The following is the personal view of Unakami Tomoaki on the character of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the model for the fictional figure ‘Yoshii Toranaga’ in the FX series ‘Shōgun’.  As you can see, Unakami has some fairly strong views about Ieyasu’s abilities as a general, in contrast to his skills at weaving intrigue. The translation below is from a section of Chapter 4.

From Unakami Tomoaki’s “Hontō wa gokai darake no Sengoku kassen senshi”, Tokkan Shoten, Tokyo, August 2020


Tokugawa Ieyasu was a master of intrigue, but…

In much the same way at Oda Nobunaga, Tokugawa Ieyasu spent the first half of his life seeking to expand his rule. Despite being born as the lord of Okazaki Castle in Mikawa province and the legitimate heir to the Matsudaira family, he had been brought up since infancy as a hostage to both the Oda and the Imagawa families. At the Battle of Okehazama, while Oda Nobunaga was fighting against Imagawa Yoshitomo, Ieyasu was part of the Imagawa army. He was no more than a lad of 19 at the time.
 
When the Imagawa’s power began to decline following the Battle of Okehazama, Ieyasu made the decision to strike out on his own as lord of Okazaki Castle.  It was at this time that he forged an alliance with Oda Nobunaga.  For the next 21 years, until Nobunaga met his end during the Honnōji Incident, that military alliance would continue.
 
The Sengoku-era historian Taniguchi Katsuhiro noted that this alliance took place at a unique time in the Sengoku period, and whose mutual interest would continue for many years (Taniguchi Katsuhiro, “Nobunaga and Ieyasu’s Military Alliance – 21 years of interests and strategy”, Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2019).
 
Opposite the sphere of influence exercised by Imagawa Yoshimoto in Suruga province lay a region contested over by three major powers, namely the Hōjō, Takeda, and Uesugi families. Suruga province bordered these lands, and would eventually be amalgamated with Mikawa province. Owari province would see daily clashes over its border area. After Suruga lost its principal source of authority, a newly freed Ieyasu was able to start building a small power base in Mikawa. Meanwhile Nobunaga, in order to protect himself from the direct threat Takeda Shingen of Kai province presented to Owari province, realised that he needed Mikawa as a buffer zone.
 
For Ieyasu, he too wanted to receive aid from Nobunaga to both preserve his independence and prevent himself from once again being sucked into a power struggle against formidable opponents. Ieyasu made good use of his alliance with Nobunaga, and following the deaths of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi, he deposed their heirs and built the foundations for an era of peace that lasted some 260 years. 
 
Despite all of this, Ieyasu was something of a military dunce. One thing that stands out in particular with regard to this is the epic Battle of Sekigahara that decided the fate of the nation.  If you take a look at the disposition of the Eastern Army on the eve of the battle, such was Ieyasu’s lack of military skill that it is a wonder that the Western Army was not victorious. In much the same way as Nobunaga, Ieyasu suffered defeat on the battlefield time and time again. 
 
What Ieyasu excelled at was intrigue.  While Nobunaga may have possessed a genius for revolutionary thinking, and of the three great unifiers it was Hideyoshi that was most capable militarily, Ieyasu was the strategist.  He was also extraordinarily cautious. He had learned a lot at the hands of Takeda Shingen of Kai, who had always presented the greatest threat to Mikawa. His experience living as a hostage also meant that he had taken exercising a high degree of caution to heart. Two apocryphal tales that left an impression on me in this regard are the tale of the out of season peaches and the crossing of the Marukibashi bridge.     
 
When Ieyasu was still a young man, Nobunaga sent some peaches to him. Under the old calendar this occurred in ‘Shimotsuki’, which in the modern calendar corresponds to December. While his retainers were perplexed as to how such a thing could have happened, and what sort of technology had been used to make it happen, Ieyasu pondered why Nobunaga had sent the peaches in the first place, and thinking that they might have a detrimental effect on his health, chose to give all of the peaches to his retainers. Hearing of this, Takeda Shingen offered his assessment, thinking “This is an individual that goes to great lengths to preserve his health. He prioritises his metabolism, and it appears that he won’t eat anything unnecessarily” (as recorded in the ‘Hisakankin’, a compilation of apocryphal tales about Tokugawa Ieyasu, edited by the Zenkoku Tōshōgu Rengōkai, published 1997). Shingen, who as a student of Sun Tzu had been able to correctly deduce Nobunaga’s nature, realised that far from being a dull and introverted soul, Ieyasu was in fact bursting with ambition.
 
Ieyasu was also known as a fine practitioner of the Ōtsubo school of horsemanship. However when attempting to cross a bridge spanning a river during the attack on Odawara during the Tenshō period, he deliberately got off his horse and crossed the river while being carried on the back of one of his retainers.  Ieyasu hadn’t learned horsemanship in order to show off in front of others, but rather to allow him to escape from the battlefield and live to fight again. Hence he had no need for any adventures, which does make for rather a dull story (from the Jyōzan Kidan and Bushō Kanjyōki published by Hakubunkan in 1929).    
 
Ieyasu’s high degree of caution made it impossible for him to achieve great deeds, but he possessed an extraordinary ability to wield intrigue.  Figures such as Mōri Motonari, Hōjō Sōun, and to some extent (Hōjō) Ujiyasu were generals of the strategic type, prepared to put up with hardship for a while waiting for their chance to strike.  Once their chance came they would move with lightening speed, but in the interim they would act cautiously, biding their time and building their resources. Ieyasu had the special patience of the strategist, and disliked embarking on adventures that would yield no rewards.  It was impossible for him to understand why anyone would act purely out of desire to provoke a response. He was also far more concerned about his health than the ordinary person.  His way of thinking, in which living a long life was what divided up life’s winners from its losers, was in contrast to Nobunaga and his idea that “life is but 50 years long”.      

Goza Yuichi, ‘The Principles of Ikki’ (Ikki no Genri), Chikuma Gakugei Bunkõ, 2017, 3rd edition
 
Introduction – Was ikki (translators note: a revolt or uprising) an anti-establishment movement?
 
Towards an age of uncertainty ‘post 3.11’
 
The unprecedented disaster that struck Japan in 2011 proved to be an opportunity for us to reconnect with the long-forgotten value of relationships.  Words such as ‘relationships’ and ‘bonds’ were used with such frequency following the disaster that issues that until recently had occupied society, such as people dying alone and the ‘disconnected society’, seemed like they had been concocted out of thin air (of course, all that had happened is that reporting about the issues had decreased, not that they had actually improved).  These words continue to be put to good use. (13)
 
When your average person hears words like ‘relationships’ and ‘bonds’, the first thing that probably comes to mind are relations with family.  Immediately after the disaster, there were many people who sought out family members, desperate to know whether they were safe and using every means imaginable to get in contact with them.  Among my friends, some took their parents in to live with them after their family home was swept away by the tsunami.  And post-disaster, the number of people who decided to tie their nuptials increased, leading to the term ‘disaster wedding’ (shinsai kon). (14)
 
In addition, households in which three generations live under one roof (an aspect of which contains strong expectations regarding economic and child-rearing support), which had (according to 2010 statistics) fallen to just 7% of all households, started to show signs of a recovery, particularly in cities.  Of course, in modern society, where the make-up of the family continues to diversify, it would be difficult from a practical point of view to bring about a revival of large families.  For people who have left their home town to move to the city, if they then decide to live with their parents, they either have to bring their parents to the city or they have to give up their job in order to return to their hometown. And then there are housewives who don’t need to hear that “no matter how violent your husband is, you mustn’t divorce him, if only for the sake of the children”. (14)
 
While there has been a boom in recent years in nostalgia for the Shõwa era, specifically ‘the Shõwa era in which a family, although poor, leaned on one another and happily lived together’ (which contains a considerable amount of romanticisation), you can’t turn back the clock, and there are limits to the safety net of relying on relations with family members.(14)
 
In fact, one of the largest problems that modern society faces are those people who have slipped through the cracks of the pre-existing arrangement between families and businesses and who find it difficult to cope.  Given that the Japanese taxation and social welfare systems were created for the ‘husband works full time as a company employee, wife remains at home with two kids’ model - in other words ‘the happily married couple’ - those who fall outside of this model, such as households where both parents work, or where there is only one parent or where a parent is a temporary labourer, experience great social disadvantage. (14-15) And knowing what might befall them should they happen to slip up, there has been a trend in couples who fear any issues that might arise between them and so allow their relationship to atrophy (in the case of company employees, they might throw away any of their own ambitions or ideas and become entirely subservient to the company, so much so that they apparently live on company grounds).(15)
 
With non-permanent employment on the rise in today’s society, anyone who lives as a ‘full time housewife’ or ‘full time employee’ might be regarded as a ‘winner’. Yet given that this means that you must hang on for dear life no matter how dreadful either a family situation or workplace happens to be, these ‘winners’ are actually in a ‘prison’ where happiness is in limited supply (while the Japanese economy was growing, these problems remained hidden beneath the surface). (15). 
 
The new ‘medieval era’ present in modern society
 
Some of the more elderly ‘intellectuals’ in Japan may have forgotten that in Japan’s post-war democracy, ties of ‘blood’ and ties to ‘land’ were regarded in a negative light.  Recently a young essayist by the name of Furuichi Noritoshi made an astonishing literary debut by pointing out that these ties proved an impediment to the development of the ‘modern individual’ and criticised them as antiquated ‘restraints’. (15)
 
In my specialist field of medieval Japanese studies (particularly the research conducted by Katsumata Shizuo and Amino Yoshihiko), ‘unrelated’ (muen, or ‘without ties’) as a concept carries a positive meaning (as discussed later) and is not distinct to the development of the modern intellectual and his or her progressive ideas. (16) Indeed, I do think that it is quite indulgent for people to say “the best course of action is for family members to rely on one another” when disaster strikes.  
 
Following the Great East Japan Earthquake, many young people made a beeline from across the country to the disaster zone to serve as volunteers.  According to Furuichi, the earliest responders to the disaster and those who took a leading role in their volunteer work were members of foreign volunteer organisations who had experience delivering aid to developing countries such as Cambodia and Bangladesh.  (16)
 
While claiming that “Japan is one”, for these volunteers, ‘the Great East Japan Earthquake’ and ‘Cambodia’ were inter-changeable as events that required their assistance.  Their motivation for taking the lead in heading for the disaster area was not a result of nationalism emanating from an idea that ‘we’re all Japanese’.  Rather it was because they felt sympathy for ‘others’. (16) Now while it might seem a bit cold-hearted to refer to the people of the Tohoku region as ‘others’, consider how tolerable were people who, even though they weren’t directly affected by the disaster, self-indulgently pontificated with a know-it-all expression about their ‘belief in the strength of Japan’ and ‘how Japan will definitely recover’? Rather than relying on an overly sentimental identification with ‘Japan’, it is only by squarely confronting the cold reality of the very different circumstances that these people are under compared to those people in the disaster zone can new bonds be formed and true recovery assistance commence. (16-17)
​
Together with the march of globalisation, modern society, in which modern order as defined by the sovereign state is becoming increasingly relative, is gradually being referred to as a ‘new medieval era’.  Indeed, the idea of overcoming adversity through the creation of new networks rather than relying on the return of communal organisations is the same idea behind the ikki of the medieval period. (17)
 
The post-war historical view of ‘Ikki’
 
And yet ‘ikki’ has an almost inseparable association with revolutionary imagery.  When a continuous series of revolutions occurred throughout the Arab world from 2010 to 2011 (afterwards referred to as the ‘Arab Spring’), something that caught my eye were comments on the internet saying “they are like the ‘ikki’ found in Japanese history”, thereby revealing an association of anti-government people’s movements with ‘ikki’.  (17)
 
In 1917, women from a coastal town in Toyama Prefecture led protests against the monopolisation of rice by local rice merchants and land owners and the unreasonable price at which rice was being sold. This event, subsequently known as the ‘rice riot’ (kome sõdõ) was referred to by papers at the time as the ‘Etchû(translator’s note: former name for Toyama) women’s ikki’.  The security protests that took place in the 1960s were also regarded as ikki.  (17). The Nobel literature prize awardee Oe Kenzaburõ, in his novel titled “The Silent Cry” (published in 1967) combined the peasant ikki of 1860 (the first year of Manen) with the protest over the security treaty in 1960 (Shõwa 35). (18)
 
This problem is not merely confined to how the general population regards the phenomenon of ikki.  Even specialists in Japanese history more or less treat ‘ikki’ as revolutionary movements.  All 5 volumes of the series ‘Ikki’ published by the University of Tokyo in 1961, and which still serve as the foundation for most studies on ikki, describe ikki in their preamble as a ‘fixed form of pre-modern class struggle’. 
 
Class struggle is one of the key concepts of communism. Simply put, it envisages that in a society made up of classes, the non-ruling class will struggle against the ruling class in order to prevent being exploited.  In more modern parlance, you might say that it is an anti-establishment, anti-ruling power resistance movement.  In its most extreme form, the non-ruling class refuses to abide by the system established by the ruling class and overturns it in a ‘revolution’.  The ‘Communist Manifesto’ published by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in 1848 declared that “all history is the history of class struggle”.  Class struggle thus occurs over and over again, and every time it does society is reformed and advances.  Once the non-industrialist class ‘the proletariat’ seizes political power (the proletariat revolution), the history of class struggle comes to an end and the communist society becomes a reality.  This is the ‘class struggle view of history’ that Marx espoused. (18)
 
So should we regard the ikki of the Sengoku and Edo periods as examples of ‘class struggle’? It does seem as though the dreams and ambitions of postwar historians were reflected onto ikki.  Communism gained popularity in postwar Japan in the period of reflection that followed the age of militarism.  In historical study circles, ‘Marxist history’ rose to the fore.  These historians regarded communism as the pinnacle of social development and held hopes that a communist revolution might take place in Japan as well. (19) 
 
As a result, the ‘history of the Japanese people’s struggle against authority’ became a major theme in postwar historicism.  This trend then led the history of ikki to be studied from the point of view of the ‘history of class struggle’.  It’s because these historians thought ‘we’re fighting for the revolution too!’.  Despite the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end to the dream of revolution, this historical bent, after undergoing a little bit of revision, continues to this day. (19)
 
Ikki was ‘a link between people’
 
As will be detailed in this book, in reality ikki was not a struggle over authority or power.  To put it more bluntly, the insistence that the ikki of the pre-modern era were examples of class struggle has not basis in fact and were fantasies concocted by postwar Japanese historians.  In other words, it something that they wanted to believe was true. Rather than thinking of them as either violent demonstrations or revolutions, it would be more realistic to consider ikki as one pattern of relationships between people. (19-20)
 
Moreover, the student and union movements of the 1960s did not burn with high-minded ideological fervor, and the fact that they were festival-like in manner speaks to the popularity of ‘utagoe-kissa’ (or coffee shops where one could sing tunes) at the time. Of course, I’m not saying that the participation of folks who indulged in a bit of fun was in any way pointless or ridiculous.  If they wanted to belt out tunes so much the better.  What I’m saying is rather than trying to deify only those directly involved in trying to bring about revolution, one should also cast an eye over all of the inter-personal relations that form the basis of a political movement. (20)
 
When one accepts that ikki was not a ‘class struggle’ but a social network, one ceases to think of ikki as simply “something that happened a long time ago”.  The study of ikki thus becomes directly relevant to modern society.  This book takes that view as a starting point when considering the role of ikki in Japanese history.  What I hope to offer is a new way of examining modern society where relations between people often undergo radical transformation. (20)

Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016. (All pages are in parenthesis after paragraphs)

Tonight we come to our final story.  And what more appropriate theme could there be (for a book on records of crimes of the Edo period) than executions? I would thus like to spend this evening discussing the executions that occurred at the magistrate’s residence (or rōyashiki) at Kodenma-chō. 

Of course, while I say executions, there were many ways in which punishments could be inflicted, from extremes such as crucifixion and being burned alive to more simple punishments such as zanzai and geshūnin (both of which still ended up with the condemned having their head cut off).  Incidentally, shizai (or ‘punishment by death’) was reserved for commoners, whereas zanzai (‘punishment by cutting or slicing’) was exclusively for samurai that had fallen foul of the law.  Geshūnin (literally ‘lesser person’, referring to those condemned to death) was the least ‘heavy’ of the various forms of capital punishment available, and so was also imposed on commoners. (284)

What were the differences between these three forms of capital punishment? The biggest difference, it could be argued, was how the corpse was handled after execution.  In the case of shizai, the torso of the condemned, whose head had already been removed, would be carried from the ‘execution ground’ (or shizaijo) to part of the magistrate’s residence known as the ‘exulted testing ground’ (or O-tameshiba). There the torso would be sliced up in order to test the cutting edges (or ‘quality’) of the various swords belonging to the Shōgunate.   The corpses of prisoners subjected to either zanzai or geshūnin would not be used to test swords, despite having already been decapitated. (285)

The expression ‘sliced up’ seems like an exaggeration, but it assuredly was not.  Starting with a technique to slice the centre of the torso in half (known as ichi no dō), there were a myriad of ways in which a torso could be carved up.  And not only the torso. The heads of the condemned were also subject to blade testing, and would be cut with swords or stabbed with spears.  The perpetrator of these punishments was Yamada Asaemon, a hereditary name given to whomever was hired to test sword blades on behalf of the Shōgunate, together with his apprentices.  ‘Asaemon’ was of rōnin (masterless samurai) status, but many of his apprentices were samurai from the regions of Japan or else their apprentices.  All travelled from across the nation to learn how to ‘test blades’ under the tutelage of Asaemon. (284)

The primary purpose of ‘tameshi-giri’ (blade testing) was to guarantee the quality of the Shōgunate’s weaponry.  This was why the space within the magistrate’s residence reserved for such practice was not simply referred to as the ‘testing ground’, but was the ‘exulted testing ground’ (O-tameshiba).  In reality it was not only the Shōgunate’s weapons that ended up being checked for quality.  Hasegawa Keiseki, born in what is now modern Tomigiwa-chō in Chuō-ku, Nihonbashi, in Tenpo 13 (1842), was the author of a visual guide to Edo in the last days of the Bakufu and the start of the Meiji era titled “Edo Tokyo Jikken Garoku” (A true pictorial record of Edo and Tokyo).  A picture within that work titled “Testing swords within the magistrate’s residence” has a description attached to it, which reads,

“Swords undergoing testing within the grounds of the magistrate’s residence.  These (swords) are gathered from many different places.  Corpses are then cut up using both new and old swords alike”.

Hence not only the swords of the Shōgunate were tested at the O-tameshiba. Many daimyō and members of the Shōgunate’s closest retainers (the hatamoto) sent their swords to Yamada Asaemon for testing on the corpses of executed criminals.  Keiseki, after his introduction on the various forms of cutting employed in testing swords, says “In truth, human bodies can’t be cut up as easily as one supposes”, thereby confirming that Keiseki himself had witnessed sword testing on corpses within the magistrate’s residence.   After the Shōgun’s personal swords had been tested, Asaemon’s apprentices would take the various swords that had arrived from across the country and proceed to test them on pre-severed torsos and heads.  (285-286)

Keiseki’s depiction of this scene is particularly striking.  Eight figures, quite possibly apprentices of Asaemon (with a blacksmith included among them) are engaged in what appears to be nonchalant conversation while they cut up dead bodies.  (288)

There were a number of detailed regulations outlining how sword testing was to take place.  For example, in addition to samurai, blade testing was not to be practiced on the bodies of women, priests or shrine officials.  However explaining all of the exceptions would take too long, so I’ll bring this short excerpt to an end here. (288)

Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016. (All pages are in parenthesis after paragraphs)
 
Chapter 12   The dramatic crimes of Nezumi Kozõ (continued)
 
Apocryphal tales and legends
 
While it isn’t particularly clever, there is a certain attraction in being generous and having no attachment to money.  The ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ spoke of Jirõkichi, who had spent half a year on pilgrimage to Kyoto to visit Konpira Shrine only to return to Edo in order to continue to pursue a life of gambling, in the following manner. 
 
“Regardless of whether he had lost or won at gambling, Jirõkichi would give money to anyone; from those who had lost every stitch of clothing to professional gamblers, and would do so without question.  Depending on the person, he might buy someone clothes or treat them to entertainment at Yoshiwara or at the Okabasho (red light districts).  The fact he would be so generous while lending money led to him being praised with comments like ‘That’s just like Jirõkichi’, and everyone from cats to ladles (a phrase basically meaning ‘all and sundry’) sang his praises, calling him ‘Taishõ, taishõ!’ (literally meaning ‘general’, but in this sense meaning ‘big man’ or ‘boss’). (242, 244) 
 
The extraordinarily generous Jirõkichi was obviously a vital acquaintance for the many poor residents of Edo.  This too was recorded in the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’:
 
“(Jirõkichi) would lend money to whomever needed it, from the poor, to those afflicted by serious illness and in need of treatment, to those heading out on a pilgrimage to Ise shrine.” (244)
 
While the money that Jirõkichi gave away might have come from somewhat illicit sources such as burglary and gambling, one can say that Jirõkichi himself had every qualification necessary to be recognised as a true gizoku.
 
For his part, Matsuura Seizan compiled a variety of sources related to Nezumi Kozõ. They are contained within the eighty-first scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ under the heading ‘Various Stories of Nezumi Kozõ’.  I’d like to introduce a few of those to the reader. (244)
 
When he was being questioned, Jirõkichi admitted that:
 
“I tried two or three times to break into the household of the lord of Hikone province, the Ii family.  (Because they were an illustrious samurai family) both the inner and outer walls (of their household) were high, and I knew it would not be easy to either get into or to steal anything from there.” 
 
He also had the following to say about the Ginza (a place to manufacture coinage, much like a treasury or a mint):
 
“Even in the dead of night, the security (for that place) was water-tight.  In the end I wasn’t able to steal a single thing.” (245)
 
Yet the Ii household and the Ginza were the exceptions to the rule. By and large the security for samurai households was lax, and someone of the talents of Jirõkichi could easily find a way to break into them.  The ‘Various Stories of Nezumi Kozõ’ also contained the following tale:
 
“When breaking into the house of an important daimyõ family, Jirõkichi would spend around two or three days hidden in the garden of the residence.   He would watch the interaction between the daimyõ and his wife, seeing how they offered one another drinking cups and the type of names they called one another.  This way he would remember every minor detail about the couple.  Apparently the officials listening to this confession later relayed its content to the guards from the residences described by Jirõkichi, and the guards were terribly embarrassed.” (245, 246)
 
Seizan also felt affinity for the type of attitude Jirõkichi displayed during his interrogation:
 
“When he was being questioned, Jirõkichi showed no signs of fear, saying “This is divine justice.  I scaled the high walls of many samurai household and managed to break in and easily take whatever I wanted. The fact that I am now bound by ropes and been reduced to this state is humiliating.  My time has definitely come.” (246)
 
As an afterward to this paragraph, Seizan added the following “While Nezumi Kozõ was brave, the world has no use for a thief’s bravery.” 
 
Seizan also wrote about how Nezumi Kozõ made efforts to ensure that his relationships with women would not cause them difficulties.  In one of these, he wrote:
 
“(Before he was arrested) Jirõkichi sent these women ‘declarations of separation’ (to prove they were not co-habiting). To those women reduced to living in a nagaya (a boarding house, usually occupied by the poor) after leaving him, he would unfailingly show concern down to the smallest detail for their well-being, often sending gifts to their landlords or ‘pimps’ (for their rent and food etc).  He was praised for being a man unparalleled in his combination of both intelligence and sense of honour.” (247)
 
A similar story was relayed in the ‘‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’:
 
“After being captured in the house of Matsudaira Kunaishõ-yû and realizing that he was likely to be executed straight away, Jirõkichi made a request “Don’t kill me here, but take me to the town magistrate and hand me over to him.  You can execute me after I’ve explained myself.” (247)
 
But why would he do this? Jirõkichi then gave his reason. “It seems someone has already committed seppuku (ritual suicide) in order to take the blame for a burglary for which I was responsible.  A lot of money was taken so there are probably a lot of suspects. If you take me to the official’s residence I will confess everything and ensure that more people are not punished (for a crime they did not commit).” (247)
 
So Jirõkichi was duly handed over to the town magistrate, where he confessed in full to both the houses he had broken into and the money he had stolen. Of course, he did not simply confess, but went back over all of the crimes he had committed over a decade. He explained in detail everything about his robberies, from the methods he used to enter houses to the amount of money taken. 
 
This process could not have been easy. In order to jog his memory a bit, Jirõkichi looked at a copy of the Bukan (a ledger which detailed all of the insignia of the various retainer households to the Tokugawa Bakufu, along with the posts they were responsible for administering) and tried to recall in as much detail as possible what he had done in each residence. (248)
 
Knowing that he would receive the ultimate punishment and that there was no use in trying to amend his ways, and by accepting punishment in order to absolve anyone else who might be under suspicion, Jirõkichi gave us a model of what a gizoku was mean to be. Even when he was being handed over to the authorities, the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ tells us that he showed no signs of fear or anger, and from the saddle of the horse he was sitting in he began to intone the ‘Lotus Sutra’ (Namu Myõhõ Renge Kyo). (248)
 
‘I, Nezumi Kozõ, witnessed your performance of Nõ’…
 
An honourable thief who doesn’t kill, and a man of deep sensitivity. Optimistic, fond of women, fastidious and brave.  Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi was certainly a ‘rascal’ about whom there is no shortage of legends and apocryphal stories. Yet there is no more fitting tale of Nezumi Kozõ and why he became the archetype for theatrical depictions of criminals than that contained within the forty-ninth scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’, a story titled “Nezumi Kozõ watches a performance of Nõ theatre”. (249)
 
According to this story, the widow of the former lord of a subsidiary of Himeji in Harima province began talking to a young Buddhist nun one day, and that nun later went on to recall details of the conversation to Matsuura Seizan.  One of those details was as follows:
 
“A performance of Nõ theatre was to be held in the residence of a certain lord located next door to that of the lord of Himeji, Sakai Uta no Kami (obviously, because he had been the unfortunate victim of a burglary, the name of this other lord was not revealed). The owner of the theatre in which the performance was to be made(i.e., the other lord) noticed a man standing in the centre of the space used by the performers in-between acts.  The man looked to be around 18 or 19 years old, and his half-moon haircut (the haircut most common to men during the Edo period, whereby all of the hair on top of the head was shaved off, leaving just the hair around the sides and back. This apparently kept the head cooler when wearing a helmet) was long and straggly. He was wearing a somewhat audacious half-sleeve jacket, and had a short sword shoved into his waistband.  
 
The lord spoke to the retainers on either side of him, saying “An intruder! Quickly, catch him and throw him out!”.  Yet the retainers could see no sign of an intruder. The lord repeated his order, so his retainers made their way up onto the stage and searched about.  Yet again, they could find no trace of any intruder.  
 
Only the other lord had seen the man in question.  His retainers searched desperately in an attempt to find him, but to no avail.” (249, 250)
 
The forty-ninth scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ was written in Bunsei 7 (1824), when Jirõkichi was 28 years old.  The fact that the other lord said he had seen a youth of 18 or 19 suggests that Jirõkichi had a young appearance and was also somewhat short in stature.  The eighty-first scroll of the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ includes a depiction of Jirõkichi’s appearance after he had been executed and his head put on display.  “Apart from some light scarring caused by smallpox, his skin was pale, and he did not have the look of a criminal, but possessed the placid, gentle expression of an ordinary tradesman.”
 
So Jirõkichi did not look like a criminal.   But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t surprising to the other lord to see a man standing on a stage in a room within his own residence.  The fact that his retainers couldn’t also see the man probably had less to do with the man being a fabrication of the other lord’s imagination and more to do with the fact that Jirõkichi could make himself scarce very quickly.  (250)
 
The widow’s tale continued.
 
“The man may have fled into the residence next door (that belonging to the lord of Himeji). This was certainly the conclusion reached within the other lord’s household, and so word was sent to the Sakai household to be on the alert for an intruder and to catch him if they saw him.  Guards from the Sakai household were placed in the gap between both households, yet the intruder did not appear.”
 
The highlight of this tale comes next. According to the original source “Thereafter a piece of paper was discovered on the stage in the theatre. On it was written “I, Nezumi Kozõ, saw your Nõ performance”. The theatre people were unable to hide their excitement, exclaiming “Ah, that man was the famous Nezumi Kozõ!”.  It was like a scene from a period drama (in fact, this very scene may have been recreated in a movie). (251)
 
The widow who was relaying this story to the nun is believed to have been the wife of Sakai Tadasada (lord of Niita Himeji), who died in Bunka 13 (1816) at the age of 37. To what extent the above story is true we cannot tell, but the source of the story was an actual woman who lived during the time in question, and who was living in retirement in a separate abode belonging to the same household. (251)
 
So who was the other lord referred to in the story? At the time, the households that neighboured that of Sakai Uta no Kami was the castle (Edo castle) to the west, while to the north were the Hitotsubashi, one of the three main houses of the Tokugawa family. The head of that household at the time was Tokugawa Narinori. To the east lay the households of Ogasawara Daizen Daiyû Tadakata (lord of Kokura in Buzen province) and Mizuno Dewa no Kami Tadanari (lord of Numazu in Suruga province).  (252)
 
When we narrow down the candidates to the three remaining households (i.e., excluding Edo castle), we find that the reference within the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ that describes the household of this other lord uses the term ‘yagata’. It is my belief that the victim in question was none other than Tokugawa Narinori of the Hitotsubashi. 
 
As to why I think this, I can point to Jirõkichi’s own confession. The households of the other daimyõ are referred to in the confession using the term ‘yashiki’, whereas that for the three principle households of the Tokugawa family and their rulers is “O-yagata”. At the time of the incident, Tokugawa Narinori was 22 years old, whereas Ogasawara Tadakata was 55 years old and Mizuno Tadanari was 63 years old.  It seems most likely, given the manner in which Nezumi Kozõ was only seen within the blink of an eye, that the youth Narinori stood the best chance of having seen him. (252)
 
Short and handsome
 
So what did Jirõkichi look like?
 
The short-story author and playwright Hasegawa Shigure (1879 – 1941) was foremost in creating the image of Nezumi Kozõ as a man of short stature. According to Hasegawa, it was his grandmother who first described Nezumi Kozõ to him. In his ‘Old Tales of Nihonbashi’ (Kyûbun Nihonbashi), Hasegawa echoed his grandmother’s words, writing “He was short, with some slight pockmarks (on his face), quite a tiny man.” (253)
 
Hence one reason that Jirõkichi was referred to as ‘Kozõ’ (literally ‘little monk’, but also carrying the meaning of ‘shorty’ or ‘kid’) was because he was short. This becomes more obvious when one looks at the character of Heikichi, who appears in the human drama ‘Midori no Hayashi Kado no Matsutake’ (The Pine and Bamboo Gate of the Green Forest) by San’yûtei Enchõ. (253)
 
Heikichi is the boss of a gang of pickpockets, and 27 years old.  About himself, he says “While I am little, I certainly don’t starve.”  Another character who idolizes Heikichi, who goes by the name ‘Oseki’, voices his concerns about Heikichi when preparing to hand him 100 ryõ that Heikichi needs, saying “I’m worried that this (money) will make the short-statured Heikichi bigger (meaning more prominent)”. (253)
 
So Enchõ may have based his character Heikichi on the historical image of Nezumi Kozõ. But that’s not all.  At that point in time, the name ‘kozõ’ carried connotations of being either a small thief or pickpocket.  For example, the character ‘Benten Kozõ’, who first appeared in a performance at the Ichimura-za (Ichimura theatre) of Kawatake Mokuami’s ‘Aoto Zõshi Hana no Nishiki-e’ (A Portrait of Red Flowers and Blue-millstone Paper) in Bunkyû 2 (1862) is a short but handsome young man. (253)
 
The female guards attending the young princess in the story all remark on his appearance, saying that he is ‘a good looking man’ and swoon over him. For his part, the 17 year old Benten Kozõ says of himself “I have a small frame.”  (254)
 
*It also seems as though there was another person who went by the name of Nezumi Kozõ before the arrival of the historical figure best recognised for having that name.  He was neither a thief nor a pickpocket, and was in every way a ‘Nezumi’ (rodent).  He was small, sly, and wicked, and so was called that name out of spite. (254)
 
Jirõkichi – a performer right up to the very end
 
On the day of his execution, Jirõkichi appears to have discovered the ‘actor’ in him.  According to the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’, Jirõkichi was wearing the following clothes when he was handed over to the town magistrate:
 
“He had a dark blue, rough-hewn long shirt on, underneath which he wore a white, shorter sleeved shirt.  He had an eight-layer waistband around his middle, and wore both fingerless gloves and gaiters which had been dyed white.”  While this means little to those unfamiliar with the style of Japanese dress at the time (myself included), it was apparently typical wear for someone of a short stature. After being bound and placed on a horse, Jirõkichi proceeded to close his eyes and start solemnly reciting the ‘Lotus Sutra’, as explained earlier. (254)
 
It goes without saying that crowds thronged to the roadside to see Jirõkichi pass.  Of particular interest was the comment in the ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ which said that “People were openly weeping, and drying their eyes on their sleeves.” Jirõkichi, it must be remembered, had limited himself to breaking into the houses of wealthy samurai and hadn’t killed or injured anyone.  Any money that he took he used on gambling or entertainment, and so contributed to the economic well-being of the townspeople. So as far as they were concerned, his were victimless crimes. And so they wept as they watched him head off to his execution.  
 
Of course, they may also have been doing this because of Jirõkichi’s talents as a performer and his ability to make an audience cry.  
 
Nezumi Kozõ wasn’t the only figure from history recorded to have moved an audience to tears while facing his demise.  In the ‘Records of Interrogations by Edo Magistrates’ by Sakuma Masahiro, there lies the tale of one ‘Kawachi Mushuku Sadazõ’.   Sadazõ was a true villain, originally sentenced to exile on an island, but who escaped to continue a series of murders and armed robberies.  After being captured, he, and six of his accomplices, were sentenced to die at the Kozuka-tsubara execution ground by crucifixion.  (255)
 
On the way to the execution ground, the prisoners asked that they be provided with some food and drink.  Their overseer (the official tasked with witnessing the execution) decided to allow this to happen and paid for some refreshments using his own money. Yet Sadazõ refused to accept any of it, and rebuked his accomplices saying “It doesn’t matter how much you eat or drink, it’ll all come running out of you soon enough. It’s pathetic, so stop it.”  Sadazõ had two half coins hidden in his mouth which he then proceeded to spit at the beggars in the crowd of onlookers.  He then continued on his way to the execution ground. (256)
 
Sadazõ was tied to his crucifixion pole, and in front of him his executioners, both on the left and right, made their preparations to stab him with their spears.  I’ll let Sakuma Masahiro finish this tale in his own words:
 
“(Sadazõ) said to his executioners with a smile “make sure to stick me properly”. Even after being run through by one spear, he turned to his accomplices next to him, happily urging them to “take it like you mean it”.  In the end, all seven of them, with neither fear, nor pain, nor panic written on their faces, met their end, being stabbed a total of 12 or 13 times.” (256)
 
And so a gang of villains met a ‘befitting’ end, although this example was quite clearly a rare exception.  What Sakuma was trying to convey to the reader was that ordinarily, upon hearing their sentence of death, most prisoners would lose all of their stoicism and panic and rave. The more cowardly among them would turn a corpse-like pallid white, and would lose all the strength in their legs and collapse in a heap. (256, 257)

Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016. (All pages are in parenthesis after paragraphs)
 
Chapter 12   The dramatic crimes of Nezumi Kozõ
 
When considering the types of crimes committed during the Edo period by so-called “noble thieves” (in Japanese, gizoku, referring to thieves who, out of a sense of righteousness and obligation, gave the money they stole to people in need), the name of Nezumi Kozõ (literally ‘Rodent Boy’) immediately springs to mind. Yet in truth there were other gizoku making a name for themselves before the arrival of Nezumi Kozõ.  One of those is included in the twenty-second scroll of the “Kasshi Yawa” (Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle). (228)
 
At approximately 2pm on the 7th day of the 9th month of Bunsei 5 (1822), someone managed to sneak his way into the residence of the shõgunate retainer Yajima Genshirõ, a member of the retinue of Hikozaka Õmi no Kami and a member of one of the lesser band of principle retainers to the shõgunate known as the Kobushin.
 
This mysterious individual proceeded to help himself to some of the chests of drawers in which money, official documents and books were kept. He stole the lot – cabinet and all. (228)
 
Then at around 8pm on the 11th day, just four days later, someone heard the sound of an object hitting the house next door to Yajima’s.  When a house retainer went to investigate, he found a ball made of paper and closed with a seal into which had been placed the official documents and ledgers stolen on the 7th, as well as a letter bearing the name of the man who had presumably stolen the items in the first place - ‘Kurata Kichiemon’. The chests of drawers were also later found abandoned under the walkway leading to the “Settchin” (雪隠, an otherwise poetic name for an outhouse or WC). (228)
 
On the 15th day of the 9th month, Yajima himself took the letter that had been inside the ball in hand and went to submit an official complaint to Hikozaka Õmi no Kami. Hikozaka then took that complaint to the town magistrate where he made his own request for an investigation.  
 
So what had been stolen from Yajima’s house?
 
According to the complaint deposition, 37 ryõ (or taels) of gold were missing, along with two and a half ingots of pure silver and two of lesser grade silver, along with documents (namely debt certificates), one of which was worth 20 gold ryõ while four others were worth 15 gold ryõ.  Another document had been taken worth 10 gold ryõ, along with ledgers and other books (titles and identification papers). 
 
This thief, who went by the name of Kurata Kichiemon, had decided to take only the coinage since all of the other items were returned.  His reasons for doing this were presumably because he had either been unable to convert the other items into money, or else he was worried that if he did something foolish and was caught, then these documents would serve as evidence that he had committed the crime (or he may have simply been following a trend among thieves to return any non-monetary goods to their owners). (229)
 
The letter from Kichiemon
 
So why was Kichiemon regarded as a gizoku? Whether or not there was any truth behind such a claim is debatable, however it was referred to in Kichiemon’s own letter.  This itself was unusual - a thief writing a letter addressed to one of his victims.  
 
Moreover the letter itself is overflowing with wit. I would be overjoyed to introduce the letter to the reader in its entirety, however this would be overly arduous as the letter is quite long. So in order to expedite proceedings I have only quoted the most relevant parts, and made my own modern translation of their content.  
 
The letter is neither threatening nor insulting, and begins with an apology:
 
“I ventured to your residence upon learning that my lordship’s circumstances were indeed fortunate, and so sought to borrow some of your wealth.  However after gaining entry, I found that you were not quite as wealthy as I had first imagined, and so for this I do offer my most sincere apologies.” 
 
He then went on to explain his reasons for stealing the chests of drawers:
 
“I did not sneak into your residence for the purposes of personal gain.  I simply could no longer stand to see the long-standing suffering of so many people. And so while I myself am poor, I realized that I could alleviate this suffering by borrowing (i.e., stealing) the money kept on your estate.”  
 
Kichiemon himself confesses that his actions were for the benefit of other less fortunate people, thereby equating himself with a gizoku. Furthermore, he goes on to promise that he will eventually return the money that he had ‘borrowed’:
 
“I will return the money to you very soon, hence I ask that you be patient in the interim.” (231)
 
The above quotations cover the heart of the letter’s content, but the letter itself contains numerous long “post scripts”, where Kichiemon outlines his history as a gizoku and about his own personal circumstances:
 
“I have been taking the things of wealthy people in order to give to them to the poor for many years, but any money that I borrow (i.e., steal) is eventually returned.  I am already in my 50s, but have not given up on life yet, and continue to live without want.”  
 
In his post script, Kichiemon also offered some opinions about the locks and security of the Yajima residence (from an expert’s point of view):
 
“Your lordship’s house has excellent locks, but it seems that this has made your household complacent (i.e., they don’t seem to have noticed an intruder).” (233) 
 
Enter the Gizoku
​
The above quotes came from the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’, however we can find an alternative version of same events in the “Mikikigusa” (Tales Seen and Heard). 
 
The first deals with the intrusion of the bedchamber of Tajima and his wife.
 
The ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ simply states that Kichiemon “entered the couple’s sleeping quarters”.  However the ‘Tales Seen and Heard’ says that Kichiemon “intruded upon the bedroom of the couple, but found that they were fast asleep. They both looked content, and Kichiemon regarded them with some envy”. (233)
 
Be that as it may, what prompted Kichiemon to write his letter in the first place? Firstly, if you write a letter, you create an important piece of evidence with details of your handwriting. A letter also offers you a way to confess if you have carried out similar crimes over a long period of time.  It is, in a way, a form of self-advertising your crimes to draw attention to yourself. It also makes you a criminal with a flair for the dramatic, does it not? (234)
 
Speaking of dramatic crimes, one incident from the 1980s, the Glico-Morinaga extortion investigation, comes to mind.  In the case of that incident, a person calling themselves ‘The Monster with 21 Faces’ issued threats against companies and their employees. In the case of Kurata Kichiemon, he advertised his crimes under the banner of a gizoku.  (234) 
 
The complaint made by Yajima and a copy of Kichiemon’s letter eventually found their way into the hands of the town magistrate. Other copies were handed to Matsuura Seizan (described in an earlier chapter) and Miyazaki Seishin (both of whom were famous writers of their day), and it is entirely conceivable that more copies were distributed to other readers.  Each of those copies were then seen by unknown numbers of friends and family of the recipient, and so Kurata’s exploits as a gizoku began to be discussed and admired by a wider audience.  As word spread, the content of these letters became more and more interesting, and it seems that people had started adding their own details in order to liven the story up.  That may be the reason why details that were included in the ‘Tales Seen and Heard’ weren’t included in the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’. (235)
 
Kurata Kichiemon – the 50-something year old thief. As a result of his hurling a letter into the residence of Yajima Genjirõ, he drew attention to himself and ended up becoming the lead character in plays based on the exploits of gizoku. 
 
But what eventually became of Kichiemon himself? Sadly we have no idea.  Whether he was a true gizoku and eventually returned the money that he had ‘borrowed’ will forever remain a mystery. (235)
 
Introducing Nezumi Kozõ
 
Speaking of drama, Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi must be the very definition of a theatrical ‘noble thief’.  Before I explain why, I should provide some details about his life.  
 
My sources for this include both the ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ (scrolls 78 to 81), a collection of stories by the bookshop owner Yamashiro Yachûbei (titled Bunbõdõ Zassan, or ‘Miscellaneous Tales from Bunbõdõ’ (Bunbõdõ being the name of the shop).  There is also the ‘A True Record of the Rodent Thief’ (Sozoku Hakujõki).  As each record differs in content, I have decided to compile them together in the explanation that follows. (235)
 
Nezumi Kozõ Jirõkichi was put to death at the age of 36 in the 8th month of Tenpõ 3 (1832).  Assuming that the record of his age at the time of his death is accurate, this would put his year of birth in or around Kansei 9 (1797).  He was born in Shin Izumi-chõ, an area that is now part of Ningyõ-chõ, 3 chõme in central Tokyo.  His father was Sadajirõ, a dekata, or theatre usher working in a Kabuki theatre (and occasionally playing minor roles such as a youth, or Kido-gashira, of the type performed by the Nakamura-za (theatre) of Sakai-chõ). Sadajirõ was apparently blind in one eye, which led to him being called ‘one-eyed Sada’ (he was also called ‘squinty’ because of his supposed short-sightedness).  He died of illness in Bunsei 12 (1829), about ‘four years’ (actually three years) before Jirõkichi was executed. (236)
 
When he was 14 years old, Jirõkichi commenced work for a cabinet maker (who built other wooden objects as well) located in Kameda Konya-chõ (modern day Chiyõda-ku Kameda Konya-chõ in Tokyo).  However he engrossed himself in bouts of gambling to which he became addicted.  He quit working at Kameda and hired himself out as a temporary assistant to another cabinet maker located beneath a watch tower along the banks of the Hettsui-gashi river (now part of Nihonbashi, Ningyõ-chõ, 2 chõme).  Yet Jirõkichi’s passion for gambling remained unquenched, and when he was 16 he moved back in with his parents. (236)
 
It was while he was living with his parents that he was hired by another cabinet maker, in whose service he came to work on the residence of a falconer for a samurai household. This falconer saw talent in the boy and so hired him as an apprentice. Yet this is no way convinced Jirõkichi to go on the straight and narrow.  His desire for money to use on entertainment and gambling was too strong to resist, and so in Bunsei 6 (1823), at the age of 26, Jirõkichi decided that he would start robbing the houses belonging to samurai (and even daimyõ) families. (237)
 
But why on earth would he choose to rob samurai households? The reason, it seems, lay in the degree of concern that samurai displayed in relation to safeguarding their wealth. Townspeople (i.e., merchants) were normally quite afraid of burglars, and so would use every means possible to ensure that their money was secure from theft.  Samurai, on the other hand, while they might have used tight security on the outside, tended to have fairly lax security once you were able to traverse the moats surrounding the house and gain entry to their inner sanctum. (237)
 
Jirõkichi had been adept at walking in high places since he was a little boy, so much so that all he needed to do was grab hold of something in order to climb it, no matter how dangerous it might be.   Furthermore, many samurai households had quarters at their centre that were for the exclusive use of the women of the household, who also oversaw their own security for those rooms. Jirõkichi figured that since no male samurai could easily enter that part of the house, he stood a much better chance of being able to rob the house without exposing himself to too much danger if he started in the women’s quarters. (237)
 
And so, from the 2nd month of Bunsei 6 through to the 1st month of Bunsei 8, Jirõkichi proceeded to rob the households of daimyõ no less than 30 times.  
 
However, luck is a fleeting thing. On the 3rd day of the 2nd month of Bunsei 8, Jirõkichi was spotted while trying to break into the household of one Tsuchiya Sagami no Kami (lord of Tsuchiura in Hitatchi province), and was later captured by a posse belonging to the local magistrate, one Tsutsui Iga no Kami (Masanori) of Minami-chõ.  Jirõkichi would not admit to having robbed anyone, and so was taken to Moto Osaka-chõ (now Nihonbashi, Ningyõ-chõ 1 chõme) on the 14th, where he was imprisoned as ‘Jirõkichi of the Senkichi-ten’ (or shop). (238)
 
It was while he was under arrest that Jirõkichi was questioned about his motives, and so gave the following statement:
 
“Since the 8th month of last year, I have been involved in gambling bouts against peasants and merchants of between 100 to 200 bun (equivalent to around 32.5 yen) at various places including Senju (part of modern Adachi-ku in Tokyo).  At these places I have indulged in games like mawari-zutsu (‘spinning the pipe’), chohan(odds and evens), and chobo-ichi (snake eyes). When I went to visit a friend of mine called Yasugorõ on the 3rd day of the 2nd month at the (Tsuchiya) household, I wasn’t able to meet him. So my wicked nature took over and I decided to rob the place”. (238)
 
Despite not actually haven taken anything from the household, a complaint was filed against Jirõkichi, and so on the 2nd day of the 5th month, he was sentenced to first be tattooed (thus marking him as a criminal) and then to be banished from Edo to a ‘middle distance’ from the city (in the case of commoners, this meant that a person could not commit a crime or enter any territory in the four directions extending ten ri (between 32 to 40 kilometres) from Edo itself).  (238)
 
Another tale also exists regarding Jirõkichi’s attempted break-in at the Tsuchiya household. According to this story, when Jirõkichi entered the quarters of the former ruler of Tsuchiura (known as an Inkyõ. In samurai households, it was not unusual for former rulers to co-habit with the current ruler in order to serve as an advisor and mentor) he was seized by one of the former ruler’s guards.  When Jirõkichi was being handed over to the town magistrate, the Inkyõ had a change of heart, and so paid the 10 ryõ bail money to let Jirõkichi go free.  But why would he do this? 
 
Apparently Jirõkichi was quite adept at lying, and had told the old man that ‘I am taking care of my sick mother, and am living in the depths of poverty’. (238-239)
 
After being banished from Edo, Jirõkichi spent some time in the Kyoto area (one source says that he spent half the year on a pilgrimage to Konpira shrine). However he soon drifted back again, and so broke the law.  He changed his name to Jirõbei, and again took up living with his parents. His tattoo mark would obviously become a problem if discovered.  So after asking a certain Kanejirõ for assistance, one of his old acquaintances from his time as a falconer in the samurai household, he managed to have the tattoo modified by disguising it under depictions of clouds and dragons, thereby keeping his criminal past a secret. (239)
 
Jirõbei (as we will now call him) then changed his living address to Yujima 6 chõme, and took up an ostensible trade selling steamed vegetables. His real profession, however, remained gambling.  Before long Jirõbei again found himself short on funds, and so reverted to the one sure-fire way to redress this problem – stealing from samurai households.  From the time he managed to break into the residence of Matsudaira Daigaku no Gashira (lord of Moriyama in Mutsu province) sometime during 7th month of Bunsei 8, until his arrest on the 4th day of the 5th month of Tenpõ 3 (1832) after attempting to rob the residence of Matsudaira Kunaishõ-yû (lord of Obata in Kõzuke province), Jirõbei conducted over 80 burglaries on various samurai households. Following his arrest, he was eventually handed to city authorities on the 19th of the 8th month of Tenpõ 3 and imprisoned. 
 
It was believed that in all, Jirõbei had carried out over 100 burglaries, with a combined loot value of over 3,100 ryõ.  (239) 
 
A talent for lying
 
Having been born on the narrow streets of Edo, filled with its theatres and tea houses, Jirõbei was almost certainly influenced by these, if not also by his theatrical father. Nezumi Kõzõ Jirõkichi (back to that name once again) was the city equivalent of Inaka (or rural) Kõzõ (another famous robber of his day), and had just enough theatrical ability to make him a star in the role of a theatrical villain. Of course, when I say theatrical ability, what I mean is that he had a particular talent for telling fibs.  The truth is that Jirõkichi was not only talented at making his way across moats and scaling walls to enter daimyõ households, he also had a distinct knack for being able to lie his way out of trouble. (240)
 
Matsuura Seizan managed to get hold of a copy of the confession Jirõkichi made to another of Matsuura’s compatriot officials, one Ueda Bõ.  He then included this in his ‘Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle’ (in the eighty-first scroll containing edits), and it is from this that I will draw the following quotes.  I should also add that there are many records and tales in existence in regard to Nezumi Kozõ, and so it is particularly difficult to judge which are reliable and which are not.  Yet for all that, a deposition created by a city official based on a direct confession should probably be regarded as trustworthy. (240) 

• About ten years ago, as I was passing through the front gate of the residence belonging to Arima Genba no Kami (lord of Kurume in Chikugo province), I lied that I had some business with the falcon coop keeper, and so was allowed to enter the household grounds.  Later that night, I stole around 5 ryõ worth of gold from the room belonging to the chief retainer to the women’s quarters.  
• Around ten years ago, as I passed through the front gate of the residence of Lord Mito (one of the three great Tokugawa households), I told the guards on duty that I had business in the ‘Edo room’ and they let me in.  Later on, I stole around 70 ryõ in gold after sneaking into the room of the chief retainer of the women’s quarters.
• Four or five years ago, as I made my way through the entrance gate to the residence of Matsudaira Izumi no Kami (lord of Nishio in Mikawa province), I told the guards on duty that I was a demawari (a close retainer to the lord of the household) so they let me in. Afterwards I stole 25 ryõ in gold. 
• Seven or eight years ago, as I was making my way through the front gate of the residence of Hosokawa Etchû no Kami (lord of Kumamoto in Higo province), I told the guards on duty that I had business in the quarters of retainers to the absentee (or rusu, 留守) official (essentially a senior minister of the household and personal retainer to the household lord who acted in his lord’s stead when the lord was absent).  I was allowed to enter, and stole 2 ryõ’s worth of gold from the chief retainer to the women’s quarters. (240-242)

 
With Jirõkichi’s level of acting skills, getting past the guards out front was a piece of cake.  He approached each gate honestly and openly, saying ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment with such-and-such, so how about letting me through?’.  (242)
 
To be continued.

This translation comes by way of a compilation of various records of crimes committed during the Edo period (1615-1868), written by Ujie Mikito, a historian of early modern Japan.  Ujie’s purpose in writing the book was to introduce to a broader audience some of the more fascinating cases from Edo (Tokyo)’s history. He has done this by firstly translating most of the content of the historical records into modern Japanese, and then placing each case in his historical context, with a bit of amateur psychology thrown in for good measure.  Interestingly, Ujie has chosen to break each case down into individual chapters, which he then recommends that the reader absorb in one go before moving on to the next case/chapter. In this sense, each chapter resembles something of a bedtime story (indeed Ujie recommends reading each case at night, preferably with a drink at hand).  However as you will see, some of these cases are not for the faint at heart or weak of stomach.  As is the case with my previous translations, all page numbers are in parenthesis/brackets, just in case you want to read the original text.  I’ve also included some explanations in the text for words and concepts that some readers might not be familiar with, and which can come in useful when reading other material about this era.
 
Ujie Mikito, “Historical records of crimes committed during the Edo period” (Kobunsho ni miru Edo hanzai kõ), Shõdensha, 2016.
 
Chapter One.  The case of the ‘thousand cuts’ killer
 
When examining crimes committed during the Edo period, it is clear that the motives, methods, number of victims and scale of heinousness of those crimes greatly varied.  So where should we start our investigation? While I don’t have any particular preference for such incidents, I’ll start by looking at a crime committed by a ‘stone-cold killer’ (in Japanese, a tõrima - literally ‘a passing devil’. This term used to refer to an incident where a person armed with some form of sharp implement, such as a knife or a sword or indeed any sort of implement, suddenly and violently begins randomly stabbing and slashing people around him or her without provocation). 
 
This particular incident comes courtesy of Ishizuka Hõkaishi’s “Collection of records of street gossip” (Daidan Bunbun Shûyõ).  
 
From the end of the 1st month (January) to the 3rd month of the 3rd year of Bunka (1806), someone in the city of Edo had taken to stabbing poor and disabled people to death with a spear after the sun went down.  Why? It was clear from the victims that the motive for such crimes wasn’t money. 
 
Let’s explore this in greater detail. At around 8pm on the 1st day of the 3rd month, a 32 year old blind ‘vagrant’ was stabbed by a spear on the road just below Mizaka in the city of Edo and later died of his wounds.  Then on the 6th, at around 7pm in the evening, a 50 year old vagrant was stabbed on the road at Kõjimachi San-nõ-chõ and gravely wounded. 
 
There would be another two victims on the 6th.  At 9pm, on the road out the back of Kõjimachi Ichõme, a 45 year old blind masseuse had been stabbed and wounded. At around the same time, on the road at Asakusa Higashigachõ, a 25 year old apprentice to a local doctor was stabbed and killed. (14, 15)
 
It appeared that a serial killer was on the loose.  The killer may not have been acting alone, and we can’t rule out the possibility that some of these incidents might have been ‘copycat’ killings inspired by the original murder.  In all, 13 people were attacked with a spear between the 1st and 3rd months, and 6 died. 7 or 8 victims managed to flee from their attacker after being wounded. 
 
Luckily the culprit was finally apprehended in the 4th month, and on the 13th day of the same month was handed over to authorities for sentencing. He was executed at the prison grounds at Suzugamori on the same day and his head was put on display.  The culprit had previously served as a retainer within a samurai household, and his motive appeared to be a desire to test his spear training on a living human body. Unable to control himself, he had then repeated his crimes. (15)
 
The joy shared by the arrest of the culprit was short-lived, however.  On the very day that he was executed, another blind masseuse was stabbed at Asakusa, and four days after the retainer’s execution, on the 27th of the 4th month, 3 people were stabbed in the vicinity of Kagurazaka.  One of these was a lad aged 17.  On his way back from collecting some medicine from a local doctor to give to his mother who had suddenly fallen ill, the boy was stabbed through the chest, from the ribcage through to the spine, and died almost instantly.  The weapon this time was not a spear, but a newly forged carving knife which had been left in the body of the victim after the culprit fled. (15, 16)
 
A similar series of incidents later occurred throughout the 11th and 12th months of the same year.  Yet again, all of the victims were either itinerants or disabled.  Despite the implementation of stricter restrictions on movement by the various towns within the city of Edo, authorities were still unable to catch the culprit.  
 
As the perpetrator of the original crimes had been put to death in the 4th month, the continuation of such incidents was believed to be a result of copycat killings. (16)
 
Be that as it may, it doesn’t explain why such grotesque crimes were repeatedly happening to the infirm and those at the very bottom of society.
 
In Edo, the practice of samurai attacking passers-by in order to test the sharpness of their swords (known in Japanese as tsuji-giri) occurred from time to time. However the perpetrator of the serial crimes in the 3rd year of Bunka was no samurai.  Moreover the man executed earlier who belonged to the samurai household was believed to have been a simple town resident (or else a peasant). Hence whomever had committed the copycat crime with the carving knife was also not a member of the warrior class. (16)
 
It appeared as the the perpetrators of these incidents wanted to kill a living human being, be it with a spear or a knife.  They may have sought out the experience for the thrill and sensation that it gave them.  However such abominable motives led to miserable ends. (16, 17)
 
The work of a devil
 
The next record was written by Matsuura Seizan and titled “Kasshi Yawa” (Evening Tales of the First Lunar Cycle). Matsuura was a venerable elder (and former ruler) of Hirado district of Hizen province (modern Nagasaki and Saga prefectures, land that came with a stipend of 60,000 koku a year (a koku being a unit of measurement, with 1 koku being the amount of rice deemed necessary to feed one man for one year). His writing contains some important records of crimes. One of those concerned a series of murders that took place in the 5th month of the 9th year of Bunsei (1826). (17) 
 
At around 6pm on the 18th day of the 5th month of Bunsei 9, a man by the name of Kingorõ, an apprentice to a business located in Kohinata Myõgatani chõ (another part of Edo), was making his way home from the local bathhouse when he was set upon by a number of assailants. He was cut open from his left hip to his throat and quickly expired.  The culprits fled the scene, and their motive remained a mystery.  Kingorõ had been making his way to the bathhouse with barely any clothing on, hence the perpetrators cannot have been seeking to rob him of any money he might possess. It looked as though this was yet another tõrima incident. (17)   
 
At around 9pm on the same night, an official by the name of Kamekichi, working in front of the temple of Dentsûin at Ko-ishikawa, came across two men who appeared to be samurai on the path above the district of Tomisaka.  Kamekichi saw both men reach for the swords and move to strike him, whereupon Kamekichi quickly ran off and lived to tell the tale.  Then at 7pm on the 20th of the 5th month, a peasant by the name of Gonbei of Kazusa province was walking along the banks of a moat outside of the Hitotsubashi gate when somebody took a swing at him with a sword from above his straw (kasa) hat.   Gonbei chased after his assailants, all two of them, but lost sight of them in the dark.  It was after returning to his house that Gonbei first noticed that he had a 3cm gash in his forehead.  
 
The fact that Gonbei hadn’t noticed his injury because he was so surprised at having been randomly attacked in the first place bore a striking similarity to the tale of Tetsugorõ, a carpenter of the Tõkichi school at Fukugawa. At around 6pm on the 5th day of the 6th month of Bunsei 9, Tetsugorõ was set upon by an unknown number of assailants on his way back to Fukugawa from Morishita chõ. Despite being quite incapacitated by alcohol, somehow Tetsugorõ managed to get away.  He didn’t even notice that he had a cut running across his back until after he returned home and tried to have a bath.  The blood that ran from his back into the water told him all he needed to know about the attack on him. (18)
 
Were his attackers attempting to test their swords out on Tetsugorõ or was simple murder their motivation? Whatever the case may be, as far as Seizan was concerned these serial murders were ‘the work of a devil’. (18)
 
The madness of Magara Shingorõ
 
Up until now we have been dealing with the opening act, but now it is time to move on to the main event.  I should add that simply quoting from the source would be difficult for readers to understand, hence I would like to introduce the next case by offering my own interpretation of the original text. (19)
 
On the evening of the 24th day of the 8th month of Kanbun 3 (1663), in an area between a grass field and Koku-chõ - a part of the Nihonbashi district - a number of incidents occurred where people passing through that area were randomly attacked.  8 people in all were killed while another 10 were wounded.  Despite occurring in the dead of night, people were soon rushing to their local magistrates’ houses to demand something be done to put a stop to such madness. (19)
 
The identity of the culprit remained a mystery, however.  Then, at about 8 am the following day, a monk from the Kõya monastery by the name of Shinetsubõ made his way to the local magistrate’s residence at Koku-chõ and relayed the following information:
 
“Last night, a well-disposed rõnin (unemployed samurai) by the name of Magara Shingorõ came to visit me at my house. Upon arrival, he asked “I have been holed up at Atagoyama (part of Edo city) where I have been offering prayers.  However I am very tired. Might I rest here for a while?”.  He looked like a fairly stable, trustworthy sort of fellow so I let him in. Almost as soon as he had entered, he suddenly dropped down onto the floor and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
 
This morning, when I went to take breakfast to Magara in his room, where he was still asleep, I noticed that he had blood on various parts of his clothing.  Not only that, the sword that he had drawn from its scabbard and placed upright on the floor was covered in blood, right up to the hilt.  Being that he is a large man, and unsure what he might do after he wakes up, I’ve hidden both his main and short swords as a precaution”. 
 
The magistrate exclaimed “That’s him, that’s the culprit. Seize him”, and dispatched a posse of retainers off to Shinetsubõ’s house.  Upon entering the house, the posse found Magara sound asleep and easily overpowered him.  He was then taken back to the official’s residence, and gave the following response to questioning:
 
“Ordinarily I pray at Atago Shrine. Last night, while I was praying, I received a divine message which said “You should cut one thousand people starting tonight. If you do this, all of your wishes shall come true.” So I left Atagoyama and ran about cutting anybody I happened to come across, just cutting and running, cutting and running. I remember cutting around 20 or 30 people, but I have no idea whether they are still alive or dead”. 
 
Magara then made a final request, which was to “Please allow me to continue to cut a thousand people.  My wishes won’t come true if I don’t”.  So in addition to randomly attacking numerous passers-by and causing their deaths, not only was Magara barely aware of the gravity of his crimes, he had the audacity to ask the local magistrate to allow him to continue to perpetrate them. What is more, the expression on his face, with his wide-open eyes and gritted teeth, made him appear as if he was in the grips of madness. (20, 21)
 
The sword that Magara used to commit his crimes was around 3 shaku (approximately 90 cm) in length and 3.4 cm in width, forged by Kawachi no Kami Kunisuke. It appears that Magara had only to swing at each passer-by once for him to cut them down. Hence after the incident the sword was highly regarded for its cutting edge, and Kunisuke himself became renowned as a master swordsmith and a maker of superlative blades. (21)
 
‘To cut a thousand people’ 
 
The above incident (which I have taken to calling ‘the case of the thousand cuts killer’) has many things in common with modern incidents committed by tõrima. 
 
Magara prayed fervently in the hope that it would make his wishes come true.  His main wish was probably to secure a good job as an official somewhere (i.e., be re-hired). Here he was, a powerfully built individual, excelling in military arts and literate. So why was he still unemployed? His overconfidence in his own abilities and dissolution with a society that didn’t acknowledge his skills, combined with his anxiety over an uncertain future and current poverty, must have damaged his psyche. Hence his ‘auditory hallucination’ of receiving a message from the gods, which transformed him into a mass murderer. (22)
 
This conjecture might seem pretty forced, but it is entirely possible that these were the sort of thoughts going through Magara’s head before he committed his crimes. Obviously everyone’s past is different.  And it is not so easy to simply compare Magara Shingorõ with the perpetrators of modern tõrima incidents, but still…
 
Actually, there is one point where Magara’s case differs considerably to the modern day. Magara’s case occurred at a time when the smell of blood still tainted the air of the warrior class.  The fact that Magara’s sword, which would otherwise be regarded as a murder weapon, could instead be praised for its sharpness speaks volumes about the times in which the incident happened. I very much doubt in this day and age that a knife used to perpetrate a tõrima incident would later start flying off the shelves because of the maker’s claim that it ‘cuts really well’. (22, 23)
 
Nevertheless, no matter how much we put Magara’s behaviour down to his insanity, I have no words to express my horror at his request to ‘be allowed to keep on cutting a thousand people’.  It was as though he had shamelessly declared “As a warrior, I have been lenient. So please allow me kill another 900 or so people”.  No matter how heinous a crime might be committed today, I doubt the culprit would utter words so detached from reality. (23) 
 
But what exactly was this phenomenon Magara spoke of – this ritual of ‘cutting one thousand people’? (sennin-kiri, not to be confused with the modern use of this expression which refers to something ENTIRELY different) 
 
For the answer to this, I first must thank the naturalist, botanist, and cultural anthropologist Minagata Kumakuzu, a ‘giant of knowledge’.  I wonder if you are familiar with his work ‘About the cutting of a thousand people’ (Sennin-kiri no Hanashi) published in Meiji 45 (1912)? Minagata, who was in his late 50s when he wrote that essay, was a collector of the historical records and literature of this country, and not only offered up examples of the ritual of ‘one thousand cuts’, but followed the trail of clues all the way back to its origins in the Angulimala Sutra.  That tale can be summarised as follows: (23, 24)
 
“The teacher Baramon had a gifted young acolyte of whom he was jealous.  In order to try and get the young monk to ‘remove himself’ (i.e., commit suicide) he laid false accusations on him, saying ”You are an evil person”, and ordered the young monk “to kill one thousand people in order to wash away the stain of your sins”.  The young monk, with no other option, proceeded to start killing people.
 
After killing nine hundred and ninety-nine people, the young monk had one person left to fulfil his task. At that moment, his mother, worried about her son’s emaciated form, brought him a delicious meal to eat.  When the son was on the verge of killing his mother, Lord Shakyamuni (Gautama Buddha) appeared, and explained how wrong the actions of the young monk were to him. The young monk then became enlightened, and would go on to become a venerated holy man.”   
 
Whatever the origins of this story may be, the fact is that it led to a stupid belief that if you kill one thousand people your wishes will be granted.  When this was combined with the nonchalance of the warring states period (1465-1615), when killing peasants was considered no great sin, and whose ethos was carried over into the early Edo period by the warrior class, this led to the appearance of people who repeatedly committed acts of tsuji-giri. It was these individuals who then proceeded to ‘glorify’ such acts of random terror by linking sennin-kiri to the fulfilment of a religious vow. (24, 25)
 
In sum, the ‘case of the thousand cuts killer’ took place at a time when an atmosphere of naked blood lust had yet to fade into history. It was a tragic practice perpetrated by rõnin that emerged in the early Edo period following the dissolution of many daimyõ (warlord) households. (25)
 
Amok Syndrome
 
Was the above crime an anomaly caused by the mental state of the perpetrator, something that would be familiar to the modern age, or was it a crime steeped in the mores and manners of its time? The jury is out on the verdict, but when examining the origins of the crime, one further theory emerged which I find quite intriguing. It is a theory that links such acts to a phenomenon that would be familiar to inhabitants of the Malay peninsula – that of ‘Amok Syndrome’. (25)
 
In his study of sennin-kiri, Minagata Kumakuzu had the following to say about ‘Amok Syndrome’:
 
“Debts, separation from loved ones, and punishment. When a man feels that these have all piled up and that there is no fairness left in the world, he temporarily goes insane, aware neither of what led him into his current state nor what its consequences will be. Taking a knife in hand, he runs about attacking people indiscriminately, men, women, young and old, without rest.  Afterwards, despite the deaths of scores of people, the mob will seemingly praise him for his act.” (26)
 
A man whose dissatisfaction and indignation have piled up to the point that he loses control of himself is transformed into a mass murderer.  After the crimes are committed, there is a tendency for people to find worth in the grotesqueness of such acts. In this sense, such acts closely resemble that committed by Magara Shingorõ. (26)
 
Minagata also wrote the following based on notes made by Alfred Wallace in his “Record of the Malay Islands”:
 
“56 years ago (around 1856), a series of incidents took place in Makassar (located in the centre of Sulawesi Island in eastern Indonesia). These occurred at the rate of once or twice a month.  The worst of these would see 20 or so people killed or injured.” 
 
The origins of the word ‘amok’ were explained in Chapter Six of Steven Pinker’s “How the Mind Works”. According to Pinker:
 
“Amok is a Malay word for the homicidal sprees occasionally undertaken by lonely Indochinese men who have suffered a loss of love, a loss of money, or a loss of face.” 
 
Pinker also points out records of such acts being committed in Papua New Guinea. In terms of the relationship between ‘Amok Syndrome’ and indiscriminate acts of mass murder, Pinker made the following observation.  In 1986, 7 men admitted to a hospital in Papua New Guinea and suffering from ‘Amok Syndrome’ were interviewed and analysed, with the results comprising the basis for the ‘amok mindset’. These results were identical to the thoughts held by Thomas Hamilton, the perpetrator of the Dunblane Massacre. On the 13th of March 1996, Hamilton walked into a primary school in the Scottish town of Dunblane and proceeded to murder sixteen children and their teacher using various guns before killing himself. (27)
 
Pinker explained the ‘amok mindset’ thus:
 
“I am not an important or “big man”.  I possess only my personal sense of dignity. My life has been reduced to nothing but an intolerable insult.  Therefore, I have nothing left to lose except my life, which is nothing, so I trade my life for yours, as your life is favoured.  The exchange is in my favour, so I shall not only kill you, but I shall kill many of you, and at the same time rehabilitate myself in the eyes of the group of which I am a member, even though I might be killed in the process.” 
 
Even in samurai households of the Bakumatsu era….
 
One could therefore say that the ‘case of the thousand cuts killer’ that took place on the evening of the 24th of the 8th month of Kanbun 3 (1663), steeped though it was in the mores of the early Edo period, was a tragedy whose origins lay in the amok mindset of its perpetrator, a mindset whose existence transcends both time and place.  
 
Tonight’s story thus ends here. Or does it? Since we’ve come this far, I’ll relay the details of one further case that took place during the Edo period.
 
On the evening of the 10th of the 9th month of Kaei 4 (1851, during what is known in Japanese as the Bakumatsu era, when the Tokugawa shõgunate was in its twilight years yet before the emerge of Japan as a modern state), an incident took place in the residence of one of Tokugawa shõgunate’s close retainers, that of Hongõ Tango no Kami Yasukata.    One of the members of the household retinue managed to cut his way into the female quarters at the centre of the household, where he proceeded to strike five women down before killing himself. (28)
 
A doctor was called for, yet all of the women were already dead. I’m not really sure what sort of treatment they were hoping the doctor would be able to offer.  Nevertheless this incident was recorded in the ‘Naniwa Diary’ (Naniwa Nikki) written by Kawaji Toshiakira. It seems that Minagata wasn’t aware of the existence of this book, and so it wasn’t included in his study of sennin-kiri. (28)
 
But what became of Magara Shingorõ? He had gone about slicing up victims with abandon and so, no surprises here, wasn’t spared execution.  The conclusion to this case is recorded in the “Collection of Various Tales and Testimonies of Martial Houses” (Bumon Shosetsu Shûi), which said:
 
“And so Shingorõ, despite being affected by madness, was found guilty of having killed a large number of people and was cut down.”  
 
This “cut down” tells us that even seppuku (ritual suicide) was considered too good for someone of the likes of Magara. (29)

I will admit that this particular entry was inspired by a recent visit to the National Gallery of NSW to view their “Japan Supernatural” exhibition. The exhibition, in addition to including works by modern artists such as Aoshima Chiho and Murakami Takashi, also featured various works depicting ghosts, goblins, demons, and other creatures of Japanese folklore from the early Edo period. So on that note, I decided to pull out my rather well-thumbed copy of Sugiura Hinako’s “O Edo de gozaru” (お江戸でござる) to translate the chapter dedicated to “ghosts and monsters” (pgs.182 to 191).  Hopefully it captures some of the fascination surrounding the subject matter that Sugiura sought to convey to the reader.

“A popular trend from the mid-Edo period onwards was the telling of “one hundred tales of terror”.  In the evening, adults would gather together, with participants telling between 4 to 5 horror stories each. In the centre of an otherwise dark room were placed 100 candles, lit one after another, the light from which shone on the candle trays supporting them.  Once a tale had been told, a single candle would be put out so that the room grew progressively darker.  By the time of the witching hour (around 2 in the morning), all 100 tales had been told.   Upon the extinguishment of the last remaining candle, creatures of the night would instantly emerge from all directions, making such gatherings a kind of ‘monster viewing’ party. 

However, it was common practice to refrain from telling the hundredth tale.  Superstition had it that if the hundredth story was told, misfortune would befall whomever had spoken it. People were afraid that they would regret having told the hundredth tale, and so avoided doing so.

In truth, there was a very clear distinction between “monsters” and “ghosts”.  ‘Ghosts’ appeared to a specific person and would deliberately seek that person out.  The character of “O-Iwa san” from the Tale of Yotsuya by Tamiya Iemon was one example of this. 

‘Monsters’, on the other hand, would attach themselves to objects and the elements of the natural world, similar in manner to a haunting, and from there would appear to anybody who happened to be passing by.  One example of this was “O-Kiku san” from the “Sara Yashiki Densetsu”, and whose modus operandi consisted of emerging from a well.  There were also monsters who only appeared at fixed times, and so you would be able to avoid them if you refrained from passing their haunting ground during certain hours of the day or night. 

‘Monsters’ consisted of many different forms – from animals such as foxes, badgers, and sparrows, to trees and grass.  Many ancient tales of Japan had monsters made musical instruments and common household objects such as Koto harps, Biwa lutes, Sheng (or Shō) mouth organs, and even cauldrons.  Their purpose was to serve as a lesson to “look after your possessions”. 

‘Monsters’ were divided up into those that transformed and those that didn’t.  Badgers, foxes, ‘snow woman’, and ‘Rokuro-kubi’ (the ‘long-necked woman’) were all examples of everyday people and animals that could undergo transformation. By contrast, ‘Kappa’ (water sprites), ‘Tengu’ (forest goblins), ‘Nurarihyon’ (“the old monk with the elongated head”), and ‘Suna-kake Baba’ (the “old woman who throws sand”) all appeared as they were.  They constituted a separate category to “monsters”, which is why they were referred to as ‘Yōkai’ (or ‘creatures’). 

‘Monsters’ lived in close proximity to the townspeople of Edo.  One of these, known as the ‘Adzuki Bean Washer”, didn’t do anything nefarious at all, merely producing a noise of adzuki beans being washed.  One would think it better to wash rice, but it appears this was a no-no. 

One ‘monster’ that appeared in an unclean public bath was “Akaname” (or ‘filth licker’), who would turn up to lick the dirt and other debris out of a bathtub.  The lesson to be learned from this was “keep your bathtubs clean, otherwise a ‘monster’ will appear”. 

Another ‘monster’ was ‘Nebutori’, an immensely overweight woman who slept on a pile of cushions.  The lesson here was “if you are lazy, then this is what you’ll become”. 

Around the Honjō area there were a large number of canals (or ditches, if you like).  One of these was the infamous “Oite kebori”, although since a canal by this name was never specially designated, it seems that any canal into which someone cast a fishing line could be classified as an “oite kebori”. 

If you spent all day trying to catch fish and ended up on the canal bank as it grew dark, it was said that the spirit of the canal would command you to “leave, leave!” (or 置いてけー、置いてけー！) . If you chose to leave then you would be fine. However if you chose to stay, then some misfortune would later befall you, or all of the fish that you wished to catch would disappear.  This served as a warning not to get carried away in catching fish, and also prevented any water-related accidents around the canal. When it grew dark, there was a greater risk of stepping in a mudhole and end up drowning.

“Oite kebori” was one of the tales that appeared in the “seven mysterious tales of Honjō”. Others included “Kataba no Ashi” (or “The Single Root”), “Tanuki Bayashi” (the “Badger Dance”), “Ochibanaki Shii” (the “Evergreen Beech Tree”), “Okuri Chōchin” (or “the Fleeting Lamp”), “Tsugaruke no Taiko” (the “Drum of the Tsugaru”), and “Mutō Soba” (the “unlit soba noodles”), among others.

“The Fleeting Lamp” was a somewhat positive tale.  When hurriedly returning home late at night, a lamp would occasionally appear and disappear off in the distance ahead of the person running. This lamp was held by a beautiful woman. However the top half of the woman might be hidden by the dark of night, so it was by no means guaranteed that the woman would be beautiful. 

“The Single Root”, by way of contrast, was apparently a true tale of a tree root whose leaves would only appear on one side.

“The Evergreen Beech Tree” was a tale of a giant beech tree whose leaves never fell off, and other such tales of woe. 

Then there was “Ashiarai Yashiki” (or “The Foot-Washing House”).  According to this tale, in the dead of night a giant foot, dripping with mud, would suddenly appear from the ceiling. If you washed the foot, it would immediately disappear.  However if you left it be, it would grow violent and impossible to control.

In addition to Honjō, many other monsters appeared in the newly built suburbs of Azabu and Yoshiwara close to the outskirts of Edo.  As the city continued to develop, the population increased, and many of the suburbs that were rapidly emerging contributed to the destruction of the natural environment surrounding them.  The foxes and badgers that lived in such areas found themselves without places to live nor food to eat, and so began to appear more frequently in human habitats.  It was among such conditions as this that tales of creatures undergoing transformation grew in popularity.

For the people of Edo, who loved a good mystery, the very height of this culture was manifest in the works of the scholar Hirata Atsutane (平田篤胤).  He would go about collecting tales told by the people of the city, and would note them down for posterity.  Among these tales was one of “Heitarō”, the boy who feared nothing.  In this tale, despite being visited by a number of different monsters and creatures over many nights, Heitarō was afraid of none of them, merely commenting “well that’s an odd looking thing”.  Such was his reaction to them that many of the monsters grew more fascinated with him, with ‘Oyadama’ (a giant eye ball) eventually deciding to become his guardian spirit.  

Atsutane conceived of a world in which gods, spirits, and humans all co-existed.  He opened up a private academy in the centre of town known as “Ibuki no Ya” (or ‘The Breathing Inn’), where he told tales of other worlds to those who would listen.  He reportedly had 553 students of his own, and when combined with visitors these might exceed 3000, making it a very lively venue indeed.  Such was his fame that Atsutane came to the attention of the Bakufu government, who ordered him on three separate occasions to “quit talking such nonsense, and advance the cause of national studies.” 

While tales of terror were certainly used as entertainment before the Edo period, in the early Edo period virtually all ghost stories were about men.  There were tales of spirits who, after being defeated in battle, would continue to haunt their descendants.  There were violent ghosts, who after being killed in a fight with another warrior, laid a curse on their murderer’s children, saying that he would “kill them all”.  It was only from the mid-Edo period, a time of relative peace, when people started to think that it was far more frightening to have a beautiful woman transform into a monster.

The person most responsible for the popularity of this type of narrative was the Rakugo entertainer Hayashiya Shōzō (林家正蔵).  He believed that rather than simply trying to frighten people, using humour and other elements would make stories more memorable. So he would use various props, such as flying fireballs or modified pieces of furniture.  People dressed as ghosts would also suddenly spring out behind an audience listening to one of Shōzō’s stories and frighten the bejesus out of them. Over time, tales of terror became popular within the world of Kabuki theatre as well.

(The punishment of Nezumi Kozōjiro Kichi), 3rd year of Tenpō, 1832
Nezumi Kozōjiro Kichi was born in the vicinity of Nihon-bashi. His father was said to have been a doorman belonging to the Nakamura theatre, although many theories exist regarding his occupation. When he was 16, Nezumi became an apprentice to a furniture maker under the patronage of Matsudaira Sanuki no Kami, but did not continue in this role.  After a brief stint as a retainer to a samurai household, Nezumi became a footman for a firefighting company, and through that liaison fell in with gamblers who made their living along the Fukugawa river area. (pg.171)

Around the 6th year of Bunzei (1823), Nezumi began his career as a burglar in earnest. On the 8th day of the 5th month of Tenpō 3 (1832), at the age of 27, Nezumi was arrested after sneaking into the residence of Matsudaira Kunai no Shōyū near Hama-chō. It was only the investigate skill of the attending magistrate to the case, Sakakibara Tadayuki, who was able to discern that the prisoner brought in front of him was in fact the renowned thief Nezumi Kozōjiro. According to his deposition, Nezumi avoided robbing residences of merchants, whose security was often quite comprehensive, and instead focused on samurai households who, while outwardly might appear to be secure, were in fact quite lax when it came to protecting their wares.  Over the course of 10 years, Nezumi had broken into the 99 or so major samurai residences of Edo 120 times, and anything he had stolen had later been used to obtain funds which were spent on women, sake, and gambling. (pg.171)

On the 19th day of the 8th month of Tenpō 3, Nezumi was paraded through the streets of Edo before being taken to the Kozukatsubara execution ground, where he received his sentence of execution by crucifixion.  After his death, legends arose surrounding Nezumi, particularly his generosity in providing money to the poor. This “noble bandit” thus underwent a transformation in the minds of the commoners of Edo, becoming a hero to young and old alike. (pg,171)

(The Tenpō Reforms), 12th year of Tenpō, 1841

 In the 5th month of the 12th year of Tenpō, a senior retainer to the Tokugawa Bakufu by the name of Mizuno Tadakuni announced a series of reforms. Thereafter, bans were placed in rapid succession on adult entertainment and displays of ostentatiousness.  Festivals, theatre, and outdoor exhibitions were banned, thus forcing smaller theatres to move to the Asakusa area.  In the following year, published works by popular writers such as Ryūtei Tanehiko and Tamenaga Shunsui were banned, and the 7th generation head of the Ichikawa Kabuki theatre, Ichikawa Danjurō, found himself forced to leave Edo on account of his profession and his opulent lifestyle. (pg.171)

The official responsible for enforcing these bans was Torii Yōzō, otherwise known by a pun on his name as “the monster”. He was not averse to framing citizens with false charges, and so the people of Edo tried to keep a low profile while Yōzō was in charge. Two years later Mizuno was removed from his position, an event that was marked by around 1,000 or so townspeople gathering outside his residence and throwing stones at it. (pg.171)

(The Coming of the Black Ships), 6th year of Kaei, 1853

In 1841 the Opium War (Ahen Sensō) came to an end, with European and North American powers vying with each other for control of and trade with China. The United States in particular had thrown itself into the task of opening up Pacific trade routes with vigour, and so came to make demands on the Tokugawa Bakufu for the provision of water and other supplies for its ships as they moved from East to West and back again.  In the 6th month of the 6th year of Kaei (1853), the commander of the US East India Fleet, Commodore Matthew Perry, led four frigate vessels (part steam, part sail driven) on a mission to Japan, weighing anchor offshore from Uraga.  Perry then proceeded to negotiate with the Tokugawa Bakufu, although perhaps threaten might be a more apt description of the talks between both sides. (pg.171-172)

The Bakufu had the four US frigates surrounded by smaller official boats and fishing vessels, yet obviously these were no match for the frigates. After presenting Bakufu officials with a list of demands on behalf of the US government, Perry departed Japan, telling his hosts that he would return in the following year to receive their answer. One year later, and true to his word, Perry returned. After receiving the Bakufu’s response, which essentially rejected the demands made by the US, Perry gave orders for his vessels to move to the seas off Shinagawa and from there make a show of force by firing their (unloaded) cannon. For the people of both Edo and the surrounding areas, who had never seen such black ships before, the thundering of the cannon gave them an awful fright. (pg.172)

In the following year, the Bakufu gave in to the US demands and signed the Convention of Peace and Amity between the United States of America and the Empire of Japan (also known as the Treaty of Kanagawa), thereby bringing the 200-year old policy of isolation of Japan from the world to an end. (pg.172)

(The Sakurada Gate Incident), 1st year of Man’en, 1860

On a cold and snowy 3rd day of the 3rd month of the 1st year of Man’en (1860), just outside the Sakurada Gate leading into Edo Castle, senior retainer to the Tokugawa Bakufu, Ii Naosuke, and his retinue were attacked by 18 samurai hailing from Mito province. Naosuke himself was killed during the assault.   Naosuke’s crime, if it can be called that, was to have ratified the Treaty of Amity and Commerce Between the United States and the Empire of Japan without waiting for Imperial approval. Not only this, Naosuke had been active in suppressing and imprisoning many members of the Jōi (‘Expel the Barbarian’) faction and Bakufu reformists. (pg.173)

The death of Naosuke was officially kept secret, yet news of it soon spread throughout Edo, with Naosuke himself being referred to as “the patient without need of a pillow” (Naosuke’s head had been removed by his attackers). On the 30th of the 3rd month, the Bakufu dissolved Naosuke’s position, and one month later finally announced his death. (pg.173)

The ‘Sonnō-Jōi’ (Revere the Emperor and Expel the Barbarian) movement soon spread throughout the country, causing innumerable difficulties for Bakufu authorities in attempting to keep the peace and prevent anti-Bakufu sentiment from gaining a strong hold on the populace. Meanwhile Edo itself fell into a state of unease, with the latent threat of violence between anti and pro Bakufu forces simmering beneath the surface. (pg.173)

(The ‘relatively’ bloodless surrender of Edo castle), 4th year of Keiō, 1868

Members of the Eastern Imperial Army, upon receiving orders to expel by force the 15th Shogun Tokugawa Yoshinobu from his position in Edo Castle, proceeded to surround the castle on the 15th day of the 3rd month of Keiō 4 for the express purpose of launching an attack on the Bakufu forces still holding out there.  One day before the scheduled assault, Army leader Saigō Takamori, together with Imperial faction ally Katsu Kaishū, met with Bakufu officials at Takanawa in Edo, and there discussed and agreed upon the surrender of Edo castle to Imperial forces without resistance. (pg,174)

In the background to this decision lay the negotiations undertaken by the British Consul in residence Townsend Harris to ensure that Edo did not descend into a bloodbath, which in turn would spark revolts and rioting throughout the Kantō region and seriously jeopardize public order.  In the 4th month, Yoshinobu retired from Edo to Mito (modern Ibaraki Prefecture). Some 2,000 or so former Bakufu retainers, calling themselves the Shōgitai, withdrew to Ueno where they proceeded to continue their resistance to Imperial rule. However they eventually found themselves outgunned by the modern weapons wielded by the Imperial army, and were defeated. (pg.174)

(The Great Fire of Meireki), 18th day of the 1st month of the 3rd year of Meireki, 1857

 On the 18th day of the 1st month of Meireki 3, a fire started that Honmyōji temple in Edo, and over the next two days would spread throughout the town, earning the somewhat peculiar name of ‘the sleeve fire’.  According to legend, the sleeves of garments belonging to three daughters, all of whom died when they were 17 years old, were taken to the temple and were to be thrown into a fire there while reciting the Nembutsu sutra in memory of the girls. As soon as this was done, the sleeves, accompanied by a tornado, moulded themselves into pillars of fire resembling the deceased girls, and climbing to a height of 80 shaku (or around 24 metres) proceeded to burn ferociously throughout the town, eventually consuming much of it including the main keep of Edo castle. (pg.175)

The number of deceased were calculated by Asai Ryōi as totaling over 100,000, and on the border between Musashi and Shimōsa provinces a four sided pit was dug that was 108 metres in width. Only one building was erected to the memory of the victims, which was later recorded as serving as a funeral parlour for both provinces. (pg.175)

(The Eruption of Asamayama and the Great Famine of Tenmei), 3rd year of Tenmei, 1783

From the 4th to the 7th month of Tenmei 3 (1783),  Asamayama (located in modern Nagano and Gunma Prefectures) was rocked by a series of loud explosions, thus heralding what would become the largest volcano disaster of the pre-modern Japanese period.  The scale of the eruption can be measured by the modern-day presence of the ‘Oni-oshidashi’ area in Gunma Prefecture (itself made from lava expelled by Asamayama).  The destruction caused by the dislodging of massive quantities of volcanic rock and pyroclastic flows was extensive.  The victims of the disaster numbered over 20,000, and in the Tonegawa and Sumidagawa rivers and its tributaries, bits and pieces of bodies were found floating in the water. (pg.176)

The volcanic ash thrown up by the volcano covered an extensive area that had recently been cultivated, and by blocking out much of the sunlight, this caused a number of failed harvests over the following years. Those provinces lying to the north of the Kantō region were particularly hard hit by bad harvests, thus compounding the tragedy.  In Tsugaru province some 80,000 people starved to death, while in Nambu province the dead numbered 60,000.  It was said that the number of victims in Sendai province was as high as 400,000, and certainly it gave rise to a range of desperate behaviour including cannibalism. (pg.176)

According to a record of the period titled “Toen Shōsetsu” by Takizawa Bakin (written around 1825), a majority of the victims of the famine were peasants and the poor, not samurai, which gives some indication as to where the worst effects of the famine hit. (pg.176)

(The Great Ansei Earthquake), 2nd year of Ansei, 1855

Speaking of earthquakes, recent years have kept these natural disasters foremost in the minds of the residents of Japan, particularly following the Great East Japan Earthquake of 2011. Yet what is truly frightening about these disasters is the fact that while the quake is bad enough on its own, what follows them can be much, much worse. (pg.176)

Such was the case on the 2nd day of the 10th month of the 2nd year of Ansei (1855).  From 10 o’clock in the evening until the following morning, Edo was struck 33 times by earthquakes of varying sizes. These in turn led to fires breaking out throughout the city, until many areas were wrapped in pillars of flame. The “Bukō Nenpyō” recorded the events of the time by stating “Screams and the howling of voices filled the void of night, so much so that listening to it chilled one to the bone and robbed one of any courage”. The famous maxim – “If things start to shake, keep no fire awake” remains as true today as it was back then. (pg.176)

(Taken from Ogi Shinzo, “Zusetsu Ō-Edo, Shireba shiru hodo”, Jitsugyō no Nippon-sha, Tokyo, 2003)

(The Keian Incident, or the Revolt of Yui Shōsetsu)  4th year of Keian, 1651

In the 4th month of the 4th year of Keian (1651), the third Shogun of the Tokugawa Bakufu, Iemitsu, died of illness. His successor, the 11 year old Ietsuna, had only just been appointed to that position when in the 6th month of the same year, Yui Shōsetsu, a military scholar of the Kusunoki school who had opened his own academy in the Kanda district of Edo, conspired with Marubashi Chūya, who himself had opened a school teaching spear techniques at Hōzōin (located near Yui’s academy), and other rōnin (masterless samurai) to overthrow the Bakufu. (pg.166)

Marubashi, together with his supporters, would set fire to a Bakufu saltpeter warehouse at Koishikawa and set about lighting spot fires through the city in an attempt to create a major conflagration. While this was underway, Marubashi would infiltrate Edo castle while pretending to be Tokugawa Yorinobu, the head of the Kii branch of the Tokugawa household (one of the three major branches of that family), and if successful in his deception, would then abduct the young Shogun.   In the meantime Yui Shōsetsu would attack a Bakufu vault located at Kunōzan in Sumpu (Suruga) province. After making off with the million or so ryō (gold or silver ingots) stored there, Yui would head to Sumpu castle and there wait for the arrival of Marubashi with the young Shogun in tow. (pg.167)

This would then provide the impetus for revolts to break out in both Kyoto and Osaka. Some 230,000 rōnin would then assemble, the largest such gathering since the battle of Sekigahara 51 years earlier, and together they would bring about the downfall of the Tokugawa.

However there was an informant in their midst. Marubashi soon found his school surrounded by agents of the Bakufu and was taken prisoner. Meanwhile Yui Shōsetsu, while lodging at the Umeya, a tea house located in Sumpu, was himself also surrounded by Bakufu agents. However he managed to commit suicide before he could be taken prisoner.  In all, around 100 or so people were implicated in the plot, and an even greater number were subject to punishment.  (pg.167)

The Bakufu used this incident as the impetus for the introduction of a system whereby they would acknowledge the adoptees of daimyō and hatamoto (the most trusted of retainer) families in danger of dying out, and thus put an end to the increase in rōnin that would accompany the death of the last heir of a dynasty. (pg.167)

(The crucifixion of Hirai Gonpachi at Suzugamori)   7th year of Enpō, 1679

Hirai Gonpachi was a samurai of Tottori province, and the eldest son of Hirai Shōzaemon.  He was particularly renowned in the province as both a swordsman and jujutsu practitioner. However when he turned 17 he had a falling out with his father and absconded, eventually ending up in Edo.  Gonpachi was attractive, and was quite proficient at the ‘Kaga’ style of singing that was popular at the time.  In time he became a member of the household of a more prominent samurai family, and often visited the pleasure quarters of Yoshiwara. It was during one of these visits that Gonpachi fell head over heels for a Tayū (or high class courtesan) by the name of Ko-murasaki of the Miura establishment (i.e., brothel). Obviously Gonpachi was not a wealthy man, hence in order to raise enough funds to meet with Ko-murasaki he decided to hire himself out as a “hitman” of sorts, carrying out assassinations for money.  It was said that over the seven years that he was active in this role, he was responsible for the deaths of 132 people. (pg.167)

Gonpachi’s luck ran out in the 6th year of Enpō (1678), when he was found guilty of having murdered a silk merchant at Musashino-Kumaya for the sum of 100 ryō.  He was sentenced to die by crucifixion.  Gonpachi was executed in the 11th month of the 7th year of Enpō at Suzugamori, and his remains were later buried in secret at Tōshōji temple located in the Meguro-ward.  After a while, Gonpachi’s grave was visited by a woman of around 21 years of age, where she donated her 5 ryō in wages. She did this a number of times, praying before the grave, before one day committing suicide at the same spot. It was Ko-murasaki of the Miura establishment. (pg.167)

This (tragic?) love story proved very popular among the commoners of old Edo, and it was later depicted in various art forms, including Kabuki theatre and puppetry.  (pg.167)

(The declaration of the ‘Edict Forbidding Cruelties to Living Things’ – Shōrui-awaremi-no-rei), 4th year of Jōkyō, 1687

Tsunayoshi, the fifth Tokugawa Shogun, had no further children after the death of his son Tokumatsu (whom he expected to inherit his position). According to the monk Ryūkō of the Shingon sect, to whom Tsunayoshi’s mother Keishōin was particularly devoted, Tsunayoshi’s lack of heirs was a direct result of his having killed a large number of living beings in a previous life. This message was reiterated time and again to Tsunayoshi by Ryūkō, particularly the fact that many of those life forms had been born during the Year of the Dog. This had a profound impact on Tsunayoshi’s psyche, so much so that he began to take pity on dogs, and would in turn issue an ‘edict forbidding cruelties to living things’.  

The edit stated that all dogs were to be referred to as “My lord dog” (O-inu sama), and a number of kennels were established in the suburbs of Edo where dogs could receive the very best of care. On the other hand, a samurai who shot a sparrow with an arrow in order to use it in medicine for his sick son was executed at Kozukatsubara together with his son, while those who merely witnessed the act were themselves sentenced to exile on Hachijōjima island. (pgs.167-168)

Tsunayoshi was cursed with a paranoid personality, so much so that his retainers, fearing that they might be put to death on a whim, would read as much as they could into his orders, and so exercised all sorts of cruelties on their subordinates. For 24 years, until his death in the 6th year of Eiroku (1709), Tsunayoshi was the source of great hardship to his subjects, and tens of thousands of people were either put to death or otherwise punished during his reign. (pg.168)

(The revenge of the rōnin of Akō province – aka Chūshingura, aka The 47 Rōnin, aka The 47 Loyal Retainers), 15th year of Genroku, 1702

In the early hours of the 15th day of the 12th month of 15th year of Genroku (1702), 47 rōnin retainers from Akō province (now part of Hyōgō prefecture) fought their way to the centre of the principle Edo residence of Kira Kōzuke no Suke Yoshinaka. After two hours of fighting Kira’s own retainers and searching high and low, they eventually found Yoshinaka, and cut off his head. (pg.168)

The spark that ignited passions to such an extent that it would result in Yoshinaka’s death occurred during the 3rd month of the previous year.  The lord of Akō province, Asano Naganori, was visiting Edo in order to pay his annual respects and partake in rituals associated with his position as an imperial messenger.  However, it was while he was resident in Edo castle that he fell into an argument with Yoshinaka, himself a highly placed official of the Bakufu, and confronting Yoshinaka in the Matsu no Rōka hallway, drew his short sword and wounded Yoshinaka.  (pg.168)

Drawing weapons without permission within Edo castle was strictly forbidden, hence Naganori soon found himself ordered to commit ritual suicide (seppuku) on the day after the incident with Yoshinaka. The name and property of the Asano family of Akō was thereafter confiscated, and disappeared from Edo altogether.

However, one of the Asano’s principle retainers, Ōishi Kuranosuke Yoshio, together with others from Akō province spent a year and nine months undergoing various hardships as all rōnin did following the death or disbandment of their lord and his household. They also practiced theatre and puppetry during their time in exile, all this while secretly planning to take revenge against Yoshinaka for causing the death of their lord. The people of Edo, seeking to find some outlet for the distaste they felt for Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s reign, upheld the rōnin of Akō as the pinnacle of the ideal of the “loyal retainer”, whose act of assassination was justified and, in time, glorified by the common folk. (pgs.168-169)

(The Ejima – Ikushima Incident), 4th year of Shōtoku, 1714

In the 1st month of the 4th year of Shōtoku (1714), a retainer of the mother of the seventh Tokugawa Shogun, Ietsugu, who went by the name of Ejima of the Ō-oku (aka the ‘Great Interior’, basically the female quarters within Edo castle), was assigned as keeper of the mausoleum to Shogun Ienobu at Sōjōji.  While on the way there, Ejima stopped at the Yamamura theatre located in the town of Kobiki, where she booked out the entire top floor of the theatre in order to watch plays. Ejima soon imbibed the hospitality of Ikushima Shingorō, a Kabuki actor who would keep guests happy in between performances as an employee of the theatre.  Ejima enjoyed Ikushima’s company so much that she eventually arrived back at Edo castle far later than originally scheduled. (pg.169)

While going to watch theatre while engaged on official duty was a violation of the “Regulations for the Great Interior”, it was often silently permitted.  However the continuing disruptions to the discipline of the Ō-oku, the continuing feud between the legal spouse of Ienobu, Teieiin, and his concubine Gekkōin, and the frequent meddling by members of the Ō-oku in the affairs of state with their demands for relatives or favours from merchants irked the Bakufu’s senior retainer Ii Naomori and others so much that they decided to use Ejima’s transgression as an opportunity to clamp down on the Ō-oku’s activities. (pg.170)

While Ejima bore many responsibilities, she was found guilty of having spent too long in the company of actors at the theatre and sentenced to death. This penalty was later lessened to that of exile on Hachijōjima. The intervention of Gekkōin eventually saw Ejima exiled to Takatōri in Shinano province.  For his part, Shingorō was exiled to Mitakujima, while the Yamamura theatre was abolished. Ejima’s elder brother, the hatamoto retainer Hirai Heiueimon, was executed by beheading. Next to 70 women of the Ō-oku were banished from the castle, while another 150 were assigned to assist the medical officials of the Ō-oku and clothes merchants of the Bakufu’s capital. (pg.170)

In the early evening of the 30th of November (1867), Mitford writes that he and Ernest Satow set out for Osaka in order to make preparations for the opening of a port in the province of Hyōgo on the first day of the new year. That year would bring forth a new dynamism, and would bear witness to a series of never-to-be-repeated events in world history. Mitford writes that he and Satow arrived in Osaka on the 3rd of December, and found themselves in a town already at the centre of political upheaval.  He writes that the ambassador and diplomatic staff, along with a large number of their security staff, including around 50 members of the 9th Regiment, would need lodgings to receive them during their stay in the west.

Mitford writes that at the time, a large number of palisades, storehouses and toll gates were being constructed in an area selected for foreign residents.  However the construction itself was premature and so it would be necessary to wait until the ambassadors of various countries arrived to take up lodgings. One particular problem concerned the palisades, about which there were many opinions. They were regarded as an inappropriate indication of government intent vis-a-vis the promotion of interaction between East and West.   

Mitford writes that on the 7th of December, a number of officials under instruction from the Shogun met up with Mitford and Satow before they returned to Edo. According to the information they shared with the British diplomats, the resignation of the Shogun was no more than the implementation of an earlier plan and so was not that significant.  Neither Mitford nor Satow believed this.  They remained convinced that this (the resignation of the Shogun) was the result of the uncompromising attitude of the nobility.

On the 12th of December, Mitford and Satow headed to Hyōgo in order to see for themselves what preparations had been completed. Mitford writes that there was a lot of excitement in the air fuelled by expectations around the opening of the port.  The town of Kobe, which had been selected for foreign settlement, had been celebrating for several days, and people dressed in layers of red clothing had been accompanying the carts transporting soil up to the new settlement area.  Expectations were that this festival would be repeated in places throughout Hyōgo province. It was clear that the people of the province believed that foreign trade would contribute to their prosperity.     

When both diplomats returned to Osaka on the 13th of December, the town was abuzz with joy and excitement. Recently slips of paper on which the name of Ise Shrine was written had fallen, somewhat miraculously, like rain from the sky. Mitford explains that Ise Shrine was the largest Shintō shrine in existence and had continued its traditions for generations. He explains that a thousand or so people, in celebration at this event, donned vibrant clothing of red and blue, raised red lanterns, and danced about shouting “eejanaika, eejanaika! (Isn’t it grand?!)” as loudly as they could.  Every house had objects placed in front of them, namely multi-coloured candy, mandarins, silk purses, rope normally found out the front of shrines, and flowers.  Mitford writes that it was an extraordinary sight, and one that he was unlikely ever to see again.   For the two British diplomats, these events were like the old fables of Stonehenge. In the case of Japan, while it had traditions of great antiquity, somehow they still appeared to be alive. Mitford says that there is a famous quote which states “Respect for the past has the same importance for humanity as filial piety”. Mitford writes that in the depraved world he was living in, he was fond of quoting these words.

Mitford then writes that Westerners had lost much of the “spirit of Japan” shown by the Japanese, regarding this as noteworthy. He said the basis of this spirit lay in the legends of the Shintō faith. This was why the common peasant could express such joy at bits of paper falling out of the sky and danced as he liked in the manner of David before the Ark of the Covenant, knowing that this was imbued with a meaning drawn from the sacred traditions of old. The peasant believed the world should bow in admiration of acts based on such traditions, which were, in his eyes, ‘heroic’.  

Mitford writes that as soon as he and Satow returned to Osaka, the same hoary old political arguments started up again. Satsuma, Chōshū, Tosa, Uwajima, and Aki had joined together to demand reforms. Other daimyo had indicated that they would join this movement, although there was still a lot of prevaricating going on. Mitford and Satow realized was that if the conspiracy currently underway in Kyoto failed in its purpose, then these daimyo would likely go back to attacking and killing foreigners as before. Mitford did not believe that this was because they disliked interacting with foreigners, for many were in favour of maintaining foreign relations, but because they wanted to cause friction between the Bakufu and the various treaty nations. The Bakufu, lacking the power to be able to discipline any culprits responsible for instigating such crimes, would then simply claim that it could not take responsibility for these incidents.    

Mitford believed that the assembly of leaders of the reform movement from the various western provinces in Osaka, itself located close to Kyoto, held great significance. One of those leaders was the famous Saigo Takamori of Satsuma, who thereafter would get caught up in a rebellion in that province and eventually commit ritual suicide (seppuku). Another prominent leader was the aforementioned Goto Zōjirō, the same one who explained to Mitford and Satow about the plan to assassinate them in Ōtsu. A letter from Yamauchi Yōdō also carried a nuance that suggested that the downfall of the Bakufu was a fait accompli. On the 20th, Mitford and Satow had their first meeting with Ito Shunsuke (Hirobumi). At the time he was a relatively minor figure, but in time he would become a politician and take hold of the highest seat of power in Japan. Ito told both British diplomats that it looked as though it would be difficult to avoid conflict, but it was being done in order to bring peace to the land. To achieve this, it would be necessary to seize some of the vast tracts of land currently held by the Tokugawa family. Ito believed that it would be better to extend the time between the arrival of the foreign delegations and the opening of the trade port. He was told, however, that this was out of the question. Ito then said that in order to placate the foreigners it would be best to open the port, but the reformers would continue in their plan to remake Japan’s political system. Mitford and Satow warned Ito that if in the course of implementing the reforms any foreigners were harmed, or if they were planning to reject any of the treaties, then Japan would pay an extremely high price for such actions.

Mitford writes that Ito understood the seriousness of these words, and promised to inform Satow of any activities planned in the cause of the reformers. On the 24th, Ambassador Parkes arrived in Osaka from Edo with a number of staff from the Embassy and lodged in a large manor house located on the reverse side of Osaka Castle and which was falling apart at the time Mitford wrote his memoirs. Mitford was acutely aware that if any conflict between the anti and pro Bakufu forces should break out, then the castle would become a magnet for fighting between the two sides. As such, it was not the safest location to be in, but it met all of the conditions necessary for lodgings. Mitford and Satow were still very much under close observation, and so it was not easy to contact representatives from the reformist side. Mitford writes that the Bakufu’s officials were diligent at their task, however Mitford and Satow were able to deceive them and make their way across the moat around the consul office in the dead of night and link up with friends waiting outside. With them as guides, they would wind their way through the streets to some residence, and there they would spend time chatting. By engaging in such activities, which reminded Mitford of naughty schoolboys making off with apples stolen from a neighbour’s yard, they were able to keep Ambassador Parkes informed of all the comings and goings at the time.

Mitford wrote that the 1st day of January 1868 marked the birth of a new system for Japan. For a number of months, the country had been in a state of unrest similar to a fever. He writes that there were plots, counter-plots, and conspiracies, one of which was touched on earlier, and it would take a few volumes to explain them all.  There was the resignation, or mock resignation, of the Shogun.  And in the vicinity of Kyoto, a military force was gradually growing in strength. The Lord of Chōshū had been forgiven by the Shogun for his transgressions, an act which had infuriated the Lord of Aizu who then resigned as the guardian of the royal palace in the capital.  As will soon become apparent, not all of this information was accurate. Mitford then writes that the cauldron (of the state) was ‘bubbling away’, but the overall peace had not been disturbed.  For the reformist daimyo, they insisted that their goal remained the same – to curb the random application of absolute power by the Shogun.     

Mitford writes that he and his fellow diplomats had a feeling that the dogs of war had been let loose. He explained that the Lord of Satsuma had abolished the old system of councilors, and a proposal had been submitted to create a system of government that resembled a constitutional government with federal ministers and a federal bureaucracy.  He also wrote that he and Satow saw this reform reflected in the advice that they had received from Goto Zōjirō. He wrote that there was strong opposition to the Satsuma plan, and there were many people concerned that this kind of ‘’progressive’ thinking would place the position of the Emperor in jeopardy.  Mitford writes that his (Bakufu) informants told him that the time for debate had ended, and that such actions (by the Lord of Satsuma) would lead to war.  These informants also told Mitford that they believed that the Shogun was doing everything in his power to ensure the continuation of a peaceful nation, even if that required sacrifices. Yet it also obvious to Mitford that the Shogun had already lost the authority to lead.

Events changed in the blink of an eye, and every day brought with it some new development. Rumours also flew about at a horrible speed, and while some were true, others distorted the truth and were complete fabrications.  Yet everything appeared to be moving in the same direction.

Mitford writes that on the 7th of January some officials from the Bakufu came to the British delegation in Osaka, where they delivered a message that the Shogun had departed Kyoto and was on his way to Osaka to speak with Ambassador Roche. This was no more than simple word of mouth, but in reality the position of Shogun had ceased to exist and so Yoshinobu had been forced to depart from Kyoto. The troops from Aizu province who had been guarding the nine gates of the Imperial Palace had been dismissed on the orders of the Emperor, and the capital, along with the person of the Emperor, had come under the protection of a coalition of daimyo. It was in this state of affairs that events came to a halt.

Mitford writes that he and Satow decided to venture out from the delegation building in order to judge for themselves what was happening. He noticed that patrols of soldiers had been placed along the main thoroughfares, with primitive cannon sited to fire on anyone who attempted to approach Osaka Castle.  Mitford writes that it was bitterly cold at the time, and many of the soldiers had wrapped their heads up in scarves. When compared with the poor state of their uniforms, they presented an odd appearance.

The troops from Aizu, when asked about the reasons for the departure of the Shogun from the capital, explained that they did not wish to become involved in any fighting in the vicinity of the Imperial Palace. This was, however, a one sided excuse. The army from Satsuma was certainly in favour of conflict and would attempt to resolve all issues by force, whereas the army from Tosa was more logical and its actions reflected that. Their goals were ultimately the same, though.   According to Goto Zōjirō’s study of parliamentary representation, since Japan was in the early throes of industrialization, revolution took place both suddenly and violently.

Mitford writes that by the afternoon, there was every indication that the Shogun’s retinue was approaching Osaka. He soon caught sight of some impressive-looking samurai wearing full sets of armour. They were extraordinarily formal in their actions, and brimmed with an aura of dedication unto death to the Shogun (it was later confirmed that this was indeed no mere show of bravado). Although they had been defeated in battle, hundreds of these Tokugawa soldiers had died a glorious death.  Soon after Mitford heard a bugle blow, and saw that the long lines of troops were headed for the castle.

Mitford then writes that he saw something utterly inconceivable. While a number of foot soldiers carried European rifles, there were a great many foot soldiers wearing traditional Japanese armour, armed with spears, bow and arrow, halberds of various description, short and long swords, and looked as though they had stepped out of one of those medieval pictures of battles from the Genpei War.  Their half-sleeve overcoats (jinbaori) were different to those of the messenger officials, with all of the colours indicative of Joseph’s dream coat. They wore terrifying masks of lacquered metal, with fierce looking beards and moustaches attached to them, and from the crown of their helmets black horsehair cascaded down to about waist height.  It was certainly enough to frighten any enemy, for they looked like monsters that had emerged from some nightmare. 

Mitford writes that soon after a column of horse-borne soldiers appeared. All of the Japanese around Mitford and Satow bowed low in deference, and so in line with tradition Mitford and Satow too bowed their heads. In the middle of the mounted retinue, Mitford spotted Lord Yoshinobu, supported by Lord Kuwana and his ally Lord Aizu. They appeared tired and downtrodden, with their heads covered with black cowls, neither looking left nor right, and for all intents trying to remain incognito.  A number of their vassals recognized Mitford and Satow and make some gestures of greeting. According to Mitford, he then saw something that was far more pitiful than anything else he had witnessed up to this point. In keeping with tradition, once the retinue reached the castle gates, all of the retainers save the Shogun dismounted from their horses. Yoshinobu, however, continued on horse through the gates and into the grounds of the castle. It was tragedy that had allowed the castle to fall into the hands of the Tokugawa, and now it was to leave their control.  It was the last time that the Shogun would enter this great, old castle.  And once again, fire would play its cruel role in the fate of the castle.

On the following day Ambassador Parkes endeavoured to arrange a meeting with the Shogun, however this was refused. However Mitford writes that once Parkes heard that Ambassador Roche had been granted an audience, he could not remain silent.  With Satow and Mitford in tow, Parkes demanded to be allowed to meet with the Shogun. The French envoy expressed displeasure at this, yet eventually both sides were granted the same courtesy. What they couldn’t escape was the exchange of criticism and angry words (between Parkes and Roche). The Shogun, or should that be the former Shogun, had lost all of his vitality.  The aristocrats that had met the British delegation in May with such vivaciousness and confidence now looked like completely different people.  The many difficulties, tragedies and humiliations that these men had suffered was plainly etched on their faces. They merely repeated the rather tired excuse that they had left Kyoto out of sense of patriotism and to avoid civil war in the vicinity of the sacred land of the Emperor. They planned on remaining in Osaka, however some told Mitford that they did not know whether they would be attacked there.

As for the state of affairs, they told Mitford that their main goal was to retain control of the Emperor, however Kyoto had been overrun by a group of outlaws against whom they had fought.  They did not exchange any opinions with the diplomats on the political situation (or who had control of the state). The two ambassadors praised the actions of the aristocrats, with Ambassador Roche offering faint praise while Ambassador Parkes spoke in more serious tones. It became clear that these aristocrats could not answer the many questions put to them, and let slip how tired and aggrieved they were. As such, the meeting came to a close without any garnering any further information.