SCENE 1.--A beautiful peasant girl and her aged mother, squatting

Produced by John Orford

Glimpses of Unfamilar Japan

Second Series

by Lafcadio Hearn

CONTENTS

1 IN A JAPANESE GARDEN

2 THE HOUSEHOLD SHRINE

3 OF WOMEN'S HAIR

4 FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENGLISH TEACHER

5 TWO STRANGE FESTIVALS

6 BY THE JAPANESE SEA

7 OF A DANCING-GIRL

8 FROM HOKI TO OKI

9 OF SOULS

10 OF GHOSTS AND GOBLINS

11 THE JAPANESE SMILE

12 SAYONARA!

Chapter One

In a Japanese Garden

Sec. 1

MY little two-story house by the Ohashigawa, although dainty as a bird-

cage, proved much too small for comfort at the approach of the hot

season--the rooms being scarcely higher than steamship cabins, and so

narrow that an ordinary mosquito-net could not be suspended in them. I

was sorry to lose the beautiful lake view, but I found it necessary to

remove to the northern quarter of the city, into a very quiet Street

behind the mouldering castle. My new home is a katchiu-yashiki, the

ancient residence of some samurai of high rank. It is shut off from the

street, or rather roadway, skirting the castle moat by a long, high wall

coped with tiles. One ascends to the gateway, which is almost as large

as that of a temple court, by a low broad flight of stone steps; and

projecting from the wall, to the right of the gate, is a look-out

window, heavily barred, like a big wooden cage. Thence, in feudal days,

armed retainers kept keen watch on all who passed by--invisible watch,

for the bars are set so closely that a face behind them cannot be seen

from the roadway. Inside the gate the approach to the dwelling is also

walled in on both sides, so that the visitor, unless privileged, could

see before him only the house entrance, always closed with white shoji.

Like all samurai homes, the residence itself is but one story high, but

there are fourteen rooms within, and these are lofty, spacious, and

beautiful. There is, alas, no lake view nor any charming prospect. Part

of the O-Shiroyama, with the castle on its summit, half concealed by a

park of pines, may be seen above the coping of the front wall, but only

a part; and scarcely a hundred yards behind the house rise densely

wooded heights, cutting off not only the horizon, but a large slice of

the sky as well. For this immurement, however, there exists fair

compensation in the shape of a very pretty garden, or rather a series of

garden spaces, which surround the dwelling on three sides. Broad

verandas overlook these, and from a certain veranda angle I can enjoy

the sight of two gardens at once. Screens of bamboos and woven rushes,

with wide gateless openings in their midst, mark the boundaries of the

three divisions of the pleasure-grounds. But these structures are not

intended to serve as true fences; they are ornamental, and only indicate

where one style of landscape gardening ends and another begins.

Sec. 2

Now a few words upon Japanese gardens in general.

After having learned--merely by seeing, for the practical knowledge of

the art requires years of study and experience, besides a natural,

instinctive sense of beauty--something about the Japanese manner of

arranging flowers, one can thereafter consider European ideas of floral

decoration only as vulgarities. This observation is not the result of

any hasty enthusiasm, but a conviction settled by long residence in the

interior. I have come to understand the unspeakable loveliness of a

solitary spray of blossoms arranged as only a Japanese expert knows how

to arrange it--not by simply poking the spray into a vase, but by

perhaps one whole hour's labour of trimming and posing and daintiest

manipulation--and therefore I cannot think now of what we Occidentals

call a 'bouquet' as anything but a vulgar murdering of flowers, an

outrage upon the colour-sense, a brutality, an abomination. Somewhat in

the same way, and for similar reasons, after having learned what an old

Japanese garden is, I can remember our costliest gardens at home only as

ignorant displays of what wealth can accomplish in the creation of

incongruities that violate nature.

Now a Japanese garden is not a flower garden; neither is it made for the

purpose of cultivating plants. In nine cases out of ten there is nothing

in it resembling a flower-bed. Some gardens may contain scarcely a sprig

of green; some have nothing green at all, and consist entirely of rocks

and pebbles and sand, although these are exceptional. [1] As a rule, a

Japanese garden is a landscape garden, yet its existence does not depend

upon any fixed allowances of space. It may cover one acre or many acres.

It may also be only ten feet square. It may, in extreme cases, be much

less; for a certain kind of Japanese garden can be contrived small

enough to put in a tokonoma. Such a garden, in a vessel no larger than a

fruit-dish, is called koniwa or toko-niwa, and may occasionally be seen

in the tokonoma of humble little dwellings so closely squeezed between

other structures as to possess no ground in which to cultivate an

outdoor garden. (I say 'an outdoor garden,' because there are indoor

gardens, both upstairs and downstairs, in some large Japanese houses.)

The toko-niwa is usually made in some curious bowl, or shallow carved

box or quaintly shaped vessel impossible to describe by any English

word. Therein are created minuscule hills with minuscule houses upon

them, and microscopic ponds and rivulets spanned by tiny humped bridges;

and queer wee plants do duty for trees, and curiously formed pebbles

stand for rocks, and there are tiny toro perhaps a tiny torii as well--

in short, a charming and living model of a Japanese landscape.

Another fact of prime importance to remember is that, in order to

comprehend the beauty of a Japanese garden, it is necessary to

understand--or at least to learn to understand--the beauty of stones.

Not of stones quarried by the hand of man, but of stones shaped by

nature only. Until you can feel, and keenly feel, that stones have

character, that stones have tones and values, the whole artistic meaning

of a Japanese garden cannot be revealed to you. In the foreigner,

however aesthetic he may be, this feeling needs to be cultivated by

study. It is inborn in the Japanese; the soul of the race comprehends

Nature infinitely better than we do, at least in her visible forms. But

although, being an Occidental, the true sense of the beauty of stones

can be reached by you only through long familiarity with the Japanese

use and choice of them, the characters of the lessons to be acquired

exist everywhere about you, if your life be in the interior. You cannot

walk through a street without observing tasks and problems in the

aesthetics of stones for you to master. At the approaches to temples, by

the side of roads, before holy groves, and in all parks and pleasure-

grounds, as well as in all cemeteries, you will notice large, irregular,

flat slabs of natural rock--mostly from the river-beds and water-worn--

sculptured with ideographs, but unhewn. These have been set up as votive

tablets, as commemorative monuments, as tombstones, and are much more

costly than the ordinary cut-stone columns and haka chiselled with the

figures of divinities in relief. Again, you will see before most of the

shrines, nay, even in the grounds of nearly all large homesteads, great

irregular blocks of granite or other hard rock, worn by the action of

torrents, and converted into water-basins (chodzubachi) by cutting a

circular hollow in the top. Such are but common examples of the

utilisation of stones even in the poorest villages; and if you have any

natural artistic sentiment, you cannot fail to discover, sooner or

later, how much more beautiful are these natural forms than any shapes

from the hand of the stone-cutter. It is probable, too, that you will

become so habituated at last to the sight of inscriptions cut upon rock

surfaces, especially if you travel much through the country, that you

will often find yourself involuntarily looking for texts or other

chisellings where there are none, and could not possibly be, as if

ideographs belonged by natural law to rock formation. And stones will

begin, perhaps, to assume for you a certain individual or physiognomical

aspect--to suggest moods and sensations, as they do to the Japanese.

Indeed, Japan is particularly a land of suggestive shapes in stone, as

high volcanic lands are apt to be; and such shapes doubtless addressed

themselves to the imagination of the race at a time long prior to the

date of that archaic text which tells of demons in Izumo 'who made

rocks, and the roots of trees, and leaves, and the foam of the green

waters to speak.

As might be expected in a country where the suggestiveness of natural

forms is thus recognised, there are in Japan many curious beliefs and

superstitions concerning stones. In almost every province there are

famous stones supposed to be sacred or haunted, or to possess miraculous

powers, such as the Women's Stone at the temple of Hachiman at Kamakura,

and the Sessho-seki, or Death Stone of Nasu, and the Wealth-giving Stone

at Enoshima, to which pilgrims pay reverence. There are even legends of

stones having manifested sensibility, like the tradition of the Nodding

Stones which bowed down before the monk Daita when he preached unto them

the word of Buddha; or the ancient story from the Kojiki, that the

Emperor O-Jin, being augustly intoxicated, 'smote with his august staff

a great stone in the middle of the Ohosaka road, whereupon the stone ran

away!' [2]

Now stones are valued for their beauty; and large stones selected for

their shape may have an aesthetic worth of hundreds of dollars. And

large stones form the skeleton, or framework, in the design of old

Japanese gardens. Not only is every stone chosen with a view to its

particular expressiveness of form, but every stone in the garden or

about the premises has its separate and individual name, indicating its

purpose or its decorative duty. But I can tell you only a little, a very

little, of the folk-lore of a Japanese garden; and if you want to know

more about stones and their names, and about the philosophy of gardens,

read the unique essay of Mr. Conder on the Art of Landscape Gardening in

Japan, [3] and his beautiful book on the Japanese Art of Floral

Decoration; and also the brief but charming chapter on Gardens, in

Morse's Japanese Homes. [4]

Sec. 3

No effort to create an impossible or purely ideal landscape is made in

the Japanese garden. Its artistic purpose is to copy faithfully the

attractions of a veritable landscape, and to convey the real impression

that a real landscape communicates. It is therefore at once a picture

and a poem; perhaps even more a poem than a picture. For as nature's

scenery, in its varying aspects, affects us with sensations of joy or of

solemnity, of grimness or of sweetness, of force or of peace, so must

the true reflection of it in the labour of the landscape gardener create

not merely an impression of beauty, but a mood in the soul. The grand

old landscape gardeners, those Buddhist monks who first introduced the

art into Japan, and subsequently developed it into an almost occult

science, carried their theory yet farther than this. They held it

possible to express moral lessons in the design of a garden, and

abstract ideas, such as Chastity, Faith, Piety, Content, Calm, and

Connubial Bliss. Therefore were gardens contrived according to the

character of the owner, whether poet, warrior, philosopher, or priest.

In those ancient gardens (the art, alas, is passing away under the

withering influence of the utterly commonplace Western taste) there were

expressed both a mood of nature and some rare Oriental conception of a

mood of man.

I do not know what human sentiment the principal division of my garden

was intended to reflect; and there is none to tell me. Those by whom it

was made passed away long generations ago, in the eternal transmigration

of souls. But as a poem of nature it requires no interpreter. It

occupies the front portion of the grounds, facing south; and it also

extends west to the verge of the northern division of the garden, from

which it is partly separated by a curious screen-fence structure. There

are large rocks in it, heavily mossed; and divers fantastic basins of

stone for holding water; and stone lamps green with years; and a

shachihoko, such as one sees at the peaked angles of castle roofs--a

great stone fish, an idealised porpoise, with its nose in the ground and

its tail in the air. [5] There are miniature hills, with old trees upon

them; and there are long slopes of green, shadowed by flowering shrubs,

like river banks; and there are green knolls like islets. All these

verdant elevations rise from spaces of pale yellow sand, smooth as a

surface of silk and miming the curves and meanderings of a river course.

These sanded spaces are not to be trodden upon; they are much too

beautiful for that. The least speck of dirt would mar their effect; and

it requires the trained skill of an experienced native gardener--a

delightful old man he is--to keep them in perfect form. But they are

traversed in various directions by lines of flat unhewn rock slabs,

placed at slightly irregular distances from one another, exactly like

stepping-stones across a brook. The whole effect is that of the shores

of a still stream in some lovely, lonesome, drowsy place.

There is nothing to break the illusion, so secluded the garden is. High

walls and fences shut out streets and contiguous things; and the shrubs

and the trees, heightening and thickening toward the boundaries, conceal

from view even the roofs of the neighbouring katchiu-yashiki. Softly

beautiful are the tremulous shadows of leaves on the sunned sand; and

the scent of flowers comes thinly sweet with every waft of tepid air;

and there is a humming of bees.

Sec. 4

By Buddhism all existences are divided into Hijo things without desire,

such as stones and trees; and Ujo things having desire, such as men and

animals. This division does not, so far as I know, find expression in

the written philosophy of gardens; but it is a convenient one. The folk-

lore of my little domain relates both to the inanimate and the animate.

In natural order, the Hijo may be considered first, beginning with a

singular shrub near the entrance of the yashiki, and close to the gate

of the first garden.

Within the front gateway of almost every old samurai house, and usually

near the entrance of the dwelling itself, there is to be seen a small

tree with large and peculiar leaves. The name of this tree in Izumo is

tegashiwa, and there is one beside my door. What the scientific name of

it is I do not know; nor am I quite sure of the etymology of the

Japanese name. However, there is a word tegashi, meaning a bond for the

hands; and the shape of the leaves of the tegashiwa somewhat resembles

the shape of a hand.

Now, in old days, when the samurai retainer was obliged to leave his

home in order to accompany his daimyo to Yedo, it was customary, just

before his departure, to set before him a baked tai [6] served up on a

tegashiwa leaf. After this farewell repast the leaf upon which the tai

had been served was hung up above the door as a charm to bring the

departed knight safely back again. This pretty superstition about the

leaves of the tegashiwa had its origin not only in their shape but in

their movement. Stirred by a wind they seemed to beckon--not indeed

after our Occidental manner, but in the way that a Japanese signs to his

friend to come, by gently waving his hand up and down with the palm

towards the ground.

Another shrub to be found in most Japanese gardens is the nanten, [7]

about which a very curious belief exists. If you have an evil dream, a

dream which bodes ill luck, you should whisper it to the nanten early in

the morning, and then it will never come true. [8] There are two

varieties of this graceful plant: one which bears red berries, and one

which bears white. The latter is rare. Both kinds grow in my garden. The

common variety is placed close to the veranda (perhaps for the

convenience of dreamers); the other occupies a little flower-bed in the

middle of the garden, together with a small citron-tree. This most

dainty citron-tree is called 'Buddha's fingers,' [9] because of the

wonderful shape of its fragrant fruits. Near it stands a kind of laurel,

with lanciform leaves glossy as bronze; it is called by the Japanese

yuzuri-ha, [10] and is almost as common in the gardens of old samurai

homes as the tegashiwa itself. It is held to be a tree of good omen,

because no one of its old leaves ever falls off before a new one,

growing behind it, has well developed. For thus the yuzuri-ha symbolises

hope that the father will not pass away before his son has become a

vigorous man, well able to succeed him as the head of the family.

Therefore, on every New Year's Day, the leaves of the yuzuriha, mingled

with fronds of fern, are attached to the shimenawa which is then

suspended before every Izumo home.

Sec. 5

The trees, like the shrubs, have their curious poetry and legends. Like

the stones, each tree has its special landscape name according to its

position and purpose in the composition. Just as rocks and stones form

the skeleton of the ground-plan of a garden, so pines form the framework

of its foliage design. They give body to the whole. In this garden there

are five pines,--not pines tormented into fantasticalities, but pines

made wondrously picturesque by long and tireless care and judicious

trimming. The object of the gardener has been to develop to the utmost

possible degree their natural tendency to rugged line and massings of

foliage--that spiny sombre-green foliage which Japanese art is never

weary of imitating in metal inlay or golden lacquer. The pine is a

symbolic tree in this land of symbolism. Ever green, it is at once the

emblem of unflinching purpose and of vigorous old age; and its needle-

shaped leaves are credited with the power of driving demons away.

There are two sakuranoki, [11] Japanese cherry-trees--those trees whose

blossoms, as Professor Chamberlain so justly observes, are 'beyond

comparison more lovely than anything Europe has to show.' Many varieties

are cultivated and loved; those in my garden bear blossoms of the most

ethereal pink, a flushed white. When, in spring, the trees flower, it is

as though fleeciest masses of cloud faintly tinged by sunset had floated

down from the highest sky to fold themselves about the branches. This

comparison is no poetical exaggeration; neither is it original: it is an

ancient Japanese description of the most marvellous floral exhibition

which nature is capable of making. The reader who has never seen a

cherry-tree blossoming in Japan cannot possibly imagine the delight of

the spectacle. There are no green leaves; these come later: there is

only one glorious burst of blossoms, veiling every twig and bough in

their delicate mist; and the soil beneath each tree is covered deep out

of sight by fallen petals as by a drift of pink snow.

But these are cultivated cherry-trees. There are others which put forth

their leaves before their blossoms, such as the yamazakura, or mountain

cherry. [12] This, too, however, has its poetry of beauty and of

symbolism. Sang the great Shinto writer and poet, Motowori:

Shikishima no

Yamato-gokoro wo

Hito-towaba,

Asa-hi ni niou

Yamazakura bana. [13]

Whether cultivated or uncultivated, the Japanese cherry-trees are

emblems. Those planted in old samurai gardens were not cherished for

their loveliness alone. Their spotless blossoms were regarded as

symbolising that delicacy of sentiment and blamelessness of life

belonging to high courtesy and true knightliness. 'As the cherry flower

is first among flowers,' says an old proverb, 'so should the warrior be

first among men'.

Shadowing the western end of this garden, and projecting its smooth dark

limbs above the awning of the veranda, is a superb umenoki, Japanese

plum-tree, very old, and originally planted here, no doubt, as in other

gardens, for the sake of the sight of its blossoming. The flowering of

the umenoki, [14] in the earliest spring, is scarcely less astonishing

than that of the cherry-tree, which does not bloom for a full month

later; and the blossoming of both is celebrated by popular holidays. Nor

are these, although the most famed, the only flowers thus loved. The

wistaria, the convolvulus, the peony, each in its season, form displays

of efflorescence lovely enough to draw whole populations out of the

cities into the country to see them.. In Izumo, the blossoming of the

peony is especially marvellous. The most famous place for this spectacle

is the little island of Daikonshima, in the grand Naka-umi lagoon, about

an hour's sail from Matsue. In May the whole island flames crimson with

peonies; and even the boys and girls of the public schools are given a

holiday, in order that they may enjoy the sight.

Though the plum flower is certainly a rival in beauty of the sakura-no-

hana, the Japanese compare woman's beauty--physical beauty--to the

cherry flower, never to the plum flower. But womanly virtue and

sweetness, on the other hand, are compared to the ume-no-hana, never to

the cherry blossom. It is a great mistake to affirm, as some writers

have done, that the Japanese never think of comparing a woman to trees

and flowers. For grace, a maiden is likened to a slender willow; [15]

for youthful charm, to the cherry-tree in flower; for sweetness of

heart, to the blossoming plum-tree. Nay, the old Japanese poets have

compared woman to all beautiful things. They have even sought similes

from flowers for her various poses, for her movements, as in the verse,

Tateba skakuyaku; [16]

Suwareba botan;

Aruku sugatawa

Himeyuri [17] no hana. [18]

Why, even the names of the humblest country girls are often those of

beautiful trees or flowers prefixed by the honorific O: [19] O-Matsu

(Pine), O-Take (Bamboo), O-Ume (Plum), O-Hana (Blossom), O-ine (Ear-of-

Young-Rice), not to speak of the professional flower-names of dancing-

girls and of joro. It has been argued with considerable force that the

origin of certain tree-names borne by girls must be sought in the folk-

conception of the tree as an emblem of longevity, or happiness, or good

fortune, rather than in any popular idea of the beauty of the tree in

itself. But however this may be, proverb, poem, song, and popular speech

to-day yield ample proof that the Japanese comparisons of women to trees

and flowers are in no-wise inferior to our own in aesthetic sentiment.

Sec. 6

That trees, at least Japanese trees, have souls, cannot seem an

unnatural fancy to one who has seen the blossoming of the umenoki and

the sakuranoki. This is a popular belief in Izumo and elsewhere. It is

not in accord with Buddhist philosophy, and yet in a certain sense it

strikes one as being much closer to cosmic truth than the old Western

orthodox notion of trees as 'things created for the use of man.'

Furthermore, there exist several odd superstitions about particular

trees, not unlike certain West Indian beliefs which have had a good

influence in checking the destruction of valuable timber. Japan, like

the tropical world, has its goblin trees. Of these, the enoki (Celtis

Willdenowiana) and the yanagi (drooping willow) are deemed especially

ghostly, and are rarely now to be found in old Japanese gardens. Both

are believed to have the power of haunting. 'Enoki ga bakeru,' the izumo

saying is. You will find in a Japanese dictionary the word 'bakeru'

translated by such terms as 'to be transformed,' 'to be metamorphosed,'

'to be changed,' etc.; but the belief about these trees is very

singular, and cannot be explained by any such rendering of the verb

'bakeru.' The tree itself does not change form or place, but a spectre

called Ki-no o-bake disengages itself from the tree and walks about in

various guises.' [20] Most often the shape assumed by the phantom is

that of a beautiful woman. The tree spectre seldom speaks, and seldom

ventures to go very far away from its tree. If approached, it

immediately shrinks back into the trunk or the foliage. It is said that

if either an old yanagi or a young enoki be cut blood will flow from the

gash. When such trees are very young it is not believed that they have

supernatural habits, but they become more dangerous the older they grow.

There is a rather pretty legend--recalling the old Greek dream of

dryads--about a willow-tree which grew in the garden of a samurai of

Kyoto. Owing to its weird reputation, the tenant of the homestead

desired to cut it down; but another samurai dissuaded him, saying:

'Rather sell it to me, that I may plant it in my garden. That tree has a

soul; it were cruel to destroy its life.' Thus purchased and

transplanted, the yanagi flourished well in its new home, and its

spirit, out of gratitude, took the form of a beautiful woman, and became

the wife of the samurai who had befriended it. A charming boy was the

result of this union. A few years later, the daimyo to whom the ground

belonged gave orders that the tree should be cut down. Then the wife

wept bitterly, and for the first time revealed to her husband the whole

story. 'And now,' she added, 'I know that I must die; but our child will

live, and you will always love him. This thought is my only solace.'

Vainly the astonished and terrified husband sought to retain her.

Bidding him farewell for ever, she vanished into the tree. Needless to

say that the samurai did everything in his power to persuade the daimyo

to forgo his purpose. The prince wanted the tree for the reparation of a

great Buddhist temple, the San-jiu-san-gen-do. [21]' The tree was

felled, but, having fallen, it suddenly became so heavy that three

hundred men could not move it. Then the child, taking a branch in his

little hand, said, 'Come,' and the tree followed him, gliding along the

ground to the court of the temple.

Although said to be a bakemono-ki, the enoki sometimes receives highest

religious honours; for the spirit of the god Kojin, to whom old dolls

are dedicated, is supposed to dwell within certain very ancient enoki

trees, and before these are placed shrines whereat people make prayers.

Sec. 7

The second garden, on the north side, is my favourite, It contains no

large growths. It is paved with blue pebbles, and its centre is occupied

by a pondlet--a miniature lake fringed with rare plants, and containing

a tiny island, with tiny mountains and dwarf peach-trees and pines and

azaleas, some of which are perhaps more than a century old, though

scarcely more than a foot high. Nevertheless, this work, seen as it was

intended to be seen, does not appear to the eye in miniature at all.

From a certain angle of the guest-room looking out upon it, the

appearance is that of a real lake shore with a real island beyond it, a

stone's throw away. So cunning the art of the ancient gardener who

contrived all this, and who has been sleeping for a hundred years under

the cedars of Gesshoji, that the illusion can be detected only from the

zashiki by the presence of an ishidoro or stone lamp, upon the island.

The size of the ishidoro betrays the false perspective, and I do not

think it was placed there when the garden was made.

Here and there at the edge of the pond, and almost level with the water,

are placed large flat stones, on which one may either stand or squat, to

watch the lacustrine population or to tend the water-plants. There are

beautiful water-lilies, whose bright green leaf-disks float oilily upon

the surface (Nuphar Japonica), and many lotus plants of two kinds, those

which bear pink and those which bear pure white flowers. There are iris

plants growing along the bank, whose blossoms are prismatic violet, and

there are various ornamental grasses and ferns and mosses. But the pond

is essentially a lotus pond; the lotus plants make its greatest charm.

It is a delight to watch every phase of their marvellous growth, from

the first unrolling of the leaf to the fall of the last flower. On rainy

days, especially, the lotus plants are worth observing. Their great cup-

shaped leaves, swaying high above the pond, catch the rain and hold it a

while; but always after the water in the leaf reaches a certain level

the stem bends, and empties the leaf with a loud plash, and then

straightens again. Rain-water upon a lotus-leaf is a favourite subject

with Japanese metal-workers, and metalwork only can reproduce the

effect, for the motion and colour of water moving upon the green

oleaginous surface are exactly those of quicksilver.

Sec. 8

The third garden, which is very large, extends beyond the inclosure

containing the lotus pond to the foot of the wooded hills which form the

northern and north-eastern boundary of this old samurai quarter.

Formerly all this broad level space was occupied by a bamboo grove; but

it is now little more than a waste of grasses and wild flowers. In the

north-east corner there is a magnificent well, from which ice-cold water

is brought into the house through a most ingenious little aqueduct of

bamboo pipes; and in the north-western end, veiled by tall weeds, there

stands a very small stone shrine of Inari with two proportionately small

stone foxes sitting before it. Shrine and images are chipped and broken,

and thickly patched with dark green moss. But on the east side of the

house one little square of soil belonging to this large division of the

garden is still cultivated. It is devoted entirely to chrysanthemum

plants, which are shielded from heavy rain and strong sun by slanting

frames of light wood fashioned, like shoji with panes of white paper,

and supported like awnings upon thin posts of bamboo. I can venture to

add nothing to what has already been written about these marvellous

products of Japanese floriculture considered in themselves; but there is

a little story relating to chrysanthemums which I may presume to tell.

There is one place in Japan where it is thought unlucky to cultivate

chrysanthemums, for reasons which shall presently appear; and that place

is in the pretty little city of Himeji, in the province of Harima.

Himeji contains the ruins of a great castle of thirty turrets; and a

daimyo used to dwell therein whose revenue was one hundred and fifty-six

thousand koku of rice. Now, in the house of one of that daimyo's chief

retainers there was a maid-servant, of good family, whose name was O-

Kiku; and the name 'Kiku' signifies a chrysanthemum flower. Many

precious things were intrusted to her charge, and among others ten

costly dishes of gold. One of these was suddenly missed, and could not

be found; and the girl, being responsible therefor, and knowing not how

otherwise to prove her innocence, drowned herself in a well. But ever

thereafter her ghost, returning nightly, could be heard counting the

dishes slowly, with sobs:

Ichi-mai, Yo-mai, Shichi-mai,

Ni-mai, Go-mai, Hachi-mai,

San-mai, Roku-mai, Ku-mai--

Then would be heard a despairing cry and a loud burst of weeping; and

again the girl's voice counting the dishes plaintively: 'One--two--

three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--'

Her spirit passed into the body of a strange little insect, whose head

faintly resembles that of a ghost with long dishevelled hair; and it is

called O-Kiku-mushi, or 'the fly of O-Kiku'; and it is found, they say,

nowhere save in Himeji. A famous play was written about O-Kiku, which is

still acted in all the popular theatres, entitled Banshu-O-Kiku-no-Sara-

yashiki; or, The Manor of the Dish of O-Kiku of Banshu.

Some declare that Banshu is only the corruption of the name of an

ancient quarter of Tokyo (Yedo), where the story should have been laid.

But the people of Himeji say that part of their city now called Go-Ken-

Yashiki is identical with the site of the ancient manor. What is

certainly true is that to cultivate chrysanthemum flowers in the part of

Himeji called Go-KenYashiki is deemed unlucky, because the name of O-

Kiku signifies 'Chrysanthemum.' Therefore, nobody, I am told, ever

cultivates chrysanthemums there.

Sec. 9

Now of the ujo or things having desire, which inhabit these gardens.

There are four species of frogs: three that dwell in the lotus pond, and

one that lives in the trees. The tree frog is a very pretty little

creature, exquisitely green; it has a shrill cry, almost like the note

of a semi; and it is called amagaeru, or 'the rain frog,' because, like

its kindred in other countries, its croaking is an omen of rain. The

pond frogs are called babagaeru, shinagaeru, and Tono-san-gaeru. Of

these, the first-named variety is the largest and the ugliest: its

colour is very disagreeable, and its full name ('babagaeru' being a

decent abbreviation) is quite as offensive as its hue. The shinagaeru,

or 'striped frog,' is not handsome, except by comparison with the

previously mentioned creature. But the Tono-san-gaeru, so called after a

famed daimyo who left behind him a memory of great splendour is

beautiful: its colour is a fine bronze-red.

Besides these varieties of frogs there lives in the garden a huge

uncouth goggle-eyed thing which, although called here hikigaeru, I take

to be a toad. 'Hikigaeru' is the term ordinarily used for a bullfrog.

This creature enters the house almost daily to be fed, and seems to have

no fear even of strangers. My people consider it a luck-bringing

visitor; and it is credited with the power of drawing all the mosquitoes

out of a room into its mouth by simply sucking its breath in. Much as it

is cherished by gardeners and others, there is a legend about a goblin

toad of old times, which, by thus sucking in its breath, drew into its

mouth, not insects, but men.

The pond is inhabited also by many small fish; imori, or newts, with

bright red bellies; and multitudes of little water-beetles, called

maimaimushi, which pass their whole time in gyrating upon the surface of

the water so rapidly that it is almost impossible to distinguish their

shape clearly. A man who runs about aimlessly to and fro, under the

influence of excitement, is compared to a maimaimushi. And there are

some beautiful snails, with yellow stripes on their shells. Japanese

children have a charm-song which is supposed to have power to make the

snail put out its horns:

Daidaimushi, [22] daidaimushi, tsuno chitto dashare! Ame haze fuku kara

tsuno chitto dashare! [23]

The playground of the children of the better classes has always been the

family garden, as that of the children of the poor is the temple court.

It is in the garden that the little ones first learn something of the

wonderful life of plants and the marvels of the insect world; and there,

also, they are first taught those pretty legends and songs about birds

and flowers which form so charming a part of Japanese folk-lore. As the

home training of the child is left mostly to the mother, lessons of

kindness to animals are early inculcated; and the results are strongly

marked in after life It is true, Japanese children are not entirely free

from that unconscious tendency to cruelty characteristic of children in

all countries, as a survival of primitive instincts. But in this regard

the great moral difference between the sexes is strongly marked from the

earliest years. The tenderness of the woman-soul appears even in the

child. Little Japanese girls who play with insects or small animals

rarely hurt them, and generally set them free after they have afforded a

reasonable amount of amusement. Little boys are not nearly so good, when

out of sight of parents or guardians. But if seen doing anything cruel,

a child is made to feel ashamed of the act, and hears the Buddhist

warning, 'Thy future birth will be unhappy, if thou dost cruel things.'

Somewhere among the rocks in the pond lives a small tortoise--left in

the garden, probably, by the previous tenants of the house. It is very

pretty, but manages to remain invisible for weeks at a time. In popular

mythology, the tortoise is the servant of the divinity Kompira; [24] and

if a pious fisherman finds a tortoise, he writes upon his back

characters signifying 'Servant of the Deity Kompira,' and then gives it

a drink of sake and sets it free. It is supposed to be very fond of

sake.

Some say that the land tortoise, or 'stone tortoise,' only, is the

servant of Kompira, and the sea tortoise, or turtle, the servant of the

Dragon Empire beneath the sea. The turtle is said to have the power to

create, with its breath, a cloud, a fog, or a magnificent palace. It

figures in the beautiful old folk-tale of Urashima. [25] All tortoises

are supposed to live for a thousand years, wherefore one of the most

frequent symbols of longevity in Japanese art is a tortoise. But the

tortoise most commonly represented by native painters and metal-workers

has a peculiar tail, or rather a multitude of small tails, extending

behind it like the fringes of a straw rain-coat, mino, whence it is

called minogame Now, some of the tortoises kept in the sacred tanks of

Buddhist temples attain a prodigious age, and certain water--plants

attach themselves to the creatures' shells and stream behind them when

they walk. The myth of the minogame is supposed to have had its origin

in old artistic efforts to represent the appearance of such tortoises

with confervae fastened upon their shells.

Sec. 10

Early in summer the frogs are surprisingly numerous, and, after dark,

are noisy beyond description; but week by week their nightly clamour

grows feebler, as their numbers diminish under the attacks of many

enemies. A large family of snakes, some fully three feet long, make

occasional inroads into the colony. The victims often utter piteous

cries, which are promptly responded to, whenever possible, by some

inmate of the house, and many a frog has been saved by my servant-girl,

who, by a gentle tap with a bamboo rod, compels the snake to let its

prey go. These snakes are beautiful swimmers. They make themselves quite

free about the garden; but they come out only on hot days. None of my

people would think of injuring or killing one of them. Indeed, in Izumo

it is said that to kill a snake is unlucky. 'If you kill a snake without

provocation,' a peasant assured me, 'you will afterwards find its head

in the komebitsu [the box in which cooked rice is kept] 'when you take

off the lid.'

But the snakes devour comparatively few frogs. Impudent kites and crows

are their most implacable destroyers; and there is a very pretty weasel

which lives under the kura (godown) and which does not hesitate to take

either fish or frogs out of the pond, even when the lord of the manor is

watching. There is also a cat which poaches in my preserves, a gaunt

outlaw, a master thief, which I have made sundry vain attempts to

reclaim from vagabondage. Partly because of the immorality of this cat,

and partly because it happens to have a long tail, it has the evil

reputation of being a nekomata, or goblin cat.

It is true that in Izumo some kittens are born with long tails; but it

is very seldom that they are suffered to grow up with long tails. For

the natural tendency of cats is to become goblins; and this tendency to

metamorphosis can be checked only by cutting off their tails in

kittenhood. Cats are magicians, tails or no tails, and have the power of

making corpses dance. Cats are ungrateful 'Feed a dog for three days,'

says a Japanese proverb, 'and he will remember your kindness for three

years; feed a cat for three years and she will forget your kindness in

three days.' Cats are mischievous: they tear the mattings, and make

holes in the shoji, and sharpen their claws upon the pillars of

tokonoma. Cats are under a curse: only the cat and the venomous serpent

wept not at the death of Buddha and these shall never enter into the

bliss of the Gokuraku For all these reasons, and others too numerous to

relate, cats are not much loved in Izumo, and are compelled to pass the

greater part of their lives out of doors.

Sec. 11

Not less than eleven varieties of butterflies have visited the

neighbourhood of the lotus pond within the past few days. The most

common variety is snowy white. It is supposed to be especially attracted

by the na, or rape-seed plant; and when little girls see it, they sing:

Cho-cho cho-cho, na no ha ni tomare;

Na no ha ga iyenara, te ni tomare. [26]

But the most interesting insects are certainly the semi (cicadae). These

Japanese tree crickets are much more extraordinary singers than even the

wonderful cicadae of the tropics; and they are much less tiresome, for

there is a different species of semi, with a totally different song, for

almost every month during the whole warm season. There are, I believe,

seven kinds; but I have become familiar with only four. The first to be

heard in my trees is the natsuzemi, or summer semi: it makes a sound

like the Japanese monosyllable ji, beginning wheezily, slowly swelling

into a crescendo shrill as the blowing of steam, and dying away in

another wheeze. This j-i-i-iiiiiiiiii is so deafening that when two or

three natsuzemi come close to the window I am obliged to make them go

away. Happily the natsuzemi is soon succeeded by the minminzemi, a much

finer musician, whose name is derived from its wonderful note. It is

said 'to chant like a Buddhist priest reciting the kyo'; and certainly,

upon hearing it the first time, one can scarcely believe that one is

listening to a mere cicada. The minminzemi is followed, early in autumn,

by a beautiful green semi, the higurashi, which makes a singularly clear

sound, like the rapid ringing of a small bell,--kana-kana-kan a-kana-

kana. But the most astonishing visitor of all comes still later, the

tsukiu-tsukiu-boshi. [27] I fancy this creature can have no rival in the

whole world of cicadae its music is exactly like the song of a bird. Its

name, like that of the minminzemi, is onomatopoetic; but in Izumo the

sounds of its chant are given thus:

Tsuku-tsuku uisu , [28]

Tsuku-tsuku uisu,

Tsuku-tsuku uisu;

Ui-osu,

Ui-osu,

Ui-osu,

Ui-os-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-su.

However, the semi are not the only musicians of the garden. Two

remarkable creatures aid their orchestra. The first is a beautiful

bright green grasshopper, known to the Japanese by the curious name of

hotoke-no-uma, or 'the horse of the dead.' This insect's head really

bears some resemblance in shape to the head of a horse--hence the fancy.

It is a queerly familiar creature, allowing itself to be taken in the

hand without struggling, and generally making itself quite at home in

the house, which it often enters. It makes a very thin sound, which the

Japanese write as a repetition of the syllables jun-ta; and the name

junta is sometimes given to the grasshopper itself. The other insect is

also a green grasshopper, somewhat larger, and much shyer: it is called

gisu, [29] on account of its chant:

Chon, Gisu;

Chon, Gisu;

Chon, Gisu;

Chon . . . (ad libitum).

Several lovely species of dragon-flies (tombo) hover about the pondlet

on hot bright days. One variety--the most beautiful creature of the kind

I ever saw, gleaming with metallic colours indescribable, and spectrally

slender--is called Tenshi-tombo, 'the Emperor's dragon-fly.' There is

another, the largest of Japanese dragon-flies, but somewhat rare, which

is much sought after by children as a plaything. Of this species it is

said that there are many more males than females; and what I can vouch

for as true is that, if you catch a female, the male can be almost

immediately attracted by exposing the captive. Boys, accordingly, try to

secure a female, and when one is captured they tie it with a thread to

some branch, and sing a curious little song, of which these are the

original words:

Konna [30] dansho Korai o

Adzuma no meto ni makete

Nigeru Wa haji dewa naikai?

Which signifies, 'Thou, the male, King of Korea, dost thou not feel

shame to flee away from the Queen of the East?' (This taunt is an

allusion to the story of the conquest of Korea by the Empress Jin-go.)

And the male comes invariably, and is also caught. In Izumo the first

seven words of the original song have been corrupted into 'konna unjo

Korai abura no mito'; and the name of the male dragon-fly, unjo, and

that of the female, mito, are derived from two words of the corrupted

version.

Sec. 12

Of warm nights all sorts of unbidden guests invade the house in

multitudes. Two varieties of mosquitoes do their utmost to make life

unpleasant, and these have learned the wisdom of not approaching a lamp

too closely; but hosts of curious and harmless things cannot be

prevented from seeking their death in the flame. The most numerous

victims of all, which come thick as a shower of rain, are called

Sanemori. At least they are so called in Izumo, where they do much

damage to growing rice.

Now the name Sanemori is an illustrious one, that of a famous warrior of

old times belonging to the Genji clan. There is a legend that while he

was fighting with an enemy on horseback his own steed slipped and fell

in a rice-field, and he was consequently overpowered and slain by his

antagonist. He became a rice-devouring insect, which is still

respectfully called, by the peasantry of Izumo, Sanemori-San. They light

fires, on certain summer nights, in the rice-fields, to attract the

insect, and beat gongs and sound bamboo flutes, chanting the while, 'O-

Sanemori, augustly deign to come hither!' A kannushi performs a

religious rite, and a straw figure representing a horse and rider is

then either burned or thrown into a neighbouring river or canal. By this

ceremony it is believed that the fields are cleared of the insect.

This tiny creature is almost exactly the size and colour of a rice-husk.

The legend concerning it may have arisen from the fact that its body,

together with the wings, bears some resemblance to the helmet of a

Japanese warrior. [31]

Next in number among the victims of fire are the moths, some of which

are very strange and beautiful. The most remarkable is an enormous

creature popularly called okorichocho or the 'ague moth,' because there

is a superstitious belief that it brings intermittent fever into any

house it enters. It has a body quite as heavy and almost as powerful as

that of the largest humming-bird, and its struggles, when caught in the

hand, surprise by their force. It makes a very loud whirring sound while

flying. The wings of one which I examined measured, outspread, five

inches from tip to tip, yet seemed small in proportion to the heavy

body. They were richly mottled with dusky browns and silver greys of

various tones.

Many flying night-comers, however, avoid the lamp. Most fantastic of all

visitors is the toro or kamakiri, called in Izumo kamakake, a bright

green praying mantis, extremely feared by children for its capacity to

bite. It is very large. I have seen specimens over six inches long. The

eyes of the kamakake are a brilliant black at night, but by day they

appear grass-coloured, like the rest of the body. The mantis is very

intelligent and surprisingly aggressive. I saw one attacked by a

vigorous frog easily put its enemy to flight. It fell a prey

subsequently to other inhabitants of the pond, but, it required the

combined efforts of several frogs to vanquish the monstrous insect, and

even then the battle was decided only when the kamakake had been dragged

into the water.

Other visitors are beetles of divers colours, and a sort of small roach

called goki-kaburi, signifying 'one whose head is covered with a bowl.'

It is alleged that the goki-kaburi likes to eat human eyes, and is

therefore the abhorred enemy of Ichibata-Sama--Yakushi-Nyorai of

Ichibata,--by whom diseases of the eye are healed. To kill the goki-

kaburi is consequently thought to be a meritorious act in the sight of

this Buddha. Always welcome are the beautiful fireflies (hotaru), which

enter quite noiselessly and at once seek the darkest place in the house,

slow-glimmering, like sparks moved by a gentle wind. They are supposed

to be very fond of water; wherefore children sing to them this little

song:

Hotaru koe midzu nomasho;

Achi no midzu wa nigaizo;

Kochi no midzu wa amaizo. [32]

A pretty grey lizard, quite different from some which usually haunt the

garden, also makes its appearance at night, and pursues its prey along

the ceiling. Sometimes an extraordinarily large centipede attempts the

same thing, but with less success, and has to be seized with a pair of

fire-tongs and thrown into the exterior darkness. Very rarely, an

enormous spider appears. This creature seems inoffensive. If captured,

it will feign death until certain that it is not watched, when it will

run away with surprising swiftness if it gets a chance. It is hairless,

and very different from the tarantula, or fukurogumo. It is called

miyamagumo, or mountain spider. There are four other kinds of spiders

common in this neighbourhood: tenagakumo, or 'long-armed spider;'

hiratakumo, or 'flat spider'; jikumo, or 'earth spider'; and totatekumo,

or 'doorshutting spider.' Most spiders are considered evil beings. A

spider seen anywhere at night, the people say, should be killed; for all

spiders that show themselves after dark are goblins. While people are

awake and watchful, such creatures make themselves small; but when

everybody is fast asleep, then they assume their true goblin shape, and

become monstrous.

Sec. 13

The high wood of the hill behind the garden is full of bird life. There

dwell wild uguisu, owls, wild doves, too many crows, and a queer bird

that makes weird noises at night-long deep sounds of hoo, hoo. It is

called awamakidori or the 'millet-sowing bird,' because when the farmers

hear its cry they know that it is time to plant the millet. It is quite

small and brown, extremely shy, and, so far as I can learn, altogether

nocturnal in its habits.

But rarely, very rarely, a far stranger cry is heard in those trees at

night, a voice as of one crying in pain the syllables 'ho-to-to-gi-su.'

The cry and the name of that which utters it are one and the same,

hototogisu.

It is a bird of which weird things are told; for they say it is not

really a creature of this living world, but a night wanderer from the

Land of Darkness. In the Meido its dwelling is among those sunless

mountains of Shide over which all souls must pass to reach the place of

judgment. Once in each year it comes; the time of its coming is the end

of the fifth month, by the antique counting of moons; and the peasants,

hearing its voice, say one to the other, 'Now must we sow the rice; for

the Shide-no-taosa is with us.' The word taosa signifies the head man of

a mura, or village, as villages were governed in the old days; but why

the hototogisu is called the taosa of Shide I do not know. Perhaps it is

deemed to be a soul from some shadowy hamlet of the Shide hills, whereat

the ghosts are wont to rest on their weary way to the realm of Emma, the

King of Death.

Its cry has been interpreted in various ways. Some declare that the

hototogisu does not really repeat its own name, but asks, 'Honzon

kaketaka?' (Has the honzon [33] been suspended?) Others, resting their

interpretation upon the wisdom of the Chinese, aver that the bird's

speech signifies, 'Surely it is better to return home.' This, at least

is true: that all who journey far from their native place, and hear the

voice of the hototogisu in other distant provinces, are seized with the

sickness of longing for home.

Only at night, the people say, is its voice heard, and most often upon

the nights of great moons; and it chants while hovering high out of

sight, wherefore a poet has sung of it thus:

Hito koe wa.

Tsuki ga naitaka

Hototogisu! [34]

And another has written:

Hototogisu

Nakitsuru kata wo

Nagamureba,--

Tada ariake no

Tsuki zo nokoreru. [35]

The dweller in cities may pass a lifetime without hearing the

hototogisu. Caged, the little creature will remain silent and die. Poets

often wait vainly in the dew, from sunset till dawn, to hear the strange

cry which has inspired so many exquisite verses. But those who have

heard found it so mournful that they have likened it to the cry of one

wounded suddenly to death.

Hototogisu

Chi ni naku koe wa

Ariake no

Tsuki yori kokani

Kiku hito mo nashi. [36]

Concerning Izumo owls, I shall content myself with citing a composition

by one of my Japanese students:

'The Owl is a hateful bird that sees in the dark. Little children who

cry are frightened by the threat that the Owl will come to take them

away; for the Owl cries, "Ho! ho! sorotto koka! sorotto koka!" which

means, "Thou! must I enter slowly?" It also cries "Noritsuke hose! ho!

ho!" which means, "Do thou make the starch to use in washing to-morrow"

And when the women hear that cry, they know that to-morrow will be a

fine day. It also cries, "Tototo," "The man dies," and "Kotokokko," "The

boy dies." So people hate it. And crows hate it so much that it is used

to catch crows. The Farmer puts an Owl in the rice-field; and all the

crows come to kill it, and they get caught fast in the snares. This

should teach us not to give way to our dislikes for other people.'

The kites which hover over the city all day do not live in the

neighbourhood. Their nests are far away upon the blue peaks; but they

pass much of their time in catching fish, and in stealing from back-

yards. They pay the wood and the garden swift and sudden piratical

visits; and their sinister cry--pi-yoroyoro, pi-yoroyoro--sounds at

intervals over the town from dawn till sundown. Most insolent of all

feathered creatures they certainly are--more insolent than even their

fellow-robbers, the crows. A kite will drop five miles to filch a tai

out of a fish-seller's bucket, or a fried-cake out of a child's hand,

and shoot back to the clouds before the victim of the theft has time to

stoop for a stone. Hence the saying, 'to look as surprised as if one's

aburage [37] had been snatched from one's hand by a kite.' There is,

moreover, no telling what a kite may think proper to steal. For example,

my neighbour's servant-girl went to the river the other day, wearing in

her hair a string of small scarlet beads made of rice-grains prepared

and dyed in a certain ingenious way. A kite lighted upon her head, and

tore away and swallowed the string of beads. But it is great fun to feed

these birds with dead rats or mice which have been caught in traps

overnight and subsequently drowned. The instant a dead rat is exposed to

view a kite pounces from the sky to bear it away. Sometimes a crow may

get the start of the kite, but the crow must be able to get to the woods

very swiftly indeed in order to keep his prize. The children sing this

song:

Tobi, tobi, maute mise!

Ashita no ha ni

Karasu ni kakushite

Nezumi yaru. [38]

The mention of dancing refers to the beautiful balancing motion of the

kite's wings in flight. By suggestion this motion is poetically compared

to the graceful swaying of a maiko, or dancing-girl, extending her arms

and waving the long wide sleeves of her silken robe.

Although there is a numerous sub-colony of crows in the wood behind my

house, the headquarters of the corvine army are in the pine grove of the

ancient castle grounds, visible from my front rooms. To see the crows

all flying home at the same hour every evening is an interesting

spectacle, and popular imagination has found an amusing comparison for

it in the hurry-skurry of people running to a fire. This explains the

meaning of a song which children sing to the crows returning to their

nests:

Ato no karasu saki ine,

Ware ga iye ga yakeru ken,

Hayo inde midzu kake,

Midzu ga nakya yarozo,

Amattara ko ni yare,

Ko ga nakya modose. [39]

Confucianism seems to have discovered virtue in the crow. There is a

Japanese proverb, 'Karasu ni hampo no ko ari,' meaning that the crow

performs the filial duty of hampo, or, more literally, 'the filial duty

of hampo exists in the crow.' 'Hampo' means, literally, 'to return a

feeding.' The young crow is said to requite its parents' care by feeding

them when it becomes strong. Another example of filial piety has been

furnished by the dove. 'Hato ni sanshi no rei ad'--the dove sits three

branches below its parent; or, more literally, 'has the three-branch

etiquette to perform.'

The cry of the wild dove (yamabato), which I hear almost daily from the

wood, is the most sweetly plaintive sound that ever reached my ears. The

Izumo peasantry say that the bird utters these words, which it certainly

seems to do if one listen to it after having learned the alleged

syllables:

Tete poppo,

Kaka poppo

Tete poppo,

Kaka poppo,

tete. . . (sudden pause).

'Tete' is the baby word for 'father,' and 'kaka' for 'mother'; and

'poppo' signifies, in infantile speech, 'the bosom.' [40]

Wild uguisu also frequently sweeten my summer with their song, and

sometimes come very near the house, being attracted, apparently, by the

chant of my caged pet. The uguisu is very common in this province. It

haunts all the woods and the sacred groves in the neighbourhood of the

city, and I never made a journey in Izumo during the warm season without

hearing its note from some shadowy place. But there are uguisu and

uguisu. There are uguisu to be had for one or two yen, but the finely

trained, cage-bred singer may command not less than a hundred.

It was at a little village temple that I first heard one curious belief

about this delicate creature. In Japan, the coffin in which a corpse is

borne to burial is totally unlike an Occidental coffin. It is a

surprisingly small square box, wherein the dead is placed in a sitting

posture. How any adult corpse can be put into so small a space may well

be an enigma to foreigners. In cases of pronounced rigor mortis the work

of getting the body into the coffin is difficult even for the

professional doshin-bozu. But the devout followers of Nichiren claim

that after death their bodies will remain perfectly flexible; and the

dead body of an uguisu, they affirm, likewise never stiffens, for this

little bird is of their faith, and passes its life in singing praises

unto the Sutra of the Lotus of the Good Law.

Sec. 14

I have already become a little too fond of my dwelling-place. Each day,

after returning from my college duties, and exchanging my teacher's

uniform for the infinitely more comfortable Japanese robe, I find more

than compensation for the weariness of five class-hours in the simple

pleasure of squatting on the shaded veranda overlooking the gardens.

Those antique garden walls, high-mossed below their ruined coping of

tiles, seem to shut out even the murmur of the city's life. There are no

sounds but the voices of birds, the shrilling of semi, or, at long, lazy

intervals, the solitary plash of a diving frog. Nay, those walls seclude

me from much more than city streets. Outside them hums the changed Japan

of telegraphs and newspapers and steamships; within dwell the all-

reposing peace of nature and the dreams of the sixteenth century. There

is a charm of quaintness in the very air, a faint sense of something

viewless and sweet all about one; perhaps the gentle haunting of dead

ladies who looked like the ladies of the old picture-books, and who

lived here when all this was new. Even in the summer light--touching the

grey strange shapes of stone, thrilling through the foliage of the long-

loved trees--there is the tenderness of a phantom caress. These are the

gardens of the past. The future will know them only as dreams, creations

of a forgotten art, whose charm no genius may reproduce.

Of the human tenants here no creature seems to be afraid. The little

frogs resting upon the lotus-leaves scarcely shrink from my touch; the

lizards sun themselves within easy reach of my hand; the water-snakes

glide across my shadow without fear; bands of semi establish their

deafening orchestra on a plum branch just above my head, and a praying

mantis insolently poses on my knee. Swallows and sparrows not only build

their nests on my roof, but even enter my rooms without concern--one

swallow has actually built its nest in the ceiling of the bathroom--and

the weasel purloins fish under my very eyes without any scruples of

conscience. A wild uguisu perches on a cedar by the window, and in a

burst of savage sweetness challenges my caged pet to a contest in song;

and always though the golden air, from the green twilight of the

mountain pines, there purls to me the plaintive, caressing, delicious

call of the yamabato:

Tete poppo,

Kaka poppo

Tete poppo,

Kaka poppo,

tete.

No European dove has such a cry. He who can hear, for the first time,

the voice of the yamabato without feeling a new sensation at his heart

little deserves to dwell in this happy world.

Yet all this--the old katchiu-yashiki and its gardens--will doubtless

have vanished for ever before many years. Already a multitude of

gardens, more spacious and more beautiful than mine, have been converted

into rice-fields or bamboo groves; and the quaint Izumo city, touched at

last by some long-projected railway line--perhaps even within the

present decade--will swell, and change, and grow commonplace, and demand

these grounds for the building of factories and mills. Not from here

alone, but from all the land the ancient peace and the ancient charm

seem doomed to pass away. For impermanency is the nature of things, more

particularly in Japan; and the changes and the changers shall also be

changed until there is found no place for them--and regret is vanity.

The dead art that made the beauty of this place was the art, also, of

that faith to which belongs the all-consoling text, 'Verily, even plants

and trees, rocks and stones, all shall enter into Nirvana.'

Chapter Two The Household Shrine

Sec. 1

IN Japan there are two forms of the Religion of the Dead--that which

belongs to Shinto; and that which belongs to Buddhism. The first is the

primitive cult, commonly called ancestor-worship. But the term ancestor-

worship seems to me much too confined for the religion which pays

reverence not only to those ancient gods believed to be the fathers of

the Japanese race, but likewise to a host of deified sovereigns, heroes,

princes, and illustrious men. Within comparatively recent times, the

great Daimyo of Izumo, for example, were apotheosised; and the peasants

of Shimane still pray before the shrines of the Matsudaira. Moreover

Shinto, like the faiths of Hellas and of Rome, has its deities of the

elements and special deities who preside over all the various affairs of

life. Therefore ancestor-worship, though still a striking feature of

Shinto, does not alone constitute the State Religion: neither does the

term fully describe the Shinto cult of the dead--a cult which in Izumo

retains its primitive character more than in other parts of Japan.

And here I may presume, though no Sinologue, to say something about that

State Religion of Japan--that ancient faith of Izumo--which, although

even more deeply rooted in national life than Buddhism, is far less

known to the Western world. Except in special works by such men of

erudition as Chamberlain and Satow--works with which the Occidental

reader, unless himself a specialist, is not likely to become familiar

outside of Japan--little has been written in English about Shinto which

gives the least idea of what Shinto is. Of its ancient traditions and

rites much of rarest interest may be learned from the works of the

philologists just mentioned; but, as Mr. Satow himself acknowledges, a

definite answer to the question, 'What is the nature of Shinto?' is

still difficult to give. How define the common element in the six kinds

of Shinto which are known to exist, and some of which no foreign scholar

has yet been able to examine for lack of time or of authorities or of

opportunity? Even in its modern external forms, Shinto is sufficiently

complex to task the united powers of the historian, philologist, and

anthropologist, merely to trace out the multitudinous lines of its

evolution, and to determine the sources of its various elements:

primeval polytheisms and fetishisms, traditions of dubious origin,

philosophical concepts from China, Korea, and elsewhere--all mingled

with Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. The so-called 'Revival of Pure

Shinto'--an effort, aided by Government, to restore the cult to its

archaic simplicity, by divesting it of foreign characteristics, and

especially of every sign or token of Buddhist origin--resulted only, so

far as the avowed purpose was concerned, in the destruction of priceless

art, and in leaving the enigma of origins as complicated as before.

Shinto had been too profoundly modified in the course of fifteen

centuries of change to be thus remodelled by a fiat. For the like reason

scholarly efforts to define its relation to national ethics by mere

historical and philological analysis must fail: as well seek to define

the ultimate secret of Life by the elements of the body which it

animates. Yet when the result of such efforts shall have been closely

combined with a deep knowledge of Japanese thought and feeling--the

thought and sentiment, not of a special class, but of the people at

large--then indeed all that Shinto was and is may be fully comprehended.

And this may be accomplished, I fancy, through the united labour of

European and Japanese scholars.

Yet something of what Shinto signifies--in the simple poetry of its

beliefs--in the home training of the child--in the worship of filial

piety before the tablets of the ancestors--may be learned during a

residence of some years among the people, by one who lives their life

and adopts their manners and customs. With such experience he can at

least claim the right to express his own conception of Shinto.

Sec. 2

Those far-seeing rulers of the Meiji era, who disestablished Buddhism to

strengthen Shinto, doubtless knew they were giving new force not only to

a faith in perfect harmony with their own state policy, but likewise to

one possessing in itself a far more profound vitality than the alien

creed, which although omnipotent as an art-influence, had never found

deep root in the intellectual soil of Japan. Buddhism was already in

decrepitude, though transplanted from China scarcely more than thirteen

centuries before; while Shinto, though doubtless older by many a

thousand years, seems rather to have gained than to have lost force

through all the periods of change. Eclectic like the genius of the race,

it had appropriated and assimilated all forms of foreign thought which

could aid its material manifestation or fortify its ethics. Buddhism had

attempted to absorb its gods, even as it had adopted previously the

ancient deities of Brahmanism; but Shinto, while seeming to yield, was

really only borrowing strength from its rival. And this marvellous

vitality of Shinto is due to the fact that in the course of its long

development out of unrecorded beginnings, it became at a very ancient

epoch, and below the surface still remains, a religion of the heart.

Whatever be the origin of its rites and traditions, its ethical spirit

has become identified with all the deepest and best emotions of the

race. Hence, in Izumo especially, the attempt to create a Buddhist

Shintoism resulted only in the formation of a Shinto-Buddhism.

And the secret living force of Shinto to-day--that force which repels

missionary efforts at proselytising--means something much more profound

than tradition or worship or ceremonialism. Shinto may yet, without loss

of real power, survive all these. Certainly the expansion of the popular

mind through education, the influences of modern science, must compel

modification or abandonment of many ancient Shinto conceptions; but the

ethics of Shinto will surely endure. For Shinto signifies character in

the higher sense--courage, courtesy, honour, and above all things,

loyalty. The spirit of Shinto is the spirit of filial piety, the zest of

duty, the readiness to surrender life for a principle without a thought

of wherefore. It is the docility of the child; it is the sweetness of

the Japanese woman. It is conservatism likewise; the wholesome check

upon the national tendency to cast away the worth of the entire past in

rash eagerness to assimilate too much of the foreign present. It is

religion--but religion transformed into hereditary moral impulse--

religion transmuted into ethical instinct. It is the whole emotional

life of the race--the Soul of Japan.

The child is born Shinto. Home teaching and school training only give

expression to what is innate: they do not plant new seed; they do but

quicken the ethical sense transmitted as a trait ancestral. Even as a

Japanese infant inherits such ability to handle a writing-brush as never

can be acquired by Western fingers, so does it inherit ethical

sympathies totally different from our own. Ask a class of Japanese

students--young students of fourteen to sixteen--to tell their dearest

wishes; and if they have confidence in the questioner, perhaps nine out

of ten will answer: 'To die for His Majesty Our Emperor.' And the wish

soars from the heart pure as any wish for martyrdom ever born. How much

this sense of loyalty may or may not have been weakened in such great

centres as Tokyo by the new agnosticism and by the rapid growth of other

nineteenth-century ideas among the student class, I do not know; but in

the country it remains as natural to boyhood as joy. Unreasoning it also

is--unlike those loyal sentiments with us, the results of maturer

knowledge and settled conviction. Never does the Japanese youth ask

himself why; the beauty of self-sacrifice alone is the all-sufficing

motive. Such ecstatic loyalty is a part of the national life; it is in

the blood--inherent as the impulse of the ant to perish for its little

republic--unconscious as the loyalty of bees to their queen. It is

Shinto.

That readiness to sacrifice one's own life for loyalty's sake, for the

sake of a superior, for the sake of honour, which has distinguished the

race in modern times, would seem also to have been a national

characteristic from the earliest period of its independent existence.

Long before the epoch of established feudalism, when honourable suicide

became a matter of rigid etiquette, not for warriors only, but even for

women and little children, the giving one's life for one's prince, even

when the sacrifice could avail nothing, was held a sacred duty. Among

various instances which might be cited from the ancient Kojiki, the

following is not the least impressive:

Prince Mayowa, at the age of only seven years, having killed his

father's slayer, fled into the house of the Grandee (Omi) Tsubura. 'Then

Prince Oho-hatsuse raised an army, and besieged that house. And the

arrows that were shot were for multitude like the ears of the reeds. And

the Grandee Tsubura came forth himself, and having taken off the weapons

with which he was girded, did obeisance eight times, and said: "The

maiden-princess Kara, my daughter whom thou deignedst anon to woo, is at

thy service. Again I will present to thee five granaries. Though a vile

slave of a Grandee exerting his utmost strength in the fight can

scarcely hope to conquer, yet must he die rather than desert a prince

who, trusting in him, has entered into his house." Having thus spoken,

he again took his weapons, and went in once more to fight. Then, their

strength being exhausted, and their arrows finished, he said to the

Prince: "My hands are wounded, and our arrows are finished. We cannot

now fight: what shall be done?" The Prince replied, saying: "There is

nothing more to do. Do thou now slay me." So the Grandee Tsubura thrust

the Prince to death with his sword, and forthwith killed himself by

cutting off his own head.'

Thousands of equally strong examples could easily be quoted from later

Japanese history, including many which occurred even within the memory

of the living. Nor was it for persons alone that to die might become a

sacred duty: in certain contingencies conscience held it scarcely less a

duty to die for a purely personal conviction; and he who held any

opinion which he believed of paramount importance would, when other

means failed, write his views in a letter of farewell, and then take his

own life, in order to call attention to his beliefs and to prove their

sincerity. Such an instance occurred only last year in Tokyo, [1] when

the young lieutenant of militia, Ohara Takeyoshi, killed himself by

harakiri in the cemetery of Saitokuji, leaving a letter stating as the

reason for his act, his hope to force public recognition of the danger

to Japanese independence from the growth of Russian power in the North

Pacific. But a much more touching sacrifice in May of the same year--a

sacrifice conceived in the purest and most innocent spirit of loyalty--

was that of the young girl Yoko Hatakeyama, who, after the attempt to

assassinate the Czarevitch, travelled from Tokyo to Kyoto and there

killed herself before the gate of the Kencho, merely as a vicarious

atonement for the incident which had caused shame to Japan and grief to

the Father of the people--His Sacred Majesty the Emperor.

Sec. 3

As to its exterior forms, modern Shinto is indeed difficult to analyse;

but through all the intricate texture of extraneous beliefs so thickly

interwoven about it, indications of its earliest character are still

easily discerned. In certain of its primitive rites, in its archaic

prayers and texts and symbols, in the history of its shrines, and even

in many of the artless ideas of its poorest worshippers, it is plainly

revealed as the most ancient of all forms of worship--that which Herbert

Spencer terms 'the root of all religions'--devotion to the dead. Indeed,

it has been frequently so expounded by its own greatest scholars and

theologians. Its divinities are ghosts; all the dead become deities. In

the Tama-no-mihashira the great commentator Hirata says 'the spirits of

the dead continue to exist in the unseen world which is everywhere about

us, and they all become gods of varying character and degrees of

influence. Some reside in temples built in their honour; others hover

near their tombs; and they continue to render services to their prince,

parents, wife, and children, as when in the body.' And they do more than

this, for they control the lives and the doings of men. 'Every human

action,' says Hirata, 'is the work of a god.' [3] And Motowori, scarcely

less famous an exponent of pure Shinto doctrine, writes: 'All the moral

ideas which a man requires are implanted in his bosom by the gods, and

are of the same nature with those instincts which impel him to eat when

he is hungry or to drink when he is thirsty.' [4] With this doctrine of

Intuition no Decalogue is required, no fixed code of ethics; and the

human conscience is declared to be the only necessary guide. Though

every action be 'the work of a Kami.' yet each man has within him the

power to discern the righteous impulse from the unrighteous, the

influence of the good deity from that of the evil. No moral teacher is

so infallible as one's own heart. 'To have learned that there is no way

(michi),'[5] says Motowori, 'to be learned and practiced, is really to

have learned the Way of the Gods.' [6] And Hirata writes: 'If you desire

to practise true virtue, learn to stand in awe of the Unseen; and that

will prevent you from doing wrong. Make a vow to the Gods who rule over

the Unseen, and cultivate the conscience (ma-gokoro) implanted in you;

and then you will never wander from the way.' How this spiritual self-

culture may best be obtained, the same great expounder has stated with

almost equal brevity: 'Devotion to the memory of ancestors is the

mainspring of all virtues. No one who discharges his duty to them will

ever be disrespectful to the Gods or to his living parents. Such a man

will be faithful to his prince, loyal to his friends, and kind and

gentle with his wife and children.' [7]

How far are these antique beliefs removed from the ideas of the

nineteenth century? Certainly not so far that we can afford to smile at

them. The faith of the primitive man and the knowledge of the most

profound psychologist may meet in strange harmony upon the threshold of

the same ultimate truth, and the thought of a child may repeat the

conclusions of a Spencer or a Schopenhauer. Are not our ancestors in

very truth our Kami? Is not every action indeed the work of the Dead who

dwell within us? Have not our impulses and tendencies, our capacities

and weaknesses, our heroisms and timidities, been created by those

vanished myriads from whom we received the all-mysterious bequest of

Life? Do we still think of that infinitely complex Something which is

each one of us, and which we call EGO, as 'I' or as 'They'? What is our

pride or shame but the pride or shame of the Unseen in that which They

have made?--and what our Conscience but the inherited sum of countless

dead experiences with varying good and evil? Nor can we hastily reject

the Shinto thought that all the dead become gods, while we respect the

convictions of those strong souls of to-day who proclaim the divinity of

man.

Sec. 4

Shino ancestor-worship, no doubt, like all ancestor-worship, was

developed out of funeral rites, according to that general law of

religious evolution traced so fully by Herbert Spencer. And there is

reason to believe that the early forms of Shinto public worship may have

been evolved out of a yet older family worship--much after the manner in

which M. Fustel de Coulanges, in his wonderful book, La Cite Antique,

has shown the religious public institutions among the Greeks and Romans

to have been developed from the religion of the hearth. Indeed, the word

ujigami, now used to signify a Shinto parish temple, and also its deity,

means 'family God,' and in its present form is a corruption or

contraction of uchi-no-Kami, meaning the 'god of the interior' or 'the

god of the house.' Shinto expounders have, it is true, attempted to

interpret the term otherwise; and Hirata, as quoted by Mr. Ernest Satow,

declared the name should be applied only to the common ancestor, or

ancestors, or to one so entitled to the gratitude of a community as to

merit equal honours. Such, undoubtedly, was the just use of the term in

his time, and long before it; but the etymology of the word would

certainly seem to indicate its origin in family worship, and to confirm

modern scientific beliefs in regard to the evolution of religious

institutions.

Now just as among the Greeks and Latins the family cult always continued

to exist through all the development and expansion of the public

religion, so the Shinto family worship has continued concomitantly with

the communal worship at the countless ujigami, with popular worship at

the famed Ohoya-shiro of various provinces or districts, and with

national worship at the great shrines of Ise and Kitzuki. Many objects

connected with the family cult are certainly of alien or modern origin;

but its simple rites and its unconscious poetry retain their archaic

charm. And, to the student of Japanese life, by far the most interesting

aspect of Shinto is offered in this home worship, which, like the home

worship of the antique Occident, exists in a dual form.

Sec. 5

In nearly all Izumo dwellings there is a kamidana, [8] or 'Shelf of the

Gods.' On this is usually placed a small Shinto shrine (miya) containing

tablets bearing the names of gods (one at least of which tablets is

furnished by the neighbouring Shinto parish temple), and various ofuda,

holy texts or charms which most often are written promises in the name

of some Kami to protect his worshipper. If there be no miya, the tablets

or ofuda are simply placed upon the shelf in a certain order, the most

sacred having the middle place. Very rarely are images to be seen upon a

kamidana: for primitive Shintoism excluded images rigidly as Jewish or

Mohammedan law; and all Shinto iconography belongs to a comparatively

modern era--especially to the period of Ryobu-Shinto--and must be

considered of Buddhist origin. If there be any images, they will

probably be such as have been made only within recent years at Kitauki:

those small twin figures of Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami and of Koto-shiro-

nushi-no-Kami, described in a former paper upon the Kitzuki-no-oho-

yashiro. Shinto kakemono, which are also of latter-day origin,

representing incidents from the Kojiki, are much more common than Shinto

icons: these usually occupy the toko, or alcove, in the same room in

which the kamidana is placed; but they will not be seen in the houses of

the more cultivated classes. Ordinarily there will be found upon the

kamidana nothing but the simple miya containing some ofuda: very, very

seldom will a mirror [9] be seen, or gohei--except the gohei attached to

the small shimenawa either hung just above the kamidana or suspended to

the box-like frame in which the miya sometimes is placed. The shimenawa

and the paper gohei are the true emblems of Shinto: even the ofuda and

the mamori are quite modern. Not only before the household shrine, but

also above the house-door of almost every home in Izumo, the shimenawa

is suspended. It is ordinarily a thin rope of rice straw; but before the

dwellings of high Shinto officials, such as the Taisha-Guji of Kitzuki,

its size and weight are enormous. One of the first curious facts that

the traveller in Izumo cannot fail to be impressed by is the universal

presence of this symbolic rope of straw, which may sometimes even be

seen round a rice-field. But the grand displays of the sacred symbol are

upon the great festivals of the new year, the accession of Jimmu Tenno

to the throne of Japan, and the Emperor's birthday. Then all the miles

of streets are festooned with shimenawa thick as ship-cables.

Sec. 6

A particular feature of Matsue are the miya-shops--establishments not,

indeed, peculiar to the old Izumo town, but much more interesting than

those to be found in larger cities of other provinces. There are miya of

a hundred varieties and sizes, from the child's toy miya which sells for

less than one sen, to the large shrine destined for some rich home, and

costing perhaps ten yen or more. Besides these, the household shrines of

Shinto, may occasionally be seen massive shrines of precious wood,

lacquered and gilded, worth from three hundred even to fifteen hundred

yen. These are not household shrines; but festival shrines, and are made

only for rich merchants. They are displayed on Shinto holidays, and

twice a year are borne through the streets in procession, to shouts of

'Chosaya! chosaya!' [10] Each temple parish also possesses a large

portable miya which is paraded on these occasions with much chanting and

beating of drums. The majority of household miya are cheap

constructions. A very fine one can be purchased for about two yen; but

those little shrines one sees in the houses of the common people cost,

as a rule, considerably less than half a yen. And elaborate or costly

household shrines are contrary to the spirit of pure Shinto The true

miya should be made of spotless white hinoki [11] wood, and be put

together without nails. Most of those I have seen in the shops had their

several parts joined only with rice-paste; but the skill of the maker

rendered this sufficient. Pure Shinto requires that a miya should be

without gilding or ornamentation. The beautiful miniature temples in

some rich homes may justly excite admiration by their artistic structure

and decoration; but the ten or thirteen cent miya, in the house of a

labourer or a kurumaya, of plain white wood, truly represents that

spirit of simplicity characterising the primitive religion.

Sec. 7

The kamidana or 'God-shelf,' upon which are placed the miya and other

sacred objects of Shinto worship, is usually fastened at a height of

about six or seven feet above the floor. As a rule it should not be

placed higher than the hand can reach with ease; but in houses having

lofty rooms the miya is sometimes put up at such a height that the

sacred offerings cannot be made without the aid of a box or other object

to stand upon. It is not commonly a part of the house structure, but a

plain shelf attached with brackets either to the wall itself, at some

angle of the apartment, or, as is much more usual, to the kamoi, or

horizontal grooved beam, in which the screens of opaque paper (fusuma),

which divide room from room, slide to and fro. Occasionally it is

painted or lacquered. But the ordinary kamidana is of white wood, and is

made larger or smaller in proportion to the size of the miya, or the

number of the ofuda and other sacred objects to be placed upon it. In

some houses, notably those of innkeepers and small merchants, the

kamidana is made long enough to support a number of small shrines

dedicated to different Shinto deities, particularly those believed to

preside over wealth and commercial prosperity. In the houses of the poor

it is nearly always placed in the room facing the street; and Matsue

shopkeepers usually erect it in their shops--so that the passer-by or

the customer can tell at a glance in what deities the occupant puts his

trust. There are many regulations concerning it. It may be placed to

face south or east, but should not face west, and under no possible

circumstances should it be suffered to face north or north-west. One

explanation of this is the influence upon Shinto of Chinese philosophy,

according to which there is some fancied relation between South or East

and the Male Principle, and between West or North and the Female

Principle. But the popular notion on the subject is that because a dead

person is buried with the head turned north, it would be very wrong to

place a miya so as to face north--since everything relating to death is

impure; and the regulation about the west is not strictly observed. Most

kamidana in Izumo, however, face south or east. In the houses of the

poorest--often consisting of but one apartment--there can be little

choice as to rooms; but it is a rule, observed in the dwellings of the

middle classes, that the kamidana must not be placed either in the guest

room (zashiki) nor in the kitchen; and in shizoku houses its place is

usually in one of the smaller family apartments. Respect must be shown

it. One must not sleep, for example, or even lie down to rest, with his

feet turned towards it. One must not pray before it, or even stand

before it, while in a state of religious impurity--such as that entailed

by having touched a corpse, or attended a Buddhist funeral, or even

during the period of mourning for kindred buried according to the

Buddhist rite. Should any member of the family be thus buried, then

during fifty days [12] the kamidana must be entirely screened from view

with pure white paper, and even the Shinto ofuda, or pious invocations

fastened upon the house-door, must have white paper pasted over them.

During the same mourning period the fire in the house is considered

unclean; and at the close of the term all the ashes of the braziers and

of the kitchen must be cast away, and new fire kindled with a flint and

steel. Nor are funerals the only source of legal uncleanliness. Shinto,

as the religion of purity and purification, has a Deuteronomy of quite

an extensive kind. During certain periods women must not even pray

before the miya, much less make offerings or touch the sacred vessels,

or kindle the lights of the Kami.

Sec. 8

Before the miya, or whatever holy object of Shinto worship be placed

upon the kamidana, are set two quaintly shaped jars for the offerings of

sake; two small vases, to contain sprays of the sacred plant sakaki, or

offerings of flowers; and a small lamp, shaped like a tiny saucer, where

a wick of rush-pith floats in rape-seed oil. Strictly speaking, all

these utensils, except the flower-vases, should be made of unglazed red

earthenware, such as we find described in the early chapters of the

Kojiki: and still at Shinto festivals in Izumo, when sake is drunk in

honour of the gods, it is drunk out of cups of red baked unglazed clay

shaped like shallow round dishes. But of late years it has become the

fashion to make all the utensils of a fine kamidana of brass or bronze--

even the hanaike, or flower-vases. Among the poor, the most archaic

utensils are still used to a great extent, especially in the remoter

country districts; the lamp being a simple saucer or kawarake of red

clay; and the flower-vases most often bamboo cups, made by simply

cutting a section of bamboo immediately below a joint and about five

inches above it.

The brazen lamp is a much more complicated object than the kawarake,

which costs but one rin. The brass lamp costs about twenty-five sen, at

least. It consists of two parts. The lower part, shaped like a very

shallow, broad wineglass, with a very thick stem, has an interior as

well as an exterior rim; and the bottom of a correspondingly broad and

shallow brass cup, which is the upper part and contains the oil, fits

exactly into this inner rim. This kind of lamp is always furnished with

a small brass object in the shape of a flat ring, with a stem set at

right angles to the surface of the ring. It is used for moving the

floating wick and keeping it at any position required; and the little

perpendicular stem is long enough to prevent the fingers from touching

the oil.

The most curious objects to be seen on any ordinary kamidana are the

stoppers of the sake-vessels or o-mikidokkuri ('honourable sake-jars').

These stoppers--o-mikidokkuri-nokuchisashi--may be made of brass, or of

fine thin slips of wood jointed and bent into the singular form

required. Properly speaking, the thing is not a real stopper, in spite

of its name; its lower part does not fill the mouth of the jar at all:

it simply hangs in the orifice like a leaf put there stem downwards. I

find it difficult to learn its history; but, though there are many

designs of it--the finer ones being of brass--the shape of all seems to

hint at a Buddhist origin. Possibly the shape was borrowed from a

Buddhist symbol--the Hoshi-notama, that mystic gem whose lambent glow

(iconographically suggested as a playing of flame) is the emblem of Pure

Essence; and thus the object would be typical at once of the purity of

the wine-offering and the purity of the heart of the giver.

The little lamp may not be lighted every evening in all homes, since

there are families too poor to afford even this infinitesimal nightly

expenditure of oil. But upon the first, fifteenth, and twenty-eighth of

each month the light is always kindled; for these are Shinto holidays of

obligation, when offerings must be made to the gods, and when all uji-

ko, or parishioners of a Shinto temple, are supposed to visit their

ujigami. In every home on these days sake is poured as an offering into

the o-mikidokkuri, and in the vases of the kamidana are placed sprays of

the holy sakaki, or sprigs of pine, or fresh flowers. On the first day

of the new year the kamidana is always decked with sakaki, moromoki

(ferns), and pine-sprigs, and also with a shimenawa; and large double

rice cakes are placed upon it as offerings to the gods.

Sec. 9

But only the ancient gods of Shinto are worshipped before the kamidana.

The family ancestors or family dead are worshipped either in a separate

room (called the mitamaya or 'Spirit Chamber'), or, if worshipped

according to the Buddhist rites, before the butsuma or butsudan.

The Buddhist family worship coexists in the vast majority of Izumo homes

with the Shinto family worship; and whether the dead be honoured in the

mitamaya or before the butsudan altogether depends upon the religious

traditions of the household. Moreover, there are families in Izumo--

particularly in Kitzuki--whose members do not profess Buddhism in any

form, and a very few, belonging to the Shin-shu or Nichirenshu, [13]

whose members do not practise Shinto. But the domestic cult of the dead

is maintained, whether the family be Shinto or Buddhist. The ihai or

tablets of the Buddhist family dead (Hotoke) are never placed in a

special room or shrine, but in the Buddhist household shrine [14] along

with the images or pictures of Buddhist divinities usually there

inclosed--or, at least, this is always the case when the honours paid

them are given according to the Buddhist instead of the Shinto rite. The

form of the butsudan or butsuma, the character of its holy images, its

ofuda, or its pictures, and even the prayers said before it, differ

according to the fifteen different shu, or sects; and a very large

volume would have to be written in order to treat the subject of the

butsuma exhaustively. Therefore I must content myself with stating that

there are Buddhist household shrines of all dimensions, prices, and

degrees of magnificence; and that the butsudan of the Shin-shu, although

to me the least interesting of all, is popularly considered to be the

most beautiful in design and finish. The butsudan of a very poor

household may be worth a few cents, but the rich devotee might purchase

in Kyoto a shrine worth as many thousands of yen as he could pay.

Though the forms of the butsuma and the character of its contents may

greatly vary, the form of the ancestral or mortuary tablet is generally

that represented in Fig. 4 of the illustrations of ihai given in this

book. [15] There are some much more elaborate shapes, costly and rare,

and simpler shapes of the cheapest and plainest descriptions; but the

form thus illustrated is the common one in Izumo and the whole San-indo

country. There are differences, however, of size; and the ihai of a man

is larger than that of a woman, and has a headpiece also, which the

tablet of a female has not; while a child's ihai is always very small.

The average height of the ihai made for a male adult is a little more

than a foot, and its thickness about an inch. It has a top, or

headpiece, surmounted by the symbol I of the Hoshi-no-tama or Mystic

Gem, and ordinarily decorated with a cloud-design of some kind, and the

pedestal is a lotus-flower rising out of clouds. As a general rule all

this is richly lacquered and gilded; the tablet itself being lacquered

in black, and bearing the posthumous name, or kaimyo, in letters of

gold--ken-mu-ji-sho-shin-ji, or other syllables indicating the supposed

virtues of the departed. The poorest people, unable to afford such

handsome tablets, have ihai made of plain wood; and the kaimyo is

sometimes simply written on these in black characters; but more commonly

it is written upon a strip of white paper, which is then pasted upon the

ihai with rice-paste. The living name is perhaps inscribed upon the back

of the tablet. Such tablets accumulate, of course, with the passing of

generations; and in certain homes great numbers are preserved.

A beautiful and touching custom still exists in Izumo, and perhaps

throughout Japan, although much less common than it used to be. So far

as I can learn, however, it was always confined to the cultivated

classes. When a husband dies, two ihai are made, in case the wife

resolves never to marry again. On one of these the kaimyo of the dead

man is painted in characters of gold, and on the other that of the

living widow; but, in the latter case, the first character of the kaimyo

is painted in red, and the other characters in gold. These two tablets

are then placed in the household butsuma. Two larger ones similarly

inscribed, are placed in the parish temple; but no cup is set before

that of the wife. The solitary crimson ideograph signifies a solemn

pledge to remain faithful to the memory of the dead. Furthermore, the

wife loses her living name among all her friends and relatives, and is

thereafter addressed only by a fragment of her kaimyo--as, for example,

'Shin-toku-in-San,' an abbreviation of the much longer and more sonorous

posthumous name, Shin-toku-in-den-joyo-teiso-daishi. [16] Thus to be

called by one's kaimyo is at once an honour to the memory of the husband

and the constancy of the bereaved wife. A precisely similar pledge is

taken by a man after the loss of a wife to whom he was passionately

attached; and one crimson letter upon his ihai registers the vow not

only in the home but also in the place of public worship. But the

widower is never called by his kaimyo, as is the widow.

The first religious duty of the morning in a Buddhist household is to

set before the tablets of the dead a little cup of tea, made with the

first hot water prepared--O-Hotoke-San-nio-cha-to-ageru. [17] Daily

offerings of boiled rice are also made; and fresh flowers are put in the

shrine vases; and incense--although not allowed by Shinto--is burned

before the tablets. At night, and also during the day upon certain

festivals, both candles and a small oil-lamp are lighted in the butsuma--a

lamp somewhat differently shaped from the lamp of the miya and called

rinto On the day of each month corresponding to the date of death a

little repast is served before the tablets, consisting of shojin-ryori

only, the vegetarian food of the. Buddhists. But as Shinto family

worship has its special annual festival, which endures from the first to

the third day of the new year, so Buddhist ancestor-worship has its

yearly Bonku, or Bommatsuri, lasting from the thirteenth to the

sixteenth day of the seventh month. This is the Buddhist Feast of Souls.

Then the butsuma is decorated to the utmost, special offerings of food

and of flowers are made, and all the house is made beautiful to welcome

the coming of the ghostly visitors.

Now Shinto, like Buddhism, has its ihai; but these are of the simplest

possible shape and material--mere slips of plain white wood. The average

height is only about eight inches. These tablets are either placed in a

special miya kept in a different room from that in which the shrine of

the Kami is erected, or else simply arranged on a small shelf called by

the people Mitama-San-no-tana,--'the Shelf of the August Spirits.' The

shelf or the shrine of the ancestors and household dead is placed always

at a considerable height in the mitamaya or soreisha (as the Spirit

Chamber is sometimes called), just as is the miya of the Kami in the

other apartment. Sometimes no tablets are used, the name being simply

painted upon the woodwork of the Spirit Shrine. But Shinto has no

kaimyo: the living name of the dead is written upon the ihai, with the

sole addition of the word 'Mitama' (Spirit). And monthly upon the day

corresponding to the menstrual date of death, offerings of fish, wine,

and other food are made to the spirits, accompanied by special prayer.

[18] The Mitama-San have also their particular lamps and flower-vases,

and, though in lesser degree, are honoured with rites like those of the

Kami.

The prayers uttered before the ihai of either faith begin with the

respective religious formulas of Shinto or of Buddhism. The Shintoist,

clapping his hands thrice or four times, [19] first utters the

sacramental Harai-tamai. The Buddhist, according to his sect, murmurs

Namu-myo-ho-ren-ge-kyo, or Namu Amida Butsu, or some other holy words of

prayer or of praise to the Buddha, ere commencing his prayer to the

ancestors. The words said to them are seldom spoken aloud, either by

Shintoist or Buddhist: they are either whispered very low under the

breath, or shaped only within the heart.

Sec. 10

At nightfall in Izumo homes the lamps of the gods and of the ancestors

are kindled, either by a trusted servant or by some member of the

family. Shinto orthodox regulations require that the lamps should be

filled with pure vegetable oil only--tomoshiabura--and oil of rape-seed

is customarily used. However, there is an evident inclination among the

poorer classes to substitute a microscopic kerosene lamp for the ancient

form of utensil. But by the strictly orthodox this is held to be very

wrong, and even to light the lamps with a match is somewhat heretical.

For it is not supposed that matches are always made with pure

substances, and the lights of the Kami should be kindled only with

purest fire--that holy natural fire which lies hidden within all things.

Therefore in some little closet in the home of any strictly orthodox

Shinto family there is always a small box containing the ancient

instruments used for the lighting of' holy fire. These consist of the

hi-uchi-ishi, or 'fire-strike-stone'; the hi-uchi-gane, or steel; the

hokuchi, or tinder, made of dried moss; and the tsukegi, fine slivers of

resinous pine. A little tinder is laid upon the flint and set

smouldering with a few strokes of the steel, and blown upon until it

flames. A slip of pine is then ignited at this flame, and with it the

lamps of the ancestors and the gods are lighted. If several great

deities are represented in the miya or upon the kamidana by several

ofuda, then a separate lamp is sometimes lighted for each; and if there

be a butsuma in the dwelling, its tapers or lamp are lighted at the same

time.

Although the use of the flint and steel for lighting the lamps of the

gods will probably have become obsolete within another generation, it

still prevails largely in Izumo, especially in the country districts.

Even where the safety-match has entirely supplanted the orthodox

utensils, the orthodox sentiment shows itself in the matter of the

choice of matches to be used. Foreign matches are inadmissible: the

native matchmaker quite successfully represented that foreign matches

contained phosphorus 'made from the bones of dead animals,' and that to

kindle the lights of the Kami with such unholy fire would be sacrilege.

In other parts of Japan the matchmakers stamped upon their boxes the

words: 'Saikyo go honzon yo' (Fit for the use of the August High Temple

of Saikyo). [20] But Shinto sentiment in Izumo was too strong to be

affected much by any such declaration: indeed, the recommendation of the

matches as suitable for use in a Shin-shu temple was of itself

sufficient to prejudice Shintoists against them. Accordingly special

precautions had to be taken before safety-matches could be

satisfactorily introduced into the Province of the Gods. Izumo match-

boxes now bear the inscription: 'Pure, and fit to use for kindling the

lamps of the Kami, or of the Hotoke!'

The inevitable danger to all things in Japan is fire. It is the

traditional rule that when a house takes fire, the first objects to be

saved, if possible, are the household gods and the tablets of the

ancestors. It is even said that if these are saved, most of the family

valuables are certain to be saved, and that if these are lost, all is

lost.

Sec. 11

The terms soreisha and mitamaya, as used in Izumo, may, I am told,

signify either the small miya in which the Shinto ihai (usually made of

cherry-wood) is kept, or that part of the dwelling in which it is

placed, and where the offerings are made. These, by all who can afford

it, are served upon tables of plain white wood, and of the same high

narrow form as the tables upon which offerings are made in the temples

and at public funeral ceremonies.

The most ordinary form of prayer addressed to the ancient ancestors in

the household cult of Shinto is not uttered aloud. After pronouncing the

initial formula of all popular Shinto prayer, 'Harai-tamai,' etc., the

worshipper says, with his heart only--'Spirits august of our far-off

ancestors, ye forefathers of the generations, and of our families and of

our kindred, unto you, the founders of our homes, we this day utter the

gladness of our thanks.'

In the family cult of the Buddhists a distinction is made between the

household Hotoke--the souls of those long dead--and the souls of those

but recently deceased. These last are called Shin-botoke, 'new Buddhas,'

or more strictly, 'the newly dead.' No direct request for any

supernatural favour is made to a Shin-botoke; for, though respectfully

called Hotoke, the freshly departed soul is not really deemed to have

reached Buddhahood: it is only on the long road thither, and is in need

itself, perhaps, of aid, rather than capable of giving aid. Indeed,

among the deeply pious its condition is a matter of affectionate

concern. And especially is this the case when a little child dies; for

it is thought that the soul of an infant is feeble and exposed to many

dangers. Wherefore a mother, speaking to the departed soul of her child,

will advise it, admonish it, command it tenderly, as if addressing a

living son or daughter. The ordinary words said in Izumo homes to any

Shin-botoke take rather the form of adjuration or counsel than of

prayer, such as these:--

'Jobutsu seyo,' or 'Jobutsu shimasare.' [Do thou become a Buddha.]

'Mayo na yo.' [Go not astray; or, Be never deluded.]

'Miren-wo nokorazu.' [Suffer no regret (for this world) to linger with

thee.]

These prayers are never uttered aloud. Much more in accordance with the

Occidental idea of prayer is the following, uttered by Shin-shu

believers on behalf of a Shin-botoke:

'O-mukai kudasare Amida-Sama.' [Vouchsafe, O Lord Amida, augustly to

welcome (this soul).]

Needless to say that ancestor-worship, although adopted in China and

Japan into Buddhism, is not of Buddhist origin. Needless also to say

that Buddhism discountenances suicide. Yet in Japan, anxiety about the

condition of the soul of the departed often caused suicide--or at least

justified it on the part of those who, though accepting Buddhist dogma,

might adhere to primitive custom. Retainers killed themselves in the

belief that by dying they might give to the soul of their lord or lady,

counsel, aid, and service. Thus in the novel Hogen-nomono-gatari, a

retainer is made to say after the death of his young master:--'Over the

mountain of Shide, over the ghostly River of Sanzu, who will conduct

him? If he be afraid, will he not call my name, as he was wont to do?

Surely better that, by slaying myself, I go to serve him as of old, than

to linger here, and mourn for him in vain.'

In Buddhist household worship, the prayers addressed to the family

Hotoke proper, the souls of those long dead, are very different from the

addresses made to the Shin-botoke. The following are a few examples:

they are always said under the breath:

'Kanai anzen.' [(Vouchsafe) that our family may be preserved.]

'Enmei sakusai.' [That we may enjoy long life without sorrow.]

'Shobai hanjo.' [That our business may prosper.] [Said only by merchants

and tradesmen.]

'Shison chokin.' [That the perpetuity of our descent may be assured.]

'Onteki taisan.' [That our enemies be scattered.]

'Yakubyo shometsu.' [That pestilence may not come nigh us.]

Some of the above are used also by Shinto worshippers. The old samurai

still repeat the special prayers of their caste:--

'Tenka taihei.' [That long peace may prevail throughout the world.]

'Bu-un chokyu.' [That we may have eternal good-fortune in war.]

'Ka-ei-manzoku.' [That our house (family) may for ever remain

fortunate.]

But besides these silent formulae, any prayers prompted by the heart,

whether of supplication or of gratitude, may, of course, be repeated.

Such prayers are said, or rather thought, in the speech of daily life.

The following little prayer uttered by an Izumo mother to the ancestral

spirit, besought on behalf of a sick child, is an example:--

'O-kage ni kodomo no byoki mo zenkwai itashimashite, arigato-

gozarimasu!' [By thine august influence the illness of my child has

passed away;--I thank thee.]

'O-kage ni' literally signifies 'in the august shadow of.' There is a

ghostly beauty in the original phrase that neither a free nor yet a

precise translation can preserve.

Sec. 12

Thus, in this home-worship of the Far East, by love the dead are made

divine; and the foreknowledge of this tender apotheosis must temper with

consolation the natural melancholy of age. Never in Japan are the dead

so quickly forgotten as with us: by simple faith they are deemed still

to dwell among their beloved; and their place within the home remains

ever holy. And the aged patriarch about to pass away knows that loving

lips will nightly murmur to the memory of him before the household

shrine; that faithful hearts will beseech him in their pain and bless

him in their joy; that gentle hands will place before his ihai pure

offerings of fruits and flowers, and dainty repasts of the things which

he was wont to like; and will pour out for him, into the little cup of

ghosts and gods, the fragrant tea of guests or the amber rice-wine.

Strange changes are coming upon the land: old customs are vanishing; old

beliefs are weakening; the thoughts of today will not be the thoughts of

another age--but of all this he knows happily nothing in his own quaint,

simple, beautiful Izumo. He dreams that for him, as for his fathers, the

little lamp will burn on through the generations; he sees, in softest

fancy, the yet unborn--the children of his children's children--clapping

their tiny hands in Shinto prayer, and making filial obeisance before

the little dusty tablet that bears his unforgotten name.

Chapter Three Of Women's Hair

Sec. 1 THE hair of the younger daughter of the family is very long; and it

is a spectacle of no small interest to see it dressed. It is dressed

once in every three days; and the operation, which costs four sen, is

acknowledged to require one hour. As a matter of fact it requires nearly

two. The hairdresser (kamiyui) first sends her maiden apprentice, who

cleans the hair, washes it, perfumes it, and combs it with extraordinary

combs of at least five different kinds. So thoroughly is the hair

cleansed that it remains for three days, or even four, immaculate beyond

our Occidental conception of things. In the morning, during the dusting

time, it is carefully covered with a handkerchief or a little blue

towel; and the curious Japanese wooden pillow, which supports the neck,

not the head, renders it possible to sleep at ease without disarranging

the marvellous structure. [1]

After the apprentice has finished her part of the work, the hairdresser

herself appears, and begins to build the coiffure. For this task she

uses, besides the extraordinary variety of combs, fine loops of gilt

thread or coloured paper twine, dainty bits of deliciously tinted crape-

silk, delicate steel springs, and curious little basket-shaped things

over which the hair is moulded into the required forms before being

fixed in place.

The kamiyui also brings razors with her; for the Japanese girl is

shaved--cheeks, ears, brows, chin, even nose! What is here to shave?

Only that peachy floss which is the velvet of the finest human skin, but

which Japanese taste removes. There is, however, another use for the

razor. All maidens bear the signs of their maidenhood in the form of a

little round spot, about an inch in diameter, shaven clean upon the very

top of the head. This is only partially concealed by a band of hair

brought back from the forehead across it, and fastened to the back hair.

The girl-baby's head is totally shaved. When a few years old the little

creature's hair is allowed to grow except at the top of the head, where

a large tonsure is maintained. But the size of the tonsure diminishes

year by year, until it shrinks after childhood to the small spot above

described; and this, too, vanishes after marriage, when a still more

complicated fashion of wearing the hair is adopted.

Sec. 2

Such absolutely straight dark hair as that of most Japanese women might

seem, to Occidental ideas at least, ill-suited to the highest

possibilities of the art of the coiffeuse. [2] But the skill of the

kamiyui has made it tractable to every aesthetic whim. Ringlets, indeed,

are unknown, and curling irons. But what wonderful and beautiful shapes

the hair of the girl is made to assume: volutes, jets, whirls, eddyings,

foliations, each passing into the other blandly as a linking of brush-

strokes in the writing of a Chinese master! Far beyond the skill of the

Parisian coiffeuse is the art of the kamiyui. From the mythical era [3]

of the race, Japanese ingenuity has exhausted itself in the invention

and the improvement of pretty devices for the dressing of woman's hair;

and probably there have never been so many beautiful fashions of wearing

it in any other country as there have been in Japan. These have changed

through the centuries; sometimes becoming wondrously intricate of

design, sometimes exquisitely simple--as in that gracious custom,

recorded for us in so many quaint drawings, of allowing the long black

tresses to flow unconfined below the waist. [4] But every mode of which

we have any pictorial record had its own striking charm. Indian,

Chinese, Malayan, Korean ideas of beauty found their way to the Land of

the Gods, and were appropriated and transfigured by the finer native

conceptions of comeliness. Buddhism, too, which so profoundly influenced

all Japanese art and thought, may possibly have influenced fashions of

wearing the hair; for its female divinities appear with the most

beautiful coiffures. Notice the hair of a Kwannon or a Benten, and the

tresses of the Tennin--those angel-maidens who float in azure upon the

ceilings of the great temples.

Sec. 3

The particular attractiveness of the modern styles is the way in which

the hair is made to serve as an elaborate nimbus for the features,

giving delightful relief to whatever of fairness or sweetness the young

face may possess. Then behind this charming black aureole is a riddle of

graceful loopings and weavings whereof neither the beginning nor the

ending can possibly be discerned. Only the kantiyui knows the key to

that riddle. And the whole is held in place with curious ornamental

combs, and shot through with long fine pins of gold, silver, nacre,

transparent tortoise-shell, or lacquered wood, with cunningly carven

heads. [5]

Sec. 4

Not less than fourteen different ways of dressing the hair are practised

by the coiffeuses of Izumo; but doubtless in the capital, and in some of

the larger cities of eastern Japan, the art is much more elaborately

developed. The hairdressers (kamiyui) go from house to house to exercise

their calling, visiting their clients upon fixed days at certain regular

hours. The hair of little girls from seven to eight years old is in

Matsue dressed usually after the style called O-tabako-bon, unless it be

simply 'banged.' In the O-tabako-bon ('honourable smoking-box' style)

the hair is cut to the length of about four inches all round except

above the forehead, where it is clipped a little shorter; and on the

summit of the head it is allowed to grow longer and is gathered up into

a peculiarly shaped knot, which justifies the curious name of the

coiffure. As soon as the girl becomes old enough to go to a female

public day-school, her hair is dressed in the pretty, simple style

called katsurashita, or perhaps in the new, ugly, semi-foreign 'bundle-

style' called sokuhatsu, which has become the regulation fashion in

boarding-schools. For the daughters of the poor, and even for most of

those of the middle classes, the public-school period is rather brief;

their studies usually cease a few years before they are marriageable,

and girls marry very early in Japan. The maiden's first elaborate

coiffure is arranged for her when she reaches the age of fourteen or

fifteen, at earliest. From twelve to fourteen her hair is dressed in the

fashion called Omoyedzuki; then the style is changed to the beautiful

coiffure called jorowage. There are various forms of this style, more or

less complex. A couple of years later, the jorowage yields in the turn

to the shinjocho [6] '('new-butterfly' style), or the shimada, also

called takawage. The shimjocho style is common, is worn by women of

various ages, and is not considered very genteel. The shimada,

exquisitely elaborate, is; but the more respectable the family, the

smaller the form of this coiffure; geisha and joro wear a larger and

loftier variety of it, which properly answers to the name takawage, or

'high coiffure.' Between eighteen and twenty years of age the maiden

again exchanges this style for another termed Tenjin-gaeshi; between

twenty and twenty-four years of age she adopts the fashion called

mitsuwage, or the 'triple coiffure' of three loops; and a somewhat

similar but still more complicated coiffure, called mitsuwakudzushi, is

worn by young women of from twenty-five to twenty-eight. Up to that age

every change in the fashion of wearing the hair has been in the

direction of elaborateness and complexity. But after twenty-eight a

Japanese woman is no longer considered young, and there is only one more

coiffure for her--the mochiriwage or bobai, tine simple and rather ugly

style adopted by old women.

But the girl who marries wears her hair in a fashion quite different

from any of the preceding. The most beautiful, the most elaborate, and

the most costly of all modes is the bride's coiffure, called hanayome; a

word literally signifying 'flower-wife.' The structure is dainty as its

name, and must be seen to be artistically appreciated. Afterwards the

wife wears her hair in the styles called kumesa or maruwage, another

name for which is katsuyama. The kumesa style is not genteel, and is the

coiffure of the poor; the maruwage or katsuyama is refined. In former

times the samurai women wore their hair in two particular styles: the

maiden's coiffure was ichogaeshi, and that of the married folk

katahajishi. It is still possible to see in Matsue a few katahajishi

coiffures.

Sec. 5

The family kamiyui, O-Koto-San, the most skilful of her craft in Izumo,

is a little woman of about thirty, still quite attractive. About her

neck there are three soft pretty lines, forming what connoisseurs of

beauty term 'the necklace of Venus.' This is a rare charm; but it once

nearly proved the ruin of Koto. The story is a curious one.

Koto had a rival at the beginning of her professional career--a woman of

considerable skill as a coiffeuse, but of malignant disposition, named

Jin. Jin gradually lost all her respectable custom, and little Koto

became the fashionable hairdresser. But her old rival, filled with

jealous hate, invented a wicked story about Koto, and the story found

root in the rich soil of old Izumo superstition, and grew fantastically.

The idea of it had been suggested to Jin's cunning mind by those three

soft lines about Koto's neck. She declared that Koto had a NUKE-KUBI.

What is a nuke-kubi? 'Kubi' signifies either the neck or head. 'Nukeru'

means to creep, to skulk, to prowl, to slip away stealthily. To have a

nuke-kubi is to have a head that detaches itself from the body, and

prowls about at night--by itself.

Koto has been twice married, and her second match was a happy one. But

her first husband caused her much trouble, and ran away from her at

last, in company with some worthless woman. Nothing was ever heard of

him afterward--so that Jin thought it quite safe to invent a nightmare-

story to account for his disappearance. She said that he abandoned Koto

because, on awaking one night, he saw his young wife's head rise from

the pillow, and her neck lengthen like a great white serpent, while the

rest of her body remained motionless. He saw the head, supported by the

ever-lengthening neck, enter the farther apartment and drink all the oil

in the lamps, and then return to the pillow slowly--the neck

simultaneously contracting. 'Then he rose up and fled away from the

house in great fear,' said Jin.

As one story begets another, all sorts of queer rumours soon began to

circulate about poor Koto. There was a tale that some police-officer,

late at night, saw a woman's head without a body, nibbling fruit from a

tree overhanging some garden-wall; and that, knowing it to be a nuke-

kubi, he struck it with the flat of his sword. It shrank away as swiftly

as a bat flies, but not before he had been able to recognize the face of

the kamiyui. 'Oh! it is quite true!' declared Jin, the morning after the

alleged occurrence; 'and if you don't believe it, send word to Koto that

you want to see her. She can't go out: her face is all swelled up.' Now

the last statement was fact--for Koto had a very severe toothache at

that time--and the fact helped the falsehood. And the story found its

way to the local newspaper, which published it--only as a strange

example of popular credulity; and Jin said, 'Am I a teller of the truth?

See, the paper has printed it!'

Wherefore crowds of curious people gathered before Koto's little house,

and made her life such a burden to her that her husband had to watch her

constantly to keep her from killing herself. Fortunately she had good

friends in the family of the Governor, where she had been employed for

years as coiffeuse; and the Governor, hearing of the wickedness, wrote a

public denunciation of it, and set his name to it, and printed it. Now

the people of Matsue reverenced their old samurai Governor as if he were

a god, and believed his least word; and seeing what he had written, they

became ashamed, and also denounced the lie and the liar; and the little

hairdresser soon became more prosperous than before through popular

sympathy.

Some of the most extraordinary beliefs of old days are kept alive in

Izumo and elsewhere by what are called in America travelling side-

shows'; and the inexperienced foreigner could never imagine the

possibilities of a Japanese side-show. On certain great holidays the

showmen make their appearance, put up their ephemeral theatres of rush-

matting and bamboos in some temple court, surfeit expectation by the

most incredible surprises, and then vanish as suddenly as they came. The

Skeleton of a Devil, the Claws of a Goblin, and 'a Rat as large as a

sheep,' were some of the least extraordinary displays which I saw. The

Goblin's Claws were remarkably fine shark's teeth; the Devil's Skeleton

had belonged to an orang-outang--all except the horns ingeniously

attached to the skull; and the wondrous Rat I discovered to be a tame

kangaroo. What I could not fully understand was the exhibition of a

nuke-kubi, in which a young woman stretched her neck, apparently, to a

length of about two feet, making ghastly faces during the performance.

Sec. 6

There are also some strange old superstitions about women's hair.

The myth of Medusa has many a counterpart in Japanese folk-lore: the

subject of such tales being always some wondrously beautiful girl, whose

hair turns to snakes only at night; and who is discovered at last to be

either a dragon or a dragon's daughter. But in ancient times it was

believed that the hair of any young woman might, under certain trying

circumstances, change into serpents. For instance: under the influence

of long-repressed jealousy.

There were many men of wealth who, in the days of Old Japan, kept their

concubines (mekake or aisho) under the same roof with their legitimate

wives (okusama). And it is told that, although the severest patriarchal

discipline might compel the mekake and the okusama to live together in

perfect seeming harmony by day, their secret hate would reveal itself by

night in the transformation of their hair. The long black tresses of

each would uncoil and hiss and strive to devour those of the other--and

even the mirrors of the sleepers would dash themselves together--for,

saith an ancient proverb, kagami onna-no tamashii--'a Mirror is the Soul

of a Woman.' [7] And there is a famous tradition of one Kato Sayemon

Shigenji, who beheld in the night the hair of his wife and the hair of

his concubine, changed into vipers, writhing together and hissing and

biting. Then Kato Sayemon grieved much for that secret bitterness of

hatred which thus existed through his fault; and he shaved his head and

became a priest in the great Buddhist monastery of Koya-San, where he

dwelt until the day of his death under the name of Karukaya.

Sec. 7

The hair of dead women is arranged in the manner called tabanegami,

somewhat resembling the shimada extremely simplified, and without

ornaments of any kind. The name tabanegami signifies hair tied into a

bunch, like a sheaf of rice. This style must also be worn by women

during the period of mourning.

Ghosts, nevertheless, are represented with hair loose and long, falling

weirdly over the face. And no doubt because of the melancholy

suggestiveness of its drooping branches, the willow is believed to be

the favourite tree of ghosts. Thereunder, 'tis said, they mourn in the

night, mingling their shadowy hair with the long dishevelled tresses of

the tree.

Tradition says that Okyo Maruyama was the first Japanese artist who drew

a ghost. The Shogun, having invited him to his palace, said: 'Make a

picture of a ghost for me.' Okyo promised to do so; but he was puzzled

how to execute the order satisfactorily. A few days later, hearing that

one of his aunts was very ill, he visited her. She was so emaciated that

she looked like one already long dead. As he watched by her bedside, a

ghastly inspiration came to him: he drew the fleshless face and long

dishevelled hair, and created from that hasty sketch a ghost that

surpassed all the Shogun's expectations. Afterwards Okyo became very

famous as a painter of ghosts.

Japanese ghosts are always represented as diaphanous, and

preternaturally tall--only the upper part of the figure being distinctly

outlined, and the lower part fading utterly away. As the Japanese say,

'a ghost has no feet': its appearance is like an exhalation, which

becomes visible only at a certain distance above the ground; and it

wavers arid lengthens and undulates in the conceptions of artists, like

a vapour moved by wind. Occasionally phantom women figure in picture.-

books in the likeness of living women; but these are riot true ghosts.

They are fox-women or other goblins; and their supernatural character is

suggested by a peculiar expression of the eyes arid a certain impossible

elfish grace.

Little children in Japan, like little children in all countries keenly

enjoy the pleasure of fear; and they have many games in which such

pleasure forms the chief attraction. Among these is 0-bake-goto, or

Ghost-play. Some nurse-girl or elder sister loosens her hair in front,

so as to let it fall over her face, and pursues the little folk with

moans and weird gestures, miming all the attitudes of the ghosts of the

picture-books.

Sec. 8

As the hair of the Japanese woman is her richest ornament, it is of all

her possessions that which she would most suffer to lose; and in other

days the man too manly to kill an erring wife deemed it vengeance enough

to turn her away with all her hair shorn off. Only the greatest faith or

the deepest love can prompt a woman to the voluntary sacrifice of her

entire chevelure, though partial sacrifices, offerings of one or two

long thick cuttings, may be seen suspended before many an Izumo shrine.

What faith can do in the way of such sacrifice, he best knows who has

seen the great cables, woven of women's hair, that hang in the vast

Hongwanji temple at Kyoto. And love is stronger than faith, though much

less demonstrative. According to ancient custom a wife bereaved

sacrifices a portion of her hair to be placed in the coffin of her

husband, and buried with him. The quantity is not fixed: in the majority

of cases it is very small, so that the appearance of the coiffure is

thereby nowise affected. But she who resolves to remain for ever loyal

to the memory of the lost yields up all. With her own hand she cuts off

her hair, and lays the whole glossy sacrifice--emblem of her youth and

beauty--upon the knees of the dead.

It is never suffered to grow again.

Chapter Four From the Diary of an English Teacher

Sec. 1

MATSUE, September 2, 1890.

I AM under contract to serve as English teacher in the Jinjo Chugakko,

or Ordinary Middle School, and also in the ShihanGakko, or Normal

School, of Matsue, Izumo, for the term of one year.

The Jinjo Chugakko is an immense two-story wooden building in European

style, painted a dark grey-blue. It has accommodations for nearly three

hundred day scholars. It is situated in one corner of a great square of

ground, bounded on two sides by canals, and on the other two by very

quiet streets. This site is very near the ancient castle.

The Normal School is a much larger building occupying the opposite angle

of the square. It is also much handsomer, is painted snowy white, and

has a little cupola upon its summit. There are only about one hundred

and fifty students in the Shihan-Gakko, but they are boarders.

Between these two schools are other educational buildings, which I shall

learn more about later.

It is my first day at the schools. Nishida Sentaro, the Japanese teacher

of English, has taken me through the buildings, introduced me to the

Directors, and to all my future colleagues, given me all necessary

instructions about hours and about textbooks, and furnished my desk with

all things necessary. Before teaching begins, however, I must be

introduced to the Governor of the Province, Koteda Yasusada, with whom

my contract has been made, through the medium of his secretary. So

Nishida leads the way to the Kencho, or Prefectural office, situated in

another foreign-looking edifice across the street.

We enter it, ascend a wide stairway, and enter a spacious .room carpeted

in European fashion--a room with bay windows and cushioned chairs. One

person is seated at a small round table, and about him are standing half

a dozen others: all are in full Japanese costume, ceremonial costume--

splendid silken hakama, or Chinese trousers, silken robes, silken haori

or overdress, marked with their mon or family crests: rich and dignified

attire which makes me ashamed of my commonplace Western garb. These are

officials of the Kencho, and teachers: the person seated is the

Governor. He rises to greet me, gives me the hand-grasp of a giant: and

as I look into his eyes, I feel I shall love that man to the day of my

death. A face fresh and frank as a boy's, expressing much placid force

and large-hearted kindness--all the calm of a Buddha. Beside him, the

other officials look very small: indeed the first impression of him is

that of a man of another race. While I am wondering whether the old

Japanese heroes were cast in a similar mould, he signs to me to take a

seat, and questions my guide in a mellow basso. There is a charm in the

fluent depth of the voice pleasantly confirming the idea suggested by

the face. An attendant brings tea.

'The Governor asks,' interprets Nishida, 'if you know the old history of

Izumo.'

I reply that I have read the Kojiki, translated by Professor

Chamberlain, and have therefore some knowledge of the story of Japan's

most ancient province. Some converse in Japanese follows. Nishida tells

the Governor that I came to Japan to study the ancient religion and

customs, and that I am particularly interested in Shinto and the

traditions of Izumo. The Governor suggests that I make visits to the

celebrated shrines of Kitzuki, Yaegaki, and Kumano, and then asks:

'Does he know the tradition of the origin of the clapping of hands

before a Shinto shrine?'

I reply in the negative; and the Governor says the tradition is given in

a commentary upon the Kojiki.

'It is in the thirty-second section of the fourteenth volume, where it

is written that Ya-he-Koto-Shiro-nushi-no-Kami clapped his hands.'

I thank the Governor for his kind suggestions and his citation. After a

brief silence I am graciously dismissed with another genuine hand-grasp;

and we return to the school.

Sec. 2

I have been teaching for three hours in the Middle School, and teaching

Japanese boys turns out to be a much more agreeable task than I had

imagined. Each class has been so well prepared for me beforehand by

Nishida that my utter ignorance of Japanese makes no difficulty in

regard to teaching: moreover, although the lads cannot understand my

words always when I speak, they can understand whatever I write upon the

blackboard with chalk. Most of them have already been studying English

from childhood, with Japanese teachers. All are wonderfully docile' and

patient. According to old custom, when the teacher enters, the whole

class rises and bows to him. He returns the bow, and calls the roll.

Nishida is only too kind. He helps me in every way he possibly can, and

is constantly regretting that he cannot help me more. There are, of

course, some difficulties to overcome. For instance, it will take me a

very, very long time to learn the names of the boys--most of which names

I cannot even pronounce, with the class-roll before me. And although the

names of the different classes have been painted upon the doors of their

respective rooms in English letters, for the benefit of the foreign

teacher, it will take me some weeks at least to become quite familiar

with them. For the time being Nishida always guides me to the rooms. He

also shows me the way, through long corridors, to the Normal School, and

introduces me to the teacher Nakayama who is to act there as my guide.

I have been engaged to teach only four times a week at the Normal

School; but I am furnished there also with a handsome desk in the

teachers' apartment, and am made to feel at home almost immediately.

Nakayama shows me everything of interest in the building before

introducing me to my future pupils. The introduction is pleasant and

novel as a school experience. I am conducted along a corridor, and

ushered into a large luminous whitewashed room full of young men in dark

blue military uniform. Each sits at a very small desk, sup-ported by a

single leg, with three feet. At the end of the room is a platform with a

high desk and a chair for the teacher. As I take my place at the desk, a

voice rings out in English: 'Stand up!' And all rise with a springy

movement as if moved by machinery. 'Bow down!' the same voice again

commands--the voice of a young student wearing a captain's stripes upon

his sleeve; and all salute me. I bow in return; we take our seats; and

the lesson begins.

All teachers at the Normal School are saluted in the same military

fashion before each class-hour--only the command is given in Japanese.

For my sake only, it is given in English.

Sec. 3

September 22, 1890.

The Normal School is a State institution. Students are admitted upon

examination and production of testimony as to good character; but the

number is, of course, limited. The young men pay no fees, no boarding

money, nothing even for books, college-outfits, or wearing apparel. They

are lodged, clothed, fed, and educated by the State; but they are

required in return, after their graduation, to serve the State as

teachers for the space of five years. Admission, however, by no means

assures graduation. There are three or four examinations each year; and

the students who fail to obtain a certain high average of examination

marks must leave the school, however exemplary their conduct or earnest

their study. No leniency can be shown where the educational needs of the

State are concerned, and these call for natural ability and a high

standard of its proof.

The discipline is military and severe. Indeed, it is so thorough that

the graduate of a Normal School is exempted by military law from more

than a year's service in the army: he leaves college a trained soldier.

Deportment is also a requisite: special marks are given for it; and

however gawky a freshman may prove at the time of his admission, he

cannot remain so. A spirit of manliness is cultivated, which excludes

roughness but develops self-reliance and self-control. The student is

required, when speaking, to look his teacher in the face, and to utter

his words not only distinctly, but sonorously. Demeanour in class is

partly enforced by the class-room fittings themselves. The tiny tables

are too narrow to allow of being used as supports for the elbows; the

seats have no backs against which to lean, and the student must hold

himself rigidly erect as he studies. He must also keep himself

faultlessly neat and clean. Whenever and wherever he encounters one of

his teachers he must halt, bring his feet together, draw himself erect,

and give the military salute. And this is done with a swift grace

difficult to describe.

The demeanour of a class during study hours is if anything too

faultless. Never a whisper is heard; never is a head raised from the

book without permission. But when the teacher addresses a student by

name, the youth rises instantly, and replies in a tone of such vigour as

would seem to unaccustomed ears almost startling by contrast with the

stillness and self-repression of the others.

The female department of the Normal School, where about fifty young

women are being trained as teachers, is a separate two-story quadrangle

of buildings, large, airy, and so situated, together with its gardens,

as to be totally isolated from all other buildings and invisible from

the street. The girls are not only taught European science by the most

advanced methods, but are trained as well in Japanese arts--the arts of

embroidery, of decoration, of painting, and of arranging flowers.

European drawing is also taught, and beautifully taught, not only here,

but in all the schools. It is taught, however, in combination with

Japanese methods; and the results of this blending may certainly be

expected to have some charming influence upon future art-production. The

average capacity of the Japanese student in drawing is, I think, at

least fifty per cent, higher than that of European students. The soul of

the race is essentially artistic; and the extremely difficult art of

learning to write the Chinese characters, in which all are trained from

early childhood, has already disciplined the hand and the eye to a

marvellous degree--a degree undreamed of in the Occident--long before

the drawing-master begins his lessons of perspective.

Attached to the great Normal School, and connected by a corridor with

the Jinjo Chugakko likewise, is a large elementary school for little

boys and girls: its teachers are male and female students of the

graduating classes, who are thus practically trained for their

profession before entering the service of the State. Nothing could be

more interesting as an educational spectacle to any sympathetic

foreigner than some of this elementary teaching. In the first room which

I visit a class of very little girls and boys--some as quaintly pretty

as their own dolls--are bending at their desks over sheets of coal-black

paper which you would think they were trying to make still blacker by

energetic use of writing-brushes and what we call Indian-ink. They are

really learning to write Chinese and Japanese characters, stroke by

stroke. Until one stroke has been well learned, they are not suffered to

attempt another--much less a combination. Long before the first lesson

is thoroughly mastered, the white paper has become all evenly black

under the multitude of tyro brush-strokes. But the same sheet is still

used; for the wet ink makes a yet blacker mark upon the dry, so that it

can easily be seen.

In a room adjoining, I see another child-class learning to use scissors

--Japanese scissors, which, being formed in one piece, shaped something

like the letter U, are much less easy to manage than ours. The little

folk are being taught to cut out patterns, and shapes of special objects

or symbols to be studied. Flower-forms are the most ordinary patterns;

sometimes certain ideographs are given as subjects.

And in another room a third small class is learning to sing; the teacher

writing the music notes (do, re, mi) with chalk upon a blackboard, and

accompanying the song with an accordion. The little ones have learned

the Japanese national anthem (Kimi ga yo wa) and two native songs set to

Scotch airs--one of which calls back to me, even in this remote corner

of the Orient, many a charming memory: Auld Lang Syne.

No uniform is worn in this elementary school: all are in Japanese dress

--the boys in dark blue kimono, the little girls in robes of all tints,

radiant as butterflies. But in addition to their robes, the girls wear

hakama, [1] and these are of a vivid, warm sky-blue.

Between the hours of teaching, ten minutes are allowed for play or

rest. The little boys play at Demon-Shadows or at blind-man's-buff or at

some other funny game: they laugh, leap, shout, race, and wrestle, but,

unlike European children, never quarrel or fight. As for the little

girls, they get by themselves, and either play at hand-ball, or form

into circles to play at some round game, accompanied by song.

Indescribably soft and sweet the chorus of those little voices in the

round:

Kango-kango sho-ya,

Naka yoni sho-ya,

Don-don to kunde

Jizo-San no midzu wo

Matsuba no midzu irete,

Makkuri kadso. [2]

I notice that the young men, as well as the young women, who teach these

little folk, are extremely tender to their charges. A child whose kimono

is out of order, or dirtied by play, is taken aside and brushed and

arranged as carefully as by an elder brother.

Besides being trained for their future profession by teaching the

children of the elementary school, the girl students of the Shihan-Gakko

are also trained to teach in the neighbouring kindergarten. A delightful

kindergarten it is, with big cheerful sunny rooms, where stocks of the

most ingenious educational toys are piled upon shelves for daily use.

Since the above was written I have had two years' experience as a

teacher in various large Japanese schools; and I have never had personal

knowledge of any serious quarrel between students, and have never even

heard of a fight among my pupils. And I have taught some eight hundred

boys and young men.

Sec. 4

October 1 1890. Nevertheless I am destined to see little of the Normal

School. Strictly speaking, I do not belong to its staff: my services

being only lent by the Middle School, to which I give most of my time. I

see the Normal School students in their class-rooms only, for they are

not allowed to go out to visit their teachers' homes in the town. So I

can never hope to become as familiar with them as with the students of

the Chugakko, who are beginning to call me 'Teacher' instead of 'Sir,'

and to treat me as a sort of elder brother. (I objected to the word

'master,' for in Japan the teacher has no need of being masterful.) And

I feel less at home in the large, bright, comfortable apartments of the

Normal School teachers than in our dingy, chilly teachers' room at the

Chugakko, where my desk is next to that of Nishida.

On the walls there are maps, crowded with Japanese ideographs; a few

large charts representing zoological facts in the light of evolutional

science; and an immense frame filled with little black lacquered wooden

tablets, so neatly fitted together that the entire surface is uniform as

that of a blackboard. On these are written, or rather painted, in white,

names of teachers, subjects, classes, and order of teaching hours; and

by the ingenious tablet arrangement any change of hours can be

represented by simply changing the places of the tablets. As all this is

written in Chinese and Japanese characters, it remains to me a mystery,

except in so far as the general plan and purpose are concerned. I have

learned only to recognize the letters of my own name, and the simpler

form of numerals.

On every teacher's desk there is a small hibachi of glazed blue-and-

white ware, containing a few lumps of glowing charcoal in a bed of

ashes. During the brief intervals between classes each teacher smokes

his tiny Japanese pipe of brass, iron, or silver. The hibachi and a cup

of hot tea are our consolations for the fatigues of the class-room.

Nishida and one or two other teachers know a good deal of English, and

we chat together sometimes between classes. But more often no one

speaks. All are tired after the teaching hour, and prefer to smoke in

silence. At such times the only sounds within the room are the ticking

of the clock, and the sharp clang of the little pipes being rapped upon

the edges of the hibachi to empty out the ashes.

Sec. 5

October 15, 1890. To-day I witnessed the annual athletic contests (undo-

kwai) of all the schools in Shimane Ken. These games were celebrated in

the broad castle grounds of Ninomaru. Yesterday a circular race-track

had been staked off, hurdles erected for leaping, thousands of wooden

seats prepared for invited or privileged spectators, and a grand lodge

built for the Governor, all before sunset. The place looked like a vast

circus, with its tiers of plank seats rising one above the other, and

the Governor's lodge magnificent with wreaths and flags. School children

from all the villages and towns within twenty-five miles had arrived in

surprising multitude. Nearly six thousand boys and girls were entered to

take part in the contests. Their parents and relatives and teachers made

an imposing assembly upon the benches and within the gates. And on the

ramparts overlooking the huge inclosure a much larger crowd had

gathered, representing perhaps one-third of the population of the city.

The signal to begin or to end a contest was a pistol-shot. Four

different kinds of games were performed in different parts of the

grounds at the same time, as there was room enough for an army; and

prizes were awarded to the winners of each contest by the hand of the

Governor himself.

There were races between the best runners in each class of the different

schools; and the best runner of all proved to be Sakane, of our own

fifth class, who came in first by nearly forty yards without seeming

even to make an effort. He is our champion athlete, and as good as he is

strong--so that it made me very happy to see him with his arms full of

prize books. He won also a fencing contest decided by the breaking of a

little earthenware saucer tied to the left arm of each combatant. And he

also won a leaping match between our older boys.

But many hundreds of other winners there were too, and many hundreds of

prizes were given away. There were races in which the runners were tied

together in pairs, the left leg of one to the right leg of the other.

There were equally funny races, the winning of which depended on the

runner's ability not only to run, but to crawl, to climb, to vault, and

to jump alternately. There were races also for the little girls--pretty

as butterflies they seemed in their sky-blue hakama and many coloured

robes--races in which the contestants had each to pick up as they ran

three balls of three different colours out of a number scattered over

the turf. Besides this, the little girls had what is called a flag-race,

and a contest with battledores and shuttlecocks.

Then came the tug-of-war. A magnificent tug-of-war, too--one hundred

students at one end of a rope, and another hundred at the other. But the

most wonderful spectacles of the day were the dumb-bell exercises. Six

thousand boys and girls, massed in ranks about five hundred deep; six

thousand pairs of arms rising and falling exactly together; six thousand

pairs of sandalled feet advancing or retreating together, at the signal

of the masters of gymnastics, directing all from the tops of various

little wooden towers; six thousand voices chanting at once the 'one,

two, three,' of the dumb-bell drill: 'Ichi, ni,--san, shi,--go, roku,--

shichi, hachi.'

Last came the curious game called 'Taking the Castle.' Two models of

Japanese towers, about fifteen feet high, made with paper stretched over

a framework of bamboo, were set up, one at each end of the field. Inside

the castles an inflammable liquid had been placed in open vessels, so

that if the vessels were overturned the whole fabric would take fire.

The boys, divided into two parties, bombarded the castles with wooden

balls, which passed easily through the paper walls; and in a short time

both models were making a glorious blaze. Of course the party whose

castle was the first to blaze lost the game.

The games began at eight o'clock in the morning, and at five in the

evening came to an end. Then at a signal fully ten thousand voices

pealed out the superb national anthem, 'Kimi ga yo, and concluded it

with three cheers for their Imperial Majesties, the Emperor and Empress

of Japan.

The Japanese do not shout or roar as we do when we cheer. They chant.

Each long cry is like the opening tone of an immense musical chorus:

A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a..a!

Sec. 6

It is no small surprise to observe how botany, geology, and other

sciences are daily taught even in this remotest part of Old Japan. Plant

physiology and the nature of vegetable tissues are studied under

excellent microscopes, and in their relations to chemistry; and at

regular intervals the instructor leads his classes into the country to

illustrate the lessons of the term by examples taken from the flora of

their native place. Agriculture, taught by a graduate of the famous

Agricultural School at Sapporo, is practically illustrated upon farms

purchased and maintained by the schools for purely educational ends.

Each series of lessons in geology is supplemented by visits to the

mountains about the lake, or to the tremendous cliffs of the coast,

where the students are taught to familiarize themselves with forms of

stratification and the visible history of rocks. The basin of the lake,

and the country about Matsue, is physiographically studied, after the

plans of instruction laid down in Huxley's excellent manual. Natural

History, too, is taught according to the latest and best methods, and

with the help of the microscope. The results of such teaching are

sometimes surprising. I know of one student, a lad of only sixteen, who

voluntarily collected and classified more than two hundred varieties of

marine plants for a Tokyo professor. Another, a youth of seventeen,

wrote down for me in my notebook, without a work of reference at hand,

and, as I afterwards discovered, almost without an omission or error, a

scientific list of all the butterflies to be found in the neighbourhood

of the city.

Sec. 7

Through the Minister of Public Instruction, His Imperial Majesty has

sent to all the great public schools of the Empire a letter bearing date

of the thirteenth day of the tenth month of the twenty-third year of

Meiji. And the students and teachers of the various schools assemble to

hear the reading of the Imperial Words on Education.

At eight o'clock we of the Middle School are all waiting in our own

assembly hall for the coming of the Governor, who will read the

Emperor's letter in the various schools.

We wait but a little while. Then the Governor comes with all the

officers of the Kencho and the chief men of the city. We rise to salute

him: then the national anthem is sung.

Then the Governor, ascending the platform, produces the Imperial

Missive--a scroll of Chinese manuscript sheathed in silk. He withdraws

it slowly from its woven envelope, lifts it reverentially to his

forehead, unrolls it, lifts it again to his forehead, and after a

moment's dignified pause begins in that clear deep voice of his to read

the melodious syllables after the ancient way, which is like a chant:

'CHO-KU-G U. Chin omommiru ni waga koso koso kuni wo....

'We consider that the Founder of Our Empire and the ancestors of Our

Imperial House placed the foundation of the country on a grand and

permanent basis, and established their authority on the principles of

profound humanity and benevolence.

'That Our subjects have throughout ages deserved well of the State by

their loyalty and piety and by their harmonious co-operation is in

accordance with the essential character of Our nation; and on these very

same principles Our education has been founded.

'You, Our subjects, be therefore filial to your parents; be affectionate

to your brothers; be harmonious as husbands and wives; and be faithful

to your friends; conduct yourselves with propriety and carefulness;

extend generosity and benevolence towards your neighbours; attend to

your studies and follow your pursuits; cultivate your intellects and

elevate your morals; advance public benefits and promote social

interests; be always found in the good observance of the laws and

constitution of the land; display your personal courage and public

spirit for the sake of the country whenever required; and thus support

the Imperial prerogative, which is coexistent with the Heavens and the

Earth.

'Such conduct on your part will not only strengthen the character of Our

good and loyal subjects, but conduce also to the maintenance of the fame

of your worthy forefathers.

'This is the instruction bequeathed by Our ancestors and to be followed

by Our subjects; for it is the truth which has guided and guides them in

their own affairs and in their dealings towards aliens.

'We hope, therefore, We and Our subjects will regard these sacred

precepts with one and the same heart in order to attain the same ends.'

[3]

Then the Governor and the Head-master speak a few words--dwelling upon

the full significance of His Imperial Majesty's august commands, and

exhorting all to remember and to obey them to the uttermost.

After which the students have a holiday, to enable them the better to

recollect what they have heard.

Sec. 8

All teaching in the modern Japanese system of education is conducted

with the utmost kindness and gentleness. The teacher is a teacher only:

he is not, in the English sense of mastery, a master. He stands to his

pupils in the relation of an elder brother. He never tries to impose his

will upon them: he never scolds, he seldom criticizes, he scarcely ever

punishes. No Japanese teacher ever strikes a pupil: such an act would

cost him his post at once. He never loses his temper: to do so would

disgrace him in the eyes of his boys and in the judgment of his

colleagues. Practically speaking, there is no punishment in Japanese

schools. Sometimes very mischievous lads are kept in the schoolhouse

during recreation time; yet even this light penalty is not inflicted

directly by the teacher, but by the director of the school on complaint

of the teacher. The purpose in such cases is not to inflict pain by

deprivation of enjoyment, but to give public illustration of a fault;

and in the great majority of instances, consciousness of the fault thus

brought home to a lad before his comrades is quite enough to prevent its

repetition. No such cruel punition as that of forcing a dull pupil to

learn an additional task, or of sentencing him to strain his eyes

copying four or five hundred lines, is ever dreamed of. Nor would such

forms of punishment, in the present state of things, be long tolerated

by the pupils themselves. The general policy of the educational

authorities everywhere throughout the empire is to get rid of students

who cannot be perfectly well managed without punishment; and expulsions,

nevertheless, are rare.

I often see a pretty spectacle on my way home from the school, when I

take the short cut through the castle grounds. A class of about thirty

little boys, in kimono and sandals, bareheaded, being taught to march

and to sing by a handsome young teacher, also in Japanese dress. While

they sing, they are drawn up in line; and keep time with their little

bare feet. The teacher has a pleasant high clear tenor: he stands at one

end of the rank and sings a single line of the song. Then all the

children sing it after him. Then he sings a second line, and they repeat

it. If any mistakes are made, they have to sing the verse again.

It is the Song of Kusunoki Masashige, noblest of Japanese heroes and

patriots.

Sec. 9

I have said that severity on the part of teachers would scarcely be

tolerated by the students themselves--a fact which may sound strange to

English or American ears. Tom Brown's school does not exist in Japan;

the ordinary public school much more resembles the ideal Italian

institution so charmingly painted for us in the Cuore of De Amicis.

Japanese students furthermore claim and enjoy an independence contrary

to all Occidental ideas of disciplinary necessity. In the Occident the

master expels the pupil. In Japan it happens quite as often that the

pupil expels the master. Each public school is an earnest, spirited

little republic, to which director and teachers stand only in the

relation of president and cabinet. They are indeed appointed by the

prefectural government upon recommendation by the Educational Bureau at

the capital; but in actual practice they maintain their positions by

virtue of their capacity and personal character as estimated by their

students, and are likely to be deposed by a revolutionary movement

whenever found wanting. It has been alleged that the students frequently

abuse their power. But this allegation has been made by European

residents, strongly prejudiced in favour of masterful English ways of

discipline. (I recollect that an English Yokohama paper, in this

connection, advocated the introduction of the birch.) My own

observations have convinced me, as larger experience has convinced some

others, that in most instances of pupils rebelling against a teacher,

reason is upon their side. They will rarely insult a teacher whom they

dislike, or cause any disturbance in his class: they will simply refuse

to attend school until he be removed. Personal feeling may often be a

secondary, but it is seldom, so far as I have been able to learn, the

primary cause for such a demand. A teacher whose manners are

unsympathetic, or even positively disagreeable, will be nevertheless

obeyed and revered while his students remain persuaded of his capacity

as a teacher, and his sense of justice; and they are as keen to discern

ability as they are to detect partiality. And, on the other hand, an

amiable disposition alone will never atone with them either for want of

knowledge or for want of skill to impart it. I knew one case, in a

neighbouring public school, of a demand by the students for the removal

of their professor of chemistry. In making their complaint, they frankly

declared: 'We like him. He is kind to all of us; he does the best he

can. But he does not know enough to teach us as we wish to be taught.

lie cannot answer our questions. He cannot explain the experiments which

he shows us. Our former teacher could do all these things. We must have

another teacher.' Investigation proved that the lads were quite right.

The young teacher had graduated at the university; he had come well

recommended: but he had no thorough knowledge of the science which he

undertook to impart, and no experience as a teacher. The instructor's

success in Japan is not guaranteed by a degree, but by his practical

knowledge and his capacity to communicate it simply and thoroughly.

Sec. 10

November 3, 1890 To-day is the birthday of His Majesty the Emperor. It

is a public holiday throughout Japan; and there will be no teaching this

morning. But at eight o'clock all the students and instructors enter the

great assembly hall of the Jinjo Chugakko to honour the anniversary of

His Majesty's august birth.

On the platform of the assembly hall a table, covered with dark silk,

has been placed; and upon this table the portraits of Their Imperial

Majesties, the Emperor and the Empress of Japan, stand side by side

upright, framed in gold. The alcove above the platform has been

decorated with flags and wreaths.

Presently the Governor enters, looking like a French general in his

gold-embroidered uniform of office, and followed by the Mayor of the

city, the Chief Military Officer, the Chief of Police, and all the

officials of the provincial government. These take their places in

silence to left and right of the plat form. Then the school organ

suddenly rolls out the slow, solemn, beautiful national anthem; and all

present chant those ancient syllables, made sacred by the reverential

love of a century of generations:

Ki-mi ga-a yo-o wa

Chi-yo ni-i-i ya-chi-yo ni sa-za-red

I-shi-no

I-wa o to na-ri-te

Ko-ke no

Mu-u su-u ma-a-a-de [4]

The anthem ceases. The Governor advances with a slow dignified step from

the right side of the apartment to the centre of the open space before

the platform and the portraits of Their Majesties, turns his face to

them, and bows profoundly. Then he takes three steps forward toward the

platform, and halts, and bows again. Then he takes three more steps

forward, and bows still more profoundly. Then he retires, walking

backward six steps, and bows once more. Then he returns to his place.

After this the teachers, by parties of six, perform the same beautiful

ceremony. When all have saluted the portrait of His Imperial Majesty,

the Governor ascends the platform and makes a few eloquent remarks to

the students about their duty to their Emperor, to their country, and to

their teachers. Then the anthem is sung again; and all disperse to amuse

themselves for the rest of the day.

Sec. 11

March 1 1891. The majority of the students of the Jinjo Chugakko are

day-scholars only (externes, as we would say in France): they go to

school in the morning, take their noon meal at home, and return at one

o'clock to attend the brief afternoon classes. All the city students

live with their own families; but there are many boys from remote

country districts who have no city relatives, and for such the school

furnishes boarding-houses, where a wholesome moral discipline is

maintained by special masters. They are free, however, if they have

sufficient means, to choose another boarding-house (provided it be a

respectable one), or to find quarters in some good family; but few adopt

either course.

I doubt whether in any other country the cost of education--education of

the most excellent and advanced kind--is so little as in Japan. The

Izumo student is able to live at a figure so far below the Occidental

idea of necessary expenditure that the mere statement of it can scarcely

fail to surprise the reader. A sum equal in American money to about

twenty dollars supplies him with board and lodging for one year. The

whole of his expenses, including school fees, are about seven dollars a

month. For his room and three ample meals a day he pays every four weeks

only one yen eighty-five sen--not much more than a dollar and a half in

American currency. If very, very poor, he will not be obliged to wear a

uniform; but nearly all students of the higher classes do wear uniforms,

as the cost of a complete uniform, including cap and shoes of leather,

is only about three and a half yen for the cheaper quality. Those who do

not wear leather shoes, however, are required, while in the school, to

exchange their noisy wooden geta for zori or light straw sandals.

Sec. 12

But the mental education so admirably imparted in an ordinary middle

school is not, after all, so cheaply acquired by the student as might be

imagined from the cost of living and the low rate of school fees. For

Nature exacts a heavier school fee, and rigidly collects her debt--in

human life.

To understand why, one should remember that the modern knowledge which

the modern Izumo student must acquire upon a diet of boiled rice and

bean-curd was discovered, developed, and synthetised by minds

strengthened upon a costly diet of flesh. National underfeeding offers

the most cruel problem which the educators of Japan must solve in order

that she may become fully able to assimilate the civilization we have

thrust upon her. As Herbert Spencer has pointed out, the degree of human

energy, physical or intellectual, must depend upon the nutritiveness of

food; and history shows that the well-fed races have been the energetic

and the dominant. Perhaps mind will rule in the future of nations; but

mind is a mode of force, and must be fed--through the stomach. The

thoughts that have shaken the world were never framed upon bread and

water: they were created by beefsteak and mutton-chops, by ham and eggs,

by pork and puddings, and were stimulated by generous wines, strong

ales, and strong coffee. And science also teaches us that the growing

child or youth requires an even more nutritious diet than the adult; and

that the student especially needs strong nourishment to repair the

physical waste involved by brain-exertion.

And what is the waste entailed upon the Japanese schoolboy's system by

study? It is certainly greater than that which the system of the

European or American student must suffer at the same period of life.

Seven years of study are required to give the Japanese youth merely the

necessary knowledge of his own triple system of ideographs--or, in less

accurate but plainer speech, the enormous alphabet of his native

literature. That literature, also, he must study, and the art of two

forms of his language--the written and the spoken: likewise, of course,

he must learn native history and native morals. Besides these Oriental

studies, his course includes foreign history, geography, arithmetic,

astronomy, physics, geometry, natural history, agriculture, chemistry,

drawing, and mathematics. Worst of all, he must learn English--a

language of which the difficulty to the Japanese cannot be even faintly

imagined by anyone unfamiliar with the construction of the native

tongue--a language so different from his own that the very simplest

Japanese phrase cannot be intelligibly rendered into English by a

literal translation of the words or even the form of the thought. And he

must learn all this upon a diet no English boy could live on; and always

thinly clad in his poor cotton dress without even a fire in his

schoolroom during the terrible winter, only a hibachi containing a few

lumps of glowing charcoal in a bed of ashes. [5] Is it to be wondered at

that even those Japanese students who pass successfully 'through all the

educational courses the Empire can open to them can only in rare

instances show results of their long training as large as those

manifested by students of the West? Better conditions are coming; but at

present, under the new strain, young bodies and young minds too often

give way. And those who break down are not the dullards, but the pride

of schools, the captains of classes.

Sec. 13

Yet, so far as the finances of the schools allow, everything possible is

done to make the students both healthy and happy--to furnish them with

ample opportunities both for physical exercise and for mental enjoyment.

Though the course of study is severe, the hours are not long: and one of

the daily five is devoted to military drill--made more interesting to

the lads by the use of real rifles and bayonets, furnished by

Government. There is a fine gymnastic ground near the school, furnished

with trapezes, parallel bars, vaulting horses, etc.; and there are two

masters of gymnastics attached to the Middle School alone. There are

row-boats, in which the boys can take their pleasure on the beautiful

lake whenever the weather permits. There is an excellent fencing-school

conducted by the Governor himself, who, although so heavy a man, is

reckoned one of the best fencers of his own generation. The style taught

is the old one, requiring the use of both hands to wield the sword;

thrusting is little attempted, it is nearly all heavy slashing. The

foils are made of long splinters of bamboo tied together so as to form

something resembling elongated fasces: masks and wadded coats protect

the head and body, for the blows given are heavy. This sort of fencing

requires considerable agility, and gives more active exercise than our

severer Western styles. Yet another form of healthy exercise consists of

long journeys on foot to famous places. Special holidays are allowed for

these. The students march out of town in military order, accompanied by

some of their favourite teachers, and perhaps a servant to cook for

them. Thus they may travel for a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty

miles and back; but if the journey is to be a very long one, only the

strong lads are allowed to go. They walk in waraji, the true straw

sandal, closely tied to the naked foot, which it leaves perfectly supple

and free, without blistering or producing corns. They sleep at night in

Buddhist temples; and their cooking is done in the open fields, like

that of soldiers in camp.

For those little inclined to such sturdy exercise there is a school

library which is growing every year. There is also a monthly school

magazine, edited and published by the boys. And there is a Students'

Society, at whose regular meetings debates are held upon all conceivable

subjects of interest to students.

Sec. 14

April 4, 1891. The students of the third, fourth, and fifth year classes

write for me once a week brief English compositions upon easy themes

which I select for them. As a rule the themes are Japanese. Considering

the immense difficulty of the English language to Japanese students, the

ability of some of my boys to express their thoughts in it is

astonishing. Their compositions have also another interest for me as

revelations, not of individual character, but of national sentiment, or

of aggregate sentiment of some sort or other. What seems to me most

surprising in the compositions of the average Japanese student is that

they have no personal cachet at all. Even the handwriting of twenty

English compositions will be found to have a curious family resemblance;

and striking exceptions are too few to affect the rule. Here is one of

the best compositions on my table, by a student at the head of his

class. Only a few idiomatic errors have been corrected:

THE MOON 'The Moon appears melancholy to those who are sad, and joyous

to those who are happy. The Moon makes memories of home come to those

who travel, and creates homesickness. So when the Emperor Godaigo,

having been banished to Oki by the traitor Hojo, beheld the moonlight

upon the seashore, he cried out, "The Moon is heartless!"

'The sight of the Moon makes an immeasurable feeling in our hearts when

we look up at it through the clear air of a beauteous night.

'Our hearts ought to be pure and calm like the light of the Moon.

'Poets often compare the Moon to a Japanese [metal] mirror (kagami); and

indeed its shape is the same when it is full.

'The refined man amuses himself with the Moon. He seeks some house

looking out upon water, to watch the Moon, and to make verses about it.

'The best places from which to see the Moon are Tsukigashi, and the

mountain Obasute.

'The light of the Moon shines alike upon foul and pure, upon high and

low. That beautiful Lamp is neither yours nor mine, but everybody's.

'When we look at the Moon we should remember that its waxing and its

waning are the signs of the truth that the culmination of all things is

likewise the beginning of their decline.'

Any person totally unfamiliar with Japanese educational methods might

presume that the foregoing composition shows some original power of

thought and imagination. But this is not the case. I found the same

thoughts and comparisons in thirty other compositions upon the same

subject. Indeed, the compositions of any number of middle-school

students upon the same subject are certain to be very much alike in idea

and sentiment--though they are none the less charming for that. As a

rule the Japanese student shows little originality in the line of

imagination. His imagination was made for him long centuries ago--partly

in China, partly in his native land. From his childhood he is trained to

see and to feel Nature exactly in the manner of those wondrous artists

who, with a few swift brushstrokes, fling down upon a sheet of paper the

colour-sensation of a chilly dawn, a fervid noon, an autumn evening.

Through all his boyhood he is taught to commit to memory the most

beautiful thoughts and comparisons to be found in his ancient native

literature. Every boy has thus learned that the vision of Fuji against

the blue resembles a white half-opened fan, hanging inverted in the sky.

Every boy knows that cherry-trees in full blossom look as if the most

delicate of flushed summer clouds were caught in their branches. Every

boy knows the comparison between the falling of certain leaves on snow

and the casting down of texts upon a sheet of white paper with a brush.

Every boy and girl knows the verses comparing the print of cat's-feet on

snow to plum-flowers, [6] and that comparing the impression of bokkuri

on snow to the Japanese character for the number 'two.' These were

thoughts of old, old poets; and it would be very hard to invent prettier

ones. Artistic power in composition is chiefly shown by the correct

memorising and clever combination of these old thoughts.

And the students have been equally well trained to discover a moral in

almost everything, animate or inanimate. I have tried them with a

hundred subjects--Japanese subjects--for composition; I have never found

them to fail in discovering a moral when the theme was a native one. If

I suggested 'Fire-flies,' they at once approved the topic, and wrote for

me the story of that Chinese student who, being too poor to pay for a

lamp, imprisoned many fireflies in a paper lantern, and thus was able to

obtain light enough to study after dark, and to become eventually a

great scholar. If I said 'Frogs,' they wrote for me the legend of Ono-

no-Tofu, who was persuaded to become a learned celebrity by witnessing

the tireless perseverance of a frog trying to leap up to a willow-

branch. I subjoin a few specimens of the moral ideas which I thus

evoked. I have corrected some common mistakes in the originals, but have

suffered a few singularities to stand:

THE BOTAN 'The botan [Japanese peony] is large and beautiful to see; but

it has a disagreeable smell. This should make us remember that what is

only outwardly beautiful in human society should not attract us. To be

attracted by beauty only may lead us into fearful and fatal misfortune.

The best place to see the botan is the island of Daikonshima in the lake

Nakaumi. There in the season of its flowering all the island is red with

its blossoms. [7]

THE DRAGON 'When the Dragon tries to ride the clouds and come into

heaven there happens immediately a furious storm. When the Dragon dwells

on the ground it is supposed to take the form of a stone or other

object; but when it wants to rise it calls a cloud. Its body is composed

of parts of many animals. It has the eyes of a tiger and the horns of a

deer and the body of a crocodile and the claws of an eagle and two

trunks like the trunk of an elephant. It has a moral. We should try to

be like the dragon, and find out and adopt all the good qualities of

others.'

At the close of this essay on the dragon is a note to the teacher,

saying: 'I believe not there is any Dragon. But there are many stories

and curious pictures about Dragon.'

MOSQUITOES 'On summer nights we hear the sound of faint voices; and

little things come and sting our bodies very violently. We call .them

ka--in English "mosquitoes." I think the sting is useful for us, because

if we begin to sleep, the ka shall come and sting us, uttering a small

voice; then we shall be bringed back to study by the sting.'

The following, by a lad of sixteen, is submitted only as a

characteristic expression of half-formed ideas about a less familiar

subject:

EUROPEAN AND JAPANESE CUSTOMS 'Europeans wear very narrow clothes and

they wear shoes always in the house. Japanese wear clothes which are

very lenient and they do not shoe except when they walk out-of-the-door.

'What we think very strange is that in Europe every wife loves her

husband more than her parents. In Nippon there is no wife who more loves

not her parents than her husband.

'And Europeans walk out in the road with their wives, which we utterly

refuse to, except on the festival of Hachiman.

'The Japanese woman is treated by man as a servant, while the European

woman is respected as a master. I think these customs are both bad.

'We think it is very much trouble to treat European ladies; and we do

not know why ladies are so much respected by Europeans.'

Conversation in the class-room about foreign subjects is often equally

amusing and suggestive:

'Teacher, I have been told that if a European and his father and his

wife were all to fall into the sea together, and that he only could

swim, he would try to save his wife first. Would he really?'

'Probably,' I reply.

'But why?'

'One reason is that Europeans consider it a man's duty to help the

weaker first--especially women and children.'

'And does a European love his wife more than his father and mother?'

'Not always--but generally, perhaps, he does.'

'Why, Teacher, according to our ideas that is very immoral.'

'Teacher, how do European women carry their babies?'

'In their arms.'

'Very tiring! And how far can a woman walk carrying a baby in her arms?'

'A strong woman can walk many miles with a child in her arms.'

'But she cannot use her hands while she is carrying a baby that way, can

she?'

'Not very well.'

'Then it is a very bad way to carry babies,' etc.

Sec. 15

May 1, 1891. My favourite students often visit me of afternoons. They

first send me their cards, to announce their presence. On being told to

come in they leave their footgear on the doorstep, enter my little

study, prostrate themselves; and we all squat down together on the

floor, which is in all Japanese houses like a soft mattress. The servant

brings zabuton or small cushions to kneel upon, and cakes, and tea.

To sit as the Japanese do requires practice; and some Europeans can

never acquire the habit. To acquire it, indeed, one must become

accustomed to wearing Japanese costume. But once the habit of thus

sitting has been formed, one finds it the most natural and easy of

positions, and assumes it by preference for eating, reading, smoking, or

chatting. It is not to be recommended, perhaps, for writing with a

European pen--as the motion in our Occidental style of writing is from

the supported wrist; but it is the best posture for writing with the

Japanese fude, in using which the whole arm is unsupported, and the

motion from the elbow. After having become habituated to Japanese habits

for more than a year, I must confess that I find it now somewhat irksome

to use a chair.

When we have all greeted each other, and taken our places upon the

kneeling cushions, a little polite silence ensues, which I am the first

to break. Some of the lads speak a good deal of English. They understand

me well when I pronounce every word slowly and distinctly--using simple

phrases, and avoiding idioms. When a word with which they are not

familiar must be used, we refer to a good English-Japanese dictionary,

which gives each vernacular meaning both in the kana and in the Chinese

characters.

Usually my young visitors stay a long time, and their stay is rarely

tiresome. Their conversation and their thoughts are of the simplest and

frankest. They do not come to learn: they know that to ask their teacher

to teach out of school would be unjust. They speak chiefly of things

which they think have some particular interest for me. Sometimes they

scarcely speak at all, but appear to sink into a sort of happy reverie.

What they come really for is the quiet pleasure of sympathy. Not an

intellectual sympathy, but the sympathy of pure goodwill: the simple

pleasure of being quite comfortable with a friend. They peep at my books

and pictures; and sometimes they bring books and pictures to show me--

delightfully queer things--family heirlooms which I regret much that I

cannot buy. They also like to look at my garden, and enjoy all that is

in it even more than I. Often they bring me gifts of flowers. Never by

any possible chance are they troublesome, impolite, curious, or even

talkative. Courtesy in its utmost possible exquisiteness--an

exquisiteness of which even the French have no conception--seems natural

to the Izumo boy as the colour of his hair or the tint of his skin. Nor

is he less kind than courteous. To contrive pleasurable surprises for me

is one of the particular delights of my boys; and they either bring or

cause to be brought to the house all sorts of strange things.

Of all the strange or beautiful things which I am thus privileged to

examine, none gives me so much pleasure as a certain wonderful kakemono

of Amida Nyorai. It is rather large picture, and has been borrowed from

a priest that I may see it. The Buddha stands in the attitude of

exhortation, with one, hand uplifted. Behind his head a huge moon makes

an aureole and across the face of that moon stream winding lines of

thinnest cloud. Beneath his feet, like a rolling of smoke, curl heavier

and darker clouds. Merely as a work of colour and design, the thing is a

marvel. But the real wonder of it is not in colour or design at all.

Minute examination reveals the astonishing fact that every shadow and

clouding is formed by a fairy text of Chinese characters so minute that

only a keen eye can discern them; and this text is the entire text of

two famed sutras--the Kwammu-ryjo-kyo and the Amida-kyo--'text no larger

than the limbs of fleas.' And all the strong dark lines of the figure,

such as the seams of the Buddha's robe, are formed by the characters of

the holy invocation of the Shin-shu sect, repeated thousands of times:

'Namu Amida Butsu!' Infinite patience, tireless silent labour of loving

faith, in some dim temple, long ago.

Another day one of my boys persuades his father to let him bring to my

house a wonderful statue of Koshi (Confucius), made, I am told, in

China, toward the close of the period of the Ming dynasty. I am also

assured it is the first time the statue has ever been removed from the

family residence to be shown to anyone. Previously, whoever desired to

pay it reverence had to visit the house. It is truly a beautiful bronze.

The figure of a smiling, bearded old man, with fingers uplifted and lips

apart as if discoursing. He wears quaint Chinese shoes, and his flowing

robes are adorned with the figure of the mystic phoenix. The microscopic

finish of detail seems indeed to reveal the wonderful cunning of a

Chinese hand: each tooth, each hair, looks as though it had been made

the subject of a special study.

Another student conducts me to the home of one of his relatives, that I

may see a cat made of wood, said to have been chiselled by the famed

Hidari Jingoro--a cat crouching and watching, and so life-like that real

cats 'have been known to put up their backs and spit at it.'

Sec. 16

Nevertheless I have a private conviction that some old artists even now

living in Matsue could make a still more wonderful cat. Among these is

the venerable Arakawa Junosuke, who wrought many rare things for the

Daimyo of Izumo in the Tempo era, and whose acquaintance I have been

enabled to make through my school-friends. One evening he brings to my

house something very odd to show me, concealed in his sleeve. It is a

doll: just a small carven and painted head without a body,--the body

being represented by a tiny robe only, attached to the neck. Yet as

Arakawa Junosuke manipulates it, it seems to become alive. The back of

its head is like the back of a very old man's head; but its face is the

face of an amused child, and there is scarcely any forehead nor any

evidence of a thinking disposition. And whatever way the head is turned,

it looks so funny that one cannot help laughing at it. It represents a

kirakubo--what we might call in English 'a jolly old boy,'--one who is

naturally too hearty and too innocent to feel trouble of any sort. It is

not an original, but a model of a very famous original--whose history is

recorded in a faded scroll which Arakawa takes out of his other sleeve,

and which a friend translates for me. This little history throws a

curious light upon the simple-hearted ways of Japanese life and thought

in other centuries:

'Two hundred and sixty years ago this doll was made by a famous maker of

No-masks in the city of Kyoto, for the Emperor Go-midzu-no-O. The

Emperor used to have it placed beside his pillow each night before he

slept, and was very fond of it. And he composed the following poem

concerning it:

Yo no naka wo

Kiraku ni kurase

Nani goto mo

Omoeba omou

Omowaneba koso. [8]'

'On the death of the Emperor this doll became the property of Prince

Konoye, in whose family it is said to be still preserved.

'About one hundred and seven years ago, the then Ex-Empress, whose

posthumous name is Sei-Kwa-Mon-Yin, borrowed the doll from Prince

Konoye, and ordered a copy of it to be made. This copy she kept always

beside her, and was very fond of it.

'After the death of the good Empress this doll was given to a lady of

the court, whose family name is not recorded. Afterwards this lady, for

reasons which are not known, cut off her hair and became a Buddhist nun

--taking the name of Shingyo-in.

'And one who knew the Nun Shingyo-in--a man whose name was Kondo-ju-

haku-in-Hokyo--had the honour of receiving the doll as a gift.

'Now I, who write this document, at one time fell sick; and my sickness

was caused by despondency. And my friend Kondo-ju-haku-in-Hokyo, coming

to see me, said: "I have in my house something which will make you

well." And he went home and, presently returning, brought to me this

doll, and lent it to me--putting it by my pillow that I might see it and

laugh at it.

'Afterward, I myself, having called upon the Nun Shingyo-in, whom I now

also have the honour to know, wrote down the history of the doll, and

make a poem thereupon.'

(Dated about ninety years ago: no signature.)

Sec. 17

June 1, 1891 I find among the students a healthy tone of scepticism in

regard to certain forms of popular belief. Scientific education is

rapidly destroying credulity in old superstitions yet current among the

unlettered, and especially among the peasantry--as, for instance, faith

in mamori and ofuda. The outward forms of Buddhism--its images, its

relics, its commoner practices--affect the average student very little.

He is not, as a foreigner may be, interested in iconography, or

religious folklore, or the comparative study of religions; and in nine

cases out of ten he is rather ashamed of the signs and tokens of popular

faith all around him. But the deeper religious sense, which underlies

all symbolism, remains with him; and the Monistic Idea in Buddhism is

being strengthened and expanded, rather than weakened, by the new

education. What is true of the effect of the public schools upon the

lower Buddhism is equally true of its effect upon the lower Shinto.

Shinto the students all sincerely are, or very nearly all; yet not as

fervent worshippers of certain Kami, but as rigid observers of what the

higher Shinto signifies--loyalty, filial piety, obedience to parents,

teachers, and superiors, and respect to ancestors. For Shinto means more

than faith.

When, for the first time, I stood before the shrine of the Great Deity

of Kitzuki, as the first Occidental to whom that privilege had been

accorded, not without a sense of awe there came to me the Sec. 'This is the

Shrine of the Father of a Race; this is the symbolic centre of a

nation's reverence for its past.' And I, too, paid reverence to the

memory of the progenitor of this people.

As I then felt, so feels the intelligent student of the Meiji era whom

education has lifted above the common plane of popular creeds. And

Shinto also means for him--whether he reasons upon the question or not--

all the ethics of the family, and all that spirit of loyalty which has

become so innate that, at the call of duty, life itself ceases to have

value save as an instrument for duty's accomplishment. As yet, this

Orient little needs to reason about the origin of its loftier ethics.

Imagine the musical sense in our own race so developed that a child

could play a complicated instrument so soon as the little fingers gained

sufficient force and flexibility to strike the notes. By some such

comparison only can one obtain a just idea of what inherent religion and

instinctive duty signify in Izumo.

Of the rude and aggressive form of scepticism so common in the Occident,

which is the natural reaction after sudden emancipation from

superstitious belief, I find no trace among my students. But such

sentiment may be found elsewhere--especially in Tokyo--among the

university students, one of whom, upon hearing the tones of a

magnificent temple bell, exclaimed to a friend of mine: 'Is it not a

shame that in this nineteenth century we must still hear such a sound?'

For the benefit of curious travellers, however, I may here take occasion

to observe that to talk Buddhism to Japanese gentlemen of the new school

is in just as bad taste as to talk Christianity at home to men of that

class whom knowledge has placed above creeds and forms. There are, of

course, Japanese scholars willing to aid researches of foreign scholars

in religion or in folk-lore; but these specialists do not undertake to

gratify idle curiosity of the 'globe-trotting' description. I may also

say that the foreigner desirous to learn the religious ideas or

superstitions of the common people must obtain them from the people

themselves--not from the educated classes.

Sec. 18

Among all my favourite students--two or three from each class--I cannot

decide whom I like the best. Each has a particular merit of his own. But

I think the names and faces of those of whom I am about to speak will

longest remain vivid in my remembrance--Ishihara, Otani-Masanobu,

Adzukizawa, Yokogi, Shida.

Ishihara is a samurai a very influential lad in his class because of his

uncommon force of character. Compared with others, he has a somewhat

brusque, independent manner, pleasing, however, by its honest manliness.

He says everything he thinks, and precisely in the tone that he thinks

it, even to the degree of being a little embarrassing sometimes. He does

not hesitate, for example, to find fault with a teacher's method of

explanation, and to insist upon a more lucid one. He has criticized me

more than once; but I never found that he was wrong. We like each other

very much. He often brings me flowers.

One day that he had brought two beautiful sprays of plum-blossoms, he

said to me:

'I saw you bow before our Emperor's picture at the ceremony on the

birthday of His Majesty. You are not like a former English teacher we

had.'

'How?'

'He said we were savages.'

'Why?'

'He said there is nothing respectable except God--his God--and that only

vulgar and ignorant people respect anything else.'

'Where did he come from?'

'He was a Christian clergyman, and said he was an English subject.'

'But if he was an English subject, he was bound to respect Her Majesty

the Queen. He could not even enter the office of a British consul

without removing his hat.'

'I don't know what he did in the country he came from. But that was what

he said. Now we think we should love and honour our Emperor. We think it

is a duty. We think it is a joy. We think it is happiness to be able to

give our lives for our Emperor. [9] But he said we were only savages--

ignorant savages. What do you think of that?'

'I think, my dear lad, that he himself was a savage--a vulgar, ignorant,

savage bigot. I think it is your highest social duty to honour your

Emperor, to obey his laws, and to be ready to give your blood whenever

he may require it of you for the sake of Japan. I think it is your duty

to respect the gods of your fathers, the religion of your country--even

if you yourself cannot believe all that others believe. And I think,

also, that it is your duty, for your Emperor's sake and for your

country's sake, to resent any such wicked and vulgar language as that

you have told me of, no matter by whom uttered.'

Masanobu visits me seldom and always comes alone. A slender, handsome

lad, with rather feminine features, reserved and perfectly self-

possessed in manner, refined. He is somewhat serious, does not often

smile; and I never heard him laugh. He has risen to the head of his

class, and appears to remain there without any extraordinary effort.

Much of his leisure time he devotes to botany--collecting and

classifying plants. He is a musician, like all the male members of his

family. He plays a variety of instruments never seen or heard of in the

West, including flutes of marble, flutes of ivory, flutes of bamboo of

wonderful shapes and tones, and that shrill Chinese instrument called

sho--a sort of mouth-organ consisting of seventeen tubes of different

lengths fixed in a silver frame. He first explained to me the uses in

temple music of the taiko and shoko, which are drums; of the flutes

called fei or teki; of the flageolet termed hichiriki; and of the kakko,

which is a little drum shaped like a spool with very narrow waist, On

great Buddhist festivals, Masanobu and his father and his brothers are

the musicians in the temple services, and they play the strange music

called Ojo and Batto--music which at first no Western ear can feel

pleasure in, but which, when often heard, becomes comprehensible, and is

found to possess a weird charm of its own. When Masanobu comes to the

house, it is usually in order to invite me to attend some Buddhist or

Shinto festival (matsuri) which he knows will interest me.

Adzukizawa bears so little resemblance to Masanobu that one might

suppose the two belonged to totally different races. Adzukizawa is

large, raw-boned, heavy-looking, with a face singularly like that of a

North American Indian. His people are not rich; he can afford few

pleasures which cost money, except one--buying books. Even to be able to

do this he works in his leisure hours to earn money. He is a perfect

bookworm, a natural-born researcher, a collector of curious documents, a

haunter of all the queer second-hand stores in Teramachi and other

streets where old manuscripts or prints are on sale as waste paper. He

is an omnivorous reader, and a perpetual borrower of volumes, which he

always returns in perfect condition after having copied what he deemed

of most value to him. But his special delight is philosophy and the

history of philosophers in all countries. He has read various epitomes

of the history of philosophy in the Occident, and everything of modern

philosophy which has been translated into Japanese--including Spencer's

First Principles. I have been able to introduce him to Lewes and John

Fiske--both of which he appreciates,--although the strain of studying

philosophy in English is no small one. Happily he is so strong that no

amount of study is likely to injure his health, and his nerves are tough

as wire. He is quite an ascetic withal. As it is the Japanese custom to

set cakes and tea before visitors, I always have both in readiness, and

an especially fine quality of kwashi, made at Kitzuki, of which the

students are very fond. Adzukizawa alone refuses to taste cakes or

confectionery of any kind, saying: 'As I am the youngest brother, I must

begin to earn my own living soon. I shall have to endure much hardship.

And if I allow myself to like dainties now, I shall only suffer more

later on.' Adzukizawa has seen much of human life and character. He is

naturally observant; and he has managed in some extraordinary way to

learn the history of everybody in Matsue. He has brought me old tattered

prints to prove that the opinions now held by our director are

diametrically opposed to the opinions he advocated fourteen years ago in

a public address. I asked the director about it. He laughed and said,

'Of course that is Adzukizawa! But he is right: I was very young then.'

And I wonder if Adzukizawa was ever young.

Yokogi, Adzukizawa's dearest friend, is a very rare visitor; for he is

always studying at home. He is always first in his class--the third year

class--while Adzukizawa is fourth. Adzukizawa's account of the beginning

of their acquaintance is this: 'I watched him when he came and saw that

he spoke very little, walked very quickly, and looked straight into

everybody's eyes. So I knew he had a particular character. I like to

know people with a particular character.' Adzukizawa was perfectly

right: under a very gentle exterior, Yokogi has an extremely strong

character. He is the son of a carpenter; and his parents could not

afford to send him to the Middle School. But he had shown such

exceptional qualities while in the Elementary School that a wealthy man

became interested in him, and offered to pay for his education. [10] He

is now the pride of the school. He has a remarkably placid face, with

peculiarly long eyes, and a delicious smile. In class he is always

asking intelligent questions--questions so original that I am sometimes

extremely puzzled how to answer them; and he never ceases to ask until

the explanation is quite satisfactory to himself. He never cares about

the opinion of his comrades if he thinks he is right. On one occasion

when the whole class refused to attend the lectures of a new teacher of

physics, Yokogi alone refused to act with them--arguing that although

the teacher was not all that could be desired, there was no immediate

possibility of his removal, and no just reason for making unhappy a man

who, though unskilled, was sincerely doing his best. Adzukizawa finally

stood by him. These two alone attended the lectures until the remainder

of the students, two weeks later, found that Yokogi's views were

rational. On another occasion when some vulgar proselytism was attempted

by a Christian missionary, Yokogi went boldly to the proselytiser's

house, argued with him on the morality of his effort, and reduced him to

silence. Some of his comrades praised his cleverness in the argument. 'I

am not clever,' he made answer: 'it does not require cleverness to argue

against what is morally wrong; it requires only the knowledge that one

is morally right.' At least such is about the translation of what he

said as told me by Adzukizawa.

Shida, another visitor, is a very delicate, sensitive boy, whose soul is

full of art. He is very skilful at drawing and painting; and he has a

wonderful set of picture-books by the Old Japanese masters. The last

time he came he brought some prints to show me--rare ones--fairy maidens

and ghosts. As I looked at his beautiful pale face and weirdly frail

fingers, I could not help fearing for him,--fearing that he might soon

become a little ghost.

I have not seen him now for more than two months. He has been very, very

ill; and his lungs are so weak that the doctor has forbidden him to

converse. But Adzukizawa has been to visit him, and brings me this

translation of a Japanese letter which the sick boy wrote and pasted

upon the wall above his bed:

'Thou, my Lord-Soul, dost govern me. Thou knowest that I cannot now

govern myself. Deign, I pray thee, to let me be cured speedily. Do not

suffer me to speak much. Make me to obey in all things the command of

the physician.

'This ninth day of the eleventh month of the twenty-fourth year of

Meiji.

'From the sick body of Shida to his Soul.'

Sec. 19

September 4, 1891. The long summer vacation is over; a new school year

begins. There have been many changes. Some of the boys I taught are

dead. Others have graduated and gone away from Matsue for ever. Some

teachers, too, have left the school, and their places have been filled;

and there is a new Director.

And the dear good Governor has gone--been transferred to cold Niigata in

the north-west. It was a promotion. But he had ruled Izumo for seven

years, and everybody loved him, especially, perhaps, the students, who

looked upon him as a father. All the population of the city crowded to

the river to bid him farewell. The streets through which he passed on

his way to take the steamer, the bridge, the wharves, even the roofs

were thronged with multitudes eager to see his face for the last time.

Thousands were weeping. And as the steamer glided from the wharf such a

cry arose--'A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!' It was intended for a cheer, but it

seemed to me the cry of a whole city sorrowing, and so plaintive that I

hope never to hear such a cry again.

The names and faces of the younger classes are all strange to me.

Doubtless this was why the sensation of my first day's teaching in the

school came back to me with extraordinary vividness when I entered the

class-room of First Division A this morning.

Strangely pleasant is the first sensation of a Japanese class, as you

look over the ranges of young faces before you. There is nothing in them

familiar to inexperienced Western eyes; yet there is an indescribable

pleasant something common to all. Those traits have nothing incisive,

nothing forcible: compared with Occidental faces they seem but 'half-

sketched,' so soft their outlines are--indicating neither aggressiveness

nor shyness, neither eccentricity nor sympathy, neither curiosity nor

indifference. Some, although faces of youths well grown, have a childish

freshness and frankness indescribable; some are as uninteresting as

others are attractive; a few are beautifully feminine. But all are

equally characterized by a singular placidity--expressing neither love

nor hate nor anything save perfect repose and gentleness--like the

dreamy placidity of Buddhist images. At a later day you will no longer

recognise this aspect of passionless composure: with growing

acquaintance each face will become more and more individualised for you

by characteristics before imperceptible. But the recollection of that

first impression will remain with you and the time will come when you

will find, by many varied experiences, how strangely it foreshadowed

something in Japanese character to be fully learned only after years of

familiarity. You will recognize in the memory of that first impression

one glimpse of the race-soul, with its impersonal lovableness and its

impersonal weaknesses--one glimpse of the nature of a life in which the

Occidental, dwelling alone, feels a psychic comfort comparable only to

the nervous relief of suddenly emerging from some stifling atmospheric

pressure into thin, clear, free living air.

Sec. 20

Was it not the eccentric Fourier who wrote about the horrible faces of

'the _civilizés_'? Whoever it was, would have found seeming confirmation

of his physiognomical theory could he have known the effect produced by

the first sight of European faces in the most eastern East. What we are

taught at home to consider handsome, interesting, or characteristic in

physiognomy does not produce the same impression in China or Japan.

Shades of facial expression familiar to us as letters of our own

alphabet are not perceived at all in Western features by these Orientals

at first acquaintance. What they discern at once is the race-

characteristic, not the individuality. The evolutional meaning of the

deep-set Western eye, protruding brow, accipitrine nose, ponderous jaw--

symbols of aggressive force and habit--was revealed to the gentler race

by the same sort of intuition through which a tame animal immediately

comprehends the dangerous nature of the first predatory enemy which it

sees. To Europeans the smooth-featured, slender, low-statured Japanese

seemed like boys; and 'boy' is the term by which the native attendant of

a Yokohama merchant is still called. To Japanese the first red-haired,

rowdy, drunken European sailors seemed fiends, shojo, demons of the sea;

and by the Chinese the Occidentals are still called 'foreign devils.'

The great stature and massive strength and fierce gait of foreigners in

Japan enhanced the strange impression created by their faces. Children

cried for fear on seeing them pass through the streets. And in remoter

districts, Japanese children are still apt to cry at the first sight of

a European or American face.

A lady of Matsue related in my presence this curious souvenir of her

childhood: 'When I was a very little girl,' she said, our daimyo hired a

foreigner to teach the military art. My father and a great many samurai

went to receive the foreigner; and all the people lined the streets to

see--for no foreigner had ever come to Izumo before; and we all went to

look. The foreigner came by ship: there were no steamboats here then. He

was very tall, and walked quickly with long steps; and the children

began to cry at the sight of him, because his face was not like the

faces of the people of Nihon. My little brother cried out loud, and hid

his face in mother's robe; and mother reproved him and said: "This

foreigner is a very good man who has come here to serve our prince; and

it is very disrespectful to cry at seeing him." But he still cried. I

was not afraid; and I looked up at the foreigner's face as he came and

smiled. He had a great beard; and I thought his face was good though it

seemed to me a very strange face and stern. Then he stopped and smiled

too, and put something in my hand, and touched my head and face very

softly with his great fingers, and said something I could not

understand, and went away. After he had gone I looked at what he put

into my hand and found that it was a pretty little glass to look

through. If you put a fly under that glass it looks quite big. At that

time I thought the glass was a very wonderful thing. I have it still.'

She took from a drawer in the room and placed before me a tiny, dainty

pocket-microscope.

The hero of this little incident was a French military officer. His

services were necessarily dispensed with on the abolition of the feudal

system. Memories of him still linger in Matsue; and old people remember

a popular snatch about him--a sort of rapidly-vociferated rigmarole,

supposed to be an imitation of his foreign speech:

Tojin no negoto niwa kinkarakuri medagasho,

Saiboji ga shimpeishite harishite keisan,

Hanryo na Sacr-r-r-r-r-é-na-nom-da-Jiu.

Sec. 21

November 2, 1891.

Shida will never come to school again. He sleeps under the shadow of the

cedars, in the old cemetery of Tokoji. Yokogi, at the memorial service,

read a beautiful address (saibun) to the soul of his dead comrade.

But Yokogi himself is down. And I am very much afraid for him. He is

suffering from some affection of the brain, brought on, the doctor says,

by studying a great deal too hard. Even if he gets well, he will always

have to be careful. Some of us hope much; for the boy is vigorously

built and so young. Strong Sakane burst a blood-vessel last month and is

now well. So we trust that Yokogi may rally. Adzukizawa daily brings

news of his friend.

But the rally never comes. Some mysterious spring in the mechanism of

the young life has been broken. The mind lives only in brief intervals

between long hours of unconsciousness. Parents watch, and friends, for

these living moments to whisper caressing things, or to ask: 'Is there

anything thou dost wish?' And one night the answer comes:

'Yes: I want to go to the school; I want to see the school.'

Then they wonder if the fine brain has not wholly given way, while they

make answer:

'It is midnight past, and there is no moon. And the night is cold.'

'No; I can see by the stars--I want to see the school again.'

They make kindliest protests in vain: the dying boy only repeats, with

the plaintive persistence of a last--'I want to see the school again; I

want to see it now.' So there is a murmured consultation in the

neighbouring room; and tansu-drawers are unlocked, warm garments

prepared. Then Fusaichi, the strong servant, enters with lantern

lighted, and cries out in his kind rough voice:

'Master Tomi will go to the school upon my back: 'tis but a little way;

he shall see the school again.

Carefully they wrap up the lad in wadded robes; then he puts his arms

about Fusaichi's shoulders like a child; and the strong servant bears

him lightly through the wintry street; and the father hurries beside

Fusaichi, bearing the lantern. And it is not far to the school, over the

little bridge.

The huge dark grey building looks almost black in the night; but Yokogi

can see. He looks at the windows of his own classroom; at the roofed

side-door where each morning for four happy years he used to exchange

his getas for soundless sandals of straw; at the lodge of the slumbering

Kodzukai; [11] at the silhouette of the bell hanging black in its little

turret against the stars. Then he murmurs:

'I can remember all now. I had forgotten--so sick I was. I remember

everything again: Oh, Fusaichi, you are very good. I am so glad to have

seen the school again.'

And they hasten back through the long void streets.

Sec. 22

November 26 1891.

Yokogi will be buried to-morrow evening beside his comrade Shida.

When a poor person is about to die, friends and neighbours come to the

house and do all they can to help the family. Some bear the tidings to

distant relatives; others prepare all necessary things; others, when the

death has been announced, summon the Buddhist priests. [12]

It is said that the priests know always of a parishioner's death at

night, before any messenger is sent to them; for the soul of the dead

knocks heavily, once, upon the door of the family temple. Then the

priests arise and robe themselves, and when the messenger comes make

answer: 'We know: we are ready.'

Meanwhile the body is carried out before the family butsudan, and laid

upon the floor. No pillow is placed under the head. A naked sword is

laid across the limbs to keep evil spirits away. The doors of the

butsudan are opened; and tapers are lighted before the tablets of the

ancestors; and incense is burned. All friends send gifts of incense.

Wherefore a gift of incense, however rare and precious, given upon any

other occasion, is held to be unlucky.

But the Shinto household shrine must be hidden from view with white

paper; and the Shinto ofuda fastened upon the house door must be covered

up during all the period of mourning. [13] And in all that time no

member of the family may approach a Shinto temple, or pray to the Kami,

or even pass beneath a torii.

A screen (biobu) is extended between the body and the principal entrance

of the death chamber; and the kaimyo, inscribed upon a strip of white

paper, is fastened upon the screen. If the dead be young the screen must

be turned upside-down; but this is not done in the case of old people.

Friends pray beside the corpse. There a little box is placed, containing

one thousand peas, to be used for counting during the recital of those

one thousand pious invocations, which, it is believed, will improve the

condition of the soul on its unfamiliar journey.

The priests come and recite the sutras; and then the body is prepared

for burial. It is washed in warm water, and robed all in white. But the

kimono of the dead is lapped over to the left side. Wherefore it is

considered unlucky at any other time to fasten one's kimono thus, even

by accident.

When the body has been put into that strange square coffin which looks

something like a wooden palanquin, each relative puts also into the

coffin some of his or her hair or nail parings, symbolizing their blood.

And six rin are also placed in the coffin, for the six Jizo who stand at

the heads of the ways of the Six Shadowy Worlds.

The funeral procession forms at the family residence. A priest leads it,

ringing a little bell; a boy bears the ihai of the newly dead. The van

of the procession is wholly composed of men--relatives and friends. Some

carry hata, white symbolic bannerets; some bear flowers; all carry paper

lanterns--for in Izumo the adult dead are buried after dark: only

children are buried by day. Next comes the kwan or coffin, borne

palanquin-wise upon the shoulders of men of that pariah caste whose

office it is to dig graves and assist at funerals. Lastly come the women

mourners.

They are all white-hooded and white-robed from head to feet, like

phantoms. [14] Nothing more ghostly than this sheeted train of an

Izumo funeral procession, illuminated only by the glow of paper

lanterns, can be imagined. It is a weirdness that, once seen, will often

return in dreams.

At the temple the kwan is laid upon the pavement before the entrance;

and another service is performed, with plaintive music and recitation of

sutras. Then the procession forms again, winds once round the temple

court, and takes its way to the cemetery. But the body is not buried

until twenty-four hours later, lest the supposed dead should awake in

the grave.

Corpses are seldom burned in Izumo. In this, as in other matters, the

predominance of Shinto sentiment is manifest.

Sec. 23

For the last time I see his face again, as he lies upon his bed of

death--white-robed from neck to feet--white-girdled for his shadowy

journey--but smiling with closed eyes in almost the same queer gentle

way he was wont to smile at class on learning the explanation of some

seeming riddle in our difficult English tongue. Only, methinks, the

smile is sweeter now, as with sudden larger knowledge of more mysterious

things. So smiles, through dusk of incense in the great temple of

Tokoji, the golden face of Buddha.

Sec. 24

December 23, 1891. The great bell of Tokoji is booming for the memorial

service--for the tsuito-kwai of Yokogi--slowly and regularly as a

minute-gun. Peal on peal of its rich bronze thunder shakes over the

lake, surges over the roofs of the town, and breaks in deep sobs of

sound against the green circle of the hills.

It is a touching service, this tsuito-kwai, with quaint ceremonies

which, although long since adopted into Japanese Buddhism, are of

Chinese origin and are beautiful. It is also a costly ceremony; and the

parents of Yokogi are very poor. But all the expenses have been paid by

voluntary subscription of students and teachers. Priests from every

great temple of the Zen sect in Izumo have assembled at Tokoji. All the

teachers of the city and all the students have entered the hondo of the

huge temple, and taken their places to the right and to the left of the

high altar--kneeling on the matted floor, and leaving, on the long broad

steps without, a thousand shoes and sandals.

Before the main entrance, and facing the high shrine, a new butsudan has

been placed, within whose open doors the ihai of the dead boy glimmers

in lacquer and gilding. And upon a small stand before the butsudan have

been placed an incense-vessel with bundles of senko-rods and offerings

of fruits, confections, rice, and flowers. Tall and beautiful flower-

vases on each side of the butsudan are filled with blossoming sprays,

exquisitely arranged. Before the honzon tapers burn in massive

candelabra whose stems of polished brass are writhing monsters--the

Dragon Ascending and the Dragon Descending; and incense curls up from

vessels shaped like the sacred deer, like the symbolic tortoise, like

the meditative stork of Buddhist legend. And beyond these, in the

twilight of the vast alcove, the Buddha smiles the smile of Perfect

Rest.

Between the butsudan and the honzon a little table has been placed; and

on either side of it the priests kneel in ranks, facing each other: rows

of polished heads, and splendours of vermilion silks and vestments gold-

embroidered.

The great bell ceases to peal; the Segaki prayer, which is the prayer

uttered when offerings of food are made to the spirits of the dead, is

recited; and a sudden sonorous measured tapping, accompanied by a

plaintive chant, begins the musical service. The tapping is the tapping

of the mokugyo--a huge wooden fish-head, lacquered and gilded, like the

head of a dolphin grotesquely idealised--marking the time; and the chant

is the chant of the Chapter of Kwannon in the Hokkekyo, with its

magnificent invocation:

'O Thou whose eyes are clear, whose eyes are kind, whose eyes are full

of pity and of sweetness--O Thou Lovely One, with thy beautiful face,

with thy beautiful eye--O Thou Pure One, whose luminosity is without

spot, whose knowledge is without shado--O Thou forever shining like that

Sun whose glory no power may repel--Thou Sun-like in the course of Thy

mercy, pourest Light upon the world!'

And while the voices of the leaders chant clear and high in vibrant

unison, the multitude of the priestly choir recite in profoundest

undertone the mighty verses; and the sound of their recitation is like

the muttering of surf.

The mokugyo ceases its dull echoing, the impressive chant ends, and the

leading officiants, one by one, high priests of famed temples, approach

the ihai. Each bows low, ignites an incense-rod, and sets it upright in

the little vase of bronze. Each at a time recites a holy verse of which

the initial sound is the sound of a letter in the kaimyo of the dead

boy; and these verses, uttered in the order of the characters upon the

ihai, form the sacred Acrostic whose name is The Words of Perfume.

Then the priests retire to their places; and after a little silence

begins the reading of the saibun--the reading of the addresses to the

soul of the dead. The students speak first--one from each class, chosen

by election. The elected rises, approaches the little table before the

high altar, bows to the honzon, draws from his bosom a paper and reads

it in those melodious, chanting, and plaintive tones which belong to the

reading of Chinese texts. So each one tells the affection of the living

to the dead, in words of loving grief and loving hope. And last among

the students a gentle girl rises--a pupil of the Normal School--to speak

in tones soft as a bird's. As each saibun is finished, the reader lays

the written paper upon the table before the honzon, and bows; and

retires.

It is now the turn of the teachers; and an old man takes his place at

the little table--old Katayama, the teacher of Chinese, famed as a poet,

adored as an instructor. And because the students all love him as a

father, there is a strange intensity of silence as he begins--

Ko-Shimane-Ken-Jinjo-Chugakko-yo-nen-sei:

'Here upon the twenty-third day of the twelfth month of the twenty-

fourth year of Meiji, I, Katayama Shokei, teacher of the Jinjo Chugakko

of Shimane Ken, attending in great sorrow the holy service of the dead

[tsui-fuku], do speak unto the soul of Yokogi Tomisaburo, my pupil.

'Having been, as thou knowest, for twice five years, at different

periods, a teacher of the school, I have indeed met with not a few most

excellent students. But very, very rarely in any school may the teacher

find one such as thou--so patient and so earnest, so diligent and so

careful in all things--so distinguished among thy comrades by thy

blameless conduct, observing every precept, never breaking a rule.

'Of old in the land of Kihoku, famed for its horses, whenever a horse of

rarest breed could not be obtained, men were wont to say: "There is no

horse." Still there are many line lads among our students--many ryume,

fine young steeds; but we have lost the best.

'To die at the age of seventeen--the best period of life for study--even

when of the Ten Steps thou hadst already ascended six! Sad is the

thought; but sadder still to know that thy last illness was caused only

by thine own tireless zeal of study. Even yet more sad our conviction

that with those rare gifts, and with that rare character of thine, thou

wouldst surely, in that career to which thou wast destined, have

achieved good and great things, honouring the names of thine ancestors,

couldst thou have lived to manhood.

'I see thee lifting thy hand to ask some question; then bending above

thy little desk to make note of all thy poor old teacher was able to

tell thee. Again I see thee in the ranks--thy rifle upon thy shoulder--

so bravely erect during the military exercises. Even now thy face is

before me, with its smile, as plainly as if thou wert present in the

body--thy voice I think I hear distinctly as though thou hadst but this

instant finished speaking; yet I know that, except in memory, these

never will be seen and heard again. O Heaven, why didst thou take away

that dawning life from the world, and leave such a one as I--old Shokei,

feeble, decrepit, and of no more use?

'To thee my relation was indeed only that of teacher to pupil. Yet what

is my distress! I have a son of twenty-four years; he is now far from

me, in Yokohama. I know he is only a worthless youth; [15] yet never

for so much as the space of one hour does the thought of him leave his

old father's heart. Then how must the father and mother, the brothers

and the sisters of this gentle and gifted youth feel now that he is

gone! Only to think of it forces the tears from my eyes: I cannot speak

--so full my heart is.

'Aa! aa!--thou hast gone from us; thou hast gone from us! Yet though

thou hast died, thy earnestness, thy goodness, will long be honoured and

told of as examples to the students of our school.

'Here, therefore, do we, thy teachers and thy schoolmates, hold this

service in behalf of thy spirit,--with prayer and offerings. Deign thou,

0 gentle Soul, to honour our love by the acceptance of our humble

gifts.'

Then a sound of sobbing is suddenly whelmed by the resonant booming of

the great fish's-head, as the high-pitched voices of the leaders of the

chant begin the grand Nehan-gyo, the Sutra of Nirvana, the song of

passage triumphant over the Sea of Death and Birth; and deep below those

high tones and the hollow echoing of the mokugyo, the surging bass of a

century of voices reciting the sonorous words, sounds like the breaking

of a sea:

'Sho-gyo mu-jo, je-sho meppo.--Transient are all. They, being born, must

die. And being born, are dead. And being dead, are glad to be at rest.'

CHAPTER FIVE Two Strange Festivals

THE outward signs of any Japanese matsuri are the most puzzling of

enigmas to the stranger who sees them for the first time. They are many

and varied; they are quite unlike anything in the way of holiday

decoration ever seen in the Occident; they have each a meaning founded

upon some belief or some tradition--a meaning known to every Japanese

child; but that meaning is utterly impossible for any foreigner to

guess. Yet whoever wishes to know something of Japanese popular life and

feeling must learn the signification of at least the most common among

festival symbols and tokens. Especially is such knowledge necessary to

the student of Japanese art: without it, not only the delicate humour

and charm of countless designs must escape him, but in many instances

the designs themselves must remain incomprehensible to him. For

hundreds of years the emblems of festivity have been utilised by the

Japanese in graceful decorative ways: they figure in metalwork, on

porcelain, on the red or black lacquer of the humblest household

utensils, on little brass pipes, on the clasps of tobacco-pouches. It

may even be said that the majority of common decorative design is

emblematical. The very figures of which the meaning seems most

obvious--those matchless studies [1] of animal or vegetable life with

which the Western curio-buyer is most familiar--have usually some

ethical signification which is not perceived at all. Or take the

commonest design dashed with a brush upon the fusuma of a cheap hotel--a

lobster, sprigs of pine, tortoises waddling in a curl of water, a pair

of storks, a spray of bamboo. It is rarely that a foreign tourist

thinks of asking why such designs are used instead of others, even

when he has seen them repeated, with slight variation, at twenty

different places along his route. They have become conventional simply

because they are emblems of which the sense is known to all Japanese,

however ignorant, but is never even remotely suspected by the stranger.

The subject is one about which a whole encyclopaedia might be written,

but about which I know very little--much too little for a special essay.

But I may venture, by way of illustration, to speak of the curious

objects exhibited during two antique festivals still observed in all

parts of Japan.

Sec. 2

The first is the Festival of the New Year, which lasts for three days.

In Matsue its celebration is particularly interesting, as the old city

still preserves many matsuri customs which have either become, or are

rapidly becoming, obsolete elsewhere. The streets are then profusely

decorated, and all shops are closed. Shimenawa or shimekazari--the straw

ropes which have been sacred symbols of Shinto from the mythical age--

are festooned along the façades of the dwellings, and so inter-joined

that you see to right or left what seems but a single mile-long

shimenawa, with its straw pendents and white fluttering paper gohei,

extending along either side of the street as far as the eye can reach.

Japanese flags--bearing on a white ground the great crimson disk which

is the emblem of the Land of the Rising Sun--flutter above the gateways;

and the same national emblem glows upon countless paper lanterns strung

in rows along the eaves or across the streets and temple avenues. And

before every gate or doorway a kadomatsu ('gate pine-tree') has been

erected. So that all the ways are lined with green, and full of bright

colour.

The kadomatsu is more than its name implies. It is a young pine, or part

of a pine, conjoined with plum branches and bamboo cuttings. [2] Pine,

plum, and bamboo are growths of emblematic significance. Anciently the

pine alone was used; but from the era of O-ei, the bamboo was added; and

within more recent times the plum-tree.

The pine has many meanings. But the fortunate one most generally

accepted is that of endurance and successful energy in time of

misfortune. As the pine keeps its green leaves when other trees lose

their foliage, so the true man keeps his courage and his strength in

adversity. The pine is also, as I have said elsewhere, a symbol of

vigorous old age.

No European could possibly guess the riddle of the bamboo. It represents

a sort of pun in symbolism. There are two Chinese characters both

pronounced setsu--one signifying the node or joint of the bamboo, and

the other virtue, fidelity, constancy. Therefore is the bamboo used as a

felicitous sign. The name 'Setsu,' be it observed, is often given to

Japanese maidens--just as the names 'Faith,' 'Fidelia,' and 'Constance'

are given to English girls.

The plum-tree--of whose emblematic meaning I said something in a former

paper about Japanese gardens--is not invariably used, however; sometimes

sakaki, the sacred plant of Shinto, is substituted for it; and sometimes

only pine and bamboo form the kadomatsu.

Every decoration used upon the New Year's festival has a meaning of a

curious and unfamiliar kind; and the very cornmonest of all--the straw

rope--possesses the most complicated symbolism. In the first place it is

scarcely necessary to explain that its origin belongs to that most

ancient legend of the Sun-Goddess being tempted to issue from the cavern

into which she had retired, and being prevented from returning thereunto

by a deity who stretched a rope of straw across the entrance--all of

which is written in the Kojiki. Next observe that, although the

shimenawa may be of any thickness, it must be twisted so that the

direction of the twist is to the left; for in ancient Japanese

philosophy the left is the 'pure' or fortunate side: owing perhaps to

the old belief, common among the uneducated of Europe to this day, that

the heart lies to the left. Thirdly, note that the pendent straws, which

hang down from the rope at regular intervals, in tufts, like fringing,

must be of different numbers according to the place of the tufts,

beginning with the number three: so that the first tuft has three

straws, the second live, the third seven, the fourth again three, the

fifth five, and the sixth seven--and so on, the whole length of the

rope. The origin of the pendent paper cuttings (gohei), which alternate

with the straw tufts, is likewise to be sought in the legend of the

Sun-Goddess; but the gohei also represent offerings of cloth anciently

made to the gods according to a custom long obsolete.

But besides the gohei, there are many other things attached to the

shimenawa of which you could not imagine the signification. Among these

are fern-leaves, bitter oranges, yuzuri-leaves, and little bundles of

charcoal.

Why fern-leaves (moromoki or urajiro)? Because the fern-leaf is the

symbol of the hope of exuberant posterity: even as it branches and

branches so may the happy family increase and multiply through the

generations.

Why bitter oranges (daidai)? Because there is a Chinese word daidai

signifying 'from generation unto generation.' Wherefore the fruit called

daidai has become a fruit of good omen.

But why charcoal (sumi)? It signifies 'prosperous changelessness.' Here

the idea is decidedly curious. Even as the colour of charcoal cannot be

changed, so may the fortunes of those we love remain for ever unchanged

In all that gives happiness! The signification of the yuzuri-leaf I

explained in a former paper.

Besides the great shimenawa in front of the house, shimenawa or

shimekazari [3] are suspended above the toko, or alcoves, in each

apartment; and over the back gate, or over the entrance to the gallery

of the second story (if there be a second story), is hung a 'wajime,

which is a very small shimekazari twisted into a sort of wreath, and

decorated with fern-leaves, gohei, and yuzuri-leaves.

But the great domestic display of the festival is the decoration of the

kamidana--the shelf of the Gods. Before the household miya are placed

great double rice cakes; and the shrine is beautiful with flowers, a

tiny shimekazari, and sprays of sakaki. There also are placed a string

of cash; kabu (turnips); daikon (radishes); a tai-fish, which is the

'king of fishes,' dried slices of salt cuttlefish; jinbaso, of 'the

Seaweed of the horse of the God'; [4] also the seaweed kombu, which is a

symbol of pleasure and of joy, because its name is deemed to be a

homonym for gladness; and mochibana, artificial blossoms formed of rice

flour and straw.

The sambo is a curiously shaped little table on which offer-ings are

made to the Shinto gods; and almost every well-to-do household in hzumo

has its own sambo--such a family sambo being smaller, however, than

sambo used in the temples. At the advent of the New Year's Festival,

bitter oranges, rice, and rice-flour cakes, native sardines (iwashi),

chikara-iwai ('strength-rice-bread'), black peas, dried chestnuts, and a

fine lobster, are all tastefully arranged upon the family sambo. Before

each visitor the sambo is set; and the visitor, by saluting it with a

prostration, expresses not only his heartfelt wish that all the good-

fortune symbolised by the objects upon the sambo may come to the family,

but also his reverence for the household gods. The black peas (mame)

signify bodily strength and health, because a word similarly pronounced,

though written with a different ideograph, means 'robust.' But why a

lobster? Here we have another curious conception. The lobster's body is

bent double: the body of the man who lives to a very great old age is

also bent. Thus the Lobster stands for a symbol of extreme old age; and

in artistic design signifies the wish that our friends may live so long

that they will become bent like lobsters--under the weight of years. And

the dried chestnut (kachiguri) are emblems of success, because the first

character of their name in Japanese is the homonym of kachi, which means

'victory,' 'conquest.'

There are at least a hundred other singular customs and emblems

belonging to the New Year's Festival which would require a large volume

to describe. I have mentioned only a few which immediately appear to

even casual observation.

Sec. 3

The other festival I wish, to refer to is that of the Setsubun, which,

according to the ancient Japanese calendar, corresponded with the

beginning of the natural year--the period when winter first softens into

spring. It is what we might term, according to Professor Chamberlain, 'a

sort of movable feast'; and it is chiefly famous for the curious

ceremony of the casting out of devils--Oni-yarai. On the eve of the

Setsubun, a little after dark, the Yaku-otoshi, or caster-out of devils,

wanders through the streets from house to house, rattling his shakujo,

[5] and uttering his strange professional cry: 'Oni wa soto!--fuku wa

uchi!' [Devils out! Good-fortune in!] For a trifling fee he performs his

little exorcism in any house to which he is called. This simply consists

in the recitation of certain parts of a Buddhist kyo, or sutra, and the

rattling of the shakujo Afterwards dried peas (shiro-mame) are thrown

about the house in four directions. For some mysterious reason, devils

do not like dried peas--and flee therefrom. The peas thus scattered are

afterward swept up and carefully preserved until the first clap of

spring thunder is heard, when it is the custom to cook and eat some of

them. But just why, I cannot find out; neither can I discover the origin

of the dislike of devils for dried peas. On the subject of this dislike,

however, I confess my sympathy with devils.

After the devils have been properly cast out, a small charm is placed

above all the entrances of the dwelling to keep them from coming back

again. This consists of a little stick about the length and thickness of

a skewer, a single holly-leaf, and the head of a dried iwashi--a fish

resembling a sardine. The stick is stuck through the middle of the

holly-leaf; and the fish's head is fastened into a split made in one end

of the stick; the other end being slipped into some joint of the timber-

work immediately above a door. But why the devils are afraid of the

holly-leaf and the fish's head, nobody seems to know. Among the people

the origin of all these curious customs appears to be quite forgotten;

and the families of the upper classes who still maintain such customs

believe in the superstitions relating to the festival just as little as

Englishmen to-day believe in the magical virtues of mistletoe or ivy.

This ancient and merry annual custom of casting out devils has been for

generations a source of inspiration to Japanese artists. It is only

after a fair acquaintance with popular customs and ideas that the

foreigner can learn to appreciate the delicious humour of many art-

creations which he may wish, indeed, to buy just because they are so

oddly attractive in themselves, but which must really remain enigmas to

him, so far as their inner meaning is concerned, unless he knows

Japanese life. The other day a friend gave me a little card-case of

perfumed leather. On one side was stamped in relief the face of a devil,

through the orifice of whose yawning mouth could be seen--painted upon

the silk lining of the interior--the laughing, chubby face of Otafuku,

joyful Goddess of Good Luck. In itself the thing was very curious and

pretty; but the real merit of its design was this comical symbolism of

good wishes for the New Year: 'Oni wa soto!--fuku wa uchi!'

Sec. 4

Since I have spoken of the custom of eating some of the Setsubun peas at

the time of the first spring thunder, I may here take the opportunity to

say a few words about superstitions in regard to thunder which have not

yet ceased to prevail among the peasantry.

When a thunder-storm comes, the big brown mosquito curtains are

suspended, and the women and children--perhaps the whole family--squat

down under the curtains till the storm is over. From ancient days it has

been believed that lightning cannot kill anybody under a mosquito

curtain. The Raiju, or Thunder-Animal, cannot pass through a mosquito-

curtain. Only the other day, an old peasant who came to the house with

vegetables to sell told us that he and his whole family, while crouching

under their mosquito-netting during a thunderstorm, actually, saw the

Lightning rushing up and down the pillar of the balcony opposite their

apartment--furiously clawing the woodwork, but unable to enter because

of the mosquito-netting. His house had been badly damaged by a flash;

but he supposed the mischief to have been accomplished by the Claws of

the Thunder-Animal.

The Thunder-Animal springs from tree to tree during a storm, they say;

wherefore to stand under trees in time of thunder and lightning is very

dangerous: the Thunder-Animal might step on one's head or shoulders. The

Thunder-Animal is also alleged to be fond of eating the human navel; for

which reason people should be careful to keep their navels well covered

during storms, and to lie down upon their stomachs if possible. Incense

is always burned during storms, because the Thunder-Animal hates the

smell of incense. A tree stricken by lightning is thought to have been

torn and scarred by the claws of the Thunder-Animal; and fragments of

its bark and wood are carefully collected and preserved by dwellers in

the vicinity; for the wood of a blasted tree is alleged to have the

singular virtue of curing toothache.

There are many stories of the Raiju having been caught and caged. Once,

it is said, the Thunder-Animal fell into a well, and got entangled in

the ropes and buckets, and so was captured alive. And old Izumo folk say

they remember that the Thunder-Animal was once exhibited in the court of

the Temple of Tenjin in Matsue, inclosed in a cage of brass; and that

people paid one sen each to look at it. It resembled a badger. When the

weather was clear it would sleep contentedly in its, cage. But when

there was thunder in the air, it would become excited, and seem to

obtain great strength, and its eyes would flash dazzlingly.

Sec. 5

There is one very evil spirit, however, who is not in the least afraid

of dried peas, and who cannot be so easily got rid of as the common

devils; and that is Bimbogami.

But in Izumo people know a certain household charm whereby Bimbogami may

sometimes be cast out.

Before any cooking is done in a Japanese kitchen, the little charcoal

fire is first blown to a bright red heat with that most useful and

simple household utensil called a hifukidake. The hifukidake ('fire-

blow-bamboo') is a bamboo tube usually about three feet long and about

two inches in diameter. At one end--the end which is to be turned toward

the fire--only a very small orifice is left; the woman who prepares the

meal places the other end to her lips, and blows through the tube upon

the kindled charcoal. Thus a quick fire may be obtained in a few

minutes.

In course of time the hifukidake becomes scorched and cracked and

useless. A new 'fire-blow-tube' is then made; and the old one is used as

a charm against Bimbogami. One little copper coin (rin) is put into it,

some magical formula is uttered, and then the old utensil, with the rin

inside of it, is either simply thrown out through the front gate into

the street, or else flung into some neighbouring stream. This--I know

not why--is deemed equivalent to pitching Bimbogami out of doors, and

rendering it impossible for him to return during a considerable period.

It may be asked how is the invisible presence of Bimbogami to be

detected.

The little insect which makes that weird ticking noise at night called

in England the Death-watch has a Japanese relative named by the people

Bimbomushi, or the 'Poverty-Insect.' It is said to be the servant of

Bimbogami, the God of Poverty; and its ticking in a house is believed to

signal the presence of that most unwelcome deity.

Sec. 6

One more feature of the Setsubun festival is worthy of mention--the sale

of the hitogata ('people-shapes'). These: are little figures, made of

white paper, representing men, women, and children. They are cut out

with a few clever scissors strokes; and the difference of sex is

indicated by variations in the shape of the sleeves and the little paper

obi. They are sold in the Shinto temples. The purchaser buys one for

every member of the family--the priest writing upon each the age and sex

of the person for whom it is intended. These hitogata are then taken

home and distributed; and each person slightly rubs his body or her body

with the paper, and says a little Shinto prayer. Next day the hitogata

are returned to the kannushi, who, after having recited certain formulae

over them, burns them with holy fire. [6] By this ceremony it is hoped

that all physical misfortunes will be averted from the family during a

year.

Chapter Six By the Japanese Sea

Sec. 1

IT is the fifteenth day of the seventh month--and I am in Hokii.

The blanched road winds along a coast of low cliffs--the coast of the

Japanese Sea. Always on the left, over a narrow strip of stony land, or

a heaping of dunes, its vast expanse appears, blue-wrinkling to that

pale horizon beyond which Korea lies, under the same white sun.

Sometimes, through sudden gaps in the cliff's verge, there flashes to us

the running of the surf. Always upon the right another sea--a silent sea

of green, reaching to far misty ranges of wooded hills, with huge pale

peaks behind them--a vast level of rice-fields, over whose surface

soundless waves keep chasing each other under the same great breath that

moves the blue to-day from Chosen to Japan.

Though during a week the sky has remained unclouded, the sea has for

several days been growing angrier; and now the muttering of its surf

sounds far into the land. They say that it always roughens thus during

the period of the Festival of the Dead--the three days of the Bon, which

are the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth of the seventh month by

the ancient calendar. And on the sixteenth day, after the shoryobune,

which are the Ships of Souls, have been launched, no one dares to enter

it: no boats can then be hired; all the fishermen remain at home. For on

that day the sea is the highway of the dead, who must pass back over its

waters to their mysterious home; and therefore upon that day is it

called Hotoke-umi--the Buddha-Flood--the Tide of the Returning Ghosts.

And ever upon the night of that sixteenth day--whether the sea be calm

or tumultuous--all its surface shimmers with faint lights gliding out to

the open,--the dim fires of the dead; and there is heard a murmuring of

voices, like the murmur of a city far-off,--the indistinguishable speech

of souls.

Sec. 2

But it may happen that some vessel, belated in spite of desperate effort

to reach port, may find herself far out at sea upon the night of the

sixteenth day. Then will the dead rise tall about the ship, and reach

long hands and murmur: 'Tago, tago o-kure!--tago o-kure!' [1] Never may

they be refused; but, before the bucket is given, the bottom of it must

be knocked out. Woe to all on board should an entire tago be suffered to

fall even by accident into the sea!--for the dead would at once use it

to fill and sink the ship.

Nor are the dead the only powers invisible dreaded in the time of the

Hotoke-umi. Then are the Ma most powerful, and the Kappa. [2]

But in all times the swimmer fears the Kappa, the Ape of Waters, hideous

and obscene, who reaches up from the deeps to draw men down, and to

devour their entrails.

Only their entrails.

The corpse of him who has been seized by the Kappa may be cast on shore

after many days. Unless long battered against the rocks by heavy surf,

or nibbled by fishes, it will show no outward wound. But it will be

light and hollow--empty like a long-dried gourd.

Sec. 3

Betimes, as we journey on, the monotony of undulating blue on the left,

or the monotony of billowing green upon the right, is broken by the grey

apparition of a cemetery--a cemetery so long that our jinricksha men, at

full run, take a full quarter of an hour to pass the huge congregation

of its perpendicular stones. Such visions always indicate the approach

of villages; but the villages prove to be as surprisingly small as the

cemeteries are surprisingly large. By hundreds of thousands do the

silent populations of the hakaba outnumber the folk of the hamlets to

which they belong--tiny thatched settlements sprinkled along the leagues

of coast, and sheltered from the wind only by ranks of sombre pines.

Legions on legions of stones--a host of sinister witnesses of the cost

of the present to the past--and old, old, old!--hundreds so long in

place that they have been worn into shapelessness merely by the blowing

of sand from the dunes, and their inscriptions utterly effaced. It is as

if one were passing through the burial-ground of all who ever lived on

this wind-blown shore since the being of the land.

And in all these hakaba--for it is the Bon--there are new lanterns

before the newer tombs--the white lanterns which are the lanterns of

graves. To-night the cemeteries will be all aglow with lights like the

fires of a city for multitude. But there are also unnumbered tombs

before which no lanterns are--elder myriads, each the token of a family

extinct, or of which the absent descendants have forgotten even the

name. Dim generations whose ghosts have none to call them back, no local

memories to love--so long ago obliterated were all things related to

their lives.

Sec. 4

Now many of these villages are only fishing settlements, and in them

stand old thatched homes of men who sailed away on some eve of tempest,

and never came back. Yet each drowned sailor has his tomb in the

neighbouring hakaba, and beneath it something of him has been buried.

What?

Among these people of the west something is always preserved which in

other lands is cast away without a thought--the hozo-no-o, the flower-

stalk of a life, the navel-string of the newly-born. It is enwrapped

carefully in many wrappings; and upon its outermost covering are written

the names of the father, the mother, and the infant, together with the

date and hour of birth,--and it is kept in the family o-'mamori-bukuro.

The daughter, becoming a bride, bears it with her to her new home: for

the son it is preserved by his parents. It is buried with the dead; and

should one die in a foreign land, or perish at sea, it is entombed in

lieu of the body.

Sec. 5

Concerning them that go down into the sea in ships, and stay there,

strange beliefs prevail on this far coast--beliefs more primitive,

assuredly, than the gentle faith which hangs white lanterns before the

tombs. Some hold that the drowned never journey to the Meido. They

quiver for ever in the currents; they billow in the swaying of tides;

they toil in the wake of the junks; they shout in the plunging of

breakers. 'Tis their white hands that toss in the leap of the surf;

their clutch that clatters the shingle, or seizes the swimmer's feet in

the pull of the undertow. And the seamen speak euphemistically of the

O-'bake, the honourable ghosts, and fear them with a great fear.

Wherefore cats are kept on board!

A cat, they aver, has power to keep the O-bake away. How or why, I have

not yet found any to tell me. I know only that cats are deemed to have

power over the dead. If a cat be left alone with a corpse, will not the

corpse arise and dance? And of all cats a mike-neko, or cat of three

colours, is most prized on this account by sailors. But if they cannot

obtain one--and cats of three colours are rare--they will take another

kind of cat; and nearly every trading junk has a cat; and when the junk

comes into port, its cat may generally be seen--peeping through some

little window in the vessel's side, or squatting in the opening where

the great rudder works--that is, if the weather be fair and the sea

still.

Sec. 6

But these primitive and ghastly beliefs do not affect the beautiful

practices of Buddhist faith in the time of the Bon; and from all these

little villages the shoryobune are launched upon the sixteenth day. They

are much more elaborately and expensively constructed on this coast than

in some other parts of Japan; for though made of straw only, woven over

a skeleton framework, they are charming models of junks, complete in

every detail. Some are between three and four feet long. On the white

paper sail is written the kaimyo or soul-name of the dead. There is a

small water-vessel on board, filled with fresh water, and an incense-

cup; and along the gunwales flutter little paper banners bearing the

mystic manji, which is the Sanscrit swastika.[3]

The form of the shoryobune and the customs in regard to the time and

manner of launching them differ much in different provinces. In most

places they are launched for the family dead in general, wherever

buried; and they are in some places launched only at night, with small

lanterns on board. And I am told also that it is the custom at certain

sea-villages to launch the lanterns all by themselves, in lieu of the

shoryobune proper--lanterns of a particular kind being manufactured for

that purpose only.

But on the Izumo coast, and elsewhere along this western shore, the

soul-boats are launched only for those who have been drowned at sea, and

the launching takes place in the morning instead of at night. Once every

year, for ten years after death, a shoryobune is launched; in the

eleventh year the ceremony ceases. Several shoryobune which I saw at

Inasa were really beautiful, and must have cost a rather large sum for

poor fisher-folk to pay. But the ship-carpenter who made them said that

all the relatives of a drowned man contribute to purchase the little

vessel, year after year.

Sec. 7

Near a sleepy little village called Kanii-ichi I make a brief halt in

order to visit a famous sacred tree. It is in a grove close to the

public highway, but upon a low hill. Entering the grove I find myself in

a sort of miniature glen surrounded on three sides by very low cliffs,

above which enormous pines are growing, incalculably old. Their vast

coiling roots have forced their way through the face of the cliffs,

splitting rocks; and their mingling crests make a green twilight in the

hollow. One pushes out three huge roots of a very singular shape; and

the ends of these have been wrapped about with long white papers bearing

written prayers, and with offerings of seaweed. The shape of these

roots, rather than any tradition, would seem to have made the tree

sacred in popular belief: it is the object of a special cult; and a

little torii has been erected before it, bearing a votive annunciation

of the most artless and curious kind. I cannot venture to offer a

translation of it--though for the anthropologist and folk-lorist it

certainly possesses peculiar interest. The worship of the tree, or at

least of the Kami supposed to dwell therein, is one rare survival of a

phallic cult probably common to most primitive races, and formerly

widespread in Japan. Indeed it was suppressed by the Government scarcely

more than a generation ago. On the opposite side of the little hollow,

carefully posed upon a great loose rock, I see something equally artless

and almost equally curious--a kitoja-no-mono, or ex-voto. Two straw

figures joined together and reclining side by side: a straw man and a

straw woman. The workmanship is childishly clumsy; but still, the woman

can be distinguished from the man by .the ingenious attempt to imitate

the female coiffure with a straw wisp. And as the man is represented

with a queue--now worn only by aged survivors of the feudal era--I

suspect that this kitoja-no-mono was made after some ancient and

strictly conventional model.

Now this queer ex-voto tells its own story. Two who loved each other

were separated by the fault of the man; the charm of some joro, perhaps,

having been the temptation to faithlessness.

Then the wronged one came here and prayed the Kami to dispel the

delusion of passion and touch the erring heart. The prayer has been

heard; the pair have been reunited; and she has therefore made these two

quaint effigies 'with her own hands, and brought them to the Kami of the

pine--tokens of her innocent faith and her grateful heart.

Sec. 8

Night falls as we reach the pretty hamlet of Hamamura, our last resting-

place by the sea, for to-morrow our way lies inland. The inn at which we

lodge is very small, but very clean and cosy; and there is a delightful

bath of natural hot water; for the yadoya is situated close to a natural

spring. This spring, so strangely close to the sea beach, also

furnishes, I am told, the baths of all the houses in the village.

The best room is placed at our disposal; but I linger awhile to examine

a very fine shoryobune, waiting, upon a bench near the street entrance,

to be launched to-morrow. It seems to have been finished but a short

time ago; for fresh clippings of straw lie scattered around it, and the

kaimyo has not yet been written upon its sail. I am surprised to hear

that it belongs to a poor widow and her son, both of whom are employed

by the hotel.

I was hoping to see the Bon-odori at Hamamura, but I am disappointed. At

all the villages the police have prohibited the dance. Fear of cholera

has resulted in stringent sanitary regulations. In Hamamura the people

have been ordered to use no water for drinking, cooking, or washing,

except the hot water of their own volcanic springs.

A little middle-aged woman, with a remarkably sweet voice, comes to wait

upon us at supper-time. Her teeth are blackened and her eyebrows shaved

after the fashion of married women twenty years ago; nevertheless her

face is still a pleasant one, and in her youth she must have been

uncommonly pretty. Though acting as a servant, it appears that she is

related to the family owning the inn, and that she is treated with the

consideration due to kindred. She tells us that the shoryobune is to be

launched for her husband and brother--both fishermen of the village, who

perished in sight of their own home eight years ago. The priest of the

neighbouring Zen temple is to come in the morning to write the kaimyo

upon the sail, as none of the household are skilled in writing the

Chinese characters.

I make her the customary little gift, and, through my attendant, ask her

various questions about her history. She was married to a man much older

than herself, with whom she lived very happily; and her brother, a youth

of eighteen, dwelt with them. They had a good boat and a little piece of

ground, and she was skilful at the loom; so they managed to live well.

In summer the fishermen fish at night: when all the fleet is out, it is

pretty to see the line of torch-fires in the offing, two or three miles

away, like a string of stars. They do not go out when the weather is

threatening; but in certain months the great storms (taifu) come so

quickly that the boats are overtaken almost before they have time to

hoist sail. Still as a temple pond the sea was on the night when her

husband and brother last sailed away; the taifu rose before daybreak.

What followed, she relates with a simple pathos that I cannot reproduce

in our less artless tongue:

'All the boats had come back except my husband's; for' my husband and my

brother had gone out farther than the others, so they were not able to

return as quickly. And all the people were looking and waiting. And

every minute the waves seemed to be growing higher and the wind more

terrible; and the other boats had to be dragged far up on the shore to

save them. Then suddenly we saw my husband's boat coming very, very

quickly. We were so glad! It came quite near, so that I could see the

face of my husband and the face of my brother. But suddenly a great wave

struck it upon one side, and it turned down into the water and it did

not come up again. And then we saw my husband and my brother swimming

but we could see them only when the waves lifted them up. Tall like

hills the waves were, and the head of my husband, and the head of my

brother would go up, up, up, and then down, and each time they rose to

the top of a wave so that we could see them they would cry out,

"Tasukete! tasukete!" [4] But the strong men were afraid; the sea was

too terrible; I was only a woman! Then my brother could not be seen any

more. My husband was old, but very strong; and he swam a long time--so

near that I could see his face was like the face of one in fear--and he

called "Tasukete!" But none could help him; and he also went down at

last. And yet I could see his face before he went down.

'And for a long time after, every night, I used to see his face as I saw

it then, so that I could not rest, but only weep. And I prayed and

prayed to the Buddhas and to the Kami-Sama that I might not dream that

dream. Now it never comes; but I can still see his face, even while I

speak. . . . In that time my son was only a little child.'

Not without sobs can she conclude her simple recital. Then, suddenly

bowing her head to the matting, and wiping away her tears with her

sleeve, she humbly prays our pardon for this little exhibition of

emotion, and laughs--the soft low laugh de rigueur of Japanese

politeness. This, I must confess, touches me still more than the story

itself. At a fitting moment my Japanese attendant delicately changes the

theme, and begins a light chat about our journey, and the danna-sama's

interest in the old customs and legends of the coast. And he succeeds in

amusing her by some relation of our wanderings in Izumo.

She asks whither we are going. My attendant answers probably as far as

Tottori.

'Aa! Tottori! So degozarimasu ka? Now, there is an old story--the

Story of the Futon of Tottori. But the danna-sama knows that story?'

Indeed, the danna-sama does not, and begs earnestly to hear it. And the

story is set down somewhat as I learn it through the lips of my

interpreter.

Sec. 9 Many years ago, a very small yadoya in Tottori town received its

first guest, an itinerant merchant. He was received with more than

common kindness, for the landlord desired to make a good name for his

little inn. It was a new inn, but as its owner was poor, most of its

dogu--furniture and utensils--had been purchased from the furuteya. [5]

Nevertheless, everything was clean, comforting, and pretty. The guest

ate heartily and drank plenty of good warm sake; after which his bed was

prepared on the soft floor, and he laid himself down to sleep.

[But here I must interrupt the story for a few moments, to say a word

about Japanese beds. Never; unless some inmate happen to be sick, do you

see a bed in any Japanese house by day, though you visit all the rooms

and peep into all the corners. In fact, no bed exists, in the Occidental

meaning of the word. That which the Japanese call bed has no bedstead,

no spring, no mattress, no sheets, no blankets. It consists of thick

quilts only, stuffed, or, rather, padded with cotton, which are called

futon. A certain number of futon are laid down upon the tatami (the

floor mats), and a certain number of others are used for coverings. The

wealthy can lie upon five or six quilts, and cover themselves with as

many as they please, while poor folk must content themselves with two or

three. And of course there are many kinds, from the servants' cotton

futon which is no larger than a Western hearthrug, and not much thicker,

to the heavy and superb futon silk, eight feet long by seven broad,

which only the kanemochi can afford. Besides these there is the yogi, a

massive quilt made with wide sleeves like a kimono, in which you can

find much comfort when the weather is extremely cold. All such things

are neatly folded up and stowed out of sight by day in alcoves contrived

in the wall and closed with fusuma--pretty sliding screen doors covered

with opaque paper usually decorated with dainty designs. There also are

kept those curious wooden pillows, invented to preserve the Japanese

coiffure from becoming disarranged during sleep.

The pillow has a certain sacredness; but the origin and the precise

nature of the beliefs concerning it I have not been able to learn. Only

this I know, that to touch it with the foot is considered very wrong;

and that if it be kicked or moved thus even by accident, the clumsiness

must be atoned for by lifting the pillow to the forehead with the hands,

and replacing it in its original position respectfully, with the word

'go-men,' signifying, I pray to be excused.]

Now, as a rule, one sleeps soundly after having drunk plenty of warm

sake, especially if the night be cool and the bed very snug. But the

guest, having slept but a very little while, was aroused by the sound of

voices in his room--voices of children, always asking each other the

same questions:--'Ani-San samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' The presence of

children in his room might annoy the guest, but could not surprise him,

for in these Japanese hotels there are no doors, but only papered

sliding screens between room and room. So it seemed to him that some

children must have wandered into his apartment, by mistake, in the dark.

He uttered some gentle rebuke. For a moment only there was silence; then

a sweet, thin, plaintive voice queried, close to his ear, 'Ani-San

samukaro?' (Elder Brother probably is cold?), and another sweet voice

made answer caressingly, 'Omae samukaro?' [Nay, thou probably art cold?]

He arose and rekindled the candle in the andon, [6] and looked about the

room. There was no one. The shoji were all closed. He examined the

cupboards; they were empty. Wondering, he lay down again, leaving the

light still burning; and immediately the voices spoke again,

complainingly, close to his pillow:

'Ani-San samukaro?'

'Omae samukaro?'

Then, for the first time, he felt a chill creep over him, which was not

the chill of the night. Again and again he heard, and each time he

became more afraid. For he knew that the voices were in the futon! It

was the covering of the bed that cried out thus.

He gathered hurriedly together the few articles belonging to him, and,

descending the stairs, aroused the landlord and told what had passed.

Then the host, much angered, made reply: 'That to make pleased the

honourable guest everything has been done, the truth is; but the

honourable guest too much august sake having drank, bad dreams has

seen.' Nevertheless the guest insisted upon paying at once that which he

owed, and seeking lodging elsewhere.

Next evening there came another guest who asked for a room for the

night. At a late hour the landlord was aroused by his lodger with the

same story. And this lodger, strange to say, had not taken any sake.

Suspecting some envious plot to ruin his business, the landlord answered

passionately: 'Thee to please all things honourably have been done:

nevertheless, ill-omened and vexatious words thou utterest. And that my

inn my means-of-livelihood is--that also thou knowest. Wherefore that

such things be spoken, right-there-is-none!' Then the guest, getting

into a passion, loudly said things much more evil; and the two parted in

hot anger.

But after the guest was gone, the landlord, thinking all this very

strange, ascended to the empty room to examine the futon. And while

there, he heard the voices, and he discovered that the guests had said

only the truth. It was one covering--only one--which cried out. The rest

were silent. He took the covering into his own room, and for the

remainder of the night lay down beneath it. And the voices continued

until the hour of dawn: 'Ani-San samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?' So that he

could not sleep.

But at break of day he rose up and went out to find the owner of the

furuteya at which the futon had been purchased. The dlealer knew

nothing. He had bought the futon from a smaller shop, and the keeper of

that shop had purchased it from a still poorer dealer dwelling in the

farthest suburb of the city. And the innkeeper went from one to the

other, asking questions.

Then at last it was found that the futon had belonged to a poor family,

and had been bought from the landlord of a little house in which the

family had lived, in the neighbourhood of the town. And the story of the

futon was this:--

The rent of the little house was only sixty sen a month, but even this

was a great deal for the poor folks to pay. The father could earn only

two or three yen a month, and the mother was ill and could not work; and

there were two children--a boy of six years and a boy of eight. And they

were strangers in Tottori.

One winter's day the father sickened; and after a week of suffering he

died, and was buried. Then the long-sick mother followed him, and the

children were left alone. They knew no one whom they could ask for aid;

and in order to live they began to sell what there was to sell.

That was not much: the clothes of the dead father and mother, and most

of their own; some quilts of cotton, and a few poor household utensils--

hibachi, bowls, cups, and other trifles. Every day they sold something,

until there was nothing left but one futon. And a day came when they had

nothing to eat; and the rent was not paid.

The terrible Dai-kan had arrived, the season of greatest cold; and the

snow had drifted too high that day for them to wander far from the

little house. So they could only lie down under their one futon, and

shiver together, and compassionate each other in their own childish way

--'Ani-San, samukaro?' 'Omae samukaro?'

They had no fire, nor anything with which to make fire; and the darkness

came; and the icy wind screamed into the little house.

They were afraid of the wind, but they were more afraid of the house-

owner, who roused them roughly to demand his rent. He was a hard man,

with an evil face. And finding there was none to pay him, he turned the

children into the snow, and took their one futon away from them, and

locked up the house.

They had but one thin blue kimono each, for all their other clothes had

been sold to buy food; and they had nowhere to go. There was a temple of

Kwannon not far away, but the snow was too high for them to reach it. So

when the landlord was gone, they crept back behind the house. There the

drowsiness of cold fell upon them, and they slept, embracing each other

to keep warm. And while they slept, the gods covered them with a new

futon--ghostly-white and very beautiful. And they did not feel cold any

more. For many days they slept there; then somebody found them, and a

bed was made for them in the hakaba of the Temple of Kwannon-of-the-

Thousand-Arms.

And the innkeeper, having heard these things, gave the futon to the

priests of the temple, and caused the kyo to be recited for the little

souls. And the futon ceased thereafter to speak.

Sec. 10

One legend recalls another; and I hear to-night many strange ones. The

most remarkable is a tale which my attendant suddenly remembers--a

legend of Izumo.

Once there lived in the Izumo village called Mochida-noura a peasant who

was so poor that he was afraid to have children. And each time that his

wife bore him a child he cast it into the river, and pretended that it

had been born dead. Sometimes it was a son, sometimes a daughter; but

always the infant was thrown into the river at night. Six were murdered

thus.

But, as the years passed, the peasant found himself more prosperous. He

had been able to purchase land and to lay by money. And at last his wife

bore him a seventh--a boy.

Then the man said: 'Now we can support a child, and we shall need a son

to aid us when we are old. And this boy is beautiful. So we will bring

him up.'

And the infant thrived; and each day the hard peasant wondered more at

his own heart--for each day he knew that he loved his son more.

One summer's night he walked out into his garden, carrying his child in

his arms. The little one was five months old.

And the night was so beautiful, with its great moon, that the peasant

cried out--'Aa! kon ya med xurashii e yo da!' [Ah! to-night truly a

wondrously beautiful night is!]

Then the infant, looking up into his face and speaking the speech of a

man, said--'Why, father! the LAST time you threw me away the night was

just like this, and the moon looked just the same, did it not?' [7] And

thereafter the child remained as other children of the same age, and

spoke no word.

The peasant became a monk.

Sec. 11

After the supper and the bath, feeling too warm to sleep, I wander out

alone to visit the village hakaba, a long cemetery upon a sandhill, or

rather a prodigious dune, thinly covered at its summit with soil, but

revealing through its crumbling flanks the story of its creation by

ancient tides, mightier than tides of to-day.

I wade to my knees in sand to reach the cemetery. It is a warm moonlight

night, with a great breeze. There are many bon-lanterns (bondoro), but

the sea-wind has blown out most of them; only a few here and there still

shed a soft white glow--pretty shrine-shaped cases of wood, with

apertures of symbolic outline, covered with white paper. Visitors beside

myself there are none, for it is late. But much gentle work has been

done here to-day, for all the bamboo vases have been furnished with

fresh flowers or sprays, and the water basins filled with fresh water,

and the monuments cleansed and beautified. And in the farthest nook of

the cemetery I find, before one very humble tomb, a pretty zen or

lacquered dining tray, covered with dishes and bowls containing a

perfect dainty little Japanese repast. There is also a pair of new

chopsticks, and a little cup of tea, and some of the dishes are still

warm. A loving woman's work; the prints of her little sandals are fresh

upon the path.

Sec. 12

There is an Irish folk-saying that any dream may be remembered if the

dreamer, after awakening, forbear to scratch his head in the effort to

recall it. But should he forget this precaution, never can the dream be

brought back to memory: as well try to re-form the curlings of a smoke-

wreath blown away.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of a thousand dreams are indeed hopelessly

evaporative. But certain rare dreams, which come when fancy has been

strangely impressed by unfamiliar experiences--dreams particularly apt

to occur in time of travel--remain in recollection, imaged with all the

vividness of real events.

Of such was the dream I dreamed at Hamamura, after having seen and heard

those things previously written down.

Some pale broad paved place--perhaps the thought of a temple court--

tinted by a faint sun; and before me a woman, neither young nor old,

seated at the base of a great grey pedestal that supported I know not

what, for I could look only at the woman's face. Awhile I thought that I

remembered her--a woman of Izumo; then she seemed a weirdness. Her lips

were moving, but her eyes remained closed, and I could not choose but

look at her.

And in a voice that seemed to come thin through distance of years she

began a soft wailing chant; and, as I listened, vague memories came to

me of a Celtic lullaby. And as she sang, she loosed with one hand her

long black hair, till it fell coiling upon the stones. And, having

fallen, it was no longer black, but blue--pale day-blue--and was moving

sinuously, crawling with swift blue ripplings to and fro. And then,

suddenly, I became aware that the ripplings were far, very far away, and

that the woman was gone. There was only the sea, blue-billowing to the

verge of heaven, with long slow flashings of soundless surf.

And wakening, I heard in the night the muttering of the real sea--the

vast husky speech of the Hotoke-umi--the Tide of the Returning Ghosts.

CHAPTER SEVEN Of a Dancing-Girl

NOTHING is more silent than the beginning of a Japanese banquet; and no

one, except a native, who observes the opening scene could possibly

imagine the tumultuous ending.

The robed guests take their places, quite noiselessly and without

speech, upon the kneeling-cushions. The lacquered services are laid upon

the matting before them by maidens whose bare feet make no sound. For a

while there is only smiling and flitting, as in dreams. You are not

likely to hear any voices from without, as a banqueting-house is usually

secluded from the street by spacious gardens. At last the master of

ceremonies, host or provider, breaks the hush with the consecrated

formula: 'O-somatsu degozarimasu gal--dozo o-hashi!' whereat all present

bow silently, take up their hashi (chopsticks), and fall to. But hashi,

deftly used, cannot be heard at all. The maidens pour warm sake into the

cup of each guest without making the least sound; and it is not until

several dishes have been emptied, and several cups of sake absorbed,

that tongues are loosened.

Then, all at once, with a little burst of laughter, a number of young

girls enter, make the customary prostration of greeting, glide into the

open space between the ranks of the guests, and begin to serve the wine

with a grace and dexterity of which no common maid is capable. They are

pretty; they are clad in very costly robes of silk; they are girdled

like queens; and the beautifully dressed hair of each is decked with

mock flowers, with wonderful combs and pins, and with curious ornaments

of gold. They greet the stranger as if they had always known him; they

jest, laugh, and utter funny little cries. These are the geisha, [1] or

dancing-girls, hired for the banquet.

Samisen [2] tinkle. The dancers withdraw to a clear space at the farther

end of the banqueting-hall, always vast enough to admit of many more

guests than ever assemble upon common occasions. Some form the

orchestra, under the direction of a woman of uncertain age; there are

several samisen, and a tiny drum played by a child. Others, singly or in

pairs, perform the dance. It may be swift and merry, consisting wholly

of graceful posturing--two girls dancing together with such coincidence

of step and gesture as only years of training could render possible. But

more frequently it is rather like acting than like what we Occidentals

call dancing--acting accompanied with extraordinary waving of sleeves

and fans, and with a play of eyes and features, sweet, subtle, subdued,

wholly Oriental. There are more voluptuous dances known to geisha, but

upon ordinary occasions and before refined audiences they portray

beautiful old Japanese traditions, like the legend of the fisher

Urashima, beloved by the Sea God's daughter; and at intervals they sing

ancient Chinese poems, expressing a natural emotion with delicious

vividness by a few exquisite words. And always they pour the wine--that

warm, pale yellow, drowsy wine which fills the veins with soft

contentment, making a faint sense of ecstasy, through which, as through

some poppied sleep, the commonplace becomes wondrous and blissful, and

the geisha Maids of Paradise, and the world much sweeter than, in the

natural order of things, it could ever possibly be.

The banquet, at first so silent, slowly changes to a merry tumult. The

company break ranks, form groups; and from group to group the girls

pass, laughing, prattling--still pouring sake into the cups which are

being exchanged and emptied with low bows [3] Men begin to sing old

samurai songs, old Chinese poems. One or two even dance. A geisha tucks

her robe well up to her knees; and the samisen strike up the quick

melody, 'Kompira fund-fund.' As the music plays, she begins to run

lightly and swiftly in a figure of 8, and a young man, carrying a sake

bottle and cup, also runs in the same figure of 8. If the two meet on a

line, the one through whose error the meeting happens must drink a cup

of sake. The music becomes quicker and quicker and the runners run

faster and faster, for they must keep time to the melody; and the geisha

wins. In another part of the room, guests and geisha are playing ken.

They sing as they play, facing each other, and clap their hands, and

fling out their fingers at intervals with little cries and the samisen

keep time.

Choito--don-don!

Otagaidane;

Choito--don-don!

Oidemashitane;

Choito--don-don!

Shimaimashitane.

Now, to play ken with a geisha requires a perfectly cool head, a quick

eye, and much practice. Having been trained from childhood to play all

kinds of ken--and there are many--she generally loses only for

politeness, when she loses at all. The signs of the most common ken are

a Man, a Fox, and a Gun. If the geisha make the sign of the Gun, you

must instantly, and in exact time to the music, make the sign of the

Fox, who cannot use the Gun. For if you make the sign of the Man, then

she will answer with the sign of the Fox, who can deceive the Man, and

you lose. And if she make the sign of the Fox first, then you should

make the sign of the Gun, by which the Fox can be killed. But all the

while you must watch her bright eyes and supple hands. These are pretty;

and if you suffer yourself, just for one fraction of a second, to think

how pretty they are, you are bewitched and vanquished. Notwithstanding

all this apparent comradeship, a certain rigid decorum between guest and

geisha is invariably preserved at a Japanese banquet. However flushed

with wine a guest may have become, you will never see him attempt to

caress a girl; he never forgets that she appears at the festivities only

as a human flower, to be looked at, not to be touched. The familiarity

which foreign tourists in Japan frequently permit themselves with geisha

or with waiter-girls, though endured with smiling patience, is really

much disliked, and considered by native observers an evidence of extreme

vulgarity.

For a time the merriment grows; but as midnight draws near, the guests

begin to slip away, one by one, unnoticed. Then the din gradually dies

down, the music stops; and at last the geisha, having escorted the

latest of the feasters to the door, with laughing cries of Sayonara, can

sit down alone to break their long fast in the deserted hall.

Such is the geisha's rôle But what is the mystery of her? What are her

thoughts, her emotions, her secret self? What is her veritable existence

beyond the night circle of the banquet lights, far from the illusion

formed around her by the mist of wine? Is she always as mischievous as

she seems while her voice ripples out with mocking sweetness the words

of the ancient song?

Kimi to neyaru ka, go sengoku toruka? Nanno gosengoku kimi to neyo? [4]

Or might we think her capable of keeping that passionate promise she

utters so deliciously?

Omae shindara tera ewa yaranu! Yaete konishite sake de nomu, [5]

'Why, as for that,' a friend tells me, 'there was O'-Kama of Osaka who

realised the song only last year. For she, having collected from the

funeral pile the ashes of her lover, mingled them with sake, and at a

banquet drank them, in the presence of many guests.' In the presence of

many guests! Alas for romance!

Always in the dwelling which a band of geisha occupy there is a strange

image placed in the alcove. Sometimes it is of clay, rarely of gold,

most commonly of porcelain. It is reverenced: offerings are made to it,

sweetmeats and rice bread and wine; incense smoulders in front of it,

and a lamp is burned before it. It is the image of a kitten erect, one

paw outstretched as if inviting--whence its name, 'the Beckoning

Kitten.' [6] It is the genius loci: it brings good-fortune, the

patronage of the rich, the favour of banquet-givers Now, they who know

the soul of the geisha aver that the semblance of the image is the

semblance of herself--playful and pretty, soft and young, lithe and

caressing, and cruel as a devouring fire.

Worse, also, than this they have said of her: that in her shadow treads

the God of Poverty, and that the Fox-women are her sisters; that she is

the ruin of youth, the waster of fortunes, the destroyer of families;

that she knows love only as the source of the follies which are her

gain, and grows rich upon the substance of men whose graves she has

made; that she is the most consummate of pretty hypocrites, the most

dangerous of schemers, the most insatiable of mercenaries, the most

pitiless of mistresses. This cannot all be true. Yet thus much is true--

that, like the kitten, the geisha is by profession a creature of prey.

There are many really lovable kittens. Even so there must be really

delightful dancing-girls.

The geisha is only what she has been made in answer to foolish human

desire for the illusion of love mixed with youth and grace, but without

regrets or responsibilities: wherefore she has been taught, besides ken,

to play at hearts. Now, the eternal law is that people may play with

impunity at any game in this unhappy world except three, which are

called Life, Love, and Death. Those the gods have reserved to

themselves, because nobody else can learn to play them without doing

mischief. Therefore, to play with a geisha any game much more serious

than ken, or at least go, is displeasing to the gods.

The girl begins her career as a slave, a pretty child bought from

miserably poor parents under a contract, according to which her services

may be claimed by the purchasers for eighteen, twenty, or even twenty-

five years. She is fed, clothed, and trained in a house occupied only by

geisha; and she passes the rest of her childhood under severe

discipline. She is taught etiquette, grace, polite speech; she has daily

lessons in dancing; and she is obliged to learn by heart a multitude of

songs with their airs. Also she must learn games, the service of

banquets and weddings, the art of dressing and looking beautiful.

Whatever physical gifts she may have are; carefully cultivated.

Afterwards she is taught to handle musical instruments: first, the

little drum (tsudzumi), which cannot be sounded at all without

considerable practice; then she learns to play the samisen a little,

with a plectrum of tortoise-shell or ivory. At eight or nine years of

age she attends banquets, chiefly as a drum-player. She is then the

most charming little creature imaginable, and already knows how to fill

your wine-cup exactly full, with a single toss of the bottle and without

spilling a drop, between two taps of her drum.

Thereafter her discipline becomes more cruel. Her voice may be flexible

enough, but lacks the requisite strength. In the iciest hours of winter

nights, she must ascend to the roof of her dwelling-house, and there

sing and play till the blood oozes from her fingers and the voice dies

in her throat. The desired result is an atrocious cold. After a period

of hoarse whispering, her voice changes its tone and strengthens. She is

ready to become a public singer and dancer.

In this capacity she usually makes her first appearance at the age of

twelve or thirteen. If pretty and skilful, her services will be much in

demand, and her time paid for at the rate of twenty to twenty-five sen

per hour. Then only do her purchasers begin to reimburse themselves for

the time, expense, and trouble of her training; and they are not apt to

be generous. For many years more all that she earns must pass into their

hands. She can own nothing, not even her clothes.

At seventeen or eighteen she has made her artistic reputation. She has

been at many hundreds of entertainments, and knows by sight all the

important personages of her city, the character of each, the history of

all. Her life has been chiefly a night life; rarely has she seen the sun

rise since she became a dancer. She has learned to drink wine without

ever losing her head, and to fast for seven or eight hours without ever

feeling the worse. She has had many lovers. To a certain extent she is

free to smile upon whom she pleases; but she has been well taught, above

all else to use her power of charm for her own advantage. She hopes to

find Somebody able and willing to buy her freedom--which Somebody would

almost certainly thereafter discover many new and excellent meanings in

those Buddhist texts that tell about the foolishness of love and the

impermanency of all human relationships.

At this point of her career we may leave the geisha: there-. after her

story is apt to prove unpleasant, unless she die young. Should that

happen, she will have the obsequies of her class, and her memory will be

preserved by divers curious rites.

Some time, perhaps, while wandering through Japanese streets at night,

you hear sounds of music, a tinkling of samisen floating through the

great gateway of a Buddhist temple together with shrill voices of

singing-girls; which may seem to you a strange happening. And the deep

court is thronged with people looking and listening. Then, making your

way through the press to the temple steps, you see two geisha seated

upon the matting within, playing and singing, and a third dancing before

a little table. Upon the table is an ihai, or mortuary tablet; in front

of the tablet burns a little lamp, and incense in a cup of bronze; a

small repast has been placed there, fruits and dainties--such a repast

as, upon festival occasions, it is the custom to offer to the dead. You

learn that the kaimyo upon the tablet is that of a geisha; and that the

comrades of the dead girl assemble in the temple on certain days to

gladden her spirit with songs and dances. Then whosoever pleases may

attend the ceremony free of charge.

But the dancing-girls of ancient times were not as the geisha of to-day.

Some of them were called shirabyoshi; and their hearts were not

extremely hard. They were beautiful; they wore queerly shaped caps

bedecked with gold; they were clad in splendid attire, and danced with

swords in the dwellings of princes. And there is an old story about one

of them which I think it worth while to tell.

Sec. 1

It was formerly, and indeed still is, a custom with young Japanese

artists to travel on foot through various parts of the empire, in order

to see and sketch the most celebrated scenery as well as to study famous

art objects preserved in Buddhist temples, many of which occupy sites of

extraordinary picturesqueness. It is to such wanderings, chiefly, that

we owe the existence of those beautiful books of landscape views and

life studies which are now so curious and rare, and which teach better

than aught else that only the Japanese can paint Japanese scenery. After

you have become acquainted with their methods of interpreting their own

nature, foreign attempts in the same line will seem to you strangely

flat and soulless. The foreign artist will give you realistic

reflections of what he sees; but he will give you nothing more. The

Japanese artist gives you that which he feels--the mood of a season, the

precise sensation of an hour and place; his work is qualified by a power

of suggestiveness rarely found in the art of the West. The Occidental

painter renders minute detail; he satisfies the imagination he evokes.

But his Oriental brother either suppresses or idealises detail--steeps

his distances in mist, bands his landscapes with cloud, makes of his

experience a memory in which only the strange and the beautiful survive,

with their sensations. He surpasses imagination, excites it, leaves it

hungry with the hunger of charm perceived in glimpses only.

Nevertheless, in such glimpses he is able to convey the feeling of a

time, the character of a place, after a fashion that seems magical. He

is a painter of recollections and of sensations rather than of clear-cut

realities; and in this lies the secret of his amazing power--a power not

to be appreciated by those who have never witnessed the scenes of his

inspiration. He is above all things impersonal. His human figures are

devoid of all individuality; yet they have inimitable merit as types

embodying the characteristics of a class: the childish curiosity of the

peasant, the shyness of the maiden, the fascination of the joro the

self-consciousness of the samurai, the funny, placid prettiness of the

child, the resigned gentleness of age. Travel and observation were the

influences which developed this art; it was never a growth of studios.

A great many years ago, a young art student was travelling on foot from

Kyoto to Yedo, over the mountains The roads then were few and bad, and

travel was so difficult compared to what it is now that a proverb was

current, Kawai ko wa tabi wo sase (A pet child should be made to

travel). But the land was what it is to-day. There were the same forests

of cedar and of pine, the same groves of bamboo, the same peaked

villages with roofs of thatch, the same terraced rice-fields dotted with

the great yellow straw hats of peasants bending in the slime. From the

wayside, the same statues of Jizo smiled upon the same pilgrim figures

passing to the same temples; and then, as now, of summer days, one might

see naked brown children laughing in all the shallow rivers, and all the

rivers laughing to the sun.

The young art student, however, was no kawai ko: he had already

travelled a great deal, was inured to hard fare and rough lodging, and

accustomed to make the best of every situation. But upon this journey he

found himself, one evening after sunset, in a region where it seemed

possible to obtain neither fare nor lodging of any sort--out of sight of

cultivated land. While attempting a short cut over a range to reach some

village, he had lost his way.

There was no moon, and pine shadows made blackness all around him. The

district into which he had wandered seemed utterly wild; there were no

sounds but the humming of the wind in the pine-needles, and an infinite

tinkling of bell-insects. He stumbled on, hoping to gain some river

bank, which he could follow to a settlement. At last a stream abruptly

crossed his way; but it proved to be a swift torrent pouring into a

gorge between precipices. Obliged to retrace his steps, he resolved to

climb to the nearest summit, whence he might be able to discern some

sign of human life; but on reaching it he could see about him only a

heaping of hills.

He had almost resigned himself to passing the night under the stars,

when he perceived, at some distance down the farther slope of the hill

he had ascended, a single thin yellow ray of light, evidently issuing

from some dwelling. He made his way towards it, and soon discerned a

small cottage, apparently a peasant's home. The light he had seen still

streamed from it, through a chink in the closed storm-doors. He hastened

forward, and knocked at the entrance.

Not until he had knocked and called several times did he hear any stir

within; then a woman 's voice asked what was wanted. The voice was

remarkably sweet, and the speech of the unseen questioner surprised him,

for she spoke in the cultivated idiom of the capital. He responded that

he was a student, who had lost his way in the mountains; that he wished,

if possible, to obtain food and lodging for the night; and that if this

could not be given, he would feel very grateful for information how to

reach the nearest village--adding that he had means enough to pay for

the services of a guide. The voice, in return, asked several other

questions, indicating extreme surprise that anyone could have reached

the dwelling from the direction he had taken. But his answers evidently

allayed suspicion, for the inmate exclaimed: 'I will come in a moment.

It would be difficult for you to reach any village to-night; and the

path is dangerous.'

After a brief delay the storm-doors were pushed open, and a woman

appeared with a paper lantern, which she so held as to illuminate the

stranger's face, while her own remained in shadow. She scrutinised him

in silence, then said briefly, 'Wait; I will bring water.' She fetched a

wash-basin, set it upon the doorstep, and offered the guest a towel. He

removed his sandals, washed from his feet the dust of travel, and was

shown into a neat room which appeared to occupy the whole interior,

except a small boarded space at the rear, used as a kitchen. A cotton

zabuton was laid for him to kneel upon, and a brazier set before him.

It was only then that he had a good opportunity of observing his

hostess, and he was startled by the delicacy and beauty of her features.

She might have been three or four years older than he, but was still in

the bloom of youth. Certainly she was not a peasant girl. In the same

singularly sweet voice she said to him: 'I am now alone, and I never

receive guests here. But I am sure it would be dangerous for you to

travel farther tonight. There are some peasants in the neighbourhood,

but you cannot find your way to them in the dark without a guide. So I

can let you stay here until morning. You will not be comfortable, but I

can give you a bed. And I suppose you are hungry. There is only some

shojin-ryori, [7]--not at all good, but you are welcome to it.'

The traveller was quite hungry, and only too glad of the offer. The

young woman kindled a little fire, prepared a few dishes in silence--

stewed leaves of na, some aburage, some kampyo, and a bowl of coarse

rice--and quickly set the meal before him, apologising for its quality.

But during his repast she spoke scarcely at all, and her reserved manner

embarrassed him. As she answered the few questions he ventured upon

merely by a bow or by a solitary word, he soon refrained from attempting

to press the conversation.

Meanwhile he had observed that the small house was spotlessly clean, and

the utensils in which his food was served were immaculate. The few cheap

objects in the apartment were pretty. The fusuma of the oshiire and

zendana [8] were of white paper only, but had been decorated with large

Chinese characters exquisitely written, characters suggesting, according

to the law of such decoration, the favourite themes of the poet and

artist: Spring Flowers, Mountain and Sea, Summer Rain, Sky and Stars,

Autumn Moon, River Water, Autumn Breeze. At one side of the apartment

stood a kind of low altar, supporting a butsudan, whose tiny lacquered

doors, left open, showed a mortuary tablet within, before which a lamp

was burning between offerings of wild flowers. And above this household

shrine hung a picture of more than common merit, representing the

Goddess of Mercy, wearing the moon for her aureole.

As the student ended his little meal the young woman observed: I cannot

offer you a good bed, and there is only a paper mosquito-curtain The bed

and the curtain are mine, but to-night I have many things to do, and

shall have no time to sleep; therefore I beg you will try to rest,

though I am not able to make you comfortable.'

He then understood that she was, for some strange reason, entirely

alone, and was voluntarily giving up her only bed to him upon a kindly

pretext. He protested honestly against such an excess of hospitality,

and assured her that he could sleep quite soundly anywhere on the floor,

and did not care about the mosquitoes. But she replied, in the tone of

an elder sister, that he must obey her wishes. She really had something

to do, and she desired to be left by herself as soon as possible;

therefore, understanding him to be a gentleman, she expected he would

suffer her to arrange matters in her own way. To this he could offer no

objection, as there was but one room. She spread the mattress on the

floor, fetched a wooden pillow, suspended her paper mosquito-curtain,

unfolded a large screen on the side of the bed toward the butsudan, and

then bade him good-night in a manner that assured him she wished him to

retire at once; which he did, not without some reluctance at the thought

of all the trouble he had unintentionally caused her.

Sec. 3

Unwilling as the young traveller felt to accept a kindness involving the

sacrifice of another's repose, he found the bed more than comfortable.

He was very tired, and had scarcely laid his head upon the wooden pillow

before he forgot everything in sleep.

Yet only a little while seemed to have passed when he was awakened by a

singular sound. It was certainly the sound of feet, but not of feet

walking softly. It seemed rather the sound of feet in rapid motion, as

of excitement. Then it occurred to him that robbers might have entered

the house. As for himself, he had little to fear because he had little

to lose. His anxiety was chiefly for the kind person who had granted him

hospitality. Into each side of the paper mosquito-curtain a small square

of brown netting had been fitted, like a little window, and through one

of these he tried to look; but the high screen stood between him and

whatever was going on. He thought of calling, but this impulse was

checked by the reflection that in case of real danger it would be both

useless and imprudent to announce his presence before understanding the

situation. The sounds which had made him uneasy continued, and were more

and more mysterious. He resolved to prepare for the worst, and to risk

his life, if necessary, in order to defend his young hostess. Hastily

girding up his robes, he slipped noiselessly from under the paper

curtain, crept to the edge of the screen, and peeped. What he saw

astonished him extremely.

Before her illuminated butsudan the young woman, magnificently attired,

was dancing all alone. Her costume he recognised as that of a

shirabyoshi, though much richer than any he had ever seen worn by a

professional dancer. Marvellously enhanced by it, her beauty, in that

lonely time and place, appeared almost supernatural; but what seemed to

him even more wonderful was her dancing. For an instant he felt the

tingling of a weird doubt. The superstitions of peasants, the legends of

Fox-women, flashed before his imagination; but the sight of the Buddhist

shrine, of the sacred picture, dissipated the fancy, and shamed him for

the folly of it. At the same time he became conscious that he was

watching something she had not wished him to see, and that it was his

duty, as her guest, to return at once behind the screen; but the

spectacle fascinated him. He felt, with not less pleasure than

amazement, that he was looking upon the most accomplished dancer he had

ever seen; and the more he watched, the more the witchery of her grace

grew upon him. Suddenly she paused, panting, unfastened her girdle,

turned in the act of doffing her upper robe, and started violently as

her eyes encountered his own.

He tried at once to excuse himself to her. He said he had been suddenly

awakened by the sound of quick feet, which sound had caused him some

uneasiness, chiefly for her sake, because of the lateness of the hour

and the lonesomeness of the place. Then he confessed his surprise at

what he had seen, and spoke of the manner in which it had attracted him.

'I beg you,' he continued, 'to forgive my curiosity, for I cannot help

wondering who you are, and how you could have become so marvellous a

dancer. All the dancers of Saikyo I have seen, yet I have never seen

among the most celebrated of them a girl who could dance like you; and

once I had begun to watch you, I could not take away my eyes.'

At first she had seemed angry, but before he had ceased to speak her

expression changed. She smiled, and seated herself before him.' 'No, I

am not angry with you,' she said. 'I am only sorry that you should have

watched me, for I am sure you must have thought me mad when you saw me

dancing that way, all by myself; and now I must tell you the meaning of

what you have seen.'

So she related her story. Her name he remembered to have heard as a boy

--her professional name, the name of the most famous of shirabyoshi, the

darling of the capital, who, in the zenith of her fame and beauty, had

suddenly vanished from public life, none knew whither or why. She had

fled from wealth and fortune with a youth who loved her. He was poor,

but between them they possessed enough means to live simply and happily

in the country. They built a little house in the mountains, and there

for a number of years they existed only for each other. He adored her.

One of his greatest pleasures was to see her dance. Each evening he

would play some favourite melody, and she would dance for him. But one

long cold winter he fell sick, and, in spite of her tender nursing,

died. Since then she had lived alone with the memory of him, performing

all those small rites of love and homage with which the dead are

honoured. Daily before his tablet she placed the customary offerings,

and nightly danced to please him, as of old. And this was the

explanation of what the young traveller had seen. It was indeed rude,

she continued, to have awakened her tired guest; but she had waited

until she thought him soundly sleeping, and then she had tried to dance

very, very lightly. So she hoped he would pardon her for having

unintentionally disturbed him.

When she had told him all, she made ready a little tea, which they drank

together; then she entreated him so plaintively to please her by trying

to sleep again that he found himself obliged to go back, with many

sincere apologies, under the paper mosquito-curtain.

He slept well and long; the sun was high before he woke. On rising, he

found prepared for him a meal as simple as that of the evening before,

and he felt hungry. Nevertheless he ate sparingly, fearing the young

woman might have stinted herself in thus providing for him; and then he

made ready to depart. But when he wanted to pay her for what he had

received, and for all the trouble he had given her, she refused to take

anything from him, saying: 'What I had to give was not worth money, and

what I did was done for kindness alone. So! pray that you will try to

forget the discomfort you suffered here, and will remember only the

good-will of one who had nothing to offer.'

He still endeavoured to induce her to accept something; but at last,

finding that his insistence only gave her pain, he took leave of her

with such words as he could find to express his gratitude, and not

without a secret regret, for her beauty and her gentleness had charmed

him more than he would have liked to acknowledge to any but herself. She

indicated to him the path to follow, and watched him descend the

mountain until he had passed from sight. An hour later he found himself

upon a highway with which he was familiar. Then a sudden remorse touched

him: he had forgotten to tell her his name. For an instant he hesitated;

then he said to himself, 'What matters it? I shall be always poor.' And

he went on.

Many years passed by, and many fashions with them; and the painter

became old. But ere becoming old he had become famous. Princes, charmed

by the wonder of his work, had vied with one another in giving him

patronage; so that he grew rich, and possessed a beautiful dwelling of

his own in the City of the Emperors. Young artists from many provinces

were his pupils, and lived with him, serving him in all things while

receiving his instruction; and his name was known throughout the land.

Now, there came one day to his house an old woman, who asked to speak

with him. The servants, seeing that she was meanly dressed and of

miserable appearance, took her to be some common beggar, and questioned

her roughly. But when she answered: 'I can tell to no one except your

master why I have come,' they believed her mad, and deceived her,

saying: 'He is not now in Saikyo, nor do we know how soon he will

return.'

But the old woman came again and again--day after day, and week after

week--each time being told something that was not true: 'To-day he is

ill,' or, 'To-day he is very busy,' or, 'To-day he has much company, and

therefore cannot see you.' Nevertheless she continued to come, always at

the same hour each day, and always carrying a bundle wrapped in a ragged

covering; and the servants at last thought it were best to speak to

their master about her. So they said to him: 'There is a very old woman,

whom we take to be a beggar, at our lord's gate. More than fifty times

she has come, asking to see our lord, and refusing to tell us why--

saying that she can tell her wishes only to our lord. And we have tried

to discourage her, as she seemed to be mad; but she always comes.

Therefore we have presumed to mention the matter to our lord, in order

that we may learn what is to be done hereafter.'

Then the Master answered sharply: 'Why did none of you tell me of this

before?' and went out himself to the gate, and spoke very kindly to the

woman, remembering how he also had been poor. And he asked her if she

desired alms of him.

But she answered that she had no need of money or of food, and only

desired that he would paint for her a picture. He wondered at her wish,

and bade her enter his house. So she entered into the vestibule, and,

kneeling there, began to untie the knots of the bundle she had brought

with her. When she had unwrapped it, the painter perceived curious rich

quaint garments of silk broidered with designs in gold, yet much frayed

and discoloured by wear and time--the wreck of a wonderful costume of

other days, the attire of a shirabyoshi.

While the old woman unfolded the garments one by one, and tried to

smooth them with her trembling fingers, a memory stirred in the Master's

brain, thrilled dimly there a little space, then suddenly lighted up. In

that soft shock of recollection, he saw again the lonely mountain

dwelling in which he had received unremunerated hospitality--the tiny

room prepared for his rest, the paper mosquito-curtain, the faintly

burning lamp before the Buddhist shrine, the strange beauty of one

dancing there alone in the dead of the night. Then, to the astonishment

of the aged visitor, he, the favoured of princes, bowed low before her,

and said: 'Pardon my rudeness in having forgotten your face for a

moment; but it is more than forty years since we last saw each other.

Now I remember you well. You received me once at your house. You gave up

to me the only bed you had. I saw you dance, and you told me all your

story. You had been a shirabyoshi, and I have not forgotten your name.'

He uttered it. She, astonished and confused, could not at first reply to

him, for she was old and had suffered much, and her memory had begun to

fail. But he spoke more and more kindly to her, and reminded her of many

things which she had told him, and described to her the house in which

she had lived alone, so that at last she also remembered; and she

answered, with tears of pleasure: 'Surely the Divine One who looketh

down above the sound of prayer has guided me. But when my unworthy home

was honoured by the visit of the august Master, I was not as I now am.

And it seems to me like a miracle of our Lord Buddha that the Master

should remember me.'

Then she related the rest of her simple story. In the course of years,

she had become, through poverty, obliged to part with her little house;

and in her old age she had returned alone to the great city, in which

her name had long been forgotten. It had caused her much pain to lose

her home; but it grieved her still more that, in becoming weak and old,

she could no longer dance each evening before the butsudan, to please

the spirit of the dead whom she had loved. Therefore she wanted to have

a picture of herself painted, in the costume and the attitude of the

dance, that she might suspend it before the butsudan. For this she had

prayed earnestly to Kwannon. And she had sought out the Master because

of his fame as a painter, since she desired, for the sake of the dead,

no common work, but a picture painted with great skill; and she had

brought her dancing attire, hoping that the Master might be willing to

paint her therein.

He listened to all with a kindly smile, and answered her: 'It will be

only a pleasure for me to paint the picture which you want. This day I

have something to finish which cannot be delayed. But if you will come

here to-morrow, I will paint you exactly as you wish, and as well as I

am able.'

But she said: 'I have not yet told to the Master the thing which most

troubles me. And it is this--that I can offer in return for so great a

favour nothing except these dancer's clothes; and they are of no value

in themselves, though they were costly once. Still, I hoped the Master

might be willing to take them, seeing they have become curious; for

there are no more shirabyoshi, and the maiko of these times wear no such

robes.'

'Of that matter,' the good painter exclaimed, 'you must not think at

all! No; I am glad to have this present chance of paying a small part

of my old debt to you. So to-morrow I will paint you just as you wish.'

She prostrated herself thrice before him, uttering thanks and then said,

'Let my lord pardon, though I have yet something more to say. For I do

not wish that he should paint me as I now am, but only as I used to be

when I was young, as my lord knew me.'

He said: 'I remember well. You were very beautiful.'

Her wrinkled features lighted up with pleasure, as she bowed her thanks

to him for those words. And she exclaimed: 'Then indeed all that I hoped

and prayed for may be done! Since he thus remembers my poor youth, I

beseech my lord to paint me, not as I now am, but as he saw me when I

was not old and, as it has pleased him generously to say, not uncomely.

O Master, make me young again! Make me seem beautiful that I may seem

beautiful to the soul of him for whose sake I, the unworthy, beseech

this! He will see the Master's work: he will forgive me that I can no

longer dance.

Once more the Master bade her have no anxiety, and said: 'Come tomorrow,

and I will paint you. I will make a picture of you just as you

were when I saw you, a young and beautiful shirabyoshi, and I will paint

it as carefully and as skilfully as if I were painting the picture of

the richest person in the land. Never doubt, but come.'

Sec. 5

So the aged dancer came at the appointed hour; and upon soft white silk

the artist painted a picture of her. Yet not a picture of her as she

seemed to the Master's pupils but the memory of her as she had been in

the days of her youth, bright-eyed as a bird, lithe as a bamboo,

dazzling as a tennin [9] in her raiment of silk and gold. Under the

magic of the Master's brush, the vanished grace returned, the faded

beauty bloomed again. When the kakemono had been finished, and stamped

with his seal, he mounted it richly upon silken cloth, and fixed to it

rollers of cedar with ivory weights, and a silken cord by which to hang

it; and he placed it in a little box of white wood, and so gave it to

the shirabyoshi. And he would also have presented her with a gift of

money. But though he pressed her earnestly, he could not persuade her to

accept his help. 'Nay,' she made answer, with tears, 'indeed I need

nothing. The picture only I desired. For that I prayed; and now my

prayer has been answered, and I know that I never can wish for anything

more in this life, and that if I come to die thus desiring nothing, to

enter upon the way of Buddha will not be difficult. One thought .alone

causes me sorrow--that I have nothing to offer to the Master but this

dancer's apparel, which is indeed of little worth, though I beseech him

I to accept it; and I will pray each day that his future life may be a

life of happiness, because of the wondrous kindness which I he has done

me.'

'Nay,' protested the painter, smiling, 'what is it that I have done?

Truly nothing. As for the dancer's garments, I will accept them, if that

can make you more happy. They will bring back pleasant memories of the

night I passed in your home, when you gave up all your comforts for my

unworthy sake, and yet would not suffer me to pay for that which I used;

and for that kindness I hold myself to be still in your debt. But now

tell me where you live, so that I may see the picture in its place.' For

he had resolved within himself to place her beyond the reach of want.

But she excused herself with humble words, and would not tell him,

saying that her dwelling-place was too mean to be looked upon by such as

he; and then, with many prostrations, she thanked him again and again,

and went away with her treasure, weeping for joy.

Then the Master called to one of his pupils: 'Go quickly after that

woman, but so that she does not know herself followed, and bring me word

where she lives.' So the young man followed her, unperceived.

He remained long away, and when he returned he laughed in the manner of

one obliged to say something which it is not pleasant to hear, and he

said: 'That woman, O Master, I followed out of the city to the dry bed

of the river, near to the place where criminals are executed. There I

saw a hut such as an Eta might dwell in, and that is where she lives. A

forsaken and filthy place, O Master!'

'Nevertheless,' the painter replied, 'to-morrow you will take me to that

forsaken and filthy place. What time I live she shall not suffer for

food or clothing or comfort.'

And as all wondered, he told them the story of the shirabyoshi, after

which it did not seem to them that his words were strange.

Sec. 6

On the morning of the day following, an hour after sun-rise, the Master

and his pupil took their way to the dry bed of the river, beyond the

verge of the city, to the place of outcasts.

The entrance of the little dwelling they found closed by a single

shutter, upon which the Master tapped many times without evoking a

response. Then, finding the shutter unfastened from within, he pushed it

slightly aside, and called through the aperture. None replied, and he

decided to enter. Simultaneously, with extraordinary vividness, there

thrilled back to him the sensation of the very instant when, as a tired.

lad, he stood pleading for admission to the lonesome little cottage

among the hills.

Entering alone softly, he perceived that the woman was lying there,

wrapped in a single thin and tattered futon, seemingly asleep. On a rude

shelf he recognised the butsudan of' forty years before, with its

tablet, and now, as then, a tiny lamp was burning in front of the

kaimyo. The kakemono of the Goddess of Mercy with her lunar aureole was

gone, but on the wall facing the shrine he beheld his own dainty gift

suspended, and an ofuda beneath it--an ofuda of Hito-koto-Kwannon [10]--

that Kwannon unto whom it is unlawful to pray more than once, as she

answers but a single prayer. There was little else in the desolate

dwelling; only the garments of a female pilgrim, and a mendicant's staff

and bowl.

But the Master did not pause to look at these things, for he desired to

awaken and to gladden the sleeper, and he called her name cheerily twice

and thrice.

Then suddenly he saw that she was dead, and he wondered while he gazed

upon her face, for it seemed less old. A vague sweetness, like a ghost

of youth, had returned to it; the lines of sorrow had been softened, the

wrinkles strangely smoothed, by the touch of a phantom Master mightier

than he.

CHAPTER EIGHT From Hoki to Oki

Sec. 1

I RESOLVED to go to Oki.

Not even a missionary had ever been to Oki, and its shores had never

been seen by European eyes, except on those rare occasions when men-of-

war steamed by them, cruising about the Japanese Sea. This alone would

have been a sufficient reason for going there; but a stronger one was

furnished for me by the ignorance of the Japanese themselves about Oki.

Excepting the far-away Riu-Kiu, or Loo-Choo Islands, inhabited by a

somewhat different race with a different language, the least-known

portion of the Japanese Empire is perhaps Oki. Since it belongs to the

same prefectural district as Izumo, each new governor of Shimane-Ken is

supposed to pay one visit to Oki after his inauguration; and the chief

of police of the province sometimes goes there upon a tour of

inspection. There are also some mercantile houses in Matsue and in other

cities which send a commercial traveller to Oki once a year.

Furthermore, there is quite a large trade with Oki--almost all carried

on by small sailing-vessels. But such official and commercial

communications have not been of a nature to make Oki much better known

to-day than in the medieval period of Japanese history. There are still

current among the common people of the west coast extraordinary stories

of Oki much like those about that fabulous Isle of Women, which figures

so largely in the imaginative literature of various Oriental races.

According to these old legends, the moral notions of the people of Oki

were extremely fantastic: the most rigid ascetic could not dwell there

and maintain his indifference to earthly pleasures; and, however wealthy

at his arrival, the visiting stranger must soon return to his native

land naked and poor, because of the seductions of women. I had quite

sufficient experiences of travel in queer countries to feel certain that

all these marvellous stories signified nothing beyond the bare fact that

Oki was a terra incognita; and I even felt inclined to believe that the

average morals of the people of Oki--judging by those of the common folk

of the western provinces--must be very much better than the morals of

our ignorant classes at home.

Which I subsequently ascertained to be the case.

For some time I could find no one among my Japanese acquaintances to

give me any information about Oki, beyond the fact that in ancient times

it had been a place of banishment for the Emperors Go-Daigo and Go-Toba,

dethroned by military usurpers, and this I already knew. But at last,

quite unexpectedly, I found a friend--a former fellow-teacher--who had

not only been to Oki, but was going there again within a few days about

some business matter. We agreed to go together. His accounts of Oki

differed very materially from those of the people who had never been

there. The Oki folks, he said, were almost as much civilised as the

Izumo folks: they, had nice towns and good public schools. They were

very simple and honest beyond belief, and extremely kind to strangers.

Their only boast was that of having kept their race unchanged since the

time that the Japanese had first come to Japan; or, in more romantic

phrase, since the Age of the Gods. They were all Shintoists, members of

the Izumo Taisha faith, but Buddhism was also maintained among them,

chiefly through the generous subscription of private individuals. And

there were very comfortable hotels, so that I would feel quite at home.

He also gave me a little book about Oki, printed for the use of the Oki

schools, from which I obtained the following brief summary of facts:

Sec. 2

Oki-no-Kuni, or the Land of Oki, consists of two groups of small islands

in the Sea of Japan, about one hundred miles from the coast of Izumo.

Dozen, as the nearer group is termed, comprises, besides various islets,

three islands lying close together: Chiburishima, or the Island of

Chiburi (sometimes called Higashinoshima, or Eastern Island);

Nishinoshima, or the Western Island, and Nakanoshima, or the Middle

Island. Much larger than any of these is the principal island, Dogo,

which together with various islets, mostly uninhabited, form the

remaining group. It is sometimes called Oki--though the name Oki is

more generally used for the whole archipelago. [1]

Officially, Oki is divided into four kori or counties. Chiburi and

Nishinoshima together form Chiburigori; Nakanoshima, with an islet,

makes Amagori, and Dogo is divided into Ochigori and Sukigori.

All these islands are very mountainous, and only a small portion of

their area has ever been cultivated. Their chief sources of revenue are

their fisheries, in which nearly the whole population has always been

engaged from the most ancient times.

During the winter months the sea between Oki and the west coast is

highly dangerous for small vessels, and in that season the islands hold

little communication with the mainland. Only one passenger steamer runs

to Oki from Sakai in Hoki In a direct line, the distance from Sakai in

Hoki to Saigo, the chief port of Oki, is said to be thirty-nine ri; but

the steamer touches at the other islands upon her way thither.

There are quite a number of little towns, or rather villages, in Oki, of

which forty-five belong to Dogo. The villages are nearly all situated

upon the coast. There are large schools in the principal towns. The

population of the islands is stated to be 30,196, but the respective

populations of towns and villages are not given.

Sec. 3

From Matsue in Izumo to Sakai in Hoki is a trip of barely two hours by

steamer. Sakai is the chief seaport of Shimane-Ken. It is an ugly little

town, full of unpleasant smells; it exists only as a port; it has no

industries, scarcely any shops, and only one Shinto temple of small

dimensions and smaller interest. Its principal buildings are warehouses,

pleasure resorts for sailors, and a few large dingy hotels, which are

always overcrowded with guests waiting for steamers to Osaka, to Bakkan,

to Hamada, to Niigata, and various other ports. On this coast no

steamers run regularly anywhere; their owners attach no business value

whatever to punctuality, and guests have usually to wait for a much

longer time than they could possibly have expected, and the hotels are

glad.

But the harbour is beautiful--a long frith between the high land of

Izumo and the low coast of Hoki. It is perfectly sheltered from storms,

and deep enough to admit all but the largest steamers. The ships can lie

close to the houses, and the harbour is nearly always thronged with all

sorts of craft, from junks to steam packets of the latest construction.

My friend and I were lucky enough to secure back rooms at the best

hotel. Back rooms are the best in nearly all Japanese buildings: at

Sakai they have the additional advantage of overlooking the busy wharves

and the whole luminous bay, beyond which the Izumo hills undulate in

huge green billows against the sky. There was much to see and to be

amused at. Steamers and sailing craft of all sorts were lying two and

three deep before the hotel, and the naked dock labourers were loading

and unloading in their own peculiar way. These men are recruited from

among the strongest peasantry of Hoki and of Izumo, and some were really

fine men, over whose brown backs the muscles rippled at every movement.

They were assisted by boys of fifteen or sixteen apparently--apprentices

learning the work, but not yet strong enough to bear heavy burdens. I

noticed that nearly all had bands of blue cloth bound about their calves

to keep the veins from bursting. And all sang as they worked. There was

one curious alternate chorus, in which the men in the hold gave the

signal by chanting 'dokoe, dokoel' (haul away!) and those at the hatch

responded by improvisations on the appearance of each package as it

ascended:

Dokoe, dokoe!

Onnago no ko da.

Dokoe, dokoe!

Oya dayo, oya dayo.

Dokoe, dokoel

Choi-choi da, choi-choi da.

Dokoe, dokoe!

Matsue da, Matsueda.

Dokoe, dokoe!

Koetsumo Yonago da, [20] etc.

But this chant was for light quick work. A very different chant

accompanied the more painful and slower labour of loading heavy sacks

and barrels upon the shoulders of the stronger men:--

Yan-yui!

Yan-yui!

Yan-yui!

Yan-yui!

Yoi-ya-sa-a-a-no-do-koe-shi! [3]

Three men always lifted the weight. At the first yan-yui all stooped; at

the second all took hold; the third signified ready; at the fourth the

weight rose from the ground; and with the long cry of yoiyasa no

dokoeshi it was dropped on the brawny shoulder waiting to receive it.

Among the workers was a naked laughing boy, with a fine contralto that

rang out so merrily through all the din as to create something of a

sensation in the hotel. A young woman, one of the guests, came out upon

the balcony to look, and exclaimed: 'That boy's voice is RED'--whereat

everybody smiled. Under the circumstances I thought the observation very

expressive, although it recalled a certain famous story about scarlet

and the sound of a trumpet, which does not seem nearly so funny now as

it did at a time when we knew less about the nature of light and sound.

The Oki steamer arrived the same afternoon, but she could not approach

the wharf, and I could only obtain a momentary glimpse of her stern

through a telescope, with which I read the name, in English letters of

gold--OKI-SARGO. Before I could obtain any idea of her dimensions, a

huge black steamer from Nagasaki glided between, and moored right in the

way.

I watched the loading and unloading, and listened to the song of the boy

with the red voice, until sunset, when all quit work; and after that I

watched the Nagasaki steamer. She had made her way to our wharf as the

other vessels moved out, and lay directly under the balcony. The captain

and crew did not appear to be in a hurry about anything. They all

squatted down together on the foredeck, where a feast was spread for

them by lantern-light. Dancing-girls climbed on board and feasted with

them, and sang to the sound of the samisen, and played with them the

game of ken. Late into the night the feasting and the fun continued; and

although an alarming quantity of sake was consumed, there was no

roughness or boisterousness. But sake is the most soporific of wines;

and by midnight only three of the men remained on deck. One of these had

not taken any sake at all, but still desired to eat. Happily for him

there climbed on board a night-walking mochiya with a box of mochi,

which are cakes of rice-flour sweetened with native sugar. The hungry

one bought all, and reproached the mochiya because there were no more,

and offered, nevertheless, to share the mochi with his comrades.

Whereupon the first to whom the offer was made answered somewhat after

this manner:

'I-your-servant mochi-for this-world-in no-use-have. Sake alone this-

life-in if-there-be, nothing-beside-desirable-is.

'For me-your-servant,' spake the other, 'Woman this-fleeting-life-in

the-supreme-thing is; mochi-or-sake-for earthly-use have-I-none.'

But, having made all the mochi to disappear, he that had been hungry

turned himself to the mochiya, and said:--'O Mochiya San, I-your-servant

Woman-or-sake-for earthly-requirement have-none. Mochi-than things

better this-life-of-sorrow-in existence-have-not !'

Sec. 4

Early in the morning we were notified that the Oki-Saigo would start at

precisely eight o'clock, and that we had better secure our tickets at

once. The hotel-servant, according to Japanese custom, relieved us of

all anxiety about baggage, etc., and bought our tickets: first-class

fare, eighty sen. And after a hasty breakfast the hotel boat came under

the window to take us away.

Warned by experience of the discomforts of European dress on Shimane

steamers, I adopted Japanese costume and exchanged my shoes for sandals.

Our boatmen sculled swiftly through the confusion of shipping and

junkery; and as we cleared it I saw, far out in midstream, the joki

waiting for us. Joki is a Japanese name for steam-vessel. The word had

not yet impressed me as being capable of a sinister interpretation.

She seemed nearly as long as a harbour tug, though much more squabby;

and she otherwise so much resembled the Lilliputian steamers of Lake

Shinji, that I felt somewhat afraid of her, even for a trip of one

hundred miles. But exterior inspection afforded no clue to the mystery

of her inside. We reached her and climbed into her starboard through a

small square hole. At once I found myself cramped in a heavily-roofed

gangway, four feet high and two feet wide, and in the thick of a

frightful squeeze--passengers stifling in the effort to pull baggage

three feet in diameter through the two-foot orifice. It was impossible

to advance or retreat; and behind me the engine-room gratings were

pouring wonderful heat into this infernal corridor. I had to wait with

the back of my head pressed against the roof until, in some unimaginable

way, all baggage and passengers had squashed and squeezed through. Then,

reaching a doorway, I fell over a heap of sandals and geta, into the

first-class cabin. It was pretty, with its polished woodwork and

mirrors; it was surrounded by divans five inches wide; and in the centre

it was nearly six feet high. Such altitude would have been a cause for

comparative happiness, but that from various polished bars of brass

extended across the ceiling all kinds of small baggage, including two

cages of singing-crickets (chongisu), had been carefully suspended.

Furthermore the cabin was already extremely occupied: everybody, of

course, on the floor, and nearly everybody lying at extreme length; and

the heat struck me as being supernatural. Now they that go down to the

sea in ships, out of Izumo and such places, for the purpose of doing

business in great waters, are never supposed to stand up, but to squat

in the ancient patient manner; and coast, or lake steamers are

constructed with a view to render this attitude only possible. Observing

an open door in the port side of the cabin, I picked my way over a

tangle of bodies and limbs--among them a pair of fairy legs belonging

to a dancing-girl--and found myself presently in another gangway, also

roofed, and choked up to the roof with baskets of squirming eels. Exit

there was none: so I climbed back over all the legs and tried the

starboard gangway a second time. Even during that short interval, it had

been half filled with baskets of unhappy chickens. But I made a reckless

dash over them, in spite of frantic cacklings which hurt my soul, and

succeeded in finding a way to the cabin-roof. It was entirely occupied

by water-melons, except one corner, where there was a big coil of rope.

I put melons inside of the rope, and sat upon them in the sun. It was

not comfortable; but I thought that there I might have some chance for

my life in case of a catastrophe, and I was sure that even the gods

could give no help to those below. During the squeeze I had got

separated from my companion, but I was afraid to make any attempt to

find him. Forward I saw the roof of the second cabin crowded with third-

class passengers squatting round a hibachi. To pass through them did not

seem possible, and to retire would have involved the murder of either

eels or chickens. Wherefore I sat upon the melons.

And the boat started, with a stunning scream. In another moment her

funnel began to rain soot upon me--for the so-called first-class cabin

was well astern--and then came small cinders mixed with the soot, and

the cinders were occasionally red-hot. But I sat burning upon the water-

melons for some time longer, trying to imagine a way of changing my

position without committing another assault upon the chickens. Finally,

I made a desperate endeavour to get to leeward of the volcano, and it

was then for the first time that I began to learn the peculiarities of

the joki. What I tried to sit on turned upside down, and what I tried to

hold by instantly gave way, and always in the direction of overboard.

Things clamped or rigidly braced to outward seeming proved, upon

cautious examination, to be dangerously mobile; and things that,

according to Occidental ideas, ought to have been movable, were fixed

like the roots of the perpetual hills. In whatever direction a rope or

stay could possibly have been stretched so as to make somebody unhappy,

it was there. In the midst of these trials the frightful little craft

began to swing, and the water-melons began to rush heavily to and fro,

and I came to the conclusion that this joki had been planned and

constructed by demons.

Which I stated to my friend. He had not only rejoined me quite

unexpectedly, but had brought along with him one of the ship's boys to

spread an awning above ourselves and the watermelons, so as to exclude

cinders and sun.

'Oh, no!' he answered reproachfully 'She was designed and built at

Hyogo, and really she might have been made much worse. . . ' 'I beg your

pardon,' I interrupted; 'I don't agree with you at all.'

'Well, you will see for yourself,' he persisted. 'Her hull is good

steel, and her little engine is wonderful; she can make her hundred

miles in five hours. She is not very comfortable, but she is very swift

and strong.'

'I would rather be in a sampan,' I protested, 'if there were rough

weather.'

'But she never goes to sea in rough weather. If it only looks as if

there might possibly be some rough weather, she stays in port. Sometimes

she waits a whole month. She never runs any risks.'

I could not feel sure of it. But I soon forgot all discomforts, even the

discomfort of sitting upon water-melons, in the delight of the divine

day and the magnificent view that opened wider and wider before us, as

we rushed from the long frith into the Sea of Japan, following the Izumo

coast. There was no fleck in the soft blue vastness above, not one

flutter on the metallic smoothness of the all-reflecting sea; if our

little steamer rocked, it was doubtless because she had been overloaded.

To port, the Izumo hills were flying by, a long, wild procession of'

broken shapes, sombre green, separating at intervals to form mysterious

little bays, with fishing hamlets hiding in them. Leagues away to

starboard, the Hoki shore receded into the naked white horizon, an ever-

diminishing streak of warm blue edged with a thread-line of white, the

gleam of a sand beach; and beyond it, in the centre, a vast shadowy

pyramid loomed up into heaven--the ghostly peak of Daisen.

My companion touched my arm to call my attention to a group of pine-

trees on the summit of a peak to port, and laughed and sang a Japanese

song. How swiftly we had been travelling I then for the first time

understood, for I recognised the four famous pines of Mionoseki, on the

windy heights above the shrine of Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami. There used

to be five trees: one was uprooted by a storm, and some Izumo poet wrote

about the remaining four the words which my friend had sung:

Seki no gohon matsu

Ippun kirya, shihon;

Ato wa kirarenu Miyoto matsu.

Which means: 'Of the five pines of Seki one has been cut, and four

remain; and of these no one must now be cut--they are wedded pairs.' And

in Mionoseki there are sold beautiful little sake cups and sake bottles,

upon which are pictures of the four pines, and above the pictures, in

spidery text of gold, the verses, 'Seki no gohon matsu.' These are for

keepsakes, and there are many other curious and pretty souvenirs to buy

in those pretty shops; porcelains bearing the picture of the Mionoseki

temple, and metal clasps for tobacco pouches representing Koto-shiro-

nushi-no-Kami trying to put a big tai-fish into a basket too small for

it, and funny masks of glazed earthenware representing the laughing face

of the god. For a jovial god is this Ebisu, or Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami,

patron of honest labour and especially of fishers, though less of a

laughter-lover than his father, the Great Deity of Kitzuki, about whom

'tis said: 'Whenever the happy laugh, the God rejoices.'

We passed the Cape--the Miho of the Kojiki--and the harbour of Mionoseki

opened before us, showing its islanded shrine of Benten in the midst,

and the crescent of quaint houses with their feet in the water, and the

great torii and granite lions of the far-famed temple. Immediately a

number of passengers rose to their feet, and, turning their faces toward

the torii began to clap their hands in Shinto prayer.

I said to my friend: 'There are fifty baskets full of chickens in the

gangway; and yet these people are praying to Koto-shiro-nushi-no-Kami

that nothing horrible may happen to this boat.'

'More likely,' he answered, 'they are praying for good-fortune; though

there is a saying: "The gods only laugh when men pray to them for

wealth." But of the Great Deity of Mionoseki there is a good story told.

Once there was a very lazy man who went to Mionoseki and prayed to

become rich. And the same night he saw the god in a dream; and the god

laughed, and took off one of his own divine sandals, and told him to

examine it. And the man saw that it was made of solid brass, but had a

big hole worn through the sole of it. Then said the god: "You want to

have money without working for it. I am a god; but I am never lazy.

See! my sandals are of brass: yet I have worked and walked so much that

they are quite worn out."'

Sec. 5

The beautiful bay of Mionoseki opens between two headlands: Cape Mio (or

Miho, according to the archaic spelling) and the Cape of Jizo (Jizo-

zaki), now most inappropriately called by the people 'The Nose of Jizo'

(Jizo-no-hana). This Nose of Jizo is one of the most dangerous points of

the coast in time of surf, and the great terror of small ships returning

from Oki. There is nearly always a heavy swell there, even in fair

weather. Yet as we passed the ragged promontory I was surprised to see

the water still as glass. I felt suspicious of that noiseless sea: its

soundlessness recalled the beautiful treacherous sleep of waves and

winds which precedes a tropical hurricane. But my friend said:

'It may remain like this for weeks. In the sixth month and in the

beginning of the seventh, it is usually very quiet; it is not likely to

become dangerous before the Bon. But there was a little squall last week

at Mionoseki; and the people said that it was caused by the anger of the

god.'

'Eggs?' I queried.

'No: a Kudan.'

'What is a Kudan?'

'Is it possible you never heard of the Kudan? The Kudan has the face of

a man, and the body of a bull. Sometimes it is born of a cow, and that

is a Sign-of-things-going-to-happen. And the Kudan always tells the

truth. Therefore in Japanese letters and documents it is customary to

use the phrase, Kudanno-gotoshi--"like the Kudan"--or "on the truth of

the Kudan."' [4]

'But why was the God of Mionoseki angry about the Kudan?'

'People said it was a stuffed Kudan. I did not see it, so I cannot tell

you how it was made. There was some travelling showmen from Osaka at

Sakai. They had a tiger and many curious animals and the stuffed Kudan;

and they took the Izumo Maru for Mionoseki. As the steamer entered the

port a sudden squall came; and the priests of the temple said the god

was angry because things impure--bones and parts of dead animals--had

been brought to the town. And the show people were not even allowed to

land: they had to go back to Sakai on the same steamer. And as soon as

they had gone away, the sky became clear again, and the wind stopped

blowing: so that some people thought what the priests had said was

true.'

Sec. 6

Evidently there was much more moisture in the atmosphere than I had

supposed. On really clear days Daisen can be distinctly seen even from

Oki; but we had scarcely passed the Nose of Jizo when the huge peak

began to wrap itself in vapour of the same colour as the horizon; and in

a few minutes it vanished, as a spectre might vanish. The effect of this

sudden disappearance was very extraordinary; for only the peak passed

from sight, and that which had veiled it could not be any way

distinguished from horizon and sky.

Meanwhile the Oki-Saigo, having reached the farthest outlying point of

the coast upon her route began to race in straight line across the

Japanese Sea. The green hills of Izumi fled away and turned blue, and

the spectral shores of Hoki began to melt into the horizon, like bands

of cloud. Then was obliged to confess my surprise at the speed of the

horrid little steamer. She moved, too, with scarcely any sound, smooth

was the working of her wonderful little engine. But she began to swing

heavily, with deep, slow swingings. To the eye, the sea looked level as

oil; but there were long invisible swells--ocean-pulses--that made

themselves felt beneath the surface. Hoki evaporated; the Izumo hills

turned grey, a their grey steadily paled as I watched them. They grew

more and more colourless--seemed to become transparent. And then they

were not. Only blue sky and blue sea, welded together in the white

horizon.

It was just as lonesome as if we had been a thousand leagues from land.

And in that weirdness we were told some very lonesome things by an

ancient mariner who found leisure join us among the water-melons. He

talked of the Hotoke-umi and the ill-luck of being at sea on the

sixteenth day of the seventh month. He told us that even the great

steamers never went to sea during the Bon: no crew would venture to take

ship out then. And he related the following stories with such simple

earnestness that I think he must have believed what said:

'The first time I was very young. From Hokkaido we had sailed, and the

voyage was long, and the winds turned against us. And the night of the

sixteenth day fell, as we were working on over this very sea.

'And all at once in the darkness we saw behind us a great junk--all

white--that we had not noticed till she was quite close to us. It made

us feel queer, because she seemed to have come from nowhere. She was so

near us that we could hear voices; and her hull towered up high above

us. She seemed to be sailing very fast; but she came no closer. We

shouted to her; but we got no answer. And while we were watching her,

all of us became afraid, because she did not move like a real ship. The

sea was terrible, and we were lurching and plunging; but that great junk

never rolled. Just at the same moment that we began to feel afraid she

vanished so quickly that we could scarcely believe we had really seen

her at all.

'That was the first time. But four years ago I saw something still more

strange. We were bound for Oki, in a junk, and the wind again delayed

us, so that we were at sea on the sixteenth day. It was in the morning,

a little before midday; the sky was dark and the sea very ugly. All at

once we saw a steamer running in our track, very quickly. She got so

close to us that we could hear her engines--katakata katakata!--but we

saw nobody on deck. Then she began to follow us, keeping exactly at the

same distance, and whenever we tried to get out of her way she would

turn after us and keep exactly in our wake. And then we suspected what

she was. But we were not sure until she vanished. She vanished like a

bubble, without making the least sound. None of us could say exactly

when she disappeared. None of us saw her vanish. The strangest thing was

that after she was gone we could still hear her engines working behind

us--katakata, katakata, katakata!

'That is all I saw. But I know others, sailors like myself, who have

seen more. Sometimes many ships will follow you--though never at the

same time. One will come close and vanish, then another, and then

another. As long as they come behind you, you need never be afraid. But

if you see a ship of that sort running before you, against the wind,

that is very bad! It means that all on board will be drowned.'

Sec. 7

The luminous blankness circling us continued to remain unflecked for

less than an hour. Then out of the horizon toward which we steamed, a

small grey vagueness began to grow. It lengthened fast, and seemed a

cloud. And a cloud it proved; but slowly, beneath it, blue filmy shapes

began to define against the whiteness, and sharpened into a chain of

mountains. They grew taller and bluer--a little sierra, with one paler

shape towering in the middle to thrice the height of the rest, and

filleted with cloud--Takuhizan, the sacred mountain of Oki, in the

island Nishinoshima.

Takuhizan has legends, which I learned from my friend. Upon its summit

stands an ancient shrine of the deity Gongen-Sama. And it is said that

upon the thirty-first night of the twelfth month three ghostly fires

arise from the sea and ascend to the place of the shrine, and enter the

stone lanterns which stand before it, and there remain, burning like

lamps. These lights do not arise at once, but separately, from the sea,

and rise to the top of the peak one by one. The people go out in boats

to see the lights mount from the water. But only those whose hearts are

pure can see them; those who have evil thoughts or desires look for the

holy fires in vain.

Before us, as we steamed on, the sea-surface appeared to become suddenly

speckled with queer craft previously invisible--light, long fishing-

boats, with immense square sails of a beautiful yellow colour. I could

not help remarking to my comrade how pretty those sails were; he

laughed, and told me they were made of old tatami. [5] I examined them

through a telescope, and found that they were exactly what he had said--

woven straw coverings of old floor-mats. Nevertheless, that first tender

yellow sprinkling of old sails over the soft blue water was a charming

sight.

They fleeted by, like a passing of yellow butterflies, and the sea was

void again. Gradually, a little to port, a point in the approaching line

of blue cliffs shaped itself and changed colour--dull green above,

reddish grey below; it defined into a huge rock, with a dark patch on

its face, but the rest of the land remained blue. The dark patch

blackened as we came nearer--a great gap full of shadow. Then the blue

cliffs beyond also turned green, and their bases reddish grey. We passed

to the right of the huge rock, which proved to be a detached and

uninhabited islet, Hakashima; and in another moment we were steaming

into the archipelago of Oki, between the lofty islands Chiburishima and

Nakashima.

Sec. 8

The first impression was almost uncanny. Rising sheer from the flood on

either hand, the tall green silent hills stretched away before us,

changing tint through the summer vapour, to form a fantastic vista of

blue cliffs and peaks and promontories. There was not one sign of human

life. Above their pale bases of naked rock the mountains sloped up

beneath a sombre wildness of dwarf vegetation. There was absolutely no

sound, except the sound of the steamer's tiny engine--poum-poum, poum!

poum-poum, poum! like the faint tapping of a geisha's drum. And this

savage silence continued for miles: only the absence of lofty timber

gave evidence that those peaked hills had ever been trodden by human

foot. But all at once, to the left, in a mountain wrinkle, a little grey

hamlet appeared; and the steamer screamed and stopped, while the hills

repeated the scream seven times.

This settlement was Chiburimura, of Chiburishima (Nakashima being the

island to starboard)--evidently nothing more than a fishing station.

First a wharf of uncemented stone rising from the cove like a wall; then

great trees through which one caught sight of a torii before some Shinto

shrine, and of a dozen houses climbing the hollow hill one behind

another, roof beyond roof; and above these some terraced patches of

tilled ground in the midst of desolation: that was all. The packet

halted to deliver mail, and passed on.

But then, contrary to expectation, the scenery became more beautiful.

The shores on either side at once receded and heightened: we were

traversing an inland sea bounded by three lofty islands. At first the

way before us had seemed barred by vapoury hills; but as these, drawing

nearer, turned green, there suddenly opened magnificent chasms between

them on both sides--mountain-gates revealing league-long wondrous vistas

of peaks and cliffs and capes of a hundred blues, ranging away from

velvety indigo into far tones of exquisite and spectral delicacy. A

tinted haze made dreamy all remotenesses, an veiled with illusions of

colour the rugged nudities of rock.

The beauty of the scenery of Western and Central Japan is not as the

beauty of scenery in other lands; it has a peculiar character of its

own. Occasionally the foreigner may find memories of former travel

suddenly stirred to life by some view on a mountain road, or some

stretch of beetling coast seen through a fog of spray. But this illusion

of resemblance vanishes as swiftly as it comes; details immediately

define into strangeness, and you become aware that the remembrance was

evoked by form only, never by colour. Colours indeed there are which

delight the eye, but not colours of mountain verdure, not colours of the

land. Cultivated plains, expanses of growing rice, may offer some

approach to warmth of green; but the whole general tone of this nature

is dusky; the vast forests are sombre; the tints of grasses are harsh or

dull. Fiery greens, such as burn in tropical scenery, do not exist; and

blossom-bursts take a more exquisite radiance by contrast with the heavy

tones of the vegetation out of which they flame. Outside of parks and

gardens and cultivated fields, there is a singular absence of warmth and

tenderness in the tints of verdure; and nowhere need you hope to find

any such richness of green as that which makes the loveliness of an

English lawn.

Yet these Oriental landscapes possess charms of colour extraordinary,

phantom-colour delicate, elfish, indescribable--created by the wonderful

atmosphere. Vapours enchant the distances, bathing peaks in bewitchments

of blue and grey of a hundred tones, transforming naked cliffs to

amethyst, stretching spectral gauzes across the topazine morning,

magnifying the splendour of noon by effacing the horizon, filling the

evening with smoke of gold, bronzing the waters, banding the sundown

with ghostly purple and green of nacre. Now, the Old Japanese artists

who made those marvellous ehon--those picture-books which have now

become so rare--tried to fix the sensation of these enchantments in

colour, and they were successful in their backgrounds to a degree almost

miraculous. For which very reason some of their foregrounds have been a

puzzle to foreigners unacquainted with certain features of Japanese

agriculture. You will see blazing saffron-yellow fields, faint purple

plains, crimson and snow-white trees, in those old picture-books; and

perhaps you will exclaim: 'How absurd!' But if you knew Japan you would

cry out: 'How deliciously real!' For you would know those fields of

burning yellow are fields of flowering rape, and the purple expanses are

fields of blossoming miyako, and the snow-white or crimson trees are not

fanciful, but represent faithfully certain phenomena of efflorescence

peculiar to the plum-trees and the cherry-trees of the country. But

these chromatic extravaganzas can be witnessed only during very brief

periods of particular seasons: throughout the greater part of the year

the foreground of an inland landscape is apt to be dull enough in the

matter of colour.

It is the mists that make the magic of the backgrounds; yet even without

them there is a strange, wild, dark beauty in Japanese landscapes, a

beauty not easily defined in words. The secret of it must be sought in

the extraordinary lines of the mountains, in the strangely abrupt

crumpling and jagging of the ranges; no two masses closely resembling

each other, every one having a fantasticality of its own. Where the

chains reach to any considerable height, softly swelling lines are rare:

the general characteristic is abruptness, and the charm is the charm of

Irregularity.

Doubtless this weird Nature first inspired the Japanese with their

unique sense of the value of irregularity in decoration--taught them

that single secret of composition which distinguishes their art from all

other art, and which Professor Chamberlain has said it is their special

mission to teach to the Occident. [6] Certainly, whoever has once

learned to feel the beauty and significance of the Old Japanese

decorative art can find thereafter little pleasure in the corresponding

art of the West. What he has really learned is that Nature's greatest

charm is irregularity. And perhaps something of no small value might be

written upon the question whether the highest charm of human life and

work is not also irregularity.

Sec. 9

From Chiburimura we made steam west for the port of Urago, which is in

the island of Nishinoshima. As we approached it Takuhizan came into

imposing view. Far away it had seemed a soft and beautiful shape; but as

its blue tones evaporated its aspect became rough and even grim: an

enormous jagged bulk all robed in sombre verdure, through which, as

through tatters, there protruded here and there naked rock of the

wildest shapes. One fragment, I remember, as it caught the slanting sun

upon the irregularities of its summit, seemed an immense grey skull. At

the base of this mountain, and facing the shore of Nakashima, rises a

pyramidal mass of rock, covered with scraggy undergrowth, and several

hundred feet in height--Mongakuzan. On its desolate summit stands a

little shrine.

'Takuhizan' signifies The Fire-burning Mountain--a name due perhaps

either to the legend of its ghostly fires, or to some ancient memory of

its volcanic period. 'Mongakuzan' means The Mountain of Mongaku--Mongaku

Shonin, the great monk. It is said that Mongaku Shonin fled to Oki, and

that he dwelt alone upon the top of that mountain many years, doing

penance for his deadly sin. Whether he really ever visited Oki, I am not

able to say; there are traditions which declare the contrary. But the

peaklet has borne his name for hundreds of years.

Now this is the story of Mongaku Shonin:

Many centuries ago, in the city of Kyoto, there was a captain of the

garrison whose name was Endo Morito. He saw and loved the wife of a

noble samurai; and when she refused to listen to his desires, he vowed

that he would destroy her family unless she consented to the plan which

he submitted to her. The plan was that upon a certain night she should

suffer him to enter her house and to kill her husband; after which she

was to become his wife.

But she, pretending to consent, devised a noble stratagem to save her

honour. For, after having persuaded her husband to absent himself from

the city, she wrote to Endo a letter, bidding him come upon a certain

night to the house. And on that night she clad herself in her husband's

robes, and made her hair like the hair of a man, and laid herself down

in her husband's place, and pretended to sleep.

And Endo came in the dead of the night with his sword drawn, and smote

off the head of the sleeper at a blow, and seized it by the hair and

lifted it up and saw it was the head of the woman he had loved and

wronged.

Then a great remorse came upon him, and hastening to a neighbouring

temple, he confessed his sin, and did penance and cut off his hair, and

became a monk, taking the name of Mongaku. And in after years he

attained to great holiness, so that folk still pray to him, and his

memory is venerated throughout the land.

Now at Asakusa in Tokyo, in one of the curious little streets which lead

to the great temple of Kwannon the Merciful, there are always wonderful

images to be seen--figures that seem alive, though made of wood only--

figures illustrating the ancient legends of Japan. And there you may see

Endo standing: in his right hand the reeking sword; in his left the head

of a beautiful woman. The face of the woman you may forget soon, because

it is only beautiful. But the face of Endo you will not forget, because

it is naked hell.

Sec. 10

Urago is a queer little town, perhaps quite as large as Mionoseki, and

built, like Mionoseki, on a narrow ledge at the base of a steep

semicircle of hills. But it is much more primitive and colourless than

Mionoseki; and its houses are still more closely cramped between cliffs

and water, so that its streets, or rather alleys, are no wider than

gangways. As we cast anchor, my attention was suddenly riveted by a

strange spectacle--a white wilderness of long fluttering vague shapes,

in a cemetery on the steep hillside, rising by terraces high above the

roofs of the town. The cemetery was full of grey haka and images of

divinities; and over every haka there was a curious white paper banner

fastened to a thin bamboo pole. Through a glass one could see that these

banners were inscribed with Buddhist texts--'Namur-myo-ho-renge-kyo';

'Namu Amida Butsu'; 'Namu Daiji Dai-hi Kwan-ze-on Bosats,'--and other

holy words. Upon inquiry I learned that it was an Urago custom to place

these banners every year above the graves during one whole month

preceding the Festival of the Dead, together with various other

ornamental or symbolic things.

The water was full of naked swimmers, who shouted laughing welcomes; and

a host of light, swift boats, sculled by naked fishermen, darted out to

look for passengers and freight. It was my first chance to observe the

physique of Oki islanders; and I was much impressed by the vigorous

appearance of both men and boys. The adults seemed to me of a taller and

more powerful type than the men of the Izumo coast; and not a few of

those brown backs and shoulders displayed, in the motion of sculling

what is comparatively rare in Japan, even among men picked for heavy

labour--a magnificent development of muscles.

As the steamer stopped an hour at Urago, we had time to dine ashore in

the chief hotel. It was a very clean and pretty hotel, and the fare

infinitely superior to that of the hotel at Sakai. Yet the price charged

was only seven sen; and the old landlord refused to accept the whole of

the chadai-gift offered him, retaining less than half, and putting back

the rest, with gentle force, into the sleeve of my yukata.

Sec. 11

From Urago we proceeded to Hishi-ura, which is in Nakanoshima, and the

scenery grew always more wonderful as we steamed between the islands.

The channel was just wide enough to create the illusion of a grand river

flowing with the stillness of vast depth between mountains of a hundred

forms. The long lovely vision was everywhere walled in by peaks, bluing

through sea-haze, and on either hand the ruddy grey cliffs, sheering up

from profundity, sharply mirrored their least asperities in the flood

with never a distortion, as in a sheet of steel. Not until we reached

Hishi-ura did the horizon reappear; and even then it was visible only

between two lofty headlands, as if seen through a river's mouth.

Hishi-ura is far prettier than Urago, but it is much less populous, and

has the aspect of a prosperous agricultural town, rather than of a

fishing station. It bends round a bay formed by low hills which slope

back gradually toward the mountainous interior, and which display a

considerable extent of cultivated surface. The buildings are somewhat

scattered and in many cases isolated by gardens; and those facing the

water are quite handsome modern constructions. Urago boasts the best

hotel in all Oki; and it has two new temples--one a Buddhist temple of

the Zen sect, one a Shinto temple of the Izumo Taisha faith, each the

gift of a single person. A rich widow, the owner of the hotel, built the

Buddhist temple; and the wealthiest of the merchants contributed the

other--one of the handsomest miya for its size that I ever saw.

Sec. 12

Dogo, the main island of the Oki archipelago, sometimes itself called

'Oki,' lies at a distance of eight miles, north-east of the Dozen group,

beyond a stretch of very dangerous sea. We made for it immediately after

leaving Urago; passing to the open through a narrow and fantastic strait

between Nakanoshima and Nishinoshima, where the cliffs take the form of

enormous fortifications--bastions and ramparts, rising by tiers. Three

colossal rocks, anciently forming but a single mass, which would seem to

have been divided by some tremendous shock, rise from deep water near

the mouth of the channel, like shattered towers. And the last promontory

of Nishinoshima, which we pass to port, a huge red naked rock, turns to

the horizon a point so strangely shaped that it has been called by a

name signifying 'The Hat of the Shinto Priest.'

As we glide out into the swell of the sea other extraordinary shapes

appear, rising from great depths. Komori, 'The Bat,' a ragged silhouette

against the horizon, has a great hole worn through it, which glares like

an eye. Farther out two bulks, curved and pointed, and almost joined at

the top, bear a grotesque resemblance to the uplifted pincers of a crab;

and there is also visible a small dark mass which, until closely

approached, seems the figure of a man sculling a boat. Beyond these are

two islands: Matsushima, uninhabited and inaccessible, where there is

always a swell to beware of; Omorishima, even loftier, which rises from

the ocean in enormous ruddy precipices. There seemed to be some grim

force in those sinister bulks; some occult power which made our steamer

reel and shiver as she passed them. But I saw a marvellous effect of

colour under those formidable cliffs of Omorishima. They were lighted by

a slanting sun; and where the glow of the bright rock fell upon the

water, each black-blue ripple flashed bronze: I thought of a sea of

metallic violet ink.

From Dozen the cliffs of Dogo can be clearly seen when the weather is

not foul: they are streaked here and there with chalky white, which

breaks through their blue, even in time of haze. Above them a vast bulk

is visible--a point-de-repère for the mariners of Hoki--the mountain of

Daimanji. Dogo, indeed, is one great cluster of mountains.

Its cliffs rapidly turned green for us, and we followed them eastwardly

for perhaps half an hour. Then they opened unexpectedly and widely,

revealing a superb bay, widening far into the land, surrounded by hills,

and full of shipping. Beyond a confusion of masts there crept into view

a long grey line of house-fronts at the base of a crescent of cliffs--

the city of Saigo; and in a little while we touched a wharf of stone.

There I bade farewell for a month to the Oki-Saigo.

Sec. 13

Saigo was a great surprise. Instead of the big fishing village I had

expected to see, I found a city much larger and handsomer and in all

respects more modernised than Sakai; a city of long streets full of good

shops; a city with excellent public buildings; a city of which the whole

appearance indicated commercial prosperity. Most of the edifices were

roomy two story dwellings of merchants, and everything had a bright, new

look. The unpainted woodwork of the houses had not yet darkened into

grey; the blue tints of the tiling were still fresh. I learned that this

was because the town had been recently rebuilt, after a conflagration,

and rebuilt upon a larger and handsomer plan.

Saigo seems still larger than it really is. There are about one thousand

houses, which number in any part of Western Japan means a population of

at least five thousand, but must mean considerably more in Saigo. These

form three long streets--Nishimachi, Nakamachi, and Higashimachi (names

respectively signifying the Western, Middle, and Eastern Streets),

bisected by numerous cross-streets and alleys. What makes the place seem

disproportionately large is the queer way the streets twist about,

following the irregularities of the shore, and even doubling upon

themselves, so as to create from certain points of view an impression of

depth which has no existence. For Saigo is peculiarly, although

admirably situated. It fringes both banks of a river, the Yabigawa, near

its mouth, and likewise extends round a large point within the splendid

bay, besides stretching itself out upon various tongues of land. But

though smaller than it looks, to walk through all its serpentine streets

is a good afternoon's work.

Besides being divided by the Yabigawa, the town is intersected by

various water-ways, crossed by a number of bridges. On the hills behind

it stand several large buildings, including a public school, with

accommodation for three hundred students; a pretty Buddhist temple

(quite new), the gift of a rich citizen; a prison; and a hospital, which

deserves its reputation of being for its size the handsomest Japanese

edifice not only in Oki, but in all Shimane-Ken; and there are several

small but very pretty gardens.

As for the harbour, you can count more than three hundred ships riding

there of a summer's day. Grumblers, especially of the kind who still use

wooden anchors, complain of the depth; but the men-of-war do not.

Sec. 14

Never, in any part of Western Japan, have I been made more comfortable

than at Saigo. My friend and myself were the only guests at the hotel to

which we had been recommended. The broad and lofty rooms of the upper

floor which we occupied overlooked the main street on one side, and on

the other commanded a beautiful mountain landscape beyond the mouth of

the Yabigawa, which flowed by our garden. The sea breeze never failed by

day or by night, and rendered needless those pretty fans which it is the

Japanese custom to present to guests during the hot season. The fare was

astonishingly good and curiously varied; and I was told that I might

order Seyoryori (Occidental cooking) if I wished--beefsteak with fried

potatoes, roast chicken, and so forth. I did not avail myself of the

offer, as I make it a rule while travelling to escape trouble by keeping

to a purely Japanese diet; but it was no small surprise to be offered in

Saigo what is almost impossible to obtain in any other Japanese town of

five thousand inhabitants. From a romantic point of view, however, this

discovery was a disappointment. Having made my way into the most

primitive region of all Japan, I had imagined myself far beyond the

range of all modernising influences; and the suggestion of beefsteak

with fried potatoes was a disillusion. Nor was I entirely consoled by

the subsequent discovery that there were no newspapers or telegraphs.

But there was one serious hindrance to the enjoyment of these comforts:

an omnipresent, frightful, heavy, all-penetrating smell, the smell of

decomposing fish, used as a fertiliser. Tons and tons of cuttlefish

entrails are used upon the fields beyond the Yabigawa, and the never-

sleeping sea wind blows the stench into every dwelling. Vainly do they

keep incense burning in most of the houses during the heated term. After

having remained three or four days constantly in the city you become

better able to endure this odour; but if you should leave town even for

a few hours only, you will be astonished on returning to discover how

much your nose had been numbed by habit and refreshed by absence.

Sec. 15

On the morning of the day after my arrival at Saigo, a young physician

called to see me, and requested me to dine with him at his house. He

explained very frankly that as I was the first foreigner who had ever

stopped in Saigo, it would afford much pleasure both to his family and

to himself to have a good chance to see me; but the natural courtesy of

the man overcame any scruple I might have felt to gratify the curiosity

of strangers. I was not only treated charmingly at his beautiful home,

but actually sent away loaded with presents, most of which I attempted

to decline in vain. In one matter, however, I remained obstinate, even

at the risk of offending--the gift of a wonderful specimen of bateiseki

(a substance which I shall speak of hereafter). This I persisted in

refusing to take, knowing it to be not only very costly, but very rare.

My host at last yielded, but afterwards secretly sent to the hotel two

smaller specimens, which Japanese etiquette rendered it impossible to

return. Before leaving Saigo, I experienced many other unexpected

kindnesses from the same gentleman.

Not long after, one of the teachers of the Saigo public school paid me a

visit. He had heard of my interest in Oki, and brought with him two fine

maps of the islands made by himself, a little book about Saigo, and, as

a gift, a collection of Oki butterflies and insects which he had made.

It is only in Japan that one is likely to meet with these wonderful

exhibitions of pure goodness on the part of perfect strangers.

A third visitor, who had called to see my friend, performed an action

equally characteristic, but which caused me not a little pain. We

squatted down to smoke together. He drew from his girdle a remarkably

beautiful tobacco-pouch and pipe-case, containing a little silver pipe,

which he began to smoke. The pipe-case was made of a sort of black

coral, curiously carved, and attached to the tabako-ire, or pouch, by a

heavy cord of plaited silk of three colours, passed through a ball of

transparent agate. Seeing me admire it, he suddenly drew a knife from

his sleeve, and before I could prevent him, severed the pipe-case from

the pouch, and presented it to me. I felt almost as if he had cut one of

his own nerves asunder when he cut that wonderful cord; and,

nevertheless, once this had been done, to refuse the gift would have

been rude in the extreme. I made him accept a present in return; but

after that experience I was careful never again while in Oki to admire

anything in the presence of its owner.

Sec. 16

Every province of Japan has its own peculiar dialect; and that of Oki,

as might be expected in a country so isolated, is particularly distinct.

In Saigo, however, the Izumo dialect is largely used. The townsfolk in

their manners and customs much resemble Izumo country-folk; indeed,

there are many Izumo people among them, most of the large businesses

being in the hands of strangers. The women did not impress me as being

so attractive as those of Izumo: I saw several very pretty girls, but

these proved to be strangers.

However, it is only in the country that one can properly study the

physical characteristics of a population. Those of the Oki islanders may

best be noted at the fishing villages many of which I visited.

Everywhere I saw fine strong men and vigorous women; and it struck me

that the extraordinary plenty and cheapness of nutritive food had quite

as much to do with this robustness as climate and constant exercise. So

easy, indeed, is it to live in Oki, that men of other coasts, who find

existence difficult, emigrate to Oki if they can get a chance to work

there, even at less remuneration. An interesting spectacle to me were

the vast processions of fishing-vessels which always, weather

permitting, began to shoot out to sea a couple of hours before sundown.

The surprising swiftness with which those light craft were impelled by

their sinewy scullers--many of whom were women--told of a skill acquired

only through the patient experience of generations. Another matter that

amazed me was the number of boats. One night in the offing I was able to

count three hundred and five torch-fires in sight, each one signifying a

crew; and I knew that from almost any of the forty-five coast villages I

might see the same spectacle at the same time. The main part of the

population, in fact, spends its summer nights at sea. It is also a

revelation to travel from Izumo to Hamada by night upon a swift steamer

during the fishing season. The horizon for a hundred miles is alight

with torch-fires; the toil of a whole coast is revealed in that vast

illumination.

Although the human population appears to have gained rather than lost

vigour upon this barren soil, the horses and cattle of the country seem

to have degenerated. They are remarkably diminutive. I saw cows not much

bigger than Izumo calves, with calves about the size of goats. The

horses, or rather ponies, belong to a special breed of which Oki is

rather proud--very small, but hardy. I was told that there were larger

horses, but I saw none, and could not learn whether they were imported.

It seemed to me a curious thing, when I saw Oki ponies for the first

time, that Sasaki Takatsuna's battle-steed--not less famous in Japanese

story than the horse Kyrat in the ballads of Kurroglou--is declared by

the islanders to have been a native of Oki. And they have a tradition

that it once swam from Oki to Mionoseki.

Sec. 17

Almost every district and town in Japan has its meibutsu or its

kembutsu. The meibutsu of any place are its special productions, whether

natural or artificial. The kembutsu of a town or district are its

sights--its places worth visiting for any reason--religious,

traditional, historical, or pleasurable. Temples and gardens, remarkable

trees and curious rocks, are kembutsu. So, likewise, are any situations

from which beautiful scenery may be looked at, or any localities where

one can enjoy such charming spectacles as the blossoming of cherry-trees

in spring, the flickering of fireflies in summer nights, the flushing of

maple-leaves in autumn, or even that long snaky motion of moonlight upon

water to which Chinese poets have given the delightful name of Kinryo,

'the Golden Dragon.'

The great meibutsu of Oki is the same as that of Hinomisaki--dried

cuttlefish; an article of food much in demand both in China and Japan.

The cuttlefish of Oki and Hinomisaki and Mionoseki are all termed ika (a

kind of sepia); but those caught at Mionoseki are white and average

fifteen inches in length, while those of Oki and Hinomisaki rarely

exceed twelve inches and have a reddish tinge. The fisheries of

Mionoseki and Hinomisaki are scarcely known; but the fisheries of Oki

are famed not only throughout Japan, but also in Korea and China. It is

only through the tilling of the sea that the islands have become

prosperous and capable of supporting thirty thousand souls upon a coast

of which but a very small portion can be cultivated at all. Enormous

quantities of cuttlefish are shipped to the mainland; but I have been

told that the Chinese are the best customers of Oki for this product.

Should the supply ever fail, the result would be disastrous beyond

conception; but at present it seems inexhaustible, though the fishing

has been going on for thousands of years. Hundreds of tons of cuttlefish

are caught, cured, and prepared for exportation month after month; and

many hundreds of acres are fertilised with the entrails and other

refuse. An officer of police told me several strange facts about this

fishery. On the north-eastern coast of Saigo it is no uncommon thing for

one fisherman to capture upwards of two thousand cuttlefish in a single

night. Boats have been burst asunder by the weight of a few hauls, and

caution has to be observed in loading. Besides the sepia, however, this

coast swarms with another variety of cuttlefish which also furnishes a

food-staple--the formidable tako, or true octopus. Tako weighing fifteen

kwan each, or nearly one hundred and twenty-five pounds, are sometimes

caught near the fishing settlement of Nakamura. I was surprised to learn

that there was no record of any person having been injured by these

monstrous creatures.

Another meibutsu of Oki is much less known than it deserves to be--the

beautiful jet-black stone called bateiseki, or 'horsehoof stone.' [7]

It is found only in Dogo, and never in large masses. It is about as

heavy as flint, and chips like flint; but the polish which it takes is

like that of agate. There are no veins or specks in it; the intense

black colour never varies. Artistic objects are made of bateiseki: ink-

stones, wine-cups, little boxes, small dai, or stands for vases or

statuettes; even jewellery, the material being worked in the same manner

as the beautiful agates of Yumachi in Izumo. These articles are

comparatively costly, even in the place of their manufacture. There is

an odd legend about the origin of the bateiseki. It owes its name to

some fancied resemblance to a horse's hoof, either in colour, or in the

semicircular marks often seen upon the stone in its natural state, and

caused by its tendency to split in curved lines. But the story goes that

the bateiseki was formed by the touch of the hoofs of a sacred steed,

the wonderful mare of the great Minamoto warrior, Sasaki Takatsuna. She

had a foal, which fell into a deep lake in Dogo, and was drowned. She

plunged into the lake herself, but could not find her foal, being

deceived by the reflection of her own head in the water. For a long time

she sought and mourned in vain; but even the hard rocks felt for her,

and where her hoofs touched them beneath the water they became changed

into bateiseki. [8]

Scarcely less beautiful than bateiseki, and equally black, is another

Oki meibutsu, a sort of coralline marine product called umi-matsu, or

'sea-pine.' Pipe-cases, brush-stands, and other small articles are

manufactured from it; and these when polished seem to be covered with

black lacquer. Objects of umimatsu are rare and dear.

Nacre wares, however, are very cheap in Oki; and these form another

variety of meibutsu. The shells of the awabi, or 'sea-ear,' which

reaches a surprising size in these western waters, are converted by

skilful polishing and cutting into wonderful dishes, bowls, cups, and

other articles, over whose surfaces the play of iridescence is like a

flickering of fire of a hundred colours.

Sec. 18

According to a little book published at Matsue, the kembutsu of Oki-no-

Kuni are divided among three of the four principal islands; Chiburishima

only possessing nothing of special interest. For many generations the

attractions of Dogo have been the shrine of Agonashi Jizo, at

Tsubamezato; the waterfall (Dangyo-taki) at Yuenimura; the mighty cedar-

tree (sugi) before the shrine of Tama-Wakusa-jinja at Shimomura, and the

lakelet called Sai-no-ike where the bateiseki is said to be found.

Nakanoshima possesses the tomb of the exiled Emperor Go-Toba, at

Amamura, and the residence of the ancient Choja, Shikekuro, where he

dwelt betimes, and where relics of him are kept even to this day.

Nishinoshima possesses at Beppu a shrine in memory of the exiled Emperor

Go-Daigo, and on the summit of Takuhizan that shrine of Gongen-Sama,

from the place of which a wonderful view of the whole archipelago is

said to be obtainable on cloudless days.

Though Chiburishima has no kembutsu, her poor little village of

Chiburi--the same Chiburimura at which the Oki steamer always touches

on her way to Saigo--is the scene of perhaps the most interesting of

all the traditions of the archipelago.

Five hundred and sixty years ago, the exiled Emperor Go-Daigo managed to

escape from the observation of his guards, and to flee from Nishinoshima

to Chiburi. And the brown sailors of that little hamlet offered to serve

him, even with their lives if need be. They were loading their boats

with 'dried fish,' doubtless the same dried cuttlefish which their

descendants still carry to Izumo and to Hoki. The emperor promised to

remember them, should they succeed in landing him either in Hoki or in

Izumo; and they put him in a boat.

But when they had sailed only a little way they saw the pursuing

vessels. Then they told the emperor to lie down, and they piled the

dried fish high above him. The pursuers came on board and searched the

boat, but they did not even think of touching the strong-smelling

cuttlefish. And when the men of Chiburi were questioned they invented a

story, and gave to the enemies of the emperor a false clue to follow.

And so, by means of the cuttlefish, the good emperor was enabled to

escape from banishment.

Sec. 19

I found there were various difficulties in the way of becoming

acquainted with some of the kembutsu. There are no roads, properly

speaking, in all Oki, only mountain paths; and consequently there are no

jinricksha, with the exception of one especially imported by the leading

physician of Saigo, and available for use only in the streets. There are

not even any kago, or palanquins, except one for the use of the same

physician. The paths are terribly rough, according to the testimony of

the strong peasants themselves; and the distances, particularly in the

hottest period of the year, are disheartening. Ponies can be hired; but

my experiences of a similar wild country in western Izumo persuaded me

that neither pleasure nor profit was to be gained by a long and painful

ride over pine-covered hills, through slippery gullies and along

torrent-beds, merely to look at a waterfall. I abandoned the idea of

visiting Dangyotaki, but resolved, if possible, to see Agonashi-Jizo.

I had first heard in Matsue of Agonashi-Jizo, while suffering from one

of those toothaches in which the pain appears to be several hundred

miles in depth--one of those toothaches which disturb your ideas of

space and time. And a friend who sympathised said:

'People who have toothache pray to Agonashi-Jizo. Agonashi-Jizo is in

Oki, but Izumo people pray to him. When cured they go to Lake Shinji, to

the river, to the sea, or to any running stream, and drop into the water

twelve pears (nashi), one for each of the twelve months. And they

believe the currents will carry all these to Oki across the sea.

'Now, Agonashi-Jizo means 'Jizo-who-has-no-jaw.' For it is said that in

one of his former lives Jizo had such a toothache in his lower jaw that

he tore off his jaw, and threw it away, and died. And he became a

Bosatsu. And the people of Oki made a statue of him without a jaw; and

all who suffer toothache pray to that Jizo of Oki.'

This story interested me for more than once I had felt a strong desire

to do like Agonashi-Jizo, though lacking the necessary courage and

indifference to earthly consequences. Moreover, the tradition suggested

so humane and profound a comprehension of toothache, and so large a

sympathy with its victims, that I felt myself somewhat consoled.

Nevertheless, I did not go to see Agonashi-Jizo, because I found out

there was no longer any Agonashi-Jizo to see. The news was brought one

evening by some friends, shizoku of Matsue, who had settled in Oki, a

young police officer and his wife. They had walked right across the

island to see us, starting before daylight, and crossing no less than

thirty-two torrents on their way. The wife, only nineteen, was quite

slender and pretty, and did not appear tired by that long rough journey.

What we learned about the famous Jizo was this: The name Agonashi-Jizo

was only a popular corruption of the true name, Agonaoshi-Jizo, or

'Jizo-the-Healer-of-jaws.' The little temple in which the statue stood

had been burned, and the statue along with it, except a fragment of the

lower part of the figure, now piously preserved by some old peasant

woman. It was impossible to rebuild the temple, as the disestablishment

of Buddhism had entirely destroyed the resources of that faith in Oki.

But the peasantry of Tsubamezato had built a little Shinto miya on the

sight of the temple, with a torii before it, and people still prayed

there to Agonaoshi-Jizo.

This last curious fact reminded me of the little torii I had seen

erected before the images of Jizo in the Cave of the Children's Ghosts.

Shinto, in these remote districts of the west, now appropriates the

popular divinities of Buddhism, just as of old Buddhism used to absorb

the divinities of Shinto in other parts of Japan.

Sec. 20

I went to the Sai-no-ike, and to Tama-Wakasu-jinja, as these two

kembutsu can be reached by boat. The Sai-no-ike, however, much

disappointed me. It can only be visited in very calm weather, as the way

to it lies along a frightfully dangerous coast, nearly all sheer

precipice. But the sea is beautifully clear and the eye can distinguish

forms at an immense depth below the surface. After following the cliffs

for about an hour, the boat reaches a sort of cove, where the beach is

entirely corn posed of small round boulders. They form a long ridge, the

outer verge of which is always in motion, rolling to and fro with a

crash like a volley of musketry at the rush and ebb of every wave. To

climb over this ridge of moving stone balls is quite disagreeable; but

after that one has only about twenty yards to walk, and the Sai-no-ike

appears, surrounded on sides by wooded hills. It is little more than a

large freshwater pool, perhaps fifty yards wide, not in any way

wonderful You can see no rocks under the surface--only mud and pebbles

That any part of it was ever deep enough to drown a foal is hard to

believe. I wanted to swim across to the farther side to try the depth,

but the mere proposal scandalised the boat men. The pool was sacred to

the gods, and was guarded by invisible monsters; to enter it was impious

and dangerous I felt obliged to respect the local ideas on the subject,

and contented myself with inquiring where the bateiseki was found. They

pointed to the hill on the western side of the water. This indication

did not tally with the legend. I could discover no trace of any human

labour on that savage hillside; there was certainly no habitation within

miles of the place; it was the very abomination of desolation. [9]

It is never wise for the traveller in Japan to expect much on the

strength of the reputation of kembutsu. The interest attaching to the

vast majority of kembutsu depends altogether upon the exercise of

imagination; and the ability to exercise such imagination again depends

upon one's acquaintance with the history and mythology of the country.

Knolls, rocks, stumps of trees, have been for hundreds of years objects

of reverence for the peasantry, solely because of local traditions

relating to them. Broken iron kettles, bronze mirrors covered with

verdigris, rusty pieces of sword blades, fragments of red earthenware,

have drawn generations of pilgrims to the shrines in which they are

preserved. At various small temples which I visited, the temple

treasures consisted of trays full of small stones. The first time I saw

those little stones I thought that the priests had been studying geology

or mineralogy, each stone being labelled in Japanese characters. On

examination, the stones proved to be absolutely worthless in themselves,

even as specimens of neighbouring rocks. But the stories which the

priests or acolytes could tell about each and every stone were more than

interesting. The stones served as rude beads, in fact, for the recital

of a litany of Buddhist legends.

After the experience of the Sai-no-ike, I had little reason to expect to

see anything extraordinary at Shimonishimura. But this time I was

agreeably mistaken. Shimonishimura is a pretty fishing village within an

hour's row from Saigo. The boat follows a wild but beautiful coast,

passing one singular truncated hill, Oshiroyama, upon which a strong

castle stood in ancient times. There is now only a small Shinto shrine

there, surrounded by pines. From the hamlet of Shimonishimura to the

Temple of Tama-Wakasu-jinja is a walk of twenty minutes, over very rough

paths between rice-fields and vegetable gardens. But the situation of

the temple, surrounded by its sacred grove, in the heart of a landscape

framed in by mountain ranges of many colours, is charmingly impressive.

The edifice seems to have once been a Buddhist temple; it is now the

largest Shinto structure in Oki. Before its gate stands the famous

cedar, not remarkable for height, but wonderful for girth. Two yards

above the soil its circumference is forty-five feet. It has given its

name to the holy place; the Oki peasantry scarcely ever speak of Tama-

Wakasu-jinja, but only of 'O-Sugi,' the Great Cedar.

Tradition avers that this tree was planted by a Buddhist nun more than

eight hundred years ago. And it is alleged that whoever eats with

chopsticks made from the wood of that tree will never have the

toothache, and will live to become exceedingly old.[10]

Sec. 21

The shrine dedicated to the spirit of the Emperor Go-Daigo is in

Nishinoshima, at Beppu, a picturesque fishing village composed of one

long street of thatched cottages fringing a bay at the foot of a

demilune of hills. The simplicity of manners and the honest healthy

poverty of the place are quite wonderful even for Oki. There is a kind

of inn for strangers at which hot water is served instead of tea, and

dried beans instead of kwashi, and millet instead of rice. The absence

of tea, however, is much more significant than that of rice. But the

people of Beppu do not suffer for lack of proper nourishment, as their

robust appearance bears witness: there are plenty of vegetables, all

raised in tiny gardens which the women and children till during the

absence of the boats; and there is abundance of fish. There is no

Buddhist temple, but there is an ujigami.

The shrine of the emperor is at the top of a hill called Kurokizan, at

one end of the bay. The hill is covered with tall pines, and the path is

very steep, so that I thought it prudent to put on straw sandals, in

which one never slips. I found the shrine to be a small wooden miya,

scarcely three feet high, and black with age. There were remains of

other miya, much older, lying in some bushes near by. Two large stones,

unhewn and without inscriptions of any sort, have been placed before the

shrine. I looked into it, and saw a crumbling metal-mirror, dingy paper

gohei attached to splints of bamboo, two little o-mikidokkuri, or Shinto

sake-vessels of red earthenware, and one rin. There was nothing else to

see, except, indeed, certain delightful glimpses of coast and peak,

visible in the bursts of warm blue light which penetrated the

consecrated shadow, between the trunks of the great pines.

Only this humble shrine commemorates the good emperor's sojourn among

the peasantry of Oki. But there is now being erected by voluntary

subscription, at the little village of Gosen-goku-mura, near Yonago in

Tottori, quite a handsome monument of stone to the memory of his

daughter, the princess Hinako-Nai-Shinno who died there while attempting

to follow her august parent into exile. Near the place of her rest

stands a famous chestnut-tree, of which this story is told:

While the emperor's daughter was ill, she asked for chestnuts; and some

were given to her. But she took only one, and bit it a little, and threw

it away. It found root and became a grand tree. But all the chestnuts of

that tree bear marks like the marks of little teeth; for in Japanese

legend even the trees are loyal, and strive to show their loyalty in all

sorts of tender dumb ways. And that tree is called Hagata-guri-no-ki,

which signifies: 'The Tree-of-the-Tooth-marked-Chestnuts.'

Sec. 22

Long before visiting Oki I had heard that such a crime as theft was

unknown in the little archipelago; that it had never been found

necessary there to lock things up; and that, whenever weather permitted,

the people slept with their houses all open to the four winds of heaven.

And after careful investigation, I found these surprising statements

were, to a great extent, true. In the Dozen group, at least, there are

no thieves, and practically no crime. Ten policemen are sufficient to

control the whole of both Dozen and Dogo, with their population of

thirty thousand one hundred and ninety-six souls. Each policeman has

under his inspection a number of villages, which he visits on regular

days; and his absence for any length of time from one of these seems

never to be taken advantage of. His work is mostly confined to the

enforcement of hygienic regulations, and to the writing of reports. It

is very seldom that he finds it necessary to make an arrest, for the

people scarcely ever quarrel.

In the island of Dogo alone are there ever any petty thefts, and only in

that part of Oki do the people take any precautions against thieves.

Formerly there was no prison, and thefts were never heard of; and the

people of Dogo still claim that the few persons arrested in their island

for such offences are not natives of Oki, but strangers from the

mainland. What appears to be quite true is that theft was unknown in Oki

before the port of Saigo obtained its present importance. The whole

trade of Western Japan has been increased by the rapid growth of steam

communications with other parts of the empire; and the port of Saigo

appears to have gained commercially, but to have lost morally, by the

new conditions.

Yet offences against the law are still surprisingly few, even in Saigo.

Saigo has a prison; and there were people in it during my stay in the

city; but the inmates had been convicted only of such misdemeanours as

gambling (which is strictly prohibited in every form by Japanese law),

or the violation of lesser ordinances. When a serious offence is

committed, the offender is not punished in Oki, but is sent to the great

prison at Matsue, in Izumo.

The Dozen islands, however, perfectly maintain their ancient reputation

for irreproachable honesty. There have been no thieves in those three

islands within the memory of man; and there are no serious quarrels, no

fighting, nothing to make life miserable for anybody. Wild and bleak as

the land is, all can manage to live comfortably enough; food is cheap

and plenty, and manners and customs have retained their primitive

simplicity.

Sec. 23

To foreign eyes the defences of even an Izumo dwelling against thieves

seem ludicrous. Chevaux-de-frise of bamboo stakes are used extensively

in eastern cities of the empire, but in Izumo these are not often to be

seen, and do not protect the really weak points of the buildings upon

which they are placed. As for outside walls and fences, they serve only

for screens, or for ornamental boundaries; anyone can climb over them.

Anyone can also cut his way into an ordinary Japanese house with a

pocket-knife. The amado are thin sliding screens of soft wood, easy to

break with a single blow; and in most Izumo homes there is not a lock

which could resist one vigorous pull. Indeed, the Japanese themselves

are so far aware of the futility of their wooden panels against burglars

that all who can afford it build kura--small heavy fire-proof and (for

Japan) almost burglar-proof structures, with very thick earthen walls, a

narrow ponderous door fastened with a gigantic padlock, and one very

small iron-barred window, high up, near the roof. The kura are

whitewashed, and look very neat. They cannot be used for dwellings,

however, as they are mouldy and dark; and they serve only as storehouses

for valuables. It is not easy to rob a kura.

But there is no trouble in 'burglariously' entering an Izumo dwelling

unless there happen to be good watchdogs on the premises. The robber

knows the only difficulties in the way of his enterprise are such as he

is likely to encounter after having effected an entrance. In view of

these difficulties, he usually carries a sword.

Nevertheless, he does not wish to find himself in any predicament

requiring the use of a sword; and to avoid such an unpleasant

possibility he has recourse to magic.

He looks about the premises for a tarai--a kind of tub. If he finds one,

he performs a nameless operation in a certain part of the yard, and

covers the spot with the tub, turned upside down. He believes if he can

do this that a magical sleep will fall upon all the inmates of the

house, and that he will thus be able to carry away whatever he pleases,

without being heard or seen.

But every Izumo household knows the counter-charm. Each evening, before

retiring, the careful wife sees that a hocho, or kitchen knife, is laid

upon the kitchen floor, and covered with a kanadarai, or brazen wash-

basin, on the upturned bottom of which is placed a single straw sandal,

of the noiseless sort called zori, also turned upside down. She believes

this little bit of witchcraft will not only nullify the robber's spell,

but also render it impossible for him--even should he succeed in

entering the house without being seen or heard--to carry anything

whatever away. But, unless very tired indeed, she will also see that the

tarai is brought into the house before the amado are closed for the

night.

If through omission of these precautions (as the good wife might aver),

or in despite of them, the dwelling be robbed while the family are

asleep, search is made early in the morning for the footprints of the

burglar; and a moxa [11] is set burning upon each footprint. By this

operation it is hoped or believed that the burglar's feet will be made

so sore that he cannot run far, and that the police may easily overtake

him.

Sec. 24

It was in Oki that I first heard of an extraordinary superstition about

the cause of okori (ague, or intermittent fever), mild forms of which

prevail in certain districts at certain seasons; but I have since

learned that this quaint belief is an old one in Izumo and in many parts

of the San-indo. It is a curious example of the manner in which Buddhism

has been used to explain all mysteries.

Okori is said to be caused by the Gaki-botoke, or hungry ghosts.

Strictly speaking, the Gaki-botoke are the Pretas of Indian Buddhism,

spirits condemned to sojourn in the Gakido, the sphere of the penance of

perpetual hunger and thirst. But in Japanese Buddhism, the name Gaki is

given also to those souls who have none among the living to remember

them, and to prepare for them the customary offerings of food and tea.

These suffer, and seek to obtain warmth and nutriment by entering into

the bodies of the living. The person into whom a gaki enters at first

feels intensely cold and shivers, because the gaki is cold. But the

chill is followed by a feeling of intense heat, as the gaki becomes

warm. Having warmed itself and absorbed some nourishment at the expense

of its unwilling host, the gaki goes away, and the fever ceases for a

time. But at exactly the same hour upon another day the gaki will

return, and the victim must shiver and burn until the haunter has become

warm and has satisfied its hunger. Some gaki visit their patients every

day; others every alternate day, or even less often. In brief: the

paroxysms of any form of intermittent fever are explained by the

presence of the gaki, and the intervals between the paroxysms by its

absence.

Sec. 25

Of the word hotoke (which becomes botoke in such com-pounds as nure-

botoke, [12] gaki-botoke) there is something curious to say.

Hotoke signifies a Buddha.

Hotoke signifies also the Souls of the Dead--since faith holds that

these, after worthy life, either enter upon the way to Buddhahood, or

become Buddhas.

Hotoke, by euphemism, has likewise come to mean a corpse: hence the verb

hotoke-zukuri, 'to look ghastly,' to have the semblance of one long

dead.

And Hotoke-San is the name of the Image of a Face seen in the pupil of

the eye--Hotoke-San, 'the Lord Buddha.' Not the Supreme of the Hokkekyo,

but that lesser Buddha who dwelleth in each one of us,--the Spirit. [13]

Sang Rossetti: 'I looked and saw your heart in the shadow of your eyes.'

Exactly converse is the Oriental thought. A Japanese lover would have

said: 'I looked and saw my own Buddha in the shadow of your eyes.

What is the psychical theory connected with so singular a belief? [14] I

think it might be this: The Soul, within its own body, always remains

viewless, yet may reflect itself in the eyes of another, as in the

mirror of a necromancer. Vainly you gaze into the eyes of the beloved to

discern her soul: you see there only your own soul's shadow, diaphanous;

and beyond is mystery alone--reaching to the Infinite.

But is not this true? The Ego, as Schopenhauer wonderfully said, is the

dark spot in consciousness, even as the point whereat the nerve of sight

enters the eye is blind. We see ourselves in others only; only through

others do we dimly guess that which we are. And in the deepest love of

another being do we not indeed love ourselves? What are the

personalities, the individualities of us but countless vibrations in

the Universal Being? Are we not all One in the unknowable Ultimate? One

with the inconceivable past? One with the everlasting future?

Sec. 26

In Oki, as in Izumo, the public school is slowly but surely destroying

many of the old superstitions. Even the fishermen of the new generation

laugh at things in which their fathers believed. I was rather surprised

to receive from an intelligent young sailor, whom I had questioned

through an interpreter about the ghostly fire of Takuhizan, this

scornful answer: 'Oh, we used to believe those things when we were

savages; but we are civilised now!'

Nevertheless, he was somewhat in advance of his time. In the village to

which he belonged I discovered that the Fox-.superstition prevails to a

degree scarcely paralleled in any part of Izumo. The history of the

village was quite curious. From time immemorial it had been reputed a

settlement of Kitsune-mochi: in other words, all its inhabitants were

commonly believed, and perhaps believed themselves, to be the owners of

goblin-foxes. And being all alike kitsune-mochi, they could eat and

drink together, and marry and give in marriage among themselves without

affliction. They were feared with a ghostly fear by the neighbouring

peasantry, who obeyed their demands both in matters reasonable and

unreasonable. They prospered exceedingly. But some twenty years ago an

Izumo stranger settled among them. He was energetic, intelligent, and

possessed of some capital. He bought land, made various shrewd

investments, and in a surprisingly short time became the wealthiest

citizen in the place. He built a very pretty Shinto temple and presented

it to the community. There was only one obstacle in the way of his

becoming a really popular person: he was not a kitsune-mochi, and he had

even said that he hated foxes. This singularity threatened to beget

discords in the mura, especially as he married his children to

strangers, and thus began in the midst of the kitsune-mochi to establish

a sort of anti-Fox-holding colony.

Wherefore, for a long time past, the Fox-holders have been trying to

force their superfluous goblins upon him. Shadows glide about the gate

of his dwelling on moonless nights, muttering: 'Kaere! kyo kara kokoye:

kuruda!' [Be off now! from now hereafter it is here that ye must dwell:

go!] Then are the upper shoji violently pushed apart; and the voice of

the enraged house owner is heard: 'Koko Wa kiraida! modori!' [Detestable

is that which ye do! get ye gone!] And the Shadows flee away.[15]

Sec. 27

Because there were no cuttlefish at Hishi-ura, and no horrid smells, I

enjoyed myself there more than I did anywhere else in Oki. But, in any

event, Hishi-ura would have interested me more than Saigo. The life of

the pretty little town is peculiarly old-fashioned; and the ancient

domestic industries, which the introduction of machinery has almost

destroyed in Izumo and elsewhere, still exist in Hishi-ura. It was

pleasant to watch the rosy girls weaving robes of cotton and robes of

silk, relieving each other whenever the work became fatiguing. All this

quaint gentle life is open to inspection, and I loved to watch it. I had

other pleasures also: the bay is a delightful place for swimming, and

there were always boats ready to take me to any place of interest along

the coast. At night the sea breeze made the rooms which I occupied

deliciously cool; and from the balcony I could watch the bay-swell

breaking in slow, cold fire on the steps of the wharves--a beautiful

phosphorescence; and I could hear Oki mothers singing their babes to

sleep with one of the oldest lullabys in the world:

Nenneko,

O-yama no

Usagi. no ko,

Naze mata

O-mimi ga

Nagai e yara?

Okkasan no

O-nak ni

Oru toku ni,

BiWa no ha,

Sasa no ha,

Tabeta sona;

Sore de

O-mimi ga

Nagai e sona. [16]

The air was singularly sweet and plaintive, quite different from that to

which the same words are sung in Izumo, and in other parts of Japan.

One morning I had hired a boat to take me to Beppu, and was on the point

of leaving the hotel for the day, when the old landlady, touching my

arm, exclaimed: 'Wait a little while; it is not good to cross a

funeral.' I looked round the corner, and saw the procession coming along

the shore. It was a Shinto funeral--a child's funeral. Young lads came

first, carrying Shinto emblems--little white flags, and branches of the

sacred sakaki; and after the coffin the mother walked, a young peasant,

crying very loud, and wiping her eyes with the long sleeves of her

coarse blue dress. Then the old woman at my side murmured: 'She sorrows;

but she is very young: perhaps It will come back to her.' For she was a

pious Buddhist, my good old landlady, and doubtless supposed the

mother's belief like her own, although the funeral was conducted

according to the Shinto rite.

Sec. 28

There are in Buddhism certain weirdly beautiful consolations unknown to

Western faith.

The young mother who loses her first child may at least pray that it

will come back to her out of the night of death--not in dreams only, but

through reincarnation. And so praying, she writes within the hand of the

little corpse the first ideograph of her lost darling's name.

Months pass; she again becomes a mother. Eagerly she examines the

flower-soft hand of the infant. And lo! the self-same ideograph is

there--a rosy birth-mark on the tender palm; and the Soul returned looks

out upon her through the eyes of the newly-born with the gaze of other

days.

Sec. 29

While on the subject of death I may speak of a primitive but touching

custom which exists both in Oki and Izumo--that of calling the name of

the dead immediately after death. For it is thought that the call may be

heard by the fleeting soul, which might sometimes be thus induced to

return. Therefore, when a mother dies, the children should first call

her, and of all the children first the youngest (for she loved that one

most); and then the husband and all those who loved the dead cry to her

in turn.

And it is also the custom to call loudly the name of one who faints, or

becomes insensible from any cause; and there are curious beliefs

underlying this custom.

It is said that of those who swoon from pain or grief especially, many

approach very nearly to death, and these always have the same

experience. 'You feel,' said one to me in answer to my question about

the belief, 'as if you were suddenly somewhere else, and quite happy--

only tired. And you know that you want to go to a Buddhist temple which

is quite far away. At last you reach the gate of the temple court, and

you see the temple inside, and it is wonderfully large and beautiful.

And you pass the gate and enter the court to go to the temple. But

suddenly you hear voices of friends far behind you calling your name--

very, very earnestly. So you turn back, and all at once you come to

yourself again. At least it is so if your heart cares to live. But one

who is really tired of living will not listen to the voices, and walks

on to the temple. And what there happens no man knows, for they who

enter that temple never return to their friends.

'That is why people call loudly into the ear of one who swoons.

'Now, it is said that all who die, before going to the Meido, make one

pilgrimage to the great temple of Zenkoji, which is in the country of

Shinano, in Nagano-Ken. And they say that whenever the priest of that

temple preaches, he sees the Souls gather there in the hondo to hear

him, all with white wrappings about their heads. So Zenkoji might be the

temple which is seen by those who swoon. But I do not know.'

Sec. 30

I went by boat from Hishi-ura to Amamura, in Nakanoshima, to visit the

tomb of the exiled Emperor Go-Toba. The scenery along the way was

beautiful, and of softer outline than I had seen on my first passage

through the archipelago. Small rocks rising from the water were covered

with sea-gulls and cormorants, which scarcely took any notice of the

boat, even when we came almost within an oar's length. This fearlessness

of wild creatures is one of the most charming impressions of travel in

these remoter parts of Japan, yet unvisited by tourists with shotguns.

The early European and American hunters in Japan seem to have found no

difficulty and felt no compunction in exterminating what they considered

'game' over whole districts, destroying life merely for the wanton

pleasure of destruction. Their example is being imitated now by 'Young

Japan,' and the destruction of bird life is only imperfectly checked by

game laws. Happily, the Government does interfere sometimes to check

particular forms of the hunting vice. Some brutes who had observed the

habits of swallows to make their nests in Japanese houses, last year

offered to purchase some thousands of swallow-skins at a tempting price.

The effect of the advertisement was cruel enough; but the police were

promptly notified to stop the murdering, which they did. About the same

time, in one of the Yokohama papers, there appeared a letter from some

holy person announcing, as a triumph of Christian sentiment, that a

'converted' fisherman had been persuaded by foreign proselytisers to

kill a turtle, which his Buddhist comrades had vainly begged him to

spare.

Amarnura, a very small village, lies in a narrow plain of rice-fields

extending from the sea to a range of low hills. From the landing-place

to the village is about a quarter of a mile. The narrow path leading to

it passes round the base of a small hill, covered with pines, on the

outskirts of the village. There is quite a handsome Shinto temple on the

hill, small, but admirably constructed, approached by stone steps and a

paved walk.

There are the usual lions and lamps of stone, and the ordinary simple

offerings of paper and women's hair before the shrine. But I saw among

the ex-voto a number of curious things which I had never seen in Izumo--

tiny miniature buckets, well-buckets, with rope and pole complete,

neatly fashioned out of bamboo. The boatman said that farmers bring

these to the shrine when praying for rain. The deity was called Suwa-

Dai-Myojin.

It was at the neighbouring village, of which Suwa-Dai-Myojin seems to be

the ujigami, that the Emperor Go-Toba is said to have dwelt, in the

house of the Choja Shikekuro. The Shikekuro homestead remains, and still

belongs to the Choja'sa descendants, but they have become very poor. I

asked permission to see the cups from which the exiled emperor drank,

and other relics of his stay said to be preserved by the family; but in

consequence of illness in the house I could not be received. So I had

only a glimpse of the garden, where there is a celebrated pond--a

kembutsu.

The pond is called Shikekuro's Pond,--Shikekuro-no-ike. And for seven

hundred years, 'tis said, the frogs of that pond have never been heard

to croak.

For the Emperor Go-Toba, having one night been kept awake by the

croaking of the frogs in that pond, arose and went out and commanded

them, saying: 'Be silent!' Wherefore they have remained silent through

all the centuries even unto this day.

Near the pond there was in that time a great pine-tree, of which the

rustling upon windy nights disturbed the emperor's rest. And he spoke to

the pine-tree, and said to it: 'Be still!' And never thereafter was that

tree heard to rustle, even in time of storms.

But that tree has ceased to be. Nothing remains of it but a few

fragments of its wood and hark, which are carefully preserved as relics

by the ancients of Oki. Such a fragment was shown to me in the toko of

the guest chamber of the dwelling of a physician of Saigo--the same

gentleman whose kindness I have related elsewhere.

The tomb of the emperor lies on the slope of a low hill, at a distance

of about ten minutes' walk from the village. It is far less imposing

than the least of the tombs of the Matsudaira at Matsue, in the grand

old courts of Gesshoji; but it was perhaps the best which the poor

little country of Oki could furnish. This is not, however, the original

place of the tomb, which was moved by imperial order in the sixth year

of Meiji to its present site. A lofty fence, or rather stockade of heavy

wooden posts, painted black, incloses a piece of ground perhaps one

hundred and fifty feet long, by about fifty broad, and graded into three

levels, or low terraces. All the space within is shaded by pines. In the

centre of the last and highest of the little terraces the tomb is

placed: a single large slab of grey rock laid horizontally. A narrow

paved walk leads from the gate to the tomb; ascending each terrace by

three or four stone steps. A little within this gateway, which is opened

to visitors only once a year, there is a torii facing the sepulchre; and

before the highest terrace there are a pair of stone lamps. All this is

severely simple, but effective in a certain touching way. The country

stillness is broken only by the shrilling of the semi and the

tintinnabulation of that strange little insect, the suzumushi, whose

calling sounds just like the tinkling of the tiny bells which are shaken

by the miko in her sacred dance.

Sec. 31

I remained nearly eight days at Hishi-ura on the occasion of my second

visit there, but only three at Urago. Urago proved a less pleasant place

to stay in--not because its smells were any stronger than those of

Saigo, but for other reasons which shall presently appear.

More than one foreign man-of-war has touched at Saigo, and English and

Russian officers of the navy have been seen in the streets. They were

tall, fair-haired, stalwart men; and the people of Oki still imagine

that all foreigners from the West have the same stature and complexion.

I was the first foreigner who ever remained even a night in the town,

and I stayed there two weeks; but being small and dark, and dressed like

a Japanese, I excited little attention among the common people: it

seemed to them that I was only a curious-looking Japanese from some

remote part of the empire. At Hishi-ura the same impression prevailed

for a time; and even after the fact of my being a foreigner had become

generally known, the population caused me no annoyance whatever: they

had already become accustomed to see me walking about the streets or

swimming across the bay. But it was quite otherwise at Urago. The first

time I landed there I had managed to escape notice, being in Japanese

costume, and wearing a very large Izumo hat, which partly concealed my

face. After I left for Saigo, the people must have found out that a

foreigner--the very first ever seen in Dozen--had actually been in Urago

without their knowledge; for my second visit made a sensation such as I

had never been the cause of anywhere else, except at Kaka-ura.

I had barely time to enter the hotel, before the street became entirely

blockaded by an amazing crowd desirous to see. The hotel was

unfortunately situated on a corner, so that it was soon besieged on two

sides. I was shown to a large back room on the second floor; and I had

no sooner squatted down on my mat, than the people began to come

upstairs quite noiselessly, all leaving their sandals at the foot of the

steps. They were too polite to enter the room; but four or five would

put their heads through the doorway at once, and bow, and smile, and

look, and retire to make way for those who filled the stairway behind

them. It was no easy matter for the servant to bring me my dinner.

Meanwhile, not only had the upper rooms of the houses across the way

become packed with gazers, but all the roofs--north, east, and south--

which commanded a view of my apartment had been occupied by men and boys

in multitude. Numbers of lads had also climbed (I never could imagine

how) upon the narrow eaves over the galleries below my windows; and all

the openings of my room, on three sides, were full of faces. Then tiles

gave way, and boys fell, but nobody appeared to be hurt. And the

queerest fact was that during the performance of these extraordinary

gymnastics there was a silence of death: had I not seen the throng, I

might have supposed there was not a soul in the street.

The landlord began to scold; but, finding scolding of no avail, he

summoned a policeman. The policeman begged me to excuse the people, who

had never seen a foreigner before; and asked me if I wished him to clear

the street. He could have done that by merely lifting his little finger;

but as the scene amused me, I begged him not to order the people away,

but only to tell the boys not to climb upon the awnings, some of which

they had already damaged. He told them most effectually, speaking in a

very low voice. During all the rest of the time I was in Urago, no one

dared to go near the awnings. A Japanese policeman never speaks more

than once about anything new, and always speaks to the purpose.

The public curiosity, however, lasted without abate for three days, and

would have lasted longer if I had not fled from Urago. Whenever I went

out I drew the population after me with a pattering of geta like the

sound of surf moving shingle. Yet, except for that particular sound,

there was silence. No word was spoken. Whether this was because the

whole mental faculty was so strained by the intensity of the desire to

see that speech became impossible, I am not able to decide. But there

was no roughness in all that curiosity; there was never anything

approaching rudeness, except in the matter of ascending to my room

without leave; and that was done so gently that I could not wish the

intruders rebuked. Nevertheless, three days of such experience proved

trying. Despite the heat, I had to close the doors and windows at night

to prevent myself being watched while asleep. About my effects I had no

anxiety at all: thefts are never committed in the island. But that

perpetual silent crowding about me became at last more than

embarrassing. It was innocent, but it was weird. It made me feel like a

ghost--a new arrival in the Meido, surrounded by shapes without voice.

Sec. 32

There is very little privacy of any sort in Japanese life. Among the

people, indeed, what we term privacy in the Occident does not exist.

There are only walls of paper dividing the lives of men; there are only

sliding screens instead of doors; there are neither locks nor bolts to

be used by day; and whenever weather permits, the fronts, and perhaps

even the sides of the house are literally removed, and its interior

widely opened to the air, the light, and the public gaze. Not even the

rich man closes his front gate by day. Within a hotel or even a common

dwelling-house, nobody knocks before entering your room: there is

nothing to knock at except a shoji or fusuma, which cannot be knocked

upon without being broken. And in this world of paper walls and

sunshine, nobody is afraid or ashamed of fellow-men or fellow-women.

Whatever is done, is done, after a fashion, in public. Your personal

habits, your idiosyncrasies (if you have any), your foibles, your likes

and dislikes, your loves or your hates, must be known to everybody.

Neither vices nor virtues can be hidden: there is absolutely nowhere to

hide them. And this condition has lasted from the most ancient time.

There has never been, for the common millions at least, even the idea of

living unobserved. Life can be comfortably and happily lived in Japan

only upon the condition that all matters relating to it are open to the

inspection of the community. Which implies exceptional moral conditions,

such as have no being in the West. It is perfectly comprehensible only

to those who know by experience the extraordinary charm of Japanese

character, the infinite goodness of the common people, their instinctive

politeness, and the absence among them of any tendencies to indulge in

criticism, ridicule, irony, or sarcasm. No one endeavours to expand his

own individuality by belittling his fellow; no one tries to make himself

appear a superior being: any such attempt would be vain in a community

where the weaknesses of each are known to all, where nothing can be

concealed or disguised, and where affectation could only be regarded as

a mild form of insanity.

Sec. 33

Some of the old samurai of Matsue are living in the Oki Islands. When

the great military caste was disestablished, a few shrewd men decided to

try their fortunes in the little archipelago, where customs remained

old-fashioned and lands were cheap. Several succeeded--probably because

of the whole-souled honesty and simplicity of manners in the islands;

for samurai have seldom elsewhere been able to succeed in business of

any sort when obliged to compete with experienced traders, Others

failed, but were able to adopt various humble occupations which gave

them the means to live.

Besides these aged survivors of the feudal period, I learned there were

in Oki several children of once noble families--youths and maidens of

illustrious extraction--bravely facing the new conditions of life in

this remotest and poorest region of the empire. Daughters of men to whom

the population of a town once bowed down were learning the bitter toil

of the rice-fields. Youths, who might in another era have aspired to

offices of State, had become the trusted servants of Oki heimin. Others,

again, had entered the police, [17] and rightly deemed themselves

fortunate.

No doubt that change of civilisation forced upon Japan by Christian

bayonets, for the holy motive of gain, may yet save the empire from

perils greater than those of the late social disintegration; but it was

cruelly sudden. To imagine the consequence of depriving the English

landed gentry of their revenues would not enable one to realise exactly

what a similar privation signified to the Japanese samurai. For the old

warrior caste knew only the arts of courtesy and the arts of war.

And hearing of these things, I could not help thinking about a strange

pageant at the last great Izumo festival of Rakuzan-jinja.

Sec. 34

The hamlet of Rakuzan, known only for its bright yellow pottery and its

little Shinto temple, drowses at the foot of a wooded hill about one ri

from Matsue, beyond a wilderness of rice-fields. And the deity of

Rakuzan-jinja is Naomasa, grandson of Iyeyasu, and father of the Daimyo

of Matsue.

Some of the Matsudaira slumber in Buddhist ground, guarded by tortoises

and lions of stone, in the marvellous old courts of Gesshoji. But

Naomasa, the founder of their long line, is enshrined at Rakuzan; and

the Izumo peasants still clap their hands in prayer before his miya, and

implore his love and protection.

Now formerly upon each annual matsuri, or festival, of Rakuzan-jinja, it

was customary to carry the miya of Naomasa-San from the village temple

to the castle of Matsue. In solemn procession it was borne to .those

strange old family temples in the heart of the fortress-grounds--Go-jo-

naiInari-Daimyojin, and Kusunoki-Matauhira-Inari-Daimyojin--whose

mouldering courts, peopled with lions and foxes of stone, are shadowed

by enormous trees. After certain Shinto rites had been performed at both

temples, the miya was carried back in procession to Rakuzan. And this

annual ceremony was called the miyuki or togyo--'the August Going,' or

Visit, of the ancestor to the ancestral home.

But the revolution changed all things. The daimyo passed away; the

castles fell to ruin; the samurai caste was abolished and dispossessed.

And the miya of Lord Naomasa made no August Visit to the home of the

Mataudaira for more than thirty years.

But it came to pass a little time ago, that certain old men of Matsue

bethought them to revive once more the ancient customs of the Rakuzan

matauri. And there was a miyuki.

The miya of Lord Naomasa was placed within a barge, draped and

decorated, and so conveyed by river and canal to the eastern end of the

old Mataubara road, along whose pine-shaded way the daimyo formerly

departed to Yedo on their annual visit, or returned therefrom. All those

who rowed the barge were aged samurai who had been wont in their youth

to row the barge of Matsudaira-Dewa-no-Kami, the last Lord of Izumo.

They wore their ancient feudal costume; and they tried to sing their

ancient boat-song--o-funa-uta. But more than a generation had passed

since the last time they had sung it; and some of them had lost their

teeth, so that they could not pronounce the words well; and all, being

aged, lost breath easily in the exertion of wielding the oars.

Nevertheless they rowed the barge to the place appointed.

Thence the shrine was borne to a spot by the side of the Mataubara road,

where anciently stood an August Tea-House, O-Chaya, at which the daimyo,

returning from the Shogun's capital, were accustomed to rest and to

receive their faithful retainers, who always came in procession to meet

them. No tea-house stands there now; but, in accord with old custom, the

shrine and its escort waited at the place among the wild flowers and the

pines. And then was seen a strange sight.

For there came to meet the ghost of the great lord a long procession of

shapes that seemed ghosts also--shapes risen out of the dust of

cemeteries: warriors in created helmets and masks of iron and

breastplates of steel, girded with two swords; and spearmen wearing

queues; and retainers in kamishimo; and bearers of hasami-bako. Yet

ghosts these were not, but aged samurai of Matsue, who had borne arms in

the service of the last of the daimyo. And among them appeared his

surviving ministers, the venerable karo; and these, as the procession

turned city-ward, took their old places of honour, and marched before

the shrine valiantly, though bent with years.

How that pageant might have impressed other strangers I do not know. For

me, knowing something of the history of each of those aged men, the

scene had a significance apart from its story of forgotten customs,

apart from its interest as a feudal procession. To-day each and all of

those old samurai are unspeakably poor. Their beautiful homes vanished

long ago; their gardens have been turned into rice-fields; their

household treasures were cruelly bargained for, and bought for almost

nothing by curio-dealers to be resold at high prices to foreigners at

the open ports. And yet what they could have obtained considerable

money for, and what had ceased to be of any service to them, they clung

to fondly through all their poverty and humiliation. Never could they be

induced to part with their armour and their swords, even when pressed by

direst want, under the new and harder conditions of existence.

The river banks, the streets, the balconies, and blue-tiled roofs were

thronged. There was a great quiet as the procession passed. Young people

gazed in hushed wonder, feeling the rare worth of that chance to look

upon what will belong in the future to picture-books only and to the

quaint Japanese stage. And old men wept silently, remembering their

youth.

Well spake the ancient thinker: 'Everything is only for a day, both that

which remembers, and that which is remembered.'

Sec. 35

Once more, homeward bound, I sat upon the cabin-roof of the Oki-Saigo--

this time happily unencumbered by watermelons--and tried to explain to

myself the feeling of melancholy with which I watched those wild island-

coasts vanishing over the pale sea into the white horizon. No doubt it

was inspired partly by the recollection of kindnesses received from many

whom I shall never meet again; partly, also, by my familiarity with the

ancient soil itself, and remembrance of shapes and places: the long blue

visions down channels between islands--the faint grey fishing hamlets

hiding in stony bays--the elfish oddity of narrow streets in little

primitive towns--the forms and tints of peak and vale made lovable by

daily intimacy--the crooked broken paths to shadowed shrines of gods

with long mysterious names--the butterfly-drifting of yellow sails out

of the glow of an unknown horizon. Yet I think it was due much more to a

particular sensation in which every memory was steeped and toned, as a

landscape is steeped in the light and toned in the colours of the

morning: the sensation of conditions closer to Nature's heart, and

farther from the monstrous machine-world of Western life than any into

which I had ever entered north of the torrid zone. And then it seemed to

me that I loved Oki--in spite of the cuttlefish--chiefly because of

having felt there, as nowhere else in Japan, the full joy of escape from

the far-reaching influences of high-pressure civilisation--the delight

of knowing one's self, in Dozen at least, well beyond the range of

everything artificial in human existence.

Chapter Nine Of Souls

Kinjuro, the ancient gardener, whose head shines like an ivory ball, sat

him down a moment on the edge of the ita-no-ma outside my study to smoke

his pipe at the hibachi always left there for him. And as he smoked he

found occasion to reprove the boy who assists him. What the boy had been

doing I did not exactly know; but I heard Kinjuro bid him try to comport

himself like a creature having more than one Soul. And because those

words interested me I went out and sat down by Kinjuro.

'O Kinjuro,' I said, 'whether I myself have one or more Souls I am not

sure. But it would much please me to learn how many Souls have you.'

'I-the-Selfish-One have only four Souls,' made answer Kinjuro, with

conviction imperturbable.

'Four? re-echoed I, feeling doubtful of having understood 'Four,' he

repeated. 'But that boy I think can have only one Soul, so much is he

wanting in patience.'

'And in what manner,' I asked, 'came you to learn that you have four

Souls?'

'There are wise men,' made he answer, while knocking the ashes out of

his little silver pipe, 'there are wise men who know these things. And

there is an ancient book which discourses of them. According to the age

of a man, and the time of his birth, and the stars of heaven, may the

number of his Souls be divined. But this is the knowledge of old men:

the young folk of these times who learn the things of the West do not

believe.'

'And tell me, O Kinjuro, do there now exist people having more Souls

than you?'

'Assuredly. Some have five, some six, some seven, some eight Souls. But

no one is by the gods permitted to have more Souls than nine.'

[Now this, as a universal statement, I could not believe, remembering a

woman upon the other side of the world who possessed many generations of

Souls, and knew how to use them all. She wore her Souls just as other

women wear their dresses, and changed them several times a day; and the

multitude of dresses in the wardrobe of Queen Elizabeth was as nothing

to the multitude of this wonderful person's Souls. For which reason she

never appeared the same upon two different occasions; and she changed

her thought and her voice with her Souls. Sometimes she was of the

South, and her eyes were brown; and again she was of the North, and her

eyes were grey. Sometimes she was of the thirteenth, and sometimes of

the eighteenth century; and people doubted their own senses when they

saw these things; and they tried to find out the truth by begging

photographs of her, and then comparing them. Now the photographers

rejoiced to photograph her because she was more than fair; but presently

they also were confounded by the discovery that she was never the same

subject twice. So the men who most admired her could not presume to fall

in love with her because that would have been absurd. She had altogether

too many Souls. And some of you who read this I have written will bear

witness to the verity thereof.]

'Concerning this Country of the Gods, O Kinjuro, that which you say may

be true. But there are other countries having only gods made of gold;

and in those countries matters are not so well arranged; and the

inhabitants thereof are plagued with a plague of Souls. For while some

have but half a Soul, or no Soul at all, others have Souls in multitude

thrust upon them, for which neither nutriment nor employ can be found.

And Souls thus situated torment exceedingly their owners. . . . .That is

to say, Western Souls. . . . But tell me, I pray you, what is the use of

having more than one or two Souls?'

'Master, if all had the same number and quality of Souls, all would

surely be of one mind. But that people are different from each other is

apparent; and the differences among them are because of the differences

in the quality and the number of their Souls.'

'And it is better to have many Souls than a few?' 'It is better.'

'And the man having but one Soul is a being imperfect?'

'Very imperfect.'

'Yet a man very imperfect might have had an ancestor perfect?'

'That is true.'

'So that a man of to-day possessing but one Soul may have had an

ancestor with nine Souls?'

'Yes.'

'Then what has become of those other eight Souls which the ancestor

possessed, but which the descendant is without?'

'Ah! that is the work of the gods. The gods alone fix the number of

Souls for each of us. To the worthy are many given; to the unworthy

few.'

'Not from the parents, then, do the Souls descend?'

'Nay! Most ancient the Souls are: innumerable, the years of them.'

'And this I desire to know: Can a man separate his Souls? Can he, for

instance, have one Soul in Kyoto and one in Tokyo and one in Matsue, all

at the same time?'

'He cannot; they remain always together.'

'How? One within the other--like the little lacquered boxes of an inro?'

'Nay: that none but the gods know.'

'And the Souls are never separated?'

'Sometimes they may be separated. But if the Souls of a man be

separated, that man becomes mad. Mad people are those who have lost one

of their Souls.'

'But after death what becomes of the Souls?'

'They remain still together. . . . When a man dies his Souls ascend to

the roof of the house. And they stay upon the roof for the space of nine

and forty days.'

'On what part of the roof?'

'On the yane-no-mune--upon the Ridge of the Roof they stay.'

'Can they be seen?'

'Nay: they are like the air is. To and fro upon the Ridge of the Roof

they move, like a little wind.'

'Why do they not stay upon the roof for fifty days instead of forty-

nine?'

'Seven weeks is the time allotted them before they must depart: seven

weeks make the measure of forty-nine days. But why this should be, I

cannot tell.'

I was not unaware of the ancient belief that the spirit of a dead man

haunts for a time the roof of his dwelling, because it is referred to

quite impressively in many Japanese dramas, among others in the play

called Kagami-yama, which makes the people weep. But I had not before

heard of triplex and quadruplex and other yet more highly complex Souls;

and I questioned Kinjuro vainly in the hope of learning the authority

for his beliefs. They were the beliefs of his fathers: that was all he

knew. [1]

Like most Izumo folk, Kinjuro was a Buddhist as well as a Shintoist. As

the former he belonged to the Zen-shu, as the latter to the Izumo-

Taisha. Yet his ontology seemed to me not of either. Buddhism does not

teach the doctrine of compound-multiple Souls. There are old Shinto

books inaccessible to the multitude which speak of a doctrine very

remotely akin to Kinjuro's; but Kinjuro had never seen them. Those books

say that each of us has two souls--the Ara-tama or Rough Soul, which is

vindictive; and the Nigi-tama, or Gentle Soul, which is all-forgiving.

Furthermore, we are all possessed by the spirit of Oho-maga-tsu-hi-no-

Kami, the 'Wondrous Deity of Exceeding Great Evils'; also by the spirit

of Oho-naho-bi-no-Kami, the 'Wondrous Great Rectifying Deity,' a

counteracting influence. These were not exactly the ideas of Kinjuro.

But I remembered something Hirata wrote which reminded me of Kinjuro's

words about a possible separation of souls. Hirata's teaching was that

the ara-tama of a man may leave his body, assume his shape, and without

his knowledge destroy a hated enemy. So I asked Kinjuro about it. He

said he had never heard of a nigi-tama or an ara-tama; but he told me

this:

'Master, when a man has been discovered by his wife to be secretly

enamoured of another, it sometimes happens that the guilty woman is

seized with a sickness that no physician can cure. For one of the Souls

of the wife, moved exceedingly by anger, passes into the body of that

woman to destroy her. But the wife also sickens, or loses her mind

awhile, because of the absence of her Soul.

'And there is another and more wonderful thing known to us of Nippon,

which you, being of the West, may never have heard. By the power of the

gods, for a righteous purpose, sometimes a Soul may be withdrawn a

little while from its body, and be made to utter its most secret

thought. But no suffering to the body is then caused. And the wonder is

wrought in this wise:

'A man loves a beautiful girl whom he is at liberty to marry; but he

doubts whether he can hope to make her love him in return. He seeks the

kannushi of a certain Shinto temple, [2] and tells of his doubt, and

asks the aid of the gods to solve it. Then the priests demand, not his

name, but his age and the year and day and hour of his birth, which they

write down for the gods to know; and they bid the man return to the

temple after the space of seven days.

'And during those seven days the priests offer prayer to the gods that

the doubt may be solved; and one of them each morning bathes all his

body in cold, pure water, and at each repast eats only food prepared

with holy fire. And on the eighth day the man returns to the temple, and

enters an inner chamber where the priests receive him.

'A ceremony is performed, and certain prayers are said, after which all

wait in silence. And then, the priest who has performed the rites of

purification suddenly begins to tremble violently in all his body, like

one trembling with a great fever. And this is because, by the power of

the gods, the Soul of the girl whose love is doubted has entered, all

fearfully, into the body of that priest. She does not know; for at that

time, wherever she may be, she is in a deep sleep from which nothing can

arouse her. But her Soul, having been summoned into the body of the

priest, can speak nothing save the truth; and It is made to tell all

Its thought. And the priest speaks not with his own voice, but with the

voice of the Soul; and he speaks in the person of the Soul, saying: "I

love," or "I hate," according as the truth may be, and in the language

of women. If there be hate, then the reason of the hate is spoken; but

if the answer be of love, there is little to say. And then the trembling

of the priest stops, for the Soul passes from him; and he falls forward

upon his face like one dead, and long so--remains.

'Tell me, Kinjuro,' I asked, after all these queer things had been

related to me, 'have you yourself ever known of a Soul being removed by

the power of the gods, and placed in the heart of a priest?'

'Yes: I myself have known it.'

I remained silent and waited. The old man emptied his little pipe, threw

it down beside the hibachi, folded his hands, and looked at the lotus-

flowers for some time before he spoke again. Then he smiled and said:

'Master, I married when I was very young. For many years we had no

children: then my wife at last gave me a son, and became a Buddha. But

my son lived and grew up handsome and strong; and when the Revolution

came, he joined the armies of the Son of Heaven; and he died the death

of a man in the great war of the South, in Kyushu. I loved him; and I

wept with joy when I heard that he had been able to die for our Sacred

Emperor: since there is no more noble death for the son of a samurai. So

they buried my boy far away from me in Kyushu, upon a hill near

Kumamoto, which is a famous city with a strong garrison; and I went

there to make his tomb beautiful. But his name is here also, in

Ninomaru, graven on the monument to the men of Izumo who fell in the

good fight for loyalty and honour in our emperor's holy cause; and when

I see his name there, my heart laughs, and I speak to him, and then it

seems as if he were walking beside me again, under the great pines. . .

But all that is another matter.

'I sorrowed for my wife. All the years we had dwelt together no unkind

word had ever been uttered between us. And when she died, I thought

never to marry again. But after two more years had passed, my father and

mother desired a daughter in the house, and they told me of their wish,

and of a girl who was beautiful and of good family, though poor. The

family were of our kindred, and the girl was their only support: she

wove garments of silk and garments of cotton, and for this she received

but little money. And because she was filial and comely, and our kindred

not fortunate, my parents desired that I should marry her and help her

people; for in those days we had a small income of rice. Then, being

accustomed to obey my parents, I suffered them to do what they thought

best. So the nakodo was summoned, and the arrangements for the wedding

began.

'Twice I was able to see the girl in the house of her parents. And I

thought myself fortunate the first time I looked upon her; for she was

very comely and young. But the second time, I perceived she had been

weeping, and that her eyes avoided mine. Then my heart sank; for I

thought: She dislikes me; and they are forcing her to this thing. Then I

resolved to question the gods; and I caused the marriage to be delayed;

and I went to the temple of Yanagi-no-Inari-Sama, which is in the Street

Zaimokucho.

'And when the trembling came upon him, the priest, speaking with the

Soul of that maid, declared to me: "My heart hates you, and the sight of

your face gives me sickness, because I love another, and because this

marriage is forced upon me. Yet though my heart hates you, I must marry

you because my parents are poor and old, and I alone cannot long

continue to support them, for my work is killing me. But though I may

strive to be a dutiful wife, there never will be gladness in your house

because of me; for my heart hates you with a great and lasting hate; and

the sound of your voice makes a sickness in my breast (koe kiite mo mune

ga waruku naru); and only to see your face makes me wish that I were

dead (kao miru to shinitaku naru)."

'Thus knowing the truth, I told it to my parents; and I wrote a letter

of kind words to the maid, praying pardon for the pain I had unknowingly

caused her; and I feigned long illness, that the marriage might be

broken off without gossip; and we made a gift to that family; and the

maid was glad. For she was enabled at a later time to marry the young

man she loved. My parents never pressed me again to take a wife; and

since their death I have lived alone. . . . O Master, look upon the

extreme wickedness of that boy!'

Taking advantage of our conversation, Kinjuro's young assistant had

improvised a rod and line with a bamboo stick and a bit of string; and

had fastened to the end of the string a pellet of tobacco stolen from

the old man's pouch. With this bait he had been fishing in the lotus

pond; and a frog had swallowed it, and was now suspended high above the

pebbles, sprawling in rotary motion, kicking in frantic spasms of

disgust and despair. 'Kaji!' shouted the gardener.

The boy dropped his rod with a laugh, and ran to us unabashed; while the

frog, having disgorged the tobacco, plopped back into the lotus pond.

Evidently Kaji was not afraid of scoldings.

'Gosho ga waruil' declared the old man, shaking his ivory head. 'O Kaji,

much I fear that your next birth will be bad! Do I buy tobacco for

frogs? Master, said I not rightly this boy has but one Soul?'

CHAPTER TEN Of Ghosts and Goblins

Sec. 1

THERE was a Buddha, according to the Hokkekyo who 'even assumed the

shape of a goblin to preach to such as were to be converted by a

goblin.' And in the same Sutra may be found this promise of the Teacher:

'While he is dwelling lonely in the wilderness, I will send thither

goblins in great number to keep him company.' The appalling character

of this promise is indeed somewhat modified by the assurance that gods

also are to be sent. But if ever I become a holy man, I shall take heed

not to dwell in the wilderness, because I have seen Japanese goblins,

and I do not like them.

Kinjuro showed them to me last night. They had come to town for the

matsuri of our own ujigami, or parish-temple; and, as there were many

curious things to be seen at the night festival, we started for the

temple after dark, Kinjuro carrying a paper lantern painted with my

crest.

It had snowed heavily in the morning; but now the sky and the sharp

still air were clear as diamond; and the crisp snow made a pleasant

crunching sound under our feet as we walked; and it occurred to me to

say: 'O Kinjuro, is there a God of Snow?'

'I cannot tell,' replied Kinjuro. 'There be many gods I do not know; and

there is not any man who knows the names of all the gods. But there is

the Yuki-Onna, the Woman of the Snow.'

'And what is the Yuki-Onna?'

'She is the White One that makes the Faces in the snow. She does not any

harm, only makes afraid. By day she lifts only her head, and frightens

those who journey alone. But at night she rises up sometimes, taller

than the trees, and looks about a little while, and then falls back in a

shower of snow.' [1]

'What is her face like?'

'It is all white, white. It is an enormous face. And it is a lonesome

face.'

[The word Kinjuro used was samushii. Its common meaning is 'lonesome';

but he used it, I think, in the sense of 'weird.']

'Did you ever see her, Kinjuro?'

'Master, I never saw her. But my father told me that once when he was a

child, he wanted to go to a neighbour's house through the snow to play

with another little boy; and that on the way he saw a great white Face

rise up from the snow and look lonesomely about, so that he cried for

fear and ran back. Then his people all went out and looked; but there

was only snow; and then they knew that he had seen the Yuki-Onna.'

'And in these days, Kinjuro, do people ever see her?'

'Yes. Those who make the pilgrimage to Yabumura, in the period called

Dai-Kan, which is the Time of the Greatest Cold, [2] they sometimes see

her.'

'What is there at Yabumura, Kinjuro?'

'There is the Yabu-jinja, which is an ancient and famous temple of Yabu-

no-Tenno-San--the God of Colds, Kaze-no-Kami. It is high upon a hill,

nearly nine ri from Matsue. And the great matsuri of that temple is held

upon the tenth and eleventh days of the Second Month. And on those days

strange things may be seen. For one who gets a very bad cold prays to

the deity of Yabu-jinja to cure it, and takes a vow to make a pilgrimage

naked to the temple at the time of the matsuri.'

'Naked?'

'Yes: the pilgrims wear only waraji, and a little cloth round their

loins. And a great many men and women go naked through the snow to the

temple, though the snow is deep at that time. And each man carries a

bunch of gohei and a naked sword as gifts to the temple; and each woman

carries a metal mirror. And at the temple, the priests receive them,

performing curious rites. For the priests then, according to ancient

custom, attire themselves like sick men, and lie down and groan, and

drink, potions made of herbs, prepared after the Chinese manner.'

'But do not some of the pilgrims die of cold, Kinjuro?'

'No: our Izumo peasants are hardy. Besides, they run swiftly, so that

they reach the temple all warm. And before returning they put on thick

warm robes. But sometimes, upon the way, they see the Yuki-Onna.'

Sec. 2

Each side of the street leading to the miya was illuminated with a line

of paper lanterns bearing holy symbols; and the immense court of the

temple had been transformed into a town of booths, and shops, and

temporary theatres. In spite of the cold, the crowd was prodigious.

There seemed to be all the usual attractions of a matsuri, and a number

of unusual ones. Among the familiar lures, I missed at this festival

only the maiden wearing an obi of living snakes; probably it had become

too cold for the snakes. There were several fortune-tellers and

jugglers; there were acrobats and dancers; there was a man making

pictures out of sand; and there was a menagerie containing an emu from

Australia, and a couple of enormous bats from the Loo Choo Islands--bats

trained to do several things. I did reverence to the gods, and bought

some extraordinary toys; and then we went to look for the goblins. They

were domiciled in a large permanent structure, rented to showmen on

special occasions.

Gigantic characters signifying 'IKI-NINGYO,' painted upon the signboard

at the entrance, partly hinted the nature of the exhibition. Iki-ningyo

('living images') somewhat correspond to our Occidental 'wax figures';

but the equally realistic Japanese creations are made of much cheaper

material. Having bought two wooden tickets for one sen each, we entered,

and passed behind a curtain to find ourselves in a long corridor lined

with booths, or rather matted compartments, about the size of small

rooms. Each space, decorated with scenery appropriate to the subject,

was occupied by a group of life-size figures. The group nearest the

entrance, representing two men playing samisen and two geisha dancing,

seemed to me without excuse for being, until Kinjuro had translated a

little placard before it, announcing that one of the figures was a

living person. We watched in vain for a wink or palpitation. Suddenly

one of the musicians laughed aloud, shook his head, and began to play

and sing. The deception was perfect.

The remaining groups, twenty-four in number, were powerfully impressive

in their peculiar way, representing mostly famous popular traditions or

sacred myths. Feudal heroisms, the memory of which stirs every Japanese

heart; legends of filial piety; Buddhist miracles, and stories of

emperors were among the subjects. Sometimes, however, the realism was

brutal, as in one scene representing the body of a woman lying in a pool

of blood, with brains scattered by a sword stroke. Nor was this

unpleasantness altogether atoned for by her miraculous resuscitation in

the adjoining compartment, where she reappeared returning thanks in a

Nichiren temple, and converting her slaughterer, who happened, by some

extraordinary accident, to go there at the same time.

At the termination of the corridor there hung a black curtain behind

which screams could be heard. And above the black curtain was a placard

inscribed with the promise of a gift to anybody able to traverse the

mysteries beyond without being frightened.

'Master,' said Kinjuro, 'the goblins are inside.'

We lifted the veil, and found ourselves in a sort of lane between

hedges, and behind the hedges we saw tombs; we were in a graveyard.

There were real weeds and trees, and sotoba and haka, and the effect was

quite natural. Moreover, as the roof was very lofty, and kept invisible

by a clever arrangement of lights, all seemed darkness only; and this

gave one a sense of being out under the night, a feeling accentuated by

the chill of the air. And here and there we could discern sinister

shapes, mostly of superhuman stature, some seeming to wait in dim

places, others floating above the graves. Quite near us, towering above

the hedge on our right, was a Buddhist priest, with his back turned to

us.

'A yamabushi, an exorciser?' I queried of Kinjuro.

'No,' said Kinjuro; 'see how tall he is. I think that must be a Tanuki-

Bozu.'

The Tanuki-Bozu is the priestly form assumed by the goblin-badger

(tanuki) for the purpose of decoying belated travellers to destruction.

We went on, and looked up into his face. It was a nightmare--his face.

'In truth a Tanuki-Bozu,' said Kinjuro. 'What does the Master honourably

think concerning it?'

Instead of replying, I jumped back; for the monstrous thing had suddenly

reached over the hedge and clutched at me, with a moan. Then it fell

back, swaying and creaking. It was moved by invisible strings.

'I think, Kinjuro, that it is a nasty, horrid thing. . . . But I shall

not claim the present.'

We laughed, and proceeded to consider a Three-Eyed Friar (Mitsu-me-

Nyudo). The Three-Eyed Friar also watches for the unwary at night. His

face is soft and smiling as the face of a Buddha, but he has a hideous

eye in the summit of his shaven pate, which can only be seen when seeing

it does no good. The Mitsu-me-Nyudo made a grab at Kinjuro, and startled

him almost as much as the Tanuki-Bozu had startled me.

Then we looked at the Yama-Uba--the 'Mountain Nurse.' She catches little

children and nurses them for a while, and then devours them. In her face

she has no mouth; but she has a mouth in the top of her head, under her

hair. The YamaUba did not clutch at us, because her hands were occupied

with a nice little boy, whom she was just going to eat. The child had

been made wonderfully pretty to heighten the effect.

Then I saw the spectre of a woman hovering in the air above a tomb at

some distance, so that I felt safer in observing it. It had no eyes; its

long hair hung loose; its white robe floated light as smoke. I thought

of a statement in a composition by one of my pupils about ghosts: 'Their

greatest Peculiarity is that They have no feet.' Then I jumped again,

for the thing, quite soundlessly but very swiftly, made through the air

at me.

And the rest of our journey among the graves was little more than a

succession of like experiences; but it was made amusing by the screams

of women, and bursts of laughter from people who lingered only to watch

the effect upon others of what had scared themselves.

Sec. 3

Forsaking the goblins, we visited a little open-air theatre to see two

girls dance. After they had danced awhile, one girl produced a sword and

cut off the other girl's head, and put it upon a table, where it opened

its mouth and began to sing. All this was very prettily done; but my

mind was still haunted by the goblins. So I questioned Kinjuro:

'Kinjuro, those goblins of which we the ningyo have seen--do folk

believe in the reality, thereof?'

'Not any more,' answered Kinjuro--'not at least among the people of the

city. Perhaps in the country it may not be so. We believe in the Lord

Buddha; we believe in the ancient gods; and there be many who believe

the dead sometimes return to avenge a cruelty or to compel an act of

justice. But we do not now believe all that was believed in ancient

time. . . .Master,' he added, as we reached another queer exhibition,

'it is only one sen to go to hell, if the Master would like to go--'Very

good, Kinjuro,' I made reply. 'Pay two sen that we may both go to hell.'

Sec. 4

And we passed behind a curtain into a big room full of curious clicking

and squeaking noises. These noises were made by unseen wheels and

pulleys moving a multitude of ningyo upon a broad shelf about breast-

high, which surrounded the apartment upon three sides. These ningyo were

not ikiningyo, but very small images--puppets. They represented all

things in the Under-World.

The first I saw was Sozu-Baba, the Old Woman of the River of Ghosts, who

takes away the garments of Souls. The garments were hanging upon a tree

behind her. She was tall; she rolled her green eyes and gnashed her long

teeth, while the shivering of the little white souls before her was as a

trembling of butterflies. Farther on appeared Emma Dai-O, great King of

Hell, nodding grimly. At his right hand, upon their tripod, the heads of

Kaguhana and Mirume, the Witnesses, whirled as upon a wheel. At his

left, a devil was busy sawing a Soul in two; and I noticed that he used

his saw like a Japanese carpenter--pulling it towards him instead of

pushing it. And then various exhibitions of the tortures of the damned.

A liar bound to a post was having his tongue pulled out by a devil--

slowly, with artistic jerks; it was already longer than the owner's

body. Another devil was pounding another Soul in a mortar so vigorously

that the sound of the braying could be heard above all the din of the

machinery. A little farther on was a man being eaten alive by two

serpents having women's faces; one serpent was white, the other blue.

The white had been his wife, the blue his concubine. All the tortures

known to medieval Japan were being elsewhere deftly practised by swarms

of devils. After reviewing them, we visited the Sai-no-Kawara, and saw

Jizo with a child in his arms, and a circle of other children running

swiftly around him, to escape from demons who brandished their clubs and

ground their teeth.

Hell proved, however, to be extremely cold; and while meditating on the

partial inappropriateness of the atmosphere, it occurred to me that in

the common Buddhist picture-books of the Jigoku I had never noticed any

illustrations of torment by cold. Indian Buddhism, indeed, teaches the

existence of cold hells. There is one, for instance, where people's lips

are frozen so that they can say only 'Ah-ta-ta!'--wherefore that hell is

called Atata. And there is the hell where tongues are frozen, and where

people say only 'Ah-baba!' for which reason it is called Ababa. And

there is the Pundarika, or Great White-Lotus hell, where the spectacle

of the bones laid bare by the cold is 'like a blossoming of white lotus-

flowers.' Kinjuro thinks there are cold hells according to Japanese

Buddhism; but he is not sure. And I am not sure that the idea of cold

could be made very terrible to the Japanese. They confess a general

liking for cold, and compose Chinese poems about the loveliness of ice

and snow.

Sec. 5

Out of hell, we found our way to a magic-lantern show being given in a

larger and even much colder structure. A Japanese magic-lantern show is

nearly always interesting in more particulars than one, but perhaps

especially as evidencing the native genius for adapting Western

inventions to Eastern tastes. A Japanese magic-lantern show is

essentially dramatic. It is a play of which the dialogue is uttered by

invisible personages, the actors and the scenery being only luminous

shadows. 'Wherefore it is peculiarly well suited to goblinries and

weirdnesses of all kinds; and plays in which ghosts figure are the

favourite subjects. As the hall was bitterly cold, I waited only long

enough to see one performance--of which the following is an epitome:

SCENE 1.--A beautiful peasant girl and her aged mother, squatting

together at home. Mother weeps violently, gesticulates agonisingly. From

her frantic speech, broken by wild sobs, we learn that the girl must be

sent as a victim to the Kami-Sama of some lonesome temple in the

mountains. That god is a bad god. Once a year he shoots an arrow into

the thatch of some farmer's house as a sign that he wants a girl--to

eat! Unless the girl be sent to him at once, he destroys the crops and

the cows. Exit mother, weeping and shrieking, and pulling out her grey

hair. Exit girl, with downcast head, and air of sweet resignation.