CHAPTER XXIV: CONCERNING TEA[1]

The Firefly Battle.

The young man, having heard these words from the lips of his betrothed, held his peace.

In the village of Funakami there lived a devout old farmer called Kanshiro. Every year the old man made various pilgrimages to certain shrines, where he prayed and asked the blessings of the deities. At last, however, he became so infirm that he realised that his earthly days were numbered, and that he would probably only have strength to pay one more visit to the great shrines at Ise. When the people of the village heard this noble resolution they generously gave him a sum of money in order that the respected old farmer might present it to the sacred shrines.

Kanshiro set off upon his pilgrimage carrying the money in a bag, which he hung round his neck. The weather was extremely hot, and the heat and fatigue of the journey made the old man so ill that he was forced to remain for a few days in the village of Myojo. He went to a small inn and asked Jimpachi, the innkeeper, to take care of his money, explaining that it was an offering to the Gods at Ise. Jimpachi took the money, and assured the old man that he would take great care of it, and, moreover, that he himself would attend upon him.

On the sixth day the old man, though still far from well, paid his bill, took the bag from the innkeeper, and proceeded on his journey. As Kanshiro observed many pilgrims in the vicinity he did not look into the bag, but carefully concealed it in the sack containing spare raiment and food.

When Kanshiro at length rested under a pine-tree he took out the bag and looked inside. Alas! the money had been stolen, and stones of the same weight insertedin its place. The old man hastily returned to the innkeeper and begged him to restore the money. Jimpachi grew extremely angry, and gave him a severe beating.

The poor old man crawled away from the village, and three days later, with indomitable courage, he succeeded in reaching the sacred shrines at Ise. He sold his property in order to refund the money his good neighbours had given him, and with what remained he continued his pilgrimage, till at last he was forced to beg for food.

Three years later Kanshiro went to the village of Myoto, and found that the innkeeper who had treated him so badly was now comparatively well off, and lived in a large house. The old man went to him, and said: "You have stolen sacred money from me, and I have sold my little property in order that I might refund it to those who had given it to me. Ever since that time I have been a beggar, but be assured vengeance shall fall upon you!"

Jimpachi cursed the old man and told him that he had not stolen his money. During the heated dispute a watchman seized Kanshiro, dragged him away from the house, and told him that he would be arrested if he dared to return. At the end of the village the old man died, and a kindly priest took his body to a temple, respectfully burnt it, and offered up many holy prayers for his good and loyal soul.

Immediately after Kanshiro's death Jimpachi grew afraid of what he had done, and became so ill that he was forced to take to his bed. When he had lost all power of movement a great company of fireflies flew out of the farmer's tomb and surrounded Jimpachi's mosquito-curtain, and tried to break it down. Many of the villagers came to Jimpachi's assistance and killed a number of fireflies, but the stream of shining insects that flew from Kanshiro's tomb never lessened. Hundredswere killed, but thousands came to take their place. The room was ablaze with firefly light, and the mosquito-curtain sank beneath their ever-increasing weight. At this remarkable sight some of the villagers murmured: "Jimpachi stole the old man's money after all. This is the vengeance of Kanshiro."

Even while they spoke the curtain broke and the fireflies rushed into the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose of the terrified Jimpachi. For twenty days he screamed aloud for mercy; but no mercy came. Thicker and thicker grew the stream of flashing, angry insects, till at last they killed the wicked Jimpachi, when from that hour they completely disappeared.

[1]Translated by F. Victor Dickins.

[2]Adapted fromAncient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan, by & Gordon Smith.

"The first cup moistens my lips and throat, the second cup breaks my loneliness, the third cup searches my inmost being.... The fourth cup raises a slight perspirationâ€”all the wrong of life passes away through my pores. At the fifth cup I am purified; the sixth cup calls me to the realms of immortals. The seventh cupâ€”ah, but I could take no more! I only feel the breath of cool wind that rises in my sleeves. Where is Horaisan?[2]Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft away thither."Lotung.

In England we regard tea simply as a beverage, a refreshing and mild stimulant over which ladies are wont to gossip with their neighbours. There is nothing romantic about our tea-pots and kettles and spoons; they come from the kitchen and are returned to the kitchen with prescribed regularity. We have a few stock comments on the subject of tea, and can quote the exact price our grandmothers paid for this beverage. We have our opinions as to whether it is best taken with or without sugar, and have sometimes found it efficacious in driving away a headache.

When tea reached our own country in 1650 it was referred to as "that excellent and by all physicians approved China drink, called by the Chineans Tcha, and by other nations Tay, alias Tee." In 1711 theSpectatorremarked: "I would therefore in a particular manner recommend these my speculations to all well-regulated families that set apart an hour every morning for tea, bread and butter; and would earnestly advise them fortheir good to order this paper to be punctually served up and to be looked upon as a part of the tea-equipage." Dr. Johnson described himself as "a hardened and shameless tea-drinker, who for twenty years diluted his meals with only the infusion of the fascinating plant; who with tea amused the evening, with tea solaced the midnight, and with tea welcomed the morning." But there is no romance, no old tradition associated with our tea-drinking in this country. Perhaps it is as well that the ladies sitting in our fashionable drawing-rooms are unacquainted with the grim and pathetic legend that narrates how a Buddhist priest fell asleep during his meditations. When he awoke he cut off his offending eyelids and flung them on the ground, where they were immediately transformed into the first tea-plant.

In Japan tea-drinking has become a ritual. It is not so much a social function as a time for peaceful meditation. The elaborate tea ceremonies,cha-no-yu, have their tea-masters, etiquette, and numerous observances. A cup of Japanese tea is combined with spiritual and artistic enlightenment. But before discussing these very interesting ceremonies we must learn something about the significance of tea in China, for it was the drinking of this beverage in the Celestial Kingdom, associated with the rarest porcelain and Ã¦sthetic and religious thought, that inspired the tea cult in the Land of the Gods.

The tea-plant, a native of Southern China, was originally regarded as a medicine. It was referred to in the classics by such names asTou, Tseh, Chung, Kha, andMing, and was much esteemed on account of its medicinal properties. It was regarded as an excellent lotionfor strengthening the eyes, and, moreover, had the power to banish fatigue, strengthen the will, and delight the soul. It was sometimes made in the form of a paste, and was believed to be efficacious in reducing rheumatic pain. The Taoists went so far as to claim that tea was one of the ingredients of the Elixir of Life, while the Buddhist priests drank it whenever it was necessary for them to meditate during the long hours of the night.

In the fourth and fifth centuries we find that tea became a highly favoured beverage among the people of the Yangtse-Kiang valley. At this time, too, poets waxed eloquent in its praise, and described it as the "froth of the liquid jade." But tea at that time was a very horrible concoction indeed, for it was boiled with rice, salt, ginger, orange-peel, and not infrequently with onions! However, Luwuh, who lived in the eighth century, discountenanced the strange mixture we have just referred to. He was the first Chinese tea-master, and not only did he idealize tea, but he saw, with keen poetic insight, that the ceremony of drinking it made for harmony and order in daily life.

In hisChaking("The Holy Scripture of Tea") he describes the nature of the tea-plant, and how its leaves should be gathered and selected. He was of the opinion that the best leaves should have "creases like the leathern boot of Tartar horsemen, curl like the dewlap of a mighty bullock, unfold like a mist rising out of a ravine, gleam like a lake touched by a zephyr, and be wet and soft like fine earth newly swept by rain." Luwuh describes the various utensils connected with the tea ceremony, and asserts that the green beverage should be drunk from blue porcelain cups. He discourses on the subject of the choice of water and themanner of boiling it. In poetical language he describes the three stages of boiling. He compares the little bubbles of the first boil with the eyes of fishes, the bubbles of the second boil with a fountain crowned with clustering crystal beads, and the final boil is described as resembling the surge of miniature billows. The concluding chapters of theChakingdeal with the vulgar and unorthodox methods of drinking tea, and the ardent master gives a list of celebrated tea-drinkers, and enumerates the famous Chinese tea plantations. Luwuh's fascinating book was regarded as a masterpiece. He was sought after by the Emperor Taisung, attracted many disciples, and was regarded as the greatest authority on tea and tea-drinking. His fame did not die with him, for since his death Chinese tea-merchants have worshipped him as a tutelary god.

It is believed that the great Buddhist saint, DengyÅ Daishi, introduced tea into Japan from China in A.D. 805. In any case tea-drinking in Nippon was associated with Buddhism, and most particularly with the Zen sect, which had incorporated so many of the Taoist doctrines. The priests of this order drank tea from a single bowl before the image of Bodhi Dharma (Daruma). They did so in the spirit of reverence, and regarded the tea-drinking as a holy sacrament. It was this Zen observance, strictly of a religious nature, which finally developed into the Japanese tea ceremony.

"The tea ceremonies," writes Professor B. H. Chamberlain, "have undergone three transformations during the six or seven hundred years of their existence. They have passed through a medico-religious stage, a luxurious stage, and, lastly, an Ã¦sthetic stage." In the religious stage the Buddhist priest Eisai wrote apamphlet entitledThe Salutary Influence of Tea-drinking, in which he asserted that this beverage had the power to drive away evil spirits. He introduced a religious ceremonial in regard to the worship of ancestors, accompanied by the beating of drums and the burning of incense. Eisai wrote his tract with the intention of converting Minamoto-no-Sanetomo from his vicious love of the wine-cup, and endeavoured to show the superiority of the tea-plant over the juice of the grape.

We find that the tea ceremonies for the time being lost their religious significance: "The DaimyÅs," writes Professor Chamberlain, "who daily took part in them reclined on couches spread with tiger-skins and leopard-skins. The walls of the spacious apartments in which the guests assembled were hung, not only with Buddhist pictures, but with damask and brocade, with gold and silver vessels, and swords in splendid sheaths. Precious perfumes were burnt, rare fishes and strange birds were served up with sweetmeats and wine, and the point of the entertainment consisted in guessing where the material for each cup of tea had been produced; for as many brands as possible were brought in, to serve as a puzzle orjeu de sociÃ©tÃ©.... Every right guess procured for him who made it the gift of one of the treasures that were hung round the room. But he was not allowed to carry it away himself. The rules of the tea ceremonies, as then practised, ordained that all the things rich and rare that were exhibited must be given by their winners to the singing and dancing-girls, troupes of whom were present to help the company in their carousal."

This variety of tea ceremony, which appears to have been more of an orgy than anything else, reflected the luxurious and dissolute age in which it was practised.The tea ceremony, in its more enduring and characteristic form, was destined to abandon all vulgar display, to embrace a certain amount of religion and philosophy, and above all to afford a means of studying art and the beauty of Nature. The tea-room became, not a place of carousal, but a place where the wayfarer might find peace in solemn meditation. Even the garden path leading to the tea-room had its symbolic meaning, for it signified the first stage of self-illumination. The following was Kobori-Enshiu's idea of the path leading to the tea-room:

"A cluster of summer trees,A bit of the sea,A pale evening moon."

Such a scene was intended to convey to the wayfarer a sense of spiritual light. The trees, sea, and moon awakened old dreams, and their presence made the guest eager to pass into the greater joys of the tea-room. Nosamuraiwas allowed to take his sword into the fragrant sanctuary of peace, and in many tea-rooms there was a low door through which the guests entered with bowed head, as a sign of humility. In silence the guests made obeisance before akakemono, or some simple and beautiful flower on thetokonoma(alcove), and then seated themselves upon the mats. When they had done so the host entered and the water was heard to boil in the kettle with a musical sound, because of some pieces of iron which it contained. Even the boiling of the kettle was associated with poetical ideas, for the song of water and metal was intended to suggest "the echoes of a cataract muffled by clouds, of a distant sea breaking among the rocks, a rainstorm sweeping through a bamboo forest, or of the soughing of pines on some far-away hill." There was a sense of harmony in the tea-room. The light was like the mellow light of evening, and the garments of thecompany were as quiet and unobtrusive as the grey wings of a moth. In this peaceful apartment the guests drank their tea and meditated, and went forth into the world again better and stronger for having contemplated in silence the beautiful and the noble in religion, art, and nature. "Seeking always to be in harmony with the great rhythm of the universe, they were ever prepared to enter the unknown."

Rikiu was one of the greatest of tea-masters, and for long he remained the friend of Taiko-Hideyoshi; but the age in which he lived was full of treachery. There were many who were jealous of Rikiu, many who sought his death. When a coldness sprang up between Hideyoshi and Rikiu, the enemies of the great tea-master made use of this breach of friendship by spreading the report that Rikiu intended to add poison to a cup of tea and present it to his distinguished patron. Hideyoshi soon heard of the rumour, and without troubling to examine the matter he condemned Rikiu to die by his own hand.

On the last day of the famous tea-master's life he invited many of his disciples to join with him in his final tea ceremony. As they walked up the garden path it seemed that ghosts whispered in the rustling leaves. When the disciples entered the tea-room they saw akakemonohanging in thetokonoma, and when they raised their sorrowful eyes they saw that the writing described the passing of all earthly things. There was poetry in the singing of the tea-kettle, but it was a sad song like the plaintive cry of an insect. Rikiu came into the tea-room calm and dignified, and, according to custom, he allowed the chief guest to admire the various articles associated with the tea ceremony. When all the guests had gazed upon them, noting their beauty with a heavy heart, Rikiu presentedeach disciple with a souvenir. He took his own cup in his hand, and said: "Never again shall this cup, polluted by the lips of misfortune, be used by man." Having spoken these words, he broke the cup as a sign that the tea ceremony was over, and the guests bade a sad farewell and departed. Only one remained to witness, not the drinking of another cup of tea, but the passing of Rikiu. The great master took off his outer garment, and revealed the pure white robe of Death. Still calm and dignified, he looked upon his dagger, and then recited the following verse with unfaltering voice:

"Welcome to thee,O sword of eternity!Through BuddhaAnd through Daruma alikeThou hast cleft thy way."

He who loved to quote the old poem, "To those who long only for flowers fain would I show the full-blown spring which abides in the toiling buds of snow-covered hills," has crowned the Japanese tea ceremony with an immortal flower.

Daruma was an Indian sage, whose image, as we have already seen, was associated with the ritualistic drinking of tea by the Zen sect in Japan. He is said to have been the son of a Hindu king, and received instruction from Panyatara. When he had completed his studies he retired to Lo Yang, where he remained seated in meditation for nine years. During this period the sage was tempted after the manner of St. Anthony. He wrestled with these temptations by continually reciting sacred scriptures; but the frequent repetition of theword "jewel" lost its spiritual significance, and became associated with the precious stone worn in the ear of a certain lovely woman. Even the word "lotus," so sacred to all true Buddhists, ceased to be the symbol of the Lord Buddha and suggested to Daruma the opening of a girl's fair mouth. His temptations increased, and he was transported to an Indian city, where he found himself among a vast crowd of worshippers. He saw strange deities with horrible symbols upon their foreheads, and Rajahs and Princes riding upon elephants, surrounded by a great company of dancing-girls. The great crowd of people surged forward, and Daruma with them, till they came to a temple with innumerable pinnacles, a temple covered with a multitude of foul forms, and it seemed to Daruma that he met and kissed the woman who had changed the meaning of jewel and lotus. Then suddenly the vision departed, and Daruma awoke to find himself sitting under the Chinese sky. The sage, who had fallen asleep during his meditation, was truly penitent for the neglect of his devotions, and, taking a knife from his girdle, he cut off his eyelids and cast them upon the ground, saying: "O Thou Perfectly Awakened!" The eyelids were transformed into the tea-plant, from which was made a beverage that would repel slumber and allow good Buddhist priests to their vigils.

Daruma is generally represented without legs, for according to one version of the legend we have just given he lost his limbs as the result of the nine-year meditation.Netsuke[4]-carvers depict him in a full, bag-likelike garment, with a scowling face and lidless eyes. He is sometimes presented in Japanese art as being surrounded with cobwebs, and there is a very subtle variation of the saint portrayed as a female Daruma, which is nothing less than a playful jest against Japanese women, who could not be expected to remain silent for nine years! An owl is frequently associated with Daruma, and in his journey to Japan he is pictured as standing on waves, supported by a millet stalk. Three years after Daruma's death he was seen walking across the western mountains of China, and it was observed that he carried one shoe in his right hand. When Daruma's tomb was opened by the order of the Emperor it was found only to contain a shoe, which the saint had forgotten to take away with him.[5]

[1]We have derived most of the material for this chapter fromThe Book of Tea, by Okakura-Kakuzo, and we warmly commend this very charming volume to those who are interested in the subject.

[2]The Chinese Paradise.

[3]A full account of this beautiful legend will be found in Lafcadio Hearn'sSome Chinese Ghosts.

[4]"Originally a kind of toggle for the medicine-box or tobacco-pouch, carved out of wood or ivory."â€”Things Japanese, by B. H. Chamberlain.

[5]Reference to Yuki-Daruma, or Snow-Daruma, and toy-Daruma, calledOkiagari-koboshi("The Getting-up Little Priest"), will be found in Lafcadio Hearn'sA Japanese Miscellany.

In the stories concerning Yoshitsune and his loyal retainer Benkei we have already referred to the battle of Dan-no-ura, the last conflict between the Taira and Minamoto clans.[2]In this great sea-fight the Taira perished, including their infant Emperor, Antoku Tenno. Thus is the memorable scene described in theHeike Monogatari, translated by Dr. W. G. Aston:

"'This world is the region of sorrow, a remote spot small as a grain of millet. But beneath the waves there is a fair city called the Pure Land of Perfect Happiness. Thither it is that I am taking you.' With such words she soothed him. The child then tied his top-knot to the Imperial robe of the colour of a mountain-dove, and tearfully joined together his lovely little hands. First he turned to the East, and bade adieu to the shrine of the great God of Ise and the shrine of Hachiman. Next he turned to the West, and called upon the name of Buddha. When he had done so, Niidono made bold to take him in her arms, and, soothing him with the words, 'There is a city away below the waves,' sank down to the bottom one thousand fathoms deep."

It is said that for seven hundred years after this great battle the sea and coast in the vicinity have been haunted by the ghosts of the Taira clan. Mysterious fires shone on the waves, and the air was filled with the noise of warfare. In order to pacify the unfortunate spirits the temple of Amidaji was built at AkamagasÃ©ki, and a cemetery was made close by, in which were variousmonuments inscribed with the names of the drowned Emperor and his principal followers. This temple and cemetery pacified the ghostly visitants to a certain extent, but from time to time many strange things happened, as we shall gather from the following legend.

There once lived at the Amidaji temple a blind priest named HÅÃ¯chi. He was famous for his recitation and for his marvellous skill in playing upon thebiwa(a four-stringed lute), and he was particularly fond of reciting stories in connection with the protracted war between the Taira and Minamoto clans.

One night HÅÃ¯chi was left alone in the temple, and as it was a very warm evening he sat out on the verandah, playing now and again upon hisbiwa. While thus occupied he heard some one approaching, some one stepping across the little back garden of the temple. Then a deep voice cried out from below the verandah: "HÅÃ¯chi!" Yet again the voice sounded: "HÅÃ¯chi!"

HÅÃ¯chi, now very much alarmed, replied that he was blind, and would be glad to know who his visitor might be.

"My lord," began the stranger, "is now staying at AkamagasÃ©ki with many noble followers, and he has come for the purpose of viewing the scene of the battle of Dan-no-ura. He has heard how excellently you recite the story of the conflict, and has commanded me to escort you to him in order that you may show him your skill. Bring yourbiwaand follow me. My lord and his august assembly now await your honourable presence."

HÅÃ¯chi, deeming that the stranger was some noblesamurai, obeyed immediately. He donned his sandals and took hisbiwa. The stranger guided him with an iron hand, and they marched along very quickly. HÅÃ¯chi heard the clank of armour at his side; but allfear left him, and he looked forward to the honour of showing his skill before a distinguished company.

Arriving at a gate, the stranger shouted: "Kaimon!" Immediately the gate was unbarred and opened, and the two men passed in. Then came the sound of many hurrying feet, and a rustling noise as of screens being opened. HÅÃ¯chi was assisted in mounting a number of steps, and, arriving at the top, he was commanded to leave his sandals. A woman then led him forward by the hand till he found himself in a vast apartment, where he judged that a great company of people were assembled. He heard the subdued murmur of voices and the soft movement of silken garments. When HÅÃ¯chi had seated himself on a cushion the woman who had led him bade him recite the story of the great battle of Dan-no-ura.

HÅÃ¯chi began to chant to the accompaniment of hisbiwa. His skill was so great that the strings of his instrument seemed to imitate the sound of oars, the movement of ships, the shouting of men, the noise of surging waves, and the whirring of arrows. A low murmur of applause greeted HÅÃ¯chi's wonderful performance. Thus encouraged, he continued to sing and play with even greater skill. When he came to chant of the perishing of the women and children, the plunge of Niidono into the sea with the infant Emperor in her arms, the company began to weep and wail.

When the performance was over the woman who had led HÅÃ¯chi told him that her lord was well pleased with his skill, and that he desired him to play before him for the six following nights. "The retainer," added she, "who brought you to-night will visit your temple at the same hour to-morrow. You must keep these visits secret, and may now return to your abode."

Once more the woman led HÅÃ¯chi through the apartment,and having reached the steps the same retainer led him back to the verandah at the back of the temple where he lived.

The next night HÅÃ¯chi was again led forth to entertain the assembly, and he met with the same success. But this time his absence was detected, and upon his return his fellow priest questioned him in regard to the matter. HÅÃ¯chi evaded his friend's question, and told him that he had merely been out to attend some private business.

His questioner was by no means satisfied. He regretted HÅÃ¯chi's reticence and feared that there was something wrong, possibly that, the blind priest had been bewitched by evil spirits. He bade the men-servants keep a strict watch upon HÅÃ¯chi, and to follow him if he should again leave the temple during the night.

Once more HÅÃ¯chi left his abode. The men-servants hastily lit their lanterns and followed him with all speed; but though they walked quickly, looked everywhere, and made numerous inquiries, they failed to discover HÅÃ¯chi, or learn anything concerning him. On their return, however, they were alarmed to hear the sound of abiwain the cemetery of the temple, and on entering this gloomy place they discovered the blind priest. He sat at the tomb of Antoku Tenno, the infant Emperor, where he twanged hisbiwaloudly, and as loudly chanted the story of the battle of Dan-no-ura. About him on every side mysterious fires glowed, like a great gathering of lighted candles.

"HÅÃ¯chi! HÅÃ¯chi!" shouted the men. "Stop your playing at once! You are bewitched, HÅÃ¯chi!" But the blind priest continued to play and sing, rapt, it seemed, in a strange and awful dream.

The men-servants now resorted to more extrememeasures. They shook him, and shouted in his ear: "HÅÃ¯chi, come back with us at once!"

The blind priest rebuked them, and said that such an interruption would not be tolerated by the noble assembly about him.

The men now dragged HÅÃ¯chi away by force. When he reached the temple his wet clothes were taken off and food and drink set before him.

By this time HÅÃ¯chi's fellow priest was extremely angry, and he not unjustly insisted upon a full explanation of his extraordinary behaviour. HÅÃ¯chi, after much hesitation, told his friend all that had happened to him. When he had narrated his strange adventures, the priest said:

"My poor fellow! You ought to have told me this before. You have not been visiting a great house of a noble lord, but you have been sitting in yonder cemetery before the tomb of Antoku Tenno. Your great skill has called forth the ghosts of the Taira clan. HÅÃ¯chi, you are in great danger, for by obeying these spirits you have assuredly put yourself in their power, and sooner or later they will kill you. Unfortunately I am called away to-night to perform a service, but before I go I will see that your body is covered with sacred texts."

Before night approached HÅÃ¯chi was stripped, and upon his body an acolyte inscribed, with writing-brushes, the text of thesutraknown asHannya-Shin-KyÅ. These texts were written upon HÅÃ¯chi's breast, head, back, face, neck, legs, arms, and feet, even upon the soles thereof.

HÅÃ¯chi the Earless.

Then the priest said: "HÅÃ¯chi, you will be called again to-night. Remain silent, sit very still, and continually meditate. If you do these things no harm will befall you."

That night HÅÃ¯chi sat alone in the verandah, scarcely moving a muscle and breathing very softly.

Once more he heard the sound of footsteps. "HÅÃ¯chi!" cried a deep voice. But the blind priest made no answer. He sat very still, full of a great fear.

His name was called over and over again, but to no effect. "This won't do," growled the stranger. "I must see where the fellow is." The stranger sprang into the verandah and stood beside HÅÃ¯chi, who was now shaking all over with the horror of the situation.

"Ah!" said the stranger. "This is thebiwa, but in place of the player I seeâ€”only two ears! Now I understand why he did not answer. He has no mouth, only his two ears! Those ears I will take to my lord!"

In another moment HÅÃ¯chi's ears were torn off, but in spite of the fearful pain the blind priest remained mute. Then the stranger departed, and when his footsteps had died away the only sound HÅÃ¯chi heard was the trickling of blood upon the verandah, and thus the priest found the unfortunate man upon his return.

"Poor HÅÃ¯chi!" cried the priest. "It is all my fault. I trusted my acolyte to write sacred texts on every part of your body. He failed to do so on your ears. I ought to have seen that he carried out my instructions properly. However, you will never be troubled with those spirits in future." From that day the blind priest was known asMimi-nashi-HÅÃ¯chi, "HÅÃ¯chi-the-Earless."

MusÅ Kokushi, a priest, lost his way while travelling through the province of Mino. Despairing of finding a human abode, he was about to sleep out in the open, when he chanced to discover a little hermitage, calledanjitsu.An aged priest greeted him, and MusÅ requested that he would give him shelter for the night. "No," replied the old priest angrily, "I never give shelter to any one. In yonder valley you will find a certain hamlet; seek a night's repose there."

With these rather uncivil words, MusÅ took his departure, and reaching the hamlet indicated he was hospitably received at the headman's dwelling. On entering the principal apartment, the priest saw a number of people assembled together. He was shown into a separate room, and was about to fall asleep, when he heard the sound of lamentation, and shortly afterwards a young man appeared before him, holding a lantern in his hand.

"Good priest," said he, "I must tell you that my father has recently died. We did not like to explain the matter upon your arrival, because you were tired and much needed rest. The number of people you saw in the principal apartment had come to pay their respects to the dead. Now we must all go away, for that is the custom in our village when any one dies, because strange and terrible things happen to corpses when they are left alone; but perhaps, being a priest, you will not be afraid to remain with my poor father's body."

MusÅ replied that he was in no way afraid, and told the young man that he would perform a service, and watch by the deceased during the company's absence. Then the young man, together with the other mourners, left the house, and MusÅ remained to perform his solitary night vigil.

After MusÅ had undertaken the funeral ceremonies, he sat meditating for several hours. When the night had far advanced, he was aware of the presence of a strange Shape, so terrible in aspect that the priest could neither move nor speak. The Shape advanced, raisedthe corpse, and quickly devoured it. Not content with this horrible meal, the mysterious form also ate the offerings, and then vanished.

The next morning the villagers returned, and they expressed no surprise, on hearing that the corpse had disappeared. After MusÅ had narrated his strange adventure he inquired if the priest on the hill did not sometimes perform the funeral service. "I visited him last night at hisanjitsu, and though he refused me shelter, he told me where I might rest."

The villagers were amazed at these words, and informed MusÅ that there was certainly no priest and noanjitsuon yonder hill. They were positive in their assertion, and assured MusÅ that he had been deluded in the matter by some evil spirit. MusÅ did not reply, and shortly afterwards he took his departure, determined if possible to unravel the mystery.

MusÅ had no difficulty in finding theanjitsuagain. The old priest came out to him, bowed, and exclaimed that he was sorry for his former rudeness. "I am ashamed," added he, "not only because I gave you no shelter, but because you have seen my real shape. You have seen me devour a corpse and the funeral offerings. Alas! good sir, I am ajikininki[man-eating goblin], and if you will bear with me I will explain my wretched condition.

"Many years ago I used to be a priest in this district, and I performed a great number of burial services; but I was not a good priest, for I was not influenced by true religion in performing my tasks, and thought only of the good and fine clothes I could get out of my calling. For that reason I was reborn ajikininki, and have ever since devoured the corpses of all those who died in this district. I beg that you will have pity on my miserable plight, and repeat certain prayers on my behalf, that Imay speedily find peace and make an end of my great wickedness."

Immediately after these words had been spoken, the recluse and his hermitage suddenly vanished, and MusÅ found himself kneeling beside a moss-covered tomb, which was probably the tomb of the unfortunate priest.

A pale-faced woman crept down a street called Nakabaramachi, entered a certain shop, and purchased a small quantity ofmidzu-ame.[3]Every night, at a late hour, she came, always haggard of countenance and always silent. The shopkeeper, who took a kindly interest in her, followed her one night, but seeing that she entered a cemetery, he turned back, puzzled and afraid.

Once again the mysterious woman came to the little shop, and this time she did not buymidzu-ame, but beckoned the shopkeeper to follow her. Down the street went the pale-faced woman, followed by the seller of amber syrup and some of his friends. When they reached the cemetery the woman disappeared into a tomb, and those without heard the weeping of a child. When the tomb was opened they saw the corpse of the woman they had followed, and by her side a living child, laughing at the lantern-light and stretching forth its little hands towards a cup ofmidzu-ame. The woman had been prematurely buried and her babe born in the tomb. Every night the silent mother went forth from the cemetery in order that she might bring back nourishment for her child.

In Tottori there was a small and modest inn. It was a new inn, and as the landlord was poor he had been compelled to furnish it with goods purchased from a second-hand shop in the vicinity. His first guest was a merchant, who was treated with extreme courtesy and given much warmsakÃ©. When the merchant had drunk the refreshing rice wine he retired to rest and soon fell asleep. He had not slumbered long when he heard the sound of children's voices in his room, crying pitifully: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art cold?" Over and over again the children repeated these plaintive words. The merchant, thinking that children had strayed into his room by mistake, mildly rebuked them and prepared to go to sleep again. After a moment's silence the children again cried: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art cold?"

The guest arose, lit theandon(night-light), and proceeded to examine the room. But there was no one in the apartment; the cupboards were empty, and all theshÅji(paper-screens) were closed. The merchant, lay down again, puzzled and amazed. Once more he heard the cry, close to his pillow: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art cold?" The cries were repeated, and the guest, cold with horror, found that the voices proceeded from hisfuton(quilt).

He hurriedly descended the stairs and told the innkeeper what had happened. The landlord was angry. "You have drunk too much warmsakÃ©," said he. "WarmsakÃ©has brought you evil dreams." But the guest paid his bill and sought lodging elsewhere.

On the following night another guest, slept in the haunted room, and he, too, heard the same mysteriousvoices, rated the innkeeper, and hastily took his departure. The landlord then entered the apartment himself. He heard the pitiful cries of children coming from onefuton, and now was forced to believe the strange story his two guests had told him.

The next day the landlord went to the second-hand shop where he had purchased thefuton, and made inquiries. After going from one shop to another, he finally heard the following story of the mysteriousfuton:

There once lived in Tottori a poor man and his wife, with two children, boys of six and eight years respectively. The parents died, and the poor children were forced to sell their few belongings, until one day they were left with only a thin and much-wornfutonto cover them at night. At last they had no money to pay the rent, and not even the wherewithal to purchase food of any kind.

When the period of the greatest cold came, the snow gathered so thickly about the humble dwelling that the children could do nothing but wrap thefutonabout them, and murmur to each other in their sweet, pathetic way: "Elder Brother probably is cold?" "Nay, thou probably art cold?" And sobbing forth these words they clung together, afraid of the darkness and of the bitter, shrieking wind.

While their poor little bodies nestled together, striving to keep each other warm, the hard-hearted landlord entered, and finding that there was no one to pay the rent, he turned the children out of the house, each clad only in one thinkimono. They tried to reach a temple of Kwannon, but the snow was too heavy, and they hid behind their old home. Afutonof snow covered them and they fell asleep on the merciful bosom of the Gods, and were finally buried inthe cemetery of the Temple of Kwannon-of-the-Thousand-Arms.

When the innkeeper heard this sad story he gave thefutonto the priests of the Kwannon temple, prayers were recited for the children's souls, and from that hour thefutonceased to murmur its plaintive cries.

In the village of Mochida-no-ura there lived a peasant. He was extremely poor, but, notwithstanding, his wife bore him six children. Directly a child was born, the cruel father flung it into a river and pretended that it had died at birth, so that his six children were murdered in this horrible way.

At length, as years went by, the peasant found himself in a more prosperous position, and when a seventh child was born, a boy, he was much gratified and loved him dearly.

One night the father took the child in his arms, and wandered out into the garden, murmuring ecstatically: "What a beautiful summer night!"

The babe, then only five months old, for a moment assumed the speech of a man, saying: "The moon looks just as it did when you last threw me in the river!"

When the infant had uttered these words he became like other children; but the peasant, now truly realising the enormity of his crime, from that day became a priest.

There was once a certain fair maiden who, contrary to Japanese custom, was permitted to choose her own husband. Many suitors sought her hand, and they brought her gifts and fair poems, and said many loving words to her. She spoke kindly to each suitor, saying: "I will marry the man who is brave enough to bear acertain test I shall impose upon him, and whatever that test of love may be, I expect him, on the sacred honour of asamurai, not to divulge it." The suitors readily complied with these conditions, but one by one they left her, with horror upon their faces, ceased their wooing, but breathed never a word concerning the mysterious and awful secret.

At length a poorsamurai, whose sword was his only wealth, came to the maiden, and informed her that he was prepared to go through any test, however severe, in order that he might make her his wife.

When they had supped together the maiden left the apartment, and long after midnight returned clad in a white garment. They went out of the house together, through innumerable streets where dogs howled, and beyond the city, till they came to a great cemetery. Here the maiden led the way while thesamuraifollowed, his hand upon his sword.

When the wooer was able to penetrate the darkness he saw that the maiden was digging the ground with a spade. She dug with extreme haste, and eventually tore off the lid of a coffin. In another moment she snatched up the corpse of a child, tore off an arm, broke it, and commenced to eat one piece, flinging the other to her wooer, crying: "If you love me, eat what I eat!"

Without a moment's hesitation thesamuraisat down by the grave and began to eat one half of the arm. "Excellent!" he cried, "I pray you give me more!" At this point of the legend the horror happily disappears, for neither thesamurainor the maiden ate a corpseâ€”the arm was made of delicious confectionery!

The maiden, with a cry of joy, sprang to her feet, and said: "At last I have found a brave man! I will marry you, for you are the husband I have ever longed for, and until this night have never found."

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