The Project Gutenberg eBook, Myths & Legends of Japan, by F. Hadland (Frederick Hadland) Davis, Illustrated by Evelyn Paul

MYTHS & LEGENDS OF JAPAN

BY

F. HADLAND DAVIS

AUTHOR OF "THE LAND OF THE YELLOW SPRING AND OTHER

JAPANESE STORIES" "THE PERSIAN MYSTICS" ETC.

WITH THIRTY-TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

BY

EVELYN PAUL

LONDON

GEORGE G. HARRAP & COMPANY

9, PORTSMOUTH STREET, KINGSWAY, W. C.

1912

The Lovers who exchanged Fans. Fr. (See page 245)

DEDICATED TO

MY WIFE

[PREFACE]

In writing Myths and Legends of Japan I have been much indebted to numerous authorities on Japanese subjects, and most especially to Lafcadio Hearn, who first revealed to me the Land of the Gods. It is impossible to enumerate all the writers who have assisted me in preparing this volume. I have borrowed from their work as persistently as Japan has borrowed from other countries, and I sincerely hope that, like Japan herself, I have made good use of the material I have obtained from so many sources.

I am indebted to Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain for placing his work at my disposal, and I have found his encyclopædic volume, Things Japanese, his translation of the Kojiki, his Murray's Hand-book for Japan (in collaboration with W. B. Mason), and his Japanese Poetry, of great value. I thank the Executors of the late Dr. W. G. Aston for permission to quote from this learned authority's work. I have made use of his translation of the Nihongi (Transactions of the Japan Society, 1896) and have gathered much useful material from A History of Japanese Literature. I am indebted to Mr. F. Victor Dickins for allowing me to make use of his translation of the Taketori Monogatari and the Ho-jō-ki. My friend Mrs. C. M. Salwey has taken a sympathetic interest in my work, which has been invaluable to me. Her book, Fans of Japan, has supplied me with an exquisite legend, and many of her articles have yielded a rich harvest. I warmly thank Mr. Yone Noguchi for allowing me to quote from his poetry, and also Miss Clara A. Walsh for so kindly putting at my disposal her fascinating volume, The Master-Singers of Japan, published by Mr. John Murray in the "Wisdom of the East" series. My thanks are due to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin Company, for allowing me to quote from Lafcadio Hearn's Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan and The Japanese Letters of Lafcadio Hearn; to Messrs. George Allen & Sons, for giving me permission to quote from Sir F. T. Piggott's Garden of Japan; to the Editor of the Academy, for permitting me to reprint my article on "Japanese Poetry," and to Messrs. Cassell and Co. Ltd., for allowing me to reproduce "The Garden of Japan," which I originally contributed to Cassell's Magazine. The works of Dr. William Anderson, Sir Ernest Satow, Lord Redesdale, Madame Ozaki, Mr. R. Gordon Smith, Captain F. Brinkley, the late Rev. Arthur Lloyd, Mr. Henri L. Joly, Mr. K. Okakura, the Rev. W. E. Griffis, and others, have been of immense value to me, and in addition I very warmly thank all those writers I have left unnamed, through want of space, whose works have assisted me in the preparation of this volume.

[CONTENTS]

Introduction

[A Note on Japanese Poetry]
[Gods and Goddesses]
[Genealogy of the Age of the Gods]
[Bibliography]
[Index of Poetical Quotations]
[Glossary and Index]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]

[The Lovers who exchanged Fans] Frontispiece
[Uzume awakens the Curiosity of Ama-terasu]
[Susa-no-o and Kushi-nada-hime]
[Hoori and the Sea God's Daughter]
[Yorimasa slays the Vampire]
[Yorimasa and Benkei attacked by a ghostly company of the Taira Clan]
[Raiko and the Enchanted Maiden]
[Raiko slays the Goblin of Oyeyama]
[Prince Yamato and Takeru]
[Momotaro and the Pheasant]
[Hidesato and the Centipede]
[The Moonfolk demand the Lady Kaguya]
[Buddha and the Dragon]
[The Mikado and the Jewel Maiden]
[Jizō]
[A Kakemono Ghost]
[Sengen, the Goddess of Mount Fuji]
[Visu on Mount Fuji-Yama]
[Kiyo and the Priest]
[Yuki-Onna, the Lady of the Snow]
[Shingé and Yoshisawa by the Violet Well]
[Matsu rescues Teoyo]
[Shinzaburō recognised Tsuyu and her maid Yoné]
[The Jelly-Fish and the Monkey]
[The Firefly Battle]
[Hōïchi-the-Earless]
[The Maiden of Unai]
[Urashima and the Sea King's Daughter]
[Tokoyo and the Sea Serpent]
[The Kappa and his Victim]
[Kato Sayemon in his Palace of the Shōgun Ashikaga]
[Tōtarō and Samébito]

[INTRODUCTION]

Pierre Loti in Madame Chrysanthème, Gilbert and Sullivan in The Mikado, and Sir Edwin Arnold in Seas and Lands, gave us the impression that Japan was a real fairyland in the Far East. We were delighted with the prettiness and quaintness of that country, and still more with the prettiness and quaintness of the Japanese people. We laughed at their topsy-turvy ways, regarded the Japanese woman, in her rich-coloured kimono, as altogether charming and fascinating, and had a vague notion that the principal features of Nippon were the tea-houses, cherry-blossom, and geisha. Twenty years ago we did not take Japan very seriously. We still listen to the melodious music of The Mikado, but now we no longer regard Japan as a sort of glorified willow-pattern plate. The Land of the Rising Sun has become the Land of the Risen Sun, for we have learnt that her quaintness and prettiness, her fairy-like manners and customs, were but the outer signs of a great and progressive nation. To-day we recognise Japan as a power in the East, and her victory over the Russian has made her army and navy famous throughout the world.

The Japanese have always been an imitative nation, quick to absorb and utilise the religion, art, and social life of China, and, having set their own national seal upon what they have borrowed from the Celestial Kingdom, to look elsewhere for material that should strengthen and advance their position. This imitative quality is one of Japan's most marked characteristics. She has ever been loath to impart information to others, but ready at all times to gain access to any form of knowledge likely to make for her advancement. In the fourteenth century Kenkō wrote in his Tsure-dzure-gusa: "Nothing opens one's eyes so much as travel, no matter where," and the twentieth-century Japanese has put this excellent advice into practice. He has travelled far and wide, and has made good use of his varied observations. Japan's power of imitation amounts to genius. East and West have contributed to her greatness, and it is a matter of surprise to many of us that a country so long isolated and for so many years bound by feudalism should, within a comparatively short space of time, master our Western system of warfare, as well as many of our ethical and social ideas, and become a great world-power. But Japan's success has not been due entirely to clever imitation, neither has her place among the foremost nations been accomplished with such meteor-like rapidity as some would have us suppose.

We hear a good deal about the New Japan to-day, and are too prone to forget the significance of the Old upon which the present régime has been founded. Japan learnt from England, Germany and America all the tactics of modern warfare. She established an efficient army and navy on Western lines; but it must be remembered that Japan's great heroes of to-day, Togo and Oyama, still have in their veins something of the old samurai spirit, still reflect through their modernity something of the meaning of Bushido. The Japanese character is still Japanese and not Western. Her greatness is to be found in her patriotism, in her loyalty and whole-hearted love of her country. Shintōism has taught her to revere the mighty dead; Buddhism, besides adding to her religious ideals, has contributed to her literature and art, and Christianity has had its effect in introducing all manner of beneficent social reforms.

There are many conflicting theories in regard to the racial origin of the Japanese people, and we have no definite knowledge on the subject. The first inhabitants of Japan were probably the Ainu, an Aryan people who possibly came from North-Eastern Asia at a time when the distance separating the Islands from the mainland was not so great as it is to-day. The Ainu were followed by two distinct Mongol invasions, and these invaders had no difficulty in subduing their predecessors; but in course of time the Mongols were driven northward by Malays from the Philippines. "By the year A.D. 500 the Ainu, the Mongol, and the Malay elements in the population had become one nation by much the same process as took place in England after the Norman Conquest. To the national characteristics it may be inferred that the Ainu contributed the power of resistance, the Mongol the intellectual qualities, and the Malay that handiness and adaptability which are the heritage of sailor-men."[1] Such authorities as Baelz and Rein are of the opinion that the Japanese are Mongols, and although they have intermarried with the Ainu, "the two nations," writes Professor B. H. Chamberlain, "are as distinct as the whites and reds in North America." In spite of the fact that the Ainu is looked down upon in Japan, and regarded as a hairy aboriginal of interest to the anthropologist and the showman, a poor despised creature, who worships the bear as the emblem of strength and fierceness, he has, nevertheless, left his mark upon Japan. Fuji was possibly a corruption of Huchi, or Fuchi, the Ainu Goddess of Fire, and there is no doubt that these aborigines originated a vast number of geographical names, particularly in the north of the main island, that are recognisable to this day. We can also trace Ainu influence in regard to certain Japanese superstitions, such as the belief in the Kappa, or river monster.

The Chinese called Japan Jih-pén, "the place the sun comes from," because the archipelago was situated on the east of their own kingdom, and our word Japan and Nippon are corruptions of Jih-pén. Marco Polo called the country Zipangu, and one ancient name describes it as "The-Luxuriant-Reed-Plains-the-land-of-Fresh -Rice-Ears-of-a-Thousand-Autumns-of-Long-Five-Hundred-Autumns." We are not surprised to find that such a very lengthy and descriptive title is not used by the Japanese to-day; but it is of interest to know that the old word for Japan, Yamato, is still frequently employed, Yamato Damashii signifying "The Spirit of Unconquerable Japan." Then, again, we still hear Japan referred to as The Island of the Dragon-fly. We are told in the old Japanese Chronicles that the Emperor, in 630 B.C., ascended a hill called Waki Kamu no Hatsuma, from which he was able to view the land on all sides. He was much impressed by the beauty of the country, and said that it resembled "a dragon-fly licking its hinder parts," and the Island received the name of Akitsu-Shima ("Island of the Dragon-fly").

The Kojiki, or "Records of Ancient Matters," completed A.D. 712, deals with the early traditions of the Japanese race, commencing with the myths, the basis of Shintōism, and gradually becoming more historical until it terminates in A.D. 628. Dr. W. G. Aston writes in A History of Japanese Literature: "The Kojiki, however valuable it may be for research into the mythology, the manners, the language, and the legends of early Japan, is a very poor production, whether we consider it as literature or as a record of facts. As history it cannot be compared with the Nihongi,[2] a contemporary work in Chinese; while the language is a strange mixture of Chinese and Japanese, which there has been little attempt to endue with artistic quality. The circumstances under which it was composed are a partial explanation of the very curious style in which it is written. We are told that a man named Yasumaro, learned in Chinese, took it down from the lips of a certain Hiyeda no Are, who had such a wonderful memory that he 'could repeat with his mouth whatever was placed before his eyes, and record in his heart whatever struck his ears.'" It is possible that Hiyeda no Are was one of the Kataribe or "Reciters," whose duty it was to recite "ancient words" before the Mikado at the Court of Nara on certain State occasions.

The Kojiki and the Nihongi are the sources from which we learn the early myths and legends of Japan. In their pages we are introduced to Izanagi and Izanami, Ama-terasu, Susa-no-o, and numerous other divinities, and these august beings provide us with stories that are quaint, beautiful, quasi-humorous, and sometimes a little horrible. What could be more naïve than the love-making of Izanagi and Izanami, who conceived the idea of marrying each other after seeing the mating of two wagtails? In this ancient myth we trace the ascendency of the male over the female, an ascendency maintained in Japan until recent times, fostered, no doubt, by Kaibara's Onna Daigaku, "The Greater Learning for Women." But in the protracted quarrel between the Sun Goddess and her brother, the Impetuous Male, the old chroniclers lay emphasis upon the villainy of Susa-no-o; and Ama-terasu, a curious mingling of the divine and the feminine, is portrayed as an ideal type of Goddess. She is revealed preparing for warfare, making fortifications by stamping upon the ground, and she is also depicted peeping out of her rock-cavern and gazing in the Sacred Mirror. Ama-terasu is the central figure in Japanese mythology, for it is from the Sun Goddess that the Mikados are descended. In the cycle of legends known as the Period of the Gods, we are introduced to the Sacred Treasures, we discover the origin of the Japanese dance, and in imagination wander through the High Plain of Heaven, set foot upon the Floating Bridge, enter the Central Land of Reed-Plains, peep into the Land of Yomi, and follow Prince Fire-Fade into the Palace of the Sea King.

Early heroes and warriors are always regarded as minor divinities, and the very nature of Shintōism, associated with ancestor worship, has enriched those of Japan with many a fascinating legend. For strength, skill, endurance, and a happy knack of overcoming all manner of difficulties by a subtle form of quick-witted enterprise, the Japanese hero must necessarily take a high position among the famous warriors of other countries. There is something eminently chivalrous about the heroes of Japan that calls for special notice. The most valiant men are those who champion the cause of the weak or redress evil and tyranny of every kind, and we trace in the Japanese hero, who is very far from being a crude swashbuckler, these most excellent qualities. He is not always above criticism, and sometimes we find in him a touch of cunning, but such a characteristic is extremely rare, and very far from being a national trait. An innate love of poetry and the beautiful has had its refining influence upon the Japanese hero, with the result that his strength is combined with gentleness.

Benkei is one of the most lovable of Japanese heroes. He possessed the strength of many men, his tact amounted to genius, his sense of humour was strongly developed, and the most loving of Japanese mothers could not have shown more gentleness when his master's wife gave birth to a child. When Yoshitsune and Benkei, at the head of the Minamoto host, had finally vanquished the Taira at the sea-fight of Dan-no-ura, their success awakened the jealousy of the Shōgun, and the two great warriors were forced to fly the country. We follow them across the sea, over mountains, outwitting again and again their numerous enemies. At Matsue a great army was sent out against these unfortunate warriors. Camp-fires stretched in a glittering line about the last resting-place of Yoshitsune and Benkei. In an apartment were Yoshitsune with his wife and little child. Death stood in the room, too, and it was better that Death should come at the order of Yoshitsune than at the command of the enemy without the gate. His child was killed by an attendant, and, holding his beloved wife's head under his left arm, he plunged his sword deep into her throat. Having accomplished these things, Yoshitsune committed hara-kiri. Benkei, however, faced the enemy. He stood with his great legs apart, his back pressed against a rock. When the dawn came he was still standing with his legs apart, a thousand arrows in that brave body of his. Benkei was dead, but his was a death too strong to fall. The sun shone on a man who was a true hero, who had ever made good his words: "Where my lord goes, to victory or to death, I shall follow him."

Japan is a mountainous country, and in such countries we expect to find a race of hardy, brave men, and certainly the Land of the Rising Sun has given us many a warrior worthy to rank with the Knights of King Arthur. More than one legend deals with the destruction of devils and goblins, and of the rescue of maidens who had the misfortune to be their captives. One hero slays a great monster that crouched upon the roof of the Emperor's palace, another despatches the Goblin of Oyeyama, another thrusts his sword through a gigantic spider, and another slays a serpent. All the Japanese heroes, whatever enterprise they may be engaged in, reveal the spirit of high adventure, and that loyalty of purpose, that cool disregard for danger and death which are still characteristic of the Japanese people to-day.

"The Bamboo-Cutter and the Moon-Maiden" (Chapter III) is adapted from a tenth-century story called Taketori Monogatari, and is the earliest example of the Japanese romance. The author is unknown, but he must have had an intimate knowledge of court life in Kyōto. All the characters in this very charming legend are Japanese, but most of the incidents have been borrowed from China, a country so rich in picturesque fairy-lore. Mr. F. V. Dickins writes concerning the Taketori Monogatari: "The art and grace of the story of the Lady Kaguya are native, its unstrained pathos, its natural sweetness, are its own, and in simple charm and purity of thought and language it has no rival in the fiction of either the Middle Kingdom or of the Dragon-fly Land."

In studying Japanese legend one is particularly struck by its universality and also by its very sharp contrasts. Most nations have deified the sun and moon, the stars and mountains, and all the greatest works of Nature; but the Japanese have described the red blossoms of azaleas as the fires of the Gods, and the white snow of Fuji as the garments of Divine Beings. Their legend, on the one hand at any rate, is essentially poetical, and those who worshipped Mount Fuji also had ghostly tales to tell about the smallest insect. Too much stress cannot be laid upon Japan's love of Nature. The early myths recorded in the Kojiki and Nihongi are of considerable interest, but they cannot be compared with the later legends that have given souls to trees and flowers and butterflies, or with those pious traditions that have revealed so tenderly and yet so forcibly the divine significance of Nature. The Festival of the Dead could only have originated among a people to whom the beautiful is the mainstay and joy of life, for that festival is nothing less than a call to the departed dead to return to their old earthly haunts in the summer-time, to cross green hills dotted with pine-trees, to wander down winding ways, by lake and seashore, to linger in old, well-loved gardens, and to pass into homes where, without being seen, they see so much. To the Japanese mind, to those who still preserve the spirit of Old Yamato, the most glowing account of a Buddhist Paradise is not so fair as Japan in the summer-time.

Perhaps it is as well that Japanese myth, legend, fairy tale, and folk-lore are not exclusively poetical, or we should be in danger of becoming satiated with too much sweetness. It may be that we admire the arches of a Gothic cathedral none the less for having gazed upon the hideous gargoyles on the outside of the sacred edifice, and in the legends of Japan we find many grotesques in sharp contrast with the traditions associated with the gentle and loving Jizō. There is plenty of crude realism in Japanese legend. We are repelled by the Thunder God's favourite repast, amazed by the magical power of foxes and cats; and the story of "Hōïchi-the-Earless" and of the corpse-eating priest afford striking examples of the combination of the weird and the horrible. In one story we laugh over the antics of a performing kettle, and in another we are almost moved to tears when we read about a little Japanese quilt that murmured: "Elder Brother probably is cold? Nay, thou probably art cold?"

We have had numerous volumes of Japanese fairy tales, but hitherto no book has appeared giving a comprehensive study of the myths and legends of a country so rich in quaint and beautiful traditions, and it is hoped that the present volume, the result of much pleasant labour, will be a real contribution to the subject. I have made no attempt to make a complete collection of Japanese myths and legends because their number is legion; but I have endeavoured to make a judicious selection that shall at any rate be representative, and many of the stories contained in this volume will be new to the general reader.

Lafcadio Hearn wrote in one of his letters: "The fairy world seized my soul again, very softly and sweetly—as a child might a butterfly," and if we too would adopt a similar spirit, we shall journey to the Land of the Gods, where the great Kōbō Daishi will write upon the sky and running water, upon our very hearts, something of the glamour and magic of Old Japan. With Kōbō Daishi for guide we shall witness the coming of Mount Fuji, wander in the Palace of the Sea King and in the Land of Perpetual Youth, watch the combats of mighty heroes, listen to the wisdom of saints, cross the Celestial River on a bridge of birds, and when we are weary nestle in the long sleeve of the ever-smiling Jizō.

F. HADLAND DAVIS

[1] The Full Recognition of Japan, by Robert P. Porter.

[2] Chronicles of Japan, completed A.D. 720, deals, in an interesting manner, with the myths, legends, poetry and history from the earliest times down to A.D. 697.

[CHAPTER I: THE PERIOD OF THE GODS]

In the Beginning

We are told that in the very beginning "Heaven and Earth were not yet separated, and the In and Yo not yet divided." This reminds us of other cosmogony stories. The In and Yo, corresponding to the Chinese Yang and Yin, were the male and female principles. It was more convenient for the old Japanese writers to imagine the coming into being of creation in terms not very remote from their own manner of birth. In Polynesian mythology we find pretty much the same conception, where Rangi and Papa represented Heaven and Earth, and further parallels may be found in Egyptian and other cosmogony stories. In nearly all we find the male and female principles taking a prominent, and after all very rational, place. We are told in the Nihongi that these male and female principles "formed a chaotic mass like an egg which was of obscurely defined limits and contained germs." Eventually this egg was quickened into life, and the purer and clearer part was drawn out and formed Heaven, while the heavier element settled down and became Earth, which was "compared to the floating of a fish sporting on the surface of the water." A mysterious form resembling a reed-shoot suddenly appeared between Heaven and Earth, and as suddenly became transformed into a God called Kuni-toko-tachi, ("Land-eternal-stand-of-august-thing"). We may pass over the other divine births until we come to the important deities known as Izanagi and Izanami ("Male-who-invites" and "Female-who-invites"). About these beings has been woven an entrancing myth.

Izanagi and Izanami

Izanagi and Izanami stood on the Floating Bridge of Heaven and looked down into the abyss. They inquired of each other if there were a country far, far below the great Floating Bridge. They were determined to find out. In order to do so they thrust down a jewel-spear, and found the ocean. Raising the spear a little, water dripped from it, coagulated, and became the island of Onogoro-jima ("Spontaneously-congeal-island").

Upon this island the two deities descended. Shortly afterwards they desired to become husband and wife, though as a matter of fact they were brother and sister; but such a relationship in the East has never precluded marriage. These deities accordingly set up a pillar on the island. Izanagi walked round one way, and Izanami the other. When they met, Izanami said: "How delightful! I have met with a lovely youth." One would have thought that this naïve remark would have pleased Izanagi; but it made him, extremely angry, and he retorted: "I am a man, and by that right should have spoken first. How is it that on the contrary thou, a woman, shouldst have been the first to speak? This is unlucky. Let us go round again." So it happened that the two deities started afresh. Once again they met, and this time Izanagi remarked: "How delightful! I have met a lovely maiden." Shortly after this very ingenuous proposal Izanagi and Izanami were married.

When Izanami had given birth to islands, seas, rivers, herbs, and trees, she and her lord consulted together, saying: "We have now produced the Great-Eight-Island country, with the mountains, rivers, herbs, and trees. Why should we not produce some one who shall be the Lord of the Universe?"

The wish of these deities was fulfilled, for in due season Ama-terasu, the Sun Goddess, was born. She was known as "Heaven-Illumine-of-Great-Deity," and was so extremely beautiful that her parents determined to send her up the Ladder of Heaven, and in the high sky above to cast for ever her glorious sunshine upon the earth.

Their next child was the Moon God, Tsuki-yumi. His silver radiance was not so fair as the golden effulgence of his sister, the Sun Goddess, but he was, nevertheless, deemed worthy to be her consort. So up the Ladder of Heaven climbed the Moon God. They soon quarrelled, and Ama-terasu said: "Thou art a wicked deity. I must not see thee face to face." They were therefore separated by a day and night, and dwelt apart.

The next child of Izanagi and Izanami was Susa-no-o ("The Impetuous Male"). We shall return to Susa-no-o and his doings later on, and content ourselves for the present with confining our attention to his parents.

Izanami gave birth to the Fire God, Kagu-tsuchi. The birth of this child made her extremely ill. Izanagi knelt on the ground, bitterly weeping and lamenting. But his sorrow availed nothing, and Izanami crept away into the Land of Yomi (Hades).

Her lord, however, could not live without her, and he too went into the Land of Yomi. When he discovered her, she said regretfully: "My lord and husband, why is thy coming so late? I have already eaten of the cooking-furnace of Yomi. Nevertheless, I am about to lie down to rest. I pray thee do not look at me."

Izanagi, moved by curiosity, refused to fulfil her wish. It was dark in the Land of Yomi, so he secretly took out his many-toothed comb, broke off a piece, and lighted it. The sight that greeted him was ghastly and horrible in the extreme. His once beautiful wife had now become a swollen and festering creature. Eight varieties of Thunder Gods rested upon her. The Thunder of the Fire, Earth, and Mountain were all there leering upon him, and roaring with their great voices.

Izanagi grew frightened and disgusted, saying: "I have come unawares to a hideous and polluted land." His wife retorted: "Why didst thou not observe that which I charged thee? Now am I put to shame."

Izanami was so angry with her lord for ignoring her wish and breaking in upon her privacy that she sent the Eight Ugly Females of Yomi to pursue him. Izanagi drew his sword and fled down the dark regions of the Underworld. As he ran he took off his headdress, and flung it to the ground. It immediately became a bunch of grapes. When the Ugly Females saw it, they bent down and ate the luscious fruit. Izanami saw them pause, and deemed it wise to pursue her lord herself.

By this time Izanagi had reached the Even Pass of Yomi. Here he placed a huge rock, and eventually came face to face with Izanami. One would scarcely have thought that amid such exciting adventures Izanagi would have solemnly declared a divorce. But this is just what he did do. To this proposal his wife replied: "My dear lord and husband, if thou sayest so, I will strangle to death the people in one day." This plaintive and threatening speech in no way influenced Izanagi, who readily replied that he would cause to be born in one day no less than fifteen hundred.

The above remark must have proved conclusive, for when we next hear of Izanagi he had escaped from the Land of Yomi, from an angry wife, and from the Eight Ugly Females. After his escape he was engaged in copious ablutions, by way of purification, from which numerous deities were born. We read in the Nihongi: "After this, Izanagi, his divine task having been accomplished, and his spirit-career about to suffer a change, built himself an abode of gloom in the island of Ahaji, where he dwelt for ever in silence and concealment."

Ama-terasu and Susa-no-o

Susa-no-o, or "The Impetuous Male," was the brother of Ama-terasu, the Sun Goddess. Now Susa-no-o was a very undesirable deity indeed, and he figured in the Realm of the Japanese Gods as a decidedly disturbing element. His character has been clearly drawn in the Nihongi, more clearly perhaps than that of any other deity mentioned in these ancient records. Susa-no-o had a very bad temper, which often resulted in many cruel and ungenerous acts. Moreover, in spite of his long beard, he had a habit of continually weeping and wailing. Where a child in a tantrum would crush a toy to pieces, the Impetuous Male, when in a towering rage, and without a moment's warning, would wither the once fair greenery of mountains, and in addition bring many people to an untimely end.

His parents, Izanagi and Izanami, were much troubled by his doings, and, after consulting together, they decided to banish their unruly son to the Land of Yomi. Susa, however, had a word to say in the matter. He made the following petition, saying: "I will now obey thy instructions and proceed to the Nether-Land (Yomi). Therefore I wish for a short time to go to the Plain of High Heaven and meet with my elder sister (Ama-terasu), after which I will go away for ever." This apparently harmless request was granted, and Susa-no-o ascended to Heaven. His departure occasioned a great commotion of the sea, and the hills and mountains groaned aloud.

Now Ama-terasu heard these noises, and perceiving that they denoted the near approach of her wicked brother Susa-no-o, she said to herself: "Is my younger brother coming with good intentions? I think it must be his purpose to rob me of my kingdom. By the charge which our parents gave to their children, each of us has his own allotted limits. Why, therefore, does he reject the kingdom to which he should proceed, and make bold to come spying here?"

Ama-terasu then prepared for warfare. She tied her hair into knots and hung jewels upon it, and round her wrists "an august string of five hundred Yasaka jewels." She presented a very formidable appearance when in addition she slung over her back "a thousand-arrow quiver and a five-hundred-arrow quiver," and protected her arms with pads to deaden the recoil of the bowstring. Having arrayed herself for deadly combat, she brandished her bow, grasped her sword-hilt, and stamped on the ground till she had made a hole sufficiently large to serve as a fortification.

All this elaborate and ingenious preparation was in vain. The Impetuous Male adopted the manner of a penitent. "From the beginning," he said, "my heart has not been black. But as, in obedience to the stern behest of our parents, I am about to depart for ever to the Nether-Land, how could I bear to depart without having seen face to face thee my elder sister? It is for this reason that I have traversed on foot the clouds and mists and have come hither from afar. I am surprised that my elder sister should, on the contrary, put on so stern a countenance."

Ama-terasu regarded these remarks with a certain amount of suspicion. Susa-no-o's filial piety and Susa-no-o's cruelty were not easily to be reconciled. She thereupon resolved to test his sincerity by a remarkable proceeding we need not describe. Suffice it to say that for the time being the test proved the Impetuous Male's purity of heart and general sincerity towards his sister.

But Susa-no-o's good behaviour was a very short-lived affair indeed. It happened that Ama-terasu had made a number of excellent rice-fields in Heaven. Some were narrow and some were long, and Ama-terasu was justly proud of these rice-fields. No sooner had she sown the seed in the spring than Susa-no-o broke down the divisions between the plots, and in the autumn let loose a number of piebald colts.

One day when he saw his sister in the sacred Weaving Hall, weaving the garments of the Gods, he made a hole through the roof and flung down a flayed horse. Ama-terasu was so frightened that she accidentally wounded herself with the shuttle. Extremely angry, she determined to leave her abode; so, gathering her shining robes about her, she crept down the blue sky, entered a cave, fastened it securely, and there dwelt in seclusion.

Now the world was in darkness, and the alternation of night and day was unknown. When this dreadful catastrophe had taken place the Eighty Myriads of Gods assembled together on the bank of the River of Heaven and discussed how they might best persuade Ama-terasu to grace Heaven once more with her shining glory. No less a God than "Thought-combining," after much profound reasoning, gathered together a number of singing-birds from the Eternal Land. After sundry divinations with a deer's leg-bone, over a fire of cherry-bark, the Gods made a number of tools, bellows, and forges. Stars were welded together to form a mirror, and jewellery and musical instruments were eventually fashioned.

When all these things had been duly accomplished the Eighty Myriads of Gods came down to the rock-cavern where the Sun Goddess lay concealed, and gave an elaborate entertainment. On the upper branches of the True Sakaki Tree they hung the precious jewels, and on the middle branches the mirror. From every side there was a great singing of birds, which was only the prelude to what followed. Now Uzume ("Heavenly-alarming-female") took in her hand a spear wreathed with Eulalia grass, and made a headdress of the True Sakaki Tree. Then she placed a tub upside down, and proceeded to dance in a very immodest manner, till the Eighty Myriad Gods began to roar with laughter.

Such extraordinary proceedings naturally awakened the curiosity of Ama-terasu, and she peeped forth. Once more the world became golden with her presence. Once more she dwelt in the Plain of High Heaven, and Susa-no-o was duly chastised and banished to the Yomi Land.

Susa-no-o and the Serpent

With the usual inconsistency of myths and legends, we are not surprised to find that all reference to Susa dwelling in the Land of Yomi is entirely omitted. When we next see him it is apart from his usual mischievous disposition. Indeed, we find him in a rôle worthy of one of the Knights of the Round Table. Whether the sudden display of knight-errantry was a cunning move on his part for some ulterior motive, or whether his sister's sudden withdrawal from Heaven had made him permanently reform his ways, we are left in entire ignorance.

Uzume Awakens the curiosity of Ama-terasu.—(p. 28)

Susa-no-o, having descended from Heaven, arrived at the river Hi, in the province of Idzumo. Here he was disturbed by a sound of weeping. It was so unusual to hear any other than himself weep that he went in search of the cause of the sorrow. He discovered an old man and an old woman. Between them was a young girl, whom they fondly caressed and gazed at with pitiful eyes, as if they were reluctantly bidding her a last farewell. When Susa-no-o asked the old couple who they were and why they lamented, the old man replied: "I am an Earthly Deity, and my name is Ashi-nadzuchi ("Foot-stroke-elder"). My wife's name is Tenadzuchi ("Hand-stroke-elder"). This girl is our daughter, and her name is Kushi-nada-hime ("Wondrous-Inada-Princess"). The reason of our weeping is that formerly we had eight children, daughters; but they have been devoured year by year by an eight-forked serpent, and now the time approaches for this girl to be devoured. There is no means of escape for her, and therefore do we grieve exceedingly."

The Impetuous Male listened to this painful recital with profound attention, and, perceiving that the maiden was extremely beautiful, he offered to slay the eight-forked serpent if her parents would give her to him in marriage as a fitting reward for his services. This request was readily granted.

Susa-no-o now changed Kushi-nada-hime into a many-toothed comb and stuck it in his hair. Then he bade the old couple brew a quantity of saké. When the saké was ready, he poured it into eight tubs, and awaited the coming of the dreadful monster.

Eventually the serpent came. It had eight heads, and the eyes were red, "like winter-cherry." Moreover it had eight tails, and firs and cypress-trees grew on its back. It was in length the space of eight hills and eight valleys. Its lumbering progress was necessarily slow, but finding the saké, each head eagerly drank the tempting beverage till the serpent became extremely drunk, and fell asleep. Then Susa-no-o, having little to fear, drew his ten-span sword and chopped the great monster into little pieces. When he struck one of the tails his weapon became notched, and bending down he discovered a sword called the Murakumo-no-Tsurugi. Perceiving it to be a divine sword, he gave it to the Gods of Heaven.

Having successfully accomplished his task, Susa-no-o converted the many-toothed comb into Kushi-nada-hime again, and at length came to Suga, in the province of Idzumo, in order that he might celebrate his marriage. Here he composed the following verse:

"Many clouds arise,
On all sides a manifold fence,
To receive within it the spouses,
They form a manifold fence—
Ah! that manifold fence!"
Nihongi, trans. by W. G. Aston.

Susa-no-o and Kushi-nada-hime.

The Divine Messengers

Now at that time the Gods assembled in the High Plain of Heaven were aware of continual disturbances in the Central Land of Reed-Plains (Idzumo). We are told that "Plains, the rocks, tree-stems, and herbage have still the power of speech. At night they make a clamour like that of flames of fire; in the day-time they swarm up like flies in the fifth month." In addition certain deities made themselves objectionable. The Gods determined to put an end to these disturbances, and after a consultation Taka-mi-musubi decided to send his grandchild Ninigi to govern the Central Land of Reed-Plains, to wipe out insurrection, and to bring peace and prosperity to the country. It was deemed necessary to send messengers to prepare the way in advance. The first envoy was Ama-no-ho; but as he spent three years in the country without reporting to the Gods, his son was sent in his place. He adopted the same course as his father, and defied the orders of the Heavenly Ones. The third messenger was Ame-waka ("Heaven-young-Prince"). He, too, was disloyal, in spite of his noble weapons, and instead of going about his duties he fell in love and took to wife Shita-teru-hime ("Lower-shine-Princess").

Now the assembled Gods grew angry at the long delay, and sent a pheasant down to ascertain what was going on in Idzumo. The pheasant perched on the top of a cassia-tree before Ame-waka's gate. When Ame-waka saw the bird he immediately shot it. The arrow went through the bird, rose into the Place of Gods, and was hurled back again, so that it killed the disloyal and idle Ame-waka.

The weeping of Lower-shine-Princess reached Heaven, for she loved her lord and failed to recognise in his sudden death the just vengeance of the Gods. She wept so loud and so pitifully that the Heavenly Ones heard her. A swift wind descended, and the body of Ame-waka floated up into the High Plain of Heaven. A mortuary house was made, in which the deceased was laid. Mr. Frank Rinder writes: "For eight days and eight nights there was wailing and lamentation. The wild goose of the river, the heron, the kingfisher, the sparrow, and the pheasant mourned with a great mourning."

Now it happened that a friend of Ame-waka, Aji-shi-ki by name, heard the sad dirges proceeding from Heaven. He therefore offered his condolence. He so resembled the deceased that when Ame-waka's parents, relations, wife, and children saw him, they exclaimed: "Our lord is still alive!" This greatly angered Aji-shi-ki, and he drew his sword and cut down the mortuary house, so that it fell to the Earth and became the mountain of Moyama.

We are told that the glory of Aji-shi-ki was so effulgent that it illuminated the space of two hills and two valleys. Those assembled for the mourning celebrations uttered the following song:

"Like the string of jewels
Worn on the neck
Of the Weaving-maiden,
That dwells in Heaven—
Oh! the lustre of the jewels
Flung across two valleys
From Aji-suki-taka-hiko-ne!
"To the side-pool—
The side-pool
Of the rocky stream
Whose narrows are crossed
By the country wenches
Afar from Heaven,
Come hither, come hither!
(The women are fair)
And spread across thy net
In the side-pool
Of the rocky stream."
Nihongi, trans. by W. G. Aston.

Two more Gods were sent to the Central Land of Reed-Plains, and these Gods were successful in their mission. They returned to Heaven with a favourable report, saying that all was now ready for the coming of the August Grandchild.

The Coming of the August Grandchild

Ama-terasu presented her grandson Ninigi, or Prince Rice-Ear-Ruddy-Plenty, with many gifts. She gave him precious stones from the mountain-steps of Heaven, white crystal balls, and, most valuable gift of all, the divine sword that Susa-no-o had discovered in the serpent. She also gave him the star-mirror into which she had gazed when peeping out of her cave. Several deities accompanied Ninigi, including that lively maiden of mirth and dance Uzume, whose dancing, it will be remembered, so amused the Gods.

Ninigi and his companions had hardly broken through the clouds and arrived at the eight-forked road of Heaven, when they discovered, much to their alarm, a gigantic creature with large and brightly shining eyes. So formidable was his aspect that Ninigi and all his companions, except the merry and bewitching Uzume, started to turn back with intent to abandon their mission. But Uzume went up to the giant and demanded who it was that dared to impede their progress. The giant replied: "I am the Deity of the Field-paths. I come to pay my homage to Ninigi, and beg to have the honour to be his guide. Return to your master, O fair Uzume, and give him this message."

So Uzume returned and gave her message to the Gods, who had so ignominiously retreated. When they heard the good news they greatly rejoiced, burst once more through the clouds, rested on the Floating Bridge of Heaven, and finally reached the summit of Takachihi.

The August Grandchild, with the Deity of the Field-paths for guide, travelled from end to end of the kingdom over which he was to rule. When he had reached a particularly charming spot, he built a palace.

Ninigi was so pleased with the service the Deity of the Field-paths had rendered him that he gave that giant the merry Uzume to wife.

Ninigi, after having romantically rewarded his faithful guide, began to feel the stirring of love himself, when one day, while walking along the shore, he saw an extremely lovely maiden. "Who are you, most beautiful lady?" inquired Ninigi. She replied: "I am the daughter of the Great-Mountain-Possessor. My name is Ko-no-Hana, the Princess who makes the Flowers of the Trees to Blossom."

Ninigi fell in love with Ko-no-Hana. He went with all haste to her father, Oho-yama, and begged that he would favour him with his daughter's hand.

Oho-yama had an elder daughter, Iha-naga, Princess Long-as-the-Rocks. As her name implies, she was not at all beautiful; but her father desired that Ninigi's children should have life as eternal as the life of rocks. He therefore presented both his daughters to Ninigi, expressing the hope that the suitor's choice would fall upon Iha-naga. Just as Cinderella, and not her ugly sisters, is dear to children of our own country, so did Ninigi remain true to his choice, and would not even look upon Iha-naga. This neglect made Princess Long-as-the-Rocks extremely angry. She cried out, with more vehemence than modesty: "Had you chosen me, you and your children would have lived long in the land. Now that you have chosen my sister, you and yours will perish as quickly as the blossom of trees, as quickly as the bloom on my sister's cheek."

However, Ninigi and Ko-no-Hana lived happily together for some time; but one day jealousy came to Ninigi and robbed him of his peace of mind. He had no cause to be jealous, and Ko-no-Hana much resented his treatment. She retired to a little wooden hut, and set it on fire. From the flames came three baby boys. We need only concern ourselves with two of them—Hoderi ("Fire-shine") and Hoori ("Fire-fade"). Hoori, as we shall see later on, was the grandfather of the first Mikado of Japan.

Hoori and the Sea God's Daughter.

In the Palace of the Sea God

Hoderi was a great fisherman, while his younger brother, Hoori, was an accomplished hunter. One day they exclaimed: "Let us for a trial exchange gifts." This they did, but the elder brother, who could catch fish to some purpose, came home without any spoil when he went a-hunting. He therefore returned the bow and arrows, and asked his younger brother for the fish-hook. Now it so happened that Hoori had lost his brother's fish-hook. The generous offer of a new hook to take the place of the old one was scornfully refused. He also refused to accept a heaped-up tray of fish-hooks. To this offer the elder brother replied: "These are not my old fish-hook: though they are many, I will not take them."

Now Hoori was sore troubled by his brother's harshness, so he went down to the sea-shore and there gave way to his grief. A kind old man by the name of Shiko-tsutsu no Oji ("Salt-sea-elder") said: "Why dost thou grieve here?" When the sad tale was told, the old man replied: "Grieve no more. I will arrange this matter for thee."

True to his word, the old man made a basket, set Hoori in it, and then sank it in the sea. After descending deep down in the water Hoori came to a pleasant strand rich with all manner of fantastic seaweed. Here he abandoned the basket and eventually arrived at the Palace of the Sea God.

Now this palace was extremely imposing. It had battlements and turrets and stately towers. A well stood at the gate, and over the well there was a cassia-tree. Here Hoori loitered in the pleasant shade. He had not stood there long before a beautiful woman appeared. As she was about to draw water, she raised her eyes, saw the stranger, and immediately returned, with much alarm, to tell her mother and father what she had seen.

The God of the Sea, when he had heard the news, "prepared an eightfold cushion" and led the stranger in, asking his visitor why he had been honoured by his presence. When Hoori explained the sad loss of his brother's fish-hook the Sea God assembled all the fishes of his kingdom, "broad of fin and narrow of fin." And when the thousands upon thousands of fishes were assembled, the Sea God asked them if they knew anything about the missing fish-hook. "We know not," answered the fishes. "Only the Red-woman (the tai) has had a sore mouth for some time past, and has not come." She was accordingly summoned, and on her mouth being opened the lost fish-hook was discovered.

Hoori then took to wife the Sea God's daughter, Toyo-tama ("Rich-jewel"), and they dwelt together in the palace under the sea. For three years all went well, but after a time Hoori hungered for a sight of his own country, and possibly he may have remembered that he had yet to restore the fish-hook to his elder brother. These not unnatural feelings troubled the heart of the loving Toyo-tama, and she went to her father and told him of her sorrow. But the Sea God, who was always urbane and courteous, in no way resented his son-in-law's behaviour. On the contrary he gave him the fish-hook, saying: "When thou givest this fish-hook to thy elder brother, before giving it to him, call to it secretly, and say, 'A poor hook!'" He also presented Hoori with the Jewel of the Flowing Tide and the Jewel of the Ebbing Tide, saying: "If thou dost dip the Tide-flowing Jewel, the tide will suddenly flow, and therewithal thou shalt drown thine elder brother. But in case thy elder brother should repent and beg forgiveness, if, on the contrary, thou dip the Tide-ebbing Jewel, the tide will spontaneously ebb, and therewithal thou shalt save him. If thou harass him in this way thy elder brother will of his own accord render submission."

Just before Hoori was about to depart his wife came to him and told him that she was soon to give him a child. Said she: "On a day when the winds and waves are raging I will surely come forth to the seashore. Build for me a house, and await me there."

Hoderi and Hoori Reconciled

When Hoori reached his own home he found his elder brother, who admitted his offence and begged for forgiveness, which was readily granted.

Toyo-tama and her younger sister bravely confronted the winds and waves, and came to the sea-shore. There Hoori had built a hut roofed with cormorant feathers, and there in due season she gave birth to a son. When Toyo-tama had blessed her lord with offspring, she turned into a dragon and slipped back into the sea. Hoori's son married his aunt, and was the father of four children, one of whom was Kamu-Yamato-Iware-Biko, who is said to have been the first human Emperor of Japan, and is now known as Jimmu Tennō.

[CHAPTER II: HEROES AND WARRIORS]

Yorimasa

A long time ago a certain Emperor became seriously ill. He was unable to sleep at night owing to a most horrible and unaccountable noise he heard proceeding from the roof of the palace, called the Purple Hall of the North Star. A number of his courtiers decided to lie in wait for this strange nocturnal visitor. As soon as the sun set they noticed that a dark cloud crept from the eastern horizon, and alighted on the roof of the august palace. Those who waited in the imperial bed-chamber heard extraordinary scratching sounds, as if what had at first appeared to be a cloud had suddenly changed into a beast with gigantic and powerful claws.

Night after night this terrible visitant came, and night after night the Emperor grew worse. He at last became so ill that it was obvious to all those in attendance upon him that unless something could be done to destroy this monster the Emperor would certainly die.

At last it was decided that Yorimasa was the one knight in the kingdom valiant enough to relieve his Majesty of these terrible hauntings. Yorimasa accordingly made elaborate preparations for the fray. He took his best bow and steel-headed arrows, donned his armour, over which he wore a hunting-dress, and a ceremonial cap instead of his usual helmet.

Yorimasa slays the Vampire.

At sunset he lay in concealment outside the palace. While he thus waited thunder crashed overhead, lightning blazed in the sky, and the wind shrieked like a pack of wild demons. But Yorimasa was a brave man, and the fury of the elements in no way daunted him. When midnight came he saw a black cloud rush through the sky and rest upon the roof of the palace. At the north-east corner it stopped. Once more the lightning flashed in the sky, and this time he saw the gleaming eyes of a large animal. Noting the exact position of this strange monster, he pulled at his bow till it became as round as the full moon. In another moment his steel-headed arrow hit its mark. There was an awful roar of anger, and then a heavy thud as the huge monster rolled from the palace roof to the ground.

Yorimasa and his retainer ran forward and despatched the fearful creature they saw before them. This evil monster of the night was as large as a horse. It had the head of an ape, and the body and claws were like those of a tiger, with a serpent's tail, wings of a bird, and the scales of a dragon.

It was no wonder that the Emperor gave orders that the skin of this monster should be kept for all time as a curiosity in the Imperial treasure-house. From the very moment the creature died the Emperor's health rapidly improved, and Yorimasa was rewarded for his services by being presented with a sword called Shishi-wo, which means "the King of Lions." He was also promoted at Court, and finally married the Lady Ayame, the most beautiful of ladies-in-waiting at the Imperial Court.

Yoshitsune and Benkei

We may compare Yoshitsune with the Black Prince or Henry V., and Benkei with "Little John, Will Scarlet, and Friar Tuck rolled in one." Yoshitsune would have seemed a very remarkable hero had not his faithful henchman, Benkei, also figured in Japanese history and legend. As it is we are forced to admit that Benkei was far and away the greater man. He not only towered in stature above his companions, but he rose above his brethren in courage, wit, resource, and a wonderful tenderness. Here was a man who could slay a hundred men with absolute ease, and with the same quiet assurance expound the Buddhist Scriptures. He could weep over Yoshitsune when, by way of strategy, he found it necessary to severely beat him, and with infinite gentleness render assistance when his lord's wife gave birth to a son. There was yet another side to Benkei's versatile character—his love of a practical joke. The bell incident, referred to elsewhere, is a case in point, and his enormous feast at the expense of a number of priests another; but if he had his joke he never failed to pay for the laugh to the full. Benkei remarked on one occasion: "When there is an unlucky lot to draw my lord sees to it that I am the one to get it." This was certainly true. Benkei always made a point of doing the dirty work, and when his master asked him to do anything Benkei's only complaint was that the task was not sufficiently difficult, though as a matter of fact it was often so dangerous that it would have frightened a dozen less gifted heroes.

We are told that when Benkei was born he had long hair, a complete set of teeth, and, moreover, that he could run as swiftly as the wind. Benkei was too big for a modest Japanese home. When he struck Jin-saku's anvil that useful object sank deep into the earth, and for firewood he would bring a great pine-tree. When Benkei was seventeen years old he became a priest in a Buddhist temple; but that did not prevent him from having a thrilling escapade with a beautiful young girl called Tamamushi. We soon find our hero breaking away from love and priestcraft, and entirely devoting his attention to the exciting adventures of a lawless warrior. Here, for the moment, we must leave him, and give the story of Yoshitsune, and how he had the good fortune to meet and retain the service and friendship of Benkei till his dying day.

Yoshitsune and the Taira

Yoshitsune's father, Yoshitomo, had been killed in a great battle with the Taira. At that time the Taira clan was all-powerful, and its cruel leader, Kiyomori, did all he could to destroy Yoshitomo's children. But the mother of these children, Tokiwa, fled into hiding, taking her little ones with her. With characteristic Japanese fortitude, she finally consented to become the wife of the hated Kiyomori. She did so because it was the only way to save the lives of her children. She was allowed to keep Yoshitsune with her, and she daily whispered to him: "Remember thy father, Minamoto Yoshitomo! Grow strong and avenge his death, for he died at the hands of the Taira!"

When Yoshitsune was seven years of age he was sent to a monastery to be brought up as a monk. Though diligent in his studies, the young boy ever treasured in his heart the dauntless words of his brave, self-sacrificing mother. They stirred and quickened him to action. He used to go to a certain valley, where he would flourish his little wooden sword, and, singing fragments of war-songs, hit out at rocks and stones, desiring that he might one day become a great warrior, and right the wrongs so heavily heaped upon his family by the Taira clan.

One night, while thus engaged, he was startled by a great thunderstorm, and saw before him a mighty giant with a long red nose and enormous glaring eyes, bird-like claws, and feathered wings. Bravely standing his ground, Yoshitsune inquired who this giant might be, and was informed that he was King of the Tengu—that is, King of the elves of the mountains, sprightly little beings who were frequently engaged in all manner of fantastic tricks.

The King of the Tengu was very kindly disposed towards Yoshitsune. He explained that he admired his perseverance, and told him that he had appeared upon the scene with the meritorious intention of teaching him all that was to be learnt in the art of swordsmanship. The lessons progressed in a most satisfactory manner, and it was not long before Yoshitsune could vanquish as many as twenty small tengu, and this extreme agility stood Yoshitsune in very good stead, as we shall see later on in the story.

Now when Yoshitsune was fifteen years old he heard that there lived on Mount Hiei a very wild bonze (priest) by the name of Benkei. Benkei had for some time waylaid knights who happened to cross the Gojo Bridge of Kyōto. His idea was to obtain a thousand swords, and he was so brave, although such a rascal, that he had won from knights no less than nine hundred and ninety-nine swords by his lawless behaviour. When the news of these doings reached the ears of Yoshitsune he determined to put the teaching of the King of the Tengu to good use and slay this Benkei, and so put an end to one who had become a terror in the land.

One evening Yoshitsune started out, and, in order to establish the manner and bearing of absolute indifference, he played upon his flute till he came to the Gojo Bridge. Presently he saw coming towards him a gigantic man clad in black armour, who was none other than Benkei. When Benkei saw the youth he considered it to be beneath his dignity to attack what appeared to him to be a mere weakling, a dreamer who could play excellently, and no doubt write a pretty poem about the moon, which was then shining in the sky, but one who was in no way a warrior. This affront naturally angered Yoshitsune, and he suddenly kicked Benkei's halberd out of his hand.

Yoshitsune and Benkei attacked by a ghostly company of the Taira Clan.

Yoshitsune and Benkei Fight

Benkei gave a growl of rage, and cut about indiscriminately with his weapon. But the sprightliness of the tengu teaching favoured Yoshitsune. He jumped from side to side, from the front to the rear, and from the rear to the front again, mocking the giant with many a jest and many a peal of ringing laughter. Round and round went Benkei's weapon, always striking either the air or the ground, and ever missing its adversary.

At last Benkei grew weary, and once again Yoshitsune knocked the halberd out of the giant's hand. In trying to regain his weapon Yoshitsune tripped him up, so that he stumbled upon his hands and knees, and the hero, with a cry of triumph, mounted upon the now four-legged Benkei. The giant was utterly amazed at his defeat, and when he was told that the victor was none other than the son of Lord Yoshitomo he not only took his defeat in a manly fashion, but begged that he might henceforth become a retainer of the young conqueror.

From this time we find the names of Yoshitsune and Benkei linked together, and in all the stories of warriors, whether in Japan or elsewhere, never was there a more valiant and harmonious union of strength and friendship. We hear of them winning numerous victories over the Taira, finally driving them to the sea, where they perished at Dan-no-ura.

We get one more glimpse of Dan-no-ura from a legendary point of view. Yoshitsune and his faithful henchman arranged to cross in a ship from the province of Settsu to Saikoku. When they reached Dan-no-ura a great storm arose. Mysterious noises came from the towering waves, a far-away echo of the din of battle, of the rushing of ships and the whirling of arrows, of the footfall of a thousand men. Louder and louder the noise grew, and from the lashing crests of the waves there arose a ghostly company of the Taira clan. Their armour was torn and blood-stained, and they thrust out their vaporous arms and tried to stop the boat in which Yoshitsune and Benkei sailed. It was a ghostly reminiscence of the battle of Dan-no-ura, when the Taira had suffered a terrible and permanent defeat. Yoshitsune, when he saw this great phantom host, cried out for revenge even upon the ghosts of the Taira dead; but Benkei, always shrewd and circumspect, bade his master lay aside the sword, and took out a rosary and recited a number of Buddhist prayers. Peace came to the great company of ghosts, the wailing ceased, and gradually they faded into the sea which now became calm.

Legend tells us that fishermen still see from time to time ghostly armies come out of the sea and wail and shake their long arms. They explain that the crabs with dorsal markings are the wraiths of the Taira warriors. Later on we shall introduce another legend relating to these unfortunate ghosts, who seem never to tire of haunting the scene of their defeat.

The Goblin of Oyeyama

In the reign of the Emperor Ichijo many dreadful stories were current in Kyōto in regard to a demon that lived on Mount Oye. This demon could assume many forms. Sometimes appearing as a human being, he would steal into Kyōto, and leave many a home destitute of well-loved sons and daughters. These young men and women he took back to his mountain stronghold, and, sad to narrate, after making sport of them, he and his goblin companions made a great feast and devoured these poor young people. Even the sacred Court was not exempt from these awful happenings, and one day Kimitaka lost his beautiful daughter. She had been snatched away by the Goblin King, Shutendoji.

When this sad news reached the ears of the Emperor he called his council together and consulted how they might slay this dreadful creature. His ministers informed his Majesty that Raiko was a doughty knight, and advised that he should be sent with certain companions on this perilous but worthy adventure.

Raiko accordingly chose five companions and told them what had been ordained, and how they were to set out upon an adventurous journey, and finally to slay the King of the Goblins. He explained that subtlety of action was most essential if they wished for success in their enterprise, and that it would be well to go disguised as mountain priests, and to carry their armour and weapons on their backs, carefully concealed in unsuspicious-looking knapsacks. Before starting upon their journey two of the knights went to pray at the temple of Hachiman, the God of War, two at the shrine of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, and two at the temple of Gongen.

When these knights had prayed for a blessing upon their undertaking they set out upon their journey, and in due time reached the province of Tamba, and saw immediately in front of them Mount Oye. The Goblin had certainly chosen the most formidable of mountains. Mighty rocks and great dark forests obstructed their path in every direction, while almost bottomless chasms appeared when least expected.

Just when these brave knights were beginning to feel just a little disheartened, three old men suddenly appeared before them. At first these newcomers were regarded with suspicion, but later on with the utmost friendliness and thankfulness. These old men were none other than the deities to whom the knights had prayed before setting out upon their journey. The old men presented Raiko with a jar of magical saké called Shimben-Kidoku-Shu ("a cordial for men, but poison for goblins"), advising him that he should by strategy get Shutendoji to drink it, whereupon he would immediately become paralysed and prove an easy victim for the final despatch. No sooner had these old men given the magical saké and proffered their valuable advice than a miraculous light shone round them, and they vanished into the clouds.

Once again Raiko and his knights, much cheered by what had happened, continued to ascend the mountain. Coming to a stream, they noticed a beautiful woman washing a blood-stained garment in the running water. She was weeping bitterly, and wiped away her tears with the long sleeve of her kimono. Upon Raiko asking who she was, she informed him that she was a princess, and one of the miserable captives of the Goblin King. When she was told that it was none other than the great Raiko who stood before her, and that he and his knights had come to kill the vile creature of that mountain, she was overcome with joy, and finally led the little band to a great palace of black iron, satisfying the sentinels by telling them that her followers were poor mountain priests who sought temporary shelter.

After passing through long corridors Raiko and his knights found themselves in a mighty hall. At one end sat the awful Goblin King. He was of gigantic stature, with bright red skin and a mass of white hair. When Raiko meekly informed him who they were, the Goblin King, concealing his mirth, bade them be seated and join the feast that was about to be set before them. Thereupon he clapped his red hands together, and immediately many beautiful damsels came running in with an abundance of food and drink, and as Raiko watched these women he knew that they had once lived in happy homes in Kyōto.

Raiko and the Enchanted Maiden.

When the feast was in full progress Raiko took out the jar of magic saké, and politely begged the Goblin King to try it. The monster, without demur or suspicion, drank some of the saké, and found it so good that he asked for a second cup. All the goblins partook of the magic wine, and while they were drinking Raiko and his companions danced.

The power of this magical drink soon began to work. The Goblin King became drowsy, till finally he and his fellow goblins fell fast asleep. Then Raiko sprang to his feet, and he and his knights rapidly donned their armour and prepared for war. Once more the three deities appeared before them, and said to Raiko: "We have tied the hands and feet of the Demon fast, so you have nothing to fear. While your knights cut off his limbs do you cut off his head: then kill the rest of the oni (evil spirits) and your work will be done." Then these divine beings suddenly disappeared.

Raiko Slays the Goblin

Raiko and his knights, with their swords drawn, cautiously approached the sleeping Goblin King. With a mighty sweep Raiko's weapon came crashing down on the Goblin's neck. No sooner was the head severed than it shot up into the air, and smoke and fire poured out from the nostrils, scorching the valiant Raiko. Once more he struck out with his sword, and this time the horrible head fell to the floor, and never moved again. It was not long before these brave knights despatched the Demon's followers also.

There was a joyful exit from the great iron palace. Raiko's five knights carried the monster head of the Goblin King, and this grim spectacle was followed by a company of happy maidens released at last from their horrible confinement, and eager to walk once again in the streets of Kyōto.

The Goblin Spider

Some time after the incident mentioned in the previous legend had taken place the brave Raiko became seriously ill, and was obliged to keep to his room. At about midnight a little boy always brought him some medicine. This boy was unknown to Raiko, but as he kept so many servants it did not at first awaken suspicion. Raiko grew worse instead of better, and always worse immediately after he had taken the medicine, so he began to think that some supernatural force was the cause of his illness.

At last Raiko asked his head servant if he knew anything about the boy who came to him at midnight. Neither the head servant nor any one else seemed to know anything about him. By this time Raiko's suspicions were fully awakened, and he determined to go carefully into the matter.

When the small boy came again at midnight, instead of taking the medicine, Raiko threw the cup at his head, and drawing his sword attempted to kill him. A sharp cry of pain rang through the room, but as the boy was flying from the apartment he threw something at Raiko. It spread outward into a huge white sticky web, which clung so tightly to Raiko that he could hardly move. No sooner had he cut the web through with his sword than another enveloped him. Raiko then called for assistance, and his chief retainer met the miscreant in one of the corridors and stopped his further progress with extended sword. The Goblin threw a web over him too. When he at last managed to extricate himself and was able to run into his master's room, he saw that Raiko had also been the victim of the Goblin Spider.

The Goblin Spider was eventually discovered in a cave writhing with pain, blood flowing from a sword-cut on the head. He was instantly killed, and with his death there passed away the evil influence that had caused Raiko's serious illness. From that hour the hero regained his health and strength, and a sumptuous banquet was prepared in honour of the happy event.

Another Version

There is another version of this legend, written by Kenkō Hōshi, which differs so widely in many of its details from the one we have already given that it almost amounts to a new story altogether. To dispense with this version would be to rob the legend of its most sinister aspect, which has not hitherto been accessible to the general reader.[1]

On one occasion Raiko left Kyōto with Tsuna, the most worthy of his retainers. As they were crossing the plain of Rendai they saw a skull rise in the air, and fly before them as if driven by the wind, until it finally disappeared at a place called Kagura ga Oka.

Raiko and his retainer had no sooner noticed the disappearance of the skull than they perceived before them a mansion in ruins. Raiko entered this dilapidated building, and saw an old woman of strange aspect. "She was dressed in white, and had white hair; she opened her eyes with a small stick, and the upper eyelids fell back over her head like a hat; then she used the rod to open her mouth, and let her breast fall forward upon her knees." Thus she addressed the astonished Raiko:

"I am two hundred and ninety years old. I serve nine masters, and the house in which you stand is haunted by demons."

Having listened to these words, Raiko walked into the kitchen, and, catching a glimpse of the sky, he perceived that a great storm was brewing. As he stood watching the dark clouds gather he heard a sound of ghostly footsteps, and there crowded into the room a great company of goblins. Nor were these the only supernatural creatures which Raiko encountered, for presently he saw a being dressed like a nun. Her very small body was naked to the waist, her face was two feet in length, and her arms "were white as snow and thin as threads." For a moment this dreadful creature laughed, and then vanished like a mist.

Raiko heard the welcome sound of a cock crowing, and imagined that the ghostly visitors would trouble him no more; but once again he heard footsteps, and this time he saw no hideous hag, but a lovely woman, "more graceful than the willow branches as they wave in the breeze." As he gazed upon this lovely maiden his eyes became blinded for a moment on account of her radiant beauty. Before he could recover his sight he found himself enveloped in countless cobwebs. He struck at her with his sword, when she disappeared, and he found that he had but cut through the planks of the floor, and broken the foundation-stone beneath.

At this moment Tsuna joined his master, and they perceived that the sword was covered with white blood, and that the point had been broken in the conflict.

Raiko slays the Goblin of Oyeyama.

After much search Raiko and his retainer discovered a den in which they saw a monster with many legs and a head of enormous size covered with downy hair. Its mighty eyes shone like the sun and moon, as it groaned aloud: "I am sick and in pain!"

As Raiko and Tsuna drew near they recognised the broken sword-point projecting from the monster. The heroes then dragged the creature out of its den and cut off its head. Out of the deep wound in the creature's stomach gushed nineteen hundred and ninety skulls, and in addition many spiders as large as children. Raiko and his follower realised that the monster before them was none other than the Mountain Spider. When they cut open the great carcass they discovered, within the entrails, the ghostly remains of many human corpses.

The Adventures of Prince Yamato Take

King Keiko bade his youngest son, Prince Yamato, go forth and slay a number of brigands. Before his departure the Prince prayed at the shrines of Ise, and begged that Ama-terasu, the Sun Goddess, would bless his enterprise. Prince Yamato's aunt was high-priestess of one of the Ise temples, and he told her about the task his father had entrusted to him. This good lady was much pleased to hear the news, and presented her nephew with a rich silk robe, saying that it would bring him luck, and perhaps be of service to him later on.

When Prince Yamato had returned to the palace and taken leave of his father, he left the court accompanied by his wife, the Princess Ototachibana, and a number of staunch followers, and proceeded to the Southern Island of Kiushiu, which was infested by brigands. The country was so rough and impassable that Prince Yamato saw at once that he must devise some cunning scheme by which he might take the enemy unawares.

Having come to this conclusion, he bade the Princess Ototachibana bring him the rich silk robe his aunt had given him. This he put on under the direction, no doubt, of his wife. He let down his hair, stuck a comb in it, and adorned himself with jewels. When he looked into a mirror he saw that the disguise was perfect, and that he made quite a handsome woman.

Thus gorgeously apparelled, he entered the enemy's tent, where Kumaso and Takeru were sitting. It happened that they were discussing the King's son and his efforts to exterminate their band. When they chanced to look up they saw a fair woman coming towards them.

Kumaso was so delighted that he beckoned to the disguised Prince and bade him serve wine as quickly as possible. Yamato was only too delighted to do so. He affected feminine shyness. He walked with very minute steps, and glanced out of the corner of his eyes with all the timidity of a bashful maiden.

Kumaso drank far more wine than was good for him. He still went on drinking just to have the pleasure of seeing this lovely creature pouring it out for him.

When Kumaso became drunk Prince Yamato flung down the wine-jar, whipped out his dagger, and stabbed him to death.

Takeru, when he saw what had happened to his brother, attempted to escape, but Prince Yamato leapt upon him. Once more his dagger gleamed in the air, and Takeru fell to the earth.

Prince Yamato and Takeru.

"Stay your hand a moment," gasped the dying brigand. "I would fain know who you are and whence you have come. Hitherto I thought that my brother and I were the strongest men in the kingdom. I am indeed mistaken."

"I am Yamato," said the Prince, "and son of the King who bade me kill such rebels as you!"

"Permit me to give you a new name," said the brigand politely. "From henceforth you shall be called Yamato Take, because you are the bravest man in the land."

Having thus spoken Takeru fell back dead.

The Wooden Sword

When the Prince was on his way to the capital he encountered another outlaw named Idzumo Takeru. Again resorting to strategy, he professed to be extremely friendly with this fellow. He cut a sword of wood and rammed it tightly into the sheath of his own steel weapon. He wore this whenever he expected to meet Takeru.

On one occasion Prince Yamato invited Takeru to swim with him in the river Hinokawa. While the brigand was swimming down-stream the Prince secretly landed, and, going to Takeru's clothes, lying on the bank, he managed to change swords, putting his wooden one in place of the keen steel sword of Takeru.

When Takeru came out of the water and put on his clothes the Prince asked him to show his skill with the sword. "We will prove," said he, "which is the better swordsman of the two."

Nothing loath, Takeru tried to unsheath his sword. It stuck fast, and as it happened to be of wood it was, of course, useless in any case. While the brigand was thus struggling Yamato cut off his head. Once again cunning had served him, and when he had returned to the palace he was feasted, and received many costly gifts from the King his father.

The "Grass-Cleaving-Sword"

Prince Yamato did not long remain idle in the palace, for his father commanded him to go forth and quell an Ainu rising in the eastern provinces.

When the Prince was ready to depart the King gave him a spear made from a holly-tree called the "Eight-Arms-Length-Spear." With this precious gift Prince Yamato visited the temples of Ise. His aunt, the high-priestess, again greeted him. She listened with interest to all her nephew told her, and was especially delighted to know how well the robe she had given him had served in his adventures.

When she had listened to his story she went into the temple and brought forth a sword and a bag containing flints. These she gave to Yamato as a parting gift.

The sword was the sword of Murakumo, belonging to the insignia of the Imperial House of Japan. The Prince could not have received a more auspicious gift. This sword, it will be remembered, once belonged to the Gods, and was discovered by Susa-no-o.

After a long march Prince Yamato and his men found themselves in the province of Suruga. The governor hospitably received him, and by way of entertainment organised a deer-hunt. Our hero for once in a way was utterly deceived, and joined the hunt without the least misgiving.

The Prince was taken to a great and wild plain covered with high grass. While he was engaged in hunting down the deer he suddenly became aware of fire. In another moment he saw flames and clouds of smoke shooting up in every direction. He was surrounded by fire, from which there was, apparently, no escape. Too late the guileless warrior realised that he had fallen into a trap, and a very warm trap too!

Our hero opened the bag his aunt had given him, set fire to the grass near him, and with the sword of Murakumo he cut down the tall green blades on either side as quickly as possible. No sooner had he done so than the wind suddenly changed and blew the flames away from him, so that eventually the Prince made good his escape without the slightest burn of any kind. And thus it was that the sword of Murakumo came to be known as the "Grass-Cleaving-Sword."

The Sacrifice of Ototachibana

In all these adventures the Prince had been followed by his faithful wife, the Princess Ototachibana. Sad to say, our hero, so praiseworthy in battle, was not nearly so estimable in his love. He looked down on his wife and treated her with indifference. She, poor loyal soul, had lost her beauty in serving her lord. Her skin was burnt with the sun, and her garments were soiled and torn. Yet she never complained, and though her face became sad she made a brave effort to maintain her usual sweetness of manner.

Now Prince Yamato happened to meet the fascinating Princess Miyadzu. Her robes were charming, her skin delicate as cherry-blossom. It was not long before he fell desperately in love with her. When the time came for him to depart he swore that he would return again and make the beautiful Princess Miyadzu his wife. He had scarcely made this promise when he looked up and saw Ototachibana, and on her face was a look of intense sadness. But Prince Yamato hardened his heart, and rode away, secretly determined to keep his promise.

When Prince Yamato, his wife and men, reached the sea-shore of Idzu, his followers desired to secure a number of boats in order that they might cross the Straits of Kadzusa.

The Prince cried haughtily: "Bah! this is only a brook! Why so many boats? I could jump across it!"

When they had all embarked and started on their journey a great storm arose. The waves turned into water-mountains, the wind shrieked, the lightning blazed in the dark clouds, and the thunder roared. It seemed that the boat that carried the Prince and his wife must needs sink, for this storm was the work of Rin-Jin, King of the Sea, who was angry with the proud and foolish words of Prince Yamato.

When the crew had taken down the sails in the hope of steadying the vessel the storm grew worse instead of better. At last Ototachibana arose, and, forgiving all the sorrow her lord had caused her, she resolved to sacrifice her life in order to save her much-loved husband.

Thus spoke the loyal Ototachibana: "Oh, Rin-Jin, the Prince, my husband, has angered you with his boasting. I, Ototachibana, give you my poor life in the place of Yamato Take. I now cast myself into your great surging kingdom, and do you in return bring my lord safely to the shore."

Having uttered these words, Ototachibana leapt into the seething waves, and in a moment they dragged that brave woman out of sight. No sooner had this sacrifice been made than the storm abated and the sun shone forth in a cloudless sky.

Yamato Take safely reached his destination, and succeeded in quelling the Ainu rising.

Our hero had certainly erred in his treatment of his faithful wife. Too late he learnt to appreciate her goodness; but let it be said to his credit that she remained a loving memory till his death, while the Princess Miyadzu was entirely forgotten.

The Slaying of the Serpent

Now that Yamato Take had carried out his father's instructions, he passed through the province of Owari until he came to the province of Omi.

The province of Omi was afflicted with a great trouble. Many were in mourning, and many wept and cried aloud in their sorrow. The Prince, on making inquiries, was informed that a great serpent every day came down from the mountains and entered the villages, making a meal of many of the unfortunate inhabitants.

Prince Yamato at once started to climb up Mount Ibaki, where the great serpent was said to live. About half-way up he encountered the awful creature. The Prince was so strong that he killed the serpent by twisting his bare arms about it. He had no sooner done so than sudden darkness came over the land, and rain fell heavily. However, eventually the weather improved, and our hero was able to climb down the mountain.

When he reached home he found that his feet burned with a strange pain, and, moreover, that he felt very ill. He realised that the serpent had stung him, and, as he was too ill to move, he was carried to a famous mineral spring. Here he finally regained his accustomed health and strength, and for these blessings gave thanks to Ama-terasu, the Sun Goddess.

The Adventures of Momotaro

One day, while an old woman stood by a stream washing her clothes, she chanced to see an enormous peach floating on the water. It was quite the largest she had ever seen, and as this old woman and her husband were extremely poor she immediately thought what an excellent meal this extraordinary peach would make. As she could find no stick with which to draw the fruit to the bank, she suddenly remembered the following verse:

"Distant water is bitter,
The near water is sweet;
Pass by the distant water
And come into the sweet."

This little song had the desired effect. The peach came nearer and nearer till it stopped at the old woman's feet. She stooped down and picked it up. So delighted was she with her discovery that she could not stay to do any more washing, but hurried home as quickly as possible.

When her husband arrived in the evening, with a bundle of grass upon his back, the old woman excitedly took the peach out of a cupboard and showed it to him.

The old man, who was tired and hungry, was equally delighted at the thought of so delicious a meal. He speedily brought a knife and was about to cut the fruit open, when it suddenly opened of its own accord, and the prettiest child imaginable tumbled out with a merry laugh.

"Don't be afraid," said the little fellow. "The Gods have heard how much you desired a child, and have sent me to be a solace and a comfort in your old age."

The old couple were so overcome with joy that they scarcely knew what to do with themselves. Each in turn nursed the child, caressed him, and murmured many sweet and affectionate words. They called him Momotaro, or "Son of a Peach."

When Momotaro was fifteen years old he was a lad far taller and stronger than boys of his own age. The making of a great hero stirred in his veins, and it was a knightly heroism that desired to right the wrong.

Momotaro and the Pheasant.

One day Momotaro came to his foster-father and asked him if he would allow him to take a long journey to a certain island in the North-Eastern Sea where dwelt a number of devils, who had captured a great company of innocent people, many of whom they ate. Their wickedness was beyond description, and Momotaro desired to kill them, rescue the unfortunate captives, and bring back the plunder of the island that he might share it with his foster-parents.

The old man was not a little surprised to hear this daring scheme. He knew that Momotaro was no common child. He had been sent from heaven, and he believed that all the devils in the world could not harm him. So at length the old man gave his consent, saying: "Go, Momotaro, slay the devils and bring peace to the land."

When the old woman had given Momotaro a number of rice-cakes the youth bade his foster-parents farewell, and started out upon his journey.

The Triumph of Momotaro

While Momotaro was resting under a hedge eating one of the rice-cakes, a great dog came up to him, growled, and showed his teeth. The dog, moreover, could speak, and threateningly begged that Momotaro would give him a cake. "Either you give me a cake," said he, "or I will kill you!"

When, however, the dog heard that the famous Momotaro stood before him, his tail dropped between his legs and he bowed with his head to the ground, requesting that he might follow "Son of a Peach," and render to him all the service that lay in his power.

Momotaro readily accepted the offer, and after throwing the dog half a cake they proceeded on their way.

They had not gone far when they encountered a monkey, who also begged to be admitted to Momotaro's service. This was granted, but it was some time before the dog and the monkey ceased snapping at each other and became good friends.

Proceeding upon their journey, they came across a pheasant. Now the innate jealousy of the dog was again awakened, and he ran forward and tried to kill the bright-plumed creature. Momotaro separated the combatants, and in the end the pheasant was also admitted to the little band, walking decorously in the rear.

At length Momotaro and his followers reached the shore of the North-Eastern Sea. Here our hero discovered a boat, and after a good deal of timidity on the part of the dog, monkey, and pheasant, they all got aboard, and soon the little vessel was spinning away over the blue sea.

After many days upon the ocean they sighted an island. Momotaro bade the bird fly off, a winged herald to announce his coming, and bid the devils surrender.

The pheasant flew over the sea and alighted on the roof of a great castle and shouted his stirring message, adding that the devils, as a sign of submission, should break their horns.

The devils only laughed and shook their horns and shaggy red hair. Then they brought forth iron bars and hurled them furiously at the bird. The pheasant cleverly evaded the missiles, and flew at the heads of many devils.

In the meantime Momotaro had landed with his two companions. He had no sooner done so than he saw two beautiful damsels weeping by a stream, as they wrung out blood-soaked garments.

"Oh!" said they pitifully, "we are daughters of daimyōs, and are now the captives of the Demon King of this dreadful island. Soon he will kill us, and alas! there is no one to come to our aid." Having made these remarks the women wept anew.

"Ladies," said Momotaro, "I have come for the purpose of slaying your wicked enemies. Show me a way into yonder castle."

So Momotaro, the dog, and the monkey entered through a small door in the castle. Once inside this fortification they fought tenaciously. Many of the devils were so frightened that they fell off the parapets and were dashed to pieces, while others were speedily killed by Momotaro and his companions. All were destroyed except the Demon King himself, and he wisely resolved to surrender, and begged that his life might be spared.

"No," said Momotaro fiercely. "I will not spare your wicked life. You have tortured many innocent people and robbed the country for many years."

Having said these words he gave the Demon King into the monkey's keeping, and then proceeded through all the rooms of the castle, and set free the numerous prisoners he found there. He also gathered together much treasure.

The return journey was a very joyous affair indeed. The dog and the pheasant carried the treasure between them, while Momotaro led the Demon King.

Momotaro restored the two daughters or daimyōs to their homes, and many others who had been made captives in the island. The whole country rejoiced in his victory, but no one more than Momotaro's foster-parents, who ended their days in peace and plenty, thanks to the great treasure of the devils which Momotaro bestowed upon them.

"My Lord Bag of Rice"

One day the great Hidesato came to a bridge that spanned the beautiful Lake Biwa. He was about to cross it when he noticed a great serpent-dragon fast asleep obstructing his progress. Hidesato, without a moment's hesitation, climbed over the monster and proceeded on his way.

He had not gone far when he heard some one calling to him. He looked back and saw that in the place of the dragon a man stood bowing to him with much ceremony. He was a strange-looking fellow with a dragon-shaped crown resting upon his red hair.

"I am the Dragon King of Lake Biwa," explained the red-haired man. "A moment ago I took the form of a horrible monster in the hope of finding a mortal who would not be afraid of me. You, my lord, showed no fear, and I rejoice exceedingly. A great centipede comes down from yonder mountain, enters my palace, and destroys my children and grandchildren. One by one they have become food for this dread creature, and I fear soon that unless something can be done to slay this centipede I myself shall become a victim. I have waited long for a brave mortal. All men who have hitherto seen me in my dragon-shape have run away. You are a brave man, and I beg that you will kill my bitter enemy."

Hidesato, who always welcomed an adventure, the more so when it was a perilous one, readily consented to see what he could do for the Dragon King.

When Hidesato reached the Dragon King's palace he found it to be a very magnificent building indeed, scarcely less beautiful than the Sea King's palace itself. He was feasted with crystallised lotus leaves and flowers, and ate the delicacies spread before him with choice ebony chopsticks. While he feasted ten little goldfish danced, and just behind the goldfish ten carp made sweet music on the koto and samisen. Hidesato was just thinking how excellently he had been entertained, and how particularly good was the wine, when they all heard an awful noise like a dozen thunderclaps roaring together.

Hidesato and the Dragon King hastily rose and ran to the balcony. They saw that Mount Mikami was scarcely recognisable, for it was covered from top to bottom with the great coils of the centipede. In its head glowed two balls of fire, and its hundred feet were like a long winding chain of lanterns.

Hidesato fitted an arrow to his bowstring and pulled it back with all his might. The arrow sped forth into the night and struck the centipede in the middle of the head, but glanced off immediately without inflicting any wound. Again Hidesato sent an arrow whirling into the air, and again it struck the monster and fell harmlessly to the ground. Hidesato had only one arrow left. Suddenly remembering the magical effect of human saliva, he put the remaining arrow-head into his mouth for a moment, and then hastily adjusted it to his bow and took careful aim.

The last arrow struck its mark and pierced the centipede's brain. The creature stopped moving; the light in its eyes and legs darkened and then went out, and Lake Biwa, with its palace beneath, was shrouded in awful darkness. Thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and it seemed for the moment that the Dragon King's palace would topple to the ground.

The next day, however, all sign of storm had vanished. The sky was clear. The sun shone brightly. In the sparkling blue lake lay the body of the great centipede.

Hidesato and the Centipede.

The Dragon King and those about him were overjoyed when they knew that their dread enemy had been destroyed. Hidesato was again feasted, even more royally than before. When he finally departed he did so with a retinue of fishes suddenly converted into men. The Dragon King bestowed upon our hero five precious gifts—two bells, a bag of rice, a roll of silk, and a cooking-pot.

The Dragon King accompanied Hidesato as far as the bridge, and then he reluctantly allowed the hero and the procession of servants carrying the presents to proceed on their way.

When Hidesato reached his home the Dragon King's servants put down the presents and suddenly disappeared.

The presents were no ordinary gifts. The rice-bag was inexhaustible, there was no end to the roll of silk, and the cooking-pot would cook without fire of any kind. Only the bells were without magical properties, and these were presented to a temple in the vicinity. Hidesato grew rich, and his fame spread far and wide. People now no longer called him Hidesato, but Tawara Toda, or "My Lord Bag of Rice."

[1] This version appears in the Catalogue of Japanese and Chinese Paintings in the British Museum, by Dr. William Anderson.

[CHAPTER III: THE BAMBOO-CUTTER AND THE MOON-MAIDEN]

The Coming of the Lady Kaguya

Long ago there lived an old bamboo-cutter by the name of Sanugi no Miyakko. One day, while he was busy with his hatchet in a grove of bamboos, he suddenly perceived a miraculous light, and on closer inspection discovered in the heart of a reed a very small creature of exquisite beauty. He gently picked up the tiny girl, only about four inches in height, and carried her home to his wife. So delicate was this little maiden that she had to be reared in a basket.

Now it happened that the Bamboo-cutter continued to set about his business, and night and day, as he cut down the reeds, he found gold, and, once poor, he now amassed a considerable fortune.

The child, after she had been but three months with these simple country folk, suddenly grew in stature to that of a full-grown maid; and in order that she should be in keeping with such a pleasing, if surprising, event, her hair, hitherto allowed to flow in long tresses about her shoulders, was now fastened in a knot on her head. In due season the Bamboo-cutter named the girl the Lady Kaguya, or "Precious-Slender-Bamboo-of-the-Field-of-Autumn." When she had been named a great feast was held, in which all the neighbours participated.

The Wooing of the "Precious-Slender-Bamboo-of-the-Field-of-Autumn"

"When a woman is somewhat fairer than the crowd of women how greatly do men long to gaze upon her beauty!"—Taketori.

Now the Lady Kaguya was of all women the most beautiful, and immediately after the feast the fame of her beauty spread throughout the land. Would-be lovers gathered around the fence and lingered in the porch with the hope of at least getting a glimpse of this lovely maiden. Night and day these forlorn suitors waited, but in vain. Those who were of humble origin gradually began to recognise that their love-making was useless. But five wealthy suitors still persisted, and would not relax their efforts. They were Prince Ishizukuri and Prince Kuramochi, the Sadaijin Dainagon Abe no Miushi, the Chiunagon Otomo no Miyuki, and Morotada, the Lord of Iso. These ardent lovers bore "the ice and snow of winter and the thunderous heats of midsummer with equal fortitude." When these lords finally asked the Bamboo-cutter to bestow his daughter upon one of them, the old man politely explained that the maiden was not really his daughter, and as that was so she could not be compelled to obey his own wishes in the matter.

At last the lords returned to their mansions, but still continued to make their supplications more persistently than ever. Even the kindly Bamboo-cutter began to remonstrate with the Lady Kaguya, and to point out that it was becoming for so handsome a maid to marry, and that among the five noble suitors she could surely make a very good match. To this the wise Kaguya replied: "Not so fair am I that I may be certain of a man's faith, and were I to mate with one whose heart proved fickle what a miserable fate were mine! Noble lords, without doubt, are these of whom thou speakest, but I would not wed a man whose heart should be all untried and unknown."

It was finally arranged that Kaguya should marry the suitor who proved himself the most worthy. This news brought momentary hope to the five great lords, and when night came they assembled before the house where the maiden dwelt "with flute music and with singing, with chanting to accompaniments and piping, with cadenced tap and clap of fan." Only the Bamboo-cutter went out to thank the lords for their serenading. When he had come into the house again, Kaguya thus set forth her plan to test the suitors:

"In Tenjiku (Northern India) is a beggar's bowl of stone, which of old the Buddha himself bore, in quest whereof let Prince Ishizukuri depart and bring me the same. And on the mountain Horai, that towers over the Eastern ocean, grows a tree with roots of silver and trunk of gold and fruitage of pure white jade, and I bid Prince Kuramochi fare thither and break off and bring me a branch thereof. Again, in the land of Morokoshi men fashion fur-robes of the pelt of the Flame-proof Rat, and I pray the Dainagon to find me one such. Then of the Chiunagon I require the rainbow-hued jewel that hides its sparkle deep in the dragon's head; and from the hands of the Lord Iso would I fain receive the cowry-shell that the swallow brings hither over the broad sea-plain."

The Begging-bowl of the Lord Buddha

The Prince Ishizukuri, after pondering over the matter of going to distant Tenjiku in search of the Lord Buddha's begging-bowl, came to the conclusion that such a proceeding would be futile. He decided, therefore, to counterfeit the bowl in question. He laid his plans cunningly, and took good care that the Lady Kaguya was informed that he had actually undertaken the journey. As a matter of fact this artful suitor hid in Yamato for three years, and after that time discovered in a hill-monastery in Tochi a bowl of extreme age resting upon an altar of Binzuru (the Succourer in Sickness). This bowl he took away with him, and wrapped it in brocade, and attached to the gift an artificial branch of blossom.

When the Lady Kaguya looked upon the bowl she found inside a scroll containing the following:

"Over seas, over hills
hath thy servant fared, and weary
and wayworn he perisheth:
O what tears hath cost this bowl of
stone,
what floods of streaming tears!"

But when the Lady Kaguya perceived that no light shone from the vessel she at once knew that it had never belonged to the Lord Buddha. She accordingly sent back the bowl with the following verse:

"Of the hanging dewdrop
not even the passing sheen
dwells herein:
On the Hill of Darkness, the Hill
of Ogura,
what couldest thou hope to find?"

The Prince, having thrown away the bowl, sought to turn the above remonstrance into a compliment to the lady who wrote it.

"Nay, on the Hill of Brightness
what splendour
will not pale?
Would that away from the light
of thy beauty
the sheen of yonder Bowl might
prove me true!"

It was a prettily turned compliment by a suitor who was an utter humbug. This latest poetical sally availed nothing, and the Prince sadly departed.

The Jewel-bearing Branch of Mount Horai

Prince Kuramochi, like his predecessor, was equally wily, and made it generally known that he was setting out on a journey to the land of Tsukushi in quest of the Jewel-bearing Branch. What he actually did was to employ six men of the Uchimaro family, celebrated craftsmen, and secure for them a dwelling hidden from the haunts of men, where he himself abode, for the purpose of instructing the craftsmen as to how they were to make a Jewel-bearing Branch identical with the one described by the Lady Kaguya.

When the Jewel-bearing Branch was finished, he set out to wait upon the Lady Kaguya, who read the following verse attached to the gift:

"Though it were at the peril
of my very life,
without the Jewel-laden Branch
in my hands never again
would I have dared to return!"

The Lady Kaguya looked sadly upon this glittering branch, and listened without interest to the Prince's purely imaginative story of his adventures. The Prince dwelt upon the terrors of the sea, of strange monsters, of acute hunger, of disease, which were their trials upon the ocean. Then this incorrigible story-teller went on to describe how they came to a high mountain rising out of the sea, where they were greeted by a woman bearing a silver vessel which she filled with water. On the mountain were wonderful flowers and trees, and a stream "rainbow-hued, yellow as gold, white as silver, blue as precious ruri (lapis lazuli); and the stream was spanned by bridges built up of divers gems, and by it grew trees laden with dazzling jewels, and from one of these I broke off the branch which I venture now to offer to the Lady Kaguya."

No doubt the Lady Kaguya would have been forced to believe this ingenious tale had not at that very moment the six craftsmen appeared on the scene, and by loudly demanding payment for the ready-made Jewel-Branch, exposed the treachery of the Prince, who made a hasty retreat. The Lady Kaguya herself rewarded the craftsmen, happy, no doubt, to escape so easily.

The Flameproof Fur-Robe

The Sadaijin (Left Great Minister) Abe no Miushi commissioned a merchant, by the name of Wokei, to obtain for him a fur-robe made from the Flame-proof Rat, and when the merchant's ship had returned from the land of Morokoshi it bore a fur-robe, which the sanguine Sadaijin imagined to be the very object of his desire. The Fur-Robe rested in a casket, and the Sadaijin, believing in the honesty of the merchant, described it as being "of a sea-green colour, the hairs tipped with shining gold, a treasure indeed of incomparable loveliness, more to be admired for its pure excellence than even for its virtue in resisting the flame of fire."

The Sadaijin, assured of success in his wooing, gaily set out to present his gift to the Lady Kaguya, offering in addition the following verse:

"Endless are the fires of love
that consume me, yet unconsumed
is the Robe of Fur:
dry at last are my sleeves,
for shall I not see her face this day!"

At last the Sadaijin was able to present his gift to the Lady Kaguya. Thus she addressed the Bamboo-cutter, who always seems to have been conveniently on the scene at such times: "If this Robe be thrown amid the flames and be not burnt up, I shall know it is in very truth the Flame-proof Robe, and may no longer refuse this lord's suit." A fire was lighted, and the Robe thrown into the flames, where it perished immediately. "When the Sadaijin saw this his face grew green as grass, and he stood there astonished." But the Lady Kaguya discreetly rejoiced, and returned the casket with the following verse:

"Without a vestige even left
thus to burn utterly away,
had I dreamt it of this Robe of Fur.
Alas the pretty thing! far otherwise
would I have dealt with it."

The Jewel in the Dragon's Head

The Chiunagon Otomo no Miyuki assembled his household and informed his retainers that he desired them to bring him the Jewel in the Dragon's head.

After some demur they pretended to set off on this quest. In the meantime the Chiunagon was so sure of his servants' success that he had his house lavishly adorned throughout with exquisite lacquer-work, in gold and silver. Every room was hung with brocade, the panels rich with pictures, and over the roof were silken cloths.

Weary of waiting, the Chiunagon after a time journeyed to Naniwa and questioned the inhabitants if any of his servants had taken boat in quest of the Dragon. The Chiunagon learnt that none of his men had come to Naniwa, and, considerably displeased at the news, he himself embarked with a helmsman.

Now it happened that the Thunder God was angry and the sea ran high. After many days the storm grew so severe and the boat was so near sinking that the helmsman ventured to remark: "The howling of the wind and the raging of the waves and the mighty roar of the thunder are signs of the wrath of the God whom my lord offends, who would slay the Dragon of the deep, for through the Dragon is the storm raised, and well it were if my lord offered a prayer."

As the Chiunagon had been seized with "a terrible sickness," it is not surprising to find that he readily took the helmsman's advice. He prayed no less than a thousand times, enlarging on his folly in attempting to slay the Dragon, and solemnly vowed that he would leave the Ruler of the deep in peace.

The thunder ceased and the clouds dispersed, but the wind was as fierce and strong as ever. The helmsman, however, told his master that it was a fair wind and blew towards their own land.

At last they reached the strand of Akashi, in Harima. But the Chiunagon, still ill and mightily frightened, vowed that they had been driven upon a savage shore, and lay full length in the boat, panting heavily, and refusing to rise when the governor of the district presented himself.

When the Chiunagon at last realised that they had not been blown upon some savage shore he consented to land. No wonder the governor smiled when he saw "the wretched appearance of the discomfited lord, chilled to the very bone, with swollen belly and eyes lustreless as sloes."

At length the Chiunagon was carried in a litter to his own home. When he had arrived his cunning servants humbly told their master how they had failed in the quest. Thus the Chiunagon greeted them: "Ye have done well to return empty-handed. Yonder Dragon, assuredly, has kinship with the Thunder God, and whoever shall lay hands on him to take the jewel that gleams in his head shall find himself in peril. Myself am sore spent with toil and hardship, and no guerdon have I won. A thief of men's souls and a destroyer of their bodies is the Lady Kaguya, nor ever will I seek her abode again, nor ever bend ye your steps thitherward."

We are told, in conclusion, that when the women of his household heard of their lord's adventure "they laughed till their sides were sore, while the silken cloths he had caused to be drawn over the roof of his mansion were carried away, thread by thread, by the crows to line their nests with."

The Royal Hunt[1]

Now the fame of the Lady Kaguya's beauty reached the court, and the Mikado, anxious to gaze upon her, sent one of his palace ladies, Fusago, to go and see the Bamboo-cutter's daughter, and to report to his Majesty of her excellences.

However, when Fusago reached the Bamboo-cutter's house the Lady Kaguya refused to see her. So the palace lady returned to court and reported the matter to the Mikado. His Majesty, not a little displeased, sent for the Bamboo-cutter, and made him bring the Lady Kaguya to court that he might see her, adding: "A hat of nobility, perchance, shall be her father's reward."

The old Bamboo-cutter was an admirable soul, and mildly discountenanced his daughter's extraordinary behaviour. Although he loved court favours and probably hankered after so distinguished a hat, it must be said of him that he was first of all true to his duty as a father.

When, on returning to his home, he discussed the matter with the Lady Kaguya, she informed the old man that if she were compelled to go to court it would certainly cause her death, adding: "The price of my father's hat of nobility will be the destruction of his child."

The Bamboo-cutter was deeply affected by these words, and once more set out on a journey to the court, where he humbly made known his daughter's decision.

The Mikado, not to be denied even by an extraordinarily beautiful woman, hit on the ingenious plan of ordering a Royal Hunt, so arranged that he might unexpectedly arrive at the Bamboo-cutter's dwelling, and perchance see the lady who could set at defiance the desires of an emperor.

On the day appointed for the Royal Hunt, therefore, the Mikado entered the Bamboo-cutter's house. He had no sooner done so than he was surprised to see in the room in which he stood a wonderful light, and in the light none other than the Lady Kaguya.

His Majesty advanced and touched the maiden's sleeve, whereupon she hid her face, but not before the Mikado had caught a glimpse of her beauty. Amazed by her extreme loveliness, and taking no notice of her protests, he ordered a palace litter to be brought; but on its arrival the Lady Kaguya suddenly vanished. The Emperor, perceiving that he was dealing with no mortal maid, exclaimed: "It shall be as thou desirest, maiden; but 'tis prayed that thou resume thy form, that once more thy beauty may be seen."

So the Lady Kaguya resumed her fair form again. As his Majesty was about to be borne away he composed the following verse:

"Mournful the return
of the Royal Hunt,
and full of sorrow the brooding
heart;
for she resists and stays behind,
the Lady Kaguya!"

The Lady Kaguya thus made answer:

"Under the roof o'ergrown with
hopbine
long were the years
she passed.
How may she dare to look upon
The Palace of Precious Jade?"

The Celestial Robe of Feathers

In the third year after the Royal Hunt, and in the spring-time, the Lady Kaguya continually gazed at the moon. On the seventh month, when the moon was full, the Lady Kaguya's sorrow increased so that her weeping distressed the maidens who served her. At last they came to the Bamboo-cutter, and said: "Long has the Lady Kaguya watched the moon, waxing in melancholy with the waxing thereof, and her woe now passes all measure, and sorely she weeps and wails; wherefore we counsel thee to speak with her."

When the Bamboo-cutter communed with his daughter, he requested that she should tell him the cause of her sorrow, and was informed that the sight of the moon caused her to reflect upon the wretchedness of the world.

During the eighth month the Lady Kaguya explained to her maids that she was no ordinary mortal, but that her birthplace was the Capital of Moonland, and that the time was now at hand when she was destined to leave the world and return to her old home.

Not only was the Bamboo-cutter heart-broken at this sorrowful news, but the Mikado also was considerably troubled when he heard of the proposed departure of the Lady Kaguya. His Majesty was informed that at the next full moon a company would be sent down from that shining orb to take this beautiful lady away, whereupon he determined to put a check upon this celestial invasion. He ordered that a guard of soldiers should be stationed about the Bamboo-cutter's house, armed and prepared, if need be, to shoot their arrows upon those Moonfolk, who would fain take the beautiful Lady Kaguya away.

The old Bamboo-cutter naturally thought that with such a guard to protect his daughter the invasion from the moon would prove utterly futile. The Lady Kaguya attempted to correct the old man's ideas on the subject, saying: "Ye cannot prevail over the folk of yonder land, nor will your artillery harm them nor your defences avail against them, for every door will fly open at their approach, nor may your valour help, for be ye never so stout-hearted, when the Moonfolk come vain will be your struggle with them." These remarks made the Bamboo-cutter exceedingly angry. He asserted that his nails would turn into talons—in short, that he would completely annihilate such impudent visitors from the moon.

The Moonfolk demand the Lady Kaguya.

Now while the royal guard was stationed about the Bamboo-cutter's house, on the roof and in every direction, the night wore away. At the hour of the Rat[2] a great glory, exceeding the splendour of the moon and stars, shone around. While the light still continued a strange cloud approached, bearing upon it a company of Moonfolk. The cloud slowly descended until it came near to the ground, and the Moonfolk assembled themselves in order. When the royal guard perceived them every soldier grew afraid at the strange spectacle; but at length some of their number summoned up sufficient courage to bend their bows and send their arrows flying; but all their shafts went astray.

On the cloud there rested a canopied car, resplendent with curtains of finest woollen fabric, and from out the car a mighty voice sounded, saying: "Come thou forth, Miyakko Maro!"

The Bamboo-cutter tottered forth to obey the summons, and received for his pains an address from the chief of the Moonfolk commencing with, "Thou fool," and ending up with a command that the Lady Kaguya should be given up without further delay.

The car floated upward upon the cloud till it hovered over the roof. Once again the same mighty voice shouted: "Ho there, Kaguya! How long wouldst thou tarry in this sorry place?"

Immediately the outer door of the storehouse and the inner lattice-work were opened by the power of the Moonfolk, and revealed the Lady Kaguya and her women gathered about her.

The Lady Kaguya, before taking her departure, greeted the prostrate Bamboo-cutter and gave him a scroll bearing these words: "Had I been born in this land, never should I have quitted it until the time came for my father to suffer no sorrow for his child; but now, on the contrary, must I pass beyond the boundaries of this world, though sorely against my will. My silken mantle I leave behind me as a memorial, and when the moon lights up the night let my father gaze upon it. Now my eyes must take their last look and I must mount to yonder sky, whence I fain would fall, meteorwise, to earth."

Now the Moonfolk had brought with them, in a coffer, a Celestial Feather Robe and a few drops of the Elixir of Life. One of them said to the Lady Kaguya: "Taste, I pray you, of this Elixir, for soiled has your spirit become with the grossnesses of this filthy world."

The Lady Kaguya, after tasting the Elixir, was about to wrap up some in the mantle she was leaving behind for the benefit of the old Bamboo-cutter, who had loved her so well, when one of the Moonfolk prevented her, and attempted to throw over her shoulders the Celestial Robe, when the Lady Kaguya exclaimed: "Have patience yet awhile; who dons yonder robe changes his heart, and I have still somewhat to say ere I depart." Then she proceeded to write the following to the Mikado:

"Your Majesty deigned to send a host to protect your servant, but it was not to be, and now is the misery at hand of departing with those who have come to bear her away with them. Not permitted was it to her to serve your Majesty, and despite her will was it that she yielded not obedience to the Royal command, and wrung with grief is her heart thereat, and perchance your Majesty may have thought the Royal will was not understood, and was opposed by her, and so will she appear to your Majesty lacking in good manners, which she would not your Majesty deemed her to be, and therefore humbly she lays this writing at the Royal Feet. And now must she don the Feather Robe and mournfully bid her lord farewell."

Having delivered this scroll into the hands of the captain of the host, together with a bamboo joint containing the Elixir, the Feather Robe was thrown over her, and in a moment all memory of her earthly existence departed.

Then the Lady Kaguya entered the car, surrounded by the company of Moonfolk, and the cloud rapidly rose skyward till it was lost to sight.

The sorrow of the Bamboo-cutter and of the Mikado knew no bounds. The latter held a Grand Council, and inquired which was the highest mountain in the land. One of the councillors answered: "In Suruga stands a mountain, not remote from the capital, that towers highest towards heaven among all the mountains of the land." Whereupon his Majesty composed the following verse:

"Never more to see her!
Tears of grief overwhelm me,
and as for me,
with the Elixir of Life
what have I to do?"

Then the scroll, which the Lady Kaguya had written, together with the Elixir, was given to Tsuki no Iwakasa. These he was commanded to take to the summit of the highest mountain in Suruga, and, standing upon the highest peak, to burn the scroll and the Elixir of Life.

So Tsuki no Iwakasa heard humbly the Royal command, and took with him a company of warriors, and climbed the mountain and did as he was bidden. And it was from that time forth that the name of Fuji (Fuji-yama, 'Never Dying') was given to yonder mountain, and men say that the smoke of that burning still curls from its high peak to mingle with the clouds of heaven.

[1] The Fifth Quest, that of Lord Iso, is omitted. The story is trivial and of no particular interest. Suffice it to say that Lord Iso's search for the cowry-shell was in vain.

[2] Midnight until two in the morning. "Years, days, and hours," writes Professor B. H. Chamberlain, "were all accounted as belonging to one of the signs of the zodiac."

[CHAPTER IV: BUDDHA LEGENDS]

The Legend of the Golden Lotus

The following legend is obviously not of Japanese origin. The priests of Buddhism in Japan knew that the success of their religion lay, not in sweeping out the old gods of Shintō, but in adapting them with infinite cleverness to the needs of their own teaching. In this case Japan has borrowed from India and in a minor degree from China, if we may look upon the dragon as originally belonging to the Celestial Kingdom. We have followed closely Mr. Edward Greey's version, and insert it here because it often enters into a Nippon priest's discourse, and has a decidedly Japanese setting. We might duplicate legends of this kind, but one will be sufficient for our purpose. The other two legends given in this chapter are strictly Japanese.

The Lord Buddha, having concluded his holy meditations upon Mount Dan-doku, slowly walked along a rocky pathway on his way to the city. The dark shadows of night crept over the country, and there was profound stillness everywhere.

On nearing his destination the Lord Buddha heard some one shout: "Shio-giyo mu-jiyo!" ("The outward manner is not always an index to the natural disposition.")

The Lord Buddha was delighted at these words, and desired to learn who had spoken so wisely. Over and over again he heard the same words, and, drawing to the edge of a precipice, he looked down into the valley beneath, and perceived an extremely ugly dragon gazing up at him with angry eyes.

Buddha and the Dragon.

The Holy One then seated himself upon a rock, and inquired of the dragon how he had come to learn one of the highest mysteries of Buddhism. Such profound wisdom suggested a store of spiritual truths yet to be revealed, and the Lord Buddha, therefore, requested that the dragon should give utterance to other wise sayings.

Then the dragon, having coiled himself round the rock, shouted with a great voice: "Ze-shio metsu-po!" ("All living things are antagonistic to the law of Buddha!")

After uttering these words the dragon was silent for some time. Then the Lord Buddha begged to hear yet another sentence.

"Shio-metsu metsu-i!" ("All living things must die!") shouted the dragon.

At these words the dragon looked up at the Lord Buddha, and upon his dreadful countenance there was an expression of extreme hunger.

The dragon then informed the Lord Buddha that the next truth was the last, and so precious that he could not reveal it until his hunger had been appeased.

At this the Holy One remarked that he would deny the dragon nothing so long as he heard the fourth truth revealed, and inquired of the dragon what he demanded. When the Lord Buddha heard that human flesh was what the dragon required in exchange for his last precious fragment of wisdom, the Master informed the dragon that his religion forbade the destruction of life, but that he would, for the welfare of his people, sacrifice his own body.

The dragon opened his great mouth and said: "Jaku-metsu I-raku!" ("The greatest happiness is experienced after the soul has left the body!")

The Lord Buddha bowed, and then sprang into the gaping mouth of the dragon.

No sooner had the Holy One touched the jaws of the monster than they suddenly divided into eight parts, and in a moment changed into the eight petals of the Golden Lotus.

The Bronze Buddha of Kamakura and the Whale[1]

"Above the old songs turned to ashes and pain,
Under which Death enshrouds the idols and trees with mist of sigh,
(Where are Kamakura's rising days and life of old?)
With heart heightened to hush, the Daibutsu forever sits."
Yone Noguchi.

The great bronze Buddha of Kamakura, or the Daibutsu, is undoubtedly one of the most remarkable sights in Japan. At one time Kamakura was the capital of Nippon. It was a great city of nearly a million inhabitants, and was the seat of the Shōguns and of the Regents of the Hōjō family during the troublous period of the Middle Ages. But Kamakura, for all its devout worshippers of the Lord Buddha, was destroyed by storm on two occasions, until it finally lost its importance. To-day rice-fields and woods are to be seen in place of the glory of old. Storm and fire, however, have left untouched the temple of Hachiman (the God of War) and the bronze image of Buddha. At one time this gigantic figure reposed in a temple, but now it stands high above the trees, with an inscrutable smile upon its great face, with eyes full of a peace that cannot be shaken by the petty storms of the world.

Legend is nearly always elemental. Divinities, irrespective of their austerity, are brought down to a very human level. It is a far cry from the complex teaching of the Lord Buddha to the story of Amida Butsu and the whale. One can trace in the following legend an almost pathetic desire to veil the greatness of Buddha. The gigantic size of the Daibutsu is not really in keeping with that curious love of little things which is so characteristic of the Japanese people. There is a playful irony in this story, a desire to take down the great Teacher a peg or two—if only to take him down in stature a paltry two inches!

So many things appear to us to be done in a topsy-turvy way in Japan that we are not surprised to find that in measuring metal and soft goods the feet on the yardstick are not alike. For soft goods a whale measure is used, for any hard material a metal foot. There are two inches of difference in these measures, and the following legend may possibly give us the reason for this apparently rather confusing discrepancy.

The Bronze Buddha, in its sitting posture, is fifty feet high, ninety-seven feet in circumference, the length of its face eight feet, and as for its thumbs they are three feet round. It is probably the tallest piece of bronze in the world. Such an enormous image naturally created a considerable sensation in the days when Kamakura was a flourishing city, laid out by the great General Yoritomo. The roads in and about the city were densely packed with pilgrims, anxious to gaze upon the latest marvel, and all agreed that this bronze image was the biggest thing in the world.

Now it may be that certain sailors who had seen this marvel chatted about it as they plied their nets. Whether this was so or not, a mighty whale, who lived in the Northern Sea, happened to hear about the Bronze Buddha of Kamakura, and as he regarded himself as being far bigger than anything on land, the idea of a possible rival did not meet with his approval. He deemed it impossible that little men could construct anything that could vie with his enormous bulk, and laughed heartily at the very absurdity of such a conception.

His laughter, however, did not last long. He was inordinately jealous, and when he heard about the numerous pilgrimages to Kamakura and the incessant praise evoked from those who had seen the image he grew exceedingly angry, lashed the sea into foam, and blew down his nose with so much violence that the other creatures of the deep gave him a very wide berth. His loneliness only aggravated his trouble, and he was unable to eat or sleep, and in consequence grew thin. He at last decided to chat the matter over with a kindly shark.

The shark answered the whale's heated questions with quiet solicitude, and consented to go to the Southern Sea in order that he might take the measurement of the image, and bring back the result of his labour to his agitated friend.

The shark set off upon his journey, until he came to the shore, where he could see the image towering above him, about half a mile inland. As he could not walk on dry land he was about to renounce his quest, when he had the good fortune to discover a rat enjoying a scamper along a junk. He explained his mission to the rat, and requested that much-flattered little creature to take the measurement of the Bronze Buddha.

So the rat climbed down the junk, swam ashore, and entered the dark temple where the Great Buddha stood. At first he was so overcome by the magnificence he saw about him that he was uncertain as to how to proceed in carrying out the shark's request. He eventually decided to walk round the image, counting his footsteps as he went. He discovered after he had performed this task that he had walked exactly five thousand paces, and on his return to the junk he told the shark the measurement of the base of the Bronze Buddha.

The shark, with profuse thanks to the rat, returned to the Northern Sea, and informed the whale that the reports concerning the size of this exasperating image were only too true.

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing" evidently applies equally well to whales, for the whale of this legend, after receiving the information, grew more furious than ever. As in a story familiar to English children, he put on magic boots in order to travel on land as well as he had always done in the sea.

The whale reached the Kamakura temple at night. He discovered that the priests had gone to bed, and were apparently fast asleep. He knocked at the door. Instead of the dismal murmur of a half-awake priest he heard the Lord Buddha say, in a voice that rang like the sound of a great bell: "Come in!"

"I cannot," replied the whale, "because I am too big. Will you please come out and see me?"

When Buddha found out who his visitor was, and what he wanted at so unearthly an hour, he condescendingly stepped down from his pedestal and came outside the temple. There was utter amazement on both sides. Had the whale possessed knees they would assuredly have knocked together. He knocked his head on the ground instead. For his part, Buddha was surprised to find a creature of such gigantic proportions.

We can imagine the consternation of the chief priest when he found that the pedestal did not bear the image of his Master. Hearing a strange conversation going on outside the temple, he went out to see what was taking place. The much-frightened priest was invited to join in the discussion, and was requested to take the measurement of the image and the whale, and accordingly began to measure with his rosary. During this proceeding the image and the whale awaited the result with bated breath. When the measurements had been taken the whale was found to be two inches longer and taller than the image.

The whale went back to the Northern Sea more utterly vain than ever, while the image returned to its temple and sat down again, and there it has remained to this day, none the worse, perhaps, for finding that it was not quite so big as it imagined. Dealers in dry goods and dealers in wood and iron agreed from that day to this to differ as to what was a foot—and the difference was a matter of two inches.

The Crystal of Buddha[2]

In ancient days there lived in Japan a great State Minister named Kamatari. Now Kamatari's only daughter, Kohaku Jo, extremely beautiful, and as good as she was beautiful. She was the delight of her father's heart, and he resolved that, if she married, no one of less account than a king should be her husband. With this idea continually in his mind, he steadfastly refused the offers for her hand.

One day there was a great tumult in the palace courtyard. Through the open gates streamed a number of men bearing a banner on which was worked a silken dragon on a yellow background. Kamatari learnt that these men had come from the court of China with a message from the Emperor Koso. The Emperor had heard of the exceeding beauty and exquisite charm of Kohaku Jo, and desired to marry her. As is usual in the East on such occasions, the Emperor's offer was accompanied with the promise that if Kohaku Jo should become his bride he would allow her to choose from his store of treasures whatever she liked to send to her own country.

After Kamatari had received the envoys with due pomp and ceremony, and put at their disposal a whole wing of the palace, he returned to his own room and bade his servant bring his daughter into his presence.

When Kohaku had entered her father's room she bowed before him and sat patiently on the white mats waiting for her august parent to speak to her.

Kamatari told her that he had chosen the Emperor of China to be her husband, and the little maid wept on hearing the news. She had been so happy in her own home, and China seemed such a long way off. When, however, her father foretold more happiness in the future than she had ever had in the past, she dried her eyes and listened to her parent's words, a little amazed to hear, perhaps, that all China's treasures were to be laid at her own small feet. She was glad when her father told her that she would be able to send three of these treasures to the temple of Kofukuji, where she had received a blessing when a little babe.

So Kohaku obeyed her father with not a little misgiving, not a little heartache. Her girl companions wept when they heard the news, but they were comforted when Kohaku's mother told them that some of their number would be chosen to go with their mistress.

Before Kohaku sailed for China she wended her way to the beloved temple of Kofukuji, and, arriving at the sacred shrine, she prayed for protection in her journey, vowing that if her prayers were answered she would search China for its three most precious treasures, and send them to the temple as a thank-offering.

Kohaku reached China in safety and was received by the Emperor Koso with great magnificence. Her childish fears were soon dispelled by the Emperor's kindness. Indeed, he showed her considerably more than kindness. He spoke to her in the language of a lover: "After long, long days of weary waiting I have gathered the 'azalea of the distant mountain,' and now I plant it in my garden, and great is the gladness of my heart!"[3]

The Emperor Koso led her from palace to palace, and she knew not which was the most beautiful, but her royal husband was aware that she was far more lovely than any of them. Because of her great loveliness he desired that it should be ever remembered throughout the length and breadth of China, even beyond the bounds of his kingdom. "So he called together his goldsmiths and gardeners," as Madame Ozaki writes in describing this story, "and commanded them to fashion a path for the Empress such as had never been heard of in the wide world. The stepping-stones of this path were to be lotus-flowers, carved out of silver and gold, for her to walk on whenever she strolled forth under the trees or by the lake, so that it might be said that her beautiful feet were never soiled by touching the earth; and ever since then, in China and Japan, poet-lovers and lover-poets in song and sonnet and sweet conversation have called the feet of the women they love 'lotus feet.'"

But in spite of all the magnificence that surrounded Kohaku she did not forget her native land or the vow she had made in the temple of Kofukuji. One day she timidly informed the Emperor of her promise, and he, only too glad to have another opportunity of pleasing her, set before her such a store of beautiful and precious things that it seemed as if an exquisite phantom world of gay colour and perfect form had suddenly come into being at her very feet. There was such a wealth of beautiful things that she found it very difficult to make a choice. She finally decided upon the following magical treasures: a musical instrument, which if one struck would continue to play for ever, an ink-stone box, which, on opening the lid, was found to contain an inexhaustible supply of Indian ink, and, last of all, "a beautiful Crystal, in whose clear depths was to be seen, from whichever side you looked, an image of Buddha riding on a white elephant. The jewel was of transcendent glory and shone like a star, and whoever gazed into its liquid depths and saw the blessed vision of Buddha had peace of heart for evermore."[4]

After Kohaku had gazed for some time upon these treasures she sent for Admiral Banko and bade him safely convey them to the temple of Kofukuji.

Everything went well with Admiral Banko and his ship until they were in Japanese waters, sailing into the Bay of Shido-no-ura, when a mighty tempest whirled the vessel hither and thither. The waves rolled up with the fierceness of wild beasts, and lightning continually blazed across the sky, to light up for a moment a rolling ship, now flung high upon a mountain of water, now swept into a green valley from which it seemed it could never rise again.

Suddenly the storm abated with the same unexpectedness with which it had arisen. Some fairy hand had brushed up all the clouds and laid a blue and sparkling carpet across the sea. The admiral's first thought was for the safety of the treasures entrusted to him, and on going below he discovered the musical instrument and ink-stone box just as he had left them, but that the most precious of the treasures, Buddha's Crystal, was missing. He contemplated taking his life, so grieved was he at the loss; but on reflection he saw that it would be wiser to live so long as there was anything he could do to find the jewel. He accordingly hastened to land, and informed Kamatari of his dreadful misfortune.

No sooner had Kamatari been told about the loss of Buddha's Crystal than this wise minister perceived that the Dragon King of the Sea had stolen it, and for that purpose had caused the storm, which had enabled him to steal the treasure unperceived.

Kamatari offered a large reward to a number of fishermen he saw upon the shore of Shido-no-ura if any of their number would venture into the sea and bring back the Crystal. All the fishermen volunteered, but after many attempts the precious jewel still remained in the keeping of the Sea King.

Kamatari, much distressed, suddenly became aware of a poor woman carrying an infant in her arms. She begged the great minister that she might enter the sea and search for the Crystal, and in spite of her frailty she spoke with conviction. Her mother-heart seemed to lend her courage. She made her request because, if she succeeded in bringing back the Crystal, she desired that as a reward Kamatari should bring up her little son as a samurai in order that he might be something in life other than a humble fisherman.

It will be remembered that Kamatari in his day had been ambitious for his daughter's welfare. He readily understood the poor woman's request, and solemnly promised that if she carried out her part faithfully he would gladly do his.

The woman withdrew, and taking off her upper garments, and tying a rope round her waist, into which she stuck a knife, she was prepared for her perilous journey. Giving the end of the rope to a number of fishermen, she plunged into the water.

At first the woman saw the dim outline of rocks, the dart of a frightened fish, and the faint gold of the sand beneath her. Then she suddenly became aware of the roofs of the palace of the Sea King, a great and gorgeous building of coral, relieved here and there with clusters of many-coloured seaweed. The palace was like a huge pagoda, rising tier upon tier. The woman swam nearer in order to inspect it more closely, and she perceived a bright light, more brilliant than the light of many moons, so bright that it dazzled her eyes. It was the light of Buddha's Crystal, placed on the pinnacle of this vast abode, and on every side of the shining jewel were guardian dragons fast asleep, appearing to watch even in their slumber!

Up swam the woman, praying in her brave heart that the dragons might sleep till she was out of harm's way and in possession of the treasure. No sooner had she snatched the Crystal from its resting-place than the guardians awoke; their great claws extended and their tails furiously lashed the water, and in another moment they were in hot pursuit. Rather than lose the Crystal, which she had won at so much peril, the woman cut a wound in her left breast and forced the jewel into the bleeding cavity, pressing her hand, without a murmur of pain, upon the poor torn flesh. When the dragons perceived that the water was murky with the woman's blood they turned back, for sea-dragons are afraid of the very sight of blood.

Now the woman sharply pulled the rope, and the fishermen, sitting upon the rocks far above, drew her to land with ever-quickening speed. They gently laid her upon the shore, and found that her eyes were closed and her breast bleeding profusely. Kamatari at first thought that the woman had risked her life in vain; but bending over her he noticed the wound in her breast. At that moment she opened her eyes, and, taking the jewel from its place of concealment, she murmured a few words about Kamatari's promise, then fell back dead with a smile of peace upon her face.

Kamatari took the woman's child home and looked after him with all the loving care of a father. In due time the boy grew to manhood and became a brave samurai, and at Kamatari's death he, too, became a great State minister. When in later years he learnt the story of his mother's act of self-sacrifice he built a temple in the Bay of Shido-no-ura, in memory of one who was so brave and true. It is called Shidoji, and pilgrims visit this temple and remember the nobility of a poor shell-gatherer to this day.

[1] Adapted from Fairy Tales of Old Japan, by W. E. Griffis.

[2] Adapted from Buddha's Crystal, by Madame Yei Ozaki.

[3] Madame Ozaki.

[4] Madame Ozaki.

[CHAPTER V: FOX LEGENDS]

Inari, the Fox God

The fox takes an important place in Japanese legend, and the subject is of a far-reaching and complex kind.[1] Inari was originally the God of Rice, but in the eleventh century he became associated with the Fox God, with attributes for good and evil, mostly for evil, so profuse and so manifold in their application that they cause no little confusion to the English reader. All foxes possess supernatural powers to an almost limitless degree. They have the power of infinite vision; they can hear everything and understand the secret thoughts of mankind generally, and in addition they possess the power of transformation and of transmutation. The chief attribute of the bad fox is the power to delude human beings, and for this purpose it will take the form of a beautiful woman, and many are the legends told in this connection.[2] If the shadow of a fox-woman chance to fall upon water, only the fox, and not the fair woman, is revealed. It is said that if a dog sees a fox-woman the feminine form vanishes immediately, and the fox alone remains.

Though the legends connected with the fox in Japan are usually associated with evil, Inari sometimes poses as a beneficent being, a being who can cure coughs and colds, bring wealth to the needy, and answer a woman's prayer for a child. Another kindly act on the part of Inari, which we might well have associated with Jizō, is to enable little boys and girls to bear with fortitude the troublesome performance of being shaved with a none too perfect razor, and also to help the little ones to go through the painful process of a hot bath, never less in Japan than 110° F.!

Inari not infrequently rewards human beings for any act of kindness to a fox. Only a part of his reward, however, is real; at least one tempting coin is bound to turn very quickly into grass! The little good done by Inari—and we have tried to do him justice—is altogether weighed down by his countless evil actions, often of an extremely cruel nature, as will be seen later on. The subject of the fox in Japan has been aptly described by Lafcadio Hearn as "ghostly zoology," and this cunning and malignant animal is certainly ghostly with a completeness far more horribly subtle than our own stock-in-trade ghost with luminous garment and clanking chain!

Demoniacal Possession

Demoniacal possession is frequently said to be due to the evil influence of foxes. This form of possession is known as kitsune-tsuki. The sufferer is usually a woman of the poorer classes, one who is highly sensitive and open to believe in all manner of superstitions. The question of demoniacal possession is still an unsolved problem, and the studies of Dr. Baelz, of the Imperial University of Japan, seem to point to the fact that animal possession in human beings is a very real and terrible truth after all.[3] He remarks that a fox usually enters a woman either through the breast or between the finger-nails, and that the fox lives a separate life of its own, frequently speaking in a voice totally different from the human.

The Death-Stone[4]

"The Death-Stone stands on Nasu's moor
Through winter snows and summer heat;
The moss grows grey upon its sides,
But the foul demon haunts it yet.
"Chill blows the blast: the owl's sad choir
Hoots hoarsely through the moaning pines;
Among the low chrysanthemums
The skulking fox, the jackal whines,
As o'er the moor the autumn light declines."
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

The Buddhist priest Genno, after much weary travel, came to the moor of Nasu, and was about to rest under the shadow of a great stone, when a spirit suddenly appeared, and said: "Rest not under this stone. This is the Death-Stone. Men, birds, and beasts have perished by merely touching it!"

These mysterious and warning remarks naturally awakened Genno's curiosity, and he begged that the spirit would favour him with the story of the Death-Stone.

Thus the spirit began: "Long ago there was a fair girl living at the Japanese Court. She was so charming that she was called the Jewel Maiden. Her wisdom equalled her beauty, for she understood Buddhist lore and the Confucian classics, science, and the poetry of China."

"So sweetly decked by nature and by art,
The monarch's self soon clasp'd her to his heart."
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

"One night," went on the spirit, "the Mikado gave a great feast in the Summer Palace, and there he assembled the wit, wisdom, and beauty of the land. It was a brilliant gathering; but while the company ate and drank, accompanied by the strains of sweet music, darkness crept over the great apartment. Black clouds raced across the sky, and there was not a star to be seen. While the guests sat rigid with fear a mysterious wind arose. It howled through the Summer Palace and blew out all the lanterns. The complete darkness produced a state of panic, and during the uproar some one cried out, 'A light! A light!'"

"And lo! from out the Jewel Maiden's frame
There's seen to dart a weirdly lustrous flame!
It grows, it spreads, it fills th' imperial halls;
The painted screens, the costly panell'd walls,
Erst the pale viewless damask of the night
Sparkling stand forth as in the moon's full light."
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

"From that very hour the Mikado sickened," continued the spirit. "He grew so ill that the Court Magician was sent for, and this worthy soul speedily ascertained the cause of his Majesty's decline. He stated, with much warmth of language, that the Jewel Maiden was a harlot and a fiend, 'who, with insidious art, the State to ravage, captivates thy heart!'

"The Magician's words turned the Mikado's heart against the Jewel Maiden. When this sorceress was spurned she resumed her original shape, that of a fox, and ran away to this very stone on Nasu moor."

The priest looked at the spirit critically. "Who are you?" he said at length.

"I am the demon that once dwelt in the breast of the Jewel Maiden! Now I inhabit the Death-Stone for evermore!"

The Mikado and the Jewel Maiden.

The good Genno was much horrified by this dreadful confession, but, remembering his duty as a priest, he said: "Though you have sunk low in wickedness, you shall rise to virtue again. Take this priestly robe and begging-bowl, and reveal to me your fox form."

Then this wicked spirit cried pitifully:

"In the garish light of day
I hide myself away,
Like pale Asama's fires:
With the night I'll come again,
Confess my guilt with pain
And new-born pure desires."
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

With these words the spirit suddenly vanished.

Genno did not relinquish his good intentions. He strove more ardently than ever for this erring soul's salvation. In order that she might attain Nirvana, he offered flowers, burnt incense, and recited the sacred Scriptures in front of the stone.

When Genno had performed these religious duties, he said: "Spirit of the Death-Stone, I conjure thee! what was it in a former world that did cause thee to assume in this so foul a shape?"

Suddenly the Death-Stone was rent and the spirit once more appeared, crying:

"In stones there are spirits,
In the waters is a voice heard:
The winds sweep across the firmament!"
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

Genno saw a lurid glare about him and, in the shining light, a fox that suddenly turned into a beautiful maiden.

Thus spoke the spirit of the Death-Stone: "I am she who first, in Ind, was the demon to whom Prince Hazoku paid homage.... In Great Cathay I took the form of Hōji, consort of the Emperor Iuwao; and at the Court of the Rising Sun I became the Flawless Jewel Maiden, concubine to the Emperor Toba."

The spirit confessed to Genno that in the form of the Jewel Maiden she had desired to bring destruction to the Imperial line. "Already," said the spirit, "I was making my plans, already I was gloating over the thought of the Mikado's death, and had it not been for the power of the Court Magician I should have succeeded in my scheme. As I have told you, I was driven from the Court. I was pursued by dogs and arrows, and finally sank exhausted into the Death-Stone. From time to time I haunted the moor. Now the Lord Buddha has had compassion upon me, and he has sent his priest to point out the way of true religion and to bring peace."

The legend concludes with the following pious utterances poured forth by the now contrite spirit:

"'I swear, O man of God! I swear,' she cries,
'To thee whose blessing wafts me to the skies,
I swear a solemn oath, that shall endure
Firm as the Death-Stone standing on the moor,
That from this hour I'm virtue's child alone!'
Thus spake the ghoul, and vanished 'neath the Stone."
Translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

How Tokutaro was Deluded by Foxes

Tokutaro was a complete sceptic in regard to the magical power of foxes. His scepticism exasperated a number of his companions, who challenged him to go to Maki moor. If nothing happened to him, Tokutaro was to receive, writes A. B. Mitford (Lord Redesdale) in Tales of Old Japan, "five measures of wine and a thousand copper cash[5] worth of fish." If, on the other hand, Tokutaro should suffer through the power of the foxes, he was to present a similar gift to his companions. Tokutaro jeeringly accepted the bet, and when night had come he set out for the Maki moor.

Tokutaro was determined to be very cute and very wary. On reaching his destination he happened to meet a fox running through a bamboo grove. Immediately afterwards he perceived the daughter of the headman of Upper Horikané. On telling the woman that he was going to this village, she explained that as she was going there too they might journey together.

Tokutaro's suspicions were fully aroused. He walked behind the woman, vainly searching for a fox's tail. When they reached Upper Horikané the girl's parents came out, and were much surprised to see their daughter, who had married, and was living in another village.

Tokutaro, with a smile of superior wisdom, explained that the maid before them was not really their daughter, but a fox in disguise. The old people were at first indignant, and refused to believe what Tokutaro had told them. Eventually, however, he persuaded them to leave the girl in his hands while they waited for the result in the store-closet.

Tokutaro then seized the girl, and brutally knocked her down, pouring abuse upon her. He stamped upon her, and tortured her in every possible way, expecting every moment to see the woman turn into a fox. But she only wept and cried piteously for her parents to come to her rescue.

This whole-hearted sceptic, finding his efforts so far fruitless, piled wood upon the floor and burnt her to death. At this juncture her parents came running in and bound Tokutaro to a pillar, fiercely accusing him of murder.

Now a priest happened to pass that way, and, hearing the noise, requested an explanation. When the girl's parents had told him all, and after he had listened to Tokutaro's pleadings, he begged the old couple to spare the man's life in order that he might become in time a good and devout priest. This extraordinary request, after some demur, was agreed to, and Tokutaro knelt down to have his head shaved, happy, no doubt, to be released from his predicament so easily.

No sooner had Tokutaro's wicked head been shaved than he heard a loud peal of laughter, and he awoke to find himself sitting on a large moor. He instinctively raised his hand to his head, to discover that foxes had shaved him and he had lost his bet!

A Fox's Gratitude

After the preceding gruesome legend describing the evil propensities of the fox, it is refreshing to come across one that was capable of considerable self-sacrifice.

Now it happened, on a certain spring day, that two little boys were caught in the act of trying to catch a baby fox. The man who witnessed the performance possessed a kind heart, and, on hearing that the boys were anxious to sell the cub, gave them half a bu.[6] When the children had joyfully departed with the money the man discovered that the little creature was wounded in the foot. He immediately applied a certain herb, and the pain speedily subsided. Perceiving at a short distance a number of old foxes watching him, he generously let the cub go, and it sprang with a bound to its parents and licked them profusely.

Now this kind-hearted man had a son, who was afflicted with a strange disease. A great physician at last prescribed the liver of a live fox as being the only remedy likely to effect a cure. When the boy's parents heard this they were much distressed, and would only consent to accept a fox's liver from one who made it his business to hunt foxes. They finally commissioned a neighbour to obtain the liver, for which they promised to pay liberally.

The following night the fox's liver was brought by a strange man totally unknown to the good people of the house. The visitor professed to be a messenger sent by the neighbour whom they had commissioned. When, however, the neighbour himself arrived he confessed that though he had tried his utmost to obtain a fox's liver he had failed to do so, and had come to make his apologies. He was utterly amazed to hear the story the parents of the suffering boy told him.

The next day the fox's liver was made into a concoction by the great physician, and immediately restored the little boy to his usual health again.

In the evening a beautiful young woman appeared at the bedside of the happy parents. She explained that she was the mother of the cub the master had saved, and that in gratitude for his kindness she had killed her offspring, and that her husband, in the guise of the mysterious messenger, had brought the desired liver.[7]

Inari Answers a Woman's Prayer

Inari, as we have already found, is often extremely benevolent. One legend informs us that a woman who had been married many years and had not been blessed with a child prayed at Inari's shrine. At the conclusion of her supplication the stone foxes wagged their tails, and snow began to fall. She regarded these phenomena as favourable omens.

When the woman reached her home a yeta (beggar) accosted her, and begged for something to eat. The woman good-naturedly gave this unfortunate wayfarer some red bean rice, the only food she had in the house, and presented it to him in a dish.

The next day her husband discovered this dish lying in front of the shrine where she had prayed. The beggar was none other than Inari himself, and the woman's generosity was rewarded in due season by the birth of a child.

The Meanness of Raiko

Raiko was a wealthy man living in a certain village. In spite of his enormous wealth, which he carried in his obi (girdle), he was extremely mean. As he grew older his meanness increased till at last he contemplated dismissing his faithful servants who had served him so well.

One day Raiko became very ill, so ill that he almost wasted away, on account of a terrible fever. On the tenth night of his illness a poorly dressed bozu (priest) appeared by his pillow, inquired how he fared, and added that he had expected the oni to carry him off long ago.

These home truths, none too delicately expressed, made Raiko very angry, and he indignantly demanded that the priest should take his departure. But the bozu, instead of departing, told him that there was only one remedy for his illness. The remedy was that Raiko should loosen his obi and distribute his money to the poor.

Raiko became still more angry at what he considered the gross impertinence of the priest. He snatched a dagger from his robe and tried to kill the kindly bozu. The priest, without the least fear, informed Raiko that he had heard of his mean intention to dismiss his worthy servants, and had nightly come to the old man to drain his life-blood. "Now," said the priest, "my object is attained!" and with these words he blew out the light.

The now thoroughly frightened Raiko felt a ghostly creature advance towards him. The old man struck out blindly with his dagger, and made such a commotion that his loyal servants ran, into the room with lanterns, and the light revealed the horrible claw of a monster lying by the side of the old man's mat.

Carefully following the little spots of blood, Raiko's servants came to a miniature mountain at the extreme end of the garden, and in the mountain was a large hole, from whence protruded the upper part of an enormous spider. This creature begged the servants to try to persuade their master not to attack the Gods, and in future to refrain from meanness.

When Raiko heard these words from his servants he repented, and gave large sums of money to the poor. Inari had assumed the shape of a spider and priest in order to teach the once mean old man a lesson.

[1] The strange supernatural powers of the fox do not belong exclusively to Japan. Numerous examples of this animal's magical attainments may be found in Chinese legend. See Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, by Professor H. A. Giles.

[2] See my Land of the Yellow Spring, and other Japanese Stories, p. 113.

[3] See Pastor Shi, one of China's Questions, by Mrs. Taylor.

[4] "The Death-Stone" is certainly one of the most remarkable of fox legends. It illustrates a malignant fox taking the form of a seductive woman in more than one life. She is a coming and vanishing creature of alluring but destructive power, a sort of Japanese version of Fata Morgana. The legend has been adapted from a No, or lyrical drama, translated by Professor B. H. Chamberlain.

[5] The cash, now no longer in use, was roughly equivalent to one penny.

[6] About 8d.

[7] The liver, both animal and human, frequently figures in, Japanese legend as a remedy for various ailments.

[CHAPTER VI: JIZŌ, THE GOD OF CHILDREN]

The Significance of Jizō

Jizō, the God of little children and the God who makes calm the troubled sea, is certainly the most lovable of the Buddhist divinities, though Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, has somewhat similar attributes. The most popular Gods, be they of the East or West, are those Gods with the most human qualities. Jizō, though of Buddhist origin, is essentially Japanese, and we may best describe him as being the creation of innumerable Japanese women who have longed to project into the Infinite, into the shrouded Beyond, a deity who should be a divine Father and Mother to the souls of their little ones. And this is just what Jizō is, a God essentially of the feminine heart, and not a being to be tossed about in the hair-splitting debates of hoary theologians. A study of the nature and characteristics of Jizō will reveal all that is best in the Japanese woman, for he assuredly reveals her love, her sense of the beautiful, and her infinite compassion. Jizō has all the wisdom of the Lord Buddha himself, with this important difference, namely, that Jizō has waived aside Nirvana, and does not sit upon the Golden Lotus, but has become, through an exquisitely beautiful self-sacrifice, the divine playmate and protector of Japanese children. He is the God of smiles and long sleeves, the enemy of evil spirits, and the one being who can heal the wound of a mother who has lost her child in death. We have a saying that all rivers find their way to the sea. To the Japanese woman who has laid her little one in the cemetery all rivers wind their silver courses into the place where the ever-waiting and ever-gentle Jizō is. That is why mothers who have lost their children in death write prayers on little slips of paper, and watch them float down the rivers on their way to the great spiritual Father and Mother who will answer all their petitions with a loving smile.

At Jizō's Shrine

"Fronting the kindly Jizō's shrine
The cherry-blooms are blowing now,
Pink cloud of flower on slender bough,
And hidden tracery of line.
"Rose-dawn against moss-mellowed grey,
Through which the wind-tost sprays allow
Glimpse of calm smile and placid brow,
Of carven face where sunbeams play.
"Dawn-time, I pluck a branch, and swift
Flutters a flight of petals fair;
Through the fresh-scented morning air
Down to the waving grass they drift.
"Noon-tide my idle fingers stray,
Through the fair maze of bud and flower,
Sending a sudden blossom-shower
From the sweet fragance-haunted spray.
"Low in the west the red fire dies,
Vaguely I lift my hand, but now
Jizō is not—nor cherry bough—
Only the dark of starless skies!"
Clara A. Walsh.

Jizō and Lafcadio Hearn

Lafcadio Hearn, in one of his letters,[1] writes: "There is a queer custom in Izumo which may interest you. When a wedding takes place in the house of an unpopular man in the country the young men of the village carry a roadside statue of Jizō into the Zashiki, and announce the coming of the God. (This is especially done with an avaricious farmer, or a stingy family.) Food and wine are demanded by the God. The members of the family must come in, salute the deity, and give all the saké and food demanded while any remains in the house. It is dangerous to refuse; the young peasants would probably wreck the house. After this the statue is carried back again to its place. The visit of Jizō is much dreaded. It is never made to persons who are liked."

On one occasion Lafcadio Hearn, who had a very warm admiration for this God, desired to restore the head and arms of a broken Jizō image. His wife remonstrated with him, and we quote his quaint reply because it reminds us not a little of the last legend mentioned in this chapter: "Gomen, gomen! ["Forgive me!">[ I thought only to give a little joy as I hoped. The Jizō I wrote you about is not the thing you will find in the graveyards; but it is Jizō who shall guard and pacify the seas. It is not a sad kind, but you do not like my idea, so I have given up my project. It was only papa's foolish thought. However, poor Jizō-sama wept bitterly when it heard of your answer to me. I said to it, 'I cannot help it, as Mamma San doubted your real nature, and thinks that you are a graveyard-keeper. I know that you are the saviour of seas and sailors.' The Jizō is crying even now."

"The Dry Bed of the River of Souls"

Under the earth there is the Sai-no-Kawara, or "the Dry Bed of the River of Souls." This is the place where all children go after death, children and those who have never married. Here the little ones play with the smiling Jizō, and here it is that they build small towers of stones, for there are many in this river-bed. The mothers of these children, in the world above them, also pile up stones around the images of Jizō, for these little towers represent prayers; they are charms against the oni or wicked spirits. Sometimes in the Dry Bed of the River of Souls the oni for a moment gain a temporary victory, and knock down the little towers which the ghosts of children have built with so much laughter. When such a misfortune takes place the laughter ceases, and the little ones fly to Jizō for protection. He hides them in his long sleeves, and with his sacred staff drives away the red-eyed oni.

The place where the souls of children dwell is a shadowy and grey world of dim hills and vales through which the Sai-no-Kawara winds its way. All the children are clad in short white garments, and if occasionally the evil spirits frighten them there is always Jizō to dry their tears, always one who sends them back to their ghostly games again.

The following hymn of Jizō, known as "The Legend of the Humming of the Sai-no-Kawara," gives us a beautiful and vivid conception of Jizō and this ghostly land where children play:

The Legend of the Humming of the Sai-no-Kawara

"Not of this world is the story of sorrow.
The story of the Sai-no-Kawara,
At the roots of the Mountain of Shide;—
Not of this world is the tale; yet 'tis most pitiful to hear.
For together in the Sai-no-Kawara are assembled
Children of tender age in multitude,—
Infants but two or three years old,
Infants of four or five, infants of less than ten:
In the Sai-no-Kawara are they gathered together.
And the voice of their longing for their parents,
The voice of their crying for their mothers and their fathers—
Is never as the voice of the crying of children in this world,
But a crying so pitiful to hear
That the sound of it would pierce through flesh and bone.
And sorrowful indeed the task which they perform,—
Gathering the stones of the bed of the river,
Therewith to heap the tower of prayers.
Saying prayers for the happiness of father, they heap the first tower;
Saying prayers for the happiness of mother, they heap the second
tower;
Saying prayers for their brothers, their sisters, and all whom they
loved at home, they heap the third tower.
Such, by day, are their pitiful diversions.
But ever as the sun begins to sink below the horizon,
Then do the Oni, the demons of the hells, appear,
And say to them,—'What is this that you do here?
Lo! your parents still living in the Shaba-world
Take no thought of pious offering or holy work:
They do nought but mourn for you from the morning unto the
evening.
Oh! how pitiful! alas! how unmerciful!
Verily the cause of the pains that you suffer
Is only the mourning, the lamentation of your parents.'
And saying also, 'Blame never us!'
The demons cast down the heaped-up towers,
They dash their stones down with their clubs of iron.
But lo! the teacher Jizō appears.
All gently he comes, and says to the weeping infants:—
'Be not afraid, dears! be never fearful!
Poor little souls, your lives were brief indeed!
Too soon you were forced to make the weary journey to the Meido,
The long journey to the region of the dead!
Trust to me! I am your father and mother in the Meido,
Father of all children in the region of the dead.'
And he folds the skirt of his shining robe about them;
So graciously takes he pity on the infants.
To those who cannot walk he stretches forth his strong shakujō,[2]
And he pets the little ones, caresses them, takes them to his loving
bosom.
So graciously he takes pity on the infants.
Namu Amida Butsu!"[3]
Lafcadio Hearn.

Jizō

This abode of the souls of children is certainly not an ideal land. It is Jizō, and not his country, who has sprung from the hearts of Japanese women. The stern Buddhist teaching of cause and effect, of birth and re-birth, applies to even gentle infants. But if the great Wheel of Existence revolves with unerring force, and only fails to move when the desire for not-being is finally attained in Nirvana, Jizō lovingly stands at the foot of Destiny and makes easy the way where the feet of little children so softly patter.

The Cave of the Children's Ghosts

There is a cave in Japan known as Kyu-Kukedo-San, or Ancient Cavern, and far within its recess there is to be found an image of Jizō, with his mystic jewel and sacred staff. Before Jizō there is a little torii[4] and a pair of gohei,[5] both symbols of the Shintō faith; but, as Lafcadio Hearn observes, "this gentle divinity has no enemies; at the feet of the lover of children's ghosts both creeds unite in tender homage." Here it is that the ghosts of little children meet, softly whispering together as they stoop hither and thither in order to build their towers of stones. At night they creep over the sea from their Dry Bed of the River of Souls, and cover the sand in the cavern with their ghostly footsteps, building, ever building those prayers of stone, while Jizō smiles down upon their loving labour. They depart before the rising of the sun, for it is said that the dead fear to gaze upon the Sun Goddess, and most especially are these infants afraid of her bright gold eyes.

The Fountain of Jizō

Another beautiful sea-cave contains the Fountain of Jizō. It is a fountain of flowing milk, at which the souls of children quench their thirst. Mothers suffering from want of milk come to this fountain and pray to Jizō, and mothers having more milk than their infants require pray to the same God that he may take some of their milk and give it to the souls of children in his great shadowy kingdom. And Jizō is said to answer their prayers.

How Jizō Remembered

A woman named Soga Sadayoshi lived by feeding silkworms and gathering their silk. One day, on a visit to the temple of Ken-cho-ji, she thought that an image of Jizō looked cold, and went home, made a cap, returned with it, and set it upon Jizō's head, saying: "Would I were rich enough to give thee a warm covering for all thine august body; but, alas! I am poor, and even this which I offer thee is unworthy of thy divine acceptance."

In her fiftieth year the woman died, and as her body remained warm for three days her relatives would not consent to her burial. On the evening of the third day, however, much to the surprise and joy of those about her, she came to life once more.

Shortly after the woman had resumed her work again she narrated how her soul had appeared before the great and terrible Emma-Ō, Lord and Judge of the dead, and how that dread being had been angry with her because, contrary to Buddha's teaching, she had killed innumerable silkworms. Emma-Ō was so angry that he ordered her to be thrown into a pot filled with molten metal. While she cried out in intense agony Jizō came and stood beside her, and immediately the metal ceased to burn. After Jizō had spoken kindly to the woman he led her to Emma-Ō, and requested that she who had once kept warm one of his images should receive pardon. And Emma-Ō granted the request of the ever-loving and compassionate God, and the woman returned to the sunny world of Japan again.

[1] The Japanese Letters of Lafcadio Hearn, edited by Elizabeth Bisland.

[2] Sacred staff.

[3] "Hail, omnipotent Buddha!"

[4] A gateway.

[5] "A wand from which depend strips of white paper cut into little angular bunches (gohei), intended to represent the offerings of cloth which were anciently tied to branches of the sacred cleyera tree at festival time."—B. H. Chamberlain.

[CHAPTER VII: LEGEND IN JAPANESE ART]

The Significance of Japanese Art

Sir Alfred East, in lecturing on the subject of Japanese art, described it as "great in small things, but small in great things," and this, generally speaking, is very true. The Japanese artist excels in depicting flowers and insects and birds. He is triumphant in portraying the curl of a wave, a branch of cherry-blossom against a full moon, a flight of heron, a group of pine-trees, and carp swimming in a stream; but that genius for minute and accurate detail seems to have prevented him from depicting what we understand as a great subject-picture, an historical scene crowded with many figures. This zest to portray various fragments from Nature was no narrow and academic affair. Art was not intended solely for the kakemono, or hanging scroll, to be suspended in the alcove of a Japanese home, to be admired for a time, and then to be replaced by another. Art in Japan was universal to an extent not to be found in any other country, where a cheap towel had a pleasing design upon it, and where the playing cards, unlike our own, were works of art.

It has been said that the woman in Japanese art is wooden. This is not really so, if by wooden we mean entirely without expression; but it is necessary first of all to know something about the Japanese woman in actual life before we can understand her representation in art. There is a wealth of old tradition behind that apparently immobile face. It is a curious fact that until we get accustomed to the various Japanese types one face so closely resembles another that discrimination is out of the question, and we are apt to run away with the idea that Nature in Japan has been content to repeat the same physiognomy over and over again, forgetting that we in turn present no diversity of type to the Japanese on first acquaintance. The Japanese face in art is not without expression, only it happens to be an expression rather different from that with which we are familiar, and this is particularly true in regard to the portrayal of Japanese women. Most of us have seen a number of colour-prints devoted to this subject in which we find no shading in the face. We are apt to exclaim that this omission gives an extremely flat effect to the face, and to observe in consequence that the work before us must be very bad art. But it is not bad art, for the Japanese face is flat, and the artists of that country never fail to reflect this characteristic. Colour-prints depicting Nipponese women do not reveal emotion—a smile, a gesture of yearning, are absent; but because we find so much negation we should be very far from the truth to suppose that a colour-print of this kind expresses no feeling, that the general effect is doll-like and uninteresting. We must take into consideration the long period of suppression through which the Japanese woman had to pass. A superficial study of that extraordinary treatise by Kaibara known as Onna Daigaku, or "The Greater Learning for Women," will help us to realise that it was the duty of every Japanese woman to be sweet, amiable, virtuous; to obey those in authority without demur, and above all to suppress her feelings. When we have taken these points into consideration we shall very slowly perceive that there is strength and not weakness in a portrait of a Japanese woman; a quiet and dignified beauty in which impulse is held in check, veiled, as it were, behind a cloud of rigid tradition. The Japanese woman, though she has been surrounded at every turn by severe discipline, has, nevertheless, given us a type of womanhood supreme in her true sweetness of disposition, and the Japanese artist has caught the glamour of her charm. In the curve of her form he suggests the grace of a wind-blown willow, in the designs upon her robe the promise of spring, and behind the small red mouth a wealth of infinite possibilities.

Japan owed her art to Buddhism, and it was quickened and sustained by Chinese influence. Buddhism gave Nippon her pictorial art, her mural decoration and exquisite carving. Shintō temples were severe and plain, those of Buddhism were replete with all that art could give them; and last, but not least, it was Buddha's teaching that brought into Japan the art of gardening, with all its elaborate and beautiful symbolism.

A Japanese art critic wrote: "If in the midst of a stroke a sword-cut had severed the brush it would have bled." From this we may gather that the Japanese artist put his whole heart into his work; it was a part of him, something vital, something akin to religion itself. With this great force behind his brush it is no wonder that he was able to give that extraordinary life and movement to his work, so strikingly depicted in portraits of actors.

Though we have so far only shown the Japanese artist as a master of little things, he has, nevertheless, faithfully and effectively represented the Gods and Goddesses of his country, and many of the myths and legends connected with them. If he excelled in the beautiful, he no less excelled in depicting the horrible, for no artists, excepting those of China, have succeeded in portraying the supernatural to more effect. What a contrast there is between an exquisite picture of Jizō or Buddha or Kwannon and the pictorial representation of a Japanese goblin! Extreme beauty and extreme ugliness are to be found in Japanese art, and those who love the many pictures of Mount Fuji and the moth-like colouring of Utamaru's women will turn in horror from the ghastly representations of supernatural beings.

The Gods of Good Fortune

Many of the legendary stories given in this volume have been portrayed by Japanese artists, and in the present chapter we propose to deal with the legends in Japanese art not hitherto mentioned. The favourite theme of the Japanese artist is undoubtedly that of the Seven Gods of Good Fortune, nearly always treated with rollicking good-humour. There was Fukurokuju, with a very long head, and attended by a crane, deer, or tortoise; Daikoku, who stood upon rice-bales and was accompanied by a rat; Ebisu, carrying a fish; Hotei, the merry God of Laughter, the very embodiment of our phrase "Laugh and grow fat." There was Bishamon, resplendent in armour, and bearing a spear and toy pagoda; Benten, the Goddess of Beauty, Wealth, Fertility, and Offspring; while Jurōjin was very similar to Fukurokuju. These Seven Gods of Good Fortune, or, to be more accurate, six Gods and one Goddess, seem to have sprung from Shintōism, Taoism, Buddhism, and Brahmanism, and apparently date from the seventeenth century.

The Treasure Ship

In connection with this theme the Japanese artist is fond of portraying the Gods of Good Fortune as jovial passengers on the Takara-bune, or Treasure Ship, which is said to come to port on New Year's Eve, with no less a cargo than the Hat of Invisibility, the Lucky Raincoat, coat, the Sacred Key, the Inexhaustible Purse, and other curious and magical treasures. At this time of the year pictures of the Treasure Ship are placed under children's wooden pillows, and the practice is said to bring a lucky dream.

"Sleep, my own, till the bell of dusk
Bring the stars laden with a dream.
With that dream you shall awake
Between the laughters and the song."
Yone Noguchi.

The Miraculous in Japanese Art

Among other legends is the story of Hidari Jingorō, the famous sculptor, whose masterpiece came to life when finished, which reminds us not a little of the story of Pygmalion. There are other legendary stories connected with the coming to life of Japanese works of art. On a certain occasion a number of peasants were much annoyed by the destruction of their gardens caused by some wild animal. Eventually they discovered that the intruder was a great black horse, and on giving chase it suddenly disappeared into a temple. When they entered the building they found Kanasoka's painting of a black steed steaming with its recent exertion! The great artist at once painted in a rope tethering the animal to a post, and from that day to this the peasants' gardens have remained unmolested.

When the great artist Sesshiu was a little boy the story goes that he was, by way of punishment, securely bound in a Buddhist temple. Using his copious tears for ink and his toe for a brush, the little fellow sketched some rats upon the floor. Immediately they came to life and gnawed through the rope that bound their youthful creator.

Hokusai

There is something more than mere legend in these stories, if we may believe the words of the famous artist Hokusai, whose "Hundred Views of Fuji" are regarded as the finest examples of Japanese landscape-painting. He wrote in his Preface to this work: "At ninety I shall penetrate the mystery of things; at a hundred I shall certainly have reached a marvellous stage; and when I am a hundred and ten everything I do, be it a dot or a line, will be alive." Needless to say, Hokusai did not reach the age of a hundred and ten. In his last hours he wrote the following lines, which were afterwards inscribed upon his tomb:

"My soul, turned Will-o'-the-wisp,
Can come and go at ease over the summer fields."

With that strong poetic feeling so characteristic of the Japanese, Eternity meant for Hokusai an infinite time in which to carry on his beloved work—to perfect, to make alive all the wonderful strokes of his brush. As in ancient Egypt, so in Old Japan, the future life could only mean real happiness with periodic visits to this world again, and there is a subtle and almost pathetic paradox in this conception, suggesting, as it were, the continual loading of Eternity with fresh earthly memories. In both countries we find the spirit hankering after old human haunts. In Egypt the soul returned through the medium of its preserved body, and in Japan the Festival of the Dead, described elsewhere, afforded a joyous exit from the world of Emma-Ō, a three days' visit in the middle of July to Japan, a land more beautiful, more dear, it would seem, than any Japanese conception of a future world. But Hokusai appears to suggest that his visits would not be made merely in the summer season—rather a frequent coming and going at all times of the year.

A Japanese poet has written:

"It is an awesome thing
To meet a-wandering,
In the dark night,
The dark and rainy night,
A phantom greenish-grey,
Ghost of some wight,
Poor mortal wight!
Wandering
Lonesomely
Through
The black
Night."
Translated by Clara A. Walsh.

Ghosts and Goblins

It is scarcely less awesome to come across ghosts, goblins, and other supernatural beings in a Japanese picture. We find ghosts with long necks supporting horribly leering faces. Their necks are so long that it would seem that the ghastly heads could look above and into everything with a fiendish and dreadful relish. The ghoul, though represented in Japanese art as a three-year-old child, has reddish-brown hair, very long ears, and is often depicted as eating the kidneys of dead people. The horrible in this phase of Japanese art is emphasised to an almost unbearable degree, and a living Japanese artist's conception of a procession of ghosts[1] is so uncanny, so weird, that we certainly should not like to meet them in broad daylight, much less "through the dark night!"

A Garden of Skulls

The Japanese artist's conception of a garden, with its pine-trees, and stone lanterns, and azalea-bordered lakes, is usually extremely beautiful. Hiroshige, like so many Japanese artists, has painted a garden touched with snow; but in one of his pictures he portrays the snow as turning into a number of skulls, and has borrowed this fantastic conception from the Heike Monogatari.

It must not be thought that the Japanese artist, when portraying some supernatural being, or in depicting some scene from a legendary story, exclusively catches the grim and horrible. The grim and horrible are certainly portrayed with considerable spirit and dramatic force, but many of the Japanese works of art depict the Gods and Goddesses of Old Japan with much grace and charm.

The Dream of Rose[2]

Japanese ornament frequently illustrates some ancient legend. We may see on a certain tsuba (sword-guard) a pine-tree with people sitting in the branches. One man carries a banner, while two others are playing on musical instruments. There is an exquisite legend connected with this quaint design, and, though it is of Chinese origin, it deserves to find a place in this volume because it is one of those fantastic Chinese legends that has been woven into Japanese literature and art—has become, in short, one of the favourite themes of Japanese artists, and of those who witness the No, or lyrical drama, of Nippon.

Rosei, in ancient times, reached the little inn of Kantan, so weary with his travel that he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. It was no ordinary pillow, but might well be described as the Magic Pillow of Dreams, for directly Rosei was asleep an envoy approached him, and said: "I am sent by the Emperor of Ibara to inform you that his Majesty wishes to relinquish the throne and to install you in his place. Be pleased to enter the palanquin that awaits you, and the bearers will quickly carry you to the capital."

Rosei, much amazed by what he had heard and seen, entered the palanquin, "strewn with gems of radiant hue," and was borne to a wonderful country, best described in the following verse:

"For ne'er in those old vasty halls Imperial,
Bath'd in the moonbeams bright,
Or where the dragon soars on clouds ethereal,
Was ought like this to entrance the sight:
With golden sand and silvern pebbles white
Was strewn the floor;
And at the corners four,
Through gates inlaid
With diamonds and jade,
Pass'd throngs whose vestments were of radiant light,—
So fair a scene,
That mortal eye might ween
It scann'd the very heav'ns' unknown delight.
Here countless gifts the folk came bearing,
Precious as myriad coins of finest gold;
And there, the lesser with the greater sharing,
Advanc'd the vassals bold,
Their banners to display
That paint the sky with colours gay,
While rings the air as had a thunder roll'd."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

Rosei found himself in a magical country where Nature either forgot her natural laws or was led into fresh wonders by the people of that land. In the east there was a silver hill over which the gold sun shone, and in the west there was a gold hill over which the moon shone.

"No spring and autumn mark the time,
And o'er that deathless gate
The sun and moon their wonted speed forget."
Trans, by B. H. Chamberlain.

The whole idea of this charming story seems to suggest that this country was not only a land of eternal youth, but a land, too, where Nature marshalled her seasons together, where there were always colour and blossom, and where no flower faded.

When Rosei had lived and reigned for fifty years in this glorious country a minister came to him one day and bade him drink of the Elixir of Life, in order that he might, like his subjects, live for ever.

The monarch drank the Elixir, "'Mid dazzling pomp and joys more ravishing than e'er before were shower'd on mortal sight." Rosei believed that he had cheated Death of his due, and lived the life of poetic, if sensuous, ecstasy. He gave sumptuous feasts to his courtiers, feasts which saw the sun and moon without intermission, where lovely maidens danced, and where there were endless music and song.

It so happened, however, that these joyous feasts, these pageants of colour, were not endless after all, for eventually Rosei awoke to find himself resting upon "Kantan's pillow." The moralist steps in at this juncture with the following:

"But he that ponders well
Will find all life the self-same story tell,—
That, when death comes, a century of bliss
Fades like a dream."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

Rosei, after this fantastic experience, came to the conclusion that "life is a dream," that ambition is a dream too, and, having accepted this Buddhistic teaching, he returned to his own home.

A Kakemono Ghost[3]

Sawara was a pupil in the house of the artist Tenko, who was a kind and able master, while Sawara, even at the commencement of his art studies, showed considerable promise. Kimi, Tenko's niece, devoted her time to her uncle and in directing the affairs of the household generally. Kimi was beautiful, and it was not long before she fell desperately in love with Sawara. This young pupil regarded her as very charming, one to die for if need be, and in his heart he secretly loved her. His love, however, unlike Kimi's, was not demonstrative, for he had his work to attend to, and so, to be sure, had Kimi; but work with Sawara came before his love, and with Kimi it was only love that mattered.

One day, when Tenko was paying a visit, Kimi came to Sawara, and, unable to restrain her feelings any longer, told him of her love, and asked him if he would like to marry her. Having made her request, she set tea before her lover, and awaited his answer.

Sawara returned her affection, and said that he would be delighted to marry her, adding, however, that marriage was not possible until after two or three years, when he had established a position for himself and had become a famous artist.

Sawara, in order to add to his knowledge of art, decided to study under a celebrated painter named Myokei, and, everything having been arranged, he bade farewell to his old master and Kimi, promising that he would return as soon as he had made a name for himself and become a great artist.

Two years went by and Tenko and Kimi heard no news of Sawara. Many admirers of Kimi came to her uncle with offers of marriage, and Tenko was debating as to what he should do in the matter, when he received a letter from Myokei, saying that Sawara was doing good work, and that he desired that his excellent pupil should marry his daughter.

Tenko imagined, perhaps not without some reason, that Sawara had forgotten all about Kimi, and that the best thing he could do was to give her in marriage to Yorozuya, a wealthy merchant, and also to fulfil Miyokei's wish that Sawara should marry the great painter's daughter. With these intentions Tenko resolved to employ strategy, so he called Kimi to him, and said:

"Kimi, I have had a letter from Myokei, and I am afraid the sad news which it contains will distress you. Myokei wishes Sawara to marry his daughter, and I have told him that I fully approve of the union. I feel sure that Sawara has neglected you, and I therefore wish that you should marry Yorozuya, who will make, I am sure, a very good husband."

When Kimi heard these words she wept bitterly, and without a word went to her room.

In the morning Tenko entered Kimi's apartment, but his niece had gone, and the protracted search that followed failed to discover her whereabouts.

When Myokei had received Tenko's letter he told the promising young artist that he wished him to marry his daughter, and thus establish a family of painters; but Sawara was amazed to hear this extraordinary news, and explained that he could not accept the honour of becoming his son-in-law because he was already engaged to Tenko's niece.

Sawara, all too late, sent letters to Kimi, and, receiving no reply, he set out for his old home, shortly after the death of Myokei.

When he reached the little house where he had received his first lessons in the art of painting he learnt with anger that Kimi had left her old uncle, and in due time he married Kiku ("Chrysanthemum"), the daughter of a wealthy farmer.

Shortly after Sawara's marriage the Lord of Aki bade him paint the seven scenes of the Islands of Kabakari-jima, which were to be mounted on gold screens. He at once set out for these islands, and made a number of rough sketches. While thus employed he met along the shore a woman with a red cloth round her loins, her hair loose and falling about her shoulders. She carried shell-fish in her basket, and as soon as she saw Sawara she recognised him.

"You are Sawara and I am Kimi," said she, "to whom you are engaged. It was a false report about your marriage with Myokei's daughter, and my heart is full of joy, for now nothing prevents our union."

"Alas! poor, much-wronged Kimi, that cannot be!" replied Sawara. "I thought that you deserted Tenko, and that you had forgotten me, and believing these things to be true I have married Kiku, a farmer's daughter."

A Kakemono Ghost.

Kimi, without a word, sprang forward like a hunted animal, ran along the shore, and entered her little hut, Sawara running after her and calling her name over and over again. Before his very eyes he saw Kimi take a knife and thrust it into her throat, and in another moment she lay dead upon the ground. Sawara wept as he gazed upon her still form, noticed the wistful beauty of Death upon her cheek, and saw a new glory in her wind-blown hair. So fair and wonderful was her presence now that when he had controlled his weeping he made a sketch of the woman who had loved him so well, but so pitifully. Above the mark of the tide he buried her, and when he reached his own home he took out the rough sketch, painted a picture of Kimi, and hung the kakemono on the wall.

Kimi Finds Peace

That very night he awoke to find that the figure on the kakemono had come to life, that Kimi with the wound in her throat, the dishevelled hair, stood beside him. Night after night she came, a silent, pitiful figure, until at last Sawara, unable to bear these visitations any longer, presented the kakemono to the Korinji Temple and sent his wife back to her parents. The priests of the Korinji Temple prayed every day for the soul of Kimi, and by and by Kimi found peace and troubled Sawara no more.

[1] See Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan, by R. Gordon Smith.

[2] Adapted from the No drama, translated by B. H. Chamberlain.

[3] Ancient Tales and folk-lore of Japan, by R. Gordon Smith.

[CHAPTER VIII: THE STAR LOVERS AND THE ROBE OF FEATHERS]

The Star Lovers

One of the most romantic of the old Japanese festivals is the Festival of Tanabata, the Weaving Lady. It takes place on the seventh day of the seventh month, and on this occasion it was customary to place freshly cut bamboos either on the roofs of houses or to fix them in the ground close beside them. Coloured strips of paper were attached to these bamboos, and upon every strip of paper was a poem in praise of Tanabata and her husband Hikoboshi, such as: "As Tanabata slumbers with her long sleeves rolled up, until the reddening of the dawn, do not, O storks of the river-shallows, awaken her by your cries." This festival will more readily be understood when we have described the legend in connection with it.

The God of the Firmament had a lovely daughter, by name, and she spent her time in weaving for her august father. One day, while she sat at her loom, she chanced to see a handsome lad leading an ox, and she immediately fell in love with him. Tanabata's father, reading her secret thoughts, speedily consented to their marriage. Unfortunately, however, they loved "not wisely, but too well," with the result that Tanabata neglected her weaving, and Hikoboshi's ox was allowed to wander at large over the High Plain of Heaven. The God of the Firmament became extremely angry, and commanded that these too ardent lovers should henceforth be separated by the Celestial River. On the seventh night of the seventh month, provided the weather was favourable, a great company of birds formed a bridge across the river, and by this means the lovers were able to meet. Their all too brief visit was not even a certainty, for if there were rain the Celestial River would become too wide for even a great bridge of magpies to span, and the lovers would be compelled to wait another weary year before there was even a chance of meeting each other again.

No wonder that on the Festival of the Weaving Maiden little children should sing, "Tenki ni nari" ("Oh, weather, be clear!"). Love laughs at locksmiths in our own country, but the Celestial River in flood is another matter. When the weather is fine and the Star Lovers meet each other after a weary year's waiting it is said that the stars, possibly Lyra and Aquila, shine with five different colours—blue, green, red, yellow, and white—and that is why the poems are written on paper of these colours.

The Robe of Feathers[1]

"Oh, magic strains that fill our ravish'd ears!
The fairy sings, and from the cloudy spheres,
Chiming in unison, the angels' lutes,
Tabrets, and cymbals, and sweet silv'ry flutes,
Ring through the heav'n that glows with purple hues,
As when Someiro's western slope endues
The tints of sunset, while the azure wave
From isle to isle the pine-clad shores doth lave.
From Yukishima's slope—a beauteous storm—
Whirl down the flow'rs: and still that magic form,
Those snowy pinions, flutt'ring in the light,
Ravish our souls with wonder and delight."
Ha-Goromo. (Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.)

It was spring-time, and along Mio's pine-clad shore there came a sound of birds. The blue sea danced and sparkled in the sunshine, and Hairukoo, a fisherman, sat down to enjoy the scene. As he did so he chanced to see, hanging on a pine-tree, a beautiful robe of pure white feathers.

As Hairukoo was about to take down the robe he saw coming toward him from the sea an extremely lovely maiden, who requested that the fisherman would restore the robe to her.

Hairukoo gazed upon the lady with considerable admiration. Said he: "I found this robe, and I mean to keep it, for it is a marvel to be placed among the treasures of Japan. No, I cannot possibly give it to you."

"Oh," cried the maiden pitifully, "I cannot go soaring into the sky without my robe of feathers, for if you persist in keeping it I can never more return to my celestial home. Oh, good fisherman, I beg of you to restore my robe!"

The fisherman, who must have been a hard-hearted fellow, refused to relent. "The more you plead," said he, "the more determined I am to keep what I have found."

Thus the maiden made answer:

"Speak not, dear fisherman! speak not that word!
Ah! know'st thou not that, like the hapless bird
Whose wings are broke, I seek, but seek in vain,
Reft of my wings, to soar to heav'n's blue plain?"
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

After further argument on the subject the fisherman's heart softened a little. "I will restore your robe of feathers," said he, "if you will at once dance before me."

Then the maiden replied: "I will dance it here—the dance that makes the Palace of the Moon turn round, so that even poor transitory man may learn its mysteries. But I cannot dance without my feathers."

"No," said the fisherman suspiciously. "If I give you this robe you will fly away without dancing before me."

This remark made the maiden extremely angry. "The pledge of mortals may be broken," said she, "but there is no falsehood among the Heavenly Beings."

These words put the fisherman to shame, and, without more ado, he gave the maiden her robe of feathers.

The Moon-Lady's Song

When the maiden had put on her pure white garment she struck a musical instrument and began to dance, and while she danced and played she sang of many strange and beautiful things concerning her far-away home in the Moon. She sang of the mighty Palace of the Moon, where thirty monarchs ruled, fifteen in robes of white when that shining orb was full, and fifteen robed in black when the Moon was waning. As she sang and played and danced she blessed Japan, "that earth may still her proper increase yield!"

The fisherman did not long enjoy this kindly exhibition of the Moon-Lady's skill, for very soon her dainty feet ceased to tap upon the sand. She rose into the air, the white feathers of her robe gleaming against the pine-trees or against the blue sky itself. Up, up she went, still playing and singing, past the summits of the mountains, higher and higher, until her song was hushed, until she reached the glorious Palace of the Moon.

[1] The subject of this story resembles a certain Norse legend. See William Morris's The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

[CHAPTER IX: LEGENDS OF MOUNT FUJI]

The Mountain of the Lotus and the Fan

Mount Fuji, or Fuji-yama ("The Never-dying Mountain"), seems to be typically Japanese. Its great snow-capped cone resembles a huge inverted fan, the fine streaks down its sides giving the appearance of fan-ribs. A native has thus fittingly described it: "Fuji dominates life by its silent beauty: sorrow is hushed, longing quieted, peace seems to flow down from that changeless home of peace, the peak of the white lotus." The reference here to a white lotus is as appropriate as that of the wide-stretched fan, for it refers to the sacred flower of the Lord Buddha, and its eight points symbolise to the devout Buddhist the Eight Intelligences of Perception, Purpose, Speech, Conduct, Living, Effort, Mindfulness, and Contemplation. The general effect of Fuji, then, suggests on the one hand religion, and on the other a fan vast enough and fair enough to coquet with stars and swift-moving clouds. Poets and artists alike have paid their tributes of praise to this peerless mountain, and we give the following exquisite poem on this apparently inexhaustible theme:

"Fuji Yama,
Touched by thy divine breath,
We return to the shape of God.
Thy silence is Song,
Thy song is the song of Heaven:
Our land of fever and care
Turns to a home of mellow-eyed ease—
The home away from the land
Where mortals are born only to die.
We Japanese daughters and sons,
Chanting of thy fair majesty,
The pride of God,
Seal our shadows in thy bosom,
The balmiest place of eternity,
O white-faced wonder,
O matchless sight,
O sublimity, O Beauty!
The thousand rivers carry thy sacred image
On their brows;
All the mountains raise their heads unto thee
Like the flowing tide,
As if to hear thy final command.
Behold! the seas surrounding Japan
Lose their hungry-toothed song and wolfish desire,
Kissed by lullaby-humming repose,
At sight of thy shadow,
As one in a dream of poem.
We being round thee forget to die:
Death is sweet,
Life is sweeter than Death.
We are mortals and also gods,
Innocent companions of thine,
O eternal Fuji!"
Yone Noguchi.

Mount Fuji has been a place of pilgrimage for hundreds of years, and Lafcadio Hearn has described its peak as "the Supreme Altar of the Sun." Many pilgrims still cling to the old Shinto custom of ascending this sacred mountain, wearing white clothes and very broad straw hats, and frequently ringing a bell and chanting: "May our six senses be pure, and the weather on the honourable mountain be fair."

Fuji was at one time an extremely active volcano. Her final outbreak took place in 1707-8, and covered Tōkyō, sixty miles distant, with six inches of ash. The very name Fuji is probably derived from Huchi, or Fuchi, the Aino Goddess of Fire; "for," writes Professor Chamberlain, "down to times almost historical the country round Fuji formed part of Aino-land, and all Eastern Japan is strewn with names of Aino origin."

The Deities of Fuji

Sengen, the Goddess of Fuji, is also known as Ko-no-hana-saku-ya-hime[1] ("Radiant-blooming-as-the-flowers-of-the-trees"), and on the summit is her temple. In ancient days it is said that this Goddess hovered in a luminous cloud above the crater, tended by invisible servants, who were prepared to throw down any pilgrims who were not pure of heart. Another deity of this mountain is O-ana-mochi ("Possessor of the Great Hole," or "Crater"). In addition we have the Luminous Maiden, who lured a certain emperor to his doom. At the place of his vanishing a small shrine was erected, where he is still worshipped. It is said that on one occasion a shower of priceless jewels fell down from this mountain, and that the sand which during the day is disturbed by the feet of countless pilgrims falls to the base and nightly reascends to its former position.

Fuji, the Abode of the Elixir of Life

It is not surprising to find that legend has grown round this venerable and venerated mountain. Like so many mountains in Japan, and, indeed, in other Eastern countries, it was associated with the Elixir of Life. The Japanese poet's words, "We being round thee forget to die," though written in recent years, seem to reflect the old idea. We have already seen, in the legend of "The Bamboo-cutter and the Moon-Maiden," that Tsuki was commanded by the Lady Kaguya to ascend Fuji and there burn the Elixir of Life, together with a certain scroll.

The fame of Fuji, so an old legend informs us, reached the ears of an Emperor of China. When he was told that this mountain had come into being in a single night[2] he conjectured that Mount Fuji must needs yield the Elixir of Life itself. He accordingly collected about him a number of handsome youths and maidens and set sail for the Land of the Rising Sun. The junks rushed before the roaring wind like a shower of gold petals; but eventually the storm abated, and the Emperor and his people saw the white splendour of Fuji rise up before them. When the junks had run in upon the shore the Emperor formed his company in procession, and, walking very slowly, led the way up the mountain. Hour after hour the procession climbed, the gold-robed Emperor ever walking in advance, until the sound of the sea was lost, and the thousand feet trod softly on the snow where there was peace and life eternal. Nearing the journey's end, the old Emperor ran forward joyously, for he wanted to be the first to drink of the Elixir of Life. And he was the first to taste of that Life that never grows old; but when the company found him they saw their Emperor lying on his back with a smile upon his face. He had indeed found Life Eternal, but it was through the way of Death.

Sentaro's Visit to the Land of Perpetual Youth

The desire to wrest from Mount Fuji the secret of perpetual life never seems to have met with success. A Chinese, Jofuku by name, reached the sacred mountain with this object in view. He failed, and never lived to return to his own country; but he is looked upon as a saint, and those bound on the same quest pray earnestly at his shrine.

Sentaro on one occasion prayed at this shrine, and was presented with a small paper crane, which expanded to a vast size directly it had reached his hands. On the back of this great crane flew Sentaro to the Land of Perpetual Youth, where, to his amazement, the people ate poisons and longed in vain to die! Sentaro soon grew weary of this land, returned to his own country, and resolved to be content with the ordinary span of years allotted to mankind—as well he may have been, considering that he had already spent three hundred years in the country where there was no death and no birth.

The Goddess of Fuji

Yosoji's mother, in common with many in the village where she lived, was stricken down with smallpox. Yosoji consulted the magician Kamo Yamakiko in the matter, for his mother grew so ill that every hour he expected her to be taken from him in death. Kamo Yamakiko told Yosoji to go to a small stream that flowed from the south-west side of Mount Fuji. "Near the source of this stream," said the magician, "is a shrine to the God of Long Breath. Go fetch this water, and give it to your mother, for this alone will cure her."

Yosoji, full of hope, eagerly set forth upon his journey, and when he had arrived at a spot where three paths crossed each other he was in difficulty as to the right one to take. Just as he was debating the matter a lovely girl, clad in white, stepped out from the forest, and bade him follow her to the place where the precious stream flowed near the shrine of the God of Long Breath.

Sengen, the Goddess of Mount Fuji.

When they reached the stream Yosoji was told to drink himself, as well as to fill the gourd with the sparkling water for his mother. When he had done these things the beautiful girl accompanied him to the place where he had originally seen her, and said: "Meet me again at this place in three days' time, for you will require a further supply of this water."

After five visits to this sacred shrine Yosoji rejoiced to find that his mother was quite well again, and not only his mother, but many of the villagers who had also been privileged to drink the water. Yosoji's bravery was loudly extolled, and presents were sent to the magician for his timely advice; but Yosoji, who was an honest lad, knew in his heart that all praise was really due to the beautiful girl who had been his guide. He desired to thank her more fully than he had hitherto done, and for this purpose he once more set out for the stream.

When Yosoji reached the shrine of the God of Long Breath he found that the stream had dried up. With much surprise and not a little sorrow he knelt down and prayed that she who had been so good to his mother would appear before him in order that he might thank her as she so richly deserved. When Yosoji arose he saw the maiden standing before him.

Yosoji expressed his gratitude in warm and elegant language, and begged to be told the name of her who had been his guide and restored his mother to health and strength again. But the maiden, smiling sweetly upon him, would not tell her name. Still smiling, she swung a branch of camellia in the air, so that it seemed that the fair blossom beckoned to some invisible spirit far away. In answer to the floral summons a cloud came down from Mount Fuji; it enveloped the lovely maiden, and carried her to the sacred mountain from which she had come. Yosoji knew now that his guide was none other than the Goddess of Fuji. He knelt with rapture upon his face as he watched the departing figure. As he gazed upon her he knew in his heart that with his thanks love had mingled too. While he yet knelt the Goddess of Fuji threw down the branch of camellia, a remembrance, perhaps a token, of her love for him.

The Rip van Winkle of Old Japan

We have already referred to the coming of Fuji in a single night, and the following legend gives an account of this remarkable event. We have added to this legend another, which is probably of Chinese origin, because the two fit in well together and furnish interesting material in regard to this mountain.

Many years ago there lived on the then barren plain of Suruga a woodman by the name of Visu. He was a giant in stature, and lived in a hut with his wife and children. One night, just as Visu was about to fall asleep, he heard a most extraordinary sound coming from under the earth, a sound louder and more terrible than thunder. Visu, thinking that he and his family were about to be destroyed by an earthquake, hastily snatched up the younger children and rushed to the door of the hut, where he saw a most wonderful sight. Instead of the once desolate plain he perceived a great mountain from whose head sprang tongues of flame and dense clouds of smoke! So glorious was the sight of this mountain that had run under the earth for two hundred miles and then suddenly sprung forth on the plain of Suruga that Visu, his wife and family, sat down on the ground as if under a spell. When the sun rose the next morning Visu saw that the mountain had put on robes of opal. It seemed so impressive to him that he called it Fuji-yama ("The Never-dying Mountain"), and so it is called to this day. Such perfect beauty suggested to the woodman the eternal, an idea which no doubt gave rise to the Elixir of Life so frequently associated with this mountain.

Day after day Visu sat and gazed upon Fuji, and was just conjecturing how nice it would be for so imposing a mountain to be able to see her loveliness, when a great lake suddenly stretched before him, shaped like a lute, and so called Biwa.[3]

The Adventures of Visu

One day Visu received a visit from an old priest, who said to him: "Honourable woodman, I am afraid you never pray." Visu replied: "If you had a wife and a large family to keep you would never have time to pray." This remark made the priest angry, and the old man gave the woodcutter a vivid description of the horror of being reborn as a toad, or a mouse, or an insect for millions of years. Such lurid details were not to Visu's liking, and he accordingly promised the priest that in future he would pray. "Work and pray," said the priest as he took his departure.

Unfortunately Visu did nothing but pray. He prayed all day long and refused to do any work, so that his rice crops withered and his wife and family starved. Visu's wife, who had hitherto never said a harsh or bitter word to her husband, now became extremely angry, and, pointing to the poor thin bodies of her children, she exclaimed: "Rise, Visu, take up your axe and do something more helpful to us all than the mere mumbling of prayers!"

Visu was so utterly amazed at what his wife had said that it was some time before he could think of a fitting reply. When he did so his words came hot and strong to the ears of his poor, much-wronged wife.

"Woman," said he, "the Gods come first. You are an impertinent creature to speak to me so, and I will have nothing more to do with you!" Visu snatched up his axe and, without looking round to say farewell, he left the hut, strode out of the wood, and climbed up Fuji-yama, where a mist hid him from sight.

When Visu had seated himself upon the mountain he heard a soft rustling sound, and immediately afterward saw a fox dart into a thicket. Now Visu deemed it extremely lucky to see a fox, and, forgetting his prayers, he sprang up, and ran hither and thither in the hope of again finding this sharp-nosed little creature. He was about to give up the chase when, coming to an open space in a wood, he saw two ladies sitting down by a brook playing go.[4] The woodman was so completely fascinated that he could do nothing but sit down and watch them. There was no sound except the soft click of pieces on the board and the song of the running brook. The ladies took no notice of Visu, for they seemed to be playing a strange game that had no end, a game that entirely absorbed their attention. Visu could not keep his eyes off these fair women. He watched their long black hair and the little quick hands that shot out now and again from their big silk sleeves in order to move the pieces. After he had been sitting there for three hundred years, though to him it was but a summer's afternoon, he saw that one of the players had made a false move. "Wrongs most lovely lady!" he exclaimed excitedly. In a moment these women turned into foxes[5] and ran away.

Visu on Mount Fuji-yama.

When Visu attempted to pursue them he found to his horror that his limbs were terribly stiff, that his hair was very long, and that his beard touched the ground. He discovered, moreover, that the handle of his axe, though made of the hardest wood, had crumbled away into a little heap of dust.

Visu's Return

After many painful efforts Visu was able to stand on his feet and proceed very slowly toward his little home. When he reached the spot he was surprised to see no hut, and, perceiving a very old woman, he said: "Good lady, I am amazed to find that my little home has disappeared. I went away this afternoon, and now in the evening it has vanished!"

The old woman, who believed that a madman was addressing her, inquired his name. When she was told, she exclaimed: "Bah! you must indeed be mad! Visu lived three hundred years ago! He went away one day, and he never came back again."

"Three hundred years!" murmured Visu. "It cannot be possible. Where are my dear wife and children?"

"Buried!" hissed the old woman, "and, if what you say is true, your children's children too. The Gods have prolonged your miserable life in punishment for having neglected your wife and little children."

Big tears ran down Visu's withered cheeks as he said in a husky voice: "I have lost my manhood. I have prayed when my dear ones starved and needed the labour of my once strong hands. Old woman, remember my last words: if you pray, work too!"

We do not know how long the poor but repentant Visu lived after he returned from his strange adventures. His white spirit is still said to haunt Fuji-yama when the moon shines brightly.

[1] She married Ninigi, and is referred to in Chapter I.

[2] See the last section of this chapter.

[3] There is some confusion here, for in actual fact Lake Biwa is a hundred and forty miles distant from Fuji—too great a distance, one would imagine, for even a miraculous mountain to look into. Legend asserts that Fuji came from the earth in a single night, while Lake Biwa sank simultaneously. Professor Chamberlain writes: "May we not have here an echo of some early eruption, which resulted in the formation, not indeed of Lake Biwa....but of one of the numerous small lakes at the foot of the mountain?"

[4] A game introduced from China resembling chess, but a more complicated variety than the game with which we are familiar.

[5] Fox legends have been fully described in Chapter V.

[CHAPTER X: BELLS]

The Bell of Enkakuji

Japanese bells are among the finest in the world, for in their size, construction, and decoration the bell-maker of Nippon has reached a high level of efficiency. The largest bell in Japan belongs to the Jodo temple of Chion, at Kyōtō. It weighs seventy-four tons, and requires seventy-five men to ring it in order to get the full effect from this great mass of metal. The bell of Enkakuji is the largest bell in Kamakura. It dates from the beginning of the thirteenth century, and is six inches thick, four feet seven inches in diameter, and about eight feet high. This bell, unlike our own, is the same diameter from top to bottom, a feature common to all big Japanese bells. It is rung by means of a beam suspended from the roof, and from the beam hangs a rope. When the beam is set swinging with sufficient velocity it strikes a lotus-moulding on the side of the bell, and a great note quivers forth, "deep as thunder, rich as the bass of a mighty organ."

The Return of Ono-no-Kimi

When Ono-no-Kimi died he went before the Judgment Seat of Emma-Ō, the Judge of Souls, and was told by that dread deity that he had quitted earthly life too soon, and that he must at once return. Ono-no-Kimi pleaded that he could not retrace his steps, as he did not know the way. Then Emma-Ō said: "By listening to the bell of Enkakuji you will be able to find your way into the world again." And Ono-no-Kimi went forth from the Judgment Seat, and, with the sound of the bell for guidance, once more found himself in his old home.

The Giant Priest

On one occasion it is said that a priest of giant stature was seen in the country, and no one knew his name or whence he had come. With unceasing zest he travelled up and down the land, from village to village, from town to town, exhorting the people to pray before the bell of Enkakuji. It was eventually discovered that this giant priest was none other than a personification of the holy bell itself. This extraordinary news had its effect, for numerous people now flocked to the bell of Enkakuji, prayed, and returned with many a wish fulfilled. On another occasion this sacred bell is said to have sounded a deep note of its own accord. Those who were incredulous and laughed at the miracle met with calamity, and those who believed in the miraculous power of the sacred bell were rewarded with much prosperity.

A Woman and the Bell of Miidera

In the ancient monastery of Miidera there was a great bronze bell. It rang out every morning and evening, a clear, rich note, and its surface shone like sparkling dew. The priests would not allow any woman to strike it, because they thought that such an action would pollute and dull the metal, as well as bring calamity upon them.

When a certain pretty woman who lived in Kyōto heard this she grew extremely inquisitive, and at last, unable to restrain her curiosity, she said: "I will go and see this wonderful bell of Miidera. I will make it sound forth a soft note, and in its shining surface, bigger and brighter than a thousand mirrors, I will paint and powder, my face and dress my hair."

At length this vain and irreverent woman reached the belfry in which the great bell was suspended at a time when all were absorbed in their sacred duties. She looked into the gleaming bell and saw her pretty eyes, flushed cheeks, and laughing dimples. Presently she stretched forth her little fingers, lightly touched the shining metal, and prayed that she might have as great and splendid a mirror for her own. When the bell felt this woman's fingers, the bronze that she touched shrank, leaving a little hollow, and losing at the same time all its exquisite polish.

Benkei and the Bell

Benkei,[1] the faithful retainer of Yoshitsune, may be fittingly described as the strong man of Old Japan. His strength was prodigious, as will be seen in the following legend.

When Benkei was a monk he very much desired to steal the bell of Miidera, and bring it to his own monastery. He accordingly visited Miidera, and, at an opportune moment, unhooked the great bell. Benkei's first thought was to roll it down the hill, and thus save himself the trouble of carrying such a huge piece of metal; but, thinking that the monks would hear the noise, he was forced to set about carrying it down the steep incline. He accordingly pulled out the crossbeam from the belfry, suspended the bell at one end, and—humorous touch—his paper lantern at the other,[2] and in this manner he carried his mighty burden for nearly seven miles.

When Benkei reached his temple he at once demanded food. He managed to get through a concoction which filled an iron soup-pot five feet in diameter, and when he had finished he gave permission for a few priests to strike the stolen bell of Miidera. The bell was struck, but in its dying murmur it seemed to cry: "I want to go back to Miidera! I want to go back to Miidera!"

When the priests heard this they were amazed. The abbot, however, thought that if the bell were sprinkled with holy water it would become reconciled to its new abode; but in spite of holy water the bell still sobbed forth its plaintive and provoking cry. No one was more displeased by the sound than Benkei himself. It seemed that the bell mocked him and that arduous journey of his. At last, exasperated beyond endurance, he rushed to the rope, strained it till the beam was far from the great piece of metal, then let it go, hoping that the force of the swift-rushing beam would crack such a peevish and ill-bred bell. The whirling wood reached the bell with a terrific crash; but it did not break. Through the air rang again: "I want to go back to Miidera!" and whether the bell was struck harshly or softly it always spoke the same words.

At last Benkei, now in a towering rage, shouldered the bell and beam, and, coming to the top of a mountain, he set down his burden, and, with a mighty kick, sent it rolling into the valley beneath. Some time later the Miidera priests found their precious bell, and joyfully hung it in its accustomed place, and from that time it failed to speak, and only rang like other temple bells.

Karma

The power of Karma is one of the great Buddhist doctrines, and many are the stories, both true and legendary, told in connection with this theme. Of the former Lafcadio Hearn in "Kokoro" narrates the pitiful tale of a priest who had the misfortune to attract the love of many women. Rather than yield to their solicitations he committed suicide by kneeling in the middle of a railway track and allowing an express train to put an end to his temptations.

The story of "The Bamboo-cutter and the Moon-Maiden" gives us another representation of the working out of Karma. The Lady Kaguya was banished from her home in the moon owing to indulgence in some sensual passion. In her exile it will be remembered that her weakness was vanquished, and that she steadfastly resisted this particular sin during her earthly sojourn.

Karma by no means represents exclusively the power of evil thought, though it is most commonly applied to the human passions. In its fuller meaning it signifies cause and effect—all thoughts, all actions that are not spiritual, for by the working of Karma, according to Buddhist teaching, is the world and all it contains fashioned. The desire to be is Karma. The desire not to be is the breaking of the great wheel of birth and re-birth, and the attainment of Nirvana.

There are Japanese lovers who, owing to circumstance, are unable to marry; but they do not blame circumstance. They regard their misfortune as the result of an error in a previous existence, such as breaking their promise to wed, or because they were cruel to each other. Such lovers believe that if they bind themselves together with an under-girdle and spring into a river or lake they will become united in their next birth. This suicide of Japanese lovers is called jōshi, which means "love-death" or "passion-death." Buddhism is strongly opposed to self-destruction, and no less to a love of this kind, for in jōshi there is no desire to destroy, but rather to foster, the power of Karma. Such lovers may be united, but in the teaching of the Lord Buddha a union of this kind is a delusion, while Nirvana alone is worth striving for. We read in the Ratana Sutra: "Their old Karma is exhausted, no new Karma is being produced: their hearts are free from the longing after future life; the cause of their existence being destroyed, and no new yearnings springing up within them, they, the wise, are extinguished like this lamp."

A Bell and the Power of Karma

"There are various paths leading to the attainment of
complete happiness. When we find ourselves upon the
wrong one it is our duty to quit it."
Bakin.

Near the banks of the Hidaka there once stood a far-famed tea-house nestling amid lovely scenery beside a hill called the Dragon's Claw. The fairest girl in this tea-house was Kiyo, for she was like "the fragrance of white lilies, when the wind, sweeping down the mountain heights, comes perfume-laden to the traveller."

Across the river stood a Buddhist temple where the abbot and a number of priests lived a simple and devout life. In the belfry of this temple reposed a great bell, six inches thick and weighing several tons. It was one of the monastery rules that none of the priests should eat fish or meat or drink saké, and they were especially forbidden to stop at tea-houses, lest they should lose their spirituality and fall into the sinful ways of the flesh.

One of the priests, however, on returning from a certain shrine, happened to see the pretty Kiyo, flitting hither and thither in the tea-garden, like a large, brightwinged butterfly. He stood and watched her for a moment, sorely tempted to enter the garden and speak to this beautiful creature, but, remembering his priestly calling, he crossed the river and entered his temple. That night, however, he could not sleep. The fever of a violent love had come upon him. He fingered his rosary and repeated passages from the Buddhist Scriptures, but these things brought him no peace of mind. Through all his pious thoughts there ever shone the winsome face of Kiyo, and it seemed to him that she was calling from that fair garden across the river.

His burning love grew so intense that it was not long before he stifled his religious feelings, broke one of the temple rules, and entered the forbidden tea-house. Here he entirely forgot his religion, or found a new one in contemplating the beautiful Kiyo, who brought him refreshment. Night after night he crept across the river and fell under the spell of this woman. She returned his love with equal passion, so that for the moment it appeared to this erring priest that he had found in a woman's charms something far sweeter than the possibility of attaining Nirvana.

After the priest had seen Kiyo on many nights conscience began to stir within him and to do battle with his unholy love. The power of Karma and the teaching of the Lord Buddha struggled within his breast. It was a fierce conflict, but in the end passion was vanquished, though, as we shall learn, not its awful consequences. The priest, having stamped out his carnal love, deemed it wise to deal with Kiyo as circumspectly as possible, lest his sudden change should make her angry.

When Kiyo saw the priest after his victory over the flesh she observed the far-away look in his eyes and the ascetic calm that now rested upon his face. She redoubled her feminine wiles, determined either to make the priest love her again, or, failing that, to put him to a cruel death by sorcery.

Kiyo and the Priest.

All Kiyo's blandishments failed to awaken love within the priest's heart, and, thinking only of vengeance, she set out, arrayed in a white robe, and went to a certain mountain where there was a Fudo[3] shrine. Fudo sat, surrounded by fire, a sword in one hand and a small coil of rope in the other. Here Kiyo prayed with fearful vehemence that this hideous-looking God would show her how to kill the priest who had once loved her.

From Fudo she went to the shrine of Kompira,[4] who has the knowledge of magic and is able to teach sorcery. Here she begged that she might have the power to turn herself at will into a dragon-serpent. After many visits a long-nosed sprite (probably a tengu), who waited upon Kompira, taught Kiyo all the mysteries of magic and sorcery. He taught this once sweet girl how to change herself into the awful creature she desired to be for the purpose of a cruel vengeance.

Still the priest visited Kiyo; but no longer was he the lover. By many exhortations he tried to stay the passion of this maiden he once loved; but these priestly discourses only made Kiyo more determined to win the victory in the end. She wept, she pleaded, she wound her fair arms about him; but none of her allurements had the slightest effect, except to drive away the priest for the last time.

Just as the priest was about to take his departure he was horrified to see Kiyo's eyes suddenly turn into those of a serpent. With a shriek of fear he ran out of the tea-garden, swam across the river, and hid himself inside the great temple bell.

Kiyo raised her magic wand, murmured a certain incantation, and in a moment the sweet face and form of this lovely maiden became transformed into that of a dragon-serpent, hissing and spirting fire. With eyes as large and luminous as moons she crawled over the garden, swam across the river, and entered the belfry. Her weight broke down the supporting columns, and the bell, with the priest inside, fell with a deafening crash to the ground.

Kiyo embraced the bell with a terrible lust for vengeance. Her coils held the metal as in a vice; tighter and tighter she hugged the bell, till the metal became red-hot. All in vain was the prayer of the captive priest; all in vain, too, were the earnest entreaties of his fellow brethren, who implored that Buddha would destroy the demon. Hotter and hotter grew the bell, and it rang with the piteous shrieks of the priest within. Presently his voice was stilled, and the bell melted and ran down into a pool of molten metal. The great power of Karma had destroyed it, and with it the priest and the dragon-serpent that was once the beautiful Kiyo.

[1] See Chapter II.

[2] Hence the Japanese saying: "Lantern and bell, which is the heavier?"

[3] Fudo is not, as is generally supposed, the God of Fire, but is identified, according to Sir Ernest Satow, with Dainichi, the God of Wisdom. It is not quite clear why Kiyo visited Fudo, whose sacred sword symbolises wisdom, while his fire represents power, and the coil of rope that which binds the passions.

[4] Kompira was originally an Indian God, which the mediæval Shintōists identified with Susa-no-o, brother of the Sun Goddess, who, as we have already seen, would be only too pleased to lend himself to mischief.

[CHAPTER XI: YUKI-ONNA, THE LADY OF THE SNOW]

"Midwinter gloom the earth enshrouds,
Yet from the skies
The blossoms fall
A flutt'ring shower,
White petals all!
Can spring be come,
So soon beyond the clouds?"
Kujohara No Fukayabu (Trans, by Clara A. Walsh).

Yuki'Onna

Snow-Time in Japan has a beauty peculiarly its own, and it is a favourite theme of Japanese poets and artists. Both, for the most part, treat it artistically, as well they may do, seeing that in Nippon the white flakes fall upon the ornate roofs of Buddhist temples, upon the fairy-like bridges, resembling those we have seen on willow-pattern plates, and upon the exquisitely shaped stone lanterns that adorn so many Japanese gardens. The ideal snow-scene is to be found in Japan, and because it is so particularly beautiful it is surprising to find that Yuki-Onna,[1] the Lady of the Snow, is very far from being a benevolent and attractive spirit. All the artistry and poetry of snow vanish in her malignant presence, for she represents Death, with attributes not unlike that of a vampire. But Japan is full of sharp and surprising contrasts, and the delicate and beautiful jostle with the ugly and horrible. There is no promise of spring in the long white form of Yuki-Onna, for her mouth is the mouth of Death, and her ice-cold lips draw forth the life-blood of her unfortunate victims.

Yuki-Onna, the Lady of the Snow

The Snow-Bride

Mosaku and his apprentice Minokichi journeyed to a forest, some little distance from their village. It was a bitterly cold night when they neared their destination, and saw in front of them a cold sweep of water. They desired to cross this river, but the ferryman had gone away, leaving his boat on the other side of the water, and as the weather was too inclement to admit of swimming across the river they were glad to take shelter in the ferryman's little hut.

Mosaku fell asleep almost immediately he entered this humble but welcome shelter. Minokichi, however, lay awake for a long time listening to the cry of the wind and the hiss of the snow as it was blown against the door.

Minokichi at last fell asleep, to be soon awakened by a shower of snow falling across his face. He found that the door had been blown open, and that standing in the room was a fair woman in dazzlingly white garments. For a moment she stood thus; then she bent over Mosaku, her breath coming forth like white smoke. After bending thus over the old man for a minute or two she turned to Minokichi and hovered over him. He tried to cry out, for the breath of this woman was like a freezing blast of wind. She told him that she had intended to treat him as she had done the old man at his side, but forbore on account of his youth and beauty. Threatening Minokichi with instant death if he dared to mention to any one what he had seen, she suddenly vanished.

Then Minokichi called out to his beloved master: "Mosaku, Mosaku, wake! Something very terrible has happened!" But there was no reply. He touched the hand of his master in the dark, and found it was like a piece of ice. Mosaku was dead!

During the next winter, while Minokichi was returning home, he chanced to meet a pretty girl by the name of Yuki. She informed him that she was going to Yedo, where she desired to find a situation as a servant. Minokichi was charmed with this maiden, and he went so far as to ask if she were betrothed, and hearing that she was not, he took her to his own home, and in due time married her.

Yuki presented her husband with ten fine and handsome children, fairer of skin than the average. When Minokichi's mother died her last words were in praise of Yuki, and her eulogy was echoed by many of the country folk in the district.

One night, while Yuki was sewing, the light of a paper lamp shining upon her face, Minokichi recalled the extraordinary experience he had had in the ferryman's hut. "Yuki," said he, "you remind me so much of a beautiful white woman I saw when I was eighteen years old. She killed my master with her ice-cold breath. I am sure she was some strange spirit, and yet to-night she seems to resemble you!"

Yuki flung down her sewing. There was a horrible smile on her face as she bent close to her husband and shrieked: "It was I, Yuki-Onna, who came to you then, and silently killed your master! Oh, faithless wretch, you have broken your promise to keep the matter secret, and if it were not for our sleeping children I would kill you now! Remember, if they have aught to complain of at your hands I shall hear, I shall know, and on a night when the snow falls I will kill you!"

Then Yuki-Onna, the Lady of the Snow, changed into a white mist, and, shrieking and shuddering, passed through the smoke-hole, never to return again.

Kyuzaemon's Ghostly Visitor

According to Mr. R. Gordon Smith, in his "Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan," "all those who die by the snow and cold become spirits of snow." That is to say, all those who perish in this way become identified with Yuki-Onna, the Lady of the Snow. The following legend is adapted from Mr. Smith's book referred to above.

Kyuzaemon, a poor farmer, had closed the shutters of his humble dwelling and retired to rest. Shortly before midnight he was awakened by loud tapping. Going to the door, he exclaimed: "Who are you? What do you want?"

The strange visitor made no attempt to answer these questions, but persistently begged for food and shelter. The cautious Kyuzaemon refused to allow the visitor to enter, and, having seen that his dwelling was secure, he was about to retire to bed again, when he saw standing beside him a woman in white flowing garments, her hair falling over her shoulders.

"Where did you leave your geta?" demanded the frightened farmer.

The white woman informed him that she was the visitor who had tapped upon his door. "I need no geta," she said, "for I have no feet! I fly over the snow-capped trees, and should have proceeded to the next village, but the wind was blowing strongly against me, and I desired to rest awhile."

The farmer expressed his fear of spirits, whereupon the woman inquired if her host had a butsudan (a family altar). Finding that he had, she bade him open the butsudan and light a lamp. When this was done the woman prayed before the ancestral tablets, not forgetting to add a prayer for the still much-agitated Kyuzaemon.

Having paid her respects at the butsudan, she informed the farmer that her name was Oyasu, and that she had lived with her parents and her husband, Isaburo. When she died her husband left her parents, and it was her intention to try to persuade him to go back again and support the old people.

Kyuzaemon began to understand as he murmured to himself: "Oyasu perished in the snow, and this is her spirit I see before me." However, in spite of this recollection he still felt much afraid. He sought the family altar with trembling footsteps, repeating over and over again: "Namu Amida Butsu!" ("Hail, Omnipotent Buddha!")

At last the farmer went to bed and fell asleep. Once he woke up to hear the white creature murmur farewell; but before he could make answer she had disappeared.

The following day Kyuzaemon went to the next village, and called upon Isaburo, whom he now found living with his father-in-law again. Isaburo informed him that he had received numerous visits from the spirit of his wife in the guise of Yuki-Onna. After carefully considering the matter Kyuzaemon found that this Lady of the Snow had appeared before Isaburo almost immediately after she had paid him such a mysterious visit. On that occasion Isaburo had promised to fulfil her wish, and neither he nor Kyuzaemon were again troubled with her who travels in the sky when the snow is falling fast.

[1] See my Land of the Yellow Spring, p. 39.

[CHAPTER XII: FLOWERS AND GARDENS]

"All the joy of my existence is concentrated around the
pillow which giveth me nightly rest, all the hope of my
days I find in the beauties of Nature that ever please my
eyes."
"Hō-jō-ki" (Trans. by F. V. Dickins).

Japanese and English Gardens

There is nothing particularly æsthetic about the average English garden. When the bedding-out time comes a slow old gardener puts in his plants. Later on we see a crude blaze of colour—scarlet geraniums, yellow calceolarias, blue lobelias, the green grass and the ochre-coloured paths. And this is the colour effect of the average English garden, a colour effect that makes the eyes ache and shames the very flowers so unwisely set in this fashion. The truth of the matter is that we do not understand the art of flower arrangement. We buy flowers just to make the garden look bright, under the impression that brightness is an abstract quality with which we should like to spend our summer days. An Englishman once attempted to make a landscape garden after the Japanese manner. He was extremely proud of the result, and on one occasion he took a Japanese gentleman round to see it. The Japanese gentleman exclaimed, with extreme courtesy: "It is very beautiful; we have nothing at all like it in Japan!" The Englishman failed in his attempt to imitate because he considered gardening a hobby, while in Japan the garden is something indelibly associated with Japanese life itself. In Japan it is an ancient cult to which poets and artists have given years of thought, a cult in which emotion, memory, and religion play their part.

The Love of Flowers, its Growth and Symbolism

One of the most striking, and certainly one of the most pleasing, characteristics of the Japanese is their intense love of flowers and trees. Merry parties set out to see the azaleas bloom, or the splendour of the pink-white cherry-blossom, or the scarlet glory of the maple-trees. This "flower-viewing" is an integral part of their existence. The very kimono of the laughing children look like little gardens of flowers themselves. Take away their landscape, and you take away at once their sense of poetry, and, we may almost add, the floral side of their religion too, for the Japanese worship flowers and trees in a way utterly impossible to the more prosaic Westerner.

During a recent spring the magnolia-trees in Kew Gardens afforded a wonderfully beautiful spectacle. But there were few to see these leafless trees with their profusion of lotus-like blossom. The most appreciative spectator was a child, who sat under the sweet-scented branches, gathered the fallen petals in her little brown hands, and made up a quaint story as she did so. But in Japan, where magnolia-trees bloom too, a hundred little poems would be threaded to the branches, and little cakes made in imitation of the petals. Perhaps, too, a branch of magnolia would be set in a vase, the object of silent admiration of the members of some tea ceremony. And afterwards the spray of blossom would be gently placed on a river or buried with joy and reverence for the beauty it had exhibited in its brief hour of life.

The love of flowers is only a small part of the Japanese love of Nature. There was an evolutionary growth in this worship as in every other, and we are inclined to think that the Japanese go very far back in this matter, and learnt first of all to love rocks and stones. To us rocks and stones are of interest only to the geologist and metallurgist, merely from a scientific point of view, and it seems almost incredible that rocks and stones have a poetical meaning. But it is otherwise to the Japanese. The Japanese garden is essentially a landscape garden. The owner of a garden falls in love with a certain view. It haunts him, and awakens in him some primitive feelings of delight that cannot be analysed. He brings that view perpetually before him in his garden, in miniature, perhaps, but a miniature of wonderful exactness. His garden thus becomes a place of happy memory, and not a plot laid out with gaudy flowers and terraces that can have no meaning, no poetry to his mind. Without a doubt Japanese gardens, with their gorgeous flowers, merry sunshine, and the sweet tinkle of dainty fairy-bells suspended from the branches of the trees, are the most delightful in the world.

Japanese Gardens

One thing that strikes us about Japanese gardens that we do not find in England is the wonderful economy displayed in their schemes. Suburbia often makes the excuse that their pocket-handkerchief of a garden is much too small to be made beautiful. Too small to be made beautiful? Why, the Japanese can make a wonderful little garden in a space no bigger than a soup-plate! Necessity is the mother of invention, and if we only loved Nature more we should soon find the means to make our smallest gardens attractive. The great Japanese designer of gardens, Kobori-Enshiu, said that an ideal garden should be like "the sweet solitude of a landscape clouded by moonlight, with a half-gloom between the trees."

Miss Florence Du Cane has much to say concerning Japanese rocks and stones. What poetry is suggested in the names of some of these garden stones—for example, "The Stone of Easy Rest." Then, among the lake stones we have one called "Wild Wave Stone," that at once suggests Matsushima, with its waves breaking against innumerable rocks.

The stone or wooden lamps are very important ornaments in a Japanese garden. The idea was borrowed from Korea, and they are still sometimes known as "Korean towers." They are seldom lit, except in temple gardens, but they need no jewel of light to make them beautiful. They are rich in amber and green moss, and in the winter they catch the snow and make ghost lanterns of exquisite beauty. Another feature of a Japanese garden is the Torii, a simple arch of wood shaped like a huge Chinese character. Shintō in origin, no one has as yet discovered what they were originally intended to represent, though there have been many diverse opinions on the subject. These gates to nowhere are extremely fascinating, and to look at them with the sea about their feet is to dream of a far-away fairy tale of childhood.

The lakes, cascades, tiny bridges, the stepping-stones over the winding ways of silver sand, form a place of retreat indeed. And then the colour of the Japanese garden! Every month has some fresh colour scene as the plum and cherry and peach-trees come into bloom. Trailing over the ground among the pine-needles or looking into the clear blue lake, one may see the azaleas. If there were ever a flower that personified colour then it is surely the azalea. It is the rainbow of flowers, and there seems scarcely a shade of colour not to be found in its blossoms. To look at the azaleas is to look into the very paint-box of Nature herself. Then at another season of the year we get the iris in purple and lavender, yellow and white, or the beautiful rose-coloured lotus that opens with a little explosion on the placid waters, as if to herald its coming to perfection. The last colour glory of the year is the splendour of the maple-trees. We have a fine crimson effect in our English blackberry leaves, but they lie hidden in the wet autumn hedges. In Japan the maples do not hide. They seem everywhere alive in a splendid flame. In the autumn it appears as if the maple-trees had conjured with the sunset, for at that time Japan is not the Land of the Rising Sun, but the land of the sun going down in a great pageant of red leaves. And is that the end of Nature's work for the year? No, indeed. Last of all comes the snow, and the beauty of its effect lies not so much in the soft flakes themselves, but in the way they are caught and held upon the beautiful little houses and temples and lanterns. See a Japanese garden then, and you see the white seal of Nature's approval upon it all. The snow scene is perhaps Nature's supreme touch in Japan, after all; and it is a scene dear to the hearts of the Japanese. In midsummer a Japanese emperor once had the miniature mountains in his gardens covered with white silk to suggest snow, and, no doubt, to give an imaginary coolness to the scene. A slight acquaintance with Japanese art will reveal the fact that snow affords a favourite theme for the artist's brush.

Nature in Miniature

The Japanese, for the most part, are little in stature, and have a love of things in miniature. Lafcadio Hearn tells a charming story of a Japanese nun who used to play with children and give them rice-cakes no bigger than peas and tea in very minute cups. Her love of very small things came as the result of a great sorrow, but we see in this Japanese love of little objects something pathetic in the nation as a whole. Their love of dwarf trees, hundreds of years old, seems to say: "Be honourably pleased never to grow big. We are a little people, and so we love little things." The ancient pine, often less than a foot in height, does not render its age oppressive, and is not a thing to fear just because it is so very small. Westerners have been inclined to describe the dwarf Japanese tree as unnatural. It is no more unnatural than the Japanese smile, and reveals that the nation, like the Greeks of old, is still closely in touch with Nature.

The Pine-tree

The pine-tree is the emblem of good fortune and longevity. That is why we see this tree at almost every garden gate; and it must be admitted that a pine-tree is a more graceful talisman than a rusty old horse-shoe. In a certain Japanese play we find the following: "The emblem of unchangeableness—exalted is their fame to the end of time—the fame of the two pine-trees that have grown old together." This refers to the famous pines of Takasago. Mr. Conder tells us that at wedding feasts "a branch of the male pine is placed in one vessel and a branch of the female pine in the other. The general form of each design would be similar, but the branch of the female pine facing the opposite vase should stretch a little beneath the corresponding branch of the male pine." In other words, it shows that Woman's Suffrage exists not in Japan, and that the Japanese wife is subject to her lord and master, which is a very pretty way of suggesting, what is in England a very dangerous subject. The design referred to above typifies "eternal union." The pine-tree really symbolises the comradeship of love, the Darby and Joan stage of old married people in Japan.

A Great Nature-lover

Kamo No Chōmei was a Buddhist recluse of the twelfth century, and he wrote a little book called Hō-jō-ki ("Notes from a Ten-feet-square Hut"). In this volume he describes how he left the ways of the world and took up his abode in a hut on the mountain-side. Chōmei used to sing and play and read his beloved books in the very heart of the country. He writes: "When the sixtieth year of my life, now vanishing as a dewdrop, approached, anew I made me an abode, a sort of last leap, as it were, just as a traveller might run himself up a shelter for a single night, or a decrepit silkworm weave its last cocoon." We see him, a happy old man, slowly trudging along the hills, gathering blossom as he went, ever watching with delighted eyes the ways and secrets of Nature. With all his musings, so full of poetry, his religious character plays a part. He writes with dry humour: "I do not need to trouble myself about the strict observance of the commandments, for, living as I do in complete solitude, how should I be tempted to break them?" A very different experience to that of some of the Indian anchorites, who find in solitude a veritable thunder-cloud of temptation! But Chōmei was a happy soul, and we mention him here to show that the mainstay of his life were not the things of the world, but the workings of Nature on the hills and in the valleys, in the flowers and in the trees, in the running water and in the rising moon. To quote his own words: "You have fled from the world to live the life of a recluse amid the wild woods and hills, thus to bring peace to your soul and walk in the way of the Buddha."

The Festival of the Dead

We find the Festival of the Dead the greatest argument of all in support of Japan's love of Nature. It was a woman's thought, this Festival of the Dead, and there is something about it so tender, so plaintive, that it could only have come from a woman. In July the spirits of the dead return from their dark abode. Little meals are prepared for this great company of ghosts, and the lanterns hang in the cemeteries and on the pine-trees of good fortune at the garden gates. The Japanese used to commit hara-kiri,[1] but let us not forget that their souls come back again to wander in a country that seems to be one great garden. And why do they come back? They come back with their soft footsteps over the hills and far away from over the sea to look at the flowers once more, to wander in the gardens where they spent so many happy hours. They come, that invisible host, when the sun shines brightly, when it seems that blossoms floating in the breeze suddenly turn into butterflies, when life is at its full, when Death and the dark place where Emma-Ō reigns cannot be endured. What a time to come back again! What a silent compliment to Nature that that great company of souls should wander back to her arms in the summer-time!

The Japanese Flag and the Chrysanthemum

Most of us are familiar with the Japanese flag depicting a red sun on a white ground, and we should naturally suppose that such an emblem was originally connected with the Sun Goddess. In this supposition, however, we should be entirely wrong. Astrological designs in ancient days figured upon the Chinese banners, and Professor B. H. Chamberlain describes them thus: "The Sun with the Three-legged Crow that inhabits it, the Moon with its Hare[2] and Cassia-tree, the Red Bird representing the seven constellations of the southern quarter of the zodiac, the Dark Warrior (a Tortoise) embracing the seven northern constellations, the Azure Dragon embracing the seven eastern, the White Tiger embracing the seven western, and a seventh banner representing the Northern Bushel (Great Bear)." The Chinese banners depicting the sun and moon were particularly noteworthy, because the sun represented the Emperor's elder brother and the moon his sister. In the seventh century the Japanese adopted these banners; but as time went on they dropped many of the quaint astrological designs so dear to the heart of the Chinese. When in 1859 a national flag became necessary the sun banner pure and simple was adopted; but a plain orb without rays was not sufficient, and a more elaborate design was executed—the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum. We can only conjecture the connection between the sun and the chrysanthemum. Both were venerated in ancient China, and we may assume that the Japanese artist, in wishing to depict the sun's rays, found excellent material in copying the flower of a wild chrysanthemum.

The chrysanthemum is Japan's national flower, and we owe to Nippon its culture in our own country. Mythological scenes, particularly that of the Treasure Ship with the Gods of Luck on board is a favourite device, fashioned entirely with innumerable chrysanthemums. Boats, castles, bridges, and various other objects are designed from the same flower with wonderful dexterity. Japan has always been happy in her use of names, and to no greater advantage than in the naming of her chrysanthemums. There is poetry in such names as "Sleepy Head," "Golden Dew," "White Dragon," and "Starlit Night."

The chrysanthemum is certainly a fitting symbolism for the Imperial standard. Once, like our English rose, it figured as a badge in the War of the Chrysanthemums, a protracted civil war that divided the nation into two hostile factions. Now the chrysanthemum stands for a united Empire.

Lady White and Lady Yellow

Long ago there grew in a meadow a white and a yellow chrysanthemum side by side. One day an old gardener chanced to come across them, and took a great fancy to Lady Yellow. He told her that if she would come along with him he would make her far more attractive, that he would give her delicate food and fine clothes to wear.

Lady Yellow was so charmed with what the old man said that she forgot all about her white sister and consented to be lifted up, carried in the arms of the old gardener, and to be placed in his garden.

When Lady Yellow and her master had departed Lady White wept bitterly. Her own simple beauty had been despised; but, what was far worse, she was forced to remain in the meadow alone, without the converse of her sister, to whom she had been devoted.

Day by day Lady Yellow grew more fair, in her master's garden. No one would have recognised the common flower of the field now; but though her petals were long and curled and her leaves so clean and well cared for, she sometimes thought of Lady White alone in the field, and wondered how she managed to make the long and lonely hours pass by.

One day a village chief came to the old man's garden in quest of a perfect chrysanthemum that he might take to his lord for a crest design.[3] He informed the old man that he did not want a fine chrysanthemum with many long petals. What he wanted was a simple white chrysanthemum with sixteen petals. The old man took the village chief to see Lady Yellow; but this flower did not please him, and, thanking the gardener, he took his departure.

On his way home he happened to enter a field, where he saw Lady White weeping. She told him the sad story of her loneliness, and when she had finished her tale of woe the village chief informed her that he had seen Lady Yellow and did not consider her half as beautiful as her own white self. At these cheering words Lady White dried her eyes, and she nearly jumped off her little feet when this kind man told her that he wanted her for his lord's crest!

In another moment the happy Lady White was being carried in a palanquin. When she reached the Daimyō's palace all warmly praised her remarkable perfection of form. Great artists came from far and near, sat about her, and sketched the flower with wonderful skill. She soon needed no mirror, for ere long she saw her pretty white face on all the Daimyō's most precious belongings. She saw it on his armour and lacquer boxes, on his quilts and cushions and robes. When she looked upward she could see her face in great carved panels. She was painted floating down a stream, and in all manner of quaint and beautiful ways. Every one acknowledged that the white chrysanthemum, with her sixteen petals, made the most wonderful crest in all Japan.

While Lady White's happy face lived for ever designed upon the Daimyō's possessions, Lady Yellow met with a sad fate. She had bloomed for herself alone and drunk in the visitors' praise as eagerly as she did the dew upon her finely curled petals. One day, however, she felt a stiffness in her limbs and a cessation of the exuberance of life. Her once proud head fell forward, and when the old man found her he lifted her up and threw her upon a rubbish heap.

"Chrysanthemum-Old-Man"[4]

Kikuo ("Chrysanthemum-Old-Man") was the faithful retainer of Tsugaru. One day his lord's force was overthrown, and the castle and fine estates were taken away by the enemy; but fortunately Tsugaru and Kikuo were able to escape to the mountains.

Kikuo, knowing his master's love of flowers, especially that of the chrysanthemum, resolved to cultivate this flower to the best of his ability, and in so doing to lessen a little of his master's remorse and humiliation in exile.

His efforts pleased Tsugaru, but unfortunately that lord soon fell sick and died, and the faithful Kikuo wept over his master's grave. Then once more he returned to his work, and planted chrysanthemums about his master's tomb till he had made a border thirty yards broad, so that red, white, pink, yellow, and bronze blossoms scented the air, to the wonder of all who chanced to come that way.

Metsue rescues Teoyo.

When Kikuo was about eighty-two he caught cold and was confined to his humble dwelling, where he suffered considerable pain.

One autumn night, when he knew those beloved flowers dedicated to his master were at their best, he saw in the verandah a number of young children. As he gazed upon them he realised that they were not the children of this world.

Two of these little ones drew near to Kikuo, and said: "We are the spirits of your chrysanthemums, and have come to tell you how sorry we are to find you ill. You have guarded and loved us with such care. There was a man in China, Hozo by name, who lived eight hundred years by drinking the dew from chrysanthemum blossoms. Gladly would we lengthen out your days, but, alas! the Gods ordain otherwise. Within thirty days you will die."

The old man expressed the wish that he might die in peace, and the regret that he must needs leave behind him all his chrysanthemums.

"Listen," said one of the ghostly children: "we have all loved you, Kikuo, for what you have done for us. When you die we shall die too." As soon as these words were spoken a puff of wind blew against the dwelling, and the spirits departed.

Kikuo grew worse instead of better, and on the thirtieth day he passed away. When visitors came to see the chrysanthemums he had planted, all had vanished. The villagers buried the old man near his master, and, thinking to please Kikuo, they planted chrysanthemums near his grave; but all died immediately they were put into the ground. Only grasses grow over the tombs now. The child-souls of the chrysanthemums chatter and sing and play with the spirit of Kikuo.

Shingé and Yoshisawa by the Violet Well.

The Violet Well

Shingé and her waiting-maids were picnicking in the Valley of Shimizutani, that lies between the mountains of Yoshino and Tsubosaka. Shingé, full of the joy of spring, ran towards the Violet Well, where she discovered great clumps of purple, sweet-scented violets. She was about to pick the fragrant blossoms when a great snake darted forth, and she immediately fainted.

When the maidens found her they saw that her lips were purple, as purple as the violets that surrounded her, and when they saw the snake, still lurking in the vicinity, they feared that their mistress would die. Matsu, however, had sufficient presence of mind to throw her basket of flowers at the snake, which at once crawled away.

Just at that moment a handsome youth appeared, and, explaining to the maidens that he was a doctor, he gave Matsu some medicine, in order that she might give it to her mistress.

While Matsu forced the powder into Shingé's mouth the doctor took up a stick, disappeared for a few moments, and then returned with the dead snake in his hands.

By this time Shingé had regained consciousness, and asked the name of the physician to whom she was indebted for saving her life. But he politely bowed, evaded her question, and then took his departure. Only Matsu knew that the name of her mistress's rescuer was Yoshisawa.

When Shingé had been taken to her home she grew worse instead of better. All the cleverest doctors came to her bedside, but could do nothing to restore her to health.

Matsu knew that her mistress was gradually fading away for love of the handsome man who had saved her life, and she therefore talked the matter over with her master, Zembei. Matsu told him the story, and said that although Yoshisawa was of a low birth, belonging to the Eta, the lowest caste in Japan, who live by killing and skinning animals, yet nevertheless he was extremely courteous and had the manner and bearing of a samurai. "Nothing," said Matsu, "will restore your daughter to health unless she marries this handsome physician."

Both Zembei and his wife were dismayed at these words, for Zembei was a great daimyō, and could not for one moment tolerate the idea of his daughter marrying one of the Eta class. However, he agreed to make inquiries concerning Yoshisawa, and Matsu returned to her mistress with something like good news. When Matsu had told Shingé what her father was doing on her behalf she rallied considerably, and was able to take food.

When Shingé was nearly well again Zembei called her to him and said that he had made careful inquiries concerning Yoshisawa, and could on no account agree to her marrying him.

Shingé wept bitterly, and brooded long over her sorrow with a weary heart. The next morning she was not to be found in the house or in the garden. Search was made in every direction; even Yoshisawa himself sought her everywhere; but those who sought her found her not. She had mysteriously disappeared, burdened with a sorrow that now made her father realise the effect of his harsh decree.

After three days she was found lying at the bottom of the Violet Well, and shortly after Yoshisawa, overcome with grief, sought a similar end to his troubles. It is said that on stormy nights the ghost of Shingé is to be seen floating over the well, while near by comes the sound of the weeping of Yoshisawa.

The Ghost of the Lotus Lily

"O Resurrection, Resurrection of World and Life!
Lo, Sun ascend! The lotus buds flash with hearts parted,
With one chant 'Namu, Amida!'"
Yone Noguchi.

The lotus is the sacred flower of Buddhism. Because it grows out of mud, rears its stalk through water, and from such dark and slimy beginnings yields a lovely flower, it has been compared with a virtuous man dwelling in this wicked world. Sir Monier Williams writes: "Its constant use as an emblem seems to result from the wheel-like form of the flower, the petals taking the place of spokes, and thus typifying the doctrine of perpetual cycles of existence." Buddha is frequently portrayed as either standing or sitting upon a golden lotus, and the flower reminds us of the Buddhist sutra, known as the "Lotus of the Good Law."

Thus Lafcadio Hearn describes the lotus of Paradise: "They are gardening, these charming beings!—they are caressing the lotus buds, sprinkling their petals with something celestial, helping them to blossom. And what lotus-buds! with colours not of this world. Some have burst open; and in their luminous hearts, in a radiance like that of dawn, tiny naked infants are seated, each with a tiny halo. These are Souls, new Buddhas, hotoke born into bliss! Some are very, very small; others larger; all seem to be growing visibly, for their lovely nurses are feeding them with something ambrosial. I see one which has left its lotus-cradle, being conducted by a celestial Jizō toward the higher splendours far away."

So much, then, for the celestial lotus and for its intimate connection with Buddhism. In the following legend we find this flower possessed with the magical power of keeping away evil spirits.

A certain disease broke out in Kyōto from which many thousands of people died. It spread to Idzumi, where the Lord of Koriyama lived, and Koriyama, his wife and child, were stricken down with the malady.

One day Tada Samon, a high official in Koriyama's castle, received a visit from a yamabushi, or mountain recluse. This man was full of concern for the illness of the Lord Koriyama, and, addressing Samon, he said: "All this trouble has come about through the entrance of evil spirits in the castle. They have come because the moats about the abode are dry and contain no lotus. If these moats were at once planted with this sacred flower the evil spirits would depart, and your lord, his wife and child, grow well again."

Samon was much impressed by these wise words, and permission was given for this recluse to plant lotus about the castle. When he had accomplished his task he mysteriously disappeared.

Within a week the Lord Koriyama, his wife and son, were able to get up and resume their respective duties, for by this time the walls had been repaired, the moats filled with pure water, which reflected the nodding heads of countless lotus.

Many years later, and after the Lord Koriyama had died, a young samurai chanced to pass by the castle moats. He was gazing admiringly at these flowers when he suddenly saw two extremely handsome boys playing on the edge of the water. He was about to lead them to a safer place when they sprang into the air and, falling, disappeared beneath the water.

The astonished samurai, believing that he had seen a couple of kappas,[5] or river goblins, made a hasty retreat to the castle, and there reported his strange adventure. When he had told his story the moats were dragged and cleaned, but nothing could be found of the supposed kappas.

A little later on another samurai, Murata Ippai, saw near the same lotus a number of beautiful little boys. He drew his sword and cut them down, breathing in as he did so the heavy perfume of this sacred flower with every stroke of his weapon. When Ippai looked about him to see how many of these strange beings he had killed, there arose before him a cloud of many colours, a cloud that fell upon his face with a fine spray.

As it was too dark to ascertain fully the extent and nature of his onslaught, Ippai remained all night by the spot. When he awoke in the morning he found to his disgust that he had only struck off the heads of a number of lotus. Knowing that this beneficent flower had saved the life of the Lord Koriyama, and now protected that of his son, Ippai was filled with shame and remorse. Saying a prayer by the water's edge, he committed hara-kiri.

The Spirit of the Peony

It had been arranged that the Princess Aya should marry the second son of Lord Ako. The arrangements, according to Japanese custom, had been made entirely without the consent or approval of the actual parties concerned.

One night Princess Aya walked through the great garden of her home, accompanied by her waiting-maids. The moon shone brightly upon her favourite peony bed near a pond, and covered the sweet-scented blooms in a silver sheen. Here she lingered, and was stooping to breathe the fragrance of these flowers when her foot slipped, and she would have fallen had not a handsome young man, clad in a robe of embroidered peonies, rescued her just in time. He vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had come, before, indeed, she had time to thank him.

It so happened that shortly after this event the Princess Aya became very ill, and in consequence the day for her marriage had to be postponed. All the medical aid available was useless to restore the feverish maiden to health again.

The Princess Aya's father asked his favourite daughter's maid, Sadayo, if she could throw any light upon this lamentable affair.

Sadayo, although hitherto bound to secrecy, felt that the time had come when it was wise, indeed essential, to communicate all she knew in the matter. She told her master that the Princess Aya was deeply in love with the young samurai wearing the robes embroidered with peonies, adding that if he could not be found she feared that her young mistress would die.

That night, while a celebrated player was performing upon the biwa in the hope of entertaining the sick Princess, there once more appeared behind the peonies the same young man in the same silk robe.

The next night, too, while Yae and Yakumo were playing on the flute and koto, the young man appeared again.

The Princess Aya's father now resolved to get at the root of the matter, and for this purpose he bade Maki Hiogo dress in black and lie concealed in the peony bed on the following night.

When the next night came Maki Hiogo lay hidden among the peonies, while Yae and Yakumo made sweet music. Not long after the music had sounded the mysterious young samurai again appeared. Maki Hiogo rose from his hiding-place with his arms tightly bound round this strange visitor. A cloud seemed to emanate from his captive. It made him dizzy, and he fell to the ground still tightly holding the handsome samurai.

Just as a number of guards came hurrying to the spot Maki Hiogo regained consciousness. He looked down expecting to see his captive. But all that he held in his arms was a large peony!

By this time Princess Aya and her father joined the astonished group, and the Lord Naizen-no-jo at once grasped the situation. "I see now," said he, "that the spirit of the peony flower had a moment ago, and on former occasions, taken the form of a young and handsome samurai. My daughter, you must take this flower and treat it with all kindness."

The Princess Aya needed to be told no more. She returned to the house, placed the peony in a vase, and stood it by her bedside. Day by day she got better, while the flower flourished exceedingly.

When the Princess Aya was quite well the Lord of Ako arrived at the castle, bringing with him his second son, whom she was to marry. In due time the wedding took place, but at that hour the beautiful peony suddenly died.

[1] Hara-kiri, or seppuku, is the term applied to suicide among the samurai class. For detailed account see Tales of Old Japan, by A. B. Mitford (Lord Redesdale).

[2] To this day Japanese peasants still believe in the Hare in the Moon. This animal employs its time in pounding rice in a mortar and making it into cakes. The origin of this conception is probably to be found in a pun, for "rice-cake" and "full moon" are both described by the word mochi.

[3] The sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum is one of the crests of the Imperial family, while the other represents the flowers and leaves of the paulownia. Crests in Japan are not confined to the wealthy classes. The crest is still worn upon the upper part of the native garment, to be seen on each breast and sleeve, and upon the back of the neck. Favourite designs are derived from the bamboo, birds, fans, Chinese characters, &c.

[4] This story and those that follow in this chapter have been adapted from Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan, by R. Gordon Smith.

[5] Referred to elsewhere in the chapter dealing with Supernatural Beings.

[CHAPTER XIII: TREES]

"One day Kinto Fujiwara, Great Adviser of State, disputed with the Minister of Uji which was the fairest of spring and autumn flowers. Said the Minister: 'The Cherry is surely best among the flowers of spring, the Chrysanthemum among those of autumn.' Then Kinto said, 'How can the cherry-blossom be the best? You have forgotten the Plum.' Their dispute came at length to be confined to the superiority of the Cherry and Plum, and of other flowers little notice was taken. At length Kinto, not wishing to offend the Minister, did not argue so vehemently as before, but said, 'Well, have it so; the Cherry may be the prettier of the two; but when once you have seen the red plum-blossom in the snow at the dawn of a spring morning, you will no longer forget its beauty.' This truly was a gentle saying."
"The Garden of Japan," by Sir F. T. Piggott.

Cherry and Plum

The supreme floral glory of Japan takes place in April with the coming of the cherry-blossom, and, as we have seen in the above quotation, it is the cherry and plum that are regarded with the most favour. The poet Motoöri wrote: "If one should ask you concerning the heart of a true Japanese, point to the wild cherry flower glowing in the sun," and Lafcadio Hearn, without the least exaggeration, but with true poetic insight, has compared Japan's cherry-blossom with a delicate sunset that has, as it were, strayed from the sky and lingered about the leafless branches.

The really great wonders of Nature, to those who are sufficiently susceptible to the beautiful, are apt to leave behind an indefinable yearning, a regret that so much loveliness must needs pass away, and this gentle touch of sorrow mingled with the ecstasy is easily discovered in much of the Japanese poetry. It is a point worthy of emphasis because it reveals a temperament charged with a supreme love of the beautiful, this craving for a petal that shall never wither, a colour that shall never fade. Thus sang Korunushi:

"No man so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows? the Spring's soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.

One of the greatest tributes Japan has paid to the cherry is as follows: "The cherry-trees in the far-away mountain villages should keep back their blooms until the flowers in the town have faded, for then the people will go out to see them too." A Japanese woman's beauty is frequently associated with the cherry-blossom, while her virtue is compared with the flower of the plum.

The Camellia

The Precious-Camellia of Yaegaki, with its double trunk and immense head, is of great age, and is regarded as so sacred that it is surrounded by a fence, and stone lamps are placed about it. The tree's unique shape, with the double trunk growing together in the middle, has given rise to the belief that this extraordinary tree symbolises a happy wedded life, and, moreover, that good spirits inhabit it, ever ready to answer the ardent prayers of lovers.

The camellia-tree is not always beneficent. A legend is recorded of a tree of this species walking about at night in a samurai's garden at Matsue. Its strange and restless wanderings became so frequent that at last the tree was cut down, and it is said that when it was struck it shot forth a stream of blood.

The Cryptomeria

Another tree held in high veneration is the imposing cryptomeria, and there is one avenue of these trees stretching from Utsunomiya to Nikkō, a distance of twenty miles. One of these trees is seven feet in diameter, and is said to have been planted "by a deputation representing eight hundred Buddhist nuns of the province of Wakasa." Later on in this chapter we give a legend connected with this particular tree.

A Pine-tree and the God of Roads

In the grounds of the great hakaba (cemetery) of the Kwannondera is a pine-tree standing upon four great roots that have the appearance of gigantic legs. About this tree is a fence, shrine, and a number of torii. Before the shrine repose miniature horses made from straw. These are offerings to Kōshin, the God of Roads, entreaties that the real horses which they symbolise may be preserved from death or sickness. The pine-tree, however, is not usually associated with Kōshin. It may be fittingly described as the most domestic of Japanese trees, for it takes a conspicuous place in the New Year festival[1]—a tree to plant at the garden gate, because it is said to bring good luck and, especially, happy marriages.

A Tree Spirit

As we shall see in the legends that follow, more than one variety of Japanese trees is endowed with supernatural power. There is a tree spirit known as Ki-no-o-baké that is capable of walking about and assuming various guises. The spirit of the tree speaks but little, and if disturbed disappears into the trunk or among the leaves. The spirit of the God Kōjin[2] resides in the enoki tree, the God to whom very old dolls are dedicated.

The Miraculous Chestnut

The Princess Hinako-Nai-Shinnō begged that chestnuts should be brought to her; but she took but one, bit it, and threw it away. It took root, and upon all the chestnuts that it eventually bore there were the marks of the Princess's small teeth. In honouring her death the chestnut had expressed its devotion in this strange way.

The Silent Pine

The Emperor Go-Toba, who strongly objected to the croaking of frogs, was on one occasion disturbed by a wind-blown pine-tree. When his Majesty loudly commanded it to be still, the pine-tree never for a moment moved again. So greatly impressed was this obedient tree that the fiercest wind failed to stir its branches, or even its myriad pine-needles.

Willow Wife[3]

"I have heard of the magical incense that summons the souls of the
absent;
Would I had some to burn, in the nights when I wait alone."
From the Japanese.

In a certain Japanese village there grew a great willow-tree. For many generations the people loved it. In the summer it was a resting-place, a place where the villagers might meet after the work and heat of the day were over, and there talk till the moonlight streamed through the branches. In winter it was like a great half-opened umbrella covered with sparkling snow.

Heitaro, a young farmer, lived quite near this tree, and he, more than any of his companions, had entered into a deep communion with the imposing willow. It was almost the first object he saw upon waking, and upon his return from work in the fields he looked out eagerly for its familiar form. Sometimes he would burn a joss-stick beneath its branches and kneel down and pray.

One day an old man of the village came to Heitaro and explained to him that the villagers were anxious to build a bridge over the river, and that they particularly wanted the great willow-tree for timber.

"For timber?" said Heitaro, hiding his face in his hands. "My dear willow-tree for a bridge, one to bear the incessant patter of feet? Never, never, old man!"

When Heitaro had somewhat recovered himself, he offered to give the old man some of his own trees, if he and the villagers would accept them for timber and spare the ancient willow.

The old man readily accepted this offer, and the willow-tree continued to stand in the village as it had stood for so many years.

One night while Heitaro sat under the great willow he suddenly saw a beautiful woman standing close beside him, looking at him shyly, as if wanting to speak.

"Honourable lady," said he, "I will go home. I see you wait for some one. Heitaro is not without kindness towards those who love."