The Palace in Tokyo is not a “Forbidden City” literally, as the old palace in Peking used to be, but it looks from the outside just as “forbidden,” or more so. It is surrounded by a wide, deep moat which is crossed at intervals by curved and gracefully balustraded bridges. On the other side of the moat is a high stone wall. There is nothing of the palace to be seen except a few low, tiled roofs which peep out from the midst of many trees. The Imperial gardens are vastly more impressive than the palaces⁠—there are several within the walled enclosure⁠—and I would have wanted to linger and really look at things if I had not been so keenly interested in the experience which awaited us. Our carriage hurried on over the beautiful drives, through the most entrancing little artificial landscapes, past lakes full of little rock islands on which were perched tiny pavilions with uptilted roofs and the most beautiful polished wood and snow-white paper windows. It was all most fascinating and much too wonderful to be merely glanced at, but it was only a few moments before we approached a low, grey building and drew up before the door. It didn’t look at all like a palace, but it seemed that we had arrived.

We were ushered into a large reception room which was neither Japanese nor European, but a curious mixture of both. The walls were of gold leaf and were decorated with beautiful Japanese paintings in exquisitely soft colourings, but the furniture was mostly of the heavy foreign type. It was unexpected to say the least and I thought what a pity it was that the Japanese had not met the European invasion in their own original and picturesquely beautiful style, instead of trying to conform to western customs, or rather, to engraft western customs upon their own unique orientalism. But so it is. They either like our ugly heaviness, or think they confer a polite compliment on us by adopting it.