On the following night another guest, slept in the haunted room, and

he, too, heard the same mysterious voices, rated the innkeeper, and

hastily took his departure. The landlord then entered the apartment

himself. He heard the pitiful cries of children coming from one

_futon_, and now was forced to believe the strange story his two guests

had told him.

The next day the landlord went to the second-hand shop where he had

purchased the _futon_, and made inquiries. After going from one shop to

another, he finally heard the following story of the mysterious _futon_:

There once lived in Tottori a poor man and his wife, with two children,

boys of six and eight years respectively. The parents died, and the

poor children were forced to sell their few belongings, until one day

they were left with only a thin and much-worn _futon_ to cover them

at night. At last they had no money to pay the rent, and not even the

wherewithal to purchase food of any kind.

When the period of the greatest cold came, the snow gathered so thickly

about the humble dwelling that the children could do nothing but wrap

the _futon_ about them, and murmur to each other in their sweet,

pathetic way: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art

cold?" And sobbing forth these words they clung together, afraid of the

darkness and of the bitter, shrieking wind.

While their poor little bodies nestled together, striving to keep each

other warm, the hard-hearted landlord entered, and finding that there

was no one to pay the rent, he turned the children out of the house,

each clad only in one thin _kimono_. They tried to reach a temple

of Kwannon, but the snow was too heavy, and they hid behind their

old home. A _futon_ of snow covered them and they fell asleep on the

merciful bosom of the Gods, and were finally buried in the cemetery of

the Temple of Kwannon-of-the-Thousand-Arms.

When the innkeeper heard this sad story he gave the _futon_ to the

priests of the Kwannon temple, prayers were recited for the children's

souls, and from that hour the _futon_ ceased to murmur its plaintive

cries.

The Return

In the village of Mochida-no-ura there lived a peasant. He was

extremely poor, but, notwithstanding, his wife bore him six children.

Directly a child was born, the cruel father flung it into a river and

pretended that it had died at birth, so that his six children were

murdered in this horrible way.

At length, as years went by, the peasant found himself in a more

prosperous position, and when a seventh child was born, a boy, he was

much gratified and loved him dearly.

One night the father took the child in his arms, and wandered out into

the garden, murmuring ecstatically: "What a beautiful summer night!"

The babe, then only five months old, for a moment assumed the speech of

a man, saying: "The moon looks just as it did when you last threw me in

the river!"

When the infant had uttered these words he became like other children;

but the peasant, now truly realising the enormity of his crime, from

that day became a priest.

A Test of Love

There was once a certain fair maiden who, contrary to Japanese custom,

was permitted to choose her own husband. Many suitors sought her hand,

and they brought her gifts and fair poems, and said many loving words

to her. She spoke kindly to each suitor, saying: "I will marry the man

who is brave enough to bear a certain test I shall impose upon him,

and whatever that test of love may be, I expect him, on the sacred

honour of a _samurai_, not to divulge it." The suitors readily complied

with these conditions, but one by one they left her, with horror upon

their faces, ceased their wooing, but breathed never a word concerning

the mysterious and awful secret.

At length a poor _samurai_, whose sword was his only wealth, came to

the maiden, and informed her that he was prepared to go through any

test, however severe, in order that he might make her his wife.

When they had supped together the maiden left the apartment, and long

after midnight returned clad in a white garment. They went out of the

house together, through innumerable streets where dogs howled, and

beyond the city, till they came to a great cemetery. Here the maiden

led the way while the _samurai_ followed, his hand upon his sword.

When the wooer was able to penetrate the darkness he saw that the

maiden was digging the ground with a spade. She dug with extreme

haste, and eventually tore off the lid of a coffin. In another moment

she snatched up the corpse of a child, tore off an arm, broke it, and

commenced to eat one piece, flinging the other to her wooer, crying:

"If you love me, eat what I eat!"

Without a moment's hesitation the _samurai_ sat down by the grave

and began to eat one half of the arm. "Excellent!" he cried, "I pray

you give me more!" At this point of the legend the horror happily

disappears, for neither the _samurai_ nor the maiden ate a corpse--the

arm was made of delicious confectionery!

The maiden, with a cry of joy, sprang to her feet, and said: "At last

I have found a brave man! I will marry you, for you are the husband I

have ever longed for, and until this night have never found."

[Footnote 1: The legends in this chapter are adapted from stories in

Lafcadio Hearn's _Kwaidan_ and _Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan_.]

[Footnote 2: See Chapter II.]

[Footnote 3: A syrup made from malt and given to children when milk is

not available.]

CHAPTER XXVI: THREE MAIDENS

The Maiden of Unai

The Maiden Unai dwelt with her parents in the village of Ashinóya.

She was extremely beautiful, and it so happened that she had two most

ardent and persistent lovers--Mubara, who was a native of the same

countryside, and Chinu; who came from Izumi. These two lovers might

very well have been twins, for they resembled each other in age, face,

figure, and stature. Unfortunately, however, they both loved her with

an equal passion, so that it was impossible to distinguish between

them. Their gifts were the same, and there appeared to be no difference

in their manner of courting. We get a good idea of the formidable

aspect of these two lovers in the following, taken from Mushimaro's

poem on the subject:

"With jealous love these champions twain

The beauteous girl did woo;

Each had his hand on the hilt of his sword,

And a full-charged quiver, too,

"Was slung o'er the back of each champion fierce,

And a bow of snow-white wood

Did rest in the sinewy hand of each;

And the twain defiant stood."

Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

In the meantime, the Maiden of Unai grew sick at heart. She never

accepted the gifts of either Mubara or Chinu, and yet it distressed her

to see them standing at the gate month after month, never relaxing for

a moment the ardent expression of their feeling toward her.

The Maiden of Unai's parents do not seem to have appreciated the

complexity of the situation, for they said to her: "Sad it is for us to

have to bear the burden of thine unseemly conduct in thus carelessly

from month to month, and from year to year, causing others to sorrow.

If thou wilt accept the one, after a little time the other's love will

cease."

These well-meant words brought no consolation or assistance to the

poor Maiden of Unai, so her parents sent for the lovers, explained the

pitiful situation, and decided that he who should shoot a water-bird

swimming in the river Ikuta, which flowed by the platform on which the

house was built, should have their daughter in marriage. The lovers

were delighted at this decision, and anxious to put an end to this

cruel suspense. They pulled their bow-strings at the same instant, and

together their arrows struck the bird, one in the head and the other in

the tail, so that neither could claim to be the better marksman. When

the Maiden of Unai saw how entirely hopeless the whole affair was, she

exclaimed:

"Enough, enough! yon swiftly flowing wave

Shall free my soul from her long anxious strife:

Men call fair Settsu's stream the stream of life,

But in that stream shall be the maiden's grave!"

Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

With these melodramatic words she flung herself from the platform into

the surging water beneath.

[Illustration: The Maiden of Unai.--314]

The maid's parents, who witnessed the scene, shouted and raved on the

platform, while the devoted lovers sprang into the river. One held the

maiden's foot, and the other her hand, and in a moment the three sank

and perished. In due time the maiden was buried with her lovers on

either side, and to this day the spot is known as the "Maiden's Grave."

In the grave of Mubara there was a hollow bamboo-cane, together with

a bow, a quiver, and a long sword; but nothing had been placed in the

grave of Chinu.

Some time afterwards a stranger happened to pass one night in the

neighbourhood of the grave, and he was suddenly disturbed by hearing

the sound of fighting. He sent his retainers to inquire into the

matter, but they returned to him saying they could hear or see nothing

of an unusual nature. While the stranger pondered over the love-story

of the Maiden of Unai he fell asleep. He had no sooner done so than

he saw before him, kneeling on the ground, a blood-stained man, who

told him that he was much harassed by the persecutions of an enemy,

and begged that the stranger would lend him his sword. This request

was reluctantly granted. When the stranger awoke he was inclined to

think the whole affair a dream; but it was no passing fantasy of the

night, for not only was his sword missing, but he heard near at hand

the sound of a great combat. Then the clash of weapons suddenly ceased,

and once more the blood-stained man stood before him, saying: "By thine

honourable assistance have I slain the foe that had oppressed me during

these many years." So we may infer that in the spirit world Chinu

fought and slew his rival, and after many years of bitter jealousy was

finally able to call the Maiden of Unai his own.

The Grave of the Maiden of Unai

"I stand by the grave where they buried

The Maiden of Unai,

Whom of old the rival champions

Did woo so jealously.

"The grave should hand down through the ages

Her story for evermore,

That men yet unborn might love her,

And think on the days of yore.

"And so beside the causeway

They piled up the boulders high;

Nor e'er, till the clouds that o'ershadow us

Shall vanish from the sky,

"May the pilgrim along the causeway

Forget to turn aside,

And mourn o'er the grave of the Maiden;

And the village folk, beside,

"Ne'er cease from their bitter weeping,

But cluster around her tomb;

And the ages repeat her story,

And bewail the Maiden's doom.

"Till at last e'en I stand gazing

On the grave where she lies low,

And muse with unspeakable sadness

On the old days long ago."

_Sakimaro_. (Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.)

The Maiden of Katsushika

"Where in the far-off eastern land

The cock first crows at dawn,

The people still hand down a tale

Of days long dead and gone.

"They tell of Katsushika's maid,

Whose sash of country blue

Bound but a frock of home-spun hemp,

And kirtle coarse to view;

"Whose feet no shoe had e'er confined,

Nor comb passed through her hair;

Yet all the queens in damask robes

Might nevermore compare

"With this dear child, who smiling stood,

A flow'ret of the spring--

In beauty perfect and complete,

Like to the full moon's ring.

"And, as the summer moths that fly

Towards the flame so bright,

Or as the boats that seek the port

When fall the shades of night,

"So came the suitors; but she said:

'Why take me for your wife?

Full well I know my humble lot,

I know how short my life.'

"So where the dashing billows beat

On the loud-sounding shore,

Hath Katsushika's tender maid

Her home for evermore.

"Yes! 'tis a tale of days long past;

But, list'ning to the lay,

It seems as I had gazed upon

Her face but yesterday."

Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

To the translation of this Japanese ballad Professor B. H. Chamberlain

adds the following note: "To the slight, but undoubtedly very ancient,

tradition preserved in the foregoing ballad, there is nothing to add

from any authentic source. Popular fancy, however, has been busy

filling up the gaps, and introduces a cruel stepmother, who, untouched

by the piety of the maiden in drawing water for her every day from the

only well whose water she cares to drink, is so angry with her for, by

her radiant beauty, attracting suitors to the house, that the poor girl

ends by drowning herself, upon which the neighbours declare her to be a

goddess, and erect a temple in her honour. Both the temple and the well

are still among the show-places in the environs of Tōkyō."

The Maiden with the Wooden Bowl

In ancient days there lived an old couple with their only child, a girl

of remarkable charm and beauty. When the old man fell sick and died

his widow became more and more concerned for her daughter's future

welfare.

One day she called her child to her, and said: "Little one, your father

lies in yonder cemetery, and I, being old and feeble, must needs follow

him soon. The thought of leaving you alone in the world troubles me

much, for you are beautiful, and beauty is a temptation and a snare to

men. Not all the purity of a white flower can prevent it from being

plucked and dragged down in the mire. My child, your face is all too

fair. It must be hidden from the eager eyes of men, lest it cause you

to fall from your good and simple life to one of shame."

Having said these words, she placed a lacquered bowl upon the maiden's

head, so that it veiled her attractions. "Always wear it, little one,"

said the mother, "for it will protect you when I am gone."

Shortly after this loving deed had been performed the old woman

died, and the maiden was forced to earn her living by working in the

rice-fields. It was hard, weary work, but the girl kept a brave heart

and toiled from dawn to sunset without a murmur. Over and over again

her strange appearance created considerable comment, and she was known

throughout the country as the "Maiden with the Bowl on her Head."

Young men laughed at her and tried to peep under the vessel, and not

a few endeavoured to pull off the wooden covering; but it could not

be removed, and laughing and jesting, the young men had to be content

with a glimpse of the lower part of the fair maiden's face. The poor

girl bore this rude treatment with a patient but heavy heart, believing

that out of her mother's love and wisdom would come some day a joy that

would more than compensate for all her sorrow.

One day a rich farmer watched the maiden working in his rice-fields.

He was struck by her diligence and the quick and excellent way she

performed her tasks. He was pleased with that bent and busy little

figure, and did not laugh at the wooden bowl on her head. After

observing her for some time, he came to the maiden, and said: "You work

well and do not chatter to your companions. I wish you to labour in my

rice-fields until the end of the harvest."

When the rice harvest had been gathered and winter had come the wealthy

farmer, still more favourably impressed with the maiden, and anxious to

do her a service, bade her become an inmate of his house. "My wife is

ill," he added, "and I should like you to nurse her for me."

The maiden gratefully accepted this welcome offer. She tended the sick

woman with every care, for the same quiet diligence she displayed

in the rice-fields was characteristic of her gentle labour in the

sick-room. As the farmer and his wife had no daughter they took very

kindly to this orphan and regarded her as a child of their own.

At length the farmer's eldest son returned to his old home. He was a

wise young man who had studied much in gay Kyōto, and was weary of a

merry life of feasting and frivolous pleasure. His father and mother

expected that their son would soon grow tired of his father's house and

its quiet surroundings, and every day they feared that he would come to

them, bid farewell, and return once more to the city of the Mikado. But

to the surprise of all the farmer's son expressed no desire to leave

his old home.

One day the young man came to his father, and said: "Who is this maiden

in our house, and why does she wear an ugly black bowl upon her head?"

When the farmer had told the sad story of the maiden his son was deeply

moved; but, nevertheless, he could not refrain from laughing a little

at the bowl. The young man's laughter, however, did not last long.

Day by day the maiden became more fascinating to him. Now and again

he peeped at the girl's half-hidden face, and became more and more

impressed by her gentleness of manner and her nobility of nature. It

was not long before his admiration turned into love, and he resolved

that he would marry the Maiden with the Bowl on her Head. Most of his

relations were opposed to the union. They said: "She is all very well

in her way, but she is only a common servant. She wears that bowl in

order to captivate the unwary, and we do not think it hides beauty, but

rather ugliness. Seek a wife elsewhere, for we will not tolerate this

ambitious and scheming maiden."

From that hour the maiden suffered much. Bitter and spiteful things

were said to her, and even her mistress, once so good and kind, turned

against her. But the farmer did not change his opinion. He still liked

the girl, and was quite willing that she should become his son's wife,

but, owing to the heated remarks of his wife and relations, he dared

not reveal his wishes in the matter.

All the opposition, none too kindly expressed, only made the young

man more desirous to achieve his purpose. At length his mother and

relations, seeing that their wishes were useless, consented to the

marriage, but with a very bad grace.

The young man, believing that all difficulties had been removed,

joyfully went to the Maiden with the Bowl on her Head, and said: "All

troublesome opposition is at an end, and now nothing prevents us from

getting married."

"No," replied the poor maiden, weeping bitterly, "I cannot marry you.

I am only a servant in your father's house, and therefore it would be

unseemly for me to become your bride."

The young man spoke gently to her. He expressed his ardent love over

and over again, he argued, he begged; but the maiden would not change

her mind. Her attitude made the relations extremely angry. They said

that the woman had made fools of them all, little knowing that she

dearly loved the farmer's son, and believed, in her loyal heart, that

marriage could only bring discord in the home that had sheltered her in

her poverty.

That night the poor girl cried herself to sleep, and in a dream her

mother came to her, and said: "My dear child, let your good heart be

troubled no more. Marry the farmer's son and all will be well again."

The maiden woke next morning full of joy, and when her lover came to

her and asked once more if she would become his bride, she yielded with

a gracious smile.

Great preparations were made for the wedding, and when the company

assembled, it was deemed high time to remove the maiden's wooden bowl.

She herself tried to take it off, but it remained firmly fixed to

her head. When some of the relations, with not a few unkind remarks,

came to her assistance, the bowl uttered strange cries and groans. At

length the bridegroom approached the maiden, and said: "Do not let this

treatment distress you. You are just as dear to me with or without the

bowl," and having said these words, he commanded that the ceremony

should proceed.

Then the wine-cups were brought into the crowded apartment and,

according to custom, the bride and bridegroom were expected to drink

together the "Three times three" in token of their union. Just as the

maiden put the wine-cup to her lips the bowl on her head broke with

a great noise, and from it fell gold and silver and all manner of

precious stones, so that the maiden who had once been a beggar now had

her marriage portion. The guests were amazed as they looked upon the

heap of shining jewels and gold and silver, but they were still more

surprised when they chanced to look up and see that the bride was the

most beautiful woman in all Japan.

CHAPTER XXVII: LEGENDS OF THE SEA

"Oh! that the white waves far out

On the sea of Ise

Were but flowers,

That I might gather them

And bring them as a gift to my love."

_Prince Aki_. (Trans. by W. G. Aston.)

The Tide of the Returning Ghosts

On the last day of the Festival of the Dead the sea is covered

with countless _shōryōbune_ (soul-ships), for on that day, called

_Hotoke-umi_, which means Buddha-Flood, or the Tide of the Returning

Ghosts, the souls go back to their spirit world again. The sea shines

with the light of the departed, and from over the waves comes the sound

of ghosts whispering together. No human being would dream of putting

out to sea amid such sacred company, for the sea that night belongs to

the dead; it is their long pathway to the realm where Emma-Ō reigns

supreme.

It sometimes happens, however, that a vessel fails to come to port

before the departure of the soul-ships, and on such occasions the dead

arise from the deep, stretch forth their arms, and implore that buckets

may be given them. Sailors comply with this request, but present the

ghosts with one that has no bottom, for if they gave the dead sound

buckets, the angry spirits would use them for the purpose of sinking

the vessel.

Urashima

"'Tis Spring, and the mists come stealing

O'er Suminóye's shore,

And I stand by the seaside musing

On the days that are no more.

"I muse on the old-world story,

As the boats glide to and fro,

Of the fisher-boy Urashima,

Who a-fishing lov'd to go."

Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

"The legend of Urashima," writes Professor B. H. Chamberlain in

_Japanese Poetry_, "is one of the oldest in the language, and traces of

it may even be found in the official annals." In the popular version,

which we give below, "the Evergreen Land," recorded in the Japanese

ballad, "The Fisher Boy Urashima," appears as the Dragon Palace.

Professor Chamberlain writes: "The word Dragon Palace is in Japanese

_ryūgū_, or, more properly, _ryūkyū_, which is likewise the Japanese

pronunciation of the name of the islands we call Luchu, and the Chinese

Liu-kiu; and it has been suggested that the Dragon Palace may be but a

fanciful name given by some shipwrecked voyager to those sunny southern

isles, whose inhabitants still distinguish themselves, even above their

Chinese and Japanese neighbours, by their fondness for the dragon

as an artistic and architectural adornment. There is one ode in the

_Man-yōshū_ which would favour this idea, speaking as it does of the

orange having first been brought to Japan from the 'Evergreen Land'

lying to the south."

Urashima and the Tortoise

One day Urashima, who lived in a little fishing village called

Midzunoe, in the province of Tango, went out to fish. It so happened

that he caught a tortoise, and as tortoises are said to live many

thousands of years, the thoughtful Urashima allowed the creature to

return to the sea, rebaited his hook, and once more waited for the bite

of a fish. Only the sea gently waved his line to and fro. The sun beat

down upon his head till at last Urashima fell asleep.

He had not been sleeping long when he heard some one calling his name:

"Urashima, Urashima!"

It was such a sweet, haunting voice that the fisher-lad stood up in his

boat and looked around in every direction, till he chanced to see the

very tortoise he had been kind enough to restore to its watery home.

The tortoise, which was able to speak quite fluently, profusely thanked

Urashima for his kindness, and offered to take him to the _ryūkyū_, or

Palace of the Dragon King.

The invitation was readily accepted, and getting on the tortoise's

back, Urashima found himself gliding through the sea at a tremendous

speed, and the curious part about it was he discovered that his clothes

remained perfectly dry.

In the Sea King's Palace

Arriving at the Sea King's Palace, red bream, flounder, sole, and

cuttlefish came out to give Urashima a hearty welcome. Having expressed

their pleasure, these vassals of the Dragon King escorted the

fisher-lad to an inner apartment, where the beautiful Princess Otohime

and her maidens were seated. The Princess was arrayed in gorgeous

garments of red and gold, all the colours of a wave with the sunlight

upon it.

This Princess explained that she had taken the form of a tortoise by

way of testing his kindness of heart. The test had happily proved

successful, and as a reward for his virtue she offered to become his

bride in a land where there was eternal youth and everlasting summer.

Urashima bashfully accepted the high honour bestowed upon him. He had

no sooner spoken than a great company of fishes appeared, robed in long

ceremonial garments, their fins supporting great coral trays loaded

with rare delicacies. Then the happy couple drank the wedding cup of

_saké_, and while they drank, some of the fishes played soft music,

others sang, and not a few, with scales of silver and golden tails,

stepped out a strange measure on the white sand.

After the festivities were over, Otohime showed her husband all the

wonders of her father's palace. The greatest marvel of all was to

see a country where all the seasons lingered together.[1] Looking to

the east, Urashima saw plum- and cherry-trees in full bloom, with

bright-winged butterflies skimming over the blossom, and away in the

distance it seemed that the pink petals and butterflies had suddenly

been converted into the song of a wondrous nightingale. In the south

he saw trees in their summer glory, and heard the gentle note of the

cricket. Looking to the west, the autumn maples made a fire in the

branches, so that if Urashima had been other than a humble fisher-lad

he might have recalled the following poem:

"Fair goddess of the paling Autumn skies,

Fain would I know how many looms she plies,

Wherein through skilful tapestry she weaves

Her fine brocade of fiery maple leaves--

Since on each hill, with every gust that blows,

In varied hues her vast embroidery glows?"

Trans. by Clara A. Walsh.

It was, indeed, a "vast embroidery," for when Urashima looked toward

the north he saw a great stretch of snow and a mighty pond covered

with ice. All the seasons lingered together in that fair country where

Nature had yielded to the full her infinite variety of beauty.

After Urashima had been in the Sea King's Palace for three days, and

seen many wonderful things, he suddenly remembered his old parents,

and felt a strong desire to go and see them. When he went to his wife,

and told her of his longing to return home, Otohime began to weep, and

tried to persuade him to stop another day. But Urashima refused to be

influenced in the matter. "I must go," said he, "but I will leave you

only for a day. I will return again, dear wife of mine."

[Illustration: Urashima and the Sea King's Daughter--326]

The Home-coming of Urashima

Then Otohime gave her husband a keepsake in remembrance of their

love. It was called the _Tamate-Bako_ ("Box of the Jewel Hand"). She

explained that he was on no account to open the box, and Urashima,

promising to fulfil her wish, said farewell, mounted a large tortoise,

and soon found himself in his own country. He looked in vain for

his father's home. Not a sign of it was to be seen. The cottage had

vanished, only the little stream remained.

Still much perplexed, Urashima questioned a passer-by, and he learnt

from him that a fisher-lad, named Urashima, had gone to sea three

hundred years ago and was drowned, and that his parents, brothers,

and their grandchildren had been laid to rest for a long time. Then

Urashima suddenly remembered that the country of the Sea King was a

divine land, where a day, according to mortal reckoning, was a hundred

years.

Urashima's reflections were gloomy in the extreme, for all whom he had

loved on earth were dead. Then he heard the murmur of the sea, and

recalled the lovely Otohime, as well as the country where the seasons

joined hands and made a fourfold pageant of their beauty--the land

where trees had emeralds for leaves and rubies for berries, where the

fishes wore long robes and sang and danced and played. Louder the sea

sounded in Urashima's ears. Surely Otohime called him? But no path

opened out before him, no obliging tortoise appeared on the scene to

carry him to where his wife waited for him. "The box! the box!" said

Urashima softly, "if I open my wife's mysterious gift, it may reveal

the way."

Urashima untied the red silk thread and slowly, fearfully opened the

lid of the box. Suddenly there rushed out a little white cloud; it

lingered a moment, and then rolled away far over the sea. But a sacred

promise had been broken, and Urashima from a handsome youth became old

and wrinkled. He staggered forward, his white hair and beard blowing in

the wind. He looked out to sea, and then fell dead upon the shore.

Professor Chamberlain writes: "Urashima's tomb, together with his

fishing-line, the casket given him by the maiden, and two stones said

to be precious, are still shown at one of the temples in Kanagawa."

The Land of the Morning Calm

Chosen, the Land of the Morning Calm, was the old name for Korea,[2]

and however poetical the phrase may be, it was, nevertheless, totally

inapplicable to actual fact. In its early history it was a country

divided against itself, and later on it was troubled with the invading

armies of China and Japan, to say nothing of minor skirmishes with

other countries. There is certainly a pathetic calm in Korea to-day,

but it is the calm of a long-vanquished and persecuted nation. It

now rests with Japan whether or not the Koreans rise from serfdom

and regain something of that old hardihood that was at one time so

prominent a feature of her northern men.

Long ago Korea came under the glamour of the Chinese civilisation, and

it haunts her people to this day. Japan borrowed from Korea what Korea

had borrowed from China. It was because Japan went on borrowing from

the West when she had exhausted all that Korea and China could teach

her that she eventually became, with the progressive stream of thought

and action flowing vigorously through her, a world-power, while Korea

remained a forlorn example of an almost stagnant country.

When Japan had succeeded in convincing Korea that she alone could

be her faithful guide, Russia came, like a thief in the night, and

established a military outpost at Wiju. The Russo-Japanese War

resulted, and Korea became a Japanese colony, an experimental ground

for social and political reform. Japan has waited long for Korea.

May she find it at last, not a turbulent and rebellious country, but

in very deed the Land of the Morning Calm. Korea in the past has

contributed to the making of Japan's greatness in handing on the

religion, art, and literature of China. Now it is Japan's turn to

succour an impoverished country, and if the Morning Calm is united

with the Rising Sun, there should be peace and prosperity in her new

possession.

Professor J. H. Longford, in _The Story of Korea_, writes in regard

to the invasion of the Empress Jingo: "Dr. Aston....contemptuously

dismisses the whole as a myth founded on two very distinct historical

facts--that there was, at the time of the alleged invasion, an Empress

of Japan, a woman of real determination and ability, and that not

one, but several Japanese invasions of Korea did occur, though at

later periods, in which the Japanese did not invariably meet with the

triumphant success that they claim for the Empress." We give below the

picturesque legend of Japan's first invasion of Korea.

The Tide Jewels

One night the Empress Jingo, as she lay asleep in her tent, had a

strange dream. She dreamt that a spirit came to her and told her of

a wonderful land, a land in the West, full of treasures of gold and

silver, a dazzling land, fair to look upon as a beautiful woman. The

spirit informed her that the name of this country was Chosen (Korea),

and that it might belong to Japan if she would set out and conquer this

wealthy land.

The next day the Empress Jingo informed her husband about her dream;

but the Emperor, a stolid, matter-of-fact man, did not believe in

dreams. However, as his wife persisted in thrusting upon him what he

deemed to be a foolish scheme, he climbed a high mountain, and looking

toward the setting sun saw no land in the West. When the Emperor had

come down from the mountain, he informed his wife that he would on no

account give his consent to invade and conquer a country which simply

owed its existence to a disordered dream. But the Gods were angry with

the Emperor, and shortly after he had uttered his prohibition he died

in battle.

The Gift of the Dragon King

When the Empress Jingo became sole ruler she was determined to go to

this country she had heard about in a dream; but as she was resolved

to make her expedition no puny and tame affair, she called upon the

Spirit of the Mountain to give her timber and iron for her ships. The

Spirit of Fields gave her rice and other grain for her army, while the

Spirit of Grass presented her with hemp for rope. The Wind God looked

favourably upon her scheme, and promised to blow her ships towards

Korea. All the spirits appeared in compliance with the Empress Jingo's

wishes except Isora, the Spirit of the Seashore.

Isora was a lazy fellow, and when he finally appeared above the waves

of the sea, he did so without gorgeous apparel, for he was covered with

slime and shells, and seaweed adorned his unkempt person. When the

Empress saw him she bade him go to his master, the Dragon King, and ask

him to give her the Tide Jewels.

Isora obeyed, dived down into the water, and presently stood before the

Dragon King and made his request.

The Dragon King took out the Tide Jewels from a casket, placed them on

a great shell, and bade Isora promptly return to the Empress Jingo with

this precious gift.

Isora sprang from his master's palace to the surface of the sea, and

the Empress Jingo placed the Tide Jewels in her girdle.

The Voyage

Now that the Empress had obtained the Jewel of the Flood-Tide and the

Jewel of the Ebb-Tide she had three thousand ships built and launched,

and during the tenth month she started on her great expedition. Her

fleet had not proceeded far when a mighty storm arose, so that the

vessels crashed together and were likely to sink to the bottom of the

sea. The Dragon King, however, commanded great sea-monsters to go to

the rescue; some bore up the ships with their great bodies, others

pushed their heads against the sterns of many vessels, thus propelling

them through a heavy sea which had very nearly driven them back whence

they came. Powerful dragon-fishes lent their aid to those pushing and

snorting in the rear by holding the ships' cables in their mouths and

towing the vessels forward at a surprising speed. Directly the storm

ceased, the sea-monsters and dragon-fishes disappeared.

The Throwing of the Tide Jewels

At last the Empress Jingo and her army saw the distant mountains of

Korea loom out on the horizon. On nearing the coast they perceived

that the whole of the Korean army stood upon the shore with their

ships ready to be launched at the word of command. As soon as the

Korean sentinels perceived the Japanese fleet, they gave the signal for

embarking, and immediately a great line of war-vessels shot out over

the water.

The Empress stood watching these proceedings with unruffled calm. She

knew that the victory or defeat of her army lay in her power. When the

Korean vessels drew near to her fleet she threw into the sea the Jewel

of the Ebb-Tide. Directly it touched the water it caused the tide to

recede from under the very keels of the Korean ships, so that they

were left stranded upon dry land. The Koreans, suspecting no magic and

believing their stranded condition to have been the result of a tidal

wave and, moreover, that the Japanese vessels would succumb to the

back-wash, sprang from their vessels and rushed over the sand. Now the

Japanese bowmen twanged their bow-strings, and a great cloud of arrows

flew into the air, killing many hundreds of the enemy. When the Koreans

were quite near the Japanese vessels, the Empress flung forth the Jewel

of the Flood-Tide. Immediately a great wave rushed over and destroyed

nearly the whole of the Korean army. It was now an easy matter for

the Japanese to land and capture the country. The King of Korea

surrendered, and the Empress returned to her own kingdom laden with

silk and jewels, books and pictures, tiger-skins and precious robes.

When the Tide Jewels had been thrown by the Empress, they did not lie

long on the bed of the ocean. Isora speedily rescued them and carried

them back to the Dragon King.

Prince Ojin

Soon after the Empress Jingo's return she gave birth to a son named

Ojin. When Ojin had grown into a fair and wise little boy, his mother

told him about the wonderful Tide Jewels, and expressed a wish that he,

too, should possess them in order that he might bring honour and glory

to Japan.

One day the Prime Minister, who was said to be three hundred and sixty

years old, and the counsellor of no less than five Mikados, took Ojin

with him in a royal war-barge. The vessel skimmed over the sea with

its gold silk sails. The Prime Minister in a loud voice called on the

Dragon King to give young Ojin the Tide Jewels.

Immediately the waves about the vessel were churned into foam, and amid

a great thunderous roar the Dragon King himself appeared with a living

creature of dreadful countenance for a helmet. Then out of the water

arose a mighty shell, in the recess of which glittered the Tide Jewels.

After presenting these jewels, and making a pretty little speech, he

returned to his great green kingdom.

The Slaughter of the Sea Serpent[3]

Oribe Shima had offended the great ruler Hojo Takatoki, and was in

consequence banished to Kamishima, one of the Oki Islands, and forced

to leave his beautiful daughter Tokoyo, whom he deeply loved.

At last Tokoyo was unable to bear the separation any longer, and she

was determined to find her father. She therefore set out upon a long

journey, and arriving at Akasaki, in the province of Hoki, from which

coast town the Oki Islands are visible on a fine day, she besought many

a fisherman to row her to her destination. But the fisher-folk laughed

at Tokoyo, and bade her relinquish her foolish plan and return home.

The maiden, however, would not listen to their advice, and at nightfall

she got into the lightest vessel she could find, and by dint of a fair

wind and persistent rowing the brave girl came to one of the rocky bays

of the Oki Islands.

That night Tokoyo slept soundly, and in the morning partook of food.

When she had finished her meal she questioned a fisherman as to where

she might find her father. "I have never heard of Oribe Shima," replied

the fisherman, "and if he has been banished, I beg that you will desist

from further search, lest it lead to the death of you both."

That night the sorrowful Tokoyo slept beneath a shrine dedicated to

Buddha. Her sleep was soon disturbed by the clapping of hands, and

looking up she saw a weeping maiden clad in a white garment with a

priest standing beside her. Just as the priest was about to push the

maiden over the rocks into the roaring sea, Tokoyo sprang up and held

the maiden's arm.

The priest explained that on that night, the thirteenth of June, the

Serpent God, known as Yofuné-Nushi, demanded the sacrifice of a young

girl, and that unless this annual sacrifice was made the God became

angry and caused terrible storms.

"Good sir," said Tokoyo, "I am glad that I have been able to save this

poor girl's life. I gladly offer myself in her place, for I am sad

of heart because I have been unable to find my father. Give him this

letter, for my last words of love and farewell go to him."

[Illustration: Tokoyo and the Sea Serpent.--334]

Having thus spoken, Tokoyo took the maiden's white robe and clad

herself in it, and having prayed to the image of Buddha, she placed a

small dagger between her teeth and plunged into the tempestuous sea.

Down she went through the moonlit water till she came to a mighty cave

where she saw a statue of Hojo Takatoki, who had sent her poor father

into exile. She was about to tie the image on her back when a great

white serpent crept out from the cave with eyes gleaming angrily.

Tokoyo, realising that this creature was none other than Yofuné-Nushi,

drew her dagger and thrust it through the right eye of the God. This

unexpected attack caused the serpent to retire into the cave, but

the brave Tokoyo followed and struck another blow, this time at the

creature's heart. For a moment Yofuné-Nushi blindly stumbled forward,

then with a shriek of pain fell dead upon the floor of the cavern.

During this adventure the priest and the maiden stood on the rocks

watching the spot where Tokoyo had disappeared, praying fervently for

the peace of her sorrowful soul. As they watched and prayed they saw

Tokoyo come to the surface of the water carrying an image and a mighty

fish-like creature. The priest hastily came to the girl's assistance,

dragged her upon the shore, placed the image on a high rock, and

secured the body of the White Sea Serpent.

In due time the remarkable story was reported to Tameyoshi, lord of the

island, who in turn reported the strange adventure to Hojo Takatoki.

Now Takatoki had for some time been suffering from a disease which

defied the skill of the most learned doctors; but it was observed that

he regained his health precisely at the hour when his image, which had

been cursed and thrown into the sea by some exile, had been restored.

When Hojo Takatoki heard that the brave girl was the daughter of the

exiled Oribe Shima, he sent him back with all speed to his own home,

where he and his daughter lived in peace and happiness.

The Spirit of the Sword

One night a junk anchored off Fudo's Cape, and when various

preparations had been made, the Captain, Tarada by name, and his crew

fell asleep on deck. At about midnight Tarada was awakened by hearing

an extraordinary rumbling sound that seemed to proceed from the bottom

of the sea. Chancing to look in the direction of the bow of the vessel,

he saw a fair girl clad in white and illumined by a dazzling light.

When Tarada had awakened his crew he approached the maiden, who said:

"My only wish is to be back in the world again." Having uttered these

words, she disappeared among the waves.

The next day Tarada went on shore and asked many who lived in Amakura

if they had ever heard of a wondrous maiden bathed, as it were, in a

phosphorescent light. One of the villagers thus made answer: "We have

never seen the maiden you describe, but for some time past we have been

disturbed by rumbling noises that seem to come from Fudo's Cape, and

ever since, these mysterious sounds have prevented fish from entering

our bay. It may be that the girl you saw was the ghost of some poor

maiden drowned at sea, and the noise we hear none other than the anger

of the Sea God on account of a corpse or human bones polluting the

water."

It was eventually decided that the dumb Sankichi should dive into the

sea and bring up any corpse he might find there. So Sankichi went

on board Tarada's junk, and having said farewell to his friends, he

plunged into the water. He searched diligently, but could see no trace

of corpse or human bones. At length, however, he perceived what looked

like a sword wrapped in silk, and on untying the wrapping he found

that it was indeed a sword, of great brightness and without a flaw of

any kind. Sankichi came to the surface and was quickly taken aboard.

The poor fellow was gently laid on the deck, but he fainted from

exhaustion. His cold body was rubbed vigorously and fires were lit. In

a very short time Sankichi became conscious and was able to show the

sword and give particulars of his adventure.

An official, by the name of Naruse Tsushimanokami, was of the opinion

that the sword was a sacred treasure, and on his recommendation it was

placed in a shrine and dedicated to Fudo. Sankichi faithfully guarded

the precious weapon, and Fudo's Cape became known as the Cape of the

Woman's Sword. To the delight of the fisher-folk, the spirit of the

weapon now being satisfied, the fish came back into the bay again.

The Love of O Cho San

"To-day is the tenth of June. May the rain fall in torrents!

For I long to see my dearest O Cho San."

Trans. by R. Gordon Smith.

In the isolated Hatsushima Island, celebrated for its _suisenn_

(jonquils), there once lived a beautiful maiden called Cho, and all the

young men on the island were eager to marry her. One day the handsome

Shinsaku, who was bolder than the rest, went to Gisuke, the brother

of Cho, and told him that he much desired to marry his fair sister.

Gisuke offered no objections, and calling Cho to him, when the suitor

had gone, he said: "Shinsaku wishes to become your husband. I like the

fisherman, and think that in him you will make an excellent match. You

are now eighteen, and it is quite time that you got married."

O Cho San fully approved of what her brother had said, and the marriage

was arranged to take place in three days' time. Unfortunately, those

days were days of discord on the island, for when the other fishermen

lovers heard the news they began to hate the once popular Shinsaku,

and, moreover, they neglected their work and were continually fighting

each other. These lamentable scenes cast such a gloom upon the once

happy Hatsushima Island that O Cho San and her lover decided that for

the peace of the many they would not marry after all.

This noble sacrifice, however, did not bring about the desired effect,

for the thirty lovers still fought each other and still neglected their

fishing. O Cho San determined to perform a still greater sacrifice.

She wrote loving letters of farewell to her brother and Shinsaku, and

having left them by the sleeping Gisuke, she softly crept out of the

house on a stormy night on the 10th of June. She dropped big stones

into her pretty sleeves, and then flung herself into the sea.

The next day Gisuke and Shinsaku read their letters from O Cho San,

and, overcome by grief, they searched the shore, where they found the

straw sandals of Cho. The two men realised that the fair maid had

indeed taken her precious life, and shortly after her body was taken

from the sea and buried, and over her tomb Shinsaku placed many flowers

and wept continually.

One evening, Shinsaku, unable to bear his sorrow any longer decided to

take his life, believing that by doing so he would meet the spirit of O

Cho San. As he lingered by the girl's grave, he seemed to see her white

ghost, and, murmuring her name over and over again, he rushed toward

her. At this moment Gisuke, awakened by the noise, came out of his

house, and found Shinsaku clinging to his lover's gravestone.

When Shinsaku told his friend that he had seen the spirit of O Cho San,

and intended to take his life in order to be with her for ever, Gisuke

made answer thus: "Shinsaku, great is your love for my poor sister, but

you can love her best by serving her in this world. When the great Gods

call, you will meet her, but await with hope and courage till that hour

comes, for only a brave, as well as a loving, heart is worthy of O Cho

San. Let us together build a shrine and dedicate it to my sister, and

keep your love strong and pure by never marrying any one else."

The thirty lovers who had shown such unmanly feeling now fully realised

the sorrow they had caused, and in order to show their contrition they

too helped to build the shrine of the unfortunate maiden, where to this

day a ceremony takes place on the 10th of June, and it is said that the

spirit of O Cho San comes in the rain.

The Spirit of the Great Awabi

The morning after a great earthquake had devastated the fishing village

of Nanao, it was observed that about two miles from the shore a rock

had sprung up as the result of the seismic disturbance and, moreover,

that the sea had become muddy. One night a number of fishermen

were passing by the rock, when they observed, near at hand, a most

extraordinary light that appeared to float up from the bottom of the

sea with a glory as bright as the sun. The fishermen shipped their oars

and gazed upon the wonderful spectacle with considerable surprise, but

when the light was suddenly accompanied by a deep rumbling sound, the

sailors feared another earthquake and made all speed for Nanao.

On the third day the wondrous rays from the deep increased in

brilliance, so that folk standing on the shore of Nanao could see

them distinctly, and the superstitious fishermen became more and more

frightened. Only Kansuke and his son Matakichi had sufficient courage

to go fishing. On their return journey they reached the Rock Island,

and were drawing in their line when Kansuke lost his balance and fell

into the sea.

Though old Kansuke was a good swimmer, he went down like a stone

and did not rise to the surface. Matakichi, deeming this strange,

dived into the water, almost blinded by the mysterious rays we have

already described. When he at length reached the bottom he discovered

innumerable _awabi_ (ear-shells), and in the middle of the group one

of vast size. From all these shells there poured forth a brilliant

light, and though it was like day under the water, Matakichi could

find no trace of his father. Eventually he was forced to rise to the

surface, only to find that the rough sea had broken his boat. However,

scrambling upon a piece of wreckage, with the aid of a favourable

wind and current he at last reached the shore of Nanao, and gave the

villagers an account of his remarkable adventure, and of the loss of

his old father.

Matakichi, grieving sorely over the death of his parent, went to the

old village priest and begged that worthy that he would make him one

of his disciples in order that he might pray the more efficaciously

for the spirit of his father. The priest readily consented, and about

three weeks later they took boat to the Rock Island, where both prayed

ardently for the soul of Kansuke.

That night the old priest awoke with a start and saw an ancient man

standing by his bedside. With a profound bow the stranger thus spoke:

"I am the Spirit of the Great Awabi, and I am more than one thousand

years old. I live in the sea near the Rock Island, and this morning

I heard you praying for the soul of Kansuke. Alas! good priest, your

prayers have deeply moved me, but in shame and sorrow I confess that I

ate Kansuke. I have bade my followers depart elsewhere, and in order to

atone for my sin I shall take my own wretched life, so that the pearl

that is within me may be given to Matakichi." And having uttered these

words, the Spirit of the Great Awabi suddenly disappeared.

When Matakichi awoke next morning and opened the shutters he discovered

the enormous _awabi_ he had seen near the Rock Island. He took it to

the old priest, who, after listening to his disciple's story, gave an

account of his own experience. The great pearl and shell of the _awabi_

were placed in the temple, and the body was reverently buried.

[Footnote 1: Compare "The Dream of Rosei" in Chapter VII.]

[Footnote 2: See _The Story of Korea_, by Joseph H. Longford.]

[Footnote 3: This legend, and those that follow in this chapter, are

adapted from _Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by R. Gordon

Smith.]

CHAPTER XXVIII: SUPERSTITIONS

Japanese Superstition

The subject of Japanese superstition is of special importance, because

it serves to indicate the channel by which many myths and legends, but

more particularly folk-lore, have evolved. Superstition is, as it were,

the raw material out of which innumerable strange beliefs are gradually

fashioned into stories, and an inquiry into the subject will show us

the peasant mind striving to counteract certain supernatural forces,

or to turn them to advantage in every-day life. Many superstitions

have already been recorded in these pages, and in the present chapter

we shall deal with those that have not been treated elsewhere. It is

scarcely necessary to point out that these superstitions, selected from

a vast store of quaint beliefs, are necessarily of a primitive kind and

must be regarded, excluding, perhaps, those associated with the classic

art of divination, as peculiar to the more ignorant classes in Japan.

Human Sacrifice

In prehistoric times the bow was believed to possess supernatural

power. It would miraculously appear on the roof of a man's house as a

sign that the eldest unmarried daughter must be sacrificed. She was

accordingly buried alive in order that her flesh might be consumed by

the Deity of Wild Beasts. Later on, however, the bow was no longer

the message of a cruel divinity, for it gradually lost its horrible

significance, and has now become a symbol of security. To this day it

may be seen fixed to the ridge-pole of a roof, and is regarded as a

lucky charm.

We have another example of human sacrifice in the old repulsive custom

of burying a man alive with the idea of giving stability to a bridge

or castle. In the early days, when forced labour existed, there was

unfortunately scant regard for the sacredness of human life. Those

who laboured without reward were under the control of a merciless

superintendent, who emphasised his orders by means of a spear. He

was ready to kill all those who were idle or in any way rebellious,

and many corpses were flung into the masonry. When a river had to be

dammed, or a fortification constructed with the utmost despatch, this

deplorable deed was not unusual.

When a new bridge was built its utility and long life were assured,

not always by human sacrifice or sorrow, but sometimes by happiness.

The first persons allowed to walk over a new bridge were those of

a particularly happy disposition. We are told, that two genial old

men, who each had a family of twelve children, first crossed the

Matsue bridge, accompanied by their wives, children, grandchildren,

and great-grandchildren. This joyous procession took place amid

much rejoicing and a display of fireworks. The idea of happiness

contributing to the success of a Japanese bridge is a pretty

conception, but, unfortunately, the old bridge of Matsue, now replaced

by one far less picturesque, is associated with a very unpleasant

tradition.

When Horiō Yoshiharu became _Daimyō_ of Izumo he arranged to build a

bridge over the turbulent river at Matsue. Many laboured to carry out

his wishes, but the work did not prosper. Countless great stones were

flung into the rushing water with the idea of making a solid base on

which to construct the pillars, but many of the stones were washed

away, and as soon as the bridge took tangible form it was wrecked by

the fierce torrent. It was believed that the spirits of the flood were

angry, and in order to appease them it was deemed necessary to offer a

human sacrifice. A man was accordingly buried alive below the central

pillar where the water was most turbulent. When this had been done the

work prospered, and the bridge remained intact for three hundred years.

Gensuke was the unfortunate victim, and this was the name given to the

central pillar. It is said that on moonless nights a mysterious red

fire shines from this pillar--the ghostly emanations of poor Gensuke.

Classical Divination

One of the most popular forms of Japanese superstition is associated

with divination, and Confucianism has no doubt contributed much to

its popularity. The _Yih-King_, or "Book of Changes," is the main

source of the art, and Confucius devoted so much time to the study of

this mysterious work that it is said that the leathern thongs used

to hold the leaves together were replaced three times during his

lifetime. The _Yih-King_ was commenced by Fu Hsi two thousand years

before the birth of Christ, and Confucius added much fresh material. A

more complicated method of reading the future than by means of eight

trigrams and sixty-four diagrams cannot be imagined. So involved a

system of divination naturally became the art of the learned few, but

in course of time it underwent various modifications. It lost, to a

certain extent, its most classic aspect, and many Japanese diviners

sprang up in the country professing to read the future for a small

fee, and without the qualification of having deeply pondered over the

instruction to be found in the _Yih-King_. A comparatively simple form

of divination is with fifty divining rods, shuffled in a particular

way, and the final position of the rods is supposed to answer the

various questions of the inquirer. Many diviners in Japan to-day are

mere charlatans working upon the credulity of their patrons, without

fully understanding the art they practise. But in ancient times

divination was associated with a sacred ritual. It was necessary for

the diviner, like the old swordsmith, to prepare and fit himself for

his task. It was required of him that he should thoroughly cleanse his

body, seat himself in a private apartment, and go through the elaborate

process of holding the rods in the spirit of reverence. At a certain

moment he was instructed to close his eyes, suspend breathing for a

time, and concentrate his thoughts on his work of divination, for the

old diviner, like the old Shintō priest, believed that he was calling

the supernatural to his aid.

Other Forms of Divination

In other forms of divination, requiring no expert interpretation, we

find that the future is supposed to be revealed in the cracks and

lines of a slightly burnt shoulder-bone of a deer, a method which

closely resembles the old English custom of "reading the speal-bone."

It was not always easy to secure a deer's shoulder-bone, and as the

markings were of more importance than the bone itself, in course of

time burnt tortoise-shell took its place. As hair-combs were usually

made of this material, a woman, by charring it, was able to read the

lines and ascertain the constancy or otherwise of her lover, &c. Girls

used to read the riddle of the future and see what it had in store

for them by going out at night and stringing together the fragmentary

remarks of passers-by. This method is known as _tsuji-ura_, but it is

by no means peculiar to Japan, for it is still frequently practised by

superstitious people in our own country. A love-sick maiden tried to

discover whether or not her love would be requited by placing a rod in

the ground, surrounding it with various offerings, and listening to the

conversation of wayfarers who chanced to come that way.[1] A later and

more elaborate development of this form of divination required three

maidens, and the method employed is as follows. The young women went to

where roads crossed each other, and thrice repeated an invocation to

the God of Roads. When they had supplicated this Deity, they flung rice

on the ground, for rice has the power of driving away evil spirits. The

maidens then rubbed their fingers against the teeth of a boxwood comb,

because _tsuge_, the Japanese name for this wood, also means "to tell."

After these preparations they each stood in a different position and

pieced together the remarks of passers-by. Occasionally some message

from the future was received while the inquirer stood under a bridge

and listened to the clatter of feet, and sometimes a priest whistling

by inhalation was supposed to reveal an omen of some kind.

Unlucky Years and Days

It is believed that certain periods of life are extremely unlucky. The

twenty-fifth, forty-second, and sixty-first years of a man's life are

considered unfortunate, while the unlucky years of a woman's life are

the nineteenth, thirty-third, and thirty-seventh. In order to prevent

calamity during these periods, it is necessary to devote much time to

religious exercises. Men and women are advised not to take a journey

during the sixteenth, twenty-fifth, thirty-fourth, forty-third,

fifty-second, and sixty-first year. When superstitious women wish to

make a new garment, they utter an invocation, and later on sprinkle

three pinches of salt on the shoulder gusset. No woman should use her

needle on a "monkey" day, but rather on a "bird" day. If the work is

undertaken on the former day, the garment is in danger of being burnt

or rent; but if the apparel is made on the latter day, it will have the

beauty and durability of the feathers of a bird.

Children

When a child's tooth falls out, it is thrown away under the eaves, with

the wish that it may be replaced by the tooth of a demon. Sometimes the

tooth of a little boy or girl is thrown on the floor with the request

that it may be replaced by the tooth of a rat. Children may be immune

from nightmare if the word "puppy" is written on their foreheads; and

if to this precaution is added a sketch of the _Baku_, Eater of Dreams,

the little one's slumber will be sure to be of a peaceful kind. The

word "dog" inscribed on a child's forehead is a protection against the

magic of foxes and badgers.

Some of the nostrums that are supposed to cure children's ailments are

very curious. Blood extracted from a cock's comb cures indigestion,

while an eruption on the head may be driven away by repeating these

words: "In the long days of spring weeds may be removed, but those

in the garden must be cut down at once." Even a Japanese baby cries

occasionally, but if a red bag containing dog's hair is fastened on its

back, it will immediately cease to cry, and the plaintive wailing will

give place to smiles. Blindness is frequently the result of smallpox,

but this calamity may be prevented by throwing seven peas into a well,

reciting seven prayers, and then drawing off all the water from the

well.

Charms

Many Japanese charms are pieces of paper bearing an inscription

designed to avert evil. Another variety is inscribed with the name

of a god. It takes the form of a long strip which the poor fasten on

the outside of their houses, while those who have not to contend with

poverty regard it as a part of their domestic altar. The imprint of

a child's hand, "obtained," writes Professor Chamberlain, "by first

wetting the hand with ink and then applying it to a sheet of paper, is

believed to avert malign influences." Fragments of temples, rice-grains

carved to represent the Gods of Luck, minute _sutras_, copies of

Buddha's footprint, and many other quaint conceits are among the

multitudinous charms of Japan.

The Beckoning Leaf

There is a certain Japanese tree, called _tegashiwa_, and its leaves in

shape are not unlike a hand. In ancient days, when it was necessary for

a _samurai_ to leave his home, he received just before his departure a

_tai_ (perch), which was served on the leaf of a _tegashiwa_ tree. This

was his farewell repast, and when the _samurai_ had eaten the fish the

leaf was hung over the door, in the belief that it would guard him on

his journey, and bring him safely back to his home again. It was not

the shape, but the movement of the _tegashiwa_ leaf that gave rise to

this pleasing fancy, for the leaf, when blown by the wind, appeared to

beckon after the graceful Japanese manner.

Bimbogami

Dry peas are usually found to be efficacious in driving away evil

spirits, but Bimbogami, the God of Poverty, is not so easily overcome.

There is something pathetic in the idea that poverty should be regarded

as an obstinate and most unwelcome fellow, for at this point we touch

reality. However, though Bimbogami takes no notice of dry peas, he may

be vanquished by other means.

The charcoal fire in a Japanese kitchen is blown into a cheerful

glow by means of a utensil called _hifukidake_, a bamboo tube--a

more artistic and simple form of bellows, where the inflated cheeks

take the place of our hand-moved leather bag. Before long the bamboo

tube cracks with the intense heat. When this takes place a copper

coin is put inside the tube, an incantation is uttered, and then the

"fire-blow-tube" is thrown either into the street or into a stream.

This throwing away of the useless bamboo of the kitchen is always

supposed to signify the forced departure of Bimbogami. Most of us are

familiar with what is known as the Death-spider that ticks like a watch

in our walls. In Japan it is called _Bimbomushi_, "Poverty-Insect."

Its ticking does not foretell the coming of Death, as is the belief in

our own country, but it denotes the unwelcome presence of the God of

Poverty in the Japanese home.

[Footnote 1: This variety of divination is of particular interest, for

the rod symbolises the God of Roads, the Deity created from Izanagi's

staff, which, it will be remembered, he flung behind him when pursued

in the Under-world by the Eight Ugly Females.]

CHAPTER XXIX: SUPERNATURAL BEINGS

The Kappa

The _Kappa_ is a river goblin, a hairy creature with the body of a

tortoise and scaly limbs. His head somewhat resembles that of an ape,

in the top of which there is a cavity containing a mysterious fluid,

said to be the source of the creature's power. The chief delight of

the _Kappa_ is to challenge human beings to single combat, and the

unfortunate man who receives an invitation of this kind cannot refuse.

Though the _Kappa_ is fierce and quarrelsome, he is, nevertheless,

extremely polite. The wayfarer who receives his peremptory summons

gives the goblin a profound bow. The courteous _Kappa_ acknowledges the

obeisance, and in inclining his head the strength-giving liquid runs

out from the hollow in his cranium, and becoming feeble, his warlike

characteristics immediately disappear. To defeat the _Kappa_, however,

is just as unfortunate as to receive a beating at his hands, for the

momentary glory of the conquest is rapidly followed by a wasting away

of the unfortunate wayfarer. The _Kappa_ possesses the propensities of

a vampire, for he strikes people in the water, as they bathe in lake or

river, and sucks their blood. In a certain part of Japan the _Kappa_ is

said to claim two victims every year. When they emerge from the water

their skin becomes blanched, and they gradually pine away as the result

of a terrible disease.

In Izumo the village people refer to the _Kappa_ as _Kawako_ ("The

Child of the River"). Near Matsue there is a little hamlet called

Kawachi-mura, and on the bank of the river Kawachi there is a small

temple known as Kawako-no-miya, that is, the temple of the _Kawako_

or _Kappa_, said to contain a document signed by this river goblin.

Concerning this document the following legend is recorded.

[Illustration: The Kappa and his Victim.--350]

The Kappa's Promise

In ancient days a _Kappa_ dwelt in the river Kawachi, and he made

a practice of seizing and destroying a number of villagers, and in

addition many of their domestic animals. On one occasion a horse went

into the river, and the _Kappa_, in trying to capture it, in some way

twisted his neck, but in spite of considerable pain he refused to

let his victim go. The frightened horse sprang up the river bank and

ran into a neighbouring field with the Kappa still holding on to the

terrified animal. The owner of the horse, together with many villagers,

securely bound the Child of the River. "Let us kill this horrible

creature," said the peasants, "for he has assuredly committed many

horrible crimes, and we should do well to be rid of such a dreadful

monster." "No," replied the owner of the horse, "we will not kill him.

We will make him swear never to destroy any of the inhabitants or the

domestic animals of this village." A document was accordingly prepared,

and the _Kappa_ was asked to peruse it, and when he had done so to sign

his name. "I cannot write," replied the penitent _Kappa_, "but I will

dip my hand in ink and press it upon the document." When the creature

had made his inky mark, he was released and allowed to return to the

river, and from that day to this the _Kappa_ has remained true to his

promise.

The Tengu

We have already referred to the _Tengu_ in the story of Yoshitsune and

Benkei.[1] In this legend it will be remembered that Yoshitsune, one

of the greatest warriors of Old Japan, learnt the art of swordsmanship

from the King of the _Tengu_. Professor B. H. Chamberlain describes

the _Tengu_ as "a class of goblins or gnomes that haunt the mountains

and woodlands, and play many pranks. They have an affinity to birds;

for they are winged and beaked, sometimes clawed. But often the beak

becomes a large and enormously long human nose, and the whole creature

is conceived as human, nothing bird-like remaining but the fan of

feathers with which it fans itself. It is often dressed in leaves,

and wears on its head a tiny cap." In brief, the _Tengu_ are minor

divinities, and are supreme in the art of fencing, and, indeed, in the

use of weapons generally. The ideographs with which the name is written

signify "heavenly dog," which is misleading, for the creature bears

no resemblance to a dog, and is, as we have already described, partly

human and partly bird-like in appearance. There are other confusing

traditions in regard to the word _Tengu_, for it is said that the

Emperor Jomei gave the name to a certain meteor "which whirled from

east to west with a loud detonation." Then, again, a still more ancient

belief informs us that the _Tengu_ were emanations from Susa-no-o, the

Impetuous Male, and again, that they were female demons with heads of

beasts and great ears and noses of such enormous length that they could

carry men on them and fly with their suspended burden for thousands

of miles without fatigue, and in addition their teeth were so strong

and so sharp that these female demons could bite through swords and

spears. The _Tengu_ is still believed to inhabit certain forests and

the recesses of high mountains. Generally speaking, the _Tengu_ is not

a malevolent being, for he possesses a keen sense of humour, and is

fond of a practical joke. Sometimes, however, the _Tengu_ mysteriously

hides human beings, and when finally they return to their homes they

do so in a demented condition. This strange occurrence is known as

_Tengu-kakushi_, or hidden by a _Tengu_.

Tobikawa Imitates a Tengu

Tobikawa, an ex-wrestler who lived in Matsue, spent his time in hunting

and killing foxes. He did not believe in the various superstitions

concerning this animal, and it was generally believed that his great

strength made him immune from the witchcraft of foxes. However, there

were some people of Matsue who prophesied that Tobikawa would come

to an untimely end as the result of his daring deeds and disbelief

in supernatural powers. Tobikawa was extremely fond of practical

jokes, and on one occasion he had the hardihood to imitate the general

appearance of a _Tengu_, feathers, long nose, claws, and all. Having

thus disguised himself he climbed up into a tree belonging to a sacred

grove. Presently the peasants observed him, and deeming the creature

they saw to be a _Tengu_, they began to worship him and to place many

offerings about the tree. Alas! the dismal prophecy came true, for

while the merry Tobikawa was trying to imitate the acrobatic antics of

a _Tengu_, he slipped from a branch and was killed.

The Adventures of Kiuchi Heizayemon

We have already referred to the _Tengu-kakushi_, and the following

legend gives a graphic account of this supernatural occurrence.

One evening, Kiuchi Heizayemon, a retainer, mysteriously disappeared.

Kiuchi's friends, when they heard of what had taken place, searched

for him in every direction. Eventually they discovered the missing

man's clogs, scabbard, and sword; but the sheath was bent like the

curved handle of a tea-kettle. They had no sooner made this lamentable

discovery than they also perceived Kiuchi's girdle, which had been cut

into three pieces. At midnight, those who searched heard a strange cry,

a voice calling for help. Suzuki Shichiro, one of the party, chanced

to look up, and he saw a strange creature with wings standing upon the

roof of a temple. When the rest of the band had joined their comrade,

they all looked upon the weird figure, and one said: "I believe it

is nothing but an umbrella flapping in the wind." "Let us make quite

sure," replied Suzuki Shichiro, and with these words he lifted up his

voice, and cried loudly: "Are you the lost Kiuchi?" "Yes," was the

reply, "and I pray that you will take me down from this temple as

speedily as possible."

When Kiuchi had been brought down from the temple roof, he fainted, and

remained in a swoon for three days. At length, gaining consciousness,

he gave the following account of his strange adventure:

"The evening when I disappeared I heard some one shouting my name over

and over again, and going out I discovered a black-robed monk, bawling

'Heizayemon!' Beside the monk stood a man of great stature; his face

was red, and his dishevelled hair fell upon the ground. 'Climb up on

yonder roof,' he shouted fiercely. I refused to obey such an evil-faced

villain, and drew my sword, but in a moment he bent the blade and broke

my scabbard into fragments. Then my girdle was roughly torn off and

cut into three pieces. When these things had been done, I was carried

to a roof, and there severely chastised. But this was not the end of

my trouble, for after I had been beaten, I was forced to seat myself

on a round tray. In a moment I was whirled into the air, and the tray

carried me with great speed to many regions. When it appeared to me

that I had travelled through space for ten days, I prayed to the

Lord Buddha, and found myself on what appeared to be the summit of a

mountain, but in reality it was the roof of the temple whence you, my

comrades, rescued me."

A Modern Belief in the Tengu

Captain Brinkley, in _Japan and China_, informs us that as late as

1860 the officials of the Yedo Government showed their belief in

supernatural beings. Prior to the visit of the _Shōgun_ to Nikko, they

caused the following notice to be exhibited in the vicinity of the

mausolea:

"TO THE TENGU AND OTHER DEMONS

"Whereas our _Shōgun_ intends to visit the Nikko

Mausolea next April, now therefore ye _Tengu_ and other

Demons inhabiting these mountains must remove elsewhere

until the _Shōgun's_ visit is concluded.

"(Signed) Mizuno, Lord of Dewa.

"Dated July 1860."

The local officials were not content with a notice of this kind. After

duly notifying the _Tengu_ and other demons of the coming of the

_Shōgun_, the exact mountains were specified where these creatures

might live during the ruler's visit.

The Mountain Woman and the Mountain Man

The Mountain Woman's body is covered with long white hair. She is

looked upon as an ogre (_kijo_), and, as such, figures in Japanese

romance. She has cannibalistic tendencies, and is able to fly about

like a moth and traverse pathless mountains with ease.

The Mountain Man is said to resemble a great darkhaired monkey. He

is extremely strong, and thinks nothing of stealing food from the

villages. He is, however, always ready to assist woodcutters, and will

gladly carry their timber for them in exchange for a ball of rice.

It is useless to capture or kill him, for an attack of any kind upon

the Mountain Man brings misfortune, and sometimes death, upon the

assailants.

Sennin

The _Sennin_ are mountain recluses, and many are the legends told in

connection with them. Though they have human form, they are, at the

same time, immortal, and adepts in the magical arts. The first great

Japanese _sennin_ was Yōshō, who was born at Noto A.D. 870. Just before

his birth his mother dreamt that she had swallowed the sun, a dream

that foretold the miraculous power of her child. Yōshō was studious

and devout, and spent most of his time in studying the "Lotus of the

Law." He lived very simply indeed, and at length reduced his diet to

a single grain of millet a day. He departed from the earth A.D. 901,

having attained much supernatural power. He left his mantle hanging

on the branch of a tree, together with a scroll bearing these words:

"I bequeath my mantle to Emmei of Dogen-ji." In due time Emmei became

a _sennin_, and, like his master, was able to perform many marvels.

Shortly after Yōshō's disappearance his father became seriously ill,

and he prayed most ardently that he might see his well-loved son again.

In reply to his prayers, Yōshō's voice was heard overhead reciting the

"Lotus of the Law." When he had concluded his recitations, he said to

his stricken father: "If flowers are offered and incense burned on the

18th of every month, my spirit will descend and greet you, drawn by the

perfume of the flowers and the blue smoke of incense."

Sennin in Art

_Sennin_ are frequently depicted in Japanese art: Chokoro releasing

his magic horse from a gigantic gourd; Gama with his wizard toad;

Tekkai blowing his soul into space; Roko balancing himself on a flying

tortoise; and Kumé, who fell from his chariot of cloud because,

contrary to his holy calling, he loved the image of a fair girl

reflected in a stream.

Miraculous Lights

There are many varieties of fire apparitions in Japan. There is the

ghost-fire, demon-light, fox-flame, flash-pillar, badger-blaze,

dragon-torch, and lamp of Buddha. In addition supernatural fire is said

to emanate from certain birds, such as the blue heron, through the

skin, mouth, and eyes. There are also fire-wheels, or messengers from

Hades, sea-fires, besides the flames that spring from the cemetery.

A Globe of Fire

From the beginning of March to the end of June there may be seen in the

province of Settsu a globe of fire resting on the top of a tree, and

within this globe there is a human face. In ancient days there once

lived in Nikaido district of Settsu province a priest named Nikōbō,

famous for his power to exorcise evil spirits and evil influences

of every kind. When the local governor's wife fell sick, Nikōbō was

requested to attend and see what he could do to restore her to health

again. Nikōbō willingly complied, and spent many days by the bedside of

the suffering lady. He diligently practised his art of exorcism, and in

due time the governor's wife recovered. But the gentle and kind-hearted

Nikōbō was not thanked for what he had done; on the contrary, the

governor became jealous of him, accused him or a foul crime, and caused

him to be put to death. The soul of Nikōbō flashed forth in its anger

and took the form of a miraculous globe of fire, which hovered over the

murderer's house. The strange light, with the justly angry face peering

from it, had its effect, for the governor was stricken with a fever

that finally killed him. Every year, at the time already indicated,

Nikōbō's ghost pays a visit to the scene of its suffering and revenge.

The Ghostly Wrestlers

In Omi province, at the base of the Katada hills, there is a lake.

During the cloudy nights of early autumn a ball of fire emerges from

the margin of the lake, expanding and contracting as it floats toward

the hills. When it rises to the height of a man it reveals two shining

faces, to develop slowly into the torsos of two naked wrestlers, locked

together and struggling furiously. The ball of fire, with its fierce

combatants, floats slowly away to a recess in the Katada hills. It

is harmless so long as no one interferes with it, but it resents any

effort to retard its progress. According to a legend concerning this

phenomenon, we are informed that a certain wrestler, who had never

suffered a defeat, waited at midnight for the coming of this ball

of fire. When it reached him he attempted to drag it down by force,

but the luminous globe proceeded on its way, and hurled the foolish

wrestler to a considerable distance.

Baku

In Japan, among superstitious people, evil dreams are believed to be

the result of evil spirits, and the supernatural creature called _Baku_

is known as Eater of Dreams. The _Baku_ like so many mythological

beings, is a curious mingling of various animals. It has the face

of a lion, the body of a horse, the tail of a cow, the forelock of a

rhinoceros, and the feet of a tiger. Several evil dreams are mentioned

in an old Japanese book, such as two snakes twined together, a fox

with the voice of a man, blood-stained garments, a talking rice-pot,

and so on. When a Japanese peasant awakens from an evil nightmare, he

cries: "Devour, O _Baku_! devour my evil dream." At one time pictures

of the _Baku_ were hung up in Japanese houses and its name written upon

pillows. It was believed that if the _Baku_ could be induced to eat

a horrible dream, the creature had the power to change it into good

fortune.

The Shojō's White Saké[2]

The _Shojō_ is a sea monster with bright red hair, and is extremely

fond of drinking large quantities of sacred white _saké_. The following

legend will give some account of this creature and the nature of his

favourite beverage.

We have already referred to the miraculous appearance of Mount Fuji.[3]

On the day following this alleged miracle a poor man named Yurine, who

lived near this mountain, became extremely ill, and feeling that his

days were numbered, he desired to drink a cup of _saké_ before he died.

But there was no rice wine in the little hut, and his boy, Koyuri,

desiring if possible to fulfil his father's dying wish, wandered along

the shore with a gourd in his hand. He had not gone far when he heard

some one calling his name. On looking about him he discovered two

strange-looking creatures with long red hair and skin the colour of

pink cherry-blossom, wearing green seaweed girdles about their loins.

Drawing nearer, he perceived that these beings were drinking white

_saké_ from large flat cups, which they continually replenished from a

great stone jar.

"My father is dying," said the boy, "and he much desires to drink a cup

of _saké_ before he departs this life. But alas! we are poor, and I

know not how to grant him his last request."

"I will fill your gourd with this white _saké_," replied one of the

creatures, and when he had done so Koyuri ran with haste to his father.

The old man drank the white _saké_ eagerly. "Bring me more," he cried,

"for this is no common wine. It has given me strength, and already I

feel new life flowing through my old veins."

So Koyuri returned to the seashore, and the red-haired creatures

gladly gave him more of their wine; indeed, they supplied him with the

beverage for five days, and by the end of that time Yurine was restored

to health again.

Now Yurine's neighbour was a man called Mamikiko, and when he heard

that Yurine had recently obtained a copious supply of _saké_ he grew

jealous, for above all things he loved a cup of rice wine. One day he

called Koyuri and questioned him in regard to the matter, saying: "Let

me taste the _saké_." He roughly snatched the gourd from the boy's

hand and began to drink, making a wry face as he did so. "This is not

_saké_!" he exclaimed fiercely; "it is filthy water," and having said

these words, he began to beat the boy, crying: "Take me to those red

people you have told me about. I will get from them fine _saké_, and

let the beating I have given you warn you never again to play a trick

upon me."

Koyuri and Mamikiko went along the shore together, and presently they

came to where the red-haired creatures were drinking. When Koyuri saw

them he began to weep.

"Why are you crying?" said one of the creatures. "Surely your good

father has not drunk all the _saké_ already?"

"No," replied the boy, "but I have met with misfortune. This man I

bring with me, Mamikiko by name, drank some of the _saké_, spat it out

immediately, and threw the rest away, saying that I had played a trick

upon him and given him foul water to drink. Be so good as to let me

have some more _saké_ for my father."

The red-haired man filled the gourd, and chuckled over Mamikiko's

unpleasant experience.

"I should also like a cup or _saké_" said Mamikiko. "Will you let me

have some?"

Permission having been granted, the greedy Mamikiko filled the largest

cup he could find, smiling over the delicious fragrance. But directly

he tasted the _saké_ he felt sick, and angrily remonstrated with the

red-haired creature.

The red man thus made answer: "You are evidently not aware that I am

a _Shojō_, and that I live near the Sea Dragon's Palace. When I heard

of the sudden appearance of Mount Fuji I came here to see it, assured

that such an event was a good omen and foretold of the prosperity and

perpetuity of Japan. While enjoying the beauty of this fair mountain I

met Koyuri, and had the good fortune to save his honest father's life

by giving him some of our sacred white _saké_ that restores youth to

human beings, together with an increase in years, while to _Shojō_ it

vanquishes death. Koyuri's father is a good man, and the _saké_ was

thus able to exert its full and beneficent power upon him; but you are

greedy and selfish, and to all such this _saké_ is poison."

"_Poison_?" groaned the now contrite Mamikiko. "Good _Shojō_, have

mercy upon me and spare my life!"

The _Shojō_ gave him a powder, saying: "Swallow this in _saké_ and

repent of your wickedness."

Mamikiko did so, and this time he found that the white _saké_ was

delicious. He lost no time in making friends with Yurine, and some

years later these men took up their abode on the southern side of Mount

Fuji, brewed the _Shojō's_ white _saké_, and lived for three hundred

years.

The Dragon

The Dragon is undoubtedly the most famous of mythical beasts, but,

though Chinese in origin, it has become intimately associated with

Japanese mythology. The creature lives for the most part in the ocean,

river, or lake, but it has the power of flight and rules over clouds

and tempests. The Dragon of China and Japan resemble each other,

with the exception that the Japanese variety has three claws, while

that of the Celestial Kingdom has five. The Chinese Emperor Yao was

said to be the son of a dragon, and many rulers of that country were

metaphorically referred to as "dragon-faced." The Dragon has the head

of a camel, horns of a deer, eyes of a hare, scales of a carp, paws of

a tiger, and claws resembling those of an eagle. In addition it has

whiskers, a bright jewel under its chin, and a measure on the top of

its head which enables it to ascend to Heaven at will. This is merely

a general description and does not apply to all dragons, some of which

have heads of so extraordinary a kind that they cannot be compared with

anything in the animal kingdom. The breath of the Dragon changes into

clouds from which come either rain or fire. It is able to expand or

contract its body, and in addition it has the power of transformation

and invisibility. In both Chinese and Japanese mythology the watery

principle is associated with the Dragon, as we have already seen in the

story of Urashima, the Empress Jingo, and the adventures of Hoori, &c.

The Dragon (_Tatsu_) is one of the signs of the zodiac, and the four

seas, which in the old Chinese conception limited the habitable earth,

were ruled over by four Dragon Kings. The Celestial Dragon ruled over

the Mansions of the Gods, the Spiritual Dragon presided over rain, the

Earth Dragon marked the courses of rivers, and the Dragon or Hidden

Treasure guarded precious metals and stones.

A white Dragon, which lived in a pond at Yamashiro, transformed

itself every fifty years into a bird called _O-Goncho_, with a voice

resembling the howling of a wolf. Whenever this bird appeared it

brought with it a great famine. On one occasion, while Fuk Hi was

standing by the Yellow River, the Yellow Dragon presented him with a

scroll inscribed with mystic characters. This tradition is said to be

the legendary origin of the Chinese system of writing.

[Footnote 1: _See_ Chapter II.]

[Footnote 2: Adapted from _Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by R.

Gordon Smith.]

[Footnote 3: See Chapter IX.]

CHAPTER XXX: THE TRANSFORMATION OF ISSUNBOSHI, AND KINTARO, THE GOLDEN

BOY

A Prayer to the Empress Jingo

An old married couple went to the shrine of the deified Empress

Jingo,[1] and prayed that they might be blessed with a child, even

if it were no bigger than one of their fingers. A voice was heard

from behind the bamboo curtain of the shrine, and the old people were

informed that their wish would be granted.

In due time the old woman gave birth to a child, and when she and her

husband discovered that this miniature piece of humanity was no bigger

than a little finger, they became extremely angry, and thought that the

Empress Jingo had treated them very meanly indeed, though, as a matter

of fact, she had fulfilled their prayer to the letter.

"One-Inch Priest"

The little fellow was called Issunboshi ("One-Inch Priest"), and every

day his parents expected to see him suddenly grow up as other boys; but

at thirteen years of age he still remained the same size as when he was

born. Gradually his parents became exasperated, for it wounded their

vanity to hear the neighbours describe their son as Little Finger, or

Grain-of-Corn. They were so much annoyed that at last they determined

to send Issunboshi away.

The little fellow did not complain. He requested his mother to give him

a needle, a small soup-bowl, and a chop-stick, and with these things he

set off on his adventures.

Issunboshi becomes a Page

His soup-bowl served as a boat, which he propelled along the river with

his chop-stick. In this fashion he finally reached Kyōto. Issunboshi

wandered about this city until he saw a large roofed gate. Without the

least hesitation he walked in, and having reached the porch of a house,

he cried out in a very minute voice: "I beg an honourable inquiry!"

Prince Sanjo himself heard the little voice, and it was some time

before he could discover where it came from. When he did so he was

delighted with his discovery, and on the little fellow begging that he

might live in the Prince's house, his request was readily granted. The

boy became a great favourite, and was at once made the Princess Sanjo's

page. In this capacity he accompanied his mistress everywhere, and

though so very small, he fully appreciated the honour and dignity of

his position.

An Encounter with Oni

One day the Princess Sanjo and her page went to the Temple of Kwannon,

the Goddess of Mercy, "under whose feet are dragons of the elements and

the lotuses of Purity." As they were leaving the temple two _oni_ (evil

spirits) sprang upon them. Issunboshi took out his needle-sword from

its hollow straw, and loudly denouncing the _oni_, he flourished his

small weapon in their evil-looking faces.

One of the creatures laughed. "Why," said he scornfully, "I could

swallow you, as a cormorant swallows a trout, and what is more, my

funny little bean-seed, I will do so!"

The _oni_ opened his mouth, and Issunboshi found himself slipping

down a huge throat until he finally stood in the creature's great

dark stomach. Issunboshi, nothing daunted, began boring away with his

needle-sword. This made the evil spirit cry out and give a great cough,

which sent the little fellow into the sunny world again.

The second _oni_, who had witnessed his companion's distress, was

extremely angry, and tried to swallow the remarkable little page, but

was not successful. This time Issunboshi climbed up the creature's

nostril, and when he had reached the end of what seemed to him to be a

very long and gloomy tunnel, he began piercing the _oni's_ eyes. The

creature, savage with pain, ran off as fast as he could, followed by

his yelling companion.

Needless to say, the Princess was delighted with her page's bravery,

and told him that she was sure her father would reward him when he was

told about the terrible encounter.

The Magic Mallet

On their way home the Princess happened to pick up a small wooden

mallet. "Oh!" said she, "this must have been dropped by the wicked

_oni_, and it is none other than a lucky mallet. You have only to

wish and then tap it upon the ground, and your wish, no matter what,

is always granted. My brave Issunboshi, tell me what you would most

desire, and I will tap the mallet on the ground."

After a pause the little fellow said: "Honourable Princess, I should

like to be as big as other people."

The Princess tapped the mallet on the ground, calling aloud the wish of

her page. In a moment Issunboshi was transformed from a bijou creature

to a lad just like other youths of his age.

These wonderful happenings excited the curiosity of the Emperor, and

Issunboshi was summoned to his presence. The Emperor was so delighted

with the youth that he gave him many gifts and made him a high

official. Finally, Issunboshi became a great lord and married Prince

Sanjo's youngest daughter.

Kintaro, the Golden Boy

Sakata Kurando was an officer of the Emperor's bodyguard, and though

he was a brave man, well versed in the art of war, he had a gentle

disposition, and during his military career chanced to love a beautiful

lady named Yaégiri. Kurando eventually fell into disgrace, and was

forced to leave the Court and to become a travelling tobacco merchant.

Yaégiri, who was much distressed by her lover's flight, succeeded in

escaping from her home, and wandered up and down the country in the

hope of meeting Kurando. At length she found him, but the unfortunate

man, who, no doubt, felt deeply his disgrace and his humble mode of

living, put an end to his humiliation by taking his miserable life.

Animal Companions

When Yaégiri had buried her lover she went to the Ashigara Mountain,

where she gave birth to a child, called Kintaro, or the Golden Boy. Now

Kintaro was remarkable for his extreme strength. When only a few years

old his mother gave him an axe, with which he felled trees as quickly

and easily as an experienced woodcutter. Ashigara Mountain was a lonely

and desolate spot, and as there were no children with whom Kintaro

could play, he made companions of the bear, deer, hare, and monkey, and

in a very short time was able to speak their strange language.

One day, when Kintaro was sitting on the mountain, with his favourites

about him, he sought to amuse himself by getting his companions to

join in a friendly wrestling match. A kindly old bear was delighted

with the proposal, and at once set to work to dig up the earth and

arrange it in the form of a small daïs. When this had been made a

hare and a monkey wrestled together, while a deer stood by to give

encouragement and to see that the sport was conducted fairly. Both

animals proved themselves to be equally strong, and Kintaro tactfully

rewarded them with tempting rice-cakes.

After spending a pleasant afternoon in this way, Kintaro proceeded to

return home, followed by his devoted friends. At length they came to

a river, and the animals were wondering how they should cross such a

wide stretch of water, when Kintaro put his strong arms round a tree

which was growing on the bank, and pulled it across the river so that

it formed a bridge. Now it happened that the famous hero, Yorimitsu,

and his retainers witnessed this extraordinary feat of strength, and

said to Watanaé Isuna: "This child is truly remarkable. Go and find out

where he lives and all about him."

A Famous Warrior

So Watanabé Isuna followed Kintaro and entered the house where he lived

with his mother. "My master," said he, "Lord Yorimitsu, bids me find

out who your wonderful son is." When Yaégiri had narrated the story of

her life and informed her visitor that her little one was the son of

Sakata Kurando, the retainer departed and told Yorimitsu all he had

heard.

Yorimitsu was so pleased with what Watanabé Isuna told him that he went

himself to Yaégiri, and said: "If you will give me your child I will

make him my retainer." The woman gladly consented, and the Golden

Boy went away with the great hero, who named him Sakata Kintoki. He

eventually became a famous warrior, and the stories of his wonderful

deeds are recited to this day. Children regard him as their favourite

hero, and little boys, who would fain emulate the strength and bravery

of Sakata Kintoki, carry his portrait in their bosoms.

[Footnote 1: Deifying the mighty dead is one of the teachings of

Shintōism.]

CHAPTER XXXI: MISCELLANEOUS LEGENDS

Kato Sayemon

Kato Sayemon lived in the palace of the Shōgun Ashikaga, where he had

his separate apartments, and as there was no war at that time, he

remained contentedly with his wife and concubines. Kato Sayemon was a

man who loved luxury and ease, and he regarded domestic peace as the

greatest of all earthly blessings. He honestly believed that among all

his smiling, courteous women there was nothing but harmony, and this

thought made life particularly sweet to him.

One evening Kato Sayemon went into the palace garden and was enchanted

by the ever-moving cloud of fireflies, and he was scarcely less pleased

with the gentle song of certain insects. "What a charming scene,"

murmured Sayemon, "and what a charming world we live in! Bows and

smiles and abject humility from my women. Oh, it's all very wonderful

and very delightful! I would have life always so."

Thus voicing his thoughts in this self-satisfied manner, he chanced to

pass his wife's room, and peeped in with a loving and benevolent eye.

He observed that his wife was playing _go_ with one of his concubines.

"Such polite decorum," murmured Sayemon. "Surely their words are as

sweet as honey and as soft and fair as finely spun silk. But stay! What

strange thing is this? The hair of my wife and the hair of my concubine

have turned into snakes that twist and rear their heads in anger.

All the time these women smile and bow and move their pieces with

well-ordered charm and grace. Gentle words come from their lips, but

the snakes of their hair mock them, for these twisting reptiles tell

of bitter jealousy in their hearts."

[Illustration: Kato Sayemon in his Palace of the Shōgun Ashikaga.--370]

Sayemon's beautiful dream of domestic happiness was for ever shattered.

"I will go forth," said he, "and become a Buddhist priest. I will leave

behind the hot malice and envy of my wife and concubines, and in the

teaching of the Blessed One I shall indeed find true peace."

The next morning Sayemon left the palace secretly, and though search

was made for him, he could not be found. About a week later Sayemon's

wife reduced the establishment and lived quietly with her little son,

Ishidomaro. Two years went by and still there came no news of her

husband.

At length Sayemon's wife and child went in search of the missing man.

For five years they wandered about the country, till at length they

came to a little village in Kishu, where an old man informed the weary

and travel-stained wanderers that Sayemon was now a priest, and that a

year ago he lived in the temple of Kongobuji, on Mount Koya.

The next day the woman and her son found that at the temple of

Kongobuji no women were permitted to enter, so Ishidomaro, after

carefully listening to his mother's instructions, ascended the mountain

alone. When the boy, after a long and arduous climb, reached the

temple, he saw a monk, and said: "Does a priest called Kato Sayemon

live here? I am his little son, and my good mother awaits me in yonder

valley. Five years we have sought for him, and the love that is in our

hearts will surely find him."

The priest, who was none other than Sayemon himself, thus addressed his

son: "I am sorry to think that your journey has been in vain, for no

one of the name of Kato Sayemon lives in this temple."

Sayemon spoke with outward coldness, but within his heart there was a

struggle between his religion and love for his son. Knowing, however,

that he had left his wife and child well provided for, he yielded to

the teaching of the Lord Buddha and crushed out his parental feelings.

Ishidomaro, however, was not satisfied, for he felt instinctively

that the man before him was in reality his father, and once again he

addressed the priest: "Good sir, on my left eye there is a mole, and

my mother told me that on the left eye of my father there is a similar

mark, by which I might at once recognise him. You have the very mark,

and in my heart I know that you are my father." And having said these

words the boy wept bitterly, longing for arms that never came to caress

and soothe the unhappy little fellow.

Sayemon's feelings were again stirred; but with a great effort to

conceal his emotion, he said: "The mark of which you speak is very

common. I am certainly not your father, and you had better dry your

eyes and seek him elsewhere." With these words the priest left the boy

in order to attend an evening service.

Sayemon continued to live in the temple. He had found peace in serving

the Lord Buddha, and he cared not what became of his wife and child.

How an Old Man lost his Wen

There was once an old man who had a wen on his right cheek. This

disfigurement caused him a good deal of annoyance, and he had spent a

considerable sum of money in trying to get rid of it. He took various

medicines and applied many lotions, but instead of the wen disappearing

or even diminishing, it increased in size.

One night, while the old man was returning home laden with firewood,

he was overtaken by a terrible thunderstorm, and was forced to seek

shelter in a hollow tree. When the storm had abated, and just as

he was about to proceed on his journey, he was surprised to hear a

sound of merriment close at hand. On peeping out from his place of

retreat, he was amazed to see a number of demons dancing and singing

and drinking. Their dancing was so strange that the old man, forgetting

caution, began to laugh, and eventually left the tree in order that he

might see the performance better. As he stood watching, he saw that

a demon was dancing by himself, and, moreover, that the chief of the

company was none too pleased with his very clumsy antics. At length

the leader of the demons said: "Enough! Is there no one who can dance

better than this fellow?"

When the old man heard these words, it seemed that his youth returned

to him again, and having at one time been an expert dancer, he offered

to show his skill. So the old man danced before that strange gathering

of demons, who congratulated him on his performance, offered him a cup

of _saké_, and begged that he would give them the pleasure of several

other dances.

The old man was extremely gratified by the way he had been received,

and when the chief of the demons asked him to dance before them on the

following night, he readily complied. "That is well," said the chief,

"but you must leave some pledge behind you. I see that you have a wen

on your right cheek, and that will make an excellent pledge. Allow me

to take it off for you." Without inflicting any pain, the chief removed

the wen, and having accomplished this extraordinary feat, he and his

companions suddenly vanished.

The old man, as he walked towards his home, kept on feeling his right

cheek with his hand, and could scarcely realise that after many

years of disfigurement he had at last the good fortune to lose his

troublesome and unsightly wen. At length he entered his humble abode,

and his old wife was none the less pleased with what had taken place.

A wicked and cantankerous old man lived next door to this good old

couple. For many years he had been afflicted with a wen on his left

cheek, which had failed to yield to all manner of medical treatment.

When he heard of his neighbour's good fortune, he called upon him and

listened to the strange adventures with the demons. The good old man

told his neighbour where he might find the hollow tree, and advised him

to hide in it just before sunset.

The wicked old man found the hollow tree and entered it. He had not

remained concealed more than a few minutes when he rejoiced to see the

demons. Presently one of the company said: "The old man is a long time

coming. I made sure he would keep his promise."

At these words the old man crept out of his hiding-place, flourished

his fan, and began to dance; but, unfortunately, he knew nothing about

dancing, and his extraordinary antics caused the demons to express

considerable dissatisfaction. "You dance extremely ill," said one of

the company, "and the sooner you stop the better we shall be pleased;

but before you depart we will return the pledge you left with us last

night." Having uttered these words, the demon flung the wen at the

right cheek of the old man, where it remained firmly fixed, and could

not be removed. So the wicked old man, who had tried to deceive the

demons, went away with a wen on either side of his face.

A Japanese Gulliver[1]

Shikaiya Wasōbiōye was a man of Nagasaki, and possessed considerable

learning, but disliked visitors. On the eighth day of the eighth

month, in order to escape the admirers of the full moon, he set off

in his boat, and had proceeded some distance, when the sky looked

threatening, and he attempted to return, but the wind tore his sail

and broke his mast. The poor man was tossed for three months on the

waves, until at last he came to the Sea of Mud, where he nearly died of

hunger, for there were no fishes to be caught.

At length he reached a mountainous island, where the air was sweet with

the fragrance of many flowers, and in this island he found a spring,

the waters of which revived him. At length Wasōbiōye met Jofuku, who

led him through the streets of the main city, where all the inhabitants

were spending their time in pursuit of pleasure. There was no death

or disease on this island; but the fact that here life was eternal

was regarded by many as a burden, which they tried to shake off by

studying the magic art of death and the power of poisonous food, such

as globe-fish sprinkled with soot and the flesh of mermaids.

When twenty years had passed by Wasōbiōye grew weary of the island, and

as he had failed in his attempts to take his life, he started upon a

journey to the Three Thousand Worlds mentioned in Buddhist Scriptures.

He then visited the Land of Endless Plenty, the Land of Shams, the Land

of the Followers of the Antique, the Land of Paradoxes, and, finally,

the Land of Giants.

After Wasōbiōye had spent five months riding on the back of a stork

through total darkness, he at length reached a country where the sun

shone again, where trees were hundreds of feet in girth, where weeds

were as large as bamboos, and men sixty feet in height. In this strange

land a giant picked up Wasōbiōye, took him to his house, and fed him

from a single grain of monster rice, with chopsticks the size of a

small tree. For a few weeks Wasōbiōye attempted to catechise his host

in regard to the doctrines of the old world whence he came, but the

giant laughed at him and told him that such a small man could not be

expected to understand the ways of big people, for their intelligences

were in like proportion to their size.

The Jewel-tears of Samébito

One day, while Tōtarō was crossing the Long Bridge of Séta, he saw a

strange-looking creature. It had the body of a man, with a skin blacker

than that of a negro; its eyes glowed like emeralds, and its beard was

like the beard of a dragon. Tōtarō was not a little startled at seeing

such an extraordinary being; but there was so much pathos in its green

eyes that Tōtarō ventured to ask questions, to which the strange fellow

replied:

"I am Samébito ["A Shark-Person"], and quite recently I was in the

service of the Eight Great Dragon Kings as a subordinate officer in the

Dragon Palace. I was dismissed from this glorious dwelling for a very

slight fault, and I was even banished from the sea. Ever since I have

been extremely miserable, without a place of shelter, and unable to get

food. Pity me, good sir! Find me shelter, and give me something to eat!"

Tōtarō's heart was touched by Samébito's humility, and he took him to a

pond in his garden and there gave him a liberal supply of food. In this

quiet and secluded spot this strange creature of the sea remained for

nearly half a year.

[Illustration: Tōtarō and Samébito.--376]

Now in the summer of that year there was a great female pilgrimage to

the temple called Miidera, situated in the neighbouring town of Ōtsu.

Tōtarō attended the festival, and there saw an extremely charming girl.

"Her face was fair and pure as snow; and the loveliness of her lips

assured the beholder that their very utterance would sound 'as sweet

as the voice of a nightingale singing upon a plum-tree.'"

Tōtarō at once fell in love with this maiden. He discovered that her

name was Tamana, that she was unmarried, and would remain so unless

a young man could present her with a betrothal gift of a casket

containing no fewer than ten thousand jewels.

When Tōtarō learnt that this fair girl was only to be won by what

seemed to him an impossible gift, he returned home with a heavy heart.

The more he thought about the beautiful Tamana, the more he fell in

love with her. But alas! no one less wealthy than a prince could make

such a betrothal gift--ten thousand jewels!

Tōtarō worried himself into an illness, and when a physician came to

see him, he shook his head, and said: "I can do nothing for you, for no

medicine will cure the sickness of love." And with these words he left

him.

Now Samébito gained tidings of the sickness of his master, and when

the sad news reached him, he left the garden pond and entered Tōtarō's

chamber.

Tōtarō did not speak about his own troubles. He was full of concern for

the welfare of this creature of the sea. "Who will feed you, Samébito,

when I am gone?" said he mournfully.

When Samébito saw that his good master was dying, he uttered a strange

cry, and began to weep. He wept great tears of blood, but when they

touched the floor they suddenly turned into glowing rubies.

When Tōtarō saw these jewel-tears he shouted for joy, and new life came

back to him from that hour. "I shall live! I shall live!" he cried with

great delight. "My good friend, you have more than repaid me for the

food and shelter I have given you. Your wonderful tears have brought me

untold happiness."

Then Samébito stopped weeping, and asked his master to be so good as to

explain the nature of his speedy recovery.

So Tōtarō told the Shark-Man of his love-affair and of the

marriage-gift demanded by the family of Tamana. "I thought," added

Tōtarō, "that I should never be able to get ten thousand jewels, and it

was that thought that brought me so near to death. Now your tears have

turned into jewels, and with these the maid will become my wife."

Tōtarō proceeded to count the jewels with great eagerness. "Not enough!

Not enough!" he exclaimed with considerable disappointment. "Oh,

Samébito, be so good as to weep a little more!"

These words made Samébito angry. "Do you think," said he, "I can weep

at will like women? My tears come from the heart, the outward sign of

true and deep sorrow. I can weep no longer, for you are well again.

Surely the time has come for laughter and merrymaking, and not for

tears."

"Unless I get ten thousand jewels, I cannot marry the fair Tamana,"

said Tōtarō. "What am I to do? Oh, good friend, weep, weep!"

Samébito was a kindly creature. After a pause, he said: "I can shed no

more tears to-day. Let us go to-morrow to the Long Bridge of Séta, and

take with us a good supply of wine and fish. It may be that as I sit

on the bridge and gaze toward the Dragon Palace, I shall weep again,

thinking of my lost home, and longing to return once more."

On the morrow they went to the Séta Bridge, and after Samébito had

taken a good deal of wine, he gazed in the direction of the Dragon

Kingdom. As he did so his eyes filled with tears, red tears that turned

into rubies as soon as they touched the bridge. Tōtarō, without very

much concern for his friend's sorrow, picked up the jewels, and found

at last that he had ten thousand lustrous rubies.

Just at that moment they heard a sound of sweet music, and from the

water there rose a cloud-like palace, with all the colours of the

setting sun shining upon it. Samébito gave a shout of joy and sprang

upon the parapet of the bridge, saying: "Farewell, my master! The

Dragon Kings are calling!" With these words he leaped from the bridge

and returned to his old home again.

Tōtarō lost no time in presenting the casket containing ten thousand

jewels to Tamana's parents, and in due season he married their lovely

daughter.

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Professor B. H. Chamberlain's translation in

the _Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan_, vol. vii.]

A NOTE ON JAPANESE POETRY

There is a subtle charm about Japanese poetry peculiarly its own.

I recall with pleasure the unforgettable hours I spent in reading

Mr. Yone Noguchi's _The Pilgrimage_. I was compelled, through sheer

delight, to read the two volumes at a sitting. It is true that Mr.

Noguchi is very much under the influence of Walt Whitman, and it has

left its impress upon his work; but that only tends to heighten the

effect of the purely Japanese element. A brief, haunting phrase of Mr.

Noguchi has far more charm than an imitation of his American master's

torrential manner. Japan has no need to imitate as far as her poetry is

concerned. In the old days one of the characteristics of that country's

poetry was its almost entire freedom from outside influences, not even

excepting that of China, from whom, in other directions, she borrowed

so much. I have mentioned Mr. Yone Noguchi because his work forms

an excellent starting-point for the study of Japanese poetry. This

charming poet, writing in English, has given us for the first time an

intimate knowledge of the very spirit of Japanese poetry. When a book

is written on comparative poetry, that of Japan will take a very high

place.

It is far easier to describe what Japanese poetry is not than what it

actually is. To begin with, there are no Japanese epics, such as the

_Iliad_ and _Odyssey_, the _Kalevala_, and the _Mahabharata_, and their

phrase _naga-uta_ ("long poetry") is to us a misnomer, for they have no

really long poems. Philosophy, religion, satire are not themes for the

Japanese poet; he even goes so far as to consider war no fit subject

for a song.

The Tanka and Hokku

Where, then, are the charm and wonder of Japan's Pegasus? The real

genius is to be found in the _tanka_, a poem of five lines or phrases

and thirty-one syllables. In many ways the _tanka_ shows far more

limitation than an English sonnet, and our verbose poets would do

well to practise a form that engenders suppression and delicately

gives suggestion the supreme place. It is surprising what music and

sentiment are expressed within these limits. The _tanka_ is certainly

brief in form, but it frequently suggests, with haunting insistency,

that the fragment really has no end, when imagination seizes it and

turns it into a thousand thousand lines. The _tanka_ belongs as much

to Japan as Mount Fuji itself. One cannot regard it without thinking

that a Japanese poet must essentially have all the finer instincts of

an artist. In him the two arts seem inseparable. He must convey in

five lines, in the most felicitous language at his disposal, the idea

he wishes to express. That he does so with extraordinary success is

beyond dispute. These brief poems are wonderfully characteristic of

the Japanese people, for they have such a love for little things. The

same love that delights in carving a _netsuke_, the small button on a

Japanese tobacco-pouch, or the fashioning of a miniature garden in a

space no bigger than a soup-plate is part of the same subtle genius.

There is an even more Lilliputian form of verse. It is called the

_hokku_, and contains only seventeen syllables, such as: "What I saw

as a fallen blossom returning to the branch, lo! it was a butterfly,"

Butterflies were no mere flying insects in Old Japan. The sight of such

a brightly coloured creature heralded the approach of some dear friend.

On one occasion great clouds of butterflies were thought to be the

souls of an army.

The Hyaku-nin-isshiu

Those who are familiar with the _Hyaku-nin-isshiu_[1] ("Single Verses

by a Hundred People"), written before the time of the Norman Conquest,

will recognise that much of the old Japanese poetry depended on the

dexterous punning and the use of "pivot" and "pillow" words. The art

was practised, not with the idea of provoking laughter, which was

the aim of Thomas Hood, but rather with the idea of winning quiet

admiration for a clever and subtle verbal ornament. No translation can

do full justice to this phase of Japanese poetry; but the following

_tanka_, by Yasuhide Bunya, may perhaps give some idea of their

word-play:

"The mountain wind in autumn time

Is well called 'hurricane';

It _hurries canes_ and twigs along,

And whirls them o'er the plain

To scatter them again."

The cleverness of this verse lies in the fact that _yama kaze_

("mountain wind") is written with two characters. When these characters

are combined they form the word _arashi_ ("hurricane"). Clever as these

"pillow" and "pivot" words were, they were used but sparingly by the

poets of the classical period, to be revived again in a later age when

their extravagant use is to be condemned as a verbal display that quite

overshadowed the spirit of the poetry itself.

Love Poems

There are Japanese love poems, but they are very different from

those with which we are familiar. The tiresome habit of enumerating

a woman's charms, either briefly or at length, is happily an

impossibility in the _tanka_. There is nothing approaching the

sensuousness of a Swinburne or a D. G. Rossetti in Japanese poetry, but

the sentiments are gentle and pleasing nevertheless. No doubt there

were love-lorn poets in Japan, as in every other country, poets who

possibly felt quite passionately on the subject; but in their poetry

the fire is ghostly rather than human, always polite and delicate. What

could be more naïve and dainty than the following song from the "Flower

Dance" of Bingo province?

"If you want to meet me, love,

Only we twain,

Come to the gate, love,

Sunshine or rain;

And if people pry

Say that you came, love,

To watch who went by.

"If you want to meet me, love,

Only you and I,

Come to the pine-tree, love,

Clouds or clear sky;

Stand among the spikelets, love,

And if folks ask why,

Say that you came, love,

To catch a butterfly."

Or again, the following _tanka_ by the eleventh-century official,

Michimasa:

"If we could meet in privacy,

Where no one else could see,

Softly I'd whisper in thy ear

This little word from me--

I'm dying, Love, for thee."

There is a good deal more ingenuity in this poem than would appear

on the surface. It was addressed to the Princess Masako, and though

_omoi-taenamu_ may be correctly translated, "I'm dying, Love, for

thee," it may also mean, "I shall forget about you." The poem was

purposely written with a double meaning, in case it miscarried and fell

into the hands of the palace guards.

Nature Poems

Charming as are many of the Japaneses love poems, they are not so

pleasing or so distinguished as those describing some mood, some scene

from Nature, for the Japanese poets are essentially Nature poets.

Our National Anthem is very far from being poetry. Here is Japan's,

literally rendered into English: "May our Lord's Empire live through

a thousand ages, till tiny pebbles grow into giant boulders covered

with emerald mosses." It is based on an ancient song mentioned in

the _Kokinshiu_, and, like all ancient songs in praise of kingship,

expresses a desire for an Emperor whose very descent from the Sun shall

baffle Death, one who shall live and rule past mortal reckoning. There

is a symbolic meaning attached to Japanese rocks and stones, closely

associated with Buddhism. They represent something more than mere

stolidity; they represent prayers. It is the Nature poems of Japan that

are supremely beautiful, those describing plum- and cherry-blossom,

moonlight on a river, the flight of a heron, the murmuring song of a

blue pine, or the white foam of a wave. The best of these poems are

touched with pathos. Here is one by Isé:

"Cold as the wind of early Spring,

Chilling the buds that still lie sheathed

In their brown armour with its sting,

And the bare branches withering--

So seems the human heart to me!

Cold as the March wind's bitterness;

I am alone, none comes to see

Or cheer me in these days of stress."

Chōmei

I often think of that twelfth-century Japanese recluse Chōmei. He lived

in a little mountain hut far away from City Royal, and there he read

and played upon the _biwa_, went for walks in the vicinity, picking

flowers and fruit and branches of maple-leaves, which he set before

the Lord Buddha as thank-offerings. Chōmei was a true lover of Nature,

for he understood all her many moods. In the spring he gazed upon "the

festoons of the wistaria, fine to see as purple clouds." In the west

wind he heard the song of birds, and when autumn came he saw the gold

colouring of the trees, while the piling and vanishing of snow caused

him to think of "the ever waxing and waning volume of the world's

sinfulness." He wrote in his charming _Hō-jō-ki_, the most tender and

haunting autobiography in the Japanese language: "All the joy of my

existence is concentrated around the pillow which giveth me nightly

rest; all the hope of my days I find in the beauties of Nature that

ever please my eyes." He loved Nature so well that he would fain have

taken all the colour and perfume of her flowers through death into the

life beyond. That is what he meant when he wrote:

"Alas! the moonlight

Behind the hill is hidden

In gloom and darkness!

Oh, would her radiance ever

My longing eyes rejoiced!"

Here is a touching _hokku_, written by Chiyo, after the death of her

little son:

"How far, I wonder, did he stray,

Chasing the burnished dragon-fly to-day?"

The souls of Japanese children are often pictured as playing in a

celestial garden with the same flowers and butterflies they used

to play with while on earth. It is just this subtle element of the

childlike disposition in Japanese people that has helped them to

discover the secrets of flowers, and birds, and trees, has enabled them

to catch their timorous, fleeting shadows, and to hold them, as if by

magic, in a picture, on a vase, or in a delicate and wistful poem.

"The Ah-ness of Things"

There is a Japanese phrase, _mono no aware wo shiru_ ("the Ah-ness

of things"), which seems to describe most accurately the whole

significance of Japanese poetry. There is a plaintive and intimate

union between the poet and the scene from Nature he is writing about.

Over and over again he suggests that Spring, with all her wealth of

cherry- and plum-blossom, will continue to grace his country long

after he has departed. Nearly all Japan's people, from the peasant to

the Mikado himself, are poets. They write poetry because they live

poetry every day of their lives--that is to say, before Japan dreamed

of wearing a bowler hat and frock-coat, or became a wholesale buyer of

everything Western. They live poetry, always that poetry steeped in

an intimate communion with Nature. And when in July the Festival of

the Dead takes place, there comes a great company of poet souls to see

Nippon's blossom again, to wander down old familiar gardens, through

red _torii_, or to lean upon a stone lantern, and drink in the glory of

a summer day, which is sweeter to them than life beyond the grave.

[Footnote 1: _See_ translation by William N. Porter.]

GODS AND GODDESSES