Is there anything so utterly odious as waiting? The three of us, Parkes, Satow and myself, had worked and waited many months, not altogether in safety, for this consummation of a policy which we, loving Japan, and at the same time penetrated with a sense of its importance for England, indeed for the world, knew to be right. But now this last half-hour of sponge cake and compliments seemed interminable. At last! At last (I pray forgiveness if I dwell upon our impatience) we were ushered into the Presence. Only Sir Harry Parkes and myself were to be presented—Satow, by far the most important man of the three, not having at that time been presented at our own Court, could not, according to etiquette, be presented to a foreign sovereign. Unfortunately the rain, which had been threatening all the morning, had begun to fall in torrents, so we had to splash through the various courtyards, ankle-deep in wet sand. Guards of honour were stationed at intervals—an unknown sight in the precincts of the Gosho, into the inner enclosure of which no soldiers had up to that time been admitted. We were introduced into the Audience Hall by the Prince of Hizen. Passing up a double flight of steps we entered the audience chamber, a long hall forming one side of a courtyard of which the remaining three sides were a verandah open only on the inside. In this verandah sat the band, clothed in red, blue and gaudy colours, with lacquer caps upon their heads. The Presence Chamber itself was a long room, very simple and plain. In the centre was a canopy supported by four slender pillars of black lacquer draped with white silk, into which was woven a pattern in red and black; the drapery was caught up and festooned with black and red ribbons. On the inside of each of the two front pillars stood a lion, curiously carved in wood, the one black, the other gilt, about two feet high. Like our own Lion and Unicorn they had some mystic meaning, some hidden connection with the Kingly order. Under the canopy was the young Mikado, seated in, or rather, leaning against, a high chair. Behind him knelt two Princes of the blood, ready to prompt him, if need should be, in the playing of his part. Outside the canopy and in front of His Majesty knelt two other Princes of the blood. On a raised floor decked with costly green silk, close to the canopy, stood Sir Harry and myself, our conductor, the Prince of Hizen, kneeling beside us. On one side Ito Shunské, Governor of Hiōgo, who was to act as interpreter, was also kneeling. On either side of the canopy in a double or treble row, extending to the end of the Hall, stood the great Princes of the Empire, men such as Satsuma, Chōshiu, Uwajima, Kaga, and other great nobles—to us, up to that time, no more than names, but now realized in the flesh. It certainly was a very imposing sight; perhaps it is difficult to convey an idea of all that it meant to us, who had worked so hard to this end.