The Palace of the Son of Heaven, unlike the dwellings of most Oriental potentates, who delight in show and magnificence (indeed has not “oriental splendour” become a proverbial expression?), was chiefly marked by a noble simplicity; it was not even fortified, but was surrounded by plain whitewashed walls topped with grey tiles, of which the nine gates, as I have already said, were each committed to the charge of the troops of one of the great Daimios. Still, in spite of its studied plainness, the Gosho was not without a certain grandeur of its own. There was none of that economy of space which always makes a mean effect; the courtyards were vast and kept scrupulously clean with fresh white sand; the buildings, of which there were many, although entirely without ornament, were large and roomy, bearing a great stamp of dignity. At the inner gate of ceremony, the gate used by princes of the blood, we dismounted and were led by the great officers of State through a succession of courtyards to a waiting-room, where we were received by Yamashina no Miya, a cousin of the Emperor. Here we were plied with sweetmeats, sponge cake,[9] tea and talk, waiting until the Mikado, who was eating his mid-day meal, should be ready to hold his Court. It was interesting to see in the flesh, if I may use the expression, a scene such as we are familiar with in the paintings on ancient gilt screens and kakémonos. The court dress had a peculiar _cachet_, a “flavour” as the Chinese would put it, of its own. The black cap (_yéboshi_) tied under the chin had something of the effect of the huge piles of hair worn by women, which one sees caricatured about the thirties of the nineteenth century. The coat was of dark silk, hanging loose, with long, wide sleeves, and the sword was slung instead of being thrust into the girdle, sticking out behind like a tail. The trousers were baggy and clumsy in make, of lighter-coloured stuff than the coat. But the strangest part to our eyes of the whole get-up were the shoes—huge black lacquer sabots worn in crossing the courtyards, but of course doffed on entering a room, so constructed that the wearer had to shuffle along in the most uncertain fashion, the very parody of walking. The costume altogether might appear grotesque to a new-comer, but we had so long learned to associate it with the dignity of old tradition that its oddness had ceased to raise our wonder. On a sudden, as we were waiting in the ante-room, there arose the wild and picturesque strains of flute, mouth-organ, lute, drums and other instruments of string, wood and percussion, belonging to his Majesty’s private band,—a curious wailing music. Here again we had something with a flavour entirely its own, though one of the Japanese gentlemen who had been in England said that it reminded him of the Italian opera. The power of the imagination could hardly go further.