THE RÔNINS INVITE KÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM HARA-KIRI.

TALES OF OLD JAPAN

by

LORD REDESDALE, G.C.V.O., K.C.B.

FORMERLY SECOND SECRETARY TO THE BRITISH LEGATION IN JAPAN

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWN AND CUT ON WOOD BY JAPANESE ARTISTS

1910

PREFACE

In the Introduction to the story of the Forty-seven
Rônins, I have said almost as much as is needful by way
of preface to my stories.

Those of my readers who are most capable of pointing out the
many shortcomings and faults of my work, will also be the most
indulgent towards me; for any one who has been in Japan, and
studied Japanese, knows the great difficulties by which the
learner is beset.

For the illustrations, at least, I feel that I need make no
apology. Drawn, in the first instance, by one
Ôdaké, an artist in my employ, they were cut on
wood by a famous wood-engraver at Yedo, and are therefore
genuine specimens of Japanese art. Messrs. Dalziel, on
examining the wood blocks, pointed out to me, as an interesting
fact, that the lines are cut with the grain of the wood, after
the manner of Albert Dürer and some of the old German
masters,—a process which has been abandoned by modern
European wood-engravers.

It will be noticed that very little allusion is made in
these Tales to the Emperor and his Court. Although I searched
diligently, I was able to find no story in which they played a
conspicuous part.

Another class to which no allusion is made is that of the
Gôshi. The Gôshi are a kind of yeomen, or
bonnet-lairds, as they would be called over the border, living
on their own land, and owning no allegiance to any feudal lord.
Their rank is inferior to that of the Samurai, or men of the
military class, between whom and the peasantry they hold a
middle place. Like the Samurai, they wear two swords, and are
in many cases prosperous and wealthy men claiming a descent
more ancient than that of many of the feudal Princes. A large
number of them are enrolled among the Emperor’s body-guard; and
these have played a conspicuous part in the recent political
changes in Japan, as the most conservative and anti-foreign
element in the nation.

With these exceptions, I think that all classes are fairly
represented in my stories.

The feudal system has passed away like a dissolving view
before the eyes of those who have lived in Japan during the
last few years. But when they arrived there it was in full
force, and there is not an incident narrated in the following
pages, however strange it may appear to Europeans, for the
possibility and probability of which those most competent to
judge will not vouch. Nor, as many a recent event can prove,
have heroism, chivalry, and devotion gone out of the land
altogether. We may deplore and inveigh against the Yamato
Damashi, or Spirit of Old Japan, which still breathes in the
soul of the Samurai, but we cannot withhold our admiration from
the self-sacrifices which men will still make for the love of
their country.

The first two of the Tales have already appeared in the
Fortnightly Review, and two of the Sermons, with a
portion of the Appendix on the subject of the Hara-Kiri, in the
pages of the Cornhill Magazine. I have to thank the
editors of those periodicals for permission to reprint them
here.

LONDON, January 7, 1871.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE RÔNINS
INVITE RÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM
HARA-KIRI

THE WELL IN WHICH
THE HEAD WAS WASHED

THE SATSUMA MAN
INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ

THE TOMBS OF THE
RÔNINS

THE TOMB OF THE
SHIYOKU

GOMPACHI AWAKENED
BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS’ DEN

FORGING THE
SWORD

MATAGORÔ
KILLS YUKIYÉ

THE DEATH OF
DANYÉMON

TRICKS OF
SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA

THE DEATH OF
CHÔBEI OF BANDZUIN

FUNAKOSHI
JIUYÉMON ON BOARD THE PIRATE SHIP

JIUYÉMON
PUNISHES HIS WIFE AND THE WRESTLER

FUNAKOSHI
JIUYÉMON AND THE GOBLINS

“GOKUMON”

CHAMPION
WRESTLER

A WRESTLING
MATCH

GENZABURÔ’S
MEETING WITH THE ETA MAIDEN

THE TONGUE-CUT
SPARROW

THE TONGUE-CUT
SPARROW (2)

THE ACCOMPLISHED
AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE

THE ACCOMPLISHED
AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE (2)

THE HARE AND THE
BADGER

THE HARE AND THE
BADGER (2)

THE OLD MAN WHO
CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER

THE OLD MAN WHO
CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER (2)

THE APE AND THE
CRAB

THE APE AND THE
CRAB (2)

LITTLE
PEACHLING

LITTLE PEACHLING
(2)

THE FOXES’
WEDDING

THE FOXES’ WEDDING
(2)

THE DEPUTATION OF
PEASANTS AT THEIR LORD’S GATE

THE GHOST OF
SAKURA

SÔGORÔ
THRUSTING THE PETITION INTO THE SHOGUN’S LITTER

THE CAT OF
NABÉSHIMA

THE FEAST OF INARI
SAMA

A JAPANESE
SERMON

TALES OF OLD JAPAN

THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS

The books which have been written of late years about Japan
have either been compiled from official records, or have
contained the sketchy impressions of passing travellers. Of the
inner life of the Japanese the world at large knows but little:
their religion, their superstitions, their ways of thought, the
hidden springs by which they move—all these are as yet
mysteries. Nor is this to be wondered at. The first Western men
who came in contact with Japan—I am speaking not of the
old Dutch and Portuguese traders and priests, but of the
diplomatists and merchants of eleven years ago—met with a
cold reception. Above all things, the native Government threw
obstacles in the way of any inquiry into their language,
literature, and history. The fact was that the Tycoon’s
Government—with whom alone, so long as the Mikado
remained in seclusion in his sacred capital at Kiôto, any
relations were maintained—knew that the Imperial purple
with which they sought to invest their chief must quickly fade
before the strong sunlight which would be brought upon it so
soon as there should be European linguists capable of examining
their books and records. No opportunity was lost of throwing
dust in the eyes of the new-comers, whom, even in the most
trifling details, it was the official policy to lead astray.
Now, however, there is no cause for concealment; the Roi
Fainéant has shaken off his sloth, and his Maire
du Palais, together, and an intelligible Government, which
need not fear scrutiny from abroad, is the result: the records
of the country being but so many proofs of the Mikado’s title
to power, there is no reason for keeping up any show of
mystery. The path of inquiry is open to all; and although there
is yet much to be learnt, some knowledge has been attained, in
which it may interest those who stay at home to share.

The recent revolution in Japan has wrought changes social as
well as political; and it may be that when, in addition to the
advance which has already been made, railways and telegraphs
shall have connected the principal points of the Land of
Sunrise, [pg 2] the old Japanese, such as he
was and had been for centuries when we found him eleven
short years ago, will have become extinct. It has appeared
to me that no better means could be chosen of preserving a
record of a curious and fast disappearing civilization than
the translation of some of the most interesting national
legends and histories, together with other specimens of
literature bearing upon the same subject. Thus the Japanese
may tell their own tale, their translator only adding here
and there a few words of heading or tag to a chapter, where
an explanation or amplification may seem necessary. I fear
that the long and hard names will often make my tales
tedious reading, but I believe that those who will bear with
the difficulty will learn more of the character of the
Japanese people than by skimming over descriptions of travel
and adventure, however brilliant. The lord and his retainer,
the warrior and the priest, the humble artisan and the
despised Eta or pariah, each in his turn will become a
leading character in my budget of stories; and it is out of
the mouths of these personages that I hope to show forth a
tolerably complete picture of Japanese society.

Having said so much by way of preface, I beg my readers to
fancy themselves wafted away to the shores of the Bay of
Yedo—a fair, smiling landscape: gentle slopes, crested by
a dark fringe of pines and firs, lead down to the sea; the
quaint eaves of many a temple and holy shrine peep out here and
there from the groves; the bay itself is studded with
picturesque fisher-craft, the torches of which shine by night
like glow-worms among the outlying forts; far away to the west
loom the goblin-haunted heights of Oyama, and beyond the twin
hills of the Hakoné Pass—Fuji-Yama, the Peerless
Mountain, solitary and grand, stands in the centre of the
plain, from which it sprang vomiting flames twenty-one
centuries ago.¹
For a hundred and sixty years the huge mountain has been at
peace, but the frequent earthquakes still tell of hidden
fires, and none can say when the red-hot stones and ashes
may once more fall like rain over five provinces.

In the midst of a nest of venerable trees in Takanawa, a
suburb of Yedo, is hidden Sengakuji, or the Spring-hill Temple,
renowned throughout the length and breadth of the land for its
cemetery, [pg 3] which contains the graves of
the Forty-seven. Rônins,²
famous in Japanese history, heroes of Japanese drama, the
tale of whose deeds I am about to transcribe.

On the left-hand side of the main court of the temple is a
chapel, in which, surmounted by a gilt figure of Kwanyin, the
goddess of mercy, are enshrined the images of the forty-seven
men, and of the master whom they loved so well. The statues are
carved in wood, the faces coloured, and the dresses richly
lacquered; as works of art they have great merit—the
action of the heroes, each armed with his favourite weapon,
being wonderfully life-like and spirited. Some are venerable
men, with thin, grey hair (one is seventy-seven years old);
others are mere boys of sixteen. Close by the chapel, at the
side of a path leading up the hill, is a little well of pure
water, fenced in and adorned with a tiny fernery, over which is
an inscription, setting forth that “This is the well in which
the head was washed; you must not wash your hands or your feet
here.” A little further on is a stall, at which a poor old man
earns a pittance by selling books, pictures, and medals,
commemorating the loyalty of the Forty-seven; and higher up
yet, shaded by a grove of stately trees, is a neat inclosure,
kept up, as a signboard announces, by voluntary contributions,
round which are ranged forty-eight little tombstones, each
decked with evergreens, each with its tribute of water and
incense for the comfort of the departed spirit. There were
forty-seven Rônins; there are forty-eight tombstones, and
the story of the forty-eighth is truly characteristic of
Japanese ideas of honour. Almost touching the rail of the
graveyard is a more imposing monument under which lies buried
the lord, whose death his followers piously avenged.

And now for the story.

At the beginning of the eighteenth century there lived a
daimio, called Asano Takumi no Kami, the Lord of the castle of
Akô, in [pg 4] the province of Harima. Now it
happened that an Imperial ambassador from the Court of the
Mikado having been sent to the Shogun³
at Yedo, Takumi no Kami and another noble called Kamei Sama
were appointed to receive and feast the envoy; and a high
official, named Kira Kôtsuké no Suké,
was named to teach them the proper ceremonies to be observed
upon the occasion. The two nobles were accordingly forced to
go daily to the castle to listen to the instructions of
Kôtsuké no Suké. But this
Kôtsuké no Suké was a man greedy of
money; and as he deemed that the presents which the two
daimios, according to time-honoured custom, had brought him
in return for his instruction, were mean and unworthy, he
conceived a great hatred against them, and took no pains in
teaching them, but on the contrary rather sought to make
laughing-stocks of them. Takumi no Kami, restrained by a
stern sense of duty, bore his insults with patience; but
Kamei Sama, who had less control over his temper, was
violently incensed, and determined to kill
Kôtsuké no Suké.

THE WELL IN WHICH THE HEAD WAS WASHED.

One night when his duties at the castle were ended, Kamei
Sama returned to his own palace, and having summoned his
[pg 5] councillors⁴
to a secret conference, said to them: “Kôtsuké
no Suké has insulted Takumi no Kami and myself during
our service in attendance on the Imperial envoy. This is
against all decency, and I was minded to kill him on the
spot; but I bethought me that if I did such a deed within
the precincts of the castle, not only would my own life be
forfeit, but my family and vassals would be ruined: so I
stayed my hand. Still the life of such a wretch is a sorrow
to the people, and to-morrow when I go to Court I will slay
him: my mind is made up, and I will listen to no
remonstrance.” And as he spoke his face became livid with
rage.

Now one of Kamei Sama’s councillors was a man of great
judgment, and when he saw from his lord’s manner that
remonstrance would be useless, he said: “Your lordship’s words
are law; your servant will make all preparations accordingly;
and to-morrow, when your lordship goes to Court, if this
Kôtsuké no Suké should again be insolent,
let him die the death.” And his lord was pleased at this
speech, and waited with impatience for the day to break, that
he might return to Court and kill his enemy.

But the councillor went home, and was sorely troubled, and
thought anxiously about what his prince had said. And as he
reflected, it occurred to him that since Kôtsuké
no Suké had the reputation of being a miser he would
certainly be open to a bribe, and that it was better to pay any
sum, no matter how great, than that his lord and his house
should be ruined. So he collected all the money he could, and,
giving it to his servants to carry, rode off in the night to
Kôtsuké no Suké’s palace, and said to his
retainers: “My master, who is now in attendance upon the
Imperial envoy, owes much thanks to my Lord
Kôtsuké no Suké, who has been at so great
pains to teach him the proper ceremonies to be observed during
the reception of the Imperial envoy. This is but a shabby
present which he has sent by me, but he hopes that his lordship
will condescend to accept it, and commends himself to his
lordship’s favour.” And, with these words, he produced a
thousand ounces of silver for Kôtsuké no
Suké, and a hundred ounces to be distributed among his
retainers.

When the latter saw the money their eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and they were profuse in their thanks; and begging
the councillor to wait a little, they went and told their
master of the lordly present which had arrived with a polite
message from Kamei Sama. Kôtsuké no Suké in
eager delight sent for the councillor into an inner chamber,
and, after thanking him, promised on the morrow to instruct his
master carefully in all the different points of etiquette. So
the councillor, seeing the miser’s glee, rejoiced at the
success of his plan; and having taken his
[pg 6] leave returned home in high
spirits. But Kamei Sama, little thinking how his vassal had
propitiated his enemy, lay brooding over his vengeance, and
on the following morning at daybreak went to Court in solemn
procession.

When Kôtsuké no Suké met him his manner
had completely changed, and nothing could exceed his courtesy.
“You have come early to Court this morning, my Lord Kamei,”
said he. “I cannot sufficiently admire your zeal. I shall have
the honour to call your attention to several points of
etiquette to-day. I must beg your lordship to excuse my
previous conduct, which must have seemed very rude; but I am
naturally of a cross-grained disposition, so I pray you to
forgive me.” And as he kept on humbling himself and making fair
speeches, the heart of Kamei Sama was gradually softened, and
he renounced his intention of killing him. Thus by the
cleverness of his councillor was Kamei Sama, with all his
house, saved from ruin.

Shortly after this, Takumi no Kami, who had sent no present,
arrived at the castle, and Kôtsuké no Suké
turned him into ridicule even more than before, provoking him
with sneers and covert insults; but Takumi no Kami affected to
ignore all this, and submitted himself patiently to
Kôtsuké no Suké’s orders.

This conduct, so far from producing a good effect, only made
Kôtsuké no Suké despise him the more, until
at last he said haughtily: “Here, my Lord of Takumi, the ribbon
of my sock has come untied; be so good as to tie it up for
me.”

Takumi no Kami, although burning with rage at the affront,
still thought that as he was on duty he was bound to obey, and
tied up the ribbon of the sock. Then Kôtsuké no
Suké, turning from him, petulantly exclaimed: “Why, how
clumsy you are! You cannot so much as tie up the ribbon of a
sock properly! Any one can see that you are a boor from the
country, and know nothing of the manners of Yedo.” And with a
scornful laugh he moved towards an inner room.

But the patience of Takumi no Kami was exhausted; this last
insult was more than he could bear.

“Stop a moment, my lord,” cried he.

“Well, what is it?” replied the other. And, as he turned
round, Takumi no Kami drew his dirk, and aimed a blow at his
head; but Kôtsuké no Suké, being protected
by the Court cap which he wore, the wound was but a scratch, so
he ran away; and Takumi no Kami, pursuing him, tried a second
time to cut him down, but, missing his aim, struck his dirk
into a pillar. At this moment an officer, named Kajikawa
Yosobei, seeing the affray, rushed up, and holding back the
infuriated noble, gave Kôtsuké no Suké time
to make good his escape.

Then there arose a great uproar and confusion, and Takumi no
Kami was arrested and disarmed, and confined in one of the
apartments of the palace under the care of the censors. A
council was held, and the prisoner was given over to the
safeguard of a daimio, called Tamura Ukiyô no Daibu, who
kept [pg 7] him in close custody in his own
house, to the great grief of his wife and of his retainers;
and when the deliberations of the council were completed, it
was decided that, as he had committed an outrage and
attacked another man within the precincts of the palace, he
must perform hara-kiri,—that is, commit suicide
by disembowelling; his goods must be confiscated, and his
family ruined. Such was the law. So Takumi no Kami performed
hara-kiri, his castle of Akô was confiscated,
and his retainers having become Rônins, some of them
took service with other daimios, and others became
merchants.

Now amongst these retainers was his principal councillor, a
man called Oishi Kuranosuké, who, with forty-six other
faithful dependants, formed a league to avenge their master’s
death by killing Kôtsuké no Suké. This
Oishi Kuranosuké was absent at the castle of Akô
at the time of the affray, which, had he been with his prince,
would never have occurred; for, being a wise man, he would not
have failed to propitiate Kôtsuké no Suké
by sending him suitable presents; while the councillor who was
in attendance on the prince at Yedo was a dullard, who
neglected this precaution, and so caused the death of his
master and the ruin of his house.

So Oishi Kuranosuké and his forty-six companions
began to lay their plans of vengeance against
Kôtsuké no Suké; but the latter was so well
guarded by a body of men lent to him by a daimio called
Uyésugi Sama, whose daughter he had married, that they
saw that the only way of attaining their end would be to throw
their enemy off his guard. With this object they separated and
disguised themselves, some as carpenters or craftsmen, others
as merchants; and their chief, Kuranosuké, went to
Kiôto, and built a house in the quarter called Yamashina,
where he took to frequenting houses of the worst repute, and
gave himself up to drunkenness and debauchery, as if nothing
were further from his mind than revenge. Kôtsuké
no Suké, in the meanwhile, suspecting that Takumi no
Kami’s former retainers would be scheming against his life,
secretly sent spies to Kiôto, and caused a faithful
account to be kept of all that Kuranosuké did. The
latter, however, determined thoroughly to delude the enemy into
a false security, went on leading a dissolute life with harlots
and winebibbers. One day, as he was returning home drunk from
some low haunt, he fell down in the street and went to sleep,
and all the passers-by laughed him to scorn. It happened that a
Satsuma man saw this, and said: “Is not this Oishi
Kuranosuké, who was a councillor of Asano Takumi no
Kami, and who, not having the heart to avenge his lord, gives
himself up to women and wine? See how he lies drunk in the
public street! Faithless beast! Fool and craven! Unworthy the
name of a Samurai!”⁵

THE SATSUMA MAN INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ.

And he trod on Kuranosuké’s face as he slept, and
spat upon him; but when Kôtsuké no Suké’s
spies reported all this at Yedo, he was greatly relieved at the
news, and felt secure from danger.

One day Kuranosuké’s wife, who was bitterly grieved
to see her husband lead this abandoned life, went to him and
said: “My lord, you told me at first that your debauchery was
but a trick to make your enemy relax in watchfulness. But
indeed, indeed, this has gone too far. I pray and beseech you
to put some restraint upon yourself.”

“Trouble me not,” replied Kuranosuké, “for I will not
listen to your whining. Since my way of life is displeasing to
you, I will divorce you, and you may go about your business;
and I will buy some pretty young girl from one of the
public-houses, and marry her for my pleasure. I am sick of the
sight of an old woman like you about the house, so get you
gone—the sooner the better.”

So saying, he flew into a violent rage, and his wife,
terror-stricken, pleaded piteously for mercy.

“Oh, my lord! unsay those terrible words! I have been your
faithful wife for twenty years, and have borne you three
children; in sickness and in sorrow I have been with you; you
cannot be so cruel as to turn me out of doors now. Have pity!
have pity!”

“Cease this useless wailing. My mind is made up, and you
must go; and as the children are in my way also, you are
welcome to take them with you.”

When she heard her husband speak thus, in her grief she
sought her eldest son, Oishi Chikara, and begged him to plead
for her, and pray that she might be pardoned. But nothing would
turn Kuranosuké from his purpose, so his wife was sent
away, with the two younger children, and went back to her
native place. But Oishi Chikara remained with his father.

The spies communicated all this without fail to
Kôtsuké no Suké, and he, when he heard how
Kuranosuké, having turned his wife and children out of
doors and bought a concubine, was grovelling in a life of
drunkenness and lust, began to think that he had no longer
anything to fear from the retainers of Takumi no Kami, who must
be cowards, without the courage to avenge their lord. So by
degrees he began to keep a less strict watch, and sent back
half of the guard which had been lent to him by his
father-in-law, Uyésugi Sama. Little did he think how he
was falling into the trap laid for him by Kuranosuké,
who, in his zeal to slay his lord’s enemy, thought nothing of
divorcing his wife and sending away his children! Admirable and
faithful man!

In this way Kuranosuké continued to throw dust in the
eyes of his foe, by persisting in his apparently shameless
conduct; but his associates all went to Yedo, and, having in
their several capacities as workmen and pedlars contrived to
gain access to Kôtsuké no Suké’s house,
made themselves familiar with the plan of the building and the
arrangement of the different rooms,
[pg 10] and ascertained the character
of the inmates, who were brave and loyal men, and who were
cowards; upon all of which matters they sent regular reports
to Kuranosuké. And when at last it became evident
from the letters which arrived from Yedo that
Kôtsuké no Suké was thoroughly off his
guard, Kuranosuké rejoiced that the day of vengeance
was at hand; and, having appointed a trysting-place at Yedo,
he fled secretly from Kiôto, eluding the vigilance of
his enemy’s spies. Then the forty-seven men, having laid all
their plans, bided their time patiently.

It was now midwinter, the twelfth month of the year, and the
cold was bitter. One night, during a heavy fall of snow, when
the whole world was hushed, and peaceful men were stretched in
sleep upon the mats, the Rônins determined that no more
favourable opportunity could occur for carrying out their
purpose. So they took counsel together, and, having divided
their band into two parties, assigned to each man his post. One
band, led by Oishi Kuranosuké, was to attack the front
gate, and the other, under his son Oishi Chikara, was to attack
the postern of Kôtsuké no Suké’s house; but
as Chikara was only sixteen years of age, Yoshida
Chiuzayémon was appointed to act as his guardian.
Further it was arranged that a drum, beaten at the order of
Kuranosuké, should be the signal for the simultaneous
attack; and that if any one slew Kôtsuké no
Suké and cut off his head he should blow a shrill
whistle, as a signal to his comrades, who would hurry to the
spot, and, having identified the head, carry it off to the
temple called Sengakuji, and lay it as an offering before the
tomb of their dead lord. Then they must report their deed to
the Government, and await the sentence of death which would
surely be passed upon them. To this the Rônins one and
all pledged themselves. Midnight was fixed upon as the hour,
and the forty-seven comrades, having made all ready for the
attack, partook of a last farewell feast together, for on the
morrow they must die. Then Oishi Kuranosuké addressed
the band, and said—

“To-night we shall attack our enemy in his palace; his
retainers will certainly resist us, and we shall be obliged to
kill them. But to slay old men and women and children is a
pitiful thing; therefore, I pray you each one to take great
heed lest you kill a single helpless person.” His comrades all
applauded this speech, and so they remained, waiting for the
hour of midnight to arrive.

When the appointed hour came, the Rônins set forth.
The wind howled furiously, and the driving snow beat in their
faces; but little cared they for wind or snow as they hurried
on their road, eager for revenge. At last they reached
Kôtsuké no Suké’s house, and divided
themselves into two bands; and Chikara, with twenty-three men,
went round to the back gate. Then four men, by means of a
ladder of ropes which they hung on to the roof of the porch,
effected an entry into the courtyard; and, as they saw signs
that all the inmates of the house were asleep,
[pg 11] they went into the porter’s
lodge where the guard slept, and, before the latter had time
to recover from their astonishment, bound them. The
terrified guard prayed hard for mercy, that their lives
might be spared; and to this the Rônins agreed on
condition that the keys of the gate should be given up; but
the others tremblingly said that the keys were kept in the
house of one of their officers, and that they had no means
of obtaining them. Then the Rônins lost patience, and
with a hammer dashed in pieces the big wooden bolt which
secured the gate, and the doors flew open to the right and
to the left. At the same time Chikara and his party broke in
by the back gate.

Then Oishi Kuranosuké sent a messenger to the
neighbouring houses, bearing the following message:—”We,
the Rônins who were formerly in the service of Asano
Takumi no Kami, are this night about to break into the palace
of Kôtsuké no Suké, to avenge our lord. As
we are neither night robbers nor ruffians, no hurt will be done
to the neighbouring houses. We pray you to set your minds at
rest.” And as Kôtsuké no Suké was hated by
his neighbours for his covetousness, they did not unite their
forces to assist him. Another precaution was yet taken. Lest
any of the people inside should run out to call the relations
of the family to the rescue, and these coming in force should
interfere with the plans of the Rônins, Kuranosuké
stationed ten of his men armed with bows on the roof of the
four sides of the courtyard, with orders to shoot any retainers
who might attempt to leave the place. Having thus laid all his
plans and posted his men, Kuranosuké with his own hand
beat the drum and gave the signal for attack.

Ten of Kôtsuké no Suké’s retainers,
hearing the noise, woke up; and, drawing their swords, rushed
into the front room to defend their master. At this moment the
Rônins, who had burst open the door of the front hall,
entered the same room. Then arose a furious fight between the
two parties, in the midst of which Chikara, leading his men
through the garden, broke into the back of the house; and
Kôtsuké no Suké, in terror of his life,
took refuge, with his wife and female servants, in a closet in
the verandah; while the rest of his retainers, who slept in the
barrack outside the house, made ready to go to the rescue. But
the Rônins who had come in by the front door, and were
fighting with the ten retainers, ended by overpowering and
slaying the latter without losing one of their own number;
after which, forcing their way bravely towards the back rooms,
they were joined by Chikara and his men, and the two bands were
united in one.

By this time the remainder of Kôtsuké no
Suké’s men had come in, and the fight became general;
and Kuranosuké, sitting on a camp-stool, gave his orders
and directed the Rônins. Soon the inmates of the house
perceived that they were no match for their enemy, so they
tried to send out intelligence of their plight to
Uyésugi Sama, their lord’s father-in-law, begging him to
[pg 12] come to the rescue with all
the force at his command. But the messengers were shot down
by the archers whom Kuranosuké had posted on the
roof. So no help coming, they fought on in despair. Then
Kuranosuké cried out with a loud voice:
“Kôtsuké no Suké alone is our enemy; let
some one go inside and bring him forth. dead or alive!”

Now in front of Kôtsuké no Suké’s
private room stood three brave retainers with drawn swords. The
first was Kobayashi Héhachi, the second was Waku
Handaiyu, and the third was Shimidzu Ikkaku, all good men and
true, and expert swordsmen. So stoutly did these men lay about
them that for a while they kept the whole of the Rônins
at bay, and at one moment even forced them back. When Oishi
Kuranosuké saw this, he ground his teeth with rage, and
shouted to his men: “What! did not every man of you swear to
lay down his life in avenging his lord, and now are you driven
back by three men? Cowards, not fit to be spoken to! to die
fighting in a master’s cause should be the noblest ambition of
a retainer!” Then turning to his own son Chikara, he said,
“Here, boy! engage those men, and if they are too strong for
you, die!”

Spurred by these words, Chikara seized a spear and gave
battle to Waku Handaiyu, but could not hold his ground, and
backing by degrees, was driven out into the garden, where he
missed his footing and slipped into a pond, but as Handaiyu,
thinking to kill him, looked down into the pond, Chikara cut
his enemy in the leg and caused him to fall, and then, crawling
out of the water dispatched him. In the meanwhile Kobayashi
Héhachi and Shimidzu Ikkaku had been killed by the other
Rônins, and of all Kôtsuké no Suké’s
retainers not one fighting man remained. Chikara, seeing this,
went with his bloody sword in his hand into a back room to
search for Kôtsuké no Suké, but he only
found the son of the latter, a young lord named Kira
Sahioyé, who, carrying a halberd, attacked him, but was
soon wounded and fled. Thus the whole of Kôtsuké
no Suké’s men having been killed, there was an end of
the fighting; but as yet there was no trace of
Kôtsuké no Suké to be found.

Then Kuranosuké divided his men into several parties
and searched the whole house, but all in vain; women and
children weeping were alone to be seen. At this the forty-seven
men began to lose heart in regret, that after all their toil
they had allowed their enemy to escape them, and there was a
moment when in their despair they agreed to commit suicide
together upon the spot; but they determined to make one more
effort. So Kuranosuké went into Kôtsuké no
Suké’s sleeping-room, and touching the quilt with his
hands, exclaimed, “I have just felt the bed-clothes and they
are yet warm, and so methinks that our enemy is not far off. He
must certainly be hidden somewhere in the house.” Greatly
excited by this, the Rônins renewed their search. Now in
the raised part of the room, near the place of honour, there
was a picture hanging; taking down this picture, they saw that
[pg 13] there was a large hole in the
plastered wall, and on thrusting a spear in they could feel
nothing beyond it. So one of the Rônins, called Yazama
Jiutarô, got into the hole, and found that on the
other side there was a little courtyard, in which there
stood an outhouse for holding charcoal and firewood. Looking
into the outhouse, he spied something white at the further
end, at which he struck with his spear, when two armed men
sprang out upon him and tried to cut him down, but he kept
them back until one of his comrades came up and killed one
of the two men and engaged the other, while Jiutarô
entered the outhouse and felt about with his spear. Again
seeing something white, he struck it with his lance, when a
cry of pain betrayed that it was a man; so he rushed up, and
the man in white clothes, who had been wounded in the thigh,
drew a dirk and aimed a blow at him. But Jiutarô
wrested the dirk from him, and clutching him by the collar,
dragged him out of the outhouse. Then the other Rônin
came up, and they examined the prisoner attentively, and saw
that he was a noble-looking man, some sixty years of age,
dressed in a white satin sleeping-robe, which was stained by
the blood from the thigh-wound which, Jiutarô had
inflicted. The two men felt convinced that this was no other
than Kôtsuké no Suké, and they asked him
his name, but he gave no answer, so they gave the signal
whistle, and all their comrades collected together at the
call; then Oishi Kuranosuké, bringing a lantern,
scanned the old man’s features, and it was indeed
Kôtsuké no Suké; and if further proof
were wanting, he still bore a scar on his forehead where
their master, Asano Takumi no Kami, had wounded him during
the affray in the castle. There being no possibility of
mistake, therefore, Oishi Kuranosuké went down on his
knees, and addressing the old man very respectfully,
said—

“My lord, we are the retainers of Asano Takumi no Kami. Last
year your lordship and our master quarrelled in the palace, and
our master was sentenced to hara-kiri, and his family
was ruined. We have come to-night to avenge him, as is the duty
of faithful and loyal men. I pray your lordship to acknowledge
the justice of our purpose. And now, my lord, we beseech you to
perform hara-kiri. I myself shall have the honour to act
as your second, and when, with all humility, I shall have
received your lordship’s head, it is my intention to lay it as
an offering upon the grave of Asano Takumi no Kami.”

Thus, in consideration of the high rank of
Kôtsuké no Suké, the Rônins treated
him with the greatest courtesy, and over and over again
entreated him to perform hara-kiri. But he crouched
speechless and trembling. At last Kuranosuké, seeing
that it was vain to urge him to die the death of a nobleman,
forced him down, and cut off his head with the same dirk with
which Asano Takumi no Kami had killed himself. Then the
forty-seven comrades, elated at having accomplished their
design, placed the head in a bucket, and prepared to depart;
but before leaving the house they carefully extinguished all
the lights and fires in the place,
[pg 14] lest by any accident a fire
should break out and the neighbours suffer.

As they were on their way to Takanawa, the suburb in which
the temple called Sengakuji stands, the day broke; and the
people flocked out to see the forty-seven men, who, with their
clothes and arms all blood-stained, presented a terrible
appearance; and every one praised them, wondering at their
valour and faithfulness. But they expected every moment that
Kôtsuké no Suké’s father-in-law would
attack them and carry off the head, and made ready to die
bravely sword in hand. However, they reached Takanawa in
safety, for Matsudaira Aki no Kami, one of the eighteen chief
daimios of Japan, of whose house Asano Takumi no Kami had been
a cadet, had been highly pleased when he heard of the last
night’s work, and he had made ready to assist the Rônins
in case they were attacked. So Kôtsuké no
Suké’s father-in-law dared not pursue them.

At about seven in the morning they came opposite to the
palace of Matsudaira Mutsu no Kami, the Prince of Sendai, and
the Prince, hearing of it, sent for one of his councillors and
said: “The retainers of Takumi no Kami have slain their lord’s
enemy, and are passing this way; I cannot sufficiently admire
their devotion, so, as they must be tired and hungry after
their night’s work, do you go and invite them to come in here,
and set some gruel and a cup of wine before them.”

So the councillor went out and said to Oishi
Kuranosuké: “Sir, I am a councillor of the Prince of
Sendai, and my master bids me beg you, as you must be worn out
after all you have undergone, to come in and partake of such
poor refreshment as we can offer you. This is my message to you
from my lord.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied Kuranosuké. “It is very
good of his lordship to trouble himself to think of us. We
shall accept his kindness gratefully.”

So the forty-seven Rônins went into the palace, and
were feasted with gruel and wine, and all the retainers of the
Prince of Sendai came and praised them.

Then Kuranosuké turned to the councillor and said,
“Sir, we are truly indebted to you for this kind hospitality;
but as we have still to hurry to Sengakuji, we must needs
humbly take our leave.” And, after returning many thanks to
their hosts, they left the palace of the Prince of Sendai and
hastened to Sengakuji, where they were met by the abbot of the
monastery, who went to the front gate to receive them, and led
them to the tomb of Takumi no Kami.

And when they came to their lord’s grave, they took the head
of Kôtsuké no Suké, and having washed it
clean in a well hard by, laid it as an offering before the
tomb. When they had done this, they engaged the priests of the
temple to come and read prayers while they burnt incense: first
Oishi Kuranosuké burnt incense, and then his son Oishi
Chikara, and after them the other forty-five men performed the
same ceremony. Then Kuranosuké,
[pg 15] having given all the money
that he had by him to the abbot, said—

“When we forty-seven men shall have performed
hara-kiri, I beg you to bury us decently. I rely upon
your kindness. This is but a trifle that I have to offer; such
as it is, let it be spent in masses for our souls!”

And the abbot, marvelling at the faithful courage of the
men, with tears in his eyes pledged himself to fulfil their
wishes. So the forty-seven Rônins, with their minds at
rest, waited patiently until they should receive the orders of
the Government.

At last they were summoned to the Supreme Court, where the
governors of Yedo and the public censors had assembled; and the
sentence passed upon them was as follows: “Whereas, neither
respecting the dignity of the city nor fearing the Government,
having leagued yourselves together to slay your enemy, you
violently broke into the house of Kira Kôtsuké no
Suké by night and murdered him, the sentence of the
Court is, that, for this audacious conduct, you perform
hara-kiri.” When the sentence had been read, the
forty-seven Rônins were divided into four parties, and
handed over to the safe keeping of four different daimios; and
sheriffs were sent to the palaces of those daimios in whose
presence the Rônins were made to perform
hara-kiri. But, as from the very beginning they had all
made up their minds that to this end they must come, they met
their death nobly; and their corpses were carried to Sengakuji,
and buried in front of the tomb of their master, Asano Takumi
no Kami. And when [pg 16] the fame of this became
noised abroad, the people flocked to pray at the graves of
these faithful men.

THE TOMBS
OF THE RÔNINS.

Among those who came to pray was a Satsuma man, who,
prostrating himself before the grave of Oishi
Kuranosuké, said: “When I saw you lying drunk by the
roadside at Yamashina, in Kiôto, I knew not that you were
plotting to avenge your lord; and, thinking you to be a
faithless man, I trampled on you and spat in your face as I
passed. And now I have come to ask pardon and offer atonement
for the insult of last year.” With those words he prostrated
himself again before the grave, and, drawing a dirk from his
girdle, stabbed himself in the belly and died. And the chief
priest of the temple, taking pity upon him, buried him by the
side of the Rônins; and his tomb still remains to be seen
with those of the forty-seven comrades.

This is the end of the story of the forty-seven
Rônins.

A terrible picture of fierce heroism which it is impossible
not to admire. In the Japanese mind this feeling of admiration
is unmixed, and hence it is that the forty-seven Rônins
receive almost divine honours. Pious hands still deck their
graves with green boughs and burn incense upon them; the
clothes and arms which they wore are preserved carefully in a
fire-proof store-house attached to the temple, and exhibited
yearly to admiring crowds, who behold them probably with little
less veneration than is accorded to the relics of
Aix-la-Chapelle or Trèves; and once in sixty years the
monks of Sengakuji reap quite a harvest for the good of their
temple by holding a commemorative fair or festival, to which
the people flock during nearly two months.

A silver key once admitted me to a private inspection of the
relics. We were ushered, my friend and myself, into a back
apartment of the spacious temple, overlooking one of those
marvellous miniature gardens, cunningly adorned with rockeries
and dwarf trees, in which the Japanese delight. One by one,
carefully labelled and indexed boxes containing the precious
articles were brought out and opened by the chief priest. Such
a curious medley of old rags and scraps of metal and wood!
Home-made chain armour, composed of wads of leather secured
together by pieces of iron, bear witness to the secrecy with
which the Rônins made ready for the fight. To have bought
armour would have attracted attention, so they made it with
their own hands. Old moth-eaten surcoats, bits of helmets,
three flutes, a writing-box that must have been any age at the
time of the tragedy, and is now tumbling to pieces; tattered
trousers of what once was rich silk brocade, now all unravelled
and befringed; scraps of leather, part of an old gauntlet,
crests and badges, bits of sword handles, spear-heads and
dirks, the latter all red with rust, but with certain patches
more deeply stained as if the fatal clots of blood were never
to be blotted out: all these were reverently shown to us. Among
the confusion and litter were a number of documents, Yellow
with age and much worn at the folds. One was a plan
[pg 17] of Kôtsuké no
Suké’s house, which one of the Rônins obtained
by marrying the daughter of the builder who designed it.
Three of the manuscripts appeared to me so curious that I
obtained leave to have copies taken of them.

The first is the receipt given by the retainers of
Kôtsuké no Suké’s son in return for the
head of their lord’s father, which the priests restored to the
family, and runs as follows:—

The second paper is a document explanatory of their conduct,
a copy of which was found on the person of each of the
forty-seven men:—

“Last year, in the third month, Asano Takumi no Kami,
upon the occasion of the entertainment of the Imperial
ambassador, was driven, by the force of circumstances, to
attack and wound my Lord Kôtsuké no
Suké in the castle, in order to avenge an insult
offered to him. Having done this without considering the
dignity of the place, and having thus disregarded all rules
of propriety, he was condemned to hara-kiri, and his
property and castle of Akô were forfeited to the
State, and were delivered up by his retainers to the
officers deputed by the Shogun to receive them. After this
his followers were all dispersed. At the time of the
quarrel the high officials present prevented Asano Takumi
no Kami from carrying out his intention of killing his
enemy, my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké. So
Asano Takumi no Kami died without having avenged himself,
and this was more than his retainers could endure. It is
impossible to remain under the same heaven with the enemy
of lord or father; for this reason we have dared to declare
enmity against a personage of so exalted rank. This day we
shall attack Kira Kôtsuké no Suké, in
order to finish the deed of vengeance which was begun by
our dead lord. If any honourable person should find our
bodies after death, he is respectfully requested to open
and read this document.

“15th year of Genroku. 12th month.

“Signed, OISHI KURANOSUKÉ,
Retainer of Asano
Takumi no Kami, and forty-six others.”⁶

The third manuscript is a paper which the Forty-seven
Rônins laid upon the tomb of their master, together with
the head of Kira Kôtsuké no
Suké:—

“The 15th year of Genroku, the 12th month, and 15th day.
We have come this day to do homage here, forty-seven men in
all, from Oishi Kuranosuké down to the foot-soldier,
Terasaka Kichiyémon, all cheerfully about to lay
down our lives on your behalf. We reverently announce this
to the honoured spirit of our dead master. On the 14th day
of the third month of last year
[pg 18] our honoured master was
pleased to attack Kira Kôtsuké no
Suké, for what reason we know not. Our honoured
master put an end to his own life, but Kira
Kôtsuké no Suké lived. Although we
fear that after the decree issued by the Government this
plot of ours will be displeasing to our honoured master,
still we, who have eaten of your food, could not without
blushing repeat the verse, ‘Thou shalt not live under
the same heaven nor tread the same earth with the enemy
of thy father or lord,’ nor could we have dared to leave
hell and present ourselves before you in paradise,
unless we had carried out the vengeance which you began.
Every day that we waited seemed as three autumns to us.
Verily, we have trodden the snow for one day, nay, for
two days, and have tasted food but once. The old and
decrepit, the sick and ailing, have come forth gladly to
lay down their lives. Men might laugh at us, as at
grasshoppers trusting in the strength of their arms, and
thus shame our honoured lord; but we could not halt in
our deed of vengeance. Having taken counsel together
last night, we have escorted my Lord
Kôtsuké no Suké hither to your tomb.
This dirk,⁷
by which our honoured lord set great store last year,
and entrusted to our care, we now bring back. If your
noble spirit be now present before this tomb, we pray
you, as a sign, to take the dirk, and, striking the head
of your enemy with it a second time, to dispel your
hatred for ever. This is the respectful statement of
forty-seven men.”

The text, “Thou shalt not live under the same heaven with
the enemy of thy father,” is based upon the Confucian books.
Dr. Legge, in his “Life and Teachings of Confucius,” p. 113,
has an interesting paragraph summing up the doctrine of the
sage upon the subject of revenge.

“In the second book of the ‘Le Ke’ there is the
following passage:—’With the slayer of his father a
man may not live under the same heaven; against the slayer
of his brother a man must never have to go home to fetch a
weapon; with the slayer of his friend a man may not live in
the same State.’ The lex talionis is here laid down
in its fullest extent. The ‘Chow Le’ tells us of a
provision made against the evil consequences of the
principle by the appointment of a minister called ‘The
Reconciler.’ The provision is very inferior to the cities
of refuge which were set apart by Moses for the manslayer
to flee to from the fury of the avenger. Such as it was,
however, it existed, and it is remarkable that Confucius,
when consulted on the subject, took no notice of it, but
affirmed the duty of blood-revenge in the strongest and
most unrestricted terms. His disciple, Tsze Hea, asked him,
‘What course is to be pursued in the murder of a father or
mother?’ He replied, ‘The son must sleep upon a matting of
grass with his shield for his pillow; he must decline to
take office; he must not live under the same heaven with
the slayer. When he meets him in the market-place or the
court, he must have his weapon ready to strike him.’ ‘And
what is the course in the murder of a brother?’ ‘The
surviving brother must not take office in the same State
with the slayer; yet, if he go on his prince’s service to
the State where the slayer is, though he meet him, he must
not fight with him.’ ‘And what is the course in the murder
of an uncle or cousin?’ ‘In this case the nephew or cousin
is not the principal. If the principal, on whom the revenge
devolves, can take it, he has only to stand behind with his
weapon in his hand, and support him.'”

I will add one anecdote to show the sanctity which is
attached to the graves of the Forty-seven. In the month of
September 1868, a certain man came to pray before the grave of
Oishi [pg 19] Chikara. Having finished his
prayers, he deliberately performed
hara-kiri,⁸
and, the belly wound not being mortal, dispatched himself by
cutting his throat. Upon his person were found papers
setting forth that, being a Rônin and without means of
earning a living, he had petitioned to be allowed to enter
the clan of the Prince of Chôshiu, which he looked
upon as the noblest clan in the realm; his petition having
been refused, nothing remained for him but to die, for to be
a Rônin was hateful to him, and he would serve no
other master than the Prince of Chôshiu: what more
fitting place could he find in which to put an end to his
life than the graveyard of these Braves? This happened at
about two hundred yards’ distance from my house, and when I
saw the spot an hour or two later, the ground was all
bespattered with blood, and disturbed by the death-struggles
of the man.

THE LOVES OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI

Within two miles or so from Yedo, and yet well away from the
toil and din of the great city, stands the village of Meguro.
Once past the outskirts of the town, the road leading thither
is bounded on either side by woodlands rich in an endless
variety of foliage, broken at intervals by the long, low line
of villages and hamlets. As we draw near to Meguro, the
scenery, becoming more and more rustic, increases in beauty.
Deep shady lanes, bordered by hedgerows as luxurious as any in
England, lead down to a valley of rice fields bright with the
emerald green of the young crops. To the right and to the left
rise knolls of fantastic shape, crowned with a profusion of
Cryptomerias, Scotch firs and other cone-bearing trees, and
fringed with thickets of feathery bamboos, bending their stems
gracefully to the light summer breeze. Wherever there is a spot
shadier and pleasanter to look upon than the rest, there may be
seen the red portal of a shrine which the simple piety of the
country folk has raised to Inari Sama, the patron god of
farming, or to some other tutelary deity of the place. At the
eastern outlet of the valley a strip of blue sea bounds the
horizon; westward are the distant mountains. In the foreground,
in front of a farmhouse, snug-looking, with its roof of
velvety-brown thatch, a troop of sturdy urchins, suntanned and
stark naked, are frisking in the wildest gambols, all heedless
of the scolding voice of the withered old grandam who sits
spinning and minding the house, while her son and his wife are
away toiling at some outdoor labour. Close at our feet runs a
stream of pure water, in which a group of countrymen are
washing the vegetables which they will presently shoulder and
carry off to sell by auction in the suburbs of Yedo. Not the
least beauty of the scene consists in the wondrous clearness of
an atmosphere so transparent that the most distant outlines are
scarcely dimmed, while the details of the nearer ground stand
out in sharp, bold relief, now lit by the rays of a vertical
sun, now darkened under the flying shadows thrown by the fleecy
clouds which sail across the sky. Under such a heaven, what
painter could limn the lights and shades which flit over the
woods, the pride of Japan, whether in late autumn, when the
russets and yellows of our own trees are mixed with the deep
crimson glow of the maples, or in spring-time, when plum and
cherry trees and wild camellias—giants, fifty feet
high—are in full blossom?

All that we see is enchanting, but there is a strange
stillness in the groves; rarely does the song of a bird break
the silence; indeed, I know but one warbler whose note has any
music in [pg 21] it, the uguisu, by
some enthusiasts called the Japanese nightingale—at
best, a king in the kingdom of the blind. The scarcity of
animal life of all descriptions, man and mosquitoes alone
excepted, is a standing wonder to the traveller; the
sportsman must toil many a weary mile to get a shot at boar,
or deer, or pheasant; and the plough of the farmer and the
trap of the poacher, who works in and out of season,
threaten to exterminate all wild creatures; unless, indeed,
the Government should, as they threatened in the spring of
1869, put in force some adaptation of European game-laws.
But they are lukewarm in the matter; a little hawking on a
duck-pond satisfies the cravings of the modern Japanese
sportsman, who knows that, game-laws or no game-laws, the
wild fowl will never fail in winter; and the days are long
past when my Lord the Shogun used to ride forth with a
mighty company to the wild places about Mount Fuji, there
camping out and hunting the boar, the deer, and the wolf,
believing that in so doing he was fostering a manly and
military spirit in the land.

There is one serious drawback to the enjoyment of the
beauties of the Japanese country, and that is the intolerable
affront which is continually offered to one’s sense of smell;
the whole of what should form the sewerage of the city is
carried out on the backs of men and horses, to be thrown upon
the fields; and, if you would avoid the overpowering nuisance,
you must walk handkerchief in hand, ready to shut out the
stench which assails you at every moment.

It would seem natural, while writing of the Japanese
country, to say a few words about the peasantry, their relation
to the lord of the soil, and their government. But these I must
reserve for another place. At present our dealings are with the
pretty village of Meguro.

At the bottom of a little lane, close to the entrance of the
village, stands an old shrine of the Shintô (the form of
hero-worship which existed in Japan before the introduction of
Confucianism or of Buddhism), surrounded by lofty Cryptomerias.
The trees around a Shintô shrine are specially under the
protection of the god to whom the altar is dedicated; and, in
connection with them, there is a kind of magic still respected
by the superstitious, which recalls the waxen dolls, through
the medium of which sorcerers of the middle ages in Europe, and
indeed those of ancient Greece, as Theocritus tells us,
pretended to kill the enemies of their clients. This is called
Ushi no toki mairi, or “going to worship at the hour of
the ox,”⁹
and is [pg 22] practised by jealous women
who wish to be revenged upon their faithless lovers.

When the world is at rest, at two in the morning, the hour
of which the ox is the symbol, the woman rises; she dons a
white robe and high sandals or clogs; her coif is a metal
tripod, in which are thrust three lighted candles; around her
neck she hangs a mirror, which falls upon her bosom; in her
left hand she carries a small straw figure, the effigy of the
lover who has abandoned her, and in her right she grasps a
hammer and nails, with which she fastens the figure to one of
the sacred trees that surround the shrine. There she prays for
the death of the traitor, vowing that, if her petition be
heard, she will herself pull out the nails which now offend the
god by wounding the mystic tree. Night after night she comes to
the shrine, and each night she strikes in two or more nails,
believing that every nail will shorten her lover’s life, for
the god, to save his tree, will surely strike him dead.

Meguro is one of the many places round Yedo to which the
good citizens flock for purposes convivial or religious, or
both; hence it is that, cheek by jowl with the old shrines and
temples, you will find many a pretty tea-house, standing at the
rival doors of which Mesdemoiselles Sugar, Wave of the Sea,
Flower, Seashore, and Chrysanthemum are pressing in their
invitations to you to enter and rest. Not beautiful these
damsels, if judged by our standard, but the charm of Japanese
women lies in their manner and dainty little ways, and the
tea-house girl, being a professional decoy-duck, is an adept in
the art of flirting,—en tout bien tout honneur, be
it remembered; for she is not to be confounded with the frail
beauties of the Yoshiwara, nor even with her sisterhood near
the ports open to foreigners, and to their corrupting
influence. For, strange as it seems, our contact all over the
East has an evil effect upon the natives.

In one of the tea-houses a thriving trade is carried on in
the sale of wooden tablets, some six inches square, adorned
with the picture of a pink cuttlefish on a bright blue ground.
These are ex-votos, destined to be offered up at the Temple of
Yakushi Niurai, the Buddhist Æsculapius, which stands
opposite, and concerning the foundation of which the following
legend is told.

In the days of old there was a priest called Jikaku, who at
the age of forty years, it being the autumn of the tenth year
of the period called Tenchô (A.D. 833), was suffering
from disease of the eyes, which had attacked him three years
before. In order to be healed from this disease he carved a
figure of Yakushi Niurai,
[pg 23] to which he used to offer up
his prayers. Five years later he went to China, taking with
him the figure as his guardian saint, and at a place called
Kairetsu it protected him from robbers and wild beasts and
from other calamities. There he passed his time in studying
the sacred laws both hidden and revealed, and after nine
years set sail to return to Japan. When he was on the high
seas a storm arose, and a great fish attacked and tried to
swamp the ship, so that the rudder and mast were broken, and
the nearest shore being that of a land inhabited by devils,
to retreat or to advance was equally dangerous. Then the
holy man prayed to the patron saint whose image he carried,
and as he prayed, behold the true Yakushi Niurai appeared in
the centre of the ship, and said to him—

“Verily, thou hast travelled far that the sacred laws might
be revealed for the salvation of many men; now, therefore, take
my image, which thou carriest in thy bosom, and cast it into
the sea, that the wind may abate, and that thou mayest be
delivered from this land of devils.”

The commands of the saints must be obeyed, so with tears in
his eyes, the priest threw into the sea the sacred image which
he loved. Then did the wind abate, and the waves were stilled,
and the ship went on her course as though she were being drawn
by unseen hands until she reached a safe haven. In the tenth
month of the same year the priest again set sail, trusting to
the power of his patron saint, and reached the harbour of
Tsukushi without mishap. For three years he prayed that the
image which he had cast away might be restored to him, until at
last one night he was warned in a dream that on the sea-shore
at Matsura Yakushi Niurai would appear to him. In consequence
of this dream he went to the province of Hizen, and landed on
the sea-shore at Hirato, where, in the midst of a blaze of
light, the image which he had carved appeared to him twice,
riding on the back of a cuttlefish. Thus was the image restored
to the world by a miracle. In commemoration of his recovery
from the disease of the eyes and of his preservation from the
dangers of the sea, that these things might be known to all
posterity, the priest established the worship of Tako Yakushi
Niurai (“Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish”) and came to Meguro,
where he built the Temple of Fudô
Sama,¹⁰
another Buddhist divinity. At this time there was an
epidemic of small-pox in the village, so that men fell down
and died in the street, and the holy man prayed to
Fudô Sama that the plague might be stayed. Then the
god appeared to him, and said—

“The saint Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish, whose image
thou carriest, desires to have his place in this village, and
he will heal this plague. Thou shalt, therefore, raise a temple
to him here that not only this small-pox, but other diseases
for future generations, may be cured by his power.”

Hearing this, the priest shed tears of gratitude, and having
[pg 24] chosen a piece of fine wood,
carved a large figure of his patron saint of the cuttlefish,
and placed the smaller image inside of the larger, and laid
it up in this temple, to which people still flock that they
may be healed of their diseases.

Such is the story of the miracle, translated from a small
ill-printed pamphlet sold by the priests of the temple, all the
decorations of which, even to a bronze lantern in the middle of
the yard, are in the form of a cuttlefish, the sacred emblem of
the place.

What pleasanter lounge in which to while away a hot day
could a man wish for than the shade of the trees borne by the
hill on which stands the Temple of Fudô Sama? Two jets of
pure water springing from the rock are voided by spouts carved
in the shape of dragons into a stone basin enclosed by rails,
within which it is written that “no woman may enter.” If you
are in luck, you may cool yourself by watching some devotee,
naked save his loin-cloth, performing the ceremony called
Suigiyô; that is to say, praying under the
waterfall that his soul may be purified through his body. In
winter it requires no small pluck to go through this penance,
yet I have seen a penitent submit to it for more than a quarter
of an hour on a bitterly cold day in January. In summer, on the
other hand, the religious exercise called Hiyakudo, or
“the hundred times,” which may also be seen here to advantage,
is no small trial of patience. It consists in walking backwards
and forwards a hundred times between two points within the
sacred precincts, repeating a prayer each time. The count is
kept either upon the fingers or by depositing a length of
twisted straw each time that the goal is reached; at this
temple the place allotted for the ceremony is between a
grotesque bronze figure of Tengu Sama (“the Dog of Heaven”),
the terror of children, a most hideous monster with a gigantic
nose, which it is beneficial to rub with a finger afterwards to
be applied to one’s own nose, and a large brown box inscribed
with the characters Hiyaku Do in high relief, which may
generally be seen full of straw tallies. It is no sinecure to
be a good Buddhist, for the gods are not lightly to be
propitiated. Prayer and fasting, mortification of the flesh,
abstinence from wine, from women, and from favourite dishes,
are the only passports to rising in office, prosperity in
trade, recovery from sickness, or a happy marriage with a
beloved maiden. Nor will mere faith without works be efficient.
A votive tablet of proportionate value to the favour prayed
for, or a sum of money for the repairs of the shrine or temple,
is necessary to win the favour of the gods. Poorer persons will
cut off the queue of their hair and offer that up; and at
Horinouchi, a temple in great renown some eight or nine miles
from Yedo, there is a rope about two inches and a half in
diameter and about six fathoms long, entirely made of human
hair so given to the gods; it lies coiled up, dirty,
moth-eaten, and uncared for, at one end of a long shed full of
tablets and pictures, by the side of a rude native fire-engine.
The taking of [pg 25] life being displeasing to
Buddha, outside many of the temples old women and children
earn a livelihood by selling sparrows, small eels, carp, and
tortoises, which the worshipper sets free in honour of the
deity, within whose territory cocks and hens and doves, tame
and unharmed, perch on every jutty, frieze, buttress, and
coigne of vantage.

But of all the marvellous customs that I wot of in
connection with Japanese religious exercises, none appears to
me so strange as that of spitting at the images of the gods,
more especially at the statues of the Ni-ô, the two huge
red or red and green statues which, like Gog and Magog, emblems
of strength, stand as guardians of the chief Buddhist temples.
The figures are protected by a network of iron wire, through
which the votaries, praying the while, spit pieces of paper,
which they had chewed up into a pulp. If the pellet sticks to
the statue, the omen is favourable; if it falls, the prayer is
not accepted. The inside of the great bell at the Tycoon’s
burial-ground, and almost every holy statue throughout the
country, are all covered with these outspittings from pious
mouths.¹¹

THE TOMB OF THE
SHIYOKU.

Through all this discourse about temples and tea-houses, I
am coming by degrees to the goal of our pilgrimage—two
old stones, mouldering away in a rank, overgrown graveyard hard
by, an old old burying-ground, forgotten by all save those who
love to dig out the tales of the past. The key is kept by a
ghoulish old dame, almost as time-worn and mildewed as the tomb
over which she watches. Obedient to our call, and looking
forward to a fee ten times greater than any native would give
her, she hobbles out, and, opening the gate, points out the
stone bearing the inscription, the “Tomb of the Shiyoku”
(fabulous birds, which, living one within the other—a
mysterious duality contained in one body—are the emblem
of connubial love and fidelity). By this stone stands another,
graven with a longer legend, which runs as follows:—

“In the old days of Genroku, she pined for the beauty of her
lover, who was as fair to look upon as the flowers; and now
beneath the moss of this old tombstone all has perished of her
save her name. Amid the changes of a fitful world, this tomb is
decaying under the dew and rain; gradually crumbling beneath
its own dust, its outline alone remains. Stranger! bestow an
alms to preserve this stone; and we, sparing neither pain nor
labour, will second you with all our hearts. Erecting it again,
let us preserve it from decay for future generations, and let
us write the following verse upon it:—’These two birds,
beautiful as the cherry-blossoms, perished before their time,
like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne
seed.'”

Under the first stone is the dust of Gompachi, robber and
murderer, mixed with that of his true love Komurasaki, who lies
buried with him. Her sorrows and constancy have hallowed the
place, and pious people still come to burn incense and lay
flowers before the grave. How she loved him even in death may
be seen from the following old-world story.

About two hundred and thirty years ago there lived in the
service of a daimio of the province of Inaba a young man,
called Shirai Gompachi, who, when he was but sixteen years of
age, had already won a name for his personal beauty and valour,
and for his skill in the use of arms. Now it happened that one
day a dog belonging to him fought with another dog belonging to
a fellow-clansman, and the two masters, being both passionate
youths, disputing as to whose dog had had the best of the
fight, quarrelled and came to blows, and Gompachi slew his
adversary; and in consequence of this he was obliged to flee
from his country, and make his escape to Yedo.

And so Gompachi set out on his travels.

One night, weary and footsore, he entered what appeared to
him to be a roadside inn, ordered some refreshment, and went to
bed, little thinking of the danger that menaced him: for as
luck would have it, this inn turned out to be the
trysting-place of a gang of robbers, into whose clutches he had
thus unwittingly [pg 27] fallen. To be sure,
Gompachi’s purse was but scantily furnished, but his sword
and dirk were worth some three hundred ounces of silver, and
upon these the robbers (of whom there were ten) had cast
envious eyes, and had determined to kill the owner for their
sake; but he, all unsuspicious, slept on in fancied
security.

In the middle of the night he was startled from his deep
slumbers by some one stealthily opening the sliding door which
led into his room, and rousing himself with an effort, he
beheld a beautiful young girl, fifteen years of age, who,
making signs to him not to stir, came up to his bedside, and
said to him in a whisper—

“Sir, the master of this house is the chief of a gang of
robbers, who have been plotting to murder you this night for
the sake of your clothes and your sword. As for me, I am the
daughter of a rich merchant in Mikawa: last year the robbers
came to our house, and carried off my father’s treasure and
myself. I pray you, sir, take me with you, and let us fly from
this dreadful place.”

She wept as she spoke, and Gompachi was at first too much
startled to answer; but being a youth of high courage and a
cunning fencer to boot, he soon recovered his presence of mind,
and determined to kill the robbers, and to deliver the girl out
of their hands. So he replied—

“Since you say so, I will kill these thieves, and rescue you
this very night; only do you, when I begin the fight, run
outside the house, that you may be out of harm’s way, and
remain in hiding until I join you.”

Upon this understanding the maiden left him, and went her
way. But he lay awake, holding his breath and watching; and
when the thieves crept noiselessly into the room, where they
supposed him to be fast asleep, he cut down the first man that
entered, and stretched him dead at his feet. The other nine,
seeing this, laid about them with their drawn swords, but
Gompachi, fighting with desperation, mastered them at last, and
slew them. After thus ridding himself of his enemies, he went
outside the house and called to the girl, who came running to
his side, and joyfully travelled on with him to Mikawa, where
her father dwelt; and when they reached Mikawa, he took the
maiden to the old man’s house, and told him how, when he had
fallen among thieves, his daughter had come to him in his hour
of peril, and saved him out of her great pity; and how he, in
return, rescuing her from her servitude, had brought her back
to her home. When the old folks saw their daughter whom they
had lost restored to them, they were beside themselves with
joy, and shed tears for very happiness; and, in their
gratitude, they pressed Gompachi to remain with them, and they
prepared feasts for him, and entertained him hospitably: but
their daughter, who had fallen in love with him for his beauty
and knightly valour, spent her days in thinking of him, and of
him alone. The young man, however, in spite of the kindness of
the old merchant, who
[pg 29] wished to adopt him as his
son, and tried hard to persuade him to consent to this, was
fretting to go to Yedo and take service as an officer in the
household of some noble lord; so he resisted the entreaties
of the father and the soft speeches of the daughter, and
made ready to start on his journey; and the old merchant,
seeing that he would not be turned from his purpose, gave
him a parting gift of two hundred ounces of silver, and
sorrowfully bade him farewell.

GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS’ DEN.

But alas for the grief of the maiden, who sat sobbing her
heart out and mourning over her lover’s departure! He, all the
while thinking more of ambition than of love, went to her and
comforted her, and said: “Dry your eyes, sweetheart, and weep
no more, for I shall soon come back to you. Do you, in the
meanwhile, be faithful and true to me, and tend your parents
with filial piety.”

So she wiped away her tears and smiled again, when she heard
him promise that he would soon return to her. And Gompachi went
his way, and in due time came near to Yedo.

But his dangers were not yet over; for late one night,
arriving at a place called Suzugamori, in the neighbourhood of
Yedo, he fell in with six highwaymen, who attacked him,
thinking to make short work of killing and robbing him. Nothing
daunted, he drew his sword, and dispatched two out of the six;
but, being weary and worn out with his long journey, he was
sorely pressed, and the struggle was going hard with him, when
a wardsman,¹²
who happened to pass that way riding in a chair, seeing the
affray, jumped down from his chair and drawing his dirk came
to the rescue, and between them they put the robbers to
flight.

Now it turned out that this kind tradesman, who had so
happily come to the assistance of Gompachi, was no other than
Chôbei of Bandzuin, the chief of the
Otokodaté, or Friendly Society of the wardsmen of
Yedo—a man famous in the annals of the city, whose life,
exploits, and adventures are recited to this day, and form the
subject of another tale.

When the highwaymen had disappeared, Gompachi, turning to
his deliverer, said—

“I know not who you may be, sir, but I have to thank you for
rescuing me from a great danger.”

And as he proceeded to express his gratitude, Chôbei
replied—

“I am but a poor wardsman, a humble man in my way, sir; and
if the robbers ran away, it was more by good luck than owing to
any merit of mine. But I am filled with admiration at the way
you fought; you displayed a courage and a skill that were
beyond your years, sir.”

“Indeed,” said the young man, smiling with pleasure at
hearing [pg 30] himself praised; “I am still
young and inexperienced, and am quite ashamed of my bungling
style of fencing.”

“And now may I ask you, sir, whither you are bound?”

“That is almost more than I know myself, for I am a
rônin, and have no fixed purpose in view.”

“That is a bad job,” said Chôbei, who felt pity for
the lad. “However, if you will excuse my boldness in making
such an offer, being but a wardsman, until you shall have taken
service I would fain place my poor house at your disposal.”

Gompachi accepted the offer of his new but trusty friend
with thanks; so Chôbei led him to his house, where he
lodged him and hospitably entertained him for some months. And
now Gompachi, being idle and having nothing to care for, fell
into bad ways, and began to lead a dissolute life, thinking of
nothing but gratifying his whims and passions; he took to
frequenting the Yoshiwara, the quarter of the town which is set
aside for tea-houses and other haunts of wild young men, where
his handsome face and figure attracted attention, and soon made
him a great favourite with all the beauties of the
neighbourhood.

About this time men began to speak loud in praise of the
charms of Komurasaki, or “Little Purple,” a young girl who had
recently come to the Yoshiwara, and who in beauty and
accomplishments outshone all her rivals. Gompachi, like the
rest of the world, heard so much of her fame that he determined
to go to the house where she dwelt, at the sign of “The Three
Sea-coasts,” and judge for himself whether she deserved all
that men said of her. Accordingly he set out one day, and
having arrived at “The Three Sea-coasts,” asked to see
Komurasaki; and being shown into the room where she was
sitting, advanced towards her; but when their eyes met, they
both started back with a cry of astonishment, for this
Komurasaki, the famous beauty of the Yoshiwara, proved to be
the very girl whom several months before Gompachi had rescued
from the robbers’ den, and restored to her parents in Mikawa.
He had left her in prosperity and affluence, the darling child
of a rich father, when they had exchanged vows of love and
fidelity; and now they met in a common stew in Yedo. What a
change! what a contrast! How had the riches turned to rust, the
vows to lies!

“What is this?” cried Gompachi, when he had recovered from
his surprise. “How is it that I find you here pursuing this
vile calling, in the Yoshiwara? Pray explain this to me, for
there is some mystery beneath all this which I do not
understand.”

But Komurasaki—who, having thus unexpectedly fallen in
with her lover that she had yearned for, was divided between
joy and shame—answered, weeping—

“Alas! my tale is a sad one, and would be long to tell.
After you left us last year, calamity and reverses fell upon
our house; and when my parents became poverty-stricken, I was
at my wits’ end to know how to support them: so I sold this
wretched body of mine to the master of this house, and sent the
money to [pg 31] my father and mother; but, in
spite of this, troubles and misfortunes multiplied upon
them, and now, at last, they have died of misery and grief.
And, oh! lives there in this wide world so unhappy a wretch
as I! But now that I have met you again—you who are so
strong—help me who am weak. You saved me once—do
not, I implore you, desert me now!!” and as she told her
piteous tale the tears streamed from her eyes.

“This is, indeed, a sad story,” replied Gompachi, much
affected by the recital. “There must have been a wonderful run
of bad luck to bring such misfortune upon your house, which but
a little while ago I recollect so prosperous. However, mourn no
more, for I will not forsake you. It is true that I am too poor
to redeem you from your servitude, but at any rate I will
contrive so that you shall be tormented no more. Love me,
therefore, and put your trust in me.” When she heard him speak
so kindly she was comforted, and wept no more, but poured out
her whole heart to him, and forgot her past sorrows in the
great joy of meeting him again.

When it became time for them to separate, he embraced her
tenderly and returned to Chôbei’s house; but he could not
banish Komurasaki from his mind, and all day long he thought of
her alone; and so it came about that he went daily to the
Yoshiwara to see her, and if any accident detained him, she,
missing the accustomed visit, would become anxious and write to
him to inquire the cause of his absence. At last, pursuing this
course of life, his stock of money ran short, and as, being a
rônin and without any fixed employment, he had no
means of renewing his supplies, he was ashamed of showing
himself penniless at “The Three Sea-coasts.” Then it was that a
wicked spirit arose within him, and he went out and murdered a
man, and having robbed him of his money carried it to the
Yoshiwara.

From bad to worse is an easy step, and the tiger that has
once tasted blood is dangerous. Blinded and infatuated by his
excessive love, Gompachi kept on slaying and robbing, so that,
while his outer man was fair to look upon, the heart within him
was that of a hideous devil. At last his friend Chôbei
could no longer endure the sight of him, and turned him out of
his house; and as, sooner or later, virtue and vice meet with
their reward, it came to pass that Gompachi’s crimes became
notorious, and the Government having set spies upon his track,
he was caught red-handed and arrested; and his evil deeds
having been fully proved against him, he was carried off to the
execution ground at Suzugamori, the “Bell Grove,” and beheaded
as a common male-factor.

Now when Gompachi was dead, Chôbei’s old affection for
the young man returned, and, being a kind and pious man, he
went and claimed his body and head, and buried him at Meguro,
in the grounds of the Temple called Boronji.

When Komurasaki heard the people at Yoshiwara gossiping
about her lover’s end, her grief knew no bounds, so she fled
[pg 32] secretly from “The Three
Sea-coasts,” and came to Meguro and threw herself upon the
newly-made grave. Long she prayed and bitterly she wept over
the tomb of him whom, with all his faults, she had loved so
well, and then, drawing a dagger from her girdle, she
plunged it in her breast and died. The priests of the
temple, when they saw what had happened, wondered greatly
and were astonished at the loving faithfulness of this
beautiful girl, and taking compassion on her, they laid her
side by side with Gompachi in one grave, and over the grave
they placed a stone which remains to this day, bearing the
inscription “The Tomb of the Shiyoku.” And still the people
of Yedo visit the place, and still they praise the beauty of
Gompachi and the filial piety and fidelity of
Komurasaki.

Let us linger for a moment longer in the old graveyard. The
word which I have translated a few lines above as “loving
faithfulness” means literally “chastity.” When Komurasaki sold
herself to supply the wants of her ruined parents, she was not,
according to her lights, forfeiting her claim to virtue. On the
contrary, she could perform no greater act of filial piety,
and, so far from incurring reproach among her people, her
self-sacrifice would be worthy of all praise in their eyes.
This idea has led to grave misunderstanding abroad, and indeed
no phase of Japanese life has been so misrepresented as this. I
have heard it stated, and seen it printed, that it is no
disgrace for a respectable Japanese to sell his daughter, that
men of position and family often choose their wives from such
places as “The Three Sea-coasts,” and that up to the time of
her marriage the conduct of a young girl is a matter of no
importance whatever. Nothing could be more unjust or more
untrue. It is only the neediest people that sell their children
to be waitresses, singers, or prostitutes. It does occasionally
happen that the daughter of a Samurai, or gentleman, is
found in a house of ill-fame, but such a case could only occur
at the death or utter ruin of the parents, and an official
investigation of the matter has proved it to be so exceptional,
that the presence of a young lady in such a place is an
enormous attraction, her superior education and accomplishments
shedding a lustre over the house. As for gentlemen marrying
women of bad character, are not such things known in Europe? Do
ladies of the demi-monde never make good marriages?
Mésalliances are far rarer in Japan than with us.
Certainly among the lowest class of the population such,
marriages may occasionally occur, for it often happens that a
woman can lay by a tempting dowry out of her wretched
earnings-, but amongst the gentry of the country they are
unknown.

And yet a girl is not disgraced if for her parents’ sake she
sells herself to a life of misery so great, that, when a
Japanese enters a house of ill-fame, he is forced to leave his
sword and dirk at the door for two reasons—first, to
prevent brawling; secondly, because it is known that some of
the women inside so loathe
[pg 33] their existence that they
would put an end to it, could they get hold of a weapon.

It is a curious fact that in all the Daimio’s castle-towns,
with the exception of some which are also seaports, open
prostitution is strictly forbidden, although, if report speaks
truly, public morality rather suffers than gains by the
prohibition.

The misapprehension which exists upon the subject of
prostitution in Japan may be accounted for by the fact that
foreign writers, basing their judgment upon the vice of the
open ports, have not hesitated to pronounce the Japanese women
unchaste. As fairly might a Japanese, writing about England,
argue from the street-walkers of Portsmouth or Plymouth to the
wives, sisters, and daughters of these very authors. In some
respects the gulf fixed between virtue and vice in Japan is
even greater than in England. The Eastern courtesan is confined
to a certain quarter of the town, and distinguished by a
peculiarly gaudy costume, and by a head-dress which consists of
a forest of light tortoiseshell hair-pins, stuck round her head
like a saint’s glory—a glory of shame which a modest
woman would sooner die than wear. Vice jostling virtue in the
public places; virtue imitating the fashions set by vice, and
buying trinkets or furniture at the sale of vice’s
effects—these are social phenomena which the East knows
not.

The custom prevalent among the lower orders of bathing in
public bath-houses without distinction of the sexes, is another
circumstance which has tended to spread abroad very false
notions upon the subject of the chastity of the Japanese women.
Every traveller is shocked by it, and every writer finds in it
matter for a page of pungent description. Yet it is only those
who are so poor (and they must be poor indeed) that they cannot
afford a bath at home, who, at the end of their day’s work, go
to the public bath-house to refresh themselves before sitting
down to their evening meal: having been used to the scene from
their childhood, they see no indelicacy in it; it is a matter
of course, and honi soit qui mal y pense: certainly
there is far less indecency and immorality resulting from this
public bathing, than from the promiscuous herding together of
all sexes and ages which disgraces our own lodging-houses in
the great cities, and the hideous hovels in which some of our
labourers have to pass their lives; nor can it be said that
there is more confusion of sexes amongst the lowest orders in
Japan than in Europe. Speaking upon the subject once with a
Japanese gentleman, I observed that we considered it an act of
indecency for men and women to wash together. He shrugged his
shoulders as he answered, “But then Westerns have such prurient
minds.” Some time ago, at the open port of Yokohama, the
Government, out of deference to the prejudices of foreigners,
forbade the men and women to bathe together, and no doubt this
was the first step towards putting down the practice
altogether: as for women tubbing in the open streets of Yedo, I
have read of such things in books written by
[pg 34] foreigners; but during a
residence of three years and a half, in which time I crossed
and recrossed every part of the great city at all hours of
the day, I never once saw such a sight. I believe myself
that it can only be seen at certain hot mineral springs in
remote country districts.

The best answer to the general charge of immorality which
has been brought against the Japanese women during their period
of unmarried life, lies in the fact that every man who can
afford to do so keeps the maidens of his family closely guarded
in the strictest seclusion. The daughter of poverty, indeed,
must work and go abroad, but not a man is allowed to approach
the daughter of a gentleman; and she is taught that if by
accident any insult should be offered to her, the knife which
she carries at her girdle is meant for use, and not merely as a
badge of her rank. Not long ago a tragedy took place in the
house of one of the chief nobles in Yedo. One of My Lady’s
tire-women, herself a damsel of gentle blood, and gifted with
rare beauty, had attracted the attention of a retainer in the
palace, who fell desperately in love with her. For a long time
the strict rules of decorum by which she was hedged in
prevented him from declaring his passion; but at last he
contrived to gain access to her presence, and so far forgot
himself, that she, drawing her poniard, stabbed him in the eye,
so that he was carried off fainting, and presently died. The
girl’s declaration, that the dead man had attempted to insult
her, was held to be sufficient justification of her deed, and,
instead of being blamed, she was praised and extolled for her
valour and chastity. As the affair had taken place within the
four walls of a powerful noble, there was no official
investigation into the matter, with which the authorities of
the palace were competent to deal. The truth of this story was
vouched for by two or three persons whose word I have no reason
to doubt, and who had themselves been mixed up in it; I can
bear witness that it is in complete harmony with Japanese
ideas; and certainly it seems more just that Lucretia should
kill Tarquin than herself.

The better the Japanese people come to be known and
understood, the more, I am certain, will it be felt that a
great injustice has been done them in the sweeping attacks
which have been made upon their women. Writers are agreed, I
believe, that their matrons are, as a rule, without reproach.
If their maidens are chaste, as I contend that from very force
of circumstances they cannot help being, what becomes of all
these charges of vice and immodesty? Do they not rather recoil
upon the accusers, who would appear to have studied the
Japanese woman only in the harlot of Yokohama?

Having said so much, I will now try to give some account of
the famous Yoshiwara¹³
of Yedo, to which frequent allusion will have to be made in
the course of these
tales.

At the end of the sixteenth century the courtesans of Yedo
lived in three special places: these were the street called
Kôji-machi, in which dwelt the women who came from
Kiôto; the Kamakura Street, and a spot opposite the great
bridge, in which last two places lived women brought from
Suruga. Besides these there afterwards came women from Fushimi
and from Nara, who lodged scattered here and there throughout
the town. This appears to have scandalized a certain reformer,
named Shôji Jinyémon, who, in the year 1612,
addressed a memorial to the Government, petitioning that the
women who lived in different parts of the town should be
collected in one “Flower Quarter.” His petition was granted in
the year 1617, and he fixed upon a place called Fukiyacho,
which, on account of the quantities of rushes which grew there,
was named Yoshi-Wara, or the rush-moor, a name which
now-a-days, by a play upon the word yoshi, is written
with two Chinese characters, signifying the “good,” or “lucky
moor.” The place was divided into four streets, called the Yedo
Street, the Second Yedo Street, the Kiôto Street, and the
Second Kiôto Street.

In the eighth month of the year 1655, when Yedo was
beginning to increase in size and importance, the Yoshiwara,
preserving its name, was transplanted bodily to the spot which
it now occupies at the northern end of the town. And the
streets in it were named after the places from which the
greater number of their inhabitants originally came, as the
“Sakai Street,” the “Fushimi Street,” &c.

The official Guide to the Yoshiwara for 1869 gives a return
of 153 brothels, containing 3,289 courtesans of all classes,
from the Oiran, or proud beauty, who, dressed up in
gorgeous brocade of gold and silver, with painted face and
gilded lips, and with her teeth fashionably blacked, has all
the young bloods of Yedo at her feet, down to the humble
Shinzo, or white-toothed woman, who rots away her life
in the common stews. These figures do not, however, represent
the whole of the prostitution of Yedo; the Yoshiwara is the
chief, but not the only, abiding-place of the public women. At
Fukagawa there is another Flower District, built upon the same
principle as the Yoshiwara; while at Shinagawa, Shinjiku,
Itabashi, Senji, and Kadzukappara, the hotels contain women
who, nominally only waitresses, are in reality prostitutes.
There are also women called Jigoku-Omna, or hell-women,
who, without being borne on the books of any brothel, live in
their own houses, and ply their trade in secret. On the whole,
I believe the amount of prostitution in Yedo to be wonderfully
small, considering the vast size of the city.

There are 394 tea-houses in the Yoshiwara, which are largely
used as places of assignation, and which on those occasions are
paid, not by the visitors frequenting them, but by the keepers
of the brothels. It is also the fashion to give dinners and
drinking-parties [pg 36] at these houses, for which
the services of Taikomochi, or jesters, among whom
there are thirty-nine chief celebrities, and of singing and
dancing girls, are retained. The Guide to the Yoshiwara
gives a list of fifty-five famous singing-girls, besides a
host of minor stars. These women are not to be confounded
with the courtesans. Their conduct is very closely watched
by their masters, and they always go out to parties in
couples or in bands, so that they may be a check upon one
another. Doubtless, however, in spite of all precautions,
the shower of gold does from time to time find its way to
Danaë’s lap; and to be the favoured lover of a
fashionable singer or dancer is rather a feather in the cap
of a fast young Japanese gentleman. The fee paid to
singing-girls for performing during a space of two hours is
one shilling and fourpence each; for six hours the fee is
quadrupled, and it is customary to give the girls a
hana, or present, for themselves, besides their
regular pay, which goes to the master of the troupe to which
they belong.

Courtesans, singing women, and dancers are bought by
contractors, either as children, when they are educated for
their calling, or at a more advanced age, when their
accomplishments and charms render them desirable investments.
The engagement is never made life-long, for once past the
flower of their youth the poor creatures would be mere burthens
upon their masters; a courtesan is usually bought until she
shall have reached the age of twenty-seven, after which she
becomes her own property. Singers remain longer in harness, but
even they rarely work after the age of thirty, for Japanese
women, like Italians, age quickly, and have none of that
intermediate stage between youth and old age, which seems to be
confined to countries where there is a twilight.

Children destined to be trained as singers are usually
bought when they are five or six years old, a likely child
fetching from about thirty-five to fifty shillings; the
purchaser undertakes the education of his charge, and brings
the little thing up as his own child. The parents sign a paper
absolving him from all responsibility in case of sickness or
accident; but they know that their child will be well treated
and cared for, the interests of the buyer being their material
guarantee. Girls of fifteen or upwards who are sufficiently
accomplished to join a company of singers fetch ten times the
price paid for children; for in their case there is no risk and
no expense of education.

Little children who are bought for purposes of prostitution
at the age of five or six years fetch about the same price as
those that are bought to be singers. During their novitiate
they are employed to wait upon the Oiran, or fashionable
courtesans, in the capacity of little female pages
(Kamuro). They are mostly the children of distressed
persons, or orphans, whom their relatives cruelly sell rather
than be at the expense and trouble of bringing them up. Of the
girls who enter the profession later in life, some are orphans,
who have no other means of earning a
[pg 37] livelihood; others sell their
bodies out of filial piety, that they may succour their sick
or needy parents; others are married women, who enter the
Yoshiwara to supply the wants of their husbands; and a very
small proportion is recruited from girls who have been
seduced and abandoned, perhaps sold, by faithless
lovers.

The time to see the Yoshiwara to the best advantage is just
after nightfall, when the lamps are lighted. Then it is that
the women—who for the last two hours have been engaged in
gilding their lips and painting their eyebrows black, and their
throats and bosoms a snowy white, carefully leaving three brown
Van-dyke-collar points where the back of the head joins the
neck, in accordance with one of the strictest rules of Japanese
cosmetic science—leave the back rooms, and take their
places, side by side, in a kind of long narrow cage, the wooden
bars of which open on to the public thoroughfare. Here they sit
for hours, gorgeous in dresses of silk and gold and silver
embroidery, speechless and motionless as wax figures, until
they shall have attracted the attention of some of the
passers-by, who begin to throng the place. At Yokohama indeed,
and at the other open ports, the women of the Yoshiwara are
loud in their invitations to visitors, frequently relieving the
monotony of their own language by some blasphemous term of
endearment picked up from British and American seamen; but in
the Flower District at Yedo, and wherever Japanese customs are
untainted, the utmost decorum prevails. Although the shape
which vice takes is ugly enough, still it has this merit, that
it is unobtrusive. Never need the pure be contaminated by
contact with the impure; he who goes to the Yoshiwara, goes
there knowing full well what he will find, but the virtuous man
may live through his life without having this kind of vice
forced upon his sight. Here again do the open ports contrast
unfavourably with other places: Yokohama at night is as leprous
a place as the London Haymarket.¹⁴

A public woman or singer on entering her profession assumes
a nom de guerre, by which she is known until her
engagement is at an end. Some of these names are so pretty and
quaint that I will take a few specimens from the Yoshiwara
Saiken, the guidebook upon which this notice is based.
“Little Pine,” “Little Butterfly,” “Brightness of the Flowers,”
“The Jewel River,” “Gold Mountain,” “Pearl Harp,” “The Stork
that lives a Thousand Years,” “Village of Flowers,” “Sea
Beach,” “The Little Dragon,” “Little Purple,” “Silver,”
“Chrysanthemum,” “Waterfall,” “White Brightness,” “Forest of
Cherries,”—these and a host of other quaint conceits are
the one prettiness of a very foul
place.

KAZUMA’S REVENGE

It is a law that he who lives by the sword shall die by the
sword. In Japan, where there exists a large armed class over
whom there is practically little or no control, party and clan
broils, and single quarrels ending in bloodshed and death, are
matters of daily occurrence; and it has been observed that
Edinburgh in the olden time, when the clansmen, roistering
through the streets at night, would pass from high words to
deadly blows, is perhaps the best European parallel of modern
Yedo or Kiôto.

It follows that of all his possessions the Samurai sets most
store by his sword, his constant companion, his ally, defensive
and offensive. The price of a sword by a famous maker reaches a
high sum: a Japanese noble will sometimes be found girding on a
sword, the blade of which unmounted is worth from six hundred
to a thousand riyos, say from £200 to £300, and the
mounting, rich in cunning metal work, will be of proportionate
value. These swords are handed down as heirlooms from father to
son, and become almost a part of the wearer’s own self.
Iyéyasu, the founder of the last dynasty of Shoguns,
wrote in his Legacy,¹⁵
a code of rules drawn up for the guidance of his successors
and their advisers in the government, “The girded sword is
the living soul of the Samurai. In the case of a Samurai
forgetting his sword, act as is appointed: it may not be
overlooked.”

The occupation of a swordsmith is an honourable profession,
the members of which are men of gentle blood. In a country
where trade is looked down upon as degrading, it is strange to
find this single exception to the general rule. The traditions
of the craft are many and curious. During the most critical
moment of the forging of the sword, when the steel edge is
being welded into the body of the iron blade, it is a custom
which still obtains among old-fashioned armourers to put on the
cap and robes worn by the Kugé, or nobles of the
Mikado’s court, and, closing the doors of the workshop, to
labour in secrecy and freedom from interruption, the half gloom
adding to the mystery of the operation. Sometimes the occasion
is even invested with a certain sanctity, a tasselled cord of
straw, such as is hung before the shrines of the Kami, or
native gods of Japan, being suspended between two bamboo poles
in the forge, which for the nonce is converted into a holy
altar.

At Osaka, I lived opposite to one Kusano Yoshiaki, a
swordsmith, a most intelligent and amiable gentleman, who was
famous throughout his neighbourhood for his good and charitable
deeds. His idea was that, having been bred up to a calling
which trades in life and death, he was bound, so far as in him
lay, to atone for this by seeking to alleviate the suffering
which is in the world; and he carried out his principle to the
extent of impoverishing himself. No neighbour ever appealed to
him in vain for help in tending the sick or burying the dead.
No beggar or lazar was ever turned from his door without
receiving some mark of his bounty, whether in money or in kind.
Nor was his scrupulous honesty less remarkable than his
charity. While other smiths are in the habit of earning large
sums of money by counterfeiting the marks of the famous makers
of old, he was able to boast that he had never turned out a
weapon which bore any other mark than his own. From his father
and his forefathers he inherited his trade, which, in his turn,
he will hand over to his son—a hard-working, honest, and
sturdy man, the clank of whose hammer and anvil may be heard
from daybreak to sundown.

FORGING THE SWORD.

The trenchant edge of the Japanese sword is notorious. It is
said that the best blades will in the hands of an expert
swordsman cut through the dead bodies of three men, laid one
upon the [pg 40] other, at a blow. The swords
of the Shogun used to be tried upon the corpses of executed
criminals; the public headsman was entrusted with the duty,
and for a “nose medicine,” or bribe of two bus (about three
shillings), would substitute the weapon of a private
individual for that of his Lord. Dogs and beggars, lying
helpless by the roadside, not unfrequently serve to test a
ruffian’s sword; but the executioner earns many a fee from
those who wish to see how their blades will cut off a
head.

The statesman who shall enact a law forbidding the carrying
of this deadly weapon will indeed have deserved well of his
country; but it will be a difficult task to undertake, and a
dangerous one. I would not give much for that man’s life. The
hand of every swashbuckler in the empire would be against him.
One day as we were talking over this and other kindred
subjects, a friend of mine, a man of advanced and liberal
views, wrote down his opinion, more Japonico, in a verse
of poetry which ran as follows:—”I would that all the
swords and dirks in the country might be collected in one place
and molten down, and that, from the metal so produced, one huge
sword might be forged, which, being the only blade left, should
be the girded sword of Great Japan.”

The following history is in more senses than one a “Tale of
a Sword.”

About two hundred and fifty years ago Ikéda
Kunaishôyu was Lord of the Province of Inaba. Among his
retainers were two gentlemen, named Watanabé
Yukiyé and Kawai Matazayémon, who were bound
together by strong ties of friendship, and were in the habit of
frequently visiting at one another’s houses. One day
Yukiyé was sitting conversing with Matazayémon in
the house of the latter, when, on a sudden, a sword that was
lying in the raised part of the room caught his eye. As he saw
it, he started and said—

“Pray tell me, how came you by that sword?”

“Well, as you know, when my Lord Ikéda followed my
Lord Tokugawa Iyéyasu to fight at Nagakudé, my
father went in his train; and it was at the battle of
Nagakudé that he picked up this sword.”

“My father went too, and was killed in the fight, and this
sword, which was an heirloom in our family for many
generations, was lost at that time. As it is of great value in
my eyes, I do wish that, if you set no special store by it, you
would have the great kindness to return it to me.”

“That is a very easy matter, and no more than what one
friend should do by another. Pray take it.”

Upon this Yukiyé gratefully took the sword, and
having carried it home put it carefully away.

At the beginning of the ensuing year Matazayémon fell
sick and died, and Yukiyé, mourning bitterly for the
loss of his good friend, and anxious to requite the favour
which he had received in the matter of his father’s sword, did
many acts of kindness to [pg 41] the dead man’s son—a
young man twenty-two years of age, named Matagorô.

Now this Matagorô was a base-hearted cur, who had
begrudged the sword that his father had given to Yukiyé,
and complained publicly and often that Yukiyé had never
made any present in return; and in this way Yukiyé got a
bad name in my Lord’s palace as a stingy and illiberal man.

But Yukiyé had a son, called Kazuma, a youth sixteen
years of age, who served as one of the Prince’s pages of
honour. One evening, as he and one of his brother pages were
talking together, the latter said—

“Matagorô is telling everybody that your father
accepted a handsome sword from him and never made him any
present in return, and people are beginning to gossip about
it.”

“Indeed,” replied the other, “my father received that sword
from Matagorô’s father as a mark of friendship and
good-will, and, considering that it would be an insult to send
a present of money in return, thought to return the favour by
acts of kindness towards Matagorô. I suppose it is money
he wants.”

When Kazuma’s service was over, he returned home, and went
to his father’s room to tell him the report that was being
spread in the palace, and begged him to send an ample present
of money to Matagorô. Yukryé reflected for a
while, and said—

“You are too young to understand the right line of conduct
in such matters. Matagorô’s father and myself were very
close friends; so, seeing that he had ungrudgingly given me
back the sword of my ancestors, I, thinking to requite his
kindness at his death, rendered important services to
Matagorô. It would be easy to finish the matter by
sending a present of money; but I had rather take the sword and
return it than be under an obligation to this mean churl, who
knows not the laws which regulate the intercourse and dealings
of men of gentle blood.”

So Yukiyé, in his anger, took the sword to
Matagorô’s house, and said to him—

“I have come to your house this night for no other purpose
than to restore to you the sword which your father gave me;”
and with this he placed the sword before Matagorô.

“Indeed,” replied the other, “I trust that you will not pain
me by returning a present which my father made you.”

“Amongst men of gentle birth,” said Yukiyé, laughing
scornfully, “it is the custom to requite presents, in the first
place by kindness, and afterwards by a suitable gift offered
with a free heart. But it is no use talking to such as you, who
are ignorant of the first principles of good breeding; so I
have the honour to give you back the sword.”

As Yukiyé went on bitterly to reprove Matagorô,
the latter waxed very wroth, and, being a ruffian, would have
killed Yukiyé on the spot; but he, old man as he was,
was a skilful swordsman, so Matagorô, craven-like,
determined to wait until he could attack him unawares. Little
suspecting any treachery, Yukiyé started
[pg 42] to return home, and
Matagorô, under the pretence of attending him to the
door, came behind him with his sword drawn and cut him in
the shoulder. The older man, turning round, drew and
defended himself; but having received a severe wound in the
first instance, he fainted away from loss of blood, and
Matagorô slew him.

The mother of Matagorô, startled by the noise, came
out; and when she saw what had been done, she was afraid, and
said—”Passionate man! what have you done? You are a
murderer; and now your life will be forfeit. What terrible deed
is this!”

“I have killed him now, and there’s nothing to be done.
Come, mother, before the matter becomes known, let us fly
together from this house.”

“I will follow you; do you go and seek out my Lord
Abé Shirogorô, a chief among the
Hatamotos,¹⁶
who was my foster-child. You had better fly to him for
protection, and remain in hiding.”

So the old woman persuaded her son to make his escape, and
sent him to the palace of Shirogorô.

Now it happened that at this time the Hatamotos had formed
themselves into a league against the powerful Daimios; and
Abé Shirogorô, with two other noblemen, named
Kondô Noborinosuké and Midzuno
Jiurozayémon, was at the head of the league. It
followed, as a matter of course, that his forces were
frequently recruited by vicious men, who had no means of
gaining their living, and whom he received and entreated kindly
without asking any questions as to their antecedents; how much
the more then, on being applied to for an asylum by the son of
his own foster-mother, did he willingly extend his patronage to
him, and guarantee him against all danger. So he called a
meeting of the principal Hatamotos, and introduced
Matagorô to them, saying—”This man is a retainer of
Ikéda Kunaishôyu, who, having cause of hatred
against a man named Watanabé Yukiyé, has slain
him, and has fled to me for protection; this man’s mother
suckled me when I was an infant, and, right or wrong, I will
befriend him. If, therefore, Ikéda Kunaishôyu
should send to require me to deliver him up, I trust that you
will one and all put forth your strength and help me to defend
him.”

“Ay! that will we, with pleasure!” replied Kondô
Noborinosuké. “We have for some time had cause to
complain of the scorn with which the Daimios have treated us.
Let Ikéda Kunaishôyu send to claim this man, and
we will show him the power of the Hatamotos.”

All the other Hatamotos, with one accord, applauded this
determination, and made ready their force for an armed
resistance, should my Lord Kunaishôyu send to demand the
surrender
[pg 44] of Matugorô. But the
latter remained as a welcome guest in the house of
Abé Shirogorô.

MATAGORÔ KILLS YUKIYÉ.

Now when Watanabé Kazuma saw that, as the night
advanced, his father Yukiyé did not return home, he
became anxious, and went to the house of Matagorô to seek
for him, and finding to his horror that he was murdered, fell
upon the corpse and, embraced it, weeping. On a sudden, it
flashed across him that this must assuredly be the handiwork of
Matagorô; so he rushed furiously into the house,
determined to kill his father’s murderer upon the spot. But
Matagorô had already fled, and he found only the mother,
who was making her preparations for following her son to the
house of Abé Shirogorô: so he bound the old woman,
and searched all over the house for her son; but, seeing that
his search was fruitless, he carried off the mother, and handed
her over to one of the elders of the clan, at the same time
laying information against Matagorô as his father’s
murderer. When the affair was reported to the Prince, he was
very angry, and ordered that the old woman should remain bound
and be cast into prison until the whereabouts of her son should
be discovered. Then Kazuma buried his father’s corpse with
great pomp, and the widow and the orphan mourned over their
loss.

It soon became known amongst the people of Abé
Shirogorô that the mother of Matagorô had been
imprisoned for her son’s crime, and they immediately set about
planning her rescue; so they sent to the palace of my Lord
Kunaishôyu a messenger, who, when he was introduced to
the councillor of the Prince, said—

“We have heard that, in consequence of the murder of
Yukiyé, my lord has been pleased to imprison the mother
of Matagorô. Our master Shirogorô has arrested the
criminal, and will deliver him up to you. But the mother has
committed no crime, so we pray that she may be released from a
cruel imprisonment: she was the foster-mother of our master,
and he would fain intercede to save her life. Should you
consent to this, we, on our side, will give up the murderer,
and hand him over to you in front of our master’s gate
to-morrow.”

The councillor repeated this message to the Prince, who, in
his pleasure at being able to give Kazuma his revenge on the
morrow, immediately agreed to the proposal, and the messenger
returned triumphant at the success of the scheme. On the
following day, the Prince ordered the mother of Matagorô
to be placed in a litter and carried to the Hatamoto’s
dwelling, in charge of a retainer named Sasawo Danyémon,
who, when he arrived at the door of Abé
Shirogorô’s house, said—

“I am charged to hand over to you the mother of
Matagorô, and, in exchange, I am authorized to receive
her son at your hands.”

“We will immediately give him up to you; but, as the mother
and son are now about to bid an eternal farewell to one
another, we beg you to be so kind as to tarry a little.”

With this the retainers of Shirogorô led the old woman
inside [pg 46] their master’s house, and
Sasawo Danyémon remained waiting outside, until at
last he grew impatient, and ventured to hurry on the people
within.

“We return you many thanks,” replied they, “for your
kindness in bringing us the mother; but, as the son cannot go
with you at present, you had better return home as quickly as
possible. We are afraid we have put you to much trouble.” And
so they mocked him.

When Danyémon saw that he had not only been cheated
into giving up the old woman, but was being made a
laughing-stock of into the bargain, he flew into a great rage,
and thought to break into the house and seize Matagorô
and his mother by force; but, peeping into the courtyard, he
saw that it was filled with Hatamotos, carrying guns and naked
swords. Not caring then to die fighting a hopeless battle, and
at the same time feeling that, after having been so cheated, he
would be put to shame before his lord, Sasawo Danyémon
went to the burial-place of his ancestors, and disembowelled
himself in front of their graves.

THE DEATH
OF DANYÉMON.

When the Prince heard how his messenger had been treated,
he was indignant, and summoning his councillors resolved,
although he was suffering from sickness, to collect his
retainers and attack Abé Shirogorô; and the other
chief Daimios, when the matter became publicly known, took up
the cause, and determined that the Hatamotos must be chastised
for their insolence. On their side, the Hatamotos put forth all
their efforts to resist the Daimios. So Yedo became disturbed,
and the riotous state of the city caused great anxiety to the
Government, who took counsel together how they might restore
peace. As the Hatamotos were directly under the orders of the
Shogun, it was no difficult matter to put them down: the hard
question to solve was how to put a restraint upon the great
Daimios. However, one of the
Gorôjin,¹⁷
named Matsudaira Idzu no Kami, a man of great intelligence,
hit upon a plan by which he might secure this end.

There was at this time in the service of the Shogun a
physician, named Nakarai Tsusen, who was in the habit of
frequenting the palace of my Lord Kunaishôyu, and who for
some time past had been treating him for the disease from which
he was suffering. Idzu no Kami sent secretly for this
physician, and, summoning him to his private room, engaged him
in conversation, in the midst of which he suddenly dropped his
voice and said to him in a whisper—

“Listen, Tsusen. You have received great favours at the
hands of the Shogun. The Government is now sorely straitened:
are you willing to carry your loyalty so far as to lay down
your life on its behalf?”

“Ay, my lord; for generations my forefathers have held their
property by the grace of the Shogun. I am willing this night to
lay down my life for my Prince, as a faithful vassal
should.”

“Well, then, I will tell you. The great Daimios and the
Hatamotos have fallen out about this affair of Matagorô,
and lately it has seemed as if they meant to come to blows. The
country will be agitated, and the farmers and townsfolk suffer
great misery, if we cannot quell the tumult. The Hatamotos will
be easily kept under, but it will be no light task to pacify
the great Daimios. If you are willing to lay down your life in
carrying out a stratagem of mine, peace will be restored to the
country; but your loyalty will be your death.”

“I am ready to sacrifice my life in this service.”

“This is my plan. You have been attending my Lord
Kunaishôyu in his sickness; to-morrow you must go to see
him, and put poison in his physic. If we can kill him, the
agitation will cease. This is the service which I ask of
you.”

Tsusen agreed to undertake the deed; and on the following
day, when he went to see Kunaishôyu, he carried with him
poisoned drugs. Half the draught he drank
himself,¹⁸
and thus put the Prince off his guard, so that he swallowed
the remainder fearlessly. Tsusen, seeing this, hurried away,
and as he was carried home in his litter the death-agony
seized him, and he died, vomiting blood.

My Lord Kunaishôyu died in the same way in great
torture, and in the confusion attending upon his death and
funeral ceremonies the struggle which was impending with the
Hatamotos was delayed.

In the meanwhile the Gorôjiu Idzu no Kami summoned the
three leaders of the Hatamotos and addressed them as
follows—

“The secret plottings and treasonable, turbulent conduct of
you three men, so unbecoming your position as Hatamotos, have
enraged my lord the Shogun to such a degree, that he has been
pleased to order that you be imprisoned in a temple, and that
your patrimony be given over to your next heirs.”

Accordingly the three Hatamotos, after having been severely
admonished, were confined in a temple called Kanyeiji; and the
remaining Hatamotos, scared by this example, dispersed in
peace. As for the great Daimios, inasmuch as after the death of
my Lord Kunaishôyu the Hatamotos were all dispersed,
there was no enemy left for them to fight with; so the tumult
was quelled, and peace was restored.

Thus it happened that Matagorô lost his patron; so,
taking his mother with him, he went and placed himself under
the protection of an old man named Sakurai Jiuzayémon.
This old man was a famous teacher of lance exercise, and
enjoyed both wealth and honour; so he took in Matagorô,
and having engaged as a guard thirty Rônins, all resolute
fellows and well skilled in the arts of war, they all fled
together to a distant place called Sagara.

All this time Watanabé Kazuma had been brooding over
his father’s death, and thinking how he should be revenged upon
the murderer; so when my Lord Kunaishôyu suddenly died,
he went [pg 48] to the young Prince who
succeeded him and obtained leave of absence to go and seek
out his father’s enemy. Now Kazuma’s elder sister was
married to a man named Araki Matayémon, who at that
time was famous as the first swordsman in Japan. As Kazuma
was but sixteen years of age, this Matayémon, taking
into consideration his near relationship as son-in-law to
the murdered man, determined to go forth with the lad, as
his guardian, and help him to seek out Matagorô; and
two of Matayémon’s retainers, named Ishidomé
Busuké and Ikezoyé Magohachi, made up their
minds, at all hazards, to follow their master. The latter,
when he heard their intention, thanked them, but refused the
offer, saying that as he was now about to engage in a
vendetta in which his life would be continually in jeopardy,
and as it would be a lasting grief to him should either of
them receive a wound in such a service, he must beg them to
renounce their intention; but they answered—

“Master, this is a cruel speech of yours. All these years
have we received nought but kindness and favours at your hands;
and now that you are engaged in the pursuit of this murderer,
we desire to follow you, and, if needs must, to lay down our
lives in your service. Furthermore, we have heard that the
friends of this Matagorô are no fewer than thirty-six
men; so, however bravely you may fight, you will be in peril
from the superior numbers of your enemy. However, if you are
pleased to persist in your refusal to take us, we have made up
our minds that there is no resource for us but to disembowel
ourselves on the spot.”

When Matayémon and Kazuma heard these words, they
wondered at these faithful and brave men, and were moved to
tears. Then Matayémon said—

“The kindness of you two brave fellows is without precedent.
Well, then, I will accept your services gratefully.”

Then the two men, having obtained their wish, cheerfully
followed their master; and the four set out together upon their
journey to seek out Matagorô, of whose whereabouts they
were completely ignorant.

Matagorô in the meanwhile had made his way, with the
old man Sakurai Jiuzayémon and his thirty Rônins,
to Osaka. But, strong as they were in numbers, they travelled
in great secrecy. The reason for this was that the old man’s
younger brother, Sakurai Jinsuké, a fencing-master by
profession, had once had a fencing-match with
Matayémon, Kazuma’s brother-in-law, and had been
shamefully beaten; so that the party were greatly afraid of
Matayémon, and felt that, since he was taking up
Kazuma’s cause and acting as his guardian, they might be
worsted in spite of their numbers: so they went on their way
with great caution, and, having reached Osaka, put up at an inn
in a quarter called Ikutama, and hid from Kazuma and
Matayémon.

The latter also in good time reached Osaka, and spared no
pains to seek out Matagorô. One evening towards dusk, as
Matayémon was walking in the quarter where the enemy
were staying, he saw [pg 49] a man, dressed as a
gentleman’s servant, enter a cook-shop and order some
buckwheat porridge for thirty-six men, and looking
attentively at the man, he recognized him as the servant of
Sakurai Jiuzayémon; so he hid himself in a dark place
and watched, and heard the fellow say—

“My master, Sakurai Jiuzayémon, is about to start for
Sagara to-morrow morning, to return thanks to the gods for his
recovery from a sickness from which he has been suffering; so I
am in a great hurry.”

With these words the servant hastened away; and
Matayémon, entering the shop, called for some porridge,
and as he ate it, made some inquiries as to the man who had
just given so large an order for buckwheat porridge. The master
of the shop answered that he was the attendant of a party of
thirty-six gentlemen who were staying at such and such an inn.
Then Matayémon, having found out all that he wanted to
know, went home and told Kazuma, who was delighted at the
prospect of carrying his revenge into execution on the morrow.
That same evening Matayémon sent one of his two faithful
retainers as a spy to the inn, to find out at what hour
Matagorô was to set out on the following morning; and he
ascertained from the servants of the inn, that the party was to
start at daybreak for Sagara, stopping at Isé to worship
at the shrine of Tershô Daijin.¹⁹

Matayémon made his preparations accordingly, and,
with Kazuma and his two retainers, started before dawn. Beyond
Uyéno, in the province of Iga, the castle-town of the
Daimio Tôdô Idzumi no Kami, there is a wide and
lonely moor; and this was the place upon which they fixed for
the attack upon the enemy. When they had arrived at the spot,
Matayémon went into a tea-house by the roadside, and
wrote a petition to the governor of the Daimio’s castle-town
for permission to carry out the vendetta within its
precincts;²⁰
then he addressed Kazuma, and said—

“When we fall in with Matagorô and begin the fight, do
you engage and slay your father’s murderer; attack him and him
only, and I will keep off his guard of Rônins;” then
turning to his two retainers, “As for you, keep close to
Kazuma; and should the Rônins attempt to rescue
Matagorô, it will be your duty to prevent them, and
succour Kazuma.” And having further laid down each man’s duties
with great minuteness, they lay in wait
[pg 50] for the arrival of the enemy.
Whilst they were resting in the tea-house, the governor of
the castle-town arrived, and, asking for Matayémou,
said—

“I have the honour to be the governor of the castle-town of
Tôdô Idzumi no Kami. My lord, having learnt your
intention of slaying your enemy within the precincts of his
citadel, gives his consent; and as a proof of his admiration of
your fidelity and valour, he has further sent you a detachment
of infantry, one hundred strong, to guard the place; so that
should any of the thirty-six men attempt to escape, you may set
your mind at ease, for flight will be impossible.”

“A person harbouring such vengeance shall notify the same in
writing to the Criminal Court; and although no check or
hindrance may be offered to his carrying out his desire within
the period allowed for that purpose, it is forbidden that the
chastisement of an enemy be attended with riot.

“Fellows who neglect to give notice of their intended
revenge are like wolves of pretext, and their punishment or
pardon should depend upon the circumstances of the
case.”—Legacy of Iyéyasu, ut
suprà.]

When Matayémon and Kazurna had expressed their thanks
for his lordship’s gracious kindness, the governor took his
leave and returned home. At last the enemy’s train was seen in
the distance. First came Sakurai Jiuzayémon and his
younger brother Jinsuké; and next to them followed Kawai
Matagorô and Takénouchi Gentan. These four men,
who were the bravest and the foremost of the band of
Rônins, were riding on pack-horses, and the remainder
were marching on foot, keeping close together.

As they drew near, Kazuma, who was impatient to avenge his
father, stepped boldly forward and shouted in a loud
voice—

“Here stand I, Kazuma, the son of Yukiyé, whom you,
Matagorô, treacherously slew, determined to avenge my
father’s death. Come forth, then, and do battle with me, and
let us see which of us twain is the better man.”

And before the Rônins had recovered from their
astonishment, Matayémon said—

“I, Araké Matayémon, the son-in-law of
Yukiyé, have come to second Kazuma in his deed of
vengeance. Win or lose, you must give us battle.”

When the thirty-six men heard the name of Matayémon,
they were greatly afraid; but Sakurai Jiuzayémon urged
them to be upon their guard, and leaped from his horse; and
Matayémon, springing forward with his drawn sword, cleft
him from the shoulder to the nipple of his breast, so that he
fell dead. Sakurai Jinsuké, seeing his brother killed
before his eyes, grew furious, and shot an arrow at
Matayémon, who deftly cut the shaft in two with his dirk
as it flew; and Jinsuké, amazed at this feat, threw away
his bow and attacked Matayémon, who, with his sword in
his right hand and his dirk in his left, fought with
desperation. The other Rônins attempted to rescue
Jinsuké, and, in the struggle, Kazuma, who had engaged
Matagorô, became separated from Matayémon, whose
two retainers, Busuké and Magohachi, bearing in mind
their master’s orders, killed five Rônins who had
attacked Kazuma, but were themselves badly wounded. In the
meantime, Matayémon, who had killed seven of the
Rônins, and who the harder he was pressed the more
bravely he fought, soon cut down three more, and the remainder
dared not approach him. At this moment there came up one
Kanô Tozayémon, a retainer of the lord of the
castle-town, and an old friend of Matayémon, who, when
he heard that Matayémon
[pg 51] was this day about to avenge
his father-in-law, had seized his spear and set out, for the
sake of the good-will between them, to help him, and act as
his second, and said—

“Sir Matayémon, hearing of the perilous adventure in
which you have engaged, I have come out to offer myself as your
second.”

Matayémon, hearing this, was rejoiced, and fought
with renewed vigour. Then one of the Rônins, named
Takénouchi Gentan, a very brave man, leaving his
companions to do battle with Matayémon, came to the
rescue of Matagorô, who was being hotly pressed by
Kazuma, and, in attempting to prevent this, Busuké fell
covered with wounds. His companion Magohachi, seeing him fall,
was in great anxiety; for should any harm happen to Kazuma,
what excuse could he make to Matayémon? So, wounded as
he was, he too engaged Takénouchi Gentan, and, being
crippled by the gashes he had received, was in deadly peril.
Then the man who had come up from the castle-town to act as
Matayémon’s second cried out—

“See there, Sir Matayémon, your follower who is
fighting with Gentan is in great danger. Do you go to his
rescue, and second Sir Kazuma: I will give an account of the
others!”

“Great thanks to you, sir. I will go and second Kazuma.”

So Matayémon went to help Kazuma, whilst his second
and the infantry soldiers kept back the surviving Rônins,
who, already wearied by their fight with Matayémon, were
unfit for any further exertion. Kazuma meanwhile was still
fighting with Matagorô, and the issue of the conflict was
doubtful; and Takénouchi Gentan, in his attempt to
rescue Matagorô, was being kept at bay by Magohachi, who,
weakened by his wounds, and blinded by the blood which was
streaming into his eyes from a cut in the forehead, had given
himself up for lost when Matayémon came and
cried—

“Be of good cheer, Magohachi; it is I, Matayémon, who
have come to the rescue. You are badly hurt; get out of harm’s
way, and rest yourself.”

Then Magohachi, who until then had been kept up by his
anxiety for Kazuma’s safety, gave in, and fell fainting from
loss of blood; and Matayémon worsted and slew Gentan;
and even then, although be had received two wounds, he was not
exhausted, but drew near to Kazuma and said—

“Courage, Kazuma! The Rônins are all killed, and there
now remains only Matagorô, your father’s murderer. Fight
and win!”

The youth, thus encouraged, redoubled his efforts; but
Matagorô, losing heart, quailed and fell. So Kazuma’s
vengeance was fulfilled, and the desire of his heart was
accomplished.

The two faithful retainers, who had died in their loyalty,
were buried with great ceremony, and Kazuma carried the head of
Matagorô and piously laid it upon his father’s tomb.

So ends the tale of Kazuma’s revenge.

I fear that stories of which killing and bloodshed form the
principal features can hardly enlist much sympathy in these
peaceful days. Still, when such tales are based upon history,
they are interesting to students of social phenomena. The story
of Kazuma’s revenge is mixed up with events which at the
present time are peculiarly significant: I mean the feud
between the great Daimios and the Hatamotos. Those who have
followed the modern history of Japan will see that the recent
struggle, which has ended in the ruin of the Tycoon’s power and
the abolition of his office, was the outburst of a hidden fire
which had been smouldering for centuries. But the repressive
might had been gradually weakened, and contact with Western
powers had rendered still more odious a feudality which men
felt to be out of date. The revolution which has ended in the
triumph of the Daimios over the Tycoon, is also the triumph of
the vassal over his feudal lord, and is the harbinger of
political life to the people at large. In the time of
Iyéyasu the burden might be hateful, but it had to be
borne; and so it would have been to this day, had not
circumstances from without broken the spell. The Japanese
Daimio, in advocating the isolation of his country, was hugging
the very yoke which he hated. Strange to say, however, there
are still men who, while they embrace the new political creed,
yet praise the past, and look back with regret upon the day
when Japan stood alone, without part or share in the great
family of nations.

NOTE.—Hatamoto. This word means “under the
flag.” The Hatamotos were men who, as their name implied,
rallied round the standard of the Shogun, or Tycoon, in
war-time. They were eighty thousand in number. When
Iyéyasu left the Province of Mikawa and became Shogun,
the retainers whom he ennobled, and who received from him
grants of land yielding revenue to the amount of ten thousand
kokus of rice a year, and from that down to one hundred kokus,
were called Hatamoto. In return for these grants of
land, the Hatamotos had in war-time to furnish a contingent of
soldiers in proportion to their revenue. For every thousand
kokus of rice five men were required. Those Hatamotos whose
revenue fell short of a thousand kokus substituted a quota of
money. In time of peace most of the minor offices of the
Tycoon’s government were filled by Hatamotos, the more
important places being held by the Fudai, or vassal Daimios of
the Shogun. Seven years ago, in imitation of the customs of
foreign nations, a standing army was founded; and then the
Hatamotos had to contribute their quota of men or of money,
whether the country were at peace or at war. When the Shogun
was reduced in 1868 to the rank of a simple Daimio, his revenue
of eight million kokus reverted to the Government, with the
exception of seven hundred thousand kokus. The title of
Hatamoto exists no more, and those who until a few months ago
held the rank are for the most part ruined or dispersed. From
having been perhaps the proudest and most overbearing class in
Japan, they are driven to the utmost straits of poverty. Some
have gone into trade, with the heirlooms of their families as
their stock; [pg 53] others are wandering through
the country as Rônins; while a small minority have
been allowed to follow the fallen fortunes of their master’s
family, the present chief of which is known as the Prince of
Tokugawa. Thus are the eighty thousand dispersed.

The koku of rice, in which all revenue is calculated, is of
varying value. At the cheapest it is worth rather more than a
pound sterling, and sometimes almost three times as much. The
salaries of officials being paid in rice, it follows that there
is a large and influential class throughout the country who are
interested in keeping up the price of the staple article of
food. Hence the opposition with which a free trade in rice has
met, even in famine times. Hence also the frequent so-called
“Rice Riots.”

The amounts at which the lands formerly held by the chief
Daimios, but now patriotically given up by them to the Mikado,
were assessed, sound fabulous. The Prince of Kaga alone had an
income of more than one million two hundred thousand kokus. Yet
these great proprietors were, latterly at least, embarrassed
men. They had many thousand mouths to feed, and were mulcted of
their dues right and left; while their mania for buying foreign
ships and munitions of war, often at exorbitant prices, had
plunged them heavily in
debt.

A STORY OF THE OTOKODATÉ OF YEDO;

BEING THE SUPPLEMENT OF

THE STORY OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI

The word Otokodaté occurs several times in these
Tales; and as I cannot convey its full meaning by a simple
translation, I must preserve it in the text, explaining it by
the following note, taken from the Japanese of a native
scholar.

The Otokodaté were friendly associations of brave men
bound together by an obligation to stand by one another in weal
or in woe, regardless of their own lives, and without inquiring
into one another’s antecedents. A bad man, however, having
joined the Otokodaté must forsake his evil ways; for
their principle was to treat the oppressor as an enemy, and to
help the feeble as a father does his child. If they had money,
they gave it to those that had none, and their charitable deeds
won for them the respect of all men. The head of the society
was called its “Father”; if any of the others, who were his
apprentices, were homeless, they lived with the Father and
served him, paying him at the same time a small fee, in
consideration of which, if they fell sick or into misfortune,
he took charge of them and assisted them.

The Father of the Otokodaté pursued the calling of
farming out coolies to the Daimios and great personages for
their journeys to and from Yedo, and in return for this
received from them rations in rice. He had more influence with
the lower classes even than the officials; and if the coolies
had struck work or refused to accompany a Daimio on his
journey, a word from the Father would produce as many men as
might be required. When Prince Tokugawa Iyémochi, the
last but one of the Shoguns, left Yedo for Kiôto, one
Shimmon Tatsugorô, chief of the Otokodaté,
undertook the management of his journey, and some three or four
years ago was raised to the dignity of Hatamoto for many
faithful services. After the battle of Fushimi, and the
abolition of the Shogunate, he accompanied the last of the
Shoguns in his retirement.

In old days there were also Otokodaté among the
Hatamotos; this was after the civil wars of the time of
Iyéyasu, when, though the country was at peace, the
minds of men were still in a state of high excitement, and
could not be reconciled to the dulness of a state of rest; it
followed that broils and faction fights were continually taking
place among the young men of the Samurai class, and that those
who distinguished themselves by their
[pg 55] personal strength and valour
were looked up to as captains. Leagues after the manner of
those existing among the German students were formed in
different quarters of the city, under various names, and
used to fight for the honour of victory. When the country
became more thoroughly tranquil, the custom of forming these
leagues amongst gentlemen fell into disuse.

The past tense is used in speaking even of the
Otokodaté of the lower classes; for although they
nominally exist, they have no longer the power and importance
which they enjoyed at the time to which these stories belong.
They then, like the ‘prentices of Old London, played a
considerable part in the society of the great cities, and that
man was lucky, were he gentle Samurai or simple wardsman, who
could claim the Father of the Otokodaté for his
friend.

The word, taken by itself, means a manly or plucky
fellow.

Chôbei of Bandzuin was the chief of the
Otokodaté of Yedo. He was originally called Itarô,
and was the son of a certain Rônin who lived in the
country. One day, when he was only ten years of age, he went
out with a playfellow to bathe in the river; and as the two
were playing they quarrelled over their game, and Itarô,
seizing the other boy, threw him into the river and drowned
him.

Then he went home, and said to his father—

“I went to play by the river to-day, with a friend; and as
he was rude to me, I threw him into the water and killed
him.”

When his father heard him speak thus, quite calmly, as if
nothing had happened, he was thunderstruck, and said—

“This is indeed a fearful thing. Child as you are, you will
have to pay the penalty of your deed; so to-night you must fly
to Yedo in secret, and take service with some noble Samurai,
and perhaps in time you may become a soldier yourself.”

With these words he gave him twenty ounces of silver and a
fine sword, made by the famous swordsmith Rai Kunitoshi, and
sent him out of the province with all dispatch. The following
morning the parents of the murdered child came to claim that
Itarô should be given up to their vengeance; but it was
too late, and all they could do was to bury their child and
mourn for his loss.

Itarô made his way to Yedo in hot haste, and there
found employment as a shop-boy; but soon tiring of that sort of
life, and burning to become a soldier, he found means at last
to enter the service of a certain Hatamoto called Sakurai
Shôzayémon, and changed his name to
Tsunéhei. Now this Sakurai Shôzayémon had a
son, called Shônosuké, a young man in his
seventeenth year, who grew so fond of Tsunéhei that he
took him with him wherever he went, and treated him in all ways
as an equal.

When Shônosuké went to the fencing-school
Tsunéhei would accompany him, and thus, as he was by
nature strong and active, soon became a good
swordsman.

One day, when Shôzayémon had gone out, his son
Shônosuké said to Tsunéhei—

“You know how fond my father is of playing at football: it
must be great sport. As he has gone out to-day, suppose you and
I have a game?”

“That will be rare sport,” answered Tsunéhei. “Let us
make haste and play, before my lord comes home.”

So the two boys went out into the garden, and began trying
to kick the football; but, lacking skill, do what they would,
they could not lift it from the ground. At last
Shônosuké, with a vigorous kick, raised the
football; but, having missed his aim, it went tumbling over the
wall into the next garden, which belonged to one Hikosaka
Zempachi, a teacher of lance exercise, who was known to be a
surly, ill-tempered fellow.

“Oh, dear! what shall we do?” said Shônosuké.
“We have lost my father’s football in his absence; and if we go
and ask for it back from that churlish neighbour of ours, we
shall only be scolded and sworn at for our pains.”

“Oh, never mind,” answered Tsunéhei; “I will go and
apologize for our carelessness, and get the football back.”

“Well, but then you will be chidden, and I don’t want
that.”

“Never mind me. Little care I for his cross words.” So
Tsunéhei went to the next-door house to reclaim the
ball.

Now it so happened that Zempachi, the surly neighbour, had
been walking in his garden whilst the two youths were playing;
and as he was admiring the beauty of his favourite
chrysanthemums, the football came flying over the wall and
struck him full in the face. Zempachi, not used to anything but
flattery and coaxing, flew into a violent rage at this; and
while he was thinking how he would revenge himself upon any one
who might be sent to ask for the lost ball, Tsunéhei
came in, and said to one of Zempachi’s servants—

“I am sorry to say that in my lord’s absence I took his
football, and, in trying to play with it, clumsily kicked it
over your wall. I beg you to excuse my carelessness, and to be
so good as to give me back the ball.”

The servant went in and repeated this to Zempachi, who
worked himself up into a great rage, and ordered
Tsunéhei to be brought before him, and said—

“Here, fellow, is your name Tsunéhei?”

“Yes, sir, at your service. I am almost afraid to ask pardon
for my carelessness; but please forgive me, and let me have the
ball.”

“I thought your master, Shôzayémon, was to
blame for this; but it seems that it was you who kicked the
football.”

“Yes, sir. I am sure I am very sorry for what I have done.
Please, may I ask for the ball?” said Tsunéhei, bowing
humbly.

For a while Zempachi made no answer, but at length he
said—

“Do you know, villain, that your dirty football struck me in
[pg 57] the face? I ought, by rights,
to kill you on the spot for this; but I will spare your life
this time, so take your football and be off.” And with that
he went up to Tsunéhei and beat him, and kicked him
in the head, and spat in his face.

Then Tsunéhei, who up to that time had demeaned
himself very humbly, in his eagerness to get back the football,
jumped up in a fury, and said—

“I made ample apologies to you for my carelessness, and now
you have insulted and struck me. Ill-mannered ruffian! take
back the ball,—I’ll none of it;” and he drew his dirk,
and cutting the football in two, threw it at Zempachi, and
returned home.

But Zempachi, growing more and more angry, called one of his
servants, and said to him—

“That fellow, Tsunéhei, has been most insolent: go
next door and find out Shôzayémon, and tell him
that I have ordered you to bring back Tsunéhei, that I
may kill him.”

So the servant went to deliver the message.

In the meantime Tsunéhei went back to his master’s
house; and when Shônosuké saw him, he
said—

“Well, of course you have been ill treated; but did you get
back the football?”

“When I went in, I made many apologies; but I was beaten,
and kicked in the head, and treated with the greatest
indignity. I would have killed that wretch, Zempachi, at once,
but that I knew that, if I did so while I was yet a member of
your household, I should bring trouble upon your family. For
your sake I bore this ill-treatment patiently; but now I pray
you let me take leave of you and become a Rônin, that I
may be revenged upon this man.”

“Think well what you are doing,” answered
Shônosuké. “After all, we have only lost a
football; and my father will not care, nor upbraid us.”

But Tsiméhei would not listen to him, and was bent
upon wiping out the affront that he had received. As they were
talking, the messenger arrived from Zempachi, demanding the
surrender of Tsunéhei, on the ground that he had
insulted him: to this Shônosuké replied that his
father was away from home, and that in his absence he could do
nothing.

At last Shôzayémon came home; and when he heard
what had happened he was much grieved, and at a loss what to
do, when a second messenger arrived from Zempachi, demanding
that Tsunéhei should be given up without delay. Then
Shôzayémon, seeing that the matter was serious,
called the youth to him, and said—

“This Zempachi is heartless and cruel, and if you go to his
house will assuredly kill you; take, therefore, these fifty
riyos, and fly to Osaka or Kiôto, where you may safely
set up in business.”

“Sir,” answered Tsunéhei, with tears of gratitude for
his lord’s kindness, “from my heart I thank you for your great
goodness; [pg 58] but I have been insulted and
trampled upon, and, if I lay down my life in the attempt, I
will repay Zempachi for what he has this day done.”

“Well, then, since you needs must be revenged, go and fight,
and may success attend you! Still, as much depends upon the
blade you carry, and I fear yours is likely to be but a sorry
weapon, I will give you a sword;” and with this he offered
Tsunéhei his own.

“Nay, my lord,” replied Tsunéhei; “I have a famous
sword, by Rai Kunitoshi, which my father gave me. I have never
shown it to your lordship, but I have it safely stowed away in
my room.”

When Shôzayémon saw and examined the sword, he
admired it greatly, and said, “This is indeed a beautiful
blade, and one on which you may rely. Take it, then, and bear
yourself nobly in the fight; only remember that Zempachi is a
cunning spearsman, and be sure to be very cautious.”

So Tsunéhei, after thanking his lord for his manifold
kindnesses, took an affectionate leave, and went to Zempachi’s
house, and said to the servant—

“It seems that your master wants to speak to me. Be so good
as to take me to see him.”

So the servant led him into the garden, where Zempachi,
spear in hand, was waiting to kill him. When Zempachi saw him,
he cried out—

“Ha! so you have come back; and now for your insolence, this
day I mean to kill you with my own hand.”

“Insolent yourself!” replied Tsunéhei. “Beast, and no
Samurai! Come, let us see which of us is the better man.”

Furiously incensed, Zempachi thrust with his spear at
Tsunéhei; but he, trusting to his good sword, attacked
Zempachi, who, cunning warrior as he was, could gain no
advantage. At last Zempachi, losing his temper, began fighting
less carefully, so that Tsunéhei found an opportunity of
cutting the shaft of his spear. Zempachi then drew his sword,
and two of his retainers came up to assist him; but
Tsunéhei killed one of them, and wounded Zempachi in the
forehead. The second retainer fled affrighted at the youth’s
valour, and Zempachi was blinded by the blood which flowed from
the wound on his forehead. Then Tsunéhei said—

“To kill one who is as a blind man were unworthy a soldier.
Wipe the blood from your eyes, Sir Zempachi, and let us fight
it out fairly.”

So Zempachi, wiping away his blood, bound a kerchief round
his head, and fought again desperately. But at last the pain of
his wound and the loss of blood overcame him, and
Tsunéhei cut him down with a wound in the shoulder and
easily dispatched him.

Then Tsunéhei went and reported the whole matter to
the Governor of Yedo, and was put in prison until an inquiry
could be made. But the Chief Priest of Bandzuin, who had heard
of [pg 59] the affair, went and told the
governor all the bad deeds of Zempachi, and having procured
Tsunéhei’s pardon, took him home and employed him as
porter in the temple. So Tsunéhei changed his name to
Chôbei, and earned much respect in the neighbourhood,
both for his talents and for his many good works. If any man
were in distress, he would help him, heedless of his own
advantage or danger, until men came to look up to him as to
a father, and many youths joined him and became his
apprentices. So he built a house at Hanakawado, in Asakusa,
and lived there with his apprentices, whom he farmed out as
spearsmen and footmen to the Daimios and Hatamotos, taking
for himself the tithe of their earnings. But if any of them
were sick or in trouble, Chôbei would nurse and
support them, and provide physicians and medicine. And the
fame of his goodness went abroad until his apprentices were
more than two thousand men, and were employed in every part
of the city. But as for Chôbei, the more he prospered,
the more he gave in charity, and all men praised his good
and generous heart.

This was the time when the Hatamotos had formed themselves
into bands of Otokodaté,²¹
of which Midzuno Jiurozayémon, Kondô
Noborinosuké, and Abé Shirogorô were the
chiefs. And the leagues of the nobles despised the leagues
of the wardsmen, and treated them with scorn, and tried to
put to shame Chôbei and his brave men; but the nobles’
weapons recoiled upon themselves, and, whenever they tried
to bring contempt upon Chôbei, they themselves were
brought to ridicule. So there was great hatred on both
sides.

One day, that Chôbei went to divert himself in a
tea-house in the Yoshiwara, he saw a felt carpet spread in an
upper room, which had been adorned as for some special
occasion; and he asked the master of the house what guest of
distinction was expected. The landlord replied that my Lord
Jiurozayémon, the chief of the Otokodaté of the
Hatamotos, was due there that afternoon. On hearing this,
Chôbei replied that as he much wished to meet my Lord
Jiurozayémon, he would lie down and await his coming.
The landlord was put out at this, and knew not what to say; but
yet he dare not thwart Chôbei, the powerful chief of the
Otokodaté. So Chôbei took off his clothes and laid
himself down upon the carpet. After a while my Lord
Jiurozayémon arrived, and going upstairs found a man of
large stature lying naked upon the carpet which had been spread
for him.

“What low ruffian is this?” shouted he angrily to the
landlord.

“My lord, it is Chôbei, the chief of the
Otokodaté,” answered the man, trembling.

Jiurozayémon at once suspected that Chôbei was
doing this to insult him; so he sat down by the side of the
sleeping man, and lighting his pipe began to smoke. When he had
finished his pipe, he emptied the burning ashes into
Chôbei’s navel; but Chôbei,
[pg 60] patiently bearing the pain,
still feigned sleep. Ten times did Jiurozayémon fill
his pipe,²²
and ten times he shook out the burning ashes on to
Chôbei’s navel; but he neither stirred nor spoke. Then
Jiurozayémon, astonished at his fortitude, shook him,
and roused him, saying—

“Chôbei! Chôbei! wake up, man.”

“What is the matter?” said Chôbei, rubbing his eyes as
though he were awaking from a deep sleep; then seeing
Jiurozayémon, he pretended to be startled, and said,
“Oh, my lord, I know not who you are; but I have been very rude
to your lordship. I was overcome with wine, and fell asleep: I
pray your lordship to forgive me.”

“Is your name Chôbei?”

“Yes, my lord, at your service. A poor wardsman, and
ignorant of good manners, I have been very rude; but I pray
your lordship to excuse my ill-breeding.”

“Nay, nay; we have all heard the fame of Chôbei, of
Bandzuin, and I hold myself lucky to have met you this day. Let
us be friends.”

“It is a great honour for a humble wardsman to meet a
nobleman face to face.”

As they were speaking, the waitresses brought in fish and
wine, and Jiurozayémon pressed Chôbei to feast
with him; and thinking to annoy Chôbei, offered him a
large wine-cup,²³
which, however, he drank without shrinking, and then
returned to his entertainer, who was by no means so well
able to bear the fumes of the wine. Then Jiurozayémon
hit upon another device for annoying Chôbei, and,
hoping to frighten him, said—

“Here, Chôbei, let me offer you some fish;” and with
those words he drew his sword, and, picking up a cake of baked
fish upon the point of it, thrust it towards the wardsman’s
mouth. Any ordinary man would have been afraid to accept the
morsel so roughly offered; but Chôbei simply opened his
mouth, and taking the cake off the sword’s point ate it without
wincing. Whilst Jiurozayémon was wondering in his heart
what manner of man this was, that nothing could daunt,
Chôbei said to him—

“This meeting with your lordship has been an auspicious
occasion to me, and I would fain ask leave to offer some humble
gift to your lordship in memory of it.²⁴
Is there anything which your lordship would specially
fancy?”

“I am very fond of cold macaroni.”

“Then I shall have the honour of ordering some for your
lordship;” and with this Chôbei went downstairs, and
calling one [pg 61] of his apprentices, named
Tôken Gombei,²⁵
who was waiting for him, gave him a hundred riyos (about
£28), and bade him collect all the cold macaroni to be
found in the neighbouring cook-shops and pile it up in front
of the tea-house. So Gombei went home, and, collecting
Chôbei’s apprentices, sent them out in all directions
to buy the macaroni. Jiurozayémon all this while was
thinking of the pleasure he would have in laughing at
Chôbei for offering him a mean and paltry present; but
when, by degrees, the macaroni began to be piled
mountain-high around the tea-house, he saw that he could not
make a fool of Chôbei, and went home discomfited.

It has already been told how Shirai Gompachi was befriended
and helped by Chôbei.²⁶
His name will occur again in this story.

At this time there lived in the province of Yamato a certain
Daimio, called Honda Dainaiki, who one day, when surrounded by
several of his retainers, produced a sword, and bade them look
at it and say from what smith’s workshop the blade had
come.

“I think this must be a Masamuné blade,” said one
Fuwa Banzayémon.

“No,” said Nagoya Sanza, after examining the weapon
attentively, “this certainly is a
Muramasa.”²⁷

A third Samurai, named Takagi Umanojô, pronounced it
to be [pg 62] the work of Shidzu Kanenji;
and as they could not agree, but each maintained his
opinion, their lord sent for a famous connoisseur to decide
the point; and the sword proved, as Sanza had said, to be a
genuine Muramasa. Sanza was delighted at the verdict; but
the other two went home rather crestfallen. Umanojô,
although he had been worsted in the argument, bore no malice
nor ill-will in his heart; but Banzayémon, who was a
vainglorious personage, puffed up with the idea of his own
importance, conceived a spite against Sanza, and watched for
an opportunity to put him to shame. At last, one day
Banzayémon, eager to be revenged upon Sanza, went to
the Prince, and said, “Your lordship ought to see Sanza
fence; his swordsmanship is beyond all praise. I know that I
am no match for him; still, if it will please your lordship,
I will try a bout with him;” and the Prince, who was a mere
stripling, and thought it would be rare sport, immediately
sent for Sanza and desired he would fence with
Banzayémon. So the two went out into the garden, and
stood up facing each other, armed with wooden swords. Now
Banzayémon was proud of his skill, and thought he had
no equal in fencing; so he expected to gain an easy victory
over Sanza, and promised himself the luxury of giving his
adversary a beating that should fully make up for the
mortification which he had felt in the matter of the dispute
about the sword. It happened, however, that he had
undervalued the skill of Sanza, who, when he saw that his
adversary was attacking him savagely and in good earnest, by
a rapid blow struck Banzayémon so sharply on the
wrist that he dropped the sword, and, before he could pick
it up again, delivered a second cut on the shoulder, which
sent him rolling over in the dust. All the officers present,
seeing this, praised Sanza’s skill, and Banzayémon,
utterly stricken with shame, ran away home and hid
himself.

After this affair Sanza rose high in the favour of his lord;
and Banzayémon, who was more than ever jealous of him,
feigned sickness, and stayed at home devising schemes for
Sanza’s ruin.

Now it happened that the Prince, wishing to have the
Muramasa blade mounted, sent for Sanza and entrusted it to his
care, ordering him to employ the most cunning workmen in the
manufacture of the scabbard-hilt and ornaments; and Sanza,
having received the blade, took it home, and put it carefully
away. When Banzayémon heard of this, he was overjoyed;
for he saw that his opportunity for revenge had come. He
determined, if possible, to kill Sanza, but at any rate to
steal the sword which had been committed to his care by the
Prince, knowing full well that if Sanza lost the sword he and
his family would be ruined. Being a single man, without wife or
child, he sold his furniture, and, turning all his available
property into money, made ready to fly the country. When his
preparations were concluded, he went in the middle of the night
to Sanza’s house and tried to get in by stealth; but the doors
and shutters were all carefully bolted from the inside, and
there was no hole by which he could effect
[pg 63] an entrance. All was still,
however, and the people of the house were evidently fast
asleep; so he climbed up to the second storey, and, having
contrived to unfasten a window, made his way in. With soft,
cat-like footsteps he crept downstairs, and, looking into
one of the rooms, saw Sanza and his wife sleeping on the
mats, with their little son Kosanza, a boy of thirteen,
curled up in his quilt between them. The light in the
night-lamp was at its last flicker, but, peering through the
gloom, he could just see the Prince’s famous Muramasa sword
lying on a sword-rack in the raised part of the room: so he
crawled stealthily along until he could reach it, and stuck
it in his girdle. Then, drawing near to Sanza, he bestrode
his sleeping body, and, brandishing the sword made a thrust
at his throat; but in his excitement his hand shook, so that
he missed his aim, and only scratched Sanza, who, waking
with a start and trying to jump up, felt himself held down
by a man standing over him. Stretching out his hands, he
would have wrestled with his enemy; when Banzayémon,
leaping back, kicked over the night-lamp, and throwing open
the shutters, dashed into the garden. Snatching up his
sword, Sanza rushed out after him; and his wife, having lit
a lantern and armed herself with a
halberd,²⁸
went out, with her son Kosanza, who carried a drawn dirk, to
help her husband. Then Banzayémon, who was hiding in
the shadow of a large pine-tree, seeing the lantern and
dreading detection, seized a stone and hurled it at the
light, and, chancing to strike it, put it out, and then
scrambling over the fence unseen, fled into the darkness.
When Sanza had searched all over the garden in vain, he
returned to his room and examined his wound, which proving
very slight, he began to look about to see whether the thief
had carried off anything; but when his eye fell upon the
place where the Muramasa sword had lain, he saw that it was
gone. He hunted everywhere, but it was not to be found. The
precious blade with which his Prince had entrusted him had
been stolen, and the blame would fall heavily upon him.
Filled with grief and shame at the loss, Sanza and his wife
and child remained in great anxiety until the morning broke,
when he reported the matter to one of the Prince’s
councillors, and waited in seclusion until he should receive
his lord’s commands.

It soon became known that Banzayémon, who had fled
the province, was the thief; and the councillors made their
report accordingly to the Prince, who, although he expressed
his detestation of the mean action of Banzayémon, could
not absolve Sanza from blame, in that he had not taken better
precautions to insure the safety of the sword that had been
committed to his trust. It was decided, therefore, that Sanza
should be dismissed from his service, and that his goods should
be confiscated; with [pg 64] the proviso that should he be
able to find Banzayémon, and recover the lost
Muramasa blade, he should be restored to his former
position. Sanza, who from the first had made up his mind
that his punishment would be severe, accepted the decree
without a murmur; and, having committed his wife and son to
the care of his relations, prepared to leave the country as
a Rônin and search for Banzayémon.

Before starting, however, he thought that he would go to his
brother-officer, Takagi Umanojô, and consult with him as
to what course he should pursue to gain his end. But this
Umanojô, who was by nature a churlish fellow, answered
him unkindly, and said—

“It is true that Banzayémon is a mean thief; but
still it was through your carelessness that the sword was lost.
It is of no avail your coming to me for help: you must get it
back as best you may.”

“Ah!” replied Sanza, “I see that you too bear me a grudge
because I defeated you in the matter of the judgment of the
sword. You are no better than Banzayémon yourself.”

And his heart was bitter against his fellow men, and he left
the house determined to kill Umanojô first and afterwards
to track out Banzayémon; so, pretending to start on his
journey, he hid in an inn, and waited for an opportunity to
attack Umanojô.

One day Umanojô, who was very fond of fishing, had
taken his son Umanosuké, a lad of sixteen, down to the
sea-shore with him; and as the two were enjoying themselves,
all of a sudden they perceived a Samurai running towards them,
and when he drew near they saw that it was Sanza.
Umanojô, thinking that Sanza had come back in order to
talk over some important matter, left his angling and went to
meet him. Then Sanza cried out—

“Now, Sir Umanojô, draw and defend yourself. What!
were you in league with Banzayémon to vent your spite
upon me? Draw, sir, draw! You have spirited away your
accomplice; but, at any rate, you are here yourself, and shall
answer for your deed. It is no use playing the innocent; your
astonished face shall not save you. Defend yourself, coward and
traitor!” and with these words Sanza flourished his naked
sword.

“Nay, Sir Sanza,” replied the other, anxious by a soft
answer to turn away his wrath; “I am innocent of this deed.
Waste not your valour on so poor a cause.”

“Lying knave!” said Sanza; “think not that you can impose
upon me. I know your treacherous heart;” and, rushing upon
Umanojô, he cut him on the forehead so that he fell in
agony upon the sand.

Umanosuké in the meanwhile, who had been fishing at
some distance from his father, rushed up when he saw him in
this perilous situation and threw a stone at Sanza, hoping to
distract his attention; but, before he could reach the spot,
Sanza had delivered the death-blow, and Umanojô lay a
corpse upon the
beach.

“Stop, Sir Sanza—murderer of my father!” cried
Umanosuké, drawing his sword, “stop and do battle with
me, that I may avenge his death.”

“That you should wish to slay your father’s enemy,” replied
Sanza, “is but right and proper; and although I had just cause
of quarrel with your father, and killed him, as a Samurai
should, yet would I gladly forfeit my life to you here; but my
life is precious to me for one purpose—that I may punish
Banzayémon and get back the stolen sword. When I shall
have restored that sword to my lord, then will I give you your
revenge, and you may kill me. A soldier’s word is truth; but,
as a pledge that I will fulfil my promise, I will give to you,
as hostages, my wife and boy. Stay your avenging hand, I pray
you, until my desire shall have been attained.”

Umanosuké, who was a brave and honest youth, as
famous in the clan for the goodness of his heart as for his
skill in the use of arms, when he heard Sanza’s humble
petition, relented, and said—

“I agree to wait, and will take your wife and boy as
hostages for your return.”

“I humbly thank you,” said Sanza. “When I shall have
chastised Banzayémon, I will return, and you shall claim
your revenge.”

So Sanza went his way to Yedo to seek for Banzayémon,
and Umanosuké mourned over his father’s grave.

Now Banzayémon, when he arrived in Yedo, found
himself friendless and without the means of earning his living,
when by accident he heard of the fame of Chôbei of
Bandzuin, the chief of the Otokodaté, to whom he applied
for assistance; and having entered the fraternity, supported
himself by giving fencing-lessons. He had been plying his trade
for some time, and had earned some little reputation, when
Sanza reached the city and began his search for him. But the
days and months passed away, and, after a year’s fruitless
seeking, Sanza, who had spent all his money without obtaining a
clue to the whereabouts of his enemy, was sorely perplexed, and
was driven to live by his wits as a fortune-teller. Work as he
would, it was a hard matter for him to gain the price of his
daily food, and, in spite of all his pains, his revenge seemed
as far off as ever, when he bethought him that the Yoshiwara
was one of the most bustling places in the city, and that if he
kept watch there, sooner or later he would be sure to fall in
with Banzayémon. So be bought a hat of plaited bamboo,
that completely covered his face, and lay in wait at the
Yoshiwara.

One day Banzayémon and two of Chôbei’s
apprentices Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, who, from his wild
and indocile nature, was surnamed “the Colt,” were amusing
themselves and drinking in an upper storey of a tea-house in
the Yoshiwara, when Tôken Gombei, happening to look down
upon the street below, saw a Samurai pass by, poorly clad in
worn-out old clothes, but whose
[pg 66] poverty-stricken appearance
contrasted with his proud and haughty bearing.

“Look there!” said Gombei, calling the attention of the
others; “look at that Samurai. Dirty and ragged as his coat is,
how easy it is to see that he is of noble birth! Let us
wardsmen dress ourselves up in never so fine clothes, we could
not look as he does.”

“Ay,” said Shirobei, “I wish we could make friends with him,
and ask him up here to drink a cup of wine with us. However, it
would not be seemly for us wardsmen to go and invite a person
of his condition.”

“We can easily get over that difficulty,” said
Banzayémon. “As I am a Samurai myself, there will be no
impropriety in my going and saying a few civil words to him,
and bringing him in.”

The other two having joyfully accepted the offer,
Banzayémon ran downstairs, and went up to the strange
Samurai and saluted him, saying—

“I pray you to wait a moment, Sir Samurai. My name is Fuwa
Banzayémon at your service. I am a Rônin, as I
judge from your appearance that you are yourself. I hope you
will not think me rude if I venture to ask you to honour me
with your friendship, and to come into this tea-house to drink
a cup of wine with me and two of my friends.”

The strange Samurai, who was no other than Sanza, looking at
the speaker through the interstices of his deep bamboo hat, and
recognizing his enemy Banzayémon, gave a start of
surprise, and, uncovering his head, said sternly—

“Have you forgotten my face, Banzayémon?”

For a moment Banzayémon was taken aback, but quickly
recovering himself, he replied, “Ah! Sir Sanza, you may well be
angry with me; but since I stole the Muramasa sword and fled to
Yedo I have known no peace: I have been haunted by remorse for
my crime. I shall not resist your vengeance: do with me as it
shall seem best to you; or rather take my life, and let there
be an end of this quarrel.”

“Nay,” answered Sanza, “to kill a man who repents him of his
sins is a base and ignoble action. When you stole from me the
Muramasa blade which had been confided to my care by my lord, I
became a disgraced and ruined man. Give me back that sword,
that I may lay it before my lord, and I will spare your life. I
seek to slay no man needlessly.”

“Sir Sanza, I thank you for your mercy. At this moment I
have not the sword by me, but if you will go into yonder
tea-house and wait awhile, I will fetch it and deliver it into
your hands.”

Sanza having consented to this, the two men entered the
tea-house, where Banzayémon’s two companions were
waiting for them. But Banzayémon, ashamed of his own
evil deed, still pretended that Sanza was a stranger, and
introduced him as such,
saying—

“Come Sir Samurai, since we have the honour of your company,
let me offer you a wine-cup.”

Banzayémon and the two men pressed the wine-cup upon
Sanza so often that the fumes gradually got into his head and
he fell asleep; the two wardsmen, seeing this, went out for a
walk, and Banzayémon, left alone with the sleeping man,
began to revolve fresh plots against him in his mind. On a
sudden, a thought struck him. Noiselessly seizing Sanza’s
sword, which he had laid aside on entering the room, he stole
softly downstairs with it, and, carrying it into the back yard,
pounded and blunted its edge with a stone, and having made it
useless as a weapon, he replaced it in its scabbard, and
running upstairs again laid it in its place without disturbing
Sanza, who, little suspecting treachery, lay sleeping off the
effects of the wine. At last, however, he awoke, and, ashamed
at having been overcome by drink, he said to
Banzayémon—

“Come, Banzayémon, we have dallied too long; give me
the Muramasa sword, and let me go.”

“Of course,” replied the other, sneeringly, “I am longing to
give it back to you; but unfortunately, in my poverty, I have
been obliged to pawn it for fifty ounces of silver. If you have
so much money about you, give it to me and I will return the
sword to you.”

“Wretch!” cried Sanza, seeing that Banzayémon was
trying to fool him, “have I not had enough of your vile tricks?
At any rate, if I cannot get back the sword, your head shall be
laid before my lord in its place. Come,” added he, stamping his
foot impatiently, “defend yourself.”

“With all my heart. But not here in this tea-house. Let us
go to the Mound, and fight it out.”

“Agreed! There is no need for us to bring trouble on the
landlord. Come to the Mound of the Yoshiwara.”

So they went to the Mound, and drawing their swords, began
to fight furiously. As the news soon spread abroad through the
Yoshiwara that a duel was being fought upon the Mound, the
people flocked out to see the sight; and among them came
Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, Banzayémon’s
companions, who, when they saw that the combatants were their
own friend and the strange Samurai, tried to interfere and stop
the fight, but, being hindered by the thickness of the crowd,
remained as spectators. The two men fought desperately, each
driven by fierce rage against the other; but Sanza, who was by
far the better fencer of the two, once, twice, and again dealt
blows which should have cut Banzayémon down, and yet no
blood came forth. Sanza, astonished at this, put forth all his
strength, and fought so skilfully, that all the bystanders
applauded him, and Banzayémon, though he knew his
adversary’s sword to be blunted, was so terrified that he
stumbled and fell. Sanza, brave soldier that he was, scorned to
strike a fallen foe, and bade him rise and fight again. So they
engaged again, and Sanza, who from the beginning had had the
[pg 68] advantage, slipped and fell
in his turn; Banzayémon, forgetting the mercy which
had been shown to him, rushed up, with bloodthirsty joy
glaring in his eyes, and stabbed Sanza in the side as he lay
on the ground. Faint as he was, he could not lift his hand
to save himself; and his craven foe was about to strike him
again, when the bystanders all cried shame upon his
baseness. Then Gombei and Shirobei lifted up their voices
and said—

“Hold, coward! Have you forgotten how your own life was
spared but a moment since? Beast of a Samurai, we have been
your friends hitherto, but now behold in us the avengers of
this brave man.”

With these words the two men drew their dirks, and the
spectators fell back as they rushed in upon Banzayémon,
who, terror-stricken by their fierce looks and words, fled
without having dealt the death-blow to Sanza. They tried to
pursue him, but he made good his escape, so the two men
returned to help the wounded man. When he came to himself by
dint of their kind treatment, they spoke to him and comforted
him, and asked him what province he came from, that they might
write to his friends and tell them what had befallen him.
Sanza, in a voice faint from pain and loss of blood, told them
his name and the story of the stolen sword, and of his enmity
against Banzayémon. “But,” said he, “just now, when I
was fighting, I struck Banzayémon more than once, and
without effect. How could that have been?” Then they looked at
his sword, which had fallen by his side, and saw that the edge
was all broken away. More than ever they felt indignant at the
baseness of Banzayémon’s heart, and redoubled their
kindness to Sanza; but, in. spite of all their efforts, he grew
weaker and weaker, until at last his breathing ceased
altogether. So they buried the corpse honourably in an
adjoining temple, and wrote to Sanza’s wife and son, describing
to them the manner of his death.

Now when Sanza’s wife, who had long been anxiously expecting
her husband’s return, opened the letter and learned the cruel
circumstances of his death, she and her son Kosanza mourned
bitterly over his loss. Then Kosanza, who was now fourteen
years old, said to his mother—

“Take comfort, mother; for I will go to Yedo and seek out
this Banzayémon, my father’s murderer, and I will surely
avenge his death. Now, therefore, make ready all that I need
for this journey.”

And as they were consulting over the manner of their
revenge, Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, whom Sanza
had slain, having heard of the death of his father’s enemy,
came to the house. But he came with no hostile intent. True,
Sanza had killed his father, but the widow and the orphan were
guiltless, and he bore them no ill-will; on the contrary, he
felt that Banzayémon was their common enemy. It was he
who by his evil deeds had been the cause of all the mischief
that had arisen, and now again,
[pg 69] by murdering Sanza, he had
robbed Umanosuké of his revenge. In this spirit he
said to Kosanza—

“Sir Kosanza, I hear that your father has been cruelly
murdered by Banzayémon at Yedo. I know that you will
avenge the death of your father, as the son of a soldier
should: if, therefore, you will accept my poor services, I will
be your second, and will help you to the best of my ability.
Banzayémon shall be my enemy, as he is yours.”

“Nay, Sir Umanosuké, although I thank you from my
heart, I cannot accept this favour at your hands. My father
Sanza slew your noble father: that you should requite this
misfortune thus is more than kind, but I cannot think of
suffering you to risk your life on my behalf.”

“Listen to me,” replied Umanosuké, smiling, “and you
will think it less strange that I should offer to help you.
Last year, when my father lay a bleeding corpse on the
sea-shore, your father made a covenant with me that he would
return to give me my revenge, so soon as he should have
regained the stolen sword. Banzayémon, by murdering him
on the Mound of the Yoshiwara, has thwarted me in this; and now
upon whom can I avenge my father’s death but upon him whose
baseness was indeed its cause? Now, therefore, I am determined
to go with you to Yedo, and not before the murders of our two
fathers shall have been fully atoned for will we return to our
own country.”

When Kosanza heard this generous speech, he could not
conceal his admiration; and the widow, prostrating herself at
Umanosuké’s feet, shed tears of gratitude.

The two youths, having agreed to stand by one another, made
all ready for their journey, and obtained leave from their
prince to go in search of the traitor Banzayémon. They
reached Yedo without meeting with any adventures, and, taking
up their abode at a cheap inn, began to make their inquiries;
but, although they sought far and wide, they could learn no
tidings of their enemy. When three months had passed thus,
Kosanza began to grow faint-hearted at their repeated failures;
but Umanosuké supported and comforted him, urging him to
fresh efforts. But soon a great misfortune befell them: Kosanza
fell sick with ophthalmia, and neither the tender nursing of
his friend, nor the drugs and doctors upon whom
Umanosuké spent all their money, had any effect on the
suffering boy, who soon became stone blind. Friendless and
penniless, the one deprived of his eyesight and only a clog
upon the other, the two youths were thrown upon their own
resources. Then Umanosuké, reduced to the last extremity
of distress, was forced to lead out Kosanza to Asakusa to beg
sitting by the roadside, whilst he himself, wandering hither
and thither, picked up what he could from the charity of those
who saw his wretched plight. But all this while he never lost
sight of his revenge, and almost thanked the chance which had
made him a beggar, for the opportunity which it gave him of
hunting out strange and hidden haunts of vagabond life into
which in his [pg 70] more prosperous condition he
could not have penetrated. So he walked to and fro through
the city, leaning on a stout staff, in which he had hidden
his sword, waiting patiently for fortune to bring him face
to face with Banzayémon.

TRICKS OF SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA.

Now Banzayémon, after he had killed Sanza on the
Mound of the Yoshiwara, did not dare to show his face again in
the house of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté;
for he knew that the two men, Tôken Gombei and Shirobei
“the loose Colt,” would not only bear an evil report of him,
but would even kill him if he fell into their hands, so great
had been their indignation at his cowardly Conduct; so he
entered a company of mountebanks, and earned his living by
showing tricks of swordsmanship, and selling tooth-powder at
the Okuyama, at Asakusa.²⁹
One day, as he was going towards Asakusa to ply his trade,
he caught sight of a blind beggar, in whom, in spite of his
poverty-stricken and altered appearance, he recognized the
son of his enemy. Rightly he judged that, in spite of the
boy’s apparently helpless condition, the discovery boded no
weal for him; so mounting to the upper storey of a tea-house
hard by, he watched to see who should come to Kosanza’s
assistance. Nor had he to wait long, for presently he saw a
second beggar come up and speak words of encouragement and
kindness to the blind youth; and looking attentively, he saw
that the new-comer was Umanosuké. Having thus
discovered who was on his track, he went home and sought
means of killing the two beggars; so he lay in wait and
traced them to the poor hut where they dwelt, and one night,
when he knew [pg 71] Umanosuké to be
absent, he crept in. Kosanza, being blind, thought that the
footsteps were those of Umanosuké, and jumped up to
welcome him; but he, in his heartless cruelty, which not
even the boy’s piteous state could move, slew Kosanza as he
helplessly stretched out his hands to feel for his friend.
The deed was yet unfinished when Umanosuké returned,
and, hearing a scuffle inside the hut, drew the sword which
was hidden in his staff and rushed in; but
Banzayémon, profiting by the darkness, eluded him and
fled from the hut. Umanosuké followed swiftly after
him; but just as he was on the point of catching him,
Banzayémon, making a sweep backwards with his drawn
sword, wounded Umanosuké in the thigh, so that he
stumbled and fell, and the murderer, swift of foot, made
good his escape. The wounded youth tried to pursue him
again, but being compelled by the pain of his wound to
desist, returned home and found his blind companion lying
dead, weltering in his own blood. Cursing his unhappy fate,
he called in the beggars of the fraternity to which he
belonged, and between them they buried Kosanza, and he
himself being too poor to procure a surgeon’s aid, or to buy
healing medicaments for his wound, became a cripple.

It was at this time that Shirai Gompachi, who was living
under the protection of Chôbei, the Father of the
Otokodaté, was in love with Komurasaki, the beautiful
courtesan who lived at the sign of the Three Sea-shores, in the
Yoshiwara. He had long exhausted the scanty supplies which he
possessed, and was now in the habit of feeding his purse by
murder and robbery, that he might have means to pursue his wild
and extravagant life. One night, when he was out on his
cutthroat business, his fellows, who had long suspected that he
was after no good, sent one of their number, named Seibei, to
watch him. Gompachi, little dreaming that any one was following
him, swaggered along the street until he fell in with a
wardsman, whom he cut down and robbed; but the booty proving
small, he waited for a second chance, and, seeing a light
moving in the distance, hid himself in the shadow of a large
tub for catching rain-water till the bearer of the lantern
should come up. When the man drew near, Gompachi saw that he
was dressed as a traveller, and wore a long dirk; so he sprung
out from his lurking-place and made to kill him; but the
traveller nimbly jumped on one side, and proved no mean
adversary, for he drew his dirk and fought stoutly for his
life. However, he was no match for so skilful a swordsman as
Gompachi, who, after a sharp struggle, dispatched him, and
carried off his purse, which contained two hundred riyos.
Overjoyed at having found so rich a prize, Gompachi was making
off for the Yoshiwara, when Seibei, who, horror-stricken, had
seen both murders, came up and began to upbraid him for his
wickedness. But Gompachi was so smooth-spoken and so well liked
by his comrades, that he easily persuaded Seibei to hush the
matter up, and accompany him to the Yoshiwara for a little
diversion. As they were talking by the way, Seibei said to
Gompachi—

“I bought a new dirk the other day, but I have not had an
opportunity to try it yet. You have had so much experience in
swords that you ought to be a good judge. Pray look at this
dirk, and tell me whether you think it good for anything.”

“We’ll soon see what sort of metal it is made of,” answered
Gompachi. “We’ll just try it on the first beggar we come
across.”

At first Seibei was horrified by this cruel proposal, but by
degrees he yielded to his companion’s persuasions; and so they
went on their way until Seibei spied out a crippled beggar
lying asleep on the bank outside the Yoshiwara. The sound of
their footsteps aroused the beggar, who seeing a Samurai and a
wardsman pointing at him, and evidently speaking about him,
thought that their consultation could bode him no good. So he
pretended to be still asleep, watching them carefully all the
while; and when Seibei went up to him, brandishing his dirk,
the beggar, avoiding the blow, seized Seibei’s arm, and
twisting it round, flung him into the ditch below. Gompachi,
seeing his companion’s discomfiture, attacked the beggar, who,
drawing a sword from his staff, made such lightning-swift
passes that, crippled though he was, and unable to move his
legs freely, Gompachi could not overpower him; and although
Seibei crawled out of the ditch and came to his assistance, the
beggar, nothing daunted, dealt his blows about him to such good
purpose that he wounded Seibei in the temple and arm. Then
Gompachi, reflecting that after all he had no quarrel with the
beggar, and that he had better attend to Seibei’s wounds than
go on fighting to no purpose, drew Seibei away, leaving the
beggar, who was too lame to follow them, in peace. When he
examined Seibei’s wounds, he found that they were so severe
that they must give up their night’s frolic and go home. So
they went back to the house of Chôbei, the Father of the
Otokodaté, and Seibei, afraid to show himself with his
sword-cuts, feigned sickness, and went to bed. On the following
morning Chôbei, happening to need his apprentice Seibei’s
services, sent for him, and was told that he was sick; so he
went to the room, where he lay abed, and, to his astonishment,
saw the cut upon his temple. At first the wounded man refused
to answer any questions as to how he had been hurt; but at
last, on being pressed by Chôbei, he told the whole story
of what had taken place the night before. When Chôbei
heard the tale, be guessed that the valiant beggar must be some
noble Samurai in disguise, who, having a wrong to avenge, was
biding his time to meet with his enemy; and wishing to help so
brave a man, he went in the evening, with his two faithful
apprentices, Tôken Gombei and Shirobei “the loose Colt,”
to the bank outside the Yoshiwara to seek out the beggar. The
latter, not one whit frightened by the adventure of the
previous night, had taken his place as usual, and was lying on
the bank, when Chôbei came up to him, and said—

“Sir, I am Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté,
at your service. I have learnt with deep regret that two of my
men insulted and [pg 73] attacked you last night.
However, happily, even Gompachi, famous swordsman though he
be, was no match for you, and had to beat a retreat before
you. I know, therefore, that you must be a noble Samurai,
who by some ill chance have become a cripple and a beggar.
Now, therefore, I pray you tell me all your story; for,
humble wardsman as I am, I may be able to assist you, if you
will condescend to allow me.”

The cripple at first tried to shun Chôbei’s questions;
but at last, touched by the honesty and kindness of his speech,
he replied—

“Sir, my name is Takagi Umanosuké, and I am a native
of Yamato;” and then he went on to narrate all the misfortunes
which the wickedness of Banzayémon had brought
about.

“This is indeed a strange story,” said Chôbei who had
listened with indignation. “This Banzayémon, before I
knew the blackness of his heart, was once under my protection.
But after he murdered Sanza, hard by here, he was pursued by
these two apprentices of mine, and since that day he has been
no more to my house.”

When he had introduced the two apprentices to
Umanosuké, Chôbei pulled forth a suit of silk
clothes befitting a gentleman, and having made the crippled
youth lay aside his beggar’s raiment, led him to a bath, and
had his hair dressed. Then he bade Tôken Gombei lodge him
and take charge of him, and, having sent for a famous
physician, caused Umanosuké to undergo careful treatment
for the wound in his thigh. In the course of two months the
pain had almost disappeared, so that he could stand easily; and
when, after another month, he could walk about a little,
Chôbei removed him to his own house, pretending to his
wife and apprentices that he was one of his own relations who
had come on a visit to him.

After a while, when Umanosuké had become quite cured,
he went one day to worship at a famous temple, and on his way
home after dark he was overtaken by a shower of rain, and took
shelter under the eaves of a house, in a part of the city
called Yanagiwara, waiting for the sky to clear. Now it
happened that this same night Gompachi had gone out on one of
his bloody expeditions, to which his poverty and his love for
Komurasaki drove him in spite of himself, and, seeing a Samurai
standing in the gloom, he sprang upon him before he had
recognized Umanosuké, whom he knew as a friend of his
patron Chôbei. Umanosuké drew and defended
himself, and soon contrived to slash Gompachi on the forehead;
so that the latter, seeing himself overmatched, fled under the
cover of the night. Umanosuké, fearing to hurt his
recently healed wound, did not give chase, and went quietly
back to Chôbei’s house. When Gompachi returned home, he
hatched a story to deceive Chôbei as to the cause of the
wound on his forehead. Chôbei, however, having overheard
Umanosuké reproving Gompachi for his wickedness, soon
became aware of the truth; and not caring to keep a robber and
murderer [pg 74] near him, gave Gompachi a
present of money, and bade him return to his house no
more.

And now Chôbei, seeing that Umanosuké had
recovered his strength, divided his apprentices into bands, to
hunt out Banzayémon, in order that the vendetta might be
accomplished. It soon was reported to him that
Banzayémon was earning his living among the mountebanks
of Asakusa; so Chôbei communicated this intelligence to
Umanosuké, who made his preparations accordingly; and on
the following morning the two went to Asakusa, where
Banzayémon was astonishing a crowd of country boors by
exhibiting tricks with his sword.

Then Umanosuké, striding through the gaping rabble,
shouted out—

“False, murderous coward, your day has come! I,
Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, have come to demand
vengeance for the death of three innocent men who have perished
by your treachery. If you are a man, defend yourself. This day
shall your soul see hell!”

With these words he rushed furiously upon Banzayémon,
who, seeing escape to be impossible, stood upon his guard. But
his coward’s heart quailed before the avenger, and he soon lay
bleeding at his enemy’s feet.

But who shall say how Umanosuké thanked Chôbei
for his assistance; or how, when he had returned to his own
country, he treasured up his gratitude in his heart, looking
upon Chôbei as more than a second father?

Thus did Chôbei use his power to punish the wicked,
and to reward the good—giving of his abundance to the
poor, and succouring the unfortunate, so that his name was
honoured far and near. It remains only to record the tragical
manner of his death.

We have already told how my lord Midzuno
Jiurozayémon, the chief of the associated nobles, had
been foiled in his attempts to bring shame upon Chôbei,
the Father of the Otokodaté; and how, on the contrary,
the latter, by his ready wit, never failed to make the proud
noble’s weapons recoil upon him. The failure of these attempts
rankled in the breast of Jiurozayémon, who hated
Chôbei with an intense hatred, and sought to be revenged
upon him. One day he sent a retainer to Chôbei’s house
with a message to the effect that on the following day my lord
Jiurozayémon would be glad to see Chôbei at his
house, and to offer him a cup of wine, in return for the cold
macaroni with which his lordship had been feasted some time
since. Chôbei immediately suspected that in sending this
friendly summons the cunning noble was hiding a dagger in a
smile; however, he knew that if he stayed away out of fear he
would be branded as a coward, and made a laughing-stock for
fools to jeer at. Not caring that Jiurozayémon should
succeed in his desire to put him to shame, he sent for his
favourite apprentice, Tôken Gombei, and said to
him—

“I have been invited to a drinking-bout by Midzuno
Jiurozayémon. [pg 75] I know full well that this is
but a stratagem to requite me for having fooled him, and
maybe his hatred will go the length of killing me. However,
I shall go and take my chance; and if I detect any sign of
foul play, I’ll try to serve the world by ridding it of a
tyrant, who passes his life in oppressing the helpless
farmers and wardsmen. Now as, even if I succeed in killing
him in his own house, my life must pay forfeit for the deed,
do you come to-morrow night with a
burying-tub,³⁰
and fetch my corpse from this Jiurozayémon’s
house.”

Tôken Gombei, when he heard the “Father” speak thus,
was horrified, and tried to dissuade him from obeying the
invitation. But Chôbei’s mind was fixed, and, without
heeding Gombei’s remonstrances, he proceeded to give
instructions as to the disposal of his property after his
death, and to settle all his earthly affairs.

On the following day, towards noon, he made ready to go to
Jiurozayémon’s house, bidding one of his apprentices
precede him with a complimentary present.³¹
Jiurozayémon, who was waiting with impatience for
Chôbei to come, so soon as he heard of his arrival
ordered his retainers to usher him into his presence; and
Chôbei, having bade his apprentices without fail to
come and fetch him that night, went into the house.

No sooner had he reached the room next to that in which
Jiurozayémon was sitting than he saw that his suspicions
of treachery were well founded; for two men with drawn swords
rushed upon him, and tried to cut him down. Deftly avoiding
their blows, however, he tripped up the one, and kicking the
other in the ribs, sent him reeling and breathless against the
wall; then, as calmly as if nothing had happened he presented
himself before Jiurozayémon, who, peeping through a
chink in the sliding-doors, had watched his retainers’
failure.

“Welcome, welcome, Master Chôbei,” said he. “I always
had heard that you were a man of mettle, and I wanted to see
what stuff you were made of; so I bade my retainers put your
courage to the test. That was a masterly throw of yours. Well,
you must excuse this churlish reception: come and sit down by
me.”

“Pray do not mention it, my lord,” said Chôbei,
smiling rather scornfully. “I know that my poor skill is not to
be measured
[pg 77] with that of a noble Samurai;
and if these two good gentlemen had the worst of it just
now, it was mere luck—that’s all.”

So, after the usual compliments had been exchanged,
Chôbei sat down by Jiurozayémon, and the
attendants brought in wine and condiments. Before they began to
drink, however, Jiurozayémon said—

“You must be tired and exhausted with your walk this hot
day, Master Chôbei. I thought that perhaps a bath might
refresh you, so I ordered my men to get it ready for you. Would
you not like to bathe and make yourself comfortable?”

Chôbei suspected that this was a trick to strip him,
and take him unawares when he should have laid aside his dirk.
However, he answered cheerfully—

“Your lordship is very good. I shall be glad to avail myself
of your kind offer. Pray excuse me for a few moments.”

So he went to the bath-room, and, leaving his clothes
outside, he got into the bath, with the full conviction that it
would be the place of his death. Yet he never trembled nor
quailed, determined that, if he needs must die, no man should
say he had been a coward. Then Jiurozayémon, calling to
his attendants, said—

“Quick! lock the door of the bath-room! We hold him fast
now. If he gets out, more than one life will pay the price of
his. He’s a match for any six of you in fair fight. Lock the
door, I say, and light up the fire under the
bath;³²
and we’ll boil him to death, and be rid of him. Quick, men,
quick!”

So they locked the door, and fed the fire until the water
hissed and bubbled within; and Chôbei, in his agony,
tried to burst open the door, but Jiurozayémon ordered
his men to thrust their spears through the partition wall and
dispatch him. Two of the spears Chôbei clutched and broke
short off; but at last he was struck by a mortal blow under the
ribs, and died a brave man by the hands of cowards.

THE DEATH OF CHÔBEI OF BANDZUIN.

That evening Tôken Gombei, who, to the astonishment of
Chôbei’s wife, had bought a burying-tub, came, with seven
other apprentices, to fetch the Father of the Otokodaté
from Jiurozayémon’s house; and when the retainers saw
them, they mocked at them, and said—

“What, have you come to fetch your drunken master home in a
litter?”

“Nay,” answered Gombei, “but we have brought a coffin for
his dead body, as he bade us.”

When the retainers heard this, they marvelled at the courage
of Chôbei, who had thus wittingly come to meet his fate.
So [pg 78] Chôbei’s corpse was
placed in the burying-tub, and handed over to his
apprentices, who swore to avenge his death. Far and wide,
the poor and friendless mourned for this good man. His son
Chômatsu inherited his property; and his wife remained
a faithful widow until her dying day, praying that she might
sit with him in paradise upon the cup of the same
lotus-flower.

Many a time did the apprentices of Chôbei meet
together to avenge him; but Jiurozayémon eluded all
their efforts, until, having been imprisoned by the Government
in the temple called Kanyeiji, at Uyéno, as is related
in the story of “Kazuma’s Revenge,” he was placed beyond the
reach of their hatred.

So lived and so died Chôbei of Bandzuin, the Father of
the Otokodaté of Yedo.

NOTE ON ASAKUSA

Translated from a native book called the “Yedo
Hanjôki,” or Guide to the prosperous City of Yedo, and
other sources.

Asakusa is the most bustling place in all Yedo. It is famous
for the Temple Sensôji, on the hill of Kinriu, or the
Golden Dragon, which from morning till night is thronged with
visitors, rich and poor, old and young, flocking in sleeve to
sleeve. The origin of the temple was as follows:—In the
days of the Emperor Suiko, who reigned in the thirteenth
century A.D., a certain noble, named Hashi no Nakatomo, fell
into disgrace and left the Court; and having become a
Rônin, or masterless man, he took up his abode on the
Golden Dragon Hill, with two retainers, being brothers, named
Hinokuma Hamanari and Hinokuma Takénari. These three men
being reduced to great straits, and without means of earning
their living, became fishermen. Now it happened that on the 6th
day of the 3rd month of the 36th year of the reign of the
Emperor Suiko (A.D. 1241), they went down in the morning to the
Asakusa River to ply their trade; and having cast their nets
took no fish, but at every throw they pulled up a figure of the
Buddhist god Kwannon, which they threw into the river again.
They sculled their boat away to another spot, but the same luck
followed them, and nothing came to their nets save the figure
of Kwannon. Struck by the miracle, they carried home the image,
and, after fervent prayer, built a temple on the Golden Dragon
Hill, in which they enshrined it. The temple thus founded was
enriched by the benefactions of wealthy and pious persons,
whose care raised its buildings to the dignity of the first
temple in Yedo. Tradition says that the figure of Kwannon which
was fished up in the net was one inch and eight-tenths in
height.

The main hall of the temple is sixty feet square, and is
adorned with much curious workmanship of gilding and of
silvering, so that no place can be more excellently beautiful.
There are two gates in front of it. The first is called the
Gate of the Spirits of the Wind and of the Thunder, and is
adorned with figures of those two gods. The Wind-god, whose
likeness is that of a devil, carries the
[pg 79] wind-bag; and the
Thunder-god, who is also shaped like a devil, carries a drum
and a drumstick.³³
The second gate is called the Gate of the gods Niô, or
the Two Princes, whose colossal statues, painted red, and
hideous to look upon, stand on either side of it. Between
the gates is an approach four hundred yards in length, which
is occupied by the stalls of hucksters, who sell toys and
trifles for women and children, and by foul and loathsome
beggars. Passing through the gate of the gods Niô, the
main hall of the temple strikes the eye. Countless niches
and shrines of the gods stand outside it, and an old woman
earns her livelihood at a tank filled with water, to which
the votaries of the gods come and wash themselves that they
may pray with clean hands. Inside are the images of the
gods, lanterns, incense-burners, candlesticks, a huge
moneybox, into which the offerings of the pious are thrown,
and votive tablets³⁴
representing the famous gods and goddesses, heroes and
heroines, of old. Behind the chief building is a broad space
called the okuyama, where young and pretty
waitresses, well dressed and painted, invite the weary
pilgrims and holiday-makers to refresh themselves with tea
and sweetmeats. Here, too, are all sorts of sights to be
seen, such as wild beasts, performing monkeys, automata,
conjurers, wooden and paper figures, which take the place of
the waxworks of the West, acrobats, and jesters for the
amusement of women and children. Altogether it is a lively
and a joyous scene; there is not its equal in the city.

At Asakusa, as indeed all over Yedo, are to be found
fortunetellers, who prey upon the folly of the superstitious.
With a treatise on physiognomy laid on a desk before them, they
call out to this man that he has an ill-omened forehead, and to
that man that the space between his nose and his lips is
unlucky. Their tongues wag like flowing water until the
passers-by are attracted to their stalls. If the seer finds a
customer, he closes his eyes, and, lifting the divining-sticks
reverently to his forehead, mutters incantations between his
teeth. Then, suddenly parting the sticks in two bundles, he
prophesies good or evil, according to the number in each. With
a magnifying-glass he examines his dupe’s face and the palms of
his hands. By the fashion of his clothes and his general manner
the prophet sees whether he is a countryman or from the city.
“I am afraid, sir,” says he, “you have not been altogether
fortunate in life, but I foresee that great luck awaits you in
two or three months;” or, like a clumsy doctor who makes his
diagnosis according to his patient’s fancies, if he sees his
customer frowning and anxious, he adds, “Alas! in seven or
eight months you must beware of great misfortune. But I cannot
tell you all about it for a slight fee:” with a long sigh he
lays down the divining-sticks on
[pg 80] the desk, and the frightened
boor pays a further fee to hear the sum of the misfortune
which threatens him, until, with three feet of bamboo slips
and three inches of tongue, the clever rascal has made the
poor fool turn his purse inside out.

The class of diviners called Ichiko profess to give
tidings of the dead, or of those who have gone to distant
countries. The Ichiko exactly corresponds to the spirit medium
of the West. The trade is followed by women, of from fifteen or
sixteen to some fifty years of age, who walk about the streets,
carrying on their backs a divining-box about a foot square;
they have no shop or stall, but wander about, and are invited
into their customers’ houses. The ceremony of divination is
very simple. A porcelain bowl filled with water is placed upon
a tray, and the customer, having written the name of the person
with whom he wishes to hold communion on a long slip of paper,
rolls it into a spill, which he dips into the water, and thrice
sprinkles the Ichiko, or medium. She, resting her elbow upon
her divining-box, and leaning her head upon her hand, mutters
prayers and incantations until she has summoned the soul of the
dead or absent person, which takes possession of her, and
answers questions through her mouth. The prophecies which the
Ichiko utters during her trance are held in high esteem by the
superstitious and vulgar.

Hard by Asakusa is the theatre street. The theatres are
called Shiba-i,³⁵
“turf places,” from the fact that the first theatrical
performances were held on a turf plot. The origin of the
drama in Japan, as elsewhere, was religious. In the reign of
the Emperor Heijô (A.D. 805), there was a sudden
volcanic depression of the earth close by a pond called
Sarusawa, or the Monkey’s Marsh, at Nara, in the province of
Yamato, and a poisonous smoke issuing from the cavity struck
down with sickness all those who came within its baneful
influence; so the people brought quantities of firewood,
which they burnt in order that the poisonous vapour might be
dispelled. The fire, being the male influence, would
assimilate with and act as an antidote upon the mephitic
smoke, which was a female influence.³⁶
Besides this, as a further charm to exorcise the portent,
the dance called Sambasô, which is still performed as
a prelude to theatrical exhibitions by an actor dressed up
as a venerable old man, emblematic of long life and
felicity, was danced on a plot of turf in front of the
Temple Kofukuji. By these means the smoke was dispelled, and
the drama was originated. The story is to be found in the
Zoku Nihon Ki, or supplementary history of Japan.

Three centuries later, during the reign of the Emperor Toba
(A.D. 1108), there lived a woman called Iso no Zenji, who is
looked upon as the mother of the Japanese drama. Her
performances, however, seem only to have consisted in dancing
or posturing dressed up in the costume of the nobles of the
Court, from which fact her dance was called Otoko-mai, or the
man’s dance. Her name is only
[pg 81] worth mentioning on account
of the respect in which her memory is held by actors.

It was not until the year A.D. 1624 that a man named
Saruwaka Kanzaburô, at the command of the Shogun, opened
the first theatre in Yedo in the Nakabashi, or Middle Bridge
Street, where it remained until eight years later, when it was
removed to the Ningiyô, or Doll Street. The company of
this theatre was formed by two families named Miako and
Ichimura, who did not long enjoy their monopoly, for in the
year 1644 we find a third family, that of Yamamura, setting up
a rival theatre in the Kobiki, or Sawyer Street.

In the year 1651, the Asiatic prejudice in favour of keeping
persons of one calling in one place exhibited itself by the
removal of the playhouses to their present site, and the street
was called the Saruwaka Street, after Saruwaka Kanzaburô,
the founder of the drama in Yedo.

Theatrical performances go on from six in the morning until
six in the evening. Just as the day is about to dawn in the
east, the sound of the drum is heard, and the dance
Sambasô is danced as a prelude, and after this follow the
dances of the famous actors of old; these are called the extra
performances (waki kiyôgen).

The dance of Nakamura represents the demon Shudendôji,
an ogre who was destroyed by the hero Yorimitsu according to
the following legend:—At the beginning of the eleventh
century, when Ichijô the Second was Emperor, lived the
hero Yorimitsu. Now it came to pass that in those days the
people of Kiôto were sorely troubled by an evil spirit,
which took up its abode near the Rashô gate. One night,
as Yorimitsu was making merry with his retainers, he said, “Who
dares go and defy the demon of the Rashô gate, and set up
a token that he has been there?” “That dare I,” answered Tsuna,
who, having donned his coat of mail, mounted his horse, and
rode out through the dark bleak night to the Rashô gate.
Having written his name upon the gate, he was about to turn
homewards when his horse began to shiver with fear, and a huge
hand coming forth from the gate seized the back of the knight’s
helmet. Tsuna, nothing daunted, struggled to get free, but in
vain, so drawing his sword he cut off the demon’s arm, and the
spirit with a howl fled into the night. But Tsuna carried home
the arm in triumph, and locked it up in a box. One night the
demon, having taken the shape of Tsuna’s aunt, came to him and
said, “I pray thee show me the arm of the fiend.” Tsuna
answered, “I have shown it to no man, and yet to thee I will
show it.” So he brought forth the box and opened it, when
suddenly a black cloud shrouded the figure of the supposed
aunt, and the demon, having regained its arm, disappeared. From
that time forth the people were more than ever troubled by the
demon, who carried off to the hills all the fairest virgins of
Kiôto, whom he ravished and ate, so that there was scarce
a beautiful damsel left in the city. Then was the Emperor very
sorrowful, and he commanded Yorimitsu to destroy the monster;
and the hero, having made ready, went forth with four trusty
knights and another great captain to search among the hidden
places of the mountains. One day as they were journeying far
from the haunts of men, they fell in with an old man, who,
having bidden them to enter his dwelling, treated them kindly,
and set before them wine to drink; and when they went away, and
took their [pg 82] leave of him, he gave them a
present of more wine to take away with them. Now this old
man was a mountain god. As they went on their way they met a
beautiful lady, who was washing blood-stained clothes in the
waters of the valley, weeping bitterly the while. When they
asked her why she shed tears, she answered, “Sirs, I am a
woman from Kiôto, whom the demon has carried off; he
makes me wash his clothes, and when he is weary of me, he
will kill and eat me. I pray your lordships to save me.”
Then the six heroes bade the woman lead them to the ogre’s
cave, where a hundred devils were mounting guard and waiting
upon him. The woman, having gone in first, told the fiend of
their coming; and he, thinking to slay and eat them, called
them to him; so they entered the cave, which reeked with the
smell of the flesh and blood of men, and they saw
Shudendôji, a huge monster with the face of a little
child. The six men offered him the wine which they had
received from the mountain god, and he, laughing in his
heart, drank and made merry, so that little by little the
fumes of the wine got into his head, and he fell asleep. The
heroes, themselves feigning sleep, watched for a moment when
the devils were all off their guard to put on their armour
and steal one by one into the demon’s chamber. Then
Yorimitsu, seeing that all was still, drew his sword, and
cut off Shudendôji’s head, which sprung up and bit at
his head; luckily, however, Yorimitsu had put on two
helmets, the one over the other, so he was not hurt. When
all the devils had been slain, the heroes and the woman
returned to Kiôto carrying with them the head of
Shudendôji, which was laid before the Emperor; and the
fame of their action was spread abroad under heaven.

This Shudendôji is the ogre represented in the
Nakamura dance. The Ichimura dance represents the seven gods of
wealth; and the Morita dance represents a large ape, and is
emblematical of drinking wine.

As soon as the sun begins to rise in the heaven, sign-boards
all glistening with paintings and gold are displayed, and the
playgoers flock in crowds to the theatre. The farmers and
country-folk hurry over their breakfast, and the women and
children, who have got up in the middle of the night to paint
and adorn themselves, come from all the points of the compass
to throng the gallery, which is hung with curtains as bright as
the rainbow in the departing clouds. The place soon becomes so
crowded that the heads of the spectators are like the scales on
a dragon’s back. When the play begins, if the subject be tragic
the spectators are so affected that they weep till they have to
wring their sleeves dry. If the piece be comic they laugh till
their chins are out of joint. The tricks and stratagems of the
drama baffle description, and the actors are as graceful as the
flight of the swallow. The triumph of persecuted virtue and the
punishment of wickedness invariably crown the story. When a
favourite actor makes his appearance, his entry is hailed with
cheers. Fun and diversion are the order of the day, and rich
and poor alike forget the cares which they have left behind
them at home; and yet it is not all idle amusement, for there
is a moral taught, and a practical sermon preached in every
play.

The subjects of the pieces are chiefly historical, feigned
names being substituted for those of the real heroes. Indeed,
it is in the popular tragedies that we must seek for an account
of many of [pg 83] the events of the last two
hundred and fifty years; for only one very bald
history³⁷
of those times has been published, of which but a limited
number of copies were struck off from copper plates, and its
circulation was strictly forbidden by the Shogun’s
Government. The stories are rendered with great minuteness
and detail, so much so, that it sometimes takes a series of
representations to act out one piece in its entirety. The
Japanese are far in advance of the Chinese in their scenery
and properties, and their pieces are sometimes capitally got
up: a revolving stage enables them to shift from one scene
to another with great rapidity. First-rate actors receive as
much as a thousand riyos (about £300) as their yearly
salary. This, however, is a high rate of pay, and many a man
has to strut before the public for little more than his
daily rice; to a clever young actor it is almost enough
reward to be allowed to enter a company in which there is a
famous star. The salary of the actor, however, may depend
upon the success of the theatre; for dramatic exhibitions
are often undertaken as speculations by wealthy persons, who
pay their company in proportion to their own profit. Besides
his regular pay, a popular Japanese actor has a small mine
of wealth in his patrons, who open their purses freely for
the privilege of frequenting the greenroom., The women’s
parts are all taken by men, as they used to be with us in
ancient days. Touching the popularity of plays, it is
related that in the year 1833, when two actors called
Bandô Shuka and Segawa Rokô, both famous players
of women’s parts, died at the same time, the people of Yedo
mourned to heaven and to earth; and if a million riyos could
have brought back their lives, the money would have been
forthcoming. Thousands flocked to their funeral, and the
richness of their coffins and of the clothes laid upon them
was admired by all.

“When I heard this,” says Terakado Seiken, the author of the
Yedo Hanjôki, “I lifted my eyes to heaven and
heaved a great sigh. When my friend Saitô Shimei, a
learned and good man, died, there was barely enough money to
bury him; his needy pupils and friends subscribed to give him a
humble coffin. Alas! alas! here was a teacher who from his
youth up had honoured his parents, and whose heart know no
guile: if his friends were in need, he ministered to their
wants; he grudged no pains to teach his fellow-men; his
good-will and charity were beyond praise; under the blue sky
and bright day he never did a shameful deed. His merits were as
those of the sages of old; but because he lacked the cunning of
a fox or badger he received no patronage from the wealthy, and,
remaining poor to the day of his death, never had an
opportunity of making his worth known. Alas! alas!”

The drama is exclusively the amusement of the middle and
lower classes. Etiquette, sternest of tyrants, forbids the
Japanese of high rank to be seen at any public exhibition,
wrestling-matches alone excepted. Actors are, however,
occasionally engaged to play in private for the edification of
my lord and his ladies; and there is a kind of classical opera,
called Nô, which is performed on stages specially built
for the purpose in the palaces of the principal nobles.
[pg 84] These Nô represent the
entertainments by which the Sun Goddess was lured out of the
cave in which she had hidden, a fable said to be based upon
an eclipse. In the reign of the Emperor Yômei (A.D.
586-593), Hada Kawakatsu, a man born in Japan, but of
Chinese extraction, was commanded by the Emperor to arrange
an entertainment for the propitiation of the gods and the
prosperity of the country. Kawakatsu wrote thirty-three
plays, introducing fragments of Japanese poetry with
accompaniments of musical instruments. Two performers, named
Takéta and Hattori, having especially distinguished
themselves in these entertainments, were ordered to prepare
other similar plays, and their productions remain to the
present day. The pious intention of the Nô being to
pray for the prosperity of the country, they are held in the
highest esteem by the nobles of the Court, the Daimios, and
the military class: in old days they alone performed in
these plays, but now ordinary actors take part in them.

The Nô are played in sets. The first of the set is
specially dedicated to the propitiation of the gods; the second
is performed in full armour, and is designed to terrify evil
spirits, and to insure the punishment of malefactors; the third
is of a gentler intention, and its special object is the
representation of all that is beautiful and fragrant and
delightful. The performers wear hideous wigs and masks, not
unlike those of ancient Greece, and gorgeous brocade dresses.
The masks, which belong to what was the private company of the
Shogun, are many centuries old, and have been carefully
preserved as heirlooms from generation to generation; being
made of very thin wood lacquered over, and kept each in a
silken bag, they have been uninjured by the lapse of time.

During the Duke of Edinburgh’s stay in Yedo, this company
was engaged to give a performance in the Yashiki of the Prince
of Kishiu, which has the reputation of being the handsomest
palace in all Yedo. So far as I know, such an exhibition had
never before been witnessed by foreigners, and it may be
interesting to give an account of it. Opposite the principal
reception-room, where his Royal Highness sat, and separated
from it by a narrow courtyard, was a covered stage, approached
from the greenroom by a long gallery at an angle of forty-five
degrees. Half-a-dozen musicians, clothed in dresses of
ceremony, marched slowly down the gallery, and, having squatted
down on the stage, bowed gravely. The performances then began.
There was no scenery, nor stage appliances; the descriptions of
the chorus or of the actors took their place. The dialogue and
choruses are given in a nasal recitative, accompanied by the
mouth-organ, flute, drum, and other classical instruments, and
are utterly unintelligible. The ancient poetry is full of puns
and plays upon words, and it was with no little difficulty
that, with the assistance of a man of letters, I prepared
beforehand the arguments of the different pieces.

The first play was entitled Hachiman of the Bow.
Hachiman is the name under which the Emperor Ojin (A.C.
270-312) was deified as the God of War. He is specially
worshipped on account of his miraculous birth; his mother, the
Empress Jingo, having, by the virtue of a magic stone which she
wore at her girdle, borne him in her womb for three years,
during which she made war upon and conquered the Coreans. The
time of the plot is laid in the reign of the Emperor Uda the
Second (A.D. 1275-1289). In the
[pg 85] second month of the year
pilgrims are flocking to the temple of Hachiman at Mount
Otoko, between Osaka and Kiôto. All this is explained
by the chorus. A worshipper steps forth, sent by the
Emperor, and delivers a congratulatory oration upon the
peace and prosperity of the land. The chorus follows in the
same strain: they sing the praises of Hachiman and of the
reigning Emperor. An old man enters, bearing something which
appears to be a bow in a brocade bag. On being asked who he
is, the old man answers that he is an aged servant of the
shrine, and that he wishes to present his mulberry-wood bow
to the Emperor; being too humble to draw near to his Majesty
he has waited for this festival, hoping that an opportunity
might present itself. He explains that with this bow, and
with certain arrows made of the Artemisia, the heavenly gods
pacified the world. On being asked to show his bow, he
refuses; it is a mystic protector of the country, which in
old days was overshadowed by the mulberry-tree. The peace
which prevails in the land is likened to a calm at sea. The
Emperor is the ship, and his subjects the water. The old man
dwells upon the ancient worship of Hachiman, and relates how
his mother, the Empress Jingo, sacrificed to the gods before
invading Corea, and how the present prosperity of the
country is to be attributed to the acceptance of those
sacrifices. After having revealed himself as the god
Hachiman in disguise, the old man disappears. The
worshipper, awe-struck, declares that he must return to
Kiôto and tell the Emperor what he has seen. The
chorus announces that sweet music and fragrant perfumes
issue from the mountain, and the piece ends with
felicitations upon the visible favour of the gods, and
especially of Hachiman.

The second piece was Tsunémasa.
Tsunémasa was a hero of the twelfth century, who died in
the civil wars; he was famous for his skill in playing on the
biwa, a sort of four-stringed lute.

A priest enters, and announces that his name is
Giyôkei, and that before he retired from the world he
held high rank at Court. He relates how Tsunémasa, in
his childhood the favourite of the Emperor, died in the wars by
the western seas. During his lifetime the Emperor gave him a
lute, called Sei-zan, “the Azure Mountain”; this lute at his
death was placed in a shrine erected to his honour, and at his
funeral music and plays were performed during seven days within
the palace, by the special grace of the Emperor. The scene is
laid at the shrine. The lonely and awesome appearance of the
spot is described. Although the sky is clear, the wind rustles
through the trees like the sound of falling rain; and although
it is now summer-time, the moonlight on the sand looks like
hoar-frost. All nature is sad and downcast. The ghost appears,
and sings that it is the spirit of Tsunémasa, and has
come to thank those who have piously celebrated his obsequies.
No one answers him, and the spirit vanishes, its voice becoming
fainter and fainter, an unreal and illusory vision haunting the
scenes amid which its life was spent. The priest muses on the
portent. Is it a dream or a reality? Marvellous! The ghost,
returning, speaks of former days, when it lived as a child in
the palace, and received the Azure Mountain lute from the
Emperor—that lute with the four strings of which its hand
was once so familiar, and the attraction of which now draws it
from the grave. The chorus recites the virtues of
Tsunémasa—his benevolence, justice, humanity,
talents, [pg 86] and truth; his love of poetry
and music; the trees, the flowers, the birds, the breezes,
the moon—all had a charm for him. The ghost begins to
play upon the Azure Mountain lute, and the sounds produced
from the magical instrument are so delicate, that all think
it is a shower falling from heaven. The priest declares that
it is not rain, but the sound of the enchanted lute. The
sound of the first and second strings is as the sound of
gentle rain, or of the wind stirring the pine-trees; and the
sound of the third and fourth strings is as the song of
birds and pheasants calling to their young. A rhapsody in
praise of music follows. Would that such strains could last
for ever! The ghost bewails its fate that it cannot remain
to play on, but must return whence it came. The priest
addresses the ghost, and asks whether the vision is indeed
the spirit of Tsunémasa. Upon this the ghost calls
out in an agony of sorrow and terror at having been seen by
mortal eyes, and bids that the lamps be put out: on its
return to the abode of the dead it will suffer for having
shown itself: it describes the fiery torments which will be
its lot. Poor fool! it has been lured to its destruction,
like the insect of summer that flies into the flame.
Summoning the winds to its aid, it puts out the lights, and
disappears.

The Suit of Feathers is the title of a very pretty
conceit which followed. A fisherman enters, and in a long
recitative describes the scenery at the sea-shore of Miwo, in
the province of Suruga, at the foot of Fuji-Yama, the Peerless
Mountain. The waves are still, and there is a great calm; the
fishermen are all out plying their trade. The speaker’s name is
Hakuriyô, a fisherman living in the pine-grove of Miwo.
The rains are now over, and the sky is serene; the sun rises
bright and red over the pine-trees and rippling sea; while last
night’s moon is yet seen faintly in the heaven. Even he, humble
fisher though he be, is softened by the beauty of the nature
which surrounds him. A breeze springs up, the weather will
change; clouds and waves will succeed sunshine and calm; the
fishermen must get them home again. No; it is but the gentle
breath of spring, after all; it scarcely stirs the stout
fir-trees, and the waves are hardly heard to break upon the
shore. The men may go forth in safety. The fisherman then
relates how, while he was wondering at the view, flowers began
to rain from the sky, and sweet music filled the air, which was
perfumed by a mystic fragrance. Looking up, he saw hanging on a
pine-tree a fairy’s suit of feathers, which he took home, and
showed to a friend, intending to keep it as a relic in his
house. A heavenly fairy makes her appearance, and claims the
suit of feathers; but the fisherman holds to his treasure
trove. She urges the impiety of his act—a mortal has no
right to take that which belongs to the fairies. He declares
that he will hand down the feather suit to posterity as one of
the treasures of the country. The fairy bewails her lot;
without her wings how can she return to heaven? She recalls the
familiar joys of heaven, now closed to her; she sees the wild
geese and the gulls flying to the skies, and longs for their
power of flight; the tide has its ebb and its flow, and the
sea-breezes blow whither they list: for her alone there is no
power of motion, she must remain on earth. At last, touched by
her plaint, the fisherman consents to return the feather suit,
on condition that the fairy shall dance and play heavenly music
for him. She consents, but must first obtain the feather suit,
without which she cannot dance. The fisherman
[pg 87] refuses to give it up, lest
she should fly away to heaven without redeeming her pledge.
The fairy reproaches him for his want of faith: how should a
heavenly being be capable of falsehood? He is ashamed, and
gives her the feather suit, which she dons, and begins to
dance, singing of the delights of heaven, where she is one
of the fifteen attendants who minister to the moon. The
fisherman is so transported with joy, that he fancies
himself in heaven, and wishes to detain the fairy to dwell
with him for ever. A song follows in praise of the scenery
and of the Peerless Mountain capped with the snows of
spring. When her dance is concluded, the fairy, wafted away
by the sea-breeze, floats past the pine-grove to Ukishima
and Mount Ashidaka, over Mount Fuji, till she is seen dimly
like a cloud in the distant sky, and vanishes into thin
air.

The last of the Nô was The Little Smith, the
scene of which is laid in the reign of the Emperor Ichijô
(A.D. 987—1011). A noble of the court enters, and
proclaims himself to be Tachibana Michinari. He has been
commanded by the Emperor, who has seen a dream of good omen on
the previous night, to order a sword of the smith
Munéchika of Sanjô. He calls Munéchika, who
comes out, and, after receiving the order, expresses the
difficulty he is in, having at that time no fitting mate to
help him; he cannot forge a blade alone. The excuse is not
admitted; the smith pleads hard to be saved from the shame of a
failure. Driven to a compliance, there is nothing left for it
but to appeal to the gods for aid. He prays to the patron god
of his family, Inari Sama.³⁸
A man suddenly appears, and calls the smith; this man is the
god Inari Sama in disguise. The smith asks who is his
visitor, and how does he know him by name. The stranger
answers, “Thou hast been ordered to make a blade for the
Emperor.” “This is passing strange,” says the smith. “I
received the order but a moment since; how comest thou to
know of it?” “Heaven has a voice which is heard upon the
earth. Walls have ears, and stones tell
tales.³⁹
There are no secrets in the world. The flash of the blade
ordered by him who is above the clouds (the Emperor) is
quickly seen. By the grace of the Emperor the sword shall be
quickly made.” Here follows the praise of certain famous
blades, and an account of the part they played in history,
with special reference to the sword which forms one of the
regalia. The sword which the Emperor has sent for shall be
inferior to none of these; the smith may set his heart at
rest. The smith, awe-struck, expresses his wonder, and asks
again who is addressing him. He is bidden to go and deck out
his anvil, and a supernatural power will help him. The
visitor disappears in a cloud. The smith prepares his anvil,
at the four corners of which he places images of the gods,
while above it he stretches the straw rope and paper
pendants hung up in temples to shut out foul or ill-omened
influences. He prays for strength to make the blade, not for
his own glory, but for the honour of the Emperor. A young
man, a fox in disguise, appears, and helps Munéchika
to forge the steel. The noise of the anvil resounds to
heaven and over the earth. The chorus announces that the
blade is [pg 88] finished; on one side is the
mark of Munéchika, on the other is graven “The Little
Fox” in clear characters.

The subjects of the Nô are all taken from old legends
of the country; a shrine at Miwo, by the sea-shore, marks the
spot where the suit of feathers was found, and the miraculously
forged sword is supposed to be in the armoury of the Emperor to
this day. The beauty of the poetry—and it is very
beautiful—is marred by the want of scenery and by the
grotesque dresses and make-up. In the Suit of Feathers,
for instance, the fairy wears a hideous mask and a wig of
scarlet elf locks: the suit of feathers itself is left entirely
to the imagination; and the heavenly dance is a series of
whirls, stamps, and jumps, accompanied by unearthly yells and
shrieks; while the vanishing into thin air is represented by
pirouettes something like the motion of a dancing dervish. The
intoning of the recitative is unnatural and unintelligible, so
much so that not even a highly educated Japanese could
understand what is going on unless he were previously
acquainted with the piece. This, however, is supposing that
which is not, for the Nô are as familiarly known as the
masterpieces of our own dramatists.

The classical severity of the Nô is relieved by the
introduction between the pieces of light farces called
Kiyôgen. The whole entertainment having a religious
intention, the Kiyôgen stand to the Nô in the same
relation as the small shrines to the main temple; they, too,
are played for the propitiation of the gods, and for the
softening of men’s hearts. The farces are acted without wigs or
masks; the dialogue is in the common spoken language, and there
being no musical accompaniment it is quite easy to follow. The
plots of the two farces which were played before the Duke of
Edinburgh are as follows:—

In the Ink Smearing the hero is a man from a distant
part of the country, who, having a petition to prefer, comes to
the capital, where he is detained for a long while. His suit
being at last successful, he communicates the joyful news to
his servant, Tarôkaja (the conventional name of the
Leporello of these farces). The two congratulate one another.
To while away his idle hours during his sojourn at the capital
the master has entered into a flirtation with a certain young
lady: master and servant now hold a consultation as to whether
the former should not go and take leave of her. Tarôkaja
is of opinion that as she is of a very jealous nature, his
master ought to go. Accordingly the two set out to visit her,
the servant leading the way. Arrived at her house, the
gentleman goes straight in without the knowledge of the lady,
who, coming out and meeting Tarôkaja, asks after his
master. He replies that his master is inside the house. She
refuses to believe him, and complains that, for some time past,
his visits have been few and far between. Why should he come
now? Surely Tarôkaja is hoaxing her. The servant protests
that he is telling the truth, and that his master really has
entered the house. She, only half persuaded, goes in, and finds
that my lord is indeed there. She welcomes him, and in the same
breath upbraids him. Some other lady has surely found favour in
his eyes. What fair wind has wafted him back to her? He replies
that business alone has kept him from her; he hopes that all is
well with her. With her, indeed, all is well, and there is no
change; but she fears that his heart is changed. Surely, surely
he has found mountains upon
[pg 89] mountains of joy elsewhere,
even now, perhaps, he is only calling on his way homeward
from some haunt of pleasure. What pleasure can there be away
from her? answers he. Indeed, his time has not been his own,
else he would have come sooner. Why, then, did he not send
his servant to explain? Tarôkaja here puts in his oar,
and protests that, between running on errands and dancing
attendance upon his lord, he has not had a moment to
himself. “At any rate,” says the master, “I must ask for
your congratulations; for my suit, which was so important,
has prospered.” The lady expresses her happiness, and the
gentleman then bids his servant tell her the object of their
visit. Tarôkaja objects to this; his lord had better
tell his own story. While the two are disputing as to who
shall speak, the lady’s curiosity is aroused. “What terrible
tale is this that neither of you dare tell? Pray let one or
other of you speak.” At last the master explains that he has
come to take leave of her, as he must forthwith return to
his own province. The girl begins to weep, and the gentleman
following suit, the two shed tears in concert. She uses all
her art to cajole him, and secretly produces from her sleeve
a cup of water, with which she smears her eyes to imitate
tears. He, deceived by the trick, tries to console her, and
swears that as soon as he reaches his own country he will
send a messenger to fetch her; but she pretends to weep all
the more, and goes on rubbing her face with water.
Tarôkaja, in the meanwhile, detects the trick, and,
calling his master on one side, tells him what she is doing.
The gentleman, however, refuses to believe him, and scolds
him right roundly for telling lies. The lady calls my lord
to her, and weeping more bitterly than ever, tries to coax
him to remain. Tarôkaja slyly fills another cup, with
ink and water, and substitutes it for the cup of clear
water. She, all unconcerned, goes on smearing her face. At
last she lifts her face, and her lover, seeing it all black
and sooty, gives a start. What can be the matter with the
girl’s face? Tarôkaja, in an aside, explains what he
has done. They determine to put her to shame. The lover,
producing from his bosom a box containing a mirror, gives it
to the girl, who, thinking that it is a parting gift, at
first declines to receive it. It is pressed upon her; she
opens the box and sees the reflection of her dirty face.
Master and man burst out laughing. Furious, she smears
Tarôkaja’s face with the ink; he protests that he is
not the author of the trick, and the girl flies at her lover
and rubs his face too. Both master and servant run off,
pursued by the girl.

The second farce was shorter than the first, and was called
The Theft of the Sword. A certain gentleman calls his
servant Tarôkaja, and tells him that he is going out for
a little diversion. Bidding Tarôkaja follow him, he sets
out. On their way they meet another gentleman, carrying a
handsome sword in his hand, and going to worship at the Kitano
shrine at Kiôto. Tarôkaja points out the beauty of
the sword to his master, and says what a fine thing it would be
if they could manage to obtain possession of it. Tarôkaja
borrows his master’s sword, and goes up to the stranger, whose
attention is taken up by looking at the wares set out for sale
in a shop. Tarôkaja lays his hand on the guard of the
stranger’s sword; and the latter, drawing it, turns round, and
tries to cut the [pg 90] thief down. Tarôkaja
takes to his heels, praying hard that his life may be
spared. The stranger takes away the sword which
Tarôkaja has borrowed from his master, and goes on his
way to the shrine, carrying the two swords. Tarôkaja
draws a long breath of relief when he sees that his life is
not forfeited; but what account is he to give of his
master’s sword which he has lost. There is no help for it,
he must go back and make a clean breast of it. His master is
very angry; and the two, after consulting together, await
the stranger’s return from the shrine. The latter makes his
appearance and announces that he is going home.
Tarôkaja’s master falls upon the stranger from behind,
and pinions him, ordering Tarôkaja to fetch a rope and
bind him. The knave brings the cord; but, while he is
getting it ready, the stranger knocks him over with his
sword. His master calls out to him to get up quickly and
bind the gentleman from behind, and not from before.
Tarôkaja runs behind the struggling pair, but is so
clumsy that he slips the noose over his master’s head by
mistake, and drags him down. The stranger, seeing this, runs
away laughing with the two swords. Tarôkaja,
frightened at his blunder, runs off too, his master pursuing
him off the stage. A general run off, be it observed,
something like the “spill-and-pelt” scene in an English
pantomime, is the legitimate and invariable termination of
the Kiyôgen.

NOTE ON THE GAME OF FOOTBALL.

The game of football is in great favour at the Japanese
Court. The days on which it takes place are carefully noted in
the “Daijôkwan Nishi,” or Government Gazette. On the 25th
of February, 1869, for instance, we find two entries: “The
Emperor wrote characters of good omen,” and “The game of
football was played at the palace.” The game was first
introduced from China in the year of the Empress
Kôkiyoku, in the middle of the seventh century. The
Emperor Mommu, who reigned at the end of the same century, was
the first emperor who took part in the sport. His Majesty Toba
the Second became very expert at it, as also did the noble
Asukai Chiujo, and from that time a sort of football club was
formed at the palace. During the days of the extreme poverty of
the Mikado and his Court, the Asukai family, notwithstanding
their high rank, were wont to eke out their scanty income by
giving lessons in the art of playing
football.

THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON

The doughty deeds and marvellous experiences of Funakoshi
Jiuyémon are perhaps, like those of Robin Hood and his
Merry Men, rather traditional than historical; but even if all
or part of the deeds which popular belief ascribes to him be
false, his story conveys a true picture of manners and customs.
Above all, the manner of the vengeance which he wreaked upon
the wife who had dishonoured him, and upon her lover, shows the
high importance which the Japanese attach to the sanctity of
the marriage tie.

The 50th and 51st chapters of the “Legacy of
Iyéyasu,” already quoted, say: “If a married woman of
the agricultural, artisan, or commercial class shall secretly
have intercourse with another man, it is not necessary for the
husband to enter a complaint against the persons thus confusing
the great relation of mankind, but he may put them both to
death. Nevertheless, should he slay one of them and spare the
other, his guilt is the same as that of the unrighteous
persons.

“In the event, however, of advice being sought, the parties
not having been slain, accede to the wishes of the complainant
with, regard to putting them to death or not.

“Mankind, in whose bodies the male and female elements
induce a natural desire towards the same object, do not look
upon such practices with aversion; and the adjudication of such
cases is a matter of special deliberation and consultation.

“Men and women of the military class are expected to know
better than to occasion disturbance by violating existing
regulations; and such an one breaking the regulations by lewd,
trifling, or illicit intercourse shall at once be punished,
without deliberation or consultation. It is not the same in
this case as in that of agriculturists, artisans, and
traders.”

As a criminal offence, adultery was, according to the
ancient laws of Japan, punished by crucifixion. In more modern
times it has been punished by decapitation and the disgraceful
exposure of the head after death; but if the murder of the
injured husband accompany the crime of adultery, then the
guilty parties are crucified to this day. At the present time
the husband is no longer allowed to take the law into his own
hands: he must report the matter to the Government, and trust
to the State to avenge his honour.

Sacred as the marriage tie is so long as it lasts, the law
which [pg 92] cuts it is curiously facile,
or rather there is no law: a man may turn his wife out of
doors, as it may suit his fancy. An example of this practice
was shown in the story of “The Forty-seven Rônins.” A
husband has but to report the matter to his lord, and the
ceremony of divorce is completed. Thus, in the days of the
Shoguns’ power, a Hatamoto who had divorced his wife
reported the matter to the Shogun. A Daimio’s retainer
reports the matter to his Prince.

The facility of divorce, however, seems to be but rarely
taken advantage of: this is probably owing to the practice of
keeping concubines. It has often been asked, Are the Japanese
polygamists? The answer is, Yes and no. They marry but one
wife; but a man may, according to his station and means, have
one or more concubines in addition. The Emperor has twelve
concubines, called Kisaki; and Iyéyasu, alluding
forcibly to excess in this respect as teterrima belli
causa, laid down that the princes might have eight, high
officers five, and ordinary Samurai two handmaids. “In the
olden times,” he writes, “the downfall of castles and the
overthrow of kingdoms all proceeded from this alone. Why is not
the indulgence of passions guarded against?”

The difference between the position of the wife and that of
the concubine is marked. The legitimate wife is to the handmaid
as a lord is to his vassal. Concubinage being a legitimate
institution, the son of a handmaid is no bastard, nor is he in
any way the child of shame; and yet, as a general rule, the son
of the bondwoman is not heir with the son of the free, for the
son of the wife inherits before the son of a concubine, even
where the latter be the elder; and it frequently happens that a
noble, having children by his concubines but none by his wife,
selects a younger brother of his own, or even adopts the son of
some relative, to succeed him in the family honours. The family
line is considered to be thus more purely preserved. The law of
succession is, however, extremely lax. Excellent personal
merits will sometimes secure to the left-handed son the
inheritance of his ancestors; and it often occurs that the son
of a concubine, who is debarred from succeeding to his own
father, is adopted as the heir of a relation or friend of even
higher rank. When the wife of a noble has a daughter but no
son, the practice is to adopt a youth of suitable family and
age, who marries the girl and inherits as a son.

The principle of adoption is universal among all classes,
from the Emperor down to his meanest subject; nor is the family
line considered to have been broken because an adopted son has
succeeded to the estates. Indeed, should a noble die without
heir male, either begotten or adopted, his lands are forfeited
to the State. It is a matter of care that the person adopted
should be himself sprung from a stock of rank suited to that of
the family into which he is to be received.

Sixteen and upwards being considered the marriageable age
for a man, it is not usual for persons below that age to adopt
an heir; [pg 93] yet an infant at the point of
death may adopt a person older than himself, that the family
line may not become extinct.

An account of the marriage ceremony will be found in the
Appendix upon the subject.

In the olden time, in the island of
Shikoku⁴⁰
there lived one Funakoshi Jiuyémon, a brave Samurai
and accomplished man, who was in great favour with the
prince, his master. One day, at a drinking-bout, a quarrel
sprung up between him and a brother-officer, which resulted
in a duel upon the spot, in which Jiuyémon killed his
adversary. When Jiuyémon awoke to a sense of what he
had done, he was struck with remorse, and he thought to
disembowel himself; but, receiving a private summons from
his lord, he went to the castle, and the prince said to
him—

“So it seems that you have been getting drunk and
quarrelling, and that you have killed one of your friends; and
now I suppose you will have determined to perform
hara-kiri. It is a great pity, and in the face of the
laws I can do nothing for you openly. Still, if you will escape
and fly from this part of the country for a while, in two
years’ time the affair will have blown over, and I will allow
you to return.”

And with these words the prince presented him with a fine
sword, made by Sukésada,⁴¹
and a hundred ounces of silver, and, having bade him
farewell, entered his private apartments; and
Jiuyémon, prostrating himself, wept tears of
gratitude; then, taking the sword and the money, he went
home and prepared to fly from the province, and secretly
took leave of his relations, each of whom made him some
parting present. These gifts, together with his own money,
and what he had received from the prince, made up a sum of
two hundred and fifty ounces of silver, with which and his
Sukésada sword he escaped under cover of darkness,
and went to a sea-port called Marugamé, in the
province of Sanuki, where he proposed to wait for an
opportunity of setting sail for Osaka. As ill luck would
have it, the wind being contrary, he had to remain three
days idle; but at last the wind changed; so he went down to
the beach, thinking that he should certainly find a junk
about to sail; and as he was looking about him, a sailor
came up, and said—

“If your honour is minded to take a trip to Osaka, my ship
is bound thither, and I should be glad to take you with me as
passenger.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted. I will gladly take a
passage,” replied Jiuyémon, who was delighted at the
chance.

“Well, then, we must set sail at once, so please come on
board without delay.”

So Jiuyémon went with him and embarked; and as they
left the harbour and struck into the open sea, the moon was
just rising above the eastern hills, illumining the dark night
like a noonday sun; and Jiuyémon, taking his place in
the bows of the ship, stood wrapt in contemplation of the
beauty of the scene.

JIUYÉMON ON BOARD THE PIRATE SHIP.

Now it happened that the captain of the ship, whose name was
Akagôshi Kuroyémon, was a fierce pirate who,
attracted by Jiuyémon’s well-to-do appearance, had
determined to decoy him on board, that he might murder and rob
him; and while Jiuyémon was looking at the moon, the
pirate and his companions were collected in the stern of the
ship, taking counsel together in whispers as to how they might
slay him. He, on the other hand, having for some time past
fancied their conduct somewhat strange, bethought him that it
was not prudent to lay aside his sword, so he went towards the
place where he had been sitting, and had left his weapon lying,
to fetch it, when he was stopped by three of the pirates, who
blocked up the gangway, saying—

“Stop, Sir Samurai! Unluckily for you, this ship in which
you have taken a passage belongs to the pirate Akagôshi
Kuroyémon. Come, sir! whatever money you may chance to
have about you is our
prize.”

When Jiuyémon heard this he was greatly startled at
first, but soon recovered himself, and being an expert
wrestler, kicked over two of the pirates, and made for his
sword; but in the meanwhile Shichirohei, the younger brother of
the pirate captain, had drawn the sword, and brought it towards
him, saying—

“If you want your sword, here it is!” and with that he cut
at him; but Jiuyémon avoided the blow, and closing with
the ruffian, got back his sword. Ten of the pirates then
attacked him with spear and sword; but he, putting his back
against the bows of the ship, showed such good fight that he
killed three of his assailants, and the others stood off, not
daring to approach him. Then the pirate captain, Akagôshi
Kuroyémon, who had been watching the fighting from the
stern, seeing that his men stood no chance against
Jiuyémon’s dexterity, and that he was only losing them
to no purpose, thought to shoot him with a matchlock. Even
Jiuyémon, brave as he was, lost heart when he saw the
captain’s gun pointed at him, and tried to jump into the sea;
but one of the pirates made a dash at him with a boat-hook, and
caught him by the sleeve; then Jiuyémon, in despair,
took the fine Sukésada sword which he had received from
his prince, and throwing it at his captor, pierced him through
the breast so that he fell dead, and himself plunging into the
sea swam for his life. The pirate captain shot at him and
missed him, and the rest of the crew made every endeavour to
seize him with their boat-hooks, that they might avenge the
death of their mates; but it was all in vain, and
Jiuyémon, having shaken off his clothes that he might
swim the better, made good his escape. So the pirates threw the
bodies of their dead comrades into the sea, and the captain was
partly consoled for their loss by the possession of the
Sukésada sword with which one of them had been
transfixed.

As soon as Jiuyémon jumped over the ship’s side,
being a good swimmer, he took a long dive, which carried him
well out of danger, and struck out vigorously; and although he
was tired and distressed by his exertions, he braced himself up
to greater energy, and faced the waves boldly. At last, in the
far distance, to his great joy, he spied a light, for which he
made, and found that it was a ship carrying lanterns marked
with the badge of the governor of Osaka; so he hailed her,
saying—

“I have fallen into great trouble among pirates: pray rescue
me.”

“Who and what are you?” shouted an officer, some forty years
of age.

“My name is Funakoshi Jiuyémon, and I have
unwittingly fallen in with pirates this night. I have escaped
so far: I pray you save me, lest I die.”

“Hold on to this, and come up,” replied the other, holding
out the butt end of a spear to him, which he caught hold of and
clambered up the ship’s side. When the officer saw before him a
handsome gentleman, naked all but his loincloth, and with his
[pg 96] hair all in disorder, he
called to his servants to bring some of his own clothes,
and, having dressed him in them, said—

“What clan do you belong to, sir?”

“Sir, I am a Rônin, and was on my way to Osaka; but
the sailors of the ship on which I had embarked were pirates;”
and so he told the whole story of the fight and of his
escape.

“Well done, sir!” replied the other, astonished at his
prowess. “My name is Kajiki Tozayémon, at your service.
I am an officer attached to the governor of Osaka. Pray, have
you any friends in that city?”

“No, sir, I have no friends there; but as in two years I
shall be able to return to my own country, and re-enter my
lord’s service, I thought during that time to engage in trade
and live as a common wardsman.”

“Indeed, that’s a poor prospect! However, if you will allow
me, I will do all that is in my power to assist you. Pray
excuse the liberty I am taking in making such a proposal.”

Jiuyémon warmly thanked Kajiki Tozayémon for
his kindness; and so they reached Osaka without further
adventures.

Jiuyémon, who had secreted in his girdle the two
hundred and fifty ounces which he had brought with him from
home, bought a small house, and started in trade as a vendor of
perfumes, tooth-powder, combs, and other toilet articles; and
Kajiki Tozayémon, who treated him with great kindness,
and rendered him many services, prompted him, as he was a
single man, to take to himself a wife. Acting upon this advice,
he married a singing-girl, called O
Hiyaku.⁴²

Now this O Hiyaku, although at first she seemed very
affectionately disposed towards Jiuyémon, had been,
during the time that she was a singer, a woman of bad and
profligate character; and at this time there was in Osaka a
certain wrestler, named Takaségawa Kurobei, a very
handsome man, with whom O Hiyaku fell desperately in love; so
that at last, being by nature a passionate woman, she became
unfaithful to Jiuyémon. The latter, little suspecting
that anything was amiss, was in the habit of spending his
evenings at the house of his patron Kajiki Tozayémon,
whose son, a youth of eighteen, named Tônoshin, conceived
a great friendship for Jiuyémon, and used constantly to
invite him to play a game at checkers; and it was on these
occasions that O Hiyaku, profiting by her husband’s absence,
used to arrange her meetings with the wrestler
Takaségawa.

One evening, when Jiuyémon, as was his wont, had gone
out to play at checkers with Kajiki Tônoshin, O Hiyaku
took advantage of the occasion to go and fetch the wrestler,
and invite him to a little feast; and as they were enjoying
themselves over their wine, O Hiyaku said to him—

“Ah! Master Takaségawa, how wonderfully chance
favours us! and how pleasant these stolen interviews are! How
much nicer [pg 97] still it would be if we could
only be married. But, as long as Jiuyémon is in the
way, it is impossible; and that is my one cause of
distress.”

“It’s no use being in such a hurry. If you only have
patience, we shall be able to marry, sure enough. What you have
got to look out for now is, that Jiuyémon does not find
out what we are about. I suppose there is no chance of his
coming home to-night, is there?”

“Oh dear, no! You need not be afraid. He is gone to Kajiki’s
house to play checkers; so he is sure to spend the night
there.”

And so the guilty couple went on gossiping, with their minds
at ease, until at last they dropped off asleep.

In the meanwhile Jiuyémon, in the middle of his game
at checkers, was seized with a sudden pain in his stomach, and
said to Kajiki Tônoshin, “Young sir, I feel an
unaccountable pain in my stomach. I think I had better go home,
before it gets worse.”

“That is a bad job. Wait a little, and I will give you some
physic; but, at any rate, you had better spend the night
here.”

“Many thanks for your kindness,” replied Jiuyémon;
“but I had rather go home.”

So he took his leave, and went off to his own house, bearing
the pain as best he might. When he arrived in front of his own
door, he tried to open it; but the lock was fastened, and he
could not get in, so he rapped violently at the shutters to try
and awaken his wife. When O Hiyaku heard the noise, she woke
with a start, and roused the wrestler, saying to him in a
whisper—

“Get up! get up! Jiuyémon has come back. You must
hide as fast as possible.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” said the wrestler, in a great fright;
“here’s a pretty mess! Where on earth shall I hide myself?” and
he stumbled about in every direction looking for a
hiding-place, but found none.

Jiuyémon, seeing that his wife did not come to open
the door, got impatient at last, and forced it open by unfixing
the sliding shutter and, entering the house, found himself face
to face with his wife and her lover, who were both in such
confusion that they did not know what to do. Jiuyémon,
however, took no notice of them, but lit his pipe and sat
smoking and watching them in silence. At last the wrestler,
Takaségawa, broke the silence by saying—

“I thought, sir, that I should be sure to have the pleasure
of finding you at home this evening, so I came out to call upon
you. When I got here, the Lady O Hiyaku was so kind as to offer
me some wine; and I drank a little more than was good for me,
so that it got into my head, and I fell asleep. I must really
apologize for having taken such a liberty in your absence; but,
indeed, although appearances are against us, there has been
nothing wrong.”

“Certainly,” said O Hiyaku, coming to her lover’s support,
“Master Takaségawa is not at all to blame. It was I who
invited him to drink wine; so I hope you will excuse him.”

Jiuyémon sat pondering the matter over in his mind
for a moment, and then said to the wrestler, “You say that you
are innocent; but, of course, that is a lie. It’s no use trying
to conceal your fault. However, next year I shall, in all
probability, return to my own country, and then you may take O
Hiyaku and do what you will with her: far be it from me to care
what becomes of a woman with such a stinking heart.”

When the wrestler and O Hiyaku heard Jiuyémon say
this quite quietly, they could not speak, but held their peace
for very shame.

“Here, you Takaségawa,” pursued he; “you may stop
here to-night, if you like it, and go home to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the wrestler, “I am much obliged
to you; but the fact is, that I have some pressing business in
another part of the town, so, with your permission, I will take
my leave;” and so he went out, covered with confusion.

As for the faithless wife, O Hiyaku, she was in great
agitation, expecting to be severely reprimanded at least; but
Jiuyémon took no notice of her, and showed no anger;
only from that day forth, although she remained in his house as
his wife, he separated himself from her entirely.

Matters went on in this way for some time, until at last,
one fine day, O Hiyaku, looking out of doors, saw the wrestler
Takaségawa passing in the street, so she called out to
him—

“Dear me, Master Takaségawa, can that be you! What a
long time it is since we have met! Pray come in, and have a
chat.”

“Thank you, I am much obliged to you; but as I do not like
the sort of scene we had the other day, I think I had rather
not accept your invitation.”

“Pray do not talk in such a cowardly manner. Next year, when
Jiuyémon goes back to his own country, he is sure to
give me this house, and then you and I can marry and live as
happily as possible.”

“I don’t like being in too great a hurry to accept fair
offers.”⁴³

“Nonsense! There’s no need for showing such delicacy about
accepting what is given you.”

And as she spoke, she caught the wrestler by the hand and
led him into the house. After they had talked together for some
time, she said:—

“Listen to me, Master Takaségawa. I have been
thinking over all this for some time, and I see no help for it
but to kill Jiuyémon and make an end of him.”

“What do you want to do that for?”

“As long as he is alive, we cannot be married. What I
propose is that you should buy some poison, and I will put it
[pg 99] secretly into his food. When
he is dead, we can be happy to our hearts’ content.”

At first Takaségawa was startled and bewildered by
the audacity of their scheme; but forgetting the gratitude
which he owed to Jiuyémon for sparing his life on the
previous occasion, he replied:—

“Well, I think it can be managed. I have a friend who is a
physician, so I will get him to compound some poison for me,
and will send it to you. You must look out for a moment when
your husband is not on his guard, and get him to take it.”

Having agreed upon this, Takaségawa went away, and,
having employed a physician to make up the poison, sent it to O
Hiyaku in a letter, suggesting that the poison should be mixed
up with a sort of macaroni, of which Jiuyémon was very
fond. Having read the letter, she put it carefully away in a
drawer of her cupboard, and waited until Jiuyémon should
express a wish to eat some macaroni.

One day, towards the time of the New Year, when O Hiyaku had
gone out to a party with a few of her friends, it happened that
Jiuyémon, being alone in the house, was in want of some
little thing, and, failing to find it anywhere, at last
bethought himself to look for it in O Hiyaku’s cupboard; and as
he was searching amongst the odds and ends which it contained,
he came upon the fatal letter. When he read the scheme for
putting poison in his macaroni, he was taken aback, and said to
himself, “When I caught those two beasts in their wickedness I
spared them, because their blood would have defiled my sword;
and now they are not even grateful for my mercy. Their crime is
beyond all power of language to express, and I will kill them
together.”

So he put back the letter in its place, and waited for his
wife to come home. So soon as she made her appearance he
said—

“You have come home early, O Hiyaku. I feel very dull and
lonely this evening; let us have a little wine.”

And as he spoke without any semblance of anger, it never
entered O Hiyaku’s mind that he had seen the letter; so she
went about her household duties with a quiet mind.

The following evening, as Jiuyémon was sitting in his
shop casting up his accounts, with his
counting-board⁴⁴
in his hand, Takaségawa passed by, and
Jiuyémon called out to him, saying:—

“Well met, Takaségawa! I was just thinking of
drinking a cup of wine to-night; but I have no one to keep me
company, and it is dull work drinking alone. Pray come in, and
drink a bout with me.”

“Thank you, sir, I shall have much pleasure,” replied the
[pg 100] wrestler, who little
expected what the other was aiming at; and so he went in,
and they began to drink and feast.

“It’s very cold to-night,” said Jiuyémon, after a
while; “suppose we warm up a little macaroni, and eat it nice
and hot. Perhaps, however, you do not like it?”

“Indeed, I am very fond of it, on the contrary.”

“That is well. O Hiyaku, please go and buy a little for
us.”

“Directly,” replied his wife, who hurried off to buy the
paste, delighted at the opportunity for carrying out her
murderous design upon her husband. As soon she had prepared it,
she poured it into bowls and set it before the two men; but
into her husband’s bowl only she put poison. Jiuyémon,
who well knew what she had done, did not eat the mess at once,
but remained talking about this, that, and the other; and the
wrestler, out of politeness, was obliged to wait also. All of a
sudden, Jiuyémon cried out—

“Dear me! whilst we have been gossiping, the macaroni has
been getting cold. Let us put it all together and warm it up
again. As no one has put his lips to his bowl yet, it will all
be clean; so none need be wasted.” And with these words he took
the macaroni that was in the three bowls, and, pouring it
altogether into an iron pot, boiled it up again. This time
Jiuyémon served out the food himself, and, setting it
before his wife and the wrestler, said—

“There! make haste and eat it up before it gets cold.”

Jiuyémon, of course, did not eat any of the mess; and
the would-be murderers, knowing that sufficient poison had been
originally put into Jiuyémon’s bowl to kill them all
three, and that now the macaroni, having been well mixed up,
would all be poisoned, were quite taken aback, and did not know
what to do.

“Come! make haste, or it will be quite cold. You said you
liked it, so I sent to buy it on purpose. O Hiyaku! come and
make a hearty meal. I will eat some presently.”

At this the pair looked very foolish, and knew not what to
answer; at last the wrestler got up and said—

“I do not feel quite well. I must beg to take my leave; and,
if you will allow me, I will come and accept your hospitality
to-morrow instead.”

“Dear me! I am sorry to hear you are not well. However, O
Hiyaku, there will be all the more macaroni for you.”

As for O Hiyaku, she put a bold face upon the matter, and
replied that she had supped already, and had no appetite for
any more.

Then Jiuyémon, looking at them both with a scornful
smile, said—

“It seems that you, neither of you, care to eat this
macaroni; however, as you, Takaségawa, are unwell, I
will give you some excellent medicine;” and going to the
cupboard, he drew out the letter, and laid it before the
wrestler. When O Hiyaku and
[pg 102] the wrestler saw that their
wicked schemes had been brought to light, they were struck
dumb with shame.

Takaségawa, seeing that denial was useless, drew his
dirk and cut at Jiuyémon; but he, being nimble and
quick, dived under the wrestler’s arm, and seizing his right
hand from behind, tightened his grasp upon it until it became
numbed, and the dirk fell to the ground; for, powerful man as
the wrestler was, he was no match for Jiuyémon, who held
him in so fast a grip that he could not move. Then
Jiuyémon took the dirk which had fallen to the ground,
and said:—

“Oh! I thought that you, being a wrestler, would at least be
a strong man, and that there would be some pleasure in fighting
you; but I see that you are but a poor feckless creature, after
all. It would have defiled my sword to have killed such an
ungrateful hound with it; but luckily here is your own dirk,
and I will slay you with that.”

Takaségawa struggled to escape, but in vain; and O
Hiyaku, seizing a large kitchen knife, attacked
Jiuyémon; but he, furious, kicked her in the loins so
violently that she fell powerless, then brandishing the dirk,
he cleft the wrestler from the shoulder down to the nipple of
his breast, and the big man fell in his agony. O Hiyaku, seeing
this, tried to fly; but Jiuyémon, seizing her by the
hair of the head, stabbed her in the bosom, and, placing her by
her lover’s side, gave her the death-blow.

JIUYÉMON PUNISHES HIS WIFE AND THE WRESTLER.

On the following day, he sent in a report of what he had
done to the governor of Osaka, and buried the corpses; and from
that time forth he remained a single man, and pursued his trade
as a seller of perfumery and such-like wares; and his leisure
hours he continued to spend as before, at the house of his
patron, Kajiki Tozayémon.

One day, when Jiuyémon went to call upon Kajiki
Tozayémon, he was told by the servant-maid, who met him
at the door, that her master was out, but that her young
master, Tônoshin, was at home; so, saying that he would
go in and pay his respects to the young gentleman, he entered
the house; and as he suddenly pushed open the sliding-door of
the room in which Tônoshin was sitting, the latter gave a
great start, and his face turned pale and ghastly.

“How now, young sir!” said Jiuyémon, laughing at him,
“surely you are not such a coward as to be afraid because the
sliding-doors are opened? That is not the way in which a brave
Samurai should behave.”

“Really I am quite ashamed of myself,” replied the other,
blushing at the reproof; “but the fact is that I had some
reason for being startled. Listen to me, Sir Jiuyémon,
and I will tell you all about it. To-day, when I went to the
academy to study, there were a great number of my
fellow-students gathered together, and one of them said that a
ruinous old shrine, about two miles and a half to the east of
this place, was the nightly resort of all sorts of hobgoblins,
who have been playing pranks and
[pg 104] bewitching the people for
some time past; and he proposed that we should all draw
lots, and that the one upon whom the lot fell should go
to-night and exorcise those evil beings; and further that,
as a proof of his having gone, he should write his name upon
a pillar in the shrine. All the rest agreed that this would
be very good sport; so I, not liking to appear a coward,
consented to take my chance with the rest; and, as ill luck
would have it, the lot fell upon me. I was thinking over
this as you came in, and so it was that when you suddenly
opened the door, I could not help giving a start.”

“If you only think for a moment,” said Jiuyémon, “you
will see that there is nothing to fear. How can
beasts⁴⁵
and hobgoblins exercise any power over men? However, do not
let the matter trouble you. I will go in your place
to-night, and see if I cannot get the better of these
goblins, if any there be, having done which, I will write
your name upon the pillar, so that everybody may think that
you have been there.”

“Oh! thank you: that will indeed be a service. You can dress
yourself up in my clothes, and nobody will be the wiser. I
shall be truly grateful to you.”

So Jiuyémon having gladly undertaken the job, as soon
as the night set in made his preparations, and went to the
place indicated—an uncanny-looking, tumble-down, lonely
old shrine, all overgrown with moss and rank vegetation.
However, Jiuyémon, who was afraid of nothing, cared
little for the appearance of the place, and having made himself
as comfortable as he could in so dreary a spot, sat down on the
floor, lit his pipe, and kept a sharp look-out for the goblins.
He had not been waiting long before he saw a movement among the
bushes; and presently he was surrounded by a host of
elfish-looking creatures, of all shapes and kinds, who came and
made hideous faces at him. Jiuyémon quietly knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, and then, jumping up, kicked over first
one and then another of the elves, until several of them lay
sprawling in the grass; and the rest made off, greatly
astonished at this unexpected reception. When Jiuyémon
took his lantern and examined the fallen goblins attentively,
he saw that they were all Tônoshin’s fellow-students, who
had painted their faces, and made themselves hideous, to
frighten their companion, whom they knew to be a coward: all
they got for their pains, however, was a good kicking from
Jiuyémon, who left them groaning over their sore bones,
and went home chuckling to himself at the result of the
adventure.

FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON AND THE GOBLINS.

The fame of this exploit soon became noised about Osaka, so
that all men praised Jiuyémon’s courage; and shortly
after this he was elected chief of the
Otokodaté,⁴⁶
or friendly society of the wardsmen, and busied himself no
longer with his trade, but lived on the contributions of his
numerous apprentices.

Now Kajiki Tônoshin was in love with a singing girl
named [pg 105] Kashiku, upon whom he was
in the habit of spending a great deal of money. She,
however, cared nothing for him, for she had a sweetheart
named Hichirobei, whom she used to contrive to meet
secretly, although, in order to support her parents, she was
forced to become the mistress of Tônoshin. One
evening, when the latter was on guard at the office of his
chief, the Governor of Osaka, Kashiku sent word privately to
Hichirobei, summoning him to go to her house, as the coast
would be clear.

While the two were making merry over a little feast,
Tônoshin, who had persuaded a friend to take his duty for
him on the plea of urgent business, knocked at the door, and
Kashiku, in a great fright, hid her lover in a long
clothes-box, and went to let in Tônoshin, who, on
entering the room and seeing the litter of the supper lying
about, looked more closely, and perceived a man’s sandals, on
which, by the light of a candle, he saw the figure
seven.⁴⁷
Tônoshin had heard some ugly reports of Kashiku’s
proceedings with this man Hichirobei, and when he saw this
proof before his eyes he grew very angry; but he suppressed
his feelings, and, pointing to the wine-cups and bowls,
said:—

“Whom have you been feasting with to-night?”

“Oh!” replied Kashiku, who, notwithstanding her distress,
was obliged to invent an answer, “I felt so dull all alone
here, that I asked an old woman from next door to come in and
drink a cup of wine with me, and have a chat.”

All this while Tônoshin was looking for the hidden
lover; but, as he could not see him, he made up his mind that
Kashiku must have let him out by the back door; so he secreted
one of the sandals in his sleeve as evidence, and, without
seeming to suspect anything, said:—

“Well, I shall be very busy this evening, so I must go
home.”

“Oh! won’t you stay a little while? It is very dull here,
when I am all alone without you. Pray stop and keep me
company.”

But Tônoshin made no reply, and went home. Then
Kashiku saw that one of the sandals was missing, and felt
certain that he must have carried it off as proof; so she went
in great trouble to open the lid of the box, and let out
Hichirobei. When the two lovers talked over the matter, they
agreed that, as they both were really in love, let
Tônoshin kill them if he would, they would gladly die
together: they would enjoy the present; let the future take
care of itself.

The following morning Kashiku sent a messenger to
Tônoshin to implore his pardon; and he, being infatuated
by the girl’s charms, forgave her, and sent a present of thirty
ounces of silver to her lover, Hichirobei, on the condition
that he was never to see her again; but, in spite of this,
Kashiku and Hichirobei still continued their secret
meetings.

It happened that Hichirobei, who was a gambler by
profession, had an elder brother called Chôbei, who kept
a wine-shop [pg 106] in the Ajikawa Street, at
Osaka; so Tônoshin thought that he could not do better
than depute Jiuyémon to go and seek out this man
Chôbei, and urge him to persuade his younger brother
to give up his relations with Kashiku; acting upon this
resolution, he went to call upon Jiuyémon, and said
to him—

“Sir Jiuyémon, I have a favour to ask of you in
connection with that girl Kashiku, whom you know all about. You
are aware that I paid thirty ounces of silver to her lover
Hichirobei to induce him to give up going to her house; but, in
spite of this, I cannot help suspecting that they still meet
one another. It seems that this Hichirobei has an elder
brother—one Chôbei; now, if you would go to this
man and tell him to reprove his brother for his conduct, you
would be doing me a great service. You have so often stood my
friend, that I venture to pray you to oblige me in this matter,
although I feel that I am putting you to great
inconvenience.”

Jiuyémon, out of gratitude for the kindness which he
had received at the hands of Kajiki Tozayémon, was
always willing to serve Tônoshin; so he went at once to
find out Chôbei, and said to him—

“My name, sir, is Jiuyémon, at your service; and I
have come to beg your assistance in a matter of some
delicacy.”

“What can I do to oblige you, sir?” replied Chôbei,
who felt bound to be more than usually civil, as his visitor
was the chief of the Otokodaté.

“It is a small matter, sir,” said Jiuyémon. “Your
younger brother Hichirobei is intimate with a woman named
Kashiku, whom he meets in secret. Now, this Kashiku is the
mistress of the son of a gentleman to whom I am under great
obligation: he bought her of her parents for a large sum of
money, and, besides this, he paid your brother thirty ounces of
silver some time since, on condition of his separating himself
from the girl; in spite of this, it appears that your brother
continues to see her, and I have come to beg that you will
remonstrate with your brother on his conduct, and make him give
her up.”

“That I certainly will. Pray do not be uneasy; I will soon
find means to put a stop to my brother’s bad behaviour.”

And so they went on talking of one thing and another, until
Jiuyémon, whose eyes had been wandering about the room,
spied out a very long dirk lying on a cupboard, and all at once
it occurred to him that this was the very sword which had been
a parting gift to him from his lord: the hilt, the mountings,
and the tip of the scabbard were all the same, only the blade
had been shortened and made into a long dirk. Then he looked
more attentively at Chôbei’s features, and saw that he
was no other than Akagôshi Kuroyémon, the pirate
chief. Two years had passed by, but he could not forget that
face.

Jiuyémon would have liked to have arrested him at
once; but thinking that it would be a pity to give so vile a
robber a chance of escape, he constrained himself, and, taking
his leave, went [pg 107] straightway and reported
the matter to the Governor of Osaka. When the officers of
justice heard of the prey that awaited them, they made their
preparations forthwith. Three men of the secret police went
to Chôbei’s wine-shop, and, having called for wine,
pretended to get up a drunken brawl; and as Chôbei
went up to them and tried to pacify them, one of the
policemen seized hold of him, and another tried to pinion
him. It at once flashed across Chôbei’s mind that his
old misdeeds had come to light at last, so with a desperate
effort he shook off the two policemen and knocked them down,
and, rushing into the inner room, seized the famous
Sukésada sword and sprang upstairs. The three
policemen, never thinking that he could escape, mounted the
stairs close after him; but Chôbei with a terrible cut
cleft the front man’s head in sunder, and the other two fell
back appalled at their comrade’s fate. Then Chôbei
climbed on to the roof, and, looking out, perceived that the
house was surrounded on all sides by armed men. Seeing this,
he made up his mind that his last moment was come, but, at
any rate, he determined to sell his life dearly, and to die
fighting; so he stood up bravely, when one of the officers,
coming up from the roof of a neighbouring house, attacked
him with a spear; and at the same time several other
soldiers clambered up. Chôbei, seeing that he was
overmatched, jumped down, and before the soldiers below had
recovered from their surprise he had dashed through their
ranks, laying about him right and left, and cutting down
three men. At top speed he fled, with his pursuers close
behind him; and, seeing the broad river ahead of him, jumped
into a small boat that lay moored there, of which the
boatmen, frightened at the sight of his bloody sword, left
him in undisputed possession. Chôbei pushed off, and
sculled vigorously into the middle of the river; and the
officers—there being no other boat near—were for
a moment baffled. One of them, however, rushing down the
river bank, hid himself on a bridge, armed with. a spear,
and lay in wait for Chôbei to pass in his boat; but
when the little boat came up, he missed his aim, and only
scratched Chôbei’s elbow; and he, seizing the spear,
dragged down his adversary into the river, and killed him as
he was struggling in the water; then, sculling for his life,
he gradually drew near to the sea. The other officers in the
mean time had secured ten boats, and, having come up with
Chôbei, surrounded him; but he, having formerly been a
pirate, was far better skilled in the management of a boat
than his pursuers, and had no great difficulty in eluding
them; so at last he pushed out to sea, to the great
annoyance of the officers, who followed him closely.

Then Jiuyémon, who had come up, said to one of the
officers on the shore—

“Have you caught him yet?”

“No; the fellow is so brave and so cunning that our men can
do nothing with him.”

“He’s a determined ruffian, certainly. However, as the
fellow [pg 108] has got my sword, I mean to
get it back by fair means or foul: will you allow me to
undertake the job of seizing him?”

“Well, you may try; and you will have officers to assist
you, if you are in peril.”

Jiuyémon, having received this permission, stripped
off his clothes and jumped into the sea, carrying with him a
policeman’s mace, to the great astonishment of all the
bystanders. When he got near Chôbei’s boat, he dived and
came up alongside, without the pirate perceiving him until he
had clambered into the boat. Chôbei had the good
Sukésada sword, and Jiuyémon was armed with
nothing but a mace; but Chôbei, on the other hand, was
exhausted with his previous exertions, and was taken by
surprise at a moment when he was thinking of nothing but how he
should scull away from the pursuing boats; so it was not long
before Jiuyémon mastered and secured him.

For this feat, besides recovering his Sukésada sword,
Jiuyémon received many rewards and great praise from the
Governor of Osaka. But the pirate Chôbei was cast into
prison.

Hichirobei, when he heard of his brother’s capture, was away
from home; but seeing that he too would be sought for, he
determined to escape to Yedo at once, and travelled along the
Tôkaidô, the great highroad, as far as Kuana. But
the secret police had got wind of his movements, and one of
them was at his heels disguised as a beggar, and waiting for an
opportunity to seize him.

Hichirobei in the meanwhile was congratulating himself on
his escape; and, little suspecting that he would be in danger
so far away from Osaka, he went to a house of pleasure,
intending to divert himself at his ease. The policeman, seeing
this, went to the master of the house and said—

“The guest who has just come in is a notorious thief, and I
am on his track, waiting to arrest him. Do you watch for the
moment when he falls asleep, and let me know. Should he escape,
the blame will fall upon you.”

The master of the house, who was greatly taken aback,
consented of course; so he told the woman of the house to hide
Hichirobei’s dirk, and as soon as the latter, wearied with his
journey, had fallen asleep, he reported it to the policeman,
who went upstairs, and having bound Hichirobei as he lay
wrapped up in his quilt, led him back to Osaka to be imprisoned
with his brother.

When Kashiku became aware of her lover’s arrest, she felt
certain that it was the handiwork of Jiuyémon; so she
determined to kill him, were it only that she might die with
Hichirobei. So hiding a kitchen knife in the bosom of her
dress, she went at midnight to Jiuyémon’s house, and
looked all round to see if there were no hole or cranny by
which she might slip in unobserved; but every door was
carefully closed, so she was obliged to knock at the door and
feign an excuse.

“Let me in! let me in! I am a servant-maid in the house of
[pg 109] Kajiki Tozayémon,
and am charged with a letter on most pressing business to
Sir Jiuyémon.”

Hearing this, one of Jiuyémon’s servants, thinking
her tale was true, rose and opened the door; and Kashiku,
stabbing him in the face, ran past him into the house. Inside
she met another apprentice, who had got up, aroused by the
noise; him too she stabbed in the belly, but as he fell he
cried out to Jiuyémon, saying:—

“Father, father!⁴⁸
take care! Some murderous villain has broken into the
house.”

“GOKUMON.”

And Kashiku, desperate, stopped his further utterance by
cutting his throat. Jiuyémon, hearing his apprentice cry
out, jumped up, and, lighting his night-lamp, looked about him
in the half-gloom, and saw Kashiku with the bloody knife,
hunting for him that she might kill him. Springing upon her
before she saw him, he clutched her right hand, and, having
secured her, bound her with cords so that she could not move.
As soon as he had recovered from his surprise, he looked about
him, and searched the house, when, to his horror, he found one
of his apprentices dead, and the other lying bleeding from a
frightful gash across the face. With the first dawn of day, he
reported the affair to the proper authorities, and gave Kashiku
in custody. [pg 110] So, after due examination,
the two pirate brothers and the girl Kashiku were executed,
and their heads were exposed together.⁴⁹

Now the fame of all the valiant deeds of Jiuyémon
having reached his own country, his lord ordered that he should
be pardoned for his former offence, and return to his
allegiance; so, after thanking Kajiki Tozayémon for the
manifold favours which he had received at his hands, he went
home, and became a Samurai as before.

The fat wrestlers of Japan, whose heavy paunches and
unwieldy, puffy limbs, however much they may be admired by
their own country people, form a striking contrast to our
Western notions of training, have attracted some attention from
travellers; and those who are interested in athletic sports may
care to learn something about them.

The first historical record of wrestling occurs in the sixth
year of the Emperor Suinin (24 B.C.), when one Taima no
Kéhaya, a noble of great stature and strength, boasting
that there was not his match under heaven, begged the Emperor
that his strength might be put to the test. The Emperor
accordingly caused the challenge to be proclaimed; and one Nomi
no Shikuné answered it, and having wrestled with
Kéhaya, kicked him in the ribs and broke his bones, so
that he died. After this Shikuné was promoted to high
office, and became further famous in Japanese history as having
substituted earthen images for the living men who, before his
time, used to be buried with the coffin of the Mikado.

In the year A.D. 858 the throne of Japan was wrestled for.
The Emperor Buntoku had two sons, called Koréshito and
Korétaka, both of whom aspired to the throne. Their
claims were decided in a wrestling match, in which one
Yoshirô was the champion of Koréshito, and Natora
the champion of Korétaka. Natora having been defeated,
Koréshito ascended his father’s throne under the style
of Seiwa.

In the eighth century, when Nara was the capital of Japan,
the Emperor Shômu instituted wrestling as part of the
ceremonies of the autumn festival of the Five Grains, or
Harvest Home; and as the year proved a fruitful one, the custom
was continued as auspicious. The strong men of the various
provinces were collected, and one Kiyobayashi was proclaimed
the champion of Japan. Many a brave and stout man tried a throw
with him, but none could master him. Rules of the ring were now
drawn up; and in order to prevent disputes, Kiyobayashi was
appointed by the Emperor to be the judge of wrestling-matches,
and was presented, as a badge of his office, with a fan, upon
which were inscribed the words the “Prince of
Lions.”

The wrestlers were divided into wrestlers of the eastern and
of the western provinces, Omi being taken as the centre
province. The eastern wrestlers wore in their hair the badge of
the hollyhock; the western wrestlers took for their sign the
gourd-flower. Hence the passage leading up to the
wrestling-stage was called the “Flower Path.” Forty-eight
various falls were fixed upon as fair—twelve throws,
twelve lifts, twelve twists, and twelve throws over the back.
All other throws not included in these were foul, and it was
the duty of the umpire to see that no unlawful tricks were
resorted to. It was decided that the covered stage should be
composed of sixteen rice-bales, in the shape of one huge bale,
supported by four pillars at the four points of the compass,
each pillar being painted a different colour, thus, together
with certain paper pendants, making up five colours, to
symbolize the Five Grains.

CHAMPION WRESTLER.

The civil wars by which the country was disturbed for a
while put a stop to the practice of wrestling; but when peace
was restored it was proposed to re-establish the athletic
games, and the umpire Kiyobayashi, the “Prince of Lions,” was
sought for; but he had died or disappeared, and could not be
found, and there was no umpire forthcoming. The various
provinces were searched for a man who might fill his place, and
one Yoshida Iyétsugu, a Rônin of the province of
Echizen, being reported to be well versed in the noble science,
was sent for to the capital, and proved to be a pupil of
Kiyobayashi. The Emperor, having approved him, ordered that the
fan of the “Prince of Lions” should be made over to him, and
gave him the title of Bungo no Kami, and commanded that his
name in the ring should be Oi-Kazé, the “Driving Wind.”
Further, as a sign that there should
[pg 112] not be two styles of
wrestling, a second fan was given to him bearing the
inscription, “A single flavour is a beautiful custom.” The
right of acting as umpire in wrestling-matches was vested in
his family, that the “Driving Wind” might for future
generations preside over athletic sports. In ancient days,
the prizes for the three champion wrestlers were a bow, a
bowstring, and an arrow: these are still brought into the
ring, and, at the end of the bout, the successful
competitors go through a variety of antics with them.

To the champion wrestlers—to two or three men only in
a generation—the family of the “Driving Wind” awards the
privilege of wearing a rope-girdle. In the time of the
Shogunate these champions used to wrestle before the
Shogun.

At the beginning of the 17th century (A.D. 1606)
wrestling-matches, as forming a regular part of a religious
ceremony, were discontinued. They are still held, however, at
the shrines of Kamo, at Kiôto, and of Kasuga, in Yamato.
They are also held at Kamakura every year, and at the shrines
of the patron saints of the various provinces, in imitation of
the ancient customs.

In the year 1623 one Akashi Shiganosuké obtained
leave from the Government to hold public wrestling-matches in
the streets of Yedo. In the year 1644 was held the first
wrestling-match for the purpose of raising a collection for
building a temple. This was done by the priests of Kofukuji, in
Yamashiro. In the year 1660 the same expedient was resorted to
in Yedo, and the custom of getting up wrestling-matches for the
benefit of temple funds holds good to this day.

The following graphic description of a Japanese
wrestling-match is translated from the “Yedo
Hanjôki”:—

“From daybreak till eight in the morning a drum is beaten to
announce that there will be wrestling. The spectators rise
early for the sight. The adversaries having been settled, the
wrestlers enter the ring from the east and from the west. Tall
stalwart men are they, with sinews and bones of iron. Like the
Gods Niô,⁵⁰
they stand with their arms akimbo, and, facing one another,
they crouch in their strength. The umpire watches until the
two men draw their breath at the same time, and with his fan
gives the signal. They jump up and close with one another,
like tigers springing on their prey, or dragons playing with
a ball. Each is bent on throwing the other by twisting or by
lifting him. It is no mere trial of brute strength; it is a
tussle of skill against skill. Each of the forty-eight
throws is tried in turn. From left to right, and from right
to left, the umpire hovers about, watching for the victory
to declare itself. Some of the spectators back the east,
others back the west. The patrons of the ring are so excited
that they feel the strength tingling within them; they
clench their fists, and watch their men, without so much as
blinking their eyes. At last one man,
[pg 114] east or west, gains the
advantage, and the umpire lifts his fan in token of victory.
The plaudits of the bystanders shake the neighbourhood, and
they throw their clothes or valuables into the ring, to be
redeemed afterwards in money; nay, in his excitement, a man
will even tear off his neighbour’s jacket and throw it
in.”

A WRESTLING MATCH.

Before beginning their tussle, the wrestlers work up their
strength by stamping their feet and slapping their huge thighs.
This custom is derived from the following tale of the heroic or
mythological age:—

After the seven ages of the heavenly gods came the reign of
Tensho Daijin, the Sun Goddess, and first Empress of Japan. Her
younger brother, Sosanöô no Mikoto, was a mighty and
a brave hero, but turbulent, and delighted in hunting the deer
and the boar. After killing these beasts, he would throw their
dead bodies into the sacred hall of his sister, and otherwise
defile her dwelling. When he had done this several times, his
sister was angry, and hid in the cave called the Rock Gate of
Heaven; and when her face was not seen, there was no difference
between the night and the day. The heroes who served her,
mourning over this, went to seek her; but she placed a huge
stone in front of the cave, and would not come forth. The
heroes, seeing this, consulted together, and danced and played
antics before the cave to lure her out. Tempted by curiosity to
see the sight, she opened the gate a little and peeped out.
Then the hero Tajikaraô, or “Great Strength,” clapping
his hands and stamping his feet, with a great effort grasped
and threw down the stone door, and the heroes fetched back the
Sun Goddess.⁵¹
As Tajikaraô is the patron god of Strength, wrestlers,
on entering the ring, still commemorate his deed by clapping
their hands and stamping their feet as a preparation for
putting forth their strength.

The great Daimios are in the habit of attaching wrestlers to
their persons, and assigning to them a yearly portion of rice.
It is usual for these athletes to take part in funeral or
wedding processions, and to escort the princes on journeys. The
rich wardsmen or merchants give money to their favourite
wrestlers, and invite them to their houses to drink wine and
feast. Though low, vulgar fellows, they are allowed something
of the same familiarity which is accorded to prize-fighters,
jockeys, and the like, by their patrons in our own country.

The Japanese wrestlers appear to have no regular system of
training; they harden their naturally powerful limbs by much
beating, and by butting at wooden posts with their shoulders.
Their diet is stronger than that of the ordinary Japanese, who
rarely touch meat.

THE ETA MAIDEN AND THE HATAMOTO

It will be long before those who were present at the newly
opened port of Kôbé on the 4th of February, 1868,
will forget that day. The civil war was raging, and the foreign
Legations, warned by the flames of burning villages, no less
than by the flight of the Shogun and his ministers, had left
Osaka, to take shelter at Kôbé, where they were
not, as at the former place, separated from their ships by more
than twenty miles of road, occupied by armed troops in a high
state of excitement, with the alternative of crossing in
tempestuous weather a dangerous bar, which had already taken
much valuable life. It was a fine winter’s day, and the place
was full of bustle, and of the going and coming of men busy
with the care of housing themselves and their goods and
chattels. All of a sudden, a procession of armed men, belonging
to the Bizen clan, was seen to leave the town, and to advance
along the high road leading to Osaka; and without apparent
reason—it was said afterwards that two Frenchmen had
crossed the line of march—there was a halt, a stir, and a
word of command given. Then the little clouds of white smoke
puffed up, and the sharp “ping” of the rifle bullets came
whizzing over the open space, destined for a foreign
settlement, as fast as the repeating breech-loaders could be
discharged. Happily, the practice was very bad; for had the men
of Bizen been good shots, almost all the principal foreign
officials in the country, besides many merchants and private
gentlemen, must have been killed: as it was, only two or three
men were wounded. If they were bad marksmen, however, they were
mighty runners; for they soon found that they had attacked a
hornets’ nest. In an incredibly short space of time, the guards
of the different Legations and the sailors and marines from the
ships of war were in hot chase after the enemy, who were
scampering away over the hills as fast as their legs could
carry them, leaving their baggage ingloriously scattered over
the road, as many a cheap lacquered hat and flimsy paper
cartridge-box, preserved by our Blue Jackets as trophies, will
testify. So good was the stampede, that the enemy’s loss
amounted only to one aged coolie, who, being too decrepit to
run, was taken prisoner, after having had seventeen revolver
shots fired at him without effect; and the only injury that our
men inflicted was upon a solitary old woman, who was accidently
shot through the leg.

If it had not been for the serious nature of the offence
given, which was an attack upon the flags of all the treaty
Powers, and for the terrible retribution which was of necessity
exacted, [pg 116] the whole affair would have
been recollected chiefly for the ludicrous events which it
gave rise to. The mounted escort of the British Legation
executed a brilliant charge of cavalry down an empty road; a
very pretty line of skirmishers along the fields fired away
a great deal of ammunition with no result; earthworks were
raised, and Kôbé was held in military
occupation for three days, during which there were alarms,
cutting-out expeditions with armed boats, steamers seized,
and all kinds of martial effervescence. In fact, it was like
fox-hunting: it had “all the excitement of war, with only
ten per cent. of the danger.”

The first thought of the kind-hearted doctor of the British
Legation was for the poor old woman who had been wounded, and
was bemoaning herself piteously. When she was carried in, a
great difficulty arose, which, I need hardly say, was overcome;
for the poor old creature belonged to the Etas, the Pariah
race, whose presence pollutes the house even of the poorest and
humblest Japanese; and the native servants strongly objected to
her being treated as a human being, saying that the Legation
would be for ever defiled if she were admitted within its
sacred precincts. No account of Japanese society would be
complete without a notice of the Etas; and the following story
shows well, I think, the position which they hold.

Their occupation is to slay beasts, work leather, attend
upon criminals, and do other degrading work. Several accounts
are given of their origin; the most probable of which is, that
when Buddhism, the tenets of which forbid the taking of life,
was introduced, those who lived by the infliction of death
became accursed in the land, their trade being made hereditary,
as was the office of executioner in some European countries.
Another story is, that they are the descendants of the Tartar
invaders left behind by Kublai Khan. Some further facts
connected with the Etas are given in a note at the end of the
tale.

Once upon a time, some two hundred years ago, there lived at
a place called Honjô, in Yedo, a Hatamoto named Takoji
Genzaburô; his age was about twenty-four or twenty-five,
and he was of extraordinary personal beauty. His official
duties made it incumbent on him to go to the Castle by way of
the Adzuma Bridge, and here it was that a strange adventure
befel him. There was a certain Eta, who used to earn his living
by going out every day to the Adzuma Bridge, and mending the
sandals of the passers-by. Whenever Genzaburô crossed the
bridge, the Eta used always to bow to him. This struck him as
rather strange; but one day when Genzaburô was out alone,
without any retainers following him, and was passing the Adzuma
Bridge, the thong of his sandal suddenly broke: this annoyed
him very much; however, he recollected the Eta cobbler who
always used to bow to him so regularly, so he went to the place
where he usually sat, and ordered him to mend his sandal,
saying to him:
[pg 118] “Tell me why it is that
every time that I pass by this bridge, you salute me so
respectfully.”

GENZABURÔ’S MEETING WITH THE ETA MAIDEN.

When the Eta heard this, he was put out of countenance, and
for a while he remained silent; but at last taking courage, he
said to Genzaburô, “Sir, having been honoured with your
commands, I am quite put to shame. I was originally a gardener,
and used to go to your honour’s house and lend a hand in
trimming up the garden. In those days your honour was very
young, and I myself little better than a child; and so I used
to play with your honour, and received many kindnesses at your
hands. My name, sir, is Chokichi. Since those days I have
fallen by degrees info dissolute habits, and little by little
have sunk to be the vile thing that you now see me.”

When Genzaburô heard this he was very much surprised,
and, recollecting his old friendship for his playmate, was
filled with pity, and said, “Surely, surely, you have fallen
very low. Now all you have to do is to presevere and use your
utmost endeavours to find a means of escape from the class into
which you have fallen, and become a wardsman again. Take this
sum: small as it is, let it be a foundation for more to you.”
And with these words he took ten riyos out of his pouch and
handed them to Chokichi, who at first refused to accept the
present, but, when it was pressed upon him, received it with
thanks. Genzaburô was leaving him to go home, when two
wandering singing-girls came up and spoke to Chokichi; so
Genzaburô looked to see what the two women were like. One
was a woman of some twenty years of age, and the other was a
peerlessly beautiful girl of sixteen; she was neither too fat
nor too thin, neither too tall nor too short; her face was
oval, like a melon-seed, and her complexion fair and white; her
eyes were narrow and bright, her teeth small and even; her nose
was aquiline, and her mouth delicately formed, with lovely red
lips; her eyebrows were long and fine; she had a profusion of
long black hair; she spoke modestly, with a soft sweet voice;
and when she smiled, two lovely dimples appeared in her cheeks;
in all her movements she was gentle and refined.
Genzaburô fell in love with her at first sight; and she,
seeing what a handsome man he was, equally fell in love with
him; so that the woman that was with her, perceiving that they
were struck with one another, led her away as fast as
possible.

Genzaburô remained as one stupefied, and, turning to
Chokichi, said, “Are you acquainted with those two women who
came up just now?”

“Sir,” replied Chokichi, “those are two women of our people.
The elder woman is called O Kuma, and the girl, who is only
sixteen years old, is named O Koyo. She is the daughter of one
Kihachi, a chief of the Etas. She is a very gentle girl,
besides being so exceedingly pretty; and all our people are
loud in her praise.”

When he heard this, Genzaburô remained lost in thought
for a while, and then said to Chokichi, “I want you to do
something [pg 119] for me. Are you prepared to
serve me in whatever respect I may require you?”

Chokichi answered that he was prepared to do anything in his
power to oblige his honour. Upon this Genzaburô smiled
and said, “Well, then, I am willing to employ you in a certain
matter; but as there are a great number of passers-by here, I
will go and wait for you in a tea-house at Hanakawado; and when
you have finished your business here, you can join me, and I
will speak to you.” With these words Genzaburô left him,
and went off to the tea-house.

When Chokichi had finished his work, he changed his clothes,
and, hurrying to the tea-house, inquired for Genzaburô,
who was waiting for him upstairs. Chokichi went up to him, and
began to thank him for the money which he had bestowed upon
him. Genzaburô smiled, and handed him a wine-cup,
inviting him to drink, and said—

“I will tell you the service upon which I wish to employ
you. I have set my heart upon that girl O Koyo, whom I met
to-day upon the Adzuma Bridge, and you must arrange a meeting
between us.”

When Chokichi heard these words, he was amazed and
frightened, and for a while he made no answer. At last he
said—-

“Sir, there is nothing that I would not do for you after the
favours that I have received from you. If this girl were the
daughter of any ordinary man, I would move heaven and earth to
comply with your wishes; but for your honour, a handsome and
noble Hatamoto, to take for his concubine the daughter of an
Eta is a great mistake. By giving a little money you can get
the handsomest woman in the town. Pray, sir, abandon the
idea.”

Upon this Genzaburô was offended, and said—

“This is no matter for you to give advice in. I have told
you to get me the girl, and you must obey.”

Chokichi, seeing that all that he could say would be of no
avail, thought over in his mind how to bring about a meeting
between Genzaburô and O Koyo, and replied—

“Sir, I am afraid when I think of the liberty that I have
taken. I will go to Kihachi’s house, and will use my best
endeavours with him that I may bring the girl to you. But for
to-day, it is getting late, and night is coming on; so I will
go and speak to her father to-morrow.”

Genzaburô was delighted to find Chokichi willing to
serve him.

“Well,” said he, “the day after to-morrow I will await you
at the tea-house at Oji, and you can bring O Koyo there. Take
this present, small as it is, and do your best for me.”

With this he pulled out three riyos from his pocket and
handed them to Chokichi. who declined the money with thanks,
saying that he had already received too much, and could accept
no more; but Genzaburô pressed him, adding, that if the
wish of his [pg 120] heart were accomplished he
would do still more for him. So Chokichi, in great glee at
the good luck which had befallen him, began to revolve all
sorts of schemes in his mind; and the two parted.

But O Koyo, who had fallen in love at first sight with
Genzaburô on the Adzuma Bridge, went home and could think
of nothing but him. Sad and melancholy she sat, and her friend
O Kuma tried to comfort her in various ways; but O Koyo
yearned, with all her heart, for Genzaburô; and the more
she thought over the matter, the better she perceived that she,
as the daughter of an Eta, was no match for a noble Hatamoto.
And yet, in spite of this, she pined for him, and bewailed her
own vile condition.

Now it happened that her friend O Kuma was in love with
Chokichi, and only cared for thinking and speaking of him; one
day, when Chokichi went to pay a visit at the house of Kihachi
the Eta chief, O Kuma, seeing him come, was highly delighted,
and received him very politely; and Chokichi, interrupting her,
said—

“O Kuma, I want you to answer me a question: where has O
Koyo gone to amuse herself to-day?”

“Oh, you know the gentleman who was talking with you the
other day, at the Adzuma Bridge? Well, O Koyo has fallen
desperately in love with him, and she says that she is too
low-spirited and out of sorts to get up yet.”

Chokichi was greatly pleased to hear this, and said to O
Kuma—

“How delightful! Why, O Koyo has fallen in love with the
very gentleman who is burning with passion for her, and who has
employed me to help him in the matter. However, as he is a
noble Hatamoto, and his whole family would be ruined if the
affair became known to the world, we must endeavour to keep it
as secret as possible.”

“Dear me!” replied O Kuma; “when O Koyo hears this, how
happy she will be, to be sure! I must go and tell her at
once.”

“Stop!” said Chokichi, detaining her; “if her father, Master
Kihachi, is willing, we will tell O Koyo directly. You had
better wait here a little until I have consulted him;” and with
this he went into an inner chamber to see Kihachi; and, after
talking over the news of the day, told him how Genzaburô
had fallen passionately in love with O Koyo, and had employed
him as a go-between. Then he described how he had received
kindness at the hands of Genzaburô when he was in better
circumstances, dwelt on the wonderful personal beauty of his
lordship, and upon the lucky chance by which he and O Koyo had
come to meet each other.

When Kihachi heard this story, he was greatly flattered, and
said—

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you. For one of our
[pg 121] daughters, whom even the
common people despise and shun as a pollution, to be chosen
as the concubine of a noble Hatamoto—what could be a
greater matter for congratulation!”

So he prepared a feast for Chokichi, and went off at once to
tell O Koyo the news. As for the maiden, who had fallen over
head and ears in love, there was no difficulty in obtaining her
consent to all that was asked of her.

Accordingly Chokichi, having arranged to bring the lovers
together on the following day at Oji, was preparing to go and
report the glad tidings to Genzaburô; but O Koyo, who
knew that her friend O Kuma was in love with Chokichi, and
thought that if she could throw them into one another’s arms,
they, on their side, would tell no tales about herself and
Genzaburô, worked to such good purpose that she gained
her point. At last Chokichi, tearing himself from the embraces
of O Kuma, returned to Genzaburô, and told him how he had
laid his plans so as, without fail, to bring O Koyo to him, the
following day, at Oji, and Genzaburô, beside himself with
impatience, waited for the morrow.

The next day Genzaburô, having made his preparations,
and taking Chokichi with him, went to the tea-house at Oji, and
sat drinking wine, waiting for his sweetheart to come.

As for O Koyo, who was half in ecstasies, and half shy at
the idea of meeting on this day the man of her heart’s desire,
she put on her holiday clothes, and went with O Kuma to Oji;
and as they went out together, her natural beauty being
enhanced by her smart dress, all the people turned round to
look at her, and praise her pretty face. And so after a while,
they arrived at Oji, and went into the tea-house that had been
agreed upon; and Chokichi, going out to meet them,
exclaimed—

“Dear me, Miss O Koyo, his lordship has been all impatience
waiting for you: pray make haste and come in.”

But, in spite of what he said, O Koyo, on account of her
virgin modesty, would not go in. O Kuma, however, who was not
quite so particular, cried out—

“Why, what is the meaning of this? As you’ve come here, O
Koyo, it’s a little late for you to be making a fuss about
being shy. Don’t be a little fool, but come in with me at
once.” And with these words she caught fast hold of O Koyo’s
hand, and, pulling her by force into the room, made her sit
down by Genzaburô.

When Genzaburô saw how modest she was, he reassured
her, saying—

“Come, what is there to be so shy about? Come a little
nearer to me, pray.”

“Thank you, sir. How could I, who am such a vile thing,
pollute your nobility by sitting by your side?” And, as she
spoke, the blushes mantled over her face; and the more
Genzaburô looked at her, the more beautiful she appeared
in his eyes, and the more deeply he became enamoured of her
charms. In the meanwhile he called for wine and fish, and all
four together [pg 122] made a feast of it. When
Chokichi and O Kuma saw how the land lay, they retired
discreetly into another chamber, and Genzaburô and O
Koyo were left alone together, looking at one another.

“Come,” said Genzaburô, smiling, “hadn’t you better
sit a little closer to me?”

“Thank you, sir; really I’m afraid.”

But Genzaburô, laughing at her for her idle fears,
said—

“Don’t behave as if you hated me.”

“Oh, dear! I’m sure I don’t hate you, sir. That would be
very rude; and, indeed, it’s not the case. I loved you when I
first saw you at the Adzuma Bridge, and longed for you with all
my heart; but I knew what a despised race I belonged to, and
that I was no fitting match for you, and so I tried to be
resigned. But I am very young and inexperienced, and so I could
not help thinking of you, and you alone; and then Chokichi
came, and when I heard what you had said about me, I thought,
in the joy of my heart, that it must be a dream of
happiness.”

And as she spoke these words, blushing timidly,
Genzaburô was dazzled with her beauty, and
said—-

“Well, you’re a clever child. I’m sure, now, you must have
some handsome young lover of your own, and that is why you
don’t care to come and drink wine and sit by me. Am I not
right, eh?”

“Ah, sir, a nobleman like you is sure to have a beautiful
wife at home; and then you are so handsome that, of course, all
the pretty young ladies are in love with you.”

“Nonsense! Why, how clever you are at flattering and paying
compliments! A pretty little creature like you was just made to
turn all the men’s heads—a little witch.”

“Ah! those are hard things to say of a poor girl! Who could
think of falling in love with such a wretch as I am? Now, pray
tell me all about your own sweetheart: I do so long to hear
about her.”

“Silly child! I’m not the sort of man to put thoughts into
the heads of fair ladies. However, it is quite true that there
is some one whom I want to marry.”

At this O Koyo began to feel jealous.

“Ah!” said she, “how happy that some one must be! Do, pray,
tell me the whole story.” And a feeling of jealous spite came
over her, and made her quite unhappy.

Genzaburô laughed as he answered—

“Well, that some one is yourself, and nobody else. There!”
and as he spoke, he gently tapped the dimple on her cheek with
his finger; and O Koyo’s heart beat so, for very joy, that, for
a little while, she remained speechless. At last she turned her
face towards Genzaburô, and said—

“Alas! your lordship is only trifling with me, when you know
that what you have just been pleased to propose is the darling
wish of my heart. Would that I could only go into your house
[pg 123] as a maid-servant, in any
capacity, however mean, that I might daily feast my eyes on
your handsome face!”

“Ah! I see that you think yourself very clever at hoaxing
men, and so you must needs tease me a little;” and, as he
spoke, he took her hand, and drew her close up to him, and she,
blushing again, cried—

“Oh! pray wait a moment, while I shut the
sliding-doors.”

“Listen to me, O Koyo! I am not going to forget the promise
which I made you just now; nor need you be afraid of my harming
you; but take care that you do not deceive me.”

“Indeed, sir, the fear is rather that you should set your
heart on others; but, although I am no fashionable lady, take
pity on me, and love me well and long.”

“Of course! I shall never care for another woman but
you.”

“Pray, pray, never forget those words that you have just
spoken.”

“And now,” replied Genzaburô, “the night is advancing,
and, for to-day, we must part; but we will arrange matters, so
as to meet again in this tea-house. But, as people would make
remarks if we left the tea-house together, I will go out
first.”

And so, much against their will, they tore themselves from
one another, Genzaburô returning to his house, and O Koyo
going home, her heart filled with joy at having found the man
for whom she had pined; and from that day forth they used
constantly to meet in secret at the tea-house; and
Genzaburô, in his infatuation, never thought that the
matter must surely become notorious after a while, and that he
himself would be banished, and his family ruined: he only took
care for the pleasure of the moment.

Now Chokichi, who had brought about the meeting between
Genzaburô and his love, used to go every day to the
tea-house at Oji, taking with him O Koyo; and Genzaburô
neglected all his duties for the pleasure of these secret
meetings. Chokichi saw this with great regret, and thought to
himself that if Genzaburô gave himself up entirely to
pleasure, and laid aside his duties, the secret would certainly
be made public, and Genzaburô would bring ruin on himself
and his family; so he began to devise some plan by which he
might separate them, and plotted as eagerly to estrange them as
he had formerly done to introduce them to one another.

At last he hit upon a device which satisfied him.
Accordingly one day he went to O Koyo’s house, and, meeting her
father Kihachi, said to him—

“I’ve got a sad piece of news to tell you. The family of my
lord Genzaburô have been complaining bitterly of his
conduct in carrying on his relationship with your daughter, and
of the ruin which exposure would bring upon the whole house; so
they have been using their influence to persuade him to hear
reason, and give up the connection. Now his lordship feels
deeply for the damsel, and yet he cannot sacrifice his family
for her sake. For the first time, he has become alive to the
folly of which he has [pg 124] been guilty, and, full of
remorse, he has commissioned me to devise some stratagem to
break off the affair. Of course, this has taken me by
surprise; but as there is no gainsaying the right of the
case, I have had no option but to promise obedience: this
promise I have come to redeem; and now, pray, advise your
daughter to think no more of his lordship.”

When Kihachi heard this he was surprised and distressed, and
told O Koyo immediately; and she, grieving over the sad news,
took no thought either of eating or drinking, but remained
gloomy and desolate.

In the meanwhile, Chokichi went off to Genzaburô’s
house, and told him that O Koyo had been taken suddenly ill,
and could not go to meet him, and begged him to wait patiently
until she should send to tell him of her recovery.
Genzaburô, never suspecting the story to be false, waited
for thirty days, and still Chokichi brought him no tidings of O
Koyo. At last he met Chokichi, and besought him to arrange a
meeting for him with O Koyo.

“Sir,” replied Chokichi, “she is not yet recovered; so it
would be difficult to bring her to see your honour. But I have
been thinking much about this affair, sir. If it becomes
public, your honour’s family will be plunged in ruin. I pray
you, sir, to forget all about O Koyo.”

“It’s all very well for you to give me advice,” answered
Genzaburô, surprised; “but, having once bound myself to O
Koyo, it would be a pitiful thing to desert her; I therefore
implore you once more to arrange that I may meet her.”

However, he would not consent upon any account; so
Genzaburô returned home, and, from that time forth, daily
entreated Chokichi to bring O Koyo to him, and, receiving
nothing but advice from him in return, was very sad and
lonely.

One day Genzaburô, intent on ridding himself of the
grief he felt at his separation from O Koyo, went to the
Yoshiwara, and, going into a house of entertainment, ordered a
feast to be prepared, but, in the midst of gaiety, his heart
yearned all the while for his lost love, and his merriment was
but mourning in disguise. At last the night wore on; and as he
was retiring along the corridor, he saw a man of about forty
years of age, with long hair, coming towards him, who, when he
saw Genzaburô, cried out, “Dear me! why this must be my
young lord Genzaburô who has come out to enjoy
himself.”

Genzaburô thought this rather strange; but, looking at
the man attentively, recognized him as a retainer whom he had
had in his employ the year before, and said—

“This is a curious meeting: pray, what have you been about
since you left my service? At any rate, I may congratulate you
on being well and strong. Where are you living now?”

“Well, sir, since I parted from you I have been earning a
living as a fortune-teller at Kanda, and have changed my name
to Kaji Sazen. I am living in a poor and humble house; but
[pg 125] if your lordship, at your
leisure, would honour me with a visit—”

“Well, it’s a lucky chance that has brought us together, and
I certainly will go and see you; besides, I want you to do
something for me. Shall you be at home the day after
to-morrow?”

“Certainly, sir, I shall make a point of being at home.”

“Very well, then, the day after to-morrow I will go to your
house.”

“I shall be at your service, sir. And now, as it is getting
late, I will take my leave for to-night.”

“Good night, then. We shall meet the day after to-morrow.”
And so the two parted, and went their several ways to rest.

On the appointed day Genzaburô made his preparations,
and went in disguise, without any retainers, to call upon
Sazen, who met him at the porch of his house, and said, “This
is a great honour! My lord Genzaburô is indeed welcome.
My house is very mean, but let me invite your lordship to come
into an inner chamber.”

“Pray,” replied Genzaburô, “don’t make any ceremony
for me. Don’t put yourself to any trouble on my account.”

And so he passed in, and Sazen called to his wife to prepare
wine and condiments; and they began to feast. At last
Genzaburô, looking Sazen in the face, said, “There is a
service which I want you to render me—a very secret
service; but as if you were to refuse me, I should be put to
shame, before I tell you what that service is, I must know
whether you are willing to assist me in anything that I may
require of you.”

“Yes; if it is anything that is within my power, I am at
your disposal.”

“Well, then,” said Genzaburô, greatly pleased, and
drawing ten riyos from his bosom, “this is but a small present
to make to you on my first visit, but pray accept it.”

“No, indeed! I don’t know what your lordship wishes of me;
but, at any rate, I cannot receive this money. I really must
beg your lordship to take it back again.”

But Genzaburô pressed it upon him by force, and at
last he was obliged to accept the money. Then Genzaburô
told him the whole story of his loves with O Koyo—how he
had first met her and fallen in love with her at the Adzuma
Bridge; how Chokichi had introduced her to him at the tea-house
at Oji, and then when she fell ill, and he wanted to see her
again, instead of bringing her to him, had only given him good
advice; and so Genzaburô drew a lamentable picture of his
state of despair.

Sazen listened patiently to his story, and, after reflecting
for a while, replied, “Well, sir, it’s not a difficult matter
to set right: and yet it will require some little management.
However, if your lordship will do me the honour of coming to
see me again the day after to-morrow, I will cast about me in
the meanwhile, and will let you know then the result of my
deliberations.”

When Genzaburô heard this he felt greatly relieved,
and, [pg 126] recommending Sazen to do
his best in the matter, took his leave and returned home.
That very night Sazen, after thinking over all that
Genzaburô had told him, laid his plans accordingly,
and went off to the house of Kihachi, the Eta chief, and
told him the commission with which he had been
entrusted.

Kihachi was of course greatly astonished, and said, “Some
time ago, sir, Chokichi came here and said that my lord
Genzaburô, having been rebuked by his family for his
profligate behaviour, had determined to break off his
connection with my daughter. Of course I knew that the daughter
of an Eta was no fitting match for a nobleman; so when Chokichi
came and told me the errand upon which he had been sent, I had
no alternative but to announce to my daughter that she must
give up all thought of his lordship. Since that time she has
been fretting and pining and starving for love. But when I tell
her what you have just said, how glad and happy she will be!
Let me go and talk to her at once.” And with these words, he
went to O Koyo’s room; and when he looked upon her thin wasted
face, and saw how sad she was, he felt more and more pity for
her, and said, “Well, O Koyo, are you in better spirits to-day?
Would you like something to eat?”

“Thank you, I have no appetite.”

“Well, at any rate, I have some news for you that will make
you happy. A messenger has come from my lord Genzaburô,
for whom your heart yearns.”

At this O Koyo, who had been crouching down like a drooping
flower, gave a great start, and cried out, “Is that really
true? Pray tell me all about it as quickly as possible.”

“The story which Chokichi came and told us, that his
lordship wished to break off the connection, was all an
invention. He has all along been wishing to meet you, and
constantly urged Chokichi to bring you a message from him. It
is Chokichi who has been throwing obstacles in the way. At last
his lordship has secretly sent a man, called Kaji Sazen, a
fortune-teller, to arrange an interview between you. So now, my
child, you may cheer up, and go to meet your lover as soon as
you please.”

When O Koyo heard this, she was so happy that she thought it
must all be a dream, and doubted her own senses.

Kihachi in the meanwhile rejoined Sazen in the other room,
and, after telling him of the joy with which his daughter had
heard the news, put before him wine and other delicacies. “I
think,” said Sazen, “that the best way would be for O Koyo to
live secretly in my lord Genzaburô’s house; but as it
will never do for all the world to know of it, it must be
managed very quietly; and further, when I get home, I must
think out some plan to lull the suspicions of that fellow
Chokichi, and let you know my idea by letter. Meanwhile O Koyo
had better come home with me to-night: although she is so
terribly out of spirits now, she shall meet Genzaburô the
day after to-morrow.”

Kihachi reported this to O Koyo; and as her pining for
[pg 127] Genzaburô was the
only cause of her sickness, she recovered her spirits at
once, and, saying that she would go with Sazen immediately,
joyfully made her preparations. Then Sazen, having once more
warned Kihachi to keep the matter secret from Chokichi, and
to act upon the letter which he should send him, returned
home, taking with him O Koyo; and after O Koyo had bathed
and dressed her hair, and painted herself and put on
beautiful clothes, she came out looking so lovely that no
princess in the land could vie with her; and Sazen, when he
saw her, said to himself that it was no wonder that
Genzaburô had fallen in love with her; then, as it was
getting late, he advised her to go to rest, and, after
showing her to her apartments, went to his own room and
wrote his letter to Kihachi, containing the scheme which he
had devised. When Kihachi received his instructions, he was
filled with admiration at Sazen’s ingenuity, and, putting on
an appearance of great alarm and agitation, went off
immediately to call on Chokichi, and said to him—

“Oh, Master Chokichi, such a terrible thing has happened!
Pray, let me tell you all about it.”

“Indeed! what can it be?”

“Oh! sir,” answered Kihachi, pretending to wipe away his
tears, “my daughter O Koyo, mourning over her separation from
my lord Genzaburô, at first refused all sustenance, and
remained nursing her sorrows until, last night, her woman’s
heart failing to bear up against her great grief, she drowned
herself in the river, leaving behind her a paper on which she
had written her intention.”

When Chokichi heard this, he was thunderstruck, and
exclaimed, “Can this really be true! And when I think that it
was I who first introduced her to my lord, I am ashamed to look
you in the face.”

“Oh, say not so: misfortunes are the punishment due for our
misdeeds in a former state of existence. I bear you no
ill-will. This money which I hold in my hand was my daughter’s;
and in her last instructions she wrote to beg that it might be
given, after her death, to you, through whose intervention she
became allied with a nobleman: so please accept it as my
daughter’s legacy to you;” and as he spoke, he offered him
three riyos.

“You amaze me!” replied the other. “How could I, above all
men, who have so much to reproach myself with in my conduct
towards you, accept this money?”

“Nay; it was my dead daughter’s wish. But since you reproach
yourself in the matter when you think of her, I will beg you to
put up a prayer and to cause masses to be said for her.”

At last, Chokichi, after much persuasion, and greatly to his
own distress, was obliged to accept the money; and when Kihachi
had carried out all Sazen’s instructions, he returned home,
laughing in his sleeve.

Chokichi was sorely grieved to hear of O Koyo’s death, and
remained thinking over the sad news; when all of a sudden
looking [pg 128] about him, he saw something
like a letter lying on the spot where Kihachi had been
sitting, so he picked it up and read it; and, as luck would
have it, it was the very letter which contained Sazen’s
instructions to Kihachi, and in which the whole story which
had just affected him so much was made up. When he perceived
the trick that had been played upon him, he was very angry,
and exclaimed, “To think that I should have been so hoaxed
by that hateful old dotard, and such a fellow as Sazen! And
Genzaburô, too!—out of gratitude for the favours
which I had received from him in old days, I faithfully gave
him good advice, and all in vain. Well, they’ve gulled me
once; but I’ll be even with them yet, and hinder their game
before it is played out!” And so he worked himself up into a
fury, and went off secretly to prowl about Sazen’s house to
watch for O Koyo, determined to pay off Genzaburô and
Sazen for their conduct to him.

In the meanwhile Sazen, who did not for a moment suspect
what had happened, when the day which had been fixed upon by
him and Genzaburô arrived, made O Koyo put on her best
clothes, smartened up his house, and got ready a feast against
Genzaburô’s arrival. The latter came punctually to his
time, and, going in at once, said to the fortune-teller, “Well,
have you succeeded in the commission with which I entrusted
you?”

At first Sazen pretended to be vexed at the question, and
said, “Well, sir, I’ve done my best; but it’s not a matter
which can be settled in a hurry. However, there’s a young lady
of high birth and wonderful beauty upstairs, who has come here
secretly to have her fortune told; and if your lordship would
like to come with me and see her, you can do so.”

But Genzaburô, when he heard that he was not to meet O
Koyo, lost heart entirely, and made up his mind to go home
again. Sazen, however, pressed him so eagerly, that at last he
went upstairs to see this vaunted beauty; and Sazen, drawing
aside a screen, showed him O Koyo, who was sitting there.
Genzaburô gave a great start, and, turning to Sazen,
said, “Well, you certainly are a first-rate hand at keeping up
a hoax. However, I cannot sufficiently praise the way in which
you have carried out my instructions.”

“Pray, don’t mention it, sir. But as it is a long time since
you have met the young lady, you must have a great deal to say
to one another; so I will go downstairs, and, if you want
anything, pray call me.” And so he went downstairs and left
them.

Then Genzaburô, addressing O Koyo, said, “Ah! it is
indeed a long time since we met. How happy it makes me to see
you again! Why, your face has grown quite thin. Poor thing!
have you been unhappy?” And O Koyo, with the tears starting
from her eyes for joy, hid her face; and her heart was so full
that she could not speak. But Genzaburô, passing his hand
gently over her head and back, and comforting her, said, “Come,
[pg 129] sweetheart, there is no
need to sob so. Talk to me a little, and let me hear your
voice.”

At last O Koyo raised her head and said, “Ah! when I was
separated from you by the tricks of Chokichi, and thought that
I should never meet you again, how tenderly I thought of you! I
thought I should have died, and waited for my hour to come,
pining all the while for you. And when at last, as I lay
between life and death, Sazen came with a message from you, I
thought it was all a dream.” And as she spoke, she bent her
head and sobbed again; and in Genzaburô’s eyes she seemed
more beautiful than ever, with her pale, delicate face; and he
loved her better than before. Then she said, “If I were to tell
you all I have suffered until to-day, I should never stop.”

“Yes,” replied Genzaburô, “I too have suffered much;”
and so they told one another their mutual griefs, and from that
day forth they constantly met at Sazen’s house.

One day, as they were feasting and enjoying themselves in an
upper storey in Sazen’s house, Chokichi came to the house and
said, “I beg pardon; but does one Master Sazen live here?”

“Certainly, sir: I am Sazen, at your service. Pray where are
you from?”

“Well, sir, I have a little business to transact with you.
May I make so bold as to go in?” And with these words, he
entered the house.

“But who and what are you?” said Sazen.

“Sir, I am an Eta; and my name is Chokichi. I beg to bespeak
your goodwill for myself: I hope we may be friends.”

Sazen was not a little taken aback at this; however, he put
on an innocent face, as though he had never heard of Chokichi
before, and said, “I never heard of such a thing! Why, I
thought you were some respectable person; and you have the
impudence to tell me that your name is Chokichi, and that
you’re one of those accursed Etas. To think of such a shameless
villain coming and asking to be friends with me, forsooth! Get
you gone!—the quicker, the better: your presence pollutes
the house.”

Chokichi smiled contemptuously, as he answered, “So you deem
the presence of an Eta in your house a pollution—eh? Why,
I thought you must be one of us.”

“Insolent knave! Begone as fast as possible.”

“Well, since you say that I defile your house, you had
better get rid of O Koyo as well. I suppose she must equally be
a pollution to it.”

This put Sazen rather in a dilemma; however, he made up his
mind not to show any hesitation, and said, “What are you
talking about? There is no O Koyo here; and I never saw such a
person in my life.”

Chokichi quietly drew out of the bosom of his dress the
letter from Sazen to Kihachi, which he had picked up a few days
before, and, showing it to Sazen, replied, “If you wish to
dispute [pg 130] the genuineness of this
paper, I will report the whole matter to the Governor of
Yedo; and Genzaburô’s family will be ruined, and the
rest of you who are parties in this affair will come in for
your share of trouble. Just wait a little.”

And as he pretended to leave the house, Sazen, at his wits’
end, cried out, “Stop! stop! I want to speak to you. Pray, stop
and listen quietly. It is quite true, as you said, that O Koyo
is in my house; and really your indignation is perfectly just.
Come! let us talk over matters a little. Now you yourself were
originally a respectable man; and although you have fallen in
life, there is no reason why your disgrace should last for
ever. All that you want in order to enable you to escape out of
this fraternity of Etas is a little money. Why should you not
get this from Genzaburô, who is very anxious to keep his
intrigue with O Koyo secret?”

Chokichi laughed disdainfully. “I am ready to talk with you;
but I don’t want any money. All I want is to report the affair
to the authorities, in order that I may be revenged for the
fraud that was put upon me.”

“Won’t you accept twenty-five riyos?”

“Twenty-five riyos! No, indeed! I will not take a fraction
less than a hundred; and if I cannot get them I will report the
whole matter at once.”

Sazen, after a moment’s consideration, hit upon a scheme,
and answered, smiling, “Well, Master Chokichi, you’re a fine
fellow, and I admire your spirit. You shall have the hundred
riyos you ask for; but, as I have not so much money by me at
present, I will go to Genzaburô’s house and fetch it.
It’s getting dark now, but it’s not very late; so I’ll trouble
you to come with me, and then I can give you the money
to-night.”

Chokichi consenting to this, the pair left the house
together.

Now Sazen, who as a Rônin wore a long dirk in his
girdle, kept looking out for a moment when Chokichi should be
off his guard, in order to kill him; but Chokichi kept his eyes
open, and did not give Sazen a chance. At last Chokichi, as
ill-luck would have it, stumbled against a stone and fell; and
Sazen, profiting by the chance, drew his dirk and stabbed him
in the side; and as Chokichi, taken by surprise, tried to get
up, he cut him severely over the head, until at last he fell
dead. Sazen then looking around him, and seeing, to his great
delight, that there was no one near, returned home. The
following day, Chokichi’s body was found by the police; and
when they examined it, they found nothing upon it save a paper,
which they read, and which proved to be the very letter which
Sazen had sent to Kihachi, and which Chokichi had picked up.
The matter was immediately reported to the governor, and, Sazen
having been summoned, an investigation was held. Sazen, cunning
and bold murderer as he was, lost his self-possession when he
saw what a fool he had been not to get back from Chokichi the
letter which he had written, and, when he was put to a rigid
examination under torture,
[pg 131] confessed that he had
hidden O Koyo at Genzaburô’s instigation, and then
killed Chokichi, who had found out the secret. Upon this the
governor, after consulting about Genzaburô’s case,
decided that, as he had disgraced his position as a Hatamoto
by contracting an alliance with the daughter of an Eta, his
property should be confiscated, his family blotted out, and
himself banished. As for Kihachi, the Eta chief, and his
daughter O Koyo, they were handed over for punishment to the
chief of the Etas, and by him they too were banished; while
Sazen, against whom the murder of Chokichi had been fully
proved, was executed according to law.

NOTE

At Asakusa, in Yedo, there lives a man called
Danzayémon, the chief of the Etas. This man traces his
pedigree back to Minamoto no Yoritomo, who founded the
Shogunate in the year A.D. 1192. The whole of the Etas in Japan
are under his jurisdiction; his subordinates are called
Koyagashira, or “chiefs of the huts”; and he and they
constitute the government of the Etas. In the “Legacy of
Iyéyasu,” already quoted, the 36th Law provides as
follows:—”All wandering mendicants, such as male
sorcerers, female diviners, hermits, blind people, beggars, and
tanners (Etas), have had from of old their respective rulers.
Be not disinclined, however, to punish any such who give rise
to disputes, or who overstep the boundaries of their own
classes and are disobedient to existing laws.”

The occupation of the Etas is to kill and flay horses, oxen,
and other beasts, to stretch drums and make shoes; and if they
are very poor, they wander from house to house, working as
cobblers, mending old shoes and leather, and so earn a scanty
livelihood. Besides this, their daughters and young married
women gain a trifle as wandering minstrels, called Torioi,
playing on the shamisen, a sort of banjo, and singing
ballads. They never marry out of their own fraternity, but
remain apart, a despised and shunned race.

At executions by crucifixion it is the duty of the Etas to
transfix the victims with spears; and, besides this, they have
to perform all sorts of degrading offices about criminals, such
as carrying sick prisoners from their cells to the hall of
justice, and burying the bodies of those that have been
executed. Thus their race is polluted and accursed, and they
are hated accordingly.

Now this is how the Etas came to be under the jurisdiction
of Danzayémon:—

When Minamoto no Yoritomo was yet a child, his father,
Minamoto no Yoshitomo, fought with Taira no Kiyomori, and was
killed by treachery: so his family was ruined; and Yoshitomo’s
concubine, whose name was Tokiwa, took her children and fled
from the house, to save her own and their lives. But Kiyomori,
desiring to destroy the family of Yoshitomo root and branch,
ordered his retainers to divide themselves into bands, and seek
out the children. At last they were found; but Tokiwa was so
exceedingly beautiful that Kiyomori was inflamed with love for
her, and desired her to become his own concubine. Then Tokiwa
told Kiyomori that if [pg 132] he would spare her little
ones she would share his couch; but that if he killed her
children she would destroy herself rather than yield to his
desire. When he heard this, Kiyomori, bewildered by the
beauty of Tokiwa, spared the lives of her children, but
banished them from the capital.

So Yoritomo was sent to Hirugakojima, in the province of
Idzu; and when he grew up and became a man, he married the
daughter of a peasant. After a while Yoritomo left the
province, and went to the wars, leaving his wife pregnant; and
in due time she was delivered of a male child, to the delight
of her parents, who rejoiced that their daughter should bear
seed to a nobleman; but she soon fell sick and died, and the
old people took charge of the babe. And when they also died,
the care of the child fell to his mother’s kinsmen, and he grew
up to be a peasant.

Now Kiyomori, the enemy of Yoritomo, had been gathered to
his fathers; and Yoritomo had avenged the death of his father
by slaying Munémori, the son of Kiyomori; and there was
peace throughout the land. And Yoritomo became the chief of all
the noble houses in Japan, and first established the government
of the country. When Yoritomo had thus raised himself to power,
if the son that his peasant wife had born to him had proclaimed
himself the son of the mighty prince, he would have been made
lord over a province; but he took no thought of this, and
remained a tiller of the earth, forfeiting a glorious
inheritance; and his descendants after him lived as peasants in
the same village, increasing in prosperity and in good repute
among their neighbours.

But the princely line of Yoritomo came to an end in three
generations, and the house of Hôjô was all-powerful
in the land.

Now it happened that the head of the house of
Hôjô heard that a descendant of Yoritomo was living
as a peasant in the land, so he summoned him and
said:—

“It is a hard thing to see the son of an illustrious house
live and die a peasant. I will promote you to the rank of
Samurai.”

Then the peasant answered, “My lord, if I become a Samurai,
and the retainer of some noble, I shall not be so happy as when
I was my own master. If I may not remain a husbandman, let me
be a chief over men, however humble they may be.”

But my lord Hôjô was angry at this, and,
thinking to punish the peasant for his insolence,
said:—

“Since you wish to become a chief over men, no matter how
humble, there is no means of gratifying your strange wish but
by making you chief over the Etas of the whole country. So now
see that you rule them well.”

When he heard this, the peasant was afraid; but because he
had said that he wished to become a chief over men, however
humble, he could not choose but become chief of the Etas, he
and his children after him for ever; and Danzayémon, who
rules the Etas at the present time, and lives at Asakusa, is
his lineal
descendant.

FAIRY TALES

FAIRY TALES

I think that their quaintness is a sufficient apology for
the following little children’s stories. With the exception of
that of the “Elves and the Envious Neighbour,” which comes out
of a curious book on etymology and proverbial lore, called the
Kotowazagusa, these stories are found printed in little
separate pamphlets, with illustrations, the stereotype blocks
of which have become so worn that the print is hardly legible.
These are the first tales which are put into a Japanese child’s
hands; and it is with these, and such as these, that the
Japanese mother hushes her little ones to sleep. Knowing the
interest which many children of a larger growth take in such
Baby Stories, I was anxious to have collected more of them. I
was disappointed, however, for those which I give here are the
only ones which I could find in print; and if I asked the
Japanese to tell me others, they only thought I was laughing at
them, and changed the subject. The stories of the Tongue-cut
Sparrow, and the Old Couple and their Dog, have been
paraphrased in other works upon Japan; but I am not aware of
their having been literally translated
before.

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old woman.
The old man, who had a kind heart, kept a young sparrow, which
he tenderly nurtured. But the dame was a cross-grained old
thing; and one day, when the sparrow had pecked at some paste
with which she was going to starch her linen, she flew into a
great rage, and cut the sparrow’s tongue and let it loose. When
the old man came home from the hills and found that the bird
had flown, he asked what had become of it; so the old woman
answered that she had cut its tongue and let it go, because it
had stolen her starching-paste. Now the old man, hearing this
cruel tale, was sorely grieved, and thought to himself, “Alas!
where can my bird be gone? Poor thing! Poor little tongue-cut
sparrow! where is your home now?” and he wandered far and wide,
seeking for his pet, and crying, “Mr. Sparrow! Mr. Sparrow!
where are you living?”

One day, at the foot of a certain mountain, the old man fell
in with the lost bird; and when they had congratulated one
another on their mutual safety, the sparrow led the old man to
his home, and, having introduced him to his wife and chicks,
set before him all sorts of dainties, and entertained him
hospitably.

“Please partake of our humble fare,” said the sparrow; “poor
as it is, you are very welcome.”

“What a polite sparrow!” answered the old man, who remained
for a long time as the sparrow’s guest, and was daily feasted
right royally. At last the old man said that he must take his
leave and return home; and the bird, offering him two wicker
baskets, begged him to carry them with him as a parting
present. One of the baskets was heavy, and the other was light;
so the old man, saying that as he was feeble and stricken in
years he would only accept the light one, shouldered it, and
trudged off home, leaving the sparrow-family disconsolate at
parting from him.

When the old man got home, the dame grew very angry, and
began to scold him, saying, “Well, and pray where have you been
this many a day? A pretty thing, indeed, to be gadding about at
your time of life!”

“Oh!” replied he, “I have been on a visit to the sparrows;
and when I came away, they gave me this wicker basket as a
parting gift.” Then they opened the basket to see what was
inside, and, lo and behold! it was full of gold and silver and
precious things. When the old woman, who was as greedy as she
[pg 136] was cross, saw all the
riches displayed before her, she changed her scolding
strain, and could not contain herself for joy.

THE TONGUE-CUT
SPARROW.

“I’ll go and call upon the sparrows, too,” said she, “and
get a pretty present.” So she asked the old man the way to the
sparrows’ house, and set forth on her journey. Following his
directions, she at last met the tongue-cut sparrow, and
exclaimed—

“Well met! well met! Mr. Sparrow. I have been looking
forward to the pleasure of seeing you.” So she tried to flatter
and cajole the sparrow by soft
speeches.

The bird could not but invite the dame to its home; but it
took no pains to feast her, and said nothing about a parting
gift. She, however, was not to be put off; so she asked for
something to carry away with her in remembrance of her visit.
The sparrow accordingly produced two baskets, as before, and
the greedy old woman, choosing the heavier of the two, carried
it off with her. But when she opened the basket to see what was
inside, all sorts of hobgoblins and elves sprang out of it, and
began to torment her.

THE
TONGUE-CUT SPARROW. (2)

But the old man adopted a son, and his family grew rich and
prosperous. What a happy old
man!

THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE

A long time ago, at a temple called Morinji, in the province
of Jôshiu, there was an old tea-kettle. One day, when the
priest of the temple was about to hang it over the hearth to
boil the water for his tea, to his amazement, the kettle all of
a sudden put forth the head and tail of a badger. What a
wonderful kettle, to come out all over fur! The priest,
thunderstruck, called in the novices of the temple to see the
sight; and whilst they were stupidly staring, one suggesting
one thing and another, the kettle, jumping up into the air,
began flying about the room. More astonished than ever, the
priest and his pupils tried to pursue it; but no thief or cat
was ever half so sharp as this wonderful badger-kettle. At
last, however, they managed to knock it down and secure it;
and, holding it in with their united efforts, they forced it
into a box, intending to carry it off and throw it away in some
distant place, so that they might be no more plagued by the
goblin. For this day their troubles were over; but, as luck
would have it, the tinker who was in the habit of working for
the temple called in, and the priest suddenly bethought him
that it was a pity to throw the kettle away for nothing, and
that he might as well get a trifle for it, no matter how small.
So he brought out the kettle, which had resumed its former
shape and had got rid of its head and tail, and showed it to
the tinker. When the tinker saw the kettle, he offered twenty
copper coins for it, and the priest was only too glad to close
the bargain and be rid of his troublesome piece of furniture.
But the tinker trudged off home with his pack and his new
purchase. That night, as he lay asleep, he heard a strange
noise near his pillow; so he peeped out from under the
bedclothes, and there he saw the kettle that he had bought in
the temple covered with fur, and walking about on four legs.
The tinker started up in a fright to see what it could all
mean, when all of a sudden the kettle resumed its former shape.
This happened over and over again, until at last the tinker
showed the tea-kettle to a friend of his, who said, “This is
certainly an accomplished and lucky tea-kettle. You should take
it about as a show, with songs and accompaniments of musical
instruments, and make it dance and walk on the tight rope.”

THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE.

The tinker, thinking this good advice, made arrangements
with a showman, and set up an exhibition. The noise of the
kettle’s performances soon spread abroad, until even the
princes of the land sent to order the tinker to come to them;
and he grew rich
[pg 140] beyond all his
expectations. Even the princesses, too, and the great ladies
of the court, took great delight in the dancing kettle, so
that no sooner had it shown its tricks in one place than it
was time for them to keep some other engagement. At last the
tinker grew so rich that he took the kettle back to the
temple, where it was laid up as a precious treasure, and
worshipped as a saint.

THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE. (2)

THE CRACKLING MOUNTAIN

Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old woman,
who kept a pet white hare, by which they set great store. One
day, a badger, that lived hard by, came and ate up the food
which had been put out for the hare; so the old man, flying
into a great rage, seized the badger, and, tying the beast up
to a tree, went off to the mountain to cut wood, while the old
woman stopped at home and ground the wheat for the evening
porridge. Then the badger, with tears in his eyes, said to the
old woman—

“Please, dame, please untie this rope!”

The dame, thinking that it was a cruel thing to see a poor
beast in pain, undid the rope; but the ungrateful brute was no
sooner loose, than he cried out—

“I’ll be revenged for this,” and was off in a trice.

When the hare heard this, he went off to the mountain to
warn the old man; and whilst the hare was away on this errand,
the badger came back, and killed the dame. Then the beast,
having assumed the old woman’s form, made her dead body into
broth, and waited for the old man to come home from the
mountain. When he returned, tired and hungry, the pretended old
woman said—

“Come, come; I’ve made such a nice broth of the badger you
hung up. Sit down, and make a good supper of it.”

With these words she set out the broth, and the old man made
a hearty meal, licking his lips over it, and praising the
savoury mess. But as soon as he had finished eating, the
badger, reassuming its natural shape, cried out—

“Nasty old man! you’ve eaten your own wife. Look at her
bones, lying in the kitchen sink!” and, laughing
contemptuously, the badger ran away, and disappeared.

Then the old man, horrified at what he had done, set up a
great lamentation; and whilst he was bewailing his fate, the
hare came home, and, seeing how matters stood, determined to
avenge the death of his mistress. So he went back to the
mountain, and, falling in with the badger, who was carrying a
faggot of sticks on his back, he struck a light and set fire to
the sticks, without letting the badger see him. When the badger
heard the crackling noise of the faggot burning on his back, he
called out—

“Holloa! what is that noise?”

“Oh!” answered the hare, “this is called the Crackling
Mountain. There’s always this noise
here.”

And as the fire gathered strength, and went pop! pop! pop!
the badger said again—

“Oh dear! what can this noise be?”

“This is called the ‘Pop! Pop! Mountain,'” answered the
hare.

THE HARE AND THE
BADGER.

All at once the fire began to singe the badger’s back, so
that he fled, howling with pain, and jumped into a river hard
by. But, although the water put out the fire, his back was
burnt as black as a cinder. The hare, seeing an opportunity for
torturing the badger to his heart’s content, made a poultice of
cayenne [pg 143] pepper, which he carried to
the badger’s house, and, pretending to condole with him, and
to have a sovereign remedy for burns, he applied his hot
plaister to his enemy’s sore back. Oh! how it smarted and
pained! and how the badger yelled and cried!

THE HARE AND
THE BADGER. (2)

When, at last, the badger got well again, he went to the
hare’s house, thinking to reproach him for having caused him so
much pain. When he got there, he found that the hare had built
himself a boat.

“What have you built that boat for, Mr. Hare?” said the
badger. [pg 144] “I’m going to the capital
of the moon,”⁵²
answered the hare; “won’t you come with me?”

“I had enough of your company on the Crackling Mountain,
where you played me such tricks. I’d rather make a boat for
myself,” replied the badger, who immediately began building
himself a boat of clay.

The hare, seeing this, laughed in his sleeve; and so the two
launched their boats upon the river. The waves came plashing
against the two boats; but the hare’s boat was built of wood,
while that of the badger was made of clay, and, as they rowed
down the river, the clay boat began to crumble away; then the
hare, seizing his paddle, and brandishing it in the air, struck
savagely at the badger’s boat, until he had smashed it to
pieces, and killed his enemy.

When the old man heard that his wife’s death had been
avenged, he was glad in his heart, and more than ever petted
and loved the hare, whose brave deeds had caused him to welcome
the returning
spring.

THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN WHO MADE WITHERED TREES TO
BLOSSOM

In the old, old days, there lived an honest man with his
wife, who had a favourite dog, which they used to feed with
fish and titbits from their own kitchen. One day, as the old
folks went out to work in their garden, the dog went with them,
and began playing about. All of a sudden, the dog stopped
short, and began to bark, “Bow, wow, wow!” wagging his tail
violently. The old people thought that there must be something
nice to eat under the ground, so they brought a spade and began
digging, when, lo and behold! the place was full of gold pieces
and silver, and all sorts of precious things, which had been
buried there. So they gathered the treasure together, and,
after giving alms to the poor, bought themselves rice-fields
and corn-fields, and became wealthy people.

Now, in the next house there dwelt a covetous and stingy old
man and woman, who, when they heard what had happened, came and
borrowed the dog, and, having taken him home, prepared a great
feast for him, and said—

“If you please, Mr. Dog, we should be much obliged to you if
you would show us a place with plenty of money in it.”

The dog, however, who up to that time had received nothing
but cuffs and kicks from his hosts, would not eat any of the
dainties which they set before him; so the old people began to
get cross, and, putting a rope round the dog’s neck, led him
out into the garden. But it was all in vain; let them lead him
where they might, not a sound would the dog utter: he had no
“bow-wow” for them. At last, however, the dog stopped at a
certain spot, and began to sniff; so, thinking that this must
surely be the lucky place, they dug, and found nothing but a
quantity of dirt and nasty offal, over which they had to hold
their noses. Furious at being disappointed, the wicked old
couple seized the dog, and killed him.

When the good old man saw that the dog, whom he had lent,
did not come home, he went next door to ask what had become of
him; and the wicked old man answered that he had killed the
dog, and buried him at the root of a pine-tree; so the good old
fellow, with, a heavy heart, went to the spot, and, having set
out a tray with delicate food, burnt incense, and adorned the
grave with flowers, as he shed tears over his lost pet.

But there was more good luck in store yet for the old
people—the reward of their honesty and virtue. How do you
think that [pg 146] happened, my children? It
is very wrong to be cruel to dogs and cats.

THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER.

That night, when the good old man was fast asleep in bed,
the dog appeared to him, and, after thanking him for all his
kindness, said—

“Cause the pine-tree, under which, I am buried, to be cut
down and made into a mortar, and use it, thinking of it as if
it were myself.”

The old man did as the dog had told him to do, and made a
mortar out of the wood of the pine-tree; but when he ground his
[pg 147] rice in it, each grain of
rice was turned into some rich treasure. When the wicked old
couple saw this, they came to borrow the mortar; but no
sooner did they try to use it, than all their rice was
turned into filth; so, in a fit of rage, they broke up the
mortar and burnt it. But the good old man, little suspecting
that his precious mortar had been broken and burnt, wondered
why his neighbours did not bring it back to him.

THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER. (2)

One night the dog appeared to him again in a dream, and told
him what had happened, adding that if he would take the ashes
of the burnt mortar and sprinkle them on withered trees, the
[pg 148] trees would revive, and
suddenly put out flowers. After saying this the dream
vanished, and the old man, who heard for the first time of
the loss of his mortar, ran off weeping to the neighbours’
house, and begged them, at any rate, to give him back the
ashes of his treasure. Having obtained these, he returned
home, and made a trial of their virtues upon a withered
cherry-tree, which, upon being touched by the ashes,
immediately began to sprout and blossom. When he saw this
wonderful effect, he put the ashes into a basket, and went
about the country, announcing himself as an old man who had
the power of bringing dead trees to life again.

A certain prince, hearing of this, and thinking it a mighty
strange thing, sent for the old fellow, who showed his power by
causing all the withered plum and cherry-trees to shoot out and
put forth flowers. So the prince gave him a rich reward of
pieces of silk and cloth and other presents, and sent him home
rejoicing.

So soon as the neighbours heard of this they collected all
the ashes that remained, and, having put them in a basket, the
wicked old man went out into the castle town, and gave out that
he was the old man who had the power of reviving dead trees,
and causing them to flower. He had not to wait long before he
was called into the prince’s palace, and ordered to exhibit his
power. But when he climbed up into a withered tree, and began
to scatter the ashes, not a bud nor a flower appeared; but the
ashes all flew into the prince’s eyes and mouth, blinding and
choking him. When the prince’s retainers saw this, they seized
the old man, and beat him almost to death, so that he crawled
off home in a very sorry plight. When he and his wife found out
what a trap they had fallen into, they stormed and scolded and
put themselves into a passion; but that did no good at all.

The good old man and woman, so soon as they heard of their
neighbours’ distress, sent for them, and, after reproving them
for their greed and cruelty, gave them a share of their own
riches, which, by repeated strokes of luck, had now increased
to a goodly sum. So the wicked old people mended their ways,
and led good and virtuous lives ever
after.

THE BATTLE OF THE APE AND THE CRAB

If a man thinks only of his own profit, and tries to benefit
himself at the expense of others, he will incur the hatred of
Heaven. Men should lay up in their hearts the story of the
Battle of the Ape and Crab, and teach it, as a profitable
lesson, to their children.

Once upon a time there was a crab who lived in a marsh in a
certain part of the country. It fell out one day that, the crab
having picked up a rice cake, an ape, who had got a nasty hard
persimmon-seed, came up, and begged the crab to make an
exchange with him. The crab, who was a simple-minded creature,
agreed to this proposal; and they each went their way, the ape
chuckling to himself at the good bargain which he had made.

When the crab got home, he planted the persimmon-seed in his
garden, and, as time slipped by, it sprouted, and by degrees
grew to be a big tree. The crab watched the growth of his tree
with great delight; but when the fruit ripened, and he was
going to pluck it, the ape came in, and offered to gather it
for him. The crab consenting, the ape climbed up into the tree,
and began eating all the ripe fruit himself, while he only
threw down the sour persimmons to the crab, inviting him, at
the same time, to eat heartily. The crab, however, was not
pleased at this arrangement, and thought that it was his turn
to play a trick upon the ape; so he called out to him to come
down head foremost. The ape did as he was bid; and as he
crawled down, head foremost, the ripe fruit all came tumbling
out of his pockets, and the crab, having picked up the
persimmons, ran off and hid himself in a hole. The ape, seeing
this, lay in ambush, and as soon as the crab crept out of his
hiding-place gave him a sound drubbing, and went home. Just at
this time a friendly egg and a bee, who were the apprentices of
a certain rice-mortar, happened to pass that way, and, seeing
the crab’s piteous condition, tied up his wounds, and, having
escorted him home, began to lay plans to be revenged upon the
cruel ape.

THE APE AND THE
CRAB.

Having agreed upon a scheme, they all went to the ape’s
house, in his absence; and each one having undertaken to play a
certain part, they waited in secret for their enemy to come
home. The ape, little dreaming of the mischief that was
brewing, returned home, and, having a fancy to drink a cup of
tea, began lighting the fire in the hearth, when, all of a
sudden, the egg, which was hidden in the ashes, burst with. the
heat, and [pg 150] bespattered the frightened
ape’s face, so that he fled, howling with pain, and crying,
“Oh! what an unlucky beast I am!” Maddened with the heat of
the burst egg, he tried to go to the back of the house, when
the bee darted out of a cupboard, and a piece of seaweed,
who had joined the party, coming up at the same time, the
ape was surrounded by enemies. In despair, he seized the
clothes-rack, and fought valiantly for awhile; but he was no
match for so many, and was obliged to run away, with the
others in hot pursuit after him. Just as he was making his
escape by a back door, however, the piece of seaweed tripped
[pg 151] him up, and the
rice-mortar, closing with him from behind, made an end of
him.

THE APE AND THE
CRAB. (2)

So the crab, having punished his enemy, went home in
triumph, and lived ever after on terms of brotherly love with
the seaweed and the mortar. Was there ever such a fine piece of
fun!

THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE PEACHLING

Many hundred years ago there lived an honest old wood-cutter
and his wife. One fine morning the old man went off to the
hills with his billhook, to gather a faggot of sticks, while
his wife went down to the river to wash the dirty clothes. When
she came to the river, she saw a peach floating down the
stream; so she picked it up, and carried it home with her,
thinking to give it to her husband to eat when he should come
in. The old man soon came down from the hills, and the good
wife set the peach before him, when, just as she was inviting
him to eat it, the fruit split in two, and a little puling baby
was born into the world. So the old couple took the babe, and
brought it up as their own; and, because it had been born in a
peach, they called it
Momotarô,⁵³
or Little Peachling.

By degrees Little Peachling grew up to be strong and brave,
and at last one day he said to his old
foster-parents—

“I am going to the ogres’ island to carry off the riches
that they have stored up there. Pray, then, make me some millet
dumplings for my journey.”

So the old folks ground the millet, and made the dumplings
for him; and Little Peachling, after taking an affectionate
leave of them, cheerfully set out on his travels.

As he was journeying on, he fell in with an ape, who
gibbered at him, and said, “Kia! kia! kia! where are you off
to, Little Peachling?”

“I’m going to the ogres’ island, to carry off their
treasure,” answered Little Peachling.

“What are you carrying at your girdle?”

“I’m carrying the very best millet dumplings in all
Japan.”

“If you’ll give me one, I will go with you,” said the
ape.

So Little Peachling gave one of his dumplings to the ape,
who received it and followed him. When he had gone a little
further, he heard a pheasant calling—

“Ken! ken! ken!⁵⁴
where are you off to, Master Peachling?”

Little Peachling answered as before; and the pheasant,
having begged and obtained a millet dumpling, entered his
service, and followed him. A little while after this, they met
a dog, who
cried—

“Bow! wow! wow! whither away, Master Peachling?”

“I’m going off to the ogres’ island, to carry off their
treasure.”

“If you will give me one of those nice millet dumplings of
yours, I will go with you,” said the dog.

LITTLE PEACHLING.

“With all my heart,” said Little Peachling. So he went on
his way, with the ape, the pheasant, and the dog following
after him.

When they got to the ogres’ island, the pheasant flew over
the castle gate, and the ape clambered over the castle wall,
while Little Peachling, leading the dog, forced in the gate,
and got into the castle. Then they did battle with the ogres,
and put [pg 154] them to flight, and took
their king prisoner. So all the ogres did homage to Little
Peachling, and brought out the treasures which they had laid
up. There were caps and coats that made their wearers
invisible, jewels which governed the ebb and flow of the
tide, coral, musk, emeralds, amber, and tortoiseshell,
besides gold and silver. All these were laid before Little
Peachling by the conquered ogres.

LITTLE PEACHLING.
(2)

So Little Peachling went home laden with riches, and
maintained his foster-parents in peace and plenty for the
remainder of their
lives.

THE FOXES’ WEDDING

Once upon a time there was a young white fox, whose name was
Fukuyémon. When he had reached the fitting age, he
shaved off his forelock⁵⁵
and began to think of taking to himself a beautiful bride.
The old fox, his father, resolved to give up his inheritance
to his son,⁵⁶
and retired into private life; so the young fox, in
gratitude for this, laboured hard and earnestly to increase
his patrimony. Now it happened that in a famous old family
of foxes there was a beautiful young lady-fox, with such
lovely fur that the fame of her jewel-like charms was spread
far and wide. The young white fox, who had heard of this,
was bent on making her his wife, and a meeting was arranged
between them. There was not a fault to be found on either
side; so the preliminaries were settled, and the wedding
presents sent from the bridegroom to the bride’s house, with
congratulatory speeches from the messenger, which were duly
acknowledged by the person deputed to receive the gifts; the
bearers, of course, received the customary fee in copper
cash.

When the ceremonies had been concluded, an auspicious day
was chosen for the bride to go to her husband’s house, and she
was carried off in solemn procession during a shower of rain,
the sun shining all the while.⁵⁷
After the ceremonies of drinking wine had been gone through,
the bride changed her dress, and the wedding was concluded,
without let or hindrance, amid singing and dancing and
merry-making.

The bride and bridegroom lived lovingly together, and a
litter of little foxes were born to them, to the great joy of
the old grandsire, who treated the little cubs as tenderly as
if they had been butterflies or flowers. “They’re the very
image of their old grandfather,” said he, as proud as possible.
“As for medicine, bless them, they’re so healthy that they’ll
never need a copper coin’s worth!”

As soon as they were old enough, they were carried off to
the temple of Inari Sama, the patron saint of foxes, and the
old grand-parents prayed that they might be delivered from dogs
and all the other ills to which fox flesh is heir.

THE FOXES’ WEDDING.

In this way the white fox by degrees waxed old and
prosperous, [pg 156] and his children, year by
year, became more and more numerous around him; so that,
happy in his family and his business, every recurring spring
brought him fresh cause for joy.
[pg 157]

THE FOXES’
WEDDING. (2)

THE HISTORY OF SAKATA KINTOKI

A long time ago there was an officer of the Emperor’s
body-guard, called Sakata Kurando, a young man who, although he
excelled in valour and in the arts of war, was of a gentle and
loving disposition. This young officer was deeply enamoured of
a fair young lady, called Yaégiri, who lived at
Gojôzaka, at Kiyôto. Now it came to pass that,
having incurred the jealousy of certain other persons, Kurando
fell into disgrace with the Court, and became a Rônin, so
he was no longer able to keep up any communication with his
love Yaégiri; indeed, he became so poor that it was a
hard matter for him to live. So he left the place and fled, no
one knew whither. As for Yaégiri, lovesick and lorn, and
pining for her lost darling, she escaped from the house where
she lived, and wandered hither and thither through the country,
seeking everywhere for Kurando.

Now Kurando, when he left the palace, turned tobacco
merchant, and, as he was travelling about hawking his goods, it
chanced that he fell in with Yaégiri; so, having
communicated to her his last wishes, he took leave of her and
put an end to his life.

Poor Yaégiri, having buried her lover, went to the
Ashigara Mountain, a distant and lonely spot, where she gave
birth to a little boy, who, as soon as he was born, was of such
wonderful strength that he walked about and ran playing all
over the mountain. A woodcutter, who chanced to see the marvel,
was greatly frightened at first, and thought the thing
altogether uncanny; but after a while he got used to the child,
and became quite fond of him, and called him “Little Wonder,”
and gave his mother the name of the “Old Woman of the
Mountain.”

One day, as “Little Wonder” was playing about, he saw that
on the top of a high cedar-tree there was a tengu’s
nest;⁵⁸
so he began shaking the tree with all his might, until at
last the tengu’s nest came tumbling down.

As luck would have it, the famous hero, Minamoto no
Yorimitsu, with his retainers, Watanabé Isuna, Usui
Sadamitsu, and several others, had come to the mountain to
hunt, and seeing the feat which “Little Wonder” had performed,
came to the conclusion that he could be no ordinary child.
Minamoto no Yorimitsu ordered Watanabé Isuna to find out
the child’s name and parentage. The Old Woman of the Mountain,
on being [pg 159] asked about him, answered
that she was the wife of Kurando, and that “Little Wonder”
was the child of their marriage. And she proceeded to relate
all the adventures which had befallen her.

When Yorimitsu heard her story, he said, “Certainly this
child does not belie his lineage. Give the brat to me, and I
will make him my retainer.” The Old Woman of the Mountain
gladly consented, and gave “Little Wonder” to Yorimitsu; but
she herself remained in her mountain home. So “Little Wonder”
went off with the hero Yorimitsu, who named him Sakata Kintoki;
and in aftertimes he became famous and illustrious as a
warrior, and his deeds are recited to this day. He is the
favourite hero of little children, who carry his portrait in
their bosom, and wish that they could emulate his bravery and
strength.

THE ELVES AND THE ENVIOUS NEIGHBOUR

Once upon a time there was a certain man, who, being
overtaken by darkness among the mountains, was driven to seek
shelter in the trunk of a hollow tree. In the middle of the
night, a large company of elves assembled at the place; and the
man, peeping out from his hiding-place, was frightened out of
his wits. After a while, however, the elves began to feast and
drink wine, and to amuse themselves by singing and dancing,
until at last the man, caught by the infection of the fun,
forgot all about his fright, and crept out of his hollow tree
to join in the revels. When the day was about to dawn, the
elves said to the man, “You’re a very jolly companion, and must
come out and have a dance with us again. You must make us a
promise, and keep it.” So the elves, thinking to bind the man
over to return, took a large wen that grew on his forehead and
kept it in pawn; upon this they all left the place, and went
home. The man walked off to his own house in high glee at
having passed a jovial night, and got rid of his wen into the
bargain. So he told the story to all his friends, who
congratulated him warmly on being cured of his wen. But there
was a neighbour of his who was also troubled with a wen of long
standing, and, when he heard of his friend’s luck, he was
smitten with envy, and went off to hunt for the hollow tree, in
which, when he had found it, he passed the night.

Towards midnight the elves came, as he had expected, and
began feasting and drinking, with songs and dances as before.
As soon as he saw this, he came out of his hollow tree, and
began dancing and singing as his neighbour had done. The elves,
mistaking him for their former boon-companion, were delighted
to see him, and said—

“You’re a good fellow to recollect your promise, and we’ll
give you back your pledge;” so one of the elves, pulling the
pawned wen out of his pocket, stuck it on to the man’s
forehead, on the top of the other wen which he already bad. So
the envious neighbour went home weeping, with two wens instead
of one. This is a good lesson to people who cannot see the good
luck of others, without coveting it for
themselves.

THE GHOST OF SAKURA

The misfortunes and death of the farmer Sôgorô,
which, although the preternatural appearances by which they are
said to have been followed may raise a smile, are matters of
historic notoriety with which every Japanese is familiar,
furnish a forcible illustration of the relations which exist
between the tenant and the lord of the soil, and of the
boundless power for good or for evil exercised by the latter.
It is rather remarkable that in a country where the
peasant—placed as he is next to the soldier, and before
the artisan and merchant, in the four classes into which the
people are divided—enjoys no small consideration, and
where agriculture is protected by law from the inroads of wild
vegetation, even to the lopping of overshadowing branches and
the cutting down of hedgerow timber, the lord of the manor
should be left practically without control in his dealings with
his people.

The land-tax, or rather the yearly rent paid by the tenant,
is usually assessed at forty per cent. of the produce; but
there is no principle clearly defining it, and frequently the
landowner and the cultivator divide the proceeds of the harvest
in equal shapes. Rice land is divided into three classes; and,
according to these classes, it is computed that one tan
(1,800 square feet) of the best land should yield to the owner
a revenue of five bags of rice per annum; each of these bags
holds four tô (a tô is rather less than half an
imperial bushel), and is worth at present (1868) three riyos,
or about sixteen shillings; land of the middle class should
yield a revenue of three or four bags. The rent is paid either
in rice or in money, according to the actual price of the
grain, which varies considerably. It is due in the eleventh
month of the year, when the crops have all been gathered, and
their market value fixed.

The rent of land bearing crops other than rice, such as
cotton, beans, roots, and so forth, is payable in money during
the twelfth month. The choice of the nature of the crops to be
grown appears to be left to the tenant.

The Japanese landlord, when pressed by poverty, does not
confine himself to the raising of his legitimate rents: he can
always enforce from his needy tenantry the advancement of a
year’s rent, or the loan of so much money as may be required to
meet his immediate necessities. Should the lord be just, the
peasant is repaid by instalments, with interest, extending over
ten or twenty years. But it too often happens that unjust and
merciless lords [pg 162] do not repay such loans,
but, on the contrary, press for further advances. Then it is
that the farmers, dressed in their grass rain-coats, and
carrying sickles and bamboo poles in their hands, assemble
before the gate of their lord’s palace at the capital, and
represent their grievances, imploring the intercession of
the retainers, and even of the womankind who may chance to
go forth. Sometimes they pay for their temerity by their
lives; but, at any rate, they have the satisfaction of
bringing shame upon their persecutor, in the eyes of his
neighbours and of the populace.

THE DEPUTATION OF PEASANTS AT THEIR LORD’S GATE.

The official reports of recent travels in the interior of
Japan have fully proved the hard lot with which the peasantry
had to put up during the government of the Tycoons, and
especially under the Hatamotos, the created nobility of the
dynasty. In one province, where the village mayors appear to
have seconded the extortions of their lord, they have had to
flee before an exasperated population, who, taking advantage of
the revolution, laid waste and pillaged their houses, loudly
praying for a new and just assessment of the land; while,
throughout the country, the farmers have hailed with
acclamations the resumption of the sovereign power by the
Mikado, and the abolition of the petty nobility who exalted
themselves upon the misery of their dependants. Warming
themselves in the sunshine of the court at Yedo,
[pg 163] the Hatamotos waxed fat and
held high revel, and little cared they who groaned or who
starved. Money must be found, and it was found.

It is necessary here to add a word respecting the position
of the village mayors, who play so important a part in the
tale.

The peasants of Japan are ruled by three classes of
officials: the Nanushi, or mayor; the Kumigashira, or chiefs of
companies; and the Hiyakushôdai, or farmers’
representatives. The village, which is governed by the Nanushi,
or mayor, is divided into companies, which, consisting of five
families each, are directed by a Kumigashira; these companies,
again, are subdivided into groups of five men each, who choose
one of their number to represent them in case of their having
any petition to present, or any affairs to settle with their
superiors. This functionary is the Hiyakushôdai. The
mayor, the chief of the company, and the representative keep
registers of the families and people under their control, and
are responsible for their good and orderly behaviour. They pay
taxes like the other farmers, but receive a salary, the amount
of which depends upon the size and wealth of the village. Five
per cent. of the yearly land tax forms the salary of the mayor,
and the other officials each receive five per cent. of the tax
paid by the little bodies over which they respectively
rule.

The average amount of land for one family to cultivate is
about one chô, or 9,000 square yards; but there are
farmers who have inherited as much as five or even six
chô from their ancestors. There is also a class of
farmers called, from their poverty, “water-drinking farmers,”
who have no land of their own, but hire that of those who have
more than they can keep in their own hands. The rent so paid
varies; but good rice land will bring in as high a rent as
from £1 18s. to £2 6s. per tan (1,800 square
feet).

Farm labourers are paid from six or seven riyos a year to as
much as thirty riyos (the riyo being worth about 5s. 4d.);
besides this, they are clothed and fed, not daintily indeed,
but amply. The rice which they cultivate is to them an almost
unknown luxury: millet is their staple food, and on high days
and holidays they receive messes of barley or buckwheat. Where
the mulberry-tree is grown, and the silkworm is “educated,”
there the labourer receives the highest wage.

The rice crop on good land should yield twelve and a half
fold, and on ordinary land from six to seven fold only.
Ordinary arable land is only half as valuable as rice land,
which cannot be purchased for less than forty riyos per tan of
1,800 square feet. Common hill or wood land is cheaper, again,
than arable land; but orchards and groves of the Pawlonia are
worth from fifty to sixty riyos per tan.

With regard to the punishment of crucifixion, by which
Sôgorô was put to death, it is inflicted for the
following offences:—parricide (including the murder or
striking of parents, uncles,
[pg 164] aunts, elder brothers,
masters, or teachers) coining counterfeit money, and passing
the barriers of the Tycoon’s territory without a
permit.⁵⁹
The criminal is attached to an upright post with two cross
bars, to which his arms and feet are fastened by ropes. He
is then transfixed with spears by men belonging to the Eta
or Pariah class. I once passed the execution-ground near
Yedo, when a body was attached to the cross. The dead man
had murdered his employer, and, having been condemned to
death by crucifixion, had died in prison before the sentence
could be carried out. He was accordingly packed, in a
squatting position, in a huge red earthenware jar, which,
having been tightly filled up with. salt, was hermetically
sealed. On the anniversary of the commission of the crime,
the jar was carried down to the execution-ground and broken,
and the body was taken out and tied to the cross, the joints
of the knees and arms having been cut, to allow of the
extension of the stiffened and shrunken limbs; it was then
transfixed with spears, and allowed to remain exposed for
three days. An open grave, the upturned soil of which seemed
almost entirely composed of dead men’s remains, waited to
receive the dishonoured corpse, over which three or four
Etas, squalid and degraded beings, were mounting guard,
smoking their pipes by a scanty charcoal fire, and bandying
obscene jests. It was a hideous and ghastly warning, had any
cared to read the lesson; but the passers-by on the high
road took little or no notice of the sight, and a group of
chubby and happy children were playing not ten yards from
the dead body, as if no strange or uncanny thing were near
them.

THE GHOST OF SAKURA.⁶⁰

How true is the principle laid down by Confucius, that the
benevolence of princes is reflected in their country, while
their wickedness causes sedition and confusion!