“Oh! the misery of feeling that one possesses the strength of arm and the resolute will to achieve great things, and yet to lack every means of action; to be treated as an inferior by every one of those proud samurai, the immediate forefathers of many of whom have been of as low birth as myself, and only achieved distinction in the glorious Gempei wars! I was born to the humble lot of a peasant, to labor from early morn until late at night, while my food was of the poorest and scantiest description; but I would have worked ten times harder, and been satisfied with even worse fare, if I could have had a chance of bettering my fortunes. To accomplish this and rise above the station in which I was born, I could see only one road open to me,—to become a renowned sword-smith. It was not easy to do this. I had no father and no brother to initiate me into the secrets of the art handed down from father to son, generation after generation during hundreds of years, as is the rule with the craft. Many a weary mile did I travel, enduring hunger and thirst and, what was worse to me, numberless slights and indignities, before I found one who was without son or male kindred, and with whom I succeeded in obtaining service. He had a daughter; and no lovesick swain ever showed more outward tokens of the depth and strength of his devotion, or spoke more passionate words of burning love to the object of it, than did I to that ugly shrew, whom I loathed from my very soul when I gave her my hand and took her name. For seven long years did I dissemble, performing the most menial services to prove my faithfulness, before my master and father-in-law thought fit to initiate me into the first principles of the art. My teacher could tell me little more, and I soon outstripped him.
PEASANT.
“The gods have been kind to me, and have rewarded me for my prayers by granting me skill and ability; have answered my fasting and my devotion, my days and nights of restless toil, by allowing me to discover many secrets which are unknown to others. Oh, the fools, the fools! they think that steel is dead because it is cold and motionless and without apparent life! Thrice-told fools and idiots! they kill the life which exists in the iron as it comes from Nature, and they give no other in return; and yet they know from their forefathers, and have learned to prattle, that the sword is the living soul of the samurai.
“There is life in this blade which I give you to-day, my boy,—better, finer, and richer life than in most of the boors who try to fashion a sword. But remember that on this account, unless you use it wisely and carefully, this sword is a dangerous gift. Never draw it unless you need its help; never return it to its scabbard without using it; and never let it remain undrawn longer than a cycle of twelve years. Should you ever by any unforeseen fatality have drawn and exposed it to the light of the sun, the moon, or the stars without being able to use it on the enemy who provoked you, then before returning it to its scabbard use it on some inferior animal; but never think of sheathing it without the blade having come in contact with the blood of something still living. If you act thus, you will find it your devoted friend; it will obey and even anticipate your thoughts and desires; with the least guidance it will strike your enemies and those who are opposed to you in their weakest places unto death, in spite of numbers and courage, in spite of armor and helmet. But if you fail in obeying the directions I have given you, the blade will turn upon and mark you for its victim with equal certainty; and even were you to bury it in the deep ocean, it would not fail to wreak vengeance upon you.”
SENNOSKE RECEIVING THE SWORD FROM THE SMITH.
The mainspring which moved the nature of the smith was evident. Sennoske, although he was young and inexperienced in the passions which stir the heart and guide the actions of men, was yet a keen observer, and he could now easily fathom the depths of the sword-smith’s strange nature. He saw that the man’s ruling passion was ambition,—ambition so inordinate that it could never be satisfied, and which, burning so fiercely without hope of realization, had retired into itself and assumed the semblance of a morose and misanthropic disposition. The mildness apparent in him when he entered the room had passed away after a few moments; and as he recounted his sufferings and disappointments, the play of his features and the tones of his speech had been a fitting accompaniment to the words he uttered. Yet his voice had never been loud, and while allowing scope to his passions he still evidently held them in check. Nevertheless the eyes which shone like coals of fire, and the half-hissing sound of his utterance showed plainly how deeply he was moved by dwelling upon his real and fancied wrongs. Sennoske had often seen fierce outbreaks of temper; yet as he now listened he gave an involuntary start, due not so much to what was presented to his senses as to the thought of how fierce a volcano must have been burning for years in that herculean frame. Slight as the movement was, it did not escape the smith; it arrested immediately the force of the current into which he had drifted with the recital of these reminiscences, and as he continued he resumed the quiet earnestness which he had shown upon first entering.