CHAPTER X

AN ASCENT OF FUJI-SAN

    From the earliest ages Japanese writers have described the beauty of Mount Fuji, and poets have sung its charms. The old landscape painters were so enthralled by the ethereality of the sacred peak that they painted it from almost every conceivable point—and some inconceivable points, too—along its southern base. When nearly eighty years of age, Hokusai, that great immortaliser of the peasant life and character of his day, published a series of no less than a hundred woodcuts of views of Fuji in colour, from as many different places on the Tōkaido, and with as many distinctive foregrounds. Hiroshigé did the same, and every other artist in the land, famous or infamous, has at some time or other been elevated with the desire to portray one or more of the transitory moods of the beauty under the spell of which all have fallen, but which none has ever yet been able to delineate with justice.
    Other mountains may be painted with some degree of truth—even the beautiful Jungfrau—but not so Fuji-san. Its loveliness is so delicate, and its moods so ever-changing and so evanescent, that the most the artist can ever hope to accomplish is to give some idea of the mountain's charm at a particular moment. Every nature-worshipper visiting Japan has fallen in adoration at the foot of Fuji, and foreign writers and poets have followed their Japanese brethren in attempting to describe the beauty that has inspired them. Who, that has seen its snow-clad crest floating in the deep blue of the winter sky, will not admit that the mountain is worthy of all the praise that has been bestowed upon it—and more?
    It is not only that the physical charms of the mountain cast so powerful a spell—though they alone would make of Fuji an object of homage to every lover of the beautiful in any land on earth—but also that the web of history and legend spun round the snowy peak is as charming and full of delightful mystery and sentiment as the moods of the beauty are capricious and fitful—a combination that marks Fuji as unique among the mountains of the earth.
    Fuji is a dormant volcano, an isolated cone 12,365 feet in height—figures easy to remember if one thinks of the days and months that make a year—tapering from a circumference of over eighty miles at its base to but two and a half miles at the summit. It cannot be accounted extinct, for at the north-east side of the mountain-crest the ground is so hot in places that in cold weather steam may be seen rising from the ash, testifying to the presence of fissures leading to subterranean fires which may at any time burst forth again. Geology shows that Fuji is but a young volcano which has not yet destroyed its beauty by bursting its crater rim—a fate that usually overtakes mountains of this nature sooner or later. Up to the present time the only sign of degradation in Fuji's shape is a small hump on the south-eastern slope. This is the crater Hoei-zan; it opened up during the last eruption, which began in December 1707 and lasted until 22nd January 1708.
    That was two hundred years ago; and by most writers Fuji is now referred to as extinct. But what are two hundred years in the life of a volcano? What are two centuries in the cooling of the crust of the earth?

FUJI-SAN

In the story of a planet such an interval is but a passing moment. Vesuvius was dormant for a much longer period before it laid Herculaneum and Pompeii in ashes. Indeed, prior to the great cataclysm of a.d. 79 Vesuvius was regarded as an entirely extinct volcano, and was never looked upon by the inhabitants of the cities at its base, even to the last moments ere it spread destruction all around it, as the menace that it ever is to the Naples of to-day. In Japan—this land of hot-springs, earthquakes, and solfataras—who, with the terrible calamity which destroyed the sleeping Bandai-san in 1888 still fresh in the mind, will make so bold as to deny that all volcanoes must be dreaded? The great Fuji, peaceful as it looks, should yet be viewed with apprehension. The beauty is not dead, but merely slumbers.
    Students of history may see, in some of the lurid winter sunsets that dye the snows of Fuji crimson, a reflex of the tragedies in which the mountain has played a part—for on one occasion at least the sacred slopes have been steeped in human blood. Towards the end of the thirteenth century the Mongol Emperor, Kublai Khan, despatched a great fleet, manned by 150,000 men, to Japan, for the purpose of conquering the country and adding it to his own dominions. This undertaking was a most disastrous failure; for the Japanese, aided by the fury of the elements, scattered the invading hosts and ships, and many hundreds of the Mongol soldiers were beheaded on the southern side of Fuji.
    Thus alike for the fabric of historical associations and legends with which it is enveloped, and for its symmetry and beauty, does Fuji inspire and appeal to the Japanese—most aesthetic and imaginative of peoples—and thus it is that the peerless mountain has formed so favourite a motive for artists during all the ages since a knowledge of art was first imported to the land.
    As I gazed at Fuji, enraptured, in that hour when I first saw Japan, an intense longing settled upon me to climb the mountain, to creep foot by foot up that glorious outline which sweeps in one magnificent curve from the sea-shore to the sky, and to look far and wide over the world below from the very topmost pinnacle of Japan. Two years later I gratified this wish; and now, a year later still, the mountain's crest was again my goal.
    The train was creeping laboriously up a steep ascent between hills covered with dense undergrowth and capped with crooked old pines—rugged, weather-beaten veterans, all twisted, bent, and straggling—which scorned every law of balance and proportion. From the tops of their red, reticulated trunks a few gnarled branches stretched outwards and downwards, with seemingly no regard for any rules such as govern the growth of well-regulated trees in other lands ; and from the extremities of their distorted limbs a few spiky needles, in little tufts, stuck out as though bristling with temper, like the hackle of an angry fighting-cock. By their very defiance of convention these trees were beautiful, and graced the earth from which they sprang.
    From the pine-clad hills we descended to rice-fields—carpeted thick as velvet with the verdant spears of tender new-grown shoots—and thence, once more, up into hills covered with feathery bamboos, bending to the breeze.
    The sites of the cottages among these hills and dales seemed, one and all, to have been chosen only after mature and careful consideration with a view to securing the best and most artistic effect. Each little humble dwelling stood just where it ought; were it moved either to left or right the picture would be marred. Made of natural-finished woods, bamboo and thatch, and standing in a cane-fenced enclosure, each of these huts was in itself a study.
    Before them lay the terraces and network of the rice-fields. No one who has ever gazed on the rice-fields of Japan or Java, and watched the seed mature to ripened ear, will deny that the beauty of the crop, which demands more unceasing toil than any other that the earth produces, is one of the principal charms of the lands of all rice-eating peoples.
    Descending again from the terraced hills to more rice-fields, the line bent round to the south, and as the train pulled up at a country station the emerald ocean lay before us. It was Sagami Bay, flecked with the white wings of a score of sampans. Long glittering waves were lazily rolling in, foaming as they surged up the pebbly beach, and receding with long-drawn sighs back to their appointed limits.
    Here, also, by the sea as on the land, everything was typically Japanese. Near the water's edge there was a group of little children playing. Hand in hand, with arms outstretched, they were formed into a ring. The ring was slowly revolving, and a tiny maid stood in the centre. She was singing, and as her playmates passed her, one by one, she pointed each of them out with her finger. I could catch a few bars of the air now and then. It was quite pretty, and sounded to my ears almost sad, accompanied as it was by the regular soughing of the waves upon the shore.
    Japanese as the sight was, it was one of those touches of nature that make "the whole world kin." How often have I seen little children playing such games in England, and other countries too!

London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, 
London Bridge is falling down, my fair Lady.

Have we not all played such games ourselves, before we knew what life, with all its joys and sorrows, its pangs and heartaches, meant? It was one of those innumerable brief visions, incident to my travels in this land of happy children, that have made the memories of Japan so dear.
    Near-by the playing babies, with the breaking waves creeping to their feet, there was a rugged bluff with a few straggling pines leaning over the edge. One of the pines had leant too far, and was in peril of falling into the sea; but some thoughtful soul, seeing the artistic effect of that old tree, bowing to inevitable doom, had placed a firm prop under it, securely founded on the rock, so that for many years there would be no danger of the landscape losing a bold and picturesque feature.
    Leaving the placid waters of Sagami Bay behind us, the line bent inwards again, and the great Koshu range lay ahead—blue, dark, and forbidding under the heavy storm-clouds above it. And now, as the train turned westward, the great Fuji loomed before us, all black and purple in its summer dress.
    Always splendid, magnificent in all its moods, Fuji on this August evening was grand and awe-inspiring. To the south the sky was clear, but over the mountain the heavens were filled with great banks and convolutions of clouds—white as snow, and, in places, dark as night—and a bright sunlit mass of vapour behind the mighty peak caused it to stand out black, frowning and terrible, towering almost to the zenith—a spectacle truly sublime.
    As we drew nearer to the base of the great volcano the prospects for a fair to-morrow grew steadily worse and worse. The lovely billows of cumulus gave way to angry nimbus clouds, deep purple-grey and blue, which filled the western heavens.

FUJI THROUGH THE PINES OF LAKE MOTOSU

Once, however, the storm-clouds parted, and the dark brow of Fuji appeared, seeming almost to overhang us, as if threatening with destruction all who should make so bold as to essay those lonely dizzy heights: as if the very goddess of the mountain herself challenged us to dare dispute her right to reign in those altitudes alone and undisturbed.
    We reached Gotemba at 6.30 p.m., and our arrival at the Fuji-ya Inn caused a pleasant diversion for the inhabitants of the town—to judge by the numbers that collected in front of the hotel, awaiting with interest the result of our discussion as to whether it would be better to remain at Gotemba for the night or push on, as we had intended, and sleep in one of the rest-huts on the mountain-side. We decided to have supper and think it over. The inn, we found, was full of guests—Japanese pilgrims en route to do homage to the goddess of the mountain by worshipping at the shrines around the crater's lip.
    Mount Fuji is officially "open" only for three months of the year—July to September. To undertake the ascent at any other period would entail much trouble and expense. During the "open'' season many thousands of pilgrims annually make the ascent, for at that time it may, if desired, be made in easy stages, as there are rest-huts, called go-me, where food and a shake-down for the night may be obtained, at approximately five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten thousand feet. Some old people, who undertake the pilgrimage as a climax to a life of religious devotion, take a week or ten days over the ascent, painfully and perseveringly accomplishing a thousand feet or so each day. This being the "open" season, and Gotemba one of the favourite starting-points for the climb, accounted for a large number of pilgrims at the inn that night. Inquiry of the landlord elicited the information that there were over seventy—as many being crowded into each room as it could be made to hold.
    Supper over, any further discussion as to the wisdom or otherwise of starting that night was superfluous, for, through the open window of the room that had been assigned to my Japanese interpreter, Nakano, and myself, we watched the storm-clouds growing momentarily more threatening, until the skies were black as pitch, though the moon was full. Presently a blinding flash of lightning rent the heavens, and, from the terrific crash that simultaneously accompanied it, it seemed almost as though the crack of doom had split the earth itself. The long-gathering storm had burst at last, and even if the cyclopean forces that formed the great volcano had been loosed once more, the spectacle could hardly have been grander than the battle of the elements that we witnessed during the two succeeding hours. The lightning danced, and flickered, and flashed over the whole vault of heaven, and the thunder for an hour was incessant. Many of the pilgrims seemed overcome with fear, and crowded together in the rooms and passages, loudly repeating prayers in whining sing-song tones. At length the tumult ceased, and we betook ourselves to the futons (padded quilts) to get well-needed rest, preparatory to the tedious work of the morrow.
    At 3 A.M. the bustle and clatter of the pilgrims, who were preparing for an early start, woke me ; I got up to find the sky clear, and Fuji blocking out a great triangular space in the starry heavens, its whole outline brilliantly illumined by the soft light of the moon. I lay down again, and slept till five, when the little neisan, who had come in to wake us, exhorted me to look at Fuji, which, to my delight, was still in gracious mood, displaying its charms without reserve, and though snowless, save for a few patches, looked lovely, and all pink and violet in the early morning atmosphere.
    There was much ado about making the preparations for the ascent, as it was necessary to secure the services of four lusty coolies to carry my photographic apparatus, portable photographic dark-tent, supply of plates, blankets, change of clothing, and food sufficient for five or six days. I had come prepared to stop several days on the mountain, if necessary, in order to secure the views I coveted from the summit. The food to be got at the rest-huts is of only the coarsest kind; and I hoped my own supply would prove amply sufficient, so that I might not have occasion to resort to it.
    Whilst Nakano was engaging the coolies, I amused myself by inspecting the pendant flags, with which the front of the inn was arrayed. These are, strictly speaking, not flags at all but towels. They are often the advertisements of tradesmen, who hang them up at the hotels at which they stay, or by the fountains of Buddhist temples, or near some Shinto shrine. These towels, in addition to having the merchant's name and business described on them, are frequently of very dainty and artistic design. By hanging them up at the temple fountain a double duty is performed. A service is rendered to the temple in the gift, trifling though it is, of a towel, so that those who cleanse their fingers and lips before entering to pray may have the wherewithal to dry them with; and a very excellent advertisement is obtained by placing on the towel an efivective design with the donor's name and business description. The inscription cannot escape the attention of the user, as the towel is always suspended by a string and a thin piece of bamboo, so that it hangs straight, and can therefore be easily read. Similar towels are also used as banners by pilgrims, who donate them to each inn at which they put up, thereby publishing the enterprise of their own particular club.
    Gotemba is not an interesting town. It is not even picturesque, but is very mean and poor-looking, and lacking in any single feature except the view of the glorious mountain to which the town owes its existence. The inhabitants look to make sufficient earnings,during the months the mountain is "open" to keep them for the remainder of the year. The town itself, therefore, merits no further notice, nor do the inhabitants, for they are as lacking in interest as the place.
    Nakano having secured the services of three brawny luggage-carriers, called gōriki, on each of whose broad backs about forty pounds of luggage was strapped, we left Gotemba at 7 a.m. and took to a cinder path through rice and corn jfields. Straight ahead of us the great Fuji towered to the very skies, and it seemed a hopeless task to expect to reach the summit that night. We had proceeded a ri (a Japanese ri is 2½ miles) on our way when I found that an important part of my photographic kit had been left behind. There was nothing to do but return for it, which I did, running to the hotel and back again. This took up nearly an hour, and doubtless had much to do with the fatigue I felt later on.
    From the rice-fields we tramped over a rising moor, covered with long grass and studded with stunted pine-trees, where birds were twittering everywhere in the soft balmy air. Little bunches of detached cumulus floating in the sky threw patches of moving shadows on Fuji's slopes, and these clouds, gathering about the summit, presently obscured it from view.
    By ten o'clock we were well up in the forest and undergrowth that clothes the lower slopes.

FUJI FROM NAKANO-KURA-TOGE

Looking backwards, the great barrier range of Hakoné was a poem in greens of every shade, with a belt of silvery clouds floating lazily in from the west and lightly touching every peak. Sometimes the clouds above us parted, and we saw thick mists settling in the ravines which scar the upper heights. These mists were white as the streaks of snow, so that we could not distinguish where snow ended and mist began. It was a pretty sight, and gave the mountain the appearance of having donned its winter dress.
    At eleven we reached Umagaeshi, or "Horse Return." Formerly those who came on horseback had to leave their steeds behind at this point, and make the rest of the ascent by foot, as above this place the mountain's slopes were held to be so sacred that no horse's foot might tread it. In former times, too, women were debarred from ascending the mountain higher than the eighth rest-house. These old rules, however, have lapsed of recent years. Now, those women, who can, may ascend to the top with impunity; and hundreds of pilgrims, who do not care to put too great a tax upon the nether limbs, ride on horseback as far as the second rest-house—a good two hours' tramp farther up the mountain.
    Indeed, so profaned has Fuji become that in 1906 a Japanese, under the incentive of a wager, rode a horse to the summit—a feat which called forth much protest from the press. Strange to say, however, this protest did not take the form of an outcry against the violation of ancient traditions, but was raised merely on the ground of cruelty to the horse. This was somewhat unreasonable, as there was no climbing to be done by the route taken, and therefore no reason why the horse should not accomplish the journey—which it did, without suffering any ill effects whatever. In the Himalayan passes horses are worked at much greater altitudes than the summit of Fuji. A protest on such grounds was the more remarkable as the Japanese horse is by no means the best treated equine in the world—or even in the East—and is, as any foreigner who has travelled much in Japan can testify, but too often the victim of ill-treatment and abuse.
    We reached Tarōbō, 4600 feet above sea-level, at 11.15. This was not such rapid progress as I had hoped to make, but the gōriki complained that they could go no faster, as the loads they carried were so heavy. Tarōbō is an interesting spot, with a large and substantial rest-house, where we had some tea and rice. The place derives its name from a mountain goblin who was formerly worshipped at a shrine near by. One may purchase here, for the sum of 10 sen, a staff such as is used by all pilgrims who ascend the mountain. These staves are marked by a burnt impress of the name of Fuji-san, in Chinese, and at the summit the residing priest adds a further impression.
    The view below us, as we rested here, was exceedingly beautiful. The waters of the rice-fields glistened in the sunshine, and the atmosphere was so clear that, with my glass, I could easily pick out every detail of the houses along the old Tōkaido highway. Snowy clouds floating in the azure added greatly to the charm of the scene; and the line of fluffy billows over the Hakoné barrier had lifted, so that between them and the mountain-tops we could see the end of Ashi Lake, flashing like a jewel in the sun, and, far beyond it, the blue waters of Sagami Bay, in which a single tiny speck marked the sacred island of Enoshima, distant about forty miles from where we stood.
    At Tarōbō we left the pleasant green and shade of the woods behind, and emerged suddenly on to the desolate waste of ashes up which we must toil for over seven thousand feet of height, and along a zigzag path of more than fifteen miles in length. It was indeed a dreary prospect. Yet it was a wondrous sight which burst upon the vision as we left the grateful woodland. A vast expanse of cinders stretched before us, slowly-merging from black at our feet to purple-grey, where, miles and miles away, it lost itself in cloudland. It was a burnt-up sea, with waves, and ridges, and hillocks of pumice and scorias, in which the torrential rains that deluge the mountain-slopes had torn great clefts and deep ravines. From this point to the top, the mountain sweeps in one beautiful unbroken curve—a curve so perfect and even that it reminded me of the wire rope, bending of its own weight, down which loads of firewood are sent across the Nekko River to Furuseki from the mountains on the opposite shore.
    As we struck out on to this barren waste the heat absorbed by the black cinders was terrific, and with the hot August sun scorching down on our backs the ascent of even so easy a mountain as Fuji became no joke. That toilsome journey to the top of Europe is not more laborious than the weary tramp through these interminable ashes; and the two mountains offer strange and striking contrasts. Mont Blanc is white—a colossal pile of ice. Fuji is black—a stupendous heap of cinders. One may sit on the hotel verandahs at Chamonix and through great telescopes observe, occasionally, a few black specks—like a little string of ants—creeping slowly, almost imperceptibly, up the virgin snows of Mont Blanc. As we left all vegetation behind us, and set out on the now desert slopes of Fuji, the mountain ants were here too, only there were many more of them, and they were white ants instead of black ones, and crept amongst sombre ashes instead of stainless snows.
    Tradition says that Fuji rose from a plain in a single night, when a great depression appeared in the earth, a hundred and fifty miles away, which is now filled by the waters of Lake Biwa. That a volcano may have been formed here in a single night is likely enough. Who can say? But that it arose from a plain is clearly a myth, for a mile to the right of the second rest-hut there is a deep rift disclosing solid masses of rock, quite different from any other found on the mountain. These rocks appear, without doubt, to be the summit of some lesser peak which this mass of ashes has overwhelmed, and a chain of hills running from the south-east to this spot seems to confirm the theory.
    The heat—which had been getting almost intolerable, for there was scarcely a breath of wind—was now gratefully tempered by clouds which came between us and the sun, and our progress at once became more rapid. We reached the ni-gō-me, or second rest-hut, at one o'clock, and rested for twenty minutes. On starting again we plunged into mists which came swirling down the mountain from every point of the compass, formed by some rapid barometric change that caused a cool, refreshing wind to blow. For this we were all very thankful, as it was a great relief after the sun's demonstration of how painfully wearisome he could make the journey up these soft heat-absorbing slopes.
    The trail up the mountain was well bestrewn with waraji, those cheap and serviceable straw sandals which every native of Japan uses when travelling in country districts, and of which I had come provided with a good supply, of a size sufficiently large to affix to the soles of my boots. They not only afford a good grip on the loose cinders, but give very necessary protection to the leather, which would otherwise speedily be torn to pieces by the sharp, rough clinkers. Even with the protection afforded by waraji, Fuji is "good" (?) for one pair of boots, and I would advise all who follow in my footsteps not to wear boots by which they set any store, as after the descent they will be of little use for further wear. The right footgear for a trip up Fuji is a good, comfortable pair of old boots and several pairs of waraji. Two pairs of the latter may be reckoned on for the ascent, and about four pairs for the descent. Leather leggings are better than stockings, as they prevent the small cinders—in which, on the descent, one's feet are continually buried—from entering the boots. The Japanese never use boots for mountain work. They wear blue cloth socks, with a separate compartment for the big toe, and waraji tied to them.
    At 3.45 we reached the fifth gō-me (8659 feet), with over 3500 feet to go. I was glad enough to stop here and have a cup of hot cocoa, as the mists that had enveloped us were damp and chilly. Owing to the altitude and heavy going, and to the fact that we could not leave the gōriki behind, as they seemed intent on loafing, we had not been able to proceed fast enough to keep warm. I had started out in summer clothing, suitable to the heat of the plains, and now, being quite insufficiently clad for these raw, driving mists, was shivering with cold. Whilst the gōriki rested I got out some thick woollens and clothed myself more suitably for the great change in temperature.
    As we were leaving the fifth hut the mists parted, disclosing Lake Yamanaka bathed in sunshine and reflecting the clouds above it. The clouds overhead also melted for a few moments, and there was Fuji's crest as far off as ever it was a good three hours ago, when we had last had a glimpse of it. Surely we had not moved an inch, or else the mountain was ascending too!
    A band of descending pilgrims—laughing, shouting, and singing, in high spirits at having accomplished their mission—came running and leaping and glissading down the straight path of the descent. The ascending path is zigzag, the descending one is straight.
    Nearly an hour earlier, as we met another descending band, I had shouted in Japanese, "How far is it to the top?''
    "Three ri," one of them replied.
    Now again I put the question as the merry pilgrims passed me. "How far to the top?"
    "Three ri,'' came the answer.
    I knew it. The summit was as far off as ever, and looked it. Without doubt, the mountain was getting higher as fast as we were scaling it. At this rate we should never reach the top. Thank heavens, we were at least keeping pace with it!
    By half-past four the clouds had cleared away, and the whole upper Fuji was visible. We were well above the waist—in the middle of the great sweeping curve taken by the slope from the mountain-top to Tarōbō. From a distance this curve is not very perceptible, but from where we now were we could see how great was the deviation from the straight line. Away to the west the mountain outline was much steeper, and perfectly straight—a stupendous incline which shoots up at a dizzy angle into space.
    How weary this interminable zigzag was getting! Mile after mile there was no variation to the monotony of turning its everlasting corners. Several times I tried to relieve the tedium by making short cuts, straight up; but as soon as I left the beaten track the cinders slipped under my feet, and progress was slower than ever. At 5 p.m we were at the sixth gō-me, 9317 feet above sea-level. We had scarcely ascended 700 feet in three-quarters of an hour. It sounds slow, and would have been so if the rest had all been as unhampered as I; but each goriki's load was a third of his own weight, and our pace was that of the slowest member of the party.
    Some rollicking students from Tokyo University were making the mountain ring with their songs, and a number of pilgrims, too, had settled in the rest-hut for the night. These pilgrims, who flock from all over the land to Fuji in summer, are mostly of the rustic class. They are very poor, and are assisted on their mission by funds furnished by clubs to which they belong, and which are found in every village. The members pay trifling annual subscriptions, and each year lots are drawn to decide who of their number shall visit certain holy places. Many of the pilgrims are dressed in white, with broad-brimmed hats, shaped like Fuji, made of straw. Each carries a staff, bought at Tarōbō—which, when the mission is over, will become an heirloom in the family—and a large piece of matting tied to his back. This projects at each side, and as it flaps about in the wind gives him a most droll appearance, like a young chick trying to fly. This mat acts as a waterproof coat, a shield to keep the sun off his back, and, at times, as a bed—if, as is often the case, he finds the available supply of futons already engaged on his arrival at the rest-hut. Each pilgrim has also a tiny bell tied to his girdle. Thus when the mountain is "open" and the weather favourable, its slopes on the Gotemba and Subashiri sides—for Fuji may be ascended with comfort only on certain well-kept routes—are all a-tinkling with these little sweet-toned bells. As the pilgrims slowly wend their way upwards they continually sing out, in sharp, staccato accents, the Shinto words "Rokkon -Shōjō, Rokkon-Shōjō''—a formula signifying the emptiness of life, and conveying the exhortation to keep the body pure. Can the reader imagine a party of Alpine mountaineers, ascending the Jungfrau or Mont Blanc, shouting to each other, as they slowly toil upwards midst snow and ice, a prayer to cleanse themselves from sin? Yet there are people who look upon the Japanese as uncivilised heathens!
"Rokkon-Shōjō'' is an abbreviation of the formula "Rokkon -Shōjō O Yama Katsei," which means, "May our six senses be pure, and the weather on the honourable mountain fine." Professor Chamberlain says that the pilgrims "repeat the invocation, for the most part, without understanding it, as most of the words are Chinese.'' When the full formula is used, it is chanted antiphonally, sometimes between bands of pilgrims a mile or more apart, as sound carries a long way on the mountain-side. It is usually abbreviated, however, to the first line.
    The Japanese are very fond of summing up abstruse sentiments into a few words, and also of embodying abstract ideas into concrete forms—as, for instance, in the case of a pagoda. A five-storied pagoda is emblematical of the emptiness of life. Five is a mystic number. The pagoda has five stories. The universe has five elements. The body has five senses (which are, however, to the Japanese mind, enclosed in a sixth sense—the body itself). Everything in the world is composed out of one or more of the five elements—fire, earth, water, air, and ether. The human body especially is a combination of these elements, to which, when life is extinct, the body returns. Thus does the pagoda typify the unsubstanti-ality of all earthly forms. The body, being but worthless, temporary trash, should be resolutely combated and mortified, and care given only to the soul. All this and more is borne to the Japanese mind by a five-storied pagoda; it is likewise all summed up in the pilgrim's cry, with which the slopes of Fuji ring, of "Rokkon-Shōjō."

THE NARA PAGODA

    At 6 o'clock we reached the seventh rest-hut, and found it closed. The panorama below us was beautiful beyond the power of language to describe. Little fleecy tufts of cloud lay about the world below us as if great bales of cotton had been torn to pieces by the gods in Olympus, and scattered o'er the earth. The sun, long since gone over the mountain, and now nearing the horizon, was turning the fleece into golden foam, and Yamanaka Lake, steeped in shadow, peeped between the foaming wavelets, grey and smooth as 5teel. Far below us, and now many miles away, the forests looked soft and sleek as velvet, and above, Fuji's crest was blue and violet against a turquoise sky.
    The trail of the ascent is intersected at the seventh gō-me by a path called Chudo Meguri, which encircles the mountain. Many Japanese nature-worshippers make the circuit of Fuji by this path. It is about twenty miles round, and the journey takes about eight hours. So far as observation of the scenic effects is concerned, there is no object in ascending higher, as from the summit everything appears more dwarfed, and is liable to be obscured by haze.
    Above the sixth rest-hut the ascent becomes rapidly steeper, and the mountain is bestrewn with great blocks of lava. I would fain have made more rapid progress, but my gōriki were evidently not moved by the enthusiasm that urged me on, and kept up the steady plodding gait which they knew by experience is the pace that lasts.
    Those of my readers who have spent holidays in the Alps, and have slowly fought their way up some icy peak, will know the steady mechanical pace set from the outset by the Swiss guides. Probably, before they knew better, they wanted, as I did, to go faster, much faster, but were kept in check by the men to whom this is no pastime but the business of their lives. It is the only way to scale a mountain—to adopt a slow and steady pace and keep it up like a machine; and it is marvellous what that slow, steady gait will accomplish. Hour after hour you plod on, so slowly and so surely, yet, imperceptible as the progress is, eminence after eminence is gradually gained in the silence of deadly earnest, broken only by the crunching of your boots and the squeaking of your ice-axe, as, using it for a staff, you plunge its point at each step deep into the snow. The light of the moon that helped you on your midnight start now pales, the sky becomes grey, and the grey gives way to pink and amber as the sun rises; but still you plod . on, stepping in the footprints of the guide in front. At last, almost before you realise it, the fight is over. Your pulse beats quick and strong, and your whole body glows—not only from the effects of the exertion, but with the joy of knowing that you have achieved your ambition. You have gained, for the time being, the height of your desire; and, from the topmost pinnacle of that icy finger which beckoned to you from the skies, you can revel in joy undreamt of by those who have never sought the solitude of the mountains, and the glorious pleasures which it is in their power to bestow on those who love them.
    So it is with Fuji too—steady perseverance tells, and only by its exercise can the crest be won. My gōriki knew this, and could not be urged to change the pace which had become to them a habit. Moreover, to them the ascent had no incentive of novelty. These men were mountain porters for three months of the year, carrying supplies to the rest-huts. Between the four of them they could aggregate over thirty ascents that year to the top, besides a greater number of journeys to the lower stations, although the resthuts had scarcely been open a month. Small wonder is it, then, that they were not to be carried away by enthusiasm.
    How wearisome this plodding was becoming ! How steep the mountain was getting! I was beginning to feel tired, too, and marvelled how those fellows could do all this with those heavy packs. They must have sinews strong as wire. The mountain was so steep now that care had to be exercised not to disturb the stones; otherwise they might roll down the slope, to the danger of some one below. My feet were getting very heavy, and my thighs beginning to feel sore at the unwonted tax upon the muscles. The clinkers were rougher and sharper at every step. Should we never reach that eighth gō-me ?
    The gōriki were tiring too, for they had been going very slowly and were now stopping to have a smoke. I began to suspect them. Were they conspiring to try to induce me to stop for the night at No. 8? I knew very well that they were used to transporting greater loads than this from Gotemba to the top in a day, so I determined to reach the top that night; I would not be cajoled out of it. I dared not stop to admire the view. That would be fatal. I must not waver till No. 8 was reached, or they would suspect me of being as tired as I was. These thoughts spurred me on to renewed efforts, and at last I reached the hut, ordered some tea, and refrained from sitting down for fully five minutes—an act of self-denial which called for all the will-power I possessed—in order to deceive the gōriki, who I knew were closely watching me, as to my real condition. I lit a cigarette and walked outside to smoke it, scarcely thinking I had it in me to dissemble thus. The eighth hut is 10,693 feet above the sea, and about 1500 feet from the summit rest-house, which is in a hollow on the mountain-top, some 200 feet below the highest point. The sun had long since set behind the mountain. The turquoise sky had turned to coral and amber, and Japan below was growing dark and being covered by the mists of night, which were spreading lightly over the earth, like a robe de nuit. It was only a thin stratum, however, and through it rose the peaks of Ashitaka-yama, O-yama, the Hakoné range, and many others, seeming to float like romantic isles in a mystic sea of legend. The daylight died rapidly as I watched, and a radiance over the "Maiden's Pass" in Hakoné foreshowed the rising of the moon. Darkness was gathering fast, and faintly shimmering stars pierced the opalescent heavens. The luminous east turned silver, and, whilst yet the after-glow was burning in the zenith, the moon peeped over the ocean's edge and threw a dancing shaft of light across Sagami's waters to the rugged coasts of Izu. Only to have seen this glorious sight had been more than worth the journey. A hundred times had I gazed on such scenes depicted in golden lacquer, and wondered at their beauty. Now for the first time I saw the reality that inspired them.
    As I anticipated, the gōriki, who had arrived during my contemplation of these wonders, complained of fatigue, and said they could go no farther that night; but I put on a firm front at once and declined to consider breaking the journey. I was really anxious to reach the top and record a few impressions before turning in, so I offered them each 50 sen extra if we were on the summit by nine o'clock. As we started off from No. 8 my suspicions that they were merely "playing possum" proved to be well founded, for such was now their accession of enthusiasm to reach the top as soon as possible that I was hard put to it to keep ahead of them.

FUJI AND THE PINE TREES

The incentive of an extra shilling each had worked marvels in dispelling their fatigue.
    By this time the moon was shining brilliantly, and near by the trail one of the snow-patches, which had seemed but a mere spot from Gotemba, was a quarter of a mile in length, and had a ghostly glimmer amidst the surrounding blackness. Above and all around us were great masses of slag and lava. Weird and unearthly-looking was this holocaust of hideous shapes—this vomit cast up by the mountain in the throes of its agony and fever. The path was much harder and firmer now, but exceedingly steep; and every step amongst the eerie shadows was bringing us visibly nearer to the crater-lip above. My heart was beating with loud thumps against my ribs, and my head ached badly, the result of the elevation and rarefaction of the air. We slowly passed a great gully, looking black and bottomless—a yawning chasm which from the world below was but one of those creases that serrate the mountain's edge. Then the sky-line appeared just above us. Another moment's scramble—one last and final pull—and I stood on Fuji's crest.
    It was 8.40 P.M. The rest-house was scarcely a hundred yards away, and the gōriki with their loads went unconcernedly on, without once looking behind them. As for me, I was content to sit awhile where I was, and survey the scene about me. It was freezing hard, but not a breath of wind stirred the air, and the heavens were scintillating with glittering diamonds. For every star I ever saw before there were now a thousand, all shivering in the firmament and adding soft radiance to the rays with which the moon strove to pierce the blue-black void below. There was no robe de nuit over the earth now. It had dissolved away, leaving nothing but inky blackness, parted by one great streak of silver where the rapid Fujikawa raced onwards to the sea.
    Around me was naught but distorted shapes, and space, and silence. Though I strained every faculty to catch some faint murmur from the world below, naught but silence absolute and supreme fell upon my ears—a silence broken only by the loud pulsations of my heart, which smote the air with great resonant thuds. It is something dread and awful, this vast, tremendous hush. It is the infinite calm of great altitudes and depths.
    Once, in my mining days in California, a desire seized me, in the dead of night, to descend the shaft alone, when no other living soul should be there. The thought was but the parent of the action. Hastily putting on some clothes and donning my overalls, I went over to the shaft-house. It was a stormy night, and rain was clamouring on the sheet-iron roof. I lit a candle and groped my way rapidly down the steep incline of the shaft. Five hundred feet into the crust of the earth I went, and felt no new sensations except one of disappointment as the shaft echoed with my footsteps. Six hundred feet, seven hundred feet, eight hundred feet and the bottom of the mine! It was not worth it. I had taken all this trouble for nothing, and now I had to toil all that weary way up to the top and the rain and the mud again.
    But as I stood there a creepy feeling came over me. What was this consciousness that suddenly oppressed me, and made my blood seemed chilled? I had felt nothing like it before. My candle gave but a feeble glimmer, and I found myself peering furtively into the shadows with a feeling almost akin to dread. All at once I knew; it was the silence—the immense, oppressive silence. Hitherto, whenever I had been down the mine there had always been the regular beating of the hammers on the drills. Now there was nothing but thick, velvety silence.
    Then a sudden sound, like the crack of a stockwhip, put every sense on the alert. Was I not alone, then, after all? In a moment the instinct of self-preservation reminded me that I was unarmed. Who could be down here at this hour, and what could be his object? Had I been followed? Without a weapon I was at the mercy of any ruffian, and powerless as a rabbit in a hole. All this rushed through my brain in a moment, and as I tried to pierce the shadows my candle only served to make the darkness visible. Another crack—almost like a pistol shot—and then enlightenment and relief flashed upon me. It was nothing but a drop of water falling from the hanging-wall into the sump below; yet, in this dread silence, it struck with almost the detonation of a fulminating cap. I knew then why great burly miners sometimes refuse to work alone in distant drifts. I never could understand before, but now I knew; it is the silence that they fear.
    As I listened for that intermittent drop, falling with the regularity of a minute-gun paying the last tribute to a soul gone to rest, tales of horrible things came to mind. In China, it is said, the very refinement of torture is to confine a condemned criminal in a place to which no sound can penetrate, and over the plank, to which he is bound, to place a vessel of water, so regulated that once every few minutes a single drop shall fall upon his brow. There being no light, and no sound to distract his attention, the poor wretch's senses become so concentrated in expectation of the next drop of water, that, when it falls, it seems to strike him with the impact of a bomb, and reason cannot long withstand the strain.
    Shivering with cold after these reveries inspired by the stillness, I went into the rest-house, and soon a meal was ready and steaming hot. Too tired to go out again that night, I was glad enough to take to my rugs and futons and get to sleep.
    From this point I quote from my diary written during my stay on the mountain top.
    August 3.—I told the hut-keeper last night to be sure and call me well before sunrise if the weather was fine, but when I awake it has long been daylight, and I have a racking headache. The wind is whistling round the hut, which is in a sheltered hollow, and hail is pelting on the roof. I get up, and we all crowd round the charcoal fire and have breakfast. There is another fire where wood is burnt for cooking. The fires are near the door of the hut, which is wide open, on the most sheltered side of the building. Outside nothing can be seen but swirling mists and driving snow and hailstones.
    August 3, Noon.—As hour after hour passes, the storm increases. Fortunately I have a good supply of canned provisions, and bread sufficient for several days. Nakano is lying down, wrapped up in futons, overcome with mountain sickness. The gōriki are all huddled up in a corner of the hut, completely covered, heads and all, with futons.
    August 3, 2 P.M.—The storm is worse. I am evidently destined to incarceration here for a day or two at least, so I may as well record my impressions of the place which forms my prison. The house is neither remarkable for its comfort nor its elegance, but is strong and weather-proof. It is constructed of blocks of lava, each block being chiselled so as to fit in exactly to its neighbours without mortar to bind it. The walls at the base are three feet thick, sloping on the outside to a width of one foot at the top. 

THE CREST OF FUJI
A Telephotograph from a Distance of  15 Miles.

The interior is tightly lined with boards, and a solid framework of wood, braced with iron, supports the roof, which is the least substantial portion of the structure, being made of one-inch planks covered with tin from kerosene-oil cans. Plainly it is only the ampleness and number of the supports that enable the roof to carry the weight of snow it must have to bear in winter. A portion of the building is taken up by a large pile of snow, which constitutes the water supply. The floor is of crushed cinders, and a raised dais—made of boards, and covered with tatami (padded mats)—on which the guests wrap themselves in blankets and futons to sleep, runs the whole lengtth of the building. There is no chimney, and the smoke from the burning pine-wood diffuses itself most effectually into every corner of the structure.
    August 3, 4 P.M.—Twice during the afternoon I ventured outside the little compound enclosing the hut, but had to beat a hasty retreat, for icy winds were tearing over the mountain, and I could scarcely stand. I venture a third time when the wind has subsided a little, and find the building has two wings, the central portion being occupied by an old Shinto priest who sits and waits for the pilgrims who, in fine weather, are continually straggling in to have their staves and garments impressed with the outline of Fuji's top—the hall-mark so envied by the pilgrim element of Japan. The postcard craze has penetrated even here. I buy some postcards from the old priest, direct them to friends, and have them stamped with the impress which he places on the pilgrim's garments. The first gōriki going down will take them.
    The gōriki haven't moved all day except to unearth themselves from their futons once to eat. I don't suppose they care how long the storm lasts. They are paid by the day, and are having an easy time of it. It is quite evident they are not worrying about the weather. Why should they? They are probably dreaming about their accumulating wages. Nakano, however, is very unhappy, though. Poor fellow, he is suffering greatly with headache and sickness from the altitude and smoke. He has lent me Lafcadio Hearn's book Kwaidan, which he fortunately brought with him. It is a collection of tales of Japanese superstitions and imaginations, and the talent of the gifted author thus enables me to pass away the weary hours delightfully, as indeed it has often helped me before, under much more favourable conditions. The weird tales possess an added interest as I read them whilst storm-bound on the highest part of Japan, from which so much legend and superstition emanates.
    August 3, Sunset.—With darkness the storm increases again. Two pilgrims have come in during the afternoon, having struggled up from No. 8 in five hours, and are stopping here to-night. They have, of course, no alternative. There are less expensive huts on the north-east side of the crater, but it would be as much as their lives are worth to try to reach them.
    The chronicles of Fuji show that about sixty years ago a number of pilgrims were caught in dense clouds on the mountain-top and lost their way. The clouds were but the precursors of a typhoon, which broke suddenly and with terrific violence. When it abated, and the weather cleared, the frozen bodies of the pilgrims, to the number of over fifty, were found closely packed together, showing that they had kept united to the last for warmth and companionship in that dread hour. This is but one instance of the many sacrifices that Sengen Sama, the goddess of the mountain, has demanded of the faithful. The place where they died is now called Sai-no-Kawara, or the "River-Bed of Souls.'' It is always covered with hundreds of stone cairns, raised to the memory of these martyrs by those who follow more fortunately in their footsteps, and in tribute to Jizo, the children's guardian god.
    It occurs to me to offer, for the benefit of those who aspire to undertake this expedition, some seasonable advice and warning. When you come to Fuji be sure to provide yourselves with several large sheets of Japanese oil-paper, and do not forget your gun and powder. I do not mean by this to imply that you should bring a muzzle-loader, nor yet that you may expect any shooting. The weapon I refer to is what is known as an '' insect-powder gun," and the powder I mean is "Keating's"; the former is an ingenious little contrivance for sprinkling the latter effectively. These precautions are to be directed against the entomological onslaught which is certain to ensue the moment you lie down in any of the rest-huts. Well sprinkling the mats around me, therefore, and spreading a huge sheet of oil-paper on them, I make my bed, and for the second night lie down to sleep, drawing another oil-sheet over me as an additional protection. Thus only can I rest with any degree of comfort.
    August 4, 7 A.M.—The storm is now a hurricane. For hours I have scarcely slept a wink, and have a splitting headache—due to the rarefied air. It is 7 A.M., and every one is buried deep in futons. The piteous rising and falling cadences of the wind are dismal to hear, and they have now become an almost incessant shriek. Now and then there is a moment's lull, but it is only the storm-fiends drawing back to make a fiercer, more determined effort. Gathering all their strength, the winds rush upon the structure, and smite it terrific blows. But the solid, well-braced walls resist the fiercest onslaughts, and do not give the fraction of an inch; there is scarcely even a tremor; and the furies, baulked of their prey, go tearing past, screaming and howling in impotent rage. I would not have missed this for a good deal. I may never have such an experience again, nor do I wish to, but to be on Fuji's crest when the mountain is in the angriest of its moods is something to remember. When the wind woke me, and I lay in tht futons, listening to its onsets growing momentarily fiercer, I was somewhat ill at ease; but now all anxiety is gone, and my confidence in the staunchness of the hut grows stronger as each fresh assault is baffled.
    August 4, 9 A.M.—We all get up and breakfast. The wind seems to be lessening. I have finished Kwaidan, and must read it through again. I have nothing else but Murray's Handbook—best of all guide-books on any land—but I know much of it almost by heart. Nakano is still suffering greatly, and says if it were only possible to descend, he would have to go down. Mountain-sickness is a very painful thing. I have had it on Mont Blanc and know what it means. One of the pilgrims who came in yesterday had a dreadful cold. He was sneezing almost incessantly, and thought he was going to die. I took him in hand and gave him a strong glass of whisky and hot water and ten grains of quinine. I had great difficulty in getting him to take the whisky, but he didn't mind the quinine pills. This morning the cold and fever have left him, and he thanked me with brimming eyes. He said he knew I had been sent by the gods to save his life. If I had the missionary instinct I might be embracing the opportunity by devoting the day to securing a jewel for my crown. But I am not a missionary, and I am doing nothing of the kind. On the contrary, I am reading Kwaidan again, the author of which, if he had any religion at all, which is doubtful, was a Buddhist.
    Our host is the very model of the virtues of patience, apathy, and taciturnity. All day long he sits and smokes, and smokes and sits, and thinks. 

THE HOLY CRATER OF FUJI-SAN

I have come to the conclusion he is on the verge of Buddha-hood, for he appears to be practising austerity. Every one else in the hut is covered up with futons, but he sits right in front of the open door, through which the icy fog is sweeping. There he squats, with the full force of the back-draughts of the wind blowing on him, and sometimes I, who am at the farthest end of the room, shivering in my overcoat and thick futons, can scarcely see him for mist. He is surely attaining much store of merit. His gaze is riveted, hour after hour, on the swirling clouds; but he moves only to fill his pipe, and light it, and tap out the ashes, and then begin the process over again. Smoking appears to be his only vice. A man who can sit in his ordinary clothes in a temperature like this must be impervious to the elements, and dead to all carnal desires of the flesh. The marvel to me is that he even smokes. He should certainly renounce the habit. Then he would doubtless attain Nirvana.
    Three times he has relieved the monotony of his penance—I suppose it must be a penance—by taking a piece of paper and doing some figuring. I begin to suspect his meditations may be baser than I thought. Perhaps he is cogitating how much of a bill I will stand to compensate him for the loss of patronage of transient callers, who, in fine weather, would drop in continually, night and day. The arrival of a foreigner, with a Japanese and four gōriki, must have been a very opportune incident for him, as otherwise his hut would have been all but deserted. He has a servant to assist him in the duties of the household. The servant's office chiefly consists in attending to the fires, which need almost constant watchfulness to keep them going—a curious effect of the rarefied air. Thus the dreary, dismal day passes, the storm all the while steadily abating. As night approaches, the winds have almost ceased. For the third time I make up my bed, and inter myself in futons, evil-smelling oil-paper, and Keating's.
    August 5.—For the third time I wake up with a racking headache. The storm has completely subsided, but a cold drizzling rain is falling, and chilly mists enshroud the mountain-top. Towards noon the weather brightens, and. later the clouds begin to break. At two o'clock—oh, joyous sight—a ray of sunshine makes the wet rocks sparkle, and a great tinkling of bells announces the arrival of a band of some thirty pilgrims, all in white, with dangling saké bottles at their girdles. They have been immured for two days in the huts on the Subashiri side, and are now making the circuit of the crater.
    I started out for a walk round the crater's lip, and met an old and wrinkled woman slowly making her way amongst the ruthless clinkers. After exchanging greetings with me, the O Bā San (grandmother) told me she was over seventy years of age, and had taken seven days to climb the mountain. Like us, she had been a prisoner during the last two days' storm, but had experienced no ill effects. She had been on pilgrimages to many of the Holy Places of Japan, but this was her first ascent of Fuji. Like all Japanese country people, she was respectful and gentle of speech. She had started with a band of comrades, but she had been unable to keep up with them, and they went ahead, leaving her to make the ascent by easy stages alone. She had met them coming down four days before she reached the top. As we parted I noticed that, notwithstanding her age, which for a Japanese was great, she went her way slowly, but with steady, unfaltering steps, nothing daunted by the trials she had undergone, and unshaken in her resolution to accomplish the mission on which she had set her heart, unless death met her on the road.
    There was something infinitely pathetic about that lone, aged figure, slowly and tediously wending her way amongst the cruel crags; and I sent one of my gōriki to assist her, and see her safely round the crater and to the various points that it was her desire to visit. This incident gave me food for reflection for some time, and often afterwards. Truly that wrinkled body was but the earthly covering of a noble, indomitable soul. She had undertaken this arduous journey for a devout purpose—to lay up for herself greater store of merit with the gods—and I thought of other religions, and the women of other lands, where the Japanese are looked upon as heathens, and I wondered how many of those other women, with but half the old woman's measure of years, would embark on such a task for such an object.
    August 5, 3 P.M.—The mountain-top is now quite clear, and appears to float in a sea of clouds which are driving past a thousand feet below the summit. This gives rise to a curious illusion—that it is the mountain which is moving, whilst the clouds are still. We seem to be on an island forging through an ocean of foam. It is a most beautiful hallucination, but makes me dizzy as I watch it.
    The summit of Fuji, which looks so flat and smooth from the plains below, is covered with enormous crags burnt to every colour of the spectrum. In places great cliffs of slag tower a hundred feet or more above the crater's lip, and completely encircle the great pit, which is five hundred feet or more in depth, and about a third of a mile across. There are two separate craters—a smaller one beside the large one—but the wall between them is broken down. Both are choked with the detritus which is constantly falling from the walls, and one may walk at will over the entire crater floor. On the south and west sides, where the crater is sheltered by the surrounding peaks of slag from the sun, there is a snow glissade to the crater bottom; this is the only semblance to a glacier that Fuji can boast.
    Not only is Fuji sacred, but it is the most venerated of many sacred peaks in Japan. At the crater's eastern lip, near the rest-hut, there is a Shinto shrine (consecrated to the worship of Sengen Sama, otherwise known as Kono-hana-sakuya-himé-no-mikoto—"the Princess who makes the Flowers of the Trees to Blossom"), which ranks high among the holiest of Holy Places of the Empire. There are several other shrines, and the great pit is a gigantic shrine itself. As we stood on the brink of its direful precipices a band of enthusiasts, intent on consummating what they had come so far to do, had descended to the bottom of the abyss, and were making a myriad echoes awake as they clapped their hands to invoke the attention of the deity, and chanted their orisons to the kaleidoscopic walls. On the verge of the steep, near by, others were making their supplications with equal manifestations of zeal to the yawning gulf before them, and the whole mountain-top was ringing with the clapping of hands and prayer.
    On making a contribution to the shrine, which was at once recorded in a book, I was presented with a leaflet in English, making an appeal which during the last few years had met with such hearty response that the rest-house in which I had been confined had, at considerable expense, been put in thorough repair. There is still much work that might be done, however, for the better housing of pilgrims on the Subashiri side. Therefore, for the benefit of those who may be interested, I append a copy of the appeal:—

A SHINTO PRIEST

THE SHRINE ON MOUNT FUJI

Dear Sir, or Madam—On the top of Mount Fuji, whose snowy cap kisses the sky, stands a shrine dedicated to a Goddess known as the Konohana-sakuyahime-no-mikoto, by whose virtue the Empire of Japan had flourished under the sovereignty of an Empress more than once.
    Prayers have been, and are being, offered to the Goddess by loyal Japanese, from the Sovereigns down to the people, for the furtherance of peace and prosperity of the State.
    The shrine has been raised to the highest rank of "Kwampei Taisha" by the Meiji Government.
    It is, however, a pity that not only the shrine but also the cottage for pilgrims (Sanro-shitsu) on the sacred mountain have decayed, so much so that fears are entertained that they will be lost ere long, if they are left as they are, and yet no one has ever attempted to undertake the repair of these structures, to the great shame of the country.
    The undersigned, having obtained the support of influential persons in both official and non-official circles, have resolved to undertake the work by means of subscriptions, which will be thankfully acknowledged by

The Fuji Upper Shrine and Cottages
Repairing Association,
c/o The "Kanpei Taisha" Sengen Shrine,
Omiya-machi, Fuji District, Shizuoka Prefecture.

    Shortly before sunset I went alone to Ken-ga-miné, the highest point of Fuji, on its western side. Here there is a little stone hut clinging to the edge of the mountain, which, on this side, is so steep that a mass of lava, that I managed to urge over the edge, struck the ground but twice, and then, with a great bound, leapt far out into the sea of clouds and disappeared. This hut stands in mute evidence of the risks men, and women too, are prepared to take in the interests of science. It was built for the reception of a Japanese meteorologist named Nonaka, and his wife, who essayed to spend the winter of 1895-1896 in it, for the purpose of making scientific observations. The couple took up their abode here in September, but before Christmas, owing to the terrific weather which prevailed that winter, apprehensions were felt for their safety, and a relief expedition was organised to reach them and bring them down. Notwithstanding the severity of the weather, and the great difficulty of ascending the peak when covered with snow and ice, the expedition was successful, and reached the hut in safety. Nonaka and his wife were found in a dying state, nearly frozen to death. It is said that they both refused to leave, preferring death to failure in their effbrt. Their entreaties to be allowed to die on the mountain were, of course, disregarded, and they were carried down. For many days afterwards their lives were despaired of, but they ultimately recovered.
    As I stood near this hut, on the utmost pinnacle of Japan, the cloudland sea was rising slowly higher—borne upwards in heaving billows by some undercurrent, stronger than the wind above, which was filling the crater behind me with scudding wrack. My pinnacle was soon surrounded to my feet and no other part of the mountain was visible. I stood alone on a tiny island of rock in that infinite ocean, the only human being in the universe, and soon the illusion of being carried rapidly along in the cloud sea was so real that I had to sit, for fear of falling with dizziness.
    When the sun sank to the level of the surging vapours, flooding their waves and hollows with ever-changing contrasts of light and shade, the scene was of indescribable beauty. Never in any part of the world have I seen a spectacle so replete with awesome majesty as the sunset I witnessed that evening from the topmost cubic foot of Fuji. A few moments only the glory lasted. Then the sun sank into the cloudland ocean, the snowy billows turned leaden grey, and darkness immediately began to fall.
    As the last spark of the orb of day disappeared into the foaming breakers there was a rush of wind across the crater, due to the instant change in temperature, and in a moment the mountain-top was in a tumult. The great abyss became a cauldron of boiling mists, and icy blasts moaned and whistled among the crags which loomed like ominous moving phantoms in the turbulent vapours and dying light. It was a wondrous, almost preternatural spectacle, like a vision of Dante's dream. I was Dante, and the gaping crater before me was the steaming mouth of the bottomless pit of hell.
    Riveted to the spot with bewilderment and awe, I did not realise my predicament till the mists suddenly enveloped me. Then conviction flashed upon me that I was nearly a mile from the rest-hut, and had not the remotest idea which way to turn. Groping my way among the rocks, I soon found the well-worn path, made by the pilgrims, which encircles the mountain-top; and following it, by feeling with my stick, as a blind man finds his way, I soon brought up against the wall of Nonaka's hut. This gave me my bearings, and I started off in the opposite direction; but it was slow work, and several times I lost the trail. Soon the darkness baffled me ; everything became so black that I was unable to see my hand a foot from my eyes, and, losing the trail again, I found myself on the brink of a precipice. A stone that I pushed over, to test the height, took three seconds to reach the bottom, showing that it must have been about a hundred feet high. I could go neither backwards nor forwards, as to do so was to run the risk of falling into the crater or over some cliff at the mountain's edge.
    To any one who has never experienced a sunset from above the clouds it may seem almost incredible that darkness can fall so rapidly. Yet such was the fact, for not only had the source of light disappeared below a belt of dense vapour, some thousands of feet thick, but the belt had now risen far above me as well; thus all reflected light from the sky was cut off too. In less than an hour after the sun had set the night about me was absolute.
    For a long time I shouted as loud as I could, hoping some one in the rest-hut would hear me, and at last I heard an answering shout from one of my gōriki, who, becoming alarmed at my long absence, had come out to look for me. Without a light I dared not move a foot, and with the enforced inaction I was chilled through, and my teeth were chattering with cold as I crouched under a rock for shelter.
    I waited nearly an hour more after hearing the first answering shout. It seems that the man, being unable to locate my calls, started off in the opposite direction, for in heavy fog all sounds are very misleading. Finally, guided by my yells, he reached me, but the cloud was so dense that it was not until he was within a few yards of me that I saw the welcome penumbra cast by his lantern on the mist.
    I had had no wish to be a sacrifice on Sengen Sama's altar, and when I was once more deep in warm rugs and futons in the rest-hut it seemed a veritable paradise of comfort after the chilly experience I had just been through.
    August 6.—What was my joy when one of the gōriki awoke me, bidding me get up quickly, as it was clear weather and an hour before sunrise! We soon had a hasty breakfast, and I write these lines on the eastern side of the mountain's edge, where we have come to witness the most glorious pageantry of colour that the heavens and all the powers therein can show.

SUNSET FROM THE SUMMIT OF FUJI

    A number of pilgrims are waiting to salute the sun. The blue-black heavens are turning grey and the quivering stars are dimmed. The grey becomes a more beautiful grey, soft and opalescent—like pearl. A timid blush comes over the pearl, rose-tinting it. The blush suffuses slowly into delicate pink. The pink deepens and becomes momentarily more vivid, flushing the whole arch of heaven, and great shafts of gold radiate from the east to the zenith and the poles. The clouds, which lie close-wrapped about the earth below, are a fiery sea, with purple shadows, and waves whose crests change from silver to scarlet and vermilion, and then the whole slowly metamorphoses into a crucible of molten gold. It is a spectacle of sublime beauty and magnificence.
    Breathlessly and with throbbing hearts the pilgrims drink in the glorious phenomena of this climax of their lives. They will tell of it to their children, and their children's children, and their names will ever be deeper reverenced for the Mecca they have seen. The skies have gone through every colour of the prism. Suddenly a spark, a flame, and then a dazzling burst of fire; and lo and behold, the rosy morning is awake once more on Fuji's pearly crest, whilst Japan below is yet enveloped in the filmy mists of night. The pilgrims bow their heads to the ground in adoration, and, with much rubbing of rosaries, the plaintive cadence of their prayers rises, like a lamentation, to the heavens above.
    At Benares, the sacred city of India, as the sun rises each morning across the holy Ganges, the prayers of the multitude, assembled on the ghauts and bathing in the river, are as the roaring of the sea. But even this—one of the greatest and most stirring religious spectacles of the world—is not more picturesque than that little band of pilgrims, 'twixt heaven and earth, high up in the blue profound, on the very top of Japan, kneeling in praise before the great orb that is the emblem of their Empire. In truth, never to have seen sunrise from the summit of Fuji-san is never to have really seen Japan.
    As the morning grows, the clouds, lying shroudlike over the earth, dissemble into little cotton-tufts once more. Amongst them blue lakes appear. Yamanaka, nearest of them all—two miles below us, and fifteen miles away, as an arrow speeds its flight—mirrors the azure heavens and the clouds that float above it; whilst into Kawaguchi's limpid depths—whose placid beauty one has but to see to love—the surrounding mountains gaze, enamoured of the beauteous scenes reflected there. The panorama on every side is exquisite. Japan lies below us, like a huge map in relief. Great mountains are but mole-hills, and ranges arc mere ridges, over which we can look, and every range beyond them, to the horizon, which, from this altitude, seems half way up the sky. The waters of Suruga Bay are bordered with a line of white—heavy breakers, the pursuers of the recent storm. As we circle round the mountain's vertex other lakes come into view: Nishi-no-umi, Shōji, and Motosu, most enchanting lake in all the land; and then the earth is riven by the flashing Fujikawa speeding onward to the sea, divided at its mouth into a delta of many streams. The forests clothing the lower slopes are sun-kissed lawns, but seamed with many a wrinkle—great gullies torn by the torrents of water which the mountain sheds in the heavy summer rains. Fifty miles westwards the slumbering giants of Shinshu, forming an impregnable barrier across the centre of Japan, are a mass of colossal peaks whose tops are lost in cloudland. In the midst of all this loveliness Fuji's altar, on which we stand, bathed in warm sunshine, and caressed with gentle zephyrs, strives to touch the sky.
    The circuit of the crest of Fuji is replete with points of interest. Near Ken-ga-miné there is a steep precipice called Oya shirazu, Ko shirazu, which Professor Chamberlain translates "Heedless of Parent or Child,"—"from the notion that people in danger of falling over the edge of the crater would not heed even their nearest relatives if sharers of the peril." The mountain slope near here is reft by a huge lava gorge known as Osawa ("Great Ravine"). This precipitous chasm scores the mountain as far as the eye can reach, seemingly to its foot. The path then enters a region bearing graphic testimony to the appalling fierceness of the furnace which formerly raged in Fuji's crater. Enormous cliffs of lava, fire-streaked and stained to every imaginable hue—some a hundred feet or more in height—lean over the mountain's brow, momentarily threatening to fall and bring destruction upon everything below them. These lava crags bear such names as "Thunder Rock," "The Rock Cleft by Buddha," "Sakya Muni's Peak" (the second highest point of Fuji), etc., names that reflect something of the direful grandeur of the place. This is where a great lava stream once poured out from the crater, and flowed for nearly twenty miles till it reached the Koshu mountains, and dammed up the hollows now filled by the waters of the chain of lakes at Fuji's foot. The well-worn path then passes round the smaller crater, the spring of "Famous Golden Water," a row of pilgrim's huts, and a precipitous cliff called "The Peak of the Goddess of Mercy," near which steam rises from the loose pumice and scoriae, showing that Fuji's heart still glows. One cannot bear the hand longer than a few seconds in the ash, and eggs can be cooked in it in ten minutes.
    On the eastern side is the Sai-no-Kawara, or "River-Bed of Souls," before alluded to. I was about to make a photograph of Lake Yamanaka from near this place, when the inevitable cloud, which always appears when I produce my camera, floated up the mountain-slope, blotting the prospect from view. For fully an hour I waited, and then jocularly said to one of the gōriki: "Go and pray to Sengen Sama to send the cloud away." The man took me at my word. He ran over to the crater's edge, summoned the deity as he would a serving-maid by loudly clapping his hands, and prayed. Curiously enough, the cloud passed by immediately. He came running back chuckling with glee at the speedy manner in which his petition had been so favourably answered, and I made the picture which is here reproduced. Long before evening the cloud-sea had closed about the mountain again, and at sunset I was able to secure a photograph of it from Nonaka's hut, the edge of which is seen on the right-hand side of the picture.
    I had been four days on the summit of Fuji—for the greater part of the time in no little discomfort—but the lovely views and wonderful phenomena of those days come vividly back to me as I write up these notes, four years later, and I feel that the price I paid was little enough for the never-to-be-forgotten glories of the world that had been revealed to me.
    The next morning, when I came to pay the reckoning at the rest-house prior to descending, I found that I had done its keeper a deep injustice by my suspicions. The bill was exceedingly moderate, so much so that I marvelled at the meagreness of its total. I had been charged but one yen (two shillings) per day for lodging, very reasonable rates for such food as had been consumed by the gōriki, and but fifty sen (one shilling) each for their beds per day.

TWO MILES ABOVE THE CLOUDS
"Three-Days Lake" from The Summit of Fuji.

Thus, though I had had a somewhat rough time on Fuji's crest, I left the mountain-top without a grudge against it.
    On the occasion that is here chronicled the descent was quickly made, and devoid of any particular interest; but on a previous occasion—a year earlier—I had had a different tale to tell.
    On 4th September 1903 I ascended Fuji from Gotemba with three gōriki in ten hours, in fine weather; and the next day, which was also fine, having exposed a large number of photographic plates, we started down the Yōshida side at 10.45 A.M. As we went over the mountain's edge I determined to see how rapidly I could get down to the base. Fuji is exceedingly steep on this side, much more so than the Gotemba side, which is the easiest and longest route to make the ascent. A young Japanese artist of Tokyo was with me.
    After leaving the great lava precipices at the crater's lip we got on to the glissade of the descending track. We started down this slope as fast as we could run, and found we could take the most prodigious strides. At every step our feet sank deep into the loose pumice and cinders. My leggings kept them from giving any trouble, and I far outstripped my companion, who had repeatedly to stop to take oflF and shake out his boots. I wore out four pairs of waraji, however, as they were rapidly cut to pieces.
    For nearly an hour we sped on thus, running, leaping, and bounding down the steep glissade; at times gathering such impetus that we could not stop, and had to throw ourselves backward to keep from falling forward on our faces, or until some slight ridge in the grade enabled us to check our speed. Every bound took us a dozen feet or so down the slope, and as our feet struck the loose ash we slid on a couple of feet more. The reader must not infer that this is the usual gait to come down the sacred mountain. More reverent and sober spirits take the descent at a much more dignified pace. We, however, were bent on record-breaking.
    At a quarter to twelve I got to the half-way rest-house just above the forest line, my friend arriving fifteen minutes later. I had descended 5000 feet and come about nine miles down the mountain in an hour. To have ascended this distance on this side would have taken us about eight hours. Allowing twelve hours for the ascent of Fuji, eight are taken up on the last half of the journey. There is nothing diflicult in either the foothold or the gradient till the barren ash slopes are reached; the first half can, therefore, be covered at a fairly rapid pace. At one o'clock the gōriki arrived.
    So far all had been simple enough, but from here onwards trouble began—trouble for which I could only thank myself As we rested for a further half-hour, whilst the gōriki had a meal, Yamanaka Lake, a mile below us, and twelve miles away, looked so near and so beautiful, that I there and then decided to change my plans about going down to Yōshida, and to proceed to the lake instead. Yamanaka Lake is called by the Japanese Mikadzuki Kosui, or "Three-Days'-Moon Lake," from the similarity of its shape to the moon at that period of its phases. From our vantage-point, several thousand feet above the lake, the fitness of the simile was plainly apparent.
    It seemed to me that there should be a good view of the mountain to be made from the lake-side, and I announced my intention to go straight down to it. The rest-house keeper and the gōriki at once said such a thing would be impossible, that they never heard of a descent being made at that point, and that it would be quite a dangerous thing to try ; besides, too, there was no track. There was no end to their objections, but I cut them all short by saying that if there was no track, we would find a way easily enough, as I had a compass and we had only to keep going eastwards and downwards. It looked simple enough. There was the lake below. We had only to go along the mountain-side a mile or two and then descend straight to it.
    Leaving the hut at 1.30 p.m., we therefore went along the Chudo Meguri path for about two miles until we reached a deep depression. This, we decided, would be a suitable place to descend, as the depression would develop into a gully which would go straight to the plains. It all looked so easy that I ventured the opinion we should be at the lake by 5 o'clock. The gōriki were of a different mind, however, saying that when we reached the forest it would be exceedingly difficult work to penetrate it.
    The depression gradually became deeper, and soon there was no longer loose scoriae under foot, but rough lava from which the ash had been washed away, and the going was very slow. The depression became a gully, the gully a ravine, and the ravine, in an hour, was a canon, with walls a hundred feet or more in height. Few people have any conception how the erosion of ages has torn the sides of this mountain, which looks so smooth and symmetrical when seen from the beaten track many miles away. The bed of the canon became rougher and rougher, and progress slower each minute, till we came to a precipice, fully sixty feet high, which there was neither any way of descending nor of circumventing. In the rains this place is doubtless the site of a fine waterfall. There was nothing to do but retrace our steps some distance and climb to the top of the gorge. This was exceedingly difficult, and by the time we had got up, with all the impedimenta, it was 5 o'clock—the hour at which I had expected to reach the lake.
    We were now in a thick forest, but by keeping along the edge of the gorge we made some headway, until the underbrush became so dense that it was no longer possible to follow it. We then struck off into the forest, and progress was painfully slow—as the gōriki had prophesied it would be. Alas! for the misery of the next three hours. Rain began to fall, and before we reached the edge of the forest it was 8 o'clock, and we had miles of Yamanaka moor still before us. We had to proceed by lantern light—fortunately we had three oil-paper chochins with us, such as are used by rikisha-runners.
    The skies were black with heavy clouds, and we soon found that the moor was worse than the forest, for it was clothed with a dense mass of brambles and small apple-bushes, with long thorns which tore our clothes to pieces and scratched us all over. As if this were not bad enough, the underbrush was full of lumps of rock thrown out from the volcano, and against these we were continually hurting our legs. "It never rains but it pours," and so, to add to our afflictions, a heavy thunderstorm broke.
    We were soon wet to the skin, but my cameras, plates, etc., were all well wrapped up in oil-paper and waterproof. Stumbling through the brush I slipped on a rough clinker and fell, twisting my ankle severely. This was the climax to my misery. Every step now gave me a good deal of pain, and I could only proceed by limping on one foot with the help of my staff.
    Although the moon was nearly full, the heavy thunder-clouds obscured its light completely, and without the lanterns we should have been in a sorry plight, as we could scarcely see a yard before us. Every now and then a flash of lightning lit up the moor and the lake ahead, making the darkness that followed blacker than ever. For three hours we struggled along thus, and when we finally reached the Yōshida road it was 11 o'clock. I was too done up to go another step. For ten hours, although putting forth great exertion, we had found no water to drink, and my strained ankle was giving me a great deal of pain. Wrapping myself up in oil-paper, I lay down on the grass by the roadside, telling the others to go on and try to get a horse at Yamanaka village for me. They went off, and in half an hour I heard the rumble of a basha, which they had fortunately been able to engage. We all got in, and by midnight were comfortably installed at a Yōshida inn.
    Our arrival caused the whole household to turn out of bed, and the gōriki all talked at once, relating the story of our adventures (which, now that they were safely over, had already dwindled to mere interesting experiences) to the host, his family, and several guests, who all listened with wide-open eyes and mouths, and many interjections of "Naruhodo!" *1
    The innkeeper then delivered a long and fatherly oration, telling us he had lived in Yōshida for over fifty years, but had never heard of any one attempting to descend the mountain at that place. He apparently regarded me with positive pity, and seemed to doubt my sanity for having insisted on such a crazy undertaking. As I sat there, with the good-wife carefully massaging my swollen ankle, and thought of our woes of the last few hours, there was no one in the room who agreed with the old man more heartily than I did myself; and I vowed that if ever I ascended Fuji again I would descend the mountain by the orthodox route, and that nothing should ever induce me to wander again from the beaten track.

    1) I have noticed that when a Japanese is spinning a yarn his victim chimes in with a "naruhodo" at every point the raconteur makes. This word may be rendered into English by such phrases as "Well, I never!" "You don't say so!" "Who'd have thought it!"

AT THE CHRYSANTHEMUM SHOW

CHAPTER XI

THE FLOWER FESTIVALS OF TOKYO

Reverence for flowers is one of the most charming characteristics of the Japanese. They are not flower-lovers, however, in the sense that Europeans are, for they care not for every flower; they love only a few; but these few they love in a different way from any other people. Their love amounts to almost worship. They hold great festivals in honour of their favourites, and they flock to famous spots to view them in their thousands and their tens of thousands.
    For a brief week or two each year, all Japan is a very shrine to Flora, as any one who has been there in spring-time can affirm. It is a land of azaleas and cherry-blossoms. The face of the whole country smiles with them, and the latter are far more emblematical of the Empire of the Rising Sun than the flower which forms the Imperial crest.
    If one includes trees in the category, the flower-festivals of Tokyo begin with the first day of the year, when everybody goes round visiting his neighbour to wish him "Shinnen o médéto gozaimas"—the equivalent of our own greeting at that season. New Year's Day is the festival of the bamboo and the pine, and every house-door is decorated with these evergreens—the one emblematical of clean, straight, and honourable dealing; the other of long life and unchanging good fortune.
    The real flowers begin with the plum-blossoms, which burst out in February and bloom well on into March. Kaméido is a famous place to see them, for in the gardens of the old Shinto temple are gnarled and tortured veteran trees that creep, and writhe, and twist themselves into amazing contortions along the surface of the ground before they raise their heads, and because of these curious antics they are called the "Recumbent Dragons.''
    Tokyo can scarcely claim to take front rank among the most beautiful cities of the world, yet there are times when the Japanese capital glows with a beauty that can pale the charms of any other city on the earth. These are the occasions of the cherry-blossom festivals; and of all Japanese floral displays none can compare with April's glorious pageant.
    He must be a spiritless creature whose soul would not fill with gladness in the sweet Japanese spring-time. The joy of it is in the very air. The thrill of it lends a glitter to every eye. The whole land awaits breathlessly the opening of the favourite buds, and important newspapers devote long paragraphs to their notice.
    In 1905 I asked a Japanese friend if he observed much excitement among the people over the near approach of the Russian Baltic fleet.
    "They are already too excited about the cherry-blossoms to think of it," he answered.
    If you are fortunate enough to be in Tokyo in early April, the stream of eager humanity which surges eastwards across the broad Sumida-gawa will surely gather you in its vortex. From every side the people come, and the crowds grow thicker as the Azuma bridge is approached. They are coming to see a truly wondrous sight, for on the left bank of the river is Mukōjima—an avenue of cherry-trees, a mile long, which is one glorious mass of blossom. Japanese cherry-blossoms are pink, not white like ours, and from a distance the trees resemble a bank of clouds softly flushed by the rays of the rising sun.
    Under this exquisite canopy Carnival is king, and from morning till long after midnight the avenue rings with music and shouts of revelry and laughter, for Mukōjima is the festival of the bourgeoisie. The river is crowded with house-boats, and under the spreading branches the avenue is lined with impromptu tea-houses and refreshment stalls. saké is in evidence everywhere. Nearly every one is drinking it or carrying a gourd of it at his belt, and the crowd is beaming with rubicund saké faces. Everybody is good-natured, for the intoxication set up by the insipid rice-distilled spirit does not make for contentiousness, but only serves to render the carouser's spirits more convivial and hilarious than ever. Reeling saké-drinkers offer their gourds to every kindred spirit, and constantly replenish them from the hogsheads at the wayside stalls, whilst people who have never seen each other before are in a minute the best of friends, and cementing their vows of lifelong amity with draughts of the national beverage, as they hang on each other's necks. False moustaches, whiskers, and noses make caricatures of the revellers, and wandering geikin and samisen players set every one into merry peals of laughter, as they pick their way through the crowd, twanging accompaniments to their comic and topical songs as they go. The crowd is warm with humanity, joyous with humour, and amiable with courtesy. No irascibility or pugnaciousness mars the merriment, and roughness is conspicuous by its absence, for the Japanese crowd is a lovable crowd—the best behaved and tempered in the world.
    At night-time each tree and tea-house is festooned with paper lanterns, and the dainty, fairy-like screen of pink overhead is suffused with their soft glow, which falls on the gay kimono of many a butterfly geisha and prettily-dressed dancing-girl in the passing throng below.
    Prompted by the sight of the people's joy, my old friend Professor Edwin Emerson of Tokyo was inspired to paint the gladsome throng in verse. Before the blossoms of 1905 had fallen he presented me with a leaflet, fresh from the press, bearing the following lines, which describe the pretty scene with a grace which a mere chronicler in prose can only envy as he quotes them:—

THE CHERRY-BLOSSOMS AT TOKYO

Oh! just see the people go ; 
Old and young, the fast and slow,
Haste to see the splendid show 
    Of the lovely cherry-blossoms.

How the clouds pass blithely by,
Cheered by the resplendent sky!
Eager as the birds that fly
    Swiftly to the cherry-blossoms.

Larger crowds are seldom seen;
Nothing rude, or low, or mean
Mars the pleasure of the scene;
    Lovers these of cherry-blossoms.

What a mass of flowers at hand!
So distinctive of this land; 
Raptured groups of people stand
    Spell-bound by the cherry-blossoms.

Worshippers of nature's grace.
Love of flowers marks this race;
Highest joy beams in each face
    At the sight of cherry-blossoms.

Flowers—how divine the sight;
Earth's own stars in colours bright;
With sweet fragrance to delight; 
    Charming are the cherry-blossoms.

Verses hanging from the trees
Flutter with each passing breeze;
Vows, and hymns, and odes are these, 
    Prompted by the cherry-blossoms.

CHERRY-BLOSSOM TIME IN JAPAN

    Just as Mukōjima is the people's festival, so Uyeno in cherry-blossom time is the resort of the elite. Uyéno is a magnificent old park, where the bodies of six of those great military rulers of feudal Japan—the Shoguns—lie entombed, beneath massive monuments of bronze, in the grounds of gorgeously-lacquered memorial temples that are among the finest architectural features of the land. The approaches to these shrines are gravelled avenues of great width, lined with cherry-trees which spread their branches wide and form a veritable sea of lovely diaphanous blossom. Whichever way one looks, great foaming billows of soft pink fill the view, and the whole beautiful place seems to be suffused with a tinted mist from which a delicate perfume falls. Along the smooth roadways drive carriages with dainty Japanese ladies in them, dressed in soft greys, and fawns, and quiet neutral tints, whilst under the great spreading trees the low-voiced pedestrians walk with dignity and decorum. This is the Bois of Tokyo, and neither when the cherry-trees are blooming, nor at any other time, are there the gay and festive scenes that characterised the saturnalia by the river.
    Besides the two celebrated places named, there are many others within the city precincts where the show is of almost equal beauty. The Edo-gawa, a river running through the eastern portion of the town, has both its banks lined with avenues of trees bearing the lovely double blossoms. The moat around the Emperor's Palace, a beautiful sight at any season, in April is a very paradise. The British Embassy looks out upon a forest of cherry-trees. Asakusa is embosomed in another clump. Shokonsha becomes a perfect fairyland. The lovely Shiba Park—filled with temples raised centuries ago in memory of departed Shoguns, temples which rival in beauty and grandeur the far-famed shrines of Nikko—is a forest where the cherry-blossoms gleam, in contrast to the deep-green cedars, with a beauty indescribable, and where every courtyard is fragrant with the exquisite flowers that fill it. Then every private garden has its cherry-tree or two, and Atago-yama, the city's Prospect Hill, is crowned with them. The gardens of the Government Offices are filled with them. The Crown Prince's Palace is buried in them, and every nobleman's mansion is surrounded with them. Even great modern breweries have condescended to pander to the national sentiment so far as to grace their compounds with the tree on which the beloved flower grows. Tokyo, in fact, for its whole length and breadth, in April beams with the joyous blossoms. The entire city is one great show of them, and for that month at least the Japanese capital is probably the most beautiful city in the world.
    The peony is the next to reign, and holds its levees everywhere. At many a florist's garden shows are held, where magnificent blooms are to be seen. Then the azaleas set the gardens at Ōkubō on fire, and make each famous mountain-resort a glorious blaze of colour.
    Early May is heralded by the most graceful and delicate of all Japanese flowers, and with the blossoming of the wistarias one feels that summer is indeed at hand. The gardens of Kaméido are again the favourite spot, and thousands go to see them. The grounds of the old temple, sacred to Tenjin-sama, are a sight of bewildering beauty, for the pond winding amongst the islands is completely surrounded by tea-arbours, from the trellised roofs of which depend a perfect forest of white and purple marvels.

A WISTARIA ARBOUR AT KAMEIDO

    Many of the pendent blooms are of almost incredible length, a yard or more at least, and under this lovely shelter aesthetic flower-worshippers sit and picnic on tea and cakes as they admire, and discuss, and improvise poems to the graceful floral wonders which hang down to tickle their faces. Above the trellis-work a dense screen of foliage shuts out all light from the sky, and only a delicate cloud of waving blossom can be seen by the quiet, well-conducted people, to whom merely to sit in the cool shade of the floral bowers and gaze and think is pleasure enough, without any of the bacchanalian merriment attendant on the April scenes at Mukōjima.
    One enterprising observer, whom I saw, had brought his opera-glasses, and, though he sat but a yard below the blossoms, was busy surveying them from that distance. In another place an excited group could scarcely contain themselves in their glee over the movements of a bumble-bee that buzzed from flower to flower above them. Everywhere these noisy insects were loading themselves with honey. One of them tried to settle on a pretty little girl near me. I told her it was because she was so sweet, and the compliment caused a merry ring of laughter from all who heard it.
    Bands of schoolgirls and schoolboys are conducted round the gardens, the beauty of the flowers being dilated on by their teachers. Hundreds of soldiers come out to view the blossoms, too. As each fresh party arrives they hang over the bamboo rail and clap their hands; but clap they never so loudly it is all in vain, for the huge carp, which live in the green pond below, loaf under the projecting verandahs, gorged with the cakes that everybody throws them, and deaf to all appeals to feed. Occasionally, however, a great red beauty glides lazily and unconcernedly out to gobble in another mouthful; or, seemingly infected with the prevailing epidemic of gladness, dashes up from the depths and jumps high out of the water, to the intense delight of the picnickers. Sometimes a tortoise comes paddling to the surface, causing an equal diversion; but, like the carp, though cakes and mochi be showered at him, he is obdurate, and can seldom be cajoled to touch them. May is certainly the month of months for the carp and tortoises of Kaméido.
    Everywhere about the gardens there are rapt individuals composing verses, and painters faithfully depicting in water-colours the beauty of the scenes; whilst strolling players roam the grounds playing pretty catching airs upon the geikin.
    Busy little neisans run about replenishing tea-pots, or bringing fresh supplies of cakes, and, if the day be warm, glasses of shaved-ice and fruit-syrup are called for by every one.
    There are toy and nick-nack sellers, whose stalls display, amongst other dainty things, wonderfully natural paper wistarias, and pretty pins for the hair adorned with tiny silken sprays of the flower. There are also sellers of paper carp, and merchants whose stalls are all a-glitter with tiny globes of goldfish. Then there is the tortoise-man at every few yards you go. He has a score of the shelly creatures, hanging by their legs, and, if you like, you can buy one for a price ranging from a penny to threepence, and by returning it to the pond earn a little grace from Tenjin-sama. Many of these creatures have been fished out and sold some scores of times, and have thus earned quite a nice little sum for those who have the right to catch them.
    Stone-lanterns and curiously-trained trees are scattered about the temple grounds, and there are semicircular moon bridges—so called because the reflection makes a perfect ring—to cross which is no mean feat for a foreign lady visitor if she happen to be shod with dainty high-heeled shoes. She will accomplish the ascent easily enough, but wait till she has finished viewing the pretty scene from this elevated point of view and starts to descend! Just wait a little and watch her, and watch the Japanese faces too, and see how amused they are at the dilemma of my lady! She reaches terra-firma without a fall, but her descent is not exactly dignified, and she has amused the interested flower-worshippers vastly with her antics. There is a level footway beside the arch, but to take the more difficult path to the temple over the bridge is a meritorious act, and young people skip nimbly over it all day long, whilst even the old and shaky do not always shirk the task.
    At dusk every arbour and tea-house is hung with pretty paper lanterns, for the night phase of the flowers is admired as well as the daytime effects, and the last visitor does not pass out under the grey old temple gateway until well on towards the small hours.
    There is no sweeter season in Japan than "when May glides onward into June," and under the gentle influence of the sunny, early summer days another of the fairest flowers of the East bursts into blossom, and the first week of June is marked by the festival of the iris.
    To see this stately flower at its best you must go along the Mukōjima cherry-avenue—now all green with leafy shade—and turn to the right at the end of the long parade of trees, when you will find yourself among the gardens of Hori-kiri. This is the most famous place in Japan for irises: many acres are covered with the haughty summer beauties.
    Sprinkled about the gardens, on tiny hill-tops and in pretty nooks, there are rustic tea-houses, from which, as you sip the golden beverage that is never missing for two consecutive hours in this land, you can look out upon a varicoloured sea of such irises as were never seen before.
    Many are of truly regal proportions, measuring a foot from tip to tip of the petals, and all are grown in serried ranks—vast battalions of glorious floral Amazons, marshalled into regiments of complimentary hues. Most of the flowers are white, but there are reds, and yellows, and blues, and a dozen shades of lilac and purple, and some are shot and streaked with colour, whilst others have coloured spots and blotches.
    Along the narrow pathways that divide the beds admiring Japanese ladies walk, as fair to look upon in their pretty native costumes as the flowers themselves, and from the bordering tea-houses the tinkling of samisens rings out across the gardens, for many can only enjoy such festive occasions to the full when sharing them in the companionship of the dainty geisha. Black-haired, brown-eyed little Hebes flit about among the flowers with trays of tea and cakes to the various summer-houses; and the clapping of hands, which summons the busy little maids, with their answering shouts of "Hai," come from all directions. Nobody is in a hurry except these smiling lasses, and all can well afford to wait their turn when there is so much beauty to wonder at. Artists are sketching everywhere; foreign tourists snap away yards and yards of film to help to swell the Kodak dividends, and a dozen spectacled Japanese photographers are getting pretty "bits" for postcards. Every visitor, as he pays his bill, is presented with a few budding spears by the little jochiu who has waited on him. These he proudly bears home in his rikisha as a token of a happy hour or two spent at Hori-kiri.

IN AN IRIS GARDEN

    Nothing could be more appropriate than that the Emperor's birthday should be the 3rd of November, as the season of the glorious chrysanthemum is then at its height, and the chrysanthemum is the Imperial crest. There are other people, too, of lesser degree who boast the flower as their family device, but not the chrysanthemum of sixteen petals. Others may have fourteen, fifteen, seventeen, or as many more as they like, but the privilege of using the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum (Kiku no go mon) as a badge is the exclusive prerogative of royalty.
    Regal as the chrysanthemum is, both in appearance and as an emblem, it is yet held only second in general esteem: the cherry-blossoms easily surpass every other flower in popular favour. But the cherry-blossoms are Nature's work, whilst the chrysanthemum is a toy with which the Japanese gardener plays with as he wills—and play with it he does in a truly marvellous way. He accomplishes veritable miracles. At the Temple show in London, or at any other horticultural display in Europe or America, you may see great shock-headed beauties as large in diameter as a dinner-plate; but the Japanese master-gardener of to-day would only laugh at such easy triumphs. "Who would find any difficulty in producing such?'' he asks. "You have but to carefully tend and feed a plant, and concentrate its whole energy into the task of yielding one enormous blossom, and the thing is done." The Japanese gardener has long since passed the stage when such successes gave him happiness. Instead of producing one towsled monster on a single stem, he will make that stem produce such a number of creditable blooms as, unless one has seen the result with one's own eyes, sounds utterly incredible. However, "seeing is believing," and when in 1903 I had the privilege of being conducted by Count Okuma to view his unrivalled display, I counted on one huge plant over twelve hundred chrysanthemums growing from a single stem, and few of the blossoms were less than four inches in diameter. The main stem was as thick as my thumb, and the branches of the plant were carefully trained on a light bamboo framework into the form of a cone, the bottom ring of which was eight feet in diameter and had about a hundred blossoms in it, whilst each higher ring decreased in size, and in the number of flowers it contained, until the apex was formed by a single bloom.
    That was a triumph deserving of the mastery which the Japanese gardener, by watchful, patient care, attains over the flowers he loves. Such astonishing results as this are by no means common, however, even in Japan, as only those who have reached the highest pinnacle of skill can achieve them.
    The great popular chrysanthemum festival of Tokyo is held at Dango-zaka; but it is less beautiful than curious, and is as much a Madame Tussaud's or an Eden Musee as a flower show. One does not go there only to see leviathan blooms, nor yet the result of efforts to produce hundreds of average-sized blossoms on a single stem. The show is a perfect fair of oddities.
    The road up Dango hill is lined with booths and tents, filled with composition-faced figures clothed from head to foot in tiny chrysanthemums. The figures are life-size, and made out of a network of cane. Concealed from view, behind and within this framework, the plants are placed with roots packed in damp earth, moss, and straw, and the flowers are drawn carefully through the interstices to form a smooth and even face on the front of the figure. The heads and hands are made wonderfully life-like out of composition, but everything else is made of flowers. No leaves, or stems, or anything but flowers are visible, and these continue to bloom for several weeks under the care of the gardeners who water and trim them as required.
    Staged in this manner you may see famous scenes from history and legend. Perhaps one booth may have a scene from the tragedy of the Forty-Seven Ronins; the pièce de résistance in another may likely enough illustrate the finding of the Robe of Feathers; or the great swordsmith Masamuné forging a blade; or any one of a thousand well-known and oft-depicted incidents such as appeal to every one. Then, again, celebrated landscapes are sometimes reproduced in miniature, the whole scene being worked out in tiny chrysanthemums of many colours. As you leave each booth a score of touters hail you with invitations to see their shows, and hold expectantly before your eyes printed sheets giving an outline of the attractions to be seen within. One can see half a dozen shows for a shilling, and a shillings-worth of Dango-zaka will last most people for a lifetime.
    In the autumn of 1904 these floral tableaux took on a most warlike and blood-thirsty aspect. There was not a single booth which did not show some incident of the war with Russia—with the Russians invariably getting the worst of it, as of course they did. There were chrysanthemum Japanese soldiers decapitating chrysanthemum Russians with a single stroke, and chrysanthemum Japanese troopers riding on chrysanthemum cavalry-chargers capturing chrysanthemum Russian guns; and there were chrysanthemum Japanese torpedo-boats blowing up chrysanthemum Russian battleships. The faces of the Japanese soldiers always wore an air of supreme confidence and contempt, whilst the composition faces of the Russians were moulded into expressions of abject fear. Before these stirring groups school-boys stood riveted to the spot with admiration, and the tents re-echoed with many a "Naruhodo!" from the slowly passing crowd.

    Behind these waxwork shows there are sheds where flowers sent for exhibition and competition are displayed, and here one can sometimes see overgrown prodigies looking very aristocratic and dignified on their lonely stalks, or a happy family of a few hundred blooms springing from a common stem.
    To see the greatest marvels of the Japanese chrysanthemum world, however, you must seek the goodwill of the famous old leader of the Progressive Party—Count Okuma—and be a guest at his November garden-party.
    The chrysanthemum does not by any means hold the stage alone in this final act of the year's floral pageant. There is yet another scene—the dying maple-leaves, which are thought by many to be the most beautiful sight that Japan has to show. They certainly share the honours of autumn with the Imperial flower, and are so beloved as to hold full floral rank. The Japanese maples are a lovely sight at any season of the year; they are always warm with colour, and even in spring-time make beautiful contrasts to the bright surrounding greens; but when the first breath of winter tints them deeper still the maple-trees are lovely, as though decked with blossoms. The glen of the Takino-gawa, at Oji, in the northern suburbs, is a particularly gorgeous and enchanting sight at this season. Almost every tree is a maple, and from the river to the bordering hill-tops the woods are resplendent with russet, red, and gold. Great paper-manufacturing mills, near by, disturb the stillness of the peaceful glen with one continuous roar, and stain the autumn skies with the smoke which belches from their ugly chimneys. Such things are but some of the penalties of progress, and Japan has long since found that progress has its attendant evils.

IN LOTUS-LAND

There is still another flower, but though it unfolds its glory in the height of summer I have left it until the last, because, of all the flowers that the Japanese mostly love, it alone has no festival. It is the lotus—the flower whose physical and symbolic beauty inspired the title of this volume.
    There is no gladsome fete for the lotus, for it is no flower of joy and frolic. The lotus is a food. Its roots and seeds are eaten in Japan. Besides, too, it has a deeper, allegorical meaning. It is a Buddhist emblem—the symbol of triumph over self; of extinction of the fires of passion; of abnegation and self-control. The lovely blooms are also the token for all that is best in man and woman; for, because the plant thrives best when growing in the foulest mud, and raises its great pink blossoms high above the poisonous slime below to open petals of surpassing loveliness to the morning sun, they typify a chaste and noble heart—unstained, unsullied, and untouched by the insidious breath of evil with which life is permeated—opening to the light of truth and knowledge.
    People are to be seen astir early in the garden where the lotus grows. They come to see the huge blossoms, which close at eventide, unfold their petals as the great disperser of "the shadow called ' Night'" rises in the sky. But few ever come to the garden of the lotus in festive mood. Most come to watch, and meditate in silence, and to pray; for the holy flower, beautiful as it is to the eye, brings often only memories of sorrow to the heart. Who that has not sounded something of the soul of this people can know anything of the pain that sometimes wrings the heart of the Japanese when visiting the garden of the sacred flower "that shrinks into itself at evening hour"? The subdued demeanour and sad faces of the early wanderers too often show that they are nursing grief within, and plainly tell of sorrowful memories recalled by the blooms; for the lotus not only is the token of truth, and light, and purity, but is also a symbol of that grim Reaper whose path is wet with tears. It is the Buddhist emblem of Death. For a few weeks only the flowers display their glory. Then the ponds which were so beautiful with pink and green become all unkempt, bedraggled, and forlorn with dying stalks and leaves. They are a sad, depressing spectacle in the midst of summer joys, and remind the thoughtful Japanese that beauty is but evanescent and life but a passing dream.

KAMEIDO

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