A Japanese Boy
some token of the culture and refinement of the clique, or to show off
the individual's finish of hand and elegance of expression. Vanity is at
the bottom of it.
We sat on the scarlet Chinese blanket, spread on the greensward; wine
made every heart buoyant; the happy crew, by and by, sang, played the
samisen and tripped "the light fantastic toe." Indeed, nothing could
call us home, after such enjoyment of a beautiful day, but the reddening
western sky and the falling shades of night.
At Imabari we have an excellent public garden in the ruins of the old
castle. In spring when all the cherry trees bloom in full force, the
scene, surveyed at a distance, looks like the piles of white cloud in
the blue summer sky. You must know the Japanese cultivate the
cherry-tree not for its fruit, but for the beauty of its flowers. If the
tree bears fruit, it is bitter to the taste, worse than your
choke-cherries; nobody stops to pluck it. When past the height of
blooming, the flowers begin to leave the boughs quietly; later they fall
abundantly and quickly, and, alighting on the dirt below, cover it like
a sheet of snow. Trite as this description may appear, it has yet a
charm for me; for the happy time I spent under those blossoms, in that
mellow sun and that soft open air, steals back imperceptibly in my
memory.
In the centre of the garden stands a shrine of the Shinto gods. The
entire ground is considerably elevated above the level of the
surrounding regions, and stone walls hem it in. A belt of deep ditches,
which, in the warlike days of old, stemmed the rush of an invading army,
girdles the base of the steep walls. The neglect of years, passed in
peace, has left it in disrepair. To some of the trenches the ebb and
flow of sea-water have still access, and swarms of big fish and little
fish thrive unmolested, for none but the people that pay for the
privilege are permitted to angle in these fish-ponds. There are also
fresh-water moats; the beds of green pond-weeds and duck's meat closely
patch the sluggish, dark-colored waters. Here grows the famous lotus
plant of the East. It shoots up its broad umbrella-like leaves in
summer, and on the stalks here and there among the leaves open the
Buddhist's pure majestic flowers.
Having heard that the buds unlock in an instant at early dawn with the
noise of percussion, we, the curious, formed a little party for the
purpose of investigating the truth of it. We arose a little after
midnight, gathered together the pledged and groped our way in the dark;
we could scarcely discern one another. By the time, however, we arrived
at our destination, it was close upon daybreak; a party at the further
end of the bank showed darkly against the aurora of the eastern sky, for
the country round was open and nothing stood between us and the sea. We
kept vigil intently; for my part I failed to observe any of the buds
open; having watched a great many at the same time I really watched
none. A clever person instructed me that my whole attention should be
paid to a single bud; for which reason I the next time pitched upon one
particular bud. I kept my eye on it all the morning, looking neither to
the right nor to the left. I was once before provoked at a spiral bud of
morning-glory in my garden, because it intentionally unfurled upon me
when I was looking aside. Accordingly, I took especial care against such
failure on my part; but it all proved vain--the lotus bud was too young
to blossom!
The flowers are very large; white is the common color, but then there is
a rare lovely pink shade. The plant bears edible fruit; the root, too,
is counted a delicacy. By reason of the unknown depth of the black mud,
wherein the roots lie hidden, the plucking of them is very difficult;
the men formerly held in contempt under the name of Etta dive in the
mire and search for them. The prized article is seen, immersed in water,
in grocery stores on sale; no feast of any pretension is complete
without it. When sliced crosswise the renkon (lotus root) shows about
half-a-dozen symmetrical holes; the slices are boiled with the katsuwo
and shoyu and are valued highly for toothsomeness.
Some of the wide ditches were filled up from time to time; and in the
places where fishes had frisked about or warriors tried to float a raft,
farmers were now peacefully hoeing potatoes, or pumpkins basked their
heads in the noontide sun. But the castle, being too colossal to be
pulled down at once, remained entire for a long time, after the feudal
system had been abolished and the Lord of Imabari summoned to Yedo.
Unfortunately, however, the extensive underground powder magazine one
morning caught a spark of fire, and all of a sudden the towers and
palaces blew up with a tremendous explosion. At that period the Japanese
apprehended the possible invasion of the "red-haired devils," the
foreigners; for which reason it was not to be wondered at that the
patriotic citizens of Imabari mistook the earth-rending roar and the
heavy ascending columns of smoke in the direction of the old stronghold
for a cannonade of enemies. The panic it produced in town struck terror
into everybody's heart; the weak and nervous fell into fits. A drizzling
rain since the previous eve rendered the streets excessively wet.
Splashing in the mud and puddles, the heroic of the townsmen, with the
loose dangling skirt of the Japanese garment tucked up through the belt
for action, hurried castleward with the utmost speed, with unsheathed
spear and sword in hand, to the great consternation of the astounded
populace. I was scarcely of an age to comprehend the dire calamity, yet
the scene impressed me indelibly. Soon the vision of foreign hairy
invaders vanished; the people saw that it was a sheer accident, fearful
as it was; but in that ancient lax administration behind the screen of
cruel rigidity, the real cause of it has never been thoroughly
investigated. Lives were lost in the disaster, for a multitude of
servants still lived in the castle. Mutilated limbs and bodies were
subsequently picked up in abundance from the surrounding moats; the
features of many were too badly marred for identification; and as to the
severed limbs no one could tell which belonged to which of the
shattered trunks.
The remaining half-burned buildings have since been destroyed piecemeal;
all that now remains of the proud castle is the innermost circle of
masonry, which cannot so easily be leveled to the ground. It is not
provided with a railing, and in looking down the steep one feels his
heart stand still. The vast prospect it commands, extending far beyond
the town limits, is superb. A man taking the path directly below the
wall appears no bigger than a dot.
Since I have begun a long story about this grand ruin, give me leave to
recount a tradition in connection with it. Back in the dark ages the
superstitious belief existed in Japan, that in building a castle, to
secure the firmness of its foundation a human life should be sacrificed.
Usually a person was buried alive beneath one of the walls; some declare
the efficacy nullified unless the victim be taken in unawares. The
chronicle says, that in conformity to the above belief when the Imabari
castle, was being raised a horrible homicide had been committed. At
first the authorities were much at a loss in the choice of a proper
offering. One day a poor, decrepit old woman, either prompted by
curiosity or to beg money of the men, approached the work; little did
she dream her life was in peril; in an instant a sagacious magistrate
solved the problem. The signal nod from him, and the castle-builders
fell upon the crone and, amid her screams, struggles, entreaties, stoned
her to the earth. Henceforward, it is said, in the dead silence of the
castle at night a faint, pitiful cry, now drowned in the soughing storm
outside, now audible in the dreadful pause, echoes from under the
ground. I had the precise spot pointed out to me; it lies in the centre
of all the outlying bulwarks; in passing it I always felt a thrill steal
through me, and turned that corner at a greater angle than I would an
ordinary corner, with the intention of keeping my feet off the buried
bones.
In those tyrannical days of feudalism the samurais presumed much upon
the commoners of the town. They not only laid claim wrongly to their
personal property, but also regarded their lives as of no importance.
The samurai always carried two swords by his side, one long and one
short, to arbitrate right and wrong in altercations. Blades tempered by
certain smiths were particularly esteemed; and in order to test the
cutting edge, he would lie in wait nightly at a street corner for a
victim. An innocent passer-by was ferociously attacked and, unless he
could defend himself, was wantonly slain. Such outrages actually
occurred in places; people, forthwith, seldom stirred abroad nights.
Heaven be thanked, those savage times are gone forever; the street-lamps
light every nook and corner, and the police guard the safety of the
citizen.
CHAPTER VIII.
My mother is fond of parties and young people and their keen
appreciation of pleasure; my father is of a far different turn of mind;
he has his happiest moments in smoking leisurely, in manipulating the
fishing-rod and line, under the shielding pine-tree, by some quiet
river-bank, or in hunting out edible mushrooms in the mountains. He is a
respectable, practical Izaak Walton; quaint ripples of smile pass across
his face as the nibbling fish gives his line a tantalizing pull; he
helps me bait, he teaches me when and how to make sure of my spoil,--for
many a victim hangs to the hook just long enough to rise out of water,
glitters transiently in the sun and thrills one with joy, and then
decides, undeceived, to reject the dainty morsel: there rises an ever
widening, ever receding circle on the still liquid surface, a golden
flap of the tail, and the fish is invisible, leaving one despondent. I
liked mother's and sisters' company, but also appreciated father's
soothing, restful influence. At the simple repast in the open solitary
scene of the field and stream, after angling all the morning, he said
little; yet the expression of calm enjoyment and honest humor on his
face brightened his companion. Those were delightful times; I have the
scene at this moment before my mental eye:--the broad beach of white
sand surrounding the cove, where the river meets the sea, with a lonely
stork standing on one leg in shallow water; the briny odor from the sea,
and the fresh scent from the meadow; the sighing pines overhead and the
turbulent water at the stone abutments of the bridge; the sunny blue sea
beyond the sand-bar, studded with white sails; a huge cloud of smoke
swaying landward, rising from the distant brick-yard; and in the
grayish-blue background the silhouette of a grove and knoll, whereon a
wayside shrine stands.
"See what you can do about here," says my father, taking in his line, "I
shall follow the river up and find if they bite." He turns his back and
disappears and reappears among the scrub oaks and stunted willows that
fringe the margin. I stay where I am like a good son; but being no more
successful than before, and bored and wishing company, after a
reasonable lapse of time, I find myself going after my father. Upon
finding him quietly seated under some protruding tree, beneath whose
mirrored branches and near whose knotty root the water darkens in a
pool, I inquire into his success. "No, nothing marvelous," he responds
gently, gazing dreamily across the river, yet wary with the fish that
"cometh as a thief in the night." I take the liberty of lifting the lid
of his basket and peep at the contents; a large trout disturbed by the
jar I gave it, snaps violently--I let down the lid instantly at