Floating Along in the World of Japanese Prints

Hear All About It!

 

People have always wanted to know about what's going on in the world; they like a nice bit of gossip too. So, in the days before our modern printed newspapers, how did the Japanese hear about the latest execution, double-suicide, fire, celebrity marriage or sale at Echigoya department store? Well, there were yomiuri to sing the news to them. Sometimes working from temporary roadside stalls, but more often than not wandering through the streets in pairs and performing wherever there were enough people around to form an appreciative crowd, yomiuri sang sections from their latest news broadsheets, hoping to inspire those in their vicinity to fork out the cash for the full printed news article. By the end of the seventeenth century the sedge-hat-wearing news singers were already all over the place, touting for business. They'd started out in Edo (now Tokyo), but eventually made their way all along the Tōkaidō Highway and spread through every province of Japan. The print below, from 1684, shows a pair of yomiuri performing to the accompaniment of a drummer. Some sang the news to the sound of a shamisen, others did without music altogether.

Two yomiuri and accompanying drummer, from Ihara Saikaku's Shoen ōkagami of 1684.

Generally speaking, the news reports provided by these itinerant vendors were far from accurate; in many cases they were based on hearsay or completely fabricated. In 1684, the authorities attempted to curtail the activities of these news singers; yomiuri were to be arrested and questioned if found singing in the streets, and the production of their printed news sheets was banned. The government made similar attempts to put them out of business in 1698, 1703, 1713, and again in 1721. In 1722, the law was tightened further still, but the news singers went on plying their trade regardless.

Two yomiuri with an eager audience, from the scroll Kidai Shoran (Excellent View of Our Prosperous Age) of 1805. Artist unknown.

No event was too insignificant for the yomiuri; they reported on everything from mild changes in the weather to the outbreak of devastating fires - they even included maps to show exactly what had been destroyed in the latter case. They reported on the latest affairs of renowned beauties, goings on at the theatre, changes in fashion, vendettas, suicides, and all manner of other subjects, and all in an entertaining fashion. They delivered just enough information through their singing to snare their punters, then came the all important sales pitch. For just a few coppers you could have all the news, and sing it at home to your heart's content.

Geisha dressed up as yomiuri during the Yoshiwara Niwaka Festival, from the series Seirō Niwaka zensei asobi, by Katsukawa Shunzan, c. 1795.

If the local greengrocer took a fancy to his neighbour's wife and enticed her to run away with him, and just so happened to take an equal fancy to his neighbour's best china and most of his cash, the yomiuri would be good enough to let you know. They'd stop short of telling you how the story turned out though, and who wouldn't want to know if that greengrocer got his come-uppance? If a famous courtesan gave birth to quadruplets, a cart overturned and flattened Mr Hambei's prize turnip, or water sprites were running rampage around Nihonbashi Bridge, the yomiuri would be singing about it five seconds after it had happened - or five seconds after it hadn't happened (nudge nudge, wink wink) - and they'd throw in a dash of drama and a ditty you could sign along to. And if the yomiuri played his cards right, he'd have a queue of people lining up, with shiny coppers in hand, eager to get their hands on the news sheets on offer. Inaccurate for the most part and regularly defamatory, they put more effort into stirring up and maintaining a paying audience than informing the public. When you think about it, our modern news reports on television are not so far removed from these yomiuri performances... though the TV reports do lack music. 

The Divorce Temples of Mantokuji and Tōkeiji

 

Following on from "Seven Reasons for Divorce', which discussed the behaviours which could inspire a man to divorce his wife, I thought it would be a good idea to post about the divorce temples of Mantokuji (in Kōzuke Province) and Tōkeiji (in North Kamakura), where women, who during the Edo period had no legal right to initiate a divorce, could could go if they wanted to leave their marriage.

The divorce temples offered a means, sanctioned by the state, by which, as long as certain criteria were met, women could negotiate a divorce. A divorce, along with a marriage, amongst the ruling classes was considered a political matter, and permission had to be sought from the government before either could take place. For everyone else, however, both were considered private matters. A man had simply to issue his wife with a writ to divorce her (or in the case of areas of Japan where a go-between was required, that party had only to do so for the matter to be final). A woman from a well-off merchant family, on the other hand, had to persuade her husband to issue her with one, or have her family persuade him, if she wished to end the marriage. If her husband was unwilling to issue one, the only option available to her was to approach a divorce temple, in the hope that the male temple officials could negotiate a divorce on her behalf.

Basically, the temple's role was to persuade the husband to issue a divorce letter. The officials relied heavily upon the temple's reputation and power to impress upon the husband his duty to release his wife. Should the officials fail, they then approached the shogunate's Magistrates of Temples and Shrines to force the husband to comply, though this was seen as a last resort.

Between 1762 and 1803, Mantokuji's process was as follows. When the woman arrived at the temple, her hair was cut. She was then expected to serve as a nun for three years, after which time her husband was expected to issue her with a writ of divorce. If he refused to do so, the magistrates were involved. This added a further two years to her term, but after completing the full five years her husband would be ordered to issue the writ under threat of imprisonment. From 1804, the length of service as a nun was reduced to twenty-five months, and a woman could leave the temple early if her husband agreed to issue a writ before her full term had been served. She was then free to remarry. While in service, the woman was required to carry out the duties of a nun; the acquisition of a temple divorce relied upon a good report being issued at the end of her term concerning her behaviour during her stay.

Tōkeiji's process was slightly different in that once the magistrates became involved the woman would have to serve the full term, regardless of whether or not her husband issued a writ during that time.

One way to speed up the process, if a husband was reluctant to issue a writ, was for the woman's family to offer him a cash settlement. Given that the daily expenses of the woman, such as food and clothing, would also have to be met by her family during her term within the temple, divorce was an expensive matter.

What about the children? Well, women had no legal right to custody. If the husband agreed, the wife would be allowed to keep female children, but not males. If the wife was pregnant during the divorce process, the baby when born, if it were a boy, would have been taken by its father. With the husband's consent, a female baby could be given to its mother.

A Japanese bride, albumen cabinet card, c. 1890-1910.