Thursday, September 24th.—Such a glorious day, and we took a sudden determination to go at once to Tokio, a short hour's journey. We found, on arriving at the station, our luggage surrounded by a group of the smallest of porters in neat blue uniforms, and caps with yellow bands, dubiously surveying my large basket, which was ultimately transported by the help of all. The railways in Japan were built by English engineers, and worked by them, until the Japanese learnt to do it for themselves. They are perfectly English, and the names of stations, directions, even the mile posts are written in both languages. The fares are extraordinarily cheap, and the third-class crowded, whilst the one first-class carriage on each train is almost exclusively used by Europeans. There are newspapers in the waiting-rooms; they have the French system of locking you in the latter until shortly before the arrival of the train; and the American check system for luggage. There was a funny little toy train waiting for us on the very narrow gauge, drawn by a tiny black and yellow engine. The long carriages with their seats lengthways have as many as twenty-two windows, and they are lined with Lincrusta-Walton paper. There is a wooden tray with a tea-pot filled with hot water, and glasses for the tea, which the Japanese are always drinking. When we stop at the stations there is such a cheerful chorus of clicking high-heeled clogs, as the men and the little ladies, with their smiling brown babies on their bent backs, tippet and shuffle along.
The short run between Tokio and Yokohama is perfectly flat, with nothing but rice fields, or if there is a little eminence it is crowned by the dwarf forestry, which is the peculiar feature of Japanese scenery.
Tokio or Tokyo, is the official capital of Japan. It is the old Yedo of our schoolroom geography. The Minister of Foreign Affairs had sent his secretary to meet us at the station, with a carriage similar to an English victoria, drawn by pretty thick-set black Japanese ponies, and with the Indian custom of a running sayce, who jumps off and clears the way at the corners. To the right of the broad canal, along which we are driving, we see a grand structure, which we suppose to be an official building at least, and are surprised when we are told that it is the Imperial Hotel. It is as palatial inside, with its broad staircase and passages, and marble dining hall, and its crowds of obsequious servants, who, hands on knees, slide down in deep bows at every corner, and that drawing in of the breath like a gentle gasp, which in Japan is a sign of great respect. The government have shown much enterprise in assisting to build several of these large hotels by grants of lands and subsidies, thus encouraging foreign travellers to come and stay. They serve also as places where imperial guests, like the Duke and Duchess of Connaught (who stayed here), and the Czarewitch, can be entertained, as the palaces, owing to their complete absence of furniture, according to the custom of the country, cannot be rendered habitable for the reception of Europeans.
Tokio, beautiful Tokio, with its multitudinous little brown-eaved houses, crowded in lowly company together, its broad moats, with the green water, over which the mists gather at night and disperse in the early morning sun, its great walls, formed of blocks of stone piled up obliquely without the aid of mortar that guard the Shogun's Castle, and the pale-blue grey skies, with the clear bright atmosphere, which lends such a charm and softness to the picturesque scenes around. The charm of Tokio is undefinable. It is so subtle as only to be felt. But wherever you go, you will be always coming back to those miles of solid masonry and those moats with their grassy banks, with a single row of twisted dragon-shaped fir trees at the top—trees, that like all else in Japan, are dwarfed, and where perhaps two or three solemn rooks will perch and caw hoarsely, or even a red-legged stork, with outstretched wings, will flap idly across.
I shall never forget the delight of our first drive in Tokio. It was enough to be drawn swiftly and silently along in the midst of those broad white roads, shaded by avenues of graceful willows, and see all the strangely fascinating life of every-day Japan passing swiftly by, without going to see anything in particular. For the motion of these jinrikishas, the only practicable mode of progression in Japan, is delightfully easy and pleasant. The coolies in their dark blue cotton breeches and loose jacket and large mushroom-shaped hats, go at an easy trot of six miles an hour, and they will do forty miles in one day. This patient, toiling, perspiring race never seem to tire, and their bare brown legs, with their large muscular development, with sinews and veins standing out, and their high regular action, trot as steadily as the rough docile ponies. Their feet are bare, or covered with a straw sandal, kept on by a ribbon passed round the great toe. We see many shops hung with hundreds of these sandals. Their cost is infinitesimally small, but the roads are strewn with cast-off ones, for they only last for a few journeys.
We are driving along by the Inner Moat; for there are three separate moats surrounding the Castle, and then crossing over a bridge we pass under an ancient stone gateway, and find ourselves, between this and another one, equally massive and with iron-plated doors studded with nails. We are shut in by these curious walls of obsolete masonry. Huge blocks of granite are piled up obliquely, one resting on the other for support, without being filled in by earth or mortar. They are broader at the base, slope inwards, and stand by their own weight. Again and again we came upon these Titanic walls in the ancient buildings of Japan, and never ceased wondering how they were first placed in position and then held so, for centuries. Passing through the second archway, we are in a great open space, and above us are the white walls and brown crinkled roofs of the Mikado's palace. There is the grey stone bridge lighted by clusters of electric lamps, across which the 121st Mikado and the successor of the Shoguns passes to the palace, around which linger mysteries leaving the imagination free to picture the interior, for it is invisible to everyone. The authors of that delightful "Social Departure," it is true, saw it, but they dare not record how the permission was obtained. It is said that Mr. Liberty was the last to see this enchanted abode, but then his visit was from a professional view, to give his opinion on the decorations, as one of the great æsthetic decorators of the day.
The office of the Imperial Household, whither we were bound to call on Monsieur Nagasaki, the Emperor's Master of the Ceremonies, lies under the Imperial Palace. The sentry at the gateway stopped us, but after some parleying we were allowed to proceed on foot, as none but titled Japanese are allowed to pass in a jinrikisha. The officer who accompanied us was typical of the politeness which is the pleasantest feature of the Japanese, and requested a souvenir of our visit in a visiting card. In coming away we passed the Minister of Justice in a victoria, with a jinrikisha roped behind, containing his detective.
Tokio is one of the ten largest cities in the world, and with its population of 1,400,000 spread out over an extended area, the distances are great. It has tramways, drawn by the diminutive ponies, and an ear-piercing horn heralds an antique omnibus in the principal thoroughfares. It has electric light, gas, and telephones. Nor is it wanting in handsome public buildings and offices like the Admiralty, the Ministry for Foreign and Home Affairs. The Houses of Parliament are a skeleton of poles, for, just completed last year, they were burnt down immediately and are now rebuilding. We are passing an enclosure with rows of white-washed buildings, little barracks, suited to the little soldiers we see marching bravely along in the streets, and crowned with the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum, the royal insignia, which is everywhere and on everything.
Before the afternoon light fails we visit the temples at Shiba Park, the park being a grove of trees under which picturesque groups of children and nurses wander, or ladies stroll about, with their jinrikishas following them.
The entrance to this succession of mortuary chapels, where the remains of the 7th and 9th Shoguns are buried, is by a gorgeous gate of red and green and gold—a gate such as we grew to be familiar with, in the ceaseless succession of temples in Japan, for all these Buddhist shrines have a wearisome sameness in common, however beautiful they may individually be. There is a quiet court inside, filled with rows of stone pillars, with a circular pagoda with open holes at the top. They are lanterns offered as a mark of respect by the Daimyos or great nobles to their master. Every August, from the 12th to the 16th, lights are kept burning there to entice the spirits to return during their time of wandering, and not to journey by mistake to hell. Another stone court with more lanterns, and a pagoda-erection to a Minister of War, whither, should a war occur, they hope his spirit would return to watch over it and bring them luck.