relating to this singular country has often
been judged, wholly by the more exalted European
standards; or perhaps they have judged
by no particular standard of any kind. It may
be that their opportunities of forming an opinion
were not in every respect thorough and
advantageous; for, in all I have seen, the Japanese
gentry are shy and reticent, and by no means in
the way of exposing their accomplishments to
casual acquaintances. Whatever the causes, I
am inclined to think that the secluded islanders
have in this, as in some other matters, been
condemned without a fair hearing. If it be accepted
as a fact that these people have no music worthy
of the name, it would go far to prove them
insensible to one of the highest influences of
civilisation, and, according to a proverbial reasoning,
would help to account for that sudden
disposition to treason and stratagem which we
are told they have recently indicated. We
ought, however, to consider them in this matter,
as we are beginning to do in all matters,
somewhat more accurately than was deemed
necessary a dozen years ago. It is only a little
while since we discovered that their drawing,
which had, up to that time, been consistently
laughed at, possessed a characteristic humour
and a force very far from contemptible; and it
is gradually becoming clear that many of their
more elegant occupations, as well as their
peculiar customs, which we were so good at chuckling
over and poking fun at, are really founded
upon the soberest sense in the world. Their
dress, for example, with the two swords of
military rank—was ever anything held to be
so monstrously droll? And what perfectly
unanimous convulsions the world has gone
into over their semi-shaven heads and their
queer, twisted knobs of hair! And then their
paper pocket-handkerchiefs, which they would
cling to, instead of adopting costly and
embroidered linens, which impressed them as quite
too magnificent for the ignoble uses to which
they were destined. After laughing at a hundred
other eccentricities until we were tired, we began
to look at them more seriously, until we found
they all had their meaning. How many of these
have turned out the most natural expedients of
comfort and convenience, and in no way
incompatible with the spirit of a practical and truly
cultivated people. But, on the question of art,
at least of music, we were stronger. There, if
anywhere, we had them. The authorities were
clear on that point. So long as they did nothing
but pipe unmelodiously, and thrum inharmoniously,
and scream incoherently, as everybody
who ought to know, from Siebold down, declared
they did, we were safe in proclaiming them dead
to sweet sounds.

At the time of the visit of the Japanese
envoys and their seventy officers and attendants to
the United States of America, it seemed to me
worth while to test, in some degree, their
musical capacities, and to discover, if possible,
whether they were as utterly destitute of musical
feeling as they had been pronounced to be.
There were so many other important subjects
relating to the social, religious, and political
mysteries of their nation, that demanded all
possible consideration, that comparatively little
time was left for this. Moreover, it was one
of the few topics which the Japanese themselves
did not seem anxious to discuss. In almost
every relation, they were as ready to impart
information as they were desirous of gaining it;
but whenever music was suggested, their eagerness
vanished, and they became as coy as the
singing belle of a drawing-room before her first
bravura of an evening. The cause of this
backwardness was afterwards amply explained. They
had heard sufficient music in America, and during
their voyage, to satisfy them of the inferiority of
their own, and they were sensitive about opening
themselves to comparisons which would
hardly be creditable to them. But although
they at first strictly withheld the faintest note
of their own music, they were by no means slow
to repeat such melodies as they could catch and
remember from the street bands of Washington,
or the pianofortes of Willard's Hotel, where they
resided. There was not an under officer who
had not his favourite tune; and as for the
third class attendants, they were in perpetual
league with those among their American
acquaintance who would consent to instruct
them in light and simple songs, words
included as well as music. I do not remember
that their tastes ever reached any very exalted
point, for the most cherished of their newly-
gained melodies were certainly "Kemo, kimo,"
and "Pop goes the weasel." The first of these
they sang whenever they could find listeners,
and often, indeed, among themselves alone, with
a delicious abandon that betokened the heartiest
enjoyment to be imagined. This was a
universal song, and it gradually became so much in
demand that no Japanese with any self-respect
could suffer himself to be without it; and the
hours of grave consultation and study which it
gave rise to, over tea and tobacco, and
sometimes, for the sake of inspiration, over pots of
sirooko and saki, were almost without number.
One or two quick-eared fellows, who had
originally learned the words by rote, without
comprehending an atom of the meaning, nobly
devoted themselves to sharing the treasures of
their knowledge with their less gifted
companions, and the ultimate result was a comical
jargon, the like of which was, I presume, never
before known to the polite circles of Washington.
"Pop goes the weasel" also underwent
its series of modifications. This air was
regarded as the peculiar property of the youngest
officer of the body, the third interpreter of the
embassy, a lad seventeen years old, whose handsome
and dignified appearance, winning manners,
and affectionate disposition, made him an object
of far greater interest than even the lofty envoys
themselves. "Poppy goes the weasel" he
always would have it, and seemed to think the
extra syllable a capital invention of his own.
"Hail Columbia," too, occupied his mind for
a while, but was presently given up in
consequence of the tremendous obstacles offered by