The low, level and monotonous and uninteresting shores of China were left behind on the 23d, and on the 26th, the bold, variegated and rocky outlines of Riu Kiu rose into view. An impressive reception, with full military and musical honors, was given on the third, to the regent and his staff on the Susquehanna. The climax of all was the interview in the cabin. In lone dignity, the Commodore gave the Japanese the first taste of the mystery-play in which they had thus far so excelled, and in which they were now to be outdone. Perry could equal in pomp and dignity either Mikado or Shō-gun when he chose. He notified the grand old gentleman that, during the following week, he would pay a visit to the palace at Shuri. Despite all objections and excuses, the Commodore persisted, as his whole diplomatic policy was to be firm, take no steps backward, and stick to the truth in everything. His open frankness helped by its first blows to shatter down that system of lying, deception, and espionage, under which the national character had decayed during the rule of the Tokugawas.

On the 9th of June, with the Susquehanna having the Saratoga in tow, the Commodore set out northwards for a visit to the Ogasawara or Bonin islands, first explored by the Japanese in 1675, and variously visited and named by European navigators. Captain Reuben Coffin of Nantucket, in the ship Transit, from Bristol, owned by Fisher, Kidd and Fisher, landed on the southern or “mother” island September 12th, in 1824, fixing also its position and giving it his name. British and Russian captains followed his example, and also nailed inscribed sheets of copper sheathing to trees in token of claims made. “Under the auspices of the Union Jack” a motley colony of twenty persons of five nationalities settled Peel island, one of the group, in 1830. Perry found eight whites, cultivating nearly one hundred acres of land, who sold fresh supplies to whalers. The head of the community was Nathanael Savory of Massachusetts. Perry left cattle, sheep, and goods, seeds and supplies and an American flag. He arrived at Napa again June 23d, and the 2d of July, 1853, the expedition left for the Bay of Yedo. Many and unforeseen delays had hindered the Commodore, and now that he was at the doors of the empire, how different was fulfilment from promise! Over and over again “an imposing squadron” of twelve vessels had been promised him, and now he had but two steamers and two sloops. Uncertain when the other vessels might appear, he determined to begin with the force in hand. The Supply left behind, and the Caprice sent back to Shanghai, he had but the Mississippi, Susquehanna, Plymouth and Saratoga.

The promontory of Idzu loomed into view on the hazy morning of the 7th, and Rock island—now crowned by a lighthouse, and connected by telephone with the shore and with Yokohama, but then bare—was passed. Cape Sagami was reached at noon, and at 3 o’clock the ships had begun to get within range of the forts that crowned or ridged the headlands of the promontory. The weather cleared and the cone of Fuji, in a blaze of glory, rose peerless to the skies.

Cautiously the ships rounded the cape, when from one of the forts there rose in the air a rocket-signal. “Japanese day fire-works” are now common enough at Coney Island. Made of gunpowder and wolf dung, they are fired out of upright bamboo-bound howitzers made of stout tree trunks. The “shell” exploded high in air forming a cloud of floating dust. The black picture stained the sky for several minutes. It was a signal to the army lying in the ravines, and a notice, repeated at intervals, to the court at Yedo. The expected Perry had “sailed into the Sea of Sagami and into Japanese history.”

In the afternoon, the first steamers ever seen in Japanese waters, dropped anchor off Uraga. As previously ordered, by diagram of the Commodore, the ships formed a line broadside to the shore. The ports were opened, and the loaded guns run out. Every precaution was taken to guard against surprise from boats, by fire-junks, or whatever native ingenuity should devise against the big “black ships.”

The first signal made from the flag-ship was this, “Have no communication with the shore, have none from the shore.” The night passed quietly and without alarms. Only the boom of the temple bells, the glare of the camp-fires, and the dancing of lantern lights told of life on the near land. This is the view from the American decks. Let us now picture the scene from the shore, as native eyes saw it.

Among the many names of their beautiful country, the Japanese loved none more than that of “Land of Great Peace,”—a breath of grateful repose after centuries of war. The genius of Iyéyasŭ had, in the seventeenth century, won rest, and nearly a quarter of a millennium of quiet followed. The fields trampled down by the hoof of the war-horse and the sandal of the warrior had been re-planted, the sluices and terraces repaired, and seed time and harvest passed in unintermitting succession. The merchant bought and sold, laid up tall piles of gold kobans, and thanked Daikokŭ and Amida for the blessings of wealth and peace. The shop keeper held a balance of two hundred rios against the day of devouring fire or wasting sickness, or as a remainder for his children after the expenses of his funeral. The artisan toiled in sunny content, and at daily prayer, thanked the gods that he was able to rear his family in peace. Art and literature flourished. The samurai, having no more use for his sword, yet ever believing it to be “his soul,” wore it as a memento of the past and guard for the future. He lounged in the tea-houses disporting with the pretty girls; or if of studious tastes, he fed his mind, and fired his heart with the glories of Old Japan. As for the daimiōs, they filled up the measure of their existence, alternately at Yedo, and in their own dominions, with sensual luxury, idle amusement, or empty pomp. All, all was profound peace. The arrows rusted in the arsenals, or hung glittering in vain display, made into screens or designs on the walls. The spears stood useless on their butts in the vestibules, or hung in racks over the doors hooded in black cloth. The match-locks were bundled away as curious relics of war long distant, and for ever passed away. The rusty cannon lay unmounted in the castle yards, where the snakes and the rats made nests and led forth their troops of young for generations.

Upon this scene of calm—the calm of despotism—broke the vision of “the black ships at Uraga.” At this village, long noted for its Midzu-amé or rice-honey, the Japanese were to have their first taste of modern civilization. Its name, given nine, perhaps eleven centuries before, was auspicious, though they knew it not. The Chinese characters, sounded Ura-ga, mean “Coast Congratulation.” At first a name of foreboding, it was to become a word of good cheer!

“The fire-vessels of the western barbarians are coming to defile the Holy Country,” said priest and soldier to each other on the afternoon of the third day of the sixth month of Kayéi, in the reign of the Emperor Koméi. The boatman at his sculls and the junk sailor at the tiller gazed in wonder at the painted ships of the western world. The farmer, standing knee deep in the ooze of the rice fields, paused to gaze, wondering whether the barbarians had harnessed volcanoes. With wind blowing in their teeth and sails furled, the monsters curled the white foam at their front, while their black throats vomited sparks and smoke. To the gazers at a distance, as they looked from their village on the hill tops, the whole scene seemed a mirage created, according to their childhood’s belief, by the breath of clams. The Land of Great Peace lay in sunny splendor. The glorious cone of Fuji capped with fleecy clouds of white, never looked more lovely. Even the great American admiral must surely admire the peerless mountain.^[26] The soldiers in the fort on the headlands, obeying orders, would forbear to fire lest the fierce barbarians should begin war at once. The rocket signal would alarm great Yedo. The governor at Uraga would order the foreigners to Nagasaki. Would they obey? The bluff whence the Morrison had been fired upon years before, once rounded, would the barbarians proceed further up the bay? Suspense was short. The great splashing of the wheels ceased. As the imposing line lay within an arrow’s range, off the shore, the rattling of the anchor-chains was heard even on land. The flukes gripped bottom at the hour of the cock (5 p. m.)

The yakunin or public business men of Uraga had other work to do that day than to smoke, drink tea, lounge on their mats, or to collect the customs from junks bound to Yedo. As soon as the ships were sighted, the buniō, his interpreter, and satellites, donned their ceremonial dress of hempen cloth and their lacquered hats emblazoned with the Tokugawa trefoil, thrust their two swords in their belts, their feet in their sandals, and hied to the water’s edge. Their official barge propelled by twelve scullsmen shot out to the nearest vessel. By their orders a cordon of boats provisioned for a stay on the water was drawn around the fleet; but the crews, to their surprise could not fasten their lines to the ships nor climb up on board. The “hairy barbarians,” as was not the case with previous visitors, impolitely pitched off their ropes, and with cocked muskets and fixed bayonets really threatened to use the ugly tools if intruders mounted by the chains. A great many naru hodo (the equivalent of “Well I never!” “Is it possible?” “Indeed!”) were ejaculated in consequence.

Mr. Nakashima Saburosŭké (or, in English, Mr. Middle Island, Darling No. 3) vice-governor, and an officer of the seventh or eighth rank, was amazed to find that even he, a yakunin and dressed in kami-shimo uniform, his boat flying the governor’s pennant, and his bearers holding spears and the Tokugawa trefoil flag, could not get on board. The i-jin (outlanders) did not even let down their gangway ladder, when motioned to do so. This was cause for another official naru hodo. The barbarians wished to confer with the governor himself. Only when told that the law forbade that functionary from boarding foreign ships, did they allow Mr. Nakashima and his interpreter Hori Tatsunosūké (Mr. Conch Dragon-darling,) to board. Even then, he was not allowed to see the grand high yakunin of the fleet, the Commodore, who was showing himself master of Japanese tactics.

Perry was playing Mikado. The cabin was the abode of His High Mighty Mysteriousness. He was for the time being Kin-réi, Lord of the Forbidden Interior. He was Tennō, (son of the skies) and Tycoon (generalissimo) rolled into one. His Lieutenant Contee acted as Nai-Dai-Jin, or Great Man of the Inner Palace. A tensō, or middle man, secretary or clerk, carried messages to and fro from the cabin, but the child of the gods with the topknot and two swords knew it not. Since the hermits of Japan were not familiar [with] the rank of Commodore, but only of Admiral, this title came at once and henceforth into use. The old proverb concerning the prophet and his honors abroad found new illustration in all the negotiations, and Perry enjoyed more fame at the ends of the earth than at home.

Mr. Nakashima Saburosŭké was told the objects for which the invisible Admiral came. He had been sent by the President of the United States on a friendly mission. He had a letter addressed to “the emperor.” He wished an officer of proper rank to be chosen to receive a copy, and appoint a day for the momentous act of accepting with all the pomp and ceremony and circumstance, so august a document from so mighty a ruler, of so great a power. The Admiral would not go to Nagasaki. With imperturbable gravity of countenance, but with many mental naru hodo, the dazed native listened. The letter must be received where he then was.

Further, while the intentions of the admiral were perfectly friendly, he would allow of no indignity. If the guard-boats were not immediately removed, they would be dispersed by force. Anxious above all things to preserve peace with the i-jin or barbarians, the functionary of Uraga rose immediately, and ordered the punts, sampans and guard-boats away.

This, the first and master move of the mysterious and inaccessible Commodore in the game of diplomacy, practiced with the Riu Kiu regent was repeated in Yedo Bay. The foiled yakunin, clothed with only a shred of authority, could promise nothing, and went ashore. There is scarcely a doubt that he ate less rice and fish that evening. Perhaps he left his bowl of miso (bean-sauce) untasted, his shiru (fish soup) unsipped. The probabilities approach certainty that he smoked a double quota of pipes of tobacco. A “hairy” barbarian had snubbed a yakunin. Naruhodo!

Darkness fell upon the rice fields and thatched dwellings. The blue waters were spotted with millions of white jelly-fishes looking as though as many plates of white porcelain were floating submerged in a medium of their own density. Within the temples on shore, anxious congregations gathered to supplicate the gods to raise tempests of wind such as centuries ago swept away the Mongol armada and invaders. The “divine breath” had wrought wonders before, why not now also?

Indoors, dusty images and holy pictures were cleansed, the household shrines renovated, fresh oil supplied to the lamps, numerous candles provided, and prayers uttered such as father and mother had long since ceased to offer. The gods were punishing the people for neglect of their altars and for their wickedness, by sending the “ugly barbarians” to destroy their “holy country.” Rockets were shot up from the forts, and alarm fires blazed on the headlands. These were repeated on the hills, and told with almost telegraphic rapidity the story of danger far inland. The boom of the temple bells, and the sharp strokes on those of the fire-lookouts, kept up the ominous sounds and spread the news.

For several years past unusual portents had been seen in the heavens, but that night a spectacle of singular majesty and awful interest appeared. At midnight the whole sky was overspread with a luminous blue and reddish tint, as though a flaming white dragon were shedding floods of violet sulphurous light on land and sea. Lasting nearly four hours, it suffused the whole atmosphere, and cast its spectral glare upon the foreign ships, making hull, rigging and masts as frightfully bright as the Taira ghosts on the sea of Nagatō. Men now living remember that awful night with awe, and not a few in their anxiety sat watching through the hours of darkness until, though the day was breaking, the landscape faded from view in the gathering mist.

The morning dawned. The barbarians had remained tranquil during the night. The unhappy yakunin probably forgot the lie^[27] he had told the day before, for at 7 o’clock by the foreigners’ time, the governor himself, Kayama Yézayémon, with his satellites arrived off the flag-ship. Its name, the Susquehanna, struck their fancy pleasantly, because the sound resembled those of “bamboo” (suzuki) and “flower” (hana). The grand dignitary of Uraga in all the glory of embroidery, gilt brocade, swords, and lacquered helmet with padded chin straps, ascended the gangway as if climbing to the galleries of a wrestling show. Alas, that the barbarians, who did not even hold their breath, should be so little impressed by this living museum of decorative art. There was not one of them that fell upon his hands and knees. Not one Jack Tar swabbed the deck with his forehead. Some secretly snickered at the bare brown legs partly exposed between the petticoat and the blue socks. This buniō in whose very name are reflected the faded glories of the old imperial palace guard in medieval Kiōto, was accustomed to ride in splendid apparel on a steed emblazoned with crests, trappings and tassels, its mane in pompons, and its tail encased, like an umbrella, in a silk bag. His attendant outwalkers moved between rows of prone palms and faces, and of upturned top-knots and shining pates. Now, he felt ill at ease in simple sandals on the deck of a mighty ship. The “hairy foreigners” were taller than he, notwithstanding his lacquered helmet. In spite of silk trousers, and rank one notch higher than the official of yesterday, he was unable to hold personal intercourse with the Lord of the Forbidden Interior. The American Tycoon could not be seen. The buniō met only the San Dai Jin, Captains Buchanan and Adams, and Lieutenant Contee. A long discussion resulted in the unalterable declaration that the Admiral would not go to Nagasaki. He would not wait four days for an answer from Yedo, but only three. The survey boats would survey the waters of the bay.

“His Excellency” (!) the buniō was shown the varnish and key hole of the magnificent caskets containing the letters from the great ruler of the United States. Eve did not eye the forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil with more consuming curiosity, than did that son of an inquisitive race ogle the glittering mysterious box. It was not for him to know the contents. He was moved to offer food and water. With torturing politeness, the “hairy faces” declined. They had enough of everything. The ugly barbarians even demanded that the same term of respect should be applied to their President as that given to the great and mighty figure-head at Yedo. This came near being a genuine comedy of Much Ado about Nothing, since one of the Tycoon’s titles expressed, in English print was “O.”

In spite of the rising gorge and other choking sensations, the republican president was dubbed Dairi. The buniō of Uraga was told that further discussion was unnecessary, until an answer was received. No number of silent volleys of “naru hodo” (indeed) “tai-hen” (hey yo) or “dekinai” (cannot) could possibly soothe the internal storm in the breast of the snubbed buniō. He gathered himself up, and with bows profound enough to make a right angle of legs and body, and much sucking in of the breath ad profundis, said his “sayonara” (farewell) and went ashore.

The third day dawned, again to usher in fresh anomaly. The Americans would transact no business on this day! Why? It was the Sabbath, for rest and worship, honored by the “Admiral” from childhood in public as well as private life. “Dōntaku” (Sunday,) the interpreter told the buniō. With the aid of glasses from the bluffs on shore, they saw the Mississippi’s capstan wreathed with a flag, a big book laid thereon, and smaller books handed round. One, in a gown, lowered his head; all listening did likewise. Then all sang, the band lending its instrumental aid to swell the volume of sound. The strains floated shoreward and were heard. The music was “Old Hundred.” The hymn was “Before Jehovah’s awful throne, Ye nations bow with sacred joy.” The open book on the capstan was the Bible. In the afternoon, a visiting party of minor dignitaries was denied admittance to the decks of the vessels; nor was this a mere freak of Perry’s, but according to a habit and principle.

This was the American rest-day, and Almighty God was here worshiped in sight of His most glorious works. The Commodore was but carrying out a habit formed at his mother’s knee, and never slighted at home or abroad. To read daily the Bible, receiving it as the word of God, and to honor Him by prayer and praise was the chief part of the “provision sufficient to sustain the mind” so often recommended by him to officers and men. “This was the only notable demonstration which he made before landing.”

“Remarkable was this Sabbath morning salutation, in which an American fleet, with such music as those hillsides never re-echoed before, chanted the glories of Jehovah before the gates of a heathen nation. It was a strange summons to the Japanese.” Its echoes are now heard in a thousand glens and in the cities of the Mikado’s empire. The waters of Yedo Bay have since become a baptismal flood. Where cannon was cast to resist Perry now stands the Imperial Female Normal College. On the treaty grounds rises the spire of a Christian church.

Meanwhile, the erection of earth-works along the strand and on the bluffs progressed. The farm laborers, the fishermen, palanquin-bearers, pack-horse leaders, women and children were impressed into the work. With hoe and spade, and baskets of rope matting slung from a pole borne on the shoulders of two men, or each with divided load depending scale-wise from one shoulder, receiving an iron cash at each passing of the paymaster, they toiled day and night. Rude parapets of earth knit together with grass were made and pierced with embrasures. These were twice too wide for unwieldly, long, and ponderously heavy brass cannon able to throw a three or six pound ball. The troops were clad in mail of silk, iron and paper, a kind of war corset, for which rifle balls have little respect. Their weapons were match-locks and spears. Their evolutions were those of Taikō’s time, both on drill and parade. Curtained camps sprung up, around which stretched impressive walls of cotton cloth etched by the dyer’s mordant with colossal crests. These were not to represent “sham forts, of striped canvas,” and thus to frighten the invaders, as the latter supposed; but, according to immemorial custom, to denote military business, and to display either the insignia of the great Shō-gun or the particular clan to which a certain garrison or detachment belonged. The political system headed by the Tycoon, had to the Japanese mind nothing amusing in its name of Bakafu or Curtain Government, though to the foreigner, suggestive of Mrs. Caudle. It had, however, a certain hostile savor. It was a mild protest against the camp over-awing the throne. It implied criticism of the Shō-gun, and reverence to the Mikado.

The names and titles which now desolated the air and suffered phonetic wreck in collision with the vocal organs to which they were so strange, furnish not only an interesting linguistic study, but were a mirror of native history. The uncouth forms which they took upon the lips of the latest visiting foreigners are hardly worse in the scholar’s eyes, than the deviations which the Japanese themselves made from the Aino aboriginal or imported Chinese forms. In its vocabulary the Japanese is a very mixed language, and the majority of its so called elegant terms of speech is but mispronounced Chinese. To the Americans, the name of one of the interpreters seemed “compounded of two sneezes and a cough,” though when analyzed into its component elements, it reflects the changes in Japanese history as surely as fossils in the rocks reveal the characteristics of bygone geological ages. In the old days of the Mikado’s supremacy, in fact as well as in law, when he led his troops in war, instead of being exiled in a palace; that is, before the thirteenth century, both military and civil titles had a meaning. Names had a reality behind them, and were symbols of a fact. A man with kami (lord) after his name was an actual governor of a province; one with mon terminating his patronymic was a member of the imperial guard, a soldier or sentinel at the Sayé mon (left gate) or Uyé mon (right gate) of the palace; a Hei was a real soldier with a sword or arrow, spear or armor. A suké or a jō a marō or a himé, a kamon or a tono was a real deputy or superior, a prince or princess, a palace functionary or a palace occupant of imperial blood. All this was changed when, in the twelfth century, the authority was divided into civil and military, and two capitals and centers of government, typified by the Throne and the Camp, sprang up. The Mikado kept his seat, the prestige of antiquity and divinity, and the fountain of authority at Kiōto, while the Shō-gun or usurping general held the purse and the sword at Kamakura. Gradually the Shō-gun (army-commander, general) usurped more and more power, claiming it as necessary, and invariably obtaining new leases of power until little was left to the Mikado but the shadow of authority. The title of Tai-kun (“Tycoon”) meaning Great Prince, and the equivalent of a former title of the Mikado was assumed. Next the military rulers at Kamakura, from the twelfth to the sixteenth century and in Yedo from the seventeenth century, controlled the appointments of their nominees to office, and even compelled the Emperor to make certain of them hereditary in elect families. The multitude of imperial titles, once carrying with their conferment actual duties and incomes, and theoretically functional in Kiōto became, as reality decayed, in the higher grades empty honorifics of the Tycoon’s minions, and in the lower were degraded to ordinary personal names of the agricultural gentry or even common people. What was once an actual official title sunk to be a mere final syllable in a name.

The writer, when a resident in the Mikado’s empire, was accustomed to address persons with most lofty, grandiloquent, and high flown names, titles and decorative patronymics, in which the glories of decayed imperialism and medieval history were reflected. His cook was an Imperial Guardsman of the Left, his stable boy was a Regent of the University, while not a few servants, mechanics, field hands and manure carriers, were Lords of the Chamber, Promoters of Learning, Superintendents of the Palace Gardens, or various high functionaries with salary and office. Just as the decayed mythology and far off history of the classic nations furnished names for the slaves in Carolina cotton fields, in the days when Lempriêre was consulted for the christening of newly born negro babies, so, the names borne by thousands of Japanese to-day afford to the foreign analyst of words and to the native scholar both amusement and reflection. To the Americans on Perry’s fleet they furnished endless jest as phonetic and linguistic curiosities.

Opening upon the beautiful bay (yé), like a door (do), the great city in the Kuantō, or Broad East of Japan, was well-named Bay-door, or Yedo. Founded as a military stronghold tributary to the Shō-gun at Kamakura in the fourteenth century, by Ota Dō Kuan, it was made in 1603 the seat of the government by Iyéyasŭ. This man, mighty both in war and in peace, and probably Japan’s greatest statesman, made the little village a mighty city, and founded the line of Shō-guns of the Tokugawa family, which ruled in the person of fifteen Tycoons until 1868. To the twelfth of the line Iyéyoshi, President Fillmore’s letter was to be delivered, and with the thirteenth, Iyésada, the American treaty made. The Americans dubbed each “Emperor”!

Yedo’s chief history and glory are associated with the fortunes of the Tokugawas. It had reached the zenith of its greatness when Perry’s ships entered the bay. Its palaces, castles, temples, and towers were then in splendor never attained before or beheld in Japan since. It was the centre of wealth, learning, art and gay life. Its population numbered one million two hundred thousand souls, of whom were five hundred thousand of the military class.

Upon this mass of humanity the effect of the news of “black ships” at their very doors was startling. All Yedo was soon in a frightful state of commotion. With alarmed faces the people thronged to the shrines to pray, or hastily packed their valuables, to bury or send off to the houses of distant friends. In the southern suburbs thousands of houses were emptied of their contents and of the sick and aged. Many who could, left their homes to go and dwell with relatives in the country. Couriers on horseback had first brought details of the news by land. Junks and scull-boats from Uraga arrived hourly at Shinagawa, and foot-runners bearing dispatches panted in the government offices. They gave full descriptions of what had been said and done, the number, shape and size of the vessels, and in addition to verbal and written statements, showed drawings of the black ships and of the small boats manned by the sailors. It was no clam’s-breath mirage this time. The rumor so often pooh-poohed had turned to reality.^[28]

The samurai went to their kura (fire proof storehouses) and unpacked their armor to repair and furbish, and to see if they could breathe, as they certainly could perspire in it, and brandish a sword with both hands, when fully laced up. They scoured the rust off their spears, whetted and feathered their arrows, and restrapped their quivers upon which the moths had long feasted. The women rehemmed or ironed out flags and pennants. Intense activity prevailed on the drill grounds and matchlock ranges. New earth-banks for targets were erected. Vast quantities of powder were burned in practice. It was the harvest time of the priests, the armorers, the sword-makers, and the manufacturers of oiled paper coats, leggings, hats and sandals, so much needed in that rainy climate during camp-life. The drug business boomed with activity, for the hastily gathered and unseasoned soldiers lying under arms in camp suffered from all sorts of maladies arising from exposure.

Hokŭsai, whose merciless caricatures of carpet soldiers once made all Japan laugh, and who had died four years before with the snows of nearly ninety years upon his head, was not there to see the fun. His pupils, however, put the humor of the situation on paper; and caricatures, lampoons and jokes directed against these sons of luxury in camp were numerous, and after the departure of the ships they found ready sale.

One enterprising merchant and ship owner in Yedo had, months before Perry arrived, made a fortune by speculating in oiled paper, buying up all he could lay his hands upon, making water-proof garments and selling at high prices. Indiscreetly exulting over his doings, he gave a feast to his many friends whom his sudden wealth had made. The two proverbs “In vino veritas,” and “Wine in, wit out,” kissed each other. Over his merry cups he declared that “the vessels of the barbarians” had been “the treasure-ships of the seven gods of happiness” to him. The authorities got wind of the boast, and clapped the unlucky wight in prison. He was charged with secretly trading with foreign countries. His riches took wings and flew into the pockets of the yakunin and the informer. While the American ships were at Napa he was beheaded. His fate sobered other adventurous spirits, but did not injure business.

The book-sellers and picture-shop keepers, who had sent artists down to Uraga, also coined kobans by selling “brocade pictures” or broadsides bedizened with illustrations in color, of the floating monsters and the tall man of strange garb, speech, tonsure, hirsute fashion, and shape of eyes. Fans, gaily colored and depicting by text and drawing the wonders that now thrilled the nation, were sent into the interior and sold by thousands. The governor was compelled to issue proclamations to calm the public alarm.

Meanwhile, in the castle, the daimiōs were acquainted with the nature of the despatches and the object of the American envoy. Discussion was invited, but there was nothing to be said. Innumerable pipes were smoked. Long hours were spent on the mats in sedentary recumbence on knees and heels. Uncounted cups of tea were swilled. Incredible indignation, impotent wrath and contempt were poured upon the ugly barbarians, but still an answer to the unanswered question, “what was to be done?” could not be deferred. This was the problem.

They must first lie to the foreigners and make them believe that the Shō-gun was a Tai-kun and had imperial power. This done, they would then have the chronic task of articulating lie after lie to conceal from prying eyes the truth that the Yedo government was a counterfeit and subordinate. The Shō-gun was no emperor at all, and what would they do if the hairy devils should take a notion to go to Kiōto? They could not resist the big ships and men, and yet they knew not what demands the greedy aliens would make. They had no splendid war vessels as in Taikō’s time, when the keels of Japan ploughed every sea in Asia and carried visitors to Mexico, to India, to the Phillipines. No more, as in centuries ago, were their sailors the Northmen of the sea, able to make even the coasts of China and Corea desolate, and able to hurl back the Mongol armada of Kubhlai Khan. Then should the Americans land, and, by dwelling in it, defile the Holy Country, the strain upon the government to keep the foreigners within bounds and to hold in the Yedo cage the turbulent daimiōs would be too great. Already many of the vassals of Tokugawa were in incipient rebellion. If Japan were opened, they would have a pretext for revolt, and would obey only the imperial court in Kiōto. The very existence of the Tokugawa family would then be jeoparded. If they made a treaty, the “mikado-reverencers” would defy the compact, since they knew that the Tycoon was only a daimiō of low rank with no right to sign. In vain had the official censors purged the writings of historical scholars. Political truth was leaking out fast, and men’s eyes were being opened. In vain were the prisons taxed to hold in the whisperers, the thinkers, the map-makers, the men who believed the country had fallen behind, and that only the Mikado restored to ancient authority could effect improvement.

Finally, two daimiōs were appointed to receive the letter. Orders were given to the clans and coast daimiōs to guard the most important strategic positions fronting the bay of Yedo, lest the foreigners should proceed to acts of violence. Several thousands of troops were despatched in junks to the earth forts along the bay of Yedo.

Meanwhile Perry, the Lord of the Forbidden Interior, had allowed no Japanese to gaze upon his face. The buniō had held several consultations with the Admiral’s subordinates, had been shown the ship and appointments, and had tasted the strangers’ diet. The barbarian pudding was delicious. The liquors were superb. One glass of sugared brandy made the whole western world kin. The icy armor of reserve was shuffled off. The august functionary became jolly. “Naruhodo” and “tai-hen” dropped from his lips like minted coins from a die. So happy and joyful was he, that he forgot, while his veins were warm, that he had not gained a single point, while the invisible Admiral had won all.

A conference was arranged to be held at Kurihama (long-league strand), a hamlet between Morrison Bluff and Uraga for July 13th. The minutest details of etiquette were settled. The knowing subordinates, inspired by His Inaccessibility in the cabin, solemnly weighed every feather-shred of punctilio as in the balances of the universe. In humiliation and abasement, Mr. Yézayémon regretted that upholstered arm-chairs and wines and brandies could not be furnished their guests on the morrow. It was no matter. The “Admiral” would sit like the dignitaries from Yedo; but, as it ill befitted his Mysterious Augustness to be pulled very far in a small boat, he would proceed in the steamers to a point opposite the house of deliberation within range of his Paixhans. He would land with a proper retinue of officers and soldiers. Possibly a Golownin mishap might occur, and the Admiral wished to do nothing disagreeable. Even if the government was perfectly sincere in intentions, the swiftness of Japanese assassins was proverbial, and the rō-nin (wave-man) was ubiquitous.

The day before, sawyers had been busy, boards and posts hauled, and all night long the carpenters sent down from Yedo plied chisel and mallet, hooked adze and saw. Mat sewers and binders, satin curtain hangers, and official canvas-spreaders were busy as bees. Finally the last parallelogram of straw was laid, the last screen arranged, the last silk curtain hung. The retainers of Toda, Idzu no kami, the hatamoto, with all his ancestral insignia of crests, scarlet pennants, spears, banners, lanterns, umbrellas, and feudalistic trumpery were present. The followers of Ito were there too, in lesser numbers. For hundreds of yards stretched canvas imprinted with the Tokugawa blazon, a trefoil of Asarum leaves. On the beach stood the armed soldiers of several clans, while the still waters glittering in the beams of the unclouded sun were gay with boats and fluttering pennants.

In the matter of shine and dazzle the Japanese were actually outdone by the Americans.

The barbarian officers had curious looking golden adornments on their shoulders, and pieces of metal called “buttons” on the front of their coats. What passed the comprehension of the spectators, was that the same curious ornaments were found at the back of their coats below the hips. Why did they wear buttons behind? Instead of grand and imposing hakama (petticoat trousers) and flowing sleeves, they had on tight blue garments. As the sailors rowed in utterly different style from the natives, sitting back to the shore as they pulled, they presented a strange spectacle. They made almost deafening and hideous noises with brass tubes and drums, with which they seemed pleased. The native scullers could have beaten the foreign rowers had the trial been one of skill. The Uraga yakunin and Captain Buchanan led the van of boats. When half way to the shore, thirteen red tongues flamed out like dragons, and thirteen clouds of smoke like the breath of the mountain gods, leaped out of the throats of the barbarian guns.

Then, and then only, the High, Grand, and Mighty, Invisible and Mysterious, Chief Barbarian, representative of the august potentate in America, who had thus far augustly kept himself behind the curtain in secrecy, revealed himself and stepped into his barge. The whole line then moved to the beach. A few minutes later there were a thousand scowls and curses, and clinching of fingers on sword-hilts, and vows of revenge, as the soil of the holy country was defiled by the first barbarian, Buchanan, who sprang ashore on the jetty hastily made of straw rice bags filled with sand.

Many a countryman in the crowds of spectators on the hills around, as he saw the three hundred sailors, mariners, bandsmen and officers, went home to tell his fellow-villagers of foreigners ten feet in stature, as hairy in face as dogs, with polls on their crown as red as the shōjo (or scarlet-headed demons), and of ships as big as mountains, having guns that made heaven and earth crash together when they were fired. The numbers as reported in the distant provinces ran into myriads.

There was no one that gazed more upon Commodore Perry than Kazama Yézayémon. He, the snubbed buniō, had waited through the minutes of the hours of five days to see the mighty personage. With vast officiousness he now led the way to the pavilion. Two gigantic tars carried the American flag, and two boys the mysterious red box whose outside Kazama had seen. Of majestic mien and portly form, tall, proud and stately, but not hairy faced, “big as a wrestler, dignified as a kugé,” (court noble) the august Commodore, already victor, advanced forward. On either side as his guard, stalked a colossal kurumbō (black man) armed to the teeth. This sable pair, guarding the burly Commodore, like the Ni O (two kings) of a temple portal, constituted one of the greatest curiosities of the pageant. Many in the gazing crowds had never seen a white man; but probably not one had ever looked upon a human being whose whole skin was as black as the eyes of Fudō. Only in the theatre, when they had seen the candle-holders with faces smeared with lamp black, had they ever beheld aught like what now smote their eyes.

The procession entered the pavilion with due pomp. The Japanese officials were all dressed in kami-shimo (high and low) or ceremonial winged dress of gold brocade. Toda, Idzu no kami, and Ito, Iwami no kami, the two commissioners, sat on camp-stools. When all was ready, the two boys advanced and delivered their charge to the blacks. These, opening in succession the scarlet cloth envelope and the gold-hinged rosewood boxes, with true African grace, displayed the letter written on vellum bound in blue velvet, and the gold tasseled seals suspended with silk thread. In perfect silence, they laid the documents on the lacquered box brought from Yedo. It was like Guanzan handling the sacred books.

“The First Counsellor of the Empire,” as the Americans called Toda, acknowledged in perfect silence receipt of the documents. The interpreter who had been authorized by the “Emperor”—according to the foreigners’ ideas—handed the receipt to the Commodore, who sat during the ceremony. What little was spoken was in Dutch, chiefly between Perry and the interpreters. The whole affair was like a “Quaker” meeting of the traditional sort. The official reply read:—

“The letter of the President of the United States of North America and copy are hereby received and delivered to the Emperor. Many times it has been communicated that business relating to foreign countries cannot be transacted here in Uraga, but in Nagasaki. Now it has been observed that the Admiral in his quality of embassador of the President would be insulted by it; the justice of this has been acknowledged, consequently the above mentioned letter is hereby received in opposition to the Japanese law. Because this place is not designed to treat of anything from foreigners, so neither can conference nor entertainment take place. The letter being received, you will leave here.”

The Commodore then gave notice that he would return “in the approaching spring, probably in April or May.” This concluded the ceremonies of reception, which lasted half an hour. With all due care and pomp the Americans returned to their decks. That part of the Bay of Yedo fronting Kurihama was named “Reception Bay,” as a certain headland was dubbed by Perry himself Rubicon Point.

The “black ships” remained in the bay eight days. Their boats were busily employed in surveying the waters. Perry kept his men on ship’s food, holding them all in leash, allowing no insults to the people, receiving no gifts. In no instance was any Japanese molested or injured. The Americans burned no houses, stole no valuables, outraged no women. None was drunk. Not a single native was kicked, beaten, insulted or robbed. One party landed, and actually showed a politeness that impelled the people to set out refreshments of water, tea and peaches. These “hairy” Americans were so kind and polite that they smoked friendly pipes, showed the people their trinkets and watches, and even patiently explained, in strange and unintelligible language, but with pantomimic gesture, the uses of many things which drew forth volleys of naru hodo! kiréi! rippani! médzurashi! so désŭ, né! and many a characteristic grimace, shrug and mutual nod from the light-hearted and impressible people.

All this was strange and unlooked-for. This was not the way the Russians in Saghalin, nor the British sailors at Nagasaki, had acted. The people began to think that probably the foreigners were not devils, but men after all. Eyes were opened on both sides.

More than one American made up his mind that the Japanese were not so treacherous, murderous, or inhospitable as they had heard. The natives began to believe that if the “hairy faces” were devils, they were of an uncommonly fine species, in short as jolly as tengus or spirits of the sky. Strangely enough, the “hairy” foreigners were clean shaven.

One authentic anecdote related by the Japanese is worth mentioning. At the banquet given by the governor of Uraga, Perry tasted the saké served so plentifully at all entertainments, and asked what the cost or price of the beverage might be. On being told, finding it exceedingly cheap, the Commodore with a very serious face remarked to his host that he feared it was highly injurious to the people to have so ridiculously cheap an intoxicant produced in the country. All present were deeply impressed with the Commodore’s remark.

Despite the fact that the decoction of fermented rice, called saké, which contains alcohol enough to easily intoxicate, and fusel oil sufficient to quickly madden, was not relatively as cheap as Perry supposed, yet Japan’s curse for centuries has been cheap liquor.

Another anecdote, less trustworthy, is preserved in a native book. The time suits Shimoda, but other considerations point to Uraga or Yokohama. The subjective element, probably predominates over historical fact. Some enemy of Buddhism or its priests, some wit fond of sharp barbs, from a Shintō quiver, probably, manufactured the story, which runs as follows:—

“When Perry came to Shimoda, he took a ramble through the town, and happened to enter a monastery yard. It was in summer, and two bonzes were taking a nap. Of course they were shaved as to their heads, and their bodies were more than half uncovered. At first glance, Perry thought that these shaven-pated and nude savages were in an unseemly act. ‘This is a savage land’, he said; and until he saw and talked with the better representatives of Japan, he was of a mind to treat the Japanese as he would the lowest African tribes.”

Without a yard of canvas spread, the four ships moved rapidly out of the Bay on the morning of March 17th. The promontory of Uraga was black with spectators who watched that stately procession whose motor was the child born of wedded fire and water.

Japan now gave herself up to reflection.