The Japanese make good servants--willing and obliging and quick to learn English ways. They cost very little to feed, living chiefly on rice and vegetables, although they are fond of European food when they can get it. Their honesty depends chiefly on their masters and mistresses. Where they attach themselves they are faithful and trustworthy. On the other hand, an unpopular English house is often servantless, and many are the stories I have been told, especially in the English settlements in Yokohama and KobÉ, of the extravagance and theft of the Japanese ‘boy’--a word always employed in the Far East for all male servants.

The head boy of our establishment in Tokio, where we had a house for some time, was a Japanese who in more prosperous days had been a samuri, or two-sworded man. He had a fair knowledge of English, was responsible for the payment of the weekly bills, looked after the other servants, and always accompanied us when travelling in the interior. Yami was a little shrivelled-up-looking man who might have been any age between thirty-five and sixty. He possessed a father and mother as well as a wife and large family, all of whom lived together in two small rooms in the Japanese quarter of our house. Except on the occasion of a shock of earthquake, when the garden seemed full of small quaintly-robed figures running in every direction, I saw little or nothing of some of the members of our household; and on those unpleasant occasions I was much too agitated to think of anything but my own safety.

The only other time that our domestic staff appeared in force was on Christmas Day, when my father summoned everyone to his study, beginning with Yami and his family down to the rickshaw and water coolies, their wives and children. There seemed an endless number of little bowing figures as they appeared in a long line, all dressed in their best, and apparently much impressed with the importance of the occasion.

Politeness in Japan is proverbial, and extends to the lowest classes of the community. However much Japanese servants are scolded and abused, they will listen with apparent submission and repentance, seemingly never taking offence, although they really hide a good deal of feeling under their humble demeanour. I have known a servant, after being severely reprimanded by his master, attempt to commit suicide. On the other hand, however, when once roused to hatred, a Japanese is very vindictive and will stop short of nothing for revenge. They have, as a nation, wonderful control over their feelings, and on no account would they like to appear anything but happy and contented in public.

I remember one day asking Yami about the health of his old father, who had not been well. With the broadest of grins and every sign of pleasure, Yami told me that only that morning his honourable parent had ‘condescended to die’ and was about to be buried that afternoon. He then apologized profusely for mentioning such a trivial matter. I believe, as a matter of fact, the death of the old man was a great grief to his son, as there is much filial affection existing between parents and children in Japan.

Yami was very devoted to me, and when travelling always considered his duties embraced those of maid. On arriving at our destination, his first thought was to unpack my clothes and put out on my bed whatever he considered suitable for me to wear--a somewhat strange selection occasionally. Wherever we were staying, he always brought me my morning cup of tea, saying as he entered the room: ‘Good-morning, everybody.’ Poor Yami died of pneumonia just before we left Japan. I went to see him a few hours before his death. On the floor by his side were two little wooden frames with photographs of my father and myself. He was too weak to speak, but pointed to the photos, and then put his hand to his heart to show us his affection, poor fellow!

Japanese servants, if left to themselves, are lazy little beings. Their chief joy in life seems to be their bath. How often have I had to wait to go for my drive until the betto returned from the bathhouse! Their horror of a drop of rain seems strange, considering this; but not for one minute will a coolie continue work in the garden if there is the slightest indication of wet weather.

They are ready to sleep on all possible occasions. I remember we were staying in a little Japanese house near Lake Chiunsenji, and having started out for the day, we left orders that certain things were to be done in the way of cleaning, during our absence. We had not left a quarter of an hour, when we discovered our lunch-basket had been forgotten, and my father hastened back to fetch it. On entering the little hall, he heard a noise proceeding from a large cupboard in which was a shelf kept for boots and fishing-tackle. Looking in, he discovered our four servants--cook, maid, house-boy and water-coolie--all stretched out on the shelf among the contents of the cupboard, evidently just preparing for a pleasant siesta. They scurried away like rabbits on seeing my father, and seemed overwhelmed with shame when we spoke to them seriously the next morning on the sin of laziness.

Some of the nasans at the up-country hotels are charming little creatures. How well I can still see the row of merry, laughing faces that always greeted us when we arrived at the delightful hotel up at Myanoshita, where we went sometimes for a change of air and rest after the gaieties of Tokio. Before we knew it, our muddy boots would be taken off, warm slippers given us, hot baths prepared; to say nothing of an excellent meal always ready at whatever hour we arrived--and all without any fuss or noise but the patter of small feet up and down the long corridors, as the little maidens hastened to do our bidding.

Once or twice at Christmas time, when games were the order of the evening, we would request the company of half a dozen of our little handmaidens to join in a game of ‘hunt the slipper,’ How they laughed and entered into the fun, and yet never forgot their polite manners, nor failed to treat us with the greatest deference and respect!

Soon after our arrival in Tokio we had a difficulty in getting servants, and it was suggested that we should obtain the services of Mrs. Peter Potts, whose duties as ‘charwoman’ at the English Legation only occupied her one day a week. When I first made the old lady’s acquaintance she was about sixty-five years old, still hale and hearty, in spite of a somewhat strong predilection, I grieve to say, for ‘old Tom.’ Her face always reminded me of a dried russet apple, furrowed and lined by years of toil and constant exposure. Her complexion was fresh and ruddy, and shone from a lavish application of soap-suds and much polishing. Her scanty gray locks were generally hidden in the house by a red cotton handkerchief, tied under the chin, out of doors by an appalling erection which was once a bonnet, but which the ravages of time and weather had reduced to a confused jumble of faded blue velvet, jellow flowers, and souvenirs from a deceased rooster’s tail.

Her clothes, though shabby through much wear and faded from many introductions to the wash-tub, were always scrupulously clean and neat. A rusty black silk dress and mantle, relics of former mistresses, only appeared at weddings and funerals; and the wonderful violet silk garment kept expressly for Royal functions--for the old lady was nothing if not loyal--was the above-mentioned garment turned inside out!

From many years’ employment at the Legation, Mrs. Peter Potts had come to consider herself one of the ‘staff,’ and expected to be treated as such. Her respect for the authorities, from the English Minister downwards, was immense, and she had a scale of reverence with which she greeted them--the Court curtsey to His Excellency was a sight to be remembered and wondered at. It could hardly be properly accomplished in an ordinary-sized room, although I have seen the old woman, interrupted in the midst of cleaning a grate, her face and hands black with soot, rise to her feet, catch a piece of rough holland apron in either hand, and sweep backwards across the room in a style a Duchess of the eighteenth century could not have surpassed.

History, however, relates that a former Minister many years previously had come under ban of Mrs. Peter Potts’ displeasure, and, in a moment of indignation too strong to be suppressed, she grasped His ‘Excurrency’--as she called His Excellency--by the beard and shook it violently, much to the great man’s surprise and alarm. Since then, either the Corps Diplomatique became more cautious as to their dealings with their ‘colleague,’ or our friend learnt prudence with age. In any case, of late years the Legation has had no firmer ally than Mrs. Potts. ‘I allus makes my h’inclinations to them of the Corps ’cause I knows my dooty, Miss,’ she said to me one day.

The late lamented Mr. Peter Potts had departed this life some years before our arrival in Japan. He was a pensioner, having been sent out as gate-keeper to the Legation, then in Yokohama, early in the sixties. Mrs. Potts surrounded the memory of her ‘poor Peter’ with such a halo of romance, and attributed his death to such a marvellous number of mortal diseases, that the ex-sergeant of Marines became a glorified figure in her imagination. As a matter of fact, I believe he was a weak sort of creature, very hen-pecked, who died from too great an affection to the gin bottle.

Mrs. Potts has no family living, and seems to rejoice in the fact.

‘I did once ’ave a little bit of a thing not worth mentioning, but, thank the Lord, it was took arter three days. My mother, she ’ad eleven of us, pore soul! all told, and I was the only one as lived to grow up. I was a twin, too, and born with three teeth, and they do say as ’ow they allus are vixens--I know I was when a gal.’

She treated our little Japanese maid-servants with condescension and secret contempt. How could anyone under sixty know how to do things in the proper way?

‘It’s comfort, not style, as you wants, my good young lidy,’ she would say as she bustled about. ‘Them slips of Jap things can’t know your ways as I does.’

Once a week she used to have her mid-day meal with us, and a glass of stout. Then how her tongue would wag! I asked her one day how she had enjoyed her dinner.

‘Why, miss, I fancied as ’ow I was at the Gilt ’All (Guild Hall). Them young gals was that pressing I thought as ’ow I should never ’ave done.’

The memories of her early courtship and marriage always brought a blush to her withered cheek, as she would tell us how she met her ‘pore Peter,’ for the first time, on the Thames Embankment--‘Jist by one of them little trees in cages, you know, my good young lidy.’ (This, you will remember, was forty years ago; the trees have grown since then.) ‘He did look a proper dook, did Peter, in ’is red uniform--the dead split of the Colonel ’e were.’

They were married at the Tower, and soon afterwards came out to Japan, Mrs. Potts as temporary maid to the wife of the English Minister.

‘Law, miss,’ she said to me one day, ‘His Excurrency used to get real Victoria Cross sometimes, and stamp, ’e did, fit to scare you into next week, but ’e was a kind master, ’e was. He’d say, “Come along, Mrs. Potts, and choose a drink for yourself,” and when I said I kind o’ fancied a glass o’ beer, he’d go and draw it with ’is own ’ands, ’e would.’

The old lady had a great admiration for my father. I overheard her saying to Yami one day: ‘I think as ’ow the master represents the one from above. He’s no respecter of persons, ’e isn’t, but treats us all alike--so perlite and consid’rate, ’e is. He says, “Thank you, Mrs. Potts,” as if I was a Duchess, he do.‘

She was a perfect walking Court Circular. Every event connected with Royalties was of the greatest personal interest to her, and she invariably took a holiday to celebrate any Royal birthday, and hung a little Union Jack out of her cottage window. Just before the Coronation of the King we were all busy preparing for the festivities, but for some reason best known to herself Mrs. Potts refused to share in the general rejoicings, although as a rule she was the gayest of the gay on these occasions.

‘I don’t somehow feel like jubilating, my dears,’ was all she would say.

When the news of the King’s illness reached Tokio, she said to my father, ‘You see, sir, I ’ad a “presentimum” that there was something wrong, and I thank the Lord that I wasn’t thinking of merry-making with His Blessed Majesty ill-a-bed and like to die.’

Whether this was a strange coincidence, or second sight I know not, but it was a fact.