Members of the Japanese Embassy, photographed on their trip to America in 1860. C.D. Fredricks & Co

In 1853, U.S. Commodore Matthew Perry steered his smoke-belching steamship into the Bay of Edo (today's Tokyo), terrorizing the Japanese citizenry and forcing the Tokugawa government to end 200 years of almost complete isolation. In the process, Adm. Perry and the U.S. consul he left behind further weakened a government battling famine and growing political opposition. As the U.S. established more formal relations, criticism of the shoguns grew. "Shogun" means "barbarian-subduing generalissimo," yet those very barbarians were now calling the shots.

Amid this turmoil, a Japanese delegation sailed to America to present the recently signed U.S.-Japan Treaty of Amity and Commerce to President Buchanan. They arrived in San Francisco on March 29, 1860, for a three-month tour that ended with two weeks in New York. That visit is the focus of "Samurai in New York," a new show at the Museum of the City of New York that uses photographs, newspaper clippings, personal belongings and a handful of artworks to commemorate its 150th anniversary.

Samurai in New York

Museum of the City of New York
1220 Fifth Ave., (212) 534-1672
Through Oct. 11

Two thick lines—one red, the other black—slash across the white wall of the introductory display at irregular angles, imbuing this otherwise airy space with a subtle tension. There, in a central display case, is the curving blade of a beautiful but lethally sharp Japanese sword, a gift to the U.S. Navy.

Foreshadowing aside, the effect is not as dramatic as it might seem: The show's presentation is unassuming and its content requires careful reading for the tensions to emerge.

The sword forms part of an introduction that includes reproductions from Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, an excerpt from Walt Whitman's poem "The Errand Bearers," and a bronze medal given as a commemorative gift. The message is clear: The growing tensions that were driving the U.S. toward the Civil War may have quickly superseded the Japanese visit in New Yorkers' consciousness, but at the time it was a big deal.

Big enough, as the next section shows, that famous photographers like Mathew Brady courted the Japanese delegates. Big enough, as the display of cartes de visites and stereoscopic photographs demonstrates, that New Yorkers flocked to buy images of men in kimonos against painted backdrops of palm trees.

While the three principals claim center stage in the official photographs, other images feature members of the delegation whose identities have been lost. Contrary to American expectations, these were not high-ranking members of the shogunate. In fact, most were in their 20s and 30s and under strict orders not to take any initiative. Reluctant to leave the Metropolitan Hotel, they visited such places as a naval shipyard, a rubber factory, schools and hospitals only at the Americans' insistence.

As a result, the envoys often chronicled life inside the hotel—one photogravure shows them clustered around laundresses using a sewing machine or ironing, the former something new and strange to them. Some, however, displayed increasing curiosity. In his diary, displayed here, Somo Kato recorded sketches of steamboats and cannons—a reminder that Japan was keen to catch up to a more technologically advanced West. Tateishi Onojiro, nicknamed "Tommy," collected female admiration. A darling of the U.S. press, he was only 18 and, says curator Kathleen Benson, alone among the envoys to wave and blow kisses to the crowds.

Each side harbored different aims and experienced different frustrations. For the Japanese, the visit was primarily ceremonial: A photogravure of a ball given in their honor shows the Japanese standing at the back of the room as though waiting for their hosts to stop partying and engage in a proper, sober ritual.

For the Americans, the celebrations were tied to commerce. A silver service presented to Adm. Perry by New York merchants grateful for the opening of Japan is displayed next to a facsimile of the treaty and just ahead of some photogravures and photographs recording the lavish horse-drawn cart that paraded the treaty up Broadway. One reads in the Japanese flags shown in the windows excitement at the prospect of profitable trade.

As the show progresses, ambivalent attitudes, particularly on the American side, become more apparent. A song sheet's lyrics mock the visitors with racial epithets, while a case with Japanese artifacts and Japanese-inspired Tiffany objects expresses a deep and lasting appreciation of their art. Similarly, while some questioned the wisdom of entertaining the Japanese so lavishly, others pointed to their "munificence" and "superb presents."

A New York Times quote stenciled on the wall, meanwhile, expressed the cynicism of many. Yes, the Japanese were buying "dry goods, hardware, firearms, jewelry, glassware, optical instruments and innumerable other evidences of our ingenuity and art—doubtless when our commerce with Japan is fully open, to be returned to us in the shape of duplicate imitations and improvements."
