"all the joy of my existence is concentrated around the

pillow which giveth me nightly rest, all the hope of my

days i find in the beauties of nature that ever please my

eyes."

"ho-jo-ki" (trans. by f. v. dickins).

japanese and english gardens

there is nothing particularly æsthetic about the average english garden. when the bedding-out time comes a slow old gardener puts in his plants. later on we see a crude blaze of colour—scarlet geraniums, yellow calceolarias, blue lobelias, the green grass and the ochre-coloured paths. and this is the colour effect of the average english garden, a colour effect that makes the eyes ache and shames the very flowers so unwisely set in this fashion. the truth of the matter is that we do not understand the art of flower arrangement. we buy flowers just to make the garden look bright, under the impression that brightness is an abstract quality with which we should like to spend our summer days. an englishman once attempted to make a landscape garden after the japanese manner. he was extremely proud of the result, and on one occasion he took a japanese gentleman round to see it. the japanese gentleman exclaimed, with extreme courtesy: "it is very beautiful; we have nothing at all like it in japan!" the englishman failed in his attempt to imitate because he considered gardening a hobby, while in japan the garden is something indelibly associated with japanese life itself. in japan it is an ancient cult to which poets and artists have given years of thought, a cult[pg 155] in which emotion, memory, and religion play their part.

the love of flowers, its growth and symbolism

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

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

the love of flowers is only a small part of the japanese love of nature. there was an evolutionary growth in this worship as in every other, and we are[pg 156] inclined to think that the japanese go very far back in this matter, and learnt first of all to love rocks and stones. to us rocks and stones are of interest only to the geologist and metallurgist, merely from a scientific point of view, and it seems almost incredible that rocks and stones have a poetical meaning. but it is otherwise to the japanese. the japanese garden is essentially a landscape garden. the owner of a garden falls in love with a certain view. it haunts him, and awakens in him some primitive feelings of delight that cannot be analysed. he brings that view perpetually before him in his garden, in miniature, perhaps, but a miniature of wonderful exactness. his garden thus becomes a place of happy memory, and not a plot laid out with gaudy flowers and terraces that can have no meaning, no poetry to his mind. without a doubt japanese gardens, with their gorgeous flowers, merry sunshine, and the sweet tinkle of dainty fairy-bells suspended from the branches of the trees, are the most delightful in the world.

japanese gardens

one thing that strikes us about japanese gardens that we do not find in england is the wonderful economy displayed in their schemes. suburbia often makes the excuse that their pocket-handkerchief of a garden is much too small to be made beautiful. too small to be made beautiful? why, the japanese can make a wonderful little garden in a space no bigger than a soup-plate! necessity is the mother of invention, and if we only loved nature more we should soon find the means to make our smallest gardens attractive. the great japanese designer of gardens, kobori-enshiu, said that an ideal garden should be like "the sweet solitude of a landscape clouded by moonlight, with a half-gloom between the trees."

[pg 157]

miss florence du cane has much to say concerning japanese rocks and stones. what poetry is suggested in the names of some of these garden stones—for example, "the stone of easy rest." then, among the lake stones we have one called "wild wave stone," that at once suggests matsushima, with its waves breaking against innumerable rocks.

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

the lakes, cascades, tiny bridges, the stepping-stones over the winding ways of silver sand, form a place of retreat indeed. and then the colour of the japanese garden! every month has some fresh colour scene as the plum and cherry and peach-trees come into bloom. trailing over the ground among the pine-needles or looking into the clear blue lake, one may see the azaleas. if there were ever a flower that personified colour then it is surely the azalea. it is the rainbow of flowers, and there seems scarcely a shade of colour not to be found in its blossoms. to look at the azaleas is to look into the very paint-box of nature herself. then[pg 158] at another season of the year we get the iris in purple and lavender, yellow and white, or the beautiful rose-coloured lotus that opens with a little explosion on the placid waters, as if to herald its coming to perfection. the last colour glory of the year is the splendour of the maple-trees. we have a fine crimson effect in our english blackberry leaves, but they lie hidden in the wet autumn hedges. in japan the maples do not hide. they seem everywhere alive in a splendid flame. in the autumn it appears as if the maple-trees had conjured with the sunset, for at that time japan is not the land of the rising sun, but the land of the sun going down in a great pageant of red leaves. and is that the end of nature's work for the year? no, indeed. last of all comes the snow, and the beauty of its effect lies not so much in the soft flakes themselves, but in the way they are caught and held upon the beautiful little houses and temples and lanterns. see a japanese garden then, and you see the white seal of nature's approval upon it all. the snow scene is perhaps nature's supreme touch in japan, after all; and it is a scene dear to the hearts of the japanese. in midsummer a japanese emperor once had the miniature mountains in his gardens covered with white silk to suggest snow, and, no doubt, to give an imaginary coolness to the scene. a slight acquaintance with japanese art will reveal the fact that snow affords a favourite theme for the artist's brush.

nature in miniature

the japanese, for the most part, are little in stature, and have a love of things in miniature. lafcadio hearn tells a charming story of a japanese nun who used to play with children and give them rice-cakes no bigger than peas and tea in very minute cups. her love of[pg 159] very small things came as the result of a great sorrow, but we see in this japanese love of little objects something pathetic in the nation as a whole. their love of dwarf trees, hundreds of years old, seems to say: "be honourably pleased never to grow big. we are a little people, and so we love little things." the ancient pine, often less than a foot in height, does not render its age oppressive, and is not a thing to fear just because it is so very small. westerners have been inclined to describe the dwarf japanese tree as unnatural. it is no more unnatural than the japanese smile, and reveals that the nation, like the greeks of old, is still closely in touch with nature.

the pine-tree

the pine-tree is the emblem of good fortune and longevity. that is why we see this tree at almost every garden gate; and it must be admitted that a pine-tree is a more graceful talisman than a rusty old horse-shoe. in a certain japanese play we find the following: "the emblem of unchangeableness—exalted is their fame to the end of time—the fame of the two pine-trees that have grown old together." this refers to the famous pines of takasago. mr. conder tells us that at wedding feasts "a branch of the male pine is placed in one vessel and a branch of the female pine in the other. the general form of each design would be similar, but the branch of the female pine facing the opposite vase should stretch a little beneath the corresponding branch of the male pine." in other words, it shows that woman's suffrage exists not in japan, and that the japanese wife is subject to her lord and master, which is a very pretty way of suggesting, what is in england a very dangerous subject. the design referred to above typifies "eternal union." the pine-tree really[pg 160] symbolises the comradeship of love, the darby and joan stage of old married people in japan.

a great nature-lover

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

[pg 161]

the festival of the dead

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

the japanese flag and the chrysanthemum

most of us are familiar with the japanese flag depicting a red sun on a white ground, and we should naturally suppose that such an emblem was originally connected with the sun goddess. in this supposition, however, we should be entirely wrong. astrological designs in[pg 162] ancient days figured upon the chinese banners, and professor b. h. chamberlain describes them thus: "the sun with the three-legged crow that inhabits it, the moon with its hare[2] and cassia-tree, the red bird representing the seven constellations of the southern quarter of the zodiac, the dark warrior (a tortoise) embracing the seven northern constellations, the azure dragon embracing the seven eastern, the white tiger embracing the seven western, and a seventh banner representing the northern bushel (great bear)." the chinese banners depicting the sun and moon were particularly noteworthy, because the sun represented the emperor's elder brother and the moon his sister. in the seventh century the japanese adopted these banners; but as time went on they dropped many of the quaint astrological designs so dear to the heart of the chinese. when in 1859 a national flag became necessary the sun banner pure and simple was adopted; but a plain orb without rays was not sufficient, and a more elaborate design was executed—the sixteen-petalled chrysanthemum. we can only conjecture the connection between the sun and the chrysanthemum. both were venerated in ancient china, and we may assume that the japanese artist, in wishing to depict the sun's rays, found excellent material in copying the flower of a wild chrysanthemum.

the chrysanthemum is japan's national flower, and we owe to nippon its culture in our own country. mythological scenes, particularly that of the treasure ship with the gods of luck on board is a favourite[pg 163] device, fashioned entirely with innumerable chrysanthemums. boats, castles, bridges, and various other objects are designed from the same flower with wonderful dexterity. japan has always been happy in her use of names, and to no greater advantage than in the naming of her chrysanthemums. there is poetry in such names as "sleepy head," "golden dew," "white dragon," and "starlit night."

the chrysanthemum is certainly a fitting symbolism for the imperial standard. once, like our english rose, it figured as a badge in the war of the chrysanthemums, a protracted civil war that divided the nation into two hostile factions. now the chrysanthemum stands for a united empire.

lady white and lady yellow

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

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

when lady yellow and her master had departed lady white wept bitterly. her own simple beauty had been despised; but, what was far worse, she was forced to remain in the meadow alone, without the converse of her sister, to whom she had been devoted.

day by day lady yellow grew more fair, in her master's garden. no one would have recognised the common flower of the field now; but though her petals[pg 164] were long and curled and her leaves so clean and well cared for, she sometimes thought of lady white alone in the field, and wondered how she managed to make the long and lonely hours pass by.

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

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

in another moment the happy lady white was being carried in a palanquin. when she reached the daimyo's palace all warmly praised her remarkable perfection of form. great artists came from far and near, sat about her, and sketched the flower with wonderful skill. she soon needed no mirror, for ere long she saw her pretty[pg 165] white face on all the daimyo's most precious belongings. she saw it on his armour and lacquer boxes, on his quilts and cushions and robes. when she looked upward she could see her face in great carved panels. she was painted floating down a stream, and in all manner of quaint and beautiful ways. every one acknowledged that the white chrysanthemum, with her sixteen petals, made the most wonderful crest in all japan.

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

"chrysanthemum-old-man"[4]

kikuo ("chrysanthemum-old-man") was the faithful retainer of tsugaru. one day his lord's force was overthrown, and the castle and fine estates were taken away by the enemy; but fortunately tsugaru and kikuo were able to escape to the mountains.

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

his efforts pleased tsugaru, but unfortunately that lord soon fell sick and died, and the faithful kikuo wept over his master's grave. then once more he[pg 166] returned to his work, and planted chrysanthemums about his master's tomb till he had made a border thirty yards broad, so that red, white, pink, yellow, and bronze blossoms scented the air, to the wonder of all who chanced to come that way.

metsue rescues teoyo.

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

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

two of these little ones drew near to kikuo, and said: "we are the spirits of your chrysanthemums, and have come to tell you how sorry we are to find you ill. you have guarded and loved us with such care. there was a man in china, hozo by name, who lived eight hundred years by drinking the dew from chrysanthemum blossoms. gladly would we lengthen out your days, but, alas! the gods ordain otherwise. within thirty days you will die."

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

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

kikuo grew worse instead of better, and on the thirtieth day he passed away. when visitors came to see the chrysanthemums he had planted, all had vanished. the villagers buried the old man near his master, and, thinking to please kikuo, they planted chrysanthemums near his[pg 167] grave; but all died immediately they were put into the ground. only grasses grow over the tombs now. the child-souls of the chrysanthemums chatter and sing and play with the spirit of kikuo.

shingé and yoshisawa by the violet well.

the violet well

shingé and her waiting-maids were picnicking in the valley of shimizutani, that lies between the mountains of yoshino and tsubosaka. shingé, full of the joy of spring, ran towards the violet well, where she discovered great clumps of purple, sweet-scented violets. she was about to pick the fragrant blossoms when a great snake darted forth, and she immediately fainted.

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

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

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

by this time shingé had regained consciousness, and asked the name of the physician to whom she was indebted for saving her life. but he politely bowed, evaded her question, and then took his departure. only matsu knew that the name of her mistress's rescuer was yoshisawa.

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

[pg 168]

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

both zembei and his wife were dismayed at these words, for zembei was a great daimyo, and could not for one moment tolerate the idea of his daughter marrying one of the eta class. however, he agreed to make inquiries concerning yoshisawa, and matsu returned to her mistress with something like good news. when matsu had told shingé what her father was doing on her behalf she rallied considerably, and was able to take food.

when shingé was nearly well again zembei called her to him and said that he had made careful inquiries concerning yoshisawa, and could on no account agree to her marrying him.

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

after three days she was found lying at the bottom of the violet well, and shortly after yoshisawa, overcome with grief, sought a similar end to his troubles. it is[pg 169] said that on stormy nights the ghost of shingé is to be seen floating over the well, while near by comes the sound of the weeping of yoshisawa.

the ghost of the lotus lily

"o resurrection, resurrection of world and life!

lo, sun ascend! the lotus buds flash with hearts parted,

with one chant 'namu, amida!'"

yone noguchi.

the lotus is the sacred flower of buddhism. because it grows out of mud, rears its stalk through water, and from such dark and slimy beginnings yields a lovely flower, it has been compared with a virtuous man dwelling in this wicked world. sir monier williams writes: "its constant use as an emblem seems to result from the wheel-like form of the flower, the petals taking the place of spokes, and thus typifying the doctrine of perpetual cycles of existence." buddha is frequently portrayed as either standing or sitting upon a golden lotus, and the flower reminds us of the buddhist sutra, known as the "lotus of the good law."

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

[pg 170]

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

a certain disease broke out in kyoto from which many thousands of people died. it spread to idzumi, where the lord of koriyama lived, and koriyama, his wife and child, were stricken down with the malady.

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

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

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

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

the astonished samurai, believing that he had seen a[pg 171] couple of kappas,[5] or river goblins, made a hasty retreat to the castle, and there reported his strange adventure. when he had told his story the moats were dragged and cleaned, but nothing could be found of the supposed kappas.

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

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

the spirit of the peony

it had been arranged that the princess aya should marry the second son of lord ako. the arrangements, according to japanese custom, had been made entirely without the consent or approval of the actual parties concerned.

one night princess aya walked through the great garden of her home, accompanied by her waiting-maids. the moon shone brightly upon her favourite peony bed near a pond, and covered the sweet-scented blooms in a[pg 172] silver sheen. here she lingered, and was stooping to breathe the fragrance of these flowers when her foot slipped, and she would have fallen had not a handsome young man, clad in a robe of embroidered peonies, rescued her just in time. he vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had come, before, indeed, she had time to thank him.

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

the princess aya's father asked his favourite daughter's maid, sadayo, if she could throw any light upon this lamentable affair.

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

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

the next night, too, while yae and yakumo were playing on the flute and koto, the young man appeared again.

the princess aya's father now resolved to get at the root of the matter, and for this purpose he bade maki hiogo dress in black and lie concealed in the peony bed on the following night.

when the next night came maki hiogo lay hidden among the peonies, while yae and yakumo made sweet[pg 173] music. not long after the music had sounded the mysterious young samurai again appeared. maki hiogo rose from his hiding-place with his arms tightly bound round this strange visitor. a cloud seemed to emanate from his captive. it made him dizzy, and he fell to the ground still tightly holding the handsome samurai.

just as a number of guards came hurrying to the spot maki hiogo regained consciousness. he looked down expecting to see his captive. but all that he held in his arms was a large peony!

by this time princess aya and her father joined the astonished group, and the lord naizen-no-jo at once grasped the situation. "i see now," said he, "that the spirit of the peony flower had a moment ago, and on former occasions, taken the form of a young and handsome samurai. my daughter, you must take this flower and treat it with all kindness."

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

when the princess aya was quite well the lord of ako arrived at the castle, bringing with him his second son, whom she was to marry. in due time the wedding took place, but at that hour the beautiful peony suddenly died.

[1] hara-kiri, or seppuku, is the term applied to suicide among the samurai class. for detailed account see tales of old japan, by a. b. mitford (lord redesdale).

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

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

[4] this story and those that follow in this chapter have been adapted from ancient tales and folk-lore of japan, by r. gordon smith.

[5] referred to elsewhere in the chapter dealing with supernatural beings.