world of wit there is in this sketch—this native woodcut! The woman taking off the lid of the well-filled saucepan, but before helping the mendicant she appeals half-jocularly to the only one of the party who has not done eating, whether he can spare any of the rice? That persevering feeder has distended his skin until we begin to feel anxiety as to its farther elasticity. The rest of the reapers have indeed fed, and are either smoking languidly, or drinking a little sakee to assist digestion. What perfect repose and contentment are visible in every figure! And we ask ourselves, what is there we can give these of God’s creatures that will make them happier? More calico, Manchester will suggest. Possibly Manchester may be right. But where there are no musquitoes, and the sun is bearable, such an al fresco feast must be tolerable after all.
We turn from the field labourers and the sketch which has diverted us from our village, and note how much the residents appear to live in public. The fronts of most of the houses open out into the street, and have no windows; the overhanging porch serving to shield the front apartment from rain or sun. We can therefore see all the various trades pursuing their callings; and between them and the itinerant vendors one need be at no loss for any articles of general use, of ornament, food, or raiment. The “cries” are as numerous as in the London of the olden time. They do not all, however, bawl out their various callings: some beat bits of stick together, others sound articles like Jew’s harps, another beats a gong, another a drum. The fisherman, however, makes noise enough, and plants his load before us. Two huge tubs, suspended at either end of a bamboo, contain live fish and eels; and there is no question about their being “all alive, oh!” Fair mullet, how it wags its tail! gentle carp, how inquisitively it looks up at your gourmandising self! The eels, however, have evidently a presentiment of their fate, or from native bashfulness try to get under one another, and form an apparently inextricable knot. Poor miserables! Fancy if the Budhist priest should be right after all—and he is very positive about it, and can produce any proof you require upon the subject—fancy, I say, good friend, our returning hereafter in some such piscine form, and think what are our dumb sensations at such a moment as this, when the servant slips his hand into the tubs, selects a fat mullet, weighs, and decides upon purchasing it. No wonder the poor priest, believing in transmigration of souls, shudders and passes on, singing his hymn invoking humanity to all animate creatures, and wonders in his heart whether you are about to eat his long-departed mother! We however approve of fish being sold alive as a guarantee for freshness, and prefer it either in sight or smell to the “fine fresh mack’rill!” which that loud-lunged costermonger is yelling under our windows on a sweltering July day.
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Live Conger-Eels escaping from Boys. (Fac-simile.)
Itinerant British fish-vendors avaunt! methinks I hear the guitar notes of the Japanese minne-singers. Yes, here they are; we passed them in the early dawn, as they were singing to some native noble who had camped by the roadside; they have followed, and are about to try their way to our purse strings. They approach dancing, or rather waving their bodies, in cadence to their music, playing upon a guitar which looks uncommonly Portuguese or Spanish in its origin. They are prettily dressed in robes of simple patterns, confined by broad and ample scarfs round the waist. And as these scarfs are tied behind in large bows, and hang down, they serve to give great finish to their toilet—a finish that the want of many under garments or crinolines might otherwise render remarkable. Their faces are pretty and arch; they are quite young, not more than fifteen or sixteen at the utmost; and their glossy black hair is gathered under a broad hat, from under the rim of which they cast most sly bewitching smiles, or give zest to their song, which is said to partake of the double entendre; and they exchange witty repartee with some fast young men who happen to be passing, in terms which send a shout of laughter through the hostelry. Not that laughter is confined to the moments when mirth may be excited by these glee-singers, for everybody seems to laugh here; and if laughter is a sign of happiness, old and young are blessed enough. There, fair minstrels! speed on your way; I, for one, feel no wrath at your following the vocation which it has pleased God to call you to; and would no more wish to cut off all your hair, put you into flannel petticoats, and imprison you in a penitentiary, than I should like to make your sempstress sisters change places with those of our great Babel.
We send for specimens of embroidery. This village, we are told, is famed for its handi-