the street, for many are going whither we are going, to see the dance. A little while we proceed along the main street; then, traversing a narrow passage between two houses, we find ourselves in a great open space flooded by moonlight. This is the dancing-place; but the dance has ceased for a time. Looking about me, I perceive that we are in the court of an ancient Buddhist temple. The temple building itself remains intact, a low long peaked silhouette against the starlight; but it is void and dark and unhallowed now; it has been turned, they tell me, into a schoolhouse. The priests are gone; the great bell is gone; the Buddhas and the Bodhisattvas have vanished, all save one--a broken-handed Jizo of stone, smiling with eyelids closed, under the moon. In the centre of the court is a framework of bamboo supporting a great drum; and about it benches have been arranged, benches from the schoolhouse, on which villagers are resting. There is a hum of voices, voices of people speaking very low, as if expecting something solemn; and cries of children betimes, and soft laughter of girls. And far behind the court, beyond a low hedge of sombre evergreen shrubs, I see soft white lights and a host of tall grey shapes throwing long shadows; and I know that the lights are the white lanterns of the dead (those hung in cemeteries only), and that the grey shapes are shapes of tombs. Suddenly a girl rises from her seat, and taps the huge drum once. It is the signal for the Dance of Souls. Sec. 5 Out of the shadow of the temple a processional line of dancers files into the moonlight and as suddenly halts--all young women or girls, clad in their choicest attire; the tallest leads; her comrades follow in order of stature; little maids of ten or twelve years compose the end of the procession. Figures lightly poised as birds--figures that somehow recall the dreams of shapes circling about certain antique vases; those charming Japanese robes, close-clinging about the knees, might seem, but for the great fantastic drooping sleeves, and the curious broad girdles confining them, designed after the drawing of some Greek or Etruscan artist. And, at another tap of the drum, there begins a performance impossible to picture in words, something unimaginable, phantasmal--a dance, an astonishment. All together glide the right foot forward one pace, without lifting the sandal from the ground, and extend both hands to the right, with a strange floating motion and a smiling, mysterious obeisance. Then the right foot is drawn back, with a repetition of the waving of hands and the mysterious bow. Then all advance the left foot and repeat the previous movements, half-turning to the left. Then all take two gliding paces forward, with a single simultaneous soft clap of the hands, and the first performance is reiterated, alternately to right and left; all the sandalled feet gliding together, all the supple hands waving together, all the pliant bodies bowing and swaying together. And so slowly, weirdly, the processional movement changes into a great round, circling about the moonlit court and around the voiceless crowd of spectators. [5] And always the white hands sinuously wave together, as if weaving spells, alternately without and within the round, now with palms upward, now with palms downward; and all the elfish sleeves hover duskily together, with a shadowing as of wings; and all the feet poise together with such a rhythm of complex motion, that, in watching it, one feels a sensation of hypnotism--as while striving to watch a flowing and shimmering of water. And this soporous allurement is intensified by a dead hush. No one speaks, not even a spectator. And, in the long intervals between the soft clapping of hands, one hears only the shrilling of the crickets in the trees, and the shu-shu of sandals, lightly stirring the dust. Unto what, I ask myself, may this be likened? Unto nothing; yet it suggests some fancy of somnambulism--dreamers, who dream themselves flying, dreaming upon their feet. And there comes to me the thought that I am looking at something immemorially old, something belonging to the unrecorded beginnings of this Oriental life, perhaps to the crepuscular Kamiyo itself, to the magical Age of the Gods; a symbolism of motion whereof the meaning has been forgotten for innumerable years. Yet more and more unreal the spectacle appears, with its silent smilings, with its silent bowings, as if obeisance to watchers invisible; and I find myself wondering whether, were I to utter but a whisper, all would not vanish for ever save the grey mouldering court and the desolate temple, and the broken statue of Jizo, smiling always the same mysterious smile I see upon the faces of the dancers. Under the wheeling moon, in the midst of the round, I feel as one within the circle of a charm. And verily this is enchantment; I am bewitched, bewitched by the ghostly weaving of hands, by the rhythmic gliding of feet, above all by the flitting of the marvellous sleeves--apparitional, soundless, velvety as a flitting of great tropical bats. No; nothing I ever dreamed of could be likened to this. And with the consciousness of the ancient hakaba behind me, and the weird invitation of its lanterns, and the ghostly beliefs of the hour and the place there creeps upon me a nameless, tingling sense of being haunted. But no! these gracious, silent, waving, weaving shapes are not of the Shadowy Folk, for whose coming the white fires were kindled: a strain of song, full of sweet, clear quavering, like the call of a bird, gushes from some girlish mouth, and fifty soft voices join the chant: Sorota soroimashita odorikoga sorota, Soroikite, kita hare yukata. 'Uniform to view [as ears of young rice ripening in the field] all clad alike in summer festal robes, the company of dancers have assembled.' Again only the shrilling of the crickets, the shu-shu of feet, the gentle clapping; and the wavering hovering measure proceeds in silence, with mesmeric lentor--with a strange grace, which, by its very naivete, seems old as the encircling hills. Those who sleep the sleep of centuries out there, under the grey stones where the white lanterns are, and their fathers, and the fathers of their fathers' fathers, and the unknown generations behind them, buried in cemeteries of which the place has been forgotten for a thousand years, doubtless looked upon a scene like this. Nay! the dust stirred by those young feet was human life, and so smiled and so sang under this self-same moon, 'with woven paces, and with waving hands.' Suddenly a deep male chant breaks the hush. Two giants have joined the round, and now lead it, two superb young mountain peasants nearly nude, towering head and shoulders above the whole of the assembly. Their kimono are rolled about their waistilike girdles, leaving their bronzed limbs and torsos naked to the warm air; they wear nothing else save their immense straw hats, and white tabi, donned expressly for the festival. Never before among these people saw I such men, such thews; but their smiling beardless faces are comely and kindly as those of Japanese boys. They seem brothers, so like in frame, in movement, in the timbre of their voices, as they intone the same song: No demo yama demo ko wa umiokeyo, Sen ryo kura yori ko ga takara. 'Whether brought forth upon the mountain or in the field, it matters nothing: more than a treasure of one thousand ryo, a baby precious is.' And Jizo the lover of children's ghosts, smiles across the silence. Souls close to nature's Soul are these; artless and touching their thought, like the worship of that Kishibojin to whom wives pray. And after the silence, the sweet thin voices of the women answer: Oomu otoko ni sowa sanu oya Wa, Qyade gozaranu ko no kataki. 'The parents who will not allow their girl to be united with her lover; they are not the parents, but the enemies of their child.' And song follows song; and the round ever becomes larger; and the hours pass unfelt, unheard, while the moon wheels slowly down the blue steeps of the night. A deep low boom rolls suddenly across the court, the rich tone of some temple bell telling the twelfth hour. Instantly the witchcraft ends, like the wonder of some dream broken by a sound; the chanting ceases; the round dissolves in an outburst of happy laughter, and chatting, and softly-vowelled callings of flower-names which are names of girls, and farewell cries of 'Sayonara!' as dancers and spectators alike betake themselves homeward, with a great koro-koro of getas. And I, moving with the throng, in the bewildered manner of one suddenly roused from sleep, know myself ungrateful. These silvery-laughing folk who now toddle along beside me upon their noisy little clogs, stepping very fast to get a peep at my foreign face, these but a moment ago were visions of archaic grace, illusions of necromancy, delightful phantoms; and I feel a vague resentment against them for thus materialising into simple country-girls. Sec. 6 Lying down to rest, I ask myself the reason of the singular emotion inspired by that simple peasant-chorus. Utterly impossible to recall the air, with its fantastic intervals and fractional tones--as well attempt to fix in memory the purlings of a bird; but the indefinable charm of it lingers with me still. Melodies of Europe awaken within us feelings we can utter, sensations familiar as mother-speech, inherited from all the generations behind us. But how explain the emotion evoked by a primitive chant totally unlike anything in Western melody,--impossible even to write in those tones which are the ideographs of our music-tongue? And the emotion itself--what is it? I know not; yet I feel it to be something infinitely more old than I--something not of only one place or time, but vibrant to all common joy or pain of being, under the universal sun. Then I wonder if the secret does not lie in some untaught spontaneous harmony of that chant with Nature's most ancient song, in some unconscious kinship to the music of solitudes--all trillings of summer life that blend to make the great sweet Cry of the Land. Chapter Seven The Chief City of the Province of the Gods Sec. 1 THE first of the noises of a Matsue day comes to the sleeper like the throbbing of a slow, enormous pulse exactly under his ear. It is a great, soft, dull buffet of sound--like a heartbeat in its regularity, in its muffled depth, in the way it quakes up through one's pillow so as to be felt rather than heard. It is simply the pounding of the ponderous pestle of the kometsuki, the cleaner of rice--a sort of colossal wooden mallet with a handle about fifteen feet long horizontally balanced on a pivot. By treading with all his force on the end of the handle, the naked kometsuki elevates the pestle, which is then allowed to fall back by its own weight into the rice-tub. The measured muffled echoing of its fall seems to me the most pathetic of all sounds of Japanese life; it is the beating, indeed, of the Pulse of the Land. Then the boom of the great bell of Tokoji the Zenshu temple, shakes over the town; then come melancholy echoes of drumming from the tiny little temple of Jizo in the street Zaimokucho, near my house, signalling the Buddhist hour of morning prayer. And finally the cries of the earliest itinerant venders begin--'Daikoyai! kabuya-kabu!'--the sellers of daikon and other strange vegetables. 'Moyaya-moya!'--the plaintive call of the women who sell little thin slips of kindling-wood for the lighting of charcoal fires. Sec. 2 Roused thus by these earliest sounds of the city's wakening life, I slide open my little Japanese paper window to look out upon the morning over a soft green cloud of spring foliage rising from the river-bounded garden below. Before me, tremulously mirroring everything upon its farther side, glimmers the broad glassy mouth of the Ohashigawa, opening into the grand Shinji Lake, which spreads out broadly to the right in a dim grey frame of peaks. Just opposite to me, across the stream, the blue-pointed Japanese dwellings have their to [1] all closed; they are still shut up like boxes, for it is not yet sunrise, although it is day. But oh, the charm of the vision--those first ghostly love-colours of a morning steeped in mist soft as sleep itself resolved into a visible exhalation! Long reaches of faintly-tinted vapour cloud the far lake verge--long nebulous bands, such as you may have seen in old Japanese picture-books, and must have deemed only artistic whimsicalities unless you had previously looked upon the real phenomena. All the bases of the mountains are veiled by them, and they stretch athwart the loftier peaks at different heights like immeasurable lengths of gauze (this singular appearance the Japanese term 'shelving'), [2] so that the lake appears incomparably larger than it really is, and not an actual lake, but a beautiful spectral sea of the same tint as the dawn-sky and mixing with it, while peak-tips rise like islands from the brume, and visionary strips of hill-ranges figure as league-long causeways stretching out of sight--an exquisite chaos, ever-changing aspect as the delicate fogs rise, slowly, very slowly. As the sun's yellow rim comes into sight, fine thin lines of warmer tone--spectral violets and opalines--shoot across the flood, treetops take tender fire, and the unpainted façades of high edifices across the water change their wood-colour to vapoury gold through the delicious haze. Looking sunward, up the long Ohashigawa, beyond the many-pillared wooden bridge, one high-pooped junk, just hoisting sail, seems to me the most fantastically beautiful craft I ever saw--a dream of Orient seas, so idealised by the vapour is it; the ghost of a junk, but a ghost that catches the light as clouds do; a shape of gold mist, seemingly semi-diaphanous, and suspended in pale blue light. Sec. 3 And now from the river-front touching my garden there rises to me a sound of clapping of hand,--one, two, three, four claps,--but the owner of the hands is screened from view by the shrubbery. At the same time, however, I see men and women descending the stone steps of the wharves on the opposite side of the Ohashigawa, all with little blue towels tucked into their girdles. They wash their faces and hands and rinse their mouths--the customary ablution preliminary to Shinto prayer. Then they turn their faces to the sunrise and clap their hands four times and pray. From the long high white bridge come other clappings, like echoes, and others again from far light graceful craft, curved like new moons--extraordinary boats, in which I see bare-limbed fishermen standing with foreheads bowed to the golden East. Now the clappings multiply--multiply at last into an almost continuous volleying of sharp sounds. For all the population are saluting the rising sun, O-Hi-San, the Lady of Fire--Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami, the Lady of the Great Light. [3] 'Konnichi-Sama! Hail this day to thee, divinest Day-Maker! Thanks unutterable unto thee, for this thy sweet light, making beautiful the world!' So, doubt-less, the thought, if not the utterance, of countless hearts. Some turn to the sun only, clapping their hands; yet many turn also to the West, to holy Kitzuki, the immemorial shrine and not a few turn their faces successively to all the points of heaven, murmuring the names of a hundred gods; and others, again, after having saluted the Lady of Fire, look toward high Ichibata, toward the place of the great temple of Yakushi Nyorai, who giveth sight to the blind--not clapping their hands as in Shinto worship, but only rubbing the palms softly together after the Buddhist manner. But all--for in this most antique province of Japan all Buddhists are Shintoists likewise--utter the archaic words of Shinto prayer: 'Harai tamai kiyome tamai to Kami imi tami.' Prayer to the most ancient gods who reigned before the coming of the Buddha, and who still reign here in their own Izumo-land,--in the Land of Reed Plains, in the Place of the Issuing of Clouds; prayer to the deities of primal chaos and primeval sea and of the beginnings of the world--strange gods with long weird names, kindred of U-hiji-ni-no-Kami, the First Mud-Lord, kindred of Su-hiji-ni-no-Kanii, the First Sand-Lady; prayer to those who came after them--the gods of strength and beauty, the world-fashioners, makers of the mountains and the isles, ancestors of those sovereigns whose lineage still is named 'The Sun's Succession'; prayer to the Three Thousand Gods 'residing within the provinces,' and to the Eight Hundred Myriads who dwell in the azure Takamano-hara--in the blue Plain of High Heaven. 'Nippon-koku-chu-yaoyorozu-no-Kami-gami-sama!' Sec. 4 'Ho--ke-kyo!' My uguisu is awake at last, and utters his morning prayer. You do not know what an uguisu is? An uguisu is a holy little bird that professes Buddhism. All uguisu have professed Buddhism from time immemorial; all uguisu preach alike to men the excellence of the divine Sutra. 'Ho--ke-kyo!' In the Japanese tongue, Ho-ke-kyo; in Sanscrit, Saddharma Pundarika: 'The Sutra of the Lotus of the Good Law,' the divine book of the Nichiren sect. Very brief, indeed, is my little feathered Buddhist's confession of faith--only the sacred name reiterated over and over again like a litany, with liquid bursts of twittering between. 'Ho--ke-kyo!' Only this one phrase, but how deliciously he utters it! With what slow amorous ecstasy he dwells upon its golden syllables! It hath been written: 'He who shall keep, read, teach, or write this Sutra shall obtain eight hundred good qualities of the Eye. He shall see the whole Triple Universe down to the great hell Aviki, and up to the extremity of existence. He shall obtain twelve hundred good qualities of the Ear. He shall hear all sounds in the Triple Universe,--sounds of gods, goblins, demons, and beings not human.' 'Ho--ke-kyo!' A single word only. But it is also written: 'He who shall joyfully accept but a single word from this Sutra, incalculably greater shall be his merit than the merit of one who should supply all beings in the four hundred thousand Asankhyeyas of worlds with all the necessaries for happiness.' 'Ho--ke-kyo!' Always he makes a reverent little pause after uttering it and before shrilling out his ecstatic warble--his bird-hymn of praise. First the warble; then a pause of about five seconds; then a slow, sweet, solemn utterance of the holy name in a tone as of meditative wonder; then another pause; then another wild, rich, passionate warble. Could you see him, you would marvel how so powerful and penetrating a soprano could ripple from so minute a throat; for he is one of the very tiniest of all feathered singers, yet his chant can be heard far across the broad river, and children going to school pause daily on the bridge, a whole cho away, to listen to his song. And uncomely withal: a neutral-tinted mite, almost lost in his immense box-cage of hinoki wood, darkened with paper screens over its little wire-grated windows, for he loves the gloom. Delicate he is and exacting even to tyranny. All his diet must be laboriously triturated and weighed in scales, and measured out to him at precisely the same hour each day. It demands all possible care and attention merely to keep him alive. He is precious, nevertheless. 'Far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of him,' so rare he is. Indeed, I could not have afforded to buy him. He was sent to me by one of the sweetest ladies in Japan, daughter of the governor of Izumo, who, thinking the foreign teacher might feel lonesome during a brief illness, made him the exquisite gift of this dainty creature. Sec. 5 The clapping of hands has ceased; the toil of the day begins; continually louder and louder the pattering of geta over the bridge. It is a sound never to be forgotten, this pattering of geta over the Ohashi--rapid, merry, musical, like the sound of an enormous dance; and a dance it veritably is. The whole population is moving on tiptoe, and the multitudinous twinkling of feet over the verge of the sunlit roadway is an astonishment. All those feet are small, symmetrical--light as the feet of figures painted on Greek vases--and the step is always taken toes first; indeed, with geta it could be taken no other way, for the heel touches neither the geta nor the ground, and the foot is tilted forward by the wedge-shaped wooden sole. Merely to stand upon a pair of geta is difficult for one unaccustomed to their use, yet you see Japanese children running at full speed in geta with soles at least three inches high, held to the foot only by a forestrap fastened between the great toe and the other toes, and they never trip and the geta never falls off. Still more curious is the spectacle of men walking in bokkuri or takageta, a wooden sole with wooden supports at least five inches high fitted underneath it so as to make the whole structure seem the lacquered model of a wooden bench. But the wearers stride as freely as if they had nothing upon their feet. Now children begin to appear, hurrying to school. The undulation of the wide sleeves of their pretty speckled robes, as they run, looks precisely like a fluttering of extraordinary butterflies. The junks spread their great white or yellow wings, and the funnels of the little steamers which have been slumbering all night by the wharves begin to smoke. One of the tiny lake steamers lying at the opposite wharf has just opened its steam-throat to utter the most unimaginable, piercing, desperate, furious howl. When that cry is heard everybody laughs. The other little steamboats utter only plaintive mooings, but unto this particular vessel--newly built and launched by a rival company--there has been given a voice expressive to the most amazing degree of reckless hostility and savage defiance. The good people of Matsue, upon hearing its voice for the first time, gave it forthwith a new and just name--Okami-Maru. 'Maru' signifies a steamship. 'Okami' signifies a wolf. Sec. 6 A very curious little object now comes slowly floating down the river, and I do not think that you could possibly guess what it is. The Hotoke, or Buddhas, and the beneficent Kami are not the only divinities worshipped by the Japanese of the poorer classes. The deities of evil, or at least some of them, are duly propitiated upon certain occasions, and requited by offerings whenever they graciously vouchsafe to inflict a temporary ill instead of an irremediable misfortune. [4] (After all, this is no more irrational than the thanksgiving prayer at the close of the hurricane season in the West Indies, after the destruction by storm of twenty-two thousand lives.) So men sometimes pray to Ekibiogami, the God of Pestilence, and to Kaze-no-Kami, the God of Wind and of Bad Colds, and to Hoso-no-Kami, the God of Smallpox, and to divers evil genii. Now when a person is certainly going to get well of smallpox a feast is given to the Hoso-no-Kami, much as a feast is given to the Fox-God when a possessing fox has promised to allow himself to be cast out. Upon a sando-wara, or small straw mat, such as is used to close the end of a rice-bale, one or more kawarake, or small earthenware vessels, are placed. These are filled with a preparation of rice and red beans, called adzukimeshi, whereof both Inari-Sama and Hoso-no-Kami are supposed to be very fond. Little bamboo wands with gohei (paper cuttings) fastened to them are then planted either in the mat or in the adzukimeshi, and the colour of these gohei must be red. (Be it observed that the gohei of other Kami are always white.) This offering is then either suspended to a tree, or set afloat in some running stream at a considerable distance from the home of the convalescent. This is called 'seeing the God off.' Sec. 7 The long white bridge with its pillars of iron is recognisably modern. It was, in fact, opened to the public only last spring with great ceremony. According to some most ancient custom, when a new bridge has been built the first persons to pass over it must be the happiest of the community. So the authorities of Matsue sought for the happiest folk, and selected two aged men who had both been married for more than half a century, and who had had not less than twelve children, and had never lost any of them. These good patriarchs first crossed the bridge, accompanied by their venerable wives, and followed by their grown-up children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, amidst a great clamour of rejoicing, the showering of fireworks, and the firing of cannon. But the ancient bridge so recently replaced by this structure was much more picturesque, curving across the flood and supported upon multitudinous feet, like a long-legged centipede of the innocuous kind. For three hundred years it had stood over the stream firmly and well, and it had its particular tradition. When Horio Yoshiharu, the great general who became daimyo of Izumo in the Keicho era, first undertook to put a bridge over the mouth of this river, the builders laboured in vain; for there appeared to be no solid bottom for the pillars of the bridge to rest upon. Millions of great stones were cast into the river to no purpose, for the work constructed by day was swept away or swallowed up by night. Nevertheless, at last the bridge was built, but the pillars began to sink soon after it was finished; then a flood carried half of it away and as often as it was repaired so often it was wrecked. Then a human sacrifice was made to appease the vexed spirits of the flood. A man was buried alive in the river-bed below the place of the middle pillar, where the current is most treacherous, and thereafter the bridge remained immovable for three hundred years. This victim was one Gensuke, who had lived in the street Saikamachi; for it had been determined that the first man who should cross the bridge wearing hakama without a machi [5] should be put under the bridge; and Gensuke sought to pass over not having a machi in his hakama, so they sacrificed him Wherefore the midmost pillar of the bridge was for three hundred years called by his name--Gensuke-bashira. It is averred that upon moonless nights a ghostly fire flitted about that pillar--always in the dead watch hour between two and three; and the colour of the light was red, though I am assured that in Japan, as in other lands, the fires of the dead are most often blue. Sec. 8 Now some say that Gensuke was not the name of a man, but the name of an era, corrupted by local dialect into the semblance of a personal appellation. Yet so profoundly is the legend believed, that when the new bridge was being built thousands of country folk were afraid to come to town; for a rumour arose that a new victim was needed, who was to be chosen from among them, and that it had been determined to make the choice from those who still wore their hair in queues after the ancient manner. Wherefore hundreds of aged men cut off their queues. Then another rumour was circulated to the effect that the police had been secretly instructed to seize the one-thousandth person of those who crossed the new bridge the first day, and to treat him after the manner of Gensuke. And at the time of the great festival of the Rice-God, when the city is usually thronged by farmers coming to worship at the many shrines of Inari this year there came but few; and the loss to local commerce was estimated at several thousand yen. The vapours have vanished, sharply revealing a beautiful little islet in the lake, lying scarcely half a mile away--a low, narrow strip of land with a Shinto shrine upon it, shadowed by giant pines; not pines like ours, but huge, gnarled, shaggy, tortuous shapes, vast-reaching like ancient oaks. Through a glass one can easily discern a torii, and before it two symbolic lions of stone (Kara-shishi), one with its head broken off, doubtless by its having been overturned and dashed about by heavy waves during some great storm. This islet is sacred to Benten, the Goddess of Eloquence and Beauty, wherefore it is called Benten-no-shima. But it is more commonly called Yomega-shima, or 'The Island of the Young Wife,' by reason of a legend. It is said that it arose in one night, noiselessly as a dream, bearing up from the depths of the lake the body of a drowned woman who had been very lovely, very pious, and very unhappy. The people, deeming this a sign from heaven, consecrated the islet to Benten, and thereon built a shrine unto her, planted trees about it, set a torii before it, and made a rampart about it with great curiously-shaped stones; and there they buried the drowned woman. Now the sky is blue down to the horizon, the air is a caress of spring. I go forth to wander through the queer old city. Sec. 10 I perceive that upon the sliding doors, or immediately above the principal entrance of nearly every house, are pasted oblong white papers bearing ideographic inscriptions; and overhanging every threshold I see the sacred emblem of Shinto, the little rice-straw rope with its long fringe of pendent stalks. The white papers at once interest me; for they are ofuda, or holy texts and charms, of which I am a devout collector. Nearly all are from temples in Matsue or its vicinity; and the Buddhist ones indicate by the sacred words upon them to what particular shu or sect, the family belong--for nearly every soul in this community professes some form of Buddhism as well as the all-dominant and more ancient faith of Shinto. And even one quite ignorant of Japanese ideographs can nearly always distinguish at a glance the formula of the great Nichiren sect from the peculiar appearance of the column of characters composing it, all bristling with long sharp points and banneret zigzags, like an army; the famous text Namu-myo-ho-ren-gekyo inscribed of old upon the flag of the great captain Kato Kiyomasa, the extirpator of Spanish Christianity, the glorious vir ter execrandus of the Jesuits. Any pilgrim belonging to this sect has the right to call at whatever door bears the above formula and ask for alms or food. But by far the greater number of the ofuda are Shinto. Upon almost every door there is one ofuda especially likely to attract the attention of a stranger, because at the foot of the column of ideographs composing its text there are two small figures of foxes, a black and a white fox, facing each other in a sitting posture, each with a little bunch of rice-straw in its mouth, instead of the more usual emblematic key. These ofuda are from the great Inari temple of Oshiroyama, [6] within the castle grounds, and are charms against fire. They represent, indeed, the only form of assurance against fire yet known in Matsue, so far, at least, as wooden dwellings are concerned. And although a single spark and a high wind are sufficient in combination to obliterate a larger city in one day, great fires are unknown in Matsue, and small ones are of rare occurrence. The charm is peculiar to the city; and of the Inari in question this tradition exists: When Naomasu, the grandson of Iyeyasu, first came to Matsue to rule the province, there entered into his presence a beautiful boy, who said: 'I came hither from the home of your august father in Echizen, to protect you from all harm. But I have no dwelling-place, and am staying therefore at the Buddhist temple of Fu-mon-in. Now if you will make for me a dwelling within the castle grounds, I will protect from fire the buildings there and the houses of the city, and your other residence likewise which is in the capital. For I am Inari Shinyemon.' With these words he vanished from sight. Therefore Naomasu dedicated to him the great temple which still stands in the castle grounds, surrounded by one thousand foxes of stone. Sec. 11 I now turn into a narrow little street, which, although so ancient that its dwarfed two-story houses have the look of things grown up from the ground, is called the Street of the New Timber. New the timber may have been one hundred and fifty years ago; but the tints of the structures would ravish an artist--the sombre ashen tones of the woodwork, the furry browns of old thatch, ribbed and patched and edged with the warm soft green of those velvety herbs and mosses which flourish upon Japanesese roofs. However, the perspective of the street frames in a vision more surprising than any details of its mouldering homes. Between very lofty bamboo poles, higher than any of the dwellings, and planted on both sides of the street in lines, extraordinary black nets are stretched, like prodigious cobwebs against the sky, evoking sudden memories of those monster spiders which figure in Japanese mythology and in the picture-books of the old artists. But these are only fishing-nets of silken thread; and this is the street of the fishermen. I take my way to the great bridge. Sec. 12 A stupendous ghost! Looking eastward from the great bridge over those sharply beautiful mountains, green and blue, which tooth the horizon, I see a glorious spectre towering to the sky. Its base is effaced by far mists: out of the air the thing would seem to have shaped itself--a phantom cone, diaphanously grey below, vaporously white above, with a dream of perpetual snow--the mighty mountain of Daisen. At the first approach of winter it will in one night become all blanched from foot to crest; and then its snowy pyramid so much resembles that Sacred Mountain, often compared by poets to a white inverted fan, half opened, hanging in the sky, that it is called Izumo-Fuji, 'the Fuji of Izumo.' But it is really in Hoki, not in Izumo, though it cannot be seen from any part of Hoki to such advantage as from here. It is the one sublime spectacle of this charming land; but it is visible only when the air is very pure. Many are the marvellous legends related concerning it, and somewhere upon its mysterious summit the Tengu are believed to dwell. Sec. 13 At the farther end of the bridge, close to the wharf where the little steamboats are, is a very small Jizo temple (Jizo-do). Here are kept many bronze drags; and whenever anyone has been drowned and the body not recovered, these are borrowed from the little temple and the river is dragged. If the body be thus found, a new drag must be presented to the temple. From here, half a mile southward to the great Shinto temple of Tenjin, deity of scholarship and calligraphy, broadly stretches Tenjinmachi, the Street of the Rich Merchants, all draped on either side with dark blue hangings, over which undulate with every windy palpitation from the lake white wondrous ideographs, which are names and signs, while down the wide way, in white perspective, diminishes a long line of telegraph poles. Beyond the temple of Tenjin the city is again divided by a river, the Shindotegawa, over which arches the bridge Tenjin-bashi. Again beyond this other large quarters extend to the hills and curve along the lake shore. But in the space between the two rivers is the richest and busiest life of the city, and also the vast and curious quarter of the temples. In this islanded district are likewise the theatres, and the place where wrestling-matches are held, and most of the resorts of pleasure. Parallel with Tenjinmachi runs the great street of the Buddhist temples, or Teramachi, of which the eastern side is one unbroken succession of temples--a solid front of court walls tile-capped, with imposing gateways at regular intervals. Above this long stretch of tile-capped wall rise the beautiful tilted massive lines of grey-blue temple roofs against the sky. Here all the sects dwell side by side in harmony--Nichirenshu, Shingon-shu, Zen-shu, Tendai-shu, even that Shin-shu, unpopular in Izumo because those who follow its teaching strictly must not worship the Kami. Behind each temple court there is a cemetery, or hakaba; and eastward beyond these are other temples, and beyond them yet others--masses of Buddhist architecture mixed with shreds of gardens and miniature homesteads, a huge labyrinth of mouldering courts and fragments of streets. To-day, as usual, I find I can pass a few hours very profitably in visiting the temples; in looking at the ancient images seated within the cups of golden lotus-flowers under their aureoles of gold; in buying curious mamori; in examining the sculptures of the cemeteries, where I can nearly always find some dreaming Kwannon or smiling Jizo well worth the visit. The great courts of Buddhist temples are places of rare interest for one who loves to watch the life of the people; for these have been for unremembered centuries the playing-places of the children. Generations of happy infants have been amused in them. All the nurses, and little girls who carry tiny brothers or sisters upon their backs, go thither every morning that the sun shines; hundreds of children join them; and they play at strange, funny games--'Onigokko,' or the game of Devil, 'Kage-Oni,' which signifies the Shadow and the Demon, and 'Mekusangokko,' which is a sort of 'blindman's buff.' Also, during the long summer evenings, these temples are wrestling-grounds, free to all who love wrestling; and in many of them there is a dohyo-ba, or wrestling-ring. Robust young labourers and sinewy artisans come to these courts to test their strength after the day's tasks are done, and here the fame of more than one now noted wrestler was first made. When a youth has shown himself able to overmatch at wrestling all others in his own district, he is challenged by champions of other districts; and if he can overcome these also, he may hope eventually to become a skilled and popular professional wrestler. It is also in the temple courts that the sacred dances are performed and that public speeches are made. It is in the temple courts, too, that the most curious toys are sold, on the occasion of the great holidays--toys most of which have a religious signification. There are grand old trees, and ponds full of tame fish, which put up their heads to beg for food when your shadow falls upon the water. The holy lotus is cultivated therein. 'Though growing in the foulest slime, the flower remains pure and undefiled. 'And the soul of him who remains ever pure in the midst of temptation is likened unto the lotus. 'Therefore is the lotus carven or painted upon the furniture of temples; therefore also does it appear in all the representations of our Lord Buddha. 'In Paradise the blessed shall sit at ease enthroned upon the cups of golden lotus-flowers.' [7] A bugle-call rings through the quaint street; and round the corner of the last temple come marching a troop of handsome young riflemen, uniformed somewhat like French light infantry, marching by fours so perfectly that all the gaitered legs move as if belonging to a single body, and every sword-bayonet catches the sun at exactly the same angle, as the column wheels into view. These are the students of the Shihan-Gakko, the College of Teachers, performing their daily military exercises. Their professors give them lectures upon the microscopic study of cellular tissues, upon the segregation of developing nerve structure, upon spectrum analysis, upon the evolution of the colour sense, and upon the cultivation of bacteria in glycerine infusions. And they are none the less modest and knightly in manner for all their modern knowledge, nor the less reverentially devoted to their dear old fathers and mothers whose ideas were shaped in the era of feudalism. Sec. 14 Here come a band of pilgrims, with yellow straw overcoats, 'rain-coats' (mino), and enormous yellow straw hats, mushroom-shaped, of which the down-curving rim partly hides the face. All carry staffs, and wear their robes well girded up so as to leave free the lower limbs, which are inclosed in white cotton leggings of a peculiar and indescribable kind. Precisely the same sort of costume was worn by the same class of travellers many centuries ago; and just as you now see them trooping by--whole families wandering together, the pilgrim child clinging to the father's hands--so may you see them pass in quaint procession across the faded pages of Japanese picture-books a hundred years old. At intervals they halt before some shop-front to look at the many curious things which they greatly enjoy seeing, but which they have no money to buy. I myself have become so accustomed to surprises, to interesting or extraordinary sights, that when a day happens to pass during which nothing remarkable has been heard or seen I feel vaguely discontented. But such blank days are rare: they occur in my own case only when the weather is too detestable to permit of going out-of-doors. For with ever so little money one can always obtain the pleasure of looking at curious things. And this has been one of the chief pleasures of the people in Japan for centuries and centuries, for the nation has passed its generations of lives in making or seeking such things. To divert one's self seems, indeed, the main purpose of Japanese existence, beginning with the opening of the baby's wondering eyes. The faces of the people have an indescribable look of patient expectancy--the air of waiting for something interesting to make its appearance. If it fail to appear, they will travel to find it: they are astonishing pedestrians and tireless pilgrims, and I think they make pilgrimages not more for the sake of pleasing the gods than of pleasing themselves by the sight of rare and pretty things. For every temple is a museum, and every hill and valley throughout the land has its temple and its wonders. Even the poorest farmer, one so poor that he cannot afford to eat a grain of his own rice, can afford to make a pilgrimage of a month's duration; and during that season when the growing rice needs least attention hundreds of thousands of the poorest go on pilgrimages. This is possible, because from ancient times it has been the custom for everybody to help pilgrims a little; and they can always find rest and shelter at particular inns (kichinyado) which receive pilgrims only, and where they are charged merely the cost of the wood used to cook their food. But multitudes of the poor undertake pilgrimages requiring much more than a month to perform, such as the pilgrimage to the thirty-three great temples of Kwannon, or that to the eighty-eight temples of Kobodaishi; and these, though years be needed to accomplish them, are as nothing compared to the enormous Sengaji, the pilgrimage to the thousand temples of the Nichiren sect. The time of a generation may pass ere this can be made. One may begin it in early youth, and complete it only when youth is long past. Yet there are several in Matsue, men and women, who have made this tremendous pilgrimage, seeing all Japan, and supporting themselves not merely by begging, but by some kinds of itinerant peddling. The pilgrim who desires to perform this pilgrimage carries on his shoulders a small box, shaped like a Buddhist shrine, in which he keeps his spare clothes and food. He also carries a little brazen gong, which he constantly sounds while passing through a city or village, at the same time chanting the Namu-myo-ho-ren-ge-kyo; and he always bears with him a little blank book, in which the priest of every temple visited stamps the temple seal in red ink. The pilgrimage over, this book with its one thousand seal impressions becomes an heirloom in the family of the pilgrim. Sec. 15 I too must make divers pilgrimages, for all about the city, beyond the waters or beyond the hills, lie holy places immemorially old. Kitzuki, founded by the ancient gods, who 'made stout the pillars upon the nethermost rock bottom, and made high the cross-beams to the Plain of High Heaven'--Kitzuki, the Holy of Holies, whose high-priest claims descent from the Goddess of the Sun; and Ichibata, famed shrine of Yakushi-Nyorai, who giveth sight to the blind--Ichibata-no-Yakushi, whose lofty temple is approached by six hundred and forty steps of stone; and Kiomidzu, shrine of Kwannon of the Eleven Faces, before whose altar the sacred fire has burned without ceasing for a thousand years; and Sada, where the Sacred Snake lies coiled for ever on the sambo of the gods; and Oba, with its temples of Izanami and Izanagi, parents of gods and men, the makers of the world; and Yaegaki, whither lovers go to pray for unions with the beloved; and Kaka, Kaka-ura, Kaka-no-Kukedo San--all these I hope to see. But of all places, Kaka-ura! Assuredly I must go to Kaka. Few pilgrims go thither by sea, and boatmen are forbidden to go there if there be even wind enough 'to move three hairs.' So that whosoever wishes to visit Kaka must either wait for a period of dead calm--very rare upon the coast of the Japanese Sea--or journey thereunto by land; and by land the way is difficult and wearisome. But I must see Kaka. For at Kaka, in a great cavern by the sea, there is a famous Jizo of stone; and each night, it is said, the ghosts of little children climb to the high cavern and pile up before the statue small heaps of pebbles; and every morning, in the soft sand, there may be seen the fresh prints of tiny naked feet, the feet of the infant ghosts. It is also said that in the cavern there is a rock out of which comes a stream of milk, as from a woman's breast; and the white stream flows for ever, and the phantom children drink of it. Pilgrims bring with them gifts of small straw sandals--the zori that children wear--and leave them before the cavern, that the feet of the little ghosts may not be wounded by the sharp rocks. And the pilgrim treads with caution, lest he should overturn any of the many heaps of stones; for if this be done the children cry. Sec. 16 The city proper is as level as a table, but is bounded on two sides by low demilunes of charming hills shadowed with evergreen foliage and crowned with temples or shrines. There are thirty-five thousand souls dwelling in ten thousand houses forming thirty-three principal and many smaller streets; and from each end of almost every street, beyond the hills, the lake, or the eastern rice-fields, a mountain summit is always visible--green, blue, or grey according to distance. One may ride, walk, or go by boat to any quarter of the town; for it is not only divided by two rivers, but is also intersected by numbers of canals crossed by queer little bridges curved like a well-bent bow. Architecturally (despite such constructions in European style as the College of Teachers, the great public school, the Kencho, the new post-office), it is much like other quaint Japanese towns; the structure of its temples, taverns, shops, and private dwellings is the same as in other cities of the western coast. But doubtless owing to the fact that Matsue remained a feudal stronghold until a time within the memory of thousands still living, those feudal distinctions of caste so sharply drawn in ancient times are yet indicated with singular exactness by the varying architecture of different districts. The city can be definitely divided into three architectural quarters: the district of the merchants and shop-keepers, forming the heart of the settlement, where all the houses are two stories high; the district of the temples, including nearly the whole south-eastern part of the town; and the district or districts of the shizoku (formerly called samurai), comprising a vast number of large, roomy, garden-girt, one-story dwellings. From these elegant homes, in feudal days, could be summoned at a moment's notice five thousand 'two-sworded men' with their armed retainers, making a fighting total for the city alone of probably not less than thirteen thousand warriors. More than one-third of all the city buildings were then samurai homes; for Matsue was the military centre of the most ancient province of Japan. At both ends of the town, which curves in a crescent along the lake shore, were the two main settlements of samurai; but just as some of the most important temples are situated outside of the temple district, so were many of the finest homesteads of this knightly caste situated in other quarters. They mustered most thickly, however, about the castle, which stands to-day on the summit of its citadel hill--the Oshiroyama--solid as when first built long centuries ago, a vast and sinister shape, all iron-grey, rising against the sky from a cyclopean foundation of stone. Fantastically grim the thing is, and grotesquely complex in detail; looking somewhat like a huge pagoda, of which the second, third, and fourth stories have been squeezed down and telescoped into one another by their own weight. Crested at its summit, like a feudal helmet, with two colossal fishes of bronze lifting their curved bodies skyward from either angle of the roof, and bristling with horned gables and gargoyled eaves and tilted puzzles of tiled roofing at every story, the creation is a veritable architectural dragon, made up of magnificent monstrosities--a dragon, moreover, full of eyes set at all conceivable angles, above below, and on every side. From under the black scowl of the loftiest eaves, looking east and south, the whole city can be seen at a single glance, as in the vision of a soaring hawk; and from the northern angle the view plunges down three hundred feet to the castle road, where walking figures of men appear no larger than flies. Sec. 17 The grim castle has its legend. It is related that, in accordance with some primitive and barbarous custom, precisely like that of which so terrible a souvenir has been preserved for us in the most pathetic of Servian ballads, 'The Foundation of Skadra,' a maiden of Matsue was interred alive under the walls of the castle at the time of its erection, as a sacrifice to some forgotten gods. Her name has never been recorded; nothing concerning her is remembered except that she was beautiful and very fond of dancing. Now after the castle had been built, it is said that a law had to be passed forbidding that any girl should dance in the streets of Matsue. For whenever any maiden danced the hill Oshiroyama would shudder, and the great castle quiver from basement to summit. Sec. 18 One may still sometimes hear in the streets a very humorous song, which every one in town formerly knew by heart, celebrating the Seven Wonders of Matsue. For Matsue was formerly divided into seven quarters, in each of which some extraordinary object or person was to be seen. It is now divided into five religious districts, each containing a temple of the State religion. People living within those districts are called ujiko, and the temple the ujigami, or dwelling-place of the tutelary god. The ujiko must support the ujigami. (Every village and town has at least one ujigami.) There is probably not one of the multitudinous temples of Matsue which has not some marvellous tradition attached to it; each of the districts has many legends; and I think that each of the thirty-three streets has its own special ghost story. Of these ghost stories I cite two specimens: they are quite representative of one variety of Japanese folk-lore. Near to the Fu-mon-in temple, which is in the north-eastern quarter, there is a bridge called Adzuki-togi-bashi, or The Bridge of the Washing of Peas. For it was said in other years that nightly a phantom woman sat beneath that bridge washing phantom peas. There is an exquisite Japanese iris-flower, of rainbow-violet colour, which flower is named kaki-tsubata; and there is a song about that flower called kaki-tsubata-no-uta. Now this song must never be sung near the Adzuki-togi-bashi, because, for some strange reason which seems to have been forgotten, the ghosts haunting that place become so angry upon hearing it that to sing it there is to expose one's self to the most frightful calamities. There was once a samurai who feared nothing, who one night went to that bridge and loudly sang the song. No ghost appearing, he laughed and went home. At the gate of his house he met a beautiful tall woman whom he had never seen before, and who, bowing, presented him with a lacquered box-fumi-bako--such as women keep their letters in. He bowed to her in his knightly way; but she said, 'I am only the servant--this is my mistress's gift,' and vanished out of his sight. Opening the box, he saw the bleeding head of a young child. Entering his house, he found upon the floor of the guest-room the dead body of his own infant son with the head torn off. Of the cemetery Dai-Oji, which is in the street called Nakabaramachi, this story is told. In Nakabaramachi there is an ameya, or little shop in which midzu-ame is sold--the amber-tinted syrup, made of malt, which is given to children when milk cannot be obtained for them. Every night at a late hour there came to that shop a very pale woman, all in white, to buy one rin [8] worth of midzu-ame. The ame-seller wondered that she was so thin and pale, and often questioned her kindly; but she answered nothing. At last one night he followed her, out of curiosity. She went to the cemetery; and he became afraid and returned. The next night the woman came again, but bought no midzu-ame, and only beckoned to the man to go with her. He followed her, with friends, into the cemetery. She walked to a certain tomb, and there disappeared; and they heard, under the ground, the crying of a child. Opening the tomb, they saw within it the corpse of the woman who nightly visited the ameya, with a living infant, laughing to see the lantern light, and beside the infant a little cup of midzu-ame. For the mother had been prematurely buried; the child was born in the tomb, and the ghost of the mother had thus provided for it--love being stronger than death. Sec. 19 Over the Tenjin-bashi, or Bridge of Tenjin, and through small streets and narrow of densely populated districts, and past many a tenantless and mouldering feudal homestead, I make my way to the extreme south-western end of the city, to watch the sunset from a little sobaya [9] facing the lake. For to see the sun sink from this sobaya is one of the delights of Matsue. There are no such sunsets in Japan as in the tropics: the light is gentle as a light of dreams; there are no furies of colour; there are no chromatic violences in nature in this Orient. All in sea or sky is tint rather than colour, and tint vapour-toned. I think that the exquisite taste of the race in the matter of colours and of tints, as exemplified in the dyes of their wonderful textures, is largely attributable to the sober and delicate beauty of nature's tones in this all-temperate world where nothing is garish. Before me the fair vast lake sleeps, softly luminous, far-ringed with chains of blue volcanic hills shaped like a sierra. On my right, at its eastern end, the most ancient quarter of the city spreads its roofs of blue-grey tile; the houses crowd thickly down to the shore, to dip their wooden feet into the flood. With a glass I can see my own windows and the far-spreading of the roofs beyond, and above all else the green citadel with its grim castle, grotesquely peaked. The sun begins to set, and exquisite astonishments of tinting appear in water and sky. Dead rich purples cloud broadly behind and above the indigo blackness of the serrated hills--mist purples, fading upward smokily into faint vermilions and dim gold, which again melt up through ghostliest greens into the blue. The deeper waters of the lake, far away, take a tender violet indescribable, and the silhouette of the pine-shadowed island seems to float in that sea of soft sweet colour. But the shallower and nearer is cut from the deeper water by the current as sharply as by a line drawn, and all the surface on this side of that line is a shimmering bronze--old rich ruddy gold-bronze. All the fainter colours change every five minutes,--wondrously change and shift like tones and shades of fine shot-silks. Sec. 20 Often in the streets at night, especially on the nights of sacred festivals (matsuri), one's attention will be attracted to some small booth by the spectacle of an admiring and perfectly silent crowd pressing before it. As soon as one can get a chance to look one finds there is nothing to look at but a few vases containing sprays of flowers, or perhaps some light gracious branches freshly cut from a blossoming tree. It is simply a little flower-show, or, more correctly, a free exhibition of master skill in the arrangement of flowers. For the Japanese do not brutally chop off flower-heads to work them up into meaningless masses of colour, as we barbarians do: they love nature too well for that; they know how much the natural charm of the flower depends upon its setting and mounting, its relation to leaf and stem, and they select a single graceful branch or spray just as nature made it. At first you will not, as a Western stranger, comprehend such an exhibition at all: you are yet a savage in such matters compared with the commonest coolies about you. But even while you are still wondering at popular interest in this simple little show, the charm of it will begin to grow upon you, will become a revelation to you; and, despite your Occidental idea of self-superiority, you will feel humbled by the discovery that all flower displays you have ever seen abroad were only monstrosities in comparison with the natural beauty of those few simple sprays. You will also observe how much the white or pale blue screen behind the flowers enhances the effect by lamp or lantern light. For the screen has been arranged with the special purpose of showing the exquisiteness of plant shadows; and the sharp silhouettes of sprays and blossoms cast thereon are beautiful beyond the imagining of any Western decorative artist. Sec. 21 It is still the season of mists in this land whose most ancient name signifies the Place of the Issuing of Clouds. With the passing of twilight a faint ghostly brume rises over lake and landscape, spectrally veiling surfaces, slowly obliterating distances. As I lean over the parapet of the Tenjin-bashi, on my homeward way, to take one last look eastward, I find that the mountains have already been effaced. Before me there is only a shadowy flood far vanishing into vagueness without a horizon--the phantom of a sea. And I become suddenly aware that little white things are fluttering slowly down into it from the fingers of a woman standing upon the bridge beside me, and murmuring something in a low sweet voice. She is praying for her dead child. Each of those little papers she is dropping into the current bears a tiny picture of Jizo and perhaps a little inscription. For when a child dies the mother buys a small woodcut (hanko) of Jizo, and with it prints the image of the divinity upon one hundred little papers. And she sometimes also writes upon the papers words signifying 'For the sake of...'--inscribing never the living, but the kaimyo or soul-name only, which the Buddhist priest has given to the dead, and which is written also upon the little commemorative tablet kept within the Buddhist household shrine, or butsuma. Then, upon a fixed day (most commonly the forty-ninth day after the burial), she goes to some place of running water and drops the little papers therein one by one; repeating, as each slips through her fingers, the holy invocation, 'Namu Jizo, Dai Bosatsu!' Doubtless this pious little woman, praying beside me in the dusk, is very poor. Were she not, she would hire a boat and scatter her tiny papers far away upon the bosom of the lake. (It is now only after dark that this may be done; for the police--I know not why--have been instructed to prevent the pretty rite, just as in the open ports they have been instructed to prohibit the launching of the little straw boats of the dead, the shoryobune.) But why should the papers be cast into running water? A good old Tendai priest tells me that originally the rite was only for the souls of the drowned. But now these gentle hearts believe that all waters flow downward to the Shadow-world and through the Sai-no-Kawara, where Jizo is. Sec. 22 At home again, I slide open once more my little paper window, and look out upon the night. I see the paper lanterns flitting over the bridge, like a long shimmering of fireflies. I see the spectres of a hundred lights trembling upon the black flood. I see the broad shoji of dwellings beyond the river suffused with the soft yellow radiance of invisible lamps; and upon those lighted spaces I can discern slender moving shadows, silhouettes of graceful women. Devoutly do I pray that glass may never become universally adopted in Japan--there would be no more delicious shadows. I listen to the voices of the city awhile. I hear the great bell of Tokoji rolling its soft Buddhist thunder across the dark, and the songs of the night-walkers whose hearts have been made merry with wine, and the long sonorous chanting of the night-peddlers. 'U-mu-don-yai-soba-yai!' It is the seller of hot soba, Japanese buckwheat, making his last round. 'Umai handan, machibito endan, usemono ninso kaso kichikyo no urainai!' The cry of the itinerant fortune-teller. 'Ame-yu!' The musical cry of the seller of midzu-ame, the sweet amber syrup which children love. 'Amail' The shrilling call of the seller of amazake, sweet rice wine. 'Kawachi-no-kuni-hiotan-yama-koi-no-tsuji-ura!' The peddler of love-papers, of divining-papers, pretty tinted things with little shadowy pictures upon them. When held near a fire or a lamp, words written upon them with invisible ink begin to appear. These are always about sweethearts, and sometimes tell one what he does not wish to know. The fortunate ones who read them believe themselves still more fortunate; the unlucky abandon all hope; the jealous become even more jealous than they were before. From all over the city there rises into the night a sound like the bubbling and booming of great frogs in a march--the echoing of the tiny drums of the dancing-girls, of the charming geisha. Like the rolling of a waterfall continually reverberates the multitudinous pattering of geta upon the bridge. A new light rises in the east; the moon is wheeling up from behind the peaks, very large and weird and wan through the white vapours. Again I hear the sounds of the clapping of many hands. For the wayfarers are paying obeisance to O-Tsuki-San: from the long bridge they are saluting the coming of the White Moon-Lady.[10] I sleep, to dream of little children, in some mouldering mossy temple court, playing at the game of Shadows and of Demons. Chapter Eight Kitzuki: The Most Ancient Shrine of Japan SHINKOKU is the sacred name of Japan--Shinkoku, 'The Country of the Gods'; and of all Shinkoku the most holy ground is the land of Izumo. Hither from the blue Plain of High Heaven first came to dwell awhile the Earth-makers, Izanagi and Izanami, the parents of gods and of men; somewhere upon the border of this land was Izanami buried; and out of this land into the black realm of the dead did Izanagi follow after her, and seek in vain to bring her back again. And the tale of his descent into that strange nether world, and of what there befell him, is it not written in the Kojiki? [1] And of all legends primeval concerning the Underworld this story is one of the weirdest--more weird than even the Assyrian legend of the Descent of Ishtar. Even as Izumo is especially the province of the gods, and the place of the childhood of the race by whom Izanagi and Izanami are yet worshiped, so is Kitzuki of Izumo especially the city of the gods, and its immemorial temple the earliest home of the ancient faith, the great religion of Shinto. Now to visit Kitzuki has been my most earnest ambition since I learned the legends of the Kojiki concerning it; and this ambition has been stimulated by the discovery that very few Europeans have visited Kitzuki, and that none have been admitted into the great temple itself. Some, indeed, were not allowed even to approach the temple court. But I trust that I shall be somewhat more fortunate; for I have a letter of introduction from my dear friend Nishida Sentaro, who is also a personal friend of the high pontiff of Kitzuki. I am thus assured that even should I not be permitted to enter the temple--a privilege accorded to but few among the Japanese themselves--I shall at least have the honour of an interview with the Guji, or Spiritual Governor of Kitzuki, Senke Takanori, whose princely family trace back their descent to the Goddess of the Sun. [2] Sec. 1 I leave Matsue for Kitzuki early in the afternoon of a beautiful September day; taking passage upon a tiny steamer in which everything, from engines to awnings, is Lilliputian. In the cabin one must kneel. Under the awnings one cannot possibly stand upright. But the miniature craft is neat and pretty as a toy model, and moves with surprising swiftness and steadiness. A handsome naked boy is busy serving the passengers with cups of tea and with cakes, and setting little charcoal furnaces before those who desire to smoke: for all of which a payment of about three-quarters of a cent is expected. I escape from the awnings to climb upon the cabin roof for a view; and the view is indescribably lovely. Over the lucent level of the lake we are steaming toward a far-away heaping of beautiful shapes, coloured with that strangely delicate blue which tints all distances in the Japanese atmosphere--shapes of peaks and headlands looming up from the lake verge against a porcelain-white horizon. They show no details, whatever. Silhouettes only they are--masses of absolutely pure colour. To left and right, framing in the Shinjiko, are superb green surgings of wooded hills. Great Yakuno-San is the loftiest mountain before us, north-west. South-east, behind us, the city has vanished; but proudly towering beyond looms Daisen--enormous, ghostly blue and ghostly white, lifting the cusps of its dead crater into the region of eternal snow. Over all arches a sky of colour faint as a dream. There seems to be a sense of divine magic in the very atmosphere, through all the luminous day, brooding over the vapoury land, over the ghostly blue of the flood--a sense of Shinto. With my fancy full of the legends of the Kojiki, the rhythmic chant of the engines comes to my ears as the rhythm of a Shinto ritual mingled with the names of gods: Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami, Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami. Sec. 2 The great range on the right grows loftier as we steam on; and its hills, always slowly advancing toward us, begin to reveal all the rich details of their foliage. And lo! on the tip of one grand wood-clad peak is visible against the pure sky the many-angled roof of a great Buddhist temple. That is the temple of Ichibata, upon the mountain Ichibata-yama, the temple of Yakushi-Nyorai, the Physician of Souls. But at Ichibata he reveals himself more specially as the healer of bodies, the Buddha who giveth sight unto the blind. It is believed that whosoever has an affection of the eyes will be made well by praying earnestly at that great shrine; and thither from many distant provinces do afflicted thousands make pilgrimage, ascending the long weary mountain path and the six hundred and forty steps of stone leading to the windy temple court upon the summit, whence may be seen one of the loveliest landscapes in Japan. There the pilgrims wash their eyes with the water of the sacred spring, and kneel before the shrine and murmur the holy formula of Ichibata: 'On-koro-koro-sendai-matoki-sowaka'--words of which the meaning has long been forgotten, like that of many a Buddhist invocation; Sanscrit words transliterated into Chinese, and thence into Japanese, which are understood by learned priests alone, yet are known by heart throughout the land, and uttered with the utmost fervour of devotion. I descend from the cabin roof, and squat upon the deck, under the awnings, to have a smoke with Akira. And I ask: 'How many Buddhas are there, O Akira? Is the number of the Enlightened known?' 'Countless the Buddhas are,' makes answer Akira; 'yet there is truly but one Buddha; the many are forms only. Each of us contains a future Buddha. Alike we all are except in that we are more or less unconscious of the truth. But the vulgar may not understand these things, and so seek refuge in symbols and in forms.' 'And the Kami,--the deities of Shinto?' 'Of Shinto I know little. But there are eight hundred myriads of Kami in the Plain of High Heaven--so says the Ancient Book. Of these, three thousand one hundred and thirty and two dwell in the various provinces of the land; being enshrined in two thousand eight hundred and sixty-one temples. And the tenth month of our year is called the "No-God-month," because in that month all the deities leave their temples to assemble in the province of Izumo, at the great temple of Kitzuki; and for the same reason that month is called in Izumo, and only in Izumo, the "God-is-month." But educated persons sometimes call it the "God-present-festival," using Chinese words. Then it is believed the serpents come from the sea to the land, and coil upon the sambo, which is the table of the gods, for the serpents announce the coming; and the Dragon-King sends messengers to the temples of Izanagi and Izanami, the parents of gods and men.' 'O Akira, many millions of Kami there must be of whom I shall always remain ignorant, for there is a limit to the power of memory; but tell me something of the gods whose names are most seldom uttered, the deities of strange places and of strange things, the most extraordinary gods.' 'You cannot learn much about them from me,' replies Akira. 'You will have to ask others more learned than I. But there are gods with whom it is not desirable to become acquainted. Such are the God of Poverty, and the God of Hunger, and the God of Penuriousness, and the God of Hindrances and Obstacles. These are of dark colour, like the clouds of gloomy days, and their faces are like the faces of gaki.' [3] 'With the God of Hindrances and Obstacles, O Akira I have had more than a passing acquaintance. Tell me of the others.' 'I know little about any of them,' answers Akira, 'excepting Bimbogami. It is said there are two gods who always go together,--Fuku-no-Kami, who is the God of Luck, and Bimbogami, who is the God of Poverty. The first is white, and the second is black.' 'Because the last,' I venture to interrupt, 'is only the shadow of the first. Fuku-no-Kami is the Shadow-caster, and Bimbogami the Shadow; and I have observed, in wandering about this world, that wherever the one goeth, eternally followeth after him the other.' Akira refuses his assent to this interpretation, and resumes: 'When Bimbogami once begins to follow anyone it is extremely difficult to be free from him again. In the village of Umitsu, which is in the province of Omi, and not far from Kyoto, there once lived a Buddhist priest who during many years was grievously tormented by Bimbogami. He tried oftentimes without avail to drive him away; then he strove to deceive him by proclaiming aloud to all the people that he was going to Kyoto. But instead of going to Kyoto he went to Tsuruga, in the province of Echizen; and when he reached the inn at Tsuruga there came forth to meet him a boy lean and wan like a gaki. The boy said to him, "I have been waiting for you"--and the boy was Bimbogami. 'There was another priest who for sixty years had tried in vain to get rid of Bimbogami, and who resolved at last to go to a distant province. On the night after he had formed this resolve he had a strange dream, in which he saw a very much emaciated boy, naked and dirty, weaving sandals of straw (waraji), such as pilgrims and runners wear; and he made so many that the priest wondered, and asked him, "For what purpose are you making so many sandals?" And the boy answered, "I am going to travel with you. I am Bimbogami."' 'Then is there no way, Akira, by which Bimbogami may be driven away?' 'It is written,' replies Akira, 'in the book called Jizo-Kyo-Kosui that the aged Enjobo, a priest dwelling in the province of Owari, was able to get rid of Bimbogami by means of a charm. On the last day of the last month of the year he and his disciples and other priests of the Shingon sect took branches of peach-trees and recited a formula, and then, with the branches, imitated the action of driving a person out of the temple, after which they shut all the gates and recited other formulas. The same night Enjobo dreamed of a skeleton priest in a broken temple weeping alone, and the skeleton priest said to him, "After I had been with you for so many years, how could you drive me away?" But always thereafter until the day of his death, Enjobo lived in prosperity.' Sec. 3 For an hour and a half the ranges to left and right alternately recede and approach. Beautiful blue shapes glide toward us, change to green, and then, slowly drifting behind us, are all blue again. But the far mountains immediately before us--immovable, unchanging--always remain ghosts. Suddenly the little steamer turns straight into the land--a land so low that it came into sight quite unexpectedly--and we puff up a narrow stream between rice-fields to a queer, quaint, pretty village on the canal bank--Shobara. Here I must hire jinricksha to take us to Kitzuki. There is not time to see much of Shobara if I hope to reach Kitzuki before bedtime, and I have only a flying vision of one long wide street (so picturesque that I wish I could pass a day in it), as our kuruma rush through the little town into the open country, into a vast plain covered with rice-fields. The road itself is only a broad dike, barely wide enough for two jinricksha to pass each other upon it. On each side the superb plain is bounded by a mountain range shutting off the white horizon. There is a vast silence, an immense sense of dreamy peace, and a glorious soft vapoury light over everything, as we roll into the country of Hyasugi to Kaminawoe. The jagged range on the left is Shusai-yama, all sharply green, with the giant Daikoku-yama overtopping all; and its peaks bear the names of gods. Much more remote, upon our right, enormous, pansy-purple, tower the shapes of the Kita-yama, or northern range; filing away in tremendous procession toward the sunset, fading more and more as they stretch west, to vanish suddenly at last, after the ghostliest conceivable manner, into the uttermost day. All this is beautiful; yet there is no change while hours pass. Always the way winds on through miles of rice-fields, white-speckled with paper-winged shafts which are arrows of prayer. Always the voice of frogs--a sound as of infinite bubbling. Always the green range on the left, the purple on the right, fading westward into a tall file of tinted spectres which always melt into nothing at last, as if they were made of air. The monotony of the scene is broken only by our occasional passing through some pretty Japanese village, or by the appearance of a curious statue or monument at an angle of the path, a roadside Jizo, or the grave of a wrestler, such as may be seen on the bank of the Hiagawa, a huge slab of granite sculptured with the words, 'Ikumo Matsu kikusuki.' But after reaching Kandogori, and passing over a broad but shallow river, a fresh detail appears in the landscape. Above the mountain chain on our left looms a colossal blue silhouette, almost saddle-shaped, recognisable by its outline as a once mighty volcano. It is now known by various names, but it was called in ancient times Sa-hime-yama; and it has its Shinto legend. It is said that in the beginning the God of Izumo, gazing over the land, said, 'This new land of Izumo is a land of but small extent, so I will make it a larger land by adding unto it.' Having so said, he looked about him over to Korea, and there he saw land which was good for the purpose. With a great rope he dragged therefrom four islands, and added the land of them to Izumo. The first island was called Ya-o-yo-ne, and it formed the land where Kitzuki now is. The second island was called Sada-no-kuni, and is at this day the site of the holy temple where all the gods do yearly hold their second assembly, after having first gathered together at Kitzuki. The third island was called in its new place Kurami-no-kuni, which now forms Shimane-gori. The fourth island became that place where stands the temple of the great god at whose shrine are delivered unto the faithful the charms which protect the rice-fields. [4] Now in drawing these islands across the sea into their several places the god looped his rope over the mighty mountain of Daisen and over the mountain Sa-hime-yama; and they both bear the marks of that wondrous rope even unto this day. As for the rope itself, part of it was changed into the long island of ancient times [5] called Yomi-ga-hama, and a part into the Long Beach of Sono. After we pass the Hori-kawa the road narrows and becomes rougher and rougher, but always draws nearer to the Kitayama range. Toward sundown we have come close enough to the great hills to discern the details of their foliage. The path begins to rise; we ascend slowly through the gathering dusk. At last there appears before us a great multitude of twinkling lights. We have reached Kitzuki, the holy city. Sec. 4 Over a long bridge and under a tall torii we roll into upward-sloping streets. Like Enoshima, Kitzuki has a torii for its city gate; but the torii is not of bronze. Then a flying vision of open lamp-lighted shop-fronts, and lines of luminous shoji under high-tilted eaves, and Buddhist gateways guarded by lions of stone, and long, low, tile-coped walls of temple courts overtopped by garden shrubbery, and Shinto shrines prefaced by other tall torii; but no sign of the great temple itself. It lies toward the rear of the city proper, at the foot of the wooded mountains; and we are too tired and hungry to visit it now. So we halt before a spacious and comfortable-seeming inn,--the best, indeed, in Kitzuki--and rest ourselves and eat, and drink sake out of exquisite little porcelain cups, the gift of some pretty singing-girl to the hotel. Thereafter, as it has become much too late to visit the Guji, I send to his residence by a messenger my letter of introduction, with an humble request in Akira's handwriting, that I may be allowed to present myself at the house before noon the next day. Then the landlord of the hotel, who seems to be a very kindly person, comes to us with lighted paper lanterns, and invites us to accompany him to the Oho-yashiro. Most of the houses have already closed their wooden sliding doors for the night, so that the streets are dark, and the lanterns of our landlord indispensable; for there is no moon, and the night is starless. We walk along the main street for a distance of about six squares, and then, making a turn, find ourselves before a superb bronze torii, the gateway to the great temple avenue. Sec. 5 Effacing colours and obliterating distances, night always magnifies by suggestion the aspect of large spaces and the effect of large objects. Viewed by the vague light of paper lanterns, the approach to the great shrine is an imposing surprise--such a surprise that I feel regret at the mere thought of having to see it to-morrow by disenchanting day: a superb avenue lined with colossal trees, and ranging away out of sight under a succession of giant torii, from which are suspended enormous shimenawa, well worthy the grasp of that Heavenly-Hand-Strength Deity whose symbols they are. But, more than by the torii and their festooned symbols, the dim majesty of the huge avenue is enhanced by the prodigious trees--many perhaps thousands of years old--gnarled pines whose shaggy summits are lost in darkness. Some of the mighty trunks are surrounded with a rope of straw: these trees are sacred. The vast roots, far-reaching in every direction, look in the lantern-light like a writhing and crawling of dragons. The avenue is certainly not less than a quarter of a mile in length; it crosses two bridges and passes between two sacred groves. All the broad lands on either side of it belong to the temple. Formerly no foreigner was permitted to pass beyond the middle torii The avenue terminates at a lofty wall pierced by a gateway resembling the gateways of Buddhist temple courts, but very massive. This is the entrance to the outer court; the ponderous doors are still open, and many shadowy figures are passing in or out. Within the court all is darkness, against which pale yellow lights are gliding to and fro like a multitude of enormous fireflies--the lanterns of pilgrims. I can distinguish only the looming of immense buildings to left and right, constructed with colossal timbers. Our guide traverses a very large court, passes into a second, and halts before an imposing structure whose doors are still open. Above them, by the lantern glow, I can see a marvellous frieze of dragons and water, carved in some rich wood by the hand of a master. Within I can see the symbols of Shinto, in a side shrine on the left; and directly before us the lanterns reveal a surface of matted floor vaster than anything I had expected to find. Therefrom I can divine the scale of the edifice which I suppose to be the temple. But the landlord tells us this is not the temple, but only the Haiden or Hall of Prayer, before which the people make their orisons, By day, through the open doors, the temple can be seen But we cannot see it to-night, and but few visitors are permitted to go in. 'The people do not enter even the court of the great shrine, for the most part,' interprets Akira; 'they pray before it at a distance. Listen!' All about me in the shadow I hear a sound like the plashing and dashing of water--the clapping of many hands in Shinto prayer. 'But this is nothing,' says the landlord; 'there are but few here now. Wait until to-morrow, which is a festival day.' As we wend our way back along the great avenue, under the torii and the giant trees, Akira interprets for me what our landlord tells him about the sacred serpent. 'The little serpent,' he says, 'is called by the people the august Dragon-Serpent; for it is sent by the Dragon-King to announce the coming of the gods. The sea darkens and rises and roars before the coming of Ryu-ja-Sama. Ryu-ja. Sama we call it because it is the messenger of Ryugu-jo, the palace of the dragons; but it is also called Hakuja, or the 'White Serpent.' [6] 'Does the little serpent come to the temple of its own accord?' 'Oh, no. It is caught by the fishermen. And only one can be caught in a year, because only one is sent; and whoever catches it and brings it either to the Kitzuki-no-oho-yashiro, or to the temple Sadajinja, where the gods hold their second assembly during the Kami-ari-zuki, receives one hyo [7] of rice in recompense. It costs much labour and time to catch a serpent; but whoever captures one is sure to become rich in after time.' [8] 'There are many deities enshrined at Kitzuki, are there not?' I ask. 'Yes; but the great deity of Kitzuki is Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, [9] whom the people more commonly call Daikoku. Here also is worshipped his son, whom many call Ebisu. These deities are usually pictured together: Daikoku seated upon bales of rice, holding the Red Sun against his breast with one hand, and in the other grasping the magical mallet of which a single stroke gives wealth; and Ebisu bearing a fishing-rod, and holding under his arm a great tai-fish. These gods are always represented with smiling faces; and both have great ears, which are the sign of wealth and fortune.' Sec. 6 A little wearied by the day's journeying, I get to bed early, and sleep as dreamlessly as a plant until I am awakened about daylight by a heavy, regular, bumping sound, shaking the wooden pillow on which my ear rests--the sound of the katsu of the kometsuki beginning his eternal labour of rice-cleaning. Then the pretty musume of the inn opens the chamber to the fresh mountain air and the early sun, rolls back all the wooden shutters into their casings behind the gallery, takes down the brown mosquito net, brings a hibachi with freshly kindled charcoal for my morning smoke, and trips away to get our breakfast. Early as it is when she returns, she brings word that a messenger has already arrived from the Guji, Senke Takanori, high descendant of the Goddess of the Sun. The messenger is a dignified young Shinto priest, clad in the ordinary Japanese full costume, but wearing also a superb pair of blue silken hakama, or Japanese ceremonial trousers, widening picturesquely towards the feet. He accepts my invitation to a cup of tea, and informs me that his august master is waiting for us at the temple. This is delightful news, but we cannot go at once. Akira's attire is pronounced by the messenger to be defective. Akira must don fresh white tabi and put on hakama before going into the august presence: no one may enter thereinto without hakama. Happily Akira is able to borrow a pair of hakama from the landlord; and, after having arranged ourselves as neatly as we can, we take our way to the temple, guided by the messenger. Sec. 7 I am agreeably surprised to find, as we pass again under a magnificent bronze torii which I admired the night before, that the approaches to the temple lose very little of their imposing character when seen for the first time by sunlight. The majesty of the trees remains astonishing; the vista of the avenue is grand; and the vast spaces of groves and grounds to right and left are even more impressive than I had imagined. Multitudes of pilgrims are going and coming; but the whole population of a province might move along such an avenue without jostling. Before the gate of the first court a Shinto priest in full sacerdotal costume waits to receive us: an elderly man, with a pleasant kindly face. The messenger commits us to his charge, and vanishes through the gateway, while the elderly priest, whose name is Sasa, leads the way. Already I can hear a heavy sound, as of surf, within the temple court; and as we advance the sound becomes sharper and recognisable--a volleying of handclaps. And passing the great gate, I see thousands of pilgrims before the Haiden, the same huge structure which I visited last night. None enter there: all stand before the dragon-swarming doorway, and cast their offerings into the money-chest placed before the threshold; many making contribution of small coin, the very poorest throwing only a handful of rice into the box. [10] Then they clap their hands and bow their heads before the threshold, and reverently gaze through the Hall of Prayer at the loftier edifice, the Holy of Holies, beyond it. Each pilgrim remains but a little while, and claps his hands but four times; yet so many are coming and going that the sound of the clapping is like the sound of a cataract. Passing by the multitude of worshippers to the other side of the Haiden, we find ourselves at the foot of a broad flight of iron-bound steps leading to the great sanctuary--steps which I am told no European before me was ever permitted to approach. On the lower steps the priests of the temple, in full ceremonial costume, are waiting to receive us. Tall men they are, robed in violet and purple silks shot through with dragon-patterns in gold. Their lofty fantastic head-dresses, their voluminous and beautiful costume, and the solemn immobility of their hierophantic attitudes make them at first sight seem marvellous statues only. Somehow or other there comes suddenly back to me the memory of a strange French print I used to wonder at when a child, representing a group of Assyrian astrologers. Only their eyes move as we approach. But as I reach the steps all simultaneously salute me with a most gracious bow, for I am the first foreign pilgrim to be honoured by the privilege of an interview in the holy shrine itself with the princely hierophant, their master, descendant of the Goddess of the Sun--he who is still called by myriads of humble worshippers in the remoter districts of this ancient province Ikigami, 'the living deity.' Then all become absolutely statuesque again. I remove my shoes, and am about to ascend the steps, when the tall priest who first received us before the outer gate indicates, by a single significant gesture, that religion and ancient custom require me, before ascending to the shrine of the god, to perform the ceremonial ablution. I hold out my hands; the priest pours the pure water over them thrice from a ladle-shaped vessel of bamboo with a long handle, and then gives me a little blue towel to wipe them upon, a votive towel with mysterious white characters upon it. Then we all ascend; I feeling very much like a clumsy barbarian in my ungraceful foreign garb. Pausing at the head of the steps, the priest inquires my rank in society. For at Kitzuki hierarchy and hierarchical forms are maintained with a rigidity as precise as in the period of the gods; and there are special forms and regulations for the reception of visitors of every social grade. I do not know what flattering statements Akira may have made about me to the good priest; but the result is that I can rank only as a common person--which veracious fact doubtless saves me from some formalities which would have proved embarrassing, all ignorant as I still am of that finer and more complex etiquette in which the Japanese are the world's masters. Sec. 8 The priest leads the way into a vast and lofty apartment opening for its entire length upon the broad gallery to which the stairway ascends. I have barely time to notice, while following him, that the chamber contains three immense shrines, forming alcoves on two sides of it. Ofthese, two are veiled by white curtains reaching from ceiling to matting--curtains decorated with perpendicular rows of black disks about four inches in diameter, each disk having in its centre a golden blossom. But from before the third shrine, in the farther angle of the chamber, the curtains have been withdrawn; and these are of gold brocade, and the shrine before which they hang is the chief shrine, that of Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami. Within are visible only some of the ordinary emblems of Shinto, and the exterior of that Holy of Holies into which none may look. Before it a long low bench, covered with strange objects, has been placed, with one end toward the gallery and one toward the alcove. At the end of this bench, near the gallery, I see a majestic bearded figure, strangely coifed and robed all in white, seated upon the matted floor in hierophantic attitude. Our priestly guide motions us to take our places in front of him and to bow down before him. For this is Senke Takanori, the Guji of Kitzuki, to whom even in his own dwelling none may speak save on bended knee, descendant of the Goddess of the Sun, and still by multitudes revered in thought as a being superhuman. Prostrating myself before him, according to the customary code of Japanese politeness, I am saluted in return with that exquisite courtesy which puts a stranger immediately at ease. The priest who acted as our guide now sits down on the floor at the Guji's left hand; while the other priests, who followed us to the entrance of the sanctuary only, take their places upon the gallery without. Sec. 9 Senke Takanori is a youthful and powerful man. As he sits there before me in his immobile hieratic pose, with his strange lofty head-dress, his heavy curling beard, and his ample snowy sacerdotal robe broadly spreading about him in statuesque undulations, he realises for me all that I had imagined, from the suggestion of old Japanese pictures, about the personal majesty of the ancient princes and heroes. The dignity alone of the man would irresistibly compel respect; but with that feeling of respect there also flashes through me at once the thought of the profound reverence paid him by the population of the most ancient province of Japan, the idea of the immense spiritual power in his hands, the tradition of his divine descent, the sense of the immemorial nobility of his race--and my respect deepens into a feeling closely akin to awe. So motionless he is that he seems a sacred statue only--the temple image of one of his own deified ancestors. But the solemnity of the first few moments is agreeably broken by his first words, uttered in a low rich basso, while his dark, kindly eyes remain motionlessly fixed upon my face. Then my interpreter translates his greeting--large fine phrases of courtesy--to which I reply as I best know how, expressing my gratitude for the exceptional favour accorded me. 'You are, indeed,' he responds through Akira, 'the first European ever permitted to enter into the Oho-yashiro. Other Europeans have visited Kitzuki and a few have been allowed to enter the temple court; but you only have been admitted into the dwelling of the god. In past years, some strangers who desired to visit the temple out of common curiosity only were not allowed to approach even the court; but the letter of Mr. Nishida, explaining the object of your visit, has made it a pleasure for us to receive you thus.' Again I express my thanks; and after a second exchange of courtesies the conversation continues through the medium of Akira. 'Is not this great temple of Kitzuki,' I inquire, 'older than the temples of Ise?' 'Older by far,' replies the Guji; 'so old, indeed, that we do not well know the age of it. For it was first built by order of the Goddess of the Sun, in the time when deities alone existed. Then it was exceedingly magnificent; it was three hundred and twenty feet high. The beams and the pillars were larger than any existing timber could furnish; and the framework was bound together firmly with a rope made of taku [11] fibre, one thousand fathoms long. 'It was first rebuilt in the time of the Emperor Sui-nin. [12] The temple so rebuilt by order of the Emperor Sui-nin was called the Structure of the Iron Rings, because the pieces of the pillars, which were composed of the wood of many great trees, had been bound fast together with huge rings of iron. This temple was also splendid, but far less splendid than the first, which had been built by the gods, for its height was only one hundred and sixty feet. 'A third time the temple was rebuilt, in the reign of the Empress Sai-mei; but this third edifice was only eighty feet high. Since then the structure of the temple has never varied; and the plan then followed has been strictly preserved to the least detail in the construction of the present temple. 'The Oho-yashiro has been rebuilt twenty-eight times; and it has been the custom to rebuild it every sixty-one years. But in the long period of civil war it was not even repaired for more than a hundred years. In the fourth year of Tai-ei, one Amako Tsune Hisa, becoming Lord of Izumo, committed the great temple to the charge of a Buddhist priest, and even built pagodas about it, to the outrage of the holy traditions. But when the Amako family were succeeded by Moro Mototsugo, this latter purified the temple, and restored the ancient festivals and ceremonies which before had been neglected.' 'In the period when the temple was built upon a larger scale,' I ask, 'were the timbers for its construction obtained from the forests of Izumo?' The priest Sasa, who guided us into the shrine, makes answer: 'It is recorded that on the fourth day of the seventh month of the third year of Ten-in one hundred large trees came floating to the sea coast of Kitzuki, and were stranded there by the tide. With these timbers the temple was rebuilt in the third year of Ei-kyu; and that structure was called the Building-of-the-Trees-which-came-floating. Also in the same third year of Ten-in, a great tree-trunk, one hundred and fifty feet long, was stranded on the seashore near a shrine called Ube-no-yashiro, at Miyanoshita-mura, which is in Inaba. Some people wanted to cut the tree; but they found a great serpent coiled around it, which looked so terrible that they became frightened, and prayed to the deity of Ube-noyashiro to protect them; and the deity revealed himself, and said: "Whensoever the great temple in Izumo is to be rebuilt, one of the gods of each province sends timber for the building of it, and this time it is my turn. Build quickly, therefore, with that great tree which is mine." And therewith the god disappeared. From these and from other records we learn that the deities have always superintended or aided the building of the great temple of Kitzuki.' 'In what part of the Oho-yashiro,' I ask, 'do the august deities assemble during the Kami-ari-zuki?' 'On the east and west sides of the inner court,' replies the priest Sasa, 'there are two long buildings called the Jiu-kusha. These contain nineteen shrines, no one of which is dedicated to any particular god; and we believe it is in the Jiu-ku-sha that the gods assemble.' 'And how many pilgrims from other provinces visit the great shrine yearly?' I inquire. 'About two hundred and fifty thousand,' the Guji answers. 'But the number increases or diminishes according to the condition of the agricultural classes; the more prosperous the season, the larger the number of pilgrims. It rarely falls below two hundred thousand.' Sec. 10 Many other curious things the Guji and his chief priest then related to me; telling me the sacred name of each of the courts, and of the fences and holy groves and the multitudinous shrines and their divinities; even the names of the great pillars of the temple, which are nine in number, the central pillar being called the august Heart-Pillar of the Middle. All things within the temple grounds have sacred names, even the torii and the bridges. The priest Sasa called my attention to the fact that the great shrine of Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami faces west, though the great temple faces east, like all Shinto temples. In the other two shrines of the same apartment, both facing east, are the first divine Kokuzo of Izumo, his seventeenth descendant, and the father of Nominosukune, wise prince and famous wrestler. For in the reign of the Emperor Sui-nin one Kehaya of Taima had boasted that no man alive was equal to himself in strength. Nominosukune, by the emperor's command, wrestled with Kehaya, and threw him down so mightily that Kehaya's ghost departed from him. This was the beginning of wrestling in Japan; and wrestlers still pray unto Nominosukune for power and skill. There are so many other shrines that I could not enumerate the names of all their deities without wearying those readers unfamiliar with the traditions and legends of Shinto. But nearly all those divinities who appear in the legend of the Master of the Great Land are still believed to dwell here with him, and here their shrines are: the beautiful one, magically born from the jewel worn in the tresses of the Goddess of the Sun, and called by men the Torrent-Mist Princess--and the daughter of the Lord of the World of Shadows, she who loved the Master of the Great Land, and followed him out of the place of ghosts to become his wife--and the deity called 'Wondrous-Eight-Spirits,' grandson of the 'Deity of Water-Gates,' who first made a fire-drill and platters of red clay for the august banquet of the god at Kitzuki--and many of the heavenly kindred of these. Sec. 11 The priest Sasa also tells me this: When Naomasu, grandson of the great Iyeyasu, and first daimyo of that mighty Matsudaira family who ruled Izumo for two hundred and fifty years, came to this province, he paid a visit to the Temple of Kitzuki, and demanded that the miya of the shrine within the shrine should be opened that he might look upon the sacred objects--upon the shintai or body of the deity. And this being an impious desire, both of the Kokuzo [13] unitedly protested against it. But despite their remonstrances and their pleadings, he persisted angrily in his demand, so that the priests found themselves compelled to open the shrine. And the miya being opened, Naomasu saw within it a great awabi [14] of nine holes--so large that it concealed everything behind it. And when he drew still nearer to look, suddenly the awabi changed itself into a huge serpent more than fifty feet in length; [15]--and it massed its black coils before the opening of the shrine, and hissed like the sound of raging fire, and looked so terrible, that Naomasu and those with him fled away having been able to see naught else. And ever thereafter Naomasu feared and reverenced the god. Sec. 12 The Guji then calls my attention to the quaint relics lying upon the long low bench between us, which is covered with white silk: a metal mirror, found in preparing the foundation of the temple when rebuilt many hundred years ago; magatama jewels of onyx and jasper; a Chinese flute made of jade; a few superb swords, the gifts of shoguns and emperors; helmets of splendid antique workmanship; and a bundle of enormous arrows with double-pointed heads of brass, fork-shaped and keenly edged. After I have looked at these relics and learned something of their history, the Guji rises and says to me, 'Now we will show you the ancient fire-drill of Kitzuki, with which the sacred fire is kindled.' Descending the steps, we pass again before the Haiden, and enter a spacious edifice on one side of the court, of nearly equal size with the Hall of Prayer. Here I am agreeably surprised to find a long handsome mahogany table at one end of the main apartment into which we are ushered, and mahogany chairs placed all about it for the reception of guests. I am motioned to one chair, my interpreter to another; and the Guji and his priests take their seats also at the table. Then an attendant sets before me a handsome bronze stand about three feet long, on which rests an oblong something carefully wrapped in snow-white cloths. The Guji removes the wrappings; and I behold the most primitive form of fire-drill known to exist in the Orient. [16] It is simply a very thick piece of solid white plank, about two and a half feet long, with a line of holes drilled along its upper edge, so that the upper part of each hole breaks through the sides of the plank. The sticks which produce the fire, when fixed in the holes and rapidly rubbed between the palms of the hands, are made of a lighter kind of white wood; they are about two feet long, and as thick as a common lead pencil. While I am yet examining this curious simple utensil, the invention of which tradition ascribes to the gods, and modern science to the earliest childhood of the human race, a priest places upon the table a light, large wooden box, about three feet long, eighteen inches wide, and four inches high at the sides, but higher in the middle, as the top is arched like the shell of a tortoise. This object is made of the same hinoki wood as the drill; and two long slender sticks are laid beside it. I at first suppose it to be another fire-drill. But no human being could guess what it really is. It is called the koto-ita, and is one of the most primitive of musical instruments; the little sticks are used to strike it. At a sign from the Guji two priests place the box upon the floor, seat themselves on either side of it, and taking up the little sticks begin to strike the lid with them, alternately and slowly, at the same time uttering a most singular and monotonous chant. One intones only the sounds, 'Ang! ang!' and the other responds, 'Ong! ong!' The koto-ita gives out a sharp, dead, hollow sound as the sticks fall upon it in time to each utterance of 'Ang! ang!' 'Ong! ong!' [17] Sec. 13 These things I learn: Each year the temple receives a new fire-drill; but the fire-drill is never made in Kitzuki, but in Kumano, where the traditional regulations as to the manner of making it have been preserved from the time of the gods. For the first Kokuzo of Izumo, on becoming pontiff, received the fire-drill for the great temple from the hands of the deity who was the younger brother of the Sun-Goddess, and is now enshrined at Kumano. And from his time the fire-drills for the Oho-yashiro of Kitzuki have been made only at Kumano. Until very recent times the ceremony of delivering the new fire-drill to the Guji of Kitzuki always took place at the great temple of Oba, on the occasion of the festival called Unohimatauri. This ancient festival, which used to be held in the eleventh month, became obsolete after the Revolution everywhere except at Oba in Izumo, where Izanami-no-Kami, the mother of gods and men, is enshrined. Once a year, on this festival, the Kokuzo always went to Oba, taking with him a gift of double rice-cakes. At Oba he was met by a personage called the Kame-da-yu, who brought the fire-drill from Kumano and delivered it to the priests at Oba. According to tradition, the Kame-da-yu had to act a somewhat ludicrous role so that no Shinto priest ever cared to perform the part, and a man was hired for it. The duty of the Kame-da-yu was to find fault with the gift presented to the temple by the Kokuzo; and in this district of Japan there is still a proverbial saying about one who is prone to find fault without reason, 'He is like the Kame-da-yu.' The Kame-da-yu would inspect the rice-cakes and begin to criticise them. 'They are much smaller this year,' he would observe, 'than they were last year.' The priests would reply: 'Oh, you are honourably mistaken; they are in truth very much larger.' 'The colour is not so white this year as it was last year; and the rice-flour is not finely ground.' For all these imaginary faults of the mochi the priests would offer elaborate explanations or apologies. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the sakaki branches used in it were eagerly bid for, and sold at high prices, being believed to possess talismanic virtues. Sec. 14 It nearly always happened that there was a great storm either on the day the Kokuzo went to Oba, or upon the day he returned therefrom. The journey had to be made during what is in Izumo the most stormy season (December by the new calendar). But in popular belief these storms were in some tremendous way connected with the divine personality of the Kokuzo whose attributes would thus appear to present some curious analogy with those of the Dragon-God. Be that as it may, the great periodical storms of the season are still in this province called Kokuzo-are [18]; it is still the custom in Izumo to say merrily to the guest who arrives or departs in a time of tempest, 'Why, you are like the Kokuzo!' Sec. 15 The Guji waves his hand, and from the farther end of the huge apartment there comes a sudden burst of strange music--a sound of drums and bamboo flutes; and turning to look, I see the musicians, three men, seated upon the matting, and a young girl with them. At another sign from the Guji the girl rises. She is barefooted and robed in snowy white, a virgin priestess. But below the hem of the white robe I see the gleam of hakama of crimson silk. She advances to a little table in the middle of the apartment, upon which a queer instrument is lying, shaped somewhat like a branch with twigs bent downward, from each of which hangs a little bell. Taking this curious object in both hands, she begins a sacred dance, unlike anything I ever saw before. Her every movement is a poem, because she is very graceful; and yet her performance could scarcely be called a dance, as we understand the word; it is rather a light swift walk within a circle, during which she shakes the instrument at regular intervals, making all the little bells ring. Her face remains impassive as a beautiful mask, placid and sweet as the face of a dreaming Kwannon; and her white feet are pure of line as the feet of a marble nymph. Altogether, with her snowy raiment and white flesh and passionless face, she seems rather a beautiful living statue than a Japanese maiden. And all the while the weird flutes sob and shrill, and the muttering of the drums is like an incantation. What I have seen is called the Dance of the Miko, the Divineress. Sec. 16 Then we visit the other edifices belonging to the temple: the storehouse; the library; the hall of assembly, a massive structure two stories high, where may be seen the portraits of the Thirty-Six Great Poets, painted by Tosano Mitsu Oki more than a thousand years ago, and still in an excellent state of preservation. Here we are also shown a curious magazine, published monthly by the temple--a record of Shinto news, and a medium for the discussion of questions relating to the archaic texts. After we have seen all the curiosities of the temple, the Guji invites us to his private residence near the temple to show us other treasures--letters of Yoritomo, of Hideyoshi, of Iyeyasu; documents in the handwriting of the ancient emperors and the great shoguns, hundreds of which precious manuscripts he keeps in a cedar chest. In case of fire the immediate removal of this chest to a place of safety would be the first duty of the servants of the household. Within his own house the Guji, attired in ordinary Japanese full dress only, appears no less dignified as a private gentleman than he first seemed as pontiff in his voluminous snowy robe. But no host could be more kindly or more courteous or more generous. I am also much impressed by the fine appearance of his suite of young priests, now dressed, like himself, in the national costume; by the handsome, aquiline, aristocratic faces, totally different from those of ordinary Japanese--faces suggesting the soldier rather than the priest. One young man has a superb pair of thick black moustaches, which is something rarely to be seen in Japan. At parting our kind host presents me with the ofuda, or sacred charms given to pilgrimsh--two pretty images of the chief deities of Kitzuki--and a number of documents relating to the history of the temple and of its treasures. Sec. 17 Having taken our leave of the kind Guji and his suite, we are guided to Inasa-no-hama, a little sea-bay at the rear of the town, by the priest Sasa, and another kannushi. This priest Sasa is a skilled poet and a man of deep learning in Shinto history and the archaic texts of the sacred books. He relates to us many curious legends as we stroll along the shore. This shore, now a popular bathing resort--bordered with airy little inns and pretty tea-houses--is called Inasa because of a Shinto tradition that here the god Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, the Master-of-the-Great-Land, was first asked to resign his dominion over the land of Izumo in favour of Masa-ka-a-katsu-kachi-hayabi-ame-no-oshi-ho-mimi-no-mikoto; the word Inasa signifying 'Will you consent or not?' [19] In the thirty-second section of the first volume of the Kojiki the legend is written: I cite a part thereof: 'The two deities (Tori-bune-no-Kami and Take-mika-dzuchi-no-wo-no-Kami), descending to the little shore of Inasa in the land of Izumo, drew their swords ten handbreadths long, and stuck them upside down on the crest of a wave, and seated themselves cross-legged upon the points of the swords, and asked the Deity Master-of-the-Great-Land, saying: "The Heaven-Shining-Great-August-Deity and the High-Integrating-Deity have charged us and sent us to ask, saying: 'We have deigned to charge our august child with thy dominion, as the land which he should govern. So how is thy heart?'" He replied, saying: "I am unable to say. My son Ya-he-koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami will be the one to tell you." . . . So they asked the Deity again, saying: "Thy son Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami has now spoken thus. Hast thou other sons who should speak?" He spoke again, saying: "There is my other son, Take-mi-na-gata-no-Kami."... While he was thus speaking the Deity Take-mi-na-gata-no-Kami came up [from the sea], bearing on the tips of his fingers a rock which it would take a thousand men to lift, and said, "I should like to have a trial of strength."' Here, close to the beach, stands a little miya called Inasa-no-kami-no-yashiro, or, the Temple of the God of Inasa; and therein Take-mika-dzu-chi-no-Kami, who conquered in the trial of strength, is enshrined. And near the shore the great rock which Take-mi-na-gata-no-Kami lifted upon the tips of his fingers, may be seen rising from the water. And it is called Chihiki-noiha. We invite the priests to dine with us at one of the little inns facing the breezy sea; and there we talk about many things, but particularly about Kitzuki and the Kokuzo. Sec. 18 Only a generation ago the religious power of the Kokuzo extended over the whole of the province of the gods; he was in fact as well as in name the Spiritual Governor of Izumo. His jurisdiction does not now extend beyond the limits of Kitzuki, and his correct title is no longer Kokuzo, but Guji. [20] Yet to the simple-hearted people of remoter districts he is still a divine or semi-divine being, and is mentioned by his ancient title, the inheritance of his race from the epoch of the gods. How profound a reverence was paid to him in former ages can scarcely be imagined by any who have not long lived among the country folk of Izumo. Outside of Japan perhaps no human being, except the Dalai Lama of Thibet, was so humbly venerated and so religiously beloved. Within Japan itself only the Son of Heaven, the 'Tenshi-Sama,' standing as mediator 'between his people and the Sun,' received like homage; but the worshipful reverence paid to the Mikado was paid to a dream rather than to a person, to a name rather than to a reality, for the Tenshi-Sama was ever invisible as a deity 'divinely retired,' and in popular belief no man could look upon his face and live. [21] Invisibility and mystery vastly enhanced the divine legend of the Mikado. But the Kokuzo, within his own province, though visible to the multitude and often journeying among the people, received almost equal devotion; so that his material power, though rarely, if ever, exercised, was scarcely less than that of the Daimyo of Izumo himself. It was indeed large enough to render him a person with whom the shogunate would have deemed it wise policy to remain upon good terms. An ancestor of the present Guji even defied the great Taiko Hideyoshi, refusing to obey his command to furnish troops with the haughty answer that he would receive no order from a man of common birth. [22] This defiance cost the family the loss of a large part of its estates by confiscation, but the real power of the Kokuzo remained unchanged until the period of the new civilisation. Out of many hundreds of stories of a similar nature, two little traditions may be cited as illustrations of the reverence in which the Kokuzo was formerly held. It is related that there was a man who, believing himself to have become rich by favour of the Daikoku of Kitzuki, desired to express his gratitude by a gift of robes to the Kokuzo. The Kokuzo courteously declined the proffer; but the pious worshipper persisted in his purpose, and ordered a tailor to make the robes. The tailor, having made them, demanded a price that almost took his patron's breath away. Being asked to give his reason for demanding such a price, he made answer: Having made robes for the Kokuzo, I cannot hereafter make garments for any other person. Therefore I must have money enough to support me for the rest of my life.' The second story dates back to about one hundred and seventy years ago. Among the samurai of the Matsue clan in the time of Nobukori, fifth daimyo of the Matsudaira family, there was one Sugihara Kitoji, who was stationed in some military capacity at Kitzuki. He was a great favourite with the Kokuzo, and used often to play at chess with him. During a game, one evening, this officer suddenly became as one paralysed, unable to move or speak. For a moment all was anxiety and confusion; but the Kokuzo said: 'I know the cause. My friend was smoking, and although smoking disagrees with me, I did not wish to spoil his pleasure by telling him so. But the Kami, seeing that I felt ill, became angry with him. Now I shall make him well.' Whereupon the Kokuzo uttered some magical word, and the officer was immediately as well as before. Sec. 19 Once more we are journeying through the silence of this holy land of mists and of legends; wending our way between green leagues of ripening rice white-sprinkled with arrows of prayer between the far processions of blue and verdant peaks whose names are the names of gods. We have left Kitzuki far behind. But as in a dream I still see the mighty avenue, the long succession of torii with their colossal shimenawa, the majestic face of the Guji, the kindly smile of the priest Sasa, and the girl priestess in her snowy robes dancing her beautiful ghostly dance. It seems to me that I can still hear the sound of the clapping of hands, like the crashing of a torrent. I cannot suppress some slight exultation at the thought that I have been allowed to see what no other foreigner has been privileged to see--the interior of Japan's most ancient shrine, and those sacred utensils and quaint rites of primitive worship so well worthy the study of the anthropologist and the evolutionist. But to have seen Kitzuki as I saw it is also to have seen something much more than a single wonderful temple. To see Kitzuki is to see the living centre of Shinto, and to feel the life-pulse of the ancient faith, throbbing as mightily in this nineteenth century as ever in that unknown past whereof the Kojiki itself, though written in a tongue no longer spoken, is but a modern record. [23] Buddhism, changing form or slowly decaying through the centuries, might seem doomed to pass away at last from this Japan to which it came only as an alien faith; but Shinto, unchanging and vitally unchanged, still remains all dominant in the land of its birth, and only seems to gain in power and dignity with time.[24] Buddhism has a voluminous theology, a profound philosophy, a literature vast as the sea. Shinto has no philosophy, no code of ethics, no metaphysics; and yet, by its very immateriality, it can resist the invasion of Occidental religious thought as no other Orient faith can. Shinto extends a welcome to Western science, but remains the irresistible opponent of Western religion; and the foreign zealots who would strive against it are astounded to find the power that foils their uttermost efforts indefinable as magnetism and invulnerable as air. Indeed the best of our scholars have never been able to tell us what Shinto is. To some it appears to be merely ancestor-worship, to others ancestor-worship combined with nature-worship; to others, again, it seems to be no religion at all; to the missionary of the more ignorant class it is the worst form of heathenism. Doubtless the difficulty of explaining Shinto has been due simply to the fact that the sinologists have sought for the source of it in books: in the Kojiki and the Nihongi, which are its histories; in the Norito, which are its prayers; in the commentaries of Motowori and Hirata, who were its greatest scholars. But the reality of Shinto lives not in books, nor in rites, nor in commandments, but in the national heart, of which it is the highest emotional religious expression, immortal and ever young. Far underlying all the surface crop of quaint superstitions and artless myths and fantastic magic there thrills a mighty spiritual force, the whole soul of a race with all its impulses and powers and intuitions. He who would know what Shinto is must learn to know that mysterious soul in which the sense of beauty and the power of art and the fire of heroism and magnetism of loyalty and the emotion of faith have become inherent, immanent, unconscious, instinctive. Trusting to know something of that Oriental soul in whose joyous love of nature and of life even the unlearned may discern a strange likeness to the soul of the old Greek race, I trust also that I may presume some day to speak of the great living power of that faith now called Shinto, but more anciently Kami-no-michi, or 'The Way of the Gods.' Chapter Nine In the Cave of the Children's Ghosts Sec. 1 IT is forbidden to go to Kaka if there be wind enough 'to move three hairs.' Now an absolutely windless day is rare on this wild western coast. Over the Japanese Sea, from Korea, or China, or boreal Siberia, some west or north-west breeze is nearly always blowing. So that I have had to wait many long months for a good chance to visit Kaka. Taking the shortest route, one goes first to Mitsu-ura from Matsue, either by kuruma or on foot. By kuruma this little journey occupies nearly two hours and a half, though the distance is scarcely seven miles, the road being one of the worst in all Izumo. You leave Matsue to enter at once into a broad plain, level as a lake, all occupied by rice-fields and walled in by wooded hills. The path, barely wide enough for a single vehicle, traverses this green desolation, climbs the heights beyond it, and descends again into another and a larger level of rice-fields, surrounded also by hills. The path over the second line of hills is much steeper; then a third rice-plain must be crossed and a third chain of green altitudes, lofty enough to merit the name of mountains. Of course one must make the ascent on foot: it is no small labour for a kurumaya to pull even an empty kuruma up to the top; and how he manages to do so without breaking the little vehicle is a mystery, for the path is stony and rough as the bed of a torrent. A tiresome climb I find it; but the landscape view from the summit is more than compensation. Then descending, there remains a fourth and last wide level of rice-fields to traverse. The absolute flatness of the great plains between the ranges, and the singular way in which these latter 'fence off' the country into sections, are matters for surprise even in a land of surprises like Japan. Beyond the fourth rice-valley there is a fourth hill-chain, lower and richly wooded, on reaching the base of which the traveller must finally abandon his kuruma, and proceed over the hills on foot. Behind them lies the sea. But the very worst bit of the journey now begins. The path makes an easy winding ascent between bamboo growths and young pine and other vegetation for a shaded quarter of a mile, passing before various little shrines and pretty homesteads surrounded by high-hedged gardens. Then it suddenly breaks into steps, or rather ruins of steps--partly hewn in the rock, partly built, everywhere breached and worn which descend, all edgeless, in a manner amazingly precipitous, to the village of Mitsu-ura. With straw sandals, which never slip, the country folk can nimbly hurry up or down such a path; but with foreign footgear one slips at nearly every step; and when you reach the bottom at last, the wonder of how you managed to get there, even with the assistance of your faithful kurumaya, keeps you for a moment quite unconscious of the fact that you are already in Mitsu-ura. Sec. 2 Mitsu-ura stands with its back to the mountains, at the end of a small deep bay hemmed in by very high cliffs. There is only one narrow strip of beach at the foot of the heights; and the village owes its existence to that fact, for beaches are rare on this part of the coast. Crowded between the cliffs and the sea, the houses have a painfully compressed aspect; and somehow the greater number give one the impression of things created out of wrecks of junks. The little streets, or rather alleys, are full of boats and skeletons of boats and boat timbers; and everywhere, suspended from bamboo poles much taller than the houses, immense bright brown fishing-nets are drying in the sun. The whole curve of the beach is also lined with boats, lying side by side so that I wonder how it will be possible to get to the water's edge without climbing over them. There is no hotel; but I find hospitality in a fisherman's dwelling, while my kurumaya goes somewhere to hire a boat for Kaka-ura. In less than ten minutes there is a crowd of several hundred people about the house, half-clad adults and perfectly naked boys. They blockade the building; they obscure the light by filling up the doorways and climbing into the windows to look at the foreigner. The aged proprietor of the cottage protests in vain, says harsh things; the crowd only thickens. Then all the sliding screens are closed. But in the paper panes there are holes; and at all the lower holes the curious take regular turns at peeping. At a higher hole I do some peeping myself. The crowd is not prepossessing: it is squalid, dull-featured, remarkably ugly. But it is gentle and silent; and there are one or two pretty faces in it which seem extraordinary by reason of the general homeliness of the rest. At last my kurumaya has succeeded in making arrangements for a boat; and I effect a sortie to the beach, followed by the kurumaya and by all my besiegers. Boats have been moved to make a passage for us, and we embark without trouble of any sort. Our crew consists of two scullers--an old man at the stem, wearing only a rokushaku about his loins, and an old woman at the bow, fully robed and wearing an immense straw hat shaped like a mushroom. Both of course stand to their work and it would be hard to say which is the stronger or more skilful sculler. We passengers squat Oriental fashion upon a mat in the centre of the boat, where a hibachi, well stocked with glowing charcoal, invites us to smoke. Sec. 3 The day is clear blue to the end of the world, with a faint wind from the east, barely enough to wrinkle the sea, certainly more than enough to 'move three hairs.' Nevertheless the boatwoman and the boatman do not seem anxious; and I begin to wonder whether the famous prohibition is not a myth. So delightful the transparent water looks, that before we have left the bay I have to yield to its temptation by plunging in and swimming after the boat. When I climb back on board we are rounding the promontory on the right; and the little vessel begins to rock. Even under this thin wind the sea is moving in long swells. And as we pass into the open, following the westward trend of the land, we find ourselves gliding over an ink-black depth, in front of one of the very grimmest coasts I ever saw. A tremendous line of dark iron-coloured cliffs, towering sheer from the sea without a beach, and with never a speck of green below their summits; and here and there along this terrible front, monstrous beetlings, breaches, fissures, earthquake rendings, and topplings-down. Enormous fractures show lines of strata pitched up skyward, or plunging down into the ocean with the long fall of cubic miles of cliff. Before fantastic gaps, prodigious masses of rock, of all nightmarish shapes, rise from profundities unfathomed. And though the wind to-day seems trying to hold its breath, white breakers are reaching far up the cliffs, and dashing their foam into the faces of the splintered crags. We are too far to hear the thunder of them; but their ominous sheet-lightning fully explains to me the story of the three hairs. Along this goblin coast on a wild day there would be no possible chance for the strongest swimmer, or the stoutest boat; there is no place for the foot, no hold for the hand, nothing but the sea raving against a precipice of iron. Even to-day, under the feeblest breath imaginable, great swells deluge us with spray as they splash past. And for two long hours this jagged frowning coast towers by; and, as we toil on, rocks rise around us like black teeth; and always, far away, the foam-bursts gleam at the feet of the implacable cliffs. But there are no sounds save the lapping and plashing of passing swells, and the monotonous creaking of the sculls upon their pegs of wood. At last, at last, a bay--a beautiful large bay, with a demilune of soft green hills about it, overtopped by far blue mountains--and in the very farthest point of the bay a miniature village, in front of which many junks are riding at anchor: Kaka-ura. But we do not go to Kaka-ura yet; the Kukedo are not there. We cross the broad opening of the bay, journey along another half-mile of ghastly sea-precipice, and finally make for a lofty promontory of naked Plutonic rock. We pass by its menacing foot, slip along its side, and lo! at an angle opens the arched mouth of a wonderful cavern, broad, lofty, and full of light, with no floor but the sea. Beneath us, as we slip into it, I can see rocks fully twenty feet down. The water is clear as air. This is the Shin-Kukedo, called the New Cavern, though assuredly older than human record by a hundred thousand years. Sec. 4 A more beautiful sea-cave could scarcely be imagined. The sea, tunnelling the tall promontory through and through, has also, like a great architect, ribbed and groined and polished its mighty work. The arch of the entrance is certainly twenty feet above the deep water, and fifteen wide; and trillions of wave tongues have licked the vault and walls into wondrous smoothness. As we proceed, the rock-roof steadily heightens and the way widens. Then we unexpectedly glide under a heavy shower of fresh water, dripping from overhead. This spring is called the o-chozubachi or mitarashi [1] of Shin-Kukedo-San.. From the high vault at this point it is believed that a great stone will detach itself and fall upon any evil-hearted person who should attempt to enter the cave. I safely pass through the ordeal! Suddenly as we advance the boatwoman takes a stone from the bottom of the boat, and with it begins to rap heavily on the bow; and the hollow echoing is reiterated with thundering repercussions through all the cave. And in another instant we pass into a great burst of light, coming from the mouth of a magnificent and lofty archway on the left, opening into the cavern at right angles. This explains the singular illumination of the long vault, which at first seemed to come from beneath; for while the opening was still invisible all the water appeared to be suffused with light. Through this grand arch, between outlying rocks, a strip of beautiful green undulating coast appears, over miles of azure water. We glide on toward the third entrance to the Kukedo, opposite to that by which we came in; and enter the dwelling-place of the Kami and the Hotoke, for this grotto is sacred both to Shinto and to Buddhist faith. Here the Kukedo reaches its greatest altitude and breadth. Its vault is fully forty feet above the water, and its walls thirty feet apart. Far up on the right, near the roof, is a projecting white rock, and above the rock an orifice wherefrom a slow stream drips, seeming white as the rock itself. This is the legendary Fountain of Jizo, the fountain of milk at which the souls of dead children drink. Sometimes it flows more swiftly, sometimes more slowly; but it never ceases by night or day. And mothers suffering from want of milk come hither to pray that milk may be given unto them; and their prayer is heard. And mothers having more milk than their infants need come hither also, and pray to Jizo that so much as they can give may be taken for the dead children; and their prayer is heard, and their milk diminishes. At least thus the peasants of Izumo say. And the echoing of the swells leaping against the rocks without, the rushing and rippling of the tide against the walls, the heavy rain of percolating water, sounds of lapping and gurgling and plashing, and sounds of mysterious origin coming from no visible where, make it difficult for us to hear each other speak. The cavern seems full of voices, as if a host of invisible beings were holding tumultuous converse. Below us all the deeply lying rocks are naked to view as if seen through glass. It seems to me that nothing could be more delightful than to swim through this cave and let one's self drift with the sea-currents through all its cool shadows. But as I am on the point of jumping in, all the other occupants of the boat utter wild cries of protest. It is certain death! men who jumped in here only six months ago were never heard of again! this is sacred water, Kami-no-umi! And as if to conjure away my temptation, the boatwoman again seizes her little stone and raps fearfully upon the bow. On finding, however, that I am not sufficiently deterred by these stories of sudden death and disappearance, she suddenly screams into my ear the magical word, 'SAME!' Sharks! I have no longer any desire whatever to swim through the many-sounding halls of Shin-Kukedo-San. I have lived in the tropics! And we start forthwith for Kyu-Kukedo-San, the Ancient Cavern. Sec. 5 For the ghastly fancies about the Kami-no-umi, the word 'same' afforded a satisfactory explanation. But why that long, loud, weird rapping on the bow with a stone evidently kept on board for no other purpose? There was an exaggerated earnestness about the action which gave me an uncanny sensation--something like that which moves a man while walking at night upon a lonesome road, full of queer shadows, to sing at the top of his voice. The boatwoman at first declares that the rapping was made only for the sake of the singular echo. But after some cautious further questioning, I discover a much more sinister reason for the performance. Moreover, I learn that all the seamen and seawomen of this coast do the same thing when passing through perilous places, or places believed to be haunted by the Ma. What are the Ma? Goblins! Sec. 6 From the caves of the Kami we retrace our course for about a quarter of a mile; then make directly for an immense perpendicular wrinkle in the long line of black cliffs. Immediately before it a huge dark rock towers from the sea, whipped by the foam of breaking swells. Rounding it, we glide behind it into still water and shadow, the shadow of a monstrous cleft in the precipice of the coast. And suddenly, at an unsuspected angle, the mouth of another cavern yawns before us; and in another moment our boat touches its threshold of stone with a little shock that sends a long sonorous echo, like the sound of a temple drum, booming through all the abysmal place. A single glance tells me whither we have come. Far within the dusk I see the face of a Jizo, smiling in pale stone, and before him, and all about him, a weird congregation of grey shapes without shape--a host of fantasticalities that strangely suggest the wreck of a cemetery. From the sea the ribbed floor of the cavern slopes high through deepening shadows back to the black mouth of a farther grotto; and all that slope is covered with hundreds and thousands of forms like shattered haka. But as the eyes grow accustomed to the gloaming it becomes manifest that these were never haka; they are only little towers of stone and pebbles deftly piled up by long and patient labour. 'Shinda kodomo no shigoto,' my kurumaya murmurs with a compassionate smile; 'all this is the work of the dead children.' And we disembark. By counsel, I take off my shoes and put on a pair of zori, or straw sandals provided for me, as the rock is extremely slippery. The others land barefoot. But how to proceed soon becomes a puzzle: the countless stone-piles stand so close together that no space for the foot seems to be left between them. 'Mada michiga arimasu!' the boatwoman announces, leading the way. There is a path. Following after her, we squeeze ourselves between the wall of the cavern on the right and some large rocks, and discover a very, very narrow passage left open between the stone-towers. But we are warned to be careful for the sake of the little ghosts: if any of their work be overturned, they will cry. So we move very cautiously and slowly across the cave to a space bare of stone-heaps, where the rocky floor is covered with a thin layer of sand, detritus of a crumbling ledge above it. And in that sand I see light prints of little feet, children's feet, tiny naked feet, only three or four inches long--the footprints of the infant ghosts. Had we come earlier, the boatwoman says, we should have seen many more. For 'tis at night, when the soil of the cavern is moist with dews and drippings from the roof, that They leave Their footprints upon it; but when the heat of the day comes, and the sand and the rocks dry up, the prints of the little feet vanish away. There are only three footprints visible, but these are singularly distinct. One points toward the wall of the cavern; the others toward the sea. Here and there, upon ledges or projections of the rock, all about the cavern, tiny straw sandals--children's zori--are lying: offerings of pilgrims to the little ones, that their feet may not be wounded by the stones. But all the ghostly footprints are prints of naked feet. Then we advance, picking our way very, very carefully between the stone-towers, toward the mouth of the inner grotto, and reach the statue of Jizo before it. A seated Jizo carven in granite, holding in one hand the mystic jewel by virtue of which all wishes may be fulfilled; in the other his shakujo, or pilgrim's staff. Before him (strange condescension of Shinto faith!) a little torii has been erected, and a pair of gohei! Evidently this gentle divinity has no enemies; at the feet of the lover of children's ghosts, both creeds unite in tender homage. I said feet. But this subterranean Jizo has only one foot. The carven lotus on which he reposes has been fractured and broken: two great petals are missing; and the right foot, which must have rested upon one of them, has been knocked off at the ankle. This, I learn upon inquiry, has been done by the waves. In times of great storm the billows rush into the cavern like raging Oni, and sweep all the little stone towers into shingle as they come, and dash the statues against the rocks. But always during the first still night after the tempest the work is reconstructed as before! Hotoke ga shimpai shite: naki-naki tsumi naoshi-masu.' They make mourning, the hotoke; weeping, they pile up the stones again, they rebuild their towers of prayer. All about the black mouth of the inner grotto the bone-coloured rock bears some resemblance to a vast pair of yawning jaws. Downward from this sinister portal the cavern-floor slopes into a deeper and darker aperture. And within it, as one's eyes become accustomed to the gloom, a still larger vision of stone towers is disclosed; and beyond them, in a nook of the grotto, three other statues of Jizo smile, each one with a torii before it. Here I have the misfortune to upset first one stone-pile and then another, while trying to proceed. My kurumaya, almost simultaneously, ruins a third. To atone therefore, we must build six new towers, or double the number of those which we have cast down. And while we are thus busied, the boatwoman tells of two fishermen who remained in the cavern through all one night, and heard the humming of the viewless gathering, and sounds of speech, like the speech of children murmuring in multitude. Only at night do the shadowy children come to build their little stone-heaps at the feet of Jizo; and it is said that every night the stones are changed. When I ask why they do not work by day, when there is none to see them, I am answered: 'O-Hi-San [2] might see them; the dead exceedingly fear the Lady-Sun.' To the question, 'Why do they come from the sea?' I can get no satisfactory answer. But doubtless in the quaint imagination of this people, as also in that of many another, there lingers still the primitive idea of some communication, mysterious and awful, between the world of waters and the world of the dead. It is always over the sea, after the Feast of Souls, that the spirits pass murmuring back to their dim realm, in those elfish little ships of straw which are launched for them upon the sixteenth day of the seventh moon. Even when these are launched upon rivers, or when floating lanterns are set adrift upon lakes or canals to light the ghosts upon their way, or when a mother bereaved drops into some running stream one hundred little prints of Jizo for the sake of her lost darling, the vague idea behind the pious act is that all waters flow to the sea and the sea itself unto the 'Nether-distant Land.' Some time, somewhere, this day will come back to me at night, with its visions and sounds: the dusky cavern, and its grey hosts of stone climbing back into darkness, and the faint prints of little naked feet, and the weirdly smiling images, and the broken syllables of the waters inward-borne, multiplied by husky echoings, blending into one vast ghostly whispering, like the humming of the Sai-no-Kawara. And over the black-blue bay we glide to the rocky beach of Kaka-ura. Sec. 8 As at Mitsu-ura, the water's edge is occupied by a serried line of fishing-boats, each with its nose to the sea; and behind these are ranks of others; and it is only just barely possible to squeeze one's way between them over the beach to the drowsy, pretty, quaint little streets behind them. Everybody seems to be asleep when we first land: the only living creature visible is a cat, sitting on the stern of a boat; and even that cat, according to Japanese beliefs, might not be a real cat, but an o-bake or a nekomata--in short, a goblin-cat, for it has a long tail. It is hard work to discover the solitary hotel: there are no signs; and every house seems a private house, either a fisherman's or a farmer's. But the little place is worth wandering about in. A kind of yellow stucco is here employed to cover the exterior of walls; and this light warm tint under the bright blue day gives to the miniature streets a more than cheerful aspect. When we do finally discover the hotel, we have to wait quite a good while before going in; for nothing is ready; everybody is asleep or away, though all the screens and sliding-doors are open. Evidently there are no thieves in Kaka-ura. The hotel is on a little hillock, and is approached from the main street (the rest are only miniature alleys) by two little flights of stone steps. Immediately across the way I see a Zen temple and a Shinto temple, almost side by side. At last a pretty young woman, naked to the waist, with a bosom like a Naiad, comes running down the street to the hotel at a surprising speed, bowing low with a smile as she hurries by us into the house. This little person is the waiting-maid of the inn, O-Kayo-San--name signifying 'Years of Bliss.' Presently she reappears at the threshold, fully robed in a nice kimono, and gracefully invites us to enter, which we are only too glad to do. The room is neat and spacious; Shinto kakemono from Kitzuki are suspended in the toko and upon the walls; and in one corner I see a very handsome Zen-but-sudan, or household shrine. (The form of the shrine, as well as the objects of worship therein, vary according to the sect of the worshippers.) Suddenly I become aware that it is growing strangely dark; and looking about me, perceive that all the doors and windows and other apertures of the inn are densely blocked up by a silent, smiling crowd which has gathered to look at me. I could not have believed there were so many people in Kaka-ura. In a Japanese house, during the hot season, everything is thrown open to the breeze. All the shoji or sliding paper-screens, which serve for windows; and all the opaque paper-screens (fusuma) used in other seasons to separate apartments, are removed. There is nothing left between floor and roof save the frame or skeleton of the building; the dwelling is literally unwalled, and may be seen through in any direction. The landlord, finding the crowd embarrassing, closes up the building in front. The silent, smiling crowd goes to the rear. The rear is also closed. Then the crowd masses to right and left of the house; and both sides have to be closed, which makes it insufferably hot. And the crowd make gentle protest. Wherefore our host, being displeased, rebukes the multitude with argument and reason, yet without lifting his voice. (Never do these people lift up their voices in anger.) And what he says I strive to translate, with emphasis, as follows: 'You-as-for! outrageousness doing--what marvellous is? 'Theatre is not! 'Juggler is not! 'Wrestler is not! 'What amusing is? 'Honourable-Guest this is! 'Now august-to-eat-time-is; to-look-at evil matter is. Honourable-returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.' But outside, soft laughing voices continue to plead; pleading, shrewdly enough, only with the feminine portion of the family: the landlord's heart is less easily touched. And these, too, have their arguments: 'Oba-San! 'O-Kayo-San! 'Shoji-to-open-condescend!--want to see! 'Though-we-look-at, Thing-that-by-looking-at-is-worn-out-it-is-not! 'So that not-to-hinder looking-at is good. 'Hasten therefore to open!' As for myself, I would gladly protest against this sealing-up, for there is nothing offensive nor even embarrassing in the gaze of these innocent, gentle people; but as the landlord seems to be personally annoyed, I do not like to interfere. The crowd, however, does not go away: it continues to increase, waiting for my exit. And there is one high window in the rear, of which the paper-panes contain some holes; and I see shadows of little people climbing up to get to the holes. Presently there is an eye at every hole. When I approach the window, the peepers drop noiselessly to the ground, with little timid bursts of laughter, and run away. But they soon come back again. A more charming crowd could hardly be imagined: nearly all boys and girls, half-naked because of the heat, but fresh and clean as flower-buds. Many of the faces are surprisingly pretty; there are but very few which are not extremely pleasing. But where are the men, and the old women? Truly, this population seems not of Kaka-ura, but rather of the Sai-no-Kawara. The boys look like little Jizo. During dinner, I amuse myself by poking pears and little pieces of radish through the holes in the shoji. At first there is much hesitation and silvery laughter; but in a little while the silhouette of a tiny hand reaches up cautiously, and a pear vanishes away. Then a second pear is taken, without snatching, as softly as if a ghost had appropriated it. Thereafter hesitation ceases, despite the effort of one elderly woman to create a panic by crying out the word Mahotsukai, 'wizard.' By the time the dinner is over and the shoji removed, we have all become good friends. Then the crowd resumes its silent observation from the four cardinal points. I never saw a more striking difference in the appearance of two village populations than that between the youth of Mitsu-ura and of Kaka. Yet the villages are but two hours' sailing distance apart. In remoter Japan, as in certain islands of the West Indies, particular physical types are developed apparently among communities but slightly isolated; on one side of a mountain a population may be remarkably attractive, while upon the other you may find a hamlet whose inhabitants are decidedly unprepossessing. But nowhere in this country have I seen a prettier jeunesse than that of Kaka-ura. 'Returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.' As we descend to the bay, the whole of Kaka-ura, including even the long-invisible ancients of the village, accompanies us; making no sound except the pattering of geta. Thus we are escorted to our boat. Into all the other craft drawn up on the beach the younger folk clamber lightly, and seat themselves on the prows and the gunwales to gaze at the marvellous Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And all smile, but say nothing, even to each other: somehow the experience gives me the sensation of being asleep; it is so soft, so gentle, and so queer withal, just like things seen in dreams. And as we glide away over the blue lucent water I look back to see the people all waiting and gazing still from the great semicircle of boats; all the slender brown child-limbs dangling from the prows; all the velvety-black heads motionless in the sun; all the boy-faces smiling Jizo-smiles; all the black soft eyes still watching, tirelessly watching, the Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And as the scene, too swiftly receding, diminishes to the width of a kakemono, I vainly wish that I could buy this last vision of it, to place it in my toko, and delight my soul betimes with gazing thereon. Yet another moment, and we round a rocky point; and Kaka-ura vanishes from my sight for ever. So all things pass away. Assuredly those impressions which longest haunt recollection are the most transitory: we remember many more instants than minutes, more minutes than hours; and who remembers an entire day? The sum of the remembered happiness of a lifetime is the creation of seconds. 'What is more fugitive than a smile? yet when does the memory of a vanished smile expire? or the soft regret which that memory may evoke? Regret for a single individual smile is something common to normal human nature; but regret for the smile of a population, for a smile considered as an abstract quality, is certainly a rare sensation, and one to be obtained, I fancy, only in this Orient land whose people smile for ever like their own gods of stone. And this precious experience is already mine; I am regretting the smile of Kaka. Simultaneously there comes the recollection of a strangely grim Buddhist legend. Once the Buddha smiled; and by the wondrous radiance of that smile were countless worlds illuminated. But there came a Voice, saying: 'It is not real! It cannot last!' And the light passed. Chapter Ten At Mionoseki Seki wa yoi toko, Asahi wo ukete; O-Yama arashiga Soyo-soyoto! (SONG OF MIONOSEKI.) [Seki is a goodly place, facing the morning sun. There, from the holy mountains, the winds blow softly, softly--soyosoyoto.] Sec. 1 THE God of Mionoseki hates eggs, hen's eggs. Likewise he hates hens and chickens, and abhors the Cock above all living creatures. And in Mionoseki there are no cocks or hens or chickens or eggs. You could not buy a hen's egg in that place even for twenty times its weight in gold. And no boat or junk or steamer could be hired to convey to Mionoseki so much as the feather of a chicken, much less an egg. Indeed, it is even held that if you have eaten eggs in the morning you must not dare to visit Mionoseki until the following day. For the great deity of Mionoseki is the patron of mariners and the ruler of storms; and woe unto the vessel which bears unto his shrine even the odour of an egg. Once the tiny steamer which runs daily from Matsue to Mionoseki encountered some unexpectedly terrible weather on her outward journey, just after reaching the open sea. The crew insisted that something displeasing to Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami must have been surreptitiously brought on board. All the passengers were questioned in vain. Suddenly the captain discerned upon the stem of a little brass pipe which one of the men was smoking, smoking in the face of death, like a true Japanese, the figure of a crowing cock! Needless to say, that pipe was thrown overboard. Then the angry sea began to grow calm; and the little vessel safely steamed into the holy port, and cast anchor before the great torii of the shrine of the god! Sec. 2 Concerning the reason why the Cock is thus detested by the Great Deity of Mionoseki, and banished from his domain, divers legends are told; but the substance of all of them is about as follows: As we read in the Kojiki, Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami, Son of the Great Deity of Kitsuki, was wont to go to Cape Miho, [1] 'to pursue birds and catch fish.' And for other reasons also he used to absent himself from home at night, but had always to return before dawn. Now, in those days the Cock was his trusted servant, charged with the duty of crowing lustily when it was time for the god to return. But one morning the bird failed in its duty; and the god, hurrying back in his boat, lost his oars, and had to paddle with his hands; and his hands were bitten by the wicked fishes. Now the people of Yasugi, a pretty little town on the lagoon of Naka-umi, through which we pass upon our way to Mionoseki, most devoutly worship the same Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami; and nevertheless in Yasugi there are multitudes of cocks and hens and chickens; and the eggs of Yasugi cannot be excelled for size and quality. And the people of Yasugi aver that one may better serve the deity by eating eggs than by doing as the people of Mionoseki do; for whenever one eats a chicken or devours an egg, one destroys an enemy of Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami. Sec. 3 From Matsue to Mionoseki by steamer is a charming journey in fair weather. After emerging from the beautiful lagoon of Naka-umi into the open sea, the little packet follows the long coast of Izumo to the left. Very lofty this coast is, all cliffs and hills rising from the sea, mostly green to their summits, and many cultivated in terraces, so as to look like green pyramids of steps. The bases of the cliffs are very rocky; and the curious wrinklings and corrugations of the coast suggest the work of ancient volcanic forces. Far away to the right, over blue still leagues of sea, appears the long low shore of Hoki, faint as a mirage, with its far beach like an endless white streak edging the blue level, and beyond it vapoury lines of woods and cloudy hills, and over everything, looming into the high sky, the magnificent ghostly shape of Daisen, snow-streaked at its summit. So for perhaps an hour we steam on, between Hoki and Izumo; the rugged and broken green coast on our left occasionally revealing some miniature hamlet sheltered in a wrinkle between two hills; the phantom coast on the right always unchanged. Then suddenly the little packet whistles, heads for a grim promontory to port, glides by its rocky foot, and enters one of the prettiest little bays imaginable, previously concealed from view. A shell-shaped gap in the coast--a semicircular basin of clear deep water, framed in by high corrugated green hills, all wood-clad. Around the edge of the bay the quaintest of little Japanese cities, Mionoseki. There is no beach, only a semicircle of stone wharves, and above these the houses, and above these the beautiful green of the sacred hills, with a temple roof or two showing an angle through the foliage. From the rear of each house steps descend to deep water; and boats are moored at all the back-doors. We moor in front of the great temple, the Miojinja. Its great paved avenue slopes to the water's edge, where boats are also moored at steps of stone; and looking up the broad approach, one sees a grand stone torii, and colossal stone lanterns, and two magnificent sculptured lions, karashishi, seated upon lofty pedestals, and looking down upon the people from a height of fifteen feet or more. Beyond all this the walls and gate of the outer temple court appear, and beyond them, the roofs of the great haiden, and the pierced projecting cross-beams of the loftier Go-Miojin, the holy shrine itself, relieved against the green of the wooded hills. Picturesque junks are lying in ranks at anchor; there are two deep-sea vessels likewise, of modern build, ships from Osaka. And there is a most romantic little breakwater built of hewn stone, with a stone lantern perched at the end of it; and there is a pretty humped bridge connecting it with a tiny island on which I see a shrine of Benten, the Goddess of Waters. I wonder if I shall be able to get any eggs! Sec. 4 Unto the pretty waiting maiden of the inn Shimaya I put this scandalous question, with an innocent face but a remorseful heart: 'Ano ne! tamago wa arimasenka?' With the smile of a Kwannon she makes reply:-'He! Ahiru-no tamago-ga sukoshi gozarimasu.' Delicious surprise! There augustly exist eggs--of ducks! But there exist no ducks. For ducks could not find life worth living in a city where there is only deep-sea water. And all the ducks' eggs come from Sakai. Sec. 5 This pretty little hotel, whose upper chambers overlook the water, is situated at one end, or nearly at one end, of the crescent of Mionoseki, and the Miojinja almost at the other, so that one must walk through the whole town to visit the temple, or else cross the harbour by boat. But the whole town is well worth seeing. It is so tightly pressed between the sea and the bases of the hills that there is only room for one real street; and this is so narrow that a man could anywhere jump from the second story of a house upon the water-side into the second story of the opposite house upon the land-side. And it is as picturesque as it is narrow, with its awnings and polished balconies and fluttering figured draperies. From this main street several little ruelles slope to the water's edge, where they terminate in steps; and in all these miniature alleys long boats are lying, with their prows projecting over the edge of the wharves, as if eager to plunge in. The temptation to take to the water I find to be irresistible: before visiting the Miojinja I jump from the rear of our hotel into twelve feet of limpid sea, and cool myself by a swim across the harbour. On the way to Miojinja, I notice, in multitudes of little shops, fascinating displays of baskets and utensils made of woven bamboo. Fine bamboo-ware is indeed the meibutsu, the special product of Mionoseki; and almost every visitor buys some nice little specimen to carry home with him. The Miojinja is not in its architecture more remarkable than ordinary Shinto temples in Izumo; nor are its interior decorations worth describing in detail. Only the approach to it over the broad sloping space of level pavement, under the granite torii, and between the great lions and lamps of stone, is noble. Within the courts proper there is not much to be seen except a magnificent tank of solid bronze, weighing tons, which must have cost many thousands of yen. It is a votive offering. Of more humble ex-votos, there is a queer collection in the shamusho or business building on the right of the haiden: a series of quaintly designed and quaintly coloured pictures, representing ships in great storms, being guided or aided to port by the power of Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami. These are gifts from ships. The ofuda are not so curious as those of other famous Izumo temples; but they are most eagerly sought for. Those strips of white paper, bearing the deity's name, and a few words of promise, which are sold for a few rin, are tied to rods of bamboo, and planted in all the fields of the country roundabout. The most curious things sold are tiny packages of rice-seeds. It is alleged that whatever you desire will grow from these rice-seeds, if you plant them uttering a prayer. If you desire bamboos, cotton-plants, peas, lotus-plants, or watermelons, it matters not; only plant the seed and believe, and the desired crop will arise. Sec. 6 Much more interesting to me than the ofuda of the Miojinja are the yoraku, the pendent ex-votos in the Hojinji, a temple of the Zen sect which stands on the summit of the beautiful hill above the great Shinto shrine. Before an altar on which are ranged the images of the Thirty-three Kwannons, the thirty-three forms of that Goddess of Mercy who represents the ideal of all that is sweet and pure in the Japanese maiden, a strange, brightly coloured mass of curious things may be seen, suspended from the carven ceiling. There are hundreds of balls of worsted and balls of cotton thread of all colours; there are skeins of silk and patterns of silk weaving and of cotton weaving; there are broidered purses in the shape of sparrows and other living creatures; there are samples of bamboo plaiting and countless specimens of needlework. All these are the votive offerings of school children, little girls only, to the Maid-mother of all grace and sweetness and pity. So soon as a baby girl learns something in the way of woman's work--sewing, or weaving, or knitting, or broidering, she brings her first successful effort to the temple as an offering to the gentle divinity, 'whose eyes are beautiful,' she 'who looketh down above the sound of prayer.' Even the infants of the Japanese kindergarten bring their first work here--pretty paper-cuttings, scissored out and plaited into divers patterns by their own tiny flower-soft hands. Sec. 7 Very sleepy and quiet by day is Mionoseki: only at long intervals one hears laughter of children, or the chant of oarsmen rowing the most extraordinary boats I ever saw outside of the tropics; boats heavy as barges, which require ten men to move them. These stand naked to the work, wielding oars with cross-handles (imagine a letter T with the lower end lengthened out into an oar-blade). And at every pull they push their feet against the gunwales to give more force to the stroke; intoning in every pause a strange refrain of which the soft melancholy calls back to me certain old Spanish Creole melodies heard in West Indian waters: A-ra-ho-no-san-no-sa, Iya-ho-en-ya! Ghi! Ghi! The chant begins with a long high note, and descends by fractional tones with almost every syllable, and faints away a last into an almost indistinguishable hum. Then comes the stroke, 'Ghi!--ghi!' But at night Mionoseki is one of the noisiest and merriest little havens of Western Japan. From one horn of its crescent to the other the fires of the shokudai, which are the tall light of banquets, mirror themselves in the water; and the whole air palpitates with sounds of revelry. Everywhere one hears the booming of the tsudzumi, the little hand-drums of the geisha, and sweet plaintive chants of girls, and tinkling of samisen, and the measured clapping of hands in the dance, and the wild cries and laughter of the players at ken. And all these are but echoes of the diversions of sailors. Verily, the nature of sailors differs but little the world over. Every good ship which visits Mionoseki leaves there, so I am assured, from three hundred to five hundred yen for sake and for dancing-girls. Much do these mariners pray the Great Deity who hates eggs to make calm the waters and favourable the winds, so that Mionoseki may be reached in good time without harm. But having come hither over an unruffled sea with fair soft breezes all the way, small indeed is the gift which they give to the temple of the god, and marvellously large the sums which they pay unto geisha and keepers of taverns. But the god is patient and long-suffering--except in the matter of eggs. However, these Japanese seamen are very gentle compared with our own Jack Tars, and not without a certain refinement and politeness of their own. I see them sitting naked to the waist at their banquets; for it is very hot, but they use their chopsticks as daintily and pledge each other in sake almost as graciously as men of a better class. Likewise they seem to treat their girls very kindly. It is quite pleasant to watch them feasting across the street. Perhaps their laughter is somewhat more boisterous and their gesticulation a little more vehement than those of the common citizens; but there is nothing resembling real roughness--much less rudeness. All become motionless and silent as statues--fifteen fine bronzes ranged along the wall of the zashiki, [2] --when some pretty geisha begins one of those histrionic dances which, to the Western stranger, seem at first mysterious as a performance of witchcraft--but which really are charming translations of legend and story into the language of living grace and the poetry of woman's smile. And as the wine flows, the more urbane becomes the merriment--until there falls upon all that pleasant sleepiness which sake brings, and the guests, one by one, smilingly depart. Nothing could be happier or gentler than their evening's joviality--yet sailors are considered in Japan an especially rough class. What would be thought of our own roughs in such a country? Well, I have been fourteen months in Izumo; and I have not yet heard voices raised in anger, or witnessed a quarrel: never have I seen one man strike another, or a woman bullied, or a child slapped. Indeed I have never seen any real roughness anywhere that I have been in Japan, except at the open ports, where the poorer classes seem, through contact with Europeans, to lose their natural politeness, their native morals--even their capacity for simple happiness. Sec. 8 Last night I saw the seamen of Old Japan: to-day I shall see those of New Japan. An apparition in the offing has filled all this little port with excitement--an Imperial man-of-war. Everybody is going out to look at her; and all the long boats that were lying in the alleys are already hastening, full of curious folk, to the steel colossus. A cruiser of the first class, with a crew of five hundred. I take passage in one of those astounding craft I mentioned before--a sort of barge propelled by ten exceedingly strong naked men, wielding enormous oars--or rather, sweeps--with cross-handles. But I do not go alone: indeed I can scarcely find room to stand, so crowded the boat is with passengers of all ages, especially women who are nervous about going to sea in an ordinary sampan. And a dancing-girl jumps into the crowd at the risk of her life, just as we push off--and burns her arm against my cigar in the jump. I am very sorry for her; but she laughs merrily at my solicitude. And the rowers begin their melancholy somnolent song: A-ra-ho-no-san-no-sa, Iya-ho-en-ya! Ghi! Ghi! It is a long pull to reach her--the beautiful monster, towering motionless there in the summer sea, with scarce a curling of thin smoke from the mighty lungs of her slumbering engines; and that somnolent song of our boatmen must surely have some ancient magic in it; for by the time we glide alongside I feel as if I were looking at a dream. Strange as a vision of sleep, indeed, this spectacle: the host of quaint craft hovering and trembling around that tremendous bulk; and all the long-robed, wide-sleeved multitude of the antique port--men, women, children--the grey and the young together--crawling up those mighty flanks in one ceaseless stream, like a swarming of ants. And all this with a great humming like the humming of a hive,--a sound made up of low laughter, and chattering in undertones, and subdued murmurs of amazement. For the colossus overawes them--this ship of the Tenshi-Sama, the Son of Heaven; and they wonder like babies at the walls and the turrets of steel, and the giant guns and the mighty chains, and the stern bearing of the white-uniformed hundreds looking down upon the scene without a smile, over the iron bulwarks. Japanese those also--yet changed by some mysterious process into the semblance of strangers. Only the experienced eye could readily decide the nationality of those stalwart marines: but for the sight of the Imperial arms in gold, and the glimmering ideographs upon the stern, one might well suppose one's self gazing at some Spanish or Italian ship-of-war manned by brown Latin men. I cannot possibly get on board. The iron steps are occupied by an endless chain of clinging bodies--blue-robed boys from school, and old men with grey queues, and fearless young mothers holding fast to the ropes with over-confident babies strapped to their backs, and peasants, and fishers, and dancing-girls. They are now simply sticking there like flies: somebody has told them they must wait fifteen minutes. So they wait with smiling patience, and behind them in the fleet of high-prowed boats hundreds more wait and wonder. But they do not wait for fifteen minutes! All hopes are suddenly shattered by a stentorian announcement from the deck: 'Mo jikan ga naikara, miseru koto dekimasen!' The monster is getting up steam--going away: nobody else will be allowed to come on board. And from the patient swarm of clingers to the hand-ropes, and the patient waiters in the fleet of boats, there goes up one exceedingly plaintive and prolonged 'Aa!' of disappointment, followed by artless reproaches in Izumo dialect: 'Gun-jin wa uso iwanuka to omoya!-uso-tsuki dana!--aa! so dana!' ('War-people-as-for-lies-never-say-that-we-thought!--Aa-aa-aa!') Apparently the gunjin are accustomed to such scenes; for they do not even smile. But we linger near the cruiser to watch the hurried descent of the sightseers into their boats, and the slow ponderous motion of the chain-cables ascending, and the swarming of sailors down over the bows to fasten and unfasten mysterious things. One, bending head-downwards, drops his white cap; and there is a race of boats for the honour of picking it up. A marine leaning over the bulwarks audibly observes to a comrade: 'Aa! gwaikojn dana!--nani ski ni kite iru daro?'--The other vainly suggests: 'Yasu-no-senkyoshi daro.' My Japanese costume does not disguise the fact that I am an alien; but it saves me from the imputation of being a missionary. I remain an enigma. Then there are loud cries of 'Abunail'--if the cruiser were to move now there would be swamping and crushing and drowning unspeakable. All the little boats scatter and flee away. Our ten naked oarsmen once more bend to their cross-handled oars, and recommence their ancient melancholy song. And as we glide back, there comes to me the idea of the prodigious cost of that which we went forth to see, the magnificent horror of steel and steam and all the multiple enginery of death--paid for by those humble millions who toil for ever knee-deep in the slime of rice-fields, yet can never afford to eat their own rice! Far cheaper must be the food they live upon; and nevertheless, merely to protect the little that they own, such nightmares must be called into existence--monstrous creations of science mathematically applied to the ends of destruction. How delightful Mionoseki now seems, drowsing far off there under its blue tiles at the feet of the holy hills!--immemorial Mionoseki, with its lamps and lions of stone, and its god who hates eggs!--pretty fantastic Mionoseki, where all things, save the schools, are medieval still: the high-pooped junks, and the long-nosed boats, and the plaintive chants of oarsmen! A-ra-ho-no-san-no-sa, Iya-ho-en-ya! Ghi! Ghi! And we touch the mossed and ancient wharves of stone again: over one mile of lucent sea we have floated back a thousand years! I turn to look at the place of that sinister vision--and lo!--there is nothing there! Only the level blue of the flood under the hollow blue of the sky--and, just beyond the promontory, one far, small white speck: the sail of a junk. The horizon is naked. Gone!--but how soundlessly, how swiftly! She makes nineteen knots. And, oh! Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami, there probably existed eggs on board! Chapter Eleven Notes on Kitzuki Sec. 1 KITZUKI, July 20, 1891. AKIRA is no longer with me. He has gone to Kyoto, the holy Buddhist city, to edit a Buddhist magazine; and I already feel without him like one who has lost his way--despite his reiterated assurances that he could never be of much service to me in Izumo, as he knew nothing about Shinto. But for the time being I am to have plenty of company at Kitzuki, where I am spending the first part of the summer holidays; for the little city is full of students and teachers who know me. Kitzuki is not only the holiest place in the San-indo; it is also the most fashionable bathing resort. The beach at Inasa bay is one of the best in all Japan; the beach hotels are spacious, airy, and comfortable; and the bathing houses, with hot and cold freshwater baths in which to wash off the brine after a swim, are simply faultless. And in fair weather, the scenery is delightful, as you look out over the summer space of sea. Closing the bay on the right, there reaches out from the hills overshadowing the town a mighty, rugged, pine-clad spur--the Kitzuki promontory. On the left a low long range of mountains serrate the horizon beyond the shore-sweep, with one huge vapoury shape towering blue into the blue sky behind them--the truncated silhouette of Sanbeyama. Before you the Japanese Sea touches the sky. And there, upon still clear nights, there appears a horizon of fire--the torches of hosts of fishing-boats riding at anchor three and four miles away--so numerous that their lights seem to the naked eye a band of unbroken flame. The Guji has invited me and one of my friends to see a great harvest dance at his residence on the evening of the festival of Tenjin. This dance--Honen-odori--is peculiar to Izumo; and the opportunity to witness it in this city is a rare one, as it is going to be performed only by order of the Guji. The robust pontiff himself loves the sea quite as much as anyone in Kitzuki; yet he never enters a beach hotel, much less a public bathing house. For his use alone a special bathing house has been built upon a ledge of the cliff overhanging the little settlement of Inasa: it is approached by a narrow pathway shadowed by pine-trees; and there is a torii before it, and shimenawa. To this little house the Guji ascends daily during the bathing season, accompanied by a single attendant, who prepares his bathing dresses, and spreads the clean mats upon which he rests after returning from the sea. The Guji always bathes robed. No one but himself and his servant ever approaches the little house, which commands a charming view of the bay: public reverence for the pontiff's person has made even his resting-place holy ground. As for the country-folk, they still worship him with hearts and bodies. They have ceased to believe as they did in former times, that anyone upon whom the Kokuzo fixes his eye at once becomes unable to speak or move; but when he passes among them through the temple court they still prostrate themselves along his way, as before the Ikigami. KITZUKI, July 23rd Always, through the memory of my first day at Kitzuki, there will pass the beautiful white apparition of the Miko, with her perfect passionless face, and strange, gracious, soundless tread, as of a ghost. Her name signifies 'the Pet,' or 'The Darling of the Gods,'--Mi-ko. The kind Guji, at my earnest request, procured me--or rather, had taken for me--a photograph of the Miko, in the attitude of her dance, upholding the mystic suzu, and wearing, over her crimson hakama, the snowy priestess-robe descending to her feet. And the learned priest Sasa told me these things concerning the Pet of the Gods, and the Miko-kagura--which is the name of her sacred dance. Contrary to the custom at the other great Shinto temples of Japan, such as Ise, the office of miko at Kitzuki has always been hereditary. Formerly there were in Kitzuki more than thirty families whose daughters served the Oho-yashiro as miko: to-day there are but two, and the number of virgin priestesses does not exceed six--the one whose portrait I obtained being the chief. At Ise and elsewhere the daughter of any Shinto priest may become a miko; but she cannot serve in that capacity after becoming nubile; so that, except in Kitzuki, the miko of all the greater temples are children from ten to twelve years of age. But at the Kitzuki Oho-yashiro the maiden-priestesses are beautiful girls of between sixteen and nineteen years of age; and sometimes a favourite miko is allowed to continue to serve the gods even after having been married. The sacred dance is not difficult to learn: the mother or sister teaches it to the child destined to serve in the temple. The miko lives at home, and visits the temple only upon festival days to perform her duties. She is not placed under any severe discipline or restrictions; she takes no special vows; she risks no dreadful penalties for ceasing to remain a virgin. But her position being one of high honour, and a source of revenue to her family, the ties which bind her to duty are scarcely less cogent than those vows taken by the priestesses of the antique Occident. Like the priestesses of Delphi, the miko was in ancient times also a divineress--a living oracle, uttering the secrets of the future when possessed by the god whom she served. At no temple does the miko now act as sibyl, oracular priestess, or divineress. But there still exists a class of divining-women, who claim to hold communication with the dead, and to foretell the future, and who call themselves miko--practising their profession secretly; for it has been prohibited by law. In the various great Shinto shrines of the Empire the Mikokagura is differently danced. In Kitzuki, most ancient of all, the dance is the most simple and the most primitive. Its purpose being to give pleasure to the gods, religious conservatism has preserved its traditions and steps unchanged since the period of the beginning of the faith. The origin of this dance is to be found in the Kojiki legend of the dance of Ame-nouzume-no-mikoto--she by whose mirth and song the Sun-goddess was lured from the cavern into which she had retired, and brought back to illuminate the world. And the suzu--the strange bronze instrument with its cluster of bells which the miko uses in her dance--still preserves the form of that bamboo-spray to which Ame-no-uzume-no-mikoto fastened small bells with grass, ere beginning her mirthful song. Sec. 4 Behind the library in the rear of the great shrine, there stands a more ancient structure which is still called the Miko-yashiki, or dwelling-place of the miko. Here in former times all the maiden-priestesses were obliged to live, under a somewhat stricter discipline than now. By day they could go out where they pleased; but they were under obligation to return at night to the yashiki before the gates of the court were closed. For it was feared that the Pets of the Gods might so far forget themselves as to condescend to become the darlings of adventurous mortals. Nor was the fear at all unreasonable; for it was the duty of a miko to be singularly innocent as well as beautiful. And one of the most beautiful miko who belonged to the service of the Oho-yashiro did actually so fall from grace--giving to the Japanese world a romance which you can buy in cheap printed form at any large bookstore in Japan. Her name was O-Kuni, and she was the daughter of one Nakamura Mongoro of Kitzuki, where her descendants still live at the present day. While serving as dancer in the great temple she fell in love with a ronin named Nagoya Sanza--a desperate, handsome vagabond, with no fortune in the world but his sword. And she left the temple secretly, and fled away with her lover toward Kyoto. All this must have happened not less than three hundred years ago. On their way to Kyoto they met another ronin, whose real name I have not been able to learn. For a moment only this 'wave-man' figures in the story, and immediately vanishes into the eternal Night of death and all forgotten things. It is simply recorded that he desired permission to travel with them, that he became enamoured of the beautiful miko, and excited the jealousy of her lover to such an extent that a desperate duel was the result, in which Sanza slew his rival. Thereafter the fugitives pursued their way to Kyoto without other interruption. Whether the fair O-Kuni had by this time found ample reason to regret the step she had taken, we cannot know. But from the story of her after-life it would seem that the face of the handsome ronin who had perished through his passion for her became a haunting memory. We next hear of her in a strange role at Kyoto. Her lover appears to have been utterly destitute; for, in order to support him, we find her giving exhibitions of the Miko-kagura in the Shijo-Kawara--which is the name given to a portion of the dry bed of the river Kamagawa--doubtless the same place in which the terrible executions by torture took place. She must have been looked upon by the public of that day as an outcast. But her extraordinary beauty seems to have attracted many spectators, and to have proved more than successful as an exhibition. Sanza's purse became well filled. Yet the dance of O-Kuni in the Shijo-Kawara was nothing more than the same dance which the miko of Kitzuki dance to-day, in their crimson hakama and snowy robes--a graceful gliding walk. The pair next appear in Tokyo--or, as it was then called, Yedo--as actors. O-Kuni, indeed, is universally credited by tradition, with having established the modern Japanese stage--the first profane drama. Before her time only religious plays, of Buddhist authorship, seem to have been known. Sanza himself became a popular and successful actor, under his sweetheart's tuition. He had many famous pupils, among them the great Saruwaka, who subsequently founded a theatre in Yedo; and the theatre called after him Saruwakaza, in the street Saruwakacho, remains even unto this day. But since the time of O-Kuni, women have been--at least until very recently--excluded from the Japanese stage; their parts, as among the old Greeks, being taken by men or boys so effeminate in appearance and so skilful in acting that the keenest observer could never detect their sex. Nagoya Sanza died many years before his companion. O-Kuni then returned to her native place, to ancient Kitzuki, where she cut off her beautiful hair, and became a Buddhist nun. She was learned for her century, and especially skilful in that art of poetry called Renga; and this art she continued to teach until her death. With the small fortune she had earned as an actress she built in Kitzuki the little Buddhist temple called Rengaji, in the very heart of the quaint town--so called because there she taught the art of Renga. Now the reason she built the temple was that she might therein always pray for the soul of the man whom the sight of her beauty had ruined, and whose smile, perhaps, had stirred something within her heart whereof Sanza never knew. Her family enjoyed certain privileges for several centuries because she had founded the whole art of the Japanese stage; and until so recently as the Restoration the chief of the descendants of Nakamura Mongoro was always entitled to a share in the profits of the Kitzuki theatre, and enjoyed the title of Zamoto. The family is now, however, very poor. I went to see the little temple of Rengaji, and found that it had disappeared. Until within a few years it used to stand at the foot of the great flight of stone steps leading to the second Kwannondera, the most imposing temple of Kwannon in Kitzuki. Nothing now remains of the Rengaji but a broken statue of Jizo, before which the people still pray. The former court of the little temple has been turned into a vegetable garden, and the material of the ancient building utilised, irreverently enough, for the construction of some petty cottages now occupying its site. A peasant told me that the kakemono and other sacred objects had been given to the neighbouring temple, where they might be seen. Sec. 5 Not far from the site of the Rengaji, in the grounds of the great hakaba of the Kwannondera, there stands a most curious pine. The trunk of the tree is supported, not on the ground, but upon four colossal roots which lift it up at such an angle that it looks like a thing walking upon four legs. Trees of singular shape are often considered to be the dwelling-places of Kami; and the pine in question affords an example of this belief. A fence has been built around it, and a small shrine placed before it, prefaced by several small torii; and many poor people may be seen, at almost any hour of the day, praying to the Kami of the place. Before the little shrine I notice, besides the usual Kitzuki ex-voto of seaweed, several little effigies of horses made of straw. Why these offerings of horses of straw? It appears that the shrine is dedicated to Koshin, the Lord of Roads; and those who are anxious about the health of their horses pray to the Road-God to preserve their animals from sickness and death, at the same time bringing these straw effigies in token of their desire. But this role of veterinarian is not commonly attributed to Koshin; and it appears that something in the fantastic form of the tree suggested the idea. Sec. 6 KITZUKI, July 24th Within the first court of the Oho-yashiro, and to the left of the chief gate, stands a small timber structure, ashen-coloured with age, shaped like a common miya or shrine. To the wooden gratings of its closed doors are knotted many of those white papers upon which are usually written vows or prayers to the gods. But on peering through the grating one sees no Shinto symbols in the dimness within. It is a stable! And there, in the central stall, is a superb horse--looking at you. Japanese horseshoes of straw are suspended to the wall behind him. He does not move. He is made of bronze! Upon inquiring of the learned priest Sasa the story of this horse, I was told the following curious things: On the eleventh day of the seventh month, by the ancient calendar,[1] falls the strange festival called Minige, or 'The Body-escaping.' Upon that day, 'tis said that the Great Deity of Kitzuki leaves his shrine to pass through all the streets of the city, and along the seashore, after which he enters into the house of the Kokuzo. Wherefore upon that day the Kokuzo was always wont to leave his house; and at the present time, though he does not actually abandon his home, he and his family retire into certain apartments, so as to leave the larger part of the dwelling free for the use of the god. This retreat of the Kokuzo is still called the Minige. Now while the great Deity Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami is passing through the streets, he is followed by the highest Shinto priest of the shrine--this kannushi having been formerly called Bekkwa. The word 'Bekkwa' means 'special' or 'sacred fire'; and the chief kannushi was so called because for a week before the festival he had been nourished only with special food cooked with the sacred fire, so that he might be pure in the presence of the God. And the office of Bekkwa was hereditary; and the appellation at last became a family name. But he who performs the rite to-day is no longer called Bekkwa. Now while performing his function, if the Bekkwa met anyone upon the street, he ordered him to stand aside with the words: 'Dog, give way!' And the common people believed, and still believe, that anybody thus spoken to by the officiating kannushi would be changed into a dog. So on that day of the Minige nobody used to go out into the streets after a certain hour, and even now very few of the people of the little city leave their homes during the festival.[2] After having followed the deity through all the city, the Bekkwa used to perform, between two and three o'clock in the darkness of the morning, some secret rite by the seaside. (I am told this rite is still annually performed at the same hour.) But, except the Bekkwa himself, no man might be present; and it was believed, and is still believed by the common people, that were any man, by mischance, to see the rite he would instantly fall dead, or become transformed into an animal. So sacred was the secret of that rite, that the Bekkwa could not even utter it until after he was dead, to his successor in office. Therefore, when he died, the body was laid upon the matting of a certain inner chamber of the temple, and the son was left alone with the corpse, after all the doors had been carefully closed. Then, at a certain hour of the night, the soul returned into the body of the dead priest, and he lifted himself up, and whispered the awful secret into the ear of his son--and fell back dead again. But what, you may ask, has all this to do with the Horse of Bronze? Only this: Upon the festival of the Minige, the Great Deity of Kitzuki rides through the streets of his city upon the Horse of Bronze. Sec. 7 The Horse of Bronze, however, is far from being the only statue in Izumo which is believed to run about occasionally at night: at least a score of other artistic things are, or have been, credited with similar ghastly inclinations. The great carven dragon which writhes above the entrance of the Kitzuki haiden used, I am told, to crawl about the roofs at night--until a carpenter was summoned to cut its wooden throat with a chisel, after which it ceased its perambulations. You can see for yourself the mark of the chisel on its throat! At the splendid Shinto temple of Kasuga, in Matsue, there are two pretty life-size bronze deer--stag and doe--the heads of which seemed to me to have been separately cast, and subsequently riveted very deftly to the bodies. Nevertheless I have been assured by some good country-folk that each figure was originally a single casting, but that it was afterwards found necessary to cut off the heads of the deer to make them keep quiet at night. But the most unpleasant customer of all this uncanny fraternity to have encountered after dark was certainly the monster tortoise of Gesshoji temple in Matsue, where the tombs of the Matsudairas are. This stone colossus is almost seventeen feet in length and lifts its head six feet from the ground. On its now broken back stands a prodigious cubic monolith about nine feet high, bearing a half-obliterated inscription. Fancy--as Izumo folks did--this mortuary incubus staggering abroad at midnight, and its hideous attempts to swim in the neighbouring lotus- pond! Well, the legend runs that its neck had to be broken in consequence of this awful misbehaviour. But really the thing looks as if it could only have been broken by an earthquake. Sec. 8 KITZUKI, July 25th. At the Oho-yashiro it is the annual festival of the God of Scholarship, the God of Calligraphy--Tenjin. Here in Kitzuki, the festival of the Divine Scribe, the Tenjin-Matsuri, is still observed according to the beautiful old custom which is being forgotten elsewhere. Long ranges of temporary booths have been erected within the outer court of the temple; and in these are suspended hundreds of long white tablets, bearing specimens of calligraphy. Every schoolboy in Kitzuki has a sample of his best writing on exhibition. The texts are written only in Chinese characters--not in hirakana or katakana--and are mostly drawn from the works of Confucius or Mencius. To me this display of ideographs seems a marvellous thing of beauty--almost a miracle, indeed, since it is all the work of very, very young boys. Rightly enough, the word 'to write' (kaku) in Japanese signifies also to 'paint' in the best artistic sense. I once had an opportunity of studying the result of an attempt to teach English children the art of writing Japanese. These children were instructed by a Japanese writing-master; they sat upon the same bench with Japanese pupils of their own age, beginners likewise. But they could never learn like the Japanese children. The ancestral tendencies within them rendered vain the efforts of the instructor to teach them the secret of a shapely stroke with the brush. It is not the Japanese boy alone who writes; the fingers of the dead move his brush, guide his strokes. Beautiful, however, as this writing seems to me, it is far from winning the commendation of my Japanese companion, himself a much experienced teacher. 'The greater part of this work,' he declares, 'is very bad.' While I am still bewildered by this sweeping criticism, he points out to me one tablet inscribed with rather small characters, adding: 'Only that is tolerably good.' 'Why,' I venture to observe, 'that one would seem to have cost much less trouble; the characters are so small.' 'Oh, the size of the characters has nothing to do with the matter,' interrupts the master, 'it is a question of form.' 'Then I cannot understand. What you call very bad seems to me exquisitely beautiful.' 'Of course you cannot understand,' the critic replies; 'it would take you many years of study to understand. And even then-- 'And even then?' 'Well, even then you could only partly understand.' Thereafter I hold my peace on the topic of calligraphy. Sec. 9 Vast as the courts of the Oho-yashiro are, the crowd within them is now so dense that one must move very slowly, for the whole population of Kitzuki and its environs has been attracted here by the matsuri. All are making their way very gently toward a little shrine built upon an island in the middle of an artificial lake and approached by a narrow causeway. This little shrine, which I see now for the first time (Kitzuki temple being far too large a place to be all seen and known in a single visit), is the Shrine of Tenjin. As the sound of a waterfall is the sound of the clapping of hands before it, and myriads of nin, and bushels of handfuls of rice, are being dropped into the enormous wooden chest there placed to receive the offerings. Fortunately this crowd, like all Japanese crowds, is so sympathetically yielding that it is possible to traverse it slowly in any direction, and thus to see all there is to be seen. After contributing my mite to the coffer of Tenjin, I devote my attention to the wonderful display of toys in the outer courts. At almost every temple festival in Japan there is a great sale of toys, usually within the court itself--a miniature street of small booths being temporarily erected for this charming commence. Every matsuri is a children's holiday. No mother would think of attending a temple-festival without buying her child a toy: even the poorest mother can afford it; for the price of the toys sold in a temple court varies from one-fifth of one sen [3] or Japanese cent, to three or four sen; toys worth so much as five sen being rarely displayed at these little shops. But cheap as they are, these frail playthings are full of beauty and suggestiveness, and, to one who knows and loves Japan, infinitely more interesting than the costliest inventions of a Parisian toy-manufacturer. Many of them, however, would be utterly incomprehensible to an English child. Suppose we peep at a few of them. Here is a little wooden mallet, with a loose tiny ball fitted into a socket at the end of the handle. This is for the baby to suck. On either end of the head of the mallet is painted the mystic tomoye--that Chinese symbol, resembling two huge commas so united as to make a perfect circle, which you may have seen on the title-page of Mr. Lowell's beautiful Soul of the Far East. To you, however, this little wooden mallet would seem in all probability just a little wooden mallet and nothing more. But to the Japanese child it is full of suggestions. It is the mallet of the Great Deity of Kitzuki, Ohokuni-nushi-no-Kami--vulgarly called Daikoku--the God of Wealth, who, by one stroke of his hammer, gives fortune to his worshippers. Perhaps this tiny drum, of a form never seen in the Occident (tsudzumi), or this larger drum with a mitsudomoye, or triple-comma symbol, painted on each end, might seem to you without religious signification; but both are models of drums used in the Shinto and the Buddhist temples. This queer tiny table is a miniature sambo: it is upon such a table that offerings are presented to the gods. This curious cap is a model of the cap of a Shinto priest. Here is a toy miya, or Shinto shrine, four inches high. This bunch of tiny tin bells attached to a wooden handle might seem to you something corresponding to our Occidental tin rattles; but it is a model of the sacred suzu used by the virgin priestess in her dance before the gods. This face of a smiling chubby girl, with two spots upon her forehead--a mask of baked clay--is the traditional image of Ame-no-uzume-no-mikoto, commonly called Otafuku, whose merry laughter lured the Goddess of the Sun out of the cavern of darkness. And here is a little Shinto priest in full hieratic garb: when this little string between his feet is pulled, he claps his hands as if in prayer. Hosts of other toys are here--mysterious to the uninitiated European, but to the Japanese child full of delightful religious meaning. In these faiths of the Far East there is little of sternness or grimness--the Kami are but the spirits of the fathers of the people; the Buddhas and the Bosatsu were men. Happily the missionaries have not succeeded as yet in teaching the Japanese to make religion a dismal thing. These gods smile for ever: if you find one who frowns, like Fudo, the frown seems but half in earnest; it is only Emma, the Lord of Death, who somewhat appals. Why religion should be considered too awful a subject for children to amuse themselves decently with never occurs to the common Japanese mind. So here we have images of the gods and saints for toys--Tenjin, the Deity of Beautiful Writing--and Uzume, the laughter-loving--and Fukusuke, like a happy schoolboy--and the Seven Divinities of Good Luck, in a group--and Fukurojin, the God of Longevity, with head so elongated that only by the aid of a ladder can his barber shave the top of it--and Hotei, with a belly round and huge as a balloon--and Ebisu, the Deity of Markets and of fishermen, with a tai-fish under his arm--and Daruma, ancient disciple of Buddha, whose legs were worn off by uninterrupted meditation. Here likewise are many toys which a foreigner could scarcely guess the meaning of, although they have no religious signification. Such is this little badger, represented as drumming upon its own belly with both forepaws. The badger is believed to be able to use its belly like a drum, and is credited by popular superstition with various supernatural powers. This toy illustrates a pretty fairy-tale about some hunter who spared a badger's life and was rewarded by the creature with a wonderful dinner and a musical performance. Here is a hare sitting on the end of the handle of a wooden pestle which is set horizontally upon a pivot. By pulling a little string, the pestle is made to rise and fall as if moved by the hare. If you have been even a week in Japan you will recognise the pestle as the pestle of a kometsuki, or rice-cleaner, who works it by treading on the handle. But what is the hare? This hare is the Hare-in-the-Moon, called Usagi-no-kometsuki: if you look up at the moon on a clear night you can see him cleaning his rice. Now let us see what we can discover in the way of cheap ingenuities. Tombo, 'the Dragon-Fly.' Merely two bits of wood joined together in the form of a T. The lower part is a little round stick, about as thick as a match, but twice as long; the upper piece is flat, and streaked with paint. Unless you are accustomed to look for secrets, you would scarcely be able to notice that the flat piece is trimmed along two edges at a particular angle. Twirl the lower piece rapidly between the palms of both hands, and suddenly let it go. At once the strange toy rises revolving in the air, and then sails away slowly to quite a distance, performing extraordinary gyrations, and imitating exactly--to the eye at least--the hovering motion of a dragon-fly. Those little streaks of paint you noticed upon the top-piece now reveal their purpose; as the tombo darts hither and thither, even the tints appear to be those of a real dragon-fly; and even the sound of the flitting toy imitates the dragon-fly's hum. The principle of this pretty invention is much like that of the boomerang; and an expert can make his tombo, after flying across a large room, return into his hand. All the tombo sold, however, are not as good as this one; we have been lucky. Price, one-tenth of one cent! Here is a toy which looks like a bow of bamboo strung with wire. The wire, however, is twisted into a corkscrew spiral. On this spiral a pair of tiny birds are suspended by a metal loop. When the bow is held perpendicularly with the birds at the upper end of the string, they descend whirling by their own weight, as if circling round one another; and the twittering of two birds is imitated by the sharp grating of the metal loop upon the spiral wire. One bird flies head upward, and the other tail upward. As soon as they have reached the bottom, reverse the bow, and they will recommence their wheeling flight. Price, two cents--because the wire is dear. O-Saru, the 'Honourable Monkey.' [4] A little cotton monkey, with a blue head and scarlet body, hugging a bamboo rod. Under him is a bamboo spring; and when you press it, he runs up to the top of the rod. Price, one-eighth of one cent. O-Saru. Another Honourable Monkey. This one is somewhat more complex in his movements, and costs a cent. He runs up a string, hand over hand, when you pull his tail. Tori-Kago. A tiny gilded cage, with a bird in it, and plum flowers. Press the edges of the bottom of the cage, and a minuscule wind-instrument imitates the chirping of the bird. Price, one cent. Karuwazashi, the Acrobat. A very loose-jointed wooden boy clinging with both hands to a string stretched between two bamboo sticks, which are curiously rigged together in the shape of an open pair of scissors. Press the ends of the sticks at the bottom; and the acrobat tosses his legs over the string, seats himself upon it, and finally turns a somersault. Price, one-sixth of one cent. Kobiki, the Sawyer. A figure of a Japanese workman, wearing only a fundoshi about his loins, and standing on a plank, with a long saw in his hands. If you pull a string below his feet, he will go to work in good earnest, sawing the plank. Notice that he pulls the saw towards him, like a true Japanese, instead of pushing it from him, as our own carpenters do. Price, one-tenth of one cent. Chie-no-ita, the 'Intelligent Boards,' or better, perhaps, 'The Planks of Intelligence.' A sort of chain composed of about a dozen flat square pieces of white wood, linked together by ribbons. Hold the thing perpendicularly by one end-piece; then turn the piece at right angles to the chain; and immediately all the other pieces tumble over each other in the most marvellous way without unlinking. Even an adult can amuse himself for half an hour with this: it is a perfect trompe-l'oeil in mechanical adjustment. Price, one cent. Kitsune-Tanuki. A funny flat paper mask with closed eyes. If you pull a pasteboard slip behind it, it will open its eyes and put out a tongue of surprising length. Price, one-sixth of one cent. Chin. A little white dog, with a collar round its neck. It is in the attitude of barking. From a Buddhist point of view, I should think this toy somewhat immoral. For when you slap the dog's head, it utters a sharp yelp, as of pain. Price, one sen and five rin. Rather dear. Fuki-agari-koboshi, the Wrestler Invincible. This is still dearer; for it is made of porcelain, and very nicely coloured The wrestler squats upon his hams. Push him down in any direction, he always returns of his own accord to an erect position. Price, two sen. Oroga-Heika-Kodomo, the Child Reverencing His Majesty the Emperor. A Japanese schoolboy with an accordion in his hands, singing and playing the national anthem, or Kimiga. There is a little wind-bellows at the bottom of the toy; and when you operate it, the boy's arms move as if playing the instrument, and a shrill small voice is heard. Price, one cent and a half. Jishaku. This, like the preceding, is quite a modern toy. A small wooden box containing a magnet and a tiny top made of a red wooden button with a steel nail driven through it. Set the top spinning with a twirl of the fingers; then hold the magnet over the nail, and the top will leap up to the magnet and there continue to spin, suspended in air. Price, one cent. It would require at least a week to examine them all. Here is a model spinning-wheel, absolutely perfect, for one-fifth of one cent. Here are little clay tortoises which swim about when you put them into water--one rin for two. Here is a box of toy-soldiers--samurai in full armour--nine rin only. Here is a Kaze-Kuruma, or wind-wheel--a wooden whistle with a paper wheel mounted before the orifice by which the breath is expelled, so that the wheel turns furiously when the whistle is blown--three rin. Here is an Ogi, a sort of tiny quadruple fan sliding in a sheath. When expanded it takes the shape of a beautiful flower--one rin. The most charming of all these things to me, however, is a tiny doll--O-Hina-San (Honourable Miss Hina)--or beppin ('beautiful woman'). The body is a phantom, only--a flat stick covered with a paper kimono--but the head is really a work of art. A pretty oval face with softly shadowed oblique eyes--looking shyly downward--and a wonderful maiden coiffure, in which the hair is arranged in bands and volutes and ellipses and convolutions and foliole curlings most beautiful and extraordinary. In some respects this toy is a costume model, for it imitates exactly the real coiffure of Japanese maidens and brides. But the expression of the face of the beppin is, I think, the great attraction of the toy; there is a shy, plaintive sweetness about it impossible to describe, but deliciously suggestive of a real Japanese type of girl-beauty. Yet the whole thing is made out of a little crumpled paper, coloured with a few dashes of the brush by an expert hand. There are no two O-Hina-San exactly alike out of millions; and when you have become familiar by long residence with Japanese types, any such doll will recall to you some pretty face that you have seen. These are for little girls. Price, five rin. Sec. 10 Here let me tell you something you certainly never heard of before in relation to Japanese dolls--not the tiny O-Hina-San I was just speaking about, but the beautiful life-sized dolls representing children of two or three years old; real toy-babes which, although far more cheaply and simply constructed than our finer kinds of Western dolls, become, under the handling of a Japanese girl, infinitely more interesting. Such dolls are well dressed, and look so life-like--little slanting eyes, shaven pates, smiles, and all!--that as seen from a short distance the best eyes might be deceived by them. Therefore in those stock photographs of Japanese life, of which so many thousands are sold in the open ports, the conventional baby on the mother's back is most successfully represented by a doll. Even the camera does not betray the substitution. And if you see such a doll, though held quite close to you, being made by a Japanese mother to reach out his hands, to move its little bare feet, and to turn its head, you would be almost afraid to venture a heavy wager that it was only a doll. Even after having closely examined the thing, you would still, I fancy, feel a little nervous at being left alone with it, so perfect the delusion of that expert handling. Now there is a belief that some dolls do actually become alive. Formerly the belief was less rare than it is now. Certain dolls were spoken of with a reverence worthy of the Kami, and their owners were envied folk. Such a doll was treated like a real son or daughter: it was regularly served with food; it had a bed, and plenty of nice clothes, and a name. If in the semblance of a girl, it was O-Toku-San; if in that of a boy, Tokutaro-San. It was thought that the doll would become angry and cry if neglected, and that any ill-treatment of it would bring ill-fortune to the house. And, moreover, it was believed to possess supernatural powers of a very high order. In the family of one Sengoku, a samurai of Matsue, there was a Tokutaro-San which had a local reputation scarcely inferior to that of Kishibojin--she to whom Japanese wives pray for offspring. And childless couples used to borrow that doll, and keep it for a time--ministering unto it--and furnish it with new clothes before gratefully returning it to its owners. And all who did so, I am assured, became parents, according to their heart's desire. 'Sengoku's doll had a soul.' There is even a legend that once, when the house caught fire, the Tokutar O-San ran out safely into the garden of its own accord! The idea about such a doll seems to be this: The new doll is only a doll. But a doll which is preserved for a great many years in one family, [5] and is loved and played with by generations of children, gradually acquires a soul. I asked a charming Japanese girl: 'How can a doll live?' 'Why,' she answered, 'if you love it enough, it will live!' What is this but Renan's thought of a deity in process of evolution, uttered by the heart of a child? Sec. 11 But even the most beloved dolls are worn out at last, or get broken in the course of centuries. And when a doll must be considered quite dead, its remains are still entitled to respect. Never is the corpse of a doll irreverently thrown away. Neither is it burned or cast into pure running water, as all sacred objects of the miya must be when they have ceased to be serviceable. And it is not buried. You could not possibly imagine what is done with it. It is dedicated to the God Kojin, [6]--a somewhat mysterious divinity, half-Buddhist, half-Shinto. The ancient Buddhist images of Kojin represented a deity with many arms; the Shinto Kojin of Izumo has, I believe, no artistic representation whatever. But in almost every Shinto, and also in many Buddhist, temple grounds, is planted the tree called enoki [7] which is sacred to him, and in which he is supposed by the peasantry to dwell; for they pray before the enoki always to Kojin. And there is usually a small shrine placed before the tree, and a little torii also. Now you may often see laid upon such a shrine of Kojin, or at the foot of his sacred tree, or in a hollow thereof--if there be any hollow--pathetic remains of dolls. But a doll is seldom given to Kojin during the lifetime of its possessor. When you see one thus exposed, you may be almost certain that it was found among the effects of some poor dead woman--the innocent memento of her girlhood, perhaps even also of the girlhood of her mother and of her mother's mother. Sec. 12 And now we are to see the Honen-odori--which begins at eight o'clock. There is no moon; and the night is pitch-black overhead: but there is plenty of light in the broad court of the Guji's residence, for a hundred lanterns have been kindled and hung out. I and my friend have been provided with comfortable places in the great pavilion which opens upon the court, and the pontiff has had prepared for us a delicious little supper. Already thousands have assembled before the pavilion--young men of Kitzuki and young peasants from the environs, and women and children in multitude, and hundreds of young girls. The court is so thronged that it is difficult to assume the possibility of any dance. Illuminated by the lantern-light, the scene is more than picturesque: it is a carnivalesque display of gala-costume. Of course the peasants come in their ancient attire: some in rain-coats (mino), or overcoats of yellow straw; others with blue towels tied round their heads; many with enormous mushroom hats--all with their blue robes well tucked up. But the young townsmen come in all guises and disguises. Many have dressed themselves in female attire; some are all in white duck, like police; some have mantles on; others wear shawls exactly as a Mexican wears his zarape; numbers of young artisans appear almost as lightly clad as in working-hours, barelegged to the hips, and barearmed to the shoulders. Among the girls some wonderful dressing is to be seen--ruby-coloured robes, and rich greys and browns and purples, confined with exquisite obi, or girdles of figured satin; but the best taste is shown in the simple and very graceful black and white costumes worn by some maidens of the better classes--dresses especially made for dancing, and not to be worn at any other time. A few shy damsels have completely masked themselves by tying down over their cheeks the flexible brims of very broad straw hats. I cannot attempt to talk about the delicious costumes of the children: as well try to describe without paint the variegated loveliness of moths and butterflies. In the centre of this multitude I see a huge rice-mortar turned upside down; and presently a sandalled peasant leaps upon it lightly, and stands there--with an open paper umbrella above his head. Nevertheless it is not raining. That is the Ondo-tori, the leader of the dance, who is celebrated through all Izumo as a singer. According to ancient custom, the leader of the Honen-odori [8] always holds an open umbrella above his head while he sings. Suddenly, at a signal from the Guji, who has just taken his place in the pavilion, the voice of the Ondo-tori, intoning the song of thanksgiving, rings out over all the murmuring of the multitude like a silver cornet. A wondrous voice, and a wondrous song, full of trills and quaverings indescribable, but full also of sweetness and true musical swing. And as he sings, he turns slowly round upon his high pedestal, with the umbrella always above his head; never halting in his rotation from right to left, but pausing for a regular interval in his singing, at the close of each two verses, when the people respond with a joyous outcry: 'Ya-ha-to-nai!-ya-ha-to-nai!' Simultaneously, an astonishingly rapid movement of segregation takes place in the crowd; two enormous rings of dancers form, one within the other, the rest of the people pressing back to make room for the odori. And then this great double-round, formed by fully five hundred dancers, begins also to revolve from right to left--lightly, fantastically--all the tossing of arms and white twinkling of feet keeping faultless time to the measured syllabification of the chant. An immense wheel the dance is, with the Ondo-tori for its axis--always turning slowly upon his rice-mortar, under his open umbrella, as he sings the song of harvest thanksgiving: [9] Ichi-wa--Izumo-no-Taisha-Sama-ye; Ni-ni-wa--Niigata-no-Irokami-Sama-ye; San-wa--Sanuki-no-Kompira-Sama-ye; Shi-ni-wa--Shinano-no-Zenkoji-Sama-ye; Itsutsu--Ichibata-O-Yakushi-Sama-ye; Roku-niwa--Rokkakudo-no-O-Jizo-Sama-ye; Nanatsu--Nana-ura-no-O-Ebisu-Sama-ye; Yattsu--Yawata-no-Hachiman-Sama-ye; Kokonotsu--Koya-no-O-teradera-ye; To-niwa--Tokoro-no-Ujigami-Sama-ye. And the voices of all the dancers in unison roll out the chorus: Ya-ha-to-nai! Ya-ha-to-nail Utterly different this whirling joyous Honen-odori from the Bon-odori which I witnessed last year at Shimo-Ichi, and which seemed to me a very dance of ghosts. But it is also much more difficult to describe. Each dancer makes a half-wheel alternately to left and right, with a peculiar bending of the knees and tossing up of the hands at the same time--as in the act of lifting a weight above the head; but there are other curious movements--jerky with the men, undulatory with the women--as impossible to describe as water in motion. These are decidedly complex, yet so regular that five hundred pairs of feet and hands mark the measure of the song as truly as if they were under the control of a single nervous system. It is strangely difficult to memorise the melody of a Japanese popular song, or the movements of a Japanese dance; for the song and the dance have been evolved through an aesthetic sense of rhythm in sound and in motion as different from the corresponding Occidental sense as English is different from Chinese. We have no ancestral sympathies with these exotic rhythms, no inherited aptitudes for their instant comprehension, no racial impulses whatever in harmony with them. But when they have become familiar through study, after a long residence in the Orient, how nervously fascinant the oscillation of the dance, and the singular swing of the song! This dance, I know, began at eight o'clock; and the Ondo-tori, after having sung without a falter in his voice for an extraordinary time, has been relieved by a second. But the great round never breaks, never slackens its whirl; it only enlarges as the night wears on. And the second Ondo-tori is relieved by a third; yet I would like to watch that dance for ever. 'What time do you think it is?' my friend asks, looking at his watch. 'Nearly eleven o'clock,' I make answer. 'Eleven o'clock! It is exactly eight minutes to three o'clock. And our host will have little time for sleep before the rising of the sun.' Chapter Twelve At Hinomisaki KITZUKI, August 10, 1891. MY Japanese friends urge me to visit Hinomisaki, where no European has ever been, and where there is a far-famed double temple dedicated to Amaterasu-oho-mi-Kami, the Lady of Light, and to her divine brother Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto. Hinomisaki is a little village on the Izumo coast about five miles from Kitzuki. It maybe reached by a mountain path, but the way is extremely steep, rough, and fatiguing. By boat, when the weather is fair, the trip is very agreeable. So, with a friend, I start for Hinomisaki in a very cozy ryosen, skilfully sculled by two young fishermen. Leaving the pretty bay of Inasa, we follow the coast to the right--a very lofty and grim coast without a beach. Below us the clear water gradually darkens to inky blackness, as the depth increases; but at intervals pale jagged rocks rise up from this nether darkness to catch the light fifty feet under the surface. We keep tolerably close to the cliffs, which vary in height from three hundred to six hundred feet--their bases rising from the water all dull iron-grey, their sides and summits green with young pines and dark grasses that toughen in sea-wind. All the coast is abrupt, ravined, irregular--curiously breached and fissured. Vast masses of it have toppled into the sea; and the black ruins project from the deep in a hundred shapes of menace. Sometimes our boat glides between a double line of these; or takes a zigzag course through labyrinths of reef-channels. So swiftly and deftly is the little craft impelled to right and left, that one could almost believe it sees its own way and moves by its own intelligence. And again we pass by extraordinary islets of prismatic rock whose sides, just below the water-line, are heavily mossed with seaweed. The polygonal masses composing these shapes are called by the fishermen 'tortoise-shell stones.' There is a legend that once Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, to try his strength, came here, and, lifting up one of these masses of basalt, flung it across the sea to the mountain of Sanbeyama. At the foot of Sanbe the mighty rock thus thrown by the Great Deity of Kitzuki may still be seen, it is alleged, even unto this day. More and more bare and rugged and ghastly the coast becomes as we journey on, and the sunken ledges more numerous, and the protruding rocks more dangerous, splinters of strata piercing the sea-surface from a depth of thirty fathoms. Then suddenly our boat makes a dash for the black cliff, and shoots into a tremendous cleft of it--an earthquake fissure with sides lofty and perpendicular as the walls of a canyon-and lo! there is daylight ahead. This is a miniature strait, a short cut to the bay. We glide through it in ten minutes, reach open water again, and Hinomisaki is before us--a semicircle of houses clustering about a bay curve, with an opening in their centre, prefaced by a torii. Of all bays I have ever seen, this is the most extraordinary. Imagine an enormous sea-cliff torn out and broken down level with the sea, so as to leave a great scoop-shaped hollow in the land, with one original fragment of the ancient cliff still standing in the middle of the gap--a monstrous square tower of rock, bearing trees upon its summit. And a thousand yards out from the shore rises another colossal rock, fully one hundred feet high. This is known by the name of Fumishima or Okyogashima; and the temple of the Sun-goddess, which we are now about to see, formerly stood upon that islet. The same appalling forces which formed the bay of Hinomisaki doubtless also detached the gigantic mass of Fumishima from this iron coast. We land at the right end of the bay. Here also there is no beach; the water is black-deep close to the shore, which slopes up rapidly. As we mount the slope, an extraordinary spectacle is before us. Upon thousands and thousands of bamboo frames--shaped somewhat like our clothes-horses--are dangling countless pale yellowish things, the nature of which I cannot discern at first glance. But a closer inspection reveals the mystery. Millions of cuttlefish drying in the sun! I could never have believed that so many cuttlefish existed in these waters. And there is scarcely any variation in the dimensions of them: out of ten thousand there is not the difference of half an inch in length. Sec. 2 The great torii which forms the sea-gate of Hinomisaki is of white granite, and severely beautiful. Through it we pass up the main street of the village--surprisingly wide for about a thousand yards, after which it narrows into a common highway which slopes up a wooded hill and disappears under the shadow of trees. On the right, as you enter the street, is a long vision of grey wooden houses with awnings and balconies--little shops, little two-story dwellings of fishermen--and ranging away in front of these other hosts of bamboo frames from which other millions of freshly caught cuttlefish are hanging. On the other side of the street rises a cyclopean retaining wall, massive as the wall of a daimyo's castle, and topped by a lofty wooden parapet pierced with gates; and above it tower the roofs of majestic buildings, whose architecture strongly resembles that of the structures of Kitzuki; and behind all appears a beautiful green background of hills. This is the Hinomisaki-jinja. But one must walk some considerable distance up the road to reach the main entrance of the court, which is at the farther end of the inclosure, and is approached by an imposing broad flight of granite steps. The great court is a surprise. It is almost as deep as the outer court of the Kitzuki-no-oho-yashiro, though not nearly so wide; and a paved cloister forms two sides of it. From the court gate a broad paved walk leads to the haiden and shamusho at the opposite end of the court--spacious and dignified structures above whose roofs appears the quaint and massive gable of the main temple, with its fantastic cross-beams. This temple, standing with its back to the sea, is the shrine of the Goddess of the Sun. On the right side of the main court, as you enter, another broad flight of steps leads up to a loftier court, where another fine group of Shinto buildings stands--a haiden and a miya; but these are much smaller, like miniatures of those below. Their woodwork also appears to be quite new. The upper miya is the shrine of the god Susano-o, [1]--brother of Amaterasu-oho-mi-Kami. Sec. 3 To me the great marvel of the Hinomisaki-jinja is that structures so vast, and so costly to maintain, can exist in a mere fishing hamlet, in an obscure nook of the most desolate coast of Japan. Assuredly the contributions of peasant pilgrims alone could not suffice to pay the salary of a single kannushi; for Hinomisaki, unlike Kitzuki, is not a place possible to visit in all weathers. My friend confirms me in this opinion; but I learn from him that the temples have three large sources of revenue. They are partly supported by the Government; they receive yearly large gifts of money from pious merchants; and the revenues from lands attached to them also represent a considerable sum. Certainly a great amount of money must have been very recently expended here; for the smaller of the two miya seems to have just been wholly rebuilt; the beautiful joinery is all white with freshness, and even the carpenters' odorous chips have not yet been all removed. At the shamusho we make the acquaintance of the Guji of Hinomisaki, a noble-looking man in the prime of life, with one of those fine aquiline faces rarely to be met with except among the high aristocracy of Japan. He wears a heavy black moustache, which gives him, in spite of his priestly robes, the look of a retired army officer. We are kindly permitted by him to visit the sacred shrines; and a kannushi is detailed to conduct us through the buildings. Something resembling the severe simplicity of the Kitzuki-no-oho-yashiro was what I expected to see. But this shrine of the Goddess of the Sun is a spectacle of such splendour that for the first moment I almost doubt whether I am really in a Shinto temple. In very truth there is nothing of pure Shinto here. These shrines belong to the famous period of Ryobu-Shinto, when the ancient faith, interpenetrated and allied with Buddhism, adopted the ceremonial magnificence and the marvellous decorative art of the alien creed. Since visiting the great Buddhist shrines of the capital, I have seen no temple interior to be compared with this. Daintily beautiful as a casket is the chamber of the shrine. All its elaborated woodwork is lacquered in scarlet and gold; the altar-piece is a delight of carving and colour; the ceiling swarms with dreams of clouds and dragons. And yet the exquisite taste of the decorators--buried, doubtless, five hundred years ago--has so justly proportioned the decoration to the needs of surface, so admirably blended the colours, that there is no gaudiness, no glare, only an opulent repose. This shrine is surrounded by a light outer gallery which is not visible from the lower court; and from this gallery one can study some remarkable friezes occupying the spaces above the doorways and below the eaves--friezes surrounding the walls of the miya. These, although exposed for many centuries to the terrific weather of the western coast, still remain masterpieces of quaint carving. There are apes and hares peeping through wonderfully chiselled leaves, and doves and demons, and dragons writhing in storms. And while looking up at these, my eye is attracted by a peculiar velvety appearance of the woodwork forming the immense projecting eaves of the roof. Under the tiling it is more than a foot thick. By standing on tiptoe I can touch it; and I discover that it is even more velvety to the touch than to the sight. Further examination reveals the fact that this colossal roofing is not solid timber, only the beams are solid. The enormous pieces they support are formed of countless broad slices thin as the thinnest shingles, superimposed and cemented together into one solid-seeming mass. I am told that this composite woodwork is more enduring than any hewn timber could be. The edges, where exposed to wind and sun, feel to the touch just like the edges of the leaves of some huge thumb-worn volume; and their stained velvety yellowish aspect so perfectly mocks the appearance of a book, that while trying to separate them a little with my fingers, I find myself involuntarily peering for a running-title and the number of a folio! We then visit the smaller temple. The interior of the sacred chamber is equally rich in lacquered decoration and gilding; and below the miya itself there are strange paintings of weird foxes--foxes wandering in the foreground of a mountain landscape. But here the colours have been damaged somewhat by time; the paintings have a faded look. Without the shrine are other wonderful carvings, doubtless executed by the same chisel which created the friezes of the larger temple. I learn that only the shrine-chambers of both temples are very old; all the rest has been more than once rebuilt. The entire structure of the smaller temple and its haiden, with the exception of the shrine-room, has just been rebuilt--in fact, the work is not yet quite done--so that the emblem of the deity is not at present in the sanctuary. The shrines proper are never repaired, but simply reinclosed in the new buildings when reconstruction becomes a necessity. To repair them or restore them to-day would be impossible: the art that created them is dead. But so excellent their material and its lacquer envelope that they have suffered little in the lapse of many centuries from the attacks of time. One more surprise awaits me--the homestead of the high pontiff, who most kindly invites us to dine with him; which hospitality is all the more acceptable from the fact that there is no hotel in Hinomisaki, but only a kichinyado [2] for pilgrims. The ancestral residence of the high pontiffs of Hinomisaki occupies, with the beautiful gardens about it, a space fully equal to that of the great temple courts themselves. Like most of the old-fashioned homes of the nobility and of the samurai, it is but one story high--an immense elevated cottage, one might call it. But the apartments are lofty, spacious, and very handsome--and there is a room of one hundred mats. [3] A very nice little repast, with abundance of good wine, is served up to us, and I shall always remember one curious dish, which I at first mistake for spinach. It is seaweed, deliciously prepared--not the common edible seaweed, but a rare sort, fine like moss. After bidding farewell to our generous host, we take an uphill stroll to the farther end of the village. We leave the cuttlefish behind; but before us the greater part of the road is covered with matting, upon which indigo is drying in the sun. The village terminates abruptly at the top of the hill, where there is another grand granite torii--a structure so ponderous that it is almost as difficult to imagine how it was ever brought up the hill as to understand the methods of the builders of Stonehenge. From this torii the road descends to the pretty little seaport of U-Ryo, on the other side of the cape; for Hinomisaki is situated on one side of a great promontory, as its name implies--a mountain-range projecting into the Japanese Sea. Sec. 4 The family of the Guji of Hinomisaki is one of the oldest of the Kwazoku or noble families of Izumo; and the daughters are still addressed by the antique title of Princess--O-Hime-San. The ancient official designation of the pontiff himself was Kengyo, as that of the Kitzuki pontiff was Kokuzo; and the families of the Hinomisaki and of the Kitzuki Guji are closely related. There is one touching and terrible tradition in the long history of the Kengyos of Hinomisaki, which throws a strange light upon the social condition of this province in feudal days. Seven generations ago, a Matsudaira, Daimyo of Izumo, made with great pomp his first official visit to the temples of Hinomisaki, and was nobly entertained by the Kengyo--doubtless in the same chamber of a hundred mats which we to-day were privileged to see. According to custom, the young wife of the host waited upon the regal visitor, and served him with dainties and with wine. She was singularly beautiful; and her beauty, unfortunately, bewitched the Daimyo. With kingly insolence he demanded that she should leave her husband and become his concubine. Although astounded and terrified, she answered bravely, like the true daughter of a samurai, that she was a loving wife and mother, and that, sooner than desert her husband and her child, she would put an end to her life with her own hand. The great Lord of Izumo sullenly departed without further speech, leaving the little household plunged in uttermost grief and anxiety; for it was too well known that the prince would suffer no obstacle to remain in the way of his lust or his hate. The anxiety, indeed, proved to be well founded. Scarcely had the Daimyo returned to his domains when he began to devise means for the ruin of the Kengyo. Soon afterward, the latter was suddenly and forcibly separated from his family, hastily tried for some imaginary offence, and banished to the islands of Oki. Some say the ship on which he sailed went down at sea with all on board. Others say that he was conveyed to Oki, but only to die there of misery and cold. At all events, the old Izumo records state that, in the year corresponding to A.D. 1661 'the Kengyo Takatoshi died in the land of Oki.' On receiving news of the Kengyo's death, Matsudaira scarcely concealed his exultation. The object of his passion was the daughter of his own Karo, or minister, one of the noblest samurai of Matsue, by name Kamiya. Kamiya was at once summoned before the Daimyo, who said to him: 'Thy daughter's husband being dead, there exists no longer any reason that she should not enter into my household. Do thou bring her hither.' The Karo touched the floor with his forehead, and departed on his errand. Upon the following day he re-entered the prince's apartment, and, performing the customary prostration, announced that his lord's commands had been obeyed--that the victim had arrived. Smiling for pleasure, the Matsudaira ordered that she should be brought at once into his presence. The Karo prostrated himself, retired and presently returning, placed before his master a kubi-oke [4] upon which lay the freshly-severed head of a beautiful woman--the head of the young wife of the dead Kengyo--with the simple utterance: 'This is my daughter.' Dead by her own brave will--but never dishonoured. Seven generations have been buried since the Matsudaira strove to appease his remorse by the building of temples and the erection of monuments to the memory of his victim. His own race died with him: those who now bear the illustrious name of that long line of daimyos are not of the same blood; and the grim ruin of his castle, devoured by vegetation, is tenanted only by lizards and bats. But the Kamiya family endures; no longer wealthy, as in feudal times, but still highly honoured in their native city. And each high pontiff of Hinomisakei chooses always his bride from among the daughters of that valiant race. NOTE.--The Kengyo of the above tradition was enshrined by Matsudaira in the temple of Shiyekei-jinja, at Oyama, near Matsue. This miya was built for an atonement; and the people still pray to the spirit of the Kengyo. Near this temple formerly stood a very popular theatre, also erected by the Daimyo in his earnest desire to appease the soul of his victim; for he had heard that the Kengyo was very fond of theatrical performances. The temple is still in excellent preservation; but the theatre has long since disappeared; and its site is occupied by a farmer's vegetable garden. Chapter Thirteen Shinju Sec. 1 SOMETIMES they simply put their arms round each other, and lie down together on the iron rails, just in front of an express train. (They cannot do it in Izumo, however, because there are no railroads there yet.) Sometimes they make a little banquet for themselves, write very strange letters to parents and friends, mix something bitter with their rice-wine, and go to sleep for ever. Sometimes they select a more ancient and more honoured method: the lover first slays his beloved with a single sword stroke, and then pierces his own throat. Sometimes with the girl's long crape-silk under-girdle (koshi-obi) they bind themselves fast together, face to face, and so embracing leap into some deep lake or stream. Many are the modes by which they make their way to the Meido, when tortured by that world-old sorrow about which Schopenhauer wrote so marvellous a theory. Their own theory is much simpler. None love life more than the Japanese; none fear death less. Of a future world they have no dread; they regret to leave this one only because it seems to them a world of beauty and of happiness; but the mystery of the future, so long oppressive to Western minds, causes them little concern. As for the young lovers of whom I speak, they have a strange faith which effaces mysteries for them. They turn to the darkness with infinite trust. If they are too unhappy to endure existence, the fault is not another's, nor yet the world's; it is their own; it is innen, the result of errors in a previous life. If they can never hope to be united in this world, it is only because in some former birth they broke their promise to wed, or were otherwise cruel to each other. All this is not heterodox. But they believe likewise that by dying together they will find themselves at once united in another world, though Buddhism proclaims that self-destruction is a deadly sin. Now this idea of winning union through death is incalculably older than the faith of Shaka; but it has somehow borrowed in modern time from Buddhism a particular ecstatic colouring, a mystical glow. Hasu no hana no ue ni oite matan. On the lotus-blossoms of paradise they shall rest together. Buddhism teaches of transmigrations countless, prolonged through millions of millions of years, before the soul can acquire the Infinite Vision, the Infinite Memory, and melt into the bliss of Nehan, as a white cloud melts into the summer 's blue. But these suffering ones think never of Nehan; love's union, their supremest wish, may be reached, they fancy, through the pang of a single death. The fancies of all, indeed--as their poor letters show--are not the same. Some think themselves about to enter Amida's paradise of light; some see in their visional hope the saki-no-yo only, the future rebirth, when beloved shall meet beloved again, in the all-joyous freshness of another youth; while the idea of many, indeed of the majority, is vaguer far--only a shadowy drifting together through vapoury silences, as in the faint bliss of dreams. They always pray to be buried together. Often this prayer is refused by the parents or the guardians, and the people deem this refusal a cruel thing, for 'tis believed that those who die for love of each other will find no rest, if denied the same tomb. But when the prayer is granted the ceremony of burial is beautiful and touching. From the two homes the two funeral processions issue to meet in the temple court, by light of lanterns. There, after the recitation of the kyo and the accustomed impressive ceremonies, the chief priest utters an address to the souls of the dead. Compassionately he speaks of the error and the sin; of the youth of the victims, brief and comely as the flowers that blossom and fall in the first burst of spring. He speaks of the Illusion--Mayoi--which so wrought upon them; he recites the warning of the Teacher. But sometimes he will even predict the future reunion of the lovers in some happier and higher life, re-echoing the popular heart-thought with a simple eloquence that makes his hearers weep. Then the two processions form into one, which takes its way to the cemetery where the grave has already been prepared. The two coffins are lowered together, so that their sides touch as they rest at the bottom of the excavation. Then the yama-no-mono [1] folk remove the planks which separate the pair--making the two coffins into one; above the reunited dead the earth is heaped; and a haka, bearing in chiselled letters the story of their fate, and perhaps a little poem, is placed above the mingling of their dust. Sec. 2 These suicides of lovers are termed 'joshi' or 'shinju'--(both words being written with the same Chinese characters)--signifying 'heart-death,' 'passion-death,' or 'love-death.' They most commonly occur, in the case of women, among the joro [2] class; but occasionally also among young girls of a more respectable class. There is a fatalistic belief that if one shinju occurs among the inmates of a joroya, two more are sure to follow. Doubtless the belief itself is the cause that cases of shinju do commonly occur in series of three. The poor girls who voluntarily sell themselves to a life of shame for the sake of their families in time of uttermost distress do not, in Japan (except, perhaps, in those open ports where European vice and brutality have become demoralising influences), ever reach that depth of degradation to which their Western sisters descend. Many indeed retain, through all the period of their terrible servitude, a refinement of manner, a delicacy of sentiment, and a natural modesty that seem, under such conditions, as extraordinary as they are touching. Only yesterday a case of shinju startled this quiet city. The servant of a physician in the street called Nadamachi, entering the chamber of his master's son a little after sunrise, found the young man lying dead with a dead girl in his arms. The son had been disinherited. The girl was a joro. Last night they were buried, but not together; for the father was not less angered than grieved that such a thing should have been. Her name was Kane. She was remarkably pretty and very gentle; and from all accounts it would seem that her master had treated her with a kindness unusual in men of his infamous class. She had sold herself for the sake of her mother and a child-sister. The father was dead, and they had lost everything. She was then seventeen. She had been in the house scarcely a year when she met the youth. They fell seriously in love with each other at once. Nothing more terrible could have befallen them; for they could never hope to become man and wife. The young man, though still allowed the privileges of a son, had been disinherited in favour of an adopted brother of steadier habits. The unhappy pair spent all they had for the privilege of seeing each other: she sold even her dresses to pay for it. Then for the last time they met by stealth, late at night, in the physician's house, drank death, and laid down to sleep for ever. I saw the funeral procession of the girl winding its way by the light of paper lanterns--the wan dead glow that is like a shimmer of phosphorescence--to the Street of the Temples, followed by a long train of women, white-hooded, white-robed, white-girdled, passing all soundlessly--a troop of ghosts. So through blackness to the Meido the white Shapes flit--the eternal procession of Souls--in painted Buddhist dreams of the Underworld. Sec. 3 My friend who writes for the San-in Shimbun, which to-morrow will print the whole sad story, tells me that compassionate folk have already decked the new-made graves with flowers and with sprays of shikimi. [3] Then drawing from a long native envelope a long, light, thin roll of paper covered with beautiful Japanese writing, and unfolding it before me, he adds:--'She left this letter to the keeper of the house in which she lived: it has been given to us for publication. It is very prettily written. But I cannot translate it well; for it is written in woman's language. The language of letters written by women is not the same as that of letters written by men. Women use particular words and expressions. For instance, in men's language "I" is watakushi, or ware, or yo, or boku, according to rank or circumstance, but in the language of woman, it is warawa. And women's language is very soft and gentle; and I do not think it is possible to translate such softness and amiability of words into any other language. So I can only give you an imperfect idea of the letter.' And he interprets, slowly, thus: 'I leave this letter: 'As you know, from last spring I began to love Tashiro-San; and he also fell in love with me. And now, alas!--the influence of our relation in some previous birth having come upon us--and the promise we made each other in that former life to become wife and husband having been broken--even to-day I must travel to the Meido. 'You not only treated me very kindly, though you found me so stupid and without influence, [4] but you likewise aided in many ways for my worthless sake my mother and sister. And now, since I have not been able to repay you even the one myriadth part of that kindness and pity in which you enveloped me--pity great as the mountains and the sea [5]--it would not be without just reason that you should hate me as a great criminal. 'But though I doubt not this which I am about to do will seem a wicked folly, I am forced to it by conditions and by my own heart. Wherefore I still may pray you to pardon my past faults. And though I go to the Meido, never shall I forget your mercy to me--great as the mountains and the sea. From under the shadow of the grasses [6] I shall still try to recompense you--to send back my gratitude to you and to your house. Again, with all my heart I pray you: do not be angry with me. 'Many more things I would like to write. But now my heart is not a heart; and I must quickly go. And so I shall lay down my writing-brush. 'It is written so clumsily, this. 'Kane thrice prostrates herself before you. 'From KANE. 'To---SAMA.' 'Well, it is a characteristic shinju letter,' my friend comments, after a moment's silence, replacing the frail white paper in its envelope. 'So I thought it would interest you. And now, although it is growing dark, I am going to the cemetery to see what has been done at the grave. Would you like to come with me?' We take our way over the long white bridge, up the shadowy Street of the Temples, toward the ancient hakaba of Miokoji--and the darkness grows as we walk. A thin moon hangs just above the roofs of the great temples. Suddenly a far voice, sonorous and sweet--a man's voice-breaks into song under the starred night: a song full of strange charm and tones like warblings--those Japanese tones of popular emotion which seem to have been learned from the songs of birds. Some happy workman returning home. So clear the thin frosty air that each syllable quivers to us; but I cannot understand the words: Saite yuke toya, ano ya wo saite; Yuke ba chikayoru nushi no soba. 'What is that?' I ask my friend. He answers: 'A love-song. "Go forward, straight forward that way, to the house that thou seest before thee;--the nearer thou goest thereto, the nearer to her [7] shalt thou be."' Chapter Fourteen Yaegaki-jinja Sec. 1 UNTO Yaegaki-jinja, which is in the village of Sakusa in Iu, in the Land of Izumo, all youths and maidens go who are in love, and who can make the pilgrimage. For in the temple of Yaegaki at Sakusa, Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto and his wife Inada-hime and their son Sa-ku-sa-no-mikoto are enshrined. And these are the Deities of Wedlock and of Love--and they set the solitary in families--and by their doing are destinies coupled even from the hour of birth. Wherefore one should suppose that to make pilgrimage to their temple to pray about things long since irrevocably settled were simple waste of time. But in what land did ever religious practice and theology agree? Scholiasts and priests create or promulgate doctrine and dogma; but the good people always insist upon making the gods according to their own heart--and these are by far the better class of gods. Moreover, the history of Susano-o the Impetuous Male Deity, does not indicate that destiny had anything to do with his particular case: he fell in love with the Wondrous Inada Princess at first sight--as it is written in the Kojiki: 'Then Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto descended to a place called Tori-kami at the headwaters of the River Hi in the land of Idzumo. At this time a chopstick came floating down the stream. So Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto, thinking that there must be people at the headwaters of the river, went up it in quest of them. And he came upon an old man and an old woman who had a young girl between them, and were weeping. Then he deigned to ask: "Who are ye?" So the old man replied, saying: "I am an Earthly Deity, son of the Deity Oho-yama-tsu-mi-no-Kami. I am called by the name of Ashi-nadzu-chi; my wife is called by the name of Te-nadzu-chi; and my daughter is called by the name of Kushi-Inada-hime." Again he asked: "What is the cause of your crying?" The old man answered, saying: "I had originally eight young daughters. But the eight-forked serpent of Koshi has come every year, and devoured one; and it is now its time to come, wherefore we weep." Then he asked him: "What is its form like?" The old man answered, saying: "Its eyes are like akaka-gachi; it has one body with eight heads and eight tails. Moreover, upon its body grow moss and sugi and hinoki trees. Its length extends over eight valleys and eight hills; and if one look at its belly, it is all constantly bloody and inflamed." Then Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto said to the old man: "If this be thy daughter, wilt thou offer her to me?" He replied: "With reverence; but I know not thine august name." Then he replied, saying: "I am elder brother to Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami. So now I have descended from heaven." Then the Deities Ashi-nadzu-chi and Te-nadzu-chi said: "If that be so, with reverence will we offer her to thee." So Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto, at once taking and changing the young girl into a close-toothed comb, which he stuck into his august hair-bunch, said to the Deities Ashi-nadzu-chi and Te-nadzu-chi: "Do you distil some eightfold refined liquor. Also make a fence round about; in that fence make eight gates; at each gate tie a platform; on each platform put a liquor-vat; and into each vat pour the eightfold refined liquor, and wait." So as they waited after having prepared everything in accordance with his bidding, the eight-forked serpent came and put a head into each vat and drank the liquor. Thereupon it was intoxicated, and all the heads lay down and slept. Then Take-haya-susa-no-wo-nomikoto drew the ten-grasp sabre that was augustly girded upon him, and cut the serpent in pieces, so that the River Hi flowed on changed into a river of blood. 'Then Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto sought in the Land of Idzumo where he might build a palace. 'When this great Deity built the palace, clouds rose up thence. Then he made an august song: 'Ya-kumo tatsu: Idzumo ya-he-gaki; Tsuma-gomi ni Ya-he-gaki-tsukuru: Sono ya-he-gaki wo!' [1] Now the temple of Yaegaki takes its name from the words of the august song Ya-he-gaki, and therefore signifies The Temple of the Eightfold Fence. And ancient commentators upon the sacred books have said that the name of Idzumo (which is now Izumo), as signifying the Land of the Issuing of Clouds, was also taken from that song of the god. [2] Sec. 2 Sakusa, the hamlet where the Yaegaki-jinja stands, is scarcely more than one ri south from Matsue. But to go there one must follow tortuous paths too rough and steep for a kuruma; and of three ways, the longest and roughest happens to be the most interesting. It slopes up and down through bamboo groves and primitive woods, and again serpentines through fields of rice and barley, and plantations of indigo and of ginseng, where the scenery is always beautiful or odd. And there are many famed Shinto temples to be visited on the road, such as Take-uchi-jinja, dedicated to the venerable minister of the Empress Jingo, Take-uchi, to whom men now pray for health and for length of years; and Okusa-no-miya, or Rokusho-jinja, of the five greatest shrines in Izumo; and Manaijinja, sacred to Izanagi, the Mother of Gods, where strange pictures may be obtained of the Parents of the World; and Obano-miya, where Izanami is enshrined, also called Kamoshijinja, which means, 'The Soul of the God.' At the Temple of the Soul of the God, where the sacred fire-drill used to be delivered each year with solemn rites to the great Kokuzo of Kitzuki, there are curious things to be seen--a colossal grain of rice, more than an inch long, preserved from that period of the Kamiyo when the rice grew tall as the tallest tree and bore grains worthy of the gods; and a cauldron of iron in which the peasants say that the first Kokuzo came down from heaven; and a cyclopean toro formed of rocks so huge that one cannot imagine how they were ever balanced upon each other; and the Musical Stones of Oba, which chime like bells when smitten. There is a tradition that these cannot be carried away beyond a certain distance; for 'tis recorded that when a daimyo named Matsudaira ordered one of them to be conveyed to his castle at Matsue, the stone made itself so heavy that a thousand men could not move it farther than the Ohashi bridge. So it was abandoned before the bridge; and it lies there imbedded in the soil even unto this day. All about Oba you may see many sekirei or wagtails-birds sacred to Izanami and Izanagi--for a legend says that from the sekirei the gods first learned the art of love. And none, not even the most avaricious farmer, ever hurts or terrifies these birds. So that they do not fear the people of Oba, nor the scarecrows in the fields. The God of Scarecrows is Sukuna-biko-na-no-Kami. Sec. 3 The path to Sakusa, for the last mile of the journey, at least, is extremely narrow, and has been paved by piety with large flat rocks laid upon the soil at intervals of about a foot, like an interminable line of stepping-stones. You cannot walk between them nor beside them, and you soon tire of walking upon them; but they have the merit of indicating the way, a matter of no small importance where fifty rice-field paths branch off from your own at all bewildering angles. After having been safely guided by these stepping-stones through all kinds of labyrinths in rice valleys and bamboo groves, one feels grateful to the peasantry for that clue-line of rocks. There are some quaint little shrines in the groves along this path--shrines with curious carvings of dragons and of lion-heads and flowing water--all wrought ages ago in good keyaki-wood, [3] which has become the colour of stone. But the eyes of the dragons and the lions have been stolen because they were made of fine crystal quartz, and there was none to guard them, and because neither the laws nor the gods are quite so much feared now as they were before the period of Meiji. Sakusa is a very small cluster of farmers' cottages before a temple at the verge of a wood--the temple of Yaegaki. The stepping-stones of the path vanish into the pavement of the court, just before its lofty unpainted wooden torii between the torii and the inner court, entered by a Chinese gate, some grand old trees are growing, and there are queer monuments to see. On either side of the great gateway is a shrine compartment, inclosed by heavy wooden gratings on two sides; and in these compartments are two grim figures in complete armour, with bows in their hands and quivers of arrows upon their backs--the Zuijin, or ghostly retainers of the gods, and guardians of the gate. Before nearly all the Shinto temples of Izumo, except Kitzuki, these Zuijin keep grim watch. They are probably of Buddhist origin; but they have acquired a Shinto history and Shinto names. [4] Originally, I am told, there was but one Zuijin-Kami, whose name was Toyo-kushi-iwa-mato-no-mikoto. But at a certain period both the god and his name were cut in two--perhaps for decorative purposes. And now he who sits upon the left is called Toyo-iwa-ma-to-no-mikoto; and his companion on the right, Kushi-iwa-ma-to-no-mikoto. Before the gate, on the left side, there is a stone monument upon which is graven, in Chinese characters, a poem in Hokku, or verse of seventeen syllables, composed by Cho-un: Ko-ka-ra-shi-ya Ka-mi-no-mi-yu-ki-no Ya-ma-no-a-to. My companion translates the characters thus:--'Where high heap the dead leaves, there is the holy place upon the hills, where dwell the gods.' Near by are stone lanterns and stone lions, and another monument--a great five-cornered slab set up and chiselled--bearing the names in Chinese characters of the Ji-jin, or Earth-Gods--the Deities who protect the soil: Uga-no-mitama-no-mikoto (whose name signifies the August Spirit-of-Food), Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami, Ona-muji-no-Kami, Kaki-yasu-hime-no-Kami, Sukuna-hiko-na-no-Kami (who is the Scarecrow God). And the figure of a fox in stone sits before the Name of the August Spirit-of-Food. The miya or Shinto temple itself is quite small--smaller than most of the temples in the neighbourhood, and dingy, and begrimed with age. Yet, next to Kitzuki, this is the most famous of Izumo shrines. The main shrine, dedicated to Susano-o and Inada-hime and their son, whose name is the name of the hamlet of Sakusa, is flanked by various lesser shrines to left and right. In one of these smaller miya the spirit of Ashi-nadzu-chi, father of Inada-hime, is supposed to dwell; and in another that of Te-nadzu-chi, the mother of Inada-hime. There is also a small shrine of the Goddess of the Sun. But these shrines have no curious features. The main temple offers, on the other hand, some displays of rarest interest. To the grey weather-worn gratings of the doors of the shrine hundreds and hundreds of strips of soft white paper have been tied in knots: there is nothing written upon them, although each represents a heart's wish and a fervent prayer. No prayers, indeed, are so fervent as those of love. Also there are suspended many little sections of bamboo, cut just below joints so as to form water receptacles: these are tied together in pairs with a small straw cord which also serves to hang them up. They contain offerings of sea-water carried here from no small distance. And mingling with the white confusion of knotted papers there dangle from the gratings many tresses of girls' hair--love-sacrifices [5]--and numerous offerings of seaweed, so filamentary and so sun-blackened that at some little distance it would not be easy to distinguish them from long shorn tresses. And all the woodwork of the doors and the gratings, both beneath and between the offerings, is covered with a speckling of characters graven or written, which are names of pilgrims. And my companion reads aloud the well-remembered name of--AKIRA! If one dare judge the efficacy of prayer to these kind gods of Shinto from the testimony of their worshippers, I should certainly say that Akira has good reason to hope. Planted in the soil, all round the edge of the foundations of the shrine, are multitudes of tiny paper flags of curious shape (nobori), pasted upon splinters of bamboo. Each of these little white things is a banner of victory, and a lover's witness of gratitude. [6] You will find such little flags stuck into the ground about nearly all the great Shinto temples of Izumo. At Kitzuki they cannot even be counted--any more than the flakes of a snowstorm. And here is something else that you will find at most of the famous miya in Izumo--a box of little bamboo sticks, fastened to a post before the doors. If you were to count the sticks, you would find their number to be exactly one thousand. They are counters for pilgrims who make a vow to the gods to perform a sendo-mairi. To perform a sendo-mairi means to visit the temple one thousand times. This, however, is so hard to do that busy pious men make a sort of compromise with the gods, thus: they walk from the shrine one foot beyond the gate, and back again to the shrine, one thousand times--all in one day, keeping count with the little splints of bamboo. There is one more famous thing to be seen before visiting the holy grove behind the temple, and that is the Sacred Tama-tsubaki, or Precious-Camellia of Yaegaki. It stands upon a little knoll, fortified by a projection-wall, in a rice-field near the house of the priest; a fence has been built around it, and votive lamps of stone placed before it. It is of vast age, and has two heads and two feet; but the twin trunks grow together at the middle. Its unique shape, and the good quality of longevity it is believed to possess in common with all of its species, cause it to be revered as a symbol of undying wedded love, and as tenanted by the Kami who hearken to lovers' prayers--enmusubi-no-kami. There is, however, a strange superstition, about tsubaki-trees; and this sacred tree of Yaegaki, in the opinion of some folk, is a rare exception to the general ghastliness of its species. For tsubaki-trees are goblin trees, they say, and walk about at night; and there was one in the garden of a Matsue samurai which did this so much that it had to be cut down. Then it writhed its arms and groaned, and blood spurted at every stroke of the axe. Sec. 4 At the spacious residence of the kannushi some very curious ofuda and o-mamori--the holy talismans and charms of Yaegaki--are sold, together with pictures representing Take-haya-susa-no-wo-no-mikoto and his bride Inada-hime surrounded by the 'manifold fence' of clouds. On the pictures is also printed the august song whence the temple derives its name of Yaegaki-jinja,--'Ya kumo tatsu Idzumo ya-he-gaki.' Of the o-mamori there is quite a variety; but by far the most interesting is that labelled: 'Izumo-Yaegaki-jinja-en-musubi-on-hina' (August wedlock-producing 'hina' of the temple of Yaegaki of Izumo). This oblong, folded paper, with Chinese characters and the temple seal upon it, is purchased only by those in love, and is believed to assure nothing more than the desired union. Within the paper are two of the smallest conceivable doll-figures (hina), representing a married couple in antique costume--the tiny wife folded to the breast of the tiny husband by one long-sleeved arm. It is the duty of whoever purchases this mamori to return it to the temple if he or she succeed in marrying the person beloved. As already stated, the charm is not supposed to assure anything more than the union: it cannot be accounted responsible for any consequences thereof. He who desires perpetual love must purchase another mamori labelled: 'Renri-tama-tsubaki-aikyo-goki-to-on-mamori' (August amulet of august prayer-for-kindling-love of the jewel-precious tsubaki-tree-of-Union). This charm should maintain at constant temperature the warmth of affection; it contains only a leaf of the singular double-bodied camellia tree before mentioned. There are also small amulets for exciting love, and amulets for the expelling of diseases, but these have no special characteristics worth dwelling upon. Then we take our way to the sacred grove--the Okuno-in, or Mystic Shades of Yaegaki. Sec. 5 This ancient grove--so dense that when you first pass into its shadows out of the sun all seems black--is composed of colossal cedars and pines, mingled with bamboo, tsubaki (Camellia Japonica), and sakaki, the sacred and mystic tree of Shinto. The dimness is chiefly made by the huge bamboos. In nearly all sacred groves bamboos are thickly set between the trees, and their feathery foliage, filling every lofty opening between the heavier crests, entirely cuts off the sun. Even in a bamboo grove where no other trees are, there is always a deep twilight. As the eyes become accustomed to this green gloaming, a pathway outlines itself between the trees--a pathway wholly covered with moss, velvety, soft, and beautifully verdant. In former years, when all pilgrims were required to remove their footgear before entering the sacred grove, this natural carpet was a boon to the weary. The next detail one observes is that the trunks of many of the great trees have been covered with thick rush matting to a height of seven or eight feet, and that holes have been torn through some of the mats. All the giants of the grove are sacred; and the matting was bound about them to prevent pilgrims from stripping off their bark, which is believed to possess miraculous virtues. But many, more zealous than honest, do not hesitate to tear away the matting in order to get at the bark. And the third curious fact which you notice is that the trunks of the great bamboos are covered with ideographs--with the wishes of lovers and the names of girls. There is nothing in the world of vegetation so nice to write a sweetheart's name upon as the polished bark of a bamboo: each letter, however lightly traced at first, enlarges and blackens with the growth of the bark, and never fades away. The deeply mossed path slopes down to a little pond in the very heart of the grove--a pond famous in the land of Izumo. Here there are many imori, or water-newts, about five inches long, which have red bellies. Here the shade is deepest, and the stems of the bamboos most thickly tattooed with the names of girls. It is believed that the flesh of the newts in the sacred pond of Yaegaki possesses aphrodisiac qualities; and the body of the creature, reduced to ashes, by burning, was formerly converted into love-powders. And there is a little Japanese song referring to the practice: 'Hore-gusuri koka niwa naika to imori ni toeba, yubi-wo marumete kore bakari.' [7] The water is very clear; and there are many of these newts to be seen. And it is the custom for lovers to make a little boat of paper, and put into it one rin, and set it afloat and watch it. So soon as the paper becomes wet through, and allows the water to enter it, the weight of the copper coin soon sends it to the bottom, where, owing to the purity of the water, it can be still seen distinctly as before. If the newts then approach and touch it, the lovers believe their happiness assured by the will of the gods; but if the newts do not come near it, the omen is evil. One poor little paper boat, I observe, could not sink at all; it simply floated to the inaccessible side of the pond, where the trees rise like a solid wall of trunks from the water's edge, and there became caught in some drooping branches. The lover who launched it must have departed sorrowing at heart. Close to the pond, near the pathway, there are many camellia-bushes, of which the tips of the branches have been tied together, by pairs, with strips of white paper. These are shrubs of presage. The true lover must be able to bend two branches together, and to keep them united by tying a paper tightly about them--all with the fingers of one hand. To do this well is good luck. Nothing is written upon the strips of paper. But there is enough writing upon the bamboos to occupy curiosity for many an hour, in spite of the mosquitoes. Most of the names are yobi-na,--that is to say, pretty names of women; but there are likewise names of men--jitsumyo; [8] and, oddly enough, a girl's name and a man's are in no instance written together. To judge by all this ideographic testimony, lovers in Japan--or at least in Izumo--are even more secretive than in our Occident. The enamoured youth never writes his own jitsumyo and his sweetheart's yobi-na together; and the family name, or myoji, he seldom ventures to inscribe. If he writes his jitsumyo, then he contents himself with whispering the yobi-na of his sweetheart to the gods and to the bamboos. If he cuts her yobi-na into the bark, then he substitutes for his own name a mention of his existence and his age only, as in this touching instance: Takata-Toki-to-en-musubi-negaimas. Jiu-hassai-no-otoko [9] This lover presumes to write his girl's whole name; but the example, so far as I am able to discover, is unique. Other enamoured ones write only the yobi-na of their bewitchers; and the honourable prefix, 'O,' and the honourable suffix, 'San,' find no place in the familiarity of love. There is no 'O-Haru-San,' 'O-Kin-San,' 'O-Take-San,' 'O-Kiku-San'; but there are hosts of Haru, and Kin, and Take, and Kiku. Girls, of course, never dream of writing their lovers' names. But there are many geimyo here, 'artistic names,'--names of mischievous geisha who worship the Golden Kitten, written by their saucy selves: Rakue and Asa and Wakai, Aikichi and Kotabuki and Kohachi, Kohana and Tamakichi and Katsuko, and Asakichi and Hanakichi and Katsukichi, and Chiyoe and Chiyotsuru. 'Fortunate-Pleasure,' 'Happy-Dawn,' and 'Youth' (such are their appellations), 'Blest-Love' and 'Length-of-Days,' and 'Blossom-Child' and 'Jewel-of-Fortune' and 'Child-of-Luck,' and 'Joyous-Sunrise' and 'Flower-of-Bliss' and 'Glorious Victory,' and 'Life-as-the-Stork's-for-a-thousand-years.' Often shall he curse the day he was born who falls in love with Happy-Dawn; thrice unlucky the wight bewitched by the Child-of-Luck; woe unto him who hopes to cherish the Flower-of-Bliss; and more than once shall he wish himself dead whose heart is snared by Life-as-the-Stork's-for-a-thou sand-years. And I see that somebody who inscribes his age as twenty and three has become enamoured of young Wakagusa, whose name signifies the tender Grass of Spring. Now there is but one possible misfortune for you, dear boy, worse than falling in love with Wakagusa--and that is that she should happen to fall in love with you. Because then you would, both of you, write some beautiful letters to your friends, and drink death, and pass away in each other's arms, murmuring your trust to rest together upon the same lotus-flower in Paradise: 'Hasu no ha no ue ni oite matsu.' Nay! pray the Deities rather to dissipate the bewitchment that is upon you: Te ni toru na, Yahari no ni oke Gengebana. [10] And here is a lover's inscription--in English! Who presumes to suppose that the gods know English? Some student, no doubt, who for pure shyness engraved his soul's secret in this foreign tongue of mine--never dreaming that a foreign eye would look upon it. 'I wish You, Haru!' Not once, but four--no, five times!--each time omitting the preposition. Praying--in this ancient grove--in this ancient Land of Izumo--unto the most ancient gods in English! Verily, the shyest love presumes much upon the forbearance of the gods. And great indeed must be, either the patience of Take-haya-susano-wo-no-mikoto, or the rustiness of the ten-grasp sabre that was augustly girded upon him. Chapter Fifteen Kitsune Sec. 1 By every shady wayside and in every ancient grove, on almost every hilltop and in the outskirts of every village, you may see, while travelling through the Hondo country, some little Shinto shrine, before which, or at either side of which, are images of seated foxes in stone. Usually there is a pair of these, facing each other. But there may be a dozen, or a score, or several hundred, in which case most of the images are very small. And in more than one of the larger towns you may see in the court of some great miya a countless host of stone foxes, of all dimensions, from toy-figures but a few inches high to the colossi whose pedestals tower above your head, all squatting around the temple in tiered ranks of thousands. Such shrines and temples, everybody knows, are dedicated to Inari the God of Rice. After having travelled much in Japan, you will find that whenever you try to recall any country-place you have visited, there will appear in some nook or corner of that remembrance a pair of green-and-grey foxes of stone, with broken noses. In my own memories of Japanese travel, these shapes have become de rigueur, as picturesque detail. In the neighbourhood of the capital and in Tokyo itself--sometimes in the cemeteries--very beautiful idealised figures of foxes may be seen, elegant as greyhounds. They have long green or grey eyes of crystal quartz or some other diaphanous substance; and they create a strong impression as mythological conceptions. But throughout the interior, fox-images are much less artistically fashioned. In Izumo, particularly, such stone-carving has a decidedly primitive appearance. There is an astonishing multiplicity and variety of fox-images in the Province of the Gods--images comical, quaint, grotesque, or monstrous, but, for the most part, very rudely chiselled. I cannot, however, declare them less interesting on that account. The work of the Tokkaido sculptor copies the conventional artistic notion of light grace and ghostliness. The rustic foxes of Izumo have no grace: they are uncouth; but they betray in countless queer ways the personal fancies of their makers. They are of many moods--whimsical, apathetic, inquisitive, saturnine, jocose, ironical; they watch and snooze and squint and wink and sneer; they wait with lurking smiles; they listen with cocked ears most stealthily, keeping their mouths open or closed. There is an amusing individuality about them all, and an air of knowing mockery about most of them, even those whose noses have been broken off. Moreover, these ancient country foxes have certain natural beauties which their modern Tokyo kindred cannot show. Time has bestowed upon them divers speckled coats of beautiful soft colours while they have been sitting on their pedestals, listening to the ebbing and flowing of the centuries and snickering weirdly at mankind. Their backs are clad with finest green velvet of old mosses; their limbs are spotted and their tails are tipped with the dead gold or the dead silver of delicate fungi. And the places they most haunt are the loveliest--high shadowy groves where the uguisu sings in green twilight, above some voiceless shrine with its lamps and its lions of stone so mossed as to seem things born of the soil--like mushrooms. I found it difficult to understand why, out of every thousand foxes, nine hundred should have broken noses. The main street of the city of Matsue might be paved from end to end with the tips of the noses of mutilated Izumo foxes. A friend answered my expression of wonder in this regard by the simple but suggestive word, 'Kodomo', which means, 'The children.' Sec. 2. Inari the name by which the Fox-God is generally known, signifies 'Load-of-Rice.' But the antique name of the Deity is the August-Spirit-of-Food: he is the Uka-no-mi-tama-no-mikoto of the Kojiki. [1] In much more recent times only has he borne the name that indicates his connection with the fox-cult, Miketsu-no-Kami, or the Three-Fox-God. Indeed, the conception of the fox as a supernatural being does not seem to have been introduced into Japan before the tenth or eleventh century; and although a shrine of the deity, with statues of foxes, may be found in the court of most of the large Shinto temples, it is worthy of note that in all the vast domains of the oldest Shinto shrine in Japan--Kitzuki--you cannot find the image of a fox. And it is only in modern art--the art of Toyokuni and others--that Inari is represented as a bearded man riding a white fox. [2] Inari is not worshipped as the God of Rice only; indeed, there are many Inari just as in antique Greece there were many deities called Hermes, Zeus, Athena, Poseidon--one in the knowledge of the learned, but essentially different in the imagination of the common people. Inari has been multiplied by reason of his different attributes. For instance, Matsue has a Kamiya-San-no-Inari-San, who is the God of Coughs and Bad Colds--afflictions extremely common and remarkably severe in the Land of Izumo. He has a temple in the Kamachi at which he is worshipped under the vulgar appellation of Kaze-no-Kami and the politer one of Kamiya-San-no-Inari. And those who are cured of their coughs and colds after having prayed to him, bring to his temple offerings of tofu. At Oba, likewise, there is a particular Inari, of great fame. Fastened to the wall of his shrine is a large box full of small clay foxes. The pilgrim who has a prayer to make puts one of these little foxes in his sleeve and carries it home. He must keep it, and pay it all due honour, until such time as his petition has been granted. Then he must take it back to the temple, and restore it to the box, and, if he be able, make some small gift to the shrine. Inari is often worshipped as a healer; and still more frequently as a deity having power to give wealth. (Perhaps because all the wealth of Old Japan was reckoned in koku of rice.) Therefore his foxes are sometimes represented holding keys in their mouths. And from being the deity who gives wealth, Inari has also become in some localities the special divinity of the joro class. There is, for example, an Inari temple worth visiting in the neighbourhood of the Yoshiwara at Yokohama. It stands in the same court with a temple of Benten, and is more than usually large for a shrine of Inari. You approach it through a succession of torii one behind the other: they are of different heights, diminishing in size as they are placed nearer to the temple, and planted more and more closely in proportion to their smallness. Before each torii sit a pair of weird foxes--one to the right and one to the left. The first pair are large as greyhounds; the second two are much smaller; and the sizes of the rest lessen as the dimensions of the torii lessen. At the foot of the wooden steps of the temple there is a pair of very graceful foxes of dark grey stone, wearing pieces of red cloth about their necks. Upon the steps themselves are white wooden foxes--one at each end of each step--each successive pair being smaller than the pair below; and at the threshold of the doorway are two very little foxes, not more than three inches high, sitting on sky-blue pedestals. These have the tips of their tails gilded. Then, if you look into the temple you will see on the left something like a long low table on which are placed thousands of tiny fox-images, even smaller than those in the doorway, having only plain white tails. There is no image of Inari; indeed, I have never seen an image of Inari as yet in any Inari temple. On the altar appear the usual emblems of Shinto; and before it, just opposite the doorway, stands a sort of lantern, having glass sides and a wooden bottom studded with nail-points on which to fix votive candles. [3] And here, from time to time, if you will watch, you will probably see more than one handsome girl, with brightly painted lips and the beautiful antique attire that no maiden or wife may wear, come to the foot of the steps, toss a coin into the money-box at the door, and call out: 'O-rosoku!' which means 'an honourable candle.' Immediately, from an inner chamber, some old man will enter the shrine-room with a lighted candle, stick it upon a nail-point in the lantern, and then retire. Such candle-offerings are always accompanied by secret prayers for good-fortune. But this Inari is worshipped by many besides members of the joro class. The pieces of coloured cloth about the necks of the foxes are also votive offerings. Sec. 3 Fox-images in Izumo seem to be more numerous than in other provinces, and they are symbols there, so far as the mass of the peasantry is concerned, of something else besides the worship of the Rice-Deity. Indeed, the old conception of the Deity of Rice-fields has been overshadowed and almost effaced among the lowest classes by a weird cult totally foreign to the spirit of pure Shinto--the Fox-cult. The worship of the retainer has almost replaced the worship of the god. Originally the Fox was sacred to Inari only as the Tortoise is still sacred to Kompira; the Deer to the Great Deity of Kasuga; the Rat to Daikoku; the Tai-fish to Ebisu; the White Serpent to Benten; or the Centipede to Bishamon, God of Battles. But in the course of centuries the Fox usurped divinity. And the stone images of him are not the only outward evidences of his cult. At the rear of almost every Inari temple you will generally find in the wall of the shrine building, one or two feet above the ground, an aperture about eight inches in diameter and perfectly circular. It is often made so as to be closed at will by a sliding plank. This circular orifice is a Fox-hole, and if you find one open, and look within, you will probably see offerings of tofu or other food which foxes are supposed to be fond of. You will also, most likely, find grains of rice scattered on some little projection of woodwork below or near the hole, or placed on the edge of the hole itself; and you may see some peasant clap his hands before the hole, utter some little prayer, and swallow a grain or two of that rice in the belief that it will either cure or prevent sickness. Now the fox for whom such a hole is made is an invisible fox, a phantom fox--the fox respectfully referred to by the peasant as O-Kitsune-San. If he ever suffers himself to become visible, his colour is said to be snowy white. According to some, there are various kinds of ghostly foxes. According to others, there are two sorts of foxes only, the Inari-fox (O-Kitsune-San) and the wild fox (kitsune). Some people again class foxes into Superior and Inferior Foxes, and allege the existence of four Superior Sorts--Byakko, Kokko, Jenko, and Reiko--all of which possess supernatural powers. Others again count only three kinds of foxes--the Field-fox, the Man-fox, and the Inari-fox. But many confound the Field-fox or wild fox with the Man-fox, and others identify the Inari-fox with the Man-fox. One cannot possibly unravel the confusion of these beliefs, especially among the peasantry. The beliefs vary, moreover, in different districts. I have only been able, after a residence of fourteen months in Izumo, where the superstition is especially strong, and marked by certain unique features, to make the following very loose summary of them: All foxes have supernatural power. There are good and bad foxes. The Inari-fox is good, and the bad foxes are afraid of the Inari-fox. The worst fox is the Ninko or Hito-kitsune (Man-fox): this is especially the fox of demoniacal possession. It is no larger than a weasel, and somewhat similar in shape, except for its tail, which is like the tail of any other fox. It is rarely seen, keeping itself invisible, except to those to whom it attaches itself. It likes to live in the houses of men, and to be nourished by them, and to the homes where it is well cared for it will bring prosperity. It will take care that the rice-fields shall never want for water, nor the cooking-pot for rice. But if offended, it will bring misfortune to the household, and ruin to the crops. The wild fox (Nogitsune) is also bad. It also sometimes takes possession of people; but it is especially a wizard, and prefers to deceive by enchantment. It has the power of assuming any shape and of making itself invisible; but the dog can always see it, so that it is extremely afraid of the dog. Moreover, while assuming another shape, if its shadow fall upon water, the water will only reflect the shadow of a fox. The peasantry kill it; but he who kills a fox incurs the risk of being bewitched by that fox's kindred, or even by the ki, or ghost of the fox. Still if one eat the flesh of a fox, he cannot be enchanted afterwards. The Nogitsune also enters houses. Most families having foxes in their houses have only the small kind, or Ninko; but occasionally both kinds will live together under the same roof. Some people say that if the Nogitsune lives a hundred years it becomes all white, and then takes rank as an Inari-fox. There are curious contradictions involved in these beliefs, and other contradictions will be found in the following pages of this sketch. To define the fox-superstition at all is difficult, not only on account of the confusion of ideas on the subject among the believers themselves, but also on account of the variety of elements out of which it has been shapen. Its origin is Chinese [4]; but in Japan it became oddly blended with the worship of a Shinto deity, and again modified and expanded by the Buddhist concepts of thaumaturgy and magic. So far as the common people are concerned, it is perhaps safe to say that they pay devotion to foxes chiefly because they fear them. The peasant still worships what he fears. Sec. 4 It is more than doubtful whether the popular notions about different classes of foxes, and about the distinction between the fox of Inari and the fox of possession, were ever much more clearly established than they are now, except in the books of old literati. Indeed, there exists a letter from Hideyoshi to the Fox-God which would seem to show that in the time of the great Taiko the Inari-fox and the demon fox were considered identical. This letter is still preserved at Nara, in the Buddhist temple called Todaiji: KYOTO, the seventeenth day of the Third Month. TO INARI DAIMYOJIN: My Lord--I have the honour to inform you that one of the foxes under your jurisdiction has bewitched one of my servants, causing her and others a great deal of trouble. I have to request that you will make minute inquiries into the matter, and endeavour to find out the reason of your subject misbehaving in this way, and let me know the result. If it turns out that the fox has no adequate reason to give for his behaviour, you are to arrest and punish him at once. If you hesitate to take action in this matter, I shall issue orders for the destruction of every fox in the land. Any other particulars that you may wish to be informed of in reference to what has occurred, you can learn from the high-priest YOSHIDA. Apologising for the imperfections of this letter, I have the honour to be, Your obedient servant, HIDEYOSHI TAIKO [5] But there certainly were some distinctions established in localities, owing to the worship of Inari by the military caste. With the samurai of Izumo, the Rice-God, for obvious reasons, was a highly popular deity; and you can still find in the garden of almost every old shizoku residence in Matsue, a small shrine of Inari Daimyojin, with little stone foxes seated before it. And in the imagination of the lower classes, all samurai families possessed foxes. But the samurai foxes inspired no fear. They were believed to be 'good foxes'; and the superstition of the Ninko or Hito-kitsune does not seem to have unpleasantly affected any samurai families of Matsue during the feudal era. It is only since the military caste has been abolished, and its name, simply as a body of gentry, changed to shizoku, [6] that some families have become victims of the superstition through intermarriage with the chonin or mercantile classes, among whom the belief has always been strong. By the peasantry the Matsudaira daimyo of Izumo were supposed to be the greatest fox-possessors. One of them was believed to use foxes as messengers to Tokyo (be it observed that a fox can travel, according to popular credence, from Yokohama to London in a few hours); and there is some Matsue story about a fox having been caught in a trap [7] near Tokyo, attached to whose neck was a letter written by the prince of Izumo only the same morning. The great Inari temple of Inari in the castle grounds--O-Shiroyama-no-Inari-Sama--with its thousands upon thousands of foxes of stone, is considered by the country people a striking proof of the devotion of the Matsudaira, not to Inari, but to foxes. At present, however, it is no longer possible to establish distinctions of genera in this ghostly zoology, where each species grows into every other. It is not even possible to disengage the ki or Soul of the Fox and the August-Spirit-of-Food from the confusion in which both have become hopelessly blended, under the name Inari by the vague conception of their peasant-worshippers. The old Shinto mythology is indeed quite explicit about the August-Spirit-of-Food, and quite silent upon the subject of foxes. But the peasantry in Izumo, like the peasantry of Catholic Europe, make mythology for themselves. If asked whether they pray to Inari as to an evil or a good deity, they will tell you that Inari is good, and that Inari-foxes are good. They will tell you of white foxes and dark foxes--of foxes to be reverenced and foxes to be killed--of the good fox which cries 'kon-kon,' and the evil fox which cries 'kwai-kwai.' But the peasant possessed by the fox cries out: 'I am Inari--Tamabushi-no-Inari!'--or some other Inari. Sec. 5 Goblin foxes are peculiarly dreaded in Izumo for three evil habits attributed to them. The first is that of deceiving people by enchantment, either for revenge or pure mischief. The second is that of quartering themselves as retainers upon some family, and thereby making that family a terror to its neighbours. The third and worst is that of entering into people and taking diabolical possession of them and tormenting them into madness. This affliction is called 'kitsune-tsuki.' The favourite shape assumed by the goblin fox for the purpose of deluding mankind is that of a beautiful woman; much less frequently the form of a young man is taken in order to deceive some one of the other sex. Innumerable are the stories told or written about the wiles of fox-women. And a dangerous woman of that class whose art is to enslave men, and strip them of all they possess, is popularly named by a word of deadly insult--kitsune. Many declare that the fox never really assumes human shape; but that he only deceives people into the belief that he does so by a sort of magnetic power, or by spreading about them a certain magical effluvium. The fox does not always appear in the guise of a woman for evil purposes. There are several stories, and one really pretty play, about a fox who took the shape of a beautiful woman, and married a man, and bore him children--all out of gratitude for some favour received--the happiness of the family being only disturbed by some odd carnivorous propensities on the part of the offspring. Merely to achieve a diabolical purpose, the form of a woman is not always the best disguise. There are men quite insusceptible to feminine witchcraft. But the fox is never at a loss for a disguise; he can assume more forms than Proteus. Furthermore, he can make you see or hear or imagine whatever he wishes you to see, hear, or imagine. He can make you see out of Time and Space; he can recall the past and reveal the future. His power has not been destroyed by the introduction of Western ideas; for did he not, only a few years ago, cause phantom trains to run upon the Tokkaido railway, thereby greatly confounding, and terrifying the engineers of the company? But, like all goblins, he prefers to haunt solitary places. At night he is fond of making queer ghostly lights, [8] in semblance of lantern-fires, flit about dangerous places; and to protect yourself from this trick of his, it is necessary to learn that by joining your hands in a particular way, so as to leave a diamond-shaped aperture between the crossed fingers, you can extinguish the witch-fire at any distance simply by blowing through the aperture in the direction of the light and uttering a certain Buddhist formula. But it is not only at night that the fox manifests his power for mischief: at high noon he may tempt you to go where you are sure to get killed, or frighten you into going by creating some apparition or making you imagine that you feel an earthquake. Consequently the old-fashioned peasant, on seeing anything extremely queer, is slow to credit the testimony of his own eyes. The most interesting and valuable witness of the stupendous eruption of Bandai-San in 1888--which blew the huge volcano to pieces and devastated an area of twenty-seven square miles, levelling forests, turning rivers from their courses, and burying numbers of villages with all their inhabitants--was an old peasant who had watched the whole cataclysm from a neighbouring peak as unconcernedly as if he had been looking at a drama. He saw a black column of ashes and steam rise to the height of twenty thousand feet and spread out at its summit in the shape of an umbrella, blotting out the sun. Then he felt a strange rain pouring upon him, hotter than the water of a bath. Then all became black; and he felt the mountain beneath him shaking to its roots, and heard a crash of thunders that seemed like the sound of the breaking of a world. But he remained quite still until everything was over. He had made up his mind not to be afraid--deeming that all he saw and heard was delusion wrought by the witchcraft of a fox. Sec. 6 Strange is the madness of those into whom demon foxes enter. Sometimes they run naked shouting through the streets. Sometimes they lie down and froth at the mouth, and yelp as a fox yelps. And on some part of the body of the possessed a moving lump appears under the skin, which seems to have a life of its own. Prick it with a needle, and it glides instantly to another place. By no grasp can it be so tightly compressed by a strong hand that it will not slip from under the fingers. Possessed folk are also said to speak and write languages of which they were totally ignorant prior to possession. They eat only what foxes are believed to like--tofu, aburage, [9] azukimeshi, [10] etc.--and they eat a great deal, alleging that not they, but the possessing foxes, are hungry. It not infrequently happens that the victims of fox-possession are cruelly treated by their relatives--being severely burned and beaten in the hope that the fox may be thus driven away. Then the Hoin [11] or Yamabushi is sent for--the exorciser. The exorciser argues with the fox, who speaks through the mouth of the possessed. When the fox is reduced to silence by religious argument upon the wickedness of possessing people, he usually agrees to go away on condition of being supplied with plenty of tofu or other food; and the food promised must be brought immediately to that particular Inari temple of which the fox declares himself a retainer. For the possessing fox, by whomsoever sent, usually confesses himself the servant of a certain Inari though sometimes even calling himself the god. As soon as the possessed has been freed from the possessor, he falls down senseless, and remains for a long time prostrate. And it is said, also, that he who has once been possessed by a fox will never again be able to eat tofu, aburage, azukimeshi, or any of those things which foxes like. Sec. 7 It is believed that the Man-fox (Hito-kitsune) cannot be seen. But if he goes close to still water, his SHADOW can be seen in the water. Those 'having foxes' are therefore supposed to avoid the vicinity of rivers and ponds. The invisible fox, as already stated, attaches himself to persons. Like a Japanese servant, he belongs to the household. But if a daughter of that household marry, the fox not only goes to that new family, following the bride, but also colonises his kind in all those families related by marriage or kinship with the husband's family. Now every fox is supposed to have a family of seventy-five--neither more, nor less than seventy-five--and all these must be fed. So that although such foxes, like ghosts, eat very little individually, it is expensive to have foxes. The fox-possessors (kitsune-mochi) must feed their foxes at regular hours; and the foxes always eat first--all the seventy-five. As soon as the family rice is cooked in the kama (a great iron cooking-pot), the kitsune-mochi taps loudly on the side of the vessel, and uncovers it. Then the foxes rise up through the floor. And although their eating is soundless to human ear and invisible to human eye, the rice slowly diminishes. Wherefore it is fearful for a poor man to have foxes. But the cost of nourishing foxes is the least evil connected with the keeping of them. Foxes have no fixed code of ethics, and have proved themselves untrustworthy servants. They may initiate and long maintain the prosperity of some family; but should some grave misfortune fall upon that family in spite of the efforts of its seventy-five invisible retainers, then these will suddenly flee away, taking all the valuables of the household along with them. And all the fine gifts that foxes bring to their masters are things which have been stolen from somebody else. It is therefore extremely immoral to keep foxes. It is also dangerous for the public peace, inasmuch as a fox, being a goblin, and devoid of human susceptibilities, will not take certain precautions. He may steal the next-door neighbour's purse by night and lay it at his own master's threshold, so that if the next-door neighbour happens to get up first and see it there is sure to be a row. Another evil habit of foxes is that of making public what they hear said in private, and taking it upon themselves to create undesirable scandal. For example, a fox attached to the family of Kobayashi-San hears his master complain about his neighbour Nakayama-San, whom he secretly dislikes. Therewith the zealous retainer runs to the house of Nakayama-San, and enters into his body, and torments him grievously, saying: 'I am the retainer of Kobayashi-San to whom you did such-and-such a wrong; and until such time as he command me to depart, I shall continue to torment you.' And last, but worst of all the risks of possessing foxes, is the danger that they may become wroth with some member of the family. Certainly a fox may be a good friend, and make rich the home in which he is domiciled. But as he is not human, and as his motives and feelings are not those of men, but of goblins, it is difficult to avoid incurring his displeasure. At the most unexpected moment he may take offence without any cause knowingly having been given, and there is no saying what the consequences may be. For the fox possesses Instinctive Infinite Vision--and the Ten-Ni-Tsun, or All-Hearing Ear--and the Ta-Shin-Tsun, which is the Knowledge of the Most Secret Thoughts of Others--and Shiyuku-Mei-Tsun, which is the Knowledge of the Past--and Zhin-Kiyan-Tsun, which means the Knowledge of the Universal Present--and also the Powers of Transformation and of Transmutation. [12] So that even without including his special powers of bewitchment, he is by nature a being almost omnipotent for evil. Sec. 8 For all these reasons, and, doubtless many more, people believed to have foxes are shunned. Intermarriage with a fox-possessing family is out of the question; and many a beautiful and accomplished girl in Izumo cannot secure a husband because of the popular belief that her family harbours foxes. As a rule, Izumo girls do not like to marry out of their own province; but the daughters of a kitsune-mochi must either marry into the family of another kitsune-mochi, or find a husband far away from the Province of the Gods. Rich fox-possessing families have not overmuch difficulty in disposing of their daughters by one of the means above indicated; but many a fine sweet girl of the poorer kitsune-mochi is condemned by superstition to remain unwedded. It is not because there are none to love her and desirous of marrying her--young men who have passed through public schools and who do not believe in foxes. It is because popular superstition cannot be yet safely defied in country districts except by the wealthy. The consequences of such defiance would have to be borne, not merely by the husband, but by his whole family, and by all other families related thereunto. Which are consequences to be thought about! Among men believed to have foxes there are some who know how to turn the superstition to good account. The country-folk, as a general rule, are afraid of giving offence to a kitsune-mochi, lest he should send some of his invisible servants to take possession of them. Accordingly, certain kitsune-mochi have obtained great ascendancy over the communities in which they live. In the town of Yonago, for example, there is a certain prosperous chonin whose will is almost law, and whose opinions are never opposed. He is practically the ruler of the place, and in a fair way of becoming a very wealthy man. All because he is thought to have foxes. Wrestlers, as a class, boast of their immunity from fox-possession, and care neither for kitsune-mochi nor for their spectral friends. Very strong men are believed to be proof against all such goblinry. Foxes are said to be afraid of them, and instances are cited of a possessing fox declaring: 'I wished to enter into your brother, but he was too strong for me; so I have entered into you, as I am resolved to be revenged upon some one of your family.' Sec. 9 Now the belief in foxes does not affect persons only: it affects property. It affects the value of real estate in Izumo to the amount of hundreds of thousands. The land of a family supposed to have foxes cannot be sold at a fair price. People are afraid to buy it; for it is believed the foxes may ruin the new proprietor. The difficulty of obtaining a purchaser is most great in the case of land terraced for rice-fields, in the mountain districts. The prime necessity of such agriculture is irrigation--irrigation by a hundred ingenious devices, always in the face of difficulties. There are seasons when water becomes terribly scarce, and when the peasants will even fight for water. It is feared that on lands haunted by foxes, the foxes may turn the water away from one field into another, or, for spite, make holes in the dikes and so destroy the crop. There are not wanting shrewd men to take advantage of this queer belief. One gentleman of Matsue, a good agriculturist of the modern school, speculated in the fox-terror fifteen years ago, and purchased a vast tract of land in eastern Izumo which no one else would bid for. That land has sextupled in value, besides yielding generously under his system of cultivation; and by selling it now he could realise an immense fortune. His success, and the fact of his having been an official of the government, broke the spell: it is no longer believed that his farms are fox-haunted. But success alone could not have freed the soil from the curse of the superstition. The power of the farmer to banish the foxes was due to his official character. With the peasantry, the word 'Government' is talismanic. Indeed, the richest and the most successful farmer of Izumo, worth more than a hundred thousand yen--Wakuri-San of Chinomiya in Kandegori--is almost universally believed by the peasantry to be a kitsune-mochi. They tell curious stories about him. Some say that when a very poor man he found in the woods one day a little white fox-cub, and took it home, and petted it, and gave it plenty of tofu, azukimeshi, and aburage--three sorts of food which foxes love--and that from that day prosperity came to him. Others say that in his house there is a special zashiki, or guest-room for foxes; and that there, once in each month, a great banquet is given to hundreds of Hito-kitsune. But Chinomiya-no-Wakuri, as they call him, can afford to laugh at all these tales. He is a refined man, highly respected in cultivated circles where superstition never enters. Sec. 10 When a Ninko comes to your house at night and knocks, there is a peculiar muffled sound about the knocking by which you can tell that the visitor is a fox--if you have experienced ears. For a fox knocks at doors with its tail. If you open, then you will see a man, or perhaps a beautiful girl, who will talk to you only in fragments of words, but nevertheless in such a way that you can perfectly well understand. A fox cannot pronounce a whole word, but a part only--as 'Nish... Sa...' for 'Nishida-San'; 'degoz...' for 'degozarimasu, or 'uch... de...?' for 'uchi desuka?' Then, if you are a friend of foxes, the visitor will present you with a little gift of some sort, and at once vanish away into the darkness. Whatever the gift may be, it will seem much larger that night than in the morning. Only a part of a fox-gift is real. A Matsue shizoku, going home one night by way of the street called Horomachi, saw a fox running for its life pursued by dogs. He beat the dogs off with his umbrella, thus giving the fox a chance to escape. On the following evening he heard some one knock at his door, and on opening the to saw a very pretty girl standing there, who said to him: 'Last night I should have died but for your august kindness. I know not how to thank you enough: this is only a pitiable little present. And she laid a small bundle at his feet and went away. He opened the bundle and found two beautiful ducks and two pieces of silver money--those long, heavy, leaf-shaped pieces of money--each worth ten or twelve dollars--such as are now eagerly sought for by collectors of antique things. After a little while, one of the coins changed before his eyes into a piece of grass; the other was always good. Sugitean-San, a physician of Matsue, was called one evening to attend a case of confinement at a house some distance from the city, on the hill called Shiragayama. He was guided by a servant carrying a paper lantern painted with an aristocratic crest. [13] He entered into a magnificent house, where he was received with superb samurai courtesy. The mother was safely delivered of a fine boy. The family treated the physician to an excellent dinner, entertained him elegantly, and sent him home, loaded with presents and money. Next day he went, according to Japanese etiquette, to return thanks to his hosts. He could not find the house: there was, in fact, nothing on Shiragayama except forest. Returning home, he examined again the gold which had been paid to him. All was good except one piece, which had changed into grass. Sec. 11 Curious advantages have been taken of the superstitions relating to the Fox-God. In Matsue, several years ago, there was a tofuya which enjoyed an unusually large patronage. A tofuya is a shop where tofu is sold--a curd prepared from beans, and much resembling good custard in appearance. Of all eatable things, foxes are most fond of tofu and of soba, which is a preparation of buckwheat. There is even a legend that a fox, in the semblance of an elegantly attired man, once visited Nogi-no-Kuriharaya, a popular sobaya on the lake shore, and ate much soba. But after the guest was gone, the money he had paid changed into wooden shavings. The proprietor of the tofuya had a different experience. A man in wretched attire used to come to his shop every evening to buy a cho of tofu, which he devoured on the spot with the haste of one long famished. Every evening for weeks he came, and never spoke; but the landlord saw one evening the tip of a bushy white tail protruding from beneath the stranger's rags. The sight aroused strange surmises and weird hopes. From that night he began to treat the mysterious visitor with obsequious kindness. But another month passed before the latter spoke. Then what he said was about as follows: 'Though I seem to you a man, I am not a man; and I took upon myself human form only for the purpose of visiting you. I come from Taka-machi, where my temple is, at which you often visit. And being desirous to reward your piety and goodness of heart, I have come to-night to save you from a great danger. For by the power which I possess I know that tomorrow this street will burn, and all the houses in it shall be utterly destroyed except yours. To save it I am going to make a charm. But in order that I may do this, you must open your go-down (kura) that I may enter, and allow no one to watch me; for should living eye look upon me there, the charm will not avail.' The shopkeeper, with fervent words of gratitude, opened his storehouse, and reverently admitted the seeming Inari and gave orders that none of his household or servants should keep watch. And these orders were so well obeyed that all the stores within the storehouse, and all the valuables of the family, were removed without hindrance during the night. Next day the kura was found to be empty. And there was no fire. There is also a well-authenticated story about another wealthy shopkeeper of Matsue who easily became the prey of another pretended Inari. This Inari told him that whatever sum of money he should leave at a certain miya by night, he would find it doubled in the morning--as the reward of his lifelong piety. The shopkeeper carried several small sums to the miya, and found them doubled within twelve hours. Then he deposited larger sums, which were similarly multiplied; he even risked some hundreds of dollars, which were duplicated. Finally he took all his money out of the bank and placed it one evening within the shrine of the god--and never saw it again. Sec. 12 Vast is the literature of the subject of foxes--ghostly foxes. Some of it is old as the eleventh century. In the ancient romances and the modern cheap novel, in historical traditions and in popular fairy-tales, foxes perform wonderful parts. There are very beautiful and very sad and very terrible stories about foxes. There are legends of foxes discussed by great scholars, and legends of foxes known to every child in Japan--such as the history of Tamamonomae, the beautiful favourite of the Emperor Toba--Tamamonomae, whose name has passed into a proverb, and who proved at last to be only a demon fox with Nine Tails and Fur of Gold. But the most interesting part of fox-literature belongs to the Japanese stage, where the popular beliefs are often most humorously reflected--as in the following excerpts from the comedy of Hiza-Kuruge, written by one Jippensha Ikku: [Kidahachi and Iyaji are travelling from Yedo to Osaka. When within a short distance of Akasaka, Kidahachi hastens on in advance to secure good accommodations at the best inn. Iyaji, travelling along leisurely, stops a little while at a small wayside refreshment-house kept by an old woman] OLD WOMAN.--Please take some tea, sir. IYAJI.--Thank you! How far is it from here to the next town?--Akasaka? OLD WOMAN.--About one ri. But if you have no companion, you had better remain here to-night, because there is a bad fox on the way, who bewitches travellers. IYAJI.--I am afraid of that sort of thing. But I must go on; for my companion has gone on ahead of me, and will be waiting for me. [After having paid for his refreshments, Iyaji proceeds on his way. The night is very dark, and he feels quite nervous on account of what the old woman has told him. After having walked a considerable distance, he suddenly hears a fox yelping--kon-kon. Feeling still more afraid, he shouts at the top of his voice:] IYAJI.--Come near me, and I will kill you! [Meanwhile Kidahachi, who has also been frightened by the old woman's stories, and has therefore determined to wait for Iyaji, is saying to himself in the dark: 'If I do not wait for him, we shall certainly be deluded.' Suddenly he hears Iyaji's voice, and cries out to him:] KIDAHACHI.--O Iyaji-San! IYAJI.--What are you doing there? KIDAHACHI.--I did intend to go on ahead; but I became afraid, and so I concluded to stop here and wait for you. IYAJI (who imagines that the fox has taken the shape of Kidahachi to deceive him).--Do not think that you are going to dupe me! KIDAHACHI.--That is a queer way to talk! I have some nice mochi [14] here which I bought for you. IYAJI.--Horse-dung cannot be eaten! [15] KIDAHACHI.--Don't be suspicious!--I am really Kidahachi. IYAJI (springing upon him furiously).--Yes! you took the form of Kidahachi just to deceive me! KIDAHACHI.--What do you mean?--What are you going to do to me? IYAJI.--I am going to kill you! (Throws him down.) KIDAHACHI.--Oh! you have hurt me very much--please leave me alone! IYAJI.--If you are really hurt, then let me see you in your real shape! (They struggle together.) KIDAHACHI.--What are you doing?--putting your hand there? IYAJI.--I am feeling for your tail. If you don't put out your tail at once, I shall make you! (Takes his towel, and with it ties Kidahachi's hands behind his back, and then drives him before him.) KIDAHACHI.--Please untie me--please untie me first! [By this time they have almost reached Akasaka, and Iyaji, seeing a dog, calls the animal, and drags Kidahachi close to it; for a dog is believed to be able to detect a fox through any disguise. But the dog takes no notice of Kidahachi. Iyaji therefore unties him, and apologises; and they both laugh at their previous fears.] Sec. 13 But there are some very pleasing forms of the Fox-God. For example, there stands in a very obscure street of Matsue--one of those streets no stranger is likely to enter unless he loses his way--a temple called Jigyoba-no-Inari, [16] and also Kodomo-no-Inari, or 'the Children's Inari.' It is very small, but very famous; and it has been recently presented with a pair of new stone foxes, very large, which have gilded teeth and a peculiarly playful expression of countenance. These sit one on each side of the gate: the Male grinning with open jaws, the Female demure, with mouth closed. [17] In the court you will find many ancient little foxes with noses, heads, or tails broken, two great Karashishi before which straw sandals (waraji) have been suspended as votive offerings by somebody with sore feet who has prayed to the Karashishi-Sama that they will heal his affliction, and a shrine of Kojin, occupied by the corpses of many children's dolls. [18] The grated doors of the shrine of Jigyoba-no-Inari, like those of the shrine of Yaegaki, are white with the multitude of little papers tied to them, which papers signify prayers. But the prayers are special and curious. To right and to left of the doors, and also above them, odd little votive pictures are pasted upon the walls, mostly representing children in bath-tubs, or children getting their heads shaved. There are also one or two representing children at play. Now the interpretation of these signs and wonders is as follows: Doubtless you know that Japanese children, as well as Japanese adults, must take a hot bath every day; also that it is the custom to shave the heads of very small boys and girls. But in spite of hereditary patience and strong ancestral tendency to follow ancient custom, young children find both the razor and the hot bath difficult to endure, with their delicate skins. For the Japanese hot bath is very hot (not less than 110 degs F., as a general rule), and even the adult foreigner must learn slowly to bear it, and to appreciate its hygienic value. Also, the Japanese razor is a much less perfect instrument than ours, and is used without any lather, and is apt to hurt a little unless used by the most skilful hands. And finally, Japanese parents are not tyrannical with their children: they pet and coax, very rarely compel or terrify. So that it is quite a dilemma for them when the baby revolts against the bath or mutinies against the razor. The parents of the child who refuses to be shaved or bathed have recourse to Jigyoba-no-Inati. The god is besought to send one of his retainers to amuse the child, and reconcile it to the new order of things, and render it both docile and happy. Also if a child is naughty, or falls sick, this Inari is appealed to. If the prayer be granted, some small present is made to the temple--sometimes a votive picture, such as those pasted by the door, representing the successful result of the petition. To judge by the number of such pictures, and by the prosperity of the temple, the Kodomo-no-Inani would seem to deserve his popularity. Even during the few minutes I passed in his court I saw three young mothers, with infants at their backs, come to the shrine and pray and make offerings. I noticed that one of the children--remarkably pretty--had never been shaved at all. This was evidently a very obstinate case. While returning from my visit to the Jigyoba Inani, my Japanese servant, who had guided me there, told me this story: The son of his next-door neighbour, a boy of seven, went out to play one morning, and disappeared for two days. The parents were not at first uneasy, supposing that the child had gone to the house of a relative, where he was accustomed to pass a day or two from time to time. But on the evening of the second day it was learned that the child had not been at the house in question. Search was at once made; but neither search nor inquiry availed. Late at night, however, a knock was heard at the door of the boy's dwelling, and the mother, hurrying out, found her truant fast asleep on the ground. She could not discover who had knocked. The boy, upon being awakened, laughed, and said that on the morning of his disappearance he had met a lad of about his own age, with very pretty eyes, who had coaxed him away to the woods, where they had played together all day and night and the next day at very curious funny games. But at last he got sleepy, and his comrade took him home. He was not hungry. The comrade promised 'to come to-morrow.' But the mysterious comrade never came; and no boy of the description given lived in the neighbourhood. The inference was that the comrade was a fox who wanted to have a little fun. The subject of the fun mourned long in vain for his merry companion. Sec. 14 Some thirty years ago there lived in Matsue an ex-wrestler named Tobikawa, who was a relentless enemy of foxes and used to hunt and kill them. He was popularly believed to enjoy immunity from bewitchment because of his immense strength; but there were some old folks who predicted that he would not die a natural death. This prediction was fulfilled: Tobikawa died in a very curious manner. He was excessively fond of practical jokes. One day he disguised himself as a Tengu, or sacred goblin, with wings and claws and long nose, and ascended a lofty tree in a sacred grove near Rakusan, whither, after a little while, the innocent peasants thronged to worship him with offerings. While diverting himself with this spectacle, and trying to play his part by springing nimbly from one branch to another, he missed his footing and broke his neck in the fall. Sec. 15 But these strange beliefs are swiftly passing away. Year by year more shrines of Inari crumble down, never to be rebuilt. Year by year the statuaries make fewer images of foxes. Year by year fewer victims of fox-possession are taken to the hospitals to be treated according to the best scientific methods by Japanese physicians who speak German. The cause is not to be found in the decadence of the old faiths: a superstition outlives a religion. Much less is it to be sought for in the efforts of proselytising missionaries from the West--most of whom profess an earnest belief in devils. It is purely educational. The omnipotent enemy of superstition is the public school, where the teaching of modern science is unclogged by sectarianism or prejudice; where the children of the poorest may learn the wisdom of the Occident; where there is not a boy or a girl of fourteen ignorant of the great names of Tyndall, of Darwin, of Huxley, of Herbert Spencer. The little hands that break the Fox-god's nose in mischievous play can also write essays upon the evolution of plants and about the geology of Izumo. There is no place for ghostly foxes in the beautiful nature-world revealed by new studies to the new generation The omnipotent exorciser and reformer is the Kodomo. NOTES Note for preface 1 In striking contrast to this indifference is the strong, rational, far-seeing conservatism of Viscount Torio--a noble exception. Notes for Chapter One 1 I do not think this explanation is correct; but it is interesting, as the first which I obtained upon the subject. Properly speaking, Buddhist worshippers should not clap their hands, but only rub them softly together. Shinto worshippers always clap their hands four times. 2 Various writers, following the opinion of the Japanologue Satow, have stated that the torii was originally a bird-perch for fowls offered up to the gods at Shinto shrines--'not as food, but to give warning of daybreak.' The etymology of the word is said to be 'bird-rest' by some authorities; but Aston, not less of an authority, derives it from words which would give simply the meaning of a gateway. See Chamberlain's Things Japanese, pp. 429, 430. 3 Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain has held the extraordinary position of Professor of Japanese in the Imperial University of Japan--no small honour to English philology! 4 These Ni-O, however, the first I saw in Japan, were very clumsy figures. There are magnificent Ni-O to be seen in some of the great temple gateways in Tokyo, Kyoto, and elsewhere. The grandest of all are those in the Ni-O Mon, or 'Two Kings' Gate,' of the huge Todaiji temple at Nara. They are eight hundred years old. It is impossible not to admire the conception of stormy dignity and hurricane-force embodied in those colossal figures. Prayers are addressed to the Ni-O, especially by pilgrims. Most of their statues are disfigured by little pellets of white paper, which people chew into a pulp and then spit at them. There is a curious superstition that if the pellet sticks to the statue the prayer is heard; if, on the other hand, it falls to the ground, the prayer will not be answered. Note for Chapter Two 1 Dainagon, the title of a high officer in the ancient Imperial Court. Notes for Chapter Three 1 Derived from the Sanscrit stupa. 2 'The real origin of the custom of piling stones before the images of Jizo and other divinities is not now known to the people. The custom is founded upon a passage in the famous Sutra, "The Lotus of the Good Law." 'Even the little hoys who, in playing, erected here and there heaps of sand, with the intention of dedicating them as Stupas to the Ginas,-they have all of them reached enlightenment.'--Saddharma Pundarika, c. II. v. 81 (Kern's translation), 'Sacred Books of the East,' vol. xxi. 3 The original Jizo has been identified by Orientalists with the Sanscrit Kshitegarbha; as Professor Chamberlain observes, the resemblance in sound between the names Jizo and Jesus 'is quite fortuitous.' But in Japan Jizo has become totally transformed: he may justly be called the most Japanese of all Japanese divinities. According to the curious old Buddhist book, Sai no Kawara Kuchi zu sams no den, the whole Sai-no-Kawara legend originated in Japan, and was first written by the priest Kuya Shonin, in the sixth year of the period called Ten-Kei, in the reign of the Emperor Shuyaku, who died in the year 946. To Kuya was revealed, in the village of Sai-in, near Kyoto, during a night passed by the dry bed of the neighbouring river, Sai-no-Kawa (said to be the modern Serikawa), the condition of child-souls in the Meido. (Such is the legend in the book; but Professor Chamberlain has shown that the name Sai-no-Kawara, as now written, signifies 'The Dry Bed of the River of Souls,' and modern Japanese faith places that river in the Meido.) Whatever be the true history of the myth, it is certainly Japanese; and the conception of Jizo as the lover and playfellow of dead children belongs to Japan. There are many other popular forms of Jizo, one of the most common being that Koyasu-Jizo to whom pregnant women pray. There are but few roads in Japan upon which statues of Jizo may not be seen; for he is also the patron of pilgrims. 4 Except those who have never married. 5 In Sanscrit, 'Yama-Raja.' But the Indian conception has been totally transformed by Japanese Buddhism. 6 Funeral customs, as well as the beliefs connected with them, vary considerably in different parts of Japan. Those of the eastern provinces differ from those of the western and southern. The old practice of placing articles of value in the coffin--such as the metal mirror formerly buried with a woman, or the sword buried with a man of the Samurai caste--has become almost obsolete. But the custom of putting money in the coffin still prevails: in Izumo the amount is always six rin, and these are called Rokudo-kane, or 'The Money for the Six Roads.' 7 Literally 'Western Capital,'--modern name of Kyoto, ancient residence of the emperors. The name 'Tokyo,' on the other hand, signifies 'Eastern Capital.' 8 These first ten lines of the original will illustrate the measure of the wasan: Kore wa konoyo no koto narazu, Shide no yamaji no suso no naru, Sai-no-Kawara no monogatari Kiku ni tsuketemo aware nari Futatsu-ya, mitsu-ya, yotsu, itsutsu, To nimo taranu midorigo ga Sai-no-Kawara ni atsumari te, Chichi koishi! haha koishi! Koishi! koishi! to naku koe wa Konoyo no koe towa ko to kawari. Notes for Chapter Four 1 Yane, 'roof'; shobu, 'sweet-flag' (Acorus calamus). 2 At the time this paper was written, nearly three years ago, I had not seen the mighty bells at Kyoto and at Nara. The largest bell in Japan is suspended in the grounds of the grand Jodo temple of Chion-in, at Kyoto. Visitors are not allowed to sound it. It was cast in 1633. It weighs seventy-four tons, and requires, they say, twenty-five men to ring it properly. Next in size ranks the bell of the Daibutsu temple in Kyoto, which visitors are allowed to ring on payment of a small sum. It was cast in 1615, and weighs sixty-three tons. The wonderful bell of Todaiji at Nara, although ranking only third, is perhaps the most interesting of all. It is thirteen feet six inches high, and nine feet in diameter; and its inferiority to the Kyoto bells is not in visible dimensions so much as in weight and thickness. It weighs thirty-seven tons. It was cast in 733, and is therefore one thousand one hundred and sixty years old. Visitors pay one cent to sound it once. 3 In Sanscrit, Avalokitesvara. The Japanese Kwannon, or Kwanze-on, is identical in origin with the Chinese virgin-goddess Kwanyin adopted by Buddhism as an incarnation of the Indian Avalokitesvara. (See Eitel's Handbook of Chinese Buddhism.) But the Japanese Kwan-non has lost all Chinese characteristics--has become artistically an idealisation of all that is sweet and beautiful in the woman of Japan. 4 Let the reader consult Mitford's admirable Tales of Old Japan for the full meaning of the term 'Ronin.' 5 There is a delicious Japanese proverb, the full humour of which is only to be appreciated by one familiar with the artistic representations of the divinities referred to: Karutoki no Jizo-gao, Nasutoki no Emma-gao. 'Borrowing-time, the face of Jizo; Repaying-time, the face of Emma.' 6 This old legend has peculiar interest as an example of the efforts made by Buddhism to absorb the Shinto divinities, as it had already absorbed those of India and of China. These efforts were, to a great extent, successful prior to the disestablishment of Buddhism and the revival of Shinto as the State religion. But in Izumo, and other parts of western Japan, Shinto has always remained dominant, and has even appropriated and amalgamated much belonging to Buddhism. 7 In Sanscrit 'Hariti'--Karitei-Bo is the Japanese name for one form of Kishibojin. Notes for Chapter Five 1 It is related in the same book that Ananda having asked the Buddha how came Mokenren's mother to suffer in the Gakido, the Teacher replied that in a previous incarnation she had refused, through cupidity, to feed certain visiting priests. 2 A deity of good fortune Notes for Chapter Six 1 The period in which only deities existed. 2 Hyakusho, a peasant, husbandman. The two Chinese characters forming the word signify respectively, 'a hundred' (hyaku), and 'family name' (sei). One might be tempted to infer that the appellation is almost equivalent to our phrase, 'their name is legion.' And a Japanese friend assures me that the inference would not be far wrong. Anciently the peasants had no family name; each was known by his personal appellation, coupled with the name of his lord as possessor or ruler. Thus a hundred peasants on one estate would all be known by the name of their master. 3 This custom of praying for the souls of animals is by no means general. But I have seen in the western provinces several burials of domestic animals at which such prayers were said. After the earth was filled in, some incense-rods were lighted above the grave in each instance, and the prayers were repeated in a whisper. A friend in the capital sends me the following curious information: 'At the Eko-in temple in Tokyo prayers are offered up every morning for the souls of certain animals whose ihai [mortuary tablets] are preserved in the building. A fee of thirty sen will procure burial in the temple-ground and a short service for any small domestic pet.' Doubtless similar temples exist elsewhere. Certainly no one capable of affection for our dumb friends and servants can mock these gentle customs. 4 Why six Jizo instead of five or three or any other number, the reader may ask. I myself asked the question many times before receiving any satisfactory reply. Perhaps the following legend affords the most satisfactory explanation: According to the Book Taijo-Hoshi-mingyo-nenbutsu-den, Jizo-Bosatsu was a woman ten thousand ko (kalpas) before this era, and became filled with desire to convert all living beings of the Six Worlds and the Four Births. And by virtue of the Supernatural Powers she multiplied herself and simultaneously appeared in all the Rokussho or Six States of Sentient Existence at once, namely in the Jigoku, Gaki, Chikusho, Shura, Ningen, Tenjo, and converted the dwellers thereof. (A friend insists that in order to have done this Jizo must first have become a man.) Among the many names of Jizo, such as 'The Never Slumbering,' 'The Dragon-Praiser,' 'The Shining King,' 'Diamond-of-Pity,' I find the significant appellation of 'The Countless Bodied.' 5 Since this sketch was written, I have seen the Bon-odori in many different parts of Japan; but I have never witnessed exactly the same kind of dance. Indeed, I would judge from my experiences in Izumo, in Oki, in Tottori, in Hoki, in Bingo, and elsewhere, that the Bonodori is not danced in the same way in any two provinces. Not only do the motions and gestures vary according to locality, but also the airs of the songs sung--and this even when the words are the same. In some places the measure is slow and solemn; in others it is rapid and merry, and characterised by a queer jerky swing, impossible to describe. But everywhere both the motion and the melody are curious and pleasing enough to fascinate the spectator for hours. Certainly these primitive dances are of far greater interest than the performances of geisha. Although Buddhism may have utilised them and influenced them, they are beyond doubt incomparably older than Buddhism. Notes for Chapter Seven 1 Thick solid sliding shutters of unpainted wood, which in Japanese houses serve both as shutters and doors. 2 Tanabiku. 3 Ama-terasu-oho-mi-Kami literally signifies 'the Heaven-Shining Great-August-Divinity.' (See Professor Chamberlain's translation of the Kojiki.) 4 'The gods who do harm are to be appeased, so that they may not punish those who have offended them.' Such are the words of the great Shinto teacher, Hirata, as translated by Mr. Satow in his article, 'The Revival of Pure Shintau.' 5 Machi, a stiff piece of pasteboard or other material sewn into the waist of the hakama at the back, so as to keep the folds of the garment perpendicular and neat-looking. 6 Kush-no-ki-Matsuhira-Inari-Daimyojin. 7 From an English composition by one of my Japanese pupils. 8 Rin, one tenth of one cent. A small round copper coin with a square hole in the middle. 9 An inn where soba is sold. 10 According to the mythology of the Kojiki the Moon-Deity is a male divinity. But the common people know nothing of the Kojiki, written in an archaic Japanese which only the learned can read; and they address the moon as O-Tsuki-San, or 'Lady Moon,' just as the old Greek idyllists did. Notes for Chapter Eight 1 The most ancient book extant in the archaic tongue of Japan. It is the most sacred scripture of Shinto. It has been admirably translated, with copious notes and commentaries, by Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain, of Tokyo. 2 The genealogy of the family is published in a curious little book with which I was presented at Kitzuki. Senke Takanori is the eighty-first Pontiff Governor (formerly called Kokuzo) of Kitzuki. His lineage is traced back through sixty-five generations of Kokuzo and sixteen generations of earthly deities to Ama-terasu and her brother Susanoo-no-mikoto. 3 In Sanscrit pretas. The gaki are the famished ghosts of that Circle of Torment in hell whereof the penance is hunger; and the mouths of some are 'smaller than the points of needles.' 4 Mionoseki. 5 Now solidly united with the mainland. Many extraordinary changes, of rare interest to the physiographer and geologist, have actually taken place along the coast of Izumo and in the neighbourhood of the great lake. Even now, each year some change occurs. I have seen several very strange ones. 6 The Hakuja, or White Serpent, is also the servant of Benten, or Ben-zai-ten, Goddess of Love, of Beauty, of Eloquence, and of the Sea. 'The Hakuja has the face of an ancient man, with white eyebrows and wears upon its head a crown.' Both goddess and serpent can be identified with ancient Indian mythological beings, and Buddhism first introduced both into Japan. Among the people, especially perhaps in Izumo, certain divinities of Buddhism are often identified, or rather confused, with certain Kami, in popular worship and parlance. Since this sketch was written, I have had opportunity of seeing a Ryu-ja within a few hours after its capture. It was between two and three feet long, and about one inch in diameter at its thickest girth The upper part of the body was a very dark brown, and the belly yellowish white; toward the tail there were some beautiful yellowish mottlings. The body was not cylindrical, but curiously four-sided--like those elaborately woven whip-lashes which have four edges. The tail was flat and triangular, like that of certain fish. A Japanese teacher, Mr. Watanabe, of the Normal School of Matsue, identified the little creature as a hydrophid of the species called Pelamis bicalor. It is so seldom seen, however, that I think the foregoing superficial description of it may not be without interest to some readers. 7 Ippyo, one hyo; 2 1/2 hyo make one koku = 5.13 bushels. The word hyo means also the bag made to contain one hyo. 8 Either at Kitzuki or at Sada it is possible sometimes to buy a serpent. On many a 'household-god-shelf' in Matsue the little serpent may be seen. I saw one that had become brittle and black with age, but was excellently preserved by some process of which I did not learn the nature. It had been admirably posed in a tiny wire cage, made to fit exactly into a small shrine of white wood, and must have been, when alive, about two feet four inches in length. A little lamp was lighted daily before it, and some Shinto formula recited by the poor family to whom it belonged. 9 Translated by Professor Chamberlain the 'Deity Master-of-the-Great-Land'-one of the most ancient divinities of Japan, but in popular worship confounded with Daikoku, God of Wealth. His son, Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami, is similarly confounded with Ebisu, or Yebisu, the patron of honest labour. The origin of the Shinto custom of clapping the hands in prayer is said by some Japanese writers to have been a sign given by Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami. Both deities are represented by Japanese art in a variety of ways, Some of the twin images of them sold at Kitzuki are extremely pretty as well as curious. 10 Very large donations are made to this temple by wealthy men. The wooden tablets without the Haiden, on which are recorded the number of gifts and the names of the donors, mention several recent presents of 1000 yen, or dollars; and donations of 500 yen are not uncommon. The gift of a high civil official is rarely less than 50 yen. 11 Taku is the Japanese name for the paper mulberry. 12 See the curious legend in Professor Chamberlain's translation of the Kojiki. 13 From a remote period there have been two Kokuzo in theory, although but one incumbent. Two branches of the same family claim ancestral right to the office,--the rival houses of Senke and Kitajima. The government has decided always in favour of the former; but the head of the Kitajima family has usually been appointed Vice-Kokuzo. A Kitajima to-day holds the lesser office. The term Kokuzo is not, correctly speaking, a spiritual, but rather a temporal title. The Kokuzo has always been the emperor's deputy to Kitzuki,--the person appointed to worship the deity in the emperor's stead; but the real spiritual title of such a deputy is that still borne by the present Guji,--'Mitsuye-Shiro.' 14 Haliotis tuberculata, or 'sea-ear.' The curious shell is pierced with a row of holes, which vary in number with the age and size of the animal it shields. 15 Literally, 'ten hiro,' or Japanese fathoms. 16 The fire-drill used at the Shinto temples of Ise is far more complicated in construction, and certainly represents a much more advanced stage of mechanical knowledge than the Kitzuki fire-drill indicates. 17 During a subsequent visit to Kitzuki I learned that the koto-ita is used only as a sort of primitive 'tuning' instrument: it gives the right tone for the true chant which I did not hear during my first visit. The true chant, an ancient Shinto hymn, is always preceded by the performance above described. 18 The tempest of the Kokuzo. 19 That is, according to Motoori, the commentator. Or more briefly: 'No or yes?' This is, according to Professor Chamberlain, a mere fanciful etymology; but it is accepted by Shinto faith, and for that reason only is here given. 20 The title of Kokuzo indeed, still exists, but it is now merely honorary, having no official duties connected with it. It is actually borne by Baron Senke, the father of Senke Takanori, residing in the capital. The active religious duties of the Mitsuye-shiro now devolve upon the Guji. 21 As late as 1890 I was told by a foreign resident, who had travelled much in the interior of the country, that in certain districts many old people may be met with who still believe that to see the face of the emperor is 'to become a Buddha'; that is, to die. 22 Hideyoshi, as is well known, was not of princely extraction 23 The Kojiki dates back, as a Written work, only to A.D. 722. But its legends and records are known to have existed in the form of oral literature from a much more ancient time. 24 In certain provinces of Japan Buddhism practically absorbed Shinto in other centuries, but in Izumo Shinto absorbed Buddhism; and now that Shinto is supported by the State there is a visible tendency to eliminate from its cult certain elements of Buddhist origin. Notes for Chapter Nine 1 Such are the names given to the water-vessels or cisterns at which Shinto worshippers must wash their hands and rinse their mouths ere praying to the Kami. A mitarashi or o-chozubachi is placed before every Shinto temple. The pilgrim to Shin-Kukedo-San should perform this ceremonial ablution at the little rock-spring above described, before entering the sacred cave. Here even the gods of the cave are said to wash after having passed through the seawater. 2 'August Fire-Lady'; or, 'the August Sun-Lady,' Amaterasu-oho-mi-Kami. Notes for Chapter Ten 1 Mionoseki 2 Zashiki, the best and largest room of a Japanese dwelling--the guest-room of a private house, or the banquet-room of a public inn. Notes for Chapter Eleven 1 Fourteenth of August. 2 In the pretty little seaside hotel Inaba-ya, where I lived during my stay in Kitzuki, the kind old hostess begged her guests with almost tearful earnestness not to leave the house during the Minige. 3 There are ten rin to one sen, and ten mon to one rin, on one hundred to one sen. The majority of the cheap toys sold at the matsuri cost from two to nine rin. The rin is a circular copper coin with a square hole in the middle for stringing purposes. 4 Why the monkey is so respectfully mentioned in polite speech, I do not exactly know; but I think that the symbolical relation of the monkey, both to Buddhism and to Shinto, may perhaps account for the use of the prefix 'O' (honourable) before its name. 5 As many fine dolls really are. The superior class of O-Hina-San, such as figure in the beautiful displays of the O-Hina-no-Matsuri at rich homes, are heirlooms. Dolls are not given to children to break; and Japanese children seldom break them. I saw at a Doll's Festival in the house of the Governor of Izumo, dolls one hundred years old--charming figurines in ancient court costume. 6 Not to be confounded with Koshin, the God of Roads. 7 Celtis Wilidenowiana. Sometimes, but rarely, a pine or other tree is substituted for the enoki. 8 'Literally, 'The Dance of the Fruitful Year.' 9 First,--unto the Taisha-Sama of Izunio; Second,--to Irokami-Sama of Niigata; Third,--unto Kompira-Sama of Sanuki; Fourth,--unto Zenkoji-Sama of Shinano; Fifth,--to O-Yakushi-San of Ichibata; Sixth,--to O-Jizo-Sama of Rokkakudo; Seventh,--to O-Ebisu-Sama of Nana-ura; Eighth,--unto Hachiman-Sama of Yawata; Ninth,--unto everyholy shrine of Koya; Tenth,--to the Ujigami-Sama of our village.' Japanese readers will appreciate the ingenious manner in which the numeral at the beginning of each phrase is repeated in the name of the sacred place sung of. Notes for Chapter Twelve 1 This deity is seldom called by his full name, which has been shortened by common usage from Susano-o-no-mikoto. 2 A kichinyado is an inn at which the traveller is charged only the price of the wood used for fuel in cooking his rice. 3 The thick fine straw mats, fitted upon the floor of every Japanese room, are always six feet long by three feet broad. The largest room in the ordinary middle-class house is a room of eight mats. A room of one hundred mats is something worth seeing. 4 The kubi-oke was a lacquered tray with a high rim and a high cover. The name signifies 'head-box.' It was the ancient custom to place the head of a decapitated person upon a kubi-oke before conveying the ghastly trophy into the palace of the prince desirous of seeing it. Notes for Chapter Thirteen 1 Yama-no-mono ('mountain-folk,'--so called from their settlement on the hills above Tokoji),--a pariah-class whose special calling is the washing of the dead and the making of graves. 2 Joro: a courtesan. 3 Illicium religiosum 4 Literally: 'without shadow' or 'shadowless.' 5 Umi-yama-no-on. 6 Kusaba-no-kage 7 Or 'him.' This is a free rendering. The word 'nushi' simply refers to the owner of the house. Notes for Chapter Fourteen 1 "Eight clouds arise. The eightfold [or, manifold] fence of Idzumo makes an eightfold [or, manifold] fence for the spouses to retire within. Oh! that eightfold fence!" This is said to be the oldest song in the Japanese language. It has been differently translated by the great scholars and commentators. The above version and text are from Professor B. H. Chamberlain's translation of the Kojiki (pp.60-64). 2 Professor Chamberlain disputes this etymology for excellent reasons. But in Izumo itself the etymology is still accepted, and will be accepted, doubtless, until the results of foreign scholarship in the study of the archaic texts is more generally known. 3 Planeca Japonica. 4 So absolutely has Shinto in Izumo monopolised the Karashishi, or stone lions, of Buddhist origin, that it is rare in the province to find a pair before any Buddhist temple. There is even a Shinto myth about their introduction into Japan from India, by the Fox-God! 5 Such offerings are called Gwan-hodoki. Gwan wo hodoki, 'to make a vow.' 6 A pilgrim whose prayer has been heard usually plants a single nobori as a token. Sometimes you may see nobori of five colours (goshiki),--black, yellow, red, blue, and white--of which one hundred or one thousand have been planted by one person. But this is done only in pursuance of some very special vow. 7 'On being asked if there were any other love charm, the Newt replied, making a ring with two of his toes--"Only this." The sign signifies, "Money."' 8 There are no less than eleven principal kinds of Japanese names. The jitsumyo, or 'true name,' corresponds to our Christian name. On this intricate and interesting topic the reader should consult Professor B. H. Chamberlain's excellent little book, Things Japanese, pp. 250-5. 9 'That I may be wedded to Takaki-Toki, I humbly pray.--A youth of eighteen.' 10 The gengebana (also called renge-so, and in Izumo miakobana) is an herb planted only for fertilizing purposes. Its flowers are extremely small, but so numerous that in their blossoming season miles of fields are coloured by them a beautiful lilaceous blue. A gentleman who wished to marry a joro despite the advice of his friends, was gently chided by them with the above little verse, which, freely translated, signifies: 'Take it not into thy hand: the flowers of the gengebans are fair to view only when left all together in the field.' Notes for Chapter Fifteen 1 Toyo-uke-bime-no-Kami, or Uka-no-mi-tana (who has also eight other names), is a female divinity, according to the Kojiki and its commentators. Moreover, the greatest of all Shinto scholars, Hirata, as cited by Satow, says there is really no such god as Inari-San at all--that the very name is an error. But the common people have created the God Inari: therefore he must be presumed to exist--if only for folklorists; and I speak of him as a male deity because I see him so represented in pictures and carvings. As to his mythological existence, his great and wealthy temple at Kyoto is impressive testimony. 2 The white fox is a favourite subject with Japanese artists. Some very beautiful kakemono representing white foxes were on display at the Tokyo exhibition of 1890. Phosphorescent foxes often appear in the old coloured prints, now so rare and precious, made by artists whose names have become world-famous. Occasionally foxes are represented wandering about at night, with lambent tongues of dim fire--kitsune-bi--above their heads. The end of the fox's tail, both in sculpture and drawing, is ordinarily decorated with the symbolic jewel (tama) of old Buddhist art. I have in my possession one kakemono representing a white fox with a luminous jewel in its tail. I purchased it at the Matsue temple of Inari--'O-Shiroyama-no-Inari-Sama.' The art of the kakemono is clumsy; but the conception possesses curious interest. 3 The Japanese candle has a large hollow paper wick. It is usually placed upon an iron point which enters into the orifice of the wick at the flat end. 4 See Professor Chamberlain's Things Japanese, under the title 'Demoniacal Possession.' 5 Translated by Walter Dening. 6 The word shizoku is simply the Chinese for samurai. But the term now means little more than 'gentleman' in England. 7 The fox-messenger travels unseen. But if caught in a trap, or injured, his magic fails him, and he becomes visible. 8 The Will-o'-the-Wisp is called Kitsune-bi, or 'fox-fire.' 9 'Aburage' is a name given to fried bean-curds or tofu. 10 Azukimeshi is a preparation of red beans boiled with rice. 11 The Hoin or Yamabushi was a Buddhist exorciser, usually a priest. Strictly speaking, the Hoin was a Yamabushi of higher rank. The Yamabushi used to practise divination as well as exorcism. They were forbidden to exercise these professions by the present government; and most of the little temples formerly occupied by them have disappeared or fallen into ruin. But among the peasantry Buddhist exorcisers are still called to attend cases of fox-possession, and while acting as exorcisers are still spoken of as Yamabushi. 12 A most curious paper on the subject of Ten-gan, or Infinite Vision--being the translation of a Buddhist sermon by the priest Sata Kaiseki--appeared in vol. vii. of the Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, from the pen of Mr. J. M. James. It contains an interesting consideration of the supernatural powers of the Fox. 13 All the portable lanterns used to light the way upon dark nights bear a mon or crest of the owner. 14 Cakes made of rice flour and often sweetened with sugar. 15 It is believed that foxes amuse themselves by causing people to eat horse-dung in the belief that they are eating mochi, or to enter a cesspool in the belief they are taking a bath. 16 'In Jigyobamachi, a name signifying 'earthwork-street.' It stands upon land reclaimed from swamp. 17 This seems to be the immemorial artistic law for the demeanour of all symbolic guardians of holy places, such as the Karashishi, and the Ascending and Descending Dragons carved upon panels, or pillars. At Kumano temple even the Suijin, or warrior-guardians, who frown behind the gratings of the chambers of the great gateway, are thus represented--one with mouth open, the other with closed lips. On inquiring about the origin of this distinction between the two symbolic figures, I was told by a young Buddhist scholar that the male figure in such representations is supposed to be pronouncing the sound 'A,' and the figure with closed lips the sound of nasal 'N'--corresponding to the Alpha and Omega of the Greek alphabet, and also emblematic of the Beginning and the End. In the Lotos of the Good Law, Buddha so reveals himself, as the cosmic Alpha and Omega, and the Father of the World,--like Krishna in the Bhagavad-Gita. 18 There is one exception to the general custom of giving the dolls of dead children, or the wrecks of dolls, to Kojin. Those images of the God of Calligraphy and Scholarship which are always presented as gifts to boys on the Boys' Festival are given, when broken, to Tenjin himself, not to Kojin; at least such is the custom in Matsue. 
8133	----	Glimpses of Unfamilar Japan Second Series by Lafcadio Hearn CONTENTS 1 IN A JAPANESE GARDEN 2 THE HOUSEHOLD SHRINE 3 OF WOMEN'S HAIR 4 FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENGLISH TEACHER 5 TWO STRANGE FESTIVALS 6 BY THE JAPANESE SEA 7 OF A DANCING-GIRL 8 FROM HOKI TO OKI 9 OF SOULS 10 OF GHOSTS AND GOBLINS 11 THE JAPANESE SMILE 12 SAYONARA! Chapter One In a Japanese Garden Sec. 1 MY little two-story house by the Ohashigawa, although dainty as a bird- cage, proved much too small for comfort at the approach of the hot season--the rooms being scarcely higher than steamship cabins, and so narrow that an ordinary mosquito-net could not be suspended in them. I was sorry to lose the beautiful lake view, but I found it necessary to remove to the northern quarter of the city, into a very quiet Street behind the mouldering castle. My new home is a katchiu-yashiki, the ancient residence of some samurai of high rank. It is shut off from the street, or rather roadway, skirting the castle moat by a long, high wall coped with tiles. One ascends to the gateway, which is almost as large as that of a temple court, by a low broad flight of stone steps; and projecting from the wall, to the right of the gate, is a look-out window, heavily barred, like a big wooden cage. Thence, in feudal days, armed retainers kept keen watch on all who passed by--invisible watch, for the bars are set so closely that a face behind them cannot be seen from the roadway. Inside the gate the approach to the dwelling is also walled in on both sides, so that the visitor, unless privileged, could see before him only the house entrance, always closed with white shoji. Like all samurai homes, the residence itself is but one story high, but there are fourteen rooms within, and these are lofty, spacious, and beautiful. There is, alas, no lake view nor any charming prospect. Part of the O-Shiroyama, with the castle on its summit, half concealed by a park of pines, may be seen above the coping of the front wall, but only a part; and scarcely a hundred yards behind the house rise densely wooded heights, cutting off not only the horizon, but a large slice of the sky as well. For this immurement, however, there exists fair compensation in the shape of a very pretty garden, or rather a series of garden spaces, which surround the dwelling on three sides. Broad verandas overlook these, and from a certain veranda angle I can enjoy the sight of two gardens at once. Screens of bamboos and woven rushes, with wide gateless openings in their midst, mark the boundaries of the three divisions of the pleasure-grounds. But these structures are not intended to serve as true fences; they are ornamental, and only indicate where one style of landscape gardening ends and another begins. Sec. 2 Now a few words upon Japanese gardens in general. After having learned--merely by seeing, for the practical knowledge of the art requires years of study and experience, besides a natural, instinctive sense of beauty--something about the Japanese manner of arranging flowers, one can thereafter consider European ideas of floral decoration only as vulgarities. This observation is not the result of any hasty enthusiasm, but a conviction settled by long residence in the interior. I have come to understand the unspeakable loveliness of a solitary spray of blossoms arranged as only a Japanese expert knows how to arrange it--not by simply poking the spray into a vase, but by perhaps one whole hour's labour of trimming and posing and daintiest manipulation--and therefore I cannot think now of what we Occidentals call a 'bouquet' as anything but a vulgar murdering of flowers, an outrage upon the colour-sense, a brutality, an abomination. Somewhat in the same way, and for similar reasons, after having learned what an old Japanese garden is, I can remember our costliest gardens at home only as ignorant displays of what wealth can accomplish in the creation of incongruities that violate nature. Now a Japanese garden is not a flower garden; neither is it made for the purpose of cultivating plants. In nine cases out of ten there is nothing in it resembling a flower-bed. Some gardens may contain scarcely a sprig of green; some have nothing green at all, and consist entirely of rocks and pebbles and sand, although these are exceptional. [1] As a rule, a Japanese garden is a landscape garden, yet its existence does not depend upon any fixed allowances of space. It may cover one acre or many acres. It may also be only ten feet square. It may, in extreme cases, be much less; for a certain kind of Japanese garden can be contrived small enough to put in a tokonoma. Such a garden, in a vessel no larger than a fruit-dish, is called koniwa or toko-niwa, and may occasionally be seen in the tokonoma of humble little dwellings so closely squeezed between other structures as to possess no ground in which to cultivate an outdoor garden. (I say 'an outdoor garden,' because there are indoor gardens, both upstairs and downstairs, in some large Japanese houses.) The toko-niwa is usually made in some curious bowl, or shallow carved box or quaintly shaped vessel impossible to describe by any English word. Therein are created minuscule hills with minuscule houses upon them, and microscopic ponds and rivulets spanned by tiny humped bridges; and queer wee plants do duty for trees, and curiously formed pebbles stand for rocks, and there are tiny toro perhaps a tiny torii as well-- in short, a charming and living model of a Japanese landscape. Another fact of prime importance to remember is that, in order to comprehend the beauty of a Japanese garden, it is necessary to understand--or at least to learn to understand--the beauty of stones. Not of stones quarried by the hand of man, but of stones shaped by nature only. Until you can feel, and keenly feel, that stones have character, that stones have tones and values, the whole artistic meaning of a Japanese garden cannot be revealed to you. In the foreigner, however aesthetic he may be, this feeling needs to be cultivated by study. It is inborn in the Japanese; the soul of the race comprehends Nature infinitely better than we do, at least in her visible forms. But although, being an Occidental, the true sense of the beauty of stones can be reached by you only through long familiarity with the Japanese use and choice of them, the characters of the lessons to be acquired exist everywhere about you, if your life be in the interior. You cannot walk through a street without observing tasks and problems in the aesthetics of stones for you to master. At the approaches to temples, by the side of roads, before holy groves, and in all parks and pleasure- grounds, as well as in all cemeteries, you will notice large, irregular, flat slabs of natural rock--mostly from the river-beds and water-worn-- sculptured with ideographs, but unhewn. These have been set up as votive tablets, as commemorative monuments, as tombstones, and are much more costly than the ordinary cut-stone columns and haka chiselled with the figures of divinities in relief. Again, you will see before most of the shrines, nay, even in the grounds of nearly all large homesteads, great irregular blocks of granite or other hard rock, worn by the action of torrents, and converted into water-basins (chodzubachi) by cutting a circular hollow in the top. Such are but common examples of the utilisation of stones even in the poorest villages; and if you have any natural artistic sentiment, you cannot fail to discover, sooner or later, how much more beautiful are these natural forms than any shapes from the hand of the stone-cutter. It is probable, too, that you will become so habituated at last to the sight of inscriptions cut upon rock surfaces, especially if you travel much through the country, that you will often find yourself involuntarily looking for texts or other chisellings where there are none, and could not possibly be, as if ideographs belonged by natural law to rock formation. And stones will begin, perhaps, to assume for you a certain individual or physiognomical aspect--to suggest moods and sensations, as they do to the Japanese. Indeed, Japan is particularly a land of suggestive shapes in stone, as high volcanic lands are apt to be; and such shapes doubtless addressed themselves to the imagination of the race at a time long prior to the date of that archaic text which tells of demons in Izumo 'who made rocks, and the roots of trees, and leaves, and the foam of the green waters to speak. As might be expected in a country where the suggestiveness of natural forms is thus recognised, there are in Japan many curious beliefs and superstitions concerning stones. In almost every province there are famous stones supposed to be sacred or haunted, or to possess miraculous powers, such as the Women's Stone at the temple of Hachiman at Kamakura, and the Sessho-seki, or Death Stone of Nasu, and the Wealth-giving Stone at Enoshima, to which pilgrims pay reverence. There are even legends of stones having manifested sensibility, like the tradition of the Nodding Stones which bowed down before the monk Daita when he preached unto them the word of Buddha; or the ancient story from the Kojiki, that the Emperor O-Jin, being augustly intoxicated, 'smote with his august staff a great stone in the middle of the Ohosaka road, whereupon the stone ran away!' [2] Now stones are valued for their beauty; and large stones selected for their shape may have an aesthetic worth of hundreds of dollars. And large stones form the skeleton, or framework, in the design of old Japanese gardens. Not only is every stone chosen with a view to its particular expressiveness of form, but every stone in the garden or about the premises has its separate and individual name, indicating its purpose or its decorative duty. But I can tell you only a little, a very little, of the folk-lore of a Japanese garden; and if you want to know more about stones and their names, and about the philosophy of gardens, read the unique essay of Mr. Conder on the Art of Landscape Gardening in Japan, [3] and his beautiful book on the Japanese Art of Floral Decoration; and also the brief but charming chapter on Gardens, in Morse's Japanese Homes. [4] Sec. 3 No effort to create an impossible or purely ideal landscape is made in the Japanese garden. Its artistic purpose is to copy faithfully the attractions of a veritable landscape, and to convey the real impression that a real landscape communicates. It is therefore at once a picture and a poem; perhaps even more a poem than a picture. For as nature's scenery, in its varying aspects, affects us with sensations of joy or of solemnity, of grimness or of sweetness, of force or of peace, so must the true reflection of it in the labour of the landscape gardener create not merely an impression of beauty, but a mood in the soul. The grand old landscape gardeners, those Buddhist monks who first introduced the art into Japan, and subsequently developed it into an almost occult science, carried their theory yet farther than this. They held it possible to express moral lessons in the design of a garden, and abstract ideas, such as Chastity, Faith, Piety, Content, Calm, and Connubial Bliss. Therefore were gardens contrived according to the character of the owner, whether poet, warrior, philosopher, or priest. In those ancient gardens (the art, alas, is passing away under the withering influence of the utterly commonplace Western taste) there were expressed both a mood of nature and some rare Oriental conception of a mood of man. I do not know what human sentiment the principal division of my garden was intended to reflect; and there is none to tell me. Those by whom it was made passed away long generations ago, in the eternal transmigration of souls. But as a poem of nature it requires no interpreter. It occupies the front portion of the grounds, facing south; and it also extends west to the verge of the northern division of the garden, from which it is partly separated by a curious screen-fence structure. There are large rocks in it, heavily mossed; and divers fantastic basins of stone for holding water; and stone lamps green with years; and a shachihoko, such as one sees at the peaked angles of castle roofs--a great stone fish, an idealised porpoise, with its nose in the ground and its tail in the air. [5] There are miniature hills, with old trees upon them; and there are long slopes of green, shadowed by flowering shrubs, like river banks; and there are green knolls like islets. All these verdant elevations rise from spaces of pale yellow sand, smooth as a surface of silk and miming the curves and meanderings of a river course. These sanded spaces are not to be trodden upon; they are much too beautiful for that. The least speck of dirt would mar their effect; and it requires the trained skill of an experienced native gardener--a delightful old man he is--to keep them in perfect form. But they are traversed in various directions by lines of flat unhewn rock slabs, placed at slightly irregular distances from one another, exactly like stepping-stones across a brook. The whole effect is that of the shores of a still stream in some lovely, lonesome, drowsy place. There is nothing to break the illusion, so secluded the garden is. High walls and fences shut out streets and contiguous things; and the shrubs and the trees, heightening and thickening toward the boundaries, conceal from view even the roofs of the neighbouring katchiu-yashiki. Softly beautiful are the tremulous shadows of leaves on the sunned sand; and the scent of flowers comes thinly sweet with every waft of tepid air; and there is a humming of bees. Sec. 4 By Buddhism all existences are divided into Hijo things without desire, such as stones and trees; and Ujo things having desire, such as men and animals. This division does not, so far as I know, find expression in the written philosophy of gardens; but it is a convenient one. The folk- lore of my little domain relates both to the inanimate and the animate. In natural order, the Hijo may be considered first, beginning with a singular shrub near the entrance of the yashiki, and close to the gate of the first garden. Within the front gateway of almost every old samurai house, and usually near the entrance of the dwelling itself, there is to be seen a small tree with large and peculiar leaves. The name of this tree in Izumo is tegashiwa, and there is one beside my door. What the scientific name of it is I do not know; nor am I quite sure of the etymology of the Japanese name. However, there is a word tegashi, meaning a bond for the hands; and the shape of the leaves of the tegashiwa somewhat resembles the shape of a hand. Now, in old days, when the samurai retainer was obliged to leave his home in order to accompany his daimyo to Yedo, it was customary, just before his departure, to set before him a baked tai [6] served up on a tegashiwa leaf. After this farewell repast the leaf upon which the tai had been served was hung up above the door as a charm to bring the departed knight safely back again. This pretty superstition about the leaves of the tegashiwa had its origin not only in their shape but in their movement. Stirred by a wind they seemed to beckon--not indeed after our Occidental manner, but in the way that a Japanese signs to his friend to come, by gently waving his hand up and down with the palm towards the ground. Another shrub to be found in most Japanese gardens is the nanten, [7] about which a very curious belief exists. If you have an evil dream, a dream which bodes ill luck, you should whisper it to the nanten early in the morning, and then it will never come true. [8] There are two varieties of this graceful plant: one which bears red berries, and one which bears white. The latter is rare. Both kinds grow in my garden. The common variety is placed close to the veranda (perhaps for the convenience of dreamers); the other occupies a little flower-bed in the middle of the garden, together with a small citron-tree. This most dainty citron-tree is called 'Buddha's fingers,' [9] because of the wonderful shape of its fragrant fruits. Near it stands a kind of laurel, with lanciform leaves glossy as bronze; it is called by the Japanese yuzuri-ha, [10] and is almost as common in the gardens of old samurai homes as the tegashiwa itself. It is held to be a tree of good omen, because no one of its old leaves ever falls off before a new one, growing behind it, has well developed. For thus the yuzuri-ha symbolises hope that the father will not pass away before his son has become a vigorous man, well able to succeed him as the head of the family. Therefore, on every New Year's Day, the leaves of the yuzuriha, mingled with fronds of fern, are attached to the shimenawa which is then suspended before every Izumo home. Sec. 5 The trees, like the shrubs, have their curious poetry and legends. Like the stones, each tree has its special landscape name according to its position and purpose in the composition. Just as rocks and stones form the skeleton of the ground-plan of a garden, so pines form the framework of its foliage design. They give body to the whole. In this garden there are five pines,--not pines tormented into fantasticalities, but pines made wondrously picturesque by long and tireless care and judicious trimming. The object of the gardener has been to develop to the utmost possible degree their natural tendency to rugged line and massings of foliage--that spiny sombre-green foliage which Japanese art is never weary of imitating in metal inlay or golden lacquer. The pine is a symbolic tree in this land of symbolism. Ever green, it is at once the emblem of unflinching purpose and of vigorous old age; and its needle- shaped leaves are credited with the power of driving demons away. There are two sakuranoki, [11] Japanese cherry-trees--those trees whose blossoms, as Professor Chamberlain so justly observes, are 'beyond comparison more lovely than anything Europe has to show.' Many varieties are cultivated and loved; those in my garden bear blossoms of the most ethereal pink, a flushed white. When, in spring, the trees flower, it is as though fleeciest masses of cloud faintly tinged by sunset had floated down from the highest sky to fold themselves about the branches. This comparison is no poetical exaggeration; neither is it original: it is an ancient Japanese description of the most marvellous floral exhibition which nature is capable of making. The reader who has never seen a cherry-tree blossoming in Japan cannot possibly imagine the delight of the spectacle. There are no green leaves; these come later: there is only one glorious burst of blossoms, veiling every twig and bough in their delicate mist; and the soil beneath each tree is covered deep out of sight by fallen petals as by a drift of pink snow. But these are cultivated cherry-trees. There are others which put forth their leaves before their blossoms, such as the yamazakura, or mountain cherry. [12] This, too, however, has its poetry of beauty and of symbolism. Sang the great Shinto writer and poet, Motowori: Shikishima no Yamato-gokoro wo Hito-towaba, Asa-hi ni niou Yamazakura bana. [13] Whether cultivated or uncultivated, the Japanese cherry-trees are emblems. Those planted in old samurai gardens were not cherished for their loveliness alone. Their spotless blossoms were regarded as symbolising that delicacy of sentiment and blamelessness of life belonging to high courtesy and true knightliness. 'As the cherry flower is first among flowers,' says an old proverb, 'so should the warrior be first among men'. Shadowing the western end of this garden, and projecting its smooth dark limbs above the awning of the veranda, is a superb umenoki, Japanese plum-tree, very old, and originally planted here, no doubt, as in other gardens, for the sake of the sight of its blossoming. The flowering of the umenoki, [14] in the earliest spring, is scarcely less astonishing than that of the cherry-tree, which does not bloom for a full month later; and the blossoming of both is celebrated by popular holidays. Nor are these, although the most famed, the only flowers thus loved. The wistaria, the convolvulus, the peony, each in its season, form displays of efflorescence lovely enough to draw whole populations out of the cities into the country to see them.. In Izumo, the blossoming of the peony is especially marvellous. The most famous place for this spectacle is the little island of Daikonshima, in the grand Naka-umi lagoon, about an hour's sail from Matsue. In May the whole island flames crimson with peonies; and even the boys and girls of the public schools are given a holiday, in order that they may enjoy the sight. Though the plum flower is certainly a rival in beauty of the sakura-no- hana, the Japanese compare woman's beauty--physical beauty--to the cherry flower, never to the plum flower. But womanly virtue and sweetness, on the other hand, are compared to the ume-no-hana, never to the cherry blossom. It is a great mistake to affirm, as some writers have done, that the Japanese never think of comparing a woman to trees and flowers. For grace, a maiden is likened to a slender willow; [15] for youthful charm, to the cherry-tree in flower; for sweetness of heart, to the blossoming plum-tree. Nay, the old Japanese poets have compared woman to all beautiful things. They have even sought similes from flowers for her various poses, for her movements, as in the verse, Tateba skakuyaku; [16] Suwareba botan; Aruku sugatawa Himeyuri [17] no hana. [18] Why, even the names of the humblest country girls are often those of beautiful trees or flowers prefixed by the honorific O: [19] O-Matsu (Pine), O-Take (Bamboo), O-Ume (Plum), O-Hana (Blossom), O-ine (Ear-of- Young-Rice), not to speak of the professional flower-names of dancing- girls and of joro. It has been argued with considerable force that the origin of certain tree-names borne by girls must be sought in the folk- conception of the tree as an emblem of longevity, or happiness, or good fortune, rather than in any popular idea of the beauty of the tree in itself. But however this may be, proverb, poem, song, and popular speech to-day yield ample proof that the Japanese comparisons of women to trees and flowers are in no-wise inferior to our own in aesthetic sentiment. Sec. 6 That trees, at least Japanese trees, have souls, cannot seem an unnatural fancy to one who has seen the blossoming of the umenoki and the sakuranoki. This is a popular belief in Izumo and elsewhere. It is not in accord with Buddhist philosophy, and yet in a certain sense it strikes one as being much closer to cosmic truth than the old Western orthodox notion of trees as 'things created for the use of man.' Furthermore, there exist several odd superstitions about particular trees, not unlike certain West Indian beliefs which have had a good influence in checking the destruction of valuable timber. Japan, like the tropical world, has its goblin trees. Of these, the enoki (Celtis Willdenowiana) and the yanagi (drooping willow) are deemed especially ghostly, and are rarely now to be found in old Japanese gardens. Both are believed to have the power of haunting. 'Enoki ga bakeru,' the izumo saying is. You will find in a Japanese dictionary the word 'bakeru' translated by such terms as 'to be transformed,' 'to be metamorphosed,' 'to be changed,' etc.; but the belief about these trees is very singular, and cannot be explained by any such rendering of the verb 'bakeru.' The tree itself does not change form or place, but a spectre called Ki-no o-bake disengages itself from the tree and walks about in various guises.' [20] Most often the shape assumed by the phantom is that of a beautiful woman. The tree spectre seldom speaks, and seldom ventures to go very far away from its tree. If approached, it immediately shrinks back into the trunk or the foliage. It is said that if either an old yanagi or a young enoki be cut blood will flow from the gash. When such trees are very young it is not believed that they have supernatural habits, but they become more dangerous the older they grow. There is a rather pretty legend--recalling the old Greek dream of dryads--about a willow-tree which grew in the garden of a samurai of Kyoto. Owing to its weird reputation, the tenant of the homestead desired to cut it down; but another samurai dissuaded him, saying: 'Rather sell it to me, that I may plant it in my garden. That tree has a soul; it were cruel to destroy its life.' Thus purchased and transplanted, the yanagi flourished well in its new home, and its spirit, out of gratitude, took the form of a beautiful woman, and became the wife of the samurai who had befriended it. A charming boy was the result of this union. A few years later, the daimyo to whom the ground belonged gave orders that the tree should be cut down. Then the wife wept bitterly, and for the first time revealed to her husband the whole story. 'And now,' she added, 'I know that I must die; but our child will live, and you will always love him. This thought is my only solace.' Vainly the astonished and terrified husband sought to retain her. Bidding him farewell for ever, she vanished into the tree. Needless to say that the samurai did everything in his power to persuade the daimyo to forgo his purpose. The prince wanted the tree for the reparation of a great Buddhist temple, the San-jiu-san-gen-do. [21]' The tree was felled, but, having fallen, it suddenly became so heavy that three hundred men could not move it. Then the child, taking a branch in his little hand, said, 'Come,' and the tree followed him, gliding along the ground to the court of the temple. Although said to be a bakemono-ki, the enoki sometimes receives highest religious honours; for the spirit of the god Kojin, to whom old dolls are dedicated, is supposed to dwell within certain very ancient enoki trees, and before these are placed shrines whereat people make prayers. Sec. 7 The second garden, on the north side, is my favourite, It contains no large growths. It is paved with blue pebbles, and its centre is occupied by a pondlet--a miniature lake fringed with rare plants, and containing a tiny island, with tiny mountains and dwarf peach-trees and pines and azaleas, some of which are perhaps more than a century old, though scarcely more than a foot high. Nevertheless, this work, seen as it was intended to be seen, does not appear to the eye in miniature at all. From a certain angle of the guest-room looking out upon it, the appearance is that of a real lake shore with a real island beyond it, a stone's throw away. So cunning the art of the ancient gardener who contrived all this, and who has been sleeping for a hundred years under the cedars of Gesshoji, that the illusion can be detected only from the zashiki by the presence of an ishidoro or stone lamp, upon the island. The size of the ishidoro betrays the false perspective, and I do not think it was placed there when the garden was made. Here and there at the edge of the pond, and almost level with the water, are placed large flat stones, on which one may either stand or squat, to watch the lacustrine population or to tend the water-plants. There are beautiful water-lilies, whose bright green leaf-disks float oilily upon the surface (Nuphar Japonica), and many lotus plants of two kinds, those which bear pink and those which bear pure white flowers. There are iris plants growing along the bank, whose blossoms are prismatic violet, and there are various ornamental grasses and ferns and mosses. But the pond is essentially a lotus pond; the lotus plants make its greatest charm. It is a delight to watch every phase of their marvellous growth, from the first unrolling of the leaf to the fall of the last flower. On rainy days, especially, the lotus plants are worth observing. Their great cup- shaped leaves, swaying high above the pond, catch the rain and hold it a while; but always after the water in the leaf reaches a certain level the stem bends, and empties the leaf with a loud plash, and then straightens again. Rain-water upon a lotus-leaf is a favourite subject with Japanese metal-workers, and metalwork only can reproduce the effect, for the motion and colour of water moving upon the green oleaginous surface are exactly those of quicksilver. Sec. 8 The third garden, which is very large, extends beyond the inclosure containing the lotus pond to the foot of the wooded hills which form the northern and north-eastern boundary of this old samurai quarter. Formerly all this broad level space was occupied by a bamboo grove; but it is now little more than a waste of grasses and wild flowers. In the north-east corner there is a magnificent well, from which ice-cold water is brought into the house through a most ingenious little aqueduct of bamboo pipes; and in the north-western end, veiled by tall weeds, there stands a very small stone shrine of Inari with two proportionately small stone foxes sitting before it. Shrine and images are chipped and broken, and thickly patched with dark green moss. But on the east side of the house one little square of soil belonging to this large division of the garden is still cultivated. It is devoted entirely to chrysanthemum plants, which are shielded from heavy rain and strong sun by slanting frames of light wood fashioned, like shoji with panes of white paper, and supported like awnings upon thin posts of bamboo. I can venture to add nothing to what has already been written about these marvellous products of Japanese floriculture considered in themselves; but there is a little story relating to chrysanthemums which I may presume to tell. There is one place in Japan where it is thought unlucky to cultivate chrysanthemums, for reasons which shall presently appear; and that place is in the pretty little city of Himeji, in the province of Harima. Himeji contains the ruins of a great castle of thirty turrets; and a daimyo used to dwell therein whose revenue was one hundred and fifty-six thousand koku of rice. Now, in the house of one of that daimyo's chief retainers there was a maid-servant, of good family, whose name was O- Kiku; and the name 'Kiku' signifies a chrysanthemum flower. Many precious things were intrusted to her charge, and among others ten costly dishes of gold. One of these was suddenly missed, and could not be found; and the girl, being responsible therefor, and knowing not how otherwise to prove her innocence, drowned herself in a well. But ever thereafter her ghost, returning nightly, could be heard counting the dishes slowly, with sobs: Ichi-mai, Yo-mai, Shichi-mai, Ni-mai, Go-mai, Hachi-mai, San-mai, Roku-mai, Ku-mai-- Then would be heard a despairing cry and a loud burst of weeping; and again the girl's voice counting the dishes plaintively: 'One--two-- three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--' Her spirit passed into the body of a strange little insect, whose head faintly resembles that of a ghost with long dishevelled hair; and it is called O-Kiku-mushi, or 'the fly of O-Kiku'; and it is found, they say, nowhere save in Himeji. A famous play was written about O-Kiku, which is still acted in all the popular theatres, entitled Banshu-O-Kiku-no-Sara- yashiki; or, The Manor of the Dish of O-Kiku of Banshu. Some declare that Banshu is only the corruption of the name of an ancient quarter of Tokyo (Yedo), where the story should have been laid. But the people of Himeji say that part of their city now called Go-Ken- Yashiki is identical with the site of the ancient manor. What is certainly true is that to cultivate chrysanthemum flowers in the part of Himeji called Go-KenYashiki is deemed unlucky, because the name of O- Kiku signifies 'Chrysanthemum.' Therefore, nobody, I am told, ever cultivates chrysanthemums there. Sec. 9 Now of the ujo or things having desire, which inhabit these gardens. There are four species of frogs: three that dwell in the lotus pond, and one that lives in the trees. The tree frog is a very pretty little creature, exquisitely green; it has a shrill cry, almost like the note of a semi; and it is called amagaeru, or 'the rain frog,' because, like its kindred in other countries, its croaking is an omen of rain. The pond frogs are called babagaeru, shinagaeru, and Tono-san-gaeru. Of these, the first-named variety is the largest and the ugliest: its colour is very disagreeable, and its full name ('babagaeru' being a decent abbreviation) is quite as offensive as its hue. The shinagaeru, or 'striped frog,' is not handsome, except by comparison with the previously mentioned creature. But the Tono-san-gaeru, so called after a famed daimyo who left behind him a memory of great splendour is beautiful: its colour is a fine bronze-red. Besides these varieties of frogs there lives in the garden a huge uncouth goggle-eyed thing which, although called here hikigaeru, I take to be a toad. 'Hikigaeru' is the term ordinarily used for a bullfrog. This creature enters the house almost daily to be fed, and seems to have no fear even of strangers. My people consider it a luck-bringing visitor; and it is credited with the power of drawing all the mosquitoes out of a room into its mouth by simply sucking its breath in. Much as it is cherished by gardeners and others, there is a legend about a goblin toad of old times, which, by thus sucking in its breath, drew into its mouth, not insects, but men. The pond is inhabited also by many small fish; imori, or newts, with bright red bellies; and multitudes of little water-beetles, called maimaimushi, which pass their whole time in gyrating upon the surface of the water so rapidly that it is almost impossible to distinguish their shape clearly. A man who runs about aimlessly to and fro, under the influence of excitement, is compared to a maimaimushi. And there are some beautiful snails, with yellow stripes on their shells. Japanese children have a charm-song which is supposed to have power to make the snail put out its horns: Daidaimushi, [22] daidaimushi, tsuno chitto dashare! Ame haze fuku kara tsuno chitto dashare! [23] The playground of the children of the better classes has always been the family garden, as that of the children of the poor is the temple court. It is in the garden that the little ones first learn something of the wonderful life of plants and the marvels of the insect world; and there, also, they are first taught those pretty legends and songs about birds and flowers which form so charming a part of Japanese folk-lore. As the home training of the child is left mostly to the mother, lessons of kindness to animals are early inculcated; and the results are strongly marked in after life It is true, Japanese children are not entirely free from that unconscious tendency to cruelty characteristic of children in all countries, as a survival of primitive instincts. But in this regard the great moral difference between the sexes is strongly marked from the earliest years. The tenderness of the woman-soul appears even in the child. Little Japanese girls who play with insects or small animals rarely hurt them, and generally set them free after they have afforded a reasonable amount of amusement. Little boys are not nearly so good, when out of sight of parents or guardians. But if seen doing anything cruel, a child is made to feel ashamed of the act, and hears the Buddhist warning, 'Thy future birth will be unhappy, if thou dost cruel things.' Somewhere among the rocks in the pond lives a small tortoise--left in the garden, probably, by the previous tenants of the house. It is very pretty, but manages to remain invisible for weeks at a time. In popular mythology, the tortoise is the servant of the divinity Kompira; [24] and if a pious fisherman finds a tortoise, he writes upon his back characters signifying 'Servant of the Deity Kompira,' and then gives it a drink of sake and sets it free. It is supposed to be very fond of sake. Some say that the land tortoise, or 'stone tortoise,' only, is the servant of Kompira, and the sea tortoise, or turtle, the servant of the Dragon Empire beneath the sea. The turtle is said to have the power to create, with its breath, a cloud, a fog, or a magnificent palace. It figures in the beautiful old folk-tale of Urashima. [25] All tortoises are supposed to live for a thousand years, wherefore one of the most frequent symbols of longevity in Japanese art is a tortoise. But the tortoise most commonly represented by native painters and metal-workers has a peculiar tail, or rather a multitude of small tails, extending behind it like the fringes of a straw rain-coat, mino, whence it is called minogame Now, some of the tortoises kept in the sacred tanks of Buddhist temples attain a prodigious age, and certain water--plants attach themselves to the creatures' shells and stream behind them when they walk. The myth of the minogame is supposed to have had its origin in old artistic efforts to represent the appearance of such tortoises with confervae fastened upon their shells. Sec. 10 Early in summer the frogs are surprisingly numerous, and, after dark, are noisy beyond description; but week by week their nightly clamour grows feebler, as their numbers diminish under the attacks of many enemies. A large family of snakes, some fully three feet long, make occasional inroads into the colony. The victims often utter piteous cries, which are promptly responded to, whenever possible, by some inmate of the house, and many a frog has been saved by my servant-girl, who, by a gentle tap with a bamboo rod, compels the snake to let its prey go. These snakes are beautiful swimmers. They make themselves quite free about the garden; but they come out only on hot days. None of my people would think of injuring or killing one of them. Indeed, in Izumo it is said that to kill a snake is unlucky. 'If you kill a snake without provocation,' a peasant assured me, 'you will afterwards find its head in the komebitsu [the box in which cooked rice is kept] 'when you take off the lid.' But the snakes devour comparatively few frogs. Impudent kites and crows are their most implacable destroyers; and there is a very pretty weasel which lives under the kura (godown) and which does not hesitate to take either fish or frogs out of the pond, even when the lord of the manor is watching. There is also a cat which poaches in my preserves, a gaunt outlaw, a master thief, which I have made sundry vain attempts to reclaim from vagabondage. Partly because of the immorality of this cat, and partly because it happens to have a long tail, it has the evil reputation of being a nekomata, or goblin cat. It is true that in Izumo some kittens are born with long tails; but it is very seldom that they are suffered to grow up with long tails. For the natural tendency of cats is to become goblins; and this tendency to metamorphosis can be checked only by cutting off their tails in kittenhood. Cats are magicians, tails or no tails, and have the power of making corpses dance. Cats are ungrateful 'Feed a dog for three days,' says a Japanese proverb, 'and he will remember your kindness for three years; feed a cat for three years and she will forget your kindness in three days.' Cats are mischievous: they tear the mattings, and make holes in the shoji, and sharpen their claws upon the pillars of tokonoma. Cats are under a curse: only the cat and the venomous serpent wept not at the death of Buddha and these shall never enter into the bliss of the Gokuraku For all these reasons, and others too numerous to relate, cats are not much loved in Izumo, and are compelled to pass the greater part of their lives out of doors. Sec. 11 Not less than eleven varieties of butterflies have visited the neighbourhood of the lotus pond within the past few days. The most common variety is snowy white. It is supposed to be especially attracted by the na, or rape-seed plant; and when little girls see it, they sing: Cho-cho cho-cho, na no ha ni tomare; Na no ha ga iyenara, te ni tomare. [26] But the most interesting insects are certainly the semi (cicadae). These Japanese tree crickets are much more extraordinary singers than even the wonderful cicadae of the tropics; and they are much less tiresome, for there is a different species of semi, with a totally different song, for almost every month during the whole warm season. There are, I believe, seven kinds; but I have become familiar with only four. The first to be heard in my trees is the natsuzemi, or summer semi: it makes a sound like the Japanese monosyllable ji, beginning wheezily, slowly swelling into a crescendo shrill as the blowing of steam, and dying away in another wheeze. This j-i-i-iiiiiiiiii is so deafening that when two or three natsuzemi come close to the window I am obliged to make them go away. Happily the natsuzemi is soon succeeded by the minminzemi, a much finer musician, whose name is derived from its wonderful note. It is said 'to chant like a Buddhist priest reciting the kyo'; and certainly, upon hearing it the first time, one can scarcely believe that one is listening to a mere cicada. The minminzemi is followed, early in autumn, by a beautiful green semi, the higurashi, which makes a singularly clear sound, like the rapid ringing of a small bell,--kana-kana-kan a-kana- kana. But the most astonishing visitor of all comes still later, the tsukiu-tsukiu-boshi. [27] I fancy this creature can have no rival in the whole world of cicadae its music is exactly like the song of a bird. Its name, like that of the minminzemi, is onomatopoetic; but in Izumo the sounds of its chant are given thus: Tsuku-tsuku uisu , [28] Tsuku-tsuku uisu, Tsuku-tsuku uisu; Ui-osu, Ui-osu, Ui-osu, Ui-os-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-su. However, the semi are not the only musicians of the garden. Two remarkable creatures aid their orchestra. The first is a beautiful bright green grasshopper, known to the Japanese by the curious name of hotoke-no-uma, or 'the horse of the dead.' This insect's head really bears some resemblance in shape to the head of a horse--hence the fancy. It is a queerly familiar creature, allowing itself to be taken in the hand without struggling, and generally making itself quite at home in the house, which it often enters. It makes a very thin sound, which the Japanese write as a repetition of the syllables jun-ta; and the name junta is sometimes given to the grasshopper itself. The other insect is also a green grasshopper, somewhat larger, and much shyer: it is called gisu, [29] on account of its chant: Chon, Gisu; Chon, Gisu; Chon, Gisu; Chon . . . (ad libitum). Several lovely species of dragon-flies (tombo) hover about the pondlet on hot bright days. One variety--the most beautiful creature of the kind I ever saw, gleaming with metallic colours indescribable, and spectrally slender--is called Tenshi-tombo, 'the Emperor's dragon-fly.' There is another, the largest of Japanese dragon-flies, but somewhat rare, which is much sought after by children as a plaything. Of this species it is said that there are many more males than females; and what I can vouch for as true is that, if you catch a female, the male can be almost immediately attracted by exposing the captive. Boys, accordingly, try to secure a female, and when one is captured they tie it with a thread to some branch, and sing a curious little song, of which these are the original words: Konna [30] dansho Korai o Adzuma no meto ni makete Nigeru Wa haji dewa naikai? Which signifies, 'Thou, the male, King of Korea, dost thou not feel shame to flee away from the Queen of the East?' (This taunt is an allusion to the story of the conquest of Korea by the Empress Jin-go.) And the male comes invariably, and is also caught. In Izumo the first seven words of the original song have been corrupted into 'konna unjo Korai abura no mito'; and the name of the male dragon-fly, unjo, and that of the female, mito, are derived from two words of the corrupted version. Sec. 12 Of warm nights all sorts of unbidden guests invade the house in multitudes. Two varieties of mosquitoes do their utmost to make life unpleasant, and these have learned the wisdom of not approaching a lamp too closely; but hosts of curious and harmless things cannot be prevented from seeking their death in the flame. The most numerous victims of all, which come thick as a shower of rain, are called Sanemori. At least they are so called in Izumo, where they do much damage to growing rice. Now the name Sanemori is an illustrious one, that of a famous warrior of old times belonging to the Genji clan. There is a legend that while he was fighting with an enemy on horseback his own steed slipped and fell in a rice-field, and he was consequently overpowered and slain by his antagonist. He became a rice-devouring insect, which is still respectfully called, by the peasantry of Izumo, Sanemori-San. They light fires, on certain summer nights, in the rice-fields, to attract the insect, and beat gongs and sound bamboo flutes, chanting the while, 'O- Sanemori, augustly deign to come hither!' A kannushi performs a religious rite, and a straw figure representing a horse and rider is then either burned or thrown into a neighbouring river or canal. By this ceremony it is believed that the fields are cleared of the insect. This tiny creature is almost exactly the size and colour of a rice-husk. The legend concerning it may have arisen from the fact that its body, together with the wings, bears some resemblance to the helmet of a Japanese warrior. [31] Next in number among the victims of fire are the moths, some of which are very strange and beautiful. The most remarkable is an enormous creature popularly called okorichocho or the 'ague moth,' because there is a superstitious belief that it brings intermittent fever into any house it enters. It has a body quite as heavy and almost as powerful as that of the largest humming-bird, and its struggles, when caught in the hand, surprise by their force. It makes a very loud whirring sound while flying. The wings of one which I examined measured, outspread, five inches from tip to tip, yet seemed small in proportion to the heavy body. They were richly mottled with dusky browns and silver greys of various tones. Many flying night-comers, however, avoid the lamp. Most fantastic of all visitors is the toro or kamakiri, called in Izumo kamakake, a bright green praying mantis, extremely feared by children for its capacity to bite. It is very large. I have seen specimens over six inches long. The eyes of the kamakake are a brilliant black at night, but by day they appear grass-coloured, like the rest of the body. The mantis is very intelligent and surprisingly aggressive. I saw one attacked by a vigorous frog easily put its enemy to flight. It fell a prey subsequently to other inhabitants of the pond, but, it required the combined efforts of several frogs to vanquish the monstrous insect, and even then the battle was decided only when the kamakake had been dragged into the water. Other visitors are beetles of divers colours, and a sort of small roach called goki-kaburi, signifying 'one whose head is covered with a bowl.' It is alleged that the goki-kaburi likes to eat human eyes, and is therefore the abhorred enemy of Ichibata-Sama--Yakushi-Nyorai of Ichibata,--by whom diseases of the eye are healed. To kill the goki- kaburi is consequently thought to be a meritorious act in the sight of this Buddha. Always welcome are the beautiful fireflies (hotaru), which enter quite noiselessly and at once seek the darkest place in the house, slow-glimmering, like sparks moved by a gentle wind. They are supposed to be very fond of water; wherefore children sing to them this little song: Hotaru koe midzu nomasho; Achi no midzu wa nigaizo; Kochi no midzu wa amaizo. [32] A pretty grey lizard, quite different from some which usually haunt the garden, also makes its appearance at night, and pursues its prey along the ceiling. Sometimes an extraordinarily large centipede attempts the same thing, but with less success, and has to be seized with a pair of fire-tongs and thrown into the exterior darkness. Very rarely, an enormous spider appears. This creature seems inoffensive. If captured, it will feign death until certain that it is not watched, when it will run away with surprising swiftness if it gets a chance. It is hairless, and very different from the tarantula, or fukurogumo. It is called miyamagumo, or mountain spider. There are four other kinds of spiders common in this neighbourhood: tenagakumo, or 'long-armed spider;' hiratakumo, or 'flat spider'; jikumo, or 'earth spider'; and totatekumo, or 'doorshutting spider.' Most spiders are considered evil beings. A spider seen anywhere at night, the people say, should be killed; for all spiders that show themselves after dark are goblins. While people are awake and watchful, such creatures make themselves small; but when everybody is fast asleep, then they assume their true goblin shape, and become monstrous. Sec. 13 The high wood of the hill behind the garden is full of bird life. There dwell wild uguisu, owls, wild doves, too many crows, and a queer bird that makes weird noises at night-long deep sounds of hoo, hoo. It is called awamakidori or the 'millet-sowing bird,' because when the farmers hear its cry they know that it is time to plant the millet. It is quite small and brown, extremely shy, and, so far as I can learn, altogether nocturnal in its habits. But rarely, very rarely, a far stranger cry is heard in those trees at night, a voice as of one crying in pain the syllables 'ho-to-to-gi-su.' The cry and the name of that which utters it are one and the same, hototogisu. It is a bird of which weird things are told; for they say it is not really a creature of this living world, but a night wanderer from the Land of Darkness. In the Meido its dwelling is among those sunless mountains of Shide over which all souls must pass to reach the place of judgment. Once in each year it comes; the time of its coming is the end of the fifth month, by the antique counting of moons; and the peasants, hearing its voice, say one to the other, 'Now must we sow the rice; for the Shide-no-taosa is with us.' The word taosa signifies the head man of a mura, or village, as villages were governed in the old days; but why the hototogisu is called the taosa of Shide I do not know. Perhaps it is deemed to be a soul from some shadowy hamlet of the Shide hills, whereat the ghosts are wont to rest on their weary way to the realm of Emma, the King of Death. Its cry has been interpreted in various ways. Some declare that the hototogisu does not really repeat its own name, but asks, 'Honzon kaketaka?' (Has the honzon [33] been suspended?) Others, resting their interpretation upon the wisdom of the Chinese, aver that the bird's speech signifies, 'Surely it is better to return home.' This, at least is true: that all who journey far from their native place, and hear the voice of the hototogisu in other distant provinces, are seized with the sickness of longing for home. Only at night, the people say, is its voice heard, and most often upon the nights of great moons; and it chants while hovering high out of sight, wherefore a poet has sung of it thus: Hito koe wa. Tsuki ga naitaka Hototogisu! [34] And another has written: Hototogisu Nakitsuru kata wo Nagamureba,-- Tada ariake no Tsuki zo nokoreru. [35] The dweller in cities may pass a lifetime without hearing the hototogisu. Caged, the little creature will remain silent and die. Poets often wait vainly in the dew, from sunset till dawn, to hear the strange cry which has inspired so many exquisite verses. But those who have heard found it so mournful that they have likened it to the cry of one wounded suddenly to death. Hototogisu Chi ni naku koe wa Ariake no Tsuki yori kokani Kiku hito mo nashi. [36] Concerning Izumo owls, I shall content myself with citing a composition by one of my Japanese students: 'The Owl is a hateful bird that sees in the dark. Little children who cry are frightened by the threat that the Owl will come to take them away; for the Owl cries, "Ho! ho! sorotto koka! sorotto koka!" which means, "Thou! must I enter slowly?" It also cries "Noritsuke hose! ho! ho!" which means, "Do thou make the starch to use in washing to-morrow" And when the women hear that cry, they know that to-morrow will be a fine day. It also cries, "Tototo," "The man dies," and "Kotokokko," "The boy dies." So people hate it. And crows hate it so much that it is used to catch crows. The Farmer puts an Owl in the rice-field; and all the crows come to kill it, and they get caught fast in the snares. This should teach us not to give way to our dislikes for other people.' The kites which hover over the city all day do not live in the neighbourhood. Their nests are far away upon the blue peaks; but they pass much of their time in catching fish, and in stealing from back- yards. They pay the wood and the garden swift and sudden piratical visits; and their sinister cry--pi-yoroyoro, pi-yoroyoro--sounds at intervals over the town from dawn till sundown. Most insolent of all feathered creatures they certainly are--more insolent than even their fellow-robbers, the crows. A kite will drop five miles to filch a tai out of a fish-seller's bucket, or a fried-cake out of a child's hand, and shoot back to the clouds before the victim of the theft has time to stoop for a stone. Hence the saying, 'to look as surprised as if one's aburage [37] had been snatched from one's hand by a kite.' There is, moreover, no telling what a kite may think proper to steal. For example, my neighbour's servant-girl went to the river the other day, wearing in her hair a string of small scarlet beads made of rice-grains prepared and dyed in a certain ingenious way. A kite lighted upon her head, and tore away and swallowed the string of beads. But it is great fun to feed these birds with dead rats or mice which have been caught in traps overnight and subsequently drowned. The instant a dead rat is exposed to view a kite pounces from the sky to bear it away. Sometimes a crow may get the start of the kite, but the crow must be able to get to the woods very swiftly indeed in order to keep his prize. The children sing this song: Tobi, tobi, maute mise! Ashita no ha ni Karasu ni kakushite Nezumi yaru. [38] The mention of dancing refers to the beautiful balancing motion of the kite's wings in flight. By suggestion this motion is poetically compared to the graceful swaying of a maiko, or dancing-girl, extending her arms and waving the long wide sleeves of her silken robe. Although there is a numerous sub-colony of crows in the wood behind my house, the headquarters of the corvine army are in the pine grove of the ancient castle grounds, visible from my front rooms. To see the crows all flying home at the same hour every evening is an interesting spectacle, and popular imagination has found an amusing comparison for it in the hurry-skurry of people running to a fire. This explains the meaning of a song which children sing to the crows returning to their nests: Ato no karasu saki ine, Ware ga iye ga yakeru ken, Hayo inde midzu kake, Midzu ga nakya yarozo, Amattara ko ni yare, Ko ga nakya modose. [39] Confucianism seems to have discovered virtue in the crow. There is a Japanese proverb, 'Karasu ni hampo no ko ari,' meaning that the crow performs the filial duty of hampo, or, more literally, 'the filial duty of hampo exists in the crow.' 'Hampo' means, literally, 'to return a feeding.' The young crow is said to requite its parents' care by feeding them when it becomes strong. Another example of filial piety has been furnished by the dove. 'Hato ni sanshi no rei ad'--the dove sits three branches below its parent; or, more literally, 'has the three-branch etiquette to perform.' The cry of the wild dove (yamabato), which I hear almost daily from the wood, is the most sweetly plaintive sound that ever reached my ears. The Izumo peasantry say that the bird utters these words, which it certainly seems to do if one listen to it after having learned the alleged syllables: Tete poppo, Kaka poppo Tete poppo, Kaka poppo, tete. . . (sudden pause). 'Tete' is the baby word for 'father,' and 'kaka' for 'mother'; and 'poppo' signifies, in infantile speech, 'the bosom.' [40] Wild uguisu also frequently sweeten my summer with their song, and sometimes come very near the house, being attracted, apparently, by the chant of my caged pet. The uguisu is very common in this province. It haunts all the woods and the sacred groves in the neighbourhood of the city, and I never made a journey in Izumo during the warm season without hearing its note from some shadowy place. But there are uguisu and uguisu. There are uguisu to be had for one or two yen, but the finely trained, cage-bred singer may command not less than a hundred. It was at a little village temple that I first heard one curious belief about this delicate creature. In Japan, the coffin in which a corpse is borne to burial is totally unlike an Occidental coffin. It is a surprisingly small square box, wherein the dead is placed in a sitting posture. How any adult corpse can be put into so small a space may well be an enigma to foreigners. In cases of pronounced rigor mortis the work of getting the body into the coffin is difficult even for the professional doshin-bozu. But the devout followers of Nichiren claim that after death their bodies will remain perfectly flexible; and the dead body of an uguisu, they affirm, likewise never stiffens, for this little bird is of their faith, and passes its life in singing praises unto the Sutra of the Lotus of the Good Law. Sec. 14 I have already become a little too fond of my dwelling-place. Each day, after returning from my college duties, and exchanging my teacher's uniform for the infinitely more comfortable Japanese robe, I find more than compensation for the weariness of five class-hours in the simple pleasure of squatting on the shaded veranda overlooking the gardens. Those antique garden walls, high-mossed below their ruined coping of tiles, seem to shut out even the murmur of the city's life. There are no sounds but the voices of birds, the shrilling of semi, or, at long, lazy intervals, the solitary plash of a diving frog. Nay, those walls seclude me from much more than city streets. Outside them hums the changed Japan of telegraphs and newspapers and steamships; within dwell the all- reposing peace of nature and the dreams of the sixteenth century. There is a charm of quaintness in the very air, a faint sense of something viewless and sweet all about one; perhaps the gentle haunting of dead ladies who looked like the ladies of the old picture-books, and who lived here when all this was new. Even in the summer light--touching the grey strange shapes of stone, thrilling through the foliage of the long- loved trees--there is the tenderness of a phantom caress. These are the gardens of the past. The future will know them only as dreams, creations of a forgotten art, whose charm no genius may reproduce. Of the human tenants here no creature seems to be afraid. The little frogs resting upon the lotus-leaves scarcely shrink from my touch; the lizards sun themselves within easy reach of my hand; the water-snakes glide across my shadow without fear; bands of semi establish their deafening orchestra on a plum branch just above my head, and a praying mantis insolently poses on my knee. Swallows and sparrows not only build their nests on my roof, but even enter my rooms without concern--one swallow has actually built its nest in the ceiling of the bathroom--and the weasel purloins fish under my very eyes without any scruples of conscience. A wild uguisu perches on a cedar by the window, and in a burst of savage sweetness challenges my caged pet to a contest in song; and always though the golden air, from the green twilight of the mountain pines, there purls to me the plaintive, caressing, delicious call of the yamabato: Tete poppo, Kaka poppo Tete poppo, Kaka poppo, tete. No European dove has such a cry. He who can hear, for the first time, the voice of the yamabato without feeling a new sensation at his heart little deserves to dwell in this happy world. Yet all this--the old katchiu-yashiki and its gardens--will doubtless have vanished for ever before many years. Already a multitude of gardens, more spacious and more beautiful than mine, have been converted into rice-fields or bamboo groves; and the quaint Izumo city, touched at last by some long-projected railway line--perhaps even within the present decade--will swell, and change, and grow commonplace, and demand these grounds for the building of factories and mills. Not from here alone, but from all the land the ancient peace and the ancient charm seem doomed to pass away. For impermanency is the nature of things, more particularly in Japan; and the changes and the changers shall also be changed until there is found no place for them--and regret is vanity. The dead art that made the beauty of this place was the art, also, of that faith to which belongs the all-consoling text, 'Verily, even plants and trees, rocks and stones, all shall enter into Nirvana.' Chapter Two The Household Shrine Sec. 1 IN Japan there are two forms of the Religion of the Dead--that which belongs to Shinto; and that which belongs to Buddhism. The first is the primitive cult, commonly called ancestor-worship. But the term ancestor- worship seems to me much too confined for the religion which pays reverence not only to those ancient gods believed to be the fathers of the Japanese race, but likewise to a host of deified sovereigns, heroes, princes, and illustrious men. Within comparatively recent times, the great Daimyo of Izumo, for example, were apotheosised; and the peasants of Shimane still pray before the shrines of the Matsudaira. Moreover Shinto, like the faiths of Hellas and of Rome, has its deities of the elements and special deities who preside over all the various affairs of life. Therefore ancestor-worship, though still a striking feature of Shinto, does not alone constitute the State Religion: neither does the term fully describe the Shinto cult of the dead--a cult which in Izumo retains its primitive character more than in other parts of Japan. And here I may presume, though no Sinologue, to say something about that State Religion of Japan--that ancient faith of Izumo--which, although even more deeply rooted in national life than Buddhism, is far less known to the Western world. Except in special works by such men of erudition as Chamberlain and Satow--works with which the Occidental reader, unless himself a specialist, is not likely to become familiar outside of Japan--little has been written in English about Shinto which gives the least idea of what Shinto is. Of its ancient traditions and rites much of rarest interest may be learned from the works of the philologists just mentioned; but, as Mr. Satow himself acknowledges, a definite answer to the question, 'What is the nature of Shinto?' is still difficult to give. How define the common element in the six kinds of Shinto which are known to exist, and some of which no foreign scholar has yet been able to examine for lack of time or of authorities or of opportunity? Even in its modern external forms, Shinto is sufficiently complex to task the united powers of the historian, philologist, and anthropologist, merely to trace out the multitudinous lines of its evolution, and to determine the sources of its various elements: primeval polytheisms and fetishisms, traditions of dubious origin, philosophical concepts from China, Korea, and elsewhere--all mingled with Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. The so-called 'Revival of Pure Shinto'--an effort, aided by Government, to restore the cult to its archaic simplicity, by divesting it of foreign characteristics, and especially of every sign or token of Buddhist origin--resulted only, so far as the avowed purpose was concerned, in the destruction of priceless art, and in leaving the enigma of origins as complicated as before. Shinto had been too profoundly modified in the course of fifteen centuries of change to be thus remodelled by a fiat. For the like reason scholarly efforts to define its relation to national ethics by mere historical and philological analysis must fail: as well seek to define the ultimate secret of Life by the elements of the body which it animates. Yet when the result of such efforts shall have been closely combined with a deep knowledge of Japanese thought and feeling--the thought and sentiment, not of a special class, but of the people at large--then indeed all that Shinto was and is may be fully comprehended. And this may be accomplished, I fancy, through the united labour of European and Japanese scholars. Yet something of what Shinto signifies--in the simple poetry of its beliefs--in the home training of the child--in the worship of filial piety before the tablets of the ancestors--may be learned during a residence of some years among the people, by one who lives their life and adopts their manners and customs. With such experience he can at least claim the right to express his own conception of Shinto. Sec. 2 Those far-seeing rulers of the Meiji era, who disestablished Buddhism to strengthen Shinto, doubtless knew they were giving new force not only to a faith in perfect harmony with their own state policy, but likewise to one possessing in itself a far more profound vitality than the alien creed, which although omnipotent as an art-influence, had never found deep root in the intellectual soil of Japan. Buddhism was already in decrepitude, though transplanted from China scarcely more than thirteen centuries before; while Shinto, though doubtless older by many a thousand years, seems rather to have gained than to have lost force through all the periods of change. Eclectic like the genius of the race, it had appropriated and assimilated all forms of foreign thought which could aid its material manifestation or fortify its ethics. Buddhism had attempted to absorb its gods, even as it had adopted previously the ancient deities of Brahmanism; but Shinto, while seeming to yield, was really only borrowing strength from its rival. And this marvellous vitality of Shinto is due to the fact that in the course of its long development out of unrecorded beginnings, it became at a very ancient epoch, and below the surface still remains, a religion of the heart. Whatever be the origin of its rites and traditions, its ethical spirit has become identified with all the deepest and best emotions of the race. Hence, in Izumo especially, the attempt to create a Buddhist Shintoism resulted only in the formation of a Shinto-Buddhism. And the secret living force of Shinto to-day--that force which repels missionary efforts at proselytising--means something much more profound than tradition or worship or ceremonialism. Shinto may yet, without loss of real power, survive all these. Certainly the expansion of the popular mind through education, the influences of modern science, must compel modification or abandonment of many ancient Shinto conceptions; but the ethics of Shinto will surely endure. For Shinto signifies character in the higher sense--courage, courtesy, honour, and above all things, loyalty. The spirit of Shinto is the spirit of filial piety, the zest of duty, the readiness to surrender life for a principle without a thought of wherefore. It is the docility of the child; it is the sweetness of the Japanese woman. It is conservatism likewise; the wholesome check upon the national tendency to cast away the worth of the entire past in rash eagerness to assimilate too much of the foreign present. It is religion--but religion transformed into hereditary moral impulse-- religion transmuted into ethical instinct. It is the whole emotional life of the race--the Soul of Japan. The child is born Shinto. Home teaching and school training only give expression to what is innate: they do not plant new seed; they do but quicken the ethical sense transmitted as a trait ancestral. Even as a Japanese infant inherits such ability to handle a writing-brush as never can be acquired by Western fingers, so does it inherit ethical sympathies totally different from our own. Ask a class of Japanese students--young students of fourteen to sixteen--to tell their dearest wishes; and if they have confidence in the questioner, perhaps nine out of ten will answer: 'To die for His Majesty Our Emperor.' And the wish soars from the heart pure as any wish for martyrdom ever born. How much this sense of loyalty may or may not have been weakened in such great centres as Tokyo by the new agnosticism and by the rapid growth of other nineteenth-century ideas among the student class, I do not know; but in the country it remains as natural to boyhood as joy. Unreasoning it also is--unlike those loyal sentiments with us, the results of maturer knowledge and settled conviction. Never does the Japanese youth ask himself why; the beauty of self-sacrifice alone is the all-sufficing motive. Such ecstatic loyalty is a part of the national life; it is in the blood--inherent as the impulse of the ant to perish for its little republic--unconscious as the loyalty of bees to their queen. It is Shinto. That readiness to sacrifice one's own life for loyalty's sake, for the sake of a superior, for the sake of honour, which has distinguished the race in modern times, would seem also to have been a national characteristic from the earliest period of its independent existence. Long before the epoch of established feudalism, when honourable suicide became a matter of rigid etiquette, not for warriors only, but even for women and little children, the giving one's life for one's prince, even when the sacrifice could avail nothing, was held a sacred duty. Among various instances which might be cited from the ancient Kojiki, the following is not the least impressive: Prince Mayowa, at the age of only seven years, having killed his father's slayer, fled into the house of the Grandee (Omi) Tsubura. 'Then Prince Oho-hatsuse raised an army, and besieged that house. And the arrows that were shot were for multitude like the ears of the reeds. And the Grandee Tsubura came forth himself, and having taken off the weapons with which he was girded, did obeisance eight times, and said: "The maiden-princess Kara, my daughter whom thou deignedst anon to woo, is at thy service. Again I will present to thee five granaries. Though a vile slave of a Grandee exerting his utmost strength in the fight can scarcely hope to conquer, yet must he die rather than desert a prince who, trusting in him, has entered into his house." Having thus spoken, he again took his weapons, and went in once more to fight. Then, their strength being exhausted, and their arrows finished, he said to the Prince: "My hands are wounded, and our arrows are finished. We cannot now fight: what shall be done?" The Prince replied, saying: "There is nothing more to do. Do thou now slay me." So the Grandee Tsubura thrust the Prince to death with his sword, and forthwith killed himself by cutting off his own head.' Thousands of equally strong examples could easily be quoted from later Japanese history, including many which occurred even within the memory of the living. Nor was it for persons alone that to die might become a sacred duty: in certain contingencies conscience held it scarcely less a duty to die for a purely personal conviction; and he who held any opinion which he believed of paramount importance would, when other means failed, write his views in a letter of farewell, and then take his own life, in order to call attention to his beliefs and to prove their sincerity. Such an instance occurred only last year in Tokyo, [1] when the young lieutenant of militia, Ohara Takeyoshi, killed himself by harakiri in the cemetery of Saitokuji, leaving a letter stating as the reason for his act, his hope to force public recognition of the danger to Japanese independence from the growth of Russian power in the North Pacific. But a much more touching sacrifice in May of the same year--a sacrifice conceived in the purest and most innocent spirit of loyalty-- was that of the young girl Yoko Hatakeyama, who, after the attempt to assassinate the Czarevitch, travelled from Tokyo to Kyoto and there killed herself before the gate of the Kencho, merely as a vicarious atonement for the incident which had caused shame to Japan and grief to the Father of the people--His Sacred Majesty the Emperor. Sec. 3 As to its exterior forms, modern Shinto is indeed difficult to analyse; but through all the intricate texture of extraneous beliefs so thickly interwoven about it, indications of its earliest character are still easily discerned. In certain of its primitive rites, in its archaic prayers and texts and symbols, in the history of its shrines, and even in many of the artless ideas of its poorest worshippers, it is plainly revealed as the most ancient of all forms of worship--that which Herbert Spencer terms 'the root of all religions'--devotion to the dead. Indeed, it has been frequently so expounded by its own greatest scholars and theologians. Its divinities are ghosts; all the dead become deities. In the Tama-no-mihashira the great commentator Hirata says 'the spirits of the dead continue to exist in the unseen world which is everywhere about us, and they all become gods of varying character and degrees of influence. Some reside in temples built in their honour; others hover near their tombs; and they continue to render services to their prince, parents, wife, and children, as when in the body.' And they do more than this, for they control the lives and the doings of men. 'Every human action,' says Hirata, 'is the work of a god.' [3] And Motowori, scarcely less famous an exponent of pure Shinto doctrine, writes: 'All the moral ideas which a man requires are implanted in his bosom by the gods, and are of the same nature with those instincts which impel him to eat when he is hungry or to drink when he is thirsty.' [4] With this doctrine of Intuition no Decalogue is required, no fixed code of ethics; and the human conscience is declared to be the only necessary guide. Though every action be 'the work of a Kami.' yet each man has within him the power to discern the righteous impulse from the unrighteous, the influence of the good deity from that of the evil. No moral teacher is so infallible as one's own heart. 'To have learned that there is no way (michi),'[5] says Motowori, 'to be learned and practiced, is really to have learned the Way of the Gods.' [6] And Hirata writes: 'If you desire to practise true virtue, learn to stand in awe of the Unseen; and that will prevent you from doing wrong. Make a vow to the Gods who rule over the Unseen, and cultivate the conscience (ma-gokoro) implanted in you; and then you will never wander from the way.' How this spiritual self- culture may best be obtained, the same great expounder has stated with almost equal brevity: 'Devotion to the memory of ancestors is the mainspring of all virtues. No one who discharges his duty to them will ever be disrespectful to the Gods or to his living parents. Such a man will be faithful to his prince, loyal to his friends, and kind and gentle with his wife and children.' [7] How far are these antique beliefs removed from the ideas of the nineteenth century? Certainly not so far that we can afford to smile at them. The faith of the primitive man and the knowledge of the most profound psychologist may meet in strange harmony upon the threshold of the same ultimate truth, and the thought of a child may repeat the conclusions of a Spencer or a Schopenhauer. Are not our ancestors in very truth our Kami? Is not every action indeed the work of the Dead who dwell within us? Have not our impulses and tendencies, our capacities and weaknesses, our heroisms and timidities, been created by those vanished myriads from whom we received the all-mysterious bequest of Life? Do we still think of that infinitely complex Something which is each one of us, and which we call EGO, as 'I' or as 'They'? What is our pride or shame but the pride or shame of the Unseen in that which They have made?--and what our Conscience but the inherited sum of countless dead experiences with varying good and evil? Nor can we hastily reject the Shinto thought that all the dead become gods, while we respect the convictions of those strong souls of to-day who proclaim the divinity of man. Sec. 4 Shino ancestor-worship, no doubt, like all ancestor-worship, was developed out of funeral rites, according to that general law of religious evolution traced so fully by Herbert Spencer. And there is reason to believe that the early forms of Shinto public worship may have been evolved out of a yet older family worship--much after the manner in which M. Fustel de Coulanges, in his wonderful book, La Cite Antique, has shown the religious public institutions among the Greeks and Romans to have been developed from the religion of the hearth. Indeed, the word ujigami, now used to signify a Shinto parish temple, and also its deity, means 'family God,' and in its present form is a corruption or contraction of uchi-no-Kami, meaning the 'god of the interior' or 'the god of the house.' Shinto expounders have, it is true, attempted to interpret the term otherwise; and Hirata, as quoted by Mr. Ernest Satow, declared the name should be applied only to the common ancestor, or ancestors, or to one so entitled to the gratitude of a community as to merit equal honours. Such, undoubtedly, was the just use of the term in his time, and long before it; but the etymology of the word would certainly seem to indicate its origin in family worship, and to confirm modern scientific beliefs in regard to the evolution of religious institutions. Now just as among the Greeks and Latins the family cult always continued to exist through all the development and expansion of the public religion, so the Shinto family worship has continued concomitantly with the communal worship at the countless ujigami, with popular worship at the famed Ohoya-shiro of various provinces or districts, and with national worship at the great shrines of Ise and Kitzuki. Many objects connected with the family cult are certainly of alien or modern origin; but its simple rites and its unconscious poetry retain their archaic charm. And, to the student of Japanese life, by far the most interesting aspect of Shinto is offered in this home worship, which, like the home worship of the antique Occident, exists in a dual form. Sec. 5 In nearly all Izumo dwellings there is a kamidana, [8] or 'Shelf of the Gods.' On this is usually placed a small Shinto shrine (miya) containing tablets bearing the names of gods (one at least of which tablets is furnished by the neighbouring Shinto parish temple), and various ofuda, holy texts or charms which most often are written promises in the name of some Kami to protect his worshipper. If there be no miya, the tablets or ofuda are simply placed upon the shelf in a certain order, the most sacred having the middle place. Very rarely are images to be seen upon a kamidana: for primitive Shintoism excluded images rigidly as Jewish or Mohammedan law; and all Shinto iconography belongs to a comparatively modern era--especially to the period of Ryobu-Shinto--and must be considered of Buddhist origin. If there be any images, they will probably be such as have been made only within recent years at Kitauki: those small twin figures of Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami and of Koto-shiro- nushi-no-Kami, described in a former paper upon the Kitzuki-no-oho- yashiro. Shinto kakemono, which are also of latter-day origin, representing incidents from the Kojiki, are much more common than Shinto icons: these usually occupy the toko, or alcove, in the same room in which the kamidana is placed; but they will not be seen in the houses of the more cultivated classes. Ordinarily there will be found upon the kamidana nothing but the simple miya containing some ofuda: very, very seldom will a mirror [9] be seen, or gohei--except the gohei attached to the small shimenawa either hung just above the kamidana or suspended to the box-like frame in which the miya sometimes is placed. The shimenawa and the paper gohei are the true emblems of Shinto: even the ofuda and the mamori are quite modern. Not only before the household shrine, but also above the house-door of almost every home in Izumo, the shimenawa is suspended. It is ordinarily a thin rope of rice straw; but before the dwellings of high Shinto officials, such as the Taisha-Guji of Kitzuki, its size and weight are enormous. One of the first curious facts that the traveller in Izumo cannot fail to be impressed by is the universal presence of this symbolic rope of straw, which may sometimes even be seen round a rice-field. But the grand displays of the sacred symbol are upon the great festivals of the new year, the accession of Jimmu Tenno to the throne of Japan, and the Emperor's birthday. Then all the miles of streets are festooned with shimenawa thick as ship-cables. Sec. 6 A particular feature of Matsue are the miya-shops--establishments not, indeed, peculiar to the old Izumo town, but much more interesting than those to be found in larger cities of other provinces. There are miya of a hundred varieties and sizes, from the child's toy miya which sells for less than one sen, to the large shrine destined for some rich home, and costing perhaps ten yen or more. Besides these, the household shrines of Shinto, may occasionally be seen massive shrines of precious wood, lacquered and gilded, worth from three hundred even to fifteen hundred yen. These are not household shrines; but festival shrines, and are made only for rich merchants. They are displayed on Shinto holidays, and twice a year are borne through the streets in procession, to shouts of 'Chosaya! chosaya!' [10] Each temple parish also possesses a large portable miya which is paraded on these occasions with much chanting and beating of drums. The majority of household miya are cheap constructions. A very fine one can be purchased for about two yen; but those little shrines one sees in the houses of the common people cost, as a rule, considerably less than half a yen. And elaborate or costly household shrines are contrary to the spirit of pure Shinto The true miya should be made of spotless white hinoki [11] wood, and be put together without nails. Most of those I have seen in the shops had their several parts joined only with rice-paste; but the skill of the maker rendered this sufficient. Pure Shinto requires that a miya should be without gilding or ornamentation. The beautiful miniature temples in some rich homes may justly excite admiration by their artistic structure and decoration; but the ten or thirteen cent miya, in the house of a labourer or a kurumaya, of plain white wood, truly represents that spirit of simplicity characterising the primitive religion. Sec. 7 The kamidana or 'God-shelf,' upon which are placed the miya and other sacred objects of Shinto worship, is usually fastened at a height of about six or seven feet above the floor. As a rule it should not be placed higher than the hand can reach with ease; but in houses having lofty rooms the miya is sometimes put up at such a height that the sacred offerings cannot be made without the aid of a box or other object to stand upon. It is not commonly a part of the house structure, but a plain shelf attached with brackets either to the wall itself, at some angle of the apartment, or, as is much more usual, to the kamoi, or horizontal grooved beam, in which the screens of opaque paper (fusuma), which divide room from room, slide to and fro. Occasionally it is painted or lacquered. But the ordinary kamidana is of white wood, and is made larger or smaller in proportion to the size of the miya, or the number of the ofuda and other sacred objects to be placed upon it. In some houses, notably those of innkeepers and small merchants, the kamidana is made long enough to support a number of small shrines dedicated to different Shinto deities, particularly those believed to preside over wealth and commercial prosperity. In the houses of the poor it is nearly always placed in the room facing the street; and Matsue shopkeepers usually erect it in their shops--so that the passer-by or the customer can tell at a glance in what deities the occupant puts his trust. There are many regulations concerning it. It may be placed to face south or east, but should not face west, and under no possible circumstances should it be suffered to face north or north-west. One explanation of this is the influence upon Shinto of Chinese philosophy, according to which there is some fancied relation between South or East and the Male Principle, and between West or North and the Female Principle. But the popular notion on the subject is that because a dead person is buried with the head turned north, it would be very wrong to place a miya so as to face north--since everything relating to death is impure; and the regulation about the west is not strictly observed. Most kamidana in Izumo, however, face south or east. In the houses of the poorest--often consisting of but one apartment--there can be little choice as to rooms; but it is a rule, observed in the dwellings of the middle classes, that the kamidana must not be placed either in the guest room (zashiki) nor in the kitchen; and in shizoku houses its place is usually in one of the smaller family apartments. Respect must be shown it. One must not sleep, for example, or even lie down to rest, with his feet turned towards it. One must not pray before it, or even stand before it, while in a state of religious impurity--such as that entailed by having touched a corpse, or attended a Buddhist funeral, or even during the period of mourning for kindred buried according to the Buddhist rite. Should any member of the family be thus buried, then during fifty days [12] the kamidana must be entirely screened from view with pure white paper, and even the Shinto ofuda, or pious invocations fastened upon the house-door, must have white paper pasted over them. During the same mourning period the fire in the house is considered unclean; and at the close of the term all the ashes of the braziers and of the kitchen must be cast away, and new fire kindled with a flint and steel. Nor are funerals the only source of legal uncleanliness. Shinto, as the religion of purity and purification, has a Deuteronomy of quite an extensive kind. During certain periods women must not even pray before the miya, much less make offerings or touch the sacred vessels, or kindle the lights of the Kami. Sec. 8 Before the miya, or whatever holy object of Shinto worship be placed upon the kamidana, are set two quaintly shaped jars for the offerings of sake; two small vases, to contain sprays of the sacred plant sakaki, or offerings of flowers; and a small lamp, shaped like a tiny saucer, where a wick of rush-pith floats in rape-seed oil. Strictly speaking, all these utensils, except the flower-vases, should be made of unglazed red earthenware, such as we find described in the early chapters of the Kojiki: and still at Shinto festivals in Izumo, when sake is drunk in honour of the gods, it is drunk out of cups of red baked unglazed clay shaped like shallow round dishes. But of late years it has become the fashion to make all the utensils of a fine kamidana of brass or bronze-- even the hanaike, or flower-vases. Among the poor, the most archaic utensils are still used to a great extent, especially in the remoter country districts; the lamp being a simple saucer or kawarake of red clay; and the flower-vases most often bamboo cups, made by simply cutting a section of bamboo immediately below a joint and about five inches above it. The brazen lamp is a much more complicated object than the kawarake, which costs but one rin. The brass lamp costs about twenty-five sen, at least. It consists of two parts. The lower part, shaped like a very shallow, broad wineglass, with a very thick stem, has an interior as well as an exterior rim; and the bottom of a correspondingly broad and shallow brass cup, which is the upper part and contains the oil, fits exactly into this inner rim. This kind of lamp is always furnished with a small brass object in the shape of a flat ring, with a stem set at right angles to the surface of the ring. It is used for moving the floating wick and keeping it at any position required; and the little perpendicular stem is long enough to prevent the fingers from touching the oil. The most curious objects to be seen on any ordinary kamidana are the stoppers of the sake-vessels or o-mikidokkuri ('honourable sake-jars'). These stoppers--o-mikidokkuri-nokuchisashi--may be made of brass, or of fine thin slips of wood jointed and bent into the singular form required. Properly speaking, the thing is not a real stopper, in spite of its name; its lower part does not fill the mouth of the jar at all: it simply hangs in the orifice like a leaf put there stem downwards. I find it difficult to learn its history; but, though there are many designs of it--the finer ones being of brass--the shape of all seems to hint at a Buddhist origin. Possibly the shape was borrowed from a Buddhist symbol--the Hoshi-notama, that mystic gem whose lambent glow (iconographically suggested as a playing of flame) is the emblem of Pure Essence; and thus the object would be typical at once of the purity of the wine-offering and the purity of the heart of the giver. The little lamp may not be lighted every evening in all homes, since there are families too poor to afford even this infinitesimal nightly expenditure of oil. But upon the first, fifteenth, and twenty-eighth of each month the light is always kindled; for these are Shinto holidays of obligation, when offerings must be made to the gods, and when all uji- ko, or parishioners of a Shinto temple, are supposed to visit their ujigami. In every home on these days sake is poured as an offering into the o-mikidokkuri, and in the vases of the kamidana are placed sprays of the holy sakaki, or sprigs of pine, or fresh flowers. On the first day of the new year the kamidana is always decked with sakaki, moromoki (ferns), and pine-sprigs, and also with a shimenawa; and large double rice cakes are placed upon it as offerings to the gods. Sec. 9 But only the ancient gods of Shinto are worshipped before the kamidana. The family ancestors or family dead are worshipped either in a separate room (called the mitamaya or 'Spirit Chamber'), or, if worshipped according to the Buddhist rites, before the butsuma or butsudan. The Buddhist family worship coexists in the vast majority of Izumo homes with the Shinto family worship; and whether the dead be honoured in the mitamaya or before the butsudan altogether depends upon the religious traditions of the household. Moreover, there are families in Izumo-- particularly in Kitzuki--whose members do not profess Buddhism in any form, and a very few, belonging to the Shin-shu or Nichirenshu, [13] whose members do not practise Shinto. But the domestic cult of the dead is maintained, whether the family be Shinto or Buddhist. The ihai or tablets of the Buddhist family dead (Hotoke) are never placed in a special room or shrine, but in the Buddhist household shrine [14] along with the images or pictures of Buddhist divinities usually there inclosed--or, at least, this is always the case when the honours paid them are given according to the Buddhist instead of the Shinto rite. The form of the butsudan or butsuma, the character of its holy images, its ofuda, or its pictures, and even the prayers said before it, differ according to the fifteen different shu, or sects; and a very large volume would have to be written in order to treat the subject of the butsuma exhaustively. Therefore I must content myself with stating that there are Buddhist household shrines of all dimensions, prices, and degrees of magnificence; and that the butsudan of the Shin-shu, although to me the least interesting of all, is popularly considered to be the most beautiful in design and finish. The butsudan of a very poor household may be worth a few cents, but the rich devotee might purchase in Kyoto a shrine worth as many thousands of yen as he could pay. Though the forms of the butsuma and the character of its contents may greatly vary, the form of the ancestral or mortuary tablet is generally that represented in Fig. 4 of the illustrations of ihai given in this book. [15] There are some much more elaborate shapes, costly and rare, and simpler shapes of the cheapest and plainest descriptions; but the form thus illustrated is the common one in Izumo and the whole San-indo country. There are differences, however, of size; and the ihai of a man is larger than that of a woman, and has a headpiece also, which the tablet of a female has not; while a child's ihai is always very small. The average height of the ihai made for a male adult is a little more than a foot, and its thickness about an inch. It has a top, or headpiece, surmounted by the symbol I of the Hoshi-no-tama or Mystic Gem, and ordinarily decorated with a cloud-design of some kind, and the pedestal is a lotus-flower rising out of clouds. As a general rule all this is richly lacquered and gilded; the tablet itself being lacquered in black, and bearing the posthumous name, or kaimyo, in letters of gold--ken-mu-ji-sho-shin-ji, or other syllables indicating the supposed virtues of the departed. The poorest people, unable to afford such handsome tablets, have ihai made of plain wood; and the kaimyo is sometimes simply written on these in black characters; but more commonly it is written upon a strip of white paper, which is then pasted upon the ihai with rice-paste. The living name is perhaps inscribed upon the back of the tablet. Such tablets accumulate, of course, with the passing of generations; and in certain homes great numbers are preserved. A beautiful and touching custom still exists in Izumo, and perhaps throughout Japan, although much less common than it used to be. So far as I can learn, however, it was always confined to the cultivated classes. When a husband dies, two ihai are made, in case the wife resolves never to marry again. On one of these the kaimyo of the dead man is painted in characters of gold, and on the other that of the living widow; but, in the latter case, the first character of the kaimyo is painted in red, and the other characters in gold. These two tablets are then placed in the household butsuma. Two larger ones similarly inscribed, are placed in the parish temple; but no cup is set before that of the wife. The solitary crimson ideograph signifies a solemn pledge to remain faithful to the memory of the dead. Furthermore, the wife loses her living name among all her friends and relatives, and is thereafter addressed only by a fragment of her kaimyo--as, for example, 'Shin-toku-in-San,' an abbreviation of the much longer and more sonorous posthumous name, Shin-toku-in-den-joyo-teiso-daishi. [16] Thus to be called by one's kaimyo is at once an honour to the memory of the husband and the constancy of the bereaved wife. A precisely similar pledge is taken by a man after the loss of a wife to whom he was passionately attached; and one crimson letter upon his ihai registers the vow not only in the home but also in the place of public worship. But the widower is never called by his kaimyo, as is the widow. The first religious duty of the morning in a Buddhist household is to set before the tablets of the dead a little cup of tea, made with the first hot water prepared--O-Hotoke-San-nio-cha-to-ageru. [17] Daily offerings of boiled rice are also made; and fresh flowers are put in the shrine vases; and incense--although not allowed by Shinto--is burned before the tablets. At night, and also during the day upon certain festivals, both candles and a small oil-lamp are lighted in the butsuma--a lamp somewhat differently shaped from the lamp of the miya and called rinto On the day of each month corresponding to the date of death a little repast is served before the tablets, consisting of shojin-ryori only, the vegetarian food of the. Buddhists. But as Shinto family worship has its special annual festival, which endures from the first to the third day of the new year, so Buddhist ancestor-worship has its yearly Bonku, or Bommatsuri, lasting from the thirteenth to the sixteenth day of the seventh month. This is the Buddhist Feast of Souls. Then the butsuma is decorated to the utmost, special offerings of food and of flowers are made, and all the house is made beautiful to welcome the coming of the ghostly visitors. Now Shinto, like Buddhism, has its ihai; but these are of the simplest possible shape and material--mere slips of plain white wood. The average height is only about eight inches. These tablets are either placed in a special miya kept in a different room from that in which the shrine of the Kami is erected, or else simply arranged on a small shelf called by the people Mitama-San-no-tana,--'the Shelf of the August Spirits.' The shelf or the shrine of the ancestors and household dead is placed always at a considerable height in the mitamaya or soreisha (as the Spirit Chamber is sometimes called), just as is the miya of the Kami in the other apartment. Sometimes no tablets are used, the name being simply painted upon the woodwork of the Spirit Shrine. But Shinto has no kaimyo: the living name of the dead is written upon the ihai, with the sole addition of the word 'Mitama' (Spirit). And monthly upon the day corresponding to the menstrual date of death, offerings of fish, wine, and other food are made to the spirits, accompanied by special prayer. [18] The Mitama-San have also their particular lamps and flower-vases, and, though in lesser degree, are honoured with rites like those of the Kami. The prayers uttered before the ihai of either faith begin with the respective religious formulas of Shinto or of Buddhism. The Shintoist, clapping his hands thrice or four times, [19] first utters the sacramental Harai-tamai. The Buddhist, according to his sect, murmurs Namu-myo-ho-ren-ge-kyo, or Namu Amida Butsu, or some other holy words of prayer or of praise to the Buddha, ere commencing his prayer to the ancestors. The words said to them are seldom spoken aloud, either by Shintoist or Buddhist: they are either whispered very low under the breath, or shaped only within the heart. Sec. 10 At nightfall in Izumo homes the lamps of the gods and of the ancestors are kindled, either by a trusted servant or by some member of the family. Shinto orthodox regulations require that the lamps should be filled with pure vegetable oil only--tomoshiabura--and oil of rape-seed is customarily used. However, there is an evident inclination among the poorer classes to substitute a microscopic kerosene lamp for the ancient form of utensil. But by the strictly orthodox this is held to be very wrong, and even to light the lamps with a match is somewhat heretical. For it is not supposed that matches are always made with pure substances, and the lights of the Kami should be kindled only with purest fire--that holy natural fire which lies hidden within all things. Therefore in some little closet in the home of any strictly orthodox Shinto family there is always a small box containing the ancient instruments used for the lighting of' holy fire. These consist of the hi-uchi-ishi, or 'fire-strike-stone'; the hi-uchi-gane, or steel; the hokuchi, or tinder, made of dried moss; and the tsukegi, fine slivers of resinous pine. A little tinder is laid upon the flint and set smouldering with a few strokes of the steel, and blown upon until it flames. A slip of pine is then ignited at this flame, and with it the lamps of the ancestors and the gods are lighted. If several great deities are represented in the miya or upon the kamidana by several ofuda, then a separate lamp is sometimes lighted for each; and if there be a butsuma in the dwelling, its tapers or lamp are lighted at the same time. Although the use of the flint and steel for lighting the lamps of the gods will probably have become obsolete within another generation, it still prevails largely in Izumo, especially in the country districts. Even where the safety-match has entirely supplanted the orthodox utensils, the orthodox sentiment shows itself in the matter of the choice of matches to be used. Foreign matches are inadmissible: the native matchmaker quite successfully represented that foreign matches contained phosphorus 'made from the bones of dead animals,' and that to kindle the lights of the Kami with such unholy fire would be sacrilege. In other parts of Japan the matchmakers stamped upon their boxes the words: 'Saikyo go honzon yo' (Fit for the use of the August High Temple of Saikyo). [20] But Shinto sentiment in Izumo was too strong to be affected much by any such declaration: indeed, the recommendation of the matches as suitable for use in a Shin-shu temple was of itself sufficient to prejudice Shintoists against them. Accordingly special precautions had to be taken before safety-matches could be satisfactorily introduced into the Province of the Gods. Izumo match- boxes now bear the inscription: 'Pure, and fit to use for kindling the lamps of the Kami, or of the Hotoke!' The inevitable danger to all things in Japan is fire. It is the traditional rule that when a house takes fire, the first objects to be saved, if possible, are the household gods and the tablets of the ancestors. It is even said that if these are saved, most of the family valuables are certain to be saved, and that if these are lost, all is lost. Sec. 11 The terms soreisha and mitamaya, as used in Izumo, may, I am told, signify either the small miya in which the Shinto ihai (usually made of cherry-wood) is kept, or that part of the dwelling in which it is placed, and where the offerings are made. These, by all who can afford it, are served upon tables of plain white wood, and of the same high narrow form as the tables upon which offerings are made in the temples and at public funeral ceremonies. The most ordinary form of prayer addressed to the ancient ancestors in the household cult of Shinto is not uttered aloud. After pronouncing the initial formula of all popular Shinto prayer, 'Harai-tamai,' etc., the worshipper says, with his heart only--'Spirits august of our far-off ancestors, ye forefathers of the generations, and of our families and of our kindred, unto you, the founders of our homes, we this day utter the gladness of our thanks.' In the family cult of the Buddhists a distinction is made between the household Hotoke--the souls of those long dead--and the souls of those but recently deceased. These last are called Shin-botoke, 'new Buddhas,' or more strictly, 'the newly dead.' No direct request for any supernatural favour is made to a Shin-botoke; for, though respectfully called Hotoke, the freshly departed soul is not really deemed to have reached Buddhahood: it is only on the long road thither, and is in need itself, perhaps, of aid, rather than capable of giving aid. Indeed, among the deeply pious its condition is a matter of affectionate concern. And especially is this the case when a little child dies; for it is thought that the soul of an infant is feeble and exposed to many dangers. Wherefore a mother, speaking to the departed soul of her child, will advise it, admonish it, command it tenderly, as if addressing a living son or daughter. The ordinary words said in Izumo homes to any Shin-botoke take rather the form of adjuration or counsel than of prayer, such as these:-- 'Jobutsu seyo,' or 'Jobutsu shimasare.' [Do thou become a Buddha.] 'Mayo na yo.' [Go not astray; or, Be never deluded.] 'Miren-wo nokorazu.' [Suffer no regret (for this world) to linger with thee.] These prayers are never uttered aloud. Much more in accordance with the Occidental idea of prayer is the following, uttered by Shin-shu believers on behalf of a Shin-botoke: 'O-mukai kudasare Amida-Sama.' [Vouchsafe, O Lord Amida, augustly to welcome (this soul).] Needless to say that ancestor-worship, although adopted in China and Japan into Buddhism, is not of Buddhist origin. Needless also to say that Buddhism discountenances suicide. Yet in Japan, anxiety about the condition of the soul of the departed often caused suicide--or at least justified it on the part of those who, though accepting Buddhist dogma, might adhere to primitive custom. Retainers killed themselves in the belief that by dying they might give to the soul of their lord or lady, counsel, aid, and service. Thus in the novel Hogen-nomono-gatari, a retainer is made to say after the death of his young master:--'Over the mountain of Shide, over the ghostly River of Sanzu, who will conduct him? If he be afraid, will he not call my name, as he was wont to do? Surely better that, by slaying myself, I go to serve him as of old, than to linger here, and mourn for him in vain.' In Buddhist household worship, the prayers addressed to the family Hotoke proper, the souls of those long dead, are very different from the addresses made to the Shin-botoke. The following are a few examples: they are always said under the breath: 'Kanai anzen.' [(Vouchsafe) that our family may be preserved.] 'Enmei sakusai.' [That we may enjoy long life without sorrow.] 'Shobai hanjo.' [That our business may prosper.] [Said only by merchants and tradesmen.] 'Shison chokin.' [That the perpetuity of our descent may be assured.] 'Onteki taisan.' [That our enemies be scattered.] 'Yakubyo shometsu.' [That pestilence may not come nigh us.] Some of the above are used also by Shinto worshippers. The old samurai still repeat the special prayers of their caste:-- 'Tenka taihei.' [That long peace may prevail throughout the world.] 'Bu-un chokyu.' [That we may have eternal good-fortune in war.] 'Ka-ei-manzoku.' [That our house (family) may for ever remain fortunate.] But besides these silent formulae, any prayers prompted by the heart, whether of supplication or of gratitude, may, of course, be repeated. Such prayers are said, or rather thought, in the speech of daily life. The following little prayer uttered by an Izumo mother to the ancestral spirit, besought on behalf of a sick child, is an example:-- 'O-kage ni kodomo no byoki mo zenkwai itashimashite, arigato- gozarimasu!' [By thine august influence the illness of my child has passed away;--I thank thee.] 'O-kage ni' literally signifies 'in the august shadow of.' There is a ghostly beauty in the original phrase that neither a free nor yet a precise translation can preserve. Sec. 12 Thus, in this home-worship of the Far East, by love the dead are made divine; and the foreknowledge of this tender apotheosis must temper with consolation the natural melancholy of age. Never in Japan are the dead so quickly forgotten as with us: by simple faith they are deemed still to dwell among their beloved; and their place within the home remains ever holy. And the aged patriarch about to pass away knows that loving lips will nightly murmur to the memory of him before the household shrine; that faithful hearts will beseech him in their pain and bless him in their joy; that gentle hands will place before his ihai pure offerings of fruits and flowers, and dainty repasts of the things which he was wont to like; and will pour out for him, into the little cup of ghosts and gods, the fragrant tea of guests or the amber rice-wine. Strange changes are coming upon the land: old customs are vanishing; old beliefs are weakening; the thoughts of today will not be the thoughts of another age--but of all this he knows happily nothing in his own quaint, simple, beautiful Izumo. He dreams that for him, as for his fathers, the little lamp will burn on through the generations; he sees, in softest fancy, the yet unborn--the children of his children's children--clapping their tiny hands in Shinto prayer, and making filial obeisance before the little dusty tablet that bears his unforgotten name. Chapter Three Of Women's Hair Sec. 1 THE hair of the younger daughter of the family is very long; and it is a spectacle of no small interest to see it dressed. It is dressed once in every three days; and the operation, which costs four sen, is acknowledged to require one hour. As a matter of fact it requires nearly two. The hairdresser (kamiyui) first sends her maiden apprentice, who cleans the hair, washes it, perfumes it, and combs it with extraordinary combs of at least five different kinds. So thoroughly is the hair cleansed that it remains for three days, or even four, immaculate beyond our Occidental conception of things. In the morning, during the dusting time, it is carefully covered with a handkerchief or a little blue towel; and the curious Japanese wooden pillow, which supports the neck, not the head, renders it possible to sleep at ease without disarranging the marvellous structure. [1] After the apprentice has finished her part of the work, the hairdresser herself appears, and begins to build the coiffure. For this task she uses, besides the extraordinary variety of combs, fine loops of gilt thread or coloured paper twine, dainty bits of deliciously tinted crape- silk, delicate steel springs, and curious little basket-shaped things over which the hair is moulded into the required forms before being fixed in place. The kamiyui also brings razors with her; for the Japanese girl is shaved--cheeks, ears, brows, chin, even nose! What is here to shave? Only that peachy floss which is the velvet of the finest human skin, but which Japanese taste removes. There is, however, another use for the razor. All maidens bear the signs of their maidenhood in the form of a little round spot, about an inch in diameter, shaven clean upon the very top of the head. This is only partially concealed by a band of hair brought back from the forehead across it, and fastened to the back hair. The girl-baby's head is totally shaved. When a few years old the little creature's hair is allowed to grow except at the top of the head, where a large tonsure is maintained. But the size of the tonsure diminishes year by year, until it shrinks after childhood to the small spot above described; and this, too, vanishes after marriage, when a still more complicated fashion of wearing the hair is adopted. Sec. 2 Such absolutely straight dark hair as that of most Japanese women might seem, to Occidental ideas at least, ill-suited to the highest possibilities of the art of the coiffeuse. [2] But the skill of the kamiyui has made it tractable to every aesthetic whim. Ringlets, indeed, are unknown, and curling irons. But what wonderful and beautiful shapes the hair of the girl is made to assume: volutes, jets, whirls, eddyings, foliations, each passing into the other blandly as a linking of brush- strokes in the writing of a Chinese master! Far beyond the skill of the Parisian coiffeuse is the art of the kamiyui. From the mythical era [3] of the race, Japanese ingenuity has exhausted itself in the invention and the improvement of pretty devices for the dressing of woman's hair; and probably there have never been so many beautiful fashions of wearing it in any other country as there have been in Japan. These have changed through the centuries; sometimes becoming wondrously intricate of design, sometimes exquisitely simple--as in that gracious custom, recorded for us in so many quaint drawings, of allowing the long black tresses to flow unconfined below the waist. [4] But every mode of which we have any pictorial record had its own striking charm. Indian, Chinese, Malayan, Korean ideas of beauty found their way to the Land of the Gods, and were appropriated and transfigured by the finer native conceptions of comeliness. Buddhism, too, which so profoundly influenced all Japanese art and thought, may possibly have influenced fashions of wearing the hair; for its female divinities appear with the most beautiful coiffures. Notice the hair of a Kwannon or a Benten, and the tresses of the Tennin--those angel-maidens who float in azure upon the ceilings of the great temples. Sec. 3 The particular attractiveness of the modern styles is the way in which the hair is made to serve as an elaborate nimbus for the features, giving delightful relief to whatever of fairness or sweetness the young face may possess. Then behind this charming black aureole is a riddle of graceful loopings and weavings whereof neither the beginning nor the ending can possibly be discerned. Only the kantiyui knows the key to that riddle. And the whole is held in place with curious ornamental combs, and shot through with long fine pins of gold, silver, nacre, transparent tortoise-shell, or lacquered wood, with cunningly carven heads. [5] Sec. 4 Not less than fourteen different ways of dressing the hair are practised by the coiffeuses of Izumo; but doubtless in the capital, and in some of the larger cities of eastern Japan, the art is much more elaborately developed. The hairdressers (kamiyui) go from house to house to exercise their calling, visiting their clients upon fixed days at certain regular hours. The hair of little girls from seven to eight years old is in Matsue dressed usually after the style called O-tabako-bon, unless it be simply 'banged.' In the O-tabako-bon ('honourable smoking-box' style) the hair is cut to the length of about four inches all round except above the forehead, where it is clipped a little shorter; and on the summit of the head it is allowed to grow longer and is gathered up into a peculiarly shaped knot, which justifies the curious name of the coiffure. As soon as the girl becomes old enough to go to a female public day-school, her hair is dressed in the pretty, simple style called katsurashita, or perhaps in the new, ugly, semi-foreign 'bundle- style' called sokuhatsu, which has become the regulation fashion in boarding-schools. For the daughters of the poor, and even for most of those of the middle classes, the public-school period is rather brief; their studies usually cease a few years before they are marriageable, and girls marry very early in Japan. The maiden's first elaborate coiffure is arranged for her when she reaches the age of fourteen or fifteen, at earliest. From twelve to fourteen her hair is dressed in the fashion called Omoyedzuki; then the style is changed to the beautiful coiffure called jorowage. There are various forms of this style, more or less complex. A couple of years later, the jorowage yields in the turn to the shinjocho [6] '('new-butterfly' style), or the shimada, also called takawage. The shimjocho style is common, is worn by women of various ages, and is not considered very genteel. The shimada, exquisitely elaborate, is; but the more respectable the family, the smaller the form of this coiffure; geisha and joro wear a larger and loftier variety of it, which properly answers to the name takawage, or 'high coiffure.' Between eighteen and twenty years of age the maiden again exchanges this style for another termed Tenjin-gaeshi; between twenty and twenty-four years of age she adopts the fashion called mitsuwage, or the 'triple coiffure' of three loops; and a somewhat similar but still more complicated coiffure, called mitsuwakudzushi, is worn by young women of from twenty-five to twenty-eight. Up to that age every change in the fashion of wearing the hair has been in the direction of elaborateness and complexity. But after twenty-eight a Japanese woman is no longer considered young, and there is only one more coiffure for her--the mochiriwage or bobai, tine simple and rather ugly style adopted by old women. But the girl who marries wears her hair in a fashion quite different from any of the preceding. The most beautiful, the most elaborate, and the most costly of all modes is the bride's coiffure, called hanayome; a word literally signifying 'flower-wife.' The structure is dainty as its name, and must be seen to be artistically appreciated. Afterwards the wife wears her hair in the styles called kumesa or maruwage, another name for which is katsuyama. The kumesa style is not genteel, and is the coiffure of the poor; the maruwage or katsuyama is refined. In former times the samurai women wore their hair in two particular styles: the maiden's coiffure was ichogaeshi, and that of the married folk katahajishi. It is still possible to see in Matsue a few katahajishi coiffures. Sec. 5 The family kamiyui, O-Koto-San, the most skilful of her craft in Izumo, is a little woman of about thirty, still quite attractive. About her neck there are three soft pretty lines, forming what connoisseurs of beauty term 'the necklace of Venus.' This is a rare charm; but it once nearly proved the ruin of Koto. The story is a curious one. Koto had a rival at the beginning of her professional career--a woman of considerable skill as a coiffeuse, but of malignant disposition, named Jin. Jin gradually lost all her respectable custom, and little Koto became the fashionable hairdresser. But her old rival, filled with jealous hate, invented a wicked story about Koto, and the story found root in the rich soil of old Izumo superstition, and grew fantastically. The idea of it had been suggested to Jin's cunning mind by those three soft lines about Koto's neck. She declared that Koto had a NUKE-KUBI. What is a nuke-kubi? 'Kubi' signifies either the neck or head. 'Nukeru' means to creep, to skulk, to prowl, to slip away stealthily. To have a nuke-kubi is to have a head that detaches itself from the body, and prowls about at night--by itself. Koto has been twice married, and her second match was a happy one. But her first husband caused her much trouble, and ran away from her at last, in company with some worthless woman. Nothing was ever heard of him afterward--so that Jin thought it quite safe to invent a nightmare- story to account for his disappearance. She said that he abandoned Koto because, on awaking one night, he saw his young wife's head rise from the pillow, and her neck lengthen like a great white serpent, while the rest of her body remained motionless. He saw the head, supported by the ever-lengthening neck, enter the farther apartment and drink all the oil in the lamps, and then return to the pillow slowly--the neck simultaneously contracting. 'Then he rose up and fled away from the house in great fear,' said Jin. As one story begets another, all sorts of queer rumours soon began to circulate about poor Koto. There was a tale that some police-officer, late at night, saw a woman's head without a body, nibbling fruit from a tree overhanging some garden-wall; and that, knowing it to be a nuke- kubi, he struck it with the flat of his sword. It shrank away as swiftly as a bat flies, but not before he had been able to recognize the face of the kamiyui. 'Oh! it is quite true!' declared Jin, the morning after the alleged occurrence; 'and if you don't believe it, send word to Koto that you want to see her. She can't go out: her face is all swelled up.' Now the last statement was fact--for Koto had a very severe toothache at that time--and the fact helped the falsehood. And the story found its way to the local newspaper, which published it--only as a strange example of popular credulity; and Jin said, 'Am I a teller of the truth? See, the paper has printed it!' Wherefore crowds of curious people gathered before Koto's little house, and made her life such a burden to her that her husband had to watch her constantly to keep her from killing herself. Fortunately she had good friends in the family of the Governor, where she had been employed for years as coiffeuse; and the Governor, hearing of the wickedness, wrote a public denunciation of it, and set his name to it, and printed it. Now the people of Matsue reverenced their old samurai Governor as if he were a god, and believed his least word; and seeing what he had written, they became ashamed, and also denounced the lie and the liar; and the little hairdresser soon became more prosperous than before through popular sympathy. Some of the most extraordinary beliefs of old days are kept alive in Izumo and elsewhere by what are called in America travelling side- shows'; and the inexperienced foreigner could never imagine the possibilities of a Japanese side-show. On certain great holidays the showmen make their appearance, put up their ephemeral theatres of rush- matting and bamboos in some temple court, surfeit expectation by the most incredible surprises, and then vanish as suddenly as they came. The Skeleton of a Devil, the Claws of a Goblin, and 'a Rat as large as a sheep,' were some of the least extraordinary displays which I saw. The Goblin's Claws were remarkably fine shark's teeth; the Devil's Skeleton had belonged to an orang-outang--all except the horns ingeniously attached to the skull; and the wondrous Rat I discovered to be a tame kangaroo. What I could not fully understand was the exhibition of a nuke-kubi, in which a young woman stretched her neck, apparently, to a length of about two feet, making ghastly faces during the performance. Sec. 6 There are also some strange old superstitions about women's hair. The myth of Medusa has many a counterpart in Japanese folk-lore: the subject of such tales being always some wondrously beautiful girl, whose hair turns to snakes only at night; and who is discovered at last to be either a dragon or a dragon's daughter. But in ancient times it was believed that the hair of any young woman might, under certain trying circumstances, change into serpents. For instance: under the influence of long-repressed jealousy. There were many men of wealth who, in the days of Old Japan, kept their concubines (mekake or aisho) under the same roof with their legitimate wives (okusama). And it is told that, although the severest patriarchal discipline might compel the mekake and the okusama to live together in perfect seeming harmony by day, their secret hate would reveal itself by night in the transformation of their hair. The long black tresses of each would uncoil and hiss and strive to devour those of the other--and even the mirrors of the sleepers would dash themselves together--for, saith an ancient proverb, kagami onna-no tamashii--'a Mirror is the Soul of a Woman.' [7] And there is a famous tradition of one Kato Sayemon Shigenji, who beheld in the night the hair of his wife and the hair of his concubine, changed into vipers, writhing together and hissing and biting. Then Kato Sayemon grieved much for that secret bitterness of hatred which thus existed through his fault; and he shaved his head and became a priest in the great Buddhist monastery of Koya-San, where he dwelt until the day of his death under the name of Karukaya. Sec. 7 The hair of dead women is arranged in the manner called tabanegami, somewhat resembling the shimada extremely simplified, and without ornaments of any kind. The name tabanegami signifies hair tied into a bunch, like a sheaf of rice. This style must also be worn by women during the period of mourning. Ghosts, nevertheless, are represented with hair loose and long, falling weirdly over the face. And no doubt because of the melancholy suggestiveness of its drooping branches, the willow is believed to be the favourite tree of ghosts. Thereunder, 'tis said, they mourn in the night, mingling their shadowy hair with the long dishevelled tresses of the tree. Tradition says that Okyo Maruyama was the first Japanese artist who drew a ghost. The Shogun, having invited him to his palace, said: 'Make a picture of a ghost for me.' Okyo promised to do so; but he was puzzled how to execute the order satisfactorily. A few days later, hearing that one of his aunts was very ill, he visited her. She was so emaciated that she looked like one already long dead. As he watched by her bedside, a ghastly inspiration came to him: he drew the fleshless face and long dishevelled hair, and created from that hasty sketch a ghost that surpassed all the Shogun's expectations. Afterwards Okyo became very famous as a painter of ghosts. Japanese ghosts are always represented as diaphanous, and preternaturally tall--only the upper part of the figure being distinctly outlined, and the lower part fading utterly away. As the Japanese say, 'a ghost has no feet': its appearance is like an exhalation, which becomes visible only at a certain distance above the ground; and it wavers arid lengthens and undulates in the conceptions of artists, like a vapour moved by wind. Occasionally phantom women figure in picture.- books in the likeness of living women; but these are riot true ghosts. They are fox-women or other goblins; and their supernatural character is suggested by a peculiar expression of the eyes arid a certain impossible elfish grace. Little children in Japan, like little children in all countries keenly enjoy the pleasure of fear; and they have many games in which such pleasure forms the chief attraction. Among these is 0-bake-goto, or Ghost-play. Some nurse-girl or elder sister loosens her hair in front, so as to let it fall over her face, and pursues the little folk with moans and weird gestures, miming all the attitudes of the ghosts of the picture-books. Sec. 8 As the hair of the Japanese woman is her richest ornament, it is of all her possessions that which she would most suffer to lose; and in other days the man too manly to kill an erring wife deemed it vengeance enough to turn her away with all her hair shorn off. Only the greatest faith or the deepest love can prompt a woman to the voluntary sacrifice of her entire chevelure, though partial sacrifices, offerings of one or two long thick cuttings, may be seen suspended before many an Izumo shrine. What faith can do in the way of such sacrifice, he best knows who has seen the great cables, woven of women's hair, that hang in the vast Hongwanji temple at Kyoto. And love is stronger than faith, though much less demonstrative. According to ancient custom a wife bereaved sacrifices a portion of her hair to be placed in the coffin of her husband, and buried with him. The quantity is not fixed: in the majority of cases it is very small, so that the appearance of the coiffure is thereby nowise affected. But she who resolves to remain for ever loyal to the memory of the lost yields up all. With her own hand she cuts off her hair, and lays the whole glossy sacrifice--emblem of her youth and beauty--upon the knees of the dead. It is never suffered to grow again. Chapter Four From the Diary of an English Teacher Sec. 1 MATSUE, September 2, 1890. I AM under contract to serve as English teacher in the Jinjo Chugakko, or Ordinary Middle School, and also in the ShihanGakko, or Normal School, of Matsue, Izumo, for the term of one year. The Jinjo Chugakko is an immense two-story wooden building in European style, painted a dark grey-blue. It has accommodations for nearly three hundred day scholars. It is situated in one corner of a great square of ground, bounded on two sides by canals, and on the other two by very quiet streets. This site is very near the ancient castle. The Normal School is a much larger building occupying the opposite angle of the square. It is also much handsomer, is painted snowy white, and has a little cupola upon its summit. There are only about one hundred and fifty students in the Shihan-Gakko, but they are boarders. Between these two schools are other educational buildings, which I shall learn more about later. It is my first day at the schools. Nishida Sentaro, the Japanese teacher of English, has taken me through the buildings, introduced me to the Directors, and to all my future colleagues, given me all necessary instructions about hours and about textbooks, and furnished my desk with all things necessary. Before teaching begins, however, I must be introduced to the Governor of the Province, Koteda Yasusada, with whom my contract has been made, through the medium of his secretary. So Nishida leads the way to the Kencho, or Prefectural office, situated in another foreign-looking edifice across the street. We enter it, ascend a wide stairway, and enter a spacious .room carpeted in European fashion--a room with bay windows and cushioned chairs. One person is seated at a small round table, and about him are standing half a dozen others: all are in full Japanese costume, ceremonial costume-- splendid silken hakama, or Chinese trousers, silken robes, silken haori or overdress, marked with their mon or family crests: rich and dignified attire which makes me ashamed of my commonplace Western garb. These are officials of the Kencho, and teachers: the person seated is the Governor. He rises to greet me, gives me the hand-grasp of a giant: and as I look into his eyes, I feel I shall love that man to the day of my death. A face fresh and frank as a boy's, expressing much placid force and large-hearted kindness--all the calm of a Buddha. Beside him, the other officials look very small: indeed the first impression of him is that of a man of another race. While I am wondering whether the old Japanese heroes were cast in a similar mould, he signs to me to take a seat, and questions my guide in a mellow basso. There is a charm in the fluent depth of the voice pleasantly confirming the idea suggested by the face. An attendant brings tea. 'The Governor asks,' interprets Nishida, 'if you know the old history of Izumo.' I reply that I have read the Kojiki, translated by Professor Chamberlain, and have therefore some knowledge of the story of Japan's most ancient province. Some converse in Japanese follows. Nishida tells the Governor that I came to Japan to study the ancient religion and customs, and that I am particularly interested in Shinto and the traditions of Izumo. The Governor suggests that I make visits to the celebrated shrines of Kitzuki, Yaegaki, and Kumano, and then asks: 'Does he know the tradition of the origin of the clapping of hands before a Shinto shrine?' I reply in the negative; and the Governor says the tradition is given in a commentary upon the Kojiki. 'It is in the thirty-second section of the fourteenth volume, where it is written that Ya-he-Koto-Shiro-nushi-no-Kami clapped his hands.' I thank the Governor for his kind suggestions and his citation. After a brief silence I am graciously dismissed with another genuine hand-grasp; and we return to the school. Sec. 2 I have been teaching for three hours in the Middle School, and teaching Japanese boys turns out to be a much more agreeable task than I had imagined. Each class has been so well prepared for me beforehand by Nishida that my utter ignorance of Japanese makes no difficulty in regard to teaching: moreover, although the lads cannot understand my words always when I speak, they can understand whatever I write upon the blackboard with chalk. Most of them have already been studying English from childhood, with Japanese teachers. All are wonderfully docile' and patient. According to old custom, when the teacher enters, the whole class rises and bows to him. He returns the bow, and calls the roll. Nishida is only too kind. He helps me in every way he possibly can, and is constantly regretting that he cannot help me more. There are, of course, some difficulties to overcome. For instance, it will take me a very, very long time to learn the names of the boys--most of which names I cannot even pronounce, with the class-roll before me. And although the names of the different classes have been painted upon the doors of their respective rooms in English letters, for the benefit of the foreign teacher, it will take me some weeks at least to become quite familiar with them. For the time being Nishida always guides me to the rooms. He also shows me the way, through long corridors, to the Normal School, and introduces me to the teacher Nakayama who is to act there as my guide. I have been engaged to teach only four times a week at the Normal School; but I am furnished there also with a handsome desk in the teachers' apartment, and am made to feel at home almost immediately. Nakayama shows me everything of interest in the building before introducing me to my future pupils. The introduction is pleasant and novel as a school experience. I am conducted along a corridor, and ushered into a large luminous whitewashed room full of young men in dark blue military uniform. Each sits at a very small desk, sup-ported by a single leg, with three feet. At the end of the room is a platform with a high desk and a chair for the teacher. As I take my place at the desk, a voice rings out in English: 'Stand up!' And all rise with a springy movement as if moved by machinery. 'Bow down!' the same voice again commands--the voice of a young student wearing a captain's stripes upon his sleeve; and all salute me. I bow in return; we take our seats; and the lesson begins. All teachers at the Normal School are saluted in the same military fashion before each class-hour--only the command is given in Japanese. For my sake only, it is given in English. Sec. 3 September 22, 1890. The Normal School is a State institution. Students are admitted upon examination and production of testimony as to good character; but the number is, of course, limited. The young men pay no fees, no boarding money, nothing even for books, college-outfits, or wearing apparel. They are lodged, clothed, fed, and educated by the State; but they are required in return, after their graduation, to serve the State as teachers for the space of five years. Admission, however, by no means assures graduation. There are three or four examinations each year; and the students who fail to obtain a certain high average of examination marks must leave the school, however exemplary their conduct or earnest their study. No leniency can be shown where the educational needs of the State are concerned, and these call for natural ability and a high standard of its proof. The discipline is military and severe. Indeed, it is so thorough that the graduate of a Normal School is exempted by military law from more than a year's service in the army: he leaves college a trained soldier. Deportment is also a requisite: special marks are given for it; and however gawky a freshman may prove at the time of his admission, he cannot remain so. A spirit of manliness is cultivated, which excludes roughness but develops self-reliance and self-control. The student is required, when speaking, to look his teacher in the face, and to utter his words not only distinctly, but sonorously. Demeanour in class is partly enforced by the class-room fittings themselves. The tiny tables are too narrow to allow of being used as supports for the elbows; the seats have no backs against which to lean, and the student must hold himself rigidly erect as he studies. He must also keep himself faultlessly neat and clean. Whenever and wherever he encounters one of his teachers he must halt, bring his feet together, draw himself erect, and give the military salute. And this is done with a swift grace difficult to describe. The demeanour of a class during study hours is if anything too faultless. Never a whisper is heard; never is a head raised from the book without permission. But when the teacher addresses a student by name, the youth rises instantly, and replies in a tone of such vigour as would seem to unaccustomed ears almost startling by contrast with the stillness and self-repression of the others. The female department of the Normal School, where about fifty young women are being trained as teachers, is a separate two-story quadrangle of buildings, large, airy, and so situated, together with its gardens, as to be totally isolated from all other buildings and invisible from the street. The girls are not only taught European science by the most advanced methods, but are trained as well in Japanese arts--the arts of embroidery, of decoration, of painting, and of arranging flowers. European drawing is also taught, and beautifully taught, not only here, but in all the schools. It is taught, however, in combination with Japanese methods; and the results of this blending may certainly be expected to have some charming influence upon future art-production. The average capacity of the Japanese student in drawing is, I think, at least fifty per cent, higher than that of European students. The soul of the race is essentially artistic; and the extremely difficult art of learning to write the Chinese characters, in which all are trained from early childhood, has already disciplined the hand and the eye to a marvellous degree--a degree undreamed of in the Occident--long before the drawing-master begins his lessons of perspective. Attached to the great Normal School, and connected by a corridor with the Jinjo Chugakko likewise, is a large elementary school for little boys and girls: its teachers are male and female students of the graduating classes, who are thus practically trained for their profession before entering the service of the State. Nothing could be more interesting as an educational spectacle to any sympathetic foreigner than some of this elementary teaching. In the first room which I visit a class of very little girls and boys--some as quaintly pretty as their own dolls--are bending at their desks over sheets of coal-black paper which you would think they were trying to make still blacker by energetic use of writing-brushes and what we call Indian-ink. They are really learning to write Chinese and Japanese characters, stroke by stroke. Until one stroke has been well learned, they are not suffered to attempt another--much less a combination. Long before the first lesson is thoroughly mastered, the white paper has become all evenly black under the multitude of tyro brush-strokes. But the same sheet is still used; for the wet ink makes a yet blacker mark upon the dry, so that it can easily be seen. In a room adjoining, I see another child-class learning to use scissors --Japanese scissors, which, being formed in one piece, shaped something like the letter U, are much less easy to manage than ours. The little folk are being taught to cut out patterns, and shapes of special objects or symbols to be studied. Flower-forms are the most ordinary patterns; sometimes certain ideographs are given as subjects. And in another room a third small class is learning to sing; the teacher writing the music notes (do, re, mi) with chalk upon a blackboard, and accompanying the song with an accordion. The little ones have learned the Japanese national anthem (Kimi ga yo wa) and two native songs set to Scotch airs--one of which calls back to me, even in this remote corner of the Orient, many a charming memory: Auld Lang Syne. No uniform is worn in this elementary school: all are in Japanese dress --the boys in dark blue kimono, the little girls in robes of all tints, radiant as butterflies. But in addition to their robes, the girls wear hakama, [1] and these are of a vivid, warm sky-blue. Between the hours of teaching, ten minutes are allowed for play or rest. The little boys play at Demon-Shadows or at blind-man's-buff or at some other funny game: they laugh, leap, shout, race, and wrestle, but, unlike European children, never quarrel or fight. As for the little girls, they get by themselves, and either play at hand-ball, or form into circles to play at some round game, accompanied by song. Indescribably soft and sweet the chorus of those little voices in the round: Kango-kango sho-ya, Naka yoni sho-ya, Don-don to kunde Jizo-San no midzu wo Matsuba no midzu irete, Makkuri kadso. [2] I notice that the young men, as well as the young women, who teach these little folk, are extremely tender to their charges. A child whose kimono is out of order, or dirtied by play, is taken aside and brushed and arranged as carefully as by an elder brother. Besides being trained for their future profession by teaching the children of the elementary school, the girl students of the Shihan-Gakko are also trained to teach in the neighbouring kindergarten. A delightful kindergarten it is, with big cheerful sunny rooms, where stocks of the most ingenious educational toys are piled upon shelves for daily use. Since the above was written I have had two years' experience as a teacher in various large Japanese schools; and I have never had personal knowledge of any serious quarrel between students, and have never even heard of a fight among my pupils. And I have taught some eight hundred boys and young men. Sec. 4 October 1 1890. Nevertheless I am destined to see little of the Normal School. Strictly speaking, I do not belong to its staff: my services being only lent by the Middle School, to which I give most of my time. I see the Normal School students in their class-rooms only, for they are not allowed to go out to visit their teachers' homes in the town. So I can never hope to become as familiar with them as with the students of the Chugakko, who are beginning to call me 'Teacher' instead of 'Sir,' and to treat me as a sort of elder brother. (I objected to the word 'master,' for in Japan the teacher has no need of being masterful.) And I feel less at home in the large, bright, comfortable apartments of the Normal School teachers than in our dingy, chilly teachers' room at the Chugakko, where my desk is next to that of Nishida. On the walls there are maps, crowded with Japanese ideographs; a few large charts representing zoological facts in the light of evolutional science; and an immense frame filled with little black lacquered wooden tablets, so neatly fitted together that the entire surface is uniform as that of a blackboard. On these are written, or rather painted, in white, names of teachers, subjects, classes, and order of teaching hours; and by the ingenious tablet arrangement any change of hours can be represented by simply changing the places of the tablets. As all this is written in Chinese and Japanese characters, it remains to me a mystery, except in so far as the general plan and purpose are concerned. I have learned only to recognize the letters of my own name, and the simpler form of numerals. On every teacher's desk there is a small hibachi of glazed blue-and- white ware, containing a few lumps of glowing charcoal in a bed of ashes. During the brief intervals between classes each teacher smokes his tiny Japanese pipe of brass, iron, or silver. The hibachi and a cup of hot tea are our consolations for the fatigues of the class-room. Nishida and one or two other teachers know a good deal of English, and we chat together sometimes between classes. But more often no one speaks. All are tired after the teaching hour, and prefer to smoke in silence. At such times the only sounds within the room are the ticking of the clock, and the sharp clang of the little pipes being rapped upon the edges of the hibachi to empty out the ashes. Sec. 5 October 15, 1890. To-day I witnessed the annual athletic contests (undo- kwai) of all the schools in Shimane Ken. These games were celebrated in the broad castle grounds of Ninomaru. Yesterday a circular race-track had been staked off, hurdles erected for leaping, thousands of wooden seats prepared for invited or privileged spectators, and a grand lodge built for the Governor, all before sunset. The place looked like a vast circus, with its tiers of plank seats rising one above the other, and the Governor's lodge magnificent with wreaths and flags. School children from all the villages and towns within twenty-five miles had arrived in surprising multitude. Nearly six thousand boys and girls were entered to take part in the contests. Their parents and relatives and teachers made an imposing assembly upon the benches and within the gates. And on the ramparts overlooking the huge inclosure a much larger crowd had gathered, representing perhaps one-third of the population of the city. The signal to begin or to end a contest was a pistol-shot. Four different kinds of games were performed in different parts of the grounds at the same time, as there was room enough for an army; and prizes were awarded to the winners of each contest by the hand of the Governor himself. There were races between the best runners in each class of the different schools; and the best runner of all proved to be Sakane, of our own fifth class, who came in first by nearly forty yards without seeming even to make an effort. He is our champion athlete, and as good as he is strong--so that it made me very happy to see him with his arms full of prize books. He won also a fencing contest decided by the breaking of a little earthenware saucer tied to the left arm of each combatant. And he also won a leaping match between our older boys. But many hundreds of other winners there were too, and many hundreds of prizes were given away. There were races in which the runners were tied together in pairs, the left leg of one to the right leg of the other. There were equally funny races, the winning of which depended on the runner's ability not only to run, but to crawl, to climb, to vault, and to jump alternately. There were races also for the little girls--pretty as butterflies they seemed in their sky-blue hakama and many coloured robes--races in which the contestants had each to pick up as they ran three balls of three different colours out of a number scattered over the turf. Besides this, the little girls had what is called a flag-race, and a contest with battledores and shuttlecocks. Then came the tug-of-war. A magnificent tug-of-war, too--one hundred students at one end of a rope, and another hundred at the other. But the most wonderful spectacles of the day were the dumb-bell exercises. Six thousand boys and girls, massed in ranks about five hundred deep; six thousand pairs of arms rising and falling exactly together; six thousand pairs of sandalled feet advancing or retreating together, at the signal of the masters of gymnastics, directing all from the tops of various little wooden towers; six thousand voices chanting at once the 'one, two, three,' of the dumb-bell drill: 'Ichi, ni,--san, shi,--go, roku,-- shichi, hachi.' Last came the curious game called 'Taking the Castle.' Two models of Japanese towers, about fifteen feet high, made with paper stretched over a framework of bamboo, were set up, one at each end of the field. Inside the castles an inflammable liquid had been placed in open vessels, so that if the vessels were overturned the whole fabric would take fire. The boys, divided into two parties, bombarded the castles with wooden balls, which passed easily through the paper walls; and in a short time both models were making a glorious blaze. Of course the party whose castle was the first to blaze lost the game. The games began at eight o'clock in the morning, and at five in the evening came to an end. Then at a signal fully ten thousand voices pealed out the superb national anthem, 'Kimi ga yo, and concluded it with three cheers for their Imperial Majesties, the Emperor and Empress of Japan. The Japanese do not shout or roar as we do when we cheer. They chant. Each long cry is like the opening tone of an immense musical chorus: A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a..a! Sec. 6 It is no small surprise to observe how botany, geology, and other sciences are daily taught even in this remotest part of Old Japan. Plant physiology and the nature of vegetable tissues are studied under excellent microscopes, and in their relations to chemistry; and at regular intervals the instructor leads his classes into the country to illustrate the lessons of the term by examples taken from the flora of their native place. Agriculture, taught by a graduate of the famous Agricultural School at Sapporo, is practically illustrated upon farms purchased and maintained by the schools for purely educational ends. Each series of lessons in geology is supplemented by visits to the mountains about the lake, or to the tremendous cliffs of the coast, where the students are taught to familiarize themselves with forms of stratification and the visible history of rocks. The basin of the lake, and the country about Matsue, is physiographically studied, after the plans of instruction laid down in Huxley's excellent manual. Natural History, too, is taught according to the latest and best methods, and with the help of the microscope. The results of such teaching are sometimes surprising. I know of one student, a lad of only sixteen, who voluntarily collected and classified more than two hundred varieties of marine plants for a Tokyo professor. Another, a youth of seventeen, wrote down for me in my notebook, without a work of reference at hand, and, as I afterwards discovered, almost without an omission or error, a scientific list of all the butterflies to be found in the neighbourhood of the city. Sec. 7 Through the Minister of Public Instruction, His Imperial Majesty has sent to all the great public schools of the Empire a letter bearing date of the thirteenth day of the tenth month of the twenty-third year of Meiji. And the students and teachers of the various schools assemble to hear the reading of the Imperial Words on Education. At eight o'clock we of the Middle School are all waiting in our own assembly hall for the coming of the Governor, who will read the Emperor's letter in the various schools. We wait but a little while. Then the Governor comes with all the officers of the Kencho and the chief men of the city. We rise to salute him: then the national anthem is sung. Then the Governor, ascending the platform, produces the Imperial Missive--a scroll of Chinese manuscript sheathed in silk. He withdraws it slowly from its woven envelope, lifts it reverentially to his forehead, unrolls it, lifts it again to his forehead, and after a moment's dignified pause begins in that clear deep voice of his to read the melodious syllables after the ancient way, which is like a chant: 'CHO-KU-G U. Chin omommiru ni waga koso koso kuni wo.... 'We consider that the Founder of Our Empire and the ancestors of Our Imperial House placed the foundation of the country on a grand and permanent basis, and established their authority on the principles of profound humanity and benevolence. 'That Our subjects have throughout ages deserved well of the State by their loyalty and piety and by their harmonious co-operation is in accordance with the essential character of Our nation; and on these very same principles Our education has been founded. 'You, Our subjects, be therefore filial to your parents; be affectionate to your brothers; be harmonious as husbands and wives; and be faithful to your friends; conduct yourselves with propriety and carefulness; extend generosity and benevolence towards your neighbours; attend to your studies and follow your pursuits; cultivate your intellects and elevate your morals; advance public benefits and promote social interests; be always found in the good observance of the laws and constitution of the land; display your personal courage and public spirit for the sake of the country whenever required; and thus support the Imperial prerogative, which is coexistent with the Heavens and the Earth. 'Such conduct on your part will not only strengthen the character of Our good and loyal subjects, but conduce also to the maintenance of the fame of your worthy forefathers. 'This is the instruction bequeathed by Our ancestors and to be followed by Our subjects; for it is the truth which has guided and guides them in their own affairs and in their dealings towards aliens. 'We hope, therefore, We and Our subjects will regard these sacred precepts with one and the same heart in order to attain the same ends.' [3] Then the Governor and the Head-master speak a few words--dwelling upon the full significance of His Imperial Majesty's august commands, and exhorting all to remember and to obey them to the uttermost. After which the students have a holiday, to enable them the better to recollect what they have heard. Sec. 8 All teaching in the modern Japanese system of education is conducted with the utmost kindness and gentleness. The teacher is a teacher only: he is not, in the English sense of mastery, a master. He stands to his pupils in the relation of an elder brother. He never tries to impose his will upon them: he never scolds, he seldom criticizes, he scarcely ever punishes. No Japanese teacher ever strikes a pupil: such an act would cost him his post at once. He never loses his temper: to do so would disgrace him in the eyes of his boys and in the judgment of his colleagues. Practically speaking, there is no punishment in Japanese schools. Sometimes very mischievous lads are kept in the schoolhouse during recreation time; yet even this light penalty is not inflicted directly by the teacher, but by the director of the school on complaint of the teacher. The purpose in such cases is not to inflict pain by deprivation of enjoyment, but to give public illustration of a fault; and in the great majority of instances, consciousness of the fault thus brought home to a lad before his comrades is quite enough to prevent its repetition. No such cruel punition as that of forcing a dull pupil to learn an additional task, or of sentencing him to strain his eyes copying four or five hundred lines, is ever dreamed of. Nor would such forms of punishment, in the present state of things, be long tolerated by the pupils themselves. The general policy of the educational authorities everywhere throughout the empire is to get rid of students who cannot be perfectly well managed without punishment; and expulsions, nevertheless, are rare. I often see a pretty spectacle on my way home from the school, when I take the short cut through the castle grounds. A class of about thirty little boys, in kimono and sandals, bareheaded, being taught to march and to sing by a handsome young teacher, also in Japanese dress. While they sing, they are drawn up in line; and keep time with their little bare feet. The teacher has a pleasant high clear tenor: he stands at one end of the rank and sings a single line of the song. Then all the children sing it after him. Then he sings a second line, and they repeat it. If any mistakes are made, they have to sing the verse again. It is the Song of Kusunoki Masashige, noblest of Japanese heroes and patriots. Sec. 9 I have said that severity on the part of teachers would scarcely be tolerated by the students themselves--a fact which may sound strange to English or American ears. Tom Brown's school does not exist in Japan; the ordinary public school much more resembles the ideal Italian institution so charmingly painted for us in the Cuore of De Amicis. Japanese students furthermore claim and enjoy an independence contrary to all Occidental ideas of disciplinary necessity. In the Occident the master expels the pupil. In Japan it happens quite as often that the pupil expels the master. Each public school is an earnest, spirited little republic, to which director and teachers stand only in the relation of president and cabinet. They are indeed appointed by the prefectural government upon recommendation by the Educational Bureau at the capital; but in actual practice they maintain their positions by virtue of their capacity and personal character as estimated by their students, and are likely to be deposed by a revolutionary movement whenever found wanting. It has been alleged that the students frequently abuse their power. But this allegation has been made by European residents, strongly prejudiced in favour of masterful English ways of discipline. (I recollect that an English Yokohama paper, in this connection, advocated the introduction of the birch.) My own observations have convinced me, as larger experience has convinced some others, that in most instances of pupils rebelling against a teacher, reason is upon their side. They will rarely insult a teacher whom they dislike, or cause any disturbance in his class: they will simply refuse to attend school until he be removed. Personal feeling may often be a secondary, but it is seldom, so far as I have been able to learn, the primary cause for such a demand. A teacher whose manners are unsympathetic, or even positively disagreeable, will be nevertheless obeyed and revered while his students remain persuaded of his capacity as a teacher, and his sense of justice; and they are as keen to discern ability as they are to detect partiality. And, on the other hand, an amiable disposition alone will never atone with them either for want of knowledge or for want of skill to impart it. I knew one case, in a neighbouring public school, of a demand by the students for the removal of their professor of chemistry. In making their complaint, they frankly declared: 'We like him. He is kind to all of us; he does the best he can. But he does not know enough to teach us as we wish to be taught. lie cannot answer our questions. He cannot explain the experiments which he shows us. Our former teacher could do all these things. We must have another teacher.' Investigation proved that the lads were quite right. The young teacher had graduated at the university; he had come well recommended: but he had no thorough knowledge of the science which he undertook to impart, and no experience as a teacher. The instructor's success in Japan is not guaranteed by a degree, but by his practical knowledge and his capacity to communicate it simply and thoroughly. Sec. 10 November 3, 1890 To-day is the birthday of His Majesty the Emperor. It is a public holiday throughout Japan; and there will be no teaching this morning. But at eight o'clock all the students and instructors enter the great assembly hall of the Jinjo Chugakko to honour the anniversary of His Majesty's august birth. On the platform of the assembly hall a table, covered with dark silk, has been placed; and upon this table the portraits of Their Imperial Majesties, the Emperor and the Empress of Japan, stand side by side upright, framed in gold. The alcove above the platform has been decorated with flags and wreaths. Presently the Governor enters, looking like a French general in his gold-embroidered uniform of office, and followed by the Mayor of the city, the Chief Military Officer, the Chief of Police, and all the officials of the provincial government. These take their places in silence to left and right of the plat form. Then the school organ suddenly rolls out the slow, solemn, beautiful national anthem; and all present chant those ancient syllables, made sacred by the reverential love of a century of generations: Ki-mi ga-a yo-o wa Chi-yo ni-i-i ya-chi-yo ni sa-za-red I-shi-no I-wa o to na-ri-te Ko-ke no Mu-u su-u ma-a-a-de [4] The anthem ceases. The Governor advances with a slow dignified step from the right side of the apartment to the centre of the open space before the platform and the portraits of Their Majesties, turns his face to them, and bows profoundly. Then he takes three steps forward toward the platform, and halts, and bows again. Then he takes three more steps forward, and bows still more profoundly. Then he retires, walking backward six steps, and bows once more. Then he returns to his place. After this the teachers, by parties of six, perform the same beautiful ceremony. When all have saluted the portrait of His Imperial Majesty, the Governor ascends the platform and makes a few eloquent remarks to the students about their duty to their Emperor, to their country, and to their teachers. Then the anthem is sung again; and all disperse to amuse themselves for the rest of the day. Sec. 11 March 1 1891. The majority of the students of the Jinjo Chugakko are day-scholars only (externes, as we would say in France): they go to school in the morning, take their noon meal at home, and return at one o'clock to attend the brief afternoon classes. All the city students live with their own families; but there are many boys from remote country districts who have no city relatives, and for such the school furnishes boarding-houses, where a wholesome moral discipline is maintained by special masters. They are free, however, if they have sufficient means, to choose another boarding-house (provided it be a respectable one), or to find quarters in some good family; but few adopt either course. I doubt whether in any other country the cost of education--education of the most excellent and advanced kind--is so little as in Japan. The Izumo student is able to live at a figure so far below the Occidental idea of necessary expenditure that the mere statement of it can scarcely fail to surprise the reader. A sum equal in American money to about twenty dollars supplies him with board and lodging for one year. The whole of his expenses, including school fees, are about seven dollars a month. For his room and three ample meals a day he pays every four weeks only one yen eighty-five sen--not much more than a dollar and a half in American currency. If very, very poor, he will not be obliged to wear a uniform; but nearly all students of the higher classes do wear uniforms, as the cost of a complete uniform, including cap and shoes of leather, is only about three and a half yen for the cheaper quality. Those who do not wear leather shoes, however, are required, while in the school, to exchange their noisy wooden geta for zori or light straw sandals. Sec. 12 But the mental education so admirably imparted in an ordinary middle school is not, after all, so cheaply acquired by the student as might be imagined from the cost of living and the low rate of school fees. For Nature exacts a heavier school fee, and rigidly collects her debt--in human life. To understand why, one should remember that the modern knowledge which the modern Izumo student must acquire upon a diet of boiled rice and bean-curd was discovered, developed, and synthetised by minds strengthened upon a costly diet of flesh. National underfeeding offers the most cruel problem which the educators of Japan must solve in order that she may become fully able to assimilate the civilization we have thrust upon her. As Herbert Spencer has pointed out, the degree of human energy, physical or intellectual, must depend upon the nutritiveness of food; and history shows that the well-fed races have been the energetic and the dominant. Perhaps mind will rule in the future of nations; but mind is a mode of force, and must be fed--through the stomach. The thoughts that have shaken the world were never framed upon bread and water: they were created by beefsteak and mutton-chops, by ham and eggs, by pork and puddings, and were stimulated by generous wines, strong ales, and strong coffee. And science also teaches us that the growing child or youth requires an even more nutritious diet than the adult; and that the student especially needs strong nourishment to repair the physical waste involved by brain-exertion. And what is the waste entailed upon the Japanese schoolboy's system by study? It is certainly greater than that which the system of the European or American student must suffer at the same period of life. Seven years of study are required to give the Japanese youth merely the necessary knowledge of his own triple system of ideographs--or, in less accurate but plainer speech, the enormous alphabet of his native literature. That literature, also, he must study, and the art of two forms of his language--the written and the spoken: likewise, of course, he must learn native history and native morals. Besides these Oriental studies, his course includes foreign history, geography, arithmetic, astronomy, physics, geometry, natural history, agriculture, chemistry, drawing, and mathematics. Worst of all, he must learn English--a language of which the difficulty to the Japanese cannot be even faintly imagined by anyone unfamiliar with the construction of the native tongue--a language so different from his own that the very simplest Japanese phrase cannot be intelligibly rendered into English by a literal translation of the words or even the form of the thought. And he must learn all this upon a diet no English boy could live on; and always thinly clad in his poor cotton dress without even a fire in his schoolroom during the terrible winter, only a hibachi containing a few lumps of glowing charcoal in a bed of ashes. [5] Is it to be wondered at that even those Japanese students who pass successfully 'through all the educational courses the Empire can open to them can only in rare instances show results of their long training as large as those manifested by students of the West? Better conditions are coming; but at present, under the new strain, young bodies and young minds too often give way. And those who break down are not the dullards, but the pride of schools, the captains of classes. Sec. 13 Yet, so far as the finances of the schools allow, everything possible is done to make the students both healthy and happy--to furnish them with ample opportunities both for physical exercise and for mental enjoyment. Though the course of study is severe, the hours are not long: and one of the daily five is devoted to military drill--made more interesting to the lads by the use of real rifles and bayonets, furnished by Government. There is a fine gymnastic ground near the school, furnished with trapezes, parallel bars, vaulting horses, etc.; and there are two masters of gymnastics attached to the Middle School alone. There are row-boats, in which the boys can take their pleasure on the beautiful lake whenever the weather permits. There is an excellent fencing-school conducted by the Governor himself, who, although so heavy a man, is reckoned one of the best fencers of his own generation. The style taught is the old one, requiring the use of both hands to wield the sword; thrusting is little attempted, it is nearly all heavy slashing. The foils are made of long splinters of bamboo tied together so as to form something resembling elongated fasces: masks and wadded coats protect the head and body, for the blows given are heavy. This sort of fencing requires considerable agility, and gives more active exercise than our severer Western styles. Yet another form of healthy exercise consists of long journeys on foot to famous places. Special holidays are allowed for these. The students march out of town in military order, accompanied by some of their favourite teachers, and perhaps a servant to cook for them. Thus they may travel for a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty miles and back; but if the journey is to be a very long one, only the strong lads are allowed to go. They walk in waraji, the true straw sandal, closely tied to the naked foot, which it leaves perfectly supple and free, without blistering or producing corns. They sleep at night in Buddhist temples; and their cooking is done in the open fields, like that of soldiers in camp. For those little inclined to such sturdy exercise there is a school library which is growing every year. There is also a monthly school magazine, edited and published by the boys. And there is a Students' Society, at whose regular meetings debates are held upon all conceivable subjects of interest to students. Sec. 14 April 4, 1891. The students of the third, fourth, and fifth year classes write for me once a week brief English compositions upon easy themes which I select for them. As a rule the themes are Japanese. Considering the immense difficulty of the English language to Japanese students, the ability of some of my boys to express their thoughts in it is astonishing. Their compositions have also another interest for me as revelations, not of individual character, but of national sentiment, or of aggregate sentiment of some sort or other. What seems to me most surprising in the compositions of the average Japanese student is that they have no personal cachet at all. Even the handwriting of twenty English compositions will be found to have a curious family resemblance; and striking exceptions are too few to affect the rule. Here is one of the best compositions on my table, by a student at the head of his class. Only a few idiomatic errors have been corrected: THE MOON 'The Moon appears melancholy to those who are sad, and joyous to those who are happy. The Moon makes memories of home come to those who travel, and creates homesickness. So when the Emperor Godaigo, having been banished to Oki by the traitor Hojo, beheld the moonlight upon the seashore, he cried out, "The Moon is heartless!" 'The sight of the Moon makes an immeasurable feeling in our hearts when we look up at it through the clear air of a beauteous night. 'Our hearts ought to be pure and calm like the light of the Moon. 'Poets often compare the Moon to a Japanese [metal] mirror (kagami); and indeed its shape is the same when it is full. 'The refined man amuses himself with the Moon. He seeks some house looking out upon water, to watch the Moon, and to make verses about it. 'The best places from which to see the Moon are Tsukigashi, and the mountain Obasute. 'The light of the Moon shines alike upon foul and pure, upon high and low. That beautiful Lamp is neither yours nor mine, but everybody's. 'When we look at the Moon we should remember that its waxing and its waning are the signs of the truth that the culmination of all things is likewise the beginning of their decline.' Any person totally unfamiliar with Japanese educational methods might presume that the foregoing composition shows some original power of thought and imagination. But this is not the case. I found the same thoughts and comparisons in thirty other compositions upon the same subject. Indeed, the compositions of any number of middle-school students upon the same subject are certain to be very much alike in idea and sentiment--though they are none the less charming for that. As a rule the Japanese student shows little originality in the line of imagination. His imagination was made for him long centuries ago--partly in China, partly in his native land. From his childhood he is trained to see and to feel Nature exactly in the manner of those wondrous artists who, with a few swift brushstrokes, fling down upon a sheet of paper the colour-sensation of a chilly dawn, a fervid noon, an autumn evening. Through all his boyhood he is taught to commit to memory the most beautiful thoughts and comparisons to be found in his ancient native literature. Every boy has thus learned that the vision of Fuji against the blue resembles a white half-opened fan, hanging inverted in the sky. Every boy knows that cherry-trees in full blossom look as if the most delicate of flushed summer clouds were caught in their branches. Every boy knows the comparison between the falling of certain leaves on snow and the casting down of texts upon a sheet of white paper with a brush. Every boy and girl knows the verses comparing the print of cat's-feet on snow to plum-flowers, [6] and that comparing the impression of bokkuri on snow to the Japanese character for the number 'two.' These were thoughts of old, old poets; and it would be very hard to invent prettier ones. Artistic power in composition is chiefly shown by the correct memorising and clever combination of these old thoughts. And the students have been equally well trained to discover a moral in almost everything, animate or inanimate. I have tried them with a hundred subjects--Japanese subjects--for composition; I have never found them to fail in discovering a moral when the theme was a native one. If I suggested 'Fire-flies,' they at once approved the topic, and wrote for me the story of that Chinese student who, being too poor to pay for a lamp, imprisoned many fireflies in a paper lantern, and thus was able to obtain light enough to study after dark, and to become eventually a great scholar. If I said 'Frogs,' they wrote for me the legend of Ono- no-Tofu, who was persuaded to become a learned celebrity by witnessing the tireless perseverance of a frog trying to leap up to a willow- branch. I subjoin a few specimens of the moral ideas which I thus evoked. I have corrected some common mistakes in the originals, but have suffered a few singularities to stand: THE BOTAN 'The botan [Japanese peony] is large and beautiful to see; but it has a disagreeable smell. This should make us remember that what is only outwardly beautiful in human society should not attract us. To be attracted by beauty only may lead us into fearful and fatal misfortune. The best place to see the botan is the island of Daikonshima in the lake Nakaumi. There in the season of its flowering all the island is red with its blossoms. [7] THE DRAGON 'When the Dragon tries to ride the clouds and come into heaven there happens immediately a furious storm. When the Dragon dwells on the ground it is supposed to take the form of a stone or other object; but when it wants to rise it calls a cloud. Its body is composed of parts of many animals. It has the eyes of a tiger and the horns of a deer and the body of a crocodile and the claws of an eagle and two trunks like the trunk of an elephant. It has a moral. We should try to be like the dragon, and find out and adopt all the good qualities of others.' At the close of this essay on the dragon is a note to the teacher, saying: 'I believe not there is any Dragon. But there are many stories and curious pictures about Dragon.' MOSQUITOES 'On summer nights we hear the sound of faint voices; and little things come and sting our bodies very violently. We call .them ka--in English "mosquitoes." I think the sting is useful for us, because if we begin to sleep, the ka shall come and sting us, uttering a small voice; then we shall be bringed back to study by the sting.' The following, by a lad of sixteen, is submitted only as a characteristic expression of half-formed ideas about a less familiar subject: EUROPEAN AND JAPANESE CUSTOMS 'Europeans wear very narrow clothes and they wear shoes always in the house. Japanese wear clothes which are very lenient and they do not shoe except when they walk out-of-the-door. 'What we think very strange is that in Europe every wife loves her husband more than her parents. In Nippon there is no wife who more loves not her parents than her husband. 'And Europeans walk out in the road with their wives, which we utterly refuse to, except on the festival of Hachiman. 'The Japanese woman is treated by man as a servant, while the European woman is respected as a master. I think these customs are both bad. 'We think it is very much trouble to treat European ladies; and we do not know why ladies are so much respected by Europeans.' Conversation in the class-room about foreign subjects is often equally amusing and suggestive: 'Teacher, I have been told that if a European and his father and his wife were all to fall into the sea together, and that he only could swim, he would try to save his wife first. Would he really?' 'Probably,' I reply. 'But why?' 'One reason is that Europeans consider it a man's duty to help the weaker first--especially women and children.' 'And does a European love his wife more than his father and mother?' 'Not always--but generally, perhaps, he does.' 'Why, Teacher, according to our ideas that is very immoral.' 'Teacher, how do European women carry their babies?' 'In their arms.' 'Very tiring! And how far can a woman walk carrying a baby in her arms?' 'A strong woman can walk many miles with a child in her arms.' 'But she cannot use her hands while she is carrying a baby that way, can she?' 'Not very well.' 'Then it is a very bad way to carry babies,' etc. Sec. 15 May 1, 1891. My favourite students often visit me of afternoons. They first send me their cards, to announce their presence. On being told to come in they leave their footgear on the doorstep, enter my little study, prostrate themselves; and we all squat down together on the floor, which is in all Japanese houses like a soft mattress. The servant brings zabuton or small cushions to kneel upon, and cakes, and tea. To sit as the Japanese do requires practice; and some Europeans can never acquire the habit. To acquire it, indeed, one must become accustomed to wearing Japanese costume. But once the habit of thus sitting has been formed, one finds it the most natural and easy of positions, and assumes it by preference for eating, reading, smoking, or chatting. It is not to be recommended, perhaps, for writing with a European pen--as the motion in our Occidental style of writing is from the supported wrist; but it is the best posture for writing with the Japanese fude, in using which the whole arm is unsupported, and the motion from the elbow. After having become habituated to Japanese habits for more than a year, I must confess that I find it now somewhat irksome to use a chair. When we have all greeted each other, and taken our places upon the kneeling cushions, a little polite silence ensues, which I am the first to break. Some of the lads speak a good deal of English. They understand me well when I pronounce every word slowly and distinctly--using simple phrases, and avoiding idioms. When a word with which they are not familiar must be used, we refer to a good English-Japanese dictionary, which gives each vernacular meaning both in the kana and in the Chinese characters. Usually my young visitors stay a long time, and their stay is rarely tiresome. Their conversation and their thoughts are of the simplest and frankest. They do not come to learn: they know that to ask their teacher to teach out of school would be unjust. They speak chiefly of things which they think have some particular interest for me. Sometimes they scarcely speak at all, but appear to sink into a sort of happy reverie. What they come really for is the quiet pleasure of sympathy. Not an intellectual sympathy, but the sympathy of pure goodwill: the simple pleasure of being quite comfortable with a friend. They peep at my books and pictures; and sometimes they bring books and pictures to show me-- delightfully queer things--family heirlooms which I regret much that I cannot buy. They also like to look at my garden, and enjoy all that is in it even more than I. Often they bring me gifts of flowers. Never by any possible chance are they troublesome, impolite, curious, or even talkative. Courtesy in its utmost possible exquisiteness--an exquisiteness of which even the French have no conception--seems natural to the Izumo boy as the colour of his hair or the tint of his skin. Nor is he less kind than courteous. To contrive pleasurable surprises for me is one of the particular delights of my boys; and they either bring or cause to be brought to the house all sorts of strange things. Of all the strange or beautiful things which I am thus privileged to examine, none gives me so much pleasure as a certain wonderful kakemono of Amida Nyorai. It is rather large picture, and has been borrowed from a priest that I may see it. The Buddha stands in the attitude of exhortation, with one, hand uplifted. Behind his head a huge moon makes an aureole and across the face of that moon stream winding lines of thinnest cloud. Beneath his feet, like a rolling of smoke, curl heavier and darker clouds. Merely as a work of colour and design, the thing is a marvel. But the real wonder of it is not in colour or design at all. Minute examination reveals the astonishing fact that every shadow and clouding is formed by a fairy text of Chinese characters so minute that only a keen eye can discern them; and this text is the entire text of two famed sutras--the Kwammu-ryjo-kyo and the Amida-kyo--'text no larger than the limbs of fleas.' And all the strong dark lines of the figure, such as the seams of the Buddha's robe, are formed by the characters of the holy invocation of the Shin-shu sect, repeated thousands of times: 'Namu Amida Butsu!' Infinite patience, tireless silent labour of loving faith, in some dim temple, long ago. Another day one of my boys persuades his father to let him bring to my house a wonderful statue of Koshi (Confucius), made, I am told, in China, toward the close of the period of the Ming dynasty. I am also assured it is the first time the statue has ever been removed from the family residence to be shown to anyone. Previously, whoever desired to pay it reverence had to visit the house. It is truly a beautiful bronze. The figure of a smiling, bearded old man, with fingers uplifted and lips apart as if discoursing. He wears quaint Chinese shoes, and his flowing robes are adorned with the figure of the mystic phoenix. The microscopic finish of detail seems indeed to reveal the wonderful cunning of a Chinese hand: each tooth, each hair, looks as though it had been made the subject of a special study. Another student conducts me to the home of one of his relatives, that I may see a cat made of wood, said to have been chiselled by the famed Hidari Jingoro--a cat crouching and watching, and so life-like that real cats 'have been known to put up their backs and spit at it.' Sec. 16 Nevertheless I have a private conviction that some old artists even now living in Matsue could make a still more wonderful cat. Among these is the venerable Arakawa Junosuke, who wrought many rare things for the Daimyo of Izumo in the Tempo era, and whose acquaintance I have been enabled to make through my school-friends. One evening he brings to my house something very odd to show me, concealed in his sleeve. It is a doll: just a small carven and painted head without a body,--the body being represented by a tiny robe only, attached to the neck. Yet as Arakawa Junosuke manipulates it, it seems to become alive. The back of its head is like the back of a very old man's head; but its face is the face of an amused child, and there is scarcely any forehead nor any evidence of a thinking disposition. And whatever way the head is turned, it looks so funny that one cannot help laughing at it. It represents a kirakubo--what we might call in English 'a jolly old boy,'--one who is naturally too hearty and too innocent to feel trouble of any sort. It is not an original, but a model of a very famous original--whose history is recorded in a faded scroll which Arakawa takes out of his other sleeve, and which a friend translates for me. This little history throws a curious light upon the simple-hearted ways of Japanese life and thought in other centuries: 'Two hundred and sixty years ago this doll was made by a famous maker of No-masks in the city of Kyoto, for the Emperor Go-midzu-no-O. The Emperor used to have it placed beside his pillow each night before he slept, and was very fond of it. And he composed the following poem concerning it: Yo no naka wo Kiraku ni kurase Nani goto mo Omoeba omou Omowaneba koso. [8]' 'On the death of the Emperor this doll became the property of Prince Konoye, in whose family it is said to be still preserved. 'About one hundred and seven years ago, the then Ex-Empress, whose posthumous name is Sei-Kwa-Mon-Yin, borrowed the doll from Prince Konoye, and ordered a copy of it to be made. This copy she kept always beside her, and was very fond of it. 'After the death of the good Empress this doll was given to a lady of the court, whose family name is not recorded. Afterwards this lady, for reasons which are not known, cut off her hair and became a Buddhist nun --taking the name of Shingyo-in. 'And one who knew the Nun Shingyo-in--a man whose name was Kondo-ju- haku-in-Hokyo--had the honour of receiving the doll as a gift. 'Now I, who write this document, at one time fell sick; and my sickness was caused by despondency. And my friend Kondo-ju-haku-in-Hokyo, coming to see me, said: "I have in my house something which will make you well." And he went home and, presently returning, brought to me this doll, and lent it to me--putting it by my pillow that I might see it and laugh at it. 'Afterward, I myself, having called upon the Nun Shingyo-in, whom I now also have the honour to know, wrote down the history of the doll, and make a poem thereupon.' (Dated about ninety years ago: no signature.) Sec. 17 June 1, 1891 I find among the students a healthy tone of scepticism in regard to certain forms of popular belief. Scientific education is rapidly destroying credulity in old superstitions yet current among the unlettered, and especially among the peasantry--as, for instance, faith in mamori and ofuda. The outward forms of Buddhism--its images, its relics, its commoner practices--affect the average student very little. He is not, as a foreigner may be, interested in iconography, or religious folklore, or the comparative study of religions; and in nine cases out of ten he is rather ashamed of the signs and tokens of popular faith all around him. But the deeper religious sense, which underlies all symbolism, remains with him; and the Monistic Idea in Buddhism is being strengthened and expanded, rather than weakened, by the new education. What is true of the effect of the public schools upon the lower Buddhism is equally true of its effect upon the lower Shinto. Shinto the students all sincerely are, or very nearly all; yet not as fervent worshippers of certain Kami, but as rigid observers of what the higher Shinto signifies--loyalty, filial piety, obedience to parents, teachers, and superiors, and respect to ancestors. For Shinto means more than faith. When, for the first time, I stood before the shrine of the Great Deity of Kitzuki, as the first Occidental to whom that privilege had been accorded, not without a sense of awe there came to me the Sec. 'This is the Shrine of the Father of a Race; this is the symbolic centre of a nation's reverence for its past.' And I, too, paid reverence to the memory of the progenitor of this people. As I then felt, so feels the intelligent student of the Meiji era whom education has lifted above the common plane of popular creeds. And Shinto also means for him--whether he reasons upon the question or not-- all the ethics of the family, and all that spirit of loyalty which has become so innate that, at the call of duty, life itself ceases to have value save as an instrument for duty's accomplishment. As yet, this Orient little needs to reason about the origin of its loftier ethics. Imagine the musical sense in our own race so developed that a child could play a complicated instrument so soon as the little fingers gained sufficient force and flexibility to strike the notes. By some such comparison only can one obtain a just idea of what inherent religion and instinctive duty signify in Izumo. Of the rude and aggressive form of scepticism so common in the Occident, which is the natural reaction after sudden emancipation from superstitious belief, I find no trace among my students. But such sentiment may be found elsewhere--especially in Tokyo--among the university students, one of whom, upon hearing the tones of a magnificent temple bell, exclaimed to a friend of mine: 'Is it not a shame that in this nineteenth century we must still hear such a sound?' For the benefit of curious travellers, however, I may here take occasion to observe that to talk Buddhism to Japanese gentlemen of the new school is in just as bad taste as to talk Christianity at home to men of that class whom knowledge has placed above creeds and forms. There are, of course, Japanese scholars willing to aid researches of foreign scholars in religion or in folk-lore; but these specialists do not undertake to gratify idle curiosity of the 'globe-trotting' description. I may also say that the foreigner desirous to learn the religious ideas or superstitions of the common people must obtain them from the people themselves--not from the educated classes. Sec. 18 Among all my favourite students--two or three from each class--I cannot decide whom I like the best. Each has a particular merit of his own. But I think the names and faces of those of whom I am about to speak will longest remain vivid in my remembrance--Ishihara, Otani-Masanobu, Adzukizawa, Yokogi, Shida. Ishihara is a samurai a very influential lad in his class because of his uncommon force of character. Compared with others, he has a somewhat brusque, independent manner, pleasing, however, by its honest manliness. He says everything he thinks, and precisely in the tone that he thinks it, even to the degree of being a little embarrassing sometimes. He does not hesitate, for example, to find fault with a teacher's method of explanation, and to insist upon a more lucid one. He has criticized me more than once; but I never found that he was wrong. We like each other very much. He often brings me flowers. One day that he had brought two beautiful sprays of plum-blossoms, he said to me: 'I saw you bow before our Emperor's picture at the ceremony on the birthday of His Majesty. You are not like a former English teacher we had.' 'How?' 'He said we were savages.' 'Why?' 'He said there is nothing respectable except God--his God--and that only vulgar and ignorant people respect anything else.' 'Where did he come from?' 'He was a Christian clergyman, and said he was an English subject.' 'But if he was an English subject, he was bound to respect Her Majesty the Queen. He could not even enter the office of a British consul without removing his hat.' 'I don't know what he did in the country he came from. But that was what he said. Now we think we should love and honour our Emperor. We think it is a duty. We think it is a joy. We think it is happiness to be able to give our lives for our Emperor. [9] But he said we were only savages-- ignorant savages. What do you think of that?' 'I think, my dear lad, that he himself was a savage--a vulgar, ignorant, savage bigot. I think it is your highest social duty to honour your Emperor, to obey his laws, and to be ready to give your blood whenever he may require it of you for the sake of Japan. I think it is your duty to respect the gods of your fathers, the religion of your country--even if you yourself cannot believe all that others believe. And I think, also, that it is your duty, for your Emperor's sake and for your country's sake, to resent any such wicked and vulgar language as that you have told me of, no matter by whom uttered.' Masanobu visits me seldom and always comes alone. A slender, handsome lad, with rather feminine features, reserved and perfectly self- possessed in manner, refined. He is somewhat serious, does not often smile; and I never heard him laugh. He has risen to the head of his class, and appears to remain there without any extraordinary effort. Much of his leisure time he devotes to botany--collecting and classifying plants. He is a musician, like all the male members of his family. He plays a variety of instruments never seen or heard of in the West, including flutes of marble, flutes of ivory, flutes of bamboo of wonderful shapes and tones, and that shrill Chinese instrument called sho--a sort of mouth-organ consisting of seventeen tubes of different lengths fixed in a silver frame. He first explained to me the uses in temple music of the taiko and shoko, which are drums; of the flutes called fei or teki; of the flageolet termed hichiriki; and of the kakko, which is a little drum shaped like a spool with very narrow waist, On great Buddhist festivals, Masanobu and his father and his brothers are the musicians in the temple services, and they play the strange music called Ojo and Batto--music which at first no Western ear can feel pleasure in, but which, when often heard, becomes comprehensible, and is found to possess a weird charm of its own. When Masanobu comes to the house, it is usually in order to invite me to attend some Buddhist or Shinto festival (matsuri) which he knows will interest me. Adzukizawa bears so little resemblance to Masanobu that one might suppose the two belonged to totally different races. Adzukizawa is large, raw-boned, heavy-looking, with a face singularly like that of a North American Indian. His people are not rich; he can afford few pleasures which cost money, except one--buying books. Even to be able to do this he works in his leisure hours to earn money. He is a perfect bookworm, a natural-born researcher, a collector of curious documents, a haunter of all the queer second-hand stores in Teramachi and other streets where old manuscripts or prints are on sale as waste paper. He is an omnivorous reader, and a perpetual borrower of volumes, which he always returns in perfect condition after having copied what he deemed of most value to him. But his special delight is philosophy and the history of philosophers in all countries. He has read various epitomes of the history of philosophy in the Occident, and everything of modern philosophy which has been translated into Japanese--including Spencer's First Principles. I have been able to introduce him to Lewes and John Fiske--both of which he appreciates,--although the strain of studying philosophy in English is no small one. Happily he is so strong that no amount of study is likely to injure his health, and his nerves are tough as wire. He is quite an ascetic withal. As it is the Japanese custom to set cakes and tea before visitors, I always have both in readiness, and an especially fine quality of kwashi, made at Kitzuki, of which the students are very fond. Adzukizawa alone refuses to taste cakes or confectionery of any kind, saying: 'As I am the youngest brother, I must begin to earn my own living soon. I shall have to endure much hardship. And if I allow myself to like dainties now, I shall only suffer more later on.' Adzukizawa has seen much of human life and character. He is naturally observant; and he has managed in some extraordinary way to learn the history of everybody in Matsue. He has brought me old tattered prints to prove that the opinions now held by our director are diametrically opposed to the opinions he advocated fourteen years ago in a public address. I asked the director about it. He laughed and said, 'Of course that is Adzukizawa! But he is right: I was very young then.' And I wonder if Adzukizawa was ever young. Yokogi, Adzukizawa's dearest friend, is a very rare visitor; for he is always studying at home. He is always first in his class--the third year class--while Adzukizawa is fourth. Adzukizawa's account of the beginning of their acquaintance is this: 'I watched him when he came and saw that he spoke very little, walked very quickly, and looked straight into everybody's eyes. So I knew he had a particular character. I like to know people with a particular character.' Adzukizawa was perfectly right: under a very gentle exterior, Yokogi has an extremely strong character. He is the son of a carpenter; and his parents could not afford to send him to the Middle School. But he had shown such exceptional qualities while in the Elementary School that a wealthy man became interested in him, and offered to pay for his education. [10] He is now the pride of the school. He has a remarkably placid face, with peculiarly long eyes, and a delicious smile. In class he is always asking intelligent questions--questions so original that I am sometimes extremely puzzled how to answer them; and he never ceases to ask until the explanation is quite satisfactory to himself. He never cares about the opinion of his comrades if he thinks he is right. On one occasion when the whole class refused to attend the lectures of a new teacher of physics, Yokogi alone refused to act with them--arguing that although the teacher was not all that could be desired, there was no immediate possibility of his removal, and no just reason for making unhappy a man who, though unskilled, was sincerely doing his best. Adzukizawa finally stood by him. These two alone attended the lectures until the remainder of the students, two weeks later, found that Yokogi's views were rational. On another occasion when some vulgar proselytism was attempted by a Christian missionary, Yokogi went boldly to the proselytiser's house, argued with him on the morality of his effort, and reduced him to silence. Some of his comrades praised his cleverness in the argument. 'I am not clever,' he made answer: 'it does not require cleverness to argue against what is morally wrong; it requires only the knowledge that one is morally right.' At least such is about the translation of what he said as told me by Adzukizawa. Shida, another visitor, is a very delicate, sensitive boy, whose soul is full of art. He is very skilful at drawing and painting; and he has a wonderful set of picture-books by the Old Japanese masters. The last time he came he brought some prints to show me--rare ones--fairy maidens and ghosts. As I looked at his beautiful pale face and weirdly frail fingers, I could not help fearing for him,--fearing that he might soon become a little ghost. I have not seen him now for more than two months. He has been very, very ill; and his lungs are so weak that the doctor has forbidden him to converse. But Adzukizawa has been to visit him, and brings me this translation of a Japanese letter which the sick boy wrote and pasted upon the wall above his bed: 'Thou, my Lord-Soul, dost govern me. Thou knowest that I cannot now govern myself. Deign, I pray thee, to let me be cured speedily. Do not suffer me to speak much. Make me to obey in all things the command of the physician. 'This ninth day of the eleventh month of the twenty-fourth year of Meiji. 'From the sick body of Shida to his Soul.' Sec. 19 September 4, 1891. The long summer vacation is over; a new school year begins. There have been many changes. Some of the boys I taught are dead. Others have graduated and gone away from Matsue for ever. Some teachers, too, have left the school, and their places have been filled; and there is a new Director. And the dear good Governor has gone--been transferred to cold Niigata in the north-west. It was a promotion. But he had ruled Izumo for seven years, and everybody loved him, especially, perhaps, the students, who looked upon him as a father. All the population of the city crowded to the river to bid him farewell. The streets through which he passed on his way to take the steamer, the bridge, the wharves, even the roofs were thronged with multitudes eager to see his face for the last time. Thousands were weeping. And as the steamer glided from the wharf such a cry arose--'A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!' It was intended for a cheer, but it seemed to me the cry of a whole city sorrowing, and so plaintive that I hope never to hear such a cry again. The names and faces of the younger classes are all strange to me. Doubtless this was why the sensation of my first day's teaching in the school came back to me with extraordinary vividness when I entered the class-room of First Division A this morning. Strangely pleasant is the first sensation of a Japanese class, as you look over the ranges of young faces before you. There is nothing in them familiar to inexperienced Western eyes; yet there is an indescribable pleasant something common to all. Those traits have nothing incisive, nothing forcible: compared with Occidental faces they seem but 'half- sketched,' so soft their outlines are--indicating neither aggressiveness nor shyness, neither eccentricity nor sympathy, neither curiosity nor indifference. Some, although faces of youths well grown, have a childish freshness and frankness indescribable; some are as uninteresting as others are attractive; a few are beautifully feminine. But all are equally characterized by a singular placidity--expressing neither love nor hate nor anything save perfect repose and gentleness--like the dreamy placidity of Buddhist images. At a later day you will no longer recognise this aspect of passionless composure: with growing acquaintance each face will become more and more individualised for you by characteristics before imperceptible. But the recollection of that first impression will remain with you and the time will come when you will find, by many varied experiences, how strangely it foreshadowed something in Japanese character to be fully learned only after years of familiarity. You will recognize in the memory of that first impression one glimpse of the race-soul, with its impersonal lovableness and its impersonal weaknesses--one glimpse of the nature of a life in which the Occidental, dwelling alone, feels a psychic comfort comparable only to the nervous relief of suddenly emerging from some stifling atmospheric pressure into thin, clear, free living air. Sec. 20 Was it not the eccentric Fourier who wrote about the horrible faces of 'the _civilizés_'? Whoever it was, would have found seeming confirmation of his physiognomical theory could he have known the effect produced by the first sight of European faces in the most eastern East. What we are taught at home to consider handsome, interesting, or characteristic in physiognomy does not produce the same impression in China or Japan. Shades of facial expression familiar to us as letters of our own alphabet are not perceived at all in Western features by these Orientals at first acquaintance. What they discern at once is the race- characteristic, not the individuality. The evolutional meaning of the deep-set Western eye, protruding brow, accipitrine nose, ponderous jaw-- symbols of aggressive force and habit--was revealed to the gentler race by the same sort of intuition through which a tame animal immediately comprehends the dangerous nature of the first predatory enemy which it sees. To Europeans the smooth-featured, slender, low-statured Japanese seemed like boys; and 'boy' is the term by which the native attendant of a Yokohama merchant is still called. To Japanese the first red-haired, rowdy, drunken European sailors seemed fiends, shojo, demons of the sea; and by the Chinese the Occidentals are still called 'foreign devils.' The great stature and massive strength and fierce gait of foreigners in Japan enhanced the strange impression created by their faces. Children cried for fear on seeing them pass through the streets. And in remoter districts, Japanese children are still apt to cry at the first sight of a European or American face. A lady of Matsue related in my presence this curious souvenir of her childhood: 'When I was a very little girl,' she said, our daimyo hired a foreigner to teach the military art. My father and a great many samurai went to receive the foreigner; and all the people lined the streets to see--for no foreigner had ever come to Izumo before; and we all went to look. The foreigner came by ship: there were no steamboats here then. He was very tall, and walked quickly with long steps; and the children began to cry at the sight of him, because his face was not like the faces of the people of Nihon. My little brother cried out loud, and hid his face in mother's robe; and mother reproved him and said: "This foreigner is a very good man who has come here to serve our prince; and it is very disrespectful to cry at seeing him." But he still cried. I was not afraid; and I looked up at the foreigner's face as he came and smiled. He had a great beard; and I thought his face was good though it seemed to me a very strange face and stern. Then he stopped and smiled too, and put something in my hand, and touched my head and face very softly with his great fingers, and said something I could not understand, and went away. After he had gone I looked at what he put into my hand and found that it was a pretty little glass to look through. If you put a fly under that glass it looks quite big. At that time I thought the glass was a very wonderful thing. I have it still.' She took from a drawer in the room and placed before me a tiny, dainty pocket-microscope. The hero of this little incident was a French military officer. His services were necessarily dispensed with on the abolition of the feudal system. Memories of him still linger in Matsue; and old people remember a popular snatch about him--a sort of rapidly-vociferated rigmarole, supposed to be an imitation of his foreign speech: Tojin no negoto niwa kinkarakuri medagasho, Saiboji ga shimpeishite harishite keisan, Hanryo na Sacr-r-r-r-r-é-na-nom-da-Jiu. Sec. 21 November 2, 1891. Shida will never come to school again. He sleeps under the shadow of the cedars, in the old cemetery of Tokoji. Yokogi, at the memorial service, read a beautiful address (saibun) to the soul of his dead comrade. But Yokogi himself is down. And I am very much afraid for him. He is suffering from some affection of the brain, brought on, the doctor says, by studying a great deal too hard. Even if he gets well, he will always have to be careful. Some of us hope much; for the boy is vigorously built and so young. Strong Sakane burst a blood-vessel last month and is now well. So we trust that Yokogi may rally. Adzukizawa daily brings news of his friend. But the rally never comes. Some mysterious spring in the mechanism of the young life has been broken. The mind lives only in brief intervals between long hours of unconsciousness. Parents watch, and friends, for these living moments to whisper caressing things, or to ask: 'Is there anything thou dost wish?' And one night the answer comes: 'Yes: I want to go to the school; I want to see the school.' Then they wonder if the fine brain has not wholly given way, while they make answer: 'It is midnight past, and there is no moon. And the night is cold.' 'No; I can see by the stars--I want to see the school again.' They make kindliest protests in vain: the dying boy only repeats, with the plaintive persistence of a last--'I want to see the school again; I want to see it now.' So there is a murmured consultation in the neighbouring room; and tansu-drawers are unlocked, warm garments prepared. Then Fusaichi, the strong servant, enters with lantern lighted, and cries out in his kind rough voice: 'Master Tomi will go to the school upon my back: 'tis but a little way; he shall see the school again. Carefully they wrap up the lad in wadded robes; then he puts his arms about Fusaichi's shoulders like a child; and the strong servant bears him lightly through the wintry street; and the father hurries beside Fusaichi, bearing the lantern. And it is not far to the school, over the little bridge. The huge dark grey building looks almost black in the night; but Yokogi can see. He looks at the windows of his own classroom; at the roofed side-door where each morning for four happy years he used to exchange his getas for soundless sandals of straw; at the lodge of the slumbering Kodzukai; [11] at the silhouette of the bell hanging black in its little turret against the stars. Then he murmurs: 'I can remember all now. I had forgotten--so sick I was. I remember everything again: Oh, Fusaichi, you are very good. I am so glad to have seen the school again.' And they hasten back through the long void streets. Sec. 22 November 26 1891. Yokogi will be buried to-morrow evening beside his comrade Shida. When a poor person is about to die, friends and neighbours come to the house and do all they can to help the family. Some bear the tidings to distant relatives; others prepare all necessary things; others, when the death has been announced, summon the Buddhist priests. [12] It is said that the priests know always of a parishioner's death at night, before any messenger is sent to them; for the soul of the dead knocks heavily, once, upon the door of the family temple. Then the priests arise and robe themselves, and when the messenger comes make answer: 'We know: we are ready.' Meanwhile the body is carried out before the family butsudan, and laid upon the floor. No pillow is placed under the head. A naked sword is laid across the limbs to keep evil spirits away. The doors of the butsudan are opened; and tapers are lighted before the tablets of the ancestors; and incense is burned. All friends send gifts of incense. Wherefore a gift of incense, however rare and precious, given upon any other occasion, is held to be unlucky. But the Shinto household shrine must be hidden from view with white paper; and the Shinto ofuda fastened upon the house door must be covered up during all the period of mourning. [13] And in all that time no member of the family may approach a Shinto temple, or pray to the Kami, or even pass beneath a torii. A screen (biobu) is extended between the body and the principal entrance of the death chamber; and the kaimyo, inscribed upon a strip of white paper, is fastened upon the screen. If the dead be young the screen must be turned upside-down; but this is not done in the case of old people. Friends pray beside the corpse. There a little box is placed, containing one thousand peas, to be used for counting during the recital of those one thousand pious invocations, which, it is believed, will improve the condition of the soul on its unfamiliar journey. The priests come and recite the sutras; and then the body is prepared for burial. It is washed in warm water, and robed all in white. But the kimono of the dead is lapped over to the left side. Wherefore it is considered unlucky at any other time to fasten one's kimono thus, even by accident. When the body has been put into that strange square coffin which looks something like a wooden palanquin, each relative puts also into the coffin some of his or her hair or nail parings, symbolizing their blood. And six rin are also placed in the coffin, for the six Jizo who stand at the heads of the ways of the Six Shadowy Worlds. The funeral procession forms at the family residence. A priest leads it, ringing a little bell; a boy bears the ihai of the newly dead. The van of the procession is wholly composed of men--relatives and friends. Some carry hata, white symbolic bannerets; some bear flowers; all carry paper lanterns--for in Izumo the adult dead are buried after dark: only children are buried by day. Next comes the kwan or coffin, borne palanquin-wise upon the shoulders of men of that pariah caste whose office it is to dig graves and assist at funerals. Lastly come the women mourners. They are all white-hooded and white-robed from head to feet, like phantoms. [14] Nothing more ghostly than this sheeted train of an Izumo funeral procession, illuminated only by the glow of paper lanterns, can be imagined. It is a weirdness that, once seen, will often return in dreams. At the temple the kwan is laid upon the pavement before the entrance; and another service is performed, with plaintive music and recitation of sutras. Then the procession forms again, winds once round the temple court, and takes its way to the cemetery. But the body is not buried until twenty-four hours later, lest the supposed dead should awake in the grave. Corpses are seldom burned in Izumo. In this, as in other matters, the predominance of Shinto sentiment is manifest. Sec. 23 For the last time I see his face again, as he lies upon his bed of death--white-robed from neck to feet--white-girdled for his shadowy journey--but smiling with closed eyes in almost the same queer gentle way he was wont to smile at class on learning the explanation of some seeming riddle in our difficult English tongue. Only, methinks, the smile is sweeter now, as with sudden larger knowledge of more mysterious things. So smiles, through dusk of incense in the great temple of Tokoji, the golden face of Buddha. Sec. 24 December 23, 1891. The great bell of Tokoji is booming for the memorial service--for the tsuito-kwai of Yokogi--slowly and regularly as a minute-gun. Peal on peal of its rich bronze thunder shakes over the lake, surges over the roofs of the town, and breaks in deep sobs of sound against the green circle of the hills. It is a touching service, this tsuito-kwai, with quaint ceremonies which, although long since adopted into Japanese Buddhism, are of Chinese origin and are beautiful. It is also a costly ceremony; and the parents of Yokogi are very poor. But all the expenses have been paid by voluntary subscription of students and teachers. Priests from every great temple of the Zen sect in Izumo have assembled at Tokoji. All the teachers of the city and all the students have entered the hondo of the huge temple, and taken their places to the right and to the left of the high altar--kneeling on the matted floor, and leaving, on the long broad steps without, a thousand shoes and sandals. Before the main entrance, and facing the high shrine, a new butsudan has been placed, within whose open doors the ihai of the dead boy glimmers in lacquer and gilding. And upon a small stand before the butsudan have been placed an incense-vessel with bundles of senko-rods and offerings of fruits, confections, rice, and flowers. Tall and beautiful flower- vases on each side of the butsudan are filled with blossoming sprays, exquisitely arranged. Before the honzon tapers burn in massive candelabra whose stems of polished brass are writhing monsters--the Dragon Ascending and the Dragon Descending; and incense curls up from vessels shaped like the sacred deer, like the symbolic tortoise, like the meditative stork of Buddhist legend. And beyond these, in the twilight of the vast alcove, the Buddha smiles the smile of Perfect Rest. Between the butsudan and the honzon a little table has been placed; and on either side of it the priests kneel in ranks, facing each other: rows of polished heads, and splendours of vermilion silks and vestments gold- embroidered. The great bell ceases to peal; the Segaki prayer, which is the prayer uttered when offerings of food are made to the spirits of the dead, is recited; and a sudden sonorous measured tapping, accompanied by a plaintive chant, begins the musical service. The tapping is the tapping of the mokugyo--a huge wooden fish-head, lacquered and gilded, like the head of a dolphin grotesquely idealised--marking the time; and the chant is the chant of the Chapter of Kwannon in the Hokkekyo, with its magnificent invocation: 'O Thou whose eyes are clear, whose eyes are kind, whose eyes are full of pity and of sweetness--O Thou Lovely One, with thy beautiful face, with thy beautiful eye--O Thou Pure One, whose luminosity is without spot, whose knowledge is without shado--O Thou forever shining like that Sun whose glory no power may repel--Thou Sun-like in the course of Thy mercy, pourest Light upon the world!' And while the voices of the leaders chant clear and high in vibrant unison, the multitude of the priestly choir recite in profoundest undertone the mighty verses; and the sound of their recitation is like the muttering of surf. The mokugyo ceases its dull echoing, the impressive chant ends, and the leading officiants, one by one, high priests of famed temples, approach the ihai. Each bows low, ignites an incense-rod, and sets it upright in the little vase of bronze. Each at a time recites a holy verse of which the initial sound is the sound of a letter in the kaimyo of the dead boy; and these verses, uttered in the order of the characters upon the ihai, form the sacred Acrostic whose name is The Words of Perfume. Then the priests retire to their places; and after a little silence begins the reading of the saibun--the reading of the addresses to the soul of the dead. The students speak first--one from each class, chosen by election. The elected rises, approaches the little table before the high altar, bows to the honzon, draws from his bosom a paper and reads it in those melodious, chanting, and plaintive tones which belong to the reading of Chinese texts. So each one tells the affection of the living to the dead, in words of loving grief and loving hope. And last among the students a gentle girl rises--a pupil of the Normal School--to speak in tones soft as a bird's. As each saibun is finished, the reader lays the written paper upon the table before the honzon, and bows; and retires. It is now the turn of the teachers; and an old man takes his place at the little table--old Katayama, the teacher of Chinese, famed as a poet, adored as an instructor. And because the students all love him as a father, there is a strange intensity of silence as he begins-- Ko-Shimane-Ken-Jinjo-Chugakko-yo-nen-sei: 'Here upon the twenty-third day of the twelfth month of the twenty- fourth year of Meiji, I, Katayama Shokei, teacher of the Jinjo Chugakko of Shimane Ken, attending in great sorrow the holy service of the dead [tsui-fuku], do speak unto the soul of Yokogi Tomisaburo, my pupil. 'Having been, as thou knowest, for twice five years, at different periods, a teacher of the school, I have indeed met with not a few most excellent students. But very, very rarely in any school may the teacher find one such as thou--so patient and so earnest, so diligent and so careful in all things--so distinguished among thy comrades by thy blameless conduct, observing every precept, never breaking a rule. 'Of old in the land of Kihoku, famed for its horses, whenever a horse of rarest breed could not be obtained, men were wont to say: "There is no horse." Still there are many line lads among our students--many ryume, fine young steeds; but we have lost the best. 'To die at the age of seventeen--the best period of life for study--even when of the Ten Steps thou hadst already ascended six! Sad is the thought; but sadder still to know that thy last illness was caused only by thine own tireless zeal of study. Even yet more sad our conviction that with those rare gifts, and with that rare character of thine, thou wouldst surely, in that career to which thou wast destined, have achieved good and great things, honouring the names of thine ancestors, couldst thou have lived to manhood. 'I see thee lifting thy hand to ask some question; then bending above thy little desk to make note of all thy poor old teacher was able to tell thee. Again I see thee in the ranks--thy rifle upon thy shoulder-- so bravely erect during the military exercises. Even now thy face is before me, with its smile, as plainly as if thou wert present in the body--thy voice I think I hear distinctly as though thou hadst but this instant finished speaking; yet I know that, except in memory, these never will be seen and heard again. O Heaven, why didst thou take away that dawning life from the world, and leave such a one as I--old Shokei, feeble, decrepit, and of no more use? 'To thee my relation was indeed only that of teacher to pupil. Yet what is my distress! I have a son of twenty-four years; he is now far from me, in Yokohama. I know he is only a worthless youth; [15] yet never for so much as the space of one hour does the thought of him leave his old father's heart. Then how must the father and mother, the brothers and the sisters of this gentle and gifted youth feel now that he is gone! Only to think of it forces the tears from my eyes: I cannot speak --so full my heart is. 'Aa! aa!--thou hast gone from us; thou hast gone from us! Yet though thou hast died, thy earnestness, thy goodness, will long be honoured and told of as examples to the students of our school. 'Here, therefore, do we, thy teachers and thy schoolmates, hold this service in behalf of thy spirit,--with prayer and offerings. Deign thou, 0 gentle Soul, to honour our love by the acceptance of our humble gifts.' Then a sound of sobbing is suddenly whelmed by the resonant booming of the great fish's-head, as the high-pitched voices of the leaders of the chant begin the grand Nehan-gyo, the Sutra of Nirvana, the song of passage triumphant over the Sea of Death and Birth; and deep below those high tones and the hollow echoing of the mokugyo, the surging bass of a century of voices reciting the sonorous words, sounds like the breaking of a sea: 'Sho-gyo mu-jo, je-sho meppo.--Transient are all. They, being born, must die. And being born, are dead. And being dead, are glad to be at rest.' CHAPTER FIVE Two Strange Festivals THE outward signs of any Japanese matsuri are the most puzzling of enigmas to the stranger who sees them for the first time. They are many and varied; they are quite unlike anything in the way of holiday decoration ever seen in the Occident; they have each a meaning founded upon some belief or some tradition--a meaning known to every Japanese child; but that meaning is utterly impossible for any foreigner to guess. Yet whoever wishes to know something of Japanese popular life and feeling must learn the signification of at least the most common among festival symbols and tokens. Especially is such knowledge necessary to the student of Japanese art: without it, not only the delicate humour and charm of countless designs must escape him, but in many instances the designs themselves must remain incomprehensible to him. For hundreds of years the emblems of festivity have been utilised by the Japanese in graceful decorative ways: they figure in metalwork, on porcelain, on the red or black lacquer of the humblest household utensils, on little brass pipes, on the clasps of tobacco-pouches. It may even be said that the majority of common decorative design is emblematical. The very figures of which the meaning seems most obvious--those matchless studies [1] of animal or vegetable life with which the Western curio-buyer is most familiar--have usually some ethical signification which is not perceived at all. Or take the commonest design dashed with a brush upon the fusuma of a cheap hotel--a lobster, sprigs of pine, tortoises waddling in a curl of water, a pair of storks, a spray of bamboo. It is rarely that a foreign tourist thinks of asking why such designs are used instead of others, even when he has seen them repeated, with slight variation, at twenty different places along his route. They have become conventional simply because they are emblems of which the sense is known to all Japanese, however ignorant, but is never even remotely suspected by the stranger. The subject is one about which a whole encyclopaedia might be written, but about which I know very little--much too little for a special essay. But I may venture, by way of illustration, to speak of the curious objects exhibited during two antique festivals still observed in all parts of Japan. Sec. 2 The first is the Festival of the New Year, which lasts for three days. In Matsue its celebration is particularly interesting, as the old city still preserves many matsuri customs which have either become, or are rapidly becoming, obsolete elsewhere. The streets are then profusely decorated, and all shops are closed. Shimenawa or shimekazari--the straw ropes which have been sacred symbols of Shinto from the mythical age-- are festooned along the façades of the dwellings, and so inter-joined that you see to right or left what seems but a single mile-long shimenawa, with its straw pendents and white fluttering paper gohei, extending along either side of the street as far as the eye can reach. Japanese flags--bearing on a white ground the great crimson disk which is the emblem of the Land of the Rising Sun--flutter above the gateways; and the same national emblem glows upon countless paper lanterns strung in rows along the eaves or across the streets and temple avenues. And before every gate or doorway a kadomatsu ('gate pine-tree') has been erected. So that all the ways are lined with green, and full of bright colour. The kadomatsu is more than its name implies. It is a young pine, or part of a pine, conjoined with plum branches and bamboo cuttings. [2] Pine, plum, and bamboo are growths of emblematic significance. Anciently the pine alone was used; but from the era of O-ei, the bamboo was added; and within more recent times the plum-tree. The pine has many meanings. But the fortunate one most generally accepted is that of endurance and successful energy in time of misfortune. As the pine keeps its green leaves when other trees lose their foliage, so the true man keeps his courage and his strength in adversity. The pine is also, as I have said elsewhere, a symbol of vigorous old age. No European could possibly guess the riddle of the bamboo. It represents a sort of pun in symbolism. There are two Chinese characters both pronounced setsu--one signifying the node or joint of the bamboo, and the other virtue, fidelity, constancy. Therefore is the bamboo used as a felicitous sign. The name 'Setsu,' be it observed, is often given to Japanese maidens--just as the names 'Faith,' 'Fidelia,' and 'Constance' are given to English girls. The plum-tree--of whose emblematic meaning I said something in a former paper about Japanese gardens--is not invariably used, however; sometimes sakaki, the sacred plant of Shinto, is substituted for it; and sometimes only pine and bamboo form the kadomatsu. Every decoration used upon the New Year's festival has a meaning of a curious and unfamiliar kind; and the very cornmonest of all--the straw rope--possesses the most complicated symbolism. In the first place it is scarcely necessary to explain that its origin belongs to that most ancient legend of the Sun-Goddess being tempted to issue from the cavern into which she had retired, and being prevented from returning thereunto by a deity who stretched a rope of straw across the entrance--all of which is written in the Kojiki. Next observe that, although the shimenawa may be of any thickness, it must be twisted so that the direction of the twist is to the left; for in ancient Japanese philosophy the left is the 'pure' or fortunate side: owing perhaps to the old belief, common among the uneducated of Europe to this day, that the heart lies to the left. Thirdly, note that the pendent straws, which hang down from the rope at regular intervals, in tufts, like fringing, must be of different numbers according to the place of the tufts, beginning with the number three: so that the first tuft has three straws, the second live, the third seven, the fourth again three, the fifth five, and the sixth seven--and so on, the whole length of the rope. The origin of the pendent paper cuttings (gohei), which alternate with the straw tufts, is likewise to be sought in the legend of the Sun-Goddess; but the gohei also represent offerings of cloth anciently made to the gods according to a custom long obsolete. But besides the gohei, there are many other things attached to the shimenawa of which you could not imagine the signification. Among these are fern-leaves, bitter oranges, yuzuri-leaves, and little bundles of charcoal. Why fern-leaves (moromoki or urajiro)? Because the fern-leaf is the symbol of the hope of exuberant posterity: even as it branches and branches so may the happy family increase and multiply through the generations. Why bitter oranges (daidai)? Because there is a Chinese word daidai signifying 'from generation unto generation.' Wherefore the fruit called daidai has become a fruit of good omen. But why charcoal (sumi)? It signifies 'prosperous changelessness.' Here the idea is decidedly curious. Even as the colour of charcoal cannot be changed, so may the fortunes of those we love remain for ever unchanged In all that gives happiness! The signification of the yuzuri-leaf I explained in a former paper. Besides the great shimenawa in front of the house, shimenawa or shimekazari [3] are suspended above the toko, or alcoves, in each apartment; and over the back gate, or over the entrance to the gallery of the second story (if there be a second story), is hung a 'wajime, which is a very small shimekazari twisted into a sort of wreath, and decorated with fern-leaves, gohei, and yuzuri-leaves. But the great domestic display of the festival is the decoration of the kamidana--the shelf of the Gods. Before the household miya are placed great double rice cakes; and the shrine is beautiful with flowers, a tiny shimekazari, and sprays of sakaki. There also are placed a string of cash; kabu (turnips); daikon (radishes); a tai-fish, which is the 'king of fishes,' dried slices of salt cuttlefish; jinbaso, of 'the Seaweed of the horse of the God'; [4] also the seaweed kombu, which is a symbol of pleasure and of joy, because its name is deemed to be a homonym for gladness; and mochibana, artificial blossoms formed of rice flour and straw. The sambo is a curiously shaped little table on which offer-ings are made to the Shinto gods; and almost every well-to-do household in hzumo has its own sambo--such a family sambo being smaller, however, than sambo used in the temples. At the advent of the New Year's Festival, bitter oranges, rice, and rice-flour cakes, native sardines (iwashi), chikara-iwai ('strength-rice-bread'), black peas, dried chestnuts, and a fine lobster, are all tastefully arranged upon the family sambo. Before each visitor the sambo is set; and the visitor, by saluting it with a prostration, expresses not only his heartfelt wish that all the good- fortune symbolised by the objects upon the sambo may come to the family, but also his reverence for the household gods. The black peas (mame) signify bodily strength and health, because a word similarly pronounced, though written with a different ideograph, means 'robust.' But why a lobster? Here we have another curious conception. The lobster's body is bent double: the body of the man who lives to a very great old age is also bent. Thus the Lobster stands for a symbol of extreme old age; and in artistic design signifies the wish that our friends may live so long that they will become bent like lobsters--under the weight of years. And the dried chestnut (kachiguri) are emblems of success, because the first character of their name in Japanese is the homonym of kachi, which means 'victory,' 'conquest.' There are at least a hundred other singular customs and emblems belonging to the New Year's Festival which would require a large volume to describe. I have mentioned only a few which immediately appear to even casual observation. Sec. 3 The other festival I wish, to refer to is that of the Setsubun, which, according to the ancient Japanese calendar, corresponded with the beginning of the natural year--the period when winter first softens into spring. It is what we might term, according to Professor Chamberlain, 'a sort of movable feast'; and it is chiefly famous for the curious ceremony of the casting out of devils--Oni-yarai. On the eve of the Setsubun, a little after dark, the Yaku-otoshi, or caster-out of devils, wanders through the streets from house to house, rattling his shakujo, [5] and uttering his strange professional cry: 'Oni wa soto!--fuku wa uchi!' [Devils out! Good-fortune in!] For a trifling fee he performs his little exorcism in any house to which he is called. This simply consists in the recitation of certain parts of a Buddhist kyo, or sutra, and the rattling of the shakujo Afterwards dried peas (shiro-mame) are thrown about the house in four directions. For some mysterious reason, devils do not like dried peas--and flee therefrom. The peas thus scattered are afterward swept up and carefully preserved until the first clap of spring thunder is heard, when it is the custom to cook and eat some of them. But just why, I cannot find out; neither can I discover the origin of the dislike of devils for dried peas. On the subject of this dislike, however, I confess my sympathy with devils. After the devils have been properly cast out, a small charm is placed above all the entrances of the dwelling to keep them from coming back again. This consists of a little stick about the length and thickness of a skewer, a single holly-leaf, and the head of a dried iwashi--a fish resembling a sardine. The stick is stuck through the middle of the holly-leaf; and the fish's head is fastened into a split made in one end of the stick; the other end being slipped into some joint of the timber- work immediately above a door. But why the devils are afraid of the holly-leaf and the fish's head, nobody seems to know. Among the people the origin of all these curious customs appears to be quite forgotten; and the families of the upper classes who still maintain such customs believe in the superstitions relating to the festival just as little as Englishmen to-day believe in the magical virtues of mistletoe or ivy. This ancient and merry annual custom of casting out devils has been for generations a source of inspiration to Japanese artists. It is only after a fair acquaintance with popular customs and ideas that the foreigner can learn to appreciate the delicious humour of many art- creations which he may wish, indeed, to buy just because they are so oddly attractive in themselves, but which must really remain enigmas to him, so far as their inner meaning is concerned, unless he knows Japanese life. The other day a friend gave me a little card-case of perfumed leather. On one side was stamped in relief the face of a devil, through the orifice of whose yawning mouth could be seen--painted upon the silk lining of the interior--the laughing, chubby face of Otafuku, joyful Goddess of Good Luck. In itself the thing was very curious and pretty; but the real merit of its design was this comical symbolism of good wishes for the New Year: 'Oni wa soto!--fuku wa uchi!' Sec. 4 Since I have spoken of the custom of eating some of the Setsubun peas at the time of the first spring thunder, I may here take the opportunity to say a few words about superstitions in regard to thunder which have not yet ceased to prevail among the peasantry. When a thunder-storm comes, the big brown mosquito curtains are suspended, and the women and children--perhaps the whole family--squat down under the curtains till the storm is over. From ancient days it has been believed that lightning cannot kill anybody under a mosquito curtain. The Raiju, or Thunder-Animal, cannot pass through a mosquito- curtain. Only the other day, an old peasant who came to the house with vegetables to sell told us that he and his whole family, while crouching under their mosquito-netting during a thunderstorm, actually, saw the Lightning rushing up and down the pillar of the balcony opposite their apartment--furiously clawing the woodwork, but unable to enter because of the mosquito-netting. His house had been badly damaged by a flash; but he supposed the mischief to have been accomplished by the Claws of the Thunder-Animal. The Thunder-Animal springs from tree to tree during a storm, they say; wherefore to stand under trees in time of thunder and lightning is very dangerous: the Thunder-Animal might step on one's head or shoulders. The Thunder-Animal is also alleged to be fond of eating the human navel; for which reason people should be careful to keep their navels well covered during storms, and to lie down upon their stomachs if possible. Incense is always burned during storms, because the Thunder-Animal hates the smell of incense. A tree stricken by lightning is thought to have been torn and scarred by the claws of the Thunder-Animal; and fragments of its bark and wood are carefully collected and preserved by dwellers in the vicinity; for the wood of a blasted tree is alleged to have the singular virtue of curing toothache. There are many stories of the Raiju having been caught and caged. Once, it is said, the Thunder-Animal fell into a well, and got entangled in the ropes and buckets, and so was captured alive. And old Izumo folk say they remember that the Thunder-Animal was once exhibited in the court of the Temple of Tenjin in Matsue, inclosed in a cage of brass; and that people paid one sen each to look at it. It resembled a badger. When the weather was clear it would sleep contentedly in its, cage. But when there was thunder in the air, it would become excited, and seem to obtain great strength, and its eyes would flash dazzlingly. Sec. 5 There is one very evil spirit, however, who is not in the least afraid of dried peas, and who cannot be so easily got rid of as the common devils; and that is Bimbogami. But in Izumo people know a certain household charm whereby Bimbogami may sometimes be cast out. Before any cooking is done in a Japanese kitchen, the little charcoal fire is first blown to a bright red heat with that most useful and simple household utensil called a hifukidake. The hifukidake ('fire- blow-bamboo') is a bamboo tube usually about three feet long and about two inches in diameter. At one end--the end which is to be turned toward the fire--only a very small orifice is left; the woman who prepares the meal places the other end to her lips, and blows through the tube upon the kindled charcoal. Thus a quick fire may be obtained in a few minutes. In course of time the hifukidake becomes scorched and cracked and useless. A new 'fire-blow-tube' is then made; and the old one is used as a charm against Bimbogami. One little copper coin (rin) is put into it, some magical formula is uttered, and then the old utensil, with the rin inside of it, is either simply thrown out through the front gate into the street, or else flung into some neighbouring stream. This--I know not why--is deemed equivalent to pitching Bimbogami out of doors, and rendering it impossible for him to return during a considerable period. It may be asked how is the invisible presence of Bimbogami to be detected. The little insect which makes that weird ticking noise at night called in England the Death-watch has a Japanese relative named by the people Bimbomushi, or the 'Poverty-Insect.' It is said to be the servant of Bimbogami, the God of Poverty; and its ticking in a house is believed to signal the presence of that most unwelcome deity. Sec. 6 One more feature of the Setsubun festival is worthy of mention--the sale of the hitogata ('people-shapes'). These: are little figures, made of white paper, representing men, women, and children. They are cut out with a few clever scissors strokes; and the difference of sex is indicated by variations in the shape of the sleeves and the little paper obi. They are sold in the Shinto temples. The purchaser buys one for every member of the family--the priest writing upon each the age and sex of the person for whom it is intended. These hitogata are then taken home and distributed; and each person slightly rubs his body or her body with the paper, and says a little Shinto prayer. Next day the hitogata are returned to the kannushi, who, after having recited certain formulae over them, burns them with holy fire. [6] By this ceremony it is hoped that all physical misfortunes will be averted from the family during a year. Chapter Six By the Japanese Sea Sec. 1 IT is the fifteenth day of the seventh month--and I am in Hokii. The blanched road winds along a coast of low cliffs--the coast of the Japanese Sea. Always on the left, over a narrow strip of stony land, or a heaping of dunes, its vast expanse appears, blue-wrinkling to that pale horizon beyond which Korea lies, under the same white sun. Sometimes, through sudden gaps in the cliff's verge, there flashes to us the running of the surf. Always upon the right another sea--a silent sea of green, reaching to far misty ranges of wooded hills, with huge pale peaks behind them--a vast level of rice-fields, over whose surface soundless waves keep chasing each other under the same great breath that moves the blue to-day from Chosen to Japan. Though during a week the sky has remained unclouded, the sea has for several days been growing angrier; and now the muttering of its surf sounds far into the land. They say that it always roughens thus during the period of the Festival of the Dead--the three days of the Bon, which are the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth of the seventh month by the ancient calendar. And on the sixteenth day, after the shoryobune, which are the Ships of Souls, have been launched, no one dares to enter it: no boats can then be hired; all the fishermen remain at home. For on that day the sea is the highway of the dead, who must pass back over its waters to their mysterious home; and therefore upon that day is it called Hotoke-umi--the Buddha-Flood--the Tide of the Returning Ghosts. And ever upon the night of that sixteenth day--whether the sea be calm or tumultuous--all its surface shimmers with faint lights gliding out to the open,--the dim fires of the dead; and there is heard a murmuring of voices, like the murmur of a city far-off,--the indistinguishable speech of souls. Sec. 2 But it may happen that some vessel, belated in spite of desperate effort to reach port, may find herself far out at sea upon the night of the sixteenth day. Then will the dead rise tall about the ship, and reach long hands and murmur: 'Tago, tago o-kure!--tago o-kure!' [1] Never may they be refused; but, before the bucket is given, the bottom of it must be knocked out. Woe to all on board should an entire tago be suffered to fall even by accident into the sea!--for the dead would at once use it to fill and sink the ship. Nor are the dead the only powers invisible dreaded in the time of the Hotoke-umi. Then are the Ma most powerful, and the Kappa. [2] But in all times the swimmer fears the Kappa, the Ape of Waters, hideous and obscene, who reaches up from the deeps to draw men down, and to devour their entrails. Only their entrails. The corpse of him who has been seized by the Kappa may be cast on shore after many days. Unless long battered against the rocks by heavy surf, or nibbled by fishes, it will show no outward wound. But it will be light and hollow--empty like a long-dried gourd. Sec. 3 Betimes, as we journey on, the monotony of undulating blue on the left, or the monotony of billowing green upon the right, is broken by the grey apparition of a cemetery--a cemetery so long that our jinricksha men, at full run, take a full quarter of an hour to pass the huge congregation of its perpendicular stones. Such visions always indicate the approach of villages; but the villages prove to be as surprisingly small as the cemeteries are surprisingly large. By hundreds of thousands do the silent populations of the hakaba outnumber the folk of the hamlets to which they belong--tiny thatched settlements sprinkled along the leagues of coast, and sheltered from the wind only by ranks of sombre pines. Legions on legions of stones--a host of sinister witnesses of the cost of the present to the past--and old, old, old!--hundreds so long in place that they have been worn into shapelessness merely by the blowing of sand from the dunes, and their inscriptions utterly effaced. It is as if one were passing through the burial-ground of all who ever lived on this wind-blown shore since the being of the land. And in all these hakaba--for it is the Bon--there are new lanterns before the newer tombs--the white lanterns which are the lanterns of graves. To-night the cemeteries will be all aglow with lights like the fires of a city for multitude. But there are also unnumbered tombs before which no lanterns are--elder myriads, each the token of a family extinct, or of which the absent descendants have forgotten even the name. Dim generations whose ghosts have none to call them back, no local memories to love--so long ago obliterated were all things related to their lives. Sec. 4 Now many of these villages are only fishing settlements, and in them stand old thatched homes of men who sailed away on some eve of tempest, and never came back. Yet each drowned sailor has his tomb in the neighbouring hakaba, and beneath it something of him has been buried. What? Among these people of the west something is always preserved which in other lands is cast away without a thought--the hozo-no-o, the flower- stalk of a life, the navel-string of the newly-born. It is enwrapped carefully in many wrappings; and upon its outermost covering are written the names of the father, the mother, and the infant, together with the date and hour of birth,--and it is kept in the family o-'mamori-bukuro. The daughter, becoming a bride, bears it with her to her new home: for the son it is preserved by his parents. It is buried with the dead; and should one die in a foreign land, or perish at sea, it is entombed in lieu of the body. Sec. 5 Concerning them that go down into the sea in ships, and stay there, strange beliefs prevail on this far coast--beliefs more primitive, assuredly, than the gentle faith which hangs white lanterns before the tombs. Some hold that the drowned never journey to the Meido. They quiver for ever in the currents; they billow in the swaying of tides; they toil in the wake of the junks; they shout in the plunging of breakers. 'Tis their white hands that toss in the leap of the surf; their clutch that clatters the shingle, or seizes the swimmer's feet in the pull of the undertow. And the seamen speak euphemistically of the O-'bake, the honourable ghosts, and fear them with a great fear. Wherefore cats are kept on board! A cat, they aver, has power to keep the O-bake away. How or why, I have not yet found any to tell me. I know only that cats are deemed to have power over the dead. If a cat be left alone with a corpse, will not the corpse arise and dance? And of all cats a mike-neko, or cat of three colours, is most prized on this account by sailors. But if they cannot obtain one--and cats of three colours are rare--they will take another kind of cat; and nearly every trading junk has a cat; and when the junk comes into port, its cat may generally be seen--peeping through some little window in the vessel's side, or squatting in the opening where the great rudder works--that is, if the weather be fair and the sea still. Sec. 6 But these primitive and ghastly beliefs do not affect the beautiful practices of Buddhist faith in the time of the Bon; and from all these little villages the shoryobune are launched upon the sixteenth day. They are much more elaborately and expensively constructed on this coast than in some other parts of Japan; for though made of straw only, woven over a skeleton framework, they are charming models of junks, complete in every detail. Some are between three and four feet long. On the white paper sail is written the kaimyo or soul-name of the dead. There is a small water-vessel on board, filled with fresh water, and an incense- cup; and along the gunwales flutter little paper banners bearing the mystic manji, which is the Sanscrit swastika.[3] The form of the shoryobune and the customs in regard to the time and manner of launching them differ much in different provinces. In most places they are launched for the family dead in general, wherever buried; and they are in some places launched only at night, with small lanterns on board. And I am told also that it is the custom at certain sea-villages to launch the lanterns all by themselves, in lieu of the shoryobune proper--lanterns of a particular kind being manufactured for that purpose only. But on the Izumo coast, and elsewhere along this western shore, the soul-boats are launched only for those who have been drowned at sea, and the launching takes place in the morning instead of at night. Once every year, for ten years after death, a shoryobune is launched; in the eleventh year the ceremony ceases. Several shoryobune which I saw at Inasa were really beautiful, and must have cost a rather large sum for poor fisher-folk to pay. But the ship-carpenter who made them said that all the relatives of a drowned man contribute to purchase the little vessel, year after year. Sec. 7 Near a sleepy little village called Kanii-ichi I make a brief halt in order to visit a famous sacred tree. It is in a grove close to the public highway, but upon a low hill. Entering the grove I find myself in a sort of miniature glen surrounded on three sides by very low cliffs, above which enormous pines are growing, incalculably old. Their vast coiling roots have forced their way through the face of the cliffs, splitting rocks; and their mingling crests make a green twilight in the hollow. One pushes out three huge roots of a very singular shape; and the ends of these have been wrapped about with long white papers bearing written prayers, and with offerings of seaweed. The shape of these roots, rather than any tradition, would seem to have made the tree sacred in popular belief: it is the object of a special cult; and a little torii has been erected before it, bearing a votive annunciation of the most artless and curious kind. I cannot venture to offer a translation of it--though for the anthropologist and folk-lorist it certainly possesses peculiar interest. The worship of the tree, or at least of the Kami supposed to dwell therein, is one rare survival of a phallic cult probably common to most primitive races, and formerly widespread in Japan. Indeed it was suppressed by the Government scarcely more than a generation ago. On the opposite side of the little hollow, carefully posed upon a great loose rock, I see something equally artless and almost equally curious--a kitoja-no-mono, or ex-voto. Two straw figures joined together and reclining side by side: a straw man and a straw woman. The workmanship is childishly clumsy; but still, the woman can be distinguished from the man by .the ingenious attempt to imitate the female coiffure with a straw wisp. And as the man is represented with a queue--now worn only by aged survivors of the feudal era--I suspect that this kitoja-no-mono was made after some ancient and strictly conventional model. Now this queer ex-voto tells its own story. Two who loved each other were separated by the fault of the man; the charm of some joro, perhaps, having been the temptation to faithlessness. Then the wronged one came here and prayed the Kami to dispel the delusion of passion and touch the erring heart. The prayer has been heard; the pair have been reunited; and she has therefore made these two quaint effigies 'with her own hands, and brought them to the Kami of the pine--tokens of her innocent faith and her grateful heart. Sec. 8 Night falls as we reach the pretty hamlet of Hamamura, our last resting- place by the sea, for to-morrow our way lies inland. The inn at which we lodge is very small, but very clean and cosy; and there is a delightful bath of natural hot water; for the yadoya is situated close to a natural spring. This spring, so strangely close to the sea beach, also furnishes, I am told, the baths of all the houses in the village. The best room is placed at our disposal; but I linger awhile to examine a very fine shoryobune, waiting, upon a bench near the street entrance, to be launched to-morrow. It seems to have been finished but a short time ago; for fresh clippings of straw lie scattered around it, and the kaimyo has not yet been written upon its sail. I am surprised to hear that it belongs to a poor widow and her son, both of whom are employed by the hotel. I was hoping to see the Bon-odori at Hamamura, but I am disappointed. At all the villages the police have prohibited the dance. Fear of cholera has resulted in stringent sanitary regulations. In Hamamura the people have been ordered to use no water for drinking, cooking, or washing, except the hot water of their own volcanic springs. A little middle-aged woman, with a remarkably sweet voice, comes to wait upon us at supper-time. Her teeth are blackened and her eyebrows shaved after the fashion of married women twenty years ago; nevertheless her face is still a pleasant one, and in her youth she must have been uncommonly pretty. Though acting as a servant, it appears that she is related to the family owning the inn, and that she is treated with the consideration due to kindred. She tells us that the shoryobune is to be launched for her husband and brother--both fishermen of the village, who perished in sight of their own home eight years ago. The priest of the neighbouring Zen temple is to come in the morning to write the kaimyo upon the sail, as none of the household are skilled in writing the Chinese characters. I make her the customary little gift, and, through my attendant, ask her various questions about her history. She was married to a man much older than herself, with whom she lived very happily; and her brother, a youth of eighteen, dwelt with them. They had a good boat and a little piece of ground, and she was skilful at the loom; so they managed to live well. In summer the fishermen fish at night: when all the fleet is out, it is pretty to see the line of torch-fires in the offing, two or three miles away, like a string of stars. They do not go out when the weather is threatening; but in certain months the great storms (taifu) come so quickly that the boats are overtaken almost before they have time to hoist sail. Still as a temple pond the sea was on the night when her husband and brother last sailed away; the taifu rose before daybreak. What followed, she relates with a simple pathos that I cannot reproduce in our less artless tongue: 'All the boats had come back except my husband's; for' my husband and my brother had gone out farther than the others, so they were not able to return as quickly. And all the people were looking and waiting. And every minute the waves seemed to be growing higher and the wind more terrible; and the other boats had to be dragged far up on the shore to save them. Then suddenly we saw my husband's boat coming very, very quickly. We were so glad! It came quite near, so that I could see the face of my husband and the face of my brother. But suddenly a great wave struck it upon one side, and it turned down into the water and it did not come up again. And then we saw my husband and my brother swimming but we could see them only when the waves lifted them up. Tall like hills the waves were, and the head of my husband, and the head of my brother would go up, up, up, and then down, and each time they rose to the top of a wave so that we could see them they would cry out, "Tasukete! tasukete!" [4] But the strong men were afraid; the sea was too terrible; I was only a woman! Then my brother could not be seen any more. My husband was old, but very strong; and he swam a long time--so near that I could see his face was like the face of one in fear--and he called "Tasukete!" But none could help him; and he also went down at last. And yet I could see his face before he went down. 'And for a long time after, every night, I used to see his face as I saw it then, so that I could not rest, but only weep. And I prayed and prayed to the Buddhas and to the Kami-Sama that I might not dream that dream. Now it never comes; but I can still see his face, even while I speak. . . . In that time my son was only a little child.' Not without sobs can she conclude her simple recital. Then, suddenly bowing her head to the matting, and wiping away her tears with her sleeve, she humbly prays our pardon for this little exhibition of emotion, and laughs--the soft low laugh de rigueur of Japanese politeness. This, I must confess, touches me still more than the story itself. At a fitting moment my Japanese attendant delicately changes the theme, and begins a light chat about our journey, and the danna-sama's interest in the old customs and legends of the coast. And he succeeds in amusing her by some relation of our wanderings in Izumo. She asks whither we are going. My attendant answers probably as far as Tottori. 'Aa! Tottori! So degozarimasu ka? Now, there is an old story--the Story of the Futon of Tottori. But the danna-sama knows that story?' Indeed, the danna-sama does not, and begs earnestly to hear it. And the story is set down somewhat as I learn it through the lips of my interpreter. Sec. 9 Many years ago, a very small yadoya in Tottori town received its first guest, an itinerant merchant. He was received with more than common kindness, for the landlord desired to make a good name for his little inn. It was a new inn, but as its owner was poor, most of its dogu--furniture and utensils--had been purchased from the furuteya. [5] Nevertheless, everything was clean, comforting, and pretty. The guest ate heartily and drank plenty of good warm sake; after which his bed was prepared on the soft floor, and he laid himself down to sleep. [But here I must interrupt the story for a few moments, to say a word about Japanese beds. Never; unless some inmate happen to be sick, do you see a bed in any Japanese house by day, though you visit all the rooms and peep into all the corners. In fact, no bed exists, in the Occidental meaning of the word. That which the Japanese call bed has no bedstead, no spring, no mattress, no sheets, no blankets. It consists of thick quilts only, stuffed, or, rather, padded with cotton, which are called futon. A certain number of futon are laid down upon the tatami (the floor mats), and a certain number of others are used for coverings. The wealthy can lie upon five or six quilts, and cover themselves with as many as they please, while poor folk must content themselves with two or three. And of course there are many kinds, from the servants' cotton futon which is no larger than a Western hearthrug, and not much thicker, to the heavy and superb futon silk, eight feet long by seven broad, which only the kanemochi can afford. Besides these there is the yogi, a massive quilt made with wide sleeves like a kimono, in which you can find much comfort when the weather is extremely cold. All such things are neatly folded up and stowed out of sight by day in alcoves contrived in the wall and closed with fusuma--pretty sliding screen doors covered with opaque paper usually decorated with dainty designs. There also are kept those curious wooden pillows, invented to preserve the Japanese coiffure from becoming disarranged during sleep. The pillow has a certain sacredness; but the origin and the precise nature of the beliefs concerning it I have not been able to learn. Only this I know, that to touch it with the foot is considered very wrong; and that if it be kicked or moved thus even by accident, the clumsiness must be atoned for by lifting the pillow to the forehead with the hands, and replacing it in its original position respectfully, with the word 'go-men,' signifying, I pray to be excused.] Now, as a rule, one sleeps soundly after having drunk plenty of warm sake, especially if the night be cool and the bed very snug. But the guest, having slept but a very little while, was aroused by the sound of voices in his room--voices of children, always asking each other the same questions:--'Ani-San samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' The presence of children in his room might annoy the guest, but could not surprise him, for in these Japanese hotels there are no doors, but only papered sliding screens between room and room. So it seemed to him that some children must have wandered into his apartment, by mistake, in the dark. He uttered some gentle rebuke. For a moment only there was silence; then a sweet, thin, plaintive voice queried, close to his ear, 'Ani-San samukaro?' (Elder Brother probably is cold?), and another sweet voice made answer caressingly, 'Omae samukaro?' [Nay, thou probably art cold?] He arose and rekindled the candle in the andon, [6] and looked about the room. There was no one. The shoji were all closed. He examined the cupboards; they were empty. Wondering, he lay down again, leaving the light still burning; and immediately the voices spoke again, complainingly, close to his pillow: 'Ani-San samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' Then, for the first time, he felt a chill creep over him, which was not the chill of the night. Again and again he heard, and each time he became more afraid. For he knew that the voices were in the futon! It was the covering of the bed that cried out thus. He gathered hurriedly together the few articles belonging to him, and, descending the stairs, aroused the landlord and told what had passed. Then the host, much angered, made reply: 'That to make pleased the honourable guest everything has been done, the truth is; but the honourable guest too much august sake having drank, bad dreams has seen.' Nevertheless the guest insisted upon paying at once that which he owed, and seeking lodging elsewhere. Next evening there came another guest who asked for a room for the night. At a late hour the landlord was aroused by his lodger with the same story. And this lodger, strange to say, had not taken any sake. Suspecting some envious plot to ruin his business, the landlord answered passionately: 'Thee to please all things honourably have been done: nevertheless, ill-omened and vexatious words thou utterest. And that my inn my means-of-livelihood is--that also thou knowest. Wherefore that such things be spoken, right-there-is-none!' Then the guest, getting into a passion, loudly said things much more evil; and the two parted in hot anger. But after the guest was gone, the landlord, thinking all this very strange, ascended to the empty room to examine the futon. And while there, he heard the voices, and he discovered that the guests had said only the truth. It was one covering--only one--which cried out. The rest were silent. He took the covering into his own room, and for the remainder of the night lay down beneath it. And the voices continued until the hour of dawn: 'Ani-San samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' So that he could not sleep. But at break of day he rose up and went out to find the owner of the furuteya at which the futon had been purchased. The dlealer knew nothing. He had bought the futon from a smaller shop, and the keeper of that shop had purchased it from a still poorer dealer dwelling in the farthest suburb of the city. And the innkeeper went from one to the other, asking questions. Then at last it was found that the futon had belonged to a poor family, and had been bought from the landlord of a little house in which the family had lived, in the neighbourhood of the town. And the story of the futon was this:-- The rent of the little house was only sixty sen a month, but even this was a great deal for the poor folks to pay. The father could earn only two or three yen a month, and the mother was ill and could not work; and there were two children--a boy of six years and a boy of eight. And they were strangers in Tottori. One winter's day the father sickened; and after a week of suffering he died, and was buried. Then the long-sick mother followed him, and the children were left alone. They knew no one whom they could ask for aid; and in order to live they began to sell what there was to sell. That was not much: the clothes of the dead father and mother, and most of their own; some quilts of cotton, and a few poor household utensils-- hibachi, bowls, cups, and other trifles. Every day they sold something, until there was nothing left but one futon. And a day came when they had nothing to eat; and the rent was not paid. The terrible Dai-kan had arrived, the season of greatest cold; and the snow had drifted too high that day for them to wander far from the little house. So they could only lie down under their one futon, and shiver together, and compassionate each other in their own childish way --'Ani-San, samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' They had no fire, nor anything with which to make fire; and the darkness came; and the icy wind screamed into the little house. They were afraid of the wind, but they were more afraid of the house- owner, who roused them roughly to demand his rent. He was a hard man, with an evil face. And finding there was none to pay him, he turned the children into the snow, and took their one futon away from them, and locked up the house. They had but one thin blue kimono each, for all their other clothes had been sold to buy food; and they had nowhere to go. There was a temple of Kwannon not far away, but the snow was too high for them to reach it. So when the landlord was gone, they crept back behind the house. There the drowsiness of cold fell upon them, and they slept, embracing each other to keep warm. And while they slept, the gods covered them with a new futon--ghostly-white and very beautiful. And they did not feel cold any more. For many days they slept there; then somebody found them, and a bed was made for them in the hakaba of the Temple of Kwannon-of-the- Thousand-Arms. And the innkeeper, having heard these things, gave the futon to the priests of the temple, and caused the kyo to be recited for the little souls. And the futon ceased thereafter to speak. Sec. 10 One legend recalls another; and I hear to-night many strange ones. The most remarkable is a tale which my attendant suddenly remembers--a legend of Izumo. Once there lived in the Izumo village called Mochida-noura a peasant who was so poor that he was afraid to have children. And each time that his wife bore him a child he cast it into the river, and pretended that it had been born dead. Sometimes it was a son, sometimes a daughter; but always the infant was thrown into the river at night. Six were murdered thus. But, as the years passed, the peasant found himself more prosperous. He had been able to purchase land and to lay by money. And at last his wife bore him a seventh--a boy. Then the man said: 'Now we can support a child, and we shall need a son to aid us when we are old. And this boy is beautiful. So we will bring him up.' And the infant thrived; and each day the hard peasant wondered more at his own heart--for each day he knew that he loved his son more. One summer's night he walked out into his garden, carrying his child in his arms. The little one was five months old. And the night was so beautiful, with its great moon, that the peasant cried out--'Aa! kon ya med xurashii e yo da!' [Ah! to-night truly a wondrously beautiful night is!] Then the infant, looking up into his face and speaking the speech of a man, said--'Why, father! the LAST time you threw me away the night was just like this, and the moon looked just the same, did it not?' [7] And thereafter the child remained as other children of the same age, and spoke no word. The peasant became a monk. Sec. 11 After the supper and the bath, feeling too warm to sleep, I wander out alone to visit the village hakaba, a long cemetery upon a sandhill, or rather a prodigious dune, thinly covered at its summit with soil, but revealing through its crumbling flanks the story of its creation by ancient tides, mightier than tides of to-day. I wade to my knees in sand to reach the cemetery. It is a warm moonlight night, with a great breeze. There are many bon-lanterns (bondoro), but the sea-wind has blown out most of them; only a few here and there still shed a soft white glow--pretty shrine-shaped cases of wood, with apertures of symbolic outline, covered with white paper. Visitors beside myself there are none, for it is late. But much gentle work has been done here to-day, for all the bamboo vases have been furnished with fresh flowers or sprays, and the water basins filled with fresh water, and the monuments cleansed and beautified. And in the farthest nook of the cemetery I find, before one very humble tomb, a pretty zen or lacquered dining tray, covered with dishes and bowls containing a perfect dainty little Japanese repast. There is also a pair of new chopsticks, and a little cup of tea, and some of the dishes are still warm. A loving woman's work; the prints of her little sandals are fresh upon the path. Sec. 12 There is an Irish folk-saying that any dream may be remembered if the dreamer, after awakening, forbear to scratch his head in the effort to recall it. But should he forget this precaution, never can the dream be brought back to memory: as well try to re-form the curlings of a smoke- wreath blown away. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of a thousand dreams are indeed hopelessly evaporative. But certain rare dreams, which come when fancy has been strangely impressed by unfamiliar experiences--dreams particularly apt to occur in time of travel--remain in recollection, imaged with all the vividness of real events. Of such was the dream I dreamed at Hamamura, after having seen and heard those things previously written down. Some pale broad paved place--perhaps the thought of a temple court-- tinted by a faint sun; and before me a woman, neither young nor old, seated at the base of a great grey pedestal that supported I know not what, for I could look only at the woman's face. Awhile I thought that I remembered her--a woman of Izumo; then she seemed a weirdness. Her lips were moving, but her eyes remained closed, and I could not choose but look at her. And in a voice that seemed to come thin through distance of years she began a soft wailing chant; and, as I listened, vague memories came to me of a Celtic lullaby. And as she sang, she loosed with one hand her long black hair, till it fell coiling upon the stones. And, having fallen, it was no longer black, but blue--pale day-blue--and was moving sinuously, crawling with swift blue ripplings to and fro. And then, suddenly, I became aware that the ripplings were far, very far away, and that the woman was gone. There was only the sea, blue-billowing to the verge of heaven, with long slow flashings of soundless surf. And wakening, I heard in the night the muttering of the real sea--the vast husky speech of the Hotoke-umi--the Tide of the Returning Ghosts. CHAPTER SEVEN Of a Dancing-Girl NOTHING is more silent than the beginning of a Japanese banquet; and no one, except a native, who observes the opening scene could possibly imagine the tumultuous ending. The robed guests take their places, quite noiselessly and without speech, upon the kneeling-cushions. The lacquered services are laid upon the matting before them by maidens whose bare feet make no sound. For a while there is only smiling and flitting, as in dreams. You are not likely to hear any voices from without, as a banqueting-house is usually secluded from the street by spacious gardens. At last the master of ceremonies, host or provider, breaks the hush with the consecrated formula: 'O-somatsu degozarimasu gal--dozo o-hashi!' whereat all present bow silently, take up their hashi (chopsticks), and fall to. But hashi, deftly used, cannot be heard at all. The maidens pour warm sake into the cup of each guest without making the least sound; and it is not until several dishes have been emptied, and several cups of sake absorbed, that tongues are loosened. Then, all at once, with a little burst of laughter, a number of young girls enter, make the customary prostration of greeting, glide into the open space between the ranks of the guests, and begin to serve the wine with a grace and dexterity of which no common maid is capable. They are pretty; they are clad in very costly robes of silk; they are girdled like queens; and the beautifully dressed hair of each is decked with mock flowers, with wonderful combs and pins, and with curious ornaments of gold. They greet the stranger as if they had always known him; they jest, laugh, and utter funny little cries. These are the geisha, [1] or dancing-girls, hired for the banquet. Samisen [2] tinkle. The dancers withdraw to a clear space at the farther end of the banqueting-hall, always vast enough to admit of many more guests than ever assemble upon common occasions. Some form the orchestra, under the direction of a woman of uncertain age; there are several samisen, and a tiny drum played by a child. Others, singly or in pairs, perform the dance. It may be swift and merry, consisting wholly of graceful posturing--two girls dancing together with such coincidence of step and gesture as only years of training could render possible. But more frequently it is rather like acting than like what we Occidentals call dancing--acting accompanied with extraordinary waving of sleeves and fans, and with a play of eyes and features, sweet, subtle, subdued, wholly Oriental. There are more voluptuous dances known to geisha, but upon ordinary occasions and before refined audiences they portray beautiful old Japanese traditions, like the legend of the fisher Urashima, beloved by the Sea God's daughter; and at intervals they sing ancient Chinese poems, expressing a natural emotion with delicious vividness by a few exquisite words. And always they pour the wine--that warm, pale yellow, drowsy wine which fills the veins with soft contentment, making a faint sense of ecstasy, through which, as through some poppied sleep, the commonplace becomes wondrous and blissful, and the geisha Maids of Paradise, and the world much sweeter than, in the natural order of things, it could ever possibly be. The banquet, at first so silent, slowly changes to a merry tumult. The company break ranks, form groups; and from group to group the girls pass, laughing, prattling--still pouring sake into the cups which are being exchanged and emptied with low bows [3] Men begin to sing old samurai songs, old Chinese poems. One or two even dance. A geisha tucks her robe well up to her knees; and the samisen strike up the quick melody, 'Kompira fund-fund.' As the music plays, she begins to run lightly and swiftly in a figure of 8, and a young man, carrying a sake bottle and cup, also runs in the same figure of 8. If the two meet on a line, the one through whose error the meeting happens must drink a cup of sake. The music becomes quicker and quicker and the runners run faster and faster, for they must keep time to the melody; and the geisha wins. In another part of the room, guests and geisha are playing ken. They sing as they play, facing each other, and clap their hands, and fling out their fingers at intervals with little cries and the samisen keep time. Choito--don-don! Otagaidane; Choito--don-don! Oidemashitane; Choito--don-don! Shimaimashitane. Now, to play ken with a geisha requires a perfectly cool head, a quick eye, and much practice. Having been trained from childhood to play all kinds of ken--and there are many--she generally loses only for politeness, when she loses at all. The signs of the most common ken are a Man, a Fox, and a Gun. If the geisha make the sign of the Gun, you must instantly, and in exact time to the music, make the sign of the Fox, who cannot use the Gun. For if you make the sign of the Man, then she will answer with the sign of the Fox, who can deceive the Man, and you lose. And if she make the sign of the Fox first, then you should make the sign of the Gun, by which the Fox can be killed. But all the while you must watch her bright eyes and supple hands. These are pretty; and if you suffer yourself, just for one fraction of a second, to think how pretty they are, you are bewitched and vanquished. Notwithstanding all this apparent comradeship, a certain rigid decorum between guest and geisha is invariably preserved at a Japanese banquet. However flushed with wine a guest may have become, you will never see him attempt to caress a girl; he never forgets that she appears at the festivities only as a human flower, to be looked at, not to be touched. The familiarity which foreign tourists in Japan frequently permit themselves with geisha or with waiter-girls, though endured with smiling patience, is really much disliked, and considered by native observers an evidence of extreme vulgarity. For a time the merriment grows; but as midnight draws near, the guests begin to slip away, one by one, unnoticed. Then the din gradually dies down, the music stops; and at last the geisha, having escorted the latest of the feasters to the door, with laughing cries of Sayonara, can sit down alone to break their long fast in the deserted hall. Such is the geisha's rôle But what is the mystery of her? What are her thoughts, her emotions, her secret self? What is her veritable existence beyond the night circle of the banquet lights, far from the illusion formed around her by the mist of wine? Is she always as mischievous as she seems while her voice ripples out with mocking sweetness the words of the ancient song? Kimi to neyaru ka, go sengoku toruka? Nanno gosengoku kimi to neyo? [4] Or might we think her capable of keeping that passionate promise she utters so deliciously? Omae shindara tera ewa yaranu! Yaete konishite sake de nomu, [5] 'Why, as for that,' a friend tells me, 'there was O'-Kama of Osaka who realised the song only last year. For she, having collected from the funeral pile the ashes of her lover, mingled them with sake, and at a banquet drank them, in the presence of many guests.' In the presence of many guests! Alas for romance! Always in the dwelling which a band of geisha occupy there is a strange image placed in the alcove. Sometimes it is of clay, rarely of gold, most commonly of porcelain. It is reverenced: offerings are made to it, sweetmeats and rice bread and wine; incense smoulders in front of it, and a lamp is burned before it. It is the image of a kitten erect, one paw outstretched as if inviting--whence its name, 'the Beckoning Kitten.' [6] It is the genius loci: it brings good-fortune, the patronage of the rich, the favour of banquet-givers Now, they who know the soul of the geisha aver that the semblance of the image is the semblance of herself--playful and pretty, soft and young, lithe and caressing, and cruel as a devouring fire. Worse, also, than this they have said of her: that in her shadow treads the God of Poverty, and that the Fox-women are her sisters; that she is the ruin of youth, the waster of fortunes, the destroyer of families; that she knows love only as the source of the follies which are her gain, and grows rich upon the substance of men whose graves she has made; that she is the most consummate of pretty hypocrites, the most dangerous of schemers, the most insatiable of mercenaries, the most pitiless of mistresses. This cannot all be true. Yet thus much is true-- that, like the kitten, the geisha is by profession a creature of prey. There are many really lovable kittens. Even so there must be really delightful dancing-girls. The geisha is only what she has been made in answer to foolish human desire for the illusion of love mixed with youth and grace, but without regrets or responsibilities: wherefore she has been taught, besides ken, to play at hearts. Now, the eternal law is that people may play with impunity at any game in this unhappy world except three, which are called Life, Love, and Death. Those the gods have reserved to themselves, because nobody else can learn to play them without doing mischief. Therefore, to play with a geisha any game much more serious than ken, or at least go, is displeasing to the gods. The girl begins her career as a slave, a pretty child bought from miserably poor parents under a contract, according to which her services may be claimed by the purchasers for eighteen, twenty, or even twenty- five years. She is fed, clothed, and trained in a house occupied only by geisha; and she passes the rest of her childhood under severe discipline. She is taught etiquette, grace, polite speech; she has daily lessons in dancing; and she is obliged to learn by heart a multitude of songs with their airs. Also she must learn games, the service of banquets and weddings, the art of dressing and looking beautiful. Whatever physical gifts she may have are; carefully cultivated. Afterwards she is taught to handle musical instruments: first, the little drum (tsudzumi), which cannot be sounded at all without considerable practice; then she learns to play the samisen a little, with a plectrum of tortoise-shell or ivory. At eight or nine years of age she attends banquets, chiefly as a drum-player. She is then the most charming little creature imaginable, and already knows how to fill your wine-cup exactly full, with a single toss of the bottle and without spilling a drop, between two taps of her drum. Thereafter her discipline becomes more cruel. Her voice may be flexible enough, but lacks the requisite strength. In the iciest hours of winter nights, she must ascend to the roof of her dwelling-house, and there sing and play till the blood oozes from her fingers and the voice dies in her throat. The desired result is an atrocious cold. After a period of hoarse whispering, her voice changes its tone and strengthens. She is ready to become a public singer and dancer. In this capacity she usually makes her first appearance at the age of twelve or thirteen. If pretty and skilful, her services will be much in demand, and her time paid for at the rate of twenty to twenty-five sen per hour. Then only do her purchasers begin to reimburse themselves for the time, expense, and trouble of her training; and they are not apt to be generous. For many years more all that she earns must pass into their hands. She can own nothing, not even her clothes. At seventeen or eighteen she has made her artistic reputation. She has been at many hundreds of entertainments, and knows by sight all the important personages of her city, the character of each, the history of all. Her life has been chiefly a night life; rarely has she seen the sun rise since she became a dancer. She has learned to drink wine without ever losing her head, and to fast for seven or eight hours without ever feeling the worse. She has had many lovers. To a certain extent she is free to smile upon whom she pleases; but she has been well taught, above all else to use her power of charm for her own advantage. She hopes to find Somebody able and willing to buy her freedom--which Somebody would almost certainly thereafter discover many new and excellent meanings in those Buddhist texts that tell about the foolishness of love and the impermanency of all human relationships. At this point of her career we may leave the geisha: there-. after her story is apt to prove unpleasant, unless she die young. Should that happen, she will have the obsequies of her class, and her memory will be preserved by divers curious rites. Some time, perhaps, while wandering through Japanese streets at night, you hear sounds of music, a tinkling of samisen floating through the great gateway of a Buddhist temple together with shrill voices of singing-girls; which may seem to you a strange happening. And the deep court is thronged with people looking and listening. Then, making your way through the press to the temple steps, you see two geisha seated upon the matting within, playing and singing, and a third dancing before a little table. Upon the table is an ihai, or mortuary tablet; in front of the tablet burns a little lamp, and incense in a cup of bronze; a small repast has been placed there, fruits and dainties--such a repast as, upon festival occasions, it is the custom to offer to the dead. You learn that the kaimyo upon the tablet is that of a geisha; and that the comrades of the dead girl assemble in the temple on certain days to gladden her spirit with songs and dances. Then whosoever pleases may attend the ceremony free of charge. But the dancing-girls of ancient times were not as the geisha of to-day. Some of them were called shirabyoshi; and their hearts were not extremely hard. They were beautiful; they wore queerly shaped caps bedecked with gold; they were clad in splendid attire, and danced with swords in the dwellings of princes. And there is an old story about one of them which I think it worth while to tell. Sec. 1 It was formerly, and indeed still is, a custom with young Japanese artists to travel on foot through various parts of the empire, in order to see and sketch the most celebrated scenery as well as to study famous art objects preserved in Buddhist temples, many of which occupy sites of extraordinary picturesqueness. It is to such wanderings, chiefly, that we owe the existence of those beautiful books of landscape views and life studies which are now so curious and rare, and which teach better than aught else that only the Japanese can paint Japanese scenery. After you have become acquainted with their methods of interpreting their own nature, foreign attempts in the same line will seem to you strangely flat and soulless. The foreign artist will give you realistic reflections of what he sees; but he will give you nothing more. The Japanese artist gives you that which he feels--the mood of a season, the precise sensation of an hour and place; his work is qualified by a power of suggestiveness rarely found in the art of the West. The Occidental painter renders minute detail; he satisfies the imagination he evokes. But his Oriental brother either suppresses or idealises detail--steeps his distances in mist, bands his landscapes with cloud, makes of his experience a memory in which only the strange and the beautiful survive, with their sensations. He surpasses imagination, excites it, leaves it hungry with the hunger of charm perceived in glimpses only. Nevertheless, in such glimpses he is able to convey the feeling of a time, the character of a place, after a fashion that seems magical. He is a painter of recollections and of sensations rather than of clear-cut realities; and in this lies the secret of his amazing power--a power not to be appreciated by those who have never witnessed the scenes of his inspiration. He is above all things impersonal. His human figures are devoid of all individuality; yet they have inimitable merit as types embodying the characteristics of a class: the childish curiosity of the peasant, the shyness of the maiden, the fascination of the joro the self-consciousness of the samurai, the funny, placid prettiness of the child, the resigned gentleness of age. Travel and observation were the influences which developed this art; it was never a growth of studios. A great many years ago, a young art student was travelling on foot from Kyoto to Yedo, over the mountains The roads then were few and bad, and travel was so difficult compared to what it is now that a proverb was current, Kawai ko wa tabi wo sase (A pet child should be made to travel). But the land was what it is to-day. There were the same forests of cedar and of pine, the same groves of bamboo, the same peaked villages with roofs of thatch, the same terraced rice-fields dotted with the great yellow straw hats of peasants bending in the slime. From the wayside, the same statues of Jizo smiled upon the same pilgrim figures passing to the same temples; and then, as now, of summer days, one might see naked brown children laughing in all the shallow rivers, and all the rivers laughing to the sun. The young art student, however, was no kawai ko: he had already travelled a great deal, was inured to hard fare and rough lodging, and accustomed to make the best of every situation. But upon this journey he found himself, one evening after sunset, in a region where it seemed possible to obtain neither fare nor lodging of any sort--out of sight of cultivated land. While attempting a short cut over a range to reach some village, he had lost his way. There was no moon, and pine shadows made blackness all around him. The district into which he had wandered seemed utterly wild; there were no sounds but the humming of the wind in the pine-needles, and an infinite tinkling of bell-insects. He stumbled on, hoping to gain some river bank, which he could follow to a settlement. At last a stream abruptly crossed his way; but it proved to be a swift torrent pouring into a gorge between precipices. Obliged to retrace his steps, he resolved to climb to the nearest summit, whence he might be able to discern some sign of human life; but on reaching it he could see about him only a heaping of hills. He had almost resigned himself to passing the night under the stars, when he perceived, at some distance down the farther slope of the hill he had ascended, a single thin yellow ray of light, evidently issuing from some dwelling. He made his way towards it, and soon discerned a small cottage, apparently a peasant's home. The light he had seen still streamed from it, through a chink in the closed storm-doors. He hastened forward, and knocked at the entrance. Not until he had knocked and called several times did he hear any stir within; then a woman 's voice asked what was wanted. The voice was remarkably sweet, and the speech of the unseen questioner surprised him, for she spoke in the cultivated idiom of the capital. He responded that he was a student, who had lost his way in the mountains; that he wished, if possible, to obtain food and lodging for the night; and that if this could not be given, he would feel very grateful for information how to reach the nearest village--adding that he had means enough to pay for the services of a guide. The voice, in return, asked several other questions, indicating extreme surprise that anyone could have reached the dwelling from the direction he had taken. But his answers evidently allayed suspicion, for the inmate exclaimed: 'I will come in a moment. It would be difficult for you to reach any village to-night; and the path is dangerous.' After a brief delay the storm-doors were pushed open, and a woman appeared with a paper lantern, which she so held as to illuminate the stranger's face, while her own remained in shadow. She scrutinised him in silence, then said briefly, 'Wait; I will bring water.' She fetched a wash-basin, set it upon the doorstep, and offered the guest a towel. He removed his sandals, washed from his feet the dust of travel, and was shown into a neat room which appeared to occupy the whole interior, except a small boarded space at the rear, used as a kitchen. A cotton zabuton was laid for him to kneel upon, and a brazier set before him. It was only then that he had a good opportunity of observing his hostess, and he was startled by the delicacy and beauty of her features. She might have been three or four years older than he, but was still in the bloom of youth. Certainly she was not a peasant girl. In the same singularly sweet voice she said to him: 'I am now alone, and I never receive guests here. But I am sure it would be dangerous for you to travel farther tonight. There are some peasants in the neighbourhood, but you cannot find your way to them in the dark without a guide. So I can let you stay here until morning. You will not be comfortable, but I can give you a bed. And I suppose you are hungry. There is only some shojin-ryori, [7]--not at all good, but you are welcome to it.' The traveller was quite hungry, and only too glad of the offer. The young woman kindled a little fire, prepared a few dishes in silence-- stewed leaves of na, some aburage, some kampyo, and a bowl of coarse rice--and quickly set the meal before him, apologising for its quality. But during his repast she spoke scarcely at all, and her reserved manner embarrassed him. As she answered the few questions he ventured upon merely by a bow or by a solitary word, he soon refrained from attempting to press the conversation. Meanwhile he had observed that the small house was spotlessly clean, and the utensils in which his food was served were immaculate. The few cheap objects in the apartment were pretty. The fusuma of the oshiire and zendana [8] were of white paper only, but had been decorated with large Chinese characters exquisitely written, characters suggesting, according to the law of such decoration, the favourite themes of the poet and artist: Spring Flowers, Mountain and Sea, Summer Rain, Sky and Stars, Autumn Moon, River Water, Autumn Breeze. At one side of the apartment stood a kind of low altar, supporting a butsudan, whose tiny lacquered doors, left open, showed a mortuary tablet within, before which a lamp was burning between offerings of wild flowers. And above this household shrine hung a picture of more than common merit, representing the Goddess of Mercy, wearing the moon for her aureole. As the student ended his little meal the young woman observed: I cannot offer you a good bed, and there is only a paper mosquito-curtain The bed and the curtain are mine, but to-night I have many things to do, and shall have no time to sleep; therefore I beg you will try to rest, though I am not able to make you comfortable.' He then understood that she was, for some strange reason, entirely alone, and was voluntarily giving up her only bed to him upon a kindly pretext. He protested honestly against such an excess of hospitality, and assured her that he could sleep quite soundly anywhere on the floor, and did not care about the mosquitoes. But she replied, in the tone of an elder sister, that he must obey her wishes. She really had something to do, and she desired to be left by herself as soon as possible; therefore, understanding him to be a gentleman, she expected he would suffer her to arrange matters in her own way. To this he could offer no objection, as there was but one room. She spread the mattress on the floor, fetched a wooden pillow, suspended her paper mosquito-curtain, unfolded a large screen on the side of the bed toward the butsudan, and then bade him good-night in a manner that assured him she wished him to retire at once; which he did, not without some reluctance at the thought of all the trouble he had unintentionally caused her. Sec. 3 Unwilling as the young traveller felt to accept a kindness involving the sacrifice of another's repose, he found the bed more than comfortable. He was very tired, and had scarcely laid his head upon the wooden pillow before he forgot everything in sleep. Yet only a little while seemed to have passed when he was awakened by a singular sound. It was certainly the sound of feet, but not of feet walking softly. It seemed rather the sound of feet in rapid motion, as of excitement. Then it occurred to him that robbers might have entered the house. As for himself, he had little to fear because he had little to lose. His anxiety was chiefly for the kind person who had granted him hospitality. Into each side of the paper mosquito-curtain a small square of brown netting had been fitted, like a little window, and through one of these he tried to look; but the high screen stood between him and whatever was going on. He thought of calling, but this impulse was checked by the reflection that in case of real danger it would be both useless and imprudent to announce his presence before understanding the situation. The sounds which had made him uneasy continued, and were more and more mysterious. He resolved to prepare for the worst, and to risk his life, if necessary, in order to defend his young hostess. Hastily girding up his robes, he slipped noiselessly from under the paper curtain, crept to the edge of the screen, and peeped. What he saw astonished him extremely. Before her illuminated butsudan the young woman, magnificently attired, was dancing all alone. Her costume he recognised as that of a shirabyoshi, though much richer than any he had ever seen worn by a professional dancer. Marvellously enhanced by it, her beauty, in that lonely time and place, appeared almost supernatural; but what seemed to him even more wonderful was her dancing. For an instant he felt the tingling of a weird doubt. The superstitions of peasants, the legends of Fox-women, flashed before his imagination; but the sight of the Buddhist shrine, of the sacred picture, dissipated the fancy, and shamed him for the folly of it. At the same time he became conscious that he was watching something she had not wished him to see, and that it was his duty, as her guest, to return at once behind the screen; but the spectacle fascinated him. He felt, with not less pleasure than amazement, that he was looking upon the most accomplished dancer he had ever seen; and the more he watched, the more the witchery of her grace grew upon him. Suddenly she paused, panting, unfastened her girdle, turned in the act of doffing her upper robe, and started violently as her eyes encountered his own. He tried at once to excuse himself to her. He said he had been suddenly awakened by the sound of quick feet, which sound had caused him some uneasiness, chiefly for her sake, because of the lateness of the hour and the lonesomeness of the place. Then he confessed his surprise at what he had seen, and spoke of the manner in which it had attracted him. 'I beg you,' he continued, 'to forgive my curiosity, for I cannot help wondering who you are, and how you could have become so marvellous a dancer. All the dancers of Saikyo I have seen, yet I have never seen among the most celebrated of them a girl who could dance like you; and once I had begun to watch you, I could not take away my eyes.' At first she had seemed angry, but before he had ceased to speak her expression changed. She smiled, and seated herself before him.' 'No, I am not angry with you,' she said. 'I am only sorry that you should have watched me, for I am sure you must have thought me mad when you saw me dancing that way, all by myself; and now I must tell you the meaning of what you have seen.' So she related her story. Her name he remembered to have heard as a boy --her professional name, the name of the most famous of shirabyoshi, the darling of the capital, who, in the zenith of her fame and beauty, had suddenly vanished from public life, none knew whither or why. She had fled from wealth and fortune with a youth who loved her. He was poor, but between them they possessed enough means to live simply and happily in the country. They built a little house in the mountains, and there for a number of years they existed only for each other. He adored her. One of his greatest pleasures was to see her dance. Each evening he would play some favourite melody, and she would dance for him. But one long cold winter he fell sick, and, in spite of her tender nursing, died. Since then she had lived alone with the memory of him, performing all those small rites of love and homage with which the dead are honoured. Daily before his tablet she placed the customary offerings, and nightly danced to please him, as of old. And this was the explanation of what the young traveller had seen. It was indeed rude, she continued, to have awakened her tired guest; but she had waited until she thought him soundly sleeping, and then she had tried to dance very, very lightly. So she hoped he would pardon her for having unintentionally disturbed him. When she had told him all, she made ready a little tea, which they drank together; then she entreated him so plaintively to please her by trying to sleep again that he found himself obliged to go back, with many sincere apologies, under the paper mosquito-curtain. He slept well and long; the sun was high before he woke. On rising, he found prepared for him a meal as simple as that of the evening before, and he felt hungry. Nevertheless he ate sparingly, fearing the young woman might have stinted herself in thus providing for him; and then he made ready to depart. But when he wanted to pay her for what he had received, and for all the trouble he had given her, she refused to take anything from him, saying: 'What I had to give was not worth money, and what I did was done for kindness alone. So! pray that you will try to forget the discomfort you suffered here, and will remember only the good-will of one who had nothing to offer.' He still endeavoured to induce her to accept something; but at last, finding that his insistence only gave her pain, he took leave of her with such words as he could find to express his gratitude, and not without a secret regret, for her beauty and her gentleness had charmed him more than he would have liked to acknowledge to any but herself. She indicated to him the path to follow, and watched him descend the mountain until he had passed from sight. An hour later he found himself upon a highway with which he was familiar. Then a sudden remorse touched him: he had forgotten to tell her his name. For an instant he hesitated; then he said to himself, 'What matters it? I shall be always poor.' And he went on. Many years passed by, and many fashions with them; and the painter became old. But ere becoming old he had become famous. Princes, charmed by the wonder of his work, had vied with one another in giving him patronage; so that he grew rich, and possessed a beautiful dwelling of his own in the City of the Emperors. Young artists from many provinces were his pupils, and lived with him, serving him in all things while receiving his instruction; and his name was known throughout the land. Now, there came one day to his house an old woman, who asked to speak with him. The servants, seeing that she was meanly dressed and of miserable appearance, took her to be some common beggar, and questioned her roughly. But when she answered: 'I can tell to no one except your master why I have come,' they believed her mad, and deceived her, saying: 'He is not now in Saikyo, nor do we know how soon he will return.' But the old woman came again and again--day after day, and week after week--each time being told something that was not true: 'To-day he is ill,' or, 'To-day he is very busy,' or, 'To-day he has much company, and therefore cannot see you.' Nevertheless she continued to come, always at the same hour each day, and always carrying a bundle wrapped in a ragged covering; and the servants at last thought it were best to speak to their master about her. So they said to him: 'There is a very old woman, whom we take to be a beggar, at our lord's gate. More than fifty times she has come, asking to see our lord, and refusing to tell us why-- saying that she can tell her wishes only to our lord. And we have tried to discourage her, as she seemed to be mad; but she always comes. Therefore we have presumed to mention the matter to our lord, in order that we may learn what is to be done hereafter.' Then the Master answered sharply: 'Why did none of you tell me of this before?' and went out himself to the gate, and spoke very kindly to the woman, remembering how he also had been poor. And he asked her if she desired alms of him. But she answered that she had no need of money or of food, and only desired that he would paint for her a picture. He wondered at her wish, and bade her enter his house. So she entered into the vestibule, and, kneeling there, began to untie the knots of the bundle she had brought with her. When she had unwrapped it, the painter perceived curious rich quaint garments of silk broidered with designs in gold, yet much frayed and discoloured by wear and time--the wreck of a wonderful costume of other days, the attire of a shirabyoshi. While the old woman unfolded the garments one by one, and tried to smooth them with her trembling fingers, a memory stirred in the Master's brain, thrilled dimly there a little space, then suddenly lighted up. In that soft shock of recollection, he saw again the lonely mountain dwelling in which he had received unremunerated hospitality--the tiny room prepared for his rest, the paper mosquito-curtain, the faintly burning lamp before the Buddhist shrine, the strange beauty of one dancing there alone in the dead of the night. Then, to the astonishment of the aged visitor, he, the favoured of princes, bowed low before her, and said: 'Pardon my rudeness in having forgotten your face for a moment; but it is more than forty years since we last saw each other. Now I remember you well. You received me once at your house. You gave up to me the only bed you had. I saw you dance, and you told me all your story. You had been a shirabyoshi, and I have not forgotten your name.' He uttered it. She, astonished and confused, could not at first reply to him, for she was old and had suffered much, and her memory had begun to fail. But he spoke more and more kindly to her, and reminded her of many things which she had told him, and described to her the house in which she had lived alone, so that at last she also remembered; and she answered, with tears of pleasure: 'Surely the Divine One who looketh down above the sound of prayer has guided me. But when my unworthy home was honoured by the visit of the august Master, I was not as I now am. And it seems to me like a miracle of our Lord Buddha that the Master should remember me.' Then she related the rest of her simple story. In the course of years, she had become, through poverty, obliged to part with her little house; and in her old age she had returned alone to the great city, in which her name had long been forgotten. It had caused her much pain to lose her home; but it grieved her still more that, in becoming weak and old, she could no longer dance each evening before the butsudan, to please the spirit of the dead whom she had loved. Therefore she wanted to have a picture of herself painted, in the costume and the attitude of the dance, that she might suspend it before the butsudan. For this she had prayed earnestly to Kwannon. And she had sought out the Master because of his fame as a painter, since she desired, for the sake of the dead, no common work, but a picture painted with great skill; and she had brought her dancing attire, hoping that the Master might be willing to paint her therein. He listened to all with a kindly smile, and answered her: 'It will be only a pleasure for me to paint the picture which you want. This day I have something to finish which cannot be delayed. But if you will come here to-morrow, I will paint you exactly as you wish, and as well as I am able.' But she said: 'I have not yet told to the Master the thing which most troubles me. And it is this--that I can offer in return for so great a favour nothing except these dancer's clothes; and they are of no value in themselves, though they were costly once. Still, I hoped the Master might be willing to take them, seeing they have become curious; for there are no more shirabyoshi, and the maiko of these times wear no such robes.' 'Of that matter,' the good painter exclaimed, 'you must not think at all! No; I am glad to have this present chance of paying a small part of my old debt to you. So to-morrow I will paint you just as you wish.' She prostrated herself thrice before him, uttering thanks and then said, 'Let my lord pardon, though I have yet something more to say. For I do not wish that he should paint me as I now am, but only as I used to be when I was young, as my lord knew me.' He said: 'I remember well. You were very beautiful.' Her wrinkled features lighted up with pleasure, as she bowed her thanks to him for those words. And she exclaimed: 'Then indeed all that I hoped and prayed for may be done! Since he thus remembers my poor youth, I beseech my lord to paint me, not as I now am, but as he saw me when I was not old and, as it has pleased him generously to say, not uncomely. O Master, make me young again! Make me seem beautiful that I may seem beautiful to the soul of him for whose sake I, the unworthy, beseech this! He will see the Master's work: he will forgive me that I can no longer dance. Once more the Master bade her have no anxiety, and said: 'Come tomorrow, and I will paint you. I will make a picture of you just as you were when I saw you, a young and beautiful shirabyoshi, and I will paint it as carefully and as skilfully as if I were painting the picture of the richest person in the land. Never doubt, but come.' Sec. 5 So the aged dancer came at the appointed hour; and upon soft white silk the artist painted a picture of her. Yet not a picture of her as she seemed to the Master's pupils but the memory of her as she had been in the days of her youth, bright-eyed as a bird, lithe as a bamboo, dazzling as a tennin [9] in her raiment of silk and gold. Under the magic of the Master's brush, the vanished grace returned, the faded beauty bloomed again. When the kakemono had been finished, and stamped with his seal, he mounted it richly upon silken cloth, and fixed to it rollers of cedar with ivory weights, and a silken cord by which to hang it; and he placed it in a little box of white wood, and so gave it to the shirabyoshi. And he would also have presented her with a gift of money. But though he pressed her earnestly, he could not persuade her to accept his help. 'Nay,' she made answer, with tears, 'indeed I need nothing. The picture only I desired. For that I prayed; and now my prayer has been answered, and I know that I never can wish for anything more in this life, and that if I come to die thus desiring nothing, to enter upon the way of Buddha will not be difficult. One thought .alone causes me sorrow--that I have nothing to offer to the Master but this dancer's apparel, which is indeed of little worth, though I beseech him I to accept it; and I will pray each day that his future life may be a life of happiness, because of the wondrous kindness which I he has done me.' 'Nay,' protested the painter, smiling, 'what is it that I have done? Truly nothing. As for the dancer's garments, I will accept them, if that can make you more happy. They will bring back pleasant memories of the night I passed in your home, when you gave up all your comforts for my unworthy sake, and yet would not suffer me to pay for that which I used; and for that kindness I hold myself to be still in your debt. But now tell me where you live, so that I may see the picture in its place.' For he had resolved within himself to place her beyond the reach of want. But she excused herself with humble words, and would not tell him, saying that her dwelling-place was too mean to be looked upon by such as he; and then, with many prostrations, she thanked him again and again, and went away with her treasure, weeping for joy. Then the Master called to one of his pupils: 'Go quickly after that woman, but so that she does not know herself followed, and bring me word where she lives.' So the young man followed her, unperceived. He remained long away, and when he returned he laughed in the manner of one obliged to say something which it is not pleasant to hear, and he said: 'That woman, O Master, I followed out of the city to the dry bed of the river, near to the place where criminals are executed. There I saw a hut such as an Eta might dwell in, and that is where she lives. A forsaken and filthy place, O Master!' 'Nevertheless,' the painter replied, 'to-morrow you will take me to that forsaken and filthy place. What time I live she shall not suffer for food or clothing or comfort.' And as all wondered, he told them the story of the shirabyoshi, after which it did not seem to them that his words were strange. Sec. 6 On the morning of the day following, an hour after sun-rise, the Master and his pupil took their way to the dry bed of the river, beyond the verge of the city, to the place of outcasts. The entrance of the little dwelling they found closed by a single shutter, upon which the Master tapped many times without evoking a response. Then, finding the shutter unfastened from within, he pushed it slightly aside, and called through the aperture. None replied, and he decided to enter. Simultaneously, with extraordinary vividness, there thrilled back to him the sensation of the very instant when, as a tired. lad, he stood pleading for admission to the lonesome little cottage among the hills. Entering alone softly, he perceived that the woman was lying there, wrapped in a single thin and tattered futon, seemingly asleep. On a rude shelf he recognised the butsudan of' forty years before, with its tablet, and now, as then, a tiny lamp was burning in front of the kaimyo. The kakemono of the Goddess of Mercy with her lunar aureole was gone, but on the wall facing the shrine he beheld his own dainty gift suspended, and an ofuda beneath it--an ofuda of Hito-koto-Kwannon [10]-- that Kwannon unto whom it is unlawful to pray more than once, as she answers but a single prayer. There was little else in the desolate dwelling; only the garments of a female pilgrim, and a mendicant's staff and bowl. But the Master did not pause to look at these things, for he desired to awaken and to gladden the sleeper, and he called her name cheerily twice and thrice. Then suddenly he saw that she was dead, and he wondered while he gazed upon her face, for it seemed less old. A vague sweetness, like a ghost of youth, had returned to it; the lines of sorrow had been softened, the wrinkles strangely smoothed, by the touch of a phantom Master mightier than he. CHAPTER EIGHT From Hoki to Oki Sec. 1 I RESOLVED to go to Oki. Not even a missionary had ever been to Oki, and its shores had never been seen by European eyes, except on those rare occasions when men-of- war steamed by them, cruising about the Japanese Sea. This alone would have been a sufficient reason for going there; but a stronger one was furnished for me by the ignorance of the Japanese themselves about Oki. Excepting the far-away Riu-Kiu, or Loo-Choo Islands, inhabited by a somewhat different race with a different language, the least-known portion of the Japanese Empire is perhaps Oki. Since it belongs to the same prefectural district as Izumo, each new governor of Shimane-Ken is supposed to pay one visit to Oki after his inauguration; and the chief of police of the province sometimes goes there upon a tour of inspection. There are also some mercantile houses in Matsue and in other cities which send a commercial traveller to Oki once a year. Furthermore, there is quite a large trade with Oki--almost all carried on by small sailing-vessels. But such official and commercial communications have not been of a nature to make Oki much better known to-day than in the medieval period of Japanese history. There are still current among the common people of the west coast extraordinary stories of Oki much like those about that fabulous Isle of Women, which figures so largely in the imaginative literature of various Oriental races. According to these old legends, the moral notions of the people of Oki were extremely fantastic: the most rigid ascetic could not dwell there and maintain his indifference to earthly pleasures; and, however wealthy at his arrival, the visiting stranger must soon return to his native land naked and poor, because of the seductions of women. I had quite sufficient experiences of travel in queer countries to feel certain that all these marvellous stories signified nothing beyond the bare fact that Oki was a terra incognita; and I even felt inclined to believe that the average morals of the people of Oki--judging by those of the common folk of the western provinces--must be very much better than the morals of our ignorant classes at home. Which I subsequently ascertained to be the case. For some time I could find no one among my Japanese acquaintances to give me any information about Oki, beyond the fact that in ancient times it had been a place of banishment for the Emperors Go-Daigo and Go-Toba, dethroned by military usurpers, and this I already knew. But at last, quite unexpectedly, I found a friend--a former fellow-teacher--who had not only been to Oki, but was going there again within a few days about some business matter. We agreed to go together. His accounts of Oki differed very materially from those of the people who had never been there. The Oki folks, he said, were almost as much civilised as the Izumo folks: they, had nice towns and good public schools. They were very simple and honest beyond belief, and extremely kind to strangers. Their only boast was that of having kept their race unchanged since the time that the Japanese had first come to Japan; or, in more romantic phrase, since the Age of the Gods. They were all Shintoists, members of the Izumo Taisha faith, but Buddhism was also maintained among them, chiefly through the generous subscription of private individuals. And there were very comfortable hotels, so that I would feel quite at home. He also gave me a little book about Oki, printed for the use of the Oki schools, from which I obtained the following brief summary of facts: Sec. 2 Oki-no-Kuni, or the Land of Oki, consists of two groups of small islands in the Sea of Japan, about one hundred miles from the coast of Izumo. Dozen, as the nearer group is termed, comprises, besides various islets, three islands lying close together: Chiburishima, or the Island of Chiburi (sometimes called Higashinoshima, or Eastern Island); Nishinoshima, or the Western Island, and Nakanoshima, or the Middle Island. Much larger than any of these is the principal island, Dogo, which together with various islets, mostly uninhabited, form the remaining group. It is sometimes called Oki--though the name Oki is more generally used for the whole archipelago. [1] Officially, Oki is divided into four kori or counties. Chiburi and Nishinoshima together form Chiburigori; Nakanoshima, with an islet, makes Amagori, and Dogo is divided into Ochigori and Sukigori. All these islands are very mountainous, and only a small portion of their area has ever been cultivated. Their chief sources of revenue are their fisheries, in which nearly the whole population has always been engaged from the most ancient times. During the winter months the sea between Oki and the west coast is highly dangerous for small vessels, and in that season the islands hold little communication with the mainland. Only one passenger steamer runs to Oki from Sakai in Hoki In a direct line, the distance from Sakai in Hoki to Saigo, the chief port of Oki, is said to be thirty-nine ri; but the steamer touches at the other islands upon her way thither. There are quite a number of little towns, or rather villages, in Oki, of which forty-five belong to Dogo. The villages are nearly all situated upon the coast. There are large schools in the principal towns. The population of the islands is stated to be 30,196, but the respective populations of towns and villages are not given. Sec. 3 From Matsue in Izumo to Sakai in Hoki is a trip of barely two hours by steamer. Sakai is the chief seaport of Shimane-Ken. It is an ugly little town, full of unpleasant smells; it exists only as a port; it has no industries, scarcely any shops, and only one Shinto temple of small dimensions and smaller interest. Its principal buildings are warehouses, pleasure resorts for sailors, and a few large dingy hotels, which are always overcrowded with guests waiting for steamers to Osaka, to Bakkan, to Hamada, to Niigata, and various other ports. On this coast no steamers run regularly anywhere; their owners attach no business value whatever to punctuality, and guests have usually to wait for a much longer time than they could possibly have expected, and the hotels are glad. But the harbour is beautiful--a long frith between the high land of Izumo and the low coast of Hoki. It is perfectly sheltered from storms, and deep enough to admit all but the largest steamers. The ships can lie close to the houses, and the harbour is nearly always thronged with all sorts of craft, from junks to steam packets of the latest construction. My friend and I were lucky enough to secure back rooms at the best hotel. Back rooms are the best in nearly all Japanese buildings: at Sakai they have the additional advantage of overlooking the busy wharves and the whole luminous bay, beyond which the Izumo hills undulate in huge green billows against the sky. There was much to see and to be amused at. Steamers and sailing craft of all sorts were lying two and three deep before the hotel, and the naked dock labourers were loading and unloading in their own peculiar way. These men are recruited from among the strongest peasantry of Hoki and of Izumo, and some were really fine men, over whose brown backs the muscles rippled at every movement. They were assisted by boys of fifteen or sixteen apparently--apprentices learning the work, but not yet strong enough to bear heavy burdens. I noticed that nearly all had bands of blue cloth bound about their calves to keep the veins from bursting. And all sang as they worked. There was one curious alternate chorus, in which the men in the hold gave the signal by chanting 'dokoe, dokoel' (haul away!) and those at the hatch responded by improvisations on the appearance of each package as it ascended: Dokoe, dokoe! Onnago no ko da. Dokoe, dokoe! Oya dayo, oya dayo. Dokoe, dokoel Choi-choi da, choi-choi da. Dokoe, dokoe! Matsue da, Matsueda. Dokoe, dokoe! Koetsumo Yonago da, [20] etc. But this chant was for light quick work. A very different chant accompanied the more painful and slower labour of loading heavy sacks and barrels upon the shoulders of the stronger men:-- Yan-yui! Yan-yui! Yan-yui! Yan-yui! Yoi-ya-sa-a-a-no-do-koe-shi! [3] Three men always lifted the weight. At the first yan-yui all stooped; at the second all took hold; the third signified ready; at the fourth the weight rose from the ground; and with the long cry of yoiyasa no dokoeshi it was dropped on the brawny shoulder waiting to receive it. Among the workers was a naked laughing boy, with a fine contralto that rang out so merrily through all the din as to create something of a sensation in the hotel. A young woman, one of the guests, came out upon the balcony to look, and exclaimed: 'That boy's voice is RED'--whereat everybody smiled. Under the circumstances I thought the observation very expressive, although it recalled a certain famous story about scarlet and the sound of a trumpet, which does not seem nearly so funny now as it did at a time when we knew less about the nature of light and sound. The Oki steamer arrived the same afternoon, but she could not approach the wharf, and I could only obtain a momentary glimpse of her stern through a telescope, with which I read the name, in English letters of gold--OKI-SARGO. Before I could obtain any idea of her dimensions, a huge black steamer from Nagasaki glided between, and moored right in the way. I watched the loading and unloading, and listened to the song of the boy with the red voice, until sunset, when all quit work; and after that I watched the Nagasaki steamer. She had made her way to our wharf as the other vessels moved out, and lay directly under the balcony. The captain and crew did not appear to be in a hurry about anything. They all squatted down together on the foredeck, where a feast was spread for them by lantern-light. Dancing-girls climbed on board and feasted with them, and sang to the sound of the samisen, and played with them the game of ken. Late into the night the feasting and the fun continued; and although an alarming quantity of sake was consumed, there was no roughness or boisterousness. But sake is the most soporific of wines; and by midnight only three of the men remained on deck. One of these had not taken any sake at all, but still desired to eat. Happily for him there climbed on board a night-walking mochiya with a box of mochi, which are cakes of rice-flour sweetened with native sugar. The hungry one bought all, and reproached the mochiya because there were no more, and offered, nevertheless, to share the mochi with his comrades. Whereupon the first to whom the offer was made answered somewhat after this manner: 'I-your-servant mochi-for this-world-in no-use-have. Sake alone this- life-in if-there-be, nothing-beside-desirable-is. 'For me-your-servant,' spake the other, 'Woman this-fleeting-life-in the-supreme-thing is; mochi-or-sake-for earthly-use have-I-none.' But, having made all the mochi to disappear, he that had been hungry turned himself to the mochiya, and said:--'O Mochiya San, I-your-servant Woman-or-sake-for earthly-requirement have-none. Mochi-than things better this-life-of-sorrow-in existence-have-not !' Sec. 4 Early in the morning we were notified that the Oki-Saigo would start at precisely eight o'clock, and that we had better secure our tickets at once. The hotel-servant, according to Japanese custom, relieved us of all anxiety about baggage, etc., and bought our tickets: first-class fare, eighty sen. And after a hasty breakfast the hotel boat came under the window to take us away. Warned by experience of the discomforts of European dress on Shimane steamers, I adopted Japanese costume and exchanged my shoes for sandals. Our boatmen sculled swiftly through the confusion of shipping and junkery; and as we cleared it I saw, far out in midstream, the joki waiting for us. Joki is a Japanese name for steam-vessel. The word had not yet impressed me as being capable of a sinister interpretation. She seemed nearly as long as a harbour tug, though much more squabby; and she otherwise so much resembled the Lilliputian steamers of Lake Shinji, that I felt somewhat afraid of her, even for a trip of one hundred miles. But exterior inspection afforded no clue to the mystery of her inside. We reached her and climbed into her starboard through a small square hole. At once I found myself cramped in a heavily-roofed gangway, four feet high and two feet wide, and in the thick of a frightful squeeze--passengers stifling in the effort to pull baggage three feet in diameter through the two-foot orifice. It was impossible to advance or retreat; and behind me the engine-room gratings were pouring wonderful heat into this infernal corridor. I had to wait with the back of my head pressed against the roof until, in some unimaginable way, all baggage and passengers had squashed and squeezed through. Then, reaching a doorway, I fell over a heap of sandals and geta, into the first-class cabin. It was pretty, with its polished woodwork and mirrors; it was surrounded by divans five inches wide; and in the centre it was nearly six feet high. Such altitude would have been a cause for comparative happiness, but that from various polished bars of brass extended across the ceiling all kinds of small baggage, including two cages of singing-crickets (chongisu), had been carefully suspended. Furthermore the cabin was already extremely occupied: everybody, of course, on the floor, and nearly everybody lying at extreme length; and the heat struck me as being supernatural. Now they that go down to the sea in ships, out of Izumo and such places, for the purpose of doing business in great waters, are never supposed to stand up, but to squat in the ancient patient manner; and coast, or lake steamers are constructed with a view to render this attitude only possible. Observing an open door in the port side of the cabin, I picked my way over a tangle of bodies and limbs--among them a pair of fairy legs belonging to a dancing-girl--and found myself presently in another gangway, also roofed, and choked up to the roof with baskets of squirming eels. Exit there was none: so I climbed back over all the legs and tried the starboard gangway a second time. Even during that short interval, it had been half filled with baskets of unhappy chickens. But I made a reckless dash over them, in spite of frantic cacklings which hurt my soul, and succeeded in finding a way to the cabin-roof. It was entirely occupied by water-melons, except one corner, where there was a big coil of rope. I put melons inside of the rope, and sat upon them in the sun. It was not comfortable; but I thought that there I might have some chance for my life in case of a catastrophe, and I was sure that even the gods could give no help to those below. During the squeeze I had got separated from my companion, but I was afraid to make any attempt to find him. Forward I saw the roof of the second cabin crowded with third- class passengers squatting round a hibachi. To pass through them did not seem possible, and to retire would have involved the murder of either eels or chickens. Wherefore I sat upon the melons. And the boat started, with a stunning scream. In another moment her funnel began to rain soot upon me--for the so-called first-class cabin was well astern--and then came small cinders mixed with the soot, and the cinders were occasionally red-hot. But I sat burning upon the water- melons for some time longer, trying to imagine a way of changing my position without committing another assault upon the chickens. Finally, I made a desperate endeavour to get to leeward of the volcano, and it was then for the first time that I began to learn the peculiarities of the joki. What I tried to sit on turned upside down, and what I tried to hold by instantly gave way, and always in the direction of overboard. Things clamped or rigidly braced to outward seeming proved, upon cautious examination, to be dangerously mobile; and things that, according to Occidental ideas, ought to have been movable, were fixed like the roots of the perpetual hills. In whatever direction a rope or stay could possibly have been stretched so as to make somebody unhappy, it was there. In the midst of these trials the frightful little craft began to swing, and the water-melons began to rush heavily to and fro, and I came to the conclusion that this joki had been planned and constructed by demons. Which I stated to my friend. He had not only rejoined me quite unexpectedly, but had brought along with him one of the ship's boys to spread an awning above ourselves and the watermelons, so as to exclude cinders and sun. 'Oh, no!' he answered reproachfully 'She was designed and built at Hyogo, and really she might have been made much worse. . . ' 'I beg your pardon,' I interrupted; 'I don't agree with you at all.' 'Well, you will see for yourself,' he persisted. 'Her hull is good steel, and her little engine is wonderful; she can make her hundred miles in five hours. She is not very comfortable, but she is very swift and strong.' 'I would rather be in a sampan,' I protested, 'if there were rough weather.' 'But she never goes to sea in rough weather. If it only looks as if there might possibly be some rough weather, she stays in port. Sometimes she waits a whole month. She never runs any risks.' I could not feel sure of it. But I soon forgot all discomforts, even the discomfort of sitting upon water-melons, in the delight of the divine day and the magnificent view that opened wider and wider before us, as we rushed from the long frith into the Sea of Japan, following the Izumo coast. There was no fleck in the soft blue vastness above, not one flutter on the metallic smoothness of the all-reflecting sea; if our little steamer rocked, it was doubtless because she had been overloaded. To port, the Izumo hills were flying by, a long, wild procession of' broken shapes, sombre green, separating at intervals to form mysterious little bays, with fishing hamlets hiding in them. Leagues away to starboard, the Hoki shore receded into the naked white horizon, an ever- diminishing streak of warm blue edged with a thread-line of white, the gleam of a sand beach; and beyond it, in the centre, a vast shadowy pyramid loomed up into heaven--the ghostly peak of Daisen. My companion touched my arm to call my attention to a group of pine- trees on the summit of a peak to port, and laughed and sang a Japanese song. How swiftly we had been travelling I then for the first time understood, for I recognised the four famous pines of Mionoseki, on the windy heights above the shrine of Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami. There used to be five trees: one was uprooted by a storm, and some Izumo poet wrote about the remaining four the words which my friend had sung: Seki no gohon matsu Ippun kirya, shihon; Ato wa kirarenu Miyoto matsu. Which means: 'Of the five pines of Seki one has been cut, and four remain; and of these no one must now be cut--they are wedded pairs.' And in Mionoseki there are sold beautiful little sake cups and sake bottles, upon which are pictures of the four pines, and above the pictures, in spidery text of gold, the verses, 'Seki no gohon matsu.' These are for keepsakes, and there are many other curious and pretty souvenirs to buy in those pretty shops; porcelains bearing the picture of the Mionoseki temple, and metal clasps for tobacco pouches representing Koto-shiro- nushi-no-Kami trying to put a big tai-fish into a basket too small for it, and funny masks of glazed earthenware representing the laughing face of the god. For a jovial god is this Ebisu, or Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami, patron of honest labour and especially of fishers, though less of a laughter-lover than his father, the Great Deity of Kitzuki, about whom 'tis said: 'Whenever the happy laugh, the God rejoices.' We passed the Cape--the Miho of the Kojiki--and the harbour of Mionoseki opened before us, showing its islanded shrine of Benten in the midst, and the crescent of quaint houses with their feet in the water, and the great torii and granite lions of the far-famed temple. Immediately a number of passengers rose to their feet, and, turning their faces toward the torii began to clap their hands in Shinto prayer. I said to my friend: 'There are fifty baskets full of chickens in the gangway; and yet these people are praying to Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami that nothing horrible may happen to this boat.' 'More likely,' he answered, 'they are praying for good-fortune; though there is a saying: "The gods only laugh when men pray to them for wealth." But of the Great Deity of Mionoseki there is a good story told. Once there was a very lazy man who went to Mionoseki and prayed to become rich. And the same night he saw the god in a dream; and the god laughed, and took off one of his own divine sandals, and told him to examine it. And the man saw that it was made of solid brass, but had a big hole worn through the sole of it. Then said the god: "You want to have money without working for it. I am a god; but I am never lazy. See! my sandals are of brass: yet I have worked and walked so much that they are quite worn out."' Sec. 5 The beautiful bay of Mionoseki opens between two headlands: Cape Mio (or Miho, according to the archaic spelling) and the Cape of Jizo (Jizo- zaki), now most inappropriately called by the people 'The Nose of Jizo' (Jizo-no-hana). This Nose of Jizo is one of the most dangerous points of the coast in time of surf, and the great terror of small ships returning from Oki. There is nearly always a heavy swell there, even in fair weather. Yet as we passed the ragged promontory I was surprised to see the water still as glass. I felt suspicious of that noiseless sea: its soundlessness recalled the beautiful treacherous sleep of waves and winds which precedes a tropical hurricane. But my friend said: 'It may remain like this for weeks. In the sixth month and in the beginning of the seventh, it is usually very quiet; it is not likely to become dangerous before the Bon. But there was a little squall last week at Mionoseki; and the people said that it was caused by the anger of the god.' 'Eggs?' I queried. 'No: a Kudan.' 'What is a Kudan?' 'Is it possible you never heard of the Kudan? The Kudan has the face of a man, and the body of a bull. Sometimes it is born of a cow, and that is a Sign-of-things-going-to-happen. And the Kudan always tells the truth. Therefore in Japanese letters and documents it is customary to use the phrase, Kudanno-gotoshi--"like the Kudan"--or "on the truth of the Kudan."' [4] 'But why was the God of Mionoseki angry about the Kudan?' 'People said it was a stuffed Kudan. I did not see it, so I cannot tell you how it was made. There was some travelling showmen from Osaka at Sakai. They had a tiger and many curious animals and the stuffed Kudan; and they took the Izumo Maru for Mionoseki. As the steamer entered the port a sudden squall came; and the priests of the temple said the god was angry because things impure--bones and parts of dead animals--had been brought to the town. And the show people were not even allowed to land: they had to go back to Sakai on the same steamer. And as soon as they had gone away, the sky became clear again, and the wind stopped blowing: so that some people thought what the priests had said was true.' Sec. 6 Evidently there was much more moisture in the atmosphere than I had supposed. On really clear days Daisen can be distinctly seen even from Oki; but we had scarcely passed the Nose of Jizo when the huge peak began to wrap itself in vapour of the same colour as the horizon; and in a few minutes it vanished, as a spectre might vanish. The effect of this sudden disappearance was very extraordinary; for only the peak passed from sight, and that which had veiled it could not be any way distinguished from horizon and sky. Meanwhile the Oki-Saigo, having reached the farthest outlying point of the coast upon her route began to race in straight line across the Japanese Sea. The green hills of Izumi fled away and turned blue, and the spectral shores of Hoki began to melt into the horizon, like bands of cloud. Then was obliged to confess my surprise at the speed of the horrid little steamer. She moved, too, with scarcely any sound, smooth was the working of her wonderful little engine. But she began to swing heavily, with deep, slow swingings. To the eye, the sea looked level as oil; but there were long invisible swells--ocean-pulses--that made themselves felt beneath the surface. Hoki evaporated; the Izumo hills turned grey, a their grey steadily paled as I watched them. They grew more and more colourless--seemed to become transparent. And then they were not. Only blue sky and blue sea, welded together in the white horizon. It was just as lonesome as if we had been a thousand leagues from land. And in that weirdness we were told some very lonesome things by an ancient mariner who found leisure join us among the water-melons. He talked of the Hotoke-umi and the ill-luck of being at sea on the sixteenth day of the seventh month. He told us that even the great steamers never went to sea during the Bon: no crew would venture to take ship out then. And he related the following stories with such simple earnestness that I think he must have believed what said: 'The first time I was very young. From Hokkaido we had sailed, and the voyage was long, and the winds turned against us. And the night of the sixteenth day fell, as we were working on over this very sea. 'And all at once in the darkness we saw behind us a great junk--all white--that we had not noticed till she was quite close to us. It made us feel queer, because she seemed to have come from nowhere. She was so near us that we could hear voices; and her hull towered up high above us. She seemed to be sailing very fast; but she came no closer. We shouted to her; but we got no answer. And while we were watching her, all of us became afraid, because she did not move like a real ship. The sea was terrible, and we were lurching and plunging; but that great junk never rolled. Just at the same moment that we began to feel afraid she vanished so quickly that we could scarcely believe we had really seen her at all. 'That was the first time. But four years ago I saw something still more strange. We were bound for Oki, in a junk, and the wind again delayed us, so that we were at sea on the sixteenth day. It was in the morning, a little before midday; the sky was dark and the sea very ugly. All at once we saw a steamer running in our track, very quickly. She got so close to us that we could hear her engines--katakata katakata!--but we saw nobody on deck. Then she began to follow us, keeping exactly at the same distance, and whenever we tried to get out of her way she would turn after us and keep exactly in our wake. And then we suspected what she was. But we were not sure until she vanished. She vanished like a bubble, without making the least sound. None of us could say exactly when she disappeared. None of us saw her vanish. The strangest thing was that after she was gone we could still hear her engines working behind us--katakata, katakata, katakata! 'That is all I saw. But I know others, sailors like myself, who have seen more. Sometimes many ships will follow you--though never at the same time. One will come close and vanish, then another, and then another. As long as they come behind you, you need never be afraid. But if you see a ship of that sort running before you, against the wind, that is very bad! It means that all on board will be drowned.' Sec. 7 The luminous blankness circling us continued to remain unflecked for less than an hour. Then out of the horizon toward which we steamed, a small grey vagueness began to grow. It lengthened fast, and seemed a cloud. And a cloud it proved; but slowly, beneath it, blue filmy shapes began to define against the whiteness, and sharpened into a chain of mountains. They grew taller and bluer--a little sierra, with one paler shape towering in the middle to thrice the height of the rest, and filleted with cloud--Takuhizan, the sacred mountain of Oki, in the island Nishinoshima. Takuhizan has legends, which I learned from my friend. Upon its summit stands an ancient shrine of the deity Gongen-Sama. And it is said that upon the thirty-first night of the twelfth month three ghostly fires arise from the sea and ascend to the place of the shrine, and enter the stone lanterns which stand before it, and there remain, burning like lamps. These lights do not arise at once, but separately, from the sea, and rise to the top of the peak one by one. The people go out in boats to see the lights mount from the water. But only those whose hearts are pure can see them; those who have evil thoughts or desires look for the holy fires in vain. Before us, as we steamed on, the sea-surface appeared to become suddenly speckled with queer craft previously invisible--light, long fishing- boats, with immense square sails of a beautiful yellow colour. I could not help remarking to my comrade how pretty those sails were; he laughed, and told me they were made of old tatami. [5] I examined them through a telescope, and found that they were exactly what he had said-- woven straw coverings of old floor-mats. Nevertheless, that first tender yellow sprinkling of old sails over the soft blue water was a charming sight. They fleeted by, like a passing of yellow butterflies, and the sea was void again. Gradually, a little to port, a point in the approaching line of blue cliffs shaped itself and changed colour--dull green above, reddish grey below; it defined into a huge rock, with a dark patch on its face, but the rest of the land remained blue. The dark patch blackened as we came nearer--a great gap full of shadow. Then the blue cliffs beyond also turned green, and their bases reddish grey. We passed to the right of the huge rock, which proved to be a detached and uninhabited islet, Hakashima; and in another moment we were steaming into the archipelago of Oki, between the lofty islands Chiburishima and Nakashima. Sec. 8 The first impression was almost uncanny. Rising sheer from the flood on either hand, the tall green silent hills stretched away before us, changing tint through the summer vapour, to form a fantastic vista of blue cliffs and peaks and promontories. There was not one sign of human life. Above their pale bases of naked rock the mountains sloped up beneath a sombre wildness of dwarf vegetation. There was absolutely no sound, except the sound of the steamer's tiny engine--poum-poum, poum! poum-poum, poum! like the faint tapping of a geisha's drum. And this savage silence continued for miles: only the absence of lofty timber gave evidence that those peaked hills had ever been trodden by human foot. But all at once, to the left, in a mountain wrinkle, a little grey hamlet appeared; and the steamer screamed and stopped, while the hills repeated the scream seven times. This settlement was Chiburimura, of Chiburishima (Nakashima being the island to starboard)--evidently nothing more than a fishing station. First a wharf of uncemented stone rising from the cove like a wall; then great trees through which one caught sight of a torii before some Shinto shrine, and of a dozen houses climbing the hollow hill one behind another, roof beyond roof; and above these some terraced patches of tilled ground in the midst of desolation: that was all. The packet halted to deliver mail, and passed on. But then, contrary to expectation, the scenery became more beautiful. The shores on either side at once receded and heightened: we were traversing an inland sea bounded by three lofty islands. At first the way before us had seemed barred by vapoury hills; but as these, drawing nearer, turned green, there suddenly opened magnificent chasms between them on both sides--mountain-gates revealing league-long wondrous vistas of peaks and cliffs and capes of a hundred blues, ranging away from velvety indigo into far tones of exquisite and spectral delicacy. A tinted haze made dreamy all remotenesses, an veiled with illusions of colour the rugged nudities of rock. The beauty of the scenery of Western and Central Japan is not as the beauty of scenery in other lands; it has a peculiar character of its own. Occasionally the foreigner may find memories of former travel suddenly stirred to life by some view on a mountain road, or some stretch of beetling coast seen through a fog of spray. But this illusion of resemblance vanishes as swiftly as it comes; details immediately define into strangeness, and you become aware that the remembrance was evoked by form only, never by colour. Colours indeed there are which delight the eye, but not colours of mountain verdure, not colours of the land. Cultivated plains, expanses of growing rice, may offer some approach to warmth of green; but the whole general tone of this nature is dusky; the vast forests are sombre; the tints of grasses are harsh or dull. Fiery greens, such as burn in tropical scenery, do not exist; and blossom-bursts take a more exquisite radiance by contrast with the heavy tones of the vegetation out of which they flame. Outside of parks and gardens and cultivated fields, there is a singular absence of warmth and tenderness in the tints of verdure; and nowhere need you hope to find any such richness of green as that which makes the loveliness of an English lawn. Yet these Oriental landscapes possess charms of colour extraordinary, phantom-colour delicate, elfish, indescribable--created by the wonderful atmosphere. Vapours enchant the distances, bathing peaks in bewitchments of blue and grey of a hundred tones, transforming naked cliffs to amethyst, stretching spectral gauzes across the topazine morning, magnifying the splendour of noon by effacing the horizon, filling the evening with smoke of gold, bronzing the waters, banding the sundown with ghostly purple and green of nacre. Now, the Old Japanese artists who made those marvellous ehon--those picture-books which have now become so rare--tried to fix the sensation of these enchantments in colour, and they were successful in their backgrounds to a degree almost miraculous. For which very reason some of their foregrounds have been a puzzle to foreigners unacquainted with certain features of Japanese agriculture. You will see blazing saffron-yellow fields, faint purple plains, crimson and snow-white trees, in those old picture-books; and perhaps you will exclaim: 'How absurd!' But if you knew Japan you would cry out: 'How deliciously real!' For you would know those fields of burning yellow are fields of flowering rape, and the purple expanses are fields of blossoming miyako, and the snow-white or crimson trees are not fanciful, but represent faithfully certain phenomena of efflorescence peculiar to the plum-trees and the cherry-trees of the country. But these chromatic extravaganzas can be witnessed only during very brief periods of particular seasons: throughout the greater part of the year the foreground of an inland landscape is apt to be dull enough in the matter of colour. It is the mists that make the magic of the backgrounds; yet even without them there is a strange, wild, dark beauty in Japanese landscapes, a beauty not easily defined in words. The secret of it must be sought in the extraordinary lines of the mountains, in the strangely abrupt crumpling and jagging of the ranges; no two masses closely resembling each other, every one having a fantasticality of its own. Where the chains reach to any considerable height, softly swelling lines are rare: the general characteristic is abruptness, and the charm is the charm of Irregularity. Doubtless this weird Nature first inspired the Japanese with their unique sense of the value of irregularity in decoration--taught them that single secret of composition which distinguishes their art from all other art, and which Professor Chamberlain has said it is their special mission to teach to the Occident. [6] Certainly, whoever has once learned to feel the beauty and significance of the Old Japanese decorative art can find thereafter little pleasure in the corresponding art of the West. What he has really learned is that Nature's greatest charm is irregularity. And perhaps something of no small value might be written upon the question whether the highest charm of human life and work is not also irregularity. Sec. 9 From Chiburimura we made steam west for the port of Urago, which is in the island of Nishinoshima. As we approached it Takuhizan came into imposing view. Far away it had seemed a soft and beautiful shape; but as its blue tones evaporated its aspect became rough and even grim: an enormous jagged bulk all robed in sombre verdure, through which, as through tatters, there protruded here and there naked rock of the wildest shapes. One fragment, I remember, as it caught the slanting sun upon the irregularities of its summit, seemed an immense grey skull. At the base of this mountain, and facing the shore of Nakashima, rises a pyramidal mass of rock, covered with scraggy undergrowth, and several hundred feet in height--Mongakuzan. On its desolate summit stands a little shrine. 'Takuhizan' signifies The Fire-burning Mountain--a name due perhaps either to the legend of its ghostly fires, or to some ancient memory of its volcanic period. 'Mongakuzan' means The Mountain of Mongaku--Mongaku Shonin, the great monk. It is said that Mongaku Shonin fled to Oki, and that he dwelt alone upon the top of that mountain many years, doing penance for his deadly sin. Whether he really ever visited Oki, I am not able to say; there are traditions which declare the contrary. But the peaklet has borne his name for hundreds of years. Now this is the story of Mongaku Shonin: Many centuries ago, in the city of Kyoto, there was a captain of the garrison whose name was Endo Morito. He saw and loved the wife of a noble samurai; and when she refused to listen to his desires, he vowed that he would destroy her family unless she consented to the plan which he submitted to her. The plan was that upon a certain night she should suffer him to enter her house and to kill her husband; after which she was to become his wife. But she, pretending to consent, devised a noble stratagem to save her honour. For, after having persuaded her husband to absent himself from the city, she wrote to Endo a letter, bidding him come upon a certain night to the house. And on that night she clad herself in her husband's robes, and made her hair like the hair of a man, and laid herself down in her husband's place, and pretended to sleep. And Endo came in the dead of the night with his sword drawn, and smote off the head of the sleeper at a blow, and seized it by the hair and lifted it up and saw it was the head of the woman he had loved and wronged. Then a great remorse came upon him, and hastening to a neighbouring temple, he confessed his sin, and did penance and cut off his hair, and became a monk, taking the name of Mongaku. And in after years he attained to great holiness, so that folk still pray to him, and his memory is venerated throughout the land. Now at Asakusa in Tokyo, in one of the curious little streets which lead to the great temple of Kwannon the Merciful, there are always wonderful images to be seen--figures that seem alive, though made of wood only-- figures illustrating the ancient legends of Japan. And there you may see Endo standing: in his right hand the reeking sword; in his left the head of a beautiful woman. The face of the woman you may forget soon, because it is only beautiful. But the face of Endo you will not forget, because it is naked hell. Sec. 10 Urago is a queer little town, perhaps quite as large as Mionoseki, and built, like Mionoseki, on a narrow ledge at the base of a steep semicircle of hills. But it is much more primitive and colourless than Mionoseki; and its houses are still more closely cramped between cliffs and water, so that its streets, or rather alleys, are no wider than gangways. As we cast anchor, my attention was suddenly riveted by a strange spectacle--a white wilderness of long fluttering vague shapes, in a cemetery on the steep hillside, rising by terraces high above the roofs of the town. The cemetery was full of grey haka and images of divinities; and over every haka there was a curious white paper banner fastened to a thin bamboo pole. Through a glass one could see that these banners were inscribed with Buddhist texts--'Namur-myo-ho-renge-kyo'; 'Namu Amida Butsu'; 'Namu Daiji Dai-hi Kwan-ze-on Bosats,'--and other holy words. Upon inquiry I learned that it was an Urago custom to place these banners every year above the graves during one whole month preceding the Festival of the Dead, together with various other ornamental or symbolic things. The water was full of naked swimmers, who shouted laughing welcomes; and a host of light, swift boats, sculled by naked fishermen, darted out to look for passengers and freight. It was my first chance to observe the physique of Oki islanders; and I was much impressed by the vigorous appearance of both men and boys. The adults seemed to me of a taller and more powerful type than the men of the Izumo coast; and not a few of those brown backs and shoulders displayed, in the motion of sculling what is comparatively rare in Japan, even among men picked for heavy labour--a magnificent development of muscles. As the steamer stopped an hour at Urago, we had time to dine ashore in the chief hotel. It was a very clean and pretty hotel, and the fare infinitely superior to that of the hotel at Sakai. Yet the price charged was only seven sen; and the old landlord refused to accept the whole of the chadai-gift offered him, retaining less than half, and putting back the rest, with gentle force, into the sleeve of my yukata. Sec. 11 From Urago we proceeded to Hishi-ura, which is in Nakanoshima, and the scenery grew always more wonderful as we steamed between the islands. The channel was just wide enough to create the illusion of a grand river flowing with the stillness of vast depth between mountains of a hundred forms. The long lovely vision was everywhere walled in by peaks, bluing through sea-haze, and on either hand the ruddy grey cliffs, sheering up from profundity, sharply mirrored their least asperities in the flood with never a distortion, as in a sheet of steel. Not until we reached Hishi-ura did the horizon reappear; and even then it was visible only between two lofty headlands, as if seen through a river's mouth. Hishi-ura is far prettier than Urago, but it is much less populous, and has the aspect of a prosperous agricultural town, rather than of a fishing station. It bends round a bay formed by low hills which slope back gradually toward the mountainous interior, and which display a considerable extent of cultivated surface. The buildings are somewhat scattered and in many cases isolated by gardens; and those facing the water are quite handsome modern constructions. Urago boasts the best hotel in all Oki; and it has two new temples--one a Buddhist temple of the Zen sect, one a Shinto temple of the Izumo Taisha faith, each the gift of a single person. A rich widow, the owner of the hotel, built the Buddhist temple; and the wealthiest of the merchants contributed the other--one of the handsomest miya for its size that I ever saw. Sec. 12 Dogo, the main island of the Oki archipelago, sometimes itself called 'Oki,' lies at a distance of eight miles, north-east of the Dozen group, beyond a stretch of very dangerous sea. We made for it immediately after leaving Urago; passing to the open through a narrow and fantastic strait between Nakanoshima and Nishinoshima, where the cliffs take the form of enormous fortifications--bastions and ramparts, rising by tiers. Three colossal rocks, anciently forming but a single mass, which would seem to have been divided by some tremendous shock, rise from deep water near the mouth of the channel, like shattered towers. And the last promontory of Nishinoshima, which we pass to port, a huge red naked rock, turns to the horizon a point so strangely shaped that it has been called by a name signifying 'The Hat of the Shinto Priest.' As we glide out into the swell of the sea other extraordinary shapes appear, rising from great depths. Komori, 'The Bat,' a ragged silhouette against the horizon, has a great hole worn through it, which glares like an eye. Farther out two bulks, curved and pointed, and almost joined at the top, bear a grotesque resemblance to the uplifted pincers of a crab; and there is also visible a small dark mass which, until closely approached, seems the figure of a man sculling a boat. Beyond these are two islands: Matsushima, uninhabited and inaccessible, where there is always a swell to beware of; Omorishima, even loftier, which rises from the ocean in enormous ruddy precipices. There seemed to be some grim force in those sinister bulks; some occult power which made our steamer reel and shiver as she passed them. But I saw a marvellous effect of colour under those formidable cliffs of Omorishima. They were lighted by a slanting sun; and where the glow of the bright rock fell upon the water, each black-blue ripple flashed bronze: I thought of a sea of metallic violet ink. From Dozen the cliffs of Dogo can be clearly seen when the weather is not foul: they are streaked here and there with chalky white, which breaks through their blue, even in time of haze. Above them a vast bulk is visible--a point-de-repère for the mariners of Hoki--the mountain of Daimanji. Dogo, indeed, is one great cluster of mountains. Its cliffs rapidly turned green for us, and we followed them eastwardly for perhaps half an hour. Then they opened unexpectedly and widely, revealing a superb bay, widening far into the land, surrounded by hills, and full of shipping. Beyond a confusion of masts there crept into view a long grey line of house-fronts at the base of a crescent of cliffs-- the city of Saigo; and in a little while we touched a wharf of stone. There I bade farewell for a month to the Oki-Saigo. Sec. 13 Saigo was a great surprise. Instead of the big fishing village I had expected to see, I found a city much larger and handsomer and in all respects more modernised than Sakai; a city of long streets full of good shops; a city with excellent public buildings; a city of which the whole appearance indicated commercial prosperity. Most of the edifices were roomy two story dwellings of merchants, and everything had a bright, new look. The unpainted woodwork of the houses had not yet darkened into grey; the blue tints of the tiling were still fresh. I learned that this was because the town had been recently rebuilt, after a conflagration, and rebuilt upon a larger and handsomer plan. Saigo seems still larger than it really is. There are about one thousand houses, which number in any part of Western Japan means a population of at least five thousand, but must mean considerably more in Saigo. These form three long streets--Nishimachi, Nakamachi, and Higashimachi (names respectively signifying the Western, Middle, and Eastern Streets), bisected by numerous cross-streets and alleys. What makes the place seem disproportionately large is the queer way the streets twist about, following the irregularities of the shore, and even doubling upon themselves, so as to create from certain points of view an impression of depth which has no existence. For Saigo is peculiarly, although admirably situated. It fringes both banks of a river, the Yabigawa, near its mouth, and likewise extends round a large point within the splendid bay, besides stretching itself out upon various tongues of land. But though smaller than it looks, to walk through all its serpentine streets is a good afternoon's work. Besides being divided by the Yabigawa, the town is intersected by various water-ways, crossed by a number of bridges. On the hills behind it stand several large buildings, including a public school, with accommodation for three hundred students; a pretty Buddhist temple (quite new), the gift of a rich citizen; a prison; and a hospital, which deserves its reputation of being for its size the handsomest Japanese edifice not only in Oki, but in all Shimane-Ken; and there are several small but very pretty gardens. As for the harbour, you can count more than three hundred ships riding there of a summer's day. Grumblers, especially of the kind who still use wooden anchors, complain of the depth; but the men-of-war do not. Sec. 14 Never, in any part of Western Japan, have I been made more comfortable than at Saigo. My friend and myself were the only guests at the hotel to which we had been recommended. The broad and lofty rooms of the upper floor which we occupied overlooked the main street on one side, and on the other commanded a beautiful mountain landscape beyond the mouth of the Yabigawa, which flowed by our garden. The sea breeze never failed by day or by night, and rendered needless those pretty fans which it is the Japanese custom to present to guests during the hot season. The fare was astonishingly good and curiously varied; and I was told that I might order Seyoryori (Occidental cooking) if I wished--beefsteak with fried potatoes, roast chicken, and so forth. I did not avail myself of the offer, as I make it a rule while travelling to escape trouble by keeping to a purely Japanese diet; but it was no small surprise to be offered in Saigo what is almost impossible to obtain in any other Japanese town of five thousand inhabitants. From a romantic point of view, however, this discovery was a disappointment. Having made my way into the most primitive region of all Japan, I had imagined myself far beyond the range of all modernising influences; and the suggestion of beefsteak with fried potatoes was a disillusion. Nor was I entirely consoled by the subsequent discovery that there were no newspapers or telegraphs. But there was one serious hindrance to the enjoyment of these comforts: an omnipresent, frightful, heavy, all-penetrating smell, the smell of decomposing fish, used as a fertiliser. Tons and tons of cuttlefish entrails are used upon the fields beyond the Yabigawa, and the never- sleeping sea wind blows the stench into every dwelling. Vainly do they keep incense burning in most of the houses during the heated term. After having remained three or four days constantly in the city you become better able to endure this odour; but if you should leave town even for a few hours only, you will be astonished on returning to discover how much your nose had been numbed by habit and refreshed by absence. Sec. 15 On the morning of the day after my arrival at Saigo, a young physician called to see me, and requested me to dine with him at his house. He explained very frankly that as I was the first foreigner who had ever stopped in Saigo, it would afford much pleasure both to his family and to himself to have a good chance to see me; but the natural courtesy of the man overcame any scruple I might have felt to gratify the curiosity of strangers. I was not only treated charmingly at his beautiful home, but actually sent away loaded with presents, most of which I attempted to decline in vain. In one matter, however, I remained obstinate, even at the risk of offending--the gift of a wonderful specimen of bateiseki (a substance which I shall speak of hereafter). This I persisted in refusing to take, knowing it to be not only very costly, but very rare. My host at last yielded, but afterwards secretly sent to the hotel two smaller specimens, which Japanese etiquette rendered it impossible to return. Before leaving Saigo, I experienced many other unexpected kindnesses from the same gentleman. Not long after, one of the teachers of the Saigo public school paid me a visit. He had heard of my interest in Oki, and brought with him two fine maps of the islands made by himself, a little book about Saigo, and, as a gift, a collection of Oki butterflies and insects which he had made. It is only in Japan that one is likely to meet with these wonderful exhibitions of pure goodness on the part of perfect strangers. A third visitor, who had called to see my friend, performed an action equally characteristic, but which caused me not a little pain. We squatted down to smoke together. He drew from his girdle a remarkably beautiful tobacco-pouch and pipe-case, containing a little silver pipe, which he began to smoke. The pipe-case was made of a sort of black coral, curiously carved, and attached to the tabako-ire, or pouch, by a heavy cord of plaited silk of three colours, passed through a ball of transparent agate. Seeing me admire it, he suddenly drew a knife from his sleeve, and before I could prevent him, severed the pipe-case from the pouch, and presented it to me. I felt almost as if he had cut one of his own nerves asunder when he cut that wonderful cord; and, nevertheless, once this had been done, to refuse the gift would have been rude in the extreme. I made him accept a present in return; but after that experience I was careful never again while in Oki to admire anything in the presence of its owner. Sec. 16 Every province of Japan has its own peculiar dialect; and that of Oki, as might be expected in a country so isolated, is particularly distinct. In Saigo, however, the Izumo dialect is largely used. The townsfolk in their manners and customs much resemble Izumo country-folk; indeed, there are many Izumo people among them, most of the large businesses being in the hands of strangers. The women did not impress me as being so attractive as those of Izumo: I saw several very pretty girls, but these proved to be strangers. However, it is only in the country that one can properly study the physical characteristics of a population. Those of the Oki islanders may best be noted at the fishing villages many of which I visited. Everywhere I saw fine strong men and vigorous women; and it struck me that the extraordinary plenty and cheapness of nutritive food had quite as much to do with this robustness as climate and constant exercise. So easy, indeed, is it to live in Oki, that men of other coasts, who find existence difficult, emigrate to Oki if they can get a chance to work there, even at less remuneration. An interesting spectacle to me were the vast processions of fishing-vessels which always, weather permitting, began to shoot out to sea a couple of hours before sundown. The surprising swiftness with which those light craft were impelled by their sinewy scullers--many of whom were women--told of a skill acquired only through the patient experience of generations. Another matter that amazed me was the number of boats. One night in the offing I was able to count three hundred and five torch-fires in sight, each one signifying a crew; and I knew that from almost any of the forty-five coast villages I might see the same spectacle at the same time. The main part of the population, in fact, spends its summer nights at sea. It is also a revelation to travel from Izumo to Hamada by night upon a swift steamer during the fishing season. The horizon for a hundred miles is alight with torch-fires; the toil of a whole coast is revealed in that vast illumination. Although the human population appears to have gained rather than lost vigour upon this barren soil, the horses and cattle of the country seem to have degenerated. They are remarkably diminutive. I saw cows not much bigger than Izumo calves, with calves about the size of goats. The horses, or rather ponies, belong to a special breed of which Oki is rather proud--very small, but hardy. I was told that there were larger horses, but I saw none, and could not learn whether they were imported. It seemed to me a curious thing, when I saw Oki ponies for the first time, that Sasaki Takatsuna's battle-steed--not less famous in Japanese story than the horse Kyrat in the ballads of Kurroglou--is declared by the islanders to have been a native of Oki. And they have a tradition that it once swam from Oki to Mionoseki. Sec. 17 Almost every district and town in Japan has its meibutsu or its kembutsu. The meibutsu of any place are its special productions, whether natural or artificial. The kembutsu of a town or district are its sights--its places worth visiting for any reason--religious, traditional, historical, or pleasurable. Temples and gardens, remarkable trees and curious rocks, are kembutsu. So, likewise, are any situations from which beautiful scenery may be looked at, or any localities where one can enjoy such charming spectacles as the blossoming of cherry-trees in spring, the flickering of fireflies in summer nights, the flushing of maple-leaves in autumn, or even that long snaky motion of moonlight upon water to which Chinese poets have given the delightful name of Kinryo, 'the Golden Dragon.' The great meibutsu of Oki is the same as that of Hinomisaki--dried cuttlefish; an article of food much in demand both in China and Japan. The cuttlefish of Oki and Hinomisaki and Mionoseki are all termed ika (a kind of sepia); but those caught at Mionoseki are white and average fifteen inches in length, while those of Oki and Hinomisaki rarely exceed twelve inches and have a reddish tinge. The fisheries of Mionoseki and Hinomisaki are scarcely known; but the fisheries of Oki are famed not only throughout Japan, but also in Korea and China. It is only through the tilling of the sea that the islands have become prosperous and capable of supporting thirty thousand souls upon a coast of which but a very small portion can be cultivated at all. Enormous quantities of cuttlefish are shipped to the mainland; but I have been told that the Chinese are the best customers of Oki for this product. Should the supply ever fail, the result would be disastrous beyond conception; but at present it seems inexhaustible, though the fishing has been going on for thousands of years. Hundreds of tons of cuttlefish are caught, cured, and prepared for exportation month after month; and many hundreds of acres are fertilised with the entrails and other refuse. An officer of police told me several strange facts about this fishery. On the north-eastern coast of Saigo it is no uncommon thing for one fisherman to capture upwards of two thousand cuttlefish in a single night. Boats have been burst asunder by the weight of a few hauls, and caution has to be observed in loading. Besides the sepia, however, this coast swarms with another variety of cuttlefish which also furnishes a food-staple--the formidable tako, or true octopus. Tako weighing fifteen kwan each, or nearly one hundred and twenty-five pounds, are sometimes caught near the fishing settlement of Nakamura. I was surprised to learn that there was no record of any person having been injured by these monstrous creatures. Another meibutsu of Oki is much less known than it deserves to be--the beautiful jet-black stone called bateiseki, or 'horsehoof stone.' [7] It is found only in Dogo, and never in large masses. It is about as heavy as flint, and chips like flint; but the polish which it takes is like that of agate. There are no veins or specks in it; the intense black colour never varies. Artistic objects are made of bateiseki: ink- stones, wine-cups, little boxes, small dai, or stands for vases or statuettes; even jewellery, the material being worked in the same manner as the beautiful agates of Yumachi in Izumo. These articles are comparatively costly, even in the place of their manufacture. There is an odd legend about the origin of the bateiseki. It owes its name to some fancied resemblance to a horse's hoof, either in colour, or in the semicircular marks often seen upon the stone in its natural state, and caused by its tendency to split in curved lines. But the story goes that the bateiseki was formed by the touch of the hoofs of a sacred steed, the wonderful mare of the great Minamoto warrior, Sasaki Takatsuna. She had a foal, which fell into a deep lake in Dogo, and was drowned. She plunged into the lake herself, but could not find her foal, being deceived by the reflection of her own head in the water. For a long time she sought and mourned in vain; but even the hard rocks felt for her, and where her hoofs touched them beneath the water they became changed into bateiseki. [8] Scarcely less beautiful than bateiseki, and equally black, is another Oki meibutsu, a sort of coralline marine product called umi-matsu, or 'sea-pine.' Pipe-cases, brush-stands, and other small articles are manufactured from it; and these when polished seem to be covered with black lacquer. Objects of umimatsu are rare and dear. Nacre wares, however, are very cheap in Oki; and these form another variety of meibutsu. The shells of the awabi, or 'sea-ear,' which reaches a surprising size in these western waters, are converted by skilful polishing and cutting into wonderful dishes, bowls, cups, and other articles, over whose surfaces the play of iridescence is like a flickering of fire of a hundred colours. Sec. 18 According to a little book published at Matsue, the kembutsu of Oki-no- Kuni are divided among three of the four principal islands; Chiburishima only possessing nothing of special interest. For many generations the attractions of Dogo have been the shrine of Agonashi Jizo, at Tsubamezato; the waterfall (Dangyo-taki) at Yuenimura; the mighty cedar- tree (sugi) before the shrine of Tama-Wakusa-jinja at Shimomura, and the lakelet called Sai-no-ike where the bateiseki is said to be found. Nakanoshima possesses the tomb of the exiled Emperor Go-Toba, at Amamura, and the residence of the ancient Choja, Shikekuro, where he dwelt betimes, and where relics of him are kept even to this day. Nishinoshima possesses at Beppu a shrine in memory of the exiled Emperor Go-Daigo, and on the summit of Takuhizan that shrine of Gongen-Sama, from the place of which a wonderful view of the whole archipelago is said to be obtainable on cloudless days. Though Chiburishima has no kembutsu, her poor little village of Chiburi--the same Chiburimura at which the Oki steamer always touches on her way to Saigo--is the scene of perhaps the most interesting of all the traditions of the archipelago. Five hundred and sixty years ago, the exiled Emperor Go-Daigo managed to escape from the observation of his guards, and to flee from Nishinoshima to Chiburi. And the brown sailors of that little hamlet offered to serve him, even with their lives if need be. They were loading their boats with 'dried fish,' doubtless the same dried cuttlefish which their descendants still carry to Izumo and to Hoki. The emperor promised to remember them, should they succeed in landing him either in Hoki or in Izumo; and they put him in a boat. But when they had sailed only a little way they saw the pursuing vessels. Then they told the emperor to lie down, and they piled the dried fish high above him. The pursuers came on board and searched the boat, but they did not even think of touching the strong-smelling cuttlefish. And when the men of Chiburi were questioned they invented a story, and gave to the enemies of the emperor a false clue to follow. And so, by means of the cuttlefish, the good emperor was enabled to escape from banishment. Sec. 19 I found there were various difficulties in the way of becoming acquainted with some of the kembutsu. There are no roads, properly speaking, in all Oki, only mountain paths; and consequently there are no jinricksha, with the exception of one especially imported by the leading physician of Saigo, and available for use only in the streets. There are not even any kago, or palanquins, except one for the use of the same physician. The paths are terribly rough, according to the testimony of the strong peasants themselves; and the distances, particularly in the hottest period of the year, are disheartening. Ponies can be hired; but my experiences of a similar wild country in western Izumo persuaded me that neither pleasure nor profit was to be gained by a long and painful ride over pine-covered hills, through slippery gullies and along torrent-beds, merely to look at a waterfall. I abandoned the idea of visiting Dangyotaki, but resolved, if possible, to see Agonashi-Jizo. I had first heard in Matsue of Agonashi-Jizo, while suffering from one of those toothaches in which the pain appears to be several hundred miles in depth--one of those toothaches which disturb your ideas of space and time. And a friend who sympathised said: 'People who have toothache pray to Agonashi-Jizo. Agonashi-Jizo is in Oki, but Izumo people pray to him. When cured they go to Lake Shinji, to the river, to the sea, or to any running stream, and drop into the water twelve pears (nashi), one for each of the twelve months. And they believe the currents will carry all these to Oki across the sea. 'Now, Agonashi-Jizo means 'Jizo-who-has-no-jaw.' For it is said that in one of his former lives Jizo had such a toothache in his lower jaw that he tore off his jaw, and threw it away, and died. And he became a Bosatsu. And the people of Oki made a statue of him without a jaw; and all who suffer toothache pray to that Jizo of Oki.' This story interested me for more than once I had felt a strong desire to do like Agonashi-Jizo, though lacking the necessary courage and indifference to earthly consequences. Moreover, the tradition suggested so humane and profound a comprehension of toothache, and so large a sympathy with its victims, that I felt myself somewhat consoled. Nevertheless, I did not go to see Agonashi-Jizo, because I found out there was no longer any Agonashi-Jizo to see. The news was brought one evening by some friends, shizoku of Matsue, who had settled in Oki, a young police officer and his wife. They had walked right across the island to see us, starting before daylight, and crossing no less than thirty-two torrents on their way. The wife, only nineteen, was quite slender and pretty, and did not appear tired by that long rough journey. What we learned about the famous Jizo was this: The name Agonashi-Jizo was only a popular corruption of the true name, Agonaoshi-Jizo, or 'Jizo-the-Healer-of-jaws.' The little temple in which the statue stood had been burned, and the statue along with it, except a fragment of the lower part of the figure, now piously preserved by some old peasant woman. It was impossible to rebuild the temple, as the disestablishment of Buddhism had entirely destroyed the resources of that faith in Oki. But the peasantry of Tsubamezato had built a little Shinto miya on the sight of the temple, with a torii before it, and people still prayed there to Agonaoshi-Jizo. This last curious fact reminded me of the little torii I had seen erected before the images of Jizo in the Cave of the Children's Ghosts. Shinto, in these remote districts of the west, now appropriates the popular divinities of Buddhism, just as of old Buddhism used to absorb the divinities of Shinto in other parts of Japan. Sec. 20 I went to the Sai-no-ike, and to Tama-Wakasu-jinja, as these two kembutsu can be reached by boat. The Sai-no-ike, however, much disappointed me. It can only be visited in very calm weather, as the way to it lies along a frightfully dangerous coast, nearly all sheer precipice. But the sea is beautifully clear and the eye can distinguish forms at an immense depth below the surface. After following the cliffs for about an hour, the boat reaches a sort of cove, where the beach is entirely corn posed of small round boulders. They form a long ridge, the outer verge of which is always in motion, rolling to and fro with a crash like a volley of musketry at the rush and ebb of every wave. To climb over this ridge of moving stone balls is quite disagreeable; but after that one has only about twenty yards to walk, and the Sai-no-ike appears, surrounded on sides by wooded hills. It is little more than a large freshwater pool, perhaps fifty yards wide, not in any way wonderful You can see no rocks under the surface--only mud and pebbles That any part of it was ever deep enough to drown a foal is hard to believe. I wanted to swim across to the farther side to try the depth, but the mere proposal scandalised the boat men. The pool was sacred to the gods, and was guarded by invisible monsters; to enter it was impious and dangerous I felt obliged to respect the local ideas on the subject, and contented myself with inquiring where the bateiseki was found. They pointed to the hill on the western side of the water. This indication did not tally with the legend. I could discover no trace of any human labour on that savage hillside; there was certainly no habitation within miles of the place; it was the very abomination of desolation. [9] It is never wise for the traveller in Japan to expect much on the strength of the reputation of kembutsu. The interest attaching to the vast majority of kembutsu depends altogether upon the exercise of imagination; and the ability to exercise such imagination again depends upon one's acquaintance with the history and mythology of the country. Knolls, rocks, stumps of trees, have been for hundreds of years objects of reverence for the peasantry, solely because of local traditions relating to them. Broken iron kettles, bronze mirrors covered with verdigris, rusty pieces of sword blades, fragments of red earthenware, have drawn generations of pilgrims to the shrines in which they are preserved. At various small temples which I visited, the temple treasures consisted of trays full of small stones. The first time I saw those little stones I thought that the priests had been studying geology or mineralogy, each stone being labelled in Japanese characters. On examination, the stones proved to be absolutely worthless in themselves, even as specimens of neighbouring rocks. But the stories which the priests or acolytes could tell about each and every stone were more than interesting. The stones served as rude beads, in fact, for the recital of a litany of Buddhist legends. After the experience of the Sai-no-ike, I had little reason to expect to see anything extraordinary at Shimonishimura. But this time I was agreeably mistaken. Shimonishimura is a pretty fishing village within an hour's row from Saigo. The boat follows a wild but beautiful coast, passing one singular truncated hill, Oshiroyama, upon which a strong castle stood in ancient times. There is now only a small Shinto shrine there, surrounded by pines. From the hamlet of Shimonishimura to the Temple of Tama-Wakasu-jinja is a walk of twenty minutes, over very rough paths between rice-fields and vegetable gardens. But the situation of the temple, surrounded by its sacred grove, in the heart of a landscape framed in by mountain ranges of many colours, is charmingly impressive. The edifice seems to have once been a Buddhist temple; it is now the largest Shinto structure in Oki. Before its gate stands the famous cedar, not remarkable for height, but wonderful for girth. Two yards above the soil its circumference is forty-five feet. It has given its name to the holy place; the Oki peasantry scarcely ever speak of Tama- Wakasu-jinja, but only of 'O-Sugi,' the Great Cedar. Tradition avers that this tree was planted by a Buddhist nun more than eight hundred years ago. And it is alleged that whoever eats with chopsticks made from the wood of that tree will never have the toothache, and will live to become exceedingly old.[10] Sec. 21 The shrine dedicated to the spirit of the Emperor Go-Daigo is in Nishinoshima, at Beppu, a picturesque fishing village composed of one long street of thatched cottages fringing a bay at the foot of a demilune of hills. The simplicity of manners and the honest healthy poverty of the place are quite wonderful even for Oki. There is a kind of inn for strangers at which hot water is served instead of tea, and dried beans instead of kwashi, and millet instead of rice. The absence of tea, however, is much more significant than that of rice. But the people of Beppu do not suffer for lack of proper nourishment, as their robust appearance bears witness: there are plenty of vegetables, all raised in tiny gardens which the women and children till during the absence of the boats; and there is abundance of fish. There is no Buddhist temple, but there is an ujigami. The shrine of the emperor is at the top of a hill called Kurokizan, at one end of the bay. The hill is covered with tall pines, and the path is very steep, so that I thought it prudent to put on straw sandals, in which one never slips. I found the shrine to be a small wooden miya, scarcely three feet high, and black with age. There were remains of other miya, much older, lying in some bushes near by. Two large stones, unhewn and without inscriptions of any sort, have been placed before the shrine. I looked into it, and saw a crumbling metal-mirror, dingy paper gohei attached to splints of bamboo, two little o-mikidokkuri, or Shinto sake-vessels of red earthenware, and one rin. There was nothing else to see, except, indeed, certain delightful glimpses of coast and peak, visible in the bursts of warm blue light which penetrated the consecrated shadow, between the trunks of the great pines. Only this humble shrine commemorates the good emperor's sojourn among the peasantry of Oki. But there is now being erected by voluntary subscription, at the little village of Gosen-goku-mura, near Yonago in Tottori, quite a handsome monument of stone to the memory of his daughter, the princess Hinako-Nai-Shinno who died there while attempting to follow her august parent into exile. Near the place of her rest stands a famous chestnut-tree, of which this story is told: While the emperor's daughter was ill, she asked for chestnuts; and some were given to her. But she took only one, and bit it a little, and threw it away. It found root and became a grand tree. But all the chestnuts of that tree bear marks like the marks of little teeth; for in Japanese legend even the trees are loyal, and strive to show their loyalty in all sorts of tender dumb ways. And that tree is called Hagata-guri-no-ki, which signifies: 'The Tree-of-the-Tooth-marked-Chestnuts.' Sec. 22 Long before visiting Oki I had heard that such a crime as theft was unknown in the little archipelago; that it had never been found necessary there to lock things up; and that, whenever weather permitted, the people slept with their houses all open to the four winds of heaven. And after careful investigation, I found these surprising statements were, to a great extent, true. In the Dozen group, at least, there are no thieves, and practically no crime. Ten policemen are sufficient to control the whole of both Dozen and Dogo, with their population of thirty thousand one hundred and ninety-six souls. Each policeman has under his inspection a number of villages, which he visits on regular days; and his absence for any length of time from one of these seems never to be taken advantage of. His work is mostly confined to the enforcement of hygienic regulations, and to the writing of reports. It is very seldom that he finds it necessary to make an arrest, for the people scarcely ever quarrel. In the island of Dogo alone are there ever any petty thefts, and only in that part of Oki do the people take any precautions against thieves. Formerly there was no prison, and thefts were never heard of; and the people of Dogo still claim that the few persons arrested in their island for such offences are not natives of Oki, but strangers from the mainland. What appears to be quite true is that theft was unknown in Oki before the port of Saigo obtained its present importance. The whole trade of Western Japan has been increased by the rapid growth of steam communications with other parts of the empire; and the port of Saigo appears to have gained commercially, but to have lost morally, by the new conditions. Yet offences against the law are still surprisingly few, even in Saigo. Saigo has a prison; and there were people in it during my stay in the city; but the inmates had been convicted only of such misdemeanours as gambling (which is strictly prohibited in every form by Japanese law), or the violation of lesser ordinances. When a serious offence is committed, the offender is not punished in Oki, but is sent to the great prison at Matsue, in Izumo. The Dozen islands, however, perfectly maintain their ancient reputation for irreproachable honesty. There have been no thieves in those three islands within the memory of man; and there are no serious quarrels, no fighting, nothing to make life miserable for anybody. Wild and bleak as the land is, all can manage to live comfortably enough; food is cheap and plenty, and manners and customs have retained their primitive simplicity. Sec. 23 To foreign eyes the defences of even an Izumo dwelling against thieves seem ludicrous. Chevaux-de-frise of bamboo stakes are used extensively in eastern cities of the empire, but in Izumo these are not often to be seen, and do not protect the really weak points of the buildings upon which they are placed. As for outside walls and fences, they serve only for screens, or for ornamental boundaries; anyone can climb over them. Anyone can also cut his way into an ordinary Japanese house with a pocket-knife. The amado are thin sliding screens of soft wood, easy to break with a single blow; and in most Izumo homes there is not a lock which could resist one vigorous pull. Indeed, the Japanese themselves are so far aware of the futility of their wooden panels against burglars that all who can afford it build kura--small heavy fire-proof and (for Japan) almost burglar-proof structures, with very thick earthen walls, a narrow ponderous door fastened with a gigantic padlock, and one very small iron-barred window, high up, near the roof. The kura are whitewashed, and look very neat. They cannot be used for dwellings, however, as they are mouldy and dark; and they serve only as storehouses for valuables. It is not easy to rob a kura. But there is no trouble in 'burglariously' entering an Izumo dwelling unless there happen to be good watchdogs on the premises. The robber knows the only difficulties in the way of his enterprise are such as he is likely to encounter after having effected an entrance. In view of these difficulties, he usually carries a sword. Nevertheless, he does not wish to find himself in any predicament requiring the use of a sword; and to avoid such an unpleasant possibility he has recourse to magic. He looks about the premises for a tarai--a kind of tub. If he finds one, he performs a nameless operation in a certain part of the yard, and covers the spot with the tub, turned upside down. He believes if he can do this that a magical sleep will fall upon all the inmates of the house, and that he will thus be able to carry away whatever he pleases, without being heard or seen. But every Izumo household knows the counter-charm. Each evening, before retiring, the careful wife sees that a hocho, or kitchen knife, is laid upon the kitchen floor, and covered with a kanadarai, or brazen wash- basin, on the upturned bottom of which is placed a single straw sandal, of the noiseless sort called zori, also turned upside down. She believes this little bit of witchcraft will not only nullify the robber's spell, but also render it impossible for him--even should he succeed in entering the house without being seen or heard--to carry anything whatever away. But, unless very tired indeed, she will also see that the tarai is brought into the house before the amado are closed for the night. If through omission of these precautions (as the good wife might aver), or in despite of them, the dwelling be robbed while the family are asleep, search is made early in the morning for the footprints of the burglar; and a moxa [11] is set burning upon each footprint. By this operation it is hoped or believed that the burglar's feet will be made so sore that he cannot run far, and that the police may easily overtake him. Sec. 24 It was in Oki that I first heard of an extraordinary superstition about the cause of okori (ague, or intermittent fever), mild forms of which prevail in certain districts at certain seasons; but I have since learned that this quaint belief is an old one in Izumo and in many parts of the San-indo. It is a curious example of the manner in which Buddhism has been used to explain all mysteries. Okori is said to be caused by the Gaki-botoke, or hungry ghosts. Strictly speaking, the Gaki-botoke are the Pretas of Indian Buddhism, spirits condemned to sojourn in the Gakido, the sphere of the penance of perpetual hunger and thirst. But in Japanese Buddhism, the name Gaki is given also to those souls who have none among the living to remember them, and to prepare for them the customary offerings of food and tea. These suffer, and seek to obtain warmth and nutriment by entering into the bodies of the living. The person into whom a gaki enters at first feels intensely cold and shivers, because the gaki is cold. But the chill is followed by a feeling of intense heat, as the gaki becomes warm. Having warmed itself and absorbed some nourishment at the expense of its unwilling host, the gaki goes away, and the fever ceases for a time. But at exactly the same hour upon another day the gaki will return, and the victim must shiver and burn until the haunter has become warm and has satisfied its hunger. Some gaki visit their patients every day; others every alternate day, or even less often. In brief: the paroxysms of any form of intermittent fever are explained by the presence of the gaki, and the intervals between the paroxysms by its absence. Sec. 25 Of the word hotoke (which becomes botoke in such com-pounds as nure- botoke, [12] gaki-botoke) there is something curious to say. Hotoke signifies a Buddha. Hotoke signifies also the Souls of the Dead--since faith holds that these, after worthy life, either enter upon the way to Buddhahood, or become Buddhas. Hotoke, by euphemism, has likewise come to mean a corpse: hence the verb hotoke-zukuri, 'to look ghastly,' to have the semblance of one long dead. And Hotoke-San is the name of the Image of a Face seen in the pupil of the eye--Hotoke-San, 'the Lord Buddha.' Not the Supreme of the Hokkekyo, but that lesser Buddha who dwelleth in each one of us,--the Spirit. [13] Sang Rossetti: 'I looked and saw your heart in the shadow of your eyes.' Exactly converse is the Oriental thought. A Japanese lover would have said: 'I looked and saw my own Buddha in the shadow of your eyes. What is the psychical theory connected with so singular a belief? [14] I think it might be this: The Soul, within its own body, always remains viewless, yet may reflect itself in the eyes of another, as in the mirror of a necromancer. Vainly you gaze into the eyes of the beloved to discern her soul: you see there only your own soul's shadow, diaphanous; and beyond is mystery alone--reaching to the Infinite. But is not this true? The Ego, as Schopenhauer wonderfully said, is the dark spot in consciousness, even as the point whereat the nerve of sight enters the eye is blind. We see ourselves in others only; only through others do we dimly guess that which we are. And in the deepest love of another being do we not indeed love ourselves? What are the personalities, the individualities of us but countless vibrations in the Universal Being? Are we not all One in the unknowable Ultimate? One with the inconceivable past? One with the everlasting future? Sec. 26 In Oki, as in Izumo, the public school is slowly but surely destroying many of the old superstitions. Even the fishermen of the new generation laugh at things in which their fathers believed. I was rather surprised to receive from an intelligent young sailor, whom I had questioned through an interpreter about the ghostly fire of Takuhizan, this scornful answer: 'Oh, we used to believe those things when we were savages; but we are civilised now!' Nevertheless, he was somewhat in advance of his time. In the village to which he belonged I discovered that the Fox-.superstition prevails to a degree scarcely paralleled in any part of Izumo. The history of the village was quite curious. From time immemorial it had been reputed a settlement of Kitsune-mochi: in other words, all its inhabitants were commonly believed, and perhaps believed themselves, to be the owners of goblin-foxes. And being all alike kitsune-mochi, they could eat and drink together, and marry and give in marriage among themselves without affliction. They were feared with a ghostly fear by the neighbouring peasantry, who obeyed their demands both in matters reasonable and unreasonable. They prospered exceedingly. But some twenty years ago an Izumo stranger settled among them. He was energetic, intelligent, and possessed of some capital. He bought land, made various shrewd investments, and in a surprisingly short time became the wealthiest citizen in the place. He built a very pretty Shinto temple and presented it to the community. There was only one obstacle in the way of his becoming a really popular person: he was not a kitsune-mochi, and he had even said that he hated foxes. This singularity threatened to beget discords in the mura, especially as he married his children to strangers, and thus began in the midst of the kitsune-mochi to establish a sort of anti-Fox-holding colony. Wherefore, for a long time past, the Fox-holders have been trying to force their superfluous goblins upon him. Shadows glide about the gate of his dwelling on moonless nights, muttering: 'Kaere! kyo kara kokoye: kuruda!' [Be off now! from now hereafter it is here that ye must dwell: go!] Then are the upper shoji violently pushed apart; and the voice of the enraged house owner is heard: 'Koko Wa kiraida! modori!' [Detestable is that which ye do! get ye gone!] And the Shadows flee away.[15] Sec. 27 Because there were no cuttlefish at Hishi-ura, and no horrid smells, I enjoyed myself there more than I did anywhere else in Oki. But, in any event, Hishi-ura would have interested me more than Saigo. The life of the pretty little town is peculiarly old-fashioned; and the ancient domestic industries, which the introduction of machinery has almost destroyed in Izumo and elsewhere, still exist in Hishi-ura. It was pleasant to watch the rosy girls weaving robes of cotton and robes of silk, relieving each other whenever the work became fatiguing. All this quaint gentle life is open to inspection, and I loved to watch it. I had other pleasures also: the bay is a delightful place for swimming, and there were always boats ready to take me to any place of interest along the coast. At night the sea breeze made the rooms which I occupied deliciously cool; and from the balcony I could watch the bay-swell breaking in slow, cold fire on the steps of the wharves--a beautiful phosphorescence; and I could hear Oki mothers singing their babes to sleep with one of the oldest lullabys in the world: Nenneko, O-yama no Usagi. no ko, Naze mata O-mimi ga Nagai e yara? Okkasan no O-nak ni Oru toku ni, BiWa no ha, Sasa no ha, Tabeta sona; Sore de O-mimi ga Nagai e sona. [16] The air was singularly sweet and plaintive, quite different from that to which the same words are sung in Izumo, and in other parts of Japan. One morning I had hired a boat to take me to Beppu, and was on the point of leaving the hotel for the day, when the old landlady, touching my arm, exclaimed: 'Wait a little while; it is not good to cross a funeral.' I looked round the corner, and saw the procession coming along the shore. It was a Shinto funeral--a child's funeral. Young lads came first, carrying Shinto emblems--little white flags, and branches of the sacred sakaki; and after the coffin the mother walked, a young peasant, crying very loud, and wiping her eyes with the long sleeves of her coarse blue dress. Then the old woman at my side murmured: 'She sorrows; but she is very young: perhaps It will come back to her.' For she was a pious Buddhist, my good old landlady, and doubtless supposed the mother's belief like her own, although the funeral was conducted according to the Shinto rite. Sec. 28 There are in Buddhism certain weirdly beautiful consolations unknown to Western faith. The young mother who loses her first child may at least pray that it will come back to her out of the night of death--not in dreams only, but through reincarnation. And so praying, she writes within the hand of the little corpse the first ideograph of her lost darling's name. Months pass; she again becomes a mother. Eagerly she examines the flower-soft hand of the infant. And lo! the self-same ideograph is there--a rosy birth-mark on the tender palm; and the Soul returned looks out upon her through the eyes of the newly-born with the gaze of other days. Sec. 29 While on the subject of death I may speak of a primitive but touching custom which exists both in Oki and Izumo--that of calling the name of the dead immediately after death. For it is thought that the call may be heard by the fleeting soul, which might sometimes be thus induced to return. Therefore, when a mother dies, the children should first call her, and of all the children first the youngest (for she loved that one most); and then the husband and all those who loved the dead cry to her in turn. And it is also the custom to call loudly the name of one who faints, or becomes insensible from any cause; and there are curious beliefs underlying this custom. It is said that of those who swoon from pain or grief especially, many approach very nearly to death, and these always have the same experience. 'You feel,' said one to me in answer to my question about the belief, 'as if you were suddenly somewhere else, and quite happy-- only tired. And you know that you want to go to a Buddhist temple which is quite far away. At last you reach the gate of the temple court, and you see the temple inside, and it is wonderfully large and beautiful. And you pass the gate and enter the court to go to the temple. But suddenly you hear voices of friends far behind you calling your name-- very, very earnestly. So you turn back, and all at once you come to yourself again. At least it is so if your heart cares to live. But one who is really tired of living will not listen to the voices, and walks on to the temple. And what there happens no man knows, for they who enter that temple never return to their friends. 'That is why people call loudly into the ear of one who swoons. 'Now, it is said that all who die, before going to the Meido, make one pilgrimage to the great temple of Zenkoji, which is in the country of Shinano, in Nagano-Ken. And they say that whenever the priest of that temple preaches, he sees the Souls gather there in the hondo to hear him, all with white wrappings about their heads. So Zenkoji might be the temple which is seen by those who swoon. But I do not know.' Sec. 30 I went by boat from Hishi-ura to Amamura, in Nakanoshima, to visit the tomb of the exiled Emperor Go-Toba. The scenery along the way was beautiful, and of softer outline than I had seen on my first passage through the archipelago. Small rocks rising from the water were covered with sea-gulls and cormorants, which scarcely took any notice of the boat, even when we came almost within an oar's length. This fearlessness of wild creatures is one of the most charming impressions of travel in these remoter parts of Japan, yet unvisited by tourists with shotguns. The early European and American hunters in Japan seem to have found no difficulty and felt no compunction in exterminating what they considered 'game' over whole districts, destroying life merely for the wanton pleasure of destruction. Their example is being imitated now by 'Young Japan,' and the destruction of bird life is only imperfectly checked by game laws. Happily, the Government does interfere sometimes to check particular forms of the hunting vice. Some brutes who had observed the habits of swallows to make their nests in Japanese houses, last year offered to purchase some thousands of swallow-skins at a tempting price. The effect of the advertisement was cruel enough; but the police were promptly notified to stop the murdering, which they did. About the same time, in one of the Yokohama papers, there appeared a letter from some holy person announcing, as a triumph of Christian sentiment, that a 'converted' fisherman had been persuaded by foreign proselytisers to kill a turtle, which his Buddhist comrades had vainly begged him to spare. Amarnura, a very small village, lies in a narrow plain of rice-fields extending from the sea to a range of low hills. From the landing-place to the village is about a quarter of a mile. The narrow path leading to it passes round the base of a small hill, covered with pines, on the outskirts of the village. There is quite a handsome Shinto temple on the hill, small, but admirably constructed, approached by stone steps and a paved walk. There are the usual lions and lamps of stone, and the ordinary simple offerings of paper and women's hair before the shrine. But I saw among the ex-voto a number of curious things which I had never seen in Izumo-- tiny miniature buckets, well-buckets, with rope and pole complete, neatly fashioned out of bamboo. The boatman said that farmers bring these to the shrine when praying for rain. The deity was called Suwa- Dai-Myojin. It was at the neighbouring village, of which Suwa-Dai-Myojin seems to be the ujigami, that the Emperor Go-Toba is said to have dwelt, in the house of the Choja Shikekuro. The Shikekuro homestead remains, and still belongs to the Choja'sa descendants, but they have become very poor. I asked permission to see the cups from which the exiled emperor drank, and other relics of his stay said to be preserved by the family; but in consequence of illness in the house I could not be received. So I had only a glimpse of the garden, where there is a celebrated pond--a kembutsu. The pond is called Shikekuro's Pond,--Shikekuro-no-ike. And for seven hundred years, 'tis said, the frogs of that pond have never been heard to croak. For the Emperor Go-Toba, having one night been kept awake by the croaking of the frogs in that pond, arose and went out and commanded them, saying: 'Be silent!' Wherefore they have remained silent through all the centuries even unto this day. Near the pond there was in that time a great pine-tree, of which the rustling upon windy nights disturbed the emperor's rest. And he spoke to the pine-tree, and said to it: 'Be still!' And never thereafter was that tree heard to rustle, even in time of storms. But that tree has ceased to be. Nothing remains of it but a few fragments of its wood and hark, which are carefully preserved as relics by the ancients of Oki. Such a fragment was shown to me in the toko of the guest chamber of the dwelling of a physician of Saigo--the same gentleman whose kindness I have related elsewhere. The tomb of the emperor lies on the slope of a low hill, at a distance of about ten minutes' walk from the village. It is far less imposing than the least of the tombs of the Matsudaira at Matsue, in the grand old courts of Gesshoji; but it was perhaps the best which the poor little country of Oki could furnish. This is not, however, the original place of the tomb, which was moved by imperial order in the sixth year of Meiji to its present site. A lofty fence, or rather stockade of heavy wooden posts, painted black, incloses a piece of ground perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, by about fifty broad, and graded into three levels, or low terraces. All the space within is shaded by pines. In the centre of the last and highest of the little terraces the tomb is placed: a single large slab of grey rock laid horizontally. A narrow paved walk leads from the gate to the tomb; ascending each terrace by three or four stone steps. A little within this gateway, which is opened to visitors only once a year, there is a torii facing the sepulchre; and before the highest terrace there are a pair of stone lamps. All this is severely simple, but effective in a certain touching way. The country stillness is broken only by the shrilling of the semi and the tintinnabulation of that strange little insect, the suzumushi, whose calling sounds just like the tinkling of the tiny bells which are shaken by the miko in her sacred dance. Sec. 31 I remained nearly eight days at Hishi-ura on the occasion of my second visit there, but only three at Urago. Urago proved a less pleasant place to stay in--not because its smells were any stronger than those of Saigo, but for other reasons which shall presently appear. More than one foreign man-of-war has touched at Saigo, and English and Russian officers of the navy have been seen in the streets. They were tall, fair-haired, stalwart men; and the people of Oki still imagine that all foreigners from the West have the same stature and complexion. I was the first foreigner who ever remained even a night in the town, and I stayed there two weeks; but being small and dark, and dressed like a Japanese, I excited little attention among the common people: it seemed to them that I was only a curious-looking Japanese from some remote part of the empire. At Hishi-ura the same impression prevailed for a time; and even after the fact of my being a foreigner had become generally known, the population caused me no annoyance whatever: they had already become accustomed to see me walking about the streets or swimming across the bay. But it was quite otherwise at Urago. The first time I landed there I had managed to escape notice, being in Japanese costume, and wearing a very large Izumo hat, which partly concealed my face. After I left for Saigo, the people must have found out that a foreigner--the very first ever seen in Dozen--had actually been in Urago without their knowledge; for my second visit made a sensation such as I had never been the cause of anywhere else, except at Kaka-ura. I had barely time to enter the hotel, before the street became entirely blockaded by an amazing crowd desirous to see. The hotel was unfortunately situated on a corner, so that it was soon besieged on two sides. I was shown to a large back room on the second floor; and I had no sooner squatted down on my mat, than the people began to come upstairs quite noiselessly, all leaving their sandals at the foot of the steps. They were too polite to enter the room; but four or five would put their heads through the doorway at once, and bow, and smile, and look, and retire to make way for those who filled the stairway behind them. It was no easy matter for the servant to bring me my dinner. Meanwhile, not only had the upper rooms of the houses across the way become packed with gazers, but all the roofs--north, east, and south-- which commanded a view of my apartment had been occupied by men and boys in multitude. Numbers of lads had also climbed (I never could imagine how) upon the narrow eaves over the galleries below my windows; and all the openings of my room, on three sides, were full of faces. Then tiles gave way, and boys fell, but nobody appeared to be hurt. And the queerest fact was that during the performance of these extraordinary gymnastics there was a silence of death: had I not seen the throng, I might have supposed there was not a soul in the street. The landlord began to scold; but, finding scolding of no avail, he summoned a policeman. The policeman begged me to excuse the people, who had never seen a foreigner before; and asked me if I wished him to clear the street. He could have done that by merely lifting his little finger; but as the scene amused me, I begged him not to order the people away, but only to tell the boys not to climb upon the awnings, some of which they had already damaged. He told them most effectually, speaking in a very low voice. During all the rest of the time I was in Urago, no one dared to go near the awnings. A Japanese policeman never speaks more than once about anything new, and always speaks to the purpose. The public curiosity, however, lasted without abate for three days, and would have lasted longer if I had not fled from Urago. Whenever I went out I drew the population after me with a pattering of geta like the sound of surf moving shingle. Yet, except for that particular sound, there was silence. No word was spoken. Whether this was because the whole mental faculty was so strained by the intensity of the desire to see that speech became impossible, I am not able to decide. But there was no roughness in all that curiosity; there was never anything approaching rudeness, except in the matter of ascending to my room without leave; and that was done so gently that I could not wish the intruders rebuked. Nevertheless, three days of such experience proved trying. Despite the heat, I had to close the doors and windows at night to prevent myself being watched while asleep. About my effects I had no anxiety at all: thefts are never committed in the island. But that perpetual silent crowding about me became at last more than embarrassing. It was innocent, but it was weird. It made me feel like a ghost--a new arrival in the Meido, surrounded by shapes without voice. Sec. 32 There is very little privacy of any sort in Japanese life. Among the people, indeed, what we term privacy in the Occident does not exist. There are only walls of paper dividing the lives of men; there are only sliding screens instead of doors; there are neither locks nor bolts to be used by day; and whenever weather permits, the fronts, and perhaps even the sides of the house are literally removed, and its interior widely opened to the air, the light, and the public gaze. Not even the rich man closes his front gate by day. Within a hotel or even a common dwelling-house, nobody knocks before entering your room: there is nothing to knock at except a shoji or fusuma, which cannot be knocked upon without being broken. And in this world of paper walls and sunshine, nobody is afraid or ashamed of fellow-men or fellow-women. Whatever is done, is done, after a fashion, in public. Your personal habits, your idiosyncrasies (if you have any), your foibles, your likes and dislikes, your loves or your hates, must be known to everybody. Neither vices nor virtues can be hidden: there is absolutely nowhere to hide them. And this condition has lasted from the most ancient time. There has never been, for the common millions at least, even the idea of living unobserved. Life can be comfortably and happily lived in Japan only upon the condition that all matters relating to it are open to the inspection of the community. Which implies exceptional moral conditions, such as have no being in the West. It is perfectly comprehensible only to those who know by experience the extraordinary charm of Japanese character, the infinite goodness of the common people, their instinctive politeness, and the absence among them of any tendencies to indulge in criticism, ridicule, irony, or sarcasm. No one endeavours to expand his own individuality by belittling his fellow; no one tries to make himself appear a superior being: any such attempt would be vain in a community where the weaknesses of each are known to all, where nothing can be concealed or disguised, and where affectation could only be regarded as a mild form of insanity. Sec. 33 Some of the old samurai of Matsue are living in the Oki Islands. When the great military caste was disestablished, a few shrewd men decided to try their fortunes in the little archipelago, where customs remained old-fashioned and lands were cheap. Several succeeded--probably because of the whole-souled honesty and simplicity of manners in the islands; for samurai have seldom elsewhere been able to succeed in business of any sort when obliged to compete with experienced traders, Others failed, but were able to adopt various humble occupations which gave them the means to live. Besides these aged survivors of the feudal period, I learned there were in Oki several children of once noble families--youths and maidens of illustrious extraction--bravely facing the new conditions of life in this remotest and poorest region of the empire. Daughters of men to whom the population of a town once bowed down were learning the bitter toil of the rice-fields. Youths, who might in another era have aspired to offices of State, had become the trusted servants of Oki heimin. Others, again, had entered the police, [17] and rightly deemed themselves fortunate. No doubt that change of civilisation forced upon Japan by Christian bayonets, for the holy motive of gain, may yet save the empire from perils greater than those of the late social disintegration; but it was cruelly sudden. To imagine the consequence of depriving the English landed gentry of their revenues would not enable one to realise exactly what a similar privation signified to the Japanese samurai. For the old warrior caste knew only the arts of courtesy and the arts of war. And hearing of these things, I could not help thinking about a strange pageant at the last great Izumo festival of Rakuzan-jinja. Sec. 34 The hamlet of Rakuzan, known only for its bright yellow pottery and its little Shinto temple, drowses at the foot of a wooded hill about one ri from Matsue, beyond a wilderness of rice-fields. And the deity of Rakuzan-jinja is Naomasa, grandson of Iyeyasu, and father of the Daimyo of Matsue. Some of the Matsudaira slumber in Buddhist ground, guarded by tortoises and lions of stone, in the marvellous old courts of Gesshoji. But Naomasa, the founder of their long line, is enshrined at Rakuzan; and the Izumo peasants still clap their hands in prayer before his miya, and implore his love and protection. Now formerly upon each annual matsuri, or festival, of Rakuzan-jinja, it was customary to carry the miya of Naomasa-San from the village temple to the castle of Matsue. In solemn procession it was borne to .those strange old family temples in the heart of the fortress-grounds--Go-jo- naiInari-Daimyojin, and Kusunoki-Matauhira-Inari-Daimyojin--whose mouldering courts, peopled with lions and foxes of stone, are shadowed by enormous trees. After certain Shinto rites had been performed at both temples, the miya was carried back in procession to Rakuzan. And this annual ceremony was called the miyuki or togyo--'the August Going,' or Visit, of the ancestor to the ancestral home. But the revolution changed all things. The daimyo passed away; the castles fell to ruin; the samurai caste was abolished and dispossessed. And the miya of Lord Naomasa made no August Visit to the home of the Mataudaira for more than thirty years. But it came to pass a little time ago, that certain old men of Matsue bethought them to revive once more the ancient customs of the Rakuzan matauri. And there was a miyuki. The miya of Lord Naomasa was placed within a barge, draped and decorated, and so conveyed by river and canal to the eastern end of the old Mataubara road, along whose pine-shaded way the daimyo formerly departed to Yedo on their annual visit, or returned therefrom. All those who rowed the barge were aged samurai who had been wont in their youth to row the barge of Matsudaira-Dewa-no-Kami, the last Lord of Izumo. They wore their ancient feudal costume; and they tried to sing their ancient boat-song--o-funa-uta. But more than a generation had passed since the last time they had sung it; and some of them had lost their teeth, so that they could not pronounce the words well; and all, being aged, lost breath easily in the exertion of wielding the oars. Nevertheless they rowed the barge to the place appointed. Thence the shrine was borne to a spot by the side of the Mataubara road, where anciently stood an August Tea-House, O-Chaya, at which the daimyo, returning from the Shogun's capital, were accustomed to rest and to receive their faithful retainers, who always came in procession to meet them. No tea-house stands there now; but, in accord with old custom, the shrine and its escort waited at the place among the wild flowers and the pines. And then was seen a strange sight. For there came to meet the ghost of the great lord a long procession of shapes that seemed ghosts also--shapes risen out of the dust of cemeteries: warriors in created helmets and masks of iron and breastplates of steel, girded with two swords; and spearmen wearing queues; and retainers in kamishimo; and bearers of hasami-bako. Yet ghosts these were not, but aged samurai of Matsue, who had borne arms in the service of the last of the daimyo. And among them appeared his surviving ministers, the venerable karo; and these, as the procession turned city-ward, took their old places of honour, and marched before the shrine valiantly, though bent with years. How that pageant might have impressed other strangers I do not know. For me, knowing something of the history of each of those aged men, the scene had a significance apart from its story of forgotten customs, apart from its interest as a feudal procession. To-day each and all of those old samurai are unspeakably poor. Their beautiful homes vanished long ago; their gardens have been turned into rice-fields; their household treasures were cruelly bargained for, and bought for almost nothing by curio-dealers to be resold at high prices to foreigners at the open ports. And yet what they could have obtained considerable money for, and what had ceased to be of any service to them, they clung to fondly through all their poverty and humiliation. Never could they be induced to part with their armour and their swords, even when pressed by direst want, under the new and harder conditions of existence. The river banks, the streets, the balconies, and blue-tiled roofs were thronged. There was a great quiet as the procession passed. Young people gazed in hushed wonder, feeling the rare worth of that chance to look upon what will belong in the future to picture-books only and to the quaint Japanese stage. And old men wept silently, remembering their youth. Well spake the ancient thinker: 'Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers, and that which is remembered.' Sec. 35 Once more, homeward bound, I sat upon the cabin-roof of the Oki-Saigo-- this time happily unencumbered by watermelons--and tried to explain to myself the feeling of melancholy with which I watched those wild island- coasts vanishing over the pale sea into the white horizon. No doubt it was inspired partly by the recollection of kindnesses received from many whom I shall never meet again; partly, also, by my familiarity with the ancient soil itself, and remembrance of shapes and places: the long blue visions down channels between islands--the faint grey fishing hamlets hiding in stony bays--the elfish oddity of narrow streets in little primitive towns--the forms and tints of peak and vale made lovable by daily intimacy--the crooked broken paths to shadowed shrines of gods with long mysterious names--the butterfly-drifting of yellow sails out of the glow of an unknown horizon. Yet I think it was due much more to a particular sensation in which every memory was steeped and toned, as a landscape is steeped in the light and toned in the colours of the morning: the sensation of conditions closer to Nature's heart, and farther from the monstrous machine-world of Western life than any into which I had ever entered north of the torrid zone. And then it seemed to me that I loved Oki--in spite of the cuttlefish--chiefly because of having felt there, as nowhere else in Japan, the full joy of escape from the far-reaching influences of high-pressure civilisation--the delight of knowing one's self, in Dozen at least, well beyond the range of everything artificial in human existence. Chapter Nine Of Souls Kinjuro, the ancient gardener, whose head shines like an ivory ball, sat him down a moment on the edge of the ita-no-ma outside my study to smoke his pipe at the hibachi always left there for him. And as he smoked he found occasion to reprove the boy who assists him. What the boy had been doing I did not exactly know; but I heard Kinjuro bid him try to comport himself like a creature having more than one Soul. And because those words interested me I went out and sat down by Kinjuro. 'O Kinjuro,' I said, 'whether I myself have one or more Souls I am not sure. But it would much please me to learn how many Souls have you.' 'I-the-Selfish-One have only four Souls,' made answer Kinjuro, with conviction imperturbable. 'Four? re-echoed I, feeling doubtful of having understood 'Four,' he repeated. 'But that boy I think can have only one Soul, so much is he wanting in patience.' 'And in what manner,' I asked, 'came you to learn that you have four Souls?' 'There are wise men,' made he answer, while knocking the ashes out of his little silver pipe, 'there are wise men who know these things. And there is an ancient book which discourses of them. According to the age of a man, and the time of his birth, and the stars of heaven, may the number of his Souls be divined. But this is the knowledge of old men: the young folk of these times who learn the things of the West do not believe.' 'And tell me, O Kinjuro, do there now exist people having more Souls than you?' 'Assuredly. Some have five, some six, some seven, some eight Souls. But no one is by the gods permitted to have more Souls than nine.' [Now this, as a universal statement, I could not believe, remembering a woman upon the other side of the world who possessed many generations of Souls, and knew how to use them all. She wore her Souls just as other women wear their dresses, and changed them several times a day; and the multitude of dresses in the wardrobe of Queen Elizabeth was as nothing to the multitude of this wonderful person's Souls. For which reason she never appeared the same upon two different occasions; and she changed her thought and her voice with her Souls. Sometimes she was of the South, and her eyes were brown; and again she was of the North, and her eyes were grey. Sometimes she was of the thirteenth, and sometimes of the eighteenth century; and people doubted their own senses when they saw these things; and they tried to find out the truth by begging photographs of her, and then comparing them. Now the photographers rejoiced to photograph her because she was more than fair; but presently they also were confounded by the discovery that she was never the same subject twice. So the men who most admired her could not presume to fall in love with her because that would have been absurd. She had altogether too many Souls. And some of you who read this I have written will bear witness to the verity thereof.] 'Concerning this Country of the Gods, O Kinjuro, that which you say may be true. But there are other countries having only gods made of gold; and in those countries matters are not so well arranged; and the inhabitants thereof are plagued with a plague of Souls. For while some have but half a Soul, or no Soul at all, others have Souls in multitude thrust upon them, for which neither nutriment nor employ can be found. And Souls thus situated torment exceedingly their owners. . . . .That is to say, Western Souls. . . . But tell me, I pray you, what is the use of having more than one or two Souls?' 'Master, if all had the same number and quality of Souls, all would surely be of one mind. But that people are different from each other is apparent; and the differences among them are because of the differences in the quality and the number of their Souls.' 'And it is better to have many Souls than a few?' 'It is better.' 'And the man having but one Soul is a being imperfect?' 'Very imperfect.' 'Yet a man very imperfect might have had an ancestor perfect?' 'That is true.' 'So that a man of to-day possessing but one Soul may have had an ancestor with nine Souls?' 'Yes.' 'Then what has become of those other eight Souls which the ancestor possessed, but which the descendant is without?' 'Ah! that is the work of the gods. The gods alone fix the number of Souls for each of us. To the worthy are many given; to the unworthy few.' 'Not from the parents, then, do the Souls descend?' 'Nay! Most ancient the Souls are: innumerable, the years of them.' 'And this I desire to know: Can a man separate his Souls? Can he, for instance, have one Soul in Kyoto and one in Tokyo and one in Matsue, all at the same time?' 'He cannot; they remain always together.' 'How? One within the other--like the little lacquered boxes of an inro?' 'Nay: that none but the gods know.' 'And the Souls are never separated?' 'Sometimes they may be separated. But if the Souls of a man be separated, that man becomes mad. Mad people are those who have lost one of their Souls.' 'But after death what becomes of the Souls?' 'They remain still together. . . . When a man dies his Souls ascend to the roof of the house. And they stay upon the roof for the space of nine and forty days.' 'On what part of the roof?' 'On the yane-no-mune--upon the Ridge of the Roof they stay.' 'Can they be seen?' 'Nay: they are like the air is. To and fro upon the Ridge of the Roof they move, like a little wind.' 'Why do they not stay upon the roof for fifty days instead of forty- nine?' 'Seven weeks is the time allotted them before they must depart: seven weeks make the measure of forty-nine days. But why this should be, I cannot tell.' I was not unaware of the ancient belief that the spirit of a dead man haunts for a time the roof of his dwelling, because it is referred to quite impressively in many Japanese dramas, among others in the play called Kagami-yama, which makes the people weep. But I had not before heard of triplex and quadruplex and other yet more highly complex Souls; and I questioned Kinjuro vainly in the hope of learning the authority for his beliefs. They were the beliefs of his fathers: that was all he knew. [1] Like most Izumo folk, Kinjuro was a Buddhist as well as a Shintoist. As the former he belonged to the Zen-shu, as the latter to the Izumo- Taisha. Yet his ontology seemed to me not of either. Buddhism does not teach the doctrine of compound-multiple Souls. There are old Shinto books inaccessible to the multitude which speak of a doctrine very remotely akin to Kinjuro's; but Kinjuro had never seen them. Those books say that each of us has two souls--the Ara-tama or Rough Soul, which is vindictive; and the Nigi-tama, or Gentle Soul, which is all-forgiving. Furthermore, we are all possessed by the spirit of Oho-maga-tsu-hi-no- Kami, the 'Wondrous Deity of Exceeding Great Evils'; also by the spirit of Oho-naho-bi-no-Kami, the 'Wondrous Great Rectifying Deity,' a counteracting influence. These were not exactly the ideas of Kinjuro. But I remembered something Hirata wrote which reminded me of Kinjuro's words about a possible separation of souls. Hirata's teaching was that the ara-tama of a man may leave his body, assume his shape, and without his knowledge destroy a hated enemy. So I asked Kinjuro about it. He said he had never heard of a nigi-tama or an ara-tama; but he told me this: 'Master, when a man has been discovered by his wife to be secretly enamoured of another, it sometimes happens that the guilty woman is seized with a sickness that no physician can cure. For one of the Souls of the wife, moved exceedingly by anger, passes into the body of that woman to destroy her. But the wife also sickens, or loses her mind awhile, because of the absence of her Soul. 'And there is another and more wonderful thing known to us of Nippon, which you, being of the West, may never have heard. By the power of the gods, for a righteous purpose, sometimes a Soul may be withdrawn a little while from its body, and be made to utter its most secret thought. But no suffering to the body is then caused. And the wonder is wrought in this wise: 'A man loves a beautiful girl whom he is at liberty to marry; but he doubts whether he can hope to make her love him in return. He seeks the kannushi of a certain Shinto temple, [2] and tells of his doubt, and asks the aid of the gods to solve it. Then the priests demand, not his name, but his age and the year and day and hour of his birth, which they write down for the gods to know; and they bid the man return to the temple after the space of seven days. 'And during those seven days the priests offer prayer to the gods that the doubt may be solved; and one of them each morning bathes all his body in cold, pure water, and at each repast eats only food prepared with holy fire. And on the eighth day the man returns to the temple, and enters an inner chamber where the priests receive him. 'A ceremony is performed, and certain prayers are said, after which all wait in silence. And then, the priest who has performed the rites of purification suddenly begins to tremble violently in all his body, like one trembling with a great fever. And this is because, by the power of the gods, the Soul of the girl whose love is doubted has entered, all fearfully, into the body of that priest. She does not know; for at that time, wherever she may be, she is in a deep sleep from which nothing can arouse her. But her Soul, having been summoned into the body of the priest, can speak nothing save the truth; and It is made to tell all Its thought. And the priest speaks not with his own voice, but with the voice of the Soul; and he speaks in the person of the Soul, saying: "I love," or "I hate," according as the truth may be, and in the language of women. If there be hate, then the reason of the hate is spoken; but if the answer be of love, there is little to say. And then the trembling of the priest stops, for the Soul passes from him; and he falls forward upon his face like one dead, and long so--remains. 'Tell me, Kinjuro,' I asked, after all these queer things had been related to me, 'have you yourself ever known of a Soul being removed by the power of the gods, and placed in the heart of a priest?' 'Yes: I myself have known it.' I remained silent and waited. The old man emptied his little pipe, threw it down beside the hibachi, folded his hands, and looked at the lotus- flowers for some time before he spoke again. Then he smiled and said: 'Master, I married when I was very young. For many years we had no children: then my wife at last gave me a son, and became a Buddha. But my son lived and grew up handsome and strong; and when the Revolution came, he joined the armies of the Son of Heaven; and he died the death of a man in the great war of the South, in Kyushu. I loved him; and I wept with joy when I heard that he had been able to die for our Sacred Emperor: since there is no more noble death for the son of a samurai. So they buried my boy far away from me in Kyushu, upon a hill near Kumamoto, which is a famous city with a strong garrison; and I went there to make his tomb beautiful. But his name is here also, in Ninomaru, graven on the monument to the men of Izumo who fell in the good fight for loyalty and honour in our emperor's holy cause; and when I see his name there, my heart laughs, and I speak to him, and then it seems as if he were walking beside me again, under the great pines. . . But all that is another matter. 'I sorrowed for my wife. All the years we had dwelt together no unkind word had ever been uttered between us. And when she died, I thought never to marry again. But after two more years had passed, my father and mother desired a daughter in the house, and they told me of their wish, and of a girl who was beautiful and of good family, though poor. The family were of our kindred, and the girl was their only support: she wove garments of silk and garments of cotton, and for this she received but little money. And because she was filial and comely, and our kindred not fortunate, my parents desired that I should marry her and help her people; for in those days we had a small income of rice. Then, being accustomed to obey my parents, I suffered them to do what they thought best. So the nakodo was summoned, and the arrangements for the wedding began. 'Twice I was able to see the girl in the house of her parents. And I thought myself fortunate the first time I looked upon her; for she was very comely and young. But the second time, I perceived she had been weeping, and that her eyes avoided mine. Then my heart sank; for I thought: She dislikes me; and they are forcing her to this thing. Then I resolved to question the gods; and I caused the marriage to be delayed; and I went to the temple of Yanagi-no-Inari-Sama, which is in the Street Zaimokucho. 'And when the trembling came upon him, the priest, speaking with the Soul of that maid, declared to me: "My heart hates you, and the sight of your face gives me sickness, because I love another, and because this marriage is forced upon me. Yet though my heart hates you, I must marry you because my parents are poor and old, and I alone cannot long continue to support them, for my work is killing me. But though I may strive to be a dutiful wife, there never will be gladness in your house because of me; for my heart hates you with a great and lasting hate; and the sound of your voice makes a sickness in my breast (koe kiite mo mune ga waruku naru); and only to see your face makes me wish that I were dead (kao miru to shinitaku naru)." 'Thus knowing the truth, I told it to my parents; and I wrote a letter of kind words to the maid, praying pardon for the pain I had unknowingly caused her; and I feigned long illness, that the marriage might be broken off without gossip; and we made a gift to that family; and the maid was glad. For she was enabled at a later time to marry the young man she loved. My parents never pressed me again to take a wife; and since their death I have lived alone. . . . O Master, look upon the extreme wickedness of that boy!' Taking advantage of our conversation, Kinjuro's young assistant had improvised a rod and line with a bamboo stick and a bit of string; and had fastened to the end of the string a pellet of tobacco stolen from the old man's pouch. With this bait he had been fishing in the lotus pond; and a frog had swallowed it, and was now suspended high above the pebbles, sprawling in rotary motion, kicking in frantic spasms of disgust and despair. 'Kaji!' shouted the gardener. The boy dropped his rod with a laugh, and ran to us unabashed; while the frog, having disgorged the tobacco, plopped back into the lotus pond. Evidently Kaji was not afraid of scoldings. 'Gosho ga waruil' declared the old man, shaking his ivory head. 'O Kaji, much I fear that your next birth will be bad! Do I buy tobacco for frogs? Master, said I not rightly this boy has but one Soul?' CHAPTER TEN Of Ghosts and Goblins Sec. 1 THERE was a Buddha, according to the Hokkekyo who 'even assumed the shape of a goblin to preach to such as were to be converted by a goblin.' And in the same Sutra may be found this promise of the Teacher: 'While he is dwelling lonely in the wilderness, I will send thither goblins in great number to keep him company.' The appalling character of this promise is indeed somewhat modified by the assurance that gods also are to be sent. But if ever I become a holy man, I shall take heed not to dwell in the wilderness, because I have seen Japanese goblins, and I do not like them. Kinjuro showed them to me last night. They had come to town for the matsuri of our own ujigami, or parish-temple; and, as there were many curious things to be seen at the night festival, we started for the temple after dark, Kinjuro carrying a paper lantern painted with my crest. It had snowed heavily in the morning; but now the sky and the sharp still air were clear as diamond; and the crisp snow made a pleasant crunching sound under our feet as we walked; and it occurred to me to say: 'O Kinjuro, is there a God of Snow?' 'I cannot tell,' replied Kinjuro. 'There be many gods I do not know; and there is not any man who knows the names of all the gods. But there is the Yuki-Onna, the Woman of the Snow.' 'And what is the Yuki-Onna?' 'She is the White One that makes the Faces in the snow. She does not any harm, only makes afraid. By day she lifts only her head, and frightens those who journey alone. But at night she rises up sometimes, taller than the trees, and looks about a little while, and then falls back in a shower of snow.' [1] 'What is her face like?' 'It is all white, white. It is an enormous face. And it is a lonesome face.' [The word Kinjuro used was samushii. Its common meaning is 'lonesome'; but he used it, I think, in the sense of 'weird.'] 'Did you ever see her, Kinjuro?' 'Master, I never saw her. But my father told me that once when he was a child, he wanted to go to a neighbour's house through the snow to play with another little boy; and that on the way he saw a great white Face rise up from the snow and look lonesomely about, so that he cried for fear and ran back. Then his people all went out and looked; but there was only snow; and then they knew that he had seen the Yuki-Onna.' 'And in these days, Kinjuro, do people ever see her?' 'Yes. Those who make the pilgrimage to Yabumura, in the period called Dai-Kan, which is the Time of the Greatest Cold, [2] they sometimes see her.' 'What is there at Yabumura, Kinjuro?' 'There is the Yabu-jinja, which is an ancient and famous temple of Yabu- no-Tenno-San--the God of Colds, Kaze-no-Kami. It is high upon a hill, nearly nine ri from Matsue. And the great matsuri of that temple is held upon the tenth and eleventh days of the Second Month. And on those days strange things may be seen. For one who gets a very bad cold prays to the deity of Yabu-jinja to cure it, and takes a vow to make a pilgrimage naked to the temple at the time of the matsuri.' 'Naked?' 'Yes: the pilgrims wear only waraji, and a little cloth round their loins. And a great many men and women go naked through the snow to the temple, though the snow is deep at that time. And each man carries a bunch of gohei and a naked sword as gifts to the temple; and each woman carries a metal mirror. And at the temple, the priests receive them, performing curious rites. For the priests then, according to ancient custom, attire themselves like sick men, and lie down and groan, and drink, potions made of herbs, prepared after the Chinese manner.' 'But do not some of the pilgrims die of cold, Kinjuro?' 'No: our Izumo peasants are hardy. Besides, they run swiftly, so that they reach the temple all warm. And before returning they put on thick warm robes. But sometimes, upon the way, they see the Yuki-Onna.' Sec. 2 Each side of the street leading to the miya was illuminated with a line of paper lanterns bearing holy symbols; and the immense court of the temple had been transformed into a town of booths, and shops, and temporary theatres. In spite of the cold, the crowd was prodigious. There seemed to be all the usual attractions of a matsuri, and a number of unusual ones. Among the familiar lures, I missed at this festival only the maiden wearing an obi of living snakes; probably it had become too cold for the snakes. There were several fortune-tellers and jugglers; there were acrobats and dancers; there was a man making pictures out of sand; and there was a menagerie containing an emu from Australia, and a couple of enormous bats from the Loo Choo Islands--bats trained to do several things. I did reverence to the gods, and bought some extraordinary toys; and then we went to look for the goblins. They were domiciled in a large permanent structure, rented to showmen on special occasions. Gigantic characters signifying 'IKI-NINGYO,' painted upon the signboard at the entrance, partly hinted the nature of the exhibition. Iki-ningyo ('living images') somewhat correspond to our Occidental 'wax figures'; but the equally realistic Japanese creations are made of much cheaper material. Having bought two wooden tickets for one sen each, we entered, and passed behind a curtain to find ourselves in a long corridor lined with booths, or rather matted compartments, about the size of small rooms. Each space, decorated with scenery appropriate to the subject, was occupied by a group of life-size figures. The group nearest the entrance, representing two men playing samisen and two geisha dancing, seemed to me without excuse for being, until Kinjuro had translated a little placard before it, announcing that one of the figures was a living person. We watched in vain for a wink or palpitation. Suddenly one of the musicians laughed aloud, shook his head, and began to play and sing. The deception was perfect. The remaining groups, twenty-four in number, were powerfully impressive in their peculiar way, representing mostly famous popular traditions or sacred myths. Feudal heroisms, the memory of which stirs every Japanese heart; legends of filial piety; Buddhist miracles, and stories of emperors were among the subjects. Sometimes, however, the realism was brutal, as in one scene representing the body of a woman lying in a pool of blood, with brains scattered by a sword stroke. Nor was this unpleasantness altogether atoned for by her miraculous resuscitation in the adjoining compartment, where she reappeared returning thanks in a Nichiren temple, and converting her slaughterer, who happened, by some extraordinary accident, to go there at the same time. At the termination of the corridor there hung a black curtain behind which screams could be heard. And above the black curtain was a placard inscribed with the promise of a gift to anybody able to traverse the mysteries beyond without being frightened. 'Master,' said Kinjuro, 'the goblins are inside.' We lifted the veil, and found ourselves in a sort of lane between hedges, and behind the hedges we saw tombs; we were in a graveyard. There were real weeds and trees, and sotoba and haka, and the effect was quite natural. Moreover, as the roof was very lofty, and kept invisible by a clever arrangement of lights, all seemed darkness only; and this gave one a sense of being out under the night, a feeling accentuated by the chill of the air. And here and there we could discern sinister shapes, mostly of superhuman stature, some seeming to wait in dim places, others floating above the graves. Quite near us, towering above the hedge on our right, was a Buddhist priest, with his back turned to us. 'A yamabushi, an exorciser?' I queried of Kinjuro. 'No,' said Kinjuro; 'see how tall he is. I think that must be a Tanuki- Bozu.' The Tanuki-Bozu is the priestly form assumed by the goblin-badger (tanuki) for the purpose of decoying belated travellers to destruction. We went on, and looked up into his face. It was a nightmare--his face. 'In truth a Tanuki-Bozu,' said Kinjuro. 'What does the Master honourably think concerning it?' Instead of replying, I jumped back; for the monstrous thing had suddenly reached over the hedge and clutched at me, with a moan. Then it fell back, swaying and creaking. It was moved by invisible strings. 'I think, Kinjuro, that it is a nasty, horrid thing. . . . But I shall not claim the present.' We laughed, and proceeded to consider a Three-Eyed Friar (Mitsu-me- Nyudo). The Three-Eyed Friar also watches for the unwary at night. His face is soft and smiling as the face of a Buddha, but he has a hideous eye in the summit of his shaven pate, which can only be seen when seeing it does no good. The Mitsu-me-Nyudo made a grab at Kinjuro, and startled him almost as much as the Tanuki-Bozu had startled me. Then we looked at the Yama-Uba--the 'Mountain Nurse.' She catches little children and nurses them for a while, and then devours them. In her face she has no mouth; but she has a mouth in the top of her head, under her hair. The YamaUba did not clutch at us, because her hands were occupied with a nice little boy, whom she was just going to eat. The child had been made wonderfully pretty to heighten the effect. Then I saw the spectre of a woman hovering in the air above a tomb at some distance, so that I felt safer in observing it. It had no eyes; its long hair hung loose; its white robe floated light as smoke. I thought of a statement in a composition by one of my pupils about ghosts: 'Their greatest Peculiarity is that They have no feet.' Then I jumped again, for the thing, quite soundlessly but very swiftly, made through the air at me. And the rest of our journey among the graves was little more than a succession of like experiences; but it was made amusing by the screams of women, and bursts of laughter from people who lingered only to watch the effect upon others of what had scared themselves. Sec. 3 Forsaking the goblins, we visited a little open-air theatre to see two girls dance. After they had danced awhile, one girl produced a sword and cut off the other girl's head, and put it upon a table, where it opened its mouth and began to sing. All this was very prettily done; but my mind was still haunted by the goblins. So I questioned Kinjuro: 'Kinjuro, those goblins of which we the ningyo have seen--do folk believe in the reality, thereof?' 'Not any more,' answered Kinjuro--'not at least among the people of the city. Perhaps in the country it may not be so. We believe in the Lord Buddha; we believe in the ancient gods; and there be many who believe the dead sometimes return to avenge a cruelty or to compel an act of justice. But we do not now believe all that was believed in ancient time. . . .Master,' he added, as we reached another queer exhibition, 'it is only one sen to go to hell, if the Master would like to go--'Very good, Kinjuro,' I made reply. 'Pay two sen that we may both go to hell.' Sec. 4 And we passed behind a curtain into a big room full of curious clicking and squeaking noises. These noises were made by unseen wheels and pulleys moving a multitude of ningyo upon a broad shelf about breast- high, which surrounded the apartment upon three sides. These ningyo were not ikiningyo, but very small images--puppets. They represented all things in the Under-World. The first I saw was Sozu-Baba, the Old Woman of the River of Ghosts, who takes away the garments of Souls. The garments were hanging upon a tree behind her. She was tall; she rolled her green eyes and gnashed her long teeth, while the shivering of the little white souls before her was as a trembling of butterflies. Farther on appeared Emma Dai-O, great King of Hell, nodding grimly. At his right hand, upon their tripod, the heads of Kaguhana and Mirume, the Witnesses, whirled as upon a wheel. At his left, a devil was busy sawing a Soul in two; and I noticed that he used his saw like a Japanese carpenter--pulling it towards him instead of pushing it. And then various exhibitions of the tortures of the damned. A liar bound to a post was having his tongue pulled out by a devil-- slowly, with artistic jerks; it was already longer than the owner's body. Another devil was pounding another Soul in a mortar so vigorously that the sound of the braying could be heard above all the din of the machinery. A little farther on was a man being eaten alive by two serpents having women's faces; one serpent was white, the other blue. The white had been his wife, the blue his concubine. All the tortures known to medieval Japan were being elsewhere deftly practised by swarms of devils. After reviewing them, we visited the Sai-no-Kawara, and saw Jizo with a child in his arms, and a circle of other children running swiftly around him, to escape from demons who brandished their clubs and ground their teeth. Hell proved, however, to be extremely cold; and while meditating on the partial inappropriateness of the atmosphere, it occurred to me that in the common Buddhist picture-books of the Jigoku I had never noticed any illustrations of torment by cold. Indian Buddhism, indeed, teaches the existence of cold hells. There is one, for instance, where people's lips are frozen so that they can say only 'Ah-ta-ta!'--wherefore that hell is called Atata. And there is the hell where tongues are frozen, and where people say only 'Ah-baba!' for which reason it is called Ababa. And there is the Pundarika, or Great White-Lotus hell, where the spectacle of the bones laid bare by the cold is 'like a blossoming of white lotus- flowers.' Kinjuro thinks there are cold hells according to Japanese Buddhism; but he is not sure. And I am not sure that the idea of cold could be made very terrible to the Japanese. They confess a general liking for cold, and compose Chinese poems about the loveliness of ice and snow. Sec. 5 Out of hell, we found our way to a magic-lantern show being given in a larger and even much colder structure. A Japanese magic-lantern show is nearly always interesting in more particulars than one, but perhaps especially as evidencing the native genius for adapting Western inventions to Eastern tastes. A Japanese magic-lantern show is essentially dramatic. It is a play of which the dialogue is uttered by invisible personages, the actors and the scenery being only luminous shadows. 'Wherefore it is peculiarly well suited to goblinries and weirdnesses of all kinds; and plays in which ghosts figure are the favourite subjects. As the hall was bitterly cold, I waited only long enough to see one performance--of which the following is an epitome: SCENE 1.--A beautiful peasant girl and her aged mother, squatting together at home. Mother weeps violently, gesticulates agonisingly. From her frantic speech, broken by wild sobs, we learn that the girl must be sent as a victim to the Kami-Sama of some lonesome temple in the mountains. That god is a bad god. Once a year he shoots an arrow into the thatch of some farmer's house as a sign that he wants a girl--to eat! Unless the girl be sent to him at once, he destroys the crops and the cows. Exit mother, weeping and shrieking, and pulling out her grey hair. Exit girl, with downcast head, and air of sweet resignation. SCENE II.--Before a wayside inn; cherry-trees in blossom. Enter coolies carrying, like a palanquin, a large box, in which the girl is supposed to be. Deposit box; enter to eat; tell story to loquacious landlord. Enter noble samurai, with two swords. Asks about box. Hears the story of the coolies repeated by loquacious landlord. Exhibits fierce indignation; vows that the Kami-Sama are good--do not eat girls. Declares that so-called Kami-Sama to be a devil. Observes that devils must be killed. Orders box opened. Sends girl home. Gets into box himself, and commands coolies under pain of death to bear him right quickly to that temple. SCENE III.--Enter coolies, approaching temple through forest at night. Coolies afraid. Drop box and run. Exeunt coolies. Box alone in the dark. Enter veiled figure, all white. Figure moans unpleasantly; utters horrid cries. Box remains impassive. Figure removes veil, showing Its face--a skull with phosphoric eyes. [Audience unanimously utter the sound 'Aaaaaa!'] Figure displays Its hands--monstrous and apish, with claws. [Audience utter a second 'Aaaaaa!'] Figure approaches the box, touches the box, opens the box! Up leaps noble samurai. A wrestle; drums sound the roll of battle. Noble samurai practises successfully noble art of ju-jutsu. Casts demon down, tramples upon him triumphantly, cuts off his head. Head suddenly enlarges, grows to the size of a house, tries to bite off head of samurai. Samurai slashes it with his sword. Head rolls backward, spitting fire, and vanishes. Finis. Exeunt omnes. Sec. 6 The vision of the samurai and the goblin reminded Kinjuro of a queer tale, which he began to tell me as soon as the shadow-play was over. Ghastly stories are apt to fall flat after such an exhibition; but Kinjuro's stories are always peculiar enough to justify the telling under almost any circumstances. Wherefore I listened eagerly, in spite of the cold: 'A long time ago, in the days when Fox-women and goblins haunted this land, there came to the capital with her parents a samurai girl, so beautiful that all men who saw her fell enamoured of her. And hundreds of young samurai desired and hoped to marry her, and made their desire known to her parents. For it has ever been the custom in Japan that marriages should be arranged by parents. But there are exceptions to all customs, and the case of this maiden was such an exception. Her parents declared that they intended to allow their daughter to choose her own husband, and that all who wished to win her would be free to woo her. 'Many men of high rank and of great wealth were admitted to the house as suitors; and each one courted her as he best knew how--with gifts, and with fair words, and with poems written in her honour, and with promises of eternal love. And to each one she spoke sweetly and hopefully; but she made strange conditions. For every suitor she obliged to bind himself by his word of honour as a samurai to submit to a test of his love for her, and never to divulge to living person what that test might be. And to this all agreed. 'But even the most confident suitors suddenly ceased their importunities after having been put to the test; and all of them appeared to have been greatly terrified by something. Indeed, not a few even fled away from the city, and could not be persuaded by their friends to return. But no one ever so much as hinted why. Therefore it was whispered by those who knew nothing of the mystery, that the beautiful girl must be either a Fox-woman or a goblin. 'Now, when all the wooers of high rank had abandoned their suit, there came a samurai who had no wealth but his sword. He was a good man and true, and of pleasing presence; and the girl seemed to like him. But she made him take the same pledge which the others had taken; and after he had taken it, she told him to return upon a certain evening. 'When that evening came, he was received at the house by none but the girl herself. With her own hands she set before him the repast of hospitality, and waited upon him, after which she told him that she wished him to go out with her at a late hour. To this he consented gladly, and inquired to what place she desired to go. But she replied nothing to his question, and all at once became very silent, and strange in her manner. And after a while she retired from the apartment, leaving him alone. 'Only long after midnight she returned, robed all in white--like a Soul --and, without uttering a word, signed to him to follow her. Out of the house they hastened while all the city slept. It was what is called an oborozuki-yo--'moon-clouded night.' Always upon such a night, 'tis said, do ghosts wander. She swiftly led the way; and the dogs howled as she flitted by; and she passed beyond the confines of the city to a place of knolls shadowed by enormous trees, where an ancient cemetery was. Into it she glided--a white shadow into blackness. He followed, wondering, his hand upon his sword. Then his eyes became accustomed to the gloom; and he saw. 'By a new-made grave she paused and signed to him to wait. The tools of the grave-maker were still lying there. Seizing one, she began to dig furiously, with strange haste and strength. At last her spade smote a coffin-lid and made it boom: another moment and the fresh white wood of the kwan was bare. She tore off the lid, revealing a corpse within--the corpse of a child. With goblin gestures she wrung an arm from the body, wrenched it in twain, and, squatting down, began to devour the upper half. Then, flinging to her lover the other half, she cried to him, "Eat, if thou lovest mel this is what I eat!" 'Not even for a single instant did he hesitate. He squatted down upon the other side of the grave, and ate the half of the arm, and said, "Kekko degozarimasu! mo sukoshi chodai." [3] For that arm was made of the best kwashi [4] that Saikyo could produce. 'Then the girl sprang to her feet with a burst of laughter, and cried: "You only, of all my brave suitors, did not run away! And I wanted a husband: who could not fear. I will marry you; I can love you: you are a man!"' Sec. 7 'O Kinjuro,' I said, as we took our way home, 'I have heard and I have read many Japanese stories of the returning of the dead. Likewise you yourself have told me it is still believed the dead return, and why. But according both to that which I have read and that which you have told me, the coming back of the dead is never a thing to be desired. They return because of hate, or because of envy, or because they cannot rest for sorrow. But of any who return for that which is not evil--where is it written? Surely the common history of them is like that which we have this night seen: much that is horrible and much that is wicked and nothing of that which is beautiful or true.' Now this I said that I might tempt him. And he made even the answer I desired, by uttering the story which is hereafter set down: 'Long ago, in the days of a daimyo whose name has been forgotten, there lived in this old city a young man and a maid who loved each other very much. Their names are not remembered, but their story remains. From infancy they had been betrothed; and as children they played together, for their parents were neighbours. And as they grew up, they became always fonder of each other. 'Before the youth had become a man, his parents died. But he was able to enter the service of a rich samurai, an officer of high rank, who had been a friend of his people. And his protector soon took him into great favour, seeing him to be courteous, intelligent, and apt at arms. So the young man hoped to find himself shortly in a position that would make it possible for him to marry his betrothed. But war broke out in the north and east; and he was summoned suddenly to follow his master to the field. Before departing, however, he was able to see the girl; and they exchanged pledges in the presence of her parents; and he promised, should he remain alive, to return within a year from that day to marry his betrothed. 'After his going much time passed without news of him, for there was no post in that time as now; and the girl grieved so much for thinking of the chances of war that she became all white and thin and weak. Then at last she heard of him through a messenger sent from the army to bear news to the daimyo and once again a letter was brought to her by another messenger. And thereafter there came no word. Long is a year to one who waits. And the year passed, and he did not return. 'Other seasons passed, and still he did not come; and she thought him dead; and she sickened and lay down, and died, and was buried. Then her old parents, who had no other child, grieved unspeakably, and came to hate their home for the lonesomeness of it. After a time they resolved to sell all they had, and to set out upon a sengaji--the great pilgrimage to the Thousand Temples of the Nichiren-Shu, which requires many years to perform. So they sold their small house with all that it contained, excepting the ancestral tablets, and the holy things which must never be sold, and the ihai of their buried daughter, which were placed, according to the custom of those about to leave their native place, in the family temple. Now the family was of the Nichiren-Shu; and their temple was Myokoji. 'They had been gone only four days when the young man who had been betrothed to their daughter returned to the city. He had attempted, with the permission of his master, to fulfil his promise. But the provinces upon his way were full of war, and the roads and passes were guarded by troops, and he had been long delayed by many difficulties. And when he heard of his misfortune he sickened for grief, and many days remained without knowledge of anything, like one about to die. 'But when he began to recover his strength, all the pain of memory came back again; and he regretted that he had not died. Then he resolved to kill himself upon the grave of his betrothed; and, as soon as he was able to go out unobserved, he took his sword and went to the cemetery where the girl was buried: it is a lonesome place--the cemetery of Myokoji. There he found her tomb, and knelt before it, and prayed and wept, and whispered to her that which he was about to do. And suddenly he heard her voice cry to him: "Anata!" and felt her hand upon his hand; and he turned, and saw her kneeling beside him, smiling, and beautiful as he remembered her, only a little pale. Then his heart leaped so that he could not speak for the wonder and the doubt and the joy of that moment. But she said: "Do not doubt: it is really I. I am not dead. It was all a mistake. I was buried, because my people thought me dead-- buried too soon. And my own parents thought me dead, and went upon a pilgrimage. Yet you see, I am not dead--not a ghost. It is I: do not doubt it! And I have seen your heart, and that was worth all the waiting, and the pain.. . But now let us go away at once to another city, so that people may not know this thing and trouble us; for all still believe me dead." 'And they went away, no one observing them. And they went even to the village of Minobu, which is in the province of Kai. For there is a famous temple of the Nichiren-Shu in that place; and the girl had said: "I know that in the course of their pilgrimage my parents will surely visit Minobu: so that if we dwell there, they will find us, and we shall be all again together." And when they came to Minobu, she said: "Let us open a little shop." And they opened a little food-shop, on the wide way leading to the holy place; and there they sold cakes for children, and toys, and food for pilgrims. For two years they so lived and prospered; and there was a son born to them. 'Now when the child was a year and two months old, the parents of the wife came in the course of their pilgrimage to Minobu; and they stopped at the little shop to buy food. And seeing their daughter's betrothed, they cried out and wept and asked questions. Then he made them enter, and bowed down before them, and astonished them, saying: "Truly as I speak it, your daughter is not dead; and she is my wife; and we have a son. And she is even now within the farther room, lying down with the child. I pray you go in at once and gladden her, for her heart longs for the moment of seeing you again." 'So while he busied himself in making all things ready for their comfort, they entered the inner, room very softly--the mother first. 'They found the child asleep; but the mother they did not find. She seemed to have gone out for a little while only: her pillow was still warm. They waited long for her: then they began to seek her. But never was she seen again. 'And they understood only when they found beneath the coverings which had covered the mother and child, something which they remembered having left years before in the temple of Myokoji--a little mortuary tablet, the ihai of their buried daughter.' I suppose I must have looked thoughtful after this tale; for the old man said: 'Perhaps the Master honourably thinks concerning the story that it is foolish?' 'Nay, Kinjuro, the story is in my heart.' CHAPTER ELEVEN The Japanese Smile Sec. 1 THOSE whose ideas of the world and its wonders have been formed chiefly by novels and romance still indulge a vague belief that the East is more serious than the West. Those who judge things from a higher standpoint argue, on the contrary, that, under present conditions, the West must be more serious than the East; and also that gravity, or even something resembling its converse, may exist only as a fashion. But the fact is that in this, as in all other questions, no rule susceptible of application to either half of humanity can be accurately framed. Scientifically, we can do no more just now than study certain contrasts in a general way, without hoping to explain satisfactorily the highly complex causes which produced them. One such contrast, of particular interest, is that afforded by the English and the Japanese. It is a commonplace to say that the English are a serious people--not superficially serious, but serious all the way down to the bed-rock of the race character. It is almost equally safe to say that the Japanese are not very serious, either above or below the surface, even as compared with races much less serious than our own. And in the same proportion, at least, that they are less serious, they are more happy: they still, perhaps, remain the happiest people in the civilised world. We serious folk of the West cannot call ourselves very happy. Indeed, we do not yet fully know how serious we are; and it would probably frighten us to learn how much more serious we are likely to become under the ever-swelling pressure of industrial life. It is, possibly, by long sojourn among a people less gravely disposed that we can best learn our own temperament. This conviction came to me very strongly when, after having lived for nearly three years in the interior of Japan, I returned to English life for a few days at the open port of Kobe. To hear English once more spoken by Englishmen touched me more than I could have believed possible; but this feeling lasted only for a moment. My object was to make some necessary purchases. Accompanying me was a Japanese friend, to whom all that foreign life was utterly new and wonderful, and who asked me this curious question: 'Why is it that the foreigners never smile? You smile and bow when you speak to them; but they never smile. Why?' The fact was, I had fallen altogether into Japanese habits and ways, and had got out of touch with Western life; and my companion's question first made me aware that I had been acting somewhat curiously. It also seemed to me a fair illustration of the difficulty of mutual comprehension between the two races--each quite naturally, though quite erroneously, estimating the manners and motives of the other by its own. If the Japanese are puzzled by English gravity, the English are, to say the least, equally puzzled by Japanese levity. The Japanese speak of the 'angry faces' of the foreigners. The foreigners speak with strong contempt of the Japanese smile: they suspect it to signify insincerity; indeed, some declare it cannot possibly signify anything else. Only a few of the more observant have recognised it as an enigma worth studying. One of my Yokohama friends--a thoroughly lovable man, who had passed more than half his life in the open ports of the East--said to me, just before my departure for the interior: 'Since you are going to study Japanese life, perhaps you will be able to find out something for me. I can't understand the Japanese smile. Let me tell you one experience out of many. One day, as I was driving down from the Bluff, I saw an empty kuruma coming up on the wrong side of the curve. I could not have pulled up in time if I had tried; but I didn't try, because I didn't think there was any particular danger. I only yelled to the man in Japanese to get to the other side of the road; instead of which he simply backed his kuruma against a wall on the lower side of the curve, with the shafts outwards. At the rate I was going, there wasn't room even to swerve; and the next minute one of the shafts of that kuruma was in my horse's shoulder. The man wasn't hurt at all. When I saw the way my horse was bleeding, I quite lost my temper, and struck the man over the head with the butt of my whip. He looked right into my face and smiled, and then bowed. I can see that smile now. I felt as if I had been knocked down. The smile utterly nonplussed me--killed all my anger instantly. Mind you, it was a polite smile. But what did it mean? Why the devil did the man smile? I can't understand it.' Neither, at that time, could I; but the meaning of much more mysterious smiles has since been revealed to me. A Japanese can smile in the teeth of death, and usually does. But he then smiles for the same reason that he smiles at other times. There is neither defiance nor hypocrisy in the smile; nor is it to be confounded with that smile of sickly resignation which we are apt to associate with weakness of character. It is an elaborate and long-cultivated etiquette. It is also a silent language. But any effort to interpret it according to Western notions of physiognomical expression would be just about as successful as an attempt to interpret Chinese ideographs by their real or fancied resemblance to shapes of familiar things. First impressions, being largely instinctive, are scientifically recognised as partly trustworthy; and the very first impression produced by the Japanese smile is not far from the truth The stranger cannot fail to notice the generally happy and smiling character of the native faces; and this first impression is, in most cases, wonderfully pleasant. The Japanese smile at first charms. It is only at a later day, when one has observed the same smile under extraordinary circumstances--in moments of pain, shame, disappointment--that one becomes suspicious of it. Its apparent inopportuneness may even, on certain occasions, cause violent anger. Indeed, many of the difficulties between foreign residents and their native servants have been due to the smile. Any man who believes in the British tradition that a good servant must be solemn is not likely to endure with patience the smile of his 'boy.' At present, however, this particular phase of Western eccentricity is becoming more fully recognised by the Japanese; they are beginning to learn that the average English-speaking foreigner hates smiling, and is apt to consider it insulting; wherefore Japanese employees at the open ports have generally ceased to smile, and have assumed an air of sullenness. At this moment there comes to me the recollection of a queer story told by a lady of Yokohama about one of her Japanese servants. 'My Japanese nurse came to me the other day, smiling as if something very pleasant had happened, and said that her husband was dead, and that she wanted permission to attend his funeral. I told her she could go. It seems they burned the man's body. Well, in the evening she returned, and showed me a vase containing some ashes of bones (I saw a tooth among them); and she said: "That is my husband." And she actually laughed as she said it! Did you ever hear of such disgusting creatures?' It would have been quite impossible to convince the narrator of this incident that the demeanour of her servant, instead of being heartless, might have been heroic, and capable of a very touching interpretation. Even one not a Philistine might be deceived in such a case by appearances. But quite a number of the foreign residents of the open ports are pure Philistines, and never try to look below the surface of the life around them, except as hostile critics. My Yokohama friend who told me the story about the kurumaya was quite differently disposed: he recognised the error of judging by appearances. Sec. 2 Miscomprehension of the Japanese smile has more than once led to extremely unpleasant results, as happened in the case of T--a Yokohama merchant of former days. T--had employed in some capacity (I think partly as a teacher of Japanese) a nice old samurai, who wore, according to the fashion of the era, a queue and two swords. The English and the Japanese do not understand each other very well now; but at the period in question they understood each other much less. The Japanese servants at first acted in foreign employ precisely as they would have acted in the service of distinguished Japanese; [1] and this innocent mistake provoked a good deal of abuse and cruelty. Finally the discovery was made that to treat Japanese like West Indian negroes might be very dangerous. A certain number of foreigners were killed, with good moral consequences. But I am digressing. T--was rather pleased with his old samurai, though quite unable to understand his Oriental politeness, his prostrations or the meaning of the small gifts which he presented occasionally, with an exquisite courtesy entirely wasted upon T--. One day he came to ask a favour. (I think it was the eve of the Japanese New Year, when everybody needs money, for reasons not here to be dwelt upon.) The favour was that T--would lend him a little money upon one of his swords, the long one. It was a very beautiful weapon, and the merchant saw that it was also very valuable, and lent the money without hesitation. Some weeks later the old man was able to redeem his sword. What caused the beginning of the subsequent unpleasantness nobody now remembers Perhaps T--'s nerves got out of order. At all events, one day he became very angry with the old man, who submitted to the expression of his wrath with bows and smiles. This made him still more angry, and he used some extremely bad language; but the old man still bowed and smiled; wherefore he was ordered to leave the house. But the old man continued to smile, at which T--losing all self-control struck him. And then T--suddenly became afraid, for the long sword instantly leaped from its sheath, and swirled above him; and the old man ceased to seem old. Now, in the grasp of anyone who knows how to use it, the razor-edged blade of a Japanese sword wielded with both hands can take a head off with extreme facility. But, to T--'s astonishment, the old samurai, almost in the same moment, returned the blade to its sheath with the skill of a practised swordsman, turned upon his heel, and withdrew. Then T-- wondered and sat down to think. He began to remember some nice things about the old man--the many kindnesses unasked and unpaid, the curious little gifts, the impeccable honesty. T-- began to feel ashamed. He tried to console himself with the thought: 'Well, it was his own fault; he had no right to laugh at me when he knew I was angry.' Indeed, T-- even resolved to make amends when an opportunity should offer. But no opportunity ever came, because on the same evening the old man performed hara-kiri, after the manner of a samurai. He left a very beautifully written letter explaining his reasons. For a samurai to receive an unjust blow without avenging it was a shame not to be borne, He had received such a blow. Under any other circumstances he might have avenged it. But the circumstances were, in this instance, of a very peculiar kind, His code of honour forbade him to use his sword upon the man to whom he had pledged it once for money, in an hour of need. And being thus unable to use his sword, there remained for him only the alternative of an honourable suicide. In order to render this story less disagreeable, the reader may suppose that T--was really very sorry, and behaved generously to the family of the old man. What he must not suppose is that T--was ever able to imagine why the old man had smiled the smile which led to the outrage and the tragedy. Sec. 3 To comprehend the Japanese smile, one must be able to enter a little into the ancient, natural, and popular life of Japan. From the modernised upper classes nothing is to be learned. The deeper signification of race differences is being daily more and more illustrated in the effects of the higher education. Instead of creating any community of feeling, it appears only to widen the distance between the Occidental and the Oriental. Some foreign observers have declared that it does this by enormously developing certain latent peculiarities --among others an inherent materialism little perceptible among fife common people. This explanation is one I cannot quite agree with; but it is at least undeniable that, the more highly he is cultivated, according to Western methods, the farther is the Japanese psychologically removed from us. Under the new education, his character seems to crystallise into something of singular hardness, and to Western observation, at least, of singular opacity. Emotionally, the Japanese child appears incomparably closer to us than the Japanese mathematician, the peasant than the statesman. Between the most elevated class of thoroughly modernised Japanese and the Western thinker anything akin to intellectual sympathy is non-existent: it is replaced on the native side by a cold and faultless politeness. Those influences which in other lands appear most potent to develop the higher emotions seem here to have the extraordinary effect of suppressing them. We are accustomed abroad to associate emotional sensibility with intellectual expansion: it would be a grievous error to apply this rule in Japan. Even the foreign teacher in an ordinary school can feel, year by year, his pupils drifting farther away from him, as they pass from class to class; in various higher educational institutions, the separation widens yet more rapidly, so that, prior to graduation, students may become to their professor little more than casual acquaintances. The enigma is perhaps, to some extent, a physiological one, requiring scientific explanation; but its solution must first be sought in ancestral habits of life and of imagination. It can be fully discussed only when its natural causes are understood; and these, we may be sure, are not simple. By some observers it is asserted that because the higher education in Japan has not yet had the effect of stimulating the higher emotions to the Occidental pitch, its developing power cannot have been exerted uniformly and wisely, but in special directions only, at the cost of character. Yet this theory involves the unwarrantable assumption that character can be created by education; and it ignores the fact that the best results are obtained by affording opportunity for the exercise of pre-existing inclination rather than by any system of teaching. The causes of the phenomenon must be looked for in the race character; and whatever the higher education may accomplish in the remote future, it can scarcely be expected to transform nature. But does it at present atrophy certain finer tendencies? I think that it unavoidably does, for the simple reason that, under existing conditions, the moral and mental powers are overtasked by its requirements. All that wonderful national spirit of duty, of patience, of self-sacrifice, anciently directed to social, moral, or religious idealism, must, under the discipline of the higher training, be concentrated upon an end which not only demands, but exhausts its fullest exercise. For that end, to be accomplished at all, must be accomplished in the face of difficulties that the Western student rarely encounters, and could scarcely be made even to understand. All those moral qualities which made the old Japanese character admirable are certainly the same which make the modern Japanese student the most indefatigable, the most docile, the most ambitious in the world. But they are also qualities which urge him to efforts in excess of his natural powers, with the frequent result of mental and moral enervation. The nation has entered upon a period of intellectual overstrain. Consciously or unconsciously, in obedience to sudden necessity, Japan has undertaken nothing less than the tremendous task of forcing mental expansion up to the highest existing standard; and this means forcing the development of the nervous system. For the desired intellectual change, to be accomplished within a few generations, must involve a physiological change never to be effected without terrible cost. In other words, Japan has attempted too much; yet under the circumstances she could not have attempted less. Happily, even among the poorest of her poor the educational policy of the Government is seconded with an astonishing zeal; the entire nation has plunged into study with a fervour of which it is utterly impossible to convey any adequate conception in this little essay. Yet I may cite a touching example. Immediately after the frightful earthquake of 1891, the children of the ruined cities of Gifu and Aichi, crouching among the ashes of their homes, cold and hungry and shelterless, surrounded by horror and misery unspeakable, still continued their small studies, using tiles of their own burnt dwellings in lieu of slates, and bits of lime for chalk, even while the earth still trembled beneath them. [2] What future miracles may justly be expected from the amazing power of purpose such a fact reveals! But it is true that as yet the results of the higher training have not been altogether happy. Among the Japanese of the old regime one encounters a courtesy, an unselfishness, a grace of pure goodness, impossible to overpraise. Among the modernised of the new generation these have almost disappeared. One meets a class of young men who ridicule the old times and the old ways without having been able to elevate themselves above the vulgarism of imitation and the commonplaces of shallow scepticism. What has become of the noble and charming qualities they must have inherited from their fathers? Is it not possible that the best of those qualities have been transmuted into mere effort,--an effort so excessive as to have exhausted character, leaving it without weight or balance? It is to the still fluid, mobile, natural existence of the common people that one must look for the meaning of some apparent differences in the race feeling and emotional expression of the West and the Far East. With those gentle, kindly, sweet-hearted folk, who smile at life, love, and death alike, it is possible to enjoy community of feeling in simple, natural things; and by familiarity and sympathy we can learn why they smile. The Japanese child is born with this happy tendency, which is fostered through all the period of home education. But it is cultivated with the same exquisiteness that is shown in the cultivation of the natural tendencies of a garden plant. The smile is taught like the bow; like the prostration; like that little sibilant sucking-in of the breath which follows, as a token of pleasure, the salutation to a superior; like all the elaborate and beautiful etiquette of the old courtesy. Laughter is not encouraged, for obvious reasons. But the smile is to be used upon all pleasant occasions, when speaking to a superior or to an equal, and even upon occasions which are not pleasant; it is a part of deportment. The most agreeable face is the smiling face; and to present always the most agreeable face possible to parents, relatives, teachers, friends, well-wishers, is a rule of life. And furthermore, it is a rule of life to turn constantly to the outer world a mien of happiness, to convey to others as far as possible a pleasant impression. Even though the heart is breaking, it is a social duty to smile bravely. On the other hand, to look serious or unhappy is rude, because this may cause anxiety or pain to those who love us; it is likewise foolish, since it may excite unkindly curiosity on the part of those who love us not. Cultivated from childhood as a duty, the smile soon becomes instinctive. In the mind of the poorest peasant lives the conviction that to exhibit the expression of one's personal sorrow or pain or anger is rarely useful, and always unkind. Hence, although natural grief must have, in Japan as elsewhere, its natural issue, an uncontrollable burst of tears in the presence of superiors or guests is an impoliteness; and the first words of even the most unlettered countrywoman, after the nerves give way in such a circumstance, are invariably: 'Pardon my selfishness in that I have been so rude!' The reasons for the smile, be it also observed, are not only moral; they are to some extent aesthetic they partly represent the same idea which regulated the expression of suffering in Greek art. But they are much more moral than aesthetic, as we shall presently observe. From this primary etiquette of the smile there has been developed a secondary etiquette, the observance of which has frequently impelled foreigners to form the most cruel misjudgements as to Japanese sensibility. It is the native custom that whenever a painful or shocking fact must be told, the announcement should be made, by the sufferer, with a smile. [3] The graver the subject, the more accentuated the smile; and when the matter is very unpleasant to the person speaking of it, the smile often changes to a low, soft laugh. However bitterly the mother who has lost her first-born may have wept at the funeral, it is probable that, if in your service, she will tell of her bereavement with a smile: like the Preacher, she holds that there is a time to weep and a time to laugh. It was long before I myself could understand how it was possible for those whom I believed to have loved a person recently dead to announce to me that death with a laugh. Yet the laugh was politeness carried to the utmost point of self-abnegation. It signified: 'This you might honourably think to be an unhappy event; pray do not suffer Your Superiority to feel concern about so inferior a matter, and pardon the necessity which causes us to outrage politeness by speaking about such an affair at all.'. The key to the mystery of the most unaccountable smiles is Japanese politeness. The servant sentenced to dismissal for a fault prostrates himself, and asks for pardon with a smile. That smile indicates the very reverse of callousness or insolence: 'Be assured that I am satisfied with the great justice of your honourable sentence, and that I am now aware of the gravity of my fault. Yet my sorrow and my necessity have caused me to indulge the unreasonable hope that I may be forgiven for my great rudeness in asking pardon.' The youth or girl beyond the age of childish tears, when punished for some error, receives the punishment with a smile which means: 'No evil feeling arises in my heart; much worse than this my fault has deserved.' And the kurumaya cut by the whip of my Yokohama friend smiled for a similar reason, as my friend must have intuitively felt, since the smile at once disarmed him: 'I was very wrong, and you are right to be angry: I deserve to be struck, and therefore feel no resentment.' But it should be understood that the poorest and humblest Japanese is rarely submissive under injustice. His apparent docility is due chiefly to his moral sense. The foreigner who strikes a native for sport may have reason to find that he has made a serious mistake. The Japanese are not to be trifled with; and brutal attempts to trifle with them have cost several worthless lives. Even after the foregoing explanations, the incident of the Japanese nurse may still seem incomprehensible; but this, I feel quite sure, is because the narrator either suppressed or overlooked certain facts in the case. In the first half of the story, all is perfectly clear. When announcing her husband's death, the young servant smiled, in accordance with the native formality already referred to. What is quite incredible is that, of her own accord, she should have invited the attention of her mistress to the contents of the vase, or funeral urn. If she knew enough of Japanese politeness to smile in announcing her husband's death, she must certainly have known enough to prevent her from perpetrating such an error. She could have shown the vase and its contents only in obedience to some real or fancied command; and when so doing, it is more than possible she may have uttered the low, soft laugh which accompanies either the unavoidable performance of a painful duty, or the enforced utterance of a painful statement. My own opinion is that she was obliged to gratify a wanton curiosity. Her smile or laugh would then have signified: 'Do not suffer your honourable feelings to be shocked upon my unworthy account; it is indeed very rude of me, even at your honourable request, to mention so contemptible a thing as my sorrow.' Sec. 4 But the Japanese smile must not be imagined as a kind of sourire figé, worn perpetually as a soul-mask. Like other matters of deportment, it is regulated by an etiquette which varies in different classes of society. As a rule, the old samurai were not given to smiling upon all occasions; they reserved their amiability for superiors and intimates, and would seem to have maintained toward inferiors an austere reserve. The dignity of the Shinto priesthood has become proverbial; and for centuries the gravity of the Confucian code was mirrored in the decorum of magistrates and officials. From ancient times the nobility affected a still loftier reserve; and the solemnity of rank deepened through all the hierarchies up to that awful state surrounding the Tenshi-Sama, upon whose face no living man might look. But in private life the demeanour of the highest had its amiable relaxation; and even to-day, with some hopelessly modernised exceptions, the noble, the judge, the high priest, the august minister, the military officer, will resume at home, in the intervals of duty, the charming habits of the antique courtesy. The smile which illuminates conversation is in itself but a small detail of that courtesy; but the sentiment which it symbolises certainly comprises the larger part. If you happen to have a cultivated Japanese friend who has remained in all things truly Japanese, whose character has remained untouched by the new egotism and by foreign influences, you will probably be able to study in him the particular social traits of the whole people--traits in his case exquisitely accentuated and polished. You will observe that, as a rule, he never speaks of himself, and that, in reply to searching personal questions, he will answer as vaguely and briefly as possible, with a polite bow of thanks. But, on the other hand, he will ask many questions about yourself: your opinions, your ideas, even trifling details of your daily life, appear to have deep interest for him; and you will probably have occasion to note that he never forgets anything which he has learned concerning you. Yet there are certain rigid limits to his kindly curiosity, and perhaps even to his observation: he will never refer to any disagreeable or painful matter, and he will seem to remain blind to eccentricities or small weaknesses, if you have any. To your face he will never praise you; but he will never laugh at you nor criticise you. Indeed, you will find that he never criticises persons, but only actions in their results. As a private adviser, he will not even directly criticise a plan of which he disapproves, but is apt to suggest a new one in some such guarded language as: 'Perhaps it might be more to your immediate interest to do thus and so.' When obliged to speak of others, he will refer to them in a curious indirect fashion, by citing and combining a number of incidents sufficiently characteristic to form a picture. But in that event the incidents narrated will almost certainly be of a nature to awaken interest, and to create a favourable impression. This indirect way of conveying information is essentially Confucian. 'Even when you have no doubts,' says the Li-Ki, 'do not let what you say appear as your own view.' And it is quite probable that you will notice many other traits in your friend requiring some knowledge of the Chinese classics to understand. But no such knowledge necessary to convince you of his exquisite consideration for others, and his studied suppression of self. Among no other civilised people is the secret of happy living so thoroughly comprehended as among the Japanese; by no other race is the truth so widely understood that our pleasure in life must depend upon the happiness of those about us, and consequently upon the cultivation in ourselves of unselfishness and of patience. For which reason, in Japanese society, sarcasm irony, cruel wit, are not indulged. I might almost say that they have no existence in refined life. A personal failing is not made the subject of ridicule or reproach; an eccentricity is not commented upon; an involuntary mistake excites no laughter. Stiffened somewhat by the Chinese conservatism of the old conditions, it is true that this ethical system was maintained the extreme of giving fixity to ideas, and at the cost of individuality. And yet, if regulated by a broader comprehension social requirements, if expanded by scientific understanding of the freedom essential to intellectual evolution, the very same moral policy is that through which the highest and happiest results may be obtained. But as actually practised it was not favourable to originality; it rather tended to enforce the amiable mediocrity of opinion and imagination which still prevails. Wherefore a foreign dweller in the interior cannot but long sometimes for the sharp, erratic inequalities Western life, with its larger joys and pains and its more comprehensive sympathies. But sometimes only, for the intellectual loss is really more than compensated by the social charm; and there can remain no doubt in the mind of one who even partly understands the Japanese, that they are still the best people in the world to live among. Sec. 5 As I pen these lines, there returns to me the vision of a Kyoto night. While passing through some wonderfully thronged and illuminated street, of which I cannot remember the name, I had turned aside to look at a statue of Jizo, before the entrance of a very small temple. The figure was that of a kozo, an acolyte--a beautiful boy; and its smile was a bit of divine realism. As I stood gazing, a young lad, perhaps ten years old, ran up beside me, joined his little hands before the image, bowed his head and prayed for a moment in silence. He had but just left some comrades, and the joy and glow of play were still upon his face; and his unconscious smile was so strangely like the smile of the child of stone that the boy seemed the twin brother of the god. And then I thought: 'The smile of bronze or stone is not a copy only; but that which the Buddhist sculptor symbolises thereby must be the explanation of the smile of the race.' That was long ago; but the idea which then suggested itself still seems to me true. However foreign to Japanese soil the origin of Buddhist art, yet the smile of the people signifies the same conception as the smile of the Bosatsu--the happiness that is born of self-control and self- suppression. 'If a man conquer in battle a thousand times a thousand and another conquer himself, he who conquers himself is the greatest of conquerors.' 'Not even a god can change into defeat the victory of the man who has vanquished himself.' [4] Such Buddhist texts as these--and they are many--assuredly express, though they cannot be assumed to have created, those moral tendencies which form the highest charm of the Japanese character. And the whole moral idealism of the race seems to me to have been imaged in that marvellous Buddha of Kamakura, whose countenance, 'calm like a deep, still water' [5] expresses, as perhaps no other work of human hands can have expressed, the eternal truth: 'There is no higher happiness than rest.' [6] It is toward that infinite calm that the aspirations of the Orient have been turned; and the ideal of the Supreme Self-Conquest it has made its own. Even now, though agitated at its surface by those new influences which must sooner or later move it even to its uttermost depths, the Japanese mind retains, as compared with the thought of the West, a wonderful placidity. It dwells but little, if at all, upon those ultimate abstract questions about which we most concern ourselves. Neither does it comprehend our interest in them as we desire to be comprehended. 'That you should not be indifferent to religious speculations,' a Japanese scholar once observed to me, 'is quite natural; but it is equally natural that we should never trouble ourselves about them. The philosophy of Buddhism has a profundity far exceeding that of your Western theology, and we have studied it. We have sounded the depths of speculation only to fluid that there are depths unfathomable below those depths; we have voyaged to the farthest limit that thought may sail, only to find that the horizon for ever recedes. And you, you have remained for many thousand years as children playing in a stream but ignorant of the sea. Only now you have reached its shore by another path than ours, and the vastness is for you a new wonder; and you would sail to Nowhere because you have seen the infinite over the sands of life.' Will Japan be able to assimilate Western civilisation, as she did Chinese more than ten centuries ago, and nevertheless preserve her own peculiar modes of thought and feeling? One striking fact is hopeful: that the Japanese admiration for Western material superiority is by no means extended to Western morals. Oriental thinkers do not commit the serious blunder of confounding mechanical with ethical progress, nor have any failed to perceive the moral weaknesses of our boasted civilisation. One Japanese writer has expressed his judgment of things Occidental after a fashion that deserves to be noticed by a larger circle of readers than that for which it was originally written: 'Order or disorder in a nation does not depend upon some-thing that falls from the sky or rises from the earth. It is determined by the disposition of the people. The pivot on which the public disposition turns towards order or disorder is the point where public and private motives separate. If the people be influenced chiefly by public considerations, order is assured; if by private, disorder is inevitable. Public considerations are those that prompt the proper observance of duties; their prevalence signifies peace and prosperity in the case alike of families, communities, and nations. Private considerations are those suggested by selfish motives: when they prevail, disturbance and disorder are unavoidable. As members of a family, our duty is to look after the welfare of that family; as units of a nation, our duty is to work for the good of the nation. To regard our family affairs with all the interest due to our family and our national affairs with all the interest due to our nation--this is to fitly discharge our duty, and to be guided by public considerations. On the other hand, to regard the affairs of the nation as if they were our own family affairs--this is to be influenced by private motives and to stray from the path of duty. ... 'Selfishness is born in every man; to indulge it freely is to become a beast. Therefore it is that sages preach the principles of duty and propriety, justice and morality, providing restraints for private aims and encouragements for public spirit.. . . . What we know of Western civilisation is that it struggled on through long centuries in a confused condition and finally attained a state of some order; but that even this order, not being based upon such principles as those of the natural and immutable distinctions between sovereign and subject, parent and child, with all their corresponding rights and duties, is liable to constant change according to the growth of human ambitions and human aims. Admirably suited to persons whose actions are controlled by selfish ambition, the adoption of this system in Japan is naturally sought by a certain class of politicians. From a superficial point of view, the Occidental form of society is very attractive, inasmuch as, being the outcome of a free development of human desires from ancient times, it represents the very extreme of luxury and extravagance. Briefly speaking, the state of things obtaining in the West is based upon the free play of human selfishness, and can only be reached by giving full sway to that quality. Social disturbances are little heeded in the Occident; yet they are at once the evidences and the factors of the present evil state of affairs. . . . Do Japanese enamoured of Western ways propose to have their nation's history written in similar terms? Do they seriously contemplate turning their country into a new field for experiments in Western civilisation? . . . 'In the Orient, from ancient times, national government has been based on benevolence, and directed to securing the welfare and happiness of the people. No political creed has ever held that intellectual strength should be cultivated for the purpose of exploiting inferiority and ignorance. . . . The inhabitants of this empire live, for the most part, by manual labour. Let them be never so industrious, they hardly earn enough to supply their daily wants. They earn on the average about twenty sen daily. There is no question with them of aspiring to wear fine clothes or to inhabit handsome houses. Neither can they hope to reach positions of fame and honour. What offence have these poor people committed that they, too, should not share the benefits of Western civilisation? . . . By some, indeed, their condition is explained on the hypothesis that their desires do not prompt them to better themselves. There is no truth in such a supposition. They have desires, but nature has limited their capacity to satisfy them; their duty as men limits it, and the amount of labour physically possible to a human being limits it. They achieve as much as their opportunities permit. The best and finest products of their labour they reserve for the wealthy; the worst and roughest they keep for their own use. Yet there is nothing in human society that does not owe its existence to labour. Now, to satisfy the desires of one luxurious man, the toil of a thousand is needed. Surely it is monstrous that those who owe to labour the pleasures suggested by their civilisation should forget what they owe to the labourer, and treat him as if he were not a fellow-being. But civilisation, according to the interpretation of the Occident, serves only to satisfy men of large desires. It is of no benefit to the masses, but is simply a system under which ambitions compete to accomplish their aims. . . . That the Occidental system is gravely disturbing to. the order and peace of a country is seen by men who have eyes, and heard by men who have ears. The future of Japan under such a system fills us with anxiety. A system based on the principle that ethics and religion are made to serve human ambition naturally accords with the wishes of selfish individuals; and such theories as those embodied in the modem formula of liberty and equality annihilate the established relations of society, and outrage decorum and propriety. . . . Absolute equality and absolute liberty being unattainable, the limits prescribed by right and duty are supposed to be set. But as each person seeks to have as much right and to be burdened with as little duty as possible, the results are endless disputes and legal contentions. The principles of liberty and equality may succeed in changing the organisation of nations, in overthrowing the lawful distinctions of social rank, in reducing all men to one nominal level; but they can never accomplish the equal distribution of wealth and property. Consider America. . . . It is plain that if the mutual rights of men and their status are made to depend on degrees of wealth, the majority of the people, being without wealth, must fail to establish their rights; whereas the minority who are wealthy will assert their rights, and, under society's sanction, will exact oppressive duties from the poor, neglecting the dictates of humanity and benevolence. The adoption of these principles of liberty and equality in Japan would vitiate the good and peaceful customs of our country, render the general disposition of the people harsh and unfeeling, and prove finally a source of calamity to the masses. . . 'Though at first sight Occidental civilisation presents an attractive appearance, adapted as it is to the gratification of selfish desires, yet, since its basis is the hypothesis that men' 's wishes constitute natural laws, it must ultimately end in disappointment and demoralisation. . . . Occidental nations have become what they are after passing through conflicts and vicissitudes of the most serious kind; and it is their fate to continue the struggle. Just now their motive elements are in partial equilibrium, and their social condition' is more or less ordered. But if this slight equilibrium happens to be disturbed, they will be thrown once more into confusion and change, until, after a period of renewed struggle and suffering, temporary stability is once more attained. The poor and powerless of the present may become the wealthy and strong of the future, and vice versa. Perpetual disturbance is their doom. Peaceful equality can never be attained until built up among the ruins of annihilated Western' states and the ashes of extinct Western peoples.' Surely, with perceptions like these, Japan may hope to avert some of the social perils which menace her. Yet it appears inevitable that her approaching transformation must be coincident with a moral decline. Forced into the vast industrial competition of nation's whose civilisations were never based on altruism, she must eventually develop those qualities of which the comparative absence made all the wonderful charm of her life. The national character must continue to harden, as it has begun to harden already. But it should never be forgotten that Old Japan was quite as much in advance of the nineteenth century morally as she was behind it materially. She had made morality instinctive, after having made it rational. She had realised, though within restricted limits, several among those social conditions which our ablest thinkers regard as the happiest and the highest. Throughout all the grades of her complex society she had cultivated both the comprehension and the practice of public and private duties after a manner for which it were vain to seek any Western parallel. Even her moral weakness was the result of an excess of that which all civilised religions have united in proclaiming virtue--the self-sacrifice of the individual for the sake of the family, of the community, and of the nation. It was the weakness indicated by Percival Lowell in his Soul of the Far East, a book of which the consummate genius cannot be justly estimated without some personal knowledge of the Far East. [8] The progress made by Japan in social morality, although greater than our own, was chiefly in the direction of mutual dependence. And it will be her coming duty to keep in view the teaching of that mighty thinker whose philosophy she has wisely accepted [9]--the teaching that 'the highest individuation must be joined with the greatest mutual dependence,' and that, however seemingly paradoxical the statement, 'the law of progress is at once toward complete separateness and complete union. Yet to that past which her younger generation now affect to despise Japan will certainly one day look back, even as we ourselves look back to the old Greek civilisation. She will learn to regret the forgotten capacity for simple pleasures, the lost sense of the pure joy of life, the old loving divine intimacy with nature, the marvellous dead art which reflected it. She will remember how much more luminous and beautiful the world then seemed. She will mourn for many things--the old-fashioned patience and self-sacrifice, the ancient courtesy, the deep human poetry of the ancient faith. She will wonder at many things; but she will regret. Perhaps she will wonder most of all at the faces of the ancient gods, because their smile was once the likeness of her own. CHAPTER TWELVE Sayonara! Sec. 1 I am going away--very far away. I have already resigned my post as teacher, and am waiting only for my passport. So many familiar faces have vanished that I feel now less regret at leaving than I should have felt six months ago. And nevertheless, the quaint old city has become so endeared to me by habit and association that the thought of never seeing it again is one I do not venture to dwell upon. I have been trying to persuade myself that some day I may return to this charming old house, in shadowy Kitaborimachi, though all the while painfully aware that in past experience such imaginations invariably preceded perpetual separation. The facts are that all things are impermanent in the Province of the Gods; that the winters are very severe; and that I have received a call from the great Government college in Kyushu far south, where snow rarely falls. Also I have been very sick; and the prospect of a milder climate had much influence in shaping my decision. But these few days of farewells have been full of charming surprises. To have the revelation of gratitude where you had no right to expect more than plain satisfaction with your performance of duty; to find affection where you supposed only good-will to exist: these are assuredly delicious experiences. The teachers of both schools have sent me a farewell gift--a superb pair of vases nearly three feet high, covered with designs representing birds, and flowering-trees overhanging a slope of beach where funny pink crabs are running about--vases made in the old feudal days at Rakuzan--rare souvenirs of Izumo. With the wonderful vases came a scroll bearing in Chinese text the names of the thirty-two donors; and three of these are names of ladies--the three lady-teachers of the Normal School. The students of the Jinjo-Chugakko have also sent me a present--the last contribution of two hundred and fifty-one pupils to my happiest memories of Matsue: a Japanese sword of the time of the daimyo. Silver karashishi with eyes of gold--in Izumo, the Lions of Shinto--swarm over the crimson lacquer of the sheath, and sprawl about the exquisite hilt. And the committee who brought the beautiful thing to my house requested me to accompany them forthwith to the college assembly-room, where the students were all waiting to bid me good-bye, after the old-time custom. So I went there. And the things which we said to each other are hereafter set down. Sec. 2 DEAR TEACHER:--You have been one of the best and most benevolent teachers we ever had. We thank you with all our heart for the knowledge we obtained through your kindest instruction. Every student in our school hoped you would stay with us at least three years. When we learned you had resolved to go to Kyushu, we all felt our hearts sink with sorrow. We entreated our Director to find some way to keep you, but we discovered that could not be done. We have no words to express our feeling at this moment of farewell. We sent you a Japanese sword as a memory of us. It was only a poor ugly thing; we merely thought you would care for it as a mark of our gratitude. We will never forget your kindest instruction; and we all wish that you may ever be healthy and happy. MASANABU OTANI, Representing all the Students of the Middle School of Shimane-Ken. MY DEAR BOYS:--I cannot tell you with what feelings I received your present; that beautiful sword with the silver karashishi ramping upon its sheath, or crawling through the silken cording of its wonderful hilt. At least I cannot tell you all. But there flashed to me, as I looked at your gift, the remembrance of your ancient proverb: 'The Sword is the Soul of the Samurai.' And then it seemed to me that in the very choice of that exquisite souvenir you had symbolised something of your own souls. For we English also have some famous sayings and proverbs about swords. Our poets call a good blade 'trusty' and 'true'; and of our best friend we say, 'He is true as steel'--signifying in the ancient sense the steel of a perfect sword--the steel to whose temper a warrior could trust his honour and his life. And so in your rare gift, which I shall keep and prize while I live, I find an emblem of your true-heartedness and affection. May you always keep fresh within your hearts those impulses of generosity and kindliness and loyalty which I have learned to know so well, and of which your gift will ever remain for me the graceful symbol! And a symbol not only of your affection and loyalty as students to teachers, but of that other beautiful sense of duty you expressed, when so many of you wrote down for me, as your dearest wish, the desire to die for His Imperial Majesty, your Emperor. That wish is holy: it means perhaps even more than you know, or can know, until you shall have become much older and wiser. This is an era of great and rapid change; and it is probable that many of you, as you grow up, will not be able to believe everything that your fathers believed before you--though I sincerely trust you will at least continue always to respect the faith, even as you still respect the memory, of your ancestors. But however much the life of New Japan may change about you, however much your own thoughts may change with the times, never suffer that noble wish you expressed to me to pass away from your souls. Keep it burning there, clear and pure as the flame of the little lamp that glows before your household shrine. Perhaps some of you may have that wish. Many of you must become soldiers. Some will become officers. Some will enter the Naval Academy to prepare for the grand service of protecting the empire by sea; and your Emperor and your country may even require your blood. But the greater number among you are destined to other careers, and may have no such chances of bodily self-sacrifice--except perhaps in the hour of some great national danger, which I trust Japan will never know. And there is another desire, not less noble, which may be your compass in civil life: to live for your country though you cannot die for it. Like the kindest and wisest of fathers, your Government has provided for you these splendid schools, with all opportunities for the best instruction this scientific century can give, at a far less cost than any other civilised country can offer the same advantages. And all this in order that each of you may help to make your country wiser and richer and stronger than it has ever been in the past. And whoever does his best, in any calling or profession, to ennoble and develop that calling or profession, gives his life to his emperor and to his country no less truly than the soldier or the seaman who dies for duty. I am not less sorry to leave you, I think, than you are to see me go. The more I have learned to know the hearts of Japanese students, the more I have learned to love their country. I think, however, that I shall see many of you again, though I never return to Matsue: some I am almost sure I shall meet elsewhere in future summers; some I may even hope to teach once more, in the Government college to which I am going. But whether we meet again or not, be sure that my life has been made happier by knowing you, and that I shall always love you. And, now, with renewed thanks for your beautiful gift, good-bye! Sec. 3 The students of the Normal School gave me a farewell banquet in their hall. I had been with them so little during the year--less even than the stipulated six hours a week--that I could not have supposed they would feel much attachment for their foreign teacher. But I have still much to learn about my Japanese students. The banquet was delightful. The captain of each class in turn read in English a brief farewell address which he had prepared; and more than one of those charming compositions, made beautiful with similes and sentiments drawn from the old Chinese and Japanese poets, will always remain in my memory. Then the students sang their college songs for me, and chanted the Japanese version of 'Auld Lang Syne' at the close of the banquet. And then all, in military procession, escorted me home, and cheered me farewell at my gate, with shouts of 'Manzai!' 'Good-bye!' 'We will march with you to the steamer when you go.' Sec. 4 But I shall not have the pleasure of seeing them again. They are all gone far away--some to another world. Yet it is only four days since I attended that farewell banquet at the Normal School! A cruel visitation has closed its gates and scattered its students through the province. Two nights ago, the Asiatic cholera, supposed to have been brought to Japan by Chinese vessels, broke out in different parts of the city, and, among other places, in the Normal School. Several students and teachers expired within a short while after having been attacked; others are even now lingering between life and death. The rest marched to the little healthy village of Tamatsukuri, famed for its hot springs. But there the cholera again broke out among them, and it was decided to dismiss the survivors at once to their several homes. There was no panic. The military discipline remained unbroken. Students and teachers fell at their posts. The great college building was taken charge of by the medical authorities, and the work of disinfection and sanitation is still going on. Only the convalescents and the fearless samurai president, Saito Kumataro, remain in it. Like the captain who scorns to leave his sinking ship till all souls are safe, the president stays in the centre of danger, nursing the sick boys, overlooking the work of sanitation, transacting all the business usually intrusted to several subordinates, whom he promptly sent away in the first hour of peril. He has had the joy of seeing two of his boys saved. Of another, who was buried last night, I hear this: Only a little while before his death, and in spite of kindliest protest, he found strength, on seeing his president approaching his bedside, to rise on his elbow and give the military salute. And with that brave greeting to a brave man, he passed into the Great Silence. Sec. 5 At last my passport has come. I must go. The Middle School and the adjacent elementary schools have been closed on account of the appearance of cholera, and I protested against any gathering of the pupils to bid me good-bye, fearing for them the risk of exposure to the chilly morning air by the shore of the infected river. But my protest was received only with a merry laugh. Last night the Director sent word to all the captains of classes. Wherefore, an hour after sunrise, some two hundred students, with their teachers, assemble before my gate to escort me to the wharf, near the long white bridge, where the little steamer is waiting. And we go. Other students are already assembled at the wharf. And with them wait a multitude of people known to me: friends or friendly acquaintances, parents and relatives of students, every one to whom I can remember having ever done the slightest favour, and many more from whom I have received favours which I never had the chance to return--persons who worked for me, merchants from whom I purchased little things, a host of kind faces, smiling salutation. The Governor sends his secretary with a courteous message; the President of the Normal School hurries down for a moment to shake hands. The Normal students have been sent to their homes, but not a few of their teachers are present. I most miss friend Nishida. He has been very sick for two long months, bleeding at the lungs but his father brings me the gentlest of farewell letters from him, penned in bed, and some pretty souvenirs. And now, as I look at all these pleasant faces about me, I cannot but ask myself the question: 'Could I have lived in the exercise of the same profession for the same length of time in any other country, and have enjoyed a similar unbroken experience of human goodness?' From each and all of these I have received only kindness and courtesy. Not one has ever, even through inadvertence, addressed to me a single ungenerous word. As a teacher of more than five hundred boys and men, I have never even had my patience tried. I wonder if such an experience is possible only in Japan. But the little steamer shrieks for her passengers. I shake many hands-- most heartily, perhaps, that of the brave, kind President of the Normal School--and climb on board. The Director of the Jinjo-Chugakko a few teachers of both schools, and one of my favourite pupils, follow; they are going to accompany me as far as the next port, whence my way will be over the mountains to Hiroshima. It is a lovely vapoury morning, sharp with the first chill of winter. From the tiny deck I take my last look at the quaint vista of the Ohashigawa, with its long white bridge--at the peaked host of queer dear old houses, crowding close to dip their feet in its glassy flood--at the sails of the junks, gold-coloured by the early sun--at the beautiful fantastic shapes of the ancient hills. Magical indeed the charm of this land, as of a land veritably haunted by gods: so lovely the spectral delicacy of its colours--so lovely the forms of its hills blending with the forms of its clouds--so lovely, above all, those long trailings and bandings of mists which make its altitudes appear to hang in air. A land where sky and earth so strangely intermingle that what is reality may not be distinguished from what is illusion--that all seems a mirage, about to vanish. For me, alas! it is about to vanish for ever. The little steamer shrieks again, puffs, backs into midstream, turns from the long white bridge. And as the grey wharves recede, a long Aaaaaaaaaa rises from the uniformed ranks, and all the caps wave, flashing their Chinese ideographs of brass. I clamber to the roof of the tiny deck cabin, wave my hat, and shout in English: 'Good-bye, good- bye!' And there floats back to me the cry: 'Manzai, manzai!' [Ten thousand years to you! ten thousand years!] But already it comes faintly from far away. The packet glides out of the river-mouth, shoots into the blue lake, turns a pine-shadowed point, and the faces, and the voices, and the wharves, and the long white bridge have become memories. Still for a little while looking back, as we pass into the silence of the great water, I can see, receding on the left, the crest of the ancient castle, over grand shaggy altitudes of pine--and the place of my home, with its delicious garden--and the long blue roofs of the schools. These, too, swiftly pass out of vision. Then only faint blue water, faint blue mists, faint blues and greens and greys of peaks looming through varying distance, and beyond all, towering ghost-white into the east, the glorious spectre of Daisen. And my heart sinks a moment under the rush of those vivid memories which always crowd upon one the instant after parting--memories of all that make attachment to places and to things. Remembered smiles; the morning gathering at the threshold of the old yashiki to wish the departing teacher a happy day; the evening gathering to welcome his return; the dog waiting by the gate at the accustomed hour; the garden with its lotus-flowers and its cooing of doves; the musical boom of the temple bell from the cedar groves; songs of children at play; afternoon shadows upon many-tinted streets; the long lines of lantern-fires upon festal nights; the dancing of the moon upon the lake; the clapping of hands by the river shore in salutation to the Izumo sun; the endless merry pattering of geta over the windy bridge: all these and a hundred other happy memories revive for me with almost painful vividness--while the far peaks, whose names are holy, slowly turn away their blue shoulders, and the little steamer bears me, more and more swiftly, ever farther and farther from the Province of the Gods. NOTES for Chapter One 1 Such as the garden attached to the abbots palace at Tokuwamonji, cited by Mr. Conder, which was made to commemorate the legend of stones which bowed themselves in assent to the doctrine of Buddha. At Togo-ike, in Tottori-ken, I saw a very large garden consisting almost entirely of stones and sand. The impression which the designer had intended to convey was that of approaching the sea over a verge of dunes, and the illusion was beautiful. 2 The Kojiki, translated by Professor B. H. Chamberlain, p. 254. 3 Since this paper was written, Mr. Conder has published a beautiful illustrated volume,-Landscape Gardening in Japan. By Josiah Conder, F.R.I.B.A. Tokyo 1893. A photographic supplement to the work gives views of the most famous gardens in the capital and elsewhere. 4 The observations of Dr. Rein on Japanese gardens are not to be recommended, in respect either to accuracy or to comprehension of the subject. Rein spent only two years in Japan, the larger part of which time he devoted to the study of the lacquer industry, the manufacture of silk and paper and other practical matters. On these subjects his work is justly valued. But his chapters on Japanese manners and customs, art, religion, and literature show extremely little acquaintance with those topics. 5 This attitude of the shachihoko is somewhat de rigueur, whence the common expression shachihoko dai, signifying to stand on ones head. 6 The magnificent perch called tai (Serranus marginalis), which is very common along the Izumo coast, is not only justly prized as the most delicate of Japanese fish, but is also held to be an emblem of good fortune. It is a ceremonial gift at weddings and on congratu-latory occasions. The Japanese call it also the king of fishes. 7 Nandina domestica. 8 The most lucky of all dreams, they say in Izumo, is a dream of Fuji, the Sacred Mountain. Next in order of good omen is dreaming of a falcon (taka). The third best subject for a dream is the eggplant (nasubi). To dream of the sun or of the moon is very lucky; but it is still more so to dream of stars. For a young wife it is most for tunate to dream of swallowing a star: this signifies that she will become the mother of a beautiful child. To dream of a cow is a good omen; to dream of a horse is lucky, but it signifies travelling. To dream of rain or fire is good. Some dreams are held in Japan, as in the West, to go by contraries. Therefore to dream of having ones house burned up, or of funerals, or of being dead, or of talking to the ghost of a dead person, is good. Some dreams which are good for women mean the reverse when dreamed by men; for example, it is good for a woman to dream that her nose bleeds, but for a man this is very bad. To dream of much money is a sign of loss to come. To dream of the koi, or of any freshwater fish, is the most unlucky of all. This is curious, for in other parts of Japan the koi is a symbol of good fortune. 9 Tebushukan: Citrus sarkodactilis. 10 Yuzuru signifies to resign in favour of another; ha signifies a leaf. The botanical name, as given in Hepburns dictionary, is Daphniphillum macropodum. 11 Cerasus pseudo-cerasus (Lindley). 12 About this mountain cherry there is a humorous saying which illustrates the Japanese love of puns. In order fully to appreciate it, the reader should know that Japanese nouns have no distinction of singular and plural. The word ha, as pronounced, may signify either leaves or teeth; and the word hana, either flowers or nose. The yamazakura puts forth its ha (leaves) before his hana (flowers). Wherefore a man whose ha (teeth) project in advance of his hana (nose) is called a yamazakura. Prognathism is not uncommon in Japan, especially among the lower classes. 13 If one should ask you concerning the heart of a true Japanese, point to the wild cherry flower glowing in the sun. 14 There are three noteworthy varieties: one bearing red, one pink and white, and one pure white flowers. 15 The expression yanagi-goshi, a willow-waist, is one of several in common use comparing slender beauty to the willow-tree. 16 Peonia albiflora, The name signifies the delicacy of beauty. The simile of the botan (the tree peony) can be fully appreciated only by one who is acquainted with the Japanese flower. 17 Some say kesbiyuri (poppy) instead of himeyuri. The latter is a graceful species of lily, Lilium callosum. 18 Standing, she is a shakuyaku; seated, she is a botan; and the charm of her figure in walking is the charm of a himeyuri. 19 In the higher classes of Japanese society to-day, the honorific O is not, as a rule, used before the names of girls, and showy appellations are not given to daughters. Even among the poor respectable classes, names resembling those of geisha, etc., are in disfavour. But those above cited are good, honest, everyday names. 20 Mr. Satow has found in Hirata a belief to which this seems to some extent akin--the curious Shinto doctrine according to which a divine being throws off portions of itself by a process of fissure, thus producing what are called waki-mi-tama--parted spirits, with separate functions. The great god of Izumo, Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, is said by Hirata to have three such parted spirits: his rough spirit (ara-mi- tama) that punishes, his gentle spirit (nigi-mi-tama) that pardons, and his benedictory or beneficent spirit (saki-mi-tama) that blesses, There is a Shinto story that the rough spirit of this god once met the gentle spirit without recognising it, 21 Perhaps the most impressive of all the Buddhist temples in Kyoto. It is dedicated to Kwannon of the Thousand Hands, and is said to contain 33,333 of her images. 22 Daidaimushi in Izunio. The dictionary word is dedemushi. The snail is supposed to be very fond of wet weather; and one who goes out much in the rain is compared to a snail,--dedemushi no yona. 23 Snail, snail, put out your horns a little it rains and the wind is blowing, so put out your horns, just for a little while. 24 A Buddhist divinity, but within recent times identified by Shinto with the god Kotohira. 25 See Professor Chamberlains version of it in The Japanese Fairy Tale Series, with charming illustrations by a native artist. 26 Butterfly, little butterfly, light upon the na leaf. But if thou dost not like the na leaf, light, I pray thee, upon my hand. 27 Boshi means a hat; tsukeru, to put on. But this etymology is more than doubtful. 28 Some say Chokko-chokko-uisu. Uisu would be pronounced in English very much like weece, the final u being silent. Uiosu would be something like ' we-oce. 29 Pronounced almost as geece. 30 Contraction of kore noru. 31 A kindred legend attaches to the shiwan, a little yellow insect which preys upon cucumbers. The shiwan is said to have been once a physician, who, being detected in an amorous intrigue, had to fly for his life; but as he went his foot caught in a cucumber vine, so that he fell and was overtaken and killed, and his ghost became an insect, the destroyer of cucumber vines. In the zoological mythology and plant mythology of Japan there exist many legends offering a curious resemblance to the old Greek tales of metamorphoses. Some of the most remarkable bits of such folk- lore have originated, however, in comparatively modern time. The legend of the crab called heikegani, found at Nagato, is an example. The souls of the Taira warriors who perished in the great naval battle of Dan-no- ura (now Seto-Nakai), 1185, are supposed to have been transformed into heikegani. The shell of the heikegani is certainly surprising. It is wrinkled into the likeness of a grim face, or rather into exact semblance of one of those black iron visors, or masks, which feudal warriors wore in battle, and which were shaped like frowning visages. 32 Come, firefly, I will give you water to drink. The water of that. place is bitter; the water here is sweet. 33 By honzon is here meant the sacred kakemono, or picture, exposed to public view in the temples only upon the birthday of the Buddha, which is the eighth day of the old fourth month. Honzon also signifies the principal image in a Buddhist temple. 34 A solitary voice! Did the Moon cry? Twas but the hototogisu. 35 When I gaze towards the place where I heard the hototogisu cry, lol there is naught save the wan morning moon. 36 Save only the morning moon, none heard the hearts-blood cry of the hototogisu. 37 A sort of doughnut made of bean flour, or tofu. 38 Kite, kite, let me see you dance, and to-morrow evening, when the crows do not know, I will give you a rat. 39 O tardy crow, hasten forward! Your house is all on fire. Hurry to throw Water upon it. If there be no water, I will give you. If you have too much, give it to your child. If you have no child, then give it back to me. 40 The words papa and mamma exist in Japanese baby language, but their meaning is not at all what might be supposed. Mamma, or, with the usual honorific, O-mamma, means boiled rice. Papa means tobacco. Notes for Chapter Two 1 This was written early in 1892 2 Quoted from Mr. Satow's masterly essay, 'The Revival of Pure Shinto,' published in the Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan. By 'gods' are not necessarily meant beneficent Kami. Shinto has no devils; but it has its 'bad gods' as well as good deities. 3 Satow, 'The Revival of Pure Shinto.' 4 Ibid. 5 In the sense of Moral Path,--i.e. an ethical system. 6 Satow, 'The Revival of Pure Shinto.' The whole force of Motowori's words will not be fully understood unless the reader knows that the term 'Shinto' is of comparatively modern origin in Japan,--having been borrowed from the Chinese to distinguish the ancient faith from Buddhism; and that the old name for the primitive religion is Kami-no- michi, 'the Way of the Gods.' 7 Satow, 'The Revival of Pure Shinto.' 8 From Kami, 'the [Powers] Above,' or the Gods, and tana, 'a shelf.' The initial 't' of the latter word changes into 'd' in the compound,-- just as that of tokkuri, 'a jar' or 'bottle,' becomes dokkuri in the cornpound o-mi kidokkuri. 9 The mirror, as an emblem of female divinities, is kept in the secret innermost shrine of various Shinto temples. But the mirror of metal commonly placed before the public gaze in a Shinto shrine is not really of Shinto origin, but was introduced into Japan as a Buddhist symbol of the Shingon sect. As the mirror is the symbol in Shinto of female divinities, the sword is the emblem of male deities. The real symbols of the god or goddess are not, however, exposed to human gaze under any circumstances. 10 Anciently the two great Shinto festivals on which the miya were thus carried in procession were the Yoshigami-no-matsuri, or festival of the God of the New Year, and the anniversary of Jimmu Tenno to the throne. The second of these is still observed. The celebration of the Emperor's birthday is the only other occasion when the miya are paraded. On both days the streets are beautifully decorated with lanterns and shimenawa, the fringed ropes of rice straw which are the emblems of Shinto. Nobody now knows exactly what the words chanted on these days (chosaya! chosaya!) mean. One theory is that they are a corruption of Sagicho, the name of a great samurai military festival, which was celebrated nearly at the same time as the Yashigami-no-matsuri,--both holidays now being obsolete. 11 Thuya obtusa. 12 Such at least is the mourning period under such circumstances in certain samurai families. Others say twenty days is sufficient. The Buddhist code of mourning is extremely varied and complicated, and would require much space to dilate upon. 13 In spite of the supposed rigidity of the Nichiren sect in such matters, most followers of its doctrine in Izumo are equally fervent Shintoists. I have not been able to observe whether the same is true of Izumo Shin-shu families as a rule; but I know that some Shin-shu believers in Matsue worship at Shinto shrines. Adoring only that form of Buddha called Amida, the Shin sect might be termed a Buddhist 'Unitarianism.' It seems never to have been able to secure a strong footing in Izumo on account of its doctrinal hostility to Shinto. Elsewhere throughout Japan it is the most vigorous and prosperous of all Buddhist sects. 14 Mr. Morse, in his Japanese Homes, published on hearsay a very strange error when he stated: 'The Buddhist household shrines rest on the floor--at least so I was informed.' They never rest on the floor under any circumstances. In the better class of houses special architectural arrangements are made for the butsudan; an alcove, recess, or other contrivance, often so arranged as to be concealed from view by a sliding panel or a little door In smaller dwellings it may be put on a shelf, for want of a better place, and in the homes of the poor, on the top of the tansu, or clothes-chest. It is never placed so high as the kamidana, but seldom at a less height than three feet above the floor. In Mr. Morse's own illustration of a Buddhist household shrine (p. 226) it does not rest on the floor at all, but on the upper shelf of a cupboard, which must not be confounded with the butsudan--a very small one. The sketch in question seems to have been made during the Festival of the Dead, for the offerings in the picture are those of the Bommatauri. At that time the household butsudan is always exposed to view, and often moved from its usual place in order to obtain room for the offerings to be set before it. To place any holy object on the floor is considered by the Japanese very disrespectful. As for Shinto objects, to place even a mamori on the floor is deemed a sin. 15 Two ihai are always made for each Buddhist dead. One usually larger than that placed in the family shrine, is kept in the temple of which the deceased was a parishioner, together with a cup in which tea or water is daily poured out as an offering. In almost any large temple, thousands of such ihai may be seen, arranged in rows, tier above tier-- each with its cup before it--for even the souls of the dead are supposed to drink tea. Sometimes, I fear, the offering is forgotten, for I have seen rows of cups containing only dust, the fault, perhaps, of some lazy acolyte. 16 This is a fine example of a samurai kaimyo The kaimyo of kwazoku or samurai are different from those of humbler dead; and a Japanese, by a single glance at an ihai, can tell at once to what class of society the deceased belonged, by the Buddhist words used. 17 'Presenting the honourable tea to the august Buddhas'--for by Buddhist faith it is hoped, if not believed, that the dead become Buddhas and escape the sorrows of further transmigration. Thus the expression 'is dead' is often rendered in Japanese by the phrase 'is become a Buddha.' 18 The idea underlying this offering of food and drink to the dead or to the gods, is not so irrational as unthinking Critics have declared it to be. The dead are not supposed to consume any of the visible substance of the food set before them, for they are thought to be in an ethereal state requiring only the most vapoury kind of nutrition. The idea is that they absorb only the invisible essence of the food. And as fruits and other such offerings lose something of their flavour after having been exposed to the air for several hours, this slight change would have been taken in other days as evidence that the spirits had feasted upon them. Scientific education necessarily dissipates these consoling illusions, and with them a host of tender and beautiful fancies as to the relation between the living and the dead. 19 I find that the number of clappings differs in different provinces somewhat. In Kyushu the clapping is very long, especially before the prayer to the Rising Sun. 20 Another name for Kyoto, the Sacred City of Japanese Buddhism. Notes for Chapter Three 1 Formerly both sexes used the same pillow for the same reason. The long hair of a samurai youth, tied up in an elaborate knot, required much time to arrange. Since it has become the almost universal custom to wear the hair short, the men have adopted a pillow shaped like a small bolster. 2 It is an error to suppose that all Japanese have blue-black hair. There are two distinct racial types. In one the hair is a deep brown instead of a pure black, and is also softer and finer. Rarely, but very rarely, one may see a Japanese chevelure having a natural tendency to ripple. For curious reasons, which cannot be stated here, an Izumo woman is very much ashamed of having wavy hair--more ashamed than she would be of a natural deformity. 3 Even in the time of the writing of the Kojiki the art of arranging t hair must have been somewhat developed. See Professor Chainberlai 's introduction to translation, p. xxxi.; also vol. i. section ix.; vol. vii. section xii.; vol. ix. section xviii., et passim. 4 An art expert can decide the age of an unsigned kakemono or other work of art in which human figures appear, by the style of the coiffure of the female personages. 5 The principal and indispensable hair-pin (kanzashi), usually about seven inches long, is split, and its well-tempered double shaft can be used like a small pair of chopsticks for picking up small things. The head is terminated by a tiny spoon-shaped projection, which has a special purpose in the Japanese toilette. 6 The shinjocho is also called Ichogaeshi by old people, although the original Ichogaeshi was somewhat different. The samurai girls used to wear their hair in the true Ichogaeshi manner the name is derived from the icho-tree (Salisburia andiantifolia), whose leaves have a queer shape, almost like that of a duck's foot. Certain bands of the hair in this coiffure bore a resemblance in form to icho-leaves. 7 The old Japanese mirrors were made of metal, and were extremely beautiful. Kagamiga kumoru to tamashii ga kumoru ('When the Mirror is dim, the Soul is unclean') is another curious proverb relating to mirrors. Perhaps the most beautiful and touching story of a mirror, in any language is that called Matsuyama-no-kagami, which has been translated by Mrs. James. Notes for Chapter Four 1 There is a legend that the Sun-Goddess invented the first hakama by tying together the skirts of her robe. 2 'Let us play the game called kango-kango. Plenteously the water of Jizo-San quickly draw--and pour on the pine-leaves--and turn back again.' Many of the games of Japanese children, like many of their toys, have a Buddhist origin, or at least a Buddhist significance. 3 I take the above translation from a Tokyo educational journal, entitled The Museum. The original document, however, was impressive to a degree that perhaps no translation could give. The Chinese words by which the Emperor refers to himself and his will are far more impressive than our Western 'We' or 'Our;' and the words relating to duties, virtues, wisdom, and other matters are words that evoke in a Japanese mind ideas which only those who know Japanese life perfectly can appreciate, and which, though variant from our own, are neither less beautiful nor less sacred. 4 Kimi ga yo wa chiyo ni yachiyo ni sazare ishi no iwa o to narite oke no musu made. Freely translated: 'May Our Gracious Sovereign reign a thousand years--reign ten thousand thousand years--reign till the little stone grow into a mighty rock, thick-velveted with ancient moss!' 5 Stoves, however, are being introduced. In the higher Government schools, and in the Normal Schools, the students who are boarders obtain a better diet than most poor boys can get at home. Their rooms are also well warmed. 6 Hachi yuki ya Neko no ashi ato Ume no hana. 7 Ni no ji fumi dasu Bokkuri kana. 8 This little poem signifies that whoever in this world thinks much, must have care, and that not to think about things is to pass one's life in untroubled felicity. 9 Having asked in various classes for written answers to the question, 'What is your dearest wish?' I found about twenty per cent, of the replies expressed, with little variation of words, the simple desire to die 'for His Sacred Majesty, Our Beloved Emperor.' But a considerable proportion of the remainder contained the same aspiration less directly stated in the wish to emulate the glory of Nelson, or to make Japan first among nations by heroism and sacrifice. While this splendid spirit lives in the hearts of her youth, Japan should have little to fear for the future. 10 Beautiful generosities of this kind are not uncommon in Japan. 11 The college porter 12 Except in those comparatively rare instances where the family is exclusively Shinto in its faith, or, although belonging to both faiths, prefers to bury its dead according to Shinto rites. In Matsue, as a rule, high officials only have Shinto funeral. 13 Unless the dead be buried according to the Shinto rite. In Matsue the mourning period is usually fifty days. On the fifty-first day after the decease, all members of the family go to Enjoji-nada (the lake-shore at the foot of the hill on which the great temple of Enjoji stands) to perform the ceremony of purification. At Enjoji-nada, on the beach, stands a lofty stone statue of Jizo. Before it the mourners pray; then wash their mouths and hands with the water of the lake. Afterwards they go to a friend's house for breakfast, the purification being always performed at daybreak, if possible. During the mourning period, no member of the family can eat at a friend's house. But if the burial has been according to the Shinto rite, all these ceremonial observances may be dispensed with. 14 But at samurai funerals in the olden time the women were robed in black. Notes for Chapter Five 1 As it has become, among a certain sect of Western Philistines and self-constituted art critics, the fashion to sneer at any writer who becomes enthusiastic about the truth to nature of Japanese art, I may cite here the words of England's most celebrated living naturalist on this very subject. Mr. Wallace's authority will scarcely, I presume, be questioned, even by the Philistines referred to: 'Dr. Mohnike possesses a large collection of coloured sketches of the plants of Japan made by a Japanese lady, which are the most masterly things I have ever seen. Every stem, twig, and leaf is produced by single touches of the brush, the character and perspective of very complicated plants being admirably given, and the articulations of stem and leaves shown in a most scientific manner.' (Malay Archipelago, chap. xx.) Now this was written in 1857, before European methods of drawing had been introduced. The same art of painting leaves, etc., with single strokes of the brush is still common in Japan--even among the poorest class of decorators. 2 There is a Buddhist saying about the kadomatsu: Kadomatsu Meido no tabi no Ichi-ri-zuka. The meaning is that each kadomatsu is a milestone on the journey to the Meido; or, in other words, that each New Year's festival signal only the completion of another stage of the ceaseless journey to death. 3 The difference between the shimenawa and shimekazari is that the latter is a strictly decorative straw rope, to which many curious emblems are attached. 4 It belongs to the sargassum family, and is full of air sacs. Various kinds of edible seaweed form a considerable proportion of Japanese diet. 5 'This is a curiously shaped staff with which the divinity Jizo is commonly represented. It is still carried by Buddhist mendicants, and there are several sizes of it. That carried by the Yaku-otoshj is usually very short. There is a tradition that the shakujo was first invented as a means of giving warning to insects or other little creatures in the path of the Buddhist pilgrim, so that they might not be trodden upon unawares. 6 I may make mention here of another matter, in no way relating to the Setsubun. There lingers in Izumo a wholesome--and I doubt not formerly a most valuable--superstition about the sacredness of writing. Paper upon which anything has been written, or even printed, must not be crumpled up, or trodden upon, or dirtied, or put to any base use. If it be necessary to destroy a document, the paper should be burned. I have been gently reproached in a little hotel at which I stopped for tearing up and crumpling some paper covered with my own writing. NOtes for Chapter Six 1 'A bucket honourably condescend [to give]. 2 The Kappa is not properly a sea goblin, but a river goblin, and haunts the sea only in the neighbourhood of river mouths. About a mile and a half from Matsue, at the little village of Kawachi-mura, on the river called Kawachi, stands a little temple called Kawako-no-miya, or the Miya of the Kappa. (In Izumo, among the common people, the word 'Kappa' is not used, but the term Kawako, or 'The Child of the River.') In this little shrine is preserved a document said to have been signed by a Kappa. The story goes that in ancient times the Kappa dwelling in the Kawachi used to seize and destroy many of the inhabitanta of the village and many domestic animals. One day, however, while trying to seize a horse that had entered the river to drink, the Kappa got its head twisted in some way under the belly-band of the horse, and the terrified animal, rushing out of the water, dragged the Kappa into a field. There the owner of the horse and a number of peasants seized and bound the Kappa. All the villagers gathered to see the monster, which bowed its head to the ground, and audibly begged for mercy. The peasants desired to kill the goblin at once; but the owner of the horse, who happened to be the head-man of the mura, said: 'It is better to make it swear never again to touch any person or animal belonging to Kawachi- mura. A written form of oath was prepared and read to the Kappa. It said that It could not write, but that It would sign the paper by dipping Its hand in ink, and pressing the imprint thereof at the bottom of the document. This having been agreed to and done, the Kappa was set free. From that time forward no inhabitant or animal of Kawachi-mura was ever assaulted by the goblin. 3 The Buddhist symbol. [The small illustration cannot be presented here. The arms are bent in the opposite direction to the Nazi swastika. Preparator's note] 4 'Help! help!' 5 Furuteya, the estab!ishment of a dea!er in second-hand wares--furute. 6 Andon, a paper lantern of peculiar construction, used as a night light. Some forms of the andon are remarkably beautiful. 7 'Ototsan! washi wo shimai ni shitesashita toki mo, chodo kon ya no yona tsuki yo data-ne?'--Izumo dialect. Notes for Chapter Seven 1 The Kyoto word is maiko. 2 Guitars of three strings. 3 It is sometimes customary for guests to exchange cups, after duly rinsing them. It is always a compliment to ask for your friend's cup. 4 Once more to rest beside her, or keep five thousand koku? What care I for koku? Let me be with her!' There lived in ancient times a haramoto called Fuji-eda Geki, a vassal of the Shogun. He had an income of five thousand koku of rice--a great income in those days. But he fell in love with an inmate of the Yoshiwara, named Ayaginu, and wished to marry her. When his master bade the vassal choose between his fortune and his passion, the lovers fled secretly to a farmer's house, and there committed suicide together. And the above song was made about them. It is still sung. 5 'Dear, shouldst thou die, grave shall hold thee never! I thy body's ashes, mixed with wine, wit! drink.' 6 Maneki-Neko 7 Buddhist food, containing no animal substance. Some kinds of shojin- ryori are quite appetising. 8 The terms oshiire and zendana might be partly rendered by 'wardrobe' and 'cupboard.' The fusuma are sliding screens serving as doors. 9 Tennin, a 'Sky-Maiden,' a Buddhist angel. 10 Her shrine is at Nara--not far from the temple of the giant Buddha. Notes for Chapter Eight 1 The names Dozen or Tozen, and Dogo or Toga, signify 'the Before- Islands' and 'the Behind-Islands.' 2 'Dokoe, dokoel' 'This is only a woman's baby' (a very small package). 'Dokoe, dokoel' 'This is the daddy, this is the daddy' (a big package). 'Dokoe, dokoel' ''Tis very small, very small!' 'Dokoe, dokoel' 'This is for Matsue, this is for Matsue!' 'Dokoe, dokoel' 'This is for Koetsumo of Yonago,' etc. 3 These words seem to have no more meaning than our 'yo-heaveho.' Yan- yui is a cry used by all Izumo and Hoki sailors. 4 This curious meaning is not given in Japanese-English dictionaries, where the idiom is translated merely by the phrase 'as aforesaid.' 5 The floor of a Japanese dwelling might be compared to an immense but very shallow wooden tray, divided into compartments corresponding to the various rooms. These divisions are formed by grooved and polished woodwork, several inches above the level, and made for the accommodation of the fusurna, or sliding screens, separating room from room. The compartments are filled up level with the partitions with tatami, or mats about the thickness of light mattresses, covered with beautifully woven rice-straw. The squared edges of the mats fit exactly together, and as the mats are not made for the house, but the house for the mats, all tatami are exactly the same size. The fully finished floor of each roam is thus like a great soft bed. No shoes, of course, can be worn in a Japanese house. As soon as the mats become in the least soiled they are replaced by new ones. 6 See article on Art in his Things Japanese. 7 It seems to be a black, obsidian. 8 There are several other versions of this legend. In one, it is the mare, and not the foal, which was drowned. 9 There are two ponds not far from each other. The one I visited was called 0-ike, or 'The Male Pond,' and the other, Me-ike, or 'The Female Pond.' 10 Speaking of the supposed power of certain trees to cure toothache, I may mention a curious superstition about the yanagi, or willow-tree. Sufferers from toothache sometimes stick needles into the tree, believing that the pain caused to the tree-spirit will force it to exercise its power to cure. I could not, however, find any record of this practice in Oki. 11 Moxa, a corruption of the native name of the mugwort plant: moe- kusa, or mogusa, 'the burning weed.' Small cones of its fibre are used for cauterising, according to the old Chinese system of medicine--the little cones being placed upon the patient's skin, lighted, and left to smoulder until wholly consumed. The result is a profound scar. The moxa is not only used therapeutically, but also as a punishment for very naughty children. See the interesting note on this subject in Professor Chamberlain's Things Japanese. 12 Nure botoke, 'a wet god.' This term is applied to the statue of a deity left exposed to the open air. 13 According to popular legend, in each eye of the child of a god or a dragon two Buddhas are visible. The statement in some of the Japanese ballads, that the hero sung of had four Buddhas in his eyes, is equivalent to the declaration that each of his eyes had a double-pupil. 14 The idea of the Atman will perhaps occur to many readers. 15 In 1892 a Japanese newspaper, published in Tokyo stated upon the authority of a physician who had visited Shimane, that the people of Oki believe in ghostly dogs instead of ghostly foxes. This is a mistake caused by the literal rendering of a term often used in Shi-mane, especially in Iwami, namely, inu-gami-mochi. It is only a euphemism for kitsune-mochi; the inu-gami is only the hito-kitsune, which is supposed to make itself visible in various animal forms. 16 Which words signify something like this: 'Sleep, baby, sleep! Why are the honourable ears of the Child of the Hare of the honourable mountain so long? 'Tis because when he dwelt within her honoured womb, his mamma ate the leaves of the loquat, the leaves of the bamboo-grass, That is why his honourable ears are so long.' 17 The Japanese police are nearly all of the samurai class, now called shizoku. I think this force may be considered the most perfect police in the world; but whether it will retain those magnificent qualities which at present distinguish it, after the lapse of another generation, is doubtful. It is now the samurai blood that tells. Notes for Chapter Nine 1 Afterwards I found that the old man had expressed to me only one popular form of a belief which would require a large book to fully explain--a belief founded upon Chinese astrology, but possibly modified by Buddhist and by Shinto ideas. This notion of compound Souls cannot be explained at all without a prior knowledge of the astrological relation between the Chinese Zodiacal Signs and the Ten Celestial Stems. Some understanding of these may be obtained from the curious article 'Time,' in Professor Chamberlain's admirable little book, Things Japanese. The relation having been perceived, it is further necessary to know that under the Chinese astrological system each year is under the influence of one or other of the 'Five Elements'--Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water; and according to the day and year of one's birth, one's temperament is celestially decided. A Japanese mnemonic verse tells us the number of souls or natures corresponding to each of the Five Elemental Influences --namely, nine souls for Wood, three for Fire, one for Earth, seven for Metal, five for Water: Kiku karani Himitsu no yama ni Tsuchi hitotsu Nanatsu kane to zo Go suiryo are. Multiplied into ten by being each one divided into 'Elder' and 'Younger,' the Five Elements become the Ten Celestial Stems; and their influences are commingled with those of the Rat, Bull, Tiger, Hare, Dragon, Serpent, Horse, Goat, Ape, Cock, Dog, and Boar (the twelve Zodiacal Signs)--all of which have relations to time, place, life, luck, misfortune, etc. But even these hints give no idea whatever how enormously complicated the subject really is. The book the old gardener referred to--once as widely known in Japan as every fortune-telling book in any European country--was the San-re-so, copies of which may still be picked up. Contrary to Kinjuro's opinion, however, it is held, by those learned in such Chinese matters, just as bad to have too many souls as to have too few. To have nine souls is to be too 'many-minded'--without fixed purpose; to have only one soul is to lack quick intelligence. According to the Chinese astrological ideas, the word 'natures' or 'characters' would perhaps be more accurate than the word 'souls' in this case. There is a world of curious fancies, born out of these beliefs. For one example of hundreds, a person having a Fire-nature must not marry one having a Water-nature. Hence the proverbial saying about two who cannot agree--'They are like Fire and Water.' 2 Usually an Inari temple. Such things are never done at the great Shinto shrines. Notes for Chapter Ten 1 In other parts of Japan I have heard the Yuki-Onna described as a very beautiful phantom who lures young men to lonesome places for the purpose of sucking their blood. 2 In Izumo the Dai-Kan, or Period of Greatest Cold, falls in February. 3 'It is excellent: I pray you give me a little more.' 4 Kwashi: Japanese confectionery Notes for Chapter Eleven 1 The reader will find it well worth his while to consult the chapter entitled 'Domestic Service,' in Miss Bacon's Japanese Girls and Women, for an interesting and just presentation of the practical side of the subject, as relating to servants of both sexes. The poetical side, however, is not treated of--perhaps because intimately connected with religious beliefs which one writing from the Christian standpoint could not be expected to consider sympathetically. Domestic service in ancient Japan was both transfigured and regulated by religion; and the force of the religious sentiment concerning it may be divined from the Buddhist saying, still current: Oya-ko wa is-se, Fufu wa ni-se, Shuju wa san-se. The relation of parent and child endures for the space of one life only; that of husband and wife for the space of two lives; but the relation between msater and servant continues for the period of three existences. 2 The shocks continued, though with lessening frequency and violence, for more than six months after the cataclysm. 3 Of course the converse is the rule in condoling with the sufferer. 4 Dhammapada. 5 Dammikkasutta. 6 Dhammapada. 7 These extracts from a translation in the Japan Daily Mail, November 19, 20, 1890, of Viscount Torio's famous conservative essay do not give a fair idea of the force and logic of the whole. The essay is too long to quote entire; and any extracts from the Mail's admirable translation suffer by their isolation from the singular chains of ethical, religious, and philosophical reasoning which bind the Various parts of the composition together. The essay was furthermore remarkable as the production of a native scholar totally uninfluenced by Western thought. He correctly predicted those social and political disturbances which have occurred in Japan since the opening of the new parliament. Viscount Torio is also well known as a master of Buddhist philosophy. He holds a high rank in the Japanese army. 8 In expressing my earnest admiration of this wonderful book, I must, however, declare that several of its conclusions, and especially the final ones, represent the extreme reverse of my own beliefs on the subject. I do not think the Japanese without individuality; but their individuality is less superficially apparent, and reveals itself much less quickly, than that of Western people. I am also convinced that much of what we call 'personality' and 'force of character' in the West represents only the survival and recognition of primitive aggressive tendencies, more or less disguised by culture. What Mr. Spencer calls the highest individuation surely does not include extraordinary development of powers adapted to merely aggressive ends; and yet it is rather through these than through any others that Western individuality most commonly and readily manifests itself. Now there is, as yet, a remarkable scarcity in Japan, of domineering, brutal, aggressive, or morbid individuality. What does impress one as an apparent weakness in Japanese intellectual circles is the comparative absence of spontaneity, creative thought, original perceptivity of the highest order. Perhaps this seeming deficiency is racial: the peoples of the Far East seem to have been throughout their history receptive rather than creative. At all events I cannot believe Buddhism--originally the faith of an Aryan race--can be proven responsible. The total exclusion of Buddhist influence from public education would not seem to have been stimulating; for the masters of the old Buddhist philosophy still show a far higher capacity for thinking in relations than that of the average graduate of the Imperial University. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that an intellectual revival of Buddhism--a harmonising of its loftier truths with the best and broadest teachings of modern science--would have the most important results for Japan. 9 Herbert Spencer. A native scholar, Mr. Inouye Enryo, has actually founded at Tokyo with this noble object in view, a college of philosophy which seems likely, at the present writing, to become an influential institution. 
56985	----	[Illustration: Book Cover: The Boy Travellers.] [Illustration] THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE FAR EAST * * * * * ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS IN A JOURNEY TO JAPAN AND CHINA BY THOMAS W. KNOX AUTHOR OF "CAMP-FIRE AND COTTON-FIELD" "OVERLAND THROUGH ASIA" "UNDERGROUND" "JOHN" ETC. Illustrated [Illustration] NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS FRANKLIN SQUARE 1880 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. PREFACE. * * * * * _To my Young Friends:_ Not many years ago, China and Japan were regarded as among the barbarous nations. The rest of the world knew comparatively little about their peoples, and, on the other hand, the inhabitants of those countries had only a slight knowledge of Europe and America. To-day the situation is greatly changed; China and Japan are holding intimate relations with us and with Europe, and there is every prospect that the acquaintance between the East and the West will increase as the years roll on. There is a general desire for information concerning the people of the Far East, and it is especially strong among the youths of America. The characters in "The Boy Travellers" are fictitious; but the scenes that passed before their eyes, the people they met, and the incidents and accidents that befell them are real. The routes they travelled, the cities they visited, the excursions they made, the observations they recorded--in fact, nearly all that goes to make up this volume--were the actual experiences of the author at a very recent date. In a few instances I have used information obtained from others, but only after careful investigation has convinced me of its entire correctness. I have aimed to give a faithful picture of Japan and China as they appear to-day, and to make such comparisons with the past that the reader can easily comprehend the changes that have occurred in the last twenty years. And I have also endeavored to convey the information in such a way that the story shall not be considered tedious. Miss Effie and "The Mystery" may seem superfluous to some readers, but I am of opinion that the majority of those who peruse the book will not consider them unnecessary to the narrative. In preparing illustrations for this volume the publishers have kindly allowed me to make use of some engravings that have already appeared in their publications relative to China and Japan. I have made selections from the volumes of Sir Rutherford Alcock and the Rev. Justus Doolittle, and also from the excellent work of Professor Griffis, "The Mikado's Empire." In the episode of a whaling voyage I have been under obligations to the graphic narrative of Mr. Davis entitled "Nimrod of the Sea," not only for illustrations, but for incidents of the chase of the monsters of the deep. The author is not aware that any book describing China and Japan, and specially addressed to the young, has yet appeared. Consequently he is led to hope that his work will find a welcome among the boys and girls of America. And when the juvenile members of the family have completed its perusal, the children of a larger growth may possibly find the volume not without interest, and may glean from its pages some grains of information hitherto unknown to them. T. W. K. NEW YORK, _October_, 1879. CONTENTS. * * * * * CHAPTER I. PAGE THE DEPARTURE. 17 CHAPTER II. OVERLAND TO CALIFORNIA. 30 CHAPTER III. ON THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 48 CHAPTER IV. INCIDENTS OF A WHALING VOYAGE. 58 CHAPTER V. ARRIVAL IN JAPAN. 72 CHAPTER VI. FIRST DAY IN JAPAN. 83 CHAPTER VII. FROM YOKOHAMA TO TOKIO. 101 CHAPTER VIII. SIGHTS IN THE EASTERN CAPITAL OF JAPAN. 115 CHAPTER IX. ASAKUSA AND YUYENO.--FIRST NATIONAL FAIR AT TOKIO. 131 CHAPTER X. WALKS AND TALKS IN TOKIO. 144 CHAPTER XI. AN EXCURSION TO DAI-BOOTS AND ENOSHIMA. 156 CHAPTER XII. SIGHTS AT ENOSHIMA. 169 CHAPTER XIII. ON THE ROAD TO FUSIYAMA. 183 CHAPTER XIV. THE ASCENT OF FUSIYAMA. 197 CHAPTER XV. EXECUTIONS AND HARI-KARI. 215 CHAPTER XVI. AMUSEMENTS.--WRESTLERS AND THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENTS. 227 CHAPTER XVII. A STUDY OF JAPANESE ART. 239 CHAPTER XVIII. SOMETHING ABOUT JAPANESE WOMEN. 254 CHAPTER XIX. FROM YOKOHAMA TO KOBE AND OSAKA. 266 CHAPTER XX. THE MINT AT OSAKA.--FROM OSAKA TO NARA AND KIOTO. 279 CHAPTER XXI. KIOTO AND LAKE BIWA. 291 CHAPTER XXII. THE INLAND SEA AND NAGASAKI.--CAUGHT IN A TYPHOON. 303 CHAPTER XXIII. FIRST DAY IN CHINA. 318 CHAPTER XXIV. A VOYAGE UP THE YANG-TSE-KIANG. 328 CHAPTER XXV. THE TAE-PING REBELLION.--SCENES ON THE GREAT RIVER. 339 CHAPTER XXVI. FROM SHANGHAI TO PEKIN. 352 CHAPTER XXVII. SIGHTS IN PEKIN. 365 CHAPTER XXVIII. A JOURNEY TO THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. 377 CHAPTER XXIX. FROM SHANGHAI TO HONG-KONG.--A STORY OF THE COOLIE TRADE. 388 CHAPTER XXX. HONG-KONG AND CANTON. 400 CHAPTER XXXI. SIGHTS AND SCENES IN CANTON. 408 ILLUSTRATIONS. A Japanese Swimming-scene. Reproduced from a Painting by a Japanese Artist _Frontispiece_. PAGE Mr. Bassett has Decided 17 Mary 18 Mary Thinking what she would Like from Japan 19 Overland by Stage in the Olden Time 20 Overland by Rail in a Pullman Car 21 Cooking-range in the Olden Time 24 Cooking range on a Pullman Car 24 Change for a Dollar--Before and After 25 Kathleen's Expectations for Frank and Fred 26 Effie Waiting for Somebody 28 Good-bye 29 Watering-place on the Erie Railway 30 The Course of Empire 31 Valley of the Neversink 32 Starucca Viaduct 33 Niagara Falls, from the American Side 34 Entrance to the Cave of the Winds 36 From Chicago to San Francisco 38 Omaha 39 Attacked by Indians 41 Herd of Buffaloes Moving 42 An Old Settler 43 "End of Track" 44 Snow-sheds on the Pacific Railway 45 View at Cape Horn, Central Pacific Railway 46 Seal-rocks, San Francisco 47 Departure from San Francisco 48 Dropping the Pilot 49 The Golden Gate 50 In the Fire-room 51 The Engineer at his Post 53 The Wind Rising 55 Spouts 57 Whale-ship Outward Bound 57 Captain Spofford Telling his Story 58 New Bedford 59 Sperm-whale 60 "There she blows!" 61 Implements Used in Whaling 62 Whale "Breaching" 63 In the Whale's Jaw 64 Captain Hunting's Fight 66 A Game Fellow 67 A Free Ride 68 Captain Sammis Selling Out 70 Shooting at a Water-spout 71 Frank Studying Navigation 73 Working up a Reckoning 75 View in the Bay of Yeddo 76 Japanese Junk and Boats 77 A Japanese Imperial Barge 78 Japanese Government Boat 79 Yokohama in 1854 81 A Japanese Street Scene 84 Japanese Musicians 86 Japanese Fishermen 87 "Sayonara" 88 Japanese Silk-shop 89 Seven-stroke Horse 90 Female Head-dress 91 The Siesta 91 A Japanese at his Toilet for a Visit of Ceremony 92 A Japanese Breakfast 95 Mutsuhito, Mikado of Japan 97 Landing of Perry's Expedition 98 The Last Shogoon of Japan 99 Third-class Passengers 102 Japanese Ploughing 103 Japanese Roller 104 Manuring Process 104 How they Use Manure 105 Mode of Protecting Land from Birds 106 Storks, Drawn by a Native Artist 106 Flock of Geese 107 Forts of Shinagawa 108 A Jin-riki-sha 109 Japanese on Foot 111 An Express Runner 112 A Japanese Coolie 113 Pity for the Blind 114 View of Tokio, from the South 115 Japanese Lady Coming from the Bath 116 Fire-lookouts in Tokio 117 Too Much Sa-kee 118 Sakuradu Avenue in Tokio 119 Japanese Children at Play 121 The Feast of Dolls ("Hina Matsuri") in a Japanese House 122 A Barber at Work 123 A Transaction in Clothes 124 Ball-playing in Japan 125 Sport at Asakusa 126 Spire of a Pagoda 127 Belfry in Court-yard of Temple, showing the Style of a Japanese Roof 128 Shrine of the Goddess Ku-wanon 130 Praying-machine 132 Archery Attendant 134 A Japanese Flower-show. Night Scene 135 A Christening in Japan 137 A Wedding Party 138 Strolling Singers at Asakusa 139 View from Suruga Dai in Tokio 140 A Child's Nurse 140 Lovers Behind a Screen. A Painting on Silk Exhibited at the Tokio Fair 141 Blacksmith's Bellows 142 A Grass Overcoat 143 A High-priest in Full Costume 145 A Japanese Temple 146 A Wayside Shrine 148 The Great Kosatsu, near the Nihon Basin 150 Blowing Bubbles 151 Father and Children 153 Caught in the Rain 155 A Village on the Tokaido 157 A Party on the Tokaido 159 Beginning of Relations between England and Japan 161 Pilgrims on the Road 162 Threshing Grain 163 Peasant and his Wife Returning from the Field 164 A Japanese Sandal 165 The Great Dai-Boots 166 Salutation of the Landlord 168 The Head Waiter Receiving Orders 168 A Japanese Kitchen 170 Boiling the Pot 171 Frank's Inventory 172 How the Japanese Sleep 173 A Japanese Fishing Scene 175 "Breakfast is ready" 176 Interior of a Tea-garden 178 The Path in Enoshima 179 A Group of Japanese Ladies 181 Specimen of Grotesque Drawing by a Japanese Artist 182 Bettos, or "Grooms," in Full Dress 185 A Japanese Loom 188 Artists at Work 189 Coopers Hooping a Vat 190 Crossing the River 192 Mother and Son 193 A Fishing Party 194 The Man they Met 196 Travelling by Cango 198 Japanese Norimon 199 Frank's Position 200 Hot Bath in the Mountains 201 A Japanese Bath 202 The Lake of Hakone 203 Antics of the Horses 206 A Near View of Fusiyama 207 In a Storm near Fusiyama 208 Ascent of Fusiyama 211 The Four Classes of Society 216 Two-sworded Nobles 218 A Samurai in Winter Dress 219 Beheading a Criminal 221 Japanese Court in the Old Style 224 Japanese Naval Officer 225 Japanese Steam Corvette 225 A Japanese War-junk of the Olden Time 226 A Japanese Wrestler 228 A Pair of Wrestlers and their Manager 230 The Clinch 231 Japanese Actor Dressed as a Doctor 233 The Samisen 234 Playing the Samisen 235 Scene from a Japanese Comedy.--Writing a Letter of Divorce 236 Scene from a Japanese Comedy.--Love-letter Discovered 237 Telling the Story of Bumbuku Chagama 238 Frank's Purchase 240 Japanese Pattern-designer 241 Fan-makers at Work 241 Chinese Cloisonné on Metal 242 Japanese Cloisonné on Metal 243 Japanese Bowl 243 Cover of Japanese Bowl 244 Chinese Metal Vase 246 Modern Japanese Cloisonné on Metal 247 Japanese Metal Cloisonné 248 Chinese Porcelain Cloisonné 248 Group Carved in Ivory 249 Japanese Pipe, Case, and Pouch 249 Japanese Artist Chasing on Copper 251 A Japanese Village.--Bamboo Poles Ready for Market 252 A Japanese Lady's-maid 254 Bride and Bridesmaid 255 Merchant's Family 255 Mysteries of the Dressing-room 256 Lady in Winter Walking-dress 257 A Girl who had never Seen a Dressing-pin 259 Ladies' Hair-dresser 260 Ladies at their Toilet 261 Japanese Ladies on a Picnic 262 Ladies and Children at Play 263 Flying Kites 264 A Village in the Tea District 266 Tea-merchants in the Interior 267 The Tea-plant 268 Firing Tea 269 Hiogo (Kobe) 270 The Junk at Anchor 271 The Helmsman at his Post 272 Japanese Sailors at Dinner 273 Junk Sailors on Duty 274 View from the Hotel 276 The Castle of Osaka 277 Vignette from the National Bank-notes 280 Imperial Crest for Palace Affairs 281 Imperial Crest on the New Coins 281 Old Kinsat, or Money-card 282 Ichi-boo 282 Vignette from Bank-note 283 Vignette from Bank-note 283 Men Towing Boats near Osaka 284 Mode of Holding the Tow-ropes 284 The Ferry-boat 285 The Hotel-maid 285 A Japanese Landscape 286 Dikes along the River 287 Night Scene near Fushimi 288 Women of Kioto 289 Ladies of the Western Capital 292 Restaurant and Tea-garden at Kioto 294 An Artist at Work 295 Lantern-maker at Kioto 295 A Japanese Archer 297 Temple Bell at Kioto 298 Reeling Cotton 298 Japanese Temple and Cemetery 299 Handcart for a Quartette 300 Horse Carrying Liquid Manure 301 The Paternal Nurse 301 Picnic Booth Overlooking Lake Biwa 302 A Maker of Bows 302 The Inland Sea near Hiogo 303 Approaching Simoneseki 304 Dangerous Place on the Suwo Nada 304 Pappenberg Island 305 Women of Nagasaki 306 A Christian Village in the Sixteenth Century 307 Monuments in Memory of Martyrs 308 A Path near Nagasaki 309 Hollander at Deshima Watching for a Ship 310 The Rain Dragon 311 The Wind Dragon 312 The Thunder Dragon 312 A Typhoon 314 Course of a Typhoon 316 Caught near the Storm's Centre 317 The Woosung River 318 Chinese Trading-junk on the Woosung River 319 Shanghai 321 A Coolie in the Streets of Shanghai 322 A Tea-house in the Country 324 Smoking Opium 324 Opium-pipe 325 Man Blinded by the Use of Opium 326 Chinese Gentleman in a Sedan 327 Canal Scene South of Shanghai 328 A Chinese Family Party 330 A Gentleman of Chin-kiang 331 Chinese Spectacles 332 Ploughing with a Buffalo 333 Threshing Grain near Chin-kiang 333 Carrying Bundles of Grain 334 A River Scene in China 335 A Nine-storied Pagoda 337 Little Orphan Rock 337 Entrance to Po-yang Lake 338 Tae-ping Rebels 340 General Ward 342 The Gate which Ward Attacked 343 General Burgevine 344 Fishing with Cormorants 347 A Street in Han-kow 349 Wo-chang 350 The Governor-general and his Staff 351 Attack on the Pei-ho Forts 353 Temple of the Sea-god at Taku 355 A Chinese Beggar 355 Signing the Treaty of Tien-tsin 356 Mode of Irrigating Fields 359 The Doctor's Bedroom 360 Part of the Wall of Pekin 361 A Pekin Cab 362 A Composite Team 363 A Chinese Dragon 364 A Pavilion in the Prohibited City 366 Temple of Heaven 367 Pekin Cash 367 Traditional Likeness of Confucius 368 God of War 368 God of Literature 368 God of Thieves 368 A Mandarin Judge Delivering Sentence 369 Squeezing the Fingers 371 Squeezing the Ankles 371 A Bed of Torture 372 Four Modes of Punishment 373 Standing in a Cage 374 Hot-water Snake 374 Carrying Forth to the Place of Execution 375 Just Before Decapitation 375 Military Candidates Competing with the Bow and Arrow 376 Walking on Stilts 378 Juggler Spinning a Plate 379 Gambling with a Revolving Pointer 379 Fortune-telling by Means of a Bird and Slips of Paper 380 Fortune-telling by Dissecting Chinese Characters 381 Chinese Razor 382 Barber Shaving the Head of a Customer 382 Bridge of the Cloudy Hills 383 The God of the Kitchen 384 A Lama 385 The Hills near Chan-kia-kow 386 Specimen of Chinese Writing 389 Four Illustrations of the Chinese Version of "Excelsior" 393 Barracoons at Macao 394 Coolies Embarking at Macao 395 Enraged Coolie 396 A Deadly Fall 396 Firing Down the Hatchway 397 The Writing in Blood 398 The Interpreters 399 Hong-kong 401 Fac-simile of a Hong-kong Mille, Dime, and Cent 403 Fort in Canton River 404 Gateway of Temple near Canton 406 Street Scene in Canton 410 Five-storied Pagoda 412 Horseshoe or Omega Grave 413 Presenting Food to the Spirits of the Dead 414 A Leper 414 A Literary Student 415 A Literary Graduate in his Robes of Honor 415 A Sedan-chair with Four Bearers 416 A Small Foot with a Shoe on it 417 Peasant-woman with Natural Feet 417 A Tablet Carved in Ivory 419 "Good-bye!" 421 CHAPTER I. THE DEPARTURE. [Illustration: MR. BASSETT HAS DECIDED.] "Well, Frank," said Mr. Bassett, "the question is decided." Frank looked up with an expression of anxiety on his handsome face. A twinkle in his father's eyes told him that the decision was a favorable one. "And you'll let me go with them, won't you, father?" he answered. "Yes, my boy," said the father, "you can go." Frank was so full of joy that he couldn't speak for at least a couple of minutes. He threw his arms around Mr. Bassett; then he kissed his mother and his sister Mary, who had just come into the room; next he danced around the table on one foot; then he hugged his dog Nero, who wondered what it was all about; and he ended by again embracing his father, who stood smiling at the boy's delight. By this time Frank had recovered the use of his tongue, and was able to express his gratitude in words. When the excitement was ended, Mary asked what had happened to make Frank fly around so. "Why, he's going to Japan," said Mrs. Bassett. "Going to Japan, and leave us all alone at home!" Mary exclaimed, and then her lips and eyes indicated an intention to cry. [Illustration: MARY.] Frank was eighteen years old and his sister was fifteen. They were very fond of each other, and the thought that her brother was to be separated from her for a while was painful to the girl. Frank kissed her again, and said, "I sha'n't be gone long, Mary, and I'll bring you such lots of nice things when I come back." Then there was another kiss, and Mary concluded she would have her cry some other time. "But you won't let him go all alone, father, now, will you?" she asked as they sat down to breakfast. "I think I could go alone," replied Frank, proudly, "and take care of myself without anybody's help; but I'm going with Cousin Fred and Doctor Bronson." "Better say Doctor Bronson and Cousin Fred," Mary answered, with a smile; "the Doctor is Fred's uncle and twenty years older." Frank corrected the mistake he had made, and said he was too much excited to remember all about the rules of grammar and etiquette. He had even forgotten that he was hungry; at any rate, he had lost his appetite, and hardly touched the juicy steak and steaming potatoes that were before him. During breakfast, Mr. Bassett explained to Mary the outline of the proposed journey. Doctor Bronson was going to Japan and China, and was to be accompanied by his nephew, Fred Bronson, who was very nearly Frank's age. Frank had asked his father's permission to join them, and Mr. Bassett had been considering the matter. He found that it would be very agreeable to Doctor Bronson and Fred to have Frank's company, and as the opportunity was an excellent one for the youth to see something of foreign lands under the excellent care of the Doctor, it did not take a long time for him to reach a favorable decision. "Doctor Bronson has been there before, hasn't he, father?" said Mary, when the explanation was ended. "Certainly, my child," was the reply; "he has been twice around the world, and has seen nearly every civilized and uncivilized country in it. He speaks three or four languages fluently, and knows something of half a dozen others. Five years ago he was in Japan and China, and he is acquainted with many people living there. Don't you remember how he told us one evening about visiting a Japanese prince, and sitting cross-legged on the floor for half an hour, while they ate a dinner of boiled rice and stewed fish, and drank hot wine from little cups the size of a thimble?" Mary remembered it all, and then declared she was glad Frank was going to Japan, and also glad that he was going with Doctor Bronson. And she added that the Doctor would know the best places for buying the presents Frank was to bring home. "A crape shawl for mother, and another for me; now don't you forget," said Mary; "and some fans and some ivory combs, and some of those funny little cups and saucers such as Aunt Amelia has, and some nice tea to drink out of them." "Anything else?" Frank asked. "I don't know just now," Mary answered; "I'll read all I can about Japan and China before you start, so's I can know all they make, and then I'll write out a list. I want something of everything, you understand." "If that's the case," Frank retorted, "you'd better wrap your list around a bushel of money. It'll take a good deal to buy the whole of those two countries." Mary said she would be satisfied with a shawl and a fan and anything else that was pretty. The countries might stay where they were, and there were doubtless a good many things in them that nobody would want anyway. All she wished was to have anything that was nice and pretty. [Illustration: MARY THINKING WHAT SHE WOULD LIKE FROM JAPAN.] For the next few days the proposed journey was the theme of conversation in the Bassett family. Mary examined all the books she could find about the countries her brother expected to visit; then she made a list of the things she desired, and the day before his departure she gave him a sealed envelope containing the paper. She explained that he was not to open it until he reached Japan, and that he would find two lists of what she wanted. "The things marked 'number one' you must get anyway," she said, "and those marked 'number two' you must get if you can." Frank thought she had shown great self-denial in making two lists instead of one, but intimated that there was not much distinction in the conditions she proposed. He promised to see about the matter when he reached Japan, and so the conversation on that topic came to an end. It did not take a long time to prepare Frank's wardrobe for the journey. His grandmother had an impression that he was going on a whaling voyage, as her brother had gone on one more than sixty years before. She proposed to give him two heavy jackets, a dozen pairs of woollen stockings, and a tarpaulin hat, and was sure he would need them. She was undeceived when the difference between a sea voyage of to-day and one of half a century ago was explained to her. The housemaid said he would not need any thick clothing if he was going to Japan, as it was close to Jerusalem, and it was very hot there. She thought Japan was a seaport of Palestine, but Mary made it clear to her that Japan and Jaffa were not one and the same place. When satisfied on this point, she expressed the hope that the white bears and elephants wouldn't eat the poor boy up, and that the natives wouldn't roast him, as they did a missionary from her town when she was a little girl. "And, sure," she added, "he won't want any clothes at all, at all, there, as the horrid natives don't wear nothing except a little cocoanut ile which they rubs on their skins." "What puts that into your head, Kathleen?" said Mary, with a laugh. "And didn't ye jest tell me," Kathleen replied, "that Japan is an island in the Pacific Oshin? Sure it was an island in that same oshin where Father Mullaly was roasted alive, and the wretched natives drissed theirselves wid cocoanut ile. It was in a place they called Feejee." Mary kindly explained that the Pacific Ocean was very large, and contained a great many islands, and that the spot where Father Mullaly was cooked was some thousands of miles from Japan. At breakfast the day before the time fixed for Frank's departure, Mr. Bassett told his son that he must make the most of his journey, enjoy it as much as possible, and bring back a store of useful knowledge. "To accomplish this," he added, "several things will be necessary; let us see what they are." "Careful observation is one requisite," said Frank, "and a good memory is another." "Constant remembrance of home," Mrs. Bassett suggested, and Mary nodded in assent to her mother's proposition. "Courage and perseverance," Frank added. "A list of the things you are going to buy," Mary remarked. "A light trunk and a cheerful disposition," said Doctor Bronson, who had entered the room just as this turn of the conversation set in. "One thing more," Mr. Bassett added. "I can't think of it," replied Frank; "what is it?" "Money." "Oh yes, of course; one couldn't very well go travelling without money. I'm old enough to know that, and to know it is very bad to be away from one's friends without money." The Doctor said it reminded him of a man who asked another for ten cents to pay his ferriage across the Mississippi River, and explained that he hadn't a single penny. The other man answered, "It's no use throwing ten cents away on you in that fashion. If you haven't any money, you are just as well off on this side of the river as on the other." "You will need money," said Mr. Bassett, "and here is something that will get it." He handed Frank a double sheet of paper with some printed and written matter on the first page, and some printed lists on the third and fourth pages. The second page was blank; the first page read as follows: LETTER OF CREDIT. NEW YORK, _June_ 18_th_, 1878. TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS: We have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. FRANK BASSETT, the bearer of this letter, whose signature you will find in the margin. We beg you to honor his drafts to the amount of two hundred pounds sterling, upon our London house, all deductions and commissions being at his expense. We have the honor to remain, Gentlemen, Very truly yours, BLANK & CO. The printed matter on the third and fourth pages was a list of banking-houses in all the principal cities of the world. Frank observed that every country was included, and there was not a city of any prominence that was not named in the list, and on the same line with the list was the name of a banking-house. The paper was passed around the table and examined, and finally returned to Frank's hand. Mr. Bassett then explained to his son the uses of the document. "I obtained that paper," said he, "from the great house of Blank & Company. I paid a thousand dollars for it, but it is made in pounds sterling because the drafts are to be drawn on London, and you know that pounds, shillings, and pence are the currency of England." "When you want money, you go to any house named on that list, no matter what part of the world it may be, and tell them how much you want. They make out a draft which you sign, and then they pay you the money, and write on the second page the amount you have drawn. You get ten pounds in one place, ten in another, twenty in another, and you continue to draw whenever you wish. Each banker puts down the amount you have received from him on the second page, and you can keep on drawing till the sum total of your drafts equals the figures named on the first page. Then your credit is said to be exhausted, and you can draw no more on that letter." "How very convenient that is!" said Frank; "you don't have to carry money around with you, but get it when and where you want it." "You must be very careful not to lose that letter," said Mr. Bassett. "Would the money be lost altogether?" Frank asked in return. "No, the money would not be lost, but your credit would be gone, and of no use. A new letter would be issued in place of the missing one, but only after some months, and when the bankers had satisfied themselves that there was no danger of the old one ever being used again." "Can I get any kind of money with this letter, father?" Frank inquired, "or must I take it in pounds sterling? That would be very inconvenient sometimes, as I would have to go around and sell my pounds and buy the money of the country." "They always give you," was the reply, "the money that circulates in the country where you are. Here they would give you dollars; in Japan you will get Japanese money or Mexican dollars, which are current there; in India they would give you rupees; in Russia, rubles; in Italy, lire; in France, francs; in Spain, pesetas, and so on. They give you the equivalent of the amount you draw on your letter." This reminded the Doctor of a story, and at the general request he told it. [Illustration: CHANGE FOR A DOLLAR--BEFORE AND AFTER.] A traveller stopped one night at a tavern in the interior of Minnesota. On paying his bill in the morning, he received a beaver skin instead of a dollar in change that was due him. The landlord explained that beaver skins were legal tender in that region at a dollar each. He hid the skin under his coat, walked over the street to a grocery store, and asked the grocer if it was true that beaver skins were legal tender for one dollar each. "Certainly," answered the grocer, "everybody takes them at that rate." "Then be kind enough to change me a dollar bill," said the stranger, drawing the beaver skin from under his coat and laying it on the counter. The grocer answered that he was only too happy to oblige a stranger, and passed out four musk-rat skins, which were legal tender, as he said, at twenty-five cents each. "Please, Doctor," said Mary, "what do you mean by legal tender?" The Doctor explained that legal tender was the money which the law declares should be the proper tender, or offer, in paying a debt. "If I owed your father a hundred dollars," said he, "I could not compel him to accept the whole amount in ten-cent pieces, or twenty-five-cent pieces, or even in half-dollars. When the government issues a coin, it places a limit for which that coin can be a legal tender. Thus the ten-cent piece is a legal tender for all debts of one dollar or less, and the half-dollar for debts of five dollars or less." Mary said that when she was a child, ten cherries were exchanged among her schoolmates for one apple, two apples for one pear, and two pears for one orange. One day she took some oranges to school intending to exchange them for cherries, of which she was very fond; she left them in Katie Smith's desk, but Katie was hungry and ate one of the oranges at recess. "Not the first time the director of a bank has appropriated part of the funds," said the Doctor. "Didn't you find that an orange would buy more cherries or apples at one time than at another?" "Why, certainly," Mary answered, "and sometimes they wouldn't buy any cherries at all." "Bankers and merchants call that the fluctuation of exchanges," said Mr. Bassett; and with this remark he rose from the table, and the party broke up. [Illustration: KATHLEEN'S EXPECTATIONS FOR FRANK AND FRED.] The next morning a carriage containing Doctor Bronson and his nephew, Fred, drove up in front of Mr. Bassett's house. There were farewell kisses, and hopes for a prosperous journey; and in a few minutes the three travellers were on their way to the railway station. There was a waving of handkerchiefs as the carriage started from the house and rolled away; Nero barked and looked wistfully after his young master, and the warm-hearted Kathleen wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and flung an old shoe after the departing vehicle. "And sure," she said, "and I hope that wretched old Feejee won't be in Japan at all, at all, and the horrid haythens won't roast him." As they approached the station, Frank appeared a little nervous about something. The cause of his anxiety was apparent when the carriage stopped. He was the first to get out and the first to mount the platform. Somebody was evidently waiting for him. [Illustration: EFFIE WAITING FOR SOMEBODY.] Doctor Bronson followed him a minute later, and heard something like the following: "There, now, don't cry. Be a good girl, and I'll bring you the nicest little pigtail, of the most Celestial pattern, from China." "I tell you, Mr. Frank Bassett, I'm not crying. It's the dust in the road got into my eyes." "But you are; there's another big tear. I know you're sorry, and so am I. But I'm coming back." "I shall be glad to see you when you come back; of course I shall, for your sister's sake. And you'll be writing to Mary, and she'll tell me where you are. And when she's writing to you she'll--" The bright little face turned suddenly, and its owner saw the Doctor standing near with an amused expression on his features, and, perhaps, a little moisture in his eyes. She uttered a cheery "Good-morning," to which the Doctor returned, "Good-morning, Miss Effie. This is an unexpected pleasure." "You see, Doctor" (she blushed and stammered a little as she spoke), "you know I like to take a walk in the morning, and happened to come down to the station." "Of course, quite accidental," said the Doctor, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, that is, I knew Frank--I mean Mr. Bassett--that is, I knew you were all three going away, and I thought I might come down and see you start." "Quite proper, Miss Effie," was the reply; "so good-bye: I must look after the tickets and the baggage." "Good-bye, Doctor Bronson; good-bye, Mr. Fred. _Bon voyage!_" Frank lingered behind, and the rest of the dialogue has not been recorded. "She's a nice girl," said Fred to the Doctor as they made their way to the ticket-office. "And she's very fond of Mary Bassett, Frank's sister. Spiteful people say, though, that she's oftener in Frank's company than in Mary's; and I know Frank is ready to punch the head of any other boy that dares to look at her." "Quite so," answered Dr. Bronson; "I don't think Frank is likely to be forgetful of home." Soon the whistle sounded, the great train rolled into the station, the conductor shouted "All aboard!" our friends took their seats, the bell rang, and the locomotive coughed asthmatically as it moved on. Frank looked back as long as the station was in sight. Somebody continued to wave a delicate handkerchief until the train had disappeared; somebody's eyes were full of tears, and so were the eyes of somebody else. Somebody's good wishes followed the travellers, and the travellers--Frank especially--wafted back good wishes for that somebody. [Illustration: GOOD-BYE.] CHAPTER II. OVERLAND TO CALIFORNIA. Our three travellers were seated in a Pullman car on the Erie Railway. Frank remarked that they were like the star of empire, as they were taking their way westward. [Illustration: OVERLAND BY STAGE IN THE OLDEN TIME.] Fred replied that he thought the star of empire had a much harder time of it, as it had no cushioned seat to rest upon, and no plate-glass window to look from. [Illustration: OVERLAND BY RAIL IN A PULLMAN CAR.] "And it doesn't go at the rate of thirty miles an hour," the Doctor added. [Illustration: COOKING-RANGE IN THE OLDEN TIME.] [Illustration: COOKING-RANGE ON A PULLMAN CAR.] "I'm not sure that I know exactly what the star of empire means," said Frank. "I used the expression as I have seen it, but can't tell what it comes from." He looked appealingly at Doctor Bronson. The latter smiled kindly, and then explained the origin of the phrase. "It is found," said the Doctor, "in a short poem that was written more than a hundred and fifty years ago, by Bishop Berkeley. The last verse is like this: "Westward the course of empire takes its way; The first four acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day: Time's noblest offspring is the last." [Illustration: THE COURSE OF EMPIRE.] "You see the popular quotation is wrong," he added; "it is the _course_ of empire that is mentioned in the poem, and not the _star_." "I suppose," said Fred, "that the Bishop referred to the discovery of America by Columbus when he sailed to the West, and to the settlement of America which began on the Eastern coast and then went on to the West." "You are exactly right," was the reply. Frank added that he thought "star of empire" more poetical than "course of empire." [Illustration: WATERING-PLACE ON THE ERIE RAILWAY.] "But course is more near to the truth," said Fred, "than star. Don't you see that Bishop Berkeley wrote before railways were invented, and before people could travel as they do nowadays? Emigrants, when they went out West, went with wagons, or on horseback, or on foot. They travelled by day and rested at night. Now--don't you see?--they made their course in the daytime, when they couldn't see the stars at all; and when the stars were out, they were asleep, unless the wolves or the Indians kept them awake. They were too tired to waste any time over a twinkling star of empire, but they knew all about the course." There was a laugh all around at Fred's ingenious defence of the author of the verse in question, and then the attention of the party was turned to the scenery along the route. Although living near the line of the Erie Railway, neither of the boys had ever been west of his station. Everything was therefore new to the youths, and they took great interest in the panorama that unrolled to their eyes as the train moved on. [Illustration: VALLEY OF THE NEVERSINK.] They were particularly pleased with the view of the valley of the Neversink, with its background of mountains and the pretty town of Port Jervis in the distance. The railway at one point winds around the edge of a hill, and is far enough above the valley to give a view several miles in extent. [Illustration: STARUCCA VIADUCT.] Frank had heard much about the Starucca Viaduct, and so had Fred, and they were all anxiety to see it. Frank thought it would be better to call it a bridge, as it was only a bridge, and nothing more; but Fred inclined to the opinion that "viaduct" sounded larger and higher. "And remember," said he to Frank, "it is more than twelve hundred feet long, and is a hundred feet above the valley. It is large enough to have a much bigger name than viaduct." Frank admitted the force of the argument, and added that he didn't care what name it went by, so long as it carried them safely over. When they were passing the famous place, they looked out and saw the houses and trees far below them. Fred said they seemed to be riding in the air, and he thought he could understand how people must feel in a balloon. Doctor Bronson said he was reminded of a story about the viaduct. "Oh! tell it, please," said the two boys, in a breath. "It is this," answered the Doctor. "When the road was first opened, a countryman came to the backwoods to the station near the end of the bridge. He had never seen a railway before, and had much curiosity to look at the cars. When the train came along, he stepped aboard, and before he was aware of it the cars were moving. He felt the floor trembling, and as he looked from the window the train was just coming upon the viaduct. He saw the earth falling away, apparently, the tree-tops far below him, and the cattle very small in the distance. He turned pale as a sheet, and almost fainted. He had just strength enough to say, in a troubled voice, to the man nearest him, "Say, stranger, how far does this thing fly before it lights?" "I don't wonder at it," said Fred; "you see, I thought of the same thing when the train was crossing." [Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS, FROM THE AMERICAN SIDE.] The railway brought the party to Niagara, where they spent a day visiting the famous cataract and the objects of interest in the vicinity. Frank pronounced the cataract wonderful, and so did Fred; whereupon the Doctor told them of the man who said Niagara was not at all wonderful, as any other water put there would run down over the Falls, since there was nothing to hinder its doing so. The real wonder would be to see it go up again. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE OF THE WINDS.] They looked at the Falls from all the points of view. They went under the Canadian side, and they also went under the Central Fall, and into the Cave of the Winds. They stood for a long time watching the water tumbling over Horseshoe Fall, and they stood equally long on the American side. When the day was ended, the boys asked the Doctor if he would not permit them to remain another twenty-four hours. "Why so?" the Doctor asked. "Because," said Frank, with a bit of a blush on his cheeks--"because we want to write home about Niagara and our visit here. Fred wants to tell his mother about it, and I want to write to my mother and to Mary, and--and--" "Miss Effie, perhaps," Fred suggested. Frank smiled, and said he might drop a line to Miss Effie if he had time, and he was pretty certain there would be time if they remained another day. Doctor Bronson listened to the appeal of the boys, and when they were through he took a toothpick from his pocket and settled back in his chair in the parlor of the hotel. "Your request is very natural and proper," he answered; "but there are several things to consider. Niagara has been described many times, and those who have never seen it can easily know about it from books and other accounts. Consequently what you would write about the Falls would be a repetition of much that has been written before, and even your personal impressions and experiences would not be far different from those of others. I advise you not to attempt anything of the kind, and, at all events, not to stop here a day for that purpose. Spend the evening in writing brief letters home, but do not undertake a description of the Falls. If you want to stay a day in order to see more, we will stay, but otherwise we will go on." The boys readily accepted Doctor Bronson's suggestion. They wrote short letters, and Frank did not forget Miss Effie. Then they went out to see the Falls by moonlight, and in good season they went to bed, where they slept admirably. The next day the journey was resumed, and they had a farewell view of Niagara from the windows of the car as they crossed the Suspension Bridge from the American to the Canadian side. On they went over the Great Western Railway of Canada, and then over the Michigan Central; and on the morning after leaving Niagara they rolled into Chicago. Here they spent a day in visiting the interesting places in the Lake City. An old friend of Doctor Bronson came to see him at the Tremont House, and took the party out for a drive. Under the guidance of this hospitable citizen, they were taken to see the City-hall, the stock-yards, the tunnel under the river, the grain-elevators, and other things with which every one who spends a short time in Chicago is sure to be made familiar. They were shown the traces of the great fire of 1870, and were shown, too, what progress had been made in rebuilding the city and removing the signs of the calamity. Before they finished their tour, they had absorbed much of the enthusiasm of their guide, and were ready to pronounce Chicago the most remarkable city of the present time. As they were studying the map to lay out their route westward, the boys noticed that the lines of the railways radiated in all directions from Chicago, like the diverging cords of a spider's web. Everywhere they stretched out except over the surface of Lake Michigan, where railway building has thus far been impossible. The Doctor explained that Chicago was one of the most important railway centres in the United States, and owed much of its prosperity to the network they saw on the map. "I have a question," said Frank, suddenly brightening up. "Well, what is it?" "Why is that network we have just been looking at like a crow calling to his mates?" "Give it up; let's have it." "Because it makes Chi-ca-go." "What's that to do with the crow?" Fred asked. "Why, everything," Frank answered; "the crow makes ye-caw-go, doesn't it?" "Now, Frank," the Doctor said, as he laughed over the conundrum, "making puns when we're a thousand miles from home and going west! However, that will do for a beginner; but don't try too often." Fred thought he must say something, but was undecided for a moment. The room was open, and as he looked into the hall, he saw the chambermaid approaching the opposite door with the evident intention of looking through the keyhole. This gave him his opportunity, and he proposed his question. "Why are we like that chambermaid over there?" "The Doctor and Frank couldn't tell, and Fred answered, triumphantly, "Because we're going to Pek-in." "I think you boys are about even now," said the Doctor, "and may stop for the present." They agreed to call it quits, and resumed their study of the map. [Illustration: FROM CHICAGO TO SAN FRANCISCO.] They decided to go by the Northwestern Railway to Omaha. From the latter place they had no choice of route, as there was only a single line of road between Omaha and California. [Illustration: OMAHA.] From Chicago westward they traversed the rich prairies of Illinois and Iowa--a broad expanse of flat country, which wearied them with its monotony. At Omaha they crossed the Missouri River on a long bridge; and while they were crossing, Frank wrote some lines in his note-book to the effect that the Missouri was the longest river in the world, and was sometimes called the "Big Muddy," on account of its color. It looked like coffee after milk has been added; and was once said by Senator Benton to be too thick to swim in, but not thick enough to walk on. Now they had a long ride before them. The Union Pacific Railway begins at Omaha and ends at Ogden, 1016 miles farther west. It connects at Ogden with the Central Pacific Railway, 882 miles long, which terminates at San Francisco. As they rode along they had abundant time to learn the history of the great enterprise that unites the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, and enables one to travel in a single week from New York to San Francisco. The Doctor had been over the route previously; and he had once crossed the Plains before the railway was constructed. Consequently, he was an excellent authority, and had an abundant store of information to draw from. "The old way of crossing the Plains and the new way of doing the same thing," said Doctor Bronson, "are as different as black and white. My first journey to California was with an ox wagon, and it took me six months to do it. Now we shall make the same distance in four days." "What a difference, indeed!" the boys remarked. [Illustration: ATTACKED BY INDIANS.] "We walked by the side of our teams or behind the wagons, we slept on the ground at night, we did our own cooking, we washed our knives by sticking them into the ground rapidly a few times, and we washed our plates with sand and wisps of grass. When we stopped, we arranged our wagons in a circle, and thus formed a 'corral,' or yard, where we drove our oxen to yoke them up. And the corral was often very useful as a fort, or camp, for defending ourselves against the Indians. Do you see that little hollow down there?" he asked, pointing to a depression in the ground a short distance to the right of the train. "Well, in that hollow our wagon-train was kept three days and nights by the Indians. Three days and nights they stayed around, and made several attacks. Two of our men were killed and three were wounded by their arrows, and others had narrow escapes. One arrow hit me on the throat, but I was saved by the knot of my neckerchief, and the point only tore the skin a little. Since that time I have always had a fondness for large neckties. I don't know how many of the Indians we killed, as they carried off their dead and wounded, to save them from being scalped. Next to getting the scalps of their enemies, the most important thing with the Indians is to save their own. We had several fights during our journey, but that one was the worst. Once a little party of us were surrounded in a small 'wallow,' and had a tough time to defend ourselves successfully. Luckily for us, the Indians had no fire-arms then, and their bows and arrows were no match for our rifles. Nowadays they are well armed, but there are not so many of them, and they are not inclined to trouble the railway trains. They used to do a great deal of mischief in the old times, and many a poor fellow has been killed by them." Frank asked if the Doctor saw any buffaloes in his first journey, and if he ever went on a buffalo-hunt. "Of course," was the reply; "buffaloes were far more numerous then than now, and sometimes the herds were so large that it took an entire day, or even longer, for one of them to cross the road. Twice we were unable to go on because the buffaloes were in the way, and so all of us who had rifles went out for a hunt. I was one of the lucky ones, and we went on in a party of four. Creeping along behind a ridge of earth, we managed to get near two buffaloes that were slightly separated from the rest of the herd. We spread out, and agreed that, at a given signal from the foremost man, we were to fire together--two at one buffalo and two at the other. We fired as we had agreed. One buffalo fell with a severe wound, and was soon finished with a bullet through his heart; the other turned and ran upon us, and, as I was the first man he saw, he ran at me. Just then I remembered that I had forgotten something at the camp, and, as I wanted it at once, I started back for it as fast as I could go. It was a sharp race between the buffalo and me, and, as he had twice as many legs as I could count, he made the best speed. I could hear his heavy breathing close behind me, and his footsteps, as he galloped along, sounded as though somebody were pounding the ground with a large hammer. Just as I began to think he would soon have me on his horns, I heard the report of a rifle at one side. Then the buffalo stumbled and fell, and I ventured to look around. One of the men from camp had fired just in time to save me from a very unpleasant predicament, and I concluded I didn't want any more buffalo-hunting for that day." Hardly had the Doctor finished his story when there was a long whistle from the locomotive, followed by several short ones. The speed of the train was slackened, and, while the passengers were wondering what was the matter, the conductor came into the car where our friends were seated and told them there was a herd of buffaloes crossing the track. "We shall run slowly through the herd," the conductor explained, "and you will have a good chance to see the buffalo at home." [Illustration: HERD OF BUFFALOES MOVING.] They opened the windows and looked out. Sure enough, the plain was covered, away to the south, with a dark expanse like a forest, but, unlike a forest, it appeared to be in motion. Very soon it was apparent that what seemed to be a forest was a herd of animals. [Illustration: AN OLD SETTLER.] As the train approached the spot where the herd was crossing the track, the locomotive gave its loudest and shrillest shrieks. The noise had the effect of frightening the buffaloes sufficiently to stop those which had not crossed, and in the gap thus formed the train moved on. The boys were greatly interested in the appearance of the beasts, and Frank declared he had never seen anything that looked more fierce than one of the old bulls, with his shaggy mane, his humped shoulders, and his sharp, glittering eyes. He was quite contented with the shelter of the railway-car, and said if the buffalo wanted him he must come inside to get him; or give him a good rifle, so that they could meet on equal terms. Several of the passengers fired at the buffaloes, but Fred was certain he did not see anything drop. In half an hour the train had passed through the herd, and was moving on as fast as ever. On and on they went. The Doctor pointed out many places of interest, and told them how the road was built through the wilderness. [Illustration: "END OF TRACK."] "It was," said he, "the most remarkable enterprise, in some respects, that has ever been known. The working force was divided into parties like the divisions of an army, and each had its separate duties. Ties were cut and hauled to the line of the road; the ground was broken and made ready for the track; then the ties were placed in position, the rails were brought forward and spiked in place, and so, length by length, the road crept on. On the level, open country, four or five miles of road were built every day, and in one instance they built more than seven miles in a single day. There was a construction-train, where the laborers boarded and lodged, and this train went forward every day with the road. It was a sort of moving city, and was known as the 'End of Track;' there was a post-office in it, and a man who lived there could get his letters the same as though his residence had been stationary. The Union Pacific Company built west from Omaha, while the Central Pacific Company built east from Sacramento. They met in the Great Salt Lake valley; and then there was a grand ceremony over the placing of the last rail to connect the East with the West. The continent was spanned by the railway, and our great seaboards were neighbors." [Illustration: SNOW-SHEDS ON THE PACIFIC RAILWAY.] Westward and westward went our travellers. From the Missouri River, the train crept gently up the slope of the Rocky Mountains, till it halted to take breath at the summit of the Pass, more than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. Then, speeding on over the Laramie Plains, down into the great basin of Utah, winding through the green carpet of Echo Cañon, skirting the shores of Great Salt Lake, shooting like a sunbeam over the wastes of the alkali desert, climbing the Sierra Nevada, darting through the snow-sheds and tunnels, descending the western slope to the level of the Pacific, it came to a halt at Oakland, on the shore of San Francisco Bay. The last morning of their journey our travellers were among the snows on the summit of the Sierras; at noon they were breathing the warm air of the lowlands of California, and before sundown they were looking out through the Golden Gate upon the blue waters of the great Western ocean. Nowhere else in the world does the railway bring all the varieties of climate more closely together. [Illustration: VIEW AT CAPE HORN, CENTRAL PACIFIC RAILWAY.] San Francisco, the City by the Sea, was full of interest for our young adventurers. They walked and rode through its streets; they climbed its steep hill-sides; they gazed at its long lines of magnificent buildings; they went to the Cliff House, and saw the sea-lions by dozens and hundreds, within easy rifle-shot of their breakfast-table; they steamed over the bay, where the navies of the world might find safe anchorage; they had a glimpse of the Flowery Kingdom, in the Chinese quarter; and they wondered at the vegetable products of the Golden State as they found them in the market-place. Long letters were written home, and before they had studied California to their satisfaction it was time for them to set sail for what Fred called "the under-side of the world." [Illustration: SEAL-ROCKS, SAN FRANCISCO.] CHAPTER III. ON THE PACIFIC OCEAN. Officers and men were at their posts, and the good steamer _Oceanic_ was ready for departure. It was a few minutes before noon. As the first note was sounded on the bell, the gangway plank was drawn in. "One," "two," "three," "four," "five," "six," "seven," "eight," rang out from the sonorous metal. [Illustration: DEPARTURE FROM SAN FRANCISCO.] The captain gave the order to cast off the lines. Hardly had the echo of his words ceased before the lines had fallen. Then he rang the signal to the engineer, and the great screw began to revolve beneath the stern of the ship. Promptly at the advertised time the huge craft was under way. The crowd on the dock cheered as she moved slowly on, and they cheered again as she gathered speed and ploughed the water into a track of foam. The cheers grew fainter and fainter; faces and forms were no longer to be distinguished; the waving of hats and kerchiefs ceased; the long dock became a speck of black against the hilly shore, and the great city faded from sight. Overhead was the immense blue dome of the sky; beneath and around were the waters of San Francisco Bay. On the right was Monte Diablo, like an advanced sentinel of the Sierras; and on the left were the sand-hills of the peninsula, covered with the walls and roofs of the great city of the Pacific Coast. The steamer moved on and on through the Golden Gate; and in less than an hour from the time of leaving the dock, she dropped her pilot, the gangway passage was closed, and her prow pointed to the westward for a voyage of five thousand miles. [Illustration: DROPPING THE PILOT.] "What a lovely picture!" said the Doctor, as he waved his hand towards the receding shore. "Why do they call that the Golden Gate?" Fred asked. [Illustration: THE GOLDEN GATE.] "Because," was the reply, "it is, or was, the entrance to the land of gold. It was so named after the discovery of gold in California, and until he completion of the Overland railway it was the principal pathway to the country where everybody expected to make a fortune." "It is very wide, and easy of navigation," the Doctor continued, "and yet a stranger might not be aware of its existence, and might sail by it if he did not know where to look for the harbor. A ship must get well in towards the land before the Golden Gate is visible." "How long shall we be on the voyage, Doctor?" "If nothing happens," he answered, "we shall see the coast of Japan in about twenty days. We have five thousand miles to go, and I understand the steamer will make two hundred and fifty miles a day in good weather." "Will we stop anywhere on the way?" "There is not a stopping-place on the whole route. We are not yet out of sight of the Golden Gate, and already we are steering for Cape King, at the entrance of Yeddo Bay. There's not even an island, or a solitary rock on our course." "I thought I had read about an island where the steamers intended to stop," Fred remarked. "So you have," was the reply; "an island was discovered some years ago, and was named Brook's Island, in honor of its discoverer. It was thought at first that the place might be convenient as a coaling station, but it is too far from the track of the steamers, and, besides, it has no harbor where ships can anchor. "There is a curious story in connection with it. In 1816 a ship, the _Canton_, sailed from Sitka, and was supposed to have been lost at sea, as she never reached her destination. Fifty years later this island was discovered, and upon it was part of the wreck of the _Canton_. There were traces of the huts which were built by the crew during their stay, and it was evident that they constructed a smaller vessel from the fragments of the wreck, and sailed away in it." "And were lost in it, I suppose?" "Undoubtedly, as nothing has ever been heard from them. They did not leave any history of themselves on the island, or, at any rate, none was ever found." [Illustration: IN THE FIRE-ROOM.] At this moment the steward rang the preparatory bell for dinner, and the conversation ended. Half an hour later dinner was on the table, and the passengers sat down to it. The company was not a large one, and there was abundant room and abundant food for everybody. The captain was at the head of the table, and the purser at the foot, and between them were the various passengers in the seats which had been reserved for them by the steward. The passengers included an American consul on his way to his post in China, and an American missionary, bound for the same country. There were several merchants, interested in commercial matters between the United States and the Far East; two clerks, going out to appointments in China; two sea-captains, going to take command of ships; a doctor and a mining engineer in the service of the Japanese government; half a dozen "globe-trotters," or tourists; and a very mysterious and nondescript individual, whom we shall know more about as we proceed. The consul and the missionary were accompanied by their families. Their wives and daughters were the only ladies among the passengers, and, according to the usual custom on board steamers, they were seated next to the captain in the places of highest honor. Doctor Bronson and his young companions were seated near the purser, whom they found very amiable, and they had on the opposite side of the table the two sea-captains already mentioned. Everybody appeared to realize that the voyage was to be a long one, and the sooner the party became acquainted, the better. By the end of dinner they had made excellent progress, and formed several likes and dislikes that increased as time went on. In the evening the passengers sat about the cabin or strolled on deck, continuing to grow in acquaintance, and before the ship had been twenty-four hours at sea it was hard to realize that the company had been assembled so recently. Brotherly friendships as well as brotherly hatreds grew with the rapidity of a beanstalk, and, happily, the friendships were greatly in the majority. [Illustration: THE ENGINEER AT HIS POST.] Life on a steamship at sea has many peculiarities. The ship is a world in itself, and its boundaries are narrow. You see the same faces day after day, and on a great ocean like the Pacific there is little to attract the attention outside of the vessel that carries you. You have sea and sky to look upon to-day as you looked upon them yesterday, and will look on them to-morrow. The sky may be clear or cloudy; fogs may envelop you; storms may arise, or a calm may spread over the waters; the great ship goes steadily on and on. The pulsations of the engine seem like those of the human heart; and when you wake at night, your first endeavor, as you collect your thoughts, is to listen for that ceaseless throbbing. One falls into a monotonous way of life, and the days run on one after another, till you find it difficult to distinguish them apart. The hours for meals are the principal hours of the day, and with many persons the table is the place of greatest importance. They wander from deck to saloon, and from saloon to deck again, and hardly has the table been cleared after one meal, before they are thinking what they will have for the next. The managers of our great ocean lines have noted this peculiarity of human nature; some of them give no less than five meals a day, and if a passenger should wish to eat something between times, he could be accommodated. Our young friends were too much absorbed with the novelty of their situation to allow the time to hang heavy on their hands. Everything was new and strange to them, but, of course, it was far otherwise with Doctor Bronson. They had many questions to ask, and he was never weary of answering, as he saw they were endeavoring to remember what they heard, and were not interrogating him from idle curiosity. "What is the reason they don't strike the hours here as they do on land?" Frank inquired, as they reached the deck after dinner. The Doctor explained that at sea the time is divided into watches, or periods, of four hours each. The bell strikes once for each half-hour, until four hours, or eight bells, are reached, and then they begin again. One o'clock is designated as "two bells," half-past one is "three bells," and four o'clock is "eight bells." Eight o'clock, noon, and midnight are also signalled by eight strokes on the bell, and after a little while a traveller accustoms himself to the new mode of keeping time. Fred remembered that when they left San Francisco at noon, the bell struck eight times, instead of twelve, as he thought it should have struck. The Doctor's explanation made it clear to him. The second day out the boys began to repeat all the poetry they could remember about the sea, and were surprised at the stock they had on hand. Fred recalled something he had read in _Harper's Magazine_, which ran as follows: "Far upon the unknown deep, 'Mid the billows circling round, Where the tireless sea-birds sweep; Outward bound. Nothing but a speck we seem, In the waste of waters round, Floating, floating like a dream; Outward bound." Frank was less sentimental, and repeated these lines: "Two things break the monotony Of a great ocean trip: Sometimes, alas! you ship a sea, And sometimes see a ship." Then they called upon the Doctor for a contribution, original or selected, with this result: "The praises of the ocean grand, 'Tis very well to sing on land. 'Tis very fine to hear them carolled By Thomas Campbell or Childe Harold; But sad, indeed, to see that ocean From east to west in wild commotion." [Illustration: THE WIND RISING.] The wind had been freshening since noon, and the rolling motion of the ship was not altogether agreeable to the inexperienced boys. They were about to have their first acquaintance with sea-sickness; and though they held on manfully and remained on deck through the afternoon, the ocean proved too much for them, and they had no appetite for dinner or supper. But their malady did not last long, and by the next morning they were as merry as ever, and laughed over the event. They asked the Doctor to explain the cause of their trouble, but he shook his head, and said the whole thing was a great puzzle. "Sea-sickness is a mystery," said he, "and the more you study it, the less you seem to understand it. Some persons are never disturbed by the motion of a ship, no matter how violent it may be, while others cannot endure the slightest rocking. Most of the sufferers recover in a short time, and after two or three days at sea are as well as ever, and continue so. On the other hand, there are some who never outlive its effects, and though their voyage may last a year or more, they are no better sailors at the end than at the beginning. "I knew a young man," he continued, "who entered the Naval Academy, and graduated. When he was appointed to service on board a ship, he found himself perpetually sick on the water; after an experience of two years, and finding no improvement, he resigned. Such occurrences are by no means rare. I once travelled with a gentleman who was a splendid sailor in fine weather; but when it became rough, he was all wrong, and went to bed." "Were you ever sea-sick, Doctor?" queried Frank. "Never," was the reply, "and I had a funny incident growing out of this fact on my first voyage. We were going out of New York harbor, and I made the acquaintance of the man who was to share my room. As he looked me over, he asked me if I had ever been to sea. "I told him I never had, and then he remarked that I was certain to be sea-sick, he could see it in my face. He said he was an old traveller, and rarely suffered, and then he gave me some advice as to what I should do when I began to feel badly. I thanked him and went on deck. "As the ship left the harbor, and went outside to the open Atlantic, she encountered a heavy sea. It was so rough that the majority of the passengers disappeared below. I didn't suffer in the least, and didn't go to the cabin for two or three hours. There I found that my new friend was in his bed with the very malady he had predicted for me." "What did you do then, Doctor?" "Well, I repeated to him the advice he had given me, and told him I saw in his face that he was sure to be sea-sick. He didn't recover during the whole voyage, and I never suffered a moment." The laugh that followed the story of the Doctor's experience was interrupted by the breakfast-bell, and the party went below. There was a light attendance, and the purser explained that several passengers had gone ashore. "Which is a polite way of saying that they are not inclined to come out," the Doctor remarked. "Exactly so," replied the purser, "they think they would make the best appearance alone." Captain Spofford, who sat opposite to Frank, remarked that he knew an excellent preventive of sea-sickness. Frank asked what it was. "Always stay at home," was the reply. "Yes," answered Frank, "and to escape drowning you should never go near the water." Fred said the best thing to prevent a horse running away was to sell him off. Everybody had a joke of some kind to propose, and the breakfast party was a merry one. Suddenly Captain Spofford called out, "There she blows!" and pointed through the cabin window. Before the others could look, the rolling of the ship had brought the window so far above the water that they saw nothing. "What is it?" Fred asked. "A whale," Captain Spofford answered. "What he is doing here, I don't know. This isn't a whaling-ground." They went on deck soon after, and, sure enough, several whales were in sight. Every little while a column of spray was thrown into the air, and indicated there was a whale beneath it. [Illustration: SPOUTS.] Frank asked why it was the whale "spouted," or blew up, the column of spray. Captain Spofford explained that the whale is not, properly speaking, a fish, but an animal. "He has warm blood, like a cow or horse," said the Captain, "and he must come to the surface to breathe. He takes a certain amount of water into his lungs along with the air, and when he throws it out, it makes the spray you have seen, and which the sailors call a spout." It turned out that the Captain was an old whaleman. The boys wanted to hear some whaling stories, and their new friend promised to tell them some during the evening. When the time came for the narration, the boys were ready, and so was the old mariner. The Doctor joined the party, and the four found a snug corner in the cabin where they were not likely to be disturbed. The Captain settled himself as comfortably as possible, and then began the account of his adventures in pursuit of the monsters of the deep. [Illustration: WHALE-SHIP OUTWARD BOUND.] CHAPTER IV. INCIDENTS OF A WHALING VOYAGE. Captain Spofford was a weather-beaten veteran who gave little attention to fine clothes, and greatly preferred his rough jacket and soft hat to what he called "Sunday gear." He was much attached to his telescope, which he had carried nearly a quarter of a century, and on the present occasion he brought it into the cabin, and held it in his hand while he narrated his whaling experiences. He explained that he could talk better in the company of his old spy-glass, as it would remind him of things he might forget without its aid, and also check him if he went beyond the truth. [Illustration: CAPTAIN SPOFFORD TELLING HIS STORY.] "There are very few men in the whaling business now," said he, "compared to the number twenty-five years ago. Whales are growing scarcer every year, and petroleum has taken the place of whale-oil. Consequently, the price of the latter is not in proportion to the difficulty of getting it. New Bedford used to be an important seaport, and did an enormous business. It is played out now, and is as dull and sleepy as a cemetery. It was once the great centre of the whaling business, and made fortunes for a good many men; but you don't hear of fortunes in whaling nowadays. [Illustration] "I went to sea from New Bedford when I was twelve years old, and kept at whaling for near on to twenty-seven years. From cabin-boy, I crept up through all the ranks, till I became captain and part owner, and it was a good deal of satisfaction to me to be boss of a ship, I can tell you. When I thought I had had enough of it I retired, and bought a small farm. I stocked and ran it after my own fashion, called one of my oxen 'Port' and the other 'Starboard,' had a little mound like my old quarter-deck built in my garden, and used to go there to take my walks. I had a mast with cross-trees fixed in this mound, and used to go up there, and stay for hours, and call out 'There she blows!' whenever I saw a bird fly by, or anything moving anywhere. I slept in a hammock under a tent, and when I got real nervous I had one of my farm-hands rock me to sleep in the hammock, and throw buckets of water against the sides of the tent, so's I could imagine I was on the sea again. But 'twasn't no use, and I couldn't cure myself of wanting to be on blue water once more. So I left my farm in my wife's hands, and am going out to Shanghai to command a ship whose captain died at Hong-Kong five months ago. "So much for history. Now we'll talk about whales. [Illustration: SPERM-WHALE.] "There are several kinds of them--sperm-whales, right-whales, bow-heads; and a whaleman can tell one from the other as easy as a farmer can tell a cart-horse from a Shetland pony. The most valuable is the sperm-whale, as his oil is much better, and brings more money; and then we get spermaceti from him to make candles of, which we don't get from the others. He's a funny-looking brute, as his head is a third of his whole length; and when you've cut it off, there doesn't seem to be much whale left of him. "I sailed for years in a sperm-whaler in the South Pacific, and had a good many lively times. The sperm-whale is the most dangerous of all, and the hardest to kill; he fights with his tail and his mouth, while the others fight only with their tails. A right-whale or a bow-head will lash the water and churn it up into foam; and if he hits a boat with his tail, he crushes it as if it was an egg-shell. A sperm-whale will do all this, and more too; he takes a boat in his mouth, and chews it, which the others never do. And when he chews it, he makes fine work of it, I can tell you, and short work, too. "Sometimes he takes a shy at a ship, and rushes at it, head on. Two ships are known to have been sunk in this way; one of them was the _Essex_, which the whale ran into three times, and broke her timbers so that she filled. The crew took to the boats, and made for the coast of South America. One boat was never heard from, one reached the coast, and the third was picked up near Valparaiso with everybody dead but two, and those barely alive. Provisions and water had given out, and another day would have finished the poor fellows. Another ship was the _Union_, which was stove right under the bows by a single blow from a sperm-whale, and went down in half an hour. "I was fifteen years old when I pulled my first oar in a whale-boat; I was boat-steerer at eighteen, and second mate at twenty, and before I was twenty-one I had known what it was to be in the mouth of a sperm-whale. It is hardly necessary to say that I got out of it as fast as I could, and didn't stop to see if my hair was combed and my shirt-collar buttoned. A man has no time to put on frills under such circumstances. [Illustration: "THERE SHE BLOWS!"] "The way of it was this. The lookout in the cross-trees--we always keep a man up aloft to look out for whales when we're on cruising ground--the man had called out, 'There she blows!' and everybody was on his feet in an instant. "'Where away?' shouted the first mate. "'Two points on the weather bow.' "And before the words had done echoing he called out 'There she blows' again, and a moment after again. That meant that he had seen two more whales. "We put two boats into the water, the first mate's and mine, and away we went. We pulled our best, and the boats fairly bounced through the waves. It was a race to see who could strike the first whale; we had a good half mile to go, and we went like race-horses. "Each boat has six men in her--a boat-steerer, as he is called, and five at the oars. The boat-steerer handles the harpoon and lance and directs the whole movement; in fact, for the time, he is captain of the boat. [Illustration: IMPLEMENTS USED IN WHALING.] "The first mate's boat headed me a little, and made for a big fellow on the starboard. I went for another, and we struck almost at the same instant. Within three boat-lengths, I stood up, braced my feet firmly, poised my harpoon, and made ready to strike. The whale didn't know we were about, and was taking it very easy. The bow of the boat was about ten feet from his black skin when I sent the iron spinning and whizzing away, and buried it deep in his flesh. Didn't he give a jump! You can bet he did. "'Starn all! starn all! for your lives!' I yelled. "There wasn't a moment lost, and the boat went back by the force of the strong arms of the men." [Illustration: WHALE "BREACHING."] "The whale lashed about and then 'breached;' that is, he threw his great body out of the water, giving me a chance to get in a second harpoon. Then he sounded--that is, he went down--and the lines ran out so fast that the side of the boat fairly smoked when they went over. He ran off two hundred fathoms of line before he stopped, and then we felt the line slack and knew he would soon be up again. "Up he came not a hundred yards from where he went down, and as he came up he caught sight of the boat. He went for it as a cat goes for a mouse. "The sperm-whale can't see straight ahead, as his eyes are set far back, and seem to be almost on his sides. He turns partly round to get a glimpse of a boat, then ports his helm, drops his jaw, calculates his distance, and goes ahead at full speed. His jaw is set very low, and sometimes he turns over, or partly over, to strike his blow. [Illustration: IN THE WHALE'S JAW.] "This time he whirled and took the bow of the boat in his mouth, crushing it as though it had been made of paper. We jumped out, the oars flew all around us, the sea was a mass of foam, and the whale chewed the boat as though it was a piece of sugar-candy and he hadn't seen any for a month. "We were all in the water, and nobody hurt. The first mate's boat had killed its whale inside of ten minutes, and before he tried to sound. They left the whale and came to pick us up; then they hurried and made fast to him, as another ship was coming up alongside of ours, and we might lose our game. It is a rule of the sea that you lose your claim to a whale when you let go, even though you may have killed him. Hang on to him and he's yours, though you may hang with only a trout-line and a minnow-hook. It's been so decided in the courts. "The captain sent another boat from the ship, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing my whale dead on the water. He got the lance right in his vitals, and went into his 'flurry,' as we call it. The flurry is the whale's convulsive movements just before death, and sometimes he does great damage as he thrashes about." Frank wished to know how large the whale was, and how large whales are generally. "We don't reckon whales by their length," Captain Spofford answered, "but by the number of barrels of oil they make. Ask any old captain how long the largest whale was that he ever took, and the chances are he'll begin to estimate by the length of his ship, and frankly tell you he never measured one. I measured the largest sperm-whale I ever took, and found him seventy-nine feet long; he made a hundred and seven barrels of oil. Here's the figures of him: nose to neck, twenty-six feet; neck to hump, twenty-nine feet; hump to tail, seventeen feet; tail, seven feet. His tail was sixteen feet across, and he was forty-one feet six inches around the body. He had fifty-one teeth, and the heaviest weighed twenty-five ounces. We took nineteen barrels of oil from his case, the inside of the head, where we dipped it out with a bucket. I know one captain that captured a sperm-whale ninety feet long, that made a hundred and thirty-seven barrels, and there was another sperm taken by the ship _Monka_, of New Bedford, that made a hundred and forty-five barrels. I don't know how long he was. "There's a wonderful deal of excitement in fastening to a whale, and having a fight with him. You have the largest game that a hunter could ask for; you have the cool pure air of the ocean, and the blue waters all about you. A thrill goes through every nerve as you rise to throw the sharp iron into the monster's side, and the thrill continues when he plunges wildly about, and sends the line whistling over. He sinks, and he rises again; he dashes away to windward, and struggles to escape; you hold him fast, and, large as he is in proportion to yourself, you feel that he must yield to you, though, perhaps, not till after a hard battle. At length he lies exhausted, and you approach for the final blow with the lance. Another thrilling moment, another, and another; and if fortune is in your favor, your prize is soon motionless before you. And the man who cannot feel an extra beat of his pulse at such a time must be made of cooler stuff than the most of us. "But you don't get all the whales you see, by a long shot. Many a whale gets away before you can fasten to him, and many another whale, after you have laid on and fastened, will escape you. He sinks, and tears the iron loose; he runs away to windward ten or twenty miles an hour, and you must cut the line to save your lives; he smashes the boat, and perhaps kills some of his assailants; he dies below the surface, and when he dies there he stays below, and you lose him; and sometimes he shows such an amount of toughness that he seems to bear a charmed life. We fight him with harpoon and lance, and in these later days they have an invention called the bomb-lance or whaling-gun. A bomb-shell is thrown into him with a gun like a large musket, and it explodes down among his vitals. There's another gun that is fastened to the shaft of a harpoon, and goes off when the whale tightens the line; and there's another that throws a lance half-way through him. Well, there are whales that can stand all these things and live. [Illustration: CAPTAIN HUNTING'S FIGHT.] "Captain Hunting, of New Bedford, had the worst fight that I know of, while he was on a cruise in the South Atlantic. When he struck the fellow--it was a tough old bull that had been through fights before, I reckon--the whale didn't try to escape, but turned on the boat, bit her in two, and kept on thrashing the wreck till he broke it up completely. Another boat picked up the men and took them to the ship, and then two other boats went in on him. Each of them got in two irons, and that made him mad; he turned around and chewed those boats, and he stuck closely to business until there wasn't a mouthful left. The twelve swimmers were picked up by the boat which had taken the first lot to the ship; two of the men had climbed on his back, and he didn't seem to mind them. He kept on chewing away at the oars, sails, masts, planks, and other fragments of the boats; and whenever anything touched his body, he turned and munched away at it. There he was with six harpoons in him, and each harpoon had three hundred fathoms of line attached to it. Captain Hunting got out two spare boats, and started with them and the saved boat to renew the fight. He got alongside and sent a bomb-lance charged with six inches of powder right into the whale's vitals, just back of his fin. When the lance was fired, he turned and tore through the boat like a hurricane, scattering everything. The sun was setting, four boats were gone with all their gear and twelve hundred fathoms of line, the spare boats were poorly provided, the men were wearied and discouraged, and Captain Hunting hauled off and admitted himself beaten by a whale." [Illustration: A GAME FELLOW.] The nondescript individual whom we saw among the passengers early in the voyage had joined the party, and heard the story of Captain Hunting's whale. When it was ended, he ventured to say something on the subject of whaling. "That wasn't a circumstance," he remarked, "to the great whale that used to hang around the Philippine Islands. He was reckoned to be a king, as all the other whales took off their hats to him, and used to get down on their front knees when he came around. His skin was like leather, and he was stuck so full of harpoons that he looked like a porcupine under a magnifying-glass. Every ship that saw him used to put an iron into him, and I reckon you could get up a good history of the whale-fishery if you could read the ships' names on all of them irons. Lots of whalers fought with him, but he always came out first best. Captain Sammis of the _Ananias_ had the closest acquaintance with him, and the way he tells it is this: "'We'd laid into him, and his old jaw came up and bit off the bow of the boat. As he bit he gave a fling, like, and sent me up in the air; and when I came down, there was the whale, end up and mouth open waiting for me. His throat looked like a whitewashed cellar-door; but I saw his teeth were wore smooth down to the gums, and that gave me some consolation. When I struck his throat he snapped for me, but I had good headway, and disappeared like a piece of cake in a family of children. When I was splashing against the soft sides of his stomach, I heard his jaws snapping like the flapping of a mainsail. "'I was rather used up and tired out, and a little bewildered, and so I sat down on the southwest corner of his liver, and crossed my legs while I got my wits together. It wasn't dark down there, as there was ten thousand of them little sea jellies shinin' there, like second-hand stars, in the wrinkles of his stomach, and then there was lots of room too. By-an'-by, while I was lookin' round, I saw a black patch on the starboard side of his stomach, and went over to examine it. There I found printed in injey ink, in big letters, "Jonah, B.C. 1607." Then I knew where I was, and I began to feel real bad. "'I opened my tobacco-box to take a mouthful of fine-cut to steady my nerves. I suppose my hand was a little unsteady; anyhow, I dropped some of the tobacco on the floor of the whale's stomach. It gave a convulsive jump, and I saw at once the whale wasn't used to it. I picked up a jack-knife I saw layin' on the floor, and cut a ping of tobacco into fine snuff, and scattered it around in the little wrinkles in the stomach. You should have seen how the medicine worked. The stomach began to heave as though a young earthquake had opened up under it, and then it squirmed and twisted, and finally turned wrong side out, and flopped me into the sea. The mate's boat was there picking up the men from the smashed boat, and just as they had given me up for lost they saw me and took me in. They laughed when I told them of the inside of the whale, and the printin' I saw there; but when I showed them the old jack-knife with the American eagle on one side and Jonah's name on the other, they stopped laughin' and looked serious. It is always well to have something on hand when you are tellin' a true story, and that knife was enough.' [Illustration: A FREE RIDE.] "That same captain," he continued, "was once out for a whale, but when they killed him, they were ten miles from the ship. The captain got on the dead whale, and sent the boat back to let the ship know where they were. After they had gone, a storm came on and drove the ship away, and there the captain stayed three weeks. He stuck an oar into the whale to hang on to, and the third week a ship hove in sight. As he didn't know what she was, he hoisted the American flag, which he happened to have a picture of on his pocket-handkerchief; and pretty soon the ship hung out her colors, and her captain came on board. Captain Sammis was tired of the monotony of life on a whale, and so he sold out his interest to the visitor. He got half the oil and a passage to Honolulu, where he found his own craft all right." [Illustration: CAPTAIN SAMMIS SELLING OUT.] "You say he remained three weeks on the back of that whale," said one of the listeners. "Yes, I said three weeks." "Well, how did he live all that time?" "How can I tell?" was the reply; "that's none of my business. Probably he took his meals at the nearest restaurant and slept at home. And if you don't believe my story, I can't help it--I've done the best I can." With this remark he rose and walked away. It was agreed that there was a certain air of improbability about his narrations, and Frank ventured the suggestion that the stranger would never get into trouble on account of telling too much truth. They had a curiosity to know something about the man. Doctor Bronson questioned the purser and ascertained that he was entered on the passenger-list as Mr. A. of America; but whence he came, or what was his business, no one could tell. He had spoken to but few persons since they left port, and the bulk of his conversation had been devoted to stories like those about the whaling business. In short, he was a riddle no one could make out; and very soon he received from the other passengers the nickname of "The Mystery." Fred suggested that Mystery and Mr. A. were so nearly alike that the one name was as good as the other. While they were discussing him, he returned suddenly and said: "The Captain says there are indications of a water-spout to-morrow; and perhaps we may be destroyed by it." With these words he withdrew, and was not seen any more that evening. Fred wished to know what a water-spout was like, and was promptly set at rest by the Doctor. [Illustration: SHOOTING AT A WATER-SPOUT.] "A water-spout," the latter remarked, "is often seen in the tropics, but rarely in this latitude. The clouds lie quite close to the water, and there appears to be a whirling motion to the latter; then the cloud and the sea beneath it become united by a column of water, and this column is what we call a water-spout. It is generally believed that the water rises, through this spout, from the sea to the clouds, and sailors are fearful of coming near them lest their ships may be deluged and sunk. They usually endeavor to destroy them by firing guns at them, and this was done on board a ship where I was once a passenger. When the ball struck the spout, there was a fall of water sufficient to have sunk us if we had been beneath it, and we all felt thankful that we had escaped the danger." CHAPTER V. ARRIVAL IN JAPAN. The great ship steamed onward, day after day and night after night. There was no storm to break the monotony; no sail showed itself on the horizon; no one left the steamer, and no new-comers appeared; nobody saw fit to quarrel with any one else; and there was not a passenger who showed a disposition to quarrel with his surroundings. Stories were told and songs were sung, to while away the time; and, finally, on the twentieth day, the captain announced that they were approaching land, and the voyage would soon be over. [Illustration: FRANK STUDYING NAVIGATION.] Our young travellers had found a daily interest in the instruments by which a mariner ascertains his ship's position. Frank had gone so far as to borrow the captain's extra copy of "Bowditch's Navigator" and study it at odd intervals, and after a little while he comprehended the uses of the various instruments employed in finding a way over the trackless ocean. He gave Fred a short lecture on the subject, which was something like the following: "Of course, you know, Fred, all about the mariner's compass, which points towards the north, and always tells where north is. Now, if we know where north is, we can find south, east, and west without much trouble." Fred admitted the claim, and repeated the formula he had learned at school: Face towards the north, and back towards the south; the right hand east, and the left hand west. "Now," continued Frank, "there are thirty-two points of the compass; do you know them?" Fred shook his head; and then Frank explained that the four he had named were the cardinal points, while the other twenty-eight were the divisions between the cardinal points. One of the first duties of a sailor was to "box the compass," that is, to be able to name all these divisions. "Let me hear you box the compass, Frank," said Doctor Bronson, who was standing near. "Certainly, I can," Frank answered, and then began: "North, north by east, north-northeast, northeast by north, northeast, northeast by east, east-northeast, east by north, east--" "That will do," said the Doctor; "you have given one quadrant, or a quarter of the circle; I'm sure you can do the rest easily, for it goes on in the same way." "You see," Frank continued, "that you know by the compass exactly in what direction you are going; then, if you know how many miles you go in a day or an hour, you can calculate your place at sea. "That mode of calculation is called 'dead-reckoning,' and is quite simple, but it isn't very safe." "Why so?" Fred asked. "Because it is impossible to steer a ship with absolute accuracy when she is rolling and pitching about, and, besides, the winds make her drift a little to one side. Then there are currents that take her off her course, and sometimes they are very strong." "Yes, I know," Fred replied; "there's the Gulf Stream, in the Atlantic Ocean, everybody has heard of; it is a great river in the sea, and flows north at the rate of three or four miles an hour." "There's another river like it in the Pacific Ocean," Frank explained; "it is called the Japan Current, because it flows close to the coast of Japan. It goes through Behring Strait into the Arctic Ocean, and then it comes south by the coast of Greenland, and down by Newfoundland. That's what brings the icebergs south in the Atlantic, and puts them in the way of the steamers between New York and Liverpool. "On account of the uncertainty of dead-reckoning, the captain doesn't rely on it except when the fog is so thick that he can't get an observation." "What is that?" "Observing the positions of the sun and moon, and of certain stars with relation to each other. That is done with the quadrant and sextant; and then they use a chronometer, or clock, that tells exactly what the time is at Greenwich. Then, you see, this book is full of figures that look like multiplication-tables; and with these figures they 'work out their position;' that is, they find out where they are. Greenwich is near London, and all the tables are calculated from there." "But suppose a sailor was dropped down here suddenly, without knowing what ocean he was in; could he find out where he was without anybody telling him?" [Illustration: WORKING UP A RECKONING.] "Certainly; with the instruments I have named, the tables of figures, and a clear sky, so as to give good observations, he could determine his position with absolute accuracy. He gets his latitude by observing the sun at noon, and he gets his longitude by the chronometer and by observations of the moon. When he knows his latitude and longitude, he knows where he is, and can mark the place on the map." Fred opened his eyes with an expression of astonishment, and said he thought the science of navigation was something wonderful. The others agreed with him; and while they were discussing the advantages which it had given to the world, there was a call that sent them on deck at once. "Land, ho!" from the lookout forward. "Land, ho!" from the officer near the wheel-house. "Land, ho!" from the captain, as he emerged from his room, just aft of the wheel. "Where away?" "Dead ahead, sir," replied the officer. "'Tis Fusiyama, sir." The boys looked in the direction indicated, but could see nothing. This is not surprising, when we remember that sailors' eyes are accustomed to great distances, and can frequently see objects distinctly long before landsmen can make them out. But by-and-by they could distinguish the outline of a cone, white as a cloud and nearly as shadowy. It was the Holy Mountain of Japan, and they recognized the picture they had seen so many times upon Japanese fans and other objects. As they watched it, the form grew more and more distinct, and after a time they no longer doubted that they looked at Fusiyama. "Just to think," Fred exclaimed, "when we left San Francisco, we steered for this mountain, five thousand miles away, and here it is, right before us. Navigation is a wonderful science, and no mistake." As the ship went on, the mountain grew more and more distinct, and by-and-by other features of Japanese scenery were brought into view. The western horizon became a serrated line, that formed an agreeable contrast to the unbroken curve they had looked upon so many days; and as the sun went down, it no longer dipped into the sea and sank beneath the waves. All on board the ship were fully aware they were approaching land. [Illustration: VIEW IN THE BAY OF YEDDO.] During the night they passed Cape King and entered Yeddo bay. The great light-house that watches the entrance shot its rays far out over the waters and beamed a kindly welcome to the strangers. Slowly they steamed onward, keeping a careful lookout for the numerous boats and junks that abound there, and watching the hundreds of lights that gleamed along the shore and dotted the sloping hill-sides. Sixty miles from Cape King, they were in front of Yokohama; the engines stopped, the anchor fell, the chain rattled through the hawse-hole, and the ship was at rest, after her long journey from San Francisco. Our young adventurers were in Japan. With the first streak of dawn the boys were on deck, where they were joined by Doctor Bronson. The sun was just rising when the steamer dropped her anchor, and, consequently, their first day in the new country was begun very early. There was an abundance of sights for the young eyes, and no lack of subjects for conversation. Hardly was the anchor down before the steamer was surrounded by a swarm of little boats, and Frank thought they were the funniest boats he had ever seen. [Illustration: JAPANESE JUNK AND BOATS.] "They are called 'sampans,'" Doctor Bronson explained, "and are made entirety of wood. Of late years the Japanese sometimes use copper or iron nails for fastenings; but formerly you found them without a particle of metal about them." "They don't look as if they could stand rough weather," said Fred. "See; they are low and square at the stern, and high and sharp at the bow; and they sit very low in the water." "They are not in accordance with our notions," replied the Doctor; "but they are excellent sea-boats, and I have known them to ride safely where an American boat would have been swamped. You observe how easily they go through the water. They can be handled very readily, and, certainly, the Japanese have no occasion to be ashamed of their craft." [Illustration: A JAPANESE IMPERIAL BARGE.] Frank had his eye on a sampan that was darting about like an active fish, first in one direction and then in another. It was propelled by a single oar in the hands of a brown-skinned boatman, who was not encumbered with a large amount of superfluous clothing. The oar was in two pieces--a blade and a handle--lashed together in such a way that they did not form a straight line. At first Frank thought there was something wrong about it; but he soon observed that the oars in all the boats were of the same pattern, and made in the same way. They were worked like sculls rather than like oars. The man kept the oar constantly beneath the water; and, as he moved it forwards and back, he turned it partly around. A rope near his hand regulated the distance the oar could be turned, and also kept it from rising out of the water or going too far below the surface. Nearly every boat contained a funny little furnace, only a few inches square, where the boatman boiled his tea and cooked the rice and fish that composed his food. Each boat had a deck of boards which were so placed as to be readily removed; but, at the same time, were secured against being washed away. Every one of these craft was perfectly clean, and while they were waiting around the ship, several of the boatmen occupied themselves by giving their decks a fresh scrubbing, which was not at all necessary. The Doctor took the occasion to say something about the cleanliness of the Japanese houses, and of the neat habits of the people generally, and added, "You will see it as you go among them, and cannot fail to be impressed by it. You will never hesitate to eat Japanese food through fear that it may not be clean; and this is more than you can say of every table in our own country." [Illustration: JAPANESE GOVERNMENT BOAT.] The steamer was anchored nearly half a mile from shore. English, French, German, and other ships were in the harbor; tenders and steam-launches were moving about; row-boats were coming and going; and, altogether, the port of Yokohama presented a lively appearance. Shoreward the picture was interesting. At the water's edge there was a stone quay or embankment, with two inner harbors, where small boats might enter and find shelter from occasional storms. This quay was the front of a street where carriages and pedestrians were moving back and forth. The farther side of the street was a row of buildings, and as nearly every one of these buildings had a yard in front filled with shade-trees, the effect was pretty. Away to the right was the Japanese part of Yokohama, while on the left was the foreign section. The latter included the row of buildings mentioned above; they stood on a level space which was only a few feet above the level of the bay. Back of this was a range of steep hills, which were covered nearly everywhere with a dense growth of trees and bushes, with little patches of gardens here and there. On the summits of the hills, and occasionally on their sides, were houses with wide verandas, and with great windows capable of affording liberal ventilation. Many of the merchants and other foreigners living in Yokohama had their residences in these houses, which were far more comfortable than the buildings near the water. Doctor Bronson explained that the lower part of Yokohama was called the "Bund," while the upper was known as the "Bluff." Business was transacted in the Bund, and many persons lived there; but the Bluff was the favorite place for a residence, and a great deal of money had been expended in beautifying it. The quarantine officials visited the steamer, and after a brief inspection she was pronounced healthy, and permission was given for the passengers to go on shore. Runners from the hotels came in search of patrons, and clerks from several of the prominent business houses came on board to ask for letters and news. Nearly every commercial establishment in Yokohama has its own boat and a special uniform for its rowers; so that they can be readily distinguished. One of the clerks who visited the ship seemed to be in search of somebody among the passengers, and that somebody proved to be our friend, The Mystery. The two had a brief conversation when they met, and it was in a tone so low that nobody could hear what was said. When it was over, The Mystery went below, and soon reappeared with a small satchel. Without a word of farewell to anybody, he entered the boat and was rowed to the shore at a very rapid rate. There was great activity at the forward gangway. The steerage passengers comprised about four hundred Chinese who were bound for Hong-Kong; but, as the steamer would lie a whole day at Yokohama, many of them were preparing to spend the day on shore. The boats crowded at the foot of the gangway, and there was a great contention among the boatmen to secure the patronage of the passengers. Occasionally one of the men fell into the water, owing to some unguarded movement; but he was soon out again, and clamoring as earnestly as ever. In spite of the excitement and activity, there was the most perfect good-nature. Nobody was inclined to fight with any one else, and all the competitors were entirely friendly. The Chinese made very close bargains with the boatmen, and were taken to and from the shore at prices which astonished the boys when they heard them. The Doctor explained that the tariff for a boat to take one person from ship to shore and back again, including an hour's waiting, was ten cents, with five cents added for every hour beyond one. In the present instance the Chinese passengers bargained to be taken on shore in the morning and back again at night for five cents each, and not more than four of them were to go in one boat. Fred thought it would require a long time for any of the boatmen to become millionnaires at this rate. Our travellers were not obliged to bargain for their conveyance, as they went ashore in the boat belonging to the hotel where they intended to stay. The runner of the hotel took charge of their baggage and placed it in the boat; and when all was ready, they shook hands with the captain and purser of the steamer, and wished them prosperous voyages in future. Several other passengers went ashore at the same time. Among them was Captain Spofford, who was anxious to compare the Yokohama of to-day with the one he had visited twenty years before. [Illustration: YOKOHAMA IN 1854.] He explained to the boys that when the American fleet came to Japan in 1854, there was only a small fishing village where the city now stands. Yokohama means "across the strand," and the city is opposite, or across the strand from, Kanagawa, which was established as the official port. The consuls formerly had their offices in Kanagawa, and continued to date their official documents there long after they had moved to the newer and more prosperous town. Yokohama was found much more agreeable, as there was a large open space there for erecting buildings, while the high bluffs gave a cooling shelter from the hot, stifling air of summer. Commercial prosperity caused it to grow rapidly, and made it the city we now find it. They reached the shore. Their baggage was placed on a large hand-cart, and they passed through the gateway of the Custom-house. A polite official, who spoke English, made a brief survey of their trunks; and, on their assurance that no dutiable goods were within, he did not delay them any further. The Japanese duties are only five per cent. on the value of the goods, and, consequently, a traveller could not perpetrate much fraud upon the revenue, even if he were disposed to do so. "Here you are in Japan," said the Doctor, as they passed through the gate. "Yes, here we are," Frank replied; "let's give three cheers for Japan." "Agreed," answered Fred, "and here we go--Hip! hip! hurrah!" The boys swung their hats and gave the three cheers. "And three more for friends at home!" Fred added. "Certainly," Frank responded. "Here we go again;" and there was another "Hip! hip! hurrah!" "And a cheer from you, Frank," remarked the Doctor, "for somebody we saw at the railway station." Frank gave another swing of his hat and another cheer. The Doctor and Fred united their voices to his, and with a hearty shout all around, they concluded the ceremony connected with their arrival in Japan. CHAPTER VI. FIRST DAY IN JAPAN. They had no difficulty in reaching the hotel, as they were in the hands of the runner of the establishment, who took good care that they did not go astray and fall into the clutches of the representative of the rival concern. The publicans of the open ports of Japan have a watchful eye for their interests, and the stranger does not have to wander long in the streets to find accommodation. The Doctor had been there before, and took great pains to have his bargain made with the utmost exactness, lest there might be a mistake at the time of his departure. "In Europe and Asia," he remarked to Frank, "a traveller soon learns that he cannot be too explicit in making his contracts at hotels; if he neglects this little formality, he will often find that his negligence has cost him something. The last time I was in Yokohama I had a very warm discussion with my landlord when I settled my bill, and I don't propose to have a repetition of it." The hotel was much like an American house in its general characteristics, both in the arrangement of the rooms and the style of furniture. The proprietors and managers were foreigners, but the servants were native and were dressed in Japanese costume. The latter were very quiet and orderly in their manners, and made a favorable impression on the young visitors. Frank was so pleased with the one in charge of his room that he wished he could take him home with him, and have a Japanese servant in America. Testimony as to the excellent character of servants in Japan is nearly universal on the part of those who have employed them. Of course there will be an occasional lazy, inattentive, or dishonest fellow, but one finds them much more rarely than in Europe or America. In general, they are very keen observers, and learn the ways and peculiarities of their masters in a remarkably short time. And once having learned them, they never forget. "When I was last here," said the Doctor, "I was in this very hotel, and had one of the regular servants of the establishment to wait on me. The evening after my arrival, I told him to have my bath ready at seven o'clock in the morning, and to bring a glass of ice-water when he waked me. Exactly at seven he was at my bedside with the water, and told me the bath was waiting; and as long as I remained here he came at precisely the same hour in the morning, offered me the glass of water, and announced the readiness of the bath. I never had occasion to tell him the same thing twice, no matter what it was. Occasionally I went to Tokio to spend two or three days. The first time I went, I showed him what clothes I wished to take, and he packed them in my valise; and afterwards I had only to say I was going to Tokio, when he would immediately proceed to pack up exactly the same things I had taken the first time, or their equivalents. He never made the slightest error, and was a trifle more exact than I wished him to be. On my first journey I carried a bottle of cough-mixture to relieve a cold from which I happened to be suffering. The cold had disappeared, and the bottle was empty before my second trip to Tokio; but my faithful servant wrapped it carefully in paper, and put it in a safe corner of my valise, and continued to do so every time I repeated the excursion." [Illustration: A JAPANESE STREET SCENE.] The boys were all anxiety to take a walk through the streets of Yokohama, and could hardly wait for the Doctor to arrange matters with the hotel-keeper. In a little while everything was determined, and the party went out for a stroll. The Doctor led the way, and took them to the Japanese portion of the city, where they were soon in the midst of sights that were very curious to them. They stopped at several shops, and looked at a great variety of Japanese goods, but followed the advice of the Doctor in deferring their purchases to another time. Frank thought of the things he was to buy for his sister Mary, and also for Miss Effie; but as they were not to do any shopping on their first day in Japan, he did not see any occasion for opening the precious paper that Mary had confided to him previous to his departure. They had a walk of several hours, and on their return to the hotel were quite weary enough to rest awhile. Frank and Fred had a whispered conversation while the Doctor was talking with an old acquaintance; and as soon as he was at liberty they told him what they had been conversing about. "We think we want to write home now, Doctor," said Frank, "and wish to know if you approve of our doing so to-day." "By all means," replied the Doctor, with a smile; "it is time to begin at once. You are in a foreign country and there are plenty of things to write about. Your information will be to a great extent new and interesting to your friends, and the reasons that I gave you for not writing a long letter from Niagara do not exist here." "I thought you would say so," responded Fred, his eyes sparkling with animation, "and I want to write while everything is fresh in my mind. I am going to write at once." "And so am I," echoed Frank; "here goes for a letter to friends at home." Off the boys ran for their writing materials, and in a little while they were seated on the balcony of the hotel, and making their pens fairly fly over the paper. [Illustration: JAPANESE MUSICIANS.] Here is the letter from Frank to his mother: "YOKOHAMA, _August_ 4_th_, 1878. "MY DEAR MOTHER: "I wish you could see me just now. I am sitting on the veranda of the hotel, and Fred is at the table with me. If we look up from our paper, we can see out upon the bay, where lots of ships are at anchor, and where a whole fleet of Japanese fishing-boats are coming up and dragging their nets along after them. Down in the street in front of us there are some funny-looking men with trousers as tight as their skins, and making the men look a great deal smaller than they are. They have hats like small umbrellas, and made of plaited straw, to keep the sun off, and they have them tied down under the chin with cords as big as a clothes-line. Doctor Bronson says these are the lower class of Japanese, and that we haven't seen the fine people yet. There are three musicians, at least they are called so, but I can't see that they make much that I should call music. One of them has on one of those great broad hats, another has his head covered with a sort of small cap, while the third has his skull shaven as smooth as a door-knob. The man with the hat on is blowing a whistle and ringing a small bell, the second is beating on a brass plate with a tiny drumstick, while the third has a pair of clappers which he knocks together, and he sings at the same time. Each of them seems to pay no attention to the rest, but I suppose they think they are playing a tune. Two of them have their legs bare, but they have sandals on their feet, held in place by cords or thongs. The man with the hat must be the leader, as he is the only one that wears trousers, and, besides, he has a pocket-book hung to his girdle. I wonder if they make much money out of the music they are playing? [Illustration: JAPANESE FISHERMEN.] "A couple of fishermen just stopped to look at the musicians and hear the music. One had a spear and a net with a basket at the end, and the other carried a small rod and line such as I used to have when I went out for trout. They didn't have much clothing, though--nothing but a jacket of coarse cloth and a kilt made of reeds. Only one had a hat, and that didn't seem to amount to much. The bareheaded one scowled at me, and I think he can't be very fond of foreigners. Perhaps the foreigners deserve to be scowled at, or, at any rate, some of them do. [Illustration: JAPANESE SILK-SHOP.] "We have seen such lots of things to-day--lots and lots. I can't begin to tell you all in this letter, and there is so much that I don't know where to commence. Well, we went into some shops and looked at the things they had to sell, but didn't buy anything, as we thought it was too soon. One of the shops I liked very much was where they sold silk. It wasn't much like a silk-shop at home, where you sit on a stool in front of a counter and have the clerks spread the things out before you. In this shop the silk was in boxes out of sight, and they only showed you what you asked for. There was a platform in the middle of the shop, and the clerks squatted down on this platform, and unrolled their goods. Two women were there, buying some bright-colored stuff, for making a dress, I suppose, but I don't know. One man sat in the corner with a yardstick ready to measure off what was wanted, and another sat close by him looking on to see that everything was all right. Back of him there were a lot of boxes piled up with the goods in them; and whenever anything was wanted, he passed it out. You should have seen how solemn they all looked, and how one woman counted on her fingers to see how much it was all coming to, just as folks do at home. In a corner opposite the man with the yardstick there was a man who kept the accounts. He was squatted on the floor like the rest, and had his books all round him; and when a sale was made, he put it down in figures that I couldn't read in a week. [Illustration: "SAYONARA."] "Then it was ever so funny to see the men bowing to each other; they did it with so much dignity, as if they had all been princes, or something of the sort. They rest their hands on their knees, and then bend the body forward; and sometimes they bend so low that their backs are level enough to set out a tea-service on and use them for a table. When they want to bid good-bye, they say 'Sayonara,' just as we say 'Good-bye,' and it means exactly the same thing. They are not satisfied with one bow, but keep on several times, until you begin to wonder when they will get through. Everybody says they are the politest people in the world, and I can readily believe it if what I have seen is a fair sample. [Illustration: SEVEN-STROKE HORSE.] "There have been several men around the hotel trying to sell things to us, and we have been looking at them. One thing I am going to get and send in this letter is a box of Japanese pictures. They are not photographs, but real drawings by Japanese artists, and printed on Japanese paper. You will see how soft and nice the paper is; and though the pictures look rough, they are very good, and, above all things, they are truthful. I am going to get as many different ones as I can, and so I think you will be able to get a good idea of the country as the natives see it themselves. They have these pictures showing all their ways of life--how they cook their food, how they eat it, how they work, how they play--in fact, how everything is done in this very curious country. The Japanese make their drawings with very few lines, and it will astonish you to see how much they can express with a few strokes of a pencil. Here is a picture of a horse drawn with seven strokes of the artist's finger-nail dipped in ink, and with a few touches of a wide brush for the mane and tail. Do you think my old drawing-master at home could do the same thing? [Illustration: FEMALE HEAD-DRESS.] "The pillows they sleep on would never do for us. A Japanese pillow is a block of wood with a rest for the head, or rather for the neck, as the head doesn't touch it at all, except just below the ear. It is only a few inches long and high, and is perfectly hard, as the little piece of paper they put on it is intended for cleanliness, and not to make the pillow soft. You can't turn over on one of them, and as for doubling them up to throw at another boy, it is quite out of the question. I shall put in a picture of a Japanese woman lying down with her head on one of these curious things. The women have their hair done up so elaborately that they must sleep on something that does not disturb it, as they can't afford the time and trouble for fixing it every morning. You'll find a picture of their head-dress in the lot I send with this; but it is from a sketch by a foreigner, and not by a native. [Illustration: THE SIESTA.] "Perhaps you will want to know something about the weather in Japan. It is very warm in the middle of the day, but the mornings and evenings are delightful. Around where we are the ground is flat, and the heat is greater than back among the hills. People remain as quiet as possible during the middle of the day; and if you go around the shops at that time, you find nearly everybody asleep who can afford to be so. The Japanese houses are all so open that you see everything that is going on, and they think nothing of lying down in full sight of the street. Since the foreigners came to Yokohama, the natives are somewhat more particular about their houses than they used to be; at any rate, it is said so by those who ought to know. The weather is so warm in summer that the natives do not need to wear much clothing, and I suppose that is the reason why they are so careless about their appearance. In the last few years the government has become very particular about having the people properly dressed, and has issued orders compelling them to put on sufficient clothing to cover them whenever they go out of doors. They enforce these orders very rigidly in the cities and large towns; but in the country the people go around pretty much as they used to. Of course, you understand I am speaking of the lower classes only, and not of the aristocracy. The latter are as careful about their garments as the best people in any other part of the world, and they often spend hours over their toilets. A Japanese noble gotten up in fine old style is a sight worth going a long distance to see, and he knows it too. He has a lot of stiff silks and heavy robes that cost a great deal of money, and they must be arranged with the greatest care, as the least displacement is a serious affair. I haven't seen one of them yet, and Doctor Bronson says we may not see any during our stay in Japan, as the government has abolished the old dress, and adopted that of Western Europe. It is too bad that they have done so, as the Japanese dress is very becoming to the people--ever so much more so than the new one they have taken. Japan is fast losing its national characteristics, through the eagerness of the government to follow Western fashions. What a pity! I do hope I shall be able to see one of those old-fashioned dresses, and won't mind how far I have to go for it. [Illustration: A JAPANESE AT HIS TOILET FOR A VISIT OF CEREMONY.] "Now, mother, this letter is addressed to you, but it is intended for everybody; and I know you'll read it to everybody, and have it handed round, so that all can know where I am and what I have told you about Japan. When I don't write to each one of you, I know you will understand why it is,--because I am so busy, and trying to learn all I can. Give my love to each and every one in the family, and tell Mary she knows somebody outside of it that wants a share. Tell her I often think of the morning we left, and how a handkerchief waved from the railway station when we came away. And tell Mary, too, that I haven't yet opened her list of things I am to get for her; but I haven't forgotten it, and have it all safe and right. There are lots of pretty things to buy here; and if she has made a full catalogue of Japanese curiosities, she has given me enough to do for the present--and the presents. "Good-night, dear mother, and look for another letter by the next mail. "Your loving son, "FRANK." Fred finished his letter almost at the same moment that Frank affixed the signature to his own. By the time they were through it was late in the evening, and the hour for retiring to bed. Their sleeping-places were exactly such as they might have found in any American hotel, and they longed for a view of a Japanese bed. Frank was inclined to ask Doctor Bronson to describe one to them, but Fred thought it would be time enough when they went into the interior of the country and saw one. They were up early the next morning, but not as early as the Japanese. "I tell you what," said Frank, "I have made a discovery." "What is it?" "I have been thinking of something to introduce into the United States, and make everybody get up early in the morning." "Something Japanese?" "Yes. Something that interested us yesterday when we saw it." "Well, we saw so many things that I couldn't begin to guess in half an hour. What was it?" "It was a pillow." "You mean those little things the Japanese sleep on?" "Yes; they are so uncomfortable that we couldn't use them with any sort of pleasure. Nobody would want to lie in bed after he had waked up, if he had such a pillow under his head. He would be out in a minute, and wouldn't think of turning over for another doze. "Now, if our Congress will pass a law abolishing the feather pillow all over the United States, and commanding everybody to sleep on the Japanese one, it would make every man, woman, and child get up at least an hour earlier every day. For forty millions of people this would make a gain of forty million hours daily, and that would be equal to forty-five thousand years. Just think what an advantage that would be to the country, and how much more we could accomplish than we do now. Isn't it a grand idea?" Fred thought it might be grand and profitable to the country, but it would be necessary to make the pillows for the people; and from what he had heard of Congress, he didn't think they would vote away the public money for anything of the sort. Besides, the members of Congress would not wish to deprive themselves of the privilege of sleeping on feather pillows, and therefore they wouldn't vote away their liberties. So he advised Frank to study Japan a little longer before he suggested the adoption of the Japanese pillow in America. This conversation occurred while the boys were in front of the hotel, and waiting for the Doctor, whom they expected every moment. When he came, the three went out for a stroll, and returned in good season for breakfast. While they were out they took a peep into a Japanese house, where the family were at their morning meal, and thus the boys had an opportunity of comparing their own ways with those of the country they were in. [Illustration: A JAPANESE BREAKFAST.] A dignified native, with the fore part of his head closely shaven, was squatted on the floor in front of a little box about a foot high, which served as a table. Opposite was his wife, and at the moment our party looked in she was engaged in pouring something from a bottle into a small cup the size of a thimble. Directly under her hand was a bowl filled with freshly boiled rice, from which the steam was slowly rising; and at the side of the table was another and smaller one, holding some plates and chopsticks. A tiny cup and a bowl constituted the rest of the breakfast equipment. The master was waited upon by his wife, who was not supposed to attend to her own wants until his had been fully met. She sat with her back to the window, which was covered with paper in small squares pasted to the frame, and at her right was a screen, such as one finds in nearly all Eastern countries. On her left was a chest of drawers with curious locks and handles, which doubtless contained the family wealth of linen. As they went on, after their view of a Japanese interior, Frank asked what was the name and character of the liquid the woman was pouring into the glass or cup for her husband. "That was probably sa-kee," replied the Doctor. "And what is sa-kee, please?" "It is," answered the Doctor, "a sort of wine distilled from rice. Foreigners generally call it rice wine, but, more properly speaking, it is rice whiskey, as it partakes more of the nature of spirit than of wine. It is very strong, and will intoxicate if taken in any considerable quantity. The Japanese usually drink it hot, and take it from the little cups that you saw. The cups hold so small a quantity that a great many fillings are necessary to produce any unpleasant effect. The Japanese rarely drink to intoxication, and, on the whole, they are a very temperate people." Fred thereupon began to moralize on the policy of introducing Japanese customs into America. He thought more practicable good could be done by the adoption of the Japanese cup--which would teach our people to drink more lightly than at present--than by Frank's plan of introducing the Japanese pillow. He thought there would be some drawbacks to Frank's enterprise, which would offset the good it could do. Thus a great number of people whom the pillow might bring up at an early hour would spend the time in ways that would not be any benefit to society, and they might as well be asleep, and in many cases better, too. But the tiny drinking-cup would moderate the quantity of stimulants many persons would take, and thus a great good might be accomplished. While thus talking, and trying to conjure up absurd things, they reached the hotel, and soon were seated at breakfast. During breakfast Doctor Bronson unfolded some of the plans he had made for the disposal of their time, so that they might see as much as possible of Japan. "We have taken a look at Yokohama since we arrived," said he, "but there is still a great deal to see. We can study the place at our leisure, as I think it best to make this our headquarters while in this part of the empire, and then we will make excursions from here to the points of interest in the vicinity. To-day we will go to Tokio." "Can't we go first to Yeddo?" said Fred. "I want so much to see that city, and it is said to be very large." Doctor Bronson laughed slightly as he replied. "Tokio and Yeddo are one and the same thing. Tokio means the Eastern capital, while Yeddo means the Great City. Both names have long been in use; but the city was first known to foreigners as Yeddo. Hence it was called so in all the books that were written prior to a few years ago, when it was officially announced to be Tokio. It was considered the capital at the time Japan was opened to foreigners; but there were political complications not understood by the strangers, and the true relations of the city we are talking about and Kioto, which is the Western capital, were not explained until some time after. It was believed that there were two emperors or kings, the one in Yeddo and the other in Kioto, and that the one here was highest in authority. The real fact was that the Shogoon, or Tycoon (as he was called by the foreigners), at Yeddo was subordinate to the real emperor at Kioto: and the action of the former led to a war which resulted in the complete overthrow of the Tycoon, and the establishment of the Mikado's authority through the entire country." "Then the emperor is called the Mikado, is he not?" [Illustration: MUTSUHITO, MIKADO OF JAPAN.] "Yes; that is his official title. Formerly he was quite secluded, as his person was considered too sacred to be seen by ordinary eyes; but since the rebellion and revolution he has come out from his seclusion, and takes part in public ceremonials, receives visitors, and does other things like the monarchs of European countries. He is enlightened and progressive, and is doing all he can for the good of his country and its people. "The curious feature of the revolution which established the Mikado on his throne, and made him the ruler of the whole country is this--that the movement was undertaken to prevent the very things it has brought about." "How was that?" Frank asked. [Illustration: LANDING OF PERRY'S EXPEDITION.] "Down to 1853 Japan was in a condition of exclusiveness in regard to other nations. There was a Dutch trading-post at Nagasaki, on the western coast; but it was confined to a little island, about six hundred feet square, and the people that lived there were not allowed to go out of their enclosure except at rare intervals, and under restrictions that amounted to practical imprisonment. In the year I mentioned Commodore Perry came here with a fleet of American ships, left some presents that had been sent by the President of the United States, and sailed away. Before he left he laid the foundation for the present commercial intercourse between Japan and the United States; and on his return in the following year the privileges were considerably enlarged. Then came the English, and secured similar concessions; and thus Japan has reached her present standing among the nations. "Having been exclusive so long, and having been compelled against her will to open her ports to strangers, there was naturally a good deal of opposition to foreigners even after the treaty was signed. The government endeavored to carry out the terms of the treaty faithfully; but there was a large party opposed to it, and anxious to have the treaties torn up and the foreigners expelled. This party was so powerful that it seemed to include almost a majority of the nation, and the Kioto government took the Yeddo section to task for what it had done in admitting the foreigners. One thing led to another, and finally came the war between the Mikado and the Tycoon. The latter was overthrown, as I have already told you, and the Mikado was the supreme ruler of the land. "The Mikado's party was opposed to the presence of foreigners in the country, and their war-cry was 'Death to the strangers!' When the war was over, there was a general expectation that measures would be adopted looking to the expulsion of the hated intruder. But, to the surprise of many, the government became even more progressive than its predecessor had been, and made concessions to the foreigners that the others had never granted. It was a curious spectacle to see the conservative government doing more for the introduction of the foreigner than the very men they had put down because of their making a treaty with the Americans. [Illustration: THE LAST SHOGOON OF JAPAN.] "The opponents of the Mikado's government accuse it of acting in bad faith, but I do not see that the charge is just. As I understand the situation, the government acted honestly, and with good intent to expel the foreigner in case it should obtain power. But when the power was obtained, they found the foreigner could not be expelled so easily; he was here, and intended to remain, and the only thing the government could do was to make the best of it. The foreign nations who had treaties with Japan would not tear them up, and the government found that what it had intended at the time of the revolution could not be accomplished. Foreign intercourse went on, and the Japanese began to instruct themselves in Western ways. They sent their young men to America and other countries to be educated. They hired teachers to take charge of schools in Japan, and in every way tried to turn the presence of the foreigner to their advantage. There is an old adage that what can't be cured must be endured, and Japan seems to have acted upon it. The foreigner was here as an evil, and they couldn't cure him out. So they set about finding the best way of enduring him. "But it is time we were getting ready for a start for Tokio, and so we'll suspend our discussion of Japanese political history. It's a dry subject, and I hesitate to talk to you about it lest I may weary you." Both the boys declared the topic was interesting, and they would consider their study of Japan incomplete without some of its history. The Doctor promised to return to the subject at some future occasion; and with this understanding they separated to prepare for their journey to the capital. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. FROM YOKOHAMA TO TOKIO. One of the innovations in Japan since the arrival of the foreigners is the railway. Among the presents carried to the country by Commodore Perry were a miniature locomotive and some cars, and several miles of railway track. The track was set up, and the new toy was regarded with much interest by the Japanese. For some years after the country was opened there was considerable opposition to the introduction of the new mode of travel, but by degrees all hostility vanished, and the government entered into contracts for the construction of a line from Yokohama to Tokio. The distance is about seventeen miles, and the route follows the shore of the bay, where there are no engineering difficulties of consequence. In spite of the ease of construction and the low price of labor in Japan, the cost of the work was very great, and would have astonished a railway engineer in America. The work was done under English supervision and by English contractors, and from all accounts there is no reason to suppose that they lost anything by the operation. Doctor Bronson and our young friends went from Yokohama to the capital by the railway, and found the ride a pleasant one of about an hour's duration. They found that the conductors, ticket-sellers, brake-men, and all others with whom they came in contact were Japanese. For some time after the line was opened the management was in the hands of foreigners; but by degrees they were removed, and the Japanese took charge of the business, for which they had paid a liberal price. They have shown themselves fully competent to manage it, and the new system of travel is quite popular with the people. Three kinds of carriages are run on most of the trains; the first class is patronized by the high officials and the foreigners who have plenty of money; the second by the middle-class natives--official and otherwise--and foreigners whose purses are not plethorie; and the third class by the peasantry, and common people generally. Frank observed that there were few passengers in the first-class carriages, more in the second, and that the third class attracted a crowd, and was evidently popular. The Doctor told him that the railway had been well patronized since the day it was first opened, and that the facilities of steam locomotion have not been confined to the eastern end of the empire. The experiment on the shores of Yeddo Bay proved so satisfactory that a line has since been opened from Kobe to Osaka and Kioto, in the West--a distance of a little more than fifty miles. The people take to it as kindly as did those of the East, and the third-class carriages are generally well filled. [Illustration: THIRD-CLASS PASSENGERS.] At the station in Yokohama the boys found a news-stand, the same as they might find one in a station in America, but with the difference against them that they were unable to read the papers that were sold there. They bought some, however, to send home as curiosities, and found them very cheap. Newspapers existed in Japan before the foreigners went there; but since the advent of the latter the number of publications has increased, as the Japanese can hardly fail to observe the great influence on public opinion which is exercised by the daily press. They have introduced metal types after the foreign system, instead of printing from wooden blocks, as they formerly did, and, but for the difference in the character, one of their sheets might be taken for a paper printed in Europe or America. Some of the papers have large circulations, and the newsboys sell them in the streets, in the same way as the urchins of New York engage in the kindred business. There is this difference, however, that the Japanese newsboys are generally men, and as they walk along they read in a monotonous tone the news which the paper they are selling contains. [Illustration: JAPANESE PLOUGHING.] The train started promptly on the advertised time, and the boys found that there were half a dozen trains each way daily, some of them running through, like express trains in other countries, while others were slower, and halted at every station. The line ran through a succession of fields and villages, the former bearing evidence of careful cultivation, while the latter were thickly populated, and gave indications of a good deal of taste in their arrangement. Shade-trees were numerous, and Frank readily accepted as correct the statement he had somewhere read, that a Japanese would rather move his house than cut down a tree in case the one interfered with the other. The rice harvest was nearly at hand, and the fields were thickly burdened with the waving rice-plants. Men were working in the fields, and moving slowly to and fro, and everywhere there was an activity that did not betoken a lazy people. The Doctor explained that if they had been there a month earlier, they would have witnessed the process of hoeing the rice-plants to keep down the weeds, but that now the hoeing was over, and there was little to do beyond keeping the fields properly flooded with water, so that the ripening plants should have the necessary nourishment. He pointed out an irrigating-machine, which was in operation close to the railway, and the boys looked at it with much interest. A wheel was so fixed in a small trough that when it was turned the water was raised from a little pool, and flowed over the land it was desirable to irrigate. The turning process was performed by a man who stood above the wheel, and stepped from one float to another. The machinery was very simple, and had the merit of cheapness, as its cost could not have been large at the price of labor in Japan. [Illustration: JAPANESE ROLLER.] In another place a man was engaged in ploughing. He had a primitive-looking instrument with a blade like that of a large hatchet, a beam set at right angles, and a single handle which he grasped with both hands. It was propelled by a horse which required some one to lead him, but he did not seem to regard the labor of dragging the plough as anything serious, as he walked off very much as though nothing were behind him. Just beyond the ploughman there was a man with a roller, engaged in covering some seed that had been put in for a late crop. He was using a common roller, which closely resembled the one we employ for smoothing our garden walks and beds, with the exception that it was rougher in construction, and did not appear as round as one naturally expects a roller to be. [Illustration: MANURING PROCESS.] Fred saw a man dipping something from a hole in the ground, and asked the Doctor what he was doing. [Illustration: HOW THEY USE MANURE.] The Doctor explained that the hole was a cask set in the ground, and that it probably contained liquid manure. The Japanese use it for enriching their fields. They keep it in these holes, covered with a slight roof to prevent its evaporation as much as possible, and they spread it around where wanted by means of buckets. The great drawback to a walk in a Japanese field is the frequency of the manure deposits, as the odor arising from them is anything but agreeable. Particularly is this so in the early part of the season, when the young plants require a great deal of attention and nourishment. A nose at such times is an organ of great inconvenience. [Illustration: MODE OF PROTECTING LAND FROM BIRDS.] The Doctor went on to explain that the Japanese farmers were very watchful of their crops, and that men were employed to scare away the birds, that sometimes dug up the seed after it was planted, and also ate the grain while it was ripening. The watchmen had pieces of board which they put on frames suspended in the air, and so arranged that they rattled in the wind, and performed a service similar to that of the scare-crow in America. In addition to this mode of making a noise, the watchmen had whistles and clappers, and sometimes they carried small bells which they rang as they walked about. It was the duty of a watchman to keep constantly on the alert, as the birds were full of mischief, and, from being rarely shot at, their boldness and impudence were quite astonishing to one freshly arrived from America, where the use of fire-arms is so general. While Doctor Bronson was explaining about the birds, Fred suddenly gave an exclamation of delight. "Look, look!" said he; "what are those beautiful white birds?" "Oh, I know," answered Frank; "they are storks. I recognize them from the pictures I have seen on fans and screens. I'm sure they are storks." [Illustration: STORKS, DRAWN BY A NATIVE ARTIST.] The decision was appealed to Doctor Bronson, who decided that the birds in question were storks, and nothing else. There was no mistaking their beautiful figures; whether standing in the fields or flying in the air, the stork is one of the handsomest birds known to the ornithologist. "You see," said Doctor Bronson, "that the stork justifies the homage that is paid to him so far as a graceful figure is concerned, and the Japanese have shown an eye for beauty when they selected him for a prominent place in their pictures. You see him everywhere in Japanese art--in bronzes, on costly paintings, embroidered on silk, printed on fans, and on nearly every article of household use. He has a sacred character, and it would not be easy to find a Japanese who would willingly inflict an injury upon one of these birds." [Illustration: FLOCK OF GEESE.] There are probably no other artists in the world who can equal the Japanese in drawing the stork in all the ways and attitudes he assumes. These are almost countless; but, not satisfied with this, there are some of the native artists who are accused of representing him in attitudes he was never known to take. Admitting this to be the case, it cannot be disputed that the Japanese are masters of their profession in delineating this bird, and that one is never weary of looking at his portrait as they draw it. They have nearly equal skill in drawing other birds, and a few strokes of the brush or pencil will accomplish marvels in the way of pictorial representation. A flock of geese, some on the ground and others in flight, can be drawn in a few moments by a native designer, and the most exacting critic will not find anything wanting. [Illustration: FORTS OF SHINAGAWA.] The train sped onward, and in an hour from the time of leaving the station at Yokohama it was nearing Tokio. It passed in full view of the forts of Shinagawa, which were made memorable during the days of Perry and Lord Elgin, as the foreign ships were not allowed to pass them, and there was at one time a prospect that they would open fire upon the intruders. Near one of the forts, a boat containing three fishermen was pulling slowly along, one man handling the oar, while the other two were lifting a net. Whether any fish were contained in it the boys did not ascertain, as the train would not stop long enough to permit an investigation. The fort rose from the water like a huge warehouse; it might resist a Chinese junk, or a whole fleet of the rude craft of the East, but could not hold out an hour against the artillery of the Western nations. In recent years the forts of Tokio have been strengthened, but they are yet far from what an American or English admiral would hold in high respect. The Japanese have made commendable progress in army organization; but, so far as one can learn generally, they have not done much in the way of constructing and manning fortifications. [Illustration: A JIN-RIKI-SHA.] On their arrival in Tokio, our young friends looked around to discover in what the city differed from Yokohama. They saw the same kind of people at the station that they had left in Yokohama, and heard pretty nearly the same sounds. Porters, and others who hoped to serve them and thereby earn something, gathered around; and they found in the open space in front of the station a liberal number of conveyances ready to take them wherever they wanted to go. There were carriages and jin-riki-shas from which they could choose, and it did not take them long to decide in favor of the jin-riki-sha. It was a novelty to them, though not altogether so, as they had seen it in Yokohama, and had tried its qualities in their journey from the hotel to the station in the morning. "What is the jin-riki-sha?" the reader naturally asks. Its name comes from three words, "jin," meaning man; "riki," power; and "sha," carriage: altogether it amounts to "man-power-carriage." It is a little vehicle like an exaggerated baby-cart or diminutive one-horse chaise, and has comfortable seating capacity for only one person, though it will hold two if they are not too large. It was introduced into Japan in 1870, and is said to have been the invention of an American. At all events, the first of them came from San Francisco; but the Japanese soon set about making them, and now there are none imported. It is said that there are nearly a hundred thousand of them in use, and, judging by the abundance of them everywhere, it is easy to believe that the estimate is not too high. The streets are full of them, and, no matter where you go, you are rarely at a loss to find one. As their name indicates, they are carriages drawn by men. For a short distance, or where it is not required to keep up a high speed, one man is sufficient; but otherwise two, or even three, men are needed. They go at a good trot, except when ascending a hill or where the roads are bad. They easily make four and a half or five miles an hour, and in emergencies can do better than the last-named rate. Frank and Fred were of opinion that the jin-riki-sha would be a slow vehicle to travel in, but asked the Doctor for his experience of one in his previous visit to the country. "On my first visit to Japan," replied Doctor Bronson, "this little carriage was not in use. We went around on foot or on horseback, or in norimons and cangos." "And what are norimons and cangos?" "They are the vehicles in which the Japanese used to travel, and which are still much employed in various parts of the country. We shall see them before long, and then we shall have an excellent opportunity to know what they are. We shall probably be travelling in them in a few days, and I will then have your opinion concerning them. "As to the jin-riki-sha," he continued, "my experience with it in my last visit to Japan since its introduction gives me a high opinion of the Japanese power of endurance. A few days after my arrival, I had occasion to go a distance of about forty miles on the great road along the coast, from Yokohama to Odiwara. I had three men to draw the carriage, and the journey was made in twelve hours, with three halts of fifteen minutes each. You could not have done better than this with a horse and carriage in place of the man-power vehicle. On another occasion I went from Osaka to Nara, a distance of thirty miles, between ten in the morning and five in the afternoon, and halted an hour for lunch at a Japanese inn on the road. Part of the way the road was through fields, where it was necessary to go slowly, and quite frequently the men were obliged to lift the vehicle over water-courses and gullies, and a good deal of time was lost by these detentions." Both the boys declared that the travel under such circumstances was excellent, and that it was fully up to what the average horse could accomplish in America. [Illustration: JAPANESE ON FOOT.] "The next day," said the Doctor, "I went on from Nara to Kioto, which was another thirty miles, in about the same time and with a similar halt for dinner. I had the same men as on the day before, and they raced merrily along without the least sign of fatigue, although there was a pouring rain all day that made the roads very heavy. Frequently there were steep little hills to ascend where the road passed over the water-courses or canals. You will find, as you travel in Japan, that the canals are above the general level of the country, in order to afford the proper fall for irrigation. Where the road crosses one of these canals, there is a sharp rise on one side, and an equally sharp descent on the other. You can manage the descent, but the rise is difficult. In the present instance the rain had softened the road, and made the pulling very hard indeed; and, to add to the trouble, I had injured my foot and was unable to walk, so that I could not lighten the burden of the men by getting out of the carriage at the bad places. "I was able on this journey, and partly in consequence of my lameness, to have an opportunity to see the great kindness of the Japanese to each other. I had my servant with me (a Japanese boy who spoke English), and he was in a jin-riki-sha with two men to pull it, the same as mine. When we came to a bad spot in the road, the men with his carriage dropped it and came to the aid of mine; and as soon as they had brought it through its troubles, the whole four went back to bring up the other. I did not hear a single expression of anger during the whole day, but everything was done with the utmost good-nature. In some other countries it is quite possible that the men with the lighter burden would adhere to the principle that everybody should look out for himself, and decline to assist unless paid extra for their trouble. "You will find, the more you know the Japanese, that they cannot be excelled in their kindnesses to each other. They have great reverence and respect for their parents; and their affection for brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, and all relatives, is worthy of admiration. If you inquire into the circumstances of the laboring-men, whose daily earnings are very small, and with whom life is a most earnest struggle, you will find that nearly every one of them is supporting somebody besides himself, and that many of their families are inconveniently large. Yet they accept all their burdens cheerfully, and are always smiling, and apparently happy. Whether they are really so has been doubted; but I see no good reason to call their cheerfulness in question. [Illustration: AN EXPRESS RUNNER.] "But I will tell you a still more remarkable story of the endurance of these Japanese runners. While I was at Kioto, an English clergyman came there with his wife; and after they had seen the city, they were very anxious to go to Nara. They had only a day to spare, as they were obliged to be at Kobe at a certain date to meet the steamer for Shanghai. They made arrangements to be taken to Nara and back in that time--a distance, going and coming, of sixty miles. They had three men to each jin-riki-sha, and they kept the same men through the entire trip. They left the hotel at Kioto at four o'clock in the morning, and were back again at half-past eight in the evening. You couldn't do better than this with a horse, unless he were an exceptionally good one." Frank thought that he should not enjoy the jin-riki-sha, as he would be constantly thinking of the poor fellows who were pulling him, and of how much they were suffering on his account. He could not bear to see them tugging away and perspiring while he was reclining in a comfortable seat. [Illustration: A JAPANESE COOLIE.] "I readily understand you," Doctor Bronson answered, "as I had the same feeling myself, and every American has it when he first comes to the country. He has a great deal of sympathy for the men, and I have known some strangers to refuse to ride in a jin-riki-sha on that account. But if you will apply reason to the matter, you will soon get over the feeling. Remember that the man gets his living by pulling his little carriage, and that he regards it as a great favor when you patronize him. You do him a kindness when you employ him; and the more you employ him, the more will he regard you as his friend. He was born to toil, and expects to toil as long as he lives. He does not regard it as a hardship, but cheerfully accepts his lot; and the more work he obtains, the better is he satisfied. And when you pay him for his services, you will win his most heart-felt affection if you add a trifle by way of gratuity. If you give only the exact wages prescribed by law, he does not complain, and you have only to add a few cents to make his eyes glisten with gratitude. In my experience of laboring-men in all parts of the world, I have found that the Japanese coolie is the most patient, and has the warmest heart, the most thankful for honest pay for honest work, and the most appreciative of the trifles that his employer gives him in the way of presents." When the Doctor had finished his eulogy upon the Japanese, the boys clapped their hands, and were evidently touched with his enthusiasm. From the little they had seen since their arrival in the country, they coincided with him in opinion, and were ready to endorse what he said. And if they had been in any doubt, they had only to refer to the great majority of foreigners who reside in Japan for the confirmation of what the Doctor had declared. Testimony in this matter is as nearly unanimous as it is generally possible to find it on any subject, and some of the foreign residents are ready to go much further in their laudations of the kindly spirit of the natives than did Doctor Bronson. [Illustration: PITY FOR THE BLIND.] CHAPTER VIII. SIGHTS IN THE EASTERN CAPITAL OF JAPAN. To see the whole of Tokio is a matter of no small moment, as the area of the city is very great. There seems to have been no stint of ground when the place was laid out, and in riding through it you find whole fields and gardens so widely spread that you can readily imagine yourself to be in the rural districts, and are rather surprised when told that you are yet in the city limits. The city is divided into two unequal portions by the Sumida River, and over this river is the Nihon Bashi, or Nihon Bridge, which is often called the centre of Japan, for the reason that all the roads were formerly measured from it. It has the same relation to Japan as the famous "London Stone" has to England, or, rather, as the London Stone had a hundred years ago. [Illustration: VIEW OF TOKIO, FROM THE SOUTH.] From the railway station our travellers went to the Nihon Bashi, in order to begin their journey from the centre of the empire. A more practical reason was a desire to see the river, and the great street leading to it, as they would get a good idea of the extent of the city by taking this route, and would obtain numerous glimpses of Japanese street life. They found the streets full of people, and it seemed to the boys that the whole population must be out for an airing. But the Doctor informed them that the sight they were witnessing was an every-day affair, as the Japanese were essentially an outdoor people, and that many of the industries which in other countries would be conducted under a roof were here seen in progress out of doors. The fronts of the Japanese houses are quite open to the view of the public, and there is hardly anything of what we call privacy. It was formerly no uncommon sight to see people bathing in tubs placed in front of their door-steps; and even at the present time one has only to go into the villages, or away from the usual haunts of foreigners, to see that spectacle which would be unknown in the United States. The bath-houses are now closed in front in all the cities, but remain pretty much as before in the smaller towns. Year by year the country is adopting Western ideas, and coming to understand the Western views of propriety. [Illustration: JAPANESE LADY COMING FROM THE BATH.] As the boys rode along, their attention was drawn to some tall ladders that rose above the buildings, and they eagerly asked the Doctor what those ladders were for. They could not see the use of climbing up in the air and then coming down again; and, altogether, the things were a mystery to them. A few words explained the matter. The ladders were nothing more nor less than fire-lookouts, and were elevated above the buildings so that the watchmen could have an unobstructed view. A bell was attached to each ladder, and by means of it a warning-signal was given in case of a threatened conflagration. Fires are frequent in Tokio, and some of them have done immense damage. The city is mostly built of wood; and when a fire breaks out and a high wind is blowing, the result is often disastrous to an enormous extent. [Illustration: FIRE-LOOKOUTS IN TOKIO.] After the great fires of the last twenty years, the burned districts have been rebuilt of stone, or largely so; and precautions that were hitherto unknown are now taken for the prevention of fresh disasters. Some of the new quarters are quite substantial, but they resemble too strongly the edifices of a city in Europe to be characteristic of Japan. A portion of the way took our friends through the grounds of some of the castles, and the boys were rather astonished at the extent of these residences of princes. Doctor Bronson explained that Tokio was formerly a city of princes, and that the residences of the Daimios, as these great men were called, were of more consequence at one time than all the rest of the city. The palace of a Daimio was known as a _yashiki_, and the yashikis were capable, in some instances, of lodging five or ten thousand men. Under the present government the power of the princes has been taken away, and their troops of retainers have been disbanded. The government has converted the most of the yashikis into offices and barracks and schools, and one at least has been turned into a manufactory. The original plan of Tokio was that of a vast camp, and from that the city grew into its present condition. The best locations were occupied by the castles and yashikis, and the principal castle in the centre has the best place of all. Frank observed as they crossed the bridge leading into the castle-yard that the broad moat was full of lotos flowers in full bloom, and he longed to gather some of them so that he might send them home as a souvenir of the country. He had heard of the lotos as a sort of water-lily, similar in general appearance to the pond-lily of his native land. He was surprised to find a flower, eight or ten inches in diameter, growing on a strong stalk that did not float on the water, but held itself erect and far above it. The Doctor explained the matter by telling him that the Japanese lotos is unlike the Egyptian lotos, from which our ideas of that flower are derived. But the Japanese one is highly prized by the people of all ranks and classes, and it grows in abundance in all the castle-moats, and in marshy ground generally. [Illustration: TOO MUCH SA-KEE.] Near the entrance of one of the castle-yards they met a couple that attracted their attention. It was a respectable-appearing citizen who had evidently partaken too freely of the cup that cheers and also inebriates, as his steps were unsteady, and he would have fallen to the ground had it not been for the assistance of his wife, who was leading him and guiding him in the way he should go. As the strangers went past him he raised his hand to his head; but Frank could not determine whether it was a movement of salutation or of dazed inquiry. The Doctor suggested that it was more likely to have been the latter than the former, since the Japanese do not salute in our manner, and the man was too much under the influence of the "sa-kee" he had swallowed to adopt any foreign modes of politeness. Sights like this are not unknown in the great cities of Japan, but they are far less frequent than in New York or London. The Japanese say that drunkenness is on the decrease in the past few years, owing to the abolition of the Samurai class, who have been compelled to work for a living, instead of being supported out of the revenues of the state, as formerly. They have less time and money for dissipation now than they had in the olden days, and, consequently, their necessities have made them temperate. [Illustration: SAKURADU AVENUE IN TOKIO.] For an Oriental city Tokio has remarkably wide streets, and some of them are laid out with all the care of Western engineering. In the course of their morning ride the party came to Sakuradu Avenue, which Fred recognized from a drawing by a native artist, who had taken pains to preserve the architecture of the buildings on each side with complete fidelity. The foundations of the houses were of irregular stones cut in the form of lozenges, but not with mathematical accuracy. The boys had already noticed this form of hewing stone in the walls of the castles, where some very large blocks were piled. They were reported to have been brought from distant parts of the empire, and the cost of their transportation must have been very great. Few of the houses were of more than two stories, and the great majority were of only one. Along Sakuradu Avenue they were of two stories, and had long and low windows with paper screens, so that it was impossible for a person in the street to see what was going on inside. The eaves projected far over the upright sides, and thus formed a shelter that was very acceptable in the heat of summer, while in rainy weather it had many advantages. These yashikis were formerly the property of Daimios, but are now occupied by the Foreign Office and the War Department. Inside the enclosure there are many shade-trees, and they make a cooling contrast to the plain walls of the buildings. The Japanese rarely paint the interior or the exterior of their buildings. Nearly everything is finished in the natural color of the wood, and very pretty the wood is too. It is something like oak in appearance, but a trifle darker, and is susceptible of a high polish. It admits of a great variety of uses, and is very easily wrought. It is known as keyaki-wood; and, in spite of the immense quantity that is annually used, it is cheap and abundant. Some of the Daimios expended immense amounts of money in the decoration of their palaces by means of bronzes, embroideries on silk, fine lacquer, and the like. Art in Japan was nourished by the Daimios, and we have much to thank them for in the way of household adornment. Since the adoption of Western ideas in decoration and household furniture, the Japanese dwellings have lost somewhat in point of attractiveness. Our carpets and furniture are out of place in a Japanese room, and so are our pictures and statuary. It is a pity that the people should ever abandon their domestic customs for ours, whatever they might do in the matter of military equipment, machinery, and other things that are more or less commercial. Japanese men and women are far more attractive in their native dress than in ours, and a Japanese house loses its charm when the neat mattings give way to European carpets, and chairs and tables are spread around in place of the simple adornments to which the people were accustomed. After an interesting ride, in which their eyes were in constant use, the boys reached the Temple of Asakusa, which is one of the great points of attraction to a stranger in Tokio. The street which led up to the temple was lined with booths, in which a great variety of things were offered for sale. Nearly all of these things were of a cheap class, and evidently the patrons of the temple were not of the wealthier sort. Toys were numerous, and as our party alighted they saw some children gazing wistfully at a collection of dolls; Frank and Fred suggested the propriety of making the little people happy by expending something for them. The Doctor gave his approval; so the boys invested a sum equal to about twenty cents of our money, and were astonished at the number of dolls they were able to procure for their outlay. The little Japs were delighted, and danced around in their glee, just as any children might have done in another country. A few paces away some boys were endeavoring to walk on bamboo poles, and evidently they were having a jolly time, to judge by their laughter. Two boys were hanging by their hands from a pole, and endeavoring to turn somersets; while two others were trying to walk on a pole close by them. One of the walkers fell off, and was laughed at by his companions; but he was speedily up again, determined not to give up till he had accomplished his task. [Illustration: JAPANESE CHILDREN AT PLAY.] Japanese children are well supplied with dolls and other playthings, and there are certain festivals in which the whole family devotes itself to the preparation or purchase of dolls to amuse the little ones. The greatest of these festivals is known as the "Hina Matsuri," or Feast of Dolls, _hina_ meaning doll, and _matsuri_ being applicable to any kind of feast. It occurs on the third day of the third month, and for several days before the appointed time the shops are filled with dolls just as they are filled among us at Christmas. In fact, the whole business in this line is transacted at this period, and at other times it is next to impossible to procure the things that are so abundant at the Matsuri. Every family that can afford the outlay buys a quantity of images made of wood or enamelled clay, and dressed to represent various imperial, noble, or mythological characters, either of the present time or of some former period in Japanese history. In this way the children are taught a good deal of history, and their delight at the receipt of their presents is quite equal to that of children in Christian lands. Not only dolls, but a great variety of other things, are given to the girls; for the Hina Matsuri is more particularly a festival for girls rather than for boys. The presents are arranged on tables, and there is general rejoicing in the household. Miniature tea and toilet sets, miniature bureaus and wardrobes, and miniature houses are among the things that fall to the lot of a Japanese girl at the time of the Hina Matsuri. [Illustration: THE FEAST OF DOLLS ("HINA MATSURI") IN A JAPANESE HOUSE.] Fred thought the Japanese had queer notions when compared with ours about the location of a temple in the midst of all sorts of entertainments. He was surprised to find the temple surrounded with booths for singing and dancing and other amusements, and was very sure that such a thing would not be allowed in America. Doctor Bronson answered that the subject had been discussed before by people who had visited Japan, and various opinions had been formed concerning it. He thought it was not unlike some of the customs in Europe, especially in the more Catholic countries, where the people go to church in the forenoon and devote the afternoon to amusement. A Japanese does not see any wrong in going to his worship through an avenue of entertainments, and then returning to them. He says his prayers as a matter of devotion, and then applies himself to innocent pleasure. He is firmly attached to his religious faith, and his recreations are a part of his religion. What he does is all well enough for him, but whether it would answer for us is a question which cannot be decided in a moment. [Illustration: A BARBER AT WORK.] Men of various trades were working in the shops at Asakusa, and their way of operating was of much interest to our young friends. A barber was engaged in arranging the hair of a customer; the forehead had been shaven, and the hair at the back of the head was gathered into a knot and thickly plastered, so as to make it stick and remain in place when turned over into a short cue. The customer knelt on the ground in front of a box that contained the tools of the operator's trade, and by his side was a portable furnace for heating water. The whole equipment was of very little value, and the expense of fitting up a fashionable barber's shop in New York would send hundreds of Japanese barbers on their way rejoicing. Close by was a clothes-merchant, to whom a customer was making an offer, while the dealer was rubbing his head and vowing he could not possibly part with the garment at that price. Frank watched him to see how the affair terminated, and found it was very much as though the transaction had been in New York instead of Tokio: the merchant, whispering he would ne'er consent, consented, and the customer obtained the garment at his own figures when the vender found he could not obtain his own price. It is the same all the earth over, and Frank thought he saw in this tale of a coat the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. [Illustration: A TRANSACTION IN CLOTHES.] Hundreds of pigeons were circling around the temple, or walking among the people that thronged the street. Nobody showed the slightest intention of harming them, and the consequence was they were very tame. Several stands were devoted to the sale of grain for the birds; and the sharp-eyed pigeons knew, when they saw the three strangers halt in front of one of the stands, that there was good prospect of a free breakfast. The Doctor bought a quart or more of the grain and threw it out upon the ground. Instantly there was a whirring of wings in the air, and in less time than it takes to say so the grain was devoured. The birds were rather shy of the visitors, and possibly it had been whispered to them that the foreigner likes his pigeons broiled or served up in pies. But they did not display any such timidity when the natives approached them. Some of the Japanese temples are the homes of a great number of pigeons, and in this respect they resemble the mosques at Constantinople and other Moslem cities. Close at hand is a stable where two beautiful ponies are kept. They are snowy white, and are consecrated to the goddess Ku-wanon, the deity of mercy, who is the presiding genius of the temple. They are in the care of a young girl, and it is considered a pious duty to feed them. Pease and beans are for sale outside, and many devotees contribute a few cash for the benefit of the sacred animals. If the poor beasts should eat a quarter of what is offered to them, or, rather, of what is paid for, they would soon die of overfeeding. It is shrewdly suspected that the grain is sold many times over, in consequence of a collusion between the dealers and the keeper of the horses. At all events, the health of the animals is regarded, and it would never do to give them all that is presented. [Illustration: BALL-PLAYING IN JAPAN.] Frank found the air full of odors more or less heavy, and some of them the reverse of agreeable. They arose from numerous sticks of incense burned in honor of the gods, and which are irreverently called joss-sticks by foreigners. The incense is supposed to be agreeable to the god, and the smoke is thought to waft the supplicant's prayer to heaven. The same idea obtains in the burning of a paper on which a prayer has been printed, the flame carrying the petition as it flies upward. Traces of a similar faith are found in the Roman Catholic and Greek churches, where candles have a prominent place in religious worship; and the Doctor insisted to his young companions that the Christian and the Pagan are not so very far apart, after all. In addition to the odor of incense, there was that of oil, in which a keeper of a tiny restaurant was frying some cuttle-fish. The oil was of the sort known as "sesame," or barley, and the smell was of a kind that does not touch the Western nostril as agreeably as does that of lavender or Cologne water. Men were tossing balls in the air in front of the restaurant, quite unmindful of the strong odors, and seeming to enjoy the sport, and a woman and a boy were so busy over a game of battledoor and shuttlecock that they did not observe the presence of the strangers. [Illustration: SPORT AT ASAKUSA.] Through this active scene of refreshment and recreation, our party strolled along, and at length came to the gateway of the temple, an enormous structure of wood like a house with triple eaves, and raised on pillars resembling the piers of a bridge. This is similar to the gateway that is found in front of nearly every Japanese temple, and is an imposing ornament. On either hand, as we pass through, we find two statues of demons, who guard the entrance, and are gotten up in the superlative degree of hideousness. When the Japanese give their attention to the preparation of an image of surpassing ugliness, they generally succeed, and the same is the case when they search after the beautiful. Nothing can be more ugly in feature than the giants at Asakusa, and what is there more gracefully beautiful than the Japanese bronzes that were shown in the great exhibitions at Philadelphia and Paris? _Les extrêmes se touchent._ Fred thought he would propitiate the demons in a roundabout way, and so he gave a few pennies to some old beggars that were sitting near the gateway. The most of them were far from handsome, and none were beautiful; some were even so repulsive in features as to draw from Frank the suggestion that they were relatives of the statues, and therefore entitled to charity. Near the gateway was a pagoda or tower in seven stories, and it is said to be one of the finest in Japan. The Japanese pagoda is always built in an odd number of stories, three, five, seven, or nine, and it usually terminates, as does the one we are now contemplating, with a spire that resembles an enormous corkscrew more than anything else. It is of copper or bronze, and is a very beautiful ornament, quite in keeping with the edifice that it crowns. On its pinnacle there is a jewel, or something supposed to be one, a sacred emblem that appears very frequently in Japanese paintings or bronze-work. The edges of the little roofs projecting from each story were hung with bells that rang in the wind, but their noise was not sufficiently loud to render any inconvenience to the visitor, and for the greater part of the time they do not ring at all. The architecture of the pagoda is in keeping with that of the surrounding buildings, and thoroughly Oriental in all its features. [Illustration: SPIRE OF A PAGODA.] They passed the gateway and entered the temple. The huge building towered above them with its curved roof covered with enormous tiles, and its eaves projecting so far that they suggested an umbrella or the over-hanging sides of a mushroom. Frank admired the graceful curves of the roof, and wondered why nobody had ever introduced them into architecture in America. The Doctor told him that the plan had been tried in a few instances, but that architects were generally timid about innovations, and, above all, they did not like to borrow from the Eastern barbarians. Fred thought they ought to be willing to take anything that was good, no matter where they found it, and Frank echoed his sentiment. [Illustration: BELFRY IN COURT-YARD OF TEMPLE, SHOWING THE STYLE OF A JAPANESE ROOF.] "When I build a house," said Fred, "I will have a roof on it after the Japanese style, or, at any rate, something suggestive of it. The Japanese roof is pretty and graceful, and would look well in our landscape, I am sure. I don't see why we shouldn't have it in our country, and I'll take home some photographs so that I can have something to work from." Frank hinted that for the present the house that Fred intended to build was a castle in the air, and he was afraid it would be some time before it assumed a more substantial form. "Perhaps so," Fred answered, "but you wait awhile, and see if I don't do something that will astonish our neighbors. I think it will do more practical good to introduce the Japanese roof into America than the Japanese pillow." They agreed to this, and then Frank said it was not the place to waste their time in discussions; they could talk these matters over in the evening, and meanwhile they would look further at the temple and its surroundings. The boys were somewhat disappointed at the appearance of the interior of the temple. They had expected an imposing edifice like a cathedral, with stately columns supporting a high roof, and with an air of solemn stillness pervading the entire building. They ascended a row of broad steps, and entered a doorway that extended to half the width of the front of the building. The place was full of worshippers mingled with a liberal quantity of pigeons, votive offerings, and dirt. Knowing the Japanese love for cleanliness in their domestic life, it was a surprise to the youths to find the temple so much neglected as it appeared to be. They mentioned the matter to Doctor Bronson, who replied that it probably arose from the fact that the business of everybody was the business of nobody, and that the priests in charge of the temple were not inclined to work very hard in such commonplace affairs as keeping the edifice properly swept out. Thousands of visitors came there daily, and after it was swept in the morning the place soon became soiled, and a renewal of the cleansing process would be a serious inconvenience to the devotees. People of all classes and kinds were coming and going, and saying their prayers, without regard to each other. The floor was crowded with worshippers, some in rags and others in silks, some in youth and others in old age, some just learning to talk and others trembling with the weight of years; beggars, soldiers, officers, merchants, women, and children knelt together before the shrine of the goddess whom they reverenced, and whose mercy and watchful care they implored. The boys were impressed with the scene of devotion, and reverently paused as they moved among the pious Japanese. They respected the unquestioning faith of the people in the power of their goddess, and had no inclination to the feeling of derision that is sometimes shown by visitors to places whose sanctity is not in accord with their own views. [Illustration: SHRINE OF THE GODDESS KU-WANON.] But very soon Frank had occasion to bite his lip to suppress a smile when he saw one of the Japanese throw what an American schoolboy would call a "spit-ball" at the head of the great image that stood behind the altar. Then he observed that the whole figure of the god was covered with these balls, and he knew there must be some meaning to the action that he at first thought so funny. He called Fred's attention to the matter, and then asked the Doctor what it meant. "It is a way they have," replied the Doctor, "of addressing their petitions to the deity. A Japanese writes his prayer on a piece of paper, or buys one already written; then he chews it to a pulp, and throws it at the god. If the ball sticks, the omen is a good one, and the prayer will be answered; if it rebounds or falls, the sign is unlucky, and the petitioner must begin over again. I have been told," continued Doctor Bronson, "that some of the dealers in printed prayers apply a small quantity of glue to them so as to insure their sticking when thrown at the divinity." In front of the great altar stood a box like a large trough, and into this box each worshipper threw a handful of copper cash or small coin before saying his prayers. There were two or three bushels of this coin in the trough, and it is said that frequently the contributions amount to a hundred dollars' worth in a single day. The money thus obtained is expended in repairing and preserving the building, and goes to support the priests attached to the temple. CHAPTER IX. ASAKUSA AND YUYENO.--FIRST NATIONAL FAIR AT TOKIO. All around the shrine of the temple there were prayers fastened, wherever there was a place for fastening them. On the left of the altar there was a large lattice, and this lattice had hundreds of prayers attached to it, some of them folded and others open. Several old men and women were leaning against this lattice, or squatted on the floor in front of it, engaged in selling prayers; and they appeared to be doing a thriving business. The boys bought some of these prayers to send home as curiosities; and they also bought some charms and beads, the latter not unlike those used by Catholics, and having a prominent place in the Japanese worship. Then there were votive tablets on the walls, generally in the form of pictures painted on paper or silk, or cut out of thin paper, like silhouettes. One of them represents a ship on the water in the midst of a storm, and is probably the offering of a merchant who had a marine venture that he wished to have the goddess take under her protection. Shoes and top-knots of men and women were among the offerings, and the most of them were labelled with the names of the donors. These valueless articles are never disturbed, but remain in their places for years, while costly treasures of silver or gold are generally removed in a few days to the private sanctuary of the goddess for fear of accidents. Even in a temple, all the visitors cannot be trusted to keep their hands in check. It is intimated that the priests are sometimes guilty of appropriating valuable things to their own use. But then what could you expect of a lot of heathens like the Japanese? Nothing of the kind could happen in a Christian land. There were more attractions outside the temple than in it for our young visitors, and, after a hasty glance at the shrines in the neighborhood of the great altar, they went again into the open air. Not far from the entrance of the temple Frank came upon a stone wheel set in a post of the same material. He looked it over with the greatest care, and wondered what kind of labor-saving machine it was. A quantity of letters and figures on the sides of the post increased his thirst for knowledge, and he longed to be able to read Japanese, so that he might know the name of the inventor of this piece of mechanism, and what it was made for. He turned to the Doctor and asked what was the use of the post, and how it was operated. Just as he spoke, a man passed near the machine and gave the wheel a blow that sent it spinning around with great rapidity. The man gave a glance at it to see that it was turning well, and then moved on in the direction of the temple. "I know what that is," said Fred, who came along at the moment Frank expressed his wonder to Doctor Bronson. "Well, what is it?" "It's a praying-machine; I read about it the other day in a book on Japan." "Quite right," responded the Doctor; "it is a machine used in every country where Buddhism is the religion." [Illustration: PRAYING-MACHINE.] Then he went on to explain that there is a formula of prayers on the sides of the post, and sometimes on the wheel, and that for each revolution of the wheel these prayers are supposed to be uttered. A devotee passes, and, as he does so, he revolves the wheel; and for each time it turns around a prayer is recorded in heaven to his credit. It follows that a man with strong arms, and possessing a knack of making the wheel spin around, can do a great deal more petitioning to Heaven than the weak and clumsy one. Fred thought that it would be a good thing to attach these prayer-wheels to mills propelled by water, wind, or steam, and thus secure a steady and continuous revolution. The Doctor told him that this was actually done in some of the Buddhist countries, and a good many of the pious people said their prayers by machinery. [Illustration: ARCHERY ATTENDANT.] They strolled along to where there were some black-eyed girls in charge of booths, where, for a small consideration, a visitor can practise shooting with bows and arrows. The bows were very small, and the arrows were blunt at the ends. The target was a drum, and consequently the marksman's ear, rather than the eye, told when a shot was successful. The drums were generally square, and in front of each there was a little block of wood. A click on the wood showed that a shot was of more value than when it was followed by the dull boom of the drum. The girls brought tea to the boys, and endeavored to engage them in conversation, but, as there was no common language in which they could talk, the dialogue was not particularly interesting. The boys patronized the archery business, and tried a few shots with the Japanese equipments; but they found the little arrows rather difficult to handle, on account of their diminutive size. An arrow six inches long is hardly heavy enough to allow of a steady aim, and both of the youths declared they would prefer something more weighty. Near the archery grounds there was a collection of so-called wax-works, and the Doctor paid the entrance-fees for the party to the show. These wax-works consist of thirty-six tableaux with life-size figures, and are intended to represent miracles wrought by Ku-wanon, the goddess of the temple. They are the production of one artist, who had visited the temples devoted to Ku-wanon in various parts of Japan, and determined to represent her miracles in such a way as to instruct those who were unable to make the pilgrimage, as he had done. One of the tableaux shows the goddess restoring to health a young lady who has prayed to her; another shows a woman saved from shipwreck, in consequence of having prayed to the goddess; in another a woman is falling from a ladder, but the goddess saves her from injury; in another a pious man is saved from robbers by his dog; and in another a true believer is overcoming and killing a serpent that sought to do him harm. Several of the groups represent demons and fairies, and the Japanese skill in depicting the hideous is well illustrated. One of them shows a robber desecrating the temple of the goddess; and the result of his action is hinted at by a group of demons who are about to carry him away in a cart of iron, which has been heated red-hot, and has wheels and axles of flaming fire. He does not appear overjoyed with the free ride that is in prospect for him. These figures are considered the most remarkable in all Japan, and many foreign visitors have pronounced them superior to the celebrated collection of Madame Tussaud in London. Ku-wanon is represented as a beautiful lady, and in some of the figures there is a wonderfully gentle expression to her features. Asakusa is famous for its flower-shows, which occur at frequent intervals, and, luckily for our visitors, one was in progress at the time of their pilgrimage to the temple. The Japanese are great lovers of flowers, and frequently a man will deprive himself of things of which he stands in actual need in order to purchase his favorite blossoms. As in all other countries, the women are more passionately fond of floral productions than the men; and when a flower-show is in progress, there is sure to be a large attendance of the fairer sex. Many of these exhibitions are held at night, as a great portion of the public are unable to come in the daytime on account of their occupations. At night the place is lighted up by means of torches stuck in the ground among the flowers, and the scene is quite picturesque. [Illustration: A JAPANESE FLOWER-SHOW. NIGHT SCENE.] Frank and Fred were greatly interested to find the love which the Japanese have for dwarfed plants and for plants in fantastic shapes. The native florists are wonderfully skilful in this kind of work, and some of their accomplishments would seem impossible to American gardeners. For example, they will make representations of mountains, houses, men, women, cats, dogs, boats, carts, ships under full sail, and a hundred other things--all in plants growing in pots or in the ground. To do this they take a frame of wire or bamboo in the shape of the article they wish to represent, and then compel the plant to grow around it. Day by day the plant is trained, bent a little here and a little there, and in course of time it assumes the desired form and is ready for the market. If an animal is represented, it is made more life-like by the addition of a pair of porcelain eyes; but there is rarely any other part of his figure that is formed of anything else than the living green. Our boys had a merry time among the treasures of the gardener in picking out the animate and inanimate forms that were represented, and both regretted that they could not send home some of the curious things that they found. Frank discovered a model of a house that he knew would please his sister; and he was quite sure that Miss Effie would dance with delight if she could feast her eyes on a figure of a dog, with the short nose for which the dogs of Japan are famous, and with sharp little eyes of porcelain. Fred cared less for the models in green than he did for some dwarf trees that seemed to strike his fancy particularly. There were pines, oaks, and other trees familiar to our eyes, only an inch or two in height, but as perfectly formed as though they were of the natural size in which we see them in their native forests. Then there were bamboo, cactus, and a great many other plants that grow in Japan, but with which we are not familiar. There was such a quantity of them as to leave no doubt that the dwarfing of plants is thoroughly understood in Japan and has received much attention. Doctor Bronson told the boys that the profession of florist, like many other professions and trades, was hereditary, and that the knowledge descended from father to son. The dwarfing of plants, and their training into unnatural shapes and forms, have been practised for thousands of years, and the present state of the florist's art is the result of centuries of development. [Illustration: A CHRISTENING IN JAPAN.] In the flower-show and among the tea-booths the party remained at their leisure until it was time to think of going away from Asakusa and seeing something else. As they came out of the temple grounds they met a wedding party going in, and a few paces farther on they encountered a christening party proceeding in the same direction. The wedding procession consisted of three persons, and the other of four; but the principal member of the latter group was so young that he was carried in the arms of one of his companions, and had very little to say of the performances in which he was to take a prominent part. Frank observed that he did not cry, as any well-regulated baby would have done in America, and remarked upon the oddity of the circumstance. The Doctor informed him that it was not the fashion for babies to cry in Japan, unless they belonged to foreign parents. Frank opened his eyes with astonishment. Fred did likewise. "And is it really the case," said Frank, "that a Japanese baby never cries?" "I could hardly say that," the Doctor answered; "but you may live a long time in Japan, and see lots of babies without hearing a cry from one of them. An American or English baby will make more noise and trouble than fifty Japanese ones. You have seen a great many small children since you landed in Japan, and now stop and think if you have heard one of them cry." The boys considered a moment, and were forced to admit that, as Frank expressed it, they hadn't heard a whimper from a native infant. And they added that they were not anxious to hear any either. The child that they saw was probably an urchin of about four weeks, as it is the custom to shave the head of an infant on the thirtieth day, or very near that date, and take him to the temple. There the priest performs a ceremonial very much like a christening with us, and for the same object. The party in the present instance consisted of a nurse carrying the child, a servant holding an umbrella to shield the nurse and child from the sun, and lastly the father of the youngster. The mother does not accompany the infant on this journey, or, at all events, it is not necessary that she should do so. [Illustration: A WEDDING PARTY.] The wedding procession that our boys encountered consisted of the bride and her mother, with a servant to hold an umbrella to protect them from the sun. Mother and daughter were richly attired, and their heads were covered with shawls heavily embroidered. Weddings in Japan do not take place in the temples, as might naturally be expected, but a part of the ceremonial is performed at the house of the bride, and the remainder at that of the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride accompanies her mother to the temple to say her prayers for a happy life, and this was the occasion which our young adventurers happened to witness. There are many other temples in Tokio besides Asakusa, and the stranger who wishes to devote his time to the study of Japanese temples can have his wishes gratified to the fullest degree. After our party had finished the sights of Asakusa, they went to another quarter where they spent an hour among temples that were less popular, though more elegant, than those of the locality we have just described. The beauty of the architecture and the general elegance of the interior of the structures captivated them, and they unhesitatingly pronounced the religious edifices of Japan the finest they had ever seen. They were hungry, and the Doctor suggested Uyeno. The boys did not know what Uyeno was, but concluded they would like some. Fred asked if it was really good. The Doctor told them that Uyeno was excellent, and Frank asked how it was prepared. He was somewhat taken aback when he learned that Uyeno was not an article of food, but a place where food was to be obtained. [Illustration: STROLLING SINGERS AT ASAKUSA.] They went there and found a pretty park on a hill that overlooked a considerable portion of the city. At one side of the park there was an enclosure containing several tombs of the shogoons, or tycoons, of Japan, and there was a neat little temple that is held in great reverence, and receives annually many thousands of visitors. On an edge of the hill, where a wide view was to be had over the houses of the great capital, an enterprising Japanese had erected a restaurant, which he managed after the European manner, and was driving a profitable business. He was patronized by the foreign visitors and residents, and also by many of the Japanese officials, who had learned to like foreign cookery and customs during their journeys abroad, or were endeavoring to familiarize themselves with its peculiarities. Our friends found the restaurant quite satisfactory, and complimented the proprietor on the success of his management. It is no easy matter for a native to introduce foreign customs into his hotel in such a way as to give satisfaction to the people of the country from which the customs are taken. [Illustration: VIEW FROM SURUGA DAI IN TOKIO.] Uyeno is not by any means the only elevation in Tokio from which a good view can be had of the city and surrounding country. There are several elevations where such views are obtainable, and in nearly all of them the holy mountain, Fusiyama, has a prominent place. A famous view is that of Atago Yama, and another is from Suruga Dai. Both these places are popular resorts, and abound in tea-houses, refreshment booths, swings, and other public attractions. On pleasant afternoons there is always a large attendance of the populace, and it is interesting to see them amusing themselves. There are old people, middle-aged people, youths, and infants, the latter on the backs of their nurses, where they hang patiently on, and seem to enjoy their share of the fun. The quantity of tea that the natives consume in one of these afternoon entertainments is something prodigious; but they do not seem to suffer any injury from what some of us would consider a wild dissipation. [Illustration: A CHILD'S NURSE.] Not far from where the Doctor and his young friends were seated was an enclosure where was held the First National Fair of Tokio in 1877. The enclosure was still standing, and it was the intention of the government to hold a fair there annually, as it fully recognized the advantages of these exhibitions as educators of the people. The Japanese are not generally well informed as to the products of their own country outside of the provinces where they happen to live. A native can tell you what his own district or province produces, but he is often lamentably ignorant of the resources of other parts of the country. It is to break up this ignorance, and also to stimulate improvements in the various industries, that these national fairs have been established. As the description of the First National Fair at Tokio may not be uninteresting, we will copy from a letter to a New York paper, by one of its correspondents who was in Japan at the time. After describing the opening ceremonies, which were attended by the emperor and empress, together with many high dignitaries of the government, he wrote as follows: "The buildings are arranged to enclose an octagonal space, and consequently a visitor finds himself at the starting-point when he has made the rounds. The affair is in the hands of the gentlemen who controlled the Japanese department of the Philadelphia Exhibition in 1876, and many of the features of our Centennial have been reproduced. They have Agricultural Hall, Machinery Hall, Horticultural Hall, and Fine Arts Gallery, as at the Centennial; and then they have Eastern Hall and Western Hall, which the Quaker City did not have. They have restaurants and refreshment booths, and likewise stands for the sale of small articles, such as are most likely to tempt strangers. In many respects the exhibition is quite similar to an affair of the same kind in America; and with a few changes of costume, language, and articles displayed, it might pass for a state or county fair in Maine or Minnesota. [Illustration: LOVERS BEHIND A SCREEN. A PAINTING ON SILK EXHIBITED AT THE TOKIO FAIR.] "The display of manufactured articles is much like that in the Japanese section at Philadelphia, but is not nearly so large, the reason being that the merchants do not see as good chances for business as they did at the Centennial, and consequently they have not taken so much trouble to come in. Many of the articles shown were actually at Philadelphia, but did not find a market, and have been brought out again in the hope that they may have better luck. The bronzes are magnificent, and some of them surpass anything that was shown at the Centennial, or has ever been publicly exhibited outside of Japan. The Japanese seem determined to maintain their reputation of being the foremost workers of bronze in the world. They have also some beautiful work in lacquered ware, but their old lacquer is better than the new. "In their Machinery Hall they have a very creditable exhibit, considering how recently they have opened the country to the Western world, and how little they had before the opening in the way of Western ideas. There is a small steam-engine of Japanese make; there are two or three looms, some rice-mills, winnowing-machines, an apparatus for winding and spinning silk, some pumps, a hay-cutter, and a fire-engine worked by hand. Then there are several agricultural machines, platform scales, pumps, and a wood-working apparatus from American makers, and there are two or three of English production. In the Agricultural Hall there are horse-rakes, mowers, reapers, and ploughs from America, and there are also some well-made ploughs from Japanese hands. In the Eastern Hall there are some delicate balances for weighing coin and the precious metals; they were made for the mint at Osaka, and look wonderfully like the best French or German balances. The Japanese have been quite successful in copying these instruments, more so than in imitating the heavier scales from America. Fairbanks's scales have been adopted as the standard of the Japanese postal and customs departments. Some of the skilful workmen in Japan thought they could make their own scales, and so they set about copying the American one. They made a scale that looked just as well, but was not accurate as a weighing-machine. As the chief use of a scale is to weigh correctly, they concluded to quit their experiments and stick to Fairbanks's. [Illustration: BLACKSMITH'S BELLOWS.] "There is an interesting display of the natural products of Japan, and it is exceedingly instructive to a stranger. The Japanese are studying these things with great attention, and the fair will undoubtedly prove an excellent school for the people by adding to their stock of information about themselves. Each section bears over its entrance the name of the city, province, or district it represents, and as these names are displayed in English as well as in Japanese, a stranger has no difficulty in finding out the products of the different parts of the empire. The result is that many articles are repeated in the exhibition, and you meet with them again and again. Such, for example, are raw silks, which come from various localities, as likewise do articles of leather, wood, and iron. Porcelain of various kinds appears repeatedly, and so do the woods used for making furniture. There is an excellent show of porcelain, and some of the pieces are of enormous size. Kaga, Satsuma, Hizen, Kioto, Nagasaki, and other wares are in abundance, and a student of ceramics will find enough to interest him for many hours. [Illustration: A GRASS OVERCOAT.] "In cordage and material for ship-building there is a good exhibit, and there are two well-made models of gun-boats. Wheat, rice, millet, and other grains are represented by numerous samples, and there are several specimens of Indian-corn, or maize, grown on Japanese soil. There is a goodly array of canned fruits and meats, mostly the former, some in tin and the rest in glass. Vinegars, rice-whiskey, soy, and the like are abundant, and so is dried fish of several kinds. There is a good display of tea and tobacco, the former being in every form, from the tea-plant up to the prepared article ready for shipment. One has only to come here to see the many uses to which the Japanese put fibrous grasses in making mats, overcoats, and similar things; and there are like displays of the serviceability of bamboo. From the north of Japan there are otter and other skins, and from various points there are models of boats and nets to illustrate the fishing business. The engineering department shows some fine models of bridges and dams, and has evidently made good progress since its organization." CHAPTER X. WALKS AND TALKS IN TOKIO. While the Doctor and his companions were at table in the restaurant at Uyeno, they were surprised by the presence of an old acquaintance. Mr. A., or "The Mystery," who had been their fellow-passenger from San Francisco, suddenly entered the room, accompanied by two Japanese officials, with whom he was evidently on very friendly terms. They were talking in English, and the two natives seemed to be quite fluent in it, but they evidently preferred to say little in the presence of the strangers. Mr. A. was equally disinclined to talk, or even to make himself known, as he simply nodded to Doctor Bronson and the boys, and then sat down in a distant corner. When the waiter came, he said something to him in a low tone, and in a few minutes the proprietor appeared, and led the way to a private room, where the American and his Japanese friends would be entirely by themselves. As Frank expressed it, "something was up," but what that something was they did not see any prospect of ascertaining immediately. After a few moments devoted to wondering what could be the meaning of the movements of the mysterious stranger, they dropped the subject and resumed their conversation about Japan. Fred had some questions of a religious character to propound to the Doctor. They had grown out of his observations during their visits to the temples. "I noticed in some of the temples," said Fred, "that there were statues of Buddha and also other statues, but in other temples there were no statues of Buddha or any one else. What is the meaning of this?" "It is because the temples belong to different forms of religion," the Doctor answered. "Those where you saw the statues of Buddha are Buddhist in their faith and form of worship, while the rest are of another kind which is called Shinto." "And what is the difference between Buddhism and Shintoism?" Frank inquired. "The difference," Doctor Bronson explained, "is about the same as that between the Roman Catholic faith and that of the Protestants. As I understand it--but I confess that I am not quite clear on the subject--Shintoism is the result of a reformation of the Buddhist religion, just as our Protestant belief is a reformation of Catholicism. "Now, if you want to study Buddhism," he continued, "I must refer you to a work on the religions of the world, or to an encyclopedia, as we have no time to go into a religious dissertation, and, besides, our lunch might be spoiled while we were talking. And another reason why we ought not to enter deeply into the subject is that I should find it impossible to make a clear exposition of the principles of the Buddhist faith or of Shintoism; and if you pressed me too closely, I might become confused. The religions of the East are very difficult to comprehend, and I have known men who had lived twenty years in China or India, and endeavored to study the forms and principles of the religions of those countries, who confessed their inability to understand them. For my own part, I must admit that when I have listened to explanations by Japanese, or other people of the East, of their religious faith, I have heard a great deal that I could not comprehend. I concede their sincerity; and when they say there is a great deal in our forms of worship that they do not understand, I believe they are telling the truth. Our ways of thought are not their ways, and what is clear to one is not at all so to another. [Illustration: A HIGH-PRIEST IN FULL COSTUME.] "I have already told you of the overthrow of the Shogoon, or Tycoon, and the return of the Mikado to power as the ruler of all the country. The Shogoon and his family were adherents of Buddhism, while the Mikado's followers were largely of the Shinto faith. When the Mikado's power was restored, there was a general demand on the part of the Shintoists that the Buddhist temples should be destroyed and the religion effaced. A good number of temples were demolished, and the government took away much of the revenue of those that remained. The temples are rapidly going to decay, as there is no money to expend on them for repairs, and it is quite possible that the beginning of the next century may see them overthrown. Some of them are magnificent specimens of architecture, and it is a great pity that they should thus go to ruin. Adherents of the old religion declare that the government had at one time determined to issue an order for the demolition of every Buddhist temple in the country, and only refrained from so doing through fear that it would lead to a revolution. The Shiba temple in Tokio, one of the finest in Japan, was burned under circumstances that led many persons to accuse the government of having had a hand in the conflagration, and I know there are foreigners in Tokio and Yokohama who openly denounce the authorities for the occurrence. [Illustration: A JAPANESE TEMPLE.] "As you have observed, the Buddhist temples contain the statue of Buddha, while the Shinto temples have nothing of the sort. For all practical purposes, you may compare a Buddhist temple to a Catholic church, with its statues and pictures of the saints; and a Shinto temple to a Protestant church, with its bare walls, and its altar with no ornament of consequence. The Buddhists, like the Catholics, burn a great deal of incense in front of their altars and before their statues; but the Shintoists do not regard the burning of incense as at all necessary to salvation. Both religions have an excellent code of morals; and if all the adherents of either should do as they are told by their sacred teachers, there would not be much wickedness in the country. As for that matter, there is enough of moral precept in nearly every religion in the world to live by, but the trouble is that the whole world will not live as it should. Buddhism is more than five hundred years older than Christianity. The old forms of Shintoism existed before Buddhism was brought to Japan; but the modern is so much changed from the old that it is virtually, as I told you, a reformation of Buddhism. At all events, that was the form which it assumed at the time the Shogoon's government was overthrown. [Illustration: A WAYSIDE SHRINE.] "You have only to see the many shrines and temples in all parts of the country to know how thoroughly religious the whole population is, especially when you observe the crowds of devout worshippers that go to the temples daily. Every village, however small and poor, has its temple; and wherever you go, you see little shrines by the roadside with steps leading up to them. They are invariably in the most picturesque spots, and always in a situation that has a view as commanding as possible. You saw them near the railway as we came here from Yokohama, and you can hardly go a mile on a Japanese road without seeing one of them. The Japanese have remembered their love for the picturesque in arranging their temples and shrines, and thus have made them attractive to the great mass of the people. "Since the opening of Japan to foreigners, the missionaries have devoted much attention to the country as a field of labor. Compared with the result of missionary labors in India, the cause has prospered, and a great deal of good has been accomplished. The Japanese are not an unthinking people, and their faculties of analysis are very keen. They show more interest in the doctrines of Christianity than do the Chinese and some other Oriental people, and are quite willing to discuss them whenever they are properly presented." The discussion came to an end, and the party prepared to move on. They were uncertain where to go, and, after a little time spent in debate, the Doctor suggested that they might as well go once more to the Nihon Bashi, or Central Bridge, and enjoy an afternoon view of the river. Off they started, and in due time were at the famous bridge, and in the midst of the active life that goes on in its vicinity. The view up and down the river was an animated one. Many boats were on the water, some of them lying at anchor, or tied up to the bank; while others were slowly threading the stream in one way and another. The banks of the river were lined with gay restaurants and other places of public resort, and from some of them came the sounds of native music, indicating that the patrons were enjoying themselves. The great mountain of Japan was in full view, and was a more welcome sight than the crowds of beggars that lined the bridge and showed altogether too much attention to the strangers. The bridge itself is not the magnificent structure that one might expect to find when he remembers its national importance. It is a rickety affair, built of wood, and showing signs of great antiquity; and its back rises as though somebody had attempted to lift it up by pressing his shoulders beneath and had nearly succeeded in his effort. Near the southern end of the bridge the boys observed something like a great sign-board with a railing around it, and a roof above to keep the rain from injuring the placards which were painted beneath. The latter were in Japanese, and, of course, neither Frank nor Fred could make out their meaning. So they asked the Doctor what the structure was for and why it was in such a conspicuous place. "That," answered the Doctor, "is the great kosatsu." Frank said he was glad to know it, and he would be more glad when he knew what the kosatsu was. [Illustration: THE GREAT KOSATSU, NEAR THE NIHON BASHI.] "The kosatsu," continued Doctor Bronson, "is the sign-board where the official notices of the government are posted. You find these boards in all the cities, towns, and villages of Japan; there may be several in a city, but there is always one which has a higher character than the rest, and is known as the _great_ kosatsu. The one you are now looking at is the most celebrated in the empire, as it stands near the Nihon Bashi, whence all roads are measured, as I have already explained to you." "Please, Doctor," said Frank, "what is the nature of the notices they put on the sign-board?" "Any public notice or law, any new order of the government, a regulation of the police, appointments of officials; in fact, anything that would be published as an official announcement in other countries. There was formerly an edict against Christians which was published all over the empire, and was on all the kosatsus. The edict appeared on the kosatsu of the Nihon Bashi down to the overthrow of the Shogoon's government, in 1868, when it was removed." "And what was the edict?" "It forbade Christianity in these words: 'The evil sect called Christians is strictly prohibited. Suspicious persons should be reported to the proper officers, and rewards will be given.' Directly under this edict was another, which said, 'Human beings must carefully practise the principles of the five social relations: Charity must be shown to widowers, widows, orphans, the childless, and sick. There must be no such crimes as murder, arson, or robbery.' Both these orders were dated in the month of April, 1868, and consequently are not matters of antiquity. The original edict against Christians was issued two hundred years ago, and was never revoked. St. Francis Xavier and his zealous comrades had introduced the religion of Europe into Japan, and their success was so great that the government became alarmed for its safety. They found proofs that the new religionists intended to subjugate the country and place it under the dominion of Spain; and in the latter part of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth century there was an active persecution of the Christians. Many were expelled from the country, many more were executed, and the cause of Christianity received a blow from which it did not recover until our day. Now the missionaries are at liberty to preach the Gospel, and may make as many converts as they please." [Illustration: BLOWING BUBBLES.] As they walked away from the kosatsu they saw a group engaged in the childish amusement of blowing soap-bubbles. There were three persons in the group, a man and two boys, and the youngsters were as happy as American or English boys would have been under similar circumstances. While the man blew the bubbles, the boys danced around him and endeavored to catch the shining globes. Fred and Frank were much interested in the spectacle, and had it not been for their sense of dignity, and the manifest impropriety of interfering, they would have joined in the sport. The players were poorly clad, and evidently did not belong to the wealthier class; but they were as happy as though they had been princes; in fact, it is very doubtful if princes could have had a quarter as much enjoyment from the chase of soap-bubbles. Evening was approaching, and the party concluded to defer their sight-seeing until the morrow. They returned to the railway station, and were just in time to catch the last train of the day for Yokohama. There was a hotel at Tokio on the European system, and if they had missed the train, they would have patronized this establishment. The Doctor had spent a week there, and spoke favorably of the Sei-yo-ken, as the hotel is called. It is kept by a Japanese, and all the servants are natives, but they manage to meet very fairly the wants of the strangers that go there. It was some time after the opening of Tokio to foreigners before there was any hotel there, and a visitor was put to great inconvenience. He was compelled to accept the hospitality of his country's representative. As he generally had no personal claims to such hospitality, he was virtually an intruder; and if at all sensitive about forcing himself where he had no business to go, his position could not be otherwise than embarrassing. The American ministers in the early days were often obliged to keep free boarding-houses, and even at the present time they are not entirely exempt from intrusions. Our diplomatic and consular representatives abroad are the victims of a vast amount of polite fraud, and some very impolite frauds in addition. It is a sad thing to say, but nevertheless true, that a disagreeably large proportion of travelling Americans in distant lands make pecuniary raids on the purses of our representatives in the shape of loans, which they never repay, and probably never intend to. Another class manages to sponge its living by quartering at the consular or diplomatic residence, and making itself as much at home as though it owned everything. There are many consuls in Europe and Asia who dread the entrance of a strange countryman into their offices, through the expectation, born of bitter experience, that the introduction is to be followed by an appeal for a loan, which is in reality a gift, and can be ill afforded by the poorly paid representative. The next day the party returned to Tokio, but, unfortunately for their plans, a heavy rain set in and kept them indoors. Japanese life and manners are so much connected with the open air that a rainy day does not leave much opportunity for a sight-seer among the people. Finding the rain was likely to last an indefinite period, they returned to the hotel at Yokohama. The boys turned their attention to letter-writing, while the Doctor busied himself with preparations for an excursion to Hakone--a summer resort of foreigners in Japan--and possibly an ascent of Fusiyama. The boys greatly wished to climb the famous mountain; and as the Doctor had never made the journey, he was quite desirous of undertaking it, though, perhaps, he was less keen than his young companions, as he knew it could only be accomplished with a great deal of fatigue. The letters were devoted to descriptions of what the party had seen in their visit to Tokio, and they had a goodly number of comments to make on the manners and customs of the Japanese. Frank declared that he had never seen a more polite people than the Japanese, and then he added that he had never seen any other people outside of his own country, and therefore his judgment might not be worth much. Fred had been greatly impressed with his discovery that the babies of Japan do not cry, and he suggested that the American babies would do well to follow the example of the barbarian children. Then, too, he was much pleased with the respect the children showed for their parents, and he thought the parents were very fond of their children, if he were to judge by the great number of games that were provided for the amusement of the little folks. He described what he had seen in the temple at Asakusa, and in other parts of Tokio, and enclosed a picture of a Japanese father seated with his children, the one in his arms, and the other clinging to his knee, and forming an interesting scene. [Illustration: FATHER AND CHILDREN.] Frank had made a discovery about the cats of Japan, and carefully recorded it in his letter as follows: "There are the funniest cats in this country that you ever saw. They have the shortest kind of tails, and a good many of them haven't any tails at all any more than a rabbit. You know we expect every kitten in America to play with her tail, and what can she do when she has no tail to play with? I think that must be the reason why the Japanese cats are so solemn, and why they won't play as our cats do. I have tried to find out how it all happens, but nobody can tell. Doctor Bronson says the kittens are born without tails, and that is all he knows about it. I think they must be a different kind of cat from ours; but, apart from the absence of tails, they don't look any way dissimilar. Somebody says that an American once took one of these tailless cats to San Francisco as a curiosity, and that it would never make friends with any long-tailed cat. It would spit and scratch, and try to bite off the other cat's tail; but one day, when they put it with a cat whose tail had been cut off by a bad boy, it was friendly at once." Fred wanted ever so much to send home a goldfish with a very wide and beautiful tail. The fish didn't seem to be much unlike a common goldfish, except in the tail, which was triple, and looked like a piece of lace. As it swam around in the water, especially when the sun was shining on the globe, its tail seemed to have nearly as many colors as the rainbow, and both the boys were of opinion that no more beautiful fish was ever seen. But the proposal to send it to America was rather dampened by the statement of the Doctor that the experiment had been tried several times, and only succeeded in a very few instances. Almost all the fish died on the voyage over the Pacific; and even when they lived through that part of the trip, the overland journey from San Francisco to the Atlantic coast generally proved too much for them. The Japanese name for this fish is _kin-giyo_, and a pair of them may be bought for ten cents. It is said that a thousand dollars were offered for the first one that ever reached New York alive, which is a large advance on the price in Yokohama. The Japanese dogs were also objects of interest to our young friends, though less so than the cats and the goldfish. They have several varieties of dogs in Japan, some of them being quite without hair, while others have very thick coats. The latter are the most highly prized, and the shorter their noses, the more valuable they are considered. Fred found a dog, about the size of a King Charles spaniel, that had a nose only half an inch long. He was boasting of his discovery, when Frank pointed out one that had less than a third of an inch. Then the two kept on the hunt for the latest improvement in dogs, as Frank expressed it, and they finally found one that had no nose at all. The nostrils were set directly in the end of the little fellow's head, and his under-jaw was so short that the operations of barking and eating were not very easy to perform. In spite of the difficulty of barking, he made a great deal of noise when the boys attempted to examine him, and he gave Frank to understand in the most practical way that a noseless dog can bite. As they walked away from the shop where they found him, he kept up a continual snarling, which led to the remark by Fred that a noseless dog was very far from noiseless. As they had been kept in by the rain, Frank thought he could not do better than send to his sister a Japanese picture of a party caught in a rain-storm. He explained that the rain in Japan was quite as wet as in any other country, and that umbrellas were just as necessary as at home. He added that the Japanese umbrellas were made of paper, and kept the rain off very well, but they did not last a long time. You could buy one for half a dollar, and a very pretty one it was, and it spread out farther than the foreign umbrella did. The sticks were of bamboo, and they were covered with several thicknesses of oiled paper carefully dried in the sun. They were very much used, since nearly everybody carried an umbrella, in fair weather as well as in foul; if the umbrella was not needed against the rain, it was useful to keep off the heat of the sun, which was very severe in the middle of the day. The letters were ready in season for the mail for America, and in due time they reached their destination and carried pleasure to several hearts. It was evident that the boys were enjoying themselves, and at the same time learning much about the strange country they had gone to see. [Illustration: CAUGHT IN THE RAIN.] CHAPTER XI. AN EXCURSION TO DAI-BOOTS AND ENOSHIMA. A favorite resort of the foreign residents of Yokohama during the summer months is the island of Enoshima. It is about twenty miles away, and is a noted place of pilgrimage for the Japanese, on account of certain shrines that are reputed to have a sacred character. Doctor Bronson arranged that his party should pay a visit to this island, as it was an interesting spot, and they could have a glimpse of Japanese life in the rural districts, and among the fishermen of the coast. They went thither by jin-riki-shas, and arranged to stop on the way to see the famous bronze statue of Dai-Boots, or the Great Buddha. This statue is the most celebrated in all Japan, as it is the largest and finest in every way. Frank had heard and read about it; and when he learned from the Doctor that they were to see it on their way to Enoshima, he ran straightway to Fred to tell the good news. "Just think of it, Fred," said he, "we are to see a statue sixty feet high, all of solid bronze, and a very old one it is, too." "Sixty feet isn't so very much," Fred answered. "There are statues in Europe a great deal larger." "But they were not made by the Japanese, as this one was," Frank responded, "and they are statues of figures standing erect, while this represents a sitting figure. A sitting figure sixty feet high is something you don't see every day." Fred admitted that there might be some ground for Frank's enthusiasm, and, in fact, he was not long in sharing it, and thinking it was a very good thing that they were going to Enoshima, and intending to see Dai-Boots on the way. At the appointed time they were off. They went through the foreign part of Yokohama, and through the native quarter, and then out upon the Tokaido. The boys were curious to see the Tokaido, and when they reached it they asked the Doctor to halt the jin-riki-shas, and let them press their feet upon the famous work of Japanese road-builders. The halt was made, and gave a few minutes' rest to the men that were drawing them, and from whose faces the perspiration was running profusely. The Tokaido, or eastern road, is the great highway that connects Kioto with Tokio--the eastern capital with the western one. There is some obscurity in its history, but there is no doubt of its antiquity. It has been in existence some hundreds of years, and has witnessed many and many a princely procession, and many a display of Oriental magnificence. It was the road by which the Daimios of the western part of the empire made their journeys to Tokio in the olden days, and it was equally the route by which the cortége of the Shogoon went to Kioto to render homage to the Mikado. It is a well-made road; but as it was built before the days of wheeled carriages, and when a track where two men could ride abreast was all that was considered requisite, it is narrower than most of us would expect to find it. In many places it is not easy for two carriages to pass without turning well out into the ditch, and there are places on the great route where the use of wheeled vehicles is impossible. But in spite of these drawbacks it is a fine road, and abounds in interesting sights. [Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE TOKAIDO.] Naturally the Tokaido is a place of activity, and in the ages that have elapsed since it was made many villages have sprang into existence along its sides. Between Yokohama and Tokio there is an almost continuous hedge of these villages, and there are places where you may ride for miles as along a densely filled street. From Tokio the road follows the shore of the bay until near Yokohama, when it turns inland; but it comes to or near the sea again in several places, and affords occasional glimpses of the great water. For several years after the admission of foreigners to Japan the Tokaido gave a great deal of trouble to the authorities, and figured repeatedly in the diplomatic history of the government. The most noted of these affairs was that in which an Englishman named Richardson was killed, and the government was forced to pay a heavy indemnity in consequence. A brief history of this affair may not be without interest, as it will illustrate the difficulties that arose in consequence of a difference of national customs. Under the old laws of Japan it was the custom for the Daimios to have a very complete right of way whenever their trains were out upon the Tokaido or any other road. If any native should ride or walk into a Daimio's procession, or even attempt anything of the kind, he would be put to death immediately by the attendants of the prince. This was the invariable rule, and had been in force for hundreds of years. When the foreigners first came to Yokohama, the Daimios' processions were frequently on the road; and, as the strangers had the right to go into the country, and consequently to ride on the Tokaido, there was a constant fear that some of them would ignorantly or wilfully violate the ancient usages and thus lead the Daimios' followers to use their swords. [Illustration: A PARTY ON THE TOKAIDO.] Things were in this condition when one day (September 14th, 1862) the procession of Shimadzu Saburo, father of the last Daimio of Satsuma, was passing along the Tokaido on its way from the capital to the western part of the empire. Through fear of trouble in case of an encounter with the train of this prince, the authorities had previously requested foreigners not to go upon the Tokaido that day; but the request was refused, and a party of English people--three gentlemen and a lady--embraced the opportunity to go out that particular afternoon to meet the prince's train. Two American gentlemen were out that afternoon, and encountered the same train; they politely turned aside to allow the procession to pass, and were not disturbed. When the English party met the train, the lady and one of the gentlemen suggested that they should stand at the side of the road, but Mr. Richardson urged his horse forward and said, "Come on; I have lived fourteen years in China, and know how to manage these people." He rode into the midst of the procession, and was followed by the other gentlemen, or partially so; the lady, in her terror, remained by the side of the road, as she had wished to do at the outset. The guards construed the movements of Mr. Richardson as a direct insult to their master, and fell upon him with their swords. The three men were severely wounded. Mr. Richardson died in less than half an hour, but the others recovered. The lady was not harmed in any way. On the one hand, the Japanese were a proud, haughty race who resented an insult to their prince, and punished it according to Japanese law and custom. On the other, the foreigners had the technical right, in accordance with the treaty, to go upon the Tokaido; but they offered a direct insult to the people in whose country they were, and openly showed their contempt for them. A little forbearance, and a willingness to avoid trouble by refraining from visiting the Tokaido, as requested by the Japanese authorities, would have prevented the sad occurrence. As a result of this affair, the Japanese government was compelled to pay a hundred thousand pounds sterling to the family of Mr. Richardson, or submit to the alternative of a war with England. In addition to this, the city of Kagoshima, the residence of the Prince of Satsuma, was bombarded, the place reduced to ashes, forts, palaces, factories, thrown into ruins, and thousands of buildings set on fire by the shells from the British fleet. Three steamers belonging to the Prince of Satsuma were captured, and the prince was further compelled to pay an additional indemnity of twenty-five thousand pounds. The loss of life in the affair has never been made known by the Japanese, but it is certain to have been very great. It would not be surprising if the Japanese should entertain curious notions of the exact character of the Christian religion, when such acts are perpetrated by the nations that profess it. The blessings of civilization have been wafted to them in large proportion from the muzzles of cannon; and the light of Western diplomacy has been, all too frequently, from the torch of the incendiary. But we must not forget our boys in our dissertation on the history of foreign intervention in Japan. In fact, they were not forgotten in it, as they heard the story from the Doctor's lips, and heard a great deal more besides. The Doctor summarized his opinion of the way the Japanese had been treated by foreigners somewhat as follows: [Illustration: BEGINNING OF RELATIONS BETWEEN ENGLAND AND JAPAN.] "The Japanese had been exclusive for a long time, and wished to continue so. They had had an experience of foreign relations two hundred years ago, and the result had well-nigh cost them their independence. It was unsatisfactory, and they chose to shut themselves up and live alone. If we wanted to shut up the United States, and admit no foreigners among us, we should consider it a matter of great rudeness if they forced themselves in, and threatened to bombard us when we refused them admittance. We were the first to poke our noses into Japan, when we sent Commodore Perry here with a fleet. The Japanese tried their best to induce us to go away and let them alone, but we wouldn't go. We stood there with the copy of the treaty in one hand, and had the other resting on a cannon charged to the muzzle and ready to fire. We said, 'Take the one or the other; sign a treaty of peace and good-will and accept the blessings of civilization, or we will blow you so high in the air that the pieces won't come down for a week.' Japan was convinced when she saw that resistance would be useless, and quite against her wishes she entered the family of nations. We opened the way and then England followed, and then came the other nations. We have done less robbing and bullying than England has, in our intercourse with Japan, and the Japanese like us better in consequence. But if it is a correct principle that no man should be disturbed so long as he does not disturb any one else, and does no harm, the outside nations had no right to interfere with Japan, and compel her to open her territory to them." [Illustration: PILGRIMS ON THE ROAD.] This conversation occurred while they were halted under some venerable shade-trees by the side of the Tokaido, and were looking at the people that passed. Every few minutes they saw groups varying from two to six or eight persons, very thinly clad, and having the appearance of wayfarers with a small stock of money, or none at all. The Doctor explained that these men were pilgrims on their way to holy places--some of them were doubtless bound for Enoshima, some for Hakone, and some for the great mountain which every now and then the turns in the road revealed to the eyes of the travellers. These pilgrimages have a religious character, and are made by thousands of persons every year. One member of a party usually carries a small bell, and as they walk along its faint tinkle gives notice of their religious character, and practically warns others that they are not commercially inclined, as they are without more money than is actually needed for the purposes of their journey. They wear broad hats to protect them from the sun, and their garments, usually of white material, are stamped with mystic characters to symbolize the particular divinity in whose honor the journey is made. [Illustration: THRESHING GRAIN.] Village after village was passed by our young adventurers and their older companion, and many scenes of Japanese domestic life were unfolded to their eyes. At one place some men were engaged in removing the hulls from freshly gathered rice. The grain was in large tubs, made of a section of a tree hollowed out, and the labor was performed by beating the grain with huge mallets. The process was necessarily slow, and required a great deal of patience. This mode of hulling rice has been in use in Japan for hundreds of years, and will probably continue for hundreds of years to come in spite of the improved machinery that is being introduced by foreigners. Rice is the principal article of food used in Japan, and many people have hardly tasted anything else in the whole course of their lives. The opening of the foreign market has largely increased the cost of rice; and in this way the entrance of Japan into the family of nations has brought great hardships upon the laboring classes. It costs three times as much for a poor man to support his family as it did before the advent of the strangers, and there has not been a corresponding advance in wages. Life for the coolie was bad enough under the old form of government, and he had much to complain of. His condition has not been bettered by the new order of things, according to the observation of impartial foreigners who reside in Yokohama and other of the open ports. [Illustration: PEASANT AND HIS WIFE RETURNING FROM THE FIELD.] About ten miles out from Yokohama the party turned from the Tokaido, and took a route through the fields. They found the track rather narrow in places; and on one occasion, when they met a party in jin-riki-shas, it became necessary to step to the ground to allow the vehicles to be lifted around. Then, too, there had been a heavy rain--the storm that cut short their visit to Tokio; and in some places the road had been washed out so that they were obliged to walk around the breaks. Their journey was consequently somewhat retarded; but they did not mind the detention, and had taken such an early start that they had plenty of time to reach Enoshima before dark. They met groups of Japanese peasants returning home from their work; and in every instance the latter made way for the strangers, and stood politely by the roadside as the man-power carriages went rolling by. Frank wanted to make sketches of some of the groups, and was particularly attracted by a woman who was carrying a teapot in one hand and a small roll or bundle under her other arm. By her side walked a man carrying a couple of buckets slung from a pole, after the fashion so prevalent in Japan and China. He steadied the pole with his hands, and seemed quite indifferent to the presence of the foreigners. Both were dressed in loosely fitting garments, and their feet were shod with sandals of straw. The Japanese sandal is held in place by two thongs that start from near the heel on each side and come together in front. The wearer inserts the thong between the great toe and its neighbor. When he is barefooted this operation is easily performed; and, in order to accommodate his stockinged feet to the sandal, the Japanese stocking has a separate place for the "thumb-toe," as one of them called the largest of his "foot-fingers." The foot of the Japanese stocking closely resembles the mitten of America, which young women in certain localities are said to present to discarded admirers. [Illustration: A JAPANESE SANDAL.] The road wound among the fields where the rice was growing luxuriantly, and where now and then they found beans and millet, and other products of Japanese agriculture. The cultivation was evidently of the most careful character, as the fields were cut here and there with little channels for irrigation; and there were frequent deposits of fertilizing materials, whose character was apparent to the nose before it was to the eye. In some places, where the laborers were stooping to weed the plants, there was little more of them visible than their broad sun-hats; and it did not require a great stretch of the imagination to believe they were a new kind of mushroom from Brobdingnagian gardens. Hills like sharply rounded cones rose from each side of the narrow valley they were descending; and the dense growth of wood with which the most of them were covered made a marked contrast to the thoroughly cleared fields. The boys saw over, and over, and over again the pictures they had often seen on Japanese fans and boxes and wondered if they were realities. They had already learned that the apparently impossible pictures we find in Japanese art are not only possible, but actual; but they had not yet seen so thorough a confirmation of it as on this day's ride. Several times they came suddenly upon villages, and very often these discoveries were quite unexpected. As they rode along the valley narrowed, and the hills became larger and more densely covered with trees. By-and-by they halted at a wayside tea-house, and were told to leave the little carriages and rest awhile. Frank protested that he was not in need of any rest; but he changed his mind when the Doctor told him that they had reached one of the objects of their journey, and that he would miss an interesting sight if he kept on. They were at the shrine of Dai-Boots. They went up an avenue between two rows of trees, and right before them was the famous statue. It was indeed a grand work of art. Frank made a careful note of the figures indicating the height of the statue. He found that the whole structure, including the pedestal, measured sixty feet from the ground to the top of the head, and that the figure alone was forty-three feet high. It was in a sitting, or rather a squatting, posture, with the hands partly folded and turned upwards, with the knuckles touching each other. The eyes were closed, and there was an expression of calm repose on the features such as one rarely sees in statuary. There was something very grand and impressive in this towering statue, and the boys gazed upon it with unfeigned admiration. [Illustration: THE GREAT DAI-BOOTS.] Fred asked if the statue was cast in a single piece. But after asking the question, he looked up and saw that the work was evidently done in sections, as the lines where the plates or sections were joined were plainly visible. But the plates were large, and the operation of making the statue was one that required the handling of some very heavy pieces. In many places the statue was covered with inscriptions, which are said to be of a religious character. The figure was hollow, and there was a sort of chapel inside where devout pilgrims were permitted to worship. On the platform in front there were several shrines, and the general surroundings of the place were well calculated to remind one of a sanctuary of Roman Catholicism. Thousands and thousands of pilgrims have come from all parts of Japan to worship at the feet of the great Buddha; and while our friends stood in front of the shrine, a group of devotees arrived and reverently said their prayers. A little way off from Dai-Boots are the temples of Kamakura, which are celebrated for their sanctity, and are the objects of much veneration. They are not unlike the other temples of Japan in general appearance; but the carvings and bronze ornamentations are unusually rich, and must have cost a great deal of money. There was once a large city at Kamakura, and traces of it are distinctly visible. The approach to the temples is over some stone bridges, crossing a moat that must have been a formidable defence in the days before gunpowder was introduced into warfare. After their sight-seeing in the grove of Dai-Boots was over, the party proceeded to Enoshima. When they arrived at the sea-shore opposite the island, they found, to their dismay, that the tide was up; and they were obliged to hire a boat to take them to their destination. At low tide one can walk upon a sand-bar the entire distance; but when the sea is at its highest, the bar is covered, and walking is not practicable. The beach slopes very gradually, and consequently the boats were at some distance out, and the travellers were compelled to wade to them or be carried on men's shoulders. The boys tried the wading, and were successful; the Doctor, more dignified, was carried on the shoulders of a stout Japanese, who was very glad of the opportunity to earn a few pennies. But he came near having a misadventure, as his bearer stumbled when close to the edge of the boat, and pitched the Doctor headlong into the craft. He was landed among a lot of baskets and other baggage, and his hat came in unpleasant contact with a bucket containing some freshly caught fish. Luckily he suffered no injury, and was able to join the others in laughing over the incident. On their arrival at the island, it was again necessary to wade to the shore. Frank found the slippery rocks such insecure footing that he went down into the water, but was not completely immersed. The others got ashore safely, and it was unanimously voted that the next time they came to Enoshima they would endeavor to arrive when the tide was out. An involuntary bath, before one is properly dressed, or undressed, for it, is no more to be desired in Japan than in any other country. [Illustration: SALUTATION OF THE LANDLORD.] A street leads up from the water towards the centre of the island, and along this street are the principal houses of the town. The most of these houses are hotels for the accommodation of the numerous pilgrims that come to the sacred shrines of Enoshima; and, as our party approached, there was a movement among the attendants of the nearest hostelry to invite the strangers to enter. They halted at the door of a large building on the left. The proprietor was just inside the entrance, and bowed to them in true Japanese style, with his head touching the floor. He not only bowed to the party in general, but to each one of them separately, and it took two or three minutes to go through with the preliminaries of politeness and begin negotiations for the desired accommodations. In a little while all was arranged to the satisfaction of everybody concerned, and our friends were installed in a Japanese inn. What they did there, and what they saw, will be made known in the next chapter. [Illustration: THE HEAD WAITER RECEIVING ORDERS.] CHAPTER XII. SIGHTS AT ENOSHIMA. The party was shown to a large room at the rear of the house. Frank suggested that a front room would be preferable; but the Doctor told him that in a Japanese hotel the rear of the establishment was the place of honor, and that in a hundred hotels of the true national type he would probably not be located half a dozen times in a front apartment. The room where they were was very speedily divided into three smaller ones by means of paper screens, such as we find in every Japanese house, and which are known to most Americans in consequence of the large number that have been imported in the last few years. They can be shifted with the rapidity of scenes in a theatre, and the promptness with which the whole appearance of a house can be changed in a few minutes is an approach to the marvellous. There is very little of what we call privacy in a Japanese house, as the paper screens are no obstructors of sound, and a conversation in an ordinary tone can be heard throughout the entire establishment. It is said that this form of building was adopted at a time when the government was very fearful of conspiracies, and wished to keep everybody under its supervision. Down to quite recent times there was a very complete system of espionage all over the country; and it used to be said that when three persons were together, one of them was certain to be a spy, and the other two were pretty sure to be spies as well. At the time Commodore Perry went to Japan, it was the custom to set a spy over every official to observe what he did and report accordingly. The system has been gradually dropped, but it is said to exist yet in some quarters. It was rather late, and our party were hungry. Consequently the Doctor ordered dinner to be served as soon as possible, and they sat down to wait for it. The kitchen was near the entrance of the hotel, and in full view of the strangers as they came in. Fred could not help contrasting this arrangement with that of an American hotel, where the kitchen is quite out of sight, and not one visitor in a thousand ever gets the faintest glimpse of it. He thought the plan was well calculated to insure cleanliness in the management of the house, since the kitchen, being so prominently placed, would ruin the prosperity of the house if it were not properly kept. As there seemed to be no objection to their doing so, the boys went there and watched the preparation of the meal for which their appetites were waiting. [Illustration: A JAPANESE KITCHEN.] They found a large and well-lighted room in the centre of the house; and, as before stated, near the entrance. In the middle of this room there was a raised platform, with some little furnaces set in the floor. On this floor the cooking of some fish was going on under the supervision of a woman, who was watching to see that everything progressed satisfactorily. A few pots and pans were visible, but not a tenth of the number that would be found in the kitchen of a hotel of similar capacity in America. The Japanese cookery is not elaborate, and therefore only a few articles are required for it. A small fire in a brazier that could be carried in the hand is all that is needed to offset the enormous ranges with which we are familiar. From the roof two or three safes are hung for the preservation of such things as the dogs and cats might take a fancy to. At first glance they are frequently taken for bird-cages, and this mistake was made by Fred, who innocently remarked that he wondered what kind of birds they kept there. At one side of the kitchen there was a long table, where the food was prepared previous to its introduction to the cooking-pot, and near this table there was a series of shelves where the plates, cups, saucers, and other articles of the dinner-service were kept. The kitchen could be shut off at night, like the other rooms, by means of paper screens, and it was here that the cook and her assistants slept when the labors of the day were over. The bedding, what little there was of it, was brought from a cupboard in one side of the room, and was altogether out of sight in the day. When not wanted, it was speedily put away, and a few minutes sufficed to convert the kitchen into a sleeping-room, or the sleeping-room into a kitchen. [Illustration: BOILING THE POT.] In due time the dinner or supper, whichever it was called, was brought to our travellers, and they lost no time in sitting down to eat it; or, rather, they squatted to it, as the hotel contained no chairs, or any substitute for them. The floor was covered with clean mats--in fact, it is very difficult to find dirty mats in Japan--and our travellers had followed the universal custom of removing their boots as they entered the front door. One of the complaints that the Japanese make against foreigners is that the latter often enter their houses without removing their boots, no matter if those boots are covered with mud and bring ruin to the neat mattings. It is always polite to offer to remove your foot-covering on going inside a Japanese dwelling, and a rudeness to neglect the offer. If the weather is dry and your shoes are clean, the host will tell you to remain as you are, and then you will be quite right to do so. There was a laugh all around at the oddity of the situation in which the boys found themselves. They tried various positions in front of the little table that had been spread for them, but no attitude they could assume was thoroughly comfortable. They squatted, they knelt, and then they sat flat on the floor, but all to no purpose. They were uncomfortable, and no mistake. But they had a merry time of it, and both Fred and Frank declared they would not have missed this dinner in Japan for a great deal. It was a novelty, and they thought their schoolmates would envy them if they knew where they were. The dinner consisted of stewed fish for the first course, and it was so thoroughly stewed that it resembled a thick soup. Then they had cold fish with grated radishes, and, finally, a composite dish of hard-boiled eggs, cut in two, and mixed with shrimps and seaweed. The table was cleared after each course before the next was brought, and the food was served in shallow bowls, which were covered to retain the heat. At the side of each person at table there were two cups. One of these contained _soy_, a sort of vinegar flavored with spices of different kinds, and in which each mouthful of food was dipped before it was swallowed. It is said that our word "sauce" comes from the Japanese (or Chinese) word which has just been quoted. The other cup was for sa-kee, a beverage which has been already mentioned in the pages of this book. They were not inclined to sa-kee; but the soy was to their taste, and Frank was especially warm in its praise. [Illustration: FRANK'S INVENTORY.] Not liking sa-kee, they called for tea, and in a moment the servant appeared with a steaming teapot. The flavor of the herb was delicious, and the boys partook liberally of the preparation. While they were engaged in tea-drinking, Frank made an inventory of the furniture of the room for the benefit of his sister and Miss Effie, in case they should wish to fit up a room in Japanese style to welcome him home. Here is what he found: No chairs, no sofas, no benches--nothing but the rush matting to sit upon. No clocks, no pictures on the walls, no mirrors; in fact, the room was quite bare of ornament. Two small tables, about twelve inches high and fifteen inches square. These tables held the dinner and tea service, and were removed when the meal was over. A little low stool, on which was a broad and very flat pot for holding hot water to put in the tea. Another stool for holding anything that was not wanted at the moment. A lamp-stand with three lamps. One was octagonal, and on the top of an upright stick; the others were oval, and hung at the ends of a horizontal bar of metal. Each lantern bore an inscription in Japanese. It was painted on the paper of which all the lanterns were composed; and as the light shone through, the letters were plainly to be seen. They were more visible than readable to our friends, as may be readily inferred. This completed the furniture of the room. When it was removed after dinner, Frank remarked that the only furniture remaining was Doctor Bronson, Fred, and himself. And, as they were quite weary after their ride, they were disposed to be as quiet as well-regulated furniture usually is. [Illustration: HOW THE JAPANESE SLEEP.] When it was time to go to sleep, the servant was called and the beds were made up. A thickly wadded quilt was spread on the floor for each person, and another was used for the covering. The quilt was not quite thick enough to take away all suggestion of hardness from the floor, and the covering was not the most convenient one in the world. Frank said that when the quilt was over him, he was altogether too warm, and when it was off he was too cold. Fred declared that his experience was exactly like that of Frank, except that it was more so. He had been bitten by fleas during the night, and, as he couldn't speak Japanese, he could not tell them to go away--at least, not in any language they would understand. Then the walls of the room were thin, or, rather, there were no walls at all. They had heard all the noises that the house afforded; and, as pilgrims were coming and going all night, and some of those in the building were engaged in a noisy game of an unknown character, sleep was not easy. The boys were more weary after their night's rest than before they took it, and they agreed that they could not recommend a Japanese inn as the most quiet spot in the world. They rose very early, and would have been up much sooner if there had been any way of getting up. [Illustration: A JAPANESE FISHING SCENE.] They went down to the water-side to try the effects of a bath in the surf as it rolled in from the Pacific Ocean. They found it refreshing, and were tempted to linger long in the foam-crested waves. Near by there was a fishing-place, where several Japanese were amusing themselves with rod and line, just as American boys and men take pleasure in the same way. Fish seemed to be abundant, as they were biting freely, and it took but a short time to fill a basket. In the little harbor formed between the island and the shore several junks and boats were at anchor, and in the foreground some smaller boats were moving about. There was not an American feature to the scene, and the boys were thoroughly delighted at this perfect picture of Japanese life. It was sea-life, too; and they had island and main, water and mountain, boats and houses, all in a single glance. The Japanese are great lovers of fish, and, fortunately for them, the coasts and bays which indent the country are well provided with finny life. The markets of Yokohama, Tokio, Osaka, and all the other great cities of Japan are well supplied with fish, and the business of catching them gives occupation to thousands of men. Many of the Japanese are fond of raw fish which has been killed at the table, and is to be eaten immediately. The fish is brought alive to the table; its eyes are then gouged out, and strong vinegar is poured into the sockets. The epicures say that this process gives a delicate flavor that can be obtained in no other way; and they argue that the fish does not suffer any more in this form of death than by the ordinary process of taking him out of the water. But since the advent of foreigners in Japan, the custom has somewhat fallen off, as the Japanese are quite sensitive to the comments that have been made concerning their cruelty. In the interior of Japan a traveller on the great roads, and on the smaller ones too, will sometimes see a runner carrying a couple of open pans, slung at the ends of a pole over his shoulder. He will observe that these pans contain water, and that there is a single fish in each pan. The man goes at a rapid pace, and keeps his eyes on his burden, to make sure that the water is not spilled. These runners are in the employ of the men who supply live fish for the tables of those who live at a distance from the sea or from the lakes, and are willing to pay for the luxury. A runner stands waiting, and the instant the fish is in his charge he is off. If the distance is great, there are relays of men stationed along the route; and so the precious merchandise goes forward from one to the other without a moment's delay. Only the wealthy can afford this mode of transporting fish, as the cost is often very heavy. Some of the princes, in the olden time, were in the habit of eating fresh fish at their tables every day that had been brought in this way for a hundred and fifty miles. Great quantities of fish are still carried in this primitive manner, but not for such long distances as formerly. Many fish are transported on horseback, in barrels of water; but the most delicate and valuable are borne only on the shoulders of men, as the jolting of a horse will soon kill them. [Illustration: "BREAKFAST IS READY."] After their bath, the boys returned with the Doctor to their breakfast in the hotel. The breakfast was almost identical with the dinner of the previous evening; and as their appetites were not set so sharply, the consumption of food was not so great. After breakfast they went on a stroll through the streets of the town and up the sharp hill where it is built. The shops along the streets were filled with curiosities, made principally from shells and other marine products; and the Doctor said he was forcibly reminded of Naples, Genoa, and other seaport places along the Mediterranean. There were numerous conch-shells; and Fred was desirous of blowing them, until told by the Doctor that they had probably been blown by many of the Japanese pilgrims, and he would run the risk of contracting some troublesome disease which had been left from the sores on their lips. So the boys were cautious, and politely rejected the invitation of the dealers to make a trial of the sonorous qualities of their wares. They bought a few small shells and some pieces of shell jewelry, which would be sure to please the girls at home. There are several small temples and shrines on the island, and the most of them are in picturesque spots in the forest, or on crags that overlook the sea. As they walked about they met parties of pilgrims on their way to these shrines; and on the summit they found a shaded resting-place, where some chairs had been set out on a cliff overlooking the broad waters of the Pacific. Two or three servants were in attendance, and our party thought they could not do better than stop awhile and sip some of the fragrant tea of Japan. So they sat down, and in a few moments the tea was before them. The tea-house was not a large one, and, as Frank expressed it, the most of the house was out of doors and under the shade of the trees. As every one knows who has read about the country, Japan contains a great many tea-houses, or places of rest and refreshment. They are to Japan what the beer-hall is to Germany, the wine-shop to France, or the whiskey-saloon to America, with the difference in their favor that they are much more numerous, and patronized by all classes of people. The first visitors to Japan came away with erroneous notions about the character of the tea-house, and these errors have found their way into books on the country and been repeated many times, to the great scandal of the people of the empire of the Mikado. The truth is that the tea-house is a perfectly reputable and correct place in nineteen cases out of twenty. It may have a bad character in the twentieth instance, just as there is now and then a hotel in New York or other city that is the resort of thieves and various bad persons. Nearly all classes of people in Japan, who can afford to do so, resort to the tea-houses, either in the hot hours of the day or in the evening. One can purchase, in addition to tea, a variety of light refreshments, and the building is almost invariably well ventilated and prettily situated. A person may sit in public if he wishes, or he may have one of the rooms partitioned off for himself and be quite secluded. The rooms are made, as in the hotels and other houses, by means of paper partitions, and can be formed with great rapidity. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A TEA-GARDEN.] At Tokio, Osaka, Kioto, and other large and wealthy cities many of the tea-houses are so extensive that they take the name of gardens, and cover large areas of ground. The attendants are invariably girls, and the number is by no means niggardly. They are selected for their intelligence and good-looks, as the business of the house depends considerably upon the attractiveness of the servants. Their movements are graceful, and a Japanese tea-house, with its bevy of attendants, is no unpleasant sight. Foreigners in Japan are liberal patrons of the tea-houses, and many a stranger has found a cordial welcome within the walls of one of these popular establishments. [Illustration: THE PATH IN ENOSHIMA.] From the tea-house at the top of the hill, Doctor Bronson led the way down a steep path to the sea. At the end of the path, and opening upon the sea, there is a cavern which the Japanese consider sacred. Formerly they would not allow a stranger to enter the cavern for fear of polluting it; but at present they make no opposition, for the double reason that they have found the cave remains as if nothing had happened, and, moreover, the stranger is so willing to pay for the privilege of exploration that a considerable sum is annually obtained from him. When the tide is in, the cave can only be entered by means of a boat; but at low-water one can creep along a narrow ledge of rock where a pathway has been cut, which he can follow to the terminus. Our party engaged a guide with torches, and were taken to the end of the cave, where they found a hideous-looking idol that was the presiding divinity of the place. A shrine had been erected here, and when it was lighted up the appearance was fairly imposing. The pilgrims consider it a pious duty to visit this shrine whenever they come to the island, and it has become quite famous throughout Japan. The boys were not inclined to stay long in the cave, as the sound of the waters beating in at the entrance was almost deafening. They very soon sought the open air, where a new entertainment awaited them. There was a group of men and boys on the rocks at the entrance of the cavern, and they called to the strangers to throw coins into the water and see how soon they could be recovered by diving. Frank threw a small piece of silver into the clear water of the Pacific, and in an instant half a dozen boys sprang for it. One of them caught it before it reached the bottom, and came up with the piece in his mouth. Several coins were thrown, with a similar result; and finally it was proposed to let the money reach the bottom before the divers started. This was done, and, as the depth was about twelve feet, the work of finding the bit of silver was not very easy. But it was found and brought to the surface; and after the divers had been complimented on their skill, our friends moved on. It is hardly necessary to add that the money thrown into the water became the property of the youth who secured it; though it was rumored that the divers were associated, and everything obtained went into a common purse. The Oriental people are famous for their guilds, or labor and trade associations, and nearly every occupation in life is under the control of a guild, which has very arbitrary rules. It is not at all impossible that the boys who dive for small coins at Enoshima are under the control of an association, and that its rules and regulations may have been in force for hundreds of years. As the walk through the woods would have been fatiguing, and it was near the middle of the day, when the sun was high and the heat severe, Doctor Bronson engaged a boat to take the party back to the hotel. They returned safely, and, after resting awhile, went on another walk, in a direction slightly different from the first. [Illustration: A GROUP OF JAPANESE LADIES.] They soon found themselves among the huts of the fishermen, and the quantity of fish that lay around in various stages of preparation told that the business was not without prosperity. In a secluded part of the island they came upon a pretty summer-house, where a wealthy citizen of Tokio spent the hot months of the year. Through the gateway of the garden they had a glimpse of a group of three ladies that were evidently out for an airing. Frank thought he had never seen a prettier group in all his life, and while he looked at them he whispered his opinion to Fred. Fred agreed with him, and then added, "I tell you what, Frank, we'll get three dresses just like those, if they don't cost too much; and when we get home, we'll have Miss Effie and your sister and my sister put them on. Then we'll arrange the garden to look like that one as much as possible, with a little furnace and teapot in front of the girls, and the pedestal of a statue near them. Won't that be nice?" Frank agreed that it would, and, lest he should forget the arrangement of the group, he made a rough sketch of the scene, and said they could rely upon photographs for the costumes and their colors. If they got the dresses, the girls could easily arrange them with the aid of the pictures. When the sketch was finished, they returned to the hotel. The tide was now out, and so the Doctor settled their account and they started for Yokohama, following the most direct route, and making no halts for sight-seeing. They arrived late in the evening, well pleased with their excursion to Dai-Boots and Enoshima, and determined to give their friends at home a full and faithful account of what they had seen and learned. [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF GROTESQUE DRAWING BY A JAPANESE ARTIST.] CHAPTER XIII. ON THE ROAD TO FUSIYAMA. The morning after their return from Enoshima was mostly spent at the hotel, as all three of the excursionists were somewhat fatigued with their journey. The boys embraced the opportunity to ask the Doctor the meaning of certain things they had observed in Japan, and which had not been brought up in conversation. "For one thing," said Frank, "why is it that so many of the people, the coolies especially, have large scars on their skins, as if they had been burned. There is hardly a coolie I have seen that is without them, and one of the men that drew my jin-riki-sha to Enoshima had his legs covered with scars, and also a fresh sore on each leg." "Those scars," the Doctor answered, "are from the moxa, which is used to some extent in medical practice in Europe and America. Don't you remember that when your uncle Charles had a disease of the spine the doctors applied a hot iron to his back, along each side of the backbone?" "Certainly, I remember that," Frank replied; "and it cured him, too." "Well, that was the moxa. It is not very often used in our country, nor in Europe, but it is very common in Japan." "I should think it would be a very painful remedy," Fred remarked, "and that a man would be quite unwilling to have it applied." "That is the case," answered the Doctor, "with us, but it is not so here. The Japanese take the moxa as calmly as we would swallow a pill, and with far less opposition than some of us make to a common blister. "They take the moxa for nearly everything, real or imaginary. Sometimes they have the advice of a doctor, but oftener they go to a priest, who makes a mark on them where the burn is to be applied; then they go to a man who sells the burning material, and he puts it on as a druggist with us would fill up a prescription." "What do they use for the burning?" "They have a little cone the size of the intended blister. It is made of the pith of a certain tree, and burns exactly like the punk with which all boys in the country are familiar. It is placed over the spot to be cauterized, and is then lighted from a red-hot coal. It burns slowly and steadily down, and in a few minutes the patient begins to squirm, and perhaps wish he had tried some milder mode of cure. Sometimes he has half a dozen of these things burning at once, and I have seen them fully an inch in diameter. "Nearly every native has himself cauterized as often as once a year by way of precaution; and if he does not feel well some morning, he is very likely to go to the temple and have an application of the moxa. It is even applied to very young children. I have seen an infant not a month old lying across its mother's knee while another woman was amusing herself by burning a couple of these pith cones on the abdomen of the child. He objected to the operation by screaming and kicking with all his might, but it was of no use. The moxa was considered good for him, and he was obliged to submit." "Another thing," said Fred--"why is it that the grooms are covered with tattoo-marks, and wear so little clothing?" "I cannot say exactly why it is," the Doctor replied, "further than that such is the custom. If you ask a Japanese for the reason, he will answer that it is the old custom, and I can hardly say more than he would. [Illustration: BETTOS, OR GROOMS, IN FULL DRESS.] "But the grooms, or 'bettos,' as the Japanese call them, are not the only ones who indulge in tattooing. You will see many of the 'sendos,' or boat-coolies, thus marked, but in a less degree than the bettos. Perhaps it is because the grooms are obliged to run so much, and consequently wish to lay aside all garments. As they must wear something, they have their skins decorated in this way, and thus have a suit of clothing always about them. "And, speaking of these grooms, it is astonishing at what a pace they can run, and how long they will keep it up. You may go out with your carriage or on horseback, and, no matter how rapidly you go, the groom will be always at your side, and ready to take the bridle of your horse the moment you halt. They are powerful fellows, but their reputation for honesty is not first-class." Conversation ran on various topics for an hour or more, and then Doctor Bronson announced that he would go out for a while, and hoped to give them some interesting information on his return. The boys busied themselves with their journals, and in this way a couple of hours slipped along without their suspecting how rapidly the time was flying. They were still occupied when the Doctor returned. "Well, my boys," he said, "you must be ready for another journey to-morrow. And it will be much longer and more fatiguing than the one we have just made." "Where are we going, please?" said Frank. "I have arranged to go to Hakone and Fusiyama," the Doctor replied; "and if we get favorable weather, and are not too tired when we arrive, we will go to the summit of the mountain." Frank and Fred clapped their hands with delight, and thought of nothing else for some minutes than the journey to Fusiyama. It was an excursion they had wanted very much to make, and which very few visitors to Japan think of attempting. And now Doctor Bronson had arranged it for them, and they were to be off the next morning. Could anything be more fortunate? The arrangement for the journey was somewhat more serious than the one for Enoshima. It would take several days, and for a considerable part of the way the accommodations were entirely Japanese. This might do for a trip of a day or two where no unusual fatigue was to be expected; but in a tour of considerable length, where there was likely to be much hard work, and consequently much exhaustion, it was necessary to make the most complete preparations. The Doctor foresaw this, and arranged his plans accordingly. A Japanese who had been with parties to the holy mountain, and understood the ways and wants of the foreigners, had made a contract to accompany our friends to Fusiyama. He was to supply them with the necessary means of conveyance, servants, provisions, and whatever else they wanted. The contract was carefully drawn, and it was agreed that any points in dispute should be decided by a gentleman in Yokohama on their return. They were off at an early hour, and, as before, their route was along the Tokaido. The provisions and other things had been sent on ahead during the night, and they did not see them until they came to the place where they were to sleep. They took a light meal before starting from Yokohama, and found a substantial breakfast waiting for them at Totsooka. Their host was a famous character in the East--an English actor who had drifted through China and Japan, and finally settled down here as a hotel-keeper. "I met George Pauncefort in China years ago," said the Doctor, as they entered the hotel; "I wonder if he will recognize me." George greeted the travellers with all the dignity of an emperor saluting an embassy from a brother emperor, and wished them welcome to his roof and all beneath it. Then he straightened up to the very highest line of erectness, and rested his gaze upon Doctor Bronson. For fully a minute he stood without moving a muscle, and then struck an attitude of astonishment. "Can it be? Yes! No! Impossible!" he exclaimed. "Do my eyes deceive me? No, they do not; it is; it must be he! it must! it must!" Then he shook hands with the Doctor, struck another attitude of astonishment, and with the same Macbethian air turned to a servant and told him to put the steaks and the chicken on the table. It is said by the residents of Yokohama, with whom the hotel at Totsooka is a favorite resort, that George Pauncefort stirs an omelette as though he were playing Hamlet, and his conception of Sir Peter Teazle is manifested when he prepares a glass of stimulating fluid for a thirsty patron. [Illustration: A JAPANESE LOOM.] Various industrial processes were visible as our party rode along. Some women were weaving cotton at a native loom, and they halted the jin-riki-shas a few moments to look at the process. The loom was a very primitive affair, and the operator sat on the floor in front of it. A man who appeared to be the chief of the establishment was calmly smoking a pipe close by, and on the other side of the weaver a woman was winding some cotton thread on a spool by means of a simple reel. After looking a few moments at the loom, and the mode of weaving in Japan, the party moved on. The boys had learned to say "Sayonara" on bidding farewell to the Japanese, and they pronounced it on this occasion in the most approved style. The Japanese salutation on meeting is "Ohio," and it is pronounced exactly like the name of our Western state of which Columbus is the capital. Everywhere the Japanese greet you with "Ohio," and a stranger does not need to be long in the country to know how exceedingly polite are the people we were accustomed only a few years ago to consider as barbarians. There is a story current in Japan of a gentleman from Cincinnati who arrived one evening in Yokohama, and the following morning went into the country for a stroll. Everywhere the men, women, and children greeted him with the customary salutation, "Ohio, ohio," and the word rang in his ears till he returned to his hotel. He immediately sought the landlord and said, "I wish to ask if there is anything in my personal appearance that indicates what part of the States I am from." The landlord assured him that there was no peculiarity of his costume that he could point out as any such indication. "And yet," answered the stranger, "all the Japanese have discovered it. They knew me at a glance as a native of Ohio, as every one of them invariably said 'Ohio' when I met them. And I must give them the credit to say that they always did it very politely." He was somewhat astonished, and also a trifle disappointed, when he learned the exact state of affairs. [Illustration: ARTISTS AT WORK.] They passed a house where some artists were at work with the tools of their trade on the floor before them, forming a neat and curious collection. There were little saucers filled with paints of various colors, and the ever-present teapot with its refreshing contents. There were three persons in the group, and they kept steadily at their occupation without regarding the visitors who were looking at them. They were engaged upon pictures on thin paper, intended for the ornamentation of boxes for packing small articles of merchandise. Larger pictures are placed on an easel, as with us, but the small ones are invariably held in the hand. [Illustration: COOPERS HOOPING A VAT.] In front of a house by the roadside some coopers were hooping a vat, and Frank instantly recognized the fidelity of a picture he had seen by a native artist showing how the Japanese coopers performed their work. They make excellent articles in their line, and sell them for an astonishingly low price, when we compare them with similar things from an American maker. The fidelity of the work is to be commended, and the pails and tubs from their hands will last a long time without the least necessity of repairs. Near the end of the first day's journey the party stopped at a Japanese inn that had been previously selected by their conductor, and there they found their baggage, and, what was quite as welcome, a substantial dinner from the hands of the cook that had been sent on ahead of them. They had sharp appetites, and the dinner was very much to their liking. It was more foreign than Japanese, as it consisted largely of articles from America; but there was a liberal supply of boiled rice, and the savory stew of fish was not wanting. The boys were rather surprised when they sat down to a dinner at which stewed oysters, green corn, and other things with which they were familiar at home were smoking before them; and Fred remarked that the Japanese cooking was not so unlike that of America, after all. Doctor Bronson smiled and said the cooking was done in America, and all that the Japanese cook had to do with the articles was to warm them up after opening the cans. "And so these things come here in cans, do they?" Frank inquired. "Certainly," the Doctor responded, "these things come here in cans, and a great many other things as well. They serve to make life endurable to an American in a distant land like Japan, and they also serve to keep him patriotic by constantly reminding him of home. "No one," he continued, "who has not been in foreign lands, or has no direct connection with the business of canning our fruits, meats, and vegetables, can have an idea of the extent of our trade in these things. The invention of the process of preserving in a fresh state these products which are ordinarily considered perishable has enabled us to sell of our abundance, and supply the whole world with what the whole world could not otherwise obtain. You may sit down to a dinner in Tokio or Cairo, Calcutta or Melbourne, Singapore or Rome, and the entire meal may consist of canned fish, canned meats, canned fruits, or canned vegetables from the United States. A year or two ago the American consul at Bangkok, Siam, gave a Christmas dinner at which everything on the table was of home production, and a very substantial dinner it was." "I wonder what they had for dinner that day," said Fred, with a laugh. "As near as I can remember," the Doctor replied, "they began with oyster and clam soup. Then they had boiled codfish and fresh salmon, and, as if there were not fish enough, they had stewed eels. For meats they had turkey, chicken, ham, a goose that had been put up whole, stewed beef, roast beef, tongue, sausages, prairie chickens, ducks, and a few other things; and as for vegetables and fruits, you can hardly name any product of our gardens and orchards that they did not have before them. For drinks they had American wines, American beer, American cider, and, besides, they had honey just out of the comb that astonished everybody with its freshness. All who were present pronounced the dinner as good as any they had ever eaten, and it made them feel very patriotic to think that everything came from home. "You can hardly go anywhere in the world where there is an approach to civilization without finding our canned goods, as the merchants call them. They are widely known and appreciated, and well deserve the reputation they bear." This conversation went on while the party were engaged in the consumption of the dinner, and the presence of many of the things named gave it an additional point. When they were through dinner, they took a short period of lounging on the veranda, and soon retired to rest. We can be sure they slept well, for they had had a long and weary ride. They were off again early in the morning, and in a little while came to the banks of a river which they were to cross. Frank looked for a bridge, and saw none; then he looked for a ferry-boat, but none was visible. "Well," he said, half to himself, "I wonder how we are to get over to the other bank." "There are the boatmen, but no boats," said Fred, as he pointed to some stalwart men who were sitting on the bank, and evidently waiting for something to turn up. [Illustration: CROSSING THE RIVER.] The mystery was soon solved. The river was neither wide nor deep, and the men they saw waiting by the bank were porters who carried people across, and also carried merchandise. The stream was said to rise very rapidly, and owing to the nature of the bottom it was difficult to maintain a bridge there for any length of time. The porters took the party across very speedily; they carried the servants by what the boys called "pick-a-back," while Doctor Bronson and the boys were borne on chairs resting on poles, with six men to each chair. Some horses belonging to another party were led through the river at the same time, and evidently were not pleased with the bath they were receiving. Frank wondered if accidents did not happen sometimes, and asked their conductor about it. The latter told him that the Japanese law protected the traveller by requiring the head of the porter in case a person should be drowned in his charge. He said the law allowed no excuse, and the porter must pay with his life for any accident. Frank thought it would be a good thing to have the same system in the management of railways in America; but then he remembered that Miss Effie's uncle, who lived in New York, was a director in a railway, and perhaps it would be just as well to say nothing about his new discovery. It might bring trouble into the family and lead to unpleasant remarks. Since the party made their excursion to Fusiyama a bridge has been built over the river, and the occupation of the porters is gone. Some of them cling to the hope that the river will one day rise in its might, and protest against this invasion of its rights by sweeping away the structure that spans it, thus compelling travellers to return to the methods of the olden time. From the river they proceeded to Odiwara, where they had a rest of several hours, as the town contained certain things that they wished to see. They found that foreigners were not very numerous at Odiwara, and there was considerable curiosity to see them. Whenever they halted in front of a shop, or to look at anything, of interest, a crowd was speedily collected; and the longer they stood, the greater it became. But there was no impertinence, and not the least insult was offered to them; there was a manifestation of good-natured curiosity, and nothing more. Men, women, and children were equally respectful; and whenever they pressed too closely it was only necessary for the guide to say that the strangers were being inconvenienced, when the crowd immediately fell back. Every day and hour of their stay in Japan confirmed our friends more and more in the belief that there are no more polite people in the world than the Japanese. [Illustration: MOTHER AND SON.] Fred tried to open a conversation with a boy who was evidently out for a walk with his mother. The little fellow was somewhat shy at first, but very soon he became entirely confident that the stranger would not harm him, and he did his best to talk. They did not succeed very well in their interchange of ideas, as neither could speak the language of the other, and so they attempted an exchange of presents. Fred gave the young native an American lead-pencil that opened and closed with a screw, and received in return the fan which the youth carried in his hand. Both appeared well pleased with the transaction, and after several bows and "sayonaras" they separated. [Illustration: A FISHING PARTY.] Frank had several fish-hooks in his pockets, and was determined not to be behind Fred in making a trade. His eye rested on a family group that was evidently returning from a fishing excursion; the man was carrying some fishing-tackle and a small bag, while the woman bore a basket of fish on her head and held a child to her breast. A boy six or eight years old was dragging a live tortoise by a string, and it occurred to Frank to free the tortoise from captivity. So he produced one of his fish-hooks, and intimated that he would give it for the captive. There was a brief conversation between father and son, which resulted in the desired exchange. Frank handed the tortoise over to the guide, with instructions to set it free at a favorable time and place. The latter complied by delivering the prize to the cook as an agreeable addition to the bill of fare for the next meal. So the freedom of the tortoise was not exactly the kind that his liberator had intended. But there was an unforeseen result to this transaction, for it was soon noised about among the small boys that the foreigners were giving fish-hooks for tortoises; and as there was a good supply of the latter, and not a good one of the former, there was a public anxiety to benefit by the newly opened commerce. In less than half an hour there was a movement in the market that assumed serious importance, and Frank found himself in the character of a merchant in a foreign land. He became the owner of nearly a dozen of the kindred of his first purchase, and would have kept on longer had not his stock-in-trade given out. The guide took the purchases in charge, and they followed the fate of the pioneer in the business in finding their way to the cooking-pot. When the traffic was ended, and the Japanese urchins found that the market was closed, they pronounced their "sayonaras" and withdrew as quietly as they had come. From Odiwara the roads were worse than they had found them thus far. They had come by jin-riki-shas from Yokohama, and had had no trouble; but from this place onward they were told that the roads were not everywhere practicable for wheeled carriages. The Japanese are improving their roads every year, and therefore a description for one season does not exactly indicate the character of another. Anybody who reads this story and then goes to Japan may find good routes where formerly there were only impassable gorges, and hotels and comfortable lodging-houses where, only a year before, there was nothing of the kind. In no country in the world at the present time, with the possible exception of the Western States of North America, are the changes so rapid as in the land of the Mikado. Wheeled carriages were practically unknown before Commodore Perry landed on Japanese soil, and the railway was an innovation undreamed of in the Japanese philosophy. Now wheeled vehicles are common, and the railway is a popular institution, that bids fair to extend its benefits in many directions. Progress, progress, progress, is the motto of the Japan of to-day. Besides the natural desire to see Odiwara, the party had another reason for their delay, which was to give the conductor time to engage cangos for their transport in such localities as would not admit of the jin-riki-sha. We will see by-and-by what the cango is. [Illustration: THE MAN THEY MET.] The boys had been much amused at the appearance of a Japanese they met on the road just before reaching Odiwara, and wondered if they would be obliged to adopt that mode of riding before they finished their journey. The man in question was seated on a horse, not in the way in which we are accustomed to sit, but literally on the back of the animal. His baggage was fastened around him behind and on each side, and he was rather uncomfortably crouched (at least, so it seemed to Fred) on a flat pad like the one used by a circus-rider. A servant led the horse, and the pace was a walking one. Altogether, the appearance of the man was decidedly ludicrous, and the boys were somewhat surprised to learn that this was the ordinary way of travelling on horseback in the olden time. Before the arrival of foreigners in Japan it was not the fashion for a traveller to be in a hurry, and, even at the present time, it is not always easy to make a native understand the value of a day or an hour. A man setting out on a journey did not concern himself about the time he would consume on the road; if the weather was unfavorable, he was perfectly willing to rest for an indefinite period, and it mattered little if he occupied three weeks in making a journey that could be covered in one. In matters of business the Japanese have not yet learned the importance of time, and the foreign merchants complain greatly of the native dilatoriness. A Japanese will make a contract to deliver goods at a certain date; on the day appointed, or perhaps a week or two later, he will inform the other party to the agreement that he will not be ready for a month or two, and he is quite unable to comprehend the indignation of the disappointed merchant. He demurely says, "I can't have the goods ready," and does not realize that he has given any cause for anger. Time is of no consequence to him, and he cannot understand that anybody else should have any regard for it. The Japanese are every year becoming more and more familiarized with the foreign ways of business, and will doubtless learn, after a while, the advantages of punctuality. CHAPTER XIV. THE ASCENT OF FUSIYAMA. They did not get far from Odiwara before it was necessary to leave the jin-riki-shas and take to the cangos. These were found waiting for them where the road ended and the footpath began, and the boys were delighted at the change from the one mode of conveyance to the other. Doctor Bronson did not seem to share their enthusiasm, as he had been in a cango before and did not care for additional experience. He said that cango travelling was very much like eating crow--a man might do it if he tried, but he was not very likely to "hanker after it." [Illustration: TRAVELLING BY CANGO.] It required some time for them to get properly stowed in their new conveyances, as they needed considerable instruction to know how to double their legs beneath them. And even when they knew how, it was not easy to make their limbs curl into the proper positions and feel at home. Frank thought it would be very nice if he could unscrew his legs and put them on the top of the cango, where he was expected to place his boots; and Fred declared that if he could not do that, the next best thing would be to have legs of India-rubber. The cango is a box of light bamboo, with curtains that can be kept up or down, according to one's pleasure. The seat is so small that you must curl up in a way very uncomfortable for an American, but not at all inconvenient for a Japanese. It has a cushion, on which the traveller sits, and the top is so low that it is impossible to maintain an erect position. It has been in use for hundreds of years in Japan, and is not a great remove from the palanquin of India, though less comfortable. The body of the machine is slung from a pole, and this pole is upheld by a couple of coolies. The men move at a walk, and every few hundred feet they stop, rest the pole on their staffs, and shift from one shoulder to the other. This resting is a ticklish thing for the traveller, as the cango sways from side to side, and gives an intimation that it is liable to fall to the ground. It does fall sometimes, and the principal consolation in such an event is that it does not have far to go. [Illustration: JAPANESE NORIMON.] A more aristocratic vehicle of this kind is the norimon. The norimon is larger than the cango, and is completely closed in at the sides, so that it may be taken as a faint imitation of our covered carriages. The princes of Japan used to travel in norimons; and they are still employed in some parts of the empire, though becoming less and less common every year. The norimon has four bearers, instead of two, and, consequently, there is much more dignity attached to its use. The rate of progress is about the same as with the cango, and after several hours in one of them a foreigner feels very much as if he were a sardine and had been packed away in a can. It was always considered a high honor to be the bearer of a princely personage; and when the great man came out in state, with his army of retainers to keep the road properly cleared, the procession was an imposing one. The style and decorations of the norimon were made to correspond with the rank of the owner, and his coat-of-arms was painted on the outside, just as one may see the coats-of-arms on private carriages in London or Paris. When a prince or other great man expected a distinguished visitor, he used to send his private norimon out a short distance on the road to meet him. [Illustration: FRANK'S POSITION.] The boys tried all possible positions in the cangos, in the hope of finding some way that was comfortable. Frank finally settled down into what he pronounced the least uncomfortable mode of riding, and Fred soon followed his example. They had taken open cangos, so as to see as much of the country as possible and have the advantage of whatever air was in circulation; and but for the inconvenience to their lower limbs, they would have found it capital fun. Frank doubled himself so that his feet were as high as his head; he gave his hat into the care of the conductor, and replaced it with a cloth covering, so that he looked not much unlike a native. His bearers found him rather unwieldy, as he frequently moved about, and thus disturbed the equilibrium of the load. To ride properly in a cango or a norimon, one should not move a muscle from the time he enters till he leaves the vehicle. This may do for the phlegmatic Oriental, but is torture for a foreigner, and especially for an American. Doctor Bronson was a tall man, and could not fold himself with as much facility as could the more supple youths. He rode a mile or so and then got out and walked; and he continued thus to alternate as long as they were travelling in this way. He was emphatic in declaring that the way to ride in a cango and enjoy it thoroughly was to walk behind it, and let somebody else take the inside of the vehicle. Their journey brought them to Hakone, which has long been a favorite summer resort of the Japanese, and of late years is much patronized by foreigners. Those who can afford the time go there from Yokohama, Tokio, and other open ports of Japan; and during July and August there is quite a collection of English and Americans, and of other foreign nationalities. The missionaries, who have been worn down and broken in health by their exhaustive labors in the seaports during the winter, find relief and recuperation at Hakone as the summer comes on. There they gather new strength for their toils by breathing the pure air of the mountains and climbing the rugged paths, and they have abundant opportunities for doing good among the natives that reside there. [Illustration: HOT BATH IN THE MOUNTAINS.] Before reaching Hakone it was necessary to traverse a mountain pass, by ascending a very steep road to the summit and then descending another. In the wildest part of the mountains they came to a little village, which has a considerable fame for its hot springs. The boys had a fancy to bathe in these springs, and, as the coolies needed a little rest after their toilsome walk, it was agreed to halt awhile. There were several of the springs, and the water was gathered in pools, which had a very inviting appearance and increased the desire of our friends to try them. They went into one of the small rooms provided for the purpose, removed their clothing, and then plunged in simultaneously. They came out instantly, and without any request to do so by the Doctor, who stood laughing at the edge of the pool. For their skins the water was almost scalding-hot, though it was far otherwise to the Japanese. The Japanese are very fond of hot baths, and will bathe in water of a temperature so high that a foreigner cannot endure it except after long practice. The baths here in the mountains were just suited to the native taste; and Frank said they would be suited to his taste as well if they could have a few blocks of ice thrown into them. [Illustration: A JAPANESE BATH.] Public and private baths are probably more numerous in Japan than in any other country. The qualities of most of the natural sources are well known, and thousands flock to them every year to be cured of real or imaginary maladies. The country contains a great number of these springs; and, since the arrival of foreigners, and a careful analysis of the waters, certain properties have been discovered that were not known before. In some cases the curative powers of the Japanese springs are remarkable, and it has been predicted that patients will one day come to Japan from distant lands to be healed. [Illustration: THE LAKE OF HAKONE.] The Lake of Hakone is a beautiful sheet of water, not unlike Lake Tahoe in California--an aquatic gem in a setting of rugged mountains. These are not lofty, like the mountains of the Golden State, so far as their elevation above the lake is concerned; but they rise directly from the water, and present nearly everywhere a bold frontage. The surface of the lake is said to be more than six thousand feet above the level of the sea; and the water is clear and cold. Our young friends tried a bath in the lake, and found it as inconveniently cold as the springs had been inconveniently warm. "Some people are never satisfied," said Fred, when Frank was complaining about the temperature of the water in the lake. "You wouldn't be contented with the springs because they boiled you, and now you say the lake freezes you. Perhaps we'll find something by-and-by that will come to the point." The boys had observed that the farther they penetrated from Yokohama and Tokio, the less did they find the people affected in their dress and manners by the presence of the foreigners. Particularly was this the case with the women. They had seen in the open ports a good many women with blackened teeth; and the farther they went inland, the greater did they find the proportion of the fair sex who had thus disfigured themselves. So at the first opportunity they asked the Doctor about the custom. "I know," said Frank, "that it is the married women that blacken their teeth; but how does it happen that there are so many more married ones here than on the shores of Yeddo Bay?" "You are wrong there," answered the Doctor; "there is probably as large a proportion of married women in the one region as in the other. The difference is that the custom is rapidly falling off." "Is there any law about it?" Fred inquired. "Not in the least," Doctor Bronson explained. "It is an old custom for married women to blacken their teeth, and formerly it was most rigidly observed; but of late years, since the foreigners came to Japan, it has not been adhered to. The Japanese see that a married woman can get along without having her teeth discolored, and as they are inclined to fall into the customs of Europe, the most progressive of them not only permit, but require, their wives to keep their teeth white." "That is one point," said Frank, "in which I think the Japanese have gained by adopting the European custom. I don't think it improves their appearance to put on European clothes instead of their own; but when it comes to this habit of blackening the teeth, it is absolutely hideous." From this assertion there was no dissent. Then the question naturally arose, "How is the operation performed?" Doctor Bronson explained that it was done by means of a black paint or varnish, peculiar to Japan. The paint was rubbed on the teeth with a rag or stiff brush, and made the gums very sore at first. It remained quite bright and distinct for the first few days, but in the course of a week it faded, and by the end of ten or twelve days a renewal was necessary. If left to itself, the coloring would disappear altogether within a month from the time of its application. Frank wished to know if the women were desirous of having the custom abolished, but on this point it was not easy for him to obtain precise information. The Doctor thought it was a matter of individual rather than of general preference, and that the views of the women were largely influenced by those of their husbands. "The Japanese wives," said he, "are like the wives of most other countries, and generally wish to do according to the tastes and desires of their husbands. As you grow older you will find that the women of all lands endeavor to suit their modes of dressing and adornment to the wishes of the men with whom they come mostly in contact; of course, there are individual exceptions, but they do not weaken the force of the general rule. In America as in England, in China as in Japan, in India as in Peru, it is the fancy of the men that governs the dress and personal decoration of the other half of the race. As long as it was the fashion to blacken the teeth in this country, the women did it without a murmur; but as soon as the men showed a willingness for them to discontinue the practice, and especially when that willingness became a desire, they began to discontinue it. Twenty years from this time, I imagine, the women with blackened teeth will be less numerous than those at present with white ones. "The abandonment of the custom began in the open ports, and is spreading through the country. It will spread in exactly the same ratio as Japan adopts other customs and ways of the rest of the world; and as fast as she takes on our Western civilization, just so fast will she drop such of her forms as are antagonistic to it." [Illustration: ANTICS OF THE HORSES.] The party rested a portion of a day at Hakone, and then went on their way. Travelling by cango had become so wearisome that they engaged a horse-train for a part of the way, and had themselves and their baggage carried on the backs of Japanese steeds. They found this an improvement on the old plan, though the horses were rather more unruly than the cango coolies, and frequently made a serious disturbance. Occasionally, when the train was ready to start, the beasts would indulge in a general kicking-match all around, to the great detriment of their burdens, whether animate or otherwise. The best and gentlest horses had been selected for riding, and consequently the greatest amount of circus performances was with the baggage animals. The grooms had all they wished to attend to to keep the beasts under subjection, and not infrequently they came out of the contest with gashes and other blemishes on their variegated skins. But they showed great courage in contending with the vicious brutes, and it is said of a Japanese betto that he will fearlessly attack the most ill-tempered horse in the country, and not be satisfied till he has conquered him. There are several populous towns between Hakone and the base of Fusiyama. Among them may be mentioned Missimi, Noomads, and Harra, none of them containing any features of special importance after the other places our friends had seen. Consequently our party did not halt there any longer than was necessary for the ordinary demands of the journey, but pushed on to the foot of the Holy Peak. As they approached it they met many pilgrims returning from the ascent, and their general appearance of fatigue did not hold out a cheering prospect to the excursionists. But they had come with the determination to make the journey to the summit of the mountain, and were not to be frightened at trifles. They were full of enthusiasm, for the great mountain showed more distinctly every hour as they approached it, and its enormous and symmetrical cone was pushed far up into the sky, and literally pierced the clouds. At times the clouds blew away; the sunlight streamed full upon the lofty mass of ever-during stone, and seemed to warm it into a tropical heat. But the snow lying unmelted in the ravines dispelled the illusion, and they knew that they must encounter chilling winds, and perhaps biting frosts, as they ascended to the higher altitudes. [Illustration: A NEAR VIEW OF FUSIYAMA.] There lay the great Fusiyama, the holy mountain of Japan, which they had come so many thousand miles to see. In the afternoon the clouds rolled at its base, but the cone, barren as a hill in the great desert, was uncovered, and all the huge furrows of its sloping sides were distinctly to be seen. Close at hand were forests of the beautiful cedar of Japan, fields of waving corn, and other products of agriculture. Not far off were the waters of the bay that sweeps in from the ocean to near the base of the famous landmark for the mariners who approach this part of the coast. Now and then the wind brought to their ears the roar of the breakers, as they crashed upon the rocks, or rolled along the open stretches of sandy beach. [Illustration: IN A STORM NEAR FUSIYAMA.] Hitherto they had been favored by the weather, but now a rain came on that threatened to detain them for an indefinite period. It blew in sharp gusts that sometimes seemed ready to lift the roof from the house where they were lodged. The conductor explained that these storms were frequent at the base of the mountain, and were supposed by the ignorant and superstitions inhabitants of the region to be the exhibition of the displeasure of the deities of Fusiyama in consequence of something that had been done by those who professed to worship them. "When the gods are angry," said he, "we have storms, and when they are in good-humor we have fair weather. If it is very fine, we know they are happy; and when the clouds begin to gather, we know something is wrong, and it depends upon the amount of sacrifices and prayers that we offer whether the clouds clear away without a storm or not." Near the foot of the mountain there are several monasteries, where the pilgrims are lodged and cared for when making their religious visits to the God of Fusiyama. Some of these are of considerable importance, and are far from uncomfortable as places of residence. Our party spent the night at one of these monastic settlements, which was called Muriyama, and was the last inhabited spot on the road. And as they were considerably fatigued by the ride, and a day more or less in their journey would not make any material difference, they wisely concluded to halt until the second morning, so as to have all their forces fully restored. Frank said, "This day doesn't count, as we are to do nothing but rest; and if we want to rest, we must not see anything." So they did not try to see anything; but the Doctor was careful to make sure that their conductor made all the necessary preparations for the ascent. Early on the second morning after their arrival, they started for the final effort. They rode their horses as far as the way was practicable, and then proceeded on foot. Their baggage was mostly left in charge of the grooms to await their return, and such provisions and articles as they needed were carried by "yamabooshees," or "men of the mountain," whose special business it is to accompany travellers to the summit, and to aid them where the way is bad, or in case they become weary. If a person chooses, he may be carried all the way to the top of the mountain and back again; but such an arrangement was not to the taste of our robust adventurers. They were determined to walk, and walk they did, in spite of the entreaties of the coolies who wanted to earn something by transporting them. In addition to the yamabooshees, they had an escort of two "yoboos," or priests, from one of the temples. These men were not expected to carry burdens, but simply to serve as guides, as they were thoroughly familiar with the road and knew all its peculiarities. The first part of their way was through a forest, but, as they ascended, the trees became smaller and fewer, and their character changed. At the base there were pines and oaks, but they gradually made way for beeches and birches, the latter being the last because the hardiest. From the forest they emerged upon the region of barren rock and earth and the fragments left by the eruptions of the volcano. The last eruption took place in 1707, and there have been few signs of any intention of returning activity since that date. But all around there are abundant traces of what the mountain was when it poured out its floods of lava and covered large areas with desolation. In some places the heaps of scoriæ appear as though the eruption, whence they came, had been but a week ago, as they are above the line of vegetation, and their character is such that they undergo hardly any change from the elements from one century to another. This part of Japan, and, in fact, the whole of Japan, has a good deal of volcanic fire pent up beneath it. Earthquakes are of frequent occurrence, and sometimes they are very destructive; whole towns have been destroyed by them, and as for the little ones that do no material damage, but simply give things a general shaking-up, they are so frequent as to be hardly noticeable. That there is an underground relation between the disturbances in different parts of the country is evident, and the tradition is that at the time of the last eruption of Fusiyama the ground rose considerably in the vicinity of the mountain, while there was a corresponding depression of the earth near Kioto, on the other side of the island. Occasionally there are slight rumblings in the interior of Fusiyama, but none of them are serious enough to excite any alarm. From the place where our friends left their horses to the summit the distance is said to be not far from twenty miles, but it is not exactly the equivalent of twenty miles on a level turnpike or a paved street. Frank said it reminded him of a very muddy road somewhere in California, which a traveller described as nine miles long, ten feet wide, and three feet deep; and he thought a fair description of the way up the mountain would include the height and roughness as well as the length. [Illustration: ASCENT OF FUSIYAMA.] The path wound among the rocks and scoriæ, and through the beds of lava. Altogether they found the ascent a most trying one, and sometimes half wished that they had left the visit to Fusiyama out of their calculations when they were planning how to use their time in Japan. But it was too late to turn back now, and they kept on and on, encouraging each other with cheering words, stopping frequently to take breath and to look at the wonderful panorama that was unfolded to their gaze. The air grew light and lighter as they went on, and by-and-by the periods when they halted, panting and half suffocated, became as long as those devoted to climbing. They experienced the same difficulty that all travellers encounter at high elevations, and Fred remembered what he had read of Humboldt's ascent of the high peaks of the Andes, where the lungs seemed ready to burst and the blood spurted from the faces of himself and his companions in consequence of the rarity of the atmosphere. About every two miles along the way they found little huts or caves, partly dug in the mass of volcanic rubbish, and partly built up, with roofs to protect the interior from the rain. These were intended as refuges for the pilgrims for passing the night or resting during storms, and had no doubt been of great service to those who preceded them. At one of these they halted for luncheon, which they took from the pack of one of their bearers, and later on they halted at another to pass the night. It is considered too great a journey to be made in a single day, except by persons of unusual vigor and long accustomed to mountain-climbing. The customary plan is to pass a night on the mountain when little more than half way up, and then to finish the ascent, and make the whole of the descent on the second day. It was cold that night in the upper air, and there was a strong wind blowing that chilled our young friends to the bone. The sleeping accommodations were not of the best, as there were no beds, and they had nothing but the rugs and shawls they had brought along from the foot of the mountain. Fred asked if there was any danger of their being disturbed by tigers or snakes, and was speedily reassured by Frank, who thought that any well-educated beast or serpent would never undertake a pilgrimage to the top of Fusiyama; and if one should have strayed as far as their resting-place, he would be too much played out to attend to any business. But though large game did not abound, there was plenty of a smaller kind, as they found before they had been ten minutes in the huts. Previous visitors had left a large and well-selected assortment of fleas, for which they had no further use, and their activity indicated that they had been for some time without food. They made things lively for the strangers, and what with chilling winds, hard beds, cramped quarters, and the voracity of the permanent inhabitants of the place, there was little sleep in that hut during the time of their stay. They were up before daylight, and, while the coffee was boiling, the boys watched the approach of morning. They looked far out over the waters of the Pacific, to where a thin line of light was curving around the rim of the horizon. At first it was so faint that it took a sharp eye to discover it, but as they watched and as the day advanced it grew more and more distinct, till it rounded out like a segment of the great circle engirdling the globe. The gleam of light became a glow that seemed to warm the waters of the shimmering ocean and flash a message of friendship from their home in another land; the heavens became purple, then scarlet, then golden, and gradually changed to the whiteness of silver. Far beneath them floated the fleecy clouds, and far beneath these were the hills of Hakone and the surrounding plain. Land and sea were spread as in a picture, and the world seemed to be lying at their feet. The boys stood spellbound and silent as they watched the opening day from the heights of Fusiyama, and finally exclaimed in a breath that they were doubly paid for all the fatigue they had passed through in their journey thus far. The light breakfast was taken, and the adventurers moved on. At each step the way grew more and more difficult. Every mile was steeper than its predecessor, and in many instances it was rougher. The rarefaction of the air increased, and rendered the work of breathing more and more severe. The travellers panted like frightened deer, and their lungs seemed to gain little relief from the rest that the Doctor and his young friends were compelled to take at frequent intervals. The last of the huts of refuge was passed, and it seemed only a short distance to the summit. But it required more than an hour's effort to accomplish this final stage. The boys refused all offers of assistance, and struggled manfully on; but Doctor Branson was less confident of his powers, and was glad of the aid of the strong-limbed and strong-handed yamabooshees. All were glad enough to stand on the summit and gaze into the deep gulf of the crater, while their brows were cooled by the clear breezes from the Pacific. They were at the top of Fusiyama, 14,000 feet above the level of the ocean that lay so far below them, eighty miles from their starting-point at Yokohama, and their vision swept an area of the surface of the earth nearly two hundred miles in diameter. East and south lay the broad ocean. West and north was the wondrous land of Japan, a carpet of billowy green, roughened here and there with wooded hills and small mountains, indented with bays and with silver threads of rivers meandering through it. It was a picture of marvellous beauty which no pen can describe. They remained an hour or more on the mountain, and then began the descent. It was far easier than the upward journey, but was by no means a pleasurable affair. The boys slipped and fell several times, but, luckily, received no severe hurts; and in little more than three hours from the top they were at the spot where the horses were waiting for them. Altogether, they had been through about twelve hours of the hardest climbing they had ever known in their lives. Frank said he didn't want to climb any more mountains for at least a year, and Fred quite agreed with him. As they descended from their saddles at Muriyama, they were stiff and sore, and could hardly stand. They threw their arms around each other, and Frank said: "The proudest day of my life--I've been to the top of Fusiyama." "And it's my proudest day, too," Fred responded; "for I've been there with you." As they rested that evening, Frank thought of some lines that he had seen somewhere, which were appropriate to the journey they had made, and he wound up the day's experiences by repeating them. They were as follows: "As we climb from the vale to the high mountain's peak, We leave the green fields far below; We go on through the forest, beyond it we seek The line of perpetual snow. Cold and thin grows the air, the light dazzles our eyes, We struggle through storm-cloud and sleet; With courage undaunted we mount toward the skies, Till the world spreads out at our feet. "We are journeying now up the mountain of life, The green fields of youth we have passed; We've toiled through the forest with unceasing strife, And gained the bright snow-line at last. We are whitened by frost, we are chilled by the breeze-- With weariness hardly can move; But, faithful to duty, in our work we'll ne'er cease Till we look on the world from above." CHAPTER XV. EXECUTIONS AND HARI-KARI. The return to Yokohama was accomplished without any incident of consequence. Fred was a little disappointed to think that their lives had not been in peril. "Just a little danger for the fun of the thing," he remarked to Frank; and at one time on the way he was almost inclined to gloominess when he reflected on the situation. "There hasn't been any attack upon us," he said to himself, "when there might have been something of the kind just as well as not. Not that I wanted any real killing, or anything of the sort, but just a little risk of it to make things lively. It's really too bad." He was roused from his revery by the Doctor, who told him they were approaching the spot where some Englishmen were set upon by a party of two-sworded Samurai, in the early times of the foreign occupation. The attack was entirely unprovoked, and quite without warning. One of the Englishmen was killed and another seriously wounded, while the natives escaped unharmed. Fred wanted to know the exact character of the Samurai, and why they were nearly always concerned in the attacks upon foreigners. "It is a long story," said Doctor Bronson, "and I am not sure that you will find it altogether interesting; but it is a part of Japanese history that you ought to know, especially in view of the fact that the Samurai exist no longer. With the revolution of 1868 and the consequent overthrow of the old customs, the Samurai class was extinguished, and the wearing of two swords is forbidden. [Illustration: THE FOUR CLASSES OF SOCIETY.] "The population of Japan was formerly divided into four great classes. The first was the military and official class, and these are what were called Samurai; the second was the farmer class that rented the lands from the government, and engaged in agriculture; the third was the artisan class, and included all the trades and occupations of an industrial character; and the fourth was the merchant class, including all kinds of traders from the wholesale merchant to the petty peddler. Of course there were subdivisions of these classes, and sometimes several of them in a single class, but the general outline of the system is as I have stated it. Below these classes, and outside the ordinary scale of humanity, were the _Eta_ and _Hinin_ castes, who comprised beggars, tanners, grave-diggers, and, in fact, all persons who had anything to do with the handling of a dead body, whether human or of the lower animals. It was pollution to associate with a person of the Eta caste, and these people were compelled to dwell in villages by themselves. As they were not respected by others, they had no great respect for themselves, and lived in the most filthy condition. They could not enter a house where other people lived, and were not permitted to sit, eat, or drink with others, and they could not cook their food at the same fire. "This was the way society in Japan was made up till the revolution of 1868, when the whole fabric was swept away, and the principles of our Declaration of Independence were adopted. The Japanese have virtually declared that all men were created equal, by putting the classes on the same level and abolishing the distinctions of caste. The Eta and Hinin castes were made citizens, the Samurai (or gentry) were deprived of their hereditary rights, and the feudal princes were compelled to turn their possessions into the hands of the general government. The change was very great for all, but for none more so than the Samurai. "These fellows had been for centuries a class with extraordinary privileges. Their ideas in regard to work of any kind were like those of their kindred in Europe and some other parts of the world; it would degrade them to do anything, and consequently they were generally addicted to a life of idleness. There were studious and enterprising men among them, but they were the exceptions rather than the rule. The ordinary Samurai was, more or less, and usually more, a worthless fellow, whose sole idea of occupation was to follow the lord of his province and be present at ceremonials, and, for the rest, to spend his time in drinking-shops and other improper places, and indulge in occasional fights with the men of other clans. They were the only persons allowed to wear two swords; and it was the constant wearing of these swords, coupled with the drinking of sa-kee, that brought on most of the difficulties between the natives and the foreigners. A group of these men would be drinking in a tavern, and, while they were all heated with the spirits they had swallowed, one of them would propose to kill a foreigner. They would make a vow to go out and kill the first one they met, and in this mood they would leave the tavern and walk along the principal street. They would fall upon the first foreigner they met, and, as they were three or four to one, and were all well armed, the foreigner was generally slaughtered. Mr. Heusken, the interpreter of the American Legation, was thus murdered at Yeddo in 1861, and the German consul at Hakodadi met his death in the same way. The Samurai were the class most opposed to the entrance of foreigners into Japan, and, so long as they were allowed to wear swords and inflame themselves with sa-kee, the life of a stranger was never safe." "If they did no work," said Frank, "how did they manage to live?" [Illustration: TWO-SWORDED NOBLES.] "They were supported by the government," the Doctor answered, "in accordance with the ancient custom. Every Samurai received an allowance, which was paid to him in rice, the staple article of food, and what he did not eat he could convert into money. His pay was in proportion to his rank, and the great number of Samurai made their support a heavy burden upon the laboring class. It is said that nine tenths of the product of the soil went, in one way and another, for taxes; that is, for every hundred bushels of rice that a farmer raised, ninety bushels went to the local and general governments, and only ten bushels remained to the farmer. It was by being thus saddled on the country that the Samurai were able to live without work, and, as the right had been conceded to them for generations, they naturally looked with contempt upon all kinds of industry. Their dissipated way of living was very likely to lead them into debt, just as it leads similar men into debt everywhere else. The merchants and tradesmen of all kinds were their victims, as the law allowed no redress for the wrongs they committed. They would sometimes enter a shop, select what goods they wanted, hand them over to a servant, and then leave without paying. If the merchant intimated that he would like to be paid for his property, they became very insolent and threatened to report him to the police as a swindler. They would enter a tavern or tea-house with a crowd of their followers, and, after eating and drinking what they wished, walk coolly away. If the landlord asked for payment, he was not very likely to get it; and if he repeated the request, he not infrequently had his head slashed off by the sword of one of the offended gentlemen. The head of a landlord was not of much consequence; but he was generally quite unwilling to lose it, as, when once taken off, it was difficult to restore it to its place. "If the Samurai had been on the most friendly terms with each other, they would have rendered Japan too hot for anybody else to live in. But, fortunately for the rest of the population, there were many feuds among the different clans, and there was rarely an occasion when one clan was not in open warfare with some other. In this way they devoted their energies to cutting each other's throats, to the great delight of the merchants and tradesmen. Where two clans were in hostility to each other, and two opposing groups met in the streets, they used to fall to fighting without ceremony and furnish occupation for the coroner before the interview was over. They were a terror to all the rest of the populace; and it is safe to say that there was general rejoicing among the other classes when the Samurai ceased to exist." [Illustration: A SAMURAI IN WINTER DRESS.] Fred asked if the government took away the pensions of these men and gave them nothing in return. "Not by any means," the Doctor answered. "The government gave to each man a money allowance, or gift, to take the place of his pension, and let him do with it whatever he pleased. Some of them spent it in dissipation, and found themselves eventually without a penny, and with no means of obtaining anything. They were then obliged to go to work like other people, and some of them had a very hard time to exist. I was told in Yokohama that some of the former Samurai were working as coolies in various ways, not only in that city, but all through the empire. A good many of them have found employment among the foreign merchants as clerks and salesmen, and there are many in government employ in the offices at Tokio and in other cities. The officers you saw at the custom-house were probably ex-Samurai, and ten years ago they would have been wearing two swords apiece. The Japanese book-keeper you saw in the office of the American merchant on whom we called the day of our arrival was once a Samurai of high degree. He spent his government allowance in a short time after receiving it, and was then compelled to find employment or starve. He tried the starvation system a short time, and concluded he did not like it. He turned his education to account by undertaking to keep the Japanese accounts of a foreign merchant, and his employer is well pleased with him. "As the Samurai were the military class before the revolution, they retain the same character, to a large degree, under the present system. They are the officers of the army and navy, and, to a great extent, they fill the ranks of the soldiery. Those who accepted the change and remained loyal to the government have received appointments where there were vacancies to be filled, and the strength of Japan to-day is largely in the hands of the old Samurai. But, as might be expected, there was much discontent at the change, and some of the Samurai went into open rebellion against the government. This was the cause of the revolt in 1877, and for a time it was so formidable that many people believed it would succeed. Not a few among the foreigners predicted that the Mikado would be dethroned, and the power of the Tycoon restored; but the government triumphed in the end, and those of the leaders of the insurrection who did not perish in battle were beheaded." Frank asked how the Japanese performed the ceremony of beheading, and whether it was very frequent. "As to that," said Doctor Bronson, "much depends upon what you would call frequent. In former times a man might lose his head for a very slight reason, or, perhaps, no reason at all. Crimes that we would consider of small degree were punished with death, and there was very little time wasted between the sentence and its execution. As the Japanese have become more and more familiar with the customs of Western nations, they have learned that we do not remove the heads of our people for trifles, and they show their good sense by following our example. Of late years, executions by decapitation are much less frequent than formerly, but even now there are more of them than there need be. "As to the manner of performing it, a few words will describe it. The ceremonies that precede it are somewhat elaborate, but the affair itself is performed in the twinkling of an eye, or, rather, in the twinkling of a sword. It is a single flash, and all is over. [Illustration: BEHEADING A CRIMINAL.] "When I was in Japan the first time, I was invited to be present at an execution, and, as I had a scientific reason for being there, I accepted the invitation. As a friend and myself approached the prison we met a large crowd, and were told that the prisoner was being paraded through the streets, so that the public could see him. There was quite a procession to escort the poor fellow, and the people seemed to have very little sympathy for him, as they were doubtless hardened by the frequency of these occurrences. In front of the procession there were two men bearing large placards, like banners. One of the placards announced the name and residence of the victim, and the other the crime of which he had been convicted, together with his sentence. Close behind these men was the prisoner, tied to the horse on which he rode, and guarded by a couple of soldiers. Following him were more soldiers, and then came a couple of officers, with their attendants; for at that time every officer had a certain number of retainers, who followed him everywhere. We joined the party and went to the prison-yard, where we found the ground ready prepared for the execution. But first, according to the usual custom, the prisoner was provided with a hearty breakfast; and it was rather an astonishing circumstance that he ate it with an excellent appetite, though he complained of one dish as being unhealthy. In half an hour or so he had finished, and was led to the spot where he was to lose his head. He was required to kneel behind a small hole that had been dug to receive his head; a bandage was tied around his eyes, and as it was fastened he said 'Sayonara' to his friends and everybody present. When all was ready, the officer in command gave the signal, and the executioner, with a single blow, severed the head from the body. It fell into the hole prepared for it, and was immediately picked up and washed. Then the procession was formed again, and the head was taken to a mound by the side of the road, where it was placed on a post. According to law, it was to remain there six days, as a terror to all who were disposed to do wrong. It was the first Japanese execution I ever witnessed, and my last." Frank asked the Doctor if this execution was anything like the "hari-kari" of which he had read, where a Japanese was said to commit suicide by cutting open his stomach. "Not by any means," was the answer; "hari-kari is quite another thing." "Please tell us how it is performed," said Fred. "It is not altogether a pleasant subject," remarked the Doctor, with a slight shudder; "but as we want to learn all we can of the manners and customs of the people we are among, and as we are now among the Japanese, I suppose we must give some attention to hari-kari. "To understand the question thoroughly, it will be necessary to bear in mind that the Oriental way of thinking is very often the exact reverse of our way. We have one idea of honor and the Japanese have another; who is right or who is wrong we will not pretend to say, as each party has its own particular views and will not readily yield to the other. Writers on Japan differ considerably in their views of Japanese points of honor, and there are disagreements on the subject among the Japanese themselves; therefore I cannot speak with absolute exactness about it. According to the old code, all persons holding office under the government were required to kill themselves in the way mentioned whenever they had committed any crime, though not till they had received an order to do so from the court. If they disobeyed the order, their families would be disinherited, and none of their descendants would be allowed to hold office ever after; consequently a regard for one's family required a cheerful submission to the custom. There was no disgrace attached to a death by hari-kari, and in former times its occurrence was almost an every-day affair. One writer says, 'The sons of all persons of quality exercise themselves in their youth, for five or six years, with a view to performing the operation, in case of need, with gracefulness and dexterity; and they take as much pains to acquire this accomplishment as youth among us to become elegant dancers or skilful horsemen; hence the profound contempt of death which they imbibe in early years.' Curious custom, isn't it, according to our notions?" Both the boys thought it was, and said they were glad that they were not born in a country where such ideas of honor prevailed. The Doctor told them that an old story, which he had no doubt was true, since it accorded with the Japanese ideas of honor, would be a very good illustration of the subject. It was concerning two high officers of the court who met one day on a staircase, and accidentally jostled each other. One was a very quick-tempered man, and demanded satisfaction; the other was of a more peaceable disposition, and said the circumstance was accidental, and could be amply covered by an apology, which he was ready to make. The other tried to provoke him to a conflict, and when he found he could not do so he drew his short-sword and slashed himself open according to the prescribed mode. The other was compelled, as a point of honor, to follow his example. It often happened that where one man had offended another the court required that they should both perform hari-kari, and they always did so without the least hesitation. And when a man went to another's house, sat down and disembowelled himself, the owner of the house was obliged by law to do the same thing. There was no escaping it, and it is but fair to the Japanese to say that they did not try to escape it. "If you are deeply interested in the subject of hari-kari," said the Doctor, "I advise you to read Mitford's book entitled 'Tales of Old Japan.' Mr. Mitford lived some time in Japan in an official capacity, and on one occasion he was called upon to be present at the hari-kari of an officer who had given orders for firing on some foreigners. He gives an account of this affair, including a list of the ceremonies to be observed on such an occasion, which he translated from a Japanese work on the subject. Nothing could be more precise than the regulations, and some of them are exceedingly curious, particularly the one that requires the nearest friend of the victim to act as his second. The duty of the second is to cut off the principal's head at the moment he plunges the knife into his body. It is a post of honor, and a gentleman who should refuse thus to act for his friend would be considered no friend at all. Again I say it is a curious custom all through. "The term hari-kari means 'happy despatch,' and for the Japanese it was a happy form of going out of the world. It is still in use, the custom as well as the expression, but not so much so as formerly. The Japanese ideas of honor have not changed, but they have found that some of their ways of illustrating them are not in accordance with the customs of Europe. There are cases of hari-kari now and then at the present time, but they are very private, and generally the result of the sentence of a court. At the termination of the rebellion of 1877, several of the officers concerned in it committed hari-kari voluntarily just before the surrender, and others in consequence of their capture and sentence. [Illustration: JAPANESE COURT IN THE OLD STYLE.] "In the administration of justice," Doctor Bronson continued, "Japan has made great progress in the past few years. Formerly nearly all trials were conducted with torture, and sometimes the witnesses were tortured as well as the accused. The instruments in use were the refinement of cruelty: heavy weights were piled on the body of a prisoner; he was placed in a caldron of water, and a fire was lighted beneath which slowly brought the water to the boiling-point; he was cut with knives in a variety of ways that indicated great ingenuity on the part of the torturers; in fact, he was put to a great deal of pain such as we know nothing about. Under the old system the only persons at a trial were the prisoner, the torturer, the secretary, and the judge; at present the trials are generally open, and the accused has the benefit of counsel to defend him, as in our own courts. Torture has been formally abolished, though it is asserted that it is sometimes employed in cases of treason or other high crimes. Law-schools have been established, reform codes of law have been made, and certainly there is a manifest disposition on the part of the government to give the best system of justice to the people that can be found. Japan is endeavoring to take a place among the nations of the world, and show that she is no longer a barbarian land. The United States have been the foremost to acknowledge her right to such a place, but their action has not been seconded by England and other European countries. It will doubtless come in time, and every year sees some additional step gained in the proper direction. [Illustration: JAPANESE NAVAL OFFICER.] "As I have before stated," the Doctor continued, "the Japanese have made great progress in military and naval matters. They have ship-yards at several places, and have built ships of their own after the European models; in addition to these, they have ships that they bought from foreigners, but they are entirely commanded and managed by their own officers, and equipped with crews entirely Japanese. The old war-junks of the country have been discarded for the modern ships, and the young Japanese are trained in the Western mode of warfare; their schools for naval instruction have made remarkable advancement, and the teachers who were brought from other countries repeatedly declared that they never had seen anywhere a more intelligent assemblage of pupils than they found here. The Japanese naval officer of to-day is uniformed very much like his fellow-officer in Europe or America, and his manners are as polished as the most fastidious among us could wish. The Japanese ships have made long cruises, and visited the principal ports of Europe and America, and their commanders have shown that they understand the theory and practice of navigation, and are able to take their ships wherever they may be ordered to go. The picture of a Japanese war-junk of the olden time, and that of the war-steamer of to-day do not show many points of resemblance. They illustrate the difference between the old and the new, very much as do the cango and the railway car when placed side by side." [Illustration: JAPANESE STEAM CORVETTE.] The Doctor thought he had given the boys quite as much information as they would be likely to remember in his dissertation, and suggested that they should endeavor to recapitulate what he had said. Frank thought the discussion had taken a wide range, as it had included the status of the four classes of Japanese society, had embraced the Samurai and their peculiarities, some of the changes that were wrought by the revolution, and had told them how executions were conducted in former times. Then they had learned something about hari-kari and what it was for; and they had learned, at the same time, the difference between the old courts of justice and the new ones. What with these things and the naval progress of the empire of the Mikado, he thought they had quite enough to go around, and would be lucky if they remembered the whole of it. Fred thought so too, and therefore the discussion was suspended, with the understanding that it should be renewed on the first convenient occasion. [Illustration: A JAPANESE WAR-JUNK OF THE OLDEN TIME.] CHAPTER XVI. AMUSEMENTS.--WRESTLERS AND THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENTS. After the party had recovered from the fatigues of the journey to Fusiyama, the boys were on the lookout for something new. Various suggestions were made, and finally Frank proposed that they should go to a theatre. This was quite to Fred's liking, and so it did not take a long time to come to a determination on the subject. The Doctor agreed that the theatre was an interesting study, and so the matter was settled. "What time in the evening must we go," said Fred, "so as to be there in season for the beginning of the performance?" "If you want to be there in season for the beginning," the Doctor answered, "you should go in the morning, or, at all events, very early in the day." "Wouldn't it be well to go the day before?" Frank ventured to ask. "Certainly you could do so," Fred responded, "or you might go next week or last summer." "The Japanese performances," Doctor Bronson continued, "do not all begin in the morning, but the most of them do, and they last the entire day. In China they have historic plays that require a week or more for their complete representation; but in Japan they are briefer in their ways, and a performance is not continued from one day to the next. They have greater variety here than in China, and the plays are less tedious both to one who understands the language and to one who does not. The Japanese are a gayer people than the Chinese, and consequently their plays are less serious in character." It was agreed that a day should be given to amusements, and these should include anything that the boys and their tutor could find. Frank went in pursuit of the landlord of the hotel, and soon returned with the information that there was a theatrical performance that very day in the native theatre, and also a wrestling match which was sure to be interesting, as the Japanese wrestlers are different from those of any other country. After a little discussion it was determined that they would first go to the wrestling match, and Frank should write a description of the wrestlers and what they did. After the wrestling match was disposed of, they would take up the theatre, and of this Fred should be the historian. Here is Frank's account of the wrestling as it appeared in the next letter he sent home: [Illustration: A JAPANESE WRESTLER.] "I thought we were going to a hall, but it was nothing of the sort, as we understand a hall. We went into a large tent, which was made by stretching matting over a space enclosed by a high fence; the fence formed the walls of the building, and the matting made the roof. We had the ground to sit on or stand on, but soon after we went in a man brought us some chairs, and we sat down. In the centre of the tent there was a circular mound something like a circus ring; it was perhaps two feet high and ten feet across, and there was a flat place outside of it where the master of ceremonies was to stand and see that everything was fair. We paid twenty-five cents to go in, and then we paid about five cents more for each chair; of course we were in the best places, and only a few others were in that part. I don't know how much the Japanese paid in the poor places, but I don't believe it was more than five cents. "In a little while after we went in, the performance began. A boy came into the ring from a room at one side of the tent, and he walked as if he were playing the king, or some other great personage. When he got to the middle of the ring, he opened a fan he carried in his right hand. He opened it with a quick jerk, as though he were going to shake it to pieces; and after he had opened it he announced the names of the wrestlers who were to come into the first act. If I hadn't been told what he was doing, I should have thought he was playing something from Shakspeare, he made such a fuss about it. Then he went out and the wrestlers came in, with a big fellow that Fred said must be the boss wrestler. He looked like an elephant, he was so big. "The wrestlers were the largest men I have seen in Japan; and the fact is I didn't suppose the country contained any men so large. As near as I could see, they had more fat than muscle on them; but there must have been a good deal of muscle, too, for they were strong as oxen. Doctor Bronson says he has seen some of these wrestlers carry two sacks of rice weighing a hundred and twenty-five pounds each, and that one man carried a sack with his teeth, while another took one under his arm and turned somersets with it, and did not once lose his hold. The Doctor says these men are a particular race of Japanese, and it used to be the custom for each prince to have a dozen or more of these wrestlers in his suite to furnish amusement for himself and his friends. Sometimes two princes would get up a match with their wrestlers, just as men in New York get up matches between dogs and chickens. Then there were troupes of wrestlers, who went around giving exhibitions, just as they sometimes do in America. But you never saw such fat men in all your life as they were; not fat in one place, like the man that keeps the grocery on the corner of the public square in our town, but fat all over. I felt the back and arms of one of them, and his muscles were as hard as iron. The flesh on his breast was soft, and seemed like a thick cushion of fat. I think you might have hit him there with a mallet without hurting him much. [Illustration: A PAIR OF WRESTLERS AND THEIR MANAGER.] "Some of them could hardly see out of their eyes on account of the fat around them; and when their arms were doubled up, they looked like the hams of a hog. I was told that the Japanese idea of a wrestler is to have a man as fat as possible, which is just the reverse of what we think is right. They train their men all their lives to have them get up all the fat they can; and if a man doesn't get it fast enough, they put him to work, and tell him he can never be a wrestler. It is odd that a people so thin as the Japanese should think so much about having men fat; but I suppose it is because we all like the things that are our opposites. But this isn't telling about the wrestling match. "After the herald had given the names of the wrestlers who were to make the first round, the fellows came in. They were dressed without any clothes to speak of, or rather they were quite undressed, with the exception of a cloth around their loins. They came in on opposite sides of the ring, and stood there about five feet apart, each man resting his hands on his knees, and glaring at the other like a wild beast. They looked more like a pair of tigers than human beings, and for a moment I thought it was not at all unlike what a bull-fight in Spain might be. [Illustration: THE CLINCH.] "There they stood glaring, as I told you, and making a noise like animals about to fight. They stamped on the ground and made two or three rushes at each other, and then fell back to watch for a better chance. They kept this up a minute or so, and then darted in and clinched; and then you could see their great muscles swell, and realize that they were as strong as they were fat. "They did not try to throw each other, as we do when we wrestle, but they tried to push from one side of the ring to the other. I couldn't understand this until the Doctor told me that it is not necessary for one of the men to be thrown. All that is to be done is for one of them to push the other outside the ring; and even if he only gets one foot out, the game is up. Only once during all we saw of the match did anybody get thrown down, as we should expect to see him in a wrestling match in America. And when he did get fairly on the ground, it was not very easy for him to rise, which is probably the reason why the rules of the Japanese ring are so different from ours. "They had several matches of this kind with the two men standing up facing each other before they clinched; and then they tried another plan. One man took his place in the ring, and braced himself as though he were trying to stop a locomotive. When he was ready a signal was given, and another man came out full tilt against him. They butted their heads together like two rams, and tried to hit each other in the breast. In a short time they were covered with blood, and looked very badly; but the Doctor says they were not hurt so much as they seemed to be. They kept this up for nearly a quarter of an hour, and took turns at the business--one of them being bull for the other to play railway train against. It was as bad for one as for the other; and if I had my choice which character to play, I wouldn't play either. "After the wrestling was over they had some fencing, which I liked much better, as there was more skill to it and less brutality. The fencers were announced in the same way as the other performers had been. They wore large masks that protected their heads, and their fencing was with wooden swords or sticks, so that no harm was done. The game was for each to hit his adversary's head, and when this was done a point was scored for the man who made the hit. They did a good deal of shouting and snarling at each other, and sometimes their noise sounded more as if made by cats than by human beings. In other respects their fencing was very much like ours, and was very creditable to the parties engaged in it. One of the best fencers in the lot was a young girl. She wasn't more than sixteen years old, and she had arms strong enough for a man of thirty. The performance ended with the fencing, and then we went back to the hotel." It was determined that the evening would be quite early enough to go to the theatre, and so the party did not start until after seven o'clock. They secured a box at one side of the auditorium, where they could see the stage and the audience at the same time. When you go to the play in a strange land, the audience is frequently quite as interesting a study as the performance, and sometimes more so. In no country is this more truly the case than in Japan. But it was agreed that Fred should give the account of the play, and so we will listen to him. Here is his story: "The theatre was a small one, according to our notions, but it was well ventilated, which is not always the case in America. The man that sold the tickets was very polite, and so was the one who took them at the door. The latter called an usher, who showed us to our box, and brought the chairs for us; and then he brought a programme, but we couldn't read a word of it, as it was all in Japanese. We cared more about looking at the people than trying to read something that we couldn't read at all; and so I folded up the programme and put it into my pocket. "The house had a floor and galleries like one of our theatres, but there were only two galleries, and one of them was on a level with the parquet. The parquet, or floor, was divided into boxes, and they were literally boxes, and no mistake. They were square, and the partitions between them were little more than a foot high, with a flat board on the top for a rail. This was about five inches wide, and I soon saw what it was used for, as the people walked on it in going to and from their boxes. The boxes had no chairs in them, but they were carpeted with clean matting; and anybody could get cushions from the ushers by asking for them. Each box was intended to hold four persons; but it required that the four should not be very large, and that each should stick to his own corner. One box in front of us had six women in it, and there were two or three boxes crowded with children. They had tea and sweetmeats in many of the boxes, and I noticed that men and boys were going around selling these things. I asked if we had come to the right place, as it occurred to me that it was only at the Bowery and that kind of theatre in New York that they sold peanuts and such things; but the Doctor said it was all right, and they did this in all the best theatres in Japan. [Illustration: JAPANESE ACTOR DRESSED AS A DOCTOR.] "Of course, if they come and stay all day, they must have something to eat, and so I saw the reason of their having tea and other refreshments peddled about the house. Then there were men who sold books which gave an account of the play, and had portraits of some of the principal players. I suppose these books were really the bills of the play; and if we could have read them, we should have known something about the performance more than we do now. "While we were looking at the audience there came half a dozen raps behind the curtain, as if two pieces of wood had been knocked together; and a moment after the rapping had stopped, the curtain was drawn aside. It was a common sort of curtain, and did not open in the middle like some of ours, or roll up like others; it was pulled aside as if it ran on a wire, and when it was out of sight we saw the stage set to represent a garden with lots of flower-pots and bushes. The stage was very small compared with an American one, and not more than ten or twelve feet deep; but it was set quite well, though not so elaborately as we would arrange it. The orchestra was in a couple of little boxes over the stage, one on each side, and each box contained six persons, three singers and three guitar-players. This is the regulation orchestra and chorus, so they say, in all the Japanese theatres, but it is sometimes differently made up. If a theatre is small and poor, it may have only two performers in each box, and sometimes one box may be empty, but this is not often. [Illustration: THE SAMISEN.] "The orchestra furnishes music by means of the guitar, or 'samisen.' It is played something like our guitar, except that a piece of ivory is used for striking the strings, and is always used in a concert that has any pretence to being properly arranged. There are two or three other instruments, one of them a small drum, which they play upon with the fingers; but it is not so common as the samisen, and I don't think it is so well liked. Then they have flutes, and some of them are very sweet, and harmonize well with the samisen; but the singers do not like them for an accompaniment unless they have powerful voices. The samisen-players generally sing, and in the theatres the musicians form a part of the chorus. A good deal of the play is explained by the chorus; and if there are any obscure points, the audience is told what they are. I remember seeing the same thing almost exactly, or, at any rate, the same thing in principle, in the performance of "Henry V." at a theatre in New York several years ago, so that this idea of having the play explained by the chorus cannot be claimed as a Japanese invention. [Illustration: PLAYING THE SAMISEN.] "In the theatre the singing goes on sometimes while the actors are on the stage, and we got tired of it in a little while. I don't suppose the Japanese get so tired of it, or they would stop having it. Some of them admit that it would be better to have the orchestra in front of the stage, as we do; but others say that so long as the chorus must do so much towards explaining the play, they had better remain where they are. The Japanese seem to like their theatre as it is, and therefore they will not be apt to change in a hurry. "Just after the curtain was pulled away, they opened a door in the middle of the garden, and the actors who were to be in the play came in. They sat down on the stage and began a song, which they kept up for ten or fifteen minutes, each of them singing a part that was evidently prepared for himself alone. The music in the little boxes joined them, and it made me think of the negro minstrels in a concert hall at home, where they all come on together. After they finished this part of the performance, there was a pantomime by a woman, or rather by a man disguised as a woman, as all the acting is done by men. They get themselves up perfectly, as they have very little beards, and they can imitate the voice and movements of a woman, so that nobody can tell the difference. I couldn't tell what the pantomime was all about, and it was so long that I got tired of it before they were through, and wondered when they would come on with something else. [Illustration: SCENE FROM A JAPANESE COMEDY.--WRITING A LETTER OF DIVORCE.] "Then the real acting of the piece began, and I wished ever so much that it had been in English, so that I could understand it. The story was a supernatural one, and there were badgers and foxes in it, and they had a woman changed to a badger, and the badger to a woman again. Gentlemen who are familiar with Japanese theatres say there are many of these stories, like our Little Red Riding-hood, and other fairy tales, acted on the stage, and that the play we saw is one of the most popular, and is called 'Bumbuku Chagama,' or 'The Bubbling Teapot.' One gentleman has shown me a translation of it, and I will put it in here, just to show you what a Japanese fairy story is like. "'Once upon a time, it is said, there lived a very old badger in the temple known as Morin-je, where there was also an iron teapot called Bumbuku Chagama, which was a precious thing in that sacred place. One day when the chief priest, who was fond of tea and kept the pot always hanging in his sitting-room, was about taking it, as usual, to make tea for drinking, a tail came out of it. He was startled, and called together all the little _bourges_, his pupils, that they might behold the apparition. Supposing it to be the mischievous work of a fox or badger, and being resolved to ascertain its real character, they made due preparations. Some of them tied handkerchiefs about their heads, and some stripped the coats from their shoulders, and armed themselves with sticks and bits of firewood. But when they were about to beat the vessel down, wings came out of it; and as it flew about from one side to another, like a dragon-fly, while they pursued it, they could neither strike nor secure it. Finally, however, having closed all the windows and sliding-doors, after hunting it vigorously from one corner to another, they succeeded in confining it in a small space, and presently in capturing it. [Illustration: SCENE FROM A JAPANESE COMEDY.--LOVE-LETTER DISCOVERED.] "'While they were consulting what to do with it, a man entered whose business it was to collect and sell waste paper, and they showed him the teapot with a view of disposing of it to him if possible. He observed their eagerness, and offered a much lower price than it was worth; but as it was now considered a disagreeable thing to have in the temple, they let him have it at his own price. He took it and hastily carried it away. He reached his home greatly pleased with his bargain, and looking forward to a handsome profit the next day, when he would sell it for what it was worth. "'Night came on, and he lay down to rest. Covering himself with his blankets, he slept soundly. "'But near the middle of the night the teapot changed itself into the form of a badger, and came out of the waste paper, where it had been placed. The merchant was aroused by the noise, and caught the teapot while it was in flight. By treating it kindly he soon gained its confidence and affection. In the course of time it became so docile that he was able to teach it rope-dancing and other accomplishments. "'The report soon spread that Bumbuku Chagama had learned to dance, and the merchant was invited to go to all the great and small provinces, where he was summoned to exhibit the teapot before the great daimios, who loaded him down with gifts of gold and silver. In course of time he reflected that it was only through the teapot, which he had bought so cheap, that he became so prosperous, and felt it his duty to return it again, with some compensation, to the temple. He therefore carried it to the temple, and, telling the chief priest of his good fortune, offered to restore it, together with half the money he had gained. [Illustration: TELLING THE STORY OF BUMBUKU CHAGAMA.] "'The priest was well pleased with his gratitude and generosity, and consented to receive the gifts. The badger was made the tutelary spirit of the temple, and the name of Bumbuku Chagama has remained famous in Morin-je to this day, and will be held in remembrance to the latest ages as a legend of ancient time.' "This is the fairy story," Fred continued, "which we saw on the stage; but it was varied somewhat in the acting, as the badger at times took the form of a woman, and afterwards that of a badger again, as I have already told you. A good deal of the acting was in pantomime, and in the scene where they are all trying to catch the teapot as it flies around the room they had quite a lively dance. We enjoyed the play very much, but I don't care to go again till I know something about the Japanese language. And a well-cushioned chair would add to the comfort of the place." CHAPTER XVII. A STUDY OF JAPANESE ART. Frank thought it was pretty nearly time to be thinking about the purchases he was to make for Mary. So he looked up the paper she gave him before his departure, and sat down to examine it. The list was not by any means a short one, and on consulting with the Doctor he learned that it would make a heavy inroad upon his stock of cash if he bought everything that was mentioned. He was rather disconcerted at the situation, but the good Doctor came to his relief. "It is nothing unusual," said he, "for persons going abroad to be loaded down with commissions that they are unable to execute. A great many people, with the best intentions in the world, ask their friends who are going to Europe to bring back a quantity of things, without stopping to think that the purchase of those things will involve a heavy outlay that cannot be easily borne by the traveller. The majority of people who go abroad have only a certain amount of money to expend on their journeys, and they cannot afford to lock up a considerable part of that money in purchases that will only be paid for on their return, or quite as often are never paid for at all. There is a good little story on this subject, and it may be of use to you to hear it. "A gentleman was once leaving New York for a trip to Europe, and many of his friends gave him commissions to execute for them. Some were thoughtful enough to give him the money for the articles they wanted; but the majority only said, 'I'll pay you when you get back, and I know how much it comes to.' When he returned, he told them that a singular circumstance had happened in regard to the commissions. 'The day after I sailed,' said he, 'I was in my room arranging the lists of things I was to get for my friends, and I placed the papers in two piles; those that had the money with them I put in one pile, and the money on top; and those that had no money with them I put in another pile. The wind came in and set things flying all around the room. The papers that had the money on them were held down by it, but those that had no money to keep them in place were carried out of the window and lost in the sea. And so you see how it is that the commissions that my friends gave me the money for are the only ones I have been able to execute.' "But in the present case," said Doctor Bronson, "it is all right, as your father privately gave me the money to buy the articles your sister wants. So you can go ahead and get them without any fear that you will trench on the amount you have for your personal expenses." The boys went on a round of shopping, and kept it up, at irregular intervals, during their stay in Japan. And in their shopping excursions they learned much about the country and people that they would not have been likely to know of in any other way. One of the first things on the list was a silk wrapper with nice embroidery. This gave rather a wide latitude in the way of selection, and Frank was somewhat puzzled what to get. He went to the store of one of the greatest silk-merchants of Yokohama and stated his wants. He was bewildered by the variety of things placed before him, and by their great beauty in color and workmanship. There were so many pretty things for sale there that he did not know when to stop buying; and he privately admitted to Fred that it was fortunate he was restricted in the amount he was to expend, or he would be in danger of buying out the whole of the establishment. He found the goods were admirably adapted to the foreign taste, and, at the same time, they preserved the national characteristics that gave them value as the products of Japan. [Illustration: FRANK'S PURCHASE.] He selected a robe of a delicate blue, and finely embroidered with silk of various colors. The embroideries represented flowers and leaves in curious combinations; and when the robe was placed on a frame where the light could fall full upon it, Frank thought he had never seen anything half so pretty. And it is proper to add that he bought two of these robes. Why he should buy two, when he had only one sister--and she would not be likely to want two wrappers of the same kind--I leave the reader to guess. [Illustration: JAPANESE PATTERN-DESIGNER.] Then there were fans on the list, and he went in pursuit of fans. He found them, and he thus had the opportunity of seeing the fan-makers at work. He found that there is a great variety in the fans which the Japanese make, and that the articles vary from prices which are astonishingly low to some which are dear in proportion. There is such a large trade in fans that he expected to find an extensive factory, employing hundreds of hands. He found, instead, that the fan-makers work on a very small scale, and that one person generally does only a small portion of the work, then turns it over to another, who does a little more, and so on. Certain low-priced fans are all finished in one shop; but with the high grades this is not the case, and, from first to last, a fan must pass through a good many hands. The fan-makers include women as well as men in their guild; and Frank thought it was by no means an unpleasant sight to see the women seated on the floor in front of low benches and gracefully handling the parts of the fan that was approaching completion in consequence of their manipulations. [Illustration: FAN-MAKERS AT WORK.] Mary had been seized with the prevailing mania for Japanese porcelain, and among the things in her list she had noted especially and underscored the words "some good things in Japanese _cloisonné_." Frank had seen a good many nice things in this kind of work, and he set about selecting, with the help of the Doctor and Fred, the articles he was to send home. He bought some in Yokohama, some in Tokio, and later on he made some purchases in Kobe and Kioto. We will look at what he bought and see if his sister had reason to be pleased when the consignment reached her and was unpacked from its carefully arranged wrappings. For hundreds of years Japan has been famous for its productions of porcelain of various kinds, from the tiny cup no larger than a lady's thimble to the elaborately decorated vase with a capacity of many gallons. Each province of Japan has its peculiar product, and sometimes one is in fashion, and sometimes another. For the last few years the favor has turned in the direction of Satsuma ware, which has commanded enormous figures, especially for the antique pieces. So great was the demand for old Satsuma that a good many manufacturers turned their attention to its production. They offer to make it to any amount, just as the wine-dealers in New York can accommodate a customer with wine of any vintage he requires, if he will only give them time enough to put on the proper labels. It is proper to say, on behalf of the Japanese, that they learned this trick from the foreigners; and their natural shrewdness has taught them to improve upon the lesson, so that in some instances they have actually sold to their instructors new ware for old, and convinced the purchasers of its genuineness. [Illustration: CHINESE CLOISONN� ON METAL.] We have not space enough to go into a full account of art in Japan, as a whole volume could be written on the subject without exhausting it. Frank followed the directions in Mary's note to find some good things in _cloisonné_; and, as he did not pay much attention to other matters, we will, for the present at least, follow his example and take a look at this branch of art in Japan. [Illustration: JAPANESE CLOISONN� ON METAL.] Frank thought it would be proper to have his sister understand the process by which the articles she desired were prepared, and, with the assistance of Doctor Bronson, he was able to write her an account of it that she could study, and, if she chose, could read or tell to her friends. Here is what he produced on the subject: [Illustration: JAPANESE BOWL.] "The term _cloisonné_ comes from the French word _cloison_, which means a _field_ or _enclosure_, and you will see as you go on how appropriate it is to this kind of work. If you examine the bowl which you will find in the box, you will see that it has a groundwork of light blue, and that on this groundwork there are fine threads of brass enclosing little squares and other figures in colors quite different from the body of the bowl. If you look at the cover, you will find that these squares and figures are repeated, and also that there are three circles, like plates with serrated edges, that seem to be lying on the top of the cover. These plates, or circles, have pictures of flowers on them, and the designs of the flowers on each one are different from those of the other two. Every leaf and petal is distinct from the others by means of the brass wires, and the colors do not at any time run together. [Illustration: COVER OF JAPANESE BOWL.] "In the first place, the bowl of plain porcelain is ground, so that the enamel will stick closely, which it would not do if the surface were glazed. Then the artist makes a design, on paper, of the pattern he intends putting on the bowl. When his design is finished, he lays it on a flat surface, and takes little pieces of brass wire which has been passed between rollers so that it becomes flattened; these he bends with pincers, so that they take the shape of the figure he wants to represent. Thus he goes over his whole design until every part of the outline, every leaf, flower, and stem--in fact, every line of his drawing--is represented by a piece of wire bent to the exact shape. The wire then forms a series of partitions; each fragment of it is a cell, or _cloison_, intended to retain the enamel in place and keep the colors from spreading or mingling. That is the first step in the work. "The second step is to attach these flattened threads of wire by their edges to the bowl. This is done by means of a fusible glass, which is spread over the surface of the bowl in the form of paste; the bits of wire are carefully laid in their places in the paste, and the bowl is then baked just enough to harden the surface and make it retain the threads where they belong. Now comes the third step. "This consists of filling the little cells or enclosures with the proper enamel, and, to do this correctly, the original design must be carefully followed. The design is drawn in colors, and as the artist proceeds with his work he has the colors ready mixed in little cups that are ranged before him. These colors are like thick pastes of powdered glass mixed with the proper pigments, and one by one the cells of the surface are filled up. Then the groundwork is filled in the same way; and when all this is done, the bowl is put into the oven and submitted to a strong heat. [Illustration: CHINESE METAL VASE.] "The baking serves to fix the colors firmly in their cells, as the fire is hot enough to melt the glass slightly and fuse it to a perfect union with the body of the bowl. For common work, a single coating of enamel and a single baking are sufficient, but for the finer grades this will not answer. Another coating of colors is laid on, and perhaps a third or a fourth, and after each application the bowl is baked again. When this process is finished, the surface is rough, and the bowl is not anything like what we see it now. It must be polished smooth, and, with this object, it is ground and rubbed, first with coarse stones, then with finer ones, then with emery, and finally with powdered charcoal. In this way the bowl was brought to the condition in which you will find it, if it comes all right and uninjured from the box. A good many pieces of this ware are broken in the handling, and consequently they add to the price of those that come out unharmed. [Illustration: MODERN JAPANESE CLOISONN� ON METAL.] "The fine threads of brass that run through the surface give a very pretty appearance to the work, as they look like gold, and are perfectly even with the rest of what has been laid on to the original bowl. In some of the most expensive of the enamel-work the threads are of fine gold instead of brass; but there is no particular advantage in having them of gold, as the brass answers all purposes and the gold serves as a temptation to robbers. There is an endless variety of designs in _cloisonné_ work, and you see so many pretty things in porcelain that you are at a loss what to choose. [Illustration: JAPANESE METAL CLOISONN�.] "But the artists do not confine themselves to porcelain; they do a great deal of enamelling on metal, and some of their productions in this way are quite as interesting as their enamelling on porcelain. They did not invent the art, so it is said, but borrowed it from the Chinese, who had in their turn borrowed it from Persia or some other of the Central Asiatic countries. Some of the Japanese artists claim that the art was borrowed from their country, but the most of those who have studied the subject say that this claim is incorrect. But no matter who invented the process, it is very beautiful and is of great antiquity; it is capable of a great many variations, and, although it has been in use for centuries, hardly a year passes without some improvements in it. In making the metal enamels the strips of brass are soldered to the surface and the cavities are filled up with the liquid coloring. The whole is then baked as in the porcelain process, and the surface of the work is carefully polished until all the lines are fully developed and the completed article shines like glass. [Illustration: CHINESE PORCELAIN CLOISONN�.] "I shall send you," Frank added, "several specimens of this kind of work, and I am sure that all of you will be delighted with them. In addition to the Japanese enamel, I have been able to pick up a few from China by the help of a gentleman who has been a long time in the country, and knows where to get the best things. And as I can't get all I want, I shall send you some pictures of very rare specimens, and you can judge by them of the quality of what you have. It is very difficult to find some of the varieties, as there have been a good many men out here making purchases for the New York and London markets, and they gather up everything that is curious. The demand is so great that the Japanese makers have all they can do to supply it; but I suppose that in a few years the taste of the public will change, and then you can buy all you want. But you can't get tired all at once of the pretty things that I have found; and I think that the more you look at the pictures on the bowls and plates, the more you will admire them. You are fond of birds and flowers, and you will find them on the porcelain; and there is one piece that has a river and some mountains on it, as well defined as if it were a painting on a sheet of paper. Look at the bridge over the river, and the trees on the side of the mountain, and then say if you ever saw anything nicer. I am in love with the Japanese art work, and sorry I can't buy more of it. And I think that is the case with most people who come to Japan, and take the trouble to look at the nice things it contains." [Illustration: GROUP CARVED IN IVORY.] Mary's list included some carvings in ivory and some lacquered boxes to keep her gloves in. These were not at all difficult to find, as they were everywhere in the shops, and it would have been much harder to avoid them if he had wanted to do so. There were chessmen of ivory, and representations of the divinities of the country; and then there were little statues of the kings and high dignitaries from ancient times down to the present. As it was a matter of some perplexity, Frank sought the advice of Doctor Bronson; the latter told him it would be just as well to restrain himself in the purchase of ivory carvings, as there was better work of the kind in China, and a few samples of the products of Japan would be sufficient. Frank acted upon this hint, and did not make any extensive investments in Japanese ivory. He found a great variety of what the Japanese call "nitschkis," which are small pieces of ivory carved in various shapes more or less fanciful. They were pretty, and had the merit of not being at all dear; and as they would make nice little souvenirs of Japan, he bought a good many of them. They are intended as ornaments to be worn at a gentleman's girdle, and in the olden times no gentleman considered his dress complete without one or more of these at his waist, just as most of the fashionable youths of America think that a scarf-pin is necessary to make life endurable. A large number of carvers made a living by working in ivory, and they displayed a wonderful amount of patience in completing their designs. One of these little carvings with which Frank was fascinated was a representation of a man mounting a horse with the assistance of a groom, who was holding the animal. The piece was less than two inches in length, and yet the carver had managed to put in this contracted space the figures of two men and a horse, with the dress of the men and the trappings of the horse as carefully shown as in a painting. There was a hole in the pedestal on which the group stood, and Frank found, on inquiry, that this hole was intended for the passage of a cord to attach the ornament to the waist of the wearer. And then he observed that all the carvings had a similar provision for rendering them useful. [Illustration: JAPANESE PIPE, CASE, AND POUCH.] Frank also ascertained that another ornament of the Japanese waist-belt was a pipe and a tobacco-pouch, the two being so inseparable that they formed a single article. The pipe was a tiny affair which only held a pinch of tobacco the size of a pea, and he learned that the smoker, in using it, took but a single whiff and then found the bowl exhausted. When not in use, the pipe was carried in a little case, which was made, like the pouch, of leather, and was generally embroidered with considerable care. Many of the pipe-cases were made of shark-skin, which has the double merit of being very durable and also quite pretty. It is polished to a condition of perfect smoothness, and the natural spots of the skin appear to be as regular as though drawn by an artist. Frank tried a few whiffs of the tobacco and found it very weak. He was thus informed of the reason why a Japanese can smoke so much as he does without being seriously affected by it. He can get through with a hundred of these little pipes in a day without the least trouble, and more if the time allows. Of lacquer-ware, of all kinds and prices, there was literally no end. There were trays and little boxes which could be had for a shilling or two, and there were cabinets and work-stands with numerous drawers and sliding panels curiously contrived, that a hundred dollars, or even five hundred, would not buy. Between these two figures there was a wide range, so that the most modest purse could be gratified as well as the most plethoric one. Frank found that the dealers did not put their best goods where they could be most readily seen. The front of a shop contained only the most ordinary things; and if you wanted to look at the better articles, it was necessary to say so. When the merchant knew what his customer wanted, he led the way to the rear store, or perhaps to an upper floor, where the best goods were kept. It was necessary to walk very carefully in these shops, as they were very densely crowded with goods, and the least incaution might result in overthrowing some of the brittle articles. A clumsy visitor in one of these establishments a few days before Frank called there had broken a vase valued at fifty dollars, and while stooping to pick up the fragments he knocked down another worth nearly half that amount. He paid for the damage, and in future declined to go around loosely in a Japanese store. The Japanese lacquer of the present time is not so highly prized as that of the last or the previous century. It is not so well made, partly for the reason that the workmen have lost their skill in the art, and partly because labor is much more expensive now than formerly. The prices obtained for some of the specimens of this kind of work have been very high, but they are not enough to meet the advance that has been made in wages in the past few years. The manufacturers are anxious to turn their money as rapidly as possible, and consequently they do not allow their productions to dry thoroughly. To be properly prepared, a piece of lacquer should dry very slowly; and it used to be said that the best lacquer was dried under water, so that the process should not be too rapid. The article, whatever it may be, is first shaped from wood or papier-maché, and then covered with successive coatings of varnish or lacquer; this is made from the gum of a tree, or, rather, from the juice, and it is said to have the peculiar property of turning black from exposure to the air, though it is of a milky whiteness when it exudes from the tree. It can be made to assume various colors by the addition of pigments; and while it is in a fresh condition coatings of gold-leaf are laid on in such a way as to form the figures that the artist has designed. Every coating must be dried before the next is laid on; and the more elaborate and costly the work, the more numerous are the coatings. Sometimes there may be a dozen or more of them, and pieces are in existence that are said to have received no less than fifty applications of lacquer. A box may thus require several years for its completion, as the drying process should never be hastened, lest the lacquer crack and peel when exposed to the air, and especially to heat. Good lacquer can be put into hot water without the least injury; but this is not the case with the ordinary article. In 1874 a steamer was lost on the coast of Japan. She had as a part of her cargo the Japanese goods from the Vienna Exhibition, and none of them were recovered for nearly a year. There they lay under the salt-water, and it was supposed that nearly everything would be ruined. But it was found that the lacquered ware had suffered very little, and some of these very articles were shown at Philadelphia in 1876. A few of the pieces required to be freshly polished, but there were many of them that did not need even this slight attention. [Illustration: JAPANESE ARTIST CHASING ON COPPER.] The boys were greatly interested in their shopping excursions, and learned a good deal about Japanese art and industry before they had ended their purchases. By the time they were through they had an excellent collection of porcelain and other ware, of ivory carvings, lacquered boxes, and similar things; silk robes, wrappers, and handkerchiefs; and quite enough fans to set up a small museum. They tried at first to get a sample of each kind of fan that they could find, but the variety proved so great that they were forced to give up the attempt. They bought some curious articles of bamboo, and were surprised to find to how many uses this vegetable production is put. Frank thought it was a pity the bamboo did not grow in America, as it could be turned to even more advantage by the enterprising Yankee than by the plodding Oriental, and Fred was inclined to agree with him. They changed their minds, however, when the Doctor told them how far the bamboo entered into the life of the people of the East, and on the whole they concluded that the American couldn't improve upon it. [Illustration: A JAPANESE VILLAGE.--BAMBOO POLES READY FOR MARKET.] "The bamboo," said the Doctor, "is of use from a very early age. The young shoots are boiled and eaten, or soaked in sugar, and preserved as confectionery. The roots of the plant are carved so as to resemble animals or men, and in this shape are used as ornaments; and when the bamboo is matured, and of full size, it is turned to purposes almost without number. The hollow stalks are used as water-pipes; rafts are made of them; the walls and roofs of houses are constructed from them; and they serve for the masts of smaller boats and the yards of larger ones. The light and strong poles which the coolies place over their shoulders for bearing burdens are almost invariably of bamboo; and where it grows abundantly it is used for making fences and sheds, and for the construction of nearly every implement of agriculture. Its fibres are twisted into rope, or softened into pulp for paper; every article of furniture is made of bamboo, and so are hats, umbrellas, fans, cups, and a thousand other things. In fact, it would be easier to say what is not made of it in these Eastern countries than to say what is; and an attempt at a mere enumeration of its uses and the articles made from it would be tedious. Take away the bamboo from the people of Japan and China, and you would deprive them of their principal means of support, or, at any rate, would make life a much greater burden than it now is." [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII. SOMETHING ABOUT JAPANESE WOMEN. Frank thought it was no more than proper that he should devote a letter to Miss Effie. He wanted to make it instructive and interesting, and, at the same time, he thought it should appeal to her personally in some way. He debated the matter in his own mind without coming to a conclusion, and finally determined to submit the question to Doctor Bronson, from whom he hoped to receive a suggestion that would be useful. [Illustration: A JAPANESE LADY'S-MAID.] The Doctor listened to him, and was not long in arriving at a conclusion. "You have just written to Mary on the subject of Japanese art," said he, "and she will be pretty certain to show the letter to her intimate friend." "Nothing more likely," Frank answered. "In that case," the Doctor continued, "you want to take up a subject that will be interesting to both, and that has not been touched in your letters thus far." "I suppose so." [Illustration: BRIDE AND BRIDESMAID.] "Well, then, as they are both women, or girls, as you may choose to call them, why don't you take up the subject of women in Japan? They would naturally be interested in what relates to their own sex, and you can give them much information on that topic." The proposal struck Frank as an excellent one, and he at once set about obtaining the necessary information for the preparation of his letter. He had already seen and heard a great deal concerning the women of Japan, and it was not long before he had all the material he wanted for his purpose. His letter was a long one, and we will make some extracts from it, with the permission of Miss Effie, and also that of Mary, who claimed to have an interest in the missive. [Illustration: MERCHANT'S FAMILY.] "From what I can learn," Frank wrote, "the women of Japan are better off than those of most other Eastern countries. They are not shut up in harems and never allowed to go about among people, as in Turkey; and they are not compelled to stay indoors and see nobody, as in many other parts of the world. They have their share of the work to do; but they are not compelled to do all of it, while their husbands are idle, as in some parts of Europe, and among the American Indians. The system of harems is not known here; or, at all events, if it is known, it is practised so little that we never hear anything about it. The Japanese women do not veil their faces, as the women of all Mohammedan countries are compelled to do; and they are free to go about among their friends, just as they would be if they were Americans. They blacken their teeth when they get married; but this custom is fast dying out since the foreigners came here, and probably in twenty years or so we shall not hear much about it. The married women dress their hair differently from the single ones; and when you know the ways of arranging it, you can know at once whether a woman is married or not. I suppose they do this for the same reason that the women of America wear rings on their fingers, and let folks know if they are engaged or married or single. They remind me of what I have read about the Russian women, who wear their hair uncovered until they are married, and then tie it up in a net, or in a handkerchief. It is much better to have a sign of this sort than to have it in a ring, as the hair can be seen without any trouble, while you have to be a little impertinent sometimes to look at a lady's hand, and find out how her rings are. [Illustration: MYSTERIES OF THE DRESSING-ROOM.] "In China the women pinch their feet, so that they look like doubled fists, but nothing of the kind is done in Japan. Every woman here has her feet of the natural shape and size; and as to the size, I can say that there are women in Japan that have very pretty feet, almost as pretty as those of two young ladies I know of in America. They do not have shoes like those you wear, but instead they have sandals for staying in the house, and high clogs for going out of doors. The clogs are funny-looking things, as they are four or five inches high, and make you think of pieces of board with a couple of narrow pieces nailed to the upper edges. They can't walk fast in them, but they can keep their feet out of the mud, unless it is very deep, and in that case they ought not to go out at all. I wish you could see a Japanese woman walking in her clogs. I know you would laugh, at least the first time you saw one; but you would soon get used to it, as it is a very common sight. [Illustration: LADY IN WINTER WALKING-DRESS.] "In China and some other countries it is not considered necessary to give the girls any education; but in Japan it is not so. The girls are educated here, though not so much as the boys; and of late years they have established schools where they receive what we call the higher branches of instruction. Every year new schools for girls are opened; and a great many of the Japanese who formerly would not be seen in public with their wives have adopted the Western idea, and bring their wives into society. The marriage laws have been arranged so as to allow the different classes to marry among each other, and the government is doing all it can to improve the condition of the women. They were better off before than the women of any other Eastern country; and if things go on as they are now going, they will be still better in a few years. The world moves. "A gentleman who has given much attention to this subject says that of the one hundred and twenty rulers of Japan, nine have been women; and that the chief divinity in their mythology is a woman--the goddess Kuanon. A large part of the literature of Japan is devoted to the praise of woman; her fidelity, love, piety, and devotion form the groundwork of many a romance which has become famous throughout the country, and popular with all classes of readers. The history of Japan abounds in stories of the heroism of women in the various characters of patriot, rebel, and martyr; and I am told that a comparison of the standing of women in all the countries of the East, both in the past and in the present, would unquestionably place Japan at the head. "I suppose you will want to know something about the way the Japanese women dress. I'll try to tell you; but if I make any mistakes, you must remember that I have not had much practice in describing ladies' apparel. "They don't wear any crinoline, such as the ladies do in America; and their clothes fit very tight around them when compared to what we see in New York--that is, I mean, they are tight in the skirts, though loose enough above the waist. They fasten them with strings and bands, and without hooks or buttons or pins. You remember the pocket pin-cushion you made for me? of course you do. Well, one day while we were taking tea in a Japanese tea-house, the attendants stood around looking at us, and examining our watch-chains and the buttons on our coats. I showed them that pin-cushion, and they passed it from one to the other, and wondered what it was; and so I took out a pin, and showed it was for carrying pins. Evidently they did not know what a pin was for, as they looked at it very curiously, and then made signs for me to show them its use. I did so by pinning up the wide sleeve of one of the black-eyed girls. She took the pin out a moment after to return it to me; and when I motioned that she might keep it, she smiled and said 'Arinyato,' which means 'Thank you,' as sweetly and earnestly as though I had given her a diamond ring. Then I gave each one of them a pin, and they all thanked me as though they really thought they had received something of value. Just think of it! half a dozen young women, not one of whom had ever seen a common dressing-pin! [Illustration: A GIRL WHO HAD NEVER SEEN A DRESSING-PIN.] "Their dresses are folded around them, and then held in place by an _obi_, which is nothing more nor less than a wide belt. It is of the most expensive material that the wearer can afford; and sometimes it costs a great deal of money. Generally it is of silk, and they have it of all colors, and occasionally it is heavily embroidered. It is several yards long, and the work of winding it into place is no small affair. I shall enclose some pictures of Japanese women in this letter, and you can see from them what the dress of the women looks like, and understand much better than you will by what I write. I think the women look very pretty in their dresses--much better, in fact, than when they put on European garments. Their hair is always black, and they dress it with more grease than I wish they would. It fairly makes the hair shine, it is laid on so thick. But they have some very pretty ornaments for their hair, which they stick in with large pins, something like the hair-pins you use at home. I am told that you can distinguish the social position by the number and style of the hair-ornaments worn on a woman's head; but I have not yet learned how to do it. I suppose I shall find out if I stay long enough in Japan. [Illustration: LADIES' HAIR-DRESSER.] "Of course, you will want to know if the Japanese women are pretty. Now, you mustn't be jealous when I say they are. Fred thinks so too, and you know it won't do for me to have a quarrel with Fred when we are travelling together, and especially when I think he's right. They are all brunettes, and have sharp, bright eyes, full of smiles, and their skins are clear and healthy. They look very pleasant and happy; and they have such sweet, soft voices that nobody could help liking them even if he didn't want to. They have such nice manners, too, that you feel quite at your ease in their company. They may be wishing you ten thousand miles away, and saying to themselves that they hate the sight of a foreigner; but if they do, they manage to conceal their thoughts so completely that you can never know them. You may say this is all deception, and perhaps it is; but it is more agreeable than to have them treat you rudely, and tell you to get out of the way. [Illustration: LADIES AT THEIR TOILET.] "There are women here who are not pretty, just as there are some in America; but when you are among them, it isn't polite to tell them of it. Some of them paint their faces to make them look pretty. I suppose nobody ever does anything of the kind in America or any other country but Japan, and therefore it is very wicked for the Japanese ladies to do so. And when they do paint, they lay it on very thick. Mr. Bronson calls it kalsomining, and Fred says it reminds him of the veneering that is sometimes put on furniture to make pine appear like mahogany, and have an expensive look, when it isn't expensive at all. The 'geishas,' or dancing and singing girls, get themselves up in this way; and when they have their faces properly arranged, they must not laugh, for fear that the effort of smiling would break the coating of paint. And I have heard it said that the covering of paint is so thick that they couldn't smile any more than a mask could; and, in fact, the paint really takes the place of a mask, and makes it impossible to recognize anybody through it. "It is the rule in Japan for a man to have only one wife at a time, but he does not always stick to it. If he has children, a man is generally contented; but if he has none, he gets another wife, and either divorces the first one or not, as he chooses. Divorce is very easy for a man to obtain, but not so for the woman; and when she is divorced, she has hardly any means of obtaining justice. But, in justice to the Japanese, it should be said that the men do not often abuse their opportunities for divorce, and that the married life of the people is about as good as that of most countries. Among the reasons for divorce, in addition to what I have mentioned, there are the usual ones that prevail in America. Furthermore, divorce is allowed if a wife is disobedient to her husband's parents, and also if she talks too much. The last reason is the one most frequently given; but a woman cannot complain of her husband and become divorced from him for the same cause. I wonder if Japan is the only country in the world where women have ever been accused of talking too much. "Nearly every amusement that is open to men is also open to women. They can go to the theatres, to picnics, parties, and anything of the sort, as often as they please, which is not the case with women in Moslem countries, and in some others that are not Moslem. They are very fond of boat excursions, and on pleasant days a goodly number of boating parties may be seen on the waters around Tokio and the other large cities. On the whole, they seem to have a great capacity for enjoyment, and it is pretty certain that they enjoy themselves. [Illustration: JAPANESE LADIES ON A PICNIC.] "The houses in Japan are so open that you can see a great deal more of the life of the people than you would be likely to see in other countries. You can see the women playing with the children, and there are lots of the little ones everywhere about. I don't believe there is a country in the world where there is more attention to the wants of the children than in Japan, and I don't believe it is possible for a greater love to exist between parents and children than one finds here. There are so many things done for the amusement of children, and the children seem to enjoy them so much, that it is very pleasing to study the habits of the people in this respect. I have already told you about the amusements at the temple of Asakusa, and the sports and games that they have there for the children. They are not only at that temple, but all over Japan, and the man must be very poor to feel that he cannot afford something to make his children happy. In return, the children are not spoiled, but become very dutiful to their parents, and are ready to undergo any privations and sacrifices for their support and comfort. Respect for parents and devotion to them in every possible way are taught by the religion of the country; and, whatever we may think of the heathenism of Japan, we cannot fail to admire this feature of the religious creed. [Illustration: LADIES AND CHILDREN AT PLAY.] "It would amuse you if you could see the interest that the Japanese take in flying kites. And the funny part of it is that it is the men who do the most of the kite-flying, while the children look on, which is the exact reverse of what we do in our country. They have the funniest kinds of kites, and show a great deal of ingenuity in getting them up. Everybody has them, and they are so cheap that even the beggars can have kites to fly. They are of all sizes and shapes; you can buy a plain kite a few inches square, or you can get one as large as the side of a house, and covered all over with dragons and other things that sometimes cost a neat little sum for the painting alone. The Japanese understand the trick of flying a kite without a tail, and they do it by the arrangement of the strings, which is quite different from ours. On the other hand, some of their kites will have a whole line of strings hanging down as ornaments, and sometimes it looks as if the kite were anchored by means of these extra cords. They make their kites so large that three or four men are needed to hold some of them; and there is a story that a man who one day tied the cord of a kite to his waist was taken up in the air and never heard of again. And there is another story of a man in the country who had a kite that he harnessed to a plough, and when the wind was good he used to plough his fields by means of it. But the story does not explain how he turned the furrow when he reached the end of the field. Perhaps he had an accommodating wind that shifted at the right time. [Illustration: FLYING KITES.] "The first kite I saw in the air in Japan was so much like a large bird that I mistook it for one, and the delusion was kept up by a smaller one that seemed to be getting away from the other. The large one imitated the movements of a hawk to perfection, and it was some minutes before I could understand that it was nothing but a combination of sticks and paper and cords, instead of a real live bird. It rose and fell, and every few moments it swept down and seemed to be trying to swallow the little one out of sight. I never should have supposed such an imitation possible, and was thoroughly convinced that the Japanese must be very fond of kite-flying if they give it the study necessary to bring it to such a state of perfection. "The more I see of the Japanese, the more I like them, and think them a kind-hearted and happy people. And, from all I can see, they deserve to be happy, as they do all they can for the pleasure of each other, or, at any rate, all that anybody ever does." [Illustration] CHAPTER XIX. FROM YOKOHAMA TO KOBE AND OSAKA. Time was going on, and it became necessary that our travellers should follow its example. The Doctor engaged places for them by the steamer for Kobe, the port for the western capital of Japan, and at the appointed time they went on board. Before their departure, they had an opportunity to visit one of the tea-packing establishments for which Yokohama is famous, and the process they witnessed there was of special interest to the boys. Here is the account that Frank gave of it in his next letter home: [Illustration: A VILLAGE IN THE TEA DISTRICT.] "The Japanese tea is brought from the country to the seaports in large boxes. It is partially dried when it is picked, but not enough to preserve it for a long sea-voyage. When it gets here, it is delivered to the large establishments that make a business of shipping teas to America; and let me say, by the way, that nearly all the tea of Japan that is exported goes to America, and hardly any of it to any other country. When we went into the warehouse--they call it a 'go-down,' from a Hindostanee word--they showed us a room where there were probably a hundred bushels of tea in a great pile on the floor. Men were at work mixing it up with shovels, and the clerk who showed us around said that they spread all the tea out in layers, one over the other, and then mixed them up. He said it was a very difficult job to have the teas properly mixed, so that the samples should be perfectly even. "We saw lots of tea in another room where the same kind of work was going on; and then they took us to the firing-room, and it was a firing-room, you may believe. [Illustration: TEA-MERCHANTS IN THE INTERIOR.] "It was like a great shed, and it had the solid ground for a floor. On this floor there were kettles, or pans, set in brickwork, and each one of them had a little furnace under it, in which there was a charcoal fire. There must have been two hundred of these pans, and the heat from them was so great that it almost took away my breath. I don't believe I could exist there a day, and yet there were people who had to spend the entire day in the firing-room, and go there day after day besides. Many of them were women, and some of them had little children strapped to their backs, and there was a whole lot of children in a little room at one side of the shed, where a couple of women were looking after them. How I did pity the poor things! Fred and I just emptied our pockets of all the small change we could find in them for the benefit of the babies, and I wish we could have given them more. But there was hardly a cry from any of them, and they seemed as happy and contented as though their mothers were queens, instead of toiling over the firing-pan in that hot room for ten or fifteen cents a day. [Illustration: THE TEA-PLANT.] "They put a pound and a half of tea into each pan, and with it they put a teaspoonful of some coloring substance that they keep a secret. People say that this coloring matter is Prussian blue, and others say it is indigo, and that a little gypsum is put with it, so as to give the tea a bright appearance. The clerk told us it was indigo and gypsum that his house used, and declared that it was all false that any poisonous material was ever put in. He said they only used a teaspoonful of their mixture to a charge of tea, and the most of that little quantity was left in the pan in the shape of dust. When I asked him why they put anything in, he said it was to make the tea sell better in the American market. It looked so much better when it had been 'doctored' that their customers in New York and other cities would pay more for it, though they knew perfectly well what had been done. Then he showed me some of the tea that had been fired and put side by side with some that had not. I must say that the fired tea had a polished appearance that the other had not, and I could readily understand why it sells better. "As I have said, they put a charge of a pound and a half of tea into the pan with a teaspoonful of the mixture, and they have a fire of charcoal beneath it. The man or woman that does the firing stands in front of the pan and keeps the tea in constant motion. It must be kept moving all the time, so that it will not be scorched, and it must be gently rubbed between the fingers in order to polish it. It is kept in the pan eighty minutes, and then is considered dry enough for the packing-cases. [Illustration: FIRING TEA.] "You know how a tea-chest looks, so I need not describe it any more than to say that the chest is lined with tin, and that the tin is carefully soldered, so that not a single particle of dampness can get in while the tea is on the ocean. If it should, the tea would be spoiled, as the least dampness will injure it, and a great deal will make it quite useless. They always try to hurry the new crop of tea as rapidly as they can, since it is the best, and has more and better flavor than the crop of the previous year. When a ship sails with new tea, she races for home as hard as she can go, and the quickest voyages ever made from this part of the world to Europe and America have been made by ships with cargoes of new tea." When the party sailed from Yokohama, they found themselves on board a steamer which was, and was not, Japanese. She was built in New York, and formerly ran between that city and Aspinwall. Subsequently she was sent to Japan in the service of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was sold, along with several other American steamers, to a Japanese company. This company was formed with Japanese capital, and its management was Japanese; but the ships were foreign, and the officers and engineers were mostly English or American. The Doctor told the boys that the Mitsu Bishi Company, as this Japanese organization was called, was increasing every year the number of its ships. It received assistance from the government in the form of a mail contract, and was evidently doing very well. The steamers ran once a week each way between Yokohama and Shanghai, touching at Kobe and Nagasaki, and there were lines to other ports of Japan. The Japanese were studying naval architecture and making good progress, and they hoped before many years to construct their own ships. Every year they reduced the number of foreigners in their service, and some of their establishments were entirely under native management. [Illustration: HIOGO (KOBE).] The second morning after leaving Yokohama, they were at Kobe, and the steamer anchored off the town. Kobe and Hiogo are practically one and the same place. The Japanese city that stands there was formerly known as Hiogo, and still retains that name, while the name of Kobe was applied to that portion where the foreigners reside. The view from the water is quite pretty, as there is a line of mountains just back of the city; and as the boys looked intently they could see that the mountains were inhabited. There are several neat little houses on the side of the hills, some of them the residences of the foreigners who go there to get the cool air, while the rest are the homes of the Japanese. There is a liberal allowance of tea-houses where the public can go to be refreshed, and there is a waterfall where a mountain stream comes rattling down from the rocks to a deep pool, where groups of bathers are sure to congregate in fine weather. The town stands on a level plain, where a point juts into the water, and there is nothing remarkable about it. If they had not seen Yokohama and Tokio, they might have found it interesting; but after those cities the boys were not long in agreeing that a short time in Kobe would be all they would wish. But they were at the port of Osaka and Kioto, and their thoughts were turned towards those important cities. There was no difficulty in going there, as the railway was in operation to Osaka, twenty miles, and to Kioto, thirty miles farther on. But Frank was seized with an idea, which he lost no time in communicating to his friends. It was this: "We can travel by rail almost anywhere," said he, "and needn't come away from America to do so. Now, instead of going to Osaka by rail, which wouldn't be anything remarkable, suppose we go by a Japanese junk. I have been asking the hotel-keeper about it, and he says it is perfectly easy to do so, and that we can sail there with a fair wind in a few hours." Fred was in favor of the junk voyage on account of its novelty. Of course, the Doctor was not likely to oppose any reasonable scheme that would give his young companions an opportunity to learn something, provided it did not consume too much time. Inquiry showed that the voyage could be made there with a fair wind, as Frank had suggested; and, as the wind happened to be all right and promised to continue, it was agreed to go by junk on the following morning, provided there were no change. [Illustration: THE JUNK AT ANCHOR.] A Japanese servant, who spoke English, was engaged from the hotel to accompany the party during their journey. He was sent to find a junk that was about to leave for Osaka, and in half an hour he returned with the captain of one. It was soon settled that he was to bring his craft to the anchorage near the hotel during the afternoon, and be ready to receive his passengers and their luggage at daylight if the wind held good. The servant, who said he was named "John" by the first European that ever employed him, and had stuck to it ever since, was kept busy during the afternoon in making preparations for the journey, as it was necessary to take a stock of provisions very much as the party had equipped themselves when they went to ascend Fusiyama. Everything was arranged in time, and the trio went to bed early, as it would be necessary to rise before the sun, and they wanted to lay in a good supply of sleep. The junk was all ready in the morning; and as soon as the passengers were on board, her sail was lifted, and she slowly worked her way through the water. The wind was all right for the voyage to the mouth of the river where Osaka lay; and if they had been on a sail-boat such as all New-Yorkers are familiar with, the journey would have been over in three or four hours. But the junk was not built for racing purposes, and the most that could be hoped for from her was a speed of about three miles an hour. This was no detriment, as they could thus make the mouth of the river by noon; and if the bar could be easily crossed, they would be at the city long before sunset. Life on a junk was a novelty, and therefore they were not annoyed to think that their craft was not a swift one. [Illustration: THE HELMSMAN AT HIS POST.] Fred thought that the stern of the junk was about the funniest thing in the way of a steering-place he had ever seen; and to make sure of remembering it, he made a sketch of the helmsman at his post. Frank insisted that he was not there at all, as his post was evidently the rudder-post, and it was at least ten feet off, owing to the length of the tiller. The deck where the man stood had a slope like that of a house-roof, and it was a mystery to the boys how the sailors could stand there when the planks were wet by the spray, or the sea was at all rough. But there was no denying that they did stay there, and so the boys concluded that the men must have claws on their feet like those with which a tiger is equipped. Fred remarked that the steep incline reminded him of a conundrum he had somewhere heard, which was as follows: "Why is a dog with a broken leg like the space between the eaves and the ridge of a house?" Frank could not answer, and the question was propounded to Dr. Bronson; the latter shook his head, and then Fred responded, in triumph, "Because he is a slow pup." It was three seconds at least before Frank could see the point of the joke. [Illustration: JAPANESE SAILORS AT DINNER.] The boys had too much to do in the way of sight-seeing to spend more time over conundrums. They proceeded to explore the interior of the junk, and to look about the decks in the hope of finding something new in the way of navigation. They discovered that there was considerable space for the stowage of cargo, in consequence of the great width of the craft in proportion to her length. The accommodations of the crew were not extensive; but as they did not expect much, they were not likely to complain. As the boys were near the bow of the junk, they came upon two of the sailors at dinner; the meal consisting of rice and fish, which they ate with the aid of chopsticks. The men were squatted on the deck in front of their food, or rather they had the food in front of themselves, and they evidently were the possessors of good appetites, to judge by the eagerness with which they attended to business and paid no heed to the strangers. The Japanese are excellent sailors, both on their junks and on the foreign ships that have been introduced to their service since the opening of the country to other nations. But the Japanese landsman has a horror of the water, and cannot be induced to venture upon it. In this respect the Japanese are not unlike the Italians, who are naturally a maritime nation, and have covered themselves with marine glory in times that are past. But the Italian landsman is ready to suffer any inconvenience rather than risk himself on the ocean, and not a more woe-begone being can be found in the world than a sea-sick Italian unless it be a sea-sick Japanese. [Illustration: JUNK SAILORS ON DUTY.] The sailors on the junk were very prompt in obeying orders, but they went about everything with an air of coolness which one does not always see on an American vessel. Ordinarily they pulled at ropes as though they would not hurt either the ropes or themselves; but it was observed that when the captain gave an order for anything, there was no attempt at shirking. One of the sailors stood at the sheet of the mainsail, and while he held on and waited for directions his mate was quietly smoking and seated on the deck. When the order came for changing the position of the sail, the pipe was instantly dropped and the work was attended to; when the work was over, the pipe was resumed as if nothing had happened. Evidently the sailors were not much affected by the fashions that the foreigners had introduced, for they were all dressed in the costume that prevailed previous to the treaty of Commodore Perry, and before a single innovation had been made in the way of navigation. The captain of the junk looked with disdain upon a steamer that was at anchor not far from where his craft was obliged to pass, and evidently he had no very high opinion of the barbarian invention. He was content with things as they were, and the ship that had borne his ancestors in safety was quite good enough for him and his comrades. [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE HOTEL.] About six hours after the departure from Kobe, the junk reached the bar of the river on which Osaka is situated. The bar was passed, and then the unwieldy concern came to anchor to wait for a stronger breeze; at the advice of John a row-boat was engaged to finish the journey as far as the hotel where they were to stop. The row-boat was rapidly propelled by the strong arms of half a dozen men; and in less than two hours from the time they said "Sayonara" to the captain of their transport, the Doctor and his young friends were safely lodged in the house where their rooms had been previously engaged by letter. In a short time dinner was ready, and they had it served on a little balcony which overlooked the water, and gave them an opportunity to study the river life of the city while they devoured the stewed chicken and juicy steaks that the host had provided for them. Boats passed and repassed, and there was a good deal of animation on the stream. Just beyond the hotel there was a bridge which curved like a quarter of a circle, as Fred thought, and beyond it was another of similar construction. Crowds of people were coming and going over these bridges, and Frank ventured to ask the Doctor if there were any more bridges and any more people in Osaka. "Certainly, my boy," the Doctor answered, "there are thirteen rivers and canals in Osaka, so that the city has an abundance of water communication. The streets are generally at right angles, and there are more than a hundred bridges over the water-ways. From this circumstance Osaka has received the name of the Venice of Japan, and she certainly deserves it. Formerly her commerce by water was very great, and you would see a large fleet of junks in the river below the town. The opening of the railway to Kobe has somewhat diminished the traffic by water; but it is still quite extensive, and employs a goodly amount of capital. "Osaka is one of the most important cities of Japan," Dr. Bronson continued, "and has long been celebrated for its commercial greatness. If you look at its position on the map, you will see that it is admirably situated to command trade both by land and by water; and when I tell you that it contains half a million of inhabitants, you will understand that it must have had prosperity to make it so great. The streets are of good width, and they are kept cleaner than those of most other cities in Japan. The people are very proud of Osaka, and are as tender of its reputation as the inhabitants of any Western city in America are tender of theirs. There are not so many temples as in Tokio, and not so many palaces, but there is a fair number of both; and, what is better in a practical way, there are many establishments where cotton, iron, copper, bronze, and other goods are manufactured. As a commercial and manufacturing centre, Osaka is at the head, and without a rival so far as Japan is concerned." Towards sunset the party took a stroll through the city, stopping in front of several shops, and entering one or two of the larger. The boys were of opinion that the shops of Osaka were larger than those of Tokio, and there was one silk-store that was twice the size of any they had seen in the eastern capital. The goods that were displayed were not materially different from what they had already seen, and consequently they were not disposed to linger long on the way. They extended their walk to the upper part of the city, where several temples are situated, and they finally reached the famous Castle of Osaka, whence there is a line view from the walls. There was some difficulty in entering the castle, but through the explanations of John the matter was arranged and they went inside. [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF OSAKA.] One of the wonders of Japan is the wall of the Castle of Osaka, or rather of a portion of it. During the sixteenth century Osaka was the capital of the empire, and remained so for many years; while it was the capital the emperor commanded the tributary princes to assist in building the walls of the imperial residence, and each was to send a stone for that purpose. The stones are there, and it would be no small matter to remove them. Our friends had no means of measurement at hand, but they estimated that some of the stones were twenty feet long by half that width, and six feet in depth. They were as large as an ordinary street-car, and some of them were larger; and how they could have been transported over the roads of Japan and hoisted into their places was a mystery no one could explain. The view from the top of the castle walls is magnificent, and well repays the trouble of making the ascent. In front is the city like a broad map, and there is no difficulty in tracing the lines of the streets and the sinuosities of the rivers and canals. Beyond the city, on the right, is the water of the bay, which opens into the Pacific, while on the left is the plain that stretches away to Kobe and Hiogo. Beyond the plain is the range of sharp hills and mountains; and as one turns slowly to the west and north he can sweep the landscape almost to the gates of Kioto and the shores of Lake Biwa. To the east, again, there are mountains rising sharply from the fertile plain, so that one seems to be standing in a basin of low land with a curving rim of mountains. The sun was about setting as our party reached the top of the high wall, and they remained there in full enjoyment of the scene until the shadows began to fall and the light to fade out from the sky. It was the most delightful landscape view that had fallen to the lot of the youths since their ascent of Fusiyama. They regretted the necessity of departing from the castle, but regrets were of no use, and they descended to the streets just as the lamps were getting into full blaze. CHAPTER XX. THE MINT AT OSAKA.--FROM OSAKA TO NARA AND KIOTO. Through the assistance of a gentleman to whom Doctor Bronson had a letter of introduction, our friends were enabled to pay a visit to the imperial mint at Osaka. They found a large establishment, like a foundry, on the bank of the river, and just outside the thickly settled portion of the city. A tall chimney was smoking vigorously, and gave signs of activity; and there was an air of neatness about the surroundings quite in keeping with what they had observed thus far in their journey through Japan. They were met at the entrance by the director of the mint, a Japanese gentleman who had spent a considerable time in Europe and America, and spoke English with fluency and precision. They were invited to seats in the office, and, after a brief delay, were escorted through the establishment. The mint at Osaka is one of the most noted enterprises which the government of Japan has undertaken, and likewise one of the most successful. When it was founded it was under foreign supervision, and the most of the employés were from Europe; but year by year the Japanese have learned how to conduct its machinery, and have relieved the foreigners of the labor of managing it. The direction is Japanese, and so are the heads of the departments, and the employés from highest to lowest. When the mint was established, the machinery for it was imported from Europe, but at present it is all made by the Japanese, in their own factory attached to the mint. "Just to think," said Frank, "that people persist in calling these Japanese 'barbarians!' Here are machines for stamping coin and performing all the work of a mint, and it bears the mark of the Japanese. Here are delicate balances for weighing gold and silver and getting the weight down to the fraction of a grain, and they are just as sensitive and as well made as the best specimens from the French or German makers. If the Japanese can do all this, and they certainly have done it, they deserve to be considered just as good as any other people in the world." The Doctor took from his pocket some of the coin which was in circulation, and with which the boys had by this time become thoroughly familiar. They had remarked that it was as neatly made as any coin of Europe or America, and, as a matter of curiosity, they were desirous of seeing the machine by which each of the different pieces was stamped. The director kindly pointed out the various machines, and the boys observed that, with a single exception, they were all of Japanese make. Then they were shown through a factory for the manufacture of sulphuric acid that is attached to the mint, and is run on government account. They were somewhat astonished to learn that all the sulphuric acid used in the mint was made there, and that in the previous year thirteen thousand cases were exported to China. For the benefit of his professor of chemistry, Fred made the following memorandum concerning the branch of business he was investigating: "The sulphur comes from the provinces of Satsuma and Bungo--the most from the latter, and the best from the former; and the product is partly for the use of the mint, and partly for general commerce. The acid is packed in earthen jars which are glazed on the inside, and not in the carboys that are in use with us. Two jars, holding about eight quarts each, are packed in a wooden case; they rest on a bed of lime about three inches thick, and the remainder of the space is filled with coarse ashes and coal cinders. This manner of packing is considered preferable to the old one, and, besides, it enables the Japanese to make their own jars, instead of importing the carboys. The director tells me that thus far the factory has not been able to supply the Chinese demand for acid, and therefore no shipments have been made to other countries. With an increased production, it is quite possible that shipments may be made to America at no very distant day. [Illustration: VIGNETTE FROM THE NATIONAL BANK-NOTES.] "Japan abounds in sulphur, and the supply is said to be inexhaustible. The copper used at the mint for making the Japanese small coins is of native production, and so is most of the silver; but occasionally the supply of the latter metal runs short, and then American silver comes into play. Last year nearly half a million trade-dollars were melted at the mint at Osaka, to be made into Japanese yens, and this year a large number have met a similar fate. The American trade-dollar has not yet become a popular coin for circulation in Japan and China, but is in good demand for the melting-pot. But I suppose we do not care what they do with our silver money so long as they pay for it; and the more they melt up, the better we shall be pleased." [Illustration: IMPERIAL CREST FOR PALACE AFFAIRS.] Having finished their inspection of the mint, our friends thanked the polite director for his kindness and attention, and bade him good-day. They returned to the hotel, where their lunch was waiting for them, and sat down on the balcony, where they had feasted and studied the river scenery the day before. Their morning's excursion naturally led them to talk about the money of Japan, and on this subject the Doctor was ready with his usual fund of information. [Illustration: IMPERIAL CREST ON THE NEW COINS.] [Illustration: OLD KINSAT, OR MONEY-CARD.] "The Japanese currency," said Doctor Bronson, "has had a somewhat checkered career. Previous to the coming of the foreigners, the currency consisted of gold, silver, copper, and bronze coins. The Daimios had money of their own, and some of them had issued paper kinsats, or money-cards. These were on thick paper, like card-board, and they circulated freely, though sometimes at a discount, owing to the difficulty of redemption or the wasteful ways of the prince by whom they were put forth. The old coins were oval or oblong, and the lower denominations had a square hole in the centre, so that they could be strung on a wire or on a cord. The gold coins were known as 'kobans,' while the silver ones had the general name of 'boos.' There were fractions of each, and they had their names, just as our half and quarter dollars have their distinctive names. The unit of the silver coin was a 'boo,' and it was always called 'ichiboo,' or one boo. The word _ichi_ means _one_, but the early visitors supposed it was a part of the name of the coin. Thus we read in books of twenty years ago that the writer paid 'one ichiboo' or 'two ichiboos' for certain purchases. It is the same as if some one writing of America should say that he paid 'one one-dollar' or 'two one-dollars' for what he had bought. [Illustration: ICHI-BOO.] "All that old currency has been set aside," continued the Doctor, "and the country is now in possession of a decimal system of money. The coins are round, and the general stamp on them is the same, apart from the words and figures showing the denomination and value. The unit is the 'yen,' which is equal to our dollar. In fact, the Japanese currency is assimilated to our own in weight, fineness, and decimal divisions. Here is the table of the values: "10 rin make 1 sen, equal to 1 cent. 100 sen make 1 yen, equal to 1 dollar. "The coins are stamped with the devices of the coiled dragons and the rising sun (both Japanese symbols), and not with the portrait of the Mikado. Japanese prejudice is opposed to the adoption of the picture of the imperial ruler on the coin of the country, but it will probably be overcome in time. It is less severe than with the Moslems (among whom a true believer is forbidden to make a picture of anything that has life), and consequently will be more easy to do away with. [Illustration: VIGNETTE FROM BANK-NOTE.] "The Japanese have ventured upon that feature of Western civilization known as a national debt, and how they will get out of it time alone will determine. At present they are increasing their indebtedness every year, and their paper does not show any signs of redemption. They have also, as you have seen, a paper currency like our national issue in America, and so much like ours is it that it is known as the Japanese greenbacks. They have notes of the same denominations as ours; and they also have a fractional currency, such as we had during the war of 1861 and the years that followed. The premium on coin has gone steadily upwards, partly in consequence of the large issue, and partly owing to the hostility of foreign bankers and others, who have done all they could to bring the Japanese credit into discredit." [Illustration: VIGNETTE FROM BANK-NOTE.] The dissertation on Japanese money came to an end with the meal they were eating, and soon after the party proceeded to take a stroll through the streets. The afternoon was spent in this way and in letter-writing, and on the following morning the trio started for Kioto, by way of Kara. The ride was a pleasant one--in jin-riki-shas--partly along the banks of the river, where they saw a goodly number of boats, some descending the stream with the aid of the current, and others making a laborious ascent. The difference of up-stream and down-stream travel was never better illustrated than in the present instance. The Japs who floated with the current were taking things easily and smoking their pipes, as though all the world were their debtor; while the men on the towpath were bending to their toil, evidently giving their whole minds to it, and their bodies as well. Some of the towmen had on their grass coats, while others were without them. Every head was carefully protected from the heat of the sun by the broad hats already described. [Illustration: MEN TOWING BOATS NEAR OSAKA.] [Illustration: MODE OF HOLDING THE TOW-ROPES.] They saw a native ferry-boat at one point, which was heavily laden with a mixed cargo. According to Fred's inventory, the craft contained a horse and half a dozen men, together with a lot of boxes and bundles, which were, as the auctioneers say, too numerous to mention. The head of the horse was firmly held by the groom who had him in charge, as it would have been a serious matter if the beast had broken away and jumped into the stream with all his load about him. A Japanese ferry-boat does not appear the safest thing in the world, but, somehow, one never hears of accidents with it. If any occur, they must be carefully kept out of the papers. [Illustration: THE FERRY-BOAT.] After riding about three hours through a succession of villages and across fields, they reached a hotel, where John suggested they had better halt for lunch. It was a Japanese inn, without the slightest pretence of adapting itself to foreign ideas. There were the usual fish-stew and boiled rice ready, and with these and their own provisions our travellers made a hearty meal, well seasoned with that best of sauces, hunger. There was a stout maid-of-all-work, who bustled about in a manner not altogether characteristic of the Japanese. At the suggestion from the Doctor that he would like to bathe his head in some cool water, she hurried away, and soon returned, bearing a bucket so large and so full that she was forced to bend her body far to one side to maintain her equilibrium. Her powerful limbs and general ruddiness of feature were indicative of the very best condition of robust health, and the boys agreed that she would make a most excellent model for an artist who was endeavoring to represent the best types of the Japanese peasantry. [Illustration: THE HOTEL-MAID.] Nara is about thirty miles from Osaka, and is famous for some ancient temples and fine groves of trees. The park containing the latter is quite extensive, and supports a considerable number of deer, so tame that they will feed from the hand of a stranger. As they are the stock sights of the place, there are plenty of opportunities to spend a few pennies for cakes to be given to the deer. The cakes are sold by some old women, who call the pets from the shelter of the trees, and bring them bounding to your side. The trees in the park are very old, and among the finest in Japan. There are few lovelier spots in the country than this; and as our friends reclined on the veranda of the little hotel to which John had led the way, and looked upon the smiling valley that spread before them, they pronounced the picture one of the prettiest they had ever seen. [Illustration: A JAPANESE LANDSCAPE.] The following morning they devoted to the sights of Nara, and were surprised at the number and extent of the temples and tombs. During the eighth century Nara was the capital of Japan, and it had the honor of being the residence of seven different sovereigns. The most famous of its monuments is the statue of Buddha, which was originally cast at the time Nara was the capital, and was afterwards destroyed during an insurrection. It was recast about seven hundred years ago, and has since remained uninjured. Frank applied himself to discovering the dimensions of this statue, and ended by making the following table of figures: Total height of statue, 53 feet 6 inches; width across shoulders, 29 feet; length of face, 16 feet; width of face, 9 feet 6 inches. It is said to weigh four hundred and fifty tons, and to be made of a bronze composed of gold, mercury, tin, and copper. The head is covered with curls, also of bronze, and there are said to be 966 of them; then there is a halo around the head 78 feet in diameter, and supporting 16 images, each one 8 feet long. The statue is in a squatting posture, like the one at Kamakura, and is covered with a building so small that it is impossible to obtain a good view in consequence of being too near the figure. The expression of the features is not at all equal to that of the great Dai-Boots at Kamakura, and the whole design is far less artistic. But it is the second in the empire in size, and for that reason is worthy of notice as well as for its antiquity. [Illustration: DIKES ALONG THE RIVER.] From Nara the party continued to Kioto, halting for dinner at Uji, which is the centre of an important tea district. Men and women were at work in the fields gathering the leaves from the plants, and other men and women were attending to the drying process which the gathered leaves were undergoing. They were spread out on matting, on paper, or on cloth, where they had the full force of the rays of the sun, and were frequently turned and stirred so as to have every part equally exposed to the solar heat. While the party was at Uji a shower came on, and then there was some very lively hurrying to and fro to save the tea from a wetting. During the afternoon the rain continued, and the rest of the ride to Kioto was not especially cheerful. Part of the route led along the banks of the river, which forms a navigable way for small boats between the tea district and Osaka; and at one place, where the bank was broken, Frank had a narrow escape from an overturn into the water. The wheel of his little carriage sank into the soft earth and spilled him out, but, luckily, a friendly tree was in his grasp and saved him from falling down the steep slope of twenty feet or so. "A miss is as good as a mile," he remarked, as he brushed the mud from his clothes, and took his seat again in his vehicle. "And I know a miss," said Fred, "that is better than any mile we have had to-day." Frank asked what he meant, and was told-- "Miss Effie." He quite agreed with Fred, and said he would gladly exchange that last mile, overturn and all, for one minute of her society. But he had the consolation of knowing he could have her society for a good many consecutive minutes when he got home again, and could keep as long as he liked the recollection of the miles between Nara and Kioto. [Illustration: NIGHT SCENE NEAR FUSHIMI.] They left the river at Fushimi, and followed what seemed to be an almost continuous street for six miles or more. Formerly the great route for travellers and commerce between Osaka and Kioto was by way of the river as far as Fushimi, and thence by the road. The result of this state of affairs for centuries was to build up a long village largely composed of hotels and tea-houses. Their business has somewhat fallen off since the completion of the railway from Kioto to Osaka and Kobe; but there is still enough to maintain a considerable number of them. There is one large hotel, at the foot of the Inari hill, about two miles from the centre of Kioto, where the jin-riki-sha coolies invariably stop for a short rest, and to take tea at the expense of their employers. The custom was carefully observed in the present instance, and our friends were shown to the rear of the hotel, where there was a pretty garden with a little fountain supplied from the hill above. They sipped their tea, and gave side-glances at the black-eyed maids that were moving around the house; and when John announced that the coolies were rested, the journey was resumed. They passed by several temples, and, after a time, their way led through some narrow streets and up a gently sloping hill. Suddenly they halted and were told that they had reached their stopping-place. There are several hotels at Kioto in the foreign style, but all kept and managed by Japanese. John declared that the one to which he had brought them was the best, but he added, in a quiet whisper, that it was not so good as the hotels at Kobe and Yokohama. After a day's experience of the establishment, Frank suggested that he could make an improvement in John's English. Fred asked what he had to propose. "Why," said Frank, "he spoke of this hotel as the best in the place; _best_ implies goodness somewhere, and I don't find any goodness in it." "But, for all that," Fred responded, "the others may be worse than this." "Quite true," was the answer, "and then let him say so. Instead of calling this the best hotel in Kioto, he should say that it is the least bad. Then he would be making a proper use of language." [Illustration: WOMEN OF KIOTO.] Fred retorted that Frank was demanding too much of a boy to whom they only paid fifty cents a day, and his expenses, and said he was reminded of the excuse of a soldier who was being censured for drunkenness. "What was that?" queried Frank. "His captain asked him what he had to say for himself to escape punishment, and the man replied that it was unreasonable to expect all the cardinal virtues for thirteen dollars a month. The captain told him the excuse was sufficient for that time, but would not do for a repetition of the offence." They had not been five minutes in the hotel before they were visited by a delegation of peddlers, who had all sorts of wares to offer. Among them were some beautiful embroideries on silk, of a kind they had not seen in Tokio or Yokohama, and there were some exquisite paintings that gave practical evidence of the superiority of the artists of Kioto. The dealers were not at all importunate, and did not seem to care whether the strangers purchased their wares or declined all negotiations. Two or three of them had brought photographs of the scenery around Kioto which they offered to leave for inspection until the next day. This proposal was received with favor, and on a hint that the travellers were tired and wished to be by themselves, each of the itinerant merchants retired, but not till after bowing low and pronouncing a respectful "Sayonara." Two of the hotels which the foreigners patronize are close to some of the famous temples of Kioto, and thus the process of sight-seeing is greatly facilitated. A third hotel is a considerable distance up the hill-side, and commands a fine view over nearly all the city. The ascent to it is somewhat fatiguing, but the visitor is well paid for the exertion by the remarkable and charming landscape that spreads before his eyes. CHAPTER XXI. KIOTO AND LAKE BIWA. To tell all that was done and seen by our young friends during their stay in Kioto would be to tell a great deal. They had their time fully occupied from their arrival to their departure, and they regretted much the necessity of leaving when they did. At the Doctor's suggestion, they attempted a new system of relating their adventures to their friends at home, and were so well pleased at the result that they determined to try it again. The new scheme was the preparation of a letter in which both had equal shares, Frank undertaking to write one half of it and Fred the other. They succeeded so well that when they read over their production to Doctor Bronson before sending it away, he was unable to say which was Fred's portion and which was Frank's. We will reproduce the letter and leave our readers to judge how well they performed their self-imposed duty. At the Doctor's suggestion, each of the boys wrote as though speaking for himself, and consequently the letter had a good deal of "I" in it. "MY DEAR FRIENDS: "We have seen so many things since we came here that I don't exactly know where to begin in telling the story of our sight-seeing. The names by which this city is known are so numerous that the reader of Japanese history of different dates is liable to be puzzled. Many of the natives speak of it as Miako, or the Capital; others have called it, and still call it, Saikio, or the Central City, and others know it only as Kioto, or the Western Capital. This last name has become the official one since the removal of the Mikado to Yeddo, which then became Tokio, or the Eastern Capital. But, by whatever name we know it, the city is a most delightful one, and the traveller who comes to Japan without seeing it is like one who goes to New York without visiting Central Park, or a stranger in Boston who does not see the famous Common. In many of its features Kioto is superior to Tokio, and any one of its inhabitants will tell you so. The city stands on a plain of nearly horseshoe shape, the mountains almost encircling it and giving an abundance of charming views. On one side the houses climb a considerable distance up the slopes, so that you may sit on a balcony and see Kioto lying at your feet. [Illustration: LADIES OF THE WESTERN CAPITAL.] "The streets are almost of chess-board regularity, and generally so clean that you might go out to walk in satin slippers without much danger of soiling them. The people are finer-looking than those of Tokio, and you meet more stalwart men than in the eastern capital. Kioto prides itself on the beauty of its women, and some of the Japanese writers say that they cause the women of all other parts of the country to despair. They are very proud of their head-dresses, and they have a great many ornaments for the hair; in fact, there are so many of these things, and the trade is so extensive, that you find whole shops devoted to their manufacture and sale. "Dancing and singing girls are to be counted by the thousand, and they certainly have the most gorgeous toilets I have seen in the country. They are engaged to sing and dance at dinner parties, just as we have bands of music to play for us at large banquets in America, and no Japanese gentleman who was giving a dinner to a friend or friends would think he had done the proper thing unless there were 'geishas' to sing and dance for them. The other evening Doctor Bronson ordered a dinner for us at a Japanese restaurant in the true style of the country; he told the manager to get it up properly, and the answer was that it should be perfect. When we went there, we found the dinner ready; and there were two singing geishas, and two dancing ones, to entertain us. I can't say that I considered it much of an entertainment after the novelty had gone, as the music was monotonous, and we couldn't understand a word of the singing. Their dancing consisted of sliding about the room, and taking a variety of postures with their arms and hands, and it wasn't a bit like what we call dancing. But it was all perfectly proper and nice, and the girls behaved like real ladies. They are educated for dancers or singers, as the case may be, and some of them are great favorites and get high wages. But if I were to have my way, and have them dress to my taste, I should make them put less paint on their faces; they consider that the one who can put the most paint on her face and neck is the prettiest, and so they cover themselves till they look as though they were veneered. One of those that danced for us had her face covered so thickly that she couldn't smile without cracking the varnish, and so she didn't smile at all. [Illustration: RESTAURANT AND TEA-GARDEN AT KIOTO.] "We are outside of treaty limits, and so we were obliged to have passports to come here. Foreigners may go freely within twenty-five miles of any of the treaty ports without special permission, but Kioto is just beyond the limit, as it is thirty miles from Osaka, and therefore the Japanese permit is needed. We had ours from the consul at Kobe, and had no trouble at all on coming here. A Japanese official called for them soon after we came to the hotel, and he bowed low as he received them. Then he spread the documents on the floor, and as he did so he fell on his hands and knees so as to bring his nose within six inches of the papers, and curve his back into the shape of an arch. He read the passports and copied our names into his note-book; or, at least, I suppose he did so, though I can't say positively. We can stay the time named in the permit without further interference; but if we stopped too long, we should probably be told some morning that a gentleman at Kobe was anxious to see us, and we had better start for there by the first train. The Japanese are so polite that they will never say a rude thing if they can help it, and they will even tell a plump falsehood rather than be uncivil. But the same thing has occurred in America, and so the Japs are not much worse than others, after all. [Illustration: AN ARTIST AT WORK.] "Kioto is famous in the rest of the world for its manufactures of porcelain of various kinds, and also for its bronzes and silk goods. There is a large trade in Kioto ware, and everybody says that it is increasing. At any rate, the prices they ask here are as high as in Yokohama for the same kind of articles, and some things are really dearer here than there. Some of the work in bronze is very fine, and I can tell you a funny story about the way the merchants prepare goods for the market. The incident happened yesterday, when we were in a shop with a gentleman from Kobe whom we had met at the hotel. "This gentleman was admiring a pair of very old vases; there was no doubt about their age, as they were eaten in several places with verdigris, and were covered in spots with dried earth. When he asked the price, he was astonished at the low figure demanded, and immediately said he would take them. Then he asked the shopkeeper if he had any more like them. "'I haven't any,' the dealer replied, 'but I can make anything you want to order.' "The gentleman said he didn't want new vases, but old ones, and thereupon the dealer said, "'I'll make old vases for you if you want them--will make them just as I made these.' "We learned how it is that they get up this old ware; at least, we were told so by a man who claims to know. 'Boil the bronzes in strong vinegar,' he says, 'for several hours; and if you want to make them look very old, you must put some acid in the vinegar. You want the strongest vinegar that can be found, and the bronze must be cleaned of all grease before it is boiled. [Illustration: LANTERN-MAKER AT KIOTO.] "'You can buy plenty of old ware of all kinds,' the same man said, 'but you had better have it made, and then you know you are not cheated.' Very sensible advice, I think--don't you? "They have a great deal of embroidered and figured silk; and when you go into a shop, these are the first things they show you. Some of the work is magnificent; and when you look at it and learn the price, it does not take you long to conclude that the labor of Kioto is not very highly paid. There are many silk-weavers here, and we have visited some of the factories. The largest that we saw contained twenty looms, about half of them devoted to brocades and other figured work, and the rest to plain silks. The looms for ordinary work are quite plain and simple; those for the figured silks are somewhat complicated, and require two persons to operate them. One sits in the usual position in front of the loom, and the other up aloft; each of them has a pattern of the work, and there is a bewildering lot of threads which must be pulled at the right time. The process is very slow; and if these weavers could see a Jacquard loom, I think they would be astonished. "Kioto is a place of great interest, as has been said already; and we have not been able to exhaust its sights, though we have worked very diligently. It is the most famous city in all Japan for its temples, as it contains altogether about three thousand of them. They are of all sizes and kinds, but the most of them are small and not worth the trouble of visiting. But, on the other hand, there are some magnificent ones, and a charming feature of the temples is the way they are situated. They are nearly all on hill-sides, and in the midst of groves and gardens where you may wander for hours in the shade; and whenever you feel weary you can be sure of finding a tea-house close by, where you may rest and refresh yourself on the fragrant tea of Japan. Children romp and play on the verandas of the temples without thought of harm, and run as they please through the edifices. Outside are the tea-gardens; and the people chatter and laugh as they move to and from the temple, without any of the solemnity of a congregation entering or leaving a church in America. At the hour of worship, the crowd kneels reverently, and pronounces in unison the prayers that are repeated by the priest, and when the prayers are ended, they return to their sport or their work as gayly as ever. [Illustration: A JAPANESE ARCHER.] "I must not fail to tell you of a remarkable temple that we have seen; not that any are unworthy of mention, but this one is certainly very curious. It is known as the Temple of Rengenhoin, and contains one thousand idols of large size; then each idol in this lot is surrounded by several smaller ones, and there is one idol larger than all the rest. The whole number is said to be 33,333. We did not count them to make sure that the estimate was correct, but I should think that there must be thirty thousand at least, so that a few odd thousands, more or less, would make no difference. The whole of the inside of the temple is full of them, and each figure is said to have a particular fable connected with it. The temple is nearly four hundred feet long, and is certainly a very fine building; and there is an artificial pond in front of it, which is covered with aquatic flowers in the season for them. There is a veranda that was used in olden times for a shooting-gallery for archery purposes; it is more than two hundred feet long, and there are records of some famous matches that have been shot there. The best on the books took place more than six hundred years ago, when one man is said to have hit the bull's-eye of the target 8,000 times out of 10,000, and another is reported to have done the same thing 8,133 times in 13,053. That was certainly good shooting, and I don't believe that it would be easy to find a bowman to-day who could equal it. [Illustration: TEMPLE BELL AT KIOTO.] "We have seen one of the famous bells of Japan, or rather of Kioto, for it is this city that has always been celebrated for its bells. The greatest of them lies on the ground just outside of one of the temples, and it is not a piece of property that a man could put in his pocket and walk off with. It is fourteen feet high, twenty-four feet in circumference, and ten inches thick. How much it weighs nobody knows, as the Japanese never made a pair of scales large enough to weigh it with. The Japanese bells have generally a very sweet tone, and to hear them booming out on the evening air is not by any means disagreeable. The art of casting them was carried to a state of great perfection, and stood higher, two or three centuries ago than it does at present. [Illustration: JAPANESE TEMPLE AND CEMETERY.] "If I should name half the temples and public places we have seen I should make you wish, perhaps, that I had not written at all, as the list alone would be tedious, and I could no more give you an idea of the peculiar beauty and attractions of each than I could describe the perfume of each flower in a bouquet from the hands of the florist. One temple had a large cemetery attached to it, and we walked around looking at the inscriptions in a language which we could not read, and studying symbols we could not understand. The temple stands in a grove, as do nearly all the temples of Kioto, and the place reminded us very much of some of our burial-places at home. [Illustration: REELING COTTON.] "Then we have had glimpses of the way the people spin cotton, and perform other work in the manufacturing line. Their apparatus is very simple, and it is rather surprising than otherwise that they can accomplish so much with so little machinery. Then we have walked about the streets, and several times we have had close escapes from being run over by some of the carts that were carrying heavy loads. With two men to push them, and two pulling at the same time, they will move loads that would be no small matter for a pair of horses. They keep up a great shouting, and at first it puzzles you to know why they do it until you remember that it is desirable they should all pull together. You can hear them a long way off, and if you get in their way it is your own fault, as it was ours. [Illustration: HANDCART FOR A QUARTETTE.] "Well, if we kept on telling you all we have seen in Kioto we should be a long time at it, and so we may as well stop short. Besides, we are going to Lake Biwa, and it is time to be off. If you enjoy this letter half as much as we have enjoyed the material for making it you will have a very pleasant time over it." [Illustration: HORSE CARRYING LIQUID MANURE.] The party went to Lake Biwa as they had proposed, and certainly no one should omit it from his excursions in the vicinity of Kioto. The distance is only seven miles, and an excellent road leads there from the city. Along the route they met a dense crowd of people coming and going, for there is a vast amount of business between the city and the lake. There were men on foot and in jin-riki-shas, there were porters with loads and porters without loads, there were pack-horses in great number, and there were wagons with merchandise bound for the interior or for the seaboard. Some of the pack-horses had burdens the reverse of savory, and the boys learned on inquiry that they were transporting liquid manure to the farms near the borders of the lake. Along the roadside they saw little family groups that were always more or less picturesque; fathers were caring for their children, and seemed to take great delight in playing the part of nurse. It is very common in all the Japanese cities to see men thus occupied, and they never appear to be weary of their tasks. In summer both parent and child will be thinly clad, while in winter they will be wrapped against the cold. The summer garments are not always so thick as the rules of polite society require, and even the winter costume is not very heavy. [Illustration: THE PATERNAL NURSE.] Lake Biwa is a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by picturesque mountains and smiling valleys. Steamers ply upon it, so that an excursion may be made on its waters with the utmost ease; and all around it there are picnic booths where parties may sit and enjoy the view. The time of our friends was limited, and so they had only a glimpse of the lake from one of those pleasure resorts, if a couple of hours spent there may be called a glimpse. [Illustration: PICNIC BOOTH OVERLOOKING LAKE BIWA.] They returned to Kioto, and proceeded without delay to Kobe. They found the railway journey much more rapid than the one by jin-riki-sha, but it had the demerit of carrying them so fast that very little could be seen of the country. The day after their arrival at Kobe the steamer was ready to take them to Nagasaki and Shanghai, and at the appointed hour they went on board. Practically, they had finished their sight-seeing in Japan, as they were not to break the journey until setting foot on Chinese soil. They left it with the most agreeable recollections, and the boys, as they stood on the deck of the steamer slowly moving out of the harbor of Kobe, simultaneously asked the question, "Wonder if we shall ever see it again?" [Illustration: A MAKER OF BOWS.] CHAPTER XXII. THE INLAND SEA AND NAGASAKI.--CAUGHT IN A TYPHOON. From Kobe westward the route lies through the famous Inland Sea of Japan, known to the Japanese as the Suwo Nada. The Inland Sea is more like a lake than an arm of the ocean; and there have been travellers who could not readily believe that it was connected with the ocean, and that its waters were salt instead of fresh. The distance is, in round numbers, about two hundred and fifty miles; and through the entire voyage the land is constantly in sight, and generally close at hand. The islands rise sharply from the water, and a large portion of them are densely wooded and exceedingly picturesque. [Illustration: THE INLAND SEA NEAR HIOGO.] During the whole of the voyage, as long as the daylight favored them, our young friends remained on deck, and studied the scenery along the route. Sometimes the sea widened out to fifty miles or more, and at others it contracted so that there was no sign of a passage before them, and it was difficult to say which way the steamer would turn. Now and then the islands were so close together that the steamer made her course as though she were tracing the sinuosities of the Mississippi River, and it was necessary to keep a sharp lookout to avoid accidents on the numerous rocks that lie sunken in the channel. Mishaps to the steamers are of rare occurrence, as the channel has been carefully buoyed, and the pilots understand their business fully; but it is otherwise with the unwieldy junks, which are often driven by an adverse wind directly into the dangers their captains are seeking to avoid. The traffic through the Inland Sea is very great, both by the steamers and by the junks; and sometimes whole fleets of the latter may be seen waiting in some of the sheltering nooks for a favoring wind. The steamers make the passage from one end to the other of the Inland Sea in less than twenty-four hours; but the junks are frequently a fortnight in covering the same distance. They are never in a hurry, and therefore time is no object. [Illustration: APPROACHING SIMONESEKI.] The Inland Sea is entered soon after leaving Kobe, and it terminates at Simoneseki, where there is a narrow strait leading into the open waters. Our friends wanted to land at Simoneseki, where the steamer made a halt of a couple of hours; but they were informed that the port was not opened to foreigners, and, therefore, their only view of it was a distant one. However, they were consoled by the reflection that they could have plenty of time at Nagasaki, where the ship was to remain a day and a half before continuing her voyage. Nagasaki was the first place opened to foreigners, and there are many points of interest about the city. [Illustration: DANGEROUS PLACE ON THE SUWO NADA.] Hardly was the anchor down when our trio entered a boat and were rowed to the shore. Nagasaki is prettily situated in a bay that is completely landlocked, and affords secure anchorage to ships even in the severest gales. Doctor Bronson had been in the harbor of Rio Janeiro, in South America, and said that the bay of Nagasaki was a sort of pocket edition of that of Rio Janeiro. The hills rise abruptly from the water, and lie in terraces that seem to lose themselves in the distance. Some of the hills are wooded, while others are cleared and cultivated; and in either case there are evidences of the most careful attention on the part of the inhabitants of the country. Looking seaward the hills gradually separate until the entrance of the bay is reached; here the island of Pappenberg stands directly across the mouth of the bay, and, while seemingly obstructing it, serves as a breakwater against the in-rolling waves. [Illustration: PAPPENBERG ISLAND.] "That island has a fearful history," said Doctor Bronson, while they were looking at it when the steamer entered the harbor. "Do you mean the island of Pappenberg?" Frank asked. "I know," said Fred; "it has a history connected with the establishment of Christianity in Japan more than two hundred years ago." "I think I have already told you something of the attempt to make Japan a Christian country," the Doctor continued. "The island of Pappenberg is one of the places that witnessed the extinction of the Christian religion in Japan after it had gained a strong footing. Do you observe that one side of the island is like a precipice?" [Illustration: WOMEN OF NAGASAKI.] The boys regarded the point to which their attention was directed; and they regarded it more attentively when they were told that from that steep rock many thousands of men and women were hurled, solely for the offence of being Christians. Those that were not killed by the fall were drowned in the sea, and not one was allowed to escape. Pappenberg is known in history as the Tarpeian Rock of Japan. It is now used as a picnic resort of the foreign inhabitants of Nagasaki, and a more delightful spot for a pleasure excursion could not be easily found. According to some writers there were nearly a hundred thousand Christians massacred after the discovery of the conspiracy which was to put Japan under the control of Portugal, but the Japanese say that these figures are an exaggeration. It is difficult to get at the truth of the matter, as neither party can be relied on for accuracy, or rather the accounts that have come down to us cannot be considered impartial. [Illustration: A CHRISTIAN VILLAGE IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.] As nearly as can be ascertained the first European who landed on Japanese soil was Mendez Pinto, a Portuguese who combined the occupations of merchant and pirate in such intimate relations that it was not always easy for him to determine where the one ended and the other began. He has been greatly slandered, and his name has an ignoble place in history, as that of a champion liar. The fact is, that the stories he told on his return to Europe, and which caused him to be called "The Mendacious," were substantially correct--quite as much so as those of Marco Polo, and far more than the narrations of Sir John Mandeville. Pinto came with two companions to the island of Tanegashima in 1542, and, as might be expected, they were great curiosities. Even more curious were the fire-arms they carried; and they were invited to visit the Daimio of Bungo, and bring their strange weapons with them. They did so, and taught the natives how to make guns and powder, which soon became generally used throughout Japan. To this day fire-arms are frequently called "Tanegashima," after the island where Pinto landed with the first of these weapons. Christianity followed closely on the track of the musket. The adventurers returned with a profit of twelve hundred per cent. on their cargo. Their success stimulated others, and in 1549 two Portuguese missionaries, one of them being Francis Xavier, landed in Japan, and began the work of converting the heathen. Xavier's first labors were in Satsuma, and he afterwards went to Kioto and other cities. Personally he never accomplished much, as he could not speak the language fluently, and he remained in the country only a few years. But he did a great deal to inspire others; numbers of missionaries flocked to Japan, and it is said that thirty years after Xavier landed on the soil there were two hundred churches, and a hundred and fifty thousand native Christians. At the time of the highest success of the missionaries it is estimated that there were not less than half a million professing Christians in Japan, and perhaps another hundred thousand who were nominally so, though their faith was not regarded as more than "skin deep." Among the adherents of the new religion there were several Daimios, and a great number of persons occupying high social and official positions. Some of the Daimios were so zealous that they ordered their people to turn Christians whether they wished it or not; and one of them gave his subjects the option of being baptized or leaving the country within twenty-four hours. [Illustration: MONUMENTS IN MEMORY OF MARTYRS.] The Dutch were great traders in the East Indies, and they managed to obtain a footing in Japan during the time of the Portuguese success. They received a concession of the island of Deshima, about six hundred feet square, in the harbor of Nagasaki, and here they lived until our day. When the troubles arose that led to the expulsion of foreigners and the extinction of Christianity, the Dutch were excepted from the operations of the edict, as it could not be shown that they had had any part in the conspiracy. They had been too busy with their commerce to meddle in religious matters; and, if history is true, it is probable that they hadn't religion enough in their small colony at Deshima to go around and give a perceptible quantity to each man. This little island was in reality a prison, as its inhabitants were not allowed to go outside for any purpose, except once in three years, when a delegation of them made a journey to Yeddo to make presents to the Tycoon. They were compelled to travel the most of the way in closed norimons, and thus their journey did not afford them many glimpses of the country. There is a tradition that they were required to go through the ceremony of trampling on the cross in the presence of the Tycoon, and also to intoxicate themselves, as a warning to the Japanese to shun the wicked ways of the foreigners. Whether either account be true I am unable to say; the assertion is very positively made and as positively denied, and therefore I will leave every reader, who has paid his money for the book, to make choice of the side of the story which suits him best. [Illustration: A PATH NEAR NAGASAKI.] The first move of our friends on landing was to go to Deshima, as they had a curiosity to see the little island, which was so famous in the history of the foreign relations of Japan with the outer world. The drawbridge leading to the island, and the box where the Japanese sentries stood, were still there, and so were some of the buildings which the Dutch inhabited; but the Dutch were gone, and probably forever. Outside of the historical interest there was nothing remarkable about the island, and the boys wondered how men could voluntarily shut themselves up in a prison like this. Only one ship a year was allowed to come to them, and sometimes, during the wars between Holland and other countries, there were several years together when no ship came. They were permitted to purchase certain quantities of fresh provisions daily, and when they ran short of needed articles they were supplied by the governor of Nagasaki. But no permission could be granted to go outside their narrow limits. How they must have sighed as they gazed on the green hills opposite, and with what longing did they think of a ramble on those grassy or wooded slopes! [Illustration: HOLLANDER AT DESHIMA WATCHING FOR A SHIP.] The chief use of Deshima, as our friends found it, is to serve as a depository of Japanese wares, and particularly of the kinds for which Nagasaki is famous. Nagasaki vases and Nagasaki lacquer were in such quantities as to be absolutely bewildering, and for once they found the prices lower than at Yokohama. They made a few purchases--their final transactions in Japan--and then turned their attention to a stroll through the city. There was not much to amuse them after their acquaintance with other cities of Japan, and so they were speedily satisfied. On the hill overlooking the town and harbor they found an old temple of considerable magnitude, then another, and another, and then tea-houses almost without number. In one of the latter they sat and studied the scenery of Nagasaki until evening, when they returned to the steamer. Another ramble on shore the following morning, and they left the soil of Japan for the deck of the steamer. At noon they were slowly moving down the bay; they passed the island of Pappenberg, and, as they did so, Frank read from a book he had picked up in the ship's cabin the following paragraph: "In that same year, when the last of the Roman Catholic converts were hurled from the rocky islet of Pappenberg, in the Bay of Nagasaki, a few exiles landed at Plymouth, in the newly discovered continent, where they were destined to plant the seeds of a Protestant faith and a great Protestant empire. And it was the descendants of the same pilgrim fathers that, two centuries later, were the first among Western nations to supply the link of connection wanted, to bring the lapsed heathen race once more within the circle of Christian communion, and invite them anew to take their place in the family of civilized nations." And while meditating on the mutations of time and the strangeness of many events recorded in history, our friends passed from the harbor of Nagasaki into the open sea. "Sayonara!" said Frank, raising his cap and bowing towards the receding land. "Sayonara!" echoed Fred, as he followed his cousin's example. "I say 'Sayonara' now, but I hope that some time in the future I may be able to say 'Ohio.'" "And so do I," Frank added. "It is a charming country, and I don't think we shall find a more agreeable one anywhere." The conversation was cut short by the call to dinner, a call that has suppressed many a touch of sentiment before now, on land as well as on the water. [Illustration: THE RAIN DRAGON.] It is a voyage of two days, more or less, according to the speed of the steamer, from Nagasaki to Shanghai. Our friends had hoped to be in Shanghai on the afternoon of the second day from the former port; but their hopes were not destined to be realized. The Japanese gods of Rain, Wind, and Thunder interfered. [Illustration: THE WIND DRAGON.] The morning after their departure from Nagasaki, Frank went on deck soon after daylight. The wind was so strong that it almost took him from his feet, and he was compelled to grasp something to make sure of remaining upright. The sky was overcast, and every few minutes there came a sprinkling of rain that intimated that the cabin was the better place for any one who was particular about keeping dry. Fred joined him in a few minutes, and soon after Fred's arrival the Doctor made his appearance. [Illustration: THE THUNDER DRAGON.] The Captain was on the bridge of the steamer, and appeared much disturbed about something, so much so that the boys asked Dr. Bronson if he thought anything had gone wrong. The Doctor gave a hasty glance at the sky and the water, and then retreated to the cabin, where a barometer was hanging. A moment's observation of the instrument satisfied him, or, rather, it greatly dissatisfied him, for he returned hastily to the deck and rejoined the boys with the observation, "We shall have it very lively in a short time, and are not likely to reach Shanghai in a hurry." "Why? What do you mean?" "I mean that we are about to have a typhoon." "I should rather like to see one," Frank remarked. "Well," the Doctor replied, "you are about to be accommodated, and if we get safely out of it I am very sure you will not want to see another. "But as we are in for it," he continued, "we must make the best of the situation, and hope to go through in safety. Many a strong ship lies at the bottom of the sea, where she was sent by just such a storm as we are about to pass through, and many another has barely escaped. I was once on a ship in the China seas, when the captain told the passengers that it would be a miracle if we remained half an hour longer afloat. But hardly had he done speaking when the wind fell, the storm abated, and we were safe. The typhoon is to these waters what the hurricane is to the West Indies; it is liable to blow at any time between April and September, and is often fearfully destructive. "The word typhoon comes from the Japanese 'Tai-Fun,' which means 'great wind,' and the meaning is admirably descriptive of the thing itself. There is no greater wind in the world than a typhoon; the traditional wind that would blow the hair off the back of a dog is as nothing to it. A cyclone is the same sort of thing, and the two terms are interchangeable; cyclone is the name of European origin, while typhoon comes from the Asiatic. "The typhoon blows in a circle, and may be briefly described as a rapidly revolving wind that has a diameter of from two to five hundred miles. It is a whirlwind on a large scale, and as furious as it is large. A curious fact about it is that it has a calm centre, where there is absolutely no wind at all, and this centre is sometimes forty or fifty miles across. Nearest the centre the wind has the greatest violence, and the farther you can get from it, the less severe is the gale. Mariners always try to sail away from the centre of a typhoon, and I have known a ship to turn at right angles from her course in order to get as far as possible from the centre of a coming tempest. There is a great difference of opinion among captains concerning these storms, some declaring that they have been in the middle point of a typhoon and escaped safely, while others aver that no ship that was ever built can withstand the fury of a storm centre. But I think the weight of evidence is in favor of the former rather than the latter, as I have known captains who have described their situation in such a way as to leave not the slightest doubt in my mind of the correctness of their statements. "If you have any desire to study the subject fully, I advise you to get 'Piddington's Law of Storms;' you will find it treated very fully and intelligently, both from the scientific and the popular point of view. [Illustration: A TYPHOON.] "It has never been my fortune," the Doctor continued, "to be farther in a typhoon at sea than the outer edge, but that was quite as much as I wanted. One time on land I saw and felt one of these tempests; it drove ships from their moorings, swamped hundreds of boats, unroofed many houses, tore trees up by the roots, stripped others of their branches, threw down walls and fences, flooded the land, and caused a vast amount of havoc everywhere. Hundreds of people were drowned by the floods, and the traces of the storm will last for many years. The city that has suffered most by these storms is Calcutta. On two occasions the centre of a typhoon has passed over the harbor or within a few miles of it, and the whole shipping of the port was driven from its moorings and the greater part completely or partially wrecked." While they were listening to the remarks of the Doctor the boys observed that the wind was increasing, and as they looked at the compass they found that the ship's course had been changed. Everything about the vessel that could be made fast was carefully secured, and the party was notified that they might be ordered below at any moment. The waves were not running high, and but for the very severe wind there would have been nothing to cause more than ordinary motion on board the steamer. After a time the waves broke into what is called a "choppy sea;" the wind was so great that their crests were blown away before they could rise to any height worthy of notice. Mariners say that in a severe typhoon the ocean is quite smooth, owing to the inability of the waves to form against the irresistible force of the wind. It is fortunate for them that such is the case, as they could not possibly survive the combined action of the cyclone and the great waves together. For three or four hours the wind continued to increase, and the waters to assume the shapes we have seen. The barometer had fallen steadily, and everything indicated that the arrival of the steamer at Shanghai, or at any other port, was by no means a matter of certainty. The order was issued for the passengers to go below, and our friends descended to the cabin. Just as they did so the decks were swept by a mass of water that seemed to have been lifted bodily from the sea by a gust of wind. The order to go below was not issued a moment too soon. The Doctor took another glance at the barometer, and discovered something. The mercury was stationary! Ten minutes later it had risen a few hundredths of a degree. The rise was small, but it was a rise. In another ten minutes another gain was perceptible. The Doctor's face brightened, and he called the boys to observe what he had discovered. He had already explained to them that the barometer falls at the approach of stormy weather, and rises when the storm is about to pass away. Before a storm like a typhoon the fall is very rapid, and so certainly is this the case that mariners rely upon the barometer to give them warning of impending danger. An hour from the time they went below they were allowed to go on deck again. The wind had abated a little, so that there was no further danger of their being swept from the decks by the water; the clouds were less dense and the rain was not falling so heavily. In another hour there was another perceptible decline in the wind, and a little later the ship was again put on her course. The captain announced the danger over, and said the centre of the typhoon had passed at least a hundred miles to the west of them. "If we had kept our course," said he, "we should have been much nearer to it, and then the storm would have been more dangerous for us." "How do you know which way to turn?" Frank asked; "it seems to me you are just as likely to run to the centre of the storm as to the circumference." "There's where you don't understand the science of storms," said the captain smiling. "In the northern hemisphere typhoons, cyclones, and hurricanes--they are all the same--whirl from left to right, that is, they turn like the hands of a watch, while in the southern hemisphere their motion is exactly the reverse. When we think we are in the sweep of a typhoon in these waters, we run with the wind on our starboard, or right hand, and that course will take us away from the centre. In the southern hemisphere we run with the wind on the port, or left hand, with the same result. But we'll go to dinner now and be happy, for the danger is over." [Illustration: COURSE OF A TYPHOON.] Just as they were rising from table they were suddenly called on deck by the announcement of a wreck. An American bark had been dismasted by the gale and lay helpless on the water; her captain wished to be taken in tow to the mouth of the Yang-tse-kiang, and after some minutes spent in making a bargain, the matter was arranged and a line passed out. "They were less fortunate than we," the Doctor remarked as they proceeded with their tow. [Illustration: CAUGHT NEAR THE STORM'S CENTRE.] "Yes," answered the captain, "the poor fellow was nearer the centre of the typhoon than we were. There'll be a job for the ship-carpenters and riggers at Shanghai; it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good." Frank was looking through the captain's glass at the persons who were moving about the deck of the bark. Suddenly he observed something and called out to his companions: "Look, look! here's a familiar face!" The Doctor took the glass and then handed it to Fred; the latter looked steadily for a minute or more before he had a satisfactory view, and then said: "It's our old friend, the Mystery!" CHAPTER XXIII. FIRST DAY IN CHINA. In due time they entered the waters of the great river of Northern China, the Yang-tse. They entered them long before they sighted land, as the vast quantities of earth brought down by the stream make a change in the color of the sea that can be readily distinguished a great distance from the coast. In this respect the Yang-tse is similar to the Mississippi, and the effect of the former on the Yellow Sea is like that of the latter on the Gulf of Mexico. The coast at the mouth of the Yang-tse is low and flat, and a ship is fairly in the entrance of the river before land can be seen. The bar can be passed by deep-draught vessels only at high water, and consequently it often becomes necessary for them to wait several hours for the favorable moment. This was the case with our friends, and they walked the deck with impatience during the delay. But at last all was ready, and they steamed onward in triumph, dropping their tow at Woosung, and waving a good-bye to "the Mystery," who had recognized them from the deck of the disabled bark. [Illustration: THE WOOSUNG RIVER.] Shanghai is not on the Yang-tse, but on the Woosung River, about twelve miles from the point where the two streams unite. The channel is quite tortuous, and it requires careful handling on the part of a pilot to take a ship through in safety to herself and all others. Two or three times they narrowly escaped accidents from collisions with junks and other craft, and at one of the turnings the prow of their steamer made a nearer acquaintance with a mud-bank than her captain considered desirable; but nothing was injured, and the delay that followed the mishap was for only a few minutes. The tide was running in, and carried them along at good speed; and in less than two hours from the time of their departure from Woosung they were anchored in front of Shanghai and ready to go on shore. They had not seen anything particularly interesting on their voyage up the river, as the banks were low and not at all densely settled. Here and there a few villages were thrown together, and it occurred to Frank that the houses were huddling close up to each other in order to keep warm. The most of the ground was clear of timber; but there were some farm-houses standing in little clumps of trees that, no doubt, furnished a welcome shade in the summer season. One mile of the river was very much like another mile, and consequently the monotony of the scenery made the sight of Shanghai a welcome one. [Illustration: CHINESE TRADING-JUNK ON THE WOOSUNG RIVER.] Crowds of sampans surrounded the ship as the anchor-chain rattled through the hawse-hole, and it was very evident that there was no lack of transportation for the shore. The Doctor engaged one of these boats, and gave the baggage of the party into the hands of the runner from the Astor House, the principal hotel of the American section of Shanghai. They found it a less imposing affair than the Astor House of New York, though it occupied more ground, and had an evident determination to spread itself. A large space of greensward was enclosed by a quadrangle of one-story buildings, which formed the hotel, and consequently it required a great deal of walking to get from one part of the house to the opposite side. Our friends were shown to some rooms that were entered from a veranda on the side of the court-yard. They found that on the other side there was a balcony, where they could sit and study the life of the street; and as this balcony was well provided with chairs and lounges, it was a pleasant resort on a warm afternoon. The house was kept by an American, but all his staff of servants was Chinese. Fred regretted that he could not praise the dining-table as earnestly as he did the rooms, and he was vehement in declaring that a breakfast or dinner in the Astor at New York was quite another affair from the same meal in the one at Shanghai. The Doctor and Frank were of his opinion; but they found, on inquiry, that the landlord did not agree with them, and so they dropped the subject. As soon as they were settled at the hotel, they went out for a stroll through the city, and to deliver letters to several gentlemen residing there. They had some trouble in finding the houses they were searching for, as the foreigners at Shanghai do not consider it aristocratic to have signs on their doors or gate-posts, and a good deal of inquiry is necessary for a stranger to make his way about. If a man puts out a sign, he is regarded as a tradesman, and unfit to associate with the great men of the place; but as long as there is no sign or placard about his premises he is a merchant, and his company is desirable, especially if he is free with his money. A tradesman cannot gain admission to the Shanghai Club, and the same is the rule at Hong-Kong and other ports throughout the East. But there is no bar to the membership of his clerk; and it not infrequently happens that a man will be refused admission to a club on account of his occupation, while his clerk will be found eligible. There are many senseless rules of society in the East, and our boys were greatly amused as the Doctor narrated them. [Illustration: SHANGHAI.] Shanghai is very prettily situated in a bend of the river, and the water-front is ornamented with a small park, which has a background of fine buildings. These buildings are handsome, and the most of them are large. Like the foreign residences at the treaty ports of Japan, they have a liberal allowance of ground, so that nearly every house fronting on the river has a neat yard or garden in front of it. The balconies are wide, and they are generally enclosed in lattice-work that allows a free circulation of air. Back from the water-front there are streets and squares for a long distance; and the farther you go from the river-front, the less do you find the foreign population, and the greater the Chinese one. The foreign quarter is divided into three sections--American, English, and French--and each has a front on the river in the order here given, but the subjects, or citizens, of each country are not confined to their own national quarter; several Americans live in the French and English sections, and there are French and English inhabitants in the quarter where the American consul has jurisdiction. There is generally the most complete harmony among the nationalities, and they are accustomed to make common cause in any dispute with the Chinese. Sometimes they fall out; but they very soon become aware that disputes will be to their disadvantage, and proceed to fall in again. There is a great deal of social activity at Shanghai, and a vast amount of visiting and dinner-giving goes on in the course of a year. The Chinese city is quite distinct from the foreign one; it lies just beyond the French concession, or, rather, the French section extends up to the walls of the old city. The contrast between the two is very great. While the foreigners have taken plenty of space for the construction of their buildings and laying out their streets, the Chinese have crowded together as closely as possible, and seemed desirous of putting the greatest number into the smallest area. It is so all over China from north to south. Even where land is of no particular value, as in the extreme north, the result is the same; and there are probably no people in the world that will exist in so small an area as the Chinese. Ventilation is not a necessity with them, and it seems to make little difference whether the air they breathe be pure or the reverse. In almost any other country in the world a system of such close crowding would breed all sorts of pestilence, but in China nobody appears to die from its effect. [Illustration: A COOLIE IN THE STREETS OF SHANGHAI.] At the first opportunity our friends paid a visit to the Chinese part of Shanghai. They found a man at the gate of the city who was ready to serve them as guide, and so they engaged him without delay. He led them through one of the principal streets, which would have been only a narrow lane or alley in America; and they had an opportunity of studying the peculiarities of the people as they had studied in the Japanese cities the people of Japan. Here is what Frank wrote down concerning his first promenade in a Chinese city: "We found the streets narrow and dirty compared with Japan, or with any city I ever saw in America. The shops are small, and the shopkeepers are not so polite as those of Tokio or other places in Japan. In one shop, when I told the guide to ask the man to show his goods, they had a long talk in Chinese, and the guide said that the man refused to show anything unless we should agree to buy. Of course we would not agree to this, and we did nothing more than to ask the price of something we could see in a show-case. He wanted about ten times the value of the article; and then we saw why it was he wanted us to agree beforehand to buy what we looked at. Every time we stopped at a shop the people gathered around us, and they were not half so polite as the Japanese under the same circumstances. They made remarks about us, which of course we did not understand; but from the way they laughed when the remarks were made, we could see that they were the reverse of complimentary. "We went along the street, stopping now and then to look at something, and in a little while we came to a tea-house which stood in the middle of a pond of water. The house was rather pretty, and the balconies around it were nice, but you should have seen the water. It was covered with a green scum, such as you may see on a stagnant pool anywhere in the world, and the odor from it was anything but sweet. Fred said it was the same water that was let into the pool when they first made it. The guide says the house is a hundred years old, and I should think the water was quite as old as the house; or perhaps it is some second-hand water that they bought cheap, and if so it may be very ancient. We went into the house and sat down to take some tea. They gave us some tea-leaves, on which they poured hot water, and then covered the cup over for a minute or two. Each of us had his portion of tea separate from all the others. The tea was steeped in the cup, and when we wanted more we poured hot water on again. Then they brought little cakes and melon-seeds, with salt to eat with the seeds. Our guide took some of the seeds, and we ate one or two each to see how they tasted. I can't recommend them, and don't think there is any danger they will ever be introduced into the United States as a regular article of diet. [Illustration: A TEA-HOUSE IN THE COUNTRY.] "When we rose to go, and asked how much we owed, we were astonished at the price. The proprietor demanded a dollar for what we had had, when, as we afterwards learned, twenty-five cents would have been more than enough. We had some words with him through our interpreter, and finally paid the bill which we had found so outrageous. We told him we should not come there again; and he said he did not expect us to, as strangers rarely came more than once into the Chinese part of Shanghai. He was a nice specimen of a Chinese rascal; and Doctor Bronson says he must have taken lessons of some of the American swindlers at Niagara Falls and other popular resorts. What a pity it is that whenever you find something outrageously bad in a strange country, you have only to think a moment to discover something equally bad in your own! [Illustration: SMOKING OPIUM.] "At one place we looked into a little den where some people were smoking opium. They were lying on benches, and were very close together. The room wasn't more than eight feet square, and yet there were a dozen people in it, and perhaps one or two more. The guide told us it was a mistake to suppose that they smoked opium as we smoke tobacco. We stand, sit, or walk while smoking; but when a Chinese uses opium, he always reclines on a bench or bed, and gives himself up to his enjoyment. Men go to the shops where opium is sold and lie down on the benches for a period of pleasure. Sometimes two persons go together, and then they lie on the same bench and take turns in filling each other's pipe. "The opium must be boiled to fit it for use, and when ready it looks like very thick molasses. A man takes a long needle and dips it into the opium, and then he twists it around till he gets a ball of the drug as large as a pea. He holds this ball in the flame of a lamp till it becomes hot and partially burning, and then he thrusts it into a little orifice in the top of the bowl of the pipe. He continues to hold it in the flame, and, while it is burning, he slowly inhales the fumes that come from it. A few whiffs exhaust the pipe, and then the smoker rests for several minutes before he takes another. The amount required for intoxication is regulated and estimated in pipes; one man can be overcome by three or four pipes, while another will need ten, twenty, or even thirty of them. A beginner is satisfied with one or two pipes, and will go to sleep for several hours. He is said to have dreams of the pleasantest sort, but he generally feels weak and exhausted the next day. [Illustration; OPIUM-PIPE.] "Dr. Bronson says he tried to smoke opium the first time he was in China, but it made him very ill, and he did not get through with a single pipe. Some Europeans have learned to like it, and have lost their senses in consequence of giving way to the temptation. It is said to be the most seductive thing in the world, and some who have tried it once say it was so delightful that they would not risk a second time, for fear the habit would be so fixed that they could not shake it off. It is said that when a Chinese has tried it for ten or fifteen days in succession he cannot recover, or but very rarely does so. The effects are worse than those of intoxicating liquors, as they speedily render a man incapable of any kind of business, even when he is temporarily free from the influence of the drug. The habit is an expensive one, as the cost of opium is very great in consequence of the taxes and the high profits to those who deal in it. In a short time a man finds that all his earnings go for opium, and even when he is comfortably well off he will make a serious inroad on his property by his indulgence in the vice. A gentleman who has lived long in China, and studied the effects of opium on the people, says as follows: "'With all smokers the effect of this vice on their pecuniary standing is by no means to be estimated by the actual outlay in money for the drug. Its seductive influence leads its victims to neglect their business, and consequently, sooner or later, loss or ruin ensues. As the habit grows, so does inattention to business increase. Instances are not rare where the rich have been reduced to poverty and beggary, as one of the consequences of their attachment to the opium pipe. The poor addicted to this vice are often led to dispose of everything salable in the hovels where they live. Sometimes men sell their wives and children to procure the drug, and end by becoming beggars and thieves. In the second place, the smoking of opium injures one's health and bodily constitution. Unless taken promptly at the regular time, and in the necessary quantity, the victim becomes unable to control himself and to attend to his business. He sneezes, he gapes, mucus runs from his nose and eyes, griping pains seize him in the bowels, his whole appearance indicates restlessness and misery. If not indulged in smoking and left undisturbed, he usually falls asleep, but his sleep does not refresh and invigorate him. On being aroused, he is himself again, provided he can have his opium. If not, his troubles and pains multiply, he has no appetite for ordinary food, no strength or disposition to labor. He becomes emaciated to a frightful degree, his eyes protrude from their sockets; and if he cannot procure opium, he dies in the most horrible agony.' [Illustration: MAN BLINDED BY USE OF OPIUM.] "The government has tried to stop the use of opium, but was prevented from so doing by England, which made war upon China to compel her to open her ports and markets for its sale. It is no wonder that the Chinese are confused as to the exact character of Christianity, when a Christian nation makes war upon them to compel them to admit a poison which that Christian nation produces, and which kills hundreds of thousands of Chinese every year. "We made all our journey on foot, as we could not find any jin-riki-shas, except in the foreign part of Shanghai. They were only brought into use a few years ago, and they cannot be employed in all the cities of China, because the streets are very narrow, and the carriage could not move about. But we saw some sedan-chairs, and one of these days we are going to have a ride in them. It looks as though a ride of this sort would be very comfortable, as you have a good chair to sit in, and then you are held up by men who walk along very steadily. Ordinarily you have two men; but if you are a grand personage, or are going on a long course, three or four men are needed. The chair is quite pretty, as it has a lot of ornamental work about it, and the lower part is closed in with light panelling or bamboo-work. It is surprising what loads the coolies carry, and how long they will walk without apparent fatigue. They are accustomed to this kind of work all their lives, and seem to think it is all right. [Illustration: CHINESE GENTLEMAN IN A SEDAN.] "We came back pretty tired, as the streets are not agreeable for walking on account of the dust and the rough places. They don't seem to care how their streets are in China. When they have finished a street, they let it take care of itself; and if it wears out, it is none of their business. I am told that there are roads in China that were well made at the start, but have not had a particle of repair in a hundred years. They must be rough things to travel on." CHAPTER XXIV. A VOYAGE UP THE YANG-TSE KIANG. [Illustration: CANAL SCENE SOUTH OF SHANGHAI.] The plans of the Doctor included a journey up the great river, the Yang-tse. There was abundant opportunity for the proposed voyage, as there were two lines of steamers making regular trips as far as Han-kow, about six hundred miles from Shanghai. One line was the property of a Chinese company, and the other of an English one. The Chinese company's boats were of American build, and formerly belonged to an American firm that had large business relations in the East. The business of navigating the Yang-tse-kiang had been very profitable, and at one time it was said that the boats had made money enough to sink them if it were all put into silver and piled on their decks. But there was a decline when an opposition line came into the field and caused a heavy reduction of the prices for freight and passage. In the early days of steam navigation on the Yang-tse-kiang a passage from Shanghai to Han-kow cost four hundred dollars, and the price of freight was in proportion. For several years the Americans had a monopoly of the business, and could do pretty much as they liked. When the opposition began, the fares went down, down, down; and at the time our friends were in China the passage to Han-kow was to be had for twenty-four dollars--quite a decline from four hundred to twenty-four. The boys had expected to find the boats in China small and inconvenient. What was their astonishment to find them like the great steamers that ply on the North River, or from New York to Fall River or Providence. They found the cabins were large and comfortable, though they were not so numerous as on the American waters, for the reason that there were rarely many passengers to be carried. The captain, pilots, engineers, and other officers were Americans, while the crew were Chinese. The managers of the company were Chinese, but they left the control of the boats entirely in the hands of their respective captains. One boat had a Chinese captain and officers, but she was a small affair, and, from all that could be learned, the managers did not find their experiment of running with their own countrymen a successful one. At the advertised time the three strangers went on board the steamer that was to carry them up the river, and took possession of the cabins assigned to them. Their only fellow-passengers were some Chinese merchants on their way to Nanking, and a consular clerk at one of the British consulates along the stream. The captain of the steamer was a jolly New-Yorker, who had an inexhaustible fund of stories, which he was never tired of telling. Though he told dozens of them daily, Frank remarked that he was not like history, for he never repeated himself. Fred remembered that some one had said to him in Japan that he would be certain of a pleasant voyage on the Yang-tse-kiang if he happened to fall in with Captain Paul on the steamer _Kiang-ching_. Fortune had favored him, and he had found the steamer and the captain he desired. Frank observed that the steamer had been provided with a pair of eyes, which were neatly carved on wood, and painted so as to resemble the human eye. The captain explained that this was in deference to the Chinese custom of painting eyes on their ships and boats; and if he looked at the first boat, or other Chinese craft, large or small, that he saw, he would discover that it had eyes painted on the bow. This is the universal custom throughout China; and though a native may have a suspicion that it does no good, he would not be willing to fly in the face of old custom. In case he should leave his craft in blindness, and any accident befell her, he would be told by his friends, "Serves you right for not giving your ship eyes to see with." The steamer descended the Woosung River to its intersection with the Yang-tse-kiang, and then began the ascent of the latter. The great stream was so broad that it seemed more like a bay than a river. This condition continued for a hundred and fifty miles, when the bay narrowed to a river, and the far-famed Silver Island came in sight. It stands in mid-stream, a steep hill of rock, about three hundred feet high, crowned with a pagoda, and covered from base to summit with trees and bushes and rich grass. At first it might be taken for an uninhabited spot, but as the boat approaches you can see that there are numerous summer-houses and other habitations peeping out from the verdure. A little beyond the island there is a city which straggles over the hills, and is backed by a range of mountains that make a sharp outline against the sky. This is Chin-kiang, the first stopping-place of the steamer as she proceeds from Shanghai to Han-kow. She was to remain several hours, and our friends embraced the opportunity to take a stroll on shore. Here is Frank's account of the expedition: [Illustration: A CHINESE FAMILY PARTY.] "The streets of Chin-kiang are narrow and dirty, and the most of them that we saw seemed to be paved with kitchen rubbish and other unsavory substances. The smells that rose to our nostrils were too numerous and too disagreeable to mention; Fred says he discovered fifty-four distinct and different ones, but I think there were not more than forty-seven or forty-eight. The Doctor says we have not fairly tested the city, as there are several wards to hear from in addition to the ones we visited in our ramble. I was not altogether unprepared for these unpleasant features of Chin-kiang, as I had already taken a walk in the Chinese part of Shanghai. [Illustration: A GENTLEMAN OF CHIN-KIANG.] "Everybody says that one Chinese town is so much like another that a single one will do for a sample. This is undoubtedly true of the most of them, but you should make exceptions in the case of Canton and Pekin. They are of extra importance; and as one is in the extreme north, and the other in the far south, they have distinctive features of their own. We shall have a chance to talk about them by-and-by. As for Chin-kiang, I did not see anything worth notice while walking through it that I had not already seen at Shanghai, except, perhaps, that the dogs barked at us, and the cats ruffled their backs and tails, and fled from us as though we were bull-dogs. A pony tried to kick Fred as he walked by the brute, and only missed his mark by a couple of inches. You see that the dumb animals were not disposed to welcome us hospitably. They were evidently put up to their conduct by their masters, who do not like the strangers any more than the dogs and cats do, and are only prevented from showing their spite by the fear that the foreigners will blow their towns out of existence if any of them are injured. "We bought some things in the shops, but they did not amount to much either in cost or quality. Fred found a pair of Chinese spectacles which he paid half a dollar for; they were big round things, with glasses nearly as large as a silver dollar, and looked very comical when put on. But I am told that they are very comfortable to the eyes, and that the foreigners who live in China, and have occasion to wear spectacles, generally prefer those made by the Chinese opticians. A pair of really fine pebbles will cost from ten to twenty dollars. The glasses that Fred bought were only the commonest kind of stuff, colored with a smoky tint so as to reduce the glare of the sun. [Illustration: CHINESE SPECTACLES.] "We went outside the town, and found ourselves suddenly in the country. It was a complete change. Going through a gate in a wall took us from the streets to the fields, and going back through the gate took us to the streets again. We saw a man ploughing with a plough that had only one handle, and made a furrow in the ground about as large as if he had dragged a pickaxe through it. The plough was pulled by a Chinese buffalo about as large as a two-year-old steer, and he was guided by means of a cord drawn through the cartilage of his nose. It was a poor outfit for a farmer; but the man who had it appeared perfectly contented, and did not once turn his eyes from his work to look at us. [Illustration: PLOUGHING WITH A BUFFFALO.] "A little way off from this ploughman there was a man threshing grain on some slats; they looked like a small ladder placed on an incline, and the way he did the work was to take a handful of grain and thresh it against the slats till he had knocked out all the kernels and left nothing but the straw. Such a thing as a threshing-machine would astonish them very much, I should think, and I don't believe they would allow it to run. Labor is so cheap in China that they don't want any machinery to save it; when you can hire a man for five cents a day, and even less, you haven't any occasion to economize. [Illustration: THRESHING GRAIN NEAR CHIN-KIANG.] "The man who brought the bundles of grain to the thresher had them slung over his shoulder, as they carry everything in this country; two bundles made a load for him, and they were not large bundles either. Such a thing as a farm-wagon is as unknown as a threshing-machine, and would not be useful, as the paths among the fields are very narrow, and a wagon couldn't run on them at all. Land is very valuable in the neighborhood of the towns, and they would consider it wasteful to have a wide strip of it taken up for a road. And, as I have just said, labor is very cheap, especially the labor of the coolies who carry burdens. All the men I saw at work in the field were barefooted, and probably the wages they receive do not leave them much to spend on boots, after they have supported their families and paid their taxes. They must have a hard time to get along, but they appear perfectly cheerful and contented." [Illustration: CARRYING BUNDLES OF GRAIN.] From Chin-kiang the steamer proceeded up the river. The account of what they saw was thus continued by the boys: "The southern branch of the grand canal enters the river at Chin-kiang; the northern branch comes in some distance below. The river is plentifully dotted with junks, but this condition is not peculiar to the vicinity of the canal. All the way up from Shanghai to Han-kow it is the same, and sometimes twenty or thirty boats will be sailing so closely together as to endanger their cordage and sides. Perhaps you have seen New York Bay on a pleasant afternoon in summer when every boat that could hoist a sail was out for an airing? Well, imagine this great river for hundreds of miles dotted with sails as thickly as our bay on the occasion I have indicated, and you can have an idea of the native commerce of the Yang-tse-kiang. Nobody knows how many boats there are on the river, as no census of them is taken. The mandarins collect toll at the river stations, but do not trouble themselves to keep a record of the numbers. I asked a Chinese merchant who is a fellow-passenger with us how many boats there are engaged in the navigation of the Yang-tse and its tributaries, and he answers, "'P'raps hunder tousand, p'raps million; nobody don't know.' "Another says, 'Great many big million,' and he may not be far out of the way, though his statement is not very specific. [Illustration: A RIVER SCENE IN CHINA.] "I have heard a curious story of how the foreigners have secured more privileges than are allowed to the native merchants. Every district has the right to tax goods passing through it. At each district there is a barrier, commanded by a petty official, with a military guard, and here each native boat must stop and pay the transit tax. For long distances these taxes amount to a large sum, and frequently are a great deal more than the goods cost originally. These taxes are known as 'squeezes,' and the barriers where they are paid are called 'squeeze stations.' But the foreigners have secured a treaty with China, or, rather, there is a clause in one of the treaties, which exempts them from the payment of the transit 'squeezes;' they only pay the customs duties, and the local tax at the place of destination. Transit passes are issued by which goods belonging to foreigners, though carried in native boats, are exempt from squeezing, but these passes can only be obtained by foreigners. "Since the law went into operation, many Chinese merchants have gone into partnership with foreigners; the former furnishing the capital and attending to all the business, while the latter obtain the transit passes and give the name to the firm. A gentleman whom we met in Shanghai is associated with some wealthy Chinese; they put in the money, and he furnishes his name and gets the passes, which none of them could do. "The native junks will always give a free passage to a foreigner who will pretend to own the cargo, since they can escape the squeeze if he plays his part successfully. The captain says that last year a sailor who wanted to join an English gun-boat at a place up the river was carried through for nothing by a junk whose cargo he pretended to own. He passed as a 'foreign merchant,' but the fact was he had never bought anything in his life more valuable than a suit of clothes, and had sold a great deal less than that. [Illustration: A NINE-STORIED PAGODA.] "The river above Chin-kiang is in some places very pretty, and the mountains rise out of the water here and there, making a great contrast to the lowlands farther down. There are several large cities on the way, the most important (or, at all events, the one we know the most about) being Nanking. It was famous for its porcelain tower, which was destroyed years ago by the rebels. Every brick has been carried away, and they have actually dug down into the foundations for more. There is only a part of the city left; and as we did not have time to go on shore, I am not able to say much about it. But there are several other cities that were more fortunate, since they were able to save their towers, or pagodas, as they are generally called. These pagodas are always built with an odd number of stories, usually five, seven, or nine; but once in a great while there is an ambitious one of eleven stories, or a cheap and modest one of only three. We saw one handsome pagoda of nine stories that had bushes and climbing-plants growing from it. I suppose the birds carried the seeds there, and then they sprouted and took root. They make the pagoda look very old, and certainly that is quite proper, as they are all of an age that young people should respect. [Illustration: LITTLE ORPHAN ROCK.] "There is a funny little island--and not so little, after all, as it is three hundred feet high--that stands right in the middle of the river at one place. They call it the Little Orphan Rock, probably because it was never known to have any father or mother. There is a temple in the side of the rock, as if a niche had been cut to receive it. Fred thinks the people who live there ought not to complain of their ventilation and drainage; and if they fell out of the front windows by any accident, they would not be worth much when picked up. Away up on the top of the rock there is a little temple that would make a capital light-house, but I suppose the Chinese are too far behind the times to think of turning it to any practical use. Great Orphan Rock is farther up the river, or a little out of the river, in what they call Po-yang Lake. "Around the shores of Po-yang Lake is where they make a great deal of the porcelain, and what we call 'China ware,' that they send to America. The captain says he has frequently taken large quantities of it down the river to Shanghai, and that it was sent from there to our country. They dig the clay that they want for making the porcelain on the shores of the lake, and they get their fuel for burning it from the forests, not far away. The entrance to the lake is very picturesque; there is a town in a fortress on a hill that overlooks the river, and then there is a fort close down by the water. Probably the fort wouldn't be of much use against a fleet of foreign ships; but it looks well, and that is what pleases the Chinese." [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO PO-YANG LAKE.] CHAPTER XXV. THE TAE-PING REBELLION.--SCENES ON THE GREAT RIVER. The evidences of a large population along the Yang-tse were easy to see; but, nevertheless, Frank and Fred were somewhat disappointed. They had read of the overcrowded condition of China, and they saw the great numbers of boats that navigated the river, and consequently they looked for a proportionately dense mass of people on shore. Sometimes, for two or three hours at a time, not a house could be seen; and at others the villages were strung along in a straggling sort of way, as though they were thinly inhabited, and wished to make as good a show as possible. There were many places where the land did not seem to be under cultivation at all, as it was covered with a dense growth of reeds and rushes. In some localities the country appeared so much like a wilderness that the boys half expected to see wild beasts running about undisturbed; they began to speculate as to the kind of beasts that were to be found there, and finally questioned Dr. Bronson on the subject. The Doctor explained to them that this desolation was more apparent than real, and that if they should make a journey on shore, at almost any point, for a few miles back from the river, they would find all the people they wanted. "About thirty years ago," said he, "they had a rebellion in China; it lasted for a long time, and caused an immense destruction of life and property. The rebels had possession of the cities along the Yang-tse, and at one period it looked as though they would succeed in destroying the government." "Did they destroy the cities that we see in ruins?" Fred asked. "Yes," answered the Doctor, "they destroyed several cities so completely that not a hundred inhabitants remained, where formerly there had been many thousands; and other cities were so greatly injured that the traces of the rebel occupation have not been removed. I believe there is not a city that escaped uninjured, and you have seen for yourselves how some of them have suffered. "The rebellion," he continued, "is known in history as the Tae-ping insurrection. The words 'tae ping' mean 'general peace,' and were inscribed on the banners of the rebels. The avowed intention of the leader of the revolt was to overthrow the imperial power, and deliver the country from its oppressors. There were promises of a division of property, or, at all events, the rebels were to have free license to plunder wherever they went; and as there are always a great many people who have everything to gain and nothing to lose, the rebellion gathered strength as time went on. The leaders managed to convince the foreigners that they were inclined to look favorably on Christianity, and the idea went abroad that the Tae-pings were a sort of Chinese Protestants, who wanted to do away with old abuses, and were in favor of progress and of more intimate relations with foreign nations. Many of the missionaries in China were friendly to the rebellion, and so were some of the merchants and others established there. [Illustration: TAE-PING REBELS.] "So powerful did the rebels become that they had nearly a third of the best part of the empire under their control, and the imperial authorities became seriously alarmed. City after city had been captured by the rebels, and at one time the overthrow of the government appeared almost certain. The rebels were numerous and well officered, and they had the advantage of foreign instruction, and, to some extent, of foreign arms. The imperialists went to war after the old system, which consisted of sound rather than sense. They were accustomed to beat gongs, fire guns, and make a great noise to frighten the enemy; and as the enemy knew perfectly well what it was all about, it did not amount to much. The suppression of the rebellion was largely due to foreigners, and the most prominent of these was an American." "What! an American leader for Chinese?" "Yes, an American named Ward, who rose to be a high-class mandarin among the Chinese, and since his death temples have been erected to his honor. He came to Shanghai in 1860, and was looking around for something to do. The rebels were within forty miles of the city, and their appearance in front of it was hourly expected. They were holding the city of Soon-keong, and Ward proposed to take this place by contract, as one might propose to build a house or a railway line." The boys laughed at the idea of carrying on war by contract, but were reminded that they were in China, where things are done otherwise than in Europe and America. "The conditions of the contract were that Ward should raise a force of fifty Malays, and undertake the capture of a walled city having a garrison of four thousand rebels. If he succeeded, he was to have a certain sum of money--I think it was ten thousand dollars--and was then to raise a force of one thousand Chinese with twenty-five foreign officers, and was to have command of this army for the purpose of suppressing the rebellion. "Soon-keong has four gates, and they were opened at a certain hour in the morning. Ward went there secretly one night, and sent fourteen of his men to each of three of the gates, while he himself went with the remaining eight men to the fourth gate. The rebels suspected nothing, and at the usual time the gates were opened. Ward's men rushed in simultaneously at the four gates, made a great noise, set fire to several buildings, killed everybody they met, and pushed on for the centre of the town. In less than ten minutes the enemy had fled, and the battle was over. Ward was in full possession of the place, and a force of the imperial army, which was waiting near by, was marched in, to make sure that the rebels would not return. [Illustration: GENERAL WARD.] "Ward raised the army that he had proposed, and from one thousand it soon grew to three thousand. It was armed with foreign rifles, and had a battery of European artillery. The officers were English, American, French, and of other foreign nationalities, and the men were drilled in the European fashion. So uniformly were they successful that they received the name of 'the Invincibles,' and retained it through all their career. The American adventurer became 'General' Ward, was naturalized as a Chinese subject, was made a red-button mandarin, and received from the government a present of a large tract of land and a fine house in Shanghai. He was several times wounded, and finally, in October, 1862, he was killed in an attack on one of the rebel strongholds. [Illustration: THE GATE WHICH WARD ATTACKED.] "Ward was succeeded by an American named Burgevine, who had been one of his subordinates. Burgevine was quite as successful as Ward had been, and at one time with his army of 5000 trained Chinese he defeated 95,000 of the Tae-ping rebels. This made an end of the rebellion in that part of the country, but it was flourishing in other localities. Burgevine had some trouble with the authorities, which led to his retirement; and after that the Invincible army was commanded by an English officer named Gordon, who remained at the head of it till the downfall of the Tae-pings and the end of the rebellion. The success of this little army against the large force of the rebels shows the great advantages of discipline. In all time and in all countries this advantage has been apparent, but in none more so than in China. If the power of Ward and his men had been with the rebels instead of against them, it is highly probable that the government would have been overthrown. A few hundred well-trained soldiers could have decided the fate of an empire." [Illustration: GENERAL BURGEVINE.] The conversation about the Tae-ping rebellion and its termination occurred while the steamer was steadily making her way against the muddy waters of the Yang-tse. The party were sitting on the forward deck of the boat, and just as the closing words of the Doctor's remarks were pronounced, there was a new and unexpected sensation. The day was perfectly clear, but suddenly a cloud appeared to be forming like a thick mist. As they came nearer to it they discovered what it was, and made the discovery through their sense of feeling. It was a cloud of locusts moving from the southern to the northern bank of the river; they had devastated a large area, and were now hastening to fresh woods and pastures new. They filled the air so densely as to obscure the sun, and for more than an hour the steamer was enveloped in them. These locusts are the scourge of China, as they are of other countries. They are worse in some years than in others, and in several instances they have been the cause of local famines, or of great scarcity. Of course many of the locusts fell on the deck of the steamer, and found their way to the cabins. The flight of the cloud was from south to north, and Frank observed a remarkable peculiarity about the movements of individual members of the immense swarm. He captured several and placed them on the cabin table. No matter in what direction he turned their heads, they immediately faced about towards the north, and as long as they were in the cabin they continued to try to escape on the northern side. After the boat had passed through the swarm, the boys released several of the captives, and found that, no matter how they were directed at the moment of their release, they immediately turned and flew away to the north. "They've one consolation," Fred remarked--"they have their compasses always about them, and have no need to figure up their reckoning with 'Bowditch's Navigator' to know which way to steer." "Don't you remember," Frank retorted, "our old teacher used to tell us that instinct was often superior to reason. Birds and animals and fishes make their annual migrations, and know exactly where they are going, which is more than most men could begin to do. These locusts are guided by instinct, and they are obliged to be, as they would starve if they had to reason about their movements, and study to know where to go. Just think of a locust sitting down to a map of China, when there were millions of other locusts all doing the same thing. They wouldn't have maps enough to go around; and when they got to a place they wanted to reach, they would find that others had been there before them and eaten up all the grass." Frank's practical argument about instinct received the approval of his friends, and then the topic of conversation was changed to something else. Both the boys were greatly interested in the various processes of work that were visible on shore. Groups of men were to be seen cutting reeds for fuel, or for the roofs of houses, where they make a warm thatch that keeps out the rain and snow. Other groups were gathering cotton, hemp, millet, and other products of the earth; and at several points there were men with blue hands, who were extracting indigo from the plant which produces it. The plant is bruised and soaked in water till the coloring-matter is drawn out; the indigo settles to the bottom of the tub, and the water is poured off; and after being dried in the sun, the cake forms the indigo of commerce. In many places there were little stages about thirty feet high, and just large enough at the top for one man, who worked there patiently and alone. Frank could not make out the employment of these men, and neither could Fred. After puzzling awhile over the matter, they referred it to Doctor Bronson. "Those men," the Doctor explained, "are engaged in making ropes or cables out of the fibres of bamboo." "Why don't they work on the ground instead of climbing up there?" Fred asked. "Because," was the reply, "they want to keep the cable straight while they are braiding it. As fast as they braid it it hangs down by its own weight, and coils on the ground beneath. No expensive machinery is needed, and the principal labor in the business is to carry the bamboo fibre to the platform where it is wanted. This cable is very strong and cheap, and takes the place of hemp rope in a great many ways. It is larger and rougher than a hempen rope of the same strength, but the Chinese are willing to sacrifice beauty for cheapness in the majority of practical things." The Chinese have a way of catching fish which is peculiar to themselves, and much practised along the Yang-tse. A net several feet square hangs at the end of a long pole, and is lowered gently into the water and then suddenly raised. Any fish that happens to be swimming over the net at the time is liable to be taken in. He is lifted from the large net by means of a small scoop, and the raising and lowering process is resumed. Fred thought it was an excellent employment for a lazy man, and Frank suggested that it would be better for two lazy men than one, as they could keep each other company. The boys were desirous of seeing how the Chinese catch fish with the aid of cormorants, and were somewhat disappointed when told that these birds were rarely used on the Yang-tse, but must be looked for on some of the lakes and ponds away from the great stream, and particularly in the southern part of the empire. The Doctor thus described this novel mode of catching fish: "Three or four cormorants and a raft are necessary in this way of fishing. The cormorants are stupid-looking birds about the size of geese, but are of a dark color, so that they cannot be readily seen by the fish. The raft is of bamboo logs bound together, and about three feet wide by twenty in length. The fisherman is armed with a paddle for propelling his raft and a scoop-net for taking the fish after they have been caught by the cormorant, and he has a large basket for holding the fish after they have been safely secured. Each cormorant has a cord or ring around his neck to prevent him from swallowing the fish he has taken, and it is so tight that he cannot get down any but the smallest fish. [Illustration: FISHING WITH CORMORANTS.] "The birds dive off from the raft, and can swim under water with great rapidity. Sometimes they are not inclined to fish, and require to be pushed off, and, perhaps, beaten a little by their master. If they have been well trained, they swim directly towards the raft, when they rise to the surface; but sometimes a cormorant will go off the other way, in the hope of being able to swallow the fish he holds in his mouth. In such case the fisherman follows and captures the runaway, punishing him soundly for his misconduct. Whenever a bird catches a fish and brings it to the raft, he is rewarded with a mouthful of food. In this way he soon learns to associate his success with something to eat; and a cormorant that has been well trained has a good deal of fidelity in his composition. I am uncertain which to admire most, the dexterity of the fisherman in handling his raft, or the perseverance and celerity of the cormorants." On her arrival at Han-kow, the steamer was tied up to the bank in front of the portion of the city occupied by the foreigners. Han-kow is on a broad tongue of land at the junction of the Han with the Yang-tse. On the opposite side of the Han is the city of Han-yang, and over on the other bank of the Yang-tse is Wo-chang. Here is the brief description given by the Doctor in a letter to friends at home: "A hill between Han-kow and Han-yang rises about six hundred feet, and affords one of the finest views in the world, and, in some respects, one of the most remarkable. We climbed there yesterday a little before sunset, and remained as long as the fading daylight and the exigencies of our return permitted. At our feet lay the Yang-tse, rolling towards the sea after its junction with the Han, which we could trace afar, like a ribbon of silver winding through the green plain. Away to the west was a range of mountains, lighted by the setting sun, and overhung with golden and purple clouds; while to the south was an undulating country, whose foreground was filled with the walled city of Wo-chang. The crenelated walls enclose an enormous space, much of which is so desolate that foreigners are accustomed to hunt pheasants and hares within the limits. They say that at one time all this space was covered with buildings, and that the buildings were crowded with occupants. The three cities suffered terribly during the rebellion, and more than three fourths of their edifices were levelled. Looking from the hill, it is easy to see the traces of the destruction, although twenty years have passed since the insurrection was suppressed. The population of the three cities was said to have been four or five millions; but, even after making allowance for the density with which Chinese cities are crowded, I should think those figures were too high. However, there is no doubt that it was very great, and probably more people lived here than on any similar area anywhere else in the world." Han-kow is a great centre of trade. Frequently the mouth of the Han is so crowded with junks that the river is entirely covered, and you may walk for hours by merely stepping from one boat to another. The upper Yang-tse and the Han bring down large quantities of tea, furs, silk, wax, and other products, both for home use and for export. There are heavy exports of tea from Han-kow direct to England, and every year steamers go there to load with cargoes, which they take to London as rapidly as possible. Our friends were told that there was a large trade in brick tea, which was prepared for the Russian market; and as the boys were anxious to see the process of preparation, a visit to one of the factories was arranged. Frank made a note of what he saw and wrote it out as follows: [Illustration: A STREET IN HAN-KOW.] "The dry tea is weighed out into portions for single bricks, and each portion is wrapped in a cloth and placed over a steam-boiler. When it is thoroughly steamed, it is poured into a mould and placed beneath a machine, which presses it into the required shape and size. Some of the machines are worked by hand, and others by steam. Both kinds are very rapid and efficient, and we could not see that the steam had much advantage. Five men working a hand machine, and receiving twenty cents each for a day's labor, were able to press six bricks a minute, as we found by timing them with our watches. The steam press worked only a little faster, and the cost of fuel must have been about equal to that of human muscle. "Only the poorest kind of tea is made into bricks, and each brick is about six inches wide, eight inches long, and one inch thick. After it has been pressed, it is dried in ovens; and when it is thoroughly dried and ready for packing, it is weighed, to make sure that it is up to the required standard. All bricks that are too light are thrown out, to be mixed up again and done over. Nearly all of this business is in Russian hands, for the reason that this kind of tea is sold only in Russia." Doctor Bronson arranged that the party should visit Wo-chang and see a famous pagoda that stood on the bank of the river. There was not a great deal to see after they got there, as the place was not in good repair, and contained very little in the way of statues and idols. The stairways were narrow and dark, and the climb to the top was not accomplished without difficulty. Afterwards they went through the principal streets, and visited the shops, which they found much like those of Shanghai and Chin-kiang. The people showed some curiosity in looking at the strangers--more than they had found farther down the river--for the reason, doubtless, that fewer foreigners go there. [Illustration: WO-CHANG.] Wo-chang is the capital of the province of Hoo-peh, and the governor-general resides there. Our friends were fortunate enough to get a glimpse of this high official as he was carried through the streets in a sedan-chair, followed by several members of his staff. A Chinese governor never goes out without a numerous following, as he wishes the whole world to be impressed with a sense of his importance; and the rank and position of an official can generally be understood by a single glance at the number of his attendants, though the great man himself may be so shut up in his chair that his decorations and the button on his hat may not be visible. In a couple of days the steamer was ready for the return to Shanghai. The time had been well employed in visiting the streets and shops and temples of Han-kow, and learning something of its importance as a centre of trade. The return journey was begun with a feeling of satisfaction that they had taken the trouble and the time for the ascent of the Yang-tsu and made themselves acquainted with the internal life of the country. [Illustration: THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL AND HIS STAFF.] CHAPTER XXVI. FROM SHANGHAI TO PEKIN. On their return to Shanghai, the Doctor informed his young companions that they would take the first steamer up the coast in the direction of Pekin. They had only a day to wait, as the regular steamer for Tien-tsin was advertised to leave on the afternoon following their return. She was not so large and comfortable as the one that had carried them to Han-kow and back; but she was far better than no steamer at all, and they did not hesitate a moment at taking passage in her. They found that she had a Chinese crew, with foreign officers--the same as they had found the river-boat and the steamers from Japan. The captain was an American, who had spent twenty years in China, and knew all the peculiarities of the navigation of its waters. He had passed through two or three shipwrecks and been chased by pirates. Once he was in the hands of the rebels, who led him out for execution; but their attention was diverted by an attack on the town where they were, and he was left to take care of himself, which you can be sure he did. Another time he saved himself by crawling through a small window and letting himself fall about ten feet into a river. The night was dark, and he did not know where to go; but he thought it better to take the chance of an escape in this way, as he felt sure he would have his head taken off the next morning if he remained. Luckily he floated down to where a foreign ship was lying, and managed to be taken on board. He thought he had had quite enough of that sort of thing, and was willing to lead a quiet life for the rest of his days. They descended the river to the sea, and then turned to the northward. Nothing of moment occurred as the steamer moved along on her course, and on the morning of the third day from Shanghai they were entering the mouth of the Pei-ho River. The Doctor pointed out the famous Taku forts through the thin mist that overhung the water, and the boys naturally asked what the Taku forts had done to make themselves famous. [Illustration: ATTACK ON THE PEI-HO FORTS.] "There is quite a history connected with them," the Doctor answered. "They were the scene of the repulse of the British fleet in 1859, when an American commander came to its relief, with the remark, which has become historic, 'Blood is thicker than water!' In the following year the English returned, and had better success; they captured the forts and entered the river in spite of all that the Chinese could do to stop them. Do you see that low bank there, in front of a mud-wall to the left of the fort?" "Certainly," was the reply. "Well, that is the place where the sailors landed from the small boats for the purpose of storming the forts, while the gun-boats were shelling them farther up the river." "But it looks from here as if there were a long stretch of mud," Fred remarked. "You are right," the Doctor responded, "there is a long stretch of mud, and it was that mud which partly led to the failure at the time of the first attack. The storming force was compelled to wade through it, and many of the men perished. The fire of the Chinese was more severe than had been expected, and the ships of the fleet were badly injured. But when the attack was made the following year, the muddy belt was much narrower, and the sailors passed through it very quickly, and were at the walls of the fort before the Chinese were ready for them. "The navigation is difficult along the Pei-ho River, and the steamers of the attacking fleet found the passage barred by cables stretched across the stream. They had considerable trouble to break through these obstructions, but they finally succeeded, and the rest of the voyage to Tien-tsin was accomplished far more easily than the capture of the forts." As the steamer moved on against the muddy current, and turned in the very crooked channel of the Pei-ho, Frank espied a double-storied building with a wide veranda, and asked what it was. He was interested to learn that it was known as the Temple of the Sea-god, and had been at one time the residence of the Chinese commander of the Taku forts. It had a handsome front on the river, and a fleet of junks was moored directly above it. Each junk appeared to be staring with all the power of the great eyes painted on its bows, and some of the junks more distinguished than the rest were equipped with two eyes on each side, in order that they might see better than the ordinary craft. Flags floated from the masts of all the junks, and in nearly every instance they were attached to little rods, and swung from the centre. A Chinese flag twists and turns in the breeze in a manner quite unknown to a banner hung after the ways of Europe and America. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF THE SEA-GOD AT TAKU.] The river from Taku to Tien-tsin was crowded with junks and small boats, and it was easy to see that the empire of China has a large commerce on all its water-ways. The Grand Canal begins at Tien-tsin, and the city stands on an angle formed by the canal and the Pei-ho River. It is not far from a mile square, and has a wall surrounding it. Each of the four walls has a gate in the centre, and a wide street leads from this gate to the middle of the city, where there is a pagoda. The streets are wider than in most of the Chinese cities, and there is less danger of being knocked down by the pole of a sedan-chair, or of a coolie bearing a load of merchandise. In spite of its great commercial activity, the city does not appear very prosperous. Beggars are numerous, and wherever our friends went they were constantly importuned by men and women, who appeared to be in the severest want. [Illustration: A CHINESE BEGGAR.] The usual way of going to Pekin is by the road from Tien-tsin, while the return journey is by boat along the river. The road is about ninety miles long, and is one of the worst in the world, when we consider how long it has been in use. According to Chinese history, it was built about two thousand years ago. Frank said he could readily believe that it was at least two thousand years old, and Fred thought it had never been repaired since it was first opened to the public. It was paved with large stones for a good portion of the way, and these stones have been worn into deep ruts, so that the track is anything but agreeable for a carriage. The only wheeled vehicles in this part of China are carts without springs, and mounted on a single axle; the body rests directly on the axle, so that every jolt is conveyed to the person inside, and he feels after a day's journey very much as though he had been run through a winnowing-machine. The Chinese cart is too short for an average-sized person to lie in at full length, and too low to allow him to sit erect; it has a small window on each side, so placed that it is next to impossible to look out and see what there is along the route. Altogether it is a most uncomfortable vehicle to travel in, and the boys thought they would go on foot rather than ride in one of them. [Illustration: SIGNING THE TREATY OF TIEN-TSIN.] But it was not necessary to go on foot, as they were able to hire ponies for the journey, and it was agreed all round that a little roughness on horseback for a couple of days would do no harm. So they made a contract with a Chinese, who had been recommended to them by the consul as a good man, to carry them to Pekin. It was arranged that they should take an early start, so as to reach a village a little more than half way by nightfall, and they retired early in order to have a good night's sleep. They had time for a little stroll before they went to bed, and so they employed it in visiting the "Temple of the Oceanic Influences," where the treaty of Tien-tsin was signed after the capture of the Taku forts and the advance of the English to the city. The temple is on a plain outside of the walls, and contains a large hall, which was very convenient for the important ceremonial that took place there. At the time the treaty was signed the British officers were in full uniform, and made a fine appearance, while the Chinese were not a whit behind them in gorgeousness of apparel. Contrary to their usual custom, the Chinese did not think it necessary to hang up any elaborate decorations in the hall, and the attention of the spectators was concentrated on the dignitaries who managed the affair. There is another way of travelling in China, which is by means of a mule litter. This is a sort of sedan-chair carried by mules instead of men; one mule walks in front, and another in the rear, and the litter is supported between them on a couple of long shafts. The pace is slow, being always at a walk, except at the times when the mules run away and smash things generally, as happens not unfrequently. The straps that hold the shafts to the saddles of the mules have a way of getting loose, and leaving the box to fall to the ground with a heavy thud, which interferes materially with the comfort of the occupant. For invalids and ladies the mule litter is to be recommended, as well as for persons who are fond of having the greatest amount of comfort; but our young friends disdained anything so effeminate, and determined to make the journey on horseback. They took as little baggage as possible, leaving everything superfluous at Tien-tsin; six horses were sufficient for all the wants of the party--four for themselves and the guide, and two for the baggage. It was necessary to carry the most of the provisions needed for the journey to Pekin, as the Chinese hotels along the route could not be relied on with any certainty. No rain had fallen for some time, and the way was very dusty; but this circumstance only made it more amusing to the boys, though it was not so pleasing to the Doctor. Before they had been an hour on the road, it was not easy to say which was Fred and which Frank, until they had rendered themselves recognizable by washing their faces. Water was scarce, and not particularly good, and, besides, the operation of washing the face was an affair of much inconvenience. So they contented themselves with the dust, and concluded that for the present they wouldn't be particular about names or identity. At noon they had gone twenty-five miles through a country which abounded in villages and gardens, and had a great many fields of wheat, millet, cotton, and other products of China; the fields were not unlike those they had seen on their voyage up the Yang-tse; and as for the villages, they were exactly alike, especially in the items of dirt and general repulsiveness. The modes of performing field labor were more interesting than the villages; the most of the fields were watered artificially, and the process of pumping water attracted the attention of the boys. An endless chain, with floats on it, was propelled through an inclined box by a couple of men who kept up a steady walk on a sort of treadmill. There were spokes in a horizontal shaft, and on the ends of the spokes there were little pieces of board, with just sufficient space for a man's foot to rest. The men walked on these spokes, and steadied themselves on a horizontal pole which was held between a couple of upright posts. Labor is so cheap in China that there is no occasion for employing steam or wind machinery; it was said that a pump coolie was able to earn from five to ten cents a day in the season when the fields needed irrigation, and he had nothing to do at other times. [Illustration: MODE OF IRRIGATING FIELDS.] The night was passed at a village where there was a Chinese tavern, but it was so full that the party were sent to a temple to sleep. Beds were made on the floor, and the travellers managed to get along very well, in spite of the fleas that supped and breakfasted on their bodies, and would have been pleased to dine there. The boys were in a corner of the temple under the shadow of one of the idols to whom the place belonged, while the Doctor had his couch in front of a canopy where there was a deity that watched over him all night with uplifted hands. Two smaller idols, one near his head and the other at his feet, kept company with the larger one; but whether they took turns in staying awake, the Doctor was too sleepy to inquire. [Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S BEDROOM.] They were up very early in the morning, and off at daylight, somewhat to the reluctance of the guide, who had counted on sleeping a little longer. The scenes along the road were much like those of the day before, and they were glad when, just at nightfall, the guide pointed to a high wall in front of them, and pronounced the word "Pekin." They were in sight of the city. "I'm disappointed," said Fred. "Pekin isn't what I thought it was." "Well, what did you expect to find?" queried Frank. "Why, I thought it was on a hill, or something of the sort; I had no reason to think so, of course, but I had formed that picture of it." "Nearly every one who comes to Pekin is thus disappointed," said Doctor Bronson; "he expects to see the city from a distance, while, in reality, it is not visible till you are quite close to it." The walls were high, and there was nothing to be seen inside of them, as none of the buildings in that quarter were equally lofty. But the effect of the walls was imposing; there were towers at regular intervals, and the most of them were two stories above the level of the surrounding structure. For nearly a mile they rode along the base of one of the walls till they came to a gate that led them into the principal street. Once inside, they found themselves transferred very suddenly from the stillness of the country to the bustling life of the great city. [Illustration: PART OF THE WALL OF THE PEKIN.] "I'm not disappointed now," Fred remarked, as they rode along in the direction indicated by the guide; "the streets are so wide in comparison with those of the cities we have seen that they seem very grand, indeed." "You've hit it exactly, Fred," Doctor Bronson replied, "Pekin is called the 'City of Magnificent Distances' on account of the width of its streets, the great extent of the city, and the long walks or rides that are necessary for going about in it." "Evidently they took plenty of room when they laid it out," said Frank, "for it isn't crowded like Shanghai and the other places we have seen." It was dark when they reached the little hotel where they were to stay. It was kept by a German, who thought Pekin was an excellent place for a hotel, but would be better if more strangers would visit the city. His establishment was not large, and its facilities were not great, but they were quite sufficient for the wants of our friends, who were too tired to be particular about trifles. They took a hearty supper, and then went to bed to sleep away the fatigues of their journey. Next morning they were not very early risers, and the whole trio were weary and sore from the effect of the ride of ninety miles on the backs of Chinese ponies. Frank said that when he was sitting down he hesitated to rise for fear he should break in two, and Fred asserted that it was dangerous to go from a standing to a sitting position for the same reason. They determined to take things easily for the first day of their stay in Pekin, and confine their studies to the neighborhood of the hotel. With this object in view, they took short walks on the streets, and in the afternoon ventured on a ride in a small cart; or, rather, they hired two carts, as one was not sufficient to hold them. These carts are very abundant at Pekin, and are to be hired like cabs in European or American cities. They are not dear, being only sixty or seventy cents a day, and they are so abundant that one can generally find them at the principal public places. The carts, or cabs, are quite light in construction, and in summer they have shelters over the horses to protect them from the heat of the sun. The driver walks at the side of his team; and when the pace of the horse quickens to a run, he runs with it. No matter how rapidly the horse may go, the man does not seem troubled to keep alongside. The carts take the place of sedan-chairs, of which very few are to be seen in Pekin. [Illustration: A PEKIN CAB.] Another kind of cart which is used in the North to carry merchandise, and also for passengers, is much stronger than the cab, but, like it, is mounted on two wheels. The frame is of wood, and there is generally a cover of matting to keep off the heat of the sun. This cover is supported on posts that rise from the sides of the cart; but while useful against the sun, it is of no consequence in a storm, owing to its facility for letting the water run through. The teams for propelling these carts are more curious than the vehicles themselves, as they are indifferently made up of whatever animals are at hand. Oxen, cows, horses, mules, donkeys, and sometimes goats and dogs, are the beasts of burden that were seen by the boys in their rambles in Pekin and its vicinity, and on one occasion Fred saw a team which contained a camel harnessed with a mule and a cow. Camels come to Pekin from the Desert of Gobi, where great numbers of them are used in the overland trade between China and Russia. They are quite similar to the Arabian camel, but are smaller, and their hair is thicker, to enable them to endure the severe cold of the northern winter. In the season when tea is ready for export, thousands of camels are employed in transporting the fragrant herb to the Russian frontier, and the roads to the northward from Pekin are blocked with them. [Illustration: A COMPOSITE TEAM.] Walking was not altogether a pleasant amusement for our friends, as the streets were a mass of dust, owing to the carelessness of the authorities about allowing the refuse to accumulate in them. There is a tradition that one of the emperors, in a period that is lost in the mazes of antiquity, attempted to sweep the streets in order to make himself popular with the people; but he found the task too large, and, moreover, he had serious doubts about its being accomplished in his lifetime. So he gave it up, as he did not care to do something that would go more to the credit of his successor than of himself, and no one has had the courage to try it since that time. The amount of dirt that accumulates in a Chinese city would breed a pestilence in any other part of the world. Not only do the Chinese appear uninjured by it, but there are some who assert that it is a necessity of their existence, and they would lose their health if compelled to live in an atmosphere of cleanliness. One of the most interesting street sights of their first day in Pekin was a procession carrying a dragon made of bamboo covered with painted paper. There was a great noise of tom-toms and drums to give warning of the approach of the procession, and there was the usual rabble of small boys that precedes similar festivities everywhere. The dragon was carried by five men, who held him aloft on sticks that also served to give his body an undulating motion in imitation of life. He was not pretty to look upon, and his head seemed too large for his body. The Chinese idea of the dragon is, that he is something very hideous, and they certainly succeed in representing their conception of him. Dr. Bronson explained that the dragon was frequently carried in procession at night, and on these occasions the hollow body was illuminated, so that it was more hideous, if possible, than in the daytime. [Illustration: A CHINESE DRAGON.] CHAPTER XXVII. SIGHTS IN PEKIN. From their own observations and the notes and accounts of travellers who had preceded them, the boys made the following description of Pekin: "Pekin stands on a great sandy plain, and has a population of about two millions. It consists of two parts, which are separated by a wall; that towards the south is called the Chinese city, and that on the north the Tartar city. The Tartar city is the smaller both in area and population; it is said to measure about twelve square miles, while the Chinese city measures fifteen. There are thirteen gates in the outer walls, and there are three gates between the Tartar and the Chinese city. In front of each gate there is a sort of bastion or screen, so that you cannot see the entrance at all as you approach it, and are obliged to turn to one side to come in or go out. The Chinese city has few public buildings of importance, while the Tartar city has a great many of them. The latter city consists of three enclosures, one inside the other, and each enclosure has a wall of its own. The outer one contains dwellings and shops, the second includes the government offices, and the houses of private persons who are allowed to live there as a mark of special favor; while the third is called the Prohibited City, and is devoted to the imperial palace and temples that belong to it. Nobody can go inside the Prohibited City without special permission, and sometimes this is very hard to obtain; the wall enclosing it is nearly two miles in circumference, and has a gate in each of its four fronts, and the wall is as solid and high as the one that surrounds the whole city of Pekin. "We had no trouble in going to see the imperial palace, or such parts of it as are open to the public, and also the temples. We could readily believe what was told us--that the temples were the finest in the whole country, and certainly some of them were very interesting. There are temples to the earth, to the sun, the moon; and there are temples to agriculture, to commerce, and a great many other things. There is a very fine structure of marble more than a hundred feet high, which is called "The Gate of Extensive Peace." It is where the emperor comes on great public occasions; and beyond it are two halls where the foreign visitors are received at the beginning of each year, and where the emperor examines the implements used in the opening of the annual season of ploughing. The ploughing ceremony does not take place here, but in another part of the city, and the emperor himself holds the plough to turn the first furrow. There are some very pretty gardens in the Prohibited City, and we had a fine opportunity to learn something about the skill of the Chinese in landscape gardening. There are canals, fountains, bridges, flower-beds, groves, and little hillocks, all carefully tended, and forming a very pretty picture in connection with the temples and pavilions that stand among them. [Illustration: A PAVILION IN THE PROHIBITED CITY.] "We have seen many temples--so many, in fact, that it is difficult to remember all of them. One of the most impressive is the Temple of Heaven, which has three circular roofs, one above another, and is said to be ninety-nine feet high. The tiles on the top are of porcelain of the color of a clear sky, and the intention of the builder was to imitate the vault of heaven. On the inside there are altars where sacrifices are offered to the memory of former emperors of China, and on certain occasions the emperor comes here to take part in the ceremonies. [Illustration: TEMPLE OF HEAVEN.] [Illustration: PEKIN CASH.] "Then we went to see the great bell, which is one of the wonders of the world, though it is not so large as the bell at Moscow. It is said to weigh 112,000 pounds, but how they ever weighed it I don't know. It is a foot thick at the rim, about twenty feet high, and fifteen feet in diameter; it was cast more than two hundred years ago, and is covered all over, inside and outside, with Chinese characters. There is a little hole in the top of it where people try to throw copper cash. If they succeed, it is a sign that they will be fortunate in life; and if they fail, they must leave the money as an offering to the temple. All of us tried till we had thrown away a double-handful of cash, but we didn't get a single one of them through the hole. So if we fail now in anything, you will know the reason. [Illustration: TRADITIONAL LIKENESS OF CONFUCIUS.] [Illustration: GOD OF WAR.] "The Chinese have a great many gods, and pretty nearly every god has a temple in some part of Pekin. There is a fine temple to Confucius, which is surrounded by some trees that are said to be five hundred years old; the temple has a high roof which is very elaborately carved, and looks pretty both from a distance and when you are close by it. But there are no statues in the temple, as the Chinese do not worship Confucius through a statue, but by means of a tablet on which his name is inscribed. The other deities have their statues, and you may see the god of war with a long beard and mustache. The Chinese have very slight beards, and it is perhaps for this reason that they frequently represent their divinities as having a great deal of hair on their faces, so as to indicate their superiority to mortals. Then they have a god of literature, who is represented standing on the head of a large fish, and waving a pencil in his right hand, while he holds in his left a cap such as is worn by the literary graduates after they have received their degrees. The god of literature is worshipped a great deal by everybody who is studying for a degree, and by those whose ancestors or other relatives have been successful in carrying away the honors at an examination. Think what it would be to have such a divinity in our colleges and schools in America, and the amount of worship he would get if the students really believed in him! [Illustration: GOD OF LITERATURE.] [Illustration: GOD OF THIEVES.] "The Chinese have a god of thieves; but he has no temple, and is generally worshipped in the open air. All the thieves are supposed to worship him, as he is a saint who made their business successful; and, besides this, he is worshipped by those who wish to become wealthy in honest ways. He is said to have been a skilful thief, and very pious at the same time. He was kind to his mother, and the most of his stealing was done to support her. "One of the interesting places we have visited is the office of the Board of Punishments, which corresponds pretty nearly to our courts of justice. But one great point of difference between their mode of administering justice and ours is that they employ torture, while we do not. Not only is the prisoner tortured after condemnation, but he is tortured before trial, in order to make him tell the truth; and even the witnesses, under certain circumstances, are submitted to the same treatment. We saw some of the instruments that they use, and there was not the least attempt to keep us from seeing them. It is customary to have them piled or hung up at the doors of the courts, so that culprits may know what to expect, and honest persons may be deterred from wickedness through fear. It is the same principle that is followed by some of the school-teachers in America when they hang up in full view the stick with which they intend to punish unruly boys. [Illustration: A MANDARIN JUDGE DELIVERING SENTENCE.] "When we went into the court-room, a man had just been sentenced to receive twenty blows of the bamboo, and the sentence was immediately carried out. He was ordered to lie down with his face to the floor; his back was then stripped, and while his legs and arms were held by attendants, the executioner laid on the twenty blows with a bamboo stick about six feet long and two inches wide. One side of the stick was rounded and the other was flat; the flesh was blistered at every stroke, or raised in a great puff, and it is certain that the man must be some time in getting well. He did not scream or make the least outcry, but took his punishment patiently, and was raised to his feet at its end. He bowed to the judge, and, perhaps, thanked him for the attention he had received, and was then led away to make room for some one else. "The Chinese don't seem to have any nerves compared with what we have. They do not suffer so much as we do under tortures, and this is perhaps one of the reasons why they are so much more cruel than the people of Europe and America. For example, it would nearly kill a European to travel a week in carts such as we saw on the road from Tien-tsin to Pekin. The Chinese don't seem to mind it at all; and the best proof that they do not is that they have never invented any better or more comfortable way of travelling, or tried to improve their roads. And it is the same with their punishments in the courts. They don't care much for whippings, though it is not at all probable that they like them, and the only things that they appear to fear very much are the punishments that are prolonged. There are a good many of these, and I will tell you about some of the most prominent and best known. "Several times we have seen men with wooden collars three or four feet square, and with a hole in the centre, where the poor fellow's neck comes through. It is made of plank about two inches thick, and you can see that the load is a heavy one for a man to carry. He cannot bring his arms to his head; and if he has no friends to feed him, or no money to pay some one else to do so, he must starve. On the upper surface of the plank is painted the name of the criminal, together with the crime he has committed and the time he has been ordered to wear the collar. This instrument is called a 'cangue,' and is said to be in use all over China from one end of the country to the other. "There is a mode of torture which is chiefly used to extort confessions from persons accused of crime, and the result of its use is said to be that many a man has been induced to confess crimes of which he was entirely innocent, in order to escape from the terrible pain which is produced. The victim is compelled to stand against a post, and his cue is tied to it so that he cannot get away. His arms are tied to a cross-beam, and then little rods are placed between his fingers in such a way that every finger is enclosed. The rods are so arranged that by pulling a string the pressure on the fingers is increased, and the pain very soon becomes so great that most men are unable to endure it. If you want to know just how a little of it feels, I advise you to put one of your fingers between two lead-pencils and then squeeze the pencils together. You won't keep doing so very long. [Illustration: SQUEEZING THE FINGERS.] "They squeeze the ankles in much the same way, by making the man kneel on the ground, with his ankles in a frame of three sticks that are fastened together at one end by a cord like that of the finger-squeezer. Then, when all is ready, they pull at the cord and draw the sticks nearer to each other, so that pressure is brought on the ankles. The pain is intense, and the most demure Chinaman is not able to stand it without shrinking. This mode of torture, like the other, is used to make prisoners confess the crimes of which they are accused, and they generally confess them. It is said that witnesses may be subjected to the ankle torture, but with the modification in their favor that only one ankle can be squeezed at a time. Very kind, isn't it? [Illustration: SQUEEZING THE ANKLES.] "We went near the prison while we were in the Tartar city, and so it was proposed that we should see what there was inside. It was the most horrible place I have ever seen, and the wonder is that men can be found inhuman enough to condemn people to be shut up there. There was a large cage so full of men that there was not room on the floor for them all to lie down at once, even if they had been as close together as sardines in a can. We could see through the bars of the cage, as if the captives had been wild animals instead of human beings, and they looked so worn and wretched that we all pitied them very much. If a man is sent to prison in China, and has no money to pay for his food, he will die of starvation, as the jailers are not required by law to feed the prisoners under their charge. There were men chained, with iron collars around their necks; and others tied, with their hands and feet brought close together. The suffering was terrible, and we were glad to come away after a very few minutes. It is positive that we do not want to see another prison as long as we stay in this country. [Illustration: A BED OF TORTURE.] "In the Chinese prisons they torture men to make them confess, and also to compel them to tell if they have money, or any relatives or friends who have it. One of these cruelties is called 'putting a man to bed,' and consists in fastening him on a wooden bedstead by his neck, wrists, and ankles in such a way that he cannot move. He is compelled to pass the night in this position; and sometimes they give him a coverlet of a single board that presses on his body, and is occasionally weighted to make it more oppressive. The next morning he is released and told that he can be free until night, when he will be again tied up. Generally a man is willing to do anything in his power rather than pass a second night on such a bed. If he has money, he gives it up; and, no matter how reluctant he may be to call on his friends, he does so, sooner or later, and throws himself on their generosity. "They suspend men by the wrists and ankles; sometimes by one wrist and one ankle, and at others by all four brought closely together. Then they place a victim in a chair with his arms tied to cross-sticks, and in this position he is compelled to sit for hours in the most terrible pain. Another mode is by tying a man's hands together beneath his knees, and then passing a pole under his arm and suspending him from it. This is called 'the monkey grasping a peach,' and it is frequently employed to compel a rich man to pay heavily to escape punishment. How it got its name nobody can tell, unless it was owing to a supposed resemblance to the position of a monkey holding something in his paw. [Illustration: FOUR MODES OF PUNISHMENT.] "Just as we were coming out of the prison-yard we saw a man standing in a cage with his head through a board in the top, while his toes just touched the bottom. Unless he stood on tiptoe, the weight of his body fell on his neck; and everybody knows how difficult it is to remain on tiptoe for any length of time. Sometimes men are compelled to stand in this way till they die, but generally the punishment is confined to a few hours. It is the form most frequently employed for the sentence of criminals who have been robbing on the public highway, and are convicted of using violence at the time of committing their offences. [Illustration: STANDING IN A CAGE.] "I could go on with a long account of the tortures in China, but they are not very pleasant reading, and, besides, some of them are too horrible for belief. I will stop with the torture known as 'the hot-water snake,' which consists of a coil of thin tubing of tin or pewter in the form of a serpent. One of these coils is twisted around each arm of the victim, and another around his body, in such a way that the head of the snake is higher than any other part. Then they pour boiling water into the mouth of the snake, and the flesh of the prisoner is burned and scalded in the most terrible manner. This punishment is said to be used rarely, and only on persons accused of crimes against the government. It is too horrible to be popular, even among the most cold-blooded people in the world. [Illustration: HOT-WATER SNAKE.] "A good many of these punishments precede a much more merciful one, that of decapitation. The victim who is to suffer the loss of his head is carried to the place of execution in a small cage of bamboo, with his hands tied behind him, and the crime for which he is to suffer written on a piece of stiff paper and fastened to his hair. In one corner of the cage is a bucket, which is to hold his head after the executioner has cut it off; and frequently the pail with the head in it is hung near one of the gates of the city or in some other public place. When he reaches the execution-ground, he is required to kneel, and the executioner strikes his head off with a single blow of a heavy sword. The poor fellows who are to suffer death rarely make any opposition, and some of them seem quite willing to meet it. This is said to be due partly to the calmness of the Chinese, and partly to the fact that they have been so tortured and starved in their imprisonment that it is a relief to die. In most of the Chinese prisons the men condemned to death are usually kept until there are several on hand; then a general execution is ordered, and the whole lot of them are taken out to the place of decapitation. During the time of the rebellion they used to have executions by wholesale, and sometimes one or two hundred heads were taken off in a single morning. [Illustration: CARRYING FORTH TO THE PLACE OF EXECUTION.] "Very great crimes are punished by cutting the body into small pieces before decapitation, or, rather, by cutting it in several places. All the fleshy parts of the body are cut with the sword of the executioner before the final blow; and sometimes this species of torture goes on for an hour or two before the suffering of the victim is stopped by decapitation. There is a story that they have a lottery in which the executioner draws a knife from a basket. The basket is full of knives, and they are marked for various parts of the body. If he draws a knife for the face, he proceeds to cut off the cheeks; if for the hand, he cuts away one of the hands, and so on for all parts of the victim. If he is kindly disposed, or has been properly bribed, he will draw the beheading-knife first of all, and then he will have no occasion to use any other. [Illustration: JUST BEFORE DECAPITATION.] "Well, we have had enough of these disagreeable things, and will turn to something else. We passed by the place where the candidates for military honors compete for prizes by shooting with the bow and arrow. At the first examination they are required to shoot at a mark with three arrows, and the one who makes the best shots is pronounced the winner of the prize. At the second examination they must practise on horseback, with the horse standing still; and at the third they must shoot three arrows from the back of a running horse. Afterwards they are exercised in the bending of some very stiff bows and the handling of heavy swords and stones. There is a certain scale of merit they must pass to be successful; and when they succeed, their names are sent up for another examination before higher officials than the ones they have passed before. It is a curious fact that a man who does well as an archer is entitled to a degree among the literary graduates, though he may not be able to carry away a single prize for his literary accomplishments alone." [Illustration: MILITARY CANDIDATES COMPETING WITH THE BOW AND ARROW.] CHAPTER XXVIII. A JOURNEY TO THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. Pekin is not very far from the famous wall that was built to keep the empire of China from the hands of the Tartars. It is commonly mentioned as "The Great Wall," and certainly it is clearly entitled to the honor, as it is the greatest wall in the world. To go to Pekin without visiting the Great Wall would be to leave the journey incomplete; and therefore, one of the first things that our friends considered was how they should reach the wall, and how much time they would require for the excursion. We shall let the boys tell the story, which they did in a letter to their friends at home. It was written while they were on the steamer between Tien-tsin and Shanghai, on their return from Pekin. "We have been to the Great Wall, and it was a journey not to be forgotten in a minute. We found that we should have to travel a hundred miles each way, and that the roads were as bad as they usually are in most parts of China. We went on horseback, but took a mule litter along for use in case of accidents, and to rest ourselves in whenever one of us should become weary of too much saddle. There are no hotels of any consequence, and so we had to take the most of our provisions from Pekin. We did the same way as when we went from Tien-tsin; that is, we hired a man to supply all the necessary horses and mules for a certain price to take us to the wall and back; and if any of them should fall sick on the road, he was to furnish fresh ones without extra charge. We were advised to make the bargain in this way, as there was a danger that some of the horses would get lame; and if there were no provision for such a case, we should have to pay very high for an extra animal. The Chinese horse-owners are said to be great rascals--almost equal to some American men who make a business of buying and selling saddle and carriage animals. Doctor Bronson says he would like to match the shrewdest Chinese jockey we have yet seen with a horse-dealer that he once knew in Washington. He thinks the Yankee could give the Chinese great odds, and then beat him. [Illustration: WALKING ON STILTS.] "It was a feast-day when we left Pekin, and there were a good many sports going on in the streets, as we filed out of the city on our way to the north. There was a funny procession of men on stilts. They were fantastically dressed, and waved fans and chopsticks and other things, while they shouted and sang to amuse the crowd. One of them was dressed as a woman, who pretended to hold her eyes down so that nobody could see them, and she danced around on her stilts as though she had been accustomed to them all her life. In fact, the whole party were quite at home on their stilts, and would have been an attraction in any part of America. Whenever the Chinese try to do anything of this sort, they are pretty sure to do it well. [Illustration: JUGGLER SPINNING A PLATE.] "Then there were jugglers spinning plates on sticks, and doing other things of a character more or less marvellous. One of their tricks is to spin the plate on two sticks held at right angles to each other, instead of on a single stick, as with us; but how they manage to do it I am unable to say. They make the plate whirl very fast, and can keep it up a long time without any apparent fatigue. [Illustration: GAMBLING WITH A REVOLVING POINTER.] "We passed several men who had small establishments for gambling, not unlike some that are known in America. There was one with a revolving pointer on the top of a horizontal table that was divided into sections with different marks and numbers. The pointer had a string, hanging down from one end, and the way they made the machine work was to whirl the pointer, and see where the string hung when it stopped. The game appeared to be very fair, as the man who paid his money had the chance of whirling the pointer, and he might do his own guessing as to where it would stop. If he was right, he would win eight times as much money as he had wagered, since the board was divided into eight spaces. If he was wrong, he lost all that he put down, and was obliged to go away or try his luck again. The temptation to natives seems to be very great, since they are constantly gambling, and sometimes lose all the money they have. Gambling is so great a vice in China that a good many of its forms have been forbidden by the government. The case is not unusual of a man losing everything he possesses, even to his wife and children, and then being thrown naked into the streets by the proprietor of the place where he has lost his money. [Illustration: FORTUNE-TELLING BY MEANS OF A BIRD AND SLIPS OF PAPER.] "We stopped to look at some fortune-tellers, who were evidently doing a good business, as they had crowds around them, and were taking in small sums of money every few minutes. One of them had a little bird in a cage, and he had a table which he folded and carried on his back when he was moving from one place to another. When he opened business, he spread his table, and then laid out some slips of paper which were folded, so that nobody could see what there was inside. Next he let the bird out of the cage, which immediately went forward and picked up one of the slips and carried it to his master. The man then opened the paper and read what was written on it, and from this paper he made a prediction about the fortune of the person who had engaged him. "There was another fortune-teller who did his work by writing on a plate. He had several sheets of paper folded up, and from these he asked his customer to select one. When the selection was made, he dissected the writing, and showed its meaning to be something so profound that the customer was bewildered and thought he had nothing but good-fortune coming to him. We tried to get these men to tell our fortunes, but they preferred to stick to their own countrymen, probably through fear that they would lose popularity if they showed themselves too friendly with the strangers. [Illustration: FORTUNE-TELLING BY DISSECTING CHINESE CHARACTERS.] "The Chinese are great believers in fortune-telling, and even the most intelligent of them are often calling upon the necromancers to do something for them. They rarely undertake any business without first ascertaining if the signs are favorable; and if they are not, they will decline to have anything to do with it. When a merchant has a cargo of goods on its way, he is very likely to ask a fortune-teller how the thing is to turn out; and if the latter says it is all right, he gets liberally paid for his information. But in spite of their superstition, the Chinese are very shrewd merchants, and can calculate their profits with great accuracy. "Well, this is not going to the Great Wall. We went out of Pekin by the north gate, and into a country that was flat and dusty. Fred's pony was not very good-natured, and every little while took it into his head to balance himself on the tip of his tail. This was not the kind of riding we had bargained for, as it made the travel rather wearisome, and interfered with the progress of the whole caravan. We thought the pony would behave himself after a little fatigue had cooled his temper; but the more we went on, the worse he became. When we were about ten miles out, he ran away, and went tearing through a cotton-field as though he owned it, and he ended by pitching his rider over his head across a small ditch. "Then we found how lucky it was we had brought along a mule litter, as Fred rode in it the rest of the day. Next morning he made our guide change ponies with him. In half an hour the guide was in a mud puddle, and saying something in Chinese that had a very bad sound, but it didn't help dry his clothes in the least. On the whole, we got along very well with the ponies in the north of China, when we remember the bad reputation they have and the things that most travellers say about them. [Illustration: CHINESE RAZOR.] "We stopped at the village of Sha-ho, about twenty miles from Pekin; and as we had started a little late, and it was near sunset, we concluded to spend the night there. There was not much to see at the village, except a couple of fine old bridges built of stone, and so solid that they will evidently last a long time. A barber came around and wanted to shave us, but for several reasons we declined his proposal, and satisfied ourselves by seeing him operate on a native customer. The Chinese razor is a piece of steel of a three-cornered shape, and is fastened to a handle about four inches long. It is kept very sharp, as any well-regulated razor should be, and a barber will handle it with a great deal of dexterity. The Chinese haven't much beard to shave off, but they make up for it with a very thick growth of hair, which is all removed every ten or twelve days, with the exception of a spot on the crown about four inches in diameter. The hair on this spot is allowed to grow as long as it will, and is then braided into the cue or pigtail that everybody knows about. [Illustration: BARBER SHAVING THE HEAD OF A CUSTOMER.] "After we left Sha-ho the country became rough, and the road grew steadily worse. Our ponies were pretty sure-footed, but they stumbled occasionally, and Frank narrowly escaped a bad fall. The pony went down all in a heap and threw Frank over his head. He fell on a soft spot, and so was not injured; but if the accident had happened six feet farther on, or six feet farther back, it would have thrown him among the rough stones, where there were some very ugly points sticking up. [Illustration: BRIDGE OF THE CLOUDY HILLS.] "We found another fine bridge on this part of the road, and our guide said it was called the 'Bridge of the Cloudy Hills,' because the clouds frequently hung over the hills in the distance. The Chinese are very fond of fanciful names for their bridges and temples, and frequently the name has very little to do with the structure itself. I am told that there is a bridge in the south of China with exactly the same name as this, and not far from it is another called the 'Bridge of the Ten Thousand Ages.' We have seen the 'Temple of Golden Happiness' and the 'Bridge of Long Repose.' We shall be on the lookout for the 'Temple of the Starry Firmament,' and probably shall not be long in finding it. Strange that a people so practical as the Chinese should have so much poetry in their language! "We came to the village of Nan-kow, at the entrance of the Nan-kow Pass, and stopped there for dinner. Our ride had given us a good appetite, and though our cook was not very skilful in preparing our meal, we did not find fault with him, as we did not wish to run the risk of waiting while he cooked the things over again. The Chinese inn at Nan-kow is not so good as the Palace Hotel at San Francisco; in fact, it is as bad as any other hotel that we have seen. They don't have much pleasure travel in this part of the world, and therefore it does not pay them to give much attention to the comfort of their guests. "The Nan-kow Pass is about thirteen miles long, and the road through it is very rough. The mountains are steep, and we saw here and there ruins of forts that were built long ago to keep out the Tartar invaders of China. Our animals had several falls, but they got through without accident, and, what was more, they brought us to a village where there was an inn with something good to eat. [Illustration: THE GOD OF THE KITCHEN.] "What do you suppose it was? It was mutton, which is kept boiling in a pot from morning till night; and as fast as any is taken out, or the soup boils down, they fill the kettle up again. Mutton is very cheap here, as sheep are abundant and can be bought at the purchaser's own price, provided he will keep himself within reason. Great numbers of sheep are driven to Pekin for the supply of the city, and we met large flocks at several points on the road. Their wool has been exported to England and America; but it is not of a fine quality, and does not bring a high price. "We passed the ruins of forts and towers every few miles, and our guide pointed out some of the towers that were formerly used for conveying intelligence by means of signal-fires. They are now falling to pieces, and are of no further use. "This is the road by which the Tartars went to the conquest of China, and there is a story that the empire was lost in consequence of a woman. The Chinese were very much afraid of the Tartars, and they built the Great Wall to keep them out of the country. But a wall would be of no use without soldiers to defend it, and so it was arranged that whenever the Tartars were approaching, a signal should be sent along the towers, and the army would come to Pekin to defend it. "One day a favorite lady of the emperor's palace persuaded the emperor to give the signal, to see how long it would take for the generals and the army to get to Pekin. He gave the signal, and the army came, but the generals were very angry when they found they had been called together just to amuse a woman. They went back to their homes, and the affair was supposed to be forgotten. "By-and-by the Tartars did come in reality, and the signal was sent out again. But this time no army came, nor did a single general turn his face to Pekin. The city fell into the hands of the invaders, and they are there to-day. So much for what a woman did; but it sounds too much like the story of 'The Boy and the Wolf' to be true. "At the last place where we stopped before reaching the Great Wall we found the people very insolent, both to us and to the men in our employ. They said rude things to us, and perhaps it was fortunate that we did not understand Chinese, or we might have been disposed to resent their impudence, and so found ourselves in worse trouble. Our guide said something to a lama, or priest, and he managed to make the people quiet, partly by persuasion and partly by threats. Some of the men had been drinking too freely of sam-shoo, which has the same effect on them as whiskey has on people in America. It is not unusual for strangers in this part of China to be pelted with stones; but the natives are afraid to do much more than this, as they would thereby get into trouble. [Illustration: A LAMA.] "At the place where we reach the Great Wall there is a Chinese city called Chan-kia-kow; but it is known to the Russians as Kalgan. It is the frontier town of Mongolia, and the Russians have a great deal of commerce with it. It stands in a valley, and so high are the mountains around it that the sun does not rise until quite late in the forenoon. Doctor Bronson said there is a town somewhere in the Rocky Mountains of America which is so shut in that the sun does not rise there until about eleven o'clock next day; and we thought it might possibly be a relative of Chan-kia-kow. There is an odd sort of population here, as the merchants who trade with the Russians are from all parts of China; and then there are Mongols from the Desert of Gobi, and a very fair number of real Russians. [Illustration: THE HILLS NEAR CHAN-KIA-KOW.] "One curious article of trade consisted of logs from the country to the north. They are cut in lengths of about six feet, and are intended for coffins for the people of the southern part of the empire. Wood is scarce in the more densely inhabited portions of China, and must be carried for great distances. It is six hundred miles from the Great Wall to where these logs are cut, and so they must be carried seven hundred miles in all before they reach Pekin. The carts on which they are loaded are very strong, and have not a bit of iron about them. "We are now at the Great Wall, which comes straggling over the hills that surround the city, and forms its northern boundary. It is very much in ruins, but at the town itself there is a portion of it kept in good repair, and one of the gates is regularly shut at night and opened in the morning. Some of the old towers are still in their places; but the weather is slowly wearing them away, and in time they will all be fallen. "The Great Wall is certainly one of the wonders of the world, and it was very much so at the time of its construction. It was built two thousand years ago, and is about twelve hundred miles long. It runs westward from the shores of the Gulf of Pe-chi-li to what was then the western frontier of the Chinese Empire. For the greater part of the way it consists of a wall of earth faced with stone or brick, and it is paved on the top with large tiles. It is about twenty-five feet wide at the bottom, and diminishes to fifteen feet wide at the top, with a height of thirty feet. In many places it is not so substantial as this, being nothing more than a wall of earth faced with brick, and not more than fifteen feet high. At varying intervals there are towers for watchmen and soldiers. They are generally forty or fifty feet high, and about three hundred feet apart. "The wall follows all the inequalities of the surface of the earth, winding over mountains and through valleys, crossing rivers by massive archways, and stretching straight as a sunbeam over the level plain. "Think what a work this would be at the present day, and then remember that it was built two thousand years ago, when the science of engineering was in its infancy, and the various mechanical appliances for moving heavy bodies were unknown! "We spent a day at the Great Wall. We scrambled over the ruins and climbed to the top of one of the towers, and we had more than one tumble among the remains of the great enterprise of twenty centuries ago. Then we started back to Pekin, and returned with aching limbs and a general feeling that we had had a hard journey. But we were well satisfied that we had been there, and would not have missed seeing the Great Wall for twice the fatigue and trouble. They told us in Pekin that some travellers have been imposed on by seeing only a piece of a wall about thirty miles from the city, which the guides pretend is the real one. They didn't try the trick on us, and probably thought it would not be of any use to do so. "We did not stay long in Pekin after we got back from the Great Wall, as we had to catch the steamer at Tien-tsin. Here we are steaming down the coast, and having a jolly time. We are on the same ship that took us up from Shanghai, and so we feel almost as if we had got home again. But we are aware that home is yet a long way off, and we have many a mile between us and the friends of whom we think so often." CHAPTER XXIX. FROM SHANGHAI TO HONG-KONG.--A STORY OF THE COOLIE TRADE. The party reached Shanghai without accident, and on their arrival at that port the boys had a welcome surprise in the shape of letters from home. Their first letters from Japan had been received, and read and reread by family and friends. To judge by the words of praise that they elicited, the efforts of the youths at descriptive composition were eminently successful. Frank's mother said that if they did as well all through their journey as they had done in the beginning, they would be qualified to write a book about Japan and China; and a similar opinion of their powers was drawn from Fred's mother, who took great pride in her son. Mary and Effie composed a joint letter to Frank, to tell how much pleasure he had given them. They were somewhat anxious about the purchases, but were entirely sure everything would be correct in the end. Fred began to be a trifle jealous of Frank when he saw how much the latter enjoyed the communication from the girl who came to the railway station to see them off. He vowed to himself that before he started on another journey he would make the acquaintance of another Effie, so that he would have some one to exchange letters with. The letters were read and reread, and their perusal and the preparation of answers consumed all the time of the stay in Shanghai. The delay, however, was only for a couple of days, as the weekly steamer for Hong-kong departed at the end of that time, and our friends were among her passengers. Another of the ship's company was our old friend "the Mystery," who told Doctor Bronson that he had been travelling in the interior of Japan, and had only recently arrived from there. He was going to Canton, and possibly farther, but could not speak with certainty until he had arranged some business at Hong-kong. The steamer on which our friends were travelling was under the French flag, and belonged to the line popularly known as "the French Mail." The service between Europe and China is performed alternately by two companies, one of them English and the other French; and by means of these two companies there is a weekly ship each way. The French steamers are preferred by a great many travellers, as they are generally larger than the English ones, and are admirably arranged for comfort. They make the voyage from Shanghai to Marseilles in about forty days, calling at the principal ports on the way, and going through the Suez Canal. The English steamers follow very nearly the same route as the French ones, as long as they are in Eastern waters; but when they reach the Mediterranean Sea, they have two lines, one going to Venice and the other to Southampton. The official names of the two companies are "The Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company" (English), and "La Compagnie des Messageries Maritimes" (French). There were not many passengers, perhaps a dozen in all, and they were mostly merchants and other residents of Shanghai on their way to Europe or to some of the southerly ports of Asia. Two of the passengers were accompanied by their Chinese servants, and the boys were greatly amused to hear the efforts of the latter to speak English. They had already heard the same kind of thing during their movements in China, but had not paid much attention to it in consequence of their occupation with other matters. Now, however, they had some leisure for investigation, and Fred suggested that they had better take a glance at the Chinese language. A few glances were all they wanted, as Frank was not long in ascertaining that it would require years of study to acquaint himself with enough of the language to be able to converse in it. Fred learned, about the same time, that there was a written language and a spoken one, and the two were so unlike that a man can read and write Chinese without being able to speak it, and can speak without being able to read and write. They found that very few foreigners who came to China to stay for years ever troubled themselves to learn the language, but were contented with "pidgin English." Then the question very naturally arose, "What is pidgin English?" [Illustration: SPECIMEN OF CHINESE WRITING.] In a small book entitled "John, or Our Chinese Relations," Frank found something relating to pidgin English, which he copied into his note-book for future reference. When he had done with the volume, it was borrowed by Fred for the same purpose, and the boys gave a vote of thanks to the author for saving them the trouble to hunt up the information by asking questions of their friends. What they selected was as follows: "In attempting to pronounce the word 'business,' the Chinese were formerly unable to get nearer to the real sound than 'pidgin' or 'pigeon;' hence the adoption of that word, which means nothing more nor less than 'business.' Pidgin English is therefore business English, and is the language of commerce at the open ports of China, or wherever else the native and foreigner come in contact. A pidgin French has made its appearance in Saigon and at other places, and is steadily increasing as French commerce has increased. On the frontier line between Russia and China there is an important trading-point--Kiachta--where the commerce of the two empires was exclusively conducted for a century and a half. A pidgin Russian exists there, and is the medium of commercial transactions between the Russian and Chinese merchants. "Long ago the Portuguese at Macao had a corresponding jargon for their intercourse with the Chinese: and it may be safely stated that wherever the Chinese have established permanent relations with any country, a language of trade has immediately sprung into existence, and is developed as time rolls on and its necessities multiply. "The decline in Portuguese trade with China was accompanied with a corresponding decline in the language, but it left its impress upon the more recent pidgin English, which contains many Portuguese words. Pidgin English is a language by itself, with very little inflection either in noun, pronoun, or verb, and with a few words doing duty for many. The Chinese learn it readily, as they have no grammatical giants to wrestle with in mastering it, and the foreigners are quite ready to meet them on the road and adapt their phraseology to its requirements. The Chinese has only to commit to memory a few hundred words and know their meaning; the foreigner (if he be English-speaking) has less than a hundred foreign words to learn, together with the peculiar construction of phrases. The Chinese have printed vocabularies in which the foreign word and its meaning are set forth in Chinese characters, and thus they have no occasion to trouble themselves with the alphabet of the stranger. These books are specially intended for the use of _compradores_ and servants in foreign employ, and are so small that they can be readily carried in the pocket. "In pidgin English the pronouns _he_, _she_, _it_, and _they_ are generally expressed by the single pronoun _he_. All the forms of the first person are included in _my_, and those of the second person in _you_. When we come to the verbs, we find that action, intention, existence, and kindred conditions are covered by _hab_, _belongey_, and _can do_. Various forms of possession are expressed by _catchee_ (catch), while _can do_ is particularly applied to ability or power, and is also used to imply affirmation or negation. Thus: 'Can do walkee?' means 'Are you able to walk?' If so, the response would be 'Can do,' while 'No can do' would imply inability to indulge in pedestrianism. _Belongey_ comes from 'belong,' and is often shortened to a single syllable, _b'long_. It is very much employed, owing to the many shades of meaning of which it is capable. Thus: 'I live in Hong-kong' would be rendered 'My belongey Hong-kong side,' and 'You are very large' would be properly translated 'You belongey too muchee big piecee.' "The Chinese find great difficulty in pronouncing _r_, which they almost invariably convert into _l_. They have a tendency to add a vowel sound (_o_ or _e_) to words ending with a consonant. Bearing these points in mind, we readily see how 'drink' becomes _dlinko_, and 'brown' _blownee_. Final _d_ and _t_ are awkward for them to handle, and _th_ is to their lips an abomination of first-class dimensions. 'Child' becomes _chilo_, and 'cold' is transformed to _colo_, in pidgin English. 'That,' and other words beginning with _th_, generally lose the sound of _h_, though sometimes they retain _h_ and drop the _t_ before it. 'Side' is used for position, and the vocabulary contains _inside_, _outside_, _bottom-side_ (below), and _top-side_ (above). _Chop-chop_ means 'fast,' 'quick,' 'immediately;' _man-man_ means 'slowly,' 'slower,' 'gently,' in the south of China; while at Han-kow, on the Yang-tse, it means exactly the reverse. At Canton or Swatow, if you say _man-man_ to your boatmen, they will cease rowing or will proceed very lightly; say the same thing to your boatmen at Han-kow or Ichang, and they will pull away with redoubled energy." "As we have learned the principles of this new language," Frank remarked, "we ought to be able to understand some proverbs in it. For instance, here are four that contain whole heaps of good advice, besides showing us how to read pidgin English: "'Who man swim best, t'hat man most gettee dlown; Who lidee best he most catch tumble down.' "'One piecee blind man healee best, maskee; One piecee deaf man makee best look-see.' "'One man who never leedee, Like one dly inkstand be; You turn he top-side downey, No ink lun outside he.' "'Suppose one man much had--how bad he be, One not'her bad man may be flaid of he.'" "Those will do," Fred answered, "and here is Longfellow's famous poem 'Excelsior,' which every schoolboy knows, or ought to know. It was done into pidgin English by somebody who lived in the country and evidently knew what he was about: "'TOP-SIDE GALAH! [Illustration] "'T'hat nightee teem he come chop-chop One young man walkee, no can stop; Maskee snow, maskee ice; He cally flag wit'h chop so nice-- Top-side Galah! "'He muchee solly; one piecee eye Lookee sharp--so fashion--my: He talkee large, he talkee stlong, Too muchee culio; allee same gong-- Top-side Galah! "'Insidee house he can see light, And evly loom got fire all light; He lookee plenty ice more high, Insidee mout'h he plenty cly-- Top-side Galah! "'Olo man talkee, "No can walk, Bimeby lain come, velly dark; Have got water, velly wide!" Maskee, my must go top-side-- Top-side Galah! [Illustration] "'"Man-man," one girlee talkee he: "What for you go top-side look-see?" And one teem more he plenty cly, But alla teem walk plenty high-- Top-side Galah! [Illustration] '"Take care t'hat spilum tlee, young man, Take care t'hat ice, must go man-man." One coolie chin-chin he good night; He talkee, "My can go all light"-- Top-side Galah! [Illustration] "'T'hat young man die: one large dog see Too muchee bobbly findee he. He hand b'long coldee, all same like ice, He holdee flag, wit'h chop so nice-- Top-side Galah!'" "But does every Chinese who goes to a foreign country understand how to talk pidgin English?" Frank asked of Doctor Bronson. "Not by any means," was the reply; "thousands of them are not able to speak a word when they go abroad, but they gradually pick up the language of the country to which they go. Not all of them go to America or other English-speaking lands; many have gone to Cuba, Peru, and Brazil, where there was no need of a knowledge of English. Spanish and Portuguese are the only tongues in use there, and many an emigrant never took the trouble to learn a word of them." Their old acquaintance "the Mystery" had joined the party while the conversation just recorded was going on. When the Doctor made allusion to the emigration to Cuba and Peru, "the Mystery" opened his eyes a little wider than was his custom, and said he was well aware that many had gone to those countries who knew nothing but Chinese, and never learned a word of any other language. As the boys showed a desire to hear more on the subject, he proposed to tell them something about the coolie-trade; and it was arranged that they should assemble in the smoking-saloon after dinner, where they could talk at their leisure. After dinner they met as agreed, and "the Mystery" seated himself comfortably for the story he was about to tell. "The coolie-trade," said he, "does not exist any more. It was very much like the slave-trade, of which you have read; in fact, it was nothing more than the slave-trade with the form changed a little. In the African slave-trade the slaves were bought as one might buy sheep and cattle. In the coolie-traffic the men were hired for a term of years at certain stipulated wages, and were to be returned to their homes at the end of that term, provided all their debts had been discharged. The plan was all right on its face, but it was not carried out. When the period for which he was engaged was up, the coolie was always made to be in debt to his employer; and, no matter how hard he might work, he was not allowed to free himself. He was a slave to his master just as much as was the negro from Africa, and not one coolie in a thousand ever saw his native land again. [Illustration: BARRACOONS AT MACAO.] "Not only were the men hired on contracts that they could never cancel, but they were stolen, just as slaves are stolen in Africa. Boats were sent up the rivers in the southern part of China to bring back loads of coolies. They would land an armed party at a village, seize all the men in the place, and bring them to the port, where they would be transferred to the dealers, who would send them to the places where their labor was needed. Macao was the great port for the coolie trade, and the Portuguese had large sheds there, which they called _barracoons_, for holding the coolies in prison till they were ready to ship them away. These barracoons were sometimes so crowded that thousands of coolies died there in the course of a single year. The natives called them '_chu-tze-kuan_,' or 'pig-pens,' and they were so filthy that they richly deserved the name. "The name 'coolie' belongs properly to a tribe of natives on the northern coast of Africa, but it is applied to a laborer of any part of the East, and this is its meaning in Japan and China. [Illustration: COOLIES EMBARKING AT MACAO.] "The laborers who were to be taken to Cuba or Peru were received on board the ships, and counted as they came over the side, like so many boxes or bales of merchandise; in fact, they were nothing but merchandise, and the receipts were made out for a certain number of coolies without the least record of their names and residences. I was once in a ship that took a cargo of these people to Peru, and I don't believe that anybody on board felt otherwise than if he had been in the slave-trade. And we had a narrow escape from having our throats cut by our cargo and our bodies thrown into the sea." "Please tell us about that," said Fred. Frank echoed the request, and their informer nodded his consent. "The ship had taken its cargo at Macao, and we went out to sea with a fine breeze. We had over a thousand 'passengers' in the hold, and only a small number were to be allowed on deck at one time, as several ships had been captured by the coolies, and we did not intend to be taken if we could help it. Two days after we started there was trouble among the coolies, and several of them ran about the space below-deck and threatened to set the ship on fire. They did build a fire of some of the dry boards used for making their sleeping-berths; but we covered the hatches with tarpaulins, and held the smoke down there, so that the coolies were nearly smothered and compelled to put the fire out themselves. [Illustration: ENRAGED COOLIE.] "The hatchways were covered with gratings to admit of a free circulation of air, and they were so firmly fastened that the coolies could not disturb them. Several men were on deck when the trouble began, and one of them tried to get through the grating to join his companions. He managed to squeeze his body through the opening, and then discovered too late that he had a fall of nearly thirty feet before him, as the hatch of the lower deck was open. He struggled a moment, then dropped to the lower hold, and was killed by the fall. [Illustration: A DEADLY FALL.] "It became necessary to fire on the mutineers, and for this we raised the tarpaulins over one of the hatches. The smoke poured out in a dense mass and almost smothered us, and we could only see the forms of the men very dimly, like a ship in a fog. We fired, and continued to fire till several of them had been shot down, and all their efforts to get at us were of no avail. There were about sixty men in the crew, and, as we had over a thousand coolies on board, we had numbers against us fearfully. But they had no fire-arms, while we had a good supply of rifles and pistols, with plenty of ammunition. At the time of the outbreak there were not far from a hundred coolies on deck; but we drove them forward, and kept so large a guard over them that they could not have done anything to help their friends below if they had been disposed to do so. [Illustration: FIRING DOWN THE HATCHWAY.] "We got out of water, and the only way to reach what we had on board was by going down through the hold. Of course anybody who ventured there would be killed instantly; but we had the consolation of knowing that they could not get water any more than we could, as the place where it was stowed was fastened too securely for the coolies to open it with any tools they had on hand. We had a small condenser in the cook's galley, and with this we procured enough water to save us from death by thirst; but we refused to give a drop to the mutineers. "They held out for two days, and during all that time hardly a man of us slept more than a few minutes at a stretch. Many of the coolies were suffering terribly with thirst and hunger, and they asked to have their wants supplied while they were making negotiations for peace. The captain refused anything but the most unconditional surrender, and the only concession he would grant was to have the dead bodies passed up to be thrown overboard. Of course the coolies were very glad of this, as they were suffering from the fearful condition of the narrow space where they were confined. When this work was completed, they asked for half an hour's time to make a proposal for surrender, which was allowed them. [Illustration: THE WRITING IN BLOOD.] "Looking through the hatch, we could see them grouped together and engaged in earnest conversation. Two were dead or dying, and from one of them there was a stream of blood slowly oozing. A coolie who appeared to be a ringleader among them dipped his pen in the blood and wrote on a sheet of paper: "'We want three hundred coolies to be allowed on deck at a time. The ship must go back to the coast, and allow us to land at Whampoa, below Canton. We promise to make no trouble if this be done, but will burn the ship at once unless the captain agree to it.' "We knew that any promise they made would not amount to anything when they were once in possession of the deck, and, besides, to go back to China would be a complete surrender of the voyage. The captain did not hesitate a moment in his answer to this demand. "He opened one of the hatches just enough to allow one man to descend at a time, and through this hole he compelled all the coolies who were then on deck to pass. Then he told the interpreters to say that they might burn the ship as soon as they liked, and the crew would leave in the boats. The boats were made ready for lowering; and, as we were not far from the coast, and the wind was fair, there was not much doubt of our getting safe to Hong-kong. Not a coolie would escape, and we should take good care that the fire would be so far advanced before we left that it could not be put out. "In an hour we received another message, written in blood, like the first. It promised to deliver the ringleaders of the mutiny, to be kept in irons till we arrived at our destination, and also promised that there should be no more attempts to set fire to the ship. The captain was to fix the number of men to be on deck at one time, and they were to obey his orders without question. In fact, the surrender was complete. "We had no trouble after that; but we only allowed fifty men on deck at one time, and those under a strong guard. You can be sure we were in a hurry to finish the voyage, which we did without accident. I had had all I wanted of the coolie-trade, and never went on another voyage like that." [Illustration: THE INTERPRETERS.] CHAPTER XXX. HONG-KONG AND CANTON.--CHINESE PIRATES. The story of the coolie-trade and some of the conversation that followed cleared the mystery that surrounded the narrator and had given him the name by which he was known. He had been an active participant in the peculiar commerce of the East, which includes the violation of laws whenever they prove inconvenient, such as the smuggling of opium and the shipment of coolies to the countries where they are in demand. His latest venture was one that required considerable secrecy, as it involved the purchase of arms for the rebels in Japan. For this reason he had been very cautious in his movements around Yokohama and during his whole stay in Japan, and he had found it judicious to leave the country on the vessel that came so near being wrecked in the typhoon that overtook our friends. He was safely away from Japan now, and the arms that he had purchased for the rebels were in the hands of the government. He had made money by the operation, and was on the lookout for something new. "That man belongs to a class which is not at all rare in the far East," said Doctor Bronson to the boys when the subject of the conversation had left them. "A great many adventurers find their way here, some of them being men of ability which borders on genius, while the others are not far removed from rascals. Ward and Burgevine were of the better sort; and there are others whom I could name, but they are not so numerous as the other and worse variety. They are very often men of good manners, and not at all disagreeable as travelling companions, but it is not advisable to be intimate with them. Travelling, like poverty, makes us some strange acquaintances. We can learn a great deal from them if we proceed properly; and if we know where the line of familiarity should be drawn, we are not in any danger of suffering by it." The morning after the above conversation the steamer arrived at Hong-kong, and dropped anchor in the harbor. She was immediately surrounded by a fleet of small boats, which competed eagerly among themselves for the patronage of the passengers. Our friends selected one which was rowed by a couple of women, and had a group of children in a little pen at the stern. Doctor Bronson explained to the boys that in Southern China a great deal of the boating is done by women, and that entire families live on board the little craft on which they earn their existence. The boat population of Canton numbers more than sixty thousand persons. They are not allowed to live on shore, and their whole lives, from birth to death, are passed on the water. The most of the boatmen and boatwomen at Hong-kong come from Canton, which is only ninety miles away; and as they have privileges at the former place which are denied them in the latter, they are quite satisfied to stay where they are. [Illustration: HONG-KONG.] Hong-kong is a rocky island on the coast of China, and has an excellent harbor, sheltered from most of the winds that blow. The town of Victoria is built at the edge of this harbor, and the streets that lead back from the water are so steep that the effort of climbing them is liable to throw a stranger from the North into a violent perspiration. Fortunately, there is an abundance of sedan-chairs, and any one who wishes to take a promenade may do his walking by hiring a couple of chair-coolies to do it for him. The chairs are everywhere, and it is generally desirable to hire one in order to be rid of the continual applications from those that are unemployed. At the wharf where they landed the Doctor engaged porters to carry the baggage to the hotel, and then took chairs for the transportation of himself and the boys. As they had the afternoon before them, the chairs were kept for making the ascent of the mountain just back of the town, and as soon as the rooms were secured, and a slight lunch had been served, they started on their excursion. At the highest point of the mountain--about eighteen hundred feet above the water-level--there is a signal-station, where all vessels coming into port are announced by means of flags. Our friends were carried along a zigzag road to this station, the coolies stopping every few minutes to rest from the fatigue of ascending a steep road with a burden on their shoulders. At the station they had a view extending a long distance out to sea and over the coast of China, and the mountain was so nearly perpendicular that it seemed as if they could toss a penny on the town or into the harbor. Fred tried it, and so did Frank; but after throwing away several ounces of copper, and finding they only went a short distance, they abandoned the experiment. They returned well satisfied with the excursion, and agreed that no one who visits Hong-kong should omit the journey to the top of the mountain. Hong-kong, being an English colony, is governed after the English form, and consequently the laws enforced in China do not necessarily prevail on the island. The population includes four or five thousand English and other European nationalities, and more than a hundred thousand Chinese. The number of the latter is steadily increasing, and a very large part of the business of the place is in their hands. The money in circulation is made in England for the special use of the colony. It has the head of the Queen on one side, and the denomination and date on the other; and, for the accommodation of the Chinese, the denomination is given in Chinese characters. The smallest of the Hong-kong coins is made to correspond with the Chinese cash, and it takes ten of them to make a cent, or one thousand for a dollar. It has a hole in the centre, like the Chinese coins generally, to facilitate stringing on a wire or cord, and is so popular with the natives that it is in free circulation in the adjacent parts of the empire. [Illustration: Obverse. Reverse. FAC-SIMILE OF A HONG-KONG MILLE.] [Illustration: Obverse. Reverse. FAC-SIMILE OF A HONG-KONG DIME.] [Illustration: Obverse. Reverse. FAC-SIMILE OF A HONG-KONG CENT.] There was not a great deal to be seen in the town, and so the next morning the three travellers started for Canton. There is a boat each way daily, and the journey is made in seven or eight hours; the boys found that the boat in which they went was of American construction, and had an American captain, and so they felt at home, as they had felt on the Yang-tse under similar circumstances. Soon after they left the dock, Frank observed that the gangway leading to the lower deck was covered with a grating fastened with a padlock, and that a Malay sailor stood over it with a sword in his hand and a pistol at his belt. He called Fred's attention to the arrangement, and as soon as they found the captain at leisure they asked what it meant. "It's a very simple matter," said Captain B----, "when you know about it. The fact is, that we were once very near losing our lives by Chinese pirates, and we don't propose to have another risk like it." "Why, what could pirates have to do with this boat, I wonder?" said Frank. "We didn't know at the time," was the reply, "but we found out." "How was that?" "Well, it seems that some Chinese pirates determined to capture this boat, murder all the foreigners on board, rob the Chinese passengers, and then get away on a junk that was to be ready to receive them. They made their plans, and on a certain day fifty of them took passage from Canton to Hong-kong. When about half way, they were to meet a junk with more men; and as the junk hung out her signal and came near, the fellows were to fall upon us with their knives, and capture the boat. They intended to kill us all, but their scheme failed, as there were four ships at anchor that day close by the spot where the junk was to meet them, and so the junk took the alarm and left. There was no disturbance, and we did not have a suspicion of anything wrong. Finding they had failed with us, they went the next day and captured the steamer _Spark_, which runs between Canton and Macao. They killed the captain and officers and the only European passenger who happened to be on board, plundered all the native passengers, and got away. Some of them were afterwards captured, and confessed to their part in the affair, and then the whole story came out that they had intended to rob this boat. Since then we always have the gratings down, so that the third-class passengers cannot come on deck; and we keep plenty of rifles and revolvers in the pilot-house and captain's cabin ready for use. They may never try it on us again, and we don't intend to give them a chance to do so." [Illustration: FORT IN CANTON RIVER.] The captain went on to say that there were many pirates in the waters around Canton, and all along the southern coast. The government tries to suppress them, but it is not easy to do so, and hardly a day passes without the report of a robbery somewhere. All trading-junks are obliged to go heavily armed, and out of this fact comes a great deal of the piracy, as a junk may be a peaceful trader at one o'clock, a pirate at two, and a peaceful trader again at three. It takes very little to induce a Chinese captain to turn pirate when he sees a rich prize before him, and he has no trouble in winning over his crew. It is impossible to distinguish the pirate from the trader; and as the coast is seamed with island passages and indented with bays, it is easy for a junk to escape after she has committed a robbery. The voyage from Hong-kong to Canton is partly among islands and through a bay, and partly on the Pearl River. The navigation is easy in the first part of the course, but after the steamer has reached the narrower portion of the river the great number of junks and other craft compels a sharp lookout on the part of the pilots, to avoid accidents. They passed the famous Whampoa Anchorage, where the ocean-bound ships used to receive their cargoes before Hong-kong assumed its present importance. A few miles farther on, the great city of Canton was brought into sight as the steamer swung around a bend in the river. In front was the island of Ho-nan, with its temple bowered in trees, and on the surface of the river there were thousands of boats of many kinds and sizes. The boys remembered what they had heard of the boat population of Canton, and now they realized that they had reached a city where sixty thousand people make their homes on the water. Before the steamer stopped she was surrounded by dozens of the smaller boats, and, as soon as they could do so, many of the boatwomen came on board. The captain recommended one of them who was known as "American Susan," and the trio were confided to her care for transfer to the hotel on Ho-nan Island. Susan and her attendant women shouldered the valises which the travellers had brought from Hong-kong, and led the way to her boat. The gallantry of the boys received a shock when they saw their baggage carried by women, while their own hands were empty; but the Doctor told them it was the custom of the country, and by carrying their own valises they would deprive the women of an opportunity of earning a few pennies. To this view of the matter they yielded; and before they had recovered their composure the boat was gliding across the river, propelled by the powerful arms of her feminine crew. Susan proposed to be in their employ during their stay at Canton, and a bargain was speedily concluded; for fifty cents at day, the boat was to be at their disposal from morning till night to carry them over the river, or to any point they wished to visit along its banks. Frank thought they would be obliged to look a long time to find a boat with two men at the oars for a similar price in New York, and Fred thought they would have to look still longer to find one rowed by two women. They had three or four hours to spare before sunset, and at once set about the business of sight-seeing. Their first visit was to the temple on the island, and they were followed from the landing by a crowd of idle people, who sometimes pressed too closely for comfort. There was an avenue of trees leading up to the temple, and before reaching the building they passed under a gateway not unlike those they had seen at the temples in Kioto and Tokio. The temple was not particularly impressive, as its architectural merit is not of much consequence, and, besides, it was altogether too dirty for comfort. There was quite a crowd of priests attached to it, and they were as slovenly in appearance as the building they occupied. In the yard of the temple the strangers were shown the furnaces in which the bodies of the priests are burned after death, and the little niches where their ashes are preserved. There were several pens occupied by the fattest pigs the boys had ever seen. The guide explained that these pigs were sacred, and maintained out of the revenues of the temple. The priests evidently held them in great reverence, and Frank intimated that he thought the habits of the pigs were the models which the priests had adopted for their own. Some of the holy men were at their devotions when the party arrived, but they dropped their prayer-books to have a good look at the visitors, and did not resume them until they had satisfied their curiosity. [Illustration: GATEWAY OF TEMPLE NEAR CANTON.] From the temple they proceeded to a garden, where they had an opportunity of seeing some of the curious productions of the Chinese gardeners in the way of dwarfing trees and plants. There were small bushes in the shape of animals, boats, houses, and other things, and the resemblance was in many cases quite good. They do this by tying the limbs of the plants to little sticks of bamboo, or around wire frames shaped like the objects they wish to represent; and by tightening the bandages every morning, and carefully watching the development of the work, they eventually accomplish their purpose. If they represent a dog or other animal, they generally give it a pair of great staring eyes of porcelain, and sometimes they equip its mouth with teeth of the same material. Many of the Chinese gardens are very prettily laid out, and there are some famous ones near Canton, belonging to wealthy merchants. On their return from the garden they stopped at a place where eggs are hatched by artificial heat. They are placed over brick ovens or furnaces, where a gentle heat is kept up, and a man is constantly on watch to see that the fire neither burns too rapidly nor too slowly. A great heat would kill the vitality of the egg by baking it, while if the temperature falls below a certain point, the hatching process does not go on. When the little chicks appear, they are placed under the care of an artificial mother, which consists of a bed of soft down and feathers, with a cover three or four inches above it. This cover has strips of down hanging from it, and touching the bed below, and the chickens nestle there quite safe from outside cold. The Chinese have practised this artificial hatching and rearing for thousands of years, and relieved the hens of a great deal of the monotony of life. On the river, not far from the hatching establishment, they saw a man engaged in the novel occupation of herding ducks. A hundred or more ducks were on the water, and the man was near them in a small boat and armed with a long pole. The ducks were very obedient to him, but occasionally one would show a little opposition to the herder's wishes, and endeavor to stray from his companions. A rap from the pole brought him speedily to his senses, and back to the herd, and he was pretty certain not to stray again till the blow had been forgotten. Geese were herded in the same way, and both they and the ducks managed to pick up a good part of their living from the water. Ducks are an important article of food among the Chinese, and the rearing of them gives occupation to a great many persons in all parts of the empire. CHAPTER XXXI. SIGHTS AND SCENES IN CANTON. The party remained three days at Canton. They rose early every morning, and went on excursions through and around the city, and it is fair to say that they did not have a single idle moment. Each of the boys made careful notes of what he saw and heard, and by the end of their stay both had enough to fill a small volume. They returned to Hong-kong on the fourth day, and on the morning after their return they sat down to write the story of their adventures. But before they began writing the projected letter a discussion arose between them, which was about like this: They expected the steamer to arrive from America in a day or two, and it would doubtless bring letters for them, which would determine their future movements. They expected to return home by way of San Francisco, as they had come; but it was by no means improbable that they would keep on to the westward, and so go around the world by way of India and Europe. "What is the use of writing up our Canton experiences," said Frank, "till we know what we are to do? If we go home by San Francisco, we will have plenty of time on the steamer; and if we go on to the west, we will have to go by steamer too; and then we will have time enough between Hong-kong and the first port we stop at. Why should we be in a hurry to write up our account, when, in any case, we shall have the time to do so while we are at sea?" Fred admitted the force of the argument, but thought there would be an advantage in writing while the subject was fresh in their minds. While they were debating the pros and cons of the case, the Doctor came into the room, and the question was appealed to him. After careful deliberation, he rendered a decision that covered the case to the perfect satisfaction of both the disputants. "It will be several days, at any rate," said he, "before we can leave Hong-kong, whether we go east or west. Now, I advise you to take an hour each day for writing up your story of Canton, and you will then have plenty of time for sight-seeing. You will have ended your writing before we leave, and then can devote your time at sea to other things which the voyage will suggest." His suggestion was adopted, and they at once set about their work, determined to write two hours daily till they had described Canton so fully that their friends would know exactly what was to be seen there. They divided the work, as they had done on previous occasions, one of them making a description of a certain part of their route, and the other taking another portion of it. When they were through with it, they put the two stories together, and found that they fitted to perfection. Here is what they wrote: "Canton is the capital of the province of Kwang-tung, and its name in English is a corruption of the Chinese one. The people who live there call it 'Kwang-tung-sang-shing,' and the Portuguese call it Kam-tom, and they write it that way. It is called the City of Rams, just as Florence is called the Beautiful City, and Genoa the Haughty; and the Chinese who live there are very proud of it. The climate is warm, the thermometer rising to 85° or 90° in the summer, and rarely going below 50° in winter. Occasionally ice forms to the thickness of heavy paper, and once in five or ten years there will be a slight fall of snow, which astonishes all the children, and many of the older people. "The population is said to be about a million, on land and water. Those who live in boats are about sixty thousand. The city was founded more than two thousand years ago, according to the Chinese historians, but it was not surrounded with a wall until the eleventh century. The wall to-day is the same that was first built, but it has been repaired and changed a good deal in the time it has stood, and some new parts have been added. The circuit of the walls is about seven miles, but there are suburbs that now form a part of the city, so that it is a journey of not less than ten miles to go around Canton. "There are sixteen gates to the city, and each has a name that designates its position. There are two pagodas near the West Gate, and there are a hundred and twenty-four temples, pavilions, and halls inside the walls of Canton. Then there are four prisons, and there is an execution ground, where many a poor fellow has lost his head. The prisons are like all such establishments in China, and a great many men would prefer death to incarceration in one of these horrible places. "We don't know positively whether there are a million people in Canton or not. We took the figures from the guide-book, just as everybody else takes them, and we want to acknowledge our indebtedness to it. The guide-book is very useful in a strange country, as it tells you in a few minutes what you might spend hours or days in learning. It gives you an outline which you must fill in for yourself by practical observation; and unless you have it with you, there is a great deal that you may miss, if your time is limited, and you are compelled to do your sight-seeing rapidly. [Illustration: STREET SCENE IN CANTON.] "When we came in sight of Canton, we saw some buildings that rose far above all others, and very naturally we asked what they were. We were somewhat taken aback when told that they were pawnbrokers' establishments, and of course they were among the things we went to look at. They were filled from top to bottom with clothing and other things, and our guide explained to us that the Chinese are in the habit of pawning everything they are not using, for the double reason that they get money which they can use, and at the same time they save the trouble of taking care of the property. At the beginning of winter they pawn their summer clothes, and at the beginning of summer they pawn their winter clothes. All other things on which they can borrow money they take to the pawn-shop, even when they are not obliged to have the cash. It saves the trouble of storing the goods themselves, and running the risk of having them stolen. "We went through one of the pawn-shops, climbing stairway after stairway, and being almost stifled in the narrow and musty places we were obliged to go through. The goods were done up in packages, each one of them being labelled and ticketed, and there was a register down-stairs, so that any desired package could be found when wanted. Diamonds and other articles of great value were kept in safes near the basement, and the least costly goods were near the roof. There must have been many thousands of things stowed away in this pawn-shop. The building was said to be fire-proof, and its great height was intended to secure it against thieves. "Close by the door of this establishment there was an opium den, where a dozen or more men were intoxicating themselves with opium, or sleeping off the effects of what they had already taken. We just looked in for a moment; it was so much like the place of the same kind that we saw in Shanghai that we did not care to stay, and, besides, the smell was very bad and the heat almost stifling. The Cantonese are said to be just as inveterate smokers of the deadly drug as the people of the North; in fact, it is about the same all over China, and with all classes that can afford to indulge in the vice. Only the middle and poorer classes go to the shops to smoke opium. The rich people can enjoy the luxury at home, and some of them have rooms in their houses specially fitted up for it. "We saw a good many temples, and went through some of them, but, on the whole, they were rather disappointing, as they were not so fine as those at Pekin, and far behind those of Japan. The most interesting of the pagodas is the one known as the 'Five-storied Pagoda,' so called because it is five stories high. It stands on a hill that overlooks the whole city on one side, and a large cemetery on the other; and when you have climbed to the top, the view is very fine. The roofs of the houses are of all shapes and kinds, and the streets are so narrow that you can see very few of them as you look down from the top of the pagoda. On the one hand you have a densely peopled city of the living, and on the other an equally densely peopled city of the dead. Our guide said the cemetery had more inhabitants than the city; and when we asked him how many people lived there, he said 'Many millions.' You have to come to China to learn that the people in a cemetery are supposed to live there. [Illustration: FIVE-STORIED PAGODA.] "And yet the guide was not so far out of the way, according to the Chinese idea. The Chinese bring food to the graves of their friends, and leave it there as an offering. The spirits of the dead are believed to linger around the spot and to eat this food, but it is really devoured by the priests and others who stay around the cemetery, and what they do not eat or carry away is consumed by the birds. At certain seasons they have grand festivals, when many thousands of people go to the cemeteries with offerings for the dead, and good things for themselves. The affair is more like a picnic than a ceremony of mourning; and when it breaks up, the mourners go to the theatre or some other place of amusement. The best burial-place is on a hill-side, and the tomb is made in the form of a terrace, or rather of three terraces, with steps leading up to them. As you look at it from a little distance, the tomb has the shape of a horseshoe, or, better still, of 'Omega,' the last letter of the Greek alphabet. [Illustration: HORSESHOE OR OMEGA GRAVE.] "Our guide said that not only do they make offerings in the cemeteries to the spirits of the dead, but they have shrines in their houses where the dead are worshipped. To prove what he said was true, he took us into a house and showed one of these shrines with bowls of rice and fruit, cups of tea, and other things, on a table. He explained that when the offerings were made they sent for a priest, who came with two men to assist him; and while the priest stood behind the table and repeated his prayers, one of his attendants pounded on a drum, and the other rang a bell. There was a fire in front of the shrine, and during the time the priest was performing the man who gave the feast knelt before the fire and burned some mock money, made out of silver paper in imitation of real coin. When the affair was over, the priest took all that he wanted from the table, and the remainder was eaten by the company who had been invited. [Illustration: PRESENTING FOOD TO THE SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.] "Not a great distance from the five-storied pagoda we saw the leper hospital, where the unfortunate people who suffer from leprosy are compelled to live, and soon to die. The sight was a horrible one, and we did not want to stay long among the sufferers. We had expected to find a large building, like a hospital in America, but instead of this there were several small buildings, grouped together in a little village, some of the houses having garden patches near them. The people were lying or sitting around in the sun, and some few of them were at work in the gardens. The most were not able to do anything, as they were suffering from the disease, which was slowly killing or crippling them. [Illustration: A LEPER.] "The guide said there were two kinds of leprosy, the 'wet' and the 'dry.' In the wet leprosy the body of the victim abounds in running sores, while in the dry there is nothing of the sort, and the appearance of the skin is not greatly different from what it is in health. The disease generally attacks the joints of the hands or feet, particularly those of the former, and the sufferer loses the first joint of the fingers and thumbs at about the same time. Then, in a few months, he loses the second joints, and in two or three months more the third joints go. We saw lepers in all the stages of the disease--some with the first joints of the hands gone, others who had lost the second joints, and others the third; while others, again, had lost the hands at the wrists. There seems to be no cure for most of the forms of the leprosy; and when a man is attacked with it, he must go at once to the hospital, no matter whether he is rich or poor. And when he has gone there, he generally remains till death relieves him from his sufferings. [Illustration: A LITERARY STUDENT.] "One of the curious places we saw was the Hall of Examinations. This is a large enclosed space, having rows on rows of little cells, where the candidates for the literary degree are examined once in every three years. There are eleven thousand of these cells, and each cell is just large enough for one man to occupy. The candidates are put in these cells, and each man is furnished with a sheet of paper and a pen. He must write on the paper any given page of the Chinese books called 'The Classics' without mistake or alteration, and he is not allowed to try a second time until the next examination comes round. There are men who keep on trying all their lives for the degree, and they tell of one man who succeeded after he was eighty years old. The candidates try all sorts of tricks to smuggle in copies of the books on which they are to be examined, and also extra sheets of paper; but they are carefully searched, and everything of the sort is taken away from them. [Illustration: A LITERARY GRADUATE IN HIS ROBES OF HONOR.] "There is a story in Pidgin-English verse of how a Chinese student befriended an American, who was a photographer by profession. The American believed that one good turn deserved another, and so, when the examination time came round, he photographed 'The Classics' on the finger-nails of his Oriental friend. The student was allowed to wear spectacles during his examination, and so he bought a pair of magnifying-glasses that enabled him to read every word that he wanted. He came out at the head of his class, and was no doubt very thankful that he had done a kindly action towards a stranger. [Illustration: A SEDAN-CHAIR WITH FOUR BEARERS.] "But the great sights of Canton we have not yet mentioned. These are the streets, and they are by all odds the finest we have seen in the country. They are very narrow, few of them being more than six or eight feet wide, and some of them less than the former figure. Not a single wheeled carriage can move in all Canton, and the only mode of locomotion is by means of sedan-chairs. We had chairs every day with four bearers to each, and it was strange to see how fast the men would walk in the dense crowds without hitting any one. They kept calling out that they were coming, and somehow a way was always made for them. Several times, when we met other chairs, it was no easy matter to get by, and once we turned into a side street to allow a mandarin's chair to pass along. We did knock down some things from the fronts of stores, and several times the tops of our chairs hit against the perpendicular sign-boards that hung from the buildings. There are great numbers of signs, all of them perpendicular, and they are painted in very gaudy colors, so that the effect is brilliant. Sometimes, as you look ahead, the space between the two sides of the street is quite filled with these signs, so that you cannot see anything else. "The streets are not at all dirty, and in this respect are vastly different from those of any other city we have seen in China. The authorities evidently pay some attention to keeping them clean and preventing the accumulation of dirt. The fronts of many shops are fully open to the street, and the merchants know how to arrange their wares in the most tempting manner. You see lots of pretty things, and are constantly tempted to buy, and it was very well for us that we agreed not to buy anything till the last day, which we were to devote to shopping. [Illustration: A SMALL FOOT WITH A SHOE ON IT.] "Nearly all the vast crowd in the streets consisted of men; now and then a woman was visible, but only rarely, except near the river-side, where there were some of the class that live on the water. We met some of the small-footed women, and it was really painful to see them stumping about as if they were barely able to stand. Double your fist and put it down on the table, and you have a fair resemblance of the small foot of a Chinese woman; and if you try to walk on your fists, you can imagine how one of these ladies gets along. Some of them have to use canes to balance themselves, and running is quite out of the question. The foot is compressed in childhood, and not allowed to grow much after five or six years of age. The compression is done by tight bandages, that give great pain at first, and sometimes cause severe inflammation. [Illustration: PEASANT WOMAN WITH NATURAL FEET.] "We were rather impatient for the last day, when we could do our shopping and buy the things for our friends at home. There are so many fine things for sale in Canton that it is hard to determine where to begin and where to leave off. A great many people keep on buying till their money is all gone, and some of them do not stop even then. "The first things we looked at in our shopping tour were silks, and we found them of all kinds and descriptions that you could name. There were silks for dresses and silks for shawls, and they were of all colors, from snowy white to jet-black. Some people say that white and black are not colors at all; but if they were turned loose among the silks of Canton, perhaps they might change their minds. It is said that there are fifty thousand people in Canton engaged in making silk and other fabrics, and these include the embroiderers, of whom there are several thousands. Chinese embroidery on silk is famous all over the world, and it has the advantage over the embroidery of most other countries in being the same on one side that it is on the other. We have selected some shawls that we think will be very pretty when they are at home. They are pretty enough now, but there are so many nice things all around that the articles we have selected look just a little common. "One good thing about going on a shopping excursion in Canton is that most of the establishments for the sale of different articles are grouped together, just as they are said to be in the bazaars of Cairo and Damascus. Thus we find most of the silk-dealers in Silk Street, those who sell mirrors and similar work are in Looking-glass Street, and the workers in ivory are in a street by themselves. Then there is Curiosity Street (or Curio Street, as it is generally called), where you can buy all sorts of odds and ends of things, old and new, which come under the head of Chinese curiosities. Lacquered ware and porcelain have their especial quarters; and so when you are in the region of any particular trade, you do not have to walk about much to make your purchases. In the vicinity of the river there are several large concerns where they have a general assortment of goods, and you may buy lacquer and porcelain, silk and ivory, and nearly everything else that is produced in Canton, under one roof. "We have already described lacquer and cloisonné work in writing from Japan. The Chinese productions in the same line are so much like the Japanese that a description of one will do for the other. Some of the shapes are different, and it is not difficult, after a little practice, to distinguish the Chinese from the Japanese; but the modes of working are essentially the same. All things considered, we like the Japanese lacquer better than the Chinese, as it has more variety, and the Japanese seem to be more cunning than the Canton people in making those bewildering little boxes with secret drawers and nooks and a great variety of shapes. But when it comes to ivory carvings, we have something else to say. "You can hardly have dreamed of the beautiful things we found in Canton cut out of ivory. There were combs and brooches so delicate that it seemed as if they could be blown to pieces by a breath; and there were boxes and card-cases with representations of landscapes, and men and animals on them so small that we needed a microscope to see them distinctly. In one shop we saw the whole tusk of an elephant carved from one end to the other so closely that you could hardly put a pin on it without hitting some part of the work. They told us that the tusk had been sent there by the gentleman who killed the elephant in India, and he was having it carved to keep as a trophy. The carving had cost six hundred dollars; and if it had been done in America, it would have cost nearer six thousand. Skilled labor is cheap in China, just as unskilled labor is, and it is astonishing for how little a man can be employed on the kind of work that would bring a high price in Europe or America. "Then there were carvings in tortoise-shell of a great many kinds, and all the forms you could think of, together with many you could not. The Chinese tortoise-shell work used to be the best in the world; but those who know about it say that it is now equalled by the productions of Naples and Florence, both in fineness and cheapness. Then they had some beautiful things in silver filigree and in bronzes, and we bought a few of each, so as to show what Canton can do in this line. [Illustration: A TABLET CARVED IN IVORY.] "But such fans! such fans! They were so pretty that we couldn't keep our eyes off them, and we bought more of them, perhaps, than we needed. In one shop we would find something so nice that we couldn't see how it could be surpassed, and so we would buy it; and in the next we found something nicer yet, and so we had to buy that. Anybody who has a liking for fans, and hasn't a mint of money, had better keep out of the stores of Canton, or he will run a risk of being ruined. The varieties are so great that we cannot begin to name them. There were fans on silk, and fans on paper; fans carved in ivory, tortoise-shell, sandal-wood; fans of feathers from various birds, with rich paintings right on the surface of the feathers; and a great many other fans besides. There was one with frame and sticks of sandal-wood, beautifully carved, while the body was of painted silk. There were groups of figures on each side of the fan, and each figure had a face painted on ivory which was afterwards glued to the silk. It was the prettiest thing to be found for any price we could afford, and you can be sure that it was secured for somebody at home. "We had a long search among the porcelain shops for some blue china plates of what is called 'the willow pattern.' We must have gone into twenty shops at least before we found them; and, finally, when we did get them, the dealer was as anxious to sell as we were to buy. He said he had had those plates on hand a very long time, and nobody wanted them. We did not tell him how rare they are at home, and how anxious people are to get hold of them. "The variety of porcelain in the Canton shops is very great, and a simple list of what there is would fill several pages. They showed us some of what they call egg-shell porcelain. It was so thin that you could almost see through it, and so delicate that it had to be carefully handled. The varieties of cups and saucers we could not begin to tell; they make them suited to every market in the world, and it is said that the greatest part of what they make is of the shapes that are not used in China. Of vases there was no end, and they were of all sizes, from a tiny cone for a small bouquet up to a huge one capable of holding a barrel of water, with plenty of room to spare. The trade in vases must be very great, if we are to judge by the quantities and variety that we saw. Many of them were very elaborate, and must have cost a great deal of money. "But there is danger that you will get tired if we keep on much longer about the sights of Canton, and particularly the shopping part of it. Besides, we want to go out and see what there is in Hong-kong, and perhaps we may run across something new in the Chinese part of the city that we shall want to buy. A good many people say that you can buy Canton goods just as cheaply in Hong-kong as in the city they come from. That may be so; but then it is more satisfactory to get them there and have the pleasure of buying them on the spot. "We'll stop now and say good-bye. We have seen China and Japan, and had a splendid time. We think we have learned a great deal about the two countries, and hope that what we have written about them has been interesting to those for whom it was intended. We have tried to see things, and think of them without partiality or prejudice. We believe that the people of the East have the same claims to respect that ours have, and that it is only a narrow mind that sneers at the ways of others because they are not like its own. We know that there are many things in which we are superior to the Orientals, but we also know that we have our weak points, and might be profitably instructed by those whom some of us affect to despise. 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43541	----	A DIPLOMAT IN JAPAN _NEW & RECENT BOOKS_ A Diplomat in Japan. The Inner History of the Critical Year in the Evolution of Japan when the Ports were Opened & the Monarchy Restored, Recorded by a Diplomatist who took an active part in the events of the time. By The Right Hon. Sir ERNEST SATOW, G.C.M.G., British Minister, Peking, 1900-5; Formerly Secretary to the British Legation at Tokio. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 32s. net. In Farthest Burma. The Record of an Arduous Journey of Exploration & Research through the Unknown Frontier Territory of Burma & Tibet. By Captain F. KINGDON WARD, B.A., F.R.G.S. With Illustrations & Maps. Demy 8vo. 25s. net. The Life and Explorations of Frederick Stanley Arnot. The Authorised Biography of a Zealous Missionary, Intrepid Explorer & Self-denying Benefactor amongst the Natives of the Dark Continent. By ERNEST BAKER. With many Illustrations & a Map. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net. In Unknown China. A Record of the Observations, Adventures & Experiences of a Pioneer Missionary during a prolonged sojourn amongst the wild & unknown Nosu tribe of Western China. By S. POLLARD, Author of "In Tight Corners in China," &c. &c. Many Illustrations. Two Maps. Demy 8vo. 25s. net. Among the Ibos of Nigeria. An Account of the Curious & Interesting Habits, Customs & Beliefs of a Little Known African People by one who has for many years lived amongst them on close & intimate terms. By G. T. BASDEN, M.A., F.R.G.S. With 37 Illustrations & a Map. Demy 8vo. 25s. net. _Second Edition._ Unexplored New Guinea. A Record of the Travels, Adventures & Experiences of a Resident Magistrate amongst the Head-Hunting Savages & Cannibals of the Unexplored Interior of New Guinea. By WILFRED N. BEAVER, with an Introduction by A. C. HADDON, M.A., Sc.D., F.R.S. With 24 Illustrations & 4 Maps. Demy 8vo. 25s. net. Modern Whaling and Bear-Hunting. A Record of Present-day Whaling with Up-to-date Appliances in many Parts of the World, & of Bear & Seal Hunting in the Arctic Regions. By W. G. BURN MURDOCH, F.R.S.G.S. With 110 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, 25s. net. _Third Edition_ Prehistoric Man & His Story. A Sketch of the History of Mankind from the Earliest Times. By Prof. G.F. SCOTT ELLIOT, M.A. (CANTAB), B.Sc.(Edin.), F.R.S.E., F.L.S., F.R.G.S. With 56 Illustrations. 10s. 6d. net. SEELEY, SERVICE & CO. LTD. [Illustration: THE LAST OF THE SHOGUNS Tokugawa Yoshinobu (Keiki)] A DIPLOMAT IN JAPAN THE INNER HISTORY OF THE CRITICAL YEARS IN THE EVOLUTION OF JAPAN WHEN THE PORTS WERE OPENED AND THE MONARCHY RESTORED, RECORDED BY A DIPLOMATIST WHO TOOK AN ACTIVE PART IN THE EVENTS OF THE TIME, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS PERSONAL EXPERIENCES DURING THAT PERIOD BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR ERNEST SATOW G.C.M.G., LL.D., D.C.L.; British Minister at Peking 1900-05; Formerly Secretary of the British Legation at Tokio WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND PLANS LONDON SEELEY, SERVICE & CO. LIMITED 38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET 1921 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE DUNEDIN PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH PREFACE The first portion of this book was written at intervals between 1885 and 1887, during my tenure of the post of Her Majesty's minister at Bangkok. I had but recently left Japan after a residence extending, with two seasons of home leave, from September 1862 to the last days of December 1882, and my recollection of what had occurred during any part of those twenty years was still quite fresh. A diary kept almost uninterruptedly from the day I quitted home in November 1861 constituted the foundation, while my memory enabled me to supply additional details. It had never been my purpose to relate my diplomatic experiences in different parts of the world, which came finally to be spread over a period of altogether forty-five years, and I therefore confined myself to one of the most interesting episodes in which I have been concerned. This comprised the series of events that culminated in the restoration of the direct rule of the ancient line of sovereigns of Japan which had remained in abeyance for over six hundred years. Such a change involved the substitution of the comparatively modern city of Yedo, under the name of Tôkiô, for the more ancient Kiôto, which had already become the capital long before Japan was heard of in the western world. When I departed from Siam in 1887 I laid the unfinished manuscript aside, and did not look at it again until September 1919, when some of my younger relations, to whom I had shown it, suggested that it ought to be completed. This second portion is largely a transcript of my journals, supplemented from papers drawn up by me which were included in the Confidential Print of the time and by letters to my chief Sir Harry Parkes which have been published elsewhere. Letters to my mother have furnished some particulars that were omitted from the diaries. Part of the volume may read like a repetition of a few pages from my friend the late Lord Redesdale's "Memories," for when he was engaged on that work he borrowed some of my journals of the time we had spent together in Japan. But I have not referred to his volumes while writing my own. ERNEST SATOW. OTTERY ST MARY, _January 1921_. * * * * * _Note._--In pronouncing Japanese words the consonants are to be taken as in English, the vowels more or less as in Italian. _G_, except at the beginning of a word, when it is hard, represents _ng_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE APPOINTMENT AS STUDENT INTERPRETER AT YEDO 17 CHAPTER II YOKOHAMA SOCIETY, OFFICIAL AND UNOFFICIAL 22 CHAPTER III POLITICAL CONDITIONS IN JAPAN 33 CHAPTER IV TREATIES--ANTI-FOREIGN SPIRIT--MURDER OF FOREIGNERS 42 CHAPTER V RICHARDSON'S MURDER--JAPANESE STUDIES 50 CHAPTER VI OFFICIAL VISIT TO YEDO 61 CHAPTER VII DEMANDS FOR REPARATION--JAPANESE PROPOSALS TO CLOSE THE PORTS--PAYMENT OF THE INDEMNITY 72 CHAPTER VIII BOMBARDMENT OF KAGOSHIMA 84 CHAPTER IX SHIMONOSEKI: PRELIMINARY MEASURES 95 CHAPTER X SHIMONOSEKI--NAVAL OPERATIONS 102 CHAPTER XI SHIMONOSEKI--PEACE CONCLUDED WITH CHÔSHIÛ 116 CHAPTER XII THE MURDER OF BIRD AND BALDWIN 134 CHAPTER XIII RATIFICATION OF THE TREATIES BY THE MIKADO 141 CHAPTER XIV GREAT FIRE AT YOKOHAMA 156 CHAPTER XV VISIT TO KAGOSHIMA AND UWAJIMA 167 CHAPTER XVI FIRST VISIT TO OZAKA 185 CHAPTER XVII RECEPTION OF FOREIGN MINISTERS BY THE TYCOON 194 CHAPTER XVIII OVERLAND FROM OZAKA TO YEDO 204 CHAPTER XIX SOCIAL INTERCOURSE WITH JAPANESE OFFICIALS--VISIT TO NIIGATA, SADO GOLD MINES, AND NANAO 228 CHAPTER XX NANAO TO OZAKA OVERLAND 239 CHAPTER XXI OZAKA AND TOKUSHIMA 252 CHAPTER XXII TOSA AND NAGASAKI 265 CHAPTER XXIII DOWNFALL OF THE SHOGUNATE 281 CHAPTER XXIV OUTBREAK OF CIVIL WAR (1868) 295 CHAPTER XXV HOSTILITIES BEGUN AT YEDO AND FUSHIMI 310 CHAPTER XXVI THE BIZEN AFFAIR 319 CHAPTER XXVII FIRST VISIT TO KIOTO 332 CHAPTER XXVIII HARAKIRI--NEGOTIATIONS FOR AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO AT KIOTO 343 CHAPTER XXIX MASSACRE OF FRENCH SAILORS AT SAKAI 351 CHAPTER XXX. KIOTO--AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO 356 CHAPTER XXXI RETURN TO YEDO AND PRESENTATION OF THE MINISTER'S NEW CREDENTIALS AT OZAKA 364 CHAPTER XXXII MISCELLANEOUS INCIDENTS--MITO POLITICS 373 CHAPTER XXXIII CAPTURE OF WAKAMATSU AND ENTRY OF THE MIKADO INTO YEDO 386 CHAPTER XXXIV ENOMOTO WITH THE RUNAWAY TOKUGAWA SHIPS SEIZES YEZO 395 CHAPTER XXXV 1869--AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO AT YEDO 400 CHAPTER XXXVI LAST DAYS IN TOKIO AND DEPARTURE FOR HOME 409 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE THE LAST OF THE SHOGUNS _Frontispiece_ SIR ERNEST SATOW--1869 56 SIR ERNEST SATOW--1903 56 PAYMENT OF THE INDEMNITY FOR THE MURDER OF RICHARDSON 80 KAGOSHIMA HARBOUR: BOMBARDMENT 90-91 THE STRAITS OF SHIMONOSEKI 106-107 INTERIOR OF A JAPANESE BATTERY AFTER THE LANDING OF THE ALLIED NAVAL FORCES 112 DAIMIO OF CHO-SHIU AND HIS HEIR 184 CHO-SHIU COUNCILLORS 184 GROUP PHOTOGRAPHED DURING A VISIT TO OZAKA 192 NIIRO GIOBU, A SATSUMA COUNCILLOR 272 KATSU AWA NO KAMI 272 _The Design on the Cover of this Book is the Family Crest of the Tokugawa Shôguns._ A DIPLOMAT IN JAPAN A DIPLOMAT IN JAPAN CHAPTER I APPOINTMENT AS STUDENT INTERPRETER AT YEDO (1861) MY thoughts were first drawn to Japan by a mere accident. In my eighteenth year an elder brother brought home from Mudie's Library the interesting account of Lord Elgin's Mission to China and Japan by Lawrence Oliphant, and the book having fallen to me in turn, inflamed my imagination with pictures verbal and coloured of a country where the sky was always blue, where the sun shone perpetually, and where the whole duty of man seemed to consist in lying on a matted floor with the windows open to the ground towards a miniature rockwork garden, in the company of rosy-lipped black-eyed and attentive damsels--in short, a realised fairyland. But that I should ever have a chance of seeing these Isles of the Blest was beyond my wildest dreams. An account of Commodore Perry's expedition, which had preceded Lord Elgin's Mission, came in my way shortly afterwards, and though much more sober in its outward appearance and literary style, only served to confirm the previous impression. I thought of nothing else from that time onwards. One day, on entering the library of University College, London, where I was then studying, I found lying on the table a notice that three nominations to student-interpreterships in China and Japan had been placed at the disposition of the Dean. Here was the chance for which I had been longing. Permission to enter myself for the competition was obtained, not without difficulty, from my parents, and having gained the first place in the public examination, I chose Japan. To China I never wished or intended to go. My age was sufficient by a few hours to enable me to compete. I was formally appointed in August 1861, and quitted England full of joyful anticipation in November of that year. Owing to the prevalence of a belief among those who then had the direction of our affairs in Japan that a knowledge of Chinese was a necessary preliminary to the study of Japanese, my fellow-student, R. A. Jamieson, and myself were at first stationed for a few months at Peking, where we were joined early in 1862 by Russell Robertson, who also belonged to the Japan establishment. I pass over our sojourn there, which, though not without its own interest, was not long enough for me to gain any useful knowledge of China. But I learnt a few hundred Chinese characters which were of great help to me afterwards, and I even began the study of Manchu. Our stay at the Chinese capital was suddenly cut short by the arrival of a despatch from Yedo, containing the original text of a Note from the Japanese Ministers, which it was found no Chinaman could decipher, much less understand. This was decisive of the question whether the short cut to Japanese lay through the Chinese language. I thought then, and still think, that though an acquaintance with Chinese characters may be found useful by the student of Japanese, it is no more indispensable than that of Latin is to a person who wishes to acquire Italian or Spanish. We were consequently bundled off to Japan with the least possible delay. Of the eight students belonging to the China establishment then at Peking, three only are still (1885) in the service--H. J. Allen, C. T. Gardner, and W. G. Stronach, each of whom attained the rank of consul in 1877. They had all passed the examination at the same time as myself. The man who came out second was "allowed to resign" in 1867, three are dead, and one, the best man of the whole set, and who oddly enough was last or last but one in the examination list, passed in 1872 into the Chinese Customs Service, in which he now holds one of the highest appointments. So unequal are the results obtained by even limited competitive examination. When the competition was afterwards thrown open to the public, the results became even more uncertain, as later experience has shown, at least in Japan, and perhaps elsewhere. The great fault of the system is that it takes no account of moral qualities. Whether a candidate has the manners or feelings of a gentleman cannot be ascertained from the way in which he will reproduce a proposition of Euclid or translate a passage from a Greek author. It does not test the intellectual powers, for a stupid young man who has been properly coached will almost always beat the real student who has not got the right "tips." Nowadays, every candidate for a public examination goes to a crammer, who trains him in a few months for the contest, and enables him to bring forth forced fruit for a moment. Show me a successful examinee, and I will show you a well-coached candidate. In the majority of cases the process disgusts the man who has undergone it, and takes away any inclination he may previously have had for study. And without serious study it is not possible to acquire such languages as Chinese, Siamese or Japanese. The scheme of examination is no test of the linguistic capabilities of the men, and sometimes sends into the service those who can no more learn to speak a foreign language than they can fly. My own success in the examination was due to my having left school more recently than any of the other competitors. While I was at Peking the whole body of students was invited to dine one evening with the Bishop of Victoria, who was stopping at the Legation in the absence of Mr. Bruce, the Minister. The conversation fell upon the effects of Chinese studies on the intellectual powers, and the Bishop inquired of us whether we did not find that the mind was weakened by close application to such a dry, unproductive form of learning. At least, his own experience had been to that effect. This was a curious admission to make, but the matter of his conversation certainly corroborated it. I do not think any of us was candid enough to confess to a similar result in his own case. I should like to dwell longer on our life in Peking--the rides in the early morning over the plain on the north of the city, excursions to the ruins of the Summer Palace, beautiful still in its desolation, the monasteries among the blue mountains west of the city, the magnificent temples inside and outside the walls, the dirt and dust of the streets in wet or fine weather, the pink lotus blossoms on the lake of the marble bridge, the beggars with their cry of _K'olien, k'olien, shang i-ko ta_, the bazaar outside the Ch'ien Men Gate, with its attractive shops, the Temple of Heaven, the view of yellow, brown and green-tiled roofs embosomed in trees as one saw them from the city wall, the carts bumping over the stone pavements worn into deep ruts, the strange Eastern life that surrounded a band of boys fresh from school or college or their mothers' apron-strings, and the splendour of the newly restored buildings of the Liang Kung Fu, occupied by the British Legation--which will never be effaced from my memory: but there is no time. Mr, afterwards Sir Frederick, Bruce was then our Minister there, a tall man of about fifty, with a noble forehead and brown eyes, grey beard, whiskers and moustache; altogether a beautiful appearance. The Chinese Secretary was Mr, afterwards Sir Thomas, Wade, a great Chinese scholar, to whom we looked up with awe, and who was said to be of an irascible temper. A story was told of his visiting the Chinese Ministers with the chief, and waxing very warm in argument. The president of the Ts'ung-li Ya-mên remarked: "But, Mr. Wade, I do not observe that Mr. Bruce is so angry." "D'ye hear that, Mr. Bruce, they say you're not angry." Whereupon Mr. Bruce, with a benevolent smile and with the most good-tempered expression in the world, replied: "Oh, tell them I'm in a deuce of a rage." We, that is to say Jamieson, Robertson and myself, got away early on the morning of August 6, arriving that evening at Ho-si-wu, a town on the way, and reached Tientsin next day. Thence we took boat to Taku, where we passed some days under the hospitable roof of the Vice-Consul Gibson. He was later on transferred to a post in Formosa, where he got into difficulties with the Chinese officials and called on the commander of a gunboat to bombard the Custom House, for which he was smartly reprimanded by the Foreign Office. Shortly afterwards he died, it was said, of a broken heart. This happened in the days when the so-called "gun-boat" policy was no longer in favour, and poor Gibson fell a victim to his excess of zeal. At Shanghai Jamieson left us, to start a newspaper on terms which promised him a better future than the Consular service could offer. Robertson and I embarked in the steamer _Lancefield_, and started for Japan on September 2. The first land we sighted after leaving the coast of China was Iwô Shima, a volcanic island to the south of Kiû-shiû, and on the 7th we found ourselves close to Cape Idzu in a fog. Luckily it lifted for a moment, and the captain, who was new to the coast, ordered the ship to be put about, and we ran down among the islands. Next morning early we were steaming over the blue waves east of Vries Island, passed the serrated wooded range of Nokogiri yama on our right and the tiny inlet of Uraga to our left, and stood across the broad bay towards Yokohama. It was one of those brilliant days that are so characteristic of Japan, and as we made our way up the bay of Yedo, I thought no scenery in the world could surpass it. Irregular-shaped hills, covered with dark-green trees, lined the whole southern coast, and above them rose into the air for 12,000 feet and more the magnificent cone of Fuji, with scarcely a patch of snow visible. The noble ranges of Oyama and others bounded the plain on its western side, while by way of contrast, a low-lying sandy coast trended rapidly away on our right, and speedily sank below the horizon in the direction of the capital. Curious duck-shaped boats of pure unpainted wood, carrying a large four-square sail formed of narrow strips of canvas loosely tacked together, crowded the surface of the sparkling waters. Now and then we passed near enough to note the sunburnt, copper-coloured skins of the fishermen, naked, with the exception of a white cloth round the loins, and sometimes a blue rag tied across the nose, so that you could just see his eyes and chin. At last the white cliffs of Mississippi Bay became closer and more distinct: we rounded Treaty Point and dropped anchor on the outer edge of the shipping. After the lapse of more than a year I had at last attained my cherished object. CHAPTER II YOKOHAMA SOCIETY, OFFICIAL AND UNOFFICIAL (1862) THREE years had now elapsed since the opening of the country to foreign trade in consequence of the Treaties of 1858, and a considerable number of merchants had settled at the ports of Nagasaki and Yokohama. Hakodaté, however, offered then, as now, few attractions to mercantile enterprise, and being far removed from the political centre, shared very slightly in the uneasy feeling which prevailed elsewhere. At Nagasaki most of the territorial nobles of Western Japan had establishments whither they sent for sale the rice and other produce received in payment of tribute from the peasants, and their retainers came into frequent contact with foreigners, whose houses they visited for the purchase of arms, gunpowder and steamers. Some sort of friendly feeling thus sprang up, which was increased by the American missionaries who gave instruction in English to younger members of this class, and imparted to them liberal ideas which had no small influence on the subsequent course of events. At Yokohama, however, the foreign merchants had chiefly to do with a class of adventurers, destitute of capital and ignorant of commerce. Broken contracts and fraud were by no means uncommon. Foreigners made large advances to men of straw for the purchase of merchandise which was never delivered, or ordered manufactures from home on the account of men who, if the market fell, refused to accept the goods that would now bring them in only a loss. Raw silk was adulterated with sand or fastened with heavy paper ties, and every separate skein had to be carefully inspected before payment, while the tea could not be trusted to be as good as the sample. Now and then a Japanese dealer would get paid out in kind, but the balance of wrong-doing was greatly against the native, and the conviction that Japanese was a synonym for dishonest trader became so firmly seated in the minds of foreigners that it was impossible for any friendly feeling to exist. The Custom House officials were in the highest degree corrupt, and demanded ever-increasing bribes from the foreigners who sought to elude the import duties. One of the worst abuses was the importation of large quantities of wines, beer, spirits and stores, for which exemption from the payment of duty was claimed as goods intended for "personal use." The local administration was carried on by a large staff of officials established at the Custom House. There were two Bugiô, or Governors; two Kumi-gashira, or Vice-Governors; two Metsuké, whose function was that of keeping an eye on the doings of the others; a number of Shirabé-yaku, or Directors; and Jô-yaku, or chief clerks, besides a host of scribes, interpreters, tidewaiters and policemen, in black or green robes. Dutch was the common medium of communication both orally and in writing, for English was as yet scarcely studied by the natives, and the foreigners who could speak Japanese might be counted on the fingers of one hand. Yet all knew a little. A sort of bastard language had been invented for the uses of trade, in which the Malay words _peggi_ and _sarampan_ played a great part, and with the addition of _anata_ and _arimasu_ every one fancied himself competent to settle the terms of a complicated transaction. In this new tongue all the rich variety of Japanese speech, by which the relative social position of the speakers is indicated, and the intricate inflexion of the verbs, were conspicuous by their absence. Outside the settlements it was of course not understood, and its use by Europeans must have contributed not a little to the contempt for the "barbarian" which was characteristic of the native attitude towards foreigners. By virtue of the treaties Kanagawa had been at first fixed upon for the residence of Europeans, but, lying on the Tôkaidô, or principal highway between Yedo and Kiôto, it was only too well calculated to afford occasion for collision between the armed followers of the Japanese nobles and the foreign settlers. Early in the day the Tycoon's government sought to avoid this difficulty by erecting a Custom House and rows of wooden bungalows at the fishing village of Yokohama, across the shallow bay to the south. Some of the foreign representatives, more intent upon enforcing Treaty provisions than desirous of meeting the convenience of the native officials and the European merchants, strongly opposed this arrangement, but the practical advantages of proximity to the anchorage and personal security won the favour of the merchants, and Yokohama became recognised as the port. Long after, and perhaps to this day, the foreign consuls continued to date their official reports from Kanagawa, though they were safely ensconced at the rival site, where a town of 100,000 inhabitants now exists, and curious stories are told of the difference in freight that used to be earned on goods shipped from Europe to Yokohama or Kanagawa as the case might be. The foreign settlement, for greater security, was surrounded on the land side by wide canals, across which bridges were thrown, while ingress and egress were controlled by strong guards of soldiers placed there with the double object of excluding dangerous characters and levying a tax on the supplies introduced from the surrounding country. At first land was given away freely to all applicants, some of whom were employés of the different consulates. These latter afterwards sold their lots to new arrivals bent upon commercial pursuits, and thus pocketed gains to which they had no shadow of a right. When further additions were afterwards made to the "settlement," precautions were taken which effectually prevented any one, whether merchant or official, from obtaining land without paying an adequate price. Later on, title-deeds were made out, by which the ground was conveyed to the holders, their heirs, administrators, executors and assigns, thus creating a form of property new to English experience, which purported to be at once real and personal. Streets were laid out with but little thought of the general convenience, and slight provision for the future. The day of wheeled carriages had not dawned upon Japan. It was sufficient if space were left for handcarts, and the most important Japanese commercial town of the future was thus condemned in perpetuity to inconveniences of traffic, the like of which can be best appreciated by those who knew the central parts of business London fifty years ago, or the successive capitals of the Italian kingdom when they were raised to that rank. Architectural ambition at first was contented with simple wooden bungalows, and in the latter part of 1862 there were not more than half a dozen two-storied buildings in the foreign portion of the town. Behind the settlement lay a newly filled-in tract of ground known as the "swamp," still unoccupied except by a racecourse track, and in the rear of this again, across a foul marsh, were conspicuous the flimsy buildings of the Yoshiwara, euphemistically described by a noble Duke from his place in Parliament as an "establishment for the education of young ladies," and where a colonial bishop, to the intense amusement of the younger and more irreverent of the foreign community, had innocently left his visiting-card upon the elderly female who presided over the pleasures of the place. But in those days all the residents were young. Two churches, however, had already been erected, by Catholics and Protestants respectively, and a foreign cemetery had been set apart on the outside of the settlement. The health enjoyed by the European and American inhabitants was such that the only occupants of the burial-ground were some Russian officers and two Dutch merchant captains, who had fallen victims to the deadly and mistaken patriotism of Japanese _samurai_ (two-sworded men). No one had yet succumbed to disease in that beautiful sunny climate. The foreign community of Yokohama of that day was somewhat extravagantly described by an English diplomat as "the scum of Europe." No doubt there was a fair sprinkling of men who, suddenly relieved from the restraints which social opinion places upon their class at home, and exposed to the temptations of Eastern life, did not conduct themselves with the strict propriety of students at a theological college. That they were really worse than their co-equals elsewhere is unlikely. But in a small community, where the actions of everyone are semi-public and concealment is not regarded as an object of first-rate importance, the vices that elsewhere pass unnoticed become prominent to the eyes of those who are not exposed to the same temptations. There were also not a few who came there without much capital to make a livelihood, or, if possible, something more, and hastened to the attainment of their object without being troubled with much scruple. And the difficulty which soon presented itself of obtaining a sufficiency of native coin in exchange for the silver dollar of Eastern commerce was the cause of extravagant demands being presented to the Japanese Treasury. But the compromise eventually arrived at, by which the merchant had to buy his _ichibus_ in the open market, while the official obtained the equivalent of his salary, and often much more, in native coin nearly weight for weight of his "Mexicans," was to the minds of all unprejudiced persons a far greater scandal. Detractors said that the advantages thus given to Ministers, Consuls, sailors and soldiers was a bribe to induce their compliance with violation of treaty stipulations to the prejudice of their non-official countrymen; but this is unfair. It was the result of false theories as to the nature and function of money, and personal interest worked against a conversion to views more in accordance with the principles of political economy. The fact, however, remains, that in September 1862 the current rate of exchange was 214 _ichibus_ for 100 dollars, though the latter were really exchangeable for 311 _ichibus_ according to the Treaty. Each diplomatic or consular establishment was allowed to exchange monthly a certain number of dollars, supposed to represent the total salaries of the staff, and other government charges, thirteen _ichibus_ per $100 being deducted for coinage. An official whose salary was $100 received 298 _ichibus_, the surplus of which over his bazaar expenses he proceeded to change back into dollars; but practically he received $139.25, or a profit of nearly 40 per cent. The gains of a Minister whose salary was £3000 a year it may easily be seen were very large. This was not all. The balance of the monthly quota of _ichibus_ was then reconverted into dollars, the amount due to the official chest was deducted, and the profit then divided among the staff in proportion to their salaries. On a nominally small income it was consequently possible to live well, keep a pony and drink champagne. As time went on, the number of _ichibus_ thus put into circulation increased, and the rate of exchange eventually declined to par. Then and only then the system was abandoned. Where the money came from that was thus transferred to the pockets of officials can be best explained by those who are versed in economical questions. For my own part, I cannot look back on that period without shame, and my only excuse, which is perhaps of little worth in the court of history, is that I was at the bottom of the ladder, and received the proportion paid to me by those who were in charge of the business. A few words may be devoted to describing the Yokohama society of those days. There were few ladies in the settlement. Japan was a long way from Europe, with no regular steam communication, and the lives of foreigners were supposed to be not very safe at the hands of the arm-bearing classes. The two great China firms of Jardine, Matheson & Co. and Dent & Co. were of course represented. The latter came down with a crash a year or two after my arrival. Fletcher & Co., another important Shanghai firm, had a branch, and so had Barnet & Co., both now long forgotten. Most of the remainder were Japan firms, amongst whom Aspinall, Cornes & Co., Macpherson, Marshall & Co., were the foremost English, and Walsh, Hall & Co., the leading American firms. Germans, French and Dutch were considered of "no account." Money was abundant, or seemed to be, every one kept a pony or two, and champagne flowed freely at frequent convivial entertainments. Races were held in the spring and autumn, and "real" horses competed in some of the events. A favourite Sunday's excursion was the ride along the Tôkaidô to Kawasaki for tiffin, and back again toward evening. Longer outings were to Kanazawa, Kamakura and Enoshima; but anyone who had ventured as far as Hachiôji or Hakoné, which were beyond the Treaty limits, was regarded as a bold, adventurous spirit. The privilege of travelling beyond a distance of 25 miles from Yokohama was reserved to the diplomatic representatives of foreign powers, and Yedo could be visited only in the disguise of a member of one of the legations, with the permission of its head. Such favours were regarded with extreme jealousy by those who were debarred by circumstances from obtaining them, and loud murmurs were heard that it was the Minister's duty to invite his countrymen to the capital, and give them board and lodging, irrespective of the shape which their private relations with him might have assumed. Then, and perhaps even yet, there existed a theory that public servants were practically the servants of the extremely small section of the public that inhabited Yokohama, and when the servants failed to comply with the wishes of their employers they were naturally and rightly abused--behind their backs. So strong was the hostility excited in the breasts of the English-Scotch-Irish portion of the community by the unlucky phrase, "scum of Europe," that no member of either legation or consulate of their country was allowed admittance into the Yokohama Club, composed chiefly of British merchants; and this feeling lasted until the year 1865 brought about a permanent change in the representation of Great Britain. The excuse for such relations between the British residents and one who ought to have been the leader of the small society, is to be found in the comparative youthfulness and ignorance of the world which characterised the former. The experience of men and manners which saves the dwellers in Little Peddlington from believing that others are deliberately plotting to inflict insults on them is seldom attained before middle life, especially when Little Peddlington happens to be located in an Eastern land where the mind's growth comes to a standstill, and a man's age is virtually to be reckoned by the years actually spent in the mother country. For all purposes of mental and moral development the time passed on the opposite side of the world must be left out of the calculation. It was agreed in the Treaties that Yedo should be the residence of the foreign diplomatic representatives, and four Buddhist monasteries had, in accordance with Japanese custom, been assigned to the representatives of the four chief powers--Great Britain, France, Holland and the United States. Sir R. Alcock[1] occupied Tô-zen-ji, in the suburb of Takanawa; M. de Graef van Polsbrock lived in Chô-ô-ji, a little nearer the city; then came Sai-kai-ji, the residence of M. Duchesne de Bellecourt; and Mr. Harris had settled down at Zem-puku-ji in Azabu. But a series of alarming occurrences had caused the European portion of the diplomatic body to transfer their quarters to Yokohama, and the American Minister alone held out, declaring his confidence in the good faith of the Japanese Government and their ability to protect him. In September of 1862 he had already been replaced by General Pruyn, who followed the example of his predecessor, until eventually driven out of the capital by a fire which destroyed his house, whether purely accidental or maliciously contrived. The English legation in 1861 had been the object of a murderous attack in which the Secretary, Mr. Laurence Oliphant, and Mr. G. C. Morrison were wounded. The assailants were principally retainers of the Daimiô of Mito, but others belonging to various clans were concerned in the affair, and some of these are still living. Sir R. Alcock had consequently removed to Yokohama, where the strong guard placed by the Japanese government at the entrances to the town and the foreign men-of-war in the harbour offered sufficient guarantees for safety. On his quitting Japan for a term of leave early in 1862, his locum-tenens, Colonel Neale, not believing in a danger of which he had no experience, brought the legation back to Tô-zen-ji. But he had no sooner installed himself there than an event occurred which led him to change his opinion. This was nothing less than the murder of the sentry who stood at his bedroom door and of a corporal on his rounds, at the hands of one of the Japanese guard, in revenge for an insult offered to him, it is said, by the youngest member of the staff, a heedless boy of fifteen or sixteen. So the British Legation packed up their archives and hastened back to Yokohama, where they installed themselves in a house that stood on the site of the present Grand Hotel. This building belonged to an Englishman named Hoey, who was murdered in his bed in 1870, apparently from motives of private revenge. The foreign consuls were all stationed at Yokohama with the exception of the American consul, Colonel Fisher, who remained at Kanagawa. Mr. Harris, it is said, would never admit that Yokohama could be rightfully substituted for Kanagawa, the town mentioned in the Treaty, and would not permit his consul to reside there. He even carried his opposition so far as to declare that he never would countenance the change of settlement, and carried out his vow by leaving Japan without having set foot in Yokohama. [1] It would be inconvenient to observe chronological exactness in matters of official rank or title, which in the case of most individuals are subject to progression. I shall speak therefore of persons by the titles they bore at the latest portion of the period covered by these reminiscences. At the time of my arrival there, Colonel Neale, an old warrior who had seen service with the Spanish Legion commanded by Sir de Lacy Evans, and who, gossip said, regarded Sir R. Alcock, formerly attached to the Marine Brigade of Portugal in the quality of surgeon, with no friendly feelings, was Secretary of Legation, and consequently chargé d'affaires in the absence of his chief. He had great command of his pen, and composed most drastic Notes to the Japanese Government, some of which have been printed by my friend, Mr. F. O. Adams in his _History of Japan_. He had previously been consul at Varna and Belgrade, and consequently had a sufficient experience of the system known as "extra-territoriality," which in most non-Christian countries of the East exempts Europeans from the operations of the local law. In stature considerably less than the average Englishman, he wore a heavy grey moustache, and thin wisps of grizzled hair wandered about his forehead. His temper was sour and suspicious. Of his political capacity there is not much to be said, except that he did not understand the circumstances amongst which he was thrown, as his despatches sufficiently indicate, well-written and incisive as they are. But this is only an example of the fact that power of speech with tongue or pen is not a measure of a man's fitness for the conduct of affairs. In his jovial moments he easily unbent, and would entertain his companions with snatches of operas of which he carried a large assortment in his memory. At this period he was about fifty-five, and probably already affected with the beginnings of the disease which carried him off a few years later at Quito. The second in rank was the so-called Japanese Secretary. He was neither a native of Japan nor had he any knowledge of the language, so that the title must be understood as signifying "secretary in charge of correspondence with the Japanese Government." At our mission in China there is always an official who bears the corresponding title of Chinese Secretary, but there the post has always been held by a scholar. Dutch was the only European language of which the Japanese knew anything, and therefore when the Foreign Office came to provide a staff of officials for the consular establishment, they sought high and low for Englishmen acquainted with that recondite tongue. Four were at last discovered, one of whom was first appointed interpreter to the legation and afterwards accorded the higher title. Part of his salary was expressly granted by way of remuneration for instructing the student-interpreters in the language of the country, and consequently could not be said to be earned. He retained his office for eight years, when a consulate became vacant, and the opportunity was at once seized of "kicking him up the ladder." All the domestic virtues were his, and of actively bad qualities he showed no trace. Next to this gentleman came a First Assistant, sociable and accomplished, musical, artistic and speaking many languages beside his own, but no lover of hard work. In his hands the accounts fell eighteen months in arrear, and the registers of correspondence were a couple of years behind hand. It was his function to preside over the chancery, and he left it to his successor in a condition which the latter aptly compared to that of an "Aegean stable." He was the sort of man who is always known among his friends by his Christian name, and no higher tribute to personal qualities is possible. In the course of time he became a consul, and retired from the service at an early age, carrying with him the regrets and good wishes of everybody who knew him. In the legation staff there were also included two doctors, who at the same time discharged the functions of Assistants in the chancery. One of them shortly quitted the service, and set up in Yokohama as a general practitioner, to retire with a competent fortune after but a few years. The other merits more extended notice, on account both of his character and public services of every kind. I mean my life-long friend, William Willis. Perhaps no other man ever exhibited in a greater measure the quality which we are wont to call conscientiousness, whether in his private relations or in the discharge of his duties. Those who have had the fortune to profit by his medical or surgical aid, feel that no man could be more tender or sympathetic towards a patient. He was devoted to his profession, and lost no opportunity of extending his experience. In those days a doctor had frequently to encounter personal risks such as fall to the lot of few civilians; he exposed himself freely, in order to succour the wounded. In the chancery his services were indispensable. He it was who "swept the 'Aegean stable,'" arranged the archives in order, and brought the register up to date. Always on the spot when he was wanted, an indefatigable worker, and unswervingly loyal to his chief. After nine years service he was promoted to be a vice-consul, but by this time the Japanese had become so impressed with his value as a surgeon and physician that they begged him to accept a salary more than four times what he received from the Foreign Office, and he went where his great qualities were likely to be of more use than in trying petty police cases and drawing up trade reports of a city which never had any foreign commerce. His gigantic stature made him conspicuous among all the Europeans who have resided in Japan since the ports were opened, and when I first knew him he was hardly five and twenty years of age. A man endowed with an untiring power of application, accurate memory for words and things, and brimful of good stories from the three kingdoms. Big men are big-hearted, and he was no exception. We shall come across him again repeatedly in the course of these reminiscences, and for the present these few words must suffice. Besides these, the legation staff included Russell Brooke Robertson and myself, as student-interpreters. Last, but not least, were the officers of the mounted escort and infantry guard. The latter was commanded by Lieut. Price of the 67th Regiment, and was soon replaced by fifty marines under the command of a man widely known in the service to which he belonged as "Public-spirited" Smith. I shall say more of him later on. The cavalry escort consisted of a dozen men from the Military Train, a corps which went by the honorary title of "Pig-drivers," and at their head was a lieutenant, a good, harmless sort of fellow, whose only weakness was for fine uniforms and showy horses. Not being learned in the extremely complicated subject of military costume, full dress, half dress, and undress, I cannot say what it was that he had adopted for himself, but it was whispered about that he had been audacious enough to assume the insignia of a field-officer, which is undoubtedly a serious offence against discipline. However that may be, the blaze of gold which decorated his person was wonderful to behold, and on at least one occasion, when we were going in solemn procession to an audience of the Tycoon, caused him to be mistaken for the Envoy by the Japanese officials, who gave him the salutes that rightfully belonged to his less conspicuously adorned diplomatic chief. To determine whether the pleasure derived from this confusion of persons by the one outweighed the mortification which might not unnaturally have been felt by the other would have required a delicate moral balance, which was not available at the moment; but judging from the relative scale of the two men in other points of character, I am inclined to infer that the good preponderated largely over the evil, and that applying consequently the criterion so unfairly attributed to the utilitarians by their opponents, we must arrive at the provisional conclusion that the lieutenant's uniform was highly virtuous and worthy of the applause of mankind. But it is time to quit this gossiping tone and speak of more serious matters. CHAPTER III POLITICAL CONDITIONS IN JAPAN AT this period the movement had already commenced that finally culminated in what may fitly be called the Revolution of 1868, by which the feudal system was destroyed and the old monarchical government revived. The tendency of the times was as yet scarcely perceived by foreigners, with but one or two exceptions. They generally supposed that political strife had broken out between the sovereign and a few unruly vassals dissatisfied with the treaties that permitted the sacred soil of Japan to be defiled by the footsteps of "barbarians," and secured all the profits of trade to the head of the State, the vassals being enabled to defy their suzerain owing to his own feebleness and the incapacity of his Ministers. It was still believed that the potentate in whose name the Treaties had been concluded was the Temporal Sovereign, and that the Mikado was little more than the head of the priesthood, or Spiritual Emperor. This theory of the Japanese Constitution was almost as old as the earliest knowledge of the country possessed by Europeans. Marco Polo, indeed, says nothing of its system of government in the two short chapters which he devotes to Zipangu, but the Jesuit missionaries who laboured in Japan during the 16th and 17th centuries uniformly held the Mikado to be a spiritual dignitary, and spoke of the Shôgun as the real ruler of the country, the temporal king, and even Emperor. Kaempfer, the best known and most often quoted of the authorities on Japan, writing at the beginning of the 18th century, calls the two potentates Ecclesiastical and Secular Emperors, and his example had, up to the time I am writing of, been followed by all his successors without exception. The truth is that the polity of the Japanese State had assumed already in the 12th century the form which it was still displaying at the beginning of the latter half of the 19th, and institutions which could boast of such a highly respectable antiquity might well be supposed to have taken a deep enough hold to be part and parcel of the national life. The history of Japan has still to be written. Native chronicles of the Mikados and annals of leading families exist in abundance, but the Japanese mind is only just now beginning to emancipate itself from the thraldom of Chinese literary forms, while no European has yet attempted a task which requires a training different from that of most men who pursue an Eastern career. Until within the last two decades, the literature of Japan was almost entirely unknown to Europeans, and the existing keys to the language were ridiculously inadequate. The only historical works accessible to foreigners were the scanty _Annales des Dairi_, translated by Titsingh with the aid of native Dutch interpreters and edited by Klaproth with a degree of bold confidence that nothing but the position of a one-eyed man amongst the blind can give; and a set of chronological tables, translated by Hoffman for Siebold's _Nippon_. It is no wonder, therefore, if at the outset of Treaty relations, the foreign representatives were at a loss to appreciate the exact nature of the political questions that confronted them, and were unable to diagnose the condition of the patient whose previous history was unknown to them. To trace in detail the development of the Japanese monarchy, from its beginnings as a pure theocracy of foreign invaders, attracting to itself the allegiance of a number of small tribal chieftains, the fusion of these tribes with their conquerors into one seemingly homogeneous race, the remodelling of the administration which followed upon the introduction of Chinese laws and philosophy, the supplanting of the native hero and native worship by the creed of Gautama, the rise of a military caste brought about by the constant warfare with the barbarous tribes in the east and north of the country, the rivalry of the Taira and Minamoto clans, both sprung from base-born younger sons of the Mikados, and the final suppression of the civil administration in the provinces by the distribution of the country amongst the followers of the Minamoto and their allies, would require a profound study of documents which no one has yet undertaken. With the appointment of Yoritomo to be Commander-in-Chief the feudal system was fully established. The ancient official hierarchy still existed at Kiôto, but in name only, exercising no influence whatever over the conduct of affairs, and in the 14th century its functions were already so far forgotten as to become the subject of antiquarian research. The civil and penal codes borrowed from the great Empire of Eastern Asia fell into disuse, and in part even the very traces of them perished. Martial law reigned throughout the land, half the people were converted into a huge garrison, which the other half toiled to feed and clothe. Reading and writing were the exclusive accomplishments of the Buddhist priesthood and of the impoverished nobles who formed the court of a Mikado shorn of all the usual attributes of a sovereign, and a deep sleep fell upon the literary genius of the nation. The absence of danger from foreign invasion rendered the necessity of a strong central administration unfelt, and Japan under the Shôguns assumed the aspect of Germany in the middle ages, the soil being divided between a multitude of petty potentates, independent in all but name, while their nominal head was little better than a puppet. This state of things lasted till the second quarter of the 14th century, when an attempt was made under the Mikado Go-Daigo to re-establish the pristine rule of the legitimate sovereigns. A civil war ensued that lasted for over fifty years, until the Ashikaga family finally established themselves in the office of hereditary Shôguns. Before long they split up into two branches which quarrelled among themselves and gave opportunity for local chiefs to re-establish their independence. In the middle of the 16th century a soldier of fortune, Ota Nobunaga by name, profited by the central position of the provinces he had acquired with his sword to arrogate to himself the right of arbitrating between the warlike leaders who had risen in every direction. After his assassination a still greater warrior, known most commonly by the title of Taicosama, carried on the work of pacification: every princelet who opposed his authority was in turn subdued, and he might have become the founder of a new line of "_maires du palais_." He died, however, before time had sufficiently consolidated his position, leaving an inexperienced youth heir to his power, under the tutelage of guardians who speedily quarrelled. The most distinguished of these was Iyéyasu, who, besides the vast domains which he had acquired in the neighbourhood of Yedo, the modern Tôkiô, possessed all the qualities which fit a man to lead armies and rule kingdoms. He had been Taicosama's sole remaining competitor for power, and at the death of the latter naturally assumed the most prominent position in the country. A couple of years sufficed for the transference to him of all, and more than all, the authority wielded by his two predecessors. No combination against him had any chance of success. The decisive battle of Sekigahara in 1600 brought the whole nation to his feet, and he made full use of this opportunity to create checks upon the _Daimiôs_ of whose fidelity he was not sufficiently assured, by grants of territories to his own friends and followers, a few of the older families alone being allowed to retain their ancient fiefs. Among these were Shimadzu in the south of Kiû-shiû, Môri in the extreme west, and Daté, Nambu and Tsugaru in the northern provinces of the main island. His own sons received portions in Owari, Ki-shiû, Mito and elsewhere. In 1616, at Iyéyasu's death 19-20ths of the whole country was held by his adherents. Thus there arose five or six classes of barons, as they may best be called, to render their position intelligible to the English reader. Firstly, there were the Three Families descended from his most favoured sons, from whom according to the constitution established by him in case of a default of direct heirs, the successor to the Shôgunate was to be chosen (as a matter of fact resort was had only to Ki-shiû when a break in the line occurred). Next came the Related Families (_Kamon_) sprung from his younger sons, and in the third place were ranked the Lords of Provinces (_Koku-shi_). The members of these three classes enjoyed the revenue of fiefs comprising one or more provinces, or lands of equivalent extent. Below them in importance were the Hereditary Servants (_fu-dai_) and Banner-men (_hatamoto_) composed as has been said before of the immediate retainers of the Tokugawa family, and the Stranger Lords (_tozama_), relics of the former barons, who had submitted to his supremacy and followed his banner in his last wars. The qualification of a _daimiô_ was the possession of lands assessed at a production of 10,000 _koku_ (=about 5 bushels) of rice and upwards. The _hatamotos_ were retainers of the Tokugawa family whose assessment was below 10,000 _koku_ and above 1000. Below them came the ordinary vassals (_go-ke-nin_). The fiefs of all classes of the _daimiôs_ were in their turn at first partitioned out among their retainers, and called _Ke-rai_ in their relation to their immediate lords, and _bai-shin_ (arrière vassals) as being vassals of those who acknowledged the suzerainty of the Shôgun. _Samurai_ and _ashigaru_ denoted the two ranks of sword-bearing gentlemen and common soldiers among the retainers of the _daimiôs_. In the end every retainer, except the _samurai_ of Satsuma, received an annual allowance of so much rice, in return for which he was bound to perform military service and appear in the field or discharge the ordinary military duties required in time of peace, accompanied by followers proportioned in number to his income. In Satsuma the feudal sub-division of the land was carried out to the fullest extent, so that the vassal of lowest rank held the sword in one hand and the hoe in the other. No taxes were paid by any feudal proprietor. The _koku-shi_ and other barons of equal rank ruled their provinces absolutely, levying land-tax on the farmers and imposts on internal trade as they chose. They had further the power of life and death, subject only to the nominal condition of reporting once a year the capital sentences inflicted by their officers. The other nobles were less independent. Every _daimiô_ had to maintain an establishment at the capital, where his wife and children resided permanently, while the lord passed alternate years in Yedo and in his territories. On his journeys to and fro he was accompanied by a little army of retainers, for whose accommodation inns were built at every town on the main roads throughout the country, and the expense involved was a heavy tax on his resources. A strict system of etiquette regulated the audiences with which the _daimiôs_ were favoured on their arrival and departure, and prescribed the presents they were to offer as a symbol of their inferiority. There was little social intercourse among them, and they lived for the most part a life of extreme seclusion surrounded by vast numbers of women and servants. A fixed number of hereditary councillors (_karô_ and _yônin_) checked all initiative in the administration of their fiefs. They were brought up in complete ignorance of the outer world, and the strings of government were pulled by the unseen hands of obscure functionaries who obtained their appointments by force of their personal qualities. After a few generations had passed the descendants of the active warriors and statesmen of Iyéyasu's time were reduced to the state of imbecile puppets, while the hereditary principle produced a similar effect on their councillors. Thus arose in each daimiate a condition of things which may be compared to that of a Highland clan, where the ultimate power was based upon the feelings and opinions of a poor but aristocratic oligarchy. This led to the surprising results of the revolution of 1868, when the power nominally exercised by the chief _daimiôs_ came to be wielded by the more energetic and intelligent of their retainers, most of whom were _samurai_ of no rank or position. These men it was who really ruled the clan, determined the policy of its head and dictated to him the language he should use on public occasions. The _daimiô_, it cannot be too often repeated, was a nobody; he possessed not even as much power as a constitutional sovereign of the modern type, and his intellect, owing to his education, was nearly always far below par. This strange political system was enabled to hold together solely by the isolation of the country from the outer world. As soon as the fresh air of European thought impinged upon this framework it crumbled to ashes like an Egyptian mummy brought out of its sarcophagus. The decline of the Mikado's power dates from the middle of the 9th century, when for the first time a boy of nine years ascended the throne of his ancestors. During his minority the country was governed by his father-in-law, the chief of the ancient Fujiwara family, who contrived for a long period to secure to themselves the power of setting up and removing their own nominees just as suited their convenience. A similar fate befel the institution of the Shôgunate. After the murder of Yoritomo's last surviving son, the country was nominally ruled by a succession of young princes, none of whom had emerged from the stage of boyhood when appointed, and who were deposed in turn after a few years of complete nullity, while the real heads of the government were the descendants of Hôjô Tokimasa, Yoritomo's father-in-law. The vices of the hereditary principle in their case had again full sway, and the later Hôjô were mere puppets in the hands of their principal advisers. A revolution in favour of the Mikado overthrew this system for a short interval, until the Shôgunate was restored for a time to reality by the founder of the Ashikaga family. But after the lapse of a few years its power was divided between Kiôto and Kamakura, and the two heads of the family fell under the dominating influence of their agents the _Kwan-rei_ Uyésugi and Hosokawa. Towards the end of the Ashikaga period the Shôgun had become as much an empty name as the Mikado himself, and the country was split up among the local chieftains. The bad condition of the internal communications between the provinces and the capital probably contributed to this state of things. Iyéyasu was the first to render consolidation possible by the construction of good military roads. The governmental system erected by him seemed calculated to ensure the lasting tranquillity of the country. But the hereditary principle again reasserted its influence. The third Shôgun, Iyémitsu, was a real man. Born four years after the battle of Sekigahara and already twelve years of age when his grandfather died in the year succeeding his final appearance in the battlefield, he had the education of a soldier, and to his energy was owing the final establishment of the Tokugawa supremacy on a solid basis. Iyéyasu and his successor had always been in the habit of meeting the _daimiôs_ on their visits to Yedo outside the city. Iyémitsu received them in his palace. He gave those who would not submit to their changed position the option of returning home, and offered them three years for preparation to try the ordeal of war. Not a single one ventured to resist. But he was succeeded by his son Iyétsuna, a boy of ten. During Iyétsuna's minority the government was carried on in his name by his Council of State, composed of Hereditary Servants (_fu-dai daimiôs_), and the personal authority of the head of the Tokugawa family thus received its first serious blow. But worse than that, the office of chief councillor was from the first confined to four baronial families, Ii, Honda, Sakakibara and Sakai, and the rôjiû or ordinary councillors were likewise _daimiôs_. On them the hereditary principle had, in the interval between the close of the civil wars and the accession of the fourth Shôgun, produced its usual result. Nominally the heads of the administration they were without any will of their own, and were guided by their own hereditary councillors, whose strings were pulled by someone else. The real power then fell into the hands of ministers or _bu-giô_, chosen from the _hatamoto_ or lesser vassals, and many of these were men of influence and real weight. Still with them the habit of delegating authority into the hands of anyone of sufficient industry and energy to prefer work to idleness, was invincible, and in the end the dominions of the Tokugawa family came to be ruled by the _Oku go-yû-hitsu_ or private secretaries. The machine in fact had been so skilfully constructed that a child could keep it turning. Political stagnation was mistaken for stability. Apart from one or two unsuccessful conspiracies against the government, Japan experienced during 238 years the profoundest tranquillity. She resembled the sleeping beauty in the wood, and the guardians of the public safety had a task not more onerous than that of waving a fan to keep the flies from disturbing the princess's slumbers. When her dreams were interrupted by the eager and vigorous West the ancient, decrepit and wrinkled watchers were found unfit for their posts, and had to give way to men more fit to cope with the altered circumstances which surrounded them. Socially the nation was divided into two sections by a wide gulf which it was impossible to pass. On the one hand the sword-bearing families or gentry, whose frequent poverty was compensated for by their privileges of rank, on the other the agricultural, labouring and commercial classes; intermarriage was forbidden between the orders. The former were ruled by the code of honour, offences against which were permitted to be expiated by self-destruction, the famous _harakiri_ or disembowelment, while the latter were subject to a severe unwritten law enforced by cruel and frequent capital punishment. They were the obedient humble servants of the two-sworded class. Japan had already made the experiment of free intercourse with European states in the middle of the 16th century, when the merchants and missionaries of Portugal were welcomed in the chief ports of Kiû-shiû, and Christianity bade fair to replace the ancient native religions. They were succeeded by the Spaniards, Dutch and English, the two latter nations confining themselves however to commerce. The gigantic missionary undertakings of the two great English-speaking communities of the far West were the creation of a much later time. It will be recollected that in 1580 Spain for a time absorbed Portugal. The Roman Catholics began before long to excite the enmity of the Buddhist and Shintô priesthood, whose temples they had caused to be pulled down and whose revenues they seemed on the point of usurping. Nobunaga had favoured them, but in the civil wars that raged at that period the principal patrons of the Jesuits were overthrown, and the new ruler Taicosama soon proclaimed his hostility to the strangers. Their worst offence was the refusal of a Christian girl to become his concubine. Iyéyasu, a devout Buddhist, pursued the same religious policy as his predecessor in possession of the ruling power. His dislike to Christianity was stimulated by the fact that some of Hidéyori's adherents were Christians, and the young prince Hidéyori was himself known to be on friendly terms with the missionaries. The flame was fanned by the Dutch and English, now become the hereditary political foes of Spain, and the persecution was renewed with greater vigour than ever. Missionaries were sought out with eager keenness, and in the company of their disciples subjected to cruel tortures and the most horrible deaths. The fury of persecution did not relax with Iyéyasu's disappearance from the scene, and the final act of the drama was played out in the time of his grandson. An insurrection provoked by the oppression of the local _daimiôs_ broke out in the island of Amakusa, where thousands of Christians joined the rebel flag. After a furious struggle the revolt was put an end to on the 24th February, 1638, by the assault and capture of the castle of Shimabara, when 37,000 people, two-thirds of whom were women and children, were put to the sword. It is hardly possible to read the native accounts of this business without a feeling of choking indignation at the ruthless sacrifice of so many unfortunate creatures who were incapable of defence, and whose only crime was their wish to serve the religion which they had chosen for their rule of life. The Portuguese were forbidden ever to set foot again in Japan. The English had previously retired from a commercial contest in which they found their rivals too fortunate and too skilful, and the edict went forth that the Dutch, who now alone remained, should thenceforth be confined to the small artificial island of Déshima, off the town of Nagasaki, where for the next 2-1/4 centuries they and the Chinese were permitted to carry on a restricted and constantly diminishing trade. Attempts were made once or twice by the English, and early in the present century by the Russians, to induce the government of Japan to relax their rule, but in vain. The only profit the world has derived from these abortive essays is the entrancing narrative of Golownin, who was taken prisoner in Yezo in connection with a descent made by Russian naval officers in revenge for the rejection of the overtures made by the Russian envoy Resanoff, perhaps the most lifelike picture of Japanese official manners that is anywhere to be met with. No further approaches were made by any Western Government until the United States took the matter in hand in 1852. CHAPTER IV TREATIES--ANTI-FOREIGN SPIRIT--MURDER OF FOREIGNERS THE expedition of Commodore Perry to Loochoo and Japan was not the first enterprise of its kind that had been undertaken by the Americans. Having accomplished their own independence as the result of a contest in which a few millions of half-united colonists had successfully withstood the well-trained legions of Great Britain and her German mercenaries (though not, it may be fairly said, without in a great measure owing their success to the very efficient assistance of French armies and fleets), they added to this memory of ancient wrongs a natural fellow-feeling for other nations who were less able to resist the might of the greatest commercial and maritime Power the world has yet seen. While sympathising with Eastern peoples in the defence of their independent rights, they believed that a conciliatory mode of treating them was at least equally well fitted to ensure the concession of those trading privileges to which the Americans are not less indifferent than the English. In 1836 they had despatched an envoy to Siam and Cochin-China, who was successful in negotiating by peaceful methods a treaty of commerce with the former state. In China, like the other western states, they had profited by the negotiations which were the outcome of the Opium War, without having to incur the odium of using force or the humiliation of finding their softer methods prove a failure in dealing with the obstinate conservatism of Chinese mandarins. For many years their eyes had been bent upon Japan, which lay on the opposite side of the Pacific fronting their own state of California, then rising into fame as one of the great gold-producing regions of the globe. Warned by the fate of all previous attempts to break down the wall of seclusion that hemmed in the 'country of the gods,' they resolved to make such a show of force that with reasonable people, unfamiliar with modern artillery, might prove as powerful an argument as theories of universal brotherhood and the obligations imposed by the comity of nations. They appointed to the chief command a naval officer possessed of both tact and determination, whose judicious use of the former qualification rendered the employ of the second unnecessary. Probably no one was more agreeably surprised than Commodore Perry at the comparative ease with which, on his second visit to the Bay of Yedo, he obtained a Treaty, satisfactory enough as a beginning. No doubt the counsels of the Dutch agent at Nagasaki were not without their effect, and we may also conjecture that the desire which had already begun to manifest itself among some of the lower _Samurai_ for a wider acquaintance with the mysterious outer world was secretly shared by men in high positions. Fear alone would not have induced a haughty government like that of the Shôguns to acquiesce in breaking through a law of restriction that had such a highly creditable antiquity to boast of. Most men's motives are mixed, and there was on the Japanese side no very decided unwillingness to yield to a show of force, which the pretext of prudence would enable them to justify. England and Russia, then or shortly afterwards at war, followed in the wake of the United States. Next an American Consul-General took up his residence at Shimoda, to look after the interests of whaling vessels, and skilfully made use of the recent events in China to induce the Shôgun's government to extend the concessions already granted. In 1858 the China War having been apparently brought to a successful conclusion, Lord Elgin and the French Ambassador, Baron Gros, ran across to Japan and concluded treaties on the same basis as Mr. Harris, and before long similar privileges were accorded to Holland and Russia. In 1859 the ports of Nagasaki, Hakodaté and Yokohama were thrown open to the trade of the Five Powers, and a new age was inaugurated in Japan. It was not without opposition that the Shôgun's government had entered into its first engagements with the United States, Great Britain and Russia. An agitation arose when the first American ships anchored in the Bay of Yedo, and there were not wanting bold and rash men ready to undertake any desperate enterprise against the foreign invaders of the sacred soil of Japan. But at this time there was no leader to whom the malcontents could turn for guidance. The Mikado was closely watched by the Shôgun's resident at Kiôto, and the _daimiôs_ were divided among themselves. The principal opponent was the ex-Prince of Mito, whose constitutional duty was to support the Shôgun and aid him with his counsels in all great national crises. During the presence of Commodore Perry the reigning Shôgun Iyéyoshi had fallen ill, and he died not long after the squadron had sailed. He was succeeded by his son Iyésada, a man of 28, who does not seem to have been endowed with either force of character or knowledge of the world. Such qualities are not to be expected from the kind of education which fell to the lot of Japanese princes in those days. In view of the expected return of the American ships in the following year, forts were constructed to guard the sea-front of the capital, and the ex-Prince of Mito was summoned from his retirement to take the lead in preparing to resist the encroachments of foreign powers. By a curious coincidence, this nobleman, then forty-nine years of age, was the representative of a family which for years had maintained the theoretical right of the Mikado to exercise the supreme government, and was at the same time strongly opposed to any extension of the limited intercourse with foreign countries then permitted. Nor can it be wondered that Japan, who had so successfully protected herself from foreign aggression by a policy of rigid exclusion, and which had seen the humiliation of China consequent upon disputes with a Western Power arising out of trade questions at the very moment when she was being torn by a civil war which owed its origin to the introduction of new religious beliefs from the West, should have believed that the best means of maintaining peace at home and avoiding an unequal contest with Europe, was to adhere strictly to the traditions of the past two centuries. But when the intrusive foreigners returned in the beginning of the following year, Japan found herself still unprepared to repel them by force. The treaty was therefore signed, interdicting trade, but permitting whalers to obtain supplies in the three harbours of Nagasaki, Hakodaté and Shimoda, and promising friendly treatment to shipwrecked sailors. While making these unavoidable concessions, the Japanese buoyed themselves up with the belief that their innate superiority could enable them easily to overcome the better equipped forces of foreign countries, when once they had acquired the modern arts of warfare and provided themselves with a sufficient proportion of the ships and weapons of the nineteenth century. From that time onwards this was the central idea of Japan's foreign policy for many years, as the sequel will show. Even at this period there were a few who would have willingly started off on this new quest, and two Japanese actually asked Commodore Perry to give them a passage in his flagship. They were refused, and their zeal was punished by their own government with imprisonment. The residence of Mr. Harris at Shimoda and the visit which he insisted on paying to the capital created fresh difficulties for the advisers of the Shôgun. Written protests were delivered by non-official members of his council, and he was obliged at last to ask the Mikado's sanction to the treaties, in order to strengthen his own position. This invocation of the Mikado's authority may fairly be called an innovation upon ancient custom. Neither Nobunaga, Hidéyoshi nor Iyéyasu had thought it necessary to get their acts approved by him, and Iyéyasu granted trade privileges entirely on his own responsibility, without his right to do so ever being questioned. This reference to Kiôto is the first sign of the decadence of the Shôgun's power. The supremacy of the Mikado having been once admitted, his right to a voice in the affairs of the country could no longer be disputed. His nobles seized the opportunity, and assumed the attitude of obstruction, which has always been a powerful weapon in the hands of individuals and parties. One man out of a dozen, of sufficient determination, can always force the others to yield, when his position is legal, and cannot be disturbed by the use of force. On the one hand, Mr. Harris pressed for a revision of the treaty and the concession of open ports at Kanagawa and Ozaka; on the other was the Court, turning an obstinately deaf ear to all proposals. In its desperation the Shôgun's government appointed to be Prime Minister, or Regent as he was called by foreigners, the descendant of Iyéyasu's most trusted retainer, the _daimiô_ Ii Kamon no Kami of Hikoné, and Mr. Harris, as has already been said, skilfully turning to account the recent exploits of the combined English and French squadrons in the Chinese seas, obtained his treaty, achieving a diplomatic triumph of the greatest value purely by the use of "moral" pressure. The English, French, Russian and Dutch treaties followed. The Shôgun stood committed to a policy from which his new allies were not likely to allow of his receding, while to the anti-foreign party was imparted a consistency that there had previously been little chance of its acquiring. Scarcely was the ink of these engagements dry, when the Shôgun, who had been indisposed for some weeks past, was gathered to his fathers, leaving no heir. According to the custom which had been observed on two previous occasions when there had been a break in the direct line, a prince was chosen from the house of Ki-shiû to be his successor. The ex-Prince of Mito, and several of his sympathisers among the leading nobles, namely, Hizen, Owari, Tosa, Satsuma and the Daté of Uwajima, a man of abilities superior to the size of his tiny fief in Shikoku, had desired to choose a younger son of Mito, who had been adopted into the family of Hitotsubashi. But the Prime Minister was too strong for them. He insisted on the election of his own nominee, and forced his opponents to retire into private life. Thus to their disapproval of the political course adopted by the Shôgunate, was added a personal resentment against its chief minister, and this feeling was shared in a remarkable degree by the retainers of the disgraced nobles. A bloody revenge was taken two years later on the individual, but the hostility to the system only increased with time, and in the end brought about its complete ruin. Mito was the ringleader of the opposition, and began actively to intrigue with the Mikado's party against the head of his own family. The foreigners arrived in numbers at Kanagawa and Yokohama, and affronted the feelings of the haughty _samurai_ by their independent demeanour, so different from the cringing subservience to which the rules of Japanese etiquette condemned the native merchant. It was not long before blood was shed. On the evening of the 26th August, six weeks after the establishment at Yedo of the British and American Representatives, an officer and a seaman belonging to a Russian man-of-war were cut to pieces in the streets of Yokohama, where they had landed to buy provisions. In November, a Chinese servant belonging to the French vice-consul was attacked and killed in the foreign settlement at Yokohama. Two months later, Sir R. Alcock's native linguist of the British Legation was stabbed from behind as he was standing at the gateway of the British Legation in Yedo, and within a month more two Dutch merchant captains were slaughtered in the high street at Yokohama. Then there was a lull for eight or nine months, till the French Minister's servant was cut at and badly wounded as he was standing at the gate of the Legation in Yedo. On the 14th January, 1861, Heusken, the Secretary of the American Mission, was attacked and murdered as he was riding home after a dinner-party at the Prussian Legation. And on the night of July 5 occurred the boldest attempt yet made on the life of foreigners, when the British Legation was attacked by a band of armed men and as stoutly defended by the native guard. This was a considerable catalogue for a period of no more than two years since the opening of the ports to commerce. In every case the attack was premeditated and unprovoked, and the perpetrators on every occasion belonged to the swordbearing class. No offence had been given by the victims to those who had thus ruthlessly cut them down; they were assassinated from motives of a political character, and their murderers went unpunished in every instance. Japan became to be known as a country where the foreigner carried his life in his hand, and the dread of incurring the fate of which so many examples had already occurred became general among the residents. Even in England before I left to take up my appointment, we felt that apart from the chances of climate, the risk of coming to an untimely end at the hands of an expert swordsman must be taken into account. Consequently, I bought a revolver, with a due supply of powder, bullets and caps. The trade to Japan in these weapons must have been very great in those days, as everyone wore a pistol whenever he ventured beyond the limits of the foreign settlement, and constantly slept with one under his pillow. It was a busy time for Colt and Adams. But in all the years of my experience in Japan I never heard of more than one life being taken by a revolver, and that was when a Frenchman shot a carpenter who demanded payment for his labour in a somewhat too demonstrative manner. In Yedo I think we finally gave up wearing revolvers in 1869, chiefly because the few of us who resided there had come to the conclusion that the weight of the weapon was inconvenient, and also that if any bloodthirsty two-sworded gentleman intended to take our lives, he would choose his time and opportunity so as to leave us no chance of anticipating his purpose with a bullet. In the spring of 1862 Sir Rutherford Alcock returned to England on leave of absence, and Colonel Neale was left in charge. As I have said before, disbelieving in the validity of the reasons which had led the Minister to remove his official residence to Yokohama, the Chargé d'Affaires reestablished himself at the temple formerly occupied as the British Legation. On the anniversary, according to the Japanese calendar, of the attack referred to on a previous page, some Commissioners for Foreign Affairs in calling upon Colonel Neale, congratulated him and themselves on the fact that a whole year had elapsed since any fresh attempt had been made on the life of a foreigner. It was not unnatural, therefore, that in the first impulse of indignation at the savage and bloody slaughter of the sentry and corporal almost at his bedroom door, he should have conceived the suspicion that the visit of the Commissioners and their language in the morning, had been intended to put him off his guard, and that consequently the Japanese government, or rather the Shôgun's ministers, were implicated in what looked like a barbarous act of treachery that deprived the Japanese nation of all right to be regarded as a civilized community; more especially as the native watch had been recently changed, and fresh men substituted for those who had fought so well in defence of Sir Rutherford Alcock the year before. But on reflection it will easily be seen that there was no real justification for such a belief. The assassin was one of the guard. After the murder of the two Englishmen he returned to his quarters and there committed suicide by ripping himself up in the approved Japanese fashion. We may be sure that if his act had been the result of a conspiracy, he would not have been alone. Ignorant as the Shôgun's ministers may have been, and probably were, of the sacred character of an envoy, it was not their interest to bring upon themselves the armed vengeance of foreign powers at a moment when they were confronted with the active enmity of the principal clans of the west. I think they may be entirely absolved from all share in this attempt to massacre the inmates of the English Legation. But on the other hand it seems highly probable that the man's comrades were aware of his intention, and that after his partial success they connived at his escape. But he had been wounded by a bullet discharged from the pistol of the second man whom he attacked, and drops of blood on the ground showed the route by which he had made his way out of the garden. As his identity could not be concealed, he had to commit suicide in order to anticipate the penalty of death which the Shôgun's government could not have avoided inflicting on him. The apparent cognisance of the other men on guard (who were what our law would call accessories before the fact), and the fact that nevertheless they took no share in his act, is consonant with the statement that he was merely accomplishing an act of private revenge. His selection of the darkness of night seems to indicate that he hoped to escape the consequences. Willis said that when he arose and looked out, the night was pitch dark. It was the night before full moon, and in the very middle of what is called in Japan the rainy season. He informed me that there was a high wind and that heavy black clouds were drifting over the sky. The stormy weather and the lateness of the hour (11 to 12 o'clock) might perhaps account for the native lanterns which were hung about the grounds having ceased to give any light, but even under those circumstances it is a little suspicious that the guard should have neglected to replace the burnt out candles. It was at Taku on our way down from Peking that Robertson, Jamieson and I heard of this new attack on the legation. I believe our feeling was rather one of regret that we had lost the opportunity of experiencing one of the stirring events which we had already learnt to regard as normally characteristic of life in Japan. It certainly did not take us by surprise, and in no way rendered the service less attractive. But Jamieson had found a better opening in Shanghai, and the remaining two went on to Yokohama as soon as they could get a passage. CHAPTER V RICHARDSON'S MURDER--JAPANESE STUDIES THE day after my arrival at Yokohama I was taken over to Kanagawa and introduced to the Rev. S. R. Brown, an American Missionary, who was then engaged in printing a work on colloquial Japanese, and to Dr J. C. Hepburn, M.D., who was employed on a dictionary of the language. The former died some years ago, but the latter is at this moment (1886) still in Japan,[2] bringing out the third edition of his invaluable lexicon and completing the translation of the Bible on which he has been occupied for many years. In those days we had either to take a native sculling boat for an _ichibu_ across the bay to Kanagawa or ride round by the causeway, the land along which the railway now runs not having been filled in at that time. Natives used to cross by a public ferry boat, paying a _tempô_ (16-1/2 to the _ichibu_) a-piece, but no foreigner was ever allowed to make use of the cheaper conveyance. If he was quick enough to catch the ferryboat before it had pushed off, and so seize a place for himself, the boatmen simply refused to stir. They remained immovable, until the intruder was tired of waiting, and abandoned the game. It was only after a residence of some years, when I had become pretty fluent in the language and could argue the point with the certainty of having the public on my side, that I at last succeeded in overcoming the obstinacy of the people at the boathouse who had the monopoly of carrying foreigners. There was in those days a fixed price for the foreigner wherever he went, arbitrarily determined without reference to the native tariff. At the theatre a foreigner had to pay an _ichibu_ for admittance, and was then thrust into the "deaf-box," as the gallery seats are called, which are so far from the stage that the actors' speeches are quite indistinguishable. The best place for both seeing and hearing is the _doma_, on the area of the theatre, close in front of the stage. On one occasion I walked into the theatre, and took my place in one of the divisions of the _doma_, offering to pay the regular price. No, they would not take it. I must pay my _ichibu_ and go to the foreigner's box. I held out, insisting on my right as one of the public. Did I not squat on the floor with my boots off, just like themselves? Well then, if I would not come out of that, the curtain would not rise. I rejoined that they might please themselves about that. In order to annoy a single foreigner, they would deprive the rest of the spectators of the pleasure they had paid to enjoy. So I obstinately kept my place, and in the end the manager gave way. The "house" was amused at the foreigner speaking their language and getting the best of the argument, and for the rest of my time in Yokohama I had no more difficulty in obtaining accommodation in any part of the theatre that I preferred. [2] Dr Hepburn died in 1911. In those days the Yokohama theatre used to begin about eleven o'clock in the morning and keep open for twelve hours. A favourite play was the _Chiu-Shin-Gura_, or _Treasury of Faithful Retainers_, and the _Sara-Yashiki_, or the _Broken Plate Mansion_. The arrangement of the interior, the fashion of dress and acting, the primitive character of the scenery and lights, the literary style of the plays have not undergone any changes, and are very unlikely to be modified in any marked degree by contact with European ideas. There is some talk now and then of elevating the character of the stage and making the theatre a school of morals and manners for the young, but the good people who advocate these theories in the press have not, as far as I know, ventured to put them to practical proof, and the _shibai_ will, I hope, always continue to be what it always has been in Japan, a place of amusement and distraction, where people of all ages and sizes go to enjoy themselves without caring one atom whether the incidents are probable or proper, so long as there is enough of the tragic to call forth the tears which every natural man sheds with satisfaction on proper occasions, and of the comic by-turns to give the facial muscles a stretch in the other direction. On the 14th September a most barbarous murder was committed on a Shanghai merchant named Richardson. He, in company with a Mrs Borradaile of Hongkong, and Woodthorpe C. Clarke and Wm. Marshall both of Yokohama, were riding along the high road between Kanagawa and Kawasaki, when they met with a train of _daimiô's_ retainers, who bid them stand aside. They passed on at the edge of the road, until they came in sight of a palanquin, occupied by Shimadzu Saburô, father of the Prince of Satsuma. They were now ordered to turn back, and as they were wheeling their horses in obedience, were suddenly set upon by several armed men belonging to the train, who hacked at them with their sharp-edged heavy swords. Richardson fell from his horse in a dying state, and the other two men were so severely wounded that they called out to the lady: "Ride on, we can do nothing for you." She got safely back to Yokohama and gave the alarm. Everybody in the settlement who possessed a pony and a revolver at once armed himself and galloped off towards the scene of slaughter. Lieut.-Colonel Vyse, the British Consul, led off the Legation mounted escort in spite of Colonel Neale's order that they should not move until he or their own commander gave the word. M. de Bellecourt, the French Minister, sent out his escort, consisting of a half-dozen French troopers; Lieut. Price of the 67th Regiment marched off part of the Legation guard, accompanied by some French infantry. But amongst the first, perhaps the very first of all, was Dr Willis, whose high sense of the duty cast on him by his profession rendered him absolutely fearless. Passing for a mile along the ranks of the men whose swords were reeking with the blood of Englishmen, he rode along the high road through Kanagawa, where he was joined by some three or four more Englishmen. He proceeded onwards to Namamugi, where poor Richardson's corpse was found under the shade of a tree by the roadside. His throat had been cut as he was lying there wounded and helpless. The body was covered with sword cuts, any one of which was sufficient to cause death. It was carried thence to the American Consulate in Kanagawa, where Clarke and Marshall had found refuge and surgical aid at the hands of Dr Hepburn and later on of Dr Jenkins, our other doctor. There was only one British man-of-war lying in the harbour, but in the course of the evening Admiral Küper arrived in his flagship, the _Euryalus_, with the gun-vessel _Ringdove_. The excitement among the foreign mercantile community was intense, for this was the first occasion on which one of their own number had been struck down. The Japanese sword is as sharp as a razor, and inflicts fearful gashes. The Japanese had a way of cutting a man to pieces rather than leave any life in him. This had a most powerful effect on the minds of Europeans, who came to look on every two-sworded man as a probable assassin, and if they met one in the street thanked God as soon as they had passed him and found themselves in safety. It was known that Shimadzu Saburô was to lie that night at Hodogaya, a post-town scarcely two miles from Yokohama. To surround and seize him with the united forces of all the foreign vessels in port would, in their opinion, have been both easy and justifiable, and viewed by the light of our later knowledge, not only of Japanese politics but also of Japanese ideas with regard to the right of taking redress, they were not far wrong. In the absence of any organised police or military force able to keep order among the turbulent two-sworded class it cannot be doubted that this course would have been adopted by any Japanese clan against whom such an offence had been committed, and the foreign nationalities in Japan were in the same position as a native clan. They were subject to the authorities of their own country, who had jurisdiction over them both in criminal and civil matters, and were responsible for keeping them within the bounds of law and for their protection against attack. A meeting was called at Hooper's (W. C. Clarke's partner) house under the presidency of Colonel F. Howard Vyse, the British Consul, when, after an earnest discussion and the rejection of a motion to request the foreign naval authorities to land 1000 men in order to arrest the guilty parties, a deputation consisting of some of the leading residents was appointed to wait on the commanding officers of the Dutch, French and English naval forces and lay before them the conclusions of the meeting. The British admiral, however, declined to act upon their suggestion, but consented to attend another meeting which was to be held at the residence of the French Minister at 6 a.m. on the following morning. The deputation then went to Colonel Neale, who with great magnanimity waived all personal considerations and promised to be present also. The idea had got abroad amongst the foreign community that Colonel Neale could not be trusted to take the energetic measures which they considered necessary under the circumstances. In fact, they found fault with him for preserving the cool bearing which might be expected from a man who had seen actual service in the field and which especially became a man in his responsible situation, and they thought that pressure could be put upon him through his colleagues and the general opinion of the other foreign representatives. But in this expectation they were disappointed. At the meeting Colonel Neale altogether declined to authorise the adoption of measures, which, if the Tycoon's government were to be regarded as the government of the country, would have amounted virtually to making war upon Japan, and the French Minister expressed an opinion entirely coinciding with that of his colleague. Calmer counsels prevailed, and Diplomacy was left to its own resources, arrangements, however, being made by the naval commanders-in-chief to patrol the settlement during the night and to station guard-boats along the sea-front to communicate with the ships in case of an alarm. Looking back now after the lapse of nearly a quarter of a century, I am strongly disposed to the belief that Colonel Neale took the best course. The plan of the mercantile community was bold, attractive and almost romantic. It would probably have been successful for the moment, in spite of the well-known bravery of the Satsuma _samurai_. But such an event as the capture of a leading Japanese nobleman by foreign sailors in the dominions of the Tycoon would have been a patent demonstration of his incapacity to defend the nation against the "outer barbarian," and would have precipitated his downfall long before it actually took place, and before there was anything in the shape of a league among the clans ready to establish a new government. In all probability the country would have become a prey to ruinous anarchy, and collisions with foreign powers would have been frequent and serious. Probably the slaughter of the foreign community at Nagasaki would have been the immediate answer to the blow struck at Hodogaya, a joint expedition would have been sent out by England, France and Holland to fight many a bloody battle and perhaps dismember the realm of the Mikados. In the meantime the commerce for whose sake we had come to Japan would have been killed. And how many lives of Europeans and Japanese would have been sacrificed in return for that of Shimadzu Saburô? I was standing outside the hotel that afternoon, and on seeing the bustle of men riding past, inquired what was the cause. The reply, "A couple of Englishmen have been cut down in Kanagawa," did not shock me in the least. The accounts of such occurrences that had appeared in the English press and the recent attack on the Legation of which I had heard on my way from Peking had prepared me to look on the murder of a foreigner as an ordinary, every-day affair, and the horror of bleeding wounds was not sufficiently familiar to me to excite the feelings of indignation that seemed to animate every one else. I was secretly ashamed of my want of sympathy. And yet, if it had been otherwise, such a sudden introduction to the danger of a horrid death might have rendered me quite unfit for the career I had adopted. This habit of looking upon assassination as part of the day's work enabled me later on to face with equanimity what most men whose sensations had not been deadened by a moral anæsthetic would perhaps have considered serious dangers. And while everyone in my immediate surroundings was in a state of excitement, defending Vyse or abusing Colonel Neale, I quietly settled down to my studies. In those days the helps to the acquisition of the Japanese language were very few. A thin pamphlet by the Rev. J. Liggins, containing a few phrases in the Nagasaki dialect, a vocabulary compiled by Wm. Medhurst, senior, and published at Batavia many years before; Rodriguez' _Japanese Grammar_, by Landresse; a grammar by MM. Donker Curtius and Hoffmann in Dutch, and a French translation of it by Léon Pagès; a translation by the latter of part of the Japanese-Portuguese Dictionary of 1603; Hoffmann's dialogues in Japanese, Dutch and English; Rosny's _Introduction à la langue Japonaise_, were about all. And but few of these were procurable in Japan. I had left London without any books on the language. Luckily for me, Dr S. R. Brown was just then printing his _Colloquial Japanese_, and generously allowed me to have the first few sheets as they came over at intervals from the printing office in Shanghai. A Japanese reprint of Medhurst's vocabulary, which could be bought in a Japanese bookshop that stood at the corner of Benten-Dôri and Honchô Itchôme, speedily proved useless. But I had a slight acquaintance with the Chinese written characters and was the fortunate possessor of Medhurst's Chinese-English Dictionary, by whose help I could manage to come at the meaning of a Japanese word if I got it written down. It was very uphill work at first, for I had no teacher, and living in a single room at the hotel, abutting too on the bowling alley, could not secure quiet. The colonel ordered us, Robertson and myself, to attend every day at the "office" (we did not call it the chancery then) to ask if our services were required, and what work we had consisted chiefly of copying despatches and interminable accounts. My handwriting was, unfortunately for me, considered to be rather better than the average, and I began to foresee that a larger share of clerical work would be given to me than I liked. My theory of the duty of a student-interpreter was then, and still is, to learn the language first of all. I considered that this order would be a great interruption to serious work if he insisted upon it, and would take away all chances of our learning the language thoroughly. At last I summoned up courage to protest, and I rather think my friend Willis encouraged me to do this; but I did not gain anything by remonstrating. The colonel evidently thought I was frightfully lazy, for when I said that the office work would interfere with my studies, he replied that it would be much worse for both to be neglected than for one to be hindered. At first there was some idea of renting a house for Robertson and myself, but finally the Colonel decided to give us rooms at one end of the rambling two-storied building that was then occupied as a Legation. It stood at the corner of the bund and the creek, where the Grand Hotel now is, and belonged to a man named Hoey, who took advantage of my inexperience and the love of books he had discovered to be one of my weaknesses to sell me an imperfect copy of the _Penny Cyclopædia_ for more than a complete one would have cost at home. I used to play bowls sometimes with Albert Markham (of Arctic fame), who was then a lieutenant on board H.M.S. _Centaur_, and Charles Wirgman, the artist-correspondent of the _Illustrated London News_. Towards the end of October we induced the colonel to consent to our getting two lessons a week from the Rev. S. R. Brown, and to allow us to engage a native "teacher," at the public expense. So we had to get a second, and pay for him out of our own pockets. He also agreed to leave us the mornings free for study up to one o'clock. A "teacher," it must be understood, does not mean a man who can "teach." In those days, at Peking and in Japan also, we worked with natives who did not understand a word of English, and the process by which one made out the meaning of a sentence was closely akin to that which Poe describes in the _Gold Beetle_ for the decyphering of a cryptograph. Through my "boy," who was equally ignorant of English, I got hold of a man who explained that he had once been a doctor, and having nothing to do at the moment would teach me Japanese without any pay. We used to communicate at first by writing down Chinese characters. One of his first sentences was literally "Prince loves men, I also venerate the prince as a master"; prince, as I afterwards divined, being merely a polite way of saying _you_. He said he had lots of dollars and _ichibus_ and would take nothing for his services, so I agreed with him that he should come to my room every day from ten to one. However, he never presented himself again after the first interview. [Illustration: SIR ERNEST SATOW 1869] [Illustration: SIR ERNEST SATOW 1903] My "boy" turned out to be what I considered a great villain. I had at an early date wanted one of the native dictionaries of Chinese characters with the Japanese equivalents in _Katakana_. I sent him out to buy one, but he shortly returned and said that there were none in the place, and he must go over to Kanagawa, where he would be sure to find what I wanted. After being out the whole day, he brought me a copy which he said was the only one to be found and for which he charged me four _ichibus_, or nearly two dollars. This was just after my arrival, when I was new to the place and ignorant of prices. Six weeks afterwards, being in the bookseller's shop, I asked him what was the price of the book, when he replied that he had asked only 1-1/2 _ichibu_. My boy had taken it away and returned next day to say that I had refused to give more than one, which he consequently accepted. Unconscionable rascal this, not content with less than 300 per cent. of a squeeze! I found out also that he had kept back a large slice out of money I had paid to a carpenter for some chairs and a table. He had to refund his illicit gains, or else to find another place. After a time I got my rooms at the Legation and was able to study to my heart's content. The lessons which Mr. Brown gave me were of the greatest value. Besides hearing us repeat the sentences out of his book of _Colloquial Japanese_ and explaining the grammar, he also read with us part of the first sermon in the collection entitled _Kiu-ô Dôwa_, so that I began to get some insight into the construction of the written language. Our two teachers were Takaoka Kanamé, a physician from Wakayama in Ki-shiû, and another man, whose name I forget. He was stupid and of little assistance. Early in 1863 Robertson went home on sick leave, and I had Takaoka Kanamé to myself. In those days the correspondence with the Japanese Government was carried on by means of Dutch, the only European tongue of which anything was known. An absurd idea existed at one time that Dutch was the Court language of Japan. Nothing was farther from the truth. It was studied solely by a corps of interpreters attached to the Dutch settlement at Nagasaki, and when Kanagawa and Hakodaté were opened to foreign trade, some of these interpreters were transferred to those ports. On our side we had collected with some difficulty a body of Dutch interpreters. They included three Englishmen, one Cape Dutchman, one Swiss, and one real Dutchman from Holland, and they received very good pay. Of course it was my ambition to learn to read, write, and speak Japanese, and so to displace these middlemen. So Takaoka began to give me lessons in the epistolary style. He used to write a short letter in the running-hand, and after copying it out in square character, explain to me its meaning. Then I made a translation and put it away for a few days. Meanwhile I exercised myself in reading, now one and now the other copy of the original. Afterwards I took out my translation and tried to put it back into Japanese from memory. The plan is one recommended by Roger Ascham and by the late George Long in a preface to his edition of the de Senectute, etc., which had been one of my school books. Before long I had got a thorough hold of a certain number of phrases, which I could piece together in the form of a letter, and this was all the easier, as the epistolary style of that time demanded the employment of a vast collection of merely complimentary phrases. I also took writing lessons from an old writing-master, whom I engaged to come to me at fixed hours. He was afflicted with a watery eye, and nothing but a firm resolve to learn would ever have enabled me to endure the constant drip from the diseased orbit, which fell now on the copy-book, now on the paper I was writing on, as he leant over it to correct a bad stroke, now on the table. There are innumerable styles of caligraphy in Japan, and at that date the _on-ye-riû_ was in fashion. I had unluckily taken up with the mercantile form of this. Several years afterwards I changed to a teacher who wrote a very beautiful hand, but still it was _on-ye-riû_. After the revolution of 1868 the _kara-yô_, which is more picturesque and self-willed, became the mode, and I put myself under the tuition of Takasai Tanzan, who was the teacher of several nobles, and one of the half dozen best in Tôkiô. But owing to this triple change of style, and also perhaps for want of real perseverance, I never came to have a good handwriting, nor to be able to write like a Japanese; nor did I ever acquire the power of composing in Japanese without making mistakes, though I had almost daily practice for seven or eight years in the translation of official documents. Perhaps that kind of work is of itself not calculated to ensure correctness, as the translator's attention is more bent on giving a faithful rendering of the original than on writing good Japanese. I shall have more to say at a later period as to the change which the Japanese written language has undergone in consequence of the imitation of European modes of expression. The first occasion on which my knowledge of the epistolary style was put into requisition was in June 1863, when there came a note from one of the Shogun's ministers, the exact wording of which was a matter of importance. It was therefore translated three times, once from the Dutch by Eusden, by Siebold with the aid of his teacher from the original Japanese, and by myself. I shall never forget the sympathetic joy of my dear Willis when I produced mine. There was no one who could say which of the three was the most faithful rendering, but in his mind and my own there was, of course, no doubt. I think I had sometime previously translated a private letter from a Japanese to one of our colleagues who had left Yokohama; it must have been done with great literalness, for I recollect that _sessha_ was rendered "I, the shabby one." But it could not be made use of officially to testify to my progress in the language. After the Richardson affair the Tycoon's government erected guardhouses all along the Tôkaidô within Treaty limits, and even proposed to divert the trains of the _daimiôs_ to another route which ran through the town of Atsugi, but this project fell through. Foreigners were in the habit of using it for their excursions, but Robertson and I had to pass along it twice a week on our way to and from our Japanese lesson at Mr. Brown's, and though determined not to show the white feather, I always felt in passing one of these trains that my life was in peril. On one occasion as I was riding on the Tôkaidô for my pleasure, I met a tall fellow armed with the usual two swords, who made a step towards me in what I thought was a threatening manner, and having no pistol with me, I was rather alarmed, but he passed on, content probably with having frightened a foreigner. That is the only instance I can recollect of even seeming intention on the part of a _samurai_ to do me harm on a chance meeting in the street, and the general belief in the bloodthirsty character of that class, in my opinion, was to a very great extent without foundation. But it must be admitted that whenever a Japanese made up his mind to shed the blood of a foreigner, he took care to do his business pretty effectually. My first experience of an earthquake was on the 2nd November of this year. It was said by the foreign residents to have been a rather severe one. The house shook considerably, as if some very heavy person were walking in list slippers along the verandah and passages. It lasted several seconds, dying away gradually, and gave me a slight sensation of sickness, insomuch that I was beginning to fancy that a shaking which lasted so long must arise from within myself. I believe the sensations of most persons on experiencing a slight shock of earthquake for the first time are very similar. It is usually held that familiarity with these phenomena does not breed contempt for them, but on the contrary persons who have resided longest in Japan are the most nervous about the danger. And there is a reason for this. We know that in not very recent times extremely violent shocks have occurred, throwing down houses, splitting the earth, and causing death to thousands of people in a few moments. The longer the interval that has elapsed since the last, the sooner may its re-occurrence be looked for. We have escaped many times, but the next will be perhaps our last. So we feel on each occasion, and the anticipation of harm becomes stronger and stronger, and where we at first used to sit calmly through a somewhat prolonged vibration, the wooden joints of the house harshly creaking and the crockery rattling merrily on the shelves, we now spring from our chairs and rush for the door at the slightest movement. My experiences in Japan of an exciting kind were pretty numerous, but, I regret to say, never included a really serious earthquake, and those who care to read more about the insignificant specimens that the country produces now-a-days must be referred to the pages of the Seismological Society's Journal and other publications of the distinguished geologist, my friend Professor John Milne, who has not only recorded observations on a large number of natural earthquakes, but has even succeeded in producing artificial ones so closely resembling the real thing as almost to defy detection. CHAPTER VI OFFICIAL VISIT TO YEDO DURING the later months of 1862 a good deal of correspondence went forward about the Itô Gumpei (murderer of the sentry and of the corporal) affair and the Richardson murder, and Colonel Neale held various conferences with the Shôgun's ministers. The diplomatic history of these proceedings has been already recounted by Sir Francis Adams, and as for the most part I knew little of what was going on, it need not be repeated here. The meeting-place for the more important discussions was Yedo, whither the Colonel used to proceed with his escort and the larger portion of the Legation staff. Some went by a gunboat, others rode up to the capital along the Tôkaidô. At that period and for several years after, the privilege of visiting Yedo was by Treaty restricted to the foreign diplomatic representatives, and non-official foreigners could not cross the Rokugô ferry, half way between Kanagawa and Yedo, except as the invited guest of one of the legations. And now all the foreign ministers had transferred their residences to Yokohama in consequence of the danger which menaced them at Yedo. We younger members, therefore, appreciated highly our opportunities, and it was with intense delight that I found myself ordered to accompany the chief early in December on one of his periodical expeditions thither. We started on horseback about one o'clock in the afternoon in solemn procession, the party consisting of Colonel Neale, A von Siebold, Russell Robertson, and myself, with Lieutenant Applin commanding the mounted escort. It was a miserably cold day, but R. and I combated the temperature by dropping behind to visit Mr. Brown on our way through Kanagawa, and then galloping on after the others. They had evidently been going at a foot's pace during the interval. At Kawasaki we encountered an obstruction in the shape of an obstinate head ferryman, who did not recognize the British Chargé d'Affaires, and refused to pass us over. The men on guard at the watch-house commanding the ferry, on seeing some of us approach to demand their assistance, ran away. The Colonel fumed with wrath, but fortunately at this moment there arrived in breathless haste a mounted officer from Kanagawa, who had followed us of his own accord on hearing that the English Chargé d'Affaires had passed without a Japanese escort. So the ferryman collected his men, and we got over without further trouble. A couple of miles beyond the river we came to the well-known gardens called _Mmé Yashiki_, the plum-orchard, where we were waited on by some very pretty girls. Everybody who travelled along the Tôkaidô in those days, who had any respect for himself, used to stop here, in season or out of season, to drink a cup of straw-coloured tea, smoke a pipe and chaff the waiting-maids. Fish cooked in various ways and warm _saké_ (rice beer) were also procurable, and red-faced native gentlemen might often be seen folding themselves up into their palanquins after a mild daylight debauch. Europeans usually brought picnic baskets and lunched there, but even if they started late were glad of any excuse for turning in to this charmingly picturesque tea-garden. Everyone now-a-days is familiar with the Japanese plum-tree as it is represented in the myriad works of art of these ingenious people, but you must see the thing itself to understand what a joyful surprise it is to enter the black-paled enclosure crowded with the oddly angular trees, utterly leafless but covered with delicate pink or white blossoms which emit a faint fragrance, and cover the ground with the snow of their fallen petals. It is early in February that they are in their glory, on a calm day when the sun shines with its usual brilliance at that season, while in every shady corner you may find the ground frozen as hard as a stone. But to my taste the plum-blossom looks better on a cloudy day against a dull background of cryptomeria when you sit by a warm fire and gaze on it out of window. In December, however, only the swelling buds are to be seen stretching along the slender shoots of last spring. We proceeded on our way without any special incident until we reached the notorious suburb of Shinagawa, half consisting of houses, or rather palaces, of ill-fame, where a drunken fellow who stood in the middle of the road and shouted at us got a fall from one of the troopers, and so we reached the Legation about sunset. The rest of the staff and the infantry guard, who had come by sea, landed about an hour later. The building occupied as the legation was part of a Buddhist temple, Tô-zen-ji, behind which lay a large cemetery. But our part of it had never been devoted to purposes of worship. Every large temple in Japan has attached to it a suite of what we might call state apartments, which are used only on ceremonial occasions once or twice in the year, but from time immemorial it has been the custom to accommodate foreign embassies in these buildings. A suitable residence for a foreign representative could not otherwise have been found in Yedo. As a general rule every Japanese, with the exception of the working classes, lives in his own house, instead of renting it as do most residents in an European capital. The only purely secular buildings large enough to lodge the British Minister and his staff were the _Yashiki_ or "hotels" of _Daimiôs_, but the idea of expropriating one of these nobles in order to accommodate a foreign official was probably never mooted. There remained, therefore, only the "state apartments" of some large monastery as a temporary residence until a site could be obtained and the necessary buildings constructed. Consequently there was no ground for the reproach which one writer at least has urged against the foreign ministers, that by turning sacred edifices into dwelling-houses they had insulted the religious feelings of the Japanese people. In the early years of our intercourse with Japan it is true that we were regarded as unwelcome "intruders," but in native opinion we "polluted" the temples by our presence no more than we should have "polluted" any other residence that might have been assigned to us. Tô-zen-ji lay in the suburb of Takanawa fronting the seashore, and was therefore conveniently situated for communication with our ships, the smallest of which could anchor just inside the forts, at a distance of perhaps a mile and a half. Owing, however, to the shallowness of the bay, boats were unable to get up to the landing place at low tide, and the assistance which could have been rendered by a gunboat in the event of a sudden attack, such as had been experienced in 1861, was absolutely _nil_. There remained, however, the comfort derived from knowing that a refuge lay at no great distance, and no doubt the appearance of a gunboat within the line of forts that had been built to keep out foreign fleets produced a considerable moral effect upon the general population, though desperadoes of the sort that assaulted the guard in July 1861 would certainly have been no whit deterred by any number of threatening men-of-war which could not reach them. Behind the house there was a small ornamental garden with an artificial pond for gold fish, on the opposite side of which rose a hill covered with pine-trees. A good way off from the quarters of the minister, and at the back of the cemetery belonging to the temple, there was a small house named Jô-tô-an, which was occupied by the senior chancery assistant. A tall bamboo fence cut us off entirely from this part of the grounds, and joined the house at either end. The rooms were not spacious, and very little attempt had been made to convert them into comfortable apartments. I think there was an iron stove or two in the principal rooms, but elsewhere the only means of warming was a Japanese brasier piled up with red hot charcoal, the exhalations from which were very disagreeable to a novice. The native who wraps himself up in thick wadded clothes and squats on the floor has no difficulty in keeping himself warm with the aid of this arrangement, over which he holds the tips of his fingers. His legs being crumpled up under him, the superficies he presents to the cold air is much less than it would be if he sat in a chair with outstretched limbs in European fashion. To protect himself against draughts he has a screen standing behind him, and squats on a warm cushion stuffed with silk wool. These arrangements enable him even in winter to sit with the window open, so long as it has a southern aspect, and foreigners who adopt the same system have made shift to get on. But if you are going to live in Japan in European style, you must, in order to be moderately warm during the winter months, replace the paper of the outer wooden slides with glass, stop up the openwork above the grooves in which the slides work that divide the rooms, and either build a fireplace or put up an American stove. But even all this will not make you thoroughly comfortable. Underneath you there are thick straw mats laid upon thin and badly jointed boarding, through which the cutting north-west wind rises all over the floor, while the keen draughts pierce through between the uprights and the shrunken lath-and-plaster walls. The unsuitability of such a building as a residence for the minister and his staff had been perceived from the outset, and long negotiations, having for their object the erection of a permanent legation, had by this time resulted in the assignment of an excellent site, on which a complete series of buildings was being constructed from English designs, but at the expense of the Shôgun's government. Other sites in the immediate vicinity had been given to the French, Dutch and Americans for the same purpose. All these were carved out of what had been once a favourite pleasure resort of the people of Yedo, whither in the spring all classes flocked to picnic under the blossoms of the cherry-trees in sight of the blue waters of the bay. Gotenyama was indeed a famous spot in the history of the Shôgunate. In its early days the head of the State was wont to go forth thither to meet the great _daimiôs_ on their annual entry into Yedo, until Iyémitsu, the third of the line, to mark still more strongly the supremacy to which he felt he could safely lay claim, resolved that henceforward he would receive them in his castle, just like the rest of his vassals. From that time the gardens had been dedicated to the public use. But already before the foreign diplomats took up their abode in Yedo, Gotenyama had been partially diverted from its original purpose, and vast masses of earth had been carried off to form part of the line of forts from Shinagawa to the other side of the junk channel that leads into the river. The British minister's residence, a large two-storied house, which from a distance seemed to be two, stood on an eminence fronting the sea. Magnificent timbers had been employed in its construction, and the rooms were of palatial dimensions. The floors were lacquered, and the walls covered with a tastefully designed Japanese paper. Behind and below it a bungalow had been erected for the Japanese secretary, and a site had been chosen for a second, destined for the assistants and students. On the southern side of the compound was an immense range of stables containing stalls for 40 horses, and on the second storey quarters for a portion of the European guard. Some slight progress had been made with the buildings for the French and Dutch legations. But we knew that the people disliked our presence there. The official and military class objected to the foreigner being permitted to occupy such a commanding position overlooking the rear of the forts, and the populace resented the conversion of their former pleasure-ground into a home for the "outer barbarians." To press on the completion of the houses and to take possession was rightly considered an important matter of policy. A deep trench was being dug round the enclosure, and a lofty wooden palisade was built on the inner margin, which, it was expected, would afford sufficient protection against a repetition of such attacks as that of the 5th July 1861, and the British ensign was to be hoisted again in Yedo as soon as the buildings should be ready for occupation. We all looked forward to that event with the liveliest feelings of anticipation, and for myself I anxiously expected its arrival because Yokohama was a hybrid sort of town, that by no means fulfilled my expectations, and I hoped before long to become a resident of the famous city to which I had looked with longing eyes from the other side of Europe. We rode daily in the environs of Yedo, to the pretty tea-house at Oji, which is depicted with such bright colours in Laurence Oliphant's book, to the pond of Jiû-ni-sô on the road to Kô-shiû, to the other pond called Senzoku half way to Mariko, and to the temple of Fudô at Meguro, where the pretty damsels at the tea-houses formed more than half the attraction. Within the city we made excursions to the temple of Kwannon at Asakusa, then and for long afterwards the principal sight of interest to the foreign visitor, to Atagoyama, where other pretty damsels served a decoction of salted cherry-blossoms, and to the temple of Kanda Miôjin for the view over the city. But the gorgeous mausoleums of the Shôguns at Shiba and Uyeno were closed to the foreigner, and remained so up to the revolution of 1868. We were allowed in riding back from Asakusa to catch a passing glimpse of the lotus pond Shinobazu-no-iké, which is now surrounded by a racecourse after the European manner, but the Fukiagé Park, since known as the Mikado's garden, and the short cut through the castle from the Sakurada Gate to the Wadagura Gate of the inner circle were shut to us in common with the Japanese public. A large portion of the city in the immediate neighbourhood of the castle, and large areas in every quarter were occupied by the _Yashiki_ of _Daimiôs_ and _Hatamotos_, of which little could be seen but long two-storied rows of stern barrack-buildings surrounding the residence of the owner. From the top of Atagoyama alone was it possible to get a view of the interior of such enclosures, and it must be admitted that the knowledge thus gained completely upset the idea that the nobles lived in palaces. Irregular masses of low brown roofs and black weather-boarded walls alone were visible. The use of telescopes was strictly forbidden on Atagoyama, lest the people should pry into the domestic doings of their masters. Wherever we went a band of mounted guards surrounded us, ostensibly for our protection, but also for the purpose of preventing free communication with the people. These men belonged to a force raised by the Shôgun's ministers from the younger sons of the _hatamotos_, and numbered 1000 or 1200. They wore the customary pair of swords (_i.e._ a long and short sabre thrust through the belt on the left side), a round flat hat woven from the tendrils of the wistaria, for the rank and file, and a mound-shaped lacquered wooden hat for the officers, a mantle or _haori_, and the wide petticoat-shaped trousers called _hakama_. Between them and the members of the foreign legations there existed no tie of any kind, for they were changed every fifteen days just like so many policemen, and mounted guard indifferently at all the legations. It was not until 1867 that I managed to break through this rule and get a special body of men attached to myself. Small guardhouses were dotted about the legation grounds for their accommodation. As soon as it became known that a foreigner was about to go out on foot or on horseback, half-a-dozen were detailed to follow him at all hazards. It was impossible to escape their vigilance. They were to prevent our speaking to any person above the rank of a common citizen or to enter a private house. On one occasion two members of our legation managed a visit to the father of a young _samurai_ named Kotarô, who lived with us to study English. The fact was reported, and when the visitors went a second time they found the occupants of the house had removed to another part of the city. We were allowed to sit down in shops, and even to bargain for articles that took our fancy; but two kind of purchases were strictly prohibited, maps and the official list of _daimiôs_ and government officials. Anything we bought had to be sent afterwards to the legation, and delivered to the officials of the foreign department who lived within our gates, and payment was made to them. On one occasion the Prussian representative, Herr Max von Brandt, made a determined stand against this prohibition. Entering the shop of the bookseller Okada-ya in Shimmei Maye, where we foreigners were in the habit of buying books, he inquired for the List of Daimiôs. The bookseller replied that he had it not in stock. Herr von Brandt knew that he had, and announced his intention of remaining there until he was furnished with what he required. He sent a member of his party home to the Legation to bring out the materials for luncheon, and sat determinedly down in the shop. The guards were at their wits' end. At last they dispatched a messenger to the castle to represent the impossibility of inducing him to give way, and at last towards evening there came an order to say that for this once the foreigner was to have the book. So the day was won. As a matter of fact, however, it was never necessary to proceed to this extremity, as we could easily procure what we wanted in the way of maps and printed books through our Japanese teachers. MSS. were always a difficulty. As nothing could be published without permission, any book that touched upon governmental matters had from of old to be circulated in MS. Amongst such works were the so-called "Hundred Laws of Iyéyasu," which were supposed to embody the constitution of the Japanese government. The book contains references to offices of state that were instituted after his time, and the utmost that can be alleged in its favour is that it perhaps contains a few maxims from his lips and certain rules as to the appointment of high political functionaries that were observed in actual practice. There was another book, of undoubted authenticity, containing a vast mass of administrative regulations, of which I never obtained a copy until after the revolution, when it was no longer of practical value. That MS. is now in the British Museum. Another expedient for eluding the censorate was printing forbidden books with moveable types. It was frequently resorted to during the last years of the Shôgunate and at the beginning of the new rule of the Mikado, especially for narratives of political events during that period and for one or two important treatises on politics. Shimmei Maye was one of our favourite resorts in those days; here were to be had cheap swords, porcelain, coloured prints, picture-books and novels. I much regret that I did not then begin to collect, when the blocks were comparatively fresh; a complete set of Hokusai's Mangwa, in perfect condition, could be had for a couple of dollars, and his Hundred Views of Fuji for about a couple of shillings. But I had little spare cash for such luxuries, and all my money went in necessaries. Two days after our arrival in Yedo we paid a visit to the Gorôjiû, or Shôgun's Council. The word means "August Elders." It was somewhat _infra dig._ for a foreign representative to use the prefix _go_ in speaking of them, but the phrase had been caught up from the Japanese who surrounded the minister, and for a long time I believe it was thought that _go_ meant five. I unveiled the mistake, and when I afterwards became interpreter to the Legation we adopted the practice of giving them the bare _rôjiû_, except in addressing them direct, when etiquette demanded the honorific. I was unprovided with anything in the shape of uniform, and had to borrow a gold-laced forage cap from Applin. We came afterwards to look with much contempt on these gauds, and to speak derisively of "brass caps," but in 1862 I was young enough to take considerable pride in a distinctive mark of rank, and after this occasion lost no time in buying a bit of broad gold lace to wear like my fellow officers. It was an imposing procession, consisting as it did of half-a-dozen "brass caps," the military train escort of twelve men under their gorgeous lieutenant, and a flock of about forty Japanese guards hovering about us before, behind, and on either flank. In these days a foreign representative may often be detected approaching the office of the minister for foreign affairs without any suite, and in the humble _jinrikisha_ drawn by one scantily clad coolie. The interview took place in a long room in the house of one of the _rôjiû_. A row of small black-lacquered tables extended down each side, and chairs were set for the Japanese as well as the foreigners. On each table stood an earthen brasier, a black-lacquered smoking-stand, with brass fire-pot and ash-pit, and two long pipes, with a supply of finely cut tobacco in a neat black box. Three of the ministers sat on the right side of the room, and with them an _ometsuké_, whose title was explained to me to mean spy. I suppose "censor" or "reporter" would be nearer. Below them sat eight _gai-koku bu-giô_, or commissioners for foreign affairs. We used to call them governors of foreign affairs, probably because the governor of Kanagawa was also a _bu-giô_. In the centre of the room sat a "governor" on a stool, while two interpreters (one of whom was Moriyama Takichirô) squatted on the floor. The four higher Japanese officers alone were provided with tables and chairs, the "governors" sitting on square stools, with their hands in the plackets of their trousers. After some complimentary talk about the weather and health, which are _de rigueur_ in Japan, a double row of attendants in light blue hempen robes (we used to term the upper part "wings") came in bearing aloft black lacquer boxes full of slices of sponge cake and _yôkan_ (a sweetened bean paste), and afterwards oranges and persimmons. Then tea was served in two manners, simply infused, and also the powdered leaf mixed up with hot water and frothed. The conversation proceeded at a very slow pace, as it had to be transmitted through two interpreters, ours who spoke Dutch and English, and theirs who spoke Japanese and Dutch. This gave rise to misunderstandings, and the Japanese ministers seemed every now and then to profit by this double obstruction to answer very much from the purpose, so that Colonel Neale's observations had to be repeated all over again, interpreted and re-interpreted. Often the ministers would seem at a loss, whereupon one of the "governors" would leave his stool and glide up to whisper something in his ear. This proceeding reminded one of the flappers in Laputa. The principal topic was the murder of the sentry and corporal at Tô-zen-ji which has already been related. To all the demands made by Colonel Neale, in accordance with the instructions he had received from Lord Russell, the _rôjiû_ objected, and when he informed them that the British Government required the payment of £10,000 in gold as an indemnity to the families of the two murdered men, they opened their eyes very wide indeed. They offered $3000. Colonel Neale at last lost all patience, which no doubt was what they were aiming at. He gave them a piece of his mind in pretty strong language, and the interview came to an end, after, I suppose, a sitting of about three hours length, without anything having been settled. I forget whether it was on this occasion that Siebold literally translated the epithet "son of a gun" by _teppô no musuko_; the adjective that preceded it he did not attempt to translate, as it has not even a literal equivalent in Japanese. The way in which the ministers contradicted themselves from time to time was something wonderful, and the application of the good unmistakeable Anglo-Saxon word for him who "says the thing that is not," was almost venial. Of course Colonel Neale did not omit to complain of the ferryman and the guards at Kawasaki, who had run away instead of putting us over the river, and Eusden in translating used the words _zij sloopen alle weg_, which excited my risible muscles kept at too great a stretch through these tedious hours. I whispered to my neighbour, "they all sloped away"; a terrible frown from the old gentleman rebuked my indecorous behaviour, and I was afterwards informed that I should never be allowed thenceforth to be present on one of these solemn occasions. That was a relief to me, but I confess I ought to have felt more contrite than I did. At the age of nineteen and a half a boy is still a boy, but I ought to have manifested more respect for my elders. Early in February we received news that the legation buildings in Gotenyama had been destroyed by fire on the night of the 1st. Many years afterwards I learnt on the best possible authority that the incendiaries were chiefly Chôshiû men belonging to the anti-foreign party; three at least afterwards rose to high position in the state. These were Count Itô, Minister President of State (1886); Count Inouyé Kaoru; who the third was I forget. It need scarcely be said that they long ago abandoned their views of the necessity of putting an end to the intercourse of their country with the outside world, and they are now the leaders of the movement in favour of the introduction into Japan of whatever western institutions are adapted to the wants and wishes of the people. Willis and I were now living together in a wing of the legation house at No. 20 on the Bund, and a young Japanese _samurai_ named Kobayashi Kotarô messed with us. He had been placed under Willis' charge by the Japanese Government in order to acquire the English language, and was a nice boy, though perhaps not endowed with more than average abilities. He disappeared to his home about the time that the ultimatum of the British Government was presented to the Council of the Tycoon in the spring of 1863, and we never heard of him again. I had the teacher Takaoka Kanamé now all to myself, and was beginning to read Japanese documents. Across the hills south of the settlement lived a priest who knew something of the Sanskrit alphabet as used in Japan, and I used to go once or twice a week to him for instruction, but these studies were interrupted by the rumours of war that began soon to prevail; and the lessons from the American missionary, Mr. Brown, also came to an end, as I was now able to get on alone. CHAPTER VII DEMANDS FOR REPARATION--JAPANESE PROPOSAL TO CLOSE THE PORTS--PAYMENT OF THE INDEMNITY (1863) A VERY complete account of the murder of Richardson, and the failure of the Japanese Government to afford satisfactory redress either for that injury or for the attack on the Legation in June, had been sent home to the Foreign Office, and in March 1863 Colonel Neale received instructions to demand ample reparation from both the Tycoon and the Prince of Satsuma. On the 6th April he sent Eusden up to Yedo on board the gunboat "Havoc" to deliver a Note, demanding the payment of £10,000 in gold for the wives and families of Sweet and Crimp, an ample apology for the other affair, and the payment of £100,000 as a penalty on the Tycoon for allowing an Englishman to be murdered in his territory in open daylight without making any effort to arrest the murderers. He warned the Council that refusal would be attended with very deplorable consequences to their country, and gave them twenty days to consider their reply. This lengthened period was allowed on account of the absence of the Tycoon and his chief advisers, who had left for Kiôto on the 3rd. If at the conclusion of the term allotted no answer was returned, or an unsatisfactory one was given, coercive measures would immediately be taken. It was also intended that on the return of the "Havoc" from Yedo, the "Pearl" should be despatched to Kagoshima to demand of the Prince of Satsuma the trial and execution of the murderers of Richardson in the presence of one or more English officers, and the payment of £25,000 to be distributed to the relatives of Richardson, to Marshall, Clarke and Mrs Borradaile. On the 10th Eusden came back from Yedo, bringing a receipt for the note and a refusal on the part of the Council to send an officer down to Kagoshima to advise the Prince of Satsuma to admit the demands to be made upon him. So the idea of despatching the "Pearl" was abandoned for the moment, as it was impossible to foretell whether the Council would give in. If they were obstinate, reprisals would at once, it was thought, be commenced, and all our available force would be required to coerce the Tycoon's people. Satsuma must be left to be dealt with afterwards. So the Colonel waited until the 26th. By the 24th April we had in the harbour the "Euryalus," 35 guns, bearing the flag of Admiral Küper, the "Pearl," 21 guns, "Encounter," 14 (commanded by the brave Roderick Dew), "Rattler," 17, "Argus," 6, "Centaur," 6, and 3 gunboats. The despatch boats "Racehorse" and "Ringdove" were employed in travelling backwards and forwards between Yokohama and Shanghai with the mails, and the "Coquette" was daily expected from Hongkong. But as was to be anticipated, the Council begged for further delay. They asked for thirty days, and Colonel Neale gave them fifteen. My teacher Takaoka, who had private relations with the _yashiki_ of the Prince of Ki-shiû, said they had never expected to get more than a fortnight, and as they felt certain the English Chargé d' Affaires would cut down their demands, they asked for double. He believed that the only motive for the delay was to gain time for preparation, and that war was certain. In the native quarter it was rumoured that the English had asked for the delay, which had been graciously granted by the Council; otherwise we should have been attacked the very day after the term elapsed. The inhabitants of Yedo expected war, and began to remove their valuables into the country. Young Kotarô had been carried off by his mama about the 20th. At Uraga, the little junk-port just outside the entrance to the bay of Yedo, there was a panic, and the people were said to have decamped with all their movable property to Hodogaya on the Tôkaidô. On the other hand, there was some alarm felt in the foreign settlement. Meetings were held at which resolutions were passed to the effect that it was the duty of the executive to provide for the safety of the European residents. At the same time the merchants declared their intention of not leaving the settlement unless specially called on to do so by Colonel Neale, as they believed that if they deserted their property without such an order, they would not be able to recover its value afterwards in the event of its being destroyed. The precedent of the opium surrendered to Captain Elliot, the British Superintendent of Trade at Canton in 1839, was of course in their minds, and they acted prudently in throwing the responsibility on the authorities. On the 1st May the Council asked for another delay of fifteen days. Eusden was sent up to Yedo with a message to the Council that before the Colonel could grant their request they must send down to Yokohama one of their number to receive an important communication which he had to make to them. The native population now began to be seriously alarmed, and the shopkeepers of Kanagawa removed their effects to Hodogaya so as to be out of reach of a bombardment, and to secure a further retreat into the interior, if necessary, by the cross-country paths. The 2nd of May was the last day on which the Yokohama people were permitted by the native authorities to send away their property to Yedo. The government circulated a sensible proclamation from door to door telling them not to be alarmed as there would be no war. At the same time notice was served on the peasants within two miles of Yokohama to be prepared to give up their houses to the troops, but as yet no soldiers had appeared on the scene. On the 4th and 5th May long conferences took place between the English and French representatives and Admirals and two Commissioners for Foreign Affairs, Takémoto Kai no Kami and Takémoto Hayato no Shô, who had been deputed by the Council to explain the reasons why a further delay was necessary. They probably represented that the difficulty in acceding to the English demands arose from the opposition of the _daimiôs_, for it seems that an offer was made to them that the English and French forces should assist the Tycoon to quell the resistance of the anti-foreign party, in order to enable him to carry out the promises to which he was bound by treaty. They offered, it was reported, to pay the money indemnity, disguising it under the ingenious fiction of payment for a man-of-war ordered in England, and wrecked on its way out. Finally an extension of time was accorded until the 23rd of May, in order that the personal consent of the Tycoon, who was expected to return by that date, might be obtained to the English ultimatum. I rode out to Hodogaya on the afternoon of the 5th and met the train of the wife of a _daimiô_ going westwards, but saw very few armed men other than those who accompanied her. A rumour had got about that 10,000 men were in the village and its neighbourhood, but the report was obviously without foundation. During the night of the 5th May there was a general exodus of all the native servants employed in the foreign settlement. Many of them took advantage of the occasion to "spoil the Egyptians." When Willis and I rose in the morning and called for "boy" to bring breakfast, there was a dead silence. I descended to the pantry and found it empty. Servants and cook had gone off, carrying with them a revolver, a Japanese sword, several spoons and forks which they doubtless imagined to be silver, and the remains of last night's dinner wrapped in a table-cloth. This theft was the more curious, as I had the day before entrusted my servant with a considerable sum of native money to change into Mexican dollars, which he had faithfully delivered to me. But we ought to have suspected their intentions, as they had asked for an advance of half a month's wages, and had contentedly received wages up to date. Takaoka and my groom were faithful, so was also the messenger who went off into fits of congratulation on learning that the petty cash-box, of which I had charge, had not disappeared. It is much to the credit of the latter class that they have often stuck by their masters on occasions of trouble and even danger, when every one else has deserted the foreigner. With some difficulty we procured some eggs and sponge cake, and I went off to the customhouse to report the robbery. The officials, of course, promised to find the thieves, but we never heard anything more of them or of our property. All day long the townspeople continued to depart at a great rate. I went down to the native town, where I found many of the houses shut up, and at others everything ready packed for removal. Among the rest my friend the bookseller, at the corner of Benten-dôri, had taken to his heels. But during the afternoon a proclamation was issued by the customhouse to tell the people that there would be no fighting, and many of them returned. The excitement was great throughout the town, both among foreigners and natives, and a lamentable instance of hastiness occurred on the part of a Frenchman. A native merchant, accompanied by two others, went to ask payment of a small debt that he claimed, and on its being refused, tried to obtain the money by force. Thereupon the Frenchman shot him, and two others, including the vice-consul, also fired their revolvers. Four bullets passed through the body of the unfortunate man, but without killing him. The French Admiral was excessively angry. He at once arrested the merchant and had him conveyed on board the flagship. Two Americans were likewise attacked, and one of them was carried off halfway across the swamp by eight men, who frightened him with a spear and an iron hook which they held over his head. He was rescued by the tall sergeant of our legation guard, or else he would probably have been severely beaten, if not killed, for the Japanese were unable to distinguish between foreigners of different nationalities. On the 11th my teacher told me that a messenger had come to him from Yedo, sent by a personage of high rank, who desired to learn confidentially the intentions of the English Chargé d'Affaires, and whether he was disposed to await the return of the Tycoon, which would not be for three or four months, before taking hostile measures. In that case the high personage, who was superior in rank to the Council, would agree to issue a proclamation that a delay of a thousand days had been agreed upon, which would have the effect of restoring tranquillity at Yokohama. That if Colonel Neale, getting tired of these repeated delays, should change the seat of the negotiations to Ozaka, the high personage would have to perform _hara-kiri_, which he rather wished to avoid, as a penalty for failing to induce the foreigner to listen to his representations. I communicated this to Colonel Neale, and the reply sent was that he could not consent to wait so long as three months. The Council had announced the return of the Tycoon for the 24th May, and Colonel Neale had replied that under the circumstances he would give time for "His Majesty's" settling down again at home, but on the 16th a note was received from them stating that circumstances had arisen which prevented their fixing any date whatever for his arrival at Yedo. This seemed to point to an indefinite postponement of a settlement, but the Colonel's patience was not even yet exhausted. This accorded with what my teacher had told me. The high personage turned out to be the Prince of Owari. Takaoka now said that having transmitted Colonel Neale's answer to Kiôto, he would no longer be under the necessity of committing suicide, as he had been able to show that he was not responsible for the foreigner's obstinacy. Up to the 16th the general feeling was that the Council would give way, but the demand for a further postponement of the Japanese answer did not tend to encourage the hope of a peaceful settlement. A Japanese friend told me that the Tycoon could not by any means accept the assistance of foreign powers against the _daimiôs_, and that the abolition of the Mikado's dignity was impracticable. If we attacked Satsuma the Tycoon and _daimiôs_ would be bound to make common cause with him. I suppose the idea of the foreign diplomatic representatives at that time was to support the Tycoon, whose claim to be considered the sovereign of Japan had already been called in question by Rudolph Lindau in his "Open Letter" of 1862, against the anti-foreign party consisting of the Mikado and _daimiôs_, and if necessary to convert him into something more than a mere feudal ruler. For we had as yet no idea of the immense potency that lay in the mere name of the sovereign _de jure_, and our studies in Japanese history had not yet enabled us to realize the truth that in the civil wars of Japan the victory had as a rule rested with the party that had managed to obtain possession of the person of the Mikado and the regalia. There has probably never been any sovereign in the world whose title has rested upon so secure a basis as that of the ancient emperors of Japan. On the 25th another conference took place between the English and French diplomatic and naval authorities on the one side, and Takémoto Kai no Kami and a new man named Shibata Sadatarô on the other. The latter began by thanking the foreign representatives in the name of the Tycoon for their offer of material assistance, which he was, however, compelled to decline, as he must endeavour to settle the differences between the _daimiôs_ and himself by his own unaided forces and authority. As to the indemnity, the Tycoon's government recognized that the demand was just, but they were afraid to pay immediately, as their yielding would bring the _daimiôs_ down upon them. But they offered to pay the money by instalments in such a manner as not to attract public notice, and the further discussion of the details was put off to a future occasion. Probably Colonel Neale did not care very much how the matter was arranged, provided he could show to Her Majesty's Government that he had carried out his instructions. So the basis of an understanding was arrived at, and it was further conceded that the foreign representatives, that is those of England and France, should take measures to defend Yokohama from attack by the anti-foreign party. Colonel Neale had written to Major-General Brown, who was in command at Shanghai, applying for a force of two thousand men, but a despatch now arrived from the general stating his inability and objections to furnishing any troops. It was said that he had ridiculed the idea of a military expedition against Japan long before Colonel Neale proposed it to him. Nevertheless the establishment of a garrison of English troops at Yokohama was merely delayed by this refusal, and after Sir Rutherford Alcock's return to Japan in the spring of 1864 good reasons were given to the same general why he should change his mind. All this time there existed considerable alarm with respect to the aims and intentions of a somewhat mysterious class of Japanese called _rônin_. These were men of the two-sworded class, who had thrown up the service of their _daimiôs_, and plunged into the political agitations of the time, which had a two-fold object, firstly, to restore the Mikado to his ancient position, or rather to pull down the Tycoon to the same level as the great _daimiôs_, and secondly, the expulsion of "the barbarians" from the sacred soil of Japan. They came principally from the south and west of the country, but there were many from Mito in the east, and a sprinkling from all the other clans. About the end of May there was a rumour that they designed to attack Kanagawa, and the Americans still living there were compelled to transfer their residence to Yokohama, not, however, without "compensation for disturbance." The Tycoon's people were naturally desirous of doing all that was practicable to conciliate their domestic enemies, and turned such rumours to account in the hope of being able to confine the foreigners at Yokohama within a limited space, such as had formed the prison-residence of the Dutch at Nagasaki in former times. Incidents, too, were not wanting of a character to enforce their arguments. One of the assistants of the English consulate was threatened with personal violence by a couple of two-sworded men as he was entering a tea-house on the hill at Kanagawa. He pulled out his pistol, and pointed it at them, on which they drew back. Taking advantage of the opportunity he ran down to the landing-place, where he got a boat and so returned in safety to Yokohama. It was reported that the officials at the guardhouse tried to prevent the boatmen from taking him across the bay, but however this may be, they pacified his assailants, one of whom had half-drawn his sword; and in those days we were always told that a _samurai_ might not return his sword to the scabbard without shedding blood, so that the affair was entitled to be ranked as very alarming. At the beginning of June, in consequence of a report that half-a-dozen _rônins_ were concealed in the place, the _betté-gumi_ (a body from which the legation guards at Yedo were supplied), together with some drilled troops, came down to Yokohama, and took up their quarters at some newly erected buildings under Nogé hill, and from that date until long after the revolution of 1868 we had constantly a native garrison. I recognized among the former several men with whom I had become friends during the visit to Yedo already narrated. Fresh additions were made to the British squadron in the shape of two sloops, the "Leopard" and the "Perseus." The rumours of warlike operations had died away, and it was given out that the intention of directly enforcing our demands on Satsuma had been abandoned, as the Tycoon had undertaken to see to that part of the business, and it was believed also that to insist upon them at present would give rise to a civil war. On the 14th June there arrived at the legation in Yokohama Kikuchi Iyo no Kami and Shibata Sadatarô, Commissioners for Foreign Affairs, to complete arrangements for paying $440,000 (representing £110,000) in seven instalments extending over six weeks, the first to be delivered on the 18th. But on that day came a note of excuse from one of the Council stating that unavoidable circumstances had arisen which prevented the agreement being carried out, and that he himself would in a day or two arrive at Yokohama to discuss matters with the English Chargé d' Affaires. Colonel Neale very properly refused to hold any more communications with the Tycoon's ministers, and after a couple of days' consideration, finally placed the solution in the hands of Admiral Küper. The latter, it was said, did not know what to do. He had never seen a gun fired in action, and hardly appreciated the Colonel's suggestion that he should at once proceed to seize the steamers lately purchased in such numbers by the Japanese. The Council at Yedo now became thoroughly frightened; they had temporized as long as possible, and had worn out the patience of the English authorities. But they left no stone unturned to avoid openly giving way, and Ogasawara himself came down to Yokohama to bring the French Chargé d'Affaires and Admiral to intercede. The latter, however, refused; insisted on the demands of Great Britain being satisfied, and claimed that the defence of Yokohama should be entrusted to them. Ogasawara had just returned from Kiôto with an order from the Tycoon, dictated to him by the Mikado and the anti-foreign element in the ancient capital, to make arrangements with the foreign representatives for closing all the ports! For himself he seemed to dislike his instructions, and even gave hints to the French Chargé d'Affaires as to the nature of the reply which had best be given. A pageful of notes of exclamation would not be sufficient to express the astonishment of the foreign public of Yokohama when this extraordinary announcement was made, but the presence of the combined squadrons in the harbour relieved them from any anxiety as to the manner in which the diplomatic representatives would reply to it. The Japanese Government, having completely failed to persuade the French authorities to intervene on their behalf, which would have indeed been impossible when the request was accompanied by the preposterous demand that foreigners should forthwith clear out of Yokohama, sent a message to Colonel Neale at one a.m. on the morning of the 24th June to say that the money should be paid, and requesting to be informed at what hour he would receive it. The reply was that the original agreement to pay in instalments, having been broken by the Japanese Government, was now null and void, and that the whole must be delivered in the course of the day. This was accordingly done; at an early hour carts laden with boxes containing each a couple of thousand dollars began to arrive at the legation. All the Chinese shroffs (men employed by merchants and bankers in the Far East to examine coin to see whether it is genuine) were borrowed to do the shroffing and counting. The chancery was crowded with the intelligent Chinamen busily employed in clinking one coin against another, and putting them up into parcels, to be replaced in the boxes and carried off on board the squadron. The process occupied three days. But already on the 24th Colonel Neale had addressed a letter to the Admiral relieving him of the unwelcome task of undertaking coercive operations. [Illustration: PAYMENT OF THE INDEMNITY FOR THE MURDER OF RICHARDSON] The note, dated on the very day on which the indemnity was paid, in which Ogasawara Dzusho no Kami (to give him his full title) had conveyed to Colonel Neale the orders of the Tycoon to close the ports and expel all foreigners from the country, was the first on which I was called to exercise my capacity as a translator. Of course I had to get the help of my teacher to read it, but my previous practice in the epistolary style enabled me to understand the construction, and to give a closer version perhaps than either of the others which were prepared in the legation. This, to me supremely important, document ran as follows:-- I communicate with you by a despatch. The orders of the Tycoon, received from Kiôto, are to the effect that the ports are to be closed and the foreigners driven out, because the people of the country do not desire intercourse with foreign countries. The discussion of this has been entirely entrusted to me by His Majesty. I therefore send you this communication first, before holding a Conference as to the details. Respectful and humble communication. It is perhaps a little too literal. The opening phrase is simply equivalent to the "Monsieur le Chargé d'Affaires," and the sentence with which the note concludes is about the same thing as the "assurance of high consideration," which we have borrowed from the French. But the rest of it is accurate, and the allusion to the Mikado which appears in the version made from the Dutch translation furnished by the Japanese (_vide_ the Bluebook) had nothing to support it in the original text. I cannot forbear from quoting the reply of Colonel Neale, though as far as possible I intend in these "Reminiscences" not to rely on published sources of information. It ran thus:-- Lieutenant-Colonel Neale to the Japanese Minister for Foreign Affairs. Yokohama, June 24, 1863. The undersigned, Her Britannic Majesty's Chargé d'Affaires, has received, in common with his colleagues, and with extreme amazement, the extraordinary announcement which, under instructions from the Tycoon, His Excellency has addressed to him. Apart from the audacious nature of this announcement, which is unaccompanied by any explanations whatever, the Undersigned is bound to believe that both the Spiritual and Temporal sovereigns of this country are totally ignorant of the disastrous consequences which must arise to Japan by their determinations thus conveyed through you to close the opened ports, and to remove therefrom the subjects of the Treaty Powers. For himself, as Representative of Her Britannic Majesty, the Undersigned has to observe, in the first instance, that the Rulers of this country may perhaps still have it in their power to modify and soften the severe and irresistible measures which will, without the least doubt, be adopted by Great Britain most effectually to maintain and enforce its Treaty obligations with this country, and, more than this, to place them on a far more satisfactory and solid footing than heretofore, by speedily making known and developing any rational and acceptable plans directed to this end, which may be at present concealed by His Majesty the Tycoon or the Mikado, or by both, to the great and imminent peril of Japan. It is therefore the duty of the Undersigned solemnly to warn the Rulers of this country that when the decision of Her Majesty's Government, consequent upon the receipt of Your Excellency's announcement, shall have in due course been taken, the development of all ulterior determinations now kept back will be of no avail. The Undersigned has in the meantime to inform Your Excellency, with a view that you may bring the same to the knowledge of His Majesty the Tycoon, who will doubtless make the same known to the Mikado, that the indiscreet communication now made through Your Excellency is unparalleled in the history of all nations, civilized or uncivilized; that it is, in fact, a declaration of war by Japan itself against the whole of the Treaty Powers, and the consequences of which, if not at once arrested, it will have to expiate by the severest and most merited chastisement. With Respect and Consideration. EDWD. ST. JOHN NEALE. With the exception of the lapse from the third person to the second, in the second, third and fourth paragraphs, this note is well constructed, and its periods nicely balanced. The language is perhaps rather stronger than more modern taste would approve, but with a powerful, almost overwhelming squadron of men-of-war at one's back, the temptation to express one's feelings with frankness is not easy to resist. What the writer meant by "rational and acceptable means" directed to the end of placing the treaty obligations of Great Britain with Japan on a more "satisfactory and solid footing than heretofore" can only be conjectured. I think it is an allusion to the plan that had been mooted of our affording material assistance to the Tycoon in suppressing the opposition of the _daimiôs_ of the west and south to the pro-foreign policy of the Japanese Government, and perhaps to a formal agreement between the Tycoon and the Mikado that the latter should ratify the treaties. Certainly the successful execution of such a plan would have placed the Tycoon firmly in the seat of his ancestors, and have forestalled the revolution of 1868 by which his successor was upset, but it would not have been effected without enormous bloodshed, and the Japanese people would have hated the ruler who had called in foreign aid to strengthen his position. He could then only have maintained himself there by the adoption of the severest measures of repression, and the nation would have been subjected to a terrible and lasting despotism. It is certainly a thing to rejoice at that the Tycoon's council had sufficient patriotism to reject such an offer. The Japanese were left to work out their own salvation, and when the revolution did at last break out, the loss of life and property was restricted within narrow limits, while the resulting benefits to the Japanese nation in the establishment of civilized and comparatively free institutions have been such as would have been for ever precluded had the suggestions of certain Europeans been listened to. CHAPTER VIII BOMBARDMENT OF KAGOSHIMA THUS one portion of the instructions sent out from home had been carried into effect, and there now remained only the exaction of reparation from the Prince of Satsuma. The demands to be made included, it will be remembered, the trial and execution in the presence of English officers of the murderers of Richardson, and the payment by the Prince of an indemnity of £25,000 as compensation to Richardson's relatives and to the three other members of the party who had been attacked. Marshall and Clarke had recovered from their wounds, which in the case of the latter were serious enough, as he had received a dangerous sword cut in the shoulder, and Mrs Borradaile, who was not wounded, had returned to China. The Tycoon's people were naturally desirous of having the settlement with Satsuma left in their hands, but I suppose Ogasawara, when pressed on the point by Colonel Neale, acknowledged that the government were impotent in the matter, and the British Chargé d'Affaires consequently assumed the responsibility of requesting the Admiral to convey him and his staff to Kagoshima, in order to present the demands he had been instructed to formulate. The Admiral had at first been unwilling to send more than a couple of ships, but it was finally determined that the squadron should consist of H.M.S. "Euryalus," "Pearl," "Perseus," "Argus," "Coquette," "Racehorse," and the gunboat "Havoc." The whole staff of the legation, from Colonel Neale down to myself, embarked on board the various ships, Willis and myself being in the paddle-sloop "Argus," Commander Lewis Moore. The weather on the voyage down was remarkably fine, and the squadron arrived at the mouth of the Bay of Kagoshima, where it anchored for the night, on the afternoon of the 11th August. Early on the following morning we proceeded up the bay, and came to an anchor off the town. A letter had been prepared beforehand stating the demands, which had somehow or other been translated into Japanese by Siebold and his teacher; it was a difficult document, and I fancy the Japanese version did not read very well. A boat at once came off from the shore with two officers, to whom the letter was delivered. In the afternoon of the following day some other officials visited the flagship, and stated that it was quite impossible to say when the answer would be given. The name of the principal official who visited Colonel Neale on this occasion was Ijichi Shôji. I knew him very well afterwards in Yedo. He and his retinue of forty men came on board, after having exchanged a parting cup of _saké_ with their prince, with the full design of making a sudden onslaught upon the British officers, and killing at any rate the principal ones among them; they intended in this way to make themselves masters of the flagship. It was a bold conception, and might have been successful but for the precautions taken on our side. Only two or three were admitted into the Admiral's cabin, while the marines kept a vigilant eye upon the retinue who remained on the quarter deck. While they were still on board another boat arrived, whether with reinforcements or orders to countermand the intended slaughter I do not know, but Ijichi, after communicating with the men who came in her, said he must return to the shore. In the evening a written reply was received, the bearer of which was told to return on the following morning to learn whether it was considered of a satisfactory character. The letter on examination proved to contain a _fin de non recevoir_; it said that the murderers could not be found, blamed the Tycoon for having made treaties without inserting a clause to prevent foreigners from impeding the passage of the prince along the highroads; spoke of delay until the criminals could be arrested, captured, and punished, after which the question of an indemnity could be discussed, and practically referred the British Chargé d'Affaires back to the Yedo Government. When the messenger arrived on the morning of the 14th, he was informed that the reply was considered unsatisfactory, and that no further communication would be held with the Japanese except under a flag of truce. The Admiral then made a little trip up the bay to reconnoitre some foreign-built steamers lying at anchor off Wilmot Point in the plan, and take some soundings at the head of the bay beyond. On his return in the afternoon the commanders of the various ships were summoned on board the flagship to receive their instructions from the Admiral. There was no intention on our part of immediately attacking the batteries, but the Admiral probably supposed that by adopting reprisals, that is taking possession of the steamers, he would induce the Satsuma men to give some more satisfactory reply than that already received. In pursuance of this plan, Captain Borlase in the "Pearl," with the "Coquette," "Argus," and "Racehorse," proceeded to seize the steamers at dawn of the 15th. We were, of course, very excited, and busily engaged, as we approached, in estimating the probability of their offering resistance; but as the "Argus" was laid alongside the "Sir George Grey," we saw the crew rapidly disappearing over the other side into shore boats with which they had already provided themselves. No attempt was made by us to take any prisoners, but two remained on board the "Sir George Grey," who gave their names to me as Godai and Matsugi Kôwan. On being transferred to the flagship they adopted the aliases of Otani and Kashiwa. The former was a remarkably handsome man, with a noble countenance, and was, I believe, the captain of the steamer. The profession of the second was that of a physician; he had been to Europe with the first Japanese embassy in 1862, and had in fact only just returned. Both of them were afterwards well known, the first as a rather speculative man of business who established indigo works at Ozaka with capital borrowed from the Mikado's government, the second was for a short time prefect of Yokohama in 1868, and afterwards Minister for Foreign Affairs under the name of Terashima Munénori, and he still (in 1887) holds office at Tôkiô. We returned, with our prizes lashed alongside, to the anchorage under the island of Sakura Jima, whither the squadron had removed on the afternoon of the 12th in order to be out of range of the guns in the forts before the town, the "Euryalus" and "Pearl" lying about mid channel, between us and the forts. Here we awaited the development of events, which came sooner than was expected. The Japanese made no sign, and we could not divine their intentions from the slight glimpses obtainable of the movements on shore. But at noon the report of a gun was suddenly heard, and immediately all the batteries opened fire upon the squadron. Although it was raining and blowing like a typhoon, the Admiral at once gave orders to engage, and made a signal to us and the "Racehorse" and the "Coquette" to burn the prizes. On this we all rushed on board our prize and began to plunder. I secured a Japanese matchlock and a conical black war-hat (_jin-gasa_), but some of the officers found money, silver _ichibus_ and gilt _nibus_. The sailors seized hold of everything portable, such as looking glasses, decanters, benches and even old pieces of matting. After about an hour of this disorder the steamer was scuttled and set on fire, and we went to take up our order in the line of battle. The plan shows how the line was formed. Some time elapsed before we returned the fire of the Japanese, and it was said that the tardiness of the flagship in replying to the first shot of the Japanese (two hours) was due to the fact that the door of the ammunition magazine was obstructed by piles of boxes of dollars, the money paid for the indemnity being still on board. The "Perseus," which was lying close under fort No. 9, had to slip her cable, and the anchor was months afterwards recovered by the Satsuma people and returned to us. Owing to this delay she had to take the last position in the line. It was a novel sensation to be exposed to cannon shot, and the boisterous weather did not add at all to one's equanimity. The whole line went a little way up the bay, and then curving round to the left returned along the northern shore at a distance of about 400 yards, each vessel as she passed pouring her broadside into the successive forts. About three quarters of an hour after the engagement commenced we saw the flagship hauling off, and next the "Pearl" (which had rather lagged behind) swerved out of the line. The cause of this was the death of Captain Josling and Commander Wilmot of the "Euryalus" from a roundshot fired from fort No. 7. Unwittingly she had been steered between the fort and a target at which the Japanese gunners were in the habit of practising, and they had her range to a nicety. A 10-inch shell exploded on her main-deck about the same time, killing seven men and wounding an officer, and altogether the gallant ship had got into a hot corner; under the fire of 37 guns at once, from 10-inch down to 18 pounders. The "Racehorse" having got ashore opposite fort No. 8, the "Coquette" and "Argus" went back to tow her off, which we succeeded in doing after about an hour's work. During this time she kept up a constant cannonade, and the gunners in the fort were unable to do her any mischief. But at one moment it was feared that she would have to be abandoned and set on fire. I shall never forget the interest and excitement of the whole affair, from the bursting of the shells high in the air against the grey sky all round the flagship as she lay at anchor before we weighed, till we came into action ourselves and could see first the belching forth of flame from the middle of a puff of smoke, and then, strange to say, a round black thing coming straight at us. This black thing, however, suddenly rose high into the air just as it seemed about to strike us, and passed overhead. The "Argus" was struck only three times, first in the starboard gangway, then by a shot which went right through the mainmast, but left it standing, and thirdly by a round shot near the water line which penetrated about three inches, and then fell off into the sea. By five o'clock we were all safely anchored again under Josling point, except the "Havoc," which went off to set fire to five Loochooan junks that were lying off the factories. Probably the latter were set on fire by sparks from the junks, but credit was taken for their wilful destruction. Under the impression that a large white building in the rear of the town was the prince's palace, every effort was made to destroy it, but it turned out afterwards to be a temple, and we learnt that during the engagement the prince and his father had not been within range. Rockets were also fired with the object of burning the town, in which we were only too successful. The gale had increased to such a height that all efforts on the part of the townspeople to extinguish the flames must have been unavailing. It was an awful and magnificent sight, the sky all filled with a cloud of smoke lit up from below by the pointed masses of pale fire. Our prize was still burning when we came back to our former anchorage, and as she had 140 tons of coal on board she made a good bonfire. At last she gave a lurch and went to the bottom. It was no doubt a great disappointment to the sailors, for the steamers alone were worth $300,000, and everyone would have had a good share of prize money if we had been able to carry them off. It was rumoured that the prizes were burnt at Colonel Neale's instance, who was very anxious, like the old warrior that he was, that every ship should go into action unhampered. It was also said that poor Captain Josling urged the Admiral against his better judgment to fight that day, in spite of the adverse weather. On Sunday morning the 16th August the bodies of Captain Josling, Commander Wilmot and of the nine men who had lost their lives in the action were buried in the sea. In the afternoon the squadron weighed anchor and proceeded down the bay at slow speed, shelling the batteries and town at long range until we left them too far behind. We anchored for the night at some distance from the town, and on the 17th proceeded to return to Yokohama. Most of us on board the "Argus," and I believe the feeling was the same on board the other ships, came away bitterly discontented. The Japanese guns still continued firing at us as we left, though all their shot fell short, and they might fairly claim that though we had dismounted some of their batteries and laid the town in ruins, they had forced us to retreat. Had we maintained the bombardment until every gun was silenced, and then landed, or even lain off the town for a few days, the opinion was that the demands would have been acceded to. Rumour said that Colonel Neale was very anxious that the Admiral should land some men and carry off a few guns as trophies of victory, but that he declined to send a single man on shore. And men said that he was demoralized by the death of his flag-captain and commander, with whom he was talking on the bridge when the shot came that took off their heads. But none of this appears in the official correspondence. I believe the real explanation to be that differences had arisen between the diplomatist and the sailor, the former of whom interfered too much with the conduct of the operations. No doubt the etiquette was for him to remain silent after he had placed matters in the hands of the Admiral, but this the impetuosity of his nature would not permit him to do. It is also possible that insufficiency of the supply of coals, provisions and ammunition may have been a factor in the determination that was come to. The Admiral in his report, which was published in the London "Gazette," took credit for the destruction of the town, and Mr. Bright very properly called attention to this unnecessary act of severity in the House of Commons; whereupon he wrote again, or Colonel Neale wrote, to explain that the conflagration was accidental. But that I cannot think was a correct representation of what took place, in face of the fact that the "Perseus" continued to fire rockets into the town after the engagement with the batteries was at an end, and it is also inconsistent with the air of satisfaction which marks the despatch reporting that £1,000,000 worth of property had been destroyed during the bombardment. [Illustration: KAGOSIMA HARBOUR] After the return of the squadron to Yokohama we settled down quietly again, and the trade went on pretty much as usual; there were some complaints that the Tycoon's council were laying hands on all the raw silk destined for exportation, with a view doubtless of forcing up the price and so recouping themselves out of foreign pockets for the indemnities they had been forced to pay to the British Government. But on a strong protest being made to them by Colonel Neale, the embargo was removed. Rumours reached us of disturbances at Kiôto, where the retainers of Chôshiû had been plotting to take possession of the palace, and seize the person of the Mikado. Failing in their plans, they had been dismissed from their share in guarding the palace, and had departed to their native province, taking with them seven court nobles who had been mixed up in the plot. Amongst them were Sanjô Sanéyoshi, Higashi-Kuzé and Sawa, who afterwards held high office in the government of the restoration. The ill-success of the Chôshiû clan, which had been one of the foremost in demanding the expulsion of the foreigners, was a turn of luck for the Tycoon, and the result was the withdrawal of the circular of Ogasawara proposing the closing of the ports. Ogasawara himself was disgraced. Foreigners at Yokohama began to breathe freely again, and to renew their former excursions in the neighbouring country. But on the 14th October a fresh outrage completely upset our tranquillity. A French officer of Chasseurs named Camus, while taking his afternoon's ride at a distance of not more than two or three miles from the settlement, and far from the high road, was attacked and murdered. His right arm was found at a little distance from his body, still clutching the bridle of his pony. There was a cut down one side of the face, one through the nose, a third across the chin, the right jugular vein was severed by a slash in the throat, and the vertebral column was completely divided. The left arm was hanging on by a piece of skin and the left side laid open to the heart. All the wounds were perfectly clean, thus showing what a terrible weapon the Japanese _katana_ was in the hands of a skilful swordsman. No clue to the identity of the perpetrators of this horrible assassination was ever discovered, but it made a profound impression upon the foreign community, who after that were careful not to ride out unarmed or in parties of less than three or four. Not that we were able to place much confidence in our revolvers, for it was pretty certain that the _samurai_ who was lying in wait to kill a foreigner would not carry out his purpose unless he could take his victim at a disadvantage, and cases of chance encounters with peaceably inclined Japanese were not known to have occurred. Excepting perhaps the Richardson affair, from the very first all these murders were premeditated, and the perpetrators took care to secure their own safety beforehand. It was an agreeable surprise to us a month later, when there appeared at the legation two high officers of Satsuma, who undertook to pay the indemnity of £25,000 and gave an engagement to make diligent search for Richardson's murderers, who upon their arrest were to be punished with death in the presence of British officers, in accordance with the original demand. We may give Colonel Neale credit for knowing that there was no genuine intention on the part of Satsuma to carry out this promise, but on the other hand there was strong reason to suppose that Shimadzu Saburô himself had actually given the order to cut down the foreigners, and it could hardly be expected that the Satsuma men would ever consent to do punishment upon him. The actual doers of the deed were merely subordinate agents. We could not with justice have insisted on their lives being taken, and at the same time suffer the principal culprit to go scot-free. In order to succeed therefore in enforcing the whole of the demands made by Her Majesty's Government, it would have been necessary to invade Satsuma with an overwhelming force and exterminate the greater part of the clan before we could get at their chief; and we may be sure that he would never have fallen alive into our hands. We had bombarded and destroyed the greater part of the forts and town, probably killed a good many persons who were innocent of Richardson's murder, and had thereby elevated what was in the beginning a crime against public order into a _casus belli_. There would indeed, it seems to me, have been no justification after that for taking more lives by way of expiation. The Satsuma envoys, however, formally acknowledged that their countrymen had been in the wrong, and they paid the fine demanded by the British Government. No one therefore can blame the British Chargé d'Affaires for having made peace on these terms. It should be mentioned, however, that the Satsuma men borrowed the money from the Tycoon's treasury, and I have never heard that it was repaid. CHAPTER IX SHIMONOSEKI; PRELIMINARY MEASURES SIR RUTHERFORD ALCOCK returned from Europe early in March 1864, and Colonel Neale took his departure. The members of the legation gave him a farewell dinner, at which he delivered himself of prognostications as to the future of those who had served under him. For me he prophesied a professorship of Japanese at an English University, but so far his words have not come true. The new chief was liked by everyone, and he was particularly gracious to myself, relieving me from all chancery work, so that I could devote the whole of my time to my Japanese studies. Willis and I occupied a wooden house in a back street between the native town and the foreign settlement, and there I worked industriously with my three teachers. Sir Rutherford had brought with him very ample powers, which he determined to make use of to chastise the Chôshiû clan for its hostile attitude. We had, it might be said, conquered the goodwill of Satsuma, and a similar process applied to the other principal head of the anti-foreign party might well be expected to produce an equally wholesome effect. In the summer of the previous year the Chôshiû people, acting upon the orders which they had extorted from the Mikado for the "expulsion of the barbarians," had fired upon an American merchant vessel, a Dutch corvette and a French despatch-boat as they passed through the straits of Shimonoséki. The corvette had returned the fire, and in the other two cases satisfaction of an incomplete kind had been obtained by the United States sloop "Wyoming" and the French squadron under Admiral Jaurès respectively. The batteries had been destroyed, but as soon as the foreign men-of-war quitted the scene, the Chôshiû men set to work to rebuild the forts, to construct others, and to mount all the guns they could bring together. So the hornet's nest was after no long interval in good repair again, and more formidable for attack and defence than before. That no foreign vessels could take their way through the straits of Shimonoséki, which they had been in the habit of passing from time to time after touching at Nagasaki in order to make a pleasant and easy passage to Yokohama, instead of encountering the stormy Cape Chichakoff, was felt to involve a diminution of western prestige. Nothing but the complete subjugation of this warlike clan, and the permanent destruction of its means of offence, would suffice to convince the Japanese nation that we were determined to enforce the treaties, and to carry on our trade without molestation from anybody, irrespective of internal dissensions. Sir Rutherford Alcock therefore lost no time in diligently setting to work in order to bring about a coalition with the representatives of France, Holland and the United States. In this he completely succeeded. The Tycoon's government were warned that if they did not within twenty days give a satisfactory undertaking to re-open the straits, the foreign squadrons would be despatched thither to bring the Prince of Chôshiû to reason. By a curious coincidence there had just returned to Japan two out of a band of five young _samurai_ of Chôshiû, who the year before had been smuggled away to England to see the world, and learn something of the resources of foreign powers. Their names were Itô Shunsuké and Inouyé Bunda. The other three who remained in England while their companions, armed with the new knowledge, set forth on their journey to warn their fellow clansmen that it was no use trying to run their heads against a brick wall, were Endo Kinsuké, Inouyé Masaru and Yamao Yôzo. They made themselves and the object of their return known to Sir Rutherford, who promptly seized the opportunity thus offered of entering into direct communication with the _daimiô_ of Chôshiû, and while delivering a sort of ultimatum, of affording him the chance of abandoning his hostile attitude for one more in accordance with the treaties. He obtained the consent of his colleagues to the despatch of two men-of-war to the neighbourhood of Shimonoséki in order to land the two young men at a convenient spot, and delivered to them a long memorandum for presentation to their prince. A French officer (Commandant Layrle) and a Dutch naval officer, besides Major Wray, R.E., were sent at the same time to gain what information might be obtainable as to the present condition of the batteries, and to my great joy I was lent as interpreter, along with my colleague, Mr. J. J. Enslie. On the 21st July we left in the corvette "Barrosa," Captain W. M. Dowell, and the gun vessel "Cormorant," Commander Buckle, and passing up the Bungo channel, anchored off Himéshima Island after dark on the 26th. We ran ashore, but managed to get off again, smashing the jib-boom of the "Cormorant" as we did so. Early on the following morning we landed our two Japanese friends Itô and Inouyé (who at that time went by the name of Shiji), after promising to call for them on the 7th August at the island of Kasato, off the coast of Suwô. On the way down I had talked a good deal with them, and between us, with the aid of my teacher, Nakazawa Kensaku (a retainer of Ogasawara, who had to seek his livelihood in consequence of his master's disgrace), we had managed to put Sir Rutherford's memorandum into Japanese. They were to cross over in an open boat and land at Tonomi in Suwô. At eight o'clock we saw them leave the shore. In Nakazawa's opinion the chances were six or seven out of ten that their heads would be cut off, and that we should never see them again. We landed later on in the day at Himéshima and found the people very friendly. They sold to us a plentiful supply of fish, but there were no vegetables, beef or chickens to be had. Cattle were pretty plentiful and fat, but the people looked poor and half starved. The population was about 2000. The island was not fertile. I tried to buy some beef, but the pretext that it was wanted as medicine for sick sailors (a Japanese idea) was useless. Half the population was engaged in salt-burning; 1/2d and 1d banknotes were current, and very little coin was to be seen. At one place we gave a man an _ichibu_, worth say 10d. He pretended to turn it over and look at it carefully, and then said "these are very rare things here." Next day we went round to the north side of the island and anchored there. Here we again landed to visit the salt pans, and met with the same friendly reception as before. On the 29th we crossed in one of the ship's boats to Imi in Iyo, where the villagers refused to have anything to do with us, but at Takeda-tsu, a mile or two further west, they made no difficulties, and we were able to lay in a supply of pumpkins and brinjalls. On the 1st August we weighed anchor before sunrise, and stood away towards the straits. The "Barrosa" anchored about ten miles on this side of Shimonoséki, and we went on in the "Cormorant," steaming towards the coast of Buzen and then up to Isaki Point. When half-way across the mouth of the straits we saw signal guns fired all along the north coast from Chôfu to Saho. After going nearly up to Tanoura, keeping carefully out of the range of the batteries, and cruising backwards and forwards for a while, in order that the situation of the batteries and the number of guns might be accurately noted, we finally returned to Himéshima. We used to go on shore there for a walk every day, and found the people inquisitive but friendly. On one occasion, however, as we were returning through the village to our boats, we met a party of four _samurai_, who appeared to form part of a detachment sent over from Kitsuki in Buzen to protect the island against a possible attack from us. I spoke civilly to them, and asked where they had come from, but they answered in a surly manner, "from a distance." They looked as villainous a set as one could wish to see, and remained at the water's edge watching our movements until we got on board. On the 6th August we made another trip to Shimonoséki in the "Cormorant" to reconnoitre, going in a little further than before in the direction of Tanoura. On this occasion, in addition to the signal guns, the batteries fired a round shot and a shell as a warning, which fell in the sea about a mile ahead. When we got back to the "Barrosa" at half-past ten in the evening we found Itô and Shiji had already returned. After dinner we had a long talk, and received the prince's answer. They brought with them a single retainer, but said they had been accompanied down to the coast by a guard of soldiers given them by their prince. They commenced the delivery of the communication with which they were charged by saying that they had found him at Yamaguchi, and had handed over the letters of the four foreign representatives to him in person. He had then consulted with his chief retainers and come to the following conclusion: that he entirely acknowledged the truth of what was stated in the letters, and was conscious of his own inability to cope with the forces of western nations. But he was acting under orders which he had received, once from the Tycoon, and oftener from the Mikado, and not on his own responsibility, and it was out of his power to reply to the foreign representatives without first receiving permission. It was his intention, therefore, to proceed to Kiôto in order to impress his own views on the Mikado, which he calculated would take about three months. He begged therefore that the powers would postpone operations for that period. They brought no written documents with them, not even a letter to certify that they were the accredited agents of their prince, but told us they could procure one if the vessels were delayed for two or three days. They were informed that a mere verbal reply such as they had brought could not be expected to satisfy the foreign representatives. They then inquired whether they should send a written reply to Yokohama with copies of the orders of the Tycoon and Mikado, but Captain Dowell replied that their prince might do as he liked about that. His instructions did not go so far as to enable him to express an opinion. In private conversation they afterwards told me that their prince had originally been favourable to foreigners, but had gone too far now in the opposite direction to be able to retract, and they did not believe that the matters at issue could be settled without fighting. They suggested that it would be a good measure for the foreign representatives to throw over the Tycoon, and proceeding to Ozaka, demand an interview with the Mikado's ministers in order to conclude a direct treaty with him. They spoke with great bitterness of the Tycoon's dynasty, accused them of keeping all the trade, both foreign and native, in their own hands, by taking possession of every place where trade was likely to develope, such as Nagasaki and Niigata, and they said these feelings were shared by most of the people. The way in which they delivered their message made me suspect that it was couched in far more uncompromising terms than those which they made use of in communicating it. This was the first occasion on which I had been in full and frank communication with men belonging to the anti-Tycoon party. Their proposal that we should at once try to enter into negotiations with the Mikado was a bold one, and calculated, if it had been adopted, rather to injure than help their cause. The time was not yet ripe, for the Shôgun's authority, though much weakened, was still admitted and obeyed by a large majority of the _daimiôs_. His troops had not as yet exhibited their inferiority in arms, and as a matter of fact almost at this very moment the forces of the Prince of Chôshiû were suffering an overwhelming defeat in their attack upon Kiôto, which was defended in the Tycoon's interest by Aidzu and Satsuma. By the time we returned to Yokohama, and before the idea could have been even considered by the foreign representatives, Chôshiû's principal men were either fugitives or dead, and the Tycoon was temporarily master of the field. Itô and his companion left again during the night. I could not help feeling sorry for their failure to impress on their prince the warning which they had come all the way from Europe to impart. But there was no help for it. We weighed anchor early on the following morning and arrived at Yokohama on the 10th. As soon as it became known that Chôshiû would not give way preparations were actively made for carrying out the resolutions previously agreed upon by the representatives of the four Powers. They held a conference with the ministers of the Shôgun, in order to impress on them that the moment had now come when the naval forces must be charged with the duty of opening the straits, but before the meeting had separated there came like a thunderbolt on their deliberations an announcement of the return from Europe of a mission that had been despatched in the month of January to treat with Great Britain and France. They brought with them a convention concluded with the latter Power which provided for an indemnity in respect of the attack on the French gunboat, for the removal by the Shôgun's government within three months of the impediments to the navigation of the straits of Shimonoséki, for a modification of the import tariff in favour of French manufactures, and for the payment of an indemnity of $35,000 to the relatives of Lieutenant Camus. This news seemed to Sir Rutherford Alcock to threaten an utter collapse of his plans, for if the convention were ratified, the French at least would be compelled to withdraw from the coalition. But it was of course clear to those on the spot that the second article could not be possibly carried out by the Tycoon's government, and never could have been seriously intended, at least on the Japanese side. Pressure was therefore put on the council to make them declare that they would not ratify the convention, and a note from them to this effect reached the foreign representatives on the 25th August. On the same day they signed a memorandum declaring the necessity of a resort to force, which was then communicated to the naval commanders-in-chief, and four days later the allied squadrons put to sea to carry into execution the plans decided on before the return of the envoys had for a moment seemed to threaten the disruption of the diplomatic union so strenuously worked for by our chief. It was an immense responsibility that he had assumed. There was no telegraph in those days to any point nearer than Ceylon, but a despatch dated 26th July was already on its way to him positively prohibiting the adoption of military measures in the interior of Japan, and limiting naval operations against the Japanese Government or princes to defensive measures for the protection of the life and property of British subjects. By the time it reached his hands, his schemes had already been accomplished with the happiest possible results, and he was able to console himself with the conviction that he had done the right thing, even though he might be censured for acting contrary to the wishes of Lord John Russell, and have incurred the penalty of a recall from his post. The United States steamer "Monitor" had been fired at as she lay at anchor in a bay on the north coast of Nagato on July 11. This afforded fresh justification of the action adopted by the foreign representatives. CHAPTER X SHIMONOSEKI--NAVAL OPERATIONS TO my great satisfaction I was appointed interpreter to Admiral Küper, and, packing up a few necessaries, embarked on board the "Euryalus." I was messed in the ward room, and as there was no cabin available, slept on a sofa. The officers were a very pleasant set of fellows; among them I especially remember Tracey and Maclear, both of them now post-captains. The former is a very distinguished officer, but what particularly attracted me towards him was his love of books, and his wide knowledge of modern languages, acquired by dint of sheer perseverance amid all the noisy distractions of life on board ship. The "Coquette" was sent off to Nagasaki to bring up Sir Rutherford's stepson, Fred. Lowder, to be additional interpreter. The only other civilian on board the flagship was Felix Beato, the well-known photographer, who, making his first start in life with a camera in the Crimean war, had also accompanied the Anglo-French expedition to North China in 1859, and had subsequently settled in Japan, where his social qualities had gained him many friends. My teacher Nakazawa had been secretly taken away from me by the Tycoon's government as a punishment for having accompanied me on the visit to Himéshima; many years afterwards I was made acquainted with the treachery of the foreigner who had denounced him to the Commissioners for Foreign Affairs. But Willis lent me his Japanese instructor and pupil in medicine, Hayashi Bokuan, and I was able to make shift with this faithful man, though as a scholar he was greatly inferior to Nakazawa. The English squadron consisted of the flagship "Euryalus," 35, commanded by Captain Alexander; the corvettes "Tartar," 21, Captain Hayes; "Barrosa," 21, Captain W. M. Dowell; the two-decker "Conqueror," 48, Captain Luard; the paddle-sloop "Leopard," 18, Captain Leckie; the paddle-sloop "Argus," 6, Commander Moresby; the "Coquette," 14, Commander Roe; and gunboat "Bouncer," 2, Lieutenant Holder. The French frigate "Sémiramis," 35, bearing the broad pennon of Admiral Jaurés, and the American chartered steamer "Takiang," carrying a Parrot gun and its crew from the United States corvette "Jamestown," under the command of Lieutenant Pearson, accompanied us. The French corvette "Dupleix," 10, and despatch boat "Tancrède," 4, with the Dutch corvettes "Metalen Kruis," 16, Captain de Man; "Djambi," 16, Captain van Rees; "Amsterdam," 8; and "Medusa," 16, Captain de Casembroot, left the bay of Kanagawa on the 28th August, and the remainder of the ships on the following day. We had calm weather and a smooth sea on the way down, sighting the south-west corner of Shikoku on the 1st September. About 5 p.m. we fell in with the "Perseus," 17, Commander Kingston, towing a collier, and bringing the Admiral's mail. The "Perseus" had met Commander Buckle in the "Cormorant" on his way to Shanghai for the mail, who, having started from Yokohama about the time of the return of the Japanese embassy, reported that the expedition was indefinitely postponed; she had therefore cast off the collier and steamed away at full speed for Yokohama, but falling a little later in with the "Coquette" on her way to Nagasaki, learnt a very different tale, and turning round, had picked up the collier again and brought her on. On the following day we reached Himéshima and anchored a little after noon; here we found the "Djambi" and "Metalen Kruis." Shortly afterwards the "Medusa" and the three French ships appeared, and by midnight every ship of the allied squadron had arrived. We had still to wait for the "Coquette," and either the "Cormorant" or "Osprey." In the afternoon the Admiral, Captain Alexander, with other officers, went ashore for a walk, and I acted as their guide. The poor village mayor made his appearance in a great state of alarm. He was indeed in an uncomfortable position, uncertain of the disposition of the strangers, and sure of punishment from his own countrymen if he manifested too great friendliness towards us. He promised, however, to send us off some fish, "quite privately," but was positive that he could sell no bullocks. He had despatched a messenger to Kitsuki to inquire whether the islanders might hold intercourse with the squadron and furnish us with what supplies they had. During the night we took in 150 tons of coal, and the 3rd of September was spent by the rest of our squadron in replenishing their bunkers. In the afternoon I went ashore to the mayor's house, where I found three of the garrison from Kitsuki. They were very reticent, not to say sulky, and only one of them, who was evidently afraid of his companions, could be induced to open his mouth. It was a grand sight to see the master of the collier and his wife parading along the beach with a couple of dirty little village urchins running ahead of them. The common people were friendly enough, except when the eyes of the two-sworded men were upon them. On the 4th September we weighed anchor at nine o'clock and proceeded towards the straits of Shimonoséki, the eight British ships in the centre, with "Euryalus" leading, the French squadron and the "Takiang" in a line on the left, and the four Dutch vessels on the right. It was a beautiful show as the allied squadrons steamed in the consciousness of irresistible strength calmly across the unruffled surface of this inland sea, which lay before us like a glassy mirror in its framework of blue hills. Towards half past three we anchored at a distance of about two miles from the mouth of the straits, and prepared for action. Everything was in readiness by the time we had got half-way through our dinner, but to the disappointment of the more eager spirits, we remained where we were without firing a shot. Every one was naturally very anxious that no new complication should arise to delay the longed-for encounter with the enemy. Early on the following morning two Chôshiû men, common soldiers, came on board to inquire why all these men-of-war had come to the straits, but the Admiral refused to hold any parley with men of evidently inferior rank, and they were told to return on shore at once. One of them told me very innocently that if we intended to go through he must go on shore to make preparations for us, and when I asked what preparation, he said "for fighting." I was then sent in a boat to overhaul a couple of junks that in the meanwhile had been stopped as they were entering the straits. One was the "Isé Maru," of Matsuyama in Iyo, going to load coals at Hirado, the other belonged to Kurumé in Chikugo, and was returning from Ozaka with a miscellaneous cargo. As they did not belong to the enemy we let them go. About two p.m. the two men who had previously visited the ship came on board again to announce the arrival of a _bugiô_ or commissioner of some sort, accompanied by Inouyé Bunda (he had now laid aside his alias of Shiji). But signals had already been made to the captains to take up the positions allotted to them for shelling the batteries, and when my friend Inouyé and his companion reached the flagship the only answer they received to their request that hostilities might be deferred with a view to negotiation was that the time for a peaceable arrangement had passed. We went into action at ten minutes past four. The "Barrosa," "Tartar," "Djambi," "Metalen Kruis," "Leopard," and "Dupleix" moved along the southern coast of the funnel-shaped entrance to the strait, and took up their station in front of Tanoura, as shown in the annexed plan, while a light squadron consisting of the "Perseus," "Medusa," "Tancrède," "Coquette," and "Bouncer" passed along the northern shore, the "Amsterdam" and "Argus" being held in reserve. The "Euryalus," "Sémiramis," "Conqueror," and "Takiang" anchored out of range of the enemy's batteries, at a distance of about 2500 yards from the central cluster at Maeda mura, and consequently near enough to reach them with our 110-pounder breech-loading Armstrong gun on the forecastle. The first shot was fired from the "Euryalus," and the whole of the Tanoura squadron then followed her example. The light squadron speedily silenced the three-gun battery on Kushi Saki Point, but not before it had managed to pitch a shot pretty near the British flagship. Then the "Sémiramis," which had been occupied in getting springs on her cable, opened fire from her quarter-deck guns with terrible effect, scarcely a shot falling short. The "Takiang" did her best with her single gun, and the "Conqueror" fired three shells, one of which burst beautifully among the great cluster of batteries. The "Euryalus" fired only sixteen rounds between 4.10 and 5.10 p.m. from her 110-pounder, which was pretty good work, considering that the vent piece got jammed once and a considerable time was lost in digging it out with handspikes. Another time the vent piece was blown up into the fore-top owing to its not having been screwed in tightly enough. The six vessels anchored south were soon engaged in a sharp conflict with the batteries opposite, while the light squadron, having silenced the batteries on the north, came to their aid, enfilading the 4, 7, and 9-gun batteries. The furthest shot fired from the "Euryalus" was at 4800 yards, and it went plump into a battery. [Illustration: THE STRAITS OF SHIMONOSEKI] By 5.10 the principal batteries had been silenced, and a signal was made to discontinue firing. A fire now burst out among the buildings in the Maeda mura batteries and a magazine exploded, making the third "blow-up" during the afternoon. We continued firing a shot now and then up to six o'clock. The quarter-deck 40-pounder Armstrongs were fired once only, as their range proved to be too short, and none of the smooth-bore guns on the main deck were brought into action, to the great disappointment of the bluejackets, who had probably not forgotten the slaughter made amongst their comrades at Kagoshima, and burned to avenge it. It must be admitted that the Japanese fought well and with great persistence, for I attach no value to the story that was told that the gunners were only allowed to fire once, and were then replaced by fresh men. At first many of our shot fell short, but when the range was found, they struck the batteries every moment, as we could see by the clouds of dust that were knocked up. After the signal to discontinue firing had been made, Kingston of the "Perseus" and De Casembroot of the "Medusa" landed and spiked fourteen guns in the Maeda mura batteries. At the small battery on Kushi Saki Point two out of the three guns had been dismounted by our fire. The entire casualties on our side this first day were six men wounded in the "Tartar," which bore the brunt of the fire. Early on the following morning one of the Maeda mura batteries re-opened fire on the squadron anchored off Tanoura, but was replied to with such effect that it was speedily silenced, and the barrack behind was set on fire. The "Dupleix" lost two killed and two wounded, while the first lieutenant of the "Tartar" was struck by a round shot on the posteriors and severely wounded. He recovered, however, contrary to the expectations of the surgeons. I slept through the noise, but was woke by somebody with a message that I had to land with Captain Alexander, who was to command the small-arms party of the "Euryalus," 200 strong. From the "Conqueror" there landed the battalion of 450 marines under Colonel Suther, besides her own complement of 100, and some bluejackets, small detachments of marines being added from the other ships of our squadron. The French landed 350, and the Dutch 200. Another calculation showed that 1900 men were put ashore, of whom we furnished 1400. We rowed straight for the nearest land, followed by a string of cutters and pinnaces so full of men that there was only just room to work the oars, and got on shore at nine o'clock exactly. The task assigned to Captain Alexander's party was to scale a bluff immediately to the east of the Maeda mura batteries, and take a one-gun battery. It was a stiff pull up the steep grassy hill, but up went the bluejackets pell-mell, as if they were out on a picnic, every man for himself. On climbing over the earthwork we found that the gun had been either carried off or concealed. There were a score or so of the enemy on the platform, who retreated as soon as the first of our people showed his nose above the parapet, but they kept up a dropping fire from the other side of the hill. Here one of our men received a bullet wound in the leg, and a second was accidentally shot through the body by the sailor immediately behind him. Passing through the battery, we clambered up the hill behind, through a tangled brake of ferns and creepers. The heat was intense. It was a difficult job to keep one's footing on the narrow path cut through the slippery grass. Our bluejackets were very eager to get at the enemy, but not a single one was to be seen. Descending the other side of the hill, we at last found ourselves in a sort of covered way, which ran along the side of a narrow valley. It was reported that the enemy were posted further up the valley in considerable numbers, but instead of pursuing them we turned to the left along the covered way, which brought us down past a magazine into the central battery of the principal group. It turned out afterwards to be a fortunate counter-march, for if we had proceeded in the other direction we should have stumbled on a stockade defended by three field guns, which would have played "Old Harry" with our small force. The first battery we entered was already in the possession of the French landing party and some of our marines, who, having disembarked below the bluff, had marched along the beach, meeting with no opposition. This work was of earth, having a parapet about twenty feet wide, armed along the edge with a chevaux-de-frise of pointed bamboo stakes. In battery No. 7 the guns were mounted en barbette, on carriages with enormous wheels, and worked on pivots. They were of bronze, very long, and threw a 32-pound shot, though marked as 24's. They bore a Japanese date corresponding to 1854, and had evidently been cast in Yedo. Besides these, there was a short 32-pounder, and on the other side of a traverse, containing a small magazine, was a single 10-inch gun, also of bronze. We upset them all, broke up the carriages, threw the shot and shell into the sea, burned the powder, and even dragged a couple of guns down on to the beach. This occupied us till three or four o'clock in the afternoon. During this time our men were perpetually firing musketry at the enemy on the hill, who every now and then showed themselves to give us a shot or two. In the 9-gun battery were a couple of heavy 11-inch bronze guns. Afterwards we proceeded to the next battery, which was almost _à fleur d' eau_. It was divided into two by a traverse containing a magazine, on one side of which were one 10-inch howitzer, two 32-pounders, and one 24-pounder; on the other side were the same number, with the addition of a single 24-pounder. These likewise were overturned, and the carriages and ammunition disposed of as before. The Japanese field battery up the valley, which had been advanced some little way from the stockade along a path leading towards Maeda mura, Dannoura and Shimonoséki annoyed us considerably during this operation, firing shells over us and at long ranges into the sea, while their musketeers kept up a pretty constant fire, though no one was touched on our side. Part of our men were told off to keep them in check, but our aim was not much better than that of the enemy. The great thing in war, until you come to close quarters, seems to be to make as much noise as you can to put your foes in a funk, or in other words to demoralize them. You can't do much harm, and it was laughable to see how many of our men ducked to avoid the shot, and I confess I followed their example until reason came to my aid. The "Medusa" moved up and threw a few shells in among them, while the "Perseus," "Amsterdam," and "Argus" fired over the hill from their station before Tanoura. This quieted the zeal of our warrior foes for a while, and we returned to the first battery we had dismantled, for the men to have their dinners. Crowdy of the Engineers, McBean the assistant-surgeon of the flagship and I divided a loaf of bread and a tin of sardines, which we opened with Crowdy's sword. There were no knives or forks handy, but that did not hinder us from satisfying our well-earned appetite as we sat on the steps of the magazine in the traverse. After dinner we helped the French to overturn the guns in their battery, which were four in number, very long 32-pounders, mounted on field carriages. The enemy still continued annoying us from their position up the valley, while some of our men kept up a fitful musketry fire in reply, without much damage on either side. The afternoon being already far advanced, the signal to re-embark was made from the "Euryalus," and the French and Dutch detachments, some of the marine detachment, and the "Conqueror's" small-arms men, were already in their boats, when about six o'clock we saw Colonel Suther's battalion of marines returning from the Maeda mura 15-gun battery through a heavy fire from the Japanese. The Japanese on perceiving them threw a round shot in among them, but without doing any harm; our men replied, and for fifteen minutes there was nothing but ping, ping, ping on both sides. At last the Colonel came up to Captain Alexander and said:--"Where are these men who are annoying us. I've enough men to take any battery." "All right," replied Alexander, "I'll take the left side of the valley and you the right." So the marines clambered up into the French battery (the eastern-most one) and proceeded up the covered way, while the "Conqueror's" men disembarked again, and the advance commenced. Beato and I stuck close to Alexander, and followed the bluejackets across the paddyfields by the narrow "bunds," and then along the path on the western side of the valley. How the bluejackets shouted and cheered, each man running on by himself, now stopping to take aim at an enemy from behind one of the pine trees that lined the edge of the road, and then on again. There was no order or discipline. Some of them wasted their ammunition on imaginary foes on the hillsides. I passed several wounded men as I went up, some seriously hurt, and the corpse of a sailor who had been killed by an arrow. At last we reached the battery, whence the gunners had been driven by our fire, dismounted the guns and threw them into the paddyfield close by, after destroying the carriages. Here Alexander was wounded by a ball which passed through the ankle-joint of his right foot, and he had to be carried to the rear on a stretcher. From this point the valley contracted rapidly, while immediately in front of us was a stockaded barrack into which most of the Japanese retreated, turning back repeatedly to fire. But I saw others in black armour and white surcoats retreating with great rapidity along the road to the left. Lieutenant Edwards and Crowdy of the Engineers were ahead with a middy named D. G. Boyes, who carried the colours most gallantly; he afterwards received the V.C. for conduct very plucky in one so young. When I got up to the front of the stockade there were three or four dead Japanese lying about and one of our men, shot through the heart. He presented a most ghastly sight as he lay there, getting visibly bluer and bluer, without any exterior signs of blood to show how he had come by his death. Having directed some of the men to put his corpse into a huge oblong basket which was on the ground close by and carry him off, I passed on into the stockade whence the Japanese had already fled. In retiring they had set fire to some houses close to the magazine, with the amiable intention of blowing us up, but the train was discovered and the explosion prevented. After ranging over the whole place and removing whatever was worth carrying off as trophies, such as armour, bows and arrows, spears and swords, and bayonets bearing a foreign maker's name, we set fire to the buildings and retired in good order. The loss of the enemy was about twenty killed, but they had carried off all their wounded. We had five killed and thirteen or fourteen wounded, two mortally. What the marine battalion was doing all this time I cannot say, for the excitement about what was going on ahead left me no disposition to look elsewhere, but I rather think that having marched along the covered way with great steadiness they managed to arrive just as the more active and impetuous "jacks" had finished the business. And no blame to them either for going about their work in a business-like manner. If we had met with a check in our heedless, headlong advance, the marines would have saved us from destruction. It was lucky for us that the skirmish terminated as it did, for our loss in small-arms' men would have been much greater if the Japanese had been strong enough to stand to their guns, or had posted marksmen on the hills to take us in flank as we hurried up the valley. They had the advantage in position, besides possessing seven small field pieces, while on the other hand we had at least a couple of hundred men in excess of their number, which it was supposed was 600. But I fancy I remember having heard since from a Chôshiû man who was present that their force was only one half of that. The bluejackets bore the brunt of the business, as they had to cross the line of fire and to advance along the outer edge of the horn-shaped valley, which curved away to the east out of sight of the shipping. The Japanese could not stand our advance, the sharp musketry fire threw them into disorder, and they had to run for it. In only one case was an attempt made to come to close quarters. One fellow had concealed himself behind a door with uplifted sword in both hands, ready to cut down a man just about to enter. But contrary to his expectation, his intended victim gave him a prod in the belly which laid him on his back and spoilt his little game. Our French companions in arms were disgusted at not having been present at the affair, and turned up their noses at it, as _pas grand chose après tout_. It was the fortune of war, and we commiserated them sincerely. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A JAPANESE BATTERY AFTER THE LANDING OF THE ALLIED NAVAL FORCES] The marines who in the first instance marched on Maeda mura had one man killed and two wounded. They dismantled fifteen guns in the battery there. During the day a boat belonging to one of the Dutch men-of-war, with two men in her, got loose and drifted down with the tide towards the town. They were immediately shot, though quite defenceless. Fred Lowder and his brother George, who had come up with him from Nagasaki "to see the fun," had a narrow escape as they were paddling about in a Japanese boat, which became unmanageable and was drifting off in the same direction; they jumped into the water and swam ashore, or they would probably have encountered the same fate. The eastern end of the town of Shimonoséki (more properly speaking, I believe, Akamagaséki) was set on fire, but the number of houses burnt was extremely small. It was alleged that this was done by the French because some Japanese soldiers had fired thence on their men, but I do not know whether this is a fact. The "Perseus" ran ashore opposite the nearest batteries, and as the tide ebbed her bow was high out of the water, nor did she get off again until the following day. I found myself on board again at half-past seven o'clock, very dirty, very tired, very hungry and very thirsty. On the 7th September working parties of bluejackets landed under the protection of some marines to take possession of the guns, ten of which they got into the boats. Others went up to the stockade and found some field pieces, which they destroyed, hove down wells, or brought away. We got together sixty, all but one of bronze, with two mortars and six cohorns. We blew up all the powder and threw the shot and shell into the sea. There was not a single hostile Japanese to be seen. The "Perseus" had to be lightened by discharging all her guns and coals, and so managed to get afloat by noon. Our list of casualties during the two days' operation was eight killed and thirty wounded, of whom one or two were not expected to live. We landed at half-past one on the Tanoura side to bury our dead, the French having already buried two in the forenoon. In digging the graves our men found particles of a glittering substance which was at first taken to be gold dust, but turned out to be mica. I met a party of Ogasawara's two-sworded men, who asked how many dead we had, and how we had fared on the previous day. On learning what a complete thrashing we had given the enemy at the stockade, they expressed great satisfaction, and recounted how the Chôshiû people had crossed over the straits in the previous year, cut down their crops, carried off their live stock, and driven the peasants away, after which they held possession of Tanoura for some time, until public opinion and the necessity of providing for the defence of Chôshiû's own territories had compelled them to withdraw. Ogasawara's men feared that when Chôshiû came to find out that communication had taken place between us and the Buzen folk, he would visit them again after the withdrawal of the squadron, but I boldly assured them that they need not alarm themselves, as we intended to destroy the batteries, and deprive Chôshiû of his territory. For I knew that part of the plan entertained by Sir Rutherford and his colleagues was the seizure of a sufficient piece of territory near Shimonoséki as a material guarantee for the payment of an adequate indemnity, and to hold it until it could be conveniently handed over to the Tycoon's government. Sir Rutherford contemplated nothing less than the complete subjugation of the Chôshiû clan, and he had enjoined upon the Admiral the necessity of attacking Hagi, which was supposed to be the stronghold of the _daimiô_. The Admiral, however, who was a prudent commander, and by no means disposed to take orders from the civil representatives of Her Majesty further than he was obliged, came to the conclusion that the resources at his disposal did not permit of a permanent occupation of any portion of Chôshiû's territory, and considered that as soon as the forts were destroyed and the straits opened, his task was accomplished. Fear had made the Ogasawara _samurai_ wondrously polite. The villagers were also friendly enough, and I made them laugh good-humouredly with some commonplace jokes, but did not succeed in inducing them to sell any supplies. The officials, after hunting all through the village, as they assured us, produced eight or ten eggs, which they said was all they could find. Our bluejackets brought me some papers which they had picked up in the stockade, and which appeared to contain evidences of plots by Chôshiû against the Mikado, also quantities of pills made, or said to be made, from bear's gall, and banknotes for small sums, such as were commonly used in the territories of all the _daimiôs_. I believe that silver coin was current at that time in the dominions of the Tycoon alone. On the 8th, fatigue parties landed again to bring off more guns; we got all but two from the group of batteries, which made nineteen, besides fifteen from Maeda mura and an equal number from the batteries on Hikushima, the large island in the western entrance of the straits. I went on shore to Maeda mura, and found a well built battery, with a parapet twenty feet wide cased with stone towards the sea, and divided into four sections by traverses, between which the guns were planted in unequal numbers. In the rear stood a stone-built magazine, the roof of which had been smashed by a round shot that went right through it. The powder magazine, also of stone, which stood on one side of the valley behind, had been blown up the previous day. Further up was a stockaded barrack, which the French had burned. I went towards the advanced guard near the town, but as the enemy began to show themselves and fire at us, I made a prudent retreat. CHAPTER XI SHIMONOSEKI; PEACE CONCLUDED WITH CHÔSHIÛ Returning to the ship at noon, I found there my acquaintance Itô Shunsuké, who had come to say that Chôshiû desired peace, and that a _karô_ or hereditary councillor, provided with full powers, was coming off to treat. A boat was accordingly despatched to meet the great man, who shortly afterwards stood on the quarter-deck of the flagship. He was dressed in a robe called the _daimon_, which was covered with large light blue crests (the paulownia leaf and flower) on a yellow ground, and wore on his head a black silk cap, which he took off on passing the gangway. His queue was then seen to be loose, hanging over the back of his head like a tassel, and his white silk underclothing was a marvel of purity. His two companions, who bore a rank next only to his own, wore their hair in the same fashion, but were without mantles. They were conducted into the cabin, and presented to the Admirals, the Abbé Girard, Lowder and myself acting as interpreters. They began by stating that the Prince of Chôshiû acknowledged his defeat, and desired to make peace with a view to the establishment of friendly relations. The Admiral thereupon asked to see their credentials, and finding they had none, intimated that he would give them forty-eight hours to provide themselves with a letter from their _daimiô_. They were told that the letter must contain the substance of what they had said, acknowledging that he had committed a grievous wrong in firing upon foreign ships, and begging for peace, that it must be signed with his own hand and sealed with his seal, and that a copy must be addressed to each of the four senior naval officers in command. The conditions imposed were--first, that we should continue to remove the guns and destroy the forts; second, that we would discontinue hostilities, they on their side doing the same, but that if they fired another shot we should burn everything we could lay our hands on in Chôshiû's territories; third, they must deliver up intact the Dutch sailors and boat which had fallen into their hands on the 6th; and fourth, that they should endeavour to induce the villagers to bring off poultry and fresh vegetables for sale. In order that they might have a token of a peaceable disposition on our part, a white flag should be hoisted at the main until the expiration of the time fixed for their return. They gave as their names Shishido Giôma, adopted son of Shishido Bizen, minister of Nagato; Sugi Tokusuké and Watanabé Kurata, councillors. They then returned on shore, leaving communications addressed to each of the commanders of the allied squadron, which they had been charged to deliver at Himéshima before the bombardment. They handed these over at the Admiral's desire, remarking that we should perceive from the contents that the documents were useless now. Itô gave me also transcripts of the orders received from the Mikado and the Tycoon to expel foreigners from Japan, which Shishido certified with his own hand to be true copies. The translations made of these papers were afterwards published in the bluebook on Japan, where the curious can consult them. There is no doubt that they were perfectly authentic. It was amusing to observe the change which manifested itself gradually in the demeanour of the envoy, who was as proud as Lucifer when he stepped on board, but gradually toned down, and agreed to every proposal without making any objections. Itô seemed to exercise great influence over him. After the truce was agreed to, the country people ventured freely along the road near the batteries, and passed on into the town, no doubt heartily pleased at the termination of hostilities. It must be said to their credit that the terms were faithfully adhered to by the Chôshiû people, none of whom, except Itô and Inouyé, had supposed Europeans to be any better than mere barbarians. On the 9th September the "Coquette" took the two Admirals through the straits to visit the batteries on Hikushima, and as usual I accompanied them to interpret. From the eastern side the strait contracts rapidly, between lofty well-wooded hills, to a width of no more than six cables' lengths, and then as quickly opens out again, with the long line of houses forming the town of Shimonoséki on the northern shore, while to the left the coast trends away southwards past the village of Moji and the town of Kokura. In front lay the broad undulating Hikushima. Passing right out through the strait till we reached the north-west corner of the island, we turned back again and came along its coast, passing a little cove crowded with junks, till we came to Lime Point. Here we disembarked to inspect the site of the batteries, from which the guns had already been removed by our people. One of the batteries, which originally had six guns mounted, was cut out of the cliff, and there had evidently not been time to complete it. Immediately below the parapet was a single gun in a pit. A little further east was a battery of eight guns mounted _à fleur d'eau_, and close by was a smaller battery with four embrasures which had never been armed. The only other sign of a battery on this island was an old earthwork to the west of Lime Point, also without guns. Kokura appeared to be strongly fortified, and it was reported that the Chôshiû people had demanded, but unsuccessfully, to be allowed to work the batteries against us. The "Tartar," "Dupleix," "Djambi," and "Metalen Kruis" had been stationed here since the 7th, chiefly for the purpose of dismantling the batteries. Leaving them we steamed up to Kushi saki Point, where three brass and four _wooden_ guns had been taken. The latter were about four feet long, and were constructed of single logs with a bore about eight inches in diameter, having a chamber behind capable of holding about a pound and a half of powder. Bamboo hoops surrounded the gun from breech to muzzle, then came a layer of boards, and then more bamboo hoops; the wood itself was only about 3-1/2 in. thick. The shot consisted of a small bag of pebbles fastened to a wooden disk, and was intended to act like grape at close quarters against a landing party. These curious weapons were simply laid on the earthen parapet, and were not calculated to be used more than once. The Japanese had shown themselves very friendly to the working party, and had themselves carried down the guns for delivery. They were not improbably glad to get rid of the toys that had brought them into so much trouble. On returning to the flagship we found a couple of boats laden with fowls and vegetables which Shiji Bunda had sent on board as a present. There was a note from him saying that the common people were much too frightened to come near us to sell supplies, and complaining that one of the ships had been firing again, an action which, he said, would tend to endanger the friendly relations so recently established. But this was a mistake on his part, for no incident of the kind had occurred. The bumboatmen were shown over the ship, and expressed themselves much delighted with the novel and wonderful sight. We sent half of Shiji's present to the French Admiral, and our share was divided among the officers and men of the flagship. On the following day the envoys of the Prince of Chôshiû arrived punctually on board the "Euryalus." Shishido and Sugi, however, did not make their appearance, their absence being explained to be caused by illness from want of sleep and the hot weather in combination. Admiral Küper observed that it was singular how often this sort of thing happened, and ironically begged that if the negotiations were not concluded in one sitting, the delegates would take care of their health until everything was settled. Their names were Môri Idzumo, Minister (_Karô_) 'Yamada Uyemon, Hadano Kingo (Hadano was afterwards better known as Hirozawa Hiôsuké) and Watanabé Kurata, councillors (_sansei_), and Isota Kenzô and Harata Junji of Chôfu, councillors, with Shiji Bunda. We had looked up the Japanese "blue-book" in the meantime, and fancied we had reason to suppose the previous envoy had given an incorrect account of his position, but they were able to clear up the discrepancy in a satisfactory manner. The officer there called Shishido Mino had recently changed his name to Shishido Bizen, and retired from public life in favour of Giôma, who now represented the family. They produced a letter from their prince which, on being read, was found to declare in satisfactory terms that he sued for peace. The Admiral then said: "We quite agree with your prince in desiring peace. It was never our intention to fight your countrymen. We solely desire to cement amicable relations between Japan and foreign countries, and to carry on trade." Môri replied that these were entirely the views held by the prince. _Ad. Küper_--"Do you wish us distinctly to understand that you will offer no further opposition to the free passage of the straits?" _Môri_--"We do." _Ad. Küper_--"We should like very much to have an interview with the prince, for we could concede much to him that we could not perhaps concede to you. We are ourselves of high rank in our own country, but will come on shore to meet him at Shimonoséki." After consulting among themselves they named the 14th September as the date on which he should come down from his capital to receive the two Admirals in the town. _Ad. Küper_--"We will first state our demands, which can be ratified by the prince when he comes. We shall then be able to explain to him many matters connected with the customs of foreign countries which will prevent mistakes arising in future. In any case the transaction of business will be facilitated and time will be saved by the prince's coming, as in any case his ratification has to be obtained to the terms agreed on." "In the first place, no batteries must be constructed in the straits until all questions between foreigners and Japanese have been settled by the Tycoon's government and the foreign ministers at Yedo." "Secondly, according to the custom of foreign nations in time of war, a ransom for the town of Shimonoséki must be paid, because we spared it when we had a perfect right to set it on fire, for our people had been fired on from the houses. The amount shall be communicated to the prince himself at the conference which is to take place." "Thirdly, when foreign vessels passing through the straits are in need of coals, provisions, or water, they shall be permitted to purchase what they want." These conditions were readily accepted by the envoy, who said that as the tides were very strong in the straits, and both wind and waves sometimes violent, persons in distress should be permitted to land. The Admiral then informed him that during our stay we should go on shore at Shimonoséki to buy whatever we required, and requested him to tell the townspeople to bring together for sale what they could, in fact to start a market for the fleet. To this they at first objected, on the ground that the town had been completely abandoned by its inhabitants, but eventually agreed to do what was desired. Then Môri got up, and leaning over to me said confidentially that there was one thing about which he was very anxious. The peace they had obtained was a most precious and valuable thing, and they would greatly regret if any untoward event were to injure our present friendly relations. It might happen that an ill-disposed person would lie in wait to attack foreigners, and, to prevent anything of this kind occurring, he begged that those who went ashore would be on their guard. This was interpreted to Admiral Küper, who at once replied that we had no fear of any such evilly disposed persons, but that if a single European were hurt, the whole town should be burnt to the ground. The Japanese authorities, he added, were in the habit of saying this sort of thing, solely to prevent our landing, and it looked to him a little suspicious. Môri answered that he feared the purity of his intentions in giving this warning was not understood. He was sure the Japanese authorities would on their part take every precaution to prevent mishaps, and he had only mentioned this to prevent mistakes. _Ad. Küper_--"Very well. We shall not go into the country at all. No doubt there is a governor in the town. You can give orders to him to keep out the ill-disposed, and if he cannot defend the place, we will land and do it for him." _Môri_--"We will give orders to the governor." This finished the business part of the conference, but the Admiral was curious to know the details of what had recently taken place at Kiôto, where it was reported there had been fighting between the Chôshiû and Aidzu men. Thereupon Shiji told us a long story, the gist of which was that after Chôshiû had received the orders of both the Mikado and Tycoon for "the expulsion of the foreigners," and had acted upon them to the best of his ability, he got a great deal of abuse for having done so. Being both surprised and hurt at this treatment, he sent several times to Kiôto to inquire the reason, but his people were driven out of the capital, and he was forbidden to present himself there again. He became indignant at this injustice, and his retainers sympathized with him very strongly. At last a band of them, who could bear it no longer, set out for Kiôto to demand an explanation from the Mikado's ministers. They took swords, spears, and other warlike weapons in their hands. For why? On a former occasion, nay twice, Aidzu had put to death every Chôshiû man to be found in Kiôto. So, said they, "Aidzu may attack us also, and then we must defend ourselves; we will not be killed for nothing." The prince, happening to hear of their departure, sent three of his ministers (_karô_) to recall them, but they refused to return. Then the governor of Kiôto summoned Chôshiû's agent at the capital to send the men home again, "for if you don't," said he, "I shall attack them." However, the agent refused, and a battle ensued. When the "Barrosa" came the first time to Himéshima with the letters of the foreign representatives, the prince despatched his son to communicate with the Mikado, but owing to the disturbed state of affairs he was unable to effect anything. Shiji hoped we would not believe that the Chôshiû clan harboured any treasonable intentions towards the Mikado, and the whole truth was that they had simply tried to get an explanation of the manner in which they had been treated. He added that we ought not to put any trust in what was told us by the Kokura people or the junk sailors, who came from Yedo and Hizen and all parts of the country, and were enemies of Chôshiû. Our visitors were then conducted over the ship, and after being entertained with some music by the band they went over the side, and we parted on very friendly terms. A comparison of dates with the account given in Adams, chapters 25 and 26, of what had passed at Kiôto during the summer, shows that the Chôshiû clansmen were marching from Ozaka to Kiôto at the very time that Itô and Shiji landed from the "Barrosa" and reached Yamaguchi to convey the messages of the foreign representatives to the princes. From time to time other bodies of Chôshiû men reached the capital, and the accumulated elements of civil war finally exploded on the 20th August, before the younger prince of Chôshiû, who seems to have really started from home to calm the excited spirits of the clansmen with news of a new enemy in their rear, had time to arrive. The best fighting men were consequently absent when the allied squadron appeared at the straits, and our victory was therefore a much easier affair than it would otherwise have been. I doubt whether any of the fugitives from Kiôto got home in time to take part in the defence of the place. Next day Captain Hayes of the "Tartar," Major Wray, R.E., and I went ashore for a walk through Shimonoséki. The eastern end of the town had received a good many round shot on the 6th September, and some of the houses were almost knocked to pieces. I believe the Chôshiû men had brought out a field piece or two and fired from that point against the squadron lying in front of Tanoura. This had drawn on them our heavy artillery. The townspeople were flocking back, and had commenced to settle down again, but very few shops were open. The common people followed us in crowds, and appeared very friendly, but the prices asked by the shopkeepers were exorbitant. We were somewhat surprised, though of course without reason, to find that the proportion of _curio_ shops was very small as compared with Yokohama. We saw several soldiers, some armed with rifles, others carrying swords and spears; they of course could not be expected to look very amicably at their late foes. On the 12th, Hadano and the two governors of the town came off to tell the Admiral that a market would be opened at a wharf called Nabéhama from ten to twelve in the forenoon for the sale of fresh provisions. We of course suspected them of having made this arrangement in order to have everything under their own control, and to keep the prices as high as possible. The Admiral demanded a market from six to eight o'clock, to which after much discussion they agreed. I learnt through my teacher that the people were told to sell dearly to us, in spite of the promise given to us by the officials that they would not interfere. The latter had begged that our men might be ordered not to purchase anything in the shops, on the ground that we should buy up all the provisions intended for the townsfolk. On the 13th, Captain Dowell transferred to the "Euryalus" as flag-captain, vice captain Alexander invalided. Next day I accompanied the two Admirals on shore to the clean little village of Moji. On asking some Kokura men whom we met to show us the way up to the battery on the point where the strait sweeps round, they inquired whether we had permission from the guard established at a temple close by. The answer to this astounding query was that we were not in the habit of asking leave. "Was that the path?" "Yes, that's the path." So we toiled up a hill through the pine trees, turned to the left, and descended into the battery, which was constructed for three guns. It commanded a view right up and down the straits, from Manshiû to Hikushima. It was a splendid position for guns, though a shell pitched in the line of the work would of necessity have fallen into it, unless passing very high, as it was cut out of the hillside. All about it there were places cleared for guns which would have a powerful effect against ships. The thick brushwood would prevent any attempt at escalade, and a single gun is not easily hit. I do not know what might be done with modern artillery, but it was the opinion of all our engineer officers that if the Japanese of that day had known the advantages of the position, they could easily have rendered it impregnable. At two o'clock in the afternoon arrived the Chôshiû delegates, who by agreement made earlier in the day were to represent the prince. The story they told us was that he had voluntarily shut himself up in order to await the will of the Mikado, or as they phrased it, he had placed himself in an attitude of respectful attention (_tsutsushindé oru_). Lest it should be supposed that this is merely a joke, I must explain that in the old times, whenever a member of the _samurai_ class had committed an act in person or vicariously which might be expected to bring down upon him the wrath of his political superiors, he at once assumed a submissive posture, and as it were delivered himself up, tied hands and feet, to the pleasure of his lord. It was a sort of voluntary self-imprisonment as a first-class misdemeanant. We did not accept the excuse, which it was natural to suppose had been invented to save him the trouble of travelling to Shimonoséki, but I now incline to think that horrorstruck at the violent proceedings of his followers who had dared to fight against the defenders of the palace (and also repenting of their failure), the old prince had hastened to atone for the crime of treason, as far as lay in his power, by declaring his readiness to undergo any penalty that might be decreed by the sovereign--if his retainers would let him, being understood. Their names were Shishido Bizen, Môri Idzumo, Shishido Giôma and Ibara Kazuyé, ministers; and Nawozaki Yahichirô (_metsuké_, a secretary), Itô Shunsuké, Hadano Kingo and another whose name I did not note down. Bizen, it appeared, had after all not completely retired from public affairs. Both the Admirals were present. As soon as the conference was formed, Admiral Küper asked why they had not let him know earlier that the prince was in seclusion, as the truce had been granted solely that there might be time for him to reach Shimonoséki. They answered that the boat was slow, and they had only arrived late on the previous day. They had spent a long time arguing with the prince and using their best efforts to persuade him to come, but he always answered that it was an old custom from which he could not depart. He was in disgrace with the Mikado, and was not able to see even his own confidential retainers, much less could he see the Admirals. They regretted it very much, but it could not be helped. The prince would have greatly liked to meet the Admirals. After this question had been so thoroughly thrashed out that the Japanese could not but suppose that great importance was attached to a direct undertaking on the part of the prince, the Admirals' demands were announced, as follows:-- _Firstly._ Foreign vessels passing through the straits to be treated in a friendly manner; to be permitted to purchase coals, provisions, water and other necessaries. If driven in through stress of weather, the crews to be permitted to land. _Secondly._ Henceforth no new batteries to be constructed, the old ones not to be repaired, and no guns to be mounted in them. This article caused some discussion, for as now put it deprived them of a loophole that had been left open on the previous occasion. But when they were asked for what purpose the batteries had been erected, they had but one answer--"for making war on foreigners." "Well then, those foreigners having destroyed the batteries, and taken the guns, will not permit any more to be put in the same place. The article is indispensable, and must stand as it is." So they agreed to it. _Thirdly._ The town of Shimonoséki might justly have been destroyed, because it fired on our ships. But it was left unhurt, and therefore a ransom must be paid. Furthermore, the prince must defray the cost of the expedition. The whole amount will be determined by the foreign representatives at Yedo. To this our friends offered strenuous opposition. Chôshiû and Bôshiû were two very small provinces, and possessed a revenue of scarcely 360,000 _koku_ of rice. Of this, 200,000 went to support the retainers, the balance having been spent in batteries, guns, and all other manner of warlike equipments. If the sum demanded were beyond their resources, they could not pay it. There were plenty of men in the province who cared nothing for their lives in comparison with the fulfilment of their duty towards the prince. It is he who wishes to make peace, and he has much difficulty in repressing their zeal. The Admiral replied that they should have calculated the price beforehand. They had chosen to make war, and now that the bill was being presented to them, they must pay it. Finally they agreed to this article, but it struck me that their object was solely to let us know that their spirit was not entirely broken, and that if our demands were too exorbitant they would fight rather than yield. Last of all we inserted in the draft a declaration that this was merely a treaty for the temporary cessation of hostilities, and was entirely independent of any questions connected with Chôshiû which might have to be settled later on between the foreign representatives and the Japanese Government. I imagine that this clause had reference to the indemnities which might be demanded on the part of France, Holland and the United States. At any rate, it was agreed to without any discussion. A fair copy was written out, to which two of the _karôs_ affixed their signatures, and a couple of days were given to them to go to Yamaguchi in order to obtain the prince's signature. Those who had not previously seen the ship were taken the usual round through the lower deck and engine room, and they left in a body. On the 15th things seemed quiet enough for a little private exploration on my own account in company with my teacher. We went first to call on Ibara Kazuyé, one of the envoys who had negotiated the agreement of the day before, and asked him to come on board to be photographed by Beato. Then while Hayashi, whose crown was by this time black with a fortnight's bristly growth, went to a barber's shop to get himself clean shaved, I strolled about the streets alone, and turned into an eating-house where we had agreed to meet. The people received me civilly, and showed me upstairs to a room, one side of which was entirely open to the air, and overlooked a small courtyard. In the next apartment were some Chôshiû two-sworded men leaning over the wooden balcony, who waved their hands to me to go away, but I called out, "What do you want!" in a fierce tone, and they collapsed immediately, so great was the prestige of our victory. When Hayashi joined me, we ordered an _awabi_ to be got ready, and while it was being cooked, devoured nearly the whole of a ripe water melon. The _awabi_ (rocksucker) was cooked with sugar and proved terribly tough. Two sorts of _saké_ were served, and the waiting maid smoked all the while to perfume the room. We wound up with terrapin soup and rice. During the rest of my stay at Shimonoséki, which lasted nearly a month, I was constantly on shore, and never had any trouble with the townspeople, who were always civil and friendly. The treaty was brought down on the 16th, and found to be duly signed and sealed. At the same time the Japanese produced a paper which they wanted the Admirals to sign, undertaking that the officers and crews should keep within certain limits, and above all, should not land at night. There was a good deal of misunderstanding about this document. The Abbé Girard's teacher maintained that it was a memorandum or note-verbale from the Chôshiû authorities, and as I was younger and had not the prestige of the Abbé as a Japanese scholar, I had to give way. So we concocted a letter in reply, which I wrote out, and took on shore to the governor. Our letter said that the principal restrictions which the Japanese asked us to agree to had been granted already, and that as for the rest, the governor had on the occasion of his last visit said there were no complaints to make of our people trespassing on either guardhouses or temples, and therefore it was unnecessary for them to make such demands. In future, if they had anything to communicate, it must be done by letter, signed and sealed by Ibara Kazuyé. On reading this, the governor to my delight said, "Here's a mistake. What I brought to you was a draft of a letter for the naval commanders to write to us." The object of the naval operations in the straits having been completely attained by the destruction of the batteries and the establishment of a good understanding with the Prince of Chôshiû, preparations were now made to withdraw the major portion of the allied squadrons, leaving only three ships to prevent the possibility of the passage being again fortified. I received orders to remain behind on board the "Barrosa." A day before the Admiral sailed a letter came from the governor asking him to give a passage as far as Yokohama to a _karô_ and two officers. The request was at once granted, but the three passengers not arriving in time, word was left that they might apply to the French Admiral, who was to leave a day later. But this they declined to do, having been instructed to ask for a passage in an English ship, and they would go by no other. Eventually the "Barrosa" took them. On the 20th accordingly, all the British ships except the "Barrosa," and all the Dutch ships but the "Djambi," sailed away up the inland sea towards Ozaka, the French, however, remaining. I went ashore afterwards with some officers of the "Barrosa" for a walk, and as we passed the guardhouse, its occupants called out, "Take off your hats." I replied, "What do you say." The man on guard, "Take off your hats. This is the honourable guardhouse of Shimonoséki." Answer from our side, "What folly do you talk! If you repeat it, the governor shall be informed." So we passed on into the town to the governor's house and laid a complaint in due form against the over-zealous guardhouse keeper. The governor promised to administer a reprimand, and was as good as his word, so that when some other officers came ashore and passed the same spot, the Japanese officers rushed out into the road to tell them that they need not uncap. I found the townspeople very communicative about the exploits of the Americans and French in 1863, and from their relation it was easy to see that while Captain M'Dougall of the "Wyoming" had given a very modest account of his achievements in the way of sinking ships and firing houses, the French had greatly exaggerated their own deeds of valour. The "Wyoming" ran the gauntlet of all the batteries and sank the "Lancefield" and the brig right in front of the town, whereas the "Sémiramis" never ventured further than Tanoura. The common folk were all entirely convinced that the Tycoon had given orders for the expulsion of the foreigners, and I overheard a man in the market say "the _Bakufu_ is playing a double game." _Bakufu_ was the most common term by which the Tycoon's government was then designated. I was asked whether the Tycoon had asked us to come down and destroy the batteries, to which I answered "No; but he said he could not open the straits." Then I gave them our view of the case, which was that the Tycoon, finding himself in a tight place between the _daimiôs_ and the foreigners, had to give assurances to both which were inconsistent with each other, whereupon they all cried out with one voice: "_Homma da_, it is true." That evening there arrived from Nagasaki the steamer "Victoria" with the vice-governor of that port and an interpreter. Passing in front of the town they paid the French Admiral a call, and then anchored near us in Tanoura Bay. Coming on board to make inquiries, they asked whether Chôshiû had been beaten, and on our replying in the affirmative, they produced a copy of the prince's first letter begging for peace addressed to the _Americans_, which they said had been furnished to them by the Kokura people. That I told them bluntly must be a lie, but they would not confess the source from which they had obtained the document. They said their instructions were to ask the Admiral not to believe the lies Chôshiû was telling about orders received from the Tycoon to expel foreigners, and also that having heard the fleet was going to Ozaka, the governor of Nagasaki, who was afraid that the appearance of so large a force before the city, fresh from the destruction of the batteries of Shimonoséki, might cause a panic, had sent them to prevent any difficulties between the Admiral and the governor of Ozaka. They were very anxious lest a treaty had been concluded with Chôshiû for the opening of Shimonoséki to foreign trade, which would have caused the commercial ruin of Nagasaki; but we declined to give them any information. Having beaten the Chôshiû people, we had come to like and respect them, while a feeling of dislike began to arise in our minds for the Tycoon's people on account of their weakness and double-dealing, and from this time onwards I sympathized more and more with the _daimiô_ party, from whom the Tycoon's government had always tried to keep us apart. On the 21st the "Sémiramis" and "Dupleix" quitted the straits, leaving behind them the "Tancrède." Some of us went ashore to the _honjin_ to inquire whether we could obtain a supply of bullocks for the ship. The officials promised to do all they could, but said it would be difficult, as they killed none for themselves. We also asked them to change some Mexican dollars into Japanese money, which they promised to do at the Nagasaki market rate, but it was finally arranged that if we found ourselves in actual need of coin, they should lend us a thousand _ichibus_, to be returned to their agent at Yokohama. They proved so obliging that we could not help regretting that in order to gain their friendship it had been necessary to come to blows with them. And it is not a little remarkable that neither the Satsuma nor the Chôshiû men ever seemed to cherish any resentment against us for what we had done, and during the years of disturbance and revolution that followed they were always our most intimate allies. That day we walked the whole length of the town unattended by any guard, and got a glimpse of the China sea beyond the straits. We met, however, with a little show of insolence from a couple of two-sworded men, who motioned us back to our boats, but I discoursed to them in their own tongue, and they were speedily reduced to silence: the exhibition of a revolver had something to do with the production of this effect. Itô came on board one day with a couple of men who, he said, were merchants, but it was evident from the respect he paid to one of them, who wore two swords, that they belonged to the high official class. They were conducted round the ship and entertained with various liquors. He declared that in all the fighting they had only seven or eight men killed, and about twice that number wounded, but one of his companions told me that the number killed was nearly twenty. Itô said that trade could be done at Shimonoséki in cotton, wax and silk produced in Chôshiû, as well as in all the productions of the northern provinces and Ozaka. Probably they might manufacture paper for the English market. The prince, he added, was very desirous of opening the port to foreign commerce, but just at present they expected an invasion of the combined forces of the Tycoon and all the _daimiôs_, and all their attention was directed to their own defence. The two vessels sunk by the "Wyoming" in 1863 had been raised, and sent round to Hagi. I was surprised to learn that the batteries at Maeda mura, as well as those at Kushi saki Point, were within the territory of the _daimiô_ of Chôfu, who was however not in so far independent that he could stand aside when the head of the family went to war. Last year, at the time when the Dutch corvette "Medusa" was fired on as she passed the straits, batteries had existed on the low hills behind the town, and at two points on the sea front, but the guns had subsequently been removed thence to Dannoura and Maeda mura; their fate was to fall into our hands. The small three-gun battery on Moji Point within the Kokura territory was also the work of the Chôshiû men, who had levelled land and commenced the construction of barracks, which were however destroyed by the Kokura people when the failure of the prince's Kiôto schemes drove him to withdraw within his own boundaries for self-protection. We went one day in our boats down to Kokura with the intention of landing there to walk through the town, but after keeping us waiting an hour and a half, and repeatedly promising to open the gate, they finally refused to admit us. They did indeed open it, but only to let out a couple of fellows, who told us in the lowest of low voices that Kokura not being a treaty port, we could not be allowed to enter. I took care to inform them of our opinion that it was a great piece of ingratitude on their part to treat us in so inhospitable a manner after we had thrashed their enemy for them. Crowds of people had collected to look at us, and doubtless we should have been mobbed if we had landed. There was no idea on our part of forcing our way in. Towards the end of the month smallpox broke out on board, and W. H. Cummings, who had succeeded to the temporary command on Captain Dowell's transfer to the flagship, determined to leave for Yokohama as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. On the 27th we applied therefore to the authorities for a pilot to take the ship through the inland sea, and gave notice that the commanders of the three ships would pay a visit to Ibara on the morrow in order to settle about the passage up to Yokohama which had been promised to him and two other officers. I took the message on shore, and stopped to have a meal with Itô, who good-naturedly had made great efforts to get up a dinner in European style. He had built a table seven feet long by half that width, covered with a short cloth of some coarse foreign material. Four plates were laid, flanked by long knives, villainously sharp, attenuated brass spoons with flat bowls, and a pair of chopsticks. The first dish consisted of a boiled rockfish, which I found great difficulty in cutting, but accomplished the task at last by inserting a sharpened chopstick into the head, and using a spoon to remove the flesh. Soy, a large bowl of rice, and a small saucer full of coarse salt, were also placed on the table. The second course was broiled eels, and then came a stewed terrapin, both of which were very good, but the boiled _awabi_ and boiled chicken which followed were quite out of the question. It was a problem how to cut up a fowl with a knife that had no point, and whose blade threatened at every moment to part company with its handle. I abandoned the attempt, and served my companions with slices from the breast. Unripe persimmons, peeled and cut in four, with sweet rice beer (_mirin_) were now produced, and this was excellent. This was certainly the earliest attempt ever made in that part of Japan at giving a dinner in European style, perhaps the first in Japan. It was finally determined that the party that was to visit Yokohama should consist of Ibara, a councillor named Sugi Tokusuké, a secretary, and Itô, with four servants, who were to be accommodated on board the "Barrosa" and "Djambi." The "Tancrède," which was to leave before us, could not find room for more than half the party, and as they did not wish to be separated longer than they could help, they elected to come with us. On the 4th October the "Racehorse," Commander Boxer, arrived to relieve us. Ibara and his secretary, Yamagata Keizô, and we sailed the following morning. News of our successful result of the naval operations and of the conclusion of a convention with the Prince of Chôshiû was at once conveyed to the foreign representatives at Yokohama, who lost no time in calling the Tycoon's government to account for their apparent complicity with Chôshiû, as evidenced by the copies of orders from Kiôto which Itô had given us. The explanation was feeble, and the representatives found no difficulty in obtaining from the ministers their consent to pay whatever war indemnity might be due from Chôshiû, or else to throw open to trade a port in the inland sea. Although in the sequel the receipt of the indemnity money by us actually took place, it was in a manner forced upon the four Powers and their diplomatic agents, and certainly as far as Sir R. Alcock is concerned, he may be entirely exonerated from the accusation of a desire to exact an indemnity from either the defeated _daimiô_ or the government which assumed responsibility for him. The principal object he sought was to obtain the sanction of the Mikado to the treaties, so as to put an end to the agitation against foreign commerce which had been carried on by hostile _daimiôs_ in the Mikado's name ever since the opening of the ports. Now that Satsuma and Chôshiû, the two ringleaders of the opposition, had been brought to their senses, it ought to have been, he thought, an easy matter for the Tycoon's government, if they sincerely desired to carry out their treaty obligations, to assert their authority and compel the whole country to accept the new policy of foreign intercourse. The fixing of an indemnity was intended only to provide a means of pressure upon the Tycoon's government in order to procure the Mikado's ratification of the treaties, and the consequent extension of commercial relations. Ibara and his companions reached Yokohama on the 10th October, and obtained an interview the same day with Sir Rutherford Alcock and Mr. Pruyn, the United States minister. The reception accorded to them was of such a nature as to convince them that the foreign powers were not hostilely disposed towards the _daimiô_ of Chôshiû, and it was no doubt with a sense of relief that they learnt the intention of the foreign representatives to claim the payment of the indemnity from the Tycoon. At the same time it was clearly understood by both parties that the other engagements entered into by Chôshiû respecting the permanent disarmament of the straits of Shimonoséki and the hospitable treatment of foreign vessels were to be faithfully adhered to, and on these heads his subsequent conduct gave no ground for complaint. It was somewhat a curious position for the retainers of a prince, who had been declared a rebel against the Mikado and enemy of the Tycoon, to land at Yokohama, a port belonging to the latter, but as far as I remember, they confined their visit to the foreign settlement, where they were safe from interference, and on the 14th the "Tartar" left with them on board to return to their native province. CHAPTER XII THE MURDER OF BIRD AND BALDWIN IT was about this time that Sir Rutherford Alcock received Lord Russell's despatches recalling him to England. Ostensibly for the purpose of consulting with him on the situation of affairs, this summons to London was accompanied by the expression of an opinion that the passage of the inland sea was not necessary to foreign commerce, which amounted to a censure upon his conduct. It is seldom that an agent of the Foreign Office is told in so many words that he is recalled because his conduct of affairs has not given satisfaction, but inasmuch as leave of absence is usually granted upon the application of the ambassador, envoy, or whatever the title of the head of a mission may be, an invitation to return home is equivalent to the removal of a diplomatic officer from his employment. But arriving just at the moment when his policy had been successful in every direction, and when all the foreigners in the country were united in a chorus of gratitude to him for his energetic action, he and all the members of his legation felt that the displeasure of Lord John Russell was not a matter of much moment. The crushing defeat of Chôshiû by the foreign squadrons coming so immediately after the repulse of his troops from the gates of the palace at Kiôto restored confidence to the Tycoon's government, and enabled them to declare firmly to the Mikado that the idea of expelling foreigners from the country and putting an end to trade was utterly and entirely impracticable, while on the other hand the demonstrated superiority of European methods of warfare had converted our bitterest and most determined foes into fast friends. The vindication of his proceedings was no difficult task, and the despatch in which he justified the course he had taken was conceived in a style at once calm and convincing. It is only fair to Lord Russell to say that he lost no time in acknowledging that his agent had been in the right, and in conveying to him the Queen's full approbation of his conduct. But this solatium to his feelings did not reach Yokohama until he was already on his way to England. The Shôgun's government voluntarily undertook to be responsible for whatever sum might be fixed upon as the indemnity to be paid by the Prince of Chôshiû. On the 22nd October a convention was signed by a member of the Shôgun's second council and the four foreign representatives by which three millions of dollars were to be paid in satisfaction of all claims, or as an alternative the opening of Shimonoséki or some other port in the inland sea, if the Tycoon preferred to offer it and the Powers were willing to accept. The division of this sum of money among the different Powers was reserved for adjustment between the four governments. Advantage was also taken of the desire to conciliate foreign Powers now manifested by the Tycoon's ministers to obtain the promise of various improvements at Yokohama calculated to add to the comfort and well-being of the foreign residents, and Sir Rutherford, having thus reaped all the fruits of his courage and perseverance was preparing to quit Japan in obedience to the instructions of Lord Russell, when a fresh and totally unforeseen event occurred which for a time delayed his departure. After our successes at Shimonoséki, and the frank admission by the Tycoon's government of the necessity of maintaining the treaties, the confidence of foreign residents in the safety of the neighbourhood had so completely revived that they no longer feared to make excursions within the limits marked out by the treaties. But they received a rude shock on the night of the 20th November when the governor of Kanagawa came to Mr. Winchester, the British Consul, and informed him that Major Baldwin and Lieutenant Bird of the xxth regiment had been barbarously murdered at Kamakura, a well-known resort some twelve miles from Yokohama. Baldwin was killed on the spot, but according to the testimony of the inhabitants, Bird had lived for some hours after he was disabled. The two officers had visited the famous colossal Buddha, and riding along the road towards the temple of Hachiman, were just about to turn the corner into the avenue when a couple of men sprang out upon them with their keen-edged swords and inflicted such ghastly wounds as brought them to the ground almost unresistingly. The horror of the foreign community can be more easily imagined than described, and it was further deepened when as the result of the inquest it came to be suspected that the mortal wound to which Bird had succumbed had been inflicted some hours after the assassins had left the spot. This, in the opinion of the surgeons, was a wound in the neck completely dividing the spinal cord between the second and third cervical vertebrae, which clearly must have been followed by instant death. Now all the evidence went to show that the younger victim had lived until ten o'clock in the evening. If so, by whom was this wound given, and with what motive? Those who implicitly relied upon the report of the regimental surgeons jumped to the conclusion that it was the act of one of the officials despatched to the scene of the murder by the governor as soon as the news was brought to him, which was no doubt some three or four hours before he himself went to communicate it to Mr. Winchester, and the motive was suggested to be a desire to prevent the wounded man from giving such information to his countrymen as might have led to the identification of the murderers. But I cannot believe that any Japanese, official or not, could ever have compassed such a treacherous deed. I believe on the contrary that the surgeons who dissected out the wound, not using sufficient care, themselves divided the spinal cord with a probe or some other instrument, and that Bird's death was caused in reality by the loss of blood from his numerous wounds. And this was the view taken by Dr Willis of our legation and Dr Jenkins, then established as a general practitioner in Yokohama, neither of whom was invited to assist at the _post mortem_. The two surgeons having made a hurried examination and enunciated certain views as to the nature of Bird's wounds, without foreseeing the inferences that might be drawn, would naturally, and probably with entire good faith, adhere to those views afterwards, especially as it would not appear to them at all incredible _à priori_ that the countrymen of the men who had committed such a foul assassination should be capable of a deed, dastardly enough in itself, but no doubt justifiable in the opinion of any foreigner-hating Japanese official. There are many additional considerations suggested by the reports contained in the Parliamentary papers which would corroborate the view here put forth, if I had space to discuss them. But as this book is intended to be a record of my own experiences and memories, and not a compilation from published materials, it is not the place to go into all these particulars at length. The Tycoon's government made all the exertions in their power to trace the assassins, and before a month was over they had arrested one of the guilty persons, named Shimidzu Seiji. Already on the 16th two of his associates named Gamaiké and Inaba, accused of combining with him in a plot to murder foreigners, and of extorting money from a rich farmer, had been executed, though they were not actual accomplices in the Kamakura crime. I was present at the execution of these two men, which took place in an enclosure outside the Japanese gaol in the afternoon of the 16th December 1864. There was a large concourse of spectators, both foreign and native. A little after three o'clock a whisper ran round that the condemned were being brought out. A door opened, and a man blindfolded and bound with cords was led through the crowd. He was made to kneel down on a rough mat placed in front of a hole dug in the ground to receive his blood. The attendants drew his clothes downwards so as to lay the neck bare, and with the hand brushed his hair upwards, so as to give full play to the sword. The executioner secured a piece of cotton cloth round the handle of his weapon, and having carefully whetted the blade, took up a position to the left of his victim, then raising the sword high above his head with both hands, let it fall with a swoop that severed the neck completely. The head was held up for the inspection of the chief officer present, who simply remarked: "I have seen it," and it was thrown into the hole. The second man being then carried in, the attendants seemed to have a little trouble in getting him to kneel in the proper position, but at last the arrangements were completed to their satisfaction. The neck having been bared as before, a fresh executioner advanced, took his place at the prisoner's left side, and raising the sword with a flourish, let it descend with the same skill as his predecessor. It was a horrible sight to see the attendants holding the headless corpse down to the hole, and kneading it so as to make the blood flow more readily into the hole, and I left the spot in all haste, vowing that mere curiosity should never induce me to witness another execution. Capital punishment was much commoner in Japan in those days than it has been since the promulgation of the present humane penal code, and included transfixing with spears. Many of the foreign residents must have been present at such sanguinary spectacles, merely impelled by curiosity, and without the natural excuse of desiring to see the sentence of the law fulfilled upon an offender against their own blood. The night before Sir Rutherford embarked for England news was brought to him of the arrest of Shimidzu Seiji, one of the actual murderers of Baldwin and Bird. Owing to the reputed excellence of the native detective police, which under a despotic government is usually efficient, it was believed by us that the Japanese Government could always have procured the arrest of the assailants of foreigners, if they had been determined to do so. The names, _e.g._, of many of those who were engaged in the attack on our legation in 1861 were, as I learnt some years afterwards, matter of common notoriety, but in the difficult political position that the Tycoon's advisers had created for themselves, they did not dare to convict the murderer of a foreigner. This then was the first instance of such a crime being brought home to its perpetrators. The British minister had good reason to feel gratified at this proof that his policy had been the right one, and it was a very natural movement that induced him to take off his watch and chain and throw them over the neck of the messenger of good tidings. Shimidzu Seiji was executed on the 28th December at ten o'clock in the morning, in the presence of a detachment of the English garrison. Whatever doubts may have existed as to the complicity of Gamaiké and Inaba in his designs against the lives of the foreign residents, there is none as to the fact that this man was one of the actual murderers of Baldwin and Bird. I was instructed to accompany Mr. M. O. Flowers, the acting consul, to the prison on the preceding day to hear the sentence pronounced. We waited some hours till he arrived from Yedo in custody of a strong guard, and he was at once confronted with the witnesses, who examined his features in silence. They were then separately interrogated, and one and all recognized him, the most important witness being the boy who had seen the attack. Afterwards we proceeded to another room and questioned the prisoner, who acknowledged his guilt in the clearest manner possible. He was proceeding to say something more, but was ordered by the Japanese officers to be silent. But the best evidence of his identity was obtained by another member of the consular service, who after the murderer had been paraded round the town preceded by a banner on which his sentence was inscribed (this was part of his punishment), accompanied the procession back to the execution ground. Here Mr. Fletcher overheard him say: "When I killed the foreigners, I expected one of them might be a consul," and every one who knew our colleague will acknowledge that he was a man of the most exact truthfulness, who was not in the least degree likely to make a mistake in such a matter, or over anxious to believe that the Japanese Government were in this instance departing from the bad faith which is the usual refuge of Asiatics in a difficult position. On the morning of the 28th the garrison was marched over to the execution ground, and drawn up on one side. The prisoner was brought out about ten o'clock. The first words he uttered were a request for some _saké_. Being again questioned, he frankly acknowledged his guilt. I asked him what it was that he had been prevented from saying to us on the previous day, to which he answered that if Bird and Baldwin had got out of his way he would not have attacked them. Whether this was true or not I have no means of judging, but it does not accord with his written deposition. That, it must be recollected, is not in Japan a simple record of everything a prisoner says, but is a reduction in writing by an officer of the court of the final result of all the statements made by him on the different occasions when he was examined, and resembles much more the summing up of the evidence on a criminal trial in England by the presiding judge. He begged the Japanese officials not to bandage his eyes, and began to chant a verse which might be thus translated: "I do not regret being taken and put to death, For to kill barbarians is the true spirit of a Japanese." As the attendants were drawing back the clothes from his neck to prepare it for the executioner's stroke, he bade them loosen his cords so that they might do it with greater ease, adding: "In after ages they will say, what a fine fellow was Shimidzu Seiji." He also remarked, "I don't think the sword that cut off Gempachi's head will do for me," alluding probably to the thickness of his own neck, and begged that the blade might be well whetted. Then saying, "Cut neatly if you please," he stretched out his neck for the stroke. These were the last words he spoke, but just as the sword began to descend he turned his head to the left as if to address some further observation to the officials, so that the cut partly missed its purpose, and the executioner had to hack the head off--a most horrible sight. Simultaneously with the delivery of the first blow, a gun fired by the battery of Royal Artillery announced to all that the assassin had received the punishment of his crime, and we dispersed as quickly as possible. The head was taken to the bridge at the northern entrance of Yokohama and there exposed on a gibbet for three days. Copies of the sentence were posted up at Totsuka and at the scene of the murder, and a few days later I accompanied the Legation mounted guard to see that this part of the undertaking given by the Japanese authorities had been duly performed. We found that they had fulfilled their promises to the letter, and thus ended one of the most dramatic incidents in the whole of my experience in the country. It was impossible not to hate the assassin, but nevertheless, looking at the matter from a Japanese point of view, I confess that I could not help regretting that a man who was evidently of such heroic mould, should have been misguided enough to believe that his country could be helped by such means. But the blood of the foreigners who fell under the swords of Japanese murderers, and the lives which were sacrificed to avenge it bore fruit in later days, and fertilised the ground from which sprang the tree of the national regeneration. CHAPTER XIII RATIFICATION OF THE TREATIES BY THE MIKADO SIR RUTHERFORD having quitted Japan, the conduct of affairs was assumed by Mr. Winchester as Chargé d'Affaires. Before long despatches reached us from Lord Russell expressing the entire satisfaction of the British Government with the policy pursued by our late chief, and we heard that he had been rewarded by promotion to the more important post of minister at Peking. He was succeeded by Sir Harry Parkes, who came to us invested with the prestige of a man who had looked death in the face with no ordinary heroism, and in the eyes of all European residents in the far east held a higher position than any officer of the crown in those countries. And whatever may have been his faults and shortcomings, especially towards the latter part of his career, it must be acknowledged that England never was represented by a more devoted public servant, and that Japan herself owes to his exertions a debt which she can never repay and has never fully acknowledged. If he had taken a different side in the revolution of 1868, if he had simply acted with the majority of his colleagues, almost insurmountable difficulties would have been placed in the way of the Mikado's restoration, and the civil war could never have been brought to so speedy a termination. He was an indefatigable worker, entirely absorbed in the duties of his post, untiring in his endeavours to obtain a correct view of his surroundings, never sparing himself, and requiring from his subordinates the same zealous assiduity. Of his personal courage I had the opportunity afterwards of witnessing one striking example, and brilliant as have been the achievements of many of our Indian civilians, I do not think that his coolness and fortitude in the moment of peril have ever been surpassed by any man not bred to war. He was strict and severe in service matters, but in his private relations gracious to all those who had occasion to seek his help, and a faithful friend to all who won his goodwill. Unfortunately I was not one of these, and the result was that from the beginning we were never friends, down to the very last, though he never had reason to complain of sloth or unreadiness to take my share of the work, and so it came about that before long I became one of his assistants, and in the end of 1866 was finally transferred from the Yokohama Consulate (where I had been appointed interpreter early in 1865) to the Legation. The accomplice of Shimidzu Seiji in the murder of Bird and Baldwin, named Mamiya Hajimé, was executed on the 30th October 1865. I went out early with Flowers in pouring rain to question the prisoner on some points which had to be cleared up in connection with the crime. He was condemned to the same punishment as his confederate, and we went out again at one o'clock to be present at his decapitation. It was a pouring wet day, and the dull leaden sky overhead was in keeping with the melancholy occasion. Mamiya was a young fellow, and endowed with far less fortitude than Shimidzu, and in order to enable him to face the executioner he had been allowed to stupify himself with drink. His head was taken off at a single blow. The usual doubts as to his identity were expressed by the local foreign press, but for myself I was convinced that he was one of the assassins. If the Tycoon's government had substituted any other criminal for a man whom they had not succeeded in capturing, the truth would have surely leaked out, and by this time we had sources of information which would have enabled us speedily to detect any trick. Sir Harry Parkes reached Yokohama early in July, and Mr. Winchester took his departure for Shanghai, where he had been appointed to be consul. F. S. Myburgh was transferred at the same time from Nagasaki to the Yokohama consulate. In passing through Nagasaki Sir Harry had already learnt from the agents of some of the _daimiôs_ that a civil war was expected at no distant date, the object of which would be the overthrow of the Tycoon. He already in September began to speak to the Tycoon's council of the desirability of obtaining the Mikado's ratification of the treaties, but the credit of the idea is in reality due to Mr. Winchester, who (I did not know it at the time) as early as April had suggested to the British Government that the written adhesion of the Mikado to the treaties, and the reduction of the import duties to a uniform tariff of 5 per cent. _ad valorem_ might be obtained in return for the partial abandonment of the Shimonoséki indemnity, the Tycoon's ministers having stated they could not continue to make the quarterly payments of $500,000 at a time, as had been stipulated in the convention. In fact Sir Rutherford Alcock had begun to lay stress on the necessity of the Mikado's ratification of the treaties almost immediately after the bombardment of Shimonoséki. This suggestion was approved by Lord Russell, who at once communicated it to the governments of Holland, France, and the United States, and sent despatches to Japan to the same effect which reached Sir Harry Parkes towards the end of October. He lost no time in consulting with his colleagues, and in proposing that they should proceed in a body to Ozaka, supported by a considerable squadron of men-of-war, to negotiate direct with the main body of the Tycoon's ministers. I should have mentioned before that the Tycoon was at Kiôto, having proceeded thither in the month of June, ostensibly for the purpose of taking command of the army which was to chastise the presumptuous rebel, the Prince of Chôshiû, and was still detained there by various intrigues and the insufficiency of his military means. The French minister, who was at first strongly opposed to the abandonment of the indemnity in exchange for the opening of a port, had received instructions from his government which had induced him to come over to the views of the British representative, who found the United States Chargé d'Affaires and Netherlands Political Agent equally willing to follow his lead. As to the latter, we were accustomed to believe that Sir Harry had him "in his pocket," as the phrase goes, and the Americans had at that time partially abandoned the affectation of acting on different lines from the "effete monarchies of Europe." Unity of action being thus secured, the word was passed to the naval commanders to get ready for sea, and the legations having packed up a sufficient quantity of foolscap paper, silk tape, quill pens and bottles of ink, embarked on board the next day but one after the signature of a protocol in which the four diplomatic representatives had recorded their views and projects. Sir Harry took with him John Macdonald, Alexander von Siebold and myself. The squadron was an imposing one, though not so overwhelmingly strong as that which had destroyed the batteries at Shimonoséki in the previous year. Of British ships there were the "Princess Royal," 73, flying the broad pennant of Admiral St George Vincent King; the "Leopard," 18; "Pelorus," 22; and "Bouncer," 1; of French, the "Guerrière," 36; "Dupleix," 12; and "Kienchang," 4; while the Netherlands contributed the corvette "Zoutman." Our Admiral was extremely good-natured, and had fitted up private cabins for us three civilians on the main deck. I was delighted to find myself on board with my friend A. G. S. Hawes, a marine officer recently transferred to the flagship from the "Severn." The foreign representatives, it was rumoured, proposed, in addition to the Mikado's ratification of the treaties and the reduction of the tariff, to ask for the opening of Ozaka and Hiôgo to foreign trade on the 1st January 1866. By the Treaty of 1858 these places were to have been opened on the 1st January 1863, but the powers had in 1862 agreed to a postponement of five years, in order to give time for things to settle down. In return, the four powers were ready to forgo two-thirds of the Shimonoséki indemnity, and the option of deciding was to be left to the Tycoon. This much was bruited about among the members of the foreign legations. Outsiders said that we were about to present an _ultimatum_, and that the creation of two new centres of foreign trade was to be demanded without alternative. The men in the service who expected appointments would of course have been eager to believe this version but for the glorious uncertainty which surrounds all diplomatic projects. The Yedo government were alarmed at the energetic step on which the representatives had resolved, and Midzuno Idzumi no Kami, the only member of the first council who had remained behind in Yedo when the Tycoon went up to Kiôto, came down in the company of Sakai Hida no Kami, one of the second council, to exert all his powers of dissuasion with Sir Harry. It was the first time that a functionary of so high a rank had ever visited a foreign legation, and the evidence of anxiety thus afforded simply confirmed the resolution that had been taken to bring matters to a crisis. That Midzuno and his subordinate hoped their efforts would be successful there is no reason to suppose, and in fact they contented themselves mainly with offering some advice as to the best method of proceeding on the arrival of the representatives at Hiôgo. We left on the 1st November, and proceeding in a leisurely manner along the coast, passed the Idzumi Straits at 8 a.m. on the 4th. The guns were loaded and the men beat to quarters, but the garrison of the forts at Yura showed no signs of molesting us, and everybody soon quieted down again. At half-past eleven we came in sight of Ozaka, lying on the low land at the mouth of the Yodo river. The mountains which enclose the bay on either side here appear to retire far into the interior, until they disappear in the haze. The Tycoon's castle was easily distinguished by its innumerable many-storied white towers, rising at the back of the city. But of the town very little was visible owing to the slight elevation of the houses and the distance from the deep water outside where we were passing. The allied squadron formed in one line, headed by the "Princess Royal," and gradually rounded off in the direction of Hiôgo, where we anchored at half-past one. One by one the other ships came in and took up the positions indicated to them. The bay was crowded with junks of all sizes, and we counted seven Japanese steamers lying at anchor. From one of these, belonging to the Tycoon's War Department, a couple of officers came on board to make the usual inquiries, and shortly afterwards some very inquisitive shore-going officials came off, who put a great many questions about the object of our visit and where we had come from. They got very little information in reply, but were told that some officers would be going by sea to Ozaka on the following day, and that notice should be sent to the governor of the city in order that he might despatch somebody down to the landing-place to meet them. They were also requested to provide pilots for the two vessels to be despatched to Ozaka, but they declared themselves unable to promise anything we asked. However, as by their own rules they were under an obligation to send information to the governor, this refusal was not of any great consequence. The Abbé Girard, who had acted as interpreter to Admiral Jaurès the previous year at Shimonoséki, was on this occasion replaced by M. Mermet de Cachon, a Jesuit attached to the French legation. He, with Messrs Macdonald and von Siebold of our legation, and Mr. Hegt, the clerk of the Netherlands Political Agent, were despatched on the following day in the "Kienchang" to Ozaka bearing letters from the foreign representatives. The "Bouncer" was to have taken our people, but her commander was not able to get up steam in time, so that the French flag alone made its appearance at the bar of Ozaka. First point scored by the French. M. Mermet had ingeniously prepared the French's minister's letter in Japanese, inserting at the end a long paragraph, which did not appear in the other three letters, empowering himself to state in outline to the Tycoon's council the objects of the foreign representatives, hoping thus to become the spokesman for all four. On arriving at the mouth of the river, they were met by the two governors of the city (all officials were kept in duplicate in those days), who conducted them to a building close at hand, evidently prepared beforehand for their reception. On learning that M. Mermet and his companions desired to have a personal interview with one of the council, the governors started off immediately to fetch him, as they said, promising that he should be down by four o'clock. In the meantime Macdonald, Siebold and Hegt started off to walk to Ozaka, intending to seek out the ministers there, but after wandering a long distance, they found themselves at three o'clock only just in sight of the city, and had to hurry back in a boat. The governors, however, did more than keep their promise, and instead of one, produced two of the council, namely Ogasawara Iki no Kami and Abé Bungo no Kami. The letters were delivered to them, and they listened civilly and even affably to the messages which Mermet and Macdonald delivered, but were unprepared of course to give any answer. It was agreed, however, that Abé should proceed to Hiôgo on the 9th to meet the four representatives on board the "Princess Royal," as sole negotiator on behalf of the Tycoon, who, it was stated, had gone up to Kiôto. For me had been reserved the less glorious task of opening up communications with the local officials, and in company with Captain W. G. Jones I went ashore to talk about beef, water, coals, and other ship's requirements. We also informed them that the officers would land, and requested that the townspeople might be ordered to treat them with civility. This they promised to do, but added that their duty to their chiefs, the governors of Ozaka, would oblige them to detail one or two constables to watch over the safety of each party. After we had conversed awhile with the head constable, a young man of 19 or 20, some higher officials made their appearance and assumed the power. They promised to do everything we asked, and to help their memories made very full notes. In the afternoon accordingly, leave to go ashore was given to all the ships, and many of the officers availed themselves of the opportunity of visiting what was then a _terra incognita_ to most Europeans. The Admiral, Sir Harry and myself walked from one end of the town to the other, and found the inhabitants well-disposed, though they followed us in crowds. This was a very different reception from what the Tycoon's officers had warned us to expect. They always talked to us of the hostility of the _daimiôs_ and the dislike and fear of us entertained by the common people, but we met with nothing but indications of goodwill from all classes. It became clearer to us every day that the Shôgunate feared lest free communication between foreigners and those sections of the Japanese people who were outside its direct control would impair the authority of the institutions that had now lasted, with no small benefit to the Tokugawa family, for the last 260 years, and that consequently it could not be a desirable policy for Great Britain to endeavour to bolster up a decaying power. As an instance of the manner in which the Tycoon's officials endeavoured to obstruct intercourse, it may be mentioned that they published a notification in Ozaka forbidding the townspeople to visit the ships, knowing full well that a closer acquaintance would make their subjects and foreigners better friends. The next few days were spent in exploring the neighbourhood with a view to selecting a site for a foreign settlement, and there was a good deal of running up and down to Ozaka by sea with messages for the council. Abé was not able to come on Thursday, and at first it was held out that another member of the council would replace him, but when the day arrived, the two governors of Ozaka made their appearance with other excuses. Sir Harry spoke very strongly to them, and insisted on seeing some one on Saturday at the latest. But as he did not expect that his request would be complied with, he despatched Siebold, Hegt and myself early in the morning to Ozaka. On approaching the anchorage, however, we saw a Japanese steamer coming from the opposite direction, and lowering a boat we went on board. We found that she was conveying Abé Bungo no Kami to Hiôgo to see the foreign ministers. It was arranged therefore that Siebold should return with him, while Hegt and I went on with a couple of officials lent to us by Abé. But as soon as we anchored these men began to be obstructive, refusing to accompany us on shore until the port officers had first visited the ship. Seeing, however, that we were determined to go, without them if necessary, they at last stepped over the side into the boat with a very bad grace indeed. We rowed in safely in the ship's gig, with four bluejackets well-armed, over the bar, which a few days before had been rendered impassable by a strong west wind, and landed in a small creek behind the battery at Tempôzan Point. We at once took possession of a house where Macdonald and Siebold had lodged on their last visit, disregarding the excuses of the officials, who said it was occupied by a sick person, but we were used to such subterfuges, and of course there was no sick man there at all. After a while we returned to the gig, and rowing up the river in half-an-hour, reached the outskirts of the city, where we landed to inspect a house that had been assigned for the accommodation of the foreign representatives. The latter intended to negotiate in Ozaka itself, but this idea was subsequently abandoned. As this one house was evidently not large enough for the representatives and their suites, I said I would go to the governor and ask him to provide other accommodation. The officials became alarmed at this, and at once offered to show us another house, to which they would take us in a boat. As we wished to see something of the city, I declined this proposal, and to their horror we proceeded to walk along the bank. A dense crowd of people gathered round us, but they were very quiet, and after passing the Ajikawa-bashi, the first of the series of bridges that span the river right up to the castle, we were shown a temple which, however, proved to be again insufficient for our needs. It being clear that our guides were not animated by goodwill, I again menaced them with a visit to the governor, but here they became utterly obstinate, and I had to give way. So we returned to our gig, and resolving to have a good look at the city, got on board and started to row up stream. Before long we reached a barrier composed of native boats moored right across from bank to bank, with the evident intention of impeding our further progress. Some officials in a guardhouse on the bank shouted to us to go back, but we pushed straight ashore, and I ascended the steps to demand the reason of this obstruction. Orders from the governor was the reply. A somewhat heated altercation ensued, and I demanded that either we should be allowed to pass or that I should at once be conducted to the governor's house. At last they gave way and removed one or two of the junks, leaving just enough space for our gig. Taking one of the guardhouse officials on board, we proceeded up the river, not a little proud of our victory over the bumbledom of a city of 400,000 people, and fully determined to go right up to the castle. Dense crowds of people collected on the bridges, sometimes yelling and abusing us, now and then throwing stones. Hegt began to lose his temper, and drawing his revolver, threatened to fire, but I made him put it back in his pouch. We were in no danger, and could not afford to commit murder for such a trifling reason. At last, after grounding once or twice on the sandbanks, we reached the Kiô-bashi just below the castle. On our left was a small boat full of officials who called to us to come and report ourselves, while on the right extended a grassy bank crowded with soldiers dressed in semi-European costume, among whom were a few men in plain dress, apparently noblemen's retainers. One of these came down to the water's edge, close to which we had approached, and shouted out to the Japanese who was with us for his name and office. Our man replied: "Who are you?" and they wrangled for about five minutes, while we kept a watchful eye on the straggling soldiery. But it was clearly unadvisable to land in the midst of a hostile armed crowd, and we reluctantly turned the boat's head down stream, which now carried us swiftly along. The same crowds still occupied the bridges, and shouted abusive epithets as we passed, to the great alarm of the Japanese official, who had not got over Hegt's fierce demeanour on the way up, and trembled for fear lest there should be a row. Landing the poor fellow, whose tone had become remarkably fainter and humbler since he first made our acquaintance in the morning, we pulled out across the bar to the "Bouncer," and in a few minutes more were on our way back to Hiôgo, having seen a good deal more of Ozaka than any one else, and braved the wrath of multitudinous _yakunins_. I began to feel contempt for the weak-kneed officials who so easily allowed themselves to be browbeaten by a few Europeans. A curious rencontre took place during our stay at Hiôgo. A Satsuma steamer was lying in the port, and one day the captain, Arigawa Yakurô, came on board the flagship with some of his officers. One of them remembered having seen me at Kagoshima, and we immediately fraternized very heartily. After drinking and smoking a good deal they took leave, promising to send a boat for me next day to accompany them ashore to a Japanese dinner. But they forgot their promise. The day after my expedition to Ozaka, Siebold and I went on board Arigawa's ship to find him on the point of weighing anchor. He was very glad to see us, abounded in apologies for being unable to fulfil his engagement to give an _onna gochisô_, and showed us the cabin that had been fitted up for the entertainment. This gentleman was too civil by half, but still the contrast to the "offishness" of the Tycoon's officials was very agreeable. If I would like to visit Kagoshima and Loochoo he would be glad to give me a passage. We passed some time on board eating raw eggs and drinking _saké_. I rather think I here met Kawamura for the first time. A few days later when the steamer returned I again went on board and made an even more interesting acquaintance. This was a big burly man, with small, sparkling black eyes, who was lying down in one of the berths. His name, they said, was Shimadzu Sachiû, and I noticed that he had the scar of a sword cut on one of his arms. Many months afterwards I met him again, this time under his real name of Saigô Kichinosuké. I shall have more to say of him hereafter. Abé Bungo no Kami had a _five hours'_ interview with Sir Harry on the 10th, after which he went on board the "Guerrière" to see Mr. Roches, the French envoy. I learnt from Siebold that the conversation had not been of a satisfactory character. His answer to the three propositions of the representatives amounted to a _non possumus_. The Tycoon would pay up the second instalment of the indemnity rather than run the risk of incurring unpopularity by giving way to our demands. _Jin-shin fu-ori-ai_, the popular mind very unsettled, was the excuse then, and for many a day after. Sir Harry had given Abé a piece of his mind, and said he had better return to his colleagues and get them to reconsider their answer. On the 13th he was to have come down again, but feigning indisposition as an excuse (this is well-known in Japan under the name of _yaku-biô_, official sickness), he sent a member of the second council, Tachibana Idzumo no Kami, to inform the representatives that the Tycoon had hitherto never spoken to the Mikado about acknowledging the treaties, but that now he had made up his mind to do so. But he required a delay of fifteen days for this purpose. The ministers up to this moment had believed, on the faith of assurances given by the Tycoon's council in 1864 after the Shimonoséki business, that the Mikado had long ago been approached on this subject, and that Abé himself had been entrusted with a mission to Kiôto to that effect. They were therefore naturally both surprised and incensed, but consented to a delay of ten days. The prospects of the negotiation looked very dark indeed. The Tycoon seemed either unable or unwilling to obtain the Mikado's sanction to the treaties, and it began to be thought that we should have to throw him over entirely. If the Tycoon was controlled by a superior authority, he was clearly not the proper person for foreign Powers to deal with, who must insist upon direct communication with the authority. For the present, however, it was too early to talk of going to see the Mikado against his will. We had not sufficient men in the allied squadrons to force a way up to Kiôto, and even if we had, Sir Harry's instructions would not have enabled him to take such a step. So there was nothing for it but to wait. An interesting visit was that of some retainers of Aidzu and Hosokawa, who came on board privately to talk politics and to pick up what information they could for their own princes. The former was the commander of the Tycoon's garrison in Kiôto, the latter one of the more important _daimiôs_ in the island of Kiûshiû, nominally a partizan of the Tycoon, but already beginning to consider whether it would not suit him better to go over to the other party. For by this time a definite issue had been raised between the Tycoon and the court of the Mikado. The former being the friend of foreigners and an usurping vassal, the war cry of the latter was "serve the sovereign and expel the barbarians." My visitors talked a great deal about the "unsettled state of popular feeling." They said the Mikado had already given his sanction to the treaties in a general sort of way, and had consented to Nagasaki, Hakodaté and Shimoda being opened to foreign trade. But Kanagawa had been substituted for the latter port without his approval. They felt quite certain that the Mikado would not agree at present to the establishment of foreign merchants at Hiôgo. They maintained that the anti-foreign feeling was pretty general among the people, but admitted that Chôshiû made use of it as a mere party cry with the object of dispossessing the Tycoon of his power. After an interval of five days Tachibana paid Sir Harry another visit. He reported that the Tycoon had not yet started for Kiôto to obtain the Mikado's ratification of the treaties, being detained at Ozaka by a headache! Abé and Ogasawara were afflicted with indisposition which prevented their having the pleasure of coming down to call on the British minister. Sir Harry administered some home-truths to the unfortunate prevaricator, and demonstrated very clearly to him that as the council acknowledged the inability of the Tycoon to carry out the treaty stipulations in respect of the opening of new ports without the Mikado's consent, which they had little hope of obtaining and still less desire to get, they must eventually go to the wall, and the foreign Powers would be compelled to make a demand for the ratification direct on the Mikado. It was pitiable to see the shifts that the Tycoon's officials were put to in face of his merciless logic; they were perpetually being driven into a corner and left without a leg to stand on. The demands presented by the foreign representatives had created a considerable movement at Kiôto, and dissension followed among the advisers of the Tycoon. In a few days we heard that Abé and Matsumai Idzu no Kami had been dismissed from office. They were believed to be in favour of accepting our demands, and their disgrace seemed to threaten the failure of the negotiations. The representatives thereupon resolved on the important step of addressing a _note identique_ to the Tycoon himself, containing a repetition of the demands already made, and warning him that if an answer were not made within the period of ten days originally fixed, it would be assumed by them that their propositions were refused. M. Mermet and I went ashore together to deliver the letters of our respective chiefs, and I learnt that the indefatigable little man had translated the French copy into Japanese and induced his minister to sign the translation. He had also addressed it to the council, instead of to the Tycoon, though he told me otherwise. On our arrival at the governor's house, he wrapped it in a sheet of Japanese paper, in order that I might not see the address, but the officials who received the Notes, of whom I afterwards inquired, voluntarily assured me that it was addressed to the council at Ozaka. What Mermet's object can have been I was not able to conjecture, and it is probable that he did it merely to keep his hand in. It is a dangerous thing for an habitual intriguer to get out of practice by acting straightforwardly, even in unimportant matters. We learnt that the Tycoon had presented a memorial to the Mikado urging him to ratify the treaties as well for his own sake as for that of the nation in general. That on its being refused, he had resolved to return to Yedo, but was stopped by an order from the court before he had got half-way to Ozaka. The dismissal of the pro-foreign members of the council seemed to forebode resistance and the probable outbreak of hostilities. Japanese steamers lying at Ozaka got up steam and went off in every direction, some passing through Hiôgo on their way. Siebold and I pulled on board one of these which belonged to Satsuma, and learnt that she was going off to Yura in Kishiû in order to be out of the way in case the Mikado should issue such orders to the Tycoon as might result in war-like measures being taken by the allied squadron. On the 24th, the last day, notice was given to the governor of Hiôgo that the ships would move on the morrow to Ozaka to await there the answer of the Tycoon's government. From him we learnt that Ogasawara would surely be down next day with the reply, but as had already happened so often in the course of these negotiations, he was ill, and Matsudaira Hôki no Kami took his place. The interview with the foreign representatives lasted several hours, but the gist of it was that the Tycoon had at last obtained the Mikado's consent to the treaties, by his own urgent representations, backed by those of his cousin Shitotsubashi, who declared (so it was said) that he would perform disembowelment unless the Mikado yielded. At last the latter gave way, saying "Well, speak to the nobles of my court about it." The opening of Hiôgo was, however, to be still deferred until January 1, 1868, but the tariff would be revised, and the remaining instalments of the indemnity paid punctually. Thus the foreign representatives had obtained two out of the three conditions, and those the most important, while giving up nothing in return. It must, however, be acknowledged that the payment of the indemnity was never completed by the Tycoon, and survived the revolution to be a constant source of irritation and ill-feeling between the Mikado's government and the British minister. Hôki no Kami, on leaving the "Princess Royal," promised that a note embodying these arrangements should be sent off in the course of the evening. But as it had to be sent up to Ozaka to receive the signatures of his two remaining colleagues, the document did not reach us before half-past two in the morning. I sat up till that hour in expectation of its arrival, and was called into the cabin to read it to Sir Harry and M. Roches, and then make a translation. The Mikado's decree to his vizier the Kwambaku delegating the conduct of foreign affairs to the Tycoon, a short document of only three lines, was enclosed in it. At Sir Harry's request Hôki no Kami added an engagement to promulgate the decree throughout the country. It was a proud night for me when I displayed my knowledge of written Japanese in the presence of the French minister, whose interpreter, M. Mermet, even could not read a document without the assistance of his teacher. Thus successfully ended the negotiations which up to the day before showed no signs of fruit. The foreign representatives had to congratulate themselves on having secured the means of tranquillizing the country, while at the same time consolidating the relations between the Japanese people and foreign nations. The opening of Hiôgo on the 1st January 1866 was a concession which few people had been sanguine enough to expect, but something had been secured which was of more immediate value, namely the solemn reiterated promise of the council to adhere to the London agreement of 1862. It was hoped also on good grounds that Sir Rutherford's convention of the previous October would also be carried out in its entirety. At dinner the following evening the Admiral made a speech, proposing Sir Harry's health and giving to him the whole credit of the success achieved. He replied by disclaiming any merit, and attributing a far greater share of the achievement to M. Roches; "but after all," he added, "it was you who did it, Admiral, for without you and your magnificent ship, we should not have made the slightest impression." On our return to Yokohama we found that the wildest rumours had been flying about. The United States Chargé d'Affaires, Portman, was said to have been killed, and Sir Harry taken prisoner, while Siebold and myself were also reported to have fallen martyrs to the cause. The "Japan Times," a newspaper conducted by Charles Rickerby, affected to pooh-pooh the whole affair, and denied the authenticity of the Mikado's decree, which, he said, ought to have been covered with seals. I wrote a letter to his paper, controverting his arguments, but without convincing him. There was one point about it, however, that escaped notice at the time, namely that the existing treaties were not explicitly sanctioned. All that the Mikado had given was a general authority to conclude treaties with foreign countries, and he had added a rider enjoining on the Tycoon the cancellation of the undertaking to open Hiôgo and Ozaka to trade. This, however, was carefully concealed from the foreign representatives, and we only came to know of it later. But without seeing it, no one could have guessed that the document represented to the foreign ministers to be the Mikado's sanction to the existing treaties had not that meaning, because of the absence of the definite article in Japanese. In English it makes a great deal of difference whether you say "the treaties are sanctioned," or simply "treaties are sanctioned," but in Japanese the same form of expression does for both, and we had no ground for suspecting the Tycoon's ministers of taking refuge in an ambiguity in order to play a trick on us and to gain time. CHAPTER XIV GREAT FIRE AT YOKOHAMA IN pursuance of instructions from the chief, I proceeded to Yedo the day after my return to find out if possible what had been the popular feeling about our doings at Hiôgo, but did not succeed in discovering anything of importance. A general curiosity prevailed, and the result of the negotiations was yet unknown. A meeting of the _daimiôs_' agents had been held on the receipt of the news that two of the council had been dismissed, and it was rumoured that the Tycoon had asked to be allowed to retire, but that his petition had been rejected. I stopped at the monastery of Dai-chiû-ji, which had been temporarily lent to Sir Harry for a residence. It was in a convenient position, nearer to the centre of the city than our former location at Tô-zen-ji, but the rooms were dark and scarcely numerous enough for the accommodation of the staff in addition to the minister and his family. A new building had therefore been already commenced in front of Sen-gaku-ji, about half-way between the two, and, instead of being called the British Legation, was to be named the _setsu-gu-jo_ or "place for meeting (sc. foreigners)," in order to avoid the risk of its being burnt down by the anti-foreign party. Report said that the Prince of Sendai, offended at not having been consulted on this matter, had retired to his castle in great dudgeon. Sen-gaku-ji is a well-known monastery containing the tombs and effigies of the celebrated "Forty-seven faithful retainers." After a couple of days' stay at the capital, I returned to my duties at the consulate in Yokohama, where I now held the post of interpreter. I was beginning to become known among the Japanese as a foreigner who could speak their language correctly, and my circle of acquaintance rapidly extended. Men used to come down from Yedo on purpose to talk to me, moved as much by mere curiosity as by a desire to find out what foreign policy towards their country was likely to be. Owing to my name being a common Japanese surname, it was easily passed on from one to another, and I was talked about by people whom I had never met. The two-sworded men were always happy to get a glass of wine or liqueur and a foreign cigar, and they were fond of discussion. They would sit for hours if the subject interested them. Politics afforded the principal material of our debates, which sometimes became rather warm. I used to attack the abuses of the existing régime, and then explain that I liked them very much, but hated despotic institutions. Many of the men who visited me were retainers of _daimiôs_, from whom I gained every day a firmer conviction that the Tycoon ought not to be regarded by foreigners as the sovereign of the country, and that sooner or later we must enter into direct relations with the Mikado. And the state papers, of which copies came into my hands through these men, proved that the Tycoon regarded himself as nothing more than the Mikado's principal vassal. At the same time the Tycoon's ministers still persevered in their endeavour to keep the conduct of foreign affairs in their own hands, and had succeeded in persuading Mr. Winchester that this was an ancient and indefeasible prerogative of the Tokugawa family. Sir Harry Parkes, however, from the first, with clearer insight, held that this was untenable, and resolved to press matters to a definite solution, which should bring the sovereign face to face with foreign Powers. Sir Harry had gone over to Shanghai to meet Lady Parkes and his children, and immediately after his return set to work at the revision of the tariff on the basis agreed to at Hiôgo. The negotiations, which began about January 1866, took much less time than is usual in these days, and the new convention was signed in June. I had little to do with it beyond assisting in its translation into Japanese. In February he began to make use of me as a translator, in addition to my work at the consulate. My salary as interpreter at the Yokohama consulate, which I had joined in April 1865, was only £400 a year, and after the Hiôgo business, where I had demonstrated my knowledge of the Japanese language, I began to think my services worth quite as much as those of the Dutch interpreters, who received £500. At an interview with the Japanese ministers they used to translate into Dutch what the minister said, and the native Dutch interpreters translated this again into Japanese. The reply had in the same way to go through two men. But when Siebold or I interpreted, the work was performed much more quickly and accurately, because we translated direct into Japanese. It was the same with the official correspondence, for I was able, with the assistance of a native writer, and sometimes without, to put an official note directly into Japanese. Then I was able to read and translate into English all sorts of confidential political papers, which the Dutch interpreters could make nothing of. We took a bold resolution, and in August 1866, Sir Harry having given me a quantity of political documents to translate, we addressed letters to him asking that he would recommend us to the Foreign Office for an additional £100 a year. This brought down his wrath upon our heads, and I became convinced that my application would be refused. Under these circumstances I wrote to my father that the service was not worth remaining in. At that time the telegraph reached only to Ceylon, but in as short a time as possible I received a telegram from him telling me to come home at once, and that I should have an allowance sufficient to enable me to go to the university and afterwards to the bar. Armed with this, I approached Sir Harry again, and asked him to accept my resignation. I had received a telegram from home which necessitated my immediate return to England. After a little humming and hawing, he finally produced from a drawer a despatch from Lord Clarendon, which had been lying there for several days, granting the applications of both Siebold and myself, and I consequently abandoned my intention of quitting the service. About March 6, 1866, a review and sham fight were held of the English garrison in combination with the Japanese drilled troops commanded by Kubota Sentarô on the dry rice fields between Jiû-ni-ten and Hommoku. The enemy was entirely imaginary, his place being taken by a crowd of spectators. The marching of the Japanese was very good, and received all the greater praise because they had received no practical instruction. Their officers had got it up from books, the difficult passages being explained to them by ours. The English soldiers looked magnificent by the side of the rather dwarfish Japanese. The bluejackets from the fleet were very amusing; one or two got drunk and danced a hornpipe in the face of the supposed enemy, to the great wrath and disgust of their commander, a young lieutenant. There was the usual amount of firing with blank cartridge, which, when it comes from one side only, renders every one so plucky and desirous of charging the foe. It was a wonder that no ramrods were fired away, nor was any one hit by a wad. The day was universally voted a great success. The 2/xx regiment was despatched to Hongkong about March 20, and replaced by the 2/ix. The danger to foreigners had so much abated since the execution of the murderers of Bird and Baldwin, and the ratification of the treaties by the Mikado that we began freely to make excursions into the surrounding country. On one occasion I went away for a few days with Charles Rickerby of the "Japan Times," and having thus become intimate with him, was permitted to try my inexperienced pen in the columns of his paper. My first attempt was an article upon travelling in Japan, but before long an incident occurred which tempted me to write on politics. It was doubtless very irregular, very wrong, and altogether contrary to the rules of the service, but I thought little of that. A Satsuma trading steamer had come into the bay, and was ordered by the authorities to anchor far away on the Kanagawa side, so that there might be no communication between the foreign community and the people on board. Taking this for my text, I descanted on the insufficiency of the treaties concluded with the Tycoon, which confined us to commercial intercourse with the inhabitants of his dominions, and thus cut us off from relations with a good half of the country. I called therefore for a revision of the treaties, and for a remodelling of the constitution of the Japanese government. My proposal was that the Tycoon should descend to his proper position as a great territorial noble, and that a confederation of daimiôs under the headship of the Mikado should take his place as the ruling power. And then I proceeded to make various suggestions for the improvement and modification of the existing treaties. With the aid of my teacher, Numata Torasaburô, a retainer of the Prince of Awa, who knew some English, I put them into Japanese in the form of a pamphlet for the perusal of his prince, but copies got into circulation, and in the following year I found myself to be favourably known through this means to all the _daimiôs_ retainers whom I met in the course of my journeys. In the end the translation was printed and sold in all the bookshops at Ozaka and Kiôto under the title of "Ei-koku Saku-ron," English policy, by the Englishman Satow, and was assumed by both parties to represent the views of the British Legation. With this of course I had nothing to do. As far as I know it never came to the ears of my chief, but it may fairly be supposed to have been not without its influence upon the relations between the English Legation and the new government afterwards established in the beginning of 1868. At the same time, it doubtless rendered us more or less "suspect" to the Tycoon's government while the latter lasted. During Sir Harry's absence in July on a visit to the _daimiôs_ of Satsuma and Uwajima after the signature of the tariff convention, some of us at the legation made up a party with three or four officers of the ix regiment, and went for a trip to Hachiôji and Atsugi. In those days all the high roads were intersected at certain points by strictly guarded barriers, where all travellers had to show their passports. Beyond Hachiôji a few miles to the west was one of these, just at the foot of a hill known as Takao-zan, about 1600 feet high, with a good road to the top. Up this we rode on our sure-footed ponies, and after lunching under the shade of the lofty cryptomerias, descended to the high road again, but unintentionally reached it beyond the barrier. The guards, who were inclined to interpret their duties rather too strictly than otherwise, shut the gates and refused to let us pass. It was in vain that we explained our mistake; they had orders not to let foreigners through. One would have thought that as we were on the side where we had no business to be, and were desirous of getting back to the right side, the officers in command would have facilitated our wishes to repair our error. But nothing would move them. At last Willis, who stood 6 feet 8 inches in his stockings and weighed then about 20 stone, made as if he would charge the gate on his pony, and seriously alarmed lest he should batter the whole thing down in a rush, they prudently flung it open, and we rode through triumphantly. A similar incident occurred on another occasion when I was out with Francis Myburgh, Captain W. G. Jones, R.N., of the flagship, and Charles Wirgman. The limit of excursions from Yokohama in the direction of the capital was formed by the Tama-gawa, which in the treaties is called the Logo river (a corruption of Rokugô). We had slept at Mizoguchi, and ascended the right bank on horseback to Sekido, where without difficulty we induced the ferryman to put us across, and rode into the town of Fuchiû to visit a well-known Shintô temple. We were bound for a monastery on the other side of the river, where we had planned to spend the night, and to do this it was necessary to recross further up to the Buddhist monastery of Ren-kô-ji. But on arriving there, and shouting to the ferryman, we got a blank refusal, accompanied by the information that we had no business to be where we were. "We know that we are, and want to get back where we ought to be." _Ferryman_: "Can't help that. Our orders are not to ferry any foreigner over." It was impossible to convince him that though he would be right in refusing to facilitate a breach of the law, he was bound to assist the repentant and contrite offenders in repairing such a breach, and we saw ourselves menaced with separation from our baggage and perhaps a cold night on the stones. Just above the ferry was a shallower spot, too deep to cross on ponies without getting rather wet. Charles Wirgman and I therefore took off our trousers, and tucking our shirts up as high as possible waded to the other bank, walked down to the ferry house, jumped into the boat before the ferrymen had time to recover from their surprise at our audacity, poled it across to our friends amid cries of _Koré wa rambô-rôzeki_ (about equivalent to "Robbery and murder") from the guardians of the posts, and so got the whole party across. On the 26th of November occurred one of the most destructive fires with which Yokohama has ever been visited. One fourth of the foreign settlement and one-third of the native town were laid in ashes. The fire-bell began to ring about nine o'clock in the morning. Willis and I ascended to the look-out on the roof of our house and saw the flames mounting to the sky exactly to windward of us, maybe half a mile away. I rushed into a pair of boots (unluckily my oldest), and putting on my hat, hastened forth to find out the location of the fire. My servants said it was only a few doors off, but when I got that distance it proved to be further away, and I pursued my course for a quarter of an hour before arriving on the scene. From the lower end of a narrow street, usually well crowded but now absolutely crammed with people, there surged along an agitated multitude carrying such of their goods as they had been able to snatch from the devouring element that closely pursued them. I approached as near as I could to the burning houses, but finding that the conflagration was rapidly advancing, beat a hasty retreat and made my way to the open space at the back of the settlement, where a terrible spectacle of confusion presented itself to my eyes. The portion of the native town where the fire was raging most violently was on a small island surrounded by a muddy swamp and connected with the rest of Yokohama by a wooden bridge, already crowded with fugitives; to wade or swim across to the firm ground was impossible. There were one or two boats available, but they were already overcrowded, and their occupants were so paralysed by fear that they never thought of landing and sending back the boats to take off others. Most of the inhabitants of the quarter were women. I saw a few poor wretches plunge into the water in order to escape, but they failed to reach the nearer bank. It was a fearful sight to see the flames darting among the roofs of the houses on the causeway, and sending forth jets here and there where the fire had not yet attained full mastery, when suddenly one half of the street nearest blazed up with a tremendous flash, and a volume of black smoke arose which obscured the sky. This was an oil merchant's shop that had caught fire. I turned and fled homewards, for there was no time to lose. I knew my own house was doomed, as it lay directly to leeward, and a violent wind was blowing from the north-west. As I passed through the little garden I shouted to Willis to bestir himself, and called my servants to assist in packing up my movables. My first thought was for my MS. dictionary; if that went I lost the results of two years' labour. So I put it into a light chest of drawers, and huddled some clothes in from the wardrobe. To get our things out we had to break down the high wooden fence round the garden. At this moment up came some friends, who plunged into the house and reappeared, some with books, others with half a chest of drawers, and we worked with a will until the building was cleared of everything but carpets, curtains, and the heavier furniture. My harmonium, a massive article, was also got into the street, and some men from the garrison carried it away to a place of safety. By the time we had removed the salvage to what we thought was a respectable distance, the fire had reached the house, which five minutes later was a heap of glowing embers. It now became evident that the houses in the rear of the settlement had caught fire, and as my property was lying on the open space between the foreign and native towns, it had to be transported further. Here occurred a serious loss. Most of my books were in boxes which had been carried out bodily, but the rest, hastily wrapped up in blankets, had to be left. There were plenty of pilferers about, who, under the pretence of helping, carried off chests full of clothing that I never saw again. I lost a good many European volumes and a large number of Japanese books, besides some notes on Manchu and Chinese which were irreplaceable. After we had deposited our property where we thought it would be in safety, it was threatened by the progress of the flames, and was therefore removed to a godown belonging to our friends Wilkin and Robison at No. 3 in the settlement. By this time the area of destruction had extended to the main street of the native town, and the houses where A. B. Mitford, A. von Siebold, Walsh and Vidal lived, as well as our own, had already gone. A Japanese house lightly built of wood, with paper instead of glass, takes little time to burn. Next the fire spread to the nearest houses in the foreign settlement. Huge sparks and pieces of red hot wood flew across the intervening space, set the American consulate alight, ignited the roof of Jardine, Matheson & Co., and began to spread along both streets of the settlement. The supposed "fireproof" godown where most of our things were deposited caught fire, and nearly everything we had saved was destroyed. It was a scene of the wildest confusion. Bluejackets were landed from the ships, and soldiers came down from the camp to work at the fire engines. There was no discipline among the men, and no organization existed for dealing with the disaster. After the final destruction of my own property I went about helping others to save theirs or to fight the flames, handing buckets, fetching water, pouring it on whatever seemed most inflammable. Some of the redcoats behaved disgracefully. They had managed to get hold of liquor, and stood by drinking and jeering, while we civilians did the work they had been brought there to perform. At the close of the day there remained to me only the clothes I had on my back, and I was hatless. But the excitement had been so lively that I felt rather pleased at the idea of beginning the world afresh. I had saved the manuscript of the English-Japanese dictionary on which Ishibashi and I were then engaged, as well as that of an annotated edition of Sir R. Alcock's _Colloquial Japanese_, which was then in the press, though destined never to see the light. My loss came to between £300 and £400, a portion of which was afterwards made good to me by Her Majesty's Government. The losses of the insurance offices amounted to $2,800,000, or about £700,000. The value of what was not insured was not great. The conflagration raged so fiercely among the foreign warehouses and residences that before four o'clock in the afternoon it had made its way half down the bund, leaving only the club-house standing, and at one period it was thought that the whole settlement would be in a blaze before night. If that had happened the European community would have had to seek an asylum on board ship, but fortunately our fears were not realized. The flames seemed invincible by the side of our puny efforts. The expedient was resorted to of blowing up houses in the line of fire, but not with great success, for some of those so destroyed were never touched by it at all, while in other instances the _débris_ could not be cleared away, and only helped it to spread to the buildings beyond. One hundred and seven Europeans and Americans were rendered homeless, and many of those who had trusted in their so-called fireproof godowns were left without anything in the world but the clothes they stood in. Merchants whose goods were uninsured were devoured by a terrible anxiety, for the most solidly-constructed stone godowns seemed to offer little more resistance than the wooden houses of the Japanese. Although the wind had fallen, much apprehension was entertained for the safety of what still remained unburnt, for owing to the damaged condition of the hose, all the fire engines had become useless, and nothing could be done to extinguish the smouldering embers. The fire was therefore left to burn itself out, and four days elapsed before the flames entirely died down. The price of clothing rose incredibly, as also did house rent. Yokohama was not as well supplied with hatters, tailors and bootmakers as it is in these days, and most men were in the habit of supplying themselves from home. For the next two years, consequently, I was reduced to a very moderate wardrobe. I had, for example, to pay $4, or 18 shillings, for five pocket handkerchiefs. After the fire I took up my abode with my friend Tom Foster, then the manager of Gilman & Co.'s Yokohama branch, until the 9th or 10th of December, when I migrated to the Legation at Yedo. The new buildings in front of Sen-gaku-ji were now completed, and enclosed by a lofty black wooden fence which imparted to the establishment somewhat of the aspect of a jail. There were two long wooden buildings, one of which was the minister's residence, the other being occupied by the members of the chancery. Eusden had gone to Hakodaté as acting consul, and the staff consisted of Mitford as second secretary, Willis as assistant accountant and medical officer, Siebold and myself as interpreters, and Vidal as student interpreter. The infantry guard was commanded by Lieutenant Bradshaw. Sidney Locock, the first secretary, a married man with a family, lived at Yokohama, as did also H. S. Wilkinson, still a student. They were "ramshackle" buildings, all windows and doors, terribly cold from want of proper fireplaces and bad construction, which admitted draughts on every side. But I did not live there long. After my transfer from the Yokohama consulate to the Legation in the autumn of 1866, one of the first matters in which I was able to be of use to our new chief was connected with the wording of the treaty. In the English text the Tycoon was spoken of as "His Majesty," and thus placed on a level with the Queen. In the Japanese version, however, this epithet was rendered by the equivalent of "Highness," and it was thus to be inferred that our sovereign was of lower rank than the Mikado. Moreover, the word "queen" had been translated by a title which was borne by great-grand-daughters of a Mikado. I recommended that a new Japanese version should be made, in which "Majesty" should be rendered by its proper Japanese equivalent, and "Queen" by the word _Kôtei_ (Hwang-ti), usually translated by "Emperor" in all the Chinese-English dictionaries, but really meaning "supreme sovereign," and applicable to both sexes. The preparation of the new version was entrusted to my hands, and with the aid of my teacher I managed in about a month's time to complete an accurate translation, which was adopted as official. It was the keynote of a new policy which recognized the Mikado as the sovereign of Japan and the Tycoon as his lieutenant. We gave up the use of "Tycoon," which my reading had taught me was properly a synonym for the Mikado, in our communications with the Japanese government, though retaining it in correspondence with the Foreign Office, in order not to create confusion, but the most important result was to set in a clearer light than before the political theory that the Mikado was the treaty-making power. As long as his consent had not been obtained to the existing treaties we had no _locus standi_, while after he had been induced to ratify them, the opposition of the _daimiôs_ ceased to have any logical basis. CHAPTER XV VISIT TO KAGOSHIMA AND UWAJIMA A FEW days after I had assumed my new duties, and had settled down, as I thought, for a period of uninterrupted study, Sir Harry informed me that he contemplated sending me down to Nagasaki in the "Princess Royal," which was about to proceed thither through the inland sea, to collect political information at Hiôgo and elsewhere. I was to return in the "Argus" by way of Kagoshima and Uwajima. The Tycoon had recently died, and had been succeeded by his cousin Shitotsubashi, whose position, however, was not very clearly defined. Before his elevation to the headship of the Tokugawa family he had been regarded as a partisan of the "return to the ancient régime," now so much in men's mouths, and it was desirable to learn as much as possible of his probable line of policy. In Yedo we were too far away from the political centre to learn much. I was greatly pleased at the prospect of visiting Nagasaki, but took care not to seem too desirous of being sent on the proposed mission, lest over-eagerness should defeat itself. Next day I got a note from Sir Harry, who resided chiefly at Yokohama, telling me that he had not yet seen the Admiral, but that he still thought I should have to go. So I packed up some clothes in a wicker basket such as the Japanese use when travelling, and went down to Yokohama in the gunboat which was our principal means of conveyance between the two places. In the evening I learnt that the matter had been arranged, and that the "Princess Royal" would sail the next day but one. I wrote to Willis for his teacher Hayashi, whom I intended to put ashore at Hiôgo to collect news, and for a tin box containing some stationery, and a little money, but neither arrived in time. In despair I borrowed a few hundred _ichibus_ from Foster, bought a box of cheroots, wrapped a few sheets of foolscap in a newspaper, and got on board on the 12th December just in time. We had fine weather for our start, but encountered a strong westerly wind outside, which prevented our passing between Vries Island and the mainland. For four days I lay in my cot, utterly unable to eat, but consoling myself with reference to previous experiences of the same kind. At last I was revived by a plateful of greasy beefsteak pudding that Admiral King sent me, and a glass of champagne. The gale had not abated, and the huge two decker rolled terribly. At one time the betting was strong on Hongkong as our first port of anchorage, and Hiôgo was given up as quite unattainable. Hakodaté, Yokohama and Nagasaki rose by turns to the position of favourite. We were blown right out of the chart of Japan, and at last, after many days of tossing to and fro, tacking and wearing, we sighted the Linschoten Islands, where we turned to the north, and steaming as fast as 400 horse power will carry a vessel of 3500 tons, got into Nagasaki on the evening of the 23rd. The appearance of the town and foreign settlement, lighted up by innumerable lamps dotted all over the hillsides, reminded me of Gibraltar as I had seen it from the deck of the "Indus" a little more than five years previously. At Nagasaki I made the acquaintance of some retainers of Uwajima, the most important of whom was Iséki Sayemon, afterwards prefect of Yokohama in the first years of the Mikado's rule. He came to call on me, and said that the proposed assemblage of a council of _daimiôs_ at Kiôto had been put off for the present. But it was sure to take place eventually, and one of the first topics of discussion would be the position of Chôshiû. About half of Shi-koku was in favour of Hiôgo being opened to foreign trade, but the Kiûshiû people opposed it, on account of the anticipated decline of Nagasaki. He thought that the visit of the Admiral and Sir Harry Parkes in the "Princess Royal" to Uwajima had done immense good, by familiarizing the common people with the appearance of foreigners, and their ingenuity in the construction of ships and warlike appliances. The _daimiô_ of Uwajima and his brother the _ex-daimiô_ (who was the leading spirit of the clan) had excused themselves on the ground of sickness from attending the council at Kiôto. Shitotsubashi had not yet been invested with the office of Shôgun and its attendant court titles, and the probability was that they would be withheld until he had settled the Chôshiû difficulty, which would doubtless give him a good deal of trouble. When I met him again on the following day the conversation turned upon our relations with Chôshiû. I told him that the British Government had stationed a man-of-war at Shimonoséki to prevent merchant vessels frequenting the straits during the continuance of hostilities between Chôshiû and the Tycoon; we did not wish to interfere in any of the civil quarrels of the Japanese. We were at peace with Chôshiû, who had agreed to let foreign vessels pass without molestation, and had undertaken to let them purchase wood, water, and other necessaries, while promising to build no more batteries. The Tycoon's government had undertaken to pay the indemnity imposed upon the Prince of Chôshiû. The powers, however, did not care for the money, and would be willing at any time to abandon the indemnity if their doing so would tend to the improvement of relations with Japan. The Tycoon's people had asked for delay in making payment of the remaining instalments, and in consenting to this, the foreign ministers had obtained in return the concession of permission for Japanese to travel in foreign countries. It was to be supposed, however, that the nation was desirous of having the ancient prohibition removed, and the government would have had, therefore, no excuse for maintaining it. Hiôgo would certainly be opened on the 1st of January 1868 in accordance with the undertaking entered into by the Tycoon; the intention of the Powers was to uphold the treaties in their entirety and get them carried out. We could not ask for the opening of Shimonoséki under the present treaties, as the Tycoon's authority did not extend so far. It would require a separate treaty with Chôshiû. As long as the present treaties remained unchanged, no ports could be opened in _daimiôs_' territories. At Hiôgo we had discussed matters with the Tycoon's Council, who, we now learnt, had deceived us by concealing the Mikado's injunction to them to negotiate for the abandonment of Ozaka and Hiôgo as seats of foreign commerce. It was a pity we had not thrown them over, and negotiated direct with the Mikado's court, from which we heard that a noble had been deputed to visit the foreign representatives. During my stay at Nagasaki I made the acquaintance of officers from Tosa and Higo. One of the latter said that there never would be another Shôgun, but that the Mikado would be restored to the throne. Here was a clear glimpse into the future. My instructions from Sir Harry were to proceed from Nagasaki to Kagoshima and Uwajima, and call in at Hiôgo on my way back. I embarked, therefore, on the 1st January 1867 in the "Argus," Commander Round, with my two servants, Noguchi Tomizô and Yasu. The former was a young _samurai_ of Aidzu, who had left his home and attached himself to Vyse, our consul at Hakodaté, in order to study English. In the autumn of 1865 he came to live with me, to carry on his studies, and on the present occasion he had accompanied me to Nagasaki, whence he was to have gone to England as cabin-servant to Alexander Buller, the Commander of the flagship. But whether it was the tossing about on the way down, or the disagreeable servant's position, he now changed his mind, and begged me to take him back to Yedo. Buller expressed himself as somewhat annoyed, but I could not help it. Noguchi eventually went with me in 1869 to England, where I paid for his schooling during a couple of years. After my return to Japan he stayed on awhile in London at the expense of the Japanese government, and eventually came back to Tôkiô, where he obtained a minor appointment in a public office. In spite of his then comparatively elevated position, he never gave himself airs, or forgot that I had befriended him, and it was with great regret that I heard of his death about the beginning of 1885. He was honest and faithful to the end. Yasu was a young monkey belonging to the lower classes, and I don't remember that he had any virtues. Round did not treat me very well, and made me sleep in the cockpit, a sort of common den in the bottom of the ship, where the midshipmen keep their chests and sling their hammocks. There was no privacy, and we were crowded together in a most uncomfortable manner. I got a cot to sleep in, but no mattress or pillow, and was forced to borrow a cushion off a bunk in the captain's cabin and roll up my greatcoat for a pillow. We reached Kagoshima next day early in the afternoon. As soon as we dropped our anchor, some officers pulled off from the shore, bringing a flag for us to hoist while firing the salute in answer to theirs. Matsuoka Jiûdaiyu came on board to explain that the prince and his father were in retirement owing to the recent death of the latter's mother. As neither was able to receive visitors, the duty of receiving the Admiral's letter, of which we were the bearers, would be performed by the prince's second brother and two councillors. This was a letter thanking him for kindness shown to shipwrecked sailors. Sir Harry and the Admiral on their visit in the previous summer had seen and conversed with both the prince and his father Shimadzu Saburô, but I do not suppose that my being unable to meet them made much difference to the result of my visit, as the conduct of affairs was to a great extent in the hands of the principal retainers. I went ashore to stay at the factory with three Englishmen named Sutcliffe, Harrison and Shillingford. The last of these, an engineer by profession, had been engaged by the _daimiô_ in connection with some cotton mills which he was erecting, the other two had come to Kagoshima in search of employment. On the 3rd, Round came on shore with a party of officers to deliver the Admiral's letter, and I accompanied him to interpret. We were met at the landing-place by some high officials, who conducted us through the town for half a mile to the house, where we were received by Shimadzu Dzusho, a handsome youth, the second son of Shimadzu Saburô, Niiro Giôbu, a councillor who had been in England, and Shimadzu Isé, also a councillor. It was a house set apart for the reception of visitors. The prince's brother, 29 years years of age, seemed a perfect child as far as intelligence went. All the talking was done by the high officials who sat on his right hand. I interpreted the contents of the letter, which was then handed to Shimadzu Dzusho, the whole ceremony not occupying more than five minutes. We then sat down to an entertainment, which opened with a few courses of Japanese cookery with _saké_, but consisted in the main of an interminable succession of European dishes, moistened with sherry, champagne and brandy. I took my revenge upon Round by keeping up a lively conversation in Japanese, and translating none of it, so the poor man was driven to count the oranges in a dish which stood near, in order to keep off ennui. After the banquet, the officers dispersed themselves through the town, while I remained behind to assist in making a translation of the Admiral's letter. Niiro also stopped. We talked about the proposed meeting of _daimiôs_, which had been postponed _sine die_. Then I praised the composition of a letter which had been addressed to the Mikado in the name of the Prince of Satsuma some months back. "Did you see it? What a stupid document it was," said Niiro. "Not at all," I replied. "I thought it excellent, and the style was worthy of all praise." "Had it not reference to Hiôgo?" "No. I mean the memorial objecting to sending Satsuma troops to co-operate with those of the Tycoon against Chôshiû." "Oh, yes. Shimadzu Isé, who sat next to me to-day, was the writer of that letter. He was in Kiôto at the time." "How is the Chôshiû business getting on," I asked. "I hear the Tycoon has withdrawn the greater part of his troops." "Chôshiû is very strong," he replied, "and he has right on his side. None of the _daimiôs_ will support the Tycoon, and the latter has now no chance of beating him." "Well, I think that if he had put his best troops into the field, and attacked Chôshiû energetically at first, he must have conquered him." "No, never. He had not right on his side." "You appear to be very friendly with Chôshiû," I remarked. "No," said he, "not friendly, but we have a natural fellow-feeling for one of our own class." Niiro's reference to the letter of the Prince of Satsuma, which he supposed I had seen, revealed the important fact that the Satsuma clan were opposed to the opening of Hiôgo, and in fact it was the presentation of this letter or memorial to the Mikado during the visit of the foreign representatives in November 1865 which had encouraged the Mikado to make it a condition of giving his sanction to the treaties that the Tycoon should arrange for that port being given up. It was necessary, therefore, to impress on Niiro's mind, for the benefit of his fellow clansmen, that the foreign Powers would not for a moment entertain the idea of giving up Hiôgo or any other part of the treaties. At this moment there was lying in the bay a little steamer named the "Otentosama," belonging to Chôshiû. She had brought down the leading man of that clan, Katsura Kogorô, afterwards known during the year of the revolution as Kido Junichirô. I said to Niiro that I should like to call on him to inquire after some of my Shimonoséki friends. Niiro replied that Katsura was to have an interview with Shimadzu Saburô at ten o'clock the same evening, and a meeting afterwards with some of the Satsuma councillors at three in the morning. If I wished particularly to see him, I might go and sleep at his lodgings, and wait till he turned up. I declined the invitation, preferring a European bed, for at that time I was not so accustomed to Japanese ways as I afterwards became. It was weak on my part. But what Niiro said rendered it perfectly clear that an understanding was being negotiated between the two most powerful of the western clans, and that they would henceforth be united against the Tycoon. Fortunate for us that they were on friendly terms with us, and fortunate also for the general interest of foreign Powers, between whom and the revolutionary government of 1868 the British Legation acted as mediators. The French Legation on the other hand supported the Tycoon. M. Roches was projecting the foundation of the arsenal at Yokosuka, which would place the military organization of the Tokugawa family on a new and superior footing, and he had procured a distinguished staff of French officers to drill the Tycoon's troops. It was even rumoured that he had made, or was contemplating making, offers of material assistance to Shitotsubashi. And this policy he pursued until the logic of facts at last demonstrated its folly, being followed by the North German Chargé d' Affaires, Herr von Brandt, and the Italian Minister, Count La Tour. The Netherlands Political Agent, however, adhered to Sir Harry, while the new American Minister, General van Valkenburg, was neutral. We had felt the pulse of the Japanese people more carefully and diagnosed the political condition better than our rivals, so that the prestige of the British Minister in the years 1868 and 1869 was completely in the ascendant. On the 4th January the prince's reply was to have been delivered on board the "Argus," but at noon Niiro presented himself to say that it was not yet ready. We therefore landed and inspected the glass factory, shot and shell foundry, gun foundry and pot and kettle foundry near the prince's garden at Iso. The letter now arrived in charge of Matsuoka, and after its formal delivery, we sat down once more to a banquet in European style. It was shorter than that of the previous day, and the dishes better cooked, but it was politeness rather than gastronomic satisfaction that caused us to praise it. For in truth the dinner was bad and ill-arranged. About five o'clock I started off with Sutcliffe to call on Niiro, who had not been seen since the morning. After an hour's walking, we arrived at his house, darkness having already set in. Niiro received us very cordially, and entertained us with tea, oranges, beer, cakes and conversation for an hour and a half. He told me that in passing through Hiôgo lately he had heard that the French Minister was shortly expected there with a letter from the Emperor Napoleon III, and that there was to be a general gathering of foreign representatives. Shitotsubashi had disappointed his friends by accepting the succession to the headship of the Tokugawa family, and was suspected of wishing to establish his power as Tycoon with the aid of foreigners. He gave me to understand that they regarded the French with dislike and distrust, and seemed to be all the more friendly with us because they had learnt to appreciate the value of our enmity. The Satsuma people seemed to be making great progress in the civilized arts, and gave me the impression of great courage and straightforwardness. I thought they would soon be far ahead of the rest of Japan. Tycoon, as I have said before, was the title given in the treaties to the temporal sovereign. The Japanese, however, never used it. Sei-i-tai Shôgun, or "Generalissimo for the subjugation of barbarians," was his official designation, which delicacy prevented his ministers from employing in their official communications with the foreign representatives, while the common people spoke of him as _Kubô sama_. The "opposition" _daimiôs_, however, had adopted the term _Baku-fu_, which most closely might be rendered by "military establishment," and it was this term that my friends and I used in conversation. In like manner, for the honorific designation _Gorôjiû_ (noble old men) applied in the east of Japan to the Tycoon's council of ministers, the expression _Kaku-rô_ (old ones) was substituted. The opposition refused to recognize that the government which they wished to upset was entitled to any mark of respect. On the 5th January we left Kagoshima and anchored in Uwajima Bay at eleven o'clock on the following day. The beautiful bay is completely landlocked, and surrounded by hills of varying height up to 2000 feet. Close behind the town, on its east side, rises a high peak known as Oni-ga-jô, the "demon's castle." The prince's fortress was a conspicuous object to the right of the town; it stood on a low, wooded hill, close to the seashore, and consisted of a three-storied keep, surrounded by a double wall of stonework surmounted by white plastered walls, almost hidden by the trees. South of this lay the official quarter, the citizens' quarter being to the east and north, stretching for some distance along the shore, as the hills behind leave the town no room to expand. Close in shore the water is very shallow, and advantage had been taken of this to construct salterns and reclaim rice fields by building a dyke. There was a small battery on each side of the bay, more for show than for defensive use. About an hour and a half after we anchored, a boat was noticed hovering about the stern, with a person in the stern-sheets busily engaged in examining the ship through an opera glass. Finding out that it was the prince, Commander Round sent a gig at once to invite him on board. He explained his curious behaviour by saying that he had wished to remain _incognito._ The Admiral's letter wishing him a happy new year was produced, and after I had translated its contents, he took possession of it. He was aged 32, of about middle height, and had an aristocratic cast of countenance, with a slightly aquiline nose, on the whole a handsome man. As a matter of course he was shown over the ship. In the meantime I had some conversation with a gentleman-like young man of about twenty years of age named Matsuné Kura, son of the principal _karô_. He said that Satsuma and Uwajima were on very friendly terms, which was natural, as the ex-_daimiô_ and Shimadzu Saburô had been amongst the little band of princes who were disgraced for their opposition to the elevation of the lately deceased Tycoon. Shitotsubashi had not been appointed Shôgun, and perhaps never would be. When the prince returned on shore I accompanied him in the gig, and found a number of his women waiting for him on the bank with his children, the eldest of whom was a little boy of seven years of age. The others were mostly babies in arms, and each was attended by an undernurse bearing a small sword wrapped in gold brocade. The Japanese _samurai_ was accustomed to the companionship of his weapon from his very infancy. The prince was extremely affable, and promised to repeat his visit on the following day, and to bring the _in-kio_ or _ex-daimiô_ with him. I said good-bye, and went into the town, where I met three officers from the ship engaged in "curio" hunting. An immense crowd followed us everywhere, examining our clothes and asking all manner of questions, but behaving with the utmost civility. I felt my heart warm more and more to the Japanese. On the 7th January it rained violently and blew hard all day, but the weather did not prevent the _daimiô_ and the _in-kio_ from coming on board. The latter was a tall man with strongly marked features and a big nose, and reputed to be one of the most intelligent of his class, imperious in manner, and 49 years of age. He was not a born _Daté_ (that was the surname of the Uwajima _daimiôs_), but had been adopted from a _hatamoto_ family in Yedo. After his adoption the present _daimiô_ was born, and the relationship between them was that of brothers by adoption. But still the adopted son could not be set aside, and he eventually succeeded to the title and fief, but by way of compensation to the younger brother who had lost his birthright, he adopted him as his son. Consequently, when the prince was disgraced in 1858 the real heir succeeded. _In-kio_ (living retired) is a common term for the head of a family, whether noble or commoner, who has given up the active headship and the management of the estate to his son, a not unusual thing in "Old Japan" for a father who had reached the sixties. Here the _in-kio_ was manifestly the ruling spirit, and it was touching to observe the immense respect paid to him by the titular prince, who always addressed him as father, while he on his part used the depreciatory term _sengaré_ (my youngster) in speaking of the _daimiô_. They stopped for a couple of hours talking and drinking some Moselle with which I had provided myself at Nagasaki. The _in-kio_ began to talk eagerly to me about the very suspicious intimacy that existed between the Tycoon's government (_baku-fu_) and the French Legation, but as soon as old Matsuné, the principal councillor, perceived that his master was becoming indiscreet, he hurried him away on the pretext that it would be too late to fire the salute. So away they went, amid the thunder of seventeen guns, which was returned from one of the batteries. After he left the wives and families of the two princes flocked on board. They were not in the least afraid of us, and conversed with as much ease and readiness as European ladies. There was a Japanese officer on board, afterwards Admiral Hayashi Kenzô. Noguchi, who had been ashore to have a hot bath and get shaved, had brought me an invitation to dine with Iriyé, the captain of the battery. So I took a boat and went off in spite of the wind and rain. My host had not yet returned from his duties, but his wife asked me to come in, and in about a quarter of an hour he made his appearance. Soon afterwards another artillery officer named Mori came in, and then two more juniors. Dinner was at once ordered. It consisted of innumerable courses of fish and soup, and lasted from six o'clock till eleven. We talked, drank hot _saké_, and sang by turns, and I had to answer a multitude of questions on all possible subjects. This gave me numerous opportunities of uttering appropriate wise saws and proverbial sayings, which gave my hearers unbounded delight, and inspired them with no small amount of respect for the philosophy of the western peoples. At half-past eleven the last guest retired, and after we had eaten a little rice, we went to bed in Japanese fashion. I was surprised to find that one could sleep comfortably without sheets. On the following morning, after a good breakfast _à la Japonaise_, I rejoined the ship, and started in company with Round, and Wright and Dunn of the ixth regiment, who as I have hitherto neglected to mention, had come on board at Nagasaki, for the rifle range, in accordance with an engagement made on the previous day. A guard of honour of 25 men received us at the landing-place, and we were escorted by an officer of the Uwajima navy. Half-way we found another guard, which fell in and led us up a pretty stiff hill to the ranges. Some of our small-arms men were landed to exhibit their skill. We had to walk a short distance and climb the hills. There is not sufficient flat ground in Uwajima for a proper rifle range, so the butts were placed on the side of another hill separated from us by a valley about 700 yards wide. Here we found tents set us, and the _in-kio_, his own son, and the prince awaiting our arrival. Our men, who were not accustomed to shooting across a chasm of unknown depth and width, showed themselves less skilful than the Uwajima marksmen, who had the advantage of knowing their ground. We got the shooting over by half-past one, and the whole party then proceeded to the _goten_ or palace, which was outside the castle. It was an old building, dating from about 500 years back, but without pretensions to architectural style. We were not received at the great entrance, but at some temporary steps erected for the occasion which led up at once from the garden into the verandah. Here old Matsuné met us and conducted us into a long room, which was shut off on all sides by handsome folding screens covered with gold leaf. At one end of the room was a particularly large screen, which the prince said was a present to his ancestor from the great Taikô-sama. A table was placed down the middle of the room, with armchairs on the right side for the _in-kio_, the prince, and Matsuné, while on the left were seated Round and his officers. I sat at the head of the table to facilitate conversation. The dinner was beautifully got up, every separate dish prettily arranged and decorated, but the most tasteful of all was a wild duck with all its plumage perfect, and the roasted meat cut up small and laid on the back between the wings, elevated in such a way as to convey the idea that the bird was swimming and flying at the same time. Other dishes consisted of huge crayfish, and there was a large baked tai, as required by etiquette, for each person. Each of us had a large porcelain cup to drink from, and the warm liquor was handed round in pewter vessels with long spouts, like flat teapots. The ex-prince exchanged cups with Round, myself, and the two redcoats in turn, and the same ceremony was aftwards gone through with the prince and his minister, old Matsuné. There was a good deal of eating and saké drinking, and the _in-kio_ presented me with a large shallow cup of red lacquer which I had first to empty. My companions left early, while at the _in-kio's_ request I remained behind for some conversation on politics. He began by speaking of Hiôgo, as to which he had expressed his opinion to Sir Harry Parkes in July last. But he was now in favour of opening the place to foreign trade, and so was Shitotsubashi. He had heard that negotiations were proceeding with the French for its being opened next September, but he would prefer that the arrangements should be made with us rather than with the French, whom he did not like. I replied that I believed the French policy was based upon the belief that the country needed a recognized head, and that as they had a treaty with the Shôgun, who apparently was the most powerful political personage, they thought it would be better to strengthen him as far as possible. The English policy was different. We regarded our treaty as having been made with Japan, and not with the Shôgun in particular. If with the latter, then as there was no actual Shôgun at the moment, our treaty would have to be regarded as being in abeyance. We did not wish to interfere, and were quite content that the Japanese should settle their internal disputes among themselves. "But," said _In-kio_, "if civil war becomes chronic, your trade will suffer, and you will have to put an end to it for your own sakes." "No," I replied, "for if we interfered and took a side, matters would become ten times more difficult, and the foreign trade would come altogether to an end." The _in-kio_ then remarked that his idea was for Japan to become a confederated empire, with the Mikado for its head, and that this idea was favoured by Satsuma and Chôshiû. I said I thought there was no other way out of the difficulty, and I had written an article in a Yokohama newspaper to that effect. "Oh," said the _in-kio_, "I have read it," meaning the translation which has been already mentioned. At last the ex-prince said, "Let us send for the women and have some music. The captain will be jealous if he hears that I produced them to you after he had left, so don't tell him, but if he hears of it, you may say I was drunk." Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the ladies of the harem, such a bevy of pretty women, some wives and some not. All the children came in too. I had to drink _saké_ with all of the ladies, till I began to fear my head might give way. Musical instruments were brought in, and a great deal of _saké_ was drunk, greatly to the increase of friendliness and conviviality, but not to the advantage of the interchange of political views. In fact the _in-kio_ gave himself up to enjoyment and would talk no more. He afterwards said in a casual sort of way: "You must not let it appear in the newspapers that I went on board the "Argus," for I have declined attending the meeting at Kiôto on the ground of sickness, and I should not wish the government to hear of it. I should not like to be at Kiôto just now." After the music had begun, I looked round and saw one of the officers of the "Argus," who had come in after the captain's departure, performing a Japanese dance. I proposed to him to dance a hornpipe, which he at once did, and the ex-prince, a man of the sober age of 49, got up, placed himself opposite, and tried to imitate the steps, holding up his loose trousers with both hands. The fun infected two of the ministers, who joined him in a three-handed reel. After drinking a great deal of _saké_ with the two princes and their ladies, I was carried off--no, led--to his own house by old Matsuné, where more _saké_ was produced, and I was made acquainted with the rest of his family. After about an hour's conversation, I was glad to get to bed, for the fumes of the hot _saké_ were beginning to have some effect on my head. Hayashi, young Matsuné, another Japanese and myself, slept in one room. Next morning I was roused before daylight by the report of a signal gun fired from the "Argus" to announce that she was ready to leave. I dressed hastily and went on board with young Matsuné, to whom I presented my opera glass as a souvenir. Noguchi and my boy Yasu, who had also been sleeping on shore, had not yet made their appearance, but Round refused to wait for them. So I begged Matsuné to send them somehow to Yokohama, and advance them any money which they might ask for, to be repaid to the Uwajima agent in Yedo. At half-past six we weighed anchor, and steamed out of the bay, full of regrets at being obliged to part from our kind, hospitable friends. We reached Hiôgo about noon on the 11th of January, after visiting one or two unimportant places in the inland sea. I went on shore to inquire whether we could get coals, beef and vegetables. After arranging with the local officials to send some supplies on board, I walked about the town, and found the people quite accustomed to the sight of a foreigner. I met some two-sworded men, who protested that they were determined to prevent the opening of Hiôgo to foreign trade, but they were evidently joking. A Hizen man whom I came across declared that I was an old acquaintance, though I had never set eyes on him before. Afterwards Hayashi Kenzô and I went on board a Satsuma steamer that was lying in port, and made the acquaintance of her captain, Inouyé Shinzayemon. She had brought up from Kagoshima one of the leading Satsuma men named Komatsu Tatéwaki; he had gone up to Ozaka to meet Saigô, the greatest of all the Satsuma leaders. I immediately proposed to go up to Ozaka and see them, and letters were written by Inouyé and Hayashi to Godai Saisuké (our captive of 1863 at Kagoshima) to make the necessary arrangements. Next day, however, I heard that Saigô was himself probably coming to Hiôgo, and in the meantime Hayashi took me ashore to have a hot bath and some luncheon _à la Japonaise_. Here for the first time I learnt how to put on a cotton gown (_yukata_) after the bath, and enjoy the sensation of gradually cooling down. We had just sat down to eat when it was announced that Saigô had arrived, and hastily swallowing our rice, we sallied forth to the other house-of-call of the Satsuma men. Saigô, as I had all along suspected, turned out to be identical with the man introduced to me as Shimadzu Sachiû in November 1865, and he laughed heartily when I reminded him of his alias. After exchanging the usual compliments, I began to feel rather at a loss, the man looked so stolid, and would not make conversation. But he had an eye that sparkled like a big black diamond, and his smile when he spoke was so friendly. I began about the employment of foreigners in Satsuma and the difficulties which might, under certain circumstances, arise from the residence of British subjects outside the treaty limits and beyond the jurisdiction of the consular authorities. But this did not produce much in the way of response. So I bethought myself of another subject which was more likely to draw him, and inquired if Shitotsubashi had not lately received in person a letter addressed to him by the Emperor of the French. He replied "Yes." A short time ago he memorialized the Mikado to the effect that there was a letter from the French Emperor addressed to the Shôgun, the reception of which had been delayed owing to the late Tycoon's detention at Kiôto in connexion with the expedition against Chôshiû; that he now intended to summon all the foreign representatives to Ozaka, and would profit by the occasion to receive the letter in question. Shitotsubashi would accordingly come down to Ozaka on the 17th of the Japanese month (22nd January), and expected the representatives to arrive shortly afterwards. We (the Satsuma people) sent up a copy of the memorial to Sir Harry Parkes by the hands of Yoshii Kôsuké, but he had replied that he was uncertain whether he would accept the Tycoon's invitation, not having yet heard anything direct about the matter. "But," I asked, "how can Shitotsubashi receive a letter addressed to the Shôgun. He is not Shôgun, is he?" "Yes; he received his commission the day before yesterday." "Well," I replied, "that is very unexpected. I thought he had to settle Chôshiû's affair first. But his influence must have increased immensely for him to have been able to manage this." "Yes, indeed"--(emphatically)--"A man who was yesterday no better than a beggarly _rônin daimiô_ is to-day _Sei-i-tai-shôgun_." "Who," I asked, "contrived it." "Itakura Suwô no Kami" (a newly appointed member of the council). "Shitotsubashi is in great favour now with the Mikado, and he could become _Kwambaku_ (grand vizier) if he chose. He has made his brother Mimbutayu, a younger scion of the Mito house, head of the Shimidzu family, which had become extinct, and he is going to send him as ambassador to France." "On what business?" "We have not the least idea." "And for what is Shitotsubashi going to summon the foreign representatives to Ozaka?" "We have not the slightest idea of that either," said Saigô. "How odd that he should be able to do these things without consulting the _daimiôs_." "The _daimiôs_ ought to have been consulted, as we expected they would be henceforth on all political matters. The _Baku-fu_ have got on so badly of late years that my prince is of opinion that they should not be left to ruin the country as they please. And when certain of the _daimiôs_ were summoned by the Mikado to Kiôto, they expected to have a share in the government. Now they perceive that such is not the intention of the _Baku-fu_, and they don't intend to be made fools of. So they have one and all refused to attend. Echizen stopped there as long as he could, but went away at last." "Then everything is over for the present?" I said. "Well, we shall be able to find him out in the next three years, I suppose." "Three years is a long time. But this council at Kiôto, was it not connected with the latter part of the decree giving power to the Shôgun to conclude treaties, where the Mikado says, 'There are points in the existing treaties which I wish you to rectify in concert with the _daimiôs_?'" "Oh no!" said Saigô, "you are quite wrong there. It was intended, as I have said before, that the _daimiôs_ should consult with the _Baku-fu_ about government reforms." "I suppose," I said, "that among other questions for discussion the Chôshiû affair and the opening of Hiôgo were included. What is the position with regard to Chôshiû? We foreigners cannot comprehend it?" "It is indeed incomprehensible," Saigô replied. "The _Baku-fu_ commenced the war without justification, and they have stopped it equally without reason." "Is it peace, or what?" "No. Simply that hostilities have ceased, and the troops have been withdrawn. There the matter rests." "For us foreigners it is a great puzzle why the _Baku-fu_ attacked Chôshiû at all. It was certainly not because he had fired on foreign ships. If he really had offended the Mikado, surely your prince, with his profound affection for the 'Son of Heaven,' could have lent assistance." "I believe the _Baku-fu_ hated Chôshiû all along," replied Saigô. "It is a great pity the council did not take place, because it is of the highest importance that the affairs of the country should come to a settlement within this year. We have a treaty with Japan, not with any particular person, and we don't intend to interfere with you in the settlement of your domestic disputes. Whether Japan is governed by the Mikado or the _Baku-fu_, or becomes a confederation of separate states is a matter of indifference to us, but we want to know who is the real head. I confess to you that we have serious doubts about the _Baku-fu_. We saw that they are not supreme, or rather not omnipotent when they asked us to let them off the opening of Hiôgo. Then the murder of Richardson and the impotence of the _Baku-fu_ to punish his murderers showed us that their authority did not extend as far as Satsuma. Then when ships-of-war belonging to friendly nations were fired on by Chôshiû, we had to go and punish him because the _Baku-fu_ could not do it. And we see now that Chôshiû has got the best of the late war. These things make us doubt the supremacy of the _Baku-fu_ throughout the country, and we had hoped that the council would settle the difficulty. The _Baku-fu_ will again be in a difficult position next year when, as we intend to do, we demand the opening of Hiôgo, if the _daimiôs_ oppose it." "My master does not oppose the opening of Hiôgo, but objects to its being opened after the fashion of other ports. We want it to be opened so as to be a benefit to Japan, and not solely for the private advantage of the _Baku-fu_." "But how would you have it opened?" I asked. "By placing all questions regarding Hiôgo in the hands of a committee of five or six _daimiôs_, who would be able to prevent the _Baku-fu_ from acting exclusively for its own selfish interests. Hiôgo is very important to us. We all owe money to the Ozaka merchants, and we have to send the productions of our provinces to them every year in payment of our debts. Our affairs will be much thrown out of order if the place is opened on the same plan as Yokohama." "I see now why you attach so much importance to Hiôgo. It is your last card. It is a great pity you cannot settle all your internal difficulties before the port is opened." "When we sent Yoshii up to see Sir Harry Parkes, he told him if he came to Ozaka to ask for us. We could not go to call on him for fear of incurring suspicion. And Sir Harry replied that he would ask not only to see the Prince of Satsuma, but all the other _daimiôs_ as well." _Saké_ and _sakana_ (_i.e._ its accompaniments) were now introduced, and we were waited on by a good-looking girl who was said to be a sweetheart of Godai's. Saigô excused himself and retired for a few moments with my companion Hayashi, who was apparently a confidential agent of the Satsuma people. After the second course, as he seemed in a hurry to get away, I rose to go, but he would not hear of my leaving so early. I begged him not to stand on ceremony, but to leave whenever he chose, as I knew he had a long way to go. After a few minutes more, he rose, and saying, "In case Sir Harry wants to communicate anything to us, he has only to send a message to our house at Yedo, and we will despatch anyone he likes from Kiôto to see him," he took his departure. I thanked him very warmly for coming so far to see me, and we bade each other farewell. The feast was resumed, and after numerous courses, Hayashi and I went back on board the "Argus" by half-past seven. Next day we left for Yokohama. During our stay at Hiôgo we had walked freely about the town, and found the people perfectly civil. They were evidently becoming accustomed to the sight of foreigners, and scarcely took any notice of us as we passed through the streets. [Illustration: CHOSHIU COUNCILLORS Katsura Kogorû and Kikkawa Kemmotsu] [Illustration: DAIMIÔ OF CHÔ-SHIU AND HIS HEIR Môri Daizen and Môri Nagato] CHAPTER XVI FIRST VISIT TO OZAKA ON reaching Yokohama on the 15th January 1867, I duly made my report to the chief of all I had seen, heard, and said, and took up my quarters on the following day at Yedo. The first news I learnt was that the Shôgun had invited all the foreign representatives to meet him at Ozaka, and that they would probably accept. His object, it was explained, was to break through all the traditions of the past eight years and to make the treaties of friendship which had been concluded by Japan with foreign countries more of a reality than they had hitherto been. But Sir Harry, who had now learnt enough of the internal political condition to convince him that the Shôgun's power was fast decaying, still hesitated, and it was only when he found a majority of his colleagues determined to go, that he made up his mind to join them. But he persuaded them that it would be well to have inquiries made beforehand as to the kind of accommodation that would be provided, and consequently deputed Mitford and myself to proceed thither in the "Argus." We were joined by Captain Cardew of the 2/ix, and reached Hiôgo on the 9th of February, after a two days' run. A couple of subordinate officials of the Shôgun's foreign department had accompanied us to make the necessary arrangements, and were landed at once to provide for our going to Ozaka without loss of time. We determined to go by land. The "Princess Royal," "Basilisk," "Serpent," and "Firm" were in port, having just arrived from visiting the Princes of Chikuzen at Fukuoka, and the Princes of Chôshiû at Mitajiri. Lord Walter Kerr of the "Princess Royal" kindly gave me photographs of the four nobles and of two of the leading councillors of Chôshiû, which are here reproduced. Among them will be recognized Katsura Kogorô, already mentioned. On board the "Princess Royal" I met some native traders, who were greatly interested in the approaching opening of the port, and discussed various suitable sites for a foreign settlement. They also conveyed to me the news of the Mikado's death, which had only just been made public. Rumour attributed his decease to smallpox, but several years afterwards I was assured by a Japanese well acquainted with what went on behind the scenes that he had been poisoned. He was by conviction utterly opposed to any concessions to foreigners, and had therefore been removed out of the way by those who foresaw that the coming downfall of the _Baku-fu_ would force the court into direct relations with Western Powers. But with a reactionary Mikado nothing but difficulties, resulting probably in war, was to be expected. It is common enough in eastern countries to attribute the deaths of important personages to poison, and in the case of the last preceding Shôgun rumours had been pretty rife that he had been made away with by Shitotsubashi. In connexion with the Mikado I certainly never heard any such suggestion at the time. But it is impossible to deny that his disappearance from the political scene, leaving as his successor a boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age, was most opportune. Noguchi and my boy Yasu turned up here, having been forwarded from Uwajima. They were full of excuses, which were readily admitted. We got away on the morning of the 11th, and Lieutenant Thalbitzer, a Danish officer from the "Argus," having joined us, we were a party of four. Ponies had been provided by the Japanese authorities, and we had an escort of nine men armed with swords from the corps which supplied the guards of the foreign legations at Yedo. Our steeds were small, ill-fed, and untrained, but each had a splendid running footman attached to it, who kept up the pace in magnificent style. Troops had been posted along the road for our protection, and the whole number thus detailed cannot have been less than 1500. This gave us a novel and somewhat embarrassing sense of importance. The road is perfectly flat the whole way, and fairly straight until it approaches Ozaka, when it begins to make zig-zags which lengthened it unnecessarily. This plan was formerly adopted nearly all over Japan in the vicinity of _daimiôs_' towns for strategical purposes. As the roads nearly always run through the swampy rice fields, a hostile force is unable to march straight at its point of attack, but must follow the road, being thus constantly exposed to a flank fire from the defending force occupying the other arm of the angle ahead. Soon after passing Ama-ga-saki we came in sight of the castle of Ozaka, a conspicuous object in the landscape by its shining white walls and many-storied towers, visible for many a league. At last we reached the city. Although our guides missed the route at first, and here and there a break occurred in the troops which lined the narrow streets, the crowd quietly made way for us, and stood in front of the houses without uttering a sound. At every corner there was an immense concourse, and the side-streets were filled with eager, gazing faces as far as the eye could reach. We crossed the great wooden bridge over the river which runs through the city, turned to the left along the embankment, and bending again to the right proceeded down a long, apparently interminable street until we finally reached our lodgings at the Hon-gaku-In monastery. Here we found some officials of the foreign department, and received calls from a few of the local functionaries. Everything had been done to make us comfortable, and the locality was the best that could have been selected. It was impossible to avoid contrasting this generous hospitality with the reluctant, almost hostile, reception accorded to us on the occasion of our visit in 1865. The times had evidently changed since the accession of the new Shôgun, and the recent death of the Mikado did not appear to have made any difference in his plans and intentions for the carrying-out of a conciliatory policy. Preparations had been made by the officials for our accommodation to the best of their ability. After washing off the dust of our long ride in a comfortable bathroom, we sat down to a dinner served in imitation of western fashion, with French wines, including an excellent bottle of Larose. Alas, it was the only one. The seats, however, were mere four-legged wooden stools, and I suffered a good deal from them during our stay. Afterwards we inspected the bedrooms. The bedsteads were mere makeshifts, but there was a plentiful supply of bedding, consisting of cotton quilts and stuffed silk coverlets. The toilet service was made up of two ludicrously small basins and, underneath the toilet table, a huge water pot; at the side were a cake of almond soap and a bottle of eau-de-cologne. But what seemed especially unusual was the deference of manner and language exhibited by all the officials with whom we came in contact. Hitherto I had experienced only familiarity approaching to rudeness at the hands of government officers. On the following morning we were visited by Suzuki, an official of the Uwajima clan, who came with a message from the resident _Karô_ to beg that we would not visit them at their _yashiki_, but at the same time he managed to convey the contrary impression. I sent Noguchi to the Satsuma _yashiki_ to invite Komatsu to call on us, and to that of Uwajima to convey my thanks for the kindness exhibited to my two servants. In the afternoon we went out for a walk in the Shinsai-bashi Suji, which is the principal street of the city, preceded by a small band of one-sworded men, who emitted a cry like a crow--_kau, kau_--to warn the people out of the way. Dense crowds hovered on our footsteps, eager to catch a glimpse of the strangers, for no Europeans had been in Ozaka since the last Dutch mission from Nagasaki had passed through a few years before. We were no less inquisitive, and made a great round, past all the booksellers' and mercers' shops, till dark. Our next visitor was Yoshii Kôsuké, whom I have already mentioned. He reminded me that we had met at Hiôgo in the autumn of 1865 on board the steamer, when I had also seen Saigô for the first time. Yoshii was a little man, very vivacious and talked with a perfect Satsuma brogue. Every day we spent the greater part of our time in sight-seeing, and the officials proved obliging in every way. We had only to express a wish and it was immediately gratified. In a day or two we got Komatsu and Yoshii to tiffin. The former was one of the most charming Japanese I have known, a Karô by birth, but unlike most of that class, distinguished for his political ability, excellent manners, and a genial companion. He had a fairer complexion than most, but his large mouth prevented his being good-looking. They partook heartily of pâte de foie gras and pale ale, and at last became so merry that we feared they might make indiscreet revelations in the presence of the Tokugawa servants who crowded the house. On the next day Mitford and I returned their visit at the Satsuma _Kura-yashiki_, or produce agency, near the river bank. Yoshii received us at the door, and ushered us into a room where we found Komatsu, the agent and Matsuki Kôwan; the latter was one of the two prisoners taken by us in 1863, and I had some suspicion that he was not altogether to be trusted, as he was reported to have been in the Tycoon's service during the interval. So after the exchange of compliments I suggested that we might have some more private talk. It was a mistake on my part, however. Matsuki afterwards changed his name to Terashima Tôzô, or perhaps merely reassumed it, and held office pretty constantly since the revolution of 1868, chiefly in connexion with foreign affairs. So Komatsu, Yoshii, Mitford and I retired together into an inner room. They told us that the Mikado's death had taken place on the 30th January, though the date officially announced was the 3rd February. He had been succeeded by his son, a youth of fifteen, who, it was thought, had in him the makings of a clever man if properly educated in foreign and domestic politics. But unfortunately the _Baku-fu_ would not allow him to be approached by any teachers who could improve his mind. During the new Mikado's youth, the conduct of public affairs would be carried on in his name by the Kwambaku (best rendered vizier). This officer is chosen from one of five noble court families, nominally of course by the Mikado, but in reality by the Tycoon and principal _daimiôs_. The present Kwambaku was a wise and good man, but too much disposed to listen to the counsels of the _Baku-fu_. They thought the new Shôgun's idea in inviting the foreign representatives to Ozaka was merely a counter move to the invitations which Sir Harry Parkes had accepted from the _daimiôs_ of Satsuma and Uwajima. The Shôgun would probably talk a great deal about drawing closer the bonds of friendship, etc., but would avoid treating about the opening of Hiôgo. The _Baku-fu_ in fact did not wish that event to take place, because it would let a flood of light into the minds of the Mikado and the court nobles. Komatsu said he had remonstrated with the _Baku-fu_ for delaying to hand over the land at Hiôgo and postponing the notification of the tariff convention of last June, their answer being that they had not yet made up their minds on those subjects. Satsuma, he said, had purchased some land near Kôbé as a site for a _Kura-yashiki_, of which they would be willing to let us have the greater portion for a foreign settlement. Satsuma wished to see the place opened to foreign trade, but wanted it to be done in a proper manner. Many of the court nobles were also in favour of the measure; these were men of liberal tendencies, but not in favour with the _Baku-fu_, who had imprisoned some of them; they were not allowed to have access to the Mikado. Affairs being in a critical condition, it was probable that the Shôgun would stop a long time at Kiôto. Were he to return to Yedo, he would lose his hold over the Mikado, and Chôshiû might make another dash at the palace. None of the _daimiôs_ had proceeded specially to Kiôto for the investiture of the Shôgun, the absent ones being represented by their agents. Komatsu begged us to tell Sir Harry that it was not the desire of Satsuma and the other _daimiôs_ who acted with him to upset the _Baku-fu_, but simply to restrain them from misusing their powers. They hoped, however, to see the Mikado restored to his ancient position as _de facto_ ruler of the country. All the plans and hopes of Satsuma tended to the benefit of the country, and not to a revolution against the Shôgun. If Sir Harry on his arrival would propose to make a treaty with the Mikado, the _daimiôs_ would at once give in their adhesion, and flock to Kiôto in order to take part in carrying out the great scheme. All that was necessary was for him to help them to this extent, and they would do the rest. The conversation had now lasted so long that we thought it best to break off, for fear of exciting suspicion, and we returned to the other room, where a capital Japanese luncheon was spread out. To my great surprise we were joined by Inouyé Bunda, whom I had not seen since the bombardment of Shimonoséki. His face was now disfigured by a huge scar, the vestige of one of several wounds which he had received in the course of a party fight down in Chôshiû. He said his people had now got the steam up and would like to give the Shôgun another thrashing. He brought a message from the prince to Sir Harry inviting him to visit the province at the earliest opportunity. When Sir Harry last passed through Shimonoséki, he said, the French Minister was there, and that accident had prevented an intended interview. The Satsuma people expressed the hope that Mitford and I would visit Kagoshima as soon as possible. We had a discussion with Shibata Hiûga no Kami, one of the Commissioners for Foreign Affairs, about Sir Harry's public entry into Ozaka, and settled all the details quietly and amicably. But when we came to the ceremony of presentation to the Shôgun some difficulties cropped up. He wanted the British Minister to make his bow outside the room in which the Shôgun would be, and we could not allow this. Our object was to insist on the forms being as like those of European courts as possible. Noguchi, as I have said, belonged to the Aidzu clan, which furnished the best part of the Shogun's fighting force at Kiôto. I had sent him there to see his people, and he returned with the news that some were coming down to call on me. Accordingly, late in the evening of the 17th, four of them appeared, named Kajiwara Heima (a _Karô_), Kurazawa Uhei, Yamada Teisuké and Kawara Zenzayemon, bearing as presents rolls of light blue silk damask, and lists of swords and other articles to be hereafter given to Sir Harry, Mitford, and myself. In making official presents the custom was that a list written on thick, light cream-coloured paper called _hôsho-gami_ should accompany the articles, and often, if these were not ready, the list was handed over beforehand. We had nothing to give in return, but entertained them to the best of our ability. Kajiwara in particular distinguished himself by drinking champagne, whiskey, sherry, rum, gin and gin and water without blinking or shrinking. He was a particularly handsome young fellow, with a fair complexion, and had perfect manners. We gave them a letter of introduction to Captain Hewett of the "Basilisk," as they wanted to see a foreign man-of-war. This was the foundation of a close friendship between myself and the Aidzu clan, which survived the war of the revolution and the completest possible difference of opinion on Japanese internal politics. But they never resented the part we took, clearly seeing that all the English wanted was the good of the Japanese as a nation, and that they were not partisans of any faction. Our new friends came a couple of days later to tiffin, when they were regaled with champagne and preserved meats, greatly to the elevation of their spirits. It ought to be noted that in those days it was quite the proper thing to get drunk at a dinner party, and a host whose guests went away sober would have been mortified by a feeling that his hospitality had not been properly appreciated. One of them got very tight, and began to talk things unfit for the ears of boys or maidens, while another produced a packet of indecent pictures, which he generously distributed among the four of us. In return for this entertainment Kajiwara invited us to go and drink _saké_ with him in the evening. We at once accepted, but had some trouble with the foreign department officials from Yedo, to whom it appeared an improper violation of all precedent for members of a foreign legation to attend a feast given by a _daimiô's_ man, even though the _daimiô_ belonged to the Shôgun's party. We could therefore trust them to make every effort behind our backs to prevent the entertainment coming off. [Illustration: GROUP PHOTOGRAPHED DURING A VISIT TO OZAKA Yasu. Noguchi. Akum. Mitford. Linfu. Satow. Cardew. Thalbitzer.] The afternoon was spent in visiting the boats in which it was proposed to bring the British Minister and his suite to the temporary Legation, and a long weary tramp of it we had, but at last we got to the place where they would leave the men-of-wars' boats. Embarking here, we made an experimental trip ourselves, and came to the conclusion that it would not do. To begin with, the distance was very great, and poling against the stream was a slow method of progression; next, instead of showing themselves to the populace, the minister and his staff would be almost hidden from view, and would be taken through a succession of narrow, obscure, and not very clean canals, to a very short distance from their lodgings, to which they would have to proceed on foot. We found a dense crowd had collected at the landing-place to see us, although it was quite dark. We had been more than a week in the city, and the curiosity of the inhabitants seemed not a whit abated, though we had traversed the city in all directions, and not a day passed without our taking a long walk. Noguchi, who had gone with the Aidzu men to find out where the symposium was to be held, was not yet back, so reconciling ourselves to the idea that the officials had succeeded in putting it off, we sat down to a dinner of terrapin soup and boiled terrapins. In the middle of it, however, Noguchi appeared to announce that all was ready. The guard that usually dogged our steps when we went out had all retired to rest for the night, so we got away unaccompanied except by one man carrying a lantern. The streets were by this time quite deserted, and we hugged ourselves with the consciousness of an adventure. No European had yet been abroad in the streets of a Japanese city at night as a free man. We had to walk a couple of miles, and then turn down by the river till we came to a house close to the great bridge. Here we found our friends awaiting our arrival. Blankets were spread for us on the floor at the upper end of the room, while the Aidzu men sat on cushions opposite to us, a row of tall candlesticks occupying the centre. Tea was served by some very ancient females, and we began again to fear a disappointment, for the invitation had been accompanied by a promise to show us some of the most celebrated singing and dancing girls of the city. However, when the _saké_ was brought up, they descended from the upper storey, where they had been engaged in completing their toilette. Some of them were certainly pretty, others decidedly ugly, but we thought their looks ruined in any case by the blackened teeth and white-lead-powdered faces. In later times I became more accustomed to the shining black teeth which were then the distinctive mark of a married woman, as well as of every "artiste" old enough to have an admirer, so much so that when the empress set the fashion by discontinuing the practice, it was long before I, in common with most Japanese, could reconcile myself to the new style. I have always thought Japanese dancing, or rather posturing, extremely uninteresting. It is a sort of interpreting by more or less graceful (or, as one may look at it, affected) movements of body and limbs, of the words of a song chanted to the accompaniment of a kind of three-stringed lute. It is some help to know the words of the song beforehand; they are no more comprehensible when sung than the sounds given forth by the singers in Italian opera are to the majority of their audience. But no foreigner, unless he be an enthusiast, would ever take the trouble to educate himself to appreciate this form of art. He can enjoy the beautiful in other ways at much less cost of time and mental exertion. Then it takes a long apprenticeship to accustom the European ear to music constructed with a set of intervals that are different enough from ours to make nine-tenths of the notes seem out of tune. This form of entertainment is universal all over the east, in India, Burma, Siam, China and Japan, with local variations, and is, to my uncultivated taste, everywhere equally tedious. Our Yedo officials had found us out, and did not cease to urge our return, until at eleven o'clock we gave way to their importunity and said good-bye to our hosts, after only a short stay. I daresay they kept it up to a much later hour. This was the evening before we left Ozaka. CHAPTER XVII RECEPTION OF FOREIGN MINISTERS BY THE TYCOON ON our return to Yedo we were horrified to learn of the death by his own hand of poor Vidal, the junior student interpreter. No motive was assignable for the terrible act, except ill-health. Insane he certainly was not. A more lucid intellect it would be difficult to find. He had abilities of a very high order, but was a prey to a torpid liver, which seemed always to embitter his existence. His first nomination was to Siam, but before he had taken up his appointment he was transferred to Peking. After a year or two there, finding the climate did not suit him, he obtained a change to Japan. But even there he was not content with his lot, and preferred annihilation. The next few days were spent in visiting Atami and Hakoné in company with some friends from Yokohama. There is nothing worthy of record about this excursion, except that Atami, which then contained only a couple of hotels, now (1887) possesses at least a dozen, and has become a fashionable winter resort, much frequented by the higher classes living in Tôkiô (Yedo). The cost of transport then was much less than it would be now. We paid the coolies who carried our baggage over to Hakoné, a distance of about ten miles, 1-3/4 _ichibus_, about 2 shillings and 4d per man. At that time there existed a barrier at the eastern end of the village, at which all travellers had to exhibit their passports to the men on guard. The notice-board at the guardhouse, among other provisions, stated that dead bodies, wounded persons, and individuals of suspicious aspect were not allowed to proceed without the production of a passport. A lady of our party accomplished the difficult feat of riding on a Japanese pony down the steep and badly paved road which descends from the top of the pass to Odawara. We established ourselves in the official inn, where we were received with due respect and cordiality by the innkeeper. It was a one-storied building spread over a considerable area, and containing ten or fifteen rooms of the regulation size, namely 12 feet square, besides a huge kitchen and an entrance hall. Here we passed the night, and on the following day Noguchi procured for us packhorses and coolies at the government rates, which were 1 horse load 464 cash, 1 coolie load 233 cash, for a distance of ten miles. Now 6600 cash were equal to one _riô_, that is four _ichibus_, or at par rates about 5s 4d, so that the official rate for the coolie was about two and a fifth pence for the whole distance or a little over the 1/5 of a penny per mile. The coolies were obliged to perform the labour as corvée, and if they were not in sufficient number, the population of the post towns had to hire men at ordinary rates to let them out at the government tariff. It was a heavy tax, and one of the first reforms of the new government established after the revolution was the abolition of this system. At Hodogaya I parted from the rest of the party, who returned to Yokohama, and went on to Kanagawa, where I slept at the _hon-jin_ or official hotel, occupying the best rooms, which were reserved for _daimiôs_ and high officials of the government. I rode in a _kago_ or palanquin from Hodogaya, just five miles, and was two hours accomplishing that short distance. It was, however, the ordinary rate of travelling in those days. One of the native legation guard went ahead, also in a _kago_, preceded by a big bamboo and paper lantern on a pole, then came my _kago_, followed by a coolie carrying my baggage in a couple of wicker boxes slung on a pole (_riô-gaké_), and a second guardsman. Noguchi probably walked. Next morning when I came to discharge the bill for my whole party, including rooms, _saké_ and _sakana_, supper and breakfast, I found it amounted to about 8s 6d, and I gave one _ichibu_ (say 1s 4d) to the hotelkeeper as _cha-dai_ or tea money, which was considered quite enough. In Japan the charge for a night's lodging, called _hatago_, used to include everything, rice, tea, sleeping accommodation, fuel, candles, and use of the hot bath. The only extras were _saké_ and _sakana_, which a liberal-minded traveller ordered "for the good of the house," but if he was of an economical turn, he contented himself with the regular two meals, which were quite enough to satisfy his appetite. _Sakana_ (fish) is more played with than eaten, and is merely the excuse for _saké_. The comparison with a European hotel bill, with its charges for candles, firing and bath, is striking. Moreover, in Japan, you give no tips, for none are expected, and the tea money takes the place of the charge for the room you occupy. It was after my return from this journey that Mitford and I removed to a little house outside the legation, situated in a pretty garden on the rising ground which overhangs the side road leading from the Tôkaidô to Sen-gaku-ji. It was in reality a small monastery named Monriô-In, and we occupied the guest apartments, having each a bedroom and one sitting room. No palisade surrounded it, and our only protection was a hut at the gate which held three or four of the _betté-gumi_. We thought ourselves very plucky in thus braving the risks of midnight assassination, when the legation grounds below us were patrolled all night, and sentries passed the word to each other as the hours struck. Here we spent several months together, living entirely on Japanese food, which was brought three times a day from a restaurant known as _Mansei_, much frequented by our friends the Satsuma men. Mitford devoted himself with unflagging diligence to the study of the Japanese language, as he had before at Peking to that of the Chinese, and made rapid progress. I began to compile for his use a series of sentences and dialogues which some years afterwards were published under the title of Kwai-wa Hen. It was convenient to be outside the legation compound, because I could receive visits from the retainers of _daimiôs_ without obstruction. I used to go a good deal to the Satsuma _yashiki_ in Mita to get political information from two men named Shibayama Riôsuké and Nambu Yahachirô; the former met his death towards the close of the year in a remarkable manner. The _yashiki_, having gained evil repute as the refuge of a number of _rônin_ and other disorderly political characters, was surrounded and set on fire by the Shôgun's police. There was a fight, many were killed, but Shibayama was made prisoner. When brought up for examination, he boldly avowed that he had been the ringleader, and then drawing a pistol from the bosom of his dress, shot himself through the head. He was a capital companion, and I had more than one agreeable adventure with him. Towards the middle of April the foreign diplomatic representatives moved in a body down to Ozaka. The French Minister, M. Roches, had already been there in March in furtherance of the special line of policy he was pursuing, and seen the Shôgun; doubtless promises of support had been given; at any rate, counsel had been offered. In fact, as it afterwards turned out, M. Roches so far committed himself with the _Baku-fu_ that he found it impossible to remain one day longer in Japan after its final overthrow. On our side Sir Harry Parkes was resolved henceforth to treat the Shôgun as of no more importance than a vice-gerent; henceforward he was styled by us His Highness, while for the Queen we used a Japanese title placing her on full equality with the Mikado. Sir Harry took with him to Ozaka the mounted escort under Captain Applin, and a detachment of 50 men from the 2/ix, commanded by Captain Daunt and Lieutenant Bradshaw. Lady Parkes was also of the party. The staff consisted of the secretary of legation, Sidney Locock, Mitford, myself (I was acting Japanese secretary), Willis, Aston and Wilkinson. We had persuaded Sir Harry to let Charles Wirgman come with us. We numbered about seventy Europeans, besides some thirty Chinese and Japanese, writers, servants and grooms. The Tycoon's government furnished all the fresh supplies required. Great offence was caused by this exclusive privilege, and Rickerby in the "Japan Times" poured out his wrath upon the head of our friend the artist. It was perhaps not an unreasonable complaint from their point of view that no representatives of the mercantile community were invited to accompany the foreign ministers, but it is quite certain that they would have been very much in the way. The British Legation occupied four spacious temples or monasteries at the further end of a street called Tera-machi, the other representatives being accommodated in perhaps somewhat inferior buildings nearer to its entrance. But the British Minister had taken the trouble to send down two of his staff beforehand to make all the arrangements, while the others were ready to be contented with what was provided for them by the Japanese Government. Mitford, Wirgman and I occupied one end of a temple (Chô-hô-ji) overlooking the city, while at the other end were Sir Harry's "office" and the temporary chancery. The whole mission messed together in the temple on the other side of the street, where Sir Harry and Lady Parkes had their abode. Next door was a temple given up to the officers of the guard and two student interpreters, and the fourth was set apart for guests. I had a charming set of rooms on three floors. The bottom was occupied by the Japanese writers and my retainers, the centre floor, consisting of two rooms, served as a bedroom and "office," and the top was a sort of parlour where I received guests, only twelve feet by nine, but large enough to accommodate a dozen persons, as it did not contain a single piece of furniture. It was a busy time. I was employed from morning till night translating and interpreting, and remember that on one occasion I had to talk Japanese for eleven successive hours, as the chief had Japanese guests both at luncheon and dinner. For this reason I found no time to keep my journal, and what follows is a pure effort of memory, aided only as far as the dates are concerned by reference to printed sources. A great part of our time was taken up with the regulations under which settlements were to be formed at Hiôgo and Ozaka, the conditions under which land was to be leased to foreigners, and the creation of a municipality at each place, and Sir Harry being the most practical man among the whole body of foreign representatives, the work fell in the main on his shoulders. The Japanese Government were evidently desirous of conciliating the representatives, and the negotiations proceeded with unaccustomed smoothness and celerity. No more angry discussions and heated arguments (in which the heat and anger of our chief were opposed to the stolid calm of the imperturbable Japanese Ministers) such as had characterized our official interviews at Yedo. At the word of the new Shôgun an entirely new line had been adopted, and a serious endeavour was made to convert the treaty of friendship into a reality. Then we had visits from Satsuma, Awa and Uwajima men, and tried to ascertain what was likely to be the out-turn of the political movement that had been in progress now for thirteen years. But on the whole everything seemed to point to the triumph of the Shôgun over his opponents. And one of the principal objects with which he had invited the foreign ministers to Ozaka was that he might make their personal acquaintance, and thus manifest his desire to cultivate friendly relations with foreign countries. Who put this into his head I do not know, but it does not seem _á priori_ unlikely that a closer intimacy with the legations had been suggested to him by one of the representatives themselves. A good deal of time was consumed in discussing the etiquette to be observed at the audiences of the Shôgun, but in the end it was arranged that it should be entirely according to European fashion. The first interview was a private one. Sir Harry proceeded to the castle on horseback, accompanied by all the members of the mission, preceded by the mounted escort, and with a detachment of the infantry guard before and behind. A cloud of the Japanese guard called _betté-gumi_ hovered on our flanks and kept back the crowd. A rather ludicrous incident was the presentation of arms by the soldiers who lined the open space in front of the castle to the officer in command of the escort, whose resplendent uniform had led them to mistake him for the minister. At the nearer end of the causeway crossing the moat there used to stand a wooden board inscribed with the Chinese characters for "alight from horseback," but as had been agreed upon beforehand, we took no notice of this and passed on through the gateway to the very door of the palace. If I recollect rightly, this was almost close to the gate. The palace unfortunately exists no longer, having been destroyed by fire during the retreat of the defeated _Baku-fu_ forces early in February 1868. But it was reputed to be the most splendid example of domestic architecture then extant in Japan. It certainly was far superior to the Mikado's Palace at Kiôto. Wide and lofty matted corridors, partitioned off by painted screens, of choice cryptomeria wood, ran along the front of a succession of large rooms and away to the right by the side of the three large apartments constituting the _ôbiroma_ or hall of audience. The other apartments had each a specific name, and the _daimiôs_ were classified according to their right of waiting in one or the other for their turn of admission to the presence. Over these wooden screens were large panels of carved wood representing birds and animals surrounded by foliage, but somewhat too richly painted, very much in the style familiar to those who have visited the mausoleum of Iyéyasu at Nikkô. We were conducted along the matted corridor by the Commissioners for Foreign Affairs, who had some difficulty in walking, as the court rules prescribed their wearing long wide trousers that extended far beyond their feet, so as to give them the appearance of moving on their knees, until we reached the further room, where the Shôgun was awaiting us. He shook hands with Sir Harry, and sat down at the head of a long table, with Sir Harry on his right and on his left Itakura Iga no Kami, who might be styled Prime Minister. The rest of the staff sat next to Sir Harry, and I had a stool between him and the Shôgun. He was one of the most aristocratic-looking Japanese I have ever seen, of fair complexion, with a high forehead and well-cut nose--such a gentleman. I felt somewhat nervous, not knowing whether I had got hold of the forms of speech required by court etiquette, and remember making a ridiculous blunder over an observation of Sir Harry's that all that was disagreeable in the past relations of Great Britain and Japan was now forgotten. There was no business talk on this occasion, and after the conversation was over, the whole company adjourned to a smaller apartment where dinner was served in European style. The Shôgun sat at the head of the table, and was very gracious. Round the walls hung paintings of the thirty-six poets, and Sir Harry having admired them, the Shôgun made him a present of one. Whiskey and water were produced after the repast, and I had the honour of brewing toddy for the great man. It was dark when we left. A few days later there was a formal audience, at which the captains of the men-of-war were presented. We had arranged beforehand the address of Sir Harry and the reply of the Shôgun, who had been tutored also into saying a few words to each person presented to him. These somewhat resembled the Turkish Pasha's remarks as translated by the dragoman at the famous interview described in _Eothen_. To Captain Haswell, who had been on a polar expedition, for instance, he said what really amounted to "you had a long journey," but was interpreted in much more complimentary style. I remember receiving a visit from Saigô and others of that party, who were not at all pleased at the _rapprochement_ between us and the Shôgun. I hinted to Saigô that the chance of a revolution was not to be lost. If Hiôgo were once opened, then good-bye to the chances of the _daimiôs_. The street in which the foreign representatives lodged was shut in at each end by solid wooden gates, at which a number of the _betté-gumi_ were stationed on guard day and night, and it was impossible to get out into the city without an escort, as the guard had instructions to follow us wherever we went. This was very irksome to Mitford and myself, until we found out a gap in the wall which surrounded one of the temples, and from that time we used to make nocturnal excursions to all parts of the town, accompanied by my retainer Noguchi. The sense of a certain peril to be encountered, combined with a sort of truant schoolboy feeling, rendered these explorations into the night life of Japan very enjoyable. On one occasion young Matsuné joined us on an expedition to the quarter occupied by singing and dancing girls; it was a moonlight night, and the chance of detection by the guard was so much the greater. After getting through our gap, we doubled back, and passing behind the legations, got into a lower street running parallel to that in which we lived, where we ran along for some distance keeping close in the shadow of the houses, then darted into another street at right angles, turned to the right again until we felt sure of having baffled any possible pursuers, after which we walked on quietly, and crossing one of the long bridges over the river, found ourselves at our destination. A room had been taken in Matsuné's name, and some of the bepowdered and berouged girls were awaiting the arrival of the Japanese party they had expected to meet, when to their surprise and horror three Europeans were ushered into their midst. We were at that time objects of more alarm than interest to the women of Ozaka. The fair damsels starting up with a scream fairly ran away, and no assurances from our friend would induce them to return. The keeper of the house besought us to leave, as a crowd might collect, and if there was any disturbance he would get into trouble, and so we had to submit to our disappointment. But even the slight glimpse we had of the native beauties seemed to compensate for the risk run, for here in Ozaka no foreigner had ever been admitted to the quarter. On another occasion, when we were accompanied by some of the guard we had better success, and enjoyed the society of some gei-shas for several hours, the government officials having given their consent and even interfered, I believe, on our behalf. Matsuné, being a _daimiô's_ man, was looked on with much suspicion. It seemed a plucky thing on his part to spend so much time with us, and even to accompany us in broad daylight to the tea-gardens opposite to where the Mint now stands. Everything was new and delightful in Ozaka, politics and diplomacy afforded unceasing interest and excitement, the streets, shops, theatres and temples were full of life and character of a kind thoroughly distinct from what we were accustomed to in Yedo and Yokohama, and the difference of dialect and costume imparted additional piquancy to the women. During the whole five weeks we spent there we had not a single dull day. There was always something to do in the intervals of our official work, visits to temples and theatres, tea-drinking according to the elaborate ceremonial of the _cha-no-yu_, an excursion to the large commercial town of Sakai, the existence of which in such close proximity to Ozaka seems hard to explain. Near our residence was a florist's establishment, famous for its collection of orchids, which in Japan are cultivated more for their foliage than for their flowers; this taste is conditioned by the fact that in Loochoo, China and Japan there are very few species bearing conspicuous or fine blossoms, and the amateur makes the best of what is procurable. More attractive to the European was the exhibition of tree-peonies, which was going on during our stay. These flowers are now fashionable in England, but at that time were not much known; the magnificent pink or white blossoms of various shades, often as much as nine inches in diameter, are quite unsurpassable, and fully justify the Chinese title of "king of flowers." In Chinese and Japanese decorative art it is always associated with the lion, and has often been mistaken for the rose by European writers. _Curio_ shops and silk stores also took up a good deal of our time, but the fabrics of the loom had not then attained the high artistic development of later years. We went about the city in every direction, and though frequently encountering men of the two-sworded class, never met with any instance of rudeness, while the common people were uniformly friendly to us. The negotiations between the foreign representatives and the delegates of the Japanese Government proceeded satisfactorily though somewhat slowly, and about the middle of May had reached a stage at which it was felt that nothing more could be done for the present. All the ministers, therefore, made their preparations for returning to Yedo. Before leaving that part of the country Sir Harry made a trip across to Tsuruga, which had been talked of as a possible substitute for the port of Niigata, reported to be practically closed to commerce for one half of the year by the combined inconveniences of a bar at the mouth of the river on which it stands, and the persistent north-west gales that raise a most dangerous sea. It had been agreed between us and the Japanese that as a supplementary refuge for ships the harbour of Ebisuminato in the island of Sado should be opened if necessary, but only as an anchorage. If after an inspection of these two places the combined arrangement should appear unworkable, then some other port was to be substituted, either Tsuruga or Nanao. Sir Harry was accompanied by Lady Parkes and some of the staff. He proceeded by way of Fushimi, along the western side of the Biwa Lake, and returning by the eastern shore. The anti-Shôgun party made a great grievance of this journey, and fell foul of the government for having permitted the "barbarians" to approach so near to the sacred capital, Fushimi being practically a suburb of Kiôto, and the Satsuma people put in a written memorial on the subject, more to annoy the Tycoon's government than as a mark of real hostility to us. Of course we did not know of this until long after. I obtained leave to return to Yedo overland, and Wirgman became my travelling companion. A proposal was made to Sir Harry by the Tycoon's government through Kawakatsu Omi no Kami to procure professors for English for a large public school to be established in Yedo on the basis of the existing Kaiseijo. Dr Temple was asked by Her Majesty's Government to furnish a sufficient staff at salaries which we in the legation thought quite adequate, but he took no trouble about the matter, and we thus lost the opportunity of giving an English turn to the higher class education of the country. CHAPTER XVIII OVERLAND FROM OZAKA TO YEDO FOR centuries the interior of Japan had been closed to all Europeans, with the exception of the head of the Dutch trading factory at Nagasaki, who used to travel overland to Yedo at fixed intervals to pay his respects to the Shôgun and carry valuable presents to him and his ministers. Perhaps the best account of these tribute bearing missions is to be found in Kaempfer. But in the new treaties a provision had been inserted giving to the diplomatic representatives of foreign powers the right of travelling throughout the country, and Sir Rutherford Alcock had availed himself of this privilege a few years earlier, as he has recounted in his "Court and Capital of the Tycoon." As a guide to succeeding travellers it cannot be said that his description of the journey was of much assistance. But the Japanese are great travellers themselves, and the booksellers' shops abound in printed itineraries which furnish the minutest possible information about inns, roads, distances, ferries, temples, productions, and other particulars which the tourist requires. Then a fairly good map was easily procurable, not drawn to scale, but affording every geographical detail that can be of any real service, and there was a splendid illustrated guidebook to the Tôkaidô containing all the legendary and historical lore that an Englishman accustomed to his Murray can desire. There are two great roads which unite the eastern and western capitals, namely the Nakasendô or road through the mountains, which, as its name implies, traverses the central provinces, and the Tôkaidô or road along the sea to the east, which follows the sea shore wherever practicable. Properly speaking this is not the original name of the road, but rather of the administrative division through which it runs, but practically it came to the same thing. It was the latter which had been chosen for me as the principal highway in the country, and the best provided with inn accommodation. Ever since the third Tokugawa Shôgun established the rule that each _daimiô_ must pass a portion of the year in Yedo, the great highroads had become important means of internal communication. Posting stations were established at every few miles for the supply of porters and baggage ponies, and at each of these were erected one or two official inns called _hon-jin_ for the use of _daimiôs_ and high functionaries of government. Around these sprang up a crowd of private inns and houses of entertainment where the _daimiôs_' retainers and travelling merchants used to put up. The Tôkaidô was the recognized route for all the _daimiôs_ west of Kiôto, and of course for those whose territories lay along it. Then it was the main route for the pilgrims who flocked annually to the sacred shrines in Isé, and was the means of access to many other famous temples; so that of all the roads in Japan it was the most frequented and the most important from every point of view. Who that collects Japanese colour prints is unacquainted with the numerous delightful series of views devoted to its illustration, which present such vivid pictures of Japanese life. One of the most famous of all native novels is occupied with the adventures of a couple of merry dogs on their way from Yedo up to Kiôto, and the list of its fifty-three posting towns was one of the first lessons in reading and writing which the youth of Japan had to commit to memory. On account of its historical and legendary associations, to say nothing of its famous scenery, it occupied something of the same place in the imaginations of the Japanese that the Rhine formerly did in the minds of English tourists before the Loreley rock had been tunnelled, and crowds of indifferent travellers were hastily whirled in a few hours along an iron track on either side of the great stream which at one time it was the fashion to "do" with dignity in a carriage and four. Carefully as one may study a map, there is no way of learning geography comparable to the pedestrian method, which, by a thousand associations of pleasure, fatigue and weather, fixes indelibly the minutest topographical facts, and enables the student of history to understand the vicissitudes of warfare. Japan being a country where a peculiar political system had taken its birth from centuries of civil war, the more we saw of its interior districts, the more likely were we to arrive at a correct understanding of the problem which at that moment was being attacked by the rival parties. I do not pretend that any considerations such as these determined my application to the chief for permission to return to headquarters by land. Insatiable curiosity as to everything Japanese, a certain love of adventure, and dislike of life on board of a man-of-war were the real motives, the last perhaps as strong as any, and probably many persons would agree with me in preferring to spend a day in walking from Calais to Dover, if it were practicable, to taking their chance of rough weather in a steamer, even though it might not last for more than an hour and ten minutes. Wirgman and I were by this time so accustomed to living on Japanese food that we resolved not to burden ourselves with stores of any kind, knives or forks, finger glasses or table napkins. Ponies were not procurable, so we bought a couple of secondhand palanquins, called _hikido kago_, such as were used by public officials, and had them repaired. They cost the small price of 32 ichibus each, or not £4. The pole was a long piece of deal, called by euphemism paulownia wood. A cushion of silk damask, thickly stuffed with raw cotton, was spread on the bottom, and there was then just room enough to sit in it cross-legged without discomfort. In front was a small shelf above the window, and underneath a small flap which served as a table. The sliding doors also had windows, furnished with a paper slide to exclude cold, and another covered with gauze to keep out the dust while letting in the air. If it rained, blinds made of slender strips of bamboo were let down over the windows. The body of the palanquin could also be enveloped in a covering of black oiled paper, in which a small aperture was left for the occupant to peep out of, a blind of the same material being propped up outside; this arrangement was, however, only resorted to on days of persistent rain. Each of us had a pair of oblong wicker-work baskets to hold our clothing, called _riô-gaké_, which were slung at opposite ends of a black pole and carried by one man over his shoulder. My bedding, which consisted of a couple of Japanese mattresses covered with white crape and edged with a broad border of common brocade known as _yamato nishiki_, and one of the huge stuffed bedgowns called yogi of figured crape with a velvet collar, with a couple of European pillows, was packed in a wicker box of the kind called _akéni_, and formed a burden for two men. To each package was fastened a small deal board on which my name and titles were inscribed with Indian ink in large Chinese characters. As escort we had ten picked men belonging to the native legation guard (_betté gumi_), and a couple of officials belonging to the Japanese Foreign Department (_gai-koku-gata_) were attached to us, who were instructed to make arrangements for our accommodation along the road. Last of all, a list was made out of the places at which we were to take our mid-day meals and sleep at night, the journey of 320 miles from Fushimi being calculated to occupy sixteen days. On the 18th May, having exchanged farewell calls with the commissioners of foreign affairs, we got away from our temple lodging at nine o'clock in the morning. Willis, who was to join Sir Harry Parkes' party at Fushimi, accompanied us. We embarked at the Hachikenya wharf on the river side in a houseboat, the escort and _gai-koku-gata_ in another, two open boats following with the luggage of the whole party. The stream was very strong, and our progress was correspondingly slow, but we felt that we were travelling in a dignified manner, and therefore repressed our natural impatience. Where the stream was deep enough close in shore, the boatmen landed, and towed us by a line attached to the top of a mast fixed in the front of the boat, while the steersman remained at his post to prevent us from running into the bank. When the towing path changed to the opposite side, the boatmen came on board and poled across to resume their labour as before. The river, which winds a good deal, is enclosed between lofty dykes, so that we had no prospect but the broad surface of the river itself and the tops of ranges of mountains peering over the bank. It was a fine day, and we were full of eager anticipations about the novel scenes we were about to pass through, every inch of the way being entirely new to us as far as Hakoné, and for myself the prospect of a fortnight's holiday was especially exhilarating after the hard work of the past five weeks. By one o'clock we reached Suido mura, a small village on the right bank about five miles above Ozaka, and landed to take our lunch. There was nothing to be had but rice and bean-curd, which did not constitute a very palatable meal. But _à la guerre comme à la guerre_. We passed a large number of crowded passenger boats descending the river, and ten barges laden with bales of rice. At half-past six we stopped at Hirakata, a somewhat more important place than Suido mura. Here we landed to dine off soup, fish and rice, the ordinary constituents of a traveller's meal. The charge for our three selves and three servants was less than an _ichibu_, and a second _ichibu_ was given as _cha-dai_ or "tea-money." Noguchi was paymaster, and gave whatever he thought right under this heading. The charge seemed extraordinarily cheap, which was explained by a regulation binding innkeepers to supply persons travelling in an official capacity at one quarter of the rates charged to ordinary people. We started again by moonlight, and as the night advanced, a thin mist rose and covered the surface of the broad river, imparting to the landscape that mysterious, sketchy indistinctness which is so characteristic of Japan, that none but native artists whose eyes have been educated to it from their childhood have ever been able to seize and represent. The air now became as cold as it had been hot during the day time. We had blankets fetched from one of the baggage boats, and lay down to sleep in opposite corners of the boat. At two in the morning I woke and found that we were lying off the guardhouse on the right bank opposite to Hashimoto, which was held by troops of Matsudaira Hôki no Kami, a member of the Tycoon's Council, the other bank being in the charge of Tôdô, the _daimiô_ of Isé. We had been as far as Yodo, where they turned us back because our pass had not been viséd here, and we did not reach Yodo again till four o'clock. It was still dark, the moon having set during the night. The river is here joined by the Kidzu kawa, and is divided into several channels by islands lying in its course. We kept along the right bank, and arrived at Fushimi about six, where we found Sir Harry on the point of starting for Tsuruga. Here a generous member of his party gave us a last cigar. Our stock had been completely exhausted during the long stay in Ozaka, and for the rest of the journey we had to content ourselves with Japanese tobacco, smoked in tiny whiffs out of the diminutive native pipes, all inadequate to satisfy a craving nourished on something stronger. The worst of the Japanese pipe, with its metal bowl and mouthpiece united by a hard bamboo stem, is the rapidity with which it gets foul, necessitating cleaning at least once a day with a slender spill twisted out of tough mulberry-bark paper. Willis left us here, and joined the chief. Special precautions had been taken by the government to prevent Sir Harry turning aside to Kiôto, which it was thought his adventurous disposition might tempt him to visit. After breakfast we started in our _kagos_ for the journey overland. A crowd of _machi-kata_, who were a sort of municipal officers of all grades, dressed in their Sunday best, escorted us out of the town. Our road lay for a mile or so between the banks of the Uji-kawa and the low, fir-clad hills masked by clumps of graceful bamboo, and then leaving the tea plantations of Uji to the right, we journeyed along a level road winding through the hills to Oiwaké, where we joined the Tôkaidô. A kind of stone tramway ran from Kiôto all the way to Otsu, our next resting-place, for the heavy, broad-wheeled bullock carts, of which we passed a couple of score laden with rice for the use of the Tycoon's garrison at the capital. Oiwaké was famous for pipes, counting boards (_abacus_), and a species of comic prints called _toba-yé_, and lies at the foot of the hills separating the province of Yamashiro from the beautiful Biwa Lake. By the roadside we had an opportunity of inspecting some tea-firing establishments on a small scale, like every other manufacturing enterprise in those days. The fresh tea leaves were damped, then spread out on a flat table heated from beneath by fuel enclosed in a plastered chamber, and twisted by hand. This new tea forms a delicious and refreshing drink when infused after the Japanese method for the finer qualities, with lukewarm water. At each establishment there were not more than two persons at work. At one o'clock we got to Otsu, and after lunch went to a monastery called Riô-zen-ji to enjoy the celebrated prospect of the lake, but the mid-day heat had covered its surface with a dull grey haze, and hid it entirely from view. We found everything nicely arranged for us at Takajima-ya, where we rested for the mid-day meal, while the escort and foreign office men in our train vied in accommodating themselves to our wishes. From Otsu a level road skirted the lake, and, soon after passing through Zézé, the "castle town" of Honda Oki no Kami, we got out to walk. In crossing the great double bridge of Séta we saw a couple of men in a boat spinning for carp; the shallows here are crowded with traps, irregular shaped enclosures of reeds planted in the mud, into which the fish enter when stormy winds agitate the surface of the water and deprive them of their equanimity. But before reaching Kusatsu, where we were to put up for the night, we retreated into our kagos, in order not to be overwhelmed by the crowd, and for the better preservation of our dignity, which required that we should not be seen on foot. At the confines of the town we were met by a deputation of the municipal officers and by the host of the official inn, who escorted us in with great pomp, keeping back the inquisitive multitude. Our bearers quickened their pace, not indeed to our satisfaction, for the _kago_, which is uncomfortable at all times, becomes almost uninhabitable when the men get out of a walk. At last we turned round a corner, and passing through a black gate, before the posts of which were two neatly piled-up heaps of sand, flanked by buckets of water, were set down in the wide porch of the official inn. It was one of the most beautifully decorated buildings of its kind that I have ever seen. That implies woodwork of the finest grain, plaster of the least obtrusive shades of colour, sliding doors papered with an artistic pattern touched up with gold leaf and framed with shining black lacquered wood, and hard thick mats of the palest straw edged with stencilled cotton cloth. In the principal room, only twelve feet square, raised six inches above the rest of the house, lay two thick mats forming a sort of bed-place, where the distinguished traveller was expected to squat without moving. The baggage was deposited in the corridor which ran round two sides of the apartment. There was no view from the windows, which looked out on a small courtyard enclosed by a sulky-looking, black wooden fence. Etiquette prescribed that a great man should neither see nor be seen. Our host came in with a small present, and bowed his forehead to the sill. After a few minutes he returned to give thanks in the same humble manner for the gift of two _ichibus_ which he had received as _cha-dai_. We went in turn to the hot bath, where a modest, not to say prim, young damsel asked whether she might have the honour of washing our "august" back, but not being trained from our youth up to be waited on by lovely females during our ablutions, we declined her assistance. At dinner time we ordered a dish of fish and a bottle of _saké_, which had to be several times replenished before the artist had had enough. The people of the inn were astonished to find that we could eat rice, having been taught to believe that the food of Europeans consisted exclusively of beef and pork. When we went to bed, soft silk mattresses in plenty were spread on the floor, and the chambermaid placed within the mosquito net a fire-box with a bit of red-hot charcoal neatly embedded in white ashes for a last smoke, and a pot of freshly-infused tea. _O yasumi nasai_, be pleased to take your august rest, was the end of the first day. In Japan travellers are in the habit of making an early start. A native usually rises before day, makes a hasty toilet by scrubbing his teeth with a handful of salt from a basket hanging over the kitchen sink, washes his hands and face without soap, swallows a hasty breakfast, and is on the road as soon as the sun is up, or even earlier. His principal object is to arrive at the town where he is going to pass the night at as early an hour as possible, in order to secure a good room and the first turn at the hot bath, there being only one tub and one water for the whole of the guests. In some out of the way places this is not even changed every day, and I remember on one occasion to have found the bath absolutely green with age and odorous in proportion. We were not expected to do as the vulgar herd, and did not get away much before half-past seven. Our average rate of going was about three miles an hour, and the day's journey not over twenty miles, but there were so many interruptions that we rarely reached our evening's destination before six o'clock. First and foremost there was the mid-day meal (_o hiru yasumi_), which consumed at least an hour, and then our exalted rank required that we should stop to rest (_o ko-yasumi_) at least once in the morning and once again in the afternoon. Then we stopped again at every point of view to drink tea, and to taste every dish of cakes or other comestibles of which centuries of wayfarers had been in the habit of partaking before us. Thus on the third day we stopped at Mmé-no-ki to take tea at a house commanding a fine view of the legendary mountain Mukadé yama (Centipede's Mount), and again for half-an-hour at Ishibé, where a big board was stuck up outside inscribed with "the little resting-place of the interpreter (the officer) of England." We lunched sumptuously at Minakuchi on fish, soup and rice, and so got through an hour and a quarter. At Ono, celebrated for pheasants' meat preserved in _miso_ paste, we again drank tea, which was served out by pretty girls who made a great pretence of bashfulness. Wirgman's costume, consisting of wide blue cotton trousers, a loose yellow pongee jacket, no collar, and a conical hat of grey felt, gave rise to a grave discussion as to whether he was really an European, or only a Chinaman after all. At Mayéno, a centre of tea production, we stopped for another half-hour to taste several sorts of leaf at a tea-dealer's shop. This was a great act of condescension on the part of such distinguished personages, but we made up for this derogation from our dignity by having our purchases paid for by Noguchi, the real Japanese swell being supposed to know nothing about money, not even theoretically. The dealer declared that unless the leaf is picked and fired by virgins, it will not be drinkable, but I fear he was humbugging the innocent foreigner. Many of the houses bore a notice-paper inscribed with Chinese characters meaning "Economy in all things," a laconic sentence which was interpreted to signify that the occupants had forsworn social entertainments and other unnecessary sources of expenditure. Wirgman made himself very popular by the sketches he threw off and gave away to the innkeepers, sometimes of ourselves as we appeared on the road, or of a bit of local scenery, or perhaps a pretty girl, whose bashful pride on discovering that her features had been perpetuated on paper was a pleasant sight to contemplate. It usually took some time before the waiting maids overcame what seemed to us to be their excessive modesty, but it was explained to us that women were not usually permitted to approach the dais-room, as noble swells had their own men-servants to attend on them. We regretted the exigencies of our lofty position, and pitied the _daimiôs_ who have always to be correct and proper--in public. Another consequence of our supposed high rank was that in many towns the people knelt down by the side of the street as we passed along, being invited to assume that posture by the municipal officers who preceded us beadle-fashion, crying out _Shitaniro, shitaniro_ ("down, down"). This honour used in those days to be rendered to every _daimiô_, no matter whether travelling in his own dominions or those of another nobleman, and also to the high officials of the Shôgun's government, as, for example, the governor of Kanagawa, to the great indignation of the European residents. The only reported instance of a foreigner ever submitting to this indignity was that of Mr Eugene van Reed, who is said to have fallen in with the train of Shimadzu Saburô on the day fatal to poor Richardson, and to have then and there conformed to the native custom. The practice had its origin, perhaps, in the necessity of protecting the nobles from sudden attack, combined with the rule of Japanese etiquette which considers that a standing posture implies disrespect. This latter fact was forcibly impressed on me at Fuchiû, where I went to visit the public school for the sons of _samurai_. Having taken off my shoes and laid my hat on the floor at the entrance, I was escorted into a room where about thirty youngsters were squatting on the floor, with Chinese books before them which they were learning to repeat by rote from the mouths of older and more advanced pupils, under the superintendence of half-a-dozen professors. I bowed and remained standing, but to my surprise no one acknowledged my salute; I had in my ignorance of propriety assumed what to the Japanese appeared an attitude of disrespect, and it was only on being admonished by one of the escort that I discovered my error, which being at once repaired, the professors returned my bow, made in proper form with head to the ground. I afterwards found it necessary to adopt Japanese manners, as far as was compatible with a certain stiff-jointedness that forbade my sitting on my heels for more than a very limited period, but could never resist the uneasy feeling that while I was pressing my forehead on the mats, the man opposite might perhaps be taking advantage of the opportunity to inflict a slight on the "barbarian" by sitting bolt upright. In fact, Japanese themselves were not exempt from a similar uncertainty, and they might sometimes be detected, whilst performing the obeisance, in the act of squinting sideways to ascertain whether the person they were saluting lowered his head simultaneously and to the same level. Whenever we passed through a town of any importance, the population turned out _en masse_, eager to convert the occasion into a holiday. At Kaméyama, for instance, which is a _daimiô's_ castle town, the streets were thronged with _samurai_ and their children in gala dress, presenting a gay appearance; some of the young girls were extremely pretty, in spite of the quantity of white powder with which fashion condemned them to bedaub their faces. Some odd methods of locomotion were practised in this part of the country, such as children riding in nets of coarse cord suspended from opposite ends of a pole carried by a man on his shoulder, women riding in pairs on packhorses, and in the flat plain between Séki and Kuwana in small open omnibuses, not unlike the costermonger's carts in which fruit is hawked about the streets of London, but drawn by a man instead of a donkey; perhaps half-a-dozen grown-up persons in one of these small vehicles, the precursors of the jinrikisha which came into vogue in 1869. Wirgman, who was too careless of his dignity (for he was travelling not as an artist, but in the quality of a _yakunin_ or government official), insisted in getting into one of these, and rode all the way from Tomida to Kuwana, a distance of at least five miles, for three tempôes, say 2-1/2d. At a tea-house at Komuki we were presented by our host with some teapots of very inferior Banko ware; this is the famous unglazed pottery moulded by hand, and showing all over its surface, both inside and outside, the marks of finger tips. On the 22nd we reached Kuwana, a large town belonging to one of the principal hereditary vassals of the Tokugawa family. Here an enormous concourse of people had collected to see us make our entry, and we had some difficulty in making our way through the crush, until suddenly the procession turned aside through a gateway under a tower, and traversed the outer enceinte of the castle, finally arriving at the official inn on the shore of the bay. Dealers in Banko ware, curious stones from Mino and fans from Nagoya came flocking in, and the evening was passed in bargaining. The stage from Kuwana to Miya is by sea, across the head of the bay of Owari. Nowadays (1887) people perform the journey by steamer, but in 1867 we had to content ourselves with a rather dirty boat, roofed in with planks. We left at half-past seven and arrived at the termination of our voyage a little after eleven, but as the distance is estimated at seven ri or 17-1/2 miles, we were precluded from going further that day. I proposed, therefore, to devote the afternoon to visiting Nagoya, of which Miya is little more than a suburb. It boasts a castle founded by Nobunaga towards the end of the sixteenth century. It is famous throughout Japan for two huge golden dolphins which surmount the donjon tower, and is one of the finest extant specimens of that sort of architecture. But the foreign department officials had no instructions to let us deviate from the high road, and did not venture to take on themselves the responsibility for making other arrangements. They promised, of course, to see the governor of the town, and ask him to get permission which they represented was required before they could take us into the castle town of a great noble like the Prince of Owari, but it was all fudge. Shopkeepers flocked in laden with fans, metal work, lacquered porcelain and crape, with which we occupied the interval till an answer should be received from the authorities at Nagoya. A report of Wirgman's skill with the brush having spread, he was overwhelmed with quantities of Chinese paper and fans which, our host said, had been brought by the leading inhabitants who desired specimens of his art, and I wrote mottoes to his productions. The _saké_ bottle furnished us with the necessary inspiration. But we found out at last that the fans thus decorated were being sold outside at an _ichibu_ a piece, and refused to be imposed on any further. In the evening we had in some singing and dancing girls, and having got ourselves up in native costume, invited the two foreign office clerks and some of our escort to join the party. One or two of the latter became so merry that they could not resist a temptation to perform buffoon dancing, and Sano, the biggest and most good-humoured, gave imitations of famous actors. We did not get rid of our guests until nine o'clock, by which time they had taken a good quantity of _saké_ on board. In passing through Arimatsu on the following day, famous for cotton _shibori_, dyed in the same way as the Indian _bandhana_, we called at the shop where the heads of the Dutch factory at Nagasaki had been in the habit of stopping from time immemorial on the occasion of their annual journeys to Yedo, and were shown a ledger containing records of the purchases made by them year after year. It was a matter of obligation to follow this time-honoured example, and we selected some pieces of the stuff, which oddly enough is called by the name not of the place where it is made, but by that of the last post-town, Narumi. Noguchi and the two foreign department officials did the bargaining, while Wirgman and I looked on and smoked in dignified silence as if we were utterly unconcerned about the prices. The owner of the shop was a distinguished person, evidently invested with a municipal function, in consequence of which he was allowed to have a few stands of matchlocks in his hall. Many of the houses were of more substantial construction than usual, thus testifying to the prosperity conferred by the local manufacture. At Chiriû the landlord of the inn where we lunched came privately to Noguchi and asked him for four _ichibus_ as "tea money," on the ground that Sir R. Alcock had given that sum in 1861, but his request was refused, and he was forced to content himself with what we had paid elsewhere, namely, half an _ichibu_. I always left such questions to his discretion, and have no doubt that he acted rightly. In the afternoon when the train stopped as usual to give the palanquin bearers a rest, the people of the _tatéba_, or half-way tea-house, presented us with buckwheat vermicelli, for which, as they assured us, the place was reputed famous. It was, however, inferior to what I have eaten in other places. Wirgman's fame having preceded him, paper, brushes and ink were brought, and he executed a masterpiece representing us eating vermicelli and drinking _saké_ from a gourd which he had been careful to get replenished at Miya. The bridge over the Yahagi-gawa being broken down, we crossed the river in a ferry boat, and were met at the entrance of the town by municipal officers and constables, the latter being furnished by the local _daimiô_, whose function was to walk at the head of the procession and to cry "Down, down." Down went the whole crowd of spectators, including men of the two-sworded class, all the more willingly perhaps because that was the only way they had of bringing their eyes to a level with the windows of our palanquins. For etiquette demanded that we should always ride in entering and quitting a town, the vulgar practice of proceeding on foot being allowable only in the more countryfied portions of the highroad. The following day opened with what promised to be persistent rain, and we had to be fastened up in our palanquins with the oiled paper covering thrown over us; through a small opening we could just manage to see a few yards to right and left. All day long we ploughed our way onwards along the almost level road, which in places was flooded nearly six inches deep. At Arai there was then a guardhouse close to the shore of the Hamana Bay, where all travellers had to alight from their palanquins and walk through, taking off their hats and shoes in order to show respect while submitting to a searching examination. Over the _saké_ on the preceding evening there had been a good deal of chaff about our being obliged to subject ourselves to this rule, which was said to admit of no exceptions. I was inwardly resolved not to submit, and was much relieved when the time came to find that the warden was satisfied with the _kago_ door being opened about half-way as we were carried past; this slight concession had been arranged overnight by the foreign department officers, in order that the letter of the rule enforcing inspection might be observed, and we were quite contented, as the door was opened by a third party, so that our dignity as Europeans was duly saved by our not having to alight. Some years ago a series of dykes and bridges exceeding a mile in length was thrown across the shallowest part of the bay. We had, however, to embark in boats so small that they would not hold more than a single _kago_. The spits which run out towards each other at the mouth gave the bay the appearance of a landlocked lake, until we got half-way across and the breakers became visible; nevertheless the sea at the point where we crossed was as smooth as a mirror. Two miles on the western side of Hamamatsu we were met by some retainers of Inouyé Kawachi no Kami, the local _daimiô_, wearing black hats as flat as a pancake, who, being himself a member of the Tycoon's Council, had no doubt given special orders regarding our reception, and at the entrance of the town they were joined by more. The procession was now formed in the following order. Two _machi-kata_, in green mantles with one in brown between them, marched a long way ahead to clear the street, followed by a couple of aldermen (_shuku-yakunin_) in single file on each side of the road, and a couple of _seishi_ or heralds, whose fierce demeanour was delightful to behold, who roared out _shitaniro, shitaniro_, and warned some young _samurai_ who displayed a disposition to approach too close that they must keep at a respectful distance. Then followed our _kagos_, with one of the native escort (_betté-gumi_) walking on each side. Then a constable (_dôshin_) carrying a spear, and behind him the rest of the escort, servants and baggage. On arriving at the inn, we received visits from the head merchants, and were told that we were to be specially cared for, by orders of the _daimiô_, some of whose retainers kept watch and ward in the kitchen throughout the night, this being very spacious and situated in the front of the house. In leaving on the following day the procession was arranged in the same way, and as we passed the castle gates a high official stationed there handed his card to one of the _betté-gumi_ to present to me. At the end of the town the escort was changed, and we were placed again in charge of the four black-hatted _seishi_, who did not leave us until we arrived at the boundary of Inouye's, the _daimiô's_, territory. After the rain of the day before yesterday the country looked especially beautiful; ripe fields of barley behind the rows of tall pine trees that lined the road stretched right away to the foot of the nearer hills, behind which rose range after range in the blue distance. We met yesterday and to-day soldiers of the 3rd regiment of the Tycoon's drilled troops marching to Kiôto to support the new policy of the head of the government, and perhaps to defend him against an armed confederation of the leading _daimiôs_ of the west. As soon as the local escort had turned back we descended from our palanquins to pursue our way on foot to the Tenriû-gawa, which we crossed by means of ferry boats. The river here is very wide and the current swift, and except during freshets is divided into two branches by a sandbank which occupies the middle of the stream. Wirgman had stopped behind to sketch, and I waited with one of the foreign office officials, who confided to me that we should probably meet a "barbáre" on the road. By this I understood the _rei-hei-shi_, a high official of the Mikado's court who was returning from a mission to the tomb of Iyéyasu at Nikkô. He was of higher rank than any Japanese _daimiô_, and everyone on meeting him had to get out of his palanquin and go down on his knees. My informant hoped we should manage to avoid him, and I hoped so too. The rest of the party having at last come up, we proceeded by a short cut through the fields, which saved us a couple of miles walking. We got to Mitsuké, where we were to lunch, some time before noon. The streets were crowded with pretty girls, who had turned out to see the foreigners. Our host, who had put on his robes of ceremony, made his appearance, bowing low and bearing a gift of dried white-bait fry, which when toasted and dipped in soy is very palatable. Handsome Turkish carpets had been spread in the bedroom. Two charming little boys about ten years of age, with perfect manners, were told off to wait on us. The _rei-hei-shi_ was of course the principal topic of discussion. He had not yet passed, and our followers were full of anxiety. Noguchi said that all Japanese of rank, down to the lowest two-sworded man, got out of his way, because his followers were in the habit of extorting money on the pretext that the proper amount of respect had not been paid to the great man. I was quite ready to follow the example of the Japanese in avoiding if possible the chance of an encounter. We were told that the _rei-hei-shi_, whose rank by this time had been much diminished in the mouths of our informants, was to stop the night at Fukuroi, the very next town, only four miles further, so we hurried away hoping to get to our own destination early in the afternoon. Two miles over the tableland, then zig-zag down a beautiful hill covered with pine trees, then two more over the rice field flat to Fukuroi, where we changed the palanquin and baggage porters and hastened on without stopping. To-day, the 27th of May, the peasants were cutting barley and planting out the young rice. I did the six miles more to Kakégawa in two hours, including the last stoppage, which was considered very quick going. A young Satsuma man who was on his way to Nagasaki called at our inn and gave me an account of the _rei-hei-shi_ and the doings of his retainers, for whom he professed the greatest contempt. He said they were wretched citizens of Kiôto hired for the occasion, and dressed in a little brief authority. At Shinagawa, the last suburb of Yedo, they had seized eighteen people and fined them for exhibiting a want of respect towards the Mikado's messenger. It was rumoured that he would pass through about six o'clock, and spend the night at Fukuroi. Six o'clock came, but no _rei-hei-shi_; we passed the evening in expectation, and went to bed; still no _rei-hei-shi_. Wirgman and I slept in separate rooms, Noguchi in a third, and all the escort but one were quartered at another house a little way off. At a quarter past one I was roused from sleep by a Japanese saying to me: "Mr. Satow, Mr. Satow, get your sword; they've come." My sword was an old cavalry sabre, not good for much but to make a show. I got up and groped my way through the black darkness to the sword-stand in the alcove and got the weapon. The Japanese led me by the hand, and we stood together in a corner of the next room, wondering what was going to happen. He said: "I wish the escort would come." Meanwhile violent noises were heard, as if of people breaking in. Bewildered by the darkness, I imagined them to be coming from the little garden at the back, on to which my bedroom looked. We remained still and breathless. In three minutes all was silent again, and I heard a voice cry "Mr. Satow." It was Noguchi, who appeared with a light, and reported that the enemy had fled. Wirgman and my chancery servant Yokichi were nowhere to be found. The Japanese who had woke me proved to be Matsushita, the youngest of the escort. We proceeded then towards Noguchi's room; the wooden door opposite was lying on the floor, where the assailants had broken in. As we stood in the passage, others of the escort came in, all dressed in fighting mantles, with drawn swords in their hands and wearing iron forehead pieces. Seeing my scarlet sleeping trousers, they begged me either to hide myself or take them off, but the danger being past, I only laughed at them. Two of them went in search of Wirgman, and found him in an alley leading to the back of the house; they narrowly escaped being shot. We began to feel cooler, and Noguchi narrated what had happened. He heard the noise of the front door being broken down, jumped up, tied his girdle, and stood in the doorway of his room, a sword in the right hand, a revolver in the left. Some men approached and asked for the "barbarians," to which he replied that if they would only come in, he would give the "barbarians" to them. They took fright at his attitude and determined tone, and fled. Altogether there were, he thought, about a dozen, two armed with long swords, the rest with short ones. On looking about, we discovered that the mosquito nets in the room diagonal to Wirgman's had been cut to pieces, the occupants having escaped. It was lucky for us that we had put out the lamps before going to bed, so that the assailants could not find their way. Wirgman explained that on being awakened by the noise of people breaking down the doors and shouting for the "barbarians," he followed the people of the house, who took to their heels. A lantern that had been dropped by one of the "ruffians" led to the conclusion that they belonged to the _rei-hei-shi_'s suite. No one was hurt, except one of the assailants, who in the hurry-scurry of running away was accidentally wounded by a companion. After everyone had related his own experiences, I retired to bed, while Wirgman called for _saké_ and sliced raw fish, with which he and the escort regaled themselves until daylight. On getting up in the morning my first step was to send for the two foreign office officials, and endeavour to obtain redress through them. The escort, who had not appeared on the scene till the danger was past, were now very anxious to distinguish themselves by some act of valour. I told the officials, with the full support of the escort, that they should either get the guilty men delivered up to me, or that I would go with my escort and take them by force. This was the attitude maintained until mid-day. I verily believe that if I had given the signal, the escort would have attacked the _rei-hei-shi's_ lodgings. At last the official came back and said that the _rei-hei-shi's_ people refused to give the men up to me; as an alternative they proposed to obtain a written apology, coupled with a promise to punish the assailants on their reaching Kiôto. To this I expressed my willingness to assent, in the hope that we should be able to pursue our journey before night set in. But the negotiations lingered, and this was not to be. So we sent for some musicians, and invited the two officials and the escort to a banquet. Wirgman and one of the escort entertained the company with dancing. Another of the escort got very drunk, and begged me to take him into my personal service on the same terms as Noguchi. We heard that the townspeople were delighted at the _rei-hei-sh_i and his blackguards being so bothered by a couple of foreigners. No Mikado's messenger was ever before stopped on his road and talked to in our imperious manner. Four or five of the escort, when full of _saké_, started up the street in their fighting mantles and created great alarm in the minds of the _rei-hei-shi's_ retainers, who, thinking they were to be attacked in earnest, begged for a guard from the _daimiô_ of the town. The captain of the escort and two others in particular behaved in a delightfully swaggering manner. But in spite of all this, nothing was settled, and we had to stop a second night. On the following morning on getting up, I was told that matters were nearly arranged, that the men who had attacked our lodgings were to be left behind in the custody of the _daimiô_, the people at the castle giving a receipt on his behalf. The morning wore on without the desired document making its appearance, and I feared they would slip through my fingers altogether. I got tired of waiting and went to sleep, from which I was awakened by one of the foreign office officials, who had been acting as go-between, bringing me a certified copy, signed by the governor of the town, of a written undertaking given by a leading retainer of the _rei-hei-shi_ to remain there with three of the assailants. Another copy was given to him, and he started at once for Ozaka with it, accompanied by one of the escort. I was now asked whether I would permit the _rei-hei-shi_ to depart, to which I gave my assent. We saw him and his retinue pass the inn; there were two large palanquins, half-a-dozen smaller ones, and about fifty ruffianly-looking fellows in green coats. We had thus remained on the field of victory. As soon as the _rei-hei-shi_ was clear of the place, we started in the opposite direction about three o'clock in the afternoon. The _daimiô's_ people offered to give us a body of men to escort us out of the town, but I replied that my escort was sufficient to ensure our safety. A guard of honour was drawn up in front of the inn as we left, and eight policemen accompanied us to the exit of the town. Ultimately, some months later, these men and three others implicated in the affair were brought to Yedo and put on their trial. Two were condemned to death, and four more to transportation to an island. Sir Harry wanted me to be present at the execution of these two men, but I persuaded him to send some one else instead. To look on at the execution of men who have tried to take one's life would have borne an appearance of revengefulness, which one would not have liked. But I think that under the circumstances of those times the punishment was rightly inflicted. Our next stage was to Nissaka, a pretty little town lying in a basin of hills. Beyond rose a steep ascent, which we climbed not without fatigue, to find ourselves on the top of a tableland running away to the sea on our right, while on the left hills rose ever higher and higher above the road, being cultivated up to their summits in tiny level plots cut out of their sides. At the highest point of the road we rested at a tea-house, where a kind of soft rice cake, bedaubed with a substance resembling extract of malt, was served to us by a diminutive girl. Though fifteen years of age, and consequently nearly full grown, she did not measure four feet in height. On the further side of the tableland lay Kanaya, the next post-town, and beyond that the Oi-gawa, which had to be crossed before we could gain our stopping place for the night. A hundred naked porters hurried forward to carry our palanquins and baggage to the other bank. For ourselves there were a sort of square stretcher, carried on the shoulders of twelve men for greater safety, who made a point of plunging into the deepest part of the torrent to give us a greater idea of the difficulties they had to contend with. For the idea then entertained by every Japanese was that the force of the stream was too great for a boat to live in it, and that a bridge was impossible. As it has since been successfully bridged, the probability is that this belief was purposely inculcated on the people on the principle of _divide et impera_, and what more effectual means of division could be found than a river which was not to be passed but by taking off your clothes and running the risk of drowning in it while effecting the passage, to say nothing of the inconvenience of emerging half-naked on the other side; that is to say, unless you could pay to be carried. Following the economical practice we had observed all along of limiting our tips to the smallest respectable sum, we threw a _bu_ to the men, who clamoured loudly for its division, the share of each being somewhat over 2/3 of a penny. We did not get to the inn till eight o'clock. Our host was particularly polite, and thanked us profoundly for doing him the honour of stopping at his humble abode. We were still under the influence of the excitement produced by our recent adventures, so _saké_ and fish were ordered in, and the liveliest of the escort were bidden to the feast. Some one distinguished himself by adding a new verse to the popular ballad then in vogue, expressive of our contempt for the "turnip-top" coated retainers of the _rei-hei-shi_, which was sung over and over again to the accompaniment of a lute played by an exceedingly ugly red faced damsel who waited on us. The next day brought us to the large town of Fuchiû, formerly the residence of Iyéyasu after his retirement from the active government of the state early in the seventeenth century, and since re-christened Shidzuoka. It is an important centre of the tea and paper trades, and at the time we passed through was the seat of one of the principal universities of Japan, but greatly fallen from its ancient grandeur. On our way we had to taste various local delicacies, among which was a horribly tenacious kind of gruel, resembling bird-lime in appearance, made from the powdered root of the Dioscorea japonica, a species of wild potato. We found the streets so full of spectators that it became necessary to get into our palanquins to avoid the crush of curious sightseers. The town is also noted for a variety of articles of cabinet work and lacquered ware of the ordinary sort, and the room next to our apartment had been converted into a kind of bazaar in expectation of our arrival. The articles were of the class common enough at Yokohama, and not much cheaper; in fact the prices were such as befitted the supposed exalted rank of the travellers. In those days in Japan it was a well observed doctrine that "noblesse oblige" in the matter of payments. Next morning when we rose at six, we got a beautiful view of Fuji, the "Peerless One," springing from the ground as it seemed almost behind the inn, and lifting its beautiful head into the pale blue sky, above horizontal wreaths and stretches of cloud. After breakfast we paid a visit to the "university," where we found about thirty youngsters seated on the floor in one room, with copies of some Chinese classic before them, learning to read by rote from the mouths of older and more advanced pupils. This instruction was given for about two hours each morning, and six times a month explanations of the text were imparted by professors. The headmaster, who was from the Confucian College at Yedo, used to be changed annually. And this, with the addition of learning to write with a brush, constituted the education of a young Japanese in the olden time. The system was one that cultivated the memory, but failed altogether to appeal to the reasoning faculties. Of course all this has long ago disappeared, and it is possible that this system of instruction is as obsolete in Japan as the dodo. The great mountain having at last appeared on our horizon, we were to have its company for nearly every step of the rest of the journey. Near Ejiri we caught a delicious view of the summit appearing over the lower mountains on the left hand. At one o'clock we reached Okitsu, where we were to lunch. The inn stood close to the sea shore, and possessed an upper room commanding a magnificent view, in favour of which we abandoned the dignified glories of the _jô-dan_ or dais. On the left the blue promontory of Idzu stretched away far into the ocean until it became almost invisible in the haze; on the right hand the low hills of Kunô-zan terminating in a low spit of sand covered with irregular growth of pine trees, the famous Miyo no Matsubara of the Japanese poets. From the back window we had a glimpse of the snowy peak of Fuji peeping over the tops of the intervening hills, and by craning our necks out sideways the double-topped head of the Futagoyama near Hakoné. On leaving this spot, which we did with reluctance, we followed the base of the cliffs for two or three miles along the shore, when suddenly we turned a corner and Fuji came full in view; in front, the base of the great mountain was hidden by the low range which runs down into the sea near Kambara, and a white cloud encircled its middle. Wirgman sat down to make a sketch, from which he painted a picture which is still in my possession. Next we reached Kurazawa, famous for Venus-ear (_awabi_) and _sazai_, a big whorl with a curious spiral operculum. Of course we rested here awhile to eat of the local dish, washed down with repeated cups of _saké_, in which the guard joined us. Since the affair of Kakégawa we had become great friends, as men usually do who have shared the same perils. The road followed the sea-shore here to Kambara, and would be one of the most picturesque in Japan, but for the dirty uninteresting fishing villages which line nearly the whole of its length. Next morning we were astir early, and crossing the low intervening hills, reached the banks of the Fuji kawa at eight o'clock. Extensive preparations had been made at the official hotel for our reception, mats laid down to the entrance and red blankets spread on the floor of the dais. At the urgent entreaty of the innkeeper we turned in for a few minutes, and discovered that Wirgman was an ancient acquaintance of our host, having seen him when he travelled overland from Nagasaki to Yedo in 1861 in the suite of Sir Rutherford Alcock. We were shown into the best room with much ceremony, and when we had taken our seats on the floor, piled-up boxes (_jû-bako_) were brought in full of chestnut meal cakes, the speciality of the village, with a bit of pickled radish on the top. Other "famous things" sold here are ink stones, bits of crystal with green streaks in them supposed by the common people to be grass, also agates. We crossed in a boat the narrow turbulent Fuji kawa, running between wide beds of shingle. Nowadays you cross in the train. We then had a view of Fuji almost rising out of the sea and drawing its skirts up gradually behind it, curious but not so beautiful as when it is partly concealed by lesser summits which afford a standard of comparison. It looks in fact more like an exaggerated molehill than anything else. We met on the road two little boys of twelve and fourteen years of age, who, having begged their way as pilgrims all the way from Yedo to the sacred temples of Isé and of Kompira in Sanuki, were now on their way home, carrying slung across their backs huge packages of temple charms done up in oiled paper. The road was terribly sandy and hot, and passing for the most part between the bamboo fences of cottagers' gardens, was the reverse of picturesque. We had intended to sleep at Hakoné, but owing to delays for sketching, to say nothing of a huge feast of broiled eels and _saké_ at Kashiwabara, did not manage to get beyond Mishima, at the western foot of the hills. Next morning we started at half-past six to ascend the pass which climbs the range of mountains by an excellent road paved with huge stones after the manner of the Via Appia where it leaves Rome at the Forum, and lined with huge pine trees and cryptomerias. At a tiny hamlet more than halfway up some hunters came to present us with eggs, according to immemorial custom. Three hours brought us to Hakoné, the little mountain village standing on the southern border of the lake, surrounded by steep grassy hills. The warmth of the day tempted me to take a bath in the lake, which at first was strenuously opposed by the foreign official with us. It appeared that no boats were allowed on the lake, nor was any one permitted to swim in it, lest he should take the opportunity of swimming round at the back of the barrier gate, and so avoid the necessity of showing his passport. With considerable trouble I persuaded the objector to withdraw his opposition, by representing that my natatory powers were altogether insufficient for the purpose. After a couple of hours spent in this charming spot, which nowadays has become a fashionable summer retreat of foreigners residing at Yokohama, we resumed our journey down the eastern side of the pass, already described in a previous chapter, and got to our inn at Odawara by five, little dreaming of what lay before me. A letter from Sir Harry Parkes was at once delivered to me urging me to hasten my return, as there were important negotiations on foot. On conferring with the leader of the escort, I learnt that by starting at once and travelling post-haste through the night, I might get to Yedo next morning. Eight porters in relays of four would be able to carry the palanquin at the rate of about four miles an hour. So the men were ordered without delay. The Japanese on these occasions, to save themselves from being too severely shaken, wind a broad piece of cotton cloth tightly round the waist, and tie another piece round the temples. A third is suspended from the ceiling of the palanquin, to which the traveller clings with might and main. I had to adopt this arrangement, and in addition stuffed my palanquin full of bedding and pillows. Noguchi and two of the escort accompanied me to negotiate the changes of coolies at the various posting stations on the way, and by seven o'clock we were in motion. The porters maintained a constant crying "eeya-oy," "eeya-oy," in order to keep step with each other and render the swinging of the palanquin less unendurable. To sleep was impossible, as this noise continued all night. When the day broke we had done twenty-six miles, which was slower than I had expected. So we urged on the fresh men we got here, and accomplished the remaining twenty-two miles by ten o'clock. From sitting cross-legged so many hours I was almost unable to stand upright when I got to the Legation. And the vexatious part of it all was that the important conference, which I had hurried to be present at, turned out to be a mere complimentary visit of a crowd of officials for whom anyone could easily have interpreted. CHAPTER XIX SOCIAL INTERCOURSE WITH JAPANESE OFFICIALS--VISIT TO NIIGATA, SADO GOLD MINES, AND NANAO OUR relations with government officials suddenly from this time onward assumed a character of cordiality which formerly would have been thought impossible. This was, of course, in consequence of very explicit instructions given by the Tycoon to his ministers to cultivate the friendship of the foreign missions, and especially of the British Legation, in order doubtless to counteract the intimate intercourse which was known to be carried on between ourselves and the retainers of Satsuma and Chôshiû. Each of the commissioners for foreign affairs in turn invited me to dine with him in Japanese fashion, and as I was extremely ignorant of Japanese etiquette, Noguchi used to accompany me on these occasions to be my tutor. An exchange of presents was always an important part of the entertainment, and this was a very troublesome business on account of the difficulty of buying anything at the foreign stores in Yokohama that was worth giving away as a specimen of English productions. Most of these officials lived in a very modest way. The rooms in which they gave their entertainments were usually upstairs, perhaps not more than twelve feet by fifteen, but as there was no furniture, there was plenty of space. On arriving at the house we were shown up a very narrow staircase, and through an equally narrow door. Down we plumped on our knees immediately, and bowed our heads to the mats to the host, who did the same. Then ensued a contest of politeness, our entertainer trying to get us nearer to the top of the room, and we protesting that we were very comfortable where we were. Of course it ended in my being put down in front of the recess (_tokonoma_), which is the seat of honour, while Noguchi remained where he was, just inside the door. Usually I was then allowed to cross my legs in tailor fashion, owing to my joints not having yet acquired the lissomness of the Japanese. Then Noguchi with great solemnity unwrapping the present, would slide across the floor and deposit it between the host and myself. In Japan you don't use brown paper for parcels, but every household possesses a set of cloths of different sizes, silk or crape for the smaller, of cotton dyed green for the larger, which fulfil the same purpose as paper. Then I pushed the present gently towards my entertainer, saying "This is really a very shabby article, but as it is a production of my contemptible country, I ..." To which he would reply, "Really I am quite overpowered. What a magnificent article. I am really ashamed to deprive you of it." And then all women folk, the servants, and the children who were peeping in at the door or round the corner of the balcony which ran along the front of the room would crane out their necks to get a glimpse of the precious rarity from the far west. Then the other guests, three or four in number, would begin to arrive. If they were strangers, the following dialogue would take place. Each person putting his hands together on the mat in front would bend over and almost touching them with his forehead, say "I have the honour to present myself to you for the first time. My name is so-and-so. I hope to enjoy your friendship in perpetuity." To which either may add that he has often heard of the great fame of the other, and longed for an opportunity of meeting him. When these bowings and prostrations are over, a small apparatus for smoking is brought in and placed before the guest, after which tea and sweetmeats are served. Perhaps an hour passes in this way, for the entertainment is provided from a restaurant, as the domestic who performs the office of cook in a household only knows how to boil rice and make commonplace stews; and in those days at least neither clocks nor punctuality were common. If you were invited for two o'clock, you went most often at one or three, or perhaps later. In fact, as the Japanese hour altered in length every fortnight, it was very difficult to be certain about the time of day, except at sunrise, noon, sunset and midnight. At last you began to hear a gentle clatter of dishes below stairs; the teacups, cakes and sweetmeats were removed, and a covered lacquered basin was set before you on a square tray, with a pair of chopsticks, the ends of which were neatly wrapped in paper. At the same time a girl put a basin half full of water down on the middle of the floor, with a small pile of diminutive flat cups by the side. Your host took one of these, held it out for a little of the hot _saké_, which is poured from a slender porcelain bottle, and having drunk it, slid forward to the basin to wash it. Having well shaken it, he crawled to where you were sitting, bowed profoundly, and presented the cup to you on his crossed palms. You bowed, and taking the cup between your own two hands deposited it on the floor, after which you were bound at once to present it to the damsel to be filled for yourself. If your host, or one of the guests who has offered you the cup, wished to be very polite indeed, he waited before you with his hands resting on the floor in front of him while you emptied the cup, or at least took a good sip. When this ceremony had been gone through with all the guests, your host lifted the cover off his soup-basin, and invited you at the same time to follow his example. You drank a little of the soup, just dipped the end of the chopsticks into it by way of pretending to touch the meat, and laid down the bowl again; usually you replaced the cover. A number of dishes were brought in piled up with fish-cake, white beans boiled with sugar, raw, broiled and boiled fish, perhaps some boiled fowl or roast wild duck, cut up in small pieces, and these were served on small plates or saucers, and each person received a bowl containing a sort of pudding made of eggs, loach and the large seeds of the maidenhair tree. The raw fish, which was usually either _bonito_ or sole, was sliced up very thin, and eaten with soy, raw laver (seaweed) and grated _wasabi_, which is the root of a plant belonging to the same order as the horse-radish, and resembling it in taste. Towards the end of the feast a second water _souché_ was brought in, and perhaps some broiled eels. The courses were not removed as each succeeding one was brought in, and the plates collected on your tray and the floor close by you till all the extent of the feast was exhibited. You ate very little, picking here a mouthful, there a mouthful, but you drank as much _saké_ as you could stand, and sometimes more. After two or three hours of conversation, perhaps enlivened by some music and singing performed by professionals hired for the occasion, and you felt that you had had enough liquor you bowed to your host, and said that you would like some rice. This was the well-understood signal. A fresh tray was brought in with a large lacquered bowl for rice, and a couple more containing soups, accompanied almost invariably by the fish of ceremony called sea-bream, and the bigger it was the greater the honour. You had your bowl filled with rice, of which you were, however, not able to eat much, as your appetite had been nearly destroyed by the repeated libations of warm _saké_, so after a few mouthfuls you handed the bowl to the maid, who filled it half full of very weak tea, or on very formal occasions with hot water, and thus you managed to swallow the contents, aided by a piece of salted radish or vegetable marrow pickled in the lees of _saké_. That over, you carefully replaced the covers on their respective bowls, pushed the tray a foot or two away from you, and executed a bow of profound gratitude to your entertainer. The feast was then removed downstairs, where all the portable parts of it were packed into a box of white wood-shavings and delivered to your servant, if you had one in your train, to carry home. Freshly infused tea was brought in, after which you thanked your host for the feast, and took your leave, being accompanied to the door of the house by the whole family, to whom you made as low a bow as possible before mounting your pony or entering your palanquin. For the next six or seven weeks we were very busy arranging with the Japanese the details of a scheme for organizing their navy, with the assistance of a body of English officers who were to be sent out from England, as a counterpoise to the French Military Mission, which had been at work since the beginning of the year, and for the establishment of a college to be superintended by a body of graduates from English Universities. The former plan was successfully carried out, and some months later a mission under the command of Commander, now Admiral, Richard Tracey, arrived in Japan. The educational proposal, however, came to nothing. Ultimately the Japanese obtained the assistance of a leading American missionary residing at Nagasaki, and the present (in 1885) educational system was in fact established by teachers from the United States. Sir Harry, as I have said before, had already visited Tsuruga, which was suggested as a possible alternative to Niigata as the port to be opened on the west coast, but before deciding this question, it was necessary to make a careful examination of Niigata itself. So in the latter part of July he started off on a voyage of inspection, taking Mitford and myself with him. I had Ono Seigorô, one of the legation writers, and my trusty Noguchi with me. We left Yokohama on the 23rd July in the "Basilisk," commanded by Captain, afterwards Sir William, Hewett, V.C. In less than four days we reached Hakodaté, where the usual visits were exchanged with the governor, a little dark-faced man named Koidé Yamato no Kami. A good deal was said about the coal mine at Iwanai on the west coast of Yezo, at which a commencement of working had recently been made under the superintendence of my friend Erasmus Gower. Admiral Keppel was already here in the yacht "Salamis," and on the 1st August we left again for Niigata, arriving there after a prosperous voyage of thirty-six hours. From the sea the view of Niigata is very fine. In the background the mountains of Aidzu rise at some distance inland, stretching far away to right and left. In front lies a level plain, consisting mainly of rice fields, fringed with trees. The foreground is a sandy shore, rising into sandhills to the right of the river mouth, and at some distance to the west the prospect terminates in the lofty peaks of Yahiko yama. I landed immediately with Dr Wilson of the "Basilisk," and the sea being quite smooth we crossed the bar without difficulty. Inside the water is very deep, and some eighty junks were lying there at anchor. The town is situated a little way up the river, not quite close to the bank. We chose what seemed a convenient landing-place, and pushed ashore. Immediately a number of two-sworded officials made their appearance, and forming themselves into an escort, led the way to a Buddhist temple, the reception rooms of which had been prepared for the use of foreigners. After we had waited for a few minutes the governor came in; he proved to be Shiraishi Shimôsa no Kami, an old acquaintance of mine when he held a similar post at Yokohama in 1864 and 1865. In those days we used often to have serious disputes about the claims of British subjects against defaulting Japanese merchants and questions of customs' duties, but I found him now in quite a different mood. He was very polite and cheery, and alluded with regret to the ridiculous arguments which in former days under a different régime he had been obliged to maintain against me. Now that the foreign ministers had visited the Tycoon at Ozaka all was to be changed, and our intercourse was to be really friendly. He had himself received from Kiôto a copy of instructions to that effect. After some further talk about the possibility of Niigata being made an open port, I arranged for him to call on Sir Harry on the following morning on board the "Basilisk," bringing all the maps in his possession, and took my leave. On our way back to the ship we stopped at a new hotel, where we dined in Japanese fashion, and made some purchases of the curious lacquered articles called _mokusa-nuri_, which are manufactured in Aidzu, and China grass cloth woven in the villages further inland. This was not to be had in the shops, but was hawked about the town by people from the country. Here for the first time I saw the frozen snow, which in those days was the Japanese substitute for ice, and we found it a great luxury at that season of the year. Niigata was laid out in the form of the truncated segment of a circle, and intersected by canals, the banks of which were lined with willow trees, suggesting a Dutch model. The canals, however, were narrow and dirty, and better deserving perhaps the name of ditches. At this moment the feast of Tanabata was at hand, and the streets were crowded with little boys carrying paper lanterns of all sizes and colours, many of them adorned with clever sketches in colour representing Japanese historical traditions and popular customs. On the following day the promised interview came off on board, and we returned the governor's visit in the afternoon at his official residence. He had hastily had some benches constructed, which were covered with red cloth, the best substitute procurable for leather-bottom chairs. Old Shiraishi renewed acquaintance with me some twelve years later at Tôkiô, and used to give me lessons in the interpretation of the _utai_ plays; his son became my librarian, and died in my house. After a two hours' talk we started off to inspect an island in the river which it was proposed should be converted to the uses of a foreign settlement. Sir Harry, who was of an active inquisitive temperament, here signalized himself in the eyes of the natives by scrambling up to the top of a large shed, under which a junk was in course of construction, to get a view of the surrounding country, much to the horror of Mitford and myself, who were so orientalized by this time in our notions that we longed to see our chief conduct himself with the impassive dignity of a Japanese gentleman. This exploit being over, he dragged us all, including Hewett, about the town till half-past six, not to the improvement of the tempers of that gallant officer or of his boat's crew, who thus lost their dinner. I remained behind with Noguchi, dined again in Japanese fashion, and spent the night on shore, in the enjoyment of a few hours' perfect freedom. In fact, I did not return to the ship till the following afternoon, and then had some difficulty in getting off, as there was a heavy swell on the bar, though outside there was neither wind nor rough sea. From Niigata we crossed over to the island of Sado, the site of gold mines that have for a long period been famous. The Japanese proverb is that the "soil of Sado is the most effective of love-philtres." We had been told by the governor of Niigata that there was a good port here, where foreign vessels could lie, when the bar at the mouth of the Shinano River was too rough to cross owing to the northwest winds that prevail during the winter. A letter had been sent off from Niigata on the previous day to announce the visit of the British Minister, and as soon as we let go our anchor some of the local officials came off to call. The mines however lay at Aikawa on the other side of the island, where the governor resided. He had sent over his own _kago_ for Sir Harry to perform the journey in, but the chief did not relish either the idea of locomotion after this fashion, nor yet of walking across the island and of passing the night on the floor of a Japanese house in native quilts, and with nothing better than rice and fish to eat. So he decided to send me across in his stead, and proceeded round to Aikawa in the "Basilisk." This arrangement suited me down to the ground. It was much jollier to travel by one's self than to play second fiddle to one's chief always. The distance was about sixteen miles to Aikawa, and the officials made me extremely comfortable for the night. Next day Sir Harry and a large party, including some of the officers of the "Serpent," Commander Bullock and W. G. Aston our interpreter, landed at Sawané, where I went to meet them, and we walked over the hills to the village near the mines, where I had put up. On his arrival at the house where I had lodged, which in fact had been prepared for his reception, one of those scenes occurred which were not infrequent in those days, when the Japanese tried to treat foreigners with indignity, and it became necessary to resent their impertinence. At the door he was met by one of two vice-governors, who ushered him into a side room, where the idea was that he should do "ante-chamber" till the governor deigned to receive him. But Sir Harry was equal to the occasion, and promptly turning round without saying a word, walked out of the house. I overtook him at the gate, and having found out what was the matter, was on my way back to tell the alarmed officials that the governor must receive the British Minister at the door of the house, when I met the two vice-governors hurrying after us with some ridiculous excuse. So we turned back, walking with immense dignity so as to give him time, and by the time we arrived back again the old fellow made his appearance beaming with smiles, as if nothing had happened. He was at once forgiven, and led the way into a large room where a long row of chairs extended down one side for ourselves, faced by three others for himself and the vice-governors. We speedily became great friends and drank a quantity of _saké_ together, Sir Harry and the governor vying with each other in the manufacture of the most high-flown compliments. After this the whole party adjourned to visit the gold mines, which were then, whatever they may be now, low-roofed burrows half full of water, and those who ventured in returned to the outer air again looking more like half-drowned rabbits than human Englishmen. I had never been able to see much pleasure in this sort of subterranean excursion, and carefully stayed outside. We got on board that night, and weighed anchor in order to proceed to Nanao in Noto. There a fine harbour was said to exist, which we thought could perhaps be substituted for Niigata. Early on the morning of the 7th August we came in sight of the lofty mountains of Etchiû, which centre round the volcanic peak of Tatéyama, nearly 10,000 feet high, and at eleven o'clock reached the southern entrance of the harbour, which is formed by a considerable island lying opposite to a bay. The "Serpent" led the way, in discharge of the functions appertaining to her as a surveying ship, but we had to take great care on account of the numerous patches of shoal water, and did not come to an anchor in front of the town till half-past twelve. Nanao, or Tokoro no kuchi, at that time containing from 8000 to 9000 inhabitants, was rising into importance as a port for the few steamers belonging to the _daimiô_ of Kaga, and was administered by a _machi bugiô_ or prefect named Abé Junjirô. He was a young man who had been to Nagasaki and knew a little English, both of which facts in those days gave him a title to be considered travelled and learned, but he had no authority to speak on behalf of his prince. We therefore waited until the arrival of some more representative officials named Sano and Satomi, who were expected from Kanazawa, the capital of this daimiate. They turned up on board the "Basilisk" on the 9th August, and sat talking, or rather being talked to, by Sir Harry for five mortal hours. The chief topic was the question of the suitability of Nanao as a substitute for Niigata. What the Kaga people feared was that this would lead to its being taken away from them by the Tycoon's government, as in former times had happened in the case of Nagasaki and Niigata. But they did not venture to state this openly, and alleged therefore various other excuses, such as that the inhabitants were not accustomed to see foreigners, that the majority would object on account of the general rise in prices which would follow on the exportation of produce, and the _daimiô_, however willing to see the place opened to foreign trade, must of course act in harmony with the wishes of the people. Sir Harry then gave up pressing the point directly, enlarged on the inconveniences of the anchorage at Niigata, the need of a port of refuge, and the "fact" that none existed nearer than Nanao. He said nothing of our having inspected Ebisu Minato in Sado with the view of using it as an alternative anchorage to Niigata. Would the _daimiô_ object to foreign vessels anchoring at Nanao when the weather was bad at the bar of Niigata. The reply was that for the sake of humanity and of our friendly relations he would be unable to refuse this. Well then, as ships could not afford to lie a long time at Nanao doing nothing, would there be any objection to their cargoes being landed and stored till they could be transported to Niigata. No, probably not, in the interests of humanity. Who then, asked Sir Harry, should undertake the construction of the necessary warehouses? The reply was that either foreigners or the Kaga administration could do this as seemed most convenient. Well then, supposing that the people of Nanao should wish to buy any of the goods so stored by foreigners, would it not be a hard thing to prevent the sale? They said perhaps it might be, but to give such permission would lead to converting Nanao into a foreign trading port; nevertheless, if all the articles required were ordered beforehand, and not selected from those stored with a view to their transportation to Niigata, there could be no objection. But in actual fact, to speak frankly, they thought they could undertake the regulation of the port and the storage of goods without the assistance of the Tycoon's government. The territory of Nanao had belonged to the Maeda clan from very early times; it was the only good port in the three provinces of Kaga, Etchiû and Noto, and could ill be spared. They would dislike to share the local administration with the government, nor could they give it up to them altogether. Sir Harry expressed his concurrence in these views, and then proceeded to talk about the means of transport for himself and his party overland to Ozaka. This subject had been discussed in the legation before our departure from Yedo, though when the governor of Niigata had asked Sir Harry whether it was not his intention to return by land from Nanao, our very diplomatic chief had replied that such an idea had never entered his head. They received his suggestion with no marks of cordiality, and drew on themselves a severe rebuke for their want of friendship towards foreigners, so different to the feelings displayed by certain other clans. This plain speaking completely spoiled their temper. They became very sulky and silent, and alleging hunger, probably with much truth, took their departure. As soon as they had left the ship Sir Harry made up his mind to send Mitford and myself overland to Ozaka, while he went round by way of Nagasaki in the "Basilisk." It was, of course, evident that we could travel through the country in a much less formal style than would be necessary for him, and on our part of course we were only too delighted to get the opportunity of seeing a part of the interior where foreigners had never been before. I was therefore sent on shore to get hold of the prefect. Bullock was ordered to remain behind with the "Serpent" to make a complete survey of the bay. The Admiral, who had arrived from Niigata the day before us, got up steam in the "Salamis," and was off at half-past three, the "Basilisk" following a couple of hours later. The chief, who liked to keep us by him till the last moment, took us as far as the entrance of the harbour, where we put our traps into a boat belonging to the "Serpent." But just as we were pulling away, the "Basilisk" got ashore in a shallow place, and they signalled to us to return to her. Eventually we were released from dancing attendance on him, and reached the shore at eight o'clock in the evening. We proceeded to a house where I had more than once passed the night, and shortly received a visit from Sano and Abé, who were to make all the arrangements for our journey. Thither came also two officials of the Yedo Foreign Department, who had come from Yokohama with Sir Harry, and whom he had left behind with injunctions to facilitate the survey of the harbour by Bullock. But as soon as they heard that we were going overland, they conceived the plan of offering that one of them should accompany us, to spy upon our movements. They alleged that although everything might go well with us in the territories of the _daimiô_ of Kaga, we should meet with difficulties further on. We should be unable to procure baggage and palanquin coolies; we might be attacked and killed. They had instructions in fact to accompany us wherever we went on shore, and that it was a law of Japan that foreigners must not travel without foreign department officials to look after them. To this I replied with equal weight that they were bound to respect the injunctions laid on them by Sir Harry, to whom they had been lent by the Tycoon's Council. He had told them to remain at Nanao for a specific purpose, while we had positive orders from our chief not to take them. We felt assured that the _daimiôs_ of Kaga and Echizen, which was the territory that lay immediately beyond, would do everything to smooth our way; and as regarded the rest of the line of road, they might write to the Tycoon's people at Kiôto to send down the necessary instructions, and even take on themselves the responsibility of transmitting the orders direct to the authorities of the towns we should have to pass through. As for the law they mentioned, I felt convinced that it had no existence. At best there was only a custom to that effect, which we could decline to abide by at our option. These considerations proved to them that argument would not help them, so they tried to work upon my feelings by representing that they would get into hot water with their superiors in Yedo if they suffered us to depart alone. But this also failed. Finally they washed their hands of the business, and begged to be excused from all responsibility for any difficulties we might encounter. This request was most readily granted, and they retired with a secret intention of getting Bullock to dispense with their services, while we betook ourselves to our beds with the consciousness of a victory achieved. CHAPTER XX NANAO TO OZAKA OVERLAND NEXT morning Sano and Abé presented themselves with the welcome news that everything was ready for our journey, and made many apologies for the inconveniences we should have to put up with. They had provided a handsome palanquin for each of us, and ordinary ones for Noguchi and Mitford's Chinese servant, the philosophic Lin-fu. A guard was furnished of twenty two-sworded men carrying long staves, under the command of an officer named Tominaga. We got away at half-past eight. Looking out to sea, we perceived that the "Basilisk" had departed, and that the "Serpent" was lying peacefully at anchor. The foreign department officials did not show up, and it was to be concluded that they had made up their minds to submit. So we were perfectly free, away from our chief, from Tycoon's officials, from any other Europeans, embarked on an adventure in a totally unknown part of the country, which might end anyhow for aught we cared, but at any rate was of an altogether novel character. As soon as we were clear of the town we got out and walked. It was a piping hot day. Each man of the twenty who formed the escort as he went along fanned himself with one hand, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a towel carried in the other. It soon became evident that we were to be treated with great distinction, for we had not travelled more than an hour and a half before we were invited to rest and refresh ourselves with delicious water melons and tea; nectarines were also offered, but of such fearful unripeness that we dared not make their close acquaintance. An hour further we had again to rest. Every one was excessively polite; the peasants whom we met were made to crouch down and take off their hats. This was much more than could have been expected after the scolding Sir Harry had given to Sano and his colleagues on the previous day. The road lay up a gradually narrowing valley, cultivated principally with rape and hemp. At a quarter past one we stopped for lunch at a clean inn where they gave us a capital meal. After a nap we resumed our way at three o'clock down another valley, stopped to rest at half-past four, and reached our night quarters at half-past six, having accomplished eighteen miles. This was the village of Shiwo, prettily situated on the banks of a tiny stream, and close to the mouth of a valley, the view up which into the hills growing ever higher and higher was one of the charming prospects in which Japan abounds. After the hot bath, they served an excellent dinner with many polite apologies for its badness. The next day brought us some sixteen miles further to Tsubata, where we joined the high road which traverses the dominions of the _daimiô_ from one end to the other at no great distance from the coast. Here our escort left us, and a new set of men took their place. We were now passing through a more populous part of the country, and were objects of intense curiosity to the inhabitants. At Morimoto the front rooms of the houses on both sides of the street were filled with spectators sitting in rows three or four deep or on mats placed at the side of the roadway. Shortly after leaving this place we caught a glimpse of the white castle walls of Kanazawa peeping through the pine trees. As soon as we came in sight of the town itself we got into our palanquins, and were carried to one of the first houses, where we met Satomi and another official named Tsunékawa. Crowds of spectators had assembled, and some of them were so eager to gratify their curiosity that they even stood in a muddy lotus pond which commanded a view of the back of the house where we were. Here delicious melons and apples were served with frozen snow from the mountains behind the town. Gold paper screens lined the walls, there were tables piled high with fruit and cakes, and in the recess behind the seat of honour a beautiful writing box of the finest gold lacquer, in case we wished to sit down and write letters. A most unnecessary piece of ceremonial preparation, one would say. The officials asked us to proceed from here on foot in order that the people might see us better, but we preferred making use of our palanquins, as we had on our travelling garments, and were somewhat dusty and way-worn. The streets were thickly lined with spectators of all ranks and ages, among whom were some very pretty girls. Another charming resting place had been prepared for us, into which they obliged us to turn aside, although we had previously expressed our wish to go on straight to the inn. Continuing thence along the street, thickly filled with inquisitive but perfectly orderly townspeople, we crossed a bridge, and after turning a few times to right and left, at last reached our inn, rather tired with all the fuss and ceremony. At the porch we were welcomed by Satomi, who had hurried on ahead to superintend our reception. He conducted us through several rooms into an inner room of great size, spread with a huge velvet-pile carpet and furnished with Chinese tables and scarlet-lacquered chairs such as the high priests of Buddhist temples occupy on grand ceremonial occasions. The host immediately presented himself, bowing his head to the floor as if he were saluting a pair of kings. Each servant who brought in the tobacco trays or tea bowed low to the ground, then advanced holding the article high in both hands, deposited it on the table, and then retiring backwards to the edge of the carpet, knocked his head on the floor again before withdrawing. We were conducted in turn to the bath with great ceremony, and then put on our best clothes (which were neither new nor good) to receive visitors. The first to call was a special messenger from the _daimiô_, to express a hope that we had not suffered from the heat, and rejoicing at our fortunate arrival. Mitford replied with great dignity that we had not felt the heat. We were deeply grateful for the hospitality and kindness shown to us, and would like to call on the _daimiô_ to thank him in person. "My master," said the messenger, "is unfortunately indisposed, otherwise he would have been delighted to make your acquaintance." Mitford expressed a hope that he would soon recover. The real truth I imagine to have been that an interview between a _daimiô_ and two foreigners would have involved far too important and complicated decisions on questions of etiquette for it to be lightly contemplated. The messenger added that he had been commanded by his master to offer us a small entertainment, and to accompany us in partaking of it. Mitford rose to even greater heights of flowery speech than before, and invented a message from Sir Harry Parkes (which if the chief did not actually charge us with, the omission could only be attributed to inadvertence), expressing his desire to swear eternal friendship with the _daimiô_ and people of Kaga, which gave very great satisfaction to the messenger and everyone else present. Doctors were also introduced, whom the prince had deputed to attend on us in case we felt any ill-effects from the heat. To this exchange of compliments succeeded a feast resembling in character what has already been described but far surpassing it in magnificence and the number of courses. Observing that our Japanese entertainers were not comfortable on their chairs, we proposed to banish the furniture and squat on the floor after the manner of the country, and thus facilitate the passing of the _saké_ cup. After a considerable time had been passed in general conversation, and everyone's head was more or less heated, we introduced political topics, which were discussed very confidentially in the presence of a crowd of people. The structure of a Japanese house is such that no secrets can be whispered; there is always some one listening behind a paper partition or on the other side of a screen, and if you wish to hatch a plot, your best way is to transfer your deliberations to the middle of the garden, where you can keep off eavesdroppers. However, as we could not do that on the present occasion, it seemed better to take all who chose it into our confidence. The gist of the conversation amounted to this--that the Kaga people wished to trade with foreigners, but did not wish avowedly to make an open port of Nanao, because the Tycoon's government would then try to deprive them of it; but they would agree to its being an anchorage for foreign vessels, ancillary to Niigata, and to goods being landed there, in which case everything else would naturally follow. If the Tycoon's government were to inquire what view they took of the question, they would reply ambiguously. Our answer was that of course we desired to act in harmony with the wishes of the _daimiô_, and would do nothing that could possibly be prejudicial to his interests. This proved very satisfactory to our entertainers, who declared the warm feelings of friendship for us which animated them, and a stratagem, the details of which I do not recollect, was agreed upon for keeping up secret and confidential communications with them after our return to Yedo. Both sides bound themselves to secrecy, and the party broke up. The bedding, which was of the most magnificent description, was then brought in, piles of soft, quilted mattresses covered with silk or crape, and stuffed with silk wool, and a large net of silk gauze was hung up to keep off the mosquitoes. Then a freshly-infused pot of green tea, with teacups, on a small tray, and the necessary apparatus for smoking, were gently slid under the bottom of the mosquito curtain, and the people of the house wished us a good night's rest. In the morning the very first thing, before we were awake, the same elements of a comfortable existence were provided in the same unobtrusive manner. The forenoon was spent in choosing lacquer and porcelain. On the previous evening an arrangement had been made for our visiting the neighbouring hills, but some hitch had occurred, and we were now asked to accept instead an excursion to Kanaiwa, the port of Kanazawa. It lay at a distance of about five miles, so we started on horseback about three o'clock. Our steeds were rather shabby-looking ponies, unshod, with saddles in the European fashion covered with thick black paper instead of leather, and painfully stiff bridles of badly tanned leather. Noguchi was mounted on a pony splendidly caparisoned in the native style, and the philosophic Lin-fu, who could not ride, was put into a palanquin. Though we had such a very short way to ride, it was supposed that delicately nurtured persons like ourselves would feel the fatigue, and three resting places had been prepared, two on the road and one at Kanaiwa itself. The so-called port proved to be an open roadstead at the mouth of an insignificant stream, quite useless except in perfectly calm weather. At dinner that evening we had some further talk with a couple of officials. They had come to the conclusion, after thinking over the conversation of the previous evening, that it would be their wisest course to admit to the Tycoon's government the probability of a certain amount of trade taking place at Nanao. In that way no danger would arise of their getting into trouble for what would otherwise be smuggling. We approved of this proposal, and suggested their sending to Yedo some one authorized to treat with the government and the foreign representatives. In the course of conversation on the domestic politics of the country, they said that in their opinion the Tycoon's government ought to be supported, and not done away with altogether, as the Satsuma and Chôshiû people, with other clans, were believed to be advocating. But at the same time limits ought to be placed on its authority. They had read my pamphlet, and entirely approved of the suggestions it contained. After that, all one could say was that we entirely concurred in the views of the Kaga clan. As a matter of fact, these people were rather too remote from the main centre of political thought to be cognisant of or sympathise with the aspirations of the southern and western clans. They lay in an isolated position on the northern coast, in a part of the country that had always been looked upon somewhat as the home of ignorance and want of culture. They cared only for themselves. The lands held by the _daimiô_ of Kaga were assessed at a much greater annual value than the fief of any other prince, which gave the clansmen an importance in the eyes of the rest of the world with which they were thoroughly satisfied; an alteration in the political organization of the country could hardly benefit them, and they were at bottom disposed to be contented with the _status quo_. The British Legation, on the contrary, were determined that so far as their influence went, the Mikado should be restored to the headship of the nation, so that our treaties might receive a sanction that no one would venture to dispute, and for this purpose it was necessary that the constitution of the Tycoon's government should be modified in such a manner as to admit the principal _daimiôs_ (or clans rather) to a share in the distribution of power. Our hosts would have been contented to keep us longer, but we were due at Ozaka at a fixed date, and could not stay with them. We resumed our journey, therefore, on the morning of August 14. The landlord was very urgent with us that we should call in passing at a shop for patent medicines kept by a relation, to lay in a stock of a preparation called "purple snow" (_shi-setsu_), composed chiefly of nitre and perfumed with musk, and believed to be a remedy for most of the ills to which flesh is heir. The streets were again crowded with eager spectators. When just clear of the town we were forced to alight from our _kagos_ for a parting feast at a restaurant on a height commanding a picturesque view of the castle, which planted plentifully with trees presented a park-like aspect very unlike the grim fortresses which in Europe usually go by the name. Here we spent an hour eating fish and drinking _saké_, and vowing eternal friendship with the Kaga clansmen, with whom previous to this visit we had had no intercourse whatever. We lunched that day at Mattô, where I had a long talk with the mayor upon things in general, in the presence of a vast and attentive crowd, and reached Komatsu in the evening, having accomplished twenty miles. This was very fair going, considering the numerous delays and stoppages for refreshment. The next day we passed the boundary line between the territories of Kanazawa and Daishôji, where the escort was changed. At the latter town we found the streets entirely cleared, and crowds of people quietly sitting in the front rooms of the houses, among them many daughters of the best families in holiday garb, with wreaths of silver flowers on their heads, their faces nicely powdered with white lead, and their lips stained with the safflower dye which imparts such a curious metallic lustre to the skin. Here we took a formal farewell of Okada and Shimbô, two Kaga gentlemen who had accompanied us during the previous days. Mitford's Chinese servant came in for a share in the general leave-taking, and philosophically remarked that he did not understand Japanese etiquette, which appears to consist chiefly in the performance of the _ko-t'ou_. About three miles further we finally quitted the domains of the Maeda family, and passed into the territory of Echizen. There was no guard to meet us, only a couple of policemen, and it was proposed that we should retrace our steps to a tea-house half a mile back, to wait till an escort could be procured. To this we objected, saying that we were willing to go on without a guard. The _rusui_ or head bailiff of the _daimiô_ of Daishôji said that it would not be correct for his men to undertake our protection beyond the limits. Finally a compromise was effected. Okada and Shimbô, who in spite of the formal parting that had taken place at Daishôji, were still of the party, borrowed ten men from the bailiff on the distinct understanding that they were not any longer a guard, and walked on with us. Shortly afterwards we met an Echizen official of low rank (he was a _metsuké_ or assistant clerk), and our Kaga friends took their final leave of us, not without expressing the opinion that the Echizen people showed very little courtesy in not deputing some one of more exalted rank to offer us a welcome. But the fact was we were not welcome at all, as we speedily found, for although every possible pains had been taken to provide us with good food and quarters, the whole Echizen clan held aloof from us. For instance at Kanadzu, where we passed the night, the whole town was illuminated with coloured lanterns, and the spectators who crowded the main street went down on their knees in the usual respectful manner. Very beautiful guest rooms had been prepared for us at a monastery, chairs and tables had been provided, and a couple of good little boys, of preternaturally solemn demeanour, sat on the floor behind us to fan away the mosquitoes. The superior civilization and resources of the country, as compared with Kaga, were exhibited by the production of beer and champagne. Next day we reached Fukui, the capital of the province, a town of about 40,000 inhabitants. Here again the streets had been cleared; spectators in their best were seated in rows in the shops, and looked just as if they had paid for their places, like the people who go to see the Queen open Parliament. I never saw so many pretty girls together anywhere. White brooms and buckets of water stood before each house, as a sign that the road had been swept clean and the dust laid. We were conducted to the monastery of the Hongwanji sect, a new and handsome building, where a large room had been prepared for us, and hung with silk crape curtains dyed with the Echizen crest. In the recess stood a beautiful vase containing a huge bouquet of lotus flowers, standing quite six feet high. The table was loaded with piles of fruit and cakes, and the usual Japanese luncheon was served, with champagne. No one approached us, with the exception of a young Japanese who had been in the service of a foreigner at Nagasaki and spoke a little English; but numbers of officials, some of high rank, collected in the passages to stare at us. We took no notice of them, adopting the perfectly cold and impassive manner of Orientals on their dignity. This was bad, but worse came behind. Although on our quitting Fukui, they sent men before us to sweep the road ahead, our guards were rude, and chaffed about us among themselves. At Fuchiû, the town where we stopped for the night, a noisy crowd pursued us from the entrance of the town to our lodging, running along the other side of the stream which lay along the middle of the street. Arrived at the inn, we found the dais room shut up, and the matted floors spread with _shibukami_, a sort of thick, tough paper in sheets, which is laid down when any particularly dirty household business is to take place. It is the correlative of the dust sheets used in England to cover up furniture when a weekly cleaning takes place. We were, of course, indignant, but I think these, to us, offensive precautions had been taken in the belief that we were ignorant of Japanese manners and customs, and would walk in with our shoes on. The day after this we crossed the boundary on the top of a hill called the Tochinoki Tôgé (Horse-Chestnut Pass), where we said good-bye to the rude Echizen escort, and were taken charge of by men belonging to Ii Kamon no Kami, the _daimiô_ of Hikoné. A very moderate bill was presented to us for our board, lodging and coolie hire, which we paid, and we offered payment also for the extras in the shape of beer, champagne and fish, but could not induce the officials to accept it. It is not very easy to explain why the Echizen people showed such an utter want of cordiality, but I think it may perhaps be attributable to the difficult position in which the clan then stood. Its head was closely allied to the Tycoon's family, being in fact descended from one of the sons of Iyéyasu, the founder of the Tycoonate. Although perfectly well aware of the difficulties in which the Tycoon was involved, he was not prepared to side with the Satsuma and Chôshiû party, which aimed at the restoration of the Mikado, and was probably acquainted with the policy of the British Legation, as supposed to be set forth in my pamphlet. Intimacy with foreigners had never until quite lately been a part of the government programme, and the Echizen people very likely thought it wiser to hold entirely aloof from us, in spite of the recent change of attitude on the part of the Tycoon, especially as the south-western _daimiôs_ had never openly adhered to the policy of friendship with foreigners. The "expulsion of the barbarians" was still their ostensible party cry. So that on the whole I incline to the opinion that extreme caution was the keynote to the want of cordiality displayed by the Echizen folk. We stopped that night at a little village among the hills called Naka-no-kawachi, where we could get nothing to eat but rice and tea. In ordinary years there are no mosquitoes here, owing to its elevation, and we had therefore considerable trouble in procuring mosquito curtains. The general aspect of the country reminded me closely of Scawfell Pass in Cumberland. At the further foot of the hills we passed one of those barriers, curious relics of a past full of suspicion, where no woman was allowed to pass, and where every man had to exhibit a passport. At Nagahama we met an official of the Tycoon's government named Tsukahara Kwanjirô (brother of Tsukahara Tajima no Kami), with eighteen of the foreign guard, who henceforward charged themselves with our protection. Sir Harry Parkes had passed through here in May last in returning from his visit to Tsuruga, and we found the people disposed to be familiar and careless of our comfort. We felt that we were now little better than prisoners; farewell all jollity and all politeness on the part of the inhabitants. We hastened on as rapidly as possible, being now as anxious to get over the rest of our journey as we had in the beginning been disposed to loiter among a friendly population. At Takamiya, where we lunched, we found the dais room closed against us, but I took the innkeeper and his servants roundly to task, and made them open it. After this, they recognized that we understood Japanese etiquette, and for their previous rudeness substituted perfect courtesy. As we were now about to quit the territory of Ii Kamon no Kami, we offered to settle our bill for lodging and coolie hire, but the official in charge refused to accept payment, alleging that he had received reiterated orders not to take anything from us. So we contented ourselves with addressing to him a letter of acknowledgment, and told him we would thank the _daimiô's_ people on our return to Yedo. The local escort left us at Nakajiku, the boundary, and we were consigned to the care of the foreign guard, who concerned themselves very little on our behalf. The consequence of this was that the people crowded in upon us at every village, and were extremely rude in their behaviour. On our arrival at Musa I administered a quiet blowing-up to the commander of the guard, who promised that things should be better arranged for the morrow. Next day we reached Kusatsu, where, to our surprise, we fell in with a couple more Tycoon's officials, whom I knew very well, Takabataké Gorô and a young fellow named Koméda Keijirô, the latter of whom spoke English remarkably well. They told us that they had come overland from Yedo with Hirayama Dzusho no Kami, one of the Tycoon's second council, and had been dropped here by him to look after us. He had charged them to say to us that the temple of Ishiyama, just below the Seta Bridge, which had been closed to Sir Harry in May, would be shown to us, and was well worthy of a visit. This temple in fact lay on the route which Tsukahara had already persuaded us to adopt. We were to take boat at Kusatsu, descend the river which flows out of the Biwa Lake as far as the rapids, then walk for about a couple of leagues (five miles), and take boat again to Fushimi. This, he said, was a much shorter and pleasanter route than that which Wirgman and I had taken in May. We therefore jumped at the offer made on the part of Hirayama, whom we voted a capital fellow, and some amicable conversation followed on Japanese politics, in which they tried to persuade us that the positions taken up by my pamphlet were all wrong, but without success. After they left, Noguchi came to me and said that the road over the hills to Uji, instead of being only ten or twelve miles, as had been represented to us, was in reality much nearer five-and-twenty, so that we could not possibly get there by mid-day. A misgiving immediately arose in my mind that there was something concealed behind all this solicitude about our seeing temples. Probably the Tycoon's officials wanted to get us away from Otsu, which lay on the direct route, and the vicinity of Kiôto, in order to prevent trouble with the anti-Tycoon party, such as had occurred in May when Sir Harry passed through there. I therefore despatched Noguchi to probe Tsukahara, and sent for the posting officer to inquire about the distances. What he told me only confirmed my suspicions, which I then mentioned to Mitford. We therefore resolved to go by Otsu and to run all risks. We had invited Takabataké and the other man to dinner. Just before our guests arrived Noguchi returned, and I imparted my suspicions to him. He thought I was wrong. As soon as they came in, I announced to Takabataké our intention of taking the usual route. He was greatly disconcerted, declared it would be very inconvenient, nay impossible. I replied that we were indifferent to temples and scenery, but extremely fond of saving time in travelling; and as the road by Otsu was the shorter, we would take it. Seeing that we were very firm in our resolve, he retired from the room, and got hold of Noguchi, whom he begged to use his influence. Noguchi thereupon called me outside for a private conversation, and urged me to adhere to the original arrangement. I replied that it was useless; we wanted to go by the shorter route, and if altering the arrangements as to boats, etc., cost money, we were willing to pay it. I returned to the dining-room, and my answer was communicated to Takabataké, who thereupon called out Koméda. Koméda came back, and begged me in turn to come out; as soon as we were alone, he said that he wished to have a friendly talk, and confessed that the whole thing was a plant. I said that we knew it before, and had felt convinced that Tsukahara had been sent down from Kiôto by the Tycoon's prime minister (Itakura Iga no Kami) to hoodwink us. If they had told us the truth in the beginning, we would have complied with their wishes; but that now it was too late to talk to us of going so far out of our way merely to oblige them. We then returned to the dining-room again, and tried to proceed with our meal. The three Japanese were very crestfallen, and became still more so when Mitford suddenly turned to Koméda and said to him in English that if the private secretary (_ometsuké_) who had been sent down from Kiôto on this particular business would address to him a letter stating explicitly the reasons why they wished us to change our route, we would fall in with their wishes; otherwise we would go by Otsu, even if the guard should refuse to accompany us. After a little demur, they accepted his offer, as the easiest alternative, and Takabataké went off to prepare the letter. We had great difficulty in obtaining a document to our minds. Takabataké produced three drafts, one after the other, which had to be rejected, because it was alleged in them that we were travelling without the permission of the government, and the phraseology was so confused that it became impossible to make head or tail of it. At three o'clock in the morning they at last brought the fair copy of what we had insisted on being put down in black and white, namely that great complications had arisen at Kiôto in the previous May on account of Sir Harry's passing through Otsu, which was only six miles from the Mikado's capital, and begging Mitford as a favour to go by way of Uji. Great victory for us and corresponding defeat for the Japanese officials. I had very little sleep that night, for we were on the move by a quarter to seven. We went in palanquins as far as the bridge of Séta, and embarking in a boat, proceeded down the river to Ishiyama-dera. As soon as we were sighted by the priests in charge, they ran to shut the gates in our face. So much for Hirayama's promise of admission. It was a very hot day. We left the river to ascend and descend a series of little hills for four miles, and then came out by the river again. Here we got a scanty meal of rice and tea, all that was procurable in such an out-of-the-way spot. Then along the path for a mile or so by the river, which roared over its rocky bed between steep schistose hills, and then climbed a very stiff ascent, trying in the extreme under the burning August sun. At every peasant's hut they told us that it was still four miles to Uji. Frequently we had to stop and wash out our mouths by some scanty stream trickling from the rock. But at last we reached the summit, and gained a magnificent view of the great plain below, in the centre of which lies the mysterious and jealously guarded Kiôto, like a Japanese Mecca, in which it was death for the heathen foreigner to set his foot. To the left lay Fushimi, with its network of canals and rivers, far away in front the sacred top of Atagoyama. At four o'clock we got to Uji, hot and tired, having trudged our weary way almost unceasingly since noon. We rested for a couple of hours at a charming tea-house on the bank of the river close to the broken bridge. At six we embarked in a comfortable houseboat, and drifted rapidly down stream to Fushimi, where we got a bath and dinner at the official hotel. Noguchi afterwards told me that he had overheard some men there talking about the advisability of murdering us. However, they lacked the courage to carry out their idea, and we got away safely at nine in a large boat. It was too hot to sleep inside, so I lay all night on the gangway which ran along the gunwale, overhanging the water. Early in the morning we reached Ozaka, washed our faces in the stream, dressed, and betook ourselves to the temple we had occupied in the spring. Sir Harry turned up in the afternoon, with the news of the murder of two sailors of H.M.S. "Icarus" at Nagasaki, as they were lying in a drunken sleep on the roadway in a low quarter of the town. Before this new outrage the tale of our experiences paled altogether in interest. CHAPTER XXI OZAKA AND TOKUSHIMA THE next few days were occupied almost exclusively with the question of what measures were to be adopted for the detection and punishment of the murderers of the "Icarus" sailors at Nagasaki. Sir Harry, as was very natural, took up the matter with great warmth, and used some extremely strong language to the principal minister of the Tycoon, a good-natured, yet not by any means weak, old gentleman named Itakura Iga no Kami. He seemed to be old, though probably not over five-and-forty. The rumour at Nagasaki had been that the perpetrators were Tosa men, and the suspicion was strengthened by the fact that a sailing vessel and a steamer belonging to Tosa, which were lying in the harbour, suddenly left before dawn, a few hours after the murder. It was suggested that the perpetrators had escaped in the sailing vessel, as she left an hour and a half before the steamer, and that they were transferred to the latter somewhere outside the harbour. As far as we could judge, the Tycoon's government seemed to entertain the same suspicions. The Tosa men had always had the reputation for being more savagely disposed than any other Japanese. The government promised to dismiss the two governors of Nagasaki, and to send a body of 500 men from Yedo to patrol the foreign settlement at Nagasaki to prevent anything of the kind recurring. Upon this Sir Harry accepted an invitation to see the Tycoon, who had come down from Kiôto to give an audience to the French Minister, M. Roches, about the recent arrest of some native Christians at Nagasaki. Sir Harry, Mitford and I went accordingly to the castle in palanquins, as the weather was very hot, and no good ponies could be procured. We were received in the private drawing-room (_shiro-in_). The Tycoon, who looked a little worn, had with him Itakura and Hirayama; the latter was a little old man of rather low origin with sharp cunning features, who had lately been promoted. We nicknamed him the fox, and he deserved it well. After an hour's talk, on indifferent matters, we were joined by Admiral Keppel and his staff. This led to some conversation on naval affairs, but I came to the conclusion that His Highness took very little interest in the subject. After a while the Tycoon sent for Matsudaira Kansô, the ex-_daimiô_ of Hizen, an oldish-looking man of forty-seven, and introduced him to Sir Harry and the Admiral. He had a sharp countenance, and spoke in a fitful, abrupt manner, constantly winking with both eyes. He had the reputation of being a time-server and a great intriguer, and certainly, up to the very moment of the revolution, which took place in 1868, he never allowed anyone to guess what side he would take. He sat next to the Tycoon on his left, and the only other mark of respect, other than that due to equals, which he employed in speaking was the word "kami," for "you." Sir Harry endeavoured to get an invitation out of him to visit his place at Saga, but he was too wary, and merely expressed the expectation that they might meet some day at Nagasaki; but that never came to pass. When the Tycoon was tired of talking we adjourned to the next room, where a Japanese luncheon was served, with cold _saké_; which was a sign that no one was expected to take more than enough. Early that morning I had received a call from Saigô Kichinosuké, and here I insert a translation of a letter which he afterwards wrote to Okubo Ichizô giving an account of our conversation. The original was found many years afterwards among the papers of Iwakura Jijiû, and a copy was given to me in 1906, as I was passing through Tôkiô on my way home from Peking, by my old friend Matsugata Masayoshi. Copy of letter addressed by Saigô Takamori to Okubo Toshimichi. Yesterday morning at 6 I arrived at Ozaka, and on inquiring where was the lodging of the English, I learnt that it was at the temple where they were in the spring; so I at once sent to Satow to inquire at what time to-day it would be convenient for me to call. The answer was that I should come at 7 o'clock. I went at that hour, and found he had just woke, and I was shown upstairs. I said that hearing of the minister's arrival at Ozaka, I had been, as you know, sent as a special messenger to inquire after his health. The ordinary compliments having been offered, he said the mail to England was being despatched about ten o'clock, and that at half-past eleven the minister was going to the Castle. I said that I had no particular business, but had only come to call in order to congratulate him on his arrival at Ozaka. As he must be very busy, I would not trouble him with a personal interview, and begged him to say so to the Minister. He replied that the Minister particularly wished to meet me, but as he was so much occupied he would ask to be excused that day. He said the Minister would remain two or three days at Ozaka, and particularly desired to meet me, and he thought he would be able to give me an interview in two or three days. He said he would sail from here on the 2nd of next month in order to return to Yokohama (or probably Yedo). When I saw Satow, he said things were exactly as before and that there had been no change of any importance, and the position being just as before, it was entirely different from what Shibayama had suspected; therefore I told him that the Ozaka Commercial Co. has, as I said to you the other day, agreed with the French, and is planning to make great profits. [An obscure passage follows.] I said I should like to try to discuss the settlement of Japanese affairs by the French, on which Satow replied that he would very much like to argue it. I told him the French said Japan must have a single concentrated government like all western countries, and the _daimiôs_ must be deprived of their power. Above all it was desirable to destroy the two provinces of Chôshiû and Satsuma, and that it would be well to join in subduing them. I asked what he thought of this. Satow then answered that it might be seen from the two previous attempts at subjugation, that a government which had not been able to beat Chôshiû alone would certainly not be able to deprive all the _daimiôs_ of their powers. I said: How could such weak people be helped. He replied that not a word could be said to that, and the argument was impossible. If such an argument were publicly brought forward, there was no doubt that they would help the government to destroy the _daimiôs_. It was heard that the idea was that in two or three years' time money would be collected, machinery be provided, French assistance be invoked and war be begun. As the French would then send troops to give assistance, it would be dangerous unless an opposite great Power were got to assist. If a report were then spread that England would also send out troops to protect, it would be impossible for French auxiliary troops to be set in motion; he said that therefore it was necessary to come to a thorough agreement beforehand. In the first place the English idea was that the sovereign of Japan should wield the governing power, and under him the _daimiôs_ should be placed, and so the establishment of the constitution (or national polity) would be similar to the system of all other countries. This was the first (word omitted here) thing of all. The sovereign of England had lately sent to the _Bakufu_ a letter addressed to the sovereign of Japan. This was a letter of condolence on hearing of the death of the late Emperor. This was to be delivered to the Emperor by the _Bakufu_. It would be improper if no reply were made to it, but up to the present no reply had been received. Although that was what they had declared with respect to the Emperor of Japan, at Kiôto H.M. did not take that view at all. It was maintained that the admission of aliens into the capital would be a defilement. As that sort of thing was undesirable, it would be necessary that a definite form of government vis-a-vis all countries carried on ordinary relations. If it was desired to consult with England, he would like to be informed, and as he was disposed to undertake the assistance asked for I replied that we would exert ourselves for the transformation of the Japanese government and we had no justification (?) vis-a-vis foreigners. The French grabbed profit at Yokohama and entered into agreements for their own pleasure. England was a country based on commerce, and would strenuously oppose any attempt to hinder commerce, and was therefore extremely indignant. The culprits who had killed two English sailors at Nagasaki were not yet known. We had heard it was rumoured to be the act of Nagasaki[3] men. He heard that Nagasaki was very badly spoken of. When Satow and others travelled overland from Echizen, Nagasaki men lay in wait for them at Fushimi. It was also said by many that they committed acts of violence at Kiôto, and gathered gamblers together. If it was Nagasaki men who had killed aliens at Nagasaki, it was to be much regretted as doing a great injury. [3] Substituted by Saigô for Tosa. When they came to Echizen no one came to meet them. Though local governors came to meet them in the country, no one came to see them at the castle-town, but they were entertained hospitably with _saké_ and _sakana_. Satow said he could not understand this. The above is a summary of the important points. Satow says he will come here to-morrow at ten o'clock, and I think there will be more conversation. I propose to stay two or three days longer, so please understand that. Satow's language about the _Bakufu_ is very insulting. I will tell you all in detail. Good-bye. 27th of 7th moon. SAIGO KICHINOSUKE. Okubo Ichizô sama. P.S. note by penman.--This copy of the letter contains obscurities, and some incorrect transcriptions. Next day I went to see Saigô at the Satsuma agency, in order to learn from him how things were going on at Kiôto. He talked a good deal of a parliament of the whole nation, to be established as a substitute for the existing government of the Tycoon, which I found from my young friend Matsuné was a very general idea among the anti-Tycoon party. To me it seemed a mad idea. Saigô also revealed to me a plan conceived by the government for monopolizing all the trade of Ozaka and Hiôgo by placing it in the hands of a guild of twenty rich native merchants, which was no doubt copied from the old arrangement at Canton before the opium war of 1840. This piece of news, when it was brought to him, inflamed the chief's wrath, who immediately got hold of the prime minister and insisted upon the scheme being abandoned. A new proclamation was issued, annulling the previous one establishing the guild, but as it was extorted by dint of great diplomatic pressure, I had very little belief in its being acted on. It was, and always has been, a Japanese idea to regulate commerce, both domestic and foreign, by means of the guilds, who pay for their monopoly, and make the most of it. Whatever may be the abstract merits of such a system, it is not altogether in accordance with western ideas, and we have never ceased to make war upon it whenever it crossed our path in eastern countries. Another matter about which we had to speak very strongly was the wording of the Tycoon's reply to the Queen's letter, conveying the usual expressions of condolence on the death of the late Mikado. The ministers apologized very humbly for having made use of discourteous forms, and promised to take great care for the future. The style of official documents addressed to the British Minister was also a subject upon which we had never-ending disputes with the Japanese officials, and it was only after the revolution that I succeeded in getting these things done in proper form. Their object was always by the use of particular forms and turns of phraseology to convey to their own people the belief that the foreign representatives were the inferiors of the Tycoon's ministers; doubtless they did not in their own country hold a rank at all approaching that of the high functionaries they had to deal with, most of whom were _daimiôs_, and it was a difficult matter, as it always has been in every eastern country, to induce them to recognize the official position of a diplomatist representing his sovereign. I have said in an earlier chapter that one of my teachers at Yokohama had been a retainer of the _daimiô_ of Awa. During the spring, when we were first at Ozaka, there had been some talk about my going to pay the _daimiô_ a visit at his capital, which lay not far from that city, but owing to a misunderstanding it came to nothing. On the present occasion the Awa people had sought me out again, and renewed the invitation, which I however persuaded them to transfer to Sir Harry and the Admiral. It had been already agreed that the British Legation should proceed to the province of Tosa in company with some special Commissioners of the Tycoon, in order to discover, if possible, the murderers of the two sailors belonging to H.M.S. "Icarus." Our wily old friend Hirayama was selected, along with a couple of other officials, for this business, and they wished to precede us by a few days in order to make a preliminary inquiry. So when the projected visit to Awa came to the ears of the ministers, they pressed Sir Harry to accept it, as Tokushima lay in the direct route to Tosa, and also because they believed that the _daimiô_ was not a dangerous opponent, but rather inclined to be a partisan of the Tycoon, if he took any side at all. Sir Harry was pleased, because he liked these entertainments, and so the matter was settled to every one's satisfaction. I took care to keep to myself the fact that the invitation had really been intended for myself alone, the _daimiô_ having heard about me from my teacher, and being curious to see the writer of the pamphlet on "English policy." Sir Harry and Mitford went off in the "Basilisk" with Hewett, the "Salamis" remaining behind to pick me up on the following morning. She was to leave at eleven, so I had to pack up overnight, and start very early. I hurried off with the Legation writer Ono, leaving Noguchi in charge of the baggage, and as usual he was late. I waited some time, but still he delayed. I became impatient, and desperately started in a boat with only the writer. Just as we were passing the proposed site of the foreign settlement, Noguchi came alongside in a tiny skiff, without the baggage. Further down, near the mouth of the river, we changed into a larger boat, built to cross the bar, and got on board half-an-hour late. Two Awa officials had joined just before me, and to my great joy and relief the baggage boat came alongside a quarter of an hour afterwards. We weighed anchor precisely at noon, and steaming southward through the Yura straits, got to the little harbour of Nei in Awa about six o'clock in the evening. The "Basilisk" was there already. Apparently no one awaited our arrival. Sir Harry therefore despatched me to Tokushima to find out what sort of reception he might expect. I got into a big native sailing boat with one of the Awa officials, while the other man hastened on ahead in another. There was a fresh breeze, and we rushed along under the cliffs at a good pace until we found ourselves approaching the bar at the mouth of the river on which Tokushima is situated. It was already dark, and the breakers extended right across the entrance. The other boat, which had preceded me, now turned back, and as she passed the people on board shouted out that the passage was no longer safe. My pilot however disregarded the warning, and pushed boldly on. The passage was extremely narrow, between widely extended sandbanks on either side; the huge waves tossed about the boat, big as it was, like a child's toy. At last after some anxious minutes we got inside, and were now in comparatively smooth water, without having shipped a drop. A great deal of apparently unmeaning shouting and hallooing took place, and our boat was allowed to surge hither and thither, till we drifted back again to the sandbank, where we found the other Japanese; they had run their boat ashore in the most reckless way, narrowly escaping a drowning in the surf. After mutual congratulations, we got into a houseboat and proceeded up the river to the landing-place, where I had to wait some time till a guard of soldiers could be brought down. This gave time for a crowd of spectators to collect, in spite of the advanced hour. At last the guard arrived; it consisted of cavalry, in long boots and conical hats, with white plumes of horsehair, commanded by a grizzled old warrior named Hachisuka Mimasaka, a descendant of the robber chieftain who founded the House of Awa, but a retainer for all that. They escorted me in solemn procession to a temple that had been prepared for our accommodation, by laying down red felt carpets and furnishing it with hastily constructed tables, chairs and bedsteads. It was evident that they had expected only a small party of three or four Europeans, but I explained to them that Sir Harry would not land without the Admiral, and neither of them could come on shore without the whole of his staff. So they had to make the best of it, and greatly extend their preparations before I would acknowledge myself satisfied. They had written up our official titles over the doors of the rooms intended for us, and mine had been rendered by "tongue-officer," a euphemism for interpreter; this I immediately had done away with, and my name substituted, for in Japan the office of interpreter at that time was looked upon as only fit for the lowest class of domestic servants, and no one of _samurai_ rank would ever condescend to speak a foreign language. I had often to fight pretty hard with Japanese of rank in order to ensure being treated as something better than a valet or an orderly. My good Awa friends, anxious to make me as happy as possible, had racked their brains in order to produce a dinner in European style, and a most dismal banquet it was; uneatable fishes in unsightly dishes, piles of unripe grapes and melons, heavy and tasteless sponge cakes, with coarse black-handled knives and forks to eat with. A wretched being, who had been to the United States as a sailor and had picked up a few words of low English, was put forward prominently to wait upon me, as if I were so ignorant of Japanese as to need an interpreter. It was explained that he was the only person in the clan who understood European manners and customs. I found him disgustingly familiar, and had to address a private remonstrance to one of the officials who had come down with me, who said that he was a privileged person "on account of his great learning." Nevertheless he administered a rebuke to the individual in question, who thereupon reverted to his native Japanese good manners. I had entirely lost my appetite, owing to having been without food since the middle of the day. We proceeded to discuss various points of etiquette connected with our proposed visit to the _daimiô_ at his castle. It was the first occasion on which foreigners of rank had been received within the walls of a native baron's fortress. It was finally decided that we should ride past the place where the notice to dismount stands, and get off our horses at the inner gate. The question of precedence at table was also decided. On one side were to sit the _daimiô_, his eldest son and a _karô_ named Mori, Commander Suttie of the "Salamis," Major Crossman of the Royal Engineers, Lieutenant Stephenson (flag lieutenant); on the other Sir Harry Parkes, Admiral Sir Harry Keppel, Captain Hewett, Mitford and Mr. Risk, the Admiral's secretary; I was to sit at the head of the table between Sir Harry and the _daimiô_. Separate and special individual presents were to be given to Sir Harry Parkes, to the Admiral and to myself, and a general present to all the others, to be divided among them as they liked. After all these knotty points had been disposed of, at a late hour I got to bed. On the following morning I left early and went down to the mouth of the river to see whether it was possible to cross the bar in order to meet Sir Harry, but found that it was still impassable owing to the heavy swell that continued to roll in from the open sea. After wasting a good deal of time in this vain attempt, I returned to the town, and procured nine horses, with which I started off overland to Nei, where the ships were lying. The road was pretty good in places, but at times very narrow, and wound in and out among the hills. The ponies were sturdy little animals, and though unshod trotted over the stones without stumbling, but they had hard mouths, and would not obey the snaffle. At Nei I got a small boat and went on board. From Sir Harry downwards everyone was willing to risk the ride to Tokushima, in spite of the weather. We started at four, and in a couple of hours reached the town, in a heavy storm of rain and wind. The streams, which had been quite dry when I passed in the middle of the day, were now so swollen that the water came up to the ponies' girths. We were wet through. If we changed at the temple, there was the risk of getting wet again in riding to the castle. It was arranged therefore that we should go on as we were, and dress in an ante-room. Mitford and Aston were engaged in drying their clothes. I had got into a pair of pyjamas, and could not ride in that costume. So I tried to procure three palanquins for us, which took an unexpectedly long time to produce. Sir Harry lost his temper, and swore he would not be kept waiting for all the d----d _daimiôs_ in Japan. Numata (my old teacher) and the other Awa people manifested the most stoical indifference to all this wrath. Mitford volunteered to go on horseback, so they set out. Aston, as a punishment for not being ready, was forbidden by Sir Harry to join the party, a prohibition which caused him the intensest joy. At last my palanquin arrived, I got in, and the bearers went off at such a pace that I reached the castle at the same moment as the others. In the dark, for it was now nine or ten o'clock, the walls of cyclopean masonry, as we entered the gates and wound through the outer fortifications, seemed very imposing, though they were not so in reality. We had to alight outside the point at which I had agreed with the officials, but luckily no one seemed to be aware of the alteration. We got into the palace and were shown into rooms where we changed our dress; and the different garb worn by the various members of the party was very curious, no proper uniforms or evening dress at all. I could only muster a shirt, a white coat and trousers, no waistcoat, and no cummerbund. Sir Harry was the only one who kept his shoes on, as every one had got his feet wet in riding from Nei. Everyone being at last ready, we were ushered through a series of wide passages into the banqueting room, and were met by the prince, who according to the agreement was clad in the ordinary costume of a gentleman, wide trousers, gown and mantle of silk. The introductions followed in the proper order of rank, and the prince led the way to the tables. The top one was oval, having been made months ago when it was expected that Mitford and I would be the only guests; the others were square. For the prince and his son there were elaborately carved chairs of old-fashioned style, for the rest of us there were three-legged chairs with semi-circular seats, very rickety and badly balanced. We were placed with our backs to the alcove (_tokonoma_), this being the seat of honour, on which the presents were laid out, a magnificent bronze about two feet high occupying the centre. Sir Harry and the Admiral gave the prince a couple of revolvers, which seemed to afford him much pleasure, and the return presents, consisting of rolls of brocade, crape and so forth, were then announced by one of the attendants. Sir Harry, who had by this time quite recovered his equanimity, made himself very agreeable to the prince, talking on general topics, instead of dwelling on the "relations of friendship which happily unite our respective countries" and the usual diplomatic commonplaces. The prince, Awa no Kami, to give him his proper title, was a man of about forty-seven years of age, of middle height, and with a refined countenance, slightly pock-marked; his manner abrupt and imperious, but his good humour without limits. Awaji no Kami, the son, was about twenty-two, a little taller than his father, with a mild, fat countenance, a gentle and subdued manner; and he exhibited great deference towards his father. The usual order of a Japanese dinner was reversed, the rice, soup and baked fish being first placed on the table. When this course had been removed, drinking commenced, a red lacquer cup being handed first to Sir Harry. I whispered to Sir Harry to call for the bowl to dip it in, and he returned it to the prince, who then offered it to the Admiral and to Captain Hewett, and then it travelled down the line to Stephenson, from whom it was returned to the prince. There was a good deal of picking at the various dishes of the banquet which was placed before us, and a great quantity of _saké_ was drunk. After a while a play was announced, and in order to get a better view of the acting we moved our chairs down to the other end of the room, where tables with our plates and drinking cups were placed before us. The actors were retainers of the prince wearing the long trousers belonging to the court costume, but not otherwise dressed for their parts. In the first piece there was three characters--master, servant, and guest. The master tells the servant to imitate him in all things, which injunction he takes literally, and addresses the guest in exactly the same style as his master employs to him; this enrages the master, who cuffs the servant, and he in turn the guest. This sort of fun continues with variations until the master's patience is quite exhausted, and he kicks the servant out of the room. The second piece is a well-known one, entitled "The Three Cripples." A rich and benevolent person advertises for cripples to enter his employ, and there enter successively a lame, a blind and a dumb man, gamblers who having become beggars have adopted these disguises in order to impose on the charitable. They are accepted, and having placed them in charge of three store-houses, their employer goes out. Then the three recognize each other as old comrades, and agree to open one of the store-rooms, which is full of _saké_, after which they will rob the other two. However, they get so drunk that when their master returns each forgets the part he had previously played; the blind man assumes dumbness, the lame one blindness, and the dumb pretends to be deaf. Their detection of course follows, with the natural consequences. After the play was over we drew round the little tables, and the _saké_ cup passed freely from hand to hand; Awa no Kami vowed that the Admiral was his father, and Sir Harry his elder brother, while Awaji no Kami expressed himself to me in a similarly affectionate manner. It was arranged that we should have a review of the troops on the following day, and about midnight the wind and rain having moderated we took our leave, getting back to our lodging at one in the morning. I found that even our servants had not been forgotten, presents having been sent to each one of them; not a single person was passed over. This was truly princely hospitality. I forgot to mention that before we started for the castle, a polite message of welcome was brought to Sir Harry from the prince, accompanied by a box three feet long, one deep and one wide, full of eggs, another of the same size full of vermicelli and a basket of fish. The trouble that had been taken to make us comfortable was very great, even after they had heard of the increased number they would have to entertain; they had gone to work to make bedsteads and tables, and even to build bathrooms. The morning turned out finer than could have been reasonably hoped for after the storm of the preceding day, and after breakfast we started for the parade ground. Our way lay through the castle, and over a considerable stream which washed one side of the fortress. It was a very good ground, though rather small, but the prince explained that he could not enlarge it without pulling down some Buddhist temples, which would shock the religious feeling of the townspeople. Some five hundred men, divided into five bodies of varying strength, were put through their drill. Their uniform was in imitation of European style, black trousers with red stripes down the side, and black coats; happy the soldier who could muster a pair of boots, the rest had only straw sandals. On their heads they had hats of papier-maché, either conical or of dish-cover shape, with two horizontal red bands. They used the English infantry drill, with the quaint addition of a shout to indicate the discharge of their firearms. In the opinion of those who were competent to judge, they acquitted themselves very creditably. We viewed the evolutions from a sort of grand stand, with tables before us piled up with various delicacies. _Saké_ of course formed part of the entertainment, and Hewett was singled out by the prince as assuredly the best toper of us all, on account of his jolly red face. Everyone this morning had remarked what a capital liquor is _saké_, it leaves no bad effects behind, from which it may be inferred that we had returned home on the previous night in a happy frame of mind and body. About noon we took our leave. Sir Harry presented a ring to the young prince, and the Admiral put another on the finger of Awa no Kami, to their intense delight. On our way back from the drill ground we were taken to a temple on a hill commanding an extensive view, where we were entertained with a luncheon washed down with bad champagne procured in Yokohama for the occasion. The prince whispered privately into my ear that he intended to abdicate and pay a visit to England. To Sir Harry he said all sorts of friendly things about the opening of Hiôgo to foreign trade. The Admiral promised to bring the "Ocean" and "Rodney" to Nei in the coming winter to show him what English men-of-war were like. After returning to our lodgings we had a substantial lunch off the provisions brought from the ships, but our entertainers were not contented till they had made us sit down to a final feast prepared by themselves, just for five minutes, to drink a farewell cup and receive a parting message from the prince. At last we got away, some on horseback, others in palanquins, and in three hours after leaving Tokushima we were safely on board ship. Sir Harry was accompanied by four principal officials to the "Basilisk," where Hewett gave them some excellent champagne, and they went over the ship's side full of affectionate regrets at having to part from us. The "Salamis" left at once for Yokohama with the Admiral, Mitford, Aston and Crossman, while we remained to pursue our voyage to Tosa on the morrow in the "Basilisk." CHAPTER XXII TOSA AND NAGASAKI EARLY on the morning of September 3 we anchored outside the little harbour of Susaki in Tosa. Inside were lying the Tycoon's war steamer "Eagle" (Kaiten Maru) and a smaller one belonging to the Prince of Tosa. We had fully expected a hostile reception, and preparations had been made for action. Shortly afterwards Takabataké Gorô and Koméda Keijirô came on board to say that Hirayama, the chief commissioner, was up at Kôchi. Gotô Shôjirô, the leading Tosa minister, also paid us a visit, but we told him to go away till we could get the ship inside the bay. Then arrived the other two commissioners (Togawa and an ômetsuké) to tell us that no evidence implicating any of the Tosa men had been discovered. The little schooner "Nankai," in which the assassins were supposed to have escaped from Nagasaki, was lying higher up the bay at Urado. Later on Gotô came on board with two other local officers. They promised to do all they could to discover the murderers, even if they should not be Tosa men. Sir Harry, who had quite made up his mind that the Tosa men were guilty, tried to browbeat them, adding oddly enough that with Tosa he could have none but friendly relations; the official discussions must take place with the Tycoon's government. After they left, Hirayama made his appearance; a long and stormy interview took place, in the course of which he heard a good deal of strong language, and was told that he was of no more use than a common messenger. He recounted to us in a plaintive manner the hardships he had undergone on the way down and since his arrival, for the Tosa people were extremely angry at the suspicions cast on them. Later on Sir Harry sent me ashore to see Gotô, and detail to him all the circumstances which seemed to us to be evidence against his fellow clansmen. He renewed the assurances he had given in the morning, and said he felt certain my writer Ono and Noguchi were neither more nor less than government spies. The next morning I saw Gotô again, who renewed his protestations, and complained of Sir Harry's rough language and demeanour, which he felt sure would some day cause a terrible row. I was myself rather sick of being made the intermediary of the overbearing language to which the chief habitually resorted, and told Gotô to remonstrate with him, if he really thought this; as for myself, I did not dare to hint anything of the kind to my chief. I also saw Hirayama, and arranged with him that I should be present at the examination of the officers of the "Nankai," who were to be sent down from Urado. At three o'clock two small steamers arrived, yet it was seven before the Tycoon's officials reached the "Basilisk" to say that everything was in readiness. As dinner was now announced, the inquiry was put off till the next day. On the 5th September the examination was accordingly held in my presence. On the Japanese side the evidence went to show that the "Nankai" did not leave till ten p.m. on the 6th August, while Sir Harry's version was that she sailed at half-past four that morning, only an hour and a half after the schooner; and it was on this alleged fact that the whole of the suspicion against the Tosa men was founded. (It was proved at the end of 1868 that the murderers belonged to the Chikuzen clan, which was rather an unfortunate conclusion for him.) I reported this to Sir Harry, who was of course greatly dissatisfied. Gotô afterwards came on board to see Sir Harry and there was the usual talk about cultivating friendly relations between the English and Tosa. Sir Harry said he wished to send me as his envoy to call formally on the retired _daimiô_ of Tosa, to which Gotô replied that Sir Harry could himself see the ex-_daimiô_, if we were on friendly terms. Otherwise, it was useless to hold any communications even by messenger. I knew perfectly well that I could easily manage to visit Kôchi, if left to myself, without the chief taking a roundabout way to get me there under the pretext of a mission to the old prince. By this time my relations with the Japanese were such that I could have gone anywhere with perfect safety. A visit from Hirayama and his colleagues came next. The evidence taken was discussed, and Sir Harry said the inquiry must now be removed to Nagasaki, and that Hirayama ought to proceed thither to conduct it. Hirayama objected strongly, offering to send his two fellow commissioners, but it would not do, and he was finally forced to consent. The poor old fellow was almost at his wit's end. He became actually impertinent, and remarked that after all this murder case concerned Englishmen alone, while he had business to transact at Yedo which concerned all nations. I was much astonished to find that Sir Harry did not get into a passion on being talked to in this somewhat unceremonious way by a Japanese, but simply replied to it in a quiet argumentative tone. But a more curious thing followed. After dinner Gotô came on board to have a talk on politics. He spoke of his idea of establishing a parliament, and a constitution on the English model, and said that Saigô entertained similar notions. That we had learnt at Ozaka. Then followed a good deal of abuse of the Tycoon's government, especially with reference to the proposed formation of a guild to control the foreign commerce of Ozaka and Hiôgo. We showed him the proclamation we had extorted from the government, intended to annul the previous one constituting these guilds. He replied that it was a mere blind, and I confess that I agreed with him. Sir Harry took a great fancy to him, as being one of the most intelligent Japanese we had as yet met with, and to my own mind Saigô alone was his superior by force of character. They swore eternal friendship, and Gotô promised to write once a month to report anything that might come to light in connection with the "Icarus" murder. Last of all he remonstrated with Sir Harry, at some length and in very explicit terms, about his rough demeanour on previous occasions, and hinted that perhaps others would not have submitted so quietly to such treatment. It was by no means a pleasant task for me to put his words into English, especially as Hewett's presence rendered the rebuke all the more galling, and Sir Harry at first seemed inclined to resent being thus lectured by a Japanese. However he managed to keep his temper, so no bones were broken. Poor old Hirayama was made quite ill by the struggle he had had with the chief, but he did not venture to break his promise to proceed to Nagasaki and pursue the inquiry in person. I now received detailed written instructions from Sir Harry to follow the old fox, as we called him, to Nagasaki, to watch the proceedings and stimulate both the Tycoon's officials and the Tosa people to leave no stone unturned in their search for the murderers. Sir Harry himself was obliged to return to Yedo in the "Basilisk," and it was arranged that I should take a passage down to Nagasaki in a Tosa steamer, together with the incriminated officers of the "Nankai" and the officials named to conduct the inquiry. I was to be clothed with authority equal to that of the consul, but was not to interfere in any measures he might think fit to take. Sir Harry left on the 6th September, and I transferred myself to the Tosa steamer along with my writer and the faithful Noguchi. There I spent the next day, after having seen the Tycoon's war steamer "Eagle" depart with Hirayama on board. In the middle of the night I was woken up by a messenger from Gotô, bringing an invitation for me to go up to Kôchi and make the acquaintance of the ex-_daimiô_. They had sent down a tugboat for me, so I went on board at once at four, after a hasty meal of rice and tea, and falling asleep on a locker, woke up at daylight to find myself already some way from Susaki. We did not anchor at Urado till half-past nine. The view outside of distant hills and a belt of pine trees fringing the shore reminded me strongly of the Bay of Point de Galle in Ceylon, where the eastern mail steamers used to call before the construction of the harbour at Colombo. Kôchi Bay is in reality an estuary, with a very narrow outlet, much obstructed by rocks. We seemed to be running straight on to the sandy beach, when a sudden turn to the left put our head into the river, and we came to an anchor in fifteen feet of water inside a little cove. The river widens considerably above this point, but is so shallow that only boats drawing less than a foot of water can go up. I was transferred to a houseboat, which made very slow progress. At last, after traversing two or three broad lake-like reaches, we came in sight of the castle of Kôchi, rendered conspicuous from a distance by its lofty donjon four storeys high. Soon afterwards we turned up an embanked canal to the left, and touched the shore under a large new building on the outskirts of the town. Here I was met by Gotô, who told me that the ex-_daimiô_ would shortly arrive. While waiting for his appearance I changed my dress, and was introduced to a host of Gotô's colleagues. At last the ex-_daimiô_ Yôdô was announced, and I was conducted upstairs into his presence. He met me at the threshold, and saluted me by touching the tips of his toes with the tips of his fingers. I replied by a bow of exactly equal profundity. We then took our seats, he on a handsome Japanese armchair with his back to the alcove, and I on a common cane-bottomed wooden chair opposite, a little lower down to his right. Gotô and some of his fellow councillors squatted on the sill dividing the room from that next to it. He began by saying that he had heard my name. I replied by thanking him for according me the honour of this interview. He then renewed the assurances already given through Gotô that if the murderers were Tosa men, they should be arrested and punished, and that even if it should appear that the guilty persons belonged to another clan, he would not relax his efforts to trace them out. He had received a letter from the Tycoon stating that he had heard there was strong evidence against Tosa, and advising him to punish the offenders. This of course he would be ready to do, supposing that the murderers were men of his clan, but he did not understand what the Tycoon meant by "evidence." I replied that we supposed the government to be in possession of proofs which they had not disclosed, as it was not likely that they were convinced simply by what Sir Harry had said to them. Perhaps, I added, they threw the suspicion on Tosa in order to get rid of an unpleasant discussion. This remark called forth from Gotô somewhat unmeasured expressions of indignation, and he announced his intention of giving the government a piece of his mind on the subject. Old Yôdô said that he had received a letter from a friend advising him to try and compromise the matter, as the English were greatly incensed at the murder of their men, but he would do nothing of the kind. If his people were guilty he would punish them; he could do no more; but if they were innocent he would declare their innocence through thick and thin. Matsuné Dzusho (the chief man of Uwajima) had told Iyo no Kami that Sir Harry had said the Tycoon's government had assured him of Tosa's guilt. I replied again that from the language of the Tycoon's ministers we could not help inferring that they had independent grounds for their suspicions. Yôdô remarked that the only thing Hirayama had alleged was the supposed transfer of men from the schooner "Yokobuyé" to the steamer "Nankai," which had never been proved. I answered that this was all we had to go upon, but I should consider that we had good reason to blush if after all we had said the men should turn out to belong to another clan; at present I saw no ground for supposing that we were mistaken. An argument then ensued between Gotô and myself as to the nature of suspiciousness in general, and what might be held to be sufficient justification for that attitude of mind; in the end he admitted that we were entitled, by our past experience, to mistrust all Japanese _à priori_, though he maintained that in the present case the rule did not apply. After this Yôdô and Gotô plied me with questions about the Luxemburg affair, the constitution and powers of parliament and the electoral system; it was evident that the idea of a constitution resembling that of Great Britain had already taken deep root in their minds. Later on a proposition was actually made to either Mitford or myself, I forget which, to enter the service of the Mikado and assist in organizing their parliament for them. Huge dishes of fish were now placed on the table, and waiting women, _coiffées_ in the exaggerated style of the _daimiôs'_ courts, poured out the _saké_. While we drank and conversed, a pair of anatomical models of the male and female human being, life size, were exhibited and taken to pieces for my especial edification! Rice was afterwards served in the next room, Yôdô excusing himself on the ground of indisposition. The fact was, he preferred to remain alone with the _saké_ bottle, of which he was notoriously fond. I had once in my possession a scroll of Chinese verses from his brush, signed "Drunken old man" (_sui-ô_). Before taking my departure, I saw him once more for a few minutes, when he presented me with seven rolls of white crape. Under the circumstances I should have preferred to decline them, but Gotô argued that they were a part of the entertainment, and I could not refuse without being ungracious, almost discourteous. I therefore accepted, subject to the chief's approval, and we parted, with the same exchange of formal bows as before. Yôdô was a tall man, slightly pock-marked, with bad teeth, and a hurried manner of getting out his words. He certainly looked very ill, and over-indulgence in _saké_ would quite account for that. From some of the remarks he made, I gathered that he was free from prejudice, and not by any means conservative in his political notions. Still, it may be doubted whether he was prepared to go the same lengths as Satsuma and Chôshiû in the direction of change. It was not considered advisable or safe for me to promenade through the town, and I made no attempt to insist on doing the sights. As I returned back to Urado in the gondola, multitudes of people followed in small boats, anxious to get a sight of the first European that had visited their part of the country since the wreck of the Spanish galleon in 1596, and even grappling with us in order better to satisfy their curiosity. No order was kept, and I was easily convinced that a walk in Kôchi itself might have given rise to a tumult. Next day they took me to Susaki, and put me on board the "Shooeyleen," the steamer in which we were to proceed to Nagasaki. For the past two days I had been suffering from a whitlow on one of the fingers of the right hand, and felt utterly indifferent to all that passed around me. Bad food, a dirty cabin, excessive heat, sullen fellow-voyagers were all accepted with the calmness of exhausted misery. The "Shooeyleen's" boilers were old, and we steamed along at the rate of two knots an hour. Luckily the weather was calm, otherwise there was every reason to think we must have gone to the bottom. Passing through Shimonoséki, I went on shore to ask after old friends, and found Inouyé Bunda, who was a perfect sink of taciturnity. There was no appearance here of guns or men-of-war, nothing to indicate that Chôshiû was still at war with the Tycoon; but all around were signs of peace and prosperity. The Tosa officers also landed, one and all, on some pretext or other, and the whole day was spent at anchor. Towards evening we set forth again in the same leisurely fashion, and reached Nagasaki on the 12th September late in the afternoon. Here I put up with Marcus Flowers, the consul. At dinner that evening I met for the first time the well-known Kido Junichirô, otherwise Katsura Kogorô, who came to the consulate together with Itô Shunsuké, whom I had known since 1864. Katsura was remarkable for his gentle suave manner, though under this there lay a character of the greatest courage and determination, both military and political. We had some talk after dinner about politics, but I think they mistrusted me. At any rate they thought it necessary to assert that their prince was a much wronged, innocent and harmless individual, who had never entertained any schemes for overturning the Tycoon's government. But we had long been in possession of indisputable evidence that the abolition of the Shôgunate was the cardinal point in the policy pursued by the western _daimiôs_ acting in concert. On the following day Flowers and I went to meet Hirayama at the custom-house. The two governors were also present. Though they had been severely blamed by Sir Harry, they did not appear to be particularly disturbed by his censures. The Tosa steamer "Nankai" had left, in fact she steamed out of the harbour just after Sir Harry went off in the "Basilisk." On the 19th of August, as she was about to leave for Kagoshima, she was stopped, and an examination was held, which lasted through the night until the afternoon of the 20th, but without any evidence of complicity in the murders being elicited. The officers and crew were then entrusted to the charge of Iwasaki Yatarô, Tosa's agent (_kiki-yaku_), who undertook to produce them whenever they should be wanted. But she sailed the same evening, in defiance of Iwasaki's orders, at least so the Tosa people alleged. Nothing had been discovered with respect to the real criminals, and, as far as we could see, the governors had not exerted themselves to find out the guilty persons. The 14th I spent with Itô and Katsura at a tea-house called Tamagawa, away at the back of the town close to the stream which flows down through it. We had a long discussion on Japanese politics, domestic and foreign, ending with the conclusion that Europeans and Japanese would never mix, at least not in our time. On my way back I called on Hikozô (the well-known Joseph Heco), who told me of a document, said to be signed by Satsuma, Tosa, Geishiû, Bizen and Awa, which had been presented to the Shôgun Keiki, requiring him to resign his office and allow the government to be reconstituted. On Sunday the 15th I lunched with Hirayama. He said that Sasaki Sanshirô, the Tosa _metsuké_ (equivalent to attorney-general, but not trained in law), was overruled by the Tosa society called the _Kai-yen-tai_, a sort of local navy league, who would not allow him to carry out the official orders received from his prince to have search made for the criminals. This was natural enough, as it was afterwards proved that the Tosa men were altogether innocent of the affair. [Illustration: KATSU AWA NO KAMI Commissioner of the Navy] [Illustration: NIIRO GIÔBU, SATSUMA KARÔ] The 16th was spent at the custom house in the examination of the men of the "Yokobuyé," a Tosa sailing-vessel. It appeared certain that the "Nankai" did not leave Nagasaki till the evening of the 6th August. Two of the _Kai-yen-tai_, one of whom was the captain of the "Yokobuyé," were shown to have been at a house of entertainment opposite to the spot where the British sailors were murdered up to midnight. This looked suspicious, but I told the Japanese officials that if they did not disbelieve the statements that had been made, neither did I. The Tosa people did not want to make the "Yokobuyé" return, neither did the government officials seem to insist on her recall. As my plan was to throw on the government officials the responsibility of discovering the murderers, I did not urge it, but left it to Flowers, who was associated with me in the inquiry, to do so if he judged it necessary. In the evening of the 18th I went to see Hirayama, and communicated to him my suspicions regarding a young fellow of forbidding countenance, who was with the captain of the "Yokobuyé" on the night of the murder at the house of entertainment referred to. I suggested that his companion should be sent for, and also the four men stated to have gone to Karatsu (in the north of Hizen, near the boundary of Chikuzen) in the "Nankai," and to have landed there. I advised that the keeper of the house of entertainment should be examined, and asked for copies of all depositions received, especially of the two Tosa men. What had fixed suspicion upon men of that province in particular was their general evil reputation as being predisposed towards assassination. The depositions were sent to us by the governors in the afternoon of the 19th, and on discrepancies being pointed out in those of the two Tosa men, they promised to send for one of them whose further examination appeared to be especially desirable. The translation of the depositions occupied me for the whole of the succeeding day. Then on the 21st I went to see Niiro Giôbu, a Satsuma _karô_, and asked him to make an inquiry about the murder among his own people. He said this had already been done, and offered to give me a copy of the record. As he said that nothing suspicious had been discovered, I declined his offer with thanks. But I hinted to him the possibility of the exclusion of all two-sworded men from the foreign settlement after dark, unless the murderers were discovered and delivered up by the combined clans, a measure which had been recommended to Flowers and myself by Sir Harry, for if the discovery were made by the government, it would be taken to be a proof of the complicity of his clan at least. He did not at all like this suggestion. Then I went to Sasaki Sanshirô, with whom I had travelled from Tosa. He said that the governors had lent a steamer to fetch the captain of the "Yokobuyé" and another man, and complained of Hirayama's supposition that he was lukewarm, seeing that he had given money to all the detectives in the place, and had offered a reward of 4000 pieces of silver (worth £450) for the discovery of the murderer or murderers. Next to Hirayama, to whom I proposed that he should order the Nagasaki representatives of all the clans to examine their men as strictly as the Tosa agents were doing, for as we had been ten days at work without being able to fix the responsibility on them, it was not unreasonable to admit the possibility of men of some other clan being guilty. I proposed that every two-sworded man should be called upon to give an account of his doings on the night of the murder, and that all the houses of entertainment should show their lists of guests on that date. There was, I said, no real difficulty in discovering the perpetrators. In consequence of all this one of the governors called the next afternoon. We proposed to him that the two-sworded men should be excluded from the settlement after dark, to which he added an amendment that if they had urgent business there in the evening, they should be escorted to and fro. The examination of all the clansmen and of persons who were in a house of entertainment close to the site of the murder was again urged by us. The governor also promised to have guard-houses erected at three points in the foreign settlement. Two days later the same governor called again, and promised that the precautionary measures we had proposed to him should be taken. Nothing further was done until the 28th, when I attended at the custom house to hear the examination of two Tosa men who had been brought from Kôchi in the government steamer. It led to this result, that the governors declared that they found nothing to incriminate any of the men who had left Nagasaki in the "Yokobuyé" and "Nankai," and considered the Tosa people to be cleared of all suspicion as far as these two vessels were concerned. We rejoined that on the contrary we entertained very strong suspicions, not founded on any ocular testimony, but on circumstantial evidence, namely, that the murder was almost certainly committed by men in white foreign dress a little after midnight. That one of the two men with a companion were close to the spot where the murder was committed at the very moment, and that they were dressed in that fashion, and that no one else had been shown to have been in the brothel quarter in similar costume. We afterwards addressed a letter to the governors demanding the arrest of these two men on the above grounds, but we were not sanguine of obtaining their consent, as it was evident that the government officials were unable to exercise any control over the Tosa people. Very little progress was made after this, as was natural enough, seeing that the Tosa people were entirely innocent of any share in the murders, as was afterwards proved. On October 6 I had an opportunity of conversing amicably with the vice-governor. I said that the Tosa people tried to throw obstacles in the way of discovering the criminals, instead of courting inquiry in accordance with Prince Yôdô's expressed wishes. That the government had lost much ground with foreigners in this affair. Firstly, the possibility of the murder being committed in such a manner showed the incapacity of the government to maintain order, and, secondly, it was not fitting that a body calling itself a government should allow _daimiôs_ to enjoy such rights of extraterritoriality to the extent that was shown by the recent examinations at the custom-house. The vice-governor replied that he had nothing to do with these matters, to which I rejoined that this was precisely the reason why I had spoken to him about them. We received a refusal to our demand for the arrest of the two Tosa men. A few days later a drunken Englishman was cut about the head and an American wounded slightly in the arm by a Tosa man, who straightway gave himself up to his own authorities, and they reported the affair. Having failed entirely in our attempts to bring the crime home to the Tosa people, Flowers and I agreed that it was useless for me to remain any longer, and accordingly I returned to Yedo, leaving about midnight of the 12th October on board H.M.S. "Coquette," which had been lent by the Admiral to bring me back to Yokohama. During my stay at Nagasaki we heard a good deal about the discovery and arrest of native Roman Catholic Christians of Urakami, a village near the town. Niiro Giôbu of Satsuma, who came to see me on the 12th October, said that besides the Urakami people, some of the inhabitants of a village close by, belonging to the _daimiô_ of Omura, had been converted, and were now in prison at Nagasaki. According to Japanese law this was a capital offence. The Omura officials had hitherto conformed to the practice of the Nagasaki government with respect to the punishment of criminals, and desired to act accordingly in the present case. It was, however, reported that the governors intended to pardon all those who were willing to abjure, because the number of offenders was so large. This offended the Omura officials, who held that believing in Christianity was a very grave crime; further, that the proposal to let such criminals off on the pretext that they were too numerous to punish was revolutionary and subversive of good government, and they were endeavouring to induce all the _daimiôs_ of Kiûshiû to join in a representation in that sense to the government at Yedo. This proposal was of course intended as a general manifesto against the Shôgun's government. I replied that he must quite well know that Christianity was not harmful to any country by whose people it was professed, and that even a Protestant government such as that of England would not be pleased to hear of Roman Catholics being persecuted on the ground of their religious belief, but if the only object of the remonstrance was to annoy the Shôgun's government, we should not disapprove of that by itself. On the general subject of Japanese internal politics, he said he did not believe that civil war would break out, or at least he pretended not to, though at the same time he acknowledged its possibility. Hirayama, to whom I said good-bye on the same day, told me that all the Christians of Urakami had been forgiven on their promising "not to do so again," and that they would be permitted to believe what they liked, doubtless on condition of their not professing their religion openly. He thought the Omura officials would also forgive their Christians. This opinion of his was, however, in contradiction to what I had heard from Niiro. My stay at Nagasaki afforded me useful opportunities of making the acquaintance of _samurai_ of various southern clans. I have already mentioned my introduction to Kido Junichirô. The 14th I spent almost entirely in the company of Kido and Itô. A few days later Kido called to offer me the use of a steamer to Ozaka, if it suited me to return to Yedo by that route, but I deferred accepting, as my plans were not yet settled. Eventually arrangements were made for my being conveyed to Yokohama in one of H.M. ships, so that I was able to decline his obliging proposal. When Itô came to say good-bye on September 23, he was accompanied by a young fellow-clansman whom he wished me to take to Yedo, nominally as a pupil. This was Endo Kinsuké, one of the party of five Chôshiû men to which Itô had belonged, who went secretly to England in 1863, as already narrated. He bore the alias of Yamamoto Jinsuké. Itô's pseudonym was Hayashi Uichi, and Inouyé Bunda went by the name of Takada Harutarô. Amongst other interesting information given to me by Itô was that my friend Yamagata Keizô, who was one of the Chôshiû men that had accompanied me to Yokohama in October 1864, had been adopted by Shishido Bizen. It was his father, Yamagata Taiga, who wrote the pamphlet of which the title translated is the equivalent of "The present _daimiôs_ are not vassals of the prince," _i.e._ of the Shôgun, and not Nagai Uta, to whom it was usually attributed. Itô was a pupil of the well-known patriot Yoshida Torajirô, the author of several books controverting the views of Yamagata and Nagai. He said there were two schools of Chinese philosophy in Japan, namely, of Teishi (Ch'êng-tzu) and Oyômei (Wang Yang-ming), of which the first inculcates the duty of resisting tyrants, the second that of self-reformation. Yamagata belonged to the latter, hence his arguments against any attempt to disturb the existing political arrangements. (But the most widely diffused system in Japan was that of the philosopher Chu Hsi.) Niiro Giôbu I saw four times. I dined with him once at a Japanese restaurant, when he said that he knew nothing of the engagement of Frenchmen by Iwashita Sajiemon, a Satsuma man who had gone to Paris for the exposition of 1867, and there came under the influence of the Comte de Montblanc. Directly he heard of it he wrote to Iwashita that the engagements must be cancelled, but his letter did not reach Paris in time. I said that of course we could not object to Satsuma employing Frenchmen, but as French views of Japanese domestic politics differed so widely from ours, and it was well understood that ours coincided to a certain extent with those of Satsuma, it was natural to ask whether this engagement implied a change of policy on the part of the Satsuma clan. Niiro replied that such a supposition would be quite natural, but that in fact no such change had occurred. Since the time when Osumi no Kami (father of the Prince of Satsuma, and virtual ruler of the clan notwithstanding his formal retirement from public life) had decreed the adoption of English methods, the whole province had become enthusiastic in their favour, and objected very strongly to the proposed introduction of Frenchmen. He was afraid he should have to send them home again. A few days later Niiro dined with Russell Robertson (assistant at the consulate) and myself at Robertson's house, when we engaged a French cook to serve the dinner. On this occasion no political conversation took place, but he told us that Saigô was Osumi no Kami's confidential man, and Komatsu Tatéwaki one of the seven _shussei_ (administrators) of the Satsuma clan. The prince, whose title was Shiuri no Taiyu, was 29 years of age, and his brother, Shimadzu Dzusho, 28. Altogether there were ten brothers and sisters, besides the three girls of the late prince, Satsuma no Kami. My last talk with Niiro was on October 12, when he gave me information about the native Christians, already recorded. Last year I had met at Robertson's house a doctor belonging to the Kurumé clan, and he now came with his son to ask permission to bring some of his fellow clansmen to call on me. This they did on the 8th October. Their names were Imae Sakai, said to be connected with the government of the clan; Nagata Chiûhei, who was visiting Nagasaki for the first time in his life; and Tanaka Konoyé. Originally a Kiôto clockmaker, he had developed into a skilled mechanical engineer, and had constructed engines and boilers for a couple of Japanese steamers. After drinking a bottle of champagne together, we sallied forth to a Japanese restaurant, where we had a little feast in the style of the country, and a great deal of political talk. They said their principal reason for objecting to Hiôgo being opened as a port for foreign trade was that the tea consumed at Kurumé came from the provinces to the west of Hiôgo, and they feared it would be diverted to that place for exportation. With regard to internal affairs, I said I did not see how they could be settled without a war of some kind or other, as the _daimiôs_ could not agree among themselves. A civil war might last twenty or thirty years, and greatly impoverish the country, while it would afford an opportunity to foreign powers to appropriate bits of Japanese territory by aiding one party against the other. But a foreign war, in which Kiôto became the object of attack, would lead to the reconciliation of their internal differences, and when peace came to be made we could conclude treaties with the Mikado, in which the constitutional position of the Tycoon might be defined. Nagata, who was already drunk, shouted out: "You must not attack Kiôto, but destroy the _Baku-fu_." This was the term, meaning "military power," by which the adversaries of the Tycoon were in the habit of speaking of his government. It appeared from this utterance that the men of Kurumé shared what was evidently the general feeling in the west of the country. Afterwards we adjourned to another restaurant, where a grand feast was served. More of the Kurumé clan came in, and the room was gradually filled with courtesans and musicians. Most of my friends got very drunk, so after about two hours of this festivity I left, and the party broke up. I also had a dinner with a Tosa man named Yui, who was captain of the "Yugawo." Another acquaintance I made was that of Hosokawa Riônosuké, younger brother of the Prince of Higo, who came to call on Flowers. He had a fat round face, was about 25 years of age, and intelligent. He tried to pump me about the Tosa affair but failed, and when he proceeded to talk politics I held my tongue, for Higo was supposed not to belong to the Satsuma party. He then invited me to visit him on board his steamer and have a long conversation, but when I went at the appointed hour on the following day he was absent. However, next day two of his men called to apologize for his breaking the engagement, and he also appeared in person to tell me of the desire cherished by the Higo people to invite Sir Harry Keppel, the Admiral in command of the China squadron, to some point off their coast to display naval evolutions; for the clan having ordered an iron-clad man-of-war and two smaller war steamers to be built in England, wanted to learn how they should be manoeuvred. He was at great pains to prove that he was on the best of terms with Kido (_alias_ Katsura), and that the Hosokawa brothers loved the English more than they did any other nation, for all their steamers, besides 16,000 rifles of different patterns, had been bought from us. I replied that their inviting the Admiral to a place off their coast and not to the castle at Kumamoto, was like sending for a troupe of tumblers to perform before one's house, into which one would not care to admit them. If a man were prevented from inviting a guest to his own house, it would be more courteous to go and call on him than to ask him to come half-way, and that Riônosuké at least ought to come to Nagasaki and visit the Admiral first of all. He said he intended going to Shimonoséki with one of the Higo _karô_ (councillor) to arrange an alliance between Higo and Chôshiû. Endo presented himself on the 12th, but instead of coming straight to me, he sent in his card by my Aidzu retainer Noguchi, who read it and at once discovered who he was. We embarked in the course of the evening, and steamed out of the harbour at eleven p.m. through the inland sea, and without calling anywhere, arrived at Yokohama at midnight on the 16th. CHAPTER XXIII DOWNFALL OF THE SHOGUNATE BEFORE leaving Yedo I had taken a lease of a house known as _Taka-yashiki_ (high mansion) on a bluff overlooking the bay, at a monthly rental of 100 _ichibus_, equal to £6 13s. 4. It was the retired home of a Japanese gentleman of rank, who had abdicated his position in favour of his eldest son, and had bought a piece of ground to build himself a residence after his own taste. Consequently it was one of the oddest houses imaginable, consisting of a number of small rooms of varying sizes, and the garden was laid out in little hills and grass-plots, planted with trees and shrubs. The only flowers were those of the camellia and St John's wort bushes (Hypericum Chinense), for herbaceous borders are almost impossible to manage in Japan, owing to the heavy summer rains, which beat down all plants that have not woody stems. The whole covered about two-thirds of an acre. There was an upper storey, where I had my bedroom and apartments for the entertainment of Japanese guests, and three staircases provided means of escape in case of attack from the midnight murderer. Downstairs was a room for the reception of European visitors, and two waiting rooms for callers, one more for the accommodation of my head man and my own study. This was nine feet square, with a circular window commanding a view of the sea, and a square one at the side overlooking the garden. It was fitted up with numerous small cupboards and shelves for the accommodation of books and papers. It held a writing desk, a small table, a chair for myself and one for my Japanese teacher, and a stool for the Chinese teacher attached to the legation. There were also a large bathroom, a kitchen, and a two-storeyed building beyond where my head man lived, and where the young Japanese to whom I intended to teach English were to be lodged. My food was entirely in the Japanese style, sent in from the well-known house called Mansei, but I continued to drink English beer. The household consisted of my head man (the Aidzu _samurai_, Noguchi, who has been already mentioned), whose function was to superintend everything, pay my bills, arrange for necessary repairs, and receive persons who came on business which did not require a personal interview with myself. Next to him came a small boy of fourteen who waited at table and acted as valet. He was of the _samurai_ class, and so entitled to wear sword and dagger when he went abroad. Then there was a woman of about thirty years of age, whose duty it was to sweep the floors, open the sliding shutters in the morning and close them at night, and sew on my buttons. As there was hardly any furniture, she had very little dusting to do. I was to engage a man to go, not run, on errands, perhaps cook the rice for the whole family, and make himself generally useful. Lastly came a gatekeeper, who had also the duty of sweeping the garden, and a groom or running footman. When I went out walking or on horseback, I was accompanied by a couple of the mounted escort that had been attached to me by the Tycoon's government since my journey overland from Ozaka in the earlier part of the year. Thus established as a householder after my own liking, able to devote myself to Japanese studies and to live intimately with Japanese and thus become acquainted with their thoughts and views, I was perfectly happy. In my journal I find noted down a dinner on November 6 with Nakamura Matazô at the Sanku-tei near Shimbashi, with _geisha_ of course to pour out the _saké_ and entertain us with music and bright conversation, and on the 7th a dinner of broiled eels and rice at the Daikokuya, Reiganbashi, with Yanagawa Shunsan, a teacher at the foreign language school (_kaiseijo_). The political ferment threw a great deal of work on me in interpreting for Sir Harry in his talks with government people, and in translating official papers from and into Japanese, and these duties often occupied me from nine o'clock in the morning till nine in the evening, with only short intervals for meals. In the dead of night on November 16 Ishikawa Kawachi no Kami, one of the commissioners for foreign affairs, came to impart to Sir Harry the momentous news that the Tycoon had resigned the direction of government into the hands of the Mikado, and in future would simply be the instrument for carrying out His Majesty's orders. We had heard from other sources that he had abdicated, and that the office of Shôgun would cease to exist. Already on the 14th Ogasawara Iki no Kami had told us confidentially that the programme of the future consisted of a council of the great _daimiôs_, decision by the Tycoon subject to the approval of the Mikado.[4] The actual date of Keiki's resignation was November 8. [4] For the detailed circumstances of this event I must refer the reader to Chapter V. of my friend Mr. J. H. Gubbins' valuable volume "The Progress of Japan, 1853-1871." At an interview with Sir Harry two days afterwards, Iki no Kami read out a long paper explaining the causes which had led to the Tycoon's decision to surrender the government into the hands of the Mikado. He went into a long retrospect of affairs from the commencement of the renewed intercourse with foreign nations. The blame was, of course, thrown on the agitators for political change. Keiki, it said, had not resigned the chieftainship of the Tokugawa clan, but had simply abolished the office of Shôgun. The new arrangement would not involve any change in the previous agreements about the opening of the new ports which had been entered into earlier in the year. Two of the Council of State, Nui no Kami and Hiôbu Taiyu, were off to Kiôto. Katsu Awa no Kami told us that he was afraid that the Tycoon's party would precipitate events, and cause the outbreak of civil war. Kanéko Taisuké, a retainer of Sakai Hida no Kami, told us that the _daimiôs_ were collecting troops at Ozaka. Satsuma had 5000 men, and Chôshiû and Tosa men, under the command of Môri Nagato, were also encamped there, so that we should find ourselves in a hornets' nest when we went down to superintend the opening of the ports. The Tycoon had ordered 4000 or 5000 men to be despatched thither. The Council of State had informed his chief and Matsudaira Hôki no Kami that in future they might be Tycoon's or Mikado's men as they liked. A secret circular had been sent round among the _hatamoto_ (retainers of the Tokugawa chief holding fiefs assessed at less than 10,000 _koku_ of rice) inciting them against Keiki, by accusing him of having poisoned the previous Shôgun Iyémochi, and calling upon the faithful to assemble at Mukôjima, a suburb of Yedo. The _sampei_ or drilled troops were clamouring for their pay. Civil war at Kiôto was inevitable. Truly it seemed as if the end of the old régime had come. A week later Iki no Kami circulated another paper to be substituted for the first, in which he had vented a little too much abuse of the anti-Tycoon party. Matters had quieted down very much in the interval. Kanéko also came to us and confessed that there was no foundation for the rumours he had previously reported. Last night there arrived a letter from Gotô Shôjirô, brought by Gotô Kiûjirô, one of the aliases of him whom we afterwards knew so well as Nakai Kôzô, and a companion. They produced a copy of the Tosa memorial of last month, advising the Tycoon to take the step he had since adopted, and proposing various reforms. Of these the most important were the establishment of an assembly composed of two houses, the erection of schools of science and literature in the principal cities, and the negotiation of new treaties with foreign powers. They asked me for detailed information about parliamentary practice, which I did not possess, so I put them off by promising that they should get it from Mitford when we went to Ozaka for the opening of the ports. They were succeeded the following day by a messenger from Yoshii Kôsuké of Satsuma, to report that all was going on well, and that they hoped to be "favoured with a call" as soon as we reached Ozaka. Saigô and Komatsu had gone down to Kagoshima to fetch either Osumi no Kami or Shiuri no Taiyu. We had now become acquainted with the Satsuma agents in Yedo; the _rusui_ (as the principal representative of a _daimiô_ was called) Shinosaki Hikojirô scoffed at the notion that the Tycoon had given up the reins of government because he thought it would be better for the country at large to be ruled by an assembly; the fact was that he could not help himself. Messages arrived by post from Tosa and Satsuma, the "two or three clans acquainted with the dispositions of foreigners" mentioned in the Mikado's most recent edict respecting foreign affairs. This seemed to indicate a pretty strong desire to gain our support. We now prepared to start for Ozaka. On the 27th November I went down to Yokohama with my little pupil, Tetsu, dressed like a drummer-boy. Mitford and I sailed on the 30th at daylight in H.M.S. "Rattler," Captain Swann. On December 2, as we were steaming up the Kii channel, we encountered a strong northwest breeze, against which the ship could only do two knots, so deficient in boiler-power were the British men-of-war of that period. We anchored off Ozaka in the afternoon, and as no boats put off from the shore, we had to conclude that the bar was impassable. However, we managed to get ashore about noon, and proceeded to call on the governors at their official residence opposite the castle. It is a remarkable proof of Mitford's linguistic powers that he was able to carry on the conversation in Japanese entirely unaided, although he had been in the country no longer than twelve months. Our mission was to find quarters for the legation, and after consultation with them we went to inspect a _yashiki_ behind the castle, which had been occupied in the spring by Iga no Kami, Keiki's principal minister. We arranged for its repair, and for the construction of a temporary barrack for the mounted escort and a detachment of fifty men of the 9th regiment, who were to arrive as a guard. Everything was to be ready by the 18th if possible. This peaceable and entirely commercial city was full of two-sworded retainers of _daimiôs_. Finding that Saigô had not yet returned from Kagoshima, and that Yoshii was in Kiôto, we wrote to the latter asking him to come down to see us, but he replied that he was too busy, and recommended us to wait until Saigô came back. We visited the site of the intended foreign settlement, where we found bonded warehouses, a custom-house, a guardhouse and a palisade being erected, the object of the latter being to cut off the foreign residents from the city. This proceeding was altogether contrary to treaty stipulations, and we lost no time in lodging a protest with the governors. On December 7 we called on two of the Council of State and their colleagues of the second council (Inaba Hiôbu Taiyu, Matsudaira Nui no Kami, Nagai Hizen no Kami and Kawakatsu Bingo no Kami), who were on their way to Yedo, and had orders from the Tycoon to stop at Ozaka to see us. They gave us no information worth mentioning, but asserted that he had long ago been intending to take the step of surrendering the government to the Mikado. This of course we did not believe, our view being that he was tired of being badgered by Satsuma, Chôshiû, Tosa and Hizen, and that in order to give unity to his own party, he had resolved to call a general council, which possibly might reinstate him by a majority of votes, and thus establish his authority more strongly than ever. On December 12, having transacted all our business at Ozaka, we started in palanquins for Hiôgo. Mitford walked as far as Ama-ga-saki, which he reached in 3-3/4 hours, and I in a palanquin took half-an-hour more. By three o'clock in the afternoon, after travelling six hours, we had got only half-way. So we betook ourselves to Shanks' mare. Mitford's Japanese teacher Nagazawa and our escort had to trot in order to keep pace with us, and we got on board the "Rattler" soon after six. Having dined with Captain Swann, we went ashore again, and took up our quarters for the night at the municipal office (_sô-kwai-sho_). Next day we called on the newly appointed governor, Shibata Hiuga no Kami, to discuss various business details. He told us that there had been a week of feasting at Kôbé in honour of the anticipated opening of the port, with processions of people dressed in red silk crape, with carts which were supposed to be transporting earth to raise the site of the proposed foreign settlement. Its situation appeared to us entirely satisfactory. Fêtes at Hiôgo itself were also projected. These we took to be marked signs of goodwill on the part of both government and people, and to promise a great extension of friendly intercourse between Japanese and foreigners. The same day we returned to Ozaka by boat, accompanied by Noel (afterwards Admiral Sir Gerard Noel), first lieutenant of the "Rattler." There we found the whole population occupied with festivities in honour of the approaching opening of the city to foreign trade. Crowds of people in holiday garb, dancing and singing "Ii ja nai ka, ii ja nai ka" (isn't it good), houses decorated with rice-cakes in all colours, oranges, little bags, straw and flowers. The dresses worn were chiefly red crape, a few blue and purple. Many of the dancers carried red lanterns on their heads. The pretext for these rejoicings was a shower of pieces of paper, bearing the names of the two gods of Isé, alleged to have taken place recently. On the 14th we received a visit from our Satsuma friend Yoshii. He told us that the coalition, which was determined to push matters to the last extremity in order to gain their points, consisted of Satsuma, Tosa, Uwajima, Chôshiû and Geishiû. Higo and Arima were inclined to join, Hizen and Chikuzen indifferent. On the whole, it might safely be said that all the western clans were pretty much of one mind. Osumi no Kami (who suffered a good deal from _kakké_, a sort of dropsy of the legs) was too ill to come to Kiôto, and Shiuri no Taiyu was to take his place, arriving in a few days. Saedani Umétarô, a Tosa man whose acquaintance I had made at Nagasaki, had been murdered a few days ago at his lodgings in Kiôto by three men unknown. The Tycoon had about 10,000 troops at Kiôto, Satsuma and Tosa about half that number between them, part in Kiôto, part in Ozaka. Other _daimiôs_, such as Geishiû, would also bring up troops. The Chôshiû question would be difficult to settle peacefully, as the Tycoon's party included a large number of men who wished to force on a renewal of the war in order to effect the complete destruction of that clan. I took occasion to say that the murder of our sailors at Nagasaki was by no means disposed of, and that one of the first demands to be laid by us before the new government would be for the punishment of the murderers; that no money compensation would be accepted, and that the Japanese, if they wished to remain on good terms with foreigners and to avoid a disaster, had better prevent the occurrence of such incidents. Yoshii replied that if internal affairs were not placed on a sound footing on the present occasion, the _daimiôs_ would wreak their wrath upon foreigners, in order to provoke bad relations between the Tycoon and the treaty powers. I responded that they would not gain their object, as we could no longer hold the Tycoon responsible for the acts of persons over whom he had no real control. On the 16th I received a visit from two Uwajima men, Sutô Tajima and Saionji Yukiyé, the former a man of high rank in his clan, the other an official whom I had met when I was at Uwajima in the spring of the year. They had come up to Ozaka as precursors of Daté Iyo no Kami, who was expected to arrive early in January. They represented him as greatly pleased with the existing prospect of the establishment of a parliament, regarding which the old prince had talked to me on more than one occasion. I mentioned the Nagasaki affair in similar terms to those I had used to Yoshii, and assured them that the question of reparation was by no means abandoned, but was simply in abeyance for the present, and I explained that we were on as good terms with Tosa as before. No sooner had they gone than Nakai came in to say that Gotô had arrived the previous evening, but was too busy to call on us. We offered to call on him instead of his coming to us, a proposal which was joyfully accepted, and meeting Gotô in front of the Tosa _yashiki_ (agency), we turned in there with him. Our first topic was the murder of our two sailors. We said that though the particular suspicion against Tosa was removed by the discovery that there was no foundation for the report of the "Yokobuyé" and "Nankai" leaving the port together on the night of the murder, the fact that our men had been killed by Japanese still remained, and that we should not rest until redress was afforded, not in the shape of a pecuniary indemnity, which some people appeared to suppose would satisfy the British Government, but by the punishment of the criminals, and that we were content to wait until the establishment of the new constitution gave us an opportunity for presenting our demand with effect. He replied that the recent murder of two of his own subordinates inspired him with sympathy for our feelings, and that both the ex-Prince Yôdô and he himself held that no stone should be left unturned to discover the criminals. I then asked him to take charge of a gun which I wished to present to Yôdô as a small return, though not of any great value or beauty, for his kindness to me. We then discussed the constitution which he proposed for the new government, and particularly the senate he desired to see established. The upshot of the conversation was that he promised to come down from Kiôto to see the chief on his arrival, and to stay a few days at Ozaka in order to learn more from Mitford and myself about the English form of government. All we could do on that occasion was to give him some information about the composition of the Cabinet, and the method of carrying legislation through Parliament. Gotô said he wanted to employ a foreigner, such as myself for instance, to collect information for him, and with whom he could consult. I replied that I was content to serve my own government, and could not take service under that of any other state, but that if the clan wanted the services of an officer they should apply to the minister for the loan of one. The idea of taking _pay_ from a Japanese, however highly placed, did not suit me, and I was resolved, in case I quitted Her Majesty's service, not to seek another career in Japan. That evening we, that is, Mitford, Noel and I, devoted to a _dîner en ville_ in the Japanese fashion at a sort of "Trois frères" called Tokaku, and about half-past six we started forth. It was expected that the streets would be full of merry-makers, and the two men of my escort who were detailed to accompany us wished that the rest of them should be summoned to attend us. But I threw the burden of decision on their shoulders by saying that I thought the two of them would be enough for anything, and no more was heard of that proposition. So we issued into the streets, and dived through all sorts of back lanes to find a shorter cut, for my instinct seemed to show the road, but our escort triumphed after all, and they brought us to the place of entertainment by what proved to be a circuitous route. Some difficulty was experienced in making our way through the crowds of people in flaming red garments dancing and shouting the refrain _ii ja nai ka_. They were so much taken up with their dancing and lantern-carrying that we passed along almost unnoticed, but I was half afraid the escort (_betté_) would provoke a quarrel by the violent manner in which they thrust people aside in order to make way for us; on the contrary, the crowd did not offer any rudeness to us, and let us pass without hindrance. On reaching Tokaku we found the principal rooms occupied by festival makers and the rest of the house shut up. Our messenger had been just that instant turned away with a refusal to receive us. While we stood there trying to persuade the people of the house to give us a room, a herd of young men and boys trooped in, shouting and dancing, and tossing about in their midst a palanquin occupied by a fat doll clad in the most gorgeous robes. All the feasters in the house came out to meet them, one cannot say at the doors, for in Japan there are no doors, but on the thresholds in which the sliding screens run that divide the different parts of a house. After a violent united dance executed by all present, the troop disappeared again. The number of pretty girls who appeared as dancers was much larger than previous experience had led us to suppose Ozaka could possibly contain. We could not prevail on the Tokaku people to take us in, but they gave us a guide to a house about "five minutes" walk distant. There we found the doors locked, the explanation being that all the inmates had gone to the dance. We began to despair of success, and contemplate the possibility of having to return to our quarters and sup on whatever cold food "the philosopher" (Mitford's Chinese servant Lin-fu) could give us. Luckily however the guide, a little man on sturdy legs, said he knew of a house called Shô-ô-tei (Hall of the Old Man of the Pine Tree), where we might as well call, since it lay on our road home. So we went there, and after waiting a few minutes were shown into a very good room, where we had our meal, waited on by the women of the house, who carried on the conversation and passed the wine cup, offices usually discharged on such occasions by _geishas_. The entire absence of fear or dislike on the part of the Ozaka women was very remarkable when compared with the cold and often hostile reception we were accustomed to meet with in Yedo. Curiosity apparently triumphed over every other feeling; and besides, the attendants mostly had their teeth dyed black, a sign of mature age, instead of wearing them as they are naturally, and probably felt immune from attempts at flirtation. We got home early, very pleased with our adventure. Noel returned next day to his ship, and we moved over from our lodgings in Tera-machi to the quarters prepared for the whole legation behind the castle. The main building was large enough to accommodate the minister and three or four members of what he delighted to call "the staff," a military term picked up during his campaigns in China. The outbuildings were given up to Mitford, the officers of the detachment from the 2/ix regiment shared a second, guests were to be put up in a third, the mounted escort in a fourth, and the fifth I reserved for myself; a temporary shed was provided for the infantry guard. After settling in, we went to call on Saigô, with whom we found Iwashita Sajiémon, just back from Europe, accompanied by his friend the Comte de Montblanc. The conversation turned on the murder of the two bluejackets of H.M.S. "Icarus." Saigô paid me the compliment of saying that I gave little hits, but hard ones. Opinion seemed to be divided as to the probability of more such murders being committed. I used to find that men who desired the progress of Japan, and were actuated by friendly feeling towards its people, maintained that the attacks on foreigners would cease, but that unprejudiced observers did not give one much encouragement to leave off the practice of carrying revolvers. We gave them clearly to understand that the "Icarus" affair could not be disposed of by the payment of a sum of money by way of "indemnity." They were anxious to disprove the possibility of there having been a plot on the part of Tosa and Satsuma men to murder Mitford and myself when we passed through Fushimi in the previous August. (Fortunately we changed our route for other reasons.) But I had no doubt myself of the fact. Noguchi had told me when we reached Ozaka that he had overheard some men, whom he believed to be Tosa _samurai_, expressing their regret at having failed to carry out their project, and when I told Gotô at Susaki that I had heard this story, he replied that being in Kiôto at the time he too had heard such a report, and took measures to prevent the scheme, if there were one, from being carried out. Saigô tried to show that it could not have been true, and asserted that Gotô was not then in Kiôto. We assured him that we did not think it probable that men of either Satsuma or Tosa would desire to take the lives of foreigners, but that the clans contained ruffians who sometimes took such ideas into their heads quite independently of their chiefs. Ishikawa Kawachi no Kami, a commissioner of foreign affairs, came to see us on the 18th. He told us that no date had been fixed for the assembling of the _daimiôs_, and no one of them could be blamed if he arrived at Kiôto later than the others. Even supposing that the few who were already there, or were about to arrive, should discuss matters and come to a decision, how could they enforce it? Objections would surely be raised. We came to the conclusion from this conversation that civil war was after all not unlikely to break out, and that the omission to fix a date for the assembly was part of the Tycoon's plan for embarrassing his opponents. Letters which arrived overland from Yedo on the 20th reported the general impression to be that there was no more a Tycoon, and that Keiki was nobody. So much did distance and report by word of mouth change the look of the situation. Itô Shunsuké's opinion was that war would begin almost immediately, with the object of depriving the Tycoon of a part of his domains, which were far too large for the peace of the country. He had only seven battalions of infantry in Kiôto, all reinforcements having been countermanded in the belief that no cause for war existed. Of course Hiôgo and Ozaka would not be the most peaceful places of residence for foreigners if war did break out, and our Legation, situated just at the back of the Ozaka castle, would be endangered, as that fortress was certain to be the centre of a severe conflict in arms. He wanted to know whether Sir Harry's arrival and the opening of Hiôgo and Ozaka to foreign trade could not be deferred, and whether Saigô had written to the chief to make this proposal. I said "No, of course" (though I did not know). Then, said he, their object must be to open these two places, and so content foreigners, while the Japanese went on with their plans for the reformation of the government. Some one however must be appointed to represent Japan at Ozaka and Hiôgo. I suggested the present governors, but he replied that they would immediately be expelled when the crisis arrived. I rejoined that as long as the insurgent forces did not attack the residences of foreigners, they might do as they liked with the Tycoon, but that if they interfered with us they would have a couple of English regiments and all the foreign men-of-war to fight against, as well as the Tokugawa troops. Itô did not think they would wish to do this, and promised to let me know beforehand when the actual day for taking action became imminent. A body of Chôshiû men was coming up under the command of Môri Heirokurô and Fukumoto Shima, Katsura (_i.e._ Kido) and Kikkawa Kemmotsu being obliged to remain at home to carry on the administration of the province. Sir Harry arrived on December 24, took a look at the legation quarters, and then went back to the ship that had brought him down. There was a fine confusion all day. I received a letter from Shinosaki Yatarô comparing the present condition of the country to an eggshell held in the hand, and begging me to persuade Komatsu and Saigô to keep the peace. On Christmas Day Kasuya Chikugo no Kami, a commissioner of foreign affairs, called. He said that the _daimiôs_ of Hikoné, Bizen and Geishiû, all three men of importance, were in Kiôto, and he appeared to be doubtful what was going to happen. My old friend Hayashi Kenzô, who had made the cruise in H.M.S. "Argus" with me in January, called on the 28th, and reported that 1500 Chôshiû men had disembarked at Nishinomiya on the 23rd, under the command of Môri Takumi. He also seemed uncertain whether there would be any fighting, but he thought that Saigô and Gotô were trying to keep the peace. My protégé Endo naturally went off to Nishinomiya to see his clansmen, and doubtless to report what he had learned in Yedo to Môri Takumi. The latter had the reputation of being a man of capacity, which was perhaps the reason why he had retired into a private position (_in-kio_) early in life. On the 29th Iga no Kami came to see the chief, accompanied by Nagai Gemba no Kami, who had the credit of being almost the only adviser of the Tycoon at the moment, though of course Iga no Kami was admitted into their secrets. All the governors of Ozaka and Hiôgo were present, and the only subjects of discussion related to the arrangement for opening these places to trade on January 1. "All the governors" is the phrase, because the practice in those days was to duplicate nearly every administrative office. Next day the two great men came again, and the Nagasaki murders were the topic of conversation. It appeared unlikely that we should obtain any satisfaction. It was however agreed that old Hirayama should again go to Nagasaki, in spite of Gemba's efforts to get him let off this disagreeable errand. The Foreign Office had written approving Sir Harry's action, and he seemed inclined to keep this question hanging over the Tycoon's government as a perpetual nightmare. He told them in the strongest language that we would never desist from pressing the matter until the murderers were seized and punished. Our callers asked a great number of questions about the English constitution, just as Gotô had done, so that it appeared as if both parties were desirous of getting our advice. Then Sir Harry told them that unless they got all troops away from Ozaka, where they might come into collision with foreigners, he would send for a couple of regiments. I could not help feeling that it was unfair of him to meddle in this way in Japanese domestic affairs and thus add to the Tycoon's embarrassments, for as the _daimiôs_' forces had taken Ozaka merely as a stage towards advancing on Kiôto, where else could they go except to the capital? Following on this move, he sent me the following day to Koba Dennai, the Satsuma agent, to explain why he wished their troops to be removed. Koba replied that there were only two hundred and fifty, but doubtless they could be sent elsewhere, and he would write to Saigô on this point. From there I went on to see a Chôshiû man named Nagamatsu Bunsuké, who had come over from Nishinomiya, and was stopping with the Geishiû people. A proclamation was out announcing that the Chôshiû forces, having been ordered to come up to the neighbourhood of the capital, were allowed to borrow the use of the Geishiû _yashiki_, and to be quartered also at the Nishi Hongwanji temple. Nevertheless, they had no wish to come to Ozaka, and thought it a great piece of luck that the English Minister had proposed to the Tycoon's people what they themselves happened to desire most particularly. I found it impossible to get any explanation from Nagamatsu of the real reason for their coming. Iga no Kami had told us that by a messenger who left Geishiû on the 15th, instructions were sent ordering them not to come, but he went by sea, thus missing a Chôshiû messenger who arrived there by land to report that they were starting in compliance with the orders previously given. (This was evidently a mere fiction.) He also said that on the 20th three Chôshiû steamers full of troops put in at Mitarai in Geishiû, and asked for Geishiû officers to accompany them. This request was refused, and they were advised to return home, which they declined to do, alleging their prince's orders; without a recall from him they were unable to go back to Chôshiû. This was the Geishiû story, which it was impossible to believe. I felt certain that it had been concocted between the two clans, and was simply in accordance with the general plan of campaign. That the Tycoon should have sent orders to countermand the movements of Chôshiû troops was pretty clear proof that when the original instructions were given (if they really were given), the present change of policy on the part of the government was not contemplated--as Iki no Kami had pretended to us--but in reality had recently been forced on them by the confederate daimiôs. It had been intended by the chief that I should go down to Nishinomiya to ascertain how the land lay, but having learnt all that the Chôshiû man was willing to tell me, I was relieved from the necessity of undertaking a toilsome journey. That day, the last of the year 1867, despatches arrived from the Foreign Office sanctioning my appointment as Japanese Secretary, with a salary of £700 a year, in succession to Eusden, transferred to Hakodaté as consul. CHAPTER XXIV OUTBREAK OF CIVIL WAR (1868) ON New Year's Day salutes were fired at Tempôzan, the fort at the mouth of the Ozaka river, and at Hiôgo, in honour of the opening of the city and the port to foreign trade. Many Japanese had been under the impression that it had been deferred, owing to the notification about the west coast port, _i.e._ Niigata, which they took to mean Hiôgo because of its situation west of Kiôto. I conceived a plan for taking the chief up to Kiôto to mediate between the contending parties, and to prevent the Japanese from cutting each other's throats, and I proposed to go ahead of him to Fushimi in order to make the necessary arrangements with Saigô and Gotô. But this ambitious scheme was frustrated by the rapidity with which events developed at Kiôto. Rumour was very busy during the next few days. First, we heard that the two princes of Chôshiû had been reinstated in their titles. The Tosa _in-kio_ (Yôdô) landed on the afternoon of January 1, and went up to Kiôto at once without stopping at Ozaka. It was said that the Tycoon's position was weak, for he had no support except from Aidzu and one or two of the smaller clans. Chôshiû's people had taken military possession of Nishinomiya, and were patrolling the surrounding country, as if afraid of being attacked. My man Noguchi told us that the Chôshiû troops had left Nishinomiya, and marched ten miles to Koya on the road to Kiôto. All the Aidzu men at Ozaka had gone up to Kiôto. The prince was dissatisfied with the Tycoon's leniency in the Chôshiû business, and intended to resign his office of guardian of the Mikado's person (_Shugo-shoku_). On the 4th January there were symptoms of a great disturbance at Kiôto. The ministers of the other Treaty Powers came to visit the chief and impart their views of what had passed. For the most part these were of very slight value, for they were very much in the dark as to the internal condition of Japan. Von Brandt, the Chargé d'Affaires of the North German Confederation, was so little acquainted with the geography of the country as to confound Geishiû and Kishiû. Endo, who had come back from Nishinomiya, told me that Môri Takumi was already at Kiôto with part of the Chôshiû force, and that another part had occupied Fushimi in conjunction with Satsuma troops. But more significant than anything else was the fact that Satsuma, Geishiû and Tosa were guarding the imperial palace in the place of Aidzu. There was some talk of the Tycoon intending to come down to Ozaka, and boats were said to have been embargoed at Yodo to convey his drilled soldiers down the river. That the object of the _daimiôs_ was not to fight the Tycoon, but only to extort concessions from him. They proposed to deprive him of a million _koku_ of lands as a punishment for the transgressions of the Tokugawa family. It was certain, Endo said, that the Chôshiû question was settled, and that the guards of the palace had been changed. Noguchi's story was that Aidzu, disgusted with the Tycoon, sent in his written resignation, but that it was intercepted by Kuwana. The Tycoon however had heard of Aidzu's intention, of which he informed Iga no Kami directly after the return of the latter from Ozaka, and sent him his dismissal. Then the three clans above-mentioned seized the environs of the palace. The _daimiôs_ thereupon proceeded to the palace to discuss the situation, but the Tycoon refused to attend. He would neither fight nor take any decided action; his sole aim was to arrange matters peaceably. Noguchi evidently was reflecting the war-like disposition of his clan. Ishikawa Kawachi no Kami gave a somewhat different account, but it was clear that up to that moment there had been no disturbance of the peace. The _Kwambaku_ Nijô, a nephew of the Tycoon Iyénari, who died in 1841 aged 52, was said to have been dismissed, and either Konoyé or Kujô appointed in his place. Chôshiû's troops had entered Kiôto on January 2. Ozaka was not perturbed by the events that had passed at the capital, and on the 5th I was able to give an entertainment to my Japanese escort at a restaurant in the city. We had two charming _geishas_ to attend on the party, one looking as if she had just stepped out of a picture, the classical contour of the face, arched nose, small full underlip, narrow eyes, and a good-hearted expression of countenance. The other personally more attractive according to western notions of beauty, but with a little of the devil in her eyes. Lastly, there was an old _geiko_ or musician of six or eight and twenty, a clever woman. The streets were still illuminated at night for the festival, and crowded with dancers. On the 6th the mystery was cleared up by Ishikawa, who came to tell me that on the 3rd Satsuma had proposed to abolish not only the Tycoon, but also the _Kwambaku_, _Tensô_ and _Gisô_, the three offices intermediary between the Mikado and the Tycoon. The new administration would consist of _Sôsai_, which sounded like secretaries of state; _Gijô_, which he thought meant a cabinet; and thirdly _Sanyo_, resembling our under-secretaries of state. This looked rather like what we had suggested to Gotô as the framework of the future executive.[5] He said that this proposal had met with great opposition from others besides the _fudai daimiôs_, who were afraid that the extremists might go further and abolish the Mikado. I endeavoured to reassure him on this point. "It is not," he continued, "a proposal which can be discussed over the table, and fighting must decide." It seemed from his account that the Tycoon personally did not object, but his followers objected for him, while he seemed willing to make every possible sacrifice in order to secure peace. [5] But it was not quite correct. The Sôsai were to be a sort of partners in the office of Minister-President, as we should call it, and Gijô were to be the heads of administrative departments. From a letter of January 4 to my mother, I find that on the 1st Locock, Mitford and Willis, the legation doctor, and I were to have gone over to Hiôgo to dine with the Admiral, whose steam-launch was to come to Ozaka to fetch us. So we went down to the foreign settlement, and, having no other resource, got into a large Japanese boat managed by a single little boy with a paddle. At first we proceeded very slowly, but a sailing boat gave us a tow, after which we shoved off and had to depend again on the small boy. It was bitterly cold, with a north-east wind. I sat in the bows, holding up a railway rug with my teeth. Two of the others protected themselves with umbrellas, and Mitford's Chinese servant, the faithful Lin-fu, hoisted a mat on a pole. So we sailed down the river to the port at its mouth. No signs were to be seen of the launch, so we tried to hire a Japanese boat to carry us across the bay, the distance being only eleven miles and the wind fair, but one and all refused, on account of the gale they would have to encounter in coming back. So we were compelled to put our luggage into a boat and return. The distance from the fort to the Legation was about seven miles and a half, but it took us several hours, as we had to call in at the newly established vice-consulate in the foreign settlement. We dined all together at the Legation, the chief being confined to his room with a sharp attack of lumbago, which had not, however, prevented his making a formal entry into Ozaka on horseback, accompanied by the mounted escort and the guard of fifty infantry detached from one of the regiments stationed at Yokohama. By January 7 all was over with the Tycoon. That morning Moriyama, the ancient Dutch linguist who used to interpret between the foreign ministers and the Rôjiû, came to communicate the news of Keiki's withdrawal from Kiôto. At first I feigned to suppose that he was coming down to see the French Minister. "Not at all, he is coming here, deprived of the office of _Shôgun_." He had already made up his mind to do this four or five days before, but was persuaded to countermand the orders given for his departure, whereat the commissioners for foreign affairs stationed at Ozaka had rejoiced greatly. But now the orders had been repeated, and would be carried out. We sauntered out to look at the preparations made for his arrival. Small bodies of drilled troops were marching about headed by drummers, and field-pieces were placed so as to sweep the narrow streets. We saw men in all sorts of military costumes with their heads muffled up to protect them from the cold, not presenting a very martial appearance. We went on to the restaurant on the river bank, where in the spring we had been often entertained _à la Japonaise_, and found it full of Aidzu men, whose arms were piled outside. There was a _karô_ inside, on whom I paid a call. He ascribed the Tycoon's withdrawal to his unwillingness to fight under the walls of the palace, and described the leading _daimiôs_ as being at loggerheads, Satsuma desiring to carry out their plans by main force, and Tosa preferring to rely on reason; but their objects were identical. It was not Kaga, but Tosa, that was endeavouring to negotiate an arrangement between Satsuma and the Tycoon. He talked a good deal about forms of government, and thought that Gotô's plans would be delightful, if feasible, but the nation was not yet ripe for fundamental changes. I agreed with him that representative government would be a curious substitute for the despotic form of authority that had existed hitherto. Mitford and I went out again about two o'clock to have another look at the preparations, and wandered over the Kiô-bashi bridge on to the Kiôto road. Here it was evident that the Tycoon was expected to arrive at any moment. There were wonderful groups of men in armour, wearing surcoats of various gay colours, armed with spears and helmets. Here we found Kubota Sentarô, the commander of the Tycoon's drilled troops, with a couple of colleagues, one of whom told Mitford in bad Japanese that they were very brave and intended to die. I whispered to Kubota that a brave man did not retreat in this fashion. He repeated the explanation of the Tycoon's objection to fighting at the steps of the throne, and perhaps endangering the person of the Mikado. I replied that he should not have given up the guard of the palace. Kubota alleged the Mikado's orders. I suggested that if the Mikado ordered that there should be no fighting, that order must be obeyed. The significant rejoinder was: "Yes, by the Tycoon, but not by his retainers." We had just got to the end of the street that ran by the castle moat when the bugles sounded to arms, and we saw a long train of drilled troops advancing. We stood on one side opposite to a man wearing a gorgeous red surcoat, till the troops should pass. On they went, followed by a herd of men in fantastic costumes (_yû-géki-tai_, "brave fighting men"), some wearing helmets with long wigs of black or white hair reaching half-way down their backs, others in ordinary helmets, basin-shaped war-hats (_jin-gasa_), flat hats, armed, some with long spears, short spears, Spencer rifles, Swiss rifles, muskets, or the plain two swords. Then a silence came over the scene. Every Japanese knelt down as a group of horsemen approached. It was Keiki and his train. We took off our hats to fallen greatness. He was muffled in a black hood, and wore an ordinary war-hat. What could be seen of his countenance looked worn and sad. He did not seem to notice us. Iga no Kami and Buzen no Kami, members of his council, who came next, on the contrary nodded gaily to our salute. Aidzu and Kuwana were also there. Then followed other _yû-géki-tai_, and the procession closed with more drilled troops. We turned round with the last of these, and hurried on to see the entrance into the castle. On the way we met the chief, who had come out to have a look at the Tycoon, to whose downfall he had contributed as far as lay in his power. The defiling across the bridge over the moat was an effective scheme of colour, and the procession entered by the great gate (_ôté_). Every one dismounted except the Tycoon. Rain fell, in much accordance with the occasion. The chief insisted, much against my own feeling, in sending to ask for an interview on the morrow. In the letter I sent, I spoke of Keiki as Tycoon Denka (His Highness the Tycoon). The reply which came back styled him simply Uyésama, the title borne by the head of the Tokugawa family before his formal recognition as Shôgun by the Mikado's Court. Endo came back with the following information. Arisugawa and Yamashina, both princes of the blood, Ogimachi and Iwakura, court nobles, were appointed _Sôsai_; the princes of Owari, Echizen, Geishiû, Satsuma and Tosa were appointed _gijô_. Ohara (a court noble) and various others were to be _Sanyo_, besides three from each of the great clans. Satsuma in this way was represented by Iwashita, Okubo and Saigô. Those of the other clans were not known to him. The titles of the Prince of Chôshiû and his son had been restored to them. The palace was guarded by Satsuma and Geishiû, Chôshiû's troops held the city of Kiôto. A Satsuma steamer had left for Chikuzen to bring back the five court nobles who had fled in 1864, Sanjô (afterwards prime minister for a series of years), Sanjô-Nishi, Mibu, Shijô and Higashi-kuzé (subsequently minister for Foreign Affairs). It was difficult to accuse Keiki of cowardice. No one had ever yet expressed such an opinion of him, and the probability was that he could not put confidence in the courage of his troops. How a new government which did not include the Tokugawa chief could hope to succeed one did not see. He must either join the _daimiôs_ or be destroyed. Perhaps the latter alternative was what his adversaries designed. Keiki had declined to see the chief on the following day, and it looked as if the audience would have to be deferred. The policy advocated in the _Sakuron_, translated from my articles in the "Japan Times," seemed to govern the situation. The opening of Yedo to foreign trade must evidently be postponed, as Locock had declined the responsibility of superintending the execution of the arrangements. On the morning of January 8 the chief became very impatient, and about noon ordered me to prepare a note to the effect that Locock and I should go to the castle and arrange for an audience. Its despatch was delayed by a private note from Koba Dennai asking me to name an hour for an interview with him. At three o'clock our note was to have gone in, when in came Tsukahara and Ishikawa to inform us that the French Minister was to see the Tycoon, as we still called him, at once, and that Keiki could receive Sir Harry to-morrow at any hour he chose to name. On hearing that he had been outstripped by his colleague, his wrath was unbounded; he claimed priority on the ground of superior diplomatic rank, and ordered out the escort. We proceeded to the castle in pouring rain. I was a little behind the others, and entered the audience chamber just as Roches and Sir Harry were exchanging words about what the former stigmatized as a breach of _les convénances_ in interrupting his interview. But he got as good as he gave, and the audience then proceeded, after Aidzu and Kuwana had been presented and ordered to retire. Aidzu was a dark-complexioned man with a hooked nose, about thirty-two years old, of middle stature and thin; Kuwana an ugly young person, apparently twenty-four years of age, pock-marked and of dwarfish proportions. The old fox Hirayama sat behind the Uyésama and took notes. Shiwoda Samurô, who spoke French well, interpreted for Roches and I for Sir Harry simultaneously the words which fell from Keiki's lips. He gave but a lame account of the events of the last few days, professing at one moment to have withdrawn his troops from the palace in accordance with an imperial order, while refusing to recognize another such order, which he felt was equally dictated by Satsuma. Perhaps this was natural on his part, for it abolished his office and forbade him access to the palace. He had had it hinted to him that he should also resign his rank of Naidaijin, and offer to surrender two million _koku_ of lands; but he had resolved not to heed the suggestion, on the ground that this property belonged to him apart from his office, just as much as the lands of Chôshiû, Satsuma and the other _daimiôs_ belonged to them. He appeared to feel that the _daimiôs_ had stolen a march on him by preparing their plans beforehand, instead of proceeding with the general congress of princes at which each should be free to speak his own mind; in other words, he was vexed at having been taken in by a stratagem. That the proposal of a congress was merely intended to throw dust in his eyes was pretty evident. He explained the order for the withdrawal of the Aidzu palace guard by saying that other _daimiôs_, amongst them Satsuma and Geishiû, held some of the gates under Aidzu, and that they introduced certain proscribed court nobles into the precincts after the _Kwambaku_ and other dignitaries had retired for the day on the morning of January 3rd., and that at noon the same day these persons issued the proclamation setting up the new government. This he said was a preconcocted matter; they had it all ready on paper, and took these measures without consulting anyone. At one time he seemed to say that the five great _daimiôs_ were divided among themselves, at another he spoke of the decrees as having been agreed to by them all beforehand. After finishing his account, he asked the opinion of the two ministers. Both expressed admiration of his patriotism in surrendering power, and the justice of his desire to settle all questions by a general congress, Roches in very flattering terms, Sir Harry more moderately, asking also some pertinent questions, which were answered without much frankness. Keiki gave as his reason for coming down to Ozaka his fear lest a tumult should arise in the vicinity of the palace, and his desire to appease the indignation of his followers. It was his intention to remain at Ozaka, but could not say whether the opposite party would attack him there. To another question as to the form of government that had been set up at Kiôto, he replied that the Mikado ruled nominally, but that Kiôto was occupied by a set of men who did nothing but quarrel among themselves, anything but govern. Yet he did not appear to claim that he himself possessed any authority, and he did not know whether the other _daimiôs_ would rally to his support. Some of those who were at Kiôto had been disgusted at the congress not having come into existence, and had returned to their homes; others who were confounded by the audacity of the five still remained there. Our inference, of course, was that they were not of his party. The Uyésama finally said he was tired, and so put an end to the conversation. One could not but pity him, so changed as he was from the proud, handsome man of last May. Now he looked thin and worn, and his voice had a sad tone. He said he would see the ministers again in order to consult with them. The commissioners for Foreign Affairs gave us a paper announcing Keiki's resignation of the office of Shôgun, and the change of his title back to Uyésama. It turned out that what Koba wanted was to ask whether I could tell him what the Uyésama's plans were; was he returning to Yedo in order to gather his forces together, or remaining at Ozaka with the intention of undertaking a "ruffianly" expedition to the capital. I sent back a reply by Itô that I knew nothing of Keiki's intended movements. To suppose that I would supply information on such points showed great simplicity. The diplomatic body being intent on the observation of neutrality between the contending parties, held a meeting on the morning of January 9 at the Prussian Legation to frame a declaration, and a request to be informed where the government was being carried on. The French Minister did his best to make the former a declaration of non-partizanship with the _daimiôs_. Shiwoda his interpreter and I had to translate it into Japanese, which we did separately. His version was very literal, and he rendered "divers partis" by a term which could only be applied to conspirators. I also wished the translation to be in free Japanese, not adhering slavishly to the wording of the original, and we had a quarrel over this point. After Shiwoda left me, Ishikawa came in, to whom I showed my version, in order that whatever were the result, no doubt should be possible as to the attitude of the British Legation. Up to a late hour at night nothing was settled, except that the interview with the Uyésama, which was to have been immediate, was put off. On the following morning, after the two translations had been compared, the chief suggested an alteration in the French original which removed the cause of dispute. Then Locock and I went round to the other ministers and got them to accept my translation. While we were at the French Legation Hirayama and Kawakatsu came in, and they took the paper away with them to prepare the Uyésama's reply. A difference had arisen between Roches and Sir Harry as to relative precedence. The former was only minister plenipotentiary, while our chief was envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary. According to all rules he was senior, but the other ministers held that Roches, having arrived first in Japan, had precedence. This decision did away with Sir Harry's claim to be _doyen_, and his reason for asserting a right to have audience before any of his colleagues. The latter pretension was, of course, one that could in no circumstances be upheld. At three o'clock the whole diplomatic body assembled at the castle in the _o-shiro-jô-in_, all the other apartments being occupied by Aidzu, Kuwana and Kishiû. The same ceremony was observed as at an European court. Behind the Uyésama stood his pages; at his left Aidzu, Kuwana, Makino Bitchiû no Kami, Matsudaira Buzen no Kami (two councillors of state), and a noble person whom I took to be Ogaki, then Hirayama and Tsukahara. On his right were a number of _ô-metsukés_. In Japan, as in China, the left was the position of honour. Close to His Highness stood Iga no Kami, on whom devolved the task of reading the translation of the Diplomatic Body's address. The reply was a very long one, spoken by the Uyésama himself. He began by explaining his policy, vindicating his retirement from Kiôto, and expressing his determination to abide by the decisions of a general council. His reply to the particular question asked by the ministers was that foreigners should not trouble themselves about the internal affairs of Japan, and that until the form of government was settled he regarded the conduct of Foreign Affairs as his own function. The commissioners for foreign affairs, who were probably apprehensive that they might to-day become nonentities, were obviously relieved. They became joyful, and somewhat triumphant. The audience was over in an hour and a half. After the delivery of his speech the Uyésama went round the row of foreign ministers and spoke a few words to each. To Sir Harry he said that he hoped for a continuation of his friendship, and for his assistance in organizing the Japanese navy. The chief replied in florid style that his heart was the same as it had ever been towards him, and that he trusted the sun shining through the windows was an omen of his future, a metaphor which I found some difficulty in putting into Japanese. However, the Uyésama pretended to take it all in. One of the private secretaries, Tsumagi Nakadzukasa, came in the evening to assist me in translating the answer into English. From Kuroda Shinyémon I received the correct text of the Kiôto decrees. He told me that the _daimiôs_ were unanimously awaiting Keiki's reply to the demand for two million _koku_ of lands and the surrender of a step in court rank. They expected to be joined by the other western _daimiôs_, and also by the northern ones. I advised that they should not fight if they could help it, but if they judged it necessary, to do it at once. He nodded assent. It was intended that in three or four days the _daimiôs_ would declare their intentions to the foreign ministers. It showed, I thought, a good deal of courage on the part of a Satsuma man to come all the way past the castle sentries to our legation, and to spare him this risky proceeding I promised to go and see him at his own quarters. Ishikawa brought me a document purporting to be a protest of the retainers of Awa, Hizen, Higo, Chikuzen and other great _daimiôs_ against the violent proceedings of the Satsuma party, and insisting on the convocation of a general council. As far as could be inferred from their language, it did not appear that war was contemplated by either party. We heard that in a day or two Owari, Echizen and the court noble Iwakura would come down to receive the Tokugawa answer to the demands already mentioned. The troops of Sakai Uta no Kami of Obama in Wakasa, a powerful adherent of the Uyésama, had been sent to Nishinomiya, where there were probably Satsuma and Chôshiû troops. Endo however was of opinion that war would certainly break out. He said that a hundred of Satsuma's people arrived from Kiôto last night to escort thither the five court nobles who had been recalled from exile. On the 12th I went to see Kuroda Shinyémon and Koba Dennai, and gave them copies of the address of the foreign diplomatic representatives to the _ci-devant_ Tycoon as well as of his reply. They acknowledged the authenticity of the protest of Awa and the other eleven clans, and said that there were others who had disapproved of his restoring the sovereign power to the Mikado. From this it was evident to me that the reason why the five clans were in such a hurry to act was that they wanted to carry out their plans before the others arrived. Kaga was said to have left Kiôto in order to muster his forces for the assistance of Keiki. It now became evident that the Tokugawa party were preparing for war. Kishiû's men were at Tennôji, Sumiyoshi, and Kidzu, close to Ozaka. Aidzu had occupied the castle of Yodo, a few miles south of Kiôto on the direct road, with 500 of his own troops, and 300 of the Shinsen-gumi, a recently raised body of Tokugawa infantry, had also proceeded thither, while all along the road small detachments were stationed. Owari, Echizen and Iwakura were expected on the 18th January, but it was possible that the five clans might march on Ozaka before that date. Koba Dennai invited us to the Satsuma _yashiki_ on the 14th, so Mitford and I went there, and there we met Terashima Tôzô (formerly known as Matsugi Kôan), who had arrived from Kiôto that morning. He explained that it was thought better to delay issuing the Mikado's announcement to foreign countries of his having assumed the government until the question of a surrender of territory by the late Tycoon, which Owari and Echizen had undertaken to arrange, should be settled. (It must be understood that in conversation with Japanese this title was never employed, as it was only invented for foreign use. Either Tokugawa, or the _Baku-fu_, was the term we employed.) It had been originally proposed that only Aidzu and Kuwana should come down to Ozaka, in order to return by sea to their respective countries, but as they were unwilling to come alone, Keiki was allowed to accompany them. The territory to be surrendered by him was to form the nucleus of a national treasury, and it had been proposed by Tosa and some other clans that each _daimiô_ should sacrifice a smaller proportion for the same purpose, but Satsuma objected to this latter part of the scheme. The Mikado's notification would be in archaic Japanese,[6] stating that he was the head of the confederated _daimiôs_, that he alone was the sovereign of Japan, that the office of Shôgun was abolished, that the government was entrusted to a general council of _daimiôs_ subject to his supervision, and lastly that the treaties were to be remodelled in his name. We quite agreed with him that to issue the announcement in the present undecided state of affairs would be premature. A civil governor had been appointed for Kiôto, and a night patrol to arrest marauders and disturbers of the public peace. Of course Keiki's plan of calling a general council of _daimiôs_ to deliberate on the state of the country was put forward because he was certain of securing a majority by the aid of those of them who were his own vassals, and that he would get a vote carried in favour of reinstating him in his previous position of authority. This stratagem had been defeated by the bold stroke of Satsuma getting possession of the Mikado's person. [6] This was stated in reply to a question about the court language. When the document eventually was delivered, it was found, as far as my memory serves me, to be framed in classical Chinese. Next day Sir Harry paid a visit to the castle with the object of pumping the Uyésama about his plans for the general council and the new form of government, but he was anticipated by inquiries about the British Constitution, which took up all the time available, and he was only able to get in a question or two at the end. These the Uyésama adroitly parried by saying that the events he narrated on the last occasion of their meeting had upset all his arrangements. The escort was ordered, and we were obliged to leave. As we were going, Aidzu came up and saluted the chief with great cordiality, who replied that he was very fond of making the acquaintance of _daimiôs_, and already knew several. He hoped to know more of them. Could the Prince of Aidzu tell him whether the Prince of Awa was at Kiôto or Ozaka. Aidzu replied that he did not know. The chief rejoined that last year he had been to Awa's place, and had been very civilly treated. This rather broad hint, however, produced no effect. The same day there came to see me a young Tosa man, of Kishiû origin, named Mutsu Yônosuké, with whom I discussed the question of the recognition of the Mikado's government by the foreign ministers. I explained that it was not for the foreign representative to take the first step. We had received assurances from the Tokugawa chief that he would continue to carry on the administration, and as no communication had yet come from the Kiôto side, we had to go on holding official relations with him. If the Kiôto government wished to assume the direction of affairs they should inform the _Baku-fu_ that they were going to notify their assumption of foreign affairs to the ministers, and then invite the latter to Kiôto. This would be to all the world a clear proof of the position held by the Mikado. Mutsu replied that he had not come as a messenger from Gotô, but was merely giving his individual views. He thought a prince of the blood should come down to Ozaka and hold an interview at the castle with the foreign representatives, at which the Tokugawa chief should attend and resign the conduct of foreign affairs, on which the prince of the blood would deliver the Mikado's declaration of policy. Of course he would be escorted by _daimiôs_ and their troops. I warmly approved his suggestion, and at his request promised not to divulge it to anyone. The next day Mitford and I went again to the Satsuma _yashiki_, and found that a list of questions to be put to us had been sent down from Kiôto. We gave one answer to everything, namely, that it was only necessary for the Mikado to invite the ministers to Kiôto, and compel the ex-Tycoon to abandon his claim to conduct the foreign affairs of the country. They proposed to make Keiki withdraw his answer of the 10th. I gave them copies of Sir Harry's Note conveying the Queen's condolences on the death of the late Mikado, and of Itakura's reply; but they were not able to say whether the Note had been communicated to the court. The _daimiô_ of Higo had arrived and proceeded to Kiôto. Bizen was to garrison Nishinomiya. The five exiled court nobles were expected to arrive that evening, and would go up to Kiôto by the river. Echizen and Owari came down from Kiôto and went to the castle, as had been announced several days previously. The former sent a message through the Japanese Foreign Department to ask when his retainers might come to see our guard go through their drill. We replied that they did not drill. Perhaps they had heard of the mounted escort being exhibited to the Tycoon on some previous occasion. We should have preferred to have this request made to us direct. On the 23rd Ishikawa came to tell us that our Japanese guard was to be increased by one hundred men in consequence of disturbances that had occurred at Yedo. On the night of the 16th, he said, some Satsuma men had attacked the Shiba barracks of Sakai Saemon no jô, _daimiô_ of Shônai in the north, but were beaten off. On the next day but one Sakai's people went together with some troops which they had borrowed from the government, intending to demand the surrender of the men concerned in the violence of the 16th, but before they reached the Satsuma _yashiki_ fire was opened on them with field pieces and small arms, to which they replied. In the end the _yashiki_ was burnt to the ground. Some of the defenders were killed, others captured, and some escaped to a Satsuma war vessel that was lying in the bay. This at once attacked a government ship, but the result of the fight was unknown. At any rate, the other _yashikis_ of Satsuma and of Shimadzu Awaji no Kami had also been burnt. It was possible that the Satsuma people who had escaped might try to revenge themselves by creating disturbances at Ozaka. Though it was not likely that they would attack the castle, it was thought desirable as a measure of precaution to station some troops where we were. The chief's answer was that they must first write all this officially to him and await his reply before sending a single man to the Legation. To alarm us still further Ishikawa told us a story of boatmen having reported that the student interpreters we had left at Yedo had been fired at from the Satsuma _yashiki_ in the street called Tamachi, the date of the letter which brought this news being January 14th. As this was two days before the Satsuma attack on the Sakai _yashiki_, we did not give credit to his tale. What we thought was that Keiki had returned a refusal to the ultimatum of the _daimiôs_, and feared they would attack him at Ozaka. Echizen and Owari returned to Kiôto that day, but we did not hear what had been the result of their mission. On the 24th the Admiral arrived with news from Yedo confirming all that Ishikawa had reported. His account of it was that on the night of the 17th the Satsuma people had contrived to set a part of the castle on fire, and carried off Tenshô-In Sama, a princess of theirs who had married the last Tycoon but one. Thereupon the government people attacked all the Satsuma _yashikis_ in Yedo and burnt them, and the occupants getting on board their steamer put to sea. In the meanwhile, the "Eagle" and other government vessels received orders to get up steam and attack her. A sea fight ensued, which ended by the "Eagle" and the Satsuma steamer disappearing in the offing. The former was met by H.M.S. "Rodney," the Admiral's flagship, returning next day with her fore-yard gone, and the latter was seen off Cape Oshima, south of the province of Kishiû, on the 23rd. The story that our student interpreters Quin and Hodges had been fired at about the 12th as they were passing in front of the Satsuma battery in a Japanese boat was true, but no harm was done. CHAPTER XXV HOSTILITIES BEGUN AT FUSHIMI ON the evening of the 27th a great blaze was seen in the direction of Kiôto. Endo said it was at Fushimi, three miles from the capital, and that the ex-Tycoon's troops and those of Satsuma and his allies were fighting there. The government ship "Kaiyô-maru" with others were blockading Satsuma vessels at Hiôgo. On the preceding day a couple of battalions had been seen parading for the march to Kiôto, and were probably among the troops engaged at Fushimi. Report said that Keiki himself would take the field in a few days. Willis' servant, the faithful Sahei, who passed through Fushimi the same day, saw bodies of Satsuma men waiting about in the streets and warming themselves at fires, but he could not say for certain whether there were any other imperialists with them. A little on the nearer side of Fushimi were the _shinsen-gumi_, and behind them large bodies of infantry, all apparently eager for the fray. During the succeeding night the Satsuma _yashiki_ on the Tosa-bori canal, where we used to meet our friends, was burnt down. Some accounts said it was set on fire by the occupants before they stole away, others that the Tokugawa troops sent three or four shells into it and so caused the blaze. At any rate the Satsuma people got into boats and went down the river, pursued by the Tokugawa men, who fired at them from the banks, and killed two of the fugitives. Sir Harry went to call on Itakura, who told us that the town of Fushimi had been set on fire by Satsuma troops, who were opposing the entry of the Uyésama's forces into Kiôto. Fighting began at four o'clock, and the result was not yet known. Another detachment marching up the Toba road, which follows the right bank of the river, fell into an ambuscade and was forced to retire. He could not tell us when the Uyésama would start. The troops that had been opposed at Fushimi were his advanced guard, destined to occupy the castle of Nijô in Kiôto, as he was returning there shortly, having been invited to do so by Echizen and Owari. All the other _daimiôs_ were tired of the arrogant conduct of Satsuma. Probably it was his troops alone which had fought at Fushimi. Ishikawa gave me a copy of a letter from the commandant at Fushimi, who writing to Tsukahara and Buzen no Kami mentioned that guns had been lent for the destruction of the Satsuma _yashiki_. It was reported that Tsukahara had disappeared, and it was conjectured that he had been shot during the imperialist attack on the official residence of the governor of Fushimi, but we could not ascertain that he had been seen farther on than Yodo. Next day the chief went to Itakura's house just inside the Tama-tsukuri Gate near our legation, where he saw Nagai Gemba no Kami. Nagai told us that up to last night the Tokugawa troops had been repulsed on both points of their advance, and were going to try another road, the Takéda kaidô, further to the west. To us it appeared that they ought to have done better, as they were 10,000 to 6000. They reported the enemy force to consist of Satsuma and Chôshiû men, assisted by _rônin_, which probably meant the men of other clans, but the remaining _daimiôs_ appeared to be preserving a neutral attitude. The Uyésama's commander-in-chief was Takenaga Tango no Kami. The denunciation of Satsuma's crimes was carried by the advanced guard, whom Gemba no Kami described as the Uyésama's "retinue." He still maintained that the Uyésama had not wished to have recourse to arms, but was forced into it against his will. Still Gemba no Kami could not give a satisfactory explanation of the firing on the Satsuma steamer "Lotus" as early as the evening of January 26. The same evening reports came in that the Tokugawa troops had retired 7-1/2 miles from Fushimi, and had destroyed the bridge over the Kidzu-kawa river below Yodo, to obstruct the further advance of the Satsuma forces. Seven boat-loads of wounded had come down the river. From what we heard on the morning of the 30th, it appeared that the prospects of the Tokugawa party were not very encouraging. In the afternoon great fires were distinctly visible from the hill by the castle, in the direction of Hirakata and Nashimoto, about half-way between Ozaka and Fushimi, which showed that the battle was approaching nearer. A consultation was held by the chief with the Legation staff, the result of which was that we were to hire as many boats as possible to convey the archives to the British squadron, and when they were placed in safety we should be able to await the development of events with calmness. After dinner Sir Harry went to see the French Minister, and returned about half-past nine with information that a circular was to be addressed to the foreign ministers announcing that the Uyésama could no longer defend them, and they must take their own measures for the protection of their flags. At eleven came an official messenger with the circular, who promised to get us as many boats as possible on the following morning to move our baggage; and after packing up the archives we went to bed. At four o'clock in the morning, Locock woke me with the news that a note had come from the French Minister to say that the enemy would enter the city early in the day, and that we must run off at daylight with what we could carry. So we all got up, frightfully cold though it was, and packed up our belongings. No boats had arrived. At daylight my Japanese escort came to say that with the greatest difficulty they had managed to procure one large boat; on this the archives were placed, and started off about nine. Then came Ishikawa, who said he was powerless to help us. The imperialists had not yet appeared, but he considered it advisable for us to get off at once. So Sir Harry and I went off with him to look for the porters, whom we met outside the great gate of the castle. Just at that moment we saw a curious procession going in. It consisted of a palanquin like a _mikoshi_, one of those gods' litters carried in religious pageants, a large umbrella held over it and two men with lanterns on long poles in front. Ishikawa let out that he thought it was conveying a messenger from the Mikado. He and I came back with the porters, and brought the greater part of the baggage down to the bank of the stream behind the legation, but still there were no boats. So we went off to the governor's residence and tried to interest the officials on our behalf. They appeared to be in a state of extreme perturbation, and declared that it was impossible to procure any boats. Ishikawa almost shed tears, and vowed that he would never again try to get boats and porters for the legation; it was none of his business. We agreed therefore to deposit the greater part of the baggage inside the castle. Luckily however this proved unnecessary, for when I returned to our quarters I found the chief radiant with joy, five boats having arrived in the interval. About ten o'clock therefore we were able to make a start for the foreign settlement, but I stayed behind with the six men of my Japanese escort, capital fellows who had stuck to me ever since we made the journey overland from Ozaka to Yedo in 1867. I had to procure boats for my own baggage, which by an oversight had been left behind, and to get the stores removed to the castle. However, more boats arrived than had been expected, so I put all the baggage on board, including even a huge pot of mince-meat. Unluckily, a fine gold lacquer cabinet of Mitford's, for which he had recently paid 800 _ichibus_, was overlooked. About noon I started for the foreign settlement in great triumph. There was even a house-boat (_yakata-buné_). I asked a man whom I had never seen before for whom this was intended, and was greatly flattered when he replied innocently that it was for Satow sama. This enabled me to go down comfortably instead of walking the whole distance. On the way we all nodded and dozed, for we had had no proper night's rest. From time to time we were challenged by the posts on the banks, but no attempt was made to stop us. On arriving at the settlement I found the wind was blowing too strongly from the west to allow of our passing the bar at the mouth of the river. The chief, Locock, Willis and Wilkinson were all fast asleep. Captain Bruce, commandant of the infantry guard, and the constable had gone off again to the Legation to endeavour to recover the remainder of our property that had been left behind, and I got Lieutenant Bradshaw a boat with the same object. Towards evening they returned. A steam launch from the squadron was lying off the settlement, and the Legation was located at the vice-consulate there. It was bitterly cold, and we were glad to get to bed, after what was a very good dinner considering the circumstances. The other foreign representatives were at Tempôzan, at the mouth of the river, in miserable huts, and with very little to eat. We felt pity for them, mingled with pride, when we compared our situation with theirs. Rumours were flying about among the townspeople that Keiki had been declared a rebel (_chô-téki_). About nine o'clock on the following morning (February 1), Locock and I took an escort from the 2/ix detachment and went off to the castle to see what was the state of things there. In front of it there was a great crowd, and all the gates seemed deserted. We knocked at the governor's door, but got no answer, a clear sign that he and his people had taken to flight. The crowd laughed. We sent in to the castle by one of my Japanese escort to inquire who was there, and were told in reply that Keiki had departed, leaving it empty. We went on to the Legation, where we found everything just as we had left it. We got back by noon, and as we were at lunch there came in a detachment of thirteen Frenchmen, who in return for being stoned by the crowd had fired and killed some eight or nine people. This was looked upon as a wholesome lesson to the rabble not to cry out abuse of foreigners, but nevertheless was much to be regretted, as it would tend to make the foreign colleagues believe Ozaka unsafe for themselves. During our walk to the castle and back we had observed no signs of hostility, a fact which seemed to show that the population were able to distinguish between nationalities. The French Legation had been pillaged and the furniture smashed. After lunch, Sir Harry, Willis and I went down to Tempôzan, the chief to call on his colleagues, Willis to attend to the wounds of some Aidzu men who had been brought down from Kiôto, where they had fought against the imperialists. The colleagues were furious with Sir Harry for having been so fortunate as to save all his baggage and archives, and for having had the pluck to remain four miles nearer the supposed danger than they had. A rather angry discussion ensued. Sir Harry declared that he would not leave Ozaka unless he was able to carry off every atom of Legation property, and he did not know when that might be possible. They, on the contrary, said that having struck their flags, it was their intention to move across to Kôbé (Hiôgo), and await the course of events. I went to make friends with some of the Aidzu wounded, who were waiting for boats to put them on board of Tokugawa ships. They asserted that they would have beaten the enemy if they had been properly supported, but Tôdô had turned traitor at Yamazaki (on the right bank of the river, nearly opposite Yodo), which was the most important point of the defence, and Keiki's general Takénaga had gone over to the enemy at Yodo itself. Moreover, the drilled infantry were useless; if one man ran the rest followed like a flock of sheep (as we should say). They estimated the Satsuma force at the low figure of 1000, but said the skirmishing of the enemy was very good, and they were armed with breech-loaders. Keiki had run away, they knew not whither, but probably to Yedo. We found that the fort at Tempôzan, and one a little further up the river, which had hitherto been under the charge of Kôriyama (a Kiûshiû _daimiô_) had been dismantled, the guns in the former being spiked, and the ammunition embarked in the Tokugawa warship "Kaiyô-maru," which left at noon. Keiki was believed to be on board of her. Old Hirayama was in the fort at Tempôzan, but studiously concealed himself. Chanoine (many years afterwards for a brief period French Minister of War) and another officer of the French military mission had arrived the previous night from Yedo, but had had to leave again, greatly disappointed that they had come too late for the fair. Obviously it had been intended that they should act as advisers to Keiki's commander-in-chief. The town of Sakai was reported to have been burnt, and also the houses round the Namba-bashi bridge over the Yamato-gawa, but it was not known whether by accident or intentionally. No Satsuma men had yet entered Ozaka. The French Minister was our authority for a story that Keiki, on finding that the majority of the _daimiôs_ were arrayed against him, had surrendered the castle and city of Ozaka to Echizen and Owari, because they had been kind and polite to him when they came on their mission from the court! The Aidzu men were very grateful to Willis for the assistance he gave in attending their wounded, and apparently regarded the English as the best and kindest people in the world. It was resolved by Sir Harry that he should go to Hiôgo in order to avoid a quarrel with his colleagues, and I volunteered to remain at Ozaka with Russell Robertson as acting vice-consul, and half the guard from the 2/ix under the command of Bruce, so that the honour of the flag might be maintained. It was certain that Noguchi and my Japanese escort would stand by me, and we were determined to fight to the last if we should be attacked, but that I did not anticipate. I despatched the Chôshiû student Endo Kiôto-wards to urge that the _daimiôs_ should forthwith make their declaration of policy to the foreign representatives, as Mitford and I had given the draft of a notification to our Satsuma friends, and there was also my private understanding with Tosa on that subject. The Aidzu soldiers at the fort said that Satsuma men had been found in the castle in disguise, and that there even were some amongst Keiki's drilled troops; cunning devils they must have been if all we heard was true. Accordingly on February 2, the chief went away to Hiôgo to arrange for H.M.S. "Rattler" to convey Locock to Yokohama, where he was to be in the charge of the Legation, and also for his own temporary withdrawal to Kôbé. About half-past eight in the morning we saw from the vice-consulate a puff of white smoke ascend in the direction of the castle, followed by dense clouds of black smoke. The report soon spread that the castle was on fire, and so it was in fact. After breakfast Locock and I took forty of the 2/ix guard, with Bruce and Bradshaw, and went off to see the fire and find out whether our Legation had been burnt. We marched along the bank of the river to the Kiôbashi gate of the castle, and turning in there, found that the granaries and the _hommaru_ (inner circle) had been set on fire, but no one could tell us by whom this had been done. The wind was blowing from the north, and sparks had spread the conflagration to some of the huts previously occupied by the drilled troops on the south side. We walked round to Tama-tsukuri, where we found that the Legation buildings were being plundered by people of the lowest class. We pursued some of them, but were not in time to put an end to the devastation. All the furniture had been destroyed, and the godown sacked. Unfortunately this contained Mitford's beautiful _étagère_, which had no doubt been carried off. There was an immense crowd in front of the castle, and men were pouring in and out of the gates, but they offered no opposition to us, and did not stone us as we might have expected them to do. The mob had, of course, destroyed the official residence of the governors as far as was possible. We got back to the vice-consulate about mid-day, and found there Endo, who had already returned from his mission. He said that two or three hundred of the Chôshiû folk were already in the castle, and that an official had been left behind to hand the place over to Owari, but the flames broke out before the ceremony could be completed. Whether the fire was started by the rabble or by Keiki's followers he did not know. The only imperialists who had yet arrived were Chôshiû men. About two o'clock we left the foreign settlement in a lifeboat with Locock and Wilkinson, who were to be embarked on board H.M.S. "Rattler" and proceed to Yedo. Halfway down the river we met the steam-launch, with two other large boats, bringing the chief and Captain Stanhope of H.M.S. "Ocean," who, seeing what they took to be a general conflagration of all Ozaka, had come to take us away and haul down the flag. How angry I was! We were not in the slightest danger, either of being attacked by the victors or from the burning of the castle, and I would have answered with my life for the safety of every person left with me. Had I not received repeated assurances from Satsuma, Tosa and Chôshiû that our Legation would be respected. However, there was no help for it; orders had to be obeyed. We found great difficulty in procuring barges, and had to send the steam-launch out to seize as many as we wanted. We secured three, into which we packed everything, including the vice-consul's furniture; the archives and the baggage of the 2/ix having been already started off. Everything was got away by half-past six, and we eventually crossed the bar in safety. The steam-launch, in which I was, grounded three times, and finally stuck fast, but Captain Bullock of H.M.S. "Serpent" fetched me off in his gig. Willis, who, with the safe containing the Legation funds, was in a boat towed by the "Serpent's" pinnace, did not get on board till midnight. Then she took all the barges in tow, and steamed over to Hiôgo. Next morning we landed there, and got the baggage on shore. Most of the party found accommodation at the consulate. I took possession of the district administrator's house, which had been occupied by some custom-house officers. The caretaker objected. I insisted however that as we had been turned out of Ozaka by the _Baku-fu_, we had the best right in the world to the abandoned accommodation of the _Baku-fu's_ officials. So I had my baggage carried in and set up house there. Our chief had quartered himself at the consulate, and the other five foreign representatives, French, Dutch, American, North-German and Italian, occupied the custom-house, a large two-storeyed building in foreign style, which the officials would otherwise have set on fire to prevent it falling into the hands of the victors. The governor, an old acquaintance of ours named Shibata, had chartered the steamer "Osaka" at $500 a day (say £100) to convey himself and his staff back to Yedo, whither he started the same afternoon. Satsuma's man Godai, I learnt, had gone to Ozaka the previous night, or early that morning, in order to assure the chief that he might safely remain there, but of course he came too late. The next thing one heard was that it had been intended to declare Keiki a rebel if he did not withdraw his troops from Ozaka, Kiôto and other points between the two cities, and that Satsuma, Geishiû, Chôshiû and Tosa were charged with the duty of using force to compel obedience if he refused to listen to the advice offered to him by Echizen and Owari in the first place. This seemed to explain his hasty flight, but from any point of view, European as well as Japanese, it was disgraceful. After informing the diplomatic representatives that he regarded himself as charged with the direction of foreign affairs, the only further intimation they received from his officials was that he could no longer protect the Legations, but he never so much as hinted that he was about to abscond. I was also informed that it was intended to invite the ministers to Kiôto, and Keiki had been ordered to transmit the invitation to them, which of course he omitted to do. In fact the policy of the Tokugawa government from the very beginning of their relations with the outer world of Europe had been to keep foreigners from coming in contact with the Kiôto party; and in this they were heartily assisted by Roches, the French Minister. I well recollect how, when we went to the castle to see Keiki after his retirement from Kiôto, some of the commissioners for foreign affairs jeered at me, saying, "Of course you now expect to get to Kiôto, but don't be too sure," or words to that effect. A report having been circulated that somebody, either Satsuma or Tokugawa people, were going to blow up the martello tower which stood at the end of the dry river bed between Hiôgo and Kôbé, boats were sent from H.M.S. "Ocean," the French flagship "Laplace" and the "Oneida"; the door was locked and the key taken away. CHAPTER XXVI THE BIZEN AFFAIR ON February 4, Bizen troops were passing through Kôbé from the early morning, and about two o'clock in the afternoon the retinue of one of their _karô_ shot an American sailor who had crossed the street just in front, which according to Japanese ideas was an insult that deserved mortal chastisement. After that they attempted the life of every foreigner whom they met, but fortunately without any serious results. What at a later time became the foreign settlement was then an open plain; at the upper edge of it ran the high road, and as the Bizen people passed along they suddenly opened fire, apparently from breech-loaders. Then every foreigner was seen scurrying across the plain for safety. The American marines immediately started in pursuit, our guard of 2/ix was called out, and some French sailors were landed. Half of our guard under Bruce were despatched to occupy the entrance from Kôbé into the foreign quarter, and the other half followed in pursuit. On reaching the Ikuta-gawa stream-bed, at the eastern extremity of the plain, we perceived the Bizen men marching in close column about 600 or 700 yards ahead, so we passed through the gap in the river bank and opened fire. There were at least half-a-dozen civilians with us, all armed with rifles, who likewise fired. Willis, Mitford and I had only our revolvers. At the first volley from our side, the enemy turned into a field by the side of the road, and fired at us from below a bank. On our returning their fire, they all took to flight. We pursued them, every now and then firing at one or other who had failed to get under cover, but finally they took to the hills and disappeared completely. Sir Harry, followed by his mounted escort of ex-policemen, galloped some distance down the road in the direction of Nishinomiya, but was unable to catch sight of the foe. If any of them had suffered from our fire, he must have been carried off by his comrades. Willis found an old peasant woman lying by a bank with a bullet wound through both ankles, whom he brought back and cured of her hurt. Then we took prisoner a wretched porter, who escaped with his life by a mere miracle, for at least fifteen revolver shots were fired at him at close quarters as he rose from his place of concealment, without his receiving a single wound. We opened the baggage which had been dropped by the fugitives, but found nothing of value, only three small weapons, representing a cross between a matchlock and a howitzer, and a few carpenters' tools. From the porter, whom we led home as our prisoner, we ascertained that the detachment consisted of two Bizen _karô_, Ikéda Isé and Hiki Tatéwaki, who were on their way with about 400 men to reinforce the garrison of Nishinomiya, and that some of them had remained behind at Hiôgo. On returning to the settlement we found a quantity more baggage which had been dropped in Kôbé by the men whom Bruce had intercepted. Sentries were then posted along the main street of Kôbé as far as the first barrier gate, where a strong guard was stationed with a howitzer. A line of sentries was also drawn round the north and east sides of the plain. From some of these, who were Americans, sailors or marines, an alarm was raised about ten o'clock. Great alacrity was displayed by the naval people; field pieces were landed and numbers of small-arms men. After all, no enemy made his appearance to justify so great a stir being made. I proposed to Sir Harry that we should issue a manifesto declaring that if Bizen's people did not satisfactorily explain their behaviour, the foreign powers would make it a quarrel with Japan as a whole. He induced his colleagues to agree to this, and I started our prisoner back to his people with a copy, though I did not feel much confidence in its reaching its destination. About half-past one, a hundred Chôshiû men sent down for the protection of Kôbé and Hiôgo against Tokugawa troops arrived just outside our post in the middle of the village, and were within an ace of being fired on by our guard. Luckily I came up at the moment, and went to an inn at which they had billeted their rank and file, to arrange that they should withdraw, which they did very readily. During the afternoon, four steamers belonging to Chikuzen, Kurumé, Uwajima, and one it was thought to the Tokugawa, were seized at Kiôgo and Kôbé, to hold as a "material guarantee." The morning of February 5 brought me again an invitation from Yoshii to visit him at Ozaka and talk over affairs, but it was impossible, for I had too much on my hands. The "Whampoa," a steamer belonging to Glover & Co., of Nagasaki, had arrived, and a rumour was invented and spread that she was conveying 800 Satsuma troops, so I was sent off in a boat to stop their landing. There was not a single Satsuma man on board. Some men of Awa in Shikoku had decamped in boats from Hiôgo, and our people pursued them, but as they were only a few in number and very miserable in appearance, they were not molested. We then issued proclamations, with the wording of which I was entrusted, explaining why we had seized the steamers, a second exhorting the people to go quietly about their business, and a third announcing that all unarmed persons would be allowed to pass our posts. About one o'clock a Dutchman (appropriately enough in accordance with popular notions) raised an alarm that the Japanese were advancing to the attack. The report spread as far as the quarters of the Foreign Representatives at the custom-house, where von Brandt was making a great fuss about a body of at least three hundred armed men that he asserted were menacing Kôbé from the hills close by on the north side. I had a look at them through his glass, and certainly saw men, but if they were armed, I was sure they were friendly Chôshiû men. So I got leave to take Lieutenant Gurdon of H.M.S. "Ocean" with ten men, and we started out to explore, and to paste up our proclamations wherever we found one of Chôshiû's. The only people on the hills turned out to be peasants. The Chôshiû troops were billeted at Shôfukuji, a large temple, or Buddhist monastery, about two miles away among the hills, so it was manifest that they were keeping their engagement to us. We marched through Hiôgo, and pasted a copy of our first notification on the door of the Bizen official hotel (_honjin_), and the whole series of four on the house where their troops had passed the night of the 4th. Having accomplished all this, we returned to relieve the anxiety of our fellow foreigners. Just as I got back I met Yoshii and Terashima, who had come down to have a talk. The chief gave them a short interview, at which he advised them to send off at once and get the Mikado's messengers to come down with their notification to the Foreign Representatives. They wanted him to let 300 Satsuma troops pass through our lines, but he refused, on the ground that as we did not know anything officially from the Mikado, we could not recognize Satsuma as acting under His Majesty's orders. So they agreed to bring their men into Hiôgo by another route. Then I went off with them to their _honjin_ at Hiôgo, and they told me a good deal about the course of recent events. Theirs had been a continuous course of victory from the very first, for being like "rats in a bag," they had to fight hard for their lives, and were compelled to be victorious. At Fushimi they had had a desperate fight, but after that they pressed on and drove the Tokugawa forces into Yodo. This place, as well as the long bridge over the river, was fired by the retreating troops. Aidzu's men fought very bravely. The plan of the _Baku-fu_ was to get the Satsuma and Chôshiû soldiers engaged with Aidzu and the _Shin-sen-gumi_ (a body of armed _samurai_ recently raised), and then to creep round to the imperialist right with the drilled infantry and seize Kiôto. Higo too was only waiting for signs that Satsuma was getting the worst of it, in order to seize the palace, but now he was very humble. The number of Satsuma and Chôshiû men actually engaged was about 1500, the remainder being employed in the defence of the city. Anyhow, as the roads to be held were very narrow, large bodies could not have been employed to any advantage. They loaded their field-pieces with bags of bullets, which did great execution on the enemy. About twenty Satsuma men were killed, and the entire list of casualties did not exceed 150. They took a good many prisoners, and captured numbers of guns and small arms, etc. Tôdô's defection was a great help to the imperialists. His men had been fighting against them, but when the Mikado's standards, the sun in gold on a red ground and the moon in silver, were displayed, they lost heart and changed sides. Another of their advantages was their good skirmishing. Ninnaji no Miya, a prince of the blood, also known as Omura no gosho, was the commander-in-chief. They anticipated that all the clans as far as Hakoné would submit, and that Sendai would join them. Kishiû already showed signs of a desire to come to terms, and Ogaki had submitted, as indeed had nearly all the other clans who had fought, with the exception of Aidzu. They said that Iwashita, Gotô and Higashi-Kuzé, the latter one of the five runaway court nobles, were to come down to Kôbé to communicate the Mikado's proclamation to the foreign representatives. It would be the desire of the new government to show perfect impartiality in its relations with foreign states, but as the English had been the good friends of the Kiôto party, they would always be regarded with particularly grateful and amicable feelings. I remained with Yoshii and Terashima till half-past ten in the evening. They seemed to admit that we had acted within our rights in seizing the steamers, and while I was with them they wrote and despatched long letters to their own people at Ozaka, explaining the affair and enclosing our notification. They also wrote up to Kiôto urging that no time should be lost in despatching the Mikado's messengers with the announcement to the foreign ministers. Early on the morning of the 6th Satsuma troops came over from Nishinomiya in large boats, and were landed at Hiôgo, in accordance with our agreement of the previous day. Some retainers of Omura in Hizen, Watanabé Noboru and Fukuzaka Kôzô, came to inquire about our intentions with regard to their steamer which had been seized, and was now held by the French. The steamer belonged to Uwajima, and was only borrowed by Omura for this trip. So I gave them copies of our manifesto against Bizen, and another one explaining why the steamers were seized, and they declared themselves quite convinced that we had acted rightly. Our bluejackets however and the Americans and French also, were getting us a bad name by committing all sorts of petty pilfering. I went to call on Katano, commander of the Chôshiû troops, who said that the two Bizen _karô_ had gone to Ozaka or Kiôto, he did not know which, after the affray on the 4th, the rank and file remaining behind. It was on February 7th that the Mikado's messenger, Higashi-Kuzé, accompanied by Iwashita, Terashima and Itô, with a small retinue, arrived at Hiôgo in a little steamer belonging to Geishiû. As soon as I received the note informing me of this, I went over to the chief, on whom devolved the task of seeing his colleagues, and arranging with them the place and hour of meeting. Apparently they were greatly annoyed, especially the French Minister, at finding themselves as it were ignored, and that their English colleague had thus become the channel of communication between the Mikado and themselves. They tried to pump him about the contents of the imperial message, but he did not tell them even the little he knew. It having been decided that the interview should take place at the custom-house at noon on the following day, I went over to Hiôgo and informed Iwashita. There had been a report that 300 Bizen men had entered the town, but I could not find a trace of them. All our marines had been withdrawn on account of the difficulty experienced in forming mixed posts, and the Americans now had charge of the gate in the middle of the town, so that they would henceforth be responsible for all the petty pilfering that went on. I found them most unpleasantly strict, and because I had no pass they obliged me to go a long way round in order to reach my destination and get back again. So on the 8th of February the fateful communication was made by Higashi-Kuzé at the place and hour previously fixed. Higashi-Kuzé was a small man even for a Japanese, with sparkling eyes, irregular teeth, which were not yet completely freed from the black dye (_o-haguro_) worn by court nobles, and with a stutter in his speech. The document was drawn up in classical Chinese, and might be thus translated:-- The Emperor of Japan announces to the sovereigns of all foreign countries and to their subjects that permission has been granted to the Shôgun Tokugawa Yoshinobu[7] to return the governing power in accordance with his own request. We shall henceforward exercise supreme authority in all the internal and external affairs of the country. Consequently the title of Emperor must be substituted for that of Tycoon, in which the treaties have been made. Officers are being appointed by us to the conduct of foreign affairs. It is desirable that the representatives of the treaty powers recognize this announcement. February 3, 1868. MUTSUSHITO (L.S.). [7] Keiki, by which he was usually spoken of, is the pronunciation of the two Chinese characters with which his name Yoshinobu was written. This document was very ingeniously framed. It assumed as a matter of course that the treaties were binding on the Mikado, and therefore only mentioned them incidentally, in saying that the Mikado's title must be substituted for that of Tycoon. After the translation had been made and shown to all the ministers, a fire of questions was directed against the envoy, who answered them well. Roches asked whether the Mikado's authority extended throughout the whole of Japan, to which he replied coolly that the rebellion of Tokugawa prevented that from being the case at present; but it would gradually extend all over the empire. Roches' interpreter (who was a Tokugawa man) then made a wilful mistake by representing the envoy to say that "if all the people submitted to the Mikado, he would be able to govern the country," whereas he really said, "the people will all submit to the Mikado as a natural consequence of his taking the reins," as we ascertained on repeating the question. With regard to the Bizen affray, the Mikado's government undertook to protect the lives and property of foreigners at Kôbé for the future, and to satisfy the demands of the Foreign Representatives for the punishment of Bizen. On these conditions, it was agreed that the marines and bluejackets should be withdrawn to the ships, and the steamers released. Ozaka was not as yet perfectly quiet, but normal conditions would soon be restored, and foreigners would be formally invited to return there. On the part of the Mikado's government the envoy desired to know whether the Foreign Representatives would report the announcement to their governments and proclaim it to their people. This was tantamount to asking for "recognition." Roches became very angry, and said: "We must not throw ourselves upon the necks of these people," whereupon the Italian Comte de la Tour and the German von Brandt raised their voices against him, and replied that so far from doing anything of the sort we had waited till they came to seek us (not knowing, of course, of our secret negotiations at the Satsuma _yashiki_ in Ozaka). On this, everyone said he would report to his government, and that satisfied the envoy. A great deal of desultory conversation went on while he was waiting for the gunboat to convey him back to Hiôgo, but on no particularly important topic. Itô said to me that it was all right about our going to Kiôto, that there would be no difficulty. I pretended to be indifferent, though in truth I was very eager to get a view of the city and its famous buildings, from which foreigners had been so jealously excluded for over two centuries. Next day Higashi-Kuzé, at his own request, went to visit H.M.S. "Ocean." A joint note was sent in to him demanding reparation for the Bizen offence, namely a full and ample apology and the capital punishment of the officer who gave the order to fire. The ministers, and especially M. Roches, insisted that the fact that they were under fire increased the gravity of the offence--as if their presence there could have been known to the Bizen troops passing through on the march. Itô seemed to think that the government would agree to make the Bizen _karô_ perform _harakiri_. He said that Chôshiû had relinquished to the Mikado the territories he had conquered in Kokura (on the south side of the strait of Shimonoséki) and in the province of Iwami. Katsura (_i.e._ Kido) and Itô wanted him to go much farther, and resign to the Mikado all his lands, retainers and other possessions, except so much as might be required for the support of his household. If all the _daimiôs_ would do this, a powerful central government might be formed, which was impossible with the existing system. Japan could not be strong as long as it was open to every _daimiô_ to withdraw his assistance at his own pleasure, and each prince to drill his troops after a different fashion. It was the story of the North German Confederation over again; the petty sovereigns must be swallowed up by some bigger one. The _daimiôs_ of Matsuyama and Takamatsu in Shikoku, who were partizans of the Tokugawa, would be destroyed, and their territories imperialized. Tosa was charged with the execution of this measure, having offered to undertake the duty. It was probable that Himéji, a few miles west of Hiôgo, would also be attacked by the imperialists. A notification, signed by Iwashita, Itô and Terashima, as officers of the Foreign Department, was placarded about the town, informing the people that the Mikado would observe the treaties, and enjoining on them proper behaviour towards foreigners. It was given out that Roches, with his interpreter Shiwoda, would leave that evening for Europe, Baron Brin, the secretary, remaining in charge. The official declaration made the day before by the Kiôto envoy had quite thrown him on his beam-ends, and he could not bear to stand by and see his policy turn out a complete failure. His intention was to proceed first to Yokohama, where I suspected that he would try to rehabilitate his reputation as a diplomatist by some of his artful tricks. However, he thought better of this idea, and remained in Japan until matters shaped themselves so that he could accept the Mikado's invitation to Kiôto, and so decently recognize the new political arrangements. The other ministers behaved very correctly, having very little to do but to follow Parkes' lead. The foreign ministers had another interview on February 10 with Higashi-Kuzé, who was accompanied by Iwashita and Gotô. They told us that Itô was to act temporarily as superintendent of customs and governor of the town of Kôbé. It seemed curious, we thought, that a man of certainly not very high rank should be thought fit for this double post, and that the common people should be ready to obey him, but the Japanese lower classes, as I noted in my diary, had a great appetite for being governed, and were ready to submit to any one who claimed authority over them, especially if there appeared to be a military force in the background. Itô had the great recommendation in his favour that he spoke English, a very uncommon Japanese accomplishment in those days, especially in the case of men concerned in the political movement. It would not be difficult, owing to the submissive habits of the people, for foreigners to govern Japan, if they could get rid of the two-sworded class, but the foreigners who were to do the governing should all of them speak, read and write the Japanese language, otherwise they would make a complete failure of their undertaking. But as the _samurai_ were existent in large numbers, the idea was incapable of realization. Looking back now in 1919, it seems perfectly ludicrous that such a notion should have been entertained, even as a joke, for a single moment, by any one who understood the Japanese spirit. Gotô was to proceed to Kiôto with the joint note about the Bizen business, and there was every reason to expect that the court would agree to the infliction of the capital sentence, but they would probably desire to let the _karô_ Hiki Tatéwaki perform _harakiri_ instead of having him decapitated. At least that was what I heard privately from my Japanese friends, who also asked that, until the question was finally disposed of, foreigners should abstain from visiting Nishinomiya, where Bizen men were stationed. Everything was now reported to be quiet at Ozaka, and we looked forward to returning there in a few days. Gotô Kiûjirô, as he had called himself previously, now resumed his real name of Nakai, and was attached to the Foreign Department. He was a very cheery and gay personality, always ready for any kind of fun and jollity, and when an entertainment had to be got up, it was to him that its organization and conduct were entrusted. In this way he earned the nickname of _Gaimushô no taikomochi_, "jester of the Foreign Department." On the 11th, Higashi-Kuzé with his staff came to the consulate to talk business with Sir Harry and von Brandt, a talk which lasted three hours. We exhibited to them all the Treaties, Conventions and Agreements respecting the opening of the ports, all of which had to be confirmed by the chief minister for Foreign Affairs, Ninnaji no Miya, a prince of the blood, in the name of the Mikado. There was much said by way of question and answer about the recent transactions at Kiôto, which ended in their promising to furnish a detailed narrative, rebutting the statements made by Ogasawara Iki no Kami and other supporters of the former _régime_. The general council, which Keiki complained had been violently anticipated by Satsuma, ought to have met on December 15. The western _daimiôs_ waited a considerable time after this date, but none of the others arrived, so they were compelled to take action. The demands made on the _Baku-fu_ were that, together with the governing power, they should surrender as much territory as would suffice to maintain that power. They estimated that 2,500,000 _koku_ of lands would then be left to the Tokugawa family, besides the territories of the _fudai daimiôs_ and most of the _hatamoto_. Tokugawa had declined, but offered to surrender 800,000 _koku_ of lands, and to continue his subsidy for the support of the imperial establishment. When leaving Kiôto however he had agreed to make the surrender demanded of him, though this was strenuously opposed by Aidzu and Kuwana. Then when Echizen and Owari came down to Ozaka, they invited him back to Kiôto to conclude these arrangements, but it was never intended that Aidzu and Kuwana should form the van of his retinue, and that was how it happened that fighting ensued. At the date of this conversation nearly all the _daimiôs_ west of Hakoné had been reduced, or had given in their adhesion, or would soon be compelled by force to submit to the Mikado, and thus about seven out of the eight million _koku_ of lands possessed by Tokugawa would be actually in the hands of the Mikado. If Tokugawa then submitted, he would be left peaceably with the remainder of his possessions. It was to be feared however that he would endeavour to regain what he had lost, and in that case the Mikado's party would destroy him. It was intended to despatch forces against him by the north-eastern road (which passes through the provinces of Echizen and Kaga), by the central road through Shinshiû, and by the Tôkaidô. Ii Kamon no Kami of Hikoné and later adherents to the Kiôto party would be placed in the van of the imperial forces, in order that their fidelity might be tested. The _daimiôs_ of the north had nothing to thank Tokugawa for, and there was no reason why they should support him. Awa had submitted, and was assisting in garrisoning Hiôgo. Prisoners taken in Kiôto during the recent fighting would be returned to their homes on the restoration of peace, instead of being put to death according to the ancient Japanese custom in civil war. We understood that the Mikado's party intended to call upon the Foreign Powers to observe strict neutrality. A report went about that Nambu Yahachirô and Shibayama Riôsuké, old friends of mine in the Satsuma _yashiki_ at Yedo, had been put to death, the one by crucifixion the other by simple decapitation, and I felt that I should like to do something to avenge them, for to western minds the idea of taking the lives of prisoners was revolting. We heard that old Matsudaira Kansô, the retired _daimiô_ of Hizen, Mr. Facing-both-ways as he was universally regarded, was expected to make his appearance shortly at Kiôto. Also that the governors of Nagasaki had departed, and that the town was occupied by Satsuma, Geishiû and Tosa, Hizen holding the batteries. The mail which reached us on February 13 brought a letter from Iki no Kami to Sir Harry very diplomatically framed, in which Keiki's failure to reach Kiôto was attributed entirely to the machinations of Satsuma, and a hope was expressed that a momentary success on the part of the latter would not cause the violation of engagements of long standing. He entirely burked the question put to him by Locock, as to the course the chief should take in case the Mikado sent an envoy to the Foreign Representatives. The news came from home that Mukôyama,[8] had complained at the Foreign Office of Sir Harry having applied the title of "Highness" to the Tycoon instead of "Majesty"; to this Lord Stanley replied that he understood there was a higher title than that of _Denka_ in use in Japan, and that consequently _Denka_ could not mean "Majesty," which was the highest designation applicable to any potentate. It was also a noteworthy fact that in this letter of Iki no Kami _Heika_ (which is synonymous with "Majesty") was reserved for the Queen, _Denka_ being used of the Tycoon. As modern slang would have it, this was giving away the whole show. [8] Hayato no Shô, who went to Europe for the French Exhibition of 1867. Godai and Terashima came to see me, after which they had a long talk with the chief on political matters. They told him that in three weeks or a month's time affairs would have made sufficient progress at Kiôto to enable the government to invite the Foreign Representatives thither in order to enter on friendly relations. They also asked for the loan of a surgeon to attend to their wounded at Kiôto. The chief replied that the alleviation of suffering in the case of any human being was always a pleasure, and that as the Legation doctor had looked after the wounds of Aidzu men, no objection could exist to his treating the hurts of others; but his consent would depend upon the nature of the reply the ministers received about the Bizen affair. The question of the Legation returning to Ozaka was mooted, and Buddhist temples were offered for our accommodation as the buildings which we had occupied behind the castle had been too much knocked about to be fit for a residence; but this would not matter much, as they would be occupied only temporarily. Godai and Terashima were very anxious that I, and I alone, should visit Ozaka at once. (In fact I believed I could have gone anywhere that I liked, for instance to Kiôto the next day, by only expressing a wish.) Godai wanted to buy an English man-of-war with which to attack Yedo; it was a curious notion that we had H.M. ships for sale. I advised them to get their Note demanding neutrality on the part of all Foreign Powers sent in at once, because then they could request the American Minister to prevent the "Stonewall Jackson" being delivered to the Tokugawa people, as well as the two iron-clads from France which were expected. Godai said further that Uyésugi and Sataké, two _daimiôs_ of Déwa province, had asked to have the duty of chastising Aidzu entrusted to them, and their request had been granted. Next day they brought Notes from Higashi-Kuzé enclosing copy of the instructions he had received from Daté Iyo no Kami (Uwajima) and Sanjô Sanéyoshi (one of the fugitive court nobles) accepting on behalf of the Mikado's government the terms of settlement of the Bizen affair laid down by the Foreign Representatives, namely the capital punishment of the officer who had given the order to fire on foreigners and the apology. The ministers expressed themselves gratified with the promptness of the reply, which was received twenty-four hours before the expiration of the delay accorded. They said they would wait three or four days for the letters of apology and for the announcement of detailed arrangements for carrying out the execution. Godai and Terashima stated that if Bizen were to refuse to surrender the officer, the Mikado's troops would compel obedience. They also brought a Note from Ninnaji no Miya, ratifying the Treaties and all subsequent engagements in the name of the Mikado, and notifying his own appointment as Chief Administrator of Foreign Affairs, with Daté, Sanjô and Higashi-Kuzé as his assistants. There was also a Note demanding strict neutrality on the part of the British Government and its subjects, and a like Note to each of the other Representatives. Facsimiles of the Mikado's notification to the Treaty Powers were also handed to those of the ministers who had not yet received it. The request for Willis to go to Kiôto to treat the wounded was repeated and granted, and a proposal made by myself to accompany him was accepted with alacrity. News was received that day from Nagasaki that the withdrawal of the governor Kawadzu Idzu no Kami had been quietly effected on the night of the 7th, and a provisional government formed on the following day of all the _daimiôs_' agents in the port, thirteen clans in all. The direction of local affairs had been offered by the governor to Hizen and Chikuzen, but they declined undertaking such a responsibility without the co-operation of the other clans. All the subordinate custom-house officials and interpreters, as well as 500 troops raised at Nagasaki for defensive purposes, were taken over by the provisional government, so that the business of the port had not been interrupted for a single day. A few fires broke out, but were soon extinguished. CHAPTER XXVII FIRST VISIT TO KIOTO The next day was taken up with our preparations for Kiôto, including the purchase of sufficient stores for a fortnight. Saionji Yukiyé of Uwajima called, and I offered him a passage to Ozaka in the gunboat which was to convey Willis and myself to the starting-point of our journey. A Satsuma man named Oyama Yasuké,[9] whom I had known in Yedo, came to announce himself as commander of our escort. That European surgical skill was very necessary for the treatment of the wounded can be seen from the fact I find recorded in one of my letters home, that the Japanese surgeons had sewn up all the gunshot wounds, and some of their patients died from this cause. The prospect of visiting the city from which foreigners had been rigidly excluded ever since the ports were opened in 1859 was enticing, especially as we were now being invited thither by the very people who, we were told by the Tycoon's officials, had all along tried to keep us out. [9] Afterwards Field-Marshal Oyama, Commander-in-chief in Manchuria in 1904-5 in the Russo-Japanese War. Sir Harry was now in high spirits and in very good temper. We had no more of the interviews with Japanese officials at which he used strong language, and interpreting for him, which used to be a painful duty, was changed into a labour of love. Success makes a man kind, and certainly Sir Harry had been successful. By the departure of the French Minister he became the _doyen_ of the diplomatic body, and the rest of his colleagues followed his lead with perfect unanimity, for they had begun to see that his policy was the right one to adopt. It was his influence that induced his colleagues to join him in issuing declarations of neutrality in the conflict between the Mikado and the Tycoon, which among other things prevented the delivery to the latter of the American iron-clad ram "Stonewall Jackson," bought with Japanese money. These declarations were subsequent to the departure of M. Roches to Yokohama, and while his secretary Baron Brin was in charge of the French Legation. We started about nine o'clock in the morning of February 16 on board the gunboat "Cockchafer," having in our train Noguchi, a boy-pupil named Tetsu, one of my Japanese escort named Matsushita, and Willis' servant the faithful Sahei. Off the Ozaka bar we found the Satsuma steamer "Keangsoo" and another engaged in disembarking a large body of troops. On landing at the city we found lodgings had been taken for us at a Buddhist temple close to a burnt Satsuma _yashiki_ called Takamatsu, and no sooner had we seated ourselves than a messenger arrived, in the person of Koba Dennai's secretary, to ask us to stop two or three days in Ozaka so that Willis might see some men who were ill of fever, and that boats to convey us up the river were not obtainable. We replied that Willis had not made any preparations for treating fever patients, and had brought appliances for wounds only; that we supposed boats were as numerous at Ozaka as they had been before the recent fighting up-river, and that we could not understand this delay being interposed, after we had been so urged and hurried by Iwashita and Terashima, who had wished us to start even a day earlier than we had found possible. So the secretary went out, and Yasuké after him. They stayed away a whole hour, and we came to the conclusion that the permission to bring us into Kiôto had been revoked, resolving to return to Kôbé rather than waste our time at Ozaka. At four o'clock Oyama returned, bringing with him an old, ugly, mis-shapen fellow named Ijichi Shôji, who appeared to be one of the Satsuma generals. After bestowing on us a vast quantity of complimentary phrases, this individual brought out in a jerky St Vitus' dance sort of way the same sort of excuses as had been made by Koba's secretary. To this we returned the same answer as before, with the addition that if they found it inconvenient to receive us in Kiôto, we would go back at once to Kôbé. This decided attitude induced Ijichi to give orders at once for boats to be got ready, and we then went off to see the castle ruins. There was a notice at the front gate refusing entrance to any but Satsuma and Chôshiû men, but as we had one of the former clan with us we found no difficulty in gaining access. Passing through the gate we came upon a wide scene of desolation. The white-plastered towers and wall of the inner moat were gone; all the barracks and towers of the outer wall to the south likewise; only the stones of the gateway to the right remained. We passed into the _hommaru_ or keep, through the gateway constructed with huge blocks of stone, the largest measuring 42 by 16 feet and 35 by 18 feet. Nothing was left but the masonry, giving somewhat of the look of the ancient Greek Cyclopean walls of Tiryns. The magnificent palace itself had disappeared; all that there was to show where it had once stood was a level surface covered with half-calcined tiles. The way to the foundation tower of the _tenshi_ remained clear, and we mounted to the summit. Here in the exfoliation of the stones were traces of a former conflagration; a plaster wall built right round had escaped not only the flames, but also the explosion of the great magazine close underneath. Four doors in this wall gave on to the outer parapet, from which the view of the river, with its three great bridges, winding through the city to the sea, and the hills on the further side of the bay surpassed anything I had ever seen. In the opposite direction the stream could be distinguished here and there as it meandered through the fields down from Fushimi. The interior of the castle had been completely destroyed, with the exception of a few rows of store-houses, which had escaped through being situated to windward of the flames. The three concentric walls of masonry, including the one from which we looked, reminded one of the appearance that West's Tower of Babel would have presented if viewed from above. We sounded the well, whence is drawn the famous _ô-gon-sui_, or golden water, and found the depth to be 140 feet. Issuing again from the gate at the base of the _tenshi_, we came upon a quantity of burnt armour and helmets piled up round a store-house which the flames had spared; some had been melted by the violent heat into an irregular mass of metal. There were also piles of thousands of matchlock barrels, with a few rifles among them. Curious to see what had become of our temporary legation buildings, we took our way out of the ruined Tamatsukuri gate. The whole place, excepting the houses that had been occupied by Mitford and myself, was level with the ground, and even they had been gutted so completely by the rabble as to be quite beyond the possibility of repair. It was a melancholy sight. On returning to our lodging we found Godai, who with many profuse apologies conducted us to a house close by which was better fitted for inhabitation by human beings. He explained that we could not start for Kiôto before the following morning. From what he said it appeared that delay in issuing the permission from the Imperial Court for our entrance into Kiôto was caused by Ninnaji no Miya's having unexpectedly gone there himself, but as he, Godai, had at once despatched a messenger, the pass would be received at Fushimi the next evening before our arrival there. This arrangement being accepted by us, _saké_ and its accompaniments were ordered in, and half-a-dozen singing girls attended to help us pass away the time. February 17, at ten o'clock in the morning, saw us start in a houseboat from the stairs below the burnt Satsuma _yashiki_. The party, seven in number, included our merry friend Oyama, and another officer in command of a guard for our protection. Although we had only just breakfasted, _saké_ and various dishes were soon introduced, and the entertainment was repeated all through the day at short intervals. It was a fine morning, and the scenery was as beautiful as on the previous occasion in May, when Willis, Wirgman and I had made the same journey. Conversation naturally turned for the most part on the incidents of the recent fighting. The Tokugawa forces had been pressing all day along the Toba road until four o'clock, when they made an attempt to force the Satsuma position. The attack was met by a steady fire from a field-piece planted in the middle of the path (for the so-called road was very little wider), and from three others in position on the left, while troops concealed in the brushwood opened on them with musketry. This unexpected reception threw the Tokugawa men into confusion, and they retired precipitately leaving numbers of dead and wounded on the ground. The imperialists at Fushimi, on hearing the sound of firing in the direction of Toba, from which place they were about a mile distant, attacked the Tycoon's troops as they formed outside the governor's residence, and the fighting lasted till the middle of the night. The officers on the Tycoon's side set the example of flight, and their men could not resist the temptation, so that the rout became general. After Yodo was passed no more fighting occurred on the road to Ozaka. At Hirakata the drilled infantry broke into the storehouses of the townspeople who had run away, and disguised themselves in the finest garments they could find; other townspeople pursued the marauders and killed six of them. We passed Hirakata at four, but did not reach our hotel at Fushimi till midnight. Tôdô was holding his old post at Yamazaki, and Kaga occupied Hashimoto. Dear old Yoshii was at our hotel to welcome us, and more respectably dressed and shaven than I had seen him for a long time past. A fresh supply of _saké_ was produced, and we kept up the conversation till past two in the morning. These late hours did not prevent our being ready to start at ten o'clock, escorted by a company of eighty-eight men. Large palanquins of the sort called _kiri-bô kago_, that is "with a Paulownia-wood pole," used by personages of the highest rank, had been provided for us, but Willis, who was 6 feet 3 high and big in proportion, was not able to double himself up inside, and preferred to walk. The route lay through Fushimi for some way, issuing on to the Takéda road, fifteen feet wide, then ascended to the top of a dyke constructed to keep the river within bounds, crossed a bridge and so into the city of Kiôto. At a temple by the roadside we fell in with Komatsu, who had followed us from Fushimi, and by one o'clock we arrived at Sô-koku-ji, a Buddhist temple close to the Satsuma _yashiki_ at the back of the imperial palace. Shiuri no Taiyu, the Prince of Satsuma, paid us a visit of welcome, accompanied by his confidential adviser Saigô. After shaking hands with us both, he sat down in a chair placed at the end of the table by the door, while we occupied chairs behind the table in a position of greater dignity. All his attendants squatted on the floor. After the exchange of a few complimentary speeches he took his leave, and we accompanied him as far as the door. The grounds of Sô-koku-ji were extensive, and well planted with trees, the temple itself a fine example of wood architecture, the state apartments divided off by splendid gold paper screens decorated with landscapes in Indian ink, the coffered ceilings fifteen feet above the floor. To suit the convenience of us westerners a table and chairs had been provided, and a luxurious feast was served immediately after the prince had taken his leave. In the afternoon Willis went to look after the wounded, while I took a walk down to the bookshops in Sanjô-dôri, accompanied by an escort. It was not until I reached this point that the populace seemed to be certain that I was a foreigner; one little boy asked whether I were not a native of Loochoo. The Tokugawa Castle of Nijô struck me as insignificant compared with many a fortress belonging to a small Fudai _daimiô_. It was then occupied by the troops of Owari; the _yashiki_ which had been the head-quarters of Aidzu as military governor of Kiôto was tenanted by a few of Tosa's troops. The men who had accompanied me about the city took the liberty of sitting down with us to dinner, and showed great want of good manners. It was evident that they took a departure from the polite social observances characteristic of the Japanese to be an evidence of what was held to be civilization, i.e. in their own words _hiraketa_. Next day I went to ask Saigô about the settlement of the Bizen affair. He replied that Hiki Tatéwaki, the _karô_ who was riding in the palanquin, could not be regarded as free from blame, and that he would be imprisoned in the charge of three clans. The officer who had been riding on horseback would be executed. The Mikado's inspectors (_kenshi_) would attend, the sentence would be pronounced, and a copy would be furnished to the foreign Representatives. Afterwards the sentence and an account of the proceedings would be circulated throughout the country for the information and warning of others. Saigô said the Mikado's government hoped to be able to keep the whole of Japan in order, so as to prevent the necessity ever arising for foreigners to take the law into their own hands. I said that this view was shared by Sir Harry; that in regard of the Bizen outrage he had felt confident that an envoy would be sent from the Mikado, and he had therefore resisted the solicitations of those around him, who had urged that a force should be despatched against the Bizen people at Nishinomiya; he preferred to leave the opportunity open to the Mikado. Saigô also explained the reference in the Mikado's proclamation regarding the observation of the treaties, to the "reform of abuses," to mean that the new government would propose a revision of those agreements. I mentioned three points on which changes were desirable, firstly, the residence of the foreign ministers being fixed at Yedo (for it was naturally supposed that the government of the country would in future be conducted from Kiôto); secondly, the confinement of foreigners to a radius of ten _ri_ (245 miles) round treaty ports; and thirdly, the circulation of all foreign coin throughout the country. While abolishing the ten _ri_ limit, it should be made obligatory on a person travelling about the country to carry a passport signed either by the Minister or the Consul, and countersigned by the governor of the port from which he set out. This last proposal was in fact one made by the Japanese themselves. In the afternoon we went to return the call of the Prince of Satsuma. As during his visit yesterday, he scarcely opened his lips, but Willis said that he had treated Sir Harry in the same way when he went to Kagoshima in 1866, and that it was supposed he was advised by his councillors not to talk, lest he should make a fool of himself; a probable though not very charitable explanation. We spent the afternoon in exploring the city, which had been little more than half rebuilt after it was burnt in 1864 in the Chôshiû attack on the Palace. Next day I went with Yoshii to call on Gotô, to whom I spoke about the Bizen affair. He told me pretty much the same thing as Saigô, but less decisively. He talked of executing the man who used his spear before the firing began. Then he discussed the new constitution, and said he despaired of getting a deliberative assembly, because the majority would always be stupid and wrong-headed. I advised him to make the experiment nevertheless; if the members ran their heads against a block of stone, they would learn reason from the blow. He seemed to favour the idea of governing by a _junta_ composed of the prime minister and the cleverest men in the country, in default of one man of heroic mould, who should rule autocratically. Of course he included himself among "the cleverest men" (_jinketsu_). During this part of our conversation Gotô had excluded Yoshii, as well as Saionji of Uwajima, who happened to be calling on him, and Yoshii expressed his annoyance to me afterwards at having been treated with so little confidence. I pacified him by saying that we had been discussing the settlement of the Bizen affair. After these two were admitted some general conversation ensued among them, from which I gathered that it was by no means decided as yet who was to be what, and that the chief men of the different clans found it difficult to manage each other, that mutual jealousy, and especially jealousy of Satsuma, prevented their pulling together. I gave them a hint to use in revising the treaties, namely, the establishment of mixed courts for trying cases between foreigners and Japanese, instead of deciding them according to the laws of the defendant's nationality. I also called on Katsura (Kido), but we did not meet till the next day, when he came to our lodging in company with a Chôshiû naval captain named Shinagawa, who for some time past had been living in Kiôto as a Satsuma man. Yoshii also turned up, but the conversation flagged until Willis came back from the hospital, and during lunch a heated argument arose as to the best way of preventing affrays from happening between Japanese and foreigners. Katsura and I had previously agreed that the Japanese Government should discuss the procedure with the foreign representatives; foreigners should be informed that to break through a procession is an offence in Japanese eyes, and Japanese on the other hand should be taught that they must not use weapons, but simply arrest offenders and hand them over to their own authorities; further, that when a _daimiô's_ train was to pass along a thoroughfare, constables from a mixed force of westerners and Japanese should be stationed to keep the road clear. Willis dissented from this view, and maintained that the only way to preserve the peace between foreign rowdies and Japanese bullies was to keep them apart, and to carry the high road round at the back outside Kôbé. My argument against this, in which Katsura concurred, was that a change of road would give rise to a great deal more ill-will between the opposite nationalities than the murder of a few foreigners, and that from what we had hitherto seen in this country a little fighting would open the eyes of the Japanese and make us all better friends than before; in fact, we held it was better to apply caustic at once than to let the disease linger on and attempt to cure each symptom as it presented itself. We did not settle the question, but I noted down what precedes as being a Japanese view. In the evening I went to call on Okubo Ichizô, a Satsuma _karô_, who was one of the councillors of the Home Department. Last year he and I had sent presents to each other, but had never met, so I wished to make his acquaintance. Instead of merely exchanging formalities, we had some interesting conversation. He said that 7000 infantry were being sent forward to Hakoné, and 5000 to a pass on the Nakasendô. Satsuma and Chôshiû were determined to prosecute the war, and perfect unanimity prevailed among the _sanyo_ (councillors). Even Echizen and Higo, who at first had been opposed to the employment of force, were now working hand-in-hand with the other clans. The _daimiô_ of Ogaki, who was a councillor of the Finance Department, until recently an adherent of the Tokugawa, had expressed his hope that the expedition against Yedo would soon be sent on its way. Probably the Mikado would accompany the army in person, a step which would greatly weaken the rebels. He thought that the return of M. Roches to France would have the effect of determining the Tycoon to submit, as he would have no one to rely on for material assistance. If he submitted, his life might be spared, but Aidzu and Kuwana must lose their heads. At Ozaka the discovery had been made of the diary kept by a confidential adviser of Keiki's, in which the false hopes that had given rise to the expedition against Kiôto at the end of last month were plainly expressed; the other clans were represented as getting tired of Satsuma, and even Chôshiû to be divided into two parties, one for war the other for peace; that Gotô Shôjirô was inclined towards making terms with the Shôgun, and that the Court desired to see him back in Kiôto. But, said Okubo, Keiki was in too much of a hurry, and now the whole situation had completely changed; those who previously had wavered were now convinced of the _Baku-fu's_ weakness, and were eager to be first in striking a blow at the Tokugawa. At his request I explained to him as well as I could the working of our executive government in combination with the parliamentary system, the existence of political parties and the election of members of the lower house. The Bizen affair he said was pretty well settled, and his account agreed in the main with what Saigô and Gotô had told me. Next day however there arrived a very peevish letter from the chief, complaining that the Bizen business did not appear to be nearing a settlement, that sufficient preparations had not been made at Ozaka for the reception of the Foreign Representatives, that he doubted whether he would ever go there at all, and winding up by ordering Willis and myself to rejoin him by the 24th at latest. This gave me one day more at Kiôto, but it considerably upset Willis' arrangements, as he had calculated on a fortnight's stay. Okubo having called to return my visit, and Yoshii also, I took the opportunity of urging on them the necessity of settling Bizen at once. They replied that they did not belong to the department concerned, but undertook to see Gotô and Higashi-Kuzé, and repeat to them what I had said. I had to go, but left Willis to await further orders. On the 23rd Saigô came to say good-bye to me, and present me with two large rolls of red and white crape and two of gold brocade. He said there was no possibility of my carrying back the final decision of the Bizen affair. When he was gone, Yoshii came in; he told me Sir Harry perfectly well understand the cause of the delay, and had consented to wait a week. A letter had gone from Higashi-Kuzé to him, which had probably crossed his to me. The final decision would probably be arrived at on the morrow or the day after. Daté (Uwajima) and Gotô would go down next day to Ozaka, and Higashi-Kuzé would follow with the sentences of the Bizen men as soon as they were made out. Both Saigô and Yoshii begged that Willis would stay five or six days longer. The war news was that the town and territory of Kuwana had submitted to the imperial messenger, but the retainers replied that they could not undertake for their prince, who was in Yedo, having accompanied Keiki thither. Everyone in Kiôto hoped that the Yedo people would resist instead of peaceably submitting, for the western men were all "spoiling for a fight." At three o'clock in the afternoon I therefore set out alone. It took me a long time to get through the city to the Gojô bridge, as I completed my sight-seeing as I went, and I did not reach Fushimi till dark. There I found Oyama's elder brother, who was Satsuma agent (_rusui_), and from words dropped by Notsu, the captain of my escort, I learnt that the orders to march on Yedo were expected to be issued in a day or two. At nine o'clock we embarked for Ozaka in a fifty _koku_ flat-bottomed boat, long and narrow, with a roofing of coarse straw mats supported by rafters resting on a pole laid from one end of the boat to the other, horribly uncomfortable, and especially so when crowded. We got to our destination at 6.30 next morning, and I crossed to Hiôgo in the gunboat. Notsu said that in the recent fighting the heads of all the wounded who could not escape had been taken off, a proceeding hardly reconcilable with what we had been told about the resolution to spare the lives of prisoners; unless, indeed, it was done to put them out of their pain. The next entry in my journal is of February 29th, when Daté came over from Ozaka. On arriving he went to the consulate by invitation from the chief to have lunch, and began to talk about the Foreign Representatives being presented to the Mikado, who was to be brought down to Ozaka, perhaps by March 13. We had to stop this interesting communication in order that he might go to call on the other ministers. In the evening I went to see him, when he told me M. Roches had asked to see Saigô, Okubo, Komatsu and Gotô, as he understood they were the leaders of the Kiôto movement; this had greatly annoyed the dear old man, who resented being ignored in that fashion, and said he hated Roches and his interpreter. Roches had sent to say he would call next morning, and it was with difficulty that I persuaded him to receive the visit, instead of going on board H.M.S. "Ocean" on Sir Harry's invitation. Inouyé Bunda, whom I saw that day, told me the French consul at Nagasaki had refused to pay duties to the provisional government, and had threatened war, especially against Satsuma and Chôshiû. We had a good laugh over this exhibition of impotent wrath. CHAPTER XXVIII _Harakiri_--NEGOTIATIONS FOR AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO AT KIOTO NEXT day Daté introduced to the Foreign Representatives Sawa Mondô no Kami, one of the five fugitive court nobles of 1864, who was proceeding to Nagasaki as governor, together with the _daimiô_ of Omura, who was to furnish his guard. Sawa wore rather a forbidding expression of countenance, not to say slightly villainous, but for all that had the look of a good companion, and a year or two later, when he was minister for Foreign Affairs, we liked him greatly. Omura Tango no Kami, to give him his full title, was a weak, sickly looking man, who did not utter a word during the interview, and seemed even afraid of speaking to a foreigner. Sawa's son, a dissipated-looking young man, with the white complexion of a woman, was also present. After the compliments were over, these three were turned out of the room, and we learnt that the Bizen affair would be wound up by the decapitation of the responsible officer. Early that morning the chief had been asking my opinion about the advisability of granting a reprieve, or rather a mitigation of the penalty. Mitford learnt from von Brandt that the colleagues knew him to have leanings that way, and that he was believed to have put forward Polsbroek, the Dutch Political Agent, to advocate clemency. Mitford and I had however agreed previously that lenience would be a mistake, and that was the view I maintained in reply to Sir Harry. Daté and Sawa came to dinner that evening with the chief, an arrangement which he fancied he had kept secret from his colleagues, but they knew of it as soon as the invitation was accepted. Afterwards there was a long conversation which lasted until midnight, a principal topic being the proposed visit of the Mikado to Ozaka. Daté said the object of the excursion was to open the mind of the young sovereign by showing him something of the outer world, and also a big English man-of-war. Of course, he added, if the foreign diplomats were there at the time, they might be presented. Parkes said the Mikado might receive the Diplomatic Body as a whole, but not each minister separately, his object being to secure priority of presentation for himself, as he had already written home for new credentials. Daté suggested that the capital might possibly be moved from its present position to Ozaka, as it was situated at a spot hemmed in by mountains, to which all supplies had to be transported by water. My own belief was that Satsuma and Chôshiû wanted to get the person of the Mikado into their own hands in order to make him march with the army, and secondly to have him on the sea-coast in order to be able to cut and run whenever it might become necessary. This was confirmed by the fact that the Mikado had issued an order announcing that he was taking the field in person. In reply to a question as to the fate of the ex-Tycoon, Daté said it would depend on circumstances, which no one could foretell. The people of Ozaka, aware of the anti-foreign policy of the late Mikado and the former political opinions of Chôshiû, supposed that since the Court and Chôshiû had come into power, foreigners would be generally obnoxious, not any longer having the Tokugawa power to defend them; that was the reason of the populace having wrecked the various legations. Perhaps the Bizen people had been actuated by the same notions. This last suggestion furnished an additional ground for our refusing to reduce the capital sentence. By this time M. Roches had come back to Kôbé, to the great annoyance of his colleagues, who considered that he had played a trick on them in leaving his secretary here as Chargé d' Affaires, in order that he might not be unrepresented, and at the same time playing the part of French Minister in Yedo. It did not cause us, that is Mitford and myself, much surprise when in the afternoon of the next day Godai and Itô came to ask for the life of Taki Zenzaburô, the retainer of Hiki Tatéwaki, who had been condemned to perform _harakiri_ as the penalty for ordering his soldiers to fire on foreigners. A long discussion took place between the foreign ministers which lasted for nearly three hours, in which Sir Harry voted for clemency, but the majority were for the sentence being carried out. It was half-past eight o'clock in the evening when Godai and Itô were called back into the room and told in a few words that there was no way but to let the law take its course. So we started at nine o'clock, Mitford and myself, with a single representative of each of the other legations. We were guided to the Buddhist temple of Sei-fuku-ji at Hiôgo, arriving there at a quarter to ten. Strong guards were posted in the courtyard and in the ante-chambers. We were shown into a room, where we had to squat on the matted floor for about three-quarters of an hour; during this interval we were asked whether we had any questions to put to the condemned man, and also for a list of our names. At half-past ten we were conducted into the principal hall of the temple, and asked to sit down on the right hand side of the dais in front of the altar. Then the seven Japanese witnesses, Itô, Nakashima Sakutarô, two Satsuma captains of infantry, two Chôshiû captains, and a Bizen _o-metsuké_ took their places. After we had sat quietly thus for about ten minutes footsteps were heard approaching along the verandah. The condemned man, a tall Japanese of gentleman-like bearing and aspect, entered on the left side, accompanied by his _kai-shaku_ or best men, and followed by two others, apparently holding the same office. Taki was dressed in blue _kami-shimo_ of hempen cloth; the _kai-shaku_ wore war surcoats (_jimbaori_). Coming before the Japanese witnesses they prostrated themselves, the bow being returned, and then the same ceremony was exchanged with us. Then the condemned man was led to a red sheet of felt-cloth laid on the dais before the altar; on this he squatted, after performing two bows, one at a distance, the other close to the altar. With the calmest deliberation he took his seat on the red felt, choosing the position which would afford him the greatest convenience for falling forward. A man dressed in black with a light grey hempen mantle then brought in the dirk wrapped in paper on a small unpainted wooden stand, and with a bow placed it in front of him. He took it up in both hands, raised it to his forehead and laid it down again with a bow. This is the ordinary Japanese gesture of thankful reception of a gift. Then in a distinct voice, very much broken, not by fear or emotion, but as it seemed reluctance to acknowledge an act of which he was ashamed--declared that he alone was the person who on the fourth of February had outrageously at Kôbé ordered fire to be opened on foreigners as they were trying to escape, that for having committed this offence he was going to rip up his bowels, and requested all present to be witnesses. He next divested himself of his upper garments by withdrawing his arms from the sleeves, the long ends of which he tucked under his legs to prevent his body from falling backward. The body was thus quite naked to below the navel. He then took the dirk in his right hand, grasping it just close to the point, and after stroking down the front of his chest and belly inserted the point as far down as possible and drew it across to the right side, the position of his clothes still fastened by the girth preventing our seeing the wound. Having done this he with great deliberation bent his body forward, throwing the head back so as to render the neck a fair object for the sword. The one _kai-shaku_ who had accompanied him round the two rows of witnesses to make his bows to them, had been crouching on his left hand a little behind him with drawn sword poised in the air from the moment the operation commenced. He now sprang up suddenly and delivered a blow the sound of which was like thunder. The head dropped down on to the matted floor, and the body lurching forward fell prostrate over it, the blood from the arteries pouring out and forming a pool. When the blood vessels had spent themselves all was over. The little wooden stand and the dirk were removed. Itô came forward with a bow, asking had we been witnesses; we replied that we had. He was followed by Nakashima, who also made a bow. A few minutes elapsed, and we were asked were we ready to leave. We rose and went out, passing in front of the corpse and through the Japanese witnesses. It was twelve o'clock when we got back to the consulate, where we found Sir Harry waiting up to receive our report. The newspaper reports which reached England of this execution, and of the subsequent execution by _harakiri_ of eleven Tosa men at Sakai gave a very distorted view of the facts. Charles Rickerby who was the owner and editor of "The Japan Times" of Yokohama was responsible for the attempts to mislead public opinion in both instances. He invented an account of the proceedings witnessed by Mitford and myself which was entirely false, and wound up by saying that it was disgraceful for Christians to have attended the execution, and that he hoped the Japanese, if they took revenge for this "judicial murder" would assassinate gentlemen of the foreign Legations rather than anyone else. As for being ashamed of having been present at a _harakiri_ on the ground that it was a disgusting exhibition, I was proud to feel that I had not shrunk from witnessing a punishment which I did my best to bring about. It was no disgusting exhibition, but a most decent and decorous ceremony, and far more respectable than what our own countrymen were in the habit of producing for the entertainment of the public in the front of Newgate prison. The countrymen of this Bizen man told us that they considered the sentence a just and beneficial one. As regards the case of the Tosa men at Sakai, no punishment was ever more righteously inflicted. These Japanese massacred a boat's crew of inoffensive and unarmed men, who were never alleged to have given the slightest provocation. Twenty were condemned to death, and one could only regret that Captain du Petit Thouars judged it necessary to stop the execution when eleven had suffered, for the twenty were all equally guilty, and requiring a life for life of the eleven Frenchmen looked more like revenge than justice. A few days afterwards all the ministers returned to Ozaka. We went over on board H.M.S. "Ocean," Captain Stanhope. She was an iron-clad, of 4000 tons, carrying 26 muzzle-loading rifled guns of the Woolwich pattern, enough to blow any vessel on the station into tiny fragments. With us went Daté and Polsbroek, and the transport "Adventure" conveyed our baggage. Our former temporary residence having been destroyed by fire, we were accommodated at temples in Naka-dera-machi, and were fortunate enough to light upon some of the furniture stolen by the mob after we decamped in January. The townspeople recognized us as "the foreigners who ran away the other day," but they were very civil, and did not shout after us as they rudely did in the last days of the ex-Tycoon's occupation of the city. From Yedo we heard reports that the feeling among Tokugawa people was that he should be compelled to perform _harakiri_ and that his principal advisers should be beheaded, in order to appease the imperialists. It was difficult not to feel a certain degree of sympathy for him, mingled with resentment, for he had let us believe he would fight at Ozaka, while he had made up his mind to beat a retreat. If he had told us the truth we could have remained there tranquilly, for we were well assured of the friendliness of Satsuma and Chôshiû. The "Ocean's" steam launch landed us at the foreign settlement, and we marched through the city with our guard of the 2/ix to our new quarters. There had been a great deal of talk about the Mikado being brought down to Ozaka to see some steamers and to meet the foreign ministers, but I hoped this would not happen. If we were to have an audience of His Majesty, we ought to have it at Kiôto, otherwise the ceremony would lose half its significance. In the afternoon Iyo no Kami and Komatsu paid friendly visits to Sir Harry. It was evident that we were in a fair way to regain the diplomatic ascendancy of which we had been deprived by the recall of Sir Rutherford Alcock in 1864. When Daté and Higashi-Kuzé called next day on the foreign representatives they came to us last of all, which was convenient. Sir Harry spoke to them about the proposed audience of the Mikado. They acknowledged the advantages that would result from its taking place at Kiôto instead of at Ozaka, but were evidently not prepared to promise that immediately. The American, Prussian and Italian Representatives had told Daté that they wished to leave in three days' time, thus causing some amount of consternation in the minds of the Japanese, who desired to keep them for the audience, while they fully appreciated what the chief told them, namely that the three Representatives who wanted to get away would not stop for an audience which was to be merely incidental to the Mikado's visit to some Japanese steamers. It would be unsuitable to the dignity of the Representatives to be presented to His Majesty while at Ozaka on a visit made ostensibly for a different purpose. I myself greatly hoped that the way in which the chief had put the matter would induce the Japanese to invite the ministers at once to Kiôto. That would be the consummation of the imperialist theory and scheme. Von Brandt had said privately that he would not accept even if asked, but publicly had said he would, while the American Minister was apparently of the same way of thinking. Sir Harry had proposed that the Mikado should receive the whole Diplomatic Body together, on one day, and not accord separate audiences until they could present credentials, and this suggestion had been readily adopted. On the 7th March an important conference was held between the Foreign Representatives and high Japanese functionaries, Daté, Higashi-Kuzé, Daigo Dainagon a court noble appointed governor of Ozaka, and _karôs_ of Owari, Echizen, Satsuma, Chôshiû, Tosa, Geishiû, Hizen, Higo and Inshiû, practically all the great territorial nobles of the west. It is a remarkable fact that the princes of Echizen, Bizen and Inshiû, now ranged among the enemies of the Tokugawa, were descended from the founder of that house. The conference took place in the vast hall of the Buddhist temple of Nishi Hongwanji. After the Japanese Ministers had expressed their good wishes for the extension of friendly intercourse between Japan and foreign countries, and declared that the _daimiôs_ there represented heartily supported the foreign policy of the Mikado, discussions arose about the ministers going up to Kiôto for an audience of the Mikado, about exchange of foreign coin for Japanese and the sale of land in the foreign settlements at Ozaka and Hiôgo (Kôbé). We were told that letters were expected from Kiôto in a day or two fixing a date for the audience, so that the ministers could go up one day, see the Mikado on the next, and come down again, thus being absent only three days from Ozaka. M. Roches was of course deadly opposed to accepting any such arrangement. Van Valkenburg the American, von Brandt and de la Tour the Italian seemed unwilling to commit themselves too deeply with the imperialists. The chief tried hard to conceal his determination to accept the invitation in any case, while Polsbroek put on an appearance of indifference. Roches attempted to get an unconditional refusal conveyed to the Japanese Ministers, but was unsuccessful thanks to the watch I kept over his interpreter Shiwoda, and finally the decision was left to depend on the contents of the letters expected from Kiôto. Yamanouchi Yôdô, the older Prince of Tosa, was reported to be very ill at Kiôto, and the services of Willis were asked for on his behalf. This request was readily acceded to by the chief, and Willis started the same evening accompanied by Mitford. My personal relations with the Awa clan had long been of an intimate character, and it was therefore no surprise when Hayamidzu Sukéyomon, formerly Awa agent at Yedo and now at Ozaka, came to call on me on March 8, bringing a present of silk for Major Crossman in return for the treatises on artillery which the latter had sent to Awa no Kami. It was with great regret that I learnt from him of the death of that friendly and hospitable old gentleman on January 30th. His son and successor, who had been kept at home till the period of mourning expired, was now expected at Ozaka on his way to Kiôto. Hayamidzu brought a budget of Yedo news which mostly proved afterwards to be little better than mere gossip, such as that Itakura was reported to have committed suicide by _harakiri_ because the other ministers of state differed from him in opinion; that the _fudai daimiôs_ and _hatamoto_ talked of compelling Keiki to disembowel himself; of cutting off the heads of Aidzu and Kuwana in order that those two families might escape destruction. He had not heard of Keiki being allowed to retire into private life (_in-kio_), and thought it absurd to suggest such a step under existing circumstances. His conduct had been too shabby for him to become entitled to such consideration. On the 7th February Hori Kura no Kami, one of the second council, had performed _harakiri_, after having vainly endeavoured to persuade Keiki to take that step, and offering to accompany him in the act. All Yedo applauded Kura no Kami and said Keiki ought to follow his example. The _Baku-fu_, said my friend, had no desire to fight. The Awa clan was now supporting the Mikado and was taking part in the expedition to subjugate Tokugawa, and would like to make a declaration to the foreign representatives such as was made by the other clans on the previous day. In the afternoon I went to Daté to inquire whether he had any news from Kiôto about the invitation of the ministers. He said they would be asked to start on the 11th, but the date of the audience not having been fixed, the invitations could not be sent out. I advised him to go at once to invite each of the ministers and to say that the day after their arrival in Kiôto would be appointed for the audience, because he and Higashi-Kuzé had written asking for that arrangement to be made, and therefore no doubt existed that it would eventually be done. So off he started, beginning with the French Minister, who kept him to dinner, but declined going to Kiôto until he could perceive actual evidence of the Mikado's supremacy. He was answered that even were the _Baku-fu_ to be restored with all its original powers, the Mikado being undoubtedly the sovereign of Japan, and the Shôgun only his vicegerent, no offence could possibly be given by being received in audience by the former. From him Daté went to the Italian, Prussian, American and Dutch Representatives. The first three refused on the ground of pressing business at Yokohama, but the last said he would act in the same way as the British Minister. And when Iyo no Kami came to our chief, he accepted the invitation. CHAPTER XXIX MASSACRE OF FRENCH SAILORS AT SAKAI UNFORTUNATELY just at this moment news was received that a boat-load of Frenchmen had been massacred by the Tosa troops at Sakai. This put an end to the conversation and to all hope of going to Kiôto for an audience. Two men were reported killed on the spot, seven missing, seven wounded, while five escaped unhurt. The account received by Daté just as he left the French Legation was that only one had been killed. It was evident to everybody that the execution of the Bizen officer had not had the effect of a warning. Confusion, despair; hopes dashed to the ground just on the point of fulfilment. No better accounts being given by Daté and Higashi-Kuzé on the following morning, and the missing sailors not having been given up, the Foreign Ministers resolved to withdraw their flags. When the two Japanese Ministers called on the French Minister to express their deep regret, he refused to see them, and addressed a letter to the Japanese authorities demanding the surrender of the missing men by eight o'clock the following morning. The French, Italian, Prussian and American representatives embarked. We and the Dutch political agent remained on shore. But on the morning of the 10th the British flag was formally lowered, and Sir Harry went on board the "Ocean," leaving Russell Robertson and myself at the vice-consulate, with Lieutenant Bradshaw and six men of the 2/ix. The dead bodies of the seven missing French sailors having been found, Daté and Higashi-Kuzé went on board the French flagship "Vénus" to inform M. Roches. But by some curious blunder the boxes containing the corpses were sent first to the British transport "Adventure," where they were mistaken for cases of "curios" belonging to our Legation, and how the discovery was made of the real nature of the contents I never heard, but they did not arrive at the French flagship till late in the afternoon. I saw Daté on his way back, who said he was greatly pleased with the moderation with which the French Minister was treating the affair. Next day Sir Harry landed, and carried off Bradshaw and his men. He instructed me to call on Daté and say to him that the Representatives would consult together after the funeral as to the reparation to be demanded from the Mikado's government, and that if they were unanimous the Japanese might feel assured that the demands were just. In that case the best thing they could do would be to accept them without delay. On the other hand, if the requirements of M. Roches exceeded the bounds of justice, the other ministers would refuse to join him, and the Japanese Government could then appeal to the French Government and those of the other Foreign Powers. In Sir Harry's own opinion a large number of the Tosa men ought to suffer death, but he did not approve of pecuniary indemnities. Having given me these instructions he went off to Hiôgo to attend the funeral of the murdered Frenchmen, eleven in all. Robertson and I called on Daté to deliver the chief's message, and after having executed our commission, we went with Komatsu and Nakai to a Japanese restaurant and had a feast in the usual style. We got home about seven o'clock, and as the day was still young we took it into our heads to give ourselves an entertainment, and with a guide carrying a lantern went to the quarter of the town where such amusements are provided, to a house to which I knew that a foreigner had been introduced, and that by Tosa people. The master said he was afraid of his trade being injured if he received foreigners, but suggested our applying to the local authority for permission. While we were still in the shop a Tosa man came down from a room upstairs, and on seeing us asked for his sword, but the people of the house refused to give it, and led him away. It never entered my head that the master of the house wished to get rid of us on account of his Tosa guests. So we went to the municipal office, and came back again with the desired permission, but the landlord was still not satisfied. We were conversing with him when the same Tosa man came down sword in hand, and squatting down before us with a threatening air, demanded to know who we were and what we were doing there. I replied that we were English officers and was proceeding to explain what we wanted, but he interrupted by fiercely questioning our right to be present. One of his companions roused by the disturbance came downstairs and carried him up again, the women taking his sword and hiding it. The peaceful man then came to us, and was offering an apology, when the madcap descended again with a naked weapon in his hand, at least that was Robertson's impression. His friend rushed to stop him; a struggle took place on the stairs and we bolted through the door into the street. The master of the house came out after us with our lantern, saying that our guide had disappeared, and as he was not to be found, the old man had to escort us home. Mitford and Willis arrived back from Kiôto on the 12th, Sir Harry's letter giving permission for the latter to remain having crossed him on the way. Having made arrangements for his going back again, we went on board the "Adventure" to see the chief, and while we were there Daté and Komatsu arrived to tell him what the French Minister's demands were: namely, 1st, the execution of all the men concerned in the massacre (about twenty Tosa men and twenty townspeople armed with fire-hooks, they told us); 2nd, $150,000 for the families of the murdered men; 3rd, apology of the principal minister for Foreign Affairs at Ozaka (this was Yamashina no Miya, a Prince of the Blood); 4th, apology of the Tosa _daimiô_ Yamanouchi Tosa no Kami on board a French man-of-war at Susaki (the port of Tosa); 5th, the exclusion of all Tosa armed men from treaty ports and cities. These had all been agreed to. We then returned ashore and started Willis on his way back to Kiôto. Next day we moved over to Hiôgo on board H.M.S. "Adventure." All the Foreign Representatives had addressed Notes to the Japanese Government counselling them to comply with the French demands. Hasé Sammi, a Court Noble, arrived as an envoy from the Mikado to the French Minister bearing a message of condolence. He afterwards saw Sir Harry and arranged with him that he should go to Kiôto for an audience of the Mikado, as soon as this affair was disposed of. M. Roches had not fixed any date, but it was expected by the Japanese authorities that everything would be finished by the 16th. M. Roches seemed to be harping on one string, that it would be regrettable if any single representative went to Kiôto by himself, and Komatsu, who told us that he had expressed himself to Hasé in that sense, thought that this was intended as a hit at Sir Harry. However, Polsbroek had also promised the Japanese that he too would go up to Kiôto as soon as satisfaction for the Tosa outrage were afforded. Next day Daté arrived at six o'clock with Komatsu and went on board the French flagship to deliver to Roches the Note accepting his demands. The 5th demand was understood to mean not merely that no Tosa troops should garrison treaty ports and cities, but that no Tosa _samurai_ of any class should be allowed at the treaty ports. This appeared to be too severe, and we held that it would have to be modified. After he had finished with Roches, Daté came over to see Sir Harry and to tell him what had been arranged. Two officers and eighteen rank and file were to perform _harakiri_ at Sakai at two p.m. the next day, and Yamashina no Miya was simultaneously to call on Roches to deliver the apology, and also invite him to Kiôto. On the day after that the prince was to call on Sir Harry, at the same hour, on board H.M.S. "Ocean" at Kôbé. We were to leave Kôbé for Ozaka on the 19th, pass the night of the 20th at Fushimi, and enter Kiôto the next day. On the 22nd we were to receive visits, and have audience of the Emperor on the 23rd. This was only a private and confidential arrangement with Daté, and would only become official after Yamashina no Miya delivered the formal invitation. In accordance with this programme the Prince, who was a first cousin once removed of the Mikado, and principal minister for Foreign Affairs, came to Kôbé on the 18th to call on Sir Harry and Polsbroek. We learnt from him that Roches had begged off nine out of the twenty condemned men, taking only one life for each of the murdered Frenchmen,[10] and that he had decided to go to Kiôto having heard from Daté that Sir Harry would accept the invitation. The Miya was dressed in the same costume as the other court nobles we had seen, a purple silk robe (_kari-ginu_) and a small black-lacquered wrinkled hat perched on the top of the head. His age might be about fifty, and he wore a short beard and moustache. His teeth bore marked signs of having been once dyed black. He was accompanied by Higashi-Kuzé, a son of the latter, and by Môri Heirokurô, son of Môri Awaji no Kami; this young man was to go to England with the son of Sanjô Sanéyoshi and young Nakamikado. It was expected, they said, that the Mikado would move down to Ozaka about the end of the month, and remain there until Yedo was finished with. Keiki had sent an apology through his relative Echizen, but it was not considered satisfactory, and military operations would be continued. [10] This statement was not exact. The fact was, as we learnt afterwards, that Captain du Petit Thouars, commanding officer of the "Dupleix" to which ship the murdered sailors belonged, who had been deputed by the French senior naval officer to witness the execution with a party of his men, finding that the completion of the proceedings would involve the detention of his men on shore after dark, raised his hand after the eleventh man had suffered. The nine whose lives were spared were grievously hurt, we were afterwards told, and no wonder, considering what the spirit of the Japanese _samurai_ was. Patriotic death poems by the men who suffered the extreme penalty were afterwards circulated among the people. The following are prose translations of some of these: Though I regret not my body which becomes as dew scattered by the wind, my country's fate weighs down my heart with anxiety. As I also am of the seed of the country of the gods, I create for myself to-day a glorious subject for reflection in the next world. The sacrifice of my life for the sake of my country gives me a pure heart in my hour of death. Unworthy as I am I have not wandered from the straight path of the duty which a Japanese owes to his prince. Though reproaches may be cast upon me, those who can fathom the depths of a warrior's heart will appreciate my motives. In this age, when the minds of men are darkened, I would show the way to purity of heart. In throwing away this life, so insignificant a possession, I would desire to leave behind me an unsullied name. The cherry flowers too have their seasons of blossoming and fading. What is there for the Japanese soul to regret in death? Here I leave my soul and exhibit to the world the intrepidity of a Japanese heart. CHAPTER XXX KIOTO--AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO ON March 19 the whole legation crossed to Ozaka in H.M.S. "Adventure." I left my Japanese escort behind, as they would have been in the way at Kiôto, and probably, being Tokugawa retainers, in fear of their lives the whole time. Our party slept at the vice-consulate, and next day we rode up to Fushimi, escorted by Komatsu and a couple of Hizen officers, one of whom named Nakamuta was the commander of the "Eugénie," a steamer recently acquired by Nabéshima. The party on horseback consisted of Sir Harry, Lieutenant Bradshaw and myself, with the legation mounted escort. We went nearly the whole way at a foot's pace, the road being in fairly good condition, but the bridges at Yodo having been burnt during the recent fighting we had some difficulty in getting across the Kidzukawa, which falls into the river there. We got to Fushimi about six o'clock, and found comfortable quarters prepared for us in the guest rooms of a Buddhist monastery, where we were well looked after by some Hizen officers. The rest of our party, together with the infantry guard of the 2/ix, were to come up in boats, starting at three o'clock in the afternoon, and travelling through the night. They gradually reached Fushimi next morning, and we managed to make a start about ten o'clock. The first half of the way we were escorted by Hizen men, who were then joined by Owari troops, and here we were met by Gotô and our cheery little friend Nakai. The streets were crowded with spectators, who observed perfect order. Chi-on-in, a very fine Buddhist monastery at the foot of Higashi-yama, had been prepared for our accommodation, and guards were posted consisting of Higo, Awa and Owari troops. We found the Owari officials who were in charge to attend to our comforts very dilatory people, and as yet quite unacquainted with foreigners and their requirements. The apartments assigned to us were magnificently decorated, altogether in the style of a feudal noble's palace, such as we had seen at Tokushima the previous year. Shimadzu Osumi no Kami (father of the Prince of Satsuma) had occupied them for some time when he first visited Kiôto. As soon as we settled in, a grand feast of many dishes in Japanese style was served up to us, but of course we had brought our own cooks and utensils with us, for most of us were unaccustomed to Japanese food. Old Yôdô of Tosa, whom Willis had been attending, was reported to be out of danger and in a fair way of recovery. The 22nd March was spent by the chief in making a round of visits. It took the Owari folk three hours to get us the necessary palanquins and bearers. We called first on Yamashina no Miya, who was very affable and jolly, his dirty beard shaved off, and his teeth dyed black in correct style; he was dressed in the costume called _nôshi_, and wore the tiny black lacquered hat as before. The conversation turned upon the delightfulness of the occasion which had brought the British Minister to Kiôto. Just after leaving the prince's residence we were stopped in the road to let Ninnaji no Miya pass. He was on horseback, a stoutish, swarthy, thick-lipped young man, with his hair just beginning to sprout; for until recently he had been in the Buddhist priesthood. Our next visit was to Sanjô, who had had his title of Dainagon just restored to him, a pale effeminate-looking undersized man of thirty-three years of age. He discoursed very formally on the happiness it gave to all the Court people to see foreign ministers in Kiôto. From there we went through the enclosure known as the Nine Gates, past the Imperial Palace. It was surrounded by a finely stuccoed wall four feet thick at the base, with gates like those of a Buddhist temple, very neatly thatched with small shingles. Iwakura, whom we called on next, had his temporary residence just inside and opposite the Kugé Mon gate on the west of the palace. He was a severe-looking oldish man, but frank in speech. He told the chief it was true that the Mikado and Court Nobles had hated foreigners hitherto, and talked of "barbarian-expelling" (_jô-i_), while the _Bakufu_ was all for "opening the country." But now that was completely changed. They had specially to thank the English for having been the first to recognize the truth that the Mikado was the sovereign. Itô told me that after we had left the house Iwakura expressed to him a fear that he might have given offence by speaking too frankly about the former attitude of the Court towards foreigners. We then went to the Hizen _yashiki_, and saw the prince, a young good-looking man of about twenty-four years of age; he had been appointed to the department of Foreign Affairs, but we would not discover that he had any great aptitude for official work. Daté and Higashi-Kuzé luckily were not in when we called. We also visited the younger Chôshiû prince, Nagato no Kami, whom we easily recognized by his likeness to the photograph taken when Admiral King was in Chôshiû. At the other houses we had been accommodated with chairs, but here we had to squat on the floor in Japanese fashion, and when we rose to leave it was with difficulty that we could straighten our knee joints. We exchanged with him hearty expressions of goodwill and congratulations on our ancient friendship. On returning to Chi-on-in we found Daté and Gotô who had come to discuss the details of the audience that was to take place on the morrow. They expressed much anxiety lest the Mikado should find some difficulty in making his speech to the minister, as he had not up to the present ever spoken to any one but inmates of the Palace, and it was only ten days since he had first shown his face to a _daimiô_. So we finally arranged that His Majesty's speech should be written down, that he should try to repeat it, and then hand the copy to Yamashina no Miya, who would read it out, and hand it to Itô for translation. The document was finally to remain in Sir Harry's possession. Then the latter would reply direct to the Mikado through Itô acting as interpreter. The only member of the legation staff to be admitted to the audience was Mitford, as he alone had been presented at court in England. He was to be introduced by Yamashina no Miya, and the Mikado would salute him with the word _kurô_, which might be freely rendered by "Glad to see you." The _Shishinden_ where the audience was to take place was, they told us, a large hall 28 yards deep by 36 in length, with a floor of planking, with a dais and a canopy for the Mikado, and another dais, rather lower, specially arranged for the ministers. _Daimiôs_ who were received in audience had, we were assured, to kneel on the bare planks. The three foreign representatives, Roches, Sir Harry and Polsbroek were to assemble in one room, and be thence conducted into the presence of the Mikado. It was now our turn to suffer an assault at the hands of the fanatics of patriotism, from which our constant advocacy of the rights of the sovereign afforded us no protection. It was arranged that we should start from Chi-on-in for the palace at one o'clock on March 23. The procession was to be headed by the mounted escort, led by Inspector Peacock and Nakai, then Sir Harry and Gotô, myself and Lieutenant Bradshaw, the detachment of the 2/ix, followed by Willis, J. J. Enslie, Mitford in a palanquin (being unable to ride) and five naval officers who had come up with us. We descended the whole length of the street called Nawaté opposite to the main gate of Chi-on-in, but just as the last file of the mounted escort turned the corner to the right, a couple of men sprang out from opposite sides of the street, drew their swords, and attacked the men and horses, running down the line and hacking wildly. Nakai observing what was passing jumped down from his pony and engaged the fellow on the right, with whom he had a pretty tough fight. In the struggle his feet got entangled in his long loose trousers, and he fell on his back. His enemy tried to cut off his head, but Nakai parried the blow, receiving only a scalp wound, and pierced the man's breast with the point of his sword at the same time. This sickened him, and as he was turning his back on Nakai he received a blow on the shoulder from Gotô's sword, which prostrated him on the ground, and Nakai jumping up hacked off his head. In the meanwhile the troopers on the left had turned, and some of them pursued the other villain, who rushed down the street from which Sir Harry and I had not yet emerged. I had only just arrived at a comprehension of what was taking place; my presence of mind had deserted me, and as he passed my sole idea of defence was to turn my pony's head round to ward off the blow aimed at me. It was a narrow escape, as I afterwards found, for the animal received a slight cut on the nose, and was also wounded on the shoulder an inch of two in front of my knee. As soon as I recovered my equanimity I moved up to the head of the procession. There I saw Sir Harry Parkes, in his brilliant uniform of an Envoy and Minister calmly sitting on his horse in the middle of the cross-roads, with Inspector Peacock close by, also on horseback, and a crowd of Japanese spectators. The Japanese infantry, 300 men of Higo, who had led our procession had disappeared, as had also those who had originally brought up the rear. But our Japanese grooms stuck to us with the greatest cool pluck. Behind me was the infantry guard of the 2/ix, facing to the left. Upon them he hurled himself, cutting one man over the head and inflicting a severe wound, but here his career came to an end, for one of the soldiers put out his foot and tripped him up, and others drove their bayonets into him. Nevertheless he managed to get to the end of the line, where being stopped by Mitford's palanquin, he fled into the courtyard of a house, dropping his sword outside. Here he was found by Bradshaw, who discharged a pistol at his head, but the bullet struck the joint of the lower jaw, and did not penetrate the bone. On this he fell down in the yard, and became nearly insensible. Our wounded were too numerous to admit of our proceeding to court. Nine of our escort were wounded, and one of the 2/ix guard, besides Nakai and Sir Harry's Japanese groom. We therefore procured bearers for the palanquins which had been abandoned by their frightened porters, and returned to our quarters without any further mishap. When the wounds were examined it was found that none were in a vital part, though there had been much loss of blood. A cut into the knee of one man, and the almost complete severance of the wrist of another were the worst cases. It was a great piece of good fortune that we had such an experienced surgeon as Willis with us. The captured assailant appeared to be a Buddhist priest, at least his head was shaven. Assisted by a retainer of Sanjô's we examined him. He expressed great penitence, and asked that his head might be cut off and exposed publicly to inform the Japanese nation of his crime. His wounds were attended to by Willis, and he was carefully deposited in the guard-room. Nakai brought the head of the other man back with him, and kept it by his side in a bucket as a trophy; it was a ghastly sight; on the left side of the skull a terrible triangular wound exposed the brain, and there was a cut on the right jaw which apparently had been dealt by the sword of one of the escort. My diary contains no further entry until the middle of May, and letters I wrote to my parents narrating the incidents which befel us at Kiôto have not been preserved. A very full account of this affair, written by Mitford to his father, was communicated to the "Times," and the despatch of March 25 in which the chief reported the whole affair was included in a volume of "confidential print" and has not been published. See also "Memories" by Lord Redesdale, ii. 449. A briefer narrative based on official documents is to be found in vol. II of "The History of Japan" by F. O. Adams. As long as we remained at Kiôto I was so busy with interpreting between the chief and Japanese high functionaries and in translating documents that my journal had to be neglected, and my memory of what occurred over fifty years ago, left unrecorded at the time, is scarcely full enough to afford material for completing this chapter unaided. It will readily be comprehended that this fanatical attack on the British Minister, who had proved himself a cordial friend of the imperialist party, caused a feeling of utmost consternation at the Court as soon as the news was received there about four o'clock in the afternoon. The French Minister and the Dutch Political Agent had punctually reached the Palace, where they were kept waiting for the arrival of their colleague. As he failed to make his appearance their reception was hurried through, and on leaving the audience chamber they received the notes Sir Harry had sent off informing them of what had happened. About six o'clock in the evening there came to him straight from the court Tokudaiji, Echizen Saishô, Higashi-Kuzé, Daté and the Prince of Hizen to express the deep regret of the Mikado. The minister replied that he would leave the matter in the hands of the Mikado's government. He considered that a graver outrage had been committed upon the Mikado than upon himself, and he felt assured that the government would know how to vindicate the honour of their sovereign. They manifested a degree of feeling and concern which showed that remonstrance from him was not needed to make them sensible of the gravity of the offence. They reproached themselves for not having taken better precautions for his safety, and deplored the disgrace attaching to themselves for an outrage committed on a foreign representative specially invited by the Mikado to Kiôto. He added that of course their apologies would take a written form, but he recurred to arguments he had previously addressed to various members of the government as to the necessity of an enactment which should attach the penalty of an ignominious death to all _samurai_ who committed murderous attacks on foreigners instead of allowing them to die with credit by their own hand; as in the case of the eleven men who were executed for the murder of the French seamen at Sakai. He urged also that the Mikado's government should make known by public proclamation that His Majesty really desired to cultivate friendly relations with foreign powers. It was their duty to eradicate the spirit of hostility towards foreigners to which so many had fallen victims, and which was fostered by the erroneous idea entertained by a certain class that in attacking foreigners they were doing the Mikado good service. Accordingly the written apology was delivered next day, together with a copy of the sentence depriving the prisoner of his rank as _samurai_, and passing a sentence of decapitation on him. Sanjô, Iwakura, Tokudaiji, Higashi-Kuzé and other ministers called to offer their regrets, and promised that the proclamation should be posted on the public notice-boards which were a feature in every town and village. They offered also in case any of our wounded should die, or be deprived of their livelihood by inability to perform their duties, to provide suitable compensation. This affair having been satisfactorily disposed of, the chief agreed to have an audience of the Mikado, which took place on March 26th. Of course we were not able to make such a show as on the 23rd, since most of the mounted escort were incapacitated by the severity of their wounds. On the other hand extraordinary precautions were taken for the security of the party in passing along the streets. As had previously been arranged, of the legation staff only Mitford was presented. The minister and he ascended the Shishinden by steps at the north end, entered by the door on the south, and issuing from it after the audience descended by steps at the south end. Those of us, like Willis and myself, and the other members of our party walked through the courtyard past the hall of audience, and rejoined them as they came down again. The Mikado was the first to speak, and his speech ran as follows:-- I hope your sovereign enjoys good health. I trust that the intercourse between our respective countries will become more and more friendly, and be permanently established. I regret deeply that an unfortunate affair which took place as you were proceeding to the palace on the 23rd instant has delayed this ceremony. It gives me great pleasure therefore to see you here to-day. To this the minister made the following reply:-- Sire, Her Majesty the Queen is in the enjoyment of good health. I shall have great pleasure in reporting to my government Your Majesty's inquiries and assurances of friendship. The condition of the foreign relations of a state must ever be dependent upon its internal stability and progress, and Your Majesty is taking the best measures to place the foreign relations of Japan upon a permanent footing by establishing a strong general government throughout Your Majesty's dominions, and by adopting the system of international law universally recognized by other states. I am deeply sensible of the manner in which Your Majesty has been pleased to notice the attack made upon me on the 23rd instant, and I appreciate the exertions of Your Majesty's ministers on that unfortunate occasion. The memory of it will be effaced by the gracious reception which Your Majesty has given me this day. The foreign representatives left Kiôto the following day. Saegusa Shigéru, the captive of our bow and spear on the 23rd, was executed that morning. Three supposed accomplices before the fact were sentenced to perpetual exile, but we were never convinced of their guilt. If it had been proved against them they ought to have suffered the same penalty, but the chief did not care to press the point. It was Sir Harry's wish that I should remain at Ozaka to keep up communication with the court, but I persuaded him to leave Mitford there for the purpose. Two motives actuated me. I wished to get back to my newly acquired house at Yedo, and Mitford knew much more than I did about English parliamentary institutions, which was a subject in which the leaders of the _samurai_ class at Kiôto, and especially Gotô Shôjirô, were greatly interested. For their hope was to base the new government of Japan on a representative system. CHAPTER XXXI RETURN TO YEDO AND PRESENTATION OF THE MINISTER'S NEW CREDENTIALS AT OZAKA ON March 31 I arrived back at Yokohama with the chief, and went up to Yedo on April 1 to find out what was the state of things there. I took Noguchi and my six Japanese escort men with me. The latter were lodged in a building by the gate of my house. My chief source of information was Katsu Awa no Kami who had been the head of the Tokugawa navy. To avoid exciting attention I used to visit him after dark. The van of the imperialist army had already arrived in the neighbourhood of Yedo, the advanced posts being at Shinagawa, Shinjiku and Itabashi. Slight skirmishes with detached bodies of disbanded Yedo troops had taken place on the Kôshiû and Kisô roads, which had delayed the arrival of the imperial forces for a day or two. Small parties of Satsuma and Chôshiû men wandered about the streets of the city unmolested, and a smaller Satsuma _yashiki_, near our legation, was re-occupied on March 7 by a few soldiers of that clan. Arisugawa no Miya, the commander-in-chief, was reported to be still at Numadzu, half a day's journey west of the top of the Hakoné pass. Keiki was residing in retirement at the Tokugawa mausoleum of Uyéno, straining every effort to keep his retainers in a submissive temper towards the Mikado, by means of notifications to the people and a body of armed police. Already as early as March 4 a proclamation had been issued declaring that the ex-Shôgun was determined to submit to any orders which might be given to him by the Mikado, and that no opposition was to be offered to the imperial troops. Aidzu and his clansmen had retired to their home at Wakamatsu in Oshiû, after dismantling all the clan establishments in Yedo. Nearly all the other _daimiôs_ who had been residing in Yedo until recently had either returned to their territories or gone to Kiôto to give in their allegiance to the Mikado. The _hatamoto_, or retainers of Tokugawa below the rank of _daimiô_ were daily following their example. The people of the city, ignorant of the demands about to be made on Keiki, and mindful of the misfortunes some of them had experienced when the Satsuma _yashiki_ were attacked in the previous December, were apprehensive of a general conflagration. Some had removed their household property, but the shops were still open, and the panic was by no means general. The forts in the bay of Yedo were handed over to the imperialists on April 4, after the guns bearing on the city had been dismounted. This was the news on the 8th. On the 12th I went up again for a three days' stay, and found the city much quieter, owing to a feeling that the terms offered to Keiki would be such as he could accept. Katsu, who was now commander-in-chief of the Tokugawa forces, told me that he and Okubo Ichiô had charge of the negotiations. On the other side Saigô represented Arisugawa no Miya, the imperialist commander-in-chief who was still at Sumpu. The demands made on Keiki were that he should surrender all arms and munitions of war, all vessels of war and other steamers, evacuate the castle of Yedo, and execute those of his officers who had been foremost in prompting and conducting the attack on Fushimi; when these demands were complied with the Mikado would show clemency towards the ex-Shôgun. The nature of the further conditions covered by the word "clemency" was the subject of negotiations between Katsu and Saigô, which took place at a house in Shinagawa. Katsu was willing to agree to any arrangement that would save the life of his chief and secure sufficient revenue to support his large body of retainers. He had hinted to Saigô that less favourable terms would be met by armed resistance. Keiki also desired to retain possession of his steamers and munitions of war, and had addressed a petition to the Mikado on this subject. Saigô, carrying this petition and Katsu's verbal proposals, had returned to Sumpu to lay them before Arisugawa. From there he had journeyed to Kiôto, but was expected back on the 18th. Katsu said he was ready to fight in defence of Keiki's life, and expressed his confidence in Saigô's ability to prevent a demand being made which might not only be a disgrace to the Mikado, but prolong the civil war. He begged that Sir Harry Parkes would use his influence with the Mikado's government to obviate such a disaster. This the chief did repeatedly, and in particular when Saigô called on him at Yokohama on April 28, he urged on him that severity towards Keiki or his supporters, especially in the way of personal punishment, would injure the reputation of the new government in the opinion of European Powers. Saigô said the life of the ex-Shôgun would not be demanded, and he hoped that similar leniency would be extended to those who had instigated him to march against Kiôto. Keiki was still at the monastery at Uyéno, but some of his late advisers, whom he had ordered into strict seclusion (_kin-shin_) had secretly fled. Amongst these Katsu mentioned Ogasawara, late chief minister for Foreign Affairs, Hirayama, whom we used to call "the old fox," Tsukahara, an official whom we greatly liked, and Oguri Kôdzuké no Suké, a finance minister. The most remarkable statement Katsu made to me was that at a conference between the ex-Shôgun's ministers and M. Roches in February the latter strongly urged resistance, and that the officers of the French Military Mission were persistent in advising the fortification of the Hakoné pass and other measures of a warlike nature. On the whole Katsu was of opinion that he and Okubo Ichiô would be able to arrange satisfactory terms, if they could manage to escape the hot-heads of their own party who were threatening their lives. By this time the first division of the imperialist naval force had arrived to co-operate with the army which had advanced by land. There seemed to be little likelihood of fighting, but even a peaceable settlement would be disadvantageous to the prosperity of the city. Now that the _daimiôs_ whose wants had been supplied by the merchants and shopkeepers had left for their country homes, the population would naturally decrease. It was a sad thing that Yedo should decline, for it was one of the handsomest cities in the Far East. Though it contained no fine public buildings, its position on the seashore, fringed with the pleasure gardens of the _daimiôs_, and the remarkable huge moats surrounding the castle, crowned with cyclopean walls and shaded by picturesque lines of pine-tree, the numerous rural spots in the city itself, all contributed to produce an impression of greatness. It covered a huge extent of ground, owing to the size of the castle, and the large number of official residences, intersected by fine broad well-gravelled streets. The commercial quarter was actually smaller than the city of Ozaka. Newspapers, to a large extent in the nature of gazettes, had lately been started in Kiôto and Yedo, and contained a great number of interesting political documents, which I had to translate for the information of my chief. Previously we had been obliged to rely on such manuscript copies as we could obtain from our friends in _daimiôs' yashikis_, and the supply was limited. Nor were the papers that came into our hands altogether trustworthy. There was as much forgery of memorials, manifestoes and correspondence as in any other part of the world in a time of political excitement. There were rumours about this time that the capital would be transferred from Kiôto to Ozaka, an arrangement we felt inclined to welcome, for it would have been very inconvenient to establish the foreign legations at Kiôto, so far inland and away from our sources of supply, subject to great cold in winter and excessive heat in summer. Even at Ozaka, close to the sea, the climate was almost unbearable in July and August. But as everyone knows, Yedo was after all constituted the centre of government, and its name changed to Tôkiô. During this period my time was passed half at Yedo gathering information and half at Yokohama making translations and drawing up reports. Bread and beef were unprocurable at Yedo, and I could not afford to set up a cuisine in European fashion, so while there I used to have my food brought in from a well-reputed Japanese restaurant close by, and came to like it quite as well as what I had been accustomed to all my life. As early as the end of November 1867 Sir Harry had applied to Lord Stanley for letters of credence to the Mikado. No time was wasted in their preparation and despatch, and they reached him at the end of March 1868, but it was not till the middle of May that things had quieted down at Yokohama sufficiently to allow of his leaving that part of the country. By that time Sidney Locock and his family had left for home, and his successor Francis Ottiwell Adams had arrived. We started from Yokohama in the Admiral's yacht "Salamis" on May 15, Sir Harry, Adams, J. J. Quin the senior student interpreter, and myself. Next afternoon we anchored in the harbour of Oshima, between the island of that name and the southernmost point of the province of Kii. On a neck of land there was a small village, very dirty, stinking and labyrinthine, surrounded by prettily wooded hills, where we started several pheasants in the course of a walk. At dusk we weighed anchor, and reached Hiôgo at nine o'clock the next morning, where we found H.M.S. "Ocean" and "Zebra" already in harbour. We had passed H.M.S. "Rodney," the flagship of Admiral Sir Harry Keppel, on the way up the Kii channel. These ships were assembled off Ozaka to give _éclat_ to the presentation of the first letter of an European sovereign to the rightful sovereign of Japan. We got to the Ozaka bar about noon, and afterwards Adams, Quin and I went ashore with the baggage. The chief did not land until the 18th, when a salute was fired from the fort in his honour. We then became busily occupied with the arrangements for the presentation of the minister's credentials, of his staff and a large number of naval officers. We took up our quarters at the vice-consulate for the sake of convenience in communicating with the squadron outside the bar. The 22nd was fixed on as the day for the ceremony. Then the credentials had to be translated into Japanese, and the number of officers to be presented had to be agreed upon. I had to be present, much to my annoyance, for I possessed no diplomatic uniform. The chief offered me the loan of a sort of staff jacket of blue serge fastened in front with frogs, and an old pair of trousers with gold lace down the sides, but I put them away in a cupboard and went to Court in plain evening dress. As soon as Sir Harry landed he was visited by Gotô, one of the two _samurai_ who had fought in our defence at Kiôto on the 23rd March, and by Daté. With the latter we had a discussion about the recently published edict against Christianity; it revived the ancient prohibition, but in less stringent terms. Daté admitted that the wording was objectionable, and said that he had caused it not to be exhibited on the public notice-boards at Ozaka and Hiôgo. He had tried to get the expression (translated "evil" or "pernicious" sect) altered, but said it would be impossible to suppress the proscription of Christianity altogether. Sir Harry responded that religious toleration was a mark of civilization, and to us he said privately that the presentation of the Queen's letter was a good opportunity which we ought to turn to account. Afterwards I had a long talk with Nakai on this subject, and suggested that instead of specifically mentioning Christianity the decree should merely forbid "pernicious sects" in general. It was clear that the Japanese Government would not be induced to revoke the law completely, for that would be to give a free hand to the Roman Catholic missionaries at Nagasaki, who had already made themselves obnoxious by the active manner in which they had carried on their proselytism. It was however agreed that Sir Harry should meet Sanjô, Daté, Gotô and Kido on the following day to dispose, if possible, of this question, but Nakai warned me that not even the heads of the government (_sôsai_) could make a definite promise; they were not absolute, as he said. So on the 19th we had a palaver at the Nishi Hongwanji, at which Yamashina no Miya, the president of the Foreign Board, was present, besides those already mentioned, and several more. They defended what had been done on the ground that the hostility to Christianity was still intense, and that in popular opinion it was allied to magic or sorcery. This I knew myself to be a fact. I had once been asked by a Japanese to teach him "Kiristan," which he believed would enable him to discover what his wife was doing in his absence from the house. They admitted however that an error had been committed in describing Christianity as a pernicious sect, and said that this wording would be altered. To have published nothing would have been tantamount to toleration, "silent approval" as the Japanese expression goes, and upon this they could not venture. On the 24th Sir Harry recurred to the subject with the same set of ministers, with whom Iwakura was joined. Perhaps it was on this occasion that a young _samurai_ of Hizen, Okuma Hachitarô, whom we had not met before, assured us that he knew all about the subject, for he had read the Bible and the "Prairie-book." It appeared that he had been a pupil of Dr Verbeck, an American missionary at Nagasaki. Sir Harry gave them a copy and a Japanese version of a despatch on this subject, which had been received from Lord Stanley. The other foreign diplomats took the same line, but their united remonstrances produced little effect, and the measure of exiling to other parts of the country some four thousand Japanese of all ages and both sexes mostly from the village of Urakami near Nagasaki, was unflinchingly carried out. The presentation of the minister's letters of credence took place on the 22nd. Admiral Keppel landed in the morning accompanied by his flag-Captain Heneage, and Captain Stanhope of the "Ocean"; Commander Pollard and Lieutenant Kerr in command of a gunboat; Pusey, commander of the "Salamis"; his secretary William Risk, and Garnier, flag-lieutenant, and joined us at the vice-consulate. The legation party included the chief, Adams, Mitford, who had just been gazetted second secretary, and myself. Our procession consisted of a hundred marines from H.M.S. "Rodney" and the same number from H.M.S. "Ocean," twelve palanquins in which such of us rode as had legs flexible enough, four of the legation escort on foot, and two bodies of Japanese troops who preceded and followed us. We arrived punctually at one o'clock at the Nishi Hongwanji, assigned for the performance of the ceremony. The theory of the Mikado's presence at Ozaka was that he was at the head of the army operating from Kiôto against the rebellious Tokugawa chief at Yedo, and he was therefore obliged to put up with such accommodation as he could find in the Buddhist monasteries, which were not very imperial in their appointments. We were ushered into an ante-chamber which was merely a part of the hall of audience divided off by screens. Down the middle ran a long table covered with cloth of gold, about the only piece of splendour in the place; on one side of this we took our seats, the Japanese ministers for Foreign Affairs on the other. Tea, and sweetmeats piled on wooden trays were brought in for our refection, and we had to wait about half-an-hour before the chief of the ministry entered the room and made the polite speeches necessary on such an occasion. In a few minutes more we were informed that everything was ready, whereupon the second and third ministers proceeded to usher us into the throne room. This was an apartment of considerable size down each side of which there ran a row of wooden pillars supporting the roof. On a dais at the extreme end sat the Mikado, under a canopy supported by black-lacquered poles, and with the blinds rolled up as high as was possible. We advanced up the middle of the room in double column, the one on the right headed by the Admiral and composed of naval officers, the other headed by the minister, and consisting of the legation staff. Everyone made three bows, first on advancing into the middle of the room, the second at the foot of the dais, the third on mounting the dais, which was large enough to afford place for us all. The Mikado rose and stood under the canopy from the moment that we began to bow. The principal minister for Foreign Affairs and one other great personage knelt, one on each side of the throne. In front of the throne, on each side, stood a small wooden image of a lion; these are of great antiquity and are much revered by the Japanese people. Behind the throne a crowd of courtiers were ranged in a double row, wearing little black paper caps and gorgeous brocade robes of various hues. As the Mikado stood up, the upper part of his face, including the eyes, became hidden from view, but I saw the whole of it whenever he moved. His complexion was white, perhaps artificially so rendered, his mouth badly formed, what a doctor would call prognathous, but the general contour was good. His eyebrows were shaven off, and painted in an inch higher up. His costume consisted of a long black loose cape hanging backwards, a white upper garment or mantle and voluminous purple trousers. The proceedings were as follows: the minister stood in front of the Mikado's right, with the Legation behind him in order of seniority, the Admiral with his personal staff and the other naval officers on the imperial left. Sir Harry then recited his address, which he had got by heart; it seemed truly absurd when one at last stood face to face with the recipient. Then Itô, who discharged the functions of interpreter on the occasion, read the translation, and we all bowed. Sir Harry stepping forward put the Queen's letter into the hand of the Mikado, who evidently felt bashful or timid, and had to be assisted by Yamashina no Miya; his part was to receive it from the Mikado. Then His Majesty forgot his speech, but catching a word from the personage on his left managed to get out the first sentence, whereupon Itô read out the translation of the whole that had been prepared beforehand. Sir Harry then introduced each of us in turn, and next the Admiral, who presented his officers. The Mikado expressed the hope that all was well with the squadron under his command, and we retired backwards out of the presence into the ante-chamber, bowing as we went, and congratulating ourselves that everything had passed off without a hitch. In the evening we went to dine with Daté, who gave us a banquet cooked as nearly in European fashion as he could manage. Next day we celebrated the Queen's birthday in advance by firing salutes, and a large party of Japanese nobles went on board the "Rodney" to lunch with the Admiral. Yamashina no Miya proposed the Queen's health, which was responded to enthusiastically by everyone present. Many of the guests were intelligent and well behaved, but the Prince of Chôshiû, who insisted on my sitting next to him, behaved like a great baby, and drank more champagne than was good for him. One felt however that Japanese princes could not be blamed if they were weak-minded, their education being planned so as to produce that result. The son of the Mikado's maternal uncle was possessed with a huge desire to see an European cat, while another great man wanted to get sight of a negro, and we had great difficulty in satisfying their wishes. The principal minister for Foreign Affairs, who had of course to be saluted, desired that as little powder as possible should be used, because the sound of a violent explosion hurt his ears. One of the great attractions was the "Rodney's" band, which played a great deal of noisy music for the benefit of the Admiral's guests, and the bandmaster of the "Ocean" gained great applause by composing a march and a Japanese national anthem, which he dedicated to the Mikado. The conference held at Ozaka on the following day (a Sunday), at which among other things the Christian question was discussed, lasted for six hours, and that meant six hours for me of interpreting from English into Japanese and from Japanese into English. So it was a certain amount of relief to me when on the 25th we reembarked on board the "Salamis" to return to Yokohama. The Mikado left Ozaka on the 28th and returned to Kiôto, the submission of the ex-Tycoon being held to justify this step. CHAPTER XXXII MISCELLANEOUS INCIDENTS--MITO POLITICS ADAMS and I set up housekeeping together in the First Secretary's house at Yokohama, but I still kept on the Japanese _yashiki_ I had rented at Yedo, and spent a great deal of time there watching the course of events. From time to time I returned to Yokohama to report to my chief, or else reported to him by letter. I was very busily occupied in making translations from the official gazette that was now being published at Kiôto and the popular newspapers that had started into existence at Yedo. One of these contained documents of the highest interest, the terms communicated to Keiki on April 27, the acceptance of which by him involved his retirement to Mito on May 8, and the provisional recognition of Kaménosuké (Tayasu) as the head of the Tokugawa clan. The castle of Yedo was occupied by the imperialist forces, and the troops of Satsuma, Chôshiû and other clans moved freely about the city. On June 23 I went up to Yedo for a three days' stay with Adams; I found there in the local papers interesting communications which were probably fictitious. Thus one, said to be written by a retainer of the Miya of Chi-on-in, where the British Legation had been lodged in March, who though regarding the expulsion of foreigners as perhaps difficult of achievement, recommended that the organization of the army be diligently taken in hand, in order that foreigners might be humbled and kept in subjection. He also deprecated audiences being granted by the Mikado to foreign diplomatic representatives. Another such paper professed to represent the views of Chôshiû "irregular troops" and protested against audiences being granted, because such friendly treatment of foreigners would prevent the nation from affording hearty support to the Mikado when the time should arrive for "expelling the barbarian." When I mentioned these publications to my friend Katsu, he replied that a council of court and territorial nobles (_kugé_ and _daimiôs_) was held at Kiôto about the end of May, at which the former expressed the opinion that a favourable occasion for expelling foreigners from the country had now presented itself; their attempt to introduce Christianity at Nagasaki might be alleged as the justifying ground of the measure. That the _daimiôs_ were silent and that the Mikado, on being referred to, took no notice of the proposal. Katsu was not very accurately informed, but it is a fact that on May 14 the principal members of the government and _daimiôs_ in attendance on the Mikado at Ozaka were summoned before His Majesty at the Hongwanji, and were informed that Christianity was on the increase at Urakami, a village near Nagasaki; he asked for their opinion as to the best way of dealing with the matter, and it was understood that their replies would be published in the government gazette. Daté denied to Mitford that part of the story which said that the meeting was for the purpose of considering whether an anti-foreign policy might not be resorted to. It was difficult for us to obtain accurate information, and probably every Japanese in the position of Katsu or Daté experienced similar difficulty. I do not think however that these documents ever saw the light, and the suggestion is very natural that some of them were of such a character that it was considered advisable to suppress them. The formal appointment of Kaménosuké, a mere boy of six years of age, took place on June 19, and the leading men of the Tokugawa clan waited on him the following morning to present their felicitations. The situation and extent of the territory to be left to the clan had not then been determined. Katsu told me that Sanjô, who had arrived in Yedo on the 13th, was waiting for the reinforcements expected from the south and west before announcing a decision on these points. He gave me such statistics about the revenue hitherto accruing to the Tycoon's government as showed, to his satisfaction at least, that it would not be possible for the Mikado to derive any income from forfeiture of that revenue, and there was danger of his government falling to pieces for want of funds. Higashi-Kuzé, who was then in Yedo, said to me that the revenue to be granted to the Tokugawa would not be fixed until that part of the clan still in arms against the Mikado was entirely reduced to submission. The war was being vigorously prosecuted near Niigata in Echigo and in the neighbourhood of Aidzu. I myself saw a considerable body of southern troops march into Yedo on June 25, which effectually contradicted the hopes of the Tokugawa people that the imperialists were weakening, and that some of the western clans, in particular Higo, were likely to afford them sympathy, if not actual support. M. Roches finally left Yokohama on June 23, having been succeeded by M. Outrey, with the intention of visiting Ozaka and Nagasaki on his way home. His policy had proved a complete failure, as far as supporting the Shôgun against the Mikado was concerned. He had succeeded however in procuring for French engineers the construction of the arsenal at Yokosuka and the engagement of a French military mission, which were continued for several years after the establishment of the new government. Noguchi had an elder and a younger brother, the latter of whom had joined the followers of the Tokugawa who after the withdrawal of Keiki to Mito had gathered themselves together in the mausoleum enclosure at Uyéno. Thence they issued forth at night and assassinated imperialist soldiers from time to time. At last it was decided to attack them in their stronghold, and early in the morning of July 4 an advance was made which led to the destruction by fire of a considerable part of the city lying between the outer moat and the main gate of Uyéno, and also of the great temple building which occupied the centre of the enclosure. The burial places of the Shôguns were not damaged. Rinôji no Miya, the imperial prince who had always resided there in the character of abbot, and whom the recalcitrant Tokugawa men talked of raising to the throne as Mikado, was carried off by the survivors at the end of the day. The fighting began at eight o'clock in the morning and was over by five o'clock in the evening. During this affair I was at Yokohama, having been kept there since my last visit to Yedo at the end of June. At the beginning of that month Willis and I were in Yedo together for a few days, while he attended to wounded men of the Satsuma and other clans, such as Toda, Chôshiû and Bizen. The latter occupied Tôzenji, which had formerly been the British Legation, and he recorded in his report the fact of his being received and treated by the Bizen men with great courtesy, which showed that they entertained no feelings of hostility against foreigners, and regarded the death of Taki Zenzaburô as a just retribution for the attack on foreigners at Kôbé in the previous February. The condition of these wounded men was deplorable, for at that time Japan had no experienced surgeons, and the treatment of gunshot wounds was of a very amateurish character. There were but few cases of sword-cuts. Subsequently some of the more urgent cases were at Willis' suggestion sent down to Yokohama, and towards the end of July there were 176 patients in the building appropriated as a military hospital. Under the previous government it had been a school for instruction in the Chinese classics. Two-thirds of the number were Satsuma men, Chôshiû and Tosa soldiers together made up a fourth. About 40 had been wounded in the recent fighting at Uyéno, the others had received their injuries in the expeditions to the north of Yedo against Aidzu. Willis' services were so greatly appreciated that the minister was asked in October to lend them again to the troops which had been fighting in Echigo. This arrangement was facilitated by the fact that he was now vice-consul at Yedo, a post which he was unable to take up because the opening of the city to foreign residence and trade had to be deferred; and he was relieved at Yokohama by Dr J. B. Siddall who had been appointed medical officer to the legation early in January. On the 29th July I went to Yedo with Adams, and spent four days in visiting Okuma, Katsu and Komatsu, but though I must have reported to my chief the result of the conversation with these persons of importance, I have no record, except of voluminous translations from the Japanese of anti-Christian pamphlets and political documents of all kinds. I went alone to Yedo again on August 17, and next day called on Okuma, whom I found in bed looking very ill. From him I learnt that fighting had commenced on the 13th at Imaichi, near Nikkô. The imperialists were victorious and were still advancing on Aidzu, 75 miles further. A messenger who left Echigo on the 8th reported that Niigata was still held by Aidzu men. Subsequently to the capture of Nagaoka by the imperial troops more fighting had taken place, in which both sides lost heavily. The imperialists were holding their ground, and expected further reinforcements which would enable them to advance on Wakamatsu, the capital of Aidzu, at the same time as the divisions from Shirakawa and Akita. The Prince of Hizen, Okuma's own chief, had been urged by his troops in Shimotsuké, where Imaichi is situated, to lead them against the enemy, but his councillors (_karô_) had dissuaded him from taking the field. Since the beginning of the year several constitutions had been framed and issued one after the other, and about this time I was engaged in translating the newest edition, which bore the date of June. It showed marked traces of American political theories, and I have little doubt that Okuma and his fellow-clansman Soyéjima, pupils of Dr Verbeck, had had a considerable part in framing it. "The power and authority of the _Daijôkan_ (_i.e._ government), threefold, legislative, executive and judicial," was the wording of one article. By another it was provided that "All officers shall be changed after four years' service. They shall be appointed by a majority of votes given by ballot. When the first period for changing the officers of government arrives, half of the present staff shall be retained for an additional space of two years, in order that there be no interruption of the public business." In this we seemed to hear an echo of the "spoils system." Okuma explained that the "executive" represented the executive department in the United States Constitution, "consisting of the president and his advisers," but that in fact it was the head of the Shintô religion, finance, war and foreign departments. It is needless to say that this state paper has long ago been superseded by the existing Itô constitution of 1889. Then I went on to Katsu. He said that Sumpu (now called Shidzuoka) was to have been formally handed over to the Tokugawa family two days previously, but as a matter of fact it had always formed part of their possessions. He took down from a shelf a memorandum in which he had noted down some years before the names of the ablest men in different clans. Many of them were already dead. Satsuma and Chôshiû accounted for the largest number; of the Tokugawa clan there were very few. All our friends of Satsuma, Chôshiû and Tosa were among the number of those still living. While I was there Tsumagi Nakadzukasa, who had given me a dinner a couple of months earlier, came in. He had returned a few days before from Mito, where he had left Keiki, employing his leisure in the composition of Japanese poetry, and not expecting to be invited at present to take a share in the government. This was an absolutely baseless notion on his part, if he in reality entertained it. He had sent an affectionate message to Katsu, which Tsumagi appeared to be afraid of delivering in my presence, but it proved to be nothing more than a warning to care for his personal safety, which was said to have been threatened by the hot-headed younger Tokugawa men. He said that about 500 Mito men had gone to join Aidzu. The outcome of their conversation was that there was nothing in the existing political situation to cause them anxiety. The Tokugawa people were desirous of getting Katsu to take office under Kaménosuké, but he was unwilling. I asked him whether he had heard of a general feeling of dislike towards the English. That he replied was an old thing, dating from the time when Sir Harry used to advise the Shôgun's ministers to refrain from attacking Chôshiû. The idea was no doubt fostered by Roches, who told them that unless they asked the British Government to lend naval instructors, the English would back up the _daimiôs'_ party, and the want of confidence in British friendship was the reason why Dutchmen had been engaged to bring out the "Kaiyô-maru," a ship of war constructed in England for the Prince of Higo by Glover & Co. of Nagasaki, which had come into the possession of the Mikado's adherents. I had heard from Komatsu and Nakai that imperialist troops landed from the "Kaiyô-maru" at Hirakata about the 5th or 6th August had gained a victory there over a mixed force of Sendai men and Tokugawa _rônin_, and this was confirmed by Tsumagi. On the 19th I walked as far as the Nihom-bashi, the bridge in the centre of the city from which all distances were measured by road, and from there to the huge hotel at the foreign settlement constructed under the supervision of the Tokugawa government for the accommodation of foreigners. The commercial quarter was very lively, the streets were crowded, especially by _samurai_ belonging to the imperialist forces, but the neighbourhood of the _daimiôs' yashikis_ below the castle was like a city of the dead. On the 20th I had a visit from Kawakatsu Omi, an ex-commissioner for Foreign Affairs. He said that the Castle of Sumpu was little better than a ruin, and that there were no houses which could receive the Tokugawa retainers. He would like to become a retainer of the Mikado (_chô-shin_); his family was not originally in the service of the Tokugawa family, but was of more ancient descent. He would be satisfied if he was made a minister of public instruction. Midzuno Wakasa, a former governor of Yokohama, and Sugiura Takésaburô, another Tokugawa man, would probably be employed by the imperialist government to make all the arrangements with regard to the foreign settlement at Yedo. Mimbu Taiyu, the younger brother of Keiki, then still in France, was to be fetched home to succeed the late Prince of Mito, who had died just about the time of Keiki's retreat thither. About a hundred and thirty _hatamotos_ went up to Kiôto in February and by surrendering to the Mikado, secured the possession of their lands. He regretted that he had lost everything through not following their example. The Tokugawa family were to retain 700,000 _koku_ of lands, which would enable them to keep a good many retainers, but not all the 30,000 who had hitherto belonged to the clan as _go-ké-nin_. My own Japanese escort, who belonged to the body of _betté-gumi_ created several years before to act as guards and escorts for the foreign legations, 300 of whom were to be kept together for that purpose, all wanted to become Mikado's men. On the 21st Komatsu and Nakai came to call on me. They said the troops sent by way of Hirakata to Tanagura in Oshiû had been completely victorious, and that more would speedily follow. In fact, while we were talking, 500 Satsuma men marched past the house along the main-road by the seashore in order to embark for the north. Kido, who had gone to Kiôto to report the state of affairs at Yedo, was expected back soon. They thought that a good deal of pressure would be necessary to induce the very conservative Kiôto Court to bring the Mikado there. That afternoon I called on Okuma, who was still very unwell, and, like most of the Hizen people, not disposed to be communicative. From him I went to Nakai, who showed me the draft of the state paper by which Gotô overturned the late government in the previous October. It differed slightly from the published copies, in that it contained proposals for the engagement of French and English teachers of language, to get military instructors from England, and to abolish the Tycoon and reduce the Tokugawa clan to the same level as the others. These were all struck out on reconsideration in order to avoid exciting a suspicion that Gotô and his political allies were too partial to foreigners, and provoking the hostility of the _fudai_ and _hatamotos_. He had also the drafts of a letter from Higashi-Kuzé to Sanjô, in which, among other things which strengthened the Aidzu resistance to the imperial troops, he reported that foreign vessels anchored at Niigata and supplied the rebels with arms and ammunition; and Higashi-Kuzé said that on his informing the foreign representatives of this, they replied that they would put a stop to the practice. I pointed out to Nakai that this must be a mistake. The Ministers having issued proclamations of neutrality had nothing to do with their enforcement, and that if the Japanese authorities wished to put an end to this traffic, they had merely to notify to the foreign representatives the blockade of the port of Niigata, and that a vessel-of-war was stationed there to prevent communication with the shore. This must have appeared a very strange doctrine to him, but international law was a complete novelty in Japan in those days. He also showed me the draft of Komatsu's letter to Kiôto about the treatment of the Nagasaki Japanese Christians, embodying the arguments recently used to him by Sir Harry, and advocating the adoption of milder measures. Next day I went again to see Nakai, and found with him a very attractive Satsuma man named Inouyé Iwami, who was greatly interested in the development of the resources of the island of Yezo. He was full of schemes for its colonization from Japan, and for the introduction of the European system of farming under the supervision of a German named Gaertner. He said that Shimidzudani, a young Court noble of about 25, was to be governor of Hakodaté, and that he intended to make him learn English. We discussed various leading personalities with considerable freedom--I hinted that Higashi-Kuzé, in spite of his rank, was not the best representative man to send to Europe as Ambassador. I thought Daté or Iwakura or even Kansô of Hizen would do better. He replied that Iwakura could not be spared. The most important and interesting suggestion he made was that the Mikado must move to Yedo, and make it his Capital, as otherwise it would not be possible to keep in order the rebellious clans of the north. Both he and Komatsu, who joined us later on at a restaurant on the river, approved of what I had suggested about the blockade of Niigata. On the 23rd I dined with Komatsu and Nakai to meet Okubo, the Satsuma statesman who had suggested the removal of the Capital from Kiôto to Ozaka earlier in the year. I have no doubt that the final decision to make Yedo the centre of government, and to change its name to Tôkiô or Eastern Capital was largely his work. He was very taciturn by disposition, and the only information he vouchsafed was that Daté was to go to Sendai to endeavour to persuade the _daimiô_, who was the head of the Daté family and all its branches, to abandon the cause of Aidzu. Komatsu talked a good deal about the English naval instructors who had been engaged by the previous government, whom he evidently wished to get rid of, and I encouraged him to dismiss them, for I felt it would not be fair to insist on their keeping these officers in their service during a period of civil war, when the British neutrality proclamation prevented their making use of them. Komatsu told me that their plan was to retain the services of the commissioned officers, but to send the petty officers and seamen back to England. About two months before this time some Higo men had called on me, and said they were going north to Tsugaru. They argued that any other system than feudalism was impossible in Japan. Now I heard that the Higo clan had privately sent messengers to Wakamatsu to endeavour to effect a reconciliation between Aidzu and the _daimiôs_ of the west and south, but Aidzu replied that matters had gone too far, and the questions at issue must be decided by the sword. I thought it likely that these envoys from Higo were the men who had been to see me, as the ideas which they entertained seemed to be similar. The translation of the June Constitution, which superseded one that had been promulgated in March, had given me a great deal of trouble. I was unable to decide upon the best name in English for the second department. It might be Imperial Council, Privy Council, or Cabinet. It appeared that the officials of this department were merely secretaries to the two prime ministers, and had no real executive authority; and that the administration was divided into this nameless department and the other four which followed it. This was Okubo's explanation. It was, however, pretty evident that this constitution was not to be the final one, and it seemed to me to contain in itself the elements of change. There were so many appointments that were held by dummies of high birth, while the real work was done by their underlings. The ancient ranks and precedence had been practically done away with, and I could not help thinking that the court and territorial nobles (_kugé_ and _daimiôs_) would have to be struck out of the list of officials. There was hardly one of them fit to occupy the place of head of a department, and yet these appointments were confined to them, no commoner being eligible. The 25th August was chiefly occupied with arrangements made with Nakai for the opening of Yedo on October 1, by instructions from the chief, the abolition of the absurd existing rules about passports for foreigners proceeding to Yedo, and for ordering one of the naval instructors there to buoy the channel. The ex-Tycoon's government had arranged to have a huge hotel built for the accommodation of foreign visitors, and the owners would have liked to let it, but it seemed unlikely that any foreigner would undertake to run such an establishment on his own account, and I advised that they should engage a man from Yokohama to act as steward for the proprietors, make out the visitors' bills and purchase the necessary wines and provisions. It was evident that the imperialists were gathering their forces for a combined attack on Aidzu, and as Nakai said, if they could not crush him with their troops they now had in the field, they never would succeed. An American sailing barque named the "Despatch" was hired for $3000 to carry men to Hirakata. On August 25 I saw 200 men march through Shinagawa to embark for the north; on the 22nd a large body of Chô-shiû men arrived, and were billetted in Sengakuji, the temple in which the 47 Faithful Rônins were buried. And Nakahara Naosuké, a Satsuma man, usually believed to be their admiral, but in reality an artillery officer, had been sent to Echigo with four companies of artillery, and great things were expected of him. August 26 I went to see Katsu, and found him greatly relieved in his mind as the result of a visit paid to him on the previous day by Komatsu. He said that the Castle of Sumpu had been handed over to the head of the Tokugawa clan on the 18th, but that the territories assigned to him had not yet been vacated by their previous possessors, who were very difficult to move, so that the lands at present available did not exceed 80,000 _koku_ in extent. He hoped Kaménosuké, by which he, of course, meant the guardians of the six-year-old child, would not go to any great expense in building or in engaging crowds of retainers. He said that the "Kaiyô-maru," flagship of Enomoto Idzumi, who commanded the Tokugawa fleet, was supplied with provisions by that clan. Enomoto, otherwise known as E. Kamajirô, was a naval officer who had been trained in Holland. I asked him whether the son of the late Prince of Mito was dead, or whether he was to be set aside in favour of Mimbu Taiyu. On this he gave me the following account of Mito politics, which had been a puzzle for many years to foreign observers. Noriakira, commonly called "the old prince of Mito," was the younger son of Harutoshi, and his childhood's name (_zoku-miô_) was Keisaburô. His elder brother Narinobu was the heir, and his portion as a younger brother was only 200 _koku_. Being averse to society on account of his deafness, he spent his time in wandering about the country and acquainting himself with its actual condition, and no doubt then formed the habits of simplicity and frugality which distinguished him in after life. On the death of Harutoshi, Keisaburô's elder brother succeeded him, but dying shortly afterwards, left the prince-dom vacant. By that time two parties had gradually formed themselves in the Mito clan, one which supported the ancient Kiôto policy of the author of the Dainihonshi, the other which, fearing Keisaburô, had formed an alliance with the Court of Yedo, at that time ably directed by Midzuno Echizen no Kami, father of Idzumi no Kami until lately a member of the Go-rôjiû (Council of State). The latter party schemed to set aside the claims of Keisaburô in favour of an adopted heir from the then Shôgun's family. A will of the late prince was however discovered, in which he declared his desire that the claims of blood should be respected, and his brother Keisaburô be appointed as his successor. The will was backed up by a strong party known as the _Tengu-ren_, and Keisaburô became prince of Mito. This was in 1834 when he was about 30 years of age. The new prince was bent on carrying out certain reforms which the luxurious habits of the age appeared to him to render necessary. With this object he obtained a relaxation of the ancient rule which required the head of the house of Mito to be a resident in Yedo, the more easily because he had rendered himself obnoxious to the Go-rôjiû by the ostentatious manner in which he seemed to reprove their pomp and luxury by the simplicity of his own dress and manner of life, and retiring to his province on the pretext that it was necessary for him to superintend personally the government of the clan, he devoted his time to drilling troops in the only fashion then known in Japan. Openly advocating the supremacy of the Mikado, and non-intercourse with the western world (_Kin-ô, jô-i_), he secretly introduced into the province every Dutch scholar he could find, and made himself acquainted as far as was then possible with the resources of European science. With incredible labour he constructed from drawings contained in old Dutch books a frigate, which long lay at Yokohama for the protection of foreigners, but had he believed been since broken up. The report of his doings having been brought to Yedo, it was represented to the Go-rôjiû that the drilling of men and building of warships were merely preparations for carrying out the traditional Mito policy, and that the prince was plotting rebellion. In 1844 he was compelled to retire into seclusion, and he was succeeded by his son, the late prince, then a mere boy. In 1851 a Dutch man-of-war made its appearance at Nagasaki, and caused no slight consternation at Yedo. It was said that the Nagasaki Dutchmen were becoming restive, and that the ship was merely a precursor of the English, who at that time bore the detestable reputation of being a nation of pirates ready for any violence. Succeeding events proved to the Shôgun's government that Japan was in danger of being forced into relations with European Powers; the advent of Admiral Perry and his squadron heightened their alarm to such a degree that they yielded to the voice of public opinion, and inviting the old prince of Mito to Yedo admitted him again into their councils. In 1858 the Shôgun Iyésada died, and the old prince of Mito wished to secure the succession to his seventh son, who having been adopted as heir to the house of Shitotsubashi was in a legitimate position to become the Shôgun's heir. It was at this moment that Ii Kamon no Kami came into power, and though it is uncertain whether he had a previous understanding with the Ki-shiû family that they should furnish an heir, it is certain that he found them ready to comply; and his influence was strong enough to force old Mito to retire a second time into private life, and to order Echizen, Tosa and Uwajima, who had supported the Mito claims, to resign their _daimiates_ to their sons. The assassination of Ii Kamon no Kami a couple of years later by Mito men was the consequence. Other influences were then at work in the west. The Kiôto policy and the expulsion of foreigners had been warmly espoused by Satsuma and Chô-shiû. Hence the bond of union between them and the _Tengu-ren_ section of the Mito men, who on hearing that civil war had broken out at Kiôto, made their appearance before the castle of the prince, and demanded that he should carry out the clan policy. This action proving unsuccessful they raised the standard of rebellion on Mount Tsukuba in Hitachi, whence they were expelled by the forces of the Shôgun after some hard fighting. Their fate among the mountains of Kaga was a well-known tale. Takéda Kô-un-sai, who had been driven by the force of circumstances to join them, and several hundred of his comrades were beheaded at Tsuruga. The remainder of the _Tengu-ren_ fled to Kiôto, where the ex-Tycoon, at that time still bearing the name of Shitotsubashi, took them into his pay. Now that the revolution of the previous January had so completely changed the face of affairs, these men had returned to their native province, headed by Takéda Kinjirô, a grandson of Kô-un-sai, and their political opponents, whom they styled _Kan-tô_ (traitors), finding themselves on the losing side, and likely to be in a perilous minority, since the _Tengu-ren_ were backed up by the imperialists, had gone off to Echigo, to the number of some five hundred. The _Tengu-ren_, out of gratitude to their former protector, had determined to set aside the heir in favour of Mimbu Taiyu, Shitotsubashi's younger brother, and had despatched agents to bring the latter back from Paris. That day Nagaoka, younger brother of Higo, arrived by sea with a large number of retainers, and on the 29th the Prince of Awa marched in in great pomp with about 600 men. On the 28th I had a great feast with Komatsu, Inouyé Iwami and young Matsuné of Uwajima. One of the party drank so much _saké_ that he lay down on the floor and went to sleep. In half an hour's time he woke up quite sober, and was able to repeat the process. From September 8 to October 17 Adams and I were absent on a wild-goose chase after the Russians who were reported to be occupying the northern coast of Yezo, in the course of which H.M.S. "Rattler," in which we had embarked, was wrecked in Sôya Bay. But as this was not concerned with the progress of political events in Japan, it seems unnecessary to occupy space in narrating our experiences. We were rescued by the French corvette "Dupleix," Captain du Petit Thouars. CHAPTER XXXIII CAPTURE OF WAKAMATSU AND ENTRY OF THE MIKADO INTO YEDO NOVEMBER 6th was celebrated with much pomp and ceremony as being the Mikado's birthday. A review of the 2/x regiment was held at Yokohama to which Sir Harry invited Sanjô, now promoted to the rank of Udaijin. The foreign men-of-war joined with the Kanagawa fort in firing a royal salute, which the party viewed from my upstairs verandah overlooking the bay. Besides Sanjô we had Nagaoka Riônosuké, Higashi-Kuzé and Madé-no-kôji. A luncheon at the minister's residence followed, and the swords of honour sent out from England for presentation to Gotô and Nakai in recognition of their gallant conduct on the 23rd of March were handed over. Nakai at once girt his on, and strutted about with a gold-laced cap on his head, to his own great delight and the intense amusement of the rest of the company. As it happened to be the second day of the Yokohama races it was proposed that the whole party should adjourn to the race-course. Sanjô and Higashi-Kuzé, who had on white _maedaré_ and black-lacquered paper caps, declined. I rode down with Madé-no-kôji and Nagaoka, who enjoyed themselves immensely. On returning home I took Nakai in with me and gave him tea; in exchange for this he informed me that news had been received of the capture of the outer castle of Wakamatsu, and that only the inner ring and citadel remained in possession of the defenders; also that the Mikado would arrive at Yedo about November 27. Next day I went up to Yedo on board a Japanese steamer belonging to the Yokosuka arsenal with Sanjô, Higashi-Kuzé, Nagaoka and Nakai. By a mistake of Nakai's about the hour of leaving I kept the party waiting for me at the custom house and a mounted messenger had to be sent to fetch me. I hurried down and found them sitting quietly smoking. They protested against my apologising. How different from some Europeans! On the 8th Mitford and I went to call on Katsu. His wife had gone off to Sumpu, but he remained to do the "head muck-and-bottle-washing" (_miso-zuri_) of the clan. He hoped to obtain the Shimidzu lands, amounting to 110,000 _koku_, for feeding the retainers who had lost their lands and pay. Instead of the lands promised in Oshiû, part of Mikawa and the whole of Enshiû had been conceded, but the _daimiôs_ hitherto entitled had not yet given up possession. Keiki had preceded Kaménosuké to Sumpu. Katsu also had a story that Brunet, one of the French military instructors, went off in the Kayô-maru, when the Tokugawa naval squadron left the Yedo anchorage on the night of October 4. We doubted this, as we knew that he had just received promotion in the French army. Nevertheless it turned out to be a fact. He was accompanied by another officer named Caseneuve, and several other Frenchmen. We also visited Nakai, who gave us a first-rate dinner from the hotel. He said that the citadel of Wakamatsu was captured on October 29. He had also received a letter from Kido placing the question of the Mikado's coming to Yedo beyond a doubt. And as we returned to my house we found that great preparations were already being made in anticipation of His Majesty's arrival, roads being re-made, bridges rebuilt, and ward-gates being constructed in side streets where they had never existed before. One of my _betté_ Sano Ikunosuké called to present his thanks for having been selected by the court to remain one of the Yedo guard for foreigners; all my sixteen men had been engaged for this service. He said that the Shimidzu domain had been granted provisionally to the Tokugawa family for the purpose mentioned by Katsu. To-day (November 9) was the last day on which men of the Tokugawa clan could send in their names for service under the Mikado. In some cases they would receive about half their former revenue, but others would be better off than before, because their allowances, though nominally diminished, would be issued in rice instead of in money at a low fixed rate. That evening Mitford and I dined with Nagaoka at the Higo _yashiki_ in Shirokané, close by our legation, Higashi-Kuzé and Nakai being the other guests. It was a dinner in European style served from the hotel in a picturesque two-storeyed house, built in the garden so as to command a view over the _nagaya_ in the direction of the bay. In the garden there were some splendid trees and pretty shaded nooks. Hosokawa himself was there, very fat and amiable, very small eyes and a tendency to "fly catching." On the 10th I went back to Yokohama. At an interview on November 16 between all the Foreign Representatives, Higashi-Kuzé and Térashima, the Japanese ministers stated that the castle of Wakamatsu had surrendered on the 6th November to the imperial forces. The two princes, father and son, in robes of ceremony and preceded by a retainer carrying a large banner inscribed with the word "surrender" (_kô-fuku_), and followed by the garrison, likewise in robes of ceremony and with their heads shaven, came to the camp of the besiegers and gave themselves up. The castle and all the arms it contained were handed over, and the two princes retired into strict seclusion (_kin-shin_) at a Buddhist monastery in the town. Nakamura Hanjirô, the chief of the staff (_gun-kan_) wept when he went to take delivery of the castle and its contents. It was a pleasure to us to see how the countenances of some of those who had to listen to the story fell, for they had counted on a desperate resistance on the part of Aidzu to defeat the imperialist party and frustrate the policy of the British Legation. Now that this exciting episode was at an end, the speedy submission of the other northern clans could be counted on with confidence. The detailed report made by the Hizen clan, dated November 16, published in the "Kiôto Gazette," shows that the garrison included _samurai_ soldiers 764, troops of a lower class 1609, wounded 570, outlaws from other territories (_rônin_) 462; women and children 639, officials 199, civilians 646, personal attendants of the princes 42, and porters 42. There was no record of the number of men killed in the defence. On November 19 I went to Yedo with Captain Stanhope, Charles Wirgman the artist, and Dr. Siddall, after breakfasting with Du Petit Thouars on board the "Dupleix." Adams and William Marshall went up by road. On our arrival possession was at once taken of Siddall, by a Japanese doctor named Takéda Shingen, and he was carried off to the military hospital established at the Tôdô _yashiki_ in the Shitaya quarter. On the 21st Adams, Mitford, Marshall and Wirgman went to the Yoshiwara and had a feast in fine style at the Kimpeirô, part of which was furnished in western style for such Japanese guests as liked it. The admission of Europeans into that quarter of the town, from which they had until then been jealously shut out, was hailed as the dawn of a day of friendly intercourse of the frankest character. Next evening I gave a great entertainment at my own house. There were three _geisha_ from Shimmei-mae and two _taikomochi_ (jesters). We kept it up boisterously till midnight. The jesters performed a foreigner and his escort arriving at the Kawasaki ferry on the way to Yedo, and meeting with the usual obstruction at the hands of the men placed there to guard the crossing. My escort men also exhibited some comic scenes, much to their own satisfaction and to the delight of the household, who were admitted to a room at the top of the stairs. Letters arrived from the chief to say that he wanted a stand erected for himself opposite to the gate of our former legation buildings, in front of Sengakuji, for him to see the Mikado pass in (he was expected to reach Yedo on the 27th), and that Higashi-Kuzé and I must go down to Yokohama on the 24th to see himself. We wrote in reply to say that a stand was altogether an impossibility, seeing what Japanese etiquette was in such matters, and that I could not leave Siddall alone in Yedo without some one to interpret for him. So next day Wirgman and I went over to see Siddall, and found that the Tôdô _yashiki_ had now been turned into a general hospital. Here we fell in with old Ishigami, the Satsuma doctor who married a daughter of old Freiherr von Siebold by a Japanese mother, a very cheery person. After lunch we went with him and a crowd of other Japanese doctors to Uyéno, intending to get in and examine the scene of the fighting that took place on July 4, but the gate was shut in our face, and though we waited and argued patiently for a whole hour with the sentries, we could not convince them that we might safely be admitted. I think our Japanese companions felt even more annoyance than we did. The gateway was riddled with bullets, and it was evident that a pretty stiff fight had taken place there in July. We stayed the night at the hospital, and spent a jolly evening with Ishigami and another doctor named Yamashita. Next morning, in spite of the bitter cold, we went round the wards with the doctors. All the state apartments of the _daimiô's_ mansion (_go-ten_) had been converted into wards, and provided with iron bedsteads and hair mattresses. There was a very plucky little Tosa boy, probably a drummer, who had had his foot amputated. Then our attention was attracted to an aristocratic-looking little surgeon from Chôshiû, with his sleeves turned up like ruffles over a pair of delicate little wrists. At noon there came the two brothers Notsu, Shichizayemon and Shichiji, who persuaded Wirgman and myself to go to the Yoshiwara with them, instead of keeping an engagement with Nakai. Siddall compounded _mistura vini gallici_, and after partaking of this we started on a journey of exploration. It was a terribly cold day, with a gale from the north-west coming straight down the plain from the snowy peak of Asama-yama and other mountains of Shinshiû. The Yoshiwara lay right out in the middle of the rice-fields, occupying a considerable extent of ground. It was entered through a narrow gate at the end of a long causeway. After passing this gate, we were introduced into the upstairs rooms of a rather shabby house, evidently much frequented by the Satsuma clan. _Geishas_ were of course sent for, and the _saké_-cup circulated merrily. Towards nightfall it was proposed that we should visit the Kimpeirô, a hideous house furnished in what was regarded as European style; but we stayed there only a few minutes, and then returned to the house where we had first been entertained. Here we had more drinking, dancing and playing at _nanko_. In this game a wooden chopstick is broken up into six pieces, of which each player receives three. He puts in one palm as many as he thinks fit, and guesses at the total of what his hand and the hand of the other player contain. If he guesses right, the loser has to drink, and his turn comes to give the challenge. Evidently this is the way to get speedily drunk. We stopped there till a message came from Ishigami to say that he was awaiting us at another house to drink sober again. We went in search of him to a restaurant on the river bank, the _Yu-mei-rô_, where much singing, dancing, drinking and _nanko_ followed, till we had had enough of it, and came home by boat to the hospital, accompanied by three of the _geishas_. Next afternoon the artist and I said good-bye to Siddall, and walked over to Nakai's, but not finding him at home, we went to the hotel for refreshment, where we sat down in the garden and found ourselves overwhelmed with melancholy at the ugliness of the building. For five cups of tea and a bundle of Manila cheroots the manager charged us a dollar, to the surprise and horror of the Japanese boy who waited on us. To him it appeared an exorbitant demand. The cheroots were perhaps worth 20 cents, which left 16 cents for a cup of tea. On getting home to Takanawa we found that Rickerby, the proprietor and editor of the "Japan Times," had just arrived in a boat from Yokohama to witness the ceremony of the following day. November 26, 1868. About ten o'clock in the morning the Mikado passed into Yedo, having slept at Shinagawa. Mitford, the artist, Rickerby and I saw the procession from the open space recently created in front of the new gate of what had previously been Sir Harry Parkes' diplomatic residence, now transformed into a sort of foreign office. The display could not be described as splendid, for the effect of what was oriental in the courtiers' costumes was marred by the horribly untidy soldiers with unkempt hair and clothing vilely imitated from the west. The Mikado's black-lacquered palanquin (_hôren_) was to us a curious novelty. As it passed along the silence which fell upon the crowd was very striking. Old Daté, who rode between it and the closed chair in which the Mikado was really seated, nodded to us in a friendly manner. Rickerby wrote and published an excellent newspaper account of the whole show a few days afterwards in the "Japan Times." In the afternoon he and I walked to Kai-an-ji, a Buddhist religious house at Shinagawa, celebrated for its very pretty plantations of maple. From there we proceeded to a house of entertainment, the Kawasaki-ya, close by, to drink _saké_ and crack jokes with the girls about the Prince of Bizen, who had passed the night there. The house was full of troops from the west, but they scarcely took any notice of us, and in fact all those we met on the road ignored us completely. It must be said that whenever I went out into the streets of Yedo I was always accompanied by my Aidzu _samurai_ Noguchi and from four to six of my personal escort of the _betté-gumi_. On the 28th Sir Harry and Dr. Alford the Bishop of Victoria, Hongkong, came up to Yedo, and were entertained in European style at the new foreign office by Daté and Higashi-Kuzé. Machida and Môri, young Satsuma men, were also of the party. Both had been in England and spoke English, the latter, who was only about one-and-twenty, particularly well. Next day Mitford and I went to call on Nakai. We met there Machida, and Yamaguchi Hanzô, a Hizen _samurai_, who brought with him a man who had just returned from Shônai. He reported that Shônai had submitted on the 4th instant, and that two foreigners, one an American, the other an Englishman, both from Hakodaté, were present as spectators. Nakai, who was a member of the local government of the city, now called the Tô-kei-fu instead of Yedo, had given in his resignation because he found that the governor-general instead of placing confidence in himself and the other officials, was in the habit of upsetting their arrangements on the complaint of a few wretched tradespeople. Wirgman and I went down to Yokohama on the 30th, walking as far as Namamugi-mura (where Richardson was murdered in 1862), whence we took boat across to the foreign settlement. At Kawasaki-ya in Shinagawa we fell in with Notsu Shichizayémon and Ijiû-in, with two Kurohané men and one from Utsunomiya, companions on the occasion of our visit to the Yoshiwara, of whom the Satsuma men were on their way home. There was a large consumption of _saké_ and Japanese dishes, and much Doric Japanese spoken. Further on, at Mmé-yashiki or Bai-rin, as it had now become the fashion to call this very pleasant half-way house between Yedo and the ferry at Kawasaki, we found Oyama, who was like the others returning to Kagoshima as the civil war was practically at an end. We drank many parting cups together, and then walked with him to his hotel at Kawasaki. The road was full of homeward bound Satsuma men and Tokugawa people going to Sumpu. A report had got about that difficulties had arisen between Satsuma and Higo, and that the latter in conjunction with Arima and Chikuzen were going to fall upon the great clan; that in consequence of this the troops were rushing off as fast as possible to forestal the attack. Another rumour, much credited by the French Legation, was that Aidzu surrendered only on condition that the Satsuma troops should be withdrawn from the east and north of the country, and the Mikado come to Yedo. But as others besides the Satsuma fighting men were also going home, these stories were easily discredited. On December 3 I went back to Yedo, half-way in a _kago_ (common palanquin) from Kanagawa, and on foot from Kawasaki. At Bai-rin I met Midzuno Chinami, hurrying back from Shimoda where he had been put ashore from H.M.S. "Manila." Here was the late governor of Yokohama, who last year used to ride in a state palanquin (_nagabô_), with a large cortége and preceded by running footmen crying _shitaniro_, "down on your knees," now travelling in a wretched cheap hackney _kago_, without a single retainer. For all that he seemed cheerful enough. A good deal of my time in those days was passed in the compilation of an English-Japanese dictionary of the spoken language and in reading Japanese novels. On the 4th I went over to the hospital, where I found Siddall with his hands full, wounded men from Echigo having begun to arrive. Willis had gone on from Echigo to Wakamatsu to look after the Aidzu wounded, of whom there were nearly 600 in the castle when it was surrendered. My new pony "Fushimi," a present from Katsu before he left Yedo, carried me splendidly; the imperialists who crowded the streets appeared to admire with envy a black chimney-pot hat which I was wearing. On the 5th I went there again to pass the night, with Ishigami and Yamashita. They complained bitterly of one Mayéda Kiôsai, who had been appointed chief of the hospital, and said that the patients had threatened to cut his head off because he spent his time in driving about the city in a carriage and pair instead of attending to his duties. The reflection came naturally that you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, or give the standing of an European physician to a Japanese half-educated apothecary. On December 9 I went to the hotel to dine with Machida. The indispensable Nakai was there, also Okubo and Yoshii. The latter had left Wakamatsu on December 1st. Willis was there looking after the wounded, of whom he said there were at least two thousand on the Aidzu side alone. Snow was lying deep both in Echigo and Aidzu. Shônai was pacified, and the whole country might now be said to be at peace, a state of things which of course was displeasing to anti-imperialists, whether among diplomatists or merchants. Information had arrived that the murderers of the two sailors of H.M.S. "Icarus" in August 1867 had been discovered; they were from Chikuzen and the party to which they belonged was said to number nine in all. This of course would be welcome news to the Tosa people. It was strange that retainers of Chikuzen, who entertained Admiral King so hospitably in January should have been guilty of such a wanton crime. The newly issued paper money, known as _kinsatsu_, was much discussed, and it was evidently creating a great ferment among the people. Uchida, the mayor (_nanushi_) of Kanasugi, who had been to see me a few days earlier, said that a refusal to receive these notes in the payment of taxes was the only obstacle to their free circulation. Nakai denied the correctness of the statement that taxes might not be paid with them, but he thought that in the end it would be found necessary to establish a proper banking system by giving authority to the great firm of Mitsui to issue notes against a reserve of coin or bullion. It was a matter of vital importance to the imperial government, which had not found any money in the Tokugawa treasury, and the Mikado had always been kept very poorly supplied by the Shôgun's ministers. CHAPTER XXXIV ENOMOTO WITH THE RUNAWAY TOKUGAWA SHIPS SEIZES YEZO ON December 11 Machida came to me with a report from Hakodaté that the Tokugawa pirates, as they were styled after their refusal to surrender and their exodus from Yedo Bay on October 4, had landed at that port from the Kaiyô-maru and her consorts. The rebels were led by a member of the French military mission sent out in 1866 who had gone off with them when they left the bay, and it was very annoying for the French Legation that this officer should have violated the neutrality proclaimed by the Minister, and have joined rebels against the authority of a sovereign with whom France maintained friendly relations. A fight had ensued near Hakodaté, in which a large number of imperialists were killed or wounded. The Yokohama foreign press however represented that the Mikado's men had won the victory at a place about 15 miles from the port. According to despatches received from the consul the rebels had had by far the best of it. The foreign residents were in a great state of alarm. The consul wrote thus: "As the enemy approach we shall retire towards the hill; if he comes nearer, we shall go up the hill, and should it come to the last extremity we shall have no resource but to put our trust in an over-ruling Power." Nakai came on the 13th to talk about the new paper money, and the difficulties with foreigners to which it would give rise. Tom Glover's opinion was quoted in favour of a paper circulation, but he did not himself agree that a merchant, who was naturally an interested party, should be regarded as an authority on currency. This paper money had been issued to the troops, who forced the shop-keepers and the hucksters on the high roads to accept it in payment. But this could not go on long, for the paper did not pass current amongst the civilian population. We spoke about the state of foreign relations. He admitted that the old distrust of foreigners still existed; the foreign representatives were regarded as a necessary evil, to be endured, but not to be embraced. Nothing pleased the Mikado's government so much as to see the diplomatists living at Yokohama, and the idea of asking their advice upon any matter was never entertained for a moment. In fact the representatives were looked upon much in the same light as the agents (_rusui_) of the _daimiôs_, _i.e._ persons sent to Japan by their respective governments to receive the Mikado's orders, whenever occasion might arise. The representatives were themselves partly to blame for this state of things. Fine houses, comfortable living and whole skins at Yokohama were doubtless preferable to makeshifts and dangers at Yedo, but for all they knew or could learn of pending international questions they might just as well be resident at Hongkong. Another day was spent with the mayor of Kanasugi and three or four retainers at the classical theatre Kongo-daiyu in Iigura chô, to see _Nô_ and _Kiôgen_. Minami Torajirô was also among the audience. This was a young Aidzu _samurai_, who had come in the previous April to see me, with his countryman Hirozawa, when I had a great argument with the latter about Japanese politics and especially about the part our Legation had taken. It was the first time a foreigner had been present at this kind of theatrical performance. _Nô_ is a sort of tragedy or historical play, _Kiôgen_ is low comedy. There is no scenery and the costumes are all in an ancient style. The stage is about 24 feet square, and a long passage on the left connects it with the greenroom from which the actors make their appearance. There are 200 _Nô_, and printed books of the text, known as _utai_, could be bought for a trifling cost. They are delivered in slow recitative to the accompaniment of the music, or rather dissonance, of the fife and small drum. The orchestra, likewise dressed in antique fashion, were seated on campstools at the back of the stage. The _Kiôgen_, which pleased me most, were _Suyéhirogari_, in which a sort of Moses Primrose is sent to Kiôto to buy a fan, and is cheated by the merchant into paying 500 _riô_ for an umbrella, and _Oba ga saké_, in which a fellow having tried in vain to persuade his aunt, a rich old curmudgeon, to give him some _saké_, puts on a devil's mask and frightens her into submission, while he goes to get drunk at the store room where the liquor is kept. He threatens to eat her if she looks his way; her cries,"Oh fearful to behold; spare your retainer's life"; her anger on discovering in the drunken and sleepy demon her rascally nephew, were infinitely diverting. The _Nô_ I could not understand until I borrowed the book from a Japanese lady in the next box, and was enabled to follow the text. This was _Hachi no ki_. Sano Genzayémon, who has been deprived of his feudal estate, entertains a Buddhist priest at night. Having no food to offer him nor fuel to warm the room, he cuts down his own favourite dwarf plum, cherry and pine trees, and makes a fire of the branches. In return for this the holy man persuades the Lord of Kamakura to restore to him his forfeited lands. There were at that time three other companies of _nô-yakusha_; Kanzé-daiyu, Kôshô-daiyu and Kompara-daiyu. The audience consisted entirely of the _samurai_ class. The two Aidzu princes were brought to the suburb of Senji on December 15. Matsudaira Higo (now, like all other rebels, shorn of his title of _Kami_) was placed in the charge of Inshiû, and Wakasa in that of Chikuzen. Ninnaji no Miya, the commander-in-chief of the imperialist forces engaged in Echigo and Oshiu, was expected to arrive in Yedo on the 17th. And on or about the 16th the foreign representatives were officially notified of the restoration of peace. The guns and stores of H.M.S. "Rattler" which had perforce to be left behind at Sôya when the "Dupleix" brought us away, had been offered to the Mikado's government and accepted by them. This was the news heard from Okubo and Yoshii, whom I met at Nakai's on the 16th. As a measure of protection for British and French subjects at Hakodaté the "Satellite" and "Vénus" were despatched thither on the 14th, the former conveying our secretary of legation Adams. His "History of Japan," vol. ii., gives an account of what he saw and did there. Up to the 5th of December however that place had not been threatened with an attack from the fugitive Tokugawa navy. My old writing master Tédzuka, who came to call, gave me the following statistics about his clan. The chief's name was Sengoku Sanuki no Kami, and he ruled over territories assessed at 30,000 _koku_. The actual yield to the _daimiô_ was 16,000 _koku_ of rice; of this 8000 _koku_ were accounted for by fiefs held by retainers; 4000 _koku_ were required for the maintenance of the _daimiô's_ personal establishment, and an equal quantity went in expenses of administration. The latter included official salaries, cost of journeys to court at Yedo, of soldiers in the field, arms, etc. The clan numbered no more than 60 _samurai_ families. Its constitution as regards the offices of _karô_ and _yônin_ was the same as in the case of other clans. In accordance with orders promulgated in No. 5 of the Kiôto Gazette the old practice of hereditary office-holding had been abolished, and a system of promotion by merit established in its stead. In order to carry out these new arrangements, the hereditary fiefs of the retainers ought he thought to be equalized. When I went back to Yokohama on the 18th I found that news had been received of the capture, which I had anticipated, of Hakodaté by the runaway Tokugawa ships, and the flight of Shimidzu-dani with all his staff. The consul was, as one would expect, very seriously alarmed. And from the "Satellite's" expedition to the spot one could not look for any results of importance. On December 21 a great conference was held at the legation in Yokohama of the chief with Daté, Higashi-Kuzé, Komatsu, Kido, Machida and Ikébé Goi (of Yanagawa in Kiûshiû). The first thing they wanted was that Sir Harry would arrange to give Yamaguchi Hanzô a passage on board an English man-of-war to Hakodaté, in order that he might open negotiations with the rebel leaders. The chief seemed to me to fear that this would involve him too much in the opinion of the public as a partizan of the imperial government, and he advised them instead to despatch a common messenger across the strait from Awomori bearing written offers to treat. Seeing that they could not induce him to accede to their request, they acquiesced in his suggestion, but in such a half-hearted manner as to make one doubt whether they would follow his advice. A great discussion took place on the Christian question, in which the Japanese spoke very reasonably, and Sir Harry likewise, until he unfortunately lost his temper over the arguments used by Kido, and made use of very violent language such as I do not care to repeat. The result was that they promised to write Notes to the Foreign Representatives announcing the Mikado's intention of showing clemency to the converts. Next day Ikébé came to me to explain the theory of the imperial paper currency, but I did not understand much of what he said, and we wandered off into other subjects, especially Christianity. The old fellow professed to be not only an admirer of its doctrines, but also a believer. In the afternoon the chief and I went to return Daté's call at what had formerly been the governor's official residence at Tobé, a suburb of Yokohama. They had a long conversation, especially about the Christian question and the representative system, and Sir Harry tried to pump him about the future capital. Would it be at Kiôto, Ozaka or Yedo (Tokei, Tôkiô), for we had of course read what Okubo Ichizô had written on the subject early in the year. The old prince gave him some very polite "digs in the ribs" about his violent language of the previous day, saying that when people became animated in conversation, spectators were apt to think that a dispute was going on, whereas instead of that being the case, it was merely that the speakers were in earnest; and naturally every man desired to express his own views. The chief replied that his animation was caused by the extreme regret he felt at seeing the Japanese do things that were prejudicial to themselves. On this Daté observed that it did them good now and then, to be got angry with (_hara wo tatté morau_). This set the chief "a-thynkynge," and as we were driving home he suddenly said: "I think they would never have spoken to the other representatives about Christianity, had it not been for the little piece of excitement I got up yesterday." I replied: "Well, it may be so but I think you hurt Kido's feelings; he shut up at once and preserved a marked silence." "Did you think so?" says P. "I am sorry to think he was offended." I then said: "If you will excuse my speaking freely, I believe that although that sort of thing may have a good effect in a particular case, it makes the Japanese dread interviews with you." Upon this the chief declared that he would have Kido to breakfast the next morning, and begged me to write him as polite a note of invitation as possible. CHAPTER XXXV 1869--AUDIENCE OF THE MIKADO AT YEDO ON January 2 I went back to Yedo (as we long continued to call the Eastern capital, being, like most Englishmen, averse to innovation). The city had been opened to foreign trade and residence on the 1st, and dear old William Willis was installed as H.M. vice-consul. He and Adams had returned on December 29th, the one from caring for the wounded in Echigo and Aidzu, the other from Hakodaté. On January 5 we had an audience of the Mikado. On this occasion Sir Harry asked a large number of naval and military officers, besides Captain Stanhope, R.N., of the "Ocean," and Colonel Norman, in command of the 2/ix. So the list of persons to be presented, fixed originally at twelve, was increased to double that figure. As usual the chief had mismanaged the business, because he insisted on doing it all himself instead of leaving details to his subordinates, and he did not even know the names of those who were to be presented. The Squadron furnished a guard of a hundred marines. The costumes worn were very various, especially those of the legation and consulate men. It was a terribly cold day, snow falling, which changed into sleet, and then into rain by the time we reached the castle, and what made things worse was that we had to ride on horseback instead of driving in carriages. The audience took place in the palace of the Nishi-no-Maru, just inside the Sakurada Gate. We were allowed to ride over the first bridge, past the usual _géba_ or notice to alight, right up to the abutments of the second bridge, where we got down. Here we were met by Machida, who conducted us into the courtyard, from which we ascended at once into the ante-chamber. The Prince of Awa, Sanjô, Higashi-Kuzé, Nakayama Dainagon and Okubo came in and exchanged the usual compliments. Then we were ushered into a very dark room, where the Mikado was sitting under a canopy rather larger than that used at Ozaka. It was so dark that we could hardly distinguish his dress, but his face, which was whitened artificially, shone out brightly from the surrounding obscurity. The Prime Minister stood below on the right and after H.M. had uttered a few words of inquiry about the Queen's health, and congratulated the chief on continuing at Yedo as minister, read the Mikado's speech. To this Sir Harry replied very neatly. After the audience, which took up no more than five minutes, was over we cantered back to the old Legation building in Takanawa, now converted into a branch of the Japanese Foreign Office, where we had great feasting beginning by an entertainment in Japanese style, very good of its kind, followed by a late luncheon supplied from the hotel. Awa and Higashi-Kuzé presided in our room. The American Minister and the North German Chargé d'Affaires were also present. Higashi-Kuzé proposed the health of the Queen, the President and the King of Prussia _en bloc_, after which we drank to the health of the Mikado. Katsu had come back to Yedo, and early in January was to start again for Sumpu, to lay a foundation for negotiation with the Tokugawa runaway ships at Hakodaté. On the 8th a review of the English troops in garrison at Yokohama was held for the entertainment of the prince of Awa, as our particular friend, and a party of young Court nobles. These were not men of political importance, and I do not think we ever heard of them again. The rapidity of the fire from the Snider rifles was a surprise to all the spectators. On the 9th the chief and I having ridden up to Yedo in the morning, he had an important interview at Hama-goten, the sea-side palace of the Shôguns, with Iwakura. Kido, Higashi-Kuzé and Machida were also present. Many compliments were offered to Sir Harry, and assurances of the gratitude which the Mikado's government felt for the hearty recognition they had received from Great Britain. To this succeeded some confidential conversation. It was intended that the Mikado should return to Kiôto to be married, and also for the performance of certain funeral rites in honour of his late father. When these ceremonies were completed he would come again to his Eastern Capital to hold a great council of the empire. The date of this was not yet fixed; it might be in the first month of the Japanese calendar, perhaps in the third. Sir Harry advised Iwakura to notify this to all the Foreign Representatives. The question of foreign neutrality and the situation at Hakodaté were then discussed. Iwakura denounced very eloquently those of the ministers who, while recognising the Mikado as sovereign, granted the status of belligerents to the Hakodaté pirates. Sir Harry declared for himself and the French Minister, Outrey, that no neutrality existed, and that they did not recognize Enomoto and his associates as belligerents; nor did van Polsbroek. To this Iwakura responded: "Why does the American Minister still allege a declaration of neutrality as the ground of his refusal to hand over the 'Stonewall Jackson' to the lawful government?" Sir Harry replied that the declaration in question had been of very great service to the Mikado's government, that but for its existence Enomoto would now be in possession of the iron-clad ram, and that he himself had been mainly instrumental in procuring the signature of that document. This was quite true. An excellent lunch was served from the hotel, and we parted from our hosts just at sundown, both parties well satisfied with each other. I went on the 10th January to visit Siddall at his hospital on the other side of the city; there I found Willis, who on the way there from Tsukiji, the foreign Settlement, had been threatened by a swash-buckler. We discussed together the means by which the Japanese government might be induced to apply for the services of Willis for a year in order to assist them in establishing their general hospital. So we told Ishigami that Siddall was to be recalled to the Legation, and that Higashi-Kuzé must ask for Willis. The Mikado had presented Willis with seven rolls of beautiful gold brocade, and Higashi-Kuzé wrote a nice letter thanking the dear old fellow for his services to the Japanese wounded warriors. On January 12 we heard that the "Kaiyô-Maru" had sailed from Hakodaté, with her rudder lashed to her stern; her destination was supposed to be Esashi, where fighting was going on. It was believed that the pirates were running short of money and rice. The Ainos were reported to have joined the people of Matsumae in resisting the pirates. I had some interesting conversation with Ikébé Goi, whom I went to see on the 13th. At his lodgings I met a young man named Yoshida Magoichirô, a councillor of the Yanagawa clan. We talked about Christianity, and Ikébé cited the Sermon on the Mount as a composition that pleased him more than anything written by Buddhist or Confucian Sages. I remarked that the Christian religion reversed the Chinese saying: "Do not unto others as ye would not that others should do unto you"; upon which he quoted the command to turn the other cheek to be smitten. After a little he began to talk about my chief's violence in conference, and said: "Now in his case, when he gets in a rage, so far from offering the other cheek, I feel inclined to kick him out of the room." Ikébé said that the Mikado would leave for Kiôto about the 17th or 18th January, and that a notification had been issued announcing his departure during the first decade of the 12th month, to return again in the spring. On the morning of the 15th I was summoned by the chief to Yokohama in a great hurry to attend a conference between Iwakura and the foreign colleagues. I rode the 20 miles on my pony "Fushimi," in two hours and a half without drawing bridle, and arrived at the Legation to find the conference just assembling. Iwakura addressed to the colleagues pretty much the same arguments as he had made use of at Hama-goten on the 9th. They put a number of questions to him by way of reply, and at last said they could not give answer to so important a matter as he had laid before them without mature consideration. Iwakura then said that he would take the opportunity of saying a few words about the causes of the existing political situation. The present Mikado was the descendant of sovereigns who ruled the country more than 2000 years back; the Shôgunate was an institution not more than 700 years old. Still, the power had been in its hands, and it was during the continuance of its authority that the Americans came to the country in 1853. The Shôgun's people were sharp enough to see the necessity and advantage of entering into relations with foreign countries, while the Mikado's Court, followed by the greater part of the nation, professed the anti-foreign policy. The country thus became disturbed, and the authority of the Shôgun could no longer be maintained. Then both the Mikado and the Shôgun died, and the latter's successor, a man of ability, was able to see the absolute indispensability of a government directed by the Mikado. Sincerely convinced of this, he surrendered the power into the hands of the Mikado, not as a mere gift, but because it was the only way of solving the political difficulties which existed. Thereupon the Mikado's government changed its policy with regard to foreigners, and did what never could have been done under the late sovereign, that is, entered into relations with the Treaty Powers. Hitherto our relations had been merely commercial, but the government hoped that they would improve and become something like those which existed among European and other civilized nations. The foreign ministers replied that they would consult together, and send him a reply without delay. Sir Harry came up on the 19th from Yokohama to tell Iwakura the result of yesterday's conference of colleagues on the subject of neutrality. We were to have met him at Hama-goten, but when we got there we found the gates shut, and since no orders had been received to admit us, we came away. As we were returning to the Legation Mori came after us in a great hurry, and begged the chief to turn back, but he refused, and said Iwakura might come to see him. This message was misunderstood by Mori, and there was more delay, but at last everything was arranged, and Iwakura came at half-past seven to the Legation, accompanied by Higashi-Kuzé. Iwakura had sent through Mori to ask me to come to Yedo, in order that he might speak to me personally, but I took no notice of this request, treating it merely as an invitation to the chief, or rather as a request to me to be present on the 19th in order to perform interpretation. He asked Sir Harry what had been the result of the conference of foreign ministers, and all he could say was that it had been adjourned. It appeared that the colleagues were willing to make a declaration that the war was over, but were not willing to give up the "Stonewall Jackson"; and that in order to justify her retention they would not withdraw their notifications of neutrality. To us this appeared highly illogical. The chief, after Iwakura had repeated all his arguments and had added that so far from desiring to get hold of the "Stonewall" in order to attack Enomoto, the Mikado's government were determined to offer him lenient terms, declared that in his own opinion the war had ceased, and that the neutrality lapsed with it; and that he was ready to state this in writing. Iwakura said that the Mikado was very desirous of knowing the answers of the ministers, and had therefore ordered him to stop behind for five days in order to try to settle this question and to rejoin him at Shimidzu, a port on the Tôkaidô, that he would like to get Sir Harry's answer confidentially, so that the Mikado might have a pleasant souvenir to carry away with him. Another thing Iwakura said was that the Mikado's government had made a sufficient display of power by reducing the provinces of Oshiû and Déwa in six months, whereas in former wars twelve years had been nothing extraordinary; that their intention was to adopt a humane line of conduct, and they had therefore ordered the two Tokugawas of Sumpu and Mito to proceed against the remaining rebels, and if they succeeded in arranging matters Keiki would be pardoned and restored to favour. He had himself seen Katsu, who believed that the offer of lenient terms would induce submission. The Mikado's government would not however consider any capitulation satisfactory that was not accompanied by a complete surrender of arms and ships of war. If the rebels proved obstinate they must be reduced by force. This frank statement drew out a favourable reply from Sir Harry. Iwakura also appeared to be alarmed about the attitude of Russia, and asked whether she might not possibly enter into an alliance with Enomoto. The chief thought this unlikely. The interview lasted three hours, and ended with many thanks from Iwakura and apologies for having kept Sir Harry waiting at the gate of Hama-goten. The chief on his side undertook to do everything possible to bring his colleagues round to his view and to induce them to send in their answer by the 25th, and he engaged to publish his own reply in the "Japan Herald" of the same day; that would be as decisive a manifestation of his policy as he could possibly give. I was greatly pleased myself to find that he had now made up his mind to "go the whole hog." The Mikado passed through Takanawa about eight o'clock the following morning, on his way back to Kiôto. His train appeared to be smaller than on the occasion of his entry. News arrived from Hakodaté on January 21 that the "Kaiyô-maru" had got on the rocks near Esashi and was expected to stick there; her guns had been thrown overboard and buoyed. The sentences on Aidzu and Sendai were promulgated on the 21st, with the penalties inflicted on other _daimiôs_ of the northern provinces, and a few more who had held out to the last. The Aidzu princes were let off with their lives, but the whole of their territories were confiscated. Sendai was reduced from 625,000 to 280,000 _koku_. The reigning prince was made to retire into private life, and was succeeded by a son of our old friend, the Daté of Uwajima. On the 22nd a further conference of the ministers was held with reference to the question of withdrawing the declarations of neutrality, and the little Italian minister, who came up to Yedo on the 23rd, assured us that only Sir Harry and Polsbroek were willing to consent, the others having refused. Letters however arrived from Sir Harry showing that all the colleagues had agreed to write a _note identique_ acknowledging that the war was over, but demanding a short delay in order to concert measures for the simultaneous withdrawal of their notifications. Also a note from him instructing me to arrange an interview with Iwakura for Adams and Montebello (Secretary of the French Legation) in order that they might hand to him the petition which the Tokugawa rebels at Hakodaté had asked M. Outrey and Sir Harry to forward to the Mikado. The translation of this document was made and sent off at once. Then, after learning from Higashi-Kuzé that 2 o'clock was fixed for the interview, Mitford and I went off to Kido, to whom I gave a copy of the _note identique_ about neutrality. He at once pitched on the 'short delay' clause as unsatisfactory, but I could only give him my opinion that this was inserted as a sort of compromise; it was better, I said, for the Mikado's government that all the ministers should agree to recognise that the war was over, even with this slight drawback, than that only two of them should have recognised the fact and the other four have continued to declare themselves neutral. A memorandum reached us from Adams stating the nature of the final arrangement, and suggesting that the government should make it generally known by publishing the correspondence in their official Gazette. Then I went off to Higashi-Kuzé's place, to meet Adams, Montebello and Dubousquet,[11] who arrived there about a quarter past two. Proceedings began by Montebello handing in Outrey's copy of the _note identique_; Iwakura at once pointed out the sentence in the letters of the English and French ministers which spoke of 'a short delay,' and asked what was its meaning. Both Adams and Montebello replied that they had no authority to say anything on this point, but they undertook at his request to write to their chiefs, and obtain if possible a definite date. I also whispered to Yamaguchi Hanzô to tell Iwakura afterwards that Kido already knew all about the compromise. The business of handing over the petition of the Tokugawa rebels was then proceeded with. Iwakura was told that in delivering this document the ministers did not offer any opinion on its contents, and they renounced for themselves any idea of acting as mediators; but that as the Japanese Foreign Minister had expressed to both of them his desire to learn if possible the feelings and intentions of the fugitives, they were very glad to have this opportunity of complying with his request. [11] An officer of the French Military Mission who devoted himself to the study of the Japanese language, and ultimately became interpreter to the French Legation. Iwakura replied that these men had now been declared to be rebels, and the two clans of Mito and Sumpu had been ordered out against them. That the proper course to adopt in presenting the petition which he had just read was to send it through the chiefs of those two clans. From the hasty glance he had cast over the document he could not profess to judge of its merits, but he was glad to see that the petitioners had some desire, however slight, of returning to their allegiance. (But if he had been aware of the extreme bumptiousness of the letter to Parkes and Outrey in which the petitions were forwarded, he would hardly have thought so.) Still, while thanking the ministers, and appreciating the disinterestedness of their motives, he could not consent to receive the petition through such a channel. Would the ministers mind forwarding it through the Tokugawa clan? Adams and Montebello declined to have any business relations with the clan, and after some urging from the French side, Iwakura said he would accept the petition temporarily and give his answer to-morrow. We then returned home and Adams despatched a report to the chief. Next day (the 25th) in the afternoon came fresh instructions. Adams was to go to Iwakura, inform him of the surprise felt by both ministers at the refusal to accept the petition, and state that the expression 'a short delay' in the _note identique_ respecting neutrality meant what it said. After consultation with Montebello, it was decided to ask for an interview with Iwakura at 10 o'clock on the morning of the 26th, and a letter to that effect was sent off to Higashi-Kuzé. Before an answer could be received at the Legations there came a letter from Yamaguchi Hanzô written by Iwakura's order, refusing to accept the petition, and saying that as he was going down to Yokohama next day to see the representatives on the subject of neutrality, he would take the opportunity of speaking to the two ministers about the other matter as well. However Higashi-Kuzé's reply to our letter soon arrived to say that Iwakura's departure was postponed for a day, and that he would see the two secretaries as proposed by them. On the 26th, as I was unwell, Mitford went in my stead to interpret for Adams. Iwakura receded from his previous attitude, and declared himself ready to receive the petition from the two ministers, but that he intended to return it to the Tokugawa fugitives without taking any notice of its contents. Further, that he was determined to demand from the ministers the meaning of the words 'a short delay.' He also addressed a letter to the two ministers thanking them for the trouble they had taken about the petition, which he characterized as impertinent; it would therefore have to be returned direct. This was a slap in the face for our two chiefs, who ought never to have presented the petition, considering the covering letters received by them, which threatened to throw down the gauntlet to the Mikado's government if it did not leave them in quiet possession of Yezo. But Sir Harry was drawn on by the fear that Outrey would manage to get the petition accepted, and thereby win prestige; but if so, Outrey's little game was frustrated by Iwakura's good luck or perspicacity. The following day I had to rush down to Yokohama for Iwakura's meeting with the Foreign Representatives. He asked what they meant by 'a short time.' They appeared to him to have had time enough already. When issuing their original notifications of neutrality they had acted immediately on receiving the communication of the Mikado's government, and why hesitate now? The colleagues fenced a little with the question and then retired into another room to consider their answer. When they emerged they announced their readiness to issue proclamations in fourteen days' time at the furthest. With this Iwakura was forced to be content. But our chief had gained the battle, and was correspondingly rejoiced. Iwakura left the same afternoon in the "Keangsoo"[12] for the port of Toba in Shima. Higashi-Kuzé informed the ministers that Yedo was to be the capital of the country, after the Mikado's return there next Japanese New-Year, but this decision was not at present to be made public. He displayed a map of the city and offered them the whole waterside from the Kanasugi Bridge to the Hotel, except the Owari _yashiki_, where the Foreign Office was to be, for sites on which to build Legations. All but Sir Harry declared their unwillingness to accept sites; I remarked to myself that he was gradually getting out of the bad habit of believing all the Japanese told him to be lies. [12] Originally the flagship of Captain Sherard Osborn, when in command of the Chinese flotilla brought out by H. N. Lay, and afterwards bought by Satsuma. CHAPTER XXXVI LAST DAYS IN TOKIO AND DEPARTURE FOR HOME A WEEK before this Iwakura had sent me a present of a beautiful lacquered cabinet by way of thanks for the trouble he said I had taken in interpreting for him on various occasions, and on January 28th when I returned to Yedo I found a letter from Saméshima Seizô with presents from the Prince of Satsuma, Okubo, Yoshii and himself. The letter said: "Prince Satsuma wishes me to give you his thanks for your kindness and the trouble you have hitherto taken for his sake. He presents you the two boxes, and the rest, though a little, Okubo, Ioxy and myself present you merely to thank you for your kindness. We hope you will always keep them as our memorial." The prince's present consisted of a silver boat in the form of a peacock (called Takara-buné, or Ship of Treasures) and the lacquered stand, besides two rolls of white silk; Yoshii sent two pieces of Kiyo-midzu porcelain, and each of the others two pieces of white satin brocade. The spelling Ioxy, which is in accordance with ancient Portuguese orthography of Japanese names, shows that this letter came in English. My translation of the sentences of the northern _daimiôs_ was published in the "Japan Herald" of January 30. This state paper completed the discomfiture of the _som-bak-ka_ diplomats, the term invented by the Japanese for application to the foreign ministers who supported the cause of the Shôgunate as far as was possible for them. February 11 was the Japanese New Year's Day, which I passed at Yedo. Rice-cakes (_mochi_) had been prepared and decorated in proper fashion with a Seville orange and fern, and dried fronds had also been hung up in the alcove (_toko no ma_) of my study. Silk cushions had been provided for a guest and myself to sit on as we ate our _zôni_. This is a soup in which pieces of fried _mochi_ are soaked; on the first day of the year one is eaten, on the second two, on the third three. A New Year's drink called _toso_ was also provided; this is a sweet _saké_ mingled with spices; it is drunk from porcelain cups of gradually decreasing size, placed on a stand. Every member of the household came in turn to wish me a happy new year, and to thank me for the _O Sébo_, or presents given to them at the end of the year, proportioned to the respective merits of the different servants. Next evening I gave an entertainment to my Japanese escort, to which the Legation writer Ono Seigórô, Mitford's teacher Nagazawa and my household were also invited. Mitford and I sat on white brocade cushions at the head of the room, with a big lacquered brazier between us; the Japanese guests were ranged along both sides of the room and at the end. I had to apologize by way of form for sitting on a cushion, which as host I ought not to have done, under the pretence that it made my knees sore to squat on the mats. There was a great deal of stiff conversation at first, until the _saké_ was brought, and the waiting women from the restaurant that supplied the dinner, the _geishas_, Noguchi's wife and a very clever girl from Yokohama made their appearance. We had comic dances, charades, songs and the Manzai new year's dance. An immense quantity of _saké_ was drunk, and every one departed well pleased by twelve o'clock. Alexander Siebold, who had been in France with Mimbu Taiyu, had at last arrived back in Japan, releasing me from the duties that had kept me two years longer than provided by the existing rules about leave of absence. On February 14 he and I went to call on Katsu, who had been such a valuable source of political information ever since the downfall of the Shôgunate. Katsu thought the Tokugawa rebels at Hakodaté would give in their submission. At parting he gave me his _wakizashi_ (short sword), and we separated with many mutual expressions of regret. He was quartered in an outhouse at the Ki-shiû _yashiki_, where old Takénouchi, a Ki-shiû retainer who had been our purveyor of news and papers current among the _daimiô yashikis_, was also living; we had to go into his rooms and drink a cup of tea; there I found the secretary of Daté Gorô, a distinguished Ki-shiû official, to whom I sent my farewell compliments. We got back to my house just in time to rush off again, to a dinner at the hotel, given by Higashi-Kuzé in honour of my departure. Besides Mitford, Siebold and myself, the other guests were the Prince of Bizen, the Court Noble Ohara Jijiû, Kido, Machida, Mori (afterwards known as Mori Arinori), Kanda Kôhei a professor at the School of Languages and editor of one of the recently established Yedo newspapers, and Tsudzuki Shôzô of Uwajima. It was a very pleasant party. Little Bizen greeted me very politely, said he had heard a great deal about me, but had not had a previous opportunity of meeting me, so had taken advantage of this farewell entertainment to make my acquaintance. I had the post of honour at the left of Higashi-Kuzé. After dinner they drank my health in bumpers of champagne and wished me a pleasant voyage. Every one had some commission to give me. The Japanese government wanted six expensive gold watches and chains. Tsudzuki Shôzô, who presented me with a farewell letter written in the name of old Daté, asked for a copy of Hertslet's Treaties. Besides parting gifts from the Prince of Satsuma, Okubo, Yoshii and Saméshima, I received presents from Machida, my Japanese escort men, and a host of other people, including Kido. The latter spoke to me confidentially after dinner about the advantages which would result to Japan from opening a port in Corea; not so much material as moral, by teaching the Coreans to look abroad outside their own country. Both he and Mori talked about the native Christians and asked my advice. I counselled moderate measures, and long Notes to the Foreign Ministers now and then to keep them quiet. I acknowledged the difficulty of instilling the idea of toleration into the minds of the whole Japanese people by Act of Parliament, and told them of the disabilities under which Protestants had lain in Spain until recently, but I did not see the advantage of Mori's suggestion of allotting lands in Yezo to the Christians with the free exercise of their religion. Tsudzuki confided to me as a great secret the intended visit to England of a young Bizen _karô_ named Tokura. Altogether we spent a very satisfactory evening, in spite of the long distance we had to go for our dinner. Next day I left Yedo for good. As I passed the entrance to the barracks of the Legation mounted escort of London policemen, Inspector Peacock and the men came out to wish me a pleasant journey. Noguchi, Mitford's teacher Nagazawa and four of my Japanese guard came down the road as far as Mmé-yashiki, where we had a parting cup. Higashi-Kuzé sent me a complimentary letter, regretting my departure, and presenting me with a big lacquered cabinet as a mark of the Mikado's appreciation of all I had done to smooth diplomatic relations. Kido also wrote, asking me to communicate to him any information about Japanese affairs that I might pick up in Europe, promising to answer any letters I might send him, wishing me a fine voyage and a happy arrival in England. On the 24th February I sailed from Yokohama in the P. and O. steamer "Ottawa," 814 tons, master Edmond. Lady Parkes also was on board on her way to England, and the English community paid her the compliment of sending out a band, which played "Home, sweet home" as the anchor was weighed. I felt the tears come into my eyes. It would be hard to say whether they were caused by the emotion that a much-loved piece of music always produces, or by regret at leaving a country where I had lived so happily for six years and a half. With me I had my faithful Aidzu _samurai_, Noguchi Tomizô. GLOSSARY OF JAPANESE WORDS akéni, a wicker trunk for luggage. anata, you. arimasu, is, there is. ashigaru, common soldier in the service of a baron. awabi, rocksucker, a species of univalve shell-fish, haliotis japonicus, which furnishes also mother-of-pearl. bai-shin, arrière vassal. baku-fu, 'military power,' term applied to the _de facto_ government by its adversaries. See p. 172. betté, a member of the corps of guards enrolled for the protection of the foreign legations. betté-gumi, the corps of guards, see betté. bugiô, governor, commissioner. cha-dai, present made to an innkeeper, which takes the place of tips to waiters and chamber-maids. cha-no-yu, tea-drinking with an elaborate ceremonial. chô-téki, rebel against the sovereign. daimiô, baron, see p. 36. denka, Highness. doma, the pit in a theatre. dôshin, constable. fudai, lesser barons, vassals of the Tokugawa family, see p. 36. gai-koku bugiô, commissioners for foreign affairs, corresponding to our Under-Secretaries of State. gai-koku-gata, official of the department of foreign affairs. gaimushô, ministry of foreign affairs. Gautama, family name of the founder of Buddhism. géba, notice to alight from horseback. gei-sha, a female musician, employed at dinner-parties. gijô, head of an administrative department, see p. 297 n. gisô, a councillor acting as intermediary between the Mikado and the Tycoon, q.v. go-ké-nin, an ordinary retainer of the Tokugawa family. gorôjiû, the Shôgun's council, see p. 68. goten, the palace of a _daimiô_ or baron, as distinguished from his castle. gun-kan, army-inspector. hakama, a pair of wide trousers. haori, a mantle. harakiri, self-immolation by disembowelment, described at p. 344. hatago, charge for entertainment at an inn. hatamoto, name of lesser vassals of the Tokugawa family, see p. 36. heika, Majesty. hikido kago, a palanquin with sliding doors, see p. 206. hiraketa, civilized. homma da, it is true. hommaru, keep of a castle. honjin, literally 'headquarters,' mostly used for the official inn at a posting town. hôren, phoenix-chariot, name given to the Mikado's state palanquin. ichibu, a silver coin, value varying from 10d to 1s 8d, according to the rate of exchange. inkio, applied to the retired head of a family, whether noble or commoner, see p. 174. jimbaori, war-surcoat. jingasa, war-hat. jinketsu, a man of mark, cleverest man. jinrikisha, vulgo 'rickshaw,' a light carriage for one person, drawn by a man. jin-shin fu-ori-ai, unsettlement of the popular mind. jô-dan, elevated floor. jô-i, expulsion of barbarians. jô-yaku, a chief clerk. jû-bako, consisting of a pile of open boxes for holding food, the top one of which alone has a cover. kago, a palanquin. kaiseijo, government school for teaching European languages. kai-shaku, 'best man' of one who is performing _harakiri_, q.v. p. 345. kakké, dropsy of the lower limbs. kakurô, unceremonious appellation of the Tycoon's Council, see p. 172. kami, title corresponding to earl, baron, when following the name of a province, but after the name of a government department equivalent to minister. kami, English 'sire.' kami-shimo, costume consisting of hempen trousers and mantle, worn on occasions of ceremony. kamon, a class of barons, see p. 36. kan-tô, rebel, traitor. kara-yô, the Chinese style of running-hand script. kari-ginu, gala dress of a noble. karô, the higher class of hereditary councillors of a baron. katakana, a Japanese syllabary, corresponding to our Roman alphabet. kenshi, an official inspector. kerai, retainer of a baron. kiki-yaku, agent for the sale of a baron's produce as rent paid in kind. kin-ô, jô-i, honouring the sovereign and expelling barbarians. kinsatsu, gold-note, paper-money so-called. kinshin, voluntary self-confinement in expiation of an offence. kiôgen, farce. kiri-bô kago, a palanquin suspended from a pole of Paulownia wood. kô-fuku, surrender. koku, a measure, equal to about 5 bushels, used also as a measure of land assessment, see p. 36. kokushi, a baron whose fief comprised one or more provinces. kôtei, Emperor, the same as the Chinese term 'hwang-ti,' see p. 163. ko-t'ou, Chinese expression meaning to knock the forehead on the floor. kubô-sama, title applied by the people to the Shôgun, and meaning 'civil ruler'; _sama_ is the equivalent of the French 'monsieur,' see p. 172. kumi-gashira, vice-governor. kurô, trouble, used in the sense of 'thank you.' kwambaku, Grand Vizier, see p. 152. kwanrei, administrator for the Shôgun, see p. 38. machi-kata, municipal officer. mae-daré, apron. metsuké, an official with no administrative functions, whose duty was to report, if necessary, on the proceedings of others, variously translated, see pp. 23, 122, 245, 272. Mikado, the ancient title of the Japanese sovereign. mikoshi, a god's litter carried in religious pageants. mirin, a sweet liquor brewed from rice. miso, a paste made from a bean called _ko-mamé_, and used chiefly in the preparation of soup. mochi, a cake made of glutinous rice. mokusa-muri, lacquered articles showing a sea-weed pattern. naga-bô, long pole, used to denote a palanquin with an extra long pole. nanko, name of a game, see p. 390. nanushi, mayor. Nippon, same as Nihon, the Japanese word which we have corrupted into Japan. nôshi, a noble's court dress. nô-yakusha, actor of the classical drama, see p. 397. ôbiroma, hall of audience. ohaguro, a dye composed of galls and sulphate of iron, used for staining the teeth. ohiruyasumi, midday rest; _o_ is an honorific prefix. okoyasumi, a slight rest. oku-go-yû-hitsu, an official private secretary. ometsuké, see _metsuké_; _o_ is the honorific prefix. ô-metsuké, a chief _metsuké_, q.v.; _ô_, chief. onna-gochiso, an entertainment at which women were employed to amuse the guests. on-ye-riû, a Japanese style of running-hand script. o-shiro-jô-in, a hall in the Tycoon's palace inside the castle. o yasumi nasai, 'good-night,' literally 'be pleased to repose.' peggi, corruption of a Malay word, used in Japan in the sense of 'go away.' rambô-rôzéki, disturbance and violence, see p. 159. rei-hei-shi, name of an envoy sent by the Mikado to worship at the tomb of Iyéyasu at Nikkô. riô, a Japanese coin of account, formerly equivalent to about 1-1/3 Mexican dollar. riô-gaké, a pair of wicker-trunks for luggage, suspended from the opposite ends of a pole carried on the shoulder. rô-jiû, councillors of the Shôgun, see pp. 39 and 69. rônin, a run-away retainer of a baron, see p. 78. rusui, a person left in charge of an establishment during the absence of the owner or master. sakana, food taken with liquor; as it chiefly consists of fish, it is often used in the sense of 'fish' as a food. saké, a light liquor brewed from rice, mostly drunk mulled. sakuron, 'a political discussion,' see p. 300. samurai, a member of the military class, entitled to wear a pair of swords, a longer and a shorter one, the latter being an over-grown dirk. sanyo, councillor, see p. 297. sarampan, corruption of a Malay word used in Japan in the sense of 'break,' 'broken.' sazai, a shell-fish named Turbo cornutus; the shell also furnishes mother-of-pearl. sei-i-tai-Shôgun, the full title of the Tycoon or Shôgun, see p. 174. seishi, herald, harbinger. sengaré, a familiar word meaning son, and used only by the father in speaking of him. sessha, a self-depreciatory word used for the pronoun of the 1st person. shibori, a kind of crape resembling the Indian bandhanna. shibukami, thick paper rendered tough by being soaked in the juice of the unripe persimmon fruit. shinsen-gumi, a body of armed _samurai_ or two-sworded men, recently raised. shirabé-yaku, director in an administrative department. shishinden, name of the Emperor's hall of audience. shiro-in, private drawing-room. shisetsu, literally 'purple snow,' a patent medicine. shitaniro, down! Shôgun, the _de facto_ ruler of Japan when it was opened to foreign trade in 1859, see p. 33. By foreigners he was usually called 'the Tycoon,' which means 'great prince,' a title properly belonging to the sovereign. It seems to have been originally used in diplomatic correspondence with Korea; see also p. 163. sô-kwai-sho, municipal office. sôsai, chief minister, see p. 300. shugo-shoku, office of the guardian of the Mikado's person, see p. 295. shuku-yakunin, alderman of a posting-station. shussei, administrator, minister. tai, Serranus marginalis, sometimes called sea-bream. taikomochi, a professional jester. tatéba, a halfway tea-house between two posting-stations. tengu-ren, 'goblin-band,' name assumed by a society of seditious men of the military class. tenshi, the central tower rising from the keep of a castle. tensô, an official whose duty it was to report to the Mikado the decisions of the Shôgun. tobayé, caricature. tokonoma, the shallow recess or alcove in a room, originally the bedplace; in front of it was the place of honour. Tô-kai-dô, properly speaking the row of provinces along the coast between Ozaka and Yedo, but also applied to the high road from Kiôto to Yedo. toso, a new-year's drink, see p. 409. tozama, descendants of barons who had submitted to the supremacy of Iyéyasu, see p. 36. tsutsushindé oru, used to express the retirement of a personage in order to signify his acknowledgment that he has committed an offence against his superior. Tycoon, see Shôgun. utai, the classical drama of Japan. wakizashi, the short sword or dirk worn alongside of the fighting sword by a member of the military class, and not laid aside within doors as the other is. wasabi, Eutrema wasabi, root of a plant belonging to the same order as horse-radish. yakata-buné, house-boat. yaku-biô, official indisposition. yakunin, official. yamato-nishiki, cotton brocade. yashiki, the hotel of a baron or lesser noble, also at trading centres the depôt for the sale of a baron's produce received as payment of rent or taxes in kind. Yedo, the original name of Tôkiô, the seat of government. yogi, large stuffed bed-gown, used as a coverlet. yônin, hereditary councillor of a baron, of lower rank than _karô_, q.v. yû-geki-tai, literally 'brave fighting-men,' see p. 299. yukata, a cotton bathing-gown. zoku-miô, the name borne by a male child until adolescence. zôni, a soup eaten at New Year, see p. 409. INDEX Abé Bungo no Kami, 147. Adams, F. O., 29. Adventure with a Tosa man, 352. Aikawa, 234. Ainos, The, 402. Alcock, Sir R., 28, 29, 47, 93, 132, 134. Alexander, Capt., 103. Alford, Bp., 391. Allen, H. J., 18. American guards, 324. American missionaries, 22. American sailor shot, 319. Americans, 42. Anatomical models, 270. Archaic Japanese, notification in, 306. Arigawa Yakuro, 149. Arimatsu, 215. Ashigaru, The, 37. Aspinall, Cornes & Co., 27. Atami, 194. Attack on the Foreign Officials, 359. Attack on the French, 314. Attacks on _Yashikis_, 308. "Attitude of respectful attention," 124. Audience Chamber, The Mikado's, 358. Audience with the Shôgun, 199. Awa, 257. Awa Clan, The, 249. Awa no Kami, 261. Babies, Samurai, 175. _Bakufu_, 128, 174, 279. Banquet, A, 371. Barnet & Co., 27. Barons, 36. Baths, Japanese, 211. Batteries, Japanese, 118. Bedrooms, Japanese, 187. Bird, Lieut., Murder of, 135. Bizen Affair, The, 319, 325, 327, 337. Bombardment of Kagoshima, 87. Bombardment of Shimonoséki, 105. Boyes, D. G., V.C., 112. Borradaile, Mrs., Attack on, 51, 84. Brandt, Max von, 67. "Brass caps" and marks of rank, 69. Brown, Rev. S. R., 50, 55. Bruce, Sir F., 20. Capital punishment, 137. Camus, Murder of, 90. Candidates, Qualities of, 18. Cash, Value of, 195. Castle of Ozaka, Burning of the, 316. Castle of the Shôgun, 199. Chinese as an aid to Japanese, 18. Chinese, Studying, 18. Chi-on-in Buddhist Monastery, 356. Chôshiû, 99, 119; indemnity, 125, 326. Chôshiû and Aidzu, 121. Chôshiû Clan, The, 90, 93. Chôshiû and the Mikado, 96, 98. Chôshiû, Peace with, 116. Chôshiû, The Prince of, 371. Christianity, Edict against, 368. Christianity and Magic, 369. Civil Wars, 85. Classes, Division of, 40. Coalition, A, 286. Coin and Currency, 25. Competitive Examinations, Value of, 18. Conference at Ozaka, 372. Constitutions, Framed and Issued, 377. Convention with France, 100. Convivial Evening, A, 215. Coolies, 195. Corvée, System of, 195. "Court and Capital of the Tycoon," Sir R. Alcock's, 204. Court Language, 306. Custom House Officials, 23. Daimiôs, The, 36. Daimiôs, Curtailing the Power of the, 326, 328. Daimiôs and Mikado, 77. Daishôji, 245. Dancing Girls, 192. Daté, 351. Deferred Audience with the Mikado, 362. Dent & Co., 27. Dining with the Shôgun, 200. Dinner, An English, 258. Dinner, A Japanese, 178. Diplomatic Assembly, A, 304. Discourtesy, Acts of, 213. Doctors, Personal Risks of, 31. Document, An Important, 324. Domestic Attendants, 282. "Drunken Old Man," 270. Dutch, The, 41. Dutch Language as a Medium, 23, 58. Early Impressions, 17. Earthquakes, 60. Echizen Clan, Cool Reception by, 245. English Policy, 178, 257. Entertaining, Japanese, 228. Entertainment, An Evening, 352. European Dinner, A, 131, 173. Etchiû, Mts. of, 235. Etiquette, 228, 259. Exchange, Rate of, 26. Execution of Murderers, 137. Expulsion of Foreigners, Order for the, 117, 121. Ferry at Yokohama, 50. Ferryman, An Obdurate, 161. Feudal System in Japan, 36. Fire at Yokohama, Destructive, 161. Fish Traps, 209. Fisher, Col., 29. Fletcher & Co., 27. Flight from the Legation, 313. Forbidden Books, 68. Foreign Residents, Conditions, 337. Foreign Settlement, The, 24. French Policy, 178, 277, 323, 326, 366. French Support of the Tycoon, 173. Fuchiu, 223, 246. Fuji Kawa, 225. Fuji yama, 224. Fukui, 246. Fushimi, 356. Fushimi, Troops at, 310. Fushimi, A Visit to, 203. Gardens, 62. Gardner, C. T., 18. Gibson, Vice-C., 20. Godai, 86. Gold Mines, 235. Gorôjiû, or Shôgun's Council, The, 68, 174. Gotenyama, 65. Gotô, 265, 267, 287. "Governors," 292. Governors of Foreign Affairs, 69. Gubbins, J. H., 283. Guardhouses, 128, 194. Guards, Personal, 66. Guide Books, Japanese, 204. "Gun-boat" Policy, 20. Guns, Japanese, 109, 118. Hakodaté, 22. Hakodaté, Capture of, 398. Hakoné, 194, 226. Hamamatsu, Reception at, 217. Hamana Bay, 217. Harakiri, 345. Harris, Mr., 45. Heated Discussions, 398. Hepburn, Dr. J. C., 50. Higashi-Kuzé, 324. High Roads, The, 160. Highway Barriers, 160. Higo Clan, The, 381. Himéshima, 95, 97. Hiôgo, 144, 149, 154, 169, 180, 185. Hiôgo, Transference to, 317. Hirayama, 257, 265. "History of Japan," by F. O. Adams, 361. Hoey, 56. Hôki no Kami, 154. Hosokawa Riônosuké, 279. Hospital, Visit to a, 388. Hospitality, Princely, 262. Hotel Charges, 195. House, A Japanese, 281. Houseboat, Travelling in a, 207. Houses, Uncomfortable, 64. "Hundred Laws of Iyéyasu," The, 68. _Ichibu_, The, 25. Ijichi Shôji, 85, 333. Iki no Kami, 283. _In-kio_, 176. Indemnities and Penalties for Murder, 72, 80, 143. Indemnity from Chôshiû, 125. Indemnity for Murder of French Sailors, 353. Indemnity paid by Satsuma, 91. Inn Charges, 208. Inouyé Bunda, 190. Interpreting and Translating, 198. Introductions, 229. Itô Constitution, The, 377. Itô as Governor of Kôbé, 327. Itô, 130, 276. Itô and Inouyé, 95. Itô and Shiji, 97, 98. Itô's European Dinner, 131. Iwakura, 357, 404. Iyémitsu, 39, 65. Iyéyasu, 35. Jamieson, R. A., 18. Japan: First Impressions 21, Mikado and Shôgun 33, Literature 34, Civil Wars 35, Feudal System 36, Daimiôs 37, Decline of Mikado's Power 38, Shôgunate 38, Divisions of Classes 40, Intercourse with Europe 40, Religious Persecution 41, Americans 42, Treaties 43, Decline of the Shôgun 45, Murders, 46, 51, Written Language 58, the Tôkaidô 59, Earthquakes 60, Yedo 61, Tea-gardens 62, Temples 63, Houses 64, the _Rônin_ 78, Bombardment of Kagoshima 88, Convention with France 100, Bombardment of Shimonoséki 108, Order for Expulsion of Foreigners 117, 121, Treaty with Chôshiû 127, Double Dealing of the Tycoon's Party 131, Squadron at Ozaka 161, Mikado's Consent to Treaties 153, Fire at Yokohama 161, Death of Mikado 186, Travelling 211, Guilds 256, Abdication of the Shôgun 282, Deposition of the Tycoon 299, Civil War 319, Suppression of the _Daimiôs_ 326. Japan, Appointed to, 17. "Japan Times," The, 154. Japanese Caligraphy, 58. Japanese, Difficulties in the Study of, 55. Japanese Secretary, Promotion to, 294. Japanese Wounded, Treatment of, 332. Jardine, Matheson and Co., 27. "Jester of the Foreign Department," 327. Jinrikisha, The, 213. Josling, Capt., Death of, 87. Journalism, 159. June Constitution, Translating the, 381. Kaempfer, 33. Kaga Clan, The, 244. Kagoshima, 84, Bombardment 87, 170. Kai-yen-tai Society, The, 272. _Kaiyô-Maru_, The, 402. Kajiwara, 191. _Kaku-rô_, 174. Kanagawa, 23. Kanaiwa, 243. Kanazawa, 240. _Karô_, or Hereditary Councillor, 116. Katsu, A Visit to, 387. Katsura Kogorô, 172, 271. Kawakatsu Omi, 378. Keiki, 283. Keiki deposed, 300. Keiki's Flight from Ozaka, 318. Keiki, Terms to, 365. Keisaburô, Prince of Mito, 383. Kidzukawa, R., 356. Kiôto, 121, 325, 332, 367. Kneeling to Daimiôs, 212. Kobayashi Kotarô, 71. Kôbé, Fêtes at, 286. Kôchi Bay, 268. Kokura, 130. Komatsu, 188. Küper, Admiral, 52, 79. Kurazawa, 225. Kusatsu, 210. Kwai-wa Hen, 196. Kwambaku, The, 189. Land, Feudal Sub-division of, 87. Legation Officials, 30. Legation Residences, 65, Destroyed 71. Letter to Okubo Ichizô, 253. Letters of Credence, 369. Lindau, Rudolf, "Open Letter" of, 77. Literature of Japan, 34. Locomotion, Odd Methods of, 213. London Agreement of 1862, 154. Macpherson, Marshall & Co., 27. Maeda Mura, 130. Mamiya Hajimé, 142. Marco Polo, 33. Marshall & Clarke, 84. Matsudaira Kansô, 253. Matsugi Kôwan, 86. Matsuki, 188. Mayéno, A Centre of Tea Production, 211. "Memories" by Lord Redesdale, 360. Mermet, M., 146, 152. Mexican Dollars, 26. Milne, Prof. J., 60. Mikado, The, 371. Mikado, Audience with the, 358. Mikado and Shôgun, 33. Mikado and Tycoon, 157. Mikado's Birthday, The, 386. Mikado's Consent to Treaties, 153. Mikado and the Treaties, 324, 327. Mikado's Reception, The, 370. Moji Point, 130. Monasteries as Residences, 197. "Monitor," U.S., 101. Monriô-In, Monastery, 196. Môri, 120. Morrison, G. C., Attack on, 28. Murder of Baldwin and Bird, 135. Murder of Foreigners, 46. Murder of Sailors, 251, 265-266, 287. Murderous Plan, A, 290. Music, Japanese, 193. Mission to Great Britain, 100. Mita, A Yashiki in, 196. Mitford's Linguistic Powers, 285. Mito Clan, The, 383. Mito, ex-Prince, 44. Mitsuké, 218. Nagasaki, 22, 168. Nagoya, 214. Nakai, A Visit to, 379. Nakasendô Road, The, 204. Nanao, 235. _Nankai_, The, 265. Nanko, The Game, 390. Navy, Organising the, 231. Neale, Col., 29, 47, 53, 70, 78, 79, 81, 93. Nei, Harbour of, 258. Neutrality of the Western Powers, 331. Neutrality, A Question of, 405. New Year's Day, Japanese, 409. Newspapers, Japanese, 366. Night Attack, A, 220. Niigata, Port, 202, 231, 232. Niiro, 174. Niiro Giôbu, 273. Nocturnal Escapades, 200. Noguchi Tomizô, 170, 176. "Notes," Official, 81. Official Correspondence, 256. Official Inn, An, 210. Official Interview, An, 69. "Official Sickness," 150. Official Visits, 357. Ogasawara, 80. Oi-gawa, Crossing the, 222. Oiwaké, 209. Oji, Tea-house at, 66. Oliphant, L., Attack on, 28. Omnibus, Native, 213. Oshima, 367. Ota Nobunaga, 35. Outrages in Yokohama, 75, 76. Overland Journey, An, 206. Owari Officials, Dilatory, 356. Oyama, Field-Marshal, 332. Ozaka, 285. Ozaka, Arrival of Deposed Tycoon, 299. Ozaka, Destruction of the Castle of, 333. Ozaka, Fêtes at, 286. Ozaka, Life in, 201. Ozaka, Legation at, 197. Ozaka, Squadron for, 143, 145, 148, 187. Palanquin, Travelling by, 227. Palanquins, 206. Paper Money, Difficulties with, 393, 395. Parkes, Sir H., 141, 154, 198, 231, 233, 257, 260, 267, 301, 303, 315, 332, 352, 371, 398. Peking, At, 18, 19. "Pernicious" Sects, 368. Perry, Commodore, 42. Pilfering by Sailors, 323. Pipes, Japanese, 208. Plays, Tragic and Comic, 396. Plays, Private, 262. Plum-tree, Japanese, 62. Portuguese, The, 41. "Prairie" Book, The, 369. Precedence, A Question of, 301, 303. Presents, 191, 229, 261. Prizes, 87. Procession, A, 391. Procrastination and Prevarication, 76, 79. Pruyn, Gen., 28. Public Roads, 186. _Racehorse_, Grounding of the, 88. Rapid Travelling, 226. Reforms, Proposed, 284. _Rei-hei-shi_, The, 218. Religious Persecution, 41, 275. Ren-kô-ji, Buddhist Temple, 161. Resignation of the Shôgun, 282. Restrictions and Prohibitions, Personal, 67. Retainers, 37. Review, A, 158, 263. Revolt of 1638, 41. Richardson, Murder of, 51. Richardson, Indemnity for the Murder of, 91. Roads, Main, 204. Robertson, R. B., 32. Robertson, Russell, 278. Roches, M., Policy of, 197, 353. Roman Catholics, 40. _Rônin_, The, 78. Russell, Lord John, 134. Russians, The, 41. Sado, Island of, 234. Saigô, 181, 200. Sakai, Murder of French at, 351. Saké, 62. Salary of Interpreter, 157. Samurai, The, 25, 37, 46, 47, 53, 60, 79, 91, 96, 98, 126, 129, 157, 175, 327. Satsuma People, The, 174. Satsuma, Prince of, 72, 84, 336. Schools of Philosophy, 277. Sea-Fight, A, 309. Sékigahara, Battle of, 36. Sen-gaku-ji, 156, 165. _Sengaré_, 176. Shibayama, Tragedy of, 196. Shimadzu Saburô, 52. Shimadzu Sachiu, 150. Shimidzu Seiji, 137, 138. Shimmei Maye, 68. Shimonoséki, 93, 102, 105. Shiraishi Shimôsa no Kami, 232. Shitotsubashi, 167, 173, 175, 181, 186. Shiwo, 240. Shôgun, Abdication of the, 282. Shôgun and Foreign Representatives, 199. Shôgun, Status of, 197. Shôgunate, The, 38. Shôguns, The, 35. Shooting Competition, A, 177. Smith, "Public-spirited," 32. Sô-koku-ji, Hospitality at, 336. Squadron at Yokohama, The, 73. _Stonewall Jackson_, The, 404. Stronach, W. G., 18. "Swamp," The, 25. Taicosama, 35. Takaoka, 58. Takao-zan, Incident at, 160. Takasai Tanzan, 58. _Taka-yashiki_, 281. Tanabata, Feast of, 233. Tea-firing Establishments, 209. Tea-houses, 66. "Tea-money," 215. "Teachers," Native, 56. Temples, 63. Tenriû-gawa, The, 218. Theatre at Yokohama, 50. Threats, 287. Throne Room, The, 370. Time, Japanese, 229. Titles, The Question of, 197, 329. Titles in Treaties, A Question of, 165. Tôkaidô, The, 23, 204. Tôkaidô, Guard Houses on the, 59. Tokaku, Reception at, 289. Tokugawa Pirates, The, 395. Tokugawa, Suppression of his Power, 328. Tokushima, The Bar at, 258. "Tongue-Officer," or Interpreter, 258. Tosa, 265. Tosa Men, Character of, 252, 273. Tô-zen-ji, British Legation at, 29, 63. Tracey, Capt., 102. Trade Relations, Unsatisfactory, 22. Transport, Cost of, 194. Travelling in Japan, 211. Travel, Limits of, 27. Treaties, 43. Treaties of 1858, 22, 43, with Chôshiû, 127, 144, London Agreement, 154. Tree-peonies, 202. Tycoon, Arrival in Ozaka, 300. Tycoon and Anti-Tycoon Parties, 99. Tycoon, Obstruction by the, 151. Tycoon's Party, Double Dealing of, 129. "Tycoon," The Title, 174. Uji, 251. University, A, 224. Urakami, Religious Persecution at, 276. Uwajima Bay, 174. Uyéno, Fighting at, 375. Uyésama, 302. Victoria, The Bp. of, 19. Vidal, Death of, 194. Vyse, Lt.-Col., 52. Wakamatsu, Capture of, 386, 388. Walsh, Hall & Co., 27. Willis, Wm., 31, 52, 332, 349, 376. Wilmot, Comm., Death of, 87. Winchester, Mr., 141, 142. Wirgman's Sketches, 212. Wounded, Treatment of, 375. Wreck of the "Rattler," 385. Written Language, The, 58. _Yashiki_ of Daimiôs, The, 66. Yamashina no Miya, 354. Yedo, British Legation at, 28, 61, 366. Yedo, Audience with the Mikado at, 400. Yôdô, ex-Daimiô, 268, 270. _Yokobuyé_, The, 272. Yokohama, 22, 23, Foreign Community 25, Society 26, Legation 29, Public Ferry 50, Theatre 50, Murder of Richardson 51, Life in 56, Squadron at 73, Scare in 74, 75, Fire 161. Yokohama Races, 386. Yoshii, 188. Yoshiwara, The, 390. IN UNKNOWN CHINA A Record of the Observations, Adventures and Experiences of a Pioneer of Civilization During a Prolonged Sojourn Amongst the Wild and Unknown Nosu Tribe of Western China BY =S. POLLARD= Author of "In Tight Corners in China." [Illustration] _Demy 8vo. With Many Illustrations & Maps. Price 25s. Nett_ SOME EARLY REVIEWS. "Fascinating, racy and humorous."--_Aberdeen Journal._ "An amazing record of adventure. Mr. Pollard is delightful from every point of view. By the valiance of his own heart and faith he wins through."--_Methodist Recorder._ "Mr. Pollard is not merely an interesting man, but a courageous one.... The first white man to penetrate into Nosuland where live the bogey-men of the Manchus.... This is a people that has struck terror into the hearts of the neighbouring Chinese by the cruelty and the fierceness of its valour."--_Sketch._ Mr. Pollard's book is laid where dwell amid almost unpenetrable hills a race the Chinese have never yet succeeded in subduing."--_Western Morning News._ "In addition to its engrossing matter, Mr. Pollard's book has the attraction of a bright and pleasant style, which reveals at times a happy sense of humour, a characteristic feature not always very marked in this branch of literature."--_Glasgow Herald._ "Nosuland is a very interesting region.... Mr. Pollard has some awkward experiences. That, of course, makes his narrative all the more lively and interesting."--_Liverpool Post._ "Mr. Pollard during his travels held his life in his hand from day to day, and owed his ultimate safety to his own conciliatory prudence."--_Manchester Guardian._ "Full of adventure and strangeness, with many excellent photographs."--_Daily Mail._ "Very readable and valuable.... Admirably printed and generously illustrated." _Bristol Times and Mirror._ =SEELEY, SERVICE & CO., LTD., 38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, W.C.= MODERN TRAVEL A Record of Exploration, Travel, Adventure & Sport in all Parts of the World During the Last Forty Years Derived from Personal Accounts by the Travellers BY =NORMAN J. DAVIDSON, B.A. (Oxon.)= [Illustration: A MALAYTA SPEARMAN] _Demy 8vo. With 53 Illustrations & 10 Maps. Price 25s. Nett_ SOME EARLY REVIEWS. "A veritable classic of travel."--_Dundee Courier._ "A wonderful record, beautifully illustrated. The whole book is packed with epic adventure."--_Aberdeen Journal._ "The author has collected his material from the accounts of travellers in widely-diversified regions.... He has a light touch and a turn for picturesque and clear narration that keep his book from becoming a mere dull file, and makes it a glowing and adventurous record.... Sumptuously produced with more than fifty illustrations.... A veritable classic of travel."--_Dundee Courier._ "Mr. Davidson has a keen sense of what is of general as opposed to specialist interest, and the result is a fascinating book, well illustrated and mapped." _Birmingham Gazette._ "A veritable library. Opening with chapters on hunting mighty game, the work goes on to deal with adventures in Labrador, Paraguaya, and the Sahara, treats next of the Haunts of Slavery and of the Wilds of Africa, takes up the tale of Madagascar as Nature's Museum, depicts New Guinea ('a Land of Perpetual Rain'), proceeds to the Home of the Bird of Paradise, and concludes with accounts of the Treacherous Tribes of Oceania." _Aberdeen Free Press._ "A unique volume.... It has furnished me with many delightful hours." _Dundee Advertiser._ "Strange and thrilling pictures of other peoples and lands.... A very readable and enjoyable book."--_Sheffield Daily Independent._ =SEELEY, SERVICE & CO., LTD., 38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, W.C.= AMONG THE IBOS OF NIGERIA An Account of the Curious & Interesting Habits, Customs, & Beliefs of a Little-known African People by one who has for Many Years Lived Amongst Them on Close & Intimate Terms BY =G. T. BASDEN, M.A., F.R.G.S.= [Illustration: A YOUNG AWKA GIRL] _Demy 8vo. With 32 Illustrations & a Map. Price 25s. Nett_ SOME EARLY REVIEWS. "Expertly and admirably handled; the book is without question one of the most fascinating of its kind."--_Illustrated London News._ "One of those books which make a people live before us.... Most admirably illustrated."--_Baptist Times._ "One of the most readable books about primitive peoples which have appeared in recent years."--_Manchester Guardian._ "The author knows his subject, not as an observant, impressionable tourist, but as a man who has lived among the Ibos for many years."--_Birmingham Gazette._ "The classical authority on the very curious people it describes."--_Record._ "A comprehensive study of the customs and beliefs of the Ibo people, describing their marriage usages, their burial rites, their arts, crafts, music, trade and currency; their ways of making war; their religious beliefs (so far as these can be accurately discovered), and their sacrificial rites.... There are nearly forty admirable photographs."--_Times._ "A mass of information about Ibo life and character and customs which is probably unique, and which no British official or trader can ever hope to possess; and the substance of this information the author has condensed into these twenty-five well arranged and well written chapters."--_Record._ "He tells us what he knows about the Ibos--and he knows a great deal.... He knows too much to dogmatise.... What he does say one accepts without question.--_Times._ =SEELEY, SERVICE & CO., LTD., 38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET W.C.= THE LIFE & EXPLORATIONS OF FREDERICK STANLEY ARNOT F.R.G.S. The Authorised Biography of a Great Missionary BY THE REVEREND ERNEST BAKER Author of "The Return of the Lord." _Demy 8vo. Illustrations & Map. Price 12s. 6d. Nett_ SOME EARLY REVIEWS. "A second Dr. Livingstone ... as stimulating as it is interesting."--_Aberdeen Journal._ "Amongst the greatest of Travellers."--_Glasgow Herald._ "A rich and moving book."--_Methodist Recorder._ "This book is a worthy memorial to a great man and a great work."--_Birmingham Gazette._ "We know very few missionary biographies equally IMPRESSIVE AND TOUCHING. Arnot was spiritually A VERY GREAT MAN. That he was one of the most faithful of Christ's servants is apparent from every page of the book. Mr. Baker has done his work in the right spirit, and with full sympathy.... There was much of austerity in Arnot's career, but there was no severity. There is a quiet and patient reliance through all--a reliance which carried him through most exacting circumstances.... One authority said that he had two great characteristics of a thorough African traveller--pluck and kindness to the natives.... Sir Francis de Winton said that Mr. Arnot had made the name of Englishman respected wherever he went, and had helped effectually in stopping the slave trade."--_British Weekly._ [Illustration] "A GREAT STORY GREATLY TOLD. From first page to last this book is of compelling interest. The diaries of the Great African Missionary are laid under contribution and the result is not only a fascinating story of adventure and travel, but an autobiographical record of immense value. THE BOOK IS LIKELY TO RANK AS A CLASSIC."--_Western Daily Press._ "Full of exciting incidents, the young can find in it plenty of remarkable jungle stories, and those of riper years will enjoy the graphic descriptions of travel in the tropics, the folk-lore, and especially the 'nerve' of Stanley Arnot in boldly facing and overcoming any task from 'buying' a little slave to amputating a chief's arm with a penknife and an old razor! Or, again, in boldly telling Cecil Rhodes that he would not play his game, and as boldly denouncing Portuguese and native rulers for prosecuting the horrible traffic in slaves." _Manchester Guardian._ SEELEY, SERVICE & CO., LTD., 38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, W.C. Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe". Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. Thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the same in the List of Illustrations and in the book. There were two two-page maps, which were converted into one-maps by converting the two image parts of the maps into single images. Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. Throughout the document, instances of "Mr" were replaced with "Mr." when preceding a name. Since hyphenation was not used in the Japanese language of the this period, and since the transliteration of Japanese words in this text sometimes used hyphenation, no attempt was made to "correct" inconsistencies in that hyphenation. In the glossary of Japanese words, the order changed to be "alphabetical" in the western sense. On page 9, "Choshiu" was replaced with "Chôshiû". On page 27, "Ministers'" was replaced with "Minister's". On page 103, a quotation mark was added after "Tancrède,". On page 113, the period was removed after "Fred". On page 116, "CHOSHIU" was replaced with "CHOSHIÛ". On page 122, "Ito" was replaced with "Itô". On page 124, "Ito" was replaced with "Itô". On page 179, "bcomes" was replaced with "becomes". On page 182, a period was placed after "I said". On page 184, "Choshiu" was replaced with "Chôshiû". On page 197, "somwhat" was replaced with "somewhat". On page 206, "betté gumi" was replaced with "betté-gumi". On page 237, "couple of house" was replaced with "couple of hours". On page 269, "It his people" was replaced with "If his people". On page 275, "bue" was replaced with "but". On page 282, "sumurai" was replaced with "samurai". On page 304, "the the" was replaced with "the". On page 310, "of of" was replaced with "of". On page 318, "Kôbè" was replaced with "Kôbé". On page 362, the period after "Those of us" was changed to a comma. On page 371, "artifically" was replaced with "artificially". On page 373, "housekeping" was replaced with "housekeeping". On page 384, "quadron" was replaced with "squadron". On page 384, "Chô-shiû" was replaced with "Chôshiû". On page 386, "Madé-no-koji" was replaced with "Madé-no-kôji". On page 388, "Dr Siddall" was replaced with "Dr. Siddall". On page 391, "Dr Alford" was replaced with "Dr. Alford". On page 400, "2/IX" was replaced with "2/ix". On page 401, "artifically" was replaced with "artificially". On page 413, a period was placed after "also mother-of-pearl". On page 417, "see p. 172." was replaced with "see p. 174.". On page 417, a period was placed after "two posting-stations". On page 418, a period was placed after "offence against his superior". On page 420, a period was placed after "Christianity, Edict against, 368". On page 420, "Etchiu" was replaced with "Etchiû". On page 421, a period was placed after "Hamamatsu, Reception at, 217". On page 421, a period was placed after "Houseboat, Travelling in a, 207". On page 423, "Matsudairo Kanso" was replaced with "Matsudaira Kansô". On page 423, "Matsugi Kowan" was replaced with "Matsugi Kôwan". On page 423, a period was placed after "Mikado, Audience with the, 358". On page 424, a period was placed after "Neutrality, A Question of, 405". On page 425, a period was placed after "Roches, M., Policy of, 197, 353". On page 424, "Tenriu" was replaced with "Tenriû".