Tokio is the same old Yeddo that figured in our school-books—no matter how many years ago. The first thing to impress me in the place was its enormous size. It is, in truth, a city of magnificent distances, for its area surpasses that of London. Together with its suburbs, it has a population of one million eight hundred thousand. Save for its vast extent, however, the Japanese capital is not imposing. Seen from an elevation Tokio displays an almost limitless expanse of wooden roofs, whose trifling inequalities recall the undulating surface of a cold, gray sea. From this there rises, here and there, a solitary tower or pagoda, like a lighthouse from the waves.

Four hundred years ago Tokio was a fishing hamlet. Not until 1603 did it become the military capital; and since that time it has been so frequently burned down and rebuilt, that it may be compared to the human body, the particles of which are said at certain intervals to be entirely renewed. In fact, statistics prove that, on an average, the city every thirty years has risen anew from its ashes. In 1895, at a single fire, four thousand houses were destroyed.

It is no easy task to explore thoroughly the Japanese labyrinth called Tokio, but one great central object forms, at least, a starting-point,—the imperial palace. Around it, like a warrior's belt, is drawn a moat so broad and deep that it might easily be deemed a river. The vast extent of this enclosure, its highly finished wall of stone, the silent, waveless stretch of water which surrounds it,—all these add mystery to one whose residence is so secluded from the eyes of men. Yet it is only recently that the Mikado has lived here. Thirty years ago the residence of Japanese sovereigns was a retired palace in the ancient city of Kioto. It may well be called "retired," for previous to the revolution of 1869 (which may be called the new birth of Japan) the Japanese for centuries had never seen the face of the Mikado. In giving audiences, even to his priests and nobles, he sat invisible behind a screen. When he walked out within his garden, carpets were spread before him to keep his sacred feet from contact with the earth. If he drove out, it was in a covered carriage, closed by screens, and as he passed along his subjects knelt in the attitude of prayer. Thus, century after century, these sovereigns lived,—each one in turn a monarch yet a captive, a god and yet a slave.

Meanwhile, in one of the stately castles of Japan there lived the Mikado's representative, or viceroy; for, of course, the Japanese emperors did not govern. How could they? They were imprisoned by their own divinity. A mediator between the monarch and his subjects had to be appointed, to act as overseer of the realm. Previous to 1869 therefore—for nearly seven hundred years—two rulers had existed in Japan. One was the theoretical sovereign, to whom all gave allegiance, but who accomplished nothing,—the Mikado; the other was the practical executive,—the military regent, called the Shogun.

In the small town of Shizuoka we saw the modest house where was still residing, like a country gentleman, the last of the once powerful Shoguns of Japan; for a change has taken place in the Mikado's empire. The Shoguns, who for centuries had been the actual sovereigns of the realm, and one of whom was in full power when the American fleet arrived in Yokohama, have now completely disappeared. Less than thirty years ago, from the secret precincts of his palace in Kioto, the lawful ruler, the present Mikado, was brought to light, like one who had been immured within a dungeon. In 1872, for the first time in a thousand years, a Japanese emperor freely appeared before his subjects. He was at that time a young man, twenty-two years of age, and was actually traveling by rail from Yokohama to Tokio, thenceforth to make that city his abode and capital. On that occasion, we are told, the loyalty and enthusiasm of his subjects knew no bounds. As the train moved off with the young emperor, restored to his ancestral power, there rang out on the air a melody which thrilled all hearts. It was the national anthem of Japan, the strains of which were first heard when savage tribes were hunting by the Thames and Rome was mistress of the world.

One might suppose that such a sudden rise in power, combined with the amazing changes in his empire, would have been ruinous to this young sovereign, for at the time of the restoration he was but sixteen years old. But he was evidently the man for the occasion, and has since proved himself an assiduous student and enlightened ruler. This man, who, as a youth, knew almost nothing of the existence of such foreign lands, now reads the literatures of England, France, and Germany.

Moreover, this hundred and twenty-first Mikado of his line—the representative of the oldest dynasty on earth, whose founder reigned here five hundred years before the death of Julius Cæsar,—has not only adopted European dress and customs, but has favored the introduction of all the great inventions of the present age. Nevertheless, he had the wisdom to restrain his subjects in their first eagerness to adopt everything European, when they were even ready to destroy, as worthless, some of their ancient castles, shrines, and statues. And now that a reaction has set in, and the Japanese are once more proud to cherish the memorials of their ancestors, they are sincerely grateful to their emperor, because at the great national crisis he showed sufficient tact and independence to steer between the rocks of servile imitation on the one side and dull conservatism on the other, and, while the ship of state was trembling in the rapids of that flood of progress, he maintained a firm hand on the helm.

The houses of the old Japanese nobles in Tokio recall many other striking contrasts between the past and the present. Until recently, for nearly a thousand years, Japan had many feudal lords, called Daimios. Most of them lived in Tokio for at least six months of every year, under the Shogun's watchful eye. But the great revolution of 1869 completely swept away the feudalism of centuries, and one by one, at the command of the Mikado, the Daimios gave up their swords, dismissed their armed retainers, renounced, to some extent, their vast estates and revenues, and, as a rule, retired to private life.

Yet one must not suppose that the Japan of the present day has no nobility. Some years ago there was a grand revision of all ranks and titles. The old, distinguished families still form the nucleus of the aristocracy; but to their ranks have been added many men conspicuous for their talents, or for their loyalty to the new régime. We had the pleasure of meeting one who lives in close relations with the emperor. We found him a refined and courteous gentleman, dressed in a faultless suit of broadcloth, and speaking French and English fluently. As we conversed with him, however, our thoughts would stray from his appearance to that which his own father, doubtless, had presented, when Commodore Perry moored his fleet in Mississippi Bay. For his father had been one of those warriors of old Japan, called Samurai.

A certain number of these men adhered to every Daimio, lived at his castle, fought his battles, and, not content with one sword, always carried two, as distinctive symbols of their rank. Yet now the old-time swordsman, if alive, has no doubt ceased to shave his head, has laid aside his singular costume, and has even put his swords away as relics of his youthful days, since no civilian is at present allowed to wear them. It is said that this class of Japanese suffered most from the revolution, for they suddenly found their occupation completely gone. Untrained for work and ill-adapted to the sudden change, their situation was at first deplorable. Hence it is little short of marvelous that such a radical transformation could have been effected in Japan without frequent insurrections. The sight of this great nation turning from feudalism to a constitutional monarchy, at the cost of rank, fame, wealth, and even livelihood, for tens of thousands of its foremost citizens, gives proof of a wide-spread, unselfish patriotism, perhaps unequaled in the world's history.

Not less remarkable is the recent progress of education in this "Land of the Rising Sun." The educational systems of all other nations have ripened slowly, and rest on centuries of experience. But twenty-five years ago, Japan had practically nothing of the kind. Accordingly, her brightest and most promising youths went forth to gather knowledge in the western world. She was eclectic in her method. Some were sent to England, some to Germany, others to France, and many to America. Accomplished foreign teachers also were induced to come and give instruction in Japanese schools; and how astonishing has been the result! In Tokio the buildings of the Imperial University cover fifteen acres of ground, and include admirable class-rooms, dormitories, laboratories, a hospital, and residences for the faculty. Here, in one department, are taught mathematics, astronomy, chemistry and geology; in another, civil and electrical engineering, naval architecture and metallurgy; in another, philosophy and the modern European languages; in still another, Japanese and Chinese history and literature. The University has also a Law School and a College of Medicine and Pharmacy, in each of which a four years' course is required. There are in all one hundred and twenty-three professors in the institution, fifteen of whom are foreigners, while more than fifty lecturers are also in the employ of the directors. Nor is this all, for in addition to this splendid University, there are in Tokio private colleges, commercial schools, military and naval academies, and a school of fine arts, besides an educational institution for the dumb and the blind; and not the least noteworthy is a common school system whereby the poorest child in Japan may obtain at least a rudimentary education.

Let no one think, however, that all these changes, surprising though they are, have wholly done away with "old" Japan. The contrary is proved by countless characteristic sights, even in modernized Tokio. In their houses, theatres, shops, and festivals, and in their modes of bathing, eating, drinking, sleeping, and working, the vast majority of Japanese are to-day what they were centuries ago.

On our first day in Tokio, as we descended from the hill where we had gained a comprehensive view of the great city, we paused to note, at the foot of a long stone staircase, a singular gateway built of granite. The tourist may well observe such structures closely, for one of the most common architectural features of Japan is this peculiar style of portal, called a torii. In granite, wood, or bronze, such gateways usually mark the approach to a temple, shrine, or sacred statue. Nothing could be more simple. Two upright shafts are met and crossed by horizontal bars, the higher ones curving slightly upward at the ends. This is in one sense all, and the beholder at first sees little in them to admire; but, after a time, the foreigner in Japan expects them as essential features of every landscape, and welcomes them, like some sweet refrain, which, first heard in the overture, repeats itself in various disguises through the music of an opera.

There are two theories in regard to the origin of these sacred portals. The first maintains that they were intended originally for perches, upon which birds (which are occasionally liberated even now at Japanese temples) might pause before they took their heavenward flight to bear aloft the prayers of those who gave them freedom. The second theory affirms that these straight columns, with their curving cross-pieces, are derivative forms of the Chinese letter, or ideograph, which signifies Heaven.

The latter explanation appears to be the more probable one; at all events, whatever may have been their origin, the architectural design of these peculiar structures is of immense antiquity. Such gateways, tradition hints, were extant twenty centuries ago; and it is worthy of remark that, despite the marvelous changes that have recently transformed Japan, no hand has ever been raised to mutilate these memorials of the past, or even to change a line of that mysterious hieroglyph which they so sharply outline against the sky.

In the immediate vicinity of these sacred arches, one usually sees a multitude of monuments, from five to seven feet in height. Sometimes these line, for a considerable distance, the avenues of approach to tombs and temples, and are compactly ranged in serried ranks, like soldiers at a dress parade, or people waiting for some grand procession. They are called lanterns, from the fact that, on special festivals, a lamp is placed in each of them, in honor of the hallowed dead. But the chief part they play is ornamental. Most of them are of stone; but some consist of beautifully decorated bronze,—real masterpieces of that art in which the Japanese excel. To many are attached bronze bells and circular medallions, bearing the crests of the imperial family or those of the military chieftains of Japan. With few exceptions, the finest ones have been presented by Japanese nobles, as proofs of their devotion to the shrine itself, or their esteem for those who are buried there.

One of the principal pleasure-resorts of Tokio is Ueno Park. It is especially attractive in the month of April, when all its cherry-trees are radiant with blossoms. These lovely flowers are usually pink in color, and grow in clusters several inches wide. Poets have sung their praises here for centuries. They are to Japan what roses are to western nations. Their blooming-time is one of the national festivals. Some avenues in the Mikado's capital are lined with these resplendent trees, and are famous throughout the country for their wealth of coloring.

There is a little stream in Tokio which, every year, about the middle of April, flows for two miles between blossom-laden banks. Crowds gather then from miles around, to gaze upon its beauty. The newspapers announce each day the progress of the coloring, and maps of the city are sold, on which are indicated in pink the groves of cherry-trees. Old Mother Earth grows young again, and every heart, however sad, becomes rejuvenated too, at the sight of thousands of these huge bouquets, lifting their clouds of pale pink blossoms toward the light blue sky. Hundreds of pleasure-boats also then float along the stream, which mirrors the gorgeous spectacle above. A Japanese poet says: "I wish to cross the river, but fear to cut the brocade upon its surface." Meanwhile, along the banks are thousands of other admirers, on foot or in jinrikishas; and not infrequently a mischievous breeze plucks handfuls of the dainty petals and scatters them upon the upturned faces, like flakes of tinted snow.

As we might expect from such a refined and artistic race, the Japanese are enthusiastic in their love of flowers. One of their favorite deities is called "The Goddess who causes the blossoms to open." With them, to make up parties for a floral exhibition is just as fashionable as for us to arrange box-parties for the theatre. Even in winter they will not allow themselves to be deprived of some enjoyment of this sort. Hence they call snow-crystals a kind of flower, and expeditions to see snow-displays form one of the regular amusements of the season.

The land of the Mikado is with reason often called the Land of Flowers, for each month of the year has its special blossoms which the Japanese admire, and which together form an unbroken garland for the brow of Time. Particularly beautiful is the Japanese wistaria, which blooms in May, soon after the departure of the cherry-blossoms. This lovely vine is trained on trellises, and covers bridges, canopies, and arbors with magnificent purple clusters, two, and even three feet long. Japanese tea-houses find it extremely profitable to decorate their gardens thus, as thousands are attracted thither, who, as a matter of course, drink tea upon the premises. It is precisely of such exhibitions that this peculiar nation is most fond. With one or two exceptions, they do not seem to care for cultivated flowers, preferring flowering trees and vines, like the wistaria, plum, and cherry. In all the gardens that we visited in Japan, we never saw a flower-bed. In fact, Japanese gardens differ from our own as completely as a jinrikisha differs from a tally-ho coach. They are all essentially alike, whether they cover several acres or only a tiny court behind the house. If possible, an artificial lake is formed; large, if the space permits; if not, a little tank of water containing half-a-dozen goldfish must suffice. Rocks are heaped up to take the place of cliffs.

A path of pebbles represents a river-bed. A tiny beach of smooth, white sand is made along the shore. Islands are also manufactured, with fantastic bridges; and here and there among the trees we see a quaint display of garden lanterns, miniature pagodas, fountains, grottoes, and occasional statues. But of smooth lawns and ornamental flowers, like our own, we find in Japanese gardens not a trace. What seems to take their place in the affections of the Japanese is the cultivation of dwarf trees. These are among the marvels of Japan. At first, we could hardly believe our eyes, when we saw maples, pines, and oaks, from sixty to one hundred years old, possessing crooked limbs and gnarled and twisted trunks, though they were scarcely more than two feet high, and had their roots confined within the limits of a flower-pot! Just what the secret is of limiting the growth of these old monarchs of the forest, while yet preserving their vitality, we did not learn. It is, however, an art of which the Japanese are passionately fond, and which an experience of centuries has brought to perfection. These hardy dwarfs are often looked upon as precious heirlooms, and are carefully watched and tended by the family from generation to generation. What a strange notion this,—of dwarfing landscapes to the limit of a courtyard, and stunting noble trees till they appear like a forest looked at through the large end of a telescope! Sometimes, however, the taste of the Japanese in arboriculture goes to the other extreme, and large trees are chosen as objects of regard. These are often trained and trimmed, till they resemble mammoth fans, pagodas, or stately boats with curving prows and lofty masts adorned with tiny sails. Although ingenious, this seemed to us like trifling with nature,—a parody of the sublime,—a burlesque of the beautiful.

The glory of the month of August in Japan is the sacred lotus-flower, with whose broad leaves the moats in Tokio are filled. Growing from muddy, stagnant water, yet holding up to heaven its flowers always fresh and pure, the lotus is regarded as the symbol of the religious life,—aspiring from unfavorable conditions to a state of purity. The Buddhist writings say: "Though thou be born in a hovel, if thou hast virtue, thou art like the lotus growing from the slime." Accordingly the lotus is, par excellence, the flower of the Buddhist faith, associated with the mysteries of death and immortality. Bronze vases, filled with lotus-flowers made of metal, stand on all Buddhist altars, and statues of Buddha have usually, as an appropriate pedestal, a smooth lotus-leaf in stone or bronze.

Early November brings still another source of pleasure to the Japanese in the chrysanthemum. Opinions differ as to whether this, or the cherry-blossom, should be regarded as the Japanese national flower. To us it seemed that the chrysanthemum should have that proud distinction; for it is used as the crest of the imperial family; and the Mikado's birthday, the third of November, is usually made the opening day for all chrysanthemum exhibitions.

In cultivating this flower, the Japanese have shown extraordinary skill. Some of their bushes are said to bear as many as four hundred perfect flowers at one time. Five or six varieties sometimes grow upon a single plant, and there are claimed to be, in all, two hundred and sixty-nine in the Mikado's empire. Moreover, since it blossoms longer than most other flowers, it is associated with the idea of longevity. One Japanese river, into whose limpid waters great showers of chrysanthemum petals fall, is thought to insure to a good old age the lives of those who drink from its invigorating flood.

But perhaps the most gorgeous of the natural displays, which in Japan adorn with a continuous brilliancy the path of the revolving year, is its autumnal foliage. Then, as the Japanese poets say, the maple-trees put on their damask robes. This also is thought to be a floral exhibition, for bright-colored leaves are looked upon by the Japanese as flowers. The subjects of the Mikado have, like ourselves, that most delicious season of the year when the warm breath of summer still retards the frost. We call it Indian Summer: their name for it is Little Spring. It is a pretty—almost a pathetic—thought, to connect thus the deep, strong, passionate hues that mark the year's maturity with the faint blushes of the cherry-blossoms, which betoken youth. The year has lived through much since that pink blush adorned its cheeks. The autumnal colors may be richer and more effective, but that first bloom of hope and innocence will never come again.

During our stay in Tokio, we one day visited a wrestling match. The scene of its occurrence, though in the heart of the city, resembled the enclosure of a country circus. On pushing through the crowd, we saw, in the centre, an elevated platform covered with sand. Above this was a highly decorated canopy, supported by tall bamboo poles, and gathered round it was the expectant populace. The second story of the structure consisted of a gallery made of bamboo rods, which, tied together, formed a floor resembling an enormous grid-iron. This gallery was divided into little areas, which served as private boxes for the entertainment.

We climbed up into one of these by means of a ladder, and tea and cakes were subsequently brought to us; but we could not have eaten a mouthful, unless fed by our attendant, for we were fully occupied in clinging to the bamboo poles, like canary birds to their perches. There presently appeared upon the stage a human monster, who seemed to have a gorgeous lambrequin tied about his waist. This giant was a great surprise to us. The Japanese are usually small their women seem like girls; their children look like dolls their dwellings have the appearance of magnified bird-cages their vehicle of transportation is a baby-carriage. Their wrestlers, however, are enormous. Such mountainous displays of fat and muscle we had never seen. One after another, fifty such giants stood fronting us for a moment with uplifted arms, while an official read their names to the admiring spectators. Twenty-five wrestlers were then chosen to contend on one side and as many on the other. The prize was to be given to whichever side should win the greatest number of single combats.

A moment later, the "lambrequins" were laid aside. A couple of huge wrestlers squatted on the sand, like mammoth bull-frogs ready for a jump. They had already rubbed their hands in the sand to make them gritty and tenacious. Beside them stood the umpire, holding in his hand a fan. With this he gave his signal to the wrestlers, much as a musical director leads his orchestra. His word is law, and he decides whether the start is properly made and whether the rules have been observed. A few false springs were made at first, and the great crowd became impatient. At last, however, the wrestlers fairly caught each other, and began the struggle. For several minutes they tugged and strained, until it seemed that neither could possibly gain the advantage. Meantime the Japanese grew more and more excited, for all these wrestlers are well-known, and have their patrons and admirers. One whom we saw is famous for having thrown three rivals in succession. This is, of course, a proof of great endurance; for by the time the third encounter comes, the victor must necessarily be much exhausted.

In the first match, however, the wrestlers whom we watched had no easy task; but, presently, one of them saw his opportunity, and caught his enemy under the left leg. The other instantly reached over his shoulder and clutched his opponent's belt. For a few seconds neither moved. Then, with a fearful lurch, the giant who had gained the advantage lifted his rival off the ground, and swung him headlong over his shoulder clear off the platform to the sand below. We felt our bamboo perch in the gallery shake when the body struck. The conqueror was, of course, hailed with shouts of triumph, and in five minutes all was ready for another contest.

At the conclusion of the spectacle, as we were making our exit through the crowd, we stopped to watch some Japanese acrobats, one of whom danced upon a swinging rope with more agility and skill than we had ever seen. "By the way," said a friend at my side, "do you know that once in the history of this country the Japanese throne itself was wrestled for? It happened just a thousand years ago. The Mikado died and left two sons, each of whom claimed to be the rightful heir. Instead of plunging the nation into civil war, they submitted their rival claims to a couple of famous wrestlers, each agreeing to abide by the result! Who shall say that there are not worse methods than this old Japanese mode of arbitration?"

One of the most renowned and sacred places of resort, alike for pilgrims and for tourists in Japan, is Nikko. "Nikko!" How little that brief name suggests to those whose feet have never trod its hallowed paths; but, oh, how much to those whose recollections of it are a joy forever! The mere approach to it is astonishing. It is a sacred road, over twenty miles in length, and lined for the most part on both sides with the grand cedars of Japan. These trees, called cryptomerias, frequently attain a height of two hundred feet, and are probably unsurpassed in size save by the giants of our own Yosemite.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the terminus of this avenue. Before us rose a densely wooded mountain, around which swept a wild, impetuous stream. Spanning this foaming torrent is the sacred bridge of Nikko, whose floor and sides are covered with beautiful red lacquer, as smooth to the touch as polished mahogany, and which is ornamented here and there with tips of brass. In ancient times, none but the Shoguns ever stepped upon this bridge; none but the emperor may do so now. When General Grant, however, was traveling in Japan, the Mikado paid him the unusual compliment of ordering this bridge to be thrown open for his passage. But, from a delicate appreciation of the people's feelings, the General modestly declined the honor and took the regular, frequented path.

Leaving behind us this ornate but untrodden bridge, we began to ascend the hill itself. From time to time we halted, astonished and bewildered. Imagine a mountain, covered with thousands of the most magnificent cedar-trees that the Creator ever caused to grow; then realize that upon this mountain and among these trees there is what may be called a sacred citadel, rising tier above tier, and terrace upon terrace, each covering several acres. Toward each plateau ascends a flight of broad stone steps. In front of each is placed the characteristic gateway of Japan,—the sharp-cut, mysterious torii, hewn out of massive stone or made of polished bronze. In one place there is a beautifully decorated fountain, at which all pilgrims wash their hands and mouths before approaching more closely to the temples of their gods.

Ascending one of the staircases of stone, we stood in an extensive area, where structures met our gaze so unlike all that we had elsewhere seen that we were fain to believe our senses were deceiving us, and that it was all an illusion,—a cunning trick for stage effect, which, when the play was over, would completely vanish. Along the terraces, like jewels darkened by the forest gloom, were belfries which appeared encased with precious stones; fountains adorned with ornaments of gilded bronze; picturesque temples bright with every color of the rainbow; lacquered pagodas, rivaling the trees in height; and huge bronze bells, whose solemn tones, in rhythmic waves of sound, roll on in grand reverberations through these sacred avenues. But how powerless is language to portray a place like this! Words impotently creep before the grand impressiveness of Nikko, as insects crawl beneath its cryptomerias.

As we advanced still farther through these wonderful enclosures, it seemed like walking through a village whose buildings still remained in symmetry and beauty, yet whose inhabitants had disappeared. The silence of these courts was most impressive. Apparently, they have no guardians. Only the moss-grown lanterns stand about each shrine, like sentinels transformed to stone. Astonished and perplexed, we asked the meaning of these structures, and learned that some are treasure-houses, where are preserved the personal relics of the Shoguns and many of the gorgeous robes, embroidered banners, and superb insignia which still, on festal days, are borne in solemn state along these paths beneath a boundless canopy of shade, just as they have been borne for centuries. For the old trees of Nikko have looked down for nearly a thousand years on lines of richly decorated priests and pilgrims moving in solemn pageantry along these shadowy pathways consecrated to the gods. The individuals may come and go, but the processions never fail—much as the bright-tinted leaves fall here in autumn, to return no more, while the old trees live on.