II

SOME STORIES OF MY WESTERN LIFE

I

My new life began when I left Tokyo for California; on the 3rd of November, 1893, my friends saw me off at Shimbashi Station. I felt most ambitious when they wished me godspeed; but my heart soon broke down when my eldest brother, who came to Yokohama to bid me a final farewell, left me alone on the Belgic. That was the name of my steamer, an almost unimaginably small affair for a Pacific liner, being only three thousand tons. I cried when the last bell went ringing round to make the people leave the ship; I cried more when my brother became invisible among the hurrying crowd and distance; it was my most bitter experience, as I cannot forget the pain of sadness of that moment even to-day. I stood by an iron rail on the deck, a boy only eighteen years old, alone, friendless, with less than one hundred dollars in my pocket. I immediately grew conscious of the fact that I had to face unknown

America, a land of angels or devils, the darkness.

It is true that it was my first experience to see such a vastness of water, as I was born in a place out of sight of the sea; and its restless motion made me at once recall my sickness on the water which I had experienced when I joined a fishing party on the river Kiso several years before. The most unagreeable smell that filled the "Chinese steerage' made me already ill, even before the engine began to turn; I was practically thrown in as if a little bundle of merchandise for America. I could not eat, drink, for many days, and I vomited even what I did not eat, when the ship rolled. I was often obliged to tie me round the iron pole by my canvas bed; I soon became a thorough sea-hater, as I am still to-day.

The steamer duly reached San Francisco on a certain Sunday morning; we, I and a few other fellow-passengers, were taken to the Cosmopolitan Hotel, whose shabby appearance looked then palace-like and most wonderful. And within it was not less handsome. The American room was the first thing for us; even the sheets and the soft pillow, quite strange for the head acquainted only with hard wood, were a novelty. We put all the

fruits we had bought (what splendid California fruits) in a white bowl under the washing table; when we were told, to our utmost shame, that that bowl was for another purpose, we at once thought that we were, indeed, in a country alien in custom, and had a thousand things to study. We acted even more barbarously at the dinner-table; we took salt for sugar, and declared the cheese to be something rotten. We did not know which hand, left or right, had to hold a knife; we used a tablespoon for sipping the coffee, in which we did not know enough to drop a lump of sugar; we could not understand that those lumps were sugar. I stepped alone out of the hotel into a street and crowd; what attracted my immediate attention, which soon became admiration, was the American women. "What lovely complexions, what delightfully quick steps," I exclaimed. They were a perfect revelation of freedom and new beauty for my Japanese eye, having no relation whatever with any form of convention with which I was acquainted at home; it is not strange to say that I could not distinguish their ages, old or young; they appeared equally young, beautiful, even divine, because my discrimination lost its power at once. True, it took some months, though not one year, before

I could venture to be critical toward their beauty; for some long time they only looked, all of them, perfectly-raised California poppies. I am happy to say that my first impression never betrayed me during my eleven years of American life; not only in California, but in any other place, they were my admiration and delight.

Now to return to the adventure of my first day in San Francisco. I again stepped out of the hotel after supper, and walked up and down, turned right, and again left, till the night was growing late. When I felt quite doubtful about my way back to the hotel, I was standing before a certain show window (I believe it was on Market Street), the beauty of which doubtless surprised me; I was suddenly struck by a hard hand from behind, and found a large, red-faced fellow, somewhat smiling in scorn, who, seeing my face, exclaimed, "Hello, Jap!" I was terribly indignant to be addressed in such a fashion; my indignation increased when he ran away, after spitting on my face. I recalled my friend, who said that I should have such a determination as if I were entering among enemies; I thrilled from fear with the uncertainty and even the darkness of my future. I could not find the way to my hotel, when I felt every

thing grow sad at once; in fact, nearly all the houses looked alike. Nobody seemed to understand my English, in the ability of which I trusted; many of the people coldly passed by even when I tried to speak. I almost cried, when I found one Japanese, fortunately; he, after hearing my trouble, exclaimed in laughter: “You are standing right before your hotel, my friend!"

My bed at the hotel was too soft; it even imitated, I fancied, the motion of the sea, the very thought of which made me sleepless. I sat alone on the shaky bed through the silence of midnight, thinking how I should begin my new life in this foreign country. In my heart of hearts, I even acknowledged my dead mistake in coming to America.

I had one introductory letter to Mr. Den Sugawara, of the Aikoku Domei, or "Patriot Union," a political league, whose principal object was to reform the bureaucracy at home, to speak more directly, to put an end to the Government of the Satsuma and Choshu Clans, by demonstration with the publication of free speech. I called on him next evening at the back of O'Farrell Street; the house, this Aikoku Domei, was wooden and dirty. I really wondered at the style of Japanese living in San Francisco; I cannot forget my