III

PLATE III. Aburazémi.PLATE III.Aburazémi.

Theaburazémi, or "oil-sémi," makes its appearance early in the summer. I am told that it owes its name to the fact that its shrilling resembles the sound of oil or grease frying in a pan.

Some writers say that the shrilling resembles the sound of the syllablesgacharin-gacharin; but others compare it to the noise of water boiling. Theaburazémibegins to chant about sunrise; then a great soft hissing seems to ascend from all the trees. At such an hour, when the foliage of woods and gardens still sparkles with dew, might have been composed the following verse,—the only one in my collection relating to theaburazémi:—

Ano koë déTsuyu ga inochi ka?—Aburazémi!Speaking with that voice, has the dew taken life?—Only theaburazémi!

Ano koë déTsuyu ga inochi ka?—Aburazémi!

Speaking with that voice, has the dew taken life?—Only theaburazémi!

PLATE IV. 1-2, Mugikari-Zémi, also called Goshiki-Zémi. 3, Higurashi. 4, "Min-Min-Zémi."PLATE IV.1-2, Mugikari-Zémi, also called Goshiki-Zémi.3, Higurashi.4, "Min-Min-Zémi."

Themugi-kari-zémi, or "barley-harvest sémi," also calledgoshiki-zémi, or "five-colored sémi," appears early in the summer. It makes two distinct sounds in different keys, resembling the syllablesshi-in, shin—chi-i, chi-i.

Thisinsect, whose name signifies "day-darkening," is the most remarkable of all the Japanesecicadæ. It is not the finest singer among them; but even as a melodist it ranks second only to thetsuku-tsuku-bōshi. It is the special minstrel of twilight, singing only at dawn and sunset; whereas most of the other sémi make their music only in the full blaze of day, pausing even when rain-clouds obscure the sun. In Tōkyō thehigurashiusually appears about the end of June, or the beginning of July. Its wonderful cry,—kana-kana-kana-kana-kana,—beginning always in a very high clear key, and slowly descending, is almost exactly like the sound of a good hand-bell, very quickly rung. It is not a clashing sound, as of violent ringing; it is quick, steady, and of surprising sonority. I believe that a singlehigurashican be plainly heard a quarter of a mile away; yet, as the old Japanese poet Yayū observed, "no matter how manyhigurashibe singing together, we never find them noisy." Though powerful and penetrating as a resonance of metal, thehigurashi'scall is musical even to the degree of sweetness; and there is a peculiar melancholy in it that accords with the hour of gloaming. But the most astonishing fact in regard to the cry of thehigurashiis the individual quality characterizing the note of each insect.No twohigurashising precisely in the same tone. If you hear a dozen of them singing at once, you will find that the timbre of each voice is recognizably different from every other. Certain notes ring like silver, others vibrate like bronze; and, besides varieties of timbre suggesting bells of various weight and composition, there are even differences in tone, that suggest differentformsof bell.

I have already said that the namehigurashimeans "day-darkening,"—in the sense of twilight, gloaming, dusk; and there are many Japanese verses containing plays on the word,—the poets affecting to believe, as in the following example, that the crying of the insect hastens the coming of darkness:—

Higurashi ya!SutétéoitémoKururu hi wo.O Higurashi!—even if you let it alone, day darkens fast enough!

Higurashi ya!SutétéoitémoKururu hi wo.

O Higurashi!—even if you let it alone, day darkens fast enough!

This, intended to express a melancholy mood, may seem to the Western reader far-fetched. But another little poem—referring to the effect of the sound upon the conscience of an idler—will be appreciated by any one accustomed to hear thehigurashi. I may observe, in this connection,that the first clear evening cry of the insect is quite as startling as the sudden ringing of a bell:—

Higurashi ya!Kyō no kétai woOmou-toki.—Rikei.Already, O Higurashi, your call announces the evening!Alas, for the passing day, with its duties left undone!

Higurashi ya!Kyō no kétai woOmou-toki.—Rikei.

Already, O Higurashi, your call announces the evening!Alas, for the passing day, with its duties left undone!

Theminmin-zémibegins to sing in the Period of Greatest Heat. It is called "min-min" because its note is thought to resemble the syllable "min" repeated over and over again,—slowly at first, and very loudly; then more and more quickly and softly, till the utterance dies away in a sort of buzz: "min—min—min-min-min-minminmin-dzzzzzzz." The sound is plaintive, and not unpleasing. It is often compared to the sound of the voice of a priest chanting thesûtras.

PLATE V. 1, "Tsuku-tsuku-Bōshi," also called "Kutsu-kutsu-Bōshi," etc. (Cosmopsaltria Opalifera?) 2, Tsurigané-Zémi. 3, The Phantom.PLATE V.1, "Tsuku-tsuku-Bōshi," also called "Kutsu-kutsu-Bōshi," etc. (Cosmopsaltria Opalifera?)2, Tsurigané-Zémi.3, The Phantom.

Onthe day immediately following the Festival of the Dead, by the old Japanese calendar[28](which is incomparably more exact than our Western calendar in regard to nature-changes and manifestations), begins to sing thetsuku-tsuku-bōshi. This creature may be said to sing like a bird. It is also calledkutsu-kutsu-bōshi,chōko-chōko-uisu,tsuku-tsuku-hōshi,tsuku-tsuku-oīshi,—all onomatopoetic appellations. The sounds of its song have been imitated in different ways by various writers. In Izumo the common version is,—

Tsuku-tsuku-uisu,Tsuku-tsuku-uisu,Tsuku-tsuku-uisu:—Ui-ōsuUi-ōsuUi-ōsuUi-ōs-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-su.

[28]That is to say, upon the 16th day of the 7th month.

Another version runs,—

Tsuku-tsuku-uisu,Tsuku-tsuku-uisu,Tsuku-tsuku-uisu:—Chi-i yara!Chi-i yara!Chi-i yara!Chi-i, chi, chi, chi, chi, chiii.

But some say that the sound isTsukushi-koïshi. There is a legend that in old times aman of Tsukushi (the ancient name of Kyūshū) fell sick and died while far away from home, and that the ghost of him became an autumn cicada, which cries unceasingly,Tsukushi-koïshi!—Tsukushi-koïshi!("I long for Tsukushi!—I want to see Tsukushi!")

It is a curious fact that the earlier sémi have the harshest and simplest notes. The musical sémi do not appear until summer; and thetsuku-tsuku-bōshi, having the most complex and melodious utterance of all, is one of the latest to mature.

Thetsurigané-sémiis an autumn cicada. The wordtsuriganémeans a suspended bell,—especially the big bell of a Buddhist temple. I am somewhat puzzled by the name; for the insect's music really suggests the tones of a Japanese harp, orkoto—as good authorities declare. Perhaps the appellation refers not to the boom of the bell, but to those deep, sweet hummings which follow after the peal, wave upon wave.

[29]This sémi appears to be chiefly known in Shikoku.

JAPANESE poems on sémi are usually very brief; and my collection chiefly consists ofhokku,—compositions of seventeen syllables. Most of thesehokkurelate to the sound made by the sémi,—or, rather, to the sensation which the sound produced within the poet's mind. The names attached to the following examples are nearly all names of old-time poets,—not the real names, of course, but thegō, or literary names by which artists and men of letters are usually known.

Yokoi Yayū, a Japanese poet of the eighteenth century, celebrated as a composer ofhokku, has left us this naïve record of the feelings with which he heard the chirruping of cicadæ in summer and in autumn:—

"In the sultry period, feeling oppressed by the greatness of the heat, I made this verse:—

"Sémi atsushiMatsu kirabaya toOmou-madé.[The chirruping of the sémi aggravates the heat until I wish to cut down the pine-tree on which it sings.]

"Sémi atsushiMatsu kirabaya toOmou-madé.

[The chirruping of the sémi aggravates the heat until I wish to cut down the pine-tree on which it sings.]

"But the days passed quickly; and later, when I heard the crying of the sémi grow fainter and fainter in the time of the autumn winds, I began to feel compassion for them, and I made this second verse:—

"Shini-nokoréHitotsu bakari waAki no sémi."[Now there survivesBut a single oneOf the sémi of autumn!]

"Shini-nokoréHitotsu bakari waAki no sémi."

[Now there survivesBut a single oneOf the sémi of autumn!]

Lovers of Pierre Loti (the world's greatest prose-writer) may remember inMadame Chrysanthèmea delightful passage about a Japanese house,—describing the old dry woodwork as impregnated with sonority by the shrilling crickets of a hundred summers.[30]There is a Japanese poem containing a fancy not altogether dissimilar:—

[30]Speaking of his own attempt to make a drawing of the interior, he observes: "Il manque à ce logis dessiné son air frêle et sa sonorité de violon sec. Dans les traits de crayon qui représentent les boiseries, il n'y a pas la précision minutieuse avec laquelle elles sont ouvragées, ni leur antiquité extrême, ni leur propreté parfaite,ni les vibrations de cigales qu' elles semblent avoir emmagasinées pendant des centaines d'étés dans leurs fibres desséchées."

Matsu no ki niShimikomu gotoshiSémi no koë.Into the wood of the pine-treeSeems to soakThe voice of the sémi.

Matsu no ki niShimikomu gotoshiSémi no koë.

Into the wood of the pine-treeSeems to soakThe voice of the sémi.

A very large number of Japanese poems about sémi describe the noise of the creatures as an affliction. To fully sympathize with the complaints of the poets, one must have heard certain varieties of Japanese cicadæ in full midsummer chorus; but even by readers without experience of the clamor, the following verses will probably be found suggestive:—

Waré hitoriAtsui yō nari,—Sémi no koë!—Bunsō.Meseems that only I,—I alone among mortals,—Ever suffered such heat!—oh, the noise of the sémi!

Waré hitoriAtsui yō nari,—Sémi no koë!—Bunsō.

Meseems that only I,—I alone among mortals,—Ever suffered such heat!—oh, the noise of the sémi!

Ushiro karaTsukamu yō nari,—Sémi no koë.—Jofū.Oh, the noise of the sémi!—a pain of invisible seizure,—Clutched in an enemy's grasp,—caught by the hair from behind!

Ushiro karaTsukamu yō nari,—Sémi no koë.—Jofū.

Oh, the noise of the sémi!—a pain of invisible seizure,—Clutched in an enemy's grasp,—caught by the hair from behind!

Yama no Kami noMimi no yamai ka?—Sémi no koë!—Teikoku.What ails the divinity's ears?—how can the God of the MountainSuffer such noise to exist?—oh, the tumult of sémi!Soko no naiAtsusa ya kumo niSémi no koë!—Saren.Fathomless deepens the heat: the ceaseless shrilling of sémiMounts, like a hissing of fire, up to the motionless clouds.Mizu karété,Sémi wo fudan-noTaki no koë.—Gen-U.Water never a drop: the chorus of sémi, incessant,Mocks the tumultuous hiss,—the rush and foaming of rapids.KagéroishiKumo mata satté,Sémi no koë.—Kitō.Gone, the shadowing clouds!—again the shrilling of sémiRises and slowly swells,—ever increasing the heat!Daita ki wa,Ha mo ugokasazu,—Sémi no koë!—Kafū.Somewhere fast to the bark he clung; but I cannot see him:He stirs not even a leaf—oh! the noise of that sémi!

Yama no Kami noMimi no yamai ka?—Sémi no koë!—Teikoku.

What ails the divinity's ears?—how can the God of the MountainSuffer such noise to exist?—oh, the tumult of sémi!

Soko no naiAtsusa ya kumo niSémi no koë!—Saren.

Fathomless deepens the heat: the ceaseless shrilling of sémiMounts, like a hissing of fire, up to the motionless clouds.

Mizu karété,Sémi wo fudan-noTaki no koë.—Gen-U.

Water never a drop: the chorus of sémi, incessant,Mocks the tumultuous hiss,—the rush and foaming of rapids.

KagéroishiKumo mata satté,Sémi no koë.—Kitō.

Gone, the shadowing clouds!—again the shrilling of sémiRises and slowly swells,—ever increasing the heat!

Daita ki wa,Ha mo ugokasazu,—Sémi no koë!—Kafū.

Somewhere fast to the bark he clung; but I cannot see him:He stirs not even a leaf—oh! the noise of that sémi!

Tonari karaKono ki nikumu ya!Sémi no koë.—Gyukaku.All because of the Sémi that sit and shrill on its branches—Oh! how this tree of mine is hated now by my neighbor!

Tonari karaKono ki nikumu ya!Sémi no koë.—Gyukaku.

All because of the Sémi that sit and shrill on its branches—Oh! how this tree of mine is hated now by my neighbor!

This reminds one of Yayū. We find another poet compassionating a tree frequented by sémi:—

Kazé wa minaSémi ni suwarété,Hito-ki kana!—Chōsui.Alas! poor solitary tree!—pitiful now your lot,—every breath of air having been sucked up by the sémi!

Kazé wa minaSémi ni suwarété,Hito-ki kana!—Chōsui.

Alas! poor solitary tree!—pitiful now your lot,—every breath of air having been sucked up by the sémi!

Sometimes the noise of the sémi is described as a moving force:—

Sémi no koëKi-gi ni ugoité,Kazé mo nashi!—Sōyō.Every tree in the wood quivers with clamor of sémi:Motion only of noise—never a breath of wind!Také ni kité,Yuki yori omoshiSémi no koë.—Tōgetsu.

Sémi no koëKi-gi ni ugoité,Kazé mo nashi!—Sōyō.

Every tree in the wood quivers with clamor of sémi:Motion only of noise—never a breath of wind!

Také ni kité,Yuki yori omoshiSémi no koë.—Tōgetsu.

More heavy than winter-snow the voices of perching sémi:See how the bamboos bend under the weight of their song![31]

[31]Japanese artists have found many a charming inspiration in the spectacle of bamboos bending under the weight of snow clinging to their tops.

Morogoë niYama ya ugokasu,Ki-gi no sémi.All shrilling together, the multitudinous sémiMake, with their ceaseless clamor, even the mountain move.Kusunoki moUgoku yō nari,Sémi no koë.—Baijaku.Even the camphor-tree seems to quake with the clamor of sémi!

Morogoë niYama ya ugokasu,Ki-gi no sémi.

All shrilling together, the multitudinous sémiMake, with their ceaseless clamor, even the mountain move.

Kusunoki moUgoku yō nari,Sémi no koë.—Baijaku.

Even the camphor-tree seems to quake with the clamor of sémi!

Sometimes the sound is compared to the noise of boiling water:—

Hizakari waNiétatsu sémi noHayashi kana!In the hour of heaviest heat, how simmers the forest with sémi!Niété iruMizu bakari nari—Sémi no koë.—Taimu.

Hizakari waNiétatsu sémi noHayashi kana!

In the hour of heaviest heat, how simmers the forest with sémi!

Niété iruMizu bakari nari—Sémi no koë.—Taimu.

Simmers all the air with sibilation of sémi,Ceaseless, wearying sense,—a sound of perpetual boiling.

Other poets complain especially of the multitude of the noise-makers and the ubiquity of the noise:—

Aritaké noKi ni hibiki-kériSémi no koë.How many soever the trees, in each rings the voice of the sémi.Matsubara woIchi ri wa kitari,Sémi no koë.—Senga.Alone I walked for miles into the wood of pine-trees:Always the one same sémi shrilled its call in my ears.

Aritaké noKi ni hibiki-kériSémi no koë.

How many soever the trees, in each rings the voice of the sémi.

Matsubara woIchi ri wa kitari,Sémi no koë.—Senga.

Alone I walked for miles into the wood of pine-trees:Always the one same sémi shrilled its call in my ears.

Occasionally the subject is treated with comic exaggeration:—

Naité iruKi yori mo futoshiSémi no koë.The voice of the sémi is bigger [thicker] than the tree on which it sings.Sugi takashiSarédomo sémi noAmaru koë!High though the cedar be, the voice of the sémi is incomparably higher!

Naité iruKi yori mo futoshiSémi no koë.

The voice of the sémi is bigger [thicker] than the tree on which it sings.

Sugi takashiSarédomo sémi noAmaru koë!

High though the cedar be, the voice of the sémi is incomparably higher!

Koë nagakiSémi wa mijikakiInochi kana!How long, alas! the voice and how short the life of the sémi!

Koë nagakiSémi wa mijikakiInochi kana!

How long, alas! the voice and how short the life of the sémi!

Some poets celebrate the negative form of pleasure following upon the cessation of the sound:—

Sémi ni dété,Hotaru ni modoru,—Suzumi kana!—Yayū.When the sémi cease their noise, and the fireflies come out—oh! how refreshing the hour!

Sémi ni dété,Hotaru ni modoru,—Suzumi kana!—Yayū.

When the sémi cease their noise, and the fireflies come out—oh! how refreshing the hour!

Sémi no tatsu,Ato suzushisa yo!Matsu no koë.—Baijaku.When the sémi cease their storm, oh, how refreshing the stillness!Gratefully then resounds the musical speech of the pines.

Sémi no tatsu,Ato suzushisa yo!Matsu no koë.—Baijaku.

When the sémi cease their storm, oh, how refreshing the stillness!Gratefully then resounds the musical speech of the pines.

[Here I may mention, by the way, that there is a little Japanese song about thematsu no koë, in which the onomatope "zazanza" very well represents the deep humming of the wind in the pine-needles:—

Zazanza!Hama-matsu no oto wa,—Zazanza,Zazanza!Zazanza!The sound of the pines of the shore,—Zazanza!Zazanza!]

There are poets, however, who declare that the feeling produced by the noise of sémi depends altogether upon the nervous condition of the listener:—

Mori no sémiSuzushiki koë ya,Atsuki koë.—Otsushu.Sometimes sultry the sound; sometimes, again, refreshing:The chant of the forest-sémi accords with the hearer's mood.Suzushisa moAtsusa mo sémi noTokoro kana!—Fuhaku.Sometimes we think it cool,—the resting-place of the sémi;—sometimes we think it hot (it is all a matter of fancy).Suzushii toOmoéba, suzushiSémi no koë.—Ginkō.If we think it is cool, then the voice of the sémi is cool (that is, the fancy changes the feeling).

Mori no sémiSuzushiki koë ya,Atsuki koë.—Otsushu.

Sometimes sultry the sound; sometimes, again, refreshing:The chant of the forest-sémi accords with the hearer's mood.

Suzushisa moAtsusa mo sémi noTokoro kana!—Fuhaku.

Sometimes we think it cool,—the resting-place of the sémi;—sometimes we think it hot (it is all a matter of fancy).

Suzushii toOmoéba, suzushiSémi no koë.—Ginkō.

If we think it is cool, then the voice of the sémi is cool (that is, the fancy changes the feeling).

In view of the many complaints of Japanese poets about the noisiness of sémi, the reader may be surprised to learn that out of sémi-skins there used to be made in both China and Japan—perhaps upon homœopathic principles—a medicine for the cure of ear-ache!

One poem, nevertheless, proves that sémi-music has its admirers:—

Omoshiroi zo ya,Waga-ko no koë waTakai mori-ki noSémi no koë![32]Sweet to the ear is the voice of one's own child as the voice of a sémi perched on a tall forest tree.

Omoshiroi zo ya,Waga-ko no koë waTakai mori-ki noSémi no koë![32]

Sweet to the ear is the voice of one's own child as the voice of a sémi perched on a tall forest tree.

[32]There is another version of this poem:—Omoshiroi zo ya,Waga-ko no naku waSembu-ségaki noKyō yori mo!"More sweetly sounds the crying of one's own child than even the chanting of the sûtra in the service for the dead." The Buddhist service alluded to is held to be particularly beautiful.

[32]There is another version of this poem:—

Omoshiroi zo ya,Waga-ko no naku waSembu-ségaki noKyō yori mo!

"More sweetly sounds the crying of one's own child than even the chanting of the sûtra in the service for the dead." The Buddhist service alluded to is held to be particularly beautiful.

But such admiration is rare. More frequently the sémi is represented as crying for its nightly repast of dew:—

Sémi wo kiké,—Ichi-nichi naitéYoru no tsuyu.—Kikaku.Hear the sémi shrill! So, from earliest dawning,All the summer day he cries for the dew of night.Yū-tsuyu noKuchi ni iru madéNaku sémi ka?—Baishitsu.Will the sémi continue to cry till the night-dew fills its mouth?

Sémi wo kiké,—Ichi-nichi naitéYoru no tsuyu.—Kikaku.

Hear the sémi shrill! So, from earliest dawning,All the summer day he cries for the dew of night.

Yū-tsuyu noKuchi ni iru madéNaku sémi ka?—Baishitsu.

Will the sémi continue to cry till the night-dew fills its mouth?

Occasionally the sémi is mentioned in love-songs of which the following is a fair specimen. It belongs to that class of ditties commonly sung by geisha. Merely as a conceit, I think it pretty, in spite of the factitious pathos; but to Japanese taste it is decidedly vulgar. The allusion to beating implies jealousy:—

Nushi ni tatakaré,Washa matsu no sémiSugaritsuki-tsukiNaku bakari!Beaten by my jealous lover,—Like the sémi on the pine-treeI can only cry and cling!

Nushi ni tatakaré,Washa matsu no sémiSugaritsuki-tsukiNaku bakari!

Beaten by my jealous lover,—Like the sémi on the pine-treeI can only cry and cling!

And indeed the following tiny picture is a truer bit of work, according to Japanese art-principles (I do not know the author's name):—

Sémi hitotsuMatsu no yū-hi woKakaé-kéri.Lo! on the topmost pine, a solitary cicadaVainly attempts to clasp one last red beam of sun.

Sémi hitotsuMatsu no yū-hi woKakaé-kéri.

Lo! on the topmost pine, a solitary cicadaVainly attempts to clasp one last red beam of sun.

PHILOSOPHICAL verses do not form a numerous class of Japanese poems upon sémi; but they possess an interest altogether exotic. As the metamorphosis of the butterfly supplied to old Greek thought an emblem of the soul's ascension, so the natural history of the cicada has furnished Buddhism with similitudes and parables for the teaching of doctrine.

Man sheds his body only as the sémi sheds its skin. But each reincarnation obscures the memory of the previous one: we remember our former existence no more than the sémi remembers the shell from which it has emerged. Oftena sémi may be found in the act of singing beside its cast-off skin; therefore a poet has written:—

Waré to wagaKara ya tomurō—Sémi no koë.—Yayū.Methinks that sémi sits and sings by his former body,—Chanting the funeral service over his own dead self.

Waré to wagaKara ya tomurō—Sémi no koë.—Yayū.

Methinks that sémi sits and sings by his former body,—Chanting the funeral service over his own dead self.

This cast-off skin, or simulacrum,—clinging to bole or branch as in life, and seeming still to stare with great glazed eyes,—has suggested many things both to profane and to religious poets. In love-songs it is often likened to a body consumed by passionate longing. In Buddhist poetry it becomes a symbol of earthly pomp,—the hollow show of human greatness:—

Yo no naka yoKaëru no hadaka,Sémi no kinu!Naked as frogs and weak we enter this life of trouble;Shedding our pomps we pass: so sémi quit their skins.

Yo no naka yoKaëru no hadaka,Sémi no kinu!

Naked as frogs and weak we enter this life of trouble;Shedding our pomps we pass: so sémi quit their skins.

But sometimes the poet compares the winged and shrilling sémi to a human ghost, and the broken shell to the body left behind:—

Tamashii waUkiyo ni naité,Sémi no kara.Here the forsaken shell: above me the voice of the creatureShrills like the cry of a Soul quitting this world of pain.

Tamashii waUkiyo ni naité,Sémi no kara.

Here the forsaken shell: above me the voice of the creatureShrills like the cry of a Soul quitting this world of pain.

Then the great sun-quickened tumult of the cicadæ—landstorm of summer life foredoomed so soon to pass away—is likened by preacher and poet to the tumult of human desire. Even as the sémi rise from earth, and climb to warmth and light, and clamor, and presently again return to dust and silence,—so rise and clamor and pass the generations of men:—

Yagaté shinuKeshiki wa miézu,Sémi no koë.—Bashō.Never an intimation in all those voices of sémiHow quickly the hush will come,—how speedily all must die.

Yagaté shinuKeshiki wa miézu,Sémi no koë.—Bashō.

Never an intimation in all those voices of sémiHow quickly the hush will come,—how speedily all must die.

I wonder whether the thought in this little verse does not interpret something of that summer melancholy which comes to us out of nature's solitudes with the plaint of insect-voices. Unconsciously those millions of millions of tiny beings are preaching the ancient wisdom of the East,—the perpetual Sûtra of Impermanency.

Yet how few of our modern poets have given heed to the voices of insects!

Perhaps it is only to minds inexorably haunted by the Riddle of Life that Nature can speak to-day, in those thin sweet trillings, as she spake of old to Solomon.

The Wisdom of the East hears all things. And he that obtains it will hear the speech of insects,—as Sigurd, tasting the Dragon's Heart, heard suddenly the talking of birds.

Note.—For the pictures of sémi accompanying this paper, I am indebted to a curious manuscript work in several volumes, preserved in the Imperial Library at Uyéno. The work is entitledChūfu-Zusetsu,—which might be freely rendered as "Pictures and Descriptions of Insects,"—and is divided into twelve books. The writer's name is unknown; but he must have been an amiable and interesting person, to judge from the naïve preface which he wrote, apologizing for the labors of a lifetime. "When I was young," he says, "I was very fond of catching worms and insects, and making pictures of their shapes,—so that these pictures have now become several hundred in number." He believes that he has found a good reason for studying insects: "Among the multitude of living creatures in this world," he says, "those having large bodies are familiar: we know very well their names, shapes, and virtues, and the poisons which they possess. But there remain very many small creatures whose natures are still unknown, notwithstanding the fact that such little beings as insects and worms are able to injure men and to destroy what has value. So I think that it is very important for us to learn what insects or worms have special virtues or poisons." It appears that he had sent to him "from other countries" some kinds of insects "that eat the leaves and shoots of trees;" but he could not "get their exact names." For the names of domestic insects, he consulted many Chinese and Japanese books, and has been "able to write the names with the proper Chinese characters;" but he tells us that he did not fail "to pick up also thenames given to worms and insects by old farmers and little boys." The preface is dated thus:—"Ansei Kanoté, the third month—at a little cottage" [1856].With the introduction of scientific studies the author of theChūfu-Zusetsucould no longer hope to attract attention. Yet his very modest and very beautiful work was forgotten only a moment. It is now a precious curiosity; and the old man's ghost might to-day find some happiness in a visit to the Imperial Library.

With the introduction of scientific studies the author of theChūfu-Zusetsucould no longer hope to attract attention. Yet his very modest and very beautiful work was forgotten only a moment. It is now a precious curiosity; and the old man's ghost might to-day find some happiness in a visit to the Imperial Library.

decloration3

BY the Japanese a certain kind of girl is called a Rose-Girl,—Bara-Musumé. Perhaps my reader will think of Tennyson's "queen-rose of the rosebud-garden of girls," and imagine some analogy between the Japanese and the English idea of femininity symbolized by the rose. But there is no analogy whatever. TheBara-Musuméis not so called because she is delicate and sweet, nor because she blushes, nor because she is rosy; indeed, a rosy face is not admired in Japan. No; she is compared to a rose chiefly for the reason that a rose has thorns. The man who tries to pull a Japanese rose is likely to hurt his fingers. The man who tries to win aBara-Musuméis apt to hurt himself much more seriously,—even unto death.It were better, alone and unarmed, to meet a tiger than to invite the caress of a Rose-Girl.

Now the appellation ofBara-Musumé—much more rational as a simile than many of our own floral comparisons—can seem strange only because it is not in accord with our poetical usages and emotional habits. It is one in a thousand possible examples of the fact that Japanese similes and metaphors are not of the sort that he who runs may read. And this fact is particularly well exemplified in theyobina, or personal names of Japanese women. Because ayobinahappens to be identical with the name of some tree, or bird, or flower, it does not follow that the personal appellation conveys to Japanese imagination ideas resembling those which the corresponding English word would convey, under like circumstances, to English imagination. Of theyobinathat seem to us especially beautiful in translation, only a small number are bestowed for æsthetic reasons. Nor is it correct to suppose, as many persons still do, that Japanese girls are usually named after flowers, or graceful shrubs, or other beautiful objects. Æsthetic appellations are in use; but the majority ofyobinaare not æsthetic. Some years ago a young Japanese scholar publishedan interesting essay upon this subject. He had collected the personal names of about four hundred students of the Higher Normal School for Females,—girls from every part of the Empire; and he found on his list only between fifty and sixty names possessing æsthetic quality. But concerning even these he was careful to observe only that they "causedan æsthetic sensation,"—not that they had been given for æsthetic reasons. Among them were such names asSaki(Cape),Miné(Peak),Kishi(Beach),Hama(Shore),Kuni(Capital),—originally place-names;—Tsuru(Stork),Tazu(Ricefield Stork), andChizu(Thousand Storks);—also such appellations asYoshino(Fertile Field),Orino(Weavers' Field),Shirushi(Proof), andMasago(Sand). Few of these could seem æsthetic to a Western mind; and probably no one of them was originally given for æsthetic reasons. Names containing the character for "Stork" are names having reference to longevity, not to beauty; and a large number of names with the termination "no" (field or plain) are names referring to moral qualities. I doubt whether even fifteen per cent ofyobinaare really æsthetic. A very much larger proportionare names expressing moral or mental qualities. Tenderness, kindness, deftness, cleverness, are frequently represented byyobina; but appellations implying physical charm, or suggesting æsthetic ideas only, are comparatively uncommon. One reason for the fact may be that very æsthetic names are given togeishaand tojōro, and consequently vulgarized. But the chief reason certainly is that the domestic virtues still occupy in Japanese moral estimate a place not less important than that accorded to religious faith in the life of our own Middle Ages. Not in theory only, but in every-day practice, moral beauty is placed far above physical beauty; and girls are usually selected as wives, not for their good looks, but for their domestic qualities. Among the middle classes a very æsthetic name would not be considered in the best taste; among the poorer classes, it would scarcely be thought respectable. Ladies of rank, on the other hand, are privileged to bear very poetical names; yet the majority of the aristocratic yobina also are moral rather than æsthetic.

But the first great difficulty in the way of a study ofyobinais the difficulty of translatingthem. A knowledge of spoken Japanese can help you very little indeed. A knowledge of Chinese also is indispensable. The meaning of a name written inkanaonly,—in the Japanese characters,—cannot be, in most cases, even guessed at. The Chinese characters of the name can alone explain it. The Japanese essayist, already referred to, found himself obliged to throw out no less than thirty-six names out of a list of two hundred and thirteen, simply because these thirty-six, having been recorded only inkana, could not be interpreted.Kanagive only the pronunciation; and the pronunciation of a woman's name explains nothing in a majority of cases. Transliterated into Romaji, ayobinamay signify two, three, or even half-a-dozen different things. One of the names thrown out of the list wasBanka.Bankamight signify "Mint" (the plant), which would be a pretty name; but it might also mean "Evening-haze."Yuka, another rejected name, might be an abbreviation ofYukabutsu, "precious"; but it might just as well mean "a floor."Nochi, a third example, might signify "future"; yet it could also mean "a descendant," and various other things. My reader will be able to find many other homonymsin the lists of names given further on.Aiin Romaji, for instance, may signify either "love" or "indigo-blue";—Chō, "a butterfly," or "superior," or "long";—Ei, either "sagacious" or "blooming";—Kei, either "rapture" or "reverence";—Sato, either "native home" or "sugar";—Toshi, either "year" or "arrow-head";—Taka, "tall," "honorable," or "falcon." The chief, and, for the present, insuperable obstacle to the use of Roman letters in writing Japanese, is the prodigious number of homonyms in the language. You need only glance into any good Japanese-English dictionary to understand the gravity of this obstacle. Not to multiply examples, I shall merely observe that there are nineteen words spelledchō; twenty-one spelledki; twenty-five spelledtoortō; and no less than forty-nine spelledkoorkō.

Yet, as I have already suggested, the real signification of a woman's name cannot be ascertained even from a literal translation made with the help of the Chinese characters. Such a name, for instance, asKagami(Mirror) really signifies the Pure-Minded, and this not in the Occidental, but in the Confucian sense of the term.Umé(Plum-blossom) is a name referring to wifely devotion and virtue.Matsu(Pine) does not refer, as an appellation, to the beauty of the tree, but to the fact that its evergreen foliage is the emblem of vigorous age. The nameTaké(Bamboo) is given to a child only because the bamboo has been for centuries a symbol of good-fortune. The nameSen(Wood-fairy) sounds charmingly to Western fancy; yet it expresses nothing more than the parents' hope of long life for their daughter and her offspring,—wood-fairies being supposed to live for thousands of years.... Again, many names are of so strange a sort that it is impossible to discover their meaning without questioning either the bearer or the giver; and sometimes all inquiry proves vain, because the original meaning has been long forgotten.

Before attempting to go further into the subject, I shall here offer a translation of the Tōkyō essayist's list of names,—rearranged in alphabetical order, without honorific prefixes or suffixes. Although some classes of common names are not represented, the list will serve to show the character of many still popularyobina, and also to illustrate several of the facts to which I have already called attention.

Number ofstudentsso named.

Back to Index Next