CHAPTER V

NARA—THE HEART OF OLD JAPAN

A Japanese proverb says, "Never use the word ' magnificent' till you have seen Nikko." They should have added, "Nor the word ' peaceful' till you have been to Nara."
    Nara is the very heart of old Japan. The capital, which in ancient times was removed to a new site on the death of each Mikado—but was always situated somewhere in the provinces of Yamato, Yamashiro, or Settsu—came to its first permanent stop at Nara in A.D. 709, and Nara continued to be the seat of Government until the Court was moved to Kyoto in 784. At that time, we are told, the city was ten times larger than at present. But though it is nearly twelve hundred years since Nara's glory departed, the passing centuries have been pitiful and gentle. They have cherished the city's environs and the monuments embosomed in them, instead of harming them, and have clothed them with the sweet, serene beauty of honourable old age. For miles around Nara is beset with the ghosts of a thousand years ago—ghosts as thickly cloaked with history as they are overgrown with moss and lichens.
    As one leaves the railway station (the very name of such a thing sounds almost like sacrilege here) the eye is arrested by a beautiful pagoda standing on an eminence in the grounds of Kobukuji temple. It completely dominates the landscape with its tiers of dark-grey roofs standing out in contrast to the cedar-clad mountains beyond it.

NARA, THE HEART OF OLD JAPAN

    The pagoda overlooks a pond called Sarasawa-no-iké, about which there is, of course, a legend. What would be the good of a pond in Japan without one? The very idea is absurd! There was once a beauteous maiden, who, though beloved by all the gentlemen of the Court, rejected all their offers, as she had eyes for the Mikado alone. For a time she found favour in his sight, but "the heart of man is fickle as the April weather," as the Japanese say, and the Mikado's heart was after all but a mortal one, though it pulsed with the blood of gods. He neglected his beautiful plaything, until she, unable to endure his indifference longer, stole out of the palace one night and drowned herself in the garden lake. Her spirit still haunts its shores on dark nights, and you can hear her sighs as the breezes play softly in the trembling osiers round her grave.
    There are many famous temples at Nara, but it is Kasuga-no-miya, one of the most beautiful old Shinto shrines in Japan, which draws many thousands of pilgrims here annually. Kasuga lies deep in the heart of a magnificent old park. To reach it one must go through the great vermilion torii, which forms the park gate, and proceed for well-nigh a mile along a gravelled avenue of lofty cryptomeria-trees. As soon as rikisha wheels are heard, deer come bounding out of the bracken and turfy shades from every side, to beg with great, soft, appealing eyes for a few of the barley-cakes that comely little country musumés sell at stalls along the wayside. Long immunity from molestation has made the gentle creatures very friendly, and they will nibble from one's hand, or even thrust their noses deep into one's pockets, searching for some tasty morsel.
    Deer are so common in many of our own parks—Bushey and Richmond, for instance, and, nearer still to the heart of the metropolis, Greenwich Park—that they seem only in proper keeping with the English ideas of such places; but an exceedingly charming and purely Japanese feature of this avenue is the great number of old stone lanterns among the trees. They are votive offerings to the temple from wealthy followers of the faith—many of them the gifts of Daimyos—and their numbers are not to be summed in dozens, nor yet by scores nor hundreds; in thousands alone can their aggregate be found. In places they stand so close together as almost to touch each other, and in ranks of many rows. These ishi-doro, thickly spotted with moss and lichens, are the most decorative ornaments that can be imagined, with the sunlight filtering through the branches overhead and making soft harmonies of light and shade about them. But their virtue as dispellers of gloom is far outweighed, as is intended, by their fine artistic effect. They are not designed for service, except on very special occasions, and are only lighted for the yearly festival, or when some wealthy visitor makes a substantial donation for the purpose; even then it can scarcely be possible to light them all.
     Never having been at Nara on the occasion of its annual matsuri, the 17th December, I have not seen the lanterns lighted; and, as I do not come under the second category named above, I have modestly refrained from gratifying my curiosity, hoping that some Croesus would arrive during my stay and that he would graciously permit me to share the pleasures of the reward of his munificence. King Midas did not appear, though—much to my regret. I found, however, that several dozens of the lanterns were lighted each night beside the main gates of the temple when the weather was fair. Small saucers of oil, with floating wicks, were placed in them, and when the wicks were lighted and the little wooden frames—covered with rice-paper to shield the flame—were in place, each lantern shed a beautifully soft glimmer all around it.
    The atmosphere of peace and restfulness that encompasses Nara comes to a focus at the temple of Kasuga. It is the peace of many centuries. In a.d. 767 the temple was founded and dedicated to Kamatari, the ancestor of the Fujiwara family, which rose to be the most illustrious in Japan. The picturesqueness of the temple buildings themselves, and the beauty of their surroundings, make a deeper, more touching appeal, however, than their mere association with this great name. The lofty cryptomerias rear their heads highest here, and among the brown shades of their mossy, gravelled aisles great splashes of white and vivid colour are painted into the picture with grand effect. These are the gateways and pavilions of the temple, finished in snowy white and vermilion.
    Massive roofs of thatch, a yard thick, cover all the buildings, and every colonnade, gallery, and courtyard is kept as fresh and clean as ever it was a thousand years ago.
    It is said that all the temple buildings are demolished, and rebuilt exactly as before, every twenty years—like the temples of the Shinto Mecca, Isé—and that this rule has been adhered to ever since their foundation. They are, therefore, incomparably more beautiful now than they ever could have been in the zenith of Nara's history; for though Time is not allowed to touch them, he has slowly worked marvels in their surroundings, and, with the assistance of his handmaid Nature, has enveloped them with an atmosphere of repose and beauty indescribable. One cannot help but feel that this is hallowed ground; the very air is heavy with the odour of sanctity.
    Giant wistaria vines have crept to the very utmost branches of the trees, and in May the tall cedars themselves seem to burst forth into clusters of drooping purple blooms. Through many an opening in the glorious arches overhead the sun throws long shafts of light, which touch the pendent blossoms, and then, glancing downwards, melt moss and gravel into golden pools, or, searching out some spot on the brilliant lacquer, make it glow with ruddy fire as the great orb himself glows at daybreak.
    The deer roam undisturbed about the mossy, lanterned avenues of this fairyland, and form lovely pictures as they stand framed in the burning lines of some vermilion gateway. Fearing no rebuffs, they even wander into the temple courtyards to be petted by the little daughters of the priests, whose duty it is to go through the stately measures of the ancient religious dance, kagura, whenever called upon. The priests are born, live out their lives, die, and are buried in the heavily-scented shade of the towering cryptomeria-trees, and their children succeed them to live and die here also.
    Kasuga's numerous galleries and colonnades are hung with innumerable lanterns of carved and fretted brass and bronze. There are at least as many round its courtyards as there are ishi-doro in the gravelled avenues, and every gentle zephyr sets them swinging. When these are all alight the gaily-coloured temple must be a very fairy palace of beauty.
    Pilgrims are ever haunting the temple precincts. With slow step, and eyes bright with happiness, they softly tread the avenues, kneel before every shrine, and rest at every stall to feed the deer that nose around them. With staff, broad-brimmed hat, and tinkling bell, they come to Nara from the uttermost parts of Japan, just as they flock to Fuji and every place of holy fame throughout the land.

ON A PILGRIMAGE TO NARA

    They come alone, and they come in bands; but to one and all the visit is the climax to a lifetime of longing. When it is remembered that these are members of some pilgrim's club, and that when the lot fell to them to make the mission they believed in their hearts that they had received a special call from the gods to visit them, it is easy to explain the beatitude written on their faces and the light of happiness in their eyes.
    Such a pilgrim is the old man in the picture. "Years bow his back, a staff supports his tread," yet he had come on foot nearly two hundred miles to this holy place. Poor and simple though he was, he was kind and gentle of speech, and, like his fellows all the country over, courteous and respectful in every action. His staff and broad hat of kaia grass proclaim his mission. His kit he carries on his back, and his kindly, smiling face is a faithful index to the contented, honest, gentle soul within. At each shrine he visits he receives from the priests some little token, and the temple stamp is impressed upon some portion of his raiment. His needs are few and of the simplest, and his daily expenses, all told, aggregate but a few pence. His progress is slow, and perhaps he may be many months upon the road before he reaches home again. But what of that? He is a type of the Old Japan, and in the days gone by the time spent on a pilgrimage, as on the production of a work of art, was never considered.
    In a pavilion of the Todaiji temple hangs the Great Bell of Nara, *1  and Todaiji is also the home of the Nara Daibutsu—a prodigious image of Buddha, the largest in Japan, though not to be compared with that at Kamakura as a work of art. This image dates from 749 A.D., and was completed, under the supervision of a priest named Gyōgi, in eight castings, which are brazed together. The head, however, was melted off during a conflagration, and the present one was made to replace it towards the end of the sixteenth century.
    The great edifice containing the image was rebuilt about the year 1700, but two centuries of exposure have told badly on it, and it already looks somewhat shaky. In this respect it differs from any of the other Nara temples. One of the great pillars which support the roof has a hole in its base, and those who are able to crawl through this hole are regarded with much favour by the deity. The task is not an easy one, and if the divine favour be sought it is well to repair here in early youth. One thinks of the camel and the needle's eye when estimating a fat man's chances of accomplishing the feat.
    Colossal figures of the Deva kings stand in niches at the principal gateway, and every pilgrim as he passes chews a sheet of rice-paper to pulp and tests his favour with the gods. He spits or throws it at one of the figures, and if it sticks it augurs well for the fulfilment of the desire.
    Ni-gwatsu-dō, the Hall of the Second Moon, is another Buddhist temple, very picturesquely situated on the side of a hill, to which it clings by means of a scaffolding of piles. Its whole front is hung with metal lanterns, and huge ishi-doro stand in the grounds below. Fine old stone stairways, flanked with more lanterns, lead up to its balconies, where the pilgrims pause to admire the panorama over the park, and the beauty of the Yamato mountain barrier which shuts out the view of the sea but twenty miles away.
    There are other temples and beautiful sights far too numerous to detail here. Only a bulky volume could do duty to the manifold charms of Nara.

    1) Its dimensions are given in the chapter on "Kyoto Temples," page 9.

MY DEAR!
A Study at Nara.

CHAPTER VI

THE RAPIDS OF THE KATSURA-GAWA

One lovely April morning when all the land was sweet and smiling—for Nature had donned the very fairest of her dresses and decked herself with cherry-blossoms—two friends and I started for the Katsura-gawa. Though I had shot the rapids several times, I never tired of this beautiful river and the excitement of racing through its cataracts. The brawling narrows and peaceful reaches, with their rocky gorges and forest-clad hills, had always some fresh beauty and some new secret to reveal.
    From Hozu, the starting-point, to Arashiyama, at the foot of the rapids, is a distance of about thirteen miles, which is usually accomplished in an hour and a half if there is a fair river running. When the water rises above a certain mark at Hozu nothing will tempt the boatmen to essay the journey. On the other hand, if the river be too low much of the excitement of the trip is missing. If one chooses a day, however, when the water is just below the danger-point, even the most adventurous spirits will not complain of lack of excitement.
    At the time I mention the river was about normal—neither high nor low—and when we reached Hozu we found the boat ready, and in charge of my favourite sendo, Naojiro, one of the finest boatmen in Japan—a splendid athletic fellow, lithe and active as a panther, whose honest, sunburnt face was always wreathed in smiles.
    The boat was flat-bottomed, about thirty feet long, six feet wide, and a yard deep, with three thwarts to brace its straight sides. These Japanese river-boats are very flexible and frail-looking, but their staunchness is remarkable. They only draw two inches when empty, and about four when half a dozen people are on board, and when going over rough water the flat bottom yields and bends to the waves, until it seems the planks must surely open up and the craft be swamped. The boatmen say the only way to make them stand the strain is to construct them of these pliant planks; if built rigid they would speedily be buffeted to pieces by the constant bumping on the water.
    Our crew consisted of four men, besides Naojiro, two of whom rowed with short sculls on the starboard side, and one on the port, whilst the fourth steered with a long yulo at the stern.
    For the first mile the river is wide and the current slow; as we pushed out into mid-stream in bright sunshine, which was almost insufferably warm for the time of year, the limpid water was too tempting to be resisted. A simultaneous and overpowering desire seized upon us. We looked at the water and then at each other. There was no need for words. The wish was parent to the act. Bidding the boatmen go easy, we quickly had our clothes off, and plunged into the clear green depths, through which every pebble on the bottom was visible. For half a mile we swam beside the boat, till swirling eddies began to appear upon the surface of the water, and the banks rushed past us as they closed in and steepened and the river narrowed for the first rapid. We would fain have swum this first rapid, as it is an easy one, but the men declared they would be unable to stop the impetus of the boat after passing it, and we should be carried down the second race, which was too rough to attempt to swim. We had, therefore, reluctantly to get on board again—a feat which we found anything but easy to accomplish, and almost impossible without a helping hand, at the rate we were being borne along.
    One of the men now took up his position in the bow, with a long bamboo pole to ward the craft from any danger that might threaten; and the rowers rested on their oars as the boat slipped down the race with only an occasional touch of the helmsman's yulo to guide it.
    The gentle, smiling stream on whose placid bosom we had started now became a thing of moods. It danced and gurgled with glee; then for a few brief moments it shrank back into itself, as if startled at its own audacity, and, hugging the overhanging rocks, became Nature's looking-glass, and mirrored snowy clouds, and beetling crags, and woodland foliage in its depths. It was but the transitory humour of a moment. The mood quickly changed again, and the troubled waters grew restless and ill at ease, and, lashing themselves into a passion, hissed with indignation and dashed fretfully and testily in impotent rage against the rocks. Then they calmed once more and purred with pleasure, and the sun beat down with scorching power into the stilly glen, and the scenery grew weirdly beautiful—like that of old Chinese paintings.
    But a distant murmur marked the approach of another change of mood. The murmur became a growl, and then an angry roar of fury, as the stream took the boat into its arms and drew it along with irresistible power. It was Fudo-no-taki, the "God-of-Wisdom Fall," that we were approaching, one of the finest and fiercest of all the rapids—a long, narrow incline, about eight yards wide and a hundred yards in length, down which the river, gathering all its waters together, shoots with terrific force.
    Naojiro now took the bow position, and, at his word, the rowers shipped their oars, and the helmsman, with a dip of his yulo, sent the boat straight for the curling vortex that rolled over the brink of the torrent.
    In a twinkling we were dashing and bumping down the steep slope at lightning speed, the thin, pliant bottom of the boat rising and falling in undulations from stem to stern as it beat upon the waves. At the end of this huge chute there is a level reach, and the falling water, as it meets it, is tossed in a great wave high into the air. Over this the boat leapt, with the impulse it had gained, all quivering and trembling like a living thing, and well drenching us all with spray as the prow dug deep into the foam. But with a bound the supple craft had shaken itself free, and we were drifting easily along, through glorious scenery, with pine and maple forests to the mountain-tops.
    After a series of lesser rapids we came to Koya-no-taki, the "Hut Fall," with a great boulder in the middle of a horse-shoe curve, and a drop of a clear five feet where the water sweeps over a submerged shelf of rock.
    The now maddened river seethed and roared in frenzy, and no other sound could be heard for the thunder of its waters. Straight towards certain doom we seemed to fly, but the captain never glanced behind him. He knew his men too well. Each was ready at his post, with pole poised in hand, and each knew the spot for which to aim. In another moment it seemed we must inevitably be dashed to pieces as the boulder raced towards us, but, just as the crash was coming, Naojiro's pole flew out into a tiny hole in the slippery boulder's side. Simultaneously three other poles darted out as well.

SHOOTING THE RAPIDS OF THE KATSURA-GAWA

There was a jerk, a momentary vision of four figures putting forth their utmost strength and bending with all their might against the rock, and I saw the swirling green water rise level with the starboard gunwale, as for an instant our speed was checked, and the boiling current banked up against the boat. But it was only for a moment. The helmsman swung the stern round, and the great ungainly craft, grazing the boulder as it did so, took the curve and sprang over the deafening waterfall like some enormous fish.
    It is truly grand to watch these splendid fellows dodging these death-traps. A second's hesitation at a place like this and the boat would be broadside to the stream and overturned; or beyond control, and dashed against some rock with tremendous force—and the strongest swimmer's skill could avail him little in this roaring torrent.
    All down the river a keen observer may notice little holes in the rocks at critical places, just large enough to admit the top of a bamboo pole. These are not made by hand, but, incredible as it may seem, are worn by the poles themselves, by centuries of use in log rafting and taking merchandise down the river. They bear silent testimony to the necessity of gauging the distance to an inch in order to navigate a difficult place in safety.
    Rapid after rapid followed in quick succession—Takase-no-taki, the "High Rapid," in the midst of lovely scenery; Shishi-no-kuchi-no-taki, the "Lion's-Mouth Fall"; and Nerito, named after the famous whirlpool at the entrance to the Inland Sea. Nerito is the most spectacular of all. It is a short rapid, but has two difficult curves with rocky walls between which the water sweeps with a roar at tremendous speed.
    Our boat hesitated for an instant on the rounded lip of green water at the top of the fall, and then plunged for the precipitous wall on the left at such a rate that this time it seemed no power could save us. But Naojiro's clever hand was ready, and his eye was focussed on a certain spot. Out shot his bamboo pole at the psychological moment straight into a little crevice, and throwing his weight on to the pole, he sheered the bow from the rock, and the boat went sweeping past the precipice, to be caught into the vortex again so easily that, unless we had been watching him closely, the masterly way in which he had avoided disaster would have passed unnoticed.
    The work these boatmen do so gracefully and skilfully is by no means as easy as it looks. What difficult feat does not seem easy to the uninitiated when performed by an expert? Naojiro told me that he dared not let his attention wander for a second in such places, as if he slipped, or missed his mark, a serious disaster would certainly follow.
    Several times we passed boats being towed upstream, closely hugging the bank, with the trackers straining at the tow-ropes just as Hokusai painted them a hundred years ago. Again, some lonely fisherman standing on a jutting rock, with his straw coat thrown about him to protect him from the sun, and a broad hat of reeds on his head—looking more like part of the landscape than a living human being—was another Hokusai study. Not unless one has seen these quaint figures of rustic Japan in the flesh, can one realise how true to life was the work of the old master whom Europeans most delight to honour.
    The scenery grew more beautiful still as we neared the journey's end. Among the forests on the mountainsides cherry-trees in blossom were lovely colour-spots everywhere, and as we neared the Kiyotaki's tributary waters the cliffs became perpendicular and almost grand. A dozen times we had to bid the boatmen stop, that we might study more leisurely the paradise of beauty through which we were passing.

All up the craggy clifFs that towered to heaven,
Green waved the murmuring pines on every side,

and the Kiyotaki came bounding and dancing to the parent river between lofty precipices—to which old bristling pine-trees clung tenaciously—joined by a little wooden bridge, and the whole scene was the veritable original of a Hiroshige drawing. Then we glided among tiny islets, and the river, expanding wide, became peaceful and almost still—as if the worn-out waters rested after the torments they had suffered.
    We seemed to be floating on some mythical stream that flowed through Fields Elysian—where storms never raged, and winter's blighting hand never robbed the forests of their springtime beauty; and where the blessed might find rest and spend all Eternity drifting under the fragrant pine-trees, or basking in the sunshine by waters more beautiful and musical than the fairest streams of Arcadia.
    It was Arashiyama, beloved of poets and painters during all the ages—one of the fairest spots in this land that Nature adorned when in the kindest of her moods. The mountain-side, which towered sky-high, was pink and green with cherry - blossoms and pine and maple trees that strove to hide each other; and in the emerald river great trout were sporting among the blossoms reflected in its limpid depths. Red old firs leant over the water, stooping to the mirror below them; and framed among the cherry-trees were dainty tea-houses with broad verandahs, where lovers of the beautiful come and sit all day and feast their eyes on the sumptuous repast which Nature has provided.
    In boats, yuloed lazily along by old sendos who had spent their lives upon the river, pleasure-parties, with faces uplifted, were gazing in wonder and rapture at the sweet harmony of pink and green above them. Other pleasure-seekers were rambling along the avenued river-sides, and the twanging of samisens, ringing across the water from the tea-houses, showed that some at least of the Nature-worshippers were varying their aesthetic revels with the society of the indispensable geisha.
    At Saga, a village on the eastern bank, we paid oif our boatmen, and never did we pay money more willingly for any excursion in Japan. Here a row of restaurants faces the river, and a slender wooden bridge crosses it. Saga's one street is a bazaar of shops for the sale of walking-sticks and household ornaments made of cherry-wood, and beautiful stones from the river. Stones of good shape, from celebrated places, are much sought after by the Japanese, who esteem such natural articles highly; for specimens resembling some well-known island, or famous rock, high prices can be obtained. I have seen a stone, well covered with a much-admired kind of moss, in a dealer's window in Tokyo, for which a hundred yen (ten pounds) was asked, and it was not more than a foot in length. At Saga, however, beautiful specimens from the river may be purchased for a few shillings, and one I bought there long figured as a thing of beauty in my room, placed, after the Japanese fashion, in a shallow bronze dish, with just sufficient water to cover the layer of river gravel on which it reposed.
    In the spring of 1906 I was invited by Mr. Hama-guchi of the Miyako Hotel, best and most courteous of hotel managers in Kyoto, to accompany him and two other guests—Mr. Adam, editor of the Japan Gazette, and his brother—on a trip up the river. This is even more interesting and exciting than the down-stream journey, for one has plenty of time to admire the scenery; moreover, the races and rapids—which the boat slips down so easily—present quite a different aspect as one is being towed slowly and laboriously up them.

A GLEN ON THE KATSURA-GAWA

    We had my favourite crew, with Naojiro at the bow, and one extra man to tow, making six all told. No steersman was necessary, as the captain kept the boat clear of the rocks with his bamboo pole. The towing-ropes varied in length from seventy to a hundred feet, so that each man had plenty of room to himself without interfering with the others.
    It was May, and the azaleas, which covered many of the hill-sides, were a lovely contrast to the deep green of the woods. In the depths of the gorge the heat was scorching, and the trackers, stripped of everything save straw sandals and loin-cloths, were like ivory carvings as their sleek bodies shone in the sun. With the certainty of mountain-goats they leapt from rock to rock; but, though they put forth all their strength into the harness round their lusty chests, their clean-cut limbs never bulged with knots of muscle.
    At almost every touch of Naojiro's pole, at difficult places, it fitted into one of the little holes before referred to; and from time to time, when some rocky precipice stood barrier before them, the trackers hauled in the ropes and crossed in the boat to the opposite shore. At one place they all took to the poles, with ourselves lending a hand to help; but our united strength did not avail to keep the bow to the stream, and the current, whirling the light craft round, swept it broadside along like a match-box towards a great boulder in the centre of the river.
    Here the wonderful alertness of the men was manifested in a thrilling manner. It was quite an unexpected incident, due to the fact that the boat drew so much water, as, including my camera-carrier, there were eleven people in it—an altogether unprecedented number in taking a boat up the river. The current swung us round so quickly, once the boat's head lost the stream, that the peril was on us almost before we saw it. But Naojiro saw, and gave a shout of warning, and in a twinkling all were on the side where danger threatened. Every pole struck at once, and bent almost to the breaking point as the men threw their weight and strength against the boulder, round which the water rose high and boiled in baffled fury. The danger was over in a moment. The impact was avoided, and we swept past the great stone, and well clear of it, to safety; but admiration filled us at the exhibition of resource and vigilance these sterling fellows had shown. Indeed it would be impossible to praise them too highly. Had wc struck, nothing could have prevented a disaster, for the current there was a good twelve knots an hour or more. We all got out, except the captain, and scrambled over the rocks to the quiet water above this place; the boat, freed from our weight, was then easily pulled up without more ado.
    Then came Koya-no-taki, where the five-foot waterfall bars the way. We all declared it quite impossible that we could ever surmount it; but Naojiro only smiled and called to his minions to haul in closer on the lines. Bracing his feet against the starboard side and his pole against the rock, and bending his supple body with all his strength of sinew to the task, he gave a word of command to the trackers, who pulled together with a will, lifting the prow up the watery wall as if some unseen power below impelled it, and we slid slowly to the higher level, scarcely shipping more than a bucket of water in doing so.
    At Nerito the straining trackers went on all-fours, gripping the rocks with hands and toes, and the torrent rose to the gunwale on either side. It seemed a miracle that five men could pull so large and heavy a boat up such a swirling flood; but inch by inch they did it, and when, at length, we floated in the smooth green water at the top, and looked back on the roaring tumult, the feat seemed more miraculous than ever.
    Once I attempted the up-stream journey with a less skilful crew and a smaller boat, for my favourites were engaged. At Koya-no-taki we met disaster. As he gave the word of command to pull, the captain missed his mark and sent the bow under the fall, nearly swamping us. At our shouts the trackers dropped the ropes, and the boat, full to the thwarts, was carried back with great force against a rock, which stove the top planks in for ten feet on one side. Fortunately, this rapid is a short one, and we drifted to shore in the reach below without further harm.
    The men who pilot tourists down, however, are all masters of their craft, and take pride in the fact that they have never lost a visitor's life. They dare not risk the revenue they get by this occupation, from both foreigners and Japanese, by entrusting the boats to unskilful hands. The men I had engaged on the day of this adventure were not master-hands, and told me so at the outset; but they were the only men available, as I had come without notice, and it was quite an unusual thing then for anyone to go up the rapids. At that time (1906) the brothers Adam, Dr. Roby and Dr. Barr of Kyoto, and myself were the only foreigners who had done it. It is a grand excursion for those who like something more exciting than the down-stream run. The up-river journey takes about five hours, and the double trip, with an hour's rest at Hozu, fills a most exhilarating day.
    The boatmen alone are well worth going to study. In these rugged volcanic islands every river is a torrent, and the men who make a living on them, and the fishermen around the coasts, are the class from which Japan recruits her tars. For agility, resource, and skill in their craft, I know no finer type of men in all the world. The Island Empire of the East has little to fear so long as she can draw upon such fine material for her Navy.

THE INDISPENSABLE GEISHA

CHAPTER VII

THE GREAT VOLCANOES, ASO-SAN AND ASAMA-YAMA

The Japanese archipelago is probably the most active centre of seismological disturbance in the world; and little wonder, for the islands bristle with volcanoes, and seethe with solfataras and hot-springs. Few are the weeks I have spent in the capital without experiencing at least one earthquake. I have even felt several in a night, and tremors for several nights in succession. The moment a shake begins, one's thoughts fly to subterranean fires, and thence, following up the line of cogitation, to volcanoes.
    The two finest active volcanoes in Japan are Aso-san and Asama-yama. Aso-san, in the heart of the island of Kyushiu, is not only the largest active volcano in Japan, but boasts the distinction that its outer crater is the largest in the world. But Aso is too far from the beaten track for most people and is very seldom visited, as its ascent entails an eight-day journey, there and back, from Tokyo—though half this time will suffice from the port of Nagasaki. Asama-yama, on the other hand, can easily be ascended in a three-days' absence from the capital, and being so accessible, as well as the highest active volcano in Japan, a good many people find their way to the top each year.
    The two volcanoes are totally different in shape and temperament, and neither has any pretensions to the almost perfect outline of Fuji-san. The peerless Fuji has the trim and comely form of youth, whereas Asama is rounded with age, and Aso's colossal crater is nearly choked with the accumulated ashes of untold centuries. Only a small fraction of this volcano, once the greatest on earth, is now alive, yet even that fraction is larger than any other crater in Japan. Aso is a good-natured, even-tempered volcano, and it is not often that the steady cloud of smoke and steam which it emits varies in volume; but Asama is a fretful and irritable mountain, subject to violent outbursts that are over in a moment. Sometimes Asama is restless for days together, and explosions occur every few hours; then it calms itself and is almost peaceful for many weeks before the angry mood returns again.
    One hot August night I started for Kumamōtō, en route for Aso-san. Soon after leaving Nagasaki a thunderstorm broke, and raged with truly tropical severity. For over an hour the lightning was so incessant that the train was illuminated as though by daylight. In one minute I counted over seventy flashes; this was about the average of each minute for over an hour, and the noise of the train was completely drowned in the ceaseless overlapping crashes of the thunders. As we flew past hills, and valleys, and rice-fields in the dead of night, every mile of that beautiful Kyushiu country was shown to us by the flickering lightning as on a kinematograph; whilst a deluge poured from the skies such as I have not seen equalled even by the almost unparalleled rainstorms of Java. Then the flashes became less frequent, and the scenery was revealed in a series of brilliant pictures. A village would be at one moment a typical scene of night, with only a light showing here and there. An instant later the lights had gone, as if extinguished, and every house, and window, and bamboo fence, stood out as clearly as if in sunlight. So the wonderful play of day and night continued for a further hour, dispelling all thoughts of sleep.
    Early the next morning we arrived at the historic old town of KumamotO, and, after settling our things at a hotel, went out to see Suisenji park—one of the most celebrated pleasure-gardens in Japan. The weather was almost unbearably hot—about 90° in the shade—but the park was at its very best. Gentle little neisans invited us to take tea as we entered the gates, but we ordered shaved ice and fruit syrup instead, and lay on the turf in the shade to sip it, whilst we revelled in the lovely summer scenes around us, and rubbed our eyes lest we might be dreaming.
    There was a large but very shallow lake, with water clear as the crystal of wisdom in the forehead of Buddha. It was studded with pretty islands, covered with dwarf trees, old stone lanterns, and summer-houses; stone and rustic bridges stretched over the water, and temples, torii, crooked pines, and banana-trees were scattered about the garden everywhere. A miniature artificial Fuji-san graced the opposite shore of the lake, and beyond it the eternal smoke-wreaths of the great volcano Aso mounted to the heavens. The scorching sun glinted on the brown and azure wings of a thousand dragon-flies darting across the water, and great carp glided about in shoals over the gravel and water-plants in water not a dozen inches deep. The broiling August air was all vibrating with the unceasing screams of cicadas, and tiny girls and boys were paddling in the water or scampering over the grass—innocent of a stitch of clothing—making the place echo with their happy shouts of laughter. The whole scene was a very idyll of innocent happiness and beauty.
    At one end of this garden of unalloyed joy the water deepens, and here a score of boys and adult men were bathing and frolicking about the banks—as naked as the children—whilst fair and dainty promenaders of all ages walked amongst them unembarrassed, not even noticing the nudity around them. Such Arcadian simplicity is quite refreshing after the West and its over-nice ideas of modesty.
    Negligée is de rigueur at Kumamōtō in summertime, and when my Japanese companion sat down to dinner that night his sole and only article of apparel consisted of a loin-cloth. I seized the opportunity to record this interesting phase of native custom by taking two flashlight photographs. This proceeding, it seems, was the cause of much perturbation in Kumamōtō town the following day. In order that the smoke from the flashlight might not enter the house I had placed the camera, and fired the powder, on the balcony immediately outside the open shoji of the room in which this informal meal was taking place: a report like a pistol-shot accompanied each of the brilliant flashes.
    Now it so happened that the balcony faced a river, on the opposite bank of which there lived a journalist; but we did not know about the journalist at that time.
    Early next morning we found a number of people on the river banks, closely observing the operations of some dozen men who were digging in the bed of the shallow stream. We also watched for a time, wondering what it all meant, and on enquiry learnt that they were searching for two meteorites which had fallen at that spot the previous evening. They expressed much surprise that we knew nothing about them. The journalist, it seems, has seen them fall, and several other people who were with him had witnessed the unusual phenomenon also. He was directing the digging operations, and spared a tew moments to show us an article he had contributed to the daily paper on the subject.

SUMMER NEGLIGEE AT KUMAMOTO

It told how at nine o'clock the previous evening, as the writer was sitting with a few friends on the verandah of his house, two magnificent meteorites had fallen within a few minutes of each other, with loud explosions and accompanied by a blinding glare of light, into the river, just opposite his house. This information was followed by an expatiation on meteors in general.
    As my friend finished reading the paragraph to me, and our eyes met, we both burst out laughing, much to the annoyance of the journalist, who was hardly flattered at this unexpected reception of his ''scoop." We then explained to him how at that precise hour we had made two flashlight photographs on the balcony of the hotel, and that it was, without doubt, these flashes that he had taken for meteors. At this explanation there was a shout of laughter from the assembled observers of the digging operations, and the crestfallen journalist retired, much mortified at the collapse of his theory and at the jokes of the crowd at his expense.
    After settling the affair of the meteors we started, by basha, on the twenty-mile journey to Toshita village, from which we were to make the ascent of the great volcano. The road is a very fine one, well drained and of excellent surface, and avenued with tall cryptomeria-trees the greater part of the way. The scenery too, in places, is magnificent. Nearing Toshita the road wound along the side of a deep gorge, every inch of the steep bank of which was terraced with wonderful skill for rice-fields. The air was filled with the murmur of the tiny streams that fell everywhere from terrace to terrace, until they finally leapt over the cliffs into the foaming torrent a hundred yards below. The south bank of this stream—the Shira-kawa, or "White River"—is a precipice several hundred feet in height, above which thick forests clothe the mountains to their summits. In every mile at least a dozen streams danced down the steep slopes, adding to the hum that filled the air, and beautiful cascades sprang from the beetling cliffs on the opposite shore to fall in clouds of rainbowed mist into the rocky gorge.
    The inn at Toshita is a poor unpretentious place, close by the river, and one goes to sleep lulled by the music of its waters.
    We were up early the next morning to have a bathe in the public hot-spring, where we found a number of villagers already tubbing. Much curiosity was evinced as I entered the plunge, which is common to both sexes, and many observations were made on my personal appearance—especially by the ladies. My smattering of the language enabled me to gather that these comments chiefly concerned the colour of my skin, and it was with satisfaction I noted that they took a not unfavourable tone.
    At eight we started on foot for the ten-mile walk to Aso's crater, with several coolies to carry my apparatus and luggage, for we intended to traverse the mountain and continue the journey across the entire island of Kyushiu.
    It was a glorious day, but fearfully hot. At the village of Tochinoki, which we passed through, there are many baths, fed by hot-springs, where rounded youth and shrunken age of both sexes bathe together. Two years later, when I again visited this place in March, I saw wrinkled old fellows, whose skin was like a withered apple, lying sound asleep in the water, with their heads resting on the steps, and with flat stones placed on their bellies to keep their bodies submerged. They spend the entire winter in the warm water thus, seldom, if ever, donning their clothes. The water is said to be very efficacious for rheumatism, but it seems to have evil properties as well as virtue, for several of the bathers were piebald with pink and yellow patches.
    Passing through the village we came to an open rolling moor, and the great volcano loomed straight ahead of us. I wish those who believe Japan to be "a land of birds without song," as one writer has falsely described it, could see this moor in early spring-time. When I crossed it again on my subsequent visit in March the very skies seemed to ring with celestial music, and the air trembled with the melody of a myriad unseen larks singing at the gates of heaven. I have never heard anything like this birdland concert in any part of the British Isles, or any other land. Every few seconds a tiny speck would appear far up in the blue, and the sweet piping notes and trills of one little voice of the chorus grew clearer and clearer as the tiny owner fluttered down, down, down—at times hovering almost still in the air—till the singer was lost to view in the grass. But still the little throat pulsed and throbbed out the lay of love, as the happy little creature wooed its mate upon the nest. Only the happiness of love could inspire such rapturous melody as this.
    That was a day never to be forgotten. A perfect spring morning on the hills! Not even Switzerland can eclipse the mountains and moors of Kyushiu for a tramp on a bright spring morning, when the very air seems charged with the history, romance, and mystery of Old Japan, and pulsates with the twittering and trilling of a thousand larks. But in August it was a different matter. The heat was getting terrific as we went along at a good gait over the soft springy turf, with the serrated edge of the great ash-hills, which encircle the inner crater, far above us and beckoning us on. This moor is inside the ancient crater, and the mountains all round us marked the lip of the outer rim, which is fourteen miles from brim to brim.
    The geysers of Yu-no-tani now appeared ahead, sending great billows of snowy steam high into the heavens—making a beautiful contrast to the azure of the sky, the yellow of the sunburnt grass, and the deep green of the forests which surround the springs. At a distance of two miles we could hear the geysers hissing, but as we drew nearer the sound became rapidly louder, and changed from hissing to rumbling, and then to a deep booming that made the ear-drums tingle. Finally it grew into a deafening roar that shook the earth, as we stood beside the fissures from which the steam shrieked at terrific pressure. There is power enough going to waste there to run all the factories in Kyushiu, if it were harnessed. From the force with which the steam was emitted it seemed as though the rocks must momentarily be rent asunder, and this is probably what would happen were it not that these, vents act as safety-valves.
    Miles of black ash-hills, which reflected the 90°-in-the-shade heat into our faces with scorching power, now had to be traversed, and our clothing was soon as wet as though we had been in a river. We should certainly have welcomed a dip in one at that stage of the journey. We passed many farms and rice-fields, for the ground is very rich, and wherever water can be obtained abundant crops are grown. It is said there are over twenty thousand people living in the villages within the outer crater walls.
    When we reached the summit of the ash-hills which form the second lip, we rested and restored our wasted tissues with lunch, whilst enjoying the grand spectacle of the crater, only three miles away, pouring volumes of smoke and steam into the cloudless skies. Fortified by food and rest, we soon disposed of the remaining distance, passed the temples at the foot of the cone, and were plodding up to the crater's brink.

AT THE CRATER'S BRINK, ASO-SAN

It behoved us to be very careful how we stepped, for the ash deposited is of so soluble a nature that the recent storm had turned it into slippery mud, and we had more than one fall and long slide in the mud before reaching the edge. It is a most dangerous spot, as the bank dips towards the edge in places, and a fall there might easily precipitate one into the crater.
    Aso's crater is a truly direful place. The walls are not coloured like those of lava mountains, but are black precipices of accumulated ashes, with only streaks, here and there, of the more solid matter within them. Occasionally the clouds of vapour that floated up from the great pit parted, and we could see the crater bottom, with its thousand cracks and fissures, from which the steam hissed and roared as at the Yu-no-tani geysers. Once the wind veered for a few moments and we were quickly enveloped in the steam, which sent us running, sliding, and tumbling to get away from the suffocating fumes that gripped us in the throat and set up paroxysms of coughing; yet I saw butterflies flying across the abyss and emerging from the noxious vapours unharmed.
    For the benefit of those of photographic predilections who read these lines I would offer a few remarks about these fumes. I learnt much about photographing volcanoes at Aso's crater, and the lesson was an expensive one, as lessons taught by experience usually are. On my first visit to the mountain I took with me a number of isochromatic, as well as ordinary plates, in my dark-slides. All the isochromatic plates were completely ruined by being exposed to the sulphurous fumes, which it seems attacked the silver in the film. Never having used such plates on a volcano before, I had no idea that anything wrong had happened, and after descending the mountain I went on exposing these plates for the next two days on such fine subjects as the Chinda waterfall, and some wonderful basaltic formations and other scenic views. Months later, when I came to develop the plates in California, I was completely nonplussed to account for the extraordinary manner in which the latent image came out. The films were covered with blotches, and when the negatives were dry, parts of them were positive. They were perfectly useless, and it was only when I remembered that these plates had been subjected to Aso-san's sulphurous vapours that I was able to account for the occurrence. The ordinary plates, strange to say, were not affected in any way whatever.
    Those who know what it means to make an expensive journey in order to secure photographic results, and then to find that plates of splendid subjects—which one may never have a chance of getting again—have been ruined by accident, will understand my feelings when I realised what my thoughtlessness had cost me. I therefore offer my experience as a warning to others never to allow their plates to be exposed to the action of sulphurous fumes.
    At the time of my visit there were two separate craters active within the confines of the walls, and two inactive cones, but these are matters that are liable to change every time the volcano has a fresh outburst of any unusual nature. The highest point of Aso-san is Taka-daké, or "Falcon's Peak,'' which is 5630 feet. There are several others nearly as high, and from the north side they give a magnificently broken appearance to the mountain, which is quite unsuspected from the west. From the town of Boju the five serrated peaks of Aso-san, with the steam pouring skywards behind them, make no little pretence to grandeur.
    We stayed on the mountain till long after the setting sun had turned the clouds of steam to fiery flames; then, as the moon rose over the jagged peaks, and shone with weird beauty through the ghostly vapours, we started on the journey down to Miyaji.
    Every hour of the rest of the trip across Kyushiu was full of interest. The town of Takeda is most picturesquely situated in a hollow, surrounded by high hills which are pierced by over forty tunnels to render the town accessible. Only by passing through several of these can it be entered. There are pretty waterfalls near here, flowing over the tops of closely-packed, upright basaltic columns, and the scenery all round the little town is singularly beautiful.
    Perhaps, however, Beppu and Kanawa, at the end of the journey, were the most interesting places of all. They are situated on the shore of the Bungo Channel, the south-west entrance to the Inland Sea.
    The whole of this neighbourhood is so volcanic that hot-springs abound almost everywhere. Beppu town is filled with public bath-houses; every private house has its hot-spring, and the sea-shore is bubbling with almost boiling water. The natives of the place throng to the beach in hundreds—men, women, and children—and, scooping out a hollow in the sand, they lie down in it and cover themselves up so that only their heads are unburied. Thus they parboil themselves for hours, and even sleep there. I tried this method, but found that the water which percolated into the hole I dug was so hot that I could not stand in it, let alone lie down in it.
    At Kanawa, a village a few miles away, the crust of the earth is so impregnated with volcanic heat that almost anywhere steam can be tapped by punching a hole in the ground with a crow-bar. Nearly every house has a set of holes outside it, which are used for cooking purposes. These have to be plugged up, when not in use, to keep the sulphurous steam from entering the household.
    Surely the most extraordinary baths in Japan are to be seen here. After soaking in the public plunge, the people crowd—a dozen or so at a time—into caves in which the heat is terrific. In half-an-hour they creep out, covered with mud which has fallen from the roof, and stand under jets of almost ice-cold water which come from other subterranean sources. This arcadian Turkish bath is said to be very efficacious for the cure of rheumatism.
    There are many other baths at Kanawa, some of them arranged as long troughs about fifteen inches deep and wide enough for a bather to lie in at full length. In these the bathers recline side by side. There is one trough for men and another for women, but it is quite common to see old and young of both sexes soaking alongside each other and chatting sociably together.
    There are less pleasant places at Kanawa also—one of them a boiling bog of deep green, sulphurous slime, and another of brilliant green, boiling sulphur-water—which I was told were favourite resorts of suicides. As I gazed into the horrible sloughs I thought it would indeed require truly superhuman courage, or madness, to impel the fatal plunge.
    On one of my trips round Fuji-san I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Denis Hurley of the London War Office, who was possessed with the same desire as I—to visit Asama. We therefore spent several weeks travelling together, and then, one gloomy afternoon in October, headed for Karuizawa—about six hours' journey by rail from Tokyo.
    Asama is 8280 feet high, but as the village ot Karuizawa, the starting-point for the ascent, is 3279 feet above sea-level, it leaves only some 5000 feet to be climbed after leaving the train; and after all it is a climb only in name, for this accommodating volcano has most considerately spread itself in such a manner that it is merely a walk of several hours up a steady incline to the top.

A PUBLIC BATH AT KANAWA

    The railway from Tokyo follows the Nakasendo—the old mountain highway of Japan, which in feudal days connected the capital of the Mikado at Kyoto with the Shogun's capital at Yedo—but there is no scenery of any remarkable interest until the town of Myogi is reached. At this point the line enters a mountain region of the most mystifying beauty. For several miles, from here onwards, the much-painted Myogi-san on the left is a wondrous conglomeration of overhanging cliffs, beetling crags, and towering Gothic peaks which lean far out from the vertical, seeming to menace everything below them with immediately impending destruction. The whole mountain was clothed in a glorious autumn garb of every shade of red and orange, blended with brown and green; and spiky pine-trees pertinaciously clung to the most impossible of its precipices, or bristled against the sky on the uttermost and most inaccessible of its pinnacles.
    At Yokugawa, a few miles further on, the railway becomes of great interest to those of a technical turn of mind. The steep gradient from here onwards—one in fifteen—renders traction by an ordinary locomotive impossible, so a steel rack is placed between the rails, into which cog-wheels in the bed of the engine engage. This is the Abt system, similar to that used on the Gornergrat and several others of the mountain railways of Switzerland.
    The engineers of the undertaking were confronted with enormous difficulties at this point. In addition to the height to be overcome, the country is so intensely rugged as to necessitate the mining of no less than twenty-six tunnels, of an aggregate length of something like three miles in a distance of seven. Progress up the incline is naturally slow, not over eight miles an hour, and as the volume of smoke emitted by the throbbing, straining engine would be a source of great discomfort to passengers, the Swiss method is also adopted for overcoming this inconvenience. The engine is attached to the rear of the train and pushes it; and to prevent the smoke being drawn by the draught through the tunnel ahead of the train—as it inevitably would be—as soon as the engine enters each tunnel a canvas curtain is drawn across the opening to shut off the draught. The smoke is in this manner kept stationary until the engine has emerged from the other end, when the curtain is drawn back again and it is allowed to blow out.
    In several places only a few score feet separates one tunnel from the next. As we passed these openings, fleeting glimpses could be caught of scenery, exquisitely beautiful, where the lovely tints of autumn mingled with the distorted shapes of the grim volcanic rocks; and, as the sunlight waned, the jagged pinnacles and spires stood out in weird and picturesque silhouettes against a lurid sky.
    We saw Asama, the object of our visit, for a few brief moments from the train, a faint smoke issuing from the summit; but night had fallen ere we reached our destination, cold and hungry, and, though the outline of the mountain could plainly be seen in the darkened sky, we were too intent on finding a warm room, a good meal, and a hot bath, to feel much interest in it that night.
    There were no rikishas at the station, and when we had tramped the mile to the inn we found the place shut up and apparently deserted, for few visitors go there at that time of the year, and only after repeated efforts could we succeed in making ourselves heard. When at length the door, with a great clatter, was unbarred, we were welcomed with customary courtesy and a chorus of greetings from the host and two little smiling maids. They had hastily bundled out of the beds to which they had retired for warmth, and, with much bowing of their glossy, black heads, apologised for keeping us waiting outside on such a frigid night.
    The warmth of the welcome, however, whilst cheering to the spirit, did not help to raise the temperature of the hotel; and we went shivering to our rooms, with maledictions on ourselves and on each other for having been so foolish as to disregard the advice we had been given in Tokyo—to telegraph ahead that we were coming. Braziers, however, were quickly filled with glowing charcoal; hot tea was brought; warm baths were prepared; and as the mercury in the thermometer on the wall went up, so did our spirits; until at length, after a boiling hot tub, we sat down to a hastily prepared but excellent meal, fully resuscitated from our six hours' incarceration and fast in that chilly train.
    There is nothing of any particular interest about Karuizawa itself, though the high location and cool air make it a favourite resort for residents of Tokyo during the hot summer months. It was the mountain, however, that we had come to see, and at this season of the year we were willing enough to give all the cool airs the place could boast for a few hours of grateful sunshine. And fortune was more than kind, for the morning after our arrival was clear and still—a lovely October day. Nothing could be wished for more, so at 7 A.M. we started out with a guide, and three coolies to carry our lunch and my heavy photographic apparatus and plates, which weighed about 80 lbs.
    There had been a keen frost overnight, and in the crisp air the volcano stood out sharp in every detail, with a faint white vapour issuing from its rounded top. Scarcely had we started when one of the coolies gave a shout and pointed to the mountain. On looking in that direction we saw a wonderful sight. A great ball of steam shot upwards from the crater and floated like a monster balloon up to the sky. This was immediately followed by clouds of dense, black smoke, mingled with great billows of vapour, which poured forth in bellying convolutions, and piled upon each other, higher and higher, until an immense column, ten thousand feet or more in height, floated over the mountain. A high air current then caught the top and flattened it out and tilted it, and finally the whole column drifted off lazily southwards, staining the skies a bluish-grey, as though a heavy rainstorm were approaching. I have never seen a grander sight than that cyclopean pillar of writhing smoke and vapour pouring up into the vault of heaven on that clear, sunny October morning.
    We had not bargained for such marvellously good luck as this. To have a faultless day, and to find that the volcano was in an unusually fierce state of activity, was fortunate indeed, and well calculated to cheer the soul of any one bent on securing photographic results. Our host of the hotel came running after us, warning us to be very careful how we ascended the mountain, and exhorting us not to venture near the crater unless smoke was issuing freely. Reasons for this sage advice I will give later. We had, however, made up our minds to see the crater, and intended to look into it that day, be the risks what they might.
    Leaving Karuizawa behind us, and passing through the quaint straggling village of Kotsukake—the cottage roofs of which were covered with stones to weight them down in the strong winds which prevail here—the road led past rice-fields and sparkling streams with quaint water-wheeled mills; thence on to a beautifully-wooded, sloping moor, which soon changed to rolling hills of volcanic ash and scoriae, overgrown with grotesque pines.

PHOTOGRAPHING AT THE CRATER'S LIP, ASO-SAN

    The hillsides were golden in the sun, and the silver-tipped kaia-grass, which flecked the gold, made a foreground of feathery beauty for every view. The frost had covered the trees and kaia with millions of minute crystals, which sparkled like gems in the sunlight, and as we rapidly covered mile after mile through the lovely woodland, and ascended gradually higher and higher, the simple beauties of this undulating country seemed as charming as more showy landscapes, the praises of which have been sung by every writer on Japan.
    The great mountain mass lay straight ahead, but since the explosion at 7 a.m. scarcely a trace of vapour had issued from the crater. At 10 a.m. we passed round the side of Ko-Asama, or "Baby Asama "—a small extinct volcano which lies at the base of its larger namesake, and whose slopes were crimson with autumn tints. Shortly afterwards we reached the place where those who come on horseback must leave their steeds behind and proceed the rest of the way on foot, for, like all volcanoes in Japan, Asama-yama is sacred, and above this spot no horse may tread. From here to the summit it is simply a matter of walking over a bed of cinders and pumice, which gets steeper and looser as one nears the top. Ash is constantly ejected from the crater, and most of it falls on the upper part of the mountain; the accumulation of centuries thus accounts for the smooth, round appearance which the volcano presents when viewed from a distance.
    The lower slopes are overgrown with a network of vines bearing small seedless grapes, from which the natives make a kind of jam. At 11.20 a.m., as we were toiling up this incline, another explosion occurred, and again vast clouds of smoke and steam belched out from the crater and rose for thousands of feet into the air. A muffled roar, however, was the only sound which reached us at this distance. A gentle breeze had by this time sprung up, causing the smoke to drift off rapidly eastwards, and as it floated overhead a shower of ash fell around us.
    We relieved our coolies of the contents of the lunch basket shortly after this, for the guide told us that the mountain was extremely dangerous when in that mood, and sometimes ejected showers of stones; it would therefore be unwise to tarry long enough at the summit to lunch there as we had proposed.
    At I P.M. we reached the top of the great ridge ot the outer cone. The ground hereabouts was exceedingly soft from the quantity of fine ash that is intermittently being deposited. It was studded with myriads of stones, some of which bore silent testimony to the soundness of the guide's warning, for they were quite warm, showing that they had been ejected in the recent explosion. There was a slight depression beyond this, and then another slope, which is the inner cone. The roar of the great cauldron could be heard as we arrived at this spot, but when we reached the summit a few minutes later, and stood on the crater's brink, a truly marvellous spectacle lay before us.
    We saw an immense pit, six hundred feet or more across, and almost perfectly round, with perpendicular walls towering up from the bottom, five hundred feet or so below. These walls were burnt, and scorched, and stained with fire to every colour of the spectrum, and from a myriad cracks and crannies sulphurous jets of steam hissed out, each contributing its quota to the filmy vapours that rose out of the abyss from the fires of Tartarus below. Through the thin steam the entire crater floor was visible. It was a huge solfatara, with numerous holes from which molten matter was spurting, and red-hot lava pools which now and then were licked by little tongues of flame.
    The noise of the place was truly infernal. There is no other sound on earth that can be likened to the sticky, sputtering buzz of a volcano. It is fearful to listen to—this vibrating, throbbing, pulsating din of ceaseless, steady boiling. The thing seemed to be fermenting with suppressed rage, and one half expected that any moment it would burst open and loose the furies it could scarce restrain.
    The whole summit of the mountain was covered with stones, some of which must have weighed a ton or more. Many of them had obviously been ejected quite recently, for the marks they had made in the soft ash were fresh, and some of the larger ones were still hot, having been thrown out from the crater in the explosion that occurred during our ascent. The fresh ash, which falls after each such outburst, speedily covers the stones, so that it is easy to see which have been expelled most recently. Our coolies emphatically drew our attention to the freshly-fallen ones, intimating that it would be exceedingly hazardous to tarry very long where we were. The intense interest of the place, however, and the wonderful views to be had from the lofty vantage-point, made us disregard their warnings; there was so much to marvel at, and all around us a glorious panorama of mountain scenery as far as the eye could reach.
    Eastwards there were tiers of rugged mountains ending with the craggy peaks of Myōgi-san, and farther north the Nikko range. Northwards were the Kot-suke range, the mountainous district of Kusatsu, and Shirane-san; whilst in the west that inhospitable mass of great barren peaks, which the Rev. W. Weston has called "the Japanese Alps," was a dream of light and shadow in the afternoon sun. Southward there rose the great Kōshu barrier, above which, and far beyond it, the lovely snow-clad cone of Fuji towered high, and surpassed in the beauty of its faultless symmetry every peak within the range of vision.
    Whilst absorbed in the contemplation of these beautiful surroundings, and the wondrous red and purple colouring of an ancient broken crater on the mountain's western side, the time sped swiftly on, and it was not until 3 o'clock that we prepared to leave.
    Our coolies went on ahead, but Hurley and I stopped a few moments for a last look at the crater, from which we found it hard to tear ourselves away. As we stood on the brink of the diabolical abyss there was a crash like a thunder-clap, and the earth seemed to split before us as the bed of the crater parted asunder and burst upwards, throwing thousands of tons of rock against the walls. For a moment or two the noise was like the din of battle. Masses of rock were hurled against the cliffs and shivered to fragments with reports like exploding shells, and showers of stones, whistling past us, shot many hundreds of feet into the air.
    It all occurred so quickly that I cannot recall all my sensations, but remember thinking that my last moment had surely come. It seemed we must inevitably be struck by the falling stones. My first impulse was to seek safety in flight; but after running a few paces it occurred to me that the stones were just as likely to hit me running as standing still. Hurley had also started to run, but was evidently seized with the same conviction, for, without a word, he stopped too, and we both waited for our fate. Just then the smoke, which rose from the crater immediately after the explosion, swept in a great cloud above us, so that we could not see the flying stones, or form any idea where they were likely to fall. 

AT THE CRATER'S BRINK, ASAMA-YAMA

I shall not soon forget those moments, as we gazed upwards, with arms involuntarily held tightly over our heads for protection, waiting for the descending missiles to drop out of the smoke-cloud and annihilate us.
    And then the stones came clattering down—sticking, with sharp thuds, deep into the ash. By good luck the main force of the explosion was directed slightly to the east, and on that side of the crater most of them fell. We were on the southern rim, and in our vicinity only a sprinkling dropped compared with the hail of rock that must have fallen a little farther off.
    No sooner, however, were we safely delivered from Scylla than the perils of Charybdis were upon us. The smoke that was belching from the crater's mouth now enveloped us, and in a moment we were choking and almost asphyxiated with the sulphurous fumes. It was impossible to breathe, as, with hands tightly pressed over our mouths and nostrils, we blindly ran through the smoke for air. Fortune again was with us. In less than twenty paces we emerged suddenly from the chaos into brilliant sunlight, and staggered well out into safety before we fell upon the ground, gasping and filling our lungs to their fullest extent with great draughts of sweet pure air. It was a happy thing for us that the strong breeze which was now blowing was coming from the south; thus the smoke was blown away from our side across the crater. Had it been blowing from the north we should have been unable to escape from the suffocating fumes.
    This column of smoke was a thing of most awesome beauty, and held us fairly spell-bound. It belched up into the air in great, black rolls, which were emitted with such force and quantity that they were pushed far back into the teeth of the wind, and several times we had to retire still farther off as they bellied out towards us. It rose to the heavens in immense, writhing convolutions, and from the centre of the mass huge billows of snow-white steam puffed out, and bulged against the smoke, seeming to fight with it for mastery. But as white and black rose higher and higher in turn they mingled with each other, and soared up to the skies in a gradually diffusing pillar of grey which was tilted northwards by the wind and borne off rapidly into the clouds above.
    Here was a wonderful chance to secure a unique photograph, but on looking round for the coolies I saw them madly rushing down the mountain-side with my cameras as fast as legs could carry them. Realising that if I did not stop them I should miss the chance of a lifetime to get a picture at the lip of a volcano in a state of violent activity, I ran after them, calling to them to stop. The guide shouted back that we should all be killed if we did, and they continued their rush down the mountain-side faster than ever. They raced over the smooth ash and leapt over stones like deer, regardless of the damage such a pace might do to my apparatus, which was packed to suit a more sober gait. Failing to check them with my shouts, I went after them, and, being unencumbered, soon overhauled the man with my hand-camera; but he was half crazed with fear, and not all my entreaties could make him slack his pace. Seeing the chance of a unique picture slipping away—for I knew the best smoke effects would quickly be over—I was reluctantly compelled to use a more forcible method, which had the desired effect. Quickly unlashing the camera from his pack, I returned with another and older coolie, who had stopped at my bidding, to the crater's lip, and there hastily took a snapshot showing Hurley and his camera near the brink, with the smoke pouring out of the crater in the background. So great had been the rush of air from the crater, as we were looking over the brink when the outbreak occurred, that Hurley's panama was carried high up into the clouds, to fall back into the volcano—a sacrifice which I think he has never regretted, as the memory of its tragic end more than compensated for the loss of the hat.
    When all danger was over, the coolies, who were busy haranguing the guide half a mile away, returned, and I could see they meant to make trouble. The guide angrily demanded to know what I meant "by striking a man who was running away to save his life."
    Seeing that all danger was over before I had started in pursuit, it seemed to me he had scarcely stated the case quite fairly; but I knew that in Japan it was a very serious offence to handle a man roughly, even though I had been much gentler than the circumstances might have warranted, and I knew, too, that I should surely get into trouble unless I could turn the tables on them. I therefore simulated all the wrath I could, and demanded in turn to know what they meant by shirking the work I was paying them liberally to do, and running away with my apparatus when the time came for me to use it. I denounced them as cowards unworthy of the name of Japanese, whom I had hitherto supposed to be a courageous people able to look death in the face without flinching; but that henceforth I should look upon them as poltroons who could be frightened out of their lives by a little smoke and a few stones flying in the air. How could they ever expect to beat the Russians in the coming war if this was all the spirit and courage they could show? I added that I should report their conduct to the hotel proprietor as soon as we got back, and advise him never to let such men accompany any foreign visitors again.
    The guide's face was a study as I delivered this oration. He was completely nonplussed, and when I had finished he veered round, and instead of pouring the vials of his wrath on my head, vented it on the coolies. He hotly denounced them, as I had done, quite overlooking the fact that I had included him in my impeachment as being the worst of the lot, for he had nothing whatever to carry, and had outstripped all the others in his flight for safety. At his change of front the coolies hung their heads in shame, and then came to me, pleading forgiveness, and begging that I would say nothing of the matter at the hotel. This I agreed to, and rewarded the old man, who had stood by me, with a substantial tip, then and there, much to his satisfaction. It is interesting to add that the camera-carrier, whom I had reluctantly treated so unceremoniously, was indefatigable in my interests during the rest of my stay in Karuizawa, and was always at hand and ready for anything I might want.
    For the remainder of that day the volcano relapsed into a state of steady activity—thick, black smoke pouring from the crater. This was the condition for which our host at the hotel had told us to wait before making the ascent, as when smoke issues freely it denotes that the vent is clear, and that the crater may be approached with safety. When no smoke appears it is a sure sign that the main opening is clogged, and the pent-up steam, after accumulating for a few hours, bursts everything before it, with the effect we had witnessed—the force of the explosion being governed by the amount of resistance offered by the matter which has clogged the vent. The huge pieces of rock scattered round the mountain-top testify to the undesirability ot being in the vicinity on such occasions.
    All next day we waited at a fine vantage-point, near the village of Kotsukake, in the hope that we should be able to secure a photograph of the mountain in one of its violent outbursts, but a mild and steady cloud of smoke issued from the crater in a most aggravating manner all day, and nothing further happened.

SMOKE AND STEAM RISING FROM ASAMA'S CRATER AFTER THE EXPLOSION

The next three days were wet, but on the morning of the fourth, after several hours of patient waiting, another explosion occurred, and I was then able to secure the coveted picture of the great smoke-cloud ascending from the crater, but the column was tilted acutely by the strong wind that was blowing.
    The last really great eruption of Asama occurred in 1783, when an immense stream of lava poured from the crater down the north-eastern side of the mountain, and for several miles into the valley below, destroying and engulfing all in its path.
    Although more than a century old, the weird forms into which the molten rock solidified look quite fresh from a short distance, and only when one approaches close is it seen that the distorted shapes are grey with moss and lichens. The lava stream divides a beautiful forest of pines and other trees, through which it tore its way, killing everything before it. As one emerges from the shade of this fair woodland the barren waste is a striking and terrible illustration of the awful, devastating power pent up inside the earth.

CHAPTER VIII

MIYANOSHITA AND LAKE HAKONÉ

There are few pleasanter spots in any land, for those who love a ramble o'er hill and dale, than the Hakoné district of Japan. Its lovely woodlands and mountains, ringing with the sound of rills and rivers, cascades and waterfalls, make it a veritable paradise for a holiday. Of all places within easy reach of Yokohama Miyano-shita, the chief village of the district, is the favourite week-end resort for foreign residents of the seaport. Many are the happy recollections I cherish of days spent there with a few congenial friends.
    A journey of two hours from Yokohama on the Tokaido railway brings one to Kodzu, where a change is made for Yumoto into an electric car, on which "parsons infected, introxicated, or lunatics will not be allowed, children without attender too," to quote Rule 9 of the Company's Regulations. There is usually a wait for some ten or fifteen minutes before the car starts, and the proper way to fill this interval is to have tea at one of the near-by cha-ya. Whether you want to or not, you cannot help conforming to the custom, for buxom little country maids appropriate your luggage, see it on the car, procure your ticket, and look to it that everything is well, before you have hardly time to take your bearings. Whilst this is being done the tea has been prepared, and you sit down to enjoy it, and to chaff the smiling little waitress, who is clearly used to foreign ways and evidently likes them.

AUTUMN AT MIYANOSHITA

When you leave, after placing a few coppers on the plate, you feel that the courteous thanks she bows are too one-sided, and you wonder whether, after all, you have not made some awful mistake—that you yourself, not she, should have been the one to do the thanking.
    Midway between Kodzu and Yumoto is the ancient town of Odawara, and as the tram speeds for two miles through the straggling thoroughfare, which is its main street, the whole household system and life of the inhabitants are revealed through the open doors and windows. The town, it is said, was the scene of constant strife in feudal days; in fact the whole country hereabouts teems with the most sanguinary historical associations. Yumoto is the terminus of the tram-line, and from here to Miyanoshita a mountain road winds for four miles along the gorge of the Hayakawa, the "Rapid River." Rikisya-runners from the hotels are always here to meet the trams, three or four of them being necessary for each vehicle, as the road is very steep; it is quite an easy tramp, however, for a good walker, and the scenery is lovely all the way.
    There is a pretty cascade near Yumoto, where a hundred feathery streams gush out of the mountain-side, and tumble in the sunlight like a shower of flashing gems from rock to rock. The Japanese, who have poetical names for every beautiful feature of the land, call it Tama-daré-no-taki, the "Waterfall of Falling Jewels," and the name is most appropriate. The jewels drop into a limpid crystal pool, where huge gold carp lazily glide about in shoals, or loaf in the shade of the stone bridges and overhanging maple-trees.
    A little farther up the road, the picturesque village of Tonosawa lies deep in the heart of the glen, with noisy waters all around it, for another torrent comes plunging along to join the parent river. Hot sulphur-streams run in the mountain overhanging the village; these have been tapped by tunnels, and their waters piped to a dozen different hotels which are popular resorts for residents in Tokyo and Yokohama.
    The scenery becomes finer at every turn as the road winds its way up the mountain-side. Rocky cliffs give way to maple-woods, and then to bamboo-groves, whose graceful shoots lean outwards, forming lovely canopies overhead. The Hayakawa fills the whole valley with the murmur of its waters, and down its banks and precipices many a streamlet tumbles headlong into the gorge below. This road is lovely at every season of the year. In April

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume;

sweet May then comes and makes the hillsides burn with red azaleas; in drowsy summer a myriad cicadas strive to hush the murmur of the river; autumn sets the forests ablaze with fiery glory; and

When winter's hand spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land,

they are more beautiful than ever, for the feathery bamboos leaning across the road bow deeper still, weighted down with the snow that lies on their slender branches and leaves.
    Miyanoshita's one street is a bazaar of pretty things. It is the centre for the Japanese wood-mosaic work—known all over the world. Inlaid boxes, and articles for every conceivable kind of use, are here for sale, all made out of the choicest and most beautifully grained 0 of woods, at prices that are irresistible.
    The Fujiya Hotel stands at the head of this street. Here, in the very loveliest surroundings, one can live in the lap of luxury and comfort. The table is of the choicest, the service unsurpassed, and the daintiest and sweetest little maidens of Japan, with soft white tabi on their feet, tread silently to anticipate one's every wish, or run to do one's bidding.
    But the baths ! One simply lives in them. Hot volcanic water, with just a trace of sulphur in it—enough to make it soft and soothing—is piped from the solfataras, miles up in the hills above, to huge oblong wooden tubs, which one can enter any hour of the day or night, and use the water as one pleases. But that is not all. At the back of the hotel, out in the open air, there is a monster swimming-bath, from three to ten feet deep, with spring-boards and diving-stages, and hot and cold water laid on, so that its temperature may be fitted to the season.
    With pleasure and appreciation I recall the kindness shown me on many occasions by the proprietor Mr. Yamaguchi, and his daughter, whilst I was staying at this hotel. There was no thought or attention omitted to add to the enjoyment of my stay, and in this good-fortune I was no exception to others who seek these kindly people's friendship. Many a picnic excursion we arranged to lovely places in the hills, and with genuine enthusiasm O Kō San, the charming and accomplished daughter of the house, was ever ready to chaperone the pretty little waitresses to distant spots to pose and give a touch of beauty to my pictures. Mr. Yamaguchi, with, of late years, the able assistance of his daughter, has made this fine hotel the standard of highest excellence in the East, and no one who ever stayed there did not leave it only to extol its praises loudly. Comfortably housed at this hospitable place, surrounded by every luxury in one of the fairest places of Japan—where the air is so recuperative and invigorating that one is tempted to wander for endless miles over the hills—it is easy to understand why those who come here for days stay for weeks; whilst those who come for weeks, extend the weeks into months, and then leave this enchanting spot with many regrets, and the firm resolve to return at the earliest opportunity.
    There is no end to the number of delightful places within less than a half-hour's walk from the hotel—Dogashima, a tiny village in a cool ravine with a cascade such as wood-nymphs love; Kiga, and the "Gold-fish Tea-house," with its lovely garden, and waterfall, and fountain, and golden carp; Jakotsu-gawa, the "Stream of the Serpent's Bones"; Miyagino, a village by the river-side, with a charmingly situated old mill and water-wheel; and a score of other little gems of beauty-spots. But, charming as all these places are, the favourite of all excursions from Miyanoshita is that to Lake Hakoné.
    The road leads along the left bank of the Hayakawa for some distance, and thence strikes off up a steep pathway into the Ashinoyu mountains, through the village from which they derive their name. This is a bald, uninviting locality, but is famed far and wide for the curative properties of its sulphur springs. Native sufferers from skin diseases flock to the place in summer; whilst foreigners, afflicted with rheumatism and kindred complaints, come here and spend prescribed hours of their time, immersed to the neck in the malodorous waters, which come hot and fresh from the bowels of the earth. One of the baths is so powerful that those who enter it have to do so inch by inch, so as not to disturb and free the fumes. To do so would mean immediate overpowering by them. Even to smell a sponge soaked in the water will make a strong man faint. When any one enters the bath an attendant closely watches him whilst he is in it, and many a time it would have claimed a victim, had the bather not been taken out at once to the open air when overcome. Ashinoyu is 2800 feet above the sea, and is always cool even in the hottest weeks of summer.

THE WATERFALL OF FALLING JEWELS AT YUMOTO

    From here to the lake it is a gradual downward slope through hills thickly covered with dwarf bamboo. On the way there are some famous carvings to be seen. The most interesting of these is an immense bas-relief, cut in the face of a wall of rock, of Jizo, the Buddhist God who watches over the souls of little children, and to whom women about to become mothers offer up their prayers.
    The sentiment surrounding this deity is a very beautiful one. It is the popular belief that when children die they descend into purgatory, and are compelled by a horrible witch to pile up into cairns the stones of the Sai-no-Kawara, or "River-bed of Souls "—the Japanese Styx. This labour is unending, for bands of angry demons, called oni, rise from the river and destroy the heaps, and the terrified children would have to toil for ever rebuilding them, were it not for the gentle, compassionate Jizo. He comes to their help, drives away their tormentors, and hides the little ones in the great sleeves of his kimono. Hence it is that those who pray to Jizo deposit a stone or two about the shrine, as thus they lighten the toil of their little ones who have passed away.
    This image is said to be the work of Kōbo Daishi, a Buddhist saint who lived in the eighth century, and he is credited with having accomplished the feat in a single night. If Kōbo Daishi did all that the Japanese say he did, he must certainly have executed this work in the time allotted; for otherwise, had his days exceeded those of Methuselah, he could scarcely have effected all the wonders for which the Japanese gave him credit.
    Having spent some years mining out in the West, I did a little figuring on this achievement, and estimated that if two good Californian miners had worked, with the assistance of modern explosives, in blasting out the rock alone, without attempting any carving, they would have well earned good wages if they had completed the work in a week. It will thus be seen that this sturdy saint is deserving of much commendation for his brawn and celerity. He was a man of great attainments. His sympathies were many, and his talents manifold. He was the most famous of all Buddhist saints of Japan. He was a great traveller, and, amongst other endowments, excelled as a painter and sculptor. His writing was of such beauty that the eyes were dazzled on beholding the characters, and at the age of thirty-five he invented the syllabary of the land. To such great dexterity did he attain in the art of calligraphy that he was able to write equally well with five brushes at once, one in either hand, one in each foot, whilst the fifth he held in his teeth. There was no medium upon which he was unable to record his handwriting, and it is told that on one occasion he traced characters which thereupon appeared in the heavens, and that at another time he wrote upon the flowing waters of a river. But even this was not the limit of his skill, for he would take a brush and shake it, and the drops of ink, as they fell, became transformed into characters exceeding in beauty any hitherto seen. All this being so, it is not strange that his renown is great throughout the land, and that he is the most deeply venerated of Buddhist saints.
    The road all the way from Miyanoshita, like other mountain roads in Japan, was well bestrewn with worn-out waraji, the straw sandals which are the only footgear used in the hilly districts. They are very cheap, costing but two or three farthings a pair, and will last an entire day. Even the horses are shod with waraji, specially made to fit their hoofs, which would otherwise speedily become cracked and broken on these rough and stony paths. At every house we passed these useful articles were sold.
    There are three ways of making the journey to Hakoné, which is about six miles—on foot, on horseback, or in a yama-kago, or mountain basket. The latter method is that by which all Japanese ladies, and many men, travel in mountain districts.
    The kago is a light bamboo litter, hung on a single pole, which is carried on the shoulders of two or more bearers. It is well adapted for native use, as the Japanese are accustomed from infancy to sit with their feet tucked under them. How comfortable European or American ladies can make themselves is largely a matter of the personal equation. I have only tried this method once, when disabled by a sprained ankle from walking, and I found it comfortable enough. If one is not prone to cramp, or pins-and-needles, or sea-sickness, it is an easy way of travelling, as the back is arranged at a convenient angle, and there are soft cushions to sit on. The motion is nauseating to many people, but the Japanese seem to find it soothing, for they generally go to sleep. The bearers are wonderfully sure-footed, and two can carry a Japanese lady all day, with occasional spells of rest and changes of shoulder.
    The lake bursts suddenly into view a short way past the Jizo image, and the road zigzags down to it; but walkers can cut off all the corners and take a path which makes a dive for Moto-Hakoné, the picturesque village by its waters.
    One Christmas Day as I reached this point the view was more than usually lovely. The bamboo thickets sparkled with hoar-frost crystals in the sunlight, and the lapis-lazuli lake lay snugly bosomed in mountains of gold—all yellow with the ripened kaia-grass Beyond the rugged barrier range on the western side, the peerless Fuji-san, thickly shrouded with newly-fallen snow, raised its proud crest high into the heavens—"a stainless altar of the sun."
    Hakoné is the name of the mountain region comprising the entire southern portion of the province of Sagami, and has been given to the lake by the foreigners who, in the summer months, fly to this cool and beautiful district from city and seaside heat. The Japanese name of the lake is Ashi-no-umi, the "Sea of Reeds," though why the name was given to it is not easy to comprehend. Japanese names are usually most apposite, but in this case there seems to have been a misfit, for with the sole exception of a shallow place at the northern end of the lake, where there are a few reeds, the shores descend abruptly into water many fathoms deep.
    The Emperor has a summer residence here on a peninsula. There is also a fine old stone torii by the waterside, a famous Shinto temple, an avenue of cryptomeria-trees, and everything is fairly cloaked with legend and mantled with historical memories.
    One day, when I was strolling through the village, I picked up at a little shop a curious guide-book. It was a small blue volume, embellished with a golden outline of Fuji—a translation from a native work into English by a Japanese, Mr. C. J. Tsuchiya. I found its pages so quaintly interesting in style that I quote some of the author's descriptions of this region, trusting that he will be so gracious as to pardon the liberty if he should ever see these lines.
    Speaking of the beauties of the place, he says: "Owing to toilsome ascent many difficulties must be endured by travellers. The result of toleration is pleasure. There the Imperial Palace stands; Hakoné Gongen, a Shinto temple, adorns itself with perpetual unchanging dress of forest; the Ashi Lake spreads the face of glowing glass reflected upside down the shadow of Fuji which is the highest, noblest and most glorious mountain in Japan; and the mineral hot spring warmly entertain the guests coming yearly to visit them during summer vacation.

TRAVELLING BY YAMA-KAGO IN THE HAKONÉ MOUNTAINS

 The purity of the air, the coolness of summer days, and the fine views of landscapes are agreeable to all visitors; for these facts, they do not know how is the summer heat and where is the epidemic prevailing.
    "Whenever we visit the place, the first pleasure to be longed, is the view of Fuji Mountain and its summit is covered with permanent undissolving snow, and its regular configuration hanging down the sky like an opened white fan, may be looked long at equal shape from several regions surrounding it. Every one who saw it has ever nothing but applause. It casts the shadow in a contrary direction on still glassy face of lake as I have just described. Buildings of Imperial Solitary Palace, scenery of Gongen, all are spontaneous pictures. Wind proper in quantity, suits to our boat to slip by sail, and moonlight shining on the sky shivers quartzy lustre over ripples of the lake. The cuckoo singing near by our Hotel plays on a harp, and the gulls flying about to and fro seek their food in the waves. All these panorama may be gathered only in this place.''
    Hakoné was the scene of many fierce conflicts in feudal times. The latest battle is described thus:—
    "At May of the first year of Meiji, about thirty years ago from the present, two feudal and military chiefs engaged in battle on Hakone mountain. One of them was Okubo Kagano-Kami, the Lord of Odawara-Han, and the other was Shonosuke Hayashi, Lord of Boshu; and the former belonged to Imperial Army and the latter was in Shogun's side. One time, Hayashi staid at Numadzu and held a good many soldiers. Leading them, he passed Mishima and came to Hakone. He requested to the guardsmen of Barrier Gate to let his army pass through it. At that time, the guardian-ship of the gate was in the hand of Odawara-Han, and the request was not permitted by its master Kagano-Kami. He durst to pass through it by military power. Then the battle was instigated, and instantly guns were fired. All of dwellers of Hakoné were so frightened that they fled out of their dwellings and hid into mountains or valleys. After short struggle, the guardsmen could not conquer him, and retired to Odawara to shut themselves up in the castle for its defence. Taking advantage of victory, he advanced his army to destroy them. He missed unexpectedly his cogitation. He was defeated very badly, and retired to Yumoto. Secondly, he ran back to Hakoné, defeated by enemy. By violent pursuit of Imperial Army, he was finally obliged to run to Ajiro about 4 miles south from Atami and thence to escape to his own previous dominion. Thenceforth, the construction of perfect Imperial government by the revolution of Meiji, placed the nation out of impetuous struggles of Feudalism. And this ruin was remained to endless fancy."
    The eight principal sights of Hakone are summed up in these words:—
    1. "The snow-crowned view of Koma-ga-dake."
    2. "The evening twilight of Tōga-shima."
    3. "The flowing lanterns on the waves of Ashi lake."
    4. "The wild geese flying down near Sanada-yama."
    5. "The moonlight shining on Kurakaké-yama."
    6. "The blossoms of azalea, or tsutsuji, flowering upon Byōbu-yama."
    7. "The ship putting firewoods into when the weather snows."
    8. "The wild ducks swimming about Kasumiga-ura in light-hearted manner."
    "It was already described that all the mountain sceneries in Hakoné are very agreeable to us, but especially these eight sceneries may be picked out."
    This is the style of the little volume from beginning to end, and it ranks among the most interesting of my Japanese curiosities.
    It only remains for me to add my thanks to the author for the pleasure his little book has given me, and my congratulations on his work. If his translation be quaint and somewhat flowery, let his readers bear in mind that he is trying to turn difficult Japanese into comprehensible English. Though the sentences are a little high-flown in places, it is yet remarkable how nearly every word used secures the desired effect. How many English people, translating an involved piece of prose into written Japanese, would be likely to do better?
    Jikoku-toge, the "Ten Province Pass," ten miles south of Miyanoshita and 2000 feet higher, offers the widest prospect of any vantage-point in Hakoné; the view is exceeded in grandeur only by that from Otome-toge—described in the chapter on Shōji.
    At the summit of the Pass there is an enormous boulder, called the "Ten Province Stone," because from it may be seen on clear days a glorious panorama extending over no less than ten provinces of the Empire. "Bays, peninsulas, islands, mountain-ranges lie spread out in entrancing variety of form and colour," says Murray's Handbook, It is indeed a magnificent scene, with the great Fuji mounting high above all the other peaks—making them look quite unpretentious by comparison—and Sagami Bay, a thousand yards below, and but two miles away, a lovely azure contrast to the yellow autumn hills.
    The abrupt descent to the sea is fringed with bamboo thickets wherein are to be found little groups of time-stained granite gods; and magnificent camphor-trees, the largest in Japan, spread wide their twelve-hundred-year-old limbs in the grounds of Kinomiya temple at the foot of the steep.
    As we descended the mountain a cloud of steam shot into the air in the middle of the pretty town of Atami, which nestles in the sunshine on the shore of a little artificial-looking bay. It was the geyser that has made Atami famous. Once every four hours it spurts, and its salty steam is said to be so efficacious for throat and lung complaints that the town is practically supported by those who come here to undergo the geyser cure.
    Atami has no sights. It is simply a little, restful gem of a place, which the hand of winter never touches; where plum-blossoms deck every nook and temple-ground whilst Tokyo is all a-wallow with icy slush; and where every hill-side that rises out of the sea is yellow with orange-groves. It is a little peaceful Eden where I once saw many hundreds of wounded soldiers rapidly regaining health, as they loafed about in the warm sunshiny gardens, or rambled along the beach in their newly-refound strength, whilst, not twenty miles away, the Tōkaido was white with snow.

FUJI FROM LAKE SHOJI

CHAPTER IX

SHŌJI, AND THE BASE OF FUJI

Only to see Shōji, and the scenery at the sacred Fuji's foot, is worth the journey to far Japan.
    The little hotel that was founded at Shōji by an English-born subject of the Emperor some dozen or so years ago certainly suffers, in the patronage it receives, from being so far from the railway; and yet, to those who have found this delightful retreat, its isolation is one of its principal charms, for, whatever else may be its drawbacks—and they are few, if any—the place has not yet become hackneyed. A hundred or so visitors, who do not begrudge their sole leather, find their way to Shōji annually, and never one returned who was not full of praises for the scenery, and enthusiasm for the plucky, enterprising Englishman who discovered the spot, and invested all he had in founding a hotel there. Thus he opened up one of the fairest districts of Japan, and made it accessible to the tourist who travels only where he can rest his head each night in comfort.
    To Hoshino San (the news of whose death, to my great regret, I received a few months before I wrote these lines) and his clever, gentle little Japanese wife I owed some of the pleasantest hours I spent in Japan. Every one who knew Hoshino well will admit that there were few like him. He was a character unique; a diamond in the rough, and generous kindness filled the great heart that beat in his enormously powerful frame. Those to whom he took an aversion he disliked with all his soul; but to those he liked he revealed a bonhomie, a deep love of companionship, and a vein of humour that few, even with his broad experience of the world, could equal.
    For hundreds of miles he accompanied me in my walks about the district, and during all the time I knew him his fund of anecdote never became exhausted, or even for a single hour ceased to flow. He enjoyed his own stories as much as his hearers, and often they have beguiled the weary hours, when he and I sat together beside my camera, patiently waiting for some cloud to pass away from the crest of the beautiful mountain which he never ceased to worship from the first moment he saw it to the last of his life. His love of nature was as true as his love of a good story, and as deep as his hatred of any crooked dealing.
    An idea ever present in his mind was that the people, whose country he had adopted, never appreciated the benefit they were deriving from his action in opening up to foreign travel a new district in Japan. Perhaps, now that he has gone, they will remember what a true friend he was to them. He was constantly fighting for the preservation of the scenery, and it is entirely due to his efforts that the lovely lakes at Fuji's base have not been entirely denuded of the forests that invest them with such a subtle charm.
    Any abuses by the natives he reported to the authorities at once, and on one occasion, when a band of ruffians came to catch the fish in Shōji lake by the use of dynamite, he took the law into his own hands and dealt with the offenders on the spot. Going out in his boat, he tackled the poachers, who, as he drew near, held up primed cartridges of the explosive, and threatened to light the fuses and blow him to pieces if he came nearer. Nothing daunted, he boarded their craft, confiscated all their gear, and thrashed each man within an inch of his life—smashing all the knuckles of his right hand in doing so.
    I have mentioned these matters because it is impossible for those who knew Shōji when Hoshino lived to disassociate this district from his name, and those who never had this privilege should know something of the man who, as pioneer, made it possible for them to enjoy one of the most beautiful parts of Japan in comfort. I gratefully pay this tribute to the memory of Hoshino San, and add my best wishes to his widow, who was so competent a helpmate to him, and who still carries on the hotel.
    The Shōji trip is usually extended into a journey round the entire base of Fuji—one of the most beautiful scenic tours in Japan. Lakes, forests, rivers, and waterfalls succeed each other in quick succession, and always there are new and bewitching vistas of the grand mountain which dominates the background, each more beautiful than the one preceding it.
    Though I have made this journey at each season of the year, I cannot say that at any one time it was more charming than at any other. Certainly nothing could exceed the beauty of the scenery in the depths of winter, when Yamanaka plain was two feet thick with snow, and Shōji lake locked in the frigid embrace of the Frost King. As we tramped through the woods, the sunlight, glinting through the frosted branches, set every tree sparkling as with a myriad gems, and our boots creaked and squeaked on the hard snow crystals that flashed like diamonds underfoot. Fuji was covered to the forest-line with a shroud of white, and the sharp, invigorating air was such as made one glad to be alive, and thankful for health, and strength, and opportunity to enjoy the lovely face of Nature. The ice on Shōji lake—which is the only one of the five sheets of water at Fuji's foot that freezes—was so hard, and clear, and smooth that only the sharpest skates could bite it; but those who had such could revel in the finest of all exercises amidst scenery of such beauty as can defy the whole world to excel it. Few people, however, care to go so far from the well-worn paths in winter, except a few permanent foreign residents of Yokohama who know this place and religiously go there every year as soon as the welcome news reaches them that "Shōji is frozen."
    In summer the mountain is no longer white, being almost entirely snowless, but there are many pleasures to compensate for the absence of the beauty given by the snow-cap. The woods are at their best, ringing with the song of the cicadas, and the air is soft and warm, yet bracing; whilst, to those who are fond of fresh-water swimming, Shōji is a paradise.
    Perhaps, if any months are more suitable than others to see the lakes, April, May, or October should be chosen. Then Fuji has its crest well covered with snow, and the woods are clothed in their fairest dress.
    There are three different places, accessible by rail, from which to reach Shōji. They are Kofu, Ozuki, and Gotemba, but very few visitors ever go via either of the two former. Gotemba, the starting-place for the ascent of Fuji, is the most convenient of these three points, being on the Tokaido railway—the beaten track to all the principal towns from Tokyo. The trip, however, may be most delightfully combined with a visit to Miyanoshita, where English-speaking coolies can be obtained, for the modest sum of three shillings a day, to conduct one the entire distance. These Miyanoshita coolies are the best in Japan, having been carefully trained by Mr. Yamaguchi. They are no less useful for the transport of baggage than as interpreters, for their backs are broad and muscular, and with a load of fifty pounds strapped to their shoulders they will easily cover as much ground per day as a good walker.

THE HOTEL ACROSS THE LAKE, SHOJI

    The way lies over Otome-toge, the "Maiden's Pass," up which there is a steep bridle-path of some three-quarters of a mile as a climax to a beautiful seven-mile walk. The Pass is 3333 feet high, and between it and Fuji there are twenty miles of space; yet in clear weather the great mountain seems, from this altitude, so tremendous and overpowering as to be scarcely more than a ri away. No words can convey the grandeur of the scene as Otome-toge's summit is reached and this vast prospect of seemingly illimitable expanse abruptly confronts the vision. During the entire walk from Miyanoshita the barrier range of Hakone is a natural wall that completely conceals the presence of the queenly peak which reigns alone and supreme beyond. You toil slowly, and perhaps impatiently, up the zig-zag pony-path, that lies deep between the banks of yellow kaia-grass which rise high on either side, completely blotting out every prospect for the last half-mile or more. This is one of the conceits that Nature loves. It is her playful way of preparing for the startling surprise she intends to give as a reward for perseverance. So that none of the effect she has arranged so carefully shall be lost, she takes cautious heed lest you should see aught else to claim your interest, and blots out everything for a little while before displaying this climax of her charms. Then suddenly she dashes the scales from your eyes and says, "There !'' and you are nearly dazed by the lovely scene which stands revealed to you. To see Fuji for the first time like this must surely be the moment of one's life; those who can say that p such was their experience are indeed to be envied; they will certainly never forget it.
    The miles of intervening space give the lower slopes an exquisite lilac tint, which merges ever so softly and gradually into the green of the beautiful velvet valley below, and as timidly gives way to the petals of the great snow-blossom that hang from the skies above.
    It is a glorious sight, but one before which the art of man is powerless, for the scene is too vast and too far-reaching for him to reproduce it by any craft he knows. Six miles away, and a thousand yards below, a thin winding line, looking like a thread on the velvet, is the Tokaido railway; and just beyond it, where the vast sweep imperceptibly ends in the level before curving upwards again to Otome-toge, the little hamlet of Gotemba nestles snugly amidst the surrounding fields. On a clear day it seems that one could almost toss a biscuit into the village, and one would vow that a stone set rolling from Fuji's crest would never stop until it reached the valley floor—so cleverly does Nature play pranks with the enchantment lent by distance.
    With the exhilaration of so much beauty to delight the eye, one's feet speed down the mountain-side as though shod with the winged sandals of Mercury, instead of waraji, and Gotemba can easily be reached by any active walker in well under the hour.
    The next eighteen miles is the least interesting part of the circuit of Fuji, though not by any means lacking in really fine scenic beauty. At Gotemba one can either charter saddle and pack horses, or engage a basha as I did, for a miniature tram system traverses the whole distance to Kami-Yoshida. A special express vehicle, to which all others must give way, can be engaged for a few yen.
    Subashiri, with its grey old temple, deep in a cedar-grove, was the only point of interest passed during the first hour, and through the straggling village the basha-man gaily drove the hide-bound abortion of an animal which goes for a horse in these parts, tooting incessant blasts on a horn to clear the way. The rickety vehicle creaked and rattled at every step, all its joints being loose, and it seemed a miracle that it could even hold together.
    Just beyond Subashiri the ascent of the hill called Kagō-zaka, or "Basket Hill," begins. This is very steep, and is ascended by many twists and turns which remind one of the Mount Tamalpais Railway in California, or the line up which the tiny train climbs the Himalayan foothills to Darjeeling. This, and all the surrounding hills, are composed entirely of ash from Fuji, which is piled up in waves and hummocks, in some cases many hundreds of feet deep, over the underlying rock. We left the basha at the bottom of the zig-zag and walked up a deep gully, cut by the rains, to the top, thus saving the horse the labour of dragging the weight of myself and the coolies up three miles of incline. The gradients are skilfully engineered so that one horse can pull a tram full of people up quite easily, but on the downward journey the cars run by gravity, and the speed they get up is sometimes dangerously fast.
    On a later occasion when coming down this place, as the vehicle raced round one of the bends in the track at a speed of twenty miles an hour, we found ourselves confronted by an upward-bound basha, not fifty yards away. The driver jammed the brake on, whilst the passengers on the upcoming car fled helter-skelter out of it, tumbling over one another as they did so. The other driver made frantic efforts to pull his horse off the track, but it would not budge, and for a moment or two it looked as if it must be crushed, as the track was single at this place. Fortunately the brake acted in time, and the car was brought to a standstill as the footboard gently touched the frightened horse's forelegs. Our reckless driver looked very shamefaced under the tongue-lashing he received from my coolies, and from the occupants of the other car who had made such an unceremonious exit to safety, and he finished the rest of the journey carefully enough.
    On the present trip, as we reached the summit and began the gravity run to Yamanaka, after taking out the horse and leaving it in charge of a boy to bring down more leisurely, the basha-man started on a wild career, taking the bends at obviously dangerous speed. He went round an outward curve at a truly startling rate, for if the vehicle had left the track it would have leapt into space. I opened the door to stop his madness, but before I could do so we were at another curve—fortunately an inner one—and the car jumped the rails and collided with the bank with such force that it was badly damaged. The undergear was not hurt, however, and we soon had it on the rails again, for it was very light; but I insisted on taking the remainder of the journey at a more reasonable pace until we got away from the curves. It is little wonder the rolling stock is in such a rickety condition if this is the treatment it has to submit to.
    Loudly tooting his horn, to apprise the unwary of his approach, the basha-man brought us without further mishap to Yamanaka.
    Mika-dzuki-Kosui, or "Three-Days'-Moon Lake," which lies north of the village, cannot compare with any of the four lakes farther on for beauty. The whole district hereabouts is bleak and desolate; in fact it is one of the most inhospitable in Japan, for the winds are almost constant and very trying, and the climate in winter is exceedingly severe. The great Fuji, the heart of which is but ten miles away to the south-west, spreads its skirts to the very village, and blocks out much of the winter sunlihght.

FUJI FROM "THREE-DAYS-MOON LAKE"

I have seen Yamanaka plain several feet thick with snow when on the western side of the mountain; a few days later, it was so warm that children were playing in the sunshine, and it almost seemed like summer.
    The whole southern side of the lake is destitute of trees, and the barren wind-swept wastes around it are such sterile ground that no crops can be successfully raised in this uninviting locality. The peasantry of this district are a hardy, unprepossessing lot. Only the fittest survive, and those who reach maturity have all pretensions to looks withered out of them before they arrive at that age.
    As I went down to the lake to take a photograph of Fuji, a curious mushroom-shaped cloud obscured the mountain-top. This effect is one that the Japanese greatly admire. They call it Fuji no Kasa, or "Fuji's umbrella,'' and I was very pleased to be able to add this phase of the mountain to my series of its portraits.
    Changing into a fresh basha, we continued the journey. Soon after leaving the town a little woman by the wayside hailed us, but the driver shouted to her that this was a private car and that she could not enter it. She was obviously tired and disappointed, so I told the coolies to make room for her and get some of the baggage out of the way. She said she was very weary and had been hoping for the last hour that a basha would appear. She was dressed in her best, neatly and prettily, and told me she was going to Yoshida to sell some pieces of silk that she herself had woven. Undoing tht furoshiki—a large handkerchief—in which she had the product of her skill, she asked me to accept a piece in return for the favour I had done her. Demur as I would, she would hear of no refusal, and fairly compelled me to accept a small square of beautifully-figured blue silk, for which she would not hear of accepting any payment. Nothing could have exceeded the grace of her manner when she bid me "Sayonara" *1  at our destination, nor the courteous phrases in which she voiced her thanks; yet she was but a simple country-girl, and the balance of favour was all on her side, for the piece of silk was worth very many times the small fee she would have had to pay for a basha fare in a public car.
    When we neared Yoshida we found a great sham-fight was in progress on the historic slopes of Fuji. It was in 1903, when all Japan was preparing for the coming conflict with Russia. The whole country swarmed with soldiers, the rattle of musketry was incessant, whilst field-guns were booming everywhere. In the grounds of the old Fuji temple there were not short of a thousand horses tethered up that night, whilst an army was under canvas, or billeted on the inhabitants of the town. In the hotel at which I put up there were no less than ninety soldiers quartered, and the town bore all the aspects of a garrison. There must have been a dozen soldiers for every civilian in the street, yet during my stay I never saw a single instance of rowdyism or freedom of any kind, and at my hotel, had I not seen the men and all their accoutrements, I should not have known there was a soldier in the house from any sound I heard. As the men entered they left their boots at the doorstep, bowed to the host and hostess, went oS quickly to their rooms, and I saw little more of them.
    Yoshida's one and only street must be a mile or more in length. In the midst of it there is a fine old stone torii which makes a splendid foreground for Fuji, towering up beyond. On a subsequent tour of this district, when I again visited the old Fuji temple, I thought I had never seen so truly depressing a place. Save for the bright red torii at the entrance all was dismal indeed, for a drizzling rain was falling, and the tall cryptomerias, in the midst of which the rickety-old temple stands, threw deep gloom over everything. Great heavy drops splashed from their branches on to the row of mossy stone lanterns that stood below, and shivering crows, with ruffled feathers, sat above, emitting hoarse croaks and croupy caws.
    In the temple a priest was mumbling in sepulchral tones what sounded like a dirge, now and again punctuating the weary monotony of his recitation with a drum-tap, whilst swirling clouds of mist swept through the tree-tops and wound themselves about the temple like a shroud. The whole place seemed redolent of death and spirits of the past, and I was glad to leave it and get back to my room with its warm hibachi, for the chill of the weather and the abject dreariness of the place sent cold shivers down my spine, and set me wondering how any human beings could spend their lives in such a lonely, cheerless, ghostly spot and still retain their reason.
    Whilst I was dining on grilled eels and rice—a dish for which this place is noted, as the eels caught in the lakes are of a particularly delicate flavour—mine host entered, with many prostrations, and presented the register for my name, age, occupation, and other information such as the police require. An inspection of this volume indicated that these officials must be sorely puzzled at times to decide where truth ends and humbug begins. For instance, a talented New York authoress, who is in her twenties, and a maiden lady artist and art-school lecturer of uncertain years, from San Francisco, had described themselves as "ballet girls," aged sixty-seven and seventy-five respectively, and amongst the notabilities who had recently visited the district was "Abraham Lincoln," whilst another visitor, according to the book, was a veteran of 107 years. One brilliant wit had described his residence as "a dog kennel," to which some other traveller had added the appropriate line, "A very proper domicile for such a silly pup.''
    The landlord told me that such trifling with his register caused him serious trouble, and in the case of the two ladies mentioned, a police-officer had been sent all the way to Shōji to warn Mr. Hoshino that "questionable characters" were coming his way. Hoshino confirmed this statement, and the story was retailed by him as one of his best to every visitor who afterwards visited Shōji.
    When it is remembered that the object of the police in keeping these registers is that foreigners may be easily traced in the event of any harm befalling them, such feeble apologies for humour as the above are little else but vulgar insults to the intelligence of a highly-civilised and courteous people.
    At six the next morning the beating of the drum in a near-by temple woke me. I threw off the thick, comfortable futons, and anxiously peered out at the weather through a tiny hole in the shutters. The sky was perfectly clear, the morning sunny, there was not a breath of wind, and the air was keen with a sharp frost which had coated everything with a thin film of white. Fuji was a poem of beauty in the morning light. The crest, thickly coated with snow, gleamed against the cobalt sky, and great snow streamers hung down to the mountain's waist, like pendent blooms of white wistaria. Just over the summit a thin line of cirrus, which floated like a canopy in the otherwise cloudless heavens, was red with the reflection of the roseate east, and the snow below it was dyed a delicate pink.

FUJI FROM NISHI-NO-UMI

    The conditions were ideal for the tramp to Shōji, so preparations were hurriedly made, breakfast soon despatched, the coolies harnessed to their burdens, and we were under way. A sharp walk of forty-five minutes brought us to Kawaguchi—the first of the four beautiful lakes which make the district lying at the northern base of Fuji the Westmorland of Japan. As we reached it we found its waters were so swollen that many of the low-lying houses of Funatsu, a village at the eastern end, were flooded half up to their roofs.
    On a rocky peninsula stood the inn and a little Shinto temple, both beautifully situated in a grove of pine-trees and surrounded by old stone lanterns. We chartered a sampan and were soon speeding over the limpid depths, past quaint promontories, and pretty bays, and islands all ablaze with autumn tints.
    Kawaguchi means "River Mouth "—a somewhat ill-fitting name, seeing that the lake has neither inlet nor outlet. It is four miles long, with a grand view of Fuji all the way, and it took us an hour and a quarter to reach the western end. We landed at the quaint village of Nagahama, where every path was bordered with streams of water, which raced down from the hills through troughs made of dug-out tree-trunks. Every house was an artist's study, with its heavily-thatched roof and walls completely covered with cobs of yellow corn, drying in the sun, and monster white radishes, half a yard long, called daikon, which are used for pickling. It looked as though the whole community was celebrating a harvest festival.
    A steep hill called Torii-zaka, covered with mulberry bushes, divides Kawaguchi from the next lake, Nishi-no-umi. We traversed this in twenty-five minutes, passing a pretty little temple in a dense clump of cryptomerias on the way. From the top of Torii-zaka, so called because there used to be a stone torii at the summit, there is a magnificent panorama of the two lakes—Kawaguchi green as an emerald, and Nishi-no-umi a deep sapphire blue. We walked the length of Nishi-no-umi, though boats can be had if required. The path rises high above the lake, and for three miles it passes through a perfect Fairyland. The woods blazed with gold and scarlet, and through the tracery of the silver birches, whose leaves were all shimmering in the soft autumn air, we could see the lake below, flashing and scintillating like a cluster of jewels.
    A high mountain on the south side of the lake concealed Fuji from view ; but towards the end of the lake it gradually drops, and first the snow-cap, and then the streamers, reappeared; and finally, as we emerged from the wood into Nemba village, there was a superb picture across the lake, with Fuji almost filling the whole southern heavens.
    After leaving Nemba we plunged into another wood—the most beautiful I have seen in any part of Japan. We had just left Fairyland, and now we were in Arcadia itself. Under the birch and maple-trees the ground was thickly overgrown with long, silvery moss, on which the sunbeams lingered caressingly. Pheasants were crowing in the underbrush, and at one place a startled wild boar ran across the glade, not fifty yards in front of us. I could not help but stop and feast my eyes on the bewildering beauty of the place every few steps—much to the delight of my coolies, who chuckled with pleasure at my admiration; and it was late in the afternoon ere we reached the end of this wonderland and Lake Shōji came into view.
    We walked for half a mile along its shores until we came to a spot where the coolies stopped and shouted loudly across the water. Soon there was an answering hail, and a boat appeared in the distance. When it came up to us I found Hoshino himself was at the helm. This was my first meeting with the man whom I later found such an excellent companion and friend.
    Twenty minutes or so served to take us over the exquisite sheet of water to the peninsula of Unosaki, on which the Shōji hotel stands. A winding path led up to the prettily-situated house, and I was soon settled in a comfortable room, then revelling in a stinging-hot bath, and afterwards discussing an excellent dinner, whilst the host of this unique hotel retailed some of the best stories I had heard for many a day.
    From my bedroom window there was a lovely view of Fuji through the pine-trees; and as I looked out before retiring, the moon was shining brilliantly on the mountain-top, and the lake just below me was motionless as a sheet of glass.
    Several times since this, my first visit, I have been to Shōji, and every hour I spent there was golden. Shōji is an oasis in a land that is itself an oasis on the earth. The lake is 3160 feet above sea-level, and from the hotel, which is situated on a steep pine-clad promontory on the southern side, the vistas through the trees are of exquisite beauty. There is no place in Japan where one may better study Fuji, for here one may recline in a comfortable chair and view the great sacred mountain at one's leisure. Indeed, it is possible to pay homage to the beauty more idly still, for all the guest-rooms are on the southern side of the house, and one may lie abed, and on moonlight nights and clear mornings Fuji is the last impression the retina receives before sleeping and the first on waking. The prospects are, therefore, favourable to dreams of the sacred mountain, and to dream of Fuji is, to the Japanese mind, a certain promise of luck to come. Should one, however, dream of it on the first night of January, prosperity and length of days are certain.
    The Japanese have a phrase about New Year dreams which runs thus: Ichi Fuji; ni-taka; san nasubi, meaning, "First Fuji; secondly a falcon; thirdly an eggplant." These objects are the most lucky to dream of, in the order named. Fuji comes first, because it is the most beautiful natural feature in Japan, and as such it is an emblem of all that is best in everything. The falcon symbolises straightforwardness and honesty, because it can gaze without flinching at the sun; it is also a token of clean living, as it never feeds on carrion, but kills and devours its prey whilst the blood is warm. The eggplant is considered a good omen because of its beautiful colour—the colour of an amethyst, a stone which the Japanese greatly admire.
    In order to induce these lucky dreams the superstitious place pictures of the Gods of Luck under their pillows on New Year's Eve. It is, therefore, a common sight to see hawkers going round the towns on the last evenings of the year calling out, "O Takara, O Takara, O Takara!" This means "precious things," and the pictures they sell always represent the seven gods in a boat filled with bags of rice, jewels, gold coins, barrels of wine, farmers' implements, and other good things, and objects emblematical of the earth's bounty.
    Though I did not have the good fortune to dream about Fuji, yet it was the last thing I saw before going to sleep, and the first as I opened my eyes the next morning, when the rising sun was painting it in lovely harmonies of colour.
    Every hour of every clear day the mountain was a different picture. There was the Morning Fuji, shaking off the mists of night; the Midday Fuji, with a belt of cumulus cloud floating across its waist; the Sundown Fuji, a symphony of pink and violet; the Moonlight Fuji, hanging like an inverted white fan in the dark sky; and a hundred other phases, for the mountain is never twice alike.

FUJI AT SUNRISE

The snow-cap is seldom more than a day or two the same shape. The wind and the sun are constantly at war with it. Sometimes it lies in almost a straight line across the higher slopes; then, as the sun melts it, only the snow lying in the ravines, which struggle down the mountain-side, remains, forming the great streamers which, from a distance, look like pendant, white wistaria clusters.
    Curiously enough, fuji is the Japanese word for wistaria, but philologists tell us that the mountain does not derive its name from this resemblance: whilst the sound is the same, the written character is quite different. Authorities disagree as to what the mountain was named after, but I think the opinion of the Rev. J. Batchelor, who is the best-informed authority on the Ainu aborigines, is most probably the correct one. He claims it is the name of the Ainu Goddess of Fire, and was given to the mountain when these people inhabited this part of Japan, and has ever since been retained.
    In winter Fuji is sometimes completely covered with snow, but, lovely as it then is, it is still fairer when only the upper slopes are white. Then you see the Fuji that the Japanese love—the effect that makes this mountain the most beautiful in the world. This may seem an extravagant claim, but having seen Fuji under every aspect, and many other famous mountains of the world also, I make it, knowing well that all who have seen it under as many conditions as I have will readily endorse it. There is something about Fuji that cannot be put into words. Perhaps it is the subtle charm of almost perfect symmetry, combined with a delicacy of colouring which defies every effort to paint it—either with the brush or with the pen.
    However, one does not go to Shōji simply to see Fuji; the lake itself can well hold its own with the most celebrated scenic beauties of Japan, without the assistance of any features beyond its own immediate surroundings. Except on the south the lake is hemmed in by hills clothed in forest. Nature seems to have intentionally left the south side open so that the entire sweep of the mountain could be seen, down to the spreading skirts which dip into Shōji's waters. That side of the lake is a vast lava-bed, formed by the great streams of molten rock which poured out of Fuji's crater, centuries ago, and flowed until they were arrested by a natural mountain barrier, against which they banked up, in some places higher than in others, walling in great hollows which in time became filled with water. Thus the lakes were formed.
    Popular belief holds that the lakes round Fuji-san are all connected by subterranean watercourses. The fact, however, that they all lie at varying altitudes would seem to dispose of this theory effectually, as the water in the different basins rises and falls concurrently. This would not be the case were they connected; the lowest lake would be always full at the expense of the others. It was Hoshino's contention that the shrinkage in dry weather was solely due to the natural processes of evaporation and absorption, and this would seem to be the true solution of the constantly changing water-line.
    The Shōji lava moor is covered with stunted trees, and there are sights that are to be numbered among the wonders of Japan. At the base of Maruyama, a pine-covered mountain midway between the lake and the lower slopes of Fuji, there are some caves which are well worth visiting. These were formerly blow-holes for the great volcano's lungs, but since the mountain has become dormant, and steam has ceased to belch from it, the caves have, in several cases, frozen up with ice of unknown thickness. After a severe winter enormous icicles hang from the roof to meet the frozen stalagmitic forms which rise from the floor below, and, meeting them, form into beautiful crystal pillars.
    One of these caves is like a stage representation of some wondrous fairy cavern, and as I made my way, by the light of a flaming torch, under the hanging clusters and among the icy columns, the flickering light cast trembling shadows everywhere, and turned the frozen pillars into jewelled shafts sparkling with every colour, whilst a million millions of crystals glittered on the frosty walls. It was all bewilderingly beautiful, and as I crept about, cautiously and quietly—for fear of inviting one of the great frozen spears to fall upon me—in this wondrous underground treasure-chamber, I felt like Aladdin in the genii's cave, and half expected to find great chests of gems lying open, from which I might help myself and live in luxury ever afterwards.
    Perhaps the loveliest hour of the day at Shōji is just before the sun disappears behind the hills. Then Fuji is likely to be in complaisant humour and to display its-charms without reserve. The breeze, too, often dies away at this hour, and

Like a fair sister to the sky
Unruffled doth the green lake lie,
The mountain looking on.

Shōji's waters then become Fuji's looking-glass, and the mountain seems almost to lean over the edge of the mirror, enchanted with the beauty of its own reflection.
    This charming place has yet another attraction. The bathing is of the very best, as Hoshino prepared a place with special care for the enjoyment of those of his guests who were of a mind for this delightful pastime. There are spring-boards, diving-stages, and every convenience making for the enjoyment of the swimmer, and one may plunge headlong into deep,crystal-clear water, and swim one's fill amidst some of the loveliest scenery in Japan.
    Thinking to give Mr. and Mrs. Hoshino and the children a pleasant surprise one winter, I took with me a bundle of toys for the little ones, and a box for Hoshino and his wife, as to the contents of which they were curious as soon as the coolie had deposited it on the doorstep.
    "Guess what it is,'' I asked them.
    "Whisky," said Hoshino. "Wine," said his little consort.
    "Both wrong," I answered, "but you'll never guess, so I may as well open the box." It was filled with a dozen large star rockets, of a kind made in Japan, which are fired from a wooden mortar.
    "Good heavens!" said Hoshino, "we shall get into no end of trouble if we fire these here. We shall have to have a special police permit."
    Negotiations were at once entered into for the necessary permission, and in a day or two it came in the person of a dapper police-officer who was delegated to fire the rockets for us. There was a long and very verbose discussion between him and Hoshino, and the little man carried his commission with an air of much importance as he went out to inspect the proposed spot for the display. His enthusiasm was very great as he gave us a rehearsal of how he would start the fiery messengers soaring into the heavens. He admitted that he had never performed such an office before—that, moreover, he had never handled a rocket in his life, and it needed no great perception to divine this, seeing that he did not know the top from the bottom of the one with which he was illustrating his remarks.
    As darkness approached there was a noticeable note of waning interest in his allusions to the coming proceedings. As darkness fell an ominous silence settled on him, and a strange melancholy seemed to fix upon his features.

FUJI AND THE KAIA GRASS

As the darkness deepened and the box of rockets was produced, he began to hedge, and suggest that, after all, it might be better if some one else did the firing, whilst he remained in the house (200 yards away) to see that it did not catch fire.
    Hoshino demurred at this, and sternly reminded him that Japan expects that every policeman will do his duty; and, taking him by the arm, he led the little man (who went about as willingly as I have seen a prisoner go to execution) to the tree-stump on which the wooden mortar was fixed.
    The first bomb was placed into it, the fuse attached, and the match-box handed to the officer. After vainly trying to light one of the matches, and finally scattering the whole boxful on the ground, he was invited by Hoshino to stand aside, evidently much to his relief, and Hoshino lit the fuse. In a few seconds there was a report that made the hills ring and echo, and re-echo again and again, until it seemed to me that I had never heard such a din. In the midst of the clamour the bomb, which had leapt like a flash of lightning to the skies, burst, with a further loud report, 1000 feet above us, sending a glorious shower of hundreds of lovely coloured stars far and wide on every side, and illuminating the lake and surrounding hills as though with beams from a searchlight.
    As the stars died out, the ensuing darkness for a few moments could almost be felt, but when our eyes, which had been blinded by the glare, again began to pierce it, we looked round for our instructor and protector. Alas! he was nowhere to be seen. Such had been his solicitude for the safety of the house that he had flown at the first bang, and the ensuing bombardment in the echoing hills having lent wings to his feet, and the glare of the fiery stars having lighted his path almost like day, he had regained the house and found it safe. Desiring to keep it so, he remained in it in security during the discharge of the subsequent eleven rockets, thus bravely carrying out his deputed duty; and on the termination of the proceedings he congratulated us that, thanks to his supervision, everything had passed off satisfactorily and without mishap.
    That night will long be remembered at Shōji. The delight of Hoshino's children more than repaid me for the trouble of getting the box there, and they will not soon forget it. Neither will the inhabitants of the village across the lake; we heard next morning that, never having seen anything of the sort before, they had fled in terror into their homes as the first bomb exploded in the skies, thinking that the great volcano itself must be bursting into sudden activity again.
    I might devote pages to the pleasure of shooting in this neighbourhood—for there are wild duck on the lake, and pheasants and wild boars in the forests—but I must hurry on, for whilst Shōji is the base from which to work this district, there is an even fairer sheet of water but five miles away.
    Motosu is the lake, just as Fuji is the mountain, by which I measure all others. Though I have visited it perhaps a score of times, as many more would not serve to cool my ardour for its beauty. It is the pearl of Japanese lakes, and challenges comparison with the fairest waters of the world.
    There are two ways of reaching it from Shōji—by a path which traverses Myojin-yama, a mountain 1000 feet higher than the lake and on the western side of it, or by a lower road. The former is infinitely the finer route, as the views are truly superb, and as one ascends higher and higher Fuji seems to become more huge at every step.
    This path, which zigzags by easy grades up the mountain, was made under Hoshino's personal direction. He never wearied of improving the property he owned, nor of adding to it as he could afford. He therefore bought a large tract of the mountain-side in order to make this path, which enables visitors to gain the summit with ease, and enjoy the lovely panorama that lies map-like at their feet.
    It is almost idle to attempt any description of this view. As one slowly ascends, the prospect opens out, and grows ever more beautiful, until a spot is reached, by a short detour from the path, where language fails to express the emotions as one views the scene. r Often, as I have stood there, I have thought how empty must be the soul of, and how poor a thing the precious gift of sight to the man who can gaze on such a prospect as this without a thrill of rapture or a touch of feeling.
    What the Gornergrat is to Switzerland, what Le Brevant is to France, what Darjeeling is to India, what Yosemite Point is to California—so is Myojin-yama to Japan.
    Hoshino showed me this place with conscious pride, and I shall never forget the way he did it. As we neared it he blindfolded me and led me by the hand. After proceeding a hundred yards thus, he stopped, untied the bandage, and took it from my eyes.
    The sudden revelation of the glorious prospect held me spell-bound. In front of me, seeming to touch the arch of heaven, was Fuji, looking supremely lovely, with a little belt of cloud floating across its waist and adding enormously to the mountain's height. On the left, a thousand feet or so below, lay the unruffled emerald waters of Shōji lake, reflecting "the unbroken „ image of the sky," and holding up a mirror to the lovely face of Nature which smiled around it. To the right Motosu lake was of that glorious blue which one sees in mid-ocean on a sunny day. It was a sapphire set with gold and rubies, for the bordering woods were all ablaze with autumn tints. Away to the north and west, range beyond range of mountains were piled up in the greatest confusion, and, back of all, the snowcapped giants of Koshu and Shinshu seemed to brush the sky.
    When I had absorbed the scene for a while, I turned to Hoshino. His face was beaming, for, Nature-worshipper as he was, there was nothing that pleased him more than to see others appreciate what he himself so dearly loved.
    "I thought that would stagger you," he said; "now let us have some lunch."
    The coolies had preceded us and had lit a fire, so that lunch was already prepared. And what a lunch! Hoshino never did such things by halves. He knew with what feelings the view would inspire me, and he knew, too, how the inner man would be stimulated by the exercise and invigorating air that made one all aglow. He was not going to let my enjoyment be half-hearted, and his wife, who always packed the lunch-basket, knew by long experience what to provide. There were sardines, with tomato and cucumber salad, cold chicken and pheasant, slices of York ham, and a pot of stew that was soon steaming hot. Then there were mince-pies, bread and cheese, and fruit, with a bottle of wine in which to drink the thoughtful little Oku-San's health.
    This was the Shōji idea of a lunch whenever I went off for a day in the hills, and who is there who will not admit that enjoyment of Nature's glorious work may be vastly augmented by an excellent meal?
    After an hour's rest we went down by a winding track to the bridle-path which skirts Motosu lake, a few hundred feet above it, and followed this until we reached Nakano-kura-toge, a mountain ridge at the western end.

FUJI FROM LAKE MOTOSU

The view from this place was glorious. The great Fuji was all white and lilac, with deep green pine-clad skirts that swept in one magnificent curve into the liquid sapphire of the lake, around which the woods were mellow with the soft colours of a Persian carpet. Snow-white billows floated in the heavens, and silvery kaia-grass, gracefully nodding to the breezes, made a foreground for one of the fairest pictures I have seen in any land.
    Motosu lake was always wondrously beautiful. When the sun shone brightly, and there was no wind, its waters were no longer sapphire, but the blue of a deeply-coloured turquoise. They changed with every cloud that swept over them. Sometimes they were shot with purple, and where the wind ruffled them and the light caught the ripples, they became streaked with grey; then azure patches would flit across them, and under the shadowing hills they were a bluish green. After sundown, when the heavens began to glow and Fuji's snows were pink, the lake would become opalescent as mother o' pearl, and, as darkness gathered, and the burning colours slowly faded away, the waters became chill and grey as steel, and finally blacker than the night.
    The encircling hills, too, were changeable as the lake they embosomed. One minute a mountain-top would be dark, gloomy, and forbidding; then, as the heavy cloud which had obscured the light, floated from above it, it would become all golden in the sunshine. The panorama, as far as the eye could reach, was an ever-changing kaleidoscope. On lake and mountain alike the sun was always playing beautiful pranks. Sometimes it would find a tiny hole in a sombre vapoury billow, and, shooting a fiery searchlight ray through it, would single out some mountain-crest and make it gleam like a gilded dome, or, discovering some beautiful spot of colour in the woods, would set it all aglow.
    Many a happy day I spent with my camera in this lovely spot; but it was not until three years after I first saw it, and I had tramped the fourteen miles to Nakano-kura-toge and back more than a dozen times, and waited many a patient hour, that I was able to get the picture of "Fuji and the Kaia Grass." Sometimes, when the mountain was clear, there would be too much wind, and the grass waved so violently as to render the making of the desired picture impossible. Then again the grass would be still, but Fuji obscured by clouds. At last, however, the moment I had so long waited for came. The mountain was clear; for a few brief seconds the grass was still, and during them I secured the coveted picture.
    The days flew swiftly by at Shōji, and my visits always came to an end too soon. Then the coolies would be harnessed up again (it always took four of them to carry my kit and luggage, and there was but a small basket of the latter), and we would start off to complete the circuit of the sacred mountain. There are two ways by which this can be done—via the waterfalls of Kamiide, or by way of the Fuji River. Nearly every one chooses the latter route, as it offers the most novelty.
    The Kamiide route is, however, a very fine one, as the Shira-ito-no-taki, or "White-Thread Waterfalls," are exceedingly beautiful, and without rivals in Japan, "for even Nikko," with all its lovely cascades, "has nothing like them" (Murray's Handbook).
    After leaving Motosu village and traversing a moor for a dozen miles or so, one comes to some pretty bamboo groves, where there are many holes in the earth from which great streams of water gush with a roaring sound. The water is crystal-clear, but of a deep blue tint, like the colour of Motosu lake. There is little doubt that these holes are the mouth of a subterranean channel which carries off the lake's superfluous waters, but the inlet has never been discovered. These streams unite and join the Shiba-kawa, a river which plunges over a precipice, forming the O-taki, or "Great Waterfall'' of Kamiide.
    The "White-Thread Falls" are, however, a much finer sight. They are composed of a thousand tiny streams which, percolating through the loose volcanic detritus above the lava bed, gush out of the face of a cliff, two hundred yards or more in length, and fall in delicate parallel jets that break into a diaphanous mist on the rocks below. This dainty curtain of water makes a pretty foreground for Fuji, which towers grandly above in the distance.
    One of the wonders of Kamiide is an ancient cherry-tree—the finest in Japan—which is said to have been planted by the first Shogun, Yoritomo, over seven hundred years ago. Its venerable trunk is ten feet in diameter, whilst its branches, supported by many props, extend for thirteen yards around it.
    The way from Shōji to the Fuji-kawa is by the path that skirts Lake Motosu and crosses Nakano-kura-toge. As we went over the pass we paused awhile for a last look at Fuji, for we should see it no more that day; then for the next twelve miles every turning opened out some new and pretty scene. The path dropped tortuously by the side of a limpid rivulet, which danced its way, all sparkling, over gravel and boulder, and under lurid maples and spiky pines, and past persimmon-trees, whose leafless branches bent low with the rich harvest of golden ripening fruit they bore. A hundred cascades leapt down the mountain-side, through gorgeously-tinted woods, helping to swell the stream which murmured so merrily on its way to join the great Fuji River; and many a water-wheel squeaked and groaned over its task of grinding out the yellow corn, which, with rows and festoons of monster radishes, was drying on every fence and on the walls of every cottage.
    This road must have been an ill-omened one in the old days, judging by the great number of Do Sojin one sees. These are little gods, carved on stone slabs, and are the protectors of the wayfarers. Prayers offered up to these images are said to be a certain safeguard against harm. I inquired if the ever-busy saint Kōbō Daishi carved these. To my surprise I was informed that he did not. He was probably taking "a day off'' from the strenuous labours of his lifetime.
    The way then lay through the village of Kawauchi-Furuseki—one of the cleanest, prettiest, and neatest I have seen in Japan, where every house was full of rustic charm—and then twisted and turned upwards again, amid scenes of ever-changing beauty, and finally dropped in a long slope till it reached Tambara on the Fuji-kawa, about eighteen miles from Shōji. We arrived at dusk, but, as there is no good inn, we took a boat half a mile down the river to the little town of Yokaichiba, where there is a most excellent Japanese hotel.
    At eight o'clock the next morning we started by boat down the river. A galaxy of laughing little neisans came to see us off—each insisting on carrying some small portion of the baggage—and as we pushed off into the current their voices rang out in a chorus of sweet sayonaras. They formed a pretty picture as they stood on the shingly bank, waving their hands to us till we were out of sight, with the quaint houses of Yokaichiba behind them, and the rugged mountains towering to the skies in the background.
    The boat, which was very like those used on the Hozu rapids at Kyoto, was about forty feet long, six feet wide, and a yard deep.

FUJI AND THE SHIRA-ITO WATERFALL

It was braced by three thwarts, and had a high, pointed, overhanging prow. The crew consisted of three rowers, with short oars, a pilot, who stood in the bow with a pole, and a helmsman, who took up his position on the after thwart and steered with a long sweep. The bottom of the boat was flat, and so pliant that the planks undulated from stem to stern whenever we got into choppy water. It was heavily ballasted with charcoal, which served the purpose of giving the light craft a good bite on the water, instead of letting the swift current slip beneath it. The charcoal also served to keep our feet clear of the bilge-water that leaked and splashed in continually. It was done up in neat packages, bound with straw, and was distributed about the boat so as not to interfere with the rowers, who stood up to their work. Thus we started on the forty-five mile journey to Iwabuchi.
    The charge for the boat was eight yen (sixteen shillings). This included the wages of the five men. As it takes three days for these men to tow the boat home again, in addition to the half-day spent in going down, it will be seen that the net earnings of each man per day, allowing half a day for rest, were less than tenpence (not including the small freight charge on the charcoal). The boats can only be returned empty, and thus the men earn nothing on the return journey. There are now about four hundred boats engaged in jthis work—the bulk of the business being in carrying icharcoal—but before the railway to Kofu was made there were more than twice as many.
    The amount of excitement to be had from the trip down the rapids is governed entirely by the height of the water. On the occasion here described, the water was not far below the point at which the men decline to take a boat down. In a few hours, however, the water may drop several feet, as the Fuji-kawa is subject to very sudden freshets, which subside as quickly as they gather, and when the water is quite low from start to finish there is not a single thrill. The river-bed in many places is fully 400 yards wide; but the stream seldom occupies more than a small portion of this course; only during periods of most exceptional floods does the water rise to fill the full breadth of the channel.
    Shortly after leaving Yokaichiba we passed the village of Itomé, where the Haya-kawa comes rushing down from the Kōshu mountains to join the parent stream. The river, narrowing here, becomes much swifter, and sweeps by a most remarkable cliflf called Byobu-iwa, or "Screen Rock," composed of great andesite columns dipping into the river at an angle of 45°.
    At 8.30 we passed the first real rapid, but it was only a short one, and we slipped down it at a speed of about fourteen miles an hour. Half an hour later we arrived at Haku, not far from the great Buddhist temple of Minobu, where the bones of Saint Nichiren are buried. The scenery was now of great beauty. The fertile hills were terraced, and all the lower ground was covered with mulberry bushes—for this is a great silk-growing district. Lofty cliffs on the left barred out all view of Fuji, and a minute after leaving Haku the boat rushed headlong for the base of a precipice, against which the waters were banked a yard high, as the river made a plunge towards it and was angrily repulsed round a sharp curve. This is one of the few places where the rapids are really thrilling. The pilot sharply struck his pole against the gunwale, to attract the attention of the deity who presided over the destinies of the boat; but for a moment it seemed that the deity was unheedful, and that we must inevitably strike and be dashed to pieces. The watchful guardian, however, took notice at the critical instant, and the boat, rising on the bank of water, was swept round the curve with only a touch of the pilot's pole to swing the high prow clear.
    The next hour was steady going, with the current somewhat sluggish. The rugged mountains which shut the river-valley in were gorgeous with autumn colours, and at the foot of the beautifully-terraced foot-hills picturesque villages lined the banks at every mile. The rhythmic swaying of the three standing rowers, whose blades dipped regularly into the water, grew faster and faster, and they broke into a chanty, in which the pilot and steersman joined.
    Then the river divided. We took the left channel, which was swifter than a mill-race, and shot down it at tremendous speed. At the confluence of the two channels the water was broken into great waves. Here, notwithstanding the efforts of the men, the boat got broadside to the stream, and was swayed over till the gunwale was almost level with the water. Our heavy load of ballast proved its value, however, and kept the craft from being swamped. We were soon heading down stream again, and Fuji appeared above the foreground hills for a few brief moments—but with its umbrella up.
    We then pulled in to the left bank to visit the famous Tsuri-bashi, or "Hanging Bridge,'' suspended over a swift tributary that roars between precipitous walls. To cross this bridge—which is well-nigh sixty yards long, and made of narrow strips of planking, laid across eighteen parallel wires, with a narrow board pathway in the middle—is an undertaking that he whose nerves are at all unsteady will be well-advised to attempt warily. As soon as you set foot on it, it begins to shake, and as you proceed, the spring of the bridge causes the floor to seem to rise knee-high at every step. I once saw a tourist get to the middle and find he could neither proceed nor retreat, so he sat down, for fear of falling into the river below—much to the merriment of the boatmen, one of whom had to go to the nervous one's assistance. There is a trick about it that requires a little learning, but with a little perseverance one can master the motion so as to be able to run across.
    A most bizarre feature of the landscape here is a modern factory, where timber from the hills is pounded into pulp for the manufacture of paper. This factory supplies most of the newspapers in Japan, but fine-quality papers are manufactured here also, for the mill ranks with the Oji works in Tokyo as a producer of the best paper made in Japan.
    After a short stop we pushed off again, and soon a grand scene opened out with Fuji on our left, and the pointed peaks of Ashitaka-yama straight ahead of us. We passed many boats being towed laboriously upstream. The trackers were shod with waraji of a kind peculiar to this river. They were not more than three inches long, and were fastened only to the forepad of the foot, as only the toes need this protection ; the body, straining on the ropes, is thrown forward at such an angle that the heel never touches the ground. The work of towing the boats up-stream is most arduous, and if ever labourers earned the price of their hire these Fuji-kawa boatmen are surely they.
    There were many curious fish-traps in the river. They were set in artificially dammed-up narrows, and consisted of long, conical, bamboo baskets tied to poles. The fish, bound down-stream, rush headlong into these traps, and being unable to return, or even turn round, are speedily drowned. Curious as this may seem, it is yet but a matter of a few minutes to drown a fish held head downwards to a swift current.

APPROACHING STORM ON LAKE MOTOSU

    Rapid then succeeded rapid in quick succession, and many a time the pilot had to use his pole to ward us off the threatening precipices, as we swept past them with the water boiling and gurgling all around us. Near the village of Matsuno the cliffs on the right bank were a palisade of tall, hexagonal, basaltic columns standing perfectly upright, and regular in formation as a paling. The river then rippled quietly along, with Fuji now always in view, till we entered the mouth of the Iwabuchi canal, and came to rest in the heart of the town at one o'clock—the forty-five mile journey having taken just five hours.
    We walked to Suzukawa along the Tōkaido—the old post-road that in feudal times connected the Mikado's capital, Kyoto, with the Shogun's capital, Tokyo. This is an excellent part of the "beaten track" to study rural Japan, as small villages line the way and everything is picturesque. Outside the cottages the peasants were busily heading rice, or winnowing it by hand, using half the highway to spread the mats on which the grain is dried.
    The Tōkaido must have been a beautiful road in the days of the Daimyos' caravans, but with the advent of the locomotive it fell into desuetude as the main business artery of Japan, and, in the thirst for modern ideas, splendid old pine-trees in the avenue that once lined its entire length were ruthlessly cut down, hideous telegraph poles taking their place. But the Tōkaido still remains, in places, just as it was in the old days, and near Suzukawa one can see it at its best. Hokusai and Hiroshige made all its principal sights famous, and even to-day one can see many of the quaint characters, that Hokusai so dearly loved, plodding along, attired just as they were in the days of the great Japanese Cruikshank.
    On a summer afternoon, when the cicadas are droning, and the crows cawing in the trees, it is easy to fall into a reverie, as one sits on the grass by the wayside, and recall the days of Hiroshigé's "Hundred Views," for here are the very places, and passing you are the very people, that he painted. And there is lovely Fuji too, and one can almost imagine a Daimyo's cortege, with the great chief gazing enraptured at the mountain from the window of his norimono as it is carried by on the shoulders of many bearers.
    But reveries are apt to be of short duration, for suddenly there comes a piercing scream, and then a roar, as a railway-train rushes past, not a hundred yards away, and one is brought back with a shock from feudal times to the unpicturesque realities of twentieth-century days.
    Late in the afternoon, when I had seen everything settled at the Suzuki inn (which is one of the most extortionate in Japan), I strolled along until I came to the banks of a river from which there was a magnificent view of Fuji.
    The yellow setting sun made the waters gleam like molten gold, and in the glowing depths Fuji's inverted cone appeared as in a mirror. The sun sank below the horizon as I watched, and soon all around me was enveloped in the gloom of approaching night. But Fuji still stood out strong and clearly as ever, and I observed the beautiful phenomenon of the shadow of the earth creeping gradually up the mountain-slopes as the sun sank ever deeper below the horizon. Higher and higher it crept, until only the snowy crest was left to hold for a few brief moments the amber light; then as the shadow left the sacred peak the sun's rays fell on nothing but the heavens above, slowly tinting them with all the colours of the shells of Enoshima.

    1) "Good-bye "; literally : "If it must be."

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