with it.

We crossed several rivers, and reached Tokio in about an hour, when we
at once emerged into the midst of a clattering, chattering crowd,
amongst whom there did not seem to be a single European. The
reverberation, under the glass roof of the station, of the hundreds of
pairs of wooden clogs, pattering along, was something extraordinary.
Giving up our tickets, and following the stream, we found ourselves
surrounded by a still more animated scene, outside the station. We
were just deliberating what to do next, when a smart little Japanese,
with a mail-bag over his shoulder, stepped forward and said something
about Sir Harry Parkes. He then popped us all into several double and
treble-manned _jinrikishas_, and started off himself ahead at a
tremendous pace, shouting and clearing the way for us.

Tokio is a genuinely Japanese town. Not a single foreigner resides
within its limits, with the exception of the foreign Ministers. There
is no hotel nor any place of the kind to stay at; so that, unless you
have friends at any of the Legations, you must return to Yokohama the
same day, which makes a visit rather a fatiguing affair.[16]

[Footnote 16: I have since heard that there are two hotels at Tokio,
such as they are.]

Our first halting-place was at the Temple of Shiba, not far from the
station, where most of the Tycoons have been buried. It is a large
enclosure, many acres in extent, in the centre of the city, with walls
overgrown with creepers, and shadowed by evergreen trees, amid whose
branches rooks caw, ravens croak, and pigeons coo, as undisturbedly as
if in the midst of the deepest woodland solitude. I had no idea there