CHAPTER XV

MATSUSHIMA AND YEZO

Matsushima ranks in Japanese estimation as one of the three most beautiful places in the country; but not every foreigner sees it with Japanese eyes, and the charm of the famous bay near Sendai is completely lost on those who go there for an hour or two and rush away. Matsushima is one of those places which must be studied leisurely and in detail, and seen in this way it fully deserves its renown.
    As the name implies, Matsushima is an archipelago of pine-clad islands—on the east coast about two hundred miles north of Tokyo. It is said that there are no less than eight hundred and eight of them, all composed of soft volcanic tufa which the erosive action of the waves has worn into most fantastic shapes. Each of the islands is named; one, for instance, being designated "Buddha's Entry into Nirvana," whilst a little bunch of a dozen is called "The Twelve Imperial Consorts."
    I arrived at Matsushima station one lovely morning in August, and took a rikisha for the village, distant about a couple of miles. As we passed a cutting between two hills my kurumaya suggested that I should walk to the top of one of them and see the view. I did so, and am glad that I first saw this beautiful place thus. First impressions have a lasting effect, and though, in after years, I saw the island-studded bay under less favourable conditions, Matsushima always remains in my memory as I saw it on that August day.

ON MATSUSHIMA BAY

    It was only a few minutes' walk to the top of the eminence, from which the view is famous as one of the fairest seascapes in Japan. The neat village lay close below, and a precipitous little island, with sides as steep as the wall of a house, rose out of the sea not ten yards from the shore, to which it was connected by a rustic bridge. From among the pine-trees that covered it a temple peeped, and a line of sampans were anchored at the quay near by. Scattered about the bay, in every direction, were other islands, seemingly painted on a mirror, for the surface of the sea was unruffled by a breath of air. Banks of soft cumulus clouds filled the skies, and here and there a boat sent long widening ripples across the water to prove that the scene was real. The summer chorus of the cicadas about me was a deafening pandemonium. Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee-wee-wee-weeeeeeeea screamed a thousand of them in the pine-trees, till my ear-drums seemed to whistle with the sound. Yet I love these noisy insects, for their song is always merriest when the weather is warmest and brightest, and Japan in bright weather is fairyland itself.
    A Japanese dearly likes to see a foreigner appreciate the beauty of the land. He takes it as a personal compliment to himself. My kurumaya, who had come to the hill-top with me, chuckled with delight at my comments on the scene, and there were even tears in the old fellow's eyes. I do not know any people so easily touched by a few appreciative words as the Japanese. When we reached the road again he had to recite all my remarks to the other man (who was waiting with the luggage), to the equal pleasure of the latter; and when we arrived at the inn my appreciation was repeated again by the two of them to the landlord (with, doubtless, copious amplifications, judging by the time it took to tell), and the landlord retailed the facts to the servants in a longer version still, so that I was persona grata with the lot of them just because of my favourable impressions of the place.
    I wasted no time in chartering a sampan, and we were soon under way to see the principal sights. For the whole of that day and the next we cruised about that "calm and quiet bay on a level shining sea," visiting island after island, each more grotesque than the last, and exploring caves and natural arches and every whimsical freak that the sea could carve in stone. Each island is crowned with a few pine-trees, even to the very smallest, which is but a few yards in area. How they grow is a mystery. Many of them appear to find subsistence in the solid rock, and every crevice is occupied by one or more. They grow at every angle, as often as not leaning down to the water, or horizontally over it.
    Some of the islands have tea and summer houses on them; some are carved with Buddhas; one has long rustic bridges connecting it with the near-by shore; but the finest sight of all is the view from Tomi-yama. From this place on a clear day the scene is of simply bewitching beauty. The sea bristles with islands and promontories, "land and sea being mixed in inextricable but lovely confusion," *1  and the surface of the water is streaked with currents and tide-rips that change in colour with every hour of the day, whilst every cloud that floats over the bay changes the composition of the picture. The largest of the islands is the holy Kinkwa-zan, which has been a Mecca to pious pilgrims for centuries; but the day I had planned to visit it was wet and stormy, and, though I waited for two days more, the storm only increased in violence, and I was reluctantly obliged to give up the idea, as I intended going still farther northwards to the island of Yezo.
    Being volcanic, Japan is therefore beautiful; but this axiom is less obvious in the most northern of the four great islands of the archipelago than in other parts of the Empire. Yezo has its charms, however, and as I crossed the sapphire Tsugaru Strait one hot, sunny September day, and saw the pretty tiled-roofed, wood-and-paper houses of Hakodaté nestling at the foot of the great Gibraltar-like rock known as the Peak, I decided that no other port in Japan looked fairer or more inviting, not even the far-famed Nagasaki.
    The town was clean and neat, and business seemed to be in a thriving and prosperous condition; coolies were everywhere, bustling about with bundles of cured fish, bags of rice, bales of dried seaweed, and other merchandise; and the bay was full of shipping. My entry into the Katsuta Inn confirmed the good impression already formed. It was immaculate in its cleanliness. My window looked out on to the harbour, which is a miniature Hong-Kong of activity; and if anything were needed to complete the fitness of the simile, the mountain towering above the town filled the blank, for it is but a small edition of Victoria Peak, which dominates Britain's South-China colony.
    It is well to drink in such beauty as one finds in the situation of Hakodaté. The farther one penetrates into the island the more one becomes impressed with the fact that Yezo is an untidy country—as inferior to the main island as Hawaii is to Java. Indeed, one is irresistibly reminded of Hawaii, for the whole mountain region round Hakodaté bears a striking resemblance to the surroundings of Honolulu. In their unkempt appearance the fields at once recall those of the vaunted islands of Mid-Pacific, the beauty of which has been greatly overrated by writers who have not gone far enough afield to find the much lovelier isles lying in that usually gentle ocean.
    Though the Tsugaru Strait is not more than ten miles wide at the narrowest part, it is exceedingly deep, and has severed the island of Yezo from Hondo, the Japanese mainland, for untold ages—if indeed these lands were ever joined at all. North of the Strait the fauna and flora are as different from those found south of it as if they belonged to widely-separated countries. We are told that there are no monkeys in Yezo, nor any pheasants; and that even the bears are of an entirely different species from those of the mainland.
    The singing birds are numerous, a most remarkable thing, for the more temperate islands to the south can boast of none save larks and nightingales.
    My object in coming to this little-visited part of Japan was to see the Ainu, that strange, hairy race who were the aborigines of the land before the Japanese arrived and took it from them. The nearest Ainu settlements, however, are a hundred miles or so up the east coast, and this necessitated our embarking again on a small steamer for the port of Muroran—a place of little interest, which is reached in about nine hours.
    Before embarking on this journey I spent a day visiting the lakes Junsai-numa and 0-numa, and the volcano Koma-ga-dake. This trip is an interesting and pretty one, and fills a good hard day. Junsai-numa is very shallow—not more than ten feet deep at any part—and, according to the guide-book, furnishes fishing "with a worm." Fishing is one thing, however, and catching fish quite another.

AT MATSUSHIMA

To Junsai it would not be necessary nowadays to take a creel to hold the spoils, for the boatmen who rowed me across it vowed that there was not a solitary fish left in the lake. Ō-numa is much deeper and larger, and has some pretty islands. Both the lakes lie at the foot of the volcano, which rises to a height of 3860 feet.
    The ascent of the mountain is quite easy. Starting from the eastern end of Lake O-numa, I arrived at the crater's lip in an hour and a half; but this was not to the highest peak, which is said to be inaccessible. The crater is an immense one, but only a small portion of it is now active, and the walls are badly broken down.
    There are many places on the east coast near Muroran where colonies of Ainu are to be found, the largest of these being at Shikyu and Shiraoi. I was accompanied thither by a Japanese interpreter. On the way we turned aside for a day or two to visit the great solfataras of Naboribets, which are among the most interesting natural phenomena of Japan. The large and comfortable hotel at which we put up was thronged with Japanese visitors, who come here to enjoy the curative properties of the mineral hot-springs. The water is piped to a long series of public baths, ranging in temperature from about 105° F. downwards. These baths are very interesting. Here, at one's leisure, one can study Japanese humanity of both sexes in a state of nature. The baths are the meeting-place for guests at the hotels, and a convenient rendezvous for the gossips of the village. All meet on a common footing, man and woman, youth and maid, young and old, rich and poor—and I was going to say dirty and clean; but the Japanese are never dirty, unless one includes the Ainu, who are a distinct race and type.
    Comfortably immersed to the neck, the sexes mingle together, and laugh and talk as freely and unrestrainedly, and with equal courtesy and etiquette, as in their own or each other's homes.
    It is some two miles to the solfataras, which are the crater floors of an exceedingly old, double-vented volcano, with towering precipitous walls, whose jagged serrated ridges—burnt brilliant red—frame with weird grandeur and beauty the awful abomination of desolation of the sulphur-beds below. In all Japan one cannot find a more interesting example of a volcano which has destroyed itself than these solfataras of Naboribets. The vividly-coloured walls are a striking object-lesson in geology. The lower lava bed is covered with several hundred feet of black ash and red cinders, which were ejected by the volcano for ages after the foundation of lava was formed. When later the heavy lava rose once more into the great cup, and filled it up to the brim, this unstable pile of loose tufa was broken down, and a terrible cataclysm must have occurred when the vast rent in the crater's western wall, over half a mile in length, was made.
    This self-destruction is in the end the destiny of most really old volcanoes. I use the word "old" in the geological sense. Fuji, for instance, is but a baby as volcanoes go, and, though called extinct, is merely dormant, as the steaming fissures on the lip would seem to testify. Fuji has not yet marred its beauty by bursting its crater's rim.
    On the north, south, and east sides of the Naboribets volcano the abrupt, inflamed walls stand in a great half-circle round the sulphur-mounds and the lakes of boiling-sulphurous water, which now cover the bed of what was originally a crater floor. The whole of this huge solfatara is honeycombed with great yawning cavities, some of which emit fearful sounds from the seething cauldron below, and belch vast columns of steam at terrific pressure to the heavens above.
    There are pools of soft, sticky, bubbling, sputtering mud, and cauldrons of boiling water as clear as glass; and there are fountains of boiling liquid mud, and geysers of boiling water of crystalline purity, spouting with equal ferocity but a few feet apart. There are great cavernous apertures, twenty feet or more in diameter, encrusted with lovely sulphur crystals—fragile as foam—and little holes, not an inch across, each adding, according to its powers, to the general pandemonium, and imparting its tribute to the boiling, sulphur-tainted river which springs from the crater's heart, and flows hissing, seething, and splashing over the treacherous surface as though the eternal fires were but a foot or two below.
    The noises of the place are many and varied. Some of the holes emit a muffled murmur; others almost scream; whilst others again give out sounds of such fierce boiling as are truly terrible to hear. As we cautiously wended our way amongst these safety-valves, over hills of flower-of-sulphur, and pumice, and vermilion ash, carefully poking the ground with long sticks before venturing each step—for to break through the crust would have meant a hasty end—we came at length to a great hole which gave forth a most bloodcurdling sound. As we approached, it breathed a deep sigh, and then sent out a wailing shriek, as if some monstrous creature were in agony. For a few moments both I and my Japanese friend stood rooted to the ground in fear. To run would have been to court destruction by stepping on some weak spot in the treacherous crust. We did not know what was coming next. For my part I expected the ground to open and engulf us, or a boiling geyser of mud and sulphur to overwhelm us; and not till some minutes after the wail had died away into a sigh and silence, did we realise that this was only another of the harmless, intermittent noises of this diabolical place.
    Curiosity would not be satisfied till we had taken a look into the great hole from which this hideous sound had come. We went to the edge, and as we stood by the gaping cavity it gave forth deep and regular sighs as of some cyclopean creature breathing. Indeed, so real was this resemblance that if we shut our eyes and listened, it was easy to understand how impossible it would be to dispel the belief of ignorant savages, such as the Ainu, in the existence of some great and terrible subterranean monster near at hand.
    According to the Ainu creed the world is governed by the Goddess of Fire; and as they have in their midst such an appalling manifestation of the pent-up power within the earth as these solfataras, it is easy to see how such a belief obtains.
    We waited near the spot, and in a little over half an hour the sound came again. More horrible than ever it was, as we were now on the brink of the hole, but long before the scream had reached the climax of its power, we had retreated as fast as the necessity of carefully choosing our footsteps would permit. We felt that this hole was not to be trusted. Though one often takes risks from curiosity, one's inquisitiveness is considerably damped when the prospect confronts one of possibly being overtaken by such an uncomfortable method of dissolution as would be afforded by such terrible natural forces.
    I have seen many volcanoes and solfataras in several lands, but never one that emitted such truly horrible sounds as this. It is certainly not surprising that an ignorant race of aborigines, living in a land of these natural wonders, should have had the fear of fire instilled into their hearts, and have formed the belief that the world is ruled by a deity whose abode is in such places.

A SEA-WORN ARCH AT MATSUSHIMA

    As evening drew nigh, swallows in thousands circled and twittered about the bastioned, blazing precipices, which glowed with every colour in the rays of the setting sun, and as we traced our steps homewards the tumult of the place lingered in our ears for a mile, like the roar of a rock-bound coast beaten by the angry waves of the sea.
    The next morning we left for our objective point, the Ainu settlement, and the nearer we approached it the more slovenly became the methods of the farmers and the condition of their millet and other crops-Although the fields were owned and worked by Japanese, they bore little semblance to the trim and beautifully-kept farms of the mainland.
    We arrived at Shikyu at nine, and put up at the most miserable apology for an inn that it has ever been my lot to stay at in any part of Japan. Yet it was the best the place afforded. Our arrival at this inn was the signal for the greater part of the inhabitants of the village to come and satisfy their curiosity by staring at us. This stare of the Yezo Japanese is something which must be experienced to be appreciated. A man would place his face a couple of feet from mine, and glare into my features with as much assurance and self-possession as if he were regarding a poster on a wall. Apparently foreigners were not often met with in these parts, judging by the intensity of the scrutiny to which I was subjected. Whilst waiting for the result of my interpreter's search for a suitable coolie to carry my rather bulky photographic kit, I entertained myself by returning the native gaze. On one individual whose eyes were fixed on mine, as if he were under the influence of a hypnotic spell, I glowered with all the intensity I could. For fully a minute (it seemed ten to me) I regarded him thus, till, with a start, the glarer suddenly became conscious of the fact that he was an object of equal curiosity to me. The instant and complete collapse of his self-assurance was ludicrous. His eyes dropped to the ground, and he shuffled to the back of the crowd like a chidden child, whilst several burly wits made merry at his discomfiture.
    It seemed that much difficulty was likely to be experienced in persuading the natives of the Ainu settlement, which we were about to visit, to be photographed. A coolie had been engaged, but it appeared that the man would not come unless his wife was engaged too. As they knew the Ainu well we took them both. The man then chivalrously proceeded to load his wife up with the heaviest packages, whilst he contented himself with a little case weighing but five pounds. I protested against this division of labour, but he declared that his wife was much stronger than he, though she was obviously a fragile little woman and he was as lusty a fellow as I ever employed.
    Then there was a further hitch, and my interpreter said, indicating the innkeeper: "I have decided it is necessary to contract with this gentleman also; the Ainu are so spontaneous and will rebel to submit to the picture. He is the owner of this house." The last sentence was accompanied with a dramatic gesture. I cannot say that this commendation carried the weight with me that it was evidently expected to, and I inwardly breathed a prayer to the weather-god that he would not entail upon me the necessity of accepting the gentleman's hospitality longer than was necessary.
    I soon found, however, how indispensable this man's services really were. I am firmly convinced that without his help I should have been several days, perhaps, before securing a single photograph, for the Ainu prejudice against "having their mere form produced with substance," to use the words of the Rev. J. Batchelor, is still a deep-rooted one, and cannot be overcome except by the judicious admixture of gifts and diplomacy—the one as necessary as the other.
    This man proved to be a most valuable assistant. For two days he was indefatigable in my interests, and when the time came to pay the reckoning I was quite unable to persuade him to accept anything for his services. Only with great difficulty, indeed, could I induce him to receive payment of our hotel bill. He maintained that it had been an honour to lend his assistance to any one who came for the purpose of learning about his country. I have met few like him. Humble as was his abode, and evil-smelling from the quantities of dried fish stored in it, yet he had a proud and generous spirit, and I doubt not sprang from stock that had seen more prosperous days.
    We then proceeded to the large Ainu village at Shiraoi, a few miles distant. My olfactory nerves were the first to apprise me that our destination was near at hand; the great distinguishing characteristic of an Ainu settlement is the odour of dried fish with which everything in it, and about it, is permeated.
    Three women were the first of the Ainu to put in an appearance. We met them just outside the town, carrying large bundles on their backs. They were young and good-looking, with rosy faces, and hair hanging round their heads to the shoulders; but their features were badly disfigured by broad moustaches tattooed on their upper lips—reaching almost to the ears. This is the prevalent custom amongst almost all Ainu women. The hair which grows so luxuriously on the face of the Ainu man is lacking on that of the woman, so to supplement this deficiency the upper lip is tattooed. Some Ainu women are not content with submitting merely the lip to this disfiguring treatment, but have thick lines tattooed on their forehead and arms, and ugly patterns on the backs of their hands. These marks, however, are considered by the Ainu to enhance their beauty greatly.
    After a consultation with the chief of the village, a fine-looking old man, whose long beard and shaggy locks were turning grey, we were conducted to the house of a prominent member of the community who lay on a bed on the floor, sick unto death. An old grey-bearded man, whose face was almost hidden with thick hair, knelt beside him, reciting prayers for his recovery, whilst many relatives sat round him on the earthen floor of the rude thatched hut. The dim light was just sufficient to show the sad, anxious expression on the faces of the silent figures, who indicated so plainly, by their quiet, gentle manners, the deep concern they felt. It was a sad initiation into the home life of these poor people, and respect for their feelings made me take a hasty leave, for I felt that, under the circumstances, the intrusion of a stranger out of mere curiosity was quite unwarrantable. The few moments, however, that I tarried in the hut, and saw this little group of gentle, yet ignorant, uncivilised figures—gathered together in the sombre interior of a structure which in some lands would scarcely be thought fit for cattle—waiting for the approach of the Reaper whose harvest lies in every land and at every season, left a deep impression in my mind. My feelings turned from those of disgust at the filthy, animal-like condition in which these people live, to those of pity, that any human creatures, dwelling amongst a highly civilised race, should know nothing better than mere existence in such a state of degradation. Bare existence and sustenance seem to be the whole ambition of the Ainu, who are held in utter contempt by the clever, enlightened Japanese, and are left alone to work out their own salvation.

AINU MAN AND WOMEN AT HOME

The Japanese name for the Ainu is Aino, the literal meaning of which is mongrel. This arises from a Japanese tradition that the Ainu are the descendants of a race of creatures half man, half dog. Little consideration, therefore, can these humble people expect from their masterly conquerors.
    The huts in which the Ainu live are of coarse kaia-grass, thatched with reeds. The roof is made first, then hoisted into place and tied in position by-creeping vines to the ridge-pole and parallels. The walls of thatch are then tied in the same manner to poles, driven into the ground, which support the roof. Each hut has two small windows, one on the east side, one on the south. The east window is sacred, and outside it are placed offerings to the gods. At the west end is the door, and over it a hole in the roof is provided for the escape of the smoke from the fire, which is made on the ground near the centre of the hut.
    All Ainu dwellings are constructed in this manner. There are no neat wooden houses, such as the Japanese live in, for the Ainu wallow in the conservatism of ignorance, and custom forbids any departure from traditional methods. Their huts are primitive, uncomfortable, dirty places, reeking with the odour of dried and rotting fish, which are hung in the roof. Nor are the people who inhabit them any cleaner, for they have none of that love of hot water which makes the Japanese, as a nation, the cleanest people in the world. Personal cleanliness is not the Ainu forte.
    Formerly the Ainu dressed in garments of wood-fibre, and many do to the present day; but Japanese cotton goods are now largely supplanting the native cloth. Men and women dress much alike, except that the patterns woven into the fabrics are quite distinctive in character for each sex. No man would dream of wearing the patterns used by women. When old the women closely resemble the men in feature, saving for the lack, of beard. With middle age comes ugliness, but many of the young girls are very comely. Men and women alike wear their hair about their shoulders in a thick, bushy, unkempt mass.
    The lot of the Ainu woman is not a happy one. Dirty, slovenly, barefooted, miserably clad, and disfigured by tattoo-marks, she subsists, a wretched drudge, to whom life holds out none of the pleasures and diversions known to the women of other lands. To her, life means naught but work from morn till night. Not only must she attend to all the household duties, but she must clean, smoke, and dry the fish; cut and pound out the millet ; cut and carry from the forest the winter's supply of wood; dig up the fields and sow the crops; and such time as she can find to spare must be given to helping her lord and master, to whom she is little more than a slave. There are about her none of the little graces which distinguish other women of the East. The women of China, of the Philippines, of Burma, of India, all have some feminine charm; but the Ainu woman is a poor untutored savage, unlearned even in the instinctive arts of Eve. One thing she has in common with her sex—the love of jewellery. Cheapest of metal though they be, she yet loves to adorn her scanty charms with rings, sometimes on her fingers, sometimes in her ears. And yet she has one charm that I had almost overlooked; she is gentle and submissive as a child, and her voice is low and musical.
    The Ainu men are a sturdy, well-built race, averaging about five feet four inches in height. Their long, shaggy hair and fine bushy beards give them quite a patriarchal and even distinguished appearance. The hairiness of the Ainu men is largely confined to the face. In comparison with the sparingly moustached Japanese, they are, of course, a hairy race, for their heads and faces are well covered with a soft, luxuriant growth; but not more so than the faces of many Europeans. They are grave and taciturn, and laughter is, it would seem, almost unknown to them; though perhaps this is not strange, seeing that their mode of life offers little inducement to merriment.
    Drink is the great Ainu vice. Their appetite for the Japanese rice-distilled beverage saké is insatiable. "They will not submit to the picture without provision for the saké feast. They are so spontaneous," said my interpreter. With the Japanese fondness for large and ambiguous words, "spontaneous" appeared to be his adjective for expressing their shy and retiring nature.
    I therefore made provision for the feast, which consisted in purchasing a large tub of saké. In consideration of this present a selected number of the head-men of the village were prevailed upon to permit me to photograph them and their households as I pleased. When this was over the feast began. I did not wait till the end of the orgie, but I heard that all who participated in it were intoxicated to a state of absolute helplessness and insensibility.
    Drunkenness being considered among the greatest of virtues, libations of saké are accompanied by the observance of much etiquette. The feast was held in the house of the chief of the colony, and three chiefs from neighbouring settlements were invited. Each wore a crown of seaweed, shavings, and flowers. Guests of lesser rank did not wear these, and women were not invited. As each took his place and squatted on the matting spread on the floor, he saluted each of the others in turn by stroking his hair and beard. Host and guests sat in a circle, and it was a picturesque spectacle, not without a touch of pathos—that group of heavy-bearded, shaggy-locked figures, squatting in the dim light of the hut, waving their hands and stroking their hair and beards before each bowl of saké was consumed.
    The hut speedily became insufferable to me on account of the smoke from the fire, the stench of the fish in the roof, and the odour of the number of people partaking in the feast or watching the feasters. Just over the fireplace—which was simply a bare patch of ground, six feet long, in the centre of the hut—there hung a wood canopy, the purpose of which seemed to be to distribute the smoke to all parts of the structure—which it did most effectively. The combined effect of the smoke and stench was so sickening that, though my nostrils had become fairly well accustomed to smells in the East, I was glad enough to forego the pleasure of witnessing the end of the feast and to regain the purer air outside.
    Hanging from a beam near the fireplace, so that plenty of warmth might reach it, was a cradle, and in the cradle was a baby, which steadily screamed throughout the time we were in the hut. How it managed to scream as it did was a mystery to me. Any other but an Ainu child would have perished from suffocation by the smoke. No one soothed it, or paid it any attention whatever; nor did the guests show that they were conscious of its screaming. Seemingly it was allowed to cry itself to exhaustion and silence. This, my Japanese friend told me, is the Ainu custom; to permit a child to cry itself to sleep is to discipline it, and teach it the futility of such behaviour.
    The interior of Yezo is largely virgin forest, where few but the Ainu ever penetrate. These wilds are the haunt of wild bears, though of late years they are becoming scarce.

HAPPU KONNO, THE HUNTER (IN CENTRE), AND TWO AINU FISHERMEN

There is no meat the Ainu prize more than bear flesh. Among the feasters was a man named Happu Konno, one of the most famous bear-hunters in Yezo. So striking in appearance was this man—so long, and thick, and shaggy his hair and beard—that I prevailed upon him to strip, that I might secure a photograph of him. His body showed no superfluity of hair beyond that on many Europeans; nor was he of the muscular development of the Japanese; but he was firmly built and athletic, as he needs must be to pursue his perilous calling. Whatever may be the shortcomings of the Ainu, lack of courage in a bear hunt is not one of them. I heard from this man's own lips, through two interpreters, his method of attack, which coincided exactly with the accounts of travellers that I have read.
    The killing of a bear is looked upon by the Ainu as the greatest of all possible feats. Happu Konno's only weapons are a knife, and a bow with poisoned arrows. With these he is prepared, if necessary, to beard the bear single-handed in its lair. If he fails to induce it to come out by his cries, so that he may shoot it with an arrow, he clothes his body with a skin and creeps into the bear's retreat, armed with his knife. With this he rushes upon the brute, and as it rises to embrace him, he grapples with it and stabs it to the heart. This, however, is an exceedingly dangerous proceeding; so, if he sees an opportunity, as the bear rises to fight he dodges under its forepaws and attacks it from the rear. This manoeuvre has the effect of inducing the bear to seek safety in flight, and as it emerges from the den, an assistant hunter discharges an arrow or two into its body. It is only a question of a few minutes till the poison does its work and bruin is dead. The flesh round the arrows is then immediately cut out; the poison does not affect the rest of the meat. There are many hunters in Yezo who do not hesitate to attack a bear in this manner, but such men are justly renowned for their courage and skill. The use of poisoned arrows is now illegal, but nevertheless they are still used surreptitiously.
    When not engaged in hunting Happu Konno is a fisherman, equally expert on the sea or at spearing salmon in the rivers. He is the central figure in the group standing by the boat. The rivers of Yezo abound in fine salmon, especially in the season when they seek the fresh water to spawn. The Ainu catch them both by means of hand-nets and by spearing. A dug-out canoe is used for spearing. One man stands in the rear to propel it, whilst another stands at the bow, harpoon in hand. The canoe is paddled down stream or kept stationary, and as a salmon approaches, the harpoon is let go, usually with unerring aim, and the fish is impaled. Harpoon fishing is also carried on at night. A large torch is used to attract the fish, and as they come to ascertain the cause of the unaccustomed glare, they fall easy victims to the spear.
    Although the Ainu have neither priests nor temples, yet, so says the Rev. John Batchelor, who has probably spent more time among them than any other foreigner, "they are an exceedingly religious race. They see the hand of God in everything. Their great religious exercises take place on the occasion of a bear feast, removing into a new house, and a death and burial."
    Their religious ideas are not patent to any casual visitor, but it needs little observation to reveal the deep superstition which governs all their actions. Their gods, of whom there are many, must be propitiated by offerings; these are to be seen everywhere, and consist of willow sticks, with the bark whittled into shavings, which hang in clusters. A number of these are placed outside the east end of each hut, and prayers are made to them each day. They are called inao, and may be seen by the seashore, or on the banks of rivers, and in other localities to which it is desirable that the deities who govern such places should be prevailed upon to bestow special attention. The inao ensures this. Offerings of deer and bear skulls, placed on sticks, are also looked upon with much favour by the gods. Hence those who have been fortunate in the chase make such an altar, and place it at the east end of the house. The willow wands may also be seen inside the house; and in case of sickness—if they are newly made, and stuck in the floor near the fireplace—they will ensure all possible aid from the Fire Goddess. This is about the extent of the assistance that the sufferer receives—the offering of inao and the chanting of prayers.
    The Ainu have no arts or crafts, literature or ambition, and appear to have fewer claims to anything more than animal instinct than any other race in the East. Their numbers, it is said, are becoming less each year, and it is estimated that there are now not 15,000 of them remaining. If they should in course of time become extinct, their place will be taken by a race to whom humanity in general owes a greater debt.

    1) Murray's Handbook.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BAY OF ENOURA

There is a village on the shores of the bay of Enoura—which lies between the Izu peninsula and the town of Numazu—that is very little known to foreigners, except a few enterprising spirits of an inquiring turn of mind in Yokohama, who tear themselves away each week-end from their occidental surroundings and sally out to explore the lovely land to which a kindly fate has led them to earn their daily bread.
    I do not believe a tourist was ever known to turn aside to visit this place, which is less than an hour's journey by rikisha from the main line of the Tōkaido. Certainly no tourist accompanied by a guide ever went there. No Japanese cicerone would ever do anything so foolish as to pilot his charges to such a place, for there are no curio-shops. Indeed, there are no shops of any kind at all; and how dull would the evening hours be to Guide San if he missed that feeling of prosperous independence—such an incentive to repose—which comes of mentally gloating over the sum-aggregate of large commissions earned from the merchants and curio-dealers whose establishments he has visited with his Danna San during the day?
    No, the tourist will never hear of Shizu-ura, and Guide San will never turn a hair between Kodzu and Shizuoka to show that there is anything of interest on the sea side of the train.

MOONLIGHT AT SHIZU-URA

He will tell all sorts of things about Fuji on the right—and of praise he could not say too much—but he will not mention Shizu-ura, or Ushibusé, or Mito, not because he does not know about these places, but because he considers it better his master should not know, lest he might want to go there.
    It is even well to read what you desire to know about Fuji from your unerring "Murray," as the train, for an hour or more, makes a wide semicircle round the matchless beauty's base, and not heed overmuch the gratuitous information which patriotic natives, swelling with pride on seeing your admiration of the mountain, and anxious to practise English, may desire to thrust upon you. I once heard a Japanese proclaim to a car full of American "school-marms"—Manila bound, who were training it from Yokohama to rejoin their steamer at Kobe—the following facts (?) in staccato accents: "Fuji—is—the—highest—mountain—in—the—world. It—is—eighteen—thousand— nine—hundred—and—seventy—two—feet—high. It—is—always—covered—with—undissolving—snow."
    I gasped at the fellow's ignorance of the loveliest feature of his own land. Each of these statements was incorrect, but in getting the wrong altitude down to two feet he seemed to me to show decided ingenuity. Evidently here was a man who did not stick at trifles. He would not let lack of knowledge stand in his way when he saw a chance of making an impression. He was a Japanese, and must therefore know. So when one of the "school-marms" appealed to him, he seized the opportunity to show his intimate knowledge of his country, and scattered mis-information like chaff before the wind.
    The air of patronage and smug complacency with which he then surveyed his fellow-passengers through his spectacles was altogether so delightful that I could not resist the temptation to "take him down." I challenged all three of his statements, and corrected them, producing my "Murray" in proof. He was quite crestfallen at this exposure of his ignorance, but stuck to his guns and maintained that the guide-book was wrong. He then retired behind his paper, and, at the next station, took the opportunity to leave the car for another, without the customary parting bow, doubtless anathematising me in his mind for an ill-mannered, interfering churl.
    As I have already said, Ushibusé can be reached in less than an hour from the Tōkaido railway—from Numazu station, to be exact—but a far more interesting way is to go there, as I once did in February 1905, by a detour into the Izu peninsula. A branch line runs from Mishima junction, on the Tōkaido, to Ohito. There were train-loads of soldiers everywhere that day. At Mishima they passed us bound for Hiroshima, en route for the Front, making the station ring with their songs in their joy at going to the war. And on the way to Ohito we passed two hospital-trains, filled with convalescents going to recruit at the hot-spring resort, Shuzenji. These were men who had been to the Front, and knew to their cost what battles meant.
    At Ohito we took a basha for Shuzenji, for which place we also were bound. A basha is a kind of small one-horse omnibus, and this particular one was the cheapest method of travel I have ever found in Japan or elsewhere. It was a forty-minutes' drive, yet I engaged the whole vehicle for 45 sen (about tenpence). This was the regular tariff, and is a good instance of how prices shrink as soon as one gets off the tourist track. Near Fuji at least treble this price would have been demanded. We had just come from the east side of Fuji, where Yamanaka plain was two feet deep with snow; yet here—but thirty miles away as the crow flies—the weather was so warm that the convalescent soldiers, who filled every hotel and private house, were basking in the sunshine in their ordinary linen hospital dress.
    The Izu peninsula is the Riviera of Japan, and Shuzenji is its most sheltered and popular winter resort. I put up at a delightful native inn, the Araiya, where everything was in Japanese style. My room, which overlooked the Katsura-gawa, which flows through the town, was of the most immaculate cleanliness. Its sliding doors were beautifully painted with a pair of flying peacocks, and the ornament in the place of honour was a piece of fossil wood resembling the mountains the old Chinese artists painted. It was curiously carved to represent a band of samurai attacking a fierce dragon which was issuing from a cavern near the top.
    From my windows a scene of constant interest could be observed in the river below—from early morn till midnight. A fine hot-spring rises in a rocky basin in the centre of the torrent, and an open bath-house is built around it—connected with the banks by narrow bridges. In this spring men and women bathe promiscuously; and costumes of even the simplest kind are not considered de rigueur at all.
    As I was having my lunch, shortly after arrival, two neat little women stepped from the spring, where they had been bathing in the company of several of the sterner sex. They walked out on to the bridge, with their beauty innocent of any concealment, dried themselves in the sunshine, and then donned their clothes before the eyes of all the town—only no eyes in the town but mine were looking; for in Japan "the nude is seen, but never noticed," as Professor Chamberlain puts it.
    Such experiences give much insight into the simplicity of the people. What custom sanctions the conventions approve, and honi soit qui mal y pense. In Japan cleanliness is a higher virtue than godliness, and any exposure of the person, necessary for this purpose, is both pertinent and proper. Indeed, a few days before, at Kamiidé, I saw a young man and a young woman, strangers to each other, and both guests of the same hotel at which I was staying, bathing together in a tub which was not more than two feet square and a yard high, and into which, after the man had entered first, it was barely possible for the girl to squeeze. The weather was so severe that any water splashed over on to the stone floor froze instantly; but they parboiled themselves and chatted and joked with each other for twenty minutes or more, whilst I was having a lonely bath at the other side of the room immersed to the chin in a two-foot tub of my own. When the lady had finished her ablutions she graciously bowed to what she could see of me above water and then returned to her apartment, clad in nothing but her chastity—a somewhat scanty garment for so cold a day.
    There is nothing of any particular interest at Shuzenji except the hot-springs, so next day I started out for Mito in a basha. The distance is about five miles, and the scenery is worthy of no particular comment until the end of the journey is reached. Indeed, the most interesting object on this journey was the basha-driver himself. He was a regular character—just as much of a character as are some London 'bus-drivers. His questions, and comments, and sallies of wit never ceased until the journey's end, except for the moments when he drew a few whiffs from his pipe, which he did frequently. Each time he refilled it he knocked the hard fire-ball of ash, which remains in the pipe when Japanese tobacco is smoked, into the hollow of his palm, lit the fresh fill from that, smoked it out in three or four puffs, and then repeated the process.

A FISHERMAN'S CHILDREN

How he could hold a ball of glowing fire in his hand puzzled me. I tried it myself, but had to drop it in a twinkling, much to his delight, and he rolled about on the box so much with laughter that he nearly tumbled off, and the horse, taking fright, bolted down a hill and landed us all in a ditch. But there was no harm done, fortunately, and we soon had the light vehicle out again, and in due course arrived at Mito, where I paid him off. I was sorry to see the last of him, and wish I could have kept him longer; but at Mito we had to take to the sea.
    Mito is a fishing village on the shore of a little sheltered bay, with rugged precipitous cliffs almost surrounding it. A wonderful island stands like a guardian sentinel at the mouth of the bay, as pine-clad as the isles of Matsushima; and white-winged sampans sail on either side of it, whilst many others lie alongside the stone jetty, or are beached on the sandy shore. I thought I had never beheld a prettier place than Mito when I first saw it, but one always thinks that at every fresh beauty-spot one visits in Japan. Mito Bay is an arm of Enoura Bay, which in turn is part of Suruga Bay—the eastern part, lying between the Izu peninsula and the mouth of the Kano-gawa, a river which runs into the sea just beyond Ushibusé. The whole of this coast-line is strangely beautiful, and its charms have been perpetuated in every form of art.
    We engaged a sampan to take us round to Shizu-ura. It was a stout, seaworthy craft, made out of natural finished wood, in which not a single nail was used—the planks being fastened together with wooden pins—yet the sendo assured us that it would weather the roughest storms the wind could blow. The crew consisted of an old man and his son, splendid specimens of hardy humanity both, and typical members of the class from which the Japanese tars are recruited. They were gentle and kindly of manner and courteous of speech, as becomes men who might well be the reverse, seeing that their life is a constant battle with the elements. Danger is but too often the portion of the fishermen on these seas, where a cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, may be but the precursor of a typhoon, which, long before their craft can make land, breaks and scatters death and destruction in its wake. Often have I read in the papers in Japan, after a sudden storm, that an entire fleet of fishing-craft had been lost, and their crews drowned to a man.
    There is no more interesting class in Japan than the fisher-folk. Their customs and methods differ from place to place round the coasts as widely as though they belonged to different countries. They are the first Japanese one sees on visiting the land, and the last on leaving it; and, if the coast-line be followed much, they are continually in evidence during one's stay. Like most seafaring people, the world over, they are superstitious to a degree, and unending is the volume of legend connected with their craft.
    Offerings of old parts of vessels are freely made by them to the sea-gods, as such things are very propitiatory, and in return the gods send fine weather and direct the fish into their nets. Fishermen, who have had the misfortune to be wrecked, hang tablets in the temples, and offer the gods such relics of the ships as have escaped destruction.
    Worship at a Shinto temple before setting out is very advisable, and aids in securing a good catch; but should a Buddhist priest be met with on the way, bad luck is a certainty, as the bonzes do not eat fish. At least they are not supposed to, but they do.
    No worse-omened incident can befall a fishing-craft than that a bucket should fall from it into the sea and sink, for, sooner or later, the evil spirits inhabiting the waters will use the bucket to pour water into the vessel and founder it. A cat must invariably be carried on a deep-sea fishing junk, as cats have the power to repel the ghosts that frequent the ocean depths. Should the cat be spotted or piebald, the greater is its power. The more colours there are in the cat's coat, and the wider the contrast in these colours, the higher is its value as a mascot.
    I have spent many an interesting day among the fisher-folk, studying them and their curious methods. On one occasion, attracted by a group on the shore, I found that two fine large tubs of whitebait had just been brought in from a junk. The fish were very small and uniform in size, being little over an inch in length. The master of the junk stood by, his hands drawn up into the capacious sleeves of his kimono. Beside him were four or five excited men who plunged their arms deep into the tubs and then stood for a moment or two with brows knitted in thought. Each, in turn, then put his two hands up the junk-owner's sleeves; but the face of the latter was blank, and gave no indication of the meaning of this pantomime. No words were spoken, but the meaning of the affair I quickly guessed. Each of the men was making a bid for the fish, of a sum unknown to his competitors, by placing in the owner's hands as many fingers as he was willing to pay yen for the lot. When all the bids were in, the highest offer was accepted, and the tubfuls changed hands for the sum of eight yen (sixteen shillings).
    Our old boatman's grand-daughter—a little brown-eyed lass of nine—came down to see us off, with her baby brother on her back. They were the children of the younger man, and father and son alike were delighted when I made a hasty photograph of the little maid and told them I would show the picture to some of my small friends in England.
    As we sailed out of the harbour I noticed that the principal eminences of the cliffs had bamboo platforms built in the highest branches of the trees. These are called uomi, or fish outlooks. When a school of magaro, or bonito, enters the bay, a man takes up his position in each of these. From this vantage-point he can see a long way off, and also down into the clear water, and observe the movements of the fish. At a distance the location of the fish is known by the colour of the water; they come in such great numbers as to make dark patches in the sea. By a system of signs the look-out men then direct the movements of the fishermen, who have proceeded out into the bay to surround the shoal with nets. The nets for this work are of immense length and made of rope, for the magaro sometimes runs to several hundred pounds in weight, and would easily tear its way through anything lighter. Directed by the look-out men, the fishermen then draw the nets gradually closer to the shoal until the fish are driven into the narrowest portion of the bay, across the entrance of which the nets are fixed, and the quarry imprisoned. They are then caught, and shipped to Tokyo and other cities as the market demands.
    The magaro is immensely esteemed by the Japanese. It is a kind of tunny-fish, not unlike a monster mackerel, and is cut in the thinnest of slices and eaten raw. The fish is the prey of small worms which are frequently to be found in its coarse red flesh, but this appears to be no objection to the native palate. I have never been able to face this dish myself, nor have I ever met any foreigner who could; but some of the daintier fish that are served raw in Japan are really very nice. The magaro season is from March to August, and during these months the Enoura fisher-folk subsist entirely by this traffic.

THE PINES OF SHIZU-URA

    We sailed slowly along over the waters of the bay, as the wind was very light, and it finally dropped altogether as we drew near Shizu-ura. Then the boatmen took to the yulos and swung us along at a splendid pace. The speed that can be got out of this method of propelling a boat is truly wonderful. The craft was large enough to hold twenty people quite easily, yet two men sped it onwards at a good four miles an hour or more. As they yuloed they kept up a kind of chanty. These Japanese chanties are seldom as pretty as those of European sailors; but, though very simple, they are seemingly very eflfective, for the men are never able to put any real "back" into the work without this assistance. It is much easier to work hard to some kind of rhythm than without it.
    When the wind dropped the water became perfectly calm, and so clear that we could see objects on the bottom, ten or fifteen feet below us, without being conscious of any water intervening at all.
    Huge shell-fish called awabi are found in the bay. They are easily discovered in water thirty or forty feet deep by means of glass-bottomed tubs, through which the sea-bed can be closely scrutinised. When an awabi is located, it is dislodged by means of a long bamboo with an iron hook at the end. As this mollusc has immense muscular power it is by no means a simple matter to capture it, even when found; it is a univalve, and clings with extraordinary tenacity to the rock.
    Shizu-ura is the name of the long stretch of sandy beach which bends like a bow from a promontory on Enoura Bay round to the village of Ushibusé. A forest of weather-beaten pines straggles almost to the water's edge, their tortured trunks clutching the ground like great claws, as they lean shorewards, strained to impossible angles by the prevailing gales which blow the sand from their roots.
    As our boat was beached, stern first, on this lovely strand, there were reasons enough apparent all round us why its enchantment should have been sung by every Japanese poet. The very tiniest of wavelets lapped the silver sands, and in the gentle sunshine each crystal ripple, as it broke, became a row of rainbow opals. Little children in gay kimonos—the children of the rich—were playing at the water's edge, and in the distance the virgin crest of Fuji hung from the blue sky over the deeper blue of the ocean.
    Cheery little maids came running down the beach to greet us, and carried my packages up to the hotel embosomed in the pine-trees—the Hoyo-kwan, one of the finest and best-appointed native houses I ever stayed at in Japan. As soon as I was settled in my room the host and hostess came to pay their respects. As they entered, they bowed their heads with much ceremony to the mats, for the most scrupulous etiquette is observed in this favourite resort of the aristocracy of Tokyo. There was none of that free-and-easy manner which characterises one's reception at Japanese hotels in "foreign style." They sat respectfully by whilst I sipped a cup of yellow tea, and nibbled at the cakes which are always brought immediately to the room as soon as a guest arrives. When I told them that my mission was to take pictures of the country, they evinced the greatest pleasure and interest, and begged leave to bring and present to me some of the other guests who were staying there. This they did that evening, and I entertained them with showing them photographs I had made of various countries of the world. None, however, interested them so much as a number of pictures of Japan. Nothing pleases a Japanese more than to find that a foreigner can appreciate and love this beautiful land as much as he does himself.
    Near the hotel the Crown Prince has a palatial residence, with spacious walled-in grounds deep in the heart of the pine woods, to which he retires each summer from the heat and cares of state of the capital. It would be difficult indeed to find a more secluded, restful spot, or one more replete with natural beauty.
    This pine grove is far finer than the famous Mio-no-matsu-bara, twenty miles across the bay, where the legend of the fisherman and the feather coat, mentioned on page 380, is founded. Among the weather-beaten old trees—all bent and twisted by the winds that blow—the peasants, with bamboo rakes, scour the ground for the needles which are always dropping from the branches, and which they take home to use as fuel to start their charcoal fires. The sun by day, and the moon by night, play ever-changing pranks of light amidst the tortured trunks, and the breezes murmur softly in the branches to the accompaniment of the waves beating on the shore close by.
    Shizu-ura's beauty is mutable as the weather's moods, and one day—when I was out in a boat, peering down into the depths trying to catch awabi—I found that the sea was all alive with pretty nymphs. The sunlight, glinting through each surface ripple, was decomposed as by a prism, and as the rays pierced downward through the crystal water they turned the ocean bed into some beauteous palace of Nereus, in which the rainbow colours, all dancing about its rocky halls and terraces, were the Nereides, the Sea King's daughters.
    My old sendo was as delighted as I with the sight, for my pleasure warmed anew his interest in a spectacle with which long familiarity had bred unconcern. He searched out beautiful and still more beautiful spots, till he came to a rugged little island. Here he bid me step ashore, and, beckoning me to a corner in the rocks, said, "Honourably glancing deign, sir master."
    I followed, and found a little peep-hole, worn by the erosion of the waves. Through it there was an exquisite vista of Fuji and the pine-clad strand, framed roughly by the rock—a view made classic by Hiroshige half a century ago.
    "It is the Shizu-ura Fuji, sir master," said the old man, and the pride glowing in his face told me that in native estimation this was the climax of Enoura's wonders.

REFLECTIONS

CHAPTER XVII

HIKONÉ AND ITS CASTLE

The province of Ōmi, one of the most celebrated in Japan, is equally renowned for the beauty of its scenery and for the web of historical memories and legend with which it is interwoven from end to end. Biwa-Ko, the largest of Japanese lakes, lies in its heart, filling about one-fifth of the whole province with its waters. Its length is thirty-six miles, thrice its greatest width, and the depth in places is said to be about fifty fathoms.
    This is the lake which, according to tradition, fills the great depression that appeared in the earth during a violent seismic disturbance one night in the year 286 B.C., when Fuji-san burst upwards from the plains of Suruga. Tradition or fact, such an event in this volcanic-studded land, where the thin crust covering the eternal fires is always trembling, is likely enough ; and it is only to be expected that a sheet of water which claims its origin in such an occurrence should have lived up to the remarkable circumstances of its birth by enshrining itself in beauty and legend. Some of these legends are to be found in most books on Japan, but about one of the most charming of Biwa's beauty spots I have never found more than a few lines in any book at all. Hikoné is its name—a little town standing on the east of Biwa's shores, a place about which my memory lingers fondly.
    One early summer's day as I was whirled up to the porch of the Ha-kei-tei Hotel in a rikisha I was greeted by the assembled female staff with the customary chorus of welcome, only here the welcome was more than usually warm and hearty. As we entered the hotel grounds I could hear the shrill voice of the head maid-servant—who, as at most Japanese hotels, was more remarkable for her virtues and length of service than her good looks—calling to the younger girls, as she detected the sound of rikisha wheels on the gravel. "O Kyaku San! O Kyaku San!" ("An honourable guest! ") she cried, and as my kurumaya dropped the shafts at the great wide doorstep, the little neisans came running from every direction, with many bows, to take my luggage.
    When I had removed my boots—for one never, of course, thinks of entering a Japanese hotel with boots on—one of the neisans led me to my room. As we passed along a dark corridor I had the misfortune to bump my head against a beam in its low ceiling. This mishap proved altogether too much for the composure of the little maid. She leaned against the wall, laughing till the tears filled her eyes, and the whole establishment, coming to see what was the matter, and finding me ruefully rubbing my pate, laughed as well. The little incident put us all on good terms at once, for, seeing that I could stand a joke against myself, every member of the domestic staff was soon my friend; and when one makes friends with the staff at a Japanese inn, they in turn do everything to make one's stay as pleasant as possible.
    The hotel is charmingly situated by a lake in one of the most famous gardens in Japan; and the room to which I was shown was built out entirely over the water with a verandah on three sides of it. This ornamental sheet of water is a facsimile of Lake Biwa, all the famous sights of which are duplicated in the miniature.

THE HA-KEI-TEI INN AND GARDEN AT HIKONÉ

There is a long rustic bridge representing "The Long Bridge of Seta"; a maple-clad hill stands for the mountain Ishiyama, and another one is Hirayama—the "evening snow" on the original of which is the second of the "Eight Sights of Omi" in native estimation. There is even a curiously-trained pine-tree as proxy for the veteran of Karasaki—the arboreal giant of Japan, and one of the most curious trees in the world. The "Karasaki-no-matsu," on the opposite shore of Lake Biwa, is not only the greatest pine-tree in Japan, but also the most sacred. This patriarch, though now not more than forty feet high, has branches which stretch their crooked length well over a hundred feet from the old trunk. They are supported on a small forest of props, and are so low that one has to duck one's head to pass under them. All holes in the trunk are made water-tight with plaster, and a roof over the broken top keeps the rain from entering and hastening decay.
    The pine in the Ha-kei-tei garden is not of any great age—a mere century or two—nor is it large, but it is very picturesque. During my stay two gardeners spent the greater part of three days going over all its branches and carefully plucking out about three-fourths of its needles. This was done for a double object; to give it that spiky appearance so greatly admired by the Japanese, and also to stunt its growth. Such trees are subjected to this treatment every two months, and to root-pruning once a year.
    The Ha-kei-tei garden was a never-ending source of delight to me. I was alway finding some fresh beautiful peep through its maple-trees, or among its islands and the bays and gulfs and outlets of its lake. Every evening the carp nibbled noisily at the lily leaves, and swallows fluttered over the surface of the lake. The swallows nested under the eaves of the hotel and even inside its porches. This is considered a lucky omen. No Japanese would think of disturbing a swallow which took up its abode in his house.
    Another and larger hotel—the Raku-raku-tei—has a garden adjoining, but although it also has a "lake," no fish nibble at the lily leaves, for the lake is only an imaginary one, and has no water in it. This garden is in the severest cha-no-yu style, and the lake is simply a bed of pebbles, with islands, bridges, overhanging pines, stepping-stones, and all—everything save water, which the imagination of this highly idealistic people easily supplies.
    These gardens were formerly the pleasure-grounds of one of the most powerful feudal families, whose fine old castle stands on a hill overlooking them. The last feudal Lord, or Daimyo, of the Hikoné clan was Ii-Kamon-no-Kami, the sage and diplomatic noble who acted as Regent for the young Shogun Iémochi in the troublous times preceding the Reformation. For leaving this lovely country-seat and mixing himself up in politics he paid penalty with his life; he was assassinated in front of the General Staff Office in Tokyo on the 24th March 1860. His castle (O-shiro) is one of the very few of such edifices now remaining in Japan. Shortly after the period of Meiji was inaugurated the Japanese, disgusted with everything of their own creation, were seized with a mania for razing all such structures to the ground. The destruction of Hikoné castle had already commenced, when it so happened that the present Emperor, being at that time on a journey to Kyoto, passed this way, and seeing what the local officials had begun to do commanded them to desist at once. Thus the old castle was rescued from the fate which threatened it, and it stands to-day one of the finest and most picturesque features of feudal Japan.
    It was the custom in the old days for a Daimyo, when he found his bones ripening with years, to abdicate in favour of his son. When such an event happened at Hikoné the ex-Lord retired to one ot the residences, now turned into hotels, in the castle grounds. It was in one of these charming houses that I now found myself, and as I stood by the shoji of my room on the evening of my arrival I thought that no other place in the world could be more beautiful or restful. I stepped out on to the verandah, and immediately great carp, which had been loafing on the muddy bottom of the lake, glided up to the surface, just below me, sticking their heads almost out of the water in the expectation of being fed.
    I wandered out into the garden among the maples and stone-lanterns, and found an almost hidden path, walled in on either side with blocks of rough-quarried stone. This led to a stairway in the outer wall of the castle, the steps of which ended in Biwa Lake. It was one of the most beautiful and romantic spots I have ever seen. The reeds growing far out into the shallow water were full of frogs, and the very air was ringing with their croaking. Every now and then some solitary crow, flapping his way lazily overhead, would augment this evening chorus with a few hoarse caws; and the crickets, which were just tuning up for the night, added a shrill soprano accompaniment.
    Rugged, purple mountains were reflected in the golden lake, whose surface was broken only by the ever-widening ripples in the wake of a boat which was approaching, whilst the sendo sang a song as he slowly yuloed it. The boat came across the foreground of the picture, and pulled up at the mossy stairway where I stood. Imagination was beginning to conjure up all sorts of possibilities about it, and the tubs with which it was laden, when a coolie came down the stairway bearing two other similar tubs on a yoke across his shoulders. Alas! my dream was over, for the aroma which insulted the air told that his burden, and the cargo of the singing boatman's craft, was manure for the rice-crops. Such is Japan! Whilst there is "so much that appeals to the eye, there is also not a little that appeals to the nose," as Professor Chamberlain archly remarks; and these rude shocks to the senses are but too common.
    I turned away and wandered over towards the hill on which the castle stands. Its slopes are thickly covered with pine and maple-woods, where the hawks breed unmolested and are always soaring in the skies. At the bottom of the hill there is a broad moat banked high with sloping walls of stone. The water is much overgrown with aquatic plants, and there are many curious bamboo fish-traps in it. As I stood beside the quaint old bridge—which stretches over the moat in a single span supported by many props—watching the afterglow playing pretty tricks of colour in the water, the daylight waned away, and I heard the tramp of men-at-arms and the sound of many hoofs coming down the roadway from the castle. First, through the gateway and across the bridge came swift outrunners to clear the way; then at the head of the band appeared mounted knights, clad cap-à-pie in lacquered armour—cuirass, morion, tasses, and all—and with swords stuck in their girdles and gleaming spears butted in their stirrups. Behind them marched the foot-soldiers, clad in armour too, with bows and arrows across their shoulders and a pair of swords in every belt. On they came, making the old wooden bridge shake and echo with their tramping, and swung along the road with swaggering air and short quick steps towards the town.

AN OLD FEUDAL CASTLE FROM THE MOAT

In the middle of the train was a mettlesome cob, ridden by a noble figure of a warrior in vermilion lacquer and mail, with enormous wings spreading from his helmet and white plumes dancing between them. I knew him for the Daimyo at a glance. It was the feudal Lord of Hikoné, going off, perchance, to make a raid upon the Daimyo of some neighbouring province. I watched them pass along the road and disappear into the twilight, among the leaning pine-trees and the cloud of dust raised by their feet. When the tramping died away in the distance I turned hotel-wards along the back of the beautiful old moat, and into the dust which still hung in the air; only it was not dust at all but a film of night-mist rising from the water, and the Daimyo and his samurai were but a vision, born of the reverie into which I had fallen. A few days before I had seen, in Kyoto, a pageant of an old-time feudal procession which once every year leaves the Imperial Palace and proceeds to the ancient Shinto temple of Shimo Gamo. Each participant was clad in armour to represent a samurai or his feudal chief; and as I stood in the twilight on this romantic spot, imagination, responding to the surroundings, had seized the chance to make them the setting for a vision of the spectacle I had lately seen.
    All night long, as I lay in a comfortable bed on the floor of the old Daimyo house, I had a vague consciousness of samurai clattering down the hill, and carp leaping in the moat. There was nothing unreal about the sounds, however, for whenever I woke up, as I did several times, I heard the carp splashing in the water, and the rats were making a terrible noise as they raced over the thin, resounding boards overhead.
    The next morning I went up to the castle, and apropos of this visit I find these lines in my notebook, inscribed on the spot:—
    Hikoné, May 1903.—If I only make one visit to this castle it will always remain in my mind in connection with a crowd of hundreds of school-children who have come to picnic for the day in the castle grounds. They are in charge of their teachers, and are running all over the old courtyard and woods, shouting with delight.
    The natives have girded their loins to do justice to the occasion, and justice is undoubtedly being done. The cake-man, the fruit-man, the iced-drinks-man, the air-balloon-man, the ice-cream-man and the toy-woman—all are here. There is also a man who has a number of small tubs of different coloured sweetstuffs, and when young Japan presents his farthing, he gets a cockleshell heaped up with the sweetmeat in layers of blue, red, green, yellow, and white. There is another man, old as old can be, with face as wrinkled as the rind of a musk-melon, whose trade it is to dip from a bowl of batter a small portion, and spread it on the face of a sheet of bronze laid over the glowing embers of a htbachi. He flattens the sputtering mess out with a stick, until it is as thin as a wafer, and in an instant it is cooked. Then he takes in his hand a lump of sticky sugar and ground rice and rolls it out between his palms till it is four inches long; this he lays on the cookie and rolls all up together. About these stalls children of assorted ages, from six to sixteen, flock like moths around a candle, and the small coin of the realm is quickly finding its way out of the purses in the children's girdles to the pile of copper before each vendor. 
    During this and later years, however, I made more than one visit to the castle, when it was quite deserted, and explored every nook and corner of its halls and garrets. In one of the rooms of the keep a fine display of old armour is preserved. Several suits that belonged to the Daimyo are magnificent examples of the Japanese armourers' art. They are made of many small strips of iron, coated with vermilion lacquer and fastened together with leather thongs and silken cords. His helmets, kabuto, have immense horns or wings—like those on the winged cap of Mercury, only much larger—and between them hangs an enormous white plume, which, when in use, must have fallen well below his eyes. There are swords and spears of such workmanship and mounting as to delight the soul of any one who loves such things, and many other valuable and interesting relics of the old-time days.
    The keep, or what is usually called the "castle," was never at any time the residence of the Daimyo. It was simply a stronghold to which he and his family retreated as a last resource when driven to bay; and it was made out of uncemented stone, each block being cut to fit exactly amongst its neighbours. Within the castle compound, near the keep, there is a belfry with a fine old bronze bell, whose tone is of the sweetest and can be heard many miles away when the air is still. The compound is protected by a deep, dry moat, between high walls, and is crossed by drawbridges similar to those of our own feudal times.
    Enclosed within the castle precincts, also, there were formerly charming houses where the Daimyo and his family dwelt, but these were destroyed before the Emperor interfered. The views from some of them must have been exceedingly beautiful, for the panorama overlooking the gardens below and Lake Biwa, with its numerous islands, and away over the rice-fields to the purple mountains, is one long to remember.
    The largest of all these Japanese feudal strongholds was Ōsaka castle, the keep and buildings of which were burnt during the revolutionary struggles in 1868. Its walls, however, remain, and can certainly claim front rank among the mural wonders of the world.
    To quote from the Letters of Will Adams, that brave Kentish navigator who was the first Englishman to see Japan, and who in all his words and actions was such a gallant gentleman: "The stones are great, of an excellent quarry, and are cut so exactly to fit the place where they are laid, that no mortar is used, but onely earth cast betweene to fill up voyd creuises if any be."
    Nobody could accuse the modest sailor of exaggeration, for some of the granite blocks in the castle walls are forty feet in length and ten feet high, and are said to be eight feet thick. The moat is in proportion to the leviathan stones in the walls; it varies from 250 to 360 feet in width.
    I may perhaps be pardoned for intruding here an account of an incident that occurred when I visited Ōsaka castle in 1903, the year before the late war began. I had set up my camera by the moat to make a photograph, when I noticed some soldiers watching me from the walls. They disappeared and came back again with some more; then they all retreated from view. Just afterwards I saw a commotion by the drawbridge; an officer and a number of men engaged in a discussion were carefully observing me. The officer then gave some instructions, and a squad of men marched over the bridge and along the moat-side in my direction. When they reached me, one of them, who spoke excellent English, thus addressed me:
    "You must excuse me, but I must arrest you. It is forbidden to sketch the castle."
    I therefore excused him and submitted to the inevitable, and was conducted, camera, cases, and all, into the castle.

HIKONÉ

There I was given to understand by a sergeant that I had committed a serious offence in attempting to photograph the walls, and on my War Office permits being examined it was pointed out that although many other fortified areas were included in my permission to use a camera, Ōsaka was omitted. As Ōsaka is only a garrison town, and possesses no fortifications, I had not thought it necessary to stipulate for it in my request for the privilege of photographing. I explained this to my interrogator. He had, however, no power to release me until another officer came, and I was detained in the guard-room for several hours—the butt for the wit of the men, whose veneer of courtesy quickly rubbed off when they found they had the whip-hand of a foreigner for the time being.
    Finally an officer, quite a young man, arrived and cross-examined me. After asking my name and nationality—both of which were clearly defined in my permit—he demanded to know if I were a Russian. On my assuring him that I was not, and that my country was stated in the document which I had handed him, he asked me, "Are you quite sure you are not a Russian?"
    I told him there was no shadow of doubt in my mind on the point; but this did not seem to convince him, for he plied the further question, "Who is your father?"
    Becoming a little nettled at such vacuous interrogations, I replied that he was the son of my grandfather and was a good many thousand miles away at the moment, and that I did not consider it necessary to draw him into the business at all, as I was quite able to take care of myself.
    After admonishing me, as he might have scolded a child, he graciously permitted me to go. In an hour I returned to the castle, and, handing my card to the sergeant of the guard, requested him to send it in to the Commandant. This he did, and I had the pleasure of being received and entertained with wine and cigars, and afterwards being shown all over the castle enclosure by the courteous old gentleman, much to the chagrin of the lieutenant who had questioned me so ridiculously, and who, it seemed, was the Commandant's aide-de-camp. Japan is no exception to other countries in respect of the officious-ness sometimes assumed by underlings.
    To return, however, to Hikoné, a very favourite amusement of the Japanese "upper crust," when visiting the province of Ōmi, is to go to a spot on the shores of Lake Biwa, near where the Seiri-gawa runs into it, and there watch the fishermen drag a net. There is a long stretch of shingly beach, where small tea-houses are to be found. In these houses those who seek this form of diversion sit and picnic, as they watch the fishermen get out a net of enormous length and take it out into the lake. It requires several boats to pull it, and an hour or more to cover an area sufficient to ensure a good catch. The net is then drawn in to the shore near the tea-houses, amidst much excitement from the children and ladies of the party, who select from the spoils such fish as they desire, which are cooked and eaten on the spot. The fishermen will not take out a net for less than twenty yen (two pounds sterling), so that the amusement is a somewhat expensive one unless several visitors combine together to defray the cost.
    The pleasure-seekers, whether they come to see the fishing or the castle, never fail to visit the gardens, for above everything else the Japanese love a garden. Consequently there is seldom a day when the bright kimonos of geisha cannot be seen like pretty butterflies flitting amongst the trees. In the summer evenings the sound of their songs and the twanging of their samisens ring merrily over the lake; and as they sit, with shoji open, watching the fire-flies flashing across the water, it needs little effort of imagination to turn the gay beauties into the dainty Japanese ladies who lived here in the old-time days.

CHAPTER XVIII

KAMAKURA AND ENOSHIMA

The city of Kamakura owes its fame to Yoritomo, the founder of the Shogunate, who chose it for his capital in 1192.
    For generations prior to that time the high-spirited aristocracy of Japan, tired of the effeminacy of the Mikado's court, had seethed with impatient desire for more manly dominion. Eventually this unrest broke out into open warfare between the two greatest families in the land—the Taira and Minamoto clans—and during the latter half of the eleventh and the whole of the twelfth centuries the heads of these clans alternately rose to almost Imperial power, as the fortunes of war favoured, or went against, one or the other of them.
    Yoritomo, a scion of the great house of Minamoto, was born in 1147, and thirty-eight years later the vendetta of his house with the Taira family, which had filled a hundred and fifty years with bloodshed, culminated in the battle of Dan-no-ura, which was fought on the Inland Sea near Shimonoseki. This conflict, in which Yoritomo completely exterminated his rivals and their whole army, "putting even women and children to the sword,'' is the most famous in mediaeval history, and, like the tale of the Forty-seven Ronins, is one of which the Japanese never tire.
    In 1192 Yoritomo established himself as Shogun at Kamakura; and from that time, until the final restoration of the Mikado to full power in 1867, a dual system of government existed—the real reins of power being held by the militant Shogun, whilst the peace-loving Mikado was the nominal head of the State at Kyoto.

ON TOKYO BAY

    The name of Yoritomo, great as it is in the annals of Japan, is yet one of the most hated in the history of the land. But his crushing victory over his enemies, even though he went to such terrible extremes, is in no way responsible for this feeling. The odium in which he is held is due to his inhuman treatment of the popular hero Yoshitsuné. For his fearful vengeance he had grounds enough, but for his inhumanity to Yoshitsuné he had none. Yoshitsuné was his half-brother by the famous court beauty Tokiwa Gozen, the favourite concubine of their father Yoshitomo. When Yoritomo was a boy of twelve, and Yoshitsuné but a baby in arms, the Taira clan were predominant, and their menace developed into a massacre in which no quarter was given, so that the Minamoto were threatened with extinction. At this point in Japanese history there occurred one of those dramatic incidents which later entailed the forfeit of thousands of lives. Tokiwa escaped from the massacre with her sons; but Kiyomori, the leader of the Taira—a crafty and tyrannical autocrat, who made every beautiful woman he fancied serve his pleasure—numbered among his captives Tokiwa's mother, for whose ransom he would accept only the surrender of Tokiwa and her children. Filial duty being the greatest of Japanese virtues, he knew well that the daughter would sacrifice herself to save her mother.
    On hearing of her mother's capture, Tokiwa, who was in hiding under the care of a merciful and pitying Taira soldier, at once decided to yield herself up, and appeared before Kiyomori, appealing by her beauty that he would spare her mother and her children. Unfortunately for his kinsmen and their offspring as yet unborn—for he himself died before the vengeance fell—Kiyomori granted her request, on condition that she submitted to his embraces.
    Twenty-six years later the historic battle of Dan-no-ura, and the complete extermination of the rival faction, was the penalty exacted by Yoritomo for this dishonour of his mother.
    Yoshitsuné was his elder brother's right hand in the fight; and it is said the laurels of victory were really his, for it was he who, by his braver, stronger, and kinder nature, was beloved by every one, and who thereby gained support for his brother in the great position which the latter filled. This ever-growing popularity Yoritomo feared, and planned his brother's destruction; but Yoshitsuné escaped, and fled to Northern Japan with his faithful henchman Benkei, the companion of his boyhood. Yoritomo's spies pursued the pair, and one account says that they were treacherously murdered on the banks of the Koromo river in Yezo. Another account states that when they found all was lost they disembowelled themselves. Both reports, however, agree that Yoshitsuné's head was sent to his brother at Kamakura, preserved in a tub of saké; and to this day the hero is worshipped as a god by the Ainu aborigines in the northern island.
    Though Kamakura was once the first city of the land, and the capital of the Shoguns for over two hundred and fifty years, it is now but a shadow of its bygone greatness. It can still, however, show many famous buildings to attest its former glory. Its onetime population of over a million has shrunk to but a few hundred souls; yet no other city in Japan can boast a more stirring record. In its day the city was the scene of constant strife. Over and over again it rose from ashes, for it was repeatedly sacked; and tidal waves devastated it utterly more than once. These disasters and cataclysms the city survived, but as Yedo in turn became the Shogun's capital and rose to prosperity, Kamakura fell into ruin, until to-day it is little more than a pretty hamlet.
    One of Kamakura's finest sights is the Hachiman temple, which was rebuilt in 1828 after a conflagration seven years previously. Hachiman is the Chinese name under which the Emperor O-Jin—who on his death in A.D. 313 was deified as the God of War—is worshipped. The shrines are most beautifully situated on the side of a wooded hill, with an avenue of stately old pine-trees, in which the ravages of time and tempest have left many gaps, leading straight up to the temple stairways from the seashore. In this avenue are three very fine old stone torii, whose simple lines and dignified proportions have a severe and solemn beauty, harmonising perfectly with the restfulness of the stone-bordered lotus-ponds and bridges and broad flights of stone steps in the temple grounds. They were wonderful artists, as well as architects, who could so plan the approaches to these old Japanese sanctuaries that one cannot help feeling subdued and deeply impressed by their influence long before the temples themselves are reached.
    At the base of the great main stairway at the end of all these torii, bridges, and lotus-ponds, there is a giant old icho tree, which is believed to be over a thousand years of age. Whether it has the power to spray water from its leaves in the event of a conflagration, like its mate in the Nishi Hongwanji temple at Kyoto, tradition does not say; probably it has not, since it allowed some of the buildings to burn a hundred years ago.
    I once visited this temple of the god, who understands so well his business, the day after the news of the fall of Port Arthur, during the late war, was received. Its usually almost deserted avenues and stairways were thronged with people. Young men and maidens, old men and women, and children of every class of society, with one accord were visiting O-Jin's shrine to return thanks for the victory he had vouchsafed to the Japanese arms. It was a stirring sight, as for an hour I watched them. Quietly they came, and quietly they went away. There was no elation in their bearing, for, in this their hour of triumph, deadly sinking fear was gnawing at their hearts. These were fathers, mothers, wives, brothers, and children of those gallant souls who, across the seas in a foreign land, were giving their lives for Emperor, home, and country; and as yet many knew not whether their dear ones had fallen in the strife. This only they knew, that success had been gained at terrible cost; and my heart ached for those gentle wives and aged parents, who, with humble mien, and heads bowed in agonies of suspense, flocked to the War God's shrine to pray.
    A few months later I stood on 203-metre Hill at Port Arthur. As I looked over its scarred and shell-torn slopes, and across the surrounding hills and valleys, they were furrowed with trenches as far as the eye could reach, and littered with the broken impedimenta of war, whilst four great battleships, two fine cruisers, and a fleet of smaller craft lay sunk in the harbour, their upper works rising above the waves. Near me a long trench had been filled in, and at each end of it there was a post with the simple inscription in Japanese, "A hundred soldiers of Japan are buried here." Close to it there was another trench, and the inscription, nailed to a cross, was in Russian, "Here lie a hundred faithful soldiers of the Czar." There were many such trenches, and the air was filled with a nauseating stench from the buried corpses.

A LOTUS POND

    Friend and foe lay side by side in death, and as I stood with bared head on that historic ground, a lump rose in my throat as I thought of the scene I had witnessed at the War God's shrine at Kamakura. I thought of those sweet wives widowed, and those gentle old folk bereaved of perhaps their only sons and breadwinners. I thought of countless Japanese homes bereft; of mothers, widows, and sweethearts sorrowing in silent agony; of wrinkled grandmothers and stooping grandfathers bending in mute anguish before the household shrine—their hearts rent with sorrow, yet swelling with pride, for, though grief be bitter, it was sweet to have bred sons who scoffed at death and suffering when the Reaper's scythe was whetted on the stone of honour.
    During the war with Russia a great deal was written by gushing correspondents about Japanese soldiers being eager for death, and their wives and parents sending them forth hoping that they might die for their country. Such articles were written only by men who were in Japan for the first time, who neither understood the people nor the language, and who allowed their own enthusiasm for a picturesque land and people to distort the facts. It is impossible for any one, without years of experience among the Japanese, to understand anything of their inner nature; and many foreigners, who have spent a lifetime in the land, admit they are little nearer to comprehending the Japanese heart than when they first came. Though I have talked with numerous parents, and with numbers of Japanese soldiers—at home, and in the field, and in the hospital—I have never met a Japanese soldier who wanted to die, and I never met any father, or mother, or wife so inhuman as to hope that their son or husband might be killed.
    Life is just as sweet to the Japanese soldier as to any other, and perhaps sweeter than to many, since he lives in such a paradise on earth. He is naturally anxious, therefore, to prolong that life as much as possible. Like any other soldier, he wants to kill as many of the enemy as he can, but he hopes to keep his own life safe, and body intact, in doing so. He does not fear death, and he will even invite it by his daring; but he does not court it, for he is far too sensible to forget for a moment that it is live men, and not dead ones, who win battles.
    In the old days all the most famous metal-workers lived at Kamakura, and it was here they cast the finest of the many statues of Buddha in Japan. The Daibutsu, or Great Buddha, has passed through many vicissitudes in its eventful history, but never was the danger of annihilation more menacing than when an American visitor, whose scent for a business deal was keener than his reverence for ancient monuments, offered thirty thousand dollars for it, as material for the melting-pot. Though the offer was more rational than the proposal to transport Stonehenge across the Atlantic, it was fortunately declined, and Japan's greatest work of art was thus saved from an ignominious end for the praise and prayers of future generations.
    As a connecting link with the past the Daibutsu is certainly a substantial one, though the Japanese measurements as given in Murray's Handbook are much exaggerated. Every writer on Japan has accepted the Japanese figures without question, and they have frequently been quoted. A very cursory examination of the photograph, however, will prove the guide-book figures incorrect. It was made with a sixteen-inch lens from a distance of fifty yards, so that there is no distortion. The distance from knee to knee is quoted as thirty-five feet eight inches—which is correct. The height is given as forty-nine feet seven inches, but it is really almost exactly the same as the length from knee to knee. The length of the face is given as eight feet five inches, which is about right. This is approximately a sixth of the stated height, whereas, as the photograph clearly shows, the face is almost one-fourth of the total height of the figure, not including the stone pedestal. The width of face from ear to ear is said to be seventeen feet nine inches, more than double the length; but the length and width of face are very nearly identical. I have often estimated the height of the figure, when inspecting it, as about thirty-six feet, and an examination of the photograph confirms these figures. The height as given by the Japanese, and quoted by Murray's Handbook, is an exaggeration of nearly fourteen feet.
    The eyes are said to be of pure gold, and the wisdom boss on the forehead composed of thirty pounds of silver. This information may, or may not, be more reliable than the measurements. Who can say? But through the narrow slits between the nearly closed lids such parts of the eyes as can be seen appear to be of dark green bronze, like the rest of the figure.
    It is not, however, by mere bulk that the Daibutsu impresses, but by the truly wonderful manner in which it symbolises the teaching of the Buddhist faith; the pose is no less beautiful than the expression, although no photograph can ever do justice to the latter. There is something infinitely sad in the gentle drooping ot the head, but to realise its beauty to the full one must stand near and look up into the face. To do so is to feel subdued and crushed by the infinite compassion, and peace, and understanding, written in the serene and tranquil countenance.
    Four of the works of man in the East have left deeper impressions on my mind than any others. They are the Shwé Dagon Pagoda at Rangoon, the Taj Mahal at Agra, the Great Wall of China, and the Kamakura Daibutsu.
    About the Shwé Dagon—that tapering golden finger piercing the turquoise sky by the shining Irrawaddy—there is a delicious dream-like atmosphere, as one listens to its thousand tiny gongs, all tinkling in the heavily incensed air, and sees the fairest maids of Burma clasp their hands in prayer at its foot each evening as the sun goes down. The Taj Mahal—that love-tale in marble and rare stones—pearl of India's buildings, and mirror of a great king's heart, seems also like some palace of a world of dreams. Before the Great Wall one has an indescribable feeling of awe, as the eye follows its interminable meanderings across the barren hills and sun-baked wastes of China. But the Daibutsu—that wondrous embodiment of Buddhist ideals—seems to breathe the very atmosphere of holiness, so subtly has the hand of man clothed it with serenity and spiritual calm.
    Although the name of the artist who designed it is unknown, none but a master could have conceived it, for every line of its moulding contributes to the great repose emanated by the figure. Yet the god is not in repose, for close scrutiny shows that the nearly closed eyes are watchful and alert, and the attitude is not that of ease, but of repression and self-control. It is Amida, the "Ideal of Boundless Light,'' wrapt in passionless calm, concentrated in the extinction of all earthly desire.
    At the top of a short flight of steps, approached by an avenue of pine-trees, in a beautiful garden with soft lawns, lotus-ponds, and sōtetsu palms, the image rests, like some great guardian spirit, "sitting for ever waiting for the world to die." For six and a half centuries the Daibutsu has stood the ravages of time, whilst everything in the valley about it perished. Twice (1369 and 1494) it has breasted, without injury, tidal waves which swept the great temple that sheltered it, and the city of Kamakura, off the earth.

AMIDA, THE BUDDHA

So immense a work was naturally not made in one piece. It dates from 1252, and was cast in seven separate layers, which were welded together and finished off with the chisel. Four centuries and more of exposure to the weather, since the temple was last destroyed, have mellowed the bronze to a beautiful brownish green. The temple in which the image was formerly enclosed was fifty yards square, and its roof was supported by sixty-three immense wooden pillars resting on stone bases, many of which may still be traced. For many years the priests have been collecting funds to rebuild the temple. It is to be hoped, however, that the money may be applied to some other purpose, for, even though the site is not an ideal one, the great image is far more impressive as it is, framed with palms and pines and cherry-trees, than it could ever be imprisoned in a building—judging by the effect achieved at Nara, where another and larger, though much inferior. Great Buddha is to be seen in the Todaiji temple.
    Owing to the silly and irreverent pranks of foreign visitors, who used to climb up on to the hands of the Daibutsu, it is now only with great difficulty that one can obtain anything better than surreptitious snapshots of it, unless one buys the stereotyped photographs sold by the priests. An elaborate formula must be gone through. Not only is the consent of the custodians necessary to set up a tripod, but one must go to them armed with a permit from the naval headquarters at Yokosuka before they will consider the matter. Some time is necessary to secure this concession, and even then a substantial donation must be made to the building fund before the priests will endorse the naval document with their acquiescence. Not that there is anything to grumble at in this, for the authorities are, of course, justified in making any terms they please. If one does not desire to make studies of one's own, one can go to any photographer's in Yokohama, and there buy, for 20 sen, a photograph of the Daibutsu as proof of what spectacles one's countrymen sometimes make of themselves when abroad. Many of the negatives of these photographs were taken ten or twenty years ago, when conditions were less stringent; and as the courteous priests then permitted liberties, which are now denied, many visitors abused the privilege by clambering all over the image, which to the Japanese is sacred, and were even photographed, often in ridiculous poses, on its hands and arms. The wonder is that the Japanese do not insist on every foreigner carrying a properly verified certificate of sanity before allowing him to go anywhere at all.
    It is a remarkable thing that some people, when abroad, seem to treat the natives of the lands they visit as creatures quite apart from fellow human beings, and conduct themselves as they would never dream of doing at home. I once saw, at Kamakura, a visitor and his wife, both of whom were past middle age and old enough to know better, standing before a Japanese policeman and discussing him as if he were graven in stone. The policeman tried hard to look dignified as he was carefully examined and commented on from the peak of his cap to his well-polished boots, and he stood the ordeal well until the man took hold of the hilt of his (the policeman's) sword, and drew it from the scabbard, before the latter realised that such an act was contemplated. The officer snatched his weapon back, not having the slightest idea what the visitor meant to do, and replaced it in its sheath without a word, though his eyes were blazing with anger. No one unfamiliar with Japan could imagine the magnitude of such an insult, for there is plenty of the old spirit remaining, and many of the police are of samurai blood. To the samurai of old even so much as to touch his sword would have meant a matter of life or death, and as for drawing his blade unasked—such a thing was unknown. An interested crowd of spectators laughed at the policeman's embarrassment, for he was quite at a loss what to do—courtesy kept him from interfering with a foreigner accompanied by a woman, though he evidently regarded him as not responsible for his acts. An American friend, with whom I had watched the whole incident, went to the officer's assistance at this juncture, and when he had told his compatriot what he thought of him, in language un-garnished with any flowers of speech, and asked him how a New York constable would be likely to treat any inquisitive foreigner who tried to snatch his baton away, the curious ones were glad enough to flee from the laughter of the crowd (who had understood the meaning of the altercation, if not the language in which it was couched), and the policeman, grateful at being helped out of an awkward situation, thanked my companion with many salutes and repetitions of "arigato gozaimas" ("I thank you very much").
    To return to the Daibutsu, he is hollow, of course, and one may go through a door cut in the bronze lotus-petals on which he sits, and climb a ladder to his head, in the back of which there is a window. There is also a shrine inside, dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy; but it is better to leave all this unseen, as it is too disenchanting.
    High on the slopes of one of the most densely wooded of Kamakura's lovely hills, facing the morning sun, and commanding a glorious view, stands Hase-dera, sacred to Kwannon, Goddess of Mercy. In spring-time its heavily-thatched old roofs and balconies peep out from a veritable forest of cherry-blossoms; while if you go in autumn, the hillsides above, below, and all around the temple burn with crimson maple leaves. Long flights of grey old steps, all spotted with moss and lichens, lead upwards, and from the weather-beaten and time-worn balconies one looks over rice-fields, covering the land like mosaic work, to yellow towering cliffs. Away to the right the mighty Pacific spends its force in a line of foam on a crescent bay of silver sand. All is beautiful. Everything is peace.
    An old priest came out to greet me, and to show me what there was to see. At the entrance to the temple my attention was arrested by a printed notice in English. The English was so perfect, and the language used so beautiful, that I quote it herewith in toto:—

Proposed Restoration of Hasédera.

It is my earnest desire, and the one wish and object of my whole life, to put this ancient temple (which is dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy) into good and lasting repair, and towards that end I have worked steadfastly for many years, but the money collected is far below the total sum required, and, owing to the poorness of my parish, the restoration fund accumulates very slowly. I therefore appeal to and entreat all friends, whether Japanese or Foreign, entering this Sanctuary, to assist me in proportion to their means with funds to restore and preserve an Historical Landmark and Church to Prosperity; in order that, when time shall have blended the present living with the bygone dead, Hasedera may still stand in Kamakura to point a moral to future generations, and to serve as a place for the Everlasting and Immutable Law whose doctrines, given to the world by the "Light of Asia," the blessed Sakya-muni, have pointed the way through many a dark and troublous age to the Holy Path and the Pure Land, and guided the feet of countless weary pilgrims to the "Haven of Eternal Peace in Nirvana."

A PRIEST OF BUDDHA

    Buddhism is no narrow creed confined to one community or nation. It is the Law of the Universe, which was before beginning, and is for ever without end: it is the Law of Cause and Effect, and it teaches of a Divine and Transcendent Power in Nature, vast and boundless as eternal space, and yet governing the most trivial circumstances of men's lives, and providing means of Salvation and eternal happiness, benevolent and welcome as light in a dark night.
    We adore thee, O eternal Buddha.
                        Meiji 25th year 5th month (May 1892). 
                        The Superior (Minister of the Jodo Sect).

    The image of Kwannon stands in an apartment behind the altar. For a fee of 50 sen the old priest conducted me into this chamber, in which the darkness was Cimmerian until he struck a match and lighted a candle. For a moment or two I looked for the image in vain. I could make nothing out of what little could be seen. I then found that what I was looking at was only its feet, and raised my gaze gradually until it was lost in the darkness above. Lighting another candle, and placing them both in iron frames, the priest then drew them gradually up the figure, lighting its different parts with weird effect, until they finally stopped before the face, thirty feet above us. In that narrow chamber the goddess was of truly colossal size, and must surely be most awe-inspiring to the pilgrims who come here, and whose faith is the light of their lives. To them the seance must be almost overpowering.
    The figure is said to be carved out of a single bole of a camphor-tree, lacquered and gilded. One of the huge hands holds a staff of shakudo, and the other is uplifted, holding a lotus-bud in the fingers, with a rosary hanging over the arm. The image is in excellent preservation, and, of course, legend has been busy with it. It is one of a pair carved by the gods, which they threw into the sea. This one floated into Sagami Bay, and was brought to Kamakura by two fishermen 1185 years ago.
    The ever-busy Kōbō Daishi carved an image of Daikoku, the God of Wealth, which squats on the right of a gilded Kwannon on the temple altar. The work is rough, but very curious, all the effects being gained with single slashes of the knife. There is also a pair of very fine old Ni-Ō—well bespattered with the spit-balls of the faithful—which, curiously enough, are inside the temple, a most unusual place to find them. Outside the sanctuary the naughty old Binzuru expiates his indiscretion in disfigured and meditative solitude, as at Kyomizu in Kyoto.
    There are many more fine old temples at Kamakura: Enkakuji, with a monster bell; Kōmyōji, with its sixteen pools where Kōbō Daishi bathed; Kenchōji, with Yoritomo's war-drum, magnificent old juniper-trees, crumbling buildings, and still stately gateway; and Ennoji, with its celebrated image of Emma, the god of the Buddhist hells. This figure is a frightful thing, which perhaps is not surprising seeing that it was executed by one Unkei, a carver of gods, who, having died, was summoned in due course before the Satanic deity, who expressed much dissatisfaction at the portraits Unkei had made of him, and commanded him, now that he had seen him, to return to earth and carve a faithful likeness. So Unkei returned and executed this image, which is, of course, a faithful portrait, and is known as "the work of Unkei redivivus.'' The image is kept behind curtains, which the priests draw back suddenly, disclosing the hideous god in a fine tantrum, with gleaming eyes and teeth, and malignant dark red face; but he is no more awe-inspiring than the Hindu Ganesh.
    The advent of the foreigner has been a godsend to Kamakura. Thousands of transient visitors come annually to see the Daibutsu and other shrines, and many English and American merchants, as well as Japanese, have villas there, to which they fly in summer from the heat of Yokohama and Tokyo. Not that Kamakura is a cool place ; but the frequent breezes from the Pacific, and the ocean view and splendid bathing, even if the water is tepid, offer change and relaxation from the greater heat of the cities. There are excellent hotels in both native and foreign style, and altogether Kamakura is a most delightful place to spend the summer in, if business ties prevent one going up to the lakes which lie farther afield. Kamakura is not an hour's journey from Yokohama, but Hakoné, the nearest lake, is a good six hours away.
    Electric cars run the four miles from Kamakura to Katasé for the benefit of those who have no time to spare, but at every season of the year the walk is lovely. The road skirts the glistening sands of Sagami Bay, where great curling waves come rolling in from the broad Pacific's purple hazes, and, when the sun is shining, the green transparent waves are all shot and streaked with blue, as, dragging great ribbons of kelp within them, they raise their crested manes to dash them into snowy foam upon the strand.
    This road teems with historical associations. At one place Nitta Yoshisada, a captain in the army of the deposed Mikado Go-Daigo, marching on Kamakura to attack the forces of the Regent Tokoyori—head of the Hōjō clan, who had usurped the Imperial power—found his passage barred by cliffs, defended by the Hōjō army and a line of war-junks lying a few hundred yards off shore. Nothing daunted, Yoshisada addressed a prayer to the Sea Gods for help, and, drawing his sword, cast it as an offering to the waves. Thereupon the waters parted, just as the Red Sea did for the hosts of Israel, and Yoshisada's army marched in triumph into Kamakura. This dramatic episode has become immortal in song, and is to be found illustrated in every phase of Japanese art and craft.
    Just before Katasé is reached there is a little village called Koshigoé. At this spot Nichiren, the Buddhist saint, miraculously escaped death by execution, to which he had been sentenced by Tokoyori for his excess of zeal. Kneeling upon the silver strand, and repeating the formula "Namu-mio-ho-ren-gé-kio "—which is the invocation of his sect to this day—upon his rosary, he bowed his head for the executioner's sword. The headsman raised his blade to give the two-handed blow, when a blinding flash of lightning rent the heavens, breaking the sword in pieces and striking dead the headsman, whilst the holy priest remained uninjured. Hōjō Tokoyori, in his Kamakura palace, heard the crashing thunders, and saw the lightning flash in the cloudless sky. Terrified by these signs of the anger of the gods, he sent a messenger with a pardon for his victim, whilst at the same moment a runner was despatched to the palace from the execution ground to ask for further instructions. The two men met at a little stream which crosses the road, and which to this day is called "the River of Meeting"; and every Japanese child who passes it is taught the whole seven-hundred-years-old story.
    Katasé is a little fishing village of no greater importance than hundreds like it round the coasts. It is not, however, to study the fisherman's life that thousands come here annually, but to pass on to the sacred isle of Enoshima, one of the loveliest spots in all the Japanese archipelago. In this land of fascinating fable, where every pretty spot is enshrouded in mystery and legend, it is only right that Enoshima should have received its fair share of such lore. Like many other isles, especially beloved, it sprang out of the ocean-bed one night, about twelve hundred years ago, during violent contortions of the great fish, on the back of which Japan rests, and whose wriggling causes the earth-quakes.

THE TREE AND THE WAVE

This particular upheaval was due to the wrath of Benten, the Goddess of Luck, who visited the spot to put an end to the ravages of a fierce dragon which dwelt in a submarine cave and devoured the maidens of the near-by village of Koshigoé. On the goddess appearing over the spot the sea-bed rose to meet her. Descending from the clouds, she met and pacified the monster, and seems to have found him much more amiable than she expected, for she forthwith married him. To this day a deep cave at the water level, which is sacred to her name, bears witness to the virtue of the story, and in a hundred forms of art you may see Benten and her dragon soaring away in the clouds. What further proofs than these could any rational folk require of the truth of the story .? This incident in the life of the goddess has been dealt with in pleasant variety by the artists, but the most up-to-date of the changes that I have seen rung on it was a large poster depicting the deity and her dragon mate sitting on a cloud, exchanging broad smiles of satisfaction over the possession of a bottle of Japanese lager beer.
    Enoshima is enchanting enough, however, without its charming vesture of legend. A long, and very fragile, wooden bridge connects the island with the neighbouring shore. This footway is usually out of repair, in order, I suspect, that the boatmen may earn a living, more easily than by the sea god's bounty, by ferrying visitors across. You enter the holy isle through a fine old bronze torii at the water's edge, with tortoises climbing up wave-washed rocks carved at the bases of the uprights. It is a steep path to the summit, but as interesting as steep, for the road for half the distance is lined with curio-shops and quaint inns. This is the place to come for the wonders of Japanese conchology and the strange things of the sea. There are shops where shells of every imaginable kind and colour are displayed, and corals and rope-sponges too; and you may buy shell toys and ornaments, and pretty paintings on the halves of iridescent bivalves, and even natural sprays of cherry-trees with the tiniest and pinkest of testaceans cunningly clustered to form the petals of the blossoms. There are monster crabs, too, fearful-looking creatures—with small bodies, but with claws that measure ten feet and more from tip to tip—of a species which has been known to attack living human beings and kill and devour them. These gigantic crustaceans are the bogeys of the island children, who believe that they emerge from the sea at night and scour the rocks, searching for little girls and boys.
    On the hillside above the shops there are maple woods, with tortuous paths under red old pines; and at the summit of the island there are restaurants and teahouses, with glorious vistas through the bristly branches of the trees which lean at impossible angles over the cliffs, as if courting destruction in the waves below.
    On the southern horizon Ōshima's ever-active volcano sends leaden smoke wreaths to the clouds, and on the bosom of the flashing ocean the sails of junks and sampans gleam "like blown white flowers at sea.'' Fuji-san in the west is a fairer flower still, for the base is lost in purple haze, above which the snowy petals hang like some great bell-shaped blossom in the sky. The inhabitants believe that a subterranean passage connects the holy island with the sacred mountain.
    The proper thing to do at Enoshima is to have one of the fish dinners for which the place is noted. You can have it at the Kinkiro, or some other of the excellent inns; or if you prefer, you can keep your boots on and have it served in some quaint look-out on the verge of a beetling precipice, with glorious beauty all round you. Some of the concoctions are not tempting to the foreign palate; but there is delicious pickled cuttle-fish; and a kind of whelk—broiled in butter, in the shell, over a charcoal fire—is a delicacy which will please the most fastidious taste if prejudice against so plebeian-looking a dish can be overcome sufficiently to try it. The Bordeaux snails, so esteemed in Paris, are delicious when one musters up the courage to try them, but they cannot be compared with the Enoshima whelks.
    Down on the rocks below, the wrinkled veterans of the island earn a living by waylaying visitors to the Dragon's Cave, and inducing them to throw small coins into the water, which are caught as they slowly sink. They also dive for shell-fish, and infallibly bring one up from the clear green depths. Noticing that every time a diver plunged in he first retired to the cave for a moment, I became suspicious, and, stopping one old fellow, just as he prepared to plunge, found he had a crayfish concealed in his breech-clout. This exposure of the trick caused uproarious merriment amongst them all.
    One day a friend and I resolved to play them a deception. We went down to the rocks to have a swim, and a small crowd gathered round to watch us. The sea was ruffled by a breeze, so that one could not discern anything below the surface. As we dived in we each took a long, deep breath, and, swimming under water, came up behind a rock about thirty feet away. We peeped over the top and saw the crowd peering down into the water where we had disappeared. A minute went by and they became anxious. Two minutes passed, and still we did not reappear. When three minutes had gone, several of the divers plunged into the water to find us, and all were beside themselves with excitement, believing us to be drowned. We allowed another minute to pass and then slipped quietly back into the water behind our sheltering rock, and, going deep down, came up again, puffing and blowing, under their very eyes. They never suspected the truth, and followed us back to the village telling every one about the feat. Months afterwards when a friend visited Enoshima it was related to him how two foreigners had, one day, gone into the water and stayed below ten minutes, whereas we had not really been under water much more than a minute altogether.
    The Dragon's Cave is not at all spectacular. It is nearly 400 feet deep, about 30 feet wide at the mouth, and narrows to but a yard or so at the end. A slender platform of plank and bamboo is fastened to the wall, along which to walk, and beneath it the waves surge in and demolish the staging altogether when the Storm-god rages and lashes the sea to fury. A few little shrines, before which the guide lights sputtering candles, are all that now do honour to the glory of the goddess Benten.

THE GREAT BELL OF CHIO-IN
By Nagatsuné.

THE ESCAPE OF YOSHITSUNÉ
By Iwamoto Konkwan.

CHAPTER XIX

THE OLD SWORDSMITHS OF KAMAKURA

Among the relics of Yoritomo, the first of the Shoguns, preserved in the temple of Hachiman, the God of War, at Kamakura there may be seen a beautiful, gleaming, flashing strip of steel, before which every Japanese bows his head and reverently draws his breath between his teeth, for it is regarded as something almost sacred. It is a sword which has helped to carve Japanese history; a blade by Masamuné, the greatest swordsmith the world has ever produced. Soldiers, armourers, and all who live for the art of war are Hachiman's special proteges; and the sword, the weapon of old Japan, was so venerated in the old days that in the interesting study its history affords much insight can be gained into the feelings which sway the Japanese mind.
    In 1876, the eighth year of Meiji—the Enlightened Era—the Imperial Edict went forth that from the ist of January 1877 the wearing of the sword would be a punishable offence. That the proclamation was received without a murmur speaks volumes for the unanimity and enthusiasm with which the Japanese, to a man, had come to welcome the new order of things. It was the signal that the very last remaining threads of the old fabric of feudalism had snapped. Prior to that time every Japanese gentleman wore two swords, and his father had worn two before him; and his ancestors, for generations going back into hazy antiquity, had done likewise. The wearing of the sword was one of the oldest institutions of the land, yet such had been the moral effect of Commodore Perry's ships; the signing of the treaties; the opening of Yokohama, and the bombardments of Shimonoseki and Kagoshima; that, when the word went forth, not a protest was raised, not a blow was struck, not a murmur was heard throughout Japan. It was as if the people were dazed by the rapid sequence of events, which, like a strong flood-tide, was bearing them along on its bosom they knew not whither.
    It had been feared that the samurai would rise in revolt against this decree, which dispossessed them of the most precious insignia of their rank. To the amazement of all, however, they did not wait to be stripped by force; and, if they did not actually beat their swords into ploughshares and pruning-hooks, they at least cast them into their godowns, or sold to the curio-shops, unhesitatingly, weapons "that a few months before they would as soon have parted with as with life itself." *1
    "The sword is the living soul of the samurai." No less a person than the mighty lyeyasu framed the words. To wear it was the samurai s greatest privilege. Even as a tiny boy at school, struggling with intricacies of the Chinese ideographs, he wore a dirk in his girdle—for was not this the outward and visible sign of the proud indomitable spirit within, the external badge of the blood so blue that ran in his aristocratic veins? As he grew to man's estate not only did it serve to protect his life wherever he went—and in a land where the slightest breach of a rigid etiquette might hold a life as forfeit, there were times when death lurked in every shadow—but it served to protect what was dearer to him still, the life of his liege lord, and to fight the battles of the Daimyo to whom he owed allegiance.
    Seeing, then, that his sword was loved by the samurai as his own soul, it is not strange that the craft of the swordsmith was esteemed the highest in the land; and that those who were able to forge a blade which would stand every test without turning edge, gained for themselves high distinction, if not social position, and won renown in the annals of Japan far eclipsing that attained by any one in any other craft. The names of the greatest of these are as immortal on the scroll of fame as are those of Kōbō Daishi, the talented Buddhist saint; Yoshitsuné, the half-brother of Yoritomo; or Ōishi Kuranosŭki, the leader of the Forty-Seven Ronins—there is no schoolboy in Japan who does not know them.
    About the end of the thirteenth century Masamuné lived at Kamakura, and practised his craft. A highly-esteemed Japanese friend told me of an incident of the great sword-maker's life, which I relate as showing something of the heart of the man, hard and unrelenting as the steel he forged, and his temper, keen and flashing as his blades.
    Masamuné had a son who assisted him in his work, but whom he had enjoined never to pry too closely into his methods. The son, however, was of a curious and inquiring nature, and was continually searching for the key which would unlock his father's secrets. The swordsmith had forbidden him ever to put his hand into the water in which the blades were hardened. Thinking that here lay the solution to the mystery of the marvellously-tempered edge, which, before it was whetted, would rebound uninjured from a two-handed blow given by a strong man against cast iron, Masamuné the younger, one day whilst his father's back was turned, dipped his hand into the vessel which held the water to ascertain its temperature. At that moment the master, with an unfinished blade in his hand, turned round. Without a moment's hesitation he struck a crashing blow, from which his son only-escaped death by leaping aside. But though the blow missed the skull at which it was aimed, it severed the right arm at the shoulder; and to this day the son, who also rose to some distinction in the craft, is known in history as Hidari Masamuné or Left-Handed Masamuné.
    The names of the three other greatest sword-makers of Japanese history are Munechika, who flourished in the tenth century; Muramasa, towards the end of the fourteenth century; and Yoshimitsu, who was a contemporary of Masamuné. All the existing weapons which they made are now in public or private collections, and the domicile of every blade produced by the great masters is known. There are not many of them. Masamuné's output in particular was very small, for he broke every blade which did not please him. One might as reasonably expect to find a Masamuné blade in a curio-shop as look there for the egg of a Dodo or a Great Auk; yet I have heard a tourist, in all good faith, ask a curio-dealer in Kyoto if he would show him "some Masamuné swords, not too dear."
    If only he could have known the meaning of the courteous smile with which the negative answer was given!
    That narrow strip of flashing steel, at Kamakura, is probably now worth as much as a motor car.
    Other swords by the great masters may be seen at the military museum at Shokonsha, Tokyo. These old Japanese swords have no rivals in the world. They excel even the celebrated blades of Toledo. At the famous factory on the Tagus I have seen wondrous marvels of the cutler's art:

A SENNIN 
By Toshiyoshi.

THE "OLD COUPLE TAKASAGO"
By Hirotoshi.

blades of temper so true that they might be bent point to hilt and would spring back straight as before; and if you ran your eye along the razor edge you would find it neither swerved to left nor right by so much as the breadth of a single hair. I have seen there, also, a little round box into which was coiled what looked like a thick clock-spring. It had nothing to do with the movement of a clock, however, but could play sad havoc with the life of a man, for, on being released, it sprang out with an angry hiss, as if raging at the confinement in which it had been kept, into a beautiful sword, straight and true as an arrow.
    But the Japanese swords will not bend. They were made of soft magnetic iron combined with hard steel, and the heating for tempering was done in a charcoal furnace. The forging of a blade took sixty days to accomplish, and was always, in the case of renowned makers, accompanied by much etiquette, and even looked upon as a religious ceremony. When tempering the blade the smith donned a black cap; and in the process the back and sides of the blade were protected by clay, only half an inch or so being left exposed. The edge of this fireclay cover was moulded by each maker into a particular design, which, in the hardening, transferred itself to the metal. These patterns are now among the surest means of identifying an unsigned blade.
    General Terauchi, the Minister of War, and the late Prince Ito—whose magnificent collections of swords I had the honour of being shown by the owners in person—as they tenderly drew each blade from the simple sheath of plain hinoki-wood in which it was kept, would invariably draw my attention to the pattern of the tempered edge. There were designs of Fuji, and of pine-trees bending in the wind, and various landscape scenes, and so forth.
    A picture which will long live in my memory I witnessed through the kindness of Prince Gagarine, formerly Russian consul at Nagasaki. This gentleman's fine collection of swords and daggers and sword-guards was the first to arouse in me the desire to study the subject, and to possess some samples of my own. One afternoon, saying he would show me something not every one could see, he took me to the house of a friend. In a beautiful room of about thirty mats a dozen or more Japanese gentlemen of the old school were kneeling. They were all members of a sword club. Each had brought one of his treasures with him, carefully wrapped in a bag of yellow cloth, and, as each in turn slowly unwrapped and withdrew his weapon from its sheath, there was the making of a picture that would have held thousands spellbound at Burlington House could justice but have been done to it. As each blade was produced there was a chorus of approval and admiration from the bent heads, and every member in turn took it in his hands and let the light play along the tempered edge. There was much deep and erudite discussion, and I did not need to be told that these were men, who, forty years ago, held these weapons sacred and dearer than life itself.
    The Japanese literature of the sword is most voluminous. In the study of his beautiful country house at Oiso, where Prince Ito kept his sword-racks, I noticed that one end of the room was entirely covered with hundreds of volumes on shelves. "They are all books about swords ; it would take a lifetime to master them," the famous old statesman told me.
    As the weapon of old Japan was looked upon by its owner as his richest possession, and was loved by him as his own life, it is but natural that, in a land where art seems to be innate in every breast, the sword and its furnishings should have been considered suitable objects for the reception of embellishment in its most highly-skilled forms. "Artists of the highest attainments spared nothing to render it an article of the highest artistic value." *2
    "Daimios often spent extravagant sums upon a single sword, and small fortunes upon a collection. A samurai, however poor, would have a blade of sure temper and rich mountings, deeming it honourable to suffer for food that he might have a worthy emblem of his rank." *3
    There are no people in the world more conversant with the history, mythology, and legends of their country than the Japanese. The ordinary schoolboy in Japan could cover the average English schoolboy with the shame of crushing defeat if it came to a test of each's knowledge of the history and lore of his native land. This is because history forms one of the principal subjects in the school curriculum; and Japanese history is such a continuous record of incidents of self-sacrifice and sterling heroism, that artists have found in it most of the motives by which they have been inspired.
    At times Japanese mythology becomes almost as beautiful as that of the ancient Greeks, and the legends, which are woven about every famous place in the land, are so charming and pathetic that the study of them is an inexhaustible feast of high-spirited sentiment and poetic thought. Initiated into these fascinating mysteries at his mother's knee, the Japanese boy has seen them, and every episode of history, depicted so often in every phase of art, that, as the years pass by, they become so interwoven with his life as to seem an integral part of his own existence.
    Need one wonder, then, that artists so loved to depict their ideals of these things; and that craftsmen, skilled in the art of working in metals, put forth their finest efforts in applying them to the adornment of the sword?
    The blade; the tsuba, or hand-guard; the kashira, or cap of the handle; the fuchi, or oval ring at the base of the handle; the menuki, or small ornaments on either side of the handle (to afford a better grip); the kodzuka, or short dagger fitting into one side of the sword scabbard; the kogai, or skewer fitting into the opposite side (the purpose of which was to be left for identification in the body of the adversary slain); the kojira, or ferrule at the bottom of the sheath, were all found suitable bases upon which to work; and towards the end of the fifteenth century artists began to pay great attention to building upon these foundations. The tsuba, the largest of these pieces with the exception of the blade, is to the foreigner the most interesting. Indeed, there is nothing in the art of the land one may study with greater benefit than these little discs and ovals, for one may find illustrated on them the whole of the mythology, customs, legends, folklore, famous scenes, characteristics, and celebrated personages and events of the history of Japan.
    The metals used were of all kinds, but wrought iron and bronze were the favourites. The most interesting tsuba, from the standpoint of difficulties overcome, are those of wrought iron, as it was the hardest substance to work in; yet truly astounding results were achieved. The most beautiful are those of bronze alloyed with, and inlaid and overlaid with, the precious metals.
    It was a sine qua non that a good tsuba should be capable of standing, when mounted, a two-handed blow from a sword. The metal had need, therefore, to be of the best, for it was frequently carved and pierced into exceedingly delicate designs.

THE THREE SAGES
Artist unknown.

THE LEGEND OF MIO-NO-MATSUBARA
By Tsu Jinpo.

Not the least important item in its manufacture was the pickling to which it was subjected, when finished, to obtain the patina, a beautiful silky lustre. Sufficient here let it be to point out that, under this treatment, bronze, when alloyed with gold, produced a rich purplish-black called shakudo; when alloyed with silver it became a beautiful silver-grey, shibuichi. Under its influence the baser metals became soft to the touch and glossy as satin. By working with various metals and alloys; with gold of various shades, and by chasing, inlaying and overlaying, an artist was able to produce almost any effect he desired.
    In the zenith of its history Kamakura was the home of these and many other crafts, and the blades in the Hachiman temple are relics of those prosperous days. The reproductions of ornamental tsuba in these pages not only show well-known incidents of mythology, legend, and history, but illustrate the old art of Kamakura in many of its finest phases.
    A shibuichi tsuba by Nagatsuné, 1764, depicts a party of country-people visiting the Chio-in temple at Kyoto, quite overcome with wonder at the marvellous proportions of the great bell, one of the largest in Japan. The cherry-tree in bloom shows the season of the year, but that the wind is chill is betrayed by the fact that the rikisha-runner in the background draws his cloak tight about him. Observe the amusement of the mountebank with the monkey, at the amazement of the visitors. The tsuba is inlaid and overlaid at every possible spot with gold, silver, copper, and alloys. The artist's name on the notice-board is of gold on a copper ground, and the frame of the board is shakudo—black. It is a superb piece of metal-work.
    One of the most famous metal-workers of the eighteenth century was Iwamoto Konkwan (1743-1800). Wrought iron was the medium on which he mostly loved to demonstrate his skill. On a tsuba of this metal, superbly carved, he has depicted a very favourite incident in the life of a couple famous in Japanese history—Yoshituné, half-brother of the first Shogun Yoritomo, and Benkei, the strong, his quondam enemy, but afterwards his trusty henchman and inseparable companion. The lives of these two were a continuous record of daring and of heroic deeds of prowess which would fill volumes. They are here depicted endeavouring to escape to Yezo in disguise, with two of their generals, through Yoritomo's lines.
    Observe the characteristic touch in the overhanging cherry branch, which is sufficient to convey to the Japanese mind the vision of a lovely vale in springtime, thickly clothed with cherry-trees, pink with blossoms. Benkei, in front, has a deep-coloured copper face with silver eyes, and a dot of shakudo for the iris; and clothes of gold and shibuichi, Yoshitsuné, the third figure, has a face of silver, and a gold hat. The two servants are of iron, with copper hats. The cherry-blossoms are of gold and silver.
    Among the myths of Japan are the Sennin, "a very numerous and frequently-depicted set of personages, who can neither be properly called spirits, genii, or divinities. According to one authority they are persons who do not die, but who, when they reach old age, retire from the haunts of men for contemplation and to practise austerity." *4  On a wrought-iron tsuba by Tōshiyōshi, a Sennin named Tekki, who had the misfortune to be a beggar, but was gifted with the power to emit his spirit in miniature in bodily form out of his mouth, is depicted in the act of consoling himself for his poverty in this manner. Tekki's body, which is in high relief, is of shibuichi, his staff is of gold, and his saké bottle of shakudo.
    Hirotoshi has chosen a favourite art motive in the old man and woman so beautifully carved on a wrought-iron tsuba. These old people—the Philemon and Baucis of Japan—lived such a long and happy life together, in a village among the pines of Haruna province, that when they died their spirits entered into the trees—like the hamadyrads of the Greeks. Thus the pine-tree is the emblem of longevity, and is always present in miniature form at a wedding ceremony, typifying the hope that the wedded couple will attain to a mutual and happy old age. The old people are known as the "old couple Takasago," and the village where they lived, famous to-day for its fine view, was named after them. The old man's face is of shibuichi; the old woman's face of silver. The woman's dress and the man's cape are of overlaid gold.
    Many artists disdained to sign their work, deeming the individuality they displayed sufficient means for identification. Excellence, however, was universal amongst so many, that the classification of unsigned tsuba has become by no means easy as time has elapsed. This is the case with a most excellent unsigned specimen in wrought iron, inlaid with gold, silver, bronze, and copper, showing the great ethical teacher Confucius; Sakya Muni, the founder of Buddhism; and a Chinese sage named Lao-tsze (or Ro-shi as the Japanese call him)—the originator of the Taoist philosophy—engaged in a deep discussion over a jar of saké. Their expressions clearly show that their opinions difi'er as to its taste. Sakya Muni says it is sweet; Confucius thinks it sour ; whilst Ro-shi declares it is positively bitter. All, however, were agreed upon one point—that it was good. This, of course, is but an allegorical illustration of how the same moral principles may be interpreted in different ways, according to the conceptions of the teachers.
    An exceedingly fine tsuba in rich black shakudo, by Tsu Jinpo, illustrates the beautiful legend of Mio-no-matsu-bara.
    A fisherman finds a robe of feathers hanging on a tree and is about to carry it off, when a beautiful fairy appears and claims it. The fisherman declines to give it up until she dances before him one of the dances known only to the gods. This she does to an accompaniment of celestial music, and then flies away to the moon, her home. These simple touches, so characteristically Japanese—the net, the feather coat, and the fisherman looking upwards at the unseen fairy dancing in the air—are quite sufficient to convey the whole story, for every one knows it by heart. The tsuba has a gilt band round it, the birds are gold, the fisherman's face is silver-bronze, and the feather-coat is of gold and copper.

    1) B. H. Chamberlain.
    2) M. B. Huish.
    3) Griffis.
    4) M. B. Huish.

PASSING THE LANTERN

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