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Title: The flowers and gardens of Japan
Author: Cane, Florence Du
Language: English
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_BY THE SAME ARTIST_
THE ITALIAN LAKES
PAINTED BY ELLA DU CANE
DESCRIBED BY RICHARD BAGOT
Square demy 8vo, bound in cloth
gilt top
Price 20s. net
(By Post, 20s. 6d.)
_Containing 69 full-page Illustrations
in Colour_
“Such pictures interpret the romantic
appeal of the scenery in a manner which
is next to impossible to any mere pen other
than that of Ruskin. But the book, we
make haste to add, is fascinating all the
way through, for Mr. Bagot has quick
eyes for the picturesque, and writes with
admirable restraint in the romantic mood.”--_Standard._
“Mr. Bagot’s descriptions will give the
reader who has never seen this lovely part
of Europe a just and vivid idea of its
beauties, while Miss Du Cane’s work does
the same for him by means of another and
a beautiful medium. Her pictures are
charming, and the reproduction would
seem to be perfect.”--_The World._
A. & C. BLACK
4 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.
THE FLOWERS AND GARDENS
OF JAPAN
AGENTS
AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
AUSTRALASIA THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE
CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
ST. MARTIN’S HOUSE, 70 BOND STREET, TORONTO
INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY
309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA
[Illustration: WISTARIA, KYOMIDZU]
THE FLOWERS
AND
GARDENS OF JAPAN
PAINTED BY
ELLA DU CANE
DESCRIBED BY
FLORENCE DU CANE
[Illustration: colophon]
PUBLISHED BY
ADAM & CHARLES
BLACK
SOHO SQUARE
LONDON W.
MCMVIII
PREFACE
An apology is due to the reader for adding this volume to the long
list of books already written on Japan; but, being a lover of flowers
myself, I found there was no book giving a short account of the flora
of the country which is so often called the Land of Flowers. Hence my
excuse for offering these pages, either to those who may be intending
to visit, or to those who may wish to recall the memories of a sojourn
in the Land of the Rising Sun.
The book does not pretend to furnish a complete list of all the flowers
to be found in the country, but rather to give a description of those
which are most remarkable for their beauty and profusion, and which are
most closely associated with Japan. The pages on landscape gardening
have been condensed, partly owing to want of space, and also because
I felt that those who take a real and thorough interest in the subject
have Mr. Conder’s admirable volumes on “Landscape Gardening in Japan”
to help them in the study of the most complicated form of gardening in
the world. Being debarred, through lack of sufficient knowledge of the
language, from availing myself of original works in Japanese, I have
drawn much information from Mr. Conder’s works, and from those of other
foreigners; but I wish gratefully to acknowledge the help I received
from Mr. Y. Noguchi, who provided me with the flower legends and fairy
tales, which are household words in every Japanese home.
FLORENCE DU CANE.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
1. LANDSCAPE GARDENING 1
2. STONES--GARDEN ORNAMENTS AND FENCES 19
3. LANDSCAPE GARDENS 38
4. NURSERY GARDENS--DWARF TREES AND HACHI-NIWA 55
5. TEMPLE GARDENS 72
6. SUMMER FLOWERS 87
7. PLUM BLOSSOM 104
8. PEACH BLOSSOM 119
9. CHERRY BLOSSOM 127
10. WISTARIA AND PÆONY 146
11. AZALEAS 161
12. THE IRIS 169
13. THE MORNING GLORY 181
14. THE LOTUS 186
15. THE CHRYSANTHEMUM 197
16. THE MAPLE LEAVES 214
17. THE BAMBOO 223
18. THE PINE-TREE 236
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
1. Wistaria, Kyomidzu _Frontispiece_
2. Wistaria in a Kyoto Garden 4
3. The Storks 12
4. Azaleas in a Kyoto Garden 22
5. Azaleas, Kyoto 28
6. Tiger Lilies 34
7. An Old Garden 40
8. Satake Garden, Tokyo 42
9. A Tokyo Garden 46
10. A Landscape Garden 52
11. The Old Wistaria 60
12. At Kitano Tenjin 72
13. The Drooping Cherry 74
14. A Shrine at Kyomidzu 78
15. White Cherry at Kitano 80
16. Cherry Blossom, Chion-in Temple 84
17. The Kobai Plum Blossom 92
18. _Lilium Auratum_ 96
19. Lilies on the Rocks, Atami 98
20. An Hydrangea Bush 100
21. Viewing the Plum Blossoms 104
22. The Gate of the Plum Garden 106
23. The Time of the Plum Blossoms 110
24. Plum Blossom and Lanterns 116
25. Peach Blossom 120
26. The Pagoda, Kyomidzu 126
27. A Buddhist Shrine 130
28. The Feast of the Cherry Blossoms 132
29. The Pink Cherry 138
30. Cherry-tree at Kyomidzu 142
31. Wistaria, Kameido 148
32. Wistaria, Nagaoka 152
33. A Pæony Garden 154
34. Wistaria, Kabata 158
35. Azaleas 162
36. Azaleas, Nagaoka 164
37. Azaleas, Awata 166
38. An Iris Garden 172
39. Irises 178
40. Lotus at Kodaiji 186
41. Lotus at Kyomidzu 188
42. Lotus Flowers 194
43. Chrysanthemums, Kyoto 198
44. A Chrysanthemum Garden 204
45. Chrysanthemums 208
46. The Scarlet Maple 214
47. Viewing the Maples 218
48. Irises, Horikiri 230
49. Pine-tree at Matsushima 238
50. Azalea and Pine-tree 244
FLOWERS & GARDENS OF JAPAN
CHAPTER I
LANDSCAPE GARDENING
It is safe to assert that no other country has such a distinctive form
of landscape gardening as Japan. In English, French, Italian, and Dutch
gardens, however original in their way, there are certain things they
seem all to possess in common: terraces, which originally belonged
to Italian gardens, were soon introduced into France; clipped trees,
which were a distinctive feature of Dutch gardens, were copied by the
English; the fashion of decorating gardens with flights of stone steps,
balustrades, fountains, and statues at one time spread from Italy
throughout Europe; and possibly the over-decoration of gardens led to
a change in taste in England and a return to a more natural style. The
gardens of China and Japan have remained unique; the Eastern style of
gardening has never spread to any other country, nor is it ever likely
to; for, just as no Western artist will ever paint in the same manner
as an Oriental artist because his whole artistic sense is different, so
no Western gardener could ever hope to construct a garden representing
a portion of the natural scenery of Japan--which is the aim and object
of every good Japanese landscape garden, however small--because,
however long he might study the original scene, he would never arrive
at the Japanese conception of it, or realise what it conveyed to the
mind of a Japanese. Their art of gardening was originally borrowed from
the Chinese, who appear to have been the first to construct miniature
mountains, and to bring water from a distance to feed miniature
water-falls and mountain torrents. They even went so far as, in one
enclosure, to represent separate scenes for different seasons of the
year, and different hours of the day, but to the Japanese belongs the
honour of having perfected the art of landscape gardening.
It is not my intention to weary the reader with technical information
on the subject, which he will find admirably explained in Mr. Conder’s
volume on _Landscape Gardening in Japan_, but an outline of some of the
theories and rules which guide the Japanese gardener will help us to
appreciate his work and give an additional interest to the hours spent
in these refreshing retreats from the outer world.
The designer of a good landscape garden has to be guided by many
things. A scene must be chosen suited to the size of the ground and
the house, and its natural surroundings; and the Japanese garden being
above all a spot for secluded leisure and meditation, the temperament,
sentiment, and even the occupation of the owner are brought into
consideration. Their conception of the expression of nature is governed
in its execution by endless æsthetic rules; considerations of scale,
proportion, unity, and balance, in fact all that tends to artistic
harmony, must be considered, so as to preserve the perfect balance of
the picture, and any neglect would destroy that feeling of repose which
is so essential in the landscape garden. When we realise that the art
has occupied the minds of poets, sages, and philosophers, it is not
to be wondered at that something more than the simple representation
of natural views has entered into the spirit of their schemes, which
attain to poetical conceptions; and a garden may be designed to suggest
definite ideas and associations, in fact the whole art is enshrouded
by quaint æsthetic principles, and it is difficult for the Western mind
to unravel the endless laws and theories by which it is governed.
In gardens which cover a larger area the scheme must necessarily be
very different from that required for the making of a tiny garden,
only some few yards square, but the materials used will be the same;
only the stone bridges and garden ornaments will all be in proportion
to the size of the garden, for the rule of proportion is perhaps the
most important of all. I visited a garden which was being enlarged
by the addition of a hill and the suggestion of mountain forests, to
give the impression of unknown limits. The owner explained that as he
had enlarged his house it was therefore necessary at the same time to
enlarge his garden. A landscape garden may be of any size, from the
miniature scenes, representing pigmy groves, and mossy precipices, with
lilliputian torrents of white sand, compressed into the area of a china
dish, to the vast gardens with their broad sheets of water and majestic
trees which surrounded the Daimyo castles of old or the Imperial
palaces of to-day; but the sense of true proportion must be rigidly
adhered to. Large rocks and boulders are out of
[Illustration: WISTARIA IN A KYOTO GARDEN]
place in a small garden, and small stones in a large garden would be
equally unsuitable. The teachers of the craft have been most careful to
preserve the purity of style. Over-decoration is condemned as vulgar
ostentation, and faulty designs have even been regarded as unlucky, in
order to avoid degeneration in the art.
In some of the most extensive gardens it is not uncommon to represent
several favourite views, and yet the composition will be so contrived
that all the separate scenes work into one harmonious whole. In the
immediate foreground of a nobleman’s house there will be an elaborately
finished garden full of detail and carefully composed, the stones
employed will be the choicest, the water-basin of quaint and beautiful
design. Stone lanterns in keeping with the scene will be found,
miniature pagodas possibly, and a few slabs of some precious stone to
form the bridges. Farther away from the house the scheme should be less
finished. Surrounding the simple room set apart for the tea ceremony
the law forbids the garden to be finished in style, it must be rather
rough and sketchy, and then if some natural wild scene is represented,
a broad effect must be retained; a simple clump of pines or
cryptomerias near a little garden shrine will represent some favourite
temple, or a small grove of maples and cherry-trees by the side of a
stream of running water will suggest the scenery of Arashiyama or some
other romantic and poetical spot.
To our Western ideas it seems impossible that a garden without flowers
could be a thing of beauty, or give any pleasure to its owner. Yet,
strange as it may appear, flowers for their own sakes do not enter
into the scheme of Japanese gardening, and if any blossoms are to be
found, it is probably, so to speak, by accident, because the particular
shrub or plant which may happen to be in flower was the one best
suited by its growth for the position it occupies in the garden. For
instance, azaleas are often seen covering the banks with gorgeous
masses of colour, but they are only allowed, either on account of their
picturesque growth and the fact that they are included in the natural
vegetation of the scene produced, or else because the bushes can be
cut into regulation shapes, which, as often as not, is done when the
flowers are just opening. Though the Japanese are great lovers of
flowers, their taste is so governed by rules, that they are extremely
fastidious in their choice of the blossoms they consider worthy of
admiration. The rose and the lily are rejected as unworthy, their
charms are too obvious: their favourites are the iris, pæony, wistaria,
lotus, morning glory, and chrysanthemum; and even among these the iris,
wistaria, and possibly the lotus, are the only ones which seem ever
to be allowed to belong in any way to the real design of the garden.
Flowering trees take more part, and the plum, peach, cherry, magnolia,
and camellia are all permitted; and the numerous fancy varieties of
the maple, whose leaves enrich the autumn landscape with their scarlet
glory, are as much prized as any of the blossoming shrubs. It is rather
to the storm-bent old pine-trees and other evergreen trees and shrubs,
to the mossy lichen-covered stones, to the clever manipulation of the
water to represent a miniature mountain cascade or a flowing river, and
to broad stretches of velvety moss that the true Japanese garden owes
its beauty.
Mr. Conder tells us that the earliest style of gardening in the
country was called the _Imperial Audience Hall Style_, because, not
unnaturally, it was round the palaces and houses of the great nobles
that the idea was first adopted of arranging the ground to suggest a
real landscape. The designs appear to have been primitive, but they
usually contained a large irregular lake, with at least one island
reached by a bridge of picturesque form. Later--from the middle of
the twelfth to the beginning of the fourteenth century--the art of
gardening was much practised and encouraged by the Buddhist priests.
They even went so far as to ascribe imaginary religious and moral
attributes to the grouping of the stones, a custom which has more
or less survived to this day and is described elsewhere. In those
days a lake came to be regarded as a necessary feature, and poetical
names were given to the little islets, just as the pine-clad islands
of Matsu-shima have each their poetical name. Cascades also received
names according to their character, such as the “Thread Fall,” the
“Spouting Fall,” or the “Side Fall.” In the making of a garden
then, as to-day, the first work was the excavation of the lake, the
designing and forming of the islands, the placing in position of a
few of the most important stones, and finally the arrangement of the
waterfall or stream which was to feed the lake, and the outlet had
also to be carefully considered. After this period came the fashion
of representing lakes and rivers by means of hollowed-out beds and
courses, merely strewn with sand, pebbles, and boulders, a practice
followed also to this day where water is not available. Shallow water
or dried-up river-beds are suggested in this way, and therefore the
style received the name of _Dried-up Water Scenery_. Artificial hills
were used, stones and winding pathways were introduced, and large rocks
helped to suggest natural scenery.
It was in the fifteenth century that the art of gardening received
the greatest encouragement and attention at the hands of the Ashikaya
Regents, who also encouraged the other arts of flower arrangement--tea
ceremony and poetry. The Professors of _Cha no yu_ (tea ceremony)
became the principal designers of gardens, and they naturally turned
their attention to the ground which surrounded the rooms set apart
for this ceremonial tea-drinking; and to the famous Soami, who was a
Professor of Tea-ceremonial and the Floral Art, they owe the practice
of clipping trees and shrubs into fantastic shapes. Though the Japanese
never attained to the unnatural eccentricities of the Dutch in their
manner of using clipped trees, yet in many old and modern gardens a
pine-tree may be seen clipped and trained in the shape of a junk, and
a juniper may be trained to form a light bridge to fling across a
tiny stream; but as a rule the gardener contents himself by training
and clipping his pine-tree to mould it into the shape of an abnormal
storm-bent specimen of great age. To that period belonged Kobori
Enshiu, the designer of so many celebrated gardens, and to him we owe
the garden of the Katsura Rikui, a detached Palace near Kyoto, which,
though fallen into decay, retains much of its former beauty, especially
when the scarlet azalea bushes, which now escape the clipping they
no doubt were subjected to in old days, light up the scene, their
lichen-clad stems bending under the weight of their blossoms and
enhancing the beauty of the moss-grown lanterns and stones. The garden
which surrounded the temple of Kodaiji, a portion only of the grounds
of the old palace of Awata, the Konchi-in garden of the Nanzenji
Temple, and many other specimens of his work remain in Kyoto alone.
He is reported to have said that his ideal garden should express “the
sweet solitude of a landscape clouded by moonlight, with a half gloom
between the trees.” Rikiu, another great tea professor and designer
of landscape gardens, said the best conception of his fancy would be
that of the “lonely precincts of a secluded mountain shrine, with
the red leaves of autumn scattered around.” However different their
ideal, they all agreed that the tea garden was to be somewhat wild in
character, suggesting repose and solitude. Then came the more modern
style of gardening: from 1789 to 1830 was a period when large palaces
were built and surrounded by magnificent gardens, fit residences for
the great Tokugawa feudal lords. For these gardens great sums were
expended on collecting stones from all parts of the country, and often
a garden would be left unfinished until the exact stone suited to
express the required religious or poetical feeling, or else specially
required to complete a miniature natural scene, had been procured. The
extravagance in this craving for rare stones, which cost vast sums to
transport immense distances, reached such a pitch, that at last, in the
Tempo period (1830-1844), an edict was issued limiting the sum which
might be paid for a single specimen. Stone and granite lanterns of
infinite variety in size and shape were introduced with their poetical
names, each having a special position assigned to it by the unbending
laws which surround this art, for the arrangement of not only every
tree and stone, but almost every blade of grass and drop of water.
I feel my readers will begin to think that there must be a lack of
variety in these landscape gardens, but I can safely say that never
did I see--and I saw a great many--any two gardens, large or small,
which bore any resemblance to each other; the materials are the same,
but the design is never the same.
Garden water-basins, miniature pagodas, stone bridges, also of
infinite variety, and other garden ornaments, such as rustic arbours,
fanciful constructions of bamboo, reeds, or plaited rushes, primitive,
fragile-looking structures, but none the less costly, were made use
of, and a few rare birds, such as storks and cranes, were allowed to
wander and adorn the scene with their stately grace. Here and there the
crooked branches of stunted pine-trees of great age overhung the lake
or stream, transplanted probably with infinite care; but no trouble and
no expense was too great to make these gardens fitting settings for the
castles and palaces of those great lords. Alas, how few remain to-day
in anything like their former splendour; the hand of the Goth has
swept away most of the ancient glories of Yedo, and on the spot where
these princely dwellings and gardens stood, to-day some great factory
chimneys rise and belch forth columns of smoke, which will surely bring
death and destruction to the pines and cherry-trees
[Illustration: THE STORKS]
of Uyeno or the avenues of Mukojima, which are still the pride of Tokyo.
Tokyo may still retain the remains of some of her princely gardens, but
I fear she has lost her love of gardening; the town is too large, too
crowded; the rich who could afford to make new gardens, even if the old
ones are swept away, prefer to live in foreign houses of impossible
architectural design; the public gardens are no longer laid out in
true Japanese style, but suggestive rather of foreign gardens of the
worst form and taste, so if you would see the making of a new garden
it is to Kyoto you must wend your way. Here the love of landscape
gardening seems still alive, and though the gardens may not surround
the palaces of the Daimyos, yet these humbler gardens which as often
as not surround the house of a rich Osaka tradesman are none the less
beautiful for that reason; and I was glad to think that riches had not,
as is too often the case, brought with it a love for foreign life and
stamped out the true Japanese, and that here at least are left many who
are content to spend their hours of leisure in the contemplation and in
the repose of a true landscape garden.
In the course of an evening walk on the outskirts of Kyoto I came
upon a half-built house. Through the newly planted cryptomeria hedge
could be seen glimpses of stone lanterns, rocks, and a few trees
kept in place by bamboo props, while in the road outside lay stones
of all colours, shapes, and sizes. Garden coolies were passing in
and out, carrying baskets of earth slung on bamboo poles, so it was
evident that a garden was being made. My curiosity was aroused, so
I ventured within the enclosure, and, in the most polite language I
could command, asked permission of the owner to watch the interesting
work. A Japanese is always gratified by the genuine interest of a
foreigner in anything connected with his home, and will usually point
out the special features of the object of interest in eloquent and
poetical phrases, confusing enough to the foreigner, whose command of
the Japanese language cannot as a rule rise to such heights. On this
occasion, however, any explanation was unnecessary, the scene in itself
was sufficient to call forth my admiration and surprise. The piece
of ground occupied by the garden did not comprise more than half an
acre, and was merely the plot usually attached to any suburban villa
in England. Not withstanding the limited space, a perfect landscape
was growing out of the chaos of waste ground which had been chosen as
the site of the house. A miniature lake of irregular shape had been dug
out; an island consisting of just one bold rock, to be christened no
doubt in due time with some fanciful name, had been placed in position;
and there were the “Guardian Stone,” always the most important stone
in the near distance, and its associates the “Stone of Worship”--also
sometimes called the “Stone of Contemplation,” as from this stone the
best general view of the garden is obtained--and the “Stone of the Two
Deities.” The presence of these three stones being essential in the
composition of every garden, they are probably the first to be placed.
A few trees of venerable appearance had already been planted in the
orthodox places; and already one spreading pine-tree stretched across
the future lake, supported on an elaborate framework of bamboo, to
give it exactly the right shape and direction; near to it, and resting
on a slab of rock at the very edge of the water, was a stone lantern
of the “Snow Scene” shape; the two forming the principal features of
the garden, upon which the eye rested involuntarily. Another stone
lantern stood in the shadow of a tall and twisted pine, half buried
in low-growing shrubs, bedded in moss of a golden-brown colour. On
one side was a bank thickly planted with azaleas, groups of maples,
or camellias, and at the far end of the garden some tall evergreen
trees cleverly disguised the boundary line of the hedge and gave the
impression that the garden had no ending, save in the wooded hills that
shut in the surrounding valley. A cutting in the bank and a wonderfully
natural arrangement of “Cascade Stones” showed where the water would
eventually rush in from the stream outside, which had its source in
Lake Biwa. A path of beaten earth with stepping-stones embedded in it
wound round the little lake and through the grove at the side; a simple
bridge of mere slabs of stone crossed the water to where the pathway
ended in the inevitable tea-room. Many more lanterns, pagodas, and
other garden ornaments lay on the ground waiting for their allotted
place, while a whole nursery of trees carefully laid in loose earth
showed that much more planting was needed to complete the garden, which
would some day be the pride and delight of the owner’s heart.
The whole country is often searched for a tree of exactly the
right size and shape required for a particular position, and while
watching the work of making this new garden I was much struck by the
extraordinary skill the Japanese display in the transplanting of trees
of almost any size and age. The season chosen for their removal is
the spring, when the sap is rising, and the dampness of the climate
and the rich soil no doubt help considerably towards their success in
moving these old trees; unlike England, spring is their best season
for planting, as the trees will have all the benefit of the summer
rains and run no risk of drought or cold winds. The roots are trenched
round, to our idea, perilously near the tree; as much earth is retained
as possible and bound round with matting. Five or six coolies with a
length of rope, a few poles, and not a little ingenuity, will move the
largest tree in a very short time. There is no machinery or fuss of any
kind, merely a hand-barrow, on which the tree rests on its journey.
Very little preparation is made in the place where the tree is to be
planted; no trenching of the ground, or preparing of vast holes to
be filled with prepared soil, only a hole just large enough for the
ball of earth surrounding the roots is considered sufficient. The tree
is then put in place, upright or leaning, according to the effect
required, the soil tightly rammed round the roots, the necessary
pruning and propping carefully attended to; the ground artistically
planted with moss and made to look as if it had never been disturbed
for centuries, and the thing is done. I remember seeing a piece of
ground which was being prepared for building, on which were a few
plum-trees of considerable size and age; these were being carefully
removed, doubtless to give a venerable appearance to some new garden,
or to be planted in a nursery garden until they should be wanted
elsewhere,--surely a better fate than would have awaited them in our
country under similar circumstances, where the devastating axe of the
builder’s labourer would certainly have cleared the ground in a few
minutes of what he would have regarded as useless rubbish.
CHAPTER II
STONES--GARDEN ORNAMENTS AND FENCES
Stones and rocks are such important features in all Japanese gardens
that when choosing the material for the making of a landscape garden,
however large or however small, the selection of the stones would
appear to be the primary consideration. Their size must be in perfect
proportion with the house and grounds which they are to transform into
a natural landscape, and they will give the scale for all the other
materials used--the lanterns, bridges, and water-basins, and even the
trees and fences. Their number may vary from five important stones to
as many as 138, each with its especial sense and function. I think
the correct position and placing of the stones is the part of the art
which it would be most difficult for a foreigner to accomplish: the
mere names and special functions of the stones would require years
of careful study. To the eye of a Japanese one stone wrongly placed
would upset all the balance and repose of the picture. Large rocks and
boulders seem to be essential for the success of a large garden, and
are used to suggest mountains, hills, and the rocks of the natural
scene; any very fantastic and artificial-looking rocks are avoided,
for fear they should give an appearance of unreality to the landscape.
The fancy of giving sex to certain stones, and in temple grounds of
assigning holy attributes and even of giving them the names of Buddhist
deities, dates from very early days, and this custom of applying a
religious meaning to the most important rocks survives to this day.
Mr. Conder tells us that “formerly it was said that the principal
boulders of a garden should represent the _Kuji_, or Nine Spirits of
the Buddhist pantheon, five being of _standing_ and four of _recumbent_
form; and it was supposed that misfortune was averted by observing
this classification.” Stones of good shape, colour, and proportion are
treasured as carefully as any jewel, and in the gardens of the rich
are brought together from all parts of the empire. The granite for
slabs, steps, and lanterns may come from the neighbourhood of Osaka,
Bingo, and other places. Large blocks which have an irregular surface
are usually limestones, and the action of water has produced those
much-coveted shapes. Blue and white limestone and a kind of jasper
rock of a reddish colour are prized for certain positions, slabs of a
dark green colour seemed to come from the vicinity of Lake Biwa, and
volcanic rock and honeycombed sea-rocks are valuable for water scenes.
It would only weary the reader if I were to attempt to describe the
endless combinations of stones as laid down by the unbending laws, or
to give all the names applied to the various sets of stones known as
Hill Stones, Lake and River Stones, Cascade Stones, Island Stones,
Valley Stones, Water-basin Stones, Tea-garden Stones, and, finally,
Stepping-Stones. Often did I regret that my knowledge of the art was
not sufficient to enable me to recognise all these various stones. How
intensely it would add to one’s appreciation of these perfect specimens
of artificial scenery if one could at once among the _Hill Stones_
point out the “Mountain Summit Stone” and the poetical “Propitious
Cloud Stone,” or the “Mist-enveloped Stone”; or among the _River and
Lake Stones_ find the “Sentinel Stone,” which, as its name suggests,
should be placed in the position of a look-out man near the edge of
the water; or the “Wave-receiving Stone” hidden in the current of
the stream. So often the water scenery of the garden is intended to
represent sea-views, the favourite being a portion of the scenery of
Matsushima with its countless islets, that many of these Lake Stones
have names suggestive of the sea; such as the “Sea-gull Resting Stone,”
situated on a stony beach, or the “Wild Wave Stone,” placed so as to
meet the current of the water.
Next come the _Cascade Stones_, which do not seem quite so numerous,
and among them one at least forms so important a feature in every
garden that it is easy to distinguish--the “Guardian Stone,” which
should form the main part of the rocky cliff over which the water
falls; it is also sometimes called the “Cascade-supporting Stone.”
“The Stone of Fudo,” named after a Buddhist god, and its eight small
attendants, the “Children Stones,” are among the more important
features of the cascade or waterfall.
The _Island Stones_ are perhaps more interesting still, as they are
such important features in the landscape. The “Elysian Isle,” the
“Master’s Isle,” and the “Guest’s Isle” are the most favourite trio of
islands, and are formed of combinations of stones. That of the “Elysian
Isle,” whose origin comes from China, is a combination of four stones
suggesting
[Illustration: AZALEAS IN A KYOTO GARDEN]
the different members of a tortoise’s body, and a pine-tree of
carefully trained form should grow, as it were, out of the back of the
animal. The “Master’s Isle” has three principal stones--the “Stone
of Easy Rest,” which speaks for itself; the “Stone of Amusement,”
suggesting the best spot for fishing; and finally the “Seat Stone.” The
“Guest’s Isle” has five important stones--the “Guest-honouring Stone”;
the “Interviewing Stone”; “Shoe-removing Stone,” on which the clogs or
sandals are changed; the “Water-fowl Stone”; and again the “Sea-gull
Resting Stone.”
Among the _Valley Stones_ many have a religious suggestion; but under
this head we find the important “Stone of Worship,” a broad flat stone
upon which one has to assume an attitude of veneration; it should be in
front of the garden, at the point from which the best view is obtained.
The _Water-basin Stones_ are not those which form the basin itself, but
may merely serve as a base for the actual water receptacle, and either
act as an embellishment, or perform certain functions in connection
with the basin. The _Tea-garden Stones_ have the “Kettle Stone,” the
“Candlestick Stone,” and many others suggestive of the tea-drinking
ceremonies--merely fanciful in their names, as these ceremonies
invariably take place in a room, and therefore the stones are never
used to fulfil their supposed functions.
Finally we come to the _Stepping-Stones_, and the art of the Japanese
in placing these stones cannot fail to strike any one who has any
interest in the making of an ordinary rock garden. Their presence in
all gardens in Japan is essential, as the use of turf being almost,
if not entirely, unknown for paths and open spaces, it is replaced by
firmly beaten earth, or, for larger spaces, by fine sand carefully
raked into patterns; as footmarks, and more especially the marks of
wooden clogs, would destroy the symmetry of these patterns, and in
damp weather cut up the beaten earth, the use of stones for crossing
the spaces or taking a walk round the garden is an absolute necessity.
The alternative name for these stones is _Flying Stones_ or _Scattered
Islands_, which at once suggests how gracefully and artistically they
are placed. Nothing, as a rule, could be less artistic than the way
stepping-stones are placed in English gardens; they seem at once to
bring to my mind visions of people trying to keep a steady gait, a feat
which it is positively difficult to accomplish where the stones are
laid in an almost straight row. In commenting on this fact Mr. Conder
says:--
It is not, therefore, surprising to find that the Japanese
gardener follows carefully devised rules for the distribution of
“Stepping-Stones.” He uses certain special stones and combinations,
having definite shapes and approximate dimensions assigned to
them, and he connects these with secondary blocks, the whole
being arranged with a studied irregularity, both for comfort in
walking and artistic grace. This is attained by the employment of
ragged slabs of slate, schist, or flint, flat water-worn rocks
or boulders, and hewn slabs or discs of granite or some other
hard stone. The natural boulders are placed in zigzags of fours
and threes, or sometimes in threes and twos, artificially hewn
slabs, discs, or strips intervening. Though uniformity of tread
is carefully calculated, the different sizes of the stones cause
the intervals to vary considerably, and any apparent regularity
is avoided. The distance between “Stepping-Stones” should not,
however, be less than four inches, to allow of the intermediate
spaces being kept clean. The smaller stones are of sufficient size
for the foot to rest firmly upon, and should not, as a general
rule, be higher than two inches from the soil. In ancient times it
is said that “Stepping-Stones” for the Emperor’s gardens were made
six inches high, those for a Daimyo four inches, those for ordinary
Samurai nearly three inches, and for common folk an inch and a
half in height. The larger stones are intended as a rest for both
feet, and two of them should never be used consecutively. In some
cases several continuous pathways formed of “Stepping-Stones” may
be seen. When such walks branch off in two directions a larger and
higher stone, called the “Step-dividing Stone,” will be placed at
the point of divergence.
The stones leading to the house end usually in a high slab of granite
which forms the step on to the verandah. It is no exaggeration to say
that the Stepping-Stones of a well-planned garden, besides being of
strict utility, are a great ornament to the garden.
Probably the garden ornaments which will first attract the eye of
the visitor are the stone lanterns, which are to be found in almost
every garden, however humble. These lanterns appear to be of purely
Japanese origin; no record of them is to be found in the history of
Chinese gardens, though the introduction of miniature stone pagodas
as garden ornaments came to Japan from China through the medium of
Korea, for which reason they are still called “Korean Towers.” The
use of stone lanterns as a decoration for gardens seems to date from
the days when the Professors of Tea-ceremonial turned their attention
to landscape gardening. The custom of presenting votive offerings
of lanterns in bronze or stone, large or small, plain or decorated,
dates from early days, and no Buddhist temple or shrine is complete
without its moss-grown lanterns adorning the courts and grounds. The
correct placing of stone lanterns in the landscape garden is almost as
complex as the placing of stones. They should be used in combination
with rocks, shrubs and trees, and water-basins. They have no use
except as ornaments, as seldom, if ever, did I see one with a light
in its fire-box except in temple grounds. They appeared to be almost
more valued for their age than their form, as new ones can be easily
procured of any desired shape; but however ingenious the devices may
be for imparting a look of age to new specimens, it is time, and time
alone, which will bring that thick green canopy of velvet moss on their
roof, and the granite will only become toned down to the coveted mellow
hue by long exposure to the weather.
Roughly speaking, garden lanterns are divided into two classes, the
_Standard_ and the _Legged_ class, though many others of fanciful
design may sometimes be seen. The origin of the Standard class was
known as the “Kasuga” shape, after a Shinto god to whom the well-known
Nara temple is dedicated. Thousands of these Kasuga lanterns adorn
the temple grounds, and the exact form is that of “a high cylindrical
standard, with a small amulet in the centre, erected on a base and
plinth of hexagonal plan, and supporting an hexagonal head crowned
with a stone roof of double curve, having corner scrolls. The top
is surmounted with a ball drawn to a point above. The head of the
lantern, which is technically called the fire-box, is hollowed out,
two of its faces having a square opening large enough to admit an
oil lamp; and the remaining four sides being carved respectively
with representations of a stag, a doe, the sun, and the moon.” These
lanterns may vary in size, from six to as much as eighteen feet, and in
this colossal size make a most imposing decoration for a large garden.
There are several other designs which closely resemble the true Kasuga
shape. Many others there are which still belong to the Standard class:
some with the standards shortened and the heads elongated; others with
flat saucer-shaped caps or wide mushroom-shaped roofs--in fact, an
infinite variety; and even in humble gardens rude specimens are seen
built of natural mossy stones chosen to resemble as closely as possible
the regulation form, and the fire-box made of wood. Another form of the
Standard shape is suggestive of glorified lamp-posts; these lanterns
are mostly used in the approach to gardens or near the tea-rooms. Some
of them are very quaint and quite rustic in appearance, being always
made of wood. The square wooden lantern on a tall post is covered by
either a wooden or thatched roof with
[Illustration: AZALEAS, KYOTO]
wide-projecting eaves. One of these is called the _Who goes there?_
shape, and derives its original name from the fact that the dim light
seen through its paper doors is only sufficient to enable a person to
vaguely distinguish an approaching form; and the _Thatched Hut_ shape
is in the form of a little thatched cottage.
The class known as _Legged_ lanterns have the alternative name of
_Snow Scene_ lanterns, as the very wide umbrella-shaped roof or cap,
by which they are invariably covered, makes a broad surface for snow
to rest upon. To the eye of a Japanese the effect of snow is almost
more beautiful than any of their floral displays, and a snow-clad
scene gives them infinite pleasure. The position of these lanterns in
the garden should be partly overshadowed by the crooked branch of a
spreading pine-tree, and certainly after a fall of snow the effect is
one of great beauty.
Ornamental bronze or iron lanterns are hung by a chain from the eaves
of the verandah of either the principal house or tea-room, and, like
the water-basin, are often very beautiful in design. Bronze _Standard_
lanterns are never seen in landscape gardens, only as votive offerings
to temples; but occasionally an iron lantern with no standard, only
resting on low feet, may be placed on a flat stone near the water’s
edge, or nestling in the shadow of a group of evergreen shrubs. Near
the larger Kasuga-shaped lanterns a stepping-stone (or even two, if
the lantern be unusually large) should be placed higher than the
surrounding ones; these are called _Lamp-lighting Stones_, as by their
aid the fire-box can be conveniently reached for lighting the lamp.
A garden water-basin may be either ornamental in form, or merely a
very plain hollowed-out stone with a strictly utilitarian aspect. Its
position in the garden is invariably the same, within easy reach of the
verandah, so that the water can be reached by the wooden ladle which
is left by the side of the basin; and usually an ornamental fence of
bamboo or rush-work separates it from that part of the house in its
immediate neighbourhood. For a small residence, and where the basin is
for practical use, the distance from the edge of the verandah should
not be more than eighteen inches, and the height three to four feet;
but as the law of proportion applies to the water-basin just as it
applies to the rest of the composition, the ornamental basin in front
of a large house will have to be three or four feet away, and its
height seven or eight feet from the ground. In this case, in spite of
the stepping-stones, the basin becomes merely an ornament, as it is
out of reach for practical purposes, and even has to be protected by a
separate decorative roof to keep off the rain.
Each shape of basin has its own name, but perhaps one of the most
popular forms is that of a natural rock of some unusual shape, hollowed
at the top and covered with a delicate little wooden construction,
like a tiny shed or temple, to keep the water cool and unpolluted.
The _Running-water Basins_, as their name suggests, receive a stream
of clear water by means of a little bamboo aqueduct, and in that case
arrangement has to be made for the overflow of the water.
As water is so essential in the composition of all landscape gardens,
it is not surprising to find that the various styles of bridges which
are employed to cross the lake or miniature torrents, and connect
the tiny islands with the shore, are so graceful in design, and yet
so simple, that they must certainly be classed as ornaments to the
garden. The more elaborate bridges of stone or wood are only seen in
large gardens. The semicircular arched bridge, of which the best-known
example is in the grounds of the Kameido temple in Tokyo, where it
forms a most picturesque object in connection with the wistaria-clad
trellises, is of Chinese origin, and is supposed to suggest a full
moon, as the reflection in the water below completes the circle. It was
not these elaborate bridges that I admired most, but rather the simpler
forms made out of a single slab of granite slightly carved, spanning
a narrow channel, or, more imposing still, two large parallel blocks,
overlapping in the middle of the stream, supported by a rock or by a
wooden support.
Very attractive, too, are the little bridges made of bundles of faggots
laid on a wooden framework, covered with beaten earth, the edges formed
of turf, bound with split bamboo, to prevent the soil from crumbling
away. There is an infinite variety of these little fantastic bridges,
and the cleverness displayed in the placing of them was a never-failing
source of admiration to me. The common idea of a bridge being a means
of crossing water in the shortest and most direct manner is by no
means the Japanese conception of a bridge. Their fondness for water,
and their love of lingering while crossing it, in order to feed and
gaze at the goldfish, or merely to enjoy the scene, has no doubt been
responsible for the position of many of their bridges: one slab will
connect the shore with a little rocky islet, and then, instead of
continuing in the most direct route to the opposite shore, as often as
not the next slab will branch away in an entirely different direction,
probably with the object of revealing a different view of the garden,
or merely in order to prolong the pleasure of crossing the lake or
stream.
In most gardens, unless they are very diminutive in size, there is
at least one Arbour or _Resting Shed_. It may consist merely of a
thick rustic post supporting a thatched roof in the shape of a huge
umbrella, with a few movable seats, or its proportions may assume
those of a miniature house carefully finished in every detail. When
they are of such an elaborate form they partake more of the nature of
the Tea-ceremony room, with raised matted floors, plastered walls,
and _shoji_ on at least two sides of the room. The open structures in
various shapes, with rustic thatched roofs, some fixed seats with a low
railing or balustrade to lean against, are of more common form; and if
the _Resting House_ is by the side of the lake, a projecting verandah
railed round is very popular, affording a comfortable resting-place
from which to gaze at the scene.
Decorative garden wells are picturesque objects, with their diminutive
roofs to protect the cord and pulley from the rain. As often as
not they are purely for ornament, but even in this case the cord,
pulley, and bracket should all look as antique as possible. A few
stepping-stones should lead to it, and a stone lantern should be at
hand with a suitable group of trees or shrubs.
Finally we come to garden fences and gateways, which again are
bewildering in their infinite variety and style. The Imperial
gardens, and even less imposing domains, are not enclosed by fences,
but by solid walls of clay and mud, plastered over, carrying a roof
of ornamental tiles. Even fences made of natural wood all carry a
projecting roof to afford protection from the rain, which adds very
much to their picturesque effect. The humblest garden must have two
entrances, which therefore necessitates two gateways--the principal
entrance, by which the guests enter, and the back entrance, called
_The Sweeping Opening_ from its practical use as a means of egress for
the rubbish of the garden. This gate will be made of wood or bamboo,
quite simple in style; but the _Entrance Gate_ is a far more important
feature of the domain, and must be in character with the garden it
leads to. The actual garden doors are of
[Illustration: TIGER LILIES]
natural wood, their panels decorated with either carving or
lattice-work, and set in a wooden frame which may vary considerably in
style. Roofed gateways are very common, and the practice of hanging
a wooden tablet between the lintels, with an inscription either
describing the style of the garden or merely conveying a pretty
sentiment in keeping with its character, is often seen. The fashion
of planting a pine-tree of twisted and crooked shape just inside the
gateway so that its leaning branches may be seen above the fence, is
not only for artistic effect, but, the pine being an emblem of good
luck, it is supposed to bring long life and happiness to the owner of
the garden.
Mr. Conder tells us that over a hundred drawings exist of ornamental
_Screen Fences_, called by the Japanese _Sleeve Fences_. They may
be used to screen off some portion of the garden, but are mainly
ornamental, and are usually placed near the water-basin and a stone
lantern. Without illustrations it is hopeless to attempt to describe
their fanciful shapes, each again with a poetical name. The materials
used in their construction consist chiefly of bamboo tubes of various
sizes, rushes and reeds tied with dyed fibre, or even the tendrils of
creepers or wistaria. In some of the simpler forms the patterns are
only made by the placing of the bamboo joints; but others are much more
elaborate, and have panels of lattice-work formed of tied rushes or
reeds, or openings of different shapes like windows. Mr. Conder gives a
detailed description of an immense number of these fantastic screens,
and one at least I must quote as an example.
The _Moon-entering Screen Fence_ is about seven feet high and three
feet wide, having in the centre a circular hole, from which it
receives its name. The vertical border on one side is broken off at
the edge of the orifice, so that the circle is not complete, and
this gives it the form of a three-quarter moon. Above the hole the
bundles of reeds are arranged vertically, like bars, and below in a
diagonal lattice-work, tied with hemp cords.
Through the openings in these fences a branch of pine, or some creeper,
is often brought through and trained with excellent effect.
I feel I have said enough about the materials used for the construction
of a landscape garden, to convey to the mind of the reader something
of the difficulties which surround the correct combination of these
materials, and sufficient to make any one realise that the making of a
Japanese garden is a true art, which it is not surprising that it is
impossible for a foreigner to imitate, hence the lamentable failure
of the so-called “Japanese gardens” which it has been the fashion of
late years to try and make in England frequently by persons who have
never even seen one of the gardens of Japan. The owner of probably
the best of these English “Japanese gardens” was showing his garden,
which was the apple of his eye, to a Japanese, who with instinctive
politeness was full of admiration, but had failed to recognise the fact
that it was meant to be a true landscape garden of his own country, and
therefore exclaimed, “It is very beautiful; we have nothing at all like
it in Japan!”
CHAPTER III
LANDSCAPE GARDENS
Having made some attempt to elucidate the mysterious and wonderful
construction of Japanese gardens, I feel the reader will expect
to learn something of their effect as a whole when completed.
Unfortunately many of the finest specimens of landscape gardens, the
old Daimyos’ gardens in Tokyo, have been swept away to make room for
foreign houses, factories, and breweries, and no trace of them remains;
old drawings or photographs alone tell of their departed glories.
Probably the largest of these gardens which still remains entire is
the Koraku-en, or Arsenal Garden, as it is more commonly called. It is
now empty and deserted, and seems only filled with sadness, its groves
recalling days gone by, when succeeding Daimyos entertained their
friends in regal pomp, and the sound of revelry broke the silence of
the woods; to-day only the incessant sound of metal hammering metal
breaks the silence of the glades, and the sound of explosions from the
Arsenal near by might well rouse the dead. The garden covers a large
extent of ground, and is an example of a scheme in which many separate
scenes were skilfully worked together to form a perfect whole. Its fame
dates from early in the seventeenth century, when the Daimyo of Mito,
who was a great patron of landscape gardening, laid out the grounds.
The fact that they are remarkable for many Chinese characteristics is
not surprising, when we learn that the Shogun Iyemitsu took an interest
in the work, and lent the aid of a great Chinese artist called Shunseu,
who completed the scheme. A semicircular stone bridge of Chinese
design, called a _Full-moon Bridge_, spans a stretch of water in which,
in the scorching heat of August mornings, the great buds of white
lotus flowers will crack and slowly open, their giant leaves almost
hiding the bridge; this important feature of the garden is called Seiko
Kutsumi, after a famous lotus lake in China. The island in the lake is
the Elysian Isle of Chinese fame, and formerly was connected with the
shore by a long wooden bridge, which has long since disappeared; but
the path wanders on, past the rocky shore, skirting the headland and
high wooded promontory, through the dense gloom of a forest, and by the
time I had made a complete tour of this garden I felt as though I had
paid a flying visit to half Japan.
There was an avenue of cherry-trees to recall the avenues of Koganei;
the river Tatsuda in miniature, its banks clothed with maples and other
reddening trees, to give colour to the garden in autumn, when the
setting sun will seem to light the torch and set all the trees ablaze;
there also is the Oi-gawa or Rapid River with its wide pebble-strewn
bed, down which a rapid-flowing stream is brought; then we are
transported to scenes in China; and beyond, again, the wanderer is
reminded of the scenery of Yatsuhashi, where one of the eight bridges
crosses in zigzag fashion a marshy swamp which in the month of June
is a mass of irises, great gorgeous blossoms of every conceivable
shade of lilac and purple, completely hiding their foliage; then this
little valley becomes a stream of colour and recalls the more extensive
glories of Hori-kiri.
Perhaps most ingenious of all is that part of the garden where the cone
of Fuji-yama appears, snow-capped in May, as it is densely planted
with
[Illustration: AN OLD GARDEN]
white azaleas. Many other scenes there were--tiny shrines built in
imitation of great temples, cascades and waterfalls named after other
celebrated falls, rare rocks, moss-grown lanterns, bridges of all
designs; in fact, the garden seemed a perfect treasure-house, and I
felt glad that this one garden has escaped the hand of the destroyer
and is left entire, a masterpiece of conception and execution.
Of another Tokyo garden--which unfortunately has not been left
untouched, as it is shorn of half its former glories, a glaring
red-brick brewery covering half the area of the beautiful grounds
formerly known as Satake-no-niwa--only a portion remains, though a
very lovely portion, and as it seems complete in itself it is still
worth a visit. Unlike the Koraku-en, the Satake Garden was a rather
artificial example of hill gardening, more open, with no dense groves,
but essentially a hill and water garden. The large lake remains, and,
like most of the gardens in the Honjo district of Tokyo, its waters are
salt and tidal, being connected with the neighbouring river Sumida.
Thus at high and low tide the shores of the lake present a very
different aspect; pebbly bays can only be crossed by stepping-stones
at high tide, and even some of the stone lanterns by the water’s edge
have their standards half submerged. The hills are closely planted with
evergreen bushes and shrubs, and most of the year the garden is all
grey and green; the island is reached by a grey stone bridge formed
of two slabs of granite of giant proportions, the grey lanterns stand
among shrubs, cut into rounded form, and the mossy rocks and boulders
have still more neutral tones; so it is only in spring when Nature
asserts herself, and no gardener can prevent the young leaves of the
maples being a variety of vivid colouring, and the grey rounded azalea
bushes become perfect balls of scarlet, rosy-pink and white blossoms,
that the garden has any colour in it. But to the mind of the Japanese
all sense of repose and quiet charm would be gone if the eye were
always worried by a distracting mass of colour; so even if flowers were
grown in these more extensive gardens they had a special part of the
grounds set apart for their culture. In one corner of the lake a piece
of swampy ground was thickly planted with irises and water-plants, and
a wistaria trellis overhung the lake, otherwise no flowers entered
into the scheme; but it was a perfect specimen of the typical Japanese
arrangement of garden hills planted with rounded bushes and adorned
with lanterns.
[Illustration: SATAKE GARDEN, TOKYO]
A magnificent example of a modern landscape garden is that belonging
to Baron Iwasaki, made some forty years ago. The venerable pine-trees
supported by stout props overhanging the lake are suggestive of
countless ages; but in this garden old trees of gnarled and twisted
growth, rare rocks, and immense boulders were collected from all parts
of the empire, regardless of expense, and brought together to ensure
the success of the scheme. The grounds cover many acres, the one blot
in the landscape being the large red-brick foreign house; but luckily
the most lovely part of the garden is laid out in front of the perfect
specimen of a Japanese gentleman’s house, where the verandah of the
cool matted rooms looks over a scene of indescribable beauty. The large
lake is cleverly divided, and the portion of the garden in front of
the foreign house is left behind; groves of evergreen trees screen
the house--the one jarring note; and here the lake becomes the lagoon
of Matsu-shima, tiny pine-clad islets rise from the water, and in the
distance rises the cone of Fuji from an undulating plain of close-mown
turf and groups of dwarfed pines. Here again flowers have no official
existence; azaleas there are in profusion, but they are only introduced
as shrubs; so the garden is not a flower garden, but a true landscape
garden--the reproduction in miniature of natural scenery. The lanterns
and bridges near the foreign house are of immense size, carrying out
the law of proportion; the rocks and boulders are large to correspond,
and the whole effect is one of great breadth; only near the tea-house
and the main Japanese house does the garden become more finished in
style and on a smaller scale. The balcony overhangs the rocky edge of
the tidal lake; each rock has its history and its especial place; but
the laws which have governed the making of such a garden are laws drawn
up by great artists,--there is no false note, even the grouping of
the reeds and irises by the water’s edge has been planned by a master
hand, so the picture remains graven on one’s memory as that of an ideal
pleasaunce for leisure and repose.
In Kyoto there still remain the gardens of the Gold and Silver
Pavilions--gardens of much older date, the splendour of their pavilions
dimmed by age, more especially in the case of Kinkakuji, the Golden
Pavilion. Mr. Conder says, “Long neglect has converted what was
once an elaborate artificial landscape into a wild natural scene of
great beauty.” The little pine-clad islets remain, but they are now
island wildernesses; the trees have partially resumed their normal
shapes; great leaning pines overhang the shores of the _Mirror Ocean_,
representing the Sea of Japan, and its three islands suggesting the
Empire of the Mikado. It was in the fourteenth century that this quiet
spot became the so-called retreat of the scheming Yoshimitsu, who,
pretending to have resigned the Shogunate in favour of his son, here
lived in the garb of a monk, but in reality directing the affairs of
State. The two-storied Pavilion itself, seen reflected in the _Mirror
Ocean_, is possibly more picturesque in decay than it was in the days
of its splendour; the gilding from which it takes its name has been
partially restored; it is backed by the wooded hill fancifully called
the _Silken Canopy_ or _Silk Hat Mountain_, from the fact that the
ex-Mikado Uda ordered it to be covered with white silk on a scorching
summer’s day, in order that his eyes might enjoy the sensation of
gazing on a cool, snow-covered scene. To this day the garden of
Kinkakuji under a light canopy of snow is one of the favourite sights
of the people of Kyoto. In days gone by there were smaller arbours in
which the Shogun, wearied with his walk among the groves of the _Silk
Hat Mountain_, would rest, and compare the scene which the garden was
intended to represent, to the real Sea of Japan, whence the name of one
of the arbours, _The House of the Sound of the Seashore_.
To the north-east of Kyoto, nestling among the woods that clothe the
lower hills of Hiei-san, lie the grounds of Ginkakuji or the Silver
Pavilion. In imitation of his predecessor Yoshimitsu, the Shogun
Yoshimasa after his abdication retired from the affairs of the world,
built himself a country house with grounds of vast extent, even with
despotic impatience sweeping away a temple because it interfered
with his plans,--though we are told he was filled with remorse, and
afterwards restored it at great expense. The two-storied Pavilion was
partly copied from its rival, the Golden Pavilion, though it never
seems to have attained to the same splendour; but here the ex-Shogun
and his boon companions, the philosopher Soami and Shuko the Nara
priest, held their æsthetic revels. They may be said to have laid down
the laws which raised the tea-ceremonial to the rank of a fine art. Mr.
Farrar, in writing of it, says:--
It has its prescribed ritual of appalling rigidity, this
tea-ceremony, invented and elaborated by a pious monk to
[Illustration: A TOKYO GARDEN]
distract a young and giddy Shogun from his debaucheries. It was
taken up as a political weapon by the House of Tokugawa, and
crystallised into its present adamantine form, becoming a social
engine of the most powerful nature in its power of bringing all
the nobles together. Here, then, is one of its temples where
the rites were celebrated in their due ordinance, with their
prescribed compliments, obeisances, and admiring exclamations
over the prescribed flower, arranged in the prescribed spot, and
indicated by the host in the prescribed words, to be followed by
the invariable litany of conversation and courtesy over the cup of
tea to be made, handed, accepted, and drunk all with remarks and
gestures and smiles of ancestral rubric.
Outside any tea-house built in accordance with these prescribed
regulations one sees “a row of stepping-stones, finishing beneath a
little _œil-de-bœuf_ in the wall above, by which the visitors had to
enter, ignoring the thoroughly practical door. They approached, making
the due bows upon each stone, and at last their host was to fish them
in through the window.”
Another ceremony inaugurated within these precincts was the ceremonial
of “incense sniffing,” to our minds merely an innocent, childish game,
the winner being the person possessing the keenest sense of smell, as
the pastime consisted of five or more different kinds of incense being
burnt, sniffed, given poetical names, then mixed up and sniffed again,
and the man who guesses best the names of the various kinds, is the
winner. The boxes which contained the incense, the burners in which it
was burnt, were all works of art, and the same grave etiquette which
governed the tea-ceremonial governed these incense-sniffing parties,
in which poets, writers, priests, philosophers, Daimyos, Shoguns, the
greatest and most learned in the land, took part. We can only gaze
with wonder and perplexity--not hoping to understand--at a “nation’s
intellect going off on such devious tracks as this incense-sniffing
and the still more intricate tea-ceremonies, and on bouquets arranged
philosophically, and gardens representing the cardinal virtues. Such
strict rules, such grave faces, such endless terminologies, so much ado
about nothing!” (Professor Chamberlain’s _Things Japanese_.)
To return to the garden proper, laid out with great elaboration by
Soami. Although it is now much neglected, the trees are not kept
trimmed according to the rigid laws, their stems are lichen-clad, and
Nature has tried to reassert herself over art, yet the beauty of the
spot is great. The lake, of ingenious form, backed on the north side
by the thickly pine-clad hills and to the west by the regulation
grove of maples, is an admirable example of the arrangement of garden
stones, its shores being rich in rare and precious rocks, each with its
characteristic name. One of the principal stones lying in the lake is
the stone of _Ecstatic Contemplation_; the little bridge which divides
the lake is the _Bridge of the Pillar of the Immortals_; the water
of the cascade which fills the lake, being of exceptional purity, is
called the _Moon-washing Fountain_. In the foreground of many of these
older gardens was an open space covered with white sand, carefully
raked into ornamental patterns, and here is a large mound of the sand
suggestive of a mammoth sugar-loaf with a flattened top, called the
_Silver Sand Platform_, the smaller one of the same shape being the
_Mound facing the Moon_; on these sat Yoshimasa and his favourites,
indulging in another favourite pastime of moon-gazing, to our prosaic
minds merely another elaborately conceived method of killing time.
I know no garden in Japan which seemed to take one back so far into
the world of the Old Japan as this little garden of Ginkakuji, and
no more peaceful spot to sit and enjoy the reddening maple leaves on
a bright evening in late autumn, when there is a touch of sadness in
the air, in keeping with the departed glories of the Pavilion and the
fast-fading beauties of the trees.
Many of the smaller and most interesting gardens in Japan are those
attached to tea-houses or small suburban houses, showing, as they
do, the ingenuity and resource of the landscape gardener in making a
perfect garden of any size, from ten acres to half an acre, or only
a few square yards. Among tea-house gardens, that attached to the
Raku-raku-tei at Hikone can hardly be counted, as it was formerly
the garden of a great Daimyo and is one of the finest gardens in the
country. The numerous little summer-houses built out on piles in the
lake have been erected for the entertainment of the guests of the
tea-house, a gathering place for the most _élite_, but otherwise the
garden remains unchanged; the paths which wind round the lake, across
the bridges, past the _Stone of Worship_, from where the beauties of
the garden may be enjoyed to best advantage, are the same paths which
the feet of successive Daimyos trod in the feudal days of old.
It is rather to the Hira-niwa, or Flat Gardens, that I allude, made in
the small enclosures at the back of private houses or tea-houses in
towns, or even in the actual courts, no space being apparently too
small for the construction of one of these little fresh-looking and
artistic gardens. How superior to the dusty, neglected back garden
or court of a European house, too often only a piece of waste ground
where the rubbish of the house accumulates, the space being condemned
as too small for a garden. I can recall visions of many a tiny court
no more than twenty feet square, within whose limits were compressed
a liliputian pond, fed with clear water by the overflow of the
water-basin; a dwarf pine, the soul of every Japanese garden, which in
conjunction with a few small evergreen shrubs sheltered a moss-grown
lantern. Some small rocks and a few foliage or water plants in a tuft
by the water’s edge, were the sole materials used for the making of
this court-garden. Stepping-stones, let into the beaten earth, led from
the step of the verandah to the edge of the pond, ending in one stone
larger than the rest, suggesting the _Stone of Worship_, or the _Stone
of Amusement_, in case there should be any goldfish in the pond. As
these little courts are kept profusely watered, being sprinkled out of
a wooden ladle several times a day in the hottest days of summer, the
effect is always damp and cool, the mossy stones are always fresh and
green, however fierce the heat may be. The variety in the actual form
of these gardens seemed infinite; in some the pond was omitted, and
the suggestion of water and dampness came from the rustic garden well
or the ornamental water-basin, behind which always stands a portion
of screen-fencing of elaborate design. When the area is not quite
so limited, bridges will be introduced to cross the pond, possibly
consisting only of a single stone slab supported on a natural piece
of rock, or a granite bridge slightly curved in form, or perhaps only
the suggestion of a bridge, formed of a branch of juniper or some
flat close-growing evergreen trained in a curve across the water.
According to the size of the ground, so these gardens will increase in
elaboration of their design, and many an enclosure at the back of a
merchant’s house in Kyoto or Osaka has been transformed into a perfect
specimen of Hira-niwa.
One I recall which always gave me as much pleasure as the most
extensive landscape garden in the country. The lake was of the
prescribed form known as the _Running Water shape_, fed by a
fast-flowing stream which came in at the far end of the garden over the
regulation Cascade Stones; a garden arbour of elaborate form overlooked
the lake, in which stood the “Elysian Isle” with its pine-tree
[Illustration: A LANDSCAPE GARDEN]
growing out of the rock, and a few azalea bushes filling the
interstices of the stone, forming a most attractive feature of the
garden; banks there were planted with more azaleas; pines, kept dwarfed
to about two feet in height, grew out of cushions of thick moss;
bridges crossed and re-crossed the stream; stepping-stones, discs, and
label stones guided our feet as we wandered about at leisure. There
were the two garden entrances, and even the back entrance, or _Sweeping
Opening_, was a thing of beauty. Every detail of this garden had
been first carefully thought out, and then as carefully carried into
execution.
The landscape gardener in Japan is no gardener in the sense that we
regard a gardener in the West--a cultivator of flowers: he is a garden
artist; he leaves none of his effects to chance; so carefully are his
plans made that before the first sod of the new garden has been turned,
he knows exactly how the garden will look when completed. He will see
in his mind’s eye the appointed place for every tree, every stone,
which is to be used in its composition. I could not help thinking that
if more thought were given to the planning of our English gardens
there might be something more complete and satisfying to the eye than
the meaningless gardens--often laid out by the owner of the house,
who by the wildest stretch of imagination could not be called a garden
artist--which too often surround our English homes. Our gardens are
made beautiful in summer by the wealth and profusion of their flowers;
but when the winter comes and the beds are shorn of their summer
glories, the deficiencies of the plan of the garden are laid bare, and
might well give us food for thought through the long winter months.
CHAPTER IV
NURSERY GARDENS--DWARF TREES AND HACHI-NIWA
A nursery garden in Japan may be called a revelation in the art
of pruning. A singular idea exists in the minds of many people,
that all the trees in Japan are like the dwarf specimens they have
occasionally seen in England on a nurseryman’s stand at a flower-show,
and frequently they display surprise, not unmixed with incredulity,
when assured that such is not the case. I would recommend those
unbelievers to take a walk in the cryptomeria avenues at Nikko, among
the camphor groves of Atami, or to wander through the pine-woods which
clothe the hillsides above Kyoto, when they would see for themselves
the magnificence of the trees, untouched by the pruning knife of the
gardener. The Japanese bestow as much time and care on the trees in
their gardens as the Western gardener would give to his choicest
flowers. The gardener’s ideal tree is not the ordinary tree of the
forest, but the abnormal specimen which age and weather have twisted
and bent into quaint and unusual shapes. Here, in the nursery garden,
we shall find specimen trees; old trees it is true, but trees giving
proof that art has had to improve upon nature, as scarcely a single
tree in the whole collection--waiting, possibly, to transform the new
garden of a _nouveau riche_ into an ancestral home--will have been
allowed to follow its own inclination of growth and shape.
The pine-tree is generally chosen as the subject for the operating
knife, and is cut and trained into all manner of shapes; an umbrella
made of a single tree of _Pinus densiflora_ trained on a framework
of light bamboo, or a junk of perfect form, the reward of years of
patience, will be waiting until it is required to be the chief feature
in a landscape garden. The curiously twisted appearance characteristic
of a Japanese pine-tree, in gardens and temple grounds, is achieved by
a clever system of pruning, and gives the trees a stunted and venerable
appearance, which they would otherwise not attain for years. The
leading shoot of each branch and most of the side ones are removed,
giving the branch a new direction, sometimes at right angles to the
previous year’s growth. This operation is repeated every year, and the
branches thinned out, so that every line of the stems can be followed.
Another favourite and very effective way of training a pine, is to
carry a long branch out over a stream or pond, and by skilful training
and cutting to give it the direction that, after a few years’ growth,
will have become natural to it, and the whole strength of the tree will
seem concentrated in that one branch. These trees should be placed
by the water’s edge or on the slope of a hill, and are often planted
leaning at all manner of angles. The gardener is never sparing in his
use of stout bamboo props, which to our Western ideas would appear
unsightly.
It is not in these trees, interesting as they always are, that the
admiration of the visitor to a Japanese nursery garden will be centred;
for how few foreigners remain long enough in the country, or take
sufficient interest in their temporary home, to construct a new garden
round it; yet how easy it seems to accomplish, when old gnarled trees
are ready grown. It would appear as though a few hours’ planning and
plotting, a few stones and trees, a few days’ work for a few coolies,
are all that is required, and the thing would be done; but remember
success depends upon the plan, one false touch would set the whole
conception ajar, so woe betide the foreigner if he were to attempt to
interfere with the making of his garden; left to himself a Japanese is
never guilty of that one false touch.
Arranged in rows on wooden platforms will be the object of our visit to
the nursery garden--the dwarf trees--whose fame has spread throughout
the world, and who seem to share with the cherry blossom the floral
fame of Japan. When first I visited the country I went prepared to
be disappointed with the dwarf trees; I had seen inferior specimens
shipped to Europe no doubt because of their inferiority, pining away
a lingering life in a climate unsuited to them, deprived of all care
and attention; for an idea prevailed in England when they were first
imported, that these tiny trees, the result of years of patient
training, required no water, and either no fresh air or else were
equally indifferent to the fiery rays of the summer suns or the icy
blasts of the winter winds. A visit to a garden in their native country
will soon reveal that such is not the case. The trees are not coddled,
it is true, but the proper allowance of water, especially in their
growing season, is most important, and they are impatient of a draught;
though many seem to stand the full rays of the sun, the best specimens
had generally some light canvas or bamboo blinds, arranged so that
they could be drawn over the stands during the hottest hours of the
scorching summer days. I have heard these trees described as tortured
trees; to me, good specimens never gave that impression, their charm
took possession of me, and a grand old pine or juniper whose gnarled
and twisted trunk suggested a giant of the forest, and yet was under
three feet in height, standing in a soft-coloured porcelain bowl, gave
me infinite pleasure. I could see no fault in them, they are completely
satisfying and give a strange feeling of repose.
Their variety is infinite, from six inches in height to as many feet;
pines, junipers, thujas, maples, larch, willows, and, among the
flowering trees, pink and white plum, single and double cherries, tiny
peach-trees, smothered by their blossoms, pyrus trained in fantastic
shapes, all will be there in bewildering choice of beauty. I have heard
of a single treasure, a weeping willow, only six inches in height, the
reward of years of patience, for which the price of 7000 yen (£700)
was paid; probably to our eyes it would have had no more value than
a humble “dwarf” which, in consequence of some slight imperfection,
would not fetch more than _sevenpence_. In a perfect specimen not only
each branch, but each twig and each leaf, must conform absolutely in
direction and proportion to the same unbending laws which govern this
art, as well as its sister arts of landscape gardening and flower
arrangement--laws which a writer says were “the iron rules laid down by
the canons of taste in the days when Iyeyasu Tokugawa paralysed into an
adamantine immobility the whole artistic and intellectual life of the
country.” So in every garden there will be failures as perfect works
of art, but beautiful in our eyes, which fail to see any difference
between the perfect specimen with its boughs bent down by the weight
of the laws which have trained it and priced it at some hundred yen,
or the “failure” by its side, beautiful and wonderful, with all its
imperfections an exquisite and dainty thing, priced at as many pence.
Perhaps one of the best opportunities for buying these imperfect trees,
which are still admired and readily bought by the Japanese themselves,
though not to be treasured as works of art, is at
[Illustration: THE OLD WISTARIA]
the sales which take place at night in the streets of Kyoto on certain
days of the month. The plants are arranged on stalls down each side
of a narrow street, and the intending purchaser has to fight his way
through a dense crowd to choose his plants. No lover of dwarf trees
should miss attending one of these sales, and perhaps the uncertainty
as to whether the plant is in good health, or the bowl containing it
is broken, adds to the excitement of bargaining with the stall-holder;
every Japanese loves a bargain, and the transaction is eagerly watched
by the crowd, and the “foreign devil” will gain their admiration if he
can hold his own against the rapacity of the salesman. As the plants
vary in price, from a few sen to two or three yen, one can afford to
carry off a sufficient number to ensure having some, at least, that
will be a reward for one’s patience. On the 1st of April the best
night-market of the year is held. The stalls will be covered with
tempting little flowering trees, their buds almost bursting and full of
promise of lovely blossoms to come--sturdy little peach-trees, their
branches thickly covered with soft velvet buds just tinged with pink;
drooping cherries wreathed with red-brown buds; slender pyrus trained
into wonderful twisted shapes; little groves of maple-trees, their
scarlet or bronze leaves just unfurling, or miniature forests of larch,
shading mossy ravines with rivers of white sand; ancient pine-trees
spreading their branches over rocky precipices rising from a bed of
pebbles; sweet-scented daphnes, golden-flowered forsythias, and early
azaleas in porcelain dishes, which are round or oval, square, shallow
or deep, and of every shade, from white, through soft greys and blues
to a deep green. Every plant is a picture in itself, and the difficulty
lies in deciding, not which to buy, but which one can bring oneself to
leave behind.
Siebold, who visited Japan and wrote the _Flora Japonica_ upwards of
sixty years ago, thus describes the dwarf trees:--
The Japanese have an incredible fondness for dwarf trees, and with
reference to this the cultivation of the Ume, or Plum, is one of
the most general and lucrative employments of the country. Such
plants are increased by in-arching, and by this means specimens are
obtained which have the peculiar habit of the Weeping Willow. A
nurseryman offered me for sale in 1826 a plant in flower which was
scarcely three inches high; this _chef d’œuvre_ of gardening was
grown in a little lacquered box of three tiers, similar to those
filled with drugs which the Japanese carry in their belts; in the
upper tier was this Ume, in the second row a little Spruce Fir, and
at the lowest a Bamboo scarcely an inch and a half high.
The Japanese still love their dwarf trees as much as they did in the
days of Siebold, and the trade in them has received additional impetus
of late years, as great numbers are exported annually to Europe and the
United States, where I fear they are not treasured as works of art, but
are only regarded as curiosities.
At different seasons of the year the nursery gardens will be gay with
the display of some especial flower. Early in May the gaudy-coloured
curtains and paper lanterns at the gates will announce, in the bold
black lettering which is one of the chief ornaments of the country,
that a special exhibition of azaleas is being held. It is scarcely
conceivable that any plants can bear so many blossoms as do these
stiff and prim little azalea-trees; the individual blooms are small,
but their serried ranks form one dense even mass, flat as a table, for
no straggling branches are allowed in these perfectly grown plants.
Every shade is there, an incredible blaze of colour, all the plants
the same shape, all practically the same size, and all in the same
shaped pots; the only variety being in the delicate hue of the faience
pots or the vivid colouring of the blossoms. The pots are arranged in
rows or stages under the blue and white checked roofing, which seems
peculiarly to belong to flower exhibitions; the effect cannot be said
to be artistic, but there is something very attractive about the little
trees, which are visited by the same crowd of sight-seers, who seem to
spend their days in “flower-viewing” and quiet feasting on the matted
benches, the latter being inseparable from these flower resorts.
Other flower exhibitions will follow in their turn--great flaunting
pæonies, brought with loving care from the gardens near Osaka; and then
the last and most treasured flower of all, the chrysanthemum. Again the
little matted or chess-board roof will be brought into requisition, and
an unceasing throng of visitors will discuss the merits of the last
new variety, or of a plant more perfectly grown than its neighbour.
Here, too, I saw plants of single chrysanthemums, like great soft pink
daisies, grown in tall narrow porcelain pots, grey-blue in colour;
left untrained and unsupported the main stem fell over the side of the
pot, and the whole plant hung down with natural grace; the effect was
charming, and I could not help thinking might easily be accomplished in
any garden.
At the end of the year may also be seen the dishes being prepared
with a combination of plum, bamboo, and pine which will be found on
the _tokonoma_ of almost every house throughout the empire at the New
Year, bringing good luck and long life to the inmates. Sometimes the
combination will be merely a flower arrangement, but usually it is of
a more lasting nature, and a little plum-tree covered with soft pink
buds, a tiny gnarled old pine, and a small plant of bamboo, will be
firmly planted in the dish, a rock and a few stones may be added for
effect, and the ground mossed over to suggest great age. Occasionally a
clump of some everlasting flower, such as _Adonis amurensis_, is used
instead of the plum.
It is probably in the nursery garden that the traveller will first
see one of the toy gardens called _Hachi-niwa_--dish gardens--where
a perfect landscape and a well-known scene is accurately represented
within the limited area of a shallow china dish, varying in size
from six inches in length to two feet. Here we have another art, for
the making of _Hachi-niwa_ is almost as much trammelled by rules and
conventions as its fellow-arts of flower arrangement and landscape
gardening, and the same unbending law of proportion is the first
consideration. Just as the landscape gardener chooses the scene which
his garden is to represent, in proportion to the size of the ground
which the future garden is intended to cover, so the maker of a
_Hachi-niwa_ must choose his scene in proportion to the size of his
dish; or, as his choice of dishes may be infinite, varying from a few
inches upwards, and being in shape round or oval, long and narrow,
with square or rounded ends; so having decided on his landscape, he
may then choose his dish. As I had been much attracted by these little
miniature gardens, each in itself a perfect picture, I determined to
learn something of the manner of their construction and to try and
grasp a few of the principles of the art. I had heard of a gardener
in Kyoto who was a great master in the art, a disciple and pupil of
one of the Tokyo professors, who might tell me what I wished to learn.
On my first visit to his house he looked incredulous at the idea of a
foreigner wishing to study the art of _Hachi-niwa_. Thinking I could
only wish to purchase a ready-made garden to carry off as a curiosity,
he appeared decidedly reserved, and reluctant to impart any information
on the subject of their composition. A friend who accompanied me, and
was more eloquent in his language than I was, assured him that I was in
earnest--not merely a passer-by, but one who had already spent many
months in his country; then his interest awoke, and he asked me to
return the next day, when he would have all the materials prepared and
I could choose my own subject.
Many a happy hour did I spend making these little gardens and learning
something of their history. A certain paraphernalia is necessary for
the construction of these miniature landscapes, and the requisite
materials include a supply of moss of every variety--close cushions
of moss to form the mountains, flat spreading moss to clothe the
rocks, white lichened moss to carpet the ground beneath the venerable
pine-trees, which in themselves are especially grown and dwarfed,
till at the age of four or five years they will only have attained
the imposing height of as many inches; leaning and bent pines for
the scenery of Matsushima or the garden of Kinkakuji, groves of tiny
maples for Arashiyama, and pigmy trees of all descriptions. Finally,
there are microscopic toys to give life to the scene--perfect little
temples and shrines, in exact imitation of the originals, modelled
out of the composition that is used for pottery, baked first in their
natural colour, then coloured when necessary and baked again; coolies,
pedlars, pilgrims in endless variety, less than an inch in height;
bridges, lanterns, _torii_, boats, junks, rafts, mills, thatch-roofed
cottages--everything, in fact, that is necessary in the making of a
landscape, down to breakwaters for the rivers, made like tiny bamboo
cages filled with stones, such as exist at every turn of rivers like
the Fuji-kawa. The necessary implements consisted of chop-sticks, the
use of which is an art in itself, a trowel suggesting a doll’s mason’s
trowel, a tiny flat-iron for smoothing the surface of the sand, besides
diminutive scoops for holding only a few grains of sand, a pair of
enlarged forceps for placing the moss, little fairy brooms about two
inches long to sweep away sand which may have got out of place, and a
sieve of like dimensions to sift white powder for a snow scene, and,
finally, a fine water sprayer to keep the moss damp and fresh.
When the selection of the dish has been made--the regulation kind being
of white or mottled blue china, in size twelve inches by eight, or
eighteen inches by twelve, about one inch deep--and the scene decided
upon, damp sifted earth will form the mountains and the foundations
in which the rocks are embedded; the hills are carefully carved and
moulded into perfect shape; crevasses, down which a torrent of white
sand will flow, to represent a river, or a mountain road running
between a gorge of terrific rocks, are marked out. Then will come the
firm planting of the stones, toy temples, houses, or bridges; the
position of the trees is carefully weighed and considered; and last of
all comes the sand--sand of a deep grey colour for deep water, lighter
in colour for the shallows, yellowish sand for the ground or roads,
snow-white granite chips for water racing down from the mossy mountains
or dashing against the cliffs, coarser shingle for the beach in sea
scenes; and the correct use of all these sands is a history in itself,
as all the different coloured varieties come from the different rivers
of Japan, and to use the wrong sand to represent water or earth would
be an unforgivable crime in the eye of the master.
To show that great men have turned their attention to these little
toy gardens, no less an artist than the celebrated Hiroshige, whose
colour-prints of the fifty-three stages of the journey on the old
Tokaido road, along which the Shoguns, in days gone by, travelled
with all the pomp and state due to their rank, from Kyoto to Yedo,
are well known and prized by all lovers of these prints, evidently
considered these scenes so suited for the making of toy gardens, that
he designed a special book in which the fifty-three views appear as
_Hachi-niwa_. The book is now, unfortunately, scarce and difficult
to obtain, but I had the delight of seeing the whole set of views in
real life, each in its little dish. My teacher told me that the first
Exhibition of _Hachi-niwa_ ever held in Kyoto would take place at the
Kyoto Club, where the various competitors would exhibit different
views, and a prize would be awarded, from votes by ballot, to the best
in the collection. Needless to say, as soon as the doors, or rather the
sliding _shoji_, of the club were thrown open to the public, I hastened
to study these perfect little works of art. Round three white-matted
rooms they stood, each dish on a low black wood stand a few inches
high, raised on a dais only another few inches from the ground, so
that to view them properly it was necessary to kneel in adoration
before them. I was asked to vote for the three I liked best, and never
did I have a greater difficulty in deciding. At first a view of Kodzu
attracted my attention, with its pine-clad cliffs, deep-indented coast
line, stony beach with a moored junk, and stretching away in the
distance an expanse of pale blue sea, in the offing being a fleet of
fishing-boats with sails not more than half an inch in size bellying in
the breeze. This seemed to me perfection; every ripple on the water
was marked in the sand, the crests of the waves white, the shadows a
deep blue, and the reflection of the junk in perfect outline--a marvel
of neatness and ingenuity. But to the Japanese this did not appeal;
they condemned it for its very perfection; any one, they said, could
make such a scene who had sufficient patience and neat fingers; whereas
the view of Kanaya appealed to them as having something grand and
yet simple in its conception. A river of white sand threaded its way
through the mossy plain, and in the distance stood the little mountain
village nestling at the foot of a range of mountains carved in stone.
This was awarded the prize, and, I was glad to think, had been made
by my teacher. Such an exhibition I had expected would be principally
visited by women and children, as I had heard that the making of
_Hachi-niwa_ was a favourite occupation for the ladies of Tokyo, but
here in Kyoto they found interest in the eyes of “grave and reverend
seigneurs” who gathered in groups about the rooms. I saw all the
members of the club, politicians, writers, poets, the greatest in the
land, engrossed in discussing the merits or demerits of toy gardens,
and I could not help thinking that here was a country indeed where
“small things amuse great minds.”
CHAPTER V
TEMPLE GARDENS
Of all the gardens in Japan, and surely in no other country are there
so many different forms of gardening, the temple garden, or often
the garden surrounding some mouldering Buddhist monastery, remains a
peaceful, secluded spot, recalling the Old Japan and days gone by.
Unluckily many of them are fast falling into decay, like the buildings
they surround; but perhaps it is better so, as they would surely
suffer at the hands of the restorer, just as many of the temples have
suffered; and though little may remain of the original gardens, the
stones, beautified possibly by time, are still the same; the trees
may have grown old and gnarled, but the form of the garden remains
unchanged.
It has been said that every good garden should be a “modulation from
pure nature to pure art,” and no one seems to have understood the
saying better
[Illustration: AT KITANO TENJIN]
than the makers of these old temple gardens: they are always a setting
for the building they surround, adding to its grandeur, never dwarfing
it; the placing of every stone, the curve of every walk, the shape of
the pond, all seem to have been duly weighed and considered, and the
result is an harmonious whole.
The grand Nikko temples, the shrines in Uyeno or Shiba, have been left
in their natural surroundings; the tall grey masts of the cryptomerias
stand like sentries to guard their precious treasure, the avenues
broken only by long vistas of enormous steps or the uprights of a
colossal granite _torii_. Nothing could be more imposing, and the
effect of the bronze green of the cryptomerias against the splendid
colour of the temple gives the crowning touch to a picture which in
itself alone is worth travelling many thousand miles to see.
At Uyeno the cherry-trees reign all supreme, they do their full
work; the mixing of other shrubs or trees would be unnecessary and
meaningless; this is the simplest and yet the grandest form of
gardening; a few large bronze lanterns and grey stones help to show off
the delicate pink of the blossoms when they are in their glory, and
yet seem to be part of the temple itself, as no temple or shrine is
complete without some of these beautiful votive offerings.
At Nara, again, the cryptomeria forms the principal setting; in spring,
many of the trees are wreathed with wistaria, the royal _fuji_, but
this only helps to enhance their colour, and is suggestive of a grey
misty vapour rather than a real flower, as often one sees no trace of
the stem of the wistaria, and one wonders how the mass of mauve flowers
has managed to appear suddenly at the very top of one of those giants
of the forest.
It is not around these large and world-renowned temples that one finds
a garden, in the sense that we Europeans regard a garden, but rather in
some peaceful spot which seems to have been overlooked by the hustle
and bustle of the large town in which it may be situated. I am thinking
now of one such garden in Kyoto; the evening bell seems to call you
to come within its sanctuary, and once there one would surely never
leave until the final closing of its great outer wooden door sends the
loiterer away. It has an irresistible charm this tiny garden, hardly
more than a toy compared to the scale of our English gardens, and
it was no surprise to me to learn that it was planned to suggest in
miniature the
[Illustration: THE DROOPING CHERRY]
fabulous Garden of Paradise. One enters its outer precincts through one
of those solid wooden gateways which seem so fitting to guard their
charge, wood guarding wood, for remember all temples are made of wood
in Japan; though many different kinds may be used, and the rarer and
more beautifully veined pieces are brought together and collected from
far and wide, still it is all wood, and for that reason the buildings
seem to be especially in keeping with a garden.
On either side of the gateway stand two old pine-trees, carefully
trained and thinned at the proper season; but the most beautiful
guardian is just within the gate, a grand old weeping cherry-tree, in
April its boughs bent down by the weight of its blossoms, while its
glory lasts for a week or two, casting a pinky light on all around.
Even now you are only being prepared for the beauty to come, as you
must knock on yet another little wooden door and ask permission of the
acolyte to enter; he will offer to tell you the history of the garden
in his peculiar sing-song note, suggesting a recitative, and utterly
incomprehensible, unless you have thoroughly mastered his language.
Seeing a foreigner he will probably reconcile himself to letting you
wander at your will, and enjoy the beauties of this little haven of
rest. We are told that the buildings were formerly magnificent, but
have suffered from fire at the hands of the _ronins_, and in later days
from accidental fires. What remains of the original building seems
complete in itself, and one feels one would not have it otherwise.
The garden was designed by the celebrated Kobori Enshu, and, like
all his work, is much regarded and valued by the Japanese. The plan,
roughly speaking, appears to be two ponds, a wooden bridge, and three
tiny islands; but to the understanding one, they are the Crane and
Tortoise ponds, the two small islands on the south being regarded as
a crane, while the northern one is a tortoise. The wooden bridge is
a Bridge of Heaven, and contains the _Kwangetsudai_, or Moon-gazing
Platform, brought from the Momoyama Palace at Fushimi, where Hideyoshi
is said to have used it for that purpose. All this is of deep interest
to the Japanese; but to our eyes the charm of the garden lies in the
fact that it is a little old-world garden full of repose, suggesting
the Old Japan, and spots where foreign feet have seldom trod. I have
known this garden at all seasons of the year. In February, when biting
snow-showers remind one that winter is not yet over, the moss-and
lichen-clad stones, the trim, clean-cut azalea and sweet box bushes,
and the carpet of velvety moss in broad patches where the turf has not
yet recovered from the winter frosts, are its only adornments. The pink
buds of the one plum-tree it contains are fast swelling, and show you
that spring’s fairy raiment is being prepared by Nature; the buds of
the large bush of flame-coloured _Azalea mollis_--possibly the pride of
the garden--also help to give promise of future glories.
Kodaiji was once famous for its cherry-trees, but now few remain, and
we must content ourselves with its other treasures, which seem to bloom
in one never-ending succession throughout the year. July is the only
month in which I have never seen this garden, but I feel certain that
even then there is no blank, something would spring up to be the pride
of the garden. In March her one plum-tree reigns supreme, in April the
cherry blossom; in May the Crane pond is fringed with purple irises,
and the gorgeous azalea casts its reflection also; in June the later
_Azalea indica_ ... flower as best they can, but how many of their buds
fall victims to the gardener’s shears. In July the lotus leaves in both
the ponds are already getting taller every hour, and in the early
hours of some morning late in July the first lotus bud will open with
a crack and gradually unfurl its beautiful pink or white blossom. All
through August fresh buds will appear, and indeed well into September,
when at last the leaves will begin to curl and shrivel, and one can
only wonder how they stood the scorching heat of the sun all through
those long weeks.
By the beginning of October the leaves of the maples will be turning,
gradually growing more and more fiery in colour as the month dies out,
till in November they are in all their gaudy splendour, and Kodaiji
is noted for its _momiji_. The priest, too, who evidently loves his
garden, has by now moved with tender care his chrysanthemum plants,
whose pots have been kept from the sun’s fiercest rays, and never
allowed to cry out for water, and placed them in one of those curiously
fragile little structures which seem to exist only for the protection
of chrysanthemums, with a roof more suggestive of a chess-board than
anything else, and arranged them in front of his dwelling-room, so that
he can sit and gaze at them, just as in old days Hideyoshi sat on the
neighbouring platform to gaze at the moon. Do not imagine
[Illustration: A SHRINE AT KYOMIDZU]
that when the last maple falls, or the last _kiku_ flower is cut,
the year is over in this favoured little spot, for in December the
_Camellia Sasanqua_ holds its own against frost and even snow; its
lovely rose-coloured flowers, which with their yellow stamens, are more
suggestive of the blooms of Penzance briar roses than of camellias, are
in sharp contrast with the deep glossy foliage, and seem more fitted
for a spring flower than one for the dying year.
It is not always easy for the foreigner to obtain permission to visit
some of these secluded and hallowed spots. I can recall a long rough
ricksha drive in the environs of Kyoto, through somewhat uninteresting
country, consisting of endless miles of rice-fields--Hiezan, it is
true, forming a beautiful background; but though I was armed with
credentials which I was assured would gain me admission to a veritable
holy of holies, a garden so old that no one knew its origin, my
enthusiasm was beginning to wane when we arrived within some large
rambling temple grounds. We asked to see the garden, and were bowed
into a not very interesting and rather uncared-for court, but I
felt this could not be the spot I had come so far to see; besides,
admission had been too readily granted; it would require patience and
perseverance to find this inner sanctuary. After many explanations and
many times being assured there was no other garden, we were eventually
directed to the priest’s private dwelling, and then I knew my chance
had come, as an especially holy man was the owner of the precious
little garden. I was greeted with a look of horror and incredulity:
“Was it possible that the foreigner had even penetrated within these
mouldering monastery grounds?” The permission was granted, and I
entered the spotlessly clean white-matted rooms, which all looked on
the garden. First a little forecourt, and beyond, the sacred spot. At
the first glance what did it consist of? A few stone lanterns, almost
diminutive in size, to be in keeping with the rest of the garden; some
so buried in velvety moss that their shape seemed almost altered by the
thickness of their green canopy; a few curiously shaped and fantastic
stones, also with their covering of grey lichen and moss; some old
gnarled and twisted shrubs, and two or three little toy stone bridges.
Not a single flower to break the severity of the outline. The garden
lay in a pine wood, and at first I thought, “How curious that a spot so
evidently well cared for should be carpeted thickly
[Illustration: WHITE CHERRY AT KITANO]
with pine needles!” Never had I seen stone bridges placed where there
was no water to cross; the only water in the garden appearing to be a
tiny little ceaseless trickle in the beautifully shaped water-basin,
which stands at the entrance to nearly all Japanese gardens, however
small; but presently I noticed that the pine needles only covered the
actual ground, not one was lying on the little rising mound or lodging
in any bush, and then I realised the cleverness, the ingenuity of the
idea--the pine needles represented the water; each spine seemed to
be in its place under the little bridge; they came perfectly smooth
and always following each the same way like flowing water. Presently
some projecting point or little island in this fancy lake would break
their regularity, and they would be turned and twisted to represent
the current of the water. It took one’s breath away. “Who ever had
the patience to arrange this carpet?” It seemed almost as if it might
be the work of some one undergoing a penance, being condemned to keep
these pine needles in perfect order; one puff of wind might mean
hours of work to their guardian. I felt that my perseverance had been
well repaid, as during all my wanderings in Japan I never came across
another example of that style of gardening, nor was I ever able to
obtain the real history of this garden.
The gardens round the smaller temples seem generally to be in the
special care of some old priest. Many of them unfortunately are fast
falling into decay, and are often neglected; but many are evidently
the pride and joy of their owner, who usually seems much gratified by
the admiration they evoke. Often only a very small piece is kept in
anything like trim and formal order, and then one wanders up the hill
and finds a different scene--nature running riot, helped by a minute
mountain stream, as an unceasing supply of moisture seems almost
more necessary to the vegetation of Japan than to that of any other
country; but still the path winds on, and the wanderer is impelled to
see where it will lead him to. The end is always the same, some silent
graveyard--perhaps only a score or so of memorials of the dead, or
perhaps hundreds, or even it would seem almost thousands, of these
ghostly moss-blackened monuments, jostling each other, so crowded are
they, hardly any two alike in size or shape, leaning all of them,
suggesting endless earthquakes, but mostly with a section of bamboo in
front of them to hold a branch of evergreen or flower, showing that
some one still remembers the departed one, and loving hands light the
humble incense bowl.
Perhaps one of the most elaborate gardens I ever saw was that of
Sampo-in, on the way to Otsu. Here one feels as if the work of man
had almost distorted nature, if such a thing were possible, and yet
the picture would be poor indeed were it not for its splendid setting
of forest trees. Again a giant weeping cherry stands like a guardian
within the gate, and then you pass on; and never have I seen trees so
fantastically twisted into the most impossible angles and shapes. The
keynote of the garden seems to be the lilliputian mountain torrent,
for does not that give a _raison d’être_ for the stone or turf
bridges which are flung across it to connect the mossy banks with the
diminutive islands, on one of which stands a celebrated pine, twisted,
and torn, and cut, so that it has lost all trace of what nature
intended it to be, but surely not lost all charm. In this garden also
there are no flowers, only little trespassers. I noticed numbers of
little wild flowers nestling in the shadow of the bridges or between
the mossy rocks, seeming to pray to be left undisturbed by the ruthless
weeder. The pride of this especial garden was its maples. When I saw
it, they had not yet lost the red glow in which their leaves unfurl
in spring; but in November they would doubtless be better still, and
the garden illuminated by a blaze of colour. On leaving, it seemed
impossible to avoid marring the patterns traced in the silver sand,
patterns of a thousand years ago.
Round some of the larger and more imposing temples and monasteries the
ground is less a garden than a pleasaunce, for the little miniature
gardens I have described would be no fitting framework, for instance,
for that noble building the Chion-in in Kyoto, whose grounds include
some sixty acres on the wooded slope of those hills which form an
unrivalled background to the fairest city of Japan. So large an extent
could not possibly be broken up and formed into a garden such as I have
already described; the effect would be grotesque and all sense of true
proportion lost. How imposing is the great gate standing in its setting
of pines, in spring softened by the cherry blossom which shows here and
there between them. A long dizzy flight of stone steps leads up to the
main building of the temple. Here the ground has been levelled, the
work of many thousand hands, it being no petty task to level a plateau
large enough for the main building of this mighty edifice, some
[Illustration: CHERRY BLOSSOM, CHION-IN TEMPLE]
146 feet long and 114 feet wide. Hardly less imposing is the assembly
hall or room of a thousand mats, surrounded by a wooden corridor so
constructed that in walking round it there is produced a sound which
is thought to resemble the singing of the _uguisu_, the Japanese
nightingale, and there is yet another grand hall, the Dai Hojo. How
grandly and simply the grounds of this temple are adorned. The large
square in front of the main building has for its chief adornment two
stone lanterns of colossal size, and the celebrated bronze water-basin
in the form of a lotus leaf, from whose lip runs a ceaseless stream
of clear water brought from the hill above. A few specially beautiful
cherry-trees and some grand old pines, leaning most of them, but all
the more beautiful for that reason, surround this square, and form
a fitting setting to that massive pile. Yet another flight of steps
leads to the bell-tower--also a fitting guardian, as more than once
the thundering of this mighty bell has summoned all who revered their
beloved Chion-in to come and protect it from an imminent danger of fire.
The Japanese are great respecters of legends, which may make a tree or
stone sacred for all time. The Melon Rock, _Kwasho Seki_, has been
so called from the story that a melon plant sprouted out from beneath
the rock and grew so rapidly that in a single night it had covered the
whole rock, blossomed, and borne fruit. Many hundred sight-seers trail
during their weary tramp to gaze with awe at this plain grey stone
inscribed with the characters of _Gozu Tenno_ or Bull-head Emperor, and
we in our turn cannot fail to gaze with respect at their simple faith.
CHAPTER VI
SUMMER FLOWERS
May is essentially the flower month in Japan, and a ramble through the
country cannot fail to be a never-ending joy and surprise to the flower
lover. It was nearly the middle of the flower month when, wearied of
the works of man, the glories and splendour of the endless round of
temples, museums, theatres, _no_ dances, and the usual sights which
all new-comers to the country must be introduced to, I started for
Matsushima, the land of the pine-clad islands. I had not expected to
find flowers there, but rather change of scene and peace. I felt that
for a time I must be “far from the madding crowd.”
It is a fairy scene which greets the eye in the early dawn after a long
and dusty journey, and I had to look and look again to make sure that
these tiny phantom islands were real and solid, not merely shadows
on the water, or even a moored junk, which presently would pass on
and vanish from the scene. As the sun rose higher the islands stood
out clear in the yellow morning light, then one realised why they are
called collectively Matsushima--Pine Islands,--for, however tiny it may
be, each isle has to support its burden of twisted, bent, and leaning
trees. How the seed has ever found the crannies and cracks between the
rocks in which to ripen, and eventually develop into those fantastic
trees, was a never-ending source of marvel and admiration to me. Think
of the cruel winter snows, and storms blowing in from the Pacific, that
these trees have had to withstand from their earliest infancy; small
wonder that some appear to have more spreading roots than branches.
Many an idle day was spent exploring this little host of islands, some
with their rosy carpet of azalea, perhaps not more than a few inches
high, creeping along close to the ground as if seeking protection from
the fierce winter gales. None the less beautiful for being dwarfed,
it seemed rather as though this fiery pink azalea had taken the place
of ground ivy, and what a beautiful _remplaçant_! On other islands
the wild wistaria had flung its long vine-like branches from tree to
tree, and suggested the lianes of a tropical forest; one scrambled
knee-deep in many of the hardier ferns to attain the summit of Ogidani,
in order to gaze across the whole lagoon and out to Kinkwosan; shrubs
of bird-cherry were in all their glory; and many others unknown to me
helped, in this month of flowers, to make them not only pine-clad but
flower-clad islands. It was with genuine regret that I left behind
this enchanted land, and with the cries of “_Sayonara_” and “Please
come again” ringing in my ears I turned my back on the Toyo Hotel and
its hospitable owner; but time was slipping by, and though it would
have been easy to dream away months here, I feared I might become a
mere loafer, so, after watching the sun set one evening late in May, I
returned once more to the railway, and the commonplace.
The train took me back to Itsunomiya through wilder country than I
had ever seen on any other railway line in Japan. Bandai San stood
glowering and threatening in the distance, and we sped past pine-clad
ridges and mountain streams, down to the lower land where glowing
rose-coloured azalea seemed to grow as hazel or hornbeam undergrowth in
England. One flashed past broad stretches of colour, growing fewer and
smaller where the ruthless hand of the cultivator had no doubt found
out that the fertile soil would grow other things more profitable, but
how far less beautiful, than wild crimson _satsuki_. I was bound for
Nikko on an “azalea pilgrimage,” for surely every traveller should not
fail to see the Nikko azaleas in all their glory, and later in the year
the maples, which vie with the cryptomerias for the palm of beauty.
The glorious avenue of cryptomerias which lined the old road to Nikko
has suffered from the hands of time and man; but long stretches of the
splendid old trees still remain, and form a fitting approach to the
little mountain village, celebrated throughout the length and breadth
of the world for its mortuary shrines, whose final peacefulness and
simplicity seem so striking after the ornate splendour and gorgeous
colouring of the outer gates and temples.
But it was azaleas, not temples, that I had come to see this time at
Nikko, and surely no one could be disappointed. Climbing up the hill,
every shade from delicate pink to clear red, pale transparent yellow,
and even rosy purple, seems to have run riot in a veritable feast of
colour. Little shrines nestle by the path, perhaps sheltering a small
stone image of Jizo the Helper, the travellers’ and the children’s
God; so we ask his kindly aid, and add our contribution to that of
hundreds of other travellers, and pause to gaze by his side at the
landscape--across the valley where the river threads its way, now a
harmless-looking stream, but in autumn to be swollen into a dangerous
roaring torrent, sweeping along, leaving death and destruction in its
wake. The azaleas here are not the _satsuki_ of Matsushima, but the
Azalea Beni Renge, leafless as yet, as the flowers seem so thick upon
their stems they leave no room for leaves. Their honeysuckle scent
filled the air, and hither and thither darted huge black butterflies,
looking strangely like humming-birds, only pausing for a second to suck
a drop of honey, and then on again to another, perhaps more freshly
opened flower. I noticed these same black butterflies always haunt red
or deep pink flowers. Is it vanity on their part--are they stopping to
think how admirably the colour contrasts with their own glossy black
wings? Then I remembered that the first time I ever saw a humming-bird
it was darting from one crimson hibiscus flower to another. Was that
also vanity? Or have crimson flowers sweeter or more delicately
flavoured honey than the rest?
As the mountain road winds higher and higher above Nikko, on its way
to Chuzenji, we left behind this variety of azalea, and came upon
another quite unknown to me. At first I thought the mountain-sides
were covered with peach-trees, whose blossoms lingered on in the
higher or bleaker regions, but it was not so, all was azalea; some
so tall that their bare stems stretched high among the other trees,
before they got enough light and air to wreathe their branches with
the peach-coloured blossoms. On these, lichen seemed to take the place
of leaves; the effect is indescribable to one who has not seen it: the
soft greenish-grey tufts clothe the stems, which might without their
furry covering look lean and bare; but all this beauty suggests weeks
of autumn rain and damp heat, more healthy for plant life than for man.
Often the path would be strewn with freshly fallen blossoms, and there
overhead one could see the pink flowers against the sky. The banks and
moorland were full of tender shoots and buds of shrubs and flowers,
which in July will be an endless source of surprise and delight to the
wild-flower hunter.
Leaving Nikko behind in all its gay clothing, I bent my steps towards
the Watanase valley, one of Japan’s most beautiful valleys. The early
summer
[Illustration: THE KOBAI PLUM BLOSSOM]
[Illustration: THE KOBAI PLUM BLOSSOM]
is indeed a harmony in greens; the maples had hardly lost their spring
colouring when I started in the early dawn from Ashio to follow the
course of the river which dashes down some hundred feet or more below
the road with a thundering roar, and certainly the valley well deserves
its celebrity. The Paulonia trees were then in all their beauty, and
side by side with great masses of their purple flowers the wild _fuji_
wreathed the trees with its delicate mauve blossoms, until at last I
felt that the valley ought to be called the “purple valley.” A few
tree pæonies were shedding their last petals in a tiny garden where we
stopped to rest and sip the inevitable little cup of pale green tea,
reminding one that summer had come and spring was gone, not to come
again until the scorching summer months, the autumn storms, and winter
snows had come and gone.
In early summer the higher moorlands afford a happy hunting-ground for
the flower collector. Purple iris and white rue seem to fight their way
among the moorland grasses, here and there a Turk’s-cap lily raises
its scarlet head proudly, the purple bells of the Platycodon are just
opening, and the wild white and pink campanula is already fading. The
columbine, not the glorified hybrid Aquilegia of our English gardens,
but the humble pale-coloured wild columbine with its long spurs and
delicate fern-like foliage; yellow valerian, mauve and white funkias,
pink spiræas, Solomon’s seal, endless varieties of orchises, and in
favoured districts the pale pink _Cypredium macranthum_ are among the
summer wild flowers, scattered over the plain or nestling on the banks
of the mountain streams. The flowering shrubs seemed endless; think
how many shrubs introduced into Europe of late years are “japonica”!
all these find their homes in one district or another. Besides all the
varieties of plum, cherry, and peach, in spring the andromeda bushes
are laden with their white bell-flowers, suggestive of a waxy lily
of the valley, to be followed by their young leaves as bright as any
flowers; every variety of crabs, white deutzias, spiræas, weigelias,
the wild white syringa, which also seemed to differ from our garden
variety, save only in its delicious odour; and a form of _Rhincospernum
jasminoides_ which I had not seen before, whose heavy scent filled the
air at sundown. All these I can recall having come across during my
summer rambles, and doubtless there are many more.
In the later summer months I wandered along the beautiful coast of the
province of Izu, which again seemed to be a home of flowers. The tall
spikes of _Bocconia cordata_ reared their heads proudly wherever they
had escaped the hand of the destroyer; apparently the plant is regarded
by the country people as either poisonous or unlucky, as often a
splendid clump of it, its height showing how thoroughly it appreciates
the deep rich soil, will be here to-day and gone to-morrow, cut off and
trampled down with evident intention. This coast seemed to be the home
of the hydrangea and also of many different varieties of lilies. In
May, on the lower ground of Hiezan, and especially in the neighbourhood
of Lake Biwa, the pale pink _Lilium Krameri_ may be found in tufts
nestling under the shadow of some sheltering shrub, and scattered
throughout the district the various forms of _Lilium umbellatum_, but
the province of Izu seems to have soil more suited to the late summer
lilies. By the middle of July the big buds of the _Lilium auratum_
will be fighting their way among the rank growth along the roadside,
and in a few days the air will be filled with their scent. Often I was
attracted by their fragrance, perhaps all the more remarkable in a land
which, alas! is not famed for sweet smells, and then far above one’s
head, hanging defiantly out of reach, could be seen a single splendid
bloom of this king among lilies. They seem to love the shelter and
dampness of the wood, where the falling leaves each autumn make a fresh
covering for their bulbs. Once I tried to see how deep in the earth the
bulbs were buried, but I did not succeed in getting down low enough,
and could only tell, from the mark on the stem of the lily which had
been pulled, that about eight to ten inches seemed to be the usual
depth of the bulb. Often the stems seemed to bear only one splendid
bloom, but I was told that was only because the bulbs were young, and
even in their wild state from six to eight perfect blooms on one head
were not uncommon. There appeared to be every variety of _auratum_, and
I noticed that the broad-leaved _platyphyllum_ seemed even more sturdy
than the rest, the foliage a deeper green, and the individual blossoms
more perfect, the markings more distinct, and their scent, if such a
thing were possible, even stronger and more overpowering than the more
slender-growing _Auratum virginale_.
Then there were the _Rubro Vittatum_ with their band of pink down each
petal, but never in a purely wild state did I see it so deep in colour
and truly defined as in the cultivated form which
[Illustration: _LILIUM AURATUM_]
is exported under that name. It was in the cottage gardens that I saw
the finest lilies, and many a giant bearing from twenty to thirty
unblemished blooms, at the top of a stem some six or seven feet high,
clad with equally unblemished foliage, was brought to me, as it soon
became known that the “foreigner” staying at Atami had come especially
to see their _yuri no hana_. Not that the Japanese seem ever especially
to admire them, and they are not included among their “seven beautiful
flowers of late summer.” Mr. Parsons gives an example of this fact:--
I was walking one day at Yoshida with a Japanese artist, a
remarkable man, who was engaged in making a series of steel
engravings, half landscape, half map, of the country round Fuji,
and called his attention to a splendid clump of belladonna lilies
growing near an old grey tomb; but he would not have them at all,
said they were foolish flowers, and the only reason he gave me
for not liking them was because they came up without any leaves.
When we got back to our tea-house he took my pen and paper and
showed me what were the seven beautiful flowers of late summer: the
convolvulus, the name of which in Japanese is “asago,” meaning the
same as our “morning glory”; wild chrysanthemum; yellow valerian;
the lespedeza, a kind of bush clover; _Platycodon grandiflorum_ and
purple blue campanula; _Eulalia japonica_, the tall grass which
covers so many of the hills; and _shion_, a rather insignificant
aster. I noticed that some versions of the seven flowers differed
from his; a large flowered mallow is often substituted for the
last he named. There are doubtless different schools which hold
strong views on the subject, but on the “morning glory” and some
others they are evidently agreed.
The tiger lilies were in bloom in the village gardens, but never in any
great number--a clump here and there, for they are seldom allowed to
bloom, it is for their bulbs they are cultivated; this is their “edible
lily,” and young bulbs of _Lilium tigrinum_ are among their most prized
vegetables. I had noticed a square bed of these lilies suggestive of an
asparagus bed, in a priest’s garden in Kyoto in May, and thought what a
wealth of colour they would provide later in the year; but next time I
saw the garden, early in June it may have been, the lilies had all been
executed--just their heads cut off,--and when I expressed amazement and
regret I was told that this was always done to strengthen the bulb.
The variety did not seem to be as fine as those grown under the name
of _Tigrinum Fortunii_ in England, and yet more robust and with larger
heads than our common tiger lily; probably the different soil and
damper climate would account for this.
The apricot-coloured _Lilium Batemanni_ seemed to know how to protect
their bulbs from the hand
[Illustration: LILIES ON THE ROCKS, ATAMI]
of the collector, for jutting out between the rocks, hanging perhaps
a hundred feet above the sea, these lilies grow, tantalising to those
who want to pick them, for these rocks are not easy to climb; but how
beautiful they are, their clear colour standing out against the grey
cliffs and the restless deep blue sea below.
The cultivation of lilies for exporting seems to have developed into
quite an important industry in Japan of late years; the district round
Kamakura and right away to Yumoto appeared to be the best soil for
their culture. I never saw any _Lilium longiflorum_ in their wild
state, but thousands, I should think millions, of bulbs of this lily
are exported annually, in all its different forms. For indoor growing
the variety known as _Harrisii_ seems still to be the favourite; though
_giganteum_ is a stronger form, and certainly is to be preferred for
the open ground. _Multiflorum_ is for the impatient grower, as it
flowers some three weeks earlier, though it is a more slender kind; and
there are many others. Even in Japan the dreaded disease among _Lilium
auratum_ seemed to be not unknown; apparently cultivation brings it in
its train, as in fields and gardens I noticed occasionally the fatal
yellow leaves, which means death to the bulb; and the other form of
disease known as “clubbing” may occur, even when the lilies are growing
in their natural state--the two stems grown into one, and the monster
head so closely packed with blossoms that none can develop to their
full size or beauty; on one head alone I counted over a hundred blooms,
but the effect was only that of a poor deformity.
Very beautiful were the large bushes of hydrangea, their branches
weighed down by their burdens of immense heads of bright blue flowers.
In some parts of England where there is iron in the soil, hydrangeas in
the open ground are blue, but what a poor washed-out blue compared to
the intensely deep colour of this Japanese variety, _Ajisia Aiyaku_,
meaning the blue hydrangea. Their great balls of blossom change from a
pale yellow green to bright blue, brighter almost than the sky above,
and as they fade, they turn to rosy purple, and back again to a dull
green, clinging with ungraceful tenacity to life, as though loth
or afraid to die, preferring to rot on their stem rather than drop
untimely--unlike the blossoms of spring, ever ready to depart life at
the call of nature. A more graceful form is _Hortensis Shirogaku_, with
its more loosely formed heads,
[Illustration: AN HYDRANGEA BUSH]
never forming a densely packed mass, each individual blossom showing,
with the outer petals of a much paler colour in contrast with the deep
blue centres. They are moisture-loving plants, as they seem to flourish
best on the very brink of the miniature mountain torrents. The garden
at Atami known as the Bai-en, celebrated for its early plum blossoms,
was gay with great bushes of these shrubs in July; they clothed the
banks of the roaring stream, till, as their heads grew heavier, the
lower branches were swept by the water.
In the early days of August the hedges and banks in the low country
were beginning to look parched and dusty, waiting for the autumn rains,
which never fail, and will bring new life and freshness to all the
herbage, but not new flowers--the season of wild flowers is nearly
gone; though the autumn will bring us the true “lily of the field,” the
scarlet _Nerine japonica_--a lily of the field, as it is only growing
along the edges of the rice patches on neglected banks or nestling
among the grey stone tombs of some forgotten graveyard, that you will
ever see these lilies. Never in any garden however ill kept, never in
any house, and never used as any form of decoration did I see this
lily; for are they not the “death flower,” the flower of ill omen,
or sometimes the “equinox flower,” also suggestive of a season full
of death and decay. _Nerine_ or _Lycoris japonica_, or the spider
lily--its name seems difficult to determine--made the land gay in the
fading year, gorgeous splashes of colour against the ripening rice, its
fringed heads rising leafless from the soil, sometimes in scattered
tufts, and sometimes great banks closely covered with their flaunting
heads. I felt Japan must indeed be rich in flower treasures for such a
one to be overlooked and uncared for. Perhaps in the South of England
it might find a home--a resting-place where it would be treasured,
not destroyed; at the foot of a grey stone wall a few tufts of this
brilliant lily would be a “thing of beauty,” though not “a joy for
ever.”
By November the flower year is over; the last chrysanthemum pots are
being hurried under their temporary shelters, away from the danger of
the early frost, which any night may turn the country into a blaze
of scarlet and gold. Not only the maples will help the year to die
in splendour, for so many other trees have as great a variety of
colour, though perhaps not quite so brilliant, and the dark leaves
of the tulip-trees will presently turn to a sheet of gold, the larch
will be shedding its pale yellow spines, while the Japanese oak,
_Shira Kashi_, with its ruddy colour will help to relieve the solemn
everlasting green of the pines and cryptomerias which clothe the hills.
The ripened rice is being quickly stored, and only the grasses and
foliage of herbaceous plants are left to give a note of colour to the
fields and higher moorland; the tall _Eulalia japonica_, waving in the
wind, clothes the golden hills, but will soon be beaten down by the
winter snows. So in a blaze of glory the year ends in this Land of
Flowers.
CHAPTER VII
PLUM BLOSSOM
In Japan the flower year begins earlier than in Europe, and while the
snow is still lying deep on the ground in the northern provinces, in
warm and sheltered districts the _Ume_ or plum blossom will clothe
the trees with flowers as white as the snow. But in the country round
Kyoto or Tokyo it is not until the end of February or the first days
of March that the pale pink buds of the plum blossoms will be opening,
and there will come a whisper through the air that in a few days the
beloved _ume-no-hana_ will be in all its glory. The plum is one of the
favourite, perhaps _the_ favourite tree of the Japanese, so in early
March, when the sunny days will remind us that spring is coming, though
the cruel frosts and snow showers at night will warn us that winter is
not yet gone, every passer-by seems to be talking of _ume_, discussing
[Illustration: VIEWING THE PLUM BLOSSOMS]
probably where the earliest blossoms are to be found, and when the
first flower-viewing excursion of the year is to take place.
The Japanese are essentially a flower-loving people; in no other
country would you find whole families, old and young, rich and poor,
tramping for miles in the hot sun or through the drenching rain to
indulge in their favourite pastime of flower-viewing. Showing how
universal is this custom of special flower-viewing excursions, there is
even a phrase in the Japanese language, _hana miru_, meaning to view
flowers.
The earliest plum blossom, known as the _no-ume_, is a somewhat
uninteresting little white flower, not unlike the wild sloe in our
English hedgerows, and I was beginning to think the celebrated plum
blossom of Japan was an overrated flower, when gradually its full
beauty dawned upon me. The deep pink buds of the later varieties
opened into pale blush coloured blossoms, and the crimson buds of the
_kobai_--the most cherished of all--burst into a cloud of brilliant
pink flowers; others there were, pale lemon coloured or large pure
white, in great variety. The plum-tree is especially valued for its
age, and a venerable tree, its stems covered with grey lichen, though
its flowers may be poor in quality, will be more prized than a young
tree with the most brilliant coloured blossoms.
Tsukigase, in the province of Shima, a little village famous for the
beauty of its plum-trees, is one of the first places to be visited by
that large proportion of the inhabitants of Kyoto who seem to spend
most or all their days during the spring months in a never-ending
round of sight-seeing and flower-viewing. In the month of March the
village is made gay for the reception of these holiday-makers, and
undaunted by the bitter winds and vicious scuds of snow which mingle
with the falling petals of the _ume_, they will spend long hours in
quiet admiration of the mass of blossom which appears to fill the whole
valley with a pink and white haze; for over two miles the trees clothe
the banks of the river Kizu. Countless tea-stalls are prepared for
the guests, light bamboo structures adorned with a few printed linen
curtains in soft harmonious colouring, and innumerable paper lanterns
suffice for the preparation of a flower feast. Each night, or at the
approach of rain, the little maids will carefully pack away the matted
benches and these frail decorations under the thatched roof, to be
brought forth on the
[Illustration: THE GATE OF THE PLUM GARDENS]
morrow or when the storm has cleared. The Japanese regard the flower
of the plum with a peculiar reverence, and their feeling for it
always seems to be touched with some mysterious sense of sorrow,
which perhaps accounted for the fact that these plum-blossom feasts
never seemed to attain to the same merry boisterous revels held at
the time of the cherry blossom. The people were more quiet and sober
in their demeanour; at first I thought their spirits were frozen
by the cold, but even the endless drinking of tea and tiny cups of
_saké_ did not seem to thaw them, and often whole parties, wrapped in
their outer winter kimonos, would sit in silent contemplation of the
blossoms, warming their hands over that Japanese apology for a fire--an
_hibachi_--consisting merely of a pot of charcoal.
In old days the plum blossom was their ideal of purity, an ideal which
some attempted to emulate in their lives. The same feelings prevail
in China, if we may judge from the poets. This, to be sure, is not
surprising, inasmuch as Japan took her literature, like most other
things, from the Chinese. The early poems of both countries are much
alike, and among them both are many _ume_ poems, as the Japanese call
them, extolling the beauty and charm of the plum blossom, which ranks
as the poet’s own flower. Mr. Kango Uchimura has written an ode to it
in prose, which contains the following passage:----
While Spring was still cold I knew that it was at hand by your
flowering. You are not Spring, but the prophet of Spring. The
cherry blossom is Spring, the iris and the wistaria; but, as each
of these has its own season, the gods sent you to keep green our
hope of Spring.
I do not say I love you, rather I fear you; you are too dignified;
you blossom alone on the branches with no green leaves to bear
you company. I do not call you beautiful; your scent is too keen,
your petals too stiff. No one will ever sing or dance beneath your
boughs. You are the prophet Jeremiah; you are John the Baptist.
Standing before you I feel as though in the presence of a solemn
master. Yet by your appearance I know that Winter has passed, and
that the delightful Spring is at hand. The herald of Spring, you
denounce the tyranny of Winter. Your face is stern, but your heart
is soft. It is easy to misunderstand you, for, though the daughter
of Spring, you wear the garb of a man the man ordained to break the
power of cruel Winter.
Two famous men in olden days were particularly associated with the
flowers of the plum. One of these was Kajiwara Genda Kagesuge, a great
warrior of the twelfth century, who always went into battle carrying
in his quiver fresh branches of the blossom, to which, so says the
legend, he was indebted for his splendid courage. The other was
Sugawara No Michizane, the minister of the Emperor Ude. The Kwampaku
Tokihira, wishing to be quit of the sage’s wisdom, sent him into a sort
of honourable exile in the island of Kyushu, where he died in 903.
After his death came a great reaction in his favour. He was canonised
under the name of Tenjin, or the Heavenly god, and to this day he is
venerated by all men of letters as their patron saint; in every school
the twenty-fifth day of each month is kept as a holiday, and every year
on the twenty-fifth of June a great festival is held in his honour.
His life is dramatised in the popular play _Sugawara Tenjin Ki_, and
all over the land shrines dedicated to his memory rise from groves of
plum-trees.
One of the most famous and beautiful of these is the temple of Kitano
Tenjin at Kyoto, which has provided subjects for several of the
illustrations in this volume. In the inner court of the temple near
the splendid two-storied gateway of the Sun, Moon, and Stars stands
a large tree of the bright pink blossom, and it would be difficult
to find a more beautiful setting for the tree than the background of
grey wooden buildings, of which the decorations have been toned by the
hand of time into soft mellow hues. In the outer grounds the trees
have a background of giant cryptomerias, with long avenues of stone
lanterns--votive offerings of every conceivable shape and size--small
shrines, and two great granite _torii_, the plain yet majestic gateways
which guard the entrance to all Shinto temples. When the trees are
in all their glory the flower-viewing parties wander through the
grounds in silent admiration, down to the little ravine outside the
temple grounds, where the snow-white blossom fills the little valley
and clouds of petals fall into the brook below, to be carried away
down the stream like drifts of foam. Here may be seen a poet of the
old school rapt in thought composing an ode to the blossom and the
nightingale. It is a pretty fancy much honoured in Japan, the plum
blossom, the poet, and the nightingale making, they say, the world of
beauty complete. For no Japanese ever thinks of the plum blossom apart
from the nightingale--which, it should be observed, is not the bird of
Keats’s poem, singing of summer in full-throated ease, but a little
light-winged creature whose favourite haunt is among the flowering
branches of this tree.
In Japanese legends the plum blossom and the nightingale are
inseparable companions, and represent
[Illustration: THE TIME OF THE PLUM BLOSSOMS]
the two spirits of the awakening spring when the mists of winter first
begin to roll away. There is a story, for instance, of the daughter
of the poet Kino Tsurayuki, who lived in the days of the Emperor
Murakami, in the tenth century. From time immemorial a single plum-tree
had always stood before the south pavilion of the Imperial Palace at
Nara, and when at some period of this Emperor’s reign the tree died,
messengers were despatched in hot haste to find one worthy to replace
it. One was found in the garden of the poet aforesaid, a fine tree with
crimson blossoms belonging to his daughter, who was most reluctant to
part with her favourite. However, there was, of course, no help for
it, and the tree was sent off to the palace grounds with some verses
fastened to it, which run thus in Mr. Brinkley’s translation----
Claimed for our sovereign’s use,
Blossoms I’ve loved so long,
Can I in duty fail?
But for the nightingale,
Seeking her home of song,
How shall I find excuse?
The Emperor, struck with the graceful sentiment of the verses, made
inquiries as to the writer, and finding that she was the daughter of
his favourite poet, ordered the tree to be returned to her.
Throughout Japan there is scarcely a district to be found without
orchards and groves or temple grounds where the flower-seeker can go
to greet spring and the _ume_, but the people of Tokyo are singularly
fortunate in their plum orchards. One of the most famous and beautiful
is at Sugita, a charming little village nestling by the bluest of
waters, near Yokohama, where a thousand trees have stood for upwards of
a century, displaying their blossom every spring to admiring eyes from
all the country round. Here there are six special kinds of the tree,
and their fancy names mark the different characters of the flowers, the
Japanese being very clever at finding characteristic names for flowers
and trees. The Gwario Bai, or Recumbent Dragon Tree, is the most famous
of these, being indeed the most notable thing in the outskirts of
Tokyo. Some fifty years ago there grew a wonderful tree of vast age and
strange shape, its branches having ploughed up the ground and thrown
out new roots in no fewer than fourteen places, thus naturally covering
an extensive area. The name of Gwario Bai was given to the tree by old
Prince Rekko, who planted the groves in Tokiwa Park in 1837, a piece
of forethought highly appreciated by many visitors to this day. The
Shogun (or Generalissimo) of that day also paid a visit to the spot,
and made the tree _Goyobaku_ or the Tree of Honourable Service, in
return for which gracious act of condescension the fruit was presented
to him every year. All these honours, however, could not save it from a
natural death when its time came; in its place now flourish a number of
much less interesting trees, which nevertheless bear the same name, and
apparently the same reputation, as their predecessor the Dragon of the
prime.
Not far from the Gwario Bai is the orchard of Kinegawa, which can
boast an honoured name too, for here the poets come, and you may
see perhaps a hundred slips of paper, containing _uta_ or _hokku_
(seventeen-syllabled) poems, fluttering from the branches. Perhaps
here, too, we may find a family party, the mother with the youngest
child tightly strapped on her back, its tiny shaven head hardly
showing above the wadded quilt which is wrapped closely round it; a
little mite of a very few summers, tottering unsteadily on its clogs,
clasping a branch of the natural tree adorned with paper blossoms,
from which floats a streamer with some strange device, or any of the
countless toys which go towards the making of a holiday; and only a
few years older a little solemn-faced maiden, whose black beady eyes
will glisten with wonder when she is told that she is called _Ume san_
after the snow-white blossom at which she has been gazing with awe and
admiration. Ume is a common name among Japanese women; they connect it
with the ideas of virtue and sweetness, and they are taught to keep
the name unspotted during life and to leave it fair after death, even
as the scent of the plum blossom smells sweet in the darkness. The
following verses are from Piggot’s _Garden of Japan_:--
Home friends change and change,
Years pass quickly by;
Scent of our ancient plum-tree,
Thou dost never die.
Home friends are forgotten;
Plum-trees blossom fair,
Petals falling to the breeze
Leave their fragrance there.
Cettria’s fancy, too,
Finds his cup of flowers,
Seeks his peaceful hiding-place,
In the plum’s sweet bowers.[1]
Though the snow-flakes hide
And thy blossoms kill,
He will sing, and I shall find
Fragrant incense still.
[1] Cettria, the nightingale.
Ginsekai is yet another orchard in the neighbourhood of Tokyo, its name
signifying Silver World, and on a moonlit night in spring you would say
that never was a place more aptly named, if you saw the forest of white
blossoms rising out of the snow-clad landscape. There are some pretty
verses on the sight, which run thus in English:--
How shall I find my _ume_ tree?
The moon and the snow are white as she.
By the fragrance blown on the evening air
Shalt thou find her there.
It is true that the white varieties of plum blossom have nearly all
a most delicious and delicate scent, but the red varieties are quite
devoid of any fragrance. The plum is known as one of the Four Floral
Gentlemen, the others being the pine, the bamboo, and the orchid. It
has flourished in China from time immemorial, where it is known as
the Head of the Hundred Flowers, because it is the first to bloom,
and it was probably imported from that country through the medium of
Korea into Japan. Even that learned botanist the late Dr. Keisuke Ito
could not say where the plum-tree first flowered in Japan, nor can any
one say with certainty whether _ume_ is a Chinese or a Japanese word.
Kakimoto no Hitomaro, who lived about the end of the seventh century,
was probably the first to celebrate the plum blossom in his verse;
and it may be said to have taken rank as a national flower when the
Emperor Kwamaru (782-806) planted it before his palace when he moved
his capital from Nara to Kyoto.
In those days the word _flower_ meant the flower of the plum, just
as the word _mountain_ meant Hiei san, but it was dethroned from its
pride of place when the Emperor Murakami planted the cherry-tree in its
stead, and though the plum still stands first with the men of mind,
the cherry-tree has ever since been the popular favourite. That the
latter is most beautiful cannot be disputed; but for purity of outline,
fragrance, and that touch of sadness, which the Japanese profess to
find in it, the bloom of the plum is still unrivalled.
There are upwards of three hundred and fifty specimens of the plum,
white, pale and bright pink, or even red in colour, single or double in
form. Of these the more important are: _Yatsu buse ume_, which derives
its name from bearing eight fruits, the blossoms having from two to
eight stamens, the word signifying eight tassels; only two or three of
these, however, ripen fully, and they are unfit for eating. The _Bungo
ume_ grows in the Bungo
[Illustration: PLUM BLOSSOM AND LANTERNS]
province of the island of Kyushu; its fruit is large and can be eaten
uncooked, though the Japanese prefer it pickled or candied. The fruit
of the _Ko ume_, celebrated for the beauty of its bright pink blossom,
is no bigger than the tip of one’s thumb, but has a delicious flavour.
_Toko no ume_ is a late fruit, clinging to the branch even when fully
ripe, whence its name _Toko_, meaning eternal. The flowers of _Suisen
ume_ have six petals, round or long in shape. _Hava ume_, or the early
plum, blooms at the winter solstice.
In no other country does the culture of plants go hand in hand with
art as it does in Japan; not only in the case of their dwarf trees,
marvels of horticultural art, but even the trees which are necessary
for the scenery of their landscape gardens have to conform to the rules
which govern the entire art of the country. I remember being shown with
great pride by the owner of a tiny garden his one solitary plum-tree,
the pride of his garden in those cold March days. It stood leaning
over a miniature rocky precipice, down which tumbled a diminutive
cascade; old and venerable it looked, having endured ruthless pruning,
and only a few large single blossoms clothed its branches. I expressed
surprise and some regret that it did not bear more blossoms, and
then it was explained to me that many of the buds had been removed,
as otherwise the thick cloud of flowers would have hidden the outline
of the branches; this was a flight of æstheticism to which I could
not rise, and I felt I should have preferred to see the tree bearing
its full burden of blossom. This practice of disbudding is also
occasionally carried out with old specimens of dwarf plum-trees when
it is considered that a wealth of blossom would hide the growth of the
little tree, which by careful training has after years of patience
rewarded the owner by conforming to the desired shape laid down by the
canons of art. These little trees are in great demand at the close of
the year, for hardly a house in the land is without a tiny tree of
_ume_, to bring luck at the opening of another year; so during November
and December, when their pale-pink buds are fast swelling, they are
tended with the greatest care, brought into the sun during the day,
plentifully watered at sundown, and sheltered from all cold winds.
Thus they flower sometimes as early as New Year’s Day, to the intense
pride and joy of their owners. The hearts of the plum-trees, say the
Japanese, are a thousand years old, and yet young as the hopes of
Japan.
CHAPTER VIII
PEACH BLOSSOM
The peach blossom has never attained the fame in Japanese art, or among
their poets, that its classical predecessor the plum, or its successor
the cherry of patriotic fame, has been honoured with; but it is none
the less beautiful for that reason, and its blossoms excel those of the
plum in size, richness, and colouring. Towards the end of March the
first flowers of the peach-trees will be opening, although long before
this time, branches closely covered with the bright-pink buds will
have been among the flowers offered for arrangement on the _tokonoma_,
as in the warmth of the house (though surely there seems to be very
little warmth in a Japanese house all through the long cold March days)
the buds will quickly open and last in beauty for many days. These
will be branches of the early bright pink variety, but it is not until
the beginning of April that the large flowered pure white, double and
semi-double flowers of every shade of pink, and even a deep crimson of
a remarkably beautiful tone, will be in their full glory, and it is
hard to understand why this splendid blossom should be comparatively
neglected and relegated to secondary rank by the artist as a decorative
motive and material.
The less severely artistic, who find enjoyment at any spot where
blossom and colour are to be seen, will visit Momoyama (Peach
Mountain) in crowds during the first week in April, and the narrow
streets leading up to the hill will be gay with visitors, and among
the orchards the little temporary tea sheds will be set out for their
comfort and refreshment. So yet another “Feast of blossom” will be
celebrated. The trees may perhaps lack some of the grace of the old
gnarled plum-trees, and they do not appear to have such a long life, as
never did I hear of any very celebrated old specimen trees, but rather
groves or orchards of younger trees, which no doubt, in order to make
them bloom freely, receive drastic treatment at the hand of the pruner.
Very lovely are these groves of peach-trees, and surely they must have
found favour in the ancient days, as on Momoyama stood
[Illustration: PEACH BLOSSOM]
Hideyoshi’s palace, the grandest ever built in Japan, whose spoils in
the shape of gold screens and _fusuma_ adorn half the temples in Kyoto.
The peach orchards of _Soka-no-momoyama_ at Senju are a favourite
resort of the Tokyo holiday-makers, who make annual pilgrimages to do
honour to the peach blossoms, and parties sit feasting on the matted
benches; here and there perhaps a group discussing the politics of the
capital, or a solitary poet composing a _hokku_ on the peach blossom,
or a family party; and there the little boys and girls, decked out in
their brightest-coloured kimonos and obis in honour of the holiday,
will be listening with rapt attention to the fairy-story of Momo Taro,
who jumped out of a large peach-stone. To the older children it is an
old story, for every Japanese child has listened at bedtime to the
tale of Momo Taro told by its mother, but for the little ones this may
be their first year of “peach-viewing” and understanding, and their
eyebrows will rise in amazement when they hear the history. “Once upon
a time,” the story says, “there was an old man and an old woman; the
old man went up the mountain to collect dried brushwood, and the old
woman went to the river to wash clothes,” and there one of the older
boys will interrupt, I am sure, saying, “A big peach came down the
river; and Momo Taro jumped out of the stone when the old woman brought
it home and cut it open, didn’t he?” So there is not a child in Japan
who does not know the history of Momo Taro, the children’s hero, who
made an expedition into the Oniga Shima (Devil’s Island) followed by
his dog and monkey servitors. It would be no surprise to them to see
even a fat little boy like themselves spring out of the end of the
fruit, so the Japanese boys adore the peach; and the little girls share
their affection for it, as it is always associated in their mind with
their own especial festival.
During the season of the early peach blossoms (on 3rd March) the
Girls’ Festival (_Jōmi-no-sekku_) is celebrated throughout Japan;
it is also called the Feast of Dolls (Hina Matsuri), and the Peach
Festival, for no Girls’ Festival is complete without some branches
of peach blossom in the vase on the _tokonoma_. This day is eagerly
looked forward to by every little girl in Japan, from the highest to
the lowest in the land, for every house possesses its little store
of dolls, only to be brought out and exhibited with due pomp and
ceremony on this one day in the year. In the houses of the rich, the
Dairi Hina--tiny models of people and their belongings--the dolls
will be dressed in gorgeous silk, and their accessories mostly made
of priceless lacquer. The whole ancient Japanese Court in miniature
there may be: these will all be displayed on the _tokonoma_ of the
guest chamber, possibly on a piece of brocade as gorgeous as the
peach blossom in colour. And there you will see an emperor and an
empress and a set of Court musicians; before them the most elaborate
dinner sets in ancient form; beside them there will be the _Sho kudai_
(lamp-stand with paper shade) with pictures of peach blossom on it.
The little daughters of the house will surely look to our eyes only
like larger dolls, with their delicate coloured silk crepe kimonos and
stiff brocade obis standing out like great butterflies on their backs,
their hair carefully dressed according to their age, the older ones
with just a little powder on their tiny inscrutable faces, acting as
hostesses with all the solemn grace of their mother, offering to the
guests tiny cups of tea and little fairy cakes shaped and coloured
like peach petals. This girls’ day is one of the prettiest sights in
Japan, and yet there is no record how far back the festival originated,
though it is believed to date from a thousand years ago. In the days of
the Tokugawa feudal régime--days of perfect peace and prosperity--it
became a very expensive festival, and great sums were expended on these
toy Dairi Hina, so it is not surprising that they were handed down as
heirlooms in families only to be displayed once a year, or sometimes
a bride, scarcely more than a child herself, would take her set of
favourite dolls with her to her husband’s house, so that her little
daughter might perhaps some day also use them to celebrate the Girls’
or Peach Festival. So in Japan the peach is truly the children’s tree.
_Momo_, meaning a hundred, is considered “emblematic of longevity and
perfection,” which probably is the origin of the story of Seibo the
fairy who governed the western realm of China. She gave some peaches
to the Emperor Butei, and told him that that variety of peach only
bore fruit once in three thousand years, and he would live eternally
from the fruit’s heavenly influence. If we could only get such peaches
to-day? Perhaps it might do as well to eat a common peach from the
market and dream, if possible, of the beauty of eternal life and be
happy.
In Chinese art the peach blossom seems to rank higher than it does in
Japan, and a very favourite subject with Chinese artists is an ox in
a peach orchard. The finest pot-grown peach-trees I ever saw were in
China, their gnarled stems looking truly a thousand years old, their
branches trained and bent or merely drooping like a willow, covered
with the clear pink blossoms. The trunks of these fine old trees
may have been three or four feet high; but in Japan it is possible
to procure a little plant for perhaps 25 sen (about sixpence) whose
branches are so tightly packed with blossoms it is impossible to see
a trace of even the bark between them--a perfect little tree in a
delicate green or mottled blue porcelain pot. I could not help thinking
what pleasure such trees would give in England, but apparently it
is only the Japanese who know the real secret of growing them, the
exact shoots to leave and which to cut away, to ensure this wealth of
blossom. I felt in England my little peach-tree would only flower here
and there, and its beauty would be lost.
There is a popular saying in Japan, _Momo kuri san nen, kaki
hachinen_, meaning “three years for peach and chestnut, eight years
for persimmon.” The peach-tree is of rapid growth; this fact is proved
by there being a variety called _Issai momo_, because it blooms the
first year of its growth, and bears fruit the second. There is _Futairo
momo_, the two-coloured peach, whose blossoms are mingled red and
white in colour, single and double in petals; there is _Hiku momo_, or
chrysanthemum peach, as its blossoms are the shape of a chrysanthemum
flower, in clusters of twelve or thirteen; the camellia peach and
many others with fancy names from their supposed resemblance to their
god-father. The native peaches do not bear good fruit, and the better
varieties have been introduced from America, but up to now with only
moderate success. There are no good eating peaches in Japan; this may
be the fault of the climate, possibly the hot damp summer does not
suit them, or the cultivation may be at fault; but when their blossoms
provide such a feast of colour and beauty it seems altogether too
unromantic and too material to worry over the texture and flavour of
the fruit.
[Illustration: THE PAGODA, KYOMIDZU]
CHAPTER IX
CHERRY BLOSSOM
Japan is often called “The Land of the Cherry Blossom,” and it is true
that for centuries their _Sakura-no-hana_ has been the favourite flower
of the Japanese. The refinement and grace of its beauty appeals to them
so intensely, that the month of April, the time of the cherry blossom,
might almost be regarded as a national holiday throughout the country;
and can one wonder that a whole nation should forget for a time their
work and domestic worries in the innocent enjoyment of sitting under
the flower-laden trees?
In contrast to the simple growth of the plum-tree, the blossom of the
cherry covers the whole tree in rich profusion, the branches bending
under the weight of its luxuriance, scattering a rosy shower of petals
as they sway in the spring breezes. Lafcadio Hearn, in his _Glimpses of
Unfamiliar Japan_, says: “When, in spring, the trees flower, it is as
though fleecy masses of clouds, faintly tinged by sunset, had floated
down from the sky, to fold themselves about the branches.... The reader
who has never seen a cherry-tree blossoming in Japan cannot possibly
imagine the delight of the spectacle. There are no green leaves; these
come later; there is only a glorious burst of blossoms, veiling every
bough and twig in their delicate mist; and the soil beneath each tree
is covered deep out of sight by fallen petals, as by a drift of snow.”
Unlike many of the favourite flowers of Japan, which are only grown in
certain districts, and might bloom altogether unobserved if one did
not make a special search for them, the cherry is so lavishly planted
throughout the Empire that it would be impossible to find any part of
the country without some display of the blossom.
The full beauty of the cherry is short-lived, and, almost before one
has realised the transformation of the whole landscape, brought about
by this wonderful flower, with the help of the glorious April sunshine,
a heavy rain-shower or sudden squall will scatter the petals like
snow before the wind, and nothing will remain but the young brown
leaves and the carpet of fallen petals beneath the trees. We are told
of Fujiwara-no-Narinori, of the twelfth century, who prayed to the
god Tai-zanfukun for the prolongation of the glory of his beloved
cherry blossom. Fujiwara had planted over a hundred of the trees in
his garden, and had, on that account, been named Sakura Machi by the
people. It is said that the gods answered his prayer, and allowed the
trees to remain in flower for twenty-one days.
Another legend tells of Minamoto-no-Yoshiyo the warrior, who was
despatched to fight with Abe-no-Sadato of Oshu. While on his way to
the enemy’s camp, he passed through groves of falling cherry blossoms,
and was struck with lamentation over the changing of nature. His poem
remains to this day, and after his death a monument was erected to his
memory, on the spot where his inspiration seized him.
It is difficult to decide in which surroundings the cherry blossom
shows to best advantage. In the groves or orchards devoted entirely
to the _sakura_, where the flower-laden trees will surround one on
all sides, there will be cherry blossom, and nothing but cherry
blossom almost as far as the eye can reach. From every tree will
hang rosy-red lanterns, or a poetical name and inscription will
flutter in the breeze, while crowds of visitors wander through the
grounds; children clapping their chubby hands in sheer enjoyment of
the blossoms, tumbling, in their haste to find fresh treasures, over
their gay-coloured kimonos, which, with their gorgeous obi, have been
put on to-day for the first time in the honour of spring, and the
_sakura_. Perhaps you might prefer to see the trees in a setting of
red-brown maples and deep-green pines, in a wilder and more natural
state, where one of the many fast-flowing rivers will hurry along
beneath the overhanging boughs, carrying away great drifts of fallen
petals; or, again, by the sea-shore, where a few great trees, high
up on the cliffs, away from all danger of salt sprays, will make a
glorious foreground for the rugged coast-line and the wide stretch of
sea beyond. But surely there is no more beautiful setting for the trees
than the old temple buildings, with their wooden structures toned by
countless ages. A great weeping cherry-tree will stand as a sentinel
at the gateway, or a little tree laden with rosy blossoms will guard a
tiny shrine.
All through the bright spring days, thousands of sight-seers will climb
the stone steps of the temple of Kyomizu--or Good Water--in Kyoto, and
[Illustration: A BUDDHIST SHRINE]
[Illustration: A BUDDHIST SHRINE]
wander through the buildings to the woods beyond. From the terrace
they gaze down upon the grove of cherry and maple trees in the valley
below, and then away over the grey roofs of Kyoto and the plain beyond,
to Osaka, hidden in the morning mists, or to Arashiyama, whose groves
will assuredly be visited in due time by these untiring holiday-makers.
At every turn a new beauty wipes out the remembrance of the last, and
fills our soul with sadness, that nature will not stand still for
awhile and give us leisure to enjoy what we know will be here to-day
and gone to-morrow. Already the early single flowers are fading and
falling; every gentle breath of wind sends a fresh shower of the thin
transparent petals to the ground. To-morrow the heavy clusters of the
double pink blossoms will have lost their freshness, and will be hiding
their glories under the brown leaves that seem to unfurl and grow while
we look at them. Last, and perhaps best of all, will come the double
white blossom, whose buds are now hanging in pink clusters, and whose
beauty will linger until the close of the “cherry month.”
Maruyama Park in Kyoto has a great display of cherry blossom; an
enormous drooping cherry of great age, which has taken its name of
_Gion sakura_ from the Gion temple adjoining, stands in the middle of
the park, and thousands of people come to gaze at it every year when it
is in flower. Towards the end of March, the park, which has been bleak
and deserted all the winter, becomes a scene of bustle and activity.
Temporary tea-houses are put up on every available space, hung with
innumerable lanterns, and gaily-coloured curtains, most of these being
painted with some representation of the cherry blossom. With the
unerring taste of the Japanese all the colouring is in harmony with the
blossoms, no false note will clash or take away from the beauty of the
surroundings. By the 1st of April all is in readiness for the visitors,
who from that day onwards will not fail to arrive in a never-ending
stream during the whole month. Even if there come days when the rain
descends in pitiless torrents, it does not seem to damp their ardour;
their clogs may be an inch or so higher; their kimonos will be girt
tighter about their knees, to keep them from the mud; each one will
carry a huge paper umbrella, black and red, deep blue or purple, or,
commonest of all, the natural yellowish colour of the oiled paper, with
the owner’s name or the sign of the inn to which it may belong in large
Katahana characters. Or should it be a late season
[Illustration: THE FEAST OF THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS]
and the cherry not be in flower so early, it makes no difference, still
the people come, it is the time when it _ought_ to be in flower, and
such is the imagination in the minds of these curious people, that
they will gaze for hours at a tree with scarcely more than a tinge of
colour in the buds with as much pleasure as if the tree were in all the
glory of its full flower. On a holiday afternoon, when the weather is
fine, every seat in the tea-houses is taken up by the pleasure parties,
while in the open spaces the people spread mats brought with them for
the purpose, and sit unfolding those neat little boxes and packets
which contain their mysterious and wonderful food so unpalatable to
our foreign ideas. Even the cakes and sugar-plums that accompany the
cups of tea, unceasingly supplied by the tired little _ne sans_ of the
tea-houses, are in the shape of cherries impaled on wooden skewers,
and eaten with relish by young and old alike. In no other country but
Japan, where humanity is so closely associated with nature, and where
the people mingle harmoniously with the background of flowers and
trees, could one find such a scene--the entire population of a great
city given up to the whole-hearted enjoyment of nature.
At nightfall the lanterns are lighted, and flaring torches round the
giant tree cast their lurid light upon the heavily laden branches,
which might well belong to some forest tree bending under the weight
of freshly fallen snow. Those who cannot leave their work during the
day, come forth at night to swell the throng. The sounds of music and
feasting, the beating of tom-toms, and the ceaseless dragging of ten
thousand clogs mingle with the cries of the toy-seller whose stock of
those wonderful paper butterflies, and of the miniature lanterns with
the candles ready lit, has to be constantly replenished to supply his
endless customers. Thousands of country people, wearied with their
round of sight-seeing, spend the night on the grass, only to start
again at daybreak on a fresh pilgrimage of innocent pleasure.
The Emperor Kameyama in the twelfth century planted a number of
cherry-trees from Yoshino at Arashiyama, a picturesque gorge where the
river Katsura, celebrated for the beauty of its rapids, running through
a narrow valley, becomes a wide and shallow river and is renamed
the _Oi gawa_. Here it is said this Emperor built a pavilion, and,
during the cherry month, the Court held high revel for many years. The
pavilion has long since disappeared, perhaps swept away by one of the
numerous floods which devastate these valleys; but the cherry-trees
remain, and here, instead of the stately Court of ancient days, the
modern Kyoto sight-seers hold their revels, for Arashiyama may be said
to rank first among their favourite spring resorts. They gather in
the tea-houses and flower-booths on the banks of the river, and spend
their flower-viewing days by the running water and the clouds of white
blossom, exclaiming possibly in the words of their poet, “Not second to
Yoshino is Arashiyama, where the white spray of the torrent sprinkles
the cherry blossom.” Barge after barge, roofed over, with matted
floor and decorated with innumerable lanterns to suggest a miniature
tea-house, will take its load of visitors across the river, or they
will spend some hours drifting idly down the stream, eating their
midday meal or playing some childish game. Occasionally a flower-laden
boat, which has successfully accomplished the passage of the rapids,
will come into sight, and the sound of samisens, the saddest of all
music, comes floating through the air.
The habit of drinking _saké_ while viewing the cherry blossom appears
to have originated in the days of the Emperor Richiu, in the fifth
century. While feasting with his courtiers in a pleasure-boat on a
lake in one of the royal parks, some petals fell into his wine-cup, and
drew the attention of the monarch to the hitherto despised blossom,
and he exclaimed, “Without wine, who can properly enjoy the sight of
the cherry blossoms?”--a sentiment which appears to have survived to
this day. It was not, however, until the eighth century that the cherry
blossom rose to the distinction of a national flower. The Emperor
Shomu, while hunting on Mount Mikasa, in the province of Yamato, was
so struck by the beauty of the blossoms, that he sent some branches,
accompanied by some verses of his own writing, to his consort Komio
Kogo. Afterwards, in order to satisfy the curiosity of the Court
ladies, who had never seen this wonderful flower, he commanded a number
of the trees to be planted round the Palace of Nara, whence arose the
custom of planting them near all the royal palaces in the country.
The province of Yamato is especially celebrated for its cherry groves,
and justly so, as the little mountain village of Yoshino has given
the name to the most famous of all the varieties, and has even been
called the headquarters of the cherry blossom; and so profuse is the
mass of blossom that the poets have compared it to mist or snow upon
the hills. The little street of the village winds away up the spur of
the hill, past many temples and shrines, until it becomes nothing but
the rough stony path which ascends Mount Omine. Although the village
stands high above the sea, its own especial kind of cherry is rather an
early one; the blossoms are large and single, pale pink in colour; but
its beauty is fleeting, and the visitor must go early in the “cherry
month” to Yoshino, or he will be greeted by great showers of the
falling petals being swirled away on the wind to join the light fleecy
clouds on Mount Omine, or down to the mists which hang in the valley
below, and nothing will be left but the remains of departed glories.
During the few days, early in April, when the blossom is at its best,
thousands of pilgrims visit the little village and occupy every
available lodging; but the traveller who is not discouraged by the
discomfort of primitive Japanese inns, or by the long tedious journey
over the mountains from Nara, will find ample reward in the beauty of
his surroundings. Mr. Parsons, in his _Notes on Japan_, thus described
Yoshino:--
Everything in Yoshino is redolent of the cherry: the pink and white
cakes brought in with the tea are in the shape of its blossoms,
and a conventional form of it is painted on every lantern and
printed on every scrap of paper in the place. The shops sell
preserved cherry flowers for making tea, and visitors to the
tea-houses and temples are given maps of the district--or, rather,
broad sheets roughly printed in colours, not exactly a map or a
picture--on which every cherry grove is depicted in pink. And all
this is simply enthusiasm for its beauty and associations; for
the trees bear no fruit worthy of the name.... I was reminded
constantly of a sentence a friend had written in one of my books,
“Take pains to encourage the beautiful, for the useful encourages
itself.” It is difficult for an outsider to determine how much of
this is genuine enthusiasm and how much is custom or traditional
æstheticism, but it really matters little. That the popular idea
of a holiday should be to wander about in the open air, visiting
historic places, and gazing at the finest landscapes and the
flowers in their due season, indicates a high level of true
civilisation, and the custom, if it be only custom, proves the
refinement of the people who originated it.
Tokyo and its neighbourhood can lay claim to some of the most beautiful
spots for viewing the cherry blossoms. The banks of the river Sumida at
Mukojima are lined for miles with an avenue of ancient trees bending
almost to the water’s edge with the weight of their double blossoms.
This is the favourite resort of the Tokyo holiday-makers, and crowds
of pedestrians, carrying their gourds of wine, inaugurate a veritable
_Bureiko_ (carnival) and fill the booths and the houses which are
[Illustration: THE PINK CHERRY]
temporarily erected along the banks of the river. Those citizens who
can afford the greater luxury of a barge or roofed pleasure-boat spend
the evening more peacefully in floating upon the calm surface of the
river, gazing at the blossoming trees, cheered by the singing of the
geishas and the playing of the samisens. So great is the attraction
of cherry blossoms seen by the light of the pale moon, that they have
even been given the special name of Yozakura or night cherry flowers.
To the foreigner wishing to enjoy the prospect of the cherry blossoms
in peace, such boisterous feasting will seem out of harmony with the
natural quiet beauty of the spot, and he will do well to turn his steps
and to spend a few hours in undisturbed enjoyment of the more dignified
setting of Uyeno Park, where the giant trees of single and drooping
blossom stand out in splendid contrast to the pines and cryptomerias
surrounding the tombs of the Shoguns. Ralph Adams Cram thus describes
the scene:--
Here the cherry trees are huge and immemorial, gnarled and rugged,
but clutching sunrise clouds caught by the covetous hands of black
branches, and held dancing and fluttering against the misty blue of
the sky. Here and there a weeping cherry holds down its prize of
pink vapour, until it almost brushes the heads of those who pass;
here and there the background of bronze cryptomeria is flecked
with puffs of pink, as though now and then the captive clouds had
burst from the holding of crabbed branches only to be caught in
their escape toward the upper air and prisoned by the tenacious
fingers of the cedar.
At the end of the road the path blurs in odorous mist, and in a
moment we are enveloped in the rosy clouds. As far as the eye can
reach stretches the low-hung canopy of the thin petals; the trunks
of the trees are small and gray, and one forgets them, or never
thinks to associate them with the mist of pale vapour overhead,
hung in the soft air, impalpable, evanescent, a gauzy cloud, lifted
at dawn and poised breathless close over the earth.
A little wind ripples above, and the air trembles with a snow
of pink petals swerving and sliding down to the carpet of thin
fallen blossoms, while darting children in scarlet and saffron and
lavender crow and chatter, catching at the rosy flakes with brown
fingers.
The light here is pale and pearly as it filters through the sky of
opal blossoms, and it transmutes the small dusky people into the
semblance of butterflies and birds, now gathering into glimmering
swarms of flickering colour, now darting off with shrieks of
delight over the carpet of fallen petals. Here a slim girl with
ivory skin has thrown off her ivory kimono, and clothed only in
a clinging gown of vermilion crepe opening low on her bosom,
barefooted, a great dancing butterfly of purple rice paper clinging
to her black hair, is swaying rhythmically in an ecstatic dance,
pausing now and then to flutter away like a red bird up the shadowy
slope, until her flaming gown gleams among stone lanterns half lost
in the gloom of great trees. Here a ring of shrieking children,
wrinkled old women, and half-naked coolies are circling hand in
hand in some absurd little game; and here, there, and everywhere
whole families are clustered on red blankets, eating endless rice
and drinking illimitable _saké_, while the tinkle of the samisen
is in the air, and strange cool voices sing wistful songs in a
haunting minor key. It is a kaleidoscope of flickering colour, a
transformation scene of pearl and amber, opal and vermilion.
Koganai, a day’s excursion from Tokyo, is another attractive spot in
the cherry blossom season--an avenue of double cherry-trees stretching
for two and a half miles along the river Tama. As the name suggests,
_tama_ meaning pearl, the water is clear, and the stream provides the
people of Tokyo with their drinking water, which is brought to the city
by means of an aqueduct. It is said that some ten thousand trees were
originally brought from Yoshino, by command of the Shogun Yoshimune,
and planted along the banks of the aqueduct, with the pretty idea
that the purity of the blossoms would keep off impurities from the
water-supply. Of this vast number of trees, even if they ever really
existed, only a few hundreds remain to-day, but sufficient to keep
up their old reputation and attract enough visitors for yet another
merry and boisterous flower carnival; in fact, throughout the land,
wherever there are cherry-trees, during the month of their glory there
will be feasting. The blossom seems to act as a magnet to draw the
people together, and often by the wayside I have seen just one solitary
tree, in all the fulness of its beauty, made sufficient excuse for
a miniature feast. Just a few lanterns will be hung in the tree, a
few matted benches will be spread out, and an old _Kami san_ will be
waiting to greet any passing traveller with her cries of _Irasshai--o
kake nasai_--Welcome--please sit down,--and the offer of the inevitable
tea, tobacco-box, and _hibachi_.
The Emperor Saga, as early as the ninth century, inaugurated the
Imperial garden parties to view the cherry blossom, which still take
place annually at the old summer palace of the Shoguns, Shiba Rikyu.
The gatherings were attended by the writers and poets of the day, who
composed odes on the blossoms. Although robbed of many picturesque
features by the lamentable custom of wearing foreign dress at Court,
these functions are still of great interest to the foreigner, as
affording him the only available opportunity of visiting any of the
Imperial gardens of the capital.
In spite of the fact that the beauties of Tokyo are fast
disappearing--her moats bordered by splendid pines are almost things of
the past; broad streets with tramways, brick and stone houses, are
[Illustration: CHERRY-TREE AT KYOMIDZU]
fast replacing the narrow streets and little wooden houses of old
Yedo; the _Yashiki_ or Daimios’ houses and gardens are gone, replaced
by foreign houses,--Tokyo still retains her cherry-trees. No modern
reformer has ever dared to sweep away her avenues of _sakura_, for to
the Japanese the cherry is something more than an ordinary flower; it
is difficult, if not impossible, for our Western minds to enter into
their conception of it. To them the soul of the _sakura_, or cherry
blossom, is the soul of Bushido (Chivalry), and the heart of Bushido is
the heart of Japan. One of their songs says--
Hana wa sakura yo,
Hito wa bushi.
(Among flowers the cherry,
Among men the samurai.)
The precepts of Chivalry were started first as the glory of the
_élite_, but grew in time to be the aspiration of the whole nation, and
they found their ideal in the _sakura_. The phrase, _Chitte koso sakura
nari_, meaning “It’s a cherry blossom, it falls when it must,” was
taught in the old feudal days--how to die from loyalty as the cherry
blossom,--the ethic of Death was the highest. So to this day their
ethics remain the same, and Tokyo retains her cherry-trees, which in
spring transform the town into a garden of blossom. The poet Bashio
sang in his _hokku_ poem--
Hana wo kumo
Kane wa Uyeno ka
Asakusa ka.
(A cloud of flowers!
Is it the bell from Uyeno
Or from Asakusa?)
It is true that wherever the clouds of blossom are low they will shut
out the prospect in Tokyo, and one is unable to tell whether the bell
which sounds from far away is that of Asakusa or Uyeno.
The number of different kinds of cherry-trees seems unlimited; Japanese
authorities quote one hundred distinct varieties. The first, and almost
the most beautiful, to flower, is the _Ito sakura_ or drooping cherry,
with pendent branches like a weeping willow, and so-called from _ito_,
meaning thread. These trees attain to a great size and make magnificent
specimens. Almost at the same time bloom the _Higan Sakura_--equinox
cherries--with white single flowers or pale pink. Such are most of the
trees at Uyeno, of majestic size, planted, it is said, by one of the
Tokugawa Regents in imitation of the hills at Yoshino, though Asakusa
yama, a hill in the suburbs of Tokyo, is more often spoken of as the
_new_ Yoshino. The _Ukon sakura_ is very lovely, with its clusters
of pale greenish-yellow double blossoms, but is rather scarce, and a
variety known as _Yaye hotoye_ has single and double blossoms on one
tree,--_yaye_ meaning single and _hotoye_ double. The Yoshino cherry I
have already described; _Hi sakura_ has double blossoms, deep crimson
in bud, and bright pink when open. There seems to be a never-ending
list of these lovely trees, in bewildering variety--early and late
kinds, single, semi-double and double, large and small, from pure
white through every shade of blush pink to light crimson, and the one
beautiful pale yellow blossom, its outer petals just flushed with pink,
suggesting the colouring of a tea-rose rather than a cherry blossom.
The double varieties of course bear no fruit, but even the single
“equinox cherries” bear none, so the Japanese are satisfied with their
splendid blossom and do not worry about the poor insipid little fruit,
which is all a cherry represents to them; but they will salt the leaves
and drink cherry-flavoured tea under the pink canopy of flowers during
the time of the cherry blossoms, when, in the gladness of spring, all
the world is making merry.
CHAPTER X
WISTARIA AND PÆONY
The last petals of the cherry blossoms have only just fallen, and
Nature hastens to provide a new treasure for the flower kingdom, and
the first blooms of the wistaria _Fuji no hana_ will be opening at
the base of the quickly growing racemes. Not the far-famed _Wistaria
multijuga_, whose immense long sprays of delicate mauve flowers are
so associated throughout the world with the name of Japan, but the
early-flowering wistaria, _Brachy botris_, with its tufts of white
blossoms completely covering the closely pruned branches before any
trace of a leaf appears. It would seem as if this modest white wistaria
had been allowed by nature to bloom so early, for fear she should be
overlooked and not appreciated when her more showy successor flings
her purple mantle over the land. The Royal Fuji, fancifully called
_Niki-so_, meaning “plant of the two seasons,” because, appearing
between the third and fourth months (old calendar), it belongs both to
spring and summer, has rightly attained her high rank among the floral
kingdom of Japan, for in no other country can be seen a restaurant set
out for the entertainment of perhaps a hundred guests, who will all
feast wrapped in the purple haze of a roof of wistaria blossoms, all
from a single vine.
Perhaps the most popular haunt of the pleasure-seeker in the month
of May is the celebrated Kameido Temple in Tokyo. Words fail me to
describe the beauty of the scene: it is a real feast of _fuji_;
the, long purple trails cover the large trellises, the wide rustic
galleries, and connect the little matted restaurants, where hosts
of people throughout the day sit feasting under the purple roof and
feeding the gold fish in the lake. The matted benches are set out on
a thick mauve carpet of fallen blossoms, and the little maids seem to
have a never-ending task in sweeping away great heaps of the freshly
fallen flowers, as though fearing that their guests will be smothered
by them. No one seems to know so wisely as the Japanese in what
surroundings to plant their flowers, so as to show them to their best
advantage. Wistaria seems always to be grown near water, so that the
trellis which is to bear its flower burden can be built out over the
water. So it is at Kameido; and as I sat surrounded, almost smothered,
by the blossoms, inhaling their delicious scent and listening to the
droning of the bees, I could gaze across the water at the reflection
of a never-ending vista of mauve blossoms reaching on one side to the
celebrated round wooden bridge, the delight of children, who seemed
to cross it in one ceaseless stream, and on the other to the fine old
temple, where a few ancient pine-trees are placed just where they will
best harmonise with the long purple blossoms. The late sweet-scented
white variety will prolong the _fuji_ season by a few days; their glory
is but short-lived, a few days and then their colour begins to fade,
the leaves appear among the blossoms, and their beauty is gone. I felt
if I wanted to see wistaria again that year I must fly to the northern
provinces, where the bean-scented blossoms will soon be clothing the
forest trees. I turned away sadly, not forgetting the Japanese theory
that the wistaria loves _saké_. So strong is their belief, that I was
told that if you set a jar of the wine under the plant, its spray will
grow longer from its desire to reach the jar; so I ordered my
[Illustration: WISTARIA, KAMEIDO]
little cup of _saké_, sipped it, and then emptied the cup on the roots,
according to their custom, hoping that I too might help to contribute
to its great size and beauty.
Very lovely is the scene at Kashukabe, where another famous wistaria
grows. The vine is said to be some five hundred years old, its pendent
clusters over 50 inches long and growing over trellises covering a
space of 4000 feet. Noda in the province of Settsu is also celebrated
for its wistaria, and a special variety has been named after the place.
The cultivation of _Wistaria multijuga_, with its racemes from two to
three feet in length, and the individual flowers having a lip of darker
purple, seems to belong more especially to the eastern provinces. And
it must not be imagined that _all_ wistaria in Japan has these immense
long sprays. In the whole neighbourhood of Kyoto I know of only two
fine specimens of _multijuga_, and all the wild variety seems to be
_Wistaria chinensis_, with its tufts of shorter racemes.
Towards the end of the first week in May I made a pilgrimage to see
the wistaria blossoms in Kasuga Park at Nara, and I shall never forget
the enjoyment of that day, the blessed relief of being able to find a
quiet spot away from the gazing crowd, in which to ramble or sit and
enjoy the scene. The vines have clambered to the top of many of the
tallest pines and cryptomerias, and their blossoms hang in wreaths;
in the distance the effect was suggestive of smoke rising among the
trees. Many of the lower trees seemed to have been completely taken
possession of by the trespasser, and the dead branches transformed into
big bouquets of pale mauve. How far more beautiful were these natural
supports than the somewhat unsightly bamboo poles which usually form
the trellis for the vines. Little glades, down which winds a tiny clear
stream, divide the ground, and the banks were covered with these old
trees, completely smothered by the weight of blossom. Often the vine
seemed not content with covering a single tree, but had thrown out long
branches beyond, which, fallen to the ground, had rooted and then risen
again to find a fresh prey, thus forming a double arch wreathed with
purple tassels. This park is one of the few places in Japan where there
is real turf, closely cropped by the herd of deer, and in the open
spaces broad stretches of brilliant-coloured _Azalea sinensis_ added to
the enchantment of the scene and formed a perfect foreground.
To the Japanese mind the _fuji_ is essentially feminine, and they
find in the wistaria their ideal of woman,--the Japanese woman--whose
charm of temperament and whose beauty has been so praised. It is a
pretty idea, and it is not difficult to understand their ideal of woman
when one observes how the wistaria clings to the undaunted pine, and
how gently she falls down, easily moved by a breath of wind and yet
firmly holding her own place. The wistaria is regarded as the emblem
of gentleness and obedience, and these are the keynotes of a Japanese
woman’s character.
The young tender leaves of wistaria are sometimes eaten, and also used
in the place of tea; and the flowers themselves are used for food in
some parts of China. The seeds baked in the fire have very much the
same flavour as that of a chestnut. The bark is used for ropes and
sandals; and its branches are used, it is said, as cables, and also for
bridge-making, as it is supposed that there is nothing more durable
than a wistaria bridge. Japanese antiquarians will tell you that in
olden times, before carpenters’ tools had been invented, the dwellings
of the people in Japan were constructed of young trees with the bark
left on, fastened together with ropes made of the tough shoots of
wistaria, and thatched with the grass called _kava_. _Fuji_ appears to
be a real Japanese flower, though in the Western countries it is called
wistaria, in honour of Caspar Wistar, an American physician.
One of the most celebrated classical _No_ dances of Japan has wistaria
as its theme. The little square boxes in front of the stage, with
its long gallery or bridge (along which the _No_ actors make their
entrances and exits), are filled by the audience, apparently patiently
waiting in quiet, somewhat sleepy expectancy. The long piercing sound
of flutes mingled with the curiously sad rhythm of _Tsuzumi_ drums
has ceased; and the high distinct declamation of the libretto begins.
The priest, who is a necessary part of any _No_ dance, is the first
to appear on the stage; he is supposed to reach Taka no Ura in the
province of Ecchu, a place famous for wistaria, and here he meets a
country girl who in a short time will reappear as the spirit of the
wistaria; she entreats him to pray for her, so that through the virtue
of his prayer her flower spirit may enter into Nirvana or Paradise;
doubtless the spirit of the last flower of spring is not able to
release herself from the world to attain Buddhistic perfection, so she
hates to say her quick
[Illustration: WISTARIA, NAGAOKA]
farewell to spring. Presently the flower spirit, arrayed in gorgeous
purple brocade, dances her last spring dance, and then, after receiving
the priest’s repeated prayer, she will disappear with joy. So ends the
_No_ play, so full of emblematical meaning to the minds of the Japanese.
The wistaria and pæony seem to be closely associated, as not only do
they flower at the same time and many gardens seem devoted to their
combined culture, but just as in Japanese literature the wistaria is
an emblem of womanhood, so in Chinese literature the pæony is compared
to a beautiful woman. The pæony seems to be a plant of Chinese origin,
and though it can hardly be classed as one of the most popular flowers
of Japan, it plays an important part in the art of the country. The
tree pæony is a delicate plant and requires scrupulous care and nursing
in order that its blooms should attain their full size and colour. It
is regarded as essentially the rich man’s flower, and therefore it is
often called the “flower of prosperity”; another fancy name by which
it is known is the “plant of twenty days,” because it will preserve
its freshness and beauty for that time. The celebrated garden at
Honjo in Tokyo combines the cultivation of _botan_ (tree pæony) with
that of wistaria. A fine old vine of _multijuga_ overhangs the pond;
but one of the especial features of the garden is the cultivation of
wistarias in pots and tubs--some grand old plants, flowering as though
they would flower themselves to death. Others there were of all sizes
and shapes; some bent and leaning, some bearing veritable canopies of
blossoms; some pure white, some the pale mauve _sinensis_, and others
the deeper-coloured _multijuga_.
My first visit to “view the pæonies” was rather a disappointment to
me, as, in order to protect the blooms from heavy rain or wind storms,
the plants are all placed under the cover of temporary matting sheds.
They seemed mostly to be grown in pots, and the effect of these rows
of plants, each with its large and heavy blossoms supported by bamboo
stakes, was somewhat stiff and prim. A few stray plants there were,
which, possibly for some slight defect in the shape or colour of the
blooms, had not been included in the show collection; and to the
uninitiated these gave most pleasure, left standing in the open, their
colour blending harmoniously with that of the wistaria blossoms. The
pæony gardens seemed no haunt for the holiday-maker, but rather for the
serious-minded gardener, who, truly interested in their culture, would
spend
[Illustration: A PÆONY GARDEN]
hours in quiet contemplation of the plants, discussing the merits of
the different varieties with some fellow-enthusiast. There were some
hundred different kinds of the tree pæony. The most prized ones were
all either pure white blossoms, or those whose colour ranged from pale
pink to red,--quite rightly, however rare they may be, the purple-hued
and yellow are less valued. Many a private garden belonging to the
rich has its pæony show, and the plants are mostly brought from the
neighbourhood of Nara, which is celebrated for its pæony gardens. And
the gardens at Kabata are also famous for their blooms; where too may
be seen the combination of the _fuji_ flowers covering long trellises
and the little standard trees growing along the margin of the stream,
their pendent trails reflected in the water, softening as it were the
gorgeous splendour of the flaunting pæony blossoms.
There is no more gorgeous floral sight than the pæony with its
tremendous curling petals; but a Japanese artist told me that its
fulness in splendour made those with a better poetical fancy and more
quiet taste dislike it and think the beauty of the pæony to be even
vulgar. Japan is nothing if she be not light and airy, and therefore
the Japanese consider flowers with more delicate grace to be more
artistic; so the pæony has little chance to become their favourite
flower, its beauty is too heavy. It has found, however, some admirers
among the poets of Western Japan. In comparison to the people of the
eastern provinces the inhabitants of Osaka and Kyoto are said to be
more showy in their taste, their art is heavier, so the pæony is called
the Western Flower of Japan. If you compare China and Japan, the
former’s taste in art is more decorative and heavier, and remember what
a favourite the pæony is as a decoration for their priceless porcelain.
The variety of pæony known as _Pæonia sinensis_, the true Chinese
pæony, does not seem to be much regarded in Japan, and little attention
seems to be given to its cultivation.
The _botan_ calls to mind the pæony lantern, and the pæony lantern or
_botan toro_ is suggestive of the Buddhist festival of _Bon_ (from July
13-16), when the great gates of Hades will open wide, and those dead
souls who are still wandering about, being unable to enter Nirvana,
will come back again to receive their relatives’ prayers, by whose
virtue they may get their final rest. So this festival is universally
called the Soul Festival: in literature it is closely connected with
ghosts. The theatres will all play “ghost plays,” as, of course, the
story of the pæony lantern is a ghost story.
A beautiful girl called O Tsuyu was the daughter of a certain samurai
Ijima San, who lived apart from her father with her faithful maid O
Yone. She happened to love Shinzaburo Ogihara, a young samurai, and
died of love, and her maid followed her. Ogihara did not know of their
death. He observed one summer evening that two young women--who were O
Tsuyu and O Yone--passed before the gate of his house, carrying pæony
lanterns in their hands, and he welcomed them. During the following
seven nights O Tsuyu called on him at night with her usual pæony
lantern in hand; and then Shinzaburo was told by his friend that she
was not a living person, but a ghost. He appealed to some holy priest
to protect him from the ghost. The priest gave him some charm to hang
at his door; and when the charm one night was taken away, Ogihara was
found dead the next morning.
There is a rather charming ghost story of the pæony which is of Chinese
origin; the story is called the Ko Gyoku or Incense Jewel. Kaseikyu
of Rozan, of fairy beauty, is famous for its pæonies. In Kaseikyu
there lived a young scholar called Kosei. He was looking out of his
window one day, and to his amazement he observed a beautiful young lady
dressed in white who stood among the pæonies; he saw her so often that
he fell in love with her, and wrote a love-song dedicated to her fair
soul. Then she appeared as in a dream to him one day and said, “My name
is Ko Gyoku; I was brought here from the city of Heiko, and my life is
not without sadness.” They promised to love each other, they continued
to meet every day, till one day Ko Gyoku told him sadly that she had
to go away; and the next morning, strange to say, Kosei observed that
the pæonies in the garden had disappeared. Was she not the spirit of
one of the pæonies? He passed day and night in sad dreams and with many
tears, thinking over his unhappy fate in love. To his surprise Ko Gyoku
appeared after a long time, and they held each other’s hands, but the
man found the lady’s hand cold. Ko Gyoku said, “Yesterday I was the
living spirit of the flower, but to-day I am merely the ghost. My body
is cold, the flower is dead.” However, she was to his eyes as beautiful
as before. She continued, “If you will be kind enough to give a cupful
of water to the roots of
[Illustration: WISTARIA, KABATA]
the old pæonies every day, you will receive a reward in due course of
time,” and disappeared. Kosei found the next morning that new sprouts
were beginning to come out from the old roots.
The pæony was introduced into Japan from China in the eighth century,
but failed to gain universal popularity, on account of the difficulty
of cultivating it successfully; but the Rich Man’s Flower came to
be regarded as the king of flowers, and therefore the lion and the
peacock, the kings of the animal world, are its companions in art. They
are always painted together in the decoration of a temple or palace
wall, and when lions dance on the Japanese stage they always have a
gorgeous background of pæonies. There may be more of myth than truth in
the pretty story of Ichinenko, a kind of pæony, whose flowers turned
crimson when Yo Ki Hi (the beloved mistress of the Emperor Genso,
famous in Chinese history in connection with the pæony) accidentally
touched the petals of the flower with her rouged finger-tips, when she
appeared in the garden after finishing her morning toilette.
So strong is the feeling among Japanese poets that the flower is
lacking in any poetical grace, that the _Hokku_[2] poet Hyoroku
remarks in his Essay on a Hundred Flowers, “The pæony is like the
mistress glorified in one’s love, who acts as she pleases without any
consideration for another’s feeling. It has such an attitude, as if it
spit out a rainbow into the blue sky.” The poet Bushon, who has written
more lines on the pæony than any other poet, says--
Niji wo haite
Hirakanto suru
Botan hana.
(Spitting forth a rainbow
Is about to bloom
The pæony flower.)
[2] _Hokku_ is a poem of seventeen syllables.
CHAPTER XI
AZALEAS
Early in May the brilliant-coloured azaleas seem determined, by
the splendour of their hues, to try and outshine their graceful,
tender-coloured predecessors the plum, peach, and cherry. Surely no
other plants ever equalled their display of colours--every shade--pure
white, cream, salmon, pink, scarlet, orange, and purple; but even all
this feast of colour will not make up for the delicate colour of the
blossoming trees. There are so many different varieties of azalea, so
many different ways of planting them, and even such a variety in their
natural growth, that it is hard to say in which surroundings they
appealed to me most.
The most celebrated place for “viewing azalea blossoms”--_Satsuki no
hana_--in all Japan is in the district of Shinjuku, a suburb of Tokyo,
where the show gardens, known as the florists’ gardens of Okubo-mura,
present a wealth of colour which I feel powerless to describe. These
gardens, or rather azalea plantations, as no other plants are grown,
are of very ancient date, and were frequented by the Tokugawa Regents,
with whom they were as popular as they are with the sight-seer of
to-day. A few sen will suffice to obtain permission to enter a
never-ending succession of these little gardens, and so dazzled was
I by their splendour that I do not remember that any one seemed more
beautiful than another. Imagine these great bushes of immense size and
great age simply smothered by their blossoms. Not a leaf was to be
seen. My eyes ached at last, and I longed for the repose of a stretch
of green. In and out among great banks of the scarlet and crimson
_Kaba-renge_, the variety which flowers before the leaves appear,--on
past beds of _Azalea indica_ with its large double and semi-double
blooms of every shade, the paths will lead us, as if through a maze;
and surely this mass of colour helps to bewilder one. I was assured one
venerable old bush, the thickness of whose stem testified to its great
age, bore each year eight thousand blooms; so closely packed did the
blossoms appear to be, that it would have been no surprise to me had I
been told they numbered eight million instead of
[Illustration: AZALEAS]
thousands. The whole district was thronged with holiday-makers visiting
the little gardens in one never-ending stream. But one thing differed
here from all the other floral feasts I had ever seen in Japan:
there were few, if any, little tea-houses set up in the gardens for
the entertainment of the guests, who generally sit sipping tea, or
some more potent beverage, and gaze upon the especial flower they
have perhaps tramped many weary miles to see. Here there was no
tea-drinking, they all retreated to the neighbouring restaurants; and
why? The reason was not far to seek: no human eyes could sit and gaze
at that mass of colour for more than a few consecutive moments; one
would leave the garden blinded. The whole air was sweet with their
delicious scent; the bees were busy collecting honey, especially from
the hearts of the _sinensis_ blooms, which seemed the sweetest-smelling
variety. No visitor to Japan should miss spending a few hours at Okubo,
for surely in no other place in the whole world can such a wealth
of colour be seen. The soil near Tokyo must be especially suited to
azaleas, as there are many other gardens and parks which in this flower
month will be gay with their blossoms.
I have mentioned Okubo first, because it is the most celebrated place
for azaleas, here every variety and colour are collected in one dense
mass; but there were many other places where the blossoms gave me more
true pleasure, and where I spent many hours enjoying the scene.
At Nagaoka, in the neighbourhood of Kyoto, many a day have I spent, and
I know of no place where one can sit more comfortably and peacefully
lost in admiration and contemplation. Nagaoka has a large sheet of
water, apparently artificial, but beautified by the great bushes of
scarlet azalea along the shore, and the great splashes of colour in the
water cast by their reflection. Here they are all one variety, with
true fiery scarlet blossoms, and as I sat in one of the little thatched
houses built out on piles in the water, great bushes were crowding
round me; it seemed as though they had even cast their rosy hue upon
the houses, as are not all their walls pink, as if they too reflected
the colour of the blossoms?
I felt I should like to sleep among the azaleas and see them in the
early dawn, and watch the mist clear off the water when the sun’s first
rays would light up their dazzling splendour. But that could not be.
Nagaoka, after all, is only a restaurant, though each party of guests
is entertained in a
[Illustration: AZALEAS, NAGAOKA]
separate little house. They are frail structures these little houses,
with only their paper _shoji_ to protect one from the chilliness of
the night, and remember, summer is not yet here; all through the month
of May there will be a freshness in the air to remind you that spring
is not yet gone. So to Kyoto we must return; but there was plenty of
consolation to be found there.
The gardens of the old Awata Palace were a blaze of colour, the azaleas
lighting up this beautiful old landscape garden, which at other seasons
of the year is apt to look grey and cold and uncared for. The garden
here is like two separate gardens; the first part, complete in itself,
is the work of the great Kobori Enshu, and the second part, where the
azaleas are the glory of the garden, is the work of Soami. Standing
between the two is a grand old lantern, whose history is listened to
with rapt attention by the little knots of sight-seers who are led by
the old priest round the garden and up through the bank of azaleas to
look over the great town below, with Hiesan rising in the distance.
Many a little temple garden is quite transformed when the azalea bushes
are in flower, their little miniature mountain sides are gay with the
blossoms; though often the better the gardens are cared for, the
fewer the blossoms, as, in order to keep the bushes in their regular
and prescribed shapes, the flowers have to be sacrificed. The little
garden of Chishaku-in I can recall, as having the brilliant-coloured
bushes in pleasing contrast to the subdued tones of the clipped box
and juniper-trees, and the greyness of the lichen-covered lanterns and
mossy stones. No doubt there were many such little gardens and also
private gardens, but the flower month is too short, and one can only
visit the most favoured places or where chance happens to lead one’s
steps.
For those who prefer to enjoy the azaleas in their wilder state,
there are many places where they can wander undisturbed and inhale
their scent which comes wafted on the breeze. I am thinking now of
Kasuga Park at Nara, where great stretches of _Azalea sinensis_ form a
brilliant foreground for the wistaria-laden trees. Nature seems to have
arranged a veritable picture, almost too beautiful to be real. These
gorgeous blossoms shade from delicate yellows and pale pink, through to
the brightest orange and flame colour, growing as the woodland scrub.
They are not more than a few feet in height, possibly their growth has
been stunted by the deer; but they form in places a real carpet or
clothe the
[Illustration: AZALEAS, AWATA]
banks of the little streams, their colour vying with the splendour of
the great temple beyond.
I had heard so much of the beauty of the cherry blossom and wistaria
and the glory of the maples, and their fame is amply justified; but
no one had told me of the beauty of the azaleas, and never had I
realised how essentially they belong to Japan. Throughout the length
and breadth of the land they seem to grow, and there appeared to be few
places where one variety or another had not found a home. Their pale
purple blossoms were hanging from the cliffs among the white-flowered
andromeda bushes late in April, when I paid a flying visit to Miyajima,
and a few days later I found them again on the banks of the canal on my
way from Otsu. In the country round Hikone the more brilliant-coloured
forms had found a home, and under the old pine-trees, broken here and
there by a rocky projection, or even a few grey tombstones of some
long-forgotten graveyard, the banks were covered with an undergrowth
of azaleas. Farther north the railway leading to Aomori will wind its
way through country which at all seasons of the year is beautiful, but
how far more beautiful when the salmon-pink low-growing azalea forms an
undergrowth to the pine woods; wherever the trees have been thinned
the rocky ravines are all lighted up with their colour. The azaleas at
Nikko and Chuzenji have been described elsewhere, and I feel as if all
the country during those short weeks will “always be seen in my mind
through a rosy hue of azalea blossoms.”
CHAPTER XII
THE IRIS
If I were to be asked which of all the show gardens in Japan--a garden
devoted to the cultivation of one especial flower--gave me most
pleasure to visit, I should unhesitatingly answer Hori-kiri, the garden
of _hana shobu_ or _Iris Kaempferi_, in the neighbourhood of Tokyo.
Throughout the month of June this garden remains a feast of subdued
colour; for the iris is no gaudy, flaunting flower, but a delicate
blossom shading from pure white, through every shade of mauve and lilac
to rosy purple, and so deep a blue as to be almost black. In the first
days of June the paths winding through the rice fields from the banks
of the river Sumida will be crowded with sight-seers whose steps are
all bent in one direction and with the same intent--to pay their annual
visit to Hori-kiri; and throughout the month this never-ending stream
continues from early dawn until the setting of the sun or the rising
of the moon. Flower-sellers there will be too, one perhaps with only a
modest bunch of half-opened buds in a wooden tub shaded from the sun by
a large umbrella, not the unpicturesque object recalled to our English
minds by the word umbrella, but one made of pale yellow paper, large
and flat, with bamboo ribs, the owner’s name inscribed in bold, black
Chinese characters--or farther on a little stall decked with lanterns,
and a gay-coloured curtain with some device suggestive of the iris;
tiny toys, little fairy baskets of split bamboo with just one iris
blossom, or fans painted with a giant bloom covering the whole fan, and
other dainty trifles, to carry home to the little ones left at home or
as a souvenir of this iris-land.
The garden of Hori-kiri must be of very ancient date, as the fine old
pine-trees, dwarfed and gnarled maple and juniper bushes, are not the
growth of this generation, or even the last. The garden is said to
date from some three centuries, and to be handed down from father to
son, always in the same family. Nothing could be more perfectly laid
out for the proper display of its especial flower, the shaping of
the beds, the placing of the bridges, and even the colouring of the
little summer-houses in which to entertain their host of guests--all
has been thought out by this artistic family; and last, but by no means
least, the clothing of the little maids who wait on them with untiring
zeal--their kimonos and obis all harmonising in colour.
I have lingered too long on the surroundings of the flowers, and the
reader will want to know more of this wonderful flower which deserves
so much attention--it does indeed deserve the attention, for surely
by the middle of the “dew month” it is hard to imagine anything more
beautiful than the scene which meets the eye. Some seventy varieties
of this king of irises are grown, many raised from seed and jealously
treasured by the owner of the garden. There are early and late
varieties, three weeks almost between their time of flowering, but by
the second week in June the second blooms of the early varieties will
have opened and the first blooms of the later ones, so the effect is
as if all were flowering together; every shoot of the plants seems to
bloom; there are no gaps in their serried ranks. The mere variety is
amazing. Some are pure white, only veined with a faint tinge of green;
some have a margin of lilac; some are shaded; some mottled; but surely
the most beautiful of all is just a great single bloom of one shade, be
it white, lilac, or blue. Many people prefer the duplex flowers with
an inner row of small petals, but to me this form seemed to have lost
some of the natural beauty and grace of the true iris. I tried to learn
something of their cultivation, hoping it might be of help to those
who grow those poor specimens known in England as _Iris Kaempferi_. It
is not the plants themselves, or the varieties, which are at fault,
for many thousands of roots leave the Hori-kiri garden every year to
be scattered throughout the world,--it would seem to be the soil and
climate which they resent and stubbornly refuse to adopt; for a few
years they linger and even bravely flower, and then they begin to pine
and droop like some poor home-sick mortal pining for his native land.
August appears to be the especial month for dividing the roots or
replanting them, so that month had better be chosen as the beginning
of the iris year. The yellowing foliage is ruthlessly cut to half its
natural height and the plants divided, for no clump is ever allowed to
grow so large and old that it is hollow in the centre; the outer shoots
appear to be the strongest, and have most promise of bloom for the
following year. The beds are
[Illustration: AN IRIS GARDEN]
sunk a foot or so below the paths; and the rich soil is like a
quagmire, not with standing water, but like swampy ground. In November
the plants are all cut down, in preparation for the first dressing
of manure in December. The liquid sewage is liberally applied, once
towards the end of the year, and then again after an interval of a
few weeks, the final dressing being given in January. By February the
growth has started, and once the young leaves appear there can be no
more manuring, or the foliage would suffer. From now until the time
of flowering, the regulation of the irrigation seems to be the chief
matter to ensure success in their cultivation. Each variety has its own
especial name, generally with some poetical meaning, but difficult for
the European ear to grasp, and I noticed that, no doubt for the sake of
the foreign market, all the rows were numbered as well as named.
Do not imagine that this is the only iris garden of Japan. There are
many others, though I always think that Hori-kiri ranks first, not
only for the beauty of the garden, but the actual flowers seem larger
and better grown than anywhere else. Only a few minutes’ drive from
Hori-kiri will take you to Yoshino-en, celebrated for its wistaria as
well as its irises. The ground is larger than Hori-kiri and the irises
are well grown, but as the garden is not devoted entirely to their
culture the effect is not so pleasing. The whole district almost seemed
devoted to the culture of _shobu_--many, many fields of them I passed;
but as they are grown entirely for the sake of cutting the blooms for
market, there is never any mass of colour to be seen.
The gardens at Kabata, belonging to the Yokohama Nursery Company, are
perhaps the most extensive iris gardens in Japan; I felt almost dazzled
and bewildered by the very size of the grounds--acres of irises--a
beautiful sight; but I never derived the same pleasure from it as from
the smaller garden. The iris is one of the few flowers which seems to
be allowed to enter into the precincts of a true Japanese landscape
garden: in many a private garden a stream will be diverted to feed
an iris bed, placed where a piece of swampy ground would be most in
keeping with the rest of the miniature landscape; or even the margin
of a tiny lake will be utilised for just a few plants of _shobu_. I
remember seeing an old priest tending his little colony of irises,
which no doubt were chosen with great deliberation from a large
collection for some especial beauty. How often have I seen an old man
and woman considering on which particular favourite their few sen shall
be expended, and then departing, the happy possessor of a new treasure
to add to their little store. My friend the priest’s collection all
grew in pots; they did not look as though they would attain their full
height and beauty; but as if to reward the loving care bestowed on them
they all showed promise of flower; and no doubt in due time they will
have been arranged so as to give the best effect and greatest pleasure
to their grower.
I asked a Japanese who, with his little gentle wife, was sitting in
quiet contemplation and evident enjoyment of the scene, to tell me
something of the flower as it appeals to the Japanese, and he said: “We
live here in the choicest floral kingdom; and to our mind the flowers
are beautiful, and we do not ask why or how, the sight of their beauty
is far more real to us than any meaning which they may suggest. You
will find no other nation like Japan, which loves Nature so truly in
her varied forms and holds communion with all her aspects; we love the
iris as a flower, but as nothing else. I cannot make my mind associate
it with any meaning of zeal or chivalry, nor do I think of it as any
messenger; it appeals to me only as a little quiet beauty of the water
side, making friends with the sadness of the rainy season. In our
poems the iris is almost inseparable from water; one of our celebrated
poetesses has written the following seventeen-syllable poem--
Midzu ga kaki,
Midzu ga kashikeri
kakitsubata.
(Water was the painter,
Water again was the eraser
Of the beautiful fleur-de-lis.)
“It is the universal custom throughout Japan to celebrate the fifth
day of May by hanging bunches of _shobu_ beneath the eaves of our
houses, and to put them into the hot water of the public baths, as it
is perfectly delicious for the bathers to inhale their odour. We also
drink _saké_ in which they have been steeped, on the same day. I felt
proud to hear that the fleur-de-lis, as I believe you call the iris,
is the national flower of France, as I like to think that it has found
a home in the West, and when I was told that the flower which was put
above Solomon’s greatest glory was not the lily of our country, but
that of the iris family, I felt glad and agreed with it.”
The delicate _Iris Tectorum_ would be an immense addition to our
English flower gardens, if only our summers were hot enough to bake
their roots sufficiently to make them flower. I succeeded in making
them grow; they threw up their shoots each year, but never one single
flower, until at last, disgusted, I condemned them, like so many other
treasures brought from foreign climes, as unsuited to our cold grey
skies. Late in May these irises will be in full bloom and forming a
purple spur on the top of the thatched straw roofs of the farmhouses;
they are generally planted in this way (hence their name), and
transform the roof ridge of many a peasant’s dwelling into the aspect
of a flower garden. Many different reasons are ascribed to their being
planted in this manner; some say the irises are planted to avert the
evil spirits, and there is a superstition that they are efficacious
in the prevention of disease. There is also a legend that during one
of the famines that devastated the land in olden days an order went
forth that all cultivated land was to be given up to the growing of
rice, but that the women of Japan, determined to save their iris roots,
from which their powder (so essential to the toilette of every young
Japanese lady) is made, planted them on the roofs of their houses. I
give the tale with all due reserve, as I was never able to verify it,
nor do I even know for certain that their precious _shiroi_ is made
from iris roots.
Other people no less positively affirm the growth to be accidental.
Others, again, assert that the object is to strengthen the thatch.
We incline to this latter view; bulbs do not fly through the air,
neither is it likely that bulbs should be contained in the sods
put on the top of _all_ the houses in a village. We have noticed,
furthermore, that in the absence of such sods, brackets of strong
shingling are employed, so that it is safe to assume that the two
are intended to serve the same purpose. (Chamberlain’s _Things
Japanese_.)
No matter the reason for their being so planted--be it for protection,
be it for the sake of vanity or merely for safety--the effect is none
the less charming, and later in the year these little roof gardens are
sometimes gay with _Hemerocallis aurantiaca_ or a stray tuft of scarlet
Nerine.
The true _Iris japonica_ or _chinensis_ is a shade-loving plant, with
many lavender-coloured flowers on a branching stem, each outer petal
marked with purple lines, and in the centre of the flower a deep orange
horn. Like so many delicately marked flowers, it has a very short life,
each individual bloom appearing to last only from one
[Illustration: IRISES]
sunrise to the next, but the stems bear so many blooms that other buds
quickly open and fill the gap of yesterday’s blossom.
_Iris gracilipes_ seems the commonest and most free-flowering of
all the irises. In May its graceful purple flowers and vivid green
grass-like foliage seemed to fringe each pond, and the only fault I had
to find with this form of iris was the short duration of its flowering
season; the plants bloom so freely they appeared to flower themselves
to death, and after one short week their slender heads would hide
themselves until the resurrection of the next “flower month.”.
I learnt that the _Iris lævigata_, which appears to be synonymous
with Kämpfer’s iris, is much used as a decoration for ceremonies and
congratulatory occasions, but on account of its purple colour it is
not desirable for weddings, though permissible for betrothals. It is
much honoured in the art of flower arrangement, and ranks high among
the flowers used for the vase on the _tokonoma_; and the leaves are
as much prized as the flowers, lending themselves to the bending and
twisting required to attain the regulation curves. As a rule it is
not permissible to use the leaves alone of a plant which may bear a
flower, or the flowerless branches of a shrub which may bear blossoms
or berries; but _Iris japonica_ seems an exception to this rule, and
the leaves alone may be used before the flowers appear. The first of
the ten artistic virtues attributed to certain special combinations is
headed in Mr. Conder’s list by _Simplicity_--expressed by rushes and
irises in a two-storey bamboo vase. The beautiful arrangement known as
_Rikkwa_ (double stump arrangement) consists of a combination of pine,
iris, and bamboo grass.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MORNING GLORY
“_Asagao_ blooms and fades so quickly, only to prepare for the morrow’s
glory,” such is the theme of one of the oldest songs on the _asagao_
or morning glory, written by the Chinese priest at the temple of Obaku
near Uji, who is said to have been the first person to introduce the
flower to Japan.
It was but a primitive weed when it first came from China; it is only
in the land of its adoption that it has evolved its thousand varying
forms and developed into the floral wonder of to-day. It was still a
semi-barbarous beauty, and had not advanced to its present plane, when
_Kaga no Chiyo_ wrote her well-known morning glory poem, better known
to us from Sir Edwin Arnold’s version--
The Morning Glory,
Her leaves and bells have bound
My bucket handle round;
I could not break the bands
Of those soft hands.
The bucket and the well to her I left;
“Lend me some water, for I come bereft.”
For centuries the _asagao_ in Japan remained the same trifling little
Chinese flower, only the wild morning glory of the bamboo fences in the
back gardens; but even then the bright poetesses of the Kyoto Court
admired it, and the Nara poets sang its praises. As they delighted
to write of the fleeting condition of our human lives, they found a
congenial subject in the morning glory, for it is true that no flower
has a briefer life and beauty, and the buds of yesterday are flowers
to-day, but only for a few short hours, and then nothing will be left
but ruin and decay; though how quickly fresh buds will appear and fresh
flowers open to be the morrow’s “morning glory.”
It was not until the eighteenth century that the _asagao_ became
fashionable among the Daimyos and _hatamoto_, who worked wonders in
its cultivation in the rival _Yashiki_ or noblemen’s gardens at Yedo.
Their blossoms developed in size, depth, and variety of colour, until
suddenly at the close of the eighteenth century a spell of cold weather
during their season of flowering, dwarfed the blossoms and ruined
all the seeds in Yedo. So the _asagao_ culture was dropped until the
_Tempo_ period (1830). Then a revival of interest culminated in the mad
craze at the time of Commodore Parry’s visit, when princes, priests and
potentates, nobles, _hatamoto_, and gardeners all vied with each other
in the culture of this flower. Fancy prices were put on plants and
seeds, as much as fourteen or eighteen yen (2s.) being given for one
seed of some new favourite. Naritaya of Yedo and Tonomura of Osaka were
rival gardeners, and the latter sent his precious flowers to the Yedo
show by means of relays of coolies, to compete with those grown at Yedo.
The restoration and complete change of social conditions were
unfavourable to the culture of the morning glory, as it again went out
of fashion and only languished, until its recent revival about fifteen
years ago, when an _asagao_ club was formed and many prominent persons
became members.
To-day the craze has spread among all classes, and there is hardly
a house--more especially in Tokyo, but almost throughout the
country--where there are not a few pots of this favourite flower, it
being within the reach of the poorest in the land; for a few sen the
seeds may be procured to raise the plants which are so often grown
upon the house-top.
Iriya (an attractive name meaning “Within the Valley”), beyond Uyeno
Park, is the most famous place in Japan for the morning glory; here
thousands of carefully trained plants of every shade and variety of
colour, fancy flowers less than half an inch in size, in clusters, and
shaped like a butterfly orchid, and other strange varieties may be
seen; some trained in pots over light bamboo frameworks representing
rustic structures and other quaintly designed frames. The gardens are
visited by hundreds of visitors in the early morning, for it is at
four o’clock in the morning of a scorching July or August day that the
plants will look their best: the buds will just be opening, the faded
flowers of yesterday will have fallen, and all will be fresh and make
you forget the heat of the day that is dawning. One of the _asagao_
experts remarked to me--
We don’t call him an _asagao_ man, however large his garden be,
however good the other preparations; the rarest _asagao_, one
which makes our mouths water, as we say, comes frequently from the
hands of a _Hachiko_ or _Kumako_, and is often raised upon the
roofs in Nihonbashi or Kyobashi, where the ground is too dear for
any garden, where we say “one handful of ground means one handful
of gold.” And there’s almost no expense in _asagao_ cultivation.
What’s needed for it is only a little time to spare--the little
time which you can spare from the resting hours or nap-time in the
midsummer days. And any common sort of pot which you can buy for
two or three sen will do just as well. And since it is the glory
of early morning you have not to prepare anything, even when you
invite your friends; a cup of tea will be sufficient. We hear quite
often of cases of chrysanthemum parties which were the cause of
poverty; but the _asagao_ is not such a vulgar thing at all. And,
on the other hand, it will make you forget the summer heat. It
is the nature of the flower to love the intense heat; in the hot
weather you have them more beautiful. The _asagao_ man is simply
glad to have the hottest days: “Surely to-morrow morning’s display
will be a splendour,” he will say. He will not lose his time in
taking a nap, but busy himself arranging the flower vines; and his
brain will not suffer from the heat if he wear a large hat--on the
contrary it will feel better. I have seen many cases of _asagao_
cultivation curing brain illness. And it represents the true spirit
of Japanese democracy; it is such an aristocratic flower, like the
chrysanthemum. A peer and a heimin will equally enjoy it: at the
Himpivokwai (_asagao_ show) people of every station have equal
freedom and enjoyment.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LOTUS
The “time of the lotus” is suggestive of the damp hot August days when
from earliest dawn the cicadas will be singing, if their discordant
noise can be described as song, and the croaking of the frogs day and
night, makes one wonder at last whether frogs _never_ grow hoarse, or
cicadas _never_ tire of singing. From the last weeks in July till the
first weeks of September the lotus will be blooming bravely, undaunted
by the sun’s fierce rays; and the first breath of autumn, which brings
new life and energy to a human being after the heat of the summer, will
mean death to the lotus. Truly it is a beautiful flower this flower of
Buddha, as from its close association with the Buddhist religion it
seems essentially to belong to Buddha. The colossal figures known as
the Dai butsu at Kamakura and Nara sit in immovable calm as
[Illustration: LOTUS AT KODAIJI]
though drawing inspiration from the bronze lotus before them; the
silence of their souls is the silence of the flowers, and the
shape of the open blooms in the sunlight is the symbol of Buddha’s
enlightenment. Every little idol of Buddha, be it in the family shrine
or grand and stately temple, sits upon a lotus throne; the temples are
all decorated with carved lotus or the freshly cut flowers in their
season; gold and silver paper lotus are carried at funerals; tombstones
are often set upon a stone base in the form of a lotus flower, and
lotus beds are planted near shrines. The mighty feudal lord Iyeyasu
sleeps in the silence of Nikko’s cryptomerias, hearing only once in
a while the long sad cry of a great bell, and before him as his only
companions are the eternally same bronze lotus flowers. So not only is
the lotus the especial flower of Buddha, but it is also regarded as the
flower of death, and for that reason it is disliked as a decoration for
any occasion of rejoicing.
There is no more beautiful sight than a lotus bed at the dawn of a
hot August day. Stately and yet tender is the beauty of the lotus
blossom, the great buds opening with a noise which is indescribable
to one who has not heard it; and how quickly the delicate pink or
white petals unfurl, as though hastening to make the most of their
short life, for before the overpowering heat of the August noonday
the flower closes, to open once more on the morrow and then die a
graceful death; the petals dropping one by one, but still retaining
all the freshness of their colour, and then nothing will be left but
the great seed pod, very beautiful in itself, but not as beautiful as
the great bluish-green leaves studded with dewdrops, which seem to
reflect every passing cloud. For the beauty of the lotus lies not only
in its flowers; you will begin to see the beauty of the plant even
when the tender young leaves peep out shyly upon the surface of a pond
in early June; their colour is dark brown, and the Japanese call them
_zeniba_ from their resemblance to the shape of copper money. Then
day by day the leaves will spread and float out as a spirit upon the
water, gradually the stalks grow and they will get higher and higher,
their broad curling surfaces losing the bronze colour and turning to
every shade of soft green and deep emerald; and so through all the
scorching summer days they remain fresh and cool to look upon, until in
October they begin to flag, but they will be beautiful even in death.
The stalks then seem too weak to carry their burden any longer, and
suddenly, even as one
[Illustration: LOTUS AT KYOMIDZU]
watches them, the stem bends near the top, and the great curling leaf
will give one last shiver in the breeze, topple, and turn over and hang
with head bent as if in penitence.
Though the beauty of each individual flower may be short-lived, each
morning will bring fresh buds, which in a few hours open into fresh
flowers, bringing new beauty to the lotus bed; so its glory lasts for
six long weeks.
For the true lover of the lotus there can be scarcely any night, for
soon after midnight he must rise and start for the lotus pond to see
their real beauty and hear the opening of the buds with the sudden
touch of dawn; so in old days the Japanese used to visit the famous
Shinobazu pond in Uyeno Park, where the little temple dedicated to the
goddess Benten stands on a small peninsula, as though to protect the
lake from desecration, though if that were her mission she has surely
failed. Four years before, I too, in the early morning, had visited
the Shinobazu pond, and filled with awe and admiration had spent many
hours watching the rosy petals open, and the great glaucous leaves
toss hither and thither with every breath of wind, and the iridescent
dragon-flies darting through the air; until driven away at last by
the overwhelming heat, I had to seek shelter from the sun. Again last
August I felt I must see the lotus at Uyeno in all their glory; but
I feel ashamed, for the traditions of Japan, to say what greeted me.
Great staring Exhibition buildings in the worst possible taste have
been built all along the shores of this historical lake. But the worst
part is still to come: overshadowing the little shrine and into the
very heart of one of the great stretches of lotus leaves dashed a
water-chute. It took my breath away. I stood spell-bound, and then
turned away with horror and asked myself, as many other people, alas!
are asking: “Are the Japanese losing all their artistic feelings?”
Happily there are still many quiet spots where lotus grow, away from
the desecrating hand of the “new Japan,” and there we can sit and enjoy
this “emblem of purity,” its clean fresh flowers and leaves rising
unsullied from the stagnant mud; and this is one reason for associating
it with a religious life, or comparing it to the virtuous soul of a
woman who lives in suspicious surroundings.
A favourite Buddhist precept says: “If thou be born in the poor man’s
hovel, but hast wisdom, then art thou like the lotus flower growing out
of the mud!”
Wherever undisturbed pools and channels of muddy water exist, the lotus
is to be found: the old moats surrounding the remains of a grand old
Daimyo’s castle, the muddy temple or monastery ponds, and even the
ditches beside the railway, will all be rendered gay in the summer,
when the great pink and white lotus are in bloom. Their history is a
very old one, for their beauty is sung in the old Buddhist _sutra_,
and one passage describing the golden glory of Paradise tells of “a
pond where the lotus flowers large as a carriage-wheel grow; the green
flowers shine in green light, the yellow flowers in yellow light, red
flowers in red light, and the white flowers are supreme in beauty and
odour.”
It may be true that the leaves are as large and round as a
carriage-wheel--of a Japanese carriage, a _kuruma_; and certainly I
should be afraid to state rashly how large and high the foliage of the
white variety may grow. The white _Nelumbium speciosum_, for all the
so-called lotus of Japan are really this species of water-lily, has
a powerful and sweet perfume; but the pink ones, which are far more
beautiful, have but little scent. I think the leaves and their stems,
as well as the flower, must have their own peculiar odour; for often I
noticed near lotus beds, where no blossoms were to be seen, a strong
and rather sickly perfume came floating in the air in whiffs which will
always be associated in my mind with lotus, as I cannot compare their
scent to that of any other flower.
There are other varieties, one a deep crimson colour and one called
“gold-thread lotus,” but these are seldom seen. The Indian lotus has a
larger double flower, deep pink in colour, which never closes day or
night, and the blooms last in beauty for five or six days. In India,
the source and centre of Buddhism, the lotus has been chosen as a
national flower, and Burmah also is famed for its lotus; so wherever
Buddhism makes its presence felt, there you will find the lotus. Sir
Monier Williams says that “its constant use as an emblem seems to
result from the wheel-like form of the flower--the petals taking the
place of spokes, and thus typifying the doctrine of perpetual cycles of
existence.”
The lotus is a favourite subject with the Japanese artist in
conjunction with the mandarin duck and other water-fowl, and so
faithfully do the Japanese represent their flowers that each vein
in the leaves seems to be depicted if not exaggerated. Mr. Parsons
admirably describes the lotus, and also this form of exaggeration and
mannerism in their art--
Take for example the spots on the lotus stems; if you look very
closely you can see that there are spots, but certainly it could
not strike every artist as a marked feature of the plant, for they
are not visible three yards away. But some master noticed them
many years ago and spotted his stems, and now they all spot them,
the spots getting bigger and bigger; and so it will be until some
original genius arises who will not be content with other people’s
eyes, but will dare to look for himself, and he may perhaps,
without abandoning Japanese methods, get nearer to nature, and
start a renaissance in Japanese art.
He also remarks--
The lotus is one of the most difficult plants which it has ever
been my lot to try to paint: the flowers are at their best only in
the early morning, and each blossom, after it has opened, closes
again before noon of the first day; on the second day its petals
drop. The leaves are so large and so full of modelling that it
is impossible to generalise them as a mass, each one has to be
carefully studied, and every breath of wind disturbs their delicate
balance and completely alters their forms. Besides this, their
glaucous surface, like that of a cabbage leaf, reflects every
passing phase of the sky, and is constantly changing in colour as
clouds pass over.
Such is an artist’s true appreciation.
No honour seems too great for this flower of Buddha, and we are told
that you will be permitted, if you are fortunate enough to be among
those who are admitted into Nirvana, or Paradise, to sit upon the lotus
throne, leaving behind the dirt and dust of the world. In the days of
old Japan, when the religious influence was stronger, and far more
romantic than it is to-day, to sit together upon the lotus throne in
Paradise was the customary dream of two lovers who wished to commit
suicide.
Another honour for the lotus is that the Japanese dedicate their
wonderful and awe-inspiring mountain Fuji-san to it, and call it Fugo
Ho, meaning Lotus Peak. Thousands of their poets have sung praises of
this lotus peak, but to our minds the words of Mrs. M‘Neill Fenollosa
will be easier to understand: “Now far beyond the grayness, to the
west, the cone of Fuji flashes into splendour. It, too, is pink; its
shape is the shape of a lotus bud, and the long fissures that plough
the mountain-side are now but the delicate gold veining of a petal.
Slowly it seems to open. It is the chalice of a new day, and the pledge
of consecration.” It would seem as though the opening of the lotus
flower is the signal of the awakening of summer dawn and the opening of
a new day.
In Chinese literature there is a legend of Teiko
[Illustration: LOTUS FLOWERS]
who gathered his guests together on a midsummer day and put wine in the
lotus leaves and let his guests drink it from the stems of the leaves.
A truly romantic feast.
In Japan the leaves are used for dishes at the Soul’s Festival in July;
the dead spirits who return to this world from Hades are supposed to
eat the offerings from the leaf dishes. The Japanese have a delicacy
called _hasu meshi_--_hasu_ meaning lotus, _meshi_, rice--consisting of
the young and tender lotus leaves chopped fine and cooked with rice.
They also eat the little fruit of the lotus, no larger than a pebble,
which, contrary to most fruit, can be eaten raw when it is unripe, but
gets so terribly hard as it ripens that it has to be cooked. The dried
leaves seem to be valued as a drug, and also the vegetable-sellers wrap
their vegetables in them. All this is too unromantic to be associated
with the lotus, and I was better pleased to hear of the Japanese phrase
_ben po_, meaning lotus step, which they associate with the light step
of a beautiful woman. A pretty story of old China is told of the Lord
Tokonko of the province Sei, who was extravagant in the extreme. He
had as his mistress a lovely girl called Han hi. One day he made lotus
petals of real gold and scattered them in his garden; then he called
out to his mistress to let her step on them, and he was very happy to
see his fair lady and his gold flowers equally well matched in beauty.
Truly Han hi’s “lotus step” must have been a wonder.
In saying farewell to the time of the lotus I feel I cannot do better
than quote Mrs. Fenollosa’s charming poem--
For years, long years ago, on lake and river,
The lotus bloomed, with petals curl on curl
Close folded; and to full perfection never
Had opened wide those lattices of pearl.
Like fair white maids with finger-tips a-meeting,
Like wordless song unwed to music’s art,
They pierced the stream each morn in pallid greeting;
Then shrank in silence, for they had no heart.
Above them, nightly, stars would lean, and hover
With gifts of whisper-rays, and kisses long;
But all in vain, till one transcendent lover
Slid down from heaven among the startled throng.
At morn the flowers stood still like pale nuns hushing;
But one among them throbbed her sweetness far,
Like arms outspread the full-veined petals flushing,
For in her trembling heart there lay a star.
And since that hour the sky rains lovers ever;
All day they rock within that soft embrace.
At night the petals close; the stars up-quiver,
And sighing, seek their old accustomed place.
CHAPTER XV
THE CHRYSANTHEMUM
“See a _kiri_ leaf fallen on the ground and know that autumn is with
us” is a common saying in Japan. The leaves of the _kiri_ (pawlonia)
tree are so responsive to the spirit of autumn, which advances steadily
till we see no garden flowers, no wild flowers, and have no longer the
song of the insects, and one cannot fail to be impressed with some
touch of sorrow; but the Japanese take sheer delight in the sadness of
autumn, for soon the white frosts will be thick upon the ground and
will turn the leaves of the maples on the mountain-side into a blaze
of scarlet and gold, and then the _kiku_ or chrysanthemum flowers will
open.
The chrysanthemum has often been called the national flower of Japan,
a rank more properly belonging to the cherry blossom; the mistake
arises from the fact that the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum is the
Imperial emblem. The Japanese give a poetical reason for the choice
of this especial flower as the Emperor’s crest: as in olden days the
chrysanthemum used to be called _Kukuri hana_ or “Binding Flower,”
because as the blossoms tie or gather themselves together at the top,
so the Mikado binds himself round the hearts and souls of his people;
and it is a coincidence that the present Emperor’s birthday falls in
the _kiku_ month (November). For a thousand years the chrysanthemum
was admired as a retired beauty by the garden fence and under a simple
mode of culture; but it became the flower of the rich to a great extent
under the _Tokugawa_ feudal régime, and of late years the culture of
_kiku_ or chrysanthemum is the greatest luxury. It would probably
surprise one to know how much Count Okuma and Count Sakai, the two best
known chrysanthemum raisers in Japan, spend annually upon their plants;
and many other people have found the reason of their poverty in _kiku_
culture. Though one cannot but admire any advance in horticulture,
carried to such an extent it seems to me merely a degeneration, and
this “retired nobleman of flowers” (the Japanese call their _kiku_ one
of the _sikunshi_ or four
[Illustration: CHRYSANTHEMUMS, KYOTO]
floral gentlemen, the other floral gentlemen being the plum, bamboo,
and _ran_ or orchid) will grow quite as well, and attain as great
perfection, in some little humble dwelling which has only a miniature
garden, provided the necessary time and care, not money, is given to
the plants.
The chrysanthemum has always been much honoured by the Imperial Court,
and even in the ninth century garden parties were held in the Palace
gardens to do honour to the blossoms, even as in the present day a
yearly chrysanthemum party is held in the Imperial grounds. In ancient
days the guests sat drinking wine and composing odes to the blossoms,
and the courtiers adorned their hair with _kiku_ flowers, at these
pastoral feasts. To-day these modern displays of chrysanthemum plants
partake of our own conventional flower shows, the plants being arranged
somewhat formally in long open rustic sheds; but the variety of colour,
every imaginable shade being produced, and the profusion of form, also
the immense size of some of the plants, one alone a few years ago
bearing 1272 blooms, make a brilliant scene, different from any other
flower show in the world; for where else would the plants have such
a setting as in these beautiful Asakasa grounds, where the gorgeous
colour of the maples rivals that of the chrysanthemums.
From an artistic point of view there is nothing to admire in the great
chrysanthemum show which opens yearly at Dangozaka in Tokyo, and one
cannot but agree with the poet Hoichi Shonin, who says--
What an inferior heart of man!
Lo! a waxwork chrysanthemum show!
However, one must admit the cleverness and some sort of art in these
show pieces; and one cannot fail to be interested if only by watching
the expectant faces of the thousands or tens of thousands of people who
visit these different little shows. How the children’s faces beam when
they approach the place and see the thousands of flags and lanterns,
gaily coloured curtains and stalls decorated with souvenirs in every
conceivable form, of the day among the _kiku_ flowers. The people are
so enthusiastic over these puppet shows, which may be a scene from an
old play, an act from history, or, most interesting of all, the newest
occurrences of the day, all represented in chrysanthemums! In order to
make the figures pot plants are used, not cut flowers, but splendid
plants in full bloom, genuine plants, the roots of which are skilfully
hidden or disguised. The colours of the flowers will be combined to
represent the dresses, and indeed it is very interesting to see the
figures being prepared in October when the plants are in bud, for
each separate bud will be tied to the skeleton frame so that when the
blossoms are open they form a compact mass of colour; and it is also
very striking to notice the harmony of the colours, and then the bold
lines made by a contrast of colour.
A year or two ago there was nothing more popular than war scenes of the
Russian and Japanese campaign. One scene which has remained green in
the memory of many a Japanese was the representation of the blocking of
the harbour at Port Arthur, with Captain Hiroze, that valiant officer,
and his fellow _keshitai_ (determined to die) as the characters. It
was composed of two thousand chrysanthemum roots; upon a sea of the
royal flowers, dark coloured at the heart and rising to sprays of snow
white, to form the crests of the waves and tossing billows, rode the
boat manned by the heroes. The second scene was a tribute to the enemy:
it represented the stalwart white-bearded Russian Admiral Makaroff,
who, standing on the bridge, sword in hand, went down with his
ship--a veritable storm of white flowers, dashed with red, and here
and there a few sailors groping blindly. There was yet another show
which represented the night after the great battle of Lia Yang, when
the spirits of the dead soldiers appeared, all flower-clad, with white
swords in their hands, with which to salute the sleeping fighters.
Every year the showmen find some new subject in order to keep up the
people’s interest. Besides these dramatic shows, there are splendid
specimen plants; and what I always admired about the large plants in
Japan was the perfect foliage, the rather dwarfed growth, and the way
in which all the blossoms on the plant open together. There is a plant
called “Good Luck “ bearing a thousand flowers, all from a single root,
which is a great favourite, and certainly it is nothing short of a
horticultural wonder. Their fancy names seemed very poetical, and I
cannot refrain from quoting a few, with their translation, in the words
of a Japanese--
“Look at the ‘Princesses of the Blood’ in a long stately row, tall
and graceful, their proud flowers resplendent and white as the driven
snow; or here is _Ake-no-sora_, ‘the Sky at Dawn,’ with a pale pink
flower the colour of cherry blossoms; or _Asa hi no nami_, ‘Waves in
the Morning Sun,’ because it has a pale reddish blossom; also _Yu hi
kage_, ‘Shadows of the Evening Sun,’ with dull red blooms; and finally
the pure white ‘Companions of the Moon,’ _Tsuki-no-tomo_.” There
appeared to be over 150 of these poetical flowers.
But do not imagine that it is only in the gardens of the rich or
arranged as waxwork puppet shows that you will find chrysanthemums, for
surely, if that were the case, little pleasure would be derived from
their beloved _kiku_. It has been said of the Japanese, “It is not the
plant he loves, but the effect that the plant enables him to attain.”
This may be true of plants in relation to the landscape garden, where
everything must be according to the rubric or laws of gardening, but
surely it is not true of chrysanthemum plants. Many an enthusiast
have I known to whom his _kiku_ was his most valued and cherished
possession, and daily were the “Plants of the Four Seasons” (a fancy
name for chrysanthemums on account of their period of growth extending
through all the seasons) tended with loving hands. We are told of a
great man in the days of the Min dynasty who, tired of struggling with
the world and life, gave up his rank and retired to some forgotten
spot, entirely in order to enjoy the sight of the chrysanthemum in his
garden and a jug of wine; and the greatest delight of his life was
to see the flowers bedewed in the morning light, and to exchange his
poet’s faith and love with this “nobleman of flowers.” Perhaps in these
days when the curse of modern civilisation is spreading throughout
the land we shall not see many such enthusiasts as Yen Mei; but there
are still many chrysanthemum lovers, many to whom the first week in
November is the best week of the year. Just as the Japanese admire the
flower for its noble bearing, so did I admire the bearing of their
owners; however humble the dwelling, however small the collection, the
proud possessor seemed always to be one of “Nature’s noblemen”; never
did I encounter such warm and true hospitality combined with dignity
and grace as during the _kiku_ month from my chrysanthemum hosts. One
scene especially seems to have remained graven into my memory, in that
land of surprises.
A friend offered to take me to see some especially fine chrysanthemums;
their owner, he said, was celebrated for their culture; and he led me
through the whole length and breadth of the fish market, I imagined
only in order to make a short cut to our destination, but no! we
stopped in front of a large fish-stall, and at the magic word _kiku_
[Illustration: A CHRYSANTHEMUM GARDEN]
the owner’s face beamed with delight, for surely here was a
fellow-enthusiast, even though she is a “foreigner,” come to admire his
beloved flowers. He signed to me to thread my way past the somewhat
unappetising-looking fish, and, as though at the touch of a fairy wand,
the scene changed. A paper shutter slid back and the beauty revealed
beyond surpassed anything that mortal could imagine--little corners
and flashes of loveliness in all directions. At the very entrance
were grouped a few splendid plants, each bloom perfection itself, and
then with cries of “Irasshai irasshai” (Welcome, welcome) and the
regulation greeting of “Please come in, my house is yours” from every
side, I entered, crossing the cool matting, past a tiny court filled
with the treasured plants and adorned with a hanging iron lantern
which filled my soul with envy, through the spotless rooms with the
alcove and the regulation _kakemono_ and the _tokonoma_ on which stood
a flower arrangement of _Baka sakura_ (“Fool Cherry,” because it has
come into flower at the wrong season), to the court beyond, where
stood the famous collection. The whole scene diffused a feeling of
perfect contentment as I sat upon the regulation _fukusa_ in the place
of honour, the place corresponding to the “Stone of Contemplation”
of every Japanese garden, the one spot from which the whole effect is
seen to best advantage. The plants were grouped in front of the family
shrine, and to protect them from the autumn storms a light roofing
of paper and bamboo had been erected; the little garden contained a
few stepping-stones, a bronze water basin, a few lanterns, and to
screen off any possible view of anything suggestive of fish was a
delicate bamboo screen-fence. The blossoms seemed to represent every
colour, shape, and size that it was possible for a chrysanthemum to
assume, all perfectly grown plants. Some varieties were quite new to
me--tall, slender-growing stems crowned with little fluffy blossoms not
suggesting the usual form of a chrysanthemum; another, which when fully
developed would form a complete pyramid of closely packed petals of a
dark crimson hue, was awarded the place of honour, as there were only
two other plants of the same kind in all Japan. I noticed some plants
bearing a label which differed from any others, and then I was told
that each year a special messenger is sent by the Emperor to choose
a few plants from this humble fishmonger’s garden to be added to the
Imperial collection. The labelled plants formed this year’s offering
to his Mikado, and small wonder they were the pride of the house; and
I too was impressed by the feeling that in the floral kingdom, as in a
Higher Kingdom, all men are equal, as the _kiku_ flowers had grown as
well, if not better, in this lowly dwelling as in the Emperor’s vast
domains.
I cannot recall any incident during all my stay in Japan which gave
me more pleasure than my visit to this humble home, and as I left,
laden with little _kiku_ cakes and with the prescribed compliments,
obeisances, and sincere admiring exclamations over the flowers, I had
every intention of availing myself of the repeated invitations to
“Please come again.” The plants one day were in their full glory, the
great heads of perfect blossom had only just attained perfection, when
I was told that this was to be their last day of life, on the morrow
every plant would be cut down. I exclaimed in horror at this apparent
slaughter of the innocents in their prime of life, but it was explained
to me that the sacrifice was necessary in order to secure the cuttings
for the next year’s plants. I could not help thinking that if I had
nursed the cherished plants all through the year, shading them from the
intense heat of summer on the house-top, never allowing them to know
the want of water, I could not have spared the blossoms in their prime
even for the sake of the next year’s growth.
Many another peaceful little garden I can recall where I was welcomed
with all the grace and hospitality suggestive of Old Japan, and to
this day apparently inseparable from the lovers of chrysanthemums.
Two neighbours vied with each other in _kiku_ culture, their houses
only separated by a few yards. In one, an old man, whose bearing and
manners suggested the Daimyo of olden days, sat as if he too, tired of
the world, had retired with the sole companionship of his plants. Very
lovely was his tiny garden, with the plants just grouped in front of
the two rooms which constituted his entire house, and there he sat in
quiet contemplation, or bowing low to meet some new-comer who had come
to admire his flowers, and all seemed welcome, strangers and friends
alike, as long as they loved the blossoms. Here might be seen the great
sun-like _Nihon Ichi_(“First in Japan”), white and yellow; and there is
_Haruna Kasumi_, like its name, suggesting spring haze, or _Natsu gumo_
(“Summer Clouds”); but with all this infinite variety I noticed that,
like in China, where by “the yellow flower” is meant the chrysanthemum
of that country, so here in Japan, the yellow blossoms
[Illustration: CHRYSANTHEMUMS]
seemed the most prized, though the pure white is a close rival for
popularity, their blooms thick with the morning dew reminding us of the
fairy who lived only by sipping the dews upon the _kiku_ flowers. How
beautiful, too, are these white blossoms in death when the frost has
made their petals turn slowly to a crimson colour.
Across the road I found another little sanctuary, another home for
the flowers. Here a tiny tea-room was the point of vantage, and from
there I gazed, sipping tea from the daintiest of tiny cups. What an
ideal place to sit and meditate and wonder over the goodness of things!
Below was the rocky bed of a stream, but it was a dry river-bed, only
white pebbles represented the stream, and on the banks were grouped the
plants, forming a sheet of colour--great gorgeous blossoms, not of such
mammoth and unnatural proportions as our show blooms, but every kind
were here, single, loose, or double; stiff, flopping, or erect; borne
in a veritable harvest.
Yet another humble dwelling I remember where the plants were grouped
with consummate art. In every garden there should be a keynote in the
scheme, and here the keynote was the view of Hieisan: framed between
the blossoms, which grew in a great foaming mass, rose the great
mountain, as though it were the guardian of the garden. The plants had
brilliantly rewarded a loyal devotion, and as I turned away I realised
the manner in which Japanese love their flowers.
As I sat admiring their gardens, my friends told me many fairy stories
and legends connected with the _kiku_. Perhaps one of the prettiest is
called “The Chrysanthemum Promise.” Samon Hase, a scholar and samurai,
offered a night’s lodging to a gentleman from the western country, and
his guest suddenly fell ill. Samon promised the sick man to give him
every help: “Be easy in your thought. Above all, be not discouraged!”
The sick man was Soemon Akana, who had been with a friend on a mission
which failed, and his friend was killed, and he was on his way home
when he fell ill. Samon and Soemon quickly became friends, and finally
they promised to be as brothers to each other. The latter stayed
until he grew well; and then he said he must go back to his native
province of Izume, but promised that he would return again and stay
with Samon for the rest of his days. He said firmly that the day of the
chrysanthemum feast (ninth of September in the old calendar) would be
the day of his return.
September came, and on the ninth Samon rose early to make preparations
for his returning brother. The sun began slowly to set, but Soemon did
not come. Samon thought he would retire to bed, but as he looked out
once more into the night he noticed that the moon was hiding behind the
hill, and he saw a curious black shadow coming towards him with the
wind. It was Soemon Akana.
Samon made his brother sit by the chrysanthemum vase in the place
of honour, and Akana said, “I have no word to express my thanks for
your kindness. But pray listen, and do not doubt me: I am not a
living person but only a shadow”; and he told how he had been put in
prison, but finding no other means of escape he killed himself. “As
I was told,” he said, “that a spirit could travel a thousand miles a
day, so I killed myself, and rode on the wind to see you on this day
of my chrysanthemum promise.” I felt if this legend were taught in
the schools of to-day a moral might be pointed with advantage on the
subject of keeping appointments and promises, which is not a strong
point with the modern Japanese.
There is another pretty story of two brothers who had always lived
together in the north of Japan. The time came for them to separate,
and when the younger one was about to start on his journey south,
they wept bitterly, and said that each would keep the half of a
chrysanthemum plant in memory of the other, and thereby recall the
happy days they had spent together. The brothers afterwards planted
the halves in two gardens, one in the north, the other in the south;
but the blossoms, it is said, kept the original shape of the half of a
chrysanthemum for ever.
The chrysanthemum is so associated with the story of O Kiku, the little
maid of Himeji, in the province of Banshu, that I feel I cannot do
better than tell it in the words of Lafcadio Hearn--
Himeji contains the ruins of a great castle of thirty turrets; and
a daimyo used to dwell therein, whose revenue was one hundred and
fifty-six thousand koku of rice. Now, in the house of one of that
daimyo’s chief retainers was a maid-servant of good family, whose
name was O Kiku; and the Kiku signifies a chrysanthemum flower.
Many precious things were entrusted to her charge, and among
other things ten costly dishes of gold. One of these was suddenly
missed and could not be found; and the girl, being responsible
therefor, and knowing not otherwise how to prove her innocence,
drowned herself in a well. But ever thereafter her ghost, returning
nightly, could be heard counting the dishes slowly, with sobs:
_Ichi-mai_, _Ni-mai_, _San-mai_, _Yo-mai_, _Go-mai_, _Roku-mai_,
_Shichi-mai_, _Hachi-mai_, _Ku-mai_.
Then there would be heard a despairing cry and a loud burst
of weeping, and again the girl’s voice counting the dishes
plaintively: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.”
Her spirit passed into the body of a strange little insect, whose
head faintly resembled that of a ghost with long dishevelled hair;
and it is called _O kiku-mushi_, or the “fly of O Kiku”; and it is
found, they say, nowhere save in Himeji. A famous play was written
about O Kiku, which is still acted in all the popular theatres,
entitled _Banshu-O-Kiku-no-Sara-Ya-shiki_, or “The Manor of the
Dish of O Kiku of Banshu.”
But there are people who say that Banshu is Bancho, an ancient quarter
of Tokyo (Yedo). The people of Himeji claim, however, that part of
their city now called Go-Ken-Yashiki is the site of the ancient manor
of the story. And it is deemed unlucky to cultivate chrysanthemums in
Go-Ken-Yashiki.
CHAPTER XVI
THE MAPLE LEAVES
The Japanese quite rightly give the name of _Ko haru_ or Little Spring
to the Indian summer, Keats’s season of mists and mellow fruitfulness;
for indeed those beautiful weeks in November are incomparable, the
heavy damp heat of the summer has lifted, the sky is clear and blue,
the atmosphere is light, and the freshness of spring seems to have
returned to revive the dying year. They say, “Here is the right end,
since we had a right start.” These fortunate people who rejoice in
the beauty of spring beginning with the plum blossoms born out of
the frost, now have the autumn with the _momiji_ or maple leaves to
complete the floral season, and the red leaves will be the beauty of
the maturing year. Autumn weaves her red and gold brocade and spreads
it on mountain and tree, the whole country being alight with the
scarlet
[Illustration: THE SCARLET MAPLE]
and gold of the _momiji_; for not only the maples are called _momiji_,
but any tree whose leaves turn red in their last moment of life.
Throughout the land there are favourite places where the holiday-maker
holds his maple-viewing feast. The trees at Nikko are probably the
first to turn, and by the middle of October this little mountain
village will be visited by a throng of sight-seers, all bent on viewing
the red leaves; and here truly not only the maples, but every tree
seems to wear its mantle of autumn brocade, making a splendid contrast
to the bronze green of the cryptomerias. The first touch of frost will
have made the trees blush, so the Japanese say--it being a favourite
expression of theirs, when a blush of modesty spreads over a girl’s
cheeks, to say that “she scatters red leaves on her face,”--and then
will come the first light fall of snow or a rude wind storm and scatter
all the silent beauty of the valley. If you would continue your maple
feast, you must go farther south, say to Oji near Tokyo, where you will
find a whole glen filled with nothing but maples. No other _momiji_
will dispute their fiery splendour; and there, in a little rustic
tea-shed, you can sit and gaze at the gorgeous scene below, and wonder
whether it is more beautiful to see the leaves like lace-work against
the sky, or to look down on the great spreading branches shading the
stream below. Here and there will be a tree that does not deserve the
name of _momiji_, for it has no red leaves. Possibly it is a descendant
of the celebrated maple-tree of the Shomeiji temple at Mutsuura, which
turned a glorious colour when summer had scarcely waned, in order to
earn the praise of the poet Chunagon Tamesuke, who went to seek the
beauties of the early maple. The tree being fully satisfied with the
admiration of the poet, remained green for ever after; for did not the
poet say--
“How did this one tree thus get coloured?
This one garden maple-tree
Showing Autumn before the mountain trees!”
It is always said that the poetical spirit of Tamesuke moved the
responsive heart of the maple-tree.
Kyoto, the old capital, with its history of centuries, is celebrated
for the numerous places renowned for maple-viewing. All through the
early part of November there is feasting, combined possibly with
mushroom-gathering, a favourite pastime connected with the viewing
of the _momiji_. Near by there is Tsuten Bridge, where the sound
of revelry will greet you as you approach, and there will be the
inevitable little tea-stalls, decorated with curtains printed with
a few flaunting maple leaves, lanterns ornamented with the same red
leaves, and branches of the trees adorned with red and yellow paper
leaves; bearing a streamer with the name of the place, or possibly a
diminutive paper lantern, to carry away as a souvenir of the day’s
feasting. If you want a wider field and more extensive view, remember
Takao is waiting in all its glory to greet you; there a great stream of
colour winds away down the valley following the course of the little
mountain torrent. You must rise early for maple-viewing, to see the
trees while the sun is on them; when the sun goes it seems as though he
takes half the beauty of the _momiji_ away with him, only to return it
on the morrow, it is true, if the clear bright days will last through
the short season of the _momiji_. Any night a cruel frost may come, and
next day the ground will be covered with a scarlet carpet, reminding
one of the story of that great lover of maple leaves, the Emperor
Takakura-no-In. He planted the maple-trees at Kita-no-Jin, and called
the spot Momiji Yama or Maple-leaf Hill. His great delight was to see
the red leaves which carpet the ground with autumn glory. One morning
his unpoetical gardeners swept away the fallen leaves, and the officers
of the Imperial household were awestruck, as they were sure the Emperor
would visit the hill to see the red leaves which might have been cast
down by the night wind. He went to the hill, and the officers appealed
to him to have pity on the gardeners’ ignorance. “It reminds me,” said
the Emperor, “of the famous verse by Ri Tai Haku which runs--
We will warm the wine under the maple-trees;
We will burn up the maple leaves.”
Such is the song of autumn: “how lovely the gardeners’ hearts in
gathering the leaves to warm their hearts and wine.” So not only was
the stupidity of the gardeners excused, but happily their action was
approved. Had the gardeners such poetical hearts? I doubt it; rather,
how forgiving was the heart of the Emperor.
Arashi Yama must not be omitted from the maple-viewing feast. Here
the beauties of Nature summon us twice a year--in spring to visit the
cherry blossoms, in autumn to view the _momiji_. At the latter season
the trees are dressed in red, and the water will be red too, so thickly
is it carpeted with the fallen leaves. If one takes a
[Illustration: VIEWING THE MAPLES]
boat to cross the water one feels ashamed to see the rent it makes in
the “autumn brocade,” for the boat will cut a track right through the
thin carpet of leaves, of which the poet says--
The hurdle that the wind has built
Over the mountain river,
Is nothing but the maple leaves
Not run down the stream.
At Mino there are nothing but maples as far as the eye can reach, on
and on down the glen, an incredible blaze of colour. But it was not in
these great masses, though no one can deny their gorgeous splendour,
that the maple gave me most pleasure; it was rather in some quiet
garden away from the sound of feasting that a few trees of the choicer
and therefore even more brilliant coloured varieties afforded me most
enjoyment. I am thinking now of a warm November day when I had been
bidden to take part in a tea ceremony, with all its quaint ceremonial
and code of rules. Sitting in the little simple open tea-room--for does
not the law forbid any elaborate decoration in the room set apart for
tea ceremonies, and must not the room always be open on one, if not two
sides?--while trying to conform to the rigid etiquette of this pretty
ceremony of drinking tea in a preternaturally slow manner, when it was
no longer my turn to admire in regulation words one of the articles
used in the tea-making, my eye wandered to the scene outside, where,
hanging over a miniature cascade, adding effect to the tiny rushing
torrent, stood the maple-trees, surely the brightest I had ever seen.
Maple-trees are most necessary for the Japanese landscape garden,
especially when, as is usually the case, the style of the garden is
to reproduce natural scenery. The Japanese have a saying that autumn
comes from the west, therefore the maple-tree, the true representative
of autumn, should be planted on a hill towards the west, so that it
will welcome autumn promptly, and also in order that the reddening
leaves may receive additional splendour from the setting sun. Here,
in the glow of the western sun, it seemed incredible that the little
trees were only clad in leaves, not in flowers, for their colour was as
bright as, if not brighter than, the brilliant azaleas which had been
the pride of the garden in the flower month of May.
The nursery gardens are gay with splendid specimens of the much-prized
dwarf maple-trees, and every lover of these little trees will have a
few plants of _momiji_ in his collection. Some there may be which had,
as it were, been born with scarlet leaves--in spring the leaves having
opened a fiery red, their colour waning as the year wanes; others which
had only green leaves in the spring will, like true _momiji_, have got
more and more fiery in colour until the shadow of death comes over
them. Innumerable varieties there appeared to be, distinguished by the
shape of their leaves and the tone of their colour.
The changing life of the maple, Miss Scidmore tells us, has been made
use of by “the Japanese coquette, who sends her lover a leaf or branch
of maple to signify that, like it, her love has changed.” If you call a
Japanese baby and it opens its tiny hand, they call it “a hand of maple
leaf.”
Throughout November the whole land is redolent of _momiji_; not only
will the red leaves on the trees greet you at every turn, but you will
be offered tea out of little cups painted with just one red leaf, the
cakes represent maple leaves, the Geishas will all have soft crêpe
kimonos decked with a pattern of the flaunting leaves, or their stiff
silk obis will represent Nature’s “autumn brocade.” In the theatres
the romantic play called _Momiji gari_, or Maple-leaf Viewing, is
played, the stage being gorgeously decorated with maple-trees.
Possibly because it is the last flower-viewing feast of the year,
the _momiji_-viewing is almost the most popular, and when the last
leaf falls the feasters will have to rest until the plum blossoms are
opening, as Nature even in this land of flowers must take her winter’s
rest.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BAMBOO
What would the Japanese do without the bamboo? Indeed so extensive is
the part played by the bamboo, not only in the beautifying of the land,
but in her domestic economy, that the question is rather, what does it
_not_ do? The number of species of bamboo in Japan at present is stated
to be fifty, not including numerous other varieties and sports; among
them thirty-nine are indigenous, and the others have been imported
at various times from Korea, China, or the Lu-chu Islands. From time
immemorial the Japanese have not regarded the bamboo as a tree--it
forms a category apart, and they speak of “trees and bamboos”; they say
it belongs to the grasses, and is just a giant grass and nothing more.
It is indeed a beautiful and wonderful grass with a rate of growth
which cannot be compared to that of any other member of the vegetable
kingdom; some species are said to show a growth of several feet in
the course of four-and-twenty hours, reminding one of one of the many
ghastly forms of Chinese tortures, when a man is pegged to the ground
on the top of a sprouting bamboo, whose shoots are so strong that they
will grow right through the man’s body in the course of a single night.
Most people persist in regarding the bamboo as a tender tropical plant
unable to stand our bitter Northern winters; but there must be many
hardy species, as often they may be seen bending under the weight of
snow, even in the northern provinces of Japan, where the snow-fall is
measured not in inches but in feet. Many varieties there are which
no doubt would not flourish, varieties associated in one’s mind with
the gardens of Trinidad or the well-known Perediniya gardens in
Ceylon, but these tropical species should not be confounded with the
hardy forms which find their home in Japan and China. In the _Bamboo
Garden_, the author has viewed the bamboo chiefly from the standpoint
of acclimatisation in England, especially in the damper western and
southern counties, for dampness seems essential to the life of a
bamboo; in fact, so greedy is it of moisture that in many countries
where the rainfall in summer is small the bamboo is condemned, as
it sucks the life from surrounding plants. One of the commonest and
most beautiful species, the _moso dake_ or feathery bamboo, was an
import from China; it is so named from its golden stem and overhanging
plume-like fronds appearing like a group of feathers; and it is used
to a great extent as one of the features of a Japanese garden. Other
imported species are the _hochiku_ tree or square bamboo, and the _samo
chiku_, whose stems when young are of a bright red hue. These bamboos
were imported for industrial uses or for the adornment of rich men’s
gardens; and besides these there is a long list of other native and
foreign varieties.
To the bamboo the Japanese owe much, for it would seem to be the cause
of much of their clever constructive work; properly handled it will do
most things, but it is necessary to understand its proper treatment and
peculiar qualities. How puzzled an English carpenter would be if he
were asked to construct one of those delicate, dainty little tea-rooms
entirely of bamboo! which it is possible to do.
The larger species will provide a combination of lightness and
strength, which makes them an admirable framework for houses, and an
intermediate size will make ornamental doors or panelling, the varying
height of the joints forming a natural pattern; while the ornamental
floor of the verandah can be made of bamboo. The water-pipes will
be of bamboo, as they neither rust like iron nor get hot like wood;
and the carpenter will tell you that bamboo nails serve better for
certain purposes than metal ones, being non-conductors of heat and
non-corrosible. The thick poles seem remarkably strong, and are always
used for carrying heavy weights and for punt poles. The national flag
of the Rising Sun is sure to be flying from a bamboo. A complete list
of its uses would appear to be never-ending, but it is amusing to think
how many things in daily use in Japan are made of this “grass.” The
smaller kinds make fans and baskets, penholders and tobacco-pipe stems,
umbrellas and coolies’ hats, ladles and delicate whisks for stirring
the “honourable tea” at a tea ceremony, chopsticks for everyday use,
and bird-cages, fishing-rods and walking-sticks, flutes and trumpets,
every description of toy, and ornaments of innumerable kinds. Sandals
and the soles of clogs are made from the dried sheath of the culm of
the young bamboo, and it also serves for wrapping up such things as
rice sandwiches, meat and cake, or anything which is liable to stain
its receptacle. Fish-baskets made of split bamboo have a clean, cool
lining of _sasa_ or bamboo grass, a variety which grows on hills or
by the wayside; in spring its leaves are of the brightest green, but
become edged with white as the year wanes, producing the effect of a
variegated form. Other kinds, split and twisted, make strong hawsers,
and are even used in rural districts in the construction of bridges;
and yet another kind is boiled and flattened out into trays which are
much prized. The young shoots are boiled and eaten, and taste rather
like flavourless asparagus. So there is no end to the uses of the
bamboo. As mentioned elsewhere, it is one of the “four gentlemen of the
floral kingdom,” being associated with the pine, orchid, and plum. Its
never-fading colour causes it to be compared to the virtue of man or
the chastity of woman. O Take, meaning honourable bamboo, is one of the
popular names for a Japanese girl; and their writers and poets use it
frequently as a _nom de plume_.
One of the first stories of Japanese literature, in the tenth century,
was called _Taketori Monogatari_. Taketori, meaning bamboo gatherer,
is the story of an old man who made his living by making bamboo ware.
One day he saw in the woods a bamboo with a shining stem; he split it
open, and discovered in one of the joints a beautiful little maiden
only three inches in height. He took this wonderful little bamboo
maiden home and adopted her as his daughter, giving her the name of
Kagujakime or the “Shining Lady.” She grew up to womanhood, and her
marvellous beauty attracted many admirers. She assigned a quest to each
of them, under the promise that she would marry the suitor who should
succeed in accomplishing the task allotted to him. One lover was told
to fetch Buddha’s begging bowl of stone from India; another, to bring
her a branch of the tree with roots of silver, stem of gold, and fruit
of jewels, which grew in the fabulous island paradise of Mount Horai;
from the third she required a garment made of the fur of the fire-rat,
supposed to be non-inflammable; a fourth was to get the shining jewel
of many hues from the dragon’s head; and the fifth a swallow’s cowry
shell. It is no wonder that they all failed. This bamboo maiden was
then wooed by the Emperor, but equally in vain, though they remained on
friendly terms and kept up an exchange of sentimental _uta_ poems. She
was eventually taken up to heaven in a flying chariot, brought by her
relations in the moon; for it seems she had been banished to earth for
an offence which she had committed. Thus this wonderful “Shining Lady,”
from the joint of a bamboo, only three inches high--disappears.
Another bamboo fairy-story dear to the hearts of all Japanese children
is that of the Tongue-cut Sparrow. Sparrows and bamboos have been the
closest friends from an unknown age, and we hear the song “The sparrows
sing on the bamboos so sweetly.” The bamboo and sparrows combined form
the crest of the great lord of Sendai. Any Japanese child will tell you
how the poor little sparrow was driven out of his bamboo cage after
losing his little tongue, because he had eaten starch for washing
clothes belonging to a mean old woman. When her husband returned home
from the mountain and learned the fate of his pet bird, he said, “He
meant nothing bad in eating your starch. When you could so easily have
forgiven him, how could you be so cruel as to cut off his tongue and
drive him away? If I had been here he should never have been punished
so severely: this heartless deed was done because I was away. Alas! how
can I help shedding tears?” He started out the next morning to find his
lost pet, singing--
“Tongue-cut sparrow,
Where are you?
Where is your lodging,
Where are you?
Tongue-cut sparrow,
Chu, Chu, Chu.”
The sparrow soon recognised the voice of his master, and jumped out
of his house, exclaiming, “Pray enter my humble home!” The house was
made, of course, of bamboo bush, as sparrows’ houses always are, and
the pillars and roofs were also of bamboo. The sparrow said, “You have
come a long way to see me. How can I thank you enough! I cannot help
shedding tears of joy.” The story goes on to tell of all the strange
things the sparrow did, which turned to fortune for the old man.
However, when his wife came singing the same song, her greediness made
her bring a heavy basket instead of a light one, as her husband had
done. So when she opened the cover she found not gold and treasures as
her husband had done, but a monster with three eyes, a giant toad, a
viper, and other terrible reptiles.
Another simple Chinese story is from the so-called “Four-and-Twenty
Paragons of Filial Piety.” There was a man whose filial piety was so
wonderful that his true heart moved even Heaven
[Illustration: IRISES, HORIKIRI]
and Earth. His old mother wished to eat the tender bamboo shoots one
cold winter day when it was absurd to try and get them. This man
started towards a bush of bamboo to look into it, and there, to his
great surprise, he found plenty of the new shoots. It is said that
his great filial piety moved the hearts of the bamboo bushes and they
answered his true devotion voluntarily. Filial piety is the virtue _par
excellence_ of the Eastern world; such a story is very popular with
the Japanese people, and is read to their children to encourage their
devotion towards their old parents.
Like its associate the pine, the bamboo plays an important part in
the art of flower arrangement, though there again we are told by Mr.
Conder that strictly speaking it is regarded as neither a tree nor a
plant. Possibly the most important of all its uses in the art lies in
the fact that so many of the vessels made for holding the flowers are
made of bamboo, some merely plain sections, others of the most fanciful
description. Some of the baskets of Chinese origin were made of split
bamboo, and were so much prized in Japan that high prices were given
for antique specimens. So complicated an art does this one of floral
arrangement appear to be, that it would require many years to learn
the correct choice of the vessels into which certain flowers should
be arranged, which flowers are suitable as offerings for ceremonial
occasions, the correct combination of flowers and trees or shrubs, and
the shape in which they are to be arranged. The list of bamboo vessels
alone, with their fanciful names, would require months to master, and
no doubt in each separate one only certain flowers are permissible.
The original use of bamboo flower-vases seems to date from the days
of Yoshimasa, and, like so many other things, started by being merely
simple sections of a thick bamboo cut so that the bottom was closed
by a natural division, and the cylinders were a foot or so high. Then
came the invention of innumerable fancy forms: portions of the sides
were notched out, side apertures were introduced, and sometimes four or
five compositions were arranged in one vase. The names chiefly refer to
some fancied resemblance in the general shape--so we read of the Lion’s
Mouth shape, the Travelling-Pillow shape, Chinese Gateway, Shark’s
Mouth, Wild Geese’s Gateway, Lantern shape, Five Storey shape, Crane’s
Neck shape, and Monkey shape; in fact a list of many pages in length
might be given of all the varieties, but from the above will be seen
the extreme fancifulness of the supposed resemblance. Then, again, do
not imagine that the much-prized baskets are just a basket and nothing
more. They also assume fanciful names and shapes, such as the Raincoat
basket, so called because the frayed top hanging over the edge is
suggestive of the collar of a Japanese farmer’s straw raincoat; Cicada
and Butterfly baskets, from their resemblance to the insect; and the
Hood-shaped basket, suggesting the shape of the hoods worn by Japanese
women in cold weather.
Then we come to perhaps the prettiest of all, the boat-shaped
vessels, which are suspended by a cord or chain. The simplest of
these are bamboo tubes splayed off at the ends, hollowed out, and
hung horizontally. These, one would have thought, were probably their
original form as conceived by Yoshimasa whilst observing children
sailing toy boats filled with flowers; but the more elaborate bronze
vases in exact imitation of ships and junks came first, and the simpler
ones are of later origin. Some attribute the first use of boat vases to
the fact that the celebrated philosopher Soami, to please his patron
Yoshimasa, took a bronze vessel of accidental resemblance to a boat,
and by his arrangement of the flowers suggested the idea of a sailing
vessel. The regent was so pleased with this novel flower arrangement
that Soami devoted his attention to drawing up certain rules with
regard to boat arrangements.
Bamboo rafts formed of bamboos of different lengths tied together to
hang horizontally, either supporting a basket of flowers, or with one
of the tubes hollowed so as to hold the stems of the branches, show yet
another way in which the bamboo is used. Such a raft laden with cherry
blossoms is arranged to suggest the mountain scenery of Arashiyama and
the flower-laden craft in the season of cherry blossoms. The correct
use of the branches of bamboo as a decoration would appear to be no
less complicated than the choice of the vessels. A portion of the round
stem or tube is selected and only a few leaf-clad twigs are permitted
to remain, and, according to the occasion for which the arrangement is
being made, the tube must be splayed or cut horizontally. For instance,
for wedding feasts the cut must be concealed by leaves, as the sight of
it would be considered unlucky and suggestive of severed friendship.
Regulations also exist as to the number of twigs or leaves which are
to be left on the stems,--three or five as a rule; and yet further
rules as to the number of leaves to be left on these same twigs. Three
combinations are approved, known as the Fish tail, Goldfish tail, and
Flying Geese shape, which consists of three sloping leaves suggestive
of the outline of a wild goose in flight. Probably the best known
combination is that of the pine, bamboo, and plum, as it is specially
employed at the New Year, when almost every house in Japan will have
such a combination arranged on the _tokonoma_. Enough has been said
to show the bewildering number of laws and regulations that surround
this especial art, and it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Conder
is probably the only foreigner who has ever mastered the subject, as
indeed it requires years of study before a flower arrangement completed
by the hand of one who is not a Japanese could hope to pass muster
before the critical eye of the professor.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PINE-TREE
The pine-trees--_Matsu-no-ki_--of Japan are so closely and inseparably
associated with the country, in the beauty of the landscape, the
national customs and the national art, that it seems impossible when
describing the floral year to omit the pine-trees, surely the grandest
and noblest decoration of the land. They seem to welcome you to Japan,
for as your ship glides up the Inland Sea the pine-trees will greet
you on every side, the mountains will be clad with their eternal
green, every island will have some venerable trees twisted and bent by
storms and age. To the Japanese the pine is the king of trees, full of
poetical suggestion and perfectly incomparable; and certainly it would
be impossible to imagine Japan without her pine-trees. The impressive
grandeur of every Shinto temple, every Buddhist shrine, is deepened
by the grey-green trees standing in their silent gardens; they seem
a necessity to such august places. Think of the pines at Uyeno or at
Shiba; their merit is as great as the cherry-trees in the parks; to
them and the cryptomeria belongs the task of guarding all the temples
of the land. Every Tokugawa feudal castle had a moat bordered with
pine-trees--how many have now been swept away and nothing left but a
meaningless waste! The Imperial palace is chiefly shaded by the trees,
their heavy foliage suggesting the depth of the forest. To-day every
common house and garden has its guardian pine-tree at the gate.
The Japanese are very fond of visiting special _meisho_ or “famous
places,” and how many of these places have been made famous by the
beauty of their pine-trees, for where is the spot of natural beauty in
all the country which has no pines? The three most “famous places” owe
their beauty to water and the pines, nothing else. The great _hokku_
poet Basho found himself quite unable to sing his “seventeen syllables”
at Matsushima, the land of the pine-clad islands; he was a wandering
poet who left a line or two wherever he went, but here he considered
his silence was the greatest song of praise for the place, which he
said was the best in Japan. He wrote in his diary: “One isle stands
pointing up to the sky; another bows crawling over the waves; one
parts at the left, another joins again at the right. The green beauty
of the pine-trees is superb; the branches and leaves are bent quite
naturally by the wind and tide.” Indeed I do not wonder that he found
himself unable to describe this land of fairy isles within the limits
of seventeen syllables, for given unlimited space and an unlimited
number of syllables it is hard to convey any idea of the beauty of the
scene. Eight and its compounds are favourite round numbers with the
Japanese, so they assured me that there were 808 in all of these tiny
islands; and surely no one would dispute it. Each great winter storm
sweeping in from the Pacific makes one or more of these toy islands
crumble and disappear; but the sea makes rapid inroads and hollows out
fresh archways or fresh tunnels, so very quickly a promontory breaks
off and forms a new island, to be given a new fancy name, thus keeping
up the traditional number. In every available nook stands one of the
storm-bent trees which have given name and fame to the locality, whose
praises have been sung by
[Illustration: PINE-TREE AT MATSUSHIMA]
thousands of poets and how many _kakemono_; screens and _fusuma_ have
been adorned with the conventional views of Matsu-shima; Oshima,
decorated with its shrines and lanterns, and connected with the
mainland by a slender bridge, half hidden by the leaning trees,
is perhaps the most favourite theme for the artist and poet. The
pines of Matsu-shima appeared to be all the variety known as _Pinus
densiflora_--possibly the most beautiful of all, with its red stems and
deep-green foliage.
I read of them described as in the “form of crouching dragons,
red-scaled and rough, with fins of living green.” Another of the three
“famous places” of the Empire is associated purely with pine and water;
for to the eye of the unpoetical foreigner Ama-no-Hashi-date, a spot
where thousands of Japanese congregate annually, is nothing but a long
narrow sandy peninsula with an avenue of leaning pine-trees on either
side. Its poetical name, meaning the Bridge or Ladder of Heaven, was
given to the spot in allusion to _Ama-no-uki-hashi_ or Floating Bridge
of Heaven, whereon Izanagi and Iganami stood when they stirred up the
brine of the primeval chaos with their jewelled spear, the drops from
which consolidated into the first island of the Japanese archipelago.
Though the name of the locality is not derived from its association
with the pine, there are many points from whence the prospect is most
admired, such as Ippon Matsu (One Pine-tree) which have been called
after the trees; and under the branches of this solitary tree the poet
may sit and meditate and compose his ode to the lovely scene. The long
narrow spit, the tranquil water, and a few moored junks is another
favourite scene for the Japanese artist.
To the European the last of the three great sights will appeal more
surely, for no one could fail to be lost in admiration of Miyajima
or Itsukushima, the holy island of the Inland Sea. It well deserves
its rank among the famous places. The Japanese are said to admire it
most under snow. I have never seen it under those conditions; but I
can imagine no more beautiful scene than meets the eye in the early
morning of a scorching August day, when the sampan floats across to
this pine-clad island, the light haze just clearing from the woods,
the great temple looking as if it were floating on the water, and the
noblest, simplest gateway ever devised, the great wooden _torii_,
standing, as it were, knee-deep in the sea. The giant leaning pines
shade the never-ending line of lanterns along the shore, their gnarled
roots and trunks almost lapped by the waves; and here and there a
twisted tree will seem to be hanging in mid-air, so slender does its
root-hold look upon the cliff. The same eternal pines guard the little
shrines all up the hill, and gather round the temple at the summit,
from whence the prospect is the fairest man can see. Across the sea,
as calm as a lagoon, so calm that it is hard to realise its surface is
ever ruffled by winter storms, will rise other pine-clad islands, but
surely none so fair as this.
The beauties of Lake Biwa, “a shell of mist and light,” are sung
universally. Constant reference is made in Japanese poetry to the eight
views, known as the celebrated “Eight Beauties of Omi”: the autumn
moon seen from Ishiyama; the waning moon on Hiragama; the sunset at
Seta; the evening bell of Miidera; the boats sailing back from Gabase;
the bright sky with a breeze at Awazu; rain by night at Karasaki; and
the wild geese alighted at Katata. If you examine these places, you
will find that the pine-tree makes a background for most of them; and
the rain by night would have no meaning if the pine-tree of Karasaki
were not there. Probably this is the largest and most curious pine in
the world; its great branches sweep outwards and downwards till they
almost touch the ground, and, owing to the tree’s great age, have to be
supported by wooden props and stone cushions. A poet writes of the old
Karasaki tree--
There is a pine, a fount of age,
Root cramped the land and sea between;
Of mighty limbs, that curve and rage
In eddying knots, and gusts of green.
Its ancient trunk is lichen writ
With autographs of centuries;
The years, like sparrows, perch on it,
And twitter plaintive memories.
As usual convention enters largely into this Japanese choice of
especially lovely scenes, and probably were a foreigner asked to choose
“Eight Beauties of Omi” he would name eight entirely different scenes.
Certainly for one, I should choose the view from the top of the Castle
of Hikone when the rice is still young and green, and the bloom of
the honey-scented rape plant spreads broad stretches of yellow on the
plains, forming a brilliant foreground to the lake beyond.
Next to Lake Biwa, although more properly speaking it is a lagoon, Lake
Hamana is their largest lake, and here again the pine does so much in
beautifying the whole scenery. Hamamatsu, meaning the Pines of the
Beach, is an historical place for pine-trees, and just beyond it lies
the entrance to the lagoon; from the bridge can be seen on one side the
breakers of the Pacific, and on the other the deeply indented shore
line, clad with pine-trees, stretches away as far as the eye can see,
while the mountains rise range upon range above the clear still water
and form a picture dear to the heart of the poet.
If I were to tell you of all the places in Japan famous for their
pine-trees, it would be one never-ending list, the pine is everywhere.
If you travel along the sandy shore at Maiko or at Suma, across to the
northern coast at Tsuruga, or at Maizuru, where the wonderful trees
are of great antiquity, or back again to the coast near Kamakura, with
the pine-clad island of Enoshima rising from the sea like a high green
mass, through all the district of Hakone, or up north at Nikko, you
will find the pine-trees,--no scenery can be parted from them; and if
you are the happy possessor of a Japanese garden, the pine-tree will
greet you at the gate.
Not only have the beauties of the pine been sung by poets for a
thousand years, but they are also considered emblems of constancy,
endurance, health, and longevity. The famous pines of Takasago are
well known as the theme of the _No_ play in which the spirits of the
pine-trees will appear as human shapes to celebrate the age of gold
and happy life. The trees, with the colour of eternity and with their
unexhausted life, are regarded as emblems of joy. It is the custom
to sing a passage from this Takasago play at wedding ceremonies. The
spirits of the two ancient pine-trees, personified as an old man and an
old woman engaged in a never-ending task of raking up pine needles, are
the subject, typifying longevity. The following is a passage from the
play:--
The dawn is near, and the hoar frost falls on the pine-tree twigs;
but its dark green leaves suffer no change. Morning and evening
beneath its shade the leaves are swept away, yet they never fail.
True it is that these pine-trees shed not all their leaves,
their verdure remains fresh for ages long; even among evergreen
trees--the emblem of unchangeableness--exalted is their fame to the
end of time--the fame of the two pine-trees that have grown old
together.
Their true poets seem never to tire of the pine, and it seems
especially to appeal to the essentially poetical mind of the whole
nation. In order to show me how it can be made the theme of poems and
songs in conjunction with so many different subjects, a poet said to
me, “It is simply wonderful to know what a good harmony the pine-tree
[Illustration: AZALEA AND PINE-TREE]
keeps with other natural subjects; it harmonises with the misty spring
moon, as well as with the summer moon. A well-known poem has been
written on the pine-tree of the rainy season; and many poets sing of it
together with the autumnal moon, and also it harmonises perfectly with
the winter moon. You will find hundreds of poems written on the pines
under snow; and the rain makes a beautiful combination with it also. It
harmonises with mists, winds, and thunder lights; and you will see many
pictures of the pine-tree and the rising sun. There is no better sight
than to see it with the waves of the sea; and it goes well together
with birds, with storks, pigeons, and with turtles or monkeys. The
cuckoo will remind you of the pine-tree, and it makes a good subject
with fire-flies and cicadæ.” It is said that the pine is a brother of
the plum and bamboo, and they make their appearance together in various
forms on occasions of congratulation; and in conjunction with the crane
and tortoise it is used in decoration to express the sentiment of happy
old age.
The pine plays so large a part in the art of flower arrangement, so
admirably described by Mr. Conder, that I cannot do better than quote
some passages from the _Floral Art of Japan_ in reference to the pine.
_Flowers used at Moon-viewing_
Moon-viewing is at all times a favourite pastime of the Japanese,
but the great moon festival of the year is on the fifteenth day
of the eighth month. The more important dwellings have a special
chamber from which the sight of the moonlit landscape can be
enjoyed. The floral arrangement occupies the recess of the chamber,
and has of course no real connection with the outside prospect;
but in the flower composition itself the moonlit landscape is
expressed. A branch of a pine-tree is used, and between the
_principal_ and _secondary_ lines of the composition a special
branch is introduced, fancifully called the _moon-shadow-branch_; a
hollow gap is also formed between the foliage, bounded by a special
branch called the _dividing-branch_. In the composition the idea is
to suggest both the opening through which the moon can be partially
observed and the dark branch which appears to cross its surface. To
fully appreciate the analogy one must be familiar with the scenery
of Japan, and have seen, on a clear night, the irregular pine-trees
standing out against the moonlit heavens.
We are told that the principal kinds of pine are the _Pinus
Thunbergia_, known by the Japanese as the black or male pine; _Pinus
densiflora_, called the red or female pine; and _Pinus parviflora_.
There appear to be many different ways of arranging the pine branches,
but in all cases they are left as much as possible in their natural
state; a favourite treatment is that of a broad stump cut off
horizontally, with a thick twisted branch springing from its base.
_Pinus parviflora_, on account of the straightness and delicacy of
its leaves, is often arranged in a simple vertical style, using the
sprays; but for compositions with other species of the tree, thick
gnarled branches are preferred. Mr. Conder also tells us of a pretty
and poetical arrangement in connection with wedding ceremonies--
At wedding feasts a double arrangement in a pair of similar
standing vases is employed. For this purpose a branch of the _male_
pine is placed in one vessel, and a branch of the _female_ pine in
the other. The general form of each design would be similar, but
the branch of the _female_ pine facing the opposite vase should
stretch a little beneath the corresponding branch of the _male_
pine. These together are called the “Destiny-uniting” branches, and
the complete design is said to typify eternal union.
In another passage he tells us how faithfully they reproduce the effect
of the forest as--
Occasionally in suspended arrangements of pine, long stiff threads
are hung from the branches, in conventional imitation of the
parasitic grasses which attach themselves to this tree; and in
disposing such threads, their balance into groups of three, five,
or seven irregular lengths is carefully attended to.
Another very favourite form of fancy arrangement is called the “Fuji
pine,” as in such a composition a branch is bent to resemble the
outline of Mount Fuji, and is combined with other branches and foliage
in such a manner as to give the profile of the bare conical peak, and
suggest at the same time the wooded country at its base.
Yet another form of pine decoration is the _Kadomatsu_ or pair of gate
pines, which are the most important decorations in front of every house
at the New Year; the first seven days of the year are called _Matsu no
uchi_ or “Within the Pines.” The origin of these _Kadomatsu_ dates as
far back as eight hundred and fifty years. One of the old _Kadomatsu_
poets says--
Kadomatsu no, itonami tatsuru sono hodoni
Haru akegatatano yoya narinuran.
(While busy decorating the pines at the gate,
The dawn of the New Year speedily comes.)
The pines in front of the gates are placed in pairs--the rougher and
more prickly one, called _Thunbergi_ or male pine, on the left, which
is the side of honour in Japan; the softer and more graceful one, _P.
densiflora_ or the female pine, on the right. The custom of adding
bamboo is of more recent origin; and the other decorations include a
rope, especially named _shimenawa_, with strips of white paper, a
cray fish, ferns, a large orange called dai dai, a leaf or two of an
evergreen tree, dried persimmons, dried chestnuts, etc. Each one of
these articles has its own peculiar origin, and is a symbol of good
luck for the year and for life. The poet Ikku Zenzi writes--
At every door the pine-trees stand,
One mile-post more to the spirit land;
And as there’s gladness, so there’s sadness.
And indeed, whatever the pine-trees at the gate may mean, it is for
ourselves to choose whether we be happy or sad.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
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