CHAPTER XXIII

JAPAN. THE MIKADO

On the 18th Yamashina no Miya, first cousin once removed of the Mikado, who had arrived at Hiōgo the previous day to invite the Foreign Ministers to an audience of the Emperor at Kiōto, called upon Sir Harry. The Prince was robed in the old court dress of a purple colour with the curious cap (_yéboshi_) of wrinkled black paper. His teeth were blackened, but as that process has to be renewed every two, or at most three, days, and as they were at that moment in a transition stage, they did not look their best. When we saw him again a few days later they had been newly polished up, and shone like patent leather.

We reached Kiōto on the 21st and were lodged in the magnificent temple called Chi-on-in, lying in a grove at the foot of the beautiful Higashiyama, “the eastern hill.” Everything had been done to insure our comfort, and the temple was guarded by troops of the Awa, Higo and Owari clans. Our rooms were really of royal magnificence, and we were treated to a feast of innumerable dainties set out with an elaborate etiquette that would have satisfied the great Yoshimasa,[7] the Lucullus of Japan, himself.

It would be difficult to forget the lovely temple with its avenues of huge cherry trees, its vast halls, its art treasures, and its great solemn bell rolling out deep, musical waves of sound far away over the city; but I saw it again in 1906, quite unchanged, quite untouched by political upheavals, and had the chance to talk over the story of forty years gone by with the stately and venerable abbot, who remembered the cruel days when the great State apartments were turned for the nonce into hospital wards.

The day of the 22nd was spent in paying official visits, the chief interest of which lay in the fact that we were entering into relations with men who had never set eyes upon foreigners before, nobles who, like their fathers for many centuries before them, had lived in a cloistered seclusion hardly less strict than that of the Emperor himself, and upon whom the light of the last weeks, even of the last days, had burst like a flash of electricity in a cave of Stygian darkness. One great man told us quite frankly that he, like the rest of the Court, had been bitterly opposed to any intercourse with foreigners—now all was changed, and he was glad of it. He afterwards apologized, saying that he was afraid that he had spoken too freely, and that, at any rate, he felt grateful to the English for having been the first to recognize the true position of the Mikado.

A little later in the day Prince Daté and Gotō Shōjirō came to discuss the ceremonial for the audience on the morrow. They seemed very anxious as to how the boy-Emperor would play his part. It was all so new to him. It must be remembered that only a very few of the highest nobles were privileged to see their Sovereign face to face. Even the Shōgun did not see him, but only knelt in front of the red lattice-curtain behind which he heard the Son of Heaven issuing his commands. For the last ten days the rigid etiquette had been so far broken that certain Daimios had been allowed to see him. I could not help sympathizing with the poor young Mikado in this prospective ordeal.

It was arranged that he should learn his speech by heart and try to repeat it, the copy being then handed to Yamashina no Miya, who would read it out and hand it in turn to Ito to be translated, the document itself ultimately remaining with Sir Harry, who would reply directly to the Mikado. As for me, I was to be presented by Yamashina no Miya to his Majesty, who would greet me with the formula “Kuro” (“I am glad to see you”).

The reception of M. Roches on the 22nd was the last of his Japanese experiences. As will have been gathered, I was no great admirer of his policy or of his proceedings, but I am bound to say that his final act was marked by all the courtesy of his chivalrous nation. The fifth of the demands made by him in regard to the Sakai massacre was that all Tosa Samurai should be excluded from the foreign settlements. In answer to Prince Yōdo, who desired to be informed how long this was to hold good, M. Roches very graciously replied that he would leave that to the Prince, who was far more capable than himself of being the judge in such a matter. It was the answer of a gentleman.

The audience of the English Minister was fixed for the 23rd, and at one o’clock we left the temple in pomp and state which it is needful that I should describe in order that what followed may be understood. First came the Legation mounted escort, headed by their inspector, Mr. Peacock. These were picked men sent out from the Metropolitan Police, a gallant little troop armed with lances, making a brave show. Then came Sir Harry Parkes on horseback, with Satow and two high officials, Gotō Shōjirō and Nakai Kōzō; after them a guard of the 9th Regiment under Lieutenants Bradshaw and Bruce (afterwards Marquess of Ailesbury). My mare had unfortunately gone dead lame, so I followed in a palanquin. After me came a guard of some fifteen hundred or two thousand Japanese soldiers. As good luck would have it, Dr. Willis and some naval officers whom Sir Harry had invited, among whom were two surgeons, accompanied us.

Without let or hindrance our procession passed along a straight street almost facing the gates of the temple, but as the leading men turned the corner of the Shimbashi Street—a street where there are not a few wine-shops and houses inhabited by geishas (quite respectable), two Rōnin armed with naked swords sprang out and began slashing and hacking in the maddest fury. The street was so narrow that our men’s lances were hindered by the projecting eaves of the houses, and were useless. Nakai Kōzō jumped off his horse and drawing his sword engaged one of them, but catching his foot in his long trousers, stumbled and received a severe cut on the head from a blow the full and deadly force of which he contrived to parry. At this moment Gotō Shōjirō, who, with Sir Harry, had not yet turned the corner, perceiving from the backing of the horses and the scuffle in front that there was mischief ahead, dismounted and, dashing forward, rushed to the rescue of Nakai. Between them, fighting like fury, they killed the ruffian, and Nakai, jumping up, hacked off his head. The other man rushed at Sir Harry, cutting and slashing as he went, but fortunately missing the Minister. Satow had a narrow escape, for his horse was wounded close to his rider’s knee, and part of the poor beast’s nose was sliced off.

On the villain went, now cutting at the men of the 9th. I heard pistol shots and the clatter of swords and cries of, “We are attacked!” “Kill him!” “Shoot him!” and the like. I jumped out of my palanquin more quickly than I ever in my life jumped out of anything, and rushed forward. There were pools of blood in the street, and I saw the murderer coming at me, by this time himself wounded, but not seriously, and full of fight. His sword was dripping and his face bleeding. I knew enough of Japanese swordsmanship to be aware that it was no use to try and avoid his blow, so I rushed in underneath his guard and wrenched the bleeding sword out of his grip. I handed him over to the men of the 9th, but he managed to wriggle away from them and bolted down a passage into a courtyard. I ran on to see whether Parkes was safe. To my great relief he was sitting on his horse, quite unmoved, with Satow, whose pony was bleeding, also mercifully unhurt. As I came up with them I stumbled over something; it was a man’s head. The street was like a shambles; nine of the escort and one man of the 9th and four horses had been wounded, some of them lying in pools of their own blood. Sir Harry’s groom was also bleeding. Our gallant little friend Nakai was badly hurt, but quite gay, as usual.

Seeing that the affray was over and that there was nothing that I could do, I ran back to make sure of the other Rōnin who had run down the courtyard. I found that he had been shot in the face by Lieutenant Bradshaw, but the weapon was but a toy pistol and the bullet had glanced off the jaw-bone. When I reached the bottom of the yard, I saw my man, a repulsive object smeared with mud and blood so that his features were hardly human, trying to escape over a wall. I hung on to him and pulled him down. I shall never forget the horror in his eyes as he glared at me, evidently thinking that I should kill him. Of course he looked upon me as a man might look upon his murderer. But my object, on the contrary, was to save him. I wanted him, for through him I hoped to get at the bottom of the plot. So I handed him over to the guard with strict injunctions that he was not to be hurt.

As for the fifteen hundred Japanese soldiers, they decamped, and only came back having in the distance fired what was something uncommonly like a _feu de joie_. It was perhaps too much to expect of them, new as they were to relations with foreigners, that they should show the same courage and loyalty which had been exhibited by Gotō and Nakai.

Of course, going on to the Court was out of the question for that day. Some time was lost in getting coolies to carry our poor fellows, at least as many of them as were fainting from loss of blood. The others, badly wounded though they were, insisted on sticking to their horses. They behaved splendidly and in all that pain and trouble there was not a single complaint to be heard.

My especial care was for my prisoner; his evidence was too important for me to leave him to chance. Such coolies as we could muster were wanted for our men, so in despair I pressed two honest citizens, shopkeepers, into my service, and with dire threats made them carry him in my _norimono_ (palanquin), for he was far too weak and exhausted to be able to walk. The two shopkeepers were intensely disgusted, and their protests that they were respectable burghers and ought not to be made to do the work of _etas_ (pariahs) were almost comic; but our blood was up and they had to do it.

It was a melancholy procession home. As I walked by the side of Sir Harry’s horse he turned to me and said, “Sensation diplomacy this, Mitford.” It certainly was. When we reached home our beautiful temple was turned into a hospital. Our wounded men, bleeding as if their life must ebb out, lay patiently in the verandah, waiting their turn for the assistance of the surgeons, who, stripped to their shirts, seemed almost to multiply themselves, so swift and skilful were they. Shirts and sheets were being torn up into bandages, buckets of bloody water were being emptied and filled again. Everything one touched was sickening, wet, and red. It was a nightmare. Presently the head of the man whom Nakai had killed was brought in—a terrible sight. One awful triangular wound had laid bare part of the brain, and there was a gash from a sword on the right jaw.

As soon as the prisoner’s wounds were dressed, Satow and I with a retainer of Sanjo Dainagon examined the prisoner. He was a beetle-browed, truculent-looking fellow with rolling black eyes, and his appearance was not improved by bloodstained rags, and a large head with a shock crop of wiry hair which, having abandoned the priesthood, he had just begun to let grow. He said:

“My name is Ishikawa Samurō. I am a priest from a temple called Jōrenji, near Ōsaka. I left the Castle this morning determined to kill all the foreigners that I might meet. I came to Kiōto on the second day of this month to join the Mikado’s bodyguard, and I lodged at the temple called Hommanji in the Temple Street. I left it the day before yesterday and went to the Castle. I was in the first regiment at the Castle, but could not agree with my mates, so determined to regulate my conduct according to my own ideas. I set out to kill foreigners; I had no accomplice. I pray to be examined, and, if found guilty, to be executed and my crime made known throughout the Empire.”

At a second questioning, he said: “I had an accomplice, one Hayashida, I forget his other name.[8] He is the son of a village doctor, not belonging to the Samurai class, from Katsura Mura, a village near Kiōto. He is a Rōnin. He belonged to the first regiment of Guards. I heard last night from the servants that foreigners were going to Court. I waited to see them pass. I did not know to what nation they belonged. It was the first time that I had seen foreigners. I repent of my crime. It was a sudden thought on the part of both of us. I had no previous hatred to foreigners.”

On being shown the head of the man who had been decapitated in the street, of whose death up to this time he was unaware, he added:

“This is the head of Hayashida. Since he is dead I wish to live no longer. Please cut off my head as soon as possible. We had been drinking together at a wine-shop. I forget the name of the shop.”

To this second statement the wounded man adhered through a strict cross-examination, and he solemnly stated that there was no other person in league with him.

Naturally enough this outrage excited the greatest consternation at the Court of the Mikado, and in the evening his Majesty sent Tokudaiji Dainagon, and several of his highest officers of State, dressed in their court robes, to present his condolences and the expression of his deep regret at what had occurred. They inquired with great sympathy as to the state of the wounded men.

This, taken in conjunction with the gallant behaviour of Gotō and Nakai, and with the prompt punishment meted out for recent attacks, could leave no doubt as to the sincerity of the horror which was expressed. Nearly forty years later—in 1906—when I was sent with Prince Arthur on the Garter Mission, it fell to my lot to take the Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order to the Marquis Tokudaiji, Lord Great Chamberlain as he then was, and he reminded me of the ghastly circumstances of our first meeting on that memorable evening in Kiōto.

Our people, savage at the treatment which their comrades had received, were none too keen to minister to the wants of the prisoner. I could not but feel some compassion for the poor wretch, and so I took him tea and rice and soup, and filled his pipe with tobacco; after a while he became quite tame and confidential. It is a curious sensation that of talking with one’s would-be murderer. The poor fellow was very grateful and said over and over again that if he had known what kind folk the foreigners were, he never would have embarked upon an enterprise which he now deeply regretted. He said that he felt ashamed when he thought of the care and attention which he was receiving. Now, since Hayashida was dead, his only wish was to die too. He had heard of the fame of Satow as a scholar, but did not know to what nation he belonged. As for me, I was beginning to feel towards him as one might towards a dangerous wild beast beginning to show signs of willingness to feed out of one’s hand.

This morning (the 24th) he had to undergo another examination by a Japanese official, who furnished us with an example of the criminal procedure of Japan in those days. This gentleman was an inspector of the bodyguard, who, by representing himself as belonging to the Jō-i, or anti-foreign party, and applauding the prisoner’s deed, gradually wormed himself into his confidence, and got a good deal of fresh information out of him, especially a statement that there were three other accomplices, also belonging to the first regiment of Guards, who had been waiting in a house further down the street ready to spring out and follow up the action of himself and Hayashida should they fail, or only partially succeed, in their attempt. The prisoner stated that he was twenty-nine years of age—Hayashida, the dead man, was a lad of eighteen. He repeated his thanks for the kindness which he had received at my hands and at those of Doctor Willis. Once more he begged to be executed quickly. Hayashida was dead and he had no care to live. The three men whom he denounced were of course arrested, and equally of course, denied their guilt.

In the afternoon we had a second visit from the ministers of the Mikado. They brought with them a despatch conveying in writing the apologies which they had delivered orally the evening before; they offered the fullest reparation, expressing their willingness to indemnify the wounded men, and to make provision for their families should they unfortunately die. Nothing could be more dignified or more satisfactory in every way than the language which they held—a notable contrast to our experiences of Bakufu days. Sir Harry Parkes had made no complaint and demanded no reparation. The action of the Government was as spontaneous as it was noble: what a blessing it was to be quit of the old wrangling and bullying which alone bore fruit a few months before.

The envoys begged that Sir Harry would not allow the madly wicked act of a few ruffians to stand between the Mikado and friendship with Foreign Powers. It would have been churlish not to meet them halfway and accordingly the visit which had been so cruelly interrupted was fixed to take place on the day after the morrow.

Looking back at the whole affair calmly, it seems miraculous, first that two men should have risked certain death in attacking a party of some seventy Englishmen armed with all the newest weapons (though, as I have said, our escort were badly hampered in the use of their lances which after this episode we discarded), and secondly that they should have been able to work such havoc before they were stopped. It only shows how much mischief a man may do if he does not try to save his own skin—that is the whole essence of success in running amok. If he is faint-hearted and looks to his own safety, he cannot do much harm. Another wonder was that Sir Harry, conspicuous in his gold-embroidered coat, should have escaped scatheless. Obviously it was a blind fury. The attack was irrational and to us unintelligible; but the Jō-i were animated by the spirit of a priest of Isé, who lived a century earlier, and wrote a patriotic pamphlet, proving that the children of Japan are the offspring of the gods—the rest of the world the issue of dogs and cats. Was it meet and proper that the descendants of cats and dogs should defile the city, the court, and even the sacred presence of the Son of Heaven? Among the papers of our prisoner was found a document setting forth his political creed; he admitted belonging to the Jō-i—the anti-foreign party; he thought it right that the Mikado should govern; he had heard that a barbarian doctor had polluted the holy city (this alluding to Willis’ two visits with Satow and myself; so a mission of charity was turned into an excuse for murder!). Three days later he was deprived of his rank as Samurai, and put to death by the common headsman.

The Mikado’s Government announced that they were prepared to strike at the root of all this fanaticism. They declared that the murder or insulting of foreigners, hitherto regarded by the fanatics as acts of heroism, was an infamous and wicked crime, and they were prepared to publish a decree enacting that those guilty of such acts should be deprived of their swords, their names struck off the roll of Samurai, that they should be executed as felons without the privilege of _Hara-kiri_, and that after death their heads should be exposed on the execution ground. We were bound to confess that such a decree as this would indeed be a drastic measure, meaning far more to a Samurai than the Western man would generally realize.

I should add here that the Queen presented swords of honour to Gotō Shōjirō and Nakai in recognition of the gallantry with which they protected her minister.

* * * * *

It was the 26th of March, the third day of the third moon; an auspicious day in the omens of which the most punctilious of soothsayers could find no fault or foreboding of evil. The tragically postponed audience of the Mikado was now to take place. The Government were naturally very anxious after the events of two days before, and extraordinary precautions were taken to prevent the recurrence of any such misadventure. From early dawn the many-acred courts of the temple were crowded with men-at-arms arrayed in all the panoply of ancient armour, with helmets and mustachioed vizors. The picturesque figures of these warriors, framed in the setting of the heavy-eaved architecture of the sacred buildings, were striking even to us who by this time were tolerably well used to such startling sights.

How would it have struck an Englishman transported on the carpet of some Afrit or Jinn of the “Arabian Nights” out of the everyday moil and toil of Fleet Street into the midst of all this medieval glamour? Were we back in the middle of the eleventh century, in the days of the wars when the white flag of the Minamoto was borne out to battle against the red standard of the Taira?—days when gods and fairies took sides in the struggle, as in the old fights before Troy? Two great Daimios, Prince Daté, the Inkiyō of Uwajima, and the Prince of Hizen, had been told off to conduct us in person to the Palace; their retainers, more numerous than the tail of a Highland chieftain, armed with tasselled spears and other weapons of the olden time, made a brave show.

Our own retinue was sadly reduced. Our mounted escort could only muster two men, who with drawn swords rode on either side of Sir Harry. Satow and I rode immediately behind him. The drawn swords, I should mention, were very significant, and would have a startling effect in the streets of Kiōto, for in Japan the blade was never bared save for bloodshed, and the sight of them would have a meaning which my readers can hardly realize. However, there was no need for their use this time. The streets were admirably kept, and although huge crowds had gathered together to see our procession, they were quite orderly, and there was no sign of any disturbance—which would have been almost impossible—nor was there an ugly word uttered. We had a longish way to go, and reached the Gosho, the Imperial Palace, at about one o’clock.

The Palace of the Son of Heaven, unlike the dwellings of most Oriental potentates, who delight in show and magnificence (indeed has not “oriental splendour” become a proverbial expression?), was chiefly marked by a noble simplicity; it was not even fortified, but was surrounded by plain whitewashed walls topped with grey tiles, of which the nine gates, as I have already said, were each committed to the charge of the troops of one of the great Daimios. Still, in spite of its studied plainness, the Gosho was not without a certain grandeur of its own. There was none of that economy of space which always makes a mean effect; the courtyards were vast and kept scrupulously clean with fresh white sand; the buildings, of which there were many, although entirely without ornament, were large and roomy, bearing a great stamp of dignity.

At the inner gate of ceremony, the gate used by princes of the blood, we dismounted and were led by the great officers of State through a succession of courtyards to a waiting-room, where we were received by Yamashina no Miya, a cousin of the Emperor. Here we were plied with sweetmeats, sponge cake,[9] tea and talk, waiting until the Mikado, who was eating his mid-day meal, should be ready to hold his Court.

It was interesting to see in the flesh, if I may use the expression, a scene such as we are familiar with in the paintings on ancient gilt screens and kakémonos. The court dress had a peculiar _cachet_, a “flavour” as the Chinese would put it, of its own. The black cap (_yéboshi_) tied under the chin had something of the effect of the huge piles of hair worn by women, which one sees caricatured about the thirties of the nineteenth century. The coat was of dark silk, hanging loose, with long, wide sleeves, and the sword was slung instead of being thrust into the girdle, sticking out behind like a tail. The trousers were baggy and clumsy in make, of lighter-coloured stuff than the coat.

But the strangest part to our eyes of the whole get-up were the shoes—huge black lacquer sabots worn in crossing the courtyards, but of course doffed on entering a room, so constructed that the wearer had to shuffle along in the most uncertain fashion, the very parody of walking. The costume altogether might appear grotesque to a new-comer, but we had so long learned to associate it with the dignity of old tradition that its oddness had ceased to raise our wonder.

On a sudden, as we were waiting in the ante-room, there arose the wild and picturesque strains of flute, mouth-organ, lute, drums and other instruments of string, wood and percussion, belonging to his Majesty’s private band,—a curious wailing music. Here again we had something with a flavour entirely its own, though one of the Japanese gentlemen who had been in England said that it reminded him of the Italian opera. The power of the imagination could hardly go further.

Is there anything so utterly odious as waiting? The three of us, Parkes, Satow and myself, had worked and waited many months, not altogether in safety, for this consummation of a policy which we, loving Japan, and at the same time penetrated with a sense of its importance for England, indeed for the world, knew to be right. But now this last half-hour of sponge cake and compliments seemed interminable.

At last! At last (I pray forgiveness if I dwell upon our impatience) we were ushered into the Presence. Only Sir Harry Parkes and myself were to be presented—Satow, by far the most important man of the three, not having at that time been presented at our own Court, could not, according to etiquette, be presented to a foreign sovereign. Unfortunately the rain, which had been threatening all the morning, had begun to fall in torrents, so we had to splash through the various courtyards, ankle-deep in wet sand. Guards of honour were stationed at intervals—an unknown sight in the precincts of the Gosho, into the inner enclosure of which no soldiers had up to that time been admitted. We were introduced into the Audience Hall by the Prince of Hizen.

Passing up a double flight of steps we entered the audience chamber, a long hall forming one side of a courtyard of which the remaining three sides were a verandah open only on the inside. In this verandah sat the band, clothed in red, blue and gaudy colours, with lacquer caps upon their heads. The Presence Chamber itself was a long room, very simple and plain. In the centre was a canopy supported by four slender pillars of black lacquer draped with white silk, into which was woven a pattern in red and black; the drapery was caught up and festooned with black and red ribbons. On the inside of each of the two front pillars stood a lion, curiously carved in wood, the one black, the other gilt, about two feet high. Like our own Lion and Unicorn they had some mystic meaning, some hidden connection with the Kingly order.

Under the canopy was the young Mikado, seated in, or rather, leaning against, a high chair. Behind him knelt two Princes of the blood, ready to prompt him, if need should be, in the playing of his part. Outside the canopy and in front of His Majesty knelt two other Princes of the blood. On a raised floor decked with costly green silk, close to the canopy, stood Sir Harry and myself, our conductor, the Prince of Hizen, kneeling beside us. On one side Ito Shunské, Governor of Hiōgo, who was to act as interpreter, was also kneeling. On either side of the canopy in a double or treble row, extending to the end of the Hall, stood the great Princes of the Empire, men such as Satsuma, Chōshiu, Uwajima, Kaga, and other great nobles—to us, up to that time, no more than names, but now realized in the flesh. It certainly was a very imposing sight; perhaps it is difficult to convey an idea of all that it meant to us, who had worked so hard to this end.

As we entered the room the Son of Heaven rose and acknowledged our bows. He was at that time a tall youth with a bright eye and clear complexion; his demeanour was very dignified, well becoming the heir of a dynasty many centuries older than any other sovereignty on the face of the globe. He was dressed in a white coat with long padded trousers of crimson silk trailing like a lady’s court-train. His head-dress was the same as that of his courtiers, though as a rule it was surmounted by a long, stiff, flat plume of black gauze. I call it a plume for want of a better word, but there was nothing feathery about it. His eyebrows were shaved off and painted in high up on the forehead; his cheeks were rouged and his lips painted with red and gold. His teeth were blackened. It was no small feat to look dignified under such a travesty of nature; but the _sangre Azul_ would not be denied. It was not long, I may add, before the young sovereign cast adrift all these worn-out fashions and trammels of past ages, together with much else that was out of date.

When we had taken our places the Mikado addressed Sir Harry Parkes as follows:

“I hope that your Sovereign enjoys good health. I trust that the intercourse between our respective countries will become more and more friendly and be permanently established. I regret deeply that an unfortunate affair which took place as you were on your way to the Palace on the 23rd delayed this ceremony. It gives me great pleasure, therefore, to see you here to-day.”

Now this speech, regarded as an oratorical or literary effort, was not very remarkable. And yet, if we consider the circumstances, we cannot but admit that there was in it much upon which we might fairly congratulate ourselves. We were standing in the presence of a sovereign whose ancestors for centuries had been to their people demigods—to foreigners almost a myth. The sanctity of their seclusion had been inviolate, they had held no intercourse with a world of which they knew nothing. Now, suddenly, the veil of the temple had been rent and the Boy-God, in defence of whose Divinity myriads of his subjects were ready gladly to lay down their lives, had descended from the clouds to take his place among the children of men, and not only that, but he had actually allowed his sacred face to be seen by, and had held communion with, “The Beasts from Without.” That is how the mere fact would present itself to the minds of the Japanese.

Then as to the matter of the speech there was none of the old, haughty arrogance of the heaven-born. The Queen was spoken of with due respect,[10] in itself a new departure, and the apology for the outrage which had taken place two days before was couched in becoming language, nor had there been anything in the whole ceremonial which could wound the susceptibilities of the most exacting foreigner. The barrier of centuries had been broken down, and Japan was ready to enter into the comity of nations on equal terms.

As might be expected from his extreme youth and the novelty of the situation to one who had only recently left the women’s apartments, the Mikado showed some symptoms of shyness. He hardly spoke above a whisper, so the words were repeated aloud by the Prince of the Blood on his right side and translated by Ito Shunské. When Sir Harry had made a suitable reply we were conducted out of the Presence Chamber by the Prince of Hizen. The whole ceremony did not last much more than a quarter of an hour.

So ended a ceremony which had been most imposing not only on account of its inner meaning, but also by reason of the halo of simplicity, instinct with solemn dignity. Tradition and the atmosphere of sanctity were more striking than all the gold and silver and jewels of an aurungzebe on his peacock throne.

On the 27th we left Kiōto. It was no easy matter to convey our poor wounded men, who had ridden into the holy city a few days before, looking so smart and handsome; however, we procured eight huge litters and managed to get them by easy stages to the boats. I may say here that none of them died, though several underwent great suffering, and two were crippled for life and had to be invalided home.

On the 29th Sir Harry and the rest of the Legation went back to Yokohama to look after the interests of trade, in a neighbourhood where there was still much sporadic fighting and where the British community were not unnaturally anxious, and I was left behind at Ōsaka to keep up relations with the new government which was to make its headquarters there.

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