CHAPTER XIX: KŌBŌ DAISHI, NICHIREN, AND SHŌDŌ SHONIN

"When he died it was as though a bright light had gone

out in the midst of a black night."

"_Namudaishi_." (Trans. by Arthur Lloyd.)

The "Namudaishi"

Kōbō Daishi[1] ("Glory to the Great Teacher"), who was born A.D. 774,

was the most holy and most famous of the Japanese Buddhist saints. He

founded the Shingon-shū, a Buddhist sect remarkable for its magical

formulæ and for its abstruse and esoteric teachings, and he is also

said to have invented the _Hiragana_ syllabary, a form of running

script. In the _Namudaishi_, which is a Japanese poem on the life

of this great saint, we are informed that Kobo Daishi brought back

with him from China a millstone and some seeds of the tea-plant, and

thus revived the drinking of this beverage, which had fallen into

disuse. We are also told in the same poem that it was Kōbō Daishi who

"demonstrated to the world the use of coal." He was renowned as a

great preacher, but was not less famous as a calligraphist, painter,

sculptor, and traveller.

"A Divine Prodigy"

Kōbō Daishi, however, is essentially famous for the extraordinary

miracles which he performed, and numerous are the legends associated

with him. His conception was miraculous, for when he was born in the

Baron's Hall, on the shore of Byōbu, a bright light shone, and he came

into the world with his hands folded as if in prayer. When but five

years of age he would sit among the lotuses and converse with Buddhas,

and he kept secret all the wisdom he thus obtained. His heart was

troubled by the sorrow and pain of humanity. While on Mount Shashin he

sought to sacrifice his own life by way of propitiation, but he was

prevented from doing so by a number of angels who would not allow this

ardent soul to suffer death until he had fulfilled his destiny. His

very games were of a religious nature. On one occasion he built a clay

pagoda, and he was immediately surrounded by the Four Heavenly Kings

(originally Hindu deities). The Imperial Messenger, who happened to

pass by when this miracle took place, was utterly amazed, and described

the young Kōbō Daishi as "a divine prodigy." While at Muroto, in Tosa,

performing his devotions, we are told in the _Namu-daishi_ that a

bright star fell from Heaven and entered his mouth, while at midnight

an evil dragon came forth against him, "but he spat upon it, and with

his saliva he killed it."

In his nineteenth year he wore the black silk robes of a Buddhist

priest, and with a zeal that never failed him sought for enlightenment.

"Many are the ways," he said; "but Buddhism is the best of all."

During his mystical studies he came across a book containing the

Shingon doctrine, a doctrine that closely resembles the old Egyptian

speculations. The book was so abstruse that even Kōbō Daishi failed

to master it; but, nothing daunted, he received permission from the

Emperor to visit China, where he ultimately unravelled its profound

mysteries, and attained to that degree of saintship associated with the

miraculous.

Gohitsu-Oshō

When Kōbō Daishi was in China the Emperor, hearing of his fame, sent

for him and bade him rewrite the name of a certain room in the royal

palace, a name that had become obliterated by the effacing finger of

Time. Kōbō Daishi, with a brush in each hand, another in his mouth,

and two others between the toes, wrote the characters required upon

the wall, and for this extraordinary performance the Emperor named him

Gohitsu-Oshō ("The Priest who writes with Five Brushes").

Writing on Sky and Water

While still in China Kōbō Daishi met a boy standing by the side of a

river. "If you be Kōbō Daishi," said he, "be honourably pleased to

write upon the sky, for I have heard that no wonder is beyond your

power."

Kōbō Daishi raised his brush; it moved quickly in the air, and writing

appeared in the blue sky, characters that were perfectly formed and

wonderfully beautiful.

When the boy had also written upon the sky with no less skill, he said

to Kōbō Daishi: "We have both written upon the sky. Now I beg that you

will write upon this flowing river."

Kōbō Daishi readily complied. Once again his brush moved, and this

time a poem appeared on the water, a poem written in praise of that

particular river. The letters lingered for a moment, and then were

carried away by the swift current.

There seems to have been a contest in magical power between these two

workers of marvels, for no sooner had the letters passed out of sight

than the boy also wrote upon the running water the character of the

Dragon, and it remained stationary.

Kōbō Daishi, who was a great scholar, at once perceived that the boy

had omitted the _ten_, a dot which rightly belonged to this character.

When Kōbō Daishi pointed out the error, the boy told him that he had

forgotten to insert the _ten_, and begged that the famous saint would

put it in for him. No sooner had Kōbō Daishi done so than the Dragon

character became a Dragon. Its tail lashed the waters, thunder-clouds

sped across the sky, and lightning flashed. In another moment the

Dragon arose from the water and ascended to heaven.

Though Kōbō Daishi's powers of magic excelled those of the boy, he

inquired who this youth might be, and the boy replied: "I am Monju

Bosatsu, the Lord of Wisdom." Having spoken these words, he became

illumined by a radiant light; the beauty of the Gods shone upon his

countenance, and, like the Dragon, he ascended into heaven.

How Kōbō Daishi Painted the Ten

On one occasion Kōbō Daishi omitted the _ten_ on a tablet placed above

one of the gates of the Emperor's palace.[2] The Emperor commanded that

ladders should be brought; but Kōbō Daishi, without making use of them,

stood upon the ground, and threw up his brush, which, after making the

_ten_, fell into his hand.

Kino Momoye and Onomo Toku

Kino Momoye once ridiculed some of Kōbō Daishi's characters, and said

that one of them resembled a conceited wrestler. On the night he made

this foolish jest Momoye dreamed that a wrestler struck him blow upon

blow--moreover, that his antagonist leapt upon his body, causing him

considerable pain. Momoye awoke, and cried aloud in his agony, and as

he cried he saw the wrestler suddenly change into the character he

had so unwisely jeered at. It rose into the air, and went back to the

tablet from whence it had come.

Momoye was not the only man who imprudently scoffed at the great Kōbō

Daishi's work. Legend records that one named Onomo Toku said that the

saint's character _Shu_ was far more like the character "rice." That

night Onomo Toku had good reason to regret his folly, for in a dream

the character _Shu_ took bodily form and became a rice-cleaner, who

moved up and down the offender's body after the manner of hammers that

were used in beating this grain. When Onomo Toku awoke it was to find

that his body was covered with bruises and that his flesh was bleeding

in many places.

Kōbō Daishi's Return

When Kōbō Daishi was about to leave China and return to his own country

he went down to the seashore and threw his _vajra_[3] across the ocean

waves, and it was afterwards found hanging on the branch of a pine-tree

at Takano, in Japan.

We are not told anything about Kōbō Daishi's voyage to his own land;

but directly he arrived in Japan he gave thanks for the divine

protection he had received during his travels. On the Naked Mountain

he offered incantations of so powerful a nature that the once barren

mountain became covered with flowers and trees.

Kōbō Daishi, as time advanced, became still more holy. During a

religious discussion the Divine Light streamed from him, and he

continued to perform many great marvels. He made brackish water pure,

raised the dead to life, and continued to commune with certain gods. On

one occasion Inari,[4] the God of Rice, appeared on Mount Fushimé and

took from the great saint the sacrifice he offered. "Together, you and

I," said Kōbō Daishi, "we will protect this people."

The Death of Kōbō Daishi

In A.D. 834 this remarkable saint died, and we are told that a very

great gathering, both lay and priestly, wept at the graveyard of

Okunoin, in Kōya, where he was buried. His death, however, by no

means meant a sudden cessation of miracles on his part, for when the

Emperor Saga died "his coffin was mysteriously borne through the air

to Kōya, and Kōbō himself, coming forth from his grave, performed the

funeral obsequies." Nor did the wonders cease with this incident, for

the Emperor Uda received from Kōbō Daishi the sacred Baptism. When

the Imperial Messenger to the temple where Kōbō Daishi was worshipped

was unable to see the face of this great saint, Kōbō "guided the

worshipper's hand to touch his knee. Never, as long as he lived, did

the Messenger forget that feeling!"

A Miraculous Image

At Kawasaki there is a temple dedicated to Kōbō Daishi. "Local legend

attributes the sanctity of this place to an image of Kōbō Daishi carved

by that saint himself while in China, and consigned by him to the

waves. It floated to this coast, where it was caught in a fisherman's

net, and, being conveyed ashore, performed numerous miracles. The trees

in the temple grounds, trained in the shape of junks under sail, attest

the devotion paid to this holy image by the seafaring folk."[5]

Nichiren

Nichiren was the founder of the Buddhist sect which bears his name. His

name means Sun Lotus, and was given to him because his mother dreamt

that the sun rested on a lotus when she conceived him. Nichiren was

an iconoclast of very marked character. He received, by revelation, a

complete knowledge of Buddhist mysteries, though in reading the story

of his life one would have supposed that he acquired his remarkable

religious wisdom through arduous study. During his lifetime Japan was

visited by a terrible earthquake, followed by a destructive hurricane,

pestilence, and famine. So great were these calamities that men prayed

to die rather than live amidst such universal misery. Nichiren saw

in these great disasters the hand of Fate. He saw that religion and

politics had become corrupt, and that Nature had rebelled against

the numerous evils that existed at that time. Nichiren realised that

Buddhism was no longer the simple teaching of the Lord Buddha. In the

various Buddhist sects he had studied so diligently he found that the

priests had neglected Shaka Muni (the Buddha), and worshipped Amida,

a manifestation of the Lord Buddha, instead. Nor did their heresy end

there, for he found that priests and people also worshipped Kwannon and

other divinities. Nichiren desired to sweep these deities aside and to

restore Buddhism to its old purity and singleness of purpose. He cried

in one of his sermons: "Awake, men, awake! Awake and look around you.

No man is born with two fathers or two mothers. Look at the heavens

above you: there are no two suns in the sky. Look at the earth at your

feet: no two kings can rule a country." In other words, he implied that

no one can serve two masters, and the only master he found to be worthy

of service and worship was Buddha himself. With this belief he sought

to replace the ordinary _mantra_, _Namu Amida Butsu_, by _Namu Myōhō

Renge Kyō_ ("Oh, the Scripture of the Lotus of the Wonderful Law!").

Nichiren wrote _Risshō Ankōku Ron_ ("Book to Tranquillise the

Country"), which contained the prediction of a Mongol invasion and

many bitter attacks against the other Buddhist sects. At length Hōjō

Tokiyori was compelled to exile him to Ito for thirty years. He

escaped, however, and renewed his heated attacks upon the rival sects.

Nichiren's enemies sought assistance from the Regent Tokimune, who

decided to have the monk beheaded, and the vindictive Nichiren was

finally sent to the beach of Koshigoye to be executed. While awaiting

the fatal stroke Nichiren prayed to Buddha, and the sword broke as

it touched his neck. Nor was this the only miracle, for immediately

after the breaking of the sword a flash of lightning struck the palace

at Kamakura, and a heavenly light surrounded the saintly Nichiren.

The official entrusted with the deed of execution was considerably

impressed by these supernatural events, and he sent a messenger, to the

Regent for a reprieve. Tokimune, however, had sent a horseman bearing

a pardon, and the two men met at a river now called Yukiai ("Place of

Meeting.")

Nichiren's miraculous escape was followed by an even more vigorous

attack on those whom he considered were not of the true religion. He

was again exiled, and finally took up his abode on Mount Minobu. It is

said that a beautiful woman came to this mountain whilst Nichiren was

praying. When the great saint saw her, he said: "Resume your natural

state." After the woman had drunk water she changed into a snake nearly

twenty feet long, with iron teeth and golden scales.

Shōdō Shonin

Shōdō Shonin was the founder of the first Buddhist temple at Nikko, and

the following legend is supposed to have led to the construction of the

sacred bridge of Nikko. One day, while Shōdō Shonin was on a journey,

he saw four strange-looking clouds rise from the earth to the sky. He

pressed forward in order to see them more clearly, but could not go

far, for he found that his road was barred by a wild torrent. While he

was praying for some means to continue his journey a gigantic figure

appeared before him, clad in blue and black robes, with a necklace

of skulls. The mysterious being cried to him from the opposite bank,

saying: "I will help you as I once helped Hiuen." Having uttered these

words, the Deity threw two blue and green snakes across the river, and

on this bridge of snakes the priest was able to cross the torrent. When

Shōdō Shonin had reached the other bank the God and his blue and green

snakes disappeared.

[Footnote 1: The saint's name when living was Kūkai. Kōbō Daishi was a

posthumous title, and it is by this title that he is generally known.]

[Footnote 2: Hence the Japanese proverb: "Even Kōbō Daishi sometimes

wrote wrong."]

[Footnote 3: An instrument of incantation somewhat resembling a

thunder-bolt.]

[Footnote 4: At a later period Inari was known as the Fox God. See

Chapter V.]

[Footnote 5: _Murray's Handbook for Japan_, by B. H. Chamberlain and W.

B. Mason.]

CHAPTER XX: FANS

The Significance of the Japanese Fan

"Her weapons are a smile and a little fan." This quotation from Mr.

Yone Noguchi only illustrates one phase of the Japanese fan, the phase

with which we are familiar in our own country. The Japanese fan is not

merely a dainty feminine trifle to be used in conjunction with a smile

or with eyes peeping behind some exquisite floral design. Nippon's fan

has a fascinating history quite outside the gentle art of coquetry, and

those who are interested in this subject would do well to consult Mrs.

C. M. Salwey's _Fans of Japan_. Here the reader will find that the fan

of the Land of the Rising Sun has performed many important offices.

It has been used by ancient warriors on the battlefield as a means of

giving emphasis to their commands. On one occasion it was the mark of

Nasu no Yoichi's bow, and although the sun-marked fan was whirling in

the wind, tied to a staff in the gunwale of one of the Taira ships,

Yoichi brought it down:

"Alas! the fan!

Now driftwood on the sea.

The lord Nasu,

Skilful with the bow,

Yoichi's fame is spread."

A certain Japanese fan, of gigantic size, is used in the festival of

the Sun Goddess in Ise, and there is a pretty story told of the widow

of Atsumori becoming a nun and curing a priest by fanning him with the

first folding fan, which is said to have been her own invention.

One of the most important parts of the Japanese fan, as of any other,

is the rivet, and concerning the rivet there is the following legend.

Kashima on one occasion stuck his sword through the earth, with the

idea of steadying the world and thus preventing earthquakes, phenomena

still prevalent in Japan. Eventually the sword turned into stones, and

it was called _Kanamé ishi_, or the Rivet Rock, and this was the origin

of the name _kanamé_ as applied to Japanese fans.

Mrs. C. M. Salwey tells us in an article entitled _On Symbolism and

Symbolic Ceremonies of the Japanese_[1] that the folding fan symbolises

life itself. She writes: "The rivet end typifies the starting-point,

the radiating limbs the road of life.... The outside frame-sticks

specify the parents, the inside limbs the children, to show that

children must be under control all their life long." On the frame there

is often a cat's eye, suggesting the rapid passing of time, or, again,

there is a series of circles, one linked into the other--an incomplete

design, showing that "life and wisdom can never be exhausted."

There is a legend concerning the Japanese fan that is extremely

pleasing, and neither war nor philosophy figures in it. Though the

story of the Japanese fan is wide and varied, it appeals to us most

in its more tender aspect. The Japanese fan that has a love-poem upon

it and a love-story behind it is the fan that will always be the most

precious to those who still keep a place for romance in their hearts.

The following legend is from _The Diary of a Convolvulus_.

The Love of Asagao

"The morning glory

Her leaves and bells has bound

My bucket-handle round.

I would not break the bands

Of those soft hands.

The bucket and the well to her I left:

Lend me some water, for I come bereft."

_From the Japanese_. (Trans. by Sir Edwin Arnold.)

Komagawa Miyagi a retainer of one of the _daimyōs_, came to a suburb of

Kyōto. As it happened to be a warm summer evening he hired a boat, and,

forgetting all his worries, he watched many bright-robed little ladies

catching fireflies. In the air and on the grass these bright insects

shone, so that the laughing ladies had many opportunities of catching

these living jewels and placing them for a moment in their hair, upon

poised finger, or against a silk flower on a _kimono_.

While Komagawa watched this pretty scene he saw that one of the

ladies was in difficulty with her boat. Komagawa at once came to her

assistance, and there and then fell desperately in love with her. They

lingered together in a cool recess on the river, and no longer troubled

about fireflies, for both were eager to express their love.

In order to pledge their vows these two lovers, according to an ancient

custom, exchanged fans. On Miyuki's fan there was a painting of a

convolvulus. Komagawa wrote a poem about this lovely flower upon his

own fan before presenting it to the woman he loved. So it was that

their fans and their vows were exchanged, and the convolvulus, in

picture and in verse, became the pledge of their troth.

Eventually the lovers separated, to meet again a few days later at

Akasha, where it chanced that their ships touched each other. When

they had exchanged many a fair and loving word they returned to their

respective homes.

When Miyuki reached her home, radiant with thoughts of her true love,

she discovered that her parents had already arranged a marriage for

her with some one the poor little woman had never seen.

Miyuki heard this piece of news with an aching heart. She knew that

children must obey their parents, and when she was lying down on her

_futon_ she did her utmost to comply with her parents' wish. But the

struggle proved useless, for the form of her lover kept on coming back

to her, and the river and the gleaming fireflies. So she arose, crept

out of the house, and walked towards a certain town, hoping to find

Komagawa, only to discover on her arrival that he had departed, no one

knew whither.

This bitter disappointment much affected Miyuki, and she wept for many

days; Her salt tears flowed so persistently that she soon became quite

blind, as helpless a creature as "a bird without feathers or a fish

without fins."

Miyuki, after she had given way to grief for some time, discovered that

if she did not wish to starve she must do something to earn a living.

She made up her mind to make use of her excellent voice and to sing in

streets or in tea-houses. Her voice, combined with her beautiful and

pathetic face, won instant recognition. People wept over her plaintive

singing without knowing why. She loved to sing the little poem about

the convolvulus Komagawa had written on his fan, so the people who

heard her called her Asagao ("Convolvulus").

The blind maiden was led from place to place by her friend Asaka

("Slight Fragrance "), till some one killed her, and Asagao was left

alone to tap out her dark journeys without a loving hand to guide her.

There was only one thought that consoled Asagao, and that was that she

might, in her wanderings, eventually meet her lover.

When a few years had passed by it chanced that Komagawa, accompanied by

Iwashiro Takita, was sent on business by his _Daimyō_. While on their

journey they happened to enter a certain tea-house. Iwashiro Takita was

sullen and morose, and sat in gloomy silence, not deigning to notice

his surroundings. Komagawa, on the other hand, looked about him, and

saw on a screen the very poem he had written about the convolvulus,

the poem he had so lovingly inscribed for Asagao. While pondering the

matter in his mind the master of the tea-house entered the apartment.

Komagawa questioned him concerning this little love-poem, and the

master of the tea-house told the following story:

"It is a very sad story," said he. "The poem was sung by a poor blind

lady. She ran away from her home because she could not marry the man

her parents had chosen for her. She was unable to consent to the union

because she already had a lover, and this lover she sought up and down

the country, ever singing this little poem about the convolvulus, in

the hope that some day she might have the good fortune to meet him.

Honourable sir, at this very moment she is in my tea-garden!"

Komagawa could scarcely conceal his joy when he requested that the

master of the tea-house would bring in the blind woman.

In another moment Asagao stood before him. He saw in her delicate face

an added beauty, the beauty of a hope, of a love kept bright and clear

through the long, sorrowful years of waiting.

Asagao touched the _samisen_.[2] Very gently she sang:

"Down fell the shower of silver rain and wet the poor Convolvulus,

The sweet dew on the leaves and flowers being taken away by the

jealous sun."

Komagawa listened intently, longing to speak, longing to reveal his

love, yet keeping silent because his ill-bred companion still remained

in the room. He watched her dark eyes fixed upon him, but they were

without expression, for they could not see. Still the _samisen_

tinkled, and still the voice sounded sweet and low and unspeakably

pathetic in the apartment. With an aching heart and without a word of

love he dismissed her with the usual fee. She walked out of the room

as if conscious of a new, acute sorrow. There was something in her

patron's voice that was extremely tender, something that moved her

deeply, and it made her heart ache and yearn without knowing why.

The next day Komagawa gave the master of the tea-house a fan, saying:

"Give this fan and money to Asagao. She will understand." With these

words Komagawa and his companion proceeded on their journey.

When Asagao had received the fan she felt it eagerly with her small

white fingers. "Who has given me this fan and money?" she inquired.

"Oh, tell me what the fan is like. Has it a drawing of a convolvulus?"

The master of the tea-house looked at her gently, "He to whom you

sang last night gave you this fan," said he. "There is a drawing of a

convolvulus upon it."

Asagao gave a cry of joy. "Last night," she said softly, "I was with my

lover again! And now, and now...."

At this very moment a servant from Asagao's old home arrived, asserting

that he had been sent by her parents to bring her back again. But

Asagao, true to her old love, determined to fight down all opposition.

Now it happened that the master of this tea-house had once been

employed by Asagao's father. He had committed a great wrong in that

capacity, a wrong worthy of death; but Asagao's father had taken

pity upon him. He had dismissed him with money, which had enabled the

wrongdoer to set up in business for himself. During this crisis the

master of the tea-house thought oven the kindness that had been shown

him, and resolved to commit _seppuku_ in order that his old master's

child might receive her sight again by means of this brave man's

liver.[3]

So the master of the tea-house killed himself, and Asagao received

her sight. That very night, though there was a fierce tempest raging,

she set out in search of her lover, accompanied by a faithful little

band of servants. All night the maiden journeyed over rough and rugged

roads. She scarcely noticed the heavy rain or her bleeding feet. She

was urged on by a joyous love, by the fond hope of finding her lover

again.

As she climbed a mountain, now bathed in sunlight, she fancied she

heard a voice calling her name. She looked about her and discovered

Komagawa. Peace came to her then. All the weariness of long search and

almost endless waiting were over for ever, and in a little while the

lovers were married. The convolvulus, or morning glory, is a flower

that only blooms for a few hours; but Asagao's love had the beauty of

the convolvulus combined with the strength and long life of the pine.

In their happy union they had remained true to the pledge of love upon

their fans, and out of blindness and much suffering Asagao could hold

up her fair head to the dew and sunshine of her lover's sheltering arms.

[Footnote 1: _Asiatic Quarterly Review_, October 1894.]

[Footnote 2: "The _samisen_, or 'three strings,' now the favourite

instrument of the singing-girls and of the lower classes generally,

seems to have been introduced from Manila as recently as the year

1700."--_Things Japanese_, by B. H. Chamberlain.]

[Footnote 3: The liver, both of man and animal, was supposed to have

remarkable medicinal properties. It frequently occurs in Japanese

legends, but the idea was probably borrowed from the strangest

pharmacopœia in the world, that of the Chinese.]

CHAPTER XXI: THUNDER

"The earth is full of saltpetre and sulphur, which rise

in the form of mist, and, uniting in the sky, become a

vapour that possesses the properties of gunpowder. When

this nears the intense heat of the sun it explodes,

like a natural gas; and the terrible sound is heard by

all the world. The shock, striking animals and birds

wandering in the clouds, hurls them to the ground.

Therefore thunder, and lightning, and the creatures that

tumble from the clouds during a storm, are not one and

the same thing."

"_Shin-rai-ki_" (_Record of Thunder_).

Raiden

There are many quaint legends in regard to thunder, and in Bakin's

_Kumono Tayema Ama Yo No Tsuki_[1] ("The Moon, shining through a

Cloud-rift, on a Rainy Night") the famous Japanese novelist, who is an

ardent believer in many of the superstitions of his country, has much

to say in regard to Raiden, the God of Thunder, and the supernatural

beings associated with him. Raiden is usually depicted as having red

skin, the face of a demon, with two claws on each foot, and carrying on

his back a great wheel or arc of drums. He is often found in company

with Fugin, or with his son, Raitaro. When the Mongols attempted to

invade Japan they were prevented from doing so by a great storm, and,

according to legend, only three men escaped to tell the tale. Raiden's

assistance in favour of Japan is often portrayed in Japanese art. He

is depicted sitting on the clouds emitting lightnings and sending

forth a shower of arrows upon the invaders. In China the Thunder God

is regarded as a being ever on the look-out for wicked people. When he

finds them, the Goddess of Lightning flashes a mirror upon those whom

the God wishes to strike.

The Thunder Animal

Raijū, or Thunder Animal, appears to be more closely associated with

lightning than with thunder. He is seen in forms resembling a weasel,

badger, or monkey. In the _Shin-rai-ki_ ("Thunder Record") we read

the following: "On the twenty-second day of the sixth month of the

second year of Meiwa [July 1766] a Thunder Animal fell at Oyama [Great

Mountain], in the province of Sagami. It was captured by a farmer, who

brought it to Yedo, and exhibited it for money on the Riyo-goku Bridge.

The creature was a little larger than a cat, and resembled a weasel:

it had black hair, and five claws on each paw. During fine weather it

was very tame and gentle; but, before and during a storm, exceedingly

savage and unmanageable." In China the Thunder Animal is described as

having "the head of a monkey, with crimson lips, eyes like mirrors,

and two sharp claws on each paw." During a storm the Thunder Animal of

Japan springs from tree to tree, and if any of the trees are found to

have been struck by lightning it is believed to be the savage work of,

the Thunder Animal's claws. This being, in common with the Thunder God

himself, is said to have a weakness for human navels, so that for this

reason many superstitious people endeavour, if possible, to lie flat on

their stomachs during a thunderstorm. Bark torn by the Thunder Animal

is carefully preserved, and is supposed to be an excellent remedy for

toothache.

The Thunder Bird and Thunder Woman

Raicho, Thunder Bird, resembles a rook, but it has spurs of flesh,

which, when struck together, produce a horrible sound. This is the

bird to which the Emperor of Goto-bain referred in the following poem:

"In the shadow of the pine-tree of Shiro-yama

Thunder-birds rest, and spend the night."

These birds feed upon the tree-frog named _rai_ (thunder), and are

always seen flying about in the sky during a thunderstorm.

Little is known concerning Kaminari (Thunder Woman), except that on one

occasion she is said to have appeared in the guise of a Chinese Empress.

A Strange Belief

Bakin remarks that those who are afraid of thunder have the _In_, or

female principle, predominating, while those who are not afraid have

the _Yo_, or the male principle, in the ascendency. The same writer

gives the following custom in regard to those who have suffered as the

result of a thunderstorm, and we must note that emphasis is laid upon

_thunder_ as the destructive power--noise rather than light: "When

any one is struck by thunder make him lie upon his back, and place a

live carp in his bosom. If the carp jumps and moves the patient will

recover. This is infallible. When thunder scorches the flesh burn _Ko_

(incense) under the sufferer's nose. This will cause him to cough, and

break the spell of the Thunder God."

The Child of the Thunder God

Most of the legends relating to Raiden and his kindred spirits are of a

malevolent nature; but in the following story we learn that the Thunder

God's child brought considerable prosperity.

Near Mount Hakuzan there once lived a very poor farmer named Bimbo. His

plot of land was extremely small, and though he worked upon it from

dawn till sunset he had great difficulty in growing sufficient rice

for himself and his wife.

One day, after a protracted drought, Bimbo dismally surveyed his

dried-up rice sprouts. As he thus stood fearing starvation in the near

future, rain suddenly descended, accompanied by loud claps of thunder.

Just as Bimbo was about to take shelter from the storm he was nearly

blinded by a vivid flash of lightning, and he prayed fervently to

Buddha for protection. When he had done so he looked about him, and to

his amazement saw a little baby boy laughing and crooning as he lay in

the grass.

Bimbo took the infant in his arms, and gently carried him to his humble

dwelling, where his wife greeted him with surprise and pleasure. The

child was called Raitaro, the Child of Thunder, and lived with his

foster-parents a happy and dutiful boy. He never played with other

children, for he loved to roam in the fields, to watch the stream and

the swift flight of clouds overhead.

With the coming of Raitaro there came prosperity to Bimbo, for Raitaro

could beckon to clouds and bid them throw down their rain-drops only on

his foster-father's field.

When Raitaro had grown into a handsome youth of eighteen he once again

thanked Bimbo and his wife for all they had done for him, and told them

that he must now bid farewell to his benefactors.

Almost before the youth had finished speaking, he suddenly turned into

a small white dragon, lingered a moment, and then flew away.

The old couple ran to the door. As the white dragon ascended into the

sky it grew bigger and bigger, till it was hidden behind a great cloud.

When Bimbo and his wife died a white dragon was carved upon their tomb

in memory of Raitaro, the Child of Thunder.

Shokuro and the Thunder God

Shokuro, in order to stand well with Tom, the magistrate of his

district, promised him that he would catch the Thunder God. "If," said

Shokuro, "I were to tie a human navel to the end of a kite, and fly it

during a stormy day, I should be sure to catch Raiden, for the Thunder

God would not be able to resist such a repast. The most difficult part

of the whole business is to secure the meal."

With this scheme in view Shokuro set out upon a journey in quest of

food for the Thunder God. On reaching a wood he chanced to see a

beautiful woman named Chiyo. The ambitious Shokuro, without the least

compunction, killed the maid, and, having secured his object, flung her

corpse into a deep ditch. He then proceeded on his way with a light

heart.

Raiden, while sitting on a cloud, happened to notice the woman's body

lying in a ditch. He descended quickly, and, being fascinated by the

beauty of Chiyo, he took from his mouth a navel, restored her to life,

and together they flew away into the sky.

Some days later Shokuro was out hunting for the Thunder God, his kite,

with its gruesome relic, soaring high over the trees as it flew hither

and thither in a strong wind. Chiyo saw the kite, and descended nearer

and nearer to the earth. At last she held it in her hands and saw what

was attached. Filled with indignation, she looked down in order to

see who was flying the kite, and was much astonished to recognise her

murderer. At this juncture Raiden descended in a rage, only to receive

severe chastisement at the hands of Shokuro, who then made his peace

with Chiyo, and afterwards became a famous man in the village. Truly an

astonishing story!

[Footnote 1: See translation, entitled _A Captive of Love_, by Edward

Greey.]

CHAPTER XXII: ANIMAL LEGENDS

Magical Animals

Many of the following stories are the tales a Japanese mother narrates

to her child, for animal stories make a universal appeal to the

child-mind. They are generally regarded as fairy stories, but they

contain so much legendary material that it is necessary to include

them in a book of this kind, for they tend to illustrate our subject

in a lighter vein, where the miraculous is mingled with the humorous.

We have devoted a separate chapter to fox legends on account of the

importance of the subject, but it must be borne in mind that the

supernatural characteristics of this animal apply also to the badger

and cat, for in Japanese legend all three animals have been associated

with an incalculable amount of mischief.

The Hare

The hare is supposed to attain, like the fox, tortoise, crane, and

tiger, a fabulous age, extending to no less than a thousand years. In

Taoist legends the hare is said to live in the moon, and is occupied in

pounding, with pestle and mortar, the drugs that compose the Elixir of

Life, while in other legends, as we have seen elsewhere, this animal is

represented as pounding rice. Shaka Muni (the Lord Buddha), according

to legend, is said to have sacrificed himself as a hare in order that

he might appease the hunger of Indra, who drew the animal upon the moon

by way of showing his admiration. The fur of the hare becomes white

when it has lived for five hundred years, and we give below the famous

legend from the _Kojiki_ known as "The White Hare of Inaba."

The White Hare of Inaba

In ancient days there were eighty-one brothers, who were Princes in

Japan. With the exception of one brother they were quarrelsome fellows,

and spent their time in showing all manner of petty jealousy, one

toward the other. Each wanted to reign over the whole kingdom, and,

in addition, each had the misfortune to wish to marry the Princess of

Yakami, in Inaba. Although these eighty Princes were at variance in

most things, they were at one in persistently hating the brother who

was gentle and peaceful in all his ways.

At length, after many angry words, the eighty brothers decided to go

to Inaba in order to visit the Princess of Yakami, each brother fully

resolved that he and he alone should be the successful suitor. The kind

and gentle brother accompanied them, not, indeed, as a wooer of the

fair Princess, but as a servant who carried a large and heavy bag upon

his back.

At last the eighty Princes, who had left their much-wronged brother far

behind, arrived at Cape Keta. They were about to continue their journey

when they saw a white hare lying on the ground looking very miserable

and entirely divested of fur.

The eighty Princes, who were much amused by the sorry plight of the

hare, said: "If you want your fur to grow again, bathe in the sea,

and, when you have done so, run to the summit of a high mountain and

allow the wind to blow upon you." With these words the eighty heartless

Princes proceeded on their way.

The hare at once went down to the sea, delighted at the prospect of

regaining his handsome white fur. Having bathed, he ran up to the top

of a mountain and lay down upon it; but he quickly perceived that

the cold wind blowing on a skin recently immersed in salt water was

beginning to crack and split. In addition to the humiliation of having

no fur he now suffered considerable physical pain, and he realised that

the eighty Princes had shamefully deceived him.

While the hare was lying in pain upon the mountain the kind and gentle

brother approached, slowly and laboriously, owing to the heavy bag he

carried. When he saw the weeping hare he inquired how it was that the

poor animal had met with such a misfortune.

"Please stop a moment," said the hare, "and I will tell you how it

all happened. I wanted to cross from the Island of Oki to Cape Keta,

so I said to the crocodiles: 'I should very much like to know how

many crocodiles there are in the sea, and how many hares on land.

Allow me first of all to count you.' And having said these words the

crocodiles formed themselves into a long line, stretching from the

Island of Oki to Cape Keta. I ran across their horny bodies, counting

each as I passed. When I reached the last crocodile, I said: 'O foolish

crocodiles, it doesn't matter to me how many there are of you in the

sea, or how many hares on land! I only wanted you for a bridge in order

that I might reach my destination.' Alas! my miserable boast cost me

dear, for the last crocodile raised his head and snapped off all my

fur!"

"Well," said the gentle brother, "I must say you were in the wrong and

deserved to suffer for your folly. Is that the end of your story?"

"No," continued the hare. "I had no sooner suffered this indignity than

the eighty Princes came by, and lyingly told me that I might be cured

by salt water and wind. Alas! not knowing that they deceived me, I

carried out their instructions, with the result that my body is cracked

and extremely sore."

"Bathe in fresh water, my poor friend," said the good brother, "and

when you have done so scatter the pollen of sedges upon the ground and

roll yourself in it. This will indeed heal your sores and cause your

fur to grow again."

The hare walked slowly to the river, bathed himself, and then rolled

about in sedge pollen. He had no sooner done so than his skin healed

and he was covered once more with a thick coat of fur.

The grateful hare ran back to his benefactor. "Those eighty wicked and

cruel brothers of yours," said he, "shall never win the Princess of

Inaba. It is you who shall marry her and reign over the country."

The hare's prophecy came true, for the eighty Princes failed in their

mission, while the brother who was good and kind to the white hare

married the fair Princess and became King of the country.

The Crackling Mountain

An old man and his wife kept a white hare. One day a badger came and

ate the food provided for the pet. The mischievous animal was about to

scamper away when the old man, seeing what had taken place, tied the

badger to a tree, and then went to a neighbouring mountain to cut wood.

When the old man had gone on his journey the badger began to weep and

to beg that the old woman would untie the rope. She had no sooner done

so than the badger proclaimed vengeance and ran away.

When the good white hare heard what had taken place he set out to warn

his master; but during his absence the badger returned, killed the old

woman, assumed her form, and converted her corpse into broth.

"I have made such excellent broth," said the badger, when the old man

returned from the mountain. "You must be hungry and tired: pray sit

down and make a good meal!"

The old man, not suspecting treachery of any kind, consumed the broth

and pronounced it excellent.

"Excellent?" sneered the badger. "You have eaten your wife! Her bones

lie over there in that corner," and with these words he disappeared.

While the old man was overcome with sorrow, and while he wept and

bewailed his fate, the hare returned, grasped the situation, and

scampered off to the mountain fully resolved to avenge the death of his

poor old mistress.

When the hare reached the mountain he saw the badger carrying a bundle

of sticks on his back. Softly the hare crept up, and, unobserved, set

light to the sticks, which began to crackle immediately.

"This is a strange noise," said the badger. "What is it?"

"The Crackling Mountain," replied the hare.

The fire began to burn the badger, so he sprang into a river and

extinguished the flames; but on getting out again he found that his

back was severely burnt, and the pain he suffered was increased by a

cayenne poultice which the delighted hare provided for that purpose.

When the badger was well again he chanced to see the hare standing by a

boat he had made.

"Where are you going in that vessel?" inquired the badger.

"To the moon," replied the hare. "Perhaps you would like to come with

me?"

"Not in your boat!" said the badger. "I know too well your tricks on

the Crackling Mountain. But I will build a boat of clay for myself, and

we will journey to the moon."

Down the river went the wooden boat of the hare and the clay boat of

the badger. Presently the badger's vessel began to come to pieces. The

hare laughed derisively, and killed his enemy with his oar. Later on,

when the loyal animal returned to the old man, he justly received much

praise and loving care from his grateful master.

The Badger

The badger in legend has much in common with the fox. It can adopt

human form and assume the shape of the moon; but in many legends it

is described as a humorous creature, an animal intensely fond of a

practical joke. The badger is frequently depicted in legend and art as

playing a tattoo on its protuberant and drum-like stomach, and it is

for this reason that Japanese jesters are sometimes called badgers.

Kadzutoyo and the Badger

On one occasion Kadzutoyo and his retainer went fishing. They had had

excellent sport, and were about to return home, when a violent shower

came on, and they were forced to take shelter under a willow-tree.

After waiting for some time the rain showed no sign of abating, and as

it was already growing dark they decided to continue their journey in

spite of the inclement weather. They had not proceeded far when they

perceived a young girl weeping bitterly. Kadzutoyo regarded her with

suspicion, but his retainer was charmed by the maiden's great beauty,

and inquired who she was and why she lingered on such a stormy night.

"Alas! good sir," said the maiden, still weeping, "my tale is a

sad one. I have long endured the taunts and cruelties of my wicked

stepmother, who hates me. To-night she spat upon me and beat me. I

could bear the bitter humiliation no longer, and I was on the way

to my aunt, who lives in yonder village, there to receive peace and

shelter, when I was stricken down with a strange malady, and compelled

to remain here until the pain subsided."

These words much affected the kind-hearted retainer, and he fell

desperately in love with this fair maiden; but Kadzutoyo, after

carefully considering the matter, drew his sword and cut off her head.

"Oh! my lord," said the retainer, "what awful deed is this? How can you

kill a harmless girl? Believe me, you will have to pay for your folly."

"You do not understand," replied Kadzutoyo, "but all I ask is that you

keep silence in the matter."

When they reached home Kadzutoyo soon fell asleep; but his retainer,

after brooding over the murder of the fair maiden, went to his lord's

parents and told them the whole pitiful story.

Kadzutoyo's father was stricken with anger when he heard the dreadful

tale. He at once went to his son's room, roused him, and said: "Oh,

miserable murderer! How could you slay an innocent girl without the

least provocation? You have shamed the honourable name of _samurai_, a

name that stands for true chivalry and for the defence of the weak and

helpless. You have brought dishonour upon our house, and it is my duty

to take your life." Having said these words, he drew his sword.

"Sir," replied Kadzutoyo, without flinching at the shining weapon,

"you, like my retainer, do not understand. It has been given me to

solve certain mysteries, and with that knowledge I assure you that I

have not been guilty of so foul a crime as you suppose, but have been

loyal to the fair calling of a _samurai_. The girl I cut down with my

sword was no mortal. Be pleased to go to-morrow with your retainers to

the spot where this scene occurred. If you find the corpse of a girl

you will have no need to take my life, for I will disembowel myself."

Early next day, when the sun had scarce risen in the sky, Kadzutoyo's

father, together with his retainers, set out upon the journey. When

they reached the place where the tragedy had taken place the father

saw lying by the roadside, not the corpse of a fair maiden as he had

feared, but the body of a great headless badger.

When the father reached home again he questioned his son: "How is it,"

said he, "that what appeared to be a girl to your retainer seemed to

you to be a badger?"

"Sir," replied Kadzutoyo, "the creature I saw last night appeared to

me as a girl; but her beauty was strange, and not like the beauty of

earthly women. Moreover, although it was raining hard, I observed that

the garments of this being did not get wet, and having noticed this

weird occurrence, I knew at once that the woman was none other than

some wicked goblin. The creature took the form of a lovely maiden with

the idea of bewitching us with her many charms, in the hope that she

might get our fish."

The old Prince was filled with admiration for his son's cleverness.

Having discovered so much foresight and prudence, he resolved to

abdicate, and proclaim Kadzutoyo Prince of Tosa in his stead.

The Miraculous Tea-kettle

One day a priest of the Morinji temple put his old tea-kettle on the

fire in order that he might make himself a cup of tea. No sooner had

the kettle touched the fire than it suddenly changed into the head,

tail, and legs of a badger. The novices of the temple were called in

to see the extraordinary sight. While they gazed in utter astonishment,

the badger, with the body of a kettle, rushed nimbly about the room,

and finally flew into the air. Round and round the room went the merry

badger, and the priests, after many efforts, succeeded in capturing the

animal and thrusting it into a box.

Shortly after this event had taken place a tinker called at the temple,

and the priest thought it would be an excellent idea if he could induce

the good man to buy his extraordinary tea-kettle. He therefore took

the kettle out of its box, for it had now resumed its ordinary form,

and commenced to bargain, with the result that the unsuspecting tinker

purchased the kettle, and took it away with him, assured that he had

done a good day's work in buying such a useful article at so reasonable

a price.

That night the tinker was awakened by hearing a curious sound close

to his pillow. He looked out from behind his quilts and saw that the

kettle he had purchased was not a kettle at all, but a very lively and

clever badger.

When the tinker told his friends about his remarkable companion,

they said: "You are a fortunate fellow, and we advise you to take

this badger on show, for it is clever enough to dance and walk on

the tight-rope. With song and music you certainly have in this very

strange creature a series of novel entertainments which will attract

considerable notice, and bring you far more money than you would earn

by all the tinkering in the world."

The tinker accordingly acted upon this excellent advice, and the fame

of his performing badger spread far and wide. Princes and princesses

came to see the show, and from royal patronage and the delight of the

common people he amassed a great fortune. When the tinker had made

his money he restored the kettle to the Morinji temple, where it was

worshipped as a precious treasure.

The Cat

"Feed a dog for three days and he will remember your

kindness for three years; feed a cat for three years and

she will forget your kindness in three days."

_A Japanese Proverb_.

The Japanese cat, with or without a tail, is very far from being

popular, for this animal and the venomous serpent were the only two

creatures that did not weep when the Lord Buddha died. Nipponese cats

seem to be under a curse, and for the most part they are left to their

own resources, resources frequently associated with supernatural

powers. Like foxes and badgers, they are able to bewitch human beings.

Professor B. H. Chamberlain writes in _Things Japanese_: "Among

Europeans an irreverent person may sometimes be heard to describe an

ugly, cross old woman as a cat. In Japan, the land of topsy-turvydom,

that nickname is colloquially applied to the youngest and most

attractive--the singing-girls." The comparison seems strange to us, but

the allusion no doubt refers to the power of witchery common alike to

the singing-girl and the cat.

The Japanese cat, however, is regarded with favour among sailors,

and the _mike-neko_, or cat of three colours, is most highly prized.

Sailors the world over are said to be superstitious, and those of Japan

do their utmost to secure a ship's cat, in the belief that this animal

will keep off the spirits of the deep. Many sailors believe that those

who are drowned at sea never find spiritual repose; they believe that

they everlastingly lurk in the waves and shout and wail as junks pass

by. To such men the breakers beating on the seashore are the white,

grasping hands of innumerable spirits, and they believe that the sea is

crowded with _O-baké_, honourable ghosts. The Japanese cat is said to

have control over the dead.

The Vampire Cat

The Prince of Hizen, a distinguished member of the Nabéshima family,

lingered in the garden with O Toyo, the favourite among his ladies.

When the sun set they retired to the palace, but failed to notice that

they were being followed by a large cat.

O Toyo went to her room and fell asleep. At midnight she awoke and

gazed about her, as if suddenly aware of some dreadful presence in the

apartment. At length she saw, crouching close beside her, a gigantic

cat, and before she could cry out for assistance the animal sprang upon

her and strangled her. The animal then made a hole under the verandah,

buried the corpse, and assumed the form of the beautiful O Toyo.

The Prince, who knew nothing of what had happened, continued to love

the false O Toyo, unaware that in reality he was caressing a foul

beast. He noticed, little by little, that his strength failed, and

it was not long before he became dangerously ill. Physicians were

summoned, but they could do nothing to restore the royal patient. It

was observed that he suffered most during the night, and was troubled

by horrible dreams. This being so his councillors arranged that a

hundred retainers should sit with their lord and keep watch while he

slept.

The watch went into the sick-room, but just before ten o'clock it was

overcome by a mysterious drowsiness. When all the men were asleep the

false O Toyo crept into the apartment and disturbed the Prince until

sunrise. Night after night the retainers came to guard their master,

but always they fell asleep at the same hour, and even three loyal

councillors had a similar experience.

During this time the Prince grew worse, and at length a priest named

Ruiten was appointed to pray on his behalf. One night, while he was

engaged in his supplications, he heard a strange noise proceeding from

the garden. On looking out of the window he saw a young soldier washing

himself. When he had finished his ablutions he stood before an image of

Buddha, and prayed most ardently for the recovery of the Prince.

Ruiten, delighted to find such zeal and loyalty, invited the young man

to enter his house, and when he had done so inquired his name.

"I am Ito Soda," said the young man, "and serve in the infantry of

Nabéshima. I have heard of my lord's sickness and long to have the

honour of nursing him; but being of low rank it is not meet that I

should come into his presence. I have, nevertheless, prayed to the

Buddha that my lord's life may be spared. I believe that the Prince of

Hizen is bewitched, and if I might remain with him I would do my utmost

to find and crush the evil power that is the cause of his illness."

Ruiten was so favourably impressed with these words that he went

the next day to consult with one of the councillors, and after much

discussion it was arranged that Ito Soda should keep watch with the

hundred retainers.

When Ito Soda entered the royal apartment he saw that his master slept

in the middle of the room, and he also observed the hundred retainers

sitting in the chamber quietly chatting together in the hope that they

would be able to keep off approaching drowsiness. By ten o'clock all

the retainers, in spite of their efforts, had fallen asleep. Ito Soda

tried to keep his eyes open, but a heaviness was gradually overcoming

him, and he realised that if he wished to keep awake he must resort to

extreme measures. When he had carefully spread oil-paper over the mats

he stuck his dirk into his thigh. The sharp pain he experienced warded

off sleep for a time, but eventually he felt his eyes closing once

more. Resolved to outwit the spell which had proved too much for the

retainers, he twisted the knife in his thigh, and thus increased the

pain and kept his loyal watch, while blood continually dripped upon the

oil-paper.

While Ito Soda watched he saw the sliding doors drawn open and a

beautiful woman creep softly into the apartment. With a smile she

noticed the sleeping retainers, and was about to approach the Prince

when she observed Ito Soda. After she had spoken curtly to him she

approached the Prince and inquired how he fared, but the Prince was

too ill to make a reply. Ito Soda watched every movement, and believed

she tried to bewitch the Prince, but she was always frustrated in her

evil purpose by the dauntless eyes of Ito Soda, and at last she was

compelled to retire.

In the morning the retainers awoke, and were filled with shame when

they learnt how Ito Soda had kept his vigil. The councillors loudly

praised the young soldier for his loyalty and enterprise, and he was

commanded to keep watch again that night. He did so, and once more the

false O Toyo entered the sick-room, and, as on the previous night, she

was compelled to retreat without being able to cast her spell over the

Prince.

It was discovered that immediately the faithful Soda had kept guard

the Prince was able to obtain peaceful slumber, and, moreover, that

he began to get better, for the false O Toyo, having been frustrated

on two occasions, now kept away altogether, and the guard was not

troubled with mysterious drowsiness. Soda, impressed by these strange

circumstances, went to one of the councillors and informed him that the

so-called O Toyo was a goblin of some kind.

That night Soda planned to go to the creature's room and try to kill

her, arranging that in case she should escape there should be eight

retainers outside waiting to capture her and despatch her immediately.

At the appointed hour Soda went to the creature's apartment, pretending

that he bore a message from the Prince.

"What is your message?" inquired the woman.

"Kindly read this letter," replied Soda, and with these words he drew

his dirk and tried to kill her.

The false O Toyo seized a halberd and endeavoured to strike her

adversary. Blow followed blow, but at last perceiving that flight would

serve her better than battle she threw away her weapon, and in a moment

the lovely maiden turned into a cat and sprang on to the roof. The

eight men waiting outside in case of emergency shot at the animal, but

the creature succeeded in eluding them.

The cat made all speed for the mountains, and caused trouble among the

people who lived in the vicinity, but was finally killed during a hunt

ordered by the Prince Hizen. The Prince became well again, and Ito Soda

received the honour and reward he so richly deserved.

The Dog

Generally speaking the dog in Japan is looked upon as a friendly

animal, and in most legends he acquits himself well; but in the

Oki Islands many of the inhabitants believe that all dogs have

supernatural power, attributed to the fox elsewhere. Professor B. H.

Chamberlain writes: "The human beings in league with them are termed

_inu-gami-mochi_--that is, 'dog-god owners.' When the spirit of such a

magic dog goes forth on an errand of mischief its body remains behind,

growing gradually weaker, and sometimes dying and falling to decay.

When this happens the spirit on its return takes up its abode in the

body of a wizard, who thereupon becomes more powerful than ever."

Shippeitarō and the Phantom Cats

A certain knight took shelter in a lonely and dilapidated mountain

temple. Towards midnight he was awakened by hearing a strange noise.

Gazing about him, he saw a number of cats dancing and yelling and

shrieking, and over and over again he heard these words: "_Tell it not

to Shippeitarō_!"

At midnight the cats suddenly disappeared, stillness reigned in the

ruined temple, and our warrior was able to resume his slumber.

The next morning the young knight left the haunted building, and came

to one or two small dwellings near a village. As he passed one of these

houses he heard great wailing and lamentation, and inquired the cause

of the trouble.

"Alas!" said those who thronged about the knight, "well may you ask why

we are so sorely troubled. This very night the mountain spirit will

take away our fairest maiden in a great cage to the ruined temple where

you have spent the night, and in the morning she will be devoured by

the wicked spirit of the mountain. Every year we lose a girl in this

way, and there is none to help us."

The knight, greatly moved by these pitiful words, and anxious to be of

service, said: "Who or what is Shippeitarō? The evil spirits in the

ruined temple used the name several times."

"Shippeitarō," said one of the people, "is a brave and very fine dog,

and belongs to the head man of our Prince." The knight hastened off,

was successful in securing Shippeitarō for one night, and took the dog

back with him to the house of the weeping parents. Already the cage was

prepared for the damsel, and into this cage he put Shippeitarō, and,

with several young men to assist him, they reached the haunted temple.

But the young men would not remain on the mountain, for they were full

of fear, and, having performed their task, they took their departure,

so that the knight and the dog were left alone.

At midnight the phantom cats again appeared, this time surrounding a

tomcat of immense size and of great fierceness. When the monster cat

saw the cage he sprang round it with screams of delight, accompanied by

his companions.

The warrior, choosing a suitable opportunity, opened the cage, and

Shippeitarō sprang out and held the great cat in his teeth. In another

moment his master drew forth his sword and slew the wicked creature.

The other cats were too amazed at what they had seen to make good their

escape, and the valiant Shippeitarō soon made short work of them. Thus

the village was no longer troubled with ravages of the mountain spirit,

and the knight, in true courtly fashion, gave all the praise to the

brave Shippeitarō.

The Old Man Who Made the Trees to Blossom

One day, while an old man and his wife were in the garden, their dog

suddenly became very excited as he lowered his head and sniffed the

ground in one particular place. The old people, believing that their

pet had detected something good to eat, brought a spade and commenced

to dig, and to their amazement they dug up a great number of gold and

silver pieces and a variety of precious treasures as well. With this

newly acquired wealth the old couple lost no time in distributing alms

among the poor.

When the people next door heard about their neighbours' good fortune

they borrowed the dog, and spread before him all manner of delicacies

in the hope that the animal would do them a good turn too. But the dog,

who had been on previous occasions ill-treated by his hosts, refused

to eat, and at length the angry couple dragged him into the garden.

Immediately the dog began to sniff, and exactly where he sniffed the

greedy couple began to dig; but they dug up no treasure, and all they

could find was very objectionable refuse. The old couple, angry and

disappointed, killed the dog and buried him under a pine-tree.

The good old man eventually learnt what had befallen his faithful dog,

and, full of sorrow, he went to the place where his pet was buried, and

arranged food and flowers on the grave, weeping as he did so.

That night the spirit of the dog came to his master, and said: "Cut

down the tree where I am buried, and from the wood fashion a mortar,

and think of me whenever you use it."

The old man carried out these instructions, and he found that when he

ground the grains of rice in the pine mortar every grain turned into a

precious treasure.

The wicked old couple, having borrowed the dog, had no compunction

in borrowing the mortar too, but with these wicked people the rice

immediately turned into filth, so that in their anger they broke and

burnt the precious vessel.

Once again the spirit of the dog appeared before his master, and

informed him what had taken place, adding: "If you will sprinkle the

ashes of the mortar over withered trees they will immediately become

full of blossom," and having uttered these words the spirit departed.

The kind-hearted old man secured the ashes, and, placing them in a

basket, journeyed from village to village and from town to town, and

over withered trees he threw the ashes, and, as the dog had promised,

they suddenly came into flower. A prince heard of these wonders, and

commanded the old man to appear before him, requesting that he would

give an exhibition of his miraculous power. The old man did so, and

joyfully departed with the many royal gifts bestowed upon him.

The old man's neighbours, hearing of these miracles, collected together

the remaining ashes of the wonderful mortar, and the wicked fellow

went about the country claiming to be able to revive withered or dead

trees. Like the original worker of wonders, the greedy old man appeared

in the palace, and was commanded to restore a withered tree. The old

man climbed up into a tree and scattered the ashes, but the tree still

remained withered, and the ashes almost blinded and suffocated the

Prince. Upon this the old impostor was almost beaten to death, and he

went away in a very miserable state indeed.

The kind old man and his wife, after rebuking their neighbours for

their wickedness, allowed them to share in their wealth, and the once

mean, cruel, and crafty couple led good and virtuous lives.

The Jelly-fish and the Monkey[1]

Rin-Jin, the King of the Sea, took to wife a young and beautiful Dragon

Princess. They had not been married long when the fair Queen fell

ill, and all the advice and attention of the great physicians availed

nothing.

[Illustration: The Jelly Fish and the Monkey.--272]

"Oh," sobbed the Queen, "there is only one thing that will cure me of

my illness!"

"What is that?" inquired Rin-Jin.

"If I eat the liver of a live monkey I shall immediately recover. Pray

get me a monkey's liver, for I know that nothing else will save my

life."

So Rin-Jin called a jelly-fish to his side, and said: "I want you to

swim to the land and return with a live monkey on your back, for I wish

to use his liver that our Queen may be restored to health again. You

are the only creature who can perform this task, for you alone have

legs and are able to walk about on shore. In order to induce the monkey

to come you must tell him of the wonders of the deep and of the rare

beauties of my great palace, with its floor of pearl and its walls of

coral."

The jelly-fish, delighted to think that the health and happiness of

his mistress depended upon the success of his enterprise, lost no

time in swimming to an island. He had no sooner stepped on shore than

he observed a fine-looking monkey playing about in the branches of a

pine-tree.

"Hello!" said the jelly-fish, "I don't think much of this island. What

a dull and miserable life you must lead here! I come from the Kingdom

of the Sea, where Rin-Jin reigns in a palace of great size and beauty.

It may be that you would like to see a new country where there is

plenty of fruit and where the weather is always fine. If so, get on my

back, and I shall have much pleasure in taking you to the Kingdom of

the Sea."

"I shall be delighted to accept your invitation," said the monkey, as

he got down from the tree and comfortably seated himself on the thick

shell of the jelly-fish.

"By the way," said the jelly-fish, when he had accomplished about half

of the return journey, "I suppose you have brought your liver with you,

haven't you?"

"What a personal question!" replied the monkey. "Why do you ask?"

"Our Sea Queen is dangerously ill," said the foolish jelly-fish, "and

only the liver of a live monkey will save her life. When we reach the

palace a doctor will make use of your liver and my mistress will be

restored to health again."

"Dear me!" exclaimed the monkey, "I wish you had mentioned this matter

to me before we left the island."

"If I had done so," replied the jelly-fish, "you would most certainly

have refused my invitation."

"Believe me, you are quite mistaken, my dear jelly-fish. I have several

livers hanging up on a pine-tree, and I would gladly have spared one in

order to save the life of your Queen. If you will bring me back to the

island again I will get it. It was most unfortunate that I should have

forgotten to bring a liver with me."

So the credulous jelly-fish turned round and swam back to the island.

Directly the jelly-fish reached the shore the monkey sprang from his

back and danced about on the branches of a tree.

"_Liver_" said the monkey, chuckling, "did you say _liver_? You silly

old jelly-fish, you'll certainly never get mine!"

The jelly-fish at length reached the palace, and told Rin-Jin his

dismal tale. The Sea King fell into a great passion. "Beat him to a

jelly!" he cried to those about him. "Beat this stupid fellow till he

hasn't a bone left in his body!"

So the jelly-fish lost his shell from that unfortunate hour, and all

the jelly-fishes that were born in the sea after his death were also

without shells, and have remained nothing but jelly to this day.

The Horse of Bronze

Upon the festival of the _Minige_, or "The Body-escaping," the Deity

of Kitzuki, Oho-kuninushi, is said to ride through the streets on the

Bronze Horse. The rite connected with the festival is of so mysterious

a kind that the officiating priest can only impart the secret after

his death to his son through the medium of the deceased man's spirit.

The great carved dragon of Kitzuki was supposed at one time to crawl

over the roofs of many houses, but when his wooden throat was cut he

remained simply a work of art and no longer troubled the inhabitants.

Bronze deer of Matsue, a stag and a doe, also had miraculous power and

were able to run about the streets at night. These visitations were so

frequent and so disturbing that eventually their heads were cut and

their escapades came to an end. The gigantic tortoise of the Gesshōji

temple, a stone colossus very nearly sixteen feet in height, was on

many occasions seen endeavouring to swim across a pond covered with

lotus. This creature, like those we have just mentioned, was mutilated,

and his midnight wanderings permanently checked.

[Footnote 1: The Three Mystic Apes figure in Japanese legend. Mizaru

is represented with his hands over his eyes, Kikazaru with his hands

covering his ears, and Iwazaru with his hands laid upon his mouth.

These mystic apes symbolise (1) He who sees no evil, (2) He who hears

no evil, (3) He who speaks no evil.]

CHAPTER XXIII: BIRD AND INSECT LEGENDS

Birds

We have already noticed certain birds mentioned in Japanese legend,

the pheasant in the story of Momotaro, the _Ho-Ho_ Bird, the Bridge of

Magpies in the account of Tanabata, the mysterious light said to shine

from the blue heron, the Thunder Bird, &c. The _sekirei_, or wagtails,

are sacred to Izanagi and Izanami, for it was through these birds that

these divinities first learnt the art of love, and not even the God of

Scarecrows can frighten them. When the great hero Yamato-take died he

was supposed to have been transformed into a white bird, and we read in

the _Hō-jō-ki_[1] that Chōmei fancied he heard in the note of a copper

pheasant the cry of his mother. Mythical creatures such as the _Tengu_

possess certain bird-like qualities, but they cannot be classed under

the heading of birds, and for this reason they are dealt with elsewhere.

The Cock

The God of Mionoseki detests cocks and hens and everything pertaining

to these birds, and the inhabitants respect his very marked dislike.

On one occasion a certain steamer, shortly after making for the open

sea, encountered a severe storm, and it was thought that the God

of Mionoseki, who is the God of Mariners, must have been seriously

offended. At length the captain discovered that one of his passengers

was smoking a pipe adorned with the figure of a crowing cock. The pipe

was immediately thrown into the sea, and the storm abated.

We are able to gather the reason for the hatred of the cock from the

following legend. In the _Kojiki_ we are informed that the son of the

Deity of Kitsuki spent many an hour at Mionoseki in catching birds and

fish. At that time the cock was his trusted friend, and it was the duty

of this bird to crow lustily when it was time for the God to return

from his sport. On one occasion, however, the cock forgot to crow, and

in consequence, in the God's hurry to go back in his boat he lost his

oars, and was compelled to propel the vessel with his hands, which were

severely bitten by fishes.

How Yoritomo was Saved by Two Doves

Yoritomo, having been defeated in a battle against Oba Kage-chika, was

forced to retreat with six of his followers. They ran with all speed

through a forest, and, finding a large hollow tree, crept inside for

shelter.

In the meantime Oba Kage-chika said to his cousin, Oba Kagetoki: "Go

and search for Yoritomo, for I have good reason to believe that he lies

hidden in this forest. I will so arrange my men that the flight of our

enemy will be impossible."

Oba Kagetoki departed, none too pleased with the mission, for he had

once been on friendly terms with Yoritomo. When he reached the hollow

tree and saw through a hole in the trunk that his old friend lay

concealed within, he took pity on him, and returned to his cousin,

saying: "I believe that Yoritomo, our enemy, is not in this wood."

When Oba Kage-chika heard these words he cried fiercely: "You lie! How

could Yoritomo make his escape so soon and with my men standing on

guard about the forest? Lead the way, and I and some of my men will

follow you. No cunning this time, cousin, or you shall severely suffer

for it."

In due time the party reached the hollow tree, and Kage-chika was about

to enter it, when his cousin cried: "Stay! What folly is this? Cannot

you see that there is a spider's web spun across the opening? How could

any one enter this tree without breaking it? Let us spend our time more

profitably elsewhere."

Kage-chika, however, was still suspicious concerning his cousin, and he

thrust his bow into the hollow trunk. It almost touched the crouching

Yoritomo, when two white doves suddenly flew out of the cavity.

"Alas!" exclaimed Kage-chika, "you are right, our enemy cannot lie

concealed here, for doves and a cobweb would not admit of such a thing."

By the timely aid of two doves and a spider's web the great hero

Yoritomo made good his escape, and when, in later years, he became

Shōgun he caused shrines to be erected to Hachiman, the God of War, in

recognition of his deliverance, for the doves of Japan are recognised

as the messengers of war, and not of peace, as is the case in our own

country.

The Hototogisu

"A solitary voice!

Did the Moon cry?

'Twas but the _hototogisu_."

_From the Japanese_.

There is a mysterious bird called the _hototogisu_ which

plaintively cries its own name, dividing it into syllables thus:

"_ho-to-to-gi-su_." According to legend it is no earthly bird, but

wanders from the Realm of the Dead at the end of May, and warns all

peasants who see it that it is time to sow the rice. Some interpret

the bird's note as meaning, "Has the _kakemono_ been suspended?"

others that it gently repeats: "Surely it is better to return home."

The latter interpretation is characteristically Japanese, for if it

is believed that souls return in the summer-time, it is reasonable to

suppose that at least one of the birds should fly back to the old woods

and streams and hills of Nippon.

The Tongue-cut Sparrow

A cross old woman was at her wash-tub when her neighbour's pet sparrow

ate up all the starch, mistaking it for ordinary food. The old woman

was so angry at what had happened that she cut out the sparrow's

tongue, and the unfortunate bird flew away to a mountain.

When the old couple to whom the sparrow belonged heard what had taken

place they left their home and journeyed a great distance until they

had the good fortune to find their pet again.

The sparrow was no less delighted to meet his master and mistress, and

begged them to enter his house. When they had done so they were feasted

with an abundance of fish and _saké_, were waited upon by the sparrow's

wife, children, and grandchildren, and, not content with these deeds of

hospitality, the feathered host danced a jig called the Sparrow's Dance.

When it was time for the old couple to return home the sparrow brought

forth two wicker baskets, saying: "One is heavy, and the other is

light. Which would you rather have?"

"Oh, the light one," replied the old couple, "for we are aged and the

journey is a long one."

When the old people reached their home they opened the basket, and to

their delight and amazement discovered gold and silver, jewels and

silk. As fast as they took the precious things out an inexhaustible

supply came to their place, so that the wonderful basket of treasure

could not be emptied, and the happy old couple grew rich and

prosperous.

It was not long before the old woman who had cut out the sparrow's

tongue heard about the good fortune of her neighbours, and she hastened

to inquire where this wonderful sparrow was to be seen.

Having gained the information, she had no difficulty in finding the

sparrow. When the bird saw her he asked which of two baskets she would

prefer to take away with her, the heavy or light one? The cruel and

greedy old woman chose the heavy one, believing that this basket would

contain more treasure than the light one; but when, after much labour,

she reached home and opened it, devils sprang upon her and tore her to

pieces.

A Noble Sacrifice

There was once a man who was extremely fond of shooting birds. He

had two daughters, good Buddhists, and each in turn pointed out the

folly of their father's cruel sport, and begged him not to destroy

life wantonly. However, the man was obstinate and would not listen

to his daughters' entreaties. One day a neighbour asked him to shoot

two storks, and he promised to do so. When the women heard what their

father was about to do, they said: "Let us dress in pure white garments

and go down upon the shore to-night, for it is a place much frequented

by storks. If our father should kill either of us in mistake for the

birds, it will teach him a lesson, and he will surely repent his evil

ways, which are contrary to the gentle teaching of the Lord Buddha."

That night the man went to the shore, and the cloudy sky made it

difficult for him to discover any storks. At last, however, he saw two

white objects in the distance. He fired; the bodies fell immediately,

and he ran to where they lay, only to discover that he had shot both

his noble, self-sacrificing daughters. Stricken with sorrow, the man

erected a funeral pyre and burnt the bodies of his poor children.

Having done these things, he shaved his head, went into the woods, and

became a hermit.

A Pair of Phoenix

A clever woman named Saijosen was engaged in embroidery. One day an

old man called upon her, and said: "Work for me on a piece of cloth a

pair of phoenix." Saijosen readily complied, and when the birds were

worked the old man closed his eyes and pointed at the phoenix with his

finger. Immediately the birds became alive, and the girl and the old

man mounted upon their backs and disappeared into the sky.

Insects

Much has been written about the Japanese _semi_, or tree-crickets, and

it seems strange to us that these little creatures should be bought and

placed in minute cages, where they sing with extraordinary sweetness.

Lafcadio Hearn in _Kottō_ gives us a pathetic story concerning one of

these insects. He tells us that his servant forgot to feed it, and that

gradually it ceased to sing, being forced at last to eat its own minute

limbs.

The _minminzemi's_ singing resembles the chanting of a Buddhist priest,

while the green _semi_, or _higurashi_, makes a sound like the trilling

of a tiny bell. The carrying of a dried beetle is said to increase

one's wardrobe. It must be remembered in the legends that follow that

according to Buddhist teaching all life is sacred, and, moreover, that

on account of some sin the Buddhists believe that the soul of a man or

woman can enter even the minute form of an insect.

Dragon-flies

"The gold sun shimmering in noontide skies

Shines down, where the red-burnished dragon-flies

Flit to and fro in the translucent haze

Over the village of eventless days!"

Trans. by Clara A. Walsh.

The dragon-fly is frequently mentioned in Japanese poetry, but nowhere

more pathetically than in the following lines written by Chiyo after

the death of her little son:

"How far, I wonder, did he stray,

Chasing the burnished dragon-fly to-day?"

Chiyo, in this exquisite fragment, suggests a very great deal, for in

her mother-love there is no dismal conception of Death. She regards the

future life of her little one as the happiest hour of playtime. Once

more in these lines there is the Japanese idea of the soul coming back

again.

The most charming Japanese dragon-fly is called _Tenshi-tombō_, "the

Emperor's dragon-fly." There is a larger variety particularly sought

after by children, and of this species there are many more females than

males. Boys tie a female to a tree, and sing: "Thou, the male, King

of Korea, dost thou not feel shame to flee away from the Queen of the

East?" This quaint song is an allusion to the legendary conquest of

Korea, to which we shall refer later on, and it succeeds in attracting

the male dragon-fly. It is also believed that if a certain ideograph

is traced in the air it has the power to paralyse the dragon-fly one

wishes to catch.

Tama's Return

Kazariya Kyūbei, a merchant, had a maid-servant called Tama. Tama

worked well and cheerfully, but she was negligent in regard to her

dress. One day, when she had been five years in Kyūbei's house, her

master said to her: "Tama, how is it that, unlike most girls, you

seem to have no desire to look your best? When you go out you wear

your working dress. Surely you should put on a pretty robe on such

occasions."

"Good master," said Tama, "you do well to rebuke me, for you do not

know why, during all these years, I have worn old clothes and have

made no attempt to wear pretty ones. When my father and mother died I

was but a child, and as I had no brothers or sisters it rested upon me

to have Buddhist services performed on behalf of my parents. In order

that this might come to pass I have saved the money you have given me,

and spent as little upon myself as possible. Now my parents' mortuary

tablets are placed in the Jōrakuji temple, and, having given my money

to the priests, the sacred rites have now been performed. I have

fulfilled my wish, and, begging for your forgiveness, I will in future

dress more becomingly."

Before Tama died she asked her mistress to keep the remaining money

she had saved. Shortly after her death a large fly entered Kyūbei's

house. Now at that time of the year, the Period of the Greatest Cold,

it was unusual for flies to appear, and the master of the house was

considerably puzzled. He carefully put the insect outside the house;

but it flew back immediately, and every time it was ejected it came

back again. "This fly," said Kyūbei's wife, "may be Tama." Kyūbei cut

a small piece out of the insect's wings, and this time carried it some

distance from his abode. But the next day it returned once more, and

this time the master painted the fly's wings and body with rouge, and

took it even further away from his dwelling. Two days later the fly

returned, and the nick in its wings and the rouge with which it was

covered left no doubt in the minds of Kyūbei and his wife that this

persistent insect was indeed Tama.

"I believe," said Kyūbei's wife, "that Tama has returned to us because

she wants us to do something for her. I have the money she asked me to

keep. Let us give it to the priests in order that they may pray for

her soul." When these words had been spoken the fly fell dead upon the

floor.

Kyūbei and his wife placed the fly in a box, and with the girl's money

they went to the priests. A _sutra_ was recited over the body of the

insect, and it was duly buried in the temple grounds.

Sanemori and Shiwan

Sanemori, who was a great warrior, was on one occasion, while riding

on a horse, engaged in fighting an enemy. During the conflict his

horse slipped and rolled into a rice-field. As the result of this

mishap his antagonist was able to slay him, and from that hour Sanemori

became a rice-devouring insect, known by the peasantry of Izumo as

Sanemori-San. During certain summer nights the peasants light fires

in their rice-fields in order to attract the insect, play upon flutes

and beat gongs, crying: "O Sanemori, augustly deign to come hither!" A

religious rite is then performed, and a straw representation of a rider

upon a horse is either burnt or thrown into water. It is believed that

this ceremony will successfully free the fields from the rice-devouring

insect.

The _shiwan_, a small yellow insect that feeds upon cucumbers, is said

to have once been a physician. This physician, guilty of some intrigue,

was forced to leave his home, but in attempting to make his escape his

foot caught in the sinuous coils of a cucumber vine, and he was killed

by his pursuers. His angry ghost became a _shiwan_, and from that day

to this the insect feeds upon cucumbers.

Fireflies

"For this willow-tree the season of budding would seem

to have returned in the dark--look at the fireflies."

In ancient days firefly-hunting was one of the amusements of great

nobles, but to-day it is the pastime of children only. These hunting

parties, however, have lost none of their picturesqueness, and the

flashing insect has been the theme of many an exquisite poem, such as:

"Ah, the cunning fireflies! being chased, they hide themselves in the

moonlight!"

Grown-up people, however, go out to see the fireflies with the same

ardour with which they indulge in flower-viewing. To the minds of these

great Nature-lovers the fireflies resemble dazzling petals of some

strange fire-flower or a host of wondering stars that has left the sky

to wander upon the earth. During the summer thousands of people visit

Uji in order to see the _Hotaru-Kassen_, or Firefly Battle. From the

river-bank dart myriads of these flashing insects, and in a moment they

form a great silver-shining cloud. The cloud breaks and the flowing

river, once dark as black velvet, becomes a winding stretch of gleaming

jewels. No wonder the Japanese poet cries: "Do I see only fireflies

drifting with the current? Or is the Night itself drifting, with its

swarming of stars?"

There is a legend connected with this fascinating spectacle. It is

believed that the Minamoto-Firefly and the Taira-Firefly are the ghosts

of the old warriors of the Minamoto and Taira clans. On the night of

the twentieth day of the fourth month they fight a great battle on

the Uji River. On that night all caged fireflies are set free in order

that they may fight again the old clan battles of the twelfth century.

The ghostly significance of fireflies is further strengthened by the

fact that these insects are fond of swarming round willow-trees--the

most eerie trees in Japan. Fireflies in ancient days were supposed to

possess medicinal properties. Firefly ointment was said to render all

poisons harmless, and, moreover, it had the power to drive away evil

spirits and to preserve a house from the attacks of robbers.

A Strange Dream

A young man of Matsue was returning home from a wedding-party when

he saw, just in front of his house, a firefly. He paused a moment,

surprised to see such an insect on a cold winter's night with snow on

the ground. While he stood and meditated the firefly flew toward him,

and the young man struck at it with his stick, but the insect flew away

and entered the garden adjoining his own.

The next day he called at his neighbour's house, and was about to

relate the experience of the previous night when the eldest daughter

of the family entered the room, and exclaimed: "I had no idea you were

here, and yet a moment ago you were in my mind. Last night I dreamt

that I became a firefly. It was all very real and very beautiful, and

while I was darting hither and thither I saw you, and flew toward you,

intending to tell you that I had learnt to fly, but you thrust me aside

with your stick, and the incident still frightens me."

[Illustration: The Firefly Battle.--286]

The young man, having heard these words from the lips of his betrothed,

held his peace.

The Vengeance of Kanshiro[2]

In the village of Funakami there lived a devout old farmer called

Kanshiro. Every year the old man made various pilgrimages to certain

shrines, where he prayed and asked the blessings of the deities. At

last, however, he became so infirm that he realised that his earthly

days were numbered, and that he would probably only have strength to

pay one more visit to the great shrines at Ise. When the people of the

village heard this noble resolution they generously gave him a sum of

money in order that the respected old farmer might present it to the

sacred shrines.

Kanshiro set off upon his pilgrimage carrying the money in a bag, which

he hung round his neck. The weather was extremely hot, and the heat

and fatigue of the journey made the old man so ill that he was forced

to remain for a few days in the village of Myojo. He went to a small

inn and asked Jimpachi, the innkeeper, to take care of his money,

explaining that it was an offering to the Gods at Ise. Jimpachi took

the money, and assured the old man that he would take great care of it,

and, moreover, that he himself would attend upon him.

On the sixth day the old man, though still far from well, paid his

bill, took the bag from the innkeeper, and proceeded on his journey.

As Kanshiro observed many pilgrims in the vicinity he did not look

into the bag, but carefully concealed it in the sack containing spare

raiment and food.

When Kanshiro at length rested under a pine-tree he took out the bag

and looked inside. Alas! the money had been stolen, and stones of the

same weight inserted in its place. The old man hastily returned to the

innkeeper and begged him to restore the money. Jimpachi grew extremely

angry, and gave him a severe beating.

The poor old man crawled away from the village, and three days later,

with indomitable courage, he succeeded in reaching the sacred shrines

at Ise. He sold his property in order to refund the money his good

neighbours had given him, and with what remained he continued his

pilgrimage, till at last he was forced to beg for food.

Three years later Kanshiro went to the village of Myoto, and found

that the innkeeper who had treated him so badly was now comparatively

well off, and lived in a large house. The old man went to him, and

said: "You have stolen sacred money from me, and I have sold my little

property in order that I might refund it to those who had given it to

me. Ever since that time I have been a beggar, but be assured vengeance

shall fall upon you!"

Jimpachi cursed the old man and told him that he had not stolen his

money. During the heated dispute a watchman seized Kanshiro, dragged

him away from the house, and told him that he would be arrested if he

dared to return. At the end of the village the old man died, and a

kindly priest took his body to a temple, respectfully burnt it, and

offered up many holy prayers for his good and loyal soul.

Immediately after Kanshiro's death Jimpachi grew afraid of what he had

done, and became so ill that he was forced to take to his bed. When

he had lost all power of movement a great company of fireflies flew

out of the farmer's tomb and surrounded Jimpachi's mosquito-curtain,

and tried to break it down. Many of the villagers came to Jimpachi's

assistance and killed a number of fireflies, but the stream of shining

insects that flew from Kanshiro's tomb never lessened. Hundreds were

killed, but thousands came to take their place. The room was ablaze

with firefly light, and the mosquito-curtain sank beneath their

ever-increasing weight. At this remarkable sight some of the villagers

murmured: "Jimpachi stole the old man's money after all. This is the

vengeance of Kanshiro."

Even while they spoke the curtain broke and the fireflies rushed

into the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose of the terrified Jimpachi. For

twenty days he screamed aloud for mercy; but no mercy came. Thicker

and thicker grew the stream of flashing, angry insects, till at last

they killed the wicked Jimpachi, when from that hour they completely

disappeared.

[Footnote 1: Translated by F. Victor Dickins.]

[Footnote 2: Adapted from _Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by &

Gordon Smith.]

CHAPTER XXIV: CONCERNING TEA[1]

"The first cup moistens my lips and throat, the second

cup breaks my loneliness, the third cup searches

my inmost being.... The fourth cup raises a slight

perspiration--all the wrong of life passes away through

my pores. At the fifth cup I am purified; the sixth

cup calls me to the realms of immortals. The seventh

cup--ah, but I could take no more! I only feel the

breath of cool wind that rises in my sleeves. Where is

Horaisan?[2] Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft

away thither."

_Lotung_.

Tea-drinking in England and Japan

In England we regard tea simply as a beverage, a refreshing and mild

stimulant over which ladies are wont to gossip with their neighbours.

There is nothing romantic about our tea-pots and kettles and spoons;

they come from the kitchen and are returned to the kitchen with

prescribed regularity. We have a few stock comments on the subject

of tea, and can quote the exact price our grandmothers paid for this

beverage. We have our opinions as to whether it is best taken with or

without sugar, and have sometimes found it efficacious in driving away

a headache.

When tea reached our own country in 1650 it was referred to as "that

excellent and by all physicians approved China drink, called by the

Chineans Tcha, and by other nations Tay, alias Tee." In 1711 the

_Spectator_ remarked: "I would therefore in a particular manner

recommend these my speculations to all well-regulated families that

set apart an hour every morning for tea, bread and butter; and

would earnestly advise them for their good to order this paper

to be punctually served up and to be looked upon as a part of the

tea-equipage." Dr. Johnson described himself as "a hardened and

shameless tea-drinker, who for twenty years diluted his meals with only

the infusion of the fascinating plant; who with tea amused the evening,

with tea solaced the midnight, and with tea welcomed the morning." But

there is no romance, no old tradition associated with our tea-drinking

in this country. Perhaps it is as well that the ladies sitting in our

fashionable drawing-rooms are unacquainted with the grim and pathetic

legend that narrates how a Buddhist priest fell asleep during his

meditations. When he awoke he cut off his offending eyelids and flung

them on the ground, where they were immediately transformed into the

first tea-plant.

In Japan tea-drinking has become a ritual. It is not so much a

social function as a time for peaceful meditation. The elaborate

tea ceremonies, _cha-no-yu_, have their tea-masters, etiquette,

and numerous observances. A cup of Japanese tea is combined with

spiritual and artistic enlightenment. But before discussing these very

interesting ceremonies we must learn something about the significance

of tea in China, for it was the drinking of this beverage in the

Celestial Kingdom, associated with the rarest porcelain and æsthetic

and religious thought, that inspired the tea cult in the Land of the

Gods.

Tea in China

The tea-plant, a native of Southern China, was originally regarded as

a medicine. It was referred to in the classics by such names as _Tou,

Tseh, Chung, Kha_, and _Ming_, and was much esteemed on account of

its medicinal properties. It was regarded as an excellent lotion for

strengthening the eyes, and, moreover, had the power to banish fatigue,

strengthen the will, and delight the soul. It was sometimes made in

the form of a paste, and was believed to be efficacious in reducing

rheumatic pain. The Taoists went so far as to claim that tea was one of

the ingredients of the Elixir of Life, while the Buddhist priests drank

it whenever it was necessary for them to meditate during the long hours

of the night.

Luwuh and the "Chaking"

In the fourth and fifth centuries we find that tea became a highly

favoured beverage among the people of the Yangtse-Kiang valley. At

this time, too, poets waxed eloquent in its praise, and described it

as the "froth of the liquid jade." But tea at that time was a very

horrible concoction indeed, for it was boiled with rice, salt, ginger,

orange-peel, and not infrequently with onions! However, Luwuh, who

lived in the eighth century, discountenanced the strange mixture we

have just referred to. He was the first Chinese tea-master, and not

only did he idealize tea, but he saw, with keen poetic insight, that

the ceremony of drinking it made for harmony and order in daily life.

In his _Chaking_ ("The Holy Scripture of Tea") he describes the nature

of the tea-plant, and how its leaves should be gathered and selected.

He was of the opinion that the best leaves should have "creases like

the leathern boot of Tartar horsemen, curl like the dewlap of a mighty

bullock, unfold like a mist rising out of a ravine, gleam like a lake

touched by a zephyr, and be wet and soft like fine earth newly swept

by rain." Luwuh describes the various utensils connected with the tea

ceremony, and asserts that the green beverage should be drunk from blue

porcelain cups. He discourses on the subject of the choice of water

and the manner of boiling it. In poetical language he describes the

three stages of boiling. He compares the little bubbles of the first

boil with the eyes of fishes, the bubbles of the second boil with a

fountain crowned with clustering crystal beads, and the final boil is

described as resembling the surge of miniature billows. The concluding

chapters of the _Chaking_ deal with the vulgar and unorthodox methods

of drinking tea, and the ardent master gives a list of celebrated

tea-drinkers, and enumerates the famous Chinese tea plantations.

Luwuh's fascinating book was regarded as a masterpiece. He was sought

after by the Emperor Taisung, attracted many disciples, and was

regarded as the greatest authority on tea and tea-drinking. His fame

did not die with him, for since his death Chinese tea-merchants have

worshipped him as a tutelary god.

The Japanese Tea Ceremony

It is believed that the great Buddhist saint, Dengyō Daishi, introduced

tea into Japan from China in A.D. 805. In any case tea-drinking in

Nippon was associated with Buddhism, and most particularly with the

Zen sect, which had incorporated so many of the Taoist doctrines. The

priests of this order drank tea from a single bowl before the image

of Bodhi Dharma (Daruma). They did so in the spirit of reverence,

and regarded the tea-drinking as a holy sacrament. It was this Zen

observance, strictly of a religious nature, which finally developed

into the Japanese tea ceremony.

"The tea ceremonies," writes Professor B. H. Chamberlain, "have

undergone three transformations during the six or seven hundred years

of their existence. They have passed through a medico-religious stage,

a luxurious stage, and, lastly, an æsthetic stage." In the religious

stage the Buddhist priest Eisai wrote a pamphlet entitled _The

Salutary Influence of Tea-drinking_, in which he asserted that this

beverage had the power to drive away evil spirits. He introduced a

religious ceremonial in regard to the worship of ancestors, accompanied

by the beating of drums and the burning of incense. Eisai wrote his

tract with the intention of converting Minamoto-no-Sanetomo from his

vicious love of the wine-cup, and endeavoured to show the superiority

of the tea-plant over the juice of the grape.

We find that the tea ceremonies for the time being lost their religious

significance: "The Daimyōs," writes Professor Chamberlain, "who daily

took part in them reclined on couches spread with tiger-skins and

leopard-skins. The walls of the spacious apartments in which the

guests assembled were hung, not only with Buddhist pictures, but

with damask and brocade, with gold and silver vessels, and swords in

splendid sheaths. Precious perfumes were burnt, rare fishes and strange

birds were served up with sweetmeats and wine, and the point of the

entertainment consisted in guessing where the material for each cup of

tea had been produced; for as many brands as possible were brought in,

to serve as a puzzle or _jeu de société_.... Every right guess procured

for him who made it the gift of one of the treasures that were hung

round the room. But he was not allowed to carry it away himself. The

rules of the tea ceremonies, as then practised, ordained that all the

things rich and rare that were exhibited must be given by their winners

to the singing and dancing-girls, troupes of whom were present to help

the company in their carousal."

This variety of tea ceremony, which appears to have been more of an

orgy than anything else, reflected the luxurious and dissolute age in

which it was practised. The tea ceremony, in its more enduring and

characteristic form, was destined to abandon all vulgar display, to

embrace a certain amount of religion and philosophy, and above all to

afford a means of studying art and the beauty of Nature. The tea-room

became, not a place of carousal, but a place where the wayfarer might

find peace in solemn meditation. Even the garden path leading to the

tea-room had its symbolic meaning, for it signified the first stage of

self-illumination. The following was Kobori-Enshiu's idea of the path

leading to the tea-room:

"A cluster of summer trees,

A bit of the sea,

A pale evening moon."

Such a scene was intended to convey to the wayfarer a sense of

spiritual light. The trees, sea, and moon awakened old dreams, and

their presence made the guest eager to pass into the greater joys of

the tea-room. No _samurai_ was allowed to take his sword into the

fragrant sanctuary of peace, and in many tea-rooms there was a low

door through which the guests entered with bowed head, as a sign of

humility. In silence the guests made obeisance before a _kakemono_, or

some simple and beautiful flower on the _tokonoma_ (alcove), and then

seated themselves upon the mats. When they had done so the host entered

and the water was heard to boil in the kettle with a musical sound,

because of some pieces of iron which it contained. Even the boiling of

the kettle was associated with poetical ideas, for the song of water

and metal was intended to suggest "the echoes of a cataract muffled by

clouds, of a distant sea breaking among the rocks, a rainstorm sweeping

through a bamboo forest, or of the soughing of pines on some far-away

hill." There was a sense of harmony in the tea-room. The light was like

the mellow light of evening, and the garments of the company were as

quiet and unobtrusive as the grey wings of a moth. In this peaceful

apartment the guests drank their tea and meditated, and went forth into

the world again better and stronger for having contemplated in silence

the beautiful and the noble in religion, art, and nature. "Seeking

always to be in harmony with the great rhythm of the universe, they

were ever prepared to enter the unknown."

The Passing of Rikiu

Rikiu was one of the greatest of tea-masters, and for long he remained

the friend of Taiko-Hideyoshi; but the age in which he lived was full

of treachery. There were many who were jealous of Rikiu, many who

sought his death. When a coldness sprang up between Hideyoshi and

Rikiu, the enemies of the great tea-master made use of this breach of

friendship by spreading the report that Rikiu intended to add poison to

a cup of tea and present it to his distinguished patron. Hideyoshi soon

heard of the rumour, and without troubling to examine the matter he

condemned Rikiu to die by his own hand.

On the last day of the famous tea-master's life he invited many of his

disciples to join with him in his final tea ceremony. As they walked up

the garden path it seemed that ghosts whispered in the rustling leaves.

When the disciples entered the tea-room they saw a _kakemono_ hanging

in the _tokonoma_, and when they raised their sorrowful eyes they saw

that the writing described the passing of all earthly things. There

was poetry in the singing of the tea-kettle, but it was a sad song

like the plaintive cry of an insect. Rikiu came into the tea-room calm

and dignified, and, according to custom, he allowed the chief guest to

admire the various articles associated with the tea ceremony. When all

the guests had gazed upon them, noting their beauty with a heavy heart,

Rikiu presented each disciple with a souvenir. He took his own cup in

his hand, and said: "Never again shall this cup, polluted by the lips

of misfortune, be used by man." Having spoken these words, he broke the

cup as a sign that the tea ceremony was over, and the guests bade a sad

farewell and departed. Only one remained to witness, not the drinking

of another cup of tea, but the passing of Rikiu. The great master took

off his outer garment, and revealed the pure white robe of Death. Still

calm and dignified, he looked upon his dagger, and then recited the

following verse with unfaltering voice:

"Welcome to thee,

O sword of eternity!

Through Buddha

And through Daruma alike

Thou hast cleft thy way."

He who loved to quote the old poem, "To those who long only for flowers

fain would I show the full-blown spring which abides in the toiling

buds of snow-covered hills," has crowned the Japanese tea ceremony with

an immortal flower.

The Legend of the Tea-plant[3]

Daruma was an Indian sage, whose image, as we have already seen, was

associated with the ritualistic drinking of tea by the Zen sect in

Japan. He is said to have been the son of a Hindu king, and received

instruction from Panyatara. When he had completed his studies he

retired to Lo Yang, where he remained seated in meditation for nine

years. During this period the sage was tempted after the manner of St.

Anthony. He wrestled with these temptations by continually reciting

sacred scriptures; but the frequent repetition of the word "jewel"

lost its spiritual significance, and became associated with the

precious stone worn in the ear of a certain lovely woman. Even the word

"lotus," so sacred to all true Buddhists, ceased to be the symbol of

the Lord Buddha and suggested to Daruma the opening of a girl's fair

mouth. His temptations increased, and he was transported to an Indian

city, where he found himself among a vast crowd of worshippers. He saw

strange deities with horrible symbols upon their foreheads, and Rajahs

and Princes riding upon elephants, surrounded by a great company of

dancing-girls. The great crowd of people surged forward, and Daruma

with them, till they came to a temple with innumerable pinnacles, a

temple covered with a multitude of foul forms, and it seemed to Daruma

that he met and kissed the woman who had changed the meaning of jewel

and lotus. Then suddenly the vision departed, and Daruma awoke to

find himself sitting under the Chinese sky. The sage, who had fallen

asleep during his meditation, was truly penitent for the neglect of his

devotions, and, taking a knife from his girdle, he cut off his eyelids

and cast them upon the ground, saying: "O Thou Perfectly Awakened!"

The eyelids were transformed into the tea-plant, from which was made a

beverage that would repel slumber and allow good Buddhist priests to

their vigils.

Daruma

Daruma is generally represented without legs, for according to one

version of the legend we have just given he lost his limbs as the

result of the nine-year meditation. _Netsuke_[4]-carvers depict him in

a full, bag-like like garment, with a scowling face and lidless eyes.

He is sometimes presented in Japanese art as being surrounded with

cobwebs, and there is a very subtle variation of the saint portrayed

as a female Daruma, which is nothing less than a playful jest against

Japanese women, who could not be expected to remain silent for nine

years! An owl is frequently associated with Daruma, and in his journey

to Japan he is pictured as standing on waves, supported by a millet

stalk. Three years after Daruma's death he was seen walking across the

western mountains of China, and it was observed that he carried one

shoe in his right hand. When Daruma's tomb was opened by the order of

the Emperor it was found only to contain a shoe, which the saint had

forgotten to take away with him.[5]

[Footnote 1: We have derived most of the material for this chapter from

_The Book of Tea_, by Okakura-Kakuzo, and we warmly commend this very

charming volume to those who are interested in the subject.]

[Footnote 2: The Chinese Paradise.]

[Footnote 3: A full account of this beautiful legend will be found in

Lafcadio Hearn's _Some Chinese Ghosts_.]

[Footnote 4: "Originally a kind of toggle for the medicine-box or

tobacco-pouch, carved out of wood or ivory."--_Things Japanese_, by B.

H. Chamberlain.]

[Footnote 5: Reference to Yuki-Daruma, or Snow-Daruma, and toy-Daruma,

called _Okiagari-koboshi_ ("The Getting-up Little Priest"), will be

found in Lafcadio Hearn's _A Japanese Miscellany_.]

CHAPTER XXV: LEGENDS OF THE WEIRD[1]

"Hōïchi-the-Earless"

In the stories concerning Yoshitsune and his loyal retainer Benkei we

have already referred to the battle of Dan-no-ura, the last conflict

between the Taira and Minamoto clans.[2] In this great sea-fight the

Taira perished, including their infant Emperor, Antoku Tenno. Thus is

the memorable scene described in the _Heike Monogatari_, translated by

Dr. W. G. Aston:

"'This world is the region of sorrow, a remote spot

small as a grain of millet. But beneath the waves

there is a fair city called the Pure Land of Perfect

Happiness. Thither it is that I am taking you.' With

such words she soothed him. The child then tied his

top-knot to the Imperial robe of the colour of a

mountain-dove, and tearfully joined together his lovely

little hands. First he turned to the East, and bade

adieu to the shrine of the great God of Ise and the

shrine of Hachiman. Next he turned to the West, and

called upon the name of Buddha. When he had done so,

Niidono made bold to take him in her arms, and, soothing

him with the words, 'There is a city away below the

waves,' sank down to the bottom one thousand fathoms

deep."

It is said that for seven hundred years after this great battle the sea

and coast in the vicinity have been haunted by the ghosts of the Taira

clan. Mysterious fires shone on the waves, and the air was filled with

the noise of warfare. In order to pacify the unfortunate spirits the

temple of Amidaji was built at Akamagaséki, and a cemetery was made

close by, in which were various monuments inscribed with the names

of the drowned Emperor and his principal followers. This temple and

cemetery pacified the ghostly visitants to a certain extent, but from

time to time many strange things happened, as we shall gather from the

following legend.

There once lived at the Amidaji temple a blind priest named Hōïchi. He

was famous for his recitation and for his marvellous skill in playing

upon the _biwa_ (a four-stringed lute), and he was particularly fond

of reciting stories in connection with the protracted war between the

Taira and Minamoto clans.

One night Hōïchi was left alone in the temple, and as it was a very

warm evening he sat out on the verandah, playing now and again upon

his _biwa_. While thus occupied he heard some one approaching, some

one stepping across the little back garden of the temple. Then a deep

voice cried out from below the verandah: "Hōïchi!" Yet again the voice

sounded: "Hōïchi!"

Hōïchi, now very much alarmed, replied that he was blind, and would be

glad to know who his visitor might be.

"My lord," began the stranger, "is now staying at Akamagaséki with many

noble followers, and he has come for the purpose of viewing the scene

of the battle of Dan-no-ura. He has heard how excellently you recite

the story of the conflict, and has commanded me to escort you to him in

order that you may show him your skill. Bring your _biwa_ and follow

me. My lord and his august assembly now await your honourable presence."

Hōïchi, deeming that the stranger was some noble _samurai_, obeyed

immediately. He donned his sandals and took his _biwa_. The stranger

guided him with an iron hand, and they marched along very quickly.

Hōïchi heard the clank of armour at his side; but all fear left him,

and he looked forward to the honour of showing his skill before a

distinguished company.

Arriving at a gate, the stranger shouted: "_Kaimon_!" Immediately the

gate was unbarred and opened, and the two men passed in. Then came

the sound of many hurrying feet, and a rustling noise as of screens

being opened. Hōïchi was assisted in mounting a number of steps,

and, arriving at the top, he was commanded to leave his sandals. A

woman then led him forward by the hand till he found himself in a

vast apartment, where he judged that a great company of people were

assembled. He heard the subdued murmur of voices and the soft movement

of silken garments. When Hōïchi had seated himself on a cushion the

woman who had led him bade him recite the story of the great battle of

Dan-no-ura.

Hōïchi began to chant to the accompaniment of his _biwa_. His skill

was so great that the strings of his instrument seemed to imitate the

sound of oars, the movement of ships, the shouting of men, the noise

of surging waves, and the whirring of arrows. A low murmur of applause

greeted Hōïchi's wonderful performance. Thus encouraged, he continued

to sing and play with even greater skill. When he came to chant of the

perishing of the women and children, the plunge of Niidono into the sea

with the infant Emperor in her arms, the company began to weep and wail.

When the performance was over the woman who had led Hōïchi told him

that her lord was well pleased with his skill, and that he desired him

to play before him for the six following nights. "The retainer," added

she, "who brought you to-night will visit your temple at the same hour

to-morrow. You must keep these visits secret, and may now return to

your abode."

Once more the woman led Hōïchi through the apartment, and having

reached the steps the same retainer led him back to the verandah at the

back of the temple where he lived.

The next night Hōïchi was again led forth to entertain the assembly,

and he met with the same success. But this time his absence was

detected, and upon his return his fellow priest questioned him in

regard to the matter. Hōïchi evaded his friend's question, and told him

that he had merely been out to attend some private business.

His questioner was by no means satisfied. He regretted Hōïchi's

reticence and feared that there was something wrong, possibly that,

the blind priest had been bewitched by evil spirits. He bade the

men-servants keep a strict watch upon Hōïchi, and to follow him if he

should again leave the temple during the night.

Once more Hōïchi left his abode. The men-servants hastily lit their

lanterns and followed him with all speed; but though they walked

quickly, looked everywhere, and made numerous inquiries, they failed

to discover Hōïchi, or learn anything concerning him. On their

return, however, they were alarmed to hear the sound of a _biwa_ in

the cemetery of the temple, and on entering this gloomy place they

discovered the blind priest. He sat at the tomb of Antoku Tenno, the

infant Emperor, where he twanged his _biwa_ loudly, and as loudly

chanted the story of the battle of Dan-no-ura. About him on every side

mysterious fires glowed, like a great gathering of lighted candles.

"Hōïchi! Hōïchi!" shouted the men. "Stop your playing at once! You are

bewitched, Hōïchi!" But the blind priest continued to play and sing,

rapt, it seemed, in a strange and awful dream.

The men-servants now resorted to more extreme measures. They shook

him, and shouted in his ear: "Hōïchi, come back with us at once!"

The blind priest rebuked them, and said that such an interruption would

not be tolerated by the noble assembly about him.

The men now dragged Hōïchi away by force. When he reached the temple

his wet clothes were taken off and food and drink set before him.

By this time Hōïchi's fellow priest was extremely angry, and he

not unjustly insisted upon a full explanation of his extraordinary

behaviour. Hōïchi, after much hesitation, told his friend all that

had happened to him. When he had narrated his strange adventures, the

priest said:

"My poor fellow! You ought to have told me this before. You have not

been visiting a great house of a noble lord, but you have been sitting

in yonder cemetery before the tomb of Antoku Tenno. Your great skill

has called forth the ghosts of the Taira clan. Hōïchi, you are in great

danger, for by obeying these spirits you have assuredly put yourself in

their power, and sooner or later they will kill you. Unfortunately I am

called away to-night to perform a service, but before I go I will see

that your body is covered with sacred texts."

Before night approached Hōïchi was stripped, and upon his body an

acolyte inscribed, with writing-brushes, the text of the _sutra_ known

as _Hannya-Shin-Kyō_. These texts were written upon Hōïchi's breast,

head, back, face, neck, legs, arms, and feet, even upon the soles

thereof.

[Illustration: Hōïchi the Earless.--304]

Then the priest said: "Hōïchi, you will be called again to-night.

Remain silent, sit very still, and continually meditate. If you do

these things no harm will befall you."

That night Hōïchi sat alone in the verandah, scarcely moving a muscle

and breathing very softly.

Once more he heard the sound of footsteps. "Hōïchi!" cried a deep

voice. But the blind priest made no answer. He sat very still, full of

a great fear.

His name was called over and over again, but to no effect. "This won't

do," growled the stranger. "I must see where the fellow is." The

stranger sprang into the verandah and stood beside Hōïchi, who was now

shaking all over with the horror of the situation.

"Ah!" said the stranger. "This is the _biwa_, but in place of the

player I see--only two ears! Now I understand why he did not answer. He

has no mouth, only his two ears! Those ears I will take to my lord!"

In another moment Hōïchi's ears were torn off, but in spite of the

fearful pain the blind priest remained mute. Then the stranger

departed, and when his footsteps had died away the only sound Hōïchi

heard was the trickling of blood upon the verandah, and thus the priest

found the unfortunate man upon his return.

"Poor Hōïchi!" cried the priest. "It is all my fault. I trusted my

acolyte to write sacred texts on every part of your body. He failed

to do so on your ears. I ought to have seen that he carried out my

instructions properly. However, you will never be troubled with those

spirits in future." From that day the blind priest was known as

_Mimi-nashi-Hōïchi_, "Hōïchi-the-Earless."

The Corpse-eater

Musō Kokushi, a priest, lost his way while travelling through the

province of Mino. Despairing of finding a human abode, he was about to

sleep out in the open, when he chanced to discover a little hermitage,

called _anjitsu_. An aged priest greeted him, and Musō requested that

he would give him shelter for the night. "No," replied the old priest

angrily, "I never give shelter to any one. In yonder valley you will

find a certain hamlet; seek a night's repose there."

With these rather uncivil words, Musō took his departure, and reaching

the hamlet indicated he was hospitably received at the headman's

dwelling. On entering the principal apartment, the priest saw a number

of people assembled together. He was shown into a separate room, and

was about to fall asleep, when he heard the sound of lamentation, and

shortly afterwards a young man appeared before him, holding a lantern

in his hand.

"Good priest," said he, "I must tell you that my father has recently

died. We did not like to explain the matter upon your arrival, because

you were tired and much needed rest. The number of people you saw in

the principal apartment had come to pay their respects to the dead. Now

we must all go away, for that is the custom in our village when any one

dies, because strange and terrible things happen to corpses when they

are left alone; but perhaps, being a priest, you will not be afraid to

remain with my poor father's body."

Musō replied that he was in no way afraid, and told the young man

that he would perform a service, and watch by the deceased during

the company's absence. Then the young man, together with the other

mourners, left the house, and Musō remained to perform his solitary

night vigil.

After Musō had undertaken the funeral ceremonies, he sat meditating

for several hours. When the night had far advanced, he was aware of

the presence of a strange Shape, so terrible in aspect that the priest

could neither move nor speak. The Shape advanced, raised the corpse,

and quickly devoured it. Not content with this horrible meal, the

mysterious form also ate the offerings, and then vanished.

The next morning the villagers returned, and they expressed no

surprise, on hearing that the corpse had disappeared. After Musō had

narrated his strange adventure he inquired if the priest on the hill

did not sometimes perform the funeral service. "I visited him last

night at his _anjitsu_, and though he refused me shelter, he told me

where I might rest."

The villagers were amazed at these words, and informed Musō that there

was certainly no priest and no _anjitsu_ on yonder hill. They were

positive in their assertion, and assured Musō that he had been deluded

in the matter by some evil spirit. Musō did not reply, and shortly

afterwards he took his departure, determined if possible to unravel the

mystery.

Musō had no difficulty in finding the _anjitsu_ again. The old priest

came out to him, bowed, and exclaimed that he was sorry for his former

rudeness. "I am ashamed," added he, "not only because I gave you no

shelter, but because you have seen my real shape. You have seen me

devour a corpse and the funeral offerings. Alas! good sir, I am a

_jikininki_ [man-eating goblin], and if you will bear with me I will

explain my wretched condition.

"Many years ago I used to be a priest in this district, and I performed

a great number of burial services; but I was not a good priest, for I

was not influenced by true religion in performing my tasks, and thought

only of the good and fine clothes I could get out of my calling. For

that reason I was reborn a _jikininki_, and have ever since devoured

the corpses of all those who died in this district. I beg that you

will have pity on my miserable plight, and repeat certain prayers on

my behalf, that I may speedily find peace and make an end of my great

wickedness."

Immediately after these words had been spoken, the recluse and his

hermitage suddenly vanished, and Musō found himself kneeling beside

a moss-covered tomb, which was probably the tomb of the unfortunate

priest.

The Ghost Mother

A pale-faced woman crept down a street called Nakabaramachi, entered

a certain shop, and purchased a small quantity of _midzu-ame_.[3]

Every night, at a late hour, she came, always haggard of countenance

and always silent. The shopkeeper, who took a kindly interest in her,

followed her one night, but seeing that she entered a cemetery, he

turned back, puzzled and afraid.

Once again the mysterious woman came to the little shop, and this time

she did not buy _midzu-ame_, but beckoned the shopkeeper to follow her.

Down the street went the pale-faced woman, followed by the seller of

amber syrup and some of his friends. When they reached the cemetery

the woman disappeared into a tomb, and those without heard the weeping

of a child. When the tomb was opened they saw the corpse of the woman

they had followed, and by her side a living child, laughing at the

lantern-light and stretching forth its little hands towards a cup of

_midzu-ame_. The woman had been prematurely buried and her babe born in

the tomb. Every night the silent mother went forth from the cemetery in

order that she might bring back nourishment for her child.

The Futon of Tottori

In Tottori there was a small and modest inn. It was a new inn, and as

the landlord was poor he had been compelled to furnish it with goods

purchased from a second-hand shop in the vicinity. His first guest was

a merchant, who was treated with extreme courtesy and given much warm

_saké_. When the merchant had drunk the refreshing rice wine he retired

to rest and soon fell asleep. He had not slumbered long when he heard

the sound of children's voices in his room, crying pitifully: "Elder

Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art cold?" Over and

over again the children repeated these plaintive words. The merchant,

thinking that children had strayed into his room by mistake, mildly

rebuked them and prepared to go to sleep again. After a moment's

silence the children again cried: "Elder Brother probably is cold?"

"Nay, thou probably art cold?"

The guest arose, lit the _andon_ (night-light), and proceeded to

examine the room. But there was no one in the apartment; the cupboards

were empty, and all the _shōji_ (paper-screens) were closed. The

merchant, lay down again, puzzled and amazed. Once more he heard the

cry, close to his pillow: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou

probably art cold?" The cries were repeated, and the guest, cold with

horror, found that the voices proceeded from his _futon_ (quilt).

He hurriedly descended the stairs and told the innkeeper what had

happened. The landlord was angry. "You have drunk too much warm

_saké_," said he. "Warm _saké_ has brought you evil dreams." But the

guest paid his bill and sought lodging elsewhere.