Chapter I: Introduction

Lafcadio Hearn, known to Nippon as Yakumo Koizumi, was born in Leucadia in the Ionian Islands, June 27, 1850. His father was an Irish surgeon in the British Army; his mother was a Greek. Both parents died while Hearn was still a child, and he was adopted by a great-aunt, and educated for the priesthood. To this training he owed his Latin scholarship and, doubtless, something of the subtlety of his intelligence. He soon found, however, that the prospect of an ecclesiastical career was alien from his inquiring mind and vivid temperament, and at the age of nineteen he came to America to seek his fortune. After working for a time as a proof-reader, he obtained employment as a newspaper reporter in Cincinnati. Soon he rose to be an editorial writer, and went in the course of a few years to New Orleans to join the editorial staff of the "Times-Democrat." Here he lived until 1887, writing odd fantasies and arabesques for his paper, contributing articles and sketches to the magazines, and publishing several curious little books, among them his "Stray Leaves from Strange Literature," and his translations from Gautier. In the winter of 1887 he began his pilgrimages to exotic countries, being, as he wrote to a friend, "a small literary bee in search of inspiring honey." After a couple of years, spent chiefly in the French West Indies, with periods of literary work in New York, he went in 1890 to Japan to prepare a series of articles for a magazine. Here through some deep affinity of mood with the marvelous people of that country he seems suddenly to have felt himself at last at home. He married a Japanese woman; he acquired Japanese citizenship in order to preserve the succession of his property to his family there; he became a lecturer in the Imperial University at T[=o]ky[=o]; and in a series of remarkable books he made himself the interpreter to the Western World of the very spirit of Japanese life and art. He died there of paralysis of the heart on the 26th of September, 1904.

* * * * *

With the exception of a body of familiar letters now in process of collection, the present volume contains all of Hearn's writing that he left uncollected in the magazines or in manuscript of a sufficient ripeness for publication. It is worth noting, however, that perfect as is the writing of "Ultimate Questions," and complete as the essay is in itself, the author regarded it as unfinished, and, had he lived, would have revised and amplified some portions of it.

But if this volume lacks the incomparably exquisite touch of its author in its arrangement and revision, it does, nevertheless, present him in all of his most characteristic veins, and it is in respect both to style and to substance perhaps the most mature and significant of his works.

In his first days as a writer Hearn had conceived an ideal of his art as specific as it was ambitious. Early in the eighties he wrote from New Orleans in an unpublished letter to the Rev. Wayland D. Ball of Washington: "The lovers of antique loveliness are proving to me the future possibilities of a long cherished dream,--the English realization of a Latin style, modeled upon foreign masters, and rendered even more forcible by that element of _strength_ which is the characteristic of Northern tongues. This no man can hope to accomplish, but even a translator may carry his stones to the master-masons of a new architecture of language." In the realization of his ideal Hearn took unremitting pains. He gave a minute and analytical study to the writings of such masters of style as Flaubert and Gautier, and he chose his miscellaneous reading with a peculiar care. He wrote again to the same friend: "I never read a book which does not powerfully impress the imagination; but whatever contains novel, curious, potent imagery I always read, no matter what the subject. When the soil of fancy is really well enriched with innumerable fallen leaves, the flowers of language grow spontaneously." Finally, to the hard study of technique, to vast but judicious reading, he added a long, creative brooding time. To a Japanese friend, Nobushige Amenomori, he wrote in a passage which contains by implication a deep theory not only of literary composition, but of all art:--

"Now with regard to your own sketch or story. If you are quite dissatisfied with it, I think this is probably due _not_ to what you suppose,--imperfection of expression,--but rather to the fact that some _latent_ thought or emotion has not yet defined itself in your mind with sufficient sharpness. You feel something and have not been able to express the feeling--only because you do not yet quite know what it is. We feel without understanding feeling; and our most powerful emotions are the most undefinable. This must be so, because they are inherited accumulations of feeling, and the multiplicity of them--superimposed one over another--blurs them, and makes them dim, even though enormously increasing their strength.... _Unconscious_ brain work is the best to develop such latent feeling or thought. By quietly writing the thing over and over again, I find that the emotion or idea often _develops itself_ in the process,--unconsciously. Again, it is often worth while to _try_ to analyze the feeling that remains dim. The effort of trying to understand exactly what it is that moves us sometimes proves successful.... If you have any feeling--no matter what--strongly latent in the mind (even only a haunting sadness or a mysterious joy), you may be sure that it is expressible. Some feelings are, of course, very difficult to develop. I shall show you one of these days, when we see each other, a page that I worked at for _months_ before the idea came clearly.... When the best result comes, it ought to surprise you, for our best work is out of the Unconscious."

Through this study, reading, and brooding Lafcadio Hearn's prose ripened and mellowed consistently to the end. In mere workmanship the present volume is one of his most admirable, while in its heightened passages, like the final paragraph of "The Romance of the Milky Way," the rich, melancholy music, the profound suggestion, are not easily matched from any but the very greatest English prose.

In substance the volume is equally significant. In 1884 he wrote to one of the closest of his friends that he had at last found his feet intellectually through the reading of Herbert Spencer which had dispelled all "isms" from his mind and left him "the vague but omnipotent consolation of the Great Doubt." And in "Ultimate Questions," which strikes, so to say, the dominant chord of this volume, we have an almost lyrical expression of the meaning for him of the Spencerian philosophy and psychology. In it is his characteristic mingling of Buddhist and Shinto thought with English and French psychology, strains which in his work "do not simply mix well," as he says in one of his letters, but "absolutely unite, like chemical elements--rush together with a shock;"--and in it he strikes his deepest note. In his steady envisagement of the horror that envelops the stupendous universe of science, in his power to evoke and revive old myths and superstitions, and by their glamour to cast a ghostly light of vanished suns over the darkness of the abyss, he was the most Lucretian of modern writers.

* * * * *

In outward appearance Hearn, the man, was in no way prepossessing. In the sharply lined picture of him drawn by one of his Japanese comrades in the "Atlantic" for October, 1905, he appears, "slightly corpulent in later years, short in stature, hardly five feet high, of somewhat stooping gait. A little brownish in complexion, and of rather hairy skin. A thin, sharp, aquiline nose, large protruding eyes, of which the left was blind and the right very near-sighted."

The same writer, Nobushige Amenomori, has set down a reminiscence, not of Hearn the man, but of Hearn the genius, wherewith this introduction to the last of his writings may fitly conclude: "I shall ever retain the vivid remembrance of the sight I had when I stayed over night at his house for the first time. Being used myself also to sit up late, I read in bed that night. The clock struck one in the morning, but there was a light in Hearn's study. I heard some low, hoarse coughing. I was afraid my friend might be ill; so I stepped out of my room and went to his study. Not wanting, however, to disturb him, if he was at work, I cautiously opened the door just a little, and peeped in. I saw my friend intent in writing at his high desk, with his nose almost touching the paper. Leaf after leaf he wrote on. In a while he held up his head, and what did I see! It was not the Hearn I was familiar with; it was another Hearn. His face was mysteriously white; his large eye gleamed. He appeared like one in touch with some unearthly presence.

"Within that homely looking man there burned something pure as the vestal fire, and in that flame dwelt a mind that called forth life and poetry out of dust, and grasped the highest themes of human thought."

F.G.

September, 1905.

THE ROMANCE, OF THE MILKY WAY

Of old it was said: 'The River of Heaven is the Ghost of
Waters.' We behold it shifting its bed in the course of the
year as an earthly river sometimes does.

_Ancient Scholar_

Among the many charming festivals celebrated by Old Japan, the most romantic was the festival of Tanabata-Sama, the Weaving-Lady of the Milky Way. In the chief cities her holiday is now little observed; and in T[=o]ky[=o] it is almost forgotten. But in many country districts, and even in villages, near the capital, it is still celebrated in a small way. If you happen to visit an old-fashioned country town or village, on the seventh day of the seventh month (by the ancient calendar), you will probably notice many freshly-cut bamboos fixed upon the roofs of the houses, or planted in the ground beside them, every bamboo having attached to it a number of strips of colored paper. In some very poor villages you might find that these papers are white, or of one color only; but the general rule is that the papers should be of five or seven different colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, and white are the tints commonly displayed. All these papers are inscribed with short poems written in praise of Tanabata and her husband Hikoboshi. After the festival the bamboos are taken down and thrown into the nearest stream, together with the poems attached to them.

* * * * *

To understand the romance of this old festival, you must know the legend of those astral divinities to whom offerings used to be made, even by, the Imperial Household, on the seventh day of the seventh month. The legend is Chinese. This is the Japanese popular version of it:--

The great god of the firmament had a lovely daughter, Tanabata-tsum['e], who passed her days in weaving garments for her august parent. She rejoiced in her work, and thought that there was no greater pleasure than the pleasure of weaving. But one day, as she sat before her loom at the door of her heavenly dwelling, she saw a handsome peasant lad pass by, leading an ox, and she fell in love with him. Her august father, divining her secret wish, gave her the youth for a husband. But the wedded lovers became too fond of each other, and neglected their duty to the god of the firmament; the sound of the shuttle was no longer heard, and the ox wandered, unheeded, over the plains of heaven. Therefore the great god was displeased, and he separated the pair. They were sentenced to live thereafter apart, with the Celestial River between them; but it was permitted them to see each other once a year, on the seventh night of the seventh moon. On that night--providing the skies be clear--the birds of heaven make, with their bodies and wings, a bridge over the stream; and by means of that bridge the lovers can meet. But if there be rain, the River of Heaven rises, and becomes so wide that the bridge cannot be formed. So the husband and wife cannot always meet, even on the seventh night of the seventh month; it may happen, by reason of bad weather, that they cannot meet for three or four years at a time. But their love remains immortally young and eternally patient; and they continue to fulfill their respective duties each day without fault,--happy in their hope of being able to meet on the seventh night of the next seventh month.

* * * * *

To ancient Chinese fancy, the Milky Way was a luminous river,--the River of Heaven,--the Silver Stream. It has been stated by Western writers that Tanabata, the Weaving-Lady, is a star in Lyra; and the Herdsman, her beloved, a star in Aquila, on the opposite side of the galaxy. But it were more correct to say that both are represented, to Far-Eastern imagination, by groups of stars. An old Japanese book puts the matter thus plainly: "Kengy[=u] (the Ox-Leader) is on the west side of the Heavenly River, and is represented by three stars in a row, and looks like a man leading an ox. Shokujo (the Weaving-Lady) is on the east side of the Heavenly River: three stars so placed as to appear like the figure of a woman seated at her loom.... The former presides over all things relating to agriculture; the latter, over all that relates to women's work."

* * * * *

In an old book called Zatsuwa-Shin, it is said that these deities were of earthly origin. Once in this world they were man and wife, and lived in China; and the husband was called Ishi, and the wife Hakuy[=o]. They especially and most devoutly reverenced the Moon. Every clear evening, after sundown, they waited with eagerness to see her rise. And when she began to sink towards the horizon, they would climb to the top of a hill near their house, so that they might be able to gaze upon her face as long as possible. Then, when she at last disappeared from view, they would mourn together. At the age of ninety and nine, the wife died; and her spirit rode up to heaven on a magpie, and there became a star. The husband, who was then one hundred and three years old, sought consolation for his bereavement in looking at the Moon and when he welcomed her rising and mourned her setting, it seemed to him as if his wife were still beside him.

One summer night, Hakuy[=o]--now immortally beautiful and young--descended from heaven upon her magpie, to visit her husband; and he was made very happy by that visit. But from that time he could think of nothing but the bliss of becoming a star, and joining Hakuy[=o] beyond the River of Heaven. At last he also ascended to the sky, riding upon a crow; and there he became a star-god. But he could not join Hakuy[=o] at once, as he had hoped;--for between his allotted place and hers flowed the River of Heaven; and it was not permitted for either star to cross the stream, because the Master of Heaven (_Ten-Tei_) daily bathed in its waters. Moreover, there was no bridge. But on one day every year--the seventh day of the seventh month--they were allowed to see each other. The Master of Heaven goes always on that day to the Zenh[=o]do, to hear the preaching of the law of Buddha; and then the magpies and the crows make, with their hovering bodies and outspread wings, a bridge over the Celestial Stream; and Hakuy[=o] crosses that bridge to meet her husband.

There can be little doubt that the Japanese festival called Tanabata was originally identical with the festival of the Chinese Weaving-Goddess, Tchi-Niu; the Japanese holiday seems to have been especially a woman's holiday, from the earliest times; and the characters with which the word Tanabata is written signify a weaving-girl. But as both of the star-deities were worshiped on the seventh of the seventh month, some Japanese scholars have not been satisfied with the common explanation of the name, and have stated that it was originally composed with the word _tan['e]_ (seed, or grain), and the word _hata_ (loom). Those who accept this etymology make the appellation, Tanabata-Sama, plural instead of singular, and render it as "the deities of grain and of the loom,"--that is to say, those presiding over agriculture and weaving. In old Japanese pictures the star-gods are represented according to this conception of their respective attributes;--Hikoboshi being figured as a peasant lad leading an ox to drink of the Heavenly River, on the farther side of which Orihim['e] (Tanabata) appears, weaving at her loom. The garb of both is Chinese; and the first Japanese pictures of these divinities were probably copied from some Chinese original.

In the oldest collection of Japanese poetry extant,--the Many[=o]sh[=u], dating from 760 A.D.,--the male divinity is usually called Hikoboshi, and the female Tanabata-tsum['e]; but in later times both have been called Tanabata. In Izumo the male deity is popularly termed O-Tanabata Sama, and the female M['e]-Tanabata Sama. Both are still known by many names. The male is called Kaiboshi as well as Hikoboshi and Kengy[=u]; while the female is called Asagao-him['e] ("Morning Glory Princess")[1], Ito-ori-him['e] ("Thread-Weaving Princess"), Momoko-him['e] ("Peach-Child Princess"), Takimono-him['e] ("Incense Princess"), and Sasagani-him['e] ("Spider Princess"). Some of these names are difficult to explain,--especially the last, which reminds us of the Greek legend of Arachne. Probably the Greek myth and the Chinese story have nothing whatever in common; but in old Chinese books there is recorded a curious fact which might well suggest a relationship. In the time of the Chinese Emperor Ming Hwang (whom the Japanese call Gens[=o]), it was customary for the ladies of the court, on the seventh day of the seventh month, to catch spiders and put them into an incense-box for purposes of divination. On the morning of the eighth day the box was opened; and if the spiders had spun thick webs during the night the omen was good. But if they had remained idle the omen was bad.

[Footnote 1: Asagao (lit., "morning-face") is the Japanese name for the beautiful climbing plant which we call "morning glory."]

* * * * *

There is a story that, many ages ago, a beautiful woman visited the dwelling of a farmer in the mountains of Izumo, and taught to the only daughter of the household an art of weaving never before known. One evening the beautiful stranger vanished away; and the people knew that they had seen the Weaving-Lady of Heaven. The daughter of the farmer became renowned for her skill in weaving. But she would never marry,--because she had been the companion of Tanabata-Sama.

* * * * *

Then there is a Chinese story--delightfully vague--about a man who once made a visit, unawares, to the Heavenly Land. He had observed that every year, during the eighth month, a raft of precious wood came floating to the shore on which he lived; and he wanted to know where that wood grew. So he loaded a boat with provisions for a two years' voyage, and sailed away in the direction from which the rafts used to drift. For months and months he sailed on, over an always placid sea; and at last he arrived at a pleasant shore, where wonderful trees were growing. He moored his boat, and proceeded alone into the unknown land, until he came to the bank of a river whose waters were bright as silver. On the opposite shore he saw a pavilion; and in the pavilion a beautiful woman sat weaving; she was white like moonshine, and made a radiance all about her. Presently he saw a handsome young peasant approaching, leading an ox to the water; and he asked the young peasant to tell him the name of the place and the country. But the youth seemed to be displeased by the question, and answered in a severe tone: "If you want to know the name of this place, go back to where you came from, and ask Gen-Kum-Pei."[2] So the voyager, feeling afraid, hastened to his boat, and returned to China. There he sought out the sage Gen-Kum-Pei, to whom he related the adventure. Gen-Kum-Pei clapped his hands for wonder, and exclaimed, "So it was you!... On the seventh day of the seventh month I was gazing at the heavens, and I saw that the Herdsman and the Weaver were about to meet;--but between them was a new Star, which I took to be a Guest-Star. Fortunate man! you have been to the River of Heaven, and have looked upon the face of the Weaving-Lady!..."

[Footnote 2: This is the Japanese reading of the Chinese name.]

* * * * *

--It is said that the meeting of the Herdsman and the Weaver can be observed by any one with good eyes; for whenever it occurs those stars burn with five different colors. That is why offerings of five colors are made to the Tanabata divinities, and why the poems composed in their praise are written upon paper of five different tints.

But, as I have said before, the pair can meet only in fair weather. If there be the least rain upon the seventh night, the River of Heaven will rise, and the lovers must wait another whole year. Therefore the rain that happens to fall on Tanabata night is called _Namida no Am['e]_, "The Rain of Tears."

When the sky is clear on the seventh night, the lovers are fortunate; and their stars can be seen to sparkle with delight. If the star Kengy[=u] then shines very brightly, there will be great rice crops in the autumn. If the star Shokujo looks brighter than usual, there will be a prosperous time for weavers, and for every kind of female industry.

* * * * *

In old Japan it was generally supposed that the meeting of the pair signified good fortune to mortals. Even to-day, in many parts of the country, children sing a little song on the evening of the Tanabata festival,--_Tenki ni nari!_ ("O weather, be clear!") In the province of Iga the young folks also sing a jesting song at the supposed hour of the lovers' meeting:--

Tanabata ya!
Amari isogaba,
Korobub['e]shi![3]

But in the province of Izumo, which is a very rainy district, the contrary belief prevails; and it is thought that if the sky be clear on the seventh day of the seventh month, misfortune will follow. The local explanation of this belief is that if the stars can meet, there will be born from their union many evil deities who will afflict the country with drought and other calamities.

[Footnote 3: "Ho! Tanabata! if you hurry too much, you will tumble down!"]

* * * * *

The festival of Tanabata was first celebrated in Japan on the seventh day of the seventh month of Tomby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o] (A.D. 755). Perhaps the Chinese origin of the Tanabata divinities accounts for the fact that their public worship was at no time represented by many temples.

I have been able to find record of only one temple to them, called Tanabata-jinja, which was situated at a village called Hoshiaimura, in the province of Owari, and surrounded by a grove called Tanabata-mori.[4]

[Footnote 4: There is no mention, however, of any such village in any modern directory.]

Even before Temby[=o] Sh[=o]h[=o], however, the legend of the Weaving-Maiden seems to have been well known in Japan; for it is recorded that on the seventh night of the seventh year of Y[=o]r[=o] (A.D. 723) the poet Yamagami no Okura composed the song:--

Amanogawa,
Ai-muki tachit['e],
Waga ko[:i]shi
Kimi kimasu nari--
Himo-toki makina![5]

It would seem that the Tanabata festival was first established in Japan eleven hundred and fifty years ago, as an Imperial Court festival only, in accordance with Chinese precedent. Subsequently the nobility and the military classes everywhere followed imperial example; and the custom of celebrating the Hoshi-mat-suri, or Star-Festival,--as it was popularly called,--spread gradually downwards, until at last the seventh day of the seventh month became, in the full sense of the term, a national holiday. But the fashion of its observance varied considerably at different eras and in different provinces.

[Footnote 5: For a translation and explanation of this song, see _infra_, page 30.]

The ceremonies at the Imperial Court were of the most elaborate character: a full account of them is given in the _K[=o]ji Kongen_,--with explanatory illustrations. On the evening of the seventh day of the seventh month, mattings were laid down on the east side of that portion of the Imperial Palace called the Seir-y[=o]den; and upon these mattings were placed four tables of offerings to the Star-deities. Besides the customary food-offerings, there were placed upon these tables rice-wine, incense, vases of red lacquer containing flowers, a harp and flute, and a needle with five eyes, threaded with threads of five different colors. Black-lacquered oil-lamps were placed beside the tables, to illuminate the feast. In another part of the grounds a tub of water was so placed as to reflect the light of the Tanabata-stars; and the ladies of the Imperial Household attempted to thread a needle by the reflection. She who succeeded was to be fortunate during the following year. The court-nobility (_Kug['e]_) were obliged to make certain offerings to the Imperial House on the day of the festival. The character of these offerings, and the manner of their presentation, were fixed by decree. They were conveyed to the palace upon a tray, by a veiled lady of rank, in ceremonial dress. Above her, as she walked, a great red umbrella was borne by an attendant. On the tray were placed seven _tanzaku_ (longilateral slips of fine tinted paper for the writing of poems); seven _kudzu_-leaves;[6] seven inkstones; seven strings of _s[=o]men_ (a kind of vermicelli); fourteen writing-brushes; and a bunch of yam-leaves gathered at night, and thickly sprinkled with dew. In the palace grounds the ceremony began at the Hour of the Tiger,--4 A.M. Then the inkstones were carefully washed,--prior to preparing the ink for the writing of poems in praise of the Star-deities,--and each one set upon a _kudzu_-leaf. One bunch of bedewed yam-leaves was then laid upon every inkstone; and with this dew, instead of water, the writing-ink was prepared. All the ceremonies appear to have been copied from those in vogue at the Chinese court in the time of the Emperor Ming-Hwang.

[Footnote 6: _Pueraria Thunbergiana._]

* * * * *

It was not until the time of the Tokugawa Sh[=o]gunate that the Tanabata festival became really a national holiday; and the popular custom of attaching _tansaku_ of different colors to freshly-cut bamboos, in celebration of the occasion, dates only from the era of Bunser (1818). Previously the _tanzaku_ had been made of a very costly quality of paper; and the old aristocratic ceremonies had been not less expensive than elaborate. But in the time of the Tokugawa Sh[=o]gunate a very cheap paper of various colors was manufactured; and the holiday ceremonies were suffered to assume an inexpensive form, in which even the poorest classes could indulge.

The popular customs relating to the festival differed according to locality. Those of Izumo--where all classes of society, _samurai_ or common folk, celebrated the holiday in much the same way--used to be particularly interesting; and a brief account of them will suggest something of the happy aspects of life in feudal times. At the Hour of the Tiger, on the seventh night of the seventh month, everybody was up; and the work of washing the inkstones and writing-brushes was performed. Then, in the household garden, dew was collected upon yam-leaves. This dew was called _Amanogawa no suzuki_ ("drops from the River of Heaven"); and it was used to make fresh ink for writing the poems which were to be suspended to bamboos planted in the garden. It was usual for friends to present each other with new inkstones at the time of the Tanabata festival; and if there were any new inkstones in the house, the fresh ink was prepared in these. Each member of the family then wrote poems. The adults composed verses, according to their ability, in praise of the Star-deities; and the children either wrote dictation or tried to improvise. Little folk too young to use the writing-brush without help had their small hands guided, by parent or elder sister or elder brother, so as to shape on a _tanzaku_ the character of some single word or phrase relating to the festival,--such as "Amanogawa," or "Tanabata," or "Kasasagi no Hashi" (the Bridge of Magpies). In the garden were planted two freshly-cut bamboos, with branches and leaves entire,--a male bamboo (_otoko-dak['e]_) and a female bamboo (_onna-dak['e]_). They were set up about six feet apart, and to a cord extended between them were suspended paper-cuttings of five colors, and skeins of dyed thread of five colors. The paper-cuttings represented upper-robes,--_kimono_. To the leaves and branches of the bamboos were tied the _tanzaku_ on which poems had been written by the members of the family. And upon a table, set between the bamboos, or immediately before them, were placed vessels containing various offerings to the Star-deities,--fruits, _s[=o]men_, rice-wine, and vegetables of different kinds, such as cucumbers and watermelons.

But the most curious Izumo custom relating to the festival was the _N['e]mu-nagashi_, or "Sleep-wash-away" ceremony. Before day-break the young folks used to go to some stream, carrying with them bunches composed of _n['e]muri_-leaves and bean-leaves mixed together. On reaching the stream, they would fling their bunches of leaves into the current, and sing a little song:--

N['e]mu wa, nagar['e] yo!
Mam['e] no ha wa, tomar['e]!

These verses might be rendered in two ways; because the word _n['e]mu_ can be taken in the meaning either of _n['e]muri_ (sleep), or of _nemuri-gi_ or _n['e]munoki_, the "sleep-plant" (mimosa),--while the syllables _mam['e]_, as written in _kana_, can signify either "bean," or "activity," or "strength," "vigor," "health," etc. But the ceremony was symbolical, and the intended meaning of the song was:--

Drowsiness, drift away!
Leaves of vigor, remain!

After this, all the young folk would jump into the water, to bathe or swim, in token of their resolve to shed all laziness for the coming year, and to maintain a vigorous spirit of endeavor.

* * * * *

Yet it was probably in Y['e]do (now T[=o]ky[=o]) that the Tanabata festival assumed its most picturesque aspects. During the two days that the celebration lasted,--the sixth and seventh of the seventh month,--the city used to present the appearance of one vast bamboo grove; fresh bamboos, with poems attached to them, being erected upon the roofs of the houses. Peasants were in those days able to do a great business in bamboos, which were brought into town by hundreds of wagonloads for holiday use. Another feature of the Y['e]do festival was the children's procession, in which bamboos, with poems attached to them, were carried about the city. To each such bamboo there was also fastened a red plaque on which were painted, in Chinese characters, the names of the Tanabata stars.

But almost everywhere, under the Tokugawa r['e]gime, the Tanabata festival used to be a merry holiday for the young people of all classes,--a holiday beginning with lantern displays before sunrise, and lasting well into the following night. Boys and girls on that day were dressed in their best, and paid visits of ceremony to friends and neighbors.

* * * * *

--The moon of the seventh month used to be called _Tanabata-tsuki_, or "The Moon of Tanabata." And it was also called _Fumi-tsuki_, or "The Literary Moon," because during the seventh month poems were everywhere composed in praise of the Celestial Lovers.

* * * * *

I think that my readers ought to be interested in the following selection of ancient Japanese poems, treating of the Tanabata legend. All are from the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_. The _Many[=o]sh[=u]_, or "Gathering of a Myriad Leaves," is a vast collection of poems composed before the middle of the eighth century. It was compiled by Imperial order, and completed early in the ninth century. The number of the poems which it contains is upwards of four thousand; some being "long poems" (_naga-uta_), but the great majority _tanka_, or compositions limited to thirty-one syllables; and the authors were courtiers or high officials. The first eleven _tanka_ hereafter translated were composed by Yamagami no Okura, Governor of the province of Chikuzen more than eleven hundred years ago. His fame as a poet is well deserved; for not a little of his work will bear comparison with some of the finer epigrams of the Greek Anthology. The following verses, upon the death of his little son Furubi, will serve as an example:--

Wakaker['e]ba
Nichi-yuki shiraji:
Mahi wa s['e]mu,
Shitab['e] no tsukahi
Ohit['e]-tohoras['e].

--[_As he is so young, he cannot know the way.... To the
messenger of the Underworld I will give a bribe, and entreat
him, saying: "Do thou kindly take the little one upon thy back
along the road."_]

Eight hundred years earlier, the Greek poet Diodorus Zonas of Sardis had written:--

"_Do thou, who rowest the boat of the dead in the water
of this reedy lake, for Hades, stretch out thy hand, dark
Charon, to the son of Kinyras, as he mounts the ladder by the
gang-way, and receive him. For his sandals will cause the lad
to slip, and he fears to set his feet naked on the sand of the
shore._"

But the charming epigram of Diodorus was inspired only by a myth,--for the "son of Kinyras" was no other than Adonis,--whereas the verses of Okura express for us the yearning of a father's heart.

* * * * *

--Though the legend of Tanabata was indeed borrowed from China, the reader will find nothing Chinese in the following compositions. They represent the old classic poetry at its purest, free from alien influence; and they offer us many suggestions as to the condition of Japanese life and thought twelve hundred years ago. Remembering that they were written before any modern European literature had yet taken form, one is startled to find how little the Japanese written language has changed in the course of so many centuries. Allowing for a few obsolete words, and sundry slight changes of pronunciation, the ordinary Japanese reader to-day can enjoy these early productions of his native muse with about as little difficulty as the English reader finds in studying the poets of the Elizabethan era. Moreover, the refinement and the simple charm of the _Many[=o]sh[=u]_ compositions have never been surpassed, and seldom equaled, by later Japanese poets.

As for the forty-odd _tanka_ which I have translated, their chief attraction lies, I think, in what they reveal to us of the human nature of their authors. Tanabata-tsum['e] still represents for us the Japanese wife, worshipfully loving;--Hikoboshi appears to us with none of the luminosity of the god, but as the young Japanese husband of the sixth or seventh century, before Chinese ethical convention had begun to exercise its restraint upon life and literature. Also these poems interest us by their expression of the early feeling for natural beauty. In them we find the scenery and the seasons of Japan transported to the Blue Plain of High Heaven;--the Celestial Stream with its rapids and shallows, its sudden risings and clamourings within its stony bed, and its water-grasses bending in the autumn wind, might well be the Kamogawa;--and the mists that haunt its shores are the very mists of Arashiyama. The boat of Hikoboshi, impelled by a single oar working upon a wooden peg, is not yet obsolete; and at many a country ferry you may still see the _hiki-fun['e]_ in which Tanabata-tsum['e] prayed her husband to cross in a night of storm,--a flat broad barge pulled over the river by cables. And maids and wives still sit at their doors in country villages, on pleasant autumn days, to weave as Tanabata-tsum['e] wove for the sake of her lord and lover.

* * * * *

--It will be observed that, in most of these verses, it is not the wife who dutifully crosses the Celestial River to meet her husband, but the husband who rows over the stream to meet the wife; and there is no reference to the Bridge of Birds.... As for my renderings, those readers who know by experience the difficulty of translating Japanese verse will be the most indulgent, I fancy. The Romaji system of spelling has been followed (except in one or two cases where I thought it better to indicate the ancient syllabication after the method adopted by Aston); and words or phrases necessarily supplied have been inclosed in parentheses.

Amanogawa
Ai-muki tachit['e],
Waga ko[:i]shi
Kimi kimasu nari
Himo-toki mak['e]na!

[_He is coming, my long-desired lord, whom I have been waiting
to meet here, on the banks of the River of Heaven.... The
moment of loosening my girdle is nigh!_[7]]

[Footnote 7: The last line alludes to a charming custom of which mention is made in the most ancient Japanese literature. Lovers, ere parting, were wont to tie each other's inner girdle (_himo_) and pledge themselves to leave the knot untouched until the time of their next meeting. This poem is said to have been composed in the seventh year of Y[=o]r[=o],--A.D. 723,--eleven hundred and eighty-two years ago.]

Hisakata no[8]
Ama no kawas['e] ni,
Fun['e] uk['e]t['e],
Koyo[:i] ka kimi ga
Agari kimasan?

[Footnote 8: _Hisakata-no_ is a "pillow-word" used by the old poets in relation to celestial objects; and it is often difficult to translate. Mr. Aston thinks that the literal meaning of _hisakata_ is simply "long-hard," in the sense of long-enduring,--_hisa_ (long), _katai_ (hard, or firm),--so that _hisakata-no_ would have the meaning of "firmamental." Japanese commentators, however, say that the term is composed with the three words, _hi_ (sun), _sasu_ (shine), and _kata_ (side);--and this etymology would justify the rendering of _hisakata-no_ by some such expression as "light-shedding," "radiance-giving." On the subject of pillow-words, see Aston's _Grammar of the Japanese Written Language_.]

[_Over the Rapids of the Everlasting Heaven, floating in his
boat, my lord will doubtless deign to come to me this very
night._]

Kaz['e] kumo wa
Futatsu no kishi ni
Kayo[:e]domo,
Waga toho-tsuma no
Koto zo kayowanu!

[_Though winds and clouds to either bank may freely come or
go, between myself and my faraway spouse no message whatever
may pass._]

Tsubut['e][9] ni mo
Nag['e] koshitsu-b['e]ki,
Amanogawa
H['e]dat['e]r['e]ba ka mo,
Amata sub['e]-naki!

[_To the opposite bank one might easily fling a pebble; yet,
being separated from him by the River of Heaven, alas! to hope
for a meeting (except in autumn) is utterly useless._]

[Footnote 9: The old text has _tabut['e]_.]

Aki-kaz['e] no
Fukinishi hi yori
"Itsushika" to--;
Waga machi ko[^i]shi
Kimi zo kimas['e]ru.

[_From the day that the autumn wind began to blow (I kept
saying to myself), "Ah! when shall we meet?"--but now my
beloved, for whom I waited and longed, has come indeed!_]

Amanogawa
Ito kawa-nami wa
Tatan['e]domo,
Samorai gatashi--
Chikaki kono s['e] wo.

[_Though the waters of the River of Heaven have not greatly
risen, (yet to cross) this near stream and to wait upon (my
lord and lover) remains impossible._]

Sod['e] furaba
Mi mo kawashitsu-b['e]ku
Chika-ker['e]do,
Wataru sub['e] nashi,
Aki nishi aran['e]ba.

[_Though she is so near that the waving of her (long) sleeves
can be distinctly seen, yet there is no way to cross the
stream before the season of autumn._]

Kag['e]ro[:i] no
Honoka ni mi['e]t['e]
Wakar['e]naba;--
Motonaya ko[:i]n
A[:u]-toki mad['e] wa!

[_When we were separated, I had seen her for a moment
only,--and dimly as one sees a flying midge;[10] now I
must vainly long for her as before, until time of our next
meeting!_]

Hikoboshi no
Tsuma muka[:e]-bun['e]
Kogizurashi,--
Ama-no-Kawara ni
Kiri no tat['e]ru wa.

[Footnote 10: _Kag['e]ro[:i]_ is an obsolete form of _kag['e]r[=o]_, meaning an ephemera.]

[_Methinks that Hikoboshi must be rowing his boat to meet his
wife,--for a mist (as of oar-spray) is rising over the course
of the Heavenly Stream._]

Kasumi tatsu
Ama-no-Kawara ni,
Kimi matsu to,--
Ikay[=o] hodo ni
Mono-suso nurenu.

[_While awaiting my lord on the misty shore of the River of
Heaven, the skirts of my robe have somehow become wet._]

Amanogawa,
Mi-tsu no nami oto
Sawagu-nari:
Waga matsu-kimi no
Funad['e]-surashi mo.

[_On the River of Heaven, at the place of the august
ferry, the sound of the water has become loud: perhaps my
long-awaited lord will soon be coming in his boat._]

Tanabata no
Sod['e] maku yo[:i] no
Akatoki wa,
Kawas['e] no tazu wa
Nakazu to mo yoshi.

[_As Tanabata (slumbers) with her long sleeves rolled up,
until the reddening of the dawn, do not, O storks of the
river-shallows, awaken her by your cries._[11]]

[Footnote 11: Lit., "not to cry out (will be) good"--but a literal translation of the poem is scarcely possible.]

Amanogawa
Kiri-tachi-wataru:
Ky[=o], ky[=o], to--
Waga matsu-ko[:i]shi
Funad['e]-surashi!

[_(She sees that) a mist is spreading across the River of
Heaven.... "To-day, to-day," she thinks, "my long-awaited lord
will probably come over in his boat."_]

Amanogawa,
Yasu no watari ni,
Fun['e] uk['e]t['e];--
Waga tachi-matsu to
Imo ni tsug['e] koso.

[_By the ferry of Yasu, on the River of Heaven, the boat is
floating: I pray you tell my younger sister[12] that I stand
here and wait._]

[Footnote 12: That is to say, "wife." In archaic Japanese the word _imo_ signified both "wife" and "younger sister." The term might also be rendered "darling" or "beloved."]

[=O]-sora yo
Kay[=o] war['e] sura,
Na ga yu['e] ni,
Amanokawa-ji no
Nazumit['e] zo koshi.

[_Though I (being a Star-god) can pass freely to and fro,
through the great sky,--yet to cross over the River of Heaven,
for your sake, was weary work indeed!_]

Yachihoko no
Kami no mi-yo yori
Tomoshi-zuma;--
Hito-shiri ni keri
Tsugit['e]shi omo[:e]ba.

[_From the august Age of the
God-of-Eight-Thousand-Spears_,[13] _she had been my spouse in
secret_[14] _only; yet now, because of my constant longing for
her, our relation has become known to men._]

[Footnote 13: Yachihoko-no-Kami, who has many other names, is the Great God of Izumo, and is commonly known by his appellation Oho-kuni-nushi-no-Kami, or the "Deity-Master-of-the Great-Land." He is locally worshiped also as the god of marriage,--for which reason, perhaps, the poet thus refers to him.]

[Footnote 14: Or, "my seldom-visited spouse." The word _tsuma_ (_zuma_), in ancient Japanese, signified either wife or husband; and this poem might be rendered so as to express either the wife's or the husband's thoughts.]

Am['e] tsuchi to
Wakar['e]shi toki yo
Onoga tsuma;
Shika zo t['e] ni aru
Aki matsu ar['e] wa.

[_From the time when heaven and earth were parted, she has
been my own wife;--yet, to be with her, I must always wait
till autumn._[15]]

[Footnote 15: By the ancient calendar, the seventh day of the seventh month would fall in the autumn season.]

Waga k[=o]ru
Niho no omo wa
Koyo[:i] mo ka
Ama-no-kawara ni
Ishi-makura makan.

[_With my beloved, of the ruddy-tinted cheeks_,[16] _this
night indeed will I descend into the bed of the River of
Heaven, to sleep on a pillow of stone._]

[Footnote 16: The literal meaning is "_b['e]ni_-tinted face,"--that is to say, a face of which the cheeks and lips have been tinted with _b['e]ni_, a kind of rouge.]

Amanogawa.
Mikomori-gusa no
Aki-kaz['e] ni
Nabikafu mir['e]ba,
Toki kitarurashi.

[_When I see the water-grasses of the River of Heaven bend
in the autumn wind (I think to myself): "The time (for our
meeting) seems to have come."_]

Waga s['e]ko ni
Ura-koi or['e]ba,
Amanogawa
Yo-fun['e] kogi-toyomu
Kaji no 'to kikoyu.

[_When I feel in my heart a sudden longing for my
husband_,[17] _then on the River of Heaven the sound of the
rowing of the night-boat is heard, and the plash of the oar
resounds._]

[Footnote 17: In ancient Japanese the word _s['e]ko_ signified either husband or elder brother. The beginning of the poem might also be rendered thus:--"When I feel a secret longing for my husband," etc.]

T[=o]-zuma to
Tamakura kawashi
N['e]taru yo wa,
Tori-gan['e] na naki
Ak['e]ba aku to mo!

[_In the night when I am reposing with my (now) far-away
spouse, having exchanged jewel-pillows_[18] _with her, let not
the cock crow, even though the day should dawn._]

[Footnote 18: "To exchange jewel-pillows" signifies to use each other's arms for pillows. This poetical phrase is often used in the earliest Japanese literature. The word for jewel, _tama_, often appears in compounds as an equivalent of "precious," "dear," etc.]

Yorozu-yo ni
Tazusawari it['e]
Ai mi-domo,
Omoi-sugu-b['e]ki
Koi naranaku ni.

[_Though for a myriad ages we should remain hand-in-hand and
face to face, our exceeding love could never come to an end.
(Why then should Heaven deem it necessary to part us?)_]

Waga tam['e] to,
Tanabata-tsum['e] no,
Sono yado ni,
Oreru shirotai
Nu[:i]t ken kamo?

[_The white cloth which Tanabata has woven for my sake, in
that dwelling of hers, is now, I think, being made into a robe
for me._]

Shirakumo no
I-ho ['e] kakurit['e]
T[=o]-k['e]domo,
Yo[:i]-sarazu min
Imo ga atari wa.

[_Though she be far-away, and hidden from me by five hundred
layers of white cloud, still shall I turn my gaze each night
toward the dwelling-place of my younger sister (wife)._]

Aki sar['e]ba
Kawagiri tat['e]ru
Amanogawa,
Kawa ni muki-it['e]
Kru[19] yo zo [=o]ki!

[Footnote 19: For _kofuru_.]

[_When autumn comes, and the river-mists spread over the
Heavenly Stream, I turn toward the river, (and long); and the
nights of my longing are many!_]

Hito-tos['e] ni
Nanuka no yo nomi
A[:u]-hito no--
Ko[:i] mo tsuki-n['e]ba
Sayo zo ak['e] ni keru!

[_But once in the whole year, and only upon the seventh night
(of the seventh month), to meet the beloved person--and
lo! The day has dawned before our mutual love could express
itself!_[20]]

[Footnote 20: Or "satisfy itself." A literal rendering is difficult.]

Toshi no ko[:i]
Koyo[:i] tsukush['i]t['e],
Asu yori wa,
Tsun['e] no gotoku ya
Waga ko[:i] oran.

[_The love-longing of one whole year having ended to-night,
every day from to-morrow I must again pine for him as
before!_]

Hikoboshi to
Tanabata-tsum['e] to
Koyo[:i] a[:u];--
Ama-no-Kawa to ni
Nami tatsu-na yum['e]!

[_Hikoboshi and Tanabata-tsum['e] are to meet each other
to-night;--ye waves of the River of Heaven, take heed that ye
do not rise!_]

Aki-kaz['e] no
Fuki tadayowasu
Shirakumo wa,
Tanabata-tsum['e] no
Amatsu hir['e] kamo?

[_Oh! that white cloud driven by the autumn-wind--can it be
the heavenly hir['e][21] of Tana-bata-tsum['e]?_]

[Footnote 21: At different times, in the history of Japanese female costume, different articles of dress were called by this name. In the present instance, the _hir['e]_ referred to was probably a white scarf, worn about the neck and carried over the shoulders to the breast, where its ends were either allowed to hang loose, or were tied into an ornamental knot. The _hir['e]_ was often used to make signals with, much as handkerchiefs are waved to-day for the same purpose;--and the question uttered in the poem seems to signify: "Can that be Tanabata waving her scarf--to call me?" In very early times, the ordinary costumes worn were white.]

Shiba-shiba mo
Ai minu kimi wo,
Amanogawa
Funa-d['e] haya s['e]yo
Yo no fuk['e]nu ma ni.

[_Because he is my not-often-to-be-met beloved, hasten to
row the boat across the River of Heaven ere the night be
advanced._]

Amanogawa
Kiri tachi-watari
Hikoboshi no
Kaji no 'to kikoyu
Yo no fuk['e]-yuk['e]ba.

[_Late in the night, a mist spreads over_] _the River of
Heaven; and the sound of the oar[22] of Hikoboshi is heard._]

[Footnote 22: Or, "the creaking of the oar." (The word _kaji_ to-day means "helm";--the single oar, or scull, working upon a pivot, and serving at once for rudder and oar, being now called _ro_.) The mist passing across the Amanogawa is, according to commentators, the spray from the Star-god's oar.]

Amanogawa
Kawa 'to sayak['e]shi:
Hikoboshi no
Haya kogu fun['e] no
Nami no sawagi ka?

[_On the River of Heaven a sound of plashing can be distinctly
heard: is it the sound of the rippling made by Hikoboshi
quickly rowing his boat?_]

Kono y[=u]b['e],
Furikuru am['e] wa,
Hikoboshi no
Haya kogu fun['e] no
Ka[:i] no chiri ka mo.

[_Perhaps this evening shower is but the spray (flung down)
from the oar of Hikoboshi, rowing his boat in haste._]

Waga tama-doko wo
Asu yori wa
Uchi hara[:i],
Kimi to in['e]zut['e]
Hitori ka mo nen!

[_From to-morrow, alas! after having put my jewel-bed in
order, no longer reposing with my lord, I must sleep alone!_]

Kaz['e] fukit['e],
Kawa-nami tachinu;--
Hiki-fun['e] ni
Watari mo kimas['e]
Yo no fuk['e]nu ma ni.

[_The wind having risen, the waves of the river have become
high;--this night cross over in a towboat,[23] I pray thee,
before the hour be late!_]

[Footnote 23: Lit. "pull-boat" (_hiki-fun['e]_),--a barge or boat pulled by a rope.]

Amanogawa
Nami wa tatsutomo,
Waga fun['e] wa
Iza kogi iden
Yo no fuk['e]nu ma ni.

[_Even though the waves of the River of_ _Heaven run high, I
must row over quickly, before it becomes late in the night._]

Inishi['e] ni
Orit['e]shi hata wo;
Kono y[=u]b['e]
Koromo ni nu[:i]t['e]--
Kimi matsu ar['e] wo!

[_Long ago I finished weaving the material; and, this evening,
having finished sewing the garment for him--(why must) I still
wait for my lord?_]

Amanogawa
S['e] wo hayami ka mo?
Nubatama no
Yo wa fuk['e] ni tsutsu,
Awanu Hikoboshi!

[_Is it that the current of the River of_ _Heaven (has become too) rapid? The jet-black night[24] advances--and Hikoboshi has not come!_]

[Footnote 24: _Nubatama no yo_ might better be rendered by some such phrase as "the berry-black night,"--but the intended effect would be thus lost in translation. _Nubatama-no_ (a "pillow-word") is written with characters signifying "like the black fruits of _Karasu-[=O]gi_;" and the ancient phrase "_nubatama no yo_" therefore may be said to have the same meaning as our expressions "jet-black night," or "pitch-dark night."]

Watashi-mori,
Fun['e] haya watas['e];--
Hito-tos['e] ni
Futatabi kay[=o]
Kimi naranaku ni!

[_Oh, ferryman, make speed across the stream!--my lord is not
one who can come and go twice in a year!_]

Aki kaz['e] no
Fukinishi hi yori,
Amanogawa
Kawas['e] ni d['e]dachi;--
Matsu to tsug['e] koso!

[_On the very day that the autumn-wind began to blow, I set
out for the shallows of the River of Heaven;--I pray you, tell
my lord that I am waiting here still!_]

Tanabata no
Funanori surashi,--
Maso-kagami,
Kiyoki tsuki-yo ni
Kumo tachi-wataru.

[_Methinks Tanabata must be coming in her boat; for a cloud is
even now passing across the clear face of the moon._[25]]

[Footnote 25: Composed by the famous poet [=O]tomo no Sukun['e] Yakamochi, while gazing at the Milky Way, on the seventh night of the seventh month of the tenth year of Tampy[=o] (A.D. 738). The pillow-word in the third line (_maso-kagami_) is untranslatable.]

--And yet it has been gravely asserted that the old Japanese poets could find no beauty in starry skies!...

Perhaps the legend of Tanabata, as it was understood by those old poets, can make but a faint appeal to Western minds. Nevertheless, in the silence of transparent nights, before the rising of the moon, the charm of the ancient tale sometimes descends upon me, out of the scintillant sky,--to make me forget the monstrous facts of science, and the stupendous horror of Space. Then I no longer behold the Milky Way as that awful Ring of the Cosmos, whose hundred million suns are powerless to lighten the Abyss, but as the very Amanogawa itself,--the River Celestial. I see the thrill of its shining stream, and the mists that hover along its verge, and the water-grasses that bend in the winds of autumn. White Orihim['e] I see at her starry loom, and the Ox that grazes on the farther shore;--and I know that the falling dew is the spray from the Herdsman's oar. And the heaven seems very near and warm and human; and the silence about me is filled with the dream of a love unchanging, immortal,--forever yearning and forever young, and forever left unsatisfied by the paternal wisdom of the gods.

GOBLIN POETRY

Recently, while groping about an old book shop, I found a collection of Goblin Poetry in three volumes, containing many pictures of goblins. The title of the collection is _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_, or "The Mad Poetry of the _Hyaku-Monogatari_." The _Hyaku-Monogatari_, or "Hundred Tales," is a famous book of ghost stories. On the subject of each of the stories, poems were composed at different times by various persons,--poems of the sort called _Ky[=o]ka_, or Mad Poetry,--and these were collected and edited to form the three volumes of which I became the fortunate possessor. The collecting was done by a certain Takumi Jingor[=o], who wrote under the literary pseudonym "Temm['e]r R['e][=o]jin" (Ancient of the Temm['e]r Era). Takumi died in the first year of Bunky[=u] (1861), at the good age of eighty; and his collection seems to have been published in the sixth year of Ka['e][:i] (1853). The pictures were made by an artist called Masazumi, who worked under the pseudonym "Ry[=o]sai Kanjin."

From a prefatory note it appears that Takumi Jingor[=o] published his collection with the hope of reviving interest in a once popular kind of poetry which had fallen into neglect before the middle of the century. The word _ky[=o]ka_ is written with a Chinese character signifying "insane" or "crazy;" and it means a particular and extraordinary variety of comic poetry. The form is that of the classic _tanka_ of thirty-one syllables (arranged 57577);--but the subjects are always the extreme reverse of classical; and the artistic effects depend upon methods of verbal jugglery which cannot be explained without the help of numerous examples. The collection published by Takumi includes a good deal of matter in which a Western reader can discover no merit; but the best of it has a distinctly grotesque quality that reminds one of Hood's weird cleverness in playing with grim subjects. This quality, and the peculiar Japanese method of mingling the playful with the terrific, can be suggested and explained only by reproducing in Romaji the texts of various _ky[=o]ka_, with translations and notes.

The selection which I have made should prove interesting, not merely because it will introduce the reader to a class of Japanese poetry about which little or nothing has yet been written in English, but much more because it will afford some glimpses of a supernatural world which still remains for the most part unexplored. Without knowledge of Far Eastern superstitions and folk-tales, no real understanding of Japanese fiction or drama or poetry will ever become possible.

* * * * *

There are many hundreds of poems in the three volumes of the _Ky[=o]ka Hyaku-Monogatari_; but the number of the ghosts and goblins falls short of the one hundred suggested by the title. There are just ninety-five. I could not expect to interest my readers in the whole of this goblinry, and my selection includes less than one seventh of the subjects. The Faceless Babe, The Long-Tongued Maiden, The Three-Eyed Monk, The Pillow-Mover, The Thousand Heads, The Acolyte-with-the-Lantern, The Stone-that-Cries-in-the-Night, The Goblin-Heron, The Goblin-Wind, The Dragon-Lights, and The Mountain-Nurse, did not much impress me. I omitted _ky[=o]ka_ dealing with fancies too gruesome for Western nerves,--such as that of the _Obum['e]dori_,--also those treating of merely local tradition. The subjects chosen represent national rather than provincial folklore,--old beliefs (mostly of Chinese origin) once prevalent throughout the country, and often referred to in its popular literature.