A CHINESE PEASANT.
In his everyday attire the Mandarin observes none of these elaborate formulæ. He dons a loose robe of silk to the ankles, an umbrella-shaped hat, and heel-less shoes with pointed toes that curve slightly upwards, contrived from rattan plaited in such a manner as to allow freely of ventilation. In his right hand he carries a fan and in his left a checked handkerchief of imposing dimensions.
The ordinary dress of men of the middle classes comprises a short shirt cut low at the throat, drawers, socks of material made with a single seam up the back, a long embroidered coat, and a shorter jacket of some plain fabric, held by a broad waist-belt, embroidered in colours and fastened by a jade ornament.
The headgear differs according to the season. In summer a conical-shaped straw hat is chosen, and in winter small hats obtain either of hard felt with stiff, upturned brims or of felt soft and pliable.
The costume of the lower orders is simplicity itself. A cotton shirt, trousers, and a loose sleeveless coat exhaust the list. A narrow strip of material is tied round the waist in order to prevent the clothing getting in the worker's way, and the naked feet are thrust into low sandals.
Occasionally the ubiquitous pigtail is turned up and pinned in a coil about the head, but this liberty is never permitted in the presence of a superior. As a matter of fact, the etiquette of dress is rigidly observed throughout China. No gentleman would dream of either paying or receiving a visit without shoes on his feet, a fan in his hand, and a wide, pointed hat, rather suggestive of a tent, on his head. How true it is that manners, like morals, are mere matters of geography!
In contrast to the love of display characteristic of their Chinese neighbours, the Japanese are conspicuous for extreme simplicity. This national trait finds expression in their dress. Here I pause to consider whether, as a chronicler of costume, I should allude to the Japanese in the present or past tense? I regretfully incline to the latter view, for there is little doubt that the smoke of factory chimneys, built on European lines and fed with Cardiff coal, is rapidly blurring local colour. Already the quaint little men have adopted the outward and visible sign of inward civilisation in the form of a frock coat and top hat. Their women-folk have followed their example and discarded the picturesque for the prosaic, exchanging the fashions transmitted by their ancestresses for those telegraphed from Paris. Will the Geishas do likewise, and is another decade destined to see them in caps and aprons, and will—Imagination fails me, and I revert to the glorious days of the Daimios and Samourais—days for which, I am firmly convinced, every frock-coated Japanese sighs as ardently as I do.
In old Japan social distinctions were drawn for all time, and there was no crossing the line of demarcation. Society was divided into nine grades. The princes, or Daimios, the nobles, or Samourai, the priests, and the military composed the first four. These were entitled to carry two swords, while the intellectual class, which numbered doctors in its ranks, was allowed one. The remainder, including lawyers, were debarred the privilege of bearing arms.
From the age of seven the son of a Samourai appeared in public wearing the two swords distinctive of his rank. They were small, of course, as appropriate to his size and strength, but were otherwise perfect in every detail.
Despite rigorously-observed social divisions, all classes wore the same outer garment, the difference being in the materials employed. Until the influx of Europeans made its levelling influence felt, the use of silk by any but the nobility was strictly prohibited. The article of attire common to both sexes of the community was the kimono, a loose, flowing wrap which opened down the centre and crossed over at the breast, where on men it was held in place by a narrow belt, while women wore a wide sash neatly folded and tied in an elaborate bow behind. Although the sleeves were immensely wide and hung in deep points, only a small opening was left for the hand to pass through, the remainder being joined together to serve as pocket. Etiquette exacting that what a guest could not eat he should take home, the superfluous dainties were carefully enveloped in paper and deposited in the roomy sleeves.