A Story of the Otokodaté of Yedo;

being the supplement of the story of gompachi and komurasaki

The word Otokodaté occurs several times in these Tales; and as I

cannot convey its full meaning by a simple translation, I must

preserve it in the text, explaining it by the following note, taken

from the Japanese of a native scholar.

The Otokodaté were friendly associations of brave men bound together

by an obligation to stand by one another in weal or in woe, regardless

of their own lives, and without inquiring into one another's

antecedents. A bad man, however, having joined the Otokodaté must

forsake his evil ways; for their principle was to treat the oppressor

as an enemy, and to help the feeble as a father does his child. If

they had money, they gave it to those that had none, and their

charitable deeds won for them the respect of all men. The head of the

society was called its "Father"; if any of the others, who were his

apprentices, were homeless, they lived with the Father and served him,

paying him at the same time a small fee, in consideration of which, if

they fell sick or into misfortune, he took charge of them and assisted

them.

The Father of the Otokodaté pursued the calling of farming out coolies

to the Daimios and great personages for their journeys to and from

Yedo, and in return for this received from them rations in rice. He

had more influence with the lower classes even than the officials; and

if the coolies had struck work or refused to accompany a Daimio on his

journey, a word from the Father would produce as many men as might be

required. When Prince Tokugawa Iyémochi, the last but one of the

Shoguns, left Yedo for Kiôto, one Shimmon Tatsugorô, chief of the

Otokodaté, undertook the management of his journey, and some three or

four years ago was raised to the dignity of Hatamoto for many faithful

services. After the battle of Fushimi, and the abolition of the

Shogunate, he accompanied the last of the Shoguns in his retirement.

In old days there were also Otokodaté among the Hatamotos; this was

after the civil wars of the time of Iyéyasu, when, though the country

was at peace, the minds of men were still in a state of high

excitement, and could not be reconciled to the dulness of a state of

rest; it followed that broils and faction fights were continually

taking place among the young men of the Samurai class, and that those

who distinguished themselves by their personal strength and valour

were looked up to as captains. Leagues after the manner of those

existing among the German students were formed in different quarters

of the city, under various names, and used to fight for the honour of

victory. When the country became more thoroughly tranquil, the custom

of forming these leagues amongst gentlemen fell into disuse.

The past tense is used in speaking even of the Otokodaté of the lower

classes; for although they nominally exist, they have no longer the

power and importance which they enjoyed at the time to which these

stories belong. They then, like the 'prentices of Old London, played a

considerable part in the society of the great cities, and that man was

lucky, were he gentle Samurai or simple wardsman, who could claim the

Father of the Otokodaté for his friend.

The word, taken by itself, means a manly or plucky fellow.

* * * * *

Chôbei of Bandzuin was the chief of the Otokodaté of Yedo. He was

originally called Itarô, and was the son of a certain Rônin who lived

in the country. One day, when he was only ten years of age, he went

out with a playfellow to bathe in the river; and as the two were

playing they quarrelled over their game, and Itarô, seizing the other

boy, threw him into the river and drowned him.

Then he went home, and said to his father--

"I went to play by the river to-day, with a friend; and as he was rude

to me, I threw him into the water and killed him."

When his father heard him speak thus, quite calmly, as if nothing had

happened, he was thunderstruck, and said--

"This is indeed a fearful thing. Child as you are, you will have to

pay the penalty of your deed; so to-night you must fly to Yedo in

secret, and take service with some noble Samurai, and perhaps in time

you may become a soldier yourself."

With these words he gave him twenty ounces of silver and a fine sword,

made by the famous swordsmith Rai Kunitoshi, and sent him out of the

province with all dispatch. The following morning the parents of the

murdered child came to claim that Itarô should be given up to their

vengeance; but it was too late, and all they could do was to bury

their child and mourn for his loss.

Itarô made his way to Yedo in hot haste, and there found employment as

a shop-boy; but soon tiring of that sort of life, and burning to

become a soldier, he found means at last to enter the service of a

certain Hatamoto called Sakurai Shôzayémon, and changed his name to

Tsunéhei. Now this Sakurai Shôzayémon had a son, called Shônosuké, a

young man in his seventeenth year, who grew so fond of Tsunéhei that

he took him with him wherever he went, and treated him in all ways as

an equal.

When Shônosuké went to the fencing-school Tsunéhei would accompany

him, and thus, as he was by nature strong and active, soon became a

good swordsman.

One day, when Shôzayémon had gone out, his son Shônosuké said to

Tsunéhei--

"You know how fond my father is of playing at football: it must be

great sport. As he has gone out to-day, suppose you and I have a

game?"

"That will be rare sport," answered Tsunéhei. "Let us make haste and

play, before my lord comes home."

So the two boys went out into the garden, and began trying to kick the

football; but, lacking skill, do what they would, they could not lift

it from the ground. At last Shônosuké, with a vigorous kick, raised

the football; but, having missed his aim, it went tumbling over the

wall into the next garden, which belonged to one Hikosaka Zempachi, a

teacher of lance exercise, who was known to be a surly, ill-tempered

fellow.

"Oh, dear! what shall we do?" said Shônosuké. "We have lost my

father's football in his absence; and if we go and ask for it back

from that churlish neighbour of ours, we shall only be scolded and

sworn at for our pains."

"Oh, never mind," answered Tsunéhei; "I will go and apologize for our

carelessness, and get the football back."

"Well, but then you will be chidden, and I don't want that."

"Never mind me. Little care I for his cross words." So Tsunéhei went

to the next-door house to reclaim the ball.

Now it so happened that Zempachi, the surly neighbour, had been

walking in his garden whilst the two youths were playing; and as he

was admiring the beauty of his favourite chrysanthemums, the football

came flying over the wall and struck him full in the face. Zempachi,

not used to anything but flattery and coaxing, flew into a violent

rage at this; and while he was thinking how he would revenge himself

upon any one who might be sent to ask for the lost ball, Tsunéhei came

in, and said to one of Zempachi's servants--

"I am sorry to say that in my lord's absence I took his football, and,

in trying to play with it, clumsily kicked it over your wall. I beg

you to excuse my carelessness, and to be so good as to give me back

the ball."

The servant went in and repeated this to Zempachi, who worked himself

up into a great rage, and ordered Tsunéhei to be brought before him,

and said--

"Here, fellow, is your name Tsunéhei?"

"Yes, sir, at your service. I am almost afraid to ask pardon for my

carelessness; but please forgive me, and let me have the ball."

"I thought your master, Shôzayémon, was to blame for this; but it

seems that it was you who kicked the football."

"Yes, sir. I am sure I am very sorry for what I have done. Please, may

I ask for the ball?" said Tsunéhei, bowing humbly.

For a while Zempachi made no answer, but at length he said--

"Do you know, villain, that your dirty football struck me in the

face? I ought, by rights, to kill you on the spot for this; but I will

spare your life this time, so take your football and be off." And with

that he went up to Tsunéhei and beat him, and kicked him in the head,

and spat in his face.

Then Tsunéhei, who up to that time had demeaned himself very humbly,

in his eagerness to get back the football, jumped up in a fury, and

said--

"I made ample apologies to you for my carelessness, and now you have

insulted and struck me. Ill-mannered ruffian! take back the

ball,--I'll none of it;" and he drew his dirk, and cutting the

football in two, threw it at Zempachi, and returned home.

But Zempachi, growing more and more angry, called one of his servants,

and said to him--

"That fellow, Tsunéhei, has been most insolent: go next door and find

out Shôzayémon, and tell him that I have ordered you to bring back

Tsunéhei, that I may kill him."

So the servant went to deliver the message.

In the meantime Tsunéhei went back to his master's house; and when

Shônosuké saw him, he said--

"Well, of course you have been ill treated; but did you get back the

football?"

"When I went in, I made many apologies; but I was beaten, and kicked

in the head, and treated with the greatest indignity. I would have

killed that wretch, Zempachi, at once, but that I knew that, if I did

so while I was yet a member of your household, I should bring trouble

upon your family. For your sake I bore this ill-treatment patiently;

but now I pray you let me take leave of you and become a Rônin, that I

may be revenged upon this man."

"Think well what you are doing," answered Shônosuké. "After all, we

have only lost a football; and my father will not care, nor upbraid

us."

But Tsiméhei would not listen to him, and was bent upon wiping out the

affront that he had received. As they were talking, the messenger

arrived from Zempachi, demanding the surrender of Tsunéhei, on the

ground that he had insulted him: to this Shônosuké replied that his

father was away from home, and that in his absence he could do

nothing.

At last Shôzayémon came home; and when he heard what had happened he

was much grieved, and at a loss what to do, when a second messenger

arrived from Zempachi, demanding that Tsunéhei should be given up

without delay. Then Shôzayémon, seeing that the matter was serious,

called the youth to him, and said--

"This Zempachi is heartless and cruel, and if you go to his house will

assuredly kill you; take, therefore, these fifty riyos, and fly to

Osaka or Kiôto, where you may safely set up in business."

"Sir," answered Tsunéhei, with tears of gratitude for his lord's

kindness, "from my heart I thank you for your great goodness; but I

have been insulted and trampled upon, and, if I lay down my life in

the attempt, I will repay Zempachi for what he has this day done."

"Well, then, since you needs must be revenged, go and fight, and may

success attend you! Still, as much depends upon the blade you carry,

and I fear yours is likely to be but a sorry weapon, I will give you a

sword;" and with this he offered Tsunéhei his own.

"Nay, my lord," replied Tsunéhei; "I have a famous sword, by Rai

Kunitoshi, which my father gave me. I have never shown it to your

lordship, but I have it safely stowed away in my room."

When Shôzayémon saw and examined the sword, he admired it greatly, and

said, "This is indeed a beautiful blade, and one on which you may

rely. Take it, then, and bear yourself nobly in the fight; only

remember that Zempachi is a cunning spearsman, and be sure to be very

cautious."

So Tsunéhei, after thanking his lord for his manifold kindnesses, took

an affectionate leave, and went to Zempachi's house, and said to the

servant--

"It seems that your master wants to speak to me. Be so good as to take

me to see him."

So the servant led him into the garden, where Zempachi, spear in hand,

was waiting to kill him. When Zempachi saw him, he cried out--

"Ha! so you have come back; and now for your insolence, this day I

mean to kill you with my own hand."

"Insolent yourself!" replied Tsunéhei. "Beast, and no Samurai! Come,

let us see which of us is the better man."

Furiously incensed, Zempachi thrust with his spear at Tsunéhei; but

he, trusting to his good sword, attacked Zempachi, who, cunning

warrior as he was, could gain no advantage. At last Zempachi, losing

his temper, began fighting less carefully, so that Tsunéhei found an

opportunity of cutting the shaft of his spear. Zempachi then drew his

sword, and two of his retainers came up to assist him; but Tsunéhei

killed one of them, and wounded Zempachi in the forehead. The second

retainer fled affrighted at the youth's valour, and Zempachi was

blinded by the blood which flowed from the wound on his forehead. Then

Tsunéhei said--

"To kill one who is as a blind man were unworthy a soldier. Wipe the

blood from your eyes, Sir Zempachi, and let us fight it out fairly."

So Zempachi, wiping away his blood, bound a kerchief round his head,

and fought again desperately. But at last the pain of his wound and

the loss of blood overcame him, and Tsunéhei cut him down with a wound

in the shoulder and easily dispatched him.

Then Tsunéhei went and reported the whole matter to the Governor of

Yedo, and was put in prison until an inquiry could be made. But the

Chief Priest of Bandzuin, who had heard of the affair, went and told

the governor all the bad deeds of Zempachi, and having procured

Tsunéhei's pardon, took him home and employed him as porter in the

temple. So Tsunéhei changed his name to Chôbei, and earned much

respect in the neighbourhood, both for his talents and for his many

good works. If any man were in distress, he would help him, heedless

of his own advantage or danger, until men came to look up to him as to

a father, and many youths joined him and became his apprentices. So he

built a house at Hanakawado, in Asakusa, and lived there with his

apprentices, whom he farmed out as spearsmen and footmen to the

Daimios and Hatamotos, taking for himself the tithe of their earnings.

But if any of them were sick or in trouble, Chôbei would nurse and

support them, and provide physicians and medicine. And the fame of his

goodness went abroad until his apprentices were more than two thousand

men, and were employed in every part of the city. But as for Chôbei,

the more he prospered, the more he gave in charity, and all men

praised his good and generous heart.

This was the time when the Hatamotos had formed themselves into bands

of Otokodaté,[21] of which Midzuno Jiurozayémon, Kondô Noborinosuké,

and Abé Shirogorô were the chiefs. And the leagues of the nobles

despised the leagues of the wardsmen, and treated them with scorn, and

tried to put to shame Chôbei and his brave men; but the nobles'

weapons recoiled upon themselves, and, whenever they tried to bring

contempt upon Chôbei, they themselves were brought to ridicule. So

there was great hatred on both sides.

[Footnote 21: See the story of Kazuma's Revenge.]

One day, that Chôbei went to divert himself in a tea-house in the

Yoshiwara, he saw a felt carpet spread in an upper room, which had

been adorned as for some special occasion; and he asked the master of

the house what guest of distinction was expected. The landlord replied

that my Lord Jiurozayémon, the chief of the Otokodaté of the

Hatamotos, was due there that afternoon. On hearing this, Chôbei

replied that as he much wished to meet my Lord Jiurozayémon, he would

lie down and await his coming. The landlord was put out at this, and

knew not what to say; but yet he dare not thwart Chôbei, the powerful

chief of the Otokodaté. So Chôbei took off his clothes and laid

himself down upon the carpet. After a while my Lord Jiurozayémon

arrived, and going upstairs found a man of large stature lying naked

upon the carpet which had been spread for him.

"What low ruffian is this?" shouted he angrily to the landlord.

"My lord, it is Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté," answered the man,

trembling.

Jiurozayémon at once suspected that Chôbei was doing this to insult

him; so he sat down by the side of the sleeping man, and lighting his

pipe began to smoke. When he had finished his pipe, he emptied the

burning ashes into Chôbei's navel; but Chôbei, patiently bearing the

pain, still feigned sleep. Ten times did Jiurozayémon fill his

pipe,[22] and ten times he shook out the burning ashes on to Chôbei's

navel; but he neither stirred nor spoke. Then Jiurozayémon, astonished

at his fortitude, shook him, and roused him, saying--

"Chôbei! Chôbei! wake up, man."

"What is the matter?" said Chôbei, rubbing his eyes as though he were

awaking from a deep sleep; then seeing Jiurozayémon, he pretended to

be startled, and said, "Oh, my lord, I know not who you are; but I

have been very rude to your lordship. I was overcome with wine, and

fell asleep: I pray your lordship to forgive me."

"Is your name Chôbei?"

"Yes, my lord, at your service. A poor wardsman, and ignorant of good

manners, I have been very rude; but I pray your lordship to excuse my

ill-breeding."

"Nay, nay; we have all heard the fame of Chôbei, of Bandzuin, and I

hold myself lucky to have met you this day. Let us be friends."

"It is a great honour for a humble wardsman to meet a nobleman face to

face."

[Footnote 22: The tiny Japanese pipe contains but two or three whiffs;

and as the tobacco is rolled up tightly in the fingers before it is

inserted, the ash, when shaken out, is a little fire-ball from which a

second pipe is lighted.]

As they were speaking, the waitresses brought in fish and wine, and

Jiurozayémon pressed Chôbei to feast with him; and thinking to annoy

Chôbei, offered him a large wine-cup,[23] which, however, he drank

without shrinking, and then returned to his entertainer, who was by no

means so well able to bear the fumes of the wine. Then Jiurozayémon

hit upon another device for annoying Chôbei, and, hoping to frighten

him, said--

"Here, Chôbei, let me offer you some fish;" and with those words he

drew his sword, and, picking up a cake of baked fish upon the point of

it, thrust it towards the wardsman's mouth. Any ordinary man would

have been afraid to accept the morsel so roughly offered; but Chôbei

simply opened his mouth, and taking the cake off the sword's point ate

it without wincing. Whilst Jiurozayémon was wondering in his heart

what manner of man this was, that nothing could daunt, Chôbei said to

him--

"This meeting with your lordship has been an auspicious occasion to

me, and I would fain ask leave to offer some humble gift to your

lordship in memory of it.[24] Is there anything which your lordship

would specially fancy?"

"I am very fond of cold macaroni."

[Footnote 23: It is an act of rudeness to offer a large wine-cup. As,

however, the same cup is returned to the person who has offered it,

the ill carries with it its own remedy. At a Japanese feast the same

cup is passed from hand to hand, each person rinsing it in a bowl of

water after using it, and before offering it to another.]

[Footnote 24: The giving of presents from inferiors to superiors is a

common custom.]

"Then I shall have the honour of ordering some for your lordship;" and

with this Chôbei went downstairs, and calling one of his apprentices,

named Tôken Gombei,[25] who was waiting for him, gave him a hundred

riyos (about £28), and bade him collect all the cold macaroni to be

found in the neighbouring cook-shops and pile it up in front of the

tea-house. So Gombei went home, and, collecting Chôbei's apprentices,

sent them out in all directions to buy the macaroni. Jiurozayémon all

this while was thinking of the pleasure he would have in laughing at

Chôbei for offering him a mean and paltry present; but when, by

degrees, the macaroni began to be piled mountain-high around the

tea-house, he saw that he could not make a fool of Chôbei, and went

home discomfited.

[Footnote 25: _Tôken_, a nickname given to Gombei, after a savage dog

that he killed. As a Chônin, or wardsman, he had no surname.]

It has already been told how Shirai Gompachi was befriended and helped

by Chôbei.[26] His name will occur again in this story.

[Footnote 26: See the story of Gompachi and Komurasaki.]

At this time there lived in the province of Yamato a certain Daimio,

called Honda Dainaiki, who one day, when surrounded by several of his

retainers, produced a sword, and bade them look at it and say from

what smith's workshop the blade had come.

"I think this must be a Masamuné blade," said one Fuwa Banzayémon.

"No," said Nagoya Sanza, after examining the weapon attentively, "this

certainly is a Muramasa."[27]

[Footnote 27: The swords of Muramasa, although so finely tempered that

they are said to cut hard iron as though it were a melon, have the

reputation of being unlucky: they are supposed by the superstitious to

hunger after taking men's lives, and to be unable to repose in their

scabbards. The principal duty of a sword is to preserve tranquillity

in the world, by punishing the wicked and protecting the good. But the

bloodthirsty swords of Muramasa rather have the effect of maddening

their owners, so that they either kill others indiscriminately or

commit suicide. At the end of the sixteenth century Prince Tokugawa

Iyéyasu was in the habit of carrying a spear made by Muramasa, with

which he often scratched or cut himself by mistake. Hence the Tokugawa

family avoid girding on Muramasa blades, which are supposed to be

specially unlucky to their race. The murders of Gompachi, who wore a

sword by this maker, also contributed to give his weapons a bad name.

The swords of one Tôshirô Yoshimitsu, on the other hand, are specially

auspicious to the Tokugawa family, for the following reason. After

Iyéyasu had been defeated by Takéta Katsuyori, at the battle of the

river Tenrin, he took refuge in the house of a village doctor,

intending to put an end to his existence by _hara-kiri,_ and drawing

his dirk, which was made by Yoshimitsu, tried to plunge it into his

belly, when, to his surprise, the blade turned. Thinking that the dirk

must be a bad one, he took up an iron mortar for grinding medicines

and tried it upon that, and the point entered and transfixed the

mortar. He was about to stab himself a second time, when his

followers, who had missed him, and had been searching for him

everywhere, came up, and seeing their master about to kill himself,

stayed his hand, and took away the dirk by force. Then they set him

upon his horse and compelled him to fly to his own province of Mikawa,

whilst they kept his pursuers at bay. After this, when, by the favour

of Heaven, Iyéyasu became Shogun, it was considered that of a surety

there must have been a good spirit in the blade that refused to drink

his blood; and ever since that time the blades of Yoshimitsu have been

considered lucky in his family.]

A third Samurai, named Takagi Umanojô, pronounced it to be the work

of Shidzu Kanenji; and as they could not agree, but each maintained

his opinion, their lord sent for a famous connoisseur to decide the

point; and the sword proved, as Sanza had said, to be a genuine

Muramasa. Sanza was delighted at the verdict; but the other two went

home rather crestfallen. Umanojô, although he had been worsted in the

argument, bore no malice nor ill-will in his heart; but Banzayémon,

who was a vainglorious personage, puffed up with the idea of his own

importance, conceived a spite against Sanza, and watched for an

opportunity to put him to shame. At last, one day Banzayémon, eager to

be revenged upon Sanza, went to the Prince, and said, "Your lordship

ought to see Sanza fence; his swordsmanship is beyond all praise. I

know that I am no match for him; still, if it will please your

lordship, I will try a bout with him;" and the Prince, who was a mere

stripling, and thought it would be rare sport, immediately sent for

Sanza and desired he would fence with Banzayémon. So the two went out

into the garden, and stood up facing each other, armed with wooden

swords. Now Banzayémon was proud of his skill, and thought he had no

equal in fencing; so he expected to gain an easy victory over Sanza,

and promised himself the luxury of giving his adversary a beating that

should fully make up for the mortification which he had felt in the

matter of the dispute about the sword. It happened, however, that he

had undervalued the skill of Sanza, who, when he saw that his

adversary was attacking him savagely and in good earnest, by a rapid

blow struck Banzayémon so sharply on the wrist that he dropped the

sword, and, before he could pick it up again, delivered a second cut

on the shoulder, which sent him rolling over in the dust. All the

officers present, seeing this, praised Sanza's skill, and Banzayémon,

utterly stricken with shame, ran away home and hid himself.

After this affair Sanza rose high in the favour of his lord; and

Banzayémon, who was more than ever jealous of him, feigned sickness,

and stayed at home devising schemes for Sanza's ruin.

Now it happened that the Prince, wishing to have the Muramasa blade

mounted, sent for Sanza and entrusted it to his care, ordering him to

employ the most cunning workmen in the manufacture of the

scabbard-hilt and ornaments; and Sanza, having received the blade,

took it home, and put it carefully away. When Banzayémon heard of

this, he was overjoyed; for he saw that his opportunity for revenge

had come. He determined, if possible, to kill Sanza, but at any rate

to steal the sword which had been committed to his care by the Prince,

knowing full well that if Sanza lost the sword he and his family would

be ruined. Being a single man, without wife or child, he sold his

furniture, and, turning all his available property into money, made

ready to fly the country. When his preparations were concluded, he

went in the middle of the night to Sanza's house and tried to get in

by stealth; but the doors and shutters were all carefully bolted from

the inside, and there was no hole by which he could effect an

entrance. All was still, however, and the people of the house were

evidently fast asleep; so he climbed up to the second storey, and,

having contrived to unfasten a window, made his way in. With soft,

cat-like footsteps he crept downstairs, and, looking into one of the

rooms, saw Sanza and his wife sleeping on the mats, with their little

son Kosanza, a boy of thirteen, curled up in his quilt between them.

The light in the night-lamp was at its last flicker, but, peering

through the gloom, he could just see the Prince's famous Muramasa

sword lying on a sword-rack in the raised part of the room: so he

crawled stealthily along until he could reach it, and stuck it in his

girdle. Then, drawing near to Sanza, he bestrode his sleeping body,

and, brandishing the sword made a thrust at his throat; but in his

excitement his hand shook, so that he missed his aim, and only

scratched Sanza, who, waking with a start and trying to jump up, felt

himself held down by a man standing over him. Stretching out his

hands, he would have wrestled with his enemy; when Banzayémon, leaping

back, kicked over the night-lamp, and throwing open the shutters,

dashed into the garden. Snatching up his sword, Sanza rushed out after

him; and his wife, having lit a lantern and armed herself with a

halberd,[28] went out, with her son Kosanza, who carried a drawn dirk,

to help her husband. Then Banzayémon, who was hiding in the shadow of

a large pine-tree, seeing the lantern and dreading detection, seized a

stone and hurled it at the light, and, chancing to strike it, put it

out, and then scrambling over the fence unseen, fled into the

darkness. When Sanza had searched all over the garden in vain, he

returned to his room and examined his wound, which proving very

slight, he began to look about to see whether the thief had carried

off anything; but when his eye fell upon the place where the Muramasa

sword had lain, he saw that it was gone. He hunted everywhere, but it

was not to be found. The precious blade with which his Prince had

entrusted him had been stolen, and the blame would fall heavily upon

him. Filled with grief and shame at the loss, Sanza and his wife and

child remained in great anxiety until the morning broke, when he

reported the matter to one of the Prince's councillors, and waited in

seclusion until he should receive his lord's commands.

[Footnote 28: The halberd is the special arm of the Japanese woman of

gentle blood. That which was used by Kasa Gozen, one of the ladies of

Yoshitsuné, the hero of the twelfth century, is still preserved at

Asakusa. In old-fashioned families young ladies are regularly

instructed in fencing with the halberds.]

It soon became known that Banzayémon, who had fled the province, was

the thief; and the councillors made their report accordingly to the

Prince, who, although he expressed his detestation of the mean action

of Banzayémon, could not absolve Sanza from blame, in that he had not

taken better precautions to insure the safety of the sword that had

been committed to his trust. It was decided, therefore, that Sanza

should be dismissed from his service, and that his goods should be

confiscated; with the proviso that should he be able to find

Banzayémon, and recover the lost Muramasa blade, he should be restored

to his former position. Sanza, who from the first had made up his mind

that his punishment would be severe, accepted the decree without a

murmur; and, having committed his wife and son to the care of his

relations, prepared to leave the country as a Rônin and search for

Banzayémon.

Before starting, however, he thought that he would go to his

brother-officer, Takagi Umanojô, and consult with him as to what

course he should pursue to gain his end. But this Umanojô, who was by

nature a churlish fellow, answered him unkindly, and said--

"It is true that Banzayémon is a mean thief; but still it was through

your carelessness that the sword was lost. It is of no avail your

coming to me for help: you must get it back as best you may."

"Ah!" replied Sanza, "I see that you too bear me a grudge because I

defeated you in the matter of the judgment of the sword. You are no

better than Banzayémon yourself."

And his heart was bitter against his fellow men, and he left the house

determined to kill Umanojô first and afterwards to track out

Banzayémon; so, pretending to start on his journey, he hid in an inn,

and waited for an opportunity to attack Umanojô.

One day Umanojô, who was very fond of fishing, had taken his son

Umanosuké, a lad of sixteen, down to the sea-shore with him; and as

the two were enjoying themselves, all of a sudden they perceived a

Samurai running towards them, and when he drew near they saw that it

was Sanza. Umanojô, thinking that Sanza had come back in order to talk

over some important matter, left his angling and went to meet him.

Then Sanza cried out--

"Now, Sir Umanojô, draw and defend yourself. What! were you in league

with Banzayémon to vent your spite upon me? Draw, sir, draw! You have

spirited away your accomplice; but, at any rate, you are here

yourself, and shall answer for your deed. It is no use playing the

innocent; your astonished face shall not save you. Defend yourself,

coward and traitor!" and with these words Sanza flourished his naked

sword.

"Nay, Sir Sanza," replied the other, anxious by a soft answer to turn

away his wrath; "I am innocent of this deed. Waste not your valour on

so poor a cause."

"Lying knave!" said Sanza; "think not that you can impose upon me. I

know your treacherous heart;" and, rushing upon Umanojô, he cut him on

the forehead so that he fell in agony upon the sand.

Umanosuké in the meanwhile, who had been fishing at some distance from

his father, rushed up when he saw him in this perilous situation and

threw a stone at Sanza, hoping to distract his attention; but, before

he could reach the spot, Sanza had delivered the death-blow, and

Umanojô lay a corpse upon the beach.

"Stop, Sir Sanza--murderer of my father!" cried Umanosuké, drawing

his sword, "stop and do battle with me, that I may avenge his death."

"That you should wish to slay your father's enemy," replied Sanza, "is

but right and proper; and although I had just cause of quarrel with

your father, and killed him, as a Samurai should, yet would I gladly

forfeit my life to you here; but my life is precious to me for one

purpose--that I may punish Banzayémon and get back the stolen sword.

When I shall have restored that sword to my lord, then will I give you

your revenge, and you may kill me. A soldier's word is truth; but, as

a pledge that I will fulfil my promise, I will give to you, as

hostages, my wife and boy. Stay your avenging hand, I pray you, until

my desire shall have been attained."

Umanosuké, who was a brave and honest youth, as famous in the clan for

the goodness of his heart as for his skill in the use of arms, when he

heard Sanza's humble petition, relented, and said--

"I agree to wait, and will take your wife and boy as hostages for your

return."

"I humbly thank you," said Sanza. "When I shall have chastised

Banzayémon, I will return, and you shall claim your revenge."

So Sanza went his way to Yedo to seek for Banzayémon, and Umanosuké

mourned over his father's grave.

Now Banzayémon, when he arrived in Yedo, found himself friendless and

without the means of earning his living, when by accident he heard of

the fame of Chôbei of Bandzuin, the chief of the Otokodaté, to whom he

applied for assistance; and having entered the fraternity, supported

himself by giving fencing-lessons. He had been plying his trade for

some time, and had earned some little reputation, when Sanza reached

the city and began his search for him. But the days and months passed

away, and, after a year's fruitless seeking, Sanza, who had spent all

his money without obtaining a clue to the whereabouts of his enemy,

was sorely perplexed, and was driven to live by his wits as a

fortune-teller. Work as he would, it was a hard matter for him to gain

the price of his daily food, and, in spite of all his pains, his

revenge seemed as far off as ever, when he bethought him that the

Yoshiwara was one of the most bustling places in the city, and that if

he kept watch there, sooner or later he would be sure to fall in with

Banzayémon. So be bought a hat of plaited bamboo, that completely

covered his face, and lay in wait at the Yoshiwara.

One day Banzayémon and two of Chôbei's apprentices Tôken Gombei and

Shirobei, who, from his wild and indocile nature, was surnamed "the

Colt," were amusing themselves and drinking in an upper storey of a

tea-house in the Yoshiwara, when Tôken Gombei, happening to look down

upon the street below, saw a Samurai pass by, poorly clad in worn-out

old clothes, but whose poverty-stricken appearance contrasted with

his proud and haughty bearing.

"Look there!" said Gombei, calling the attention of the others; "look

at that Samurai. Dirty and ragged as his coat is, how easy it is to

see that he is of noble birth! Let us wardsmen dress ourselves up in

never so fine clothes, we could not look as he does."

"Ay," said Shirobei, "I wish we could make friends with him, and ask

him up here to drink a cup of wine with us. However, it would not be

seemly for us wardsmen to go and invite a person of his condition."

"We can easily get over that difficulty," said Banzayémon. "As I am a

Samurai myself, there will be no impropriety in my going and saying a

few civil words to him, and bringing him in."

The other two having joyfully accepted the offer, Banzayémon ran

downstairs, and went up to the strange Samurai and saluted him,

saying--

"I pray you to wait a moment, Sir Samurai. My name is Fuwa Banzayémon

at your service. I am a Rônin, as I judge from your appearance that

you are yourself. I hope you will not think me rude if I venture to

ask you to honour me with your friendship, and to come into this

tea-house to drink a cup of wine with me and two of my friends."

The strange Samurai, who was no other than Sanza, looking at the

speaker through the interstices of his deep bamboo hat, and

recognizing his enemy Banzayémon, gave a start of surprise, and,

uncovering his head, said sternly--

"Have you forgotten my face, Banzayémon?"

For a moment Banzayémon was taken aback, but quickly recovering

himself, he replied, "Ah! Sir Sanza, you may well be angry with me;

but since I stole the Muramasa sword and fled to Yedo I have known no

peace: I have been haunted by remorse for my crime. I shall not resist

your vengeance: do with me as it shall seem best to you; or rather

take my life, and let there be an end of this quarrel."

"Nay," answered Sanza, "to kill a man who repents him of his sins is a

base and ignoble action. When you stole from me the Muramasa blade

which had been confided to my care by my lord, I became a disgraced

and ruined man. Give me back that sword, that I may lay it before my

lord, and I will spare your life. I seek to slay no man needlessly."

"Sir Sanza, I thank you for your mercy. At this moment I have not the

sword by me, but if you will go into yonder tea-house and wait awhile,

I will fetch it and deliver it into your hands."

Sanza having consented to this, the two men entered the tea-house,

where Banzayémon's two companions were waiting for them. But

Banzayémon, ashamed of his own evil deed, still pretended that Sanza

was a stranger, and introduced him as such, saying--

"Come Sir Samurai, since we have the honour of your company, let me

offer you a wine-cup."

Banzayémon and the two men pressed the wine-cup upon Sanza so often

that the fumes gradually got into his head and he fell asleep; the two

wardsmen, seeing this, went out for a walk, and Banzayémon, left alone

with the sleeping man, began to revolve fresh plots against him in his

mind. On a sudden, a thought struck him. Noiselessly seizing Sanza's

sword, which he had laid aside on entering the room, he stole softly

downstairs with it, and, carrying it into the back yard, pounded and

blunted its edge with a stone, and having made it useless as a weapon,

he replaced it in its scabbard, and running upstairs again laid it in

its place without disturbing Sanza, who, little suspecting treachery,

lay sleeping off the effects of the wine. At last, however, he awoke,

and, ashamed at having been overcome by drink, he said to Banzayémon--

"Come, Banzayémon, we have dallied too long; give me the Muramasa

sword, and let me go."

"Of course," replied the other, sneeringly, "I am longing to give it

back to you; but unfortunately, in my poverty, I have been obliged to

pawn it for fifty ounces of silver. If you have so much money about

you, give it to me and I will return the sword to you."

"Wretch!" cried Sanza, seeing that Banzayémon was trying to fool him,

"have I not had enough of your vile tricks? At any rate, if I cannot

get back the sword, your head shall be laid before my lord in its

place. Come," added he, stamping his foot impatiently, "defend

yourself."

"With all my heart. But not here in this tea-house. Let us go to the

Mound, and fight it out."

"Agreed! There is no need for us to bring trouble on the landlord.

Come to the Mound of the Yoshiwara."

So they went to the Mound, and drawing their swords, began to fight

furiously. As the news soon spread abroad through the Yoshiwara that a

duel was being fought upon the Mound, the people flocked out to see

the sight; and among them came Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, Banzayémon's

companions, who, when they saw that the combatants were their own

friend and the strange Samurai, tried to interfere and stop the fight,

but, being hindered by the thickness of the crowd, remained as

spectators. The two men fought desperately, each driven by fierce rage

against the other; but Sanza, who was by far the better fencer of the

two, once, twice, and again dealt blows which should have cut

Banzayémon down, and yet no blood came forth. Sanza, astonished at

this, put forth all his strength, and fought so skilfully, that all

the bystanders applauded him, and Banzayémon, though he knew his

adversary's sword to be blunted, was so terrified that he stumbled and

fell. Sanza, brave soldier that he was, scorned to strike a fallen

foe, and bade him rise and fight again. So they engaged again, and

Sanza, who from the beginning had had the advantage, slipped and fell

in his turn; Banzayémon, forgetting the mercy which had been shown to

him, rushed up, with bloodthirsty joy glaring in his eyes, and stabbed

Sanza in the side as he lay on the ground. Faint as he was, he could

not lift his hand to save himself; and his craven foe was about to

strike him again, when the bystanders all cried shame upon his

baseness. Then Gombei and Shirobei lifted up their voices and said--

"Hold, coward! Have you forgotten how your own life was spared but a

moment since? Beast of a Samurai, we have been your friends hitherto,

but now behold in us the avengers of this brave man."

With these words the two men drew their dirks, and the spectators fell

back as they rushed in upon Banzayémon, who, terror-stricken by their

fierce looks and words, fled without having dealt the death-blow to

Sanza. They tried to pursue him, but he made good his escape, so the

two men returned to help the wounded man. When he came to himself by

dint of their kind treatment, they spoke to him and comforted him, and

asked him what province he came from, that they might write to his

friends and tell them what had befallen him. Sanza, in a voice faint

from pain and loss of blood, told them his name and the story of the

stolen sword, and of his enmity against Banzayémon. "But," said he,

"just now, when I was fighting, I struck Banzayémon more than once,

and without effect. How could that have been?" Then they looked at his

sword, which had fallen by his side, and saw that the edge was all

broken away. More than ever they felt indignant at the baseness of

Banzayémon's heart, and redoubled their kindness to Sanza; but, in.

spite of all their efforts, he grew weaker and weaker, until at last

his breathing ceased altogether. So they buried the corpse honourably

in an adjoining temple, and wrote to Sanza's wife and son, describing

to them the manner of his death.

Now when Sanza's wife, who had long been anxiously expecting her

husband's return, opened the letter and learned the cruel

circumstances of his death, she and her son Kosanza mourned bitterly

over his loss. Then Kosanza, who was now fourteen years old, said to

his mother--

"Take comfort, mother; for I will go to Yedo and seek out this

Banzayémon, my father's murderer, and I will surely avenge his death.

Now, therefore, make ready all that I need for this journey."

And as they were consulting over the manner of their revenge,

Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, whom Sanza had slain, having heard of

the death of his father's enemy, came to the house. But he came with

no hostile intent. True, Sanza had killed his father, but the widow

and the orphan were guiltless, and he bore them no ill-will; on the

contrary, he felt that Banzayémon was their common enemy. It was he

who by his evil deeds had been the cause of all the mischief that had

arisen, and now again, by murdering Sanza, he had robbed Umanosuké of

his revenge. In this spirit he said to Kosanza--

"Sir Kosanza, I hear that your father has been cruelly murdered by

Banzayémon at Yedo. I know that you will avenge the death of your

father, as the son of a soldier should: if, therefore, you will accept

my poor services, I will be your second, and will help you to the best

of my ability. Banzayémon shall be my enemy, as he is yours."

"Nay, Sir Umanosuké, although I thank you from my heart, I cannot

accept this favour at your hands. My father Sanza slew your noble

father: that you should requite this misfortune thus is more than

kind, but I cannot think of suffering you to risk your life on my

behalf."

"Listen to me," replied Umanosuké, smiling, "and you will think it

less strange that I should offer to help you. Last year, when my

father lay a bleeding corpse on the sea-shore, your father made a

covenant with me that he would return to give me my revenge, so soon

as he should have regained the stolen sword. Banzayémon, by murdering

him on the Mound of the Yoshiwara, has thwarted me in this; and now

upon whom can I avenge my father's death but upon him whose baseness

was indeed its cause? Now, therefore, I am determined to go with you

to Yedo, and not before the murders of our two fathers shall have been

fully atoned for will we return to our own country."

When Kosanza heard this generous speech, he could not conceal his

admiration; and the widow, prostrating herself at Umanosuké's feet,

shed tears of gratitude.

The two youths, having agreed to stand by one another, made all ready

for their journey, and obtained leave from their prince to go in

search of the traitor Banzayémon. They reached Yedo without meeting

with any adventures, and, taking up their abode at a cheap inn, began

to make their inquiries; but, although they sought far and wide, they

could learn no tidings of their enemy. When three months had passed

thus, Kosanza began to grow faint-hearted at their repeated failures;

but Umanosuké supported and comforted him, urging him to fresh

efforts. But soon a great misfortune befell them: Kosanza fell sick

with ophthalmia, and neither the tender nursing of his friend, nor the

drugs and doctors upon whom Umanosuké spent all their money, had any

effect on the suffering boy, who soon became stone blind. Friendless

and penniless, the one deprived of his eyesight and only a clog upon

the other, the two youths were thrown upon their own resources. Then

Umanosuké, reduced to the last extremity of distress, was forced to

lead out Kosanza to Asakusa to beg sitting by the roadside, whilst he

himself, wandering hither and thither, picked up what he could from

the charity of those who saw his wretched plight. But all this while

he never lost sight of his revenge, and almost thanked the chance

which had made him a beggar, for the opportunity which it gave him of

hunting out strange and hidden haunts of vagabond life into which in

his more prosperous condition he could not have penetrated. So he

walked to and fro through the city, leaning on a stout staff, in which

he had hidden his sword, waiting patiently for fortune to bring him

face to face with Banzayémon.

Now Banzayémon, after he had killed Sanza on the Mound of the

Yoshiwara, did not dare to show his face again in the house of Chôbei,

the Father of the Otokodaté; for he knew that the two men, Tôken

Gombei and Shirobei "the loose Colt," would not only bear an evil

report of him, but would even kill him if he fell into their hands, so

great had been their indignation at his cowardly Conduct; so he

entered a company of mountebanks, and earned his living by showing

tricks of swordsmanship, and selling tooth-powder at the Okuyama, at

Asakusa.[29] One day, as he was going towards Asakusa to ply his

trade, he caught sight of a blind beggar, in whom, in spite of his

poverty-stricken and altered appearance, he recognized the son of his

enemy. Rightly he judged that, in spite of the boy's apparently

helpless condition, the discovery boded no weal for him; so mounting

to the upper storey of a tea-house hard by, he watched to see who

should come to Kosanza's assistance. Nor had he to wait long, for

presently he saw a second beggar come up and speak words of

encouragement and kindness to the blind youth; and looking

attentively, he saw that the new-comer was Umanosuké. Having thus

discovered who was on his track, he went home and sought means of

killing the two beggars; so he lay in wait and traced them to the poor

hut where they dwelt, and one night, when he knew Umanosuké to be

absent, he crept in. Kosanza, being blind, thought that the footsteps

were those of Umanosuké, and jumped up to welcome him; but he, in his

heartless cruelty, which not even the boy's piteous state could move,

slew Kosanza as he helplessly stretched out his hands to feel for his

friend. The deed was yet unfinished when Umanosuké returned, and,

hearing a scuffle inside the hut, drew the sword which was hidden in

his staff and rushed in; but Banzayémon, profiting by the darkness,

eluded him and fled from the hut. Umanosuké followed swiftly after

him; but just as he was on the point of catching him, Banzayémon,

making a sweep backwards with his drawn sword, wounded Umanosuké in

the thigh, so that he stumbled and fell, and the murderer, swift of

foot, made good his escape. The wounded youth tried to pursue him

again, but being compelled by the pain of his wound to desist,

returned home and found his blind companion lying dead, weltering in

his own blood. Cursing his unhappy fate, he called in the beggars of

the fraternity to which he belonged, and between them they buried

Kosanza, and he himself being too poor to procure a surgeon's aid, or

to buy healing medicaments for his wound, became a cripple.

[Footnote 29: See Note at end of story.]

It was at this time that Shirai Gompachi, who was living under the

protection of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté, was in love with

Komurasaki, the beautiful courtesan who lived at the sign of the Three

Sea-shores, in the Yoshiwara. He had long exhausted the scanty

supplies which he possessed, and was now in the habit of feeding his

purse by murder and robbery, that he might have means to pursue his

wild and extravagant life. One night, when he was out on his cutthroat

business, his fellows, who had long suspected that he was after no

good, sent one of their number, named Seibei, to watch him. Gompachi,

little dreaming that any one was following him, swaggered along the

street until he fell in with a wardsman, whom he cut down and robbed;

but the booty proving small, he waited for a second chance, and,

seeing a light moving in the distance, hid himself in the shadow of a

large tub for catching rain-water till the bearer of the lantern

should come up. When the man drew near, Gompachi saw that he was

dressed as a traveller, and wore a long dirk; so he sprung out from

his lurking-place and made to kill him; but the traveller nimbly

jumped on one side, and proved no mean adversary, for he drew his dirk

and fought stoutly for his life. However, he was no match for so

skilful a swordsman as Gompachi, who, after a sharp struggle,

dispatched him, and carried off his purse, which contained two hundred

riyos. Overjoyed at having found so rich a prize, Gompachi was making

off for the Yoshiwara, when Seibei, who, horror-stricken, had seen

both murders, came up and began to upbraid him for his wickedness. But

Gompachi was so smooth-spoken and so well liked by his comrades, that

he easily persuaded Seibei to hush the matter up, and accompany him to

the Yoshiwara for a little diversion. As they were talking by the way,

Seibei said to Gompachi--

"I bought a new dirk the other day, but I have not had an opportunity

to try it yet. You have had so much experience in swords that you

ought to be a good judge. Pray look at this dirk, and tell me whether

you think it good for anything."

"We'll soon see what sort of metal it is made of," answered Gompachi.

"We'll just try it on the first beggar we come across."

At first Seibei was horrified by this cruel proposal, but by degrees

he yielded to his companion's persuasions; and so they went on their

way until Seibei spied out a crippled beggar lying asleep on the bank

outside the Yoshiwara. The sound of their footsteps aroused the

beggar, who seeing a Samurai and a wardsman pointing at him, and

evidently speaking about him, thought that their consultation could

bode him no good. So he pretended to be still asleep, watching them

carefully all the while; and when Seibei went up to him, brandishing

his dirk, the beggar, avoiding the blow, seized Seibei's arm, and

twisting it round, flung him into the ditch below. Gompachi, seeing

his companion's discomfiture, attacked the beggar, who, drawing a

sword from his staff, made such lightning-swift passes that, crippled

though he was, and unable to move his legs freely, Gompachi could not

overpower him; and although Seibei crawled out of the ditch and came

to his assistance, the beggar, nothing daunted, dealt his blows about

him to such good purpose that he wounded Seibei in the temple and arm.

Then Gompachi, reflecting that after all he had no quarrel with the

beggar, and that he had better attend to Seibei's wounds than go on

fighting to no purpose, drew Seibei away, leaving the beggar, who was

too lame to follow them, in peace. When he examined Seibei's wounds,

he found that they were so severe that they must give up their night's

frolic and go home. So they went back to the house of Chôbei, the

Father of the Otokodaté, and Seibei, afraid to show himself with his

sword-cuts, feigned sickness, and went to bed. On the following

morning Chôbei, happening to need his apprentice Seibei's services,

sent for him, and was told that he was sick; so he went to the room,

where he lay abed, and, to his astonishment, saw the cut upon his

temple. At first the wounded man refused to answer any questions as to

how he had been hurt; but at last, on being pressed by Chôbei, he told

the whole story of what had taken place the night before. When Chôbei

heard the tale, be guessed that the valiant beggar must be some noble

Samurai in disguise, who, having a wrong to avenge, was biding his

time to meet with his enemy; and wishing to help so brave a man, he

went in the evening, with his two faithful apprentices, Tôken Gombei

and Shirobei "the loose Colt," to the bank outside the Yoshiwara to

seek out the beggar. The latter, not one whit frightened by the

adventure of the previous night, had taken his place as usual, and was

lying on the bank, when Chôbei came up to him, and said--

"Sir, I am Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté, at your service. I have

learnt with deep regret that two of my men insulted and attacked you

last night. However, happily, even Gompachi, famous swordsman though

he be, was no match for you, and had to beat a retreat before you. I

know, therefore, that you must be a noble Samurai, who by some ill

chance have become a cripple and a beggar. Now, therefore, I pray you

tell me all your story; for, humble wardsman as I am, I may be able to

assist you, if you will condescend to allow me."

The cripple at first tried to shun Chôbei's questions; but at last,

touched by the honesty and kindness of his speech, he replied--

"Sir, my name is Takagi Umanosuké, and I am a native of Yamato;" and

then he went on to narrate all the misfortunes which the wickedness of

Banzayémon had brought about.

"This is indeed a strange story," said Chôbei who had listened with

indignation. "This Banzayémon, before I knew the blackness of his

heart, was once under my protection. But after he murdered Sanza, hard

by here, he was pursued by these two apprentices of mine, and since

that day he has been no more to my house."

When he had introduced the two apprentices to Umanosuké, Chôbei pulled

forth a suit of silk clothes befitting a gentleman, and having made

the crippled youth lay aside his beggar's raiment, led him to a bath,

and had his hair dressed. Then he bade Tôken Gombei lodge him and take

charge of him, and, having sent for a famous physician, caused

Umanosuké to undergo careful treatment for the wound in his thigh. In

the course of two months the pain had almost disappeared, so that he

could stand easily; and when, after another month, he could walk about

a little, Chôbei removed him to his own house, pretending to his wife

and apprentices that he was one of his own relations who had come on a

visit to him.

After a while, when Umanosuké had become quite cured, he went one day

to worship at a famous temple, and on his way home after dark he was

overtaken by a shower of rain, and took shelter under the eaves of a

house, in a part of the city called Yanagiwara, waiting for the sky to

clear. Now it happened that this same night Gompachi had gone out on

one of his bloody expeditions, to which his poverty and his love for

Komurasaki drove him in spite of himself, and, seeing a Samurai

standing in the gloom, he sprang upon him before he had recognized

Umanosuké, whom he knew as a friend of his patron Chôbei. Umanosuké

drew and defended himself, and soon contrived to slash Gompachi on the

forehead; so that the latter, seeing himself overmatched, fled under

the cover of the night. Umanosuké, fearing to hurt his recently healed

wound, did not give chase, and went quietly back to Chôbei's house.

When Gompachi returned home, he hatched a story to deceive Chôbei as

to the cause of the wound on his forehead. Chôbei, however, having

overheard Umanosuké reproving Gompachi for his wickedness, soon became

aware of the truth; and not caring to keep a robber and murderer near

him, gave Gompachi a present of money, and bade him return to his

house no more.

And now Chôbei, seeing that Umanosuké had recovered his strength,

divided his apprentices into bands, to hunt out Banzayémon, in order

that the vendetta might be accomplished. It soon was reported to him

that Banzayémon was earning his living among the mountebanks of

Asakusa; so Chôbei communicated this intelligence to Umanosuké, who

made his preparations accordingly; and on the following morning the

two went to Asakusa, where Banzayémon was astonishing a crowd of

country boors by exhibiting tricks with his sword.

Then Umanosuké, striding through the gaping rabble, shouted out--

"False, murderous coward, your day has come! I, Umanosuké, the son of

Umanojô, have come to demand vengeance for the death of three innocent

men who have perished by your treachery. If you are a man, defend

yourself. This day shall your soul see hell!"

With these words he rushed furiously upon Banzayémon, who, seeing

escape to be impossible, stood upon his guard. But his coward's heart

quailed before the avenger, and he soon lay bleeding at his enemy's

feet.

But who shall say how Umanosuké thanked Chôbei for his assistance; or

how, when he had returned to his own country, he treasured up his

gratitude in his heart, looking upon Chôbei as more than a second

father?

Thus did Chôbei use his power to punish the wicked, and to reward the

good--giving of his abundance to the poor, and succouring the

unfortunate, so that his name was honoured far and near. It remains

only to record the tragical manner of his death.

We have already told how my lord Midzuno Jiurozayémon, the chief of

the associated nobles, had been foiled in his attempts to bring shame

upon Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté; and how, on the contrary,

the latter, by his ready wit, never failed to make the proud noble's

weapons recoil upon him. The failure of these attempts rankled in the

breast of Jiurozayémon, who hated Chôbei with an intense hatred, and

sought to be revenged upon him. One day he sent a retainer to Chôbei's

house with a message to the effect that on the following day my lord

Jiurozayémon would be glad to see Chôbei at his house, and to offer

him a cup of wine, in return for the cold macaroni with which his

lordship had been feasted some time since. Chôbei immediately

suspected that in sending this friendly summons the cunning noble was

hiding a dagger in a smile; however, he knew that if he stayed away

out of fear he would be branded as a coward, and made a laughing-stock

for fools to jeer at. Not caring that Jiurozayémon should succeed in

his desire to put him to shame, he sent for his favourite apprentice,

Tôken Gombei, and said to him--

"I have been invited to a drinking-bout by Midzuno Jiurozayémon. I

know full well that this is but a stratagem to requite me for having

fooled him, and maybe his hatred will go the length of killing me.

However, I shall go and take my chance; and if I detect any sign of

foul play, I'll try to serve the world by ridding it of a tyrant, who

passes his life in oppressing the helpless farmers and wardsmen. Now

as, even if I succeed in killing him in his own house, my life must

pay forfeit for the deed, do you come to-morrow night with a

burying-tub,[30] and fetch my corpse from this Jiurozayémon's house."

[Footnote 30: The lowest classes in Japan are buried in a squatting

position, in a sort of barrel. One would have expected a person of

Chôbei's condition and means to have ordered a square box. It is a

mistake to suppose the burning of the dead to be universal in Japan:

only about thirty per cent of the lower classes, chiefly belonging to

the Montô sect of Buddhism, are burnt. The rich and noble are buried

in several square coffins, one inside the other, in a sitting

position; and their bodies are partially preserved from decay by

filling the nose, ears, and mouth with vermilion. In the case of the

very wealthy, the coffin is completely filled in with vermilion. The

family of the Princes of Mito, and some other nobles, bury their dead

in a recumbent position.]

Tôken Gombei, when he heard the "Father" speak thus, was horrified,

and tried to dissuade him from obeying the invitation. But Chôbei's

mind was fixed, and, without heeding Gombei's remonstrances, he

proceeded to give instructions as to the disposal of his property

after his death, and to settle all his earthly affairs.

On the following day, towards noon, he made ready to go to

Jiurozayémon's house, bidding one of his apprentices precede him with

a complimentary present.[31] Jiurozayémon, who was waiting with

impatience for Chôbei to come, so soon as he heard of his arrival

ordered his retainers to usher him into his presence; and Chôbei,

having bade his apprentices without fail to come and fetch him that

night, went into the house.

[Footnote 31: It is customary, on the occasion of a first visit to a

house, to carry a present to the owner, who gives something of equal

value on returning the visit.]

No sooner had he reached the room next to that in which Jiurozayémon

was sitting than he saw that his suspicions of treachery were well

founded; for two men with drawn swords rushed upon him, and tried to

cut him down. Deftly avoiding their blows, however, he tripped up the

one, and kicking the other in the ribs, sent him reeling and

breathless against the wall; then, as calmly as if nothing had

happened he presented himself before Jiurozayémon, who, peeping

through a chink in the sliding-doors, had watched his retainers'

failure.

"Welcome, welcome, Master Chôbei," said he. "I always had heard that

you were a man of mettle, and I wanted to see what stuff you were made

of; so I bade my retainers put your courage to the test. That was a

masterly throw of yours. Well, you must excuse this churlish

reception: come and sit down by me."

"Pray do not mention it, my lord," said Chôbei, smiling rather

scornfully. "I know that my poor skill is not to be measured with

that of a noble Samurai; and if these two good gentlemen had the worst

of it just now, it was mere luck--that's all."

So, after the usual compliments had been exchanged, Chôbei sat down by

Jiurozayémon, and the attendants brought in wine and condiments.

Before they began to drink, however, Jiurozayémon said--

"You must be tired and exhausted with your walk this hot day, Master

Chôbei. I thought that perhaps a bath might refresh you, so I ordered

my men to get it ready for you. Would you not like to bathe and make

yourself comfortable?"

Chôbei suspected that this was a trick to strip him, and take him

unawares when he should have laid aside his dirk. However, he answered

cheerfully--

"Your lordship is very good. I shall be glad to avail myself of your

kind offer. Pray excuse me for a few moments."

So he went to the bath-room, and, leaving his clothes outside, he got

into the bath, with the full conviction that it would be the place of

his death. Yet he never trembled nor quailed, determined that, if he

needs must die, no man should say he had been a coward. Then

Jiurozayémon, calling to his attendants, said--

"Quick! lock the door of the bath-room! We hold him fast now. If he

gets out, more than one life will pay the price of his. He's a match

for any six of you in fair fight. Lock the door, I say, and light up

the fire under the bath;[32] and we'll boil him to death, and be rid

of him. Quick, men, quick!"

[Footnote 32: This sort of bath, in which the water is heated by the

fire of a furnace which is lighted from outside, is called

_Goyémon-buro,_ or Goyémon's bath, after a notorious robber named

Goyémon, who attempted the life of Taiko Sama, the famous general and

ruler of the sixteenth century, and suffered for his crimes by being

boiled to death in oil--a form of execution which is now obsolete.]

So they locked the door, and fed the fire until the water hissed and

bubbled within; and Chôbei, in his agony, tried to burst open the

door, but Jiurozayémon ordered his men to thrust their spears through

the partition wall and dispatch him. Two of the spears Chôbei clutched

and broke short off; but at last he was struck by a mortal blow under

the ribs, and died a brave man by the hands of cowards.

That evening Tôken Gombei, who, to the astonishment of Chôbei's wife,

had bought a burying-tub, came, with seven other apprentices, to fetch

the Father of the Otokodaté from Jiurozayémon's house; and when the

retainers saw them, they mocked at them, and said--

"What, have you come to fetch your drunken master home in a litter?"

"Nay," answered Gombei, "but we have brought a coffin for his dead

body, as he bade us."

When the retainers heard this, they marvelled at the courage of

Chôbei, who had thus wittingly come to meet his fate. So Chôbei's

corpse was placed in the burying-tub, and handed over to his

apprentices, who swore to avenge his death. Far and wide, the poor and

friendless mourned for this good man. His son Chômatsu inherited his

property; and his wife remained a faithful widow until her dying day,

praying that she might sit with him in paradise upon the cup of the

same lotus-flower.

Many a time did the apprentices of Chôbei meet together to avenge him;

but Jiurozayémon eluded all their efforts, until, having been

imprisoned by the Government in the temple called Kanyeiji, at Uyéno,

as is related in the story of "Kazuma's Revenge," he was placed beyond

the reach of their hatred.

So lived and so died Chôbei of Bandzuin, the Father of the Otokodaté

of Yedo.

NOTE on asakusa

_Translated from a native book called the "Yedo Hanjôki," or Guide to

the prosperous City of Yedo, and other sources._

Asakusa is the most bustling place in all Yedo. It is famous for the

Temple Sensôji, on the hill of Kinriu, or the Golden Dragon, which

from morning till night is thronged with visitors, rich and poor, old

and young, flocking in sleeve to sleeve. The origin of the temple was

as follows:--In the days of the Emperor Suiko, who reigned in the

thirteenth century A.D., a certain noble, named Hashi no Nakatomo,

fell into disgrace and left the Court; and having become a Rônin, or

masterless man, he took up his abode on the Golden Dragon Hill, with

two retainers, being brothers, named Hinokuma Hamanari and Hinokuma

Takénari. These three men being reduced to great straits, and without

means of earning their living, became fishermen. Now it happened that

on the 6th day of the 3rd month of the 36th year of the reign of the

Emperor Suiko (A.D. 1241), they went down in the morning to the

Asakusa River to ply their trade; and having cast their nets took no

fish, but at every throw they pulled up a figure of the Buddhist god

Kwannon, which they threw into the river again. They sculled their

boat away to another spot, but the same luck followed them, and

nothing came to their nets save the figure of Kwannon. Struck by the

miracle, they carried home the image, and, after fervent prayer, built

a temple on the Golden Dragon Hill, in which they enshrined it. The

temple thus founded was enriched by the benefactions of wealthy and

pious persons, whose care raised its buildings to the dignity of the

first temple in Yedo. Tradition says that the figure of Kwannon which

was fished up in the net was one inch and eight-tenths in height.

The main hall of the temple is sixty feet square, and is adorned with

much curious workmanship of gilding and of silvering, so that no place

can be more excellently beautiful. There are two gates in front of it.

The first is called the Gate of the Spirits of the Wind and of the

Thunder, and is adorned with figures of those two gods. The Wind-god,

whose likeness is that of a devil, carries the wind-bag; and the

Thunder-god, who is also shaped like a devil, carries a drum and a

drumstick.[33] The second gate is called the Gate of the gods Niô, or

the Two Princes, whose colossal statues, painted red, and hideous to

look upon, stand on either side of it. Between the gates is an

approach four hundred yards in length, which is occupied by the stalls

of hucksters, who sell toys and trifles for women and children, and by

foul and loathsome beggars. Passing through the gate of the gods Niô,

the main hall of the temple strikes the eye. Countless niches and

shrines of the gods stand outside it, and an old woman earns her

livelihood at a tank filled with water, to which the votaries of the

gods come and wash themselves that they may pray with clean hands.

Inside are the images of the gods, lanterns, incense-burners,

candlesticks, a huge moneybox, into which the offerings of the pious

are thrown, and votive tablets[34] representing the famous gods and

goddesses, heroes and heroines, of old. Behind the chief building is a

broad space called the _okuyama_, where young and pretty waitresses,

well dressed and painted, invite the weary pilgrims and holiday-makers

to refresh themselves with tea and sweetmeats. Here, too, are all

sorts of sights to be seen, such as wild beasts, performing monkeys,

automata, conjurers, wooden and paper figures, which take the place of

the waxworks of the West, acrobats, and jesters for the amusement of

women and children. Altogether it is a lively and a joyous scene;

there is not its equal in the city.

[Footnote 33: This gate was destroyed by fire a few years since.]

[Footnote 34: Sir Rutherford Alcock, in his book upon Japan, states

that the portraits of the most famous courtesans of Yedo are yearly

hung up in the temple at Asakusa. No such pictures are to be seen now,

and no Japanese of whom I have made inquiries have heard of such a

custom. The priests of the temple deny that their fane was ever so

polluted, and it is probable that the statement is but one of the many

strange mistakes into which an imperfect knowledge of the language led

the earlier travellers in Japan. In spite of all that has been said by

persons who have had no opportunity of associating and exchanging

ideas with the educated men of Japan, I maintain that in no country is

the public harlot more abhorred and looked down upon.]

At Asakusa, as indeed all over Yedo, are to be found fortunetellers,

who prey upon the folly of the superstitious. With a treatise on

physiognomy laid on a desk before them, they call out to this man that

he has an ill-omened forehead, and to that man that the space between

his nose and his lips is unlucky. Their tongues wag like flowing water

until the passers-by are attracted to their stalls. If the seer finds

a customer, he closes his eyes, and, lifting the divining-sticks

reverently to his forehead, mutters incantations between his teeth.

Then, suddenly parting the sticks in two bundles, he prophesies good

or evil, according to the number in each. With a magnifying-glass he

examines his dupe's face and the palms of his hands. By the fashion of

his clothes and his general manner the prophet sees whether he is a

countryman or from the city. "I am afraid, sir," says he, "you have

not been altogether fortunate in life, but I foresee that great luck

awaits you in two or three months;" or, like a clumsy doctor who makes

his diagnosis according to his patient's fancies, if he sees his

customer frowning and anxious, he adds, "Alas! in seven or eight

months you must beware of great misfortune. But I cannot tell you all

about it for a slight fee:" with a long sigh he lays down the

divining-sticks on the desk, and the frightened boor pays a further

fee to hear the sum of the misfortune which threatens him, until, with

three feet of bamboo slips and three inches of tongue, the clever

rascal has made the poor fool turn his purse inside out.

The class of diviners called _Ichiko_ profess to give tidings of the

dead, or of those who have gone to distant countries. The Ichiko

exactly corresponds to the spirit medium of the West. The trade is

followed by women, of from fifteen or sixteen to some fifty years of

age, who walk about the streets, carrying on their backs a

divining-box about a foot square; they have no shop or stall, but

wander about, and are invited into their customers' houses. The

ceremony of divination is very simple. A porcelain bowl filled with

water is placed upon a tray, and the customer, having written the name

of the person with whom he wishes to hold communion on a long slip of

paper, rolls it into a spill, which he dips into the water, and thrice

sprinkles the Ichiko, or medium. She, resting her elbow upon her

divining-box, and leaning her head upon her hand, mutters prayers and

incantations until she has summoned the soul of the dead or absent

person, which takes possession of her, and answers questions through

her mouth. The prophecies which the Ichiko utters during her trance

are held in high esteem by the superstitious and vulgar.

Hard by Asakusa is the theatre street. The theatres are called

_Shiba-i_,[35] "turf places," from the fact that the first theatrical

performances were held on a turf plot. The origin of the drama in

Japan, as elsewhere, was religious. In the reign of the Emperor Heijô

(A.D. 805), there was a sudden volcanic depression of the earth close

by a pond called Sarusawa, or the Monkey's Marsh, at Nara, in the

province of Yamato, and a poisonous smoke issuing from the cavity

struck down with sickness all those who came within its baneful

influence; so the people brought quantities of firewood, which they

burnt in order that the poisonous vapour might be dispelled. The fire,

being the male influence, would assimilate with and act as an antidote

upon the mephitic smoke, which was a female influence.[36] Besides

this, as a further charm to exorcise the portent, the dance called

Sambasô, which is still performed as a prelude to theatrical

exhibitions by an actor dressed up as a venerable old man, emblematic

of long life and felicity, was danced on a plot of turf in front of

the Temple Kofukuji. By these means the smoke was dispelled, and the

drama was originated. The story is to be found in the _Zoku Nihon Ki_,

or supplementary history of Japan.

[Footnote 35: In Dr. Hepburn's Dictionary of the Japanese language,

the Chinese characters given for the word _Shiba-i_ are _chi chang_

(_keih chang_, Morrison's Dictionary), "theatrical arena." The

characters which are usually written, and which are etymologically

correct, are _chih chü_ (_che keu_, Morrison), "the place of plants or

turf plot."]

[Footnote 36: This refers to the Chinese doctrine of the Yang and Yin,

the male and female influences pervading all creation.]

Three centuries later, during the reign of the Emperor Toba (A.D.

1108), there lived a woman called Iso no Zenji, who is looked upon as

the mother of the Japanese drama. Her performances, however, seem only

to have consisted in dancing or posturing dressed up in the costume of

the nobles of the Court, from which fact her dance was called

Otoko-mai, or the man's dance. Her name is only worth mentioning on

account of the respect in which her memory is held by actors.

It was not until the year A.D. 1624 that a man named Saruwaka

Kanzaburô, at the command of the Shogun, opened the first theatre in

Yedo in the Nakabashi, or Middle Bridge Street, where it remained

until eight years later, when it was removed to the Ningiyô, or Doll

Street. The company of this theatre was formed by two families named

Miako and Ichimura, who did not long enjoy their monopoly, for in the

year 1644 we find a third family, that of Yamamura, setting up a rival

theatre in the Kobiki, or Sawyer Street.

In the year 1651, the Asiatic prejudice in favour of keeping persons

of one calling in one place exhibited itself by the removal of the

playhouses to their present site, and the street was called the

Saruwaka Street, after Saruwaka Kanzaburô, the founder of the drama in

Yedo.

Theatrical performances go on from six in the morning until six in the

evening. Just as the day is about to dawn in the east, the sound of

the drum is heard, and the dance Sambasô is danced as a prelude, and

after this follow the dances of the famous actors of old; these are

called the extra performances (_waki kiyôgen_).

The dance of Nakamura represents the demon Shudendôji, an ogre who was

destroyed by the hero Yorimitsu according to the following legend:--At

the beginning of the eleventh century, when Ichijô the Second was

Emperor, lived the hero Yorimitsu. Now it came to pass that in those

days the people of Kiôto were sorely troubled by an evil spirit, which

took up its abode near the Rashô gate. One night, as Yorimitsu was

making merry with his retainers, he said, "Who dares go and defy the

demon of the Rashô gate, and set up a token that he has been there?"

"That dare I," answered Tsuna, who, having donned his coat of mail,

mounted his horse, and rode out through the dark bleak night to the

Rashô gate. Having written his name upon the gate, he was about to

turn homewards when his horse began to shiver with fear, and a huge

hand coming forth from the gate seized the back of the knight's

helmet. Tsuna, nothing daunted, struggled to get free, but in vain, so

drawing his sword he cut off the demon's arm, and the spirit with a

howl fled into the night. But Tsuna carried home the arm in triumph,

and locked it up in a box. One night the demon, having taken the shape

of Tsuna's aunt, came to him and said, "I pray thee show me the arm of

the fiend." Tsuna answered, "I have shown it to no man, and yet to

thee I will show it." So he brought forth the box and opened it, when

suddenly a black cloud shrouded the figure of the supposed aunt, and

the demon, having regained its arm, disappeared. From that time forth

the people were more than ever troubled by the demon, who carried off

to the hills all the fairest virgins of Kiôto, whom he ravished and

ate, so that there was scarce a beautiful damsel left in the city.

Then was the Emperor very sorrowful, and he commanded Yorimitsu to

destroy the monster; and the hero, having made ready, went forth with

four trusty knights and another great captain to search among the

hidden places of the mountains. One day as they were journeying far

from the haunts of men, they fell in with an old man, who, having

bidden them to enter his dwelling, treated them kindly, and set before

them wine to drink; and when they went away, and took their leave of

him, he gave them a present of more wine to take away with them. Now

this old man was a mountain god. As they went on their way they met a

beautiful lady, who was washing blood-stained clothes in the waters of

the valley, weeping bitterly the while. When they asked her why she

shed tears, she answered, "Sirs, I am a woman from Kiôto, whom the

demon has carried off; he makes me wash his clothes, and when he is

weary of me, he will kill and eat me. I pray your lordships to save

me." Then the six heroes bade the woman lead them to the ogre's cave,

where a hundred devils were mounting guard and waiting upon him. The

woman, having gone in first, told the fiend of their coming; and he,

thinking to slay and eat them, called them to him; so they entered the

cave, which reeked with the smell of the flesh and blood of men, and

they saw Shudendôji, a huge monster with the face of a little child.

The six men offered him the wine which they had received from the

mountain god, and he, laughing in his heart, drank and made merry, so

that little by little the fumes of the wine got into his head, and he

fell asleep. The heroes, themselves feigning sleep, watched for a

moment when the devils were all off their guard to put on their armour

and steal one by one into the demon's chamber. Then Yorimitsu, seeing

that all was still, drew his sword, and cut off Shudendôji's head,

which sprung up and bit at his head; luckily, however, Yorimitsu had

put on two helmets, the one over the other, so he was not hurt. When

all the devils had been slain, the heroes and the woman returned to

Kiôto carrying with them the head of Shudendôji, which was laid before

the Emperor; and the fame of their action was spread abroad under

heaven.

This Shudendôji is the ogre represented in the Nakamura dance. The

Ichimura dance represents the seven gods of wealth; and the Morita

dance represents a large ape, and is emblematical of drinking wine.

As soon as the sun begins to rise in the heaven, sign-boards all

glistening with paintings and gold are displayed, and the playgoers

flock in crowds to the theatre. The farmers and country-folk hurry

over their breakfast, and the women and children, who have got up in

the middle of the night to paint and adorn themselves, come from all

the points of the compass to throng the gallery, which is hung with

curtains as bright as the rainbow in the departing clouds. The place

soon becomes so crowded that the heads of the spectators are like the

scales on a dragon's back. When the play begins, if the subject be

tragic the spectators are so affected that they weep till they have to

wring their sleeves dry. If the piece be comic they laugh till their

chins are out of joint. The tricks and stratagems of the drama baffle

description, and the actors are as graceful as the flight of the

swallow. The triumph of persecuted virtue and the punishment of

wickedness invariably crown the story. When a favourite actor makes

his appearance, his entry is hailed with cheers. Fun and diversion are

the order of the day, and rich and poor alike forget the cares which

they have left behind them at home; and yet it is not all idle

amusement, for there is a moral taught, and a practical sermon

preached in every play.

The subjects of the pieces are chiefly historical, feigned names being

substituted for those of the real heroes. Indeed, it is in the popular

tragedies that we must seek for an account of many of the events of

the last two hundred and fifty years; for only one very bald

history[37] of those times has been published, of which but a limited

number of copies were struck off from copper plates, and its

circulation was strictly forbidden by the Shogun's Government. The

stories are rendered with great minuteness and detail, so much so,

that it sometimes takes a series of representations to act out one

piece in its entirety. The Japanese are far in advance of the Chinese

in their scenery and properties, and their pieces are sometimes

capitally got up: a revolving stage enables them to shift from one

scene to another with great rapidity. First-rate actors receive as

much as a thousand riyos (about £300) as their yearly salary. This,

however, is a high rate of pay, and many a man has to strut before the

public for little more than his daily rice; to a clever young actor it

is almost enough reward to be allowed to enter a company in which

there is a famous star. The salary of the actor, however, may depend

upon the success of the theatre; for dramatic exhibitions are often

undertaken as speculations by wealthy persons, who pay their company

in proportion to their own profit. Besides his regular pay, a popular

Japanese actor has a small mine of wealth in his patrons, who open

their purses freely for the privilege of frequenting the greenroom.,

The women's parts are all taken by men, as they used to be with us in

ancient days. Touching the popularity of plays, it is related that in

the year 1833, when two actors called Bandô Shuka and Segawa Rokô,

both famous players of women's parts, died at the same time, the

people of Yedo mourned to heaven and to earth; and if a million riyos

could have brought back their lives, the money would have been

forthcoming. Thousands flocked to their funeral, and the richness of

their coffins and of the clothes laid upon them was admired by all.

[Footnote 37: I allude to the _Tai Hei Nem-piyô,_ or Annals of the

Great Peace, a very rare work, only two or three copies of which have

found their way into the libraries of foreigners.]

"When I heard this," says Terakado Seiken, the author of the _Yedo

Hanjôki_, "I lifted my eyes to heaven and heaved a great sigh. When my

friend Saitô Shimei, a learned and good man, died, there was barely

enough money to bury him; his needy pupils and friends subscribed to

give him a humble coffin. Alas! alas! here was a teacher who from his

youth up had honoured his parents, and whose heart know no guile: if

his friends were in need, he ministered to their wants; he grudged no

pains to teach his fellow-men; his good-will and charity were beyond

praise; under the blue sky and bright day he never did a shameful

deed. His merits were as those of the sages of old; but because he

lacked the cunning of a fox or badger he received no patronage from

the wealthy, and, remaining poor to the day of his death, never had an

opportunity of making his worth known. Alas! alas!"

The drama is exclusively the amusement of the middle and lower

classes. Etiquette, sternest of tyrants, forbids the Japanese of high

rank to be seen at any public exhibition, wrestling-matches alone

excepted. Actors are, however, occasionally engaged to play in private

for the edification of my lord and his ladies; and there is a kind of

classical opera, called Nô, which is performed on stages specially

built for the purpose in the palaces of the principal nobles. These

Nô represent the entertainments by which the Sun Goddess was lured out

of the cave in which she had hidden, a fable said to be based upon an

eclipse. In the reign of the Emperor Yômei (A.D. 586-593), Hada

Kawakatsu, a man born in Japan, but of Chinese extraction, was

commanded by the Emperor to arrange an entertainment for the

propitiation of the gods and the prosperity of the country. Kawakatsu

wrote thirty-three plays, introducing fragments of Japanese poetry

with accompaniments of musical instruments. Two performers, named

Takéta and Hattori, having especially distinguished themselves in

these entertainments, were ordered to prepare other similar plays, and

their productions remain to the present day. The pious intention of

the Nô being to pray for the prosperity of the country, they are held

in the highest esteem by the nobles of the Court, the Daimios, and the

military class: in old days they alone performed in these plays, but

now ordinary actors take part in them.

The Nô are played in sets. The first of the set is specially dedicated

to the propitiation of the gods; the second is performed in full

armour, and is designed to terrify evil spirits, and to insure the

punishment of malefactors; the third is of a gentler intention, and

its special object is the representation of all that is beautiful and

fragrant and delightful. The performers wear hideous wigs and masks,

not unlike those of ancient Greece, and gorgeous brocade dresses. The

masks, which belong to what was the private company of the Shogun, are

many centuries old, and have been carefully preserved as heirlooms

from generation to generation; being made of very thin wood lacquered

over, and kept each in a silken bag, they have been uninjured by the

lapse of time.

During the Duke of Edinburgh's stay in Yedo, this company was engaged

to give a performance in the Yashiki of the Prince of Kishiu, which

has the reputation of being the handsomest palace in all Yedo. So far

as I know, such an exhibition had never before been witnessed by

foreigners, and it may be interesting to give an account of it.

Opposite the principal reception-room, where his Royal Highness sat,

and separated from it by a narrow courtyard, was a covered stage,

approached from the greenroom by a long gallery at an angle of

forty-five degrees. Half-a-dozen musicians, clothed in dresses of

ceremony, marched slowly down the gallery, and, having squatted down

on the stage, bowed gravely. The performances then began. There was no

scenery, nor stage appliances; the descriptions of the chorus or of

the actors took their place. The dialogue and choruses are given in a

nasal recitative, accompanied by the mouth-organ, flute, drum, and

other classical instruments, and are utterly unintelligible. The

ancient poetry is full of puns and plays upon words, and it was with

no little difficulty that, with the assistance of a man of letters, I

prepared beforehand the arguments of the different pieces.

The first play was entitled _Hachiman of the Bow_. Hachiman is the

name under which the Emperor Ojin (A.C. 270-312) was deified as the

God of War. He is specially worshipped on account of his miraculous

birth; his mother, the Empress Jingo, having, by the virtue of a magic

stone which she wore at her girdle, borne him in her womb for three

years, during which she made war upon and conquered the Coreans. The

time of the plot is laid in the reign of the Emperor Uda the Second

(A.D. 1275-1289). In the second month of the year pilgrims are

flocking to the temple of Hachiman at Mount Otoko, between Osaka and

Kiôto. All this is explained by the chorus. A worshipper steps forth,

sent by the Emperor, and delivers a congratulatory oration upon the

peace and prosperity of the land. The chorus follows in the same

strain: they sing the praises of Hachiman and of the reigning Emperor.

An old man enters, bearing something which appears to be a bow in a

brocade bag. On being asked who he is, the old man answers that he is

an aged servant of the shrine, and that he wishes to present his

mulberry-wood bow to the Emperor; being too humble to draw near to his

Majesty he has waited for this festival, hoping that an opportunity

might present itself. He explains that with this bow, and with certain

arrows made of the Artemisia, the heavenly gods pacified the world. On

being asked to show his bow, he refuses; it is a mystic protector of

the country, which in old days was overshadowed by the mulberry-tree.

The peace which prevails in the land is likened to a calm at sea. The

Emperor is the ship, and his subjects the water. The old man dwells

upon the ancient worship of Hachiman, and relates how his mother, the

Empress Jingo, sacrificed to the gods before invading Corea, and how

the present prosperity of the country is to be attributed to the

acceptance of those sacrifices. After having revealed himself as the

god Hachiman in disguise, the old man disappears. The worshipper,

awe-struck, declares that he must return to Kiôto and tell the Emperor

what he has seen. The chorus announces that sweet music and fragrant

perfumes issue from the mountain, and the piece ends with

felicitations upon the visible favour of the gods, and especially of

Hachiman.

The second piece was _Tsunémasa_. Tsunémasa was a hero of the twelfth

century, who died in the civil wars; he was famous for his skill in

playing on the _biwa_, a sort of four-stringed lute.

A priest enters, and announces that his name is Giyôkei, and that

before he retired from the world he held high rank at Court. He

relates how Tsunémasa, in his childhood the favourite of the Emperor,

died in the wars by the western seas. During his lifetime the Emperor

gave him a lute, called Sei-zan, "the Azure Mountain"; this lute at

his death was placed in a shrine erected to his honour, and at his

funeral music and plays were performed during seven days within the

palace, by the special grace of the Emperor. The scene is laid at the

shrine. The lonely and awesome appearance of the spot is described.

Although the sky is clear, the wind rustles through the trees like the

sound of falling rain; and although it is now summer-time, the

moonlight on the sand looks like hoar-frost. All nature is sad and

downcast. The ghost appears, and sings that it is the spirit of

Tsunémasa, and has come to thank those who have piously celebrated his

obsequies. No one answers him, and the spirit vanishes, its voice

becoming fainter and fainter, an unreal and illusory vision haunting

the scenes amid which its life was spent. The priest muses on the

portent. Is it a dream or a reality? Marvellous! The ghost, returning,

speaks of former days, when it lived as a child in the palace, and

received the Azure Mountain lute from the Emperor--that lute with the

four strings of which its hand was once so familiar, and the

attraction of which now draws it from the grave. The chorus recites

the virtues of Tsunémasa--his benevolence, justice, humanity,

talents, and truth; his love of poetry and music; the trees, the

flowers, the birds, the breezes, the moon--all had a charm for him.

The ghost begins to play upon the Azure Mountain lute, and the sounds

produced from the magical instrument are so delicate, that all think

it is a shower falling from heaven. The priest declares that it is not

rain, but the sound of the enchanted lute. The sound of the first and

second strings is as the sound of gentle rain, or of the wind stirring

the pine-trees; and the sound of the third and fourth strings is as

the song of birds and pheasants calling to their young. A rhapsody in

praise of music follows. Would that such strains could last for ever!

The ghost bewails its fate that it cannot remain to play on, but must

return whence it came. The priest addresses the ghost, and asks

whether the vision is indeed the spirit of Tsunémasa. Upon this the

ghost calls out in an agony of sorrow and terror at having been seen

by mortal eyes, and bids that the lamps be put out: on its return to

the abode of the dead it will suffer for having shown itself: it

describes the fiery torments which will be its lot. Poor fool! it has

been lured to its destruction, like the insect of summer that flies

into the flame. Summoning the winds to its aid, it puts out the

lights, and disappears.

_The Suit of Feathers_ is the title of a very pretty conceit which

followed. A fisherman enters, and in a long recitative describes the

scenery at the sea-shore of Miwo, in the province of Suruga, at the

foot of Fuji-Yama, the Peerless Mountain. The waves are still, and

there is a great calm; the fishermen are all out plying their trade.

The speaker's name is Hakuriyô, a fisherman living in the pine-grove

of Miwo. The rains are now over, and the sky is serene; the sun rises

bright and red over the pine-trees and rippling sea; while last

night's moon is yet seen faintly in the heaven. Even he, humble fisher

though he be, is softened by the beauty of the nature which surrounds

him. A breeze springs up, the weather will change; clouds and waves

will succeed sunshine and calm; the fishermen must get them home

again. No; it is but the gentle breath of spring, after all; it

scarcely stirs the stout fir-trees, and the waves are hardly heard to

break upon the shore. The men may go forth in safety. The fisherman

then relates how, while he was wondering at the view, flowers began to

rain from the sky, and sweet music filled the air, which was perfumed

by a mystic fragrance. Looking up, he saw hanging on a pine-tree a

fairy's suit of feathers, which he took home, and showed to a friend,

intending to keep it as a relic in his house. A heavenly fairy makes

her appearance, and claims the suit of feathers; but the fisherman

holds to his treasure trove. She urges the impiety of his act--a

mortal has no right to take that which belongs to the fairies. He

declares that he will hand down the feather suit to posterity as one

of the treasures of the country. The fairy bewails her lot; without

her wings how can she return to heaven? She recalls the familiar joys

of heaven, now closed to her; she sees the wild geese and the gulls

flying to the skies, and longs for their power of flight; the tide has

its ebb and its flow, and the sea-breezes blow whither they list: for

her alone there is no power of motion, she must remain on earth. At

last, touched by her plaint, the fisherman consents to return the

feather suit, on condition that the fairy shall dance and play

heavenly music for him. She consents, but must first obtain the

feather suit, without which she cannot dance. The fisherman refuses

to give it up, lest she should fly away to heaven without redeeming

her pledge. The fairy reproaches him for his want of faith: how should

a heavenly being be capable of falsehood? He is ashamed, and gives her

the feather suit, which she dons, and begins to dance, singing of the

delights of heaven, where she is one of the fifteen attendants who

minister to the moon. The fisherman is so transported with joy, that

he fancies himself in heaven, and wishes to detain the fairy to dwell

with him for ever. A song follows in praise of the scenery and of the

Peerless Mountain capped with the snows of spring. When her dance is

concluded, the fairy, wafted away by the sea-breeze, floats past the

pine-grove to Ukishima and Mount Ashidaka, over Mount Fuji, till she

is seen dimly like a cloud in the distant sky, and vanishes into thin

air.

The last of the Nô was _The Little Smith_, the scene of which is laid

in the reign of the Emperor Ichijô (A.D. 987--1011). A noble of the

court enters, and proclaims himself to be Tachibana Michinari. He has

been commanded by the Emperor, who has seen a dream of good omen on

the previous night, to order a sword of the smith Munéchika of Sanjô.

He calls Munéchika, who comes out, and, after receiving the order,

expresses the difficulty he is in, having at that time no fitting mate

to help him; he cannot forge a blade alone. The excuse is not

admitted; the smith pleads hard to be saved from the shame of a

failure. Driven to a compliance, there is nothing left for it but to

appeal to the gods for aid. He prays to the patron god of his family,

Inari Sama.[38] A man suddenly appears, and calls the smith; this man

is the god Inari Sama in disguise. The smith asks who is his visitor,

and how does he know him by name. The stranger answers, "Thou hast

been ordered to make a blade for the Emperor." "This is passing

strange," says the smith. "I received the order but a moment since;

how comest thou to know of it?" "Heaven has a voice which is heard upon

the earth. Walls have ears, and stones tell tales.[39] There are no

secrets in the world. The flash of the blade ordered by him who is

above the clouds (the Emperor) is quickly seen. By the grace of the

Emperor the sword shall be quickly made." Here follows the praise of

certain famous blades, and an account of the part they played in

history, with special reference to the sword which forms one of the

regalia. The sword which the Emperor has sent for shall be inferior to

none of these; the smith may set his heart at rest. The smith,

awe-struck, expresses his wonder, and asks again who is addressing

him. He is bidden to go and deck out his anvil, and a supernatural

power will help him. The visitor disappears in a cloud. The smith

prepares his anvil, at the four corners of which he places images of

the gods, while above it he stretches the straw rope and paper

pendants hung up in temples to shut out foul or ill-omened influences.

He prays for strength to make the blade, not for his own glory, but

for the honour of the Emperor. A young man, a fox in disguise,

appears, and helps Munéchika to forge the steel. The noise of the

anvil resounds to heaven and over the earth. The chorus announces that

the blade is finished; on one side is the mark of Munéchika, on the

other is graven "The Little Fox" in clear characters.

[Footnote 38: The note at the end of the Story of the Grateful Foxes

contains an account of Inari Sama, and explains how the foxes minister

to him.]

[Footnote 39: This is a literal translation of a Japanese proverb.]

The subjects of the Nô are all taken from old legends of the country;

a shrine at Miwo, by the sea-shore, marks the spot where the suit of

feathers was found, and the miraculously forged sword is supposed to

be in the armoury of the Emperor to this day. The beauty of the

poetry--and it is very beautiful--is marred by the want of scenery and

by the grotesque dresses and make-up. In the _Suit of Feathers_, for

instance, the fairy wears a hideous mask and a wig of scarlet elf

locks: the suit of feathers itself is left entirely to the

imagination; and the heavenly dance is a series of whirls, stamps, and

jumps, accompanied by unearthly yells and shrieks; while the vanishing

into thin air is represented by pirouettes something like the motion

of a dancing dervish. The intoning of the recitative is unnatural and

unintelligible, so much so that not even a highly educated Japanese

could understand what is going on unless he were previously acquainted

with the piece. This, however, is supposing that which is not, for the

Nô are as familiarly known as the masterpieces of our own dramatists.

The classical severity of the Nô is relieved by the introduction

between the pieces of light farces called Kiyôgen. The whole

entertainment having a religious intention, the Kiyôgen stand to the

Nô in the same relation as the small shrines to the main temple; they,

too, are played for the propitiation of the gods, and for the

softening of men's hearts. The farces are acted without wigs or masks;

the dialogue is in the common spoken language, and there being no

musical accompaniment it is quite easy to follow. The plots of the two

farces which were played before the Duke of Edinburgh are as

follows:--

In the _Ink Smearing_ the hero is a man from a distant part of the

country, who, having a petition to prefer, comes to the capital, where

he is detained for a long while. His suit being at last successful, he

communicates the joyful news to his servant, Tarôkaja (the

conventional name of the Leporello of these farces). The two

congratulate one another. To while away his idle hours during his

sojourn at the capital the master has entered into a flirtation with a

certain young lady: master and servant now hold a consultation as to

whether the former should not go and take leave of her. Tarôkaja is of

opinion that as she is of a very jealous nature, his master ought to

go. Accordingly the two set out to visit her, the servant leading the

way. Arrived at her house, the gentleman goes straight in without the

knowledge of the lady, who, coming out and meeting Tarôkaja, asks

after his master. He replies that his master is inside the house. She

refuses to believe him, and complains that, for some time past, his

visits have been few and far between. Why should he come now? Surely

Tarôkaja is hoaxing her. The servant protests that he is telling the

truth, and that his master really has entered the house. She, only

half persuaded, goes in, and finds that my lord is indeed there. She

welcomes him, and in the same breath upbraids him. Some other lady has

surely found favour in his eyes. What fair wind has wafted him back to

her? He replies that business alone has kept him from her; he hopes

that all is well with her. With her, indeed, all is well, and there is

no change; but she fears that his heart is changed. Surely, surely he

has found mountains upon mountains of joy elsewhere, even now,

perhaps, he is only calling on his way homeward from some haunt of

pleasure. What pleasure can there be away from her? answers he.

Indeed, his time has not been his own, else he would have come sooner.

Why, then, did he not send his servant to explain? Tarôkaja here puts

in his oar, and protests that, between running on errands and dancing

attendance upon his lord, he has not had a moment to himself. "At any

rate," says the master, "I must ask for your congratulations; for my

suit, which was so important, has prospered." The lady expresses her

happiness, and the gentleman then bids his servant tell her the object

of their visit. Tarôkaja objects to this; his lord had better tell his

own story. While the two are disputing as to who shall speak, the

lady's curiosity is aroused. "What terrible tale is this that neither

of you dare tell? Pray let one or other of you speak." At last the

master explains that he has come to take leave of her, as he must

forthwith return to his own province. The girl begins to weep, and the

gentleman following suit, the two shed tears in concert. She uses all

her art to cajole him, and secretly produces from her sleeve a cup of

water, with which she smears her eyes to imitate tears. He, deceived

by the trick, tries to console her, and swears that as soon as he

reaches his own country he will send a messenger to fetch her; but she

pretends to weep all the more, and goes on rubbing her face with

water. Tarôkaja, in the meanwhile, detects the trick, and, calling his

master on one side, tells him what she is doing. The gentleman,

however, refuses to believe him, and scolds him right roundly for

telling lies. The lady calls my lord to her, and weeping more bitterly

than ever, tries to coax him to remain. Tarôkaja slyly fills another

cup, with ink and water, and substitutes it for the cup of clear

water. She, all unconcerned, goes on smearing her face. At last she

lifts her face, and her lover, seeing it all black and sooty, gives a

start. What can be the matter with the girl's face? Tarôkaja, in an

aside, explains what he has done. They determine to put her to shame.

The lover, producing from his bosom a box containing a mirror, gives

it to the girl, who, thinking that it is a parting gift, at first

declines to receive it. It is pressed upon her; she opens the box and

sees the reflection of her dirty face. Master and man burst out

laughing. Furious, she smears Tarôkaja's face with the ink; he

protests that he is not the author of the trick, and the girl flies at

her lover and rubs his face too. Both master and servant run off,

pursued by the girl.

The second farce was shorter than the first, and was called _The Theft

of the Sword_. A certain gentleman calls his servant Tarôkaja, and

tells him that he is going out for a little diversion. Bidding

Tarôkaja follow him, he sets out. On their way they meet another

gentleman, carrying a handsome sword in his hand, and going to worship

at the Kitano shrine at Kiôto. Tarôkaja points out the beauty of the

sword to his master, and says what a fine thing it would be if they

could manage to obtain possession of it. Tarôkaja borrows his master's

sword, and goes up to the stranger, whose attention is taken up by

looking at the wares set out for sale in a shop. Tarôkaja lays his

hand on the guard of the stranger's sword; and the latter, drawing it,

turns round, and tries to cut the thief down. Tarôkaja takes to his

heels, praying hard that his life may be spared. The stranger takes

away the sword which Tarôkaja has borrowed from his master, and goes

on his way to the shrine, carrying the two swords. Tarôkaja draws a

long breath of relief when he sees that his life is not forfeited; but

what account is he to give of his master's sword which he has lost.

There is no help for it, he must go back and make a clean breast of

it. His master is very angry; and the two, after consulting together,

await the stranger's return from the shrine. The latter makes his

appearance and announces that he is going home. Tarôkaja's master

falls upon the stranger from behind, and pinions him, ordering

Tarôkaja to fetch a rope and bind him. The knave brings the cord; but,

while he is getting it ready, the stranger knocks him over with his

sword. His master calls out to him to get up quickly and bind the

gentleman from behind, and not from before. Tarôkaja runs behind the

struggling pair, but is so clumsy that he slips the noose over his

master's head by mistake, and drags him down. The stranger, seeing

this, runs away laughing with the two swords. Tarôkaja, frightened at

his blunder, runs off too, his master pursuing him off the stage. A

general run off, be it observed, something like the "spill-and-pelt"

scene in an English pantomime, is the legitimate and invariable

termination of the Kiyôgen.

NOTE on the game of football.

The game of football is in great favour at the Japanese Court. The

days on which it takes place are carefully noted in the "Daijôkwan

Nishi," or Government Gazette. On the 25th of February, 1869, for

instance, we find two entries: "The Emperor wrote characters of good

omen," and "The game of football was played at the palace." The game

was first introduced from China in the year of the Empress Kôkiyoku,

in the middle of the seventh century. The Emperor Mommu, who reigned

at the end of the same century, was the first emperor who took part in

the sport. His Majesty Toba the Second became very expert at it, as

also did the noble Asukai Chiujo, and from that time a sort of

football club was formed at the palace. During the days of the extreme

poverty of the Mikado and his Court, the Asukai family,

notwithstanding their high rank, were wont to eke out their scanty

income by giving lessons in the art of playing football.