I must say the day is very much against the creation of a favourable impression. It is a cold January morning, gloomy and dark, sleet falling from leaden clouds, and the streets are thickly covered with black mud. I can almost imagine myself in the suburbs of Pittsburg, for there is a great deal of smoke, the only apparent difference being that steel is replaced mostly by timber. As my jinrickshaw rolls along through the maze of wide streets and narrow lanes, I do not feel elated. My extraordinary vehicle, which is drawn by two men harnessed tandem fashion and pushed by another, has, however, an Eastern flavour, though the 'rickshaw was actually invented by an Anglo-Saxon genius.
During the first weeks of my stay I visited all the ancient monuments, temples, and pagodas, and all the usual haunts of the traveller. There are some fine specimens of Japanese art, though they cannot be compared to the buildings of the smaller cities. I come from Nara and Kyoto, and this may be one of the reasons that everything is so far below my expectations. Some of the temples are certainly large, and one or two pagodas quaintly designed, many of the carvings being elaborate. But even the best specimens can only be classed as decorative art. Among them all, the most noteworthy examples of Japanese architecture are the temples dedicated to the memory of the Shōguns. The decoration of the inner halls is sometimes exquisite, the beams and friezes being beautifully worked. Bronzes, finely cast, magnificently finished, make the interiors delightful. I specially admired the specimens of lacquer-work I saw in the course of my rambles. Nearly all the temples had panels, doors, chests, boxes, utensils, and odds and ends of exceptional beauty. It takes a long time for a Western eye to appreciate fully the real qualities of good lacquer; but when once it has been trained it will always put their lacquer-work foremost among the artistic productions of this people next to bronzes, if not before them. The industry still survives in full vigour, and I saw several specimens which came very near those in the carefully guarded collection of Nikko. I also saw many fine bronzes, though their beauty is often depreciated by the too-great elaborateness of the design. Old national armour is to be found in many of the temples and collections of the capital, but, though most beautiful, it is not yet in much demand in the bric-à-brac market.
But I have come to the conclusion that the real charm of ancient Yeddo must have lain more in nature than in art, in its bright suburbs, evergreen groves, wistaria-covered arbours, and chrysanthemum gardens; nature in her exuberance, in her spring bloom, or the varied tints of autumn intermingled with arched bridges, carved balustrades, and flights of steps, relieved by art. Monuments in Japan seem to serve above all as a foreground to a fine view: the most conspicuous towers, ex-voto lanterns, or finest "tories," acquire an artistic value more from their surroundings than from their intrinsic worth. The way in which the monuments are placed, the effect they give to the landscape, and especially the view to be seen from them, are the main points of interest. I am sorry that books written on Japanese art generally fail to perceive its real value, and point out merits it does not possess. It is particularly the imagination that ought to be dwelt on; not merely the handiwork, but the conception of the brain. Shrines, kiosks, pagodas, may sometimes be very primitive, but in the imagination of the artist they represented fairy buildings. It is the same with their tiny little gardens, or dwarf woods. Though they are in reality minute, they grow in the owners' minds to veritable parks or virgin forests. Some of the so-called Imperial palaces around Nikko are most humble abodes, surrounded by a little strip of land. Katsura-no-Rikyu Palace, for instance, consists simply of a few planks nailed together, forming a kind of log house of one storey, a few feet square, and divided in the interior by partitions or the so-called sliding screens. Certainly it is no palace; it can scarcely be called a house. It is literally a shed roofed with bamboo and thatch,—nothing more. And yet the followers of the imaginative school of æsthetics saw it with different eyes. To them it represented what their fancy imagined, not what they saw in reality, and the little open space before the building, which, with the best will in the world, can only be called a gravel yard, dotted with unhewn stones, was to them the illimitable surface of the ocean, the scattered blocks so many islands and continents. In the corner stands a little estrade of bamboo, where the Mikado and his chosen friends used to sit in deep contemplation before the elaborate world of their fancy, and enjoy the passive happiness of the Zen doctrine.
It would interest me to treat this subject most explicitly, and to deal with Japanese art from a psychological point of view; to consider not merely the objects it has created, but rather the mind and genius which have been manifested in its different creations; to deal more at length with the founders and pupils of the famous masters' schools of Nara and Kyoto, and to explain where their real value lies. To discuss the paintings, statuary, and architecture, the refinement of their watercolours, which can only be called sketches, small bronzes and jade or stone figures, the netsukes on masks, makimonos, "tories" and pagodas, would afford to our matter-of-fact appreciation an opportunity of realizing more fully the strength of their imagination. The average European generally admires in Japanese work the finish of detail, elaborateness of execution, and the patience of labour, applied to its object. He pays high prices for the workman's skill and manual dexterity, but seems to be quite indifferent to the artist's idea as such, and the originality of the conception escapes him entirely.
Yet in the most famous creations of the celebrated æsthetes we are more struck by the force of their imagination than by the actual work itself. The cha-no-yu style consisted, as mentioned above with reference to the Katsura-no-Rikyu Palace, of a few planks, bamboo beams, and thatched roof, and Kobori Enshu, Nippon's Le Notre, designed his gardens to offer a panoramic effect more than a place of recreation. It was not the house nor the grounds in their real grandeur which effected the impression desired; in fact, it was not reality at all that was before them in its crude and sometimes primitive material; but the suggestiveness of log house and gravel yard, which developed in their vivid fantasy into enchanted palace and fairy land. Men retiring from active life; generals crowned with many victories; distinguished, even abdicating Mikados, secluded themselves in different rural retreats to enjoy, after the struggles of life, perfect peace. They led a life of their own, an existence not so much of active reality as of passive contemplation, in which they discussed different ideas and strove for new ideals. They invented an artificial life of artistic refinement, admiring for days together a single work of art or a flower in full bloom, inhaling choice aromas and smelling exquisite perfumes. And stately processions were organized to go and partake of afternoon tea in a summer-house, where every movement was prescribed by strict etiquette, and where the handing and receiving of the cup were attended by fastidious courtesies, and the making of the beverage of a special green leaf, pounded to powder, and poured out of a black earthen pot, was an occupation requiring several hours. The tea ceremonies have often been described; there is a whole literature at our disposal, in which the regulations respecting these proceedings are put down with the authority of a code. But what is far more interesting than the description of the elaborate ceremonies is the problem of how the mind of the people could have manifested itself in such a complex and, to us, incomprehensible way. We shall never fully realize how these men could have sat on the Tsuki-mi-dai, the bamboo dais, for hours, watching the moon rising behind the meadows, gazing at the scene before them, lost in the intricacy of their contemplation. And we shall never understand their thoughts as we shall never realize the world as seen from a Tsuki-mi-dai.
Is it astonishing if, in their imagination, reality and fiction became "confusion worse confounded," huts grew to palaces, the single stones to islands, and, finally, they built up a world of their own? As children gazing at clouds give full play to their fancy, so did they see in the external world what really existed only in their inner consciousness. The explanation of many of those vagaries lies in the strength of their fantasy, the vividness of their illusions; but we might go even further and justly say that one of the strongest qualities of the nation is the strength of their imagination. With them fiction almost becomes reality, fancies acquire positive values, and subjective sensations are allowed to act upon the objective world. Any one who is interested in metaphysical questions will be struck by this trait, not only in their art, but in every incident of their existence. Whether in the past or present, it will strike us as one of the main characteristics of the Japanese, and, turning over the pages of their long history, it is one of the prevailing features. It was a potent factor, which gave strength to their convictions and endurance to their arms. In fact, their whole ancient moral code and their laws of chivalry were based on the same principle. The two qualities which inspire sincere admiration all over the world—their great loyalty to the sovereign and boundless patriotism—are emanations of the same disposition. In fact their greatest achievements were carried out under the influence of some abstract conception and brought to success by a national or ethical ideal.
II
If the artistic colouring of Tokio has faded away for ever, its present aspect is marked by the evidences of practical life, and if one's first impression is one of general disappointment, the second is one of deep interest. We soon realize that the capital of Japan has ceased to be a mere bazaar, full of glitter, where all the toys and fancies of the East have been stored to make a pleasant resort for the Western traveller. It is a place of hard work, for the accomplishment of serious aims.
Though my expectations in visiting the old monuments were not fulfilled, and, as I said before, from an antiquarian and artistic standpoint the town failed to satisfy me, I became daily more deeply interested in the busy life and commercial enterprise of modern Nippon. Workshops, manufactories, banks, insurance offices, are increasing rapidly in number. The electric and steam companies, railways and shipping, telegraph and telephone companies, have developed in a most astounding manner. If we consider that the railway was only introduced into the country in 1872, for the short distance from Tokio to Yokohama, which was followed by another short line in 1876 from Kobe to Kyoto, and the first long line connecting the two capitals was opened in 1890, it is even more astonishing to see what has been done in the succeeding ten years. To-day railways have been laid all over the country, and all the main cities are connected by direct lines. To give an idea of this rapid development, I may refer to the fact that in 1887 there were 580 miles open for traffic, and in 1899 there were 3421 miles. Besides the Government railways a great many private companies have been formed. About thirty years after the commencement of Japan's new era, the Government lines extended to 833 miles, including 60 miles in Formosa, and the routes still under construction 1250. There were forty-four private companies as well, with a capital of 228 million yen. The rolling stock of the Government railways amounted to about 1500 locomotives, 5000 cars, and 18,000 goods wagons. Among private lines the Nippon Tetsudo is the most important; it is about 1000 miles long. The next in importance are the Kiushiu and Sanyo railways. To-day it is possible to go from the north end of the country to the south, a distance of 1400 miles. The only interruption on the whole track is the Straits of Moji, where there is still a ferry, but this, it is said, will probably be replaced by a steel bridge, such as that over the Forth. The greater part of the rolling stock is manufactured at home, only wheels and axles being imported to any great extent from abroad.
The first telegraph line was installed in 1869 by English engineers. In 1877 all the foreign employés had been replaced by natives, and ten years later Japan joined the International Telegraph Union. In 1891 the Government purchased from the Great Northern Telegraph Company, with great strategical foresight, and took into its own hands, all the cables forming a direct connexion with Korea. The telegraph offices are not far off 2000 in number, and the length of the wires is close on 30,000 kilometres. The number of internal messages amounts to 16 millions, and of international messages to about 300,000. The longest main line is from Tokio to Nagasaki—877 kilometres. There are several thousands of employés, and in many places bicycles are used for delivering the telegrams.