Part 2

Reaching again the harbor of Hong Kong we exchange our roomy, river steamer for more contracted quarters on board the “Sunda,” which is to bear us to Yokohama. Five days tossing on the rough China Sea, which reminds us more of the North Atlantic than anything we have experienced since crossing that turbulent ocean, and we rejoice to hear on the sixth morning out that we are nearing the shores of Japan. Through the courtesy of the first officer we are invited on the bridge, and from this favorable place of outlook we watch our tortuous course through the network of islands which are clothed in all the fresh beauty of spring. Rocky islets and hills, covered with pine forests, and low-growing shrubs lift their green heads out of the sparkling blue waters. Clusters of houses are scattered along the hill slopes, and they harmonize with the landscape in a way that would delight John Burroughs. There may be much Japanese history and legend connected with these heights, but we are ignorant of it all, and to us they rear their heads unsung.

Nagasaki harbor is not unlike Hong Kong, but the town itself does not make so much of an appearance. The Japanese boats resemble somewhat the Venetian gondolas, painted white instead of black. We went on shore in one of these row-boats, and each of us took a _jinrikisha_, which resembles a Bath chair, or a magnified baby carriage, and is drawn by one or two men, according to the avoirdupois of the occupant. One can best understand Japanese art here in its native surroundings, as one can only thoroughly appreciate Dickens’s characters in London. These Japanese ladies, with their glossy black hair and head ornaments, their almond-shaped eyes, full, pouting lips, and the peculiar contour of the tightly-draped figure, how familiar they look! Yet where have I seen them before? Only on pictured screens and painted fans and embroidered hangings, but here they are, these same quaint creatures in veritable presence. Through many narrow streets, and around sharp corners, and over bridges, and in sight of stony water-courses, and the sun-deluged tender green of the mountain sides, our _jinrikisha_ men rattle us along on our way to the photographer’s, where we find unexpected good fortune in the shape of beautifully colored views. At the chief tortoise-shell emporium of the town we are received as guests rather than purchasers. Our European bow seems an impertinent nod compared with the profound salaams which are bestowed upon us. We are invited to take seats at a large centre-table in a cheerful apartment, which is a combination of parlor and show-room. Straw-colored tea in dainty cups of exquisite porcelain is brought to us. Medals from various exhibitions are shown, but there is no undue eagerness to sell their wares, and when at last we make our selection and offer silver rupees in payment we are blandly informed that they can not accept foreign coin. Although we assure them that the rupee has been weighed in Canton, and they can take it at its exact metal value, yet they are politely inexorable, and we meekly walk away feeling like impostors as well as boors. At three o’clock in the afternoon we are moving out of the harbor, and it is a cheerful omen as we watch the receding shores to be told that the most prominent building on the hill-slope, a large, new structure, is a school-house for Japanese girls, under the auspices of Methodists from our own country.

Soon after sunrise the next morning we enter the straits of Shimonoseki, the narrow entrance to the Inland Sea. We remember that this newly risen sun which is shedding its golden glory on these thousand islands, has just tinged with its farewell rays the elms of New Haven and the encircling heights of Lake George. A member of our party once said to some young Japanese visitors in Boston, “Do you want to see the sun rise on Japan?” and in response to their bewildered acquiescence he took them to a west window and pointed to the sun sinking, with gorgeous pageantry of color, behind the Milton hills. All day long we glide through placid waters, the scene varying with every turn of the wheel. Islands of most fantastic shape rise everywhere. Sometimes an abundant vegetation clothes them from head to foot; again they are not only destitute of clothing but of flesh, and show only a bony framework of jagged rock pierced by grottoes and caves. Along the shores, indented with bays, is a fringe of fishermen’s huts. Range after range of mountains rise back of each other in beautiful outlines varying in color from green to softest blue and faintest grey until the most distant heights melt into the horizon. We pass curious fishing junks with square, puckered sails. In the midst of these foreign looking boats we are surprised to see now and then a trim little schooner, exactly like those we are familiar with at home. We pass one American man-of-war with the national flag flying. It seems a pity that half of our passage through this marvelous Inland Sea must be made in the night, although we have the anticipation of seeing in the morning Fuji-yama, the Peerless Mountain, worshiped by the Japanese as divine. A note from our attentive first officer breaks up our morning nap with the announcement that Fuji is visible and we hasten on deck to see the snowy cone of this youngest mountain in the world lift itself above the clouds into the blue sky. It has the shape of an inverted fan, and from the sea you can trace its outline from base to summit to a height of 14,000 feet. According to Keith Johnston, it was thrown up by some tremendous convulsion, for which this volcanic region is famous, about 300 B. C.

Late in the afternoon our ship dropped anchor off Yokohama, which thirty years ago was an insignificant fishing village. When Commodore Perry appeared with his fleet in this bay, in 1853, the rude inhabitants were filled with wonder at their first sight of a steamer, and when they saw the spark-spangled smoke rising from the stacks at night they were seized with superstitious awe of the foreigners, who they thought had imprisoned volcanoes on their ships! Tokio is the literary center of this part of Japan while Yokohama is commercial, and has not only a modern, but really an American appearance, and in the hotel as well as in the shops we detect the atmosphere of our native land, especially of San Francisco. The English give the tone to society here, as everywhere throughout the East, and class distinctions are more rigorously observed than in the mother island itself. At Yokohama we seemed to meet the blessed spring-time of the temperate zone. The day after our arrival we took _jinrikishas_ and went out into the country-like suburbs of the city. We walked a part of the way through rustling wheat fields, with the Peerless Mountain in sight and the broad blue bay, dotted with ocean steamships from all ports, and white-sailed native junks. It was like a perfect June day at home, and after nearly a month on shipboard the touch of the brown solid earth under our feet was enough to make us shout for joy. The blue violet, the wild strawberry, and even the common dandelion, were here to greet us like old familiar friends. Birds flew past us with happy chirp, but no song. Some critic has said that “Japan is a country of birds without song, flowers without perfume, and poetry without music.” But what were these strange, weird, unearthly, mysterious melodies that came floating down to us from the azure? We stopped our _jinrikishas_ to listen and look. There, above our heads, were half a dozen immense kites, made of bamboo, in the shape of winged dragons and bats, and it was an Æolian attachment that sent down to us this music. The Greek boy sends up his kite at night with a light attached so that it gleams like a star through the darkness, and our patriotic member is somewhat chagrined that the American boy should be surpassed, even in such a juvenility as the kite, by the Greek and Japanese! A pleasant reception by the American residents, especially those engaged in mission work; visits to the temples and native quarters; observation of educational and evangelical work, carried on here by our countrymen and women, filled our week in Yokohama. At the end of that time we took train for Tokio, which is only one hour distant by rail.

Distances are magnificent in this modern, imperial city of Japan. Thirty-six square miles is supposed to be the extent of Tokio, but only sixteen miles of this space are covered with houses, while the rest is given up to parks, gardens, and rice fields. The population is variously estimated from 800,000 to 1,500,000. One of the most interesting places to visit in Tokio is Shiba with its tombs of the Shoguns and Buddhist temples. There we went the morning after our arrival. The approach to the mortuary temples of the Shoguns is by a wide stone-paved avenue bordered on either side by stone lanterns not more than six feet apart and of graceful shape. We have left the bustle, noise and busy life of the streets, and find here a restful stillness broken only by the chirp of the sparrow and the sighing of the wind through grand, old red cedars, called cryptomeria, which have been growing here since the seventeenth century. Leaving our shoes at the threshold of the temples we walked over the highly polished, lacquered floors in our stocking feet. Here before the shrines were gifts of the daimios, bronzes and gold lacquer of priceless value, and we, outside barbarians, were admitted into the holy of holies and allowed to gaze on all this splendor and decoration without a word of remonstrance from the young Buddhist priest in attendance, although previous to the rebellion of 1868, only the reigning Shogun was allowed to enter. The tomb of the Second Shogun is in an octagonal hall richly gilt, eight pillars covered with gilt copper plate supporting the roof. The lion and the tree peony often appear in the carvings, the one representing the king of beasts, the other the king of flowers. The tomb itself stands in the center of the hall and is one of the most magnificent specimens of gold lacquer to be seen in Japan. The stone pedestal takes the form of the lotus, the Buddhistic emblem of purity.

Oh! but how delightful it was to get out under the great blue dome of the sky, and climb the green, sunny slopes under the gigantic, gnarled cedars to the level plateau, where we could look abroad over sea and land and crowded city. The ever present tea house was close at hand, and two Japanese maidens quickly appeared with the pale, fragrant fluid innocent of sugar or milk, served in tiny cups with a cherry blossom floating on the surface. We preferred the tea without the æsthetic accompaniment, and so, with profound bows, this tray was removed to be speedily followed by another. While we were sipping this beverage, which was too insipid to either cheer or inebriate, an old woman, with a quavering voice, sang to us, accompanying herself with a Japanese guitar called the samisen. On our way home we peeped into a Buddhist temple where there was a funeral service in progress. Just within the door was a square pine box with a pole at the top so that it could be carried by the four coolies, who sat outside eating rice cakes, drinking tea, smoking and talking. There was no mourner present, and indeed no person in the temple but the young priest who was going through his perfunctory mumblement. In our ignorance of Japanese customs we thought this small box must contain the remains of a child, but we were told that in this country the dead are arranged in a sitting posture, the head bent between the knees, and therefore the square box takes the place of the long narrow coffin. This box contained the body of a young woman, twenty years of age, whose friends lived too far away to be present at the funeral, so that in this case the body was to be burned and the ashes sent to them, although usually the Japanese bury their dead.

As we rode slowly through the native quarter, looking into the bazaars, we noticed before many of the shops and houses bamboo poles erected, and at the top of the poles were floating out in the breeze inflated paper fishes from two to six feet in length. This is the beginning of the Feast of Flags, which comes on the fifth day of the fifth month, and is the greatest day of all the year for boys. It is really a national celebration of the birthday of all the boys in the kingdom, while the third day of the third month is devoted to the girls, and is called the Feast of Dolls. The fish represented is the carp or salmon, which is able to swim swiftly against the current and to leap over waterfalls, and is supposed to be typical of the youth mounting over all difficulties to success and prosperity. We stopped at a Shinto temple, which was covered by a roof, but it was destitute of all decoration and symbolism, except the round mirror, which has various meanings, one of them being that it is a revealer of the inner character. A man came up to worship while we stood there. He threw a small coin on the mat within the railing, clapped his hands twice, stood for a moment with closed eyes as though in prayer, clapped his hands again, and it was all over.

At the normal school for girls, of which the empress is patroness, the tuition is free, and pupils are here from all parts of Japan. They are supposed to prepare themselves for teachers, although they are not absolutely required to pursue this vocation. The object of the school is probably quite as much to furnish educated wives for the ambitious young men of new Japan. Prof. Mason’s system of music is taught here, and the piano is superceding the Japanese instruments. Drawing is also taught after the western methods. Instruction in needlework is given, both in plain sewing and embroidery. Every girl is taught to cut and make her own garments. There are no patterns used, but it is all done according to mathematical rules, and the cloth is so used that there is no waste in cutting. We saw a little girl not more than ten years old draw an exact diagram on the blackboard of the way a piece of cloth could be cut to make an outer garment. The pupils are also taught how to arrange flowers artistically. Here, as in the nobles’ school, there is a teacher of etiquette, and these maidens, some of them from the interior of the country and from poor homes, are instructed in the manners of polite society. An interesting department of this school is the kindergarten, where both sexes are admitted, and we saw more than a hundred little creatures gathered here with grave faces and long robes, and neither from the dress nor the arrangement of the hair could we tell the boys from the girls. Some twenty of the children, belonging to families of wealth and position, were accompanied by their nurses, who sat at one side. Nearly every child had a wooden tag attached to the belt, on which were written the name and address of the parents. There was one handsome little fellow, whom we called the Prince, with his head as smoothly shaven as a Buddhist priest’s. He wore gorgeous silk robes, and moved through his calisthenic exercises with a very complacent air. The children who were dressed in European fashion were most absurd looking creatures, and we much preferred to see them in their own costume. The Japanese are such a tiny people that, unless they have been abroad long enough to adopt our dress and wear it with ease, they look much better in their own flowing robes, which give grace and dignity to the figure. We heard an amusing story of the costume in which a native Christian appeared before the Presbytery to be ordained as an elder. He was a private citizen, but he wore on this occasion a blue coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, knee breeches, and high top cavalry boots with spurs, looking as though he was about to engage in some other warfare than spiritual.

The largest and most popular temple of Tokio, Asakusa, is to that city what St. Paul’s is to London, or Notre Dame to Paris. The avenue which leads to the temple is lined on either side with booths, and there are gardens adjoining in which are a variety of shows, waxworks and trained birds, theaters and tea-houses, with swarms of disreputable characters. The Japanese mix up the sacred and secular in a way that is very shocking to our ideas. At one of the side shrines in the temple is a wooden image, contact with which is said to cure disease, and it is pathetic to see how the features have been obliterated and the body worn as smooth as St. Peter’s toe at Rome by the rubbing of thousands of palms of poor human sufferers who have hoped to find healing power in this senseless mass of wood.

Near the temple is a revolving library containing a complete edition of the Buddhist scriptures. The library looks like a huge red lacquer lantern, some twelve feet high, on a black lacquer base and stone lotus-shaped pedestal. The whole structure revolves on a pivot. A ticket over the door explains the use of this peculiar book-case, and reads as follows: “Owing to the voluminousness of the Buddhist scriptures—6,771 volumes—it is impossible for any single individual to read them through; but a degree of merit equal to that accruing to him who should have perused the entire canon will be obtained by those who will cause this library to revolve three times on its axis, and, moreover, long life, prosperity and the avoidance of all misfortunes shall be their reward.” For a small fee the custodian allows you to gain all this merit.

An overland journey to Kioto, Osaka and Kobe, returning by steamer to Yokohama, and from thence a trip to Nikko, and the Chautauquans are ready to embark on the _City of Tokio_, which is to take them on the long and monotonous voyage across the Pacific. Taking the northerly route we enter at once a belt of penetrating fog, chilling winds and occasional showers, which make the luxurious deck life, which we found so agreeable on the southern seas, quite impracticable. Finding a good collection of books in the ship’s library we still linger in the land of the Rising Sun by reading Griffis and Satow, Miss Bird and Sir Edward Reed. There are only twenty-six saloon passengers, but more than a thousand Chinese are packed away in the steerage, and they swarm on the forward deck during the day, smoking and playing games, but more quiet and peaceable than a quarter of that number of Irishmen would be under similar circumstances. Nineteen days without sight of sail or land and we rejoice to know that the shores of America will soon be visible. San Francisco once reached, the Chautauquans will have put the girdle round the world, for they visited the western coast of America on the famous Sabbath-school excursion, headed by Dr. Vincent, in 1879. By the aid of the captain’s glass and our own opera glasses about four o’clock on a bright, breezy afternoon, we discern in the far eastern horizon a white, rocky island, crowned with a light-house. Soon after another dim hint of land appears to the north, and a little later the main land becomes visible. Just after a glorious sunset we enter the Golden Gate, a crescent moon hanging above the narrow pass. Familiar objects appear—the Cliff House, the Fort—and before we retire the great engines cease their throbbing, the ship drops anchor, and the gleaming lights of San Francisco welcome us home again.

[The end.]

THE DAFFODIL.

ADA IDDINGS GALE.

Brave xanthic bloom! Thou springst ’neath leaden skies, Midst chilly airs and sheeted rains that fall; E’er yet the robin to his mate doth call, Thy fearless bloom mocks at Spring’s vagaries. A prophecy thou art—lifting thy head With its bright crown—to light forsaken ways. The sight of thee recalls long vanished days, When glad I plucked thee from the barren mead. I pluck thee now, bright one—thinking the while, Of that far time—when sweet Persephone, Upon the plains of sunny Sicily Reflected thine own brightness in her smile. Thou’rt so allied, fair flow’r, with her sad strait, I can but chide thee for her darksome fate.

PORTRAIT COLLECTIONS.

By WALTER F. TIFFIN.

Were it not that some few other animals seem, in a small degree, to have somewhat of the same faculty, man might be defined a scraping or collecting animal, for there is scarcely an individual of the genus but manifests this peculiarity; some in scraping or collecting for their own subsistence or that of their offspring; many for the gratification of their senses or intellect, irrespective of physical wants of increase or preservation.

I was shown the other day a neat little cabinet, belonging to a great traveler and naturalist, in which were labelled and described nearly four hundred different species or varieties of bugs! George the Fourth collected saddles. The Princess Charlotte, and many besides, collected shells, of which some of the ugliest, being fortunately the rarest, are very valuable. For a very rare one, Rumfius, a collector of old, though stone blind, is said to have given £1000. Tulips were once a favorite subject with collectors, especially in Holland, where the sums given for new or rare roots were enormous. One root once sold for 4600 florins (about £370) together with a new carriage, a pair of grey horses, and a set of harness. Other flowers have since become favorites in succession, as auriculas, picotees, dahlias, and now, roses.

Of collections of pictures of a general character a long list might be made, and there are in England several fine collections of statues, ancient and modern. I don’t know, however, that we have any such enthusiasts, as antiquaries, as a gentleman mentioned by Evelyn, who, being at Rome in 1644, went “to the house of Hippolite Vitellesco (afterwards Bibliothecary of ye Vatican Library) who show’d us one of the best collections of statues in Rome, to which he frequently talks as if they were living, pronouncing now and then orations, sentences, and verses, sometimes kissing and embracing them. He has a head of Brutus, scarred in the face by order of the Senate for killing Julius; this is much esteemed.” Special collections of portraits do not however seem to have met with much favor. One of the earliest collectors in England was William, Earl of Pembroke, of the time of James the First, who was quite famous as a physiognomist, and who formed a special collection of portraits at Wilton. General Fairfax is said to have collected portraits of warriors; and a few others might be named as having added to their own family portraits those of their friends, or of persons whose position or talents rendered them celebrated. But it was reserved for Lord Chancellor Clarendon to form the first important collection of English worthies. When he built his grand house in Piccadilly, he appears to have arranged a gallery of portraits on a well-considered plan. They were limited to those of eminent men of his own country, but not restricted to any particular class. This collection of portraits was already very extensive when Clarendon went into exile, and he was then getting a long list from Evelyn in order to add to it. In a letter to Pepys, and in his “Numismata,” Evelyn enumerates, from memory, nearly a hundred illustrious Englishmen whose portraits he had seen at Clarendon House, and which were afterwards removed to Cornbury in Oxfordshire.