A FANTASY OF FAR JAPAN
OR
SUMMER DREAM DIALOGUES
By
BARON SUYEMATSU
AUTHOR OF 'THE RISEN SUN'
London
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY, LTD.
1905
LE SAMURAI
C'était un homme à deux sabres.
D'un doigt distrait frôlant la sonore bîva,
A travers les bambous tressés en fine latte,
Elle a vu, par la plage éblouissante et plate,
S'avancer le vainqueur que son amour rêva.
C'est lui. Sabres au flanc, l'éventail haut, il va.
La cordelière rouge et le gland écarlate
Coupent l'armure sombre, et, sur l'épaule, éclate
Le blason de Hizen et de Tokugawa.
Ce beau guerrier vêtu de lames et de plaques
Sous le bronze, la soie et les brillantes laques
Semble un crustacé noir, gigantesque et vermeil.
Il l'a vue. Il sourit dans la barbe du masque,
Et son pas plus hâtif fait reluire au soleil
Les deux antennes d'or qui tremblent à son casque.
JOSÉ-MARIA DE HEREDIA.
PREFACE
In the following pages I have depicted certain Japanese ideals and notions, as well as some historical facts which seemed likely to interest those of the sympathetic Western public who may be inclined to study the mental side of Japan.
The dialogues are founded upon actual conversations, not indeed always in exactly the same phraseology, nor under exactly the same circumstances, but something very like. The questions put into the mouths of the characters in the book are the kind of questions which are being constantly put to me, and my answers are always on the same lines; so that my readers may regard the book as a serious treatise so far as the materials are concerned. This is the reason why I have written this book in a light, conversational style, and not in the form of an ordinary critical or expository treatise. Besides, I thought that more lucidity of exposition and more penetration into the inner views could be achieved by writing in the way I have done.
The period to which these conversations relate is chiefly the summer of the present year, 1905, and the greater part of this book was written before peace was concluded, and therefore there may be occasionally some dicta which sound somewhat polemic. On that point I can request my readers to show leniency.
I have appended to the dialogues a few papers on various subjects. They deal with subjects germane to those treated in the body of the work, and it is hoped that they will afford the reader first aid in acquiring information relative to the analysis of Japanese social life which has here, however imperfectly, been attempted.
I may add a few words. In publishing this volume, I am not in the least degree actuated by a desire to exalt my country unduly,—still less to boast about her achievements. My sole object has been to show Japan as she is, and to claim Occidental sympathy to such a degree as she may deserve.
K.S.
CONTENTS
[I]
The issue of the war—Some Forecasts—English and French papers—Political situation in the summer of 1905 —Beaconsfield—Japanese fictions and their plots—Some similarities between the customs of Greece, Rome, and Japan—Love stories—A Japanese love tale—Custom of adoption—Jane Eyre and Japan—Japanese art —Japanese gardening—Full description of marriage ceremonies—Preliminary inquiries—Description of the rooms, and decorations—Butterflies—The banquet—Wedding presents—Position of the women in Japan—Japanese mothers and wives—A Samurai mother illustrated by a drama—Lays of Ancient Rome and Commandant Hirosé—Japanese notions of pardon and forgiving—Trip to Japan.
[II]
Greek inspiration—Semitic sympathy—Religion—Difference between Japanese and European chivalry—What is the Bushi?—The weakest point of a hereditary military organisation—Introduction of the new system—New commoners and the history of their emancipation—Combination of democratic ideas and conservative traditions—Old bottles and new wine—The Great Change of 1867—Napoleon—Negligence of a proper estimation—Scenery of Japan—-History of Tokio—European and Japanese method of dwelling—President Roosevelt and jiujitsu.
[III]
Japanese art and the West—Night-fêtes—Sale of flowers and plants—Singing Insects—A discussion on the moon, flowers, snow, etc.—Music of snow and rain—Lines on hailstones—A particular evening for lunar perspective—A blind scholar and his wife—The deaf, dumb, and blind of Japan—The calendar and its radical change in Japan—Calumnies on Japan, and an anonymous letter—Japanese ways of counting ages—The question of women and a lady's opinion on Japanese women—Lafcadio Hearn—Japanese names—Difficulty of distinguishing between 'L' and 'R'—Discussion on pronunciation—London and Tokio patois—Japanese nobility and the method of addressing nobility—Books on Japan—Once more on Lafcadio Hearn—Discussion on women's education—The Risen Sun.
[IV]
A talk on brackens—Eating of fruits without peeling—A pet tortoise—Remarks on languages—Discourses on jiujitsu—Comparison of jiujitsu and wrestling—Japanese art and the Kokkwa—Pictures in the Gospel—Discourse on Bushido, its history and the origin of the term—Explanation of the terms Daimio, Samurai, and Bushi—Its literature—Japanese revenge and European duel—Japanese sword—Soul of Samurai—General Stoessel and a broken sword—Discussion on Japanese social morality—Japan far cleaner than any other nation—The condition at the time of the transition—General view of the westernised Japan—Occidental vulgarity.
[V]
Some observations fit on peace prospects—Discussion on Anglo-French-Russo-Japanese entente—Russian views of the Japanese—Discussion on religion and Japan—Japan and the International Conventions—The meaning of religion—General Nogi—A high-priest on Japan and Russia—The Japanese conception of death—A quotation from an old book on Bushido—The notion of the name—Further remarks on the Russian views of the Japanese—England and America—The outbreak of the war—A wanton project of the Russian admiral restrained by the French admiral—Discussion on the Yellow Peril and Pan-Asiatic ambition—Japan not a small country—French poor in the caves—Paris by night—Sir Stamford Raffles and his appreciation of Japan ninety years ago —Patriotism and France—La France, c'est le pays de mon cœur—A romantic and tragical story—Discussion on Socialism and Japan—England and America—Discussion on the word 'Revolution'—The Great Change of Japan in 1867—Its political and social effects—A comparison with the French Revolution—Discussion on unity and continuity of authority—An anonymous pamphlet—Discussion on the relative position of the French Nationalists and Socialists with regard to Japan—French thrift.
[VI]
The age of the Japanese—Ito and Inouyé—Intermarriages—Commander Hirosé—Some abuse of the Japanese nationality—The climate of Japan—Chrysanthemums—Japanese rain—The two great currents—How Japan developed—Summer resorts of foreigners—Spring and autumn—Picnics—Sports—A letter by an American—Pastimes of the Japanese gentry—Description of the Japanese chess and the game of 'Go'—Description of Japanese cards—Poem cards—Flower cards—Pierre Loti—Public baths—An interview on common and military education in Japan—George Washington and Nelson—The cause of Russian defeats according to the wounded.
[VII]
Some talk on superstition—A remark on earrings—Japanese troops after the war; no fear of Chauvinism—Generals and officers—How the system of the hereditary military service was abolished and the new system was introduced—Its history—Japan after the war—Views given to the American press—Mr. Seppings-Wright and his views on the Japanese character—The Japanese navy and its history—Origin of the shipbuilding yards—The difficulty of a thorough reform in China and Russia—How Japan managed to bring about the consummation of the great reform—The feudal system was a great help—Explanation of the Japanese feudal system and the clans—The re-shuffling of the feudatories under the Tokugawa régime—Difference of grandeur of the feudatories—Exceptional formation of the Satsuma clan—Financial system of the Shogunate—Finance of the Imperial Government at the beginning of the Great Change—How the affairs of the governments of the feudatories were wound up—The old system of taxation—Thorough reform—The old notion of land tenure.
[VIII]
Commerce and industry—Old methods of communication—Roads and ships—How they have been improved—Railways, post, telegraphs, and telephones—Progress of the financial system—The Satsuma war—The Bank of Japan—The National banks—The monetary system one of the causes of Japan's success—Further remarks on the military reforms—Evolution of the mode of fighting—All reforms at much cost of blood and money—The cause of the Satsuma war—Saigo the Elder—Social condition of Japan to-day—Evolution of legislation—Chinese jurisprudence—The Japanese are not good correspondents—My future—An operatic singer—Japanese stages—Danjiuro and Irving—The old school and the new one—Kawakami and Sada Yakko—The opera Maritana—The end of the dream.
APPENDICES
[I.] Political Organism of Japan.
[II.] Japanese Education.
[III.] Anglo-French Diplomacy in Japan Forty Years ago.
[IV.] Sketches of some chief Figures of Actual Japan (Ito, Yamagata, Inouyé, Matsukata, Katsura, Okuma, Saionji).
[V.] An old Speech by Marquis Ito.
[VI.] The Commercial Morality of the Japanese.
[VII.] Japan and Foreign Capital.
[VIII.] The Languages of China and Japan.
[IX.] Once more on Japan and France.
[X.] Japan and Europe.
[XI.] The Indo-China Question.
[XII.] The Australian Question.
[XIII.] The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and America.
[Notes to Dialogues V. and VIII.], and to the [Paper on 'Commercial Morality].'
A FANTASY OF FAR JAPAN:
SUMMER DREAM DIALOGUES
I
The issue of the war—Some Forecasts—English and French papers—Political situation in the summer of 1905—Beaconsfield—Japanese fictions and their plots—Some similarities between the customs of Greece, Rome, and Japan—Love stories—A Japanese love tale—Custom of adoption—Jane Eyre and Japan—Japanese art—Japanese gardening—Full description of marriage ceremonies—Preliminary inquiries—Description of the rooms, and decorations—Butterflies—The banquet—Wedding presents—Position of the women in Japan—Japanese mothers and wives—A Samurai mother illustrated by a drama—Lays of Ancient Rome and Commandant Hirosé—Japanese notions of pardon and forgiving—Trip to Japan
It was a cool summer afternoon in a quiet hotel in a quiet part of Paris. I threw myself lazily into an easy-chair on the balcony and began reading Le Journal. I was somewhat tired and soon felt myself drowsily wandering into dreamland as the breeze lulled me soothingly. I felt myself, as it were, wafted through the air. Soon I found myself in the company of a friend of mine and his wife, though I do not know how all that came about. We passed together through the Bois de Boulogne, now amidst tall, green forests, now along the turfy shores of mirror-like lakes. We arrived at last before the entrance of a large house. It was the residence of the Duke of Fairfield. His wife, the Duchess of Fairfield, is a star in Parisian society and a great hostess. Her salon is periodically filled with politicians, savants, great artists, and the most fashionable ladies and belles of the day. Her forte is politics, and indeed she is no mean politician in her way. It was in that lady's drawing-room that we in no time found ourselves.
—'I am so glad that you were able to come here to-day,' said the duchess. 'I was very anxious to make your acquaintance, and so asked your friend to bring you. I have known you long by "interviews" and articles. We all read them with delight. They are read on the Continent far more than you imagine.'
—'Don't mention it, madam,' said I. 'It is a great honour, I feel, to have access here. As to my articles, I am highly flattered to hear they have any interest for you.'
There were already many people in the salon. I was naturally introduced to some of the ladies and gentlemen present. In a few moments I found myself talking with the duchess on some questions of the day.
—She said, 'Some people foresaw, even before the war had began, what the issue would be. General Penetrator, for instance, I learned a good deal from him,—and also from my own observations.'
—'May I add,' said I, 'General Foresight also? I have heard some incidents about him quite lately. But I am glad to see you take so much interest in our affairs.'
—'No!' said the duchess, 'they are not exclusively your affairs. We are also much concerned in the matter, as you know. But let us stop a moment. Baron,—won't you have a cup of tea? Do take one.'
—'If you please.'
The duchess had already risen and was proceeding towards a table where the tea was laid out. I stood up also and followed her, saying, 'Allow me, madam, I will help myself, I'm troubling you too much'; but the duchess taking no notice of my words prepared a cup of tea and gave it to me where I stood; she was assisted by one of her daughters who offered me some cakes. I noticed that the tea was poured out of a pot made in the shape of a beautiful waterfowl, its beak forming the spout.
—'It is very artistic,' I said, pointing to the tea-pot.
—'It is Japanese ware,' said the duchess. 'This kind of ware is, I suppose, only made for the foreign markets, and not used in Japan, and so probably you have not seen it before. We think it rather nice. You see our taste has little depth.'
—'Well! madam, I must apologise to you for carelessly expressing approbation of an article coming from my own country. I would not have done so if I had carefully examined it and had made sure that it was Japanese, but it certainly looks charming.'
We sat down again and resumed our conversation.
—'Do you read our papers much?' said the duchess.
—'Not much, madam, only those parts which interest me particularly—the war, for instance.'
—'Then you speak French, of course,' said she.
—'Only a very, very little, madam, and unless spoken very slowly, I do not understand at all,' I replied. 'People in society generally do not care to take that trouble.'
—'Very true, indeed,' she said, 'one often forgets that one is speaking to a foreigner while actually doing so. But what do you think of our papers?'
—'They seem generally good,' I answered, 'though not perhaps as good as those of England, for there, far more money is spent in obtaining good items of news from all parts of the world. But this is too trite, I think, to speak to you about.'
—'I am sorry for it,' she said, 'but I must say that most of our journals appear not to have done sufficient justice to your country, in regard to the present war.'
—'To be frank, madam, I must say that they generally were not quite fair. I am afraid they have done more harm than good to the country which they meant to befriend, for if they had not given so much encouragement to that country, much misfortune which has overtaken it might have been evaded or at least lessened. It may have been only due to a pacing mistake. The press is much better now, and is beginning to represent more truthfully the sentiment of the people, I think.'
—'It is very true,' she said; 'at the same time, I must say that the aggressive attitude of that country could not have been created by our journals, however partial they may have been. In that respect, there may be another country which is more responsible.'
All the while other guests and members of the house were carrying on conversation in a very lively manner, in twos, threes, or fours.
—'But, baron, what do you think of the present political situation?' she said. 'What is the real sentiment of England?'
—'You must know such things better than I. To me, however, it seems England is perfectly sincere in her good wishes towards France. She has no arrière pensée.'
—'But some people say she wants war with our neighbour,' said she.
—'No! decidedly not,' I said. 'I know there are many people in England who have no confidence in German policy; but "want war," "provoke war," decidedly not!'
—'That's my opinion too,' said she quickly.
Hereupon a few gentlemen joined in our discussion. We went over the international situation of the day from many points, with many hypotheses and conjectures. We thought the discussion both interesting and beneficial; the trend of the conversation naturally turned upon the bearing of the international relationship in the Far East. A rumour recently circulated was mentioned by one of those present, to the effect that German policy was to draw France into some sort of 'combination' similar to that which took place after the Sino-Japanese war. A gentleman who is senator and an ex-minister said that it was, of course, necessary to watch what the Premier was going to do, but that he trusted the Premier would not be so imprudent. If ever, he added, he were to be drawn into such an unjust and imprudent action, he would at once revolt all statesmen, indeed all the French public, and, moreover, the rumour was more likely unfounded than true. To this opinion all present expressed an assent.
At this point some more visitors arrived, and the duchess left us to welcome them. I also rose, and slowly went into the next room, which was the study of the duke, but its sliding door was opened and formed with the drawing-room one long salon. The other daughter—the duchess has two daughters only, and no sons—was there, together with a few young folk. She observed me at once, and we were soon talking together. There was a book lying on a table beside us. Opening it at random, a picture of a warrior appeared before us.
—'It is Condé,' she said.
—'Yes, so I see,' I replied; 'he was a great general. I admire him very much. His splendid career, which I read many years ago in history, is still vividly impressed on my memory!'
—'And Jeanne d'Arc too, I suppose,' she said.
—'Of course, mademoiselle.'
—'Women sometimes do fine things, don't they! but Japan is a country of heroes and heroines.'
—'I dare say, but Jeanne d'Arc especially appeals to one's imagination.'
—'I admire your Bushido so much,' said she.
—'Do you? I am glad to hear you say so.'
Looking up, my eyes caught sight of many pictures hanging on the walls: for the most part they seemed family portraits, and most of them men in military uniform. I was tempted to make some observations, and unconsciously stood up to approach nearer to them. She followed my example and walked by my side. Pointing to them, one after another, she told me this was her grandfather, that her great-grandfather, these were this one's sons or daughters, those that one's, etc. Amongst them, no doubt, there were some who had done noble service for their country; that fact was evident from the pedigree of her family. But, unlike ordinary people, she had neither the necessity nor desire to glorify her ancestors, but for my part I wished she had explained a little more of their history. Finally, she pointed out a picture as that of her mother, saying she did not like it, and that it did not resemble her.
—'Why not? One cannot expect a portrait to be like the original at every stage of life,' I remarked.
—'No! I did not mean exactly in that way,' she answered.
We were now at the end of the room leading on to a balcony. We stepped on to it. I leaned on the railing; she stood not far off from me. The garden was not very large, but neat and clean. Now I looked down at the garden, now I turned towards Lady Modestina, which is her Christian name, exchanging some remarks about flowers and trees. Her sister now joined us coming forth from the drawing-room. Dulciana is her name. Our conversation somehow or other turned on works of fiction.
—'Do you read fiction much, baron?' asked Lady Dulciana.
—'No; not much. But I have read nearly all Beaconsfield.'
—'I understand,' said she, 'his books are always full of spirit and aspiration. Incidents d'amour are only secondary, and that suits your taste, I suppose—I mean, your countrymen in general.'
—'Just so, the majority of our works of fiction are stories of heroic characters—stories of the Alroy type, perhaps, with a little more definite morals, and something more of loyalty or patriotism.'
—'I can understand that, too, from what I have heard and seen of late,' said she.
—'But have you not in your country,' interposed Lady Modestina, 'any works of fiction solely based on romantic incidents? Western fictions are, I am afraid, too full of such.'
—'Well, we also have one kind of literature which may be called "love stories." They are mostly written in an easy style, more for the less educated portion of the public.'
—'Are they read much?' she asked.
—'Not very much,' I answered; 'with us those books do not hold a high position.'
—'And the plots. What are they like?' she asked.
—'Perhaps you know,' I answered, 'we have had certain customs which resembled those of Greece and Rome. Consequently the plots of such books, like the Greek and Roman comedies, are much influenced by those customs and do not suit the tastes of modern refinement.'
—'Am I too curious if I ask the nature of those customs and manners?'
—'Oh no! In Greece and Rome there was, perhaps you know, a certain class of females called Hetaira, also a class of males called parasites. They mixed pretty freely with men of good standing, and, of course, are not to be judged by the same standard as the disreputable of modern days. In Japan, also, there existed an almost identical class. I am referring to those females known to the occidental races by the name of Geishas, and the men we call Taiko-Mochi, i.e. 'tam-bour,' though the latter were comparatively few in number. The chief profession of the Geisha was music. Indeed, the books I have just referred to are peopled with this class. Novelists in those days were never recognised as legitimate literati, and were quite content to be associated with the so-called town people, and to write chiefly about their surroundings. The very condition of the higher classes supplied but few subjects for romance, and the altered social conditions of present-day Japan clearly shows the reason why their works do not suit the modern taste.'
—'I suppose that sort of people, I mean the class resembling those of Greece and Rome, exists no more.'
—'Yes, they still exist. The modern Geisha, as a rule, are the same in kind, but not in quality. In the days gone by, that is, during the feudal period, social discipline was very rigid, and the occasional adventures of those people were regarded as good subjects for Romancers, whilst the modern ones are far too degraded—they have either no romance, or too much, to be made the subject of romance. Excuse my telling you such things, I only do so from a sociological point of view.'
—'Science will cry out, if you make use of her name in such a place.'
—'Never mind, but listen! The fiction written in the new era differs, widely differs, in the selection of subjects, from that of the old. Only remember! Even those books, I mean the old love stories, portrayed a great deal of female chivalry and heroism. Indeed, a spirit of chivalry was the forte of the period. I can tell you, if you like, one plot which I recollect.'
—'Do, please.'
—'There was a young Samurai, X., and a maiden, Y., who loved each other. They were not decreed by fate to marry. X., the young Samurai, was the second son of his father, and, therefore, not the heir. He was adopted by another Samurai, and eventually marries Z., the daughter of the house. Now, in Japan adoption is, as it was with the Romans, a common custom; it was more so in days gone by. This was natural enough because, apart from other reasons, every Samurai was a retainer of a feudal lord from whom he received a certain allowance annually for his services, and his family depended upon him. In default of a male heir, the house, in other words the family, lost every privilege and emolument. The succession, however, could be made good by an heir, adopted from a blood relation, or even from a totally strange family. On the other hand, the second or third son of a Samurai had no legal status as a Samurai, and was vulgarly called "Cold Rice Meals" or "Back Room Resident." Personal service of a Samurai house to its lord was only required of its head. Succession of Samurai—the title as well as emolument—was according to primogeniture, and, therefore, a second or third son could scarcely get a livelihood, unless adopted by another Samurai, or unless a totally different kind of profession be adopted, or else he was made, by some lord, head of a new Samurai house, by virtue of some well-merited distinction, which was a matter of rare occurrence. Well, X. was adopted by the family of Z., his future wife according to that custom.
'Misfortune fell upon the family of Y., the maiden, and she became a Geisha, an actress, if you like, not from levity on her part, but from a sense of duty, which caused her to sacrifice herself to the occupation just mentioned—a sentiment which is unintelligible in the West. The story proceeds to narrate how X., the young Samurai, and Y., his former sweetheart, meet each other after a long lapse of time by pure accident, and how their love of days gone by revived in their hearts, especially from the pity which the young Samurai felt for her misfortune and her corresponding responsiveness. Further, how the young Samurai began to neglect his official duties and to incur the displeasure of the councillors of his lord, and was on the brink of becoming a Ronin—a masterless Samurai, the greatest shame of a Samurai, if incurred by his own dishonourable conduct.
'In those days, it must be remembered, the moral discipline of the Samurai was very rigid. The conduct of our young Samurai involved not only the ruin of himself but also the destruction of the family as a Samurai, a matter most lamentable to the house of a knight. At last Z., the despairing wife, takes the matter very seriously to heart, not so much from jealousy as from a sense of duty to her house and a desire to save her lord and husband from disgrace. She forms a bold plan, and personally visits her rival to obtain her confidence. She persuades her, not by any vulgar quarrel, but by serious reasoning and rational appeal, to put a stop to all connection with her husband. The rival assents and gives her promise. Then comes the climax. After a great struggle between love and reason, and hampered by several circumstances which made her unable to fulfil her promise, the rival puts an end to her own life, committing jigai, which is equivalent to Seppuku—vulgarly called Harakiri—in the case of a man, leaving some touching and well-meant letters behind her. What became of the young Samurai and his wife after that I scarcely need to relate here. Such, then, is the kind of plot we find in that class of books.'
While discoursing in this strain, a young lady—an English maiden—joined us.
—'Your plot seems not altogether like ours,' said the English lady. 'I dare say you have read some of our everyday novels?'
—'Well, I have read some, but it is now so many years ago that I do not remember them, with one exception, and that is Jane Eyre. Years ago I read some chapters of it, and those are enough. The general contents of those chapters remained ever in my memory. A little time ago I was staying at Folkestone. One gloomy afternoon, when I was intent over many things, that memory recurred to me all of a sudden. I went to a bookseller and bought a copy of the book: I read through once more some of the earlier chapters, and it created a great impression on me.'
—'What caused that impression, I should like to know?' interposed Lady Modestina.
—'Well, I cannot explain the reason very well,' I answered.
—'I can see it very well,' said the English lady; 'you are too proud to explain the reason,' Turning to the Ladies Modestina and Dulciana, she continued. 'Perhaps you have not read, or do not remember well, the story of our English novel. The story is this: Jane Eyre, a young girl, suffers every torture in the house of her uncle at the hands of young John Reed and his sisters, and indeed of Mrs. Reed also. You know Jane Eyre was the orphan child of a sister of Mr. Reed. He had taken her into his family in order to bring her up with his own children. He died some time after, enjoining his wife on his deathbed to look after her kindly. You see, therefore, though Jane Eyre was not properly a member of the family, some of the same blood ran in her veins as in theirs. In spite of that fact, and in spite of the injunction of Mr. Reed, her uncle, and, above all, in spite of all the modesty and good behaviour she showed, Jane was tormented by every member of the family. That is no doubt the point which has impressed the baron so much to think of——'
—'Perhaps,' I said smilingly.
—'Never mind, baron, Jane was of strong enough character to emerge from the trouble, and so will Japan, in spite of all the calumnies, if indeed she has not done so already.'
At this point a bustle was heard in another part of the room. Lady Modestina cast her eyes in that direction and said: 'Here comes a lady, a friend of ours, a star in our society, we think much of her—I must go to her.' And as she was moving away slowly, remarked to me, 'I will introduce you to her.' To which I replied, 'I shall be delighted.'
We went together towards the lady mentioned, to whom I was duly introduced. She was the Marchioness de Vivastine, and was extremely beautiful, looking far younger than her age must be, for I afterwards heard that she is the mother of a married daughter.
Her face was covered by a veil, but her round and brilliant eyes sparkled through it. Her beauty, however, was not the point of my appreciation, but her vivacity and frankness. I soon entered into conversation with her. She spoke fluently and unhesitatingly. We commenced to speak on art.
—'I admire Japanese art very highly: it is so natural and vivid, flowers and animals and what-not.'
—'May be, but our human figures are very bad,' said I.
—'Perhaps so,' said she, 'in the later productions, but not in antique works. I think there has been no nation which has produced such striking representation of nature as your country. Curiously enough, one sometimes notices very close representations of nature in the carvings or the inscriptions of very primitive tribes. Don't misunderstand me. I do not mean that yours are of that kind.'
—'You must be, madam, very well acquainted with our arts. Whence have you acquired that taste?'
—'From the time of the last Great Exhibition here, when your country sent so many valuable specimens of art.'
—'You must yourself be an artist. I can see it from your observations.'
—'Yes, she is an artist, although an amateur,' interposed Lady Modestina.
—'No, don't say that,' interrupted the marchioness.
—'I dare say you paint much,' said I.
—'No, not at all,' replied the marchioness, and continued as she laughed slightly, 'except, perhaps, that I used to paint occasionally my own portrait, of course after the style of the chef-d'œuvre of your "literary picture" in the faintest and lightest colours. By the way, I also like Japanese methods of gardening. I once had a Japanese gardener for three years at my country seat.'
—'Really,' said I, 'you interest me very much.'
—'He was very clever; far more so than any European, any Frenchman, in the same calling of life could ever possibly be.'
—'With us,' said I, 'it is very common. Every gardener understands the ordinary art of "garden-making," though, of course, there are only a few real experts. But let me tell you that it comes more from the general atmosphere and surroundings in which they grow up. There is nothing surprising in it to our eyes.'
—'May be. But to us it seems extraordinary. After three years, during which he served me very faithfully, I transferred him to a Frenchman, Mr. Canny by name.'
—'Is that so? I have seen his Japanese gardens.'
—'Then you know him?'
—'Yes, I first came to know him when he visited my country some years ago. The other day I made a great circuit round Paris in his motor: we left Paris by the Bois, then St. Cloud, Versailles, on to Fontainebleau, making a large circuit through Cagny, Surveilliers, Beaumont, Pointoise, thus reaching St. Germain, thence on to St Cloud and back to Paris by the same route. We must have travelled three or four hundred kilometres.'
—'Then you must have passed through the forests of Fontainebleau. Are not the trees and rocks there splendid?'
—'Yes, that is just what struck me very much, but I am most interested to hear that you appreciate the value of natural rocks. They are very important elements in our Japanese gardens.'
—'I cannot understand how so great a number of rocks could have been heaped up there in that peculiar way. Some people imagine that at one time they formed the bottom of the sea.'
—'Oh! but if so, it must have been a very long time ago. At all events, before we came into existence,' said I, laughing, and added, 'I should like to get a concession from the government to take those rocks, because the time will certainly come when they will be wanted for French gardens, and perhaps I could then become a millionaire.'
Thereupon we all broke out into laughter. The marchioness still continued to talk on different subjects. She had no affectation: she said boldly just what she thought with all the sparkle of her intelligence. I tried not to be overwhelmed by her eloquence, and the consequence was that we had a very heated discussion on the customs and manners of different countries. Reverting to Japan she said:
—'I hear one can marry for two months in Japan. Is that true?'
—'I beg your pardon?'
—'Well, that is what I have heard,' she said, 'from an acquaintance. He said that he himself had married when he was staying in Japan, having gone through the requisite wedding ceremony—partaking of saké cups with the bride.'
—'Well, madam,' I said, 'I must say it is possible. Nay, more than possible. I can go further and tell you that such things may occur even for much shorter times than that. But similar customs! Is it not the same all over the world?—even in Paris itself, I am afraid. However, I must say the nuptials of that particular kind are far less in number in my country than in most of the civilised countries.'
Thereupon she burst into great laughter, as also did the others, and she said:
—'I should like to hear something of your marriage ceremony. Is it a civil or religious one?'
—'Entirely civil, madam,' I replied. 'We hear now and then of people celebrating a religious marriage after the fashion of the West, but it is very rare, as rare as one or two stars in a cloudy sky.'
—'You seem to imitate the West in everything,' said she; 'but what I would like to know of is your national ceremony.'
—'Our marriage ceremony is a time-honoured one and entirely civil,' I said. 'There is always an officiating person or a witness or an assistant, if you like. He is the person who is responsible for the completion of a marriage. Generally he is the person who arranges the matter from the very beginning—I mean, from the time when the engagement is formally made between the parties and, therefore, he is called a Nakaodo, a middle-man, or a go-between, as you like. Even when all the preliminary arrangements have been made by a second person, and another person, for some reason, is preferred to officiate, the latter is called theoretically, or, as it were, officially, a Nakaodo, and he is considered as being responsible for all. A middle-man must be married, for his function must be shared by his wife, especially when the essential part of the ceremony is performed; besides, a bachelor or widower would never be considered a fit person for such an occasion. But do you mean to make me give you the whole history of a wedding?'
—'Of course! Your story is just beginning to be most interesting,' said she.
—'Very well! The ceremony is very elaborate and solemn, though the scale differs, or rather is magnified or simplified, according to circumstances. To begin with, when the engagement is formally made, certain presents called "Yuino" are at once exchanged simultaneously between the families of the bride and bridegroom elect—there are certain usages in the selection of these presents.'
—'What kind of things, for instance?' she asked.
—'A staff for ceremonial "onna-obi" (a sort of a broad sash for women) for the bride, and a staff for a ceremonial "hakama" (a sort of long kilt) and an "otoko-obi" (a sort of sash for men) for the bridegroom. They are invariably accompanied by "noshi" and "katsuo."'
—'What are they?'
—'They are things which you have not got in Europe. One made of seaweed and the other of dried fish meat, but it is waste of time to describe them, for you would hardly realise them if I did so. Suffice it to say that they are of little value intrinsically, but they are used in Japan to signify felicity. Remember, practical people sometimes substitute cash and a list of presents: the conventionality of the world is apt to take this form. These presents correspond to your giving an engagement ring, only ours are more solemn and, moreover, not one-sided.'
—'And what next?'
—'Pray be patient. There is no fixed usage as to the length of the interval between the engagement and wedding, but some months usually intervene. Nevertheless, we are not so patient, like many Occidentals, as to let it stand over for many years. When the time which is convenient for both parties approaches, the date is fixed, a selection being made of a day of happy omen, as is also the case when the engagement presents are made. You see, there exists more or less a sort of superstition in every country.'
—'Let us suppose that day arrived. What takes place then?'
—'Wedding ceremonies are generally performed in the evening and at the house of the bridegroom. But remember, here again a restaurant or some other place is sometimes substituted for the residence, if the latter is not suitable for the occasion.'
—'Naturally.'
—'All the paraphernalia and suchlike of the bride are sent to her future home some days previously. They are generally packed up in boxes in such a way that each box can be carried on the shoulders of two persons by poles. They are not packed and sent by carts, as when moving the place of one's residence. The escort and carriers receive good tips on arriving at their destination, so that those who happen to perform that duty are only too glad to do so. The quantity and quality of the articles thus sent, of course, vary according to the conditions and positions of the parties.'
—'As ours do, I presume.'
—'But there are certain articles which are most usually prepared for the bride.'
—'As ours are also.'
—'Previously to the departure of the bride from her home, some entertainments are generally given to her near relations, intimate friends, and also to the servants for a farewell, or at least all the members of the family gather together and make some merriment. This generally takes place on the previous evening. On the day of her departure, the officiating person and his wife go to her parents' home and accompany her to her future home. Her parents, brothers, and sisters also accompany, nay more, all her near relations and those of the bridegroom also are invited, in order to be formally introduced to each other and be present at the wedding banquet. In China the character which means "to return" is generally used also to signify the act of a bride leaving her home and going to the home of her future husband to be married to him. The idea is that her future home, to which she is now going, is imagined to be her real home, where she is now going back, and she is not expected to return to her previous home for good, or rather for any permanent purpose, for such a thing is considered out of the question altogether. This notion is also the same with us Japanese; consequently in Samurai families the same formality as that of the departure of the dead is generally performed at the departure of the bride. I wonder if the Western custom of throwing slippers has any similar origin!'
—'Very likely!' the marchioness interposed.
—'And yet,' interrupted Lady Modestina, 'girls, and indeed young men, too, are compelled to marry without knowing and seeing each other at all before the wedding, as people say. Poor girls! Poor young men, too!'
'Not exactly,' I answered; 'remember, Napoleon and the Archduchess of Austria had never seen each other before her state entry into the French territory. The duchess, it is said, heaved deep sighs of relief at the first sight of Napoleon, who was not after all a monstrous creature, as she had fancied from the stories she had heard of the sanguinary battles he had fought everywhere. Such things—at least, similar things—often take place even in Europe. So with us, too, in former days, marriages of great feudal lords were generally not unlike Napoleon's second marriage. But with the people in general the matter was different. In these cases Miai, which literally means to see each other, was essential and almost the formal part of the ceremony. When "preliminary inquiries," so to say, had turned out satisfactory, the so-called seeing each other took place, that is to say, a rendezvous was arranged in one way or the other, say, at a flower garden or a theatre, in such a manner that neither of the parties felt any discomfort, and it did not become an obligation to either of them. Remember there was nothing indiscreet in the affair, as both of the parties were always accompanied by some near relatives or trustworthy friends. In nuptial affairs, parental authority was much exercised, as in this country, it is true; but the power of vetoing was always reserved by the would-be bride, and still more by the bridegroom, especially after the rendezvous. It was, however, thought advisable that as full preliminary inquiries as possible should be made before the rendezvous, in order that one side might not inconsiderately disappoint the other.'
—'But what do you mean by preliminary inquiries?'
—'It means obtaining as much information as possible with regard to family affairs, family traditions, the character and attainments, even habits and tastes of the would-be bride or bridegroom as the case may be, and I dare say the faces also, even the number of the black spots on it.'
—'I don't think private detectives were employed, as in the Slater case.'
—'No joking, please.'
—'But nearly similar things used to be done. Friends and schoolmates, servants, ex-servants, teachers of music, jewellers, fishmongers, grocers, tailors, dress-makers, or anybody who had any connection with the family whatever, were one and all an object from whom as much information as possible was extracted directly or indirectly; above all, Mrs. Hairdresser, who knows such matters best. You know, our ladies arrange their hair in all sorts of very complicated forms, and hairdressers make it a regular profession, paying professional visits constantly to ladies' homes, and our ladies do not mind wasting time in such matters any more than their sisters of other countries.'
—'Please to the point.'
—'I am to the point. It was only after these inquiries that, to use a diplomatic phrase, pourparler for negotiations began. Of course all the inquiries were done by some one else on behalf of the would-be bride or bridegroom. They would certainly be too delicate for a girl of, say, "sweet seventeen," to carry them out for herself. Don't you agree with me on that point?'
—'Life is short. Please don't spin out webs too long. But how do matters stand nowadays?'
—'Much the same,' I replied. 'But in our own days society gives much more facility for young people to see and know each other. And I may add that nowadays photos play a great part in the first stage of the inquiries. They say photos are for studying physiognomy in order to discern the character and intellectual capabilities, but I am afraid it is also to study the looks as well, or rather chiefly. Human nature is weak after all.'
—'Oh no! I am only giving out the essence.'
—'Let us then proceed with the ceremony.'
—'Very well, the essential part of the ceremony consists in the bride and bridegroom partaking saké cups, as you know, but perhaps not exactly as your acquaintance did,' said I teasingly. 'The room wherein that part of the ceremony is performed is kept sacred for the occasion. The bridegroom is led to that room by the officiating person, and the bride by his wife. In our rooms there is a small part, a little elevated, called Toko-no-ma (alcove): it is the place of honour in the room, and it is there that the Kakemono (hanging picture or writing) is hung—sometimes a single one, sometimes a pair, or a series of three. We do not hang up pictures all over the walls like a picture exhibition; and it is also there that we arrange flowers and plants in vases. The Kakemono would be the chosen ones having some signification of felicity. There are many subjects for such purposes, for instance, the landscape of the mythological island of Mount Horai, where immortals are said to reside, or cranes and long hair-tailed mythical tortoises, or the three twin plants of pine, plum, and bamboo. All of these objects are popularly viewed as emblems of longevity. The flowers or plants arranged in the vase for the occasion would also be of the same nature.'
—'And you have a special art in the arrangement of flowers, I understand, not as we do in the West by simply putting bunches into the vase without any discrimination.'
—'Just so!' I answered, 'and there would be a Shimadai on Toko-no-ma.'
—'What's that?'
—'Shimadai is a representation of the Mount Horai which I have just mentioned. In later days Jo-tom-ba, more correctly Jo-to-uba, that is, the old couple of Takasago, came to be usually to be represented with it as well Jo-tom-ba were mythical man and wife who lived very long and happy lives. They are supposed to have dwelt in the beautiful pine forests on the lovely seashore of Takasago, where they spent their days in gathering pine needles. Small artificial mounts and pine forests and figures of the aged couple are tastefully arranged on a clean tray of white wood, the edges of the tray being indented in order to represent an idea of the sea-coast, with some cranes on the branches of the pine, generally with a nest and young ones, as well as the hair-tailed tortoise on the seashore. Cranes and tortoises play their part in our ceremonies so often, you see. I will here tell you the gist of a common song. Once a crane married a tortoise. Now, cranes are supposed to live one thousand years and tortoises ten thousand years. In the course of a duet pouring forth their touching sentiments, the wife gives vent to her thought to this effect: she feels sad at the idea that after a happy life of nigh a thousand years she would have to lead a young widow's life for nine thousand years.'
—'For us mankind a thousand years is long enough. But please proceed with the main story.'
—'Very well,' said I: 'the bridegroom and bride are seated vis-à-vis before the Toko-no-ma at a distance, with the officiating person next the bridegroom, and his wife next the bride, each giving assistance to the bridegroom and bride respectively. The me-cho (she-butterfly) and o-cho (he-butterfly) enter.'
—'What's that?'
—'Well, you see, butterflies are very beautiful, and when in couples are very amiable to each other. If you see them flying about in the fields, now touching the flowers, now playing with each other, you can well imagine what happy lives they lead. At the wedding two virgins are chosen to represent a male and a female butterfly. They each hold a 'choshi,' a vessel with a long handle for holding saké. To one of the vessels a male butterfly made of paper is fastened, and to the other a female. They both, simultaneously, pour out a few drops for the bride and bridegroom successively, the idea being that two butterflies help the rites.'
—'Your idea of butterflies seems to be different from ours.'
—'Well, we do not attach to them the sense of frivolity. At all events, in case of wedding the point taken into consideration is different. They are also pictured as a symbol of Dream based upon a discourse of an ancient Chinese philosopher, who said that when he became a butterfly in a dream he had no other notion than being a real butterfly, and therefore he could not vouchsafe that his present ego was not similarly a phenomenon of a greater Dream.'
—'But you haven't yet explained where and how the cups are brought in.'
—'The cups generally consist of a set of three, usually of plain, clean earthenware. They are put on a tray of pure white wood with legs called Sambo—a dumb waiter, if you like. They are generally placed together with the saké vase at the Toko-no-ma before the ceremony begins, and are taken out at the bidding of the officiating person by the butterflies. The exchanging of cups between the bride and bridegroom is rather complicated. Each time the bride or bridegroom holds up the cup, three drops of saké are poured into it by each butterfly, and this is repeated three times, and therefore this part is called San-san-kudo, that is, three threes making nine, and that phrase is commonly used to signify a marriage ceremony. This part of the ceremony requires much formality. People concerned have to take some lessons beforehand. But remember people generally do not indulge on such occasions in swallowing too great a quantity, whatever their capacities may be.'
—'No joking, please.'
—'Very well. When this part of the ceremony is over, the officiating person, or a special person who is called into the next room for the purpose, sings a short song called Takasago (one of the classical Japanese songs called "utai"). The song is founded upon the story of the aged couple of whom I spoke, and is regarded as a contribution of good presage. But remember, officiating persons are often indifferent singers, consequently they often merely utter in tone a few words of the song. I remember a very amusing incident. It was told me by the Marchioness Ito. At the wedding of Isaburo Yamagata, son of Marquis Yamagata, Marquis Ito was the officiating person. He was unable to sing, so he said when the moment for singing came, "Isa, let us suppose I have sung. If father asks you what I have done, tell him I have sung all right." The marchioness restrained herself with great difficulty from bursting into laughter. That kind of incident sometimes occurs in reality.'
—'No wonder: people are not always singers. But pray proceed.'
—'The banquet now begins: bride and bridegroom now appear as a married couple, ceremonial cups are exchanged as a token of the cementing of the new relationship of those present, and after a good deal of merriment the couple retire and the guests disperse. On that day the bride and bridegroom wear ceremonial dress as a matter of course. It being a grand day for a woman, it is natural enough that the bride should get herself up as well as she can. I dare say the Western bride does the same, is it not so, madam?'
—'I hear, but please proceed,' said the marchioness.
—'The bride generally wears a dress with bright designs and very long sleeves. But it would be somewhat different if the bride were an old maid or an aged widow, don't you think so?'
—'Please really no more joking. What elderly widow could dress like a young bride?'
—'Very well. The bride often keeps on her head a white headgear called "boshi" until the end of the first part of the ceremony. It answers the purpose of your veil. I think it is used for hiding the blushes. Is it also so here in the West?'
—'I don't remember.'
—'Then also the bride changes her dress several times, twice, thrice, or even four times in the course of the evening, which is quietly made an opportunity for displaying female vanity. Oh, I beg your pardon.'
—'Never mind, but continue.'
—'Very well. After a few days the newly married couple, together with the near relations of the husband, go to the bride's former home and are there entertained at a banquet. It is called a "Satobiraki." At the wedding some suitable presents to each member of the husband's family are made by the bride as a token of the new affection arising between them, so also does the husband on the day of Satobiraki. After a suitable lapse of time all the relatives and friends are invited to a banquet, or some sort of entertainment, at a convenient place, at which the formal announcement of the marriage is personally given to the guests. The invitations are generally issued in common by the fathers of the bride and bridegroom, and thus is concluded the whole wedding ceremony.'
—'And the wedding presents?'
—'Yes, we also make wedding presents, but perhaps there is a slight difference. In the West the presents are on account of individual friendship, but in Japan more on account of family intercourse, that is to say, in Japan such presents would be made by a family if the family of the bride or bridegroom, as the case may be, were in intimate intercourse, even though no particular friendship exists between any particular member of that family and the bride or bridegroom.'
—'I see the ceremony is really very elaborate, but when does the legality of marriage begin?'
—'The ceremony is elaborate, as you see, but it counts for nothing in the eyes of the law: the heart of the law is cold in every country. The legality of a marriage begins in the eyes of the law only when a proper form of it is filled at the office of the registry of "l'état civil." It is desirable that a marriage should be reported in the form thus filed and duly registered as soon as possible after the ceremony. Otherwise, whatever ceremony you may have undergone, the marriage is not recognised in the eyes of the law. But mind! if you ask me what a marriage is, I don't think I can explain it to you. From the Athenian republic down to the twentieth century all philosophers and jurists have been trying to define the exact signification of that word marriage; none of them have ever succeeded. On hearing that fact a peasant exclaimed: "What fools are these mountain-dwellers; every one on earth knows what a marriage is!"'
—'No joking, please,' said the marchioness.
—'But it is a tale I was taught by my teacher when I was studying the law at Cambridge,' said I.
—'Anyhow, I now see very well that all that I was told about the two months' marriage must have been a joke,' said the marchioness. 'There are some more points I should like to ask you, but I will let them stand over until some future occasion.'
The marchioness was originally born of a very high noble family of a neighbouring country, and France is her adopted home by marriage. Her sister, Countess de Daisyland, who had been staying at her sister's, as is her custom from time to time, was also present. I noticed some difference of character between them. While I was speaking with the marchioness, the countess was chiefly talking with Madame Matoni, wife of my friend, though she turned to us occasionally and interposed some laconic remarks. Monsieur Matoni was then engaged in a conversation with the duchess. By shifting seats, so to say, almost unconsciously to one another, the duchess and Madame Matoni now began to converse, and Monsieur Matoni and the marchioness, who turned towards him without moving, did the same. The countess, who spoke less than her sister, and whose eloquence was of a totally different style, now began to put several questions to me.
—'There is one thing,' said she, 'which has been puzzling me very much of late, and that is, some people speak of the Spartan character of the Japanese women in general, basing their observations upon deeds displayed during the present war. But on the other hand there are many writers who tell us that Japanese women are mere domestic servants. Of course I do not believe that, but there seems too much margin between these observations. If I am not too curious, will you give me your opinion.'
—'With pleasure, countess,' said I. 'Without giving excessive credit to our women, which I do not dare, I can assure you that the Western estimation of our women is generally incorrect. It is perhaps beyond your conception how great an influence a Japanese mother or wife has over her family. I will give you an instance of a mother illustrated in a well-known drama. The scene is a summer evening. The aged mother of Miura Yoshimura (a hero having a real existence in history) lay on her deathbed within a mosquito netting, depending from the four corners of the room. Our mosquito nettings are very large and spacious. A young lady, the hero's fiancée, is waiting upon her as nurse. Here the hero suddenly returns home from the battlefield clad in full armour. He makes inquiry of the young lady about his mother's condition. She tells him that the aged lady's condition has not presented any marked difference, that she often falls into a drowsy state, and is calmly sleeping at that moment. A cough is heard from the room which is separated by paper screens and where the aged mother lay; in fact she had just awoke. She perceives the hero has returned, and with a few terse and killing sentences she admonishes him from where she lay for his conduct. To her it was cowardly to leave the battlefield at that juncture. It was contrary to a warrior's honour and an infringement of loyalty. She will not see him face to face. Her last words are, "If thou darest to approach me, dare to break this net. It is an iron castle of mine." Having thus denounced her beloved son, she falls into a calm slumber again. As a matter of fact, the hero's mind is already made up to sacrifice his life in battle to the cause he was supporting. He merely returned home to bid his last farewell to his dying mother, and to intrust her to the care of his fiancée. His helmet is perfumed with the best kind of incense—an act common to a warrior of distinguished position—the idea being that a hero's head should not be exposed to odious odour after death. The young lady discovers it, and, as is natural in a drama, a bit of love-scene follows. She would not stop him, but at least he might wait until his aged mother awakes again and spend a single night by her bedside. The stay of a single eve, she says, would make no material difference to chivalry and loyalty. He does not listen to her, and shaking her off dashes back to the field, where he meets with an honourable death. The point I wish to lay stress upon is not the last part, but the part where the aged mother speaks of the "iron castle." Does that not show you the kind of authority a Japanese mother wields over her children? Is it any way inferior to that of Coriolanus's mother, before whom that brave Roman warrior had to cry out, "O mother! you have prevailed." It is, of course, a scene in fiction, but with us it is an incident quite imaginable in real life. Indeed, there are several instances of similar nature recorded in history. A Japanese wife has an influence far greater than any outsider can imagine. I can only say, so far as domestic affairs are concerned, she is far more a master of the house than her husband. Think for a moment! If the wife were a mere servant of the house, as is represented by many Western writers, how could it possibly happen that, as a mother, she exercises such austere authority, as the mother of the hero just mentioned did, over her son after her husband's death?'
The countess listened to me very attentively; my long explanation did not appear to weary her. When I had finished it she smiled and said:
—'Then in your country also mothers play a great rôle in the family. Would you also say like Napoleon, "Women are the mothers of the nation"? But won't tell us a dramatic illustration of a wife?'
—'"Too many dishes spoil the appetite," as our saying goes,' I answered, 'so I must not go on endlessly,—but àpropos to the Roman matron, I will tell you an incident which will illustrate that Japanese women, too, do not limit their activity to indoor affairs. You have, no doubt, heard something about Commandant Hirosé, one of our great heroes of Port Arthur. It was in the summer of last year that an eminent English admiral, whom I know very well, wished me to forward to the hero's family a copy of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome as a token of his admiration. He said he thought that Japanese warriors bore a great resemblance to Roman warriors, even to Horatius himself, and Hirosé was the most conspicuous among them. Now Hirosé was a bachelor; his brother, who was his senior, is married, and was also at the front. When I forwarded the book to Tokio, Mrs. Hirosé, in the absence of her husband, took the matter in her own hands and wrote a letter of thanks in English to the admiral, accompanying it with a likeness and facsimile of the last poem of the deceased, all of which she forwarded to me, asking me to send on to the admiral. People might think she was audacious, but the fact was she did not shrink from taking the entire responsibility of the matter. I approve of it. The letter ran thus.'
So saying, I recited the letter. It is strange, but in dreamland one often remembers by heart that which it is impossible to do when awake.
'I tender my sincere thanks to you for your very kind present of a beautiful edition of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, forwarded to me by Baron Suyematsu.
'The book is so much esteemed in Japan that it is used as a text-book in some schools where English is taught, and part of it was annotated in Japanese in a magazine devoted to the study of English.
'I beg to assure you how much I feel the honour done to my deceased brother-in-law by a renowned admiral of a great and glorious nation, in comparing him with a Roman hero, who is said to have defended the Sublician Bridge against the whole Etruscan army under Porsena, while the Romans broke down the bridge behind him.
'I am happy to say that as a reward for the deed of the late Commander Hirosé, the people of Japan are going to erect his bronze statue to his memory in Tokio, as the Romans did in Comitium.
'May I be permitted to make you a present of the deceased's latest photograph and a facsimile of his autograph poem, which was composed by him just before his departure for the second blocking attempt.
'The poem was intended by him to be the final expression of his desires, and it is sad it proved to be such.
'Literally translated, it runs as follows:
"Would that I could be born seven times
And sacrifice my life for my country!
Resolved to die, my mind is firm,
And again expecting to win success,
Smiling I go on board!"'I will take the earliest opportunity to refer to your inestimable present in my letter to my husband, the elder brother of the deceased, who is now in the front, commanding the gunboat Chokai, by whom, needless to say, your kindness will be most highly appreciated.'
—'I do not see,' observed the countess, 'much in the mere act of writing a letter, but the letter itself is interesting enough, and, besides, I must say I am much amused at the manner in which you manage to bring out things to suit your purpose, just indeed as though you are writing a novel and would make us serve you as materials.'
—'Not at all, but just a little bit of a Summer Dream,' I said.
—'What!'
—'Nothing, I beg your pardon.'
—'But, baron, I should like to ask you another question. With us, pardon, or an act of forgiving, is considered a great virtue. It is an act of courage, and, at the same time, it contains in it delicacy and tenderness; especially when the subject is a woman, that virtue sometimes amounts to nobleness, or even sublimity. It is, therefore, regarded in the West as one of the greatest elements of ethics; but some people I hear say that that idea is wanting in oriental ethics, though the notion of pity exists. Is that correct?'
—'No, not exactly,' I answered, 'but you interest me by putting such a question. However, it requires some explanation. I am afraid I weary you.'
—'No, not at all; go on, if you please.'
—'Perhaps you know that the fundamental idea in Buddhism is mercy and forbearance. These attributes would already suggest an idea of forgiving and of not taking offence. Then, again, in Japan there are several new Buddhist sects, which are very much like Protestantism in Europe. In fact, some of them go so far as to allow priests to marry. I say new sects, but not so new as you may imagine, because they are as old as eight hundred years. The essence of the tenets held by them is that the great Budha Amida is the very embodiment of mercy and forgiveness, and therefore, if one devoutly throws oneself upon him and asks his salvation, all sins committed by the suppliant would be at once forgiven and salvation granted. Theologically speaking, there is much room for discussion about this, but it is not the point which I have in view. I only mean to say that this theory is nothing else than a great example of pardon. In Confucian ethics there are more names given to different kinds of virtues than in the West. The word "Jen" is the name of a virtue most comprehensive. There is no word corresponding to it in the West. There are some who translate it as "humanity," others "benevolence," some even as "charity" in its broadest sense, but all these only represent a part of the original meaning. In that word the idea of pardoning and forgiving is amply implied. A lord who pardons an offender magnanimously is a lord rich in the virtue of "Jen," There is also one classification of virtues, comprised in two words, "chung," "shu." The first word is generally translated as loyalty, but in this instance it is not necessarily loyalty to a master, but faithfulness and truthfulness in general. The second word, "shu," has no equivalent in the Western language. It means this: We should put ourselves in the position of any one who has done wrong against us or otherwise committed some error, and we view the matter with the greatest leniency, and thus give the most favourable consideration. The Chinese ideograph of it is composed of two other ideographs, "like" and "mind," that is to say, "like one's own mind," meaning—consider the matter as your own, and act toward him in such a way as your own mind would like him to act toward you under the same circumstances if he were in your place. This ideograph is often used for the very purpose of an action which cannot be any other than the equivalent of pardoning and forgiving. Are you not becoming a little wearied?'
—'Oh, no! Go on.'
—'Very well! In our Bushido, that is the teaching of chivalry, of which you must have heard, "pardoning" and "forgiving" is the important element. We have a proverb saying, "When the helpless bird takes refuge in the breast of the hunter, he would not kill it." This proverb is very well known and is considered as the embodiment of a warrior's magnanimity. From all that I have just said you will understand that the criticism which says oriental ethics lack notions of pardon and forgiving is incorrect.'
—'Thank you very much,' said the countess. 'In such matters one requires much study of and penetration into the very depths of thought and reasoning of a people. One certainly ought not to come to a hasty conclusion. Japan is a country which I am so anxious to see.'
—'Go, or rather, come, by all means, you will be most welcome,' I said.
—'But it is so far off and travelling will take such a long time,' said she.
—'No, it will not take so long a time as you imagine. Means of communication are so quick nowadays. The quickest route is through America by the Canadian Pacific via Vancouver. Another route is via San Francisco, which takes a few days longer. If you go by the Canadian Pacific, like a letter in a postbag, it takes only a few days over three weeks. When I came to Europe last year I left Yokohama on the 10th of February. Having arrived at Victoria, in the island of Vancouver, I made my way to Seattle, where I disembarked. I took thence the Great Northern Railway down to St. Paul and Chicago, a route which runs between the Canadian and San Francisco lines, and on to New York. I spent a day at Seattle. I had to stop at the summit of the Rockies for five hours, on account of an accident which happened to a train in front of ours. It made me miss the junction, so that I lost more than one day on the way. I spent two days in New York, and one in Washington. The mail steamer in which I crossed the Atlantic was not the quickest one. And yet on the morning of the 13th March I was quietly taking tea at an hotel in Liverpool. Last year was a leap year, but counting by days, inclusive one extra, the whole journey took thirty-two days in all. You see the globe is like an egg—the higher the latitude, the shorter the distance.'
—'That looks long enough.'
—'Well, but one cannot jump over from one side of the world to the other in one leap.'
—'Supposing the Trans-Siberian Railway free again, what do you think of it?'
—'Well, a friend of mine who took that route took twenty days from Petersburg to the Pacific Coast. It is, of course, shorter; but you see travelling continuously by train is not very agreeable. I believe that the railway services in those quarters will be much improved and made quicker, but at present, that is to say, judging from experience before the war, the service is said to be very irregular and long. I should prefer a sea-voyage. The direct service between Europe and Japan on board the German or French mail ships through the Indian Ocean seems to be most agreeable. Of course it takes a longer time: it takes from forty-four to forty-seven days from Marseilles or Genoa to Yokohama. I have twice taken that route on a French mail ship and liked the voyage very much.'
—'But one would be killed by sea-sickness.'
—'Not at all. The sea is not always calm in the Mediterranean, so also between Hong Kong and Japan. But all the other parts are usually very calm. Besides, one soon gets accustomed to the sea, after two or three days, excepting some few persons who are by nature averse to the sea altogether.'
—'I cannot believe it.'
—'You must believe it, it is a fact, and moreover, on mail steamers there is much fun and pleasure; dances and concerts are given on board from time to time. The meals are splendid and plentiful. Passengers soon become friendly.'
—'Ah! that's too good to hear, but I wonder if it is always so,' she said.
A lady, who had travelled in the Far East, joined us a few minutes since. She spent two months in Japan, she said, and supported my views about the voyage, and talked of the pleasure of the trips somewhat in opposition to the observations of the countess.
The marchioness now turned to me and said, 'I have just been talking to your friend Monsieur Matoni about the new invention of Monsieur Blanry. A long account of it was given in Le Matin the other day. It is an improvement on the wireless telegraphy. Guns may be fired, wheels may be turned by electricity produced by wireless apparatus. He is going to give a lecture illustrated by practical experiments. Would you like to go? If so, I would send you a ticket for a box for yourself and friends.'
—'I shall be delighted,' I answered.
—'Marchioness patronises science,' said Monsieur Matoni to me, as though he only meant me to hear him, and in a further subdued voice whispered, 'Her tastes differ from the ordinary tastes of ladies.'
The visitors were now gradually dispersing. The marchioness and her sister also rose to take their leave, asking us, as they did so, to visit them on the marchioness's next reception day. We had stopped for longer than we anticipated, despite an appointment I had at my hotel. Soon after the departure of those ladies, however, we also said our goodbyes to the duchess and her daughters, and to the few people who had still remained.
We were again wafted through the air, and were once more moving over the tops of countless houses on the way. On reaching my hotel, I shook hands with my friend and his wife on the tops of the beautiful avenue-trees in front of the hotel.
II
Greek inspiration—Semitic sympathy—Religion—Difference between Japanese and European chivalry—What is the Bushi?—The weakest point of a hereditary military organisation—Introduction of the new system—New commoners and the history of their emancipation—Combination of democratic ideas and conservative traditions—Old bottles and new wine—The Great Change of 1867—Napoleon—Negligence of a proper estimation—Scenery of Japan—-History of Tokio—European and Japanese method of dwelling—President Roosevelt and jiujitsu
It seems my young secretary, noticing I was asleep, and fearing that I might catch cold, brought a rug and covered me, which action roused me for a moment, but I soon returned to the same dreamland again.
Once more I was wafted through the air, and found myself in a large entrance-hall with gilded ceiling and walls painted with pictures. It was brilliantly lighted, and in one corner a band was playing. A broad staircase, the upper part of which branched off into two, led to the upper part of the house, numerous men in livery lined both sides of the passage, displaying the sure sign of aristocracy. There were balconies, or rather corridors all round overlooking the hall. I ascended the staircase, and, passing along one side of the corridors, entered a large chamber which was evidently the reception-room. But seeing but few people there, proceeded to an open window at the end of the room and looked down into the garden, which was brilliantly illuminated. In a few moments I moved, almost unconsciously, into a further room. It was the study of the host, who with his wife was showing the room to a group of guests. The host, noticing me, made me welcome, and introduced me to one of the guests in particular. It was the Prince Royal of Greece. I exchanged some words with him, in the course of which I remarked that Greece was the country which I was most anxious to see, inasmuch as it teemed with historical interest. As I did so, the scene of many heroic actions, above all, those of Salamis and Marathon, together with the glory which Byron sung for her freedom in the recent century vividly arose before my mental eyes.
It was then announced that the music was about to commence, and the party moved on. I was with a charming lady. She was of Semitic blood. Her complexion was snow white, her eyes were dark, as also her hair, which was surmounted by a coronet of pearls, and round her throat was a necklace of the same. She happened to know me already by name, through her relatives whom I met in England. This naturally afforded us a subject of conversation as we proceeded. On arriving at one end of the corridors we stood, still conversing, and looking down into the hall, while the other people moved on the further end of the corridor where many more guests gradually arrived. While thus conversing, a nobleman passing us was introduced to me.
—'All the generals are gone to the Front,' he said, rather suddenly.
At first I thought he was referring to the war in the Far East, though I soon realised what he meant. He appeared a little excited.
—'There is more exaggeration than fact,' said I. 'I am quite confident that there will be no rupture.'
At that moment some one persuaded my fair companion to go over to where the prince was sitting. I followed at a distance, and took my seat in an obscure place in the corridor. From the corridor of the other side, an operatic singer, accompanied by a pianist, rendered the choicest of his songs, and the bands played in the intervals.
I listened to the songs and the music and watched the people. Sitting alone I am sure I must have looked awkward and stupid; which, however, is a thing I do not much mind. Now and then the host came and exchanged some words with me. He was busy looking after his guests generally, but managed to tell me he would invite me to a special dinner very soon to which also the Duchess Fairfield would be asked. The hostess was similarly occupied, and I did not converse much with her, except to pass a few remarks about music. She said she preferred vocal music to instrumental. The music over, all went down to the garden. It was delightful: the open air on a summer's night is always so. Light but choice refreshments were served there. The guests, partaking of them as they wished, chatted here and there in groups of two and three.
The night was far advanced and the guests began to disperse one after another. I also left, but without bidding adieu either to the host or hostess lest I might disturb them. On my way out I saw the lady with whom I had talked in the corridor still sitting on a bench chatting with a few gentlemen. She seemed to notice me, but I merely bowed and passed on, though I fancied she had some sympathy for us Japanese. She did not, neither does any member of her community, say anything about the hard fate of her race or the countless hardships which they are suffering, especially of late, in certain quarters of the globe. In this world, we know there are many matters in which silence speaks more than words.
Time and space, and indeed, sequence of events, are incongruous in Dreamland. One flits from place to place. I now found myself in a large mansion. It was the residence of the Marchioness Vivastine. I was of the few early arrivals. The salon was rather dark, but cool and spacious. The marchioness was not yet down, but the valet told me she would soon appear. In a minute or two she entered accompanied by her sister, asking as they greeted us our pardon for keeping us waiting. More people now arrived one after the other. The marchioness proceeded to make tea and distributed it, assisted by her sister, much in the same way as did the Duchess of Fairfield and her daughters. I was naturally introduced to many of the visitors, Princess A., Countess B., Baron C., Monsieur D., etc., but for me, a foreigner, it is impossible to remember their names. The Duchess of Fairfield and the Lady Dulciana were among the new arrivals.
—'Baron and I had a very heated discussion the other day,' remarked the marchioness. Then turning to me, she said, 'Did we not?' To which I replied, 'If you please, it was indeed interesting.'
—'Did you go to the Trocadero the other evening?' said the marchioness.
—'Yes! we did. Thank you very much for sending the box. And the duchess and her party were there too,—in a box close by ours,' I added.
—'Did the lecture interest you?' asked the marchioness.
—'Oh yes! the experiments were all very interesting, but I hardly understood a single sentence of the lecture,' I answered.
—'No wonder! for no one else understood it, at least, I did not. It was so scientific,' interposed Baron C.
'Ah! you were there too, of course,' said I. 'And the best fun of the evening was that there was a man distributing hand-bills. At first we all thought it was a kind of syllabus of the lecture, but in reality it was the advertisement of a competitor stating that he was an earlier inventor.'
The marchioness and her sister, being the hostesses, were unable to talk long to each guest. I soon found myself sitting next to the duchess on a sofa, with Baron C. in front of us on a chair. Our conversation having turned upon the question of the separation of state and religion, Baron C., who was keen on the subject, being a Deputy, said:
—'With us it is a very interesting question. There are many points to be thought of and discussed, but I think it interests outsiders very little, especially a person like yourself, a Japanese, for I understand the Japanese gentry have very little religion.'
—'And yet,' said the duchess, 'in my opinion there is scarcely a single people who have no religion at all. Bushido is the creed of the Japanese gentry, as I understand, and in truth it is nothing else than a religion. The Latin religio, from which the term religion is derived, comes from the verb religere to hold tight. In that sense, at least, Bushido must also be taken for a religion. I know something about it, especially through your writings. But, baron, will you please explain to me something about the points of resemblance and difference between our ancient chivalry and your Bushido?'
—'I am not, madam, well acquainted with your chivalry, and, therefore, I cannot pretend to hit the mark. But I know that one of the ideals of your chivalry was "bravery" to the point of being fearless of death; in that there is certainly a great resemblance. Another of your ideals was loyalty and truthfulness. Always ready to render assistance to one weaker; in that also there is a great resemblance. The third ideal was: a great devotion to religion. On this point I must admit there is some difference. I do not say our Bushi despised the idea of supernatural beings, but you see our Bushi had more faith in their own spirit of self-reliance, therefore religion governed their thoughts to no such degree as it did in the West. Then comes a great difference between them,—I mean their attitudes as regards the fair sex. But have you no objection to my proceeding further?'
—'Not at all,' said the duchess.
—'Very well,' said I. 'With your chivalry the custom of rendering respect to the fair sex had been carried to such a high pitch that it was nothing less than adoration or worship. I do not say the motive was originally bad, because it came no doubt from the idea of helping the weaker. But, remember, it often happened that too much prominence was given to keeping faithfulness to women, even where one had some higher duty which ought to have claimed the whole loyalty of his heart. The subject is rather too delicate for me to describe minutely, but you can see what I mean. In the days of your chivalry faithfulness in love-affairs was looked upon in general as gallantry, no matter whether the affair was honourable or otherwise, but with the Japanese Bushido it was very different. It was not because a Bushi was heartless toward the weaker sex, but effeminacy was a thing which he despised most. In the days gone by in Japan, if a Bushi had been found paying too much attention to a lady, and making himself a slave to her, to the neglect of his duty, he would have been hooted out of society. With European chivalry, therefore, the tendency of desire was to be noticed by others for his actions performed in homage to a lady, whilst with our chivalry one would try to do his utmost to conceal his emotion and even to look cold. In the West, therefore, the word "gallantry," which was originally used more for "dashing and noble bravery" came in common parlance to have quite a different meaning, as you know. Nothing of the sort has ever taken place with us.'
—'But I thought your Samurai also had love-affairs—I was at least made to understand so from your story of the other day about a young Samurai,' interrupted Lady Dulciana.
—'Yes, that is true, but our Samurai is not "trees and stones" as we say, and you must know there are exceptions to every rule,' I replied and continued.
—'There was also another great difference. In the West chivalry had grown and decayed, traversing always pretty much the same line; I mean it had undergone no great transformation. But in Japan the case was somewhat different. There it became united with the art of intellectual learning, and has made Bushido, that is, the ways of Bushi, more systematic and ethical.'
—'What you have just told us,' said Baron C., 'seems to explain some difference which is said to exist in the attitudes of men towards women in your country and ours.'
—'Perhaps so,' I answered, 'where a gentleman approaches a lady and kisses her hand, as one sees commonly in the best Parisian society, a Japanese would stand at a distance and make a respectful bow. There is no doubt, it seems to me, that a great many of the customs which prevailed in the feudal period are still influencing your modern society, and ours also in Japan; hence the difference which still exists between the customs of Japan and Western nations. Broadly speaking, I can say that in the West friendship or affection moved more towards intimacy, whilst in the East it moved more towards respect.'
—'Ah, I remember one thing. Some years ago there was a smart American who was a keen observer of different customs and manners. He said, "the Japanese hit their wives before strangers, and caress them in private, whilst the Occidentals worship their wives before strangers, and beat them in private." I beg your pardon, I must not tell you such a thing, I withdraw it at once; but I can say this, it is dangerous to gauge the customs and manners of other countries only by the measure of one's own country. The position of our women is not so low as represented by those who look through the colour of their own glass.'
—'Very true,' said Baron C. 'Such things often occur. One ought always to be on guard, lest one commit unaccountable errors quite inadvertently. But what do you mean by saying your Bushido has become systematic and ethical. Let us have a little more light on the subject.'
—'Quite so,' said the duchess. 'I should also like to be more informed on that subject. One never gets tired of things Japanese, especially in these days.'
—'I am afraid I shall appear somewhat dogmatic, but if you have enough patience I will explain. In the Far East, Bun and Bu, that is to say matters pertaining to Intellectual culture and matters pertaining to military training, were always regarded, at least in theory, as co-existent and of equal importance. They were compared to the wings of a bird, or to the two wheels of a cart. The generals who were held in the highest esteem were those who were efficient in both. The same esteem was held for all warriors, no matter their degree or rank; though, of course, the higher the rank the greater the excellence expected. They all became imbued with a desire for literary and ethical education, and thus civil elements were introduced into military training. The best ideas and notions of chivalry were ethically systematised, and these ideas and notions came to be nurtured and developed according to the normal roots of ethics. We were fortunate in arriving at this solution, for the country had enjoyed a long peaceful epoch, and the Bushi had therefore sufficient time to give their attention to both subjects. Besides the policy of the country had been directed to that end. Moreover, four hundred thousand families of Bushi, having enjoyed their position by hereditary succession, and having no need to labour for existence, all that they had to do was to make themselves as much "a gentleman" as possible. Of course, there were some who became outcasts and some who were newly enrolled, and some who were degraded, and some who were promoted from various causes, but these were exceptions. As a general rule they succeeded to their father's position and handed it down to their own successors. Colleges were established by their lords where they received intellectual education side by side with fencing, riding, the use of spears or the art of jiujitsu.'
—'You mentioned just now,' said the duchess, 'four hundred thousand families of Bushi, and of the heredity of their service. That seems to be somewhat different from our knighthood, which was more of the nature of personal distinction, and its ranks were filled by personal enlistment, although naturally they came from the same class of people.'
—'Well,' said I, 'our term Bushi, otherwise called Samurai, is a comprehensive one. It comprised all the retainers of the feudal lords. They generally lived, with their families, in the capital town of the lords under whom they served. There was generally a quarter in these towns where the Samurai lived quite apart from other people. Under some lords, there were Samurai who lived in the country, but they were exceptions. By Bushi then we understand those retainers in general, and as I said the service usually became hereditary. It was the strong point of our military men and also their weakest point, or at least it became so in the course of time.'
—'What do you mean by weak point? Tell me, please,' said Baron C.
—'I say "weak point," because that system as an organisation for fighting purposes became inefficient: the reason is almost plain without saying. You see the hereditary system has one advantage: respect and affection increase from generation to generation. Personal intelligence was also acquired under that system so long as the training and instruction were well attended to, but the descendant of a warrior who had led, for instance, one thousand or one hundred men with great ability, could not always be expected to do as well as his ancestor. This is so from the very fact that ability and skill for qualifying one for a higher position is not a thing which is hereditary. This is the weakest point of an hereditary military organisation. "Ministership and generalship are no inherited stocks" is our old saying. Napoleon's eighteen marshals were, one and all, children of the time. Even before the restoration of the present Imperial régime we perceived this weak point, and that was one of the reasons we made a radical change in our military system and adopted the system of universal service. One might think that, by doing so, the spirit of respect and affection, in other words, loyalty and patriotism, might be lessened in the ranks of the troops; but that is not so, for with us the spirit of loyalty to and patriotism for the Emperor and country is very strong among all the people. And because the feudal system had been abolished and the whole nation came to owe no other allegiance than that which is direct to the Emperor, there is no necessity of making any difference among the different classes of the people in regard to those services. As to intelligence, we do not leave the children without education, whatever class they may belong to, I mean to say, we have adopted a system of universal education which gives sufficient knowledge and therefore intelligence to the men enlisted in the ranks from all classes. As to the officers, we take in any candidates who are willing to be suitably educated as such, provided they show sufficient capacity, without any distinction of class or family. It seems to us the only way to procure the most efficient officers. We are very radical in these matters. One can see in the Japanese army or navy sons of noblemen or rich merchants being commanded and led by an officer who has risen from the lowest class of the people. There may even be officers whose origin, if scrutinised minutely, belonged to a class vulgarly called "New Commoners."'
—'I think I understand now,' said Baron C. 'But do you mean to say Bushido is a thing of the past? We are made to understand that the whole Japanese army and navy, indeed the whole nation, are animated with the spirit of Bushido at this very moment.'
—'No, I did not say Bushido was a thing of the past. Bushi exists no more, it is true, except that those who belonged to that class still enjoy the privilege of being called Shizoku (knight family), which, however, has no legal signification, and therefore is only an empty title. There may be a Shizoku driving a carriage or earning a living by selling trifles. It is sad to think of the fact, as far as personal consideration is concerned, but they have given their benefits and privileges for the general good of the country, and I am glad to say that the spirit of Bushido is now made the common property of the whole nation. It has been spread throughout every rank of the Japanese.'
—'It seems sad when we think about Bushi, as you say, from a personal point of view,' said the duchess; 'but when a country makes such a great change as your country has done, some great sacrifice on the part of some portion of the community is inevitable.'
—'And especially so with our Bushi,' said I, 'because they were in fact the chief instruments by which the present great change has been brought about. When we view things in this way, we can say that our Bushi fought and sacrificed their lives in order to destroy their own order.'
—'But what do you mean by the "New Commoners," which you mentioned just a minute ago?' asked Baron C.
—'By "New Commoners" is meant those who have been newly made ordinary commoners by emancipation. There was in Japan a class of people below the class of the common subjects of the empire; they neither enjoyed the rights of ordinary Japanese nor owed any duty similar to others. I mean to say, they enjoyed no citizenship, but, on the other hand, they had in most cases not to pay taxes for the lands they tilled or dwelt on. Their position may be in one way compared with the slavery which existed in the West from the Roman period onward. But there were two points of a great difference. In the West the slaves had their masters whom they served, and it seems that no personal pollution in our sense was attached to them. In Japan, those people had no masters to serve, and earned their living by their own labour. At the same time, however, they were regarded as having personal pollution, so much so indeed, that they were not allowed, nor did they themselves dare, to enter within the door of an ordinary Japanese, still less could they intermarry or indeed hold any social intercourse with them. A love-affair like that of Aïda, a slave girl, and Ardamès in the opera "Aïda," which I had the pleasure of seeing in your company the other evening, is a thing almost unimaginable in Japan between a girl belonging to the class I have just spoken of, and a man of any other class. The number of these people was only a very small minority of the whole population. But they were to be found in all parts of Japan. In the country they formed here and there small villages. They were also to be found in the vicinity of towns, but always having separate communities. They were the only people who dealt with dead oxen and horses, and even dogs, and also were the only people who dressed the skins of those animals. In former days in Japan no beef was eaten but by those people. Horse flesh was not eaten even by them. The common notion was that horse flesh was sour and inedible, but I am sorry to say that, of late years, it is eaten by the poorer classes to some extent. The dealers in it insist on continuing the trade on the ground that the same business is carried on in the midst of the most enlightened nations in the West. I do not like the idea at all. However, to proceed with my story. When a cow, a horse, or a bullock belonging to a commoner died, it was notified to a community of those people, who in a group came and carried the carcase to a convenient place, where they skinned it and buried the rest; and in the case of a cow or a bullock, if it had not died from any infectious disease, they took away its flesh to their homes, as well as the skin and horns. It was the occupation of those communities who lived in the vicinity of a town to prepare the skins sent to them from all parts of the country. Their lot was not, therefore, an enviable one, as you may perceive. This class of people was called "Yeta," which is represented, though by corruption, by the Chinese ideographs meaning "much pollution." No one knows exactly what their origin was; some say they were the remnants of Mongolian troops who remained in the land after the total destruction of Mongolian armada, while some say they might have been prisoners from Corea; but all these conjectures are not satisfactory. There was another portion of the people very much akin to those just described. They were known by the name of "Hinin," a term which is represented by two Chinese ideographs, meaning "not-man," which suggests a similarity of notion to the European term "outlaw." This class was in number even less than the former. Their occupation was also very different. They chiefly lived by fishing or by making some trifling articles, and, therefore, no such deep stigma of personal pollution was attached to them as to the other ones. In fact, it was supposed that among this class of men there were sometimes to be found a Samurai declassed from one cause or another. In Yedo, now Tokio, homeless destitutes were known by that name. One must not suppose, however, that either class was unprotected by law, for their lives and properties were respected just as those of ordinary people; and, moreover, they were not necessarily poor people, because some of them, especially those who lived near towns, were very well off. A characteristic of these people was that they had a certain sentiment of community throughout their own class without distinction of locality. They had no privilege of attending a "Shinto" or Buddhist temple belonging to the citizen classes, but they had here and there their own Buddhist temple and priests. I have never seen any instance of their possessing any Shinto temples; this fact arises from the very nature of Shintoism, which is most sensitive of anything unclean, in other words, most opposed to any pollution. The Imperial régime was inaugurated with most enlightened notions, especially in the matter of personal freedom. At the very beginning of the Imperial régime, the present Marquis Ito was governor of the prefecture of Hiogo-Kobe, and he emancipated, on his own initiative, the Yeta and Hinin under his government, and made them ordinary commoners. There was little formality in such matters in those days. A governor of a province sometimes took such measures on his own responsibility. In the course of a few years the Imperial Government emancipated all of those people throughout the whole empire, and the people thus emancipated came to be vulgarly called "New Commoners." That term, however, is fast losing its significance, inasmuch as those people are daily acquiring common intercourse with the ordinary people; this is especially the case with those who transfer their abodes to other parts of the country, where their identity is not known. I am even told there are one or two deputies in the House of Representatives who originally belonged to that class.'