By MRS. JOSEPH COOK.
[Concluded.]
The two weeks’ voyage from Galle to Hong Kong is pleasantly broken by
visits to Penang and Singapore. On the fourth day out, mountainous
islands appear above the smooth stretch of sea, and late in the
afternoon we anchor in the harbor of Penang at the head of the Straits
of Malacca. Penang is an island fifteen miles long by eight in width,
on which a mountain towers nearly 2,800 feet high. The native town
lies on the flat strip of land adjoining the sea, but the bungalows of
the European residents nestle on the hill slopes. We go on shore in a
Sampan boat, and find the almond-eyed Celestials here in full force,
not the gliding, apologetic creatures we see in San Francisco, but a
sturdy, independent, self-assertive people, with the industries of
the town in their hands. There are some grandees among them, for we
see Chinese gentlemen lolling back in luxurious carriages, with Hindu
coachmen and footmen. The joss houses are numerous, the roofs of which
resemble immense ornate canoes, with sea-monsters at either end, as
their forms are outlined against the evening sky. We have only time
for a drive through the principal streets. The lights are gleaming out
along the shore, and the twilight is fading as we float over the waves
to our sea-home, the “Gwalior.” The next day we are in the Straits
of Malacca, with picturesque views of Malay villages and tropical
vegetation. The temperature, which has been in the nineties, dropped a
few degrees as we approached the outlet into the open sea, and, going
on deck on the second morning after leaving Penang, the air was still
further cooled and freshened by a tropical downpour of rain just as we
were passing the wooded islands which lead to the beautiful harbor of
Singapore. These clouds, the rain, the temperature, and the deciduous
trees make us think of home, and especially as this land-locked harbor
might be a Scottish or American lake instead of the outlet of the
Straits of Malacca, seventy-nine miles above the equator.
The P. & O. steamers stop for coal at a wharf some three miles from
the town, but we had the satisfaction of walking from the steamer to
the land without the usual intervention of a small, wave-tossed boat.
We engaged a comfortable looking carriage attached to an absurdly
diminutive pony, but the driver insisted that it was “good horse,
good horse,” and we found that there was a wonderful amount of speed
and endurance in the creature. Beautiful specimens of the traveler’s
palm outline their huge, fan-like semicircle of leaves against the
sky. This growth belongs to the plantain rather than the palm family,
and is called the traveler’s palm because it contains a reservoir of
water which runs down the grooves of the long stems and is retained
at the base, where the incision is made, and the precious fluid, cool
and refreshing, flows out. We saw again the _acacia flamboyante_, that
splendid tree with its crown of scarlet blossoms, whose acquaintance we
first made in the gardens of the Taj, and which came originally from
Rangoon and Sumatra. Here, as in Penang, the Chinese are the chief
factors in all the industrial pursuits. The temperature ranges from
80° to 90° the year round, and we were assured by European residents
that the eye wearies of constant greenness and longs for the changing
seasons of the temperate zone. The evening on our quiet steamer, which
is anchored here for the night, reminds us of Lake George. The wooded
heights and islands dream under the light of a full moon, while the
constellation of the Southern Cross hangs over against Ursa Major.
Early the next morning the Malay boys appear on the scene. They are
equal to the Somalis for diving, but the charm of novelty is gone,
and they do not seem such merry, audacious creatures as those who
entertained us at Aden. Boat loads of coral and beautiful shells
followed us for some distance, but we soon lost sight of them as we
steamed away past the green and sunlit islands into the open sea.
After six days of debilitating moist heat in the China Sea, we were
met on our approach to Hong Kong by a sudden change of temperature—a
strong, fresh breeze following a heavy shower accompanied by thunder
and lightning. Our ship scarcely moved during the night previous to our
reaching the coast of China, for it was very dark, and we were entering
upon a network of rocky islands. When we went on deck in the morning
what a change in all our surroundings! Purple and blue mountains,
reminding one in their general form of Scottish heights, yet with that
peculiar shade of green which belongs to the hills of Wales, rose out
of the sea on every hand—giant peaks of vast, submarine ranges. For
twenty-five miles or more before reaching the superb, land-locked
harbor of Hong Kong, we threaded our way among these mountainous
islands, beautiful in form and color, and lighted up now and then with
a sudden sunburst.
Hong Kong is built on an island and belongs to the British. The town
extends for some distance along the shore and creeps up the slope of
Victoria Peak, which rises to a height of 1,800 feet. The European
houses, nestling among the trees, present a very attractive appearance
with their double-storied, arched verandas. The magnificent bay
resembles one of our inland lakes with mountains rising on all sides,
from a few hundred to nearly 2,000 feet high. Here are ships of war,
ocean steamers from all ports, trading junks of every shape and color,
floating, thatched-roofed homes, where in one boat three generations
are often found, and in which birth and death and all the round of
human life occurs. Stalwart, sturdy women, with babies strapped on
their backs, use as much strength and skill in the management of the
boats as the men, and it would be hard to distinguish the sex if it
were not for the added burden imposed on the woman. The streets are so
steep in Hong Kong that horses are very little used and the vehicles
employed are sedan chairs, attached to long bamboo poles, and carried
on the shoulders of two, three or four coolies. This open, airy
vehicle is an immense improvement over the heavy, funereal palanquin
of Calcutta. John Chinaman, with his inevitable pig-tail and fan,
his blue, loose garments and immaculate hose was everywhere present,
and the odors of sandal wood and dried fish were all pervasive. We
went to the curio shops which line the arcades of Queen’s Road and
saw lacquered wood and ivory carving to our heart’s content. The
Chinese shop-keeper holds himself aloof from the purchaser with true
Celestial indifference. You enter his shop and examine his wares. No
one accompanies you in your round. If you want to know the price of an
article you must seek out the proprietor or clerk and inquire. You feel
that the price is “fixed,” and even after three months’ demoralization
in India you have not the presumption to ask this lordly Chinaman to
take less. A pathetic proof of the chronic home-sickness which seems
to possess European residents in the East, and which we ourselves
appreciate, is the text engraven on the stone arch of the post-office
doorway: “As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far
country.”
The morning after our arrival in Hong Kong we leave the “Gwalior” which
has been a most comfortable, agreeable home to us for the past two
weeks, in order to visit Canton. It is a sail of some eight hours up
the Pearl River to Canton, and we found ourselves on an American-built
steamer not unlike our river boats at home, although not so luxuriously
furnished as our floating palaces on the Hudson. However it gave us
quite a home-like feeling, which was still further enhanced by the
captain being a fellow-countryman and the breakfast bill of fare
including waffles, griddle cakes and ice water. Although we are at
the antipodes of Boston, we have a strange sense of being nearer home
than at any time since leaving England. Sitting at the breakfast
table the captain pointed eastward toward the open sea and said, “In
that direction you can travel 6,000 miles before reaching land, and
the nearest shores are those of America.” Knowing the reputation the
Chinese have for being a peaceable race we were somewhat surprised to
see that the wheel house was quite an armory of weapons, and that the
companion-ways were closed and guarded. Inquiring into the meaning of
these war-like demonstrations, we were told that not many years ago the
Chinese passengers on one of these river steamers conspired together
and, when the captain and the few Europeans were at lunch, they rose,
seized the weapons, murdered the whites and took possession of the
boat. Since that time unknown passengers, of whom there were on this
trip about one thousand, are kept carefully guarded. The scenery was
very pretty as we steamed up Pearl River, the banks being visible on
either side. The chief characteristics of the view were low rice lands,
or paddy fields as they are called here; distant blue mountains, the
last spurs of the Himalayas; terraced pagodas of five, seven, or nine
stories high, with trees and shrubs growing from the top and sides;
bamboos, plantains and deciduous trees, and at one point in our journey
was a knoll of pine trees with a carpet of brown sheddings, which
reminded us of the spot at Concord where Hawthorne is buried. The most
prominent building in Canton and the one which first attracts the
attention of a stranger, is the stately, granite Catholic cathedral.
It was a hopeful sign to see this imposing Christian edifice with its
twin towers looming up above the low-roofed houses and temples of this
distinctively Chinese and heathen city. Another noticeable feature
among the buildings was eight or ten huge, gray, square towers, which
we were told were pawn houses.
We had heard of the boat population of Canton, and here we saw
swarming crowds in their floating homes as we neared the wharf.
Families not only live in these boats, but they carry on quite a
trade in ferrying passengers from one point to another. They are
a race by themselves, and are looked down upon with suspicion and
unkindness by their brethren of the terra firma. They are considered as
aliens of contemptible origin, and are prohibited from intermarrying
with landspeople. Before we left the steamer we were met by a
decently-dressed Chinese woman who had come on board as a “drummer” for
one of the hotels. But a gentlemanly looking Chinese guide who could
speak English had already been recommended to us by the captain, and
we put ourselves in his hands, to be taken first to the missionary
headquarters. We left the densely crowded wharves in sedan chairs,
each of us with three bearers, and proceeded through narrow streets,
where nearly every one is on foot, apparently with some definite
object in view, for they move along, these blue-costumed Celestials,
silently and swiftly. Most of those we see belong to the middle or
lower classes. Many of them are carrying heavy burdens suspended on
a bamboo stick which is slung across the shoulders. The bamboo is as
important a growth in China as the palm in India. Almost every article
of furniture in a Chinese habitation is made from the bamboo—chairs,
tables, screens, bedsteads, bedding, paper, and various kitchen
utensils. It is also employed on boats for masts, poles, sails, cables,
rigging and caulking. It is used for aqueducts and bridges, and it
can be made into a swimming apparatus or life preserver, without
which no Chinese merchant will undertake a voyage. The leaves are
generally placed around the tea exported from China to Europe. It is
also used as an instrument of torture in the bastinado, which is the
punishment most frequently inflicted in every part of China, and for
almost every species of offence, the number of blows being regulated
by the magnitude of the crime. The criminal is held down by one or
more coolies, while the chief actor, furnished with a half-bamboo six
feet in length and about two inches broad, strikes him on the back
part of the thighs. In this degrading punishment the rich and the
poor, the prince and the peasant are included. The Emperor Kien Long
ordered two of his sons to be bambooed long after they had reached the
age of maturity. The Presbyterian Mission occupies pleasant grounds
which slope down to the Canton River. There are three substantial
brick houses, one of them being occupied by the medical missionary,
Dr. Ker, the other by the preacher, Rev. B. F. Henry, and the third by
the ladies who have charge of the school, Misses Noyes and Butler. We
were received most cordially by Mrs. Henry, who urged us, with such
unmistakable earnestness, to stop with them during our twenty-four
hours in the city, that we promised to return after making a tour of
inspection with our Chinese guide. The chief place of interest shown
us was the Temple of the Five Hundred Genii, a collection of sitting,
life-size statues rudely painted and gilded, hideous or grotesque in
expression, and sometimes with bright blue hair and beard! In one of
the outer corridors leading to this temple was a group of Chinese youth
playing shuttle-cock, their feet taking the place of the battledore.
At a Buddhist temple near by we saw several priests going through their
genuflexions and prostrations, which reminded us of the ceremonies at
Rome. Our guide seemed chiefly anxious to show us the best quarters of
the city, and to induce us to buy something at the shops, whereby he
himself would doubtless have had a certain commission at our expense.
The next morning we began our peregrinations by visiting Dr. Ker’s
hospital before breakfast. This institution is for the benefit of
the natives and is undenominational, being supported by the foreign
residents of Canton, who number less than an hundred among the million
of the Chinese. In contrast with the large, airy wards and the
convenient appointments of the hospitals of Europe and America this
seemed pitifully mean and poor, but it was neat, and much valuable work
has been done here. Many more patients apply than can be accommodated,
as it is the only institution of the kind in this great city. Directly
after breakfast we found Miss Noyes waiting to take us over the
boarding-school for girls and women. This building was planned by Miss
Noyes, and its recitation-rooms and dormitories, with accommodations
for one hundred boarders, are admirably well arranged. It seemed
strange, remembering the Hindu school-girls, with their salaams and
musical “Nâmâska, Mem Sahib,” to be received in perfect silence by
these Chinese maidens, who all rose to their feet, however, as we
entered, and then came forward two by two, paused in front of us, made
a deep curtsey, and, instead of shaking hands with us, each clasped
her own hand and raised it to her forehead. This operation, repeated
in solemn silence, became rather embarrassing to us and we begged the
teacher to present our general greeting to the school and to excuse us
from these special obeisances.
Coming from the school we found Mr. Henry waiting with three sedan
chairs and their bearers in attendance to show us the sights of the
city. The Merchants’ Guild consists of a series of buildings fitted up
with much elegance and taste and combining a council hall, temple and
theater. The rooms have no luxurious upholstery, but the black-wood
furniture is highly polished and elaborately carved. The screens are
embroidered and painted in the highest style of Chinese art, and there
are numerous mirrors which, in the East, is always a sign of wealth.
Among the various temples we visited the one which most impressed
itself upon us, and where we saw the greatest number of worshipers, was
called, very appropriately, the Temple of Horrors. It was a Dante’s
“Inferno” put into a hideously realistic form. It is the Chinese
conception of the future torments of the wicked, and those who have
been guilty of the crimes whose punishment is here portrayed come to
expiate their guilt by bribes. The gods these poor heathen worship
never inspire in them love, but fear and a dread of impending wrath.
The court leading to this temple was filled with vociferous hawkers,
and the greatest confusion prevailed. A dentist’s stand was festooned
with the teeth of his victims!
From this revolting heathen temple we went to the daily noon service
in the Presbyterian chapel. The doors were thrown open on one of the
busiest streets of this packed city, and soon a crowd came drifting in
out of curiosity. Mr. Henry read and explained passages of scripture
for nearly half an hour with great earnestness, and succeeded in
attracting the attention of those who at first were simply gazing
at us, the visitors, with a stupid stare. The crowd was orderly and
quiet. One man was smoking. An open-mouthed boy on the front bench soon
fell asleep. There was no deep earnestness in the faces, but we were
told that at almost every gathering of this kind, two or three are
sufficiently interested to remain after the service and ask questions.
One of the chief difficulties in making any religious impression upon
the Chinaman comes from his sublime self-complacency. Even the meanest
of the people, our chair bearers for instance, look down upon us as
“white devils,” and according to their doctrine of transmigration,
they believe that we are the re-appearance of those who in a former
state of existence were bad Chinamen. No wonder that regarding us
with such contempt it is hard for them to accept our religion. The
Examination Hall interested us greatly, for here is the real entrance
to the aristocracy of China, which has its recruits not from the ranks
of the high born and wealthy, but from all classes who have attained
excellence and thoroughness in scholarship. Once in three years
thousands come here to compete for the second literary degree. They are
locked in a great enclosure containing ten thousand cells resembling
horse stalls in a country church yard. These cells are six feet long
by four feet wide, perfectly bare with a ground floor. Every candidate
is expected to write an essay, an original poem, and a portion of the
Chinese classics. The strictest watch is kept over the students so
that they may not communicate with each other. The same subjects are
given to all at daylight and the essays must be handed in the following
morning. Out of the 8,000 who competed at the last examination, only
130 passed, and these are booked for promotion in civil offices. They
are also required to go to Pekin to compete for the third degree. The
streets and the people are, after all, the most entertaining sights
in Canton. The dimly-lighted narrow streets make a gay picture, the
business signs of long lacquered or gilt boards with the Chinese
characters in red or black being hung perpendicularly before the shops.
These open shops, with their tempting display of embroideries and ivory
carvings, gay lanterns and fans, we gaze into as we pass along in our
sedan chairs. Many of the streets have high-sounding names, such as
Longevity Lane, Ascending Dragon Street, Great Peace, and Heavenly
Peace streets. The names on the signs are not infallible guides to the
true character of the proprietor; for instance a most unscrupulously
sharp dealer had modestly advertised his abode as “The Home of the
Guileless Heart.”
We were to take the afternoon boat to Hong Kong in order to catch the
next P. & O. steamer for Yokohama. A dozen or more of our friends came
to see us off. It was a pathetic and yet an inspiriting picture to look
back upon this little company of our countrymen and women as they stood
on the wharf waving their farewells, for they seemed such a feeble folk
as compared with the teeming million of this crowded Chinese city,
and yet they were there in obedience to that divine command, which
Wellington has so aptly called the “marching orders of the church.”
What a rest it was after the excitement and rush of our busy
twenty-four hours in Canton to glide with quiet, easy motion, down
the Pearl River as the sun was setting. The wooded islands glassed
themselves in the still waters. Our stately steamer had as little
motion or noise as a phantom ship. We passed native junks on which the
bull’s-eye was prominent on either side the bow. The Chinese consider
these indispensable to the safety of a ship; their argument being: “No
got eye, how can see,” and with these guardians the easy-going mariners
give themselves liberty to sleep on watch while the craft is on the
_qui vive_ for danger!
Reaching again the harbor of Hong Kong we exchange our roomy, river
steamer for more contracted quarters on board the “Sunda,” which is to
bear us to Yokohama. Five days tossing on the rough China Sea, which
reminds us more of the North Atlantic than anything we have experienced
since crossing that turbulent ocean, and we rejoice to hear on the
sixth morning out that we are nearing the shores of Japan. Through the
courtesy of the first officer we are invited on the bridge, and from
this favorable place of outlook we watch our tortuous course through
the network of islands which are clothed in all the fresh beauty
of spring. Rocky islets and hills, covered with pine forests, and
low-growing shrubs lift their green heads out of the sparkling blue
waters. Clusters of houses are scattered along the hill slopes, and
they harmonize with the landscape in a way that would delight John
Burroughs. There may be much Japanese history and legend connected with
these heights, but we are ignorant of it all, and to us they rear their
heads unsung.
Nagasaki harbor is not unlike Hong Kong, but the town itself does not
make so much of an appearance. The Japanese boats resemble somewhat the
Venetian gondolas, painted white instead of black. We went on shore
in one of these row-boats, and each of us took a _jinrikisha_, which
resembles a Bath chair, or a magnified baby carriage, and is drawn by
one or two men, according to the avoirdupois of the occupant. One can
best understand Japanese art here in its native surroundings, as one
can only thoroughly appreciate Dickens’s characters in London. These
Japanese ladies, with their glossy black hair and head ornaments,
their almond-shaped eyes, full, pouting lips, and the peculiar contour
of the tightly-draped figure, how familiar they look! Yet where have
I seen them before? Only on pictured screens and painted fans and
embroidered hangings, but here they are, these same quaint creatures
in veritable presence. Through many narrow streets, and around sharp
corners, and over bridges, and in sight of stony water-courses, and
the sun-deluged tender green of the mountain sides, our _jinrikisha_
men rattle us along on our way to the photographer’s, where we find
unexpected good fortune in the shape of beautifully colored views. At
the chief tortoise-shell emporium of the town we are received as guests
rather than purchasers. Our European bow seems an impertinent nod
compared with the profound salaams which are bestowed upon us. We are
invited to take seats at a large centre-table in a cheerful apartment,
which is a combination of parlor and show-room. Straw-colored tea
in dainty cups of exquisite porcelain is brought to us. Medals from
various exhibitions are shown, but there is no undue eagerness to sell
their wares, and when at last we make our selection and offer silver
rupees in payment we are blandly informed that they can not accept
foreign coin. Although we assure them that the rupee has been weighed
in Canton, and they can take it at its exact metal value, yet they are
politely inexorable, and we meekly walk away feeling like impostors as
well as boors. At three o’clock in the afternoon we are moving out of
the harbor, and it is a cheerful omen as we watch the receding shores
to be told that the most prominent building on the hill-slope, a large,
new structure, is a school-house for Japanese girls, under the auspices
of Methodists from our own country.
Soon after sunrise the next morning we enter the straits of
Shimonoseki, the narrow entrance to the Inland Sea. We remember that
this newly risen sun which is shedding its golden glory on these
thousand islands, has just tinged with its farewell rays the elms of
New Haven and the encircling heights of Lake George. A member of our
party once said to some young Japanese visitors in Boston, “Do you want
to see the sun rise on Japan?” and in response to their bewildered
acquiescence he took them to a west window and pointed to the sun
sinking, with gorgeous pageantry of color, behind the Milton hills. All
day long we glide through placid waters, the scene varying with every
turn of the wheel. Islands of most fantastic shape rise everywhere.
Sometimes an abundant vegetation clothes them from head to foot; again
they are not only destitute of clothing but of flesh, and show only
a bony framework of jagged rock pierced by grottoes and caves. Along
the shores, indented with bays, is a fringe of fishermen’s huts. Range
after range of mountains rise back of each other in beautiful outlines
varying in color from green to softest blue and faintest grey until
the most distant heights melt into the horizon. We pass curious fishing
junks with square, puckered sails. In the midst of these foreign
looking boats we are surprised to see now and then a trim little
schooner, exactly like those we are familiar with at home. We pass one
American man-of-war with the national flag flying. It seems a pity that
half of our passage through this marvelous Inland Sea must be made in
the night, although we have the anticipation of seeing in the morning
Fuji-yama, the Peerless Mountain, worshiped by the Japanese as divine.
A note from our attentive first officer breaks up our morning nap with
the announcement that Fuji is visible and we hasten on deck to see the
snowy cone of this youngest mountain in the world lift itself above
the clouds into the blue sky. It has the shape of an inverted fan, and
from the sea you can trace its outline from base to summit to a height
of 14,000 feet. According to Keith Johnston, it was thrown up by some
tremendous convulsion, for which this volcanic region is famous, about
300 B. C.
Late in the afternoon our ship dropped anchor off Yokohama, which
thirty years ago was an insignificant fishing village. When Commodore
Perry appeared with his fleet in this bay, in 1853, the rude
inhabitants were filled with wonder at their first sight of a steamer,
and when they saw the spark-spangled smoke rising from the stacks at
night they were seized with superstitious awe of the foreigners, who
they thought had imprisoned volcanoes on their ships! Tokio is the
literary center of this part of Japan while Yokohama is commercial,
and has not only a modern, but really an American appearance, and in
the hotel as well as in the shops we detect the atmosphere of our
native land, especially of San Francisco. The English give the tone to
society here, as everywhere throughout the East, and class distinctions
are more rigorously observed than in the mother island itself. At
Yokohama we seemed to meet the blessed spring-time of the temperate
zone. The day after our arrival we took _jinrikishas_ and went out
into the country-like suburbs of the city. We walked a part of the way
through rustling wheat fields, with the Peerless Mountain in sight and
the broad blue bay, dotted with ocean steamships from all ports, and
white-sailed native junks. It was like a perfect June day at home, and
after nearly a month on shipboard the touch of the brown solid earth
under our feet was enough to make us shout for joy. The blue violet,
the wild strawberry, and even the common dandelion, were here to greet
us like old familiar friends. Birds flew past us with happy chirp, but
no song. Some critic has said that “Japan is a country of birds without
song, flowers without perfume, and poetry without music.” But what were
these strange, weird, unearthly, mysterious melodies that came floating
down to us from the azure? We stopped our _jinrikishas_ to listen and
look. There, above our heads, were half a dozen immense kites, made of
bamboo, in the shape of winged dragons and bats, and it was an Æolian
attachment that sent down to us this music. The Greek boy sends up
his kite at night with a light attached so that it gleams like a star
through the darkness, and our patriotic member is somewhat chagrined
that the American boy should be surpassed, even in such a juvenility
as the kite, by the Greek and Japanese! A pleasant reception by the
American residents, especially those engaged in mission work; visits
to the temples and native quarters; observation of educational and
evangelical work, carried on here by our countrymen and women, filled
our week in Yokohama. At the end of that time we took train for Tokio,
which is only one hour distant by rail.
Distances are magnificent in this modern, imperial city of Japan.
Thirty-six square miles is supposed to be the extent of Tokio, but
only sixteen miles of this space are covered with houses, while the
rest is given up to parks, gardens, and rice fields. The population
is variously estimated from 800,000 to 1,500,000. One of the most
interesting places to visit in Tokio is Shiba with its tombs of the
Shoguns and Buddhist temples. There we went the morning after our
arrival. The approach to the mortuary temples of the Shoguns is by
a wide stone-paved avenue bordered on either side by stone lanterns
not more than six feet apart and of graceful shape. We have left the
bustle, noise and busy life of the streets, and find here a restful
stillness broken only by the chirp of the sparrow and the sighing of
the wind through grand, old red cedars, called cryptomeria, which have
been growing here since the seventeenth century. Leaving our shoes
at the threshold of the temples we walked over the highly polished,
lacquered floors in our stocking feet. Here before the shrines were
gifts of the daimios, bronzes and gold lacquer of priceless value,
and we, outside barbarians, were admitted into the holy of holies and
allowed to gaze on all this splendor and decoration without a word of
remonstrance from the young Buddhist priest in attendance, although
previous to the rebellion of 1868, only the reigning Shogun was allowed
to enter. The tomb of the Second Shogun is in an octagonal hall richly
gilt, eight pillars covered with gilt copper plate supporting the roof.
The lion and the tree peony often appear in the carvings, the one
representing the king of beasts, the other the king of flowers. The
tomb itself stands in the center of the hall and is one of the most
magnificent specimens of gold lacquer to be seen in Japan. The stone
pedestal takes the form of the lotus, the Buddhistic emblem of purity.
Oh! but how delightful it was to get out under the great blue dome
of the sky, and climb the green, sunny slopes under the gigantic,
gnarled cedars to the level plateau, where we could look abroad over
sea and land and crowded city. The ever present tea house was close
at hand, and two Japanese maidens quickly appeared with the pale,
fragrant fluid innocent of sugar or milk, served in tiny cups with a
cherry blossom floating on the surface. We preferred the tea without
the æsthetic accompaniment, and so, with profound bows, this tray was
removed to be speedily followed by another. While we were sipping
this beverage, which was too insipid to either cheer or inebriate, an
old woman, with a quavering voice, sang to us, accompanying herself
with a Japanese guitar called the samisen. On our way home we peeped
into a Buddhist temple where there was a funeral service in progress.
Just within the door was a square pine box with a pole at the top so
that it could be carried by the four coolies, who sat outside eating
rice cakes, drinking tea, smoking and talking. There was no mourner
present, and indeed no person in the temple but the young priest who
was going through his perfunctory mumblement. In our ignorance of
Japanese customs we thought this small box must contain the remains of
a child, but we were told that in this country the dead are arranged
in a sitting posture, the head bent between the knees, and therefore
the square box takes the place of the long narrow coffin. This box
contained the body of a young woman, twenty years of age, whose friends
lived too far away to be present at the funeral, so that in this case
the body was to be burned and the ashes sent to them, although usually
the Japanese bury their dead.
As we rode slowly through the native quarter, looking into the
bazaars, we noticed before many of the shops and houses bamboo poles
erected, and at the top of the poles were floating out in the breeze
inflated paper fishes from two to six feet in length. This is the
beginning of the Feast of Flags, which comes on the fifth day of the
fifth month, and is the greatest day of all the year for boys. It is
really a national celebration of the birthday of all the boys in the
kingdom, while the third day of the third month is devoted to the
girls, and is called the Feast of Dolls. The fish represented is the
carp or salmon, which is able to swim swiftly against the current and
to leap over waterfalls, and is supposed to be typical of the youth
mounting over all difficulties to success and prosperity. We stopped
at a Shinto temple, which was covered by a roof, but it was destitute
of all decoration and symbolism, except the round mirror, which has
various meanings, one of them being that it is a revealer of the inner
character. A man came up to worship while we stood there. He threw a
small coin on the mat within the railing, clapped his hands twice,
stood for a moment with closed eyes as though in prayer, clapped his
hands again, and it was all over.
At the normal school for girls, of which the empress is patroness, the
tuition is free, and pupils are here from all parts of Japan. They are
supposed to prepare themselves for teachers, although they are not
absolutely required to pursue this vocation. The object of the school
is probably quite as much to furnish educated wives for the ambitious
young men of new Japan. Prof. Mason’s system of music is taught here,
and the piano is superceding the Japanese instruments. Drawing is also
taught after the western methods. Instruction in needlework is given,
both in plain sewing and embroidery. Every girl is taught to cut and
make her own garments. There are no patterns used, but it is all done
according to mathematical rules, and the cloth is so used that there
is no waste in cutting. We saw a little girl not more than ten years
old draw an exact diagram on the blackboard of the way a piece of cloth
could be cut to make an outer garment. The pupils are also taught how
to arrange flowers artistically. Here, as in the nobles’ school, there
is a teacher of etiquette, and these maidens, some of them from the
interior of the country and from poor homes, are instructed in the
manners of polite society. An interesting department of this school is
the kindergarten, where both sexes are admitted, and we saw more than a
hundred little creatures gathered here with grave faces and long robes,
and neither from the dress nor the arrangement of the hair could we
tell the boys from the girls. Some twenty of the children, belonging
to families of wealth and position, were accompanied by their nurses,
who sat at one side. Nearly every child had a wooden tag attached to
the belt, on which were written the name and address of the parents.
There was one handsome little fellow, whom we called the Prince, with
his head as smoothly shaven as a Buddhist priest’s. He wore gorgeous
silk robes, and moved through his calisthenic exercises with a very
complacent air. The children who were dressed in European fashion were
most absurd looking creatures, and we much preferred to see them in
their own costume. The Japanese are such a tiny people that, unless
they have been abroad long enough to adopt our dress and wear it with
ease, they look much better in their own flowing robes, which give
grace and dignity to the figure. We heard an amusing story of the
costume in which a native Christian appeared before the Presbytery
to be ordained as an elder. He was a private citizen, but he wore on
this occasion a blue coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, knee
breeches, and high top cavalry boots with spurs, looking as though he
was about to engage in some other warfare than spiritual.
The largest and most popular temple of Tokio, Asakusa, is to that city
what St. Paul’s is to London, or Notre Dame to Paris. The avenue which
leads to the temple is lined on either side with booths, and there
are gardens adjoining in which are a variety of shows, waxworks and
trained birds, theaters and tea-houses, with swarms of disreputable
characters. The Japanese mix up the sacred and secular in a way that is
very shocking to our ideas. At one of the side shrines in the temple
is a wooden image, contact with which is said to cure disease, and it
is pathetic to see how the features have been obliterated and the body
worn as smooth as St. Peter’s toe at Rome by the rubbing of thousands
of palms of poor human sufferers who have hoped to find healing power
in this senseless mass of wood.
Near the temple is a revolving library containing a complete edition
of the Buddhist scriptures. The library looks like a huge red lacquer
lantern, some twelve feet high, on a black lacquer base and stone
lotus-shaped pedestal. The whole structure revolves on a pivot. A
ticket over the door explains the use of this peculiar book-case,
and reads as follows: “Owing to the voluminousness of the Buddhist
scriptures—6,771 volumes—it is impossible for any single individual
to read them through; but a degree of merit equal to that accruing to
him who should have perused the entire canon will be obtained by those
who will cause this library to revolve three times on its axis, and,
moreover, long life, prosperity and the avoidance of all misfortunes
shall be their reward.” For a small fee the custodian allows you to
gain all this merit.
An overland journey to Kioto, Osaka and Kobe, returning by steamer to
Yokohama, and from thence a trip to Nikko, and the Chautauquans are
ready to embark on the _City of Tokio_, which is to take them on the
long and monotonous voyage across the Pacific. Taking the northerly
route we enter at once a belt of penetrating fog, chilling winds and
occasional showers, which make the luxurious deck life, which we found
so agreeable on the southern seas, quite impracticable. Finding a good
collection of books in the ship’s library we still linger in the land
of the Rising Sun by reading Griffis and Satow, Miss Bird and Sir
Edward Reed. There are only twenty-six saloon passengers, but more than
a thousand Chinese are packed away in the steerage, and they swarm on
the forward deck during the day, smoking and playing games, but more
quiet and peaceable than a quarter of that number of Irishmen would be
under similar circumstances. Nineteen days without sight of sail or
land and we rejoice to know that the shores of America will soon be
visible. San Francisco once reached, the Chautauquans will have put the
girdle round the world, for they visited the western coast of America
on the famous Sabbath-school excursion, headed by Dr. Vincent, in 1879.
By the aid of the captain’s glass and our own opera glasses about four
o’clock on a bright, breezy afternoon, we discern in the far eastern
horizon a white, rocky island, crowned with a light-house. Soon after
another dim hint of land appears to the north, and a little later the
main land becomes visible. Just after a glorious sunset we enter the
Golden Gate, a crescent moon hanging above the narrow pass. Familiar
objects appear—the Cliff House, the Fort—and before we retire the great
engines cease their throbbing, the ship drops anchor, and the gleaming
lights of San Francisco welcome us home again.
[The end.]