PANIC IN YEDO. RECEPTION OF THE PRESIDENT’S LETTER.
OPENING upon the beautiful bay (_yé_), like a door (_do_), the great
city in the Kuantō, or Broad East of Japan, was well-named Bay-door, or
Yedo. Founded as a military stronghold tributary to the Shō-gun at
Kamakura in the fourteenth century, by Ota Dō Kuan, it was made in 1603
the seat of the government by Iyéyasŭ. This man, mighty both in war and
in peace, and probably Japan’s greatest statesman, made the little
village a mighty city, and founded the line of Shō-guns of the Tokugawa
family, which ruled in the person of fifteen Tycoons until 1868. To the
twelfth of the line Iyéyoshi, President Fillmore’s letter was to be
delivered, and with the thirteenth, Iyésada, the American treaty made.
The Americans dubbed each “Emperor”!
Yedo’s chief history and glory are associated with the fortunes of the
Tokugawas. It had reached the zenith of its greatness when Perry’s ships
entered the bay. Its palaces, castles, temples, and towers were then in
splendor never attained before or beheld in Japan since. It was the
centre of wealth, learning, art and gay life. Its population numbered
one million two hundred thousand souls, of whom were five hundred
thousand of the military class.
Upon this mass of humanity the effect of the news of “black ships” at
their very doors was startling. All Yedo was soon in a frightful state
of commotion. With alarmed faces the people thronged to the shrines to
pray, or hastily packed their valuables, to bury or send off to the
houses of distant friends. In the southern suburbs thousands of houses
were emptied of their contents and of the sick and aged. Many who could,
left their homes to go and dwell with relatives in the country. Couriers
on horseback had first brought details of the news by land. Junks and
scull-boats from Uraga arrived hourly at Shinagawa, and foot-runners
bearing dispatches panted in the government offices. They gave full
descriptions of what had been said and done, the number, shape and size
of the vessels, and in addition to verbal and written statements, showed
drawings of the black ships and of the small boats manned by the
sailors. It was no clam’s-breath mirage this time. The rumor so often
pooh-poohed had turned to reality.[28]
The samurai went to their _kura_ (fire proof storehouses) and unpacked
their armor to repair and furbish, and to see if they could breathe, as
they certainly could perspire in it, and brandish a sword with both
hands, when fully laced up. They scoured the rust off their spears,
whetted and feathered their arrows, and restrapped their quivers upon
which the moths had long feasted. The women rehemmed or ironed out flags
and pennants. Intense activity prevailed on the drill grounds and
matchlock ranges. New earth-banks for targets were erected. Vast
quantities of powder were burned in practice. It was the harvest time of
the priests, the armorers, the sword-makers, and the manufacturers of
oiled paper coats, leggings, hats and sandals, so much needed in that
rainy climate during camp-life. The drug business boomed with activity,
for the hastily gathered and unseasoned soldiers lying under arms in
camp suffered from all sorts of maladies arising from exposure.
Hokŭsai, whose merciless caricatures of carpet soldiers once made all
Japan laugh, and who had died four years before with the snows of nearly
ninety years upon his head, was not there to see the fun. His pupils,
however, put the humor of the situation on paper; and caricatures,
lampoons and jokes directed against these sons of luxury in camp were
numerous, and after the departure of the ships they found ready sale.
One enterprising merchant and ship owner in Yedo had, months before
Perry arrived, made a fortune by speculating in oiled paper, buying up
all he could lay his hands upon, making water-proof garments and selling
at high prices. Indiscreetly exulting over his doings, he gave a feast
to his many friends whom his sudden wealth had made. The two proverbs
“_In vino veritas_,” and “Wine in, wit out,” kissed each other. Over his
merry cups he declared that “the vessels of the barbarians” had been
“the treasure-ships of the seven gods of happiness” to him. The
authorities got wind of the boast, and clapped the unlucky wight in
prison. He was charged with secretly trading with foreign countries. His
riches took wings and flew into the pockets of the yakunin and the
informer. While the American ships were at Napa he was beheaded. His
fate sobered other adventurous spirits, but did not injure business.
The book-sellers and picture-shop keepers, who had sent artists down to
Uraga, also coined _kobans_ by selling “brocade pictures” or broadsides
bedizened with illustrations in color, of the floating monsters and the
tall man of strange garb, speech, tonsure, hirsute fashion, and shape of
eyes. Fans, gaily colored and depicting by text and drawing the wonders
that now thrilled the nation, were sent into the interior and sold by
thousands. The governor was compelled to issue proclamations to calm the
public alarm.
Meanwhile, in the castle, the daimiōs were acquainted with the nature of
the despatches and the object of the American envoy. Discussion was
invited, but there was nothing to be said. Innumerable pipes were
smoked. Long hours were spent on the mats in sedentary recumbence on
knees and heels. Uncounted cups of tea were swilled. Incredible
indignation, impotent wrath and contempt were poured upon the ugly
barbarians, but still an answer to the unanswered question, “what was to
be done?” could not be deferred. This was the problem.
They must first lie to the foreigners and make them believe that the
Shō-gun was a Tai-kun and had imperial power. This done, they would then
have the chronic task of articulating lie after lie to conceal from
prying eyes the truth that the Yedo government was a counterfeit and
subordinate. The Shō-gun was no emperor at all, and what would they do
if the hairy devils should take a notion to go to Kiōto? They could not
resist the big ships and men, and yet they knew not what demands the
greedy aliens would make. They had no splendid war vessels as in Taikō’s
time, when the keels of Japan ploughed every sea in Asia and carried
visitors to Mexico, to India, to the Phillipines. No more, as in
centuries ago, were their sailors the Northmen of the sea, able to make
even the coasts of China and Corea desolate, and able to hurl back the
Mongol armada of Kubhlai Khan. Then should the Americans land, and, by
dwelling in it, defile the Holy Country, the strain upon the government
to keep the foreigners within bounds and to hold in the Yedo cage the
turbulent daimiōs would be too great. Already many of the vassals of
Tokugawa were in incipient rebellion. If Japan were opened, they would
have a pretext for revolt, and would obey only the imperial court in
Kiōto. The very existence of the Tokugawa family would then be
jeoparded. If they made a treaty, the “mikado-reverencers” would defy
the compact, since they knew that the Tycoon was only a daimiō of low
rank with no right to sign. In vain had the official censors purged the
writings of historical scholars. Political truth was leaking out fast,
and men’s eyes were being opened. In vain were the prisons taxed to hold
in the whisperers, the thinkers, the map-makers, the men who believed
the country had fallen behind, and that only the Mikado restored to
ancient authority could effect improvement.
Finally, two daimiōs were appointed to receive the letter. Orders were
given to the clans and coast daimiōs to guard the most important
strategic positions fronting the bay of Yedo, lest the foreigners should
proceed to acts of violence. Several thousands of troops were despatched
in junks to the earth forts along the bay of Yedo.
Meanwhile Perry, the Lord of the Forbidden Interior, had allowed no
Japanese to gaze upon his face. The buniō had held several consultations
with the Admiral’s subordinates, had been shown the ship and
appointments, and had tasted the strangers’ diet. The barbarian pudding
was delicious. The liquors were superb. One glass of sugared brandy made
the whole western world kin. The icy armor of reserve was shuffled off.
The august functionary became jolly. “Naruhodo” and “tai-hen” dropped
from his lips like minted coins from a die. So happy and joyful was he,
that he forgot, while his veins were warm, that he had not gained a
single point, while the invisible Admiral had won all.
A conference was arranged to be held at Kurihama (long-league strand), a
hamlet between Morrison Bluff and Uraga for July 13th. The minutest
details of etiquette were settled. The knowing subordinates, inspired by
His Inaccessibility in the cabin, solemnly weighed every feather-shred
of punctilio as in the balances of the universe. In humiliation and
abasement, Mr. Yézayémon regretted that upholstered arm-chairs and wines
and brandies could not be furnished their guests on the morrow. It was
no matter. The “Admiral” would sit like the dignitaries from Yedo; but,
as it ill befitted his Mysterious Augustness to be pulled very far in a
small boat, he would proceed in the steamers to a point opposite the
house of deliberation within range of his Paixhans. He would land with a
proper retinue of officers and soldiers. Possibly a Golownin mishap
might occur, and the Admiral wished to do nothing disagreeable. Even if
the government was perfectly sincere in intentions, the swiftness of
Japanese assassins was proverbial, and the _rō-nin_ (wave-man) was
ubiquitous.
The day before, sawyers had been busy, boards and posts hauled, and all
night long the carpenters sent down from Yedo plied chisel and mallet,
hooked adze and saw. Mat sewers and binders, satin curtain hangers, and
official canvas-spreaders were busy as bees. Finally the last
parallelogram of straw was laid, the last screen arranged, the last silk
curtain hung. The retainers of Toda, Idzu no kami, the hatamoto, with
all his ancestral insignia of crests, scarlet pennants, spears, banners,
lanterns, umbrellas, and feudalistic trumpery were present. The
followers of Ito were there too, in lesser numbers. For hundreds of
yards stretched canvas imprinted with the Tokugawa blazon, a trefoil of
Asarum leaves. On the beach stood the armed soldiers of several clans,
while the still waters glittering in the beams of the unclouded sun were
gay with boats and fluttering pennants.
In the matter of shine and dazzle the Japanese were actually outdone by
the Americans.
The barbarian officers had curious looking golden adornments on their
shoulders, and pieces of metal called “buttons” on the front of their
coats. What passed the comprehension of the spectators, was that the
same curious ornaments were found at the back of their coats below the
hips. Why did they wear buttons behind? Instead of grand and imposing
_hakama_ (petticoat trousers) and flowing sleeves, they had on tight
blue garments. As the sailors rowed in utterly different style from the
natives, sitting back to the shore as they pulled, they presented a
strange spectacle. They made almost deafening and hideous noises with
brass tubes and drums, with which they seemed pleased. The native
scullers could have beaten the foreign rowers had the trial been one of
skill. The Uraga yakunin and Captain Buchanan led the van of boats. When
half way to the shore, thirteen red tongues flamed out like dragons, and
thirteen clouds of smoke like the breath of the mountain gods, leaped
out of the throats of the barbarian guns.
Then, and then only, the High, Grand, and Mighty, Invisible and
Mysterious, Chief Barbarian, representative of the august potentate in
America, who had thus far augustly kept himself behind the curtain in
secrecy, revealed himself and stepped into his barge. The whole line
then moved to the beach. A few minutes later there were a thousand
scowls and curses, and clinching of fingers on sword-hilts, and vows of
revenge, as the soil of the holy country was defiled by the first
barbarian, Buchanan, who sprang ashore on the jetty hastily made of
straw rice bags filled with sand.
Many a countryman in the crowds of spectators on the hills around, as he
saw the three hundred sailors, mariners, bandsmen and officers, went
home to tell his fellow-villagers of foreigners ten feet in stature, as
hairy in face as dogs, with polls on their crown as red as the shōjo (or
scarlet-headed demons), and of ships as big as mountains, having guns
that made heaven and earth crash together when they were fired. The
numbers as reported in the distant provinces ran into myriads.
There was no one that gazed more upon Commodore Perry than Kazama
Yézayémon. He, the snubbed buniō, had waited through the minutes of the
hours of five days to see the mighty personage. With vast officiousness
he now led the way to the pavilion. Two gigantic tars carried the
American flag, and two boys the mysterious red box whose outside Kazama
had seen. Of majestic mien and portly form, tall, proud and stately, but
not hairy faced, “big as a wrestler, dignified as a kugé,” (court noble)
the august Commodore, already victor, advanced forward. On either side
as his guard, stalked a colossal _kurumbō_ (black man) armed to the
teeth. This sable pair, guarding the burly Commodore, like the Ni O (two
kings) of a temple portal, constituted one of the greatest curiosities
of the pageant. Many in the gazing crowds had never seen a white man;
but probably not one had ever looked upon a human being whose whole skin
was as black as the eyes of Fudō. Only in the theatre, when they had
seen the candle-holders with faces smeared with lamp black, had they
ever beheld aught like what now smote their eyes.
The procession entered the pavilion with due pomp. The Japanese
officials were all dressed in kami-shimo (high and low) or ceremonial
winged dress of gold brocade. Toda, Idzu no kami, and Ito, Iwami no
kami, the two commissioners, sat on camp-stools. When all was ready, the
two boys advanced and delivered their charge to the blacks. These,
opening in succession the scarlet cloth envelope and the gold-hinged
rosewood boxes, with true African grace, displayed the letter written on
vellum bound in blue velvet, and the gold tasseled seals suspended with
silk thread. In perfect silence, they laid the documents on the
lacquered box brought from Yedo. It was like Guanzan handling the sacred
books.
“The First Counsellor of the Empire,” as the Americans called Toda,
acknowledged in perfect silence receipt of the documents. The
interpreter who had been authorized by the “Emperor”—according to the
foreigners’ ideas—handed the receipt to the Commodore, who sat during
the ceremony. What little was spoken was in Dutch, chiefly between Perry
and the interpreters. The whole affair was like a “Quaker” meeting of
the traditional sort. The official reply read:—
“The letter of the President of the United States of North America and
copy are hereby received and delivered to the Emperor. Many times it has
been communicated that business relating to foreign countries cannot be
transacted here in Uraga, but in Nagasaki. Now it has been observed that
the Admiral in his quality of embassador of the President would be
insulted by it; the justice of this has been acknowledged, consequently
the above mentioned letter is hereby received in opposition to the
Japanese law. Because this place is not designed to treat of anything
from foreigners, so neither can conference nor entertainment take place.
The letter being received, you will leave here.”
The Commodore then gave notice that he would return “in the approaching
spring, probably in April or May.” This concluded the ceremonies of
reception, which lasted half an hour. With all due care and pomp the
Americans returned to their decks. That part of the Bay of Yedo fronting
Kurihama was named “Reception Bay,” as a certain headland was dubbed by
Perry himself Rubicon Point.
The “black ships” remained in the bay eight days. Their boats were
busily employed in surveying the waters. Perry kept his men on ship’s
food, holding them all in leash, allowing no insults to the people,
receiving no gifts. In no instance was any Japanese molested or injured.
The Americans burned no houses, stole no valuables, outraged no women.
None was drunk. Not a single native was kicked, beaten, insulted or
robbed. One party landed, and actually showed a politeness that impelled
the people to set out refreshments of water, tea and peaches. These
“hairy” Americans were so kind and polite that they smoked friendly
pipes, showed the people their trinkets and watches, and even patiently
explained, in strange and unintelligible language, but with pantomimic
gesture, the uses of many things which drew forth volleys of _naru hodo!
kiréi! rippani! médzurashi! so désŭ, né!_ and many a characteristic
grimace, shrug and mutual nod from the light-hearted and impressible
people.
All this was strange and unlooked-for. This was not the way the Russians
in Saghalin, nor the British sailors at Nagasaki, had acted. The people
began to think that probably the foreigners were not devils, but men
after all. Eyes were opened on both sides.
More than one American made up his mind that the Japanese were not so
treacherous, murderous, or inhospitable as they had heard. The natives
began to believe that if the “hairy faces” were devils, they were of an
uncommonly fine species, in short as jolly as _tengus_ or spirits of the
sky. Strangely enough, the “hairy” foreigners were clean shaven.
One authentic anecdote related by the Japanese is worth mentioning. At
the banquet given by the governor of Uraga, Perry tasted the _saké_
served so plentifully at all entertainments, and asked what the cost or
price of the beverage might be. On being told, finding it exceedingly
cheap, the Commodore with a very serious face remarked to his host that
he feared it was highly injurious to the people to have so ridiculously
cheap an intoxicant produced in the country. All present were deeply
impressed with the Commodore’s remark.
Despite the fact that the decoction of fermented rice, called _saké_,
which contains alcohol enough to easily intoxicate, and fusel oil
sufficient to quickly madden, was not _relatively_ as cheap as Perry
supposed, yet Japan’s curse for centuries has been cheap liquor.
Another anecdote, less trustworthy, is preserved in a native book. The
time suits Shimoda, but other considerations point to Uraga or Yokohama.
The subjective element, probably predominates over historical fact. Some
enemy of Buddhism or its priests, some wit fond of sharp barbs, from a
Shintō quiver, probably, manufactured the story, which runs as
follows:—
“When Perry came to Shimoda, he took a ramble through the town, and
happened to enter a monastery yard. It was in summer, and two bonzes
were taking a nap. Of course they were shaved as to their heads, and
their bodies were more than half uncovered. At first glance, Perry
thought that these shaven-pated and nude _savages_ were in an unseemly
act. ‘This is a savage land’, he said; and until he saw and talked with
the better representatives of Japan, he was of a mind to treat the
Japanese as he would the lowest African tribes.”
Without a yard of canvas spread, the four ships moved rapidly out of the
Bay on the morning of March 17th. The promontory of Uraga was black with
spectators who watched that stately procession whose motor was the child
born of wedded fire and water.
Japan now gave herself up to reflection.
-----
[28] Ota Dō Kuan the founder of Yedo (Gate of the Bay) in the fifteenth
century, wrote in the summer-house of his castle a poem, said to have
been extant in 1854, and to have been pointed out as fulfilled by Perry:
“To my gate ships will come from the far East,
Ten thousand miles.”
—Dixon’s _Japan_, p. 218.