TO THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN.
On Wednesday, September 9th, 1891, we embarked on board the Pacific
s.s. _Empress of Japan_. We congratulate ourselves upon having a roomy
cabin exactly amidships on the main deck, and the unprecedented luxury
of two drawers and two cupboards. Otherwise our voyage does not promise
well. The C.P.R. thoroughly understands its opportunities, and their
putting on three new steamships, the _Empresses of Japan_, _India_, and
_China_, is justified by the large number of saloon passengers. Thirty
passengers have been their average up to the last voyage, when it was
sixty, and this time it is 130. We hope that the resources of the ship
will not break down under this strain, but consider it doubtful. The
stewards are all Chinese, and excellent they appear, especially our
table steward, who boasted the aristocratic name of "Guy."
It was a miserable day, the rain coming down in torrents, and under
the wet awnings we dawdled about until the mails, five hours late,
arrived. At six o'clock we left the wharf and went "forward" to see
this ship of 4000 tons pass through the confined channel of "The
Narrows." We could almost have touched the overhanging branches of the
trees in the park, so closely did the ship hug the bank. At midnight
we stopped opposite to Victoria to take on board some more passengers.
They were in a sorry plight, for they had been sitting on an open barge
in pitch darkness, and in pouring rain, for six hours.
The next day was cold, gloomy, and rough. Scarcely a soul but was sick
and sorry. The usual whale excited but a feeble interest along the row
of deck chairs, occupied by people in varying stages of _malaise_. We
must expect bad weather. In truth we had a miserably cold cheerless
voyage across this Northern Pacific Ocean, and it was such a contrast
to our bright and sunny passage across the South Pacific, from San
Francisco to Auckand, six years ago. The ship takes a northerly course
until we get to the mouth of the Behring Sea. Here we had a miserable
Sunday. Such an angry grey sea, crested with white horses, seething
and boiling around us. It was abominably rough. Everybody was sea-sick
again, and, to complete the tale of woe, there was a dense sea-fog, the
decks dripping with this clammy moisture and from the spray, as the
_Empress's_ nose was buried in the ocean's waves and, quivering from
stem to stern, she rose and shook herself. The discordant shriek of the
fog-horn was heard all day. Everybody agrees that life on board ship is
bearable if you can be on deck, some even may go so far as to enjoy it,
though I cannot say that we belong to that number, but when, as on this
occasion, that refuge was denied to us, we were indeed miserable. We
had service in the saloon, the little remnant able to appear, and all
joined in those familiar prayers, that seem to bind us together on the
stormy ocean as "one family in heaven and earth." The Bishop of Exeter,
who, with his son, the Bishop of Japan, is on board, preached the
sermon. Weary of being knocked about at the mercy of the waves, there
was not a soul on board but was thankful when night came, and we sought
such rest as we could find in our berths.
We shall have a Wednesday missing all our lives, that of Wednesday,
September 17th, and we have lost a whole day, besides sundry and many
half-hours by the putting back of the ship's clock. We are now just
half-way round the world from the Greenwich meridian.
The next day we saw one island of the Aleutian group, and the "early
birds" saw a snow-cone on it. These islands extend for many miles at
the entrance to the Behring Sea, and we discover that in the event of a
shipwreck our boats have orders to steer for this island. There are a
number of missionaries, from thirty to forty, on board, who, with their
wives and numerous families are bound for China. Some of them are very
intolerant, as was shown when the officers got up a dance, and there
was some question as to where the piano would come from: "Oh!" said
one, "the devil will be sure to provide that."
The last two days we experience a sudden change from the intense cold.
We awake one morning to find a tropical downpour, accompanied by a damp
heat that enervates everybody, and this is accompanied by the tail end
of a typhoon, and a grand sea. All ports are closed, the heat below
is terrific, and the ship labours and rolls heavily. And thus ends a
most disagreeable and lonely voyage, for we have not seen a single sail
since leaving Vancouver.
There is no sensation in the world more delightful than landing in a
new country, and especially when it is in such a different corner of
the world as Japan.
Our expectations are vague and enthusiastic, but, alas! the approach
to Yokohama through the beautiful channel of islands is lost to us.
We are on deck at 5 a.m., only to see the lights of the numerous
lighthouses on the coast extinguished, and then blotted out in blinding
mists of rain. Fugi, the sacred mountain, whose cone, dominating the
whole island, we had been taught to watch for in our first view of
Japan, is lost to us. Sullen clouds and the gloomiest grey sky hang
over Yokohama.
The departure from the _Empress of Japan_ is a scene of more than
usual confusion, but we get safely down the one gangway, thronged with
passengers and their luggage, and into the steam-launch sent for us
by the Government, and are soon speeding along the pretty Bund to the
Grand Hotel. The first morning on shore after a long voyage is always a
harassing one. There are letters to be posted, the money of the country
to be obtained, departure of the next steamer to be ascertained, and
here in Japan, above all, passports to be seen about, for you cannot
leave the Treaty Ports without one. We afterwards found that in an
incredibly short space after arriving in any town, the police always
came to inquire for a passport. Then we had to engage a guide, without
which you are assured you cannot travel in Japan. I may at once say
that, though we had an excellent guide, we found him an unnecessary
nuisance, and parted with him in a few days. In going into the interior
of the country you require one to cook and arrange, but keeping to the
more beaten tracks you can comfortably manage without.
Of course we have spent the whole of our first day in Japan in
jinrikishas. Everyone does so. Nor can we resist a visit to the curio
shops, though we harden ourselves against temptations, knowing that
we shall have but too many opportunities to spend in the future. We
were glad of this afterwards, for we heard that the curio dealers,
on learning the large number of passengers leaving Vancouver on the
_Empress of Japan_, had met together and by agreement raised their
prices. In the afternoon we went for a drive round the Bluff, or
European Settlement. Yokohama is a treaty port, and at these ports,
which were first opened by the efforts of Commodore Perry to foreigners
in 1868, a concession of land was allotted to the Europeans, where
alone they are allowed to reside. And very charming houses they have
built here, coloured red and green, or grey, and buff, with well-kept
roads and pretty gardens, fenced in with bamboo hedges. We drive round
by the racecourse, with its grand stand and white railings just like
our Epsom course. The Mikado visits Yokohama once a year to come to the
races, and we see his private box on the top of the stand. Then home by
the sea-shore and across a plain of rice fields, descending through the
Settlement once more.
Yokohama is a cosmopolitan place and enjoys the glamour of being the
landing-place in a new country and the first sight of a new nation,
hut it contains nothing of interest. Along the Bund or sea wall is a
row of grey verandahed houses, looking very Eastern amongst their palm
trees. Behind the sea front there are two or three streets, chiefly
containing curio shops, interspersed with many grey walled godowns with
their forbidding barred and shuttered windows. People stay at Yokohama,
some because the hotel is comfortable, some, like the American ladies,
who, though bringing large boxes of dresses, are so fascinated by the
Chinese tailors' prices, that they stay to have more made, others
again to haunt the curio shops, and really the selection of articles
made with a view to the wants of the ordinary traveller is so good,
that you can scarcely do better, we determined afterwards, than shop
at Yokohama. Others again are so foolish as to be marked for life, by
employing the services of Hori-Chigo, whose advertisement runs thus:
"The celebrated Tattooer, patronized by T.R.H. Princes Albert Victor
and George, and known all over the world for his fine and artistic
work. Designs and samples can be seen at the Tattooing Rooms."
_Thursday, September 24th._--Such a glorious day, and we took a sudden
determination to go at once to Tokio, a short hour's journey. We found,
on arriving at the station, our luggage surrounded by a group of the
smallest of porters in neat blue uniforms, and caps with yellow bands,
dubiously surveying my large basket, which was ultimately transported
by the help of all. The railways in Japan were built by English
engineers, and worked by them, until the Japanese learnt to do it for
themselves. They are perfectly English, and the names of stations,
directions, even the mile posts are written in both languages. The
fares are extraordinarily cheap, and the third-class crowded, whilst
the one first-class carriage on each train is almost exclusively used
by Europeans. There are newspapers in the waiting-rooms; they have the
French system of locking you in the latter until shortly before the
arrival of the train; and the American check system for luggage. There
was a funny little toy train waiting for us on the very narrow gauge,
drawn by a tiny black and yellow engine. The long carriages with their
seats lengthways have as many as twenty-two windows, and they are lined
with Lincrusta-Walton paper. There is a wooden tray with a tea-pot
filled with hot water, and glasses for the tea, which the Japanese are
always drinking. When we stop at the stations there is such a cheerful
chorus of clicking high-heeled clogs, as the men and the little ladies,
with their smiling brown babies on their bent backs, tippet and shuffle
along.
The short run between Tokio and Yokohama is perfectly flat, with
nothing but rice fields, or if there is a little eminence it is crowned
by the dwarf forestry, which is the peculiar feature of Japanese
scenery.
Tokio or Tokyo, is the official capital of Japan. It is the old Yedo
of our schoolroom geography. The Minister of Foreign Affairs had sent
his secretary to meet us at the station, with a carriage similar to an
English victoria, drawn by pretty thick-set black Japanese ponies, and
with the Indian custom of a running sayce, who jumps off and clears the
way at the corners. To the right of the broad canal, along which we are
driving, we see a grand structure, which we suppose to be an official
building at least, and are surprised when we are told that it is the
Imperial Hotel. It is as palatial inside, with its broad staircase
and passages, and marble dining hall, and its crowds of obsequious
servants, who, hands on knees, slide down in deep bows at every corner,
and that drawing in of the breath like a gentle gasp, which in Japan is
a sign of great respect. The government have shown much enterprise in
assisting to build several of these large hotels by grants of lands and
subsidies, thus encouraging foreign travellers to come and stay. They
serve also as places where imperial guests, like the Duke and Duchess
of Connaught (who stayed here), and the Czarewitch, can be entertained,
as the palaces, owing to their complete absence of furniture, according
to the custom of the country, cannot be rendered habitable for the
reception of Europeans.
Tokio, beautiful Tokio, with its multitudinous little brown-eaved
houses, crowded in lowly company together, its broad moats, with the
green water, over which the mists gather at night and disperse in the
early morning sun, its great walls, formed of blocks of stone piled up
obliquely without the aid of mortar that guard the Shogun's Castle,
and the pale-blue grey skies, with the clear bright atmosphere, which
lends such a charm and softness to the picturesque scenes around. The
charm of Tokio is undefinable. It is so subtle as only to be felt. But
wherever you go, you will be always coming back to those miles of solid
masonry and those moats with their grassy banks, with a single row of
twisted dragon-shaped fir trees at the top--trees, that like all else
in Japan, are dwarfed, and where perhaps two or three solemn rooks will
perch and caw hoarsely, or even a red-legged stork, with outstretched
wings, will flap idly across.
I shall never forget the delight of our first drive in Tokio. It was
enough to be drawn swiftly and silently along in the midst of those
broad white roads, shaded by avenues of graceful willows, and see all
the strangely fascinating life of every-day Japan passing swiftly by,
without going to see anything in particular. For the motion of these
jinrikishas, the only practicable mode of progression in Japan, is
delightfully easy and pleasant. The coolies in their dark blue cotton
breeches and loose jacket and large mushroom-shaped hats, go at an
easy trot of six miles an hour, and they will do forty miles in one
day. This patient, toiling, perspiring race never seem to tire, and
their bare brown legs, with their large muscular development, with
sinews and veins standing out, and their high regular action, trot as
steadily as the rough docile ponies. Their feet are bare, or covered
with a straw sandal, kept on by a ribbon passed round the great toe.
We see many shops hung with hundreds of these sandals. Their cost is
infinitesimally small, but the roads are strewn with cast-off ones, for
they only last for a few journeys.
We are driving along by the Inner Moat; for there are three separate
moats surrounding the Castle, and then crossing over a bridge we pass
under an ancient stone gateway, and find ourselves, between this and
another one, equally massive and with iron-plated doors studded with
nails. We are shut in by these curious walls of obsolete masonry. Huge
blocks of granite are piled up obliquely, one resting on the other for
support, without being filled in by earth or mortar. They are broader
at the base, slope inwards, and stand by their own weight. Again
and again we came upon these Titanic walls in the ancient buildings
of Japan, and never ceased wondering how they were first placed in
position and then held so, for centuries. Passing through the second
archway, we are in a great open space, and above us are the white walls
and brown crinkled roofs of the Mikado's palace. There is the grey
stone bridge lighted by clusters of electric lamps, across which the
121st Mikado and the successor of the Shoguns passes to the palace,
around which linger mysteries leaving the imagination free to picture
the interior, for it is invisible to everyone. The authors of that
delightful "Social Departure," it is true, saw it, but they dare not
record how the permission was obtained. It is said that Mr. Liberty
was the last to see this enchanted abode, but then his visit was from
a professional view, to give his opinion on the decorations, as one of
the great æsthetic decorators of the day.
The office of the Imperial Household, whither we were bound to call
on Monsieur Nagasaki, the Emperor's Master of the Ceremonies, lies
under the Imperial Palace. The sentry at the gateway stopped us, but
after some parleying we were allowed to proceed on foot, as none but
titled Japanese are allowed to pass in a jinrikisha. The officer who
accompanied us was typical of the politeness which is the pleasantest
feature of the Japanese, and requested a souvenir of our visit in a
visiting card. In coming away we passed the Minister of Justice in a
victoria, with a jinrikisha roped behind, containing his detective.
Tokio is one of the ten largest cities in the world, and with its
population of 1,400,000 spread out over an extended area, the distances
are great. It has tramways, drawn by the diminutive ponies, and
an ear-piercing horn heralds an antique omnibus in the principal
thoroughfares. It has electric light, gas, and telephones. Nor is it
wanting in handsome public buildings and offices like the Admiralty,
the Ministry for Foreign and Home Affairs. The Houses of Parliament are
a skeleton of poles, for, just completed last year, they were burnt
down immediately and are now rebuilding. We are passing an enclosure
with rows of white-washed buildings, little barracks, suited to the
little soldiers we see marching bravely along in the streets, and
crowned with the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum, the royal insignia,
which is everywhere and on everything.
Before the afternoon light fails we visit the temples at Shiba Park,
the park being a grove of trees under which picturesque groups of
children and nurses wander, or ladies stroll about, with their
jinrikishas following them.
The entrance to this succession of mortuary chapels, where the remains
of the 7th and 9th Shoguns are buried, is by a gorgeous gate of red
and green and gold--a gate such as we grew to be familiar with, in
the ceaseless succession of temples in Japan, for all these Buddhist
shrines have a wearisome sameness in common, however beautiful they
may individually be. There is a quiet court inside, filled with rows
of stone pillars, with a circular pagoda with open holes at the top.
They are lanterns offered as a mark of respect by the Daimyos or great
nobles to their master. Every August, from the 12th to the 16th, lights
are kept burning there to entice the spirits to return during their
time of wandering, and not to journey by mistake to hell. Another stone
court with more lanterns, and a pagoda-erection to a Minister of War,
whither, should a war occur, they hope his spirit would return to watch
over it and bring them luck.
We approach the Temple, with its black roof of crenellated copper,
and the overhanging eaves, from each up-curved point of which hangs a
tinkling bronze bell, and we can see that this sombre outside is only
a wooden shell to preserve the gilding and brilliant colours of the
exterior.
Our feet are bound up in cotton shoes, and we enter by a side door
into an exquisite little sanctum, where the roof is all of lacquer,
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the panels on the walls are carved
in marvellous _repoussé_ work, with flowers and animals. A softened
light comes through the open door, and the gold and red and blue and
green, melt into a harmony of rich colouring, whilst the petal of each
flower, the stalk of every leaf, the plumage on the wings of the birds,
stand out in startling relief; and these panels represent storks, with
their long red legs, doves with their silver-grey plumage, parrots
with red and green tails, and peacocks with fan-spread tails. Or there
are such flowers as the sacred lotus, the emblem of Buddhism, the
chrysanthemum and the pink peony. One panel of exceptional beauty, is
an exquisite spray of tiger lilies, carved in high relief. Tradition
says that this was so greatly esteemed by the Shogun, and that the two
nails we see were used to hang a cover over it, that no one should see
it but himself. The priest throws open the golden trellis-work of a
shrine, and shows us three memorial tablets with the Shogun's names
inscribed on them. Around it there is a collection of china vases,
paper lanterns, and lacquer stands. Passing behind the screen formed
of bamboo bound with silken cords, we come to a square room covered as
usual with matting, and with the same florid decoration, where there
is a row of lacquer boxes each tied up with a cord. They contain the
Buddhist books, and are used for the daily prayers.
Through a grove of glossy-leaved camellias we pass, and mount up some
flights of ancient steps to another temple. This is the Praying Room
in front of the Shogun's Tomb, and is only entered by the Mikado and
Archbishop, when they come to worship the great departed on the day
of his decease. We pass behind this, and ascend yet more moss-grown
steps, to the tomb of the Great Shogun, which is surmounted by a
bronze urn, and enclosed within stone parapets and iron railings. The
tomb bears the three-leaved asarum, which is the crest of the House,
and is seen on many buildings of the date of that dynasty. Since the
fall of the Shoguns--or military usurpers of executive power--and
the re-establishment to the Imperial City of the present dynasty of
Mikados, it has been replaced by the Imperial Chrysanthemum. All is so
quiet and solemn here, and the memorial above the tomb is so simple, as
compared with the magnificence that goes before, that as Mitford says,
"The sermon may have been preached by design, or it may have been by
accident, but the lesson is there." The 9th, 12th and 14th Shoguns are
buried at Shiba, and their three temples, their three praying rooms,
and their three bronze urns, stand in precisely similar lines with the
one we are at present by.
In the evening we take jinrikishas and go into the native quarters.
If Tokio is charming in daylight, it is simply a fairyland at night.
There are no lamps, save for a few electric beacons, that send out
their far-reaching flashes over all the city, but the streets are
lighted by innumerable pendulous drops of light, that dance and quiver
and dart about, and cross and disappear quickly round corners. They
are the paper lanterns which hang from the shafts of hundreds of
jinrikishas, or are carried by pedestrians, for everyone in Japan
carries his own lantern after dark; and some are pale pink and others
red or blue. Now their soft light is reflected on the waters of the
moat, or glides quickly and noiselessly round the stone ramparts and
reappears like glow-worms on the other side. Now we pass the crimson
light streaming out of the little box-like police station, or the
barrow of the street vendor with the bulb of light shining mysteriously
from behind his hanging curtains. Soft even light falls across the
street from the windows of opaque paper, and we can trace the shadows
crossing them. Then as we stealthily fly past, we see the dark interior
of a shop lighted by a single lamp, under which squats a Rembrandt-like
figure, intently working, for in these busy human hives late at night
and early morning sees them still at work, or again the leaping flames
of fire in the centre of the floor light up a family group. Then there
is the street vendor, with his flaring torches, and his wares spread
out against a wall. There is a festival held in some particular street,
lighted with lunging designs of crimson paper lanterns, slung from
bamboo poles, to the god of writing. Then as we return home through
the dark quiet alleys, we hear the frequent and melancholy sound of
the bamboo flute of the blind shampooer, as he feels his way, stick in
hand, along the street. He sounds but two notes, but they have the wail
of a world of sorrow in them, that goes to the heart.
Early the next morning we climbed up some steps and passed into the
lovely groves of Ueno Park. The evergreen trees are still here, but
the avenue of cherry trees is bare and leafless, "which presents a
uniquely beautiful sight during the blossom season, when the air seems
to be filled with pink clouds," and you can scarcely pass under the
trees for the showers of falling blossoms. A little farther on there
is a sheet of water covered with flat green leaves, which three weeks
ago was a mass of pink and white lotus bloom. The blossoming of the
cherry, plum, lotus or chrysanthemum are looked upon by the Japanese as
national festivals. In fact they are their only holidays, for they have
no Sunday or day of rest. The Japanese may be said to have little or no
religion. The upper classes never worship at all, and the lower orders
are either Buddhists or Shintoists (Shintoism being the worship of many
gods), but they practically only go to the temples to offer prayers,
accompanied by money to the gods, if they have any special request to
make, such as for a good harvest, or recovery from sickness.
There are many little tea-houses at Ueno Park, and waiting damsels
smile in a friendly manner and beckon us in, but we cross the road
and leave this pleasant corner of the park, where the simple people
come to drink tea and amuse themselves, and pass under one of those
solemn archways hewn out of single blocks of stone, a torii or bird's
rest. They are such grand yet simple monuments of a dead past, and are
found at the entrance to all the temples in Japan. We wander up the
stone-paved avenue, through the solemn illness of the great cryptomeria
avenue, towards the Buddhist Temple at the end. This Temple, with its
neighbouring pagoda, is more than usually brilliant, being recently
restored, but the charm lies in its surroundings--in the quiet fir
groves, and the clumps of camellia trees, in the pink blossoms of the
monkey tree, and the solemn cawing of the rooks, in the click-click of
the wooden sandals of the dear little waddling ladies as they saunter
along the pavement, with their close-shaven children by their sides,
so exactly like the Japanese dolls we know at home. But in the centre
of this peaceful scene is a switchback railway, whose noisy clatter
profanes the stillness, but of which the Japanese are truly proud. We
pass a fortune stone. It is old and chipped, covered with hieroglyphics
and bespattered with dirty pellets of paper, which are chewed first
into a pulp and then thrown at it. If they adhere, it is considered a
lucky omen.
After quickly passing through the Museum, a white Moorish building
erected for the Exhibition, and which is as dull as museums usually
are, we had one of those fascinating drives through the streets to the
shop of the most celebrated cloisonné maker in Japan, and by special
appointment to the Mikado. There was nothing exposed in the shop
front, but leading us to the inmost recesses at the back, one by one
with reverent care, each article was produced from its wooden case and
foldings of crêpe and cotton wool, and placed with justifiable pride
before us, for this prince of designers, Namikawa, is the greatest
living artist in Japan, and exists only for the production of the
masterpieces of his art. The exceeding tenderness of the pale grey,
darkening into lilac, forming the background for a cock whose plumage,
faithfully delineated, is shown by the outline of every feather, the
rose pink, the translucent yellow--it is impossible to convey the
delicate tones of colour, or the life-like drawing of his plaques and
vases.
We subsequently saw the many processes through which cloisonné passes,
and it is not until you have seen the skill and delicate workmanship
required, that you really begin to appreciate cloisonné. And the
same may be said about lacquer, which requires knowing to be fully
understood. First the vase must be fashioned in copper, then the
designer must delineate from memory some intricate design of flowers
or birds or landscape. This again has to be reproduced in tiny pieces
of wire, pinched and twisted deftly into shape and soldered on to the
copper. The interstices of the wire are filled in with the brilliant
colours that we see in the saucers by the side of the workers, and the
mixing of these is the secret which ensures success. Five times the
colours are "filled," and five times burnt in the kilns, and then the
polisher with his different coarsenesses of stones polishes it into a
burnished and chaste work of art.
Apart from temples, there is not much to see at Tokio, but it is the
streets which fascinate you so completely, that waking and sleeping
you dream of these, and you want to be always out and amongst the
bright life that flows through them. To get any idea of Japan you
must always remember that everything is so ridiculously small. Life
here is in miniature. Everything is lilliputian; beginning with the
little houses, continuing with the little men and women and their tiny
children, and ending with the little ponies, for there are no horses
in Japan. And so to imagine a Japanese street, you must picture to
yourself rows of little brown houses, many of only one storey, with
large overhanging eaves. The interior is wide open and only raised one
step from the street, and you look across the brightly burnished floor
through the opening of the paper sliding screens, which are thrown
back in the daytime, and catch pretty glimpses of the home life in the
back yard. Many of the shops are hung with funereal-looking purple and
black hangings, inscribed with white hieroglyphics giving the names
and nature of their wares. You recognize the chemist's shop by the
gold tablets setting forth the details of the pharmacopœia within.
There are barbers' shops, with a half-shaven customer with upturned
chin seated in the chair; drapers' with samples of bright-coloured
stuffs hung round a revolving wheel outside; toy-shops where are sold
those paper kites and tiniest of shuttlecocks, or hobgoblin horses and
animals of impossible shape and size, with which the children play in
the street. There are others hung with nothing but strings of straw
sandals, or wooden clogs; grain shops where the clean white green and
red seeds are sorted into baskets of samples. Here is one for the
sale of saké, the brandy of Japan, piled up with huge barrels, and
with those tapering blue and white bottles which we are accustomed to
use for flower-vases, but which are really manufactured to hold this
popular beverage. And then the china shops; they are an incessant
delight, with their hundreds of dear little common blue and white rice
bowls, their artistic tea-pots of pale green ware with a spray of apple
blossom, their hibachis, or china flower-pots of deep blue, green or
bronze ware, which are used for the hot ashes to light the pipe with,
and are found on the floor of all tea-houses. Again, we must look at
this stationer's, where that soft crinkled tissue paper is sold, and
the brushes with which the Japanese write so swiftly and deftly, that
the ink is absorbed without blotting into the paper. In Japan they do
everything upside down. The horses stand with their tails in their
mangers and their heads where their tails should be. Locks revolve
contrariwise, and the carpenters plane towards, instead of away from
the person. So with writing; they write from the bottom of the page to
the top, and from right to left, and the number of their characters
is appalling. You must know from 3000 to 4000 characters to write
Japanese at all, and an educated man will require some 6000; and the
disappointing thing is that when a foreigner has mastered this, the
literature opened up to him offers no reward for his labour, as it
practically does not as yet exist.
See this fruit shop, where bunches of pale grey-green water-grapes,
brown pears, and plentiful supplies of green figs are spread temptingly
out, interspersed with bunches of those luscious orange persimmons
that melt in the mouth, and taste like a ripe apricot; this umbrella
emporium, where paper umbrellas, oiled to make them waterproof, are
open inviting inspection; a tea-shop, where the tea is kept in gigantic
jars striped purple and green; a greengrocer's, with oblong sweet
potatoes in their pink skins, and turnips of abnormal length; a basket
shop, where bamboo baskets of every shape and size are to be had;
or a fishmonger's, where the delicate pink and rainbow scaled fish,
are exposed daintily for sale on bright blue and green china dishes.
Nor must I forget the confectioners' shops, where from a tiny oven
heated by charcoal, we see the most attractive little pink, green,
chocolate and white sugared cakes turned out and placed in alternate
rows on trays. It is most amusing to see the extreme economy of the
heating arrangements. Four tiny pieces of charcoal, turned over and
husbanded together by a pair of iron tongs, suffice to cook a meal.
The Government do not allow shops to sell European and Japanese goods
together, so that now and again you pass one full of Manchester
atrocities, gaudy stuffs, ill-shaped English umbrellas, cheap lamps,
boots, hats, and underclothing, which you turn away from, to seek once
more the tasteful display of the native stores.
[Illustration: "A LITTLE MOTHER."]
And what a medley of scenes there are, and what a flow of life
confined in these narrow streets with their one-storeyed houses.
Coolies harnessed by ropes to drays full of rice, answering one another
with their musical patient cry of Huydah-Houdah; itinerant vendors with
bamboo poles slung across the shoulder, and suspended trays filled with
every imaginable variety of article; Buddhist priests with their shaven
heads, and white dresses with flowing sleeves, covered with black crêpe.
Mingling with the crowd of dear little men and women in their graceful
flapping kimonos, are the little girl "mothers," who at the age of
ten bend their backs and have a baby brother or sister tied on. Happy
babies they are, brown and contented, as are their scantily-clothed
kindred, who obey an instinct of nature in making mud pies and dust
castles by the roadside. Here is a closed van on wheels, painted black,
being drawn by policemen. It is a "Maria" with a prisoner peering out
between the bars.
Every now and again we meet a funeral. The coffin is a square deal
box, slung on bamboo poles, for the deceased has been placed in it in a
sitting posture with the knees up to the chin. It is only another form
of the economy of material, that forms such an especial feature in all
things Japanese. However, this people understood long before we did,
the use of lovely wreaths of coloured flowers, to mitigate the gloom
of mourning, and the coffin is hung with them. Ancestor-worship takes
a prominent part in Japanese religion, and now we understand at last
the use of those elaborate gold and lacquer cabinets, with outer and
inner folding doors, that you so often see in England. These cabinets
are intended as the shrines where the little golden memorial tablets,
in the form of small gravestones, and engraved with the name of the
deceased, are kept at home. The deceased is always given a posthumous
name, as, not believing in the immortality of the soul, but rather in
its transmigration into an animal, they say that he has ceased to exist
altogether, and has changed his state and lives under a new name. These
memorial cabinets are found in all the houses of the upper classes.
The pictures that we know of these little Japanese ladies are the
most faithful reproductions. Wrapped tightly round in their kimonos,
with the bunch of the obi formed by its folding over at the back,
their figures take the graceful bend and curve we see pourtrayed. The
loose flowing sleeves, and the soft folds around the neck, and open
at the throat, are so pretty. Their underclothing consists of several
loose garments of crêpe, which is the material exclusively used by the
upper classes, and their hips are so tightly bound that no European
woman could stand it. They treat their hips as we do our waists, their
object being to be perfectly straight. When this was explained to me,
I understood how it was that an extra breadth is put into the kimonos
bought by Europeans. It is curious that, though the Japanese bathe so
frequently, they are not particular as to changing their underclothing.
The women wear white stockings with a pocket for the great toe, and
"getas" formed of a sole of wood, perched on two high clogs of the
same, and kept on by a leash. Thus, when they enter a house, they leave
their clogs at the door, and go about on the spotless matting in their
stockings. As they sit and eat off the floors, they cannot allow the
dirt of outside boots to be brought in, and all Japanese houses are
scrupulously clean.
The kimonos of ladies are made in delicate quiet-toned stuffs of pale
grey or fawn colour; but simple as some of them appear, the stuffs of
which they are made are so costly that, even unembroidered, they will
cost as much as 300 dollars. And then their obis, those broad sashes
of the richest brocades and satins--on them they lavish all their
pride and money, and they often descend as heirlooms in a family. The
dressing of their hair is one long-continued source of admiration; it
is such black glossy hair, and the coils are so immaculately smooth.
There are but two styles of headdress for the whole country--one for
the married ladies, and one for the single; and so you can always
distinguish their state in life at a glance. The married women have it
dressed in a single extended roll, with inlaid combs and coral-headed
pins placed round; whilst the unmarried ladies wear their hair divided
by a silk or gauze ribbon into two flat coils placed on either side of
the head, and have still more decoration in the way of glass bead pins.
And as to the little girls, they are the counterpart of their mothers,
and from the earliest ages wear theirs in a similar manner. It used
to be the custom for married women to have their teeth blackened, to
prevent their receiving admiration from men other than their husbands;
but this is dying out, and you now only see old married women in
country districts following this obsolete fashion. No Japanese woman
ever walks. She shuffles, she scuffles, she tippets along, balancing on
her high-heeled getas; but step out the necessary stride for a walk,
no, they cannot do that, for their kimonos are so narrow that they
cannot move otherwise than with their knees knocking together. They are
not pretty, these meek, gentle-looking, brown-skinned creatures, yet
their sweet deprecating manners are very attractive. They are excellent
mothers; more excellent wives, in their complete subjection and utter
want of initiative. The sum total of their education is implicit
reverence and obedience, first to parents, subsequently to husbands;
and at the Peeress' school at Tokio, we are told that they are so
afraid that the modern education given there to the daughters of the
nobles will militate against this ideal, that particular lectures are
given on the subject.
The men, so long as they wear the native dress, are dark,
pleasant-looking little men; but when you see them, as you frequently
do now, with a kimono surmounted by a brown or black pot-hat, a solar
topee, or even a tweed stalking-cap, they are positively evil and
unpleasant to look at.
Viscount Okabé, so long Minister in London, took us for a drive in the
afternoon, and then we had time, before a pleasant dinner with Mr. and
Mrs. Fraser at the British Legation, to go to the Theatre.
The corridor is covered with piles of sandles and umbrellas, whilst
from the adjoining kitchens come savoury and nauseous smells. The floor
of the Theatre slopes upwards from the stage, and is divided into
square compartments, neatly matted, and intended for family boxes. The
galleries are divided in the same way. And here groups of ladies and
gentlemen are encamped for the whole day, for a Japanese theatre begins
at 9 a.m. and lasts for ten hours; nor is this all, for the same piece
may be continued from day to day, and last for six weeks. It is now
five in the afternoon, and yet the audience maintain a deep interest
and breathless gaze on the stage.
This is the outline of the story. The lank, die-away lady we see
trailing across the stage has retired to a wood, with a rill of crystal
water, to live in a temple, there, to mourn the death of her father
in a war. The young man who was (unknown to her) his murderer, passes
casually along and she falls in love with him. This love-making, in
the drawling nasal accents, and its tediously slow movements, is most
unreal, and as they drink the loving cup of saké together, the father's
disapproving spirit, in a rushing flame of fire, blazes up from the
temple. Darkness drowns the applause, and warriors rush on the scene
and begin to fight the maiden, who mesmerizes them, until one by one
they fall at her feet.
The orchestra is represented by five musicians, perched up on a rock. I
may say at once that, artistic as is the nature of the Japanese, their
idea of music is absolutely _nil_. It consists of a series of grunts
and groans, or of nasal notes in a bass key, or of falsetto in a high
one.
But the interest lies to us in the audience, who, in the interval of
twenty minutes, eat their evening meal. Some have brought their food
with them, and nearly all their own china tea-pots, for a constant
supply of tea. Others buy theirs, and are provided with a succession
of little wooden bowls piled on each other, and for which they have to
pay the usual theatre price of ten cents, or double the ordinary one.
In each box there is a hibachi, or china bowl full of hot ashes, where
they light their pipes, for men and women are continually smoking, and
their pipes have the smallest bowl, the size of a thimble--two whiffs
and it is empty again; but it is sufficient for their modest wants.
_September 26th._--I am writing in the most delightful real Japanese
house, far away in the midst of these beautiful mountains of Nikko.
The thin wooden frame of the house is covered with luminous parchment
paper, and these are the walls that divide us from the outside world.
They are not permanent ones, for they slide back one behind the other,
a succession of paper screens, until the house is open to the street
and there is only the shell of a habitation left in the roof, and one
paper wall behind. The second-floor storey (if there is one) is marked
by a long balcony running completely round, and here in cupboards at
either end are kept the wooden shutters that slide into grooves and
close in the balconies, in winter and at night, and give to all the
houses the dull appearance of a blank wooden wall at sundown. Inside,
the roof and floors are of white wood, and the latter is covered
with spotless matting; but I am glad to say that there are European
concessions here, in the shape of a table, chair, and washstand and
bed, on which is laid a clean starched kimono to go to the bath in. In
a Japanese house we should find no furniture at all. Their rooms are
absolutely bare; they eat, sit and sleep on the floor, and from out of
a cupboard in a recess will come the "futons," or thick wadded quilts,
and the square piece of wood with a hollow for the neck, where a soft
wad of paper is inserted, and which is used for a pillow by the ladies
to save their elaborate headdress from getting deranged. As they cannot
dress their hair themselves, it is only done occasionally, and must
thus be considered even when sleeping.
The construction of these houses is so delightfully simple, for,
excepting the polished ladder which leads upstairs, there is no plan of
the rooms. They are made larger or smaller, more or less, according to
the want of the hour, by means of those successions of sliding screens,
and a little pushing and sliding will make the large room you are
using, into five or six smaller ones in a second. These tea-houses are
charming in their compact simplicity, their faultless cleanliness, and
particular neatness.
It was at four o'clock this afternoon that we arrived at Nikko, and
drove from the station through the end of the great cryptomeria avenue,
past the village, until the jinrikisha was suddenly shot round a
corner, down a narrow passage, and stopped at the courtyard step of the
Suzuki Hotel. Here quite a little crowd of bowing attendants received
us with many deep salaams, and sucking-in of breath; one relieved me of
an umbrella, another of a cloak, and another of a book, and went before
us, encouraging us with graceful gesticulations and faces wreathed in
smiles to enter the house, impressing us in an indescribably charming
manner that we were showing them but too much honour in doing so. Of
course we drank tea--it is the first ceremony on entering any Japanese
house; and then came the second one--the solemn ceremony of the bath.
Bathing is the passion and pastime of the Japanese, and they bathe
as often as two or three times a day. In all towns there are public
baths, where, in the evening, the population meet to gossip and take a
bath for the modest price of two cents. Not long ago men and women in
a state of nature bathed together, but Government has forbidden this
now. However, we visited one where a wall separated the bath, but still
left the entrance to both open to the public view. In villages there
will be a tub or barrel outside every door, and one evening we saw a
man preparing his bath, with a fire kindling under the zinc bottom of
his tub. They take their baths as hot as 110° Fahrenheit, and for some
unexplained reason foreigners find that cold or lukewarm baths are
unsuited to the climate, and adopt the native temperature. The rule at
hotels is that the first arrival is entitled to the first use of the
bath.
To take up the thread of the story, we left Tokio at eleven this
morning, the Foreign Office sending a carriage to take us to Ueno
station.
Through groves of cryptomeria, maple, fir, willow, wild cherry and
Spanish chestnuts we travel. Past great clumps of bamboo, which to see
only is to be able to picture the mighty growth of their graceful,
feathery foliage; by picturesque villages, with their angular brown
thatched roofs crowding low down over their mud-wattled walls, nestling
amongst banyon groves interspersed with persimmon trees, bare of leaves
but laden with bunches of golden fruit. Then we emerge on to the open
country, where the cultivation is so exquisitely neat that it resembles
a succession of kitchen gardens. There are no hedges, and no grass, but
the whole land is taken up by small patches of onions, turnips, maize,
millet, sweet potatoes, and the broad caladium-like leaf of another
species of potatoes, whose English equivalent to the Japanese name I
failed to discover. These alternate with rice fields, where the bright
yellow tells of the ripening and bursting of the grain. The soil is
rich and black, and labour is done by hand-spade, but the absence of
pasture strikes us. However, there are few cows or oxen, and no sheep,
numberless experiments failing to rear them; and the ponies live on
chopped straw, beans and the refuse of grain.
[Illustration: THE RED LACQUER BRIDGE, NIKKO.]
An hour before reaching Nikko we pass into the mountains. It is such a
picturesque, well-wooded range, this Nikko chain of mountains, and they
all bear that peculiar Japanese characteristic of rising straight out
of the plain, ending with sharp three-sided cones, and like all else in
this country, though lofty, they are on a small scale, toy mountains
that seem to fit in with the miniature picture.
We had time after our arrival at Nikko, and before dusk, to pass
through the village, across the wonderful red lacquer bridge, and
following a grass path to come to a Waterfall. On the rock opposite is
inscribed the word Hammôn, and the legend goes, that as no one could,
as we see, possibly cross the fall to write it, an artist threw his pen
at the rock and it inscribed this Sanskrit word. And now in the growing
twilight we pass along under the shadow of a row of mutilated grey
idols, each squatted on his pedestal with crossed hands, looking over
the stream. I counted 120 figures, but no two people have ever been
known to make the same number. At the head of this solemn avenue of
gods there is a larger one facing the others. They are supposed to be
the Judges before whom the spirits of the departed pass, and are judged
whether they shall go to heaven or hell; and hence they are covered
with many paper labels, the prayers of relatives for the deceased, that
grace may be granted them by the gods. It is a solemn tribunal, with
its presiding judge, and each face is different in expression, and
yet they are such mobile, expressionless faces, as if to represent a
dispassionate and unbiassed judgment.
After dinner we adjourned into an empty room, when a man appeared
with a card, and before we could look round the whole room was full
of merchants producing out of their cotton bundles, beautiful carved
ivories, bronzes, silver, china, lacquer, and furs, for Nikko produces
excellent ones. They are so persuasive, and ingratiate their wares all
round into your hands, that it is with difficulty we escape; and making
our airy chambers a little less so by having the shutters run out of
their cupboard, we are soothed to sleep by the wailing sounds of the
samisen, that comes from the brightly-lighted little tea-house on the
opposite hill.
It is amusing the next morning to dress with the wall of the room
thrown back, and to hear the constant shuffle of sandals, or the
clatter of the clogs as these little men and women in their flapping
draperies cross the yard; and this courtyard is so characteristic. It
is but a few square feet in dimensions, yet there is a dragon-shaped
fir-tree in the centre, whose outstretched arms are supported by bamboo
poles, which form a little arbour with a seat in it; then there is a
stone lantern and a bronze stork, a lamp-post and a wandering paved
pathway, that gives a great idea of distance.
We go directly after breakfast to the Temples to see the tombs of
the Shoguns. They are three hundred years old, and as beautiful as
carving, colour and design can make them. We ascend up a winding
flight of stone steps through the gloom of a magnificent avenue of
cryptomerias. They are tremendously tall, impressive trees, with
their moss-grown trunks and stems, and these steps wind through their
midst, a fit leading up to the great mausoleums. Passing the courts
of a monastery, we are first shown a Buddhist temple where, hidden
behind the silk-bound bamboo blinds, there are three colossal gold
Buddhas seated cross-legged on lotus leaves. In the mysterious gloom,
they look solemnly and indifferently into space. On the platform by
this temple there is suspended a big bronze bell, which is sounded by
a pole propelled against the side. As we stand there it gives forth
its sonorous musical toll, and at every hour of the day its sweet and
solemn note echoes over the valley. Then, seated in a semicircle, the
priests of Buddha begin to chant the morning orisons, droning in a
nasal tone, and with the accompanying tom-tom of a drum. We leave them
to pass on to the tomb of the great warrior Shogun, Yeyásu.
The wide road, bordered by those walls of mortarless blocks of
stone, leads up to the flight of steps and an elaborate Sammon or
gateway, the entrance to the first temple. There are a number of
wooden tablets outside, on which are inscribed the names of the
subscribers to the fabric of the temple. The inner court is full of
interest, for you must imagine that all the buildings it contains are
covered with decorations and paintings. One of the storehouses where
pictures, furniture, and other articles belonging to Yeyásu are kept,
has carvings in relief of elephants, in which the joints of the hind
legs are turned in the wrong direction. There is the tree which the
Shogun carried about in his palanquin with him when it was still small
enough to travel in a flowerpot, and the stable for the sacred white
pony, kept for the use of the god; over which is a very clever group of
three monkeys, representing the three countries of India, China, and
Japan. One monkey shows he is blind by covering his eyes with his hand,
another deaf by stopping his ears, and a third dumb by closing his
mouth. The one signifies that you must see no evil; the other that you
must hear no evil; the last that you must speak no evil.
[Illustration: PAGODA OF THE TEMPLE AT NIKKO.]
The water cistern, hung round as is usual in these temples with
coloured rags, is formed of a single block of granite, so evenly cut
that the water flowing over it is a glassy, imperceptible surface.
Next to it is a library, where through the grating we see a revolving
book-case made of lacquer with gilt columns, containing a complete
collection of the Buddhist scriptures.
And now we come to the exquisitely beautiful gate of the Yomeimon,
with its graceful arabesques founded upon the peony pattern, its
niches and columns, its golden clawed dragons and groups of Chinese
sages, which leads into the inner court of the temple. Surrounded by
open trellis-work screens, we pass up several flights of steps, and
take off our boots by the huge bronze money-box waiting for offerings.
The interior is filled with a dim light, but you are in the midst of
a place so rich in subdued soft colour, so embroidered in elaborate
designs and harmonizing tones, that it is some minutes before you can
at all appreciate the full beauty. The ceiling is formed of squares
divided by ribs of black lacquer and enamelled in peacock blue and
green; there are gilt carved screens, where perch birds of paradise,
doves, parrots, ducks, peacocks; others where the asarum or peony, the
royal flower, the lily, and the lotus, are carved in high relief. And
the ante-chambers on either side are equally perfect; in one there is a
carved and painted ceiling with an angel surrounded by a chrysanthemum,
and some boldly executed eagles; in another, pictures of unicorns on a
gold ground, and some phœnixes.
[Illustration: Mausoleum of Yeyásu.]
In an adjoining temple a woman in scarlet and white draperies
performed a sacred dance. It is a slow and graceful movement; the bells
in her hand keep rhythmical time, while she amuses and charms away the
evil spirit from the dead Shogun. We have now a long pilgrimage to
perform, up to the platform on high, where rests the body of Yeyásu.
The ancient stone stairs, the balustrade and columns, are clothed
in the most vivid green moss, whilst the cryptomerias form a dark
archway above. There is complete silence around. The place is damp and
deserted. We might, from their moss-grown appearance, be the first to
tread these steps for a thousand years, and slowly mounting them, we
feel we are breaking the spell that has hung over them, as we find
ourselves on the stone terrace at the top. Here there is a praying
temple, and we pass round to the tomb at the back. It is a simple
bronze urn, shaped like a small pagoda, with a stone table in front, on
which is placed a bronze stork with a candle in its mouth, an incense
burner, and a vase of artificial lotus flowers. Such is the end of all
greatness.
Returning home, we took jinrikishas for the mountain expedition to
Lake Chữzenji. For some miles we travel by the side of the river's
bed and between the mountains, meeting many pack-ponies laden with
merchandise, shod like the men with straw sandals. It looks rainy, and
the men have donned their waterproof coats, and these consist of a
straw mantle formed like a thatch; when you see a fisherman standing
in the water with his legs immersed, and only this thatch above, it
produces the most comical effect of a floating haystack. As we begin
climbing the mountain road, we see many strange and beautiful new
shrubs, flowers, and trailing creepers growing amongst the rocks. Soon
a tea-house comes in sight, with the front entirely open, and pretty
sliding screens of blue paper. Cushions are placed on the floor and
tea brought by a welcome-smiling damsel. It is pale, straw-coloured
tea made from the young undried shoot of the tea-plant, and it is not
allowed to infuse, but is poured straight into the tiny handleless
cups, with two or three leaves at the bottom, and served on a lacquer
tray with pink and white sweetmeats. But how artistic is the design
on the common bronze kettle hanging over the open fire in the centre
of the room, and kept always boiling for tea to be quickly made; how
delicate the pale blue colour of the thin eggshell cups, with the spray
of cherry blossom. It is one of the many charms of Japan, that art is
brought to use in all the appurtenances of daily life.
The ascent to Chữzenji, right into the heart of the mountains, is
perfectly lovely. I have never seen grander or more charming scenery.
When we rest for a minute at one of the many tea-houses, there is such
a splendid view of two cascades flowing down a rocky precipice. It
is the meeting-place of several valleys, and the joining of several
mountain spurs, and there is an open park-like space, which looks so
green and smiling amid these rugged fastnesses. There is a movement
in those bushes in the valley! It is a troop of monkeys jumping from
branch to branch; for Japan is a strange mixture of tropical and hardy
growths. You find the flowers and plants of north latitudes growing
beside the palms and fruits of the tropics. The ascent becomes more
and more trying, though this good, new road was hurried over, to be
finished for the visit of the Czarewitch last year, which never took
place, owing to his attempted assassination by a fanatic near Kyoto.
Clouds came down as we reached the pretty fall at the summit, so we
only heard its roar, dulled by the thick mist; but they cleared away
again, as we came to the shores of the lake, 4375 feet above the sea.
The deserted houses in the village are used by the pilgrims who come
here in August. We rested on the balcony of a tea-house overhanging the
lake, and then the descent was accomplished in one unbroken run, one
coolie acting as a drag behind, whilst the other in the shafts steadied
the jinrikisha round the sharp curves.
_September 28th._--We spent a long morning amongst the Tombs again,
and we shall carry away with us such a vision of picturesquely pointed
black roofs, outlined in gold and red, and graceful bamboo groves, of
moss-grown flights of steps under the shadow of stately avenues of
cryptomerias, of ancient stone walls with a vista leading to massive
torii. We shall dream of the many solemn rows of stone lanterns, of
gateways bright with rainbow hues and guarded by dragon monsters, of
the bronze urns hidden away up on those quiet nooks in the mountains,
and above all of the enchanted atmosphere, the deep stillness, the
solemn peace that rests over these shrines of the dead.
We waited on the steps of the temple to hear the big bronze bell slowly
send out its voice once more at midday across the valley, and then came
home.
On our return journey to Tokio in the afternoon we took jinrikishas to
Imaicho, the station beyond Nikko, so as to drive five miles through
the magnificent cryptomeria grove that runs parallel with the railway.
The avenue extends for fifty miles, and was used by the envoy of the
Mikado when he sent to offer presents at the tomb of Yeyásu. These
cryptomerias are grand trees, with their stately trunks shooting up in
regular lines, whilst their long branches only grow from their summits,
and intertwining make a dim twilight below.
On arriving at Tokio, we had a drive through the fairyland of its
glimmering streets.